The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death Read online

—Pretentious.

  I threw the magazine at him.

  —I am not fucking pretentious.

  He caught the magazine and rolled it tight and counted points off his fingers with it.

  —Jealous, bitter, cynical, hostile and pretentious.

  I got up and grabbed at the magazine.

  —And I'm not jealous, not of a rag like that.

  He jerked the magazine away.

  —Excoriate my ass.

  —You wouldn't say that if you knew what it means.

  I slapped the cigarette from his mouth into his lap and he jumped from the chair, whacking at the embers on his crotch with the magazine.

  I shoved him.

  —Cool it, that's a new issue.

  He swatted the top of my head with it.

  —You are such a dick.

  —Fuck you.

  I grabbed him around the middle and pushed him back into the chair and he smacked me across the ear with the magazine.

  —Dick.

  The string of bells hanging from the door jangled.

  —Interrupting something intimate?

  Chev shoved me away and got out of the chair and tossed my magazine on the couch against the wall.

  I adjusted the tail of my shirt.

  —Just trying to keep the romance in the relationship, man.

  Po Sin stood in the doorway, using every bit of his huge roundness to blot out the sunlight behind him.

  —Couple that's been together as long as you two, guess you must have to resort to the rough stuff. Me and the missus, we can mostly get by with a little dirty talk and Kama Sutra Oil.

  I fell onto the couch, put my feet up on the arm and opened my magazine.

  —Yeah, but you guys are pretty much newlyweds compared to us. I mean, me and Chev, we've been together like over twenty years, like since we were five or so. You guys been married how long?

  —Hardly thirteen years, man. Like yesterday.

  Chev lit a fresh cigarette.

  —Don't listen to that fag, Po Sin, he's always creeping in my room at night, but he never gets any.

  I turned a page.

  —True, he is a bit of a tease.

  Po Sin nodded and moved from the door, came to the middle of the shop and occupied it.

  —Well, that's enough fagging around for me. You got your canister?

  Chev started cleaning up the paper towels and bloody swabs from the nipple piercing, and jerked his head at me.

  —Go get the can.

  —Fuck you. 'M I your slave?

  He stuffed the garbage into a red biohazard bag and pulled the sealed plastic magazine from the sharps disposal on the wall.

  —You're my burden. You're my cross. My goddamned albatross and you haven't paid rent in two months and I fed you this morning, again, and you abused another one of my clients today and you can get off your ass and go get the can or get the fuck out and go look for a job.

  I threw the magazine on the couch and pushed myself up and made for the back of the store.

  —Your wife rag like this, Po Sin?

  He shook his head.

  —My lady, she beams messages to me through her eyes. She don't got to rag on me.

  —Lucky man.

  —So says you.

  I went in the back of the shop and got the red biowaste canister and brought it out front. Chev handed me the bag he was holding. I went to drop it in the canister and a wad of bloody paper towels fell on the floor. I bent to pick them up.

  —Not with your bare hands, not with your bare hands.

  I looked at Po Sin.

  —It's no big deal, it's just dry blood.

  I grabbed the wad and dropped it in the canister with the rest of the waste.

  He pulled at the waistband of his navy blue Dickies.

  —Could have been a needle in the middle of that.

  I slid him the canister.

  —There wasn't.

  —And you never know what's growing in blood. Living in it.

  I showed him my hands.

  —Too late now.

  He looked at Chev and Chev shrugged. He shook his head and lifted the canister and considered.

  —Ten pounds.

  Chev shook his head.

  —Eight, man, at the most.

  Po Sin set the canister down.

  —Got a scale handy?

  —A scale? It look like I got a scale around here?

  —Well, in the absence of a scale, I'm the expert. And the expert says this is ten pounds of biohazardous waste and at two bucks a pound you owe me twenty bucks.

  Chev picked up the canister.

  —Telling you, this is eight, tops. Sixteen bucks.

  Po Sin adjusted his tiny oval wirerims with his thick stubby fingers.

  —Chev, do we have a contract?

  Chev scratched the stubble on the side of his head.

  —No.

  —So, I don't charge you a weekly rate, then, for picking this shit up, I don't charge you the same forty-nine fifty a week minimum I charge everyone else on my route. Is that right?

  Chev looked at the ceiling.

  —Yeah.

  —I charge you a pound rate that I usually charge only to people that bring their own shit by and drop it off themselves, right?

  Chev reached for the big leather wallet attached to his belt by a dangling steel chain.

  —OK, OK.

  —I mean, if I'm not doing you a solid here, if you'd rather do business in the manner of most of my clients, we can draw up a contract and I'll be here rain or shine on my appointed rounds every week and you can pay the pickup rate whether you have waste or not.

  Chev opened the wallet and started pulling out bills.

  —Got it. My bad.

  —If you'd prefer that over, say busting my balls for the sake of four bucks, I can go out to the van and get the paperwork right now. That suit you?

  Chev held out two tens.

  —No, man, no, here, here it is, it's cool, my bad.

  Po Sin reached out and pinched the bills between his thumb and forefinger and tugged them from Chev's hand.

  —Why thank you for your prompt and courteous payment.

  Chev stuffed the wallet back in his pocket and pointed at the koi tattooed on Po Sin's forearm.

  —Shit, man, not I like don't hit you with a discount on your ink.

  Po Sin tucked the money into the breast pocket of his unbuttoned Clean Team Trauma work shirt.

  —True. And it's also not like I ever beef with you about what you charge when I get the bro rate.

  Chev nodded his head, put out his hand.

  —No, man, you're right, I was out of line.

  Po Sin folded his hand around Chev's.

  —It's cool, just the ways and means of business. Four bucks is just four bucks, but, then again, it's four bucks. If you get me.

  Chev looked at the number on the face of his vibrating cell.

  —Yeah, don't got to tell me. Small business owners of the world unite.

  He hooked a thumb at me where I'd sprawled back on the couch with my magazine.

  —Wish you could teach some economics to the freeloader over there.

  I didn't look away from the magazine.

  —Indentured servant is more like it.

  He ignored me, answering the phone and flipping open the appointment book on the counter at the front of the shop.

  —Yeah, what did you want?

  He rolled his eyes.

  —A dolphin? In the small of your back?

  He stuck a finger in his open mouth.

  —Yeah, no problem. How about tomorrow afternoon?

  Po Sin came over and peeked at my magazine.

  —That guy got toes for eyes?

  —Yeah. Cool, huh?

  —He a monster?

  —Nah, just a guy gets all fucked up by a psycho.

  —What you see in that shit, man?

  —I don't know.

  —Doesn't bother you, all that
gore?

  —Why should it?

  He looked at Chev.

  —Why should it?

  He always been like that?

  Chev put his hand over the phone.

  —Actually, no. The taste for horror is kind of a new thing.

  I looked up from the magazine.

  —Hey is there a problem here I'm unaware of? Am I not allowed to develop new interests and tastes? So I never really got into horror before, so it's a new thing, is that supposed to mean something? I mean, fuck, it's just fun is all.

  Po Sin grunted.

  —People getting hacked up and tortured and mutilated is fun. Shit's disgusting.

  I put the magazine in front of my face.

  —Says the man with a van full of bloody rags and dirty needles and shit-stained sheets and used condoms and wads of tampons.

  He pulled the magazine from my hands and flipped through it, looking at the pictures.

  —Some nasty stuff in here.

  —Doesn't bother me.

  He looked at me, nodded, and kicked the side of the biohazard canister.

  —Give me a hand with this. Come out and get the empty.

  I rolled off the couch.

  —Like I'm everyone's slave today.

  Chev was scribbling in the appointment book, back on the phone.

  —With a sunset behind it, yeah, sure.

  I followed Po Sin out the door.

  —Ask her if she wants the dolphin snagged in a gill net or drowning in an oil spill.

  Chev showed me his middle finger.

  Outside, Po Sin was at the back of the Clean Team van, opening the doors. I set the canister on the edge of the curb.

  He waved me closer.

  —Bring it here.

  I picked it back up.

  —Maaan.

  I brought it over to him and caught a face-full of the reek pouring out of the sun-baked rear of the van.

  —Holy Jesus! Motherfuck.

  He took the canister from me and snugged it in with several others and snapped a bungee cord around them to keep them from shifting.

  —How's that for a gross-out?

  I waved a hand in front of my face.

  —Dude, that's some nasty shit.

  He took an empty canister from a rack and passed it to me.

  —Things are supposed to be airtight.

  —They're not.

  —No shit.

  He slammed the doors closed and leaned his back against them, the polarized lenses of his glasses darkening.

  —So. Still no work.

  I lifted the empty canister.

  —Working plenty.

  Chev came out of the shop and lit up.

  —Don't listen to him, he ain't worked in over a year.

  Po Sin looked up at the sky.

  —Been that long?

  I spat in the gutter.

  —It's been awhile.

  I pointed at Chev.

  —And don't listen to his bullshit. I work all the time. I mean, who's been doing the laundry? Cleaning the dishes? Cooking? Who's been running all your errands and fetching lunch and taking your truck to be washed?

  Chev knocked ash from his smoke.

  —Yeah, and who's been paying your rent and covering the groceries and the PG&E and the cable and the water and the gas and every other little thing that comes up?

  —I've been kicking in.

  Chev watched a couple Korean girls in midi tank tops walk out of the French café up Melrose.

  —Mean your mom's been kicking in.

  —Any of your business?

  The girls disappeared into a shoe store and he looked back at me.

  —Only that she's not gonna carry you forever and you need to get a fucking job because the IOUs are piling up on the fridge.

  —I'll get a job.

  Po Sin tugged the end of his thin drooping moustache.

  —Can't believe you can't get a job the way the schools need teachers.

  Chev flicked his butt.

  —He can get a job, they call him all the time. He could sub five days a week. He could go full-time again whenever he wants.

  —Only I don't want to, asshole.

  —You want to make a couple bucks, I got some work for a guy with a strong stomach for messed up shit.

  I looked at Po Sin and squinted.

  —What kind of work?

  He looked at Chev and pointed at me.

  —Know why he doesn't have a job? Because he's the kind of guy you offer him one and he asks what the work is.

  He started for the cab of the van.

  —He don't want to work.

  I followed him around the van.

  —I didn't say I don't want to work, I just asked what the job is.

  Asking what the job was, that was actually a really smart idea. If I'd pursued that line of questioning a bit further, things would have been considerably less complicated. Dug a little deeper into that line of inquiry, and I might have avoided the whole Who's the Asshole in the Motel Room contest that would crop up later.

  But Po Sin wasn't interested in filling in blanks.

  He stopped and faced me.

  —It's cleaning shit up, is what it is. We got a packrat gig and one of my sets of hands is flaking on me and there's a load of shit to haul.

  I squinted again.

  —You mean literal shit?

  —I mean stuff. Ten bucks an hour for hauling stuff. You want or not?

  Chev came around the front of the van.

  —He wants.

  —Hey!

  Chev put a finger in my face.

  —He wants because the fridge is empty and it's his turn to fill it and I'm gonna start eating all my meals out so there's nothing for him to graze on, so if he wants to eat this week he'll take the job.

  Po Sin took a notepad from his back pocket and started scribbling with a nub of pencil from behind his ear.

  —Good. Here's the address.

  He handed me the paper.

  —Seven in the AM. No later.

  —No problem, just swing by and pick me up.

  Midway pulling himself up behind the wheel, Po Sin stopped.

  —Pick you up? My ass. Drive yourself.

  Chev shook his head.

  —He doesn't have a car.

  —I have a car.

  —No, you don't.

  —Yes I do. I have a great car. I have a classic nineteen-seventy-two Datsun five-ten.

  —You have car parts. You do not, in fact, have a car.

  —Yes I do. I have parts in sufficient quantity and variety that when assembled in their proper order they will constitute a car. I have, de facto, a car.

  —You have a de facto pile of scrap in the driveway is what you have, dude.

  Po Sin turned the key and the van started up.

  —The bus is a buck fifty. You got a buck fifty?

  I stuffed my hands in my pockets, looked somewhere else.

  —I don't ride the bus.

  Po Sin pointed at the number 10 stop, up at the corner.

  —Public transportation is a wonderful thing. Saves money, saves the environment. Gets you to a paying job. Take the bus.

  I started to open my mouth and Chev stepped in.

  —He's not riding the bus, Po Sin. He doesn't like the bus.

  Po Sin looked at him. Looked at me. Looked away.

  —Right. My bad. Thought maybe that had changed.

  He looked at his watch.

  —OK, I got a guy on the job, he can pick you up on the way. Be out front at six thirty and he'll grab you.

  Chev butted me with his shoulder.

  —Yeah, I'll get him up and make sure he has his sack lunch and everything.

  Po Sin pulled the door closed and put the van in gear.

  —So, see you tomorrow. And wear your boots, there tend to be sharps all over the floor on these jobs.

  The van pulled from the curb and we walked back up to the front of the shop.

 
Chev put his arm around my shoulders.

  —Your first real job. Me and your mom are so proud.

  —Fuck you, I'm not going. I'll call Po Sin later and tell him not to send the guy.

  —Yes, you are going. And to celebrate, me and your mom are gonna fuck like bunnies tonight.

  I shrugged his arm off.

  —Don't, man, that's not cool.

  —Gonna fuck and fuck and fuck all night long.

  —Dude, you're grossing me out.

  He stopped at the door, pumping his groin at me.

  —Gonna git our fuck aaawwwnnn.

  I walked past him into the shop and locked the door. He grabbed the handle and shook it.

  —Let me in, dick.

  On the counter, his phone began to buzz and I picked it up.

  —Want me to get it?

  He stuck his finger against the glass.

  —Do not answer that.

  I looked at the number.

  —Caller unknown. Probably a customer. Let me get this for you.

  —Do not pick that up.

  I flipped the phone open.

  —White Lightning Tattoo.

  Chev jammed a hand in his pocket, going for his keys.

  —Asshole!

  I nodded my head, phone at my ear, backing from the door.

  —A string of barbed wire? Around your biceps? Yeah, sure, we can do that.

  Chev turned the key.

  —Do not say another word.

  I covered the mouthpiece with my hand.

  —No, it's cool, I can handle this.

  He pushed the door open.

  —Give me the phone.

  I took my hand from the mouthpiece.

  —Sure, sure, we can do that wire around your arm. We can also tattoo lameass poser wannabe on your forehead.

  Chev came at me, grabbing for the phone.

  I held it over my head, screaming.

  —Or how about you just get a unicorn on your hip so people will know what a real man you are!

  Chev snagged my wrist.

  —Asshole.

  I jerked my hand free, yelling at the phone.

  —Or a rainbow on your ankle!

  And it flew from my hand and hit the polished cement floor and cracked open and the screen shattered into five pieces.

  We stood there and looked at the phone.

  I toed one of the pieces.

  —So, I guess I won't be blowing off Po Sin in the morning.

  THE LAST TIME I'D SEEN HER

  Chev's mom and dad are dead.

  Which is why I can't make jokes about fucking his mom when he starts making jokes about fucking mine. It's also why he's constantly in my ass about calling my mom and being nicer to her and being more responsible so she doesn't have to worry about me. Like my mom worries. Like she can retain a single coherent thought long enough to work up a good worry. Not that I want to rag on her or anything, I mean, she's my mom. But life hasn't disrupted her mellow since, like, 1968. How is anything I do or say gonna break that trend?