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Jealousy and doubt
Literary Review, Wntr, 2005 by Duff Brenna
It is one of those evil moments when Ray doubts everyone, even those closest to him. All liars and betrayers. All of them living sordid lives. Not just them, but all humanity. The whole world. Dishonest. Disgusting. He hates them and he hates that he hates them and hates that he has such hateful thoughts about them. But he can't help it. He trusts no one and believes in nothing. Not even himself.
God, I'm in a mood, he says, exhaling sourly. And it's all her fault, the little bitch. Look at the time. Where is she? Why doesn't she call? Should I go looking for her? I could go over to her house and see if she's home.
Yes, but what if she's--
No, Ray, no you don't.
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That would be demeaning. Desperate. Pitiful.
Sometimes it comforts him to remember that we all die tomorrow and all our desire and pain dies with us. All striving, caring, loving, hoping will end one day in a great departure of thought. That 5,000-year-old frozen corpse found in the Italian Alps had once been a living, breathing man. Just as greedy for pleasure as anyone alive today. But what did it matter? Embedded in an Alpine niche as the centuries ticked by and no one noticing him. Maybe he had a family. No doubt they had wondered why he disappeared. They cared for a while--where is Ugha? He went up the mountain and didn't come back. They searched for him. They called out Uuughaaa! Uuughaaa! But all that returned to them were echoes. The moon changed shapes, rose and fell and life is for the living. Must go hunt and gather. Got to stay alive somehow. Ugha's disappearance remained a mystery to his relatives and friends. The memory of his voice faded as the months went by. The years. Eventually they forgot what he looked like. And his wife and children went on until one by one they wore out and died. As did his grandchildren and his great-grandchildren generation after generation and so on and so forth. All Ugha's descendents departing. And what was the point? Bodies gripped in ice. Flesh and blood morphing into tusks.
Life is short, Ray mutters, clenching his teeth. Better to acknowledge its brevity and the insentient state to which we sink, all of us great or small. Better to not be fooled by an afterlife that no one's seen. From whose bourn no one returns. Shrug it away. Be philosophical. It's coming. So who cares? It may not be today or tomorrow. But it will come. The readiness is all. Said Hamlet. Or is that Lear? No, Lear says ripeness is all. Actually no, it is Edgar saying it to Gloucester. And Gloucester says that's true too. Because everything is true. And then he died. Hamlet died. Gloucester died. Lear died. Uhga in the Alps died. Need to take death with a grain of salt. The only way to handle such an outrageous fate. The trick is to know when to go. Give me the hemlock; it's time.
Ray waits a moment to see if being philosophical makes him feel better. It doesn't. Where is she? Why isn't she answering the phone? Instinct tells him it is for sinister reasons. She is out with someone. Or maybe she is home, she and he thrashing on that Persian rug. Or is it Turkish? Yes, Turkish. Ray sees her head thrown back, her mouth open, her hands grip ping her lover's arms. What does he look like? Ray can see him. Slim and dark. Smelling musky like the dark ones do. He has seen how she looks at them. Always younger men. Older women are hot for young studs. An article in the paper this morning told of an older woman arrested for sexually abusing two teenage boys, fifteen and sixteen. The charges included oral sex and sodomy. She got two years. What perversion of the mind made those boys tell? Ray knows that if such a thing had happened to him at that age, he never would have told. He would have made a sacrifice to Aphrodite instead. Found a golden apple to offer her.
He goes into the kitchen, gets the vodka, pours some in a tumbler and adds three ice cubes. Swirls. Waits for the drink to cool. Remonstrates with himself. Why shouldn't she go for some other guy? No reason not to, not when you're impotent half the time, old fool. Not when your face looks like a cluster of grapes hanging over her in bed. She never wants to make love with the light oil anymore. Your body no longer turns her on. Wrinkly neck. Almost a wattle beneath your chin. Rusty skin on the V of your chest, where the sun used to burn you. Age spots surfacing like seaweed oil your forehead. That tiny lesion oil your nose is probably a basal cell.
Not your fault, old fool. You tried to warn her. You told her she was too young for you, but would she listen? She said your age meant nothing. That you didn't look twenty years her senior. Maybe ten years at the most. That's when you were working out, lifting weights, jogging a mile every morning. And you had more hair. And you used an acid that sloughed the dead skin off your face. Left your cheeks shiny and smooth. You had looked good for fifty-four.
He takes a drink. He swishes it like mouthwash over his teeth. Holds still for a moment breathing through his nose. The vodka bites. After he swallows, his whole mouth feels antiseptic. She claims he never has bad breath. He tells her it is because alcohol keeps his palate squeaky-dean. And that is why he never gets sore throats or rarely catches a cold. Germs can't multiply in an environment pickled in alcohol. She laughs at that. She joins him in a drink, laughing, laughing. She loves to drink one or two and laugh at his jokes and have fun.
