Disgust and Desire: A Covid Novel

Chapter 1

Photo by Wren Meinberg on Unsplash

Disgust and Desire

A Novel

1.

Sam sat on one of the green benches surrounding the Sailboat Pond in Central Park, near 72nd and 5th Ave. Mid-day in September on a Saturday. Twenty-twenty: The Year of Chaos. Trump. The Virus. Political division. More personally: Homelessness.

People were all around, but, due to the Pandemic—many New Yorkers had fled the city—it was still pretty desolate. The French man in all-white clothing played jazz on his saxophone. Sam remembered the first time he discovered the Sailboat Pond. The man had been playing that afternoon, too, in late August, 2017, and it had made him imagine Paris. Paris in the twenties, when Fitzgerald and Hemingway and Stein were there. Romantic. It had taken him away from his past for a while. And from his horrid present.

            It wasn’t all bad, being homeless. He had no boss. No one lorded anything over him. He didn’t pay taxes. He didn’t vote. He didn’t work, at least not often; only when he needed or wanted to. He just…survived. That was a fulltime job in and of itself. But, in many ways, he felt free. And yet, on the flip side he felt trapped. Horrendously, absurdly trapped. It was an evolving conundrum.

            It was around three in the afternoon. Sunny and nice. Blue sky. Hot sunshine against his skin. He closed his eyes, felt the heat on his flesh. Where would he sleep tonight? He needed money, mainly for alcohol. He was bone-dry. He didn’t like being sober. All those frizzy feelings came back when he was sober. His obsessive thinking. The bad recollections.

            He spent an hour begging for change. Tourists were kind. He made a fast ten bucks. In winter this would be impossible in an hour. But in early fall it happened sometimes.

Sam slid his messenger bag over his shoulder and walked south to 72nd. He headed east a few blocks to Lexington. Down on Lex and 71st there was a liquor store, Lexington Liquors. He entered like a child about to buy supplies for his first day of class. He bought a pint of Southern Comfort, 80-proof.

            Outside he ambled slowly back towards the park. No one was around but he knew the NYPD 19th precinct was close by, on 67th between Lex and 3rd Ave. He wouldn’t risk it. He’d only encountered police a few times in the three years he’d been here, and they’d always been decent. They never gave him shit. They weren’t exactly kind…but they weren’t terrible. They were nicer than many pedestrians. He was white. That always helped. He’d witnessed the cops fucking with black homeless a few times. It was jacked-up.

            Back in the park—Billy Johnson Playground between 66th and 67th—he walked in and took a slight left and, beyond some benches, he moved into an area on the grass where some large, tall trees were. They provided shade and some solitude. He wanted to be alone.

            He slid down against a thick tree trunk. He heard the distant voices of kids. Wind rushed through the park, rustling the tree leaves above. He liked that sound. It reminded him of hiking with his father in Eastern Washington. Snoqualmie. Cougar Valley Regional Park. He saw the tall, craggy, snow-capped mountain peaks. The rugged, thin trails. He, just eight the first time, holding his father’s big, calloused hand. He remembered the brilliant stars in the dark dome of sky at night. Asking his father about the Milky Way, about stars.

            But then he had The Bad Thought. That memory. Eleven.  

Backpacking with Dad. This time in Rattlesnake Mountain area, about an hour’s drive southeast of Seattle. Just the two of them. Dad had been in a bad mood. He’d had to let go of an employee. His parents had fought the night before about it. His dad had gotten drunk. That was rare.

            That night, getting to camp—it was late October, cold, absolutely empty—a few miles in the backcountry, his father made them a T-bone steak, using the old rusty makeshift grill between two stones around the fire pit. They ate heartily, like cowboys in the 19th century, or so Sam imagined. He’d brought a book to read, The Count of Monte Cristo. He’d use his headlamp in his tent to read, later. This excited him. But he looked forward to talking to his father before that. He knew his father loved him. But he’d always been a little cold. Detached. So he cherished these trips alone together.

            They finished their steak. Darkness had fallen. It was cold. Dad had built up the fire. It was raging, orange and red and blue, licking and popping. Sam loved the feel of the flames. The smell of it. The rich earth; the wood burning. Crickets made their noises. A coyote somewhere howled. The moon rose. Tall trees surrounded them.

            His father did something he’d never done before. He pulled out a big bottle—a handle of Vodka—unscrewed the cap, and drank from it. His father scrunched his mouth after each swig. Sam wanted to ask him about it but he remained silent.

            After a while, his dad set the bottle down and sat there, in darkness, silent. Sam wondered what he was thinking. Before Sam could speak, his father said, in a low, guttural voice. “I had to fire James Henderson a few days ago.”

            Sam had met James once. He’d come to their house a few years ago. But he didn’t have a firm vision of the man. He didn’t really know him. His father picked up the bottle. He burped. In that moment Sam felt afraid. Something was off. His father sighed, long and low and loud. He snatched a pack of Marlboros from his backpack—another thing he’d never seen his father do—and placed one between his lips. He used a blue bic lighter to light the thing, using the palm of his free hand to shield the flame from the breeze.

            “Dad?”

            His father drew hard on the cigarette, his mouth pinching, and Sam saw the orange dot in the darkness. He could see the silhouette of his father.

            “Yes, son?” There seemed to be an edge in his father’s voice.

            “Why are you drinking and smoking?”

            His father waited a long, long time to answer.

            “You know,” his dad said. He pulled again on his cigarette, and fondled his chin with his hand. “Your mother can be a real bitch sometimes.”

            Sam was shocked. Had his father just called his mom a bitch? They seemed to always be so kind to each other. Well. They yelled a lot. Once he saw his father shove his mother down to the ground. She called him a bastard. Ran off crying. But that was years ago.

            Before Sam could speak, his father said, “I had to fire James because of her. Your mother.”

            “But…why?”

            Dad picked up the bottle again and drank, long and deep. He set it down. Burped.

            “Well. Your goddamn mom claims that she and James had an affair. She says they’ve been fucking for six months. He supposedly takes her to some motel during his two days off during the week.” His father leaned his head back and laughed. He laughed so furiously, so hard, that it seemed fake. Like his father was acting. Trying to sound like he was laughing. “I dunno, sonny-boy,” his dad drawled. His words now were slightly edged with rage, slippery, mumbly. “I should have divorced that bitch years ago. You know that?” He paused. “God. My own goddamn employee. Figure that! Right under my fucking nose.”

            “Dad…”

            “Come here, Sam.”

            “Dad…”

            “Come to me, boy.”

            “But, dad…”

            “Get your ass over here, kid. NOW.”

            His father had yelled. It stunned Sam. This had never happened before. The silence of the night seemed cracked. He didn’t like this. He wanted to hike back to his father’s truck. Go home.

            Sam stood. He carefully, slowly walked by the crackling fire, feeling the radiating heat against his legs.

            “Closer,” his father said.

            Sam stepped closer. He smelled the Vodka on his father’s breath. The trace of his father’s cologne. His arm-pit body odor. And that unique dad scent.

            His father held Sam’s chin with his right hand. Dad’s eyes were black and loose, distant, far away. Sam just wanted this nightmare to be over.

            “Promise me,” his father said. “Promise me you’ll never be like your mother. Promise me you’ll be a good kid. That you’ll be kind. That’ll you’ll be generous. And decent.” He wanted to defend his mother but he was scared. He stood very still. His father stared at him. Then his dad picked up the bottle and said, “Drink.”

            Sam didn’t want to. He was a good kid. A little weird, kinda shy, but he studied and got good grades. He was thoughtful around girls. He listened. He followed the rules. He didn’t bully or cheat or steal. It was true he didn’t have any friends. But he read books. Authors were his friends. His guides.

            “I don’t want to,” Sam said.

            His father laughed. He let go of Sam’s chin. He grabbed his yellow hiking mug and filled it with Vodka. He held it out to Sam.

            “Drink.”

            Sam shook his head. “No. I don’t want it.”

            Sam didn’t even see the huge palm come at him. His father slapped him across the cheek with such force that Sam stumbled back, tripped on one of the logs around the fire, and fell over. He landed hard on his ass on the dirt.

            “Get up you little shit,” his father said.

            Sam felt like crying but he held it in. He wanted to run but he resisted the impulse. He stepped to his father. His father held out the mug. Sam took it. He smelled it. Nasty. Ruthless.

            “Go ahead,” his father said. “Make a man out of you yet. Your mom spoils you too much. Makes you soft.”

            He held the mug. He lifted it to his lips and drank. Just a small sip. It burned like acid. He nearly vomited. It was disgusting.

            “Again.”

            “Dad…”

            His father lifted his hand in preparation to slap him again. “Drink all of it.”

            He wanted to protest. But he followed orders. He half gagged on it…and had to take breaks. But he drank it all. He felt warm and somehow happy and alive. It was as if the flames were inside of him now. The kindling had always been there. But now the flames leapt and rose. The fear seemed to somehow dissipate. He laughed. His father palmed his shoulder.

            “Good job, son. See. It’s not so bad huh?”

            Sam smiled. “It’s good.”

            They sat there, across from each other, seeing one another through the crackling fire, in total silence, each on their own log, not speaking, hearing all the wildlife around their campsite.

            Then they both passed out. The last thing Sam remembered thinking, before he drifted off, was, I need to get some more of this stuff. It’s like magic.