Pillow Read online

  Telling people not to worry over the phone is the most certain way to have them be frantic when they finally do see you.

  Emily moved to touch his head instinctively, and then pulled her hand back to her mouth. Pillow sat her down. He explained a version of what had happened that he was trying very hard to believe: that he and Don had seen a homeless man getting beat up by a group of teens, and one of them had hit him with a tree branch. Emily held her hands tight to her temples as she listened. Pillow had to think for a longer minute than usual to give his thoughts.

  ‘Listen, listen, listen, listen. This isn’t a catastrophe, it’s a concussion. Everyone has them all the time. Life is a concussion. Okay? I’m not going to be forgetting my last name tomorrow. I didn’t go out. I just had my bell rung a little. I got hit by a kid with a stick, that’s it.’

  ‘Pete, what are you talking about? You had to stop fighting because –’

  ‘It’s not repetitive. I had to quit because I’m not supposed to take repetitive blows to the head anymore, okay? That’s what the doctor told me. My head has been healing for almost ten years. I took one shot. One shot. I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Do you think I haven’t looked this up? Do you think I haven’t looked this up for hours? I’m not an idiot, Pete. I’ve thought about this. And I know that your sixties aren’t going to be a good time. I know that, and I’m fine with it. We have time now, and we’re going to make it great. I’m sure of it. But you can’t be getting in fights anymore. Ever. You need to get out of this, the coin thing, bouncing, steroids, all of this.’

  ‘It was nothing to do with work, the coins, none of that stuff. It was random. I was walking home. We saw a homeless guy about to get his ass kicked, what were we going to do?’

  ‘Leave, like someone who can’t be in fights anymore. That’s what you do now. Like everybody else, you just walk away and feel shitty about it later. You need to be scared. For me. You have to leave it behind you, Pete. I don’t care about money, you have to look out for yourself.’

  ‘I know this is bad. I understand and I accept that I was, that I am, irresponsible, and I’ll make changes. But you have to give me time. I can’t just walk away from the guys I work for without a word. I need a couple weeks to figure things out. But I’ll do it. I’ll do whatever I have to do. Okay?’

  She said, ‘Kiss me,’ and after a bit of a pause he grabbed her wrist.

  Emily was still upset and Pillow needed proper rest, so after a while she left. Pillow stayed sitting on the couch, either afraid or unwilling to move around too much. It felt like there was a very large shard of glass pressing into the middle of his forehead, and he got the idea that if he moved, the glass would go right through his skull. While Pillow sat still, waiting for his headache to go away and for his left foot to stop buzzing, the sun moved and set. The undersides of giant clouds turned a familiar pink and gently faded to black, and by the time Pillow stood to get a drink of water it was well into the night. He didn’t realize how dark it had gotten until out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of a stray cat disappearing into the bushes behind the apartment complex, one loose, impossibly long strip of plastic dangling from its tail.

  When Pillow walked into the slaughterhouse, Artaud was doing that thing just past sleeping and just short of being in a coma, moving his legs and arms out in front of him like a dog dreaming about running. If it’s possible to spoon a knobby old walking stick, he was doing that too. Pillow said hello in a consciously loud voice. Artaud woke up, gazed around a little aimlessly and shuddered himself to a seated position. He kept his bony neck craning oddly from side to side, occasionally tipping his head and letting a weird amount of blood spill out the side of his mouth.

  ‘How’re you doing there, big guy?’

  Artaud responded by flopping back down flat, turning himself away and into the fetal position. After a second or two he was snoring again, these heavy, horrifying blood-drenched heaves, each snore ending with the sound of a broken tip of bone flapping under the pressure of breath.

  Pillow was ready to feel a little hurt before he realized Artuad already had a note laid out on the table.

  Dear Pillow,

  My mind is moderately troubled; I won’t bother to go into the reasons. Your influence has helped me, and I hope when my situation improves, when I am able to exert a more sensible influence over my own brain, that I may improve yours.

  I know what you want. What I ask is merely that you are sensitive to the folds in the fabric of our friendship. I wish to help you, as you do me, but I also wish not to be used.

  Although I grow weary of it and thrill has long since disappeared into the wake of this rickety boat, I am badly in need of some more drugs. Whatever you have will help. I would bury a thousand ships in the sand to touch the shore once more.

  My soul on your lips,

  Antonin Artaud

  Pillow finished reading and looked over at Artaud, still curled in a very long, very sad ball with his hands clawed over his eyes.

  Pillow had one last chance to bail out. It would be easiest, and kindest, to kill Artaud. Pillow had one big dose ready, and that’d be all. Artaud would probably thank him. He’d be grateful, and for Pillow it could be over. It could all be over. Breton would let it lie, Gwynn and Don would still be his friends. And he’d be right where he was, right where he’d been. Pillow walked over and sat on the couch, he shook Artaud’s shoulder. He ran his hand over the priest’s cheek, the skin was tight and hot and yellow, infections blending together. Artaud’s pulse pumping anemic and laboured in his neck. Pillow knew Artaud wouldn’t wake up, that he wasn’t about making it easy. Artaud wouldn’t decide for him. It was all on Pillow.

  Pillow went outside and paced. He started talking to the giant metal bull, listing reasons, mixing reasons to keep Artaud alive and go for the coins with reasons it would work.

  Because you’re clever.

  Because you see the angles.

  Because you’ll fight anyone, anywhere, anytime.

  Because you don’t fight for free.

  Because you don’t fight for peanuts.

  Because you know how to win.

  Because cheating and trying are the exact same thing.

  Because you’ve been fucked plenty.

  Because it didn’t hurt.

  Because it did hurt and you didn’t care.

  Because kids need money.

  Because women like winners.

  Because you’re never scared.

  Because you’re always ready.

  Because people get scared for you.

  Because she even talks to you.

  Because everyone has to want something.

  Because you’re not exactly father material.

  Because there’s a prize.

  Because you’re a prizefighter.

  The giant metal bull didn’t seem to care. He kept pacing. He slapped both sides of his face hard. He dropped the death-syringe and stepped on it.

  Because when your brain’s that fried you’ll want help too.

  Because you can see the future.

  Because it almost is already.

  Because you go until the bell rings.

  Because food is just fuel.

  Because it’s all just fuel.

  Because you’re a rocket ship.

  Because fuck the moon.

  Artaud was still passed out when they got to the gym. Pillow paused outside to give himself some time to think. Even though it was supposed to be new, Julio’s gym already had that dirty strip-mall feel to it. The boxing gloves painted across the front door had already mostly faded away. A typical boxing gym, the place had probably looked worn out before it opened. Pillow turned off the car and sat. Finally he hustled up the steps and into the gym.

  He saw Julio at the back, watching two kids spar, shouting ‘Heeeeeyyyyyyy’ every time someone landed a punch. Pillow charged straight toward him with his head down. He could hear the slap of hand pads, the speed bags rattling, the cha
ins of the heavy bags creaking. He could smell the sweat and wet leather and hear some trainer counting off reps from the corner. Julio’s belt (which used to be Pillow’s) in a glass case above the office door. Julio had switched to a purple velour track suit, fluorescent lights reflecting at different angles off his bald head.

  Pillow hugged him from behind, then swung around and leaned deep into the ropes.

  ‘Pillow! Hey, man, hey. You came around! Here for the job? Kevin really liked the session you had.’

  ‘Not quite, Jules. I came to ask a favour actually. Can we talk somewhere private?’

  Julio eyeballed him sidelong. Pillow ran lies through his head, hoping to start believing them.

  ‘Sure thing, sure thing. Come to my office over here.’

  They walked to the back, and Pillow ducked a bit entering the room even though he didn’t have to. Julio closed the office door whisper-soft.

  ‘Listen, Pillow … I want to help you. I do, brother, I do. But …’ Julio walked around behind the desk, squeaked his chair into reclining. Pillow stayed standing. ‘I hear things, you know? About you. And hey, we’ve all, you know, we’ve all … Not judging, but it’s my place here. My money, right? If you want to work here, I’d love it. Train fighters, that’s cool. But I’m not into anything else. I’m trying to keep it all clean. I don’t want no trouble.’

  Pillow settled into a chair and grinned, faux-sheepish. ‘None of that stuff, Jules. You, well, you remember how it was with the girls, back in the day. And that’s where, that’s where I’ve got myself in a spot.’

  Julio laughed and rubbed his head, spun his chair in a full circle. ‘What’s going on, you need for me to take one off your hands? Because I’ll do you that favour. Because we’re tight like that. Brothers.’

  The noise Pillow made sounded forced enough to be called a guffaw. ‘Don’t get too excited. I just need a place. I’ve got an old squeeze coming into town for a few days, and she wants to stay with me. But I’m shacked up, y’know, with my girlfriend. So I just need a little privacy, a quiet place. So I was wondering if there was a room.’

  Julio came around the empty desk and sat on the edge. ‘Yeah, man, it’s in the basement. The door locks and all. It’s got a cot. You can get in through the back door, have some privacy. I’ll set you up. It’s not free, though. I don’t have to tell you nothing is free in a boxing gym.’

  ‘Money’s tight, man, I mean I can …’

  Julio shook his head, fake-offended. ‘I don’t want your money, man, what do you think I am? No, come look at the kid again. Kevin wants you to train him, full-time. You should do it, you were good with him. Get you started with him, then we get you working with some of the amateurs, building kids up. Everybody always knew you’d be a trainer, man. When you were fighting that’s what everyone said.’

  Pillow looked at the corner of the ceiling. ‘I told you, I just –’ ‘No. I don’t wanna hear it. I give to you, you give back. I respect you too much to give you shit for free. We’re going to make a deal.’

  Pillow shrugged. ‘Yup. You got a deal. I feel bad for the kid, though.’

  Julio laughed, then a serious look passed over his face. ‘This is what it is? It’s about a girl, right? Not that I don’t believe you, man, really, I believe you, but I have to make sure. I can’t take any chances with the gym here.’

  Pillow reached across and grabbed Julio’s kneecap.

  ‘I get it, Jules, I do. Nothing to do with what you’re thinking. I swear. It’s … this kid thing, it’s kind of kicking my ass. And I think I do just one last hurrah, then I can get my head straight. That and …’

  ‘And you’re as much of a sucker as you always were.’

  Pillow let go of the knee, let his hand dangle. It touched the floor. Julio laughed and hugged him around the shoulders. Pillow closed his eyes.

  Artaud slept the rest of the afternoon. He slept in the car as Pillow waited for the gym to clear for the day. He slept as Pillow carried him around the back. Pillow left him on the dirty cot, his head resting on a rolled-up shirt, his hand stretched out over his head, one arm cuffed to the bed frame and the other clutching the walking stick, as he wheezed slow, laboured breaths, tiny bubbles of blood expanding and popping at the corners of his mouth.

  A few seconds before he woke up the next morning, Pillow realized he’d forgotten all the drugs for Artaud at the slaughterhouse. He took his time gathering everything, double- and then triple-checked to make sure he didn’t forget anything again. He finished and looked up into the wash of light across the ceiling, breathed a bunch of dust and thought about coins.

  Pillow had only lately begun to think of himself as someone who could see the wonder in things. A person who could see the way light moved through trees or the way a big dog nuzzled a small cat as important. But he just didn’t get the coin thing. Like, who looked at round bits of metal and decided they should be the thing. Pillow could think of many, of almost any, things more amazing than metal.

  A dog eating its own vomit. What does it mean?

  These things that people seemed to hoard and love had always left Pillow a little cold. As an adult it’s money, as a kid it’s candy, or at least that was how he remembered it being. Kids went mental for candy. Oddly enough, considering that he would have had to think for quite a while before recalling what he’d eaten for breakfast, Pillow remembered what a chocolate bar tasted like, or at least what chocolate bars had tasted like twenty-seven years ago.

  He’d eaten candy like everyone does as a kid, but he’d never been as enthusiastic as the others, and when one coach told him to eat better, he’d just stopped eating junk food altogether. Thinking back on it, he realized what he must have known at the time: candy was a phenomenon, another lovely minute you could take totally for yourself in the middle of a world full of other people in other bodies with better brains and better bodies and better coaches. But candy minutes made him uneasy because they weren’t earned. Anyone could drop a piece of chocolate on their tongue and taste, anyone could scrounge a few quarters, and to Pillow that just wasn’t how magic happened. Or maybe it was, but it wasn’t how magic should happen. It should be random. He could get himself ready for magic, work hard so that he’d see it when it came, but he didn’t want to plan for it. His goal was always to be prepared but also open, empty of expectation. Fuck candy and money; all birds have to do is move their arms and they fly.

  On the way out, Pillow saw that he’d left the front door open. He took a running start, jumped and caught the high ledge of the door, swinging his legs out and landing softly into a jarred, disoriented headache. Pillow took a quick knee and sighed, regretting how easy it is to forget you’re hurt once you’ve been hurt for most of your life. He finally stood, rubbed his neck and started toward the empty parking lot.

  Then he saw Georges Bataille standing behind the giant bull.

  ‘Hi, Pillow. You’re not going to kill me, are you?’

  Pillow dropped his arms and ambled over, dawdling so he could take it all in. He’d been wrong the whole time. Bataille had the coins. Breton had known, but Breton wasn’t here, the coins were still in play. Pillow leaned heavily against the pillar of the bull statue.

  ‘I don’t think I will, Georges. But you’re here and I really doubt you can outrun me, so you’ve taken your chances already. How did you find me?’

  ‘I hate nothing so much as discussing driving directions. I’m going to tell you about the coins instead.’

  ‘Do you have them?’

  ‘I can get them. Let me explain.’

  Pillow crossed his hands behind his head; holding them in one spot at the back made his head feel pleasantly stable and definitely attached to his body. ‘Sure, teach me.’

  ‘Do you know what numismatics means? It’s the study of coins that have lost all value. I work with worthless coins, and finally, just once, I found some that were worth –’

  Pillow kicked himself off the pillar and walked toward Bataille, rolling his hand a
round at the wrist. ‘Let’s wrap this up and get to the part where you tell me where they are.’

  Bataille was anything but stupid; he moved two paces back for every one Pillow took forward just to keep the distance.

  ‘So the Artaud line was bullshit, you’ve had ’em the whole time.’

  Bataille smiled. ‘I have always had everything in this world. André Breton differs on that point. I needed the money, and at the last moment, I felt defiant. So I brought Artaud, knowing him to be an effective straw man, knowing that he would wave his arms in time with the breath of the wind and scare any winged creature. And a few mammals of limited perspective as well. A scentless figure is a terror to animals of instinct.’

  ‘That’s some cold shit. Isn’t Artaud your friend?’

  Bataille tilted his head to the ground and thought. The breeze blew through his hair like it was a cluster of dandelion seeds. ‘I’ve always thought the words friendship and guilt to be interchangeable. The only responsible position is to be excluded, by everyone’s choice but your own.’

  Pillow reached out and grabbed Bataille’s shoulder. ‘Man, I think you’re really gumming up your own works there. Sometimes you just be nice, y’know? Eases things up.’

  Bataille shrugged the hand off, his nostrils flaring like somebody was eating an apple in the library. ‘I did not come here to be moralized upon by –’

  Pillow reached out and grabbed Bataille’s nose between his thumb and forefinger, closing the nostrils. ‘No, you didn’t. You came here because you’ve packed up your house and moved to a little town called Fucksville. You came here to give me all the detail I want, and let me decide what I want to do with them. Clear?’

  Pillow released the nose, and Georges rubbed it for a minute, calmed himself and started in again, in a consciously slow, easy tone.

  ‘Clarity is one trap door in the community-theatre stage of truth, but I understand you. What would you like to hear?’