Ash Gray Proclamation Read online

  The Ash Gray Proclamation

  Short Story

  Dennis Cooper

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Begin Reading

  About the Author

  Other Books by Dennis Cooper

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  “Jerk” previously appeared in the book Jerk (Artspace Books, 1993).

  “Ugly Man” and “The Boy on the Far Left” previously appeared in Scott Treleaven’s art catalog Some Boys Wander by Mistake (Kavi Gupta Gallery, John Connelly Presents, and Marc Selwyn Fine Art, 2007) and in Dennis Cooper: Writing at the Edge (Sussex Academic Press, 2008).

  “Graduate Seminar,” “Santa Claus vs. Johnny Crawford,” “The Worst (1960–1971),” and “Three Boys Who Thought Experimental Fiction Was for Pussies” previously appeared in Dennis Cooper: Writing at the Edge (Sussex Academic Press, 2008).

  “Knife/Tape/Rope” was originally the text of a performance art work of the same name created and directed by Ishmael Houston-Jones in 1985.

  “One Night in 1979…” previously appeared in the anthology Thrills, Pills, Chills, and Heartache: Adventures in the First Person (Alyson Press, 2004).

  THE ASH GRAY PROCLAMATION

  Mackerel lives in a lower-class suburb of Pawheen, Arkansas. He’s thirteen years old and wears his dirty hair long. He wanted to be an architect when he grew up. Then he got stoned yesterday and paid a psychic to tell him the truth. According to the spirits, he’ll be dead from a drug overdose within forty-eight hours. Having been molested by half the town’s male population, Mackerel is something of a pragmatist. So he’s embraced an early death with a young teen’s impatience. At the moment, he sits on his bike finessing dope off some sixteen-year-old junkie named Josh who lifts weights and has a trendy short haircut.

  JOSH (impatiently): If you want my advice, cut your vocal cords out. It’s a simple operation. Otherwise you’re so awesome, it’s scary.

  MACKEREL: Thanks, but I’m looking for dope.

  JOSH (darkly): Thank my uncle. You don’t even want to know.

  MACKEREL: Know what?

  JOSH: That we’re gay boyfriends, you idiot. I don’t know why we moved out here from LA. You’re all retarded.

  MACKEREL: Thank him for what?!

  Mackerel kicks one of his bike pedals angrily and it spins. Josh watches the pedal revolve until his eyes are wide with staring.

  MACKEREL: I’m smart enough to know you’re just like everyone else in this stupid town who wants my ass, but I don’t care anymore.

  JOSH (vacantly): If you want to ask me something, do it now, because I think I’m hypnotized.

  Mackerel snaps his fingers in Josh’s blank face.

  MACKEREL: Okay, do you want my ass or not?

  JOSH: No, my uncle does. And he doesn’t want it. He wants me to want it. I mean he wants me to have it first. So it’s a trial run. But he’s the one who has a thing for you. And he’s not really my uncle. So, no, not technically.

  MACKEREL: You lost me. But that’s cool.

  JOSH: He wants to be a cannibal. You should hear him talk about me. I’m a junkie, or I’d leave him.

  MACKEREL: It’s weird, but I saw that happening in a dream. I think I’m psychic.

  JOSH: I dream all the time. Heroin’s great.

  MACKEREL (angrily): Then give me some. Jesus.

  JOSH: I need to buy a gun.

  Mackerel climbs off his bike and starts undoing his belt. One of his ankles accidentally hits the spinning pedal, which stops it dead.

  JOSH: Oh, shit. I was just hypnotized, wasn’t I?

  MACKEREL: Here, do it and tell your boyfriend about me. Anything you want.

  Mackerel lays his bike down on the sidewalk, which requires him to bend so far over it pulls his baggy jeans tight.

  JOSH: God, you have, like, no ass.

  MACKEREL: Hey, I’m fucking thirteen. What do you expect?

  JOSH: No, I mean I finally get the whole pedophile thing. Wow, it’s addictive.

  Ten minutes later, Mackerel is in an uncomfortable squat in some nearby bushes, and Josh is on his hands and knees sniffing around in Mackerel’s crack like some dog.

  MACKEREL: Dude, hey, gay boy. You’re obsessed. But don’t stop.

  JOSH: It’s the illegality.

  MACKEREL: And what else?

  JOSH: That your ass is so nowhere. It’s so flimsy and warm it’s like an optical illusion. God, listen to me.

  MACKEREL: I love it when you breathe out.

  JOSH: Having sex with a thirteen-year-old. Who’d have thought? It’s like I finally know myself.

  MACKEREL: You mean you know me. Not to be egomaniacal.

  JOSH: So you’re an anarchist. That’s hot too.

  MACKEREL: I try. But I’m only thirteen, so it’s all just a theory.

  JOSH: You’re God. I just figured it out.

  MACKEREL: Maybe to you. I mean I wish.

  JOSH: Seriously. You have to smell you. Use your fingers.

  Mackerel dips a finger in his ass, then pulls it out and gives the tip a very tentative sniff.

  MACKEREL: Hm.

  JOSH: What did I tell you?

  MACKEREL: I am God, aren’t I? Weird.

  JOSH: Yeah, well, just don’t tell anyone. Otherwise, I’ll never get laid.

  MACKEREL: It smells like every other ass in the world, only much, much better. That’s a guess.

  JOSH: Well, duh. Being gay is the truth. You ought to try it. Oh, shit, I’m going to come.

  MACKEREL: Knock yourself out. Oh, shit, me too.

  Fifteen minutes later, Mackerel’s lower legs have started aching, so he’s on his hands and knees. Josh has gotten hard again, and alternates between rimming Mackerel and probing his ethereal ass with a finger.

  MACKEREL: Just give me some heroin. What’s your problem?

  JOSH: You are.

  MACKEREL: That’s why I don’t care if I die. If one more guy does this to me, I’m going to freak. My blood pressure’s insane.

  JOSH: You should charge.

  MACKEREL: I do. Money’s not my problem. Beauty is. It’s weird. I used to be no one for years.

  JOSH: If you can hold out until you’re middle-aged, you’ll be no one again. You should see my quote-unquote uncle.

  MACKEREL: Thanks, but death calls. That sounded more ominous than it feels.

  JOSH: I would have paid you a hundred thousand dollars to do this. But I’m horny so don’t quote me.

  MACKEREL: That would have worked.

  JOSH: I mean I would have if I had it. Maybe my quote-unquote uncle has it. He certainly acts like he’s rich. He bought me from the straight world in so many words.

  MACKEREL: What do you guys do in bed? Not that I care.

  JOSH: This. Only I’m you, and he’s every guy who’s ever done this to you, if you catch my drift. He also fistfucks me. And he pretends to cook me in the fireplace, and then pretends to carve me into steaks and eats them. I guess they’re steaks.

  They’re invisible, so how would I know?

  MACKEREL: What do you mean by fistfuck?

  JOSH: What do you mean by what do I mean? It’s self-explanatory. Why do you care?

  MACKEREL: Because it keeps coming up in conversation. Well, not conversation, because I never say anything back. It must be a fad.

  JOSH: I love you.

  MACKEREL: Yeah, that word keeps coming up too.

  JOSH: I want to protect you from the world, and give you anything you want. I can’t believe it.

  MACKEREL: Ditto. I mean everyone says that too.

  Ten minutes later, Josh is finally bored of sex, and the two boys are sitting side by side on some grass.
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  JOSH (mournfully): I’m no one now. I’ve gone from being you to being whoever.

  MACKEREL: I’ll be dead in a couple of days, if that helps. Besides, I make everyone depressed. Being God sucks.

  JOSH: Being the ex-God sucks worse. I should just let my boyfriend eat me. Who cares anymore?

  MACKEREL (impatiently): Tell me more about me. God commands you.

  JOSH: Well, this is more about me than it is about you, but I’ll be happy when you’re dead and unattractive.

  MACKEREL: That’s about me.

  JOSH: Then there you go.

  MACKEREL: You just need to have sex with somebody who’ll never ever have me no matter how much they beg. And I know just the guy, unless you’re racist. He’s from Bin Laden-ville.

  JOSH: Like I care. Like who does it to me ever has an identity.

  MACKEREL: I hear that.

  JOSH: Is he cute? Not that I care what guys look like.

  MACKEREL: I’m a racist. So you tell me.

  JOSH: Bin Laden’s cute.

  Mackerel grabs his stomach and gags.

  MACKEREL: Then he’s cute. God, ugh, that’s disgusting. I’m going to throw up.

  About an hour later, Mackerel, Josh, and the aforementioned psychic are sitting in a circle on an old Persian rug in the latter’s little storefront. He’s just finished reading Josh’s tarot cards. Since the psychic is a Middle Easterner, it feels realistic.

  JOSH (to the psychic): Quit staring at my crotch.

  PSYCHIC: Crotch smotch.

  MACKEREL (to the psychic): He’s freaked out. He needs more heroin.

  PSYCHIC: I don’t care.

  MACKEREL (to Josh): Reality isn’t reality to a psychic. I’m pretending he’s a painting.

  JOSH: I’ve never seen a painting. That’s like paint on something flat that looks exactly like a picture, right? Like I care.

  MACKEREL: Not really. It’s better. It’s even more real in a weird way. Like Tony Hawk’s Pro Skater 3 on pause, but more serene.

  Josh thinks about that until he seems satisfied.

  JOSH (to the psychic): Okay, we’re cool if you can channel my ugly, middle-aged boyfriend. ’Cos he’s my problem.

  Hearing that, the psychic shuts his eyes, bows his head, and becomes a kind of human speakerphone.

  PSYCHIC (in a gay-sounding voice): I want to eat you. Literally.

  MACKEREL (to the psychic): I think my buddy knows that, but he wants to know the reason.

  JOSH: When you’re on heroin, you can calm down just like this.

  He indicates how relaxed his whole body seems all of a sudden.

  JOSH: Being a junkie is awesome.

  MACKEREL (to the psychic): Can a thirteen-year-old be gay? I’ve always wondered.

  PSYCHIC (in a gay-sounding voice): Oh my God, yes. Just let me eat my boyfriend, and we’ll talk.

  MACKEREL (to Josh): Now you ask him something.

  Josh sits there thinking angrily for a minute.

  JOSH: Okay, if you eat me, what will happen? I mean on a universal level. I don’t mean the temporary things like pain.

  PSYCHIC (in a gay-sounding voice): This is nice. It’s like we’re going to a couple’s counselor.

  JOSH (to Mackerel): See, that’s why I love my boyfriend. I need a father.

  MACKEREL: Me too. It’s weird.

  PSYCHIC (in a gay-sounding voice): If I eat you, your life will have more implications. You won’t just be hot and sixteen and a junkie. They’ll write a book about you, or two or three books. People will always want to know why some gay guy would eat you.

  Josh laughs delightedly.

  JOSH (to Mackerel): That’s so him.

  Just then the psychic’s head lifts and his beady eyes reopen. Mackerel and Josh look at him suspiciously.

  PSYCHIC (dazedly): It’s just erased time for me. But I don’t care if you believe me or not.

  MACKEREL (to Josh): We’d better pay him and go. I know him. But I’ll say no more.

  PSYCHIC (to Josh): Before I moved here from Afghanistan, I saw your ass in a dream.

  JOSH: That’s…nice?

  The psychic whips his tunic off over his head and tosses it aside. His body is fleshy, bordering on obese, but shows signs of having been very well built at one time.

  JOSH: Afghanistan is where heroin comes from, right?

  PSYCHIC: Yeah, why?

  MACKEREL (to the psychic): He’s a junkie. We told you that when you were in that trance. But I’ll say no more.

  PSYCHIC: You know what’s saddest about the world since 9/11? Even sadder than your dead and our dead?

  JOSH: If it’s not about heroin, I don’t care. Well, heroin or my boyfriend. Fuck, I wish I understood why we love, don’t you? I mean we humans. I would have been a movie star by now. That was my old goal.

  PSYCHIC: You’re sexy when you’re thoughtful.

  JOSH: Pshaw. But that’s sweet.

  PSYCHIC: You would have been a whore. You’ll be one anyway. That’s foretold by that card over there. I just tell it like it is. I can’t care about your feelings. You want some heroin? I could use some too.

  JOSH: Sure. I don’t care about my boyfriend when I’m loaded.

  The psychic pulls a packet of yellowy quote-unquote dope out of his discarded tunic.

  PSYCHIC: Not to put too fine a point on it, but the thing about the 9/11 bullshit? It wasn’t Bin Laden. It wasn’t even Al Qaeda.

  JOSH: I know. It was our hearts.

  PSYCHIC (with irritation): Somebody should murder you.

  JOSH: Heroin is murder.

  The psychic tosses Josh the quote-unquote dope, then appears to lose his preternatural Islamic-style mystery and cool.

  PSYCHIC (angrily): No, really murder you. I mean as soon as possible. Like now, hint hint. If we were in Afghanistan, everyone would want to murder you. You wouldn’t last a day. Your stupid American morality is why we hate you and want to live here and hate living here. But you need psychics.

  JOSH: You’re good.

  PSYCHIC: I’m not that good. I’m just ambitious. But you call that terrorism.

  JOSH: You think I don’t understand you, but I can. Guys have pulled every kind of crap to get my ass. The murder thing is really, really old.

  PSYCHIC: Then what did I just say? Either one of you boys feel free to answer, because I’d love to know what you think you know.

  JOSH: Then read my mind. Or read his mind. Yeah, read his. I already know what I’m thinking.

  The psychic glances meaningfully at Mackerel.

  PSYCHIC: I can only read the future. And Mackerel doesn’t have one. But he and I have been through this already.

  JOSH: Okay, then how does his future not happen? If you’re so fucking brilliant.

  PSYCHIC: Do that dope. Learn by example.

  JOSH: That’s a thought. But still…

  PSYCHIC: Okay, you think I’m attracted to you, right? I make you think that. It’s an Afghan thing. That’s how we bombed your fucking country. There’s your proof.

  Josh studies the psychic for a second, then laughs, and starts pouring the quote-unquote dope out on this little mirror he always carries around in his pocket just in case.

  JOSH: You’re good. I mean you’re really, really good. Okay, you win. What are you into?

  PSYCHIC: I’m into you not knowing what to expect. Okay, I’m into rimming and fistfucking. But do that dope first. I like my whores brain-dead.

  Josh is already dividing the quote-unquote dope into lines with this razor blade he also carries with him.

  JOSH (distractedly): Sounds good. I mean whatever you said.

  PSYCHIC: In Afghanistan, there’s very famous canyon called Khakistarikhan. It’s the deepest canyon in all the world. When I’m through with you, I’m going to enter your ass in the Khakistarikhan look-alike contest. It’s a big event in Islam, and you’ll definitely win.

  JOSH (to Mackerel): If you’d ever been fistfucked, you’d be so turned on right now.

  MACKER
EL: No, I wouldn’t.

  PSYCHIC (to Mackerel): You should develop your gift. Let me have sex with your dead buddy here. Then I’ll lend you a book.

  MACKEREL: According to you, I won’t have time to read it.

  PSYCHIC: That’s true, but don’t make me laugh. I’ll lose my focus. Here, junkie. Use this capitalist prop.

  He hands Josh a hundred dollar bill. Josh rolls the bill into a straw, then leans over and snorts up all the quote-unquote dope.

  JOSH: Tell me more about this canyon. I mean more about me.

  PSYCHIC: Once a year, a huge prehistoric creature that lives deep in the canyon comes to the surface and does a little dance. He looks exactly like my forearm.

  JOSH: Whatever that means. Wow, this is killer heroin. I mean literally. I can feel the legend.

  Josh has started to look too relaxed to be around a Middle Easterner in this political climate.

  MACKEREL (to Josh): Don’t you see what he’s doing? This is how the whole 9/11 bullshit happened. He just told you that himself.

  PSYCHIC (to Mackerel): He’s beyond you. Besides, you love it.

  MACKEREL: That could be true. I’d have to think about it.

  PSYCHIC (to Mackerel): Don’t you realize it yet? You’re the one who wants a sixteen-year-old corpse. I’m just a nice guy.

  MACKEREL: You’re wrong.

  He points down at the bulge in his blue jeans.

  MACKEREL: This hard-on is bullshit. I just have this whole thing about overdosing on heroin. You started it. Sex is just like whatever. Dying is sex to me.