Period Read online

  Period

  Also by Dennis Cooper

  Closer

  Frisk

  Try

  Guide

  Period

  Wrong (Stories)

  The Dream Police: Selected Poems 1969–1993

  All Ears (Journalism)

  Jerk (with Nayland Blake)

  Horror Hospital Unplugged (with Keith Mayerson)

  Period

  DENNIS COOPER

  Copyright © 2000 by Dennis Cooper

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Any members of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or publishers who would like to obtain permission to include the work in an anthology, should send their inquiries to Grove/Atlantic, Inc., 841 Broadway, New York, NY 10003.

  The epigraph is from Maurice Blanchot’s The Writing of the Disaster, translated by Ann Smock (University of Nebraska Press, 1986).

  Parts of Period have appeared in GOTHIC: Transmutations of Horror in Late Twentieth Century Art, edited by Christoph Grunenberg (The MIT Press, 1997) and Weird Little Boy, a CD/book collaboration with John Zorn, Nayland Blake, Casey McKinney, Chris Cochrane, and Mike Patton (Avant Records, 1997).

  I’m very grateful to Ira Silverberg, Amy Hundley, Morgan Entrekin, Joel Westendorf, Amy Gerstler, Marvin Taylor, Terminator, Linda Roberts, and Casey McKinney.

  Published simultaneously in Canada

  Printed in the United States of America

  FIRST PAPERBACK EDITION

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Cooper, Dennis, 1953–

  Period / Dennis Cooper.

  p. cm.

  eBook ISBN-13: 978-1-5558-4771-5

  I. Title.

  PS3553.0582P47 2000

  813′.54—dc21 99-42765

  CIP

  Design by Laura Hammond Hough

  Grove Press

  841 Broadway

  New York, NY 10003

  for Vincent Fecteau

  Table of Contents

  Chapter

  Circled

  Cavemen

  Crippler

  Cycle

  Converse

  Curtains

  Keep watch over absent meaning.

  —Maurice Blanchot

  Period

  Chapter

  A little town made up of rickety shacks largely hidden away in some humongous oak trees that this thick fog enclosed almost all day sometimes so most residents stayed at home though a handful might walk up the dirt road each morning and buy some supplies while this strange deaf-mute teenager sat on the steps of the general store writing things in his notebook and glanced around worriedly every once in a while with this scrawl in his eyes thinking who knows what circuitous shit.

  Nate’s eyelids shut, bunched, quivered a fraction, then opened to show off a mind built of weird contradictions. His eyes were amber, a bit dilated, and sparkly. Too excitable to know, yeah? So Leon checked how he was reflecting in them, and, sure enough, he looked scared. “I got this idea,” Nate said.

  “Oh?” Leon couldn’t believe he was sitting around in the presence of someone so … mentally out there. Hopefully, Nate felt vice versa for him.

  Nate turned away, spat. “I’m thinking we could ask Satan for something.” All this bullshit was said in a thick Southern accent that made him impossible to know very well, if at all. Hence, the charisma.

  “Yeah, like what?” Leon’s bewilderment did something odd to his voice. Luckily, Nate was always so into his own crazy thoughts. It made others feel useless. Hence, the charisma.

  “I’m thinking for sex.” Nate snickered just so. There couldn’t have been a more perilous moment. In the background, his boombox was playing the newest cassette by The Omen, a crappy Satanic rock band that he loved.

  “You got someone in mind?” Leon said, utilizing a half-joking, fake, noncommittal, weak voice that exactly reflected his actual feeling.

  “Well …” Nate studied Leon, his eyes growing more colorful if sort of uglier. Less distant, but much, much more fascist. In other words, incomprehensible. Maybe Nate’s huge IQ was the problem. “I’ll show you.”

  3:07: Don’t like those boys.

  3:09: They’re evil.

  3:10: Excuse me.

  3:10: Reading their lips.

  3:12: They got something bad in their minds.

  3:13: Think it’s sex.

  3:13: Think they said me.

  3:15: Me for sure.

  3:16: Scared.

  3:18: Go away.

  3:20: Think of something else.

  3:21: When the wind hits a treetop, it’s born.

  3:23: It keeps changing.

  3:23: Big dog head.

  3:24: Ocean wave.

  3:24: Can’t decide.

  3:25: They’re still there.

  3:25: Help.

  3:26: Gonna stare ’em down.

  3:28: Staring.

  3:29: Bored.

  — Him.

  — Who?

  — Sitting there. Writing in that notebook.

  — The guy who looks weirdly like you.

  — Yeah. Let’s just say theoretically … we ask Satan to give him to you for your sexual purposes. You know, to sort of distract you from me.

  — Fuck you.

  — That way you can do it with him, and we can just be best friends, ’cos—

  — Fuck off.

  — … seriously, Leon, for the million billionth time, I’m way too fucked up. Trust me.

  — You say that now.

  — I’ll say that in Hell.

  — But it wouldn’t be the same with him. Come on.

  — Sure, it will. He can’t talk, he can’t hear. It’ll be like you’re playing with me. You can fool around with him or whatever you want.

  — I don’t know.

  — Look at him. He looks sort of like me if I was nervous.

  — Yeah, okay. It’s spooky.

  — It’s fate.

  — Maybe. What’s the plan?

  — Oh, no plan yet. I’m just talking.

  Leon unfocused his eyes on the swaying around of a tree outside the shack’s dusty window. Its limbs were entrancingly lighted. But he couldn’t connect how he felt with its beauty. So he turned his head slightly and studied a framed photograph of his only friend, Nate, in particular two amber eyes. They were a little too friendly, but nowhere near cozy enough. Finally he closed his own eyes and very neatly unlit everything in his mind ’til there was only the heat of the day—which was slow and very weighty with moisture, and laced like a shoe with the whirring of flies—and the bed, which was cold and uneven and had no effect. Thus he was left to himself. And to his imagination. And to the sizzly sun. And to the sounds of the jiggling tree. And he pictured that deaf boy’s face, made a fist, closed it around himself, raised it up, then brought it down hard in the direction of Hell, up and down, over and over, until he’d completely erased shit.

  Don’t be scared, Nate yelled through his chapped, smelly hands. It’s me, Bob. He was standing before an old shack where this outsider artist of no repute lived, worked, and sort of kept to himself. Sometimes Nate hiked way out here, and let the psychotic guy screw him for kicks.

  The slat door swung open so roughly it knocked loose a yellowish dust cloud from somewhere. Out piled this grizzled type, scrubbing his paint-spattered hands with a gross rag. Obviously it’s you, Bob said. He squinted hard at the woods’ disheveled edge, then made a grab for Nate’s ass.

  Bob couldn’t be around Nate without half
seeing George, some dead boyfriend. He’d left this heaviness in Bob’s mind. These days, Bob did whatever bullshit it took to actualize the guy’s feel, from screwing near look-alikes to illustrating the past with his art like a ramshackle Disney.

  Wait, Nate said. Before I forget. I want to see that new thing you’re making up in the hills. Word around town was the guy had gone totally evil or nuts, on account of how freakish it looked next to everything else. Then Nate clenched his ass into a rock, and held it tight, ’til Bob promised.

  9:02: Leaf shaking, tree to the right.

  9:08: Bored.

  9:10: Something on the road?

  9:13: Nothing.

  9:47: Was asleep for a while.

  10:12: Deer on the hill.

  10:13: Thinking of shooting that deer.

  10:15: Nailed it.

  10:17: It’s shaking a little.

  10:23: Still now.

  10:31: Bored.

  10:34: Okay, okay. More deer. I see ’em.

  10:35: Two of ’em. Shit.

  10:38: Deciding.

  10:39: Aim.

  10:40: Got one of ’em. Head, I think. Other deer took off.

  10:43: Going down there to look.

  11:12: Back. It’s dead.

  11:13: Want to drag it up here.

  11:42: Too tired.

  11:50: Nothing on the road.

  11:52: Still nothing.

  11:59: Bored.

  12:11: Wind blowing the deer’s fur around.

  1:01: Was asleep for a while.

  1:04: Thinking of dragging that other dead deer over here.

  1:06: Yeah. I’m off.

  1:48: Laid that deer down by the first deer.

  1:50: Watching ’em.

  1:53: Gonna push ’em closer together.

  1:55: Better.

  With a jab of his elbow, Nate broke the store’s window. No alarm, nothing. Leon reached through the uneven star and came back with a shitload of jewelry.

  They ran until they’d reached that weird place only they recognized.

  Leon was so spent, he couldn’t think shit. The necklaces, watches, and pins formed a garish-ass pile in the grass. It looked for all the world like Satan’s hatchet face laughing or yelling in profile, from their angle at least.

  The sky was so muggy and black they could barely stand up. They’d been snorting crystal meth every hour for hours. Leon felt nothing but horny for Nate by this point. That hurt. Everything was hateful apart from how wildly he longed for the fucker.

  Leon shut his eyes, reopened them, and made himself look available. He never could figure out how he did that. Except that it came maybe ninety percent from the way he was built.

  Nate removed article after article of clothing until there was technical human perfection, as far as Leon was concerned. There shouldn’t have been anyone in the world that important. It killed him.

  — Satan, it’s us. We’re calling you. Shit, it’s fucking cold out here.

  — Wait, put on some music. Put on The Omen tape. It’s in the …

  — Found it.

  — Maybe louder. Cool. Now kill the cat.

  — It’s fucking scratching me. Shit, shit.

  — Keep stabbing it.

  — Okay.

  — Now put it in the circle of candles. On top of the jewelry.

  — Okay. Satan we’re calling you. Come into the circle of candles. We got a little gift for you.

  — We love you, Satan. You’re the coolest.

  — Concentrate.

  — I am.

  — Fuck, that’s him. Look at that. It’s like a smudge. On the cat.

  — Oh, shit.

  — What?

  — I think he’s screwing me. Ow.

  — Relax, let him. It’s his thing, man. Uh … welcome Master of Darkness. We want to ask you for something. We want you to give Leon that deaf boy. What’s his name?

  — Dagger. Ow, ow.

  — We want Dagger to be Leon’s sex slave, so he can do what he wants. Can you do that for us?

  — Ow, ow.

  — Give us a sign. Wait, is that it? You see that?

  — Yeah.

  — The wind couldn’t do that, right?

  — I … don’t think so.

  That? Nate said, spotting the first foggy, tree-obscured view of an average, citified house. It sat in a completely impractical spot, several strenuous uphill, twisting, turning miles away from any road. ’Cos he’d expected a huge nude statue of that George guy at least. I mean, fuck it.

  Quiet down, Bob said, and opened the front door a crack. Turns out that inside the hospitable front there was zip, inkiness. Still, thanks to the scrawny, vague inflow of daylight, Nate could guess it was all divvied up into rooms, hallways, and maybe even a staircase, all painted wild black.

  It’s a hellmouth, isn’t it? Nate said. ’Cos there was a definite essence of Satan inside. Some sort of creepy crawly glow. It etched Nate with goose bumps, then spun off a fantasy wherein Bob, no, wait, Leon, yeah, raped him, wait, while The Omen played live, no, wait, murdered him, wait, or—

  4:08: Lake. Nothing else.

  4:10: One fish.

  4:11: Wish someone was here.

  4:12: Just shot at a bird.

  4:12: Missed.

  4:13: Bored.

  4:16: Some boy.

  4:16: Watching me.

  4:16: Oh, him.

  4:18: Gonna write him some shit.

  4:19: Hi, how’s it?

  4:19: His lips said, Come back to my shack with me.

  4:19: What for?

  4:20: His lips said, For whatever I want.

  4:21: He’s taking a leak on the tree.

  4:21: Back.

  4:23: He likes me.

  4:24: He does.

  4:25: Thinking about it.

  4:27: Thinking.

  — So you remember that spell thing?

  — Not right now. I’m thinking.

  — Come on.

  — Fine. It worked. Whatever.

  — Yep. Yesterday afternoon.

  — Good for you. You got laid.

  — Yeah, but listen. So I see Dagger down by the river. Turns out he can read people’s lips. So I say hey. He writes in that notebook of his that he’s bored, so I tell him my folks aren’t around, and we walk off together.

  — Mm-hm.

  — Guy can’t control himself. I can see it in his eyes.

  — Yeah.

  — So we go in the shack, and he’s looking around, writing things, and I’m doing crystal, and I’m telling him he’s cute in little roundabout ways, ’cos he was. It was like being with you in some weird, friendly mood.

  — Fuck you.

  — So I say, you know, suck my dick. And I see him tense. He writes down that he’s scared, then, boom, he starts looking real weird, and you can see Satan’s taking him over, then, sure enough, he writes down that he’d really, really like to suck dick, with about ten exclamation marks.

  — Bullshit.

  — No. So I unzip my pants, and he does it. At first I think, Yeah, suck it, Nate. And it’s cooler than shit, like you said.

  — Can’t we talk about this later? Seriously.

  — But then this weird thing happens. I start thinking, Why am I doing this? Not like, This is dumb. More like, This boy deserves better. Or I deserve better, or both of us do. So I just kind of go with the flow after that, and the next thing I know, I’m holding him in my arms, and telling him I love him, and crying. I mean, I don’t know.

  — Leon.

  — And now I can’t stop thinking about him. I mean every fucking minute. Like right now, I’m thinking, Where is he? Is he okay? Does he like me?

  — Leon, not right now, man.

  — But it’s scary. I think I’m in love with him. We must have fucked up the spell.

  — Fine. Look, I’ll fix it, okay? Just leave me alone. I need to think.

  — About what?

  — Nothing.

  About tha
t house, Nate said. Bob sat directly across a big, tilted wooden table eating rabbit and various crisp, greenish fluff from the garden out back. The shack’s walls were covered with dusty oil paintings that easily could have been portraits of Nate, if it weren’t for the eyes.

  I told you, Bob said, jabbing a fork at his food. It’s George’s house. But as far as you’re concerned, it’s art. It’s just a house painted black inside. Then he laid his free hand on Nate’s scrunched, dog-eared crotch, and made the ruckus it took to blunt the crazy fuck’s vibe. Now eat.

  No, let me figure it out, Nate said. He shut his eyes, and activated every brain cell that the crystal meth hadn’t combusted. When they flaked, he prayed to Satan for one clink of insight. He never showed, so Nate tried Bob’s effect, which sort of gave him a great, evil thought. Hunh, wait.

  — Fuck, man.

  — I told you. Watch. Abracadabra.

  — Shit.

  — In a bucket. Exactly. Follow me, and bring Dagger. Stay close.

  — No problem. Ow.

  — Not that close. Just grab ahold of my t-shirt or something.

  — Sorry. God, this is beyond dark.

  — Yeah, do you feel that? There’s something horrible in here.

  — You think it’s a hellmouth?

  — That’s totally what I think. Okay. I’ll light a candle. Now, where is he? Right. See his feet?

  — Barely.

  — Make a circle of candles around them. I’ll light the wicks as you go.

  — Should I take off his blindfold?

  — Fuck, yeah. In a minute. There.

  — Okay, hurry up. Brr.

  — Satan, we call you. We offer you the sacrifice of this boy’s life. Take it and please stop fucking around with our minds.

  — Shouldn’t we ask for something specific?

  — What do you mean?

  — Well, it’s a pretty great gift.

  — Okay, I ask you, Satan, that in return for this offering you give me … okay, immortality. Live forever, no one can kill me, and that kind of stuff. What about you, Leon?

  — Do I have to say it out loud? I’m kind of embarrassed.

  — I don’t know. I guess not.