Anger

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

Page 372 of 447 · 20 per page

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  Which one would it be?” “I don’t know.” “Let’s say your life depended on it. You have to choose or you’ll die.” “Which one would you choose?” Caitlin said. “I asked you first.” “Okay,” Caitlin said. “I guess I’d take Von.” Good, Vix thought. Because she had already chosen Bru for herself. A week later they buried Cassandra and Vixen. They built sand sculptures of themselves on the beach, complete with breasts. Vix made hers round, Caitlin made hers pointy, and they both gave themselves purple stone nipples. They used black stones for their eyes, chunks of seaweed for their hair, tiny white shells for their fingernails and toenails, and wispy strands of beach grass for pubic hair. They smoothed out the sand all around their bodies and wrote, Here lie Vixen and Cassandra. They had a good life while it lasted . Then they chanted and danced around their former selves. Two women with a springer spaniel stopped for a minute, admiring their work. Caitlin and Vix continued to dance, ignoring them. It wasn’t that they didn’t have The Power anymore, it was that they couldn’t use it together. They didn’t know why. Something about it just didn’t feel right. They agreed that for now they could use The Power by themselves, but Vixen and Cassandra were dead. Dead and buried. 8VIX WOULDN’T have thought twice about Lamb’s boyhood if Caitlin hadn’t said, “Lamb was raised by his grandmother. She’s coming soon. I forget when. She’s a real bitch. But you’ll see that for yourself.” Her interest was piqued even more when Caitlin fished an old eight by ten photo out of her bottom dresser drawer. “Lamb’s parents,” Caitlin said, tapping the photo. “Amanda and Lambert. Killed in a car crash on the island when Lamb and his sister were just babies. You know how old they were when they died? Twenty-five. Is that pathetic or what?” She didn’t wait for Vix to respond. “They were both drunk on the night of the accident. That’s why Lamb never touches the stuff. She was driving. I look like her, don’t you think?” Vix covered the thirties hairstyle with her fingers. She did look like Caitlin. “They wouldn’t have been very good parents anyway,” Caitlin said, slipping the photo back into a glassine envelope. “They might have stopped drinking,” Vix said. “I doubt it.” “Some people do.” “Well, it doesn’t matter, does it? Because they’re dead!” “Why are you getting angry at me?” “Who’s angry? Did I say I was angry?” “No … but you’re acting like you are.” “You take everything personally, don’t you?” “Just some things!” Vix told her. Now she was getting angry. And over what? She took a couple of deep breaths and said, “Lamb turned out okay.” “Lamb was perfect … until he married her!” Vix wondered if Caitlin was ever going to get over Abby. Grandmother Somers looked elegant in her white linen pants suit and wide-brimmed straw hat.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Un ruido fuerte me despierta de mi sueño, y me despierto bruscamente, parpadeando en la oscuridad. ¿Qué diablos? Podría haber jurado que la cama también había vibrado. Me lleva un momento ubicar todos los sonidos afuera, y luego escucho el ritmo de la música amortiguada filtrándose a través de las ventanas cerradas. Jesús, ¿todavía están despiertos? Miro el reloj, viendo que es justo después de la una de la madrugada. Muevo la sábana y bostezo, deslizando mis dedos por mi cuero cabelludo. Hace mucho calor aquí. Me siento, balanceando mis piernas sobre el borde de la cama y me levanto. Al cruzar la habitación, abro la puerta y me dirijo hacia el pasillo y las escaleras. En la parte inferior, verifico el termostato y enciendo el aire acondicionado. Veintiséis grado dentro. Estoy dispuesto a comprometerme, pero eso es insoportable. Tampoco ayuda el hecho que tengo que dormir con pantalones de pijama ahora que hay gente en la casa, pero temo despertarme de repente y olvidar que estoy jodidamente desnudo. Entro en la cocina, manteniendo las luces apagadas, y me detengo en el fregadero, mirando por la ventana hacia el patio. Me sorprende que no hayan llamado a la policía. Es menos ruidoso de lo que era antes, pero todavía es demasiado fuerte para esta hora. Miro alrededor del patio trasero por lo que causó el golpe y mis ojos se abren de inmediato, y me doy vuelta. En serio, Cole, ¿qué tipo de amigos hacen esta mierda en la casa de otra persona?

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  As John waited for Martha’s visit the next night, he tried to remember all he could of his sexual feelings. His first impressions were linked with Martha—he and Martha in the orphanage, protecting each other, inseparable. His love for her then was ardent and spontaneous. He delighted in touching her. Then one day when Martha was eleven, a woman came to see her. John caught a glimpse of her waiting in the parlor. He had never seen anyone like her. She wore tight clothes that outlined her full, voluptuous figure. Her hair was red-gold, waved, her lips so thickly painted that they fascinated the boy. He stared at her. Then he saw her receiving Martha and embracing her. It was then he was told this was Martha’s mother, who had abandoned her as a child, and then later acknowledged her but was not able to keep her because she was the favorite prostitute of the town. After that, if Martha’s face glowed with excitement or became flushed, if her hair shone, if she wore a tight dress, if she made the slightest coquettish gesture, then John would feel a great disturbance, anger. It seemed to him that he could see her mother in her, that her body was provocative, that she was lustful. He would question her. He wanted to know what she thought, what she dreamed, her most secret desires. She answered him naïvely. What she liked best in the world was John. What gave her the greatest pleasure was to be touched by him. “What do you feel then?” asked John. “Contentment, a pleasure I cannot explain.” John was convinced it was not from him she derived these half-innocent pleasures, but from any man. He imagined that Martha’s mother felt the same with all men who touched her. Because he turned away from Martha and starved her of the affection she needed, he had lost her. But this he could not see. Now he felt a great pleasure in dominating her. He would show her what chastity was, what love, without sensuality, could be between human beings. Martha came at midnight, noiselessly. She wore a long white nightgown, and over this her kimono. Her long thick black hair fell over her shoulders. Her eyes shone unnaturally. She was quiet and gentle, as if she were a sister. Her usual vivaciousness was controlled and subdued. In this mood she did not frighten John. She seemed like another Martha.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Como Cam. Mi hermana heredó el estilo sexy de mi madre. Me pregunto si mi madre se ha establecido con alguien o si todavía necesita esa libertad que anhelaba tanto cuando yo tenía siete años. No la extraño. Apenas la recuerdo. Pero todavía me pregunto sobre ella. Me estiro detrás de mí, agrego a la cuenta de April su bebida y tomo una toalla para terminar de secar los vasos. Pero luego la puerta de entrada se abre y una voz retumba. —Mierda, esto está muerto. Alzo la mirada y el vello en mis brazos se eriza al instante. Mi novio entra con algunos de sus amigos, pero es la voz familiar que lidera el grupo la que hace que se erice mi piel. Jay McCabe, mi exnovio, entra lentamente y se toma su tiempo, entrando a la habitación como el mariscal de campo estrella que era en la escuela secundaria y todavía esperando un maldito aplauso. Es gracioso cómo se volvió menos guapo cuanto más lo conocía. Enderezo la espalda como una barra de acero, y la conciencia hace que el calor se extienda por mi cuello. Cole entra detrás con un par de chicos, y Elena Barros los sigue, y veo su ceja arqueada y la leve mueca en su rostro mientras mira a Jay y luego a mí. No se llevan bien, pero a veces se encuentran en las mismas fiestas. Supongo que Jay se dirigió aquí con su grupo y Cole lo siguió para asegurarse que estoy bien. Jay escanea la habitación y luego sus ojos se posan sobre mí, una pequeña sonrisa curva las esquinas de su boca. Inmediatamente aparto mi mirada, se me revuelve el estómago. Trato de fingir que ya no tiene importancia, pero creo que sabe que ganó. Debería estar en la maldita cárcel después de lo que me hizo, y no lo está, porque hace dos años, estaba asustada y era patética. Ojalá alguien lo lastimara. Y aún mejor si ese alguien resultara ser yo. Cole se acerca mientras sus amigos caminan alrededor, conversando con personas que conocen. Sube la partición y viene detrás de la barra, con una mirada de disculpa en su rostro mientras se acerca por detrás, rodeándome la cintura con sus brazos. —¿Qué estás haciendo? —pregunto, mientras limpio el interior de un vaso con una toalla. Lo siento encogerse de hombros. aquí. —No te he visto. Solo te extrañé. Suelto una carcajada, tratando de relajar mi cuerpo rígido. —Estoy bien. No tienes que preocuparte por mí en el trabajo. Acaricia mi cuello, y ambos sabemos que solo está preocupado porque Jay está

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  I shove open the lid to the chest and see the book lying at the bottom. There is a single puzzle piece resting on its cover. I dust it away. This was the only book I saved when we burned everything to keep warm. It makes no sense why I’d save it. I had Isaac to answer my medical questions. Isaac to stitch me up. I saved it for myself. Because on some level I knew the zookeeper put it here for me. My stomach clenches. I flip through the index. Page 546. Fever. The part I am looking for is highlighted. In pink. It’s a coincidence, I think. An old textbook bought at a yard sale or something. This person couldn’t possibly have known that Isaac would spike a fever that could kill him. Could he? I suddenly get chills. I look up, and when I do, I’m eye-to- eye with the black horse. I drop the book. This is a game. This move is mine. I go to the wood closet. There is no more shed; Isaac started storing the tools in the Chapter Nine wood closet. I pull the axe from where it is propped, ignoring the glossy pages that run up and down the inner walls. I touch the tip of my finger to the blade. Isaac kept it sharpened. Just in case. Just in case Senna loses her mind and needs it, I think. I make my way up the stairs and turn right into the carousel room. The book is facedown on the carpet where I dropped it. An ungraceful splat on the floor. I kick it aside and look at my horse. Right in the eye. This horse and I bonded once upon a time over an arrow through the heart. I feel as if it betrayed me. Made me love it with its bone saddle and death tokens and morbid obesity—morbesity. Fattened me up for the fall. “Give me what he needs,” I say. “I’ll do whatever you want. Just give me what he needs.” And then, “Checkmate.” I lift the axe and don’t stop lifting the axe until my arms are jello-fied and my teeth are clanging together hard enough to deliver a headache, and the horse is just a mess of jagged, ripped metal. It reminds me of the inside of a Coke can I once cut open with a knife. Now he can’t see us anymore. Why did it take me so long to figure that out?

• From Between Us

  Where many Western caregivers may assume that anger is an unavoidable concomitant of the child’s maturation as a person with their own needs and goals, or a necessary response to injustice, caregivers in many other cultures consider anger childish; they believe that it is their role to help children outgrow and conquer their anger. Utku caregivers indulge the emotionality of little children who have “no ihuma: no mind, thought, reason, or understanding.” Anthropologist Jean Briggs describes how Saarak, who was the youngest of her host family and three years old around the time Briggs arrived at her field location, “screamed in anger and frustration.” Saarak’s family indulged her, trying to meet all her needs, and soothing her when they could not. It was common knowledge that small children are easily angered and frightened, and cry a lot. It was also shared wisdom that there is no point in teaching children ihuma before they show signs of possessing it, which was thought to happen around the age of five or six. Saarak’s older sister Raigili, who was six when Briggs arrived, was treated very differently: she was expected to have ihuma. Raigili acted as one who has ihuma most of the time: her behavior was pleasant and inconspicuous, and she tried not to give offense or inconvenience anyone. Maturity meant to contribute to the equanimity of the group, which meant to ban anger. Of course, older children’s control was still imperfect. Raigili did express anger or frustration sometimes, though her “hostility took the form not of attack but of sullenness: a passive, but total resistance to social overtures.” These feelings were never considered justified by the surrounding adults, and her parents ignored the behavior. Adults assumed that the child would end up finding reason, and seeing their errors, even if they did not at the moment. Adults’ disapproval of children’s actions, although clear to see, did not lead to sanctions. If a child chose to pay no attention to the disapproval, sometimes expressed in the form of fake threats, the subject was dropped, no penalties inflicted. Utku parents modeled the calm and rational response that they valued. They expected that over time their children would become calm as well. Like the Japanese mothers before, Utku caregivers socialized their children to “never (be) in anger,” first by modeling an understanding equanimity, and later by disapproving of any anger expressed by their children. It may be harder to believe that parents in U.S. and European cultural contexts socialize their children to be angry than it is that they socialize them for pride, happiness, and self-esteem, hence the idea that anger is unavoidable; however, research seems to suggest many American and European parents do. Anger embodies the self-reliance and assertiveness that is valued in these cultures, and many parents model, allow, and explicitly teach their children anger, even if they do not like to be at the receiving end. Emotions Are OURS, Not Just MINE

• From Going Clear (2013)

  The victory over the IRS was total, he explained. It gave Scientology financial advantages that were unusual, perhaps unique, among religions in the United States. For instance, schools using Hubbard educational methods received tax exemption. Eighty percent of individual auditing on the part of members was now a tax-deductible expense. Two Scientology publishing houses that were solely dedicated to turning out Hubbard’s books, including his commercial fiction, also gained the tax exemption. The church even gained the power to extend its tax exemption to any of its future branches—“They will no longer need to apply to the IRS,” Miscavige marveled. From now on, the church could make its own decisions about which of its activities were exempt. “And what about all those battles and wars still being fought overseas?” Miscavige continued. “Well, there’s good news on that front, too.” In the past, he observed, foreign governments would say, “You are an American religion. If the IRS doesn’t recognize you, why should we?” As a part of the settlement, Miscavige revealed, the agency agreed to send notices to every country in the world, explaining what Scientology was. “It is very complete and very accurate,” Miscavige said of the government brochure. “How do I know? We wrote it!” Miscavige summed up the mood in the Sports Arena: “The future is ours.” A MONTH AFTER the church’s historic triumph over the IRS in 1993, Rathbun blew. He had come to see Miscavige in a different light during the two years they labored over the tax case. The last six months of the tax case had been particularly arduous. During that period, he slept only about four hours a night. The former athlete was a physical wreck. “I’m only doing this for LRH,” he told himself, as he and Miscavige ate dinners together night after night in Washington and trudged back to the Four Seasons in Georgetown. “I’m not going to be this guy’s bitch for the rest of my life.” No doubt the stress affected Miscavige as well. On the night of his big victory speech in the Sports Arena, Miscavige showed up for a run- through, but the stage manager, Stefan Castle, was still fiddling with the cues for a complicated laser and pyrotechnic display. According to Castle, Miscavige stormed out into the arena and began to strangle him. Miscavige let him go before any real harm was done, but it was an alarming signal. Amy Scobee, head of the Celebrity Centre at the time, also noted that Miscavige’s personality began to shift immediately after the IRS decision, becoming more aggressive and hostile. At the party at the Celebrity Centre following his speech, Miscavige rudely shoved her aside as he entered. “You just want to get rid of me,” she remembers him saying.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Por supuesto que estoy preocupado. Él ha estado sin trabajo y no ha estado en casa, pero no voy a soportar una conferencia de ella. Lo usó, y he tenido suficiente de su mierda. —Esa es la razón por la que no dejas que trabaje para mí, ¿no es así? — pregunto, sin dar marcha atrás—. Porque a cambio, iba a pagar sus cuentas y darle un estipendio para asegurarme que no pondrías tus manos en todo su maldito salario. Sólo te preocupas por él cuando viene con dinero en efectivo. —Recojo mi mierda y camino hacia la puerta, abriéndola—. ¿Sabes de quién estoy realmente celoso? De todos los hombres que se escaparon antes que los atraparas con un niño. No lamento tener a Cole, sino que haya sido contigo. Vete. Estoy orgulloso de haber mantenido mi voz baja y haber podido controlarme un poco, pero estoy furioso por dentro. Ella entra a mi casa, acusándome de ser un mal padre y luego me golpea. No es mi esposa y nunca lo ha sido. Tengo que aguantarla, pero no del todo. Se queda allí, pareciendo casi divertida, y finalmente camina hacia mí. —Sí —dice, a punto de irse, pero se da vuelta y se burla de mí por encima de su hombro—. Porque tu casa es la única parte de tu vida de la que puedes sacarme. Y luego sus ojos se deslizan por las escaleras y vuelven a mí, una sonrisa enfermiza se curva en sus labios. Se va, y me quedo quieto, mientras todo lo que sentí en mi habitación hace unos minutos desaparece por completo. Cole está en una espiral y ahora me necesita más que nunca. Y Lindsay sabe sobre Jordan. Puede que no sepa nada con certeza, pero sus sospechas serán suficientes. Destrozará a Jordan. No hay forma de que la haga pasar eso. Solo desearía haberla tenido por más de siete horas.

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  Ethel turned to me and said, “I hope you never marry a man you don’t love sexually. That is what I have done. I love everything about him, the way he behaves, his face, his body, the way he works, treats me, his thoughts, his way of smiling, talking, everything except the sexual man in him. I thought I did, before we married. There is absolutely nothing wrong with him. He is a perfect lover. He is emotional and romantic, he shows great feeling and great enjoyment. He is sensitive and adoring. Last night while I was asleep he came into my bed. I was half-asleep so I could not control myself, as I usually do, because I do not want to hurt his feelings. He got in beside me and began to take me very slowly and lingeringly. Usually it is all over quickly, which makes it possible to bear. I do not even let him kiss me if I can help it. I hate his mouth on mine. I usually turn my face away, which is what I did last night. Well, there he was, and what do you think I did? I suddenly began to strike him with my closed fists, on the shoulder, while he was enjoying himself, to dig my nails into him, and he took it as a sign that I was enjoying it, growing rather wild with pleasure, and he went on. Then I whispered as low as I could, ‘I hate you.’ And then I asked myself if he had heard me. What would he think? Was he hurt? As he was himself partly asleep, he merely kissed me good night when it was over and went back to his bed. The next morning I was waiting for what he would say. I still thought perhaps he had heard me say, ‘I hate you.’ But no, I must have formed the words without saying them. And all he said was, ‘You got quite wild last night, you know,’ and smiled, as if it pleased him.”

• From City of Night (1963)

  “Thats right!... Now I let him, Out of the Goodness of My Heart, stay with me—again! And! After he hocked all my very best drag!—for ten measly bucks, mind you! And then! He comes knocking on my door he aint got no pad to stay. And, honeys, I am a gentlewoman, and I let him stay in my pad. I-never-was-no-good-at-learning-my-lessons. And! That cunthungry sonuvabitch—he done it again—and someone told me he gave one of my bracelets to some ugly cunt hes been after.... Oh, if I see him! Oh, if I just see him! I swear: Im gonna make the wildest scene ever, no matter where I find him! Right here in Pershing Square, even!... And if the cops come, why, I’ll just let them know he stole my drag, and, honeys,” she adds slyly, eyes twinkling with cop-bitchiness, “the cops got so many queens on the force themselves that theyll certainly understand what a girl feels like with all her drag clothes in hock! Why! She feels: Lost!... And did I ever tell you who I saw at the Long Beach Drag Ball last Halloween?” she goes on gleefully-bitchily. “Sergeant Lorelei—thats who! And honey, he was the maddest drag youve even seen. She looked like Sophie Tucker—simply the maddest drag I ever laid eyes on! I guess he thought nobody would recognize him out of his uniform.” She looks furiously now about the park, remembering her stolen drag again. “That Buddy!... Now you know I aint opposed to clipping no one, especially scores that wanna pay you a couple of bucks for all kindsa kicks and tricks,” she adds—and Im remembering the man whose pants she clipped and left him in the head. “But! When a thief! clips a thief!—well! That Is Too Much! The line has gotta be drawn somewhere—or we’ll all be: Lost! And, for me, This Is The End.... And, babies, it’s no secret: I got a weakness for Buddy—although—” she adds flirtatiously, pursing her lips as if in a kiss “—I love you two too. Still and all, I do got a weakness for Buddy. He may not have the world’s biggest piece of meat—but never mind: I aint one to go around flipping over size. Still, he is just as cute as can be—and that sonuvabitch, he knows I am hung up on him. So He Does This—takes advantage of my gentle nature!... Anyway, cute or not, this is definitely The End!” She glanced about the park. “Oh, oh, here comes Miss Sergeant Morgan. I’d better split!” With a wave of her hand, she left us, weaving her way along the walk, peering into the park to see if she can spot Buddy. And indeed! Sergeant Morgan is making his rounds of the park—flanked by two cops as usual. As he passes us, his giant ass swings like the stick he carries. “You really think he went to that drag party like Darlin Dolly said?” Chuck asks me.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  No es que odie a April. No me importaba lo que le hizo al matrimonio de él antes. Se necesitan dos para bailar tango, ¿no? Y Marcus Weathers también fue el culpable. Pero me importa ahora que está poniendo el blanco demasiado cerca de casa. Pike está tomado. —¿Qué problema tienes con esto? —cuestiona, caminando de regreso a la mesa—. Soy un hombre adulto que ha estado teniendo relaciones sexuales desde antes que nacieras. Estoy acostumbrado a tenerlo siempre que quiero, y no respondo ante ti, ¿me oyes? —Sus palabras muerden, y me siento pequeña—. Seguiré haciendo lo que quiera, independientemente de las opiniones de una niña que vive bajo mi techo. La palabra "niña" me golpea como un martillo, y mi corazón se hunde. Aprieto los dientes, convirtiendo el dolor en enojo. —Lo entiendo. —Lo miro—. Me iré a mi habitación entonces. Me levanto, y sus ojos se posan inmediatamente en mi estómago desnudo. La camiseta cae muy por encima de mi ombligo, y disfruto de la forma en que su cuerpo se congela y tiene que apartar los ojos. Doy vuelta alrededor de la mesa, hacia la sala de estar, pero recuerdo la vela encendida. Dando la vuelta, me inclino sobre la mesa ovalada, arqueo mi espalda y siento cómo mis pantalones cortos descienden para dejar al descubierto la correa roja dela misma tanga que usé cuando salimos al patio hace una semana. —Me olvidé de la vela —le digo, alzando mis ojos ardientes hacia él—. Pero puedo dejarla encendida si quieres. Sé que el rojo es tu favorito. ¿La vela roja o la tanga roja? No se necesita más de una suposición para saber en cuál está su atención. Traga y sus tímidos ojos miran la seda roja que se asoma sobre los pantalones cortos. Esbozo una sonrisa, y sus ojos se clavan en los míos, estrechándose. —Me estás haciendo enojar a cada segundo. —Su ronco gruñido suena peligroso—. Arruinaste mi noche, y todavía tengo mucha energía para desahogarme, así que ten cuidado. Cierro los ojos, formulando mi deseo, y apago la vela antes de volver a enderezarme. —Esta “niña” es la razón por la que tienes tanta energía para desahogarte, ¿no? —me burlo—. Eres un mentiroso. Cuadra sus hombros, respirando con dificultad.

• From City of Night (1963)

  “Ive got a vacancy here,” the squat man goes on officially. “That kid you sent me—the skinny one,” he said to Buzz, “hes the one that left.” Purposely Im looking blankly at him. He seems uneasy at my attitude. Buzz notices it. “Hes all right,” he tells the squat man, “Ive known him a long time.” He puts his hand intimately on my shoulder to emphasize it. “Umm,” the squat man said. “All youve got to do here,” he said to me, “is hand out towels to these guys—keep the place clean. I dont pay you much. But I leave it up to you how much you make—on tips.” Im still playing it square, not saying anything. “You sure this is the guy you told me about on the telephone?” the squat man asked Buzz again impatiently. Buzz nods. “Look, boy,” the squat man says, “I’ll tell you straight: I need a small slender guy something like you—some of these creeps prefer them; theyre pretty weird; you cant tell what they want...” Hes trying to indicate that he himself is uninterested, disassociating himself from “these creeps”; indicating that hes outside of the scene; that this, to him, is a business. I wonder how Buzz can take it.... Several times the squat man twisted a wedding band on his finger, to bring attention to it. As usual, I react negatively to being appraised that coldly, to being, if only by implication, talked about as if Im not around. Suddenly, from somewhere beyond this room, theres a shout. The squat man disappeared. We followed him into the lounge. I heard excited voices coming from the cubicles—snatches of talk: “Ive warned you—not so loud!” the squat man is saying. A man emerged from one of the cubicles, going to the head. His nose is bleeding profusely. As he passes us, I see on his oddly smiling face—which he doesnt bother to cover with a hand or a towel—an unmistakable look of pained satisfaction.... Back in the room with the toweled shelves, the squat man says to me: “Well?” “Well what?” I glare at him, strangely filled with hatred for him. “I believe youve got it all wrong,” he says coldly. “I run a legitimate business. Sometimes things get out of hand. But the cops dont disturb me. It’s just that these guys—” again contemptuously “—theyre ‘strange’—and they like different types around them.” Im still staring at him, enjoying seeing him put on this way. Then I walked toward the door, to leave. “You—” he started and broke off abruptly. “I dont think I’d hire you, you wouldnt do very well here,” he said, opening the door—attempting to beat me to the gesture. Feeling the perversity seething inside me, I shot back at him, aiming at what I knew would be his weakest spot: “Im not your type,” I said, watching him blanch.

• From City of Night (1963)

  She wore bracelets—cheapglass-beaded. Rings. Sequins sprinkled in her hair. Tiny glittering dots pasted over her blue eyelids. A long, long necklace which wound about her neck at least five times dangled in a pendant where her clumsily stuffed false breasts rounden rather than protrude. Occasionally, she pulled tightly on the strand of the neckbeads—as if to choke herself. Her dress, short, reaches her knees, the legs crossed so that the purple spikeheeled shoes, coming to a long point like those of a witch, protrude on either side of the stool: one foot swinging back and forth impatiently, recklessly, constantly, like a pendulum. And this man—this queen—holds a foot-long frailly thin silver-beaded cigarette holder—glossy ebony—the beads buried in it teasingly like tiny, winking, alive eyes. She held the cigarette holder tightly—curiously tightly—from a clenched, angry, potentially menacing fist—and she blew the smoke out constantly, her head turning in abrupt snakehead movements, as if expecting to be assaulted from the rear and trying to obviate the surprise attack by diligent alertness. A queen. A flamboyant, flagrant, flashy queen. A queen in absurdly grotesque, clumsy drag. But there was something else. There is something else that accosts you immediately about this flaming, reckless, gaudy queen contemptuously puffing out smoke as if it were something burning fiercely from Within that will force you to acknowledge her blazing anger: When she slides off the stool momentarily—and nervously, uncertainly, often—to straighten the lavender folds of the lace dress, you will see that she is enormous, this queen: over six feet tall. And if youre a man and you stand near her—near that painted man, that demented-eyed queen like a startled white owl—you will surely be envious of his/her shoulders: which are immensely, improbably wide. And youll notice, beyond the lace drag, the idealized body of a powerful man. Her arms, beneath the delicate lace ruffles which dance up and down in curves, are bulgingly muscled, deeply vein-rooted. Her legs, supported precariously on the wobbly high-heeled witchshoes when she stands, reveal themselves strong and firm, molded solidly, massively, as if by years of physical labor or exercise which necessitates sustained straining. Yet this body and this voice (the husky voice too: as she turns, camping, to speak to me, the Cassandra owleyes becoming momentarily demure, the look of a man patently unsuccessfully mimicking a flirt woman), which should belong to that idealization of a man, are vitiated by the lavender drag-clothes. The gestures that were meant to match that man’s body have wilted.... Occasionally, as if by an impulse not quite drowned, not quite smothered by the perfumed femininity, she straightened up very much like a man. Then, as if realizing what shes done, her body relaxes, melts, curves effeminately, as if to compensate guiltily for the sudden flash of masculinity.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  —Esto es ridículo. —Lindsay me mira—. Soy la madre de tu hijo, y necesito un cuarto. —Mira a Jordan de nuevo—. Has pasado mucho tiempo en una cama con Cole. Otra noche o dos no te matarán, ¿verdad? Avanzo, plantando mis manos sobre la isla. —Ella no dormirá con Cole. Ya no están juntos. Es injusto. —Es una cama —dice finalmente Cole, suspirando—. Solo es dormir. Podemos manejarlo. Miro a Jordan, esperando que pelee y me ayude, pero lo único que hace es levantar los ojos, encontrarse con los míos y no decir nada. Como si fuese quien permite que esto suceda, y está esperando que haga algo. Si no va a respaldarme, entonces me veo estúpido, luchando por su honor. Es una niña grande. No entenderán por qué soy el único que protesta. Y ahora estoy asustado. Quiero que ella y Cole se reconcilien y sean amigos de nuevo eventualmente, pero no quiero que estén juntos, solos, toda la noche. Eran una pareja, maldición. Él conoce su cuerpo tan bien como yo. ¿Qué pasaría si comienzan a sentir lo que sintieron cuando estuvieron juntos por primera vez y todo fue bien? ¿Qué pasa si ella comienza a pensar que necesita a alguien... más joven? Ellos tienen historia. No voy a tener celos de mi hijo. No estamos compitiendo, pero la conoce mucho más. ¿Qué pasa si hablan y vuelven a conectar? Está en la punta de mi lengua simplemente decirlo de una vez. Es mía y no compartirá la cama con otro hombre. Pero miro a Lindsay y al desastre que ha sido, y cómo, en los últimos seis años, él se ha puesto de su parte en repetidas ocasiones. Ella siempre jugó como la víctima repente—. Es su habitación. No hay una jodida forma... —Jordan ni siquiera debería estar viviendo aquí —dice, casi en un silbido. Y luego se dirige a Jordan—. ¿Puedes compartir una habitación con mi hijo por un par y lo hizo sentir culpable para que la defendiera, y la defenderá otra vez porque sabe que puedo defenderme por mi cuenta. Estaría muy feliz de descubrir que estaba follando a Jordan a espaldas de Cole. Ella solo está buscando algo que odiar, y no pondré a Jordan en medio de eso. Dejo caer los ojos, apenas capaz de abrir mi mandíbula. —Jordan, hay mantas en el sofá —digo en voz baja—. Avísame si tienes frío. Empiezo a caminar fuera de la habitación, pero luego escucho que Jordan finalmente habla. Me detengo y la miro, pero solo se enfoca hacia adelante, totalmente tranquila. Aprieto mi puño derecho y salgo de la habitación, dirigiéndome escaleras arriba. Son apenas las siete de un viernes por la noche, pero si no tengo espacio, haré algo estúpido. Como elegir la pelea que tan desesperadamente quiero con ella ahora mismo, frente a todos.

• From City of Night (1963)

  Neil made a face of supreme disgust, and I felt anger mushrooming inside of me. “Things like that—which people cling to as memories,” he said, “it’s those things that keep men from realizing their True Nature. My movement will be an upheaval: Nothing is sacred, except Violence and Power. Sentimentality—false memories of tenderness—... Fathers, mothers!” he said contemptuously. “That ring you wear as a symbol of—whatever!” he spat. My anger became hatred for him. And did he sense this? And had he been counting on this? I didnt have time to consider that, because the scenes that follow will come suddenly like a movie in fast motion. Suddenly Neil is crouching before me where I am sitting on the bed. He is sliding a pair of thick-soled, high-length studded boots onto my feet. I stare motionless at him as he winds a thick belt about my waist ( I remember that other man in San Francisco: “You will eventually... if not with me, with some one else.” ) This time, sensing my immediate mood—the mood he has cunningly put me into and will use—he will not even take the time to “dress me up” completely. Swiftly he has flung himself on the floor, his head rubbing over the surface of the boots—the tongue licking them. He rolls on his back. His face looks up pleadingly at me. Automatically responding (the anger, the hatred like a live gnawing thing inside me)—feeling myself suddenly exploding with that all-enveloping hatred for him (has he counted on this? does he always?) and also for what I know I will do at last (senses magnetized on pinpoint), and, too, feeling a tidal-sweeping excitement at the reflections from the mirror which he has carefully moved before the bed so that it records from various angles the multiplied adoration of his face (an adoration augmented shrewdly by the remembered hint, the challenge, of its possible withdrawal: “Out of my costumes you’re very ordinary...”)—his eyes as if about to burst into flame, his tongue like an animal desperate to escape its bondage—I stand over him as he reaches up grasping, urgently opening the fly of my pants. “Please—... On me—... Please do it!” he pleaded. And as the meaning of the tea looms in my mind, I realize suddenly what he wants me to do. But I cant execute the humiliation he now craves. He rushed into the bathroom, turned the water faucets on fullblast. “Do it,” he pleads.... The sound of the water, splashing.... The scene reels in all the incomprehensible, impossible images that follow.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  —Está bien —me asegura—. Solo es un corsé, Pike. —Todos te están mirando. Asiente, sonriendo sarcásticamente. —Ese es el punto. —Jordan. —Suspiro, intentando susurrar mientras me aprieto para rodear a un anciano en la barra—. Este es un pueblo pequeño. ¿Qué pasa si tu padre entrara? —No viene aquí —dice, cerrando el cajón de la caja registradora y mirándome finalmente—. Y normalmente tú tampoco. —Un rubor cruza sus mejillas—. Además, no soy estúpida. No tomaría parte en algo que creyera que me humillará. Se da vuelta y entrega el cambio al cliente, pero él le hace señas para que se lo quede. Sonríe y se da la vuelta, dejando caer los billetes en un recipiente ya desbordado. —¿Qué siquiera estás haciendo aquí? —dice, comenzando a mezclar otra bebida—. Pensé que no vendrías a la despedida de soltero, porque... —deja la botella y hace comillas en el aire mientras imita mi voz gruñona—, tiene que haber al menos una persona sobria en el trabajo mañana. Arqueo una ceja hacia ella. No sueno así. Metiendo mi mano en mi bolsillo, saco el volante y lo empujo sobre la barra hacia ella. Se queda quieta y su rostro palidece. —¿Dónde encontraste eso? Lo agarra y lo tira en algún lugar debajo de ella. A un bote de basura, probablemente. Tomando una servilleta, la coloca frente a un cliente y le da la bebida fresca que acaba de preparar. —Si necesitas dinero —le digo mientras se gira para marcar un pedazo de papel—. Te prestaré lo que sea que necesites, ¿de acuerdo? Y se detiene, moviendo lentamente sus ojos hacia mí. Su mirada se agudiza, enojada y parece como si quisiera gritarme, pero no lo hace. En cambio, se da la vuelta rápidamente, camina hacia el otro lado de la barra y atraviesa la partición, girándose solo lo suficientemente rápido para hacerme un gesto con el dedo para seguirla antes de volverse a girar y dirigirse por el pasillo.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Uno de los amigos de Ryan le da un codazo. —¿Ella es la que es desnudista? Aprieto mis dedos alrededor de la caja. Resopla, casi escupiendo su cerveza. —No, hombre. Esa es la otra. —Pero entonces sus ojos van hacia Jordan, moviéndose de arriba abajo con una sonrisita—. Aunque, esta también puede bailar un poco. Todos se ríen y siento un bulto subiendo por mi garganta como un gruñido. Tranquilizándome, me volteo y abro la puerta para Jordan, obligándola a entrar. Debo ser más indulgente. No es como si yo no fuera el ocasional idiota de tiempo en tiempo mientras crecía. ¿Cómo demonios sabe cómo baila? Me doy una sacudida mental y respiro profundamente. Deja su mierda y ve a casa. No es mi problema. Esta es su decisión. Y si yo fuera ella, habría hecho lo mismo. Estoy realmente orgulloso de mí. No es ajena a mis exabruptos o mis demandas prepotentes y me estoy manteniendo asombrosamente callado, dado el hecho que odio este vecindario y toda esta situación está desgastando mis engranajes. Puedo aguantarlo durante cinco minutos más, ¿cierto? Y si lo hago, quizás entonces me premiaré con Dairy Queen de camino casa por mantener mi boca cerrada por una vez. Su padre, Chip, está desmayado en un sillón reclinable a la izquierda, la televisión reproduciendo alguna serie en un volumen bajo, mientras un par de mujeres están sentadas en la mesa de la cocina a la derecha. Están fumando cigarrillos con latas de cerveza frente a ellas. El equipo de sonido de un auto resuena a la distancia y unos pocos petardos de pólvora explotan afuera a nuestro alrededor. —¿Necesitan ayuda? —pregunta una señora de cabello oscuro desde la mesa. Levanta su cerveza, tomando un trago y dándome apenas algo de atención. Jordan sacude su cabeza y se desvía hacia la cocina, alrededor de las señoras en la mesa. No nos presenta y ciertamente no me importa si esta señora no lo hace. Su hija o su hijastra, viene a casa con un hombre que nunca has visto ¿y eso no hace que le hagas al menos una pregunta? Asumo que es su madrastra, de cualquier forma, ya que tiene los mismos ojos pequeños y cafés del chico de afuera. Inhalo el olor a desinfectante mezclado con un toque de burritos y tierra húmeda, como si algo se hubiera mojado por la lluvia o estuviera pudriéndose en

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  —No. —Bosteza y se pasa la mano por el cabello—. Había bebido demasiado, así que envié a uno de mis amigos para que la recogiera y la trajera a casa. Probablemente salió a trotar y no te diste cuenta. Me quedo allí, tratando de reconstruir mi conversación con ella la última noche mientras Cole se dirige escaleras arriba. Así que, cuando hablé con ella anoche, no estaba con Cole. No estaba con él en absoluto. Y no ha estado en casa. Su cama todavía está hecha. Cole se dirige al piso de arriba, y grito detrás de él, recordando. —¡Usa mi baño! Trabajaré un poco más en el suyo y el baño principal tiene la única otra ducha en la casa. Regreso a la cocina, todavía pensando. ¿Por qué ella mentiría sobre eso? Si se quedó con un amigo, su hermana, lo que sea... está bien. Pero me dejó creer que ella y Cole estaban juntos, que es la razón por la que llamé, para asegurarme que los dos estuvieran bien. Envié a uno de mis amigos para que la recogiera y la trajera a casa. Sí, tu amigo no la trajo a casa. Podría haberme preocupado, pero mintió por una razón. Y a pesar de lo mucho que me gusta Jordan, no puedo evitar los viejos sentimientos cerniéndose en mi interior, que hace mucho no siento. No me gusta que me mientan. Especialmente las mujeres. Una hora después, entro en Grounders y ya veo la multitud del almuerzo llenando las mesas y el bar. Un par de camareros vestidos con sus jeans, camisas ajustadas y pequeños mandiles llevan platos a los motociclistas que se detienen para descansar durante sus carreras del domingo y los cazadores que vienen de sus excursiones matutinas. El bar está lleno de veteranos que parecen haber dormido vestidos la noche anterior, y las luces fluorescentes hacen que todo se vea sucio a pesar del olor a Pine-Sol escociéndome la nariz.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Fuerzo una tensa sonrisa, esperando que disfrace mi furia interior. —Sí. Lo haré. Gracias. Cuelgo y cierro los ojos, obligándome a tranquilizarme. Él se fue. Sin decirme nada. Simplemente me dejó esperando aquí. Pestañeo para alejar las lágrimas, negándome a sentirme herida. Me preocupé por él y follé con él, pero no lo amo y claramente a él le importo una mierda. Obtuvo lo que quería. Toda la posesividad, la necesidad de vigilarme y protegerme solo fue para tenerme aquí, así podría meterse en mis bragas. Se resistió porque se sentía mal, pero simplemente estaba ganando tiempo para convencerse. Llevarme a la cama siempre fue el plan. Ahora que ha tenido su pedazo de trasero se quitó el problema de encima, y caray, puede que April también esté en Red’s esta noche, y pueden retomarlo donde lo dejaron. Gruño, pateando una silla. Eso no me sucede a mí. Ya no más. Se termina ahora. Tomo el teléfono y llamo a Cam, recordando qué noche es. —Hola, ¿qué sucede? —responde. Curvo los labios, sintiéndome repentinamente audaz. —Siento que quiero ver mi primer concurso de camisetas mojadas. Jadea, luego chilla en el teléfono. —¡Sí!

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  —¿Qué? —Frunce las cejas, confundida. —¿Seis horas a la deriva en un río sin nada más que hacer que beber hasta quedar desmayada sobre tu trasero? —Dejo escapar—. Para cuando te traiga de regreso en su camioneta, estarás completamente borracha, y entonces realmente serás fácil de atrapar. —Dejo escapar una risa amarga—. Absolutamente no. Sus ojos se amplían, y su mandíbula se aprieta con enojo. Oh, mierda. —Eres tan... —susurra-grita, para que los niños no escuchen—, ¡de la vieja escuela! —Me frunce el ceño, con los labios apretados—. ¡Esta cosa alfa, posesiva, manteniendo a tu “hija” encerrada con una escopeta es insultante! No soy una idiota, y tú... —muestra sus dientes—, no eres mi padre. Arqueo una ceja mientras saca sus piernas del agua y se levanta, resoplando. Retrocedo, flotando a través del agua. Sí, créeme, lo sé. Los pensamientos que tengo sobre ti no son para nada paternales. —Envuelve la pizza en papel de aluminio antes de ponerla en el refrigerador —me ordena—. No solo la lances en un plato. Aprieto mi mandíbula para ocultar mi diversión ante sus órdenes. Como si no hubiera guardado sobras antes en mi vida adulta. Agarrando los bolsos y las toallas de los niños, toma la mano de Ava y dirige a Jensen hacia la puerta trasera. —Voy a llevarlos a casa y los meteré en la cama —me dice y luego se vuelve hacia ellos—. ¿Qué hay que decirle al señor Lawson, chicos? —¡Gracias! —dicen los niños con palabras mal pronunciadas y bocas llenas de comida. Salgo de la piscina y agarro una toalla, secándome el cabello. —El señor Cramer dijo que estaría en casa a las once —dice Jordan—. Pero sé que el equipo generalmente pasa por el pub para tomar cervezas después del juego, por lo que podría llegar tarde. Tengo mi llave por si cierras. —Estaré despierto —respondo en voz baja. Confiaría en un drogadicto para sostener mi billetera más de lo que confiaría en Kyle Cramer. Escucho cuando se abre la puerta de madera y los niños entran arrastrando los pies. Entonces escucho su voz. —Oh, y eres un idiota —dice.