Chapter 17

From the toilet stalls on either side of my stall come moans and breathing. Sex or bowel movements, I can’t tell the difference. The stall I’m in has a hole in the partitions on each side of me, but I can’t look. If Fertility is here yet, I don’t know. If Fertility is here and sitting next to me, quiet until we’re alone, I’ll beg for my big miracle. Next to the hole on my right is written, Here I sit all downhearted, tried to shit and only farted. Next to that is written, Story of my life. Next to the hole on my left is written, Show hard for hand job. Next to that is written, Kiss my ass. Next to that is written, With pleasure.

This is in the New Orleans airport, which is the airport closest to the Superdome, where tomorrow there’s the Super Bowl, where at halftime I’m getting married. And time is running out. Outside in the hallway, my entourage and my new bride have been waiting more than two hours for me, while I’ve been sitting here so long my insides are ready to drop out of my ass. My pants are crushed around my ankles. The paper toilet seat liner is wick-ing water up from the toilet bowl to wet my bare skin. The smell of people’s business is thick in every breath I take. Toilet after toilet flushes, but every time the last man leaves another arrives. On the wall is scratched, You know how both life and porno movies end. The only difference is life starts with the orgasm. Next to that is scratched, It’s getting to the end that’s the exciting part. Next to that is scratched, How tantric. Next to that is scratched, It smells like shit in here. The last toilet flushes. The last man washes his hands. The last footsteps go out the door. Into the hole on my left, I whisper, Fertility? Are you there? Into the hole on my right, I whisper, Fertility? Is that you? There’s nothing but my fear another man will walk in to read his newspaper and let loose with another spectacular six-course bowel movement. Then from the hole on my right comes, “I hate that you called me a harlot on television.” I whisper back, I’m sorry. I was only reading the script they gave me. “I know that.” I know she knows that. The red mouth inside the hole says, “I called knowing you’d betray me. Free will had nothing to do with it. It was a Jesus/Judas thing. You’re pretty much just my pawn.” Thanks, I say. Footsteps come into the men’s room and whoever it is, he settles in the stall on my left. To the hole on my right, I whisper, We can’t talk now. Someone’s come in. “It’s okay,” the red mouth says. “It’s just big brother.” Big brother? The mouth says, “Your brother, Adam Branson.” And through the hole on my left comes the barrel of a gun. And a voice, a man’s voice, says, “Hello, little brother.” The gun stuck through the hole aims around, blind, pointing at my feet, pointing at my chest, my head, the stall door, the toilet bowl. Next to the barrel of the gun is scratched, Suck this. “Don’t freak,” Fertility says. “He’s not going to kill you. I know that much.” “I can’t see you,” Adam says, “but I have six bullets, and one of them is bound to find you.” “You’re not going to kill anybody,” the red mouth tells the black gun, the two of them talking back and forth across my bare white lap. “He was at my apartment all last night putting that gun against my head, and all he did was mess up my hair.” “Shut up,” the gun says. The mouth says, “He doesn’t have any bullets in it.” The gun says, “Shut up!” The mouth says, “I had another dream about you last night. I know what they did to you as a child. I know what happened to you was terrible. I understand why you’re terrified of having sex.” I whisper, Nothing happened to me. The gun says, “I tried to stop it, but just the idea of what the elders were doing to you kids made me sick.” I whisper, It wasn’t that bad. “In my dream,” the mouth says, “you were crying. You were just a little boy the first time, and you had no idea what was about to happen.” I whisper, I’ve put all that behind me. I’m a famous celebrated religious celebrity. The gun says, “No, you haven’t.” Yes, I have. “Then why are you still a virgin?” the mouth says. I’m getting married tomorrow. The mouth says, “But you won’t have sex with her.” I say, She’s a very lovely and charming girl. The mouth says, “But you won’t have sex with her. You won’t consummate the marriage.” The gun says to the mouth, “That’s how the church worked it with all the tenders and biddies so they’d never want sex in the outside world.” The mouth says to the gun, “Well, the whole practice was just sadistic.” Speaking of marriages, I say, I could use the biggest miracle you’ve got. “You need more than that,” the mouth says. “Tomorrow morning while you’re getting married, your agent is going to drop dead. You’re going to need a good miracle and a good lawyer.” The idea of my agent being dead isn’t so bad. “The police,” the mouth says, “are going to suspect you.” But why? “There’s a bottle of that new cologne of yours, Truth, The Fragrance,” the mouth says, “and he chokes to death breathing it.” “It’s really bleach mixed with ammonia,” the gun says. I ask, Just like the caseworker? “That’s why the police will come after you,” the mouth says. But my brother killed the caseworker, I say. “Guilty as charged,” the gun says. “And I stole the DSM and your case history files.” The mouth says, “And he’s the one who set things up for your agent to choke to death.” “Tell him the best part,” the gun says to the mouth. “More and more in my dreams,” the mouth says, “the police have been suspecting you of murdering all the Creedish survivors whose suicides looked fake.” All the Creedish that Adam killed. “Those are the ones,” the gun says. The mouth says, “The police think maybe you did all the killings to make yourself famous. Overnight, you went from being a fat ugly housecleaner to being a religious leader, and tomorrow you’ll be accused of being the country’s most successful serial killer.” The gun says, “Successful probably isn’t the right word.” I say, I wasn’t all that fat. “What did you weigh?” the gun says, “And be honest.” On the wall it says, Today Is the Worst Day of the Rest of Your Life. The mouth says, “You were fat. You are fat.” I ask, So why don’t you just kill me now? Why don’t you put some bullets in your gun and just shoot me? “I have bullets loaded,” the gun says, and the barrel swivels around to point at my face, my knees, my feet, Fertility’s mouth. The mouth says, “No, you don’t have any bullets.” “Yes, I do,” the gun says. “Then prove it,” the mouth says. “Shoot him. Right now. Shoot him. Shoot.” I say, Don’t shoot me. The gun says, “I don’t feel like it.” The mouth says, “Liar.” “Well, maybe I wanted to shoot him a long time ago,” the gun says, “but now the more famous he gets, the better. That’s why I killed the caseworker and destroyed his mental health records. That’s why I’ve set up the stupid phony bottle of chlorine gas for the agent to sniff.” I was only a pretend insane pervert with the caseworker, I say. Scratched on the wall it says, Shit or get off the pot. “It doesn’t matter who kills the agent,” the mouth says. “The police will be right on the fifty-yard line to arrest you for mass murder the second you step off camera.” “But don’t worry,” the gun says. “We’ll be there to rescue you.” Rescue me? “Just give them this miracle,” the mouth says, “and there should be a few minutes of chaos so you can get out of the stadium.” I ask, Chaos? The gun says, “Look for us in a car.” The mouth says, “A red car.” The gun says, “How do you know? We haven’t stolen it yet.” “I know everything,” the mouth says. “We’ll steal a red car with an automatic transmission because I can’t drive a stick.” “Okay,” the gun says. “A red car.” “Okay,” the mouth says. I couldn’t be more not excited. I say, Just give me the miracle. And Fertility gives me the miracle. The biggest miracle of my career. And she’s right. And there will be chaos. There will be complete pandemonium.