PALEHOUSE

Photograph by José Alberto De Hoyos

Orchid Tierney is a New Zealand writer and freelance art director in the television sector. Her works have appeared previously in Bravado and Takahe magazines.

What This Girl Is

I just wanna get laid! Aye siree but Poppin can’t say yes. Oh boy, she wanna. Sure thing I wanna, like, wink that word but she’s never uttered it in her life. Some say Poppin’s a little slow although there’s nothin’ wrong with our cleft lipstick lips. It’s just when Poppin wants to yes somethin’ all that slips out is a little hiss between the flaps of skin danglin’ below our nose. Sure thing. She’s strokin’ the rosary beads around our neck, fingers slow dance down Christ’s sexy body on his crucifix. Aye siree! Poppin’s a good girl, the good side of me and she's countin’ those pretty glass beads. They’re crackin’ the twilight into ivory tear-lights that samba on our face.

“Another round, hun?” Man’s sandpaper voice, slurrin’ in our ears. Oh boy! I’m on the prowl! Sure thing but Poppin just sips our drink. A silver spray of day fades on the asphalt and the air is fragrant with tequila shooters and petrol. A faint hint of Pacific wind, siftin’ from the oily sea. It’s the moment before the night-lights, those neon-brights, begin to zzzzz. The pub is pausa, man. It’s a little quiet and our face is blowfish-kissin’ the filthy glass. We’re watchin’ this yellow balloon with a happy face sway in the evenin’ breeze. It’s real sweet, that balloon. It sure is. I can tell it’s freshly blown by the way it’s bobbin’ eagerly like a virgin givin’ her first head. That balloon is a young girl, tethered to a streamer in some kid’s sugary hands. He’s runnin’ down the sidewalk with an orange ice-block smile and skid marks of spit on his chin. That kid is cocaine! His grinnin’ face sparkles with blue glitter like he’s been rollin’ in the stuff. Sure thing, he’s keyed, man. Poppin is suckin’ the straw of our coke with some fellah we’ve just met. Our table wobbles when we rest our elbows upon it. Poppin likes balloons. I like ‘em when they pop.

“Warm evening,” that fellah says. His sandy hair is grey under the last hit of day. “Whatchya doing tonight, hun?”

We eye the few patrons in the pub: some cruisers and couples with hands in each others’ pockets. Two young girls all keyed up like it’s Friday night and they’re waitin’ for the D.J. to start. Man, they’ve got hours to go. Nothin’ is happenin’. I’m bored. I wanna suck the hoarse sex that swathes the shit city air like the dregs of coke in our iced glass but Poppin is Pluto tonight. Christ chaffin’ between our breasts; he’s a heavy man around our neck.

Oh boy. That kid trips. His eyes spillin’ liquid pearls. The yellow balloon is driftin’ towards the outdoor gas heater and we breathe a little faster. Our pupils are planets; our body is tinglin’ like pins pricklin’ naked skin! The balloon quivers as the blue flame licks the curlin’ plastic and I bet the helium is bubblin’ to escape. Then…pop! Fragments of yellow happy are floatin’ on the gas stream. Poppin is flushed. She coffins Christ in the palm of her hand. I guess she’s pretty cut and dead school nuns are nuttin’ in her head but these voices, I don’t hear. Sure thing. Sometimes I wish she’d listen to me. Anyway, that fellah leans over and he puts his hand on our sweaty thigh. “Are you a spaz, hun?” he smirks.

Poppin is a balloon. That kid is howlin’, cradlin’ his bung knee with specks of blood that look like hundreds and thousands under the florescent light. This fat albino yells at the kid to shut the fuck up and that kid tells her to shove it! Thistlin’ words start to smoke’ up the ho road! Poppin and I are watchin’ the yellow rubber drift upwards into the bruised sky.

I wanna get laid.

Instead, she shows the fellah the rosary.

Man, it’s a city of lead smiles and black eyes on sugar kid faces. We’re ridin’ the bus home, smellin’ the burger grease and semen on the vinyl seats. Let’s stay on the bus, I tell Poppin. Let’s never get off. Let’s orbit the city forever, watchin’ the world rise and decay. We’ll make up stories about the people we’ll meet, write sad poems on the back of the seats. I wanna make love to the Maori bus driver with our foot fallin’ flat on the pedal. I’m a smart girl. Sure thing, I’m the smart side of me. Real cleves, says Poppin with a hiss but she gets whacked with these other thoughts. Real shouty voices that scream in big cap letters. Right now Poppin prays, our coarse fingers lightly spinnin’ the rosary beads. Each starch word falls like lead upon our lap. Aye siree. Jesus is a cold man. He’s a cold man, indeed. The cross leaves a salmon-pink compression upon our chest. Your shame is limpets, man, I tell her. You’re not bad! Sure thing but Poppin thinks she’s this hyphen, hangin’ on a blank page. Sometimes at night, I hear these steel whispers in her head:
“Poppin dash!”
“Poppin dash!”
And so, I reply, “Poppin dash me?”
Then Poppin prays louder. Bitch.

Outside the city is slippin’ into white terrace houses and blue rhododendrons with smoky grays. Hell, the bus is bombin’ down the road as the one-tree-hill splits open upon the black a.m. maria. Evergreens upon wrinklin’ ridges spring shadows over shuttered windows of perfect houses. It’s a real void where the city lights don’t reach and Poppin is feelin’ like Planet X. Sure thing. There’s a church around here; I think she wanna pray me out cos she reckons I’m a popped balloon like Magdalene. But I’m not. No way, I tell her. I’m a needle and you’re the blimp, sister. She’s flustered when I call her that but it’s true, you know. She calls to the driver, “Stop! Stop!” blowin’ air through the cleft cos sure thing she wants off. The driver looks at us through the rear view mirror.
“Here, love?” he asks slowly and through the flap, I hear a hiss. The driver looks at us like we’re loaded up and this time his voice has edge.
“You deaf, woman?”

Our no falls flat on the rubber floor of the bus. The driver draws to the curb and we disembark outside this reserve with his glare glassin’ us. There’s a quiet coda while our eyes adjust to the low light. Insects drone in the long grass. Man, I can see that church from here where the hazy moonlight soft strokes with arthritic fingers its stained glass. Between some eucalyptus trees, a glint flicks at us. A chorus of family voices rollin’ down the hill. Sure thing. Even Poppin’s piqued. We climb the mellow slope and we meet a group, millin’ around some fancy telescopes. Mums and dads with their little shits. Human comets tweakin’ dials, pointin’ cylinder eyes into the dark sky. Looks rich, man. It’s like a cult with wowin’ kids catchin’ missilin’ moths with their mouths. Boy, I don’t cunting like these types cos I hear soft hushin’s of ‘oh my god!’ feather the night. Although, I once heard that planets speak. Sure thing. That’s not a lie. Like when you shift x-rays into audio, space becomes this boisterous place. They played the sound on the telly once and the sun has this deep throb while earth is a gentle hum. I wonder if the planets are lookin’ down on us while these folks are lookin’ up. I bet both are cryin’ “Oh my fuckin’ god! Look at that!” Man, that would be sweet. These people are ooohhhin’ over Saturn while the planets ooohhh over us.

Then wham! I feel him! Man’s crusty eyes bullet us. We trace the line of the hill’s horizon until we reach the top and there he is! This Jupiter, starin’ at us. His hand is fiddlin’ with a small telescope that glimmers halos as he fine-tunes it. Poppin reckons he shouldn’t see the moon and sure thing, it’s not pointin’ at the sky. That guy is a toad! I tell her. I can see all right. All primed up like a man with clink: swish cow jacket, shoes with so much shine that you can see the Venus in them. But that Pisa telescope is just rust, lounging on a tripod with a bust leg. Let’s flash out, I tell Poppin. I wanna find some shitty bar and sip cold coffee by the windowsill. Let’s watch the city sleep and write love songs on snotty napkins. Maybe we’ll pull some stranger off, fuck ‘em on shit-covered toilet seats while listenin’ to skoady boy racers drag-race along the red-light streets. You listenin’ Poppin? ARE YOU LISTENIN’ TO ME? Of course, she’s not. That man waves us over and Asteroid Poppin crisscrosses the lawn around the wanky dads who smile pity at us. They snap ears of their kids while shushin’ “Don’t look! Ignore her lip.” Shoot, we’re not spesh, aye siree, but the shits stare anyway.

Jupiter’s oval face sinks into a sly smile as we near. Smashed globe of pink chuddy stuck between his front teeth. We can smell his retch cologne, real strong like he sweats the stuff.

“Hi lady,” he says. Sawdust voice, raspin’ from cheap rollies and rum. His eyes don’t even shift over the lip. He’s playin’ it cool and Poppin likes that shit. “You want a look?” He steps aside and holds out his hand towards the scope.

Poppin hisses.

“You can see stars, baby. Lunar rupes, sometimes spider canyons on Mars.” He’s watchin’ us as he pulls out a silver tin from his jack pocket. Real sweet with a lacy monogram that might read a J or an I or a T. Sure thing, I can’t tell. “Have you heard of Voyager?” he asks, taking out a pre-rolled cig, his cool eyes fall upon our tits. “That’s what I’m tracking. I saw her back in ’77 on the Florida cape when she spat from the earth like piece of snot, flicked from my fingertips.” He rolls his index against his thumb for effect and Poppin’ squeaks this little gasp. “Yip, the rocket is close to the heliopause, lady. No shit. That’s the last address of our universe.”

Poppin curls our lip. I don’t believe him but she’s hooked. Really man, I tell her, you think you can see all that through this piece of shit?”

She ignores me. “Then where?” she asks the Toad.

He shrugs, lightin’ the rolly with a tremour. The flame licks the tip like an angry roach and he pulls a deep drag through the chuddy. “Who knows,” he says at last. “Maybe, she’ll drift. Hook up with God.” Then he grins as if that’s a funny thing. Man, this jupe is dupin’ Poppin and sure thing, she’s his biddy-bid.

“Come on, chick,” he says, “take a squizz.” He grabs our arm and guides us in front of the telescope. Poppin’s cuspin’ the cross so tight I reckon she’s handjobin’ Jesus Christ. She leans over, peerin’ into the cold rim of the eyepiece and all we can see is a world through mould and fluff. The city seems soft tonight. Aye siree, I tell her, this scope is stuffed! I become a little shouty, I guess, cos she cringes when I say: LET’S FLICK OFF!

Suddenly, an opaque cloud shimmies the frame and the outlines of this lemon room appear. Poppin sees a calendar askew on the wall, the kind with cute puppy pics that for Christmas, some distant aunt gives. Then movement! What the hell is that? We squint our eyes and I think POP! Two people are rollin’ in the room like a wave until bang! They’re fuckin’ against the windowpane. Our eyes are stuck to the lens like a hand burnin’ on an element.

Toad slinks right behind us. Real skink. I reckon Poppin is a flappin’ fly not realisin’ she’s in a web. He’s tight too, his man-gun bangin’ against our leg. I just wanna lift off like a rocket but Poppin’ stays still as he brushes his smooth chin against our ear. His breath reeks of mint and weed and whorls of smoke tip-tap upon our neck. I bet he has a million smooth lies, just lyin’ on his jupe lips.

“You see that babe?” Toad whispers. His hands fall still upon our side.

“Yes!” Poppin gasps. That word just slips out! Sure thing. It wells up in a spit bubble and out, it pops. Oh boy, feels like a wet paper world is saggin’ underneath us! I wonder if the lovers know we’re spyin’ flies. Those shadows in the window frame just rise and sink in light. Their lips on lips or whisperin’ the kinds of dirty talk that Poppin never cries.
Yes,” Poppin says softly.

Well that’s sick, man, I scold her, but she can’t break our eyes. Lovers’ sweat paintin’ this sexy dance on the glass. Poppin is lost in the Milky Way, floatin’ in free space until we feel that Toad slip his arms around our waist like a parachute and we’re fallin’ back to earth. Poppin feels these hills she’s buried, rise up again. Pop. Pop! POP! I’m full of sharp limpets, man, while in the window, those silhouettes slowly fade.
Then, a pause.
It’s all quiet again.

The Toad feels wet. Poppin carefully pushes the lens from our eye and slowly we face him. He’s dog-smilin’, a smooth con, scratchin’ his arse. A vortex of still burnin’ ash flits around us.

“You enjoyed that babe?” He steps back, runnin’ his hands through his slick hair. “That’s the universe, right there.” He snorts a little like he’s pleased with himself. For God’s Sakes. LET’S GET THE HELL OUT! But Poppin is cool. Aye siree. She’s the queen of slick.
Innocently, she asks, “I wanna see the heliopause.”
Toad ping-pongs his eyes like he’s surprised. Then he grows still like a ghost, blows a lock of smoke at us.

“Are you retarded?” he replies. “Who cares? This shit can’t spot weather balloons. Piss off.” Man, Poppin just stares curls at him and she buries our feet into the ground. I wanna T-minus out of here! POPPIN! LET’S GO! I yell. But sure thing, she’s a biddy bid, tonight.

Toad flicks the butt angrily on the ground, rubbin’ his flash shoe on it. “Look lady, I spy on people and jack off as they sleep.” Poppin laughs. When he looks up again, his face is Mars and somewhere we hear this child’s voice. “You think I’m a bad person? Fuck you too!”

Suddenly, we’re losin’ gravity. Like, the night is full of ghosts with limpets. We are livin’ in world of mirrors, rocketin’ towards the heliopause. Sure thing. It’s true. The thin blade of moon is risen and I hear the squeals of children float upwards like fat balloons. The Toad is lightin’ another cigarette. I wanna get laid, I tell her. I wanna sip icy margaritas with umbrellas. Let’s laze on a moonlit beach and smile as tides slide over sandcastles.
What do you say, sister?
What do you say?

Poppin puts our eye on the telescope. We search the wild sky.