Dirty Little Cherub

Kalyan Dudala

February 2006

I don’t want to be here. Everyone is so different from me. It’s been pissing rain almost all day now and it’s impossible to stay in here any longer. Crowds have always made me claustrophobic and it’s no different now. I guess I’m here for something important. I’m not quite sure what that is yet but it involves the dead girl in the next room.

I guess you could say we grew up together. I met her twenty eight years ago and like all things that old, the memories grow cloudy. I have never known her. Never knew what she liked, what she thought. I don’t even know what kind of music she listened to. It was so long ago. Just too long ago. I’ve never been the type to stay in touch anyway. I’m surprised they even managed to find me. The more important question is why. I feel like a complete stranger here. I don’t know any of these people. I certainly don’t know the corpse next door other than by face and by name. And that counts for precious little. I must be talking aloud here. I have company.

"Hey. What’s up?"

"Nothing. I’m here for the funeral."

"Yeah. You live up in Des Plaines or something, right?"

"Des Moines."

"Yeah, whatever. I’m Chet"

The first things you notice about Chet are his jowls, weighed down even further by the variety of piercings at all sorts of locations on his face. The second are the mythic tattoos that cover every visible region of his body. That is, of course, till he gets closer and the rancid breath will not let you notice anything else.

"Take you awhile to find the place?"

"Not really. Is Jenney a friend of yours?"

"Was. We’ve been together for six years."

Shuddering involuntarily, I rack my brain for an appropriate response but none comes. I nod at him and mouth the words "excuse me" as I walk to the porch to light a cigarette. This whole place is such a mess. Wine bottles everywhere, some broken some whole. Having been locked in here for seven days without food, her cat had apparently begun to lose its mind. They found it lying dead in the bathtub along with her mistress and an electric hairdryer. As I open the screen door, I notice the earthworms. They’ve always been huge in New Orleans. I remember stuffing them down the back of my baby sister’s shirt and laughing my head off as she screamed in terror.

"So. You going to stay awhile?" Chet is back.

"No. Don’t see why I should."

He nods his head solemnly and opens his mouth as if to say something but stops himself. He repeats this curious routine again before settling down on the garden chair, crushing a few earthworms beneath him. I’ve always found their predicament a little peculiar. Imagine not being able to make a sound when you die. Just a dull little squish as your internals free themselves.

"I could take you around town if you’d like."

"Been here before." There is nothing I want less than to spend the day with Chet and the creatures that inhabit his body.

"No man. You know…the places she used to hang out. The coffee shop, the bar….her little book club place." At this point, Chet’s voice starts to quiver and it occurs to me that the trip isn’t for my benefit. What fucking difference does it make to go to the places the dead used to inhabit? They’re dead, right? Not there anymore. If you really want to feel her presence, she’s right here in the next room. Sometime today she’ll be forced to leave and move to a new hole.

As things stand, it seems as though I don’t have a choice. It’s something I’m expected to do. Pay my respects. Make a fucking pilgrimage across town while the deity lies right here.

Nodding my head, I flick the cigarette away and walk back indoors to grab my jacket. Chet waits outside in the garden chair, staring into space, overcome by the maudlin sentimentality that passes for mourning. It’s awfully cold in Des Moines this time of year. I was hoping for some better weather here but so far it’s been cold and soggy. I guess it’s warmer than Des Moines but there, you’re used to the cold. You expect it. You wear three layers. Here it’s just incongruous and it throws you off.

I’m outside now and Chet is still moping among the earthworm remains.

"I don’t know what to feel," he proclaims. I nod my head gravely as though I know exactly what he’s talking about. "She was great, man. Made me feel like less of a loser."

I am exceedingly uncomfortable with this confessional and hope it shows. I don’t know what to do or say in these situations. When people cry, it’s really just an expression of self pity. They’re mourning for the fact that the dead people aren’t going to be a part of their lives and they aren’t going to derive the same things from them anymore. The inherent selfishness in that disgusts me. In fact, this whole affair disgusts me. A bunch of people congregated to collectively feel sorry for themselves. Thankfully, Chet doesn’t say any more. Instead, he gets up, wipes his eyes and leads me to his car. The passenger seat is littered with the contents of a purse: a few photographs, some mascara, a stick of lip gloss and what appears to be a poem of some sort.

I allow Chet to replace them in the purse before I get in. His windshield is cracked and it only has one wiper that works furiously as if to make up for the absence of the other. It’s going to be a long day.

Summer can be a bitch in New Orleans. The air is hot and sticky. Walking through the streets can seem like a bad dream sometimes. The French Quarter is populated by characters that are having nightmares of their own. Gorgeous transvestites beckon you to the seedy clubs where indescribable things happen. Losers and winners compete to chat up women at the local watering holes and girls with boyfriends imaginary and real graciously accept the free drinks. In the midst of it all are the pill pushers promising you a day of ecstasy while peddling headache medicine that numbs the pain of the futile wait. Further down, on Bourbon Street, is the Hustler club where conservative men gather and pay to be teased with no hope of release. That was the last time I saw her, perched atop a stage surrounded by men anxiously waiting to deposit their contributions into her accepting thong, and waiting, perhaps, for a private dance later. She smiled and waved to me from her microcosm of lust. I ordered another shot of Jack Daniels.

In the driving rain of winter, the nightmares continue about their business but there are fewer people and a few more ghosts around. The coffee shop next door to the club is quiet and has a surprisingly homely appearance for being located where it is. It is brightly lit, owing to the multitude of windows in the place. We sit down at a table in the far corner with a "reserved" sign, the only one that is illuminated by a candle instead of a window.

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