Wet to the Touch
‘My brother and my sister don't speak to me. But I don't blame them’ - I Never Learnt to Share, James Blake.
The heatwave killed both my brother and my sister.
Bless me father for I have sinned. When the pigeon delivered the news, I felt my face creep into a grin. All I could think about is how I now had the bathroom to myself. They were never good at sharing. Not like I am. Sissy got mad when I stained her toothbrush with blue-black Inecto, even though she knew I was trying my best. I don't deal well with change. Sissy knows this! My new body and its new upkeep. My eyebrows melt off a lot faster than they did.
boetie
she can’t seriously be mad
mad that i took something of hers
something she sticks down her throat everyday
mad that i took it without her permission
bathed and baptised it in ammonia
when i could have used an earbud
i even made sure not to touch the bamboo one
where is the love?
we used to share secrets and berets
Whatever, it's fine. I will see them again. Soon. We have lunch plans that we can't bend or break. Dad is holding yet another Snow’ family meeting.
RE: What should happen if I never manage to freeze again.
He gets rather hysterical this time of the year.
I managed to ditch the heatwave by securing a job at the Ideal Butchery. I had no prior work experience other than the December I helped with the shop displays at JayJays. I barely made it past a week because I kept chatting and tweaking. Tweaking how the mannequins were styled. Name one self loathing man who would be caught dead wearing Chelsea boots in 2014. Chelsea boots are for confident men. Men who pee sitting down. There was no way we were going to attract consumption-riddled losers into our store if I did not swap those for Tomy takkies. Appearances matter, we know that. That’s why my new body is causing me such anguish. My boobs, now the size of those black rubber squash balls when my caddy used to carry perky tennis balls.
Lucky sprung into action like a limited edition fast food wind-up toy.
You are in luck!
They had been short staffed and struggling to maintain a steady flow since the lockdown. My resume, soggy wet sap. Curse these clammy palms!
I did that interview trick at the end. The one I saw on LinkedIn. The one where you maintain eye contact as you corner the interviewer. Allowing your index finger to gently trail the rim of their nostril before shoving it up their nose shaft. This aids in building tension, fear and ultimately respect. Follow that up with vigorously sloshing your tongue in their ear. Making sure to vary the pressure based on how they respond. Bonus points if they have earrings, you can polish those like a bag of discounted soupbones. Remember, recruiters want to see your dedication to the role and any other grovelling you’d do with a hollow smile!
Lucky hired me on the spot. I had left him no choice. Threw on my pinstripe fedora and vest, and sold ice to an eskimo. Despite my razzle dazzle, tap dance and jazz hands, I am still on probation before Lucky can integrate me with their regular staff. But when the bars of my holding cell collapse in on themselves from the coastal air that latches its fangs into them, I have a date with the oak bench. The oak bench that is nestled away in the shade, between the nursery and public pool, like loose change in the metropolitan woman's bosom. Feast my eyes on all the young, wild and yuppie housewives. Gouge my eyes out on all their hard-bellied beaux.
The oak bench that used to be my ex, I think,
I could be barking up the wrong tree.
The last time I went to the bench I was stood up.
I thought to myself:
sick. dope. fly. fly.
And kept my head held high for a good 12 minutes before my jaw began to lock, glasses fog. Child's pose, I fell to my knees. And before my tear could lay flat on its back-stroke down my cheek, the icy wind held my warm body like a hug and accepted me as one of their own. Sissy, she schooled me. All the time. I intercepted her, her schooling, and myself like a floating DVD logo.
Angel,
You are not your flesh.
You are your bones.
You have to choose to remain warm.
Choose to let the light still penetrate your chest.
Sissy, the sensible one.
When I was 10, Mark 13, Sissy 16, they had to share a phone. I did not have one yet. Mark did, then he didn't, so they had to share a phone. Frantically typing, calling, pacing. Him and Kofi fought like an old married couple. Except they weren't tied together by a ball and chain. They were just teenage boys. Kofi, the child of an art collector mother, who on the eve of his first school disco sat him down with unprompted urgency. On the table, a single Fuji apple, metal straw and serviette.
I wish someone taught me this at your age.
You should never have to rely on people.
You never know when you might need this.
Pay attention, it’s easy to fuck up!
Kofi’s father was far too restless, quick to leave them high and dry. Being a serial entrepreneur, that came with the territory. I never inherited the entrepreneurial gene, bug, disease. Never made a profit on any market day. What would draw a person from selling toothpastes to slimming teas? Bigger, better, brighter! He was always looking up, always looking for the next best thing, thinking about how he could get ahead of all the trends, cut ahead of all the traffic. The only time he’d dare be caught looking down, was when he bent over to put out the cigarette he awarded himself daily as a prize for not touching himself. His balding head would stare right back at him through the reflection of his polished leather brogues. His hairy crack, catch a taste of the gentle breeze. Their dinner conversations left little to be desired. Everyone spoke about their days, and their lives and their grievances, but no one actually said anything. Everything coated by a masquerade of symbols and codes. Glazed donut, shiny, hole. Just words to fill the silence and distance between them. Kofi could not understand why Mark gladly took to the stage with him under the piercing spotlight, yet only held him once the thick, red, heavy curtains had consumed them both.
6 minutes, no more!
Sissy found it hard to be stern with her boetie, but she needed the phone to respond to the Rack City group chat. Her friends were in a scramble to organise bottles, accom and transport for the jol that night. Lolo's boyfriend usually handled those things for them, but she was giving him the cold shoulder. This time it was because she caught him out in a lie about his whereabouts after the Derby Day. According to her second chair, he was spotted hanging with the tenor boys from the choir. Everybody knows what freaks those kids are.
She had long suspected he was gay, ‘a foldover’, which she claimed she has no problem with. The problem was being associated with the choir, when her status as a band kid was already unfavourable. Secretly, she had always regretted choosing the trombone over the saxophone. There was something inherently masculine and dorky about the brass section compared to the subtle seduction of wind instruments. She did not work so hard on this, that and the other, for it to be squandered by a bland and scrawny nobody. She would be much happier if he was caught having a train ran on him by the entire C team rugby crew. Well that’s what I heard anyways, I wish I was making this shit up. I still don’t understand how Lolo stayed friends with Sissy this long. Sissy never seemed to be chipper at all the house parties they were invited to. Never kissed her friends, no matter how much the boys may have cheered for it. Me, if I was Sissy, I would motorboat my whole crew. And they would all chant for me, a beautiful melody.
Angel!
Angel!
Angel!
A wet nosed dog could be heard sniffling in the other room. Mark's tears had soaked everything in his reach. Drip, drop, dripples of snot conceal the cruel text Kofi had just sent him. Boetie got up to blow his nose. Blew it so hard, his brain felt like the inside of a freshly shaken snow globe. Like the night his mom made him smoke from the apple bong they had just made together. The rattle shook him back to life. His last ditch attempt to mend what had been broken. Shattered glass held together by masking tape. Smeared the leftover snot on his fingers through his hair. Act tough, Johnny Bravo.
Phone on the counter.
5 second timer.
Feet in the air.
Knees on the closed toilet lid.
Back arched.
Big flash 1.
Review.
Big flash 2.
Review.
Pulsate.
Big flash 3.
Sissy caught him taking a picture of his umm like, yeah, his down there. His hole. Caught him red lipped and puckered up. And Sissy never shouted at him or made fun of him. Or told dad. Instead, she blew off her plans with Rack City, took us to rent a movie and bestowed upon him her choosing privileges as if it were part of some knighting ceremony. He chose the 2007 musical based on the 2002 broadway by the same name, Hairspray. He loved Michelle Pfeiffer. I personally identified with the DevilChild, Penny Pingleton played by Amanda Bynes. I don't think Sissy had a favourite, she just watched it to humour us. Gay son, Thot daughter and Sissy. It checked out. If dad had it his way, it would just be Sissy. He always dreamt of having a boy. Raise the kid to be just like himself. A charmer. Avoidant. Crass. But Sissy came first, and her stillness lodged a greater chasm in him and mum’s relationship. Sissy withheld her affection as a baby. Never cooed. Never giggled when she was tickled. Never cried when they fought.
会哭的孩子有奶吃.
Soon mum was pregnant again. A beautiful baby boy. A flamboyant teenage son. Yet another failure by mum in The Bastard's eyes. Like a black spot, Mark had tainted any aspirations he had for his so-called legacy. When mum left, the Bastard tried to fix things with Boetie. Treated him like a prince in preparation for his throne. But it was all ill intended and short notice. His robe, far too big, dad refused to see the needle man. Needleman, he fixes things. The Bastard insisted his girlfriend of the month could do a better job. To no one's surprise, the month ended before Miss April could get a look at it, and Miss May was the furthest thing from a lady. Dad says my name like bad news trapped in his throat like a cold. I resented it, my name, for many years. Mum gave it to me just before she opted out. Mark always said the Bastard resented me for that but I let that idea flow out through every gutter of my being so that I could spend my years blissfully believing we shared the same point of contention.
That it did not match my form. Did not prevent my neuroticism from rearing its ugly head. From picking at scabs and quickly devouring them in order to hold onto every piece of myself. Did not stop me from wanting to deliberately hurt the ones I love. Specifically when someone distant, yet familiar, is pronounced dead. Causing a loved one to cry into my shoulder, a distant yet familiar emotion that I have to nurse, whilst I stifle the tantalising desire to strangle them to stillness. Because I was sent from heaven to raise hell.
Angel please come here real quick.
Do you feel confident enough to handle the meat grinder today?
I didn't. But the more tasks I took on, the closer I got to completing the probation and the sooner I would get to have my date with the bench. I had already been thinking about the sandwich I would eat, the sudoku book I would bring along. I had 5 pages left before I could buy another. Lucky assigned the Tinman to assist me with the grinder. Class is in section. The Tinman walked with a limp, as if his one leg were shorter than the other. I found it oddly charming. His walk resembled that of a drowsy baby with a full nappy. I suspected he had a crush on me but dad warned me against humans that are drawn to manic pixie snowangels. Chasers, he called them. I'm not sure if he knows the origin of that term but the concept still applies.
Your hair, it’s blue!
Why have I never noticed that before?
yeah it is,
i try to maintain it but i don't even think it's worth it,
my sissy used to help me dye it every second sunday.
Well it looks beautiful in the light.
thanks, i know!
i can't stay in the sun for long.
it’s futile, i should just go back, jet black.
The Tinman hangs onto every word I say, but I feel as though he cannot make sense of it. He hasn't the foggiest.
Actually,
it was very inconsiderate of him to mention my hair because now that's all I can think about. I try to get a better look through the metal surfaces, but they botch me like circus mirrors. New concern, my right jaw and how it protrudes more than the left. Now’s my chance, he thinks. The Tinman can’t help but sulk when he perceives himself of doing anything that could induce discomfort. He strolls away to fetch the next bag of meat that needs our attention.
Whilst you are away I do my best to recover from the embarrassment. Rush to grab a hairnet. Sissy always told me to tie my hair up when I feel overstimulated. Thinking about it, I don't understand why y'all let me work this long without one. Some people might find that gross. But now that I am alone I can focus, focus on the task at hand. Focus on the air and how alive it feels. Focus on the sharp acidity of cleaning agents that flirt with metallic and greasy undertones of meat and fat that stubbornly cling to my chilly exterior. Focus on the symphony of clicks, clacks and hums and buzzes. Focus on how they fall in and out of rhythm with one another. How they wash over me, how they reverberate through my core. I focus so hard that I don’t feel your warm breath on the nape of my neck. Unable to hide your excitement, boneless limb already plump and swollen. It pokes the small of my back. I can no longer focus.
You make your presence further known by dropping the bag over my shoulder and onto the table. I coax myself into a state of shock. It’s the only way I can explain why my cheeks are this flushed, the crystals glycine. I am wet. Wet to the touch. My fake shock comes to bite me in the ass because my cartoonish spring ricochets my nose onto the table and lodges itself into the teeth of the grinder. Instead of helping me, you impishly lean back and watch my panic as I struggle to glide my fingers along the plugs underneath the table. The enticing image of me beneath you.
You know, everyone has been talking about how you got your job here
well it's not like it’s a secret,
it was on LinkedIn,
i can forward you the link if you’d like.
who is everyone?
were they saying good things?
He could never tell whether she was being serious or not.
Her candour and cadence made mincemeat of his will.
The Tinman tugs on his apron straps. They had been digging into his shoulders and pinching his pecks every so often. The butchery was a place of laborious routine, requiring both precision and physical effort. Standing for hours on end took a visible toll on him. The strain in his back and arms caused him to walk as if one leg were shorter than the other. He had become self conscious about it since Angel began her time with them. With blood still humming through his veins, the Tinman wobbled to grinder, retrieved her carrot out from its grip, cupped her chin with his left hand as he twisted her nose back into its gape with his right. His hands moved with practised ease, guided by years of experience. She admired the full length and breadth of his physique. The slick and sticky fat and sinew stuck beneath his nails transferred to what was left of her stub. But now that her scent had returned, Angel could focus. Focus on pale light that penetrated through the grimy windows of the building. Focus on the fact that she hadn’t used the toilet since her transition. How her trapped gas was causing a sharp pain to worm up her spine. Focus on what the Bastard said about humans and snowangels.
Was Moms final straw, finding out from Tony of all people, that dad was cheating on her with a woman much cooler than she was?
I focus so hard that I don’t care that you have covered my eyes without warning. I don't care that you are holding me down with a little more pressure than I prefer. But you are silent. I hate when you’re silent, you know that!
His tongue skims her bottom lip, he is hesitant and awkward so the tip clings like velcro for a couple of seconds. The freezer burn is something he should have anticipated, she thinks. He takes a second stab with her top lip.
can i do it?
it’s better when i do it.
Am I making you uncomfortable?
firstly, i cannot see.
secondly, help me up!
I take a second to adjust to the brightness of the room. I don’t understand why he is sulking. I hope he knows just how ugly he looks when he sulks.
She grabs my finger and runs it along her lips, shoves into her mouth, then back onto her lips. I am amused by the contrast of her warm mouth and cold lips. She is nothing like I’ve ever felt before. Angel's body opposed the familiarity of gritty bones, or fibrous and stringy pieces of flesh that I handled everyday. Angel unscrews her nose and slides my finger in its tight cavity. My eyes narrow to half mast. Followed by a full scrunch. A wince. She is nothing like I’ve ever felt before.
The framed staff picture, outdated, yellowed and murky, stares back at me. The pack looks so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed compared to how they come into work now. Full beards, now matted and disconnected, beer guts that can no longer be wrangled by belts. They probably understand what it feels like to inhabit a body that was never theirs. I wonder who said what about me. Men are always afraid to moan or audibly express enjoyment. I can’t tell whether he is enjoying it or not, and I’m not sure if I care. But I care that the door stands agape. I care that I can see blood splatter clogs, those clogs belonging to an almost betrayed looking runt.
Lucky caught me wet nosed and stretched out. He fired me on the spot. I had left him no choice. Collected my pinstripe fedora and vest from my locker and made my way out.
As the doorbell rang behind her, the shrieks of the butchery melted away, Angel knew exactly what she was supposed to be feeling. But that distant, yet familiar emotion came at a low tide, not strong enough a current to truly affect her. Though she punched at herself to release some of the pressure. Next stop, the sandwich shop.
What happened to your nose?
hi tony
could i get my regular?
Your dad came in earlier.
bread of the day
garlic butter
carrot ribbons
the chilli oil soaked cucumbers
steak
rocket
chimichurri sauce
He was with a different lady though..
i hope you don’t mind that i just let out the gnarliest fart
Think her name was June.
cut in half
He seemed rather hysterical.
you know how he gets this time of year