EIGHT
Die Jobs
The morning after.
Five men (counting the frat-tards). One death. Lots of violence. A banner night for Miriam Black.
Hands on the sink in Ashley's bathroom, she stares at her reflection in the mirror. She smokes a cigarette, blows the plume against the reflection, watches smoke meet smoke.
All told, it's the orgasm that really bothers her.
It isn't the sex. Sex happens – hell, sex happens often enough that it's a hobby for her like scrapbooking or collecting baseball cards is for other people. Who cares? Her body is no temple. It might have been once, but it lost its sanctified status long ago (just over eight years ago, that wicked little voice reminds), with too much blood spilled at the altar.
The orgasm, though. That's new.
She hasn't had one in… she takes another drag of the Marlboro, tries to figure it out. She can't. It's like doing hard math half-drunk. It's been that long.
And then last night? Boom. Bang. Fireworks. Fountains shooting off. Twenty-one gun salute, rocket blasting to the moon, a Pavarotti concert, the universe exploding and then imploding and then exploding again.
A blinking red light. An alarm going off.
And what was it that did it?
She presses her head against the mirror. It's cold against her skin.
"It's official," she says into the mirror. "You're totally broken. Unfixable." She has an image of a cracked porcelain doll being dragged through puddles of blood, mud, and shit and then punted into mid-air, its arms cartwheeling, until it smacks headlong into the grill of an oncoming eighteen-wheeler. The doll looks like her.
(A red balloon rises to the sky.)
Time to do what Miriam does best.
"Time to dye my hair!" she chirps.
This is her true gift: the ability to shove it all out of her mind. Just crowd it out with hard elbows and headbutts. Zen and the art of repression.
She opens her bag, takes out two boxes. She bought them a few days before at a grimy CVS in Raleigh-Durham, and by "bought," she means, "with a five-finger discount."
It's hair-color. Cheap-ass punk color for cheap-ass punk girls. An adult female with any self-respect would never buy a brand like this, would never dye her hair these colors – Blackbird Black and Vampire Red. But, while Miriam legally qualifies as an adult, she certainly doesn't count as one with even a dram of self-respect, does she? H-e-double-hockey-sticks no.
She pokes her head out of the bathroom door. Ashley lies back on the bed, heavy lids half-closed. The TV is playing (Spongebob Squarepants) some kind of daytime talk show.
"Long day at the office, honey?" she asks.
He blinks. "What time is it?"
"Nine-thirty. Ten. Shrug."
"Did you just say shrug instead of actually shrugging?"
Miriam ignores the question and instead holds up the two boxes for display, one in each hand. "Check it out. Blackbird Black. Vampire Red. Pick one."
"Pick one what?"
She makes an exasperated sound. "A candidate for the presidency of the Moon and all its Provinces."
He stares, confused.
"A hair color, retard. I'm dying my hair. Blackbird Black–" She shakes that box. "Or Vampire Red?" She shakes the other box.
He squints, face slackened to indicate minimum investment or comprehension. Miriam growls and stomps over to him, dropping her bag. She thrusts the two boxes up under his chin and makes them do a little dance, like the Let's All Go To The Lobby parade of treats.
"Black, red, black, red," she says.
"Yeah, I don't actually care. It's too early for this shit."
"Heresy. It's never too early for hair dye."
"I dunno," he croaks. "I'm not really a morning person."
"Let's go through this," she says. "Vampires are cool. Right? Modern vampires, at least, they're all black leather and sexy moves and pomp and circumstance. Plus, they're pale. I'm pale. Except, vampires are slicker than goose shit on a glass window. Suave. Sultry. I'm neither of those things. Plus, I don't really feel like being one of the slag-whore bitches in Dracula's brothel, and all that Goth and emo shit gives me a rash."
She holds up the other box. "Blackbirds, on the other hands, are cool birds. Symbols of death in most mythology. They say that blackbirds are psychopomps. Like sparrows, they're birds that supposedly help shuttle souls from the world of the living to the world of the dead." A little voice tries to say something, but she shushes it. "Of course, on the other hand, the genus – or is it species, I always get them mixed up – of the common blackbird is Turdus, which, of course, has the word 'turd' in it. Not ideal."
Ashley watches and listens. "How do you know all this?"
"Wikipedia."
He nods, gamely.
"Still nothing?"
He shakes his head.
"Dude, seriously. You have a chance here to sway my fate. If you subscribe to the thought that a butterfly's wings flapping in Toledo can cause a hurricane in Tokyo, you'd know right now that you have tremendous power in your hands, the power to shape destiny, to direct the course of the entire breadth and scope of human history, right here, right now."
He blinks. "Fine. Vampire Red."
She makes a pshhh sound.
"Fuck that noise." She hurls the Vampire Red box at his head. "I was always going to choose Blackbird Black, dummy. You can't sway fate. Tsk, tsk, tsk. And that, dear boy, is the lesson we learned here today."
And with that, she darts back into the bathroom and slams the door.