Boot shellac & cochineal.

Ian likes to say that he pulls teeth for a living, but that isn't exactly true: Ian sells cocaine. That's how we met. He ripped me off, and I let him, and we've best best friends ever since. More or less.

Ian says, You have tiny hands.
Ian says, I can feel your ribs.
Ian says, If I wasn't in love with you, I'd break your face.

He thinks he's stronger than he is. But I can tell you, that was about the only thing he's ever wrong about.



When I was seventeen, my boyfriend, this big guy named Wes, pushed me down the stairs of his apartment building. My right shoulder came right out of its socket, and they had to wire shut my jaw (split clean into quarters) so it could heal . Other than that, I was fine. Wes said, She fell, so from then on I was clumsy. Clumsy and quiet. They fed me milkshakes through a straw; I lost 26 pounds.

When I got all that headgear finally taken off, my teeth were straighter and I had a series of criss-crossing tan-lines from the wires snaking up and down my face. Wes made fun of me no end. Three months inside that metal cage, I'd practically forgotten how to speak, let alone to tell Wes not to make fun of me. So I took it.

Except that one night, Wes's guy went out of town, so we called Wes's guy's guy: Ian. We went to meet him at the corner of Amsterdam and 139th. He walks up, tall and skinny, with his dark loose curls cropped short against his head. He gives us much less than a gram, no doubt about it. Wes got pissed. Wes said, Look here, asshole!
That made me nervous. I said, Wes, stoppit.
Wes said, Shut up, freakface.

Ian says, That's no way to talk to a lady.
Wes's neck is nestled safe between the sidewalk and Ian's knee.
Ian says, Apologize to your woman.
Wes's lip is bleeding.
Ian says, Get the fuck out of my neighborhood.
Wes is running, looking over his shoulder and calling my name.
Ian says, Come with me, beautiful.


Ian drives an old, impractical pick up. A Chevy from about 1962. I laughed when I saw it, and then I thought maybe I'd hurt his feelings, because his face turns pink. So I said, I'm sorry, this is just really, uh. And Ian nods, and opens the door for me. And I got in, because that's the kind of girl I was. I had a hard time saying no.

In the cab of the truck, I got a good look at him. Ian is gray all over, with dull green eyes and uneven stubble cropping out on the lower half of his face. Ian is the most beautiful man I have ever seen. He looks weather-worn, and mean, but in his eyes and at the corners of his mouth there is a hopeful sort of promise for better days. But I also saw that kind of thing a lot back then. My eyes were tuned to it.

Ian takes me back to his place. He lives in this shitty apartment building, above a deli. But his apartment was gorgeous. All white walls, hardwood floors. It looked, and was, expensive. His kitchen was 90% stainless steel, sparkling clean, and fully stocked. We could have stayed there for weeks without ever having to leave. Ian has money. Ian has a lot of money. Inside the freezer (he shows me this later), there was a secret panel and when you opened it, you could see that the appliance was lined with Benjamins. And at the back of the pantry, behind the cans, were stacked these perfect bricks of coke. They were so geometric that at first I thought they were just the wall behind the cupboard, painted a dull, uniform white. Then I realized.

Ian opens me a beer, and takes my sweater. He hangs it up by the door, polite. He asks me my name, and I told him. Louise. He tells me that it's a pretty name, which it is. He's right. He says, it suits you.

Ian's wearing dark wool trousers and black shoes. Ian's got on a white button-down shirt that needs to be washed. Ian takes off his jacket and hangs it next to my sweater, and he's wearing suspenders, and he rolls his sleeves up, and he looks like he's from some other time. He says, I like your dress, Louise.

I liked that dress, too. It had belonged to my mother, and I'd taken it from the attic when I left home. It made me feel young and American, for some reason. I thought it fit well with my haircut. I guess I was going for that whole 1950's thing. Thinking on it now, I realize what a bitch I must have looked like. What a hipster. But at the time, I felt unique and pretty. And when Ian comments on it, I didn't feel like he's hitting on me, and I wasn't expecting him to say anything like "Now take it off". And he doesn't. He's calm, and polite, and he offers me a seat on his sofa. He says, How did you break your jaw?

So I told him. I told him about Wes, and I told him about falling and not being able to talk. It was the most I'd spoken in months, and it felt good. Ian actually listens to me. He responds to me thoughtfully. As I answered his questions and told him about myself, he's sitting in this big leather chair, leaning over the arm of it and cutting the most perfectly straight and even lines out onto this mirrored jewelry box on a side-table. He's actually using a straight razor. And when he's got about four lines separated from the little mountain on the side, he takes a hundred dollar bill- a real one- out of his pocket, and rolls it up. I felt like I was in a movie. Ian is just living his life.

Ian's about the only person I ever felt I could talk to like that. I'm still not sure if that was just part of his charm, or if all that talking actually interests him. But it didn't matter to me. I talked and talked and talked. And Ian listens, and we converse, and I felt grown-up.

.this originated around june 17, 2009. it is not finished, and may never be; but i'm tired of it sitting in the drafts pile, so whatever.