Bitch Queen Jesus
Benny's especially pissed off today. Ever since he decided to quit his chemo, he’s been moody, but this is next level. When I called the salon earlier, I knew something had happened, but I didn’t know what. Good thing I got a mani pedi for the both of us though because through the window I can see him coming and he is walking in here hot. So hot he doesn’t meet my eyes when I wave at him through the glass. He just walks up to the door and looks in.
I guess when he puts his feet in the water we’ll get to know the reason. If he talks. Sometimes he doesn’t talk. Sometimes he just sits and closes his eyes and sips the wine they offer and lets himself sink back into the pillows. Sometimes he gets so relaxed he dozes off and his head rolls from side to side. I’m always glad about that. He needs it. Getting his nails done always calms him down, particularly if Thuy does them. Although last time he was like this, he argued with her about the flat screen TVs on the wall. “Too distracting,” he told her. “They block my zen.” Ever since he decided to quit his chemo, Benny's been all about the zen. Today, both screens are full on bright with badly misspelled closed captioning. The 700 Club plays on one wall and FOX news on the other. We'd stop coming here if it weren't so goddamned cheap.
“You okay?” I get up off the fake leather chair and start towards him, but Thanh gets up off her stool.
“You stay.” She points at me. “I got you.” She moves towards the door but Benny gets there first and flings it open so hard those damned jingle bells fall off. Those damned JINGLE bells Empirical Nails insists on using as a doorbell, but they fall off any time someone knocks into them just slightly or slams the door at all hard, and Benny, well he just did both. He mouths I’m sorry and puts them back on the hook. “It’s okay,” Thanh pats him on his arm. “You no worry.” He nods and she touches his arm.“Be–yoo-ti-ful,” she says. I assume she means his outfit. He’s all spring and fresh air in what he calls his “pink vernacular.” No idea why he calls it that except his blouse is a sort of sheer pinkish color, somewhere between mauve and salmon. I don’t know. I don’t have that kind of fashion sense.
“You sit with your boyfriend,” Thanh smiles and indicates the seat beside mine. As if there’s anywhere else he’d sit. We’ve been each other’s BAEs for almost two years now, but we were close before that. Even during that one short period where we were broken up, we still came here, came here and glared at each other until one of us would start laughing and then the other would join in because we can’t be mad at each other for long..
Benny settles into his seat. I start to ask him what’s wrong but he’s already in the zone. I reach over and grab his chair remote and move his seat up a bit just like he likes it. He grabs a pillow from the chair on the other side of him and I give him mine. Between the two of us, we get both pillows behind him, while Thanh looks from one of us to the other and clicks her tongue.
“Hard day?” she asks. Neither of us answer. Thanh turns on the water in the basin where Benny’s just put his feet. Benny sinks deeper into the chair, resting on the pillows I just reached over and fluffed.
The jingle bells ring and we all look up. It's the woman we call Prophecy Woman, wearing her leopard print ballet slippers and her black velour tracksuit. She has the jacket unzipped all the way to her navel and her hair's sprayed so hard it's about to crack. We call her Prophecy Woman because she will give you a "God given prophecy" whether you want one or not. She'll steal a footstool from the owners and plop right down next to you when you're in the pedicure chair and you can't move away. "No charge," she says. "I do it for Jesus." If you let her lay hands on your forehead, her whole spiel won’t take as long.
Personally, Benny and I think Jesus is the bitch queen turning tricks on the corner even though she’s routinely getting arrested. There’s just something holy about her. In fake pearls and rosary beads, she works her magic just past the salon, between the giant armadillo statue and the neon purple pig. The pig blinks on and off, holding a plate of ribs in front of the barbecue joint and saying "nice rack." If only the tourists would stop climbing the armadillo and taking pictures, the pig might get some attention too.
"Pick a color." Thuy nods from another manicure station, where she's patiently cutting the cuticles of a woman with tightly curled gray hair. "Pham’s not here, sorry. Be with you in just a minute. Wax her first, then do his toes." She points at Benny.
Prophecy Woman clicks her tongue against her teeth and spins the nail polish carousel. Benny takes out his own polish and arranges himself in the pedicure chair next to mine. He holds the polish low so Prophecy Woman won't ask to borrow it like she did that day right before he started his chemo treatments, when he ended up just giving it to her since he couldn't have any more manicures at that point anyway. That one was a cheerful apricot color, like the one Prophecy Woman's picking out right now. If I lean over far enough, I can see Benny's new one too–it’s a deep, rich gold.
Prophecy Woman pulls up a chair between me and Benny and spreads out her arms between us, flexing her fingers with all their sparkly rings. She leans in close to Benny. He gives her a half-hearted wave and tucks the gold polish under his skirt.
"Five." She says, and spreads her fingers wide.
"Months?" Benny sinks deep into the chair and covers his face. He doesn't even jump when Prophecy Woman puts her hand on his leg. She presses down on his knee.
"Years," she says, as if it's supposed to be reassuring. Benny shuts his heavily lined lids tight. I reach over to pull her off him, but he holds up his hand. He cracks open one eye.
"Five years?" He folds his hands in his lap. "Hmmmm."
That's more time than Dr. Fugarino gave him. She said he had at the most a matter of months, maybe a year if he took care of himself really well. Of course, she also said "but with lymphoma nobody really knows these things," but she was looking down when she touched his shoulder. We walked outside and stood on the roof of the parking garage, the sun splashing pockets of light on our feet. It probably looked like I was being patient and waiting for Benny to talk, but really I was trying to find the words that would help him, words that would show I'd stick with him and be caring, not like the asshole I'm afraid I'll be. Truthfully, the whole thing scared the shit out of me. I can barely take care of the cat.
"What do you need?" I asked him finally, bracing myself.
"I want to get fucking drunk," he said. I was relieved.
That night, we went to the Lie-Back Lounge, and against doctor's orders, shared two whole bottles of wine. We were so obnoxious the manager finally asked us to leave. We took an Uber back home and didn't realize until we got out that we put in my old address rather than the address of Benny's loft. There we were, at 3 a.m., knocking on all the doors in my old neighborhood, dancing in the middle of the street until the next Uber came.
It was the last time we did something that spontaneous. It was the last time we talked to each other without holding back.
Now, three months later, we're trying not to count the days. He hasn't gotten significantly worse. A little tired, maybe, but really, he's felt better since stopping the chemo. It's seductive how much better he seems. Seductive and elusive, because we both know the end will come. It's just a matter of when.
Benny sits up straight in the pedicure chair and reaches out for Prophecy Woman.
"Are you sure?" he asks. I want to tell him not to listen to a word she says. He usually doesn't listen to a word she says. But as he leans forward and offers her his forehead, he breathes in a way I haven't seen him do in a long time, as if the air itself is sacred.
Prophecy Woman rests her palm against his nose. Her fingers quiver like antennae as they find her way to the lines across his brow. Even now that Benny's 37, those lines are faint. He's lucky, considering all he's been through. He doesn't even have crow's feet. Just smooth, rich, honey-colored skin.
Prophecy Woman starts moving her fingers in circles and humming. She bends her head back and closes her eyes. When her "prayer language" starts, Thuy's gray-haired client peeks out of the wax room and purses her suddenly smooth lips. Thuy herself starts over towards us, the stick of wax still in her hand.
"You sit here," she says to Prophecy Woman, but I shake my head, mouth "it's okay." It is okay. She frowns and goes back to the wax room. The gray-haired woman shakes her head and ducks back in.
Prophecy Woman sways back and forth, humming and praying. Her back bows, and her arms drift upwards. She pulses against the side of Benny's pedicure chair until she breaks a sweat. I can't even with her gyrations, but it's hard to turn away. When I finally do, I notice the door to the wax room is cracked open. I can see Thuy bending down over the gray-haired lady, who is laying on the table with her arms folded and tilting back her head. She offers her neck to Thuy. On the flat screen TVs, the white text scrolls, proclaiming that Listerine kills backwash and that Jesus saves the world.
The humming stops. Prophecy Woman's arms go slack.
"Oh my boy, my Benny boy," she whispers. "He can heal you."
"No." Benny shakes his head and starts to cry. Prophecy Woman picks up his arms, which have gone as limp as hers, and pulls him up right off the chair. She presses her palms against his and stretches his arms out, until they both look like they're hanging on a cross.
"Yes, yes he can. You just have to trust him. You just have to give your life to him." This strikes me wrong. One didn't depend on the other, last I checked.
I stand up. "You don't have to do this."
"It's okay." Benny breaks free of Prophecy Woman's hold. He paces around the nail salon in tight little circles, a smile breaking over his face. "I believe."
"You do?" Prophecy Woman clasps her hands.
"You do?" I clench mine.
"I do." He says it really softly, then louder, until he's practically screaming. "I do, I do, I do!" He throws up his hands and laughs.
"You okay?" I catch the sleeve of his blouse, but he pulls his arm back. "Benny?"
He doesn't say anything. He just walks past us, still barefoot, right out of the salon. Prophecy Woman and I run out after him, but he's already disappeared around the corner, where the Bitch Queen is gasping at some idiot who has run a red light and plowed into the passenger's side of another truck. No one seems to be hurt, but the rubberneckers have gathered, spilling out of their businesses to watch the spectacle. Thuy's come out too, and so has the gray-haired woman, who still has the foam separators between her toes. There's a strip of muslin hanging from the underside of her chin. In the red glow of the ambulance lights, The Bitch Queen–who is really not a Bitch Queen at all but wants everyone to think she is and whose name I finally remember is JerO–short for Jericho–touches her rosary.
When the ambulance takes the idiot, "just to be safe," and the police clear the traffic cones away, I can finally see Benny. He's standing there with his head down, in front of the purple pig. He seems lost. He lifts his head and looks over at me. Then he starts toward the armadillo. “Oh no, boy,” JerO says, still clutching her rosary. Ignoring the cars backed up and honking around him, Benny steps into the middle of the street.
"Benny!" JerO and I run across the street, but he's already climbing the thing. He's mounting it from the front, grabbing onto the metal ears. He shimmies over the top of the head, legs flailing in the air, skirt splitting, until he lays face down and spread eagled on the damn thing's back.
"Are you okay?" I say from below.
“Is he okay?” JerO clutches harder to a bead on her rosary.
"I'm okay!" He shouts, although I can tell he's in pain. He pushes himself up on his arms and sits astride on the armadillo's back. "I believe!" He punches the air with his fist.
By now they're all here, Prophecy Woman, Thanh, Thuy, and the woman with the unfortunate need to wax. They look worried. Even Prophecy Woman looks worried. "I believe!" Benny punches the air again, then keeps saying it, fist pumping, over and over again. One of the policemen from the accident scene starts to walk over, but I mouth "it's okay," and wave him back. He doesn't look convinced.
"Come down from there," I say.
“Oh you poor thing,” JerO says. Benny doesn't listen to either of us. He just keeps saying he believes. He won’t stop saying he believes. So I do it. In my best pants, and with my fear of heights, I climb up on the boulder beside the stupid armadillo and crawl, face down, onto its back.
"Benny, Benny, Benny." I come up to him, careful about the public display, because even around here we have to be careful with the public display. “Benny.”
"I believe!" He yells, and then his muscles all seem to relax at once and he falls forward into my arms. And even though the cop is headed over and the people around are staring, and Prophecy Woman is saying things like "He's healing you right now, Benny, can you feel him, can you feel him" I fold mine around him and hold him while he weeps.
K.C. Shockley is a writer living in the Galveston, TX area. They write short fiction, plays, and the occasional spoken word poem, although that is debatable. In their non-writing life, they help other writers finish long manuscripts and facilitate online coworking sessions with creatives and thinkers from all over the world.