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This appears in a pre-2010 issue
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Alien
J. Michael Dashiell
I’m Mr. Coil. I fancy that I’d likely have fared better or been more comfortable in Stalinist Russia, not for the sake of communism or any political creed, but for the institution that put an end to the personal life. Since a personal life or developing an acceptable one is not in my interest, I prefer an environment where one isn’t necessary or encouraged. A personal life, I believe, detracts from my individual liberty. It constitutes an onus I’d well do without. With ego as its lodestone, it draws and complicates self-concern, dense as lead. A personal life only amounts to self-indulgence, a compression of the scope of all things to the size of a pea, a prejudiced lens that distorts all reality. I can also do without the public scrutiny it attracts. It’s become a mark we’re at least occasionally obliged to justify or explain even when the interest isn’t sympathetic or sincere. We’re either embraced or condemned by its content or character. A personal life only adds unnecessary friction to the business of living. It collides as often as it conforms. It can draw as much hostility as it does any approval. For these reasons I’d fare better without one, especially one as peculiar and difficult as my own.
That’s why the former Soviet Union captures my imagination. The austerity of a totalitarian state, the monolith of behavior, the gray uniformity, and the ever present invasion of human or atmospheric cold, the dearth of personality, gave this period a terrible beauty. It made a society without friendliness or smiles, perfect for privacy and solitude, a land of thought and contemplation without a need to share. It despised any individual pomp. To walk amongst such severity would inebriate me. To look into a stranger’s eyes that betray no interest or affection would ignite a most perverse thrill. How can I dwell in the intruding congeniality of the United States when my imagination dreams of the harsh life of poverty and Moscow cold? Only refuge in the most obscure places provides me rest from this torment, only activities remote from mainstream society make me feel excluded and safe.
I enjoy a fantasy where I wine and dine a samizdat dissident whom I hold in utter contempt. I smile with his every smile, laugh at all of his jokes, listen attentively to his vapid personal tales, compliment his state heresy, and insist he have more wine, enjoy more delicious food, and then abruptly turn him into the secret police to be executed by a firing squad. At his execution I’d sit preferably far away, as in a grandstand, enjoying a candy bar or even a brownie, and as I watch his lifeless body collapse like a rag doll, I hardly notice because my attention lies elsewhere, thinking every possible unrelated and trivial thought, taking an orgasmic delight in my snack. All this done to assert I don’t care about his life, his accomplishments or cleverness, all excelsior!
You may wonder why I’ve become such a monster, perhaps? If traditional theory has weight and relevance I could say it was due to my cruel home life as a boy. My father, a sociable golf pro, the darling of locals, declared brutally to me when I was age ten that he hated me. My brachycephalic head, too extreme and awkward for comfort, compelled him to withdraw all interest. He declared to all he knew that I was a …pumpkin head‧ not fit for golf or a country club life of any kind. My brother connected immediately with this definition and soon had everyone in school calling me …pumpkin head‧. My sister seldom spoke to me, and acted as though I was unfit for any type of humanity. She prejudiced all of her attractive girlfriends to scorn me as well. Thus I retired to a life of reading and contemplation, and that’s when my psychotherapist mother attempted therapy and laid sharp criticism to attempt to change me into a different type of individual, the type who’d enjoy a local popularity, who’d possess keen …interpersonal skills‧. Instead of living a …studious‧ and …withdrawn‧ existence, she urged me into articulation and …socially acceptable activities‧, to be …outgoing‧. She even scheduled regular …appointments‧ with me that I felt more as a client than a son. Even when I needed to present a pressing concern, she often complained, …Can’t this wait until your next appointment?!‧ If this set the foundation for my future existence, I accept it. I also eschew any self-pity or sentiment because I believe my own independent action has shaped my life as well. I’ve developed my own format, a way to live and present myself. I assume responsibility for any faults or failure. I accept myself because I’m not somebody else, you see? How can I accept a fantasy of myself?
With this format established, I explore the world of mathematics, science and ideas. Numbers and ideas are impersonal-enough qualities for me to accept and enjoy. They invite a universal understanding of life rather than a personal reduction or outlook. Here I find liberty from self, from anything personal, from the problems most people suffer and lament, and even enjoy grandeur. With the breadth of my imagination, and this format I lead a bohemian lifestyle, likely to no surprise. I’ve shaped and welded my format to the point that nothing really troubles me anymore. It serves as my shield and fortress against any invasion or contrary assault. Before any emergence into the world, one should best have his format determined and prepared for implementation. Since I’m prepared, I suffer no ignominy or concern for my actions because they lie within the format.
With the failure of home life, I knew I needed escape and a fresh start. I explained to my mother what I proposed to do. Much to my elation, she whole-heartedly supported my endeavor, as though I was relieving the family of a burden. After I received from her a cashier’s check for $100,000 and stole my father’s extensive collection of Krugerrands and rare coins (I’m sure he accepted the reason, equally glad to be rid of me), instead of traveling to California, as I mentioned, I took a bus trip directly to the east coast, and without ever a telephone call home or letter, at age nineteen, I began a supremely anonymous existence in New York City.
For the first couple of years I merely rented a single room at a Motel 6, and meanwhile prudently invested my funds (at this time the stock market was on a rapid vertical ascent much to everyone’s euphoria), and when I determined I’d accumulated enough funding to last me at least thirty years, I liquidated my gains and placed it all in a bank savings account. I bought a modest bungalow in Queens, and experienced an ecstasy of freedom and security few could match. I bought a flivver, drove into Times Square, parked in a garage, and dressed in the plainest, least provoking attire, with a pistol and pepper spray in my coat, I began my 3 AM walks about the city, completely enjoying the bleak desertion, the gritty streets, the void of silence, the pointless advertising in lights and on billboard, the swallowing of skyscrapers, and in effect discovered the most obscure, and forbidding of spectacles and places few have ever seen. My isolation became complete. My solitude exalted me!
I eventually met a street prostitute who offered me any type of sex I wanted at a thrifty price. Though not facially attractive, and thin and effete from narcotics and hunger I surmised, I noticed an asset few men would. She invited me to her simple apartment where I explained my sexual needs and preferences, as I’ll mention here. Though I’m not in anyway homosexual, I’m not attracted to the female vagina, and find it distasteful to behold. Instead I find myself attracted to almost any other part of a woman especially her lowest one. For instance, in keeping with my peculiarity, I’ve a powerful foot fetish, and only enjoy performing sodomy upon a woman instead of traditional coitus. I also enjoy mesmerizing fellatio as deep into a woman’s throat as my penis can pervade. That’s why I managed to do business with this whore.
First I began licking her soles, sucking on her toes, and experiencing a mad intoxication at their erotic odor, a cocktail of perfume, grit and sweat. They wrinkled perfectly when she flexed her soles, revealing a washboard of crevices and ravines fit for the exploration of my tongue, the ribbed texture even extending through her heels. The deep red gloss of her toenails excited me to erection. With my taste and tongue satisfied, we began a substitute sexual intercourse where I pressed her soles together at her ankles to create a most sensational vaginal cup in which I climaxed without restraint. This promptly ended my prolonged virginity and sexual drought. I promptly paid her fee and exited without a word.
The following month I enjoyed her services again. This time I brought two grotesque clown masks I’d purchased, and performed anal sex upon her. These masks provided a sense of detachment and strangeness to our intercourse I found exciting. On the third visit she had a couple of her prostitute friends join us where I reveled in a waterfall of feet. Later a neighbor informed me the primary prostitute died of a crack cocaine overdose, and thus I engaged others as liberal as her self in my peculiar sex practices.
This type of impersonal sex without affection or familiarity worked well for me. It dwelled safely within the perimeter of my format that sanctified the perversity most would abhor. That’s all I sought of sex, only regarding it as a biological function, completely physical and finite, not worth the amount of attention and importance it is normally paid. Sex holds no fascination for me, no positive or morbid curiosity. It’s no more interesting than the hunger for food and sleep, as a desire produced and specified by my body.
As I either walked the predawn streets of New York or became indistinguishable in the maze of afternoon crowds, I continued to discover obscure places, intriguing or bizarre. A dive bar on forbidding Canal Street became a place for me to visit. It seemed to specifically attract street and homeless persons, degenerate alcoholics, lunatics galore, and even subterranean residents all whom I observed as I sat in a booth at the back. I smoked frequent Camel non-filters and nursed a gin and tonic, as I watched, and enjoyed no confidence the glass was clean. For some reason, I felt comfortable in there, even soothed by what I saw. When I went to visit the restroom, an equally bizarre inclination arose. I loved its complete neglect, its seedy quality. The toilet had feces stains and residue on its rim, even missing a seat. The interior was completely rusted and revealed a long swirl of waste that made it utterly repugnant. The smell within this tight chamber was pervasive, and pungent to the nostrils. The trough urinal equally stained and neglected was choked at the drain by vomit and cigarette butts. Of course, diverse graffiti and mindless scribbles lined this restroom’s plywood walls. There was no soap or toilet paper available either, the desecrated floor not fit for a dog. Here I felt strangely at ease. It became the completely obscure and avoided place I’d longed to find, a fulfillment of my vision. I stood against the wall, and began to greet the unsavory patrons who entered. I shook their filthy hands and bid them well. It’s as though I became a temporary restroom host. Nothing threatening took place. My sense of comfort prevailed. Within three hours I witnessed the most curious cavalcade of humanity than I had in my prior lifetime, listening to their vulgarities and complaints as they came and went. When I had my fill of handshakes and contact with New York’s worst, instead of a desire to wash my hands, I licked them clean, as a holy ritual, having consumed whatever God forsaken remnants these outcasts handled or touched, anywhere in the city, anything imaginable, drawing it all into my system, yet transformed into a nutrient by my format’s redefining structure. The only consequence I suffered was a sore throat that lasted two days.
This odd desire to find solace in the obscure and avoided places even invaded me occasionally while at home. Though I keep my home fairly neat and well maintained, usually sitting in my study, reading a book or two a week, one strange night the familiarity, the inviting and self-reflecting nature of my home began to oppress me. My bedroom felt too comfortable, too commonplace a place to sleep. I tossed and turned when an idea emerged into my head to sleep somewhere else, a place never known for rest, as alien an environment and obstacle to tradition as I could conceive. I promptly left my bed, fetched my sleeping bag, and went outdoors in the middle of the night, a rather frigid late October evening. I opened the cover to the crawl space beneath my house, and crawled inside. With my flashlight I looked about the desolation of the area, and found it ideal. Thus I spread out my sleeping bag, entered it, and lied in pitch darkness on the callous floor. The utter eeriness of this environment provided me profound rest.
I lied there with a renewed sense of well-being, and listened to the slight, nameless sounds particular to this environment. I turned my flashlight back on to scan the entire crawl space available. Much to my amazement, not far away, I saw the rotting corpse of a dog, likely a stray and hapless intruder from months or years ago, unable to get out once he entered. Instead of finding this frightening it only bolstered my comfort, my security. It seemed right. An unseen spider quickly traversed my face, but I let it go. I even spied a gray mouse, investigating for food I suppose. The filthy shreds of paper, an abandoned realty sign, the scattered bricks and rocks, the canopy of cobwebs, the malodorous smell, and uneven pitch dark ground finally provided me such tranquility that I soon fell into a profound slumber. I didn’t waken until about noon the following day, I suppose, when I crawled out with my sleeping bag, only to encounter the startled postman.
Yet not long after that I pursued the opposite extremity! I’d seen a few mysterious lights of orb-shaped objects hovering above the neighborhood on a drive home from wandering in a gravel pit one night. The neighbors stood outdoors watching them with utter awe or wonder as well. This intrigued my imagination. Though I really didn’t believe aliens from other worlds were visiting our planet, still I’d heard the compelling stories abductees told with such sincerity. This amounted to the type of experience I desired as well. I envied these people, hoping past hope that these experiences were genuine. I couldn’t resist the opportunity to attempt to become abducted myself.
I once again fetched my sleeping bag, positioned the ladder, and climbed up on top of my house. I found a possibly feasible area in which to rest and watch. It was a not too steep an incline that rose from too small a flat surface of roof. This happened to be a frigid January night, but I hardly felt the chill, my eyes searching the skies for a sign of these celestial objects. I wanted any abduction to be as easy for the possible UFO aliens as possible. I could be directly levitated unobstructed into the interior of their craft. I figured that if they were actually searching for a human being to test and study, I made the most obvious, easy picking choice. I watched the stars, the passing stray clouds, and the half-moon, and imagined what I desired.
To be in company of these inhuman but I suppose supremely intelligent creatures would make for an ultimate fulfillment of my taste. To see their large, wasp-like eyes, their extremely large white heads without any hair, their long hands and extended fingers, and their UFO cosmonaut space suits would surely create a state of ecstasy for me. I’d be placed on a study platform, beneath a large eye like apparatus, and have specimens of my nails and hair taken. I’d have my navel pierced by a long, painful needle. They might find it odd that I experience no fear of any kind, that I smile serenely, delighted to be in their company.
But the zenith of this experience would be sex with a female alien. I’d likewise heard these disturbing testimonies, though not troubling to me, where these creatures telepathically transmitted irresistible erotic images to their human selection, and consequently caused him a complete erection that culminated in sexual intercourse, orgasm and the emission of semen in order to impregnate the female alien who’d return again, months later, to reveal a hybrid child, a cross of alien and human, the offspring of their intercourse. This experience would truly fulfill me as a human being! It’s level of strangeness impossible to surpass! Thus I waited for hours on my roof, dosing off briefly at times, not seeing the mysterious lights, but too soon dawn appeared and I climbed back down, thinking to myself that these creatures had blown a golden opportunity to abduct a more than willing earthman.
My fetish for the bizarre, my penchant for the obscure, my love of an impersonal life even plays a part in my future plans that I began conceiving the moment I abandoned my long forgotten family in Pennsylvania. As I might have mentioned, I wanted to accumulate enough capital to last thirty years, and exactly thirty years. At this time I’d attempt to die. I hope my heavy cigarette smoking will eventually cause me emphysema, a disease that killed my grandfather, and my maternal uncle. I envision myself using a portable oxygen dispenser, still smoking cigarettes with the plastic nozzle up my nostrils. I always found the appearance of this stunning, and highly unusual.
If no lung disease developed, my alternate plan would be to have both my legs amputated and replaced with prostheses, perhaps one for an arm as well. The abandonment of my natural flesh and bone for artificial appendages I think would likewise appear stunning and bizarre. Their artificiality would enamor me with delight. I’ve always favored the sight and sensation of plastic to anything natural. Its chemical-base, its seamless smoothness, and completely sterile quality I prefer to cloth or wood. Most of my furniture is plastic, (I adore vinyl), my indoor flowers plastic, and even a fabricated rubber tree plant adorns my bedroom. This is the only way it seems I can enjoy plants. I find the sight of natural trees and flowers on my solitary walks obscene. If the price was reasonable, I’d even have my lawn replaced with Astroturf.
I’ve already selected the spot where I wish to die. I recently found it in upstate New York in a heavy forest, very difficult to reach and remote from any established path. It’s on top of a hill surrounded by heavy brush and a swamp. This is where I’ll either die naturally or succumb to self-administered poison or a gunshot wound, far from humanity, utterly isolated, where I figure it’ll take years before my remains are discovered, perhaps mistaking me for an old serial killer victim or unfortunate hiker, but only the specific note in my pocket would serve to identify who I was and the location of my memoirs, if the interest exists.
