The Haunted Vagina (6 page)

“I don’t know,” I say. “It looked like she had bunny ears.”

“Maybe she was my imaginary friend from when I was a kid,” she says. “All grown up.”

“I didn’t get a good look at her,” I say.

“I wish I could remember her name . . .” Stacy says. “My memories of her seem more like a dream. I don’t remember it hurting when she came in and out of my vagina. She was more like a genie coming out of a bottle.”

“A ghost?”

“Yeah,” she says. “She must be the ghost that I hear inside of me.”

“She did move a little funny,” I say. “But she didn’t look like a ghost.”

“Who knows what ghosts look like . . .” Stacy says.

The skeleton has turned to a thick film on our bedroom floor.

“You ruined my blanket,” she says to me, bundling up the fluffy blanket stained with skeleton juice.

I don’t apologize. “Why do you think it melted like that?”

“Who knows,” she says. “Maybe it just wasn’t suitable for this world.”

“It looked like it was doing fine before I smashed its head,” I say.

“Maybe that’s just the way people from the womb world die,” she says.

We watch the puddle of corpse for a while.

“Are you going to call in sick today?” I ask.

“No,” she says. “Can’t.”

“Let’s get some sleep then,” I say.

Luckily neither of us have to go into work until the afternoon.

We curl up in bed together, without a blanket. She wraps me in her arms like a teddy bear, the way she always does, and falls asleep against my forehead. My hand is squished against her belly, probably pressing into the clouds of the tiny world inside of her.

CHAPTER NINE

Stacy’s gone before I wake up.

We didn’t set the alarm. I already missed the bus.

Downtown, Donut really lays into me for my freshly shaved head.

“I’m part Jewish,” I tell him.

“So was Adolf Hitler!” he says.

I give him the rest of my Honkin’ Huge Burrito so he’ll leave me alone. Too sore, too hungover, too late to mess around.

When I get to the call center, sit down at my computer station as if I’m perfectly on time rather than two hours late, I realize that I really shouldn’t have bothered coming in today. I still reek of sex, even after showering. My head is pounding. I look like I’ve gotten into a fight.

“You look horrible,” Chaz says to me, his pants pulled above his belly button.

He’s the insanely hyperactive portly guy who always invites me to karaoke parties.

“Yeah,” I tell him.

“Looks like you’ve been skateboarding,” he says. “I was a pretty good skateboarder in junior high. We should go skateboarding sometime.”

“Sure,” I tell him.

He just stands there smiling at me, shifting his weight from side to side. I ignore him, turn on my computer and log into the queue. I can hardly move my fingers. They are swollen. Dirt crammed under my fingernails. The large scab in my palm making it difficult to close my hand. My fingers are very pale, except for the fingertips which are dark red for some reason, like I’ve cut off the circulation at my knuckles. The discolored skin feels odd. It’s not really sore, but very sensitive when I type on the keyboard.

Chaz is still standing there, fidgeting with something behind my computer.

I dial Stacy’s work before a customer can call. Her friend Lisa tells me that she never came into work today. She had called in sick. She wondered why I didn’t know.

It’s the hardest day of work since the time I drank a fifth of Jack Daniels the night before and came in with only three hours of sleep.

Stacy isn’t there when I get home. There are grocery bags on the kitchen counter. A note saying she’ll be back later. I take another shower. Try to wash the dirt out of my fingernails, without much luck. My reddened fingertips are extra sensitive under the hot water. Yeah, they’re bruised up pretty bad. They’ll probably hurt even worse tomorrow, and that shitty call center job requires fast typing while the customers are on the line. Screw them.

I eat a Hot Pocket and wait around for Stacy to come home, but get tired of sitting on the couch watching awful standup comedians on Comedy Central who talk more about their lame political views than tell jokes. I walk to the bedroom, my feet sticky against the skeleton residue, and go to sleep.

I hear Stacy come home at about three in the morning. I get out of bed, wondering where the heck she’s been. She has a bunch of shopping bags that fill the living room floor.

“You’re going back in,” she says.

I don’t think so.

“What’s all this stuff?” I ask.

“Supplies,” she says.

“Where the heck were you all day?”

“Getting this,” she tells me, digging in a bag to retrieve a cigarette carton. She opens it, pulls out a wad of newspaper, and gives it to me like a birthday present.

I unravel it. It’s a gun.

“You’ll be able to fight them,” she says.

“Fight who?” I ask.

“The skeletons,” she says. “If they give you trouble.”

“I’m not going back in there,” I say.

“Are you kidding?” she says. “This is the most fascinating thing that’s ever happened to me. Maybe the most fascinating thing that’s ever happened to anyone. You’re going to be my explorer. You’re going to chart the world for me.”

“What?”

“And I’m going to write the book about it,” she says. “Steve, I’ve finally realized what I want to do with my life. I knew there was a reason why I was special. This is what I’ve been preparing myself for all these years.”

“I’m not as adventurous as you are,” I say.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “You just have to go a little farther than last time. And then tomorrow you can go a little farther than that. And then a little farther, and so on. Eventually, we can assemble a team to accompany you.”

“Are you going crazy?” I ask her. “A team? What, are you going to invite some spelunkers over and spread your legs for them?”

“You’re not taking this seriously,” she says.

“I’m taking this very seriously,” I say. “I just don’t think you hear what you’re saying.”

“It’s the chance of a lifetime,” she says. “It’ll be dangerous, but it’s worth the risk.”

I sit on the couch and put a throw pillow on my lap.

“Look,” she says. “I got you a digital camera, so you can take pictures. And walkie-talkies, so we can stay in communication. And climbing gear. I’d like to get a video camera later on. Perhaps there’s even a way I can watch the feed on a monitor from out here.”

“How is that stuff even going to fit inside of you?” I say. “I barely fit in myself, and I had to be shaved and greased down.”

“You’ll still go in naked,” she says. “But I got this vinyl bag that we can tie to your ankle. It’ll slide through easily if we oil it. I bought tons of lubricant, too.”

She empties a bag full of bottles of baby oils and tubs of petroleum jelly.

“I also got you a sleeping bag and some food,” she says, “if you want to camp out over night.”

“I’m not camping out in your vagina overnight,” I tell her.

“Not in my vagina,” she says. “In my womb.”

CHAPTER TEN

It isn’t hard for her to persuade me. She knows I’ll do anything for her. The next thing I know, I’m back in her vagina, crawling through the flesh tunnel with a bag tied to my ankle.

“Can you hear me?” Stacy asks through the walkie-talkie.

I can hear her all around me.

“Yeah,” I tell her.

I can feel her smile. She’s so excited.

When I peek my head out of the other end, I brace myself carefully. I don’t want to get shot out again. I told Stacy not to masturbate while I’m in here. Last time it could have killed me. She agreed, but seemed pretty disappointed. I’m surprised she didn’t do it anyway, just to tease me.

The world looks about the same. The sky is still cloudy and purplish. My axe is still in the side of the cliff. The ladder is still in pieces on the ground.

I hammer a spike into the side of the cliff. It bleeds a little. Then I attach a chord to the peg and propel down.

“I’m in,” I tell Stacy.

“Are you safe?” she asks, her voice is accompanied by static.

“Yeah,” I tell her.

I open the greasy bag and pull out a towel to wipe off all the petroleum jelly. I insisted on taking that along. Then I put on some clothes and hiking boots. And a thick jacket. Stacy was nice enough to get me a new jacket to keep warm. I put the pistol in the jacket pocket. I’ve also got a hunting knife that I strap to my ankle.

What else have I got here . . .

Not much. The digital camera. A few energy bars. A water bottle. Stacy agreed I didn’t have to stay overnight, so I left the sleeping bag behind. But she wants me to stay as long as I can. I’ll see what I can do.

I put everything in my jacket pockets and leave the bag by the side of the cliff. I take a picture of the fleshy entrance, take a picture of the landscape. Then I urinate against a tree.

“What are you doing?” Stacy asks.

“Nothing,” I say. “Just about to move on.”

I decide to follow the old fence and the cliff rather than enter the forest. It’s probably easier to get lost in the forest.

“Keep talking . . . me,” Stacy says, static cutting into her words.

“You’re going to distract me,” I say. “I need to stay alert.”

“I’m anxious,” she says.

I don’t respond.

Farther up, the fence ends in a rotten wooden mailbox. I open it up. It is filled with mud. I stand back and take a picture of it. Nearby, there’s what appears to be a trail going into the woods. Mostly grown over, but it looks like it could be some kind of path. I take a picture of the trail, too.

“You should have gotten us a pair of those camera phones,” I tell Stacy.

“I know, I . . . . . . .” she says. “. . . . . . . . . . tonight.”

“I can barely hear you through the static,” I say. “You should have gotten better walkie-talkies.”

I hear her trying to talk but there’s too much static to make out the words. I try walking back along the cliff until it clears up. It doesn’t clear up.

“Stacy,” I say.

She says something. I think she’s trying to tell me to keep going.

I turn off the walkie, put it in my jacket, and take the trail into the forest. Branches have grown over parts of it and I find myself hunched over, walking through, scraping my arms and neck on thorny twigs.

I wonder what kind of trees they are. They look normal enough, but maybe they’re different than the trees on the outside world. Maybe there’s some small difference that makes them unusual. I take a picture of a tree.

The trail widens a little once I get through the trees. Still grown in a bit with grass. Farther down, it meets with another trail. A crossroads. The other trail is also overgrown like it hasn’t been used in ages, but it’s much wider. The path I’m on seems to disappear into the trees up ahead, so I take the new route. It brings me into a clearing.

The whole place is silent and motionless. No wind. No thunder in the clouds. No birds chirping. I check the gun in my pocket, make sure I know how to work the safety. I’m not experienced with guns. I don’t even know what kind this one is. It looks almost fake. Like some kind of movie prop. Not sure how many bullets it has. There’s a clip in there. Nine bullets maybe? Twelve? I have no idea.