The Sex Lives of Siamese Twins (22 page)

A cagey silence is followed by a half-assed confession. — I couldn’t do that Lena chick. I reckon she still has it bad about her ex. We’ve all had our hearts broken, Lucy. You dunno people’s backstory. You can’t take advantage of somebody in that situation. She’s a nice girl.

Useless prick. Fuck him. — Okay. You tried. You failed. My fault—the task was so obviously beyond you.

— Lucy—

I shut him off. Another pussy who would indulge the weak. Why? Because he’s one of them. A six-pack and a nice set of pecs don’t change that.

So fuck him. You want shit done you gotta fucking do it yourself. You can’t rely on any of them. They’re all in it for themselves. They will fuck you over for any crappy two-bit personal gain. So you gotta be strong. You gotta crush all those motherfuckers under your heel, cause make no mistake, they are looking to do the same to you, just as soon as you show any fucking signs of weakness.

I get round to Sorenson’s. Despite the wary climb into the Caddy, she’s animated. — Where are we going today? The gym? Lummus Park? Or Flamingo Park?

— We’re gonna mix it up a little, I tell her, as we head over the MacArthur toward downtown Miami. — It’s a surprise.

— I like surprises!

So we’re going up in the elevator to floor twenty in Mom’s apartment block. When we get out, I tell Sorenson we’re running up the steps to the penthouse at floor forty. A piteous complaint erupts: — Why can’t we use the StairMaster in the gym?

— No, we gotta mix it up. This time we climb real stairs. All the way to the top. But there’s a reward waiting in my mom’s apartment: some wholesome nutritious food, plus one of those peanut-butter-and-dark-chocolate protein shakes you love so much.

The greed-glint ignites in Sorenson’s eyes, blitzing away the withered Scandinavian synapses that have probably cursed her family for generations. I can practically see her taste buds dance in that voracious cavern of a mouth.

And we’re off . . .

— C’mon, Lena; hup, two, three, four, I rap out, pointing up the stairs, leaving Sorenson gasping in my wake. After a few flights, the panting grows fainter. Soon I realize I’ve left the fucking blimp behind.

I’m ascending in a backward march, then stopping at a bend, watching that bloated, red-faced, gasping slug struggle around another landing. — C’mon! You can do it!

By floor thirty-two, Sorenson’s scarlet face looks up at me. The face of a spoiled, fat child. — Oh . . . oh . . . oh . . .

— C’mon, Lena Sorenson! You can do this!

— I’ll try—

— Don’t
try
: do! Triers are criers. Winners don’t fucking try, winners do! To try is to prepare to fail! Do! DO! DO! Did you do your Morning Pages this morning?

— I never . . . I meant to but—

— NO GOOD! NO FUCKING GOOD! DO! C’MON! DO! DO! DO!

Floor thirty-six, and the fucking disobedient loser Sorenson has slowed down to a crawl. Those weak, stumpy legs struggle to find the pneumatic power to lever this gross pile of blubber up to the next set of concrete. — Oh my God—

— Take your hands
off
the friggin banister! I shout. — C’mon, Lena baby, c’mon, show them who Lena Sorenson is! Is she a big, fat, lardyassed victim?

Sorenson’s face looks mournfully up at me. — Please . . . she begs.

I step down and grip her shoulders heavily. I feel flesh. I should
not
be feeling loose, flabby flesh on
shoulders
. I dig my nails into that horrible blubber. — IS SHE A BIG, FAT LARDYASSED VICTIM?! SAY NO! SAY. FUCKING. NO, LENA!

— NO! Sorenson’s defiant, miserable scream echoes round the stair in the ghost building, and she’s digging deep, galvanizing, pushing at her wobbly frame.

— THAT’S MY GIRL! THAT’S MY BEAUTIFUL GIRL! LENA SORENSON IS A HOT PIECE OF ASS WHO TURNS HEADS IN EVERY FUCKING BAR ON OCEAN DRIVE!

— YES!

And we’re off again, and she’s puffing and grunting, fighting every step, her metabolism cranked up to the extent she’ll be burning fat for hours. — Fat-burnin machine, Lena S!

— Fat . . . bur . . . nin . . . ma-sheeen . . .

By the last few flights of stairs she’s crawling. Sorenson literally finishes on her knees. — C’mon, Lena! Get up!

She does, and I take her inside, to the unfurnished apartment. All it has are Mom’s treadmill, the Total Gym, a chair, and the inflatable mattress and comforter I brought over yesterday, which Lena gratefully slumps onto.

And in the kitchen, my supplies, as I start chopping up some banana. — Relax. Stretch those legs out, I shout through at her, as I put the fruit into the blender, with low-fat yogurt, peanut butter, chocolate protein powder, soy milk, and ice. I pulp it, adding a little touch of my own special ingredient.

As I take the shake through into the living room, Sorenson’s still panting on the mattress, raised up on her elbows, her legs sprawled across the hardwood floor. She’s struggling to force the air into her lungs. But the greed impulse overrides everything, and as I wave the milkshake at her, a chubby fist reaches out and fastens around it. She pokes the protruding straw into that weeping tomato face and if she sucks on everything like she does that fucking straw, well, sorry, Miles, but you sure missed the goddamn boat.

Her shake goes down, but Lena doesn’t get off the floor. Instead her eyes hood and she stretches out and drifts off in a daze. The Rohypnol has done its work, although, with her exhaustion, it was pushing at an open door.

Around twenty minutes later, I’m shaking her awake, pushing a tepid black coffee in front of her. — Wakey, wakey!

— What . . .?

— You blacked out. Sip this . . . Her thin lips purse around the rim of the mug, sucking in some cold coffee.

The caffeine takes almost instant effect. — Did I collapse . . .? I feel so pooped . . . what . . .?

As I stand up, she sees that one of her wrists is snared by the fur-lined handcuff onto a fifteen-foot length of heavy chain with welded links, the other end of which is fastened by another set of cuffs onto one of the support pillars.

Sorenson shakes the bracelet. — What
is
this? Did I pass out? she asks, as her eyes focus on me. — What’s going on? Lucy?

She’s rubbing at her chubby wrist, looking at me in disbelief as I explain the new rules of the game to her. — This is where you will live for the next month, at least. How much longer after that is completely up to you.

— But . . . but . . .

— The only butt I’m interested in is that lardy one you’re sitting on. You are going to hate me for this, but it’s become manifestly clear to me that I
cannot
do my job and get you to lose weight unless I can control your environment.

Sorenson looks dumbly at me, then at the cuff, shaking it again. She laughs as if this is all a big college prank. — But you can’t keep me here for a month! It’s crazy!

I look her in the eye. — There is nothing crazier than trying to kill yourself with food. As Einstein said, the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. No more. This is drastic, yes, but it’s also essential.

She knows I’m not joking now. — But . . . you can’t chain me up like an animal. She stands up, shaky on her feet at first, then thrashes at the bracelet on her wrist, the chain rattling across the floor. — This is
ridiculous
! I’m
paying
you!

— You’re paying me to succeed, and I’m gonna do just that!

— Let me go! You’re fired!

— You don’t make decisions anymore, Lena. You
cannot
make adult decisions.

— Who do you think you—

— Your so-called decisions are the impulses of a fat, greedy, spoiled fucking child. I’m shaking my head like a puppy coming out of the ocean. — You lied to me. Lied about what you were eating. I gave you a fucking diet sheet and you told me you were following it and you fucking lied!

Sorenson’s looking around the room, then back to me, in utter confusion. — But I tried, I—

— Until you become a real adult, a proper woman, I’m gonna make all the decisions for you, on your behalf. Because your bad decisions are negatively impacting on my life! Giving that video clip of me to the TV people: bad decision! Stuffing your face with shit when I’m trying to get you to lose weight: bad fucking decision!

She steps forward, yanked back by the chain. — But you can’t do this to me! You’re fucking . . . you’re kidnapping me! YOU’RE HOLDING ME HERE AGAINST MY WILL!

— WHAT FUCKING WILL?! YOU HAVE NONE! IF YOU DID YOU WOULDN’T BE IN THIS GODDAMN MESS! I take a step toward her, screaming back into her fat face, watching her shrink away. — I know it’s drastic, but you’ve reached and breached the limits of my patience. Up here I can control your cals in and cals out. I want you to lose an average of ten pounds per week, which will see you ship out here in a month. Those lights, I point to two small lamps I’ve set up in opposite corners of the room, — are on timers. They come on at six, when it gets dark, and they go off at ten, when you will sleep. I will come by every day, sometimes more than once a day, and make sure you get three calorie-controlled meals, with all the nutrients you need. Those buckets, I nod at the big plastic receptacles full of water and disinfectant, — are for your piss and shit. They will be emptied at the end of every day, or in the morning. I have your phone; most of the time I’ll leave it in the kitchen on silent, though I’ll monitor it for any emergency calls.

Sorenson paces over to the window, testing the limits of her chain. But her eyes keep swiveling back to me. — Please, Lucy, you can’t—

— Can, will, have. I pull her keys out of my bag. — I’ll also be swinging by your house regularly to pick up any mail, and check on the place. But this is your new home, so get used to it. I look around the room. — You’ll be here some time, so there are certain hygiene issues we have to resolve. In order that you keep clean and don’t develop killer cystitis, I’m going to bring up a kiddie paddling pool, which I’ll let you bathe in every couple of days.

— This is . . . I don’t . . . how . . . Sorenson gasps.

I ignore her bleatings, heading over to the thermostat on the wall. — The temperature will be set at 70 degrees. You should be comfortable in a strapless sports bra and panties, and your gross shorts, if you so wish, and I point to a plastic bag full of these items.

— I can’t stay here . . . you can’t do this!

— As I’ve said, how long you stay here is up to you. And these, I point at the treadmill and the Total Gym, — are your escape tools. There will be no hand weights or resistance bands or even medicine balls. They’re all you’re going to get, so I suggest you make good use of them. And, I smile tightly at her, throwing down a notepad and stubby pencil, — you
will
do Morning Pages!

I slip my bag over my shoulder.

— But . . . you’re crazy! YOU’RE FUCKING CRAZY! People will be asking where I am!

— Who precisely? I ask, holding up her cell phone. — Your family? Your friends in the art world? Kim? Jerry? There’s a horrible moment as I watch a slice of her perish inside. It weakens me, and I can hear my tone softening. — You come up with the goods, and you’ll be outta here in no time, and I move back into the kitchen, switching her cell to vibrate, and leaving it on the counter.

— Wait . . . Lucy, please, wait . . . you can’t leave me here on my own! Her voice starts to rise in a whispering plea, before breaking into a drawn-out shriek. — WAAAIIITTT!!!! LOOO-CEEE!!!!

I’m disinclined to listen to this; I’m outta there, slamming shut the living-room door, then the apartment’s heavier one, double-locking it, muffling Sorenson’s cries to a vague background sound. Then I’m into the elevator and down to the lobby, checking the mailboxes to ensure that no callers or investors are coming round to make purchase or rental inquiries. Satisfied that fat girl really is on her own, I drive back over to South Beach. As I get into heavy traffic on the MacArthur, Miles calls. — I’ve been thinking about our little arrangement. I’m happy to try again.

— Null and void. You failed to deliver.

— If this is about
Heat
—

Prick talking NBA at a time like this; I’m thinking of LeBron, Dwyane, and Bosh. — Fuck Heat, Celtics rule!

Miles goes silent for a beat, then says, — Cool. The thing is, I actually liked Lena. I’d kinda like to hang out with her. As a buddy thing. She’s a pretty interesting lady.

Not a good idea, but if I tell him that, he’ll be all over her and that certainly would not do. — Do what the fuck you like!

— Heyyy! Do I detect a hint of jealousy here? After all, if you shaved some beef off of that chick, she would be pretty damn hot!

— In your fucking dreams! Jesus! Could you possibly be any more trivial and inconsequential as a human being?

— I know Lena stays in MB somewhere. What’s her address?

— She’s my client. I certainly can’t give her private address out to you. There’s such a thing as client confidentiality, I wince at my own prissy, defensive tone.

— No sweat, Miami Beach isn’t a big pond. I’m over there all the time. Now that she’s on my radar I’m sure I’ll see her around.

— What a treat for you both, I click off my cell.

I get home, park up, take a shower, then settle and read more about the glory days of Lena Sorenson in
Future Human.

FEW ARTISTS HAVE
been denounced so virulently by the critical art establishment as Lena Sorenson, yet very few have enjoyed such commercial success. It’s strange that this mannered, almost old-fashioned, waiflike young woman from the Midwest can arouse such vitriol. For her part, Sorenson’s long-term reluctance to talk about herself and her work remains an endearing feature of this enigmatic artist.

Yet the attraction of Sorenson’s art, in the face of much critical disdain, is not difficult to understand. Lena Sorenson gets her evolved/devolved characters to do the very things that make us human. They are not just scavenging on garbage heaps and tearing each other apart, but sharing, celebrating, and, in particular, nurturing children.
The Post-Nuclear Family
, purchased by the McCormick Foundation for the Art Institute, is one of modern art’s most tender and emotional compositions. Sorenson’s art resonates with Western youth as it appeals to a generation devoid of hope for anything other than a dystopian future, which, for most, will be inferior to the life enjoyed by past generations.