REFLECTIONS UPON FINALLY READING ABOUT 17 PAGES OF FIGHT CLUB,
INCLUDING A PLEASANTLY BRIEF BUT NEVERTHELESS CURIOUS
INTRODUCTION BY THE AUTHOR, AND SIMULTANEOUSLY TRYING TO WRITE
A PARODY OF THE HARDY BOYS AND NANCY DREW THAT INCORPORATES
ELEMENTS OF CLARE BOOTHE LUCE’S QUEER CLASSIC, THE WOMEN
“The first rule of Dandy Gelatine is that you don’t talk about Dandy Gelatine.”
These are the words I hear as I come to. Frank is saying them to no one in particular, which probably means they’re intended for me.
I’m lying in the trunk of our convertible, hogtied, but with my arms and legs behind me. The rope is nylon, so it doesn’t hurt, but the position is weird. I roll slightly to the right side, which is better. Frank pretends not to notice. He removes a cotton swab from a box hidden beneath the spare tire.
During the Inquisition, Spaniards would tie detainees’ arms backwards, straight out behind them. Then they’d attach ropes to the prisoners’ wrists and hoist them into the air. Turns out, that’s a pretty effective way of getting information. Stubborn detainees were dropped a foot at a time. The pressure of the coracoid process grinding into the subscapularis was so intense that about half of the prisoners passed out before they could utter a single “Dios mio.” Eventually, the Spaniards eliminated the practice because the data they extracted wasn’t always reliable. People will say a lot of crazy things when their shoulder is being cracked open like a lobster claw.
Frank unscrews the cap from a brown glass bottle, holds the swab to the bottle’s mouth, turns it upside down. He leans over me, folds my ear forward, dabs the cotton against my skin. I smell whiskey, though I’m not sure if it’s coming from Frank or the swab. In fact, it’s both. He presses the cotton into my neck, and it stings. Excess bourbon oozes down my neck where it mingles with sweat, getting sticky. Frank hisses in my ear:
“The second rule of Dandy Gelatine is that you don’t talk about Dandy Gelatine.”
For the moment, I’m content. Not comfortable, but content. It’s almost like I dream it: Frank leaning over me, holding me.
Frank’s muscular body blocks the sun from my eyes, and I see Nancy standing about ten feet away, examining a rhododendron with the Gorham Buttercup magnifying glass her mother bought her for her birthday. She won’t even need to register when she gets married.
Nancy looks up from her sleuthing, glances at me with pity. And more: anger, jealousy, lust. But what she says when she opens her mouth is, “The Countess de Lave has been here. Those are her tracks. See? Only Bugattis have that kind of axle variation on a right turn.”
Bullshit, like most of what Nancy says.
Frank is still leaning over me, but his hand is limp. He whispers, “I know, Joe. I know.” I breathe him in one more time and he closes the trunk again.
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