Savages

mutilation are—
    wrong.
    Ben leaves the plastic molded chair to hit the porcelain in the men’s room again because he contracted more in the Congo than just the usual Third World Heartbreak and he really hopes it isn’t dysentery (again).
    He sits Luther-like on the john and, in fact, (re)considers his own theology because—
    —while he knows as a Baddhist that men who rape and cut up women should be reeducated not to do that, he also has this impulse that the more effective thing to do would be to just—
    —shoot the fuckers.
    He knows (ever self-reflective) that there’s more to it than that.
    Maybe he’s just sick and tired but he’s also
    sick
    and
    tired
    of seemingly
everything
these days. He feels
    ennui
    depression
    adrift in his life. Purposeless, perhaps because
    —dig a well in the Sudan and the
janjaweed
come in and shoot thepeople anyway
    —buy mosquito nets and the boys you save grow up to
—rape women
    —set up cottage industries in Myanmar and the army
—steals them and uses the women as slaves and
    Ben is starting to be afraid that he is starting to share Chon’s opinion of the human species
    that people are basically
    shit.

38
     
    And now this
    Ben thinks as he goes back to the first-class lounge and gets himself an herbal tea.
    The BC sends out atrocity videos as a business tool in the heretofore (relatively) pacifist marijuana industry.
    Nice.
    What next?
    He doesn’t even want to think about that.
    Yeah, but you’re going to have to, he tells himself, because you’re going to have to respond to it. Chon has a response in mind (well, in hand), but the truth is that there’s no way they’re going to outgun the Baja Cartel. And even if they could, Ben’s not sure that he wants to.
    Ben’s not sure of anything right now.
    He hears them announce his flight.

39
     
    Threatened with eviction and/or a limit on her platinum card, O agrees to join a life coaching session with Paqu.
    Eleanor comes to the house.
    “Is she like Domino’s?” O asks Paqu. “If she doesn’t deliver a new life in twenty minutes, it’s free?”
    “That will be enough of that.”
    So O joins Paqu on the sofa as Eleanor, her silver hair set off beautifully by a deep-lavender silk blouse, passes out file cards as she says, “Three is a very powerful number in our culture and collective psyches, so we are going to use the power of three to enhance our personal power.”
    “And there are three of us,” O observes.
    “Very sharp, Ophelia,” Eleanor says.
    O winces.
    Eleanor continues, “The difference between a goal and a dream is a plan of action, so on these cards, I want you to write down three goals you have for yourself for today, and the three achievable steps you will take today to make each one happen.”
    Paqu writes:
    —Become physically stronger
    —Progress toward becoming a life coach
    —Prepare a meal that will nourish me physically and spiritually.
    O writes:
    —Have mind-blowing multiple orgasm.
    “I asked for
three
things,” Eleanor says.
    “If I get it right, it
will
be three things,” O answers.
    Eleanor’s tough, though. She doesn’t pull two and a half bills an hour from a slough of jaded SOC trophy wives by being a wimp. She levels her gaze at O and asks, “And what three achievable steps will youtake to move you toward your goal?”
    O nods and reads:
    —Put C batteries on Mom’s shopping list
    —Find some time for myself
    —Think about the pool boy

40
     
    They pick Ben up at John Wayne Airport.
    Chon thinks you gotsta love an airport named for a draft-dodging movie war hero cowboy who trademarked his gay, pigeon-toed mince into a macho money machine. Bought half of south Orange County back in the day, practically owned Newport Beach, like fuck the movies, real estate is where the treasure be.
    Aaarrrrhh.
    All those cats—Wayne, Hope, Crosby—they bought up big chunks of the California Dream—Newport Beach, Palm Springs, Del Mar—and sold it like they sold their celluloid fantasies. Sunshine, sailing, golf.
    Lotsa golf.
    Martinis on the green, sly in-jokes, thousand-dollar hookers waiting in the carts, blow-job bets on birdies, bogeys, whatever rich white guy my small dick isn’t as small as your small dick crapola. Get your ball on the green, on the green, on the green green green.
    Losers get the sand traps.
    Iraq. Stanland.
    What’s the club they use to get out of the sand traps? The wedge? Chon wonders. Yeah, as if, wouldn’t that be nice. Stuck in