The Transformation, part VI -- A Very Special Transformation

originally posted April 16, 2007

I sat on the floor, wearing the hat, drinking from the bottle. I was no more the detective now than I was before the hat, and had yet to solve the mystery, but at least now I had the enhanced confidence of the early morning drunk. Returning to the bathroom, bottle in hand, I tipped my hat to the stranger, who was still crouched in the bathtub, exploring the insides of his ears with his fingers.

"Would you like a drink?" I asked. He hissed softly, and I took this to mean yes. I poured a small puddle of vodka on the edge of the tub and crouched down on the floor in front of him, ready to spring to my feet if the situation demanded. He lapped it up, and I poured a bit more for him. He drank this also. We repeated the process several times, until he finally lost the balance of his crouch, falling back into a seated position. My visitor's likeness to my husband did not extend to his capacity to drink tremendous amounts.

I stood cautiously, somewhat off-balance myself, waiting for him to hiss accusingly. It seemed that his likeness to my husband also did not extend to this realm. Instead he sat, not looking angry, staring at me with eyes that did not blame me for where he was at this moment. His was the face of the man I once thought I loved, back before the letters of rejection and abject weirdness. Granted, it was a somewhat more puzzled face with an excess of eyebrow activity, but it was not festooned with eyeglasses found in the street or framed with an ascot and beret, and this was a welcome change.

His eyes were heavy. His hands wandered over his body, and he rolled to the side, stretching out on his back in the bathtub. I sat on the floor and reached towards him slowly, touching his arm with one finger. He did not flinch. I continued to drink and ask him questions, but could not establish if he was new in town, if he had any weed on him, or if he would like to borrow a sweater. His whisper-hiss continued as he examined his hands, tasted his foot, and ate a hair he pulled from his chest. Drunk and at a loss for words, but feeling brazen in my hat, I did what I like to think any curious individual would have done in a similar situation. Reaching between his legs, I put my hand on the penis he did not seem to realize he had.

I dismissed the voice inside reminding me that there are other ways to fill an awkward silence that do not involve giving a hand job to a potentially demented man.

"Where was this logic when Sacher-Masoch showed up requesting to be spanked with a wooden spoon?" I demanded. "I recall an awkward silence there. And the following week, when DeSade took a spatula to my ass? Again, awkward silence. I went along with it, and where were you? All that, and nothing came of it but a story about his father. And that," I concluded, "is demented."

"But shouldn't you wait for the second date?" challenged the voice. "Why start now?" was my rejoinder.

The assertion that he would probably tell all his friends was met with an eyeroll and the assurance that my reputation would remain unscathed, as it seemed all he could do was hiss, and just who were these so-called friends? "Really," I commanded, "Leave me to my pent up spite."

The voice feebly challenged me one final time, calling attention to the fact that it probably wouldn't really be a satisfying gesture of infidelity given the fact he looked exactly like my husband. "Which is precisely why I won't have to feel too guilty," I explained. "Besides, he is eating his hair, and that makes him different. Now shut up."

I poured a trickle of vodka into his hissing mouth, and a far larger trickle into my own. Then, following a brief display of dexterity that would have impressed Carver and Capote alike, I let the semen fall where it may. He was wide-eyed for a moment, and then my drunken, naked visitor's soft slurred hisses subsided as his eyes drifted shut. Like all good cheap dates he had passed out.

High from the corner of the room I heard a small, faint chorus of hissing. Perched on the wall were three cockroaches, staring down at us.

"Perverts," I hissed at them, feeling protected under the hat. Creeping out of the bathroom, I left the passed out naked man where he was, still splattered with semen, in case he needed a snack when he awoke.