She craves her own stand-in, posted politely on her glass window: “The Part of Ruth for the next few days will be played by [fill in the blank]”. That’s what she needs. She needs her blank to be filled in. It all began to blur into the same train ride home. Doors closing. Mind the gap. The gap between who she was and who everyone thought her to be. The gap between the past and now, between her fiction and her reality.
The same shift at Horrids. The same bodies. Bodies, bodies, bodies.
Red bodies, yellow bodies, white bodies, brown bodies, black bodies, purple bodies, green bodies, young bodies, old bodies, teenage bodies, middle-aged bodies, girl bodies, boy bodies, androgynous bodies, ambidextrous bodies, muscular bodies, skinny bodies, fat bodies, straight bodies, gay bodies, bi bodies, clean bodies, foul bodies, bodies that smell of smoke, bodies that smell of soap, bodies from the train, bodies from the street, bodies carrying other bodies, bodies in wheelchairs, bodies with strollers, bodies missing appendages, bodies in a hurry, bodies that go slow, bodies that whiz by, bodies that slink past, bodies that talk, bodies that are mute, bodies that don’t exist, bodies with shopping bags, bodies with large leather purses, damp bodies, dry bodies, bodies with the coldest of hands, bodies with the softest of skin, bodies with bored faces, bodies with scarred faces, bodies with no faces, bodies chewing bubble gum, bodies eating crisps, bodies on phones, bodies with umbrellas, bodies with other bodies, art bodies, business bodies, celebrity bodies, nobodies, mommy bodies, daddy bodies, brother bodies, sister bodies, bodies with bellies, bodies with breasts, hunched-over bodies, rich bodies, poor bodies, bodies who have never worked a day in their life, nice bodies, mean bodies, strange bodies, familiar bodies, British bodies, American bodies, bodies who say cheers, bodies who say thanks, bodies who ignore you, bodies who say
bonjour
, bodies of all nations, bodies wearing turbans, bodies whose skirts touch the floor, bodies all bundled up, bodies too naked, bodies with beards, bodies with long hair, bodies that tap by on heels, bodies that shuffle by, bodies bodies bodies…
To all of these she proffers her Desire.
I have a part of you with me. You put your disease in me. It helps me. It makes me strong.
— Isabella Rossellini in David Lynch’s
Blue Velvet
Agnes and Ruth are at a pub on the East End. Agnes is wearing a red-and-black checkered long-sleeved minidress. Red heels. Her hair now in glossy dark brown curls. Her makeup done up like Isabella Rossellini in
Blue Velvet
. A blur of red lips. Eyelids bedded in deep blue. Like a bruised angel. She occupies herself tonight by twirling around on her barstool, sipping her red wine. Ruth watches her twirl, sip, twirl, sip, twirl, twirl. Her stockings are ripped. There is a pale moon on her knee. She cultivates a more mysterious air as a brunette. As a redhead everything was shock and fright.
Do you ever get the feeling a camera is following you around at all times? She brings her face up close to Ruth. Her teeth are stained gray from the wine. Yeah, I think so. Yeah, me too. Agnes’ voice is dreamy. Ruth feels like she is just there in order to speak the supporting role, a character in Agnes’ play. Agnes digs into her purse, finds her silver cigarette case and holder. She lights up, breathing out billows of smoke with each turn. Ruth can’t help admiring her. You should have been an actress, she says. What? I said, you should act. On stage or something. I hear that sometimes. She warms up to this her favorite subject. What if life were like that Peter Greenaway film, and every room I walk into the color of my outfit changes, like Helen Mirren’s.
Agnes is now looking around the room, looking for something, someone, something else. Ruth doesn’t know what she is looking for, but the room disappoints her tonight. Oh, Ruth. Agnes finally says. I’m so bored, I’m so terribly, terribly bored. She waves her empty glass at the bartender at the other end of the bar.
Another red wine? Yes, could you, please? She oozes flirtatiousness.
Care for another? The bartender leans in with his arms folded across the bar, and taps his fingers against Ruth’s glass. A vodka and cranberry. Her voice comes out little girl. She liked the dark pink of vodka and cranberries. Nod. Coming up. His accent is thick, Scottish. As he makes her drink—cocking his head from time to time to take an order—Ruth studies him. Agnes has sprung down from her stool to accost a boy she knows from across the room with a spiky hairstyle called the Hoxton hawk. How do I look she fixates on Ruth’s face as if Ruth’s eyes were her mirror. Fine fine. Agnes’ nose wrinkles with displeasure. Fine just fine? You look lovely, Ruth soothes. Lovely lovely lovely.
Ruth is now alone at the bar. This is why I don’t like going out with Agnes, she thinks. The trains stop running at a certain time. If she abandons her tonight she doesn’t know what she will do. She doesn’t have enough money for a cab, and she doesn’t know where to find a cashpoint. She hasn’t figured out how to take the bus yet. To Ruth the circuitous rituals and routes of London bus transit are transportational enigmas she knew she could never brave alone.
When the bartender returns with her pink drink she smiles at him. How much? He waves his hand, bringing it down to barely rest on her wrist, which he strokes once with one finger. She stares back, mimicking his boldness.
Smug face, smug eyes, smug lips. He had a slight bruise around one eye, that lent him a sort of dangerous vulnerability. A bit of a brute.
There are strangers who wear your face.
You remind me of someone.
And who’s that? Smirk.
Just someone…she trails off.
Another smirk, twisting his towel into the wet glass. Oh, yeah?
He leaves again. He returns. Ruth feels a sort of fatality about everything. Listen, he hesitates for a moment. A slow smile. I’m going to take my break now in back. Would you care to accompany me? Ruth shrugs. A heart thump, a start of panic.
Almost in slow motion he takes her hand and leads her behind the bar and out to the back room. There are coats sprawled everywhere like deflated corpses. We can go downstairs. It’s more private, he says. Ruth nods. She is on mute. She follows him down the gray concrete stairs, tentative, not wanting to trip.
They are in what appears to be a supply room. It is just the two of them. Ruth shivers. He could rape her right now, she knows. She has gone to a strange place with a strange man, and she is drunk. She has agreed to meet him in the equivalent of a dark alley. And here she is. That is how Ruth approached so much of her life—and here she is. She finds herself in situations. She could leave. She couldn’t leave. She wouldn’t know how to leave. She is frozen to the spot. She is also curious to see what is going to happen in this film of her life. Will it be a horror film? This is certainly not shaping up to be a romance picture. It is a cautionary tale. It is at least R-rated. R for rape not romance. R for ruin. R for run, Ruth, run. But Ruth won’t run. She doesn’t hold the strings. She is the unwilling puppet. She is not the author of the Book of Ruth.
She is curious to see what will happen, a gaper’s block of self. She is the voyeur of herself. She is willing, a willing victim. If not wanting then willing although she is wanting she has a hole a void and perhaps he has what she needs to fill it.
The boy sits down on a keg. Pats his legs like a department-store Santa. As if on cue Ruth lowers herself onto his lap. He nuzzles her neck. He paws at the hot triangle underneath her skirt. He inches his hand down her pantyhose, fingering her. He plays with her like this for a while. She lets him even though it hurts and she would rather be at home, in her room, reading fashion magazines. She is still, like a doll, only occasionally writhing about in discomfort.
Finally he takes his finger out. He licks it. This is supposed to be sexy. Mmmhmm, she purrs as if on cue. I don’t even know your name darling. Ruth hesitates. It’s Vivien, she says. That’s the name of her favorite model. Hi Vivien, I’m Alistair. Hi, she whispers. He kisses her mouth. His chin, patched with black wire, scratches her face. She kisses him back, tentatively at first, then with her mouth open wide, twisting around on his lap.
You smell nice.
It’s Desire, she breathes.
She traces the purple bruise around his eye. Did it hurt? she asks. His eyes flicker mockingly.
She puts her hand on the crotch of his jeans, warm and sweaty. He moans. The vodka-and-cranberries has made her feel all loose and wavy, unsure of herself. Leaning over, she kisses him. Her tongue licking him like a cat, her blonde hair hanging in her face.
She conjures up Deneuve in
Belle de Jour
. She allows filthy paws on her pristine body.
She has fucked and fucked until there is nothing left of her. How many of the unworthy has she let into her body? She has lost count. This is her “experiment.” She is “experimenting.” Sex is just something else she lets inside of her, like images from TV. She lets anyone, anything inside, to ignore the gnaw of loneliness, which comes anyway.
Does she mourn her young body riddled with violations? She does not know what to mourn.
Of all the terrible things that I have let inside of my body, you are King Terrible.
He stands her up, lifts her skirt up above her waist. He kisses her stomach, nuzzling her through her underwear, his wiry chin poking through. He undresses her like a child.
(This role really calls for nudity. It helps you understand the character more.)
He stands there and looks at her, every porcelain inch of her, a curious expression on his face. To see herself as desirable in their eyes. That is the trade. She presses her breasts against his chest, his crotch. She twitches her tail. She is seductress. She has learned how to be sexy from the covers of men’s magazines.
All I can do is look at her breasts. She has perfect French breasts. They are pert and taut with brownish-pink nipples. I want to stroke them. I am in awe of these lovely breasts—not like mine at all, maternal and massive and saggy.
He strokes her head, he presses it down. She obeys. She kneels down on the cold stone floor with an almost devoutness. On her knees she bows forth unzips his jeans takes his penis with its taste of urine in her mouth and pretends to ravish it. She pretends she is one of the women advertised in the phone booths. This is a part she is playing. It is the part of herself, her self who is not herself. He strokes her head more, tucking her hair behind her ears, almost a gesture of love. She sucks and tugs for a while, then takes it out of her mouth, looking at him. She is a bit bored and her mouth is sore. And her lip gloss feels coated across her cheeks. She wonders if he will give her money for a cab ride home.
She watches him strip off his T-shirt, throw his pack of smokes on the floor, pull off his boots and his jeans. His body covered in a dark fur. She has seen it all before, as if in a dream. But she is not really there. Not really there. She retreats inside her bubble.