Woolly’s Fiction

Cupid’s companions were all between four and five feet tall. They shared long, slender faces, odd noses, big eyes, and obscurely tinted skin — skin that seemed to breathe. The more they drank, the more their skin appeared to shimmer with a faint, pastel iridescence. Caesar couldn’t decide if they were beautiful or hideous. At certain angles, they resembled testicles, but then they’d turn into the light and appear incredibly attractive. Were they female or male? He couldn’t tell. Were they tall or short? The only clear thing was that they were unquestionably wasted. Some of them could barely stand up.

         It was a real party.

         Caesar had smoked most of the pack Frances had bought him. He was emptying bottles, leg bouncing, while he watched Cupid. The chubby god was having a wonderful time schooling his four mysterious friends around the pool table. They were all good, but Cupid was stupid good. He barely needed to look where he was shooting—even sunk a few balls with one hand. The shots looked almost careless. None of the entourage were bothered they were losing. Everyone was just enjoying the party, drinking and sniffing up bags of blow, never quite looking like one thing or another. It wasn’t until they sucked Susan into their disco that Caesar’s thinking moved inward. He felt an unplaced sense to warn Susan not to get close. His heart ached. It raged in his chest with a quick and unsettling tremor. All the pain he harbored, agony he juggled, all his anger and resentment—it all came rushing over him.

         It was all Cupid’s fault.

         When the realization struck Caesar, he felt an overwhelming sense of agreement. Every voice in his mind stood with him. No opposing opinions surfaced. There he was, after all. A new fact of life. The God of Love drinking amongst the people. Water was wet, the sky was blue, and Cupid was real. Love was not by chance. Love was forced upon people. The chubby god’s guilt was the center of Caesar’s epiphany. Every broken heart the world had ever known was blood on his fat hands.

         Cupid’s gut bounced into the bar. He was sweaty. A big, fat, happy mess slicked with sweat. His nose was more a lump of powdered sugar than it was an appendage. Leaning over and waving for [the bartender], Cupid didn’t notice Caesar staring. [From behind the bar] Lucky asked him if he wanted another mojito. Cupid brushed a few wet strands of hair from his bloodshot eyes, saying no and shaking his head, then correcting himself by saying, “I mean, yes, of course. And ‘nother round for everyone.”

         “Your group or the whole bar?”

         Cupid hiccupped. “The whole bar!”

         His accent was hard to place. Wherever he was from, he’d been in the States long enough that his home was mostly washed out. He wasn’t at the bar for a drink, though. He came over to ask about food.

         “Diner next door’s open all night,” Lucky told him.

         “No, I mean like snacks. Chips or pretzels, something like that. You know, like a little snack bag.”

         He kept listing things, Combos, Pringles, Funions…

         Lucky pointed to the barrels of peanuts and told him there was a vending machine out front. Cupid took his new mojito and spun around, catching a glimpse of Caesar. He took a big, sloppy step towards him and rolled his brow. “Cheer up, guy, I bought your next round.” He was drunk and stoned, and his smile was practically falling off his face. He tapped his cocktail to Caesar’s beer and took a big gulp. He smelled awful, but it wasn’t just B.O. It was like his body was leaking vodka and piss. Marching across the bar, he roared out with drunken glee, telling everyone he had bought their next drink. A round of applause surrounded him. Cupid liked the attention. This bothered Caesar.

         Seeing this creature happy bothered Caesar.

         Was there no remorse to carry from his cruel career? Did he not care for the lives he cursed? Cupid slung a quiver of arrows around his shoulder, his bow joining along for the ride. The legendary weapon of human suffering. The murder weapon, Caesar thought. Caesar’s leg bounced faster. The chubby god told his friends he was going out to get chips. They all started making requests. Even Susan chimed in.

         “Salt and vinegar for me.”

         “You got it, Susan.”

         Cupid wobbled out of the bar. Each step he took looked like his last. Each step was overshot, and he never moved into them with the correct resistance—you’d think he would just keep going until his face went flat into the ground. But being wasted came rather naturally to him. Cupid’s drunken waltz saw him to the door without fault, and he was gone.

         Caesar swallowed his beer and tapped the bar for his next. He didn’t drink any of it. He didn’t care for Cupid’s little gift. He just carried it with him.

         Cupid was leaning against the vending machine, singing some song in French. He was really into it, swaying with the words, tapping to the beat in his head. Caesar lit a cigarette and watched him. Cupid’s drink rested on top of the machine, dancing to the vibration of his whaps against the snack box. Arrows bounced on his back, and the bow leaned on a wall. Occasionally Cupid would lift up onto his toes and reach for his drink. He’d take a sip, punch some numbers on the keypad, and set it back. Cupid wasn’t putting any money in, he was just touching the little slot where coins were fed. A subtle light would hum, and snacks would fall free. He opened a bag of chips and sang his song as he chewed through them, flashing his light into the coin slot, piling up more bags, and swaying his drunken hips.

         Caesar wanted to push the machine onto him.

         Cupid had his hands full of snack bags when he turned towards the bar. Caesar stood in his way and the god almost tripped when he saw him. “You spooked me,” Cupid said with a chuckle, adjusting his grip on the mound of snacks. They were both hammered, their eyes bloodshot and their minds heavy and foggy. Caesar pointed up to the mojito Cupid had left on the vending machine. “Forgetting something?” he asked. Cupid turned around and laughed, then turned back, smiling a dumb grin. Looking to his hands, which were cradling the excessive mountain of snacks, he sighed. “I’ll come back for it. Mind getting the door for me?”

         Caesar didn’t move.

He just stood there and stared at the wet, chubby god, contemplating. Cupid looked around the parking lot awkwardly and then back to Caesar and asked him, “You alright, man?” With a big drag from his cigarette, Caesar replied, “No.” Cupid frowned and drunkenly offered, “You want chips?”

         Caesar faked a laugh. It was a short, contemptuous cackle. So many years he had spent cursing at the universe, screaming into nothing, howling his lament into the empty spaces he made of countless bottles. And now, here he was. A figure to fill those spaces. A shape. The culprit to his suffering had manifested like a gift. A big, sweaty gift. Caesar raised his brow slyly and said, “Thanks for the beer,” and then he poured it out over Cupid’s bare feet. Cupid jumped back and whined, “The fuck?”

         Caesar threw the bottle into the parking lot. “Shut up,” he growled, “you dumb, fat bitch.” Cupid’s eyes widened, his neck extended his head forward, and his mouth opened dramatically to express, “Whoa! What’s your problem, asshole?”

         Caesar stuck his finger out and snarled, “You.”