11.20.18

The Name Game

Vanilla and orange went well together, Cosette thought. She didn’t look at her index finger, turning blue and white as the Barbour thread coiled, cutting into her skin. It was becoming numb, a reassuring feeling. Her eyes were fixated on the cream-colored wall, and she could feel her throat filling with eggnog, the bourbon cutting across her tongue and onto his lips. She felt her fingertips fumble across the stubble on his neck towards his striped tie, knotted precisely so that it’d be difficult to remove. Holding her breath, she opened her mouth wider, begging him to let her in and take the inebriation from her esophagus, to digest it himself and consume her entirely, just once more, once fucking more, please. Please.

Cosette gasped.

Breaking her gaze, she exploded into a fit of coughs more powerful than the pedal on her Kenmore 95. Her eyes stung as she willed her throat to let her breathe, the orange thread colliding with the salty dew of skin, trickling past her collar bone, still attached to the numb finger that now pressed against her pulsating neck.

Any closer, this time?

She inhaled a choppy, burning gulp of air, musty and strikingly dry from not having opened the windows in five days. Wincing, she exhaled and reluctantly inhaled again. She lowered her hand and let her body lose its form, slumping into the hotel upholstery, her eyes stubbornly remaining shut. She couldn’t bear to open them and taste the eggnog again. Not yet. But she would because the question’s answer was still no.

When Cosette felt what he had when he died, she’d know. It was easy for his fingers on the wax-coated thread to brush onto her own, for his eyes occupied by vanilla to dissolve into her pupils when she wanted them to. She knew such sensations well, having witnessed him experience them for so many years. This last thing, though, she’d only heard about. She’d only read it on the cover of a newspaper, only seen the representation of his lifeless face, a face she didn’t know. How could she transport herself to that image, flattened and stamped onto millions of copies of black and white within a frenzy of other, more important news? He was everywhere, but the real him was an impalpable feeling – just a wisp of final breath, a mere gasp dissipated into millions of particles of Australian air.

They met in 1931. Cosette was new to the Game, but the allure of wigs and wealth had her committed. Struggling to find a steady job all through her twenties, she was tired of frayed rugs and cracked mugs. She wanted oriental carpets and fine china, to finally afford Kensitas Cigarettes over Army Clubs, to dazzle her freckled chest with real pearls, and to eat breakfast at restaurants that overlooked the park. Chief told her that if she followed his instructions, in a matter of months she’d have all that and more. The crunch of cockroach wings between her calendar and the kitchen counter still echoing in her mind from that morning, Cosette wasn’t hard to convince.

Her counterpart was experienced in thievery but new to the Group. Like he’d spotted Cosette watching the wasp nest outside the bridal shop on State St., Chief had discovered Man on the sidewalk examining the moss on the edge of a trash can. I find the people that notice things, he liked to say. The people who also go unnoticed. The Group didn’t have a name. In fact, no one in the Group had names. Her family entirely out of the picture, Cosette was only Cosette to herself. She was excited to erase her identity and move through life as hundreds of people. It would be like reincarnation, she thought. A life full of risk and excitement, but with the constant flow of cash and crystalized ginger. Delicious.

For their first assignment that August, Chief gave them the simple task of robbing a lingerie store. They were not given guns. Stealing was a sly and artful craft, he insisted. It could be done without the macho bullshit. Cosette was to go into the store alone, take the small bell that hung from the inner doorknob as she shut it behind her and place it in a well-padded handbag that a craftsperson in the Group had made. She was then instructed to choose a complicated teddy to try on and request assistance in the dressing room. She was to tangle herself in it so much that both the employees had to help. While this fiasco was taking place, Man was to swiftly and silently enter the shop, pick the lock on the cash register in less than five seconds, and remove the contents into his specially-made hat that had a zipper on the inside so that pounds of cash could be stuffed into it and worn inconspicuously. He would do this in only a few minutes, leaving no sign of disturbance.

Cosette was dressed in a navy-blue pantsuit, gold-rimmed glasses, and a dirty-blonde wig with bangs, her charcoal hair tucked tightly underneath. She was given the name Sandy White, along with cream stilettos, real pearl earrings, mascara and nude lipstick. She was to act friendly but with a tinge of pretentiousness, a clear intellectual. Sandy had to appear important enough to require the attention of both employees.

And that, she did. Their assignment was complete within twenty minutes. The first five, Cosette browsed the merchandise. The next ten were spent in a labyrinth of tangles and hands. She chose a teddy with multiple removable straps and rearranged them so convolutedly that the lace tore when the ladies were trying to free her. Chief had firmly stated not to actually buy anything (never give, only take from the suckers), so this triggered a moment of panic for Cosette. Would they make her purchase it? Her head getting hot under the mass of fake hair, she was suddenly reminded that she was not Cosette, but rather Sandy. Torn free from the lacy silk, Miss Sandy White stood nearly naked before the two women and laughed boisterously.

“A creative girl must be expected to have some fun with straps as playful as those! I recommend you speak with your maker about the fabric’s quality… After all, lingerie is not meant to be sedentary in.” Sandy sighed. “A disappointment, indeed, but a lesson for the store at that.” She shooed them, bug-eyed and perspiring, out of her stall and quickly garbed. Man would have the money by now; she’d allowed him plenty of time.

“Thank you for your time, anyway,” Sandy nodded at them as she swayed out the door, the stockings and robes quivering as she moved past. Her pace quickened once on the street, her heels turning the sidewalk into a percussion, applauding her performance all the way to the hotel where Chief and Man waited with the hat-full of cash. She was more than euphoric – it was a combination of orgasming, post-exercise endorphins and tasting the creamiest, sweetest brie on the planet. It was the feeling of rebirth.

For 11 years, Cosette and Man were platonic partners in crime. Best friends without knowing each other’s names or backgrounds. They existed entirely in the present, traversing cities and personas, celebrating their accomplishments with steak and wine, and smoking Kensitas while discussing the patterns of the stains and cracks on the various off-white hotel walls. Then, on the 17th of December in 1942, Cosette kissed him. Waiting for Chief’s call in a phonebooth in Sydney, they were observing the rain that was dripping innocuously down the translucent panes and pooling around the booth. It was dry and warm inside. Man, fatigued from their arduous assignment earlier, sagged against the panes opposite from Cosette, clearly wishing for a perch. The phone calls were not usually this late. He sighed and looked up at her, smiling just slightly. His mouth was usually perfectly straight, preferring not to give too much away. She found this change in demeanor peculiar.

“It may be inconvenient, but downpours can be quite dazzling, no?” She remarked, staring back at him with equal intent.

“I think,” he began. “Rain is always most beautiful upon glass, especially with lights from the street giving each droplet… a kind of halo. A little crown of reflection. You know, it’s like us, truthfully.” His hands gestured but the gaze on her face did not break. “We continuously move, taking on different forms, reflecting the people around us. Whether you’re Brenda, or Abigail, or Sandy…” Cosette’s stomach fluttered. He’d remembered the name of her first identity? That was over a decade ago, before the skin by her eyes permanently creased and the sun spots on her chest darkened, becoming more prominent. She didn’t mind her aging body, but she accepted that her allure was fading. Until this moment, that is, when he was speaking to her with eyes stronger than steel padlocks. She was startled by the feelings her body had just made clear. “You were marvelous as Alessandra today, you know,” he continued. “It amazes me how you get into character… the accents, the mannerisms.” He reached over and tapped her forehead with his index finger. “Those things give you halos.”

And that’s when she did it. His face, haggard but handsome, had become something new. It was as if the light on his face, dotted and slashed with the moving shadows of rain, had shown her the truth of him. His childhood, his first loves and the accidents behind his scars, his name, all there displayed across his light-stricken face. She needed it. She had to consume it, so she leaned, suddenly but gently pressing her lips onto his. He pressed back, the taste of eggnog he’d had with dessert diving into her. They became one fluid unit, encased by rain-spattered panes and dancing street light. They turned back time, no longer drifting into their forties but instead living out their final teenage years, experiencing arousal and touching skin like it was their very first time. They moved through their entire true lives together, all within the course of five minutes.

The phone rang and Cosette gasped, stumbling backwards and rattling the booth. Man cleared his throat and answered, his brow furrowing across his sweat-speckled forehead, recovering his staid mentality.

It was not Chief on the phone. It was his righthand man, and Righthand had bad news. Someone was onto them, someone worse than the police. Another group, a poisonous one. Operations would have to change. Chief would have to go into hiding. The rest of it all needed to be discussed in person. They were to take the bicycles from the garage down the street and meet at a hotel two towns over. Get there by 4:00 in the morning. Forget tomorrow’s assignment but wear the disguises. Click.

Cosette touched her index finger to her lips. It was as if the kiss had done it.

They pedaled all night, the rain clinging to their wigs and streaking down their legs. It was a temperate night, but by the time they arrived she was bitterly chilled. All the Group members were there, huddled in Righthand’s hotel room. Chief, who rarely displayed emotion, was noticeably anxious.

“We have to make some changes. These guys can’t be messed with.” Cosette’s stomach dropped. Chief pointed at her and Man, his other hand rubbing his temple. “My god, you two are good. You’ve been in it a long time. But you just can’t be out there anymore. They’ll find you and then they’ll find us. You’ve gotta be replaced.”

“Chief,” Cosette protested, “What’ll we do? Where will we go?”

Man stood there silently, his mouth straight as a blade.

“Don’t worry, kid. You’ll still be looked after. There are always jobs to be done. Those disguises don’t make themselves.”

Goodbye, halos, Cosette thought.

In the following weeks, Cosette and Man became expert craftspeople. The disguise ideas had to be conceived and then turned three-dimensional. Man was particularly good at assembling hats and shoes; Cosette was an excellent seamstress. For the next five years, they spent almost every day together, hunched tirelessly over their creations made to dress their new, much younger replacements. Sometimes, Man would stuff a zipper hat with scraps of leather and wear it while he worked. He liked the weight of it – it reminded him of the density of thrill. But their new situation didn’t take long to get used to. When their hands or backs got tired, they’d collapse onto the bed or the carpet and rejuvenate their bodies by using each other. At night they’d live lavishly, wearing old disguises to speakeasies and pubs and staggering home at sunrise, falling into deep, numb slumbers, intertwined.

They were happy until September 21st, 1948, when Man got The Idea.

“I have an idea,” he told Cosette, plopping an empty wooden spool of Barbour into her morning coffee.

She laughed and removed it with her spoon, dropping it into his. “And what might this idea be?”

“Let’s create our own assignment.”

Cosette stared at him, waiting for the punchline. “You’re kidding,” she said when it didn’t arrive.

“My dear girl,” he began. “Think about it. We cannot continue on this way. I know I cannot. Cooped up in here until we die? How does that sound to you? Don’t you miss it?”

“I… Of course, I miss it. But you’re speaking nonsense – we simply cannot. Chief would never allow it.”

“That’s why we’d create our own. It’s been long enough; I’ve had it making fucking getups all day. I’m supposed to be out there.” Man walked over to the vanilla wall and slammed his hand against it.

“You’re being foolish,” Cosette, nervous, started to raise her voice. “We have so much. That’s enough.”

Breathing heavily, he nodded, grabbed his coat and left. Two hours later, he returned, drunker than sin, but calm.

For the next two months, Man was somber. He’d mention The Idea weekly, which turned into daily. Cosette did not know what to do. On November 26th, he sunk into the bed beside her, resting his head on her abdomen. “I must ask you one last time. Will you do it with me?”

She began to cry. “You know I cannot. It’s foolish.”

“It’s ok,” he told her, kissing her ribcage. By morning he was gone.

Chief called Cosette dozens of times. After picking up the first time only to learn that he had no information on what had happened to Man, she stopped answering. She stopped everything. She submitted herself, with guilt and loneliness, to finding him, somewhere in the air, somewhere in her mind.

On the eighth day, someone knocked at her door. “Hey you, open up.” It was Chief. “I can pick this lock in a second, so you might as well let me in.”

She slid her feet to the door and turned the knob, crumpling and becoming one with Chief’s crepe-skin arms. They had never touched before, aside from shaking hands, but at this moment it was the most natural, nostalgic feeling in the world.

“Enough of this.” He said. “You’re coming with me.”

Chief brought Cosette home, to his sister and his border collie. She didn’t even know that he had a permanent home, let alone a sister and a dog. It felt very strange to peek into his personal reality, when he’d urged all of them not to have one of their own.

She stayed there for five months, until one Sunday at breakfast when Sister asked Chief to pass the salt.

“Victor, pass the salt, could you?”

 Cosette’s mouth dropped open. “Victor,” She repeated.

Madeline looked at her brother with panic. He was frozen, the salt shaker resting in his hand.

Cosette then burst into laughter, clutching her chest, feeling an incredible warmth. “Oh, how wonderful! You are Victor! What a lovely name!”

Victor looked up. She hadn’t cracked a smile since November. So, he blurted:

“His name was Theodore.”

And that’s when she felt it. Not sadness or agony, but relief. Warmth, ease, serenity. His truth.

“Theodore,” she whispered. The past five years she’d sometimes been calling Man Dean and herself Betty, like the American celebrity couple. They never used their birth names even with each other, for doing so felt like succumbing to the end of it all.

“Theodore.”

But now it was the end, and there he was, on her mouth once more. She realized, that his last moments involved not pain, but release. He presented himself as Man, but to her he was Theodore all along. She knew his name despite the absence of language. Her tongue had twisted around him, speaking his name through years of touch and exchange. He was a feeling, a being who he inhaled back into himself, one last time on the Somerton Beach sand.

Cosette smiled, pressing her index finger to her lips. A small pool was gathering beneath her water glass, speckles of late-morning light echoing across the merging droplets of condensation. A race toward still fate.

A joke, a game.