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Creative Nonfiction / Essay

Castrati: a constellation of pieces that tells one true story

written by Henry Hoke October 8, 2014

Sides

interior     gallery opening     night

a slender woman in her fifties saunters to the door

her blue hair is wrapped in an orange scarf

this is Trixie

she holds the door open, in rolls a slender woman in a wheelchair, forties

this is Melissa

Melissa
Southern accent
Beatrix, hey!

Trixie
German accent
Melissa, how is your son doing,
our Young Mooney?

Melissa
well, he’s well, he’s in New York now.

Trixie
I want you to give him something, here.

Trixie produces a business-card-sized line-drawing of a nude female, bent over with her elbows resting on the back of a chair face in hands, her perky breasts pointing down

Trixie
I give you this one to give to him because
you see she is young, he will like this,
give him my love.


Casting Call

auditioning for the role of the protagonist

name starts with an H

male, twelve years old, swoop of strawberry-blonde hair

pre-pubescent look preferred, softness

mistaken for girl as toddler

must have freshly divorced parents who, despite not speaking, cannot seem to stop arguing

smartass, shape-shifter but not social outcast, unfocused talent

cry on cue a plus

hoarder of shiny plastic jewels a plus

disabled mother a plus

it’s crucial that he have faith that there is another world running alongside the world we know, and that he is full of the desire to puncture that thin wall between and cross over

the winner of the part will be signed on for a lifelong commitment

green eyes will be given preference


The Living Room

it got dark outside hours ago

but sunlight, artificial and hot, streams in one window behind where I stand

it makes me sweat through hands clasped over my groin, dutiful

and so it’s day, I convince myself it’s day

I tilt my chin up, squint my eyes, and try to look presentable in khakis and a tie

I can’t look at my father but he and the men I’ll never meet look at me

they sit in a circle and quietly discuss

I forget my father’s name, something anatomical, ridiculous

they say he could be the next president, with the right image, finances

they say I could be a star, from choir to opera and beyond

if I were to retain my voice through puberty

I can hear the arias my grandfather blares, Nessun Dorma

but I can’t catch them in my own throat

the scraggly man next to my father says there is a procedure

my inner thighs tingle

I want the false sunlight to switch off, the night to bust through the glass doors

my name is Mooney, Mooney Sunshine


Threesome

so in this scene our protagonist, H, arrives at the estate, reporting

it’s morning in the sprawling house and there are people in bandanas staggering around the grounds

Trixie hands H a pain au chocolat and rescues him from his mother

she pulls him into a TV room and plops him down in front of cartoons

a quick kiss, Trixie disappears

H sits on a pile of blankets on the floor, rubs the kissed cheek, tunes out

the L-shaped couches behind him start to move and H freezes, frightened

he dares to glance back, two feet emerge from the blanketed couch, an arm, two more feet nuzzled up next to a curly head

on the other wing of the couch a shirt slips, an uncovered chest rises and falls, a hand meets a hand, post post-coital snooze

H drops his lower lip

in a flash we see him dart from the room, terrified and aroused, calling for his mother

but then we’re back in the TV room, he hasn’t moved a muscle, he turns his head to the screen

it’s nothing to be ashamed of, this is what life is for him now

he does what Trixie wants, he waits


Castrati2


The Car

the classic black automobile no longer runs, no starter

but it’s moving down a dirt road regardless, I sit on the plush leather back seat

I picture my father in the unoccupied driver’s seat, or would it be a chauffeur

no this is remote, covert, a secret trip, for bonding

so it would be my father

I can see the back of his neck

the whirring noise of a camera overwhelms the rumble of wheels

my mind is full of the dull fact that my scrotum is speeding toward destruction

but I’m not supposed to know that yet

I watch the pines roll by


Sex, Kitten

so in this next short segment Trixie leaves H

with a twentysomething blonde in a black vinyl cap

H approaches this makeshift sitter on the steps of a wooden outbuilding

she smiles, sinister

her cleavage erupts with a tiny black cat

it tussles with her necklace and licks her lips

H recoils, his pants tighten

but this isn’t the moment, it’s almost time for him to imagine

that he’s imagining that he has nothing down there to tighten

H sweats and looks over his shoulder

he sees his parents in the distance, by the flatbed truck that pulls cars

he turns back

the blonde tugs the cat out and it lands on the ground

letting out a warped mew

H looks to the blonde

and then to the space between the cat’s legs

tell me how it feels


The Shack

the wooden hovel looks abandoned but I know it’s not

my father just left me in the car to go fill it

for a moment I exhibit nothing but sleepiness but then put on unease

curiosity

I click open the car door and tiptoe up the creaky wooden stairs

voices

someone is following me but my job is to forget about that

I look over my shoulder but not into the lens

just enough for my eyes to catch the light

I come to the screen door and clasp its side, peer in

a greasy man in a white coat scrapes long metal instruments together

I hear my father’s voice, inaudible

there is a shout from somewhere outside

my father repeats himself, louder, he must be standing just out of view

a beat

I remember that I’m Young Mooney

the greasy man says it’s a relatively simple procedure and mimes a snip snip

scrape, scrape

my fingers leave the screen and this time I whirl completely around

the door slams, more shouts from outside, and I run

my father and the man turn and see me, it doesn’t matter


Sides

interior     commuter jet     day

engines hum, four miles high

the strawberry-blonde boy of twelve vibrates with anticipation in his seat

he wears denim

Trixie sits across the aisle, one row back, eyes fixed on the boy

she mumbles to her off-screen seat partner in German, the words Young and Mooney are discernable

Trixie leans forward, places her hand on the boy’s shoulder

Trixie
excuse me, little boy?

the boy turns and drinks in the blue hair, ruby lipstick

Trixie
is this you first trip to New York?

the boy nods

Trixie motions toward the front of the cabin, where Melissa sits

Trixie
is that your mommy?

the boy turns his head to look at Melissa, looks back at Trixie, then back at Melissa, then back at Trixie

he does not nod, he does not speak

Trixie
will you ask her if you can be in a movie?


Two

my father is a cutthroat politician
my father proofreads photography books

my father has a young blonde driver in a black vinyl cap
my father keeps a prism dangling from the window in his study

my father glad hands
my father glad hands

my father’s name is Jaw Alibi
my father’s adopted first name is my adopted last name

my father bathes in silver
my father bathes in sepia

my father was fellated by a masked woman with a gun
my father wasted no time between wives

my father was photographed into a scandal and splashed with newsprint
my father rarely submits to writing contests but when he does he cleans up

my father was ruined
my father keeps the fridge stocked with orange drink

my father plotted to have me castrated
my father drove me home after I ran away forever

my father’s son kept his voice without surgery
my father’s son found it in silence


Montage

so this next sequence spans time

Trixie hugs H and hands him a check for a hundred dollars, one day’s work

and with that, he’s a professional

he puts his mother’s wheelchair in the back of her car

and watches Trixie retreat to the house

 

 

now it’s a full year later and a party

credits have rolled and black and white flashbacks have come and gone

Trixie puts her arm around H’s shoulder

and introduces him to her protégé, the grand novelist’s daughter

whose eyes are already chewing H’s lips and spreading lies

 

 

finally a wine-drenched event

the same party eight years in the future, an adult H

being introduced around as H

and for a few minutes he’s reunited with Trixie

she clasps his hands and shows his height off to others

introduces him as Young Mooney

 


Many

my mother is a German artist
my mother is a wheelchair-bound Southern belle
my mother is a gourmet chef for billionaires

my mother is the wife of my father’s boss
my mother is my godmother and she smells like wine and cigarettes
my mother tells me about every freak tragedy that happens to anyone

my mother is at a rehab facility in the Virgin Islands
my mother was picked for rags by twins on the pages of Vogue
my mother was cut in half by a falling car

my mother is a trickster
my mother was a mop
my mother is my fake aunt

my mother sends me to therapists
my mother plucked me from the sky to be a star
my mother gave me a kiss for catering so well

my mother’s son collaborated with her on a screenplay
my mother’s son fled her as soon as he was able but keeps coming back
my mother’s son was on a cliff when a wave rose and the ocean ate him

my mother is anyone but my mother is anyone


Uncanny

I’m riding a skateboard, a teenager, showing off,

and Old Mooney flies by in a convertible, opera blasting

I stare too long and my friends call fag and I fall

 

 

my first date with the girl I’ll marry

waiting outside the coffee shop for her to finish in the bathroom

anticipating sticky movie seats

Old Mooney exits his hair salon to close up

we lock eyes

 

 

softly down the steps of a bed-and-breakfast

the morning after my wedding night

Old Mooney sets up a mic stand to sing light jazz to the brunchers

that voice testing testing

I’m overwhelmed with a phantom absence

I finger the business-card sized line-drawing by Trixie that rests in my pocket


Spotted

H, or as he’ll be known soon enough, Young Mooney Sunshine

fresh from filming the upcoming Hearts’ Lonely Hunters

in the third row of sixth period math at Buford Middle

sporting a black leather jacket and a vintage T-shirt emblazoned with the phrase another parent who cares

students say he snorted when a crush pointed out the tent in their teacher’s pants

news of the nature of his role leaked to classmates

and they emptied the contents of a pencil sharpener on his head as the bell rang

laughs and hi-fives

and then

in the bathroom for the better part of an hour brushing out his hair

he refused the assistance of a concerned bystander, blaming

the price of fame, saying

this is what life is for me now


The Woods

branches almost scrape me at every turn

but I’m exhilarated, at a sprint, doing my own stunts

telling myself not to look back at the shack disappearing

although no father, no greasy man, is following me

they’re sipping coffee on the sidelines, watching

I know that this is the end for Young Mooney no matter what

despite escape and despite freedom

I don’t get to grow into Old Mooney

Old Mooney will become a blonde-wigged transvestite singer

plotting a return to his father’s estate in the middle of the night

an archer friend will assassinate the yapping guard dog

and Vivaldi will bounce out of Old Mooney’s mouth and off the walls

still as pristine as a little boy

his wreck of a father will come downstairs, drop his gun, weep

I foresee all this or I read it somewhere or Trixie told me

I get to the decided spot, clear of the brambles, and turn

a bandana man with a camera waves me on into the fields and out of frame

I grow up to be someone else entirely

Castrati: a constellation of pieces that tells one true story was last modified: October 2nd, 2014 by Henry Hoke
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Henry Hoke

Henry Hoke wrote The Book of Endless Sleepovers (forthcoming in 2016 from Civil Coping Mechanisms) and Genevieves (winner of the 2015 Subito Press prose contest). Some of his stories appear in The Collagist, Electric Literature, Tierra Adentro and PANK. He co-created and directs Enter>text, a living literary journal in Los Angeles.

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