We have convictions only if we have studied nothing thoroughly—EM Cioran
I stood behind her and shut the movie off with my remote control.
"You must be starving."
"Yes!" she screams.
"Alright!" I say, walking around the chair where she can see me. "I'm going to make you a steak with asparagus and then we're going to find something else to stick up your vagina—and also something up your ass—and then we're going to do another week like that except this time the movie's going to be Clueless."
Anna looks at me, careful not to complain.
"I'm just kidding," I chuckle.
She is most cautious in what she says next.
"Are you really gonna cook me a steak?"
"Yeah," I smile.
She starts crying.
"Thank you god, thank you."
"I bet you're hungrier now than you've ever been in your life."
"I could eat anything."
"Would you eat my shit?"
She looks at me, silent, then says, "Yes."
"Good girl. But we're having steak."
She is quiet.
"You don't trust me anymore, do you? You never should have trusted me in the first place."
"I know."
I cut her steak in little cubes. I unlock her arms. I let her feed herself.
She eats like an animal.
I have a drill bit spinning slowly in her pussy.
"You know I could tear your pussy up right now."
She didn't even say anything. She didn't care that I had a drill bit the diameter of a quarter stuck up her holy of holies.
"In basic training—" I start.
"You were in the army."
"No."
"You took basic training."
"No."
"You taught it."
"I taught harder things."
Anna seems satisfied and she goes back to her steak, hardly chewing the cubes.
"But I've studied US Army basic training and many similar programs. In US Army basic training there are red, white, and blue phases. In the movies you see a drill sergeant, they're always screaming the fuck out of their soldiers and being mean as hell. Right?"
Anna nods, her mouth full.
"Well that's not actually how it goes. That's only during the red phase. The first third of US Army basic training is designed to break the soldier down, to make the solider fear the drill sergeant and obey every little command, because each disobedience is met with unreasonable punishment. In fact even when the soldier hasn't disobeyed, she is met with unreasonable punishment, and if she complains of the injustice, her punishment is increased. She is taught to shut up and follow orders no matter what because that is what will save your life in combat. There's no discussion in the Army. There are no pleases or thank yous. There is only one word: yes. Then comes the white phase. Suddenly your asshole drill sergeant who is all you see on TV becomes helpful to you. He still punishes you unreasonably. But he helps you when assembling and disassembling your weapon. He will answer questions. He is not constantly yelling your head off."
"Then what happens in the blue phase?"
"In the blue phase he becomes your friend. Or at least your ally, coworker, compatriot—you and he are on the same team. He's there with you in the trenches. He's doing the exact same rappelling exercises as you, side by side."
"So you're my drill sergeant? I'm your soldier? What?"
"What is just that you and I are running a program kind of like the US Army program folded over on itself."
"How so?"
"There are two blue phases. Or at least I hope there will be."
"Just don't make me watch Clueless for a week."
I take the drill bit out of her pussy.
Her plate is empty.
"Do you want another steak?"
She shakes her head.
"Don't be shy. There's more in there. I'm very happy to cook you another."
"I'm fine, thank you."
"Ok. If you change your mind at any point, please tell me. I'll make you another one."
She nods and blinks.
"Will you allow an old man to tell you a story?"
"You're not old. You're younger than my father. But tell your story."
"This story has a title."
"Ok."
"It's called The Sledgehammer and the Spindle. That's what I call it in my mind. You can call it whatever you want, if you choose to pay attention."
"I am paying attention."
"Good. Do you listen to Busta Rhymes?"
"Do you?"
"A little. So on one of his albums somebody's giving Busta advice—it's like a mentor—and the mentor says, 'Keep it guttah. Keep it grimy.' "
Anna laughs.
I laugh too.
"I always thought that was the best advice because people like you and me, Anna, we're not theorists—you know, we're not at Cambridge in some office doing geometry. We exist in the real world, and in the real world—the world of engineers—the world of people who make things and run operations—Busta is right. You keep it guttah and you keep it grimy because otherwise you can't survive."
"Why are you telling me about Busta Rhymes?"
"Because I want to tell you about a man I knew. I can't tell you his name, obviously—and technically I don't even know his name myself—but I met this man overseas in a training environment and you're probably too young to have seen MacGyver—"
"I know MacGyver. I have Hulu."
"Ok, well this guy was like MacGyver times 10. Times 20. He was the kindest man you ever met—"
"Was he your mentor?"
"Yes. But in addition to being the kindest man I ever met, he was also the most ruthless. You did not want to be stuck on a desert island with this motherfucker. He had no rules. He was totally playing the game."
"What game? Will you please specify what game?"
"Survival. So this guy was a bad motherfucker. Warrior king. The real deal. And one night, while we're sitting on the beach, eating our dinner by the fire, he tells me this story. And this is what he tells me:
"He says, 'To take your practice to the next level, you have to understand the principle of the sledgehammer and the spindle.'
"And I'm like, 'What is that?'
"And he's like, 'Off a street in Marrakesh is a spoon shop, cases and cases of delicate spoons—the most intricate gold lacing in the belly of each spoon—inlaid lacquered stones like stained glass in the part where your tongue goes if you turn it over and lick it clean. It's holy,' he says. 'Liquid curves drawn in the thinnest lines of gold.' I told you this guy was a poet.
I look at Anna.
She's looking at me, completely still, hands in her lap.
"My mentor says, 'You go in the back of the shop you see how it's made. A man with a sledgehammer and a blow torch is hammering the shit out of a little chunk of metal that will become your spoon. He bangs on it for a while, then he takes out a fine spindle of gold and becomes a brain surgeon/seamstress with hands that could hold your infant baby anytime. He applies the gold..threads like hair..'
" 'Then he lets it cool for a second and goes back to the sledgehammer.' That's what my mentor says to me, on this beach in the south fucking Pacific in the middle of the night. Then this guy turns to me and he gets us so we're sitting cross-legged, facing each other and I see it—the crazy part of him, like it was a color in his eye. And he puts his hands on the sides of my head and this certifiable genius motherfucker gets all Shakespeare on me. He's like:
" 'Matthew.' He knows my real name!! The organization I work for is supposed to make sure that nobody knows anybody's real name! But this motherfucker has my head in his hands and he's like, 'Matthew, the way that man works in Marrakesh, that is how beautiful things are made. They are forged in fire that kills—they are rocked in a cradle of feathers. They are not what you expect or what you could have ever dreamed of wanting. They hurt. They hurt. Hear me: beautiful things hurt. Any people who say the word art around me, or the word god around me, you better keep the sugar pie lollipop out of it. If I cut open your soul and all that's inside is easy church, easy politics, easy work and easy thought, easy loyalties and easy love, then we can't talk. I have to sew you up and you go back to your school and I go back to mine.' "
"This is at a military training camp?"
"Yeah."
I get up and take the plate off Anna's abdomen.
I clamp her hands to the chair.
I place a hammer on her body, heavy steel head on her belly, wooden handle resting between her breasts.
"What's that for? What, are you just trying to freak me out—'cause it's working. What ever happened to your mentor? Is that the end of the story? What—hey!—what are you gonna do with this? At least tell me what the fuck you're gonna do with it!! Fucking psychopath..taught by a psychopath..motherfucker!"
Her eyes plead with mine.
"Tell me what you're gonna do with that."
She goes on, and with everything she says the hammer bounces on her stomach and her breasts ripple to the sides. It gives me wood.
"Where's the spindle?" she says.
I blow across her nipple and it hardens.
"No! No!!" she screams. "Rape me! Do anything you want! You can do anything you want! Don't you want to cum in me!! Fuck me!"
"It's not rape if you're asking me to do it."
"Look fuck me till I bleed I don't care."
"Mmm! That does sound fun. But no."
Anna looks away and whimpers.
"I'll make you a deal. If you come up with something worse than the hammer and the spindle then we'll do that instead."
"Ok, fine, put slugs inside me!"
"Slugs?" I laugh.
"Leeches!! Put fucking wasps on my clit."
"Anna. Wasps on your clit? The hammer is better—better for you, I mean. A hammer versus wasps on your clit?"
"But won't the hammer do permanent damage?"
"You're still talking like someone who's going to be alive in 15 or 20 days."
"Ok. I read this in a medieval torture book," she says. "You put honey on someone's head—or wherever—and then bury them in the sand and let the ants eat them just please anything but the hammer."
"I like your imagination. You're something else, Anna. I'm going to miss you."
"Please no. I'll be your slave for the rest of your life. I'll suck your dick, you can fuck me in the ass, I can fucking make you cum just by sitting on top of you doing Kegel exercises. Come on..that's a deal. You just lie there and I'll make you cum and you don't even have to move. I'll do that for you every day. I'll swallow your cum. I'll eat your ass. Come on! I'll fucking eat your dirty asshole every morning!! Fuck! Tell me, what gets you off—I'll do that!! What gets you off?!"
"I'll show you."
I go around to her spread legs and bend down so my open mouth is resting over her vulva.
I breathe out.
I see her clit pump up.
I see her vaginal opening involuntarily flex.
I breathe on her again, raising the hammer.
"Please. I am fucking begging you."
And I bring the hammer down on her clitoris.
There is pain, and there is torture, and there is someone dissembling your body.
Now Anna knew all three.
I worked on her like that for half an hour—with the hammer and the spindle—then let the poor girl rest.