Marcus and I share a two-bedroom garage apartment, and he has filled it with horses—some are small figurines with stout legs and straining muscles, some are broad, shiny busts, with veiny eyes and flaring nostrils. Every weekday I take Marcus to his day habilitation center, where he sculpts horses from terracotta, paper-mache, stoneware, you name it. Marcus is supposed to be a working artist. The day-hab has a gallery opening once a month, where the artists can sell their work, but Marcus keeps every single horse, brings one home once a week, bundled in a towel like some freakish newborn.Do you think Siobhan will be there today, I ask Marcus, watching as he carefully peels the tops off of five creamers, pouring them one by one into his coffee mug. Siobhan is always there, Marcus says, not looking up from his task. Some of his coffee has spilled over the side of his mug, which features an oversized portrait of Cher, with the word BELIEVE, scrawled sideways next to her face. Look what you made me do, he says, flapping his hands. I can tell he’s about to get really worked up, so I hand him my napkin, and wait until he’s finished wiping down Cher’s face. I think I’ll come in for a little bit today, I say. Just to say hi to Siobhan and the gang.
Marcus shrugs and bends over the table until his face is level with the coffee. You poured too much, he says, and takes a couple sips.
Siobhan, who goes by Shiv, is Marcus’ day-hab art instructor. There are four other wings at the center for painting, woodworking, textiles, and drawing, but Marcus and I keep to the sculpture building. Shiv is walking around the long tables when we get there, clasping a thermos to her concave chest. Hi Marcus, she says, gliding towards us. Can I give you a hug? Marcus nods and she leans forward, wrapping one bony arm around him. And Marcus’ sister, she says, inclining her head towards me. Can I shake your hand? Siobhan is big on consent.
I stand near the back of the room, watching as the rest of the day-hab artists file in. It’s a small class, only five adults and Siobhan. One of the artists, who goes by Rocky, is Marcus’ on-again off-again best friend. He is short, with a high, tight belly and deep brown eyes. I can’t tell how old he is. Rocky sculpts ceramic objects that are on fire—cars, celebrities, buildings, politicians, cakes—all with bulky, glazed flames erupting from them. He bellows when he sees Marcus, grabbing him in a bear hug, and I watch as Marcus throws back his head, laughing raucously. Rocky, Siobhan says quietly, moving to stand next to them, neutral touching only, please.
NEUTRAL TOUCHING ONLY, screams Rocky, and he begins slapping himself in the face. Shiv waits nearby, head bowed, waiting until Rocky calms down. Panting, Rocky drops his hands to his sides. Marcus, Rocky asks, crossing his eyes at him. Can I shake your hand? Marcus solemnly extends his hand. Sure, old buddy.
All right, artists, Shiv claps her hands. The class stands, stretching and twisting from side-to-side. It’s Miranda’s turn to pick a song for our Morning Movements. Miranda continues rocking back and forth, her head tilted up to the ceiling.
You pick, Rocky says. You pick, Miranda.
Shh, Marcus frowns, nudging him in the side. Let her think.
Miranda beams up at the ceiling, cradling her cane in the crook of her arm. Frank Ocean, she says, tilting her head back further, her blond hair hanging in a slab down her back.
I stay for the whole song, watching as Marcus performs some improv interpretative dance, crouching and springing up, shaking his hands, his fingers at bizarre angles—Double D, Big full breasts on my baby—Rocky cackles at this, cupping his hands out in front of his chest to indicate a pair of gigantic, swaying bosoms. Miranda’s eyes are closed, and she mouths along – There he goes, one of God’s own prototypes. I stand next to Siobhan, feeling big and awkward. Shiv has a baby body– I think she must weigh 90 pounds, and when I am near her I think it’s impossible for a grown woman to be so tiny. I love your tattoo, I say, pointing to a series of lines on her forearm. Thank you, she says, touching the lines with her thermos. It’s an architectural interpretation of an Anne Sexton poem.
Oh god. I didn’t know you were an architect.
I never studied architecture, crinkling her eyes in a smile, even though her lips are still and flat. I’m just really spatially gifted.
Fuck, I say. I watch as Rocky humps the air in time to Frank Ocean.
Marcus and I stick to a very strict culinary schedule. Monday is spaghetti and wine night, no exceptions. We keep a crate of two-dollar Trader Joe wine in my closet, and I bring it out to the table, where Marcus is carefully writing in his journal, a green-glazed stallion rearing on its back legs beside him. Number two hundred and forty-four, Marcus says, capping the pen and rubbing his hands together. All of Marcus’ horses are titled Destrier and their assigned number, which he records in his journal, along with the date and materials used. The army groweth, I say, uncorking the wine. Marcus has been obsessed with Middle Age calvary horses for years now. I don’t remember when it began, but we now have two hundred and forty war horses ready for battle, lining shelves, countertops, and any free floor space.
Miranda thought that the Dark Ages meant when no one could see, scoffs Marcus, carefully placing his green destrier on a shelf meant for spices. I told her I think she forgets that not everyone’s blind like she is.
I pour Marcus a glass of wine, ignoring as he moves my pink Himalayan Sea salt to the fridge.
What did Siobhan say?
She said that I was being ableist, Marcus shrugs
Yeah, I say, thinking I should read more Anne Sexton. Yeah, I guess so.
Marcus and I usually get pretty fucked up on Trader Joe’s wine. A bottle each, Marcus always says, pointing his index finger at me, cocking his head to the side. Let’s party.
Marcus turns on The Very Best of Cher, and we cruise around the living room, bumping our hips to “If I Could Turn Back Time.”
I love her so much, says Marcus. I’m gonna change my name to Cher. He’s taken off his shirt, and I can tell he’s put on weight—his belly is starting to look like Rocky’s.
Will you call me Cher from now on? he asks. I shake my head, and lay down on the living room floor, the shelves and shelves of cavalry horses spinning gently around me. He sits down next to me, and I see he’s started to cry. I’ll go to the courthouse, he says, wiping his nose. I’ll change it legally, and then you’ll have to call me Cher, or they’ll arrest your ass. Marcus is sobbing now, I look up at the shelves, wondering what it would feel like to be trampled by two hundred and forty-four horses.
We are both hung over the next morning. Marcus isn’t talking to me, I say to Siobhan when I drop him off. He might be grumpy today. She raises an eyebrow. Her hair is always slicked back and wet looking, and she has purply brown shadows under eyes. She’s perfected the drowned-rat runway look. She’s too beautiful to look at for long. He’s allowed to feel that way, she says. We give space for all feelings here. She gestures to the studio, where Rocky is typing his Morning Movements song selection into the class iPad. She’s wearing a homemade t-shirt that says Men Explain Art to Me. I love that, I say.
Rocky is gyrating wilding around the room as his song blasts from the speakers. LET THE BODIES HIT THE FLOOR LETTHEBODIESHITTHEFLOOR, he screams, the veins in his neck are bulging and stretching, and spit is flying from his mouth. Miranda is covering her ears and shaking her head. Marcus rolls his eyes at Rocky and puts his arm around Miranda. I can’t hear what he says, but she laughs and leans her head against his. I think it’s a little loud, I shout to Siobhan, who simply stares back at me, a benevolent smile frozen on her lips. The song is making my head pound, so I wave goodbye to Marcus, who pretends he can’t see me. I walk back to the car, thinking that Morning Movements sounds like a laxative tea.
Rocky is in his Kardashian phase, Marcus tells me when I come to pick him up. Rocky looks up from his sculpture. Fireball, he says solemnly, gesturing to a grotesque likeness of Kim Kardashian, a chunky flame leaping from her left eye, the cheek below it sagging. There’s a gallery in Queens that is really interested in Rocky, Siobhan says. I lean closer to peer into her open mouth, where Rocky has sculpted little baby flames erupting from her throat. Mmm, says Siobhan, tilting her head to the side. What’s fascinating about Rocky’s work is the dynamism his pieces are exploring. All this morphing, this erupting. The gallery is, like, obsessed with the agitated concepts that his work presents. She pats Kim on the uninjured side of her head. It all comes back to space and energy, you know? She is out of breath, her cheeks flushed, and I think that Rocky should sculpt her, with her flames circling her wet hair like a halo. Kim on fiyaaahhhh, sings Marcus, wiping down his work area. His latest sculpture is a horse head with its mane in a dozen tiny little buns. Horse on fiyaaahhh, Rocky sings back, jabbing the air near the horse with a sculpting tool. Not funny, buddy, Marcus says, placing a protective arm around his horse head.
Do you think Cher likes horses? Marcus asks as I wash our dinner plates. He asks me this probably once a week.
Fuck if I know.
Please, he whines. I just want to know what you think.
I pour us two tiny shots of vodka and sit down with him as he notates his two hundred and forty-fifth horse. His nails are too long and packed with dry terracotta. I can see Cher liking horses, I say gently. Yeah, he nods. Yeah, I can see that too. He closes his notepad and carries the horse head off to his room. What about Miranda, I call after him. Does she like horses? He turns around, cradling the horse head to his chest. He squints his eyes, trying to hide a smile. Yessssss, he says. Why are you asking me that?
I roll my eyes and shrug, grab the bottle of vodka and pour another shot. Hey, greedy, Marcus yells. I hold the bottle over my head, laughing. It feels good to get another buzz on. OK, I say, OK. Go put the war horse up, and let’s drink vodka.
I like Miranda, Marcus says, and his voice is soft and slurry. The vodka is almost finished, and I decide to smoke a cigarette inside, just this once. Gimme, Marcus says wiggling his fingers at me as I light up. I hand him the pack and watch as he fumbles with the lighter, thinking of a melting Kim Kardashian as the little flame sputters at the end of his cigarette. I think of Siobhan inside a house built from an Anne Sexton poem, the walls melting.
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Rocky’s burning heads are included in an outsider art gallery’s group show. Marcus doesn’t want to go, but I know Siobhan will be there. The gallery is almost two hours away, and I wish I’d thought to ask if we could carpool with Shiv. Rocky doesn’t care if we come, Marcus keeps saying. He’s an artist, I tell him. Of course he cares. The gallery is a squat brick warehouse, with a metal garage door cracked ajar, which we half squat, half crawl under to get inside. Oh, Siobhan says. She’s standing just inside, wearing a pair of wavy pleated pants in a delicate sage green. The door’s right over there guys, she says a little sternly, pointing to a glass door at the opposite end of the building. Sorry, I say, brushing what feels like sand off my bare knees. Where’s Rocky? Marcus asks, patting Siobhan on her shoulder. Rocky couldn’t make it, she says. But enjoy yourselves. There’s some incredible work here tonight. Marcus turns to me, slicing a finger slowly across his neck. Are there free beverages? he asks Shiv.
Marcus and I stand around. There are six of Rocky’s sculptures and a few paintings. The paintings are on raw canvas, unstretched and tacked to the wall. They feature crude, chunky pink figures engaged in sexual acts of the hardcore variety. Marcus reaches out to touch a woman crouched on the ground, her hands wrapped around her body, hands spreading her own butt cheeks wide open. What is that, Marcus breathes. Don’t touch, I whisper back. She’s got a big asshole, he says, and we muffle our hysteria into our whiskey sours. I smile brightly at Siobhan, and gesture for her to come stand with us. Don’t you just love this one, she says, cupping her own chin towards the figure on the floor. The painted woman has a man with an impossible dick poised right behind her. I turn my back on Marcus. I do love it, I say, keeping my voice soft and low like Shiv’s. It’s super sexy. Siobhan throws her head back and laughs, and I laugh too, and I can hear Marcus laughing behind me. Oh my god, Shiv says, wiping a tear. That’s so funny.
She is standing so close to me, and her legs looked warped in the strange horizontal pleats of her pants. Marcus is leaning over my shoulder towards Siobhan. That woman’s got a huge asshole, he says.
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Marcus says he wants to go to Medieval Times for his thirtieth birthday, where they have real horses in armor, and joust in front of you while you grip shiny turkey legs and drink mead from monstrous plastic goblets.
Rocky says the waitresses have their tits out, he tells me as we drive to the day hab.
Well la-dee-da, I reach over to brush some lint off his t-shirt. Why don’t you and Rocky just hit up the strip club then?
He flushes a deep red and turns silent.
We can host a party at our apartment, I say, keeping my tone light and cheerful. We can invite everyone from the sculpture studio. We’ll roast a turkey ourselves and serve beer in mugs out of a keg. Marcus shrugs, but he is smiling. I think about Siobhan standing in front of Marcus’ rows and rows of horses, talking about dynamism in the Dark Ages, and sharing a cigarette with me, and saying that we should be friends, and take a trip to Queens together, just the two of us.
I’ll make you a cake in the shape of a horse head! I say, feeling reckless. We’ll order two kegs!
Marcus is laughing now, banging his head against the seat rest. Two kegs, he shrieks. Let’s party!
Marcus makes hand-drawn invitations, which feature a threatening-looking destrier horse pimped out in battle gear, foam and blood dripping from its mouth. THE DARK AGE OF MARCUS, reads the front. MARCUS IS 31, COME PARTY WITH TWO KEGS reads the interior. Rocky pounds Marcus on the back in delight when he receives his.
Sorry, buddy, he says, looking at Siobhan. Not a neutral touch.
We’re making a whole roast turkey, I tell Siobhan, Big horse head cake. Siobhan regards me with no expression. I’ll try and stop by, she says. I’d love to see Marcus’ work all in one place.
I think of Siobhan in our little apartment, her face tilted to the ceiling, Marcus’ destrier army facing her.
We’d love that too, I say. Maybe you could take some pictures of his work to show the Queens gallery.
The legions, roars Marcus, while he and Rocky flex their muscles at each other.
The horse head cake is two feet tall and leans dangerously to one side. It’s covered in black icing with small pinpricks of red icing for eyes. Marcus is impressed. I’m gonna smash that horse head over Rocky’s head, he says. He is walking around the apartment wearing half of his Knight’s costume, his belly sticking out over the tight black pants and knee-high boots. The two kegs are crammed into the kitchen, and instead of roasting our own turkey, we bought five rotisserie chickens from the store.
Miranda is the first to arrive, and she calls Marcus on her cell phone from the bottom of the apartment stairs. Marcus leads her up, banging and clanking in his bulky costume. The Metro Access driver dropped me off too early, Miranda says. She has dark thick eyelashes that look fake. Marcus, why don’t you escort Miranda around, I gesture to the living room. Make sure she knows how to get to the bathroom and stuff.
Miranda laughs. Oh my god, she says to Marcus, leaning into him. Tell your sister I’m not totally blind.
She’s not totally blind, Marcus hisses at me as they leave the kitchen.
The entire sculpture class shows up on time, minus Siobhan. I try not to think of her, or where else she might be, like on a date with an architect or at some Consent Club, or drinking mezcal at an underground experimental jazz show. We should have bought mezcal! I shout at Marcus over Rocky’s playlist. He beams at me, raising his Cher mug, which is full of flat beer. His face is flushed, and he and Rocky are the only ones in costume, the visors on their helmets tipped back so they can drink their beer.
I’m sorry I thought you were completely blind, I shout over the music to Miranda. She is standing in the kitchen, her cane tucked against her side. She leans towards me. I can see that you have brown hair, she says, patting my head. And that there’s a bunch of stuff on the walls.
Those are Marcus’ horses, I say. Siobhan is going to stop by tonight. I think she might put the horses in a gallery in Queens.
Marcus and Rocky are sitting in the living room, where the rest of the party has gathered to watch Marcus unwrap his gifts. Mine first, Rocky says, shoving a box at him. Marcus pulls out a large Cher head, Rocky’s ever-lasting flames pouring from her ears. Marcus says nothing for the longest time, just stares at Cher, her eyes wide and blank, her black hair plastered to her scalp. Cher on fiyaahhh, Rocky offers cheerfully, slapping his back. Happy birthday, old buddy. Marcus stumbles to his feet, the chainmail clinking as he walks to the kitchen, where he throws the burning Cher head against the fridge. The horse head cake, which is sitting atop the fridge caves in on itself, and Marcus lets out a wail. Rocky, who has been sitting stock-still tells Marcus to Get Fucked. The part of his face that is visible beneath his visor is bright red, and he begins knocking the horses off the shelves. I am paralyzed, watching as Rocky smashes one horse after another. I hear Marcus somewhere, screaming and lunging, but I still can’t move. I stay where I am until Rocky has destroyed all the war horses he can reach, and the guests have fled to their Ubers and Metro Access rides. Marcus is sitting on the floor, horse remains surrounding him. I hate Rocky, he says. I kiss his forehead, wiping away his sweat and snot. Let’s finish off these kegs, I say. We drink beer from our coffee mugs and eat handfuls of the horse head cake. The icing stains our teeth black and we growl and scream at each other and drink more beer.
Fuck Rocky! Marcus roars. Fuck him and his stupid fires!
Fuck Siobhan, I roar back. Fuck her and her big architectural dick!
We collapse onto each other, crying and laughing. We play “Strong Enough,” from the Greatest Hits album and dance together, stepping carefully around the broken horse pieces. Happy birthday, Cher, I say wrapping my arms all the way around his breastplate.
Andrea Harper lives in Texas. Her work has previously appeared in Joyland, the LA Review, and Soft Union.