Days of Throbbing Gristle

An English transfer student comes to Texas and has a series of disturbing adventures.

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92

 I bought a spiral notebook.

Before Heathrow. In August. Before I left.

I was to ride an aeroplane for the first time and wasn’t sure how I’d handle it. I thought to avert panic by buying a spiral and writing the reasons I was leaving all I’d ever known for a future that had to be an improvement.

As it turned out, I never wrote in that spiral notebook. Until now.

There are only two pages left.

I don’t think I even need that much.

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91

 Virginia, Washington, Maryland, Delaware....

We drove through them all; stopping only for petrol, food,and the passing of food. All I remember of these states—and it was Jill who pointed everything out—was the dearth of TV antennae atop houses. I informed her such miniature monstrosities were still a common sight in England. A couple of years later, a university lecturer enlightened me as to the American difference: “Used to be having a TV antenny meant you were a bigwig in the county. Now it only means you don’t have cable.”

I recalled Portia’s last letter to me. For the first time in 12 years, she was watching the idiot box, and watching it a lot. “I don’t drink anymore. I need SOMETHING for fuck’s sake.” She particularly fancied old English films shown over and over and over again. That alone was worth the price of licence.

Whenever I tell Yanks about the annual TV licence Brits are forced to pay, they’re surprised. I then tell of the BBC detector vans driving through neighbourhoods, checking to see if licences are paid or not. They’re shocked. Then I tell of those who go to prison for welshing on their payment. At that point, some faint. It’s great fun. I don’t tell them about the fewer commercial breaks, though. Julius Caesar was known as much for mercy as cruelty.

By dusk, we were on the New Jersey Turnpike. I felt unusual. Anxious, I suppose. A year earlier, I’d missed being in the urban pot-belly of London by a c-hair. Now I was about to plunge into the guts of its Trans-Atlantic rival. I’d done much in so little time. I realised it too; and that moment on the road may well have been the self-conscious summit of my life.

Mass became denser with every mile to The City. Billboards caught the most attention: adverts for Ford Probes; baggy jeans with holes, rips, and pins; lite beer; lite beer without alcohol; Rambo III, which I’d also read in the paper was the most expensive film ever made.

On the radio, the run-down was given on a bridge that had collapsed in the Rotten Apple the year before, killing ten people. “Mr Farmer must’ve designed that one,” I mused. Jill didn’t hear. She had to concentrate on dangerous traffic. I had to hand it to her again. She was a master traveller. We never got lost. All she had to do was look at a map once. Nor was she distracted by morons who saw her plates and honked their horns, encouraging us to “Go back to Texas!” We reached our hostel in mid-town Manhattan by dark.

Hostel here, whilst hotels on the road. More’s the pity. I always concede to the U.S. the superiority of their hotels. They were never what their adverts said they were: possessing luxury, lush furnishings, libations, exotic fare, gracious service, elegant settings simultaneously casually elegant. Though one offered the option for turn-down service, whereby a few extra dollars would see to it that a maid would turn down the bed sheets for us and leave a cute little spice, most were really all the same: Hyatt, Ramada Inn, Holiday Inn, Howard Johnson, Marriot, La Quinta—who could tell them apart? They all had the same colours, bins, fabrics, ice buckets, prints, lamps, furniture, pictures.

Still, all had running hot water. That’s all I need when I travel, or live abroad. I don’t even need a bed. I’ll sleep on the toilet at a pinch. Just tell me when I enter that shower stall that hot water will fall on every square centimetre of my inglorious naked body. Corrupted for life, I am.

But yes, we chose a hostel in the city. It would’ve been suicidal to our wallets to book a hotel. So we had to share a room with two other couples. On separate occasions, the male component of each drew me aside and asked if I knew what it meant to come to the room only to find a sock on the door handle.

I said I’d figure it out, and they said I’d better do that rather fast. Though from California, the kids had quickly become New Yorkers—a necessity, I suppose, if you didn’t want to be stampeded in that miserable metropolis.

Suspicions were confirmed the afternoon afterwards when, after a long night’s sleep, Jill and I dealt with our first cab driver. The condescending prat informed us “Downtown” wasn’t “gonna cut it.” We had to name specific street corners, as though we knew any.

I told him to pick one for us. He couldn’t believe it. Boy, waz he gonna have a taym tellin’ the boyz about dese two down at the fleet garage over some kwafee. He did. We arrived. I prevented Jill from tipping him. He told me to go back to hoity-toity England and stick it where the sun never shined. I gave him our special gesture of victory. He took off.

“Calm down, Hay,” laughed Jill. “Don’t take things so personally.”

“He’s lucky I fancy him.”

I had no idea where we were, save the bottom of a concrete Downtown Grand Canyon. I never saw so many fire escapes in my life. Jill took me by the hand and led me like a pack mule. In an instant, I was surrounded by Hasidic Jews. Right, the Lower East Side, said the omniscient Eisenhower.

A grey bloke with long beard dipped a hand into a dark wooden barrel and produced not rattlesnakes, but sweet pickles: breakfast and lunch.

Next, we got on a ferry for the Statue of Liberty. Drops of salty sea hit me face: a not unpleasant sensation as the day grew warmer. It was exciting, too, to see the Statue in the distance. Coming closer, though, I’m sorry to say I grew less impressed. I suppose that’s what happens when you see something on the films for too long.

In person, Her Frenchness wasn’t so tall and mighty. She wasn’t pretty either, no matter her recent face-lift. Foundation and podium were bigger than she, for fuck’s sake. More fascinating were the invading Japanese tourists, giddy as can be, taking hundreds of photos and buying all the crap vendors on the island sold at high prices.

We were back on Manhattan before sunset. We decided not to chance another cab and so took the poisonous subway back to Mid-Town. We were promptly taken right past Mid-Town. Jill hadn’t been paying attention. I teased her. She grumbled and impugned my manhood.

Like lunatics, we decided to walk our way back to the hostel just as night fell. Exhausted upon arrival (and finding no sock upon door handle), we got in our bunk beds, thinking we’d only take a kip before out and about on the razz in style. Instead, exhausted from travel, we slept until early morning.

We ate breakfast like starving Ethiopians, and left the diner bellies sticking out. Jill insisted we go to Greenwich Village. I fulminated. “I’m not Trent,” I said. She dragged me, bloated and weak, through the Arch in Washington Square Park.

I must confess the Village wasn’t as bad as I feared. The street entertainers were intrusive but easily passed. And there was no danger of running into mystics (or demagogues) or rabbis or even Witness elders. In the park, there were only skateboarders, chess players, and people walking dogs, with everyone blissfully ignoring anyone else.

Upon reaching MacDougal Street, Jill felt the urge to patronise a used bookstore. On this, I forbade absolutely, but only for me. She scolded but I prevailed. I won’t be in places, I said, where the hip and young bought books they’d never read, only to sell back later in order to buy vinyl sermons.

So whilst she shopped for dusty titles, I sat at Café Figaro, breathing hot city air, and sipping one overpriced espresso after another. That’s when it all came together. Musings, that is; the likes of which had been forming for nearly a year.

As with most revelations, simplicity was its essence: Books are a thing of the past, I thought. The only art mattering now was rock ’n’ roll in all its denominations. This must seem silly to read, yet open your ears and you hear the truth.

Kids study albums and songs with more enthusiasm and more creativity than any novel. Rock ’n’ roll removes details; enhances emotion. Though Trent fluffed when he said punk rock takes you “straight to what the fuck it’s all about” (“it” presumably being life), he was wrong. If any type of rock ’n’ roll represents real life, it’s pop: the yearnings of the hoi polloi captured in bubblegum like an insect in amber.

Life is illusion, lust, greed; no desire for work, only play. These are exactly the kinds of messages contained in popular music. None but the jealous art fag can deny this. And he’s as foolish as the regular joe he derides. He’s no different in substance, only style. Unfortunately, because he doesn’t swim in the mainstream, his emotions are rendered extreme: because he’s alone and wishes to be part of the crowd, if only he could.

That’s the way things have developed. That’s what I had to accept. Yet I had one victory. Music strengthens emotions but weakens intellect. To feed passion at the expense of intellect is detrimental. I realised now why I hated god-given rock ’n’ roll. It’s dangerous.

Right, I’m with the snake-handlers on this one. Rock ’n’ roll presents fantasies as facts. I don’t mean the targ manure squeezed out by Slayer and Current 93. I mean popular shite. And the sweeter the lyric, the more apt you are to believe the sentiment real.

How many cretins have had their hearts unmade because the object of their affection didn’t return in kind? Do this enough times and the extreme is not so far away anymore. Enough times to enough people and you have a community, such as the types I saw in Greenwich Village, who’d coped by negotiating their overwrought passion into fringe group zeal, re-creating themselves as Buddhist animal rights activists; erotic feminists; Beyond Baroque urban surrealists; Rot-App Realists. The copy of the free press I’d grabbed was very revealing.

Like me, the intelligentsia thumbed their noses at the goodies. Unlike me, they thought the squares stupid. Well, goodies may be square, but in my high school, at least, crap like Concert Band, Mock Trial, and Model UN did involve a bit of thinking. Self-anointed intellectuals, on the other hand, feel before they think, and gather to gab about reading and writing rather than brave solitude and actually picking up a book or pen.

My blood raced, thanks to Italian caffeine, even as skin cooled. I looked above the crowds and buildings. The day before I’d seen the World Trade Towers and hated them. I thought the National Socialist twins had all the charm of nightsticks. Only an American, I hate to say, would design such crap. But that’s the price of a free society.

I’ve come to the conclusion that the United States of America thrives because the economy feeds on the impossible satiation of desires that materialism promises to fulfil but can’t. And dreams, like preachers, like dollars, are in no shortage: a perfect circle.

But let’s not hate America for this. So it didn’t have time to build a foundation for the best that civilisation offers. So they had no patience to be anything but their covetous selves. At least they’re honest about it. And people who hate Americans hate themselves, for everyone would fancy having money to waste.

I’m no different. Samuel Henry Hay is an American at heart. I pledge my fealty not through words but actions. Small wonder I returned. Small wonder I stay.

“You mind?”

I thought he was going to take my chair. He did, but didn’t go anywhere. “How ya doin?” He ordered himself a coffee, same as mine. Bye-bye, manifesto. “Where you from?”

“New York.”

He thought that funny. He lit a Newport; offered me one. I was tempted. He was one of the rare people who made smoking look desirable. He exhaled with pleasure. “Menthol. Don leave home without it. Where’d you say you’re from?”

I told him. The stranger wasn’t impressed. And didn’t go away. And charmed. “Me? I’m from Ohio. When I first came here, I didn’t know no one. Didn’t have no place to stay either. But I got to know some people. And then I had places to stay.” He pointed with his chin. “Whacha readin?”

He wasn’t impressed by that either. “Aw man, some brothers give me a headache.” He’d seen something I hadn’t. “Whitey this and Whitey that. Seriously, you know what the cure for racism is?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“Sex.”

“Really?”

“Really! Inside every Imperial Wizard is a dude like you and I. Sleep with a few black girls. He’ll like em jus fine. An when a brother rants about Whitey, he’s really jes sayin he wants a white girl once in a while. An what I don get,” the stranger continued, now inspired. There was something about that café. “If you hate America so much, why the fuck you speakin English? Seriously, you love Africa so much, learn a fuckin African language. Got lots to choose from. I don know how hard they are but what the fuck—why you speakin your master’s tongue, nigga? Seriously, I think every brotha oughta go to Africa once in their life, like the Hajj, y’know? Jes see it for themselves. See where they came from. Like it or not, jus do it, get it out of your system, come on home, and get on with your life. How old are you?”

“Eighteen.”

“Aw man, now that’s a good age.” The Stranger must’ve been in his late thirties, judging by the skin on his face. Lines drawn but not yet permanent. Not to mention the wattle blossoming under his chin. Will I look as ridiculous?

“What kinda music you listen to?”

A second question. Perhaps he sought conversation after all. But I didn’t and “I don’t.”

“Really?” The stranger’s brows rose. “Well, you must be the only person in the world don like music then.” He smiled yellow teeth. “But so you know, you look rock n roll.”

“I especially don’t like rock ’n’ roll.”

“Is that right?”

“That’s right.”

“Aw man … aincha heard? God gave rock and roll to you….”

But I didn’t budge. In fact, I never felt more like a mountain. And the spirit of espresso returned.

The stranger nodded his head. “Man … you a hard cookie. So who was she?”

“Sorry?”

“The girl broke your heart.” The Stranger flicked Newport ash next to the ashtray. “Now you gonna tell me you don believe in love too.”

“Do you?”

“Hell yeah. I fall in love every day. I’m in love right now. She’s sittin over there. If I’d seen her first, I’d have sat with her.”

“It’s never too late.”

“Ah hell, you’re more interesting, I’m sure. So tell me. What’s the story?”

“Once upon a time, there was no such thing as love.”

“Is that right?”

“And you confirmed it. There’s lust. You fulfill it. Life goes on. You delay it, you fill the time with posh regard and ritual, you get a crazy little thing called love. And the more love you invent, the more reason you lose. And the more reason you lose, the more you desire something that exists only in your head.”

“Damn.” The Stranger lit another. “I always say you Europeans are crazy.”

“Where do you think love was invented? The troubadours started it. Mediaeval pop stars, running around from town to town, singing about love. Nobody understood at first. They knew about marriage. That was business. That was politics. And they knew about sex. Sex was sex. But the troubadours sang about love. Surrendering to another. Like vassals to lords. Sheep to Christ. They sang and sang. They wouldn’t shut up. And the disease rages on.”

“If I were you, bro, I’d fall in love a little more often. You can’t live bein that uptight, you dig? Hey, you wan me to introduce you to some girls?”

“Another time.” I finished my coffee. Enjoyed my sweat.

“You can’t tell me you don like a love song now and then. Everybody loves a love song.”

“If I did, I’d never admit it.”

The Stranger laughed uproariously. The lady sitting near us (his heart’s desire) looked at him, disgusted.

“You’re alright. A little E.T. Extra-Terrestrial, but alright.”

“I knew a girl once—”

“Ah, here we go.”

“It’s not what you think. People in this stupid country are raised on love lyrics. Britain too. You grow up listening to nothing but love lyrics. But love’s not something you really see. You don’t learn about it at school. Yet you’re inundated with love lyrics. You’re inundated with all kinds of pretty illusions. And I wonder now if everyone comes to the point when they realise they’ve been fooled. Most adjust, I suppose, and move on. But I suspect some keep on believing, feeling cheated, ending up 17 forever.”

I always surprise myself when I’m this verbose out-loud. What triggers it, I’ll never know. Another Newport, meanwhile, was pushed, bent, squeezed to death. “What I love about New York,” said my guest. “Never know who you gunna meet.”

“Right, the world is so very big, isn’t it? For almost a year, I’ve felt like an ant. That’s what happens to people like me, who’ve never left the fifty-first state. It’s a shock to the system to see the rest of the world. But I’ll never go back now.”

“Cool. So hey, think you could get this for me?”

I know I laughed. I know because the Stranger was scared. Or acted scared, in order to stand up and get away. And I continued laughing, ten minutes more, I suppose. I couldn’t stop. If only there were more Café Figaros on warm June mornings in this world, this life. By the time Jill returned (without, I must say, any books), I was exhausted.

At Sixth Avenue, Jill took me to watch blokes playing basketball at what she called the Fourth Street court. I felt absurd standing there along with gawking tourists, their strained hands carrying large shopping bags, but there I did hear, for the first time since August, Brits—a middle-aged Liverpudlian couple, and that strange, Southern-sounding Northern accent. I didn’t wonder if I should greet them. I’d be back home in but a few days. And visiting everywhere, apparently. Jill planned to see every corner of the island by the time we returned in August. It would be fun, she said. And I believed her.

The rest of the week quickly passed. On Wednesday, we took a bus to Uptown; on Thursday, to Harlem. There, we had a confrontation with a Black Hebrew Israelite, or Commandment Keeper, or whatever this particular jingo styled himself. He stood in the street, wearing a funny costume, shouting insults and scripture at passersby. Seeing me and Jill really got his bearded mouth going. Jill, as were her twisted wont, wanted to stay and listen, but I insisted otherwise.

Fortunately, we were rescued by a Harlem native. She got into it with the street corner preacher. Jill understood her dialect. The woman was a Witness. Away from the militant, they spoke to each other in code and embraced like sisters.

Thea treated us to lunch at a soul food dive. She was a nice lady. She’d been to England. She and Jill jawed without pause. Witnesses who run into other Witnesses, I noticed, either said as little to each other as possible or the reverse. I don’t know how many had the pleasure of eating Southern food plus rice in Harlem amidst talk of last days, but let me assure you of its stimulant to appetite, especially when the points of the composite sign are listed: war, famine, earthquakes, pestilence, crime, apathy, fear. The only thing missing, amps tuned up to 11.

Souls full, Thea escorted us down a stair street for a tour of her neighbourhood in Washington Heights. Jill and I then proceeded to the Bronx, every bit as scary as Thea warned us. Had it not been for the graffiti, I would’ve thought we were in Beirut.

It wasn’t long before we boarded a smelly ferry to Queens, whose rows of storeyed wooden houses I recognised from the opening credits of All in the Family reruns. Then it was Brooklyn: streets under viaducts; Russians with gold teeth; kids playing baseball in white trousers.

“Are you okay?” Jill asked me at one point.

“Yes, why?”

“You’ve been smiling all day. I’m just not used to it.”

I’ll let myself remember. We were eating dinner on the walkway at a café back on Manhattan. It was unseasonably cool that evening, or so we were told by our waiter, who earlier had told us his name was Bradley and yes, he was our waiter.

“I confess I’m having a lovely time.” This seemed appropriate; and enough.

“So am I,” she said quietly, “the best.”

“My senses are overloaded. It’s making me light-headed. I think I’m having minor hallucinations. I turn around and could swear I’ve recognised someone in the sea of faces. Scary, really.”

But Jill was too busy with her own giddiness, and who could blame her. “I can’t believe we’re actually leaving tomorrow!” she pronounced.

“Yes.”

“I can’t wait to meet your sister. I’ve been thinking about her all day. I can’t wait to see what she’s like—if she’s like you or completely different.”

“That makes two of us. The old girl’s no more, according to her. In fact….” But I’d finally run out of brilliance; reduced to pretentiously shaking a glass of over-priced bilberry juice like it were wine. “Right, it’ll be interesting to see her.”

Dinner over, we took a long stroll, heading south, just because it was south; and taking diplomatic swigs from a glass flask of cheap whisky. I didn’t ask Jill how she came into possession of such. She drew deep breaths after each epic sip, and her cheeks turned red. “I’m sure it’ll also be interesting for Portia to see what you’ve chosen to be too.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well,” she slipped her arm into mine, gripping a slim bicep, “you’re not exactly the same boy I wrote a note to way back in October.”

“A little older, is all.”

“Cut the crap. Admit it. You’ve blossomed, Sam.”

“I’ve become a flower. Perfect.”

Jill giggled. She couldn’t handle any alcohol. Then our journey ended. And so did the merriment. There was the East River, in front of us. To the right, the Staten Island Ferry. And across the channel, Witness HQ or Bethel. We stopped to look at it, for the first time, both of us.

“We never went,” I observed.

“We didn’t have time.” The same breeze that blew through Jill’s hair made trash dance around our feet. Though lights were everywhere, the city now seemed dark. Not true, Jill. But no skin off my back, like you’d say. She leant against the railing preventing us from falling into the awful water. One look at the choppy surface and I knew my fear of drowning would last a lifetime.

“You know what?” she said, surprisingly quietly given the noise of the traffic just behind us. “Only a year ago, just after junior year, I told my parents I’d go to there.” She looked at Bethel. “Go there and do volunteer work after I graduated. Like Dad did, you know?”

“Yes, he told me.”

“I was gonna do that for a year or so. My parents were really happy—Mom, especially. But then I got accepted into UT.” Jill was disappearing again. I wasn’t surprised. “I was surprised. I didn’t want to go. To Bethel, I mean. Not really. Actually, Sam, you know what? I was relieved.”

“Why not? If I were you, I’d want to get on with uni fast as I could too. You’ll make a brilliant anthropologist, Jill. I shouldn’t be surprised, either, if the Society benefited from your work.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Try and stop me. You’ve earned it. To quote Virginia Slim, You’ve come a long way, baby.”

“Yeah, well….”

I turned around, looked at skyscrapers, hoping Jill would take the hint and we’d leave. But she stayed where she was, brows scowling. Give her ten minutes, I thought. You know how this works. “My Dad and I are a lot alike,” she began.

“So I’ve noticed.”

“I know when he was younger, when he was living over there, he had the same kind of doubts I had a couple of months ago. Maybe he didn’t cross the line into insanity like I did. But he had doubts all the same. My Mom’s not like that, though—not at all. I don’t think my sister is either. They just believe things unconditionally. I envy people like that, Sam. People like me and my Dad, we have to question everything. We have to be convinced.” Jill licked her mouth; the lower gleamed silver. She looked up at me; tried to smile. “You know what’s weird?”

“Tell me.”

She looked away. “I’ve always liked boys, even as a little girl—a tiny little girl. I don’t know if that’s good or bad.”

“It may not be exactly good, but it certainly isn’t bad.”

“I don’t know. It’s always made things harder for me. You’re not the first boy I’ve pounced upon, you know.”

“I know.” My voice was weak. Jill politely ignored it.

“What’s really crazy is, I’d always try to impress guys with my religion. That was my approach—absolutely crazy.”

“You don’t have to talk about this.” I didn’t want Jill to embarrass herself. But as usual, I only succeeded in firing her up. She scowled again, hard enough to crack a rock.

“I’m trying to make you see what my life’s been like. Back and forth. Back and forth. Between Mom and Dad. His tolerance. Her lack of it. It may not’ve seemed like it, but there’s a war goin on in that house. And the older I get....” She exhaled loudly. “The harder everything gets!”’

“Let’s not talk about it.” This was getting out of hand. It always did.

“Don’t you get it, Sam?” Eyes back on mine. “I want to talk about this.”

Were we rowing the night before we leave the country? Perfect.

But Jill looked away again. She looked into the water. She loved doing that. She loved falling. “Samuel....” To my shock, voice turned child-like. “I’m a failure.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“It’s true. I’ve let everyone down.”

I took a deep breath, for both of us. “For as long as I’ve know you, you’ve beaten yourself up. And no, you’re no angel. Who is? But I do believe, if I believe anything at all, that when it’s your time, I know you’ll be the Witnesses’ Witness.” This sounded good.

Jill swallowed the last of the whisky. For a second, I thought she was Portia. Only Portia’s bottom lip never quivered. “In the past, I always thought you could never be good without believing in God.” There was feeling. “But then I met you, Samuel.” There was just numbness. “And I saw you could be good no matter what.” Sam Hay numbness, as sentient as one of Pink Floyd’s floating pigs.

New York City seemed like Glasgow. June, January. The figure before me didn’t grab my ears, but I looked at her as though she had. Dust floated in the air, seen only in the street light.

I shook my head. “You’re wrong. I’m a narcissist. At best, I don’t give a damn about anyone but me.”

“What about your sister? You’re good to her.”

“The natural exception.”

“What about me?”

“All right—you too.”

“What about Heather?”

“Heather?” An absurd game. Jill took a step closer. I don’t think she’d blinked in minutes. At least her face was confident again.

“Yeah, Heather—why’d you tell her what you did in Baywind?”

“Her parents are monsters. That’s obvious.”

“Why’d you care?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. She doesn’t deserve to be like them. That’s all.”

“What about Rick?”

“Rick?” I was able to laugh, somewhat.

“Yeah, didn’t you stop him from doing what he was about to do to that girl?”

Daughter, like father, turned the tables. “Did I tell you about that? Thought I didn’t. Right, lot of good I did old Rick. He went nutter the other way.”

“You,” Jill actually jabbed a finger into my chest, “helped him. You wished him well. You got nothing out of it.”

“Not true. I got him to finally leave me alone.”

“What about Donna? You had the chance. Why didn’t you?”

“That was just smart.”

“Yeah, real smart—you had a sweet deal at that house and you blew it. In more ways than one. Opportunity knocked and Sam Hay tiptoed out the backdoor. Julius Caesar must be rolling in his grave.” It gave Jill pleasure to say that.

“What about Paul? Everyone aggress. I used him. Used and abused. You can’t sugarcoat that.”

“Oh, you’re not perfect, Sam. Just like me, remember?”

“Thank you.”

“In fact, you drive me up the wall with what’s not good about you.”

“There’s hope for me yet.”

“But that’s just it.” Jill wasn’t taking the bait. “There are no saints in this stupid world. Believe me.”

“I do.”

“And I don’t want a saint anymore. I want someone who’s flawed. Someone who’s deeply flawed. Just less flawed than others.” She looked at me.

“Please stop.”

“No. I won’t. You know why? Because you were right about something. A long time ago. I couldn’t admit it at the time. I didn’t dare. I couldn’t handle it. Do you remember, in the swamp? About me? Us?” Jill smiled through eyes growing wet. She couldn’t say it. I couldn’t blame her.

“I’ll never be a Witness, Jill—never.”

“I respect my family’s ways.” Jill let out with it. “But they’re not for me.”

A bigger bomb could not have exploded. I didn’t answer. I didn’t know what to say.

Jill wasn’t impressed. “I can’t live with silence, Sam.”

“I’m not certain what you want me to say.”

“I don’t believe this.” Jill wanted to sob, but she refused to give me the pleasure. “I’m going home.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry.”

“No.” I grabbed her. Placed my hand on the side of her hot face. She closed her eyes and I kissed her.

When we parted, I felt chaos. So we kissed again. And when we parted again, we looked into each other eyes.

“I never thought that’d happen,” I finally spoke.

“That’s because,” Jill caressed my chest, “you have no faith.” I wrapped myself around her. I thought I’d fall. Over the railing into the water. People walked past us, ignoring us. Jill ran her fingers over my head. And in my head, a life prematurely aged suddenly surged with youth.

“I love you,” I said, not knowing what else to say.

“I love you too,” said Jill. “Five-ten fifty-fold.”

We made it to the hostel. Was this a good idea? For once, I thought to ask. As always, I was wrong. Or so Jill told me. “I want to, Sam. Don’t you? Are you gonna tell me your gay again? I really don’t believe you, you know.”

Our room was empty. I locked the door. But it meant letting go of Jill. I wouldn’t make that mistake again.

But there was a knock on the door. And all I could think was why didn’t I put the damned sock on the door knob? Ignore it, I thought. The git knocked again, harder. I tried to kiss Jill. But she was scared.

The battering ram began.

No, that didn’t sound good.

The door flew open. And I knew it. I just knew it’d all end badly.

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[daysofthrobbinggristle]

90

 The clockstruck five.

Jill and I planned to leave early in order beat rush hour traffic. So I turned off the alarm, and went straight back to sleep.

“You lazy butt!” Jill was a princess when it came to time’s pressure. “What are you doing? Are you kidding me? We gotta move. We’ll be on the road at least twelve hours today!”

The Eisenhowers ate a tense breakfast at dawn with us. The matriarch drilled Jill for the hundredth time on all she must do to ensure a safe trip. She didn’t address me. She had disapproved of this adventure from the start. Her naturally suspicious nature was dripping back in. Jill was too young. I was too male. But Bruce over-ruled her. We’d proven ourselves so far, he said. What sense would it make to be punitive now?

I grabbed my valise, the very one with which I’d come to America, and threw it in the boot of a blinding blue Hitler Car, which Jill and I had washed and waxed the day before—the least we could do to exorcise Karpis from our minds.

Bruce changed the oil and two tyres. Father and daughter actually expected this piece of crap to survive the trip. It was their ambitious plan for us to drive to New York by way of the Southern states; then, after the English wedding, return to Texas via the Mid-West—this purely for my edification. So I’d “see the world.” Once home, naturally, Jill would continue driving her nearly 20-year-old car back and forth from Austin. Why not? Americans are, for lack of nicer word, optimistic.

I only wished I knew how to drive. It wasn’t fair Jill had to grip that circular bone of a steering wheel the whole of our journey across the Deep South and Eastern Seaboard—how less of a man I felt, how small a moral chieftan. Only by regarding her as my chauffeur did scruples dissipate. I’d even have sat in the back were an actual cushion in place to rest my cheeks, not an ironing board made in hell.

We were set to leave when another crisis occurred: Shauna had packed our ice chest with food and drink but no ice. We lost five minutes. Jill almost cried. “We'll never get ahead!”

“If that's the case, dear,” frowned Arianna, “then stop worrying about it.”

Jill shut up.

At last, we could go. Jill hugged her Greek statue mother; then leapt into Bruce’s ursine arms. “Goodbye, Daddy!”

I forced a shaking of hands. Arianna agreed. So did Bruce, to my surprise. But the bloke couldn’t live without zest-filled contact, so he compromised by nearly ripping my arm out of its socket. I did consent to briefly hugging Shauna, who wouldn’t have understood any other way.

“It was good having you here, Sam.” Bruce leant on the folksy. “It was truly a wonderful experience.”

“Thank you, sir. For all you’ve done for me. I’ll be back soon enough.”

“You better.” He shyly looked at the ground. But as soon as Jill started the engine, he said into my ear, “Watch out for her.”

“I will, sir.”

“And don’t tell her I told you.”

“I won’t.”

Bruce couldn’t resist anymore. Arms encircled and embraced with mortifying affection. We wished each other good fortune. In the car, I waved good-bye to the closest thing I ever had to a family. The Eisenhowers weren’t perfect. Actually, they were flawed in many ways. Yet they stayed together. And I liked them.

Finally, Jill and I were on the road—to the corner filling station. The time? Just past six-thirty. The sun was well past the horizon now and traffic was already busy on the Boulevard. I consented to pump gas. Standing in the humid air, next to petrol pumps resembling Seventies sci-fi robots, in view of a gigantic supermarket and ice cream shop with novelty marble slab, I realised how much I hated it here, and vowed never to return.

Tank filled, we got on our way. We merged onto the Gulf Freeway. Despite the late start, Jill and I were filled with elation, for we realised, in a way we never would again, that we were free. And the hour and a half it took to get out of Houston only seemed like two.

As for the long drive to the Rotten Apple: I can only ask how many times can one person be right about another? Jill Eisenhower had, to put it nicely, cunted me again; for as we drove across the open countryside of Southern America, I found myself enjoying every hour of it. Vastness intoxicated me. The fascination that had begun atop that hill in front of the electrical plant had only increased with each subsequent adventure. Now I had a seat at my biggest geographical banquet yet.

It’s not that the old Confederacy sprung wonders at every version of –cester, -wick, -ham,-wich, -wark, and-shire. Actually, it was a wasteland, for the most part, punctuated by Wal-Mart’s and Denny's. The point was the sense of possibility I felt. Riding in Jill’s slow Hitler Car, I felt the world to be at my fingertips. Like a Romantic fool, I wanted experience. I never again read with the veracity I had as a youth. I’d tired of books. They’d pointed me in the right direction. But now, it was time to head in that direction. Yesterday’s Pitsmoor lout was dead.

Jill was in her element too, indulging fully in her born role—tour guide. In Mississippi, she took me to a juke joint. We were the only white people there—the youngest too—but no-one cared. The bartender even let us drink a beer, but only one, and that because my “axin” him so many questions tickled his bones.

We sat at his bar, sipping and watching old men strum electric guitars and sing their blues. Then and now, I don’t understand why white people love the Blues. The bartender said God gave rock ’n’ roll to us in juke joints. “Thasrigh’”—he nodded his head, B.O. overpowering—“Ih wuz born righ here.” His regulars chuckled.

Next stop: Mobile, Alabama, site of some naval battle during the American Civil War. On the beach we ran into some shirtless men and women caterwauling in bikinis. The friendly hicks were having a cookout, and once they heard my “aksaynt,” we had to fight back the offers of boiled crab and Budweiser.

“Yer from Grate Brittun? How bout that. You know, mah gran-daddy fought in the war back then. He said the English was underpaid, undersexed and under Eisenhower.” Jill and I could only look at each other.

After food and drink, we joined the yahoos in a local sport: big fish-throwing. We didn’t win, alas. We needed practise.

After Alabama was Atlanta. We toured the Coca-Cola plant; visited the MLK memorial; ate my biggest breakfast ever at a motorway service station, where I gorged myself on fried food and grits. I found if you put half a stick of butter in grits, it tastes purdy good. Certainly better than Marmite, which some English insist is heaven on toast. It’s a wonder we don’t have a fourth civil war over that death-spread alone.

In North Carolina, Jill and I visited a Cherokee Indian reservation. Not until I saw red-skinned Indians in Arizona last year did I understand that these Carolina Cherokee must have been watered down in blood. They had more a maroon tan to go with their black hair; and all were obese. I heard stories from them, all what the White Man had done to them and still doing to them.

I wonder if they meant the cretins in this country who brag about being “one-tenth Navajo” and the like. If Hitler had gotten rid of the Jews, I wonder if future Nazis would’ve bragged about having “one-tenth Hebrew” blood?

I played some sort of full-contact sport with a few blokes my age, at Jill’s insistence. She took pictures of my being tackled quite hard. After the twelfth time, I said I wanted to leave, now.

Next, we drove west to Tennessee, the Volunteer State; to a cabin in the Great Smoky Mountains that Bruce had reserved over the telephone. There was no running water and no electricity. Jill thought such was cool for just one night. I kept my mouth shout.

In the morning, before dawn, we walked through fog; great smoky fog over the mountains. We couldn’t see anything on the ground until we were on top of it.

Finally, at my suggestion, we sat on some rocks and watched the sun rise in silence. The fog broke up and the world came alive. Animals, birds, insects rustled. A world without people, I thought; a world that could only be peaceful to people, like Jill, who looked very peaceful indeed. I asked about breakfast. She guided me to berries. I didn’t care for them, but enjoyed Jill’s craft. She was a natural at this sort of thing. She absorbed whatever surrounded her.

What I didn’t admire, though, were her sometimes foolish impulses. When we got back on the road, we passed a chapel. Jill stopped the Bug, backed up and looked at it, fascinated. “Do you know what that is?”

I saw a small, wooden, unremarkable structure with a bizarre Biblical name. Though Sunday morning, few cars were parked for services. “The sign says temple.”

“It’s a church. But not just any church.”

“Jill, we really should go.” We had agreed earlier to drive all the way to New York that day. We'd been on the road almost a week already and were but half-way there. It would mean an ungodly amount of driving today, but so be it. We wanted at least five days in which to enjoy bright lights, big city before flying to London the coming Saturday.

“This is one of those crazy churches.” Jill was jubilant. A quiet breeze raised hairs on the sides of her face. Black danced in golden sunshine. “Where the preacher speaks in tongues and dances with rattlesnakes. I’ve always wanted to see that.”

“Absolutely not.” I prayed she was joking.

“But we may not have this chance again.”

“A chance to see a loon? Trust me, it’s inevitable.”

“Come on.” She semi-playfully poked me. She even had the cheeks to ask me, “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“Right you are. If only there was a war zone nearby.”

Jill sat, fuming. And here we go again. Fortunately, we were in the shade of a giant oak tree. Were not the Bug running, there wouldn’t have been a sound in this rustic netherworld; save perhaps rattling.

Finally, Jill shifted back into firstly gear and we left. I hoped my sigh of relief was inconspicuous. Jill was no subtle. “I wouldn’t’ve been afraid.” An enormous lorry whipped past us on the highway like an Imperial Star Destroyer. That alone scared me. I squinted in the blaze. I desired pot. I turned on the radio. Paul Harvey’s voice prematurely aged me.

“You disappoint me sometimes, Samuel.”

“That is my nature, I’m afraid.”

“It’s okay to take a risk once in a while. You don wanna get old and have regrets, do you?”

“Are you talking about me or you?” That shut her up. But friend that I was, I followed up with, “Sorry. Just some places I don’t think I belong. Either of us. Ever.”

“Like the Deep South?” Did Jill joke? Good. She had improved, after all.

“Precisely. Shall we get out? Today?”

“Done.”

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[daysofthrobbinggristle]

89

  Out of the fire….

Later that very same Sunday, Jill and I drove to Karpis to attend the wedding reception of Mr and Mrs Richard Gonzales Fenway, taking place at the house of Tammy’s parents.

Yes, I returned to Karpis. When invited, I told Richie I would come only because he begged me, which he did. Afterwards, though, I thought of every excuse I could not to come. Finally, Jill informed me it would be the height of rudeness to say I would come only to not come.

“But they're a joke!” I protested. “They won’t last two years, even with a baby.”

Jill was wise. “Everyone remembers who comes to their wedding.” She agreed to go with me (uninvited) and protect me from any “Karpis creatures that may want a piece of ya.” She said this with a piss-taking wink. She didn’t know all that I’d experienced in that accursed town, for the excellent reason that I didn’t tell her all.

We dressed up. We were the only ones who did. We went not to a wedding reception but a bar-b-que. We squeezed between fifty or so heavy set guests at wooden picnic tables covered with red and white checkerboard tablecloths. We ate from paper plates with plastic forks and knives. We drank from paper cups filled with ice and a pink wine of sorts, itself dispensed from a box.

Karpisians eat like flies, one hand leaving the mouth just as the other arrives, keeping cakehole ever filled. Doddlers ran between tables, shrieking like cats in heat. As the only guest not wearing T-shirt or coveralls, I, of course, was the only one to spill bright yellow potato salad on myself.

Conversation was lacking too. The bloke to my right asked if I wanted to join Citizens for an Alternate Tax System. Bloke to my left talked about his finally giving in to pressure and getting cable instaled in his house. To his surprise, he fancied it. He was particularly fond of the Nickelodeon Channel, with its Nick at Nite re-runs: programs from a simpler time in America, he said, the 1960’s.

I made sure Jill and I were sat at Richie's table for pudding. The Hills family talked of football and guns. They also expressed concern that the fifth Police Academy movie recently released might be one too many. Richie made an excuse, and he and I got away to spend a few minutes together.

We walked to the perimeter of the front garden. The small ditch there was covered with the same green grass as proliferated over the garden itself: a seamless effect, like a dip in a two-dimensional computerised plane. Across the ditch was a residential street, and across it, a house with its own outdoor party. Fiesta, I should say. Some two dozen mexicanos were cooking, laughing, whistling, honking horns.

Richie offered a cigarette. He was smoking regularly now. I was tempted to accept. I felt nothing but anxiety since we passed city limits. Better to drink. “Thanks for coming,” he said, honestly. “I didn’t think you would.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“My own parents didn’t come.”

“Not even to the wedding?”

“Oh, they went to that, yeah. My mum wouldn’t stop crying—loud, too. It was embarrassing. Then they said after they didn’t want to impose on Tammy’s family. Whatever.”

“Are Ike and Hammish here? I haven’t seen them.”

“Oh yeah, they’re somewhere.” Richie scanned the crowd; sipped his swill. “Probably snuck off to smoke a J. You should see Ike. You and he are the only ones who got dressed. I took off my suit the moment I was hitched. I can’t wear that kind of clothing, man. It’s like wearing a strait jacket. But you should see Ike. He actually shaved and combed his hair. I was shocked!” Richie laughed. The only times I saw him happy was when he laughed. “Then he’s got this suit on with this little tie and his polished shoes. I asked him for ID. He just went Yeah, yeah....”

Mariachi music screamed from a state of the art barrio blaster. The Mexicans were becoming more festive. Mesquite smoke from grills illegally invaded our nostrils. Mr Hills managed, barely, to stand up. “Dammit—I’m gonna call the cops!”

“Dad, please!” Tammy pleaded with her pa. Nothing could be allowed to ruin her special day. She was finally starting to show.

I was sick. Fat food plus hot day equals hell. But it was Karpis. Richie and I continued drinking booze and sweating. “I need to tell ya something.” He looked up at me. But before he could, Hammish had joined us. “Sam-Man, what’s up?”

“Getting drunk.”

“Aw man, I’m still hung-over from last night. That was one wild bachelor party. You missed it, man,” he said to me. “It was one hell-ass wild time.”

“Yeah,” Richie muttered, smoking, staring at dancing Mexicans.

“Dude! You know it’s a good party when it ends with an ambulance, heh heh.”

“Did you say ambulance?” I was mildly interested.

“I passed out pretty quick. I rarely ever pass out like that. I’m usually the last one to go to sleep. I’m always the dude saying, The hell? This is a party. You guys passed out already? So how you been, Sam-Man?”

“I’ll get us more wine.” Richie left me. I couldn’t blame him. I should’ve thought of it first.

“I’m absolutely fabulous, Hammish. And you?”

“I’m great, just takin a break from all the commotion, you know. Can’t have Richie hoggin the whole show now, can we? Nope. Heh heh heh. God, I crack myself up sometimes. I slay me. You probably don’t think it’s funny, but you just don’t understand. That’s my sense of humor. You know, what’s funny to me isn’t always gonna be funny to you, and vice-versa, heh heh heh. Dude, fuck you. I don’t care about your dissin. I got enough problems in my life without you getting involved. Richie and Ike always think I’m full of myself. I don’t know where you guys come off sayin that. They weren’t pretty popular in high school and I was, but that doesn’t matter to me. Shit, I’ve known them since sixth grade. We’ve always been friends. I can’t help it if they got a sorry attitude about everything. I mean, look at Richie. He’s a good guy—he really is. But dude, he’s changed a lot. He’s gotten mean. I don’t know what the deal is. I guess Tammy’s really changed things. Can’t say I blame him for bein upset. I’d probably be the same way if Renée were preggers before our time, like this wine, heh heh heh. Dude, thank God she's on the pill! Check out Ike. You say hi to him yet? Now there’s one strange dude. Boy’s got so many emotional problems, it ain’t funny. Well … actually, yeah it is. It’s his life. I’m not gonna feel sorry for him, though. All his problems are homemade. He won’t lemme help him. I’ve offered to set him up with so many chicks and each time he refused. And these were hot chicks. I mean, sure, they’re not up to my standards, but dude, they weren’t plug ugly either. He could get laid just as much as me. He’s not a bad-lookin guy. Fuck you, I know you’re thinking. Can’t a guy notice a guy who’s good-lookin without being a fag? It’s real simple, dude. You know an ugly person when you see them, right? It doesn’t matter if they’re a boy or girl. An ugly dude’s an ugly dude. Well, same difference. You can spot a good-lookin person too. It doesn’t matter if they got hair pie or short and curlies. So if you got Ike and Richie together, you can just obviously tell Ike’s better lookin, but he gets so uptight. Give Richie credit. He can be mean sometimes, but he never lets things build up inside him like me. He jest cuts loose whenever he feels it, just like my neighbors. They don’t hold nothin back, man. They argue all the time. If David tells Sarah dinner sucked, she’s like, fuck you and it’s a shoutin match till midnight. Pretty healthy, I think. I mean, in my family—no way, man. We suffer in silence. We keep it all in, y’know, till there’s this big black ball of fury deep inside. Pretty white, I guess. Hell, I admit it, I’m as Aryan as they get—six feet tall, blonde hair, blue eyes, pretty muscular. I can’t dance, I can’t dunk and I can’t jive-talk. But that’s okay. I’m perfectly fine bein me. I don’t have a self-confidence problem at all. Or a self-esteem one. I’ve always thought pretty highly of myself. If there’s one thing about myself that I don’t like is like I told you. I keep a lot of stuff inside. Sometimes, I really hate myself for doin that. It really hurts me too sometimes. I don’t admit this to a lot of people, but I got ulcers. And when the pressure’s on, dude, I’m hurtin. I gotta lotta responsibilities, you know. Sometimes, I think I’ll go crazy if I really think about all the shit I gotta do, all the shit I hafta put up with. My brother, he’s what they call the failure in the family. So my parents naturally put all their high hope expectations on me. I don’t mind that so much. Really. Except when things get tough, you know. I didn’t do too well in school this semester. It’s not that I couldn’t have. It’s just I’m gettin spread too thin, you know. It’s hard to juggle college, even junior college—that, work and a girlfriend, a girlfriend that dances on top of all that. Dude, sometimes I think it’s too much. You can’t understand it completely unless you’re in my shoes. No, I mean it. Work, especially. God, I hate that place. Why did I ever start to work there? The tips were shit last night—a freaking Saturday! But it's still better than GLG. God, nothing will ever be as bad as Golden Leaves of Grass Retirement Hellhole. The residents, some of them were real cool. But the dicks, dude, they were dicks! Even that I could handle, but dude, that place is so fucked up. Management didn’t give a shit about any of us, any of the real workers, and Donna. She’s even worse. Dude, and people think I’m full of myself! I used to like her a lot. She was always nice to me. And she’s a great piece of ass too. But towards the end, she just got on my nerves. She was stupid. I got tired of her husband-complaining. Dude, you just don’t do that to a guy like me. I wanted to tell her, Look blondie, you’re not gettin any at home. Here I am. Bend over and shut up! Oh man, I don’t wanna talk about that place anymore. My stomach’s already startin to burn. I’m having relationship problems, too. Yup, you heard right. Everything’s pretty good, really. I guess I’m just bein sour grapes, but dude, I tell you this and you only. I wish Renée would stop dancing. It’s startin to get to me. Yeah, I know, that’s what she does. But whenever I see her at work, and she’s puttin all these moves on other guys—real scumbags too—or just plain dorks—I just wonder, you know. I mean, yeah, I know, in the end, she’s only goin to bed with me. But when I watch her dance for others, doin the same thing to other guys, I ... I sometimes wonder when she does it for me—is it really real? I mean, sometimes, it’s hard to tell. Am I crazy for thinkin that? I just wish she’d stop and get a regular job. I found out she’s done coke too. She denied it at first but I really pressured her to tell the truth. That’s bad news, baby. She said she only did it a few times, but she’ll stop for my sake. Shit, I tell her, stop for your ownsake! She better not do it again. I’m not dating a cokehead. No way. A stripper—I mean a dancer and a cokehead? Forget it! Dude, what have I got myself into? I really hope she stops. I hope she’s not lyin to me. Cuz if she were, who knows what else she’d lie about. God! My stomach’s killin me. I gotta stop this. Now. I need my guitar. That always soothes the savage stomach. I love the blues, especially Stevie Ray Vaughan and Joe Satriani. Joe Walsh is pretty good too. I think if I practiced enough, I could be as good as them. But dude, I don’t have time for that! That’s what I really want to do, you know. Be a musician. Well, whatever. Don’t think about it, Hammish. You’re only going to make it worse. Worse!”

“Thanks for helping me clean up my place.” Richie returned, and not a second too soon, with new cups of box-grape. I downed mine.

“Dude,” said Hammish (who else). “I always keep my word. Plus, I wouldn’t want Tammy to get mad at me.”

“You don like her, do you?” Richie was direct, just like Hammish said he was. Hammish didn’t answer. Behind us, a Hills family brat popped balloons with a smoking butt. “Come on,” Richie egged. “Be honest.”

“No.”

“Okay. I understand.”

“Dude, it’s jest....” Hammish gripped his stomach. “It’s jest ... it’s jest that I....” He dropped his cup, ran behind the nearest car, and commenced quiet vomiting.

I looked ahead. Plonk vision made grass a pale sea. And walking atop the water, a short brown figure, with arms outstretched, palms open, smiling. “Hey, vato!”

Astonishment followed. Except for longer hair, Inocente Ramos looked no different than he did that horrible day, even down to the clothes. “Oh my god.” Richie was shocked. “What are you doing here?”

Inocente stumbled. He was drunk. “Man, they can no keep a man like me away for long.”

“I thought you were deported.”

“I was! But here I am. Regartless. Better than ever. Is my destiny. I cannot help it.” He acknowledged the wedding party. “What is this? Somebody die?”

“Umm, I just got married.”

“Oh yeah?” Inocente politely looked behind Richie, then resumed to not caring a whit. “My friend is celebrating cinco de mayo en junio. He is stupid. ¿Pero qué puedo hacer? Beer is free. I’m close to getting some action too. Her brother tol me to stay away from her. But fuck him!”

“Buttfuck him?”

“You a funny man, Ricardo. Thanks to you, I have to start all over.”

“I could make you start over again. ¿Tienes papales?”

“Fuck you, gringo.” Inocente stumbled back across the street; back to the promised land, where car horns sang, women wore babies, and cans of Bud Light grew on trees. Half-Breed watched Pure Breed in disgust.

“So anyway, the other week, I was at work.” Richie looked behind him. Nobody else was listening. “And Donna was doing her usual crap with me. You know what I mean?”

“Yes.” I had a bad feeling I knew what was going to happen next. And maybe that’s why I won’t recall what Richie told me. Like drugs, something’s often lost in the writing of a sexual encounter. Maybe I’m a bad writer. Or crippled by grateful regret.

“Do you believe me?” Richie asked when finished.

I don’t think Richie was lying. But I could take no joy in how low Donna had sunk. I was sick of it all. Sick of this world. It was time to go.

“Richie!” Tammy sprinted toward us like a cow spotting fresh hay. She sported a cross look that she forced into a smile by the time she reached us. “It’s time to get our pictures taken, darling.”

“Great.” Richie threw cup to ground. “Jest what we need—more pictures.”

“Quit bein a party pooper.”

“I’m gonna go buy some cigarettes first.”

They might’ve argued had not vicious Spanish taken precedence. We looked across the street. Inocente had been shoved by a huge Mexican, away from what I assumed was the big lout’s sister. Richie smiled. So did I. Inocente was on the ground, terrified, and shouting enough sub-Latin obscenities to catch the attention of everyone within a square kilometre.

“That tears it! Gimme the phone!” Mr Hills lumbered inside the house.

Unfortunately, Big Brown Bloke didn’t bash little brown bloke. Inocente didn’t defend himself either. He just cursed and crawled. As soon as he had space to stand up, he did; and ran away. Big Brown Bloke laughed. The party resumed. I felt cheated of a spectacle. Richie, though, kept a studious eye.

“Come on!” Tammy leant with all her weight, forcing Richie to take a step back. “Wait.” Richie pointed across the street. “Look!”

We did. Inocente reappeared, shovel in hand. He quietly ran and quickly smashed the face of his nemesis, who’d seen him too late. Tammy screamed before Big Brown Bloke’s sister screamed. Inocente mercilessly banged away at the head of the bloke until siete or ocho blokes surrounded him, converged on him, took away the shovel, then proceeded to beat the crap out of Inocente.

“The cops are comin.” Mr Hills lumbered out of the house. When he saw what was happening, he was less shocked than the rest of us. “Bunch of goddam animals. Look at em!”

Tammy started crying. Richie clumsily comforted her. “Come on. It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not! I wanted this day to be perfect.”

“Well, Tammy, we just gotta deal with it.” He made her look into his eyes. He always knew how to use them. “I love you, you know. Everything’s gonna be okay—you, me, the baby.” He placed a hand on Tammy’s belly.

She calmed down. “We’re gonna have a wonderful life together.”

“You bet.” They kissed. There were sirens. Mexicans ran. The couple ignored it all. I was somewhat touched.

The newlyweds parted lips. “I’m goin to the store,” said Tammy’s master. “Just for a minute, I promise. I need some cigarettes.”

“Okay. Will you get me some too?” Tammy’s sweat looked like beads of olive oil on freshly-baked bread.

“Sure I will. How bout you?” He turned to me. “Anything?”

“No, thank you. I think I’ll be leaving now.”

Richie laughed. Across the street, pigs were chasing wetbacks. “Thanks for coming.” We shook hands.

“My pleasure.”

A cocked eyebrow, “My pleasure?”

I smirked. “You always made me laugh, Richie. Not many people can do that. And you’ve come a long way, my friend.”

“You make me sound like I was a loser.”

“I know.”

I was exposed to a crooked grin with crooked teeth. “Have fun in England.”

“Not possible.”

Richie turned his unique stare on me. I heard nightsticks strike flesh. “I never thought you were a loser.”

Richie didn’t give me a chance to feel awkward. He fished his pocket for car keys and left; and when I saw his Dart drive away, I grabbed Jill and we left too; left Karpis forever.

So, apparently, did Richie. The night before Jill and I departed for New York, Hammish ringed me, asking if I knew where the boy was. Somehow, I wasn’t all that surprised to hear that after Richie left for cigarettes that Sunday afternoon, he never returned.

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[daysofthrobbinggristle]

88

  Despite the night, I slept well, and the next morning was fresh.

I walked down to the Shop-n-Rob, in need of pens, of all things. I was hoping Clerk Dude would let me buy one and take one for free, but as it turned out, Clerk Dude wasn’t working. That other clerk, the blue collar nan, was. I didn’t fancy her. She played soft rock from a small radio behind the counter and always hid the entire stand of brown-papered porn behind another display.

I saw a familiar back at the counter; with familiar hair. The clothes didn’t match, though. The trousers were formal, if wrinkled. The white shirt with collar was also in need of an iron. At least the Hush Puppies were polished. I was near mad with anticipation, knowing this person as I did but unable to put my finger on…. He turned round. A mustard-stained tie led to a head. “Rick?”

“Sam?”

Rick Anderson was as surprised as I. Then I realised, with a chill, we’d last met last at this very Shop-n-Rob, only then I didn’t hear Miss Me Blind with electric guitar solo cut out.

“Whassup?” Rick offered his hand. Rick never did this. I felt well the muscles that had beaten and bruised five losers in one minute. “Hope yer all right,” he said.

“I am. And you?”

“I’m very well. Thank you for asking.” Rick was calm and polite. Something was wrong. The human tower before me, home of so much acne, hair, scars, and the biggest old fellow this side of the Atlantic, seemed under house arrest by clothes appropriate for attending a funeral, not buying a can of Big Red and a Slim Jim the size of an infant.

Then too he talked as though possessed. By whom, I wondered? Angel Creem, Rip Noble, or Deathmask? “Haven’t seen you in awhile,” one of them said, as the lot of us stepped outside.

“I haven’t gone anywhere,” I said. “Not since I was left behind in Astoria County. I bet you’ve been somewhere though, haven’t you?”

Rick didn’t strike back. I followed him to a bench under shade trees facing the immortal Stony Forest jogging trail. I had time. He sat and inhaled his Slim Jim. He threw the plastic wrapper to the ground, only to pick it back up and look for a bin. There was none, so he kept it in his hands, periodically crushing.

“Strange,” I said, thinking one of us should start the conversation. “I’ve never seen this jogging trail without joggers.”

“It’s Sunday.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah. Jest got outta church myself. Second Baptist. Ever been there?”

“Yes, Rick. I have. We both have.”

“Oh yeah,” Rick laughed. Bits of meat were attached to Big Red-washed teeth like barnacles in a chum-filled bay. No sooner did he smile, too, then he forced himself to frown. “No, I don’t mean that. I mean in the church. I’ve been goin the past coupla weeks. Gettin into it again. Ain so bad.”

“I must say, Rick, I couldn’t be more taken aback.”

“Why?” Mr Anderson was offended, resurrecting I’ll-kill-you-if-you-say-one-disagreeable-word tone. But then, once again, the young man fought himself.

“Why? You’re joking. Right, wasn’t too long ago the only trinity in your life was sex, drugs, and speed metal.”

Rick lit a cigarette. “I was always a Christian. I never said I was a good one. I’m tryin to be a good one again. I wanna be.” With that, he stomped just-sparked fag with the heel of a Hush Puppy and a satisfying amount of aggression. “I’m tryin to quit. I don allow myself no mor’n three drags.”

I looked at the grey mud in the flood ditch. It had an odd sheen to it, as though composed of not-quite native chemicals. “I was baptised when I was six,” said Rick. “I don know why. It was stupid. I think about that now. How the hell’s a lil kid supposed ta know what that’s all about? I thought it was cool. But that’s because, to me, it was jes playin in a swimmin pool, only there in the church. It wasn’t the big deal it should’ve been. Jes like when I was saved before that. I did it with my Mom. We were in her bedroom. In our house in Karpis. I was with her when I asked the Lord Jesus Christ to come into my heart. I don know how it goes down where you come from, but here that’s called bein born again. But I was jest a lil kid. When it was done, my Mom asked me, You feel any different? An I thought about it, an finally I said no. Y’know, because I didn’t. I didn’t feel evil or nothin bad like that. But I didn’t feel transformed either. To tell you the truth, that’s what I was hopin for. Like a lightning bolt goin straight through me and I’d feel Jesus enter my body. But that didn’t happen. An when I got to be a lil older, I was still a good Christian boy and all, but it didn’t feel real. I guess I see now why I strayed. Why I’d hang out with a guy like Shayne.”

Rick paused; tapped his box of cigs the way Portia used to massage her bottles of strong waters; masochistically denying herself until she simply could not wait any longer.

“Right,” I said, wanting to say something else. “It’s not as though you stayed with him.”

“Luck. That’s all it was. Luck and God looking over me, protecting me. My parents moved to Kaiser Lake. If they hadn’t, who knows how deep I’d’ve gotten into that dark shit. I think God made me ... I don know, more aware of myself. Even when I was into it, I always knew when I was goin too far. I always knew those different sides to me were jes foolin around. I never thought they were real, except maybe a few.” Rick sparked without knowing it. “The dark ones, I mean. You believe in demons, Sam?”

“Demons,” I ambiguously repeated, hoping Rick would be dissuaded from elaboration and only do what I really wanted him to do: apologise, once and for all, for taking me to Astoria Blessed County that awful day. Of course, that would never happen; just as Rick didn’t really care what I believed. I didn’t mind that either because I never wanted to answer his question in the first place. We were two cycles going round each other.

“Yeah. Dark spirits. Evil spirits. I used to think they were jes tall tales. When people’d tell me about em, I always thought they were funny as hell. Y’know, little Lucifers with red skin and a goatee and tail and pitch fork and hooves. Like that Underwood Deviled Ham crap. I never thought it was real. And they’re not. Not like that. I know, man.” Smoking hand began to tremble. “I know cuz I’ve seen them.”

“You saw a demon?”

“Not saw saw, but I may as well have. They were in the room with me.”

“Wait. Rick. Let’s rewind a bit here. Where you were again?”

“My bedroom, that night, you know ... after what happened. I was lying in bed, listening to music on my headphones. I felt them. They crept into the room.”

The cigarette fell to the dirt. All of Rick shuddered. Thick emotion stirred inside him, like magma looking for a portal.

“What did they look like?” I’d never met anyone who’d seen a demon, let alone a band.

“I told you, I didn’t see see them. But I know. They were there. In the fuckin room with me. Standin there. Lookin at me. I tried to move but I couldn’t. I was frozen, man—I’d never been more scared in my life.”

“Did they do anything? I mean, other than standing there, all tarted up?”

“Trust me, man. That was mor’n enough. They stood there. And they knew how powerful they were. And they knew they could do to me whatever they wanted. I knew what they wanted too. They wanted to come inside me. Take over me. They knew I was weak. I had nothing left to hold me up, Sam. I’d taken this road too.”

“Were you playing Slayer at the time?”

Rick curled up into a sort of tall lean ball on the bench. “I’d turned my back on God, and this was my price to pay. They were standing all around me on the bed. They raised their swords. They were gonna kill me! Take me down to Hell.”

“I thought they only wanted to possess you.”

Rick closed his eyes. “I screamed out to God to forgive me, to save me. I told him how sorry I was. How bad I was. That if I had to die, so be it. But please God, whatever You do, man, please don’t let me go to Hell. I’m a good person—I really am. I just strayed. I ain’t like Shayne. I’m still not that far gone. There’s still a chance for me, Lord, if you’ll jes bestow it upon me. I didn’t mean to beat up Shayne and Mark and Billy and Ray. I just lost it! What they did to Emily ... it broke my heart. I lost control!” Rick covered closed eyes with red, cut, bruised hands.

“I almost killed her,” he said in a whisper. “But I didn’t do it. I stopped myself at the very, very last second. There was still that teeny tiny part of me that was still good and it came to the rescue. I was so out of my mind, Sam. That’s why I left you. Will you ever forgive me? Will you ever forgive all the anger I’ve given to you like the anger Shayne gave to me?”

“It’s all right.”

Rick revealed his face. To my relief, he hadn’t been crying. “God saved me from demons that night. I woke up the next day and I felt cleaner than I’d ever felt in my entire life. It was a Sunday too. So I went to church that night. I didn’t know anybody there. It’s a Kaiser Lake church, you know. Not what I’m used to. Karpis churches are a lot more serious. I didn’t even think I’d even be welcome. I’m just a White Trash kid. But the pastor—guy’s even younger than my dad. He took me in like I was his own brother. He prayed with me. I’ve been tryin to be good since.”

He uncurled, safe again. A bird chirped. A warm sea-breeze blew. Rick looked at me. “I’ve been meanin to see you again, before you left. To say I’m sorry.”

“I assure you, it’s quite all right.”

Mr Anderson didn’t apologise again, for which I was grateful. Once is sufficient and I got that much. Now what do I say? But this was never about me.

“I wish I could’ve saved Emily,” Rick said.

“Save in which sense?”

“Any.”

“Don’t blame yourself, Rick. It’s hardly your fault. I think Emily was looking for any excuse she could find to become as mad—insane—as she did.”

“I don’t get it, man. She used to be so nice.”

“That’s guff and you know it. Emily was always a bad girl. That’s what you liked about her. That’s what made the sex so good, remember? She just turned out to be worse than you—than any of us.”

“She was possessed.”

“No. She was self-indulgent. It’s not hard to make a snowball effect if you’re really determined.”

“Sam.” Rick gazed as though he’d taken a shotgun blast to the gut. “You saw her, man. You heard her.”

“Shame’s not without power. I’m sure she’s glad now you didn’t ... what you were going to do to her.”

An opaque bead of sweat looked to walk down Rick’s nose. It clung to the tip, hanging on for dear life, growing. “You didn’t hear, did you?”

Bead fell; splattered on dusty concrete, freshly mowed leaves of grass.

“Sorry. Don’t read the Post. Or the Chronicle.”

“Emily hung herself in her closet.”

I thought of those hundreds of nuclear bombs Americans used to detonate beneath Nevada. Why? I wondered. Don’t you already know it blows up? Let’s see it at least. Give us a vigorous nuclear flower in bloom. I thought I cared. I tried. “When did this happen?”

“Not long after that night. I came home from school the next day. The cops were waitin for me.”

“I don’t understand.” I was thoughtful. “Why didn’t the school make a hullaballoo, like with those suicides at Crown Creek?”

“Her parents kept it quiet. She made life hell for them. I’m telling you, man, she was possessed. There’s no other way to explain it. I jes hope God sees that, and forgives her and let’s her into Heaven anyway. I’d like to see her again.”

There was nothing left. “I wish you well, Rick.” Before I was gone, he gave me a bear hug—as sincere an act of affection as ever I felt.

“God bless you, brother.” He put a booklet in my hand. “Sorry. I have to.”

That booklet’s still with me. It called itself a tract. Actually, it was a comic book. And its art made the Watchtower look like it belonged in the Louvre.

I read the story of a young bloke who comes upon a car wreck. Someone’s died. A bible-basher is on hand, praying for the victim’s soul. Young Bloke is unconvinced, and let’s the bible-basher know it. He’s egged on by a nearby freethinker. A friendship is formed. The two take a ride in Freethinker’s car. They approach a train track, train approaching. Young Bloke screams for Freethinker to stop. But Freethinker says he can beat the train. He doesn’t. Young Bloke and Freethinker find themselves in a subterranean world, where flames are steep and smoke is thick. Young Bloke can’t help thinking he knows where he is, reason be damned. He turns to his friend for guidance. Friend laughs as he pulls at his face. A mask. It comes off.

Satan, with horns, wins.

Read more: http://daysofthrobbinggristle.tumblr.com/archive

[daysofthrobbinggristle]

87

  Farmer Barn was the place to be that night.

Jill and I arrived at a veritable ball, white stretch limos parked along the long arch of the driveway before the portico of the mansion, Massah Farmer’s black Astin Martin serving as keystone.

Miss Eisenhower decided against using the valet service, claiming it foolish. I suspect, however, she felt foolish approaching such opulence in her People’s Wagon.

It was no surprise, of course, that Chelsea (and parents) were throwing this enormous party in honour of the girl’s graduation from one of the top high zoos in the country. The fact that Chelsea’s grades only allowed her to attend Sam Houston State, one of the worst unis in all Tejas, was cheerfully ignored.

At the door, we presented our invitations to a butler, a bloke temporary as the valets. He inspected the heavy pieces of paper, the front featuring baby pics of Chelsea; the back listing the graduate’s achievements.

We heard a lounge band playing in the back garden. A moment passed before I realised that yes, they were playing a brass version of Diamond Dogs.

“We’re honored to receive you, Mr. Hay, Miss Eisenhower.” So the ceremonial butler styled us, bidding us enter the premises. I felt an utter imposter.

Inside, confused eyes once again adjusted from plantation exterior to pueblo interior. Only that night did I learn the why for this contrast. As Massah Farmer was from New Orleans, and Lady Farmer from New Mexico, the two naturally combined styles for New Mansion.

Still in the alcove, we stared at the crowd of maybe 200, of all ages, all rich, standing, jawing, smoking amidst streamers, bunting, and balloons—the latter especially. Tribes of reds, yellows, greens, and blues queued up in arches along the walls, in strands across the ceiling, even in rings around the chandelier.

In the alcove was a table for gifts, filled with gifts. Jill and I looked at each other. Surely we weren’t expected…? If so, too late now.

A smaller table contained a memory book, and some guests did indeed jot down some of their fave experiences with Chelsea. Jill and I declined. Certainly, I couldn’t detail my back door merriment whilst Christian Death played atop a dusty chest of drawers.

We merged with the blob in the parlour. Every picture ever taken of Chelsea had to be on display. On walls and table tops, dozens of framed photos showed the young woman in all stages of her bitch-hood. Jill couldn’t contain herself. “Think we’re at the right party?”

“I expected gossamer.” I pushed away a balloon pressing against my face like a squeaky rubber scrotum.

“I bet Chelsea did too.”

We walked past a photo of our friend as a tot, wearing a ballerina outfit and dancing with a dog long since run away or run over. “I think I’m going to be unwell,” I observed. “And I haven’t even had a drink yet.”

“We don’t have to stay long. It’s not against the law not to party graduation night, you know.” Material excess tended to bring out Jill's wagging finger. Farmer excess, I should say.

“Right, let me get liquored up first.”

“Sam! I’m being serious.”

“I didn’t come this far to end it with Burger King and Johnny Carson. Sorry.”

In the back garden, near the pool, under canopies between pool and tennis court, people gorged and primly danced to a band playing on a makeshift stage.

Jill and I walked past tubs filled with ice and pop. We found an empty table for two, with clay pot centrepiece containing a white rose and a laminated card teaching us the ‘cool sayings’ of the Class of ’88, gems like Chill, Chill out, Take a chill pill, Take a chill pill, Phil and Thou shalt chill.

I unfolded a pocket-fold napkin; delicately extricated knife, fork, spoon. Such fanciness had to be for the N’Awlins relations. Their accents dominated the din, and they wore more jewelry and perfume than the New Mexicans.

But everyone had a beeper on their person; and as each went off, owners took turns scrambling for a phone. Many guests, too, had video cameras on their table, ready to capture precious memories at a moment’s notice. I shuddered.

Waiters in livery served us, and disconcerting it was to see the strict exercise of the environmental theme extend even to them, for attendants inside wore bolo ties and leather vests; outside, coat collars and buttons in ageing gold.

At least the meal was good—brilliant, really. Piggishly, I devoured antipasto, strawberry mango greens, something called parmesan ranch roll-ups; and for dessert, chocolate pretzel yummies.

I was offered tea punch but declined. I wanted alcohol, or alco-destroyer juice, Jim called it. I saw the bar through Farmer Barn’s tall yellow windows.

I waited till Jill left to powder her nose. Then, as the bizarre band played Learning to Fly, I stepped inside and plunged again into the crowd.

My innocent self expected the bar to reject juveniles like myself, and keep on an eye on them lest they thieve alcohol, in which case charm and some cash needed to be on hand. Instead, a black barkeep with grey fro received me with pleasure.

“Good evening, Sir. How are you?” Though wearing South-West, the man was all Sinking City. He bowed his head. His deep voice was soothing. And he smelled of roses. “Fine party we got tonight. How may I serve you, Sir?”

I’m never getting a drink off him, I thought. Disheartened, I asked for coffee. “Would you like coffee?” The brother smiled. “Or Mexican coffee?”

“Sorry?”

He poured half a cup of coffee from a silver ewer; then touched a bottle of tequila, eyebrow raised high.

“Right,” I said much too late. Must I tip?

He poured, and I noticed the nearby corkscrew nearby—the same fancy junk I saw back in November, already worn out. I sipped the devilish mix and nodded approval. The bartender returned to servile manner. I soon heard why.

“Aren’t you the Brit?”

Massah Farmer wore a white tux with black tie. Unlike his employee, he reeked of domestic cigs and imported cologne. His chestnut hair was slicked back, and his skin, after decades in the sun, sported light tan wrinkles, a hue I’ve only ever seen cloned on cockroaches.

“Nice to see you again, Mr Farmer.” I shook his hand, directing tequila-laced Folgers breath elsewhere. “Lovely party.”

“What’s your name again?” Father Farmer’s voice was as decrepit as his skin. He didn’t let go of my hand. He tried to look into me. I was repulsed.

“Harry.”

“Harry, that’s right. From Sheffield, right?” He let go; lit up. How people I hate remember my city, never vice versa, is one of the perversities of my life. “Well, make yourself at home. Gimme a Mexican coffee, Barney. Hey,” he turned to me, “why didn’t you take my daughter to the prom?”

“I’m afraid I already had a date.”

“You should’ve dumped her. Taken Chelsea instead. What’s your problem?”

I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. “A daughter as beautiful as yours deserves to be next to one just as beautiful, Lord—er, Mr Farmer.”

The smoker laughed hoarsely and slapped my back. “Never been called Lord before. I think I like it. You know James Ford?”

“Chelsea’s date, yes. That’s who I was referring to.”

“Yeah, you see what that boy was wearing that night? He had on this bow-tie that looked like a goddam Monarch butterfly. I took one look at that fruit and thought, man alive, now I know my girl ain’t gettin laid tonight.”

A bolt of lightning struck me. “Hey,” he immediately followed up. “You know how many politicians it takes to change a light bulb?”

I downed my coffee, ignored the joke, and the next one he told me, and the one after that. I concentrated on his cigarette, which seemed self-generate after each puff. Finally, unable to contain myself any longer, I mentioned what I’d heard on the telly recently.

“Did you hear about the roof collapse?” Massah Farmer was an engineer, I remembered. And this story had made recent headlines. “How many people were killed? I can’t recall. Any’s too much, of course. I just don’t understand how it could happen. I mean, this is America. Outrageous.”

The creature wasn’t stirred in the least. Then again, I only saw, by now, a smoky silhouette sipping from a cup. “It’s not the engineers’ fault. Never is. That building was old and the owners didn’t maintain it. Well, whattya expect? If anything, it’s the workers who do everyone in. They’re practically illiterate. Can’t read the simplest instructions. That reminds me, you know the difference between lawyers and maggots?”

Jill was inside, I saw, staring around, looking for me. I could’ve left at that point. “People are dead, and you’re blaming the workers?”

“Son,” Massah Farmer placed reptilian hand upon shoulder. “Keep it in your pants.” Smoke filled auditory canal. “Accidents happen all over the world.”

“American engineers are all over the world?”

He said nothing. I think he was confused. I saw Chelsea. “Excuse me.”

But Chelsea saw me and ran for the stairs. Right, she hated me. I’d forgotten. I paused before the wide grand staircase, feeling dizzy, tequila hitting. I closed my eyes. The band announced they were taking a break.

I heard James Ford somewhere, talking to a Southern Belle, the latter doubtless impressed by his looks and unavailability—not his describing, again, books he’d never write. Eight years have passed and I’ve yet to see one measly classic of Ford’s anywhere. I would’ve seen it, too, as books these days are enormous.

Concurrently, in the seen but not heard department, Lady Farmer, a crowd of arse-kissers surrounding Her Fascination near the alcove. Amazingly, the troll with helmet perm looked even smaller wearing platforms. She had on three necklaces of pearls and an entire tube of lipstick, waving her arms in animated discourse. Indeed, the only resemblance she bore to her princess was a rabbit twitching of the nose.

No doubt Madame was extolling the virtues of the Occult, a world so good it couldn’t be seen. Or perhaps she was lamenting her crushed dream of a Walter Mondale era, 1985-1993. I heard so many strange things about her, I couldn’t keep up. The pupils in the loon’s eyes flew like bats with broken wings.

I climbed up the stairs. Lovely Melissa stood guard at closed loo door. “She doesn’t want to see you. Go away!” Over-sized beret hung down on all sides of the beast’s head, like a soggy waffle.

“You’re right.” I was polite. “But I want to see her.”

“You’re not getting anywherenear her!” Melissa’s breath was wretched.

“Do you eat anything,” I had to ask, “besides seafood?”

Fist hit face. I recoiled as much from shock as pain. This was no girl’s punch. Miss Keller didn’t repress a smile either, wild cinnamon hair only adding to her savagery. “I told you I could kick your ass.”

But the door opened. And Chelsea’s royal hand emerged, waving me inside. Melissa looked about to cry. “Such a charming young lady.” I had to get in something. “Time to sunbathe now, don’t you think? There a riverbed nearby?”

“Get in here!” commanded Chelsea.

Strange, it was, to be alone again with the star of stage and screen. The loo was bright, Hollywood dressing room lights edging mirrors the size of beds, open jars and bottles of smelly make-up strategically placed round a wash basins.

Chelsea stood before it, face plain—not yet transformed. We said nothing for a moment. Then she looked to see if Melissa’s fat shadow was visible through the strip of space between floor and door. It wasn’t. Outside, the band was back from its break. Not many people can say they’ve heard a lounge version of Behind the Wheel.

“You shouldn’t’ve come.” Chelsea began applying. “I know I invited you. But you shouldn’t’ve come. You should’ve found a reason. Not after what happened.”

“Nothing happened.”

“We had sex.”

“Right. Like I said, nothing happened.”

“Maybe not for you. You’re a lothario. A Valmont.”

“Right. Another handbag fight. I’m game. But I’m drunk, so you know, so I’ll win. You invited me and I came. Twice. I could’ve eaten you up and spat you out. Instead, I always do what you want.”

          “Poor baby.” Chelsea applied blindly, already possessing a practiced hand.

“Right, I was attacked just now—”

“You get into more fights than anyone I know. Ever think why?”

“Everyone hates the smartest guy in the room.”

“Now I want to punch you.”

“Right, queue up, why don’t you.” I leant against the wall. Sank to carpet. “Bloody hell.”  Palm to forehead. “When did my life turn into such a soap opera?”

That got Chelsea’s attention, and altered her mood. I’d finally realised, late in the game, that the way to connect with Chelsea was to talk about yourself.

“A year ago, I had no friends. Now I’ve all the enemies a lad could hope for.” Chelsea looked at me in the mirror. I addressed the reflection. “Sometimes, I fantacise about being shipwrecked. Alone on a desert isle. Or is it deserted? And thanking God for taking me to Heaven. A rock and roll suicide.”

Chelsea continued staring at the mirror, herself, me. She’d applied her tried and true pale Gothic base, before any black markings. I have to say, she truly was the prettiest girl. “It’s true.” Her turn. “Melissa’s not the prettiest girl. But trust me, she’s absolutely gorgeous. You just have to know where to look. You have to want to look. And once you do, you’re going to feel fantastically lucky.”

“Luck tastes like iron.” There was still blood in my mouth. “But like James told me earlier, after tonight, it’s unlikely the lot of us we’ll ever see each other again. Things are looking up.”

Chelsea smirked. “He told me that too. He likes to stretch certain emotions. It’s his wound.” I said nothing. “But I believe him. And that’s the only reason I’m seeing you now. I have something to say to you, Sam. Angry as I am, was … I have to say something apart from all that.”

“I can hardly wait.”

Chelsea fell backwards, as though she’d been pushed. I would’ve been concerned, but it turned out she knew what she was doing, of course. The wall was just behind her. Contact made, Chelsea slid supple body down red wallpaper stripes to the white tiles, next to me, as the band made plans for Nigel.

“It's weird.” Chelsea was subdued as she yakked. “I don’t know if it’s a curse or not. But I’ve always been able to see beauty where it shouldn’t exist. And when I see it, I have to pry it out and expose it. I have to make it shine all the brighter. But every person I do this to … inevitably starts hating every other person I do it to. Like you and Melissa. You all act like siblings with a parent. And I’ve been always been alone—surrounded but alone. So I know how you feel, Sam.”

Chelsea posed longingly, attempting to catch me one last time in her silvery web. “Each child of mine is afraid the other’s going to steal me away. I tried to be fair with both of you. I gave Melissa my heart. But I gave you, Sam ... my body.”

Fly caught, no matter that it dawned on me, finally, that just because someone’s stupid don’t mean you’re smart. Chelsea turned her head towards me, perfectly at ease, waiting for my response.

“You flatter,” I managed, “even as you lie.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“What about New Orleans? With Melissa? Didn’t you two have quality time in the Holiday Inn?”

Chelsea wasn’t fazed; of course not. “I wanted to give Melissa my heart and my body. I tried. But I just couldn’t do it.”

“So you two didn’t—”

“Sam, shut up. Don’t you have any delicacy? No. We didn’t.” She looked ahead again. “No. I’m not who I thought I was. I tried my darndest. But I see things a whole lot more clearly now. I know now why I was the way I was.”

Chelsea looked up. From femme fatale to Eighties’ ingenue. “I used to be afraid. I used to forget. I used to cover it up. But now I think about it. When I had that revelation with you. It’s true. Little girls grow up into bitches. And you know why? Oh, it was so strange, Sam.”

Colour crept into angel’s face: pink, orange, red. “I used to think I couldn’t remember. I used to think it was so painful I just couldn’t. Literally couldn’t. But I could. And when I did … it wasn’t the end of the world. But that’s only because I’m strong now. Strong! Now when I think about it, I hear that piano bit in that song, that Einstürzende Neubauten song, and my soul burns, Sam. I’m strong again, and I swear no male will ever lord over me ever again.”

I said nought. Chelsea looked at me again. “And now you know why.”

No, I didn’t, again and again. But I did finally see her. Transformation—ever in transformation, that girl. Gone, Siouxsie, Stevie, Anja. Willkommen, Blixa Bargeld, in look and intensity. “Get up,” she commanded, getting up, even offering her hand, though she hardly had the muscle to rescue me.

But when I did, I was rewarded. Chelsea kissed me. “What we did was awful. And gross. And totally without meaning. And I thank you all the same. I needed to break away. And I did.”

Mint was on my lips. I put my arm round her waist. “Second chance? To redeem myself.”

Chelsea pried loose. “How sweet,” she smiled. Then pulled her trigger. “But Trent’s my man now.”

I’m rarely reduced to a crash test dummy, head bopping in a storm of glass.

The cobra licked her full lips. “He’s great too. The complete opposite of you. I know why. Said he’s been waiting years to show me his love. And I have to admit ... so have I. So now, when we’re together, alone, we explode, Sam. Explode.”

“I’m sure you two will be very happy. Making each other miserable.”

But Chelsea was in no position to relinquish crown. “Misguided passion? No, no, no. That’s us, Sam. Not me and Trent. I wrote a song about it too. Our misguided passion, I mean. You’ll understand once you hear it. Not tonight, though. Tonight’s a special night for a special song for a special person. Not my song, more’s the pity, but close. We’re gonna perform. Didja know that?”

I said nothing, failing to come to terms with the fact that what I didn’t want was what I really wanted. A year ago, I’d have moved on, holding hands with Mr Numb, my bestest mate in the whole world. But now songs would not go away.

Chelsea forced a piece of paper into my palm. “This is my last note. Actually, it’s my first. I wrote it when I first saw you. Before we ever even talked. Before you knew I existed, I knew you did. I didn’t give it to you, though. I didn’t want to scare you off. If there’s one thing I wish for you, Sam,” she said into my ear, with a lover’s breath, “is that you know yourself better because of me too.”

“I made you hetero. That’s enough.” I lost the game. And it was humiliating.

Chelsea sighed. “You are seriously very frustrating. You did no such thing. Why do I have to spell out every little detail to you?”

“Sorry. I can’t read.”

 “Meine Seele brennt, Sam. Und du … du bist das letztes Biest am Himmel.”

Chelsea saw my face and smiled satisfactorily. “I need to dress now.” She disappeared behind a Japanese paper screen.

I left. Melissa wasn’t waiting for me. She was gone.

  I saw a boy

wearing hip apparel

 heartless and cold, his design

his eyes stare into nothing

the only way for him to hide

wet and cold like an English summer

his voice longs to take to song

trapped in a cage whose door is open

wishing life weren’t so long

  I crushed the piece of paper into a white ball and pitched it to the floor. It’s not that I don’t enjoy Chelsea’s poetry. Indeed, hers was the only verse I could enjoy. But this had the whiff of plagiarism, albeit of the improvement over the original sort. I forgive her today, of course. I forgive many of that era, none of whom chose to have soft spots moulded by synthesiser riffs.

Back downstairs, I ordered another Mexican coffee—hold the coffee. Barney knew better; yet kept it strong for my sake. “Thank you,” I murmured after a sip, feeling like a dragon.

Diving into the crowd once more, now at its peak, I ran into a few classmates. They said their good-byes. “Dude, don’t worry,” said one. “We’ll hook up again.” I’m glad I got to know you,” said another. “I think you’re one of the most original individuals I ever met.” “You’re so crazy,” said one more. “You’re so crazy, you’re normal. You’re so normal, you’re crazy when it counts.” I don’t remember any of these kids’ names, which is ungrateful of me since they were kind enough to pour their coffee into my cup.

Then an old bloke started talking to me, some lecturer from the University of Houston at Kaiser Lake. As soon as the perv heard my voice, he started hitting on me, asking if I were a graduate, whether I was attending uni, enquiring as to my prospective major and the like.

I played along, saying history, specifically Roman history. Oh happy coincidence, the asshole said in a thick Mississippi slur, that Roman history would be my discipline, he said. “But don’t let it be your only interest, my young friend.” He drunkenly winked at me; then attempted imitation. “In this world, tis ohl-ways better to be interdisciplinary.”

“Agreed,” I said, wired. The buzz from all the bees was deafening. Locals talking about business like media people reading a press release. Angst in My Pants began. I’d massacre that band. “Isn’t it interesting,” the pederast stepped closer, “that Shakespeare made all his heroes foreigners and his clowns Englishmen?”

I spotted Trent, standing near the black marble fireplace, alone and downing a lager. I studied him. Yes, he was Chelsea's lover now. The Trent I knew couldn’t stop moving, even if just to wag a foot. Now, sexual tension daily released, the lad seemed almost relaxed. I say almost because the moment he saw me approaching, he tensed up again and his scalp, at least, began to twitch.

“The best man won.” I extended my hand.

“What?”

“You heard me. You understand me.”

Trent gulped the last of his Canadian lager. Then he stretched, loosening his fingers, hands, wrists. The lad finally dared snub me. I was impressed.

“Seriously, I think it’s terrific,” I said, withdrawing eager palm. “You and Chelsea are a natural pair and I hope you two will be very happy together.”

Trent just looked at me, still not buying what I was selling.

“And I hope, very much, that the both of you find that peace it seems you both were looking for. Do you know what I mean, Trent? That deep, inner part in all of us that’s empty. Right, it’s full now in you, innit? Surely, you realise now what’s been missing in your life. And you can go and start living now—really living. You’ve earned this—both of you. That’s what I think, and that’s what I hope.”

Trent, eyes soft, offered his hand now. “Thanks,” he said, his voice its usual deep self. So was mine. I squeezed hard. My brows sunk. “I told you I’d pull her first.” And walked away.

Part of me thought he’d attack, as had Paul, as had many, now that I thought about it. Bloody hell, Chelsea was right. I earn my beatings. But Trent did nothing. At the time, I thought he’d reverted to his pussy self. Later, I thought otherwise. Now, I stand by my original analysis. Ask me again next year. I got another coffee and returned outside, where Jill was jawing with Jim Taylor as he set the stage for his own band now that the Kings of Cover were done.

“Hey!” She waved me over. “Where’d you go? Don’t do that. I barely know anyone here. I was reduced to talking to Jim.”

“Yep,” Jim cleared stray cables, not always able to keep his grip. Who knows how many white squares were stuck to his tongue.

“Where’s Joe?” I asked.

“Donno. Am I my brother’s keeper?”

“I thought all blokes were bros when you’re peeping into the keyhole.”

Jim smiled lopsidedly, gap a-gaping. “Well, in that case, he’s takin a dump.”

“Thanks for the lovely image.” Jill sipped from a glass of orange juice, pulp-coated ice swirling. “Hmm, think the older folks asked for a change in music?”

The band was gone, but someone somewhere in the equipment chaos behind the stage was piping a new kind of sermon into the amps. And just like that, it was 1948 under the striped awning, the olds rising and dancing with each other, the same who said rock and roll corrupted their children. Now they swam in the golden pond of dreck leaking out of Ol’ Blue Eyes—love lyrics unquestionably vitamins to mental hygiene; unlike the pimple rock of Blackie Lawless and other bad company.

Jim jumped off the stage. “Welp, everything’s pretty much ready as it’s gonna be. You guys stayin for the show?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“You oughta. We been rehearsin non-stop just for this one gig. Chelsea promised it’d be great.” Jim put his hand on my shoulder. Now it was his turn. “Hey dude, case I don’t catch ya later. Good luck. Was cool knowin ya.”

“What, no we’ll still be in touch?”

“No.”

Did I laugh? I think I did. “What about high school reunions?”

“Twenny years?” Jim did the quick math in his head. How his abused brain could do that is beyond me. “2008? Dude, nobody’ll be around then.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“Don’t get so emotional, guys.” Jill was amused. Jim turned his attention to his guitar, lifting it from the case with worshipful care. Jill and I walked away. Only to run into Joe. I shook his still wet hand. At least he washed.

“Take care of yourself,” I said, trying to sound chummy even as I felt incredibly uncomfortable doing so. Yet Joe had never disappointed me, unlike everyone else. He deserved a token effort.

“You two really driving all the way to New York?” he asked.

“How did you know about that?” After all, I’d forgotten. And it was true.

“Everybody’s talkin about it.”

“They are?”

“My fault,” said Jill. “My idea too. I want Sam to see more of America than just here. We got two weeks before his sister’s wedding. We’ll drive, look around, go to New York, fly to London, and then I’ll look around. I love traveling, so it’s gonna be fantastic—for both of us,” she added.

“That’s so cool.” I do believe Joe was sincere. “You stayin for the show?”

“Maybe.”

“Nah dude. The correct answer is definitely.”

“Jim says Bitch Flower’s been rehearsing like mad.”

“Yeah well, we’re really good now.” Even Joe had been converted. “In fact, we’re gonna experiment over the summer. I mean, if we keep steamrolling like we’re doin, we’re gonna put off college—at least for the first year.”

“You’re joking.” Any more surprises tonight?

“Yeah well, truth be known, it’s not like any of us really know what to do even if we do go, ’cept study and do high school shit all over again, so why the fuck not?”

“But Trent’s going to Stanford.” Jill was nonplussed.

“Maybe he still will. We don’t know. We’ll jes see. No one’s told our parents yet, though, so, if you don’t mind….”

“Right,” I said. “No such thing as a secret in Kaiser Lake.”

“Or Creek. We gotta saying. When one person tells a secret to another, 11 people end up knowing.” Jim gestured to Joe from the stage. “Gotta go. You two be careful in New York. And stay for the show, for eff’s sake.”

Jill waited till he was out of earshot.  “We don’t have to stay. It’s not like I’m dying to see Chelsea sing.”

“You look lovely tonight,” I said. A lavender strapless dress fit her snugly.

“How nice of you to notice,” Jill blushed, but didn’t look away. “You don’t look so shabby yourself.”

“Care to dance?” I surprised myself. “I can’t, of course. But I’ll give faking it my best.”

“What’s gotten into you?”

“I think I fancy this song.”

“You like a song? Well, I better strike while the iron’s hot, huh? It’s called Summer Wind, by the way. An you hafta be a dinosaur to like it.”

Jill’s blue pools closed as we clumsily danced amongst the dead. I felt vile, alcohol and caffeine ripping me in two different directions, hand on Jill’s chaste waist.

“I can’t wait to go to England.” Jill spoke into my ear, finally pushing Chelsea away. “I don’t know if two weeks will be enough. I may want to stay the whole summer. You think your sister’ll like me?”

“Oh, definitely. She will, of course. Absolutely.”

Time to sit down. Nor sooner were we sat than the ballads of the old faded in the sunset, along with the lights on the stage. The Chelsea show was about to begin. Too late to escape now. Shoulder-mounted camcorders rose like bazookas—a sign, I now knew, of imminent disaster.

My former bandmates assembled on stage—Jim’s band, I should say. He was the only one with talent, after all; beginning as a skilled thief only to work himself hard, by way of experimentation, to original composition in but a few months. His technical skill, too, had increased, evident by the set-up on stage and lighting. Everything was adequate, if not quite professional. Yet drugs steadily ate away Jim’s spirit, so that he never subdued the other personalities in the band. Therefore, it belonged to Chelsea, and now Chelsea and Trent.

Trent once said he was the backbone of the band. He proceeded to prove it by starting the set with heavy, repetitive drumming; more Phil Collins than John Bonham. This went on until every bloody head at the party took notice. Joe and Jim waited to play. As for Chelsea, she hadn’t even appeared on stage yet.

Finally, Joe began a rhythm. Stage frightened, he turned his back to the audience. Surprisingly, he was playing better. Like Trent, he lacked creativity. But unlike Trent, Joe didn’t think otherwise. Thus, his notes were now soft, not stiff.

I can’t believe I’m able to make such distinctions. I’m so full of crap and obviously don’t know myself as well as I claim. That’s about the size of it, all right.

Next, Jim robustly played a line I immediately recognised—a strange arrangement of Eve White/Eve Black by Siouxsie and the Banshees, my sister’s fave band. Right, Chelsea’s too—this week. Jim was playing the white half of the tune, the quiet half. Did this mean the black was coming? I knew, of course, it would.

It aches....

That’s the first line in the song. At least, I thought it was. Chelsea was hidden in the black back of the stage, but she had a microphone. I’m afraid I was mesmerised; not just because I often heard this song as a child in a dingy Pitsmoor flat, with a single pane of plain glass for a window, but also because I finally listened to the words, which weren’t Siouxsie’s at all; only Chelsea’s; and in a voice I only heard her use once before.

This hole … in my soul … I can’t fill it up …  I can’t get away  … Is that me laughing? … Am I so fake?

She appeared. She was compleatly white. Her dress was white. It hid her feet and covered her arms up to her hands. A shroud, really. Hands thickly powdered. Everything was white. Neck. Jaw. Hair. Lipstick. Even her nails were painted white.

Chelseawaited till everyone surveyed her as did I before opening her eyes. She wore blood yellow contacts. Not only was this a novelty at the time, the choice were simply disturbing.

She tiptoed to the front of the stage as though she had to be quiet. She didn’t look at her transfixed audience. She only looked into the lights, the way she did at her party last November, when she read that poem. I had another uneasy feeling.

Please kill me ... I wish I could ... kill myself....

She placed microphone in stand as Trent, Joe and Jim abruptly stopped playing. Then Chelsea issued a scream that, true to life, scared me shitless. Chelsea the Avenging Angel emerged.

Jim wriggled like a bisected worm. He was at his most rubbery playing fast; and his cover was superb. I don’t know how he did it given the acoustics of Farmer Barn’s backyard, not to mention the cheap equipment. The lad simply willed it to happen, I suppose.

DO YOU REMEMBER ME? ... TELL ME NOT TO TELL … SCOTCH AND CIGARETTES … YOU SON OF A BITCH

The crowd, upper crust and crumbs alike, were appropriately made to feel as uncomfortable as possible by the unbidden noise attacking without care. At last, though, it began to peter out and we breathed a collective sigh of relief. Joe segued from Eve White/Eve Black to, no surprise, Voodoo Dolly, just like on the Nocturne album. I hate you, Portia.

Am I your pretty little dolly? … Can no-one else but you have me? ....

I loathe admitting Chelsea’s performance was superb. Not only did she look the part of extra-terrestrial vampire to a T, she held herself with a strength and purpose never seen off-stage, certainly never at school, sitting at a desk, hair covering face, in absolute torture. Now she stood, holding microphone stand, looking into lights, singing a wretched song perfectly. All eyes were reluctantly fixed on her, as they watching a surgery or an animal crossing a busy street.

Do you think you’re so clever? …. Do you think I don’t remember? … And no-one else will discover? ... Am I a grown-up little dolly now? ... Am I making you worried now? ....

Chelsea glanced, for the only time, at the audience, someone specific. Then she returned yellow eyes to the bath of white light. She sang harder, glowed with Saharan heat. She began to sweat. Or melt. It was like waiting for a bomb to explode.

“Let’s go.” Jill’s voice brought me back to earth. I managed to stand up and follow her. “This is awful.”

“Agreed.”

Tell me what do you see now? ... Do you see me breaking free now? ... Am I screaming till your skull shatters? ….

Mr Farmer rose in the middle of a lake of heads. Buttoning his jacket, he headed for the house. For me, the song neared a slow but cacophonous climax, rendering an older audience ever more still. Nevertheless, all saw host take leave of his own party.

Jill was holding the door open. “Are we leaving?”

I walked inside. Mr Farmer followed. I saw his face—the steel bolts of that nonce coming apart. He ran into a room and shut the door.

The journey to Jill’s car was inaudible, save for Jim’s filling the humid night with terrifying feedback. The zombie had reached the pinnacle of his playing. He’d always fancied plucking a single guitar string whilst walking towards his amp. Now he dissolved his guitar on his amplifier, and it died in agony. Joe followed suit with his bass. Finally, even Trent declared war on his drum kit. The band were possessed, and we left none too soon.

Sat in Jill’s little orange Hitler Car, her starting and re-starting the old thing, I looked for the last time at Farmer Barn, electric screams flying round its red bricks and bone white columns like tortured ghosts. All that was left was for an enraged Hebrew God to smite this house of sin, strike it now, leaving only trees and moss.

It didn’t happen, of course. The feedback dissipated. There was no applause.

“Thank you.” Chelsea’s voice echoed in the void. Naturally, Bitch Flower went nowhere, as do most bands, writers, artists, people.

Read more: http://daysofthrobbinggristle.tumblr.com/archive

[daysofthrobbinggristle]

86

  Life, as I knew it, was coming to an end.

Prom came and went, as tasteless as expected. Jill seemed to enjoyed herself, though; so duty fulfilled.

Finals came; again, as expected. I used to worry over grades. But I ended my term not caring. I was already going to uni. School ended with a cheerful riot. Students screamed; ran; filled hallways, outside grounds, and surrounding roads for miles with paper. All that was left was graduation.

Graduation was long in the coming and epic in its tedium. Unlike my classmates, all of them it seems, I didn’t order Balfour graduation announcements or a class ring earlier in the year. In contrast, Jill sent every invitation/announcement she had. And by early June, she had over $600 in graduation money. “For our trip!” she told me, pleased with herself over the high return on investment.

Graduation took place not in Kaiser Lake High Zoo, but Hofheinz Pavilion: the indoor stadium of the University of Houston—the only place capable of accommodating gleeful thousands wanting to watch us hundreds walk across a platform and pick up a piece of paper.

We Falcons were directed to stadium’s pleasant-smelling locker rooms. There we swathed ourselves in itchy aqua blue rayon hood-less gowns. After that, we waited; and waited; flanked by rows of rusty metal; filling with dread or boredom.

I watched a headbanger with lion’s mane try in vain to keep mortarboard on head. He was eventually forced to borrow a girl’s hairpin. Next to her, a paragon of style put on pink plastic shades with fluorescent green straps. Next to him, another prodigious human was ever so busy problem-solving. How does one, after all, keep even a tenth of his mullet from hidden by robe's sash? Then there were the mischief-makers who’d brought fog horns and beach balls and hid them in their robes.

Overall, though, my peers were quiet. Some even cried. Not all girls, either. It was mortifying. A neutered pet is fine, but son? What—did the vets for these suburban parents have a two-for-one special? I kept my distance.

Finally, we marched. The Class of ’88, some 700 strong, entered the arena to Pomp and Circumstance over and over; and over again once more. Surrounding us in a perfect circle, 3,000 sat in the stands in relative silence. I hadn’t a chance of spotting the Eisenhowers. Not that I tried.

We stood before folding chairs. At the podium, a student soprano and tenor sang the American national anthem. Then we sat. One of the school superintendents gave a speech. Then the chancellor. Then a teacher. Then people I’d never heard of, like the school valedictorian.

“You’ve been labeled the baby buster generation,” she said nervously, voice crippled by stage fright. “You’re the children of the baby boomers who’ve done so much to change the perspective of this world.” The girl was Asian. Of course she was. “You’ve been given less expectation. Thought of as frivolous, money-driven and cynical to the point of apathy. But I believe time will tell what we’re truly made of. As you leave this stadium today, recognize your unique vantage point in this world and strive, strive, strive to attain your greatest dreams!”

The herd of blue exploded in acclamation, for the beach ball had finally been inflated and was riding the crest of excited fingertips. The local Gestapo took it away, provoking ever more tears. I was on the verge of succumbing myself. If I’d known graduation was so much fun, I would’ve stayed home and watched Small Wonder.

Finally, the diploma-passing was up and running. As each name was called out, the level of their popularity at Kaiser Lake was indicated by the number of people who cheered for him, as well as how loudly they cheered.

Naturally, some were lauded more than others and some barely registered a peep. I didn’t let the latter happen to Chuck, Rob and Dodd. After all, I’d never have survived math class without their low comedy. I owed them. When it was their turn, I got on my feet and I screamed myself hoarse, a first (and last) for me. They saw me from the stage and smiled. Now that’s gratitude, my friend.

I was glad Jill received a modest round of claps and whistles, as did Chelsea, Trent, and that fop, James Ford. What shocked me was that I received more noise than expected. Not just from the usual suspects either. Apparently, there were unknowns in that phalanx of tacky sacks, who seemed to have been impressed by me. I was rather touched, I must note.

The chancellor shook my hand, and gave me my diploma and a smaller, laminated version to fit into my wallet. I posed for a photo; then returned to my seat, whereupon I actually found myself reflecting on my class.

Mostly, I thought about Lagoon, the school’s annual literary art magazine, published a few days before. Lagoon featured a few drawings, some photographs, one or two short stories, an essay, and millions of unreadable poems, many from the same named poet. (“Chelsea Farmer” every third page.)

The only good thing about Lagoon was crude sketches drawn at the last minute by an editorial staff fearful of empty space on a page. Imagine the pressure brought to bear on these poor artists, drawing whatever came to mind, such as a penguin, and drawing it so quickly, the bird’s feet were forgotten. Now, a title. Quickly, you only have two seconds before going to press. “Penguin”? Perfection.

James Ford was one of those editors. At one point that spring, he personally asked me to submit a potsherd or two, admitting the crap being shot down was even worse than the crap being allowed to be wipe, as it were, on the toilet paper of the zine itself.

Mr Ford warned me, though, that Lagoon editorial staff had been warned in turn by their Creative Writing teacher not to publish anything with sexual references, even though, according to James, “I know for a fact that heifer listens to Dr. Ruth!”

Inspired, I submitted my essay on love. Alas, what impressed a uni patrician in Arid Zona made negative ripples in Lagoon. “Too out there,” said James. He handed over my typewritten essay and I held a grudge.

Small wonder, then, when, in mid-May, a group of students, including Trent Barker, secretly wrote, published, and distributed a pamphlet entitled True Reflections, an obvious affront to the official school paper, Reflections.

The quality of True was as bad as the false, but at least True articles were interesting in their libeling of school staff who had (allegedly) committed abused their positions over the year. One piece, for example, reported on a certain athletics coach who not only made advances on female students, but slept with one too. I wanted to believe these exposes. The writers were righteous but anonymous.

Of course, True also decried the typical complaints of spoilt Kaiser Lake Falcons—the school’s dress policy, the quality of cafeteria food, the crackdown on students’ leaving campus during lunch hour. I skipped these.

To my amusement, James Ford turned out to be instrumental in the writing and editing of True Reflections, as well as Lagoon and Reflections proper. Before publishing True, he ringed me, admitted his role, and asked if I wanted to contribute. I said I didn’t have time to be rejected again. He said something small was all he wanted—yes, something small enough to fill the last quarter of the last page.

In two minutes, I wrote my first and only poem—

  In days of Throbbing Gristle,

Sonic Youth sought Joy Division

until their Death in June.

  Ace so far. I wanted to add more stupid band names, but James, to whom I was dictating over the phone, declared it perfect. And since the second of a two-part episode of Hunter was coming on the telly, I thanked him and hung up.

The last student received his diploma. The last speech made. The last word uttered, and yelling graduates threw their hats in the air and dispersed.

I waited in the car park, next to the Eisenhower Caprice. I didn’t stick around in the stadium. Despite cheers made for me, in reality I had few mates to whom to say cheerio, old bean, words I’ve never said in my life anyway. Besides, the select few who did matter would all be at Chelsea's party that night. So I waited patiently in a hushed car park, watching a dark sun set and cloudless sky turn, with the ease of food colouring in water, apricot.

Shadows crawled over Hofheinz Pavilion as James Ford approached, smiling. I guess he thought our literary partnership constituted, finally, friendship. His hair was ruffled, but perfectly so. His face, creamy. Lips, slick. Teeth shining like a lighthouse.

“Hey! You goin to Chelsea’s?”

“You mean Chelsée? Yes.”

“Cool. See you there then.” But then a grave gaze spread over the perfect face, and I feared the worst. “Hey, can I ask you something personal? Since we’re alone.”

“If you must.” I already regretted this.

“What am I to you?” James leant against the Caprice, lighting a Salem Ultra-Light 120. I looked at exactly twelve stars. If only the thousands would pour into the car park now. “I mean, I may never see you again. I’d like to know. I mean, everyone knows I could never compete with Paul. He’s a moose. I’m a noodle. I guess I can’t blame ya.”

If I didn’t know James better, I’d say he was truly hurt I was never attracted to him. I felt pity for the P.Y.T. “There, there. Don’t let it come to tears. I’m no catch, believe you me.”

“Oh, I do!” James avenged in bitchy triumph. “Still, I jes figured you were the sort who got what he could take.” A reference to his birthday, I suppose.

“I am.”

“I see. Well, that answers that, huh? Maybe in another life….”

“I’ll be waiting. Cheeks spread. Promise.”

“Hah! You know what? You know what’s weird? Everybody had a problem with your attitude at one time or another. But not me. You could insult me all day an I think it’d be great. You know why?”

“You’re a masochist?”

“No! You’re jes funny. Others don’t see that.”

“Oh, but you do.”

James laughed. “That’s right. Everybody’s jes different is all.”

“Profound.”

“Yeah, well. I’m a writer, not a talker. And the last thing this world needs is another writer that talks.” Now James didn’t laugh. He looked forlornly at the Houston skyline. “Where you think he is now?” His voice was sad.

I didn’t want to discuss Paul. I could still feel that kick to the family jewels. I also felt my skin shrink in shameful fear. To think I even had a millimetre of interest.

James’s cocoa eyes swelled. Glossed lip trembled. Oh, but he was good. “I haven’t the foggiest,” I finally said. “And I don’t fancy knowing.”

Ford didn’t listen to a word. “Have you seen him lately?”

“What a stupid question.”

“Is it? You heard about Scott and Iris, right?”

“No, and I don’t care to be updated on them either, if you don’t mind.”

But I didn’t exist. “James and I weren’t close. We had nothing in common, really. But he wasn’t a bad guy. Gimme danger, little stranger and I’ll feel your disease. He fell into a deep dark hole and I’m afraid—I don’t wanna be but I am—there’s no getting out. I mean, now, shit,he’s lucky, the cops do find him.”

“However do you mean?” Fish finally hooked, dread washing over me.

James’ eyes turned dirty gold in the car park light. And he looked straight at me. “It’s so unfair. He could’ve been a happy boy, ya know?”

“No. I don’t know. I don’t know him at all. Never did. Never want to.”

James threw away Salem. “You’re a bitch! Gawd, you really are.” Ah, the split. James smiled. Would he now eat me? “You really haven’t heard, have you?”

“Spit it out already.”

“You oughta read the Chronicle once in a while, Sam. It helps. Or the Post. Cops raided Scott and Iris’s place last week. They got his drug lab and a buncha other crazy stuff. Rumor has it there was even a body in the attic-heard they dug it out of a fresh grave. I mean, I don’t know, I wouldn’t put it past those two, would you? They’re insane. Oh wait. You don’t know. Sorry. I forgot. You’re that stupid.”

“Please tell me they’re locked away.”

“Oh yeah. That acid lab was pretty big, you know. The Couple of the Year ain’t goin anywhere anytime soon. The pigs nabbed a buncha their friends too. Those people at the New Year’s Party, remember? The only one they didn’t get was Paul. Cops chased him, but he got away. That’s what I heard. That’s why I asked if you’d seen him. Everybody’s wondering.”

“I haven’t.”

“Like I was sayin, I really hope the police catch him. Ordinarily, I’d never say that about anyone. But I think that’s just about the best thing in the world that could happen to Paul right now, you know? You realize how desperate he’s gotta be? If he calls me—”

“He’s been calling you?” I was suddenly uneasy, back bracing for another attack in another parking lot.

“Well, not recently, given current events, but yeah, he was. Why not?”

“What does he want?” I fear once sparked, paranoia rapidly took over. I think I actually looked behind me now. James watched me, satisfied.

“Nothing, dude. Just catchin up.” He couldn’t help himself. “He always asks about you.”

“Right, if he calls you again, tell him nothing about me.” I glared at James. It couldn’t have been a pretty sight. But I was scared. And James, smart lad that he was, knew when the advantage was his.

“Paul could’ve been a happy boy.” His stare grew more menacing by the syllable. “If only someone’d given him a chance.”

I imagined pushing James to the ground. But only a second later, once the flash of protective fury passed, did I see that I actually did.

James was scared. Hair fell in front of perfect eyes. Perfect lips, perfectly stiff. He got up, hesitatingly. “I liked you, Sam. Even when you were a dick. Nobody’s perfect. But I gotta say—this is your fault.”

“Is it?”

“It sure as hell is. I knew Paul was troubled the day we met. That look in his eyes. It said it all, man. But that same look said he was simple. And innocent. You took advantage of that and fucked him over. Everybody knows it too.”

“No.” I took a step towards him. I’d go at it again. Now I was just dying to beat the living hell out of someone. So what if people were now filing outside. Let them buy tickets. “I began something, yeah. I ended something, absolutely. Throughout it all, I was sensible, honest, and polite. Him, none of that.”

“You knew he was sensitive! You knew he’d take it all to heart.” It was all coming out.

“I have as much control over Paul’s feelings as I do yours, cunt.”

“You knew he was troubled. You knew. But you didn’t care!”

I give the mouse credit for standing up to the cat. “What was I supposed to do, Ford? He told his parents about himself. On his own.”

“Paul had a horrible home life, but it was all he had. When he lost that, he lost everything. The only reason he told them was cuz you gave him hope. And then you crushed it when he needed it the most. You should’ve been more caring.”

“Bugger you. I should’ve been more cruel.”

“Do you have any idea what Scott and Iris must’ve done to him? He’s gone, man. My old club friend is dead. I don’t know who’s there now—a ghost!”

“It’s a shame. I don’t deny that. A bloody shame. But I did nothing wrong. I’m not guilty of anything. I know that.”

“You, you, you—that’s all you care about.”

“You read that in the paper too?”

We both saw the Eisenhowers appear. James forced a smile. “Don’t go to Chelsea’s party,” he warned. “You’ll only ruin it for everybody else.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world now.”

In Hitler Car with Jill, I didn’t talk. I’m sure I spoke. But all I remember was seeing a brick wall.

And me heading right for it.

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[daysofthrobbinggristle]

85

  Timing is everything, say Yanks.

It’s meant to refer to business, but also applies to life. To Americans, they're one and the same. And the time I chose to visit Neil proved that in spades.

No trouble getting inside Castle IBM. One of the guards remembered me, and let me in. Firstly, of course, he asked how I was, where I’d been; that Saturdays weren’t the same without me, blah blah blah. I never knew I impressed the old coot.

But then, I actually talked to the creature about the weather a moment or two those Saturday mornings of old. The higher-ups of Itty Bitty Machine never gave him even that conversational crumb. The elder didn’t understand that when you wore braces on your trousers, if you were a girly-bloke, or shoulder pads in your jackets, if you were a he-woman, made chat without mention of percentages and multi-syllabic euphemisms impossible. Really, he should’ve sought security from them.

I was escorted to the wing where Neil worked. I hadn’t been inside IBM in months. As usual, on a weekend day, it was like walking through a pyramid. Other types were present, as a God-like breath emanated from AC ducts, but they were far and few between, seeming not human so much as middle-managed dung beetles.

I walked the hallways, James Bond fantasies in head—which file cabinet to open? Which computer database to access? I could’ve made a fortune if I’d actually abducted any info all my times there—security, my arse.

But then I started to sweat, remembering that I didn’t want to be here. I only wanted to get some things off my chest and fly. Though Neil and I hadn’t parted in hysteria, as happened with his worse half, who knew how he’d react upon seeing me now? So let’s get on with it, shall we? Near the snack lounge, I parted ways with Security Gramps, who took this opportunity to get himself a Snickers, and jaw with an oddly Caucasian janitor wearing a Walkman over her mullet and ear-rings shaped like stars.

Tiffany Washburne wasn’t at her desk. But I knew she was here because her electric typewriter was on, and her chair not pushed in. I knew Neil was here too because I could hear him talking, softly, followed by Tiffany, giggling.

Mmmm. I made the English sound of sanction, one involving neither tongue nor mouth. Do it more than once in a chat with an American and you’ll seriously disturb his tranquility. It seems the silly things take our wondrous Mmmm to be vague at best—worst too.

The door was slightly open, and I quietly pushed it further in time to see Tiffany seated atop Neil’s desk, his hand on a leg. He, meanwhile, was sat on his beloved leather swivel office chair, looking up at his mistress, smiling. A smile he kept when he saw me.

“Sammy!” He stood up. So did Tiffany, her face betraying what his did not. “What a surprise!”

“I’ll say.” I was delighted. “How are you, Tiffany?”

“Fine.” She couldn’t look at me. I opened my mouth to fire another round, but Neil put his hand on her shoulder, saving her.

“Well, not that it’s any of your business, Sammy, but Tiffany’s experienced a crisis in her family.” He had to know that was weak; nevertheless, it came out smooth. He was a master thespian. He fooled everyone.

“Poor thing,” I replied.

“Something I can do for you?” A now frowning Neil changed tactics. “I mean, if I’d known you’d be coming, I’d’ve told security to bar you. There’s no reason for you to be here, is there?”

“Actually, there is. I came to talk about your daughter. But I see you’re busy … commiserating. Maybe I’ll talk to your wife instead. Is she free this afternoon?”

“You wanna talk?” Neil waved his arms; walked round his desk. “Let’s talk. Would you excuse us, Miss Washburne? And I’ll need that a copy of that report on my desk before you leave.”

“Sure.” Tiffany walked awkwardly past me, eyes on floor. Mine, fully on her. A Brit has such few chances to stare fully at another. Neil followed her to the door.

“I’ll take care of it,” he said in what had to have been his bedroom voice. He then closed, and locked, the door.

“Have a seat, Sammy.” Neil returned to his. I should’ve left. The longer I stayed, the more he’d regain the advantage. Neil was a passive bloke, but when he wanted something, no-one was more forceful, not even his wife. I knew this as I sat. Yet my mind was full of mysteries now. Foolishly, I desiredresolution.

“You wanna talk about Heather. All right. Something I need to know?” The creep combed his hedgehog moustache. Why a comely slapper like Tiffany would have anything to do with him, I couldn’t fathom—Donna too, for that matter. Based on the evidence, there could only be only one answer: Women are stupid.

I saw the first computer I ever touched. But the golden age was over.

“Heather needs to be out of Baywind. Before it’s too late. Before she really turns mentally ill.” I was direct; and, to my shame, melodramatic.

“Is that your diagnosis, Dr. Hay?” Neil leant back. “I see. Well, not to question any of your credentials, but my daughter really does need help. And she’s finally getting it. In fact, you could say I’m already doing everything I can. What’s going on? You two haven’t been in contact, have you?” Mean Neal frowned harder.

“Of course not.”

“Good.”

“But I did visit her—just now.”

Maybe I shouldn’t have admitted that. But I wanted to anger Neil. I wasn’t disappointed. “Sammy, listen to me carefully. Do that again, and I will get the police involved. I’m serious. Your connection to my family is over. Stay away.”

“Right.” I closed my eyes. Focus. “Mr Turner.” Open. “Mr Turner, I don’t want to be a bother. It’s only….”

“Yes?”

Eloquence, not impulse. “I’ve always noticed you do care for Heather. And though I confess she and I rarely got along, it doesn’t mean I’m not concerned. I don’t think Heather belongs where she is. A change in environment is a good idea. But not there. Not Baywind. To be drugged up and living amongst truly unwell people. I think—I believe, fully, she deserves better.”

Neil dared to smile. Perhaps he didn’t know how else to react. “Where do you suggest she go? Where do you suggest that I, Heather’s father, send a difficult young girl who tried to kill herself?”

“To your parents. In Comfort.”

“You’re joking.”

“Not at all. It’s quiet there. They’re fond of her. Your mother and she get along loads better than Heather does with your own wife.”

Neil laughed up another layer of defence. “I tell you what—what a day it’s been today. You know that? First, I wake up next to this woman whose sole purpose in life is bitching and complaining and whining every minute of the day. Then I got a flat tire not more than two blocks from the house. And now you come in here, telling me what’s best for my daughter. Just fantastic.” Neal shook his head. “Well, lemme clue you in on something, Sammy. It’ll be a cold day in Texas before I take parenting tips from a 17-year old.”

“It’s 18, and God help you if you took any parenting tips at all.” Placidity gone. Blood back to frying. Taste the bubbles in my mouth.

“To hell with you,” gnashed Neal. “You should be ashamed. We let you into our house. We gave you everything on a sliver platter—”

“You sound like your wife—”

“I taught you computers. I’m the one who never forced you to get a job. I was even gonna get you into my school at minimal cost. And all I ever asked of you, Sammy, was to provide a positive role model for Heather. But it was all just an act, wasn’t it? You came here just to get your foot in the door, didn’t you? And the moment you could bail for something you thought was better, you did. You used us.”

This was incredible. I looked at Neal with confidence. And like my beloved Original Dictator, I lost the self in delivery of rhetoric. “Firstly, Mr Turner, we used each other. Secondly, I did try to befriend Heather. It took a long time, but now I am her friend. I’m now doing what you always wanted me to do. You’re finally getting what you wanted. So I’m here to tell you that she’s in trouble. You’re right. She does need help. But she’s not going to get it in that place. Surely, you must see that. For all out mutual loathing, I never thought you were stupid. I can’t believe you think Heather’s getting what’s best for her.”

The bastard blinked. I waited for a response in the hum of the overhead lights. It could drive a person mad if forced to listen.

“All right, Sammy.” Neal sighed. “Sam. Point made. You should leave now.”

“Don’t dismiss me like some schoolboy.”

“Oh?” He was amused. “All grown up now, are you?”

“I want assurances from you.”

“I want you out that door. And If I ever see you again, even in passing, I’ll call the cops and I will charge you, Sam. Harassment’s a serious crime in this state. You could go to jail for up to a year.”

“You’re not going to do anything for Heather, are you?”

“Like I said, what I do or don’t do is none of your concern. Go.”

“Perhaps I’ll see Tiffany first. Extend my condolences. How she must be suffering.”

“You leave her out of this.”

“Exactly how long have you been shagging your secretary, Neil? It has to be least as long as I’ve been here. I mean, this whole business about bringing me here to teach me computers … well, I hate to say it, but your stupid wife was right for once in her plastic life. You could’ve taught me at home. And all the time I was in here, pecking at that keyboard, learning my modifier keys, there you were in the next room bumping muff with some sweet young thing—”

“Tiffany and I have been in a relationship for over a year. It’s not a fling.” Neil lit a cigarette. He had all sorts of secrets. I mean—mentholated fags? A white and green cloud scandalously drifted towards me.

“It’s very serious. We plan on being together. It can’t happen now, though. And you know why. The second Donna finds out, she’ll suck every penny out of me she can get in the divorce proceedings. That’s why I have to put away money—a lot of it, where she can’t get it. But that takes time. Time and a helluva lot of work. By then, I was hoping Heather’d be in college. That’s the best time for her to handle this. When she’s away from all the ugliness that’s going to ensue. Now that plan’s fucked-up. On top of that, I got a mountain of debt thanks to those expensive distractions I was obliged to buy because you—the main distraction—didn’t do your job. So spare me the hypocritical How could you do this? look. You’re no worse than me, Hay, and certainly no better. If you’d only stuck to the program, you could’ve done us both a world of good….”

Neil began to lose his train of thought. The cretin was juggling too much, too long. Then he looked at me; put me back in his crosshairs. “I know you mean right by Heather. And believe it or not, I appreciate your sticking up for her. I’m afraid it’s just too late.” A new cig was in before the old one was out.

“She used to be the happiest little girl. But she’s grown up into a total stranger.” Neil rubbed his temples. “I just hope I have better luck with my next child.”

I remained ever so still. Even as I stopped, rewound, played again.

“Yeah,” said Neil. “That’s right. She’s barefoot and pregnant again—and I don’t mean Donna.”

“No shit.”

Neil barely noticed. “Things are strange today, Sam. But you know, if I’ve learned anything in life, it’s things are never as bad as they seem. I thought when the Dow dropped 508 points back in October, that was it, man. Everything I’d been working for, poof! But it turned out okay. And I’ll turn out okay. I know it. And so will you. And so will Heather. Don’t kid yourself. Kids are stronger than they seem. They can put up with stuff better than adults.”

“I’m sure that’s true,” I said. “I’m sure if you took a child and cut off one of his feet, he’d tend to adjust faster than you or me.”

“Fuck you.”

“You don’t know cock. What’s to stop me from telling Donna everything?”

“You won’t.” Neil inhaled, unconcerned. “Why? Wouldn’t serve you.”

“It’d give me enormous pleasure, watching your world fall apart.”

“Yeah, right.” Neil spat smoke. “The second Donna saw you, every cop in Kaiser Lake’d be on your ass. She told me what you did to her.” Neil was knight to my squire, never losing an opportunity to gain the advantage. He was everything I thought I wanted to be.

“You know…” His eyebrows quickly upped. “Your making that move on her.”

“Is that what she told you?”

“Look,” Neil leant forward; buying time. “It’s all right. I mean, it would’ve been all right. I’m bein straight here with ya here, man. I mean, first of all, it would’ve proved you’re not really queer, which is good, and which, I’m sorry to say, I needed convincing at times. Second, look, I know my wife’s got a bod. I wouldn’t have screwed it over a thousand times if I didn’t think it was rockin. Even now. It’s just the very small matter of that little head and that big mouth that kinda sours my entire fucking life. And the truth is, Sam, that stupid woman and I never belonged together. So you know what? Seriously, I wish you two had done it. It would’ve saved me God knows how much money in court. But in any case, Donna thinks you’re obsessed with her. She’s scared of you, actually. So go ahead. Try and talk to my wife. The cops’ll come and who’re they going believe? The teenage horndog or the married woman? Jesus Christ, haven’t you figured it out by now? Women run this fucking country! Every day, another one gets away with murder.”

“Mr Turner,” I said, drawing breath, pushing aside side issues and attempting a dropkick, “I don’t care about any of that.”

“Well, you got a funny way of showing it.”

“I’ll leave you alone. I promise.”

“Good.”

“I’m only here for Heather’s sake. Truly, I am. Do you believe me?”

“Yeah. Okay. Fine. So what?”

“So I don’t believe it’s too late for her. Send her to your parents. I know you hate them but she likes them. That’s got to be better than the loony bin, doesn’t it?”

“Donna’d never allow it.”

“Force the issue. Didn’t you tell me you chose your battles carefully.”

“I also told you I got another kid on the way. I can’t risk upsetting the apple cart—even a little.”

I saw my fists hit the top of Neil’s desk. Pens jumped. “To cock with your apple cart!”

Fertile Neil lit one last Marlboro Menthol; and sucked on it for dear life. “Well. Look at you. I’m impressed. Go home, Sam. We don’t deserve you.”

I don’t remember leaving Castle IBM. I don’t remember walking to Stony Brook. But I do remember seeing Eisenhower House. I remember the foundation repair, which gave the house all the look and charm of the Western Front.

This time, I ran to it.

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[daysofthrobbinggristle]

84

  Saturday was Visitor’s Day.

Baywind Hospital wasn’t far from its big brother, Kaiser Lake Medical Center. Only a shallow ditch, a narrow street, and another shallow ditch separated the two. But unlike the hospital, Baywind sported an iron fence round its premises; and the premises themselves consisted of a series of bland buildings beside a flavorless park, nothing outside indicating what might be in. Nobody could drive past this nuthouse without ignoring it.

Jill, Shauna, and yours truly were escorted down a hall to the Youth Wing of the main building. At its end, the hall forked into adolescent and child divisions. We headed left, to the 12-18 year olds. I saw an administrative cubicle, lobby, and patients’ rooms laid out in a crescent. I noted the carpet, sofas, sunny windows, all very cosy. Disappointingly, not a single lice-ridden maniac with drool hanging from lip was on hand.

The Baywind staff wore uniforms while patients retained their civvies. They were indistinguishable from the visitors now crowded in the lobby, save for age. And were it not for a touch more pale on their faces, the patients looked no different from the average Kaiser Lake High lout. I spotted Heather immediately. She was sat in a chair in a lobby corner whilst others laughed and chatted as though watching a film. One joker even held an acoustic guitar. I prayed he wouldn't play.

Jill and Shauna approached Heather first. Only until she gave consent would I speak with her. I almost wished she wouldn’t. For one thing, I didn’t know what to say. For another, who knew if the Turners might visit in the middle of me own visit. The last thing I wanted was to make a scene in the loony bin.

“It’s cool.” Jill returned; touched my arm; even joked. “The coast is clear. Shauna and I will be on look-out.” Shauna didn’t look to be up to the task. She was confused, not knowing what to make of this brave new world.

“Hello, Heather.”

She didn’t reply. Nor did she appear to be surprised, or even impressed, by my presence. I’d obviously exaggerated the effect I’d made on her life. I sat in a sofa next to her, the other end occupied by a hoary bloke pleading with must’ve been his grandson to stop worrying and be happy. The pimply youth, my age, made a tight-lipped look of disgust.

Heather and I didn’t say anything to each other the first few minutes. I simply listened to the old bloke whilst she sat, exhaled, gazed at her shoes. I wondered if were playing a game with me, as she had so many times before. Then I looked at her eyes; those always semi-Asian circles of chocolate; looking bereft of thought or even emotion; the eyes of a paralyzed dog.

“You’re on medication?”

The eyes moved. I was grateful. “Yes,” said a dry voice. “I’m on drugs.” I don’t think she was making a joke. Heather took twice as long to swallow. There was an untouched glass of water on a table next to her. Bandages still adorned wrists.

I tried a different tack. “Do you know when you’re getting out?”

Again, the eyes moved. This time, they even looked at me. “I don’t know. I haven’t even thought about it. I kinda like it here.”

“Do you?”

“There’s a lot to see.”

I looked round; saw nothing but crap. To my surprise, Heather got up and sat between me and the old bloke. He didn’t let her bother him. Heather never turned her head in my direction but she leant so that our bodies touched more than they ever had before. “See that dork by the window—the one with the curly hair?”

“Yes.”

“That’s Trey. He’s suicidal. Like me.” Heather seemed pleased. She gave me tour of her world. “And that big guy next to him. That’s Conan, spelled just like Conan, but you say Kahnen. No joke. No wonder he’s self-conscious. What a stupid name. And there’s Daniel. Heavy Metal psycho. He’s short and looks wimpy, but he’s the one who’s always in the Isolation Room. That’s the room, you know, the padded one. It’s not really padded, but it’s empty and it’s a cell, basically. You can hear Daniel banging on the door the whole time he’s in there. It’s scary. You can hear him scream. I try to stay away from him. There’s Bill. Another psycho, but he’s okay. There’s Manuel—Manuel, obviously. He’s roommates with Daniel. There’s Misty. She’s the oldest—a senior. Short, isn’t she? There’s Sissy. She’s my roomie. She’s a hick. Chuck—fatso. He loves all food. It’s incredible. He even raves about vegetables. He’s friendly, though. David—another Hispanic—he’s friends with Manuel and Daniel. Allan, there’s Allan, the short one. He’s the youngest. 13. Don’t let him fool you, though. He’s sly. He’s always sneaking in things. He’s dangerous too. I don’t trust him. He’s friends with Bill, so that should tell you everything. And there’s Quinn, almost as fat as Allan, but not quite. He’s quiet. Friends with Bill and Allan, so who knows what his deal is. Virginia. Ah yes, sweet petite Virgin-Ya. She freaks out a lot, especially around boys. There’s Gwen. Kinda obvious, isn’t it? The only black one in the group? She says she’s a poet. Who isn’t? But she’s friendly. She likes to be in charge, actually. There’s stupid Stacy—that tall, ditzy blonde way there in the back. Everyone hates her. She’s just stupid. She can’t say one smart thing to save her life. That dude’s Nick. He’s like you. Never talks to anyone. Eric’s that tall, clean-cut kid. He refuses to eat. There’s a lot to see here.”

Heather said more in two minutes than she ever said to me. I could only encourage her. “What about the staff?”

She looked past the inmates and their loved ones. “That chubby, middle-aged woman at the desk is Edith, the nurse. She’s nice. The other one’s Susan. She gives everyone their drugs. They’re always in these little paper cups. I don’t get it. It seems like a waste to me. One whole pill’s got its own cup. That black guy there’s Clayton. He’s the orderly. He’s tall and skinny but he’s strong if he has to be, especially with that freaking maniac Daniel. You see Clayton’s glasses?”

“Yes.”

“We make fun of them. We call them his Kennedy-boy glasses. They’re so old-fashioned. He’s always in a bad mood. He always expects the worst of us. There’s Ted. He’s one of the councilors. He’s an idiot. He gets more emotional than us sometimes. We don’t hate him as much as Barry, though. Where is he? ... I don’t see him. Barry’s a prep. He’s obsessed with his hair. He’s always saying he wants to help kids, and maybe he does, but he’s clueless. He never catches on why we can’t stand him because he’s a prep. Then there’s Linda, the one who just came in. She’s a real psychologist, young and blonde.”

“Too much make-up,” I contributed.

“True. And there’s Victoria, my shrink. She’s okay.”

“Is she the one you were seeing before?”

“Yeah, I like her. I guess. There’s Dr. Bond, the tall guy with the beard.”

“What about the sweet young thing next to him?”

“Jean. She’s weird. I’m not sure she should be practicing medicine. We all thought she was a patient at first. No foolin. She’d meet you and somehow find a way to quote Camus. She did it to every one of us, I swear. I went close up to him and made a last attempt to explain that I’d very little time left and I wasn’t going to waste it on God. She really said that to me. I think she likes me because I’m the only one who’s actually read The Stranger. Jean’s the one who does all the psych tests. You should see them, Sam. The first one was pages and pages of where they typed in half a sentence, and you were supposed to finish the rest. They’d have I think sex..., and you’d to finish it off. When I see a boy and girl together..., My parents.... Was really irritating after awhile. Another test asked you questions and you had to answer true or false. But they weren’t normal questions. A lot of em’re like, I sometimes see people or things that others do not. I’m supposed to answer true or false to that. Or something like, I am often depressed. It was annoying. And the third test was those ink blot pictures. You know what I’m talkin about? That was interesting, actually. The last test was the weirdest. Jean showed me these pencil sketches. I was supposed to tell what the situation looked like to me and how it’d end. Like there was this one sketch of a naked woman lying on a bed and next to her is this fully dressed guy, wiping his brow with his shirtsleeve. What am I supposed to say to that? Another showed this old woman scolding another woman who was in her thirties or twenties. In the end it was really, really tiring, Sam. And I’m tired as hell just talkin about it.” Heather’s eyes returned to dog’s eyes.

I was despairing. “Heather?”

“What?”

“What do you want?”

I don’t know if she understood. She said nothing. Make her understand.

“Do you want to get out of here? Not just the hospital but here? Do you want to be on your own? Do you want to be with your grandparents? I don’t know—maybe I can help. Maybe. But you have to tell me what you want.”

“What do you want?” Heather, pushed, always pushed back, no matter what.

A nurse approached. Edith, I believe, wearing one of those new floral-patterned blouses with matching trousers. “I’m sorry. Visiting hours are over.”

Heather sat, looking at me. People were leaving. The joker with guitar mentioned the Kaiser Creek Wildcats. “Next year, we’ll go to state ... and win!”

“I don’t have an England.” Heather got up, and joined her mates. They talked to her. She talked back. And as she disappeared, it occurred to me that I couldn’t now say that Heather hadn’t found a home.

Jill, Shauna, and I left the cool of Baywind, splashing into the hot sunlight, under a light blue sky. I squinted hard. I had to pause. “Are you okay?” asked Jill.

“Let’s go home.”

Shauna covered her face. She was more upset than I. “Let’s leave,” I said. “This was a mistake.”

“I’m okay,” said Shauna, bravely showing a red but dry face.

On the way home, nobody spoke. On the way home, Castle IBM emerged from atop olive-green trees. No doubt Neil was working. He usually did on Saturdays. He always found a reason. He actually showed Heather affection on occasion. It was a mad idea. Proof: I was quickly possessed.

Jill resisted. “Samuel, no.” She wouldn’t drop me off. “Nothing you can do.”

But I didn’t give up. I even opened car door a tad to prove my intent. Jill reproached. I shut. She sighed, and crept up to IBM Castle like a mindless roach approaching a boot. Near the entrance, she glanced at me, sunlight bouncing off sweaty freckles. “This is freaking crazy.”

“I know.”

“You don’t have to do this. It’s not your fault.”

“Will you kindly stop telling me nothing’s my fault. You think I’m this wounded angel who has to make amends.”

“You just said visiting Heather was a mistake. What’s this?”

“A suicide mission. Now are you going to stop or not?”

“I’m not waiting for you.”

“I can walk home. I’ve done it before.”

“Fine!” Jill stopped the car. “Do what you want.” I was about to out. “Didja even notice this new top I got?”

“Are you serious?” I thought we’d just left the madhouse. Jill and I looked at each other. And we knew this was the point where had to shut up and leave each other to our respective stupidities. I finally exited the car.

“I’m still not gonna wait for you.”

“I know.”

“Sam.”

“Sam, is it?”

Jill waited till I looked at her; saw the Jill she wanted me to see. “Be careful.”

“Tell that to Neil.”

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[daysofthrobbinggristle]

83

  We ate dinner in an Indian restaurant, nested in a ritsy strip mall close to Downtown.

The room was intimate. Food, superb. Tongue hadn’t tasted curry in over a year. Electrified, I dug in, to Jill’s horror.

“Your table manners really are a scandal,” she half-joked. A sip of tea later, “But at least you’re eating again. You’re the only anorexic stoner I know, Samuel.”

Jill’s black hair and fair skin took on lustre from the candlelight on the table. The place was rather upscale, the more I observed. Could we afford to eat here? More to the point, did Jill have enough money?

“The Hay genes,” I said. “We’re all pale broomsticks with black straw on our heads. Right, the women, that is. The men, bald, like me grandad.”

“Grandad?”

Jill was surprised. So was I. “Right. In Glasgow. My father’s father. I met him when I was very small. He came for a visit. He was a lush.” I chewed slowly, trying to remember, something I wasn’t used to. “Will, me dad, threw him out. Told him to take his bottles too. Told him he’d ruined him. Meaning me Dad and uncle. How very, very strange…..”

“What?” Jill knew when I emphasised, something was off.

“I haven’t thought of him—any of them—in ages. But for a second, I literally felt like I’d transported through time. And I’m dead sober.”

The lady was quiet, missing her turn.

“So yeh, we got deep-set eyes and fillings. We stand out here. But only because you Americans are so fat and unnaturally pink, you and your robot teeth.”

Jill looked at me, as opposed to stared. “Tell me another memory.”

 “I remember Portia used to lie in our room and listen to music. Be carried away to who knows what worlds. And I remember The Clash were and are the most over-rated crap band ever to slither out of the arsehole known as Londinium.”

Jill shook her head, and held hand over mouth so she could chew and talk at once. “You’re so British. I couldn’t say something like that as deadpan as you.”

“Believe it or not, tart, we English used to be the loudest, lustiest, most masculine people in the world.”

“What on Earth happened to you then?” Jill smiled. She was rather pretty for an average girl.

“Young Elizabeth turned Old Victoria. We seem to change personalities when God anoints a woman to be our Sovereign. Vicky gave us empire and made us soft.”

“And now you’ve another Elizabeth—full circle.”

“Not quite, but no matter. Number Two’s a useless piece of furniture. We don’t own the world anymore but, we still rule it. By way of media. Coz every year you Yanks steal more shows from us. Prince Charles’ mother will never die either. She’s been Queen almost forty years. She means to make us linger, like an art house movie. Why’d you have to mention her? Now I’ll never stop.”

“Eat.” Jill poked plate with fork tines.

I do believe that meal marked the last occasion I pigged out. People think I eat so little now because I don’t want to be fat. They’re projecting. “I can’t believe I’m seeing Portia. She'll be sober. I won’t recognise her.”

“Yes, you will. Nothing beats cold reality.” Jill grabbed her glass of ice water. I raised my glass of iced tea (which, to my shock, I liked). “To the here and now.”

“Here, here,” I affirmed, “now, now.”

“How we doing?” Our handsome actor/waiter dropped in uninvited again. Jill and I were enamoured and annoyed. He bore a bow-tie, reminding us of prom.

Jill discussed details. The rite of passage was taking place in an over-priced seafood joint in south-east Houston. Theme? The Way We Were.

We were to bring baby pix of ourselves and set them in the centrepieces of our tables. I couldn’t begin to wax sarcastic. But Jill was obsessed. The part of her that hated being the outsider saw prom as a chance to be like everyone else just for one night. No-one’s perfect, as I proved by assuring her I’d go.

After dinner, we bought ice cream sandwiches at a convenience store and took a stroll down a trendy street. Grey, I believe was called, West Grey.

It looked like pics of Los Angeles I’d seen—wide with white walkways lined by palmetto trees and fat stores catering to aristocrats. In the distance, a cinema announced Steven Seagal was Above the Law.

The long sunset was comfortably warm. Darkness appeared in clumps on the surface of things. In mid-thought, on cue, Scott and Iris emerged from round a corner, and walked straight towards us.

Jill and I froze. Fortunately, we were in public, with dozens of witnesses.

“Well, well, well.” Scott sneered, slime in voice. “What hath God wrought?” He was togged out in black T-shirt, black trousers with white braces, combat boots with white laces. Revelation was no skinhead. He was just ... Revelation.

“What’re you two pure-hearted peasants doing in the big, bad city?” His body moved with new tattoos, none of which hid injection sores. Iris, meanwhile, wore what looked to be a black leather summer dress with two-dollar thong sandals. She clung to her man to keep herself steady. She sported a wicked smile and red eyes.

“We were at the zoo,” I said. “Funny, thought we left.”

Weak, but Scott’s black gums inhibited wit. “That’s hilarious, Sheffool. You’re fuckin funny.” He turned to Jill. He shouted. “What’s up there, little girl?”

Jill was smart. Said nothing. She wasn’t afraid to stare at Revelation, though. He approved. “Your bitch’s quiet now. Good. That’s how they should all be. They can only open their mouth to eat and suck cock—right, ole boy?”

He slapped my arm. Iris made a horrible laugh, like an old tap whose handle’s been turned too fast. Sweat dripped from her pits beginning to grow black hair.

“I’m afraid this conversation’s too academic for me.” I put foot forwards.

“Hey!” Revelation stepped in front of me. He was carrying a video camera. I sensed impending doom. “When you see Trent, tell him I got a nice new batch for him. Tell him I need to sell it soon, like now. Cuz ever since you destroyed my little library, the ball and chain and I’ve had to start over. Which is fine, really. We needed to upgrade anyway. Still got our cameras too. Always our cameras. We’re gonna hit the road soon. See the real America. Be like—you guessed it—Charlie and Caril Ann. Drive fast. Eat hamburgers. Shoot people.”

“Who’s on the soundtrack?” But Revelation ignored me. He lifted camera to eye, pointed at me. Red light appeared.

“Then we’re gonna settle down,” said Queasy. “Maybe Gomor-L.A. or San Fran-Sodom.”

Revelation smiled. “You need to work on that, honey.” Then, back to me, “So you tell Trent what I said. Got it? And no hard feelings. You know, between us.”

Revelation stayed where he was, filming … waiting? Queasy walked up; gestured as though to cup my short and curlies. But before I could slap her hand away, she withdrew with a rusty laugh. “Boy, are you gonna get it.”

Jill screamed. And I was on the ground, the back of my head blazing from a sucker punch. I opened my eyes only to find I couldn’t breathe. The sole of Paul Chase’s boot was on my throat. He could crush my larynx in a second. He was always a strong kid. Now, also, he was seeing red. And who could blame him.

It’s strenuous to remember. I can, of course. Memory’s there. Filed somewhere. I just don’t want to locate. But I suppose I must….

Paul’s head was shaved. There were tattoos atop the shaved head. Scales outlined in green and black, like a reptilian helmet. Whilst the rest of his pale face looked like it had been through a few rounds. One eye was black. Mouth, cut.

Revelation, Queasy, and Paul had me where they wanted, on an open and busy commercial street, where not a soul meddled. I grant the incident might’ve happened faster than I remember.

Nevertheless, nearby Yuppies were paralysed. This wasn’t TV. This was real. Or was it? I imagine their doubting their own eyes. That or hope someone else does something. Revelation surely knew this would be the case. He serenely placed his camera up to my scarlet face, trapped between concrete and rubber.

“Who is Paul Chase?” He talked like a slick game show host, questions rising and falling. “Disturbed? Poor and stupid? A romantic? Searching for rescue? Does he think things’ll get perfect if only such-and-such is the case? Is supreme bliss but a few trials ahead? Is he a fag? Does he set himself up to be pushed around? Answer yes to all the above and you win. Ten seconds, Sheffool....”

“Stop it!” Jill screamed again. I couldn’t see her. I couldn’t yell. Paul pressed harder. I squirmed. I hit him as best I could—pointless. He was going to kill me. I looked up at the brute. The boy I’d met in Stony Brook was done for.

Eyesight going black as Paul’s master filled my ears with a parting soliloquy.

“I’m sorry—grunt is not the right answer! But we do have a consolation prize. A lifelong supply of Agony, brought to you courtesy of Guilt—Guilt, Inc., satisfying customers for almost two thousand years now. Look what you’ve done, Sheffool. You’re the one who gave Citizen Robot clarity, y’know. And now that he’s self-aware, he knows what’s really waiting for him. Death, slavery and the pursuit of misery. In reverse order, of course. Only Scott and Iris took pity on him. Only Scott and Iris saved him. Only Scott and Iris accepted him. Showed him what he can be—an Artist. And tonight’s his debut, here in beautiful Downtown Houston. Entitled Man Struggling to Stay Alive, this brilliant work captures the passion and intensity of post-Pistols England. Note the densely collaged surface of disparate materials—fear and ecstasy, defiance and submission. Note the high, compressed color, making for an unsettling but irresistible view into the Abyss of the Human Condition. Oh, how Art imitates Life! Oh, how Sheffool’s Life is now Paul's Art!”

Revelation squatted, rubbing his face. “Damn.” He talked normally, for him. “I gotta admit somethin. You really pissed me off, destroying my life’s work. Really got under my skin, Sheffool. Not many people can do that. So my huntin dawg here’s been trackin ya. Following you around everywhere ya go. Betcha didn’t know that, didja? Betcha thought I’d never find you again, huh? But like that hippie kyke said, a hard rain’s a-gonna fall and the time’s they are a-changin. Time to move on. But if I were you, Sheffool, I’d keep lookin over my shoulder.”

Spiel over; boot off throat.

I caught my breath. Opened my eyes. The crew was gone. Jill had me. She helped me sit up. I could only cough. We were surrounded. Now cowards came, asking questions, helping me rise. I refused their worthless hands. One bloke said he’d ringed the flatfoots from the phone in his Cadillac. Thank you.

I ran. I didn’t know what else to do. I ran to Jill’s car, which wasn’t far, in the car park of the Indian restaurant. Once there, I crouched from sight, there between two cars, holding my throat. I remember black gravel turn wet with sweat; and the thought that, even now, I was being followed.

But it was only Jill. “Let’s make tracks,” I said, straightening up, relieved to hear throaty syllables.

“The cops are coming.”

“No. They won’t do shite. Let’s go.”

“Samuel! Are you crazy? We have to report this.”

“Now.” The car door was locked. I shook the handle. “Mind unlocking?”

“You really expect me to ignore this and just go away.”

“Quite.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“I’m leaving in a few weeks. Let’s get out of here. Get out of this hellhole and never come back. Do you understand now?!”

“Fine! I’ll open the fucking door!” Jill cursed back, furious.

We left Houston. It was night. Star-studded mountains grew small in my door side mirror. Coastal humidity coated my face. Only when Kaiser Lake was in sight, did I feel my achers throbbing. I didn’t remember being kicked there. It must’ve happened, though, with that kind of pain. Paul used to be soft, the brain-dead motherfucker. I closed my eyes, but saw only the lizard.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m … upset. You have to know that.” I looked at Jill. She wouldn’t look at me, still wound up, driving jerky, dark brows hiding any hint of blue.

“I still think we should’ve told the police. I mean, yeah, I’m sure you’re right. Nothing would’ve come of it. But still! It’s something. There’s still time, you know.”

“No.”

Jill exhaled. There were flyspecks on the windscreen.

“I just want to leave. Leave this behind me. All this. Leave everything behind. Move on.” Give me bouncers and an extra hole. I never felt so made-for-TV movie.

“Samuel. Nothing you did deserved this. Nothing you did made Paul into ... that! I don’t wanna hear that again, you hear me? I just hope he can be forgiven. I can’t do it. There’s no excusing this—never!”

If Jill never surprised me before, she did now. She didn’t elaborate. I didn’t ask her to elaborate. We said nothing. We were back back in Stony Forest. We passed Turner’s End. Jill looked briefly and snorted in righteous fury. “I used to feel sorry for them too. Screw them. They deserve whatever misery they get.”

“Feel sorry for Heather, at least. She’s never known different.”

Eisenhower House appeared. It looked a war zone with its foundation holes and piles of dirt. Jill parked; turned off. I didn’t get out. Neither did she.

“I need to see her,” I said.

“What?”

“Before I leave.”

Jill let that soak. “Shauna and Heather used to be best friends before Middle School,” she finally explained. “But once Donna found out we serve Jehovah God, she told Heather all sorts of horrible lies about us. And one day, Heather stopped talking to Shauna in school. Just like that. Treated her like the scum of the earth. That’s why I couldn’t stand the little darling for so long.”

“As one who’s lived under the same roof with Madame Tyranny, I can tell you it’s best to obey. Or seem to obey.”

“I wish I could agree.” Jill’s eyes blinked fast. A cool breeze blew through the open windows; then disappeared. Spring’s last breath. “Worst part is, Donna didn’t say jack at first. Because at first, my dad was Neil’s superior. He’d gotten at IBM first. It was only after Neil got promoted over Dad that she poured her poison. Wasn’t gonna risk it before. You know why? Money—that’s all she really loves.”

“I don’t know. She may be a monster,” I found myself saying, “but she’s not one-dimensional.”

“Heather didn’t disobey.” Obsessed Jill. “Donna said her lies and Heather, knowing Shauna and all of us just as well as you do now, didn’t have the guts to stand up against her.”

“She’s a kid.”

“I don’t care.”

“Besides, she did stand up. Later. In her own way.”

“That was crap, too.”

I looked at Jill, shocked. She’d thought a lot about what she said next, waiting for the opportunity to let it loose, for the end was something she dearly loved. “She wasn’t serious about killing yourself. Surely, you see that.”

“I don’t.”

“Crap scissors—seriously?” Jill’s face was flush. It’d been that way since I was beaten up. How many times did that make it now? The thought that Jill was secretly excited depressed me.

“Don’t get me wrong, Samuel. She doesn’t deserve to be in Baywind. But if someone really wants to die, they die. You know how much will it takes? Killing yourself doesn’t come naturally, you know. You hafta defy your every instinct. You can’t be half-assed about it. You hafta want it so much you simply do it. Heather’s depressed, not suicidal. And she’s only depressed because of her parents. Her mother. And I hate that woman. I hate her and I hope she dies!”

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[daysofthrobbinggristle]

82

  April stripped down to May.

After the Night, I craved isolation. One day after school, I saw jocks smoking weed in a Firebird in a parking lot at the local Arby’s. They looked content. I asked would-be dealer Trent if he had doobage to spare. He did. I promised to pay him back. He believed me, so I never did.

Spring meshes nicely with herb. In growing heat, I enjoyed the inability to think or move. I couldn’t smoke, as I was never alone at Eisenhower House. So I ended up eating Mary Jane. Jill disapproved, especially when I made it a point to chew the joint, paper and all, before her. I tell people this story and they don’t believe me, the least of my problems.

I still went to class; still ran myself up and down for bed and board. Jill upped her hours at Walgreens, saving money for her move this summer. Trent had his hands full with Chelsea’s band. Chelsea avoided me altogether. I didn’t write Portia.

Notions of hygiene changed too. I’d be laid in bed, fascinated by what came out of my nose. If big and dry, an earthy green with embedded hair, I’d catapult across the room, waiting to hear contact with the wall.

Succeeding nuggets were rarely satisfying: mere putty to be squeezed this way and that. Then there were the lads deep inside—glistening blokes with tails. They couldn’t even be flicked. Like paste, they could only be scraped across the carpet. On to Nostril #2.

Eventually, I’d rise, stretching, vertebrae playing a sonata; and a full bladder. How I never passed water in my sleep, I’ll never know. Perhaps it had something to do with a peculiar piece of the male physique. Unfortunately, the lone Eisenhower loo was near Bruce and Arianna’s quarters, and I always had to scurry to it, lest anyone see the mast of British sea power.

Inside, door locked and steam fan on, I had to bend over and carefully aim, lest I hit seat. Then, hot stream, exhalation, and perverse pleasure.

I’d twist shower’s cold spigot first. Eisenhower House was old. It didn’t have an all-purpose dial to turn ever so slightly left of centre for warm water. No, it was back to adding hot to cold. Compromise reached, I’d step under the waterfall and close my eyes. I rarely used soap. The fast water, I liked to think, simply pushed down any grime.

I would lather my face, though, if I made the mistake of looking at my mug in the mirror before stepping into stall. I hated blackheads. If I saw any on my honker, I’d squeeze them until a tiny loaf streamed forth, nose red with fingernail cuts before I had the sense to stop.

In the shower, I didn’t think twice. Arianna’s Oil of Olay would be applied to an unforgiving part of me. I was never able to get the job done if I fantacised about Chelsea, someone I had. I could only follow through thinking of Donna, someone I only could have had. If I had to think of a male, I only thought of Paul: someone I both had and hated. I don’t understand sex at all. Sin performed, I emerged from stall, skin hot, and wanting to return to bed.

Worst of all during this dark period, I started listening to God-given rock ’n’ roll. And the harder the sound, the more sinister the subject, the more I enjoyed it.

My fave band for two weeks was Big Black, introduced to me by Joe. They weren’t impressive musically. It was always the words that got me fired up. In one song, I kept hearing the phrase, “Suck Daddy!” It wasn’t expressed pretentiously, as Revelation and Queasy would do. No, I pictured someone twisted and sincere.

“What’s he screaming about?” I asked Joe. We were in his garage. He was changing a string on his bass, shirt off. The boy needed only a loincloth and body oil. Chelsea was nowhere to be seen.

“Jordan, Minnesota. That’s the title. You remember that story on the news, long time ago?”

“I’ve only been in America seven years—er, months.” Drink now hit me fast. Right, we were drinking. Then Jim, not Joe, stopped fiddling with contraptions and turned his attention to me, eager to tell yet another Yank psycho-legend. According to him, a small town in the state of Minnesota had recently been exposed as being the home of a child sex ring.

But I was skeptical. There were many child molestation scandals in America at the time, making a lot of journalistic noise but rarely withstanding scrutiny. But for the sake of the tune I’d heard, I wanted everything to be true. So I bade Joe play it again and listened, thrilled.

The next ballad was Passing Complexion. Again, I didn’t understand what most of the screaming was about. I usually just heard He had what they call / A passing complexion.

Apparently—again, according to Jim—the tune concerned a mulatto. I was intrigued. Why not? Given that most songs only care about a crazy little thing called love, psalms about truck driver concubines, sawed-off shotguns, and teens setting themselves afire were default interesting. I asked Jim to dub me tapes of his Big Black records; and I put myself to sleep at night listening on Shauna’s Walkman.

Back to the morning: I’d eat cereal for breakfast, nothing else. Instead of watching TV, I’d watch Bruce and Arianna play their comedy act in the kitchen. He’d compare her cooking to starvation. She’d compare his face to that of a wombat. “One more word out of you,” she’d sometimes say, “and you’ll really starve, Mister.”

It took me a moment to realise what she was talking about. Had the couple been younger, there would’ve been no delay, but these were olds, and religious nutters besides, and so beyond the pale. Will Witnesses fuck like rabbits, I wondered deliriously, at the end of time of the long dominion, when the larcenous junta known as the government is gone and all the zombies have risen from their tombs? In the time of forever and a day, will everyone eventually have sex with everyone else a million times over? Jill should be proud she never converted me.

At times Bruce attended me. He usually ate an omelet he cooked himself. Some mornings, he’d bring up divinity as fumes of melted American orange cheese would crept up now cleared nostrils. He’d go through phases in which the possibility of me being turned around still seemed remotely possible. That or Bruce was showing his wife he was at least making an effort.

In essence, Bruce tried to show me that being a religious nutter was actually kind of fun, so long as you took a recess at the proper time. But looking back, I’m sorry to say he was still wrong.

Be tolerant, liberal, and trusting, and chances are you'll end up too tolerant, liberal, and trusting, and if not you, then your children. Proof: Jill’s doubts dived much deeper than Bruce’s laughable resistance to cosmetic aspects of the cosmic; of the Organization’s methods and teachings. And look where it got her.

Jill wasn’t the innocent Bruce hoped. I’d seen her swill, drop acid, and flirt. No doubt Arianna suspected the truth. But Bruce always won when it came to Jill; and me. He insisted. He was a fool. No clear-headed father allows a male friend of his daughter to come and stay in the same house with her, even if there’s no fooling round, even if said male pretended he was gay, even if only for two months.

Don’t misunderstand. I’ll always be in hock to Bruce for saving me. Were it not for him, I’d have been sent back to England without so much as a high school diploma. I’m certain that’s why I was allowed to stay—to save me. So I’m grateful.

Yet Bruce was too nice. He thought (as did daughter) that by leading by example, I’d turn to their way of thinking. I daresay such tolerance has as its source blind arrogance. If nothing else, the old man should’ve seen in me his own 18-year-old self, and been more intolerant. I say this in hindsight, naturally.

Religious discussion ended, however, thanks to Shauna, who blasted music from hers and Jill's room. She was doing this more and more. Insurrection, I suppose, for quiet girls like her and Heather. But unlike the latter, whose Pixies, say, could—in theory—be pleasing to the ears given a certain conjunction of astrological bodies, nothing good could come from All my ex’s live in Texas played at top volume.

God help her, Shauna loved Country and Western. It was amusing to hear the Eisenhowers yell, “Turn that down!” I’d be less diplomatic. “Shauna, call me off the wall—but how can you listen to that?”

“At least it doesn’t have keyboards.” This was an official defense in those years. “Here, you’ll like this instead.” She began The Devil went down to Georgia. I fled; brain stem intact.

Jill came to the rescue again. She came into my room the morning of Saturday, 14 May 1988, exactly three weeks since my journey into evil. She zipped up the binds. I wasn’t pleased; muttered so. This only inspired Miss E.

“Get up, Hay. This has gotta stop. You’re sleeping way too much.”

“Jill....” Eyes stayed closed. I saw, through thin lids, chestnut light. I talked into a pillow. “I know you mean well. Stop it.”

Fired up, Jill jumped on the bed. “Come on. You need to be part of the human race again.”

“No.”

“I mean it. It’s for your own good.”

I wriggled; and finally sat up. “I hate you.”

Jill sat cross-legged. “Say what you want. Do what I tell you.”

I saw the clock on the night stand. “Eleven o’clock? You monster.” Then, “I mowed the lawn last week. It’s your turn now.”

“Actually, it’s Shauna’s.”

“You’re joking.”

“No. She’s old enough. I started when I was her age.” Jill laughed with dark pleasure. “She’s dreading it too. She should. Worst work in the universe.”

“The two of you shouldn’t be mowing lawns at all. I suppose you’ll want to fly planes next.”

“I’m sure that was funny back in 1907. No, this is Mom’s doing. What’s good for the gander is good for the goose.”

“Really? Why doesn’t she mow?”

“Hah! If it were up to Mom, she’d put a couple of Greek goats out there to eat all the grass. Don’t you think we’re weird enough in this neighborhood?”

I fell back upon cool mattress with blue sheets from Jill’s childhood, featuring fading drawings of the chambered nautilus, cut in a cross-section to reveal mother-of-pearl. “Come on.” Jill pulled me by the arm. She was surprisingly determined. My body, wrapped in bed sheet, hit the floor. And at last I awoke.

“I was going to save this as a surprise,” she said, quickly, before I cursed her. “But I’m taking you somewhere today.”

“I’m listening.”

“Let’s go to the zoo.”

“Where?”

“Be ready in an hour. And don’t forget breakfast. Start eating again.”

“You’re deranged. Why would I go to the bloody zoo? I just want to hide in my dark room and sleep. I know that sounds bad. But is it? Every time I go out—that’s when the irresistible shit hits the immoveable fan. You notice that?”

Jill shook her young face. Her hair swayed. Such beautiful hair, I noted for the first time in a long time. “You’re not a pretty sight these days, Samuel.”

“You’re right.”

“Please? Just with me. Nothing’ll happen. I promise. I won’t let it.”

“Why the zoo? Why animal prison?”

“Just because. Good enough?”

I showered, dressed, ate my usual, a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios. I moved mechanically, with little thought. Outside, the hot day was moist. Water sprinklers, lawn mowers, portable radios blasting Motown, filled Stony Brook with abysmal noise. Fat-arsed baby boomers grunted, wheezed, sneezed, as they slapped cars wax, jogged, inhaled dandelion seed. “I love summer!” declared Jill, back in her Bug, setting off. “Late spring, I mean.” Long lips formed a pretty smile. Do stop it, Hay.

I wiped sweat from temples. “If only your car had an AC.”

“AC’s for wimps.”

“You’re Donna Turner, you know. Minus the fangs.”

“Minus the tits too. Your worst nightmare, aren’t I?” Jill winked. She was in a progressively good mood. I went the other way. I was a mess. For once, I both knew and admitted it, as well as cared. I think.

We braved Houston traffic all the bloody way to the Hermann Park Zoo. Why we were gong there, I still didn’t know, nor, to be fair, still didn’t care. We entered a large car park surrounded by trees and loads of shade, finding a spot near a herd of yellow school busses. At the gate, we queued up with a pack of olds. There seemed to be more and more vegetation. Strange, considering we were in the heart of the city. Yet pine and bamboo, side by side, blocked any view of skyscrapers.

It was quiet here too. We heard no traffic. And the walkways were dirty not with litter, but dirt and twigs from trees overhead. Then I heard a strange sound. Running water. And something else. I was perplexed.

“What?” Jill must’ve seen the look on my face.

“Sounds like barking. There—that. Don’t you hear it?”

She was pleased. “You mean the sea lions?”

“A wot?”

“It’s the first thing you see when you get past the gate—the seal lion pool.”

“You’re joking.”

“No, Samuel. They like English boys too. Come on.” We paid our price; passed turnstile; and indeed, before us was a great hole in the ground, its bottom filled with blue water, brown islands, and wet seals black as outer space. The fellows barked in pleasure (or impatience) as some jerk-off in shorts-too-short blew a whistle and pitched fish from a bucket into their monster-whiskered holes.

I’d never been to a zoo. I never saw such creatures with my own two eyes. And quite a different experience it was than watching nature documentaries on BBC1 at Peter’s flat. Actually seeing a lion, camel, bear, eating and sleeping and taking a dump was captivating.

Jill led the way. I said little, mostly standing and taking in the hippo floating in dirty water; jaguar pacing and panting in the dust of a well-worn trail; a baby elephant running alongside mother, romping with a little wooden barrel. I was particularly struck by the giraffe couple. Their bizarre fur looked like slabs of brown rock crowded in a pool of white.

Nothing compared to the zoo’s lone tiger, however. The beast stunned me. He lay upon a rock, taking in the sun. He didn’t look real at first, even with belly rising and falling. But then he sat up and looked at the rabble across the gulf separating us from him. I wish I could say he looked straight at me. He was a beautiful brute. Jill loved him too. He scared with just a grumble. I felt small, and exhilarated.

In contrast, we barely acknowledged the flamingoes. Their bright pink hurt my eyes and the stench from their waste corroded our nose. Yes, thumbs down, way down, to the flamingo—they and the baboon with the bright blue arse.

All else were delights, though: Monkeys eating fruit. Dik-diks prancing on toothpick legs. Pythons sat in balls of coils. Jill and I ate ice cream and peanuts. We often got lost and walked in circles. Hours passed. We had a delightful time.

I have a friend now who hates zoos. Strange since he’s no lover of animals and has shot more than his fair share. He just hates to see them in cages. One time, on the telly, we watched video of a circus elephant losing its head, attack its trainer, then running out into the streets, howling. Of course, it was killed soon after. Tom was upset. “You see!” he said, standing up, pointing. “You see!” And stomped off without explanation.

Jill and I sat on a bench at the bottom of a sunken plaza, itself home to a stone reflection pool ringed by oaks. Here, under the cover of fragrant magnolia trees and the songs of 100 birds, we—and dozens of others—took respite from the sun. A breeze blew; pleasant frost to the salt on my arms.

“I don’t mind saying it,” I said quietly. “I’m glad we came here. Glad you forced my hand.”

Jill smirked appreciatively, not looking at me. “I had a feeling you’d take to this place.” She fanned her face with the complimentary one-page map given to us at gate. She wore shades and a hat, smart girl.

I watched clouds; puffs sat like mountains. The air couldn’t be more still. No mercy. I closed eyes in irritation. I hated the sun. Fresh surf ran over scalp. Orange eyelids burned. A stream slipped into mouth. I quickly wiped with my T-shirt.

“What?” Jill was surprised. So was I. I was laughing, after all.

“I don’t know. I feel quite out of sorts. But in a good way now.” I looked at the freckles on Miss E’s face. Boldly, I took off her shades. “I never thanked you properly,” I said. “For rescuing me. From the Turners, I mean.”

Another, stronger wind blew; and leaves, no bigger than my thumb, danced across the stone of the plaza, making a finger-tapping sound. “Don’t be silly.” Jill rose to the challenge; and didn’t turn away. “You know I’d do anything for you, Samuel. You do know that, don’t you?”

“Yes. You’re a good friend to me. I appreciate that.”

Jill’s fingers wrapped themselves around mine. “I’ll miss you, you know. I mean, I know I’ll see you again after we graduate. But how long after that?”

“Why don’t you go with me?”

Jill misunderstood. “I can’t go to West Texas State.” She laughed.

“No, I mean to England. Next month. With me.”

Jill let go. “You’re serious?”

“Why not? If you can afford it, of course. Portia’s paying for me to come. Her wedding gift to me.”

Jill wiped her eyes; tried to laugh; settled for sincere. “I’d love to go.”

“Are you all right?”

“Oh, Samuel, just shut up.”

“Sorry?”

“You drive me crazy. You know that?”

“Do I?”

“Yes!”

“Right, get used to it.”

“If only you knew how American you sound by now.”

“It’ll be our dirty little secret.”

“One of many.”

Should I take her hand now? “Caesar and Christ—together at last.”

Jill frowned. Violet smoke from nearby teens drifted into our eyes. “I wish I understood your fascination with that person. I saw that book you read in the library once. The war in Gaul—something like that. I don’t get it.”

“Neither did Portia.”

“If Caesar was so great, why was we knifed to death by his so-called friends?”

“Jealousy, I suppose. I suspect hanging from a cross isn’t much better.”

“Christ didn’t hang from a cross, if you really want to know.”

“I don’t. I’m saying a bloody end’s a bloody end.”

Jill’s soft face stared hard, transforming into Philosophical Jill. Definitely no hand-holding now. “Answer me just one question. Do you think Caesar had any regrets? When he died?”

“I’m not sure he had time to reflect on anything but pain. He wasn’t kept alive as long as your forsaken boy.” We hadn’t spoken like this with each in a long time; for good reason.

“Come on. There’s a difference and you know it. What did Caesar do? Don’t you think that even if he had time, just a little bit of time, when all was said and done, he wished he’d done things differently?”

“Again, I think both JC’s died in supreme agony. Who can think in such pain?”

Jill’s grip loosened. She watched white water fly from the fountain. “I hope when I die, I don’t have any regrets.”

“My little morbid German-Greek, you are unique, dear.”

Eyes narrowed. She was obsessed. “If I had to die right now ... I’d accept it. I’d be scared—absolutely. But I’d accept it. I wouldn’t fight it. Do you believe me?”

“At the risk of sounding square, why must you carry on about such things?”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“We’re at the zoo, that’s why. We should be talking about the size of elephant shit, if we must talk at all.”

Jill smiled, but kept hold of mischief. “I don’t talk like this with anyone else.”

“Lucky me.”

“Samuel! Now you’re making me feel like a weirdo.”

“You are.”

She laughed. “You’re right. I go too far. Look where that got me.”

“You’re going to live a long time, Jill. You’ll hit a hundred, I’m sure. You’ll have loads of kids and even more grandkids. You’ll be an anthropologist and traverse the globe doing field assignments. You’ll do it all. Dying should be the last thing on your mind.”

“I’m not worried. I’m just saying ... oh never mind. It’s your fault.”

“Is it?”

“Yes, why can’t you talk about football and celebrities like everyone else?”

I thought. “I want to tell you something.”

“Uh oh.”

“Seriously.” This was unplanned. But I went with it. “I want to say that I don’t believe in your religion, but I do admit….” Too late now. But just say it. Say it and get on. “You and your family have changed the way I see some things. I don’t think it’s because you’re Witnesses either. I just think the lot of you, quite naturally, are quite … er, lively.”

“You have an original way of complimenting, Samuel.” Jill was grinning from ear to ear, as they say.

“Sorry, that came out crooked. I think ... hmm ... I think if your family were anything else—Catholic, Hindu, whatever—they’d be the same way. At least, I fancy thinking they would. They’re good people above all else. Actually,” and this part was easier, “I’ve never met anyone like your family. I never knew their sort existed. That’s all.”

Hadn’t Chelsea said the same, months ago? Where was she these last weeks? I rarely saw her even in school. She no longer lunched with the gang. But then, neither did I. I’d never tell Jill what happened.

Children perched themselves at the edge of the fountain. We watched their dangerous balancing act. Jill watched as she asked. “Is that why you cried?”

“Pardon?”

“I heard you. In the bathroom. The day you came. After my parents welcomed you.”

“You’re bloody hallucinating.” I cracked a knuckle. And finally let go. I’d never admit it. I had perched on the edge of the bathtub. I tried not to make noise. I convulsed. “I do admit to being overwhelmed. Stressful time. I’m breaking out in zits just thinking about it.”

Jill let it go, and for that alone, I could love her. “Hungry now?” she asked.

“Bloody famished.”

“I know a place. You’ll love it.” She playfully ran a hand across her head. Strands of wet hair clove to her fingers, to our mutual disappointment.

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[daysofthrobbinggristle]

81

  Past cars. Past fields of peacocks. Past dirt roads and railway tracks.

I don’t know where I found the shut filling station in the centre of nowhere. And there, a pipe with a hose. I drank heartily, pouring water over me. Slowly, thought returned; and blocked the way between me and the black hole.

I went to the private station’s pay phone. I ringed Jill.

Or so I thought. Richie Fenway answered. I wasn’t fazed. Neither was he. I asked him to pick me up. He agreed. He didn’t even ask me why I was where I was. As it turned out, I was just inside Karpis city limits. I still don’t know how far I ran. Only in youth, Bianca, if you are indeed reading this.

Richie hadn’t slept all night, the bobbies asking him a thousand and one questions. Now Richie was going to work. “Are you gonna make it?” I asked. The living dead looked better than he. “I need the money,” he said. And that was that. But thanks to that, I was back in a car, leaving, finally, Hell.

“John got arrested. They didn’t even take him to the hospital, I don’t think. Guess I won’t see him again. Dude, the whole thing fell apart. The Pool Guy....”

“Yes?”

“Dude was an undercover cop.”

“You don’t say.” He could’ve been Scatman Crothers for all I cared.

“Yeah, he was the first to come in after Chompers went berserk. Jake beat him up earlier, you know, after what I told him, which was still true, you know. And Pool Guy left to got his partner. And they arrested Jake. Then they went to my place and rescued Boo-Foo and Poon-Tang from Chompers and John Boy. Oh, by the way, Chompers is dead. Pool Cop had to shoot him to get him off Boo-Foo. They almost shot John Boy too. Dude was crazy from peanut butter. But Poon-Tang and Pool Cop got him in cuffs, an Pool Cop and his partner arrested the other two, an a whole bunch more cops just flooded in, man. I couldn’t believe it. INS—that was the crap Pool Cop was lookin into. None of the drug shit. They got Inocente and all his cousins. Turns out Mr Salinas was workin for them too.Can you believe this shit?”

“No. Yes. No. Yes.”

“Everything blew up in one night. Just incredible. I jes got outta the police station not more than half an hour ago. I didn’t hold back either. I answered every fuckin question. I was scared. I told them everything. Good thing they weren’t interested in me. It was a fuckin madhouse. I don’t ever wanna go through that again. This has been the worst night of me life, Sam—the worst!”

“Mine, too.”

“Shit, I wanna go to work. I like work. I’m fuckin safe at work. Everything’s normal and predictable at fuckin work. I’d live at my fuckin job if I could.”

I said nothing, too busy watching Karpis transform into Quakertown, and putting the darkness behind me. Dawn began.

“I wish, Sam ... I wish I could change some things.”

I was, briefly, alarmed. Heather had said somewhat the same thing. But I doubted Richie wanted to off himself. Or try to. Dissatisfaction’s not the same thing as hopelessness. “Remember when I first met you? I joked about what losers we were. Jesus … I’d give anything to be a loser like that again.”

“The loser back then would disagree, I’m sure.” I wasn’t going to let Richie get away with that.

“Oh gawd,” Richie grumbled, but not at me. We had slowed for a red light, and on the median of the road stood another member of the Find Tiffany club, setting up shop, so to speak: a middle-aged housewife who had nothing to do at the break of day but ask to speak to us whilst we waited for green. An exhausted Richie politely rolled down his window.

“Sir, would you like a ribbon for your antenna?”

“No, thank you.”

“Sir,” the woman was disconcerted, “this ribbon won’t cost you a dime. We’re doing it in honour of Tiffany Mitchell. You know about her?”

“Are you kidding me?” Richie was offended. “She’s on the news every night. An I don get it. She’s just one missing girl. I mean, I feel bad for her but I really don’t want a ribbon on my car, thanks.”

The woman was shocked. She stood there, staring down at Richie. “Sir, do you have any children?”

“What?”

“What if this girl was your sister? Or your cousin? Wouldn’t you want to do everything you could to find her?”

“Putting a stupid ribbon on my car isn’t gonna find her.”

“It’s a symbol. It’s there to remind people—”

“What’s so special about her?”

Donna couldn’t have dropped her jaw deeper. “This girl is a human being, with family and friends who love her. How can you be so callous?”

Finally, green light. But Richie stayed. “I’m not callous. If I ever saw that girl, I’d call the police right away. But I guarantee you if it were one of my sisters—if it were even both my sisters, you and Channel 11 and the freaking National Guard wouldn’t give a shit because my family ain’t friends with the mayor.”

The lady was humbled. A little. “I’m sorry you feel that way.”

And that pushed our working class hero over the edge. “Me too, lady. So why don’t you take your yellow ribbons and shove them up your ass!”

Light back to red, Richie burnt rubber. He later told me he felt guilty for this outburst, especially after Tiffany Mitchell’s headless body was found floating in a pond not long after.

I called Jill at Golden Leaves of Grass. Richie could only take me that far. That was fine. Jill was freaking out, of course. After sleeping most of the previous day, she awoke to find me gone, and had been frantically searching for me. She was even about to ring the Turners as a last resort.

Jill brought me food. In her car, I ate like a starving dog. I told her everything that happened. She took me home. I slept till Monday morning.

And slept so hard I wet the bed.

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[daysofthrobbinggristle]

80

  I didn’t choose a direction.

I only went where an exit made itself available. I ended up in the field across from Tyrell Hut. I ran like a child of the corn, hoping Jehovah God was dissolving the complex behind with bombs of fire from high aether above.

Ahead, Tyrell Hut. And Rick’s car. And Rick. Why wasn’t I shocked? Once seen, it seemed inevitable. “Where the hell were you?” The moron was upset with me. “I told you to wait for me,” he lied. “I need your help, man.”

“Bugger you.” I breathed heavily; grabbed knees for support; rained sweat.

“I know where Emily is. I’m sure of it. You gonna help me?”

“Have you gone deaf? I don’t care if you beat me to a bloody pulp, you’re taking me home—now—so I can kill myself.”

“I need your fuckin help, man!” Rick picked me up and dropped me in his Camaro. I should’ve punched him. He would’ve punched back, and possibly broken my face, but that would’ve been better than what did happen.

We didn’t head for town. We sped through ever darkening countryside, street lights fewer and farther between. Rick slowed just enough to acknowledge stop signs, quickly look in both directions, then slam the gas in mad fury. I swung forwards and backwards violently. Finally, there were no signs, no lights. Only a pair of headlights heading down a road from our right. Lights becoming bigger, brighter, becoming one, crying like a dinosaur. It wasn’t a car. It was a train.

The Camaro must’ve hit a hundred. I closed my eyes. There was a rise where railway track met road. Rick used it as a ramp. The car flew briefly in the air. I closed my eyes. My stomach cursed the day I was born.

Gravity returned. I promptly vomited. I sat in astonishment as puke hit windscreen and dashboard, into the very AC tubing.

“Out the window!” Rick was horrified. I leant me head out. There wasn’t much left, just enough for the wind to leave a pale streak down the door.

Brown clouds hovered about the car. We were on a dirt road now. I saw fallow farmland: a Texan blasted heath, with only me, Rick, and, what else, peacocks. If Clyde Turner could see me now, the climax of my Heavy Metal Mediaeval Redneck Adventure.

“We’re just gonna grab Emily and leave.” Rick’s nostrils opened and closed like shutters in a camera. I wiped my mouth with my mouth. I would’ve given anything to be anywhere else. A coal mine would have been heaven.

The air cleared. “I knew it!” Rick and Camaro attacked as one, their quarry an abandoned house in the middle of the field. “I knew they’d be back here. I checked it out earlier but it was empty. They were getting high somewhere. But I knew they’d come back here.” Brakes. hit. Silver blasts of light blinked between wooden planks covering the windows. There were parked Fords and Chevys. These were no upcountry road races, however. No, tonight belonged wholly to the Dark Lord. Engine, cut. I heard His Heavy Metal from inside the house. Dots, connected.

Rick and Shayne used to swap girlfriends. Old girlfriends, he’d say. Not good enough. Shayne and Emily must’ve grown impatient with Rick’s living up to his end of the tradition, not to mention the whole falling in love crap, so the two devils snuck off to be with each other, as well as several others.

But Satan demanded sacrifice. After all, twas He who had turned losers like Shayne and company into winners, unlike Jesus, too busy with beautiful people to bother with the world’s forgotten boys, those who only wanted to feel like boys, not weak and harried outcasts having no proper parents to show them the way. Yes, it all made sense now. I surrendered to the insanity, thereby ceasing to be mad.

“This is where it always happens, man. This is where the dark shit goes down. I needed you to help me. No one can face dark shit alone. C’mon.” Rick put a tyre jack in my hand. “If any of my friends comes after ya, use that.” He was out the car, racing to the hut. I followed but left the jack. I was no Jake. And Rick didn’t need me. He was afire.

When I caught up with him, he was stood inside the shack, which was necessary to adjust eyes to strobe light. We made no sound. How could we? The metal blasting from the jam box next to the strobe light effectively separated us from the world we otherwise suffered.

What must’ve been the sitting room was dusty and filthy with trash with a hacked doll here and there. Most prominent, however, was the moronic pentagram painted in the middle of the floor, not to mention the three fat ugly naked chaps sat at various points round it, passing a joint counterclockwise, in defiance of the ways of Nature and Mr Christ.

Rick wasted no time. The closest former mate no sooner opened his eye before Rick’s knuckles knocked it back into darkness. He wasn’t knocked out, but he was in too much pain to do anything but squirm on the black floor, covering his face.

None of the others came after Rick. He went after them. He managed to grab only one more, grabbing him by the neck and slamming his face into the floor, knocked unconscious. The last one ran towards the door, but froze when he saw me. Off and on, I saw a face rightfully full of fear. I stepped aside. He flitted past me, running out into the field, moonlight reflecting nicely on acne-dotted bum.

Rick was salivating so heavily it fell in a stream over the boy he'd just worked over; semi-killed. It flew too, as Rick stood up and looked for Shayne and Emily. They couldn’t be seen. Like a lion, Rick raised his head in the strobe light and opened wide his mouth. Then, with deadly elegance, he kicked the jam box with his boot. It broke in two. Batteries flew like fat slow bullets. The instant silence was as jolting as the grinding guitars. The strobe light was knocked from its place but otherwise kept flashing.

“What the fuck?” A door to a room opened. At long last, I beheld the notorious Shayne. I expected a demon. I got a red-headed teen-ager with sweaty  mullet and purple pecker beneath pot belly. I didn’t see him for long, either. The moment he saw Rick, he disappeared back into the room and slammed the door. I’m sure he locked it too. Not that it mattered. Rick took two to three steps; then burst through the wall.

I’m not sure, but I may have screamed at this point. I would never have believed it had I not seen it with my own strobe-sick eyes. The wall was thin, yes, made of cheap plaster and rotting wood. Nevertheless, it actually took Rick two assaults: one with his upper body, the other with skinny legs of steel. He was mad with rage. I’d never seen anything fancy it. He was inside.

“I’m sorry, dude!” First, there were cries, then grunts; then nothing but fists hitting fat flesh. I ran to the hole in the wall. There was steady light in the room thanks to a circle of small lit candles, in whose centre Emily lied upon a towel. She was nude, of course, legs spread. Were not a foot twitching in drugged reaction, I would’ve thought her dead. Certainly, she didn’t acknowledge the battery taking place next to her.

Satisfied with his black and blue sculpture, Rick stepped over the candles and fell on Emily. He put his cut, bleeding hands round her neck. She saw him now but that’s all.

“Don’t,” I’m surprised I was able to say. Emily, chocked, coughed. Her eyes finally came alive. She looked at Rick, face fighting for consciousness.

“Do it,” she gasped.

“No!” I repeated, and at that, Rick let go. Emily made wet cries, catching her breath. I started breathing again myself. Rick shook. Strength and anger seemed to leave him, replaced with grief, exhaustion. He hunched over Emily. He started to sob. He banged his head on the floor.

Again, I ran.

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[daysofthrobbinggristle]

79

  Richie and I left stumbling; MAC spinning.

Methinks it was late afternoon. The sun and heat, still intense but stretched. Once more, we returned to Richie’s flat, where I fell on the sofa and Richie fell on Tammy, drunk and horny again. She awoke, sober and frigid.

“Where’ve you been? Where’s the beer?” Richie was an octopus. Tammy was a crab. “Wait! Lemme get high. An what’d you do with my cigarettes?”

“Aw, come on, baby. You don need blunt. All you need’s what I got for ya. I got the cure for what ails you. Here in my jeans, just past this child-proof cap.”

Watching ceiling spin clockwise, only to pause and start over, Richie’s blunt charms sounded like the lines to a song on a record I’d never find in a chain store.

“Wait, Richie!” Tammy insisted on bong first. I heard her push Richie away and stomp round the sitting room, ignoring me again. Hammish was right not to like her. “Where is it?” She was turbulent. But also scared.

Richie appeared in the doorway, thoughtful. “Oh yeah. I pitched it.”

“What?”

Richie explained, as if that would help. Tammy didn’t listen. “Richie! How could you do that?”

“Honey, you don’t wan the cops to find it, do you?”

“Richie! That was my bong! It cost me forty bucks!”

Richie, all hope of loving gone, growled. “I told you why. How could you spend forty bucks on a stupid bong anyway?”

“It was a good bong.” Tammy sat on the floor like an anvil falling from a roof, and almost wept. And Richie thought this a good time to lecture. “You need to lay low on the drugs anyway, baby. At least till the baby’s born.”

“Fuck you! You’re an alcoholic!” I covered my face with a pillow. Two rows in one day. I’m surprised it was so few. “Look at you!” screamed the pig. “You’re a fuckin alkie! You got a nowhere job! You don’t want to do anythin with your life! You don’t give a shit about me! All you care about is workin your crummy job and comin home and gettin drunk! I want more than that! Are you listening to me? I don’t know why I fell for you!”

Richie said nothing. I peered beneath pillow. Richie struggled to keep his balance. Finally, he spoke, and in a monotone worthy of Heather. “Look. You’re fat. You’re ugly. And I’m the only one who’s gonna give it to you.”

They say the truth hurts. I thought Tammy’s head would explode. “You asshole! I hate you!” She rose, attacked, punched. Richie fell to the floor. I got up. Tammy was now atop Richie, hitting his face with each “I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!”

I pushed her off. I thought she might go after me. I was ready to kick her face—kick the baby too; spare it life of misery with these two fools. Fortunately, the she-hog reverted to sobbing into the bong-water stained carpet. And once again, Richie and I left.

  “Damn, boy!”

Rashard stared at the red splotches on Richie’s face, impressed. Rashard’s flat was the only place left. But since his mother was home now, Richie and I snuck to the back of his unit and tapped on the bedroom window.

Rashard turned up the Midnight Star, his true musical love, as it turned out. Now Ma and her friend wouldn’t hear us. As a single black mother working two-and-a-half jobs, she resented, I was told, the older Richie having more influence over her baby than she, even though, oddly enough, when Ma was home, all she did was guzzle with her boyfriend.

“Hey,” muttered Richie. “Think you could snag us a beer?”

“Sure, man. Stay there. No, wait. Meet me by the dumpster.” We trudged our way back to the lovely spot where it all seemed to begin.

Richie rubbed away the pain in his cheeks. I said nothing. I knew the score. I was now my sister: Here was a problem. I was drunk. As it was too soon to try and correct the problem, I’d push it aside and drink more.

For the first time in America, I felt like I’d never left Pitsmoor. I never felt more Pitsmoor, in fact, down to the sweat. My father was a sweaty bloke, I strangely remembered; and like me, his armpits were swamps. Looking up, I finally understood why the day had been so stifling, even for Texas. Dark rain clouds slowly gathered in the sky. Only upon bursting would humidity evapourate and water cleanse. But I’d learnt by then never to ask when, which only prolonged the waiting.

Waiting for Rashard, Richie again peered into the fascinating dumpster, and this time actually reached in and extracted an item: a porno mag, two years old.

“Kick ass!” Richie was thrilled. For lack of alternative, so was I. Behind the rusty iron, we brushed aside broken glass to sit and thumb through well-worn pages.

I don’t remember details, except an article about porn stars unsuccessfully making the jump to mainstream flicks and returning to where they belonged. The usual names were featured: Amber Lynn, Ginger Lynn, Fill-in-the-twat Lynn.

“Yo! Gimme that!” Rashard snatched the dirty zine from our filthy fingers, and replaced it with bottles of Olde English 800. I marvelled at their size. Rashard looked like he had two enormous tumours on each leg when he appeared.

“Damn! These chicks are hot! Wait, cept for this one. Whoah—there’s a black girl in here!” Rashard dropped the magazine; cupped hands over crotch. “Goddam! Ain’t fair, man. Jest ain fair. I need a woman, man.”

“No, dude, you don’t.” Richie sipped malt liquor morosely.

“Shit!” Rashard nodded. “I said a woman. Not Hulk Hogan.”

“Ha ha. Well, I asked for it. I called her fat and ugly.”

Rashard shook his head. “Don let a woman do that to you. Ain’t natural.”

“Whatever. Can’t even knock on your door cuz you’re afraid of your mom.”

The slice of life dialogue was cut short by Jake’s pick-up screeching into the car park. Rashard took off without fanfare. He hated rednecks, this one the most.

Jake did as he did earlier—sat on the tailgate; ate and drank; this time an Italian Chicken Sandwich from Burger King instead of Church’s crispy chix; and Old Milwaukee instead of Bud. Richie saw the lager and went to it like a duck to water, as Jake himself might say. The git had the end of a slice of onion sticking out his mouth like the tail of a mouse.

“Hey.” Richie sat beside him. I followed, but kept my distance. Richie pointed at the six-pack. “You mind?”

Jake looked at Richie like he was a moron. In this case, the filthy car-worker was right. “You already got a beer’n yer hand.”

Richie looked at his 8-Ball. “Oh yeah.” He laughed. Jake didn’t. Richie moved on to something else. “Work suck today?”

Jake wiped his mouth; meal already finished; burgers easier to inhale. The sun was setting. A nice purple wash on the sky. Alas, constipated rain clouds stayed stuck. Jake popped open a tin one. “Thas a stupid question. Work always sucks.”

“I heard that.”

“Good for you.”

“Pearl fucked the Pool Guy.”

Jake stopped in mid-slurp. An ornery stare came to one eye. He sat his lager on the tailgate. He jumped off. He stood before Richie. Richie scrambled for words.

“It’s true, man. I got home early today and they were carryin on at the pool. And later on, we saw em come out of his apartment and she was still dressin.”

The giant remained before the dwarf, staring. Richie’s voice trembled. I didn’t feel sorry for him this time, though, though his being injured meant I’d never get home; but that was never happening anyway. Twas written I’d stay in Karpis 4-ever.

“I thought you should know. I mean, I don’t think that should be kept a secret, you know? It’s true, man, I’m not lyin. Ask Sam. I just thought you should know. I mean, I don’t know if they’ve been having an affair, but I know today that—”

Jake wrapped his hand round Richie’s neck. “If yer lyin, so help me, I’ll pop yer head off.” He squeezed. Richie wheezed. Should I meddle, I wondered. But by then, Jake had let go. “Get off my truck,” he ordered. Richie obeyed. Jake took his six-pack by its duck-killing plastic yokes and headed towards his flat.

“Why did you do that?” I would’ve accompanied the question with a shake of the head, but I’d lager to bevy.

“Trust me.” Richie rubbed his throat. “I’m doin the world a favor.”

“You take a lot of liberties, my friend.”

“Whatever. I gotta piss.”

We returned to behind the dumpsters. Warm rain dropped, gently, lulling us into comfort. Then Chompers barked and we jumped, soiling ourselves.

The cur pulled John, by both arms, out of the darkness of an alley between flat building and wooden fence. “You guys are pussies,” he laughed. “God, too easy!”

“John!” Richie zipped his fly. I had a litre to go. “Where the fuck you been?”

John, AKA John-Boy, giggled. “Dude. You’re wasted.” So was he. John’s red face twitched. And he smiled so wide you couldn’t see his eyes. Richie’s thoughts were mine. “Are you on speed?”

“Dude....” Contortions forced John into an ecstatic whisper. “I got some really great stuff.” He reached for his pocket. Richie stopped him. Chompers growled.

“You gotta get out of here.”

“Huh?”

Richie told him the story. John couldn’t keep still, as though there was an earthquake just where he was standing. “Man, you’re bullshittin me. How would those two fuckin retard pigs know?”

“Inocente! Who else?”

“Dude, that’s bullshit. I just sold him a bunch. Just now.” John scratched himself. “Your place was locked up, so I thought you were at his pad.”

“He bought that shit from you?”

“Yeah!” John scratched again, exactly as before, down to the number of scratches. Chompers left to sniff another dog’s dump, then take one of his one. I never saw a dog with so pendulous a sack. Didn’t it hurt, I wondered, the way it hit his back legs? “He said he’d give it a try.”

Richie shook his head. “I don get it.”

“Man, somebody’s fuckin with you.”

“No, dude, somebody’s fuckin with you. I don know what's going on. Again. But I do know those cops weren’t kidding. You better get outta here.”

Richie was right. John said as much. “Where am I gonna go? I can’t go home. Not yet anyway. You gotta let me stay with you, dude.”

“No way!” Richie was firm.

“Come on, man. Just for tonight.”

“Sorry. But I gotta family to look after.”

“Don’t do this to me. If yer right, man, then I’m like ... fucked. Come on.”

“No! Get away from me.” Richie walked away. The rain stopped. Nothing was going right. John looked at me. “Don’t look at me.” I followed my master.

“Thanks a lot, dude!” John screamed. “Guess you’re a real friend, huh? You’re an asshole, man! Thanks a whole fuckin lot!”

“You’re welcome.” We returned to Richie's unit. He looked up the staircase; couldn’t make it past the third stone step. We sat instead; finished our 40’s.

Blackness fell on Karpis like one of Chomper’s turds. The MAC complex was quiet. Those few outside paid us no attention. A light drop of rain hit my head. Teasing again. God, flush this toilet. Time to go again.

I made my way behind Richie’s unit, positioning myself between two rusty AC’s. Behind me, the rotting fence. Behind it, the field separating MAC from the home of Anderson’s friend, now enemy.

Did Rick remember he left me? Did he ever find Emily? Did he find her with Shayne? What did he do to them? Would Satan protect Shayne from Anderson’s temper? Jake was a Smurf by comparison. Wall turned wet. Rain stopped again. Would tears be next?

Not mine. Tammy’s, coming from above. I recognised her porcine sob. Acrobatically, I quietly stood on one of the AC’s. I wasn’t able to peek through the first-storey window, but I was close enough to hear more, all the while still squirting.

“Here you go, honey.” Pearl was with her. Richie should probably know this before he walked back inside. “Take this.”

“I don know if I can drink anymore.” I imagined Tammy raising red eyes from a pillow depicting stallions.

“Bitch, you’ll drink what I give you.” Pearl was teasing; she also wasn’t.

Tammy sipped. Pearl lit her 33rd cigarette of the day. I pictured her on the bed, playing with Tammy’s piglet-curls. I noticed my guy still taking the air. I brought him inside; strained my ears. Moths hit the screen, seeking the yellow light.

“Tammy,” said the Marlboro voice, “you can’t let no man boss you around. It ain’t right and you know it.”

“Richie doesn’t boss me round. He just drives me crazy sometimes.”

“Don let him!”

Tammy sighed. “I’m not you. I don’t wanna be the boss. And I don’t want him to be the boss. I just want us to be equal.”

Pearl laughed. “Honey, wake up and smell the coffee. First, finish yer drink.”

Tammy wouldn’t contradict her best friend who’d been right about so many things so many times; who befriended Tammy at her lowest. “All that’s fine and dandy, but let’s keep it real, OK? When you get down to it, the woman controls the man. Even if you don’t see it that way, that’s the way it is. You can be an aircraft carrier captain, y’see? He’s in charge of thousands of guys, who hafta do everything he tells em. But when that same dude gets home and his wife tells him to take out the trash—who orders him to take out the trash—whattya think he’s gonna do?”

“Take out the trash?”

“Hell yeah, cuz, Tammy honey, the woman controls the man.”

“That seems so … unfair.” Tactful Tammy? I must’ve misheard.

“Nigga, please! It’s all evened out, anyhow. Men get to act like they’re in control but the woman knows where it’s really at. So don’t go feelin sorry for any man. I know you don’t like ta hear this kinda stuff, but it’s true. Guys think with their dicks and that’s that. If they think they’re not gonna get any action, they’ll do anything you want. You just wait. Richie’ll come back. And if you got just a lil bit stronger, you’ll get to see him beggin on his hands and knees. You should see the way Jake is when I got him by the balls. Nothin’s cuter than a grown man cryin for coochie. Make him earn it, Tammikins. Be a woman!”

Tammy giggled. “Oh Pearl, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You’d be fine.” Bed-springs squeaked. Pearl sounded like she was smiling.

“No. No, I wouldn’t. I’d go crazy. I wouldn’t even have the guts to ask out Richie if you hadn’t put a gun to my head.”

“You just needed some encouragement. We all need that. And now look at you, barefoot and pregnant and a bride-to-be. You’ve come a long way, baby. It’s true. You’re so beautiful now.”

Silence. I stood on my tippy toes.

“Pearl?”

“Yes?”

“What’re you doing?”

“Nothin.” Dragon voice returned. “Shit. Need to lay off the sauce. At least for tonight, huh?” She left the room.

More silence. I was about to fall down.

“I think you should go.”

I raced back to unit’s front. Pearl passed Richie on the stairwell. To my surprise, they said nothing to each other. My guess, no energy.

After she was gone. “Go to Tammy,” I said. “Go now.” He saw the look in my eyes. He went up the stairs. Bloody hell, I’d become Dr. Ruth.

Tammy seemed to be waiting for us. There was an awkward pause when we entered. Then Richie walked up to the woman who, truth be told, changed everything in his life. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too.”

The couple embraced. “I love you, Tammy. You know that, right?”

“Yes.”

“You’re the only one for me.” Tammy tightened her embrace.

“I’ll never love anybody but you,” she said. Sincerely? Unfortunately, yes.

“You’ll always be my little butter monkey.”

“What?”

“My ice cream puppy. My sugar reptile.”

Tammy (playfully?) wrapped her hand round Richie’s neck. “You drive me crazy, Richard Fenway. Crazy!”

“Whattya expect? I’m Mexican and live in Karpis.”

“You said some horrible things.”

Richie had no quip for that. But he didn’t need one. “But so did I,” said Tammy, resolving the crisis.

Of course, nothing whatsoever was resolved. Richie still lacked ambition. He still hated Tammy. But that didn’t matter now. Now was the time to play hide the sausage in the sausage. All was right. And now was the time for me to strike. I slapped my hands. “Right, all’s well that ends well. Say, Richie, if it’s not too much trouble, would you mind, terribly, giving me a ride home. Only if it’s convenient for you, of course.”

“How’d you even end up here?” Thus, the only words Tammy said to me that entire day.

“I don’t know.” And at the time, I didn’t. The day had felt like a year, and it still wasn’t over.

“Tammy! Open the door!” Pearl banged on the locked front door. Her hideous voice battered my soul. “Hurry, please! Jake’s gonna kill me!”

Tammy, ever loyal, promptly let go of Richie and let Pearl fall inside. She smothered Tammy with cigarette-smelling arms. “Oh god, Tammy, Jake’s so pissed!”

Soon-to-be Mrs Fenway was mystified. “What’s goin on?”

“I don know. He said he was waitin for me. He said he was gonna teach me a lesson. He was about to punch the fuck out of me. I just ran. I had to! He’s drunk. He’s jest drunk.”

“Are you sure?” Richie enjoyed himself; showed it. In a different world, he and I would have been best friends. I didn’t respect him, but I fancied him.

“This is none of your business!” Pearl Buick hissed.

“Fuck you. You’re in my house now.”

Pearl turned to Tammy. “We gotta call the police.”

Tammy didn’t acquiesce, which surprised me. She took her would-be lover by the hand. “Pearl, you gotta tell me what’s goin on.”

“I don know! I jus came home and he told me he I was a slut and he’d already beaten up Tim and now he was gonna—”

“Who?” But Tammy proved she could add two and two. “Pearl, did you fuck the Pool Guy?”

I almost lost my balance. But I proved myself the consummate fly on the wall. Pearl slumped in a chair, a Nile of crocodile tears. “I’m so lonely!”

Richie was a vulture. “You are a slut. If I were Jake, I’d kill you too.”

Pearl’s tears were inflammable. “You fuckin wetback! I’m gonna kill you!”

Tammy got between them. “Pearl, get back.” She did. Tammy turned to Richie. “Go get those two cops.”

“No way!”

“Richie, this is serious! Jake’s drunk and out of control.”

“But—”

“Go!”

Richie ran. I followed. Of course I did. I wasn’t staying with Pig and Dragon. We hurried down the stairs; then down the footpath. Strangely, it felt good, as though I had loads of energy to expend, which actually I didn’t.

We rounded a corner and saw Rashard. Richie screamed that Jake was beating up Pearl in his flat. “Go fetch Boo-Foo and Poon-Tang pronto!” Rashard did. Richie now walked. “Well, that was easy.”

But turning another mouldy corner, ghetto became barrio. And a fiesta was taking place at Inocente’s flat. Ten or twelve fresh illegals were in attendance, getting pissed and playing cards and head-banging to La Mafia. Richie looked at me.

“Unbelievable,” he mouthed.

“(Spanish).” Richie and I turned. A smuggled mexicano was having a go talking to us. But unlike the conventional-looking illegals inside the flat, this bloke had long hair, goatee, and wore a T-shirt that looked deliberately torn. He looked wasted beyond the stars, but happy—thrilled at last to be in the Home of the Number of the Beast and the Land of the Blizzard of Ozz.

“What?” asked Richie.

“(Spanish).”

“Ah ... no hablo. Capeesh?”

The bloke tried sign language. Richie had no patience. “Sorry, man. I gotta go. Go ask your amigo, Inocente. Not me.”

“Wait.” I think I knew what the stranger wanted. I made a few gestures of my own. At one in particular, he nodded and smiled. I turned to Richie. “He wants to know where the girls are.”

Richie laughed for the first time that day. He laughed so hard he nearly fell to the ground. I chuckled somewhat meself. Money, jobs, and food were easier to get in America. Why not bearded clown as well?

Alas, Rashard flew into flew. “Hey man!” Behind him, Boo-Foo and Poon-Tang. I felt pants. The two were in their civvies, sweating and red-faced. In an instant, Richie was Worried Boyfriend again. “This way!” He ran back towards his flat. I followed. Rashard and the pigs followed me. I hoped for Richie’s sake Jake was there. I hoped it would all be over soon. Then, once I took another whiz, which I needed badly, I could go home.

Richie pounced up the stairs like a panther climbing a tree. The door was locked. He pounded it. Cheap paint flakes floated. “It’s me! Open up. They’re here.”

We were inside. The AC cold, wonderful. The sight of John, sat on sofa, was not. “What the fuck are you doing here?” Richie screamed.

Boo-Foo and Poon-Tang got inside. John made a run for the door. Boo-Foo smiled as he tripped him. “Where you goin, boy?”

We all heard the growl. We saw Chompers chomp his chompers on Boo-Foo’s arm. Jaws locked into place. Boo-Foo screamed. Poon-Tang kicked Chompers in the side. Chompers did not let go. Poon-Tang kicked harder. John, speed and panic in his blood, bounced up and charged Poon-Tang. “Doncha kick my dog, fucker!”

The thought did come to me.

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[daysofthrobbinggristle]

78

  Me llamo Inocente Ramos.

I live in America almost a year now. Already, I am a prosperous young man. I exceeded all expectations made when I crossed the Rio Grande the last time in May. No more am I the chump from the wrong side of the water in Matamoros. I have money, employment and influence, and all grows by the week. I confess, to get where I am means a few scruples had to fall by the wayside but I am unrepentant and triumphant. Come with me and let me tell you the secrets of my success. I was born and raised in Matamoros. I am not your average mexicano. I never knew my father. He died. I was raised by my mother and my sister. Growing up in Matamoros, never was the time when I was not intimately familiar with gringos and the ways of America. We were so poor my mother made no objection when I dropped out of school in order to work. That is to say, work on gringos. I became a hustler at the tender age of thirteen. Some muchachos choose to rob the gringo outright. Others choose the protracted means of con artistry and subtle filchery. Depending on the state of my finances, I did both. Robbery is always more risky, but if you want to get somewhere fast I would join my vatos in occasional ambushes. Praise be to God that my uncle then taught me the value of the security and scrutiny of a steady income and let me work at his poncho kiosk. I was almost saved. Time passed and many changes occurred. Most of my friends gave up the street life for that of family and factory. My sister was lost in the world of Boys Town in Nuevo Laredo, performing bestiality for the disgust and delight of gringo college students. My mother moved to Mexico City in shame to live with her cousin. I was alone and bored, and tired of the home life. I wasn’t getting younger and one day I decided to plunge headfirst into the future and make my permanent home deep in America. I have been in Tejas dozens of times. Infiltration was always more easy than less difficult. One trip I made it all the way to Beeville. Yet these were impulsive detours. The real deal would be much different. I had more advantages than your average alien. I knew enough English and, more important, I knew the ways of the gringo. Hustling five years straight will teach you much about the human condition. Plus, I was coming to stay, not merely to get enough money and return on seasonal circuits. My motivation was strong. Through secret channels, I arranged a date with the network. On a Tuesday night, me and several other emigre-wannabes crossed the river and made it safely within the limits of Brownsville where I had many contacts. The next morning a van picked us up. What really came up the drive was a Mayflower truck. Inside were twenty other fellow compatriots. I protested to the driver, a Second-Generation, but was in no position to make changes. The faster one could journey into the interior, the deeper one would end up and so much the safer. I didn’t know where we were headed except north so in I went. I am lucky to be alive. This was last May, when the heat begins. There I was, standing in a crowd in the dark for hour upon hour. The driver would not stop for a break. All of us quickly became dehydrated and soon after started to smother. I believe the worst part of hyperventilating in such closed quarters is the manner in which odour can be the killer. Not just body odour, but that of men evacuating their bladder and bowels. Towards the end, not knowing the end was near, I was convinced it was the end and I soon began to praying for the end for the first time in years, praying to Holy Father and to St Benedict. I even promised to live a holy life should I be spared. Then the door was flung open and once outside in the brightness of Lucifer’s land we were sprayed for a full half-hour by a garden hose. We were near Houston. We were safe. All of us survived. We were treated good by the driver’s family, given food and shelter. I thanked the Father for his change of heart and renewed my vow of correct living. It took a time to regain my senses. Most of you gringos wouldn’t understand. Despite my intimate familiarity with America I was in no way prepared for the subtle shock of been immersed in a foreign belly. Here I was, 18 years old, with no family or friends, far from everything I knew and deep in another world. I tell you, it was like traveling through outer space and landing on another planet! The ride in the Mayflower truck only underlined my simile. Things were so very different. Do not misinterpret. I was not a frightened little boy. Rather, I was quick to discover that all I had on my side were my wits. I came here to make a better life for meself and that was what I was going to do. I knew the Father would understand if such an accomplishment would mean breaking a few rules. I promised to make it up to Him. Meanwhile, here I was in the middle of some town I learned was called Karpis. A stupid name but, fortune smiling on fate, an excellent place to make a start. Karpis is a provincial town that is far from prosperous communities. I decided not to press my luck, stay here for a time, become acclimated, before moving on to the next level. Everything was made that much easier by the large number of Latinos. Of course, we are not all the same person, but by virtue of tongue and skin, all of us helped each other in one way or the other, if by nothing more than pleasant acknowledgments. More on this later. The new alien usually goes where he knows family or friends, as was the case with the truckload I came in with. Very soon, all of them were on their separate ways. I managed to cajole meself into staying with a new friend of mine, Benito, who lives in an apartmental complex, run by the angelic Mr Salinas. Unlike other aliens, I had a little more money, so I was welcomed less reluctantly, under the knowledge that I wouldn’t stay too long. It’s not easy to live in a two-bedroom, one bath apartment with eight other fellows, but it would have to do for now. The complex was a remote location, quiet, far from cops and moneyed gringos. I was very comfortable as a matter of fact. I got drunk every night. I believe the most America has ever contributed to western civilization is the convenience store. There was one only two blocks away from the complex, a Circle K. As far as I was concerned, it had everything I could ever want in the execution of daily life. Food, beer, toilet paper, medicine, naked magazines and beer. And all under one roof. In Matamoros, I would have to go to six different locations to get what I wanted for one weekend by only one trip to the Circle K. I loved the store and soon knew everything it stocked. Convenience is heaven. To be an alien in Texas is to enjoy certain liberties than other immigrants in other areas. For one thing, the gringos know they are whipped. I never need fear speaking Spanish whenever I want. No one but a loony tune would hurt us. Oh, they gripe behind our backs, to be sure. But, ah, they do nothing and now it is too late. They are used to us and seem little concerned that our numbers grow ever larger. And why not? This was our land to start with. They stole it. So pride is a big factor for every alien. Flaunt in their faces, my brethren! I do fill myself at times. I am just filled with confidence and ambition. But I have always been unusual. I believe the time has come to conquer outright. Alas, the alien community is not a harmonious one. For one thing, there are the second and third generations. More gringo than not. Many know little Spanish. We suffer dual discrimination from the negros, who like to think they are the only ones disenfranchised. Yet a negro is more of a gringo than a Latino. They always side with the gringos when it comes down to it. But the most disturbing aspect of this is the ladies. Many a gringo wishes to soil a pretty young chica. Even worse, many mujeres themselves want to be soiled by a gringo. I cannot stomach this. Even the negros rarely cross this line. It must be a cultural consequence. Ever since Cortez have the Indians been forced to consummate with the filthy, degenerate Europeans. To this day, many women think their attraction is but a superfluous one, not knowing the true history of their lust. For my own part, I admit to periodically become enflamed by the sight of a white girl, especially young blonde girls in convertibles. So young and clean. How they might like a plumed serpent to contaminate their stock. But these episodes pass. Nothing can match the love of a good latina. It was just meant to be. What isn’t meant to be is exploitation. I resolved a long time ago never to participate in factory work, witness as I am to the scars inflicted on my countrymen in the gringo factories in the Valley. No, I am best suited, mentally, spiritually, and physically, for that staple of alien labour, yard work. I’ll never forget my first jobs. I woke up right before sunrise along with my other comrades, head to the Circle K to get a lunch. Usually chips, candy bars and Coke. And meet with a dozen or so aliens at a certain corner in Karpis. There we would wait as the sun came up. I jumped in the first pick-up that came by. It was all too easy. I was naive, though. I soon learned one had to pick and choose. Twelve hours of digging holes for fenceposts taught me much. After a month I learned which gringos would be less despotic and pay more decently. Still, I also learned that this kind of life was too wild. Every day was a chance you took. You could never predict anything. If it wasn’t the weather, it was the work. If it wasn’t the work, it was the pay. If it wasn’t the pay, it was the gringo. Especially inflammatory were the young gauchos, teenagers who think they can boss us around as easily as their fathers. Young guns who sucked the Copenhagen and laughed loudly and played their horrible country music only to shortchange us in the end, pretending to tell us that was all the monies they had. One time we did get decent pay after an especially hard week’s work digging ditches. We were given fresh new one-hundred dollar bills. All we wanted to do was buy beer and get drunk. The hour was eight on a Friday night. But the Circle K would not accept so high marked a currency. I was incensed. I had to find a better means of work. I was jealous of the lawn-tending teams, driving from rich gringo house to the next in their trucks and trailers filled with lawnmowers, edgers, leaf blowers. That was the dream job. Steady employment, predictable work, less exploitation as the jefes were second-generation. One group in particular I made friends with, as they always stopped at the Circle K for a lunch in the same time as I. The man who ran it, Señor Hernandez, seemed a good man. Come July, I come to beg him every day to join his troupe. I told him I would be his best worker. He would never hear me complain. I would do whatever he wanted me to do. He was sympathetic but told me he had enough workers. I was disappointed but there was nothing else to do. Then one day, I got my chance. I was in the Circle K one early morning, drinking a Thirst Buster, when the group is arrived. Señor Hernandez told me one of his workers was sick and I could take his place for the day. And this just as he landed a new, and, for him, his biggest account. The landscaping for an old gringo home. I jumped at the chance. I worked harder than any of this other workers. At the end of the day, Señor Hernandez thanked me and paid me. I had a good feeling about this. Fortune and Fate prevailed. This certain worker of his was getting more sick than not. He was nice family man who just happened to be not immune to constant germs. But in truth, he was a bit of a slob. He was old and spent most of his money on alcohol and his family back in Saltillo, only to eat poorly, wrapping tortillas and home-cooked beef and laying them in aluminum foil on the truck so that by noon he would have a hot meal. I worked his sick days, always employing the same level of industry. Finally, Señor Hernandez asked me to take his place permanently. I accepted. The other bloke was very bitter towards me. He explained he needed this job as it was the best-paying. Well, no shit. He explained he was just a poor Mexican who sent half his pay to his family. He pleaded with me to give my job back. I merely answered by saying it was Señor Hernandez’s decision, not mine. But in truth, I was ruthless. This was my chance and I took it. Now he would have to wait on the corner along with the other chumps. I couldn’t help but be proud of my accomplishment. Three months in America and I had already outshone the majority of my comrades. Making enough money to share a new apartment with only six other guys. It was nothing personal, at least not on the outside. It was only business. I always perform tremendously for Señor Hernandez. I can never take this job for granted. It is hard work, but nowhere near the difficulties incumbent upon all the other alien laborers. So I sweat with joy, I dirty myself without the guilt. I have even begun to take an interest in the looks of the lawns we maintain. Not that I really care about them or the pretensions of the gringo bourgeoisie that contract me. It’s just as I work, I work hard and good. A point of pride. One frill has entered the picture. In the beginning, I would use my lunch break just to eat, then return right to work. But after a month, I have proved myself and conceded that the siesta is a good idea to return to. So I join the others and take short mid-day naps under the shade of trees. Most of our jobs are in quiet, isolated neighborhoods, those who build fences round themselves to keep out people like me. It is a pleasant feeling to wake up from siesta, take a quiet drink and look out upon the empty, ornate houses. Truth to tell, I am beginning to want a piece of this pie for meself. Yet it seems impossible. I am illegal, without degree, without pink skin. I chide myself for these unrepentant ambitions. Will nothing ever be good enough? And do I really want to become one of them? I think not. I betray my people by the mere entertainment of the notion. I seen far too many of my cousins become gringo. It is sad to see. I become more angry as I think of the implications. I am not without hope. You see, I am a visionary. It is only a matter of time before the border states become populated with a majority of latinos. We are slowly taking back what was taken from us so cruelly, so, irony triumphant, illegally! My sense of purpose is taking new shapes, and fulfilling a deeper, nascent desire, the likes of which I ignore due to occasional passions of greed and envy. I can play a part in this revolution. I have contacts. I know the ways. I can facilitate the process. So my ultimate goal is to set up an underground railway. Through hard work and determination and an unstoppable confidence, I can become a hero to my people. Songs will be written about me. I will figure in history books. They will erect my statue right here in Karpis, right here in the center of the Maliquala Apartmental Complex, my polished symbolism looking towards the south, to my people, but pointing to the north, to the Occupied Territories, and clutching in my free hand the symbolic keys that I use to open the doors of infiltration, infestation and redistribution. Yes, my friends, it is an excellent time to be alive. And if I am circumspect, I can make my fortune during the process.

¿Quieres mas cerveza?

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