Ziggy, Stardust and Me Page 15
—JAMES WELCH
26.
Monday, June 25, 1973
“YOU BELIEVE THIS CRAP? This guy says Nixon knew all along, that he was in on it.”
It’s Monday night. Dad’s pissed because the Watergate thing keeps preempting All in the Family. Fine by me. I hate that stupid show. We’re watching this together with the rest of the world because:
1) it’s on every flipping channel, and because
2) he wants to help me “stay out of my goddamned crazy head,” because
3) it’s been two weeks since my last electroshock space adventure!
You know what I realized during this last round of treatments? It’s like how Wally West became the Flash or Bruce Wayne became Batman or David Bowie became Ziggy Stardust: They first had to be transformed to stimulate their superpowers.
Yeah.
Anyway. At the end of our final follow-up session today, I gave the most Dulick-worthy presentation of my life:
DR. EVELYN
How do you feel?
ME
(smiling)
I feel great. Alive. Awake again. Supercharged.
DR. EVELYN
Feeling any side effects? Stinging sensations? Memory loss?
ME
Sometimes. But that’s a good thing, right? Means it’s working?
DR. EVELYN
Mmm . . . I suppose . . . Any questions on your mind?
ME
(still smiling)
Just one.
DR. EVELYN
Shoot.
ME
Were you always this pretty?
DR. EVELYN
(laughing)
What?
ME
I feel like the treatments zapped some new hyper-color vision in me.
DR. EVELYN
(still laughing)
You seem happier, Jonathan.
ME
I am happier. It’s like I had to go way down to come way up.
DR. EVELYN
(hook, line, and sinkered)
Makes sense.
ME
Oh, one more question, I guess.
DR. EVELYN
Mm-hmm?
ME
Will you tell Dad I kissed Web?
DR. EVELYN
(not laughing)
Not if you don’t want me to.
ME
I do not. It was a mistake. A mistake that I have forever fixed.
DR. EVELYN
(that Spirograph-scribbling-inher-eyes look again)
Well, I have some ideas for you both . . . to help sustain this feeling. But when I call your dad to tell him my assessment, I won’t tell him that. My lips are sealed. (She hands me a cupcake.)
ME
What’s this for?
DR. EVELYN
Your birthday last week. I didn’t want to distract you from the treatments . . . your dad said it’d be best if I waited.
ME
Oh yeah . . . thanks . . . thank you.
DR. EVELYN
He’ll be . . . very proud of you, Jonathan, and the work you’ve done. I’m sure of it.
ME
(stillstillstillstill smiling)
Oh, I’m so sure, too. I’m so so sure.
(Me exiting Purgatory, still smiling from cheek to cheek. Smiling so hard my cheeks actually hurt. Smiling past Debbie, the receptionist. Smiling until the elevators close. Smiling until I see myself reflected in the steel. Smiling until the crying waterfall bursts through me in ten thousand tears . . .)
* * *
—
Church bells clang me back to the living room. No, Dad’s ice cubes are rattling against his glass. And he’s yelling at me, or the TV. One can never be sure where he’s looking when he’s one . . . two . . . three drinks in. It’s the TV.
Is that guy’s face actually skipping, or is it the stupid side effects? No, it’s skipping. Dad arrggghhs, flips up the recliner, slaps the side.
“Can’t trust no one no more. Not even the damned president. And all this new terrorism crap, people hijacking planes? What in the hell’s the world comin’ to? Git me another drink, willya, son.”
I grab his glass, duck under the bar, pour the usual. The guy on TV rattles on:
“I told the president about the fact there was no money to pay these individuals to meet their demands. He asked me how much it would cost. I told him that it might be as high as a million dollars or more. He told me that was no problem.”
“Voted for that crook, goddammit,” Dad yells to the air. I wait until he stops thrashing in his chair before handing him the glass. He looks like an elephant seal. And smells like one, too. Like he just flopped out of the stinky lake and left himself baking onshore for a few days. He’s decided to only live in his Dennis the Menace boxers as of late: Father’s Day gift from Heather’s little boy, I guess. Whatever. I gave him the best present any dad could ever ask for: a Shiny, Brand-Spanking-New, All-Cured Son!
I curl back on the couch.
A cigarette dangles from his lips. “When I voted for that guy a second time, I said ain’t no other way he could’ve won that much without lying and cheatin’.” He’s flickflickflicking the penis lighter, but only sparks shoot out. I hide my face under Grandma’s afghan so he doesn’t see me laugh. When I peek up, she’s laughing so hard her painting vibrates. She winks at me. “Ain’t no one can get ahead in this world without some lying and cheatin’, GODDAMMIT!”
“Here, let me.” I crawl to the other side of the couch, grab his cigarette and lighter, and start flicking it myself. Now he sees what I saw and a laugh comes roaring out, which quickly turns into a heaving cough.
“You okay, Dad?”
He nods and shoos me away.
A couple more penis flicks and I hand the lit cigarette back to him. Grandma looks down, worried.
“Where’d you learn to do that?” he asks after a few more chest thumps.
“What?”
“Light a cigarette.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Watching you, I guess.” I turn back to the TV.
“Well, don’t.”
“What?”
“Don’t you start up with this smokin’ crap,” he says. “You hear me? What with your lungs and . . . everything else . . . you fixed yourself, son. I’m proud of ya. No sense in muckin’ it all up by makin’ yourself sick again.” He flicks his hand in my general direction. “Just don’t be an asshole.”
“Okay,” I say.
We stare at the TV.
“I began by telling the president that there was a cancer growing on the presidency and if the cancer was not removed the president himself would be killed by—”
Then it happens. His image appears again, skipping and scraping through the guy testifying. Web. Torn and broken. A face I’d previously only seen in the mirror. Now projected back to me, because of me.
And still he’s smiling. Glimmering like a starfolk.
Of course I’ve thought about every possible way to go back. To sneak away, hide, and wait. To apologize, or have him spit in my face.
But I can’t.
I can’t wonder what he’s doing right now.
And right now.
And right now.
I can’t taste his cherry-candy lips, feel his heart pounding in my mouth.
I can’t.
And I can’t turn off the light switch he’s flipped on inside me, no matter how hard I try. And I have tried. Tried so hard.
But I can’t.
I know I’m not supposed to feel this way and I hate myself for it, but . . . I can’t stop thinking about him—
A jolt zings
my thighs. I wince, but try not to flinch. I have to learn to live with this, because . . .
Secret: I know now I can never be fixed.
* * *
—
Ice cubes clinking again. Dad’s looking at me.
“Huh?” I ask.
“Pour me another drink.”
He blinks. And rattles the ice in his empty glass.
27.
Thursday, June 28, 1973
A FEW DAYS LATER, my first postcard from Starla arrives! It’s the one I gave her of the Arch at sunset. On the front I’d written a note:
FIND YOUR WAY HOME.
I run upstairs to my closet.
A Polaroid’s stapled to the back. She’s standing in front of a rectangular pool of water that seems to shine to infinity; a teeny-pointed pillar looms in the background. Her hand’s outstretched in a peace sign and her hair’s poofed out like a cumulonimbus.
On the bottom, she’s scrawled:
Where MLK once stood, I now stand.
Fight the Power. Fighting for You.
Starla xx
JONNY-BOOOOOO!!!!
Great God A’Mighty we’re finally here! First stop: Washington Monument. (Picture attached!) The biggest protests landed right here! All for one reason: E-QUAL-I-TY! I swear you feel the ghosts of history here. So many people put their lives on the line for something greater than themselves, you know? It’s chilling. But now, HERE I AM. For us. I carry you with me everywhere. I hope you’re out having fun with Web. YOU PROMISED! Remember: If you feel lost, hold on to that cross! He (meaning ZIGGY of course! ) can fix anything that’s broken!!
To be continued,
Starla xxx
* * *
—
I hold the Polaroid for hours, osmose every little color, line, and freckle into my brain. She’s only been gone a couple of weeks, but it feels like a couple of years. And without being able to talk to her, or see her, or feel her hands in mine, she already feels like a ghost of my history.
I wipe my face with my sleeve and grab the pieces of cross. Haven’t touched it since it broke in my hand that night the stars fell from the sky and Web ran away from me. Maybe she’s right. Maybe by fixing the cross, He’ll fix me.
I blaze downstairs to get the superglue from the junk drawer. The Batman theme hums in my head. As I reach the last step, I hear Dad on the phone.
“. . . Yes, Doctor—Evelyn, I mean, sorry, ma’am—yes, I’m doing everything you told me to do. . . . Yes, I just want to help him, too. . . .”
Oh, it’s The Talk: The Seal-of-Approval, Gold-Star-Student, Twirl-from-the-Mountaintops-because-the-Hills-Are-Alive-with-Your-Cured-Son Talk. Or she saw right through my Oscar-worthy performance back on Monday.
I slump against the wall out of sight.
“Oh, yes, ma’am, I think he’s much better. . . . Yes, he seems very happy. . . .”
Okay, so far, so good.
“Yes. . . . I see. . . . Well, that’s good news. . . . Oh, yes, that’s right, he used to love cooking. Hasn’t done that in so long. . . . Yes, I’ll get him cooking again, don’t worry. . . . We should have you over sometime. . . .” He laughs. “Yes, he’s a great kid, a really great kid. . . .”
Okay, this is getting weird. I’m waiting for Rod Serling to open our front door and introduce the next episode of The Twilight Zone.
“Well, I think so. . . . Heather? Oh, she’s a good influence, sure. Kind, outgoing, hardworking, always asking about him, of course. . . . Why?”
Hey, Rod, you’re late for your cue.
“Oh, a job. . . . I hadn’t thought of that. . . . Perhaps she can get him one at the Dairy Queen—that’s not a bad idea. . . . Well, thank you so much, Doctor. . . . Evelyn, I mean. I’ll definitely . . . What’s that? Oh, more ideas! Wow, you sure are full of them, aren’t—. . . I see. . . . I thought you said he was . . . I see. . . .”
Oh boy. Something’s changed. I can feel it pulsing through the walls: Bruce Banner holding back the Hulk. He’s up and pacing now, smashing holes in the floor, trying with all his might not to turn green, not to rip through his clothes.
“I suppose if you think . . . I’m not sure where we’d . . . Oh . . . I suppose the lake could be an easy enough option for us, but . . .” Did he just say the lake? He just said the lake. Oh no. “Right, yes, okay then, Doctor, if you say so. . . . Oh, thank you, and you as well, ma’am. Nice talking to you, too.”
He punches the phone through three walls. It smacks against my head, and knocks me unconscious. Basically. Okay, I’m still piecing the one-sided puzzle together, but one thing’s clear: It’s not good.
He’s slamming pots and pans and drawers and screaming an encyclopedia of obscenities. As he stomps by, I bound down the stairs like I just popped out of my room. “Hey, Dad, how’s it going?”
He’s dressed in his favorite white cotton shorts, which end high above the knee, and his favorite “If this van’s a rockin’ don’t come a knockin’” T-shirt, which bulges at his stomach and is already stained with sweat marks. And it’s barely noon.
“Well, look who waltzes down before lunch today.” No, no, I did not say this to him. He says this to me. Yes, really.
I laugh. “Yeah.”
“That was your doctor,” he says.
“Oh yeah?”
“Oh yeah.” He charges to the bar. “She seems to think you’ve still got work to do!”
Fuck. The hallway sizzles and skips out of focus; my body turns radioactive: an instant Pavlovian response. She saw through it. “Oh?”
He scratches through his thinning hair like his scalp’s on fire and looks at me. And oh, I swear to you if looks could kill—no, if looks could chew your heart out and spit it in the toilet, then flush it down so it ends up rotting in a sewer.
“You know how I feel about this crap, Jonathan.”
“I know.”
“You wanna end up like your good-for-nothin’ uncle?”
“No! I’m—”
“You wanna drag this family in the dirt, is that it?”
“No.”
“Jesus Christ,” he says. And shakes his head. He turns to walk out the door. “I can’t think about this shit right now. I’m going to the Blues Note. Pick me up later.” And he’s gone.
I can’t move. My hands clench so tight they’re bleeding.
I stare at the door. And I chuck the two pieces of cross at the wall so they can never be fixed again.
28.
I JOLT UP, SCREAMING.
Am I drowning?
No. Just sweat. An ocean of sweat, but still.
The only light flickering in the room is from someone testifying on TV.
The clock on the stove says 9:37 p.m.
Okay, I can’t watch this Watergate crap. I’m sick of staring at my ceiling and talking to myself into my stupid tape recorder. Mom’s asleep. Grandma’s bored. Starla’s gone. I’m going to the Blues Note. I know it’s early, but it’s been a while since I hung out there. Scotty won’t be playing pool because he’s still at Caveman Camp. Be good to see Chester again and, hey, maybe Alma’s there and we can play darts and catch up and I have to get out of this goddamn house.
Anyway, they say fresh air is good to clear the head. Whoever “they” is. I want in. I want to be a “they” who decides these things, because frankly, I’m sick of playing by other people’s rules.
When I step outside, it’s like someone’s thrown Dr. Evelyn’s ugly quilt dress over my head. Suffocating. I’m not even sure one can call it air anymore. I grab a few poofs of PeterPaulandMary and walk a few blocks and my Pink Floyd shirt instantly sticks to me so I can’t tell where it ends and my skin begins.
Welcome to Grandma’s “nights of molasses.”
It is eerily silent. Motionless. Like walking through a sti
ll life. Bikes strewn over lawns. No breeze to snap half-open screen doors shut. Feels like I’m the only person alive right now. Fine by me. My thoughtstrings are company enough: What did Dr. Evelyn say to Dad? Did she tell him I’d been faking it all along? That I need a thousand more treatments? Or to be sent to the loony bin or prison or Vietnam, even though the war’s over— Wait. Did she tell him I kissed Web? No. His reaction would’ve been far worse. Nuclear. But, damn, I should’ve never told her about that night on the cliff . . . at our spot . . . Maybe she knows I can never be fixed . . . And what about the lake? Why is it always about the stupid frigging lake? There’s something there. Something at the lake . . .
The faint rattles of trees slowly fade in. A few others join in a small crescendo. More cicadas are hatching.
Lightning bugs glitter the sky. Used to love catching them as a kid. Running around my backyard with Grandma, feeling them flutter against my palms, glowing like little alien heartbeats, and stuffing them in a jar with a lid I’d poked holes in.
Used to love it. So much simpler then. I wonder if I’ll be saying that ten years from now . . .
When I round the corner to town, the buzz of neon glows in the distance. Main Street, USA. Everything’s closed up for the night. Even the moon. Hiding somewhere behind the clouds. Perfect.
BL_ES NOT_ flashes in shimmering yellow fluorescent. Appropriate. Especially considering I’m about to walk through the doors of Dad’s church.
29.
CAROLE KING CROONS ON the jukebox. “Will You Love Me Tomorrow.” Yes, really. From Web’s second-favorite album of course. SweetBabyZiggy. NO ESCAPE.
Dad’s slumped over himself on the corner barstool, smoldering. A cigarette dangles from his lips. He’s gesturing to Chester, who looks more interested in whatever’s on his rag than what Dad has to say. They both look up at the TV to watch the Watergate thing.
Some guy’s playing pool with Alma, this one biker chick I befriended who basically lives at the bar with Dad. Can’t see who’s with her. The lamp that hangs over the table is the only source of light at the back of the bar.