Ziggy, Stardust and Me

by James Brandon

“It’s kind of perfect,” I say, lost in the water’s ripples.

  “What?”

  “That we live on a broken heart lake.”

  “Yeah? Why’sat?”

  “Kind of like everything else. Broken heart in a broken city on a broken earth with tons of broken people . . .”

  “True . . .”

  “Bowie says everything’s broken today. What we thought we knew isn’t true anymore, and the future isn’t as clear as it once was. If we need truths, we can make them up ourselves . . .”

  “Deep stuff, man.”

  We watch the sky turn to a purple-pink.

  After a long silence he says, “You shouldn’t hide, you know.”

  “What?”

  He looks at me, hair caught in the wind, sweeping the sky, becoming the night. “All those things you’ve said—”

  “When?”

  “Just now. And in the bathroom that morning we met. And in class, what you said about the book. I like the way you see things, man. You shouldn’t hide it from everyone—”

  “How do I see things . . . exactly?”

  “I don’t know. You’re sweet, I guess . . . Compassionate . . .”

  “Huh . . .” Whoa. Is that something guys say to each other? And does this mean You’re a stupid nitwit sweet or You’re the most supreme angel I’ve ever met in my entire life sweet? I do not know!

  “So, what about love?” he asks.

  “What?”

  “Our assignment.”

  “Oh, right. I don’t.”

  “You don’t love?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why?”

  In the distance, the paper-doll fishermen pull their boats up to shore, and farther down the beach people gather bits of wood into a pile. “You know Carl Sagan?”

  “The one you keep bringing up, you mean?” He laughs. “Yeah, I know him.”

  “Okay. I’ve been reading his new book and he says the planet Venus is like this big sulfurous star. Broiling temperatures, volcanic lava rivers, noxious gases, all that. Basically, Venus is hell. And, basically, that’s exactly what I think of love. Love is hell.” As if on cue, the pile of wood in the distance starts to sparkle.

  “Wow,” he says. “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s so not true, man.”

  “Yup. It is. Trust me. Your turn.”

  “My turn?”

  “Yeah. Where’d you move from?”

  “Oh, we’re playing this game now?”

  “Guess so . . .”

  “South Dakota. Pine Ridge Reservation. I’m a member of the Oglala Lakota Nation. That’s my true home. You know it?”

  I shake my head. “I mean, Starla told me some stuff . . . but what’s Lakota mean?” He lifts that crooked, dimpled smile again. “What?”

  “No one’s ever asked me that before.”

  “Oh . . .” I shrug. “So tell me.”

  “It means ‘friends and allies.’”

  “Cool.” That sounds about right . . .

  “There’s seven bands of Lakota peoples—like subtribes—and I’m Oglala.”

  “And what’s that mean?”

  “You wanna know more?” I nod. The twilight splashes against him, making his skin glow. Carl Sagan starfolk, I swear. “Well . . . it means ‘to scatter their own’ . . . and, well, you know all those old pictures you see in your history books of Natives in headdresses riding horses and fighting the cavalry, or hunting buffalo on the Plains or whatever? That’s usually a depiction of Lakota peoples back in the day—but, hey, man, don’t go asking me to do some crazy war-whooping, magical Indian crap for you—”

  “Got it.”

  “We’re a strong people,” he says, facing the last spatters of sunset. “Made even stronger after living under years of white people’s oppression, and we value family above everything—” He stops suddenly.

  I wait for him to continue, but he never does. “So you live here now . . . with your family?”

  “For now, yeah. But not my whole family. That’s huge. Just my grandfather and uncle. This guy’s letting us stay at his place while we’re here . . .” His face is curtained by his hair, so I can’t be sure, but . . . is he crying?

  “So . . . then . . . why are you here?”

  “Sorry, Bowie boy,” he says, wheeling back, wiping his cheeks. “Your turn. How’d you get that scar?”

  “What? No,” I say, swooping my hair back down to cover it. “Too soon.”

  “Too soon for what?”

  “You can’t start off easier, like what’s my favorite color or something?”

  “What’s the point, man? Life’s too short for trivialities.”

  “Come on. I like white—”

  “Nope, not what I asked—”

  “Because it’s like a blank slate and—”

  “Cool, but about that freaky-ass scar? It’s like you’re Flash Gordon or—”

  “Ziggy Stardust.”

  “Yeah, man, Ziggy.” He reaches toward me.

  “Please don’t,” I say. “I really don’t like it—”

  “Does it hurt?”

  “No. I just hate it and—”

  “Come on, then, tell me, it can’t be that bad.”

  “Web. Drop it, really.”

  “It’s your turn, man—”

  “God, FINE. I tried to carve a Ziggy flash with my dad’s razor, but it hurt so bad I stopped, and now it looks like a fucked-up question mark like I’m the fucking Riddler or something end of story I win.”

  The sky melts into a dark-purple watercolor. I look down. More shadows dance around the fire below us.

  “Whoa,” he says quietly.

  “Can’t believe I just— No one knows I did that. Not even Starla.” I feel the tears brimming in my eyes again; I quickly brush them away. God. What is it with this guy? It’s like I’m talking into a mirror or something. Or to Ziggy. Or in my imagination . . . But, no, he’s really here—

  “I won’t tell anyone,” he says. “I promise.”

  And, damn, it’s like my scar knows we’re talking about it: It starts searing through my skin, singeing my brain. “Thanks,” I say, not rubbing it, not giving it the satisfaction it seeks.

  “It’s strange,” he says.

  “What is?”

  “Being here with you. I don’t know. I don’t really have anyone to talk to, I guess, anyone who’ll really listen to me . . . never really thought of that before.”

  I look up. “Me neither.”

  “It’s kinda nice.”

  “Yeah . . . it kinda is . . .”

  A spark rips through my wrists, burning my thighs. I jump. Fuck.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  “I just . . . We should get back,” I say, standing. “Before it gets too dark. I’d like to at least see myself fall to my death on these rocks.”

  “Yeah, I’m scared of what you might ask me next anyway.”

  We look at each other, and we laugh.

  He pops up, charging in the opposite direction.

  “Where you going?” I ask.

  “The path over here to take us down.”

  “Meaning a path that could’ve taken us up?”

  “Yeah, man, duh,” he says. “But what would’ve been the fun in that? Come on.”

  Is this guy for real? There’s no time to think.

  “Hey, by the way, the Riddler’s my favorite,” he yells, disappearing in the darkness.

  “Really?” Cool.

  I run to catch up and disappear, too.

  14.

  THIS PATH ENDS UP being a perfectly manicured trail that winds like an easy-breezy creek down the hillside. For real.

  Still, he holds my hand and leads. The glistening on h
is back fades in the shadows with the swishswishswish of his hair. His smell: peppery sweat and sunshine. His hand: padlocked to mine. I am safe. Especially because I know my life is in no danger from some Rock Descent to My Death.

  We reach the bottom in minutes.

  “Seriously. That existed earlier,” I say when we reach the clearing.

  He laughs. “You’ll thank me for it one day.”

  “Doubtful.”

  “Come on,” he says. “I’ll take you to your bike.”

  By now, the beginnings of night are peeking through, like a deep purple blanket that Starla glued some rhinestones to. And booming through the breeze: Wolfman Jack and the Rolling Stones?

  “What the hell.” Web stops. I fumble into him. The lit sticks from earlier are now a blazing bonfire. A blazing bonfire dotted with dancingdrinkingdrugging Apes and their dates, glowing in their prom night finery. And parked behind them with doors wide open and speakers blaring: Scotty’s cherry-red Trans Am. Oh no.

  “Let’s go around.” I grab his hand. He won’t budge.

  “They’re not supposed to be on this side,” he says.

  “What?” But there’s no time to answer. The King Ape grunts. Scotty. “Seriously, let’s go.”

  “No way, man,” he says, barreling toward them.

  “What? NO.” I jump in front of him. “Where are you going? Just leave them.”

  “What the hell they gonna do to me, man?” he says, fixated on the beasts in tuxedos.

  “Trust me. You don’t want to find out.”

  “I’m not scared of them.”

  “Fine. But I am. Web, look at me. WEB.” He does. “It’s not worth it. Let’s go.”

  “You shouldn’t do that,” he says, his eyes pulsating. “You shouldn’t let them treat you like that.”

  “Who the hell cares? They’ll get what’s coming to them someday. They always do. That’s what Dr. Evelyn says, and I—”

  “Man, seriously, your doctor don’t know shit. No offense? But white people never get what’s coming to them. Not ever. Get outta my way.”

  He pushes past me, an avenger hell-bent on a mission to what, I don’t know.

  “Well, la-diddy-da. Look who came to join us.” Yup, it’s Scotty, and yup, he’s drunk. “Where’s your dresses, girls?”

  “What the hell you say, man?” Web yells back.

  Oh no.

  “Whoa. This kid’s got mouth. Might need to get some Dial soap and wash that Indian dirt out.”

  Apes laugh and make those stupid war-whooping sounds. Original. The girls squeal nervously, trying to pull the Apes back into their arms.

  “Come say that to my face, you ugly white boy. I can kick your ass to the moon and back.”

  JESUS, THIS GUY.

  I grab Web’s arm. “What’s the matter with you? Let’s go.”

  “You should listen to your girlfriend, you little redskin.” Scotty guzzles the rest of his beer, throws the bottle in the fire, beats his chest, and belches. “Or maybe you should come over and say that to MY face.” He slicks his hair back, then whips off his powder-blue tuxedo jacket in a tangled mess and throws it to the ground.

  “STOP it! Both of you!” Samantha yells, flowing over in a powder-blue chiffon something. She’s maybe had one too many bottles of everything at this point. “Come on, Scott, no fightin’, remember . . . we still have to go to prom . . . it’s our special night . . .” She’s mauling his chest like a weird cat in heat.

  Scotty continues to grunt. “You wanna piece of this, Indian princess? Huh? Huh?” The Apes hoo-hoo-hoo. Their dates paw their faces to bring them back to their bra hooks or whatever.

  Web’s eyes seethe with the fire. No one moves. Then the unthinkable happens: He starts laughing. I’m talking maniac-on-the-loose laughing. A few girls fumble into their Apes’ arms, thrown off balance.

  “You stupid. Cowardly. Goon,” Web says. “You wouldn’t know what hit ya if you even tried to get near me.”

  My heart’s hurtling so hard against my chest I swear it’s causing seismic waves in the lake. I don’t know this person. This is not the person I just shared one of my deepest, darkest secrets with. This person is some dark shadow version of him. And he scares the crap out of me.

  Apparently he scares the crap out of everyone else too: Every Ape’s mouth hangs open, stuck in his wrath. It’s Scotty who eventually snaps us all out of our trance. “What . . . hell . . . call me?” So stunned and shaking, he forgets words.

  “You heard me, white boy.”

  “Web. Stop.” It’s all I can think to say.

  “You . . . how . . . dare you . . .” Scotty’s vibrating. His black hair smolders. His face flashes the color of the bonfire. His eyes are a whirling mass of . . . fear? Could it be? I’ve never seen this look in Scotty’s eyes before. It’s entrancing. “Come here, pussy. Let me at him.” He pushes past a Stunned Ape, but the Wicked Witch of the Midwest grabs his arm.

  “NOT TONIGHT.” Samantha whips him back. (I know she’s not that strong.) “There’ll be NO fightin’ tonight.” She hiccups.

  She looks at the other girls, giving them a telepathic all-knowing nod they each seem to understand. They pull their Apes away from the circle, back to the lake, back to their beers, back to their bra hooks.

  Only Scotty and Samantha remain.

  “You’re lucky she’s here,” Scotty says. “Or I’d—”

  “You’d what?” Possessed Web says, not backing down.

  “Stop it. Just take him and GO,” Samantha says to me. Like I’m his keeper now or something? “GO!” she says again through another hiccup.

  I grab his arm. “Come on, Web.”

  He relaxes, somewhat. Enough for me to move him at least.

  As we walk past, she starts cackling, “I’ll get you, my pretty. And that little toothpick creature, too.” Or it’s possible she says, “See you at school.” I can’t be sure. I can’t be sure of anything right now.

  When we leave the light of the bonfire, I turn to Web. “Hey. Look at me.” He does, still heaving. “Just . . . navigate the negative, remember?” It’s a stupid thing to say, but it’s all I can think. He’s looking in my eyes and—

  It works. I think. He’s there with me. Just us again, like we were on the cliff. I could be making this up, but . . . I can feel it. Like we’re linked together in thought. Like it’s a mind-meld. He nods. Does he feel it, too? . . .

  Scotty breaks our spell. “You think this is over, girls? Well . . . you can’t always get what you want!” And he starts singing the Stones, and the Apes grunt, and the girls dance, and all is right with their world again. For now.

  I pull Web farther away to safety. “You okay?” He stares at the ground, maybe drawing his own black hole to disappear into.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—I gotta go,” he says.

  “Oh, okay, me—”

  And he’s gone, melting into the shadows.

  I don’t wait around for him to come back charging toward the Apes or to give me a high-five goodbye or whatever it is guys do together. I jump on Stingraymobile and pedal for my life away from that Bonfire of Hell and all its evil ways.

  I let the breeze whip my thoughtstrings to the stars, pulling them out one by one from my cluttered head. I’m thinking: What the hell just happened? I can’t believe I just shared the secret about my scar. Was Scotty really scared of Web? Was Web crying? Is he okay? Where does he live? Should I try to find him? Who IS this guy?

  As I turn the corner to my street, all my thoughts have floated away. All clear. Huh. Pulling the strings from your head actually works. Cool.

  Good thing, too, because as I get closer to my driveway, a whole new set of thoughts comes thwomping through my brain when I see:

  1) A neon-purple black light glowing through the living room window

 
2) Dad and Heather’s silhouettes swaying in the purple window

  3) Dad and Heather’s silhouettes actually doing more than swaying. Jesus.

  I open the screen door. Jimi Hendrix rasps. A thick cloud of skunkweed creates a blinding fog for an easy escape up the stairs. I dart past. A flash of Dad and Heather, buck naked, painting each other with Day-Glo paints that make them look like two bleeding aliens. Don’t know. Don’t care.

  Whambamthankyouma’amSLAM door shut. I jump on my bed. Grab my black marker. Hide under the covers. Draw a black hole. And disappear for good this time to an elsewhen. Where my body isn’t being ravaged with this burning pain.

  Where we’re safe.

  And instead of taking the escape pod in my imagination to another galaxy, I go someplace new:

  Where Web and I are lying under the stars, still talking about broken everythings.

  15.

  Friday, June 1, 1973

  IT’S BEEN A WEEK. Dad’s living his alternate reality “Leave It to Beaver at Creve Coeur Lake” life with Heather. Guess she lives in that trailer park. Makes sense. Anyway, he’s been gone all week, not back until tomorrow night, and for me this equals actual sleep. Good thing, too. Finals week. Aced them all. But that damn Presentation-for-Your-Life still looms in the shadows. Starla’s been so supernaturally obsessed with hers we’ve barely talked. She’s basically spent every free second with Lindsey plotting the most “Outta sight show you’ve ever seen, baby!”

  So, this is all to say: It’s Friday night and Web’s coming over to work on our presentation.

  Oh man. The thought alone makes my stomach somersault.

  I lie in bed waiting, lost in my Day-Glo poster of Neil Armstrong’s first footprint on the moon. The purples and pinks are extra-illuminated with the beginnings of twilight painting the sky outside, seeping through my open window. There’s no moon out tonight. Kind of perfect actually. A smell of rust in the air. A storm is coming.

  The flip-clock on my nightstand clicks over.

  7:11. Ch-click. 7:12. Ch-click. 7:13.

  He’s late. We didn’t talk much this week, because of finals and all, which makes me wonder if the whole secret-sharing-on-the-cliff thing actually happened.