Ziggy, Stardust and Me

by James Brandon

  “Never mind. Come on!”

  The snow cone follows me to my bedroom.

  16.

  “OH CRAP, THE RAIN!” I bound over to my desk. Dammit, left my window open. The windowsill’s soaked. My curtains hang like homemade pasta noodles. The cassette tapes on my desk . . . dry. Whew.

  The white glow of the streetlamp buzzes on and streams through as makeshift moonlight. (I leave the lights off on purpose.) I’ve started to pull the window down, when he stops me.

  “Wait!”

  “What?”

  “Why you closing that?”

  “Because it’s raining?”

  “So? Don’t you ever run outside when it storms?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “Oh man, you’re so missin’ out. I do it all the time. Helps clear away the clutter in my head. You gotta feel the rain, man,” he says like a spaced-out hippie, laughing.

  “I just don’t want my tapes to get wet.”

  “So move them.” I do.

  “Come here.” He sits on my desk, pats the spot next to him. “Now lean out a little—don’t worry, I gotcha.” And he does, his arms wrapped around my waist. I ignore the electric current zipping through me because:

  Whoa.

  The wind’s whirling through the cottonwood tree, a vibrating mass of leaves like it’s the Earth’s tambourine. We’re so close to the tree my body’s shaking with it. Ohmanohmanohman, it DOES feel good. The cool rain streaks the sky, pinging the roof, dousing my wrists and forehead and thoughts. I close my eyes. “Whambamthankyouma’amSHA-ZAM!” It rips out of my mouth. I can’t help it. I don’t care.

  “Yeah, man, right on. See? You feel it, right?”

  “OHmanohmanohmanohmanohmanohman.”

  “Yeahyeahyeah.”

  He’s laughing. I’m orgasming. Wait, am I? I pop my eyes open and look down. No tent. Whew.

  “Too bad the moon’s not out,” he says.

  “The moon. That’s right. That’s why I brought you up here.” I bounce off the desk.

  “What are you doing?”

  “You. Wait there. No, come down here on the floor next to me.”

  “Uh—”

  I grab the black lights, and start feeling the wall for the outlet. There. Plugged in. “Okay, you ready for this? Well, come on!”

  He leapfrogs down next to me. “What are we looking at?”

  “You want to go to the moon with me?”

  “Yeah.” He’s dimple-dimple smiling. I can feel it in the dark.

  “Look ahead. Ready?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I flip on the black lights.

  Whoa.

  It’s way better than I imagined.

  The poster hanging on my wall springs to life. And in one fell Carl Sagan swoop, we’re teleported to the surface of the uranium glass moon. Web’s laughing, I think. Can’t hear him. Space swallows any noise. We kick up a moondust storm with our bare feet. It’s soft and tickles the toes and strangely smells like coconut suntan lotion. We stop at Neil’s footprint, a perfect neon-orange oval with perfectly carved ridges.

  Not one of them broken.

  “Holy whoa,” he says.

  “I know.”

  “‘2TM 4VR A.L.’ Who’s A.L.?” he asks, reading the inscription on the bottom of the poster.

  “My aunt Luna . . .”

  And like that, just saying her name, I’m transported back to the one misty morning in our living room . . . And the sounds of the moon landing start beaming through the TV:

  Beep . . . beep . . . whooosssssshhhh . . .

  Beep . . . beep . . . whoooossssshhhh . . .

  The lunar module enters the left side of the screen. We scream. I’d made a spacesuit for the occasion out of two black garbage bags, crinkly dryer hoses for arms and legs, and a fishbowl covered in aluminum foil.

  Aunt Luna had donned her favorite fluorescent green floor-length dress. She'd covered her face and arms in Day-Glo green makeup, and made a headband with pipe cleaners and cotton balls she’d colored with green marker that boingboingboinged in all directions. Her inspiration: My Favorite Martian.

  Dad had molded these pointy ears out of Silly Putty and dressed up like Spock. But it was so hot that day they kept melting, so he ended up looking like Dumbo.

  Which made us laugh and laugh and laugh.

  We eat MoonPies and moon pizzas and moon milkshakes made with Oreos, glued to the TV with the rest of the world.

  Beep . . . beep . . . whooossssshhhhh . . .

  The lunar module going down . . . down . . . down . . . a poof of moondust . . . Aunt Luna Martian wraps us with her tentacled arms, crushes my spacesuit against her. Spock Dad beams on the other side. We’re one big ball of alien love.

  Then: “The Eagle has landed.”

  We wail to the heavens and I’m sure I see Neil Armstrong look around to see where it came from. He bounces down, step by step, floating, airless, free.

  Beep . . . beep . . . whoooossssshhhh.

  Beep . . . beep . . . He’s on the moon!

  We scream again. I’m trying to see. My breath fogs up the glass. Aunt Luna is a glowing swirl of green, her face now streaked with white from the tears washing away the paint. Spock Dad smiles so big it fills the room.

  “That’s one small step for man . . . one giant leap for mankind.”

  Aunt Luna lifts me in the air. I’m crying, but I don’t know why. She turns my fishbowl to face her and slaps it with a big green gooey kiss. We’re spinningspinningspinning in a plastic crinkle tornado. All I see is the radioactive love beaming from her eyes. And Spock Dad’s smile whooshing by like we’ve entered warp speed.

  “To the moon, Jonathan, to the moon! We just went to the moon!” That’s all she kept saying over and over, and I saw her spinning, and Neil Armstrong bouncing, and Dad still smiling through one gooey green kiss, and it was the first and only time I understood the meaning of love.

  “Whoa, really?” asks Web.

  I snap back. God. Didn’t even realize I was talking out loud. “Oh. Yeah . . .”

  “What happened to her?” he asks.

  “Don’t know. She disappeared the next morning . . . Sent this poster to me from Woodstock a few weeks later. Haven’t heard from her since.”

  “Damn, man.”

  “Yeah.”

  We’re lost, drifting in space.

  “You ever lose someone close to you like that?” I ask softly.

  He’s quiet for a long time, then: “Yeah.”

  “Who?”

  He does not answer.

  “Web?”

  Silence.

  Still.

  Nothing.

  Then: “Jonathan?”

  “Yeah?”

  He slowly inches his fingers over my palm.

  My breath stops.

  “Okay?” he asks.

  No. I can’t do this. I shouldn’t do this . . . “Okay,” I whisper.

  A zing. His fingers tickle mine. Carefully. Tenderly. We clasp our hands. My heart vibrates. A stab of electricity shoots down my spine. He tightens his grip. I don’t move. I don’t breathe. I don’t know.

  Then gently,

  delicately,

  I squeeze our hands together.

  The world falls silent.

  A tear trickles down my cheek.

  And another.

  I don’t want to let go . . .

  But it hurts. I can’t do it.

  “I think . . . some music would be good right about now,” I quiver out.

  “Oh, okay,” he says.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  I disappear into my closet. My heart’s afire. Everything in me burns. I wipe my eyes. Ziggy eyes sparkle all around me.

  Mom turns her head, s
miles and says, “You’re okay, Beetlebug.”

  Yes. I am okay.

  I sweep up the album and record player, and dry my eyes again to be sure. When I step back into my room, Web’s sitting on a beanbag chair holding my tape recorder.

  “Hey,” he says.

  “Hey.” I drag the record player across my room.

  “So where’d you just come from?”

  “My closet. There’s this little room in there that—” I freeze. Oh. Man.

  “Cool. Can I see?”

  “No! I mean—sorry—no one knows about it—I mean—one day . . . maybe . . . ?”

  “It’s good, man. Your secret’s safe with me . . .”

  We look at each other and smile.

  “So, this is cool,” he says. “Ever use it?” He clicks the buttons on my tape recorder, twists the microphone.

  “All the time.” There’s only one album to play right now, so I slide it out of its sleeve and place it on the turntable. Lift the needle, slide it over: white-noise static, steady ch-ch-ch-ch drums, strrrrrummmmm of guitar . . . ahhh. Ziggy. Never fails.

  “Excellent song,” he says. “Damn, you’re right about his voice. It’s like from another planet.”

  “That’s Ziggy’s story actually,” I say, drumming the air with my fingers.

  “Really?”

  “Mm-hmm. He came down from the stars to save all the lost people of the world, until they took so much from him they ravaged his soul and he became bits of stardust forever floating through the sky.”

  “Far-out.”

  “Yeah, He is definitely my Messiah—” Dammit. There I go again.

  “Right on, man. So, you wanna record something now?” he asks.

  “What?”

  “On your tape recorder.”

  “Really?”

  “It’d be fun.”

  “Well . . . I guess. If you want. Grab a tape from the desk.” I slink over next to him. We lie on our stomachs, propping ourselves up with our elbows, facing each other. I push Play/Record:

  “Test. One, two, three. Hello out there. This is Jonathan Collins reporting to you live from the moon. I’m here with—what’s your name, sir?”

  “Web.”

  “You have to talk into the mic.”

  “Oh. WEB.”

  “Whoa, not that close.”

  “Sorry. Web Astronaut.”

  “Better. Okay. Mr. Astronaut, what brings you to the moon today?”

  “I came here to find something.”

  “Okay, what did you—”

  “And to get away from all the people on Earth.”

  “Why do you want to do that, Mr. Astronaut? Why are you laughing?”

  “This is weird.”

  “You wanted to do it.”

  “Okay. Okay.”

  “So, Mr. Astronaut. Why did you want to get away from all the people?”

  “Because, man, everyone down there’s all FUCKED UP—”

  “Web. Language. And not so close to the mic, it gets distorted.”

  “Sorry. But it’s true.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because those people? They got it all wrong. They think they’re doing good with their fighting and ignorance and discrimination and all that. But really, they’re killing the earth with it.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So that’s why I’m here. On the moon. It’s safe and quiet here, Mr. Collins.”

  “It really is.”

  “No one to bother us, no one to hurt us. Just us.”

  “Just us . . .”

  “On the moon.”

  “On the moon . . . together . . . where nothing’s broken—”

  “And we float to the stars like your Ziggy—”

  “And overcome time and space to get here, like Pink Floyd does in Dark Side of the Moon—”

  “So all we have left is Now.”

  “Hey, like the quote for our presentation!” I yell.

  “Yeah! We can do it on the moon!”

  “With music!”

  “Yeah!”

  “By gum, I think maybe we just figured out our assignment, Mr. Astronaut!”

  “Good. Now that that’s done and we’re still on the moon, you have to answer me this deep and personal question about your childhood, Mr. Collins.”

  “Oh, wait, I thought I was the reporter—”

  “What’s your favorite Popsicle flavor?”

  “HA!”

  “Not so close to the mic—”

  “Right. Easy. Bomb Pop. You?”

  “Oh, for sure it is the Push-up Pop. Orange all the way.”

  “Good one . . .”

  “Yeah . . .”

  We’re silent for some time, still facing each other.

  “I like being on the moon with you, Mr. Astronaut,” I whisper.

  “We can come here anytime we want, Jonathan.”

  “We can stay here forever.”

  “I’d really like that,” he says softly.

  “You would?”

  “Yeah . . . I would . . .”

  “. . . Me too . . .”

  He takes my hand, traces some lines on my palms. It stings, but I ignore it. “And maybe one day we won’t have to come all the way up here to be safe, you know? Maybe one day we can stay . . . down here . . . you know?”

  “Maybe . . . one day . . .”

  “Yeah . . .”

  “Yeah . . .”

  “So . . . Web Astronaut . . . did you find what you were looking for?”

  “Yeah, Jonathan. I think I did.”

  * * *

  —

  That was recorded hours ago. Now here I am again. Alone. Lying on my bed, staring at the Day-Glo moon poster, without the Glo, flipping his jacket-pin around in my hand. (It fell off when he bounced down the stairs to leave.) I think I’ll put it in my closet next to his note. To keep him safe. For now.

  I rewind and play the tape over and over again,

  listening to his voice,

  listening to my voice,

  listening to us . . . together . . . in our imagined world that’s more real than anything I’ve ever felt before—

  How can a feeling be so bad if it makes me feel so good?

  I don’t know . . .

  I close my eyes, still feeling the softness of his palm wrapped in mine.

  17.

  Saturday, June 2, 1973

  THE NEXT MORNING, church is canceled.

  Starla’s “too overwhelmed with the presentation and end-of-school-year stuff and just everything else going on. Please don’t hate me, okay?”

  “I could never,” I said.

  Anyway, I’m way too distracted by last night, so I jump on Stingraymobile—the second-best thing to do in Creve Coeur on a Saturday morning—and let the wind funnel through my thoughtstrings. I whiz through the neighborhoods, zigzag through boys playing baseball in the street, the fresh-cut grass stinging my nose. I disappear in the sun’s rays so no one sees me.

  I pedal and pedal and pedal, navigating my never-ending thoughts about being with Web on the moon. Yes, it was real. Yes, it happened. And yes, this is a terrible-no-good thing. You know better, Collins. We can only be friends. Just friends. Friends hold hands. That’s normal. Look at Starla. You hold hers all the time and it’s fine—but—the way he held yours was so different. Careful. Fragile, even. I don’t— No. You cannot. You must not—

  Stingraymobile stops. I’m back at the lake.

  Laughter radiates across the waters. I make a visor with my hands. Dad at the trailer park. A round little boy squeals at his feet, bounces up and down. Dad kisses the top of his head, then lifts him on his shoulders and runs in circles through clothes hanging on the line, galloping like
a horse. Heather watches, laughing.

  I pedal down the beach, stopping at the crying cliff, and squint up, trying to see through to the clearing. He’s not there.

  I ride back down the shore, stuffing crushed cans and bottles and trash in my satchel. I remember Starla taking me downtown to the first Earth Day protest a few years ago, screaming under the Arch, “If you aren’t part of the solution, you’re part of the pollution.” Man, am I going to miss her . . .

  Back and forth I pedal.

  Sand and pebbles and thoughtstrings kick up all around me, nicking my legs, biting my thighs.

  Back and forth.

  I’m waiting for him to appear out of nowhere like last time, so we can talk about American Indian princesses and Carl Sagan starfolk and broken secrets—

  And then it happens. I see him. I almost call his name, but stop myself, and quickly hide behind a rock. He’s bounding down the steps of one of those shanties on stilts, the ones that loomed behind us when we first met on the beach.

  “I’ll be right back!” he calls out to someone or no one, I’m not sure. His hair whooshes behind him like a sea of raven feathers and he’s flying, flying, flying to the forest of oak trees, disappearing in its thick, canopied shadows. Gone.

  Oh.

  This is where he lives.

  I should go. I need to go. Before he comes back, before he sees me.

  I jump on Stingraymobile and try to pedal, but only get a few feet. She won’t budge. I’m stuck. My heart tries to break free from its connecting valves.

  I look down. Of course. It’s THE spot. How could I not recognize it from last time we were here? Where the Prom Night Bonfire from Hell once blazed, now only a dry puddle of blackened ash and scattered gray sticks and broken glass remains. My only proof I did not make it up.

  The spot.

  Where IT happened.

  Four years ago. The Hateful Summer of ’69. The summer of my first kiss. Right here. A moment that’s supposed to be branded forever in time, a moment I’m supposed to forget. Right here.

  The moon had only been stamped with Neil Armstrong’s footprint for a month. We looked up and talked about that and whispered to each other, and our arms crisscrossed behind our backs, our hands in each other’s pockets. And we turned, leaned in, our lips smashing together, sparking every nerve in my body to life for the first time. And then we—