Ziggy, Stardust and Me

by James Brandon

  My eyes spring open.

  A rustle in the trees behind the shanty.

  “Who’s there?” I yell. No one answers. “Web?” Another rustle, then a figure disappearing in the shadows of the forest. I look down.

  A tent in my shorts. Oh no. Was Web watching me? Did he see? Oh man. Reason #3,279 I hate wearing shorts: They’re too tight, too small, and hide NOTHING. I adjust my boner, pack it away for the day. Forever.

  I hop back on Stingraymobile. Sort of. I wiggle myself on the seat until I can pedal away, shoving the memory back into a black hole. Trust me, it’s better that way. For me, for him, for the universe . . .

  Can barely hold the handlebars, my wrists crackle.

  Can barely see, my eyes fill with water.

  Can barely pedal, my legs are two electric live wires.

  I ride up our driveway, wobble inside.

  I pull the Ziggy album off my desk, hide under the covers.

  “You there?” I ask. He’s so blurred from my tears he looks like he’s a fading mirage. “Zig? You there? I need you. I need to talk to you.”

  But for some reason, he never answers.

  18.

  Wednesday, June 6, 1973

  I CAN’T FOCUS ON anything right now.

  It’s the last two hours of junior year and the Presentation-for-Your-Life has finally arrived.

  We’re sitting in Dulick’s classroom—excuse me, the BROADWAY STAGE. God. A white sheet-curtain drapes down from the ceiling in front of us with “LOVE IS FREE” spray-painted at the top.

  We’ve only seen each other at school since that night in my bedroom. And we’ve only practiced our presentation twice. And except for the times he had to keep reminding me the Apes weren’t going to beat us to a bloody pulp for our idea, we’ve barely spoken.

  It did make me wonder if everything that happened that night actually happened. Good thing it’s tape-recorded, because there’s no doubt about it: It was real.

  He’s back on Desk Island, staring down at his feet, jiggling his legs so fast I swear he’s trying to paddle to Hanoi. Yeah, I feel ya, brother.

  I recite the lines Dulick gave us from the seagull book over and over again in my head, while watching snippets of other presentations:

  1. Firecrotch and Adam Worthlesston covered the “stage” in plastic, handed raincoats to the front-rowers, and played a rousing rendition of the last scene from Romeo and Juliet. Typical. Boring. (And not without irony: Her parents refuse to let them go together because he’s poor and lives at the lake.) So they reenvisioned it as the final scene from The Godfather, killing everyone in their families instead, splattered red paint and all. And at the end they screamed, “Your hate will never kill our love!” Lacey cried because she didn’t put her raincoat on and looked like a “bloody maxi” (the other girls’ words, not mine).

  “B!” screamed Dulick from the back of the room. “An interesting, albeit morbid vision on the power of requited love.”

  2. Starla and Lindsey dressed as two nuns and reenacted the crucifixion of Christ, crying real tears at His feet. And I mean real tears. I don’t know how she did it, how she made herself weep like that, but manohman she had everyone bawling with her. Even Scotty. Then, when Jesus came off the cross in the Resurrection—which was actually a life-size cardboard cutout of Donny Osmond swathed in a bedsheet—they threw off their black habits to reveal sparkly gold minidresses underneath, and ran around the room making everyone clap along like we were in their gospel choir. Very Jesus Christ Superstar.

  “A,” Dulick sobbed. “Music is the food of love! Play ON!”

  3. Scotty, who usually doesn’t take anything seriously, except for talking about sex and beating up toothpick creatures, surprised me the most. He walked out dressed as a FULL-ON WOMAN. I’m talking big boobies made from water balloons, I’m guessing, blond Marilyn wig, skintight sheer white minidress that left NOTHING to the imagination, and smeared makeup that Samantha probably did for him. He ran behind the sheet after singing some warped version of “Happy Birthday, Mr. President.”

  Then Ape Cory came out dressed as President Nixon, mask and all, waving his hands in flopping peace symbols saying, “I never did it! I never did it!” He joined Scotty behind the sheet and they acted like they were MAKING OUT, holding a sign at the end that said, LOVE CAN BE CLOAKED IN LIES.

  Yes, everyone laughed. And yes, Dulick gave them a “B for taking a risk and making a social commentary at the same time!”

  Then: “Jonathan and Web. You’re up, daddios!”

  He yells it even though I’m sitting right next to him, and like Pavlov’s dog, the second I hear my name I almost immediately poop my pants. But as calmly as possible I say, “I need five minutes, please. May I be excused to the restroom?”

  He says, “Of course, my man, take all the time you need.”

  Web shoots me a look and I reassure him with a quick nod to set up the room and take his place.

  I bolt to the bathroom and stare in the mirror. Hard. David Bowie once said the reason he became a rock-n-roll star was because, “If you just amass the courage that is necessary, you can completely reinvent yourself. You can be your own hero.”

  So I summon the almighty forces of every superhero ever created and I ask them, for just five minutes of my existence, to help me be someone else.

  And five minutes later, that’s exactly what happens.

  I peek my head through the small window in the class—STAGE—door.

  Blinds have all been closed. Check. Starla sits in the back with the record player ready. Check. Two black lights are plugged in. Check. Web sits on Dulick’s desk staring at the linoleum, kicking the front of it with his bare feet every few seconds. Check. His face and body are streaked with Day-Glo paint, barely visible in the regular fluorescents—but I can tell they’re there—and he’s shirtless. Some girls are whisperblushgiggling to each other. Ready to kill or pounce, I’m not sure.

  Everyone else: my National Geographic closet pages sprung to life.Animals dangling on their desk chairs, grunting, laughing, mating. And me: a space invader, looking at a petri dish labeled SUBSPECIES: HORMONAL TEENAGER.

  Deep breath. Close my eyes. Open the door. Across the room the needle skips, and everyone goes silent. I open my eyes and witness the literal manifestation of jaws dropping.

  Web’s wearing a thin black mask. His idea, because he wanted to be as anonymous as possible and hide his soul from the classroom. He looks at me. And smiles. “Just us, remember? To the moon,” he whispers.

  I flip off the lights and lift my arms, extending the long white silk of Starla’s kimono, and glide across the room. Underneath, I’m wearing our tiny white gym shorts and Starla’s white lace-up boots that lift all the way to my knee, and nothing else.

  I’d studied his picture so many times I had it memorized by heart, so when I threw the makeup on it was like I had been doing it my whole life: extra-bright white powder splashed all over my face, a sea of shimmery pink streaked across each cheek, and a huge golden glittery moon in the middle of my forehead.

  I am Ziggy Stardust.

  I take my place behind the desk.

  Web takes his in front. “You look amazing,” he says.

  “So do you.” I give a slight nod to Starla, ignoring the Ape growls in the front row, and SweetBabyZiggy here we go.

  White-static noise. Needle hits the place on the record: “Time” by Pink Floyd from The Dark Side of the Moon album.

  A low rumble lifts from the player’s speakers.

  Ticktock, ticktock, ticktock, ding-dong ding-dong, cuckoo cuckoo: a thousand clocks crescendo to a loud BRRRRINNNNGGGG, BRRRIINNNGGG, BRRRIIIINNNGGG.

  Plug in black lights. KAPOW. Web’s Day-Glo paints spring to life. Two neon-red streaks fall from his eyes like a stream of tears. On his chest: a fluorescent blue earth pulsates with his breaths.

/>   A collective gasp from the audience.

  WAY better than I imagined.

  Cl-clock, cl-clock, cl-clock, cl-clock, a drum of heartbeats pulses through the rings on the record.

  STRRRRRUUMMMMMM of the bass guitar.

  “I AM TIME,” he yells, with a little extra force. He lifts his arm and moves it inch by inch like the second hand on a clock. “I am The Man. The only one here in control. I make your thoughts. I give you power.” He claps his hands above his head and freezes.

  Cl-clock, cl-clock, cl-clock, cl-clock, another STRRUUUMMMMMM.

  I slowly rise behind him. “I am space,” I say. It squeaks out of my mouth like a goddamn gerbil. I close my eyes, remember who I’ve become, begin again. “I AM SPACE,” I yell. Yes, yes, oh yes I am. I stand on the desk and lift my arms. “I am chaos. I am your true voice. I am different. I am here to make you feel.”

  “Like a queer,” Scotty says. The Apes grunt.

  STRRRUUUUMMM. Da Da DUUUMMMMM.

  Web flinches, and for a second I’m sure he’s about to run over and punch them in the gut. Instead, he turns to face me. “Space,” he says, quivering. “You cannot be with me. You cannot be here. Only one of us can live. And it can only be me. You must leave now!”

  “Time,” I say, looking down on him. “I will not leave. There is nowhere for me to go. Without me, you would not even exist.”

  Web leaps on the desk. “No!” he screams. A few girls jump. “You are not allowed to be here!”

  Da Da DUMMMMMMMMM.

  “I have no choice!” I yell back.

  SMACK: He fake-slaps me across the face and I tumble off the desk, planting myself on the floor in a Spider-Man crouch. I hear a few chairs scrape against the linoleum, the audience rising to see.

  Da Da DUMMMMMMMM cl-clock, cl-clock, cl-clock, cl-clock, the music swells.

  He lifts his arms. “Go. Now. You will never survive this Time!”

  I spring up. “I will not go! If you don’t accept me, one day you will die!” I swipe my hands across his chest and smear the blue earth all over him so it looks like a splattered mess of heart—

  A shock sweeps through me. For a moment, I jump out of my fake skin back into my real skin. NO. Not now, not now, not now. I close my eyes and take a breath before opening them again, looking into his. Set phasers to stun.

  “I will not leave!” I yell again, stepping back into Ziggy. “You must embrace me if we are both to live. Embrace me for who I AM!” I jump back on the desk and unsnap my kimono in one sweeping RRRRRIIIIPPPPP, flinging it above us so it sails down to the floor. Underneath, my chest is covered in the same gold glittery moondust as my forehead.

  A few more gasps erupt from the audience.

  “I don’t know how,” he says.

  I grab his fists. “We must see each other for who we really are. Beyond this form. It is the only way.”

  Cl-clock, cl-clock, cl-clock, cl-clock fades away.

  A silence fills the room.

  Then: “You’re right,” he says just over a whisper. “Overcome space, and all we have left is Here.”

  “And overcome time, and all we have left is Now,” I say.

  “And the Here and Now is where Love lives,” we say together.

  We look in each other’s eyes as if we’re the only two people in the classroom, the only two people in the universe.

  Then, softly, he says, “I see you.”

  “I see you . . .”

  And for a few seconds, we are still. I hear nothing, see no one else.

  Except Web and me, breathing . . .

  Our arms twine together. We slowly pull ourselves into a yin-yang hug, standing on the desk of Mr. Dulick’s classroom full of broken people, in broken little Creve Coeur, which sits in the middle of a broken country, which floats on a broken planet, which spins in the middle of a solar system that exists in a galaxy among a bazillion others beyond space and time . . .

  Breathe in.

  Breathe out.

  Breathe in.

  Breathe out.

  His chest slides against mine, his sweat melting the incessant stings from my treatments, like the raindrops did the other night. His heart pounds so hard and fast I cannot tell which one is actually mine.

  I slink back into my skin. Unwind myself from him and fold my arms tightly to my chest. For a second, I’m convinced I actually did stop time: Everyone’s expression is frozen.

  Then: “Faggots.” Scotty breaks the silence with his subspecies asshole fuckface voice.

  A few Apes snicker.

  I feel Web tighten up next to me. Jesus, not now. The dynamite’s lit; his fuse sparks. I grab his arm as Dulick springs up from the back of the room, clapping. He runs down the aisle. Starla looks at me with this half-moonbeam-of-love, half-I’m-not-sure-what look on her face, like when she told me she was leaving for the summer.

  “That was . . . I don’t know . . .” Dulick says. “I can’t find the words . . . It was—”

  “Queer-tastic?” Scotty says. Apes grunt. Web’s fuse burns down to nothing. My stomach clenches.

  “Just . . . beyond, man. Far-out. Outta sight. Fucking beyond.”

  Well, this silences the Apes. Dulick NEVER uses the f-word even though he allows it in class. His face is wet, streaming with tears.

  Secret: He does not—I repeat, he does NOT—smell like grass.

  “A-plus-plus, man.” An extra frigging plus? “This here,” he says, turning to the classroom, wrapping an arm around each of our shoulders. “This is how the earth will survive beyond another five years. This.”

  He’s radiating heat like he just swallowed the sun, and beaming at us with the same force. “Thank you,” he says, grabbing us in this awkward threesome bear hug thing. “Thank you.”

  Scotty makes kiss-smack sounds and soft war-whooping calls, and my face is so close to Web’s I not only see it, I feel it: Thousands of firecrackers explode in his body.

  Oh no.

  * * *

  —

  There’s no time to celebrate the victory of Extra Plus Presentation.

  The minute the bell rings, Web darts out of the room and disappears. I run to the bathroom to scrub my makeup off and do my quick-change.

  Only one class remains of our junior year: the final step to the Gates of Hades, PE.

  Squeak sq-squeak sq-squeak: fifty tennis shoes jumping and skipping against the waxed wood floor. Dodgeball. Perfect. It smells like the armpits of Satan in here. Seriously, do Apes shower? Are they allowed to bathe? Do they just lick themselves clean? I ask these and a thousand other questions during the National Geographic special I’m currently producing in my head: “Killing Collins, the Lame Llama in the Corner.”

  Coach Peterson throws me in the middle of some wild grunting troop the minute I walk in. I have no idea what I’m doing except to know one rule: Don’t let the ball hit you. I must say, it’s the one activity I’ve gotten really good at over the years. Strangely, though, I barely have to move at all today. It’s almost like they’re purposely avoiding me.

  And stranger still, Web never shows. Smart move. Bummed I didn’t think to do the same thing: Dash out of school and thrive on the high of Victorious Extra Plus! But, come on, he could’ve thought of me, too. If nothing else, a “Bye, have a good summer!” would’ve been nice . . .

  Maybe he’s conjuring some crazy bonfire in the boiler room and he’ll burst through the waxed floor, splintering wood pieces in all directions, slaughtering everyone in sight (except me!) with his fire-breathing pet dragon we named Ziggy Floyd. I’ll jump on its back and wrap my arms around Web’s waist as we soar into the sunset and—

  Coach Peterson blows his whistle and screams, “COLLINS. Hit the showers!” I look up, the Lone Llama all alone. Dammit. Spaced out again.

  When the locker room’s metal door creaks
open, it is eerily quiet. Like walking-through-a-haunted-house-and-waiting-for-the-next-thing-to-jump-out-at-you quiet. Rows of lockers, empty. Showers, empty. Bathroom stalls, empty. Man, how long did I space out for?

  I weave through the locker maze, cupping my hand over my nose, because it smells like the Apes wiped their feces all over the lockers. That, and Ape sweat. Never a good combination. Even the bleachy pine doesn’t stand a chance.

  For a moment, I breathe a sigh of relief and realize, This is it. I made it. Junior year complete. Presentation done. Alone at last! Praise Ziggy, I’m alone at last!

  Then I round the corner. And my thoughts are quickly obliterated along with every cell in my body. Scotty and the Asshole Ape Brigade. Clumped together in a huddle of muscle stink, smiles spread across their faces like one big cackling demon.

  “Thought you could get off that easy, Collins?” Scotty says. “Told ya at the bonfire we’d be back.”

  My first thought:

  My second thought: Run.

  I turn around only to smash into an Incredible Redneck, a towering mass of Apeness that makes King Kong paltry in comparison. He even smells like rotten bananas, I swear. His teeth are just as yellow and spotted. He pushes me back.

  “Hoo, hoo, hoo! Ah, ah, ah!” The Apes have their toy back. Think, Collins. Think. The one superhero gift of being skinny? I’m fast, squirmy, and can slip in and out of the teeniest cracks in the blink of an eye.

  I dip down and try to slide between some Ape’s legs. His calves clamp against my ribs in a vise grip bear trap. I fling out a noise that sounds like a compressed accordion. The Apes love it.

  “Hoo, hoo, hoo! AHAHAH!”

  “Where’s your girlfriend?” Scotty barks.

  PATOOWIE. Some Ape lands a spit wad in my eye. Like acid pouring through my skull. I’m blinded for a few seconds and try to wipe it clean of burn, and when I open my mouth to scream:

  PATOOWIE. Another spit wad splashes against my tongue, slides down my throat. I gag. Tastes like rotted tobacco that’s been chewed all day and burns holes in my esophagus, I swear.