Ziggy, Stardust and Me

by James Brandon

Only the crackle and sizzle of meat pierce the stillness.

  “Let that be a lesson to all you boys,” BillyBob says. “You stay away from them Indians. They don’t belong in these parts. I don’t know what they’re doin’ over there in the first place, but this here’s a white man’s town, and that there’s our land and they know it. They ain’t nothin’ but trouble. See what happens?” He gestures to Joe, who’s still fuming, then looks at me. I nod. Does he know? Did he see me?

  “And you need to calm your ass down, Joe,” BillyBob yells. “You forget our plan already? They gonna get what’s comin’ to them— Hey! Joe! You hear me?” Porky Joe snaps back and shrugs. “Yeah, that’s right. Hoo boy, we gonna be puttin’ a pow in their wow and get rid of them Indians real soon. Ain’t that right, Hal?” He turns to Hal, who looks at me, smirking. “And it looks like we got us a couple new friends here to help us out, ain’t that right? Hey! Robert’s boy! Ain’t that right?”

  He means me? No. I don’t move. I don’t breathe. I don’t know what to do. I want to scream, “YOU’RE ALL ROTTEN, NO-GOOD PIECES OF REDNECK TRASH” so each word stabs their eyes out. I want to yell so loud the bonfire shoots fireballs and disintegrates them all to a pile of ash.

  But I don’t.

  Instead, I glare at the fire, and nod.

  “HeyBOYS!” a velociraptor screeches through the silence.

  “Hey, hey, if it ain’t Bernadette,” BillyBob yells. “Where you been hidin’, girl?” She waves two six-packs over her head and does a weird catcall whistle thing back at them.

  “Well, you know me, boys! I gotta keep you waitin’ for more!” Thinking she might be the Madam of Trailerville. She looks like a page from a coloring book that’s been scribbled all over, crumpled up, and thrown in the corner trash can.

  Whatever. She’s a welcome distraction from me and wherever that conversation was going. But what the hell are they planning? I need to run. I need to warn—

  “How do you like it out here so far?” I jump. Hal. A little too close to my ear. I turn back to my twirling hot dog and scoot a few inches away.

  “Fine,” I say.

  “They mean well, you know.”

  I shuffle some rocks under my shoes, quick-glance around. Can’t run now, too many people: Madam Bernadette has an army of toads hopping around her.

  “They’re just real protective. You know, of their friends, their land, their secrets . . .” He laughs, shoves his shoulders against mine. “Guess we all are, huh?”

  I don’t move.

  “You’re burnin’,” he whispers.

  “What?”

  “Your hot dog. It’s on fire.”

  “Damn!” I blow out the little flame.

  Hal scoots the three inches I’d taken away from him and whispers, “Hey, don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.”

  I swallow.

  “You know what I say? Live and let live. Just don’t mess with me.” His hand squeezes mine. “I mean, come on, man. It’s the seventies, right? Sexual liberation and all that jazz?”

  The world starts to whoosh; Madam Bernadette gyrates in slow motion. I’m getting dizzy. I need to get out of here. Think, Collins. Navigate the negative and think.

  “I’m serious, man,” Hal says, gripping my wrists tighter. “You don’t have to worry. Hey, look at me.” I do. His copper eyes glint. He lifts a grin that stretches his scar all the way to his ear. “Trust me, okay?” I nod. “You just gotta be more careful. There’s eyes all over this lake.”

  “I should get another hot dog,” I say. “This one’s burnt.”

  “Of course. They’re right over there.” He points to the card table. “Glad we had this talk. I’ll keep your seat warm.”

  I jump up, zigzag through the dancing blur of bib overalls and bikinis, and fold myself in the crowd, disappearing in the shadows. Hal stands. He starts to walk toward me. I could roll under the trailers and hide, but then—

  SWOOSH. Tammy swoops in, wrapping her talons around his neck, and saves the day! Never thought I’d be so happy to see her. He tries to wriggle free, but I know that grip. Like a frigging bear trap. He’s not going anywhere.

  Without thinking and before anyone notices, I run. I need to warn Web and his family.

  42.

  NO LIGHT POURS THROUGH the door this time as I inch my way up their back stairs. The screen door’s kicked open, but otherwise no movement, no laughter, no one. And except for the distant echoes of fiddles and cackles and the pounding bass drum of my heart, no sound—

  No. Someone’s grunting and—BOOMCRASHBANG—broken glass and books and Godknowswhat thud to the floor. My body slaps against the house. Someone’s dragging something. Maybe they already got them. Maybe it’s a body they’re trying to hide, and—

  I peek my head in. It’s Web. A small desk lamp illuminates his shadow-self dragging a box. What the hell is he doing? I should say something. This is definitely crossing over into stalker territory—

  “This will help. It always helps . . .” He’s mumbling to someone. Who else is with him? I see no other person in the house, no other lights on.

  When he reaches his room, I jump out of sight, scaling the wall. Okay. Now I’m officially stalking. Still, I peek my head back in.

  He sits on the floor by his bed. He’s wearing his Pink Floyd T-shirt—the one!—and a pair of plaid boxer shorts. Is he crying?

  He flips the lid up on his record player, the one stashed under the bookshelf. He holds one of my records in his hand, wipes his eyes with his forearms. Oh, he is crying.

  “Yup, she always helps,” he says to no one. He stares at the album. I lean in to see which one it is— He snaps up.

  OHMAN.

  “Who’s there?” he yells.

  I inch my head into the screen’s frame. Wave.

  “Jonathan?”

  “Sorry. Yes.”

  “You came back.” He wipes his face again. “How long you been standing there?”

  “Not long. I just got here, I—”

  “Come in.”

  “Where is everyone?”

  His boxers hang loosely below his waist when he stands, exposing a few perfectly carved ridges on his stomach. I do not notice this.

  “They went to town to grab a few things from the market. You okay?” He walks toward me. Slowly.

  “Yeah. I mean, no. Listen, I just . . . came over to . . . say . . .” Oh man. I rehearsed a speech on my trek across the lake, but it’s all turned to gobbledygook now that I’m standing in front of him again. I close my eyes. Let’s run now and never look back, and we can hide together for the rest of our lives on the moon, staring at the stars where no one can touch us, and no one can hurt us, and—I open my eyes. He’s inches from me now. Shimmering with sweat. I clear my throat. “I’m here because you need to know: Those people across the lake—I know for sure they’re planning—to do something—I don’t know what—but I think they’re planning to hurt you guys . . . maybe . . . so that’s why I’m here . . . to . . . tell you that . . .”

  He hasn’t blinked. He’s standing so close there’s no more darkness between us and he still smells like he’s been playing out in the woods all day: sweet boy-sweat.

  “You . . . hear what I said . . .” I whisper.

  “Yeah, I heard you,” he whispers back.

  “Okay . . . well . . . that’s . . . good . . .”

  “Is that the only reason you came back?”

  “Well . . . I mean . . . no . . . I mean . . .”

  “Jonathan . . .”

  “Web . . . I . . .” And our lips smash together with such force the rest of my words disappear in his mouth. And the rest of my body disappears into his everything. And I scream. For real. Like Dr. Evelyn turned the knobs up to NINETY, which basically eviscerates your nerves in two seconds flat.

  He leans back sligh
tly and whispers, “You okay?” The puff of his breath feels like a feather brushing my lips, and I can taste the honey on his lips, and I try to say something, but instead, I pull him right back into me so we will never have to talk again, because I know the minute we do it will be over. I don’t care how much it burns. Another scream leaps from my mouth into his. Oh man . . . it hurts. But . . . I don’t . . . ever want this . . . to end—OW. I force myself off.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?” he asks.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—we shouldn’t be—we can’t—” I rub my wrists together so hard, it only makes them ignite more. “It hurts—”

  “What hurts? What’s wrong?” He keeps inching into my lips and I keep pushing him away.

  “Stop. What if your—family shows up—I need to—get back before Dad knows I’m—I’m serious, Web, STOP.” He does. And looks like someone who just got slapped across the face a few times, stumbling and stunned. “Aren’t you scared? Didn’t you hear what I said?”

  “Hell no, man, I ain’t scared. I’m staying right here.”

  “But those assholes are coming over here to do—something—”

  “So what, man? Empty threats—”

  “And I sure as hell can’t be here, because if we get caught I’ll end up in jail or the psycho ward or—I don’t know what—GOD. I’m so sick of saying that!” I punch my thighs to try and stop the stinging. “Fuck, it hurts!” Tears suddenly burst from my eyes like we’re back on the cliff. I can’t stop them.

  “Jonathan, it’s okay—”

  “No. No it’s not okay! Maybe I don’t want to go to the moon anymore, Web. Maybe I don’t want to pretend, you know. Maybe I want to stay here with you, because these are the realest feelings I’ve ever felt—but I can’t—we can’t—you can’t stay here. It’s not safe and—”

  He folds me into his arms. His heart beats against mine like a wild drummer. His breath sears my neck. It scorches, but I never want him to let me go. And I’m so angry and confused I scream in my hands again.

  “Hey hey hey, Jonathan, look at me. LOOK at me.” I do. “This is exactly what they want.”

  “Who?”

  “Everyone out there. To make you feel crazy. Don’t let them.”

  “I hate this. All of this. I don’t want you to get hurt, and—”

  “Nobody’s going to hurt me.”

  “But you should hide somewhere . . . or something, I don’t know. Just for now—”

  “We’ve been running our whole lives, Jonathan. And they always get away with it. Always.” He clasps my cheeks. “We’re not people to them. We’re frigging animals to them, man. Get it?” Tears leap from his eyes. “At some point you have to stop and say, ‘Enough. This is me.’ And fight for it as hard as you can. Get it?” His hands tremble, shaking me.

  “I hate this so much. So much—”

  “I know. Me too . . . Come here.” He pulls me toward his bedroom.

  “Web, I need to go—” I dry my face with my T-shirt.

  “Just hold on a sec . . . it’s time I told you . . .”

  “Told me what?”

  “Come in here.”

  Hammered-up pieces of wood cover his walls like a patchwork quilt. Besides the bed, and a dresser piled high with books, there’s nothing else in his room. So sparse, it could be mine.

  He bends over the record player. I do not notice his boxers slowly inching down the small of his back. He slips the vinyl out of the paper covering, places it on the turntable like I would, like it’s part of the crown jewels collection, and clicks on the player. Carole King pounds the piano like nobody’s business.

  “Come on.” He closes his eyes, starts swaying to the music.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Come on, man. It’s my turn, remember? Our game? This is how I want to tell you.” He waves his hands toward me, doing some funky dance moves that make him look ridiculous. I can’t help it; I start giggling. “Why aren’t you dancing, Bowie boy?”

  Sweet Ziggy. I bounce my knees like an idiot.

  “No, no, not like that. Like this.” He pulls me into him. A spark rips through us.

  “Ow . . .”

  “You okay?”

  “You . . . wanna slow dance?” I ask.

  “I do.”

  “To this?”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s . . . weird?”

  “Is it?”

  “I don’t know.” Oh, shut up and put your head on his shoulder. I do. And I melt.

  “There,” he says. “Much better.”

  I nuzzle my head into his neck, scalding my scar with his sweat. His arms blanket me and I close my eyes to Carole King’s voice.

  “Your song,” I whisper.

  “Yeah, man. The song. This is the one that played when my father—” He stops and I try to lift my head, but he only holds me tighter. “I never forgot that cop’s face. Not ever. And then I saw him at this bar in town. Plastered out of his frigging mind. He stumbled out to take a piss. I followed him until we were in the shadows. And I don’t know what happened.” His breath shudders. “Next thing I know, my fist was in his jaw and he was on the ground. And I jumped on top of him and pounded his face like it was the baton he used on my father, and before I knew it, he was a bloody mess. Just lying there. He started moving, reaching for me. So I ran. Ran all the way back home. And when I told my grandfather, we jumped in Uncle Russell’s truck and drove. Because they both knew the minute they found me I’d be dead. We drove all the way here. To hide me.”

  I pull my head back.

  “That’s why I was hiding when we met,” he says. “That’s why I’ve been hiding, and I’m so fucking sick of hiding. And when I’m with you I don’t want to hide anymore, Jonathan. I want to stay right here . . . but . . . that’s why we can’t go home yet. We’re still waiting to hear what happened to the cop, if he’s looking for me or—” He pulls me back in. “I don’t care about those stupid assholes across the lake, man. Get it now?”

  I nod into his chest.

  “Good,” he says. “Good . . . Your turn . . .”

  But I can’t answer.

  We sway and disappear in each other’s arms, and

  “So Far Away” starts crooning through the speakers, and

  for one moment in time,

  two lonely astronauts floating in space

  finally find each other.

  43.

  Tuesday, July 3, 1973

  “TWO DAYS LEFT, that’s all we got,” Dad says, wiping a tsunami of sweat from his forehead. Some color’s come back to his face, but he still looks like a black-and-white filmstrip. Man, that fever must’ve really sunk him. The only tint to his frame is the bright-orange polyester shirt he’s wearing, with a few buttons bulging in his middle.

  “Okay,” I say.

  We’re walking through rows and rows of fireworks in a red-and-yellow circus tent that’s been set up outside the lake district. You aren’t allowed to shoot them off at the lake, but laws be damned!

  “Then you’re home free.”

  “Yeah. Mission accomplished,” I say.

  “Think we did it?”

  “I don’t know. You?”

  “I don’t know.” His takes his aviators off, drying his eyes. “Man, it’s a doozy today. Ain’t you hot?” I shrug. He throws a cardboard cylinder—literally the size of my head—in the basket. “You feel any different since we got here?”

  “Oh yeah,” I say. Understatement of the seventies, but anyway.

  “Well, good, son . . . good . . .” He lifts his Robert Redford beam. Huh. Been a while since that smile’s appeared. Maybe Dr. Evelyn was onto something here . . .

  “These are neat,” I say. “Personal favorite.” I throw in three boxes of those black pellets—the ones you light and they slither ou
t to become styrofoamy snakes.

  “Grab some more if you like ’em,” he says. So I do. He finds the table with bottle rockets and basically scoops up every last one. “So I heard Tammy wasn’t such a good idea . . .”

  “Let me think about it . . . No,” I say.

  He laughs—for real laughs! “Yeah, heard she’s kind of a mess.” He starts coughing, thumping his chest. “Not like—my Heather—damn, this cough—”

  “No, not like your Heather,” I say. “You okay?”

  He waves me off and throws in twenty packs of Black Cats. Then he thinks about it and throws in a handful more. He picks up a box of sparklers. “You used to . . . love these as a kid . . .”

  “Yeah. I loved drawing in the air with them.”

  “So did your momma . . .” We stand in silence. He twists the box. Are his hands shaking? I don’t look in his eyes, still imagining him smiling down on me like we’re having a real-life father-son bonding day. He throws the box in the basket and grabs a few more. We keep walking. “You seem happier, son.”

  I do? So that’s what it feels like. I keep thinking about the way we kissed, the way we slow danced. The way he looked at me when he said you have to fight for it as hard as you can—

  “Good to be out here, huh?” he asks, launching me back to the tent.

  “Oh. Yeah . . .”

  “Look, I know I ain’t the greatest father in the world. Hell, I ain’t even the most pleasant man to be around. But, well . . . you know . . . oh hell, I don’t know.” His voice quivers. What is happening here? He throws in some Roman candles and another cylinder the size of Missouri, and pulls a crumpled pack of Camels out of his pocket.

  “Uh, Dad, you probably shouldn’t do that in here.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because we are literally in a tent full of explosives.”

  “Right . . . here.” He shoves the basket in my hands. “Fill it up.” He walks out to the furthest outskirts of the tent and starts pacing, rubbing his hands through his hair. Something is definitely off right now.

  I stroll up and down the rows, throwing in whatever looks most sparkly for me and whatever looks most scary for Dad. Two basketfuls later—and lost again in my tangled thoughtstrings about dancing with Web, and how to stop the hillbillies from whatever it is they’re planning, or if they really were just empty threats like Web said, and how I can sneak back over to see him again—I don’t even notice the small crowd that’s gathered around Dad until someone yells.