I guess this is what family feels like.
When we reach the bonfire, his grandfather accordions me in a hug and I think my lungs collapse. “Grab some food!” he says, pushing me over to a lime-green VW van parked in the back.
I zigzag through more strangers, holding my chest. I actually do think he collapsed my lungs when I realize the breeze this morning has become a thick layer of fog swamping the air.
I fumble through my satchel. Oh no. PeterPaulandMary is still in his bedroom. I run back to grab it, when someone calls my name.
“Jonathan? Jonathan Collins? Is that really you, daddio?”
That voice. How do I know that—“Mr. Dulick?”
He stands there beaming, wearing a tie-dyed shirt, corduroy cutoffs, and a long peace-symbol chain that’s caught in his chest hair. Like he just stepped off the stage performing Hair.
And he’s definitely stoned.
“Alright alright alright,” he says. “It is you!” He hugs me, squeezing me tight. His thick sideburns tickle my cheeks.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, bending over slightly to steady my breath.
“This is my family’s place, man—well, was—they’re tearing it down. This’ll be our last Fourth—”
“This is your place? But how do you know Web and—”
“Oh. My man! I met Dennis and Russell a few years back in San Francisco.” He tightens his tie-dyed headband, and tucks his curly hair out of his eyes. “Joined up with them when they occupied Alcatraz. Where it all started for me, man. Best time of my freaking life. Been friends ever since. Where’s Web?”
“Oh, he’s around . . . somewhere . . .”
“Present, sir,” Web says, clasping my waist, kissing my neck. I flinch, waiting for the sting.
Nothing happens.
“Well, look at you two! Fan-freaking-tastic!” Dulick yells. We both jump. “Oh, this makes sense . . . this makes perfect sense . . .” He cocoons the three of us together. “Positively beautiful, man. Fate sure has a funny way of doing her thing, doesn’t she?”
Please don’t cry again. He’s this close, I can tell. “Yeah . . .” I say.
He pats our shoulders, our cheeks, our heads . . . Yup, stoned out of his gourd. Web giggles.
“Freaking beautiful, man. Hey, let’s boogie later, kiddos,” he says. “Gonna grab me some grub.” And he dances off.
“Did you . . . know this was his place?” I ask.
Web shrugs. “I wasn’t supposed to say anything—”
“Crazy—”
“Yeah. Crazy, crazy, crazy . . .” He kisses me.
Uncle Russell lifts me from the ground. “Enough of that kissy-face stuff. Come on, Jonathan! You need some good Lakota food. Give you a nice belly like mine.” He plops me down, slaps his stomach.
“I just need to—”
“Heyhey, fix this man up with a plate, will you, sweet?” He yells this to Sunny, who’s standing by the van with a few other women adorned in similar knitted vests spun by the Archangel of Frigging Yarn. Holy shimmering stars.
“What would you like?” she asks.
The van behind her is filled with coolers labeled “Pop” and “Water” and “Burgers” and “Fry Bread and Tacos.”
“A taco and a Coke, please.”
She smiles and says, “We’re so happy you’re here.”
I smile back and dash through the crowd to get PeterPaulandMary, because oh man, I feel it now: My breath’s lodged in my lungs, trying to break free.
First: quick security check across the lake.
The sun’s vanished, and in its place a bonfire blazes extra-high between the trailers, rising above the fog so the clouds look like they’re burning. Not good. Can’t see anything. I need to go. I need to get back before it’s—
“All clear?” Web grabs me. My taco flops to the ground. “Oh, whoops, sorry! There’s more.”
I push away. “I—have to go.”
“Now?”
“I can’t see over there anymore. Fog’s too thick. I don’t—like this. And I can’t—the smoke and—”
“You okay?”
“I—have to go.” I need PeterPaulandMary! “Have to—”
“You’re safe here,” he says.
“No, I—”
And suddenly my breath is all at once
extinguished.
Gone.
I see it in Web’s face first. His smile disintegrates. His eyes flash from starlight to rage. I follow his gaze and—
The world disappears. Everything blurs. Except for a clump of hate with five men at the helm: BillyBob, Porky Joe, Five-Teeth Terry, Hal. And Dad. Demon red. Glowing extra-bright against the sweltering smoke. Hungry.
“Fifty dollars for your braids!” BillyBob yells.
The clump hollers and whoop-whoop-whoops.
No one moves.
Dad and Hal crane their necks, searching. I bend over, clutching my chest.
“Any Indian givers out there?” BillyBob says.
“Fuck you, man,” someone in the crowd yells back. No, oh no no no.
“What’d you say to me?”
“Hey, come on, brothers, just leave us be,” Dulick says.
“We aren’t doing nothing to hurt you,” someone else yells.
“Oh, but you are. You’re on our land. I’d say that’s doing a whole hell of a lotta something. Wouldn’t you boys?”
Porky Joe and Terry snarl. I can’t tell what’s in their hands, maybe guns, maybe axes, knives, I can’t see.
“This is OUR land, man.” It’s Uncle Russell.
The universe goes silent. Then. Billy slowly nods to Joe, and we all watch as he lifts the box of fireworks over his head and plunges it into the fire.
The planet explodes. BOOOOM. Bottle rockets and balls of fire and firecrackers and huge blasts of gunpowder KAZEW BLAST POPOPOPOPOP and pummel through the smoke, whizzing past my head, into my lungs, circling the fire, twisting around us like an untamed storm. I’m frozen, stuck in time while the world dies around us. Trying to grab a breath, any breath—
I fall to the ground. Fireworks blur with cries for help. I don’t know which is which anymore.
Web dives down. His face: shaken, settled, fierce. “Hang on,” he yells.
WHAT? I CAN’T—I can’t breathe. Help. It hurts. A flipbook of images flashes through my mind: Stingraymobile rides, Ziggy’s prayers, Mom’s fluttering eyes, Starla’s freckles, green Martian Aunt Luna kisses, Web.
“Look at me!”
Try to focus. Try to grab a breath.
“Follow my breath,” he screams. “In and out. In and out and—”
NO.
Hal’s face leaps out of the shadows, hovering behind Web. A total eclipse. He grabs Web’s hair and yanks his head back. Web’s smile mangles, and the shriek shreds my heart. He kicks and flails and grabs at Hal’s hands that claw his hair, and in a flash, he’s gone. Lost in the shadows.
Dad stands over me. He’s screeching, raising demons from the earth, but I cannot hear what he’s saying.
He scoops me up.
I’m walking on the sky.
The world dangles like a yo-yo.
That’s all I remember.
part three.
ONE.
no matter what or who you’ve been . . .
i’ve had my share,
i’ll help you with the pain.
you’re not alone.
—ZIGGY STARDUST
49.
Wednesday, July 11, 1973
IT’S BEEN A WEEK. I guess.
I see his face flash in everything. The broken one. Not the one I really want to see. I even see it when my eyes are closed. Which is pretty much all the time now.
I don’t know if he’s still alive. Can’t ask. Can
’t leave the house. Can’t.
Barely made it myself. The Invasion of the Asthma Attacker almost prevailed. I don’t remember much. The past week has been a succession of waking dreams.
* * *
—
Six days ago:
My eyes open. I’m in bed. White everything. At first I think I’m in my bedroom. And then I think I’m dead. And then I wonder if dead people can think.
I lift my head, but only slightly, because it feels like someone smashed it on the concrete. I lie back down.
A lady walks in wearing all white. Her lipstick is too red for her face. I don’t know. “Well, hello there,” she says with a cheerful wink. If I could raise my arm I would punch her.
“Am I dead?” I have to ask it three freaking times because my voice is scratched.
She laughs and says, “Oh no, sweetie. You’re very much alive. You gave us all a good scare, though.”
I don’t know what’s so funny. It’s a logical question because of the white everything and I don’t know. Anyway, I guess I was hoping I was dead.
“Vitals are good,” she says. “BP normal, breathing’s stabilized, scans are clean.”
I thought she was talking to me, but then I see someone else standing by her, scribbling on a clipboard. I think it’s Web: the long black hair. I try to leap up, but I can’t move.
“Hi, Jonathan. You’re going to be just fine.” It’s Dr. Evelyn. She’s wearing a white crocheted jumpsuit thing and looks like a doily.
Then I see Dad slouching on a chair in the corner, heaving. A lump of gray unmolded clay. The only uncheerful one in all of Candyland.
* * *
—
Three days ago:
My eyes open. I’m thirsty. Not thirsty. Parched. Been lost in the desert for days, I guess. For my whole life.
I’m alone in the room. No, I’m not. Someone stands. As he steps closer, my heart stops. Hal. His face: a mutilated Picasso, covered in jagged bruises and a bandage over his left eye. That ugly scar on his cheek lifts into a smile.
The heart monitor pulsates.
“I see I still get you excited,” he whispers.
I try to scream, still don’t have a voice. Isn’t there some button you press for a nurse or—
“Looking for this?” He holds it in his hands. “Don’t worry, I won’t stay long. Just wanted to say hi and that you’re awfully missed at the lake. And to say—” He bends down closer so his tongue brushes my ear. “See what happens when you mess with me?” He leans back. “I think his last words were, ‘Stop please stop!’ Tsk tsk tsk. Terrible last words.”
I lunge at him, but he jumps back. “IT’S NOT TRUE. YOU WON’T GET AWAY WITH IT,” I want to scream. Can’t. The heart monitor starts wildly beeping. A nurse runs in, followed by another.
Hal throws his arms up. “I don’t know what happened! He tried to hug me and—”
“It’s okay, we’ve got it now. You might want to step out for a minute, sir.”
“I’m goin’.” He stops at the door, winks. I thrash up; the nurses pin me down; a needle lodges in my vein.
* * *
—
Yesterday:
Mumbles turn to soft chatter. I open my eyes to see Dr. Evelyn and Dad at the end of the bed. She’s wearing a scarf around her head, hair pulled back, face recently kissed by the sun. His hair’s oil-slicked and his skin looks like a pile of ash in an ashtray. He’s hunched over, wheezing. They don’t see I’m awake, so I close my eyes and listen.
DR. EVELYN
He can’t endure another round of treatments like that, Mr. Collins. His body’s been through so much. Surely you understand?
DAD
Yes, but what else is there to do? I’ve done everything I can.
DR. EVELYN
He needs to be home with you first. To readjust and settle back into a normal routine. We can discuss options after that.
DAD
I just want to help him. I want him to be happy.
(He starts to cry. Can’t decide if it’s real or an act. Sounds fake.)
DR. EVELYN
I know, so do I.
(Guess she’s rubbing his back.)
He’s a strong kid. One of the strongest I’ve ever known. I was wrong, Mr. Collins, to—
DAD
Wrong?
(Wrong? I peek my eyes open. Knew he was faking it. Not a tear in sight.)
DR. EVELYN
About my assessment—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to get into it now—Jonathan’s health is the priority, but—there are other . . . options to explore, other . . . treatments. Maybe. I’ve been doing some research on this for a while now, and I need to talk with my colleagues more, but—Sorry. I don’t mean to be vague. I want to discuss this with Jonathan first when he’s out of here, okay? To find out what he wants before moving forward. But he will. Move forward. Okay?
(She has real tears streaming down her cheeks.)
He tries to cry some more. Fake fake faker.
I close my eyes tighter, to make the sounds disappear, to make myself disappear. Back to sleep. What did she mean wrong? One thing I know for sure: I’m never doing those treatments again, so you can forget it, Dr. Evil-lyn. I’ll turn my own damn self in—no, I’ll run away to find Web. Yeah. We’ll ride our Airstream into the sunset, through the stars, start our new life together on the moon . . . Yeah . . .
DR. EVELYN
He’s a very special kid, Mr. Collins.
To the moon . . . Yeah . . .
* * *
—
This morning: driving home.
In the front seat of the Caddy, there’s a rip in the cloth I hadn’t noticed before. By the seat belt. I wonder where it came from. Maybe when Dad was crazy drunk that night before we went to the lake . . .
He’s silent; I’m silent; the world is silent. Better that way. I think maybe I’ll never talk to people again. People use words to hate each other too much. I don’t want to be one of those people. I’ll just talk to myself like I have been all these years anyway. It’s safer that way . . .
I feel like one of Starla’s discarded pincushions, pricked so full of holes I’m useless. More than tired. Whatever’s beyond tired. I didn’t even know that feeling existed. I wonder if there’s a word for it. I’m going to invent new words.
Man, I miss Starla. It’s been a month since she’s left. One whole month. Only one more to go. Never going to make it . . .
We turn the corner to our house. Everything looks the same, but feels so different. How did Starla put it in that postcard? Like I’m a ghost of my own history. Yeah. Like I’m floating back into an old life that doesn’t fit me anymore . . . Makes sense, I guess.
* * *
—
The only reason I know what day it is is because of the TV: Wednesday, July 11, 1973 is stamped at the bottom of the screen. The Watergate thing. Dad’s still obsessed, or he’s too lazy to move. We sit and stare. Two explorers who lost the one person they care most about.
Once in a while I’ll cook him a frozen dinner and bring him a drink. But he never eats. He just lies there, staring at the TV. He even sleeps there, doesn’t go to the Blues Note or see Heather anymore. Something’s definitely wrong. Guess I messed him up pretty bad. He quit smoking, that’s something.
I join him to watch it sometimes—the Watergate thing—when I’m sick of staring at my ceiling. It’s weird watching it. It makes me feel like everyone’s one big liar sitting in the middle of one big lie.
Guess we all are.
50.
Thursday, July 12, 1973
THE NEXT DAY, I walk outside to get the mail and some fresh air. First bite of sun, too. Had too much a week ago, now I don’t have enough. I’m paler and skinnier and smell like pepper and sick. Guess I shoul
d put on some deodorant. Maybe shower.
In other news, I think they stretched my legs in the hospital: I hit my head on the ceiling coming down the stairs. That’s never happened before. And my voice: like it fell to the floor. Finally catching up to the Apes, I guess. Not that it matters. Whatever.
The mailbox is stuffed. I’m surprised the postman hasn’t called the cops or something, thinking we might be dead. Jesus. Two weeks’ worth, I’m guessing. I stuff it in my satchel I carry with me everywhere now, because it still has his smell from the last night we spent together: burnt wood, herbs, Irish Spring, cherries, boy sweat, dimple-dimple smile,
gone.
A postcard from Starla flutters to the ground. Postmarked July 5. It’s the one I bought from Vinyl Tap: a picture of Ziggy Stardust praying. On the bottom of this one I’d written: KEEP THE FAITH.
Yeah, right.
The guy on the news said David Bowie retired Ziggy Stardust on July 3; never going to perform him again; killed him once and for all. People were crying in the streets, left in a state of shock and awe, roaming aimlessly like the A-bomb actually went off . . .
Makes perfect sense to me.
Another Polaroid’s stapled to the back of her postcard. This time she’s standing in front of the White House holding a sign she’s made in rainbow colors that says I AM A WOMAN, NOT A TYPEWRITER. Her hair’s still clouded on her head. Her other hand’s wrapped around the waist of another boy: black, skinny, beautiful, perfect. They both smile. Well, he smiles while she’s kissing his cheek. I study the picture for a long time. They belong together. I can feel it.
JONNYBOOO!!! Life has been CRAZY here. Like REALLY crazy. And you better believe I’m the most fabulous girl in this town! I met a new friend. His name’s Eric. That’s him in the picture. SO much to tell you. And OH, Jonny, you would’ve died! The fireworks last night—with the White House and everything in the background—oh I cried and cried and cried. I know how much you love fireworks. SO beautiful!!! OHOHOHOHOHOH I finished the jeans!!!!! I’m attaching a Polaroid here of just a small part of it so you can see. I’ll try calling soon. We REALLY need to talk. Catch you on the flip, baby.
Ziggy, Stardust and Me Page 24
