by Todd Grimson
He hated his parents. He was not afraid to say that he’d be glad when they were dead. They were in perpetual opposition, perpetual conflict. Both his mom and his dad told him he would never amount to anything. He was lazy and never listened, he had a high opinion of himself based on nothing in the real world.
NINE
When Keith was eighteen, he got into some trouble with the law. He was actually charged with attempted murder, though that was never likely to stick.
What happened was that there was this nightclub owner, Walter Baumgartner, who was a notorious scumbag, but in St. Louis there wasn’t much of a scene, so if you wanted to play you pretty much had to deal with him at some point. Baumgartner would do things like agree to pay you half of the gate, and then at the end of the night he’d say, “Here’s your three hundred bucks,” and you’d have to start all over again, he’d argue forever, acting amazed, saying, “But that’s what we agreed.”
This when you’d had your own person in on the count and your band should be getting eight hundred or so.
In a million other ways besides being a total liar and asshole he was a scumbag, supposedly he owned an escort service and his bouncers sold all sorts of imported drugs. Rumors galore.
Well, one Saturday night after Keith’s band Cum played late and it was really raining outside, a monsoon, Walter said, “Why don’t you guys leave your equipment overnight? You can pick it up tomorrow afternoon.”
Michael was worried about security but Baumgartner said there was an alarm system with a motion detector, plus he had insurance, and so, yawning, Cum went home to go to sleep. Keith, for his part, had no suspicion whatsoever that anything could go wrong.
The next day, when they came to get the equipment, both of the guitar amps were missing. Baumgartner’s minion, Reg, acted shocked, and called Walter at home. He said, no problem, my insurance, etc.
It was only in the next few days that Keith found out that Baumgartner had pulled this before, bands had lost their equipment and the insurance was some shady company that never paid anyone off.
The particular outrage here for Keith was that he was extremely close to his amp, it was a modified Kustom Reverb Special that he thought of as one-of-a-kind. He loved his machine. He was close to his guitar, of course, but there were certain crucial sounds he could only get out of this one irreplaceable amp.
It was even more maddening, in his grief, to have the feeling that Baumgartner might think Keith was afraid of him. Physically afraid. There was this legend that, a few years ago, up in Chicago, Walter Baumgartner had murdered someone who could have testified against him in a counterfeit-ticket case that never came to trial. The guy had just disappeared, his body had never been found. And Walter was a big guy, with a mustache, who came on aggressively, surrounded by his bouncers and assorted criminal-seeming types.
So Keith bought a gun, a .32 revolver, from a drug dealer he knew. He went into the club and right into the office, late one night, put the loaded gun to Baumgartner’s head, and said, “I want you to give me back my amp.”
“Have you gone fucking crazy?”
Walter seemed to take it pretty well, having a gun held up to his head. He must not have believed it was loaded, or that Keith would shoot. Like he was in a movie, Keith shot out the window. To demonstrate his sincerity.
“You don’t understand, Walter. That amp’s not worth much, it’s an antique, but I need it.”
Just when it looked like Baumgartner was ready to come through, the police arrived. Keith surrendered.
His mother and father were vindicated in their low judgment of him by the arrest. Baumgartner wanted to drop charges, probably because he didn’t want his business scrutinized, but in addition to attempted murder there were things like unlawful possession of a firearm, unlawful discharge of a firearm, menacing, a lot of shit like that.
Keith got to find out about jail. His father wouldn’t bail him out, or at least was taking his time about it—Michael’s dad, an attorney himself, put up the necessary funds.
Ultimately, Keith never had to do any time, though it looked bad there for a while. His amp was gone forever, never to return. Keith expressed remorse, in front of a judge whom Michael’s father knew, and got off with a suspended sentence.
In another year, Keith and Michael Stein went to New York. Keith had saved up money, working as a messenger for Mr. Stein’s law firm. Stein liked him, and he did a good job.
Walter Baumgartner closed his nightclub, and started having some problems with the IRS.
Keith can still remember, very clearly, how Baumgartner didn’t crack, he was ready to die so as not to give in. If the police hadn’t entered the equation, Keith might have shot him, out of irresistible curiosity to see what would happen next.
TEN
In New York, that’s when Keith got obsessive about music on a higher level than before—he made breakthrough after breakthrough, hearing new things in his head all the time.
He had a girlfriend then who was very important to his development; he treated her badly and knew it at the time. She probably forgave him, for she was that kind of person, but he feels a twinge whenever he thinks of her now. Her name was Barbara, and she wasn’t especially pretty or hip; in fact, she made jokes sometimes about how unstylish she was. Keith was never in love with her, but he loved her, in a way, and she listened to all his new music, whatever he composed she was delighted to hear it and respond. She was his best audience, for a long time. She encouraged him, flattered and cajoled him when he really needed some emotional support.
The problem was, in the social circles he was drawn into, he didn’t especially like to be seen with Barbara, she seemed corny to him then, and he was secretly vain enough to think it was better for his “image” to turn up with some audaciously ornamental slut.
Barbara was hurt. Keith tried to make it all right, but he could see her side of it, that his behavior could be regarded as shallow and disloyal. Sure it was. But he found that, as the new band, SMX, became a happening commodity, he could get any number of dumb bunnies to listen to his latest new song. It all came to the same thing.
Was he so insufferable? Mostly what he thought about was the actual music. There was an ideal utopian space into which he went more or less at will. The actual sonic field blended with imagined, suggestive possibilities, hypothetical moments of transcendence and rhythmic flow. The music he heard gave hints of a perfect understanding of this world, a harmonious soundtrack where your body and mind connect in one blissful electrochemical wave. You are removed from time, from gravity’s tie to the heavy spinning earth.
Keith was an idealist. The name SMX meant nothing in particular. It was close to SEX, or S&M, or SPX, a guitar effects unit both Keith and Michael used. SMX could be pronounced “Smacks,” in which case it had druggy overtones, or was a breakfast cereal; spelled out it sounded like a car.
On stage, Keith often wore sunglasses, a white shirt, and short hair. The sunglasses helped him with his stage fright: he really hated the bright hot lights. It felt like coming out of a spaceship on superheated Venus—always unreal, as if you were in a film full of unsupervised special effects.
Guitars that sounded like backwards woodwind orchestras, or like grand pianos cut in half by melodious chainsaws. The Devil’s smeary wah wah pedal feedback.
Keith met Renata Spengler at a photo shoot. She knew the photographer, and had some reason to come and speak with him. Then, she hung around. Keith felt an absurd confidence trying to pick her up.
SMX was asked to pose in leather jackets for French Vogue. Tania, the bass player, removed her top. The intoxication of glitter and praise and the constant undertow of ridiculous sleaze affected them all. Early friends went by the wayside, right and left. No one who wasn’t there could understand.
ELEVEN
It’s an old-fashioned alarm system, easy to disconnect. And Consuela said there isn’t a dog. The front gate is far enough from the house that it seems all right to bring the tr
uck in, away from the street. They can back it up to the house and take their time, once the house-sitting motherfucker is secure.
Elvis Morales. Victor and Teddy Rodriguez. They creep around a bit, outside, looking in the windows and seeing very little, checking to see if the Mercedes-Benz (which they also intend to steal) is in the garage. Yes, it is.
They can hear music playing within the house, and since there are several lights on, they are not sure where the guy might be at. It’s 2:30 A.M. They reluctantly don ski masks, so he won’t see their faces. It is possible that they will be pretty rough, but they have no intention of killing him. That would be an entirely different category of crime. Forget it. You’d never come out, if you went away for it. Or if you did, you’d come out an old man.
Nevertheless, everyone is carrying. Elvis has a 9mm which has jammed on him a couple times when he’s test-fired it. He’s worked on it and had Victor take a look and these days it seems to work okay. If he needed to really kill someone, or defend himself, he’d carry something else. The Rodriguez brothers each have Smith & Wesson .38s. Teddy’s the young one, with the hot temper. Victor will try to keep him away from the Anglo, just in case the man behaves stupidly, or begins talking in a way that might piss Teddy off. Victor just wants everything to go down like they’ve planned. All of them are nervous, exhilarated and excited, but also kind of scared. Even with the easiest-seeming job, you never can be sure. God can decide to fuck you up, put you down. Man, put you in the ground.
So they’re careful. They’re trying to be careful. Elvis feels some responsibility toward the others, because it’s a place his girlfriend has set up.
The thieves enter the house. They have found a door that is unlocked. This is a classy place, with classy stuff. Maybe they feel a little awed by the splendor, but they will have no qualms about disassembling and carrying away everything they can fit into the truck. It’s like they’re professional furniture movers. Once they get going, they will feel matter-of-fact and dry.
Ski masks on, they finally locate the house-sitter. He’s listening to a CD, or maybe a tape. Great system. Elvis says, “If you cooperate, I promise you won’t get hurt. Stay cool.”
The Anglo has stood up, backing away a little, looking scared, though not as completely paralyzed as he ought to be by the gun. Only Elvis has his out, pointing at the dude. Teddy has the rope, to tie him up. Victor is down the hall, checking other rooms to make sure no one else is here.
Teddy pulls out a roll of white tape, to tape the guy’s eyes and mouth shut.
‘You understand?” Elvis asks, and the Anglo says, “Yeah, I understand. It would be better for you if you’d just leave, but I don’t think you’ll trust me on that, will you? I wish you would.”
“No, man,” Elvis says, smiling in the stuffy mask, wondering where Victor is, as Teddy goes forward with the rope, shoving the guy without any reason. Elvis doesn’t feel like he can say anything critical to Teddy in front of the guy.
Where’s Victor? Elvis turns around to look and there’s this girl, he’s shocked, it’s just not what he expects at all, out of the corner of his eye he has the impression that something’s happening with Teddy, this chick has blood on her lips and she’s staring at him, coming closer, reflexively he pulls the trigger and the 9mm pumps a couple of bullets into her, the impact jolts her but then she just smiles and comes on. He’s flat on his back and feels frozen, he can’t move. It all happens in slow motion but so fucking fast.
He feels like he should be dead, like he’s dying, but it’s like one time when he was stabbed and woke up in the hospital, he doesn’t care about anything at all.
There’s some kind of a disturbance, over to one side of him, but he can’t make the effort to turn his head and see. Something with Teddy. And then Teddy is done.
The ski mask is pulled off Elvis’s head. There, that’s better. They look down at him.
“Can you talk?”
He cannot. He can still blink his eyes. No, he can’t.
The girl says, “This is the best one. I’m going to take some from him. There’s another one out in the kitchen.”
It feels so good to have her warm breath come down to his neck. Elvis gasps. There is music. He hears some classical piano music all over the world. He stares and forgets.
TWELVE
Before the three got into the house, Justine had come into the room and said, “We have visitors.” She looked spooked. Keith asked her what she wanted him to do. He was willing, his manner said, to do whatever she required. This violation of their home … he could tell that it was something she truly hated and feared. She panted, just for a second, as if panicked, while Glenn Gould’s piano transcription of Wagner resounded, schmaltzy and slowly melodramatic, building forever—and then she was gone.
When they came in, Keith felt like Justine would do something, he didn’t know what. These guys just picked the wrong house to try and rob.
As Justine appeared and the guy tried to shoot her, Keith grabbed the other one and got him down onto the floor. The fellow was trying to get a gun out of his jacket, and this preoccupation enabled Keith to knee him in the groin and hold him down until Justine came over and bit his neck. It was harder than usual because the guy wasn’t prepared, no trance to relax him, just fangs tearing into his throat.
Keith is not disgusted by the blood. He feels a kind of wonderment at himself that he can stand it, that he can participate in evil, but this vampire business still seems so surreal, and he has such a strange bond with Justine—you do what you have to.
When Keith used to do heroin, every time he jugged into a vein he thought maybe he’d die. It crossed his mind every single motherfucking time. He is so weak. He’s beyond weakness. Helpless. It’s all right. Killing these guys, seeing them killed, is in some tiny way like some sympathetic shiver of revenge—revenge on the Venezuelan gangsters who broke his fingers one by one in the Venezuelan jail.
His hands hurt really bad as he drags these two outside. It takes him a while. The pain makes him hate them more. He feels ugly, and ashamed. He doesn’t want to go back in, to the light, but he does.
Justine is still sucking on the good-looking one, taking her time. When she looks up at Keith it’s as if she is drunk, and he feels pleasure for her, that she has sustenance, nourishment… it puts roses in her cheeks.
She gets up, wiping her mouth on her sleeve. “Come here,” she says, and he does, he shuts his eyes as he embraces her; he must have been frightened for he can feel himself tremble in her arms.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
“Yes. Did those bullets—did they hit you?”
“They went through,” Justine says. “They passed on through.”
Together, they drag this dead, drained thief outside. They don’t want to get blood on the carpet. Justine comes back from the kitchen with a carving knife, and they cut all three of the throats upon the lawn, under the moon. Keith cuts the one of the guy who wrestled with him, whom he hurt his hands on. He has done this before, one time, to somebody who was already dead. This time, as he slices he feels murder. It’s murder. He feels possessed by a sick electrical fizz. A weird jangly buzz. He could keep going, he can tell. He could saw off this dude’s head. It is not lost on him that these guys all have had their own separate consciousnesses, their “I”‘s. Keith trembles, but goes on. The mystery of death is before him, in the flesh.
It’s work—though Justine is surprisingly strong. A quickness, really. They put the bodies in the back of the moving van. Keith will drive it away someplace and maybe set it on fire. There’s a can of gasoline here in the back.
“Are you sure you can do all this? How will you get back?”
“I’ll take the motorcycle,” he rashly says. There’s a motorcycle in the garage. He has never wondered whom it might have belonged to once upon a time.
4:30 A.M. When dawn comes, Justine has to be well removed from the rays of the sun. Keith may be a little photosensitive, but he doesn’t ant
icipate any problem.
He hugs Justine, and she kisses him on the cheek. She’s unbelievably warm. Like a madman, he shifts gears ultracarefully and soon leaves this neighborhood behind. It feels like he might never find his way back, like he’s on his way to Mars. He feels reckless and scared to the bone.
THIRTEEN
It is of some comfort to Justine to clean up, down on her hands and knees, the blood spilled inside the house. She has not had a scene like this for a long time. But she can remember, quite vividly if chaotically, being hunted like an animal, that awful feeling of not knowing anywhere safe to hide.
She hopes Keith will be all right. Justine needs him. So many years spent in desolate, horrible quietness, inhuman, incurable … she has truly gazed upon and experienced the aching loneliness of a universe without God, and she has benumbed herself, existed like a creature made out of wood, or stone, or shit.
No, it’s better to imagine God watching you, aware of everything within your soul, even if by your very existence you must sin, even if you might be understood in ordinary terms as a demon from hell.
They say the earth is young, as planets go; therefore, too, the life-forms are young, children really, childish, striving ever so slowly toward becoming pure spirit, the realm of what one might think of as Light.
Justine and others like her may have to exist in the Darkness, she reasons, through no fault, or choice—the why must be so very much larger and more complicated than anyone can conceive. In the face of such mystery, she is humble. Why are babies born blind, or deaf, all of those things? All of the mundane horrors. Justine seeks to understand, patiently, as one who has been given a difficult gift. She has been allowed to die and yet still live. Of what use is this, given the terms of her existence, one might ask. She doesn’t know.
