by Jo Ann Beard
The weed is laced with PCP; after two hits I feel like I’m in a hammock on the top deck of a gently rolling ocean liner. I stretch out on my back, using a stack of magazines for a pillow, and crawl inside the music. My head is an empty room, painted white, with high vaulted ceilings. There is a long beat of silence and then the sound of alarm clocks going off. I sit in a straight-backed chair in the middle of my head. Suddenly there is the pinging of a cash register and the sound of coins falling. I open my eyes briefly and see the rapt faces of the other revelers, the purple-toothed smile of a nodding Dave. I retreat back to the dark side of the moon. Money changes hands, guitars echo off the white walls.
When I come to it’s some time later, there are more people around, blue-jeaned legs step over me from time to time. I like the party from this angle. Eventually my favorite Steve comes in and sits on the floor next to my head. He has another cup of poison for me. “You missed Ted,” he hollers into my ear. In honor of trying to have a better personality, I make a disappointed face.
Although there are girls present, none of them seem to be my friends. “Where’s Elizabeth?” I mouth to him. He leans in and puts his lips, then his tongue, to my ear. I pull my head away. “She’s occupied,” he yells, and gestures toward a closed door. When I ask where everybody else is he shrugs. I truly hate it when this happens.
As it turns out, Renee is in the kitchen, very stoned, doing the dishes. Three guys are sitting at the kitchen table, one cleaning pot, the other two watching Renee like she’s a TV show. When she runs out of dishes, one of them obediently picks up another stack off the floor and sets them in the water for her. This place is a pig sty. I pour myself another cup of whatever that crap is.
Renee looks at me foggily, trying to assess my mood. “Want to dry some dishes?” she asks.
“Not hardly, pal,” I say. The guys at the table give me a long look and I give them one back. A Dave holds out his hand to me.
“C’mere,” he says kindly, pulling me onto his lap. The Beatles are on the stereo. “The Long and Winding Road,” a song that’ll break your heart in about one minute, begins to play. I sit quietly on the Dave’s lap and hum a few bars. He pets my hair awkwardly for a while and then puts his hand up the back of my shirt. The other two guys exchange a smirk.
I take Dave’s ear by the lobe and whisper into it. His eyes open wide. He puts his hand across his chest protectively as I get up. “She’s fierce,” he says to the other two. Renee drops some crusty silverware into the brown dishwater. She struggles for a second to bring me into focus.
“Jo Ann doesn’t like that kind of stuff,” she explains to them.
“Well, man oh man,” Dave says. “What did I do.” The other two laugh.
Looks like my old personality is back.
In the phone booth in New York, I draw a picture of a girl with her fists on her hips, eyebrows converging, mouth set. She’s wearing my clothes. I have one question to ask Elizabeth, but first she wants to tell me about her weekend.
“I went out with a guy who looks like the Artful Dodger,” she says. “He’s in a band and he wears a top hat. He couldn’t wear it on the date, though, because we went to a movie.”
“That’s good,” I say. I tell her I’m working on a party scene.
“Which party?” she asks suspiciously. “What am I doing at it?”
“It’s sort of a composite of all parties, you know?” There’s silence at the other end. “It’s just a party party, is all, with those guys who all had the same names.”
“The Ted Nugent guys?” she asks.
Well, yes.
“I never liked any of those guys, did I?” she says hopefully.
Uh, I think Dave Nelson would be hurt.
She probes her brain, comes up with a memory. “Oh.” She thinks for a second. “Well, he was a nice guy,” she says firmly. “Wasn’t he?”
We ponder for a minute and finally both admit we can’t remember. I say they all look alike to me, and then instantly regret it, because I’m going to hear a lecture. Here it comes.
“Your attitude towards men s-u-x,” she begins. “Look at me. I got divorced, too, and I’m not bitter.”
Well, I’m willing to be bitter on both our behalfs. In the meantime, the one question I have to ask is Why were you always with guys and I never was?
“Because you were mean, that’s why,” she says gently. “Remember how mean you used to get?” This makes me feel awful. I was a mean person.
“You weren’t a mean person,” she says. “We were just weird back then. We were insecure.”
But you weren’t mean.
“Well, I had the exact opposite problem,” she replies.
I light a cigarette illegally in the phone booth and try to blow the smoke into my coat pocket. The conversation goes on and on, more about the Artful Dodger. Meanwhile, back at the party, Renee shows me her pruny fingers.
“Exhibit A,” she says. “This is exactly why you shouldn’t take speed and go to a party.” I pour her a cup of liquid nitrogen and she downs it quickly, the way she’s doing everything else. “I keep thinking I want to clean the bathroom,” she says.
“I’d steer clear if I were you,” I advise her. “Five guys live here.” She can see the wisdom in that.
Pretty soon Carol comes into the kitchen, blinking her eyes against the light. Her hair is a mess, her shirt is buttoned wrong, and she’s been crying. He has hurt her feelings, which isn’t hard to do. He forgot her name or something. “Let’s go,” she whispers. We rustle up Elizabeth and the three of us fade through the living room and out the door. The Steve I have a crush on is sitting on the front porch steps, smoking a joint, waiting for Ted. He reaches out and places his hand gently around my ankle. I stand there patiently until he lets go, and then continue down the steps. “See you,” he says.
At the car, there is a moment of silence. Elizabeth tries to hand the keys off to me but I’m not in the mood. I climb in the back and hold on to my hair as we pull from the drive to the road. Carol stops crying and claims she’s never going to another party. Elizabeth and I exchange a look in the rearview mirror. “In my whole entire life,” she says emphatically, “so don’t even try asking me to.” The sky is full of diamonds, the moon is a narrow sliver, the road winds and curves, the drugs are wearing off. We left Renee and Janet at the party without a ride.
The voice of Motown comes on the radio and we sing quietly to ourselves. All the houses have their eyes closed as we sweep silently past them. Carol fixes her shirt, lights one cigarette off another, and I wave good-bye to them from the alley behind my house. Through the bushes, up the back walk, still humming. In the kitchen, two cookies and a long drink of water, up the stairs and into the bedroom. Across the hall my parents sleep peacefully behind their closed door, innocent as children.
On the way back from Florida I drive a hundred miles out of my way in order to visit my mother’s grave. Small Illinois town where she grew up; the gas station, body shop, and ice cream parlor are owned by my uncles, on the edge of town a small barren cemetery is full of my dead relatives. My mother’s tombstone is dark granite, on either side of it are pink geraniums, planted by my father. In front, beneath her name, is a coffee can full of wildflowers withering in the sun. Someone has been here before me, an aunt probably, driving past on her way into town from one of the nearby farms. The withering flowers prompt a maudlin scene in which I am both the actor and the audience. A red-tailed hawk circles overhead, a tractor chugs by on the highway, holding up a line of cars. A daughter weeps in the afternoon sunlight, a mother remains silent beneath a load of dirt.
Hours later my street appears in front of me, a tall catalpa tree, a child’s scooter, and then the driveway where the husband stands, just off his bike, home from work. “Hi,” he says cordially, putting an arm across my shoulders. And then, “I have a meeting tonight.” His hand looks as white as paste next to my Florida arm. Inside, he goes into the study and closes the door. I hear the long beep
of the answering machine as he listens to the messages and then erases them.
In bed that night I remain stationary as he toils in the darkness. Afterward, there is silence and the sound of breathing. Next to the bed, my big collie whines in her sleep. Finally, he says quietly, with something in his voice I don’t recognize, “It’s good you’re back.”
Tick, tock. Breathe in, breathe out. There is no mercy at this hour of the night, and my own voice sounds strange in the darkness. I’m not, is what I tell him. He rolls over and puts his face in the pillow. Everywhere you turn these days there’s someone crying.
Billboards, fence posts, and cows go by at seventy miles an hour, a van honks as we pass it and someone gives us the finger in a friendly manner. We’re caravaning our way to the rock quarries for a swimming party. Three cars and two vans are full of people and beer; I’m riding on back of a motorcycle, driven by my unofficial date, a charming madman named Wally. Wally is already in the party mood and so am I, because it’s my nineteenth birthday. I have on a microscopic swimming suit, a Rolling Stones T-shirt, and Wally’s helmet. He has on cut-off blue jeans, sunglasses, and a baseball cap. Every once in a while he’ll holler, “Hold on!” and then execute an amazing maneuver that involves other vehicles on the road. I’m absolutely terrified, and keep imagining what skin on pavement would feel like. Nevertheless, I can’t quit egging him on.
The water is like cold silk when you first get in. Elizabeth and I float ourselves around on air mattresses until we see a water snake swimming directly toward us with its head stuck up like a periscope. We take off for the beach and sun ourselves on an outcropping of rock. Somewhere in the vicinity, Wally is tapping the keg while others are running speaker wire. Eventually music comes forth and beer makes its way over to where we are. Guys start catapulting themselves into the water.
I get special treatment because it’s my birthday. People keep calling me over to their cars and vans. “Here,” they say generously. “Do some of this.” In an effort to stay awake for my birthday, I decline almost everything. I’m a famous lightweight; even beer in the afternoon makes me sleepy. I stretch out on my rock and let the sun bake me while the others swim and get wasted. Elizabeth keeps up a running monologue next to me which I can tune in and tune out at will. Wally comes over to shake water on us from time to time; we bat him away like an insect.
Sometime during the early evening he produces three pills, one for each of us. “What are these?” I ask him. He looks at one of the pills closely, turning it over in his hand.
“’Lilly,’” he reads. “They’re lilies, that’s what. Red ones.” Down the hatch.
Within an hour I’m singing a medley of Beatles tunes to anyone who will listen. My legs are not working correctly. “Hey, Jude,” I say to the guy sitting next to me. His name is Tom. “Did you have any of those red lilies?” He doesn’t know what I’m talking about. Elizabeth is nowhere in sight but I can see Wally off in the distance, slapping his leg and laughing silently and hysterically. He squints over in my direction and motions me to come hither. I point to my legs and shake my head. We give each other the peace sign.
There’s a fire going, and some people are roasting things over it. I hear my name being called. “Liz is looking for you,” Tom tells me. He stands, stretches, and heads for the beer. She comes tripping up, still in her swimming suit, with a man’s workshirt over it. “Let’s take a walk,” she says. She’s listing slightly to the right, but other than that, doing okay.
“I can’t stand up,” I tell her. I indicate the grass next to me. “You sit down.”
We watch the other campers for a while, roasting their things, drinking their stuff, laughing and punching each other. “I can’t stay here if you’re going to sing,” Elizabeth tells me. I stop singing.
Off in the distance the lizardy sound of Mick Jagger starts up, more cars arrive, people shout for no reason. The red lily has made me feel both weightless and heavy at the same time. The night air is cool against my sunburned arms. I can’t remember what I did with my shoes. The only thing that would make me happier at this moment is if I could sing Bang, bang, Maxwell’s silver hammer, but Liz won’t let me. I try humming it softly but she starts to stand up so I have to cut it out. I wonder where Waldo is.
Renee and her boyfriend Pete emerge out of the darkness. She has my T-shirt and shoes. Even though my arms are balloon strings, I manage to get the shirt on and slip my swimming suit top off; the shoes I cannot even begin to contend with. Pete is short and very cool, with bedroom eyes, dark curly hair, and an uncivilized manner. Renee is working on taming him. He likes it that I took my swimming suit top off even though he didn’t get a glimpse of anything. “Nice tits,” he says generously. We send him to get beers but right before he leaves he bestows a big, fat birthday kiss on me. I dry my face on my T-shirt.
Here comes Janet, so tan her blond hair looks fake. She’s got a concerned look on her face. Well, there’s bad news. Wally’s fiancée, Leeann, has just arrived unexpectedly. It was a surprise; she blew in from the north like bad weather, and now my birthday is wrecked. Everyone groans, including Tom and Pete, who like it when I’m in a good mood. Bang bang Maxwell’s silver hammer came down upon her head. I shrug and put a decent face on it. I can’t think of anything to sing.
At some point during the evening Wally catches my eye. Leeann is standing with her back to me, looking wifely and cruel. He holds his hands palms-up in the age-old gesture of Hey, this is not my fault. I look away with no expression on my face. Tom brings me a roasted marshmallow that burns the roof of my mouth. I lean my head on his knee and he pats my sunburned shoulder. It’s my nineteenth birthday and here I am, Eleanor Rigby.
“She married him right out from under me,” I say. We’re back to the phone booth. All I have to do is close my eyes and I can see his long, pipe-cleaner legs, his hazel madman’s eyes. He still remains the legendary good kisser.
She wants to know what made it legendary. I don’t know; it was almost twenty years ago. Probably the fiancée in the background. “He was nuts,” she says. Yeah, that didn’t hurt either.
All the sweet, absent boys. Smoking jays like they were cigarettes. Playing their air guitars. Doling out their legendary kisses. We have a moment of long-distance silence for ourselves, perpetually the back-up singers.
“Hey, man,” Elizabeth says, “speak for yourself.”
It’s 1976 or thereabouts. Feminism strikes suddenly, leaving destruction in its path. I’ve always had a tendency to be mean to men; now there’s a reason for it. I’m learning to keep my hands in my pockets, so they won’t see my fists.
Someone’s living room, floor pillows, chamomile tea, soft-voiced women in painter’s pants and big hoop earrings. Consciousness-raising. We learned why Susan B. Anthony should get her face on a coin. We learned that the speculum can be our friend. Some of us learned that the word orgasm actually described a real phenomenon.
“Hey,” we said in unison.
I’m here to tell you that sisterhood is a powerful thing. We worked on constructing egos for ourselves; we tried to convince each other that our lives were worth inhabiting. We stopped shaving our armpits and gave ourselves wash-and-wear hairdos called shags. Occasionally, one of us would lob a beer can at the head of a deserving male. Feminism. The only down side I can remember is that the shags were hard to grow out.
The separate-but-equal principle held sway for a brief time. The guys who used to remove our clothes with their sliding glances dressed us right back up again when they saw our armpits. Women stalked out of the room when men accidentally called them honey. Eventually, though, we all calmed down a little and attempted to harmonize. Some lean-torsoed men tried to even the odds by putting on glittery eyeshadow and climbing up on platform heels to play their guitars. With the advent of cocaine, parties suddenly got livelier and longer.
Across the room, a guy navigates his way through the smoky throng to play with the equalizer. From there he goes to the front porch, whe
re he adjusts a slide projector. This is his party, apparently. He’s projecting slides of a David Bowie/Iggy Pop concert on the house across the street. There’s a rivet punched through his ear lobe, a silver star, a small tribute to androgyny. He’s simultaneously mellow and wired but he speaks thoughtfully and listens carefully. At some point, while one of us is talking, he presses his hand against the small of my back and doesn’t move it. It stays there for more than a decade.
Some highlights. Early days: long evenings in the country house, I make drawings and smoke cigarettes, drink cups of tea. He stokes up the blue glass bong, plugs in an electric guitar, and plays “Secret Agent Man” over and over. We populate our house with dogs and have long, monotonous discussions about how to make them behave better. We go in the bedroom sometimes and close the door to get away from them, then feel sorry and open it again and let them boil up onto the bed and stick their noses in our faces. We do a wavery but heartfelt rendition of “Good Night, Irene” as we’re driving, late, back from friends’ houses. On a beach in South Carolina we lie on our backs and stare at the night sky and congratulate ourselves on getting along so well. Months later we discover grains of sand in the cuffs of his trousers, remember, and give each other secret, sappy looks.
We’re pretty nice people for the most part, although neither of us ever sands off the edges we started out with. I am prone to my usual fits of melancholy and self-doubt; he has a tendency toward a manic energy that is enervating for anyone who beholds it. I have long ago lost all interest in drugs and alcohol but each evening he disappears inside a plume of smoke and emerges mellowed and distant. Rock and roll, of course, never dies. Sometimes very late at night we sit in the dark living room listening to the voices of various dead guys — Tommy Bolin, Jimi Hendrix, Bob Marley — while studiously ignoring each other. I observe that he isn’t fully present past eight o’clock each night, and surprise myself by feeling grateful. I am left free to traipse around in my own psychic landscape. When we have fights he has a tendency to reply in baby-talk, which causes me to go berserk. I rant, then I rave, berating him in such florid terms that no one can keep a straight face. We get sheepish, we make up. The years tick by.
