by C. D. Payne
“We should look on the bright side,” I pointed out. “At least it wasn’t a musical. No one stood up and burst into song.”
The restaurant was filling fast with the elite of Ukiah’s theatergoing community. We claimed the last unoccupied booth in the back.
“I’m going to have a quarter-pounder,” announced Apurva, studying the greasy menu.
“Mother won’t like it,” warned Vijay.
“Mother doesn’t have to know,” she replied pointedly.
“At least request it well-done,” said Vijay. “So the blood doesn’t run down your arm.”
“Vijay remains a militant vegetarian,” commented Apurva. “None of us had ever had meat until we came to the U.S. When we were flying over, the stewardess came around serving cold cuts. I almost vomited from the sight of them. I imagined they were slices of raw flesh!”
We all laughed. “Now the cows run when they see her coming,” said Vijay. “They can see the bloodlust in her eyes.”
“I eat very little meat,” retorted Apurva.
“The animal hardly misses it,” countered Vijay.
Something told me they had had this conversation before.
Vijay ordered a double serving of onion rings; I had the house specialty: jumbo chili dog with nachos in a basket.
While we ate, Apurva and Vijay talked about life in Pune.
“You Americans have such crazy impressions of India,” complained Vijay. “You think we sleep on beds of nails and spend our time standing on the street corner with our begging bowls.”
“You mean you don’t?” I asked, feigning surprise.
“We had movies,” said Apurva. “We had TV. We’d have our friends over to play records and dance. I made clothes on my sewing machine. Vijay rode his bicycle. Father would go to the country club to play cards.”
“Did you have Kmarts and donuts?” I inquired. “How about shopping malls and Rose Bowl parades and hot tubs? Or jacked-up pickup trucks and lowriders and long-haired rednecks and Mad magazine? How about Twinkies and jumbo chili dogs?”
“Alas, we have not yet achieved that level of civilization,” lamented Apurva wryly.
“But we do have the bomb,” boasted Vijay. “And the largest middle class in the world.”
How bourgeois, I thought.
SATURDAY, October 27 — An entire weekend without Dad. No one to yell at me to mow the lawn or remind us so acutely of the looming disappointments of middle age. What a luxury!
To celebrate, I put on my favorite F.S. album and went back to bed. While Frank crooned softly, I snuggled under the covers and gave free rein to my erotic imagination. As an all-girl team of precision, naked tumblers performed daring sexual acrobatics in my head, a trumpet on the other side of the wall began to play along to Frank. The song was “The Girl Next Door.” When the tune ended, the horn accompaniment stopped abruptly and bedsprings began to rock.
A phone call finally got me out of bed. It was Bernice, calling collect with important dispatches from the front:
“Nick honey, Sheeni is going with Ed Smith today to Monterey!”
“What for?” I demanded.
“They’re going to visit the Aquarium,” she explained.
Oh, yeah? Why this sudden enthusiasm for marine biology? As if either of them had ever shown any interest in a fish that wasn’t under a lemon wedge on a plate.
“Did you slip him a capsule?” I asked anxiously.
“I tried to, Nick honey,” she replied. “But I, uh, got it in the wrong cup.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, as they were driving off, Sheeni looked a little… tired.”
“You drugged Sheeni!”
I imagined my Sweet Love regaining consciousness in some tawdry Fisherman’s Wharf motel—her clothes awry and a satiated Iowan leering at her unashamed.
“I didn’t mean to, Nick honey. It was an accident. Besides, what do you care?”
“Well, Bernice. I, of course, don’t mind that much. It’s, uh, just that I don’t want you to waste the capsules unnecessarily. Do you know when they’re coming back?”
“Sheeni’s signed out until tomorrow. She told the matron she was going to stay with Darlene at her parents’ house in Salinas.”
My mind reeled at this grim news. “Bernice, what kind of car does Ed have?”
“He doesn’t have a car. I doubt if he even has a license. He’s only 15.”
What flagrant flouting of California highway laws! As a guest in our state, the fellow should show more respect for our legal institutions.
Bernice continued, “Taggarty loaned them her car. She doesn’t need it since she sleeps all the time.”
“Good job, Bernice. Now, what kind of car does Taggarty have?”
“It’s a red Isuzu Impulse—you know the sports car. She’s always bragging guys can’t resist the Impulse when they see her.”
“Do you by any chance know the license number?” I asked.
“Sure. Are you dumb?”
“Bernice, I was just asking.”
“No, Nick honey. That’s her license: R U DUMB. That’s the first thing she asks guys when they try to pick her up.”
“OK, Bernice. What I want you to do is call up the Santa Cruz police and tell them your red Isuzu was stolen.”
“You mean pretend I’m Taggarty?” asked Bernice skeptically. “Gee, Nick, I don’t know if I could lie to a cop. What if he asks to see my ID? I could get into big trouble.”
She’s turning chicken on you, warned François. I went to Plan Two. “OK, Bernice. Here’s another idea: you call up the Monterey police and tell them your car was stolen in Santa Cruz. Say you’ve already given a report to the Santa Cruz police, but you have reason to believe the thieves may be headed to Monterey. They’ll take the information over the phone.”
“Boy, Nick honey, you sure think fast on your feet. I’m impressed.”
“We make a good team, Bernice,” I lied. “But make sure the real Taggarty stays unconscious so she’s out of the picture.”
“You don’t have to worry about that, Nick.”
“Has Taggarty gone to see the nurse yet?”
“Nah, she thinks she’s as smart as any doctor. I heard her tell Darlene she’s experimenting with herbal remedies for chronic fatigue syndrome.”
“Good. If you see her taking any herbs, skip her next pill. That way she’ll be encouraged to think her remedies are working.”
“Great idea, Nick!” replied Bernice. “Uh, Nick honey, I wanted to ask you one more thing. There was a rumor going around this morning at breakfast. Something about Trent Preston’s girlfriend up in Ukiah two-timing him with a stud named Nick Twisp.”
“Did Sheeni hear about it?” I asked.
“She did, unless she’s deaf. Is it true, Nick?”
“It’s more strategy, Bernice. We’re conducting this campaign on two fronts. How did Trent look?”
“Like he wanted to strangle his grapefruit. So, Nick, you don’t really like that girl?”
“Of course not, Bernice. You know who I like.” “Do you really, Nick honey?”
“You know it, baby,” said François, stifling a shudder.
As I was leaving for work, Paul—looking somewhat drained—shuffled into the kitchen.
“Good morning, Paul. I enjoyed your trumpet playing.”
“Was it acrobatic enough for you?” he asked.
I reddened. What exactly did he mean by that?
Mr. Ferguson must be jealous too. He didn’t even offer to shake hands when Paul introduced himself. Perhaps he just didn’t want to get out of his chair. He’s been moving rather slowly lately. Someone snipped the elastic in his truss.
When I arrived home from work, Paul was giving Lacey a foot massage on the couch. Mr. Ferguson was prone on the floor, studying patterns in the shag.
“We saved you some mushrooms,” said Lacey dreamily. “Don’t tell your father.”
“They’re powerful,” said Paul, handing me a small plastic bag. “Onl
y take two.”
I swallowed two of the dry brown pellets and then the reckless François gobbled two more. We both shuddered from the vile bitterness. I waited five minutes. Nothing. Waited ten more minutes. Reality clutched defiantly at my mind. Just my luck, I’m immune to psychedelics. I suppose I shall have to experience mind-expanding hallucinations the old-fashioned way—by abusing strong liquor.
I went into my bedroom and noticed for the first time how much my chenille bedspread resembled a medieval tapestry. Every shimmering thread stood out for singular contemplation. Yet, at the same time, I could admire the totality of the weave—while noting every gradation of hue and texture. In a matter of minutes, my aesthetic had accelerated light-years beyond even Mr. Rogavere’s. I sat on my bed and examined the hairs on my arm. They formed calligraphic patterns more exquisite than any Chinese brush painting. Aldous Huxley was right. Beyond the narrow doors of perception lies a realm of wide-screen, big-budget Technicolor spectacles. All that was lacking was Victor Mature in a toga lashed to a marble column.
Hours went by yet the sun refused to set. I strolled into the living room and greeted my precious friends. Kind Lacey generously permitted me to massage her other foot. I rolled her soft pink toes through my fingers like round warm grapes. Each nail was a transparent window on a fascinating three-dimensional universe. A profound revelation came to me: cavemen had no need for television. They must have sat around their primeval campfires and watched the programming in their toes.
I jumped when a carillon rang nearby.
“Nick, get the phone,” said Lacey sweetly.
I picked up the sinuously organic sculpture we debase by calling a telephone. “Hello,” I whispered.
“Nick, is that you?” spoke a familiar voice.
“I am Nick Twisp,” I said. “I am alive. I am a breathing organism.”
“Quit fooling around, Nick. This is your dad. Is everything OK there?”
I heard deep pangs of fear in the voice. “Don’t be afraid, Dad,” I said. “Everything will be all right. You deserve to be loved.”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Is Lacey there?”
“Lacey is here. Paul is caressing her toes.”
“Paul! Who the hell is Paul?”
“Paul is our friend. He makes beautiful music for the acrobats. They’re naked.”
“Who’s naked? Is Lacey naked?”
I didn’t want to talk to this voice about the acrobats. “Don’t be afraid, Dad. Goodbye.” I hung up and pulled out the cord.
“Dad is afraid,” I said.
“He is on the wrong path,” said Mr. Ferguson from the floor. “I have felt that for some time.”
I want to talk to Sheeni, I thought. I want to touch her. I want to enter her mind and body and find her living soul. I knew with absolute certainly I had never wanted anything so strongly in my life.
SUNDAY, October 28 — A car pulled into the driveway at 3:27 A.M. by the clock. I woke with the mother of all headaches and listened as heavy footsteps approached. No, I could not state with absolute certainty that the front door was locked. Nor did I feel like getting up to secure the bolt. Shoot me in my bed if you must, I thought, at least it will put a merciless end to the hammering in my head.
I heard a key turn in the lock and the door swing open.
“Lacey!” bellowed a voice. It was Dad, returning prematurely from his hegira to the north.
“Nick!” he yodeled into the black night. “What the fuck is going on?”
Three identically pitched dog howls rose from the crawl space below.
I must say Sheeni’s brother conducted himself with admirable nonchalance during the ensuing chaos. Paul did not throw on his pants and try to flee out the bedroom window. He got out of bed, slipped on his underwear, and sauntered into the living room to keep Dad at bay while Lacey packed.
As Dad foamed and ranted, Paul suggested in soothing monotones that he think about calming down before the neighbors called the sheriff. He only had to hit my father once, when Dad made a misguided lunge for Lacey as she was retrieving her aerobics tape from the VCR. Paul landed a crisp right to the jaw, dropping Dad like a stone. When he came to, Dad had lost most of his fighting spirit. He let Mr. Ferguson pour him a brandy and pretended to regain his reason.
“Of course you realize you are in serious trouble,” said Dad, rubbing his jaw. “Mr. Ferguson is my witness that you assaulted me. And I know for a fact that you two were having naked orgies here involving my son. That child is only 12 years old!”
“I’m 14, Dad,” I pointed out.
“Shut up,” he replied. “That boy is an underaged minor. I am going to have you arrested and charged with child molesting.”
“Don’t be an idiot, George,” said Lacey, carrying her suitcase out of the bedroom. “No one was naked and no one was molesting anyone. Isn’t that right, Mr. Ferguson?”
“That’s right, George,” he replied. “I’m surprised you could think such a thing of Lacey.”
“When you get out of prison you will both have to register as sex offenders,” Dad continued, undeterred by the facts. “You will never be able to get decent jobs again.”
“I’ve never had a decent job,” remarked Paul. “I don’t think I’d want one.”
“Let’s go, Paul,” said Lacey, pulling on her coat. “George, I’ll pick up the rest of my things tomorrow.”
“Not until you pay me all the rent money you owe,” retorted Dad.
Lacey looked like her headache was approaching the same acute pain stage as mine. “I paid you all your money!” she screamed.
“Not the extra charges,” replied Dad.
Lacey bent forward until her beautiful face was one inch from Dad’s bloated one. “Fuck …your… stinking …extra … charges,” she hissed.
“Using bad language in front of a minor,” said Dad happily. “The judge will hear about that too.”
“Dad, shouldn’t you be up in Oregon?” I asked.
“Shut your goddam fucking face,” he bellowed.
Probably sage counsel under the circumstances. I took four aspirin and went back to bed.
10:30 A.M. When I dragged my post-hallucinogenic carcass out of bed about an hour ago, my headache was better, but the doors of perception had swung firmly closed. Time ticked by at its normal pace, my bedspread had lost its aesthetic fascination, and unalloyed reality was loitering about in its dingiest housedress.
Dad was snoring noisily in his reclaimed bedroom; Mr. Ferguson had left for early-morning picketing duty. I made a cup of coffee and plugged in the phone. It rang immediately.
“Nickie, is that you?”
It was my future twice-divorced mother.
“Yes, Mom. Don’t you recognize my voice after 14 years?”
“No, I don’t. You’re beginning to sound just like your father. Nick, why haven’t your fingerprints arrived? Lance is livid.”
“You know the Postal Service, Mom. I mailed them nearly a week ago,” I lied.
“You should have sent them airmail special delivery. Lance thinks you’re being deliberately disobedient. And how are things up there with you?”
“OK,” I replied. “Dad broke up with his girlfriend.”
“He did!” exclaimed Mom. “That’s marvelous. Is he taking it badly?”
“Oh, I guess so.”
“That’s wonderful! Did she ditch him for another guy?”
“You might say that.”
“Fantastic! So he’s getting a taste of his own medicine. It’s about time. I hope he suffers, the heel. Nickie, you’ve made my day.”
“Glad to oblige, Mom.”
“Nickie, guess what? I’m beginning to show!”
“Show what?” I asked. Mom had always favored shockingly low necklines and appallingly high hemlines. What was left to bare?
“The baby is beginning to show,” she explained. “I’ll be in maternity clothes soon.”
“That’s nice, Mom,” I said. “I guess.” I
tried not to imagine her in a low-cut, miniskirted maternity frock.
“You’re going to have a little brother,” she bubbled. “Did I tell you I had amniocentesis? We found out it’s a boy and everything’s fine. Isn’t that exciting?”
“I’m excited, Mom.”
“Guess what we’re going to name him?”
