Try to teach myself to play dissonant chords, wrong notes, out of tune.
I drag out a metronome and try to play something that sounds like a drumbeat. A car crash. A lullaby.
Somehow, everything I play sounds like the same thing: longing.
June 1983
Connor calls and cancels our dinner. He says, I can’t get out of bed.
You don’t have a key for the handcuffs?
Ha! No, really. I’m tired. I feel like crap. You think you can get Mom to make me some soup or something? he asks.
I think about it. Of course she’ll do it. I might have been the one that Dad wanted to come with him to ball games and for brunch at church, but Mom loves nothing more than doting on her eldest son who always made her laugh and would watch endless old black-and-white movies with her.
I have nothing else to do, so I ask Mom to whip up some mushroom barley and offer to take it over.
Mom sighs wistfully as she ladles it into Tupperware containers. She says, Boys always need their mothers. Especially when they aren’t well.
I choke on her sense of denial, wondering if she even believes what she’s saying.
Still, as she continues to pour soup, I resist the urge to remind her that she did nothing when Connor really needed her to keep my father from kicking him out of the house. Maybe she tried, and Dad shot her down too. Maybe she’s made the same pact with the devil that I have, and silence is her security blanket. Her safety net.
Connor is huddled on the couch under 142 blankets.
You really do look like crap, I say.
He pulls the blankets aside, and I see he’s wearing mismatched pajamas. I didn’t know he owned pajamas, and I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him in anything mismatched. There are dark circles under his eyes, and he winces whenever he swallows.
What happened to Destiny, anyhow? I ask.
You know, stairs, he croaks out. And, well…Greg.
Okay, so why isn’t Greg here taking care of you?
It isn’t that kind of thing, Connor says.
And your four thousand friends?
Connor sighs. I didn’t want them to see me like this. No offense, but I don’t really care what you think I look like at the moment.
I avoid offering a comeback only because his voice is weak, and I can still hear his raspy breathing as I step over to rummage around the small kitchen. I reach into a cabinet and pull out a stuffed Dalmatian, a saddle shoe with MAURICE printed across the bottom, a huge bag of weed.
Eventually, I find an empty pot in the oven, heat Mom’s soup, and take it to him.
While he’s sipping it out of a mug that says GAG ME WITH A SPOON, Connor says, I always thought I’d be the kind of big brother who could teach you stuff. You know, how to be a man and all that shit.
I stare at him. I can’t even think of Connor as an adult, much less a man. And also, he must be feverish. This isn’t the type of stuff my brother and I talk about.
Well, you know, I still have Dad, I say, and we both crack up.
I wash out my mom’s Tupperware in the tiny kitchen sink, leave a stack of quarters on the table for laundry, and ask Connor, Do you think Dad kicked you out for being gay or for embarrassing him in public?
Connor blows on his soup and rakes a hand through his uncharacteristically unwashed hair. What? he asks, suddenly angry. You think you can finesse this? You think you can go home and tell him you’re screwing some guy in a way that will make him pat you on the back and offer you a beer?
No, I answer, I just… I don’t know.
Michael. He pauses and shakes his head. Don’t be an idiot.
Music has always been my sanctuary. But now it’s only a loud voice in my head.
When are you going to play a show, Michael? A gig? Music in front of real people instead of the dusty photos that sit on the bookcase?
John Lennon was sixteen when he formed the Beatles. Don’t get me started on Michael Jackson either.
You’re already past your prime.
We never go to Becky’s, for obvious reasons. And James’s place is crowded, so we’re at mine. Dad is working late and my mom is helping with a bake sale at church. I keep hoping she’ll see Father Simon for the lech that he is, but it’s unlikely. She doesn’t even know her own sons.
We’re hanging in my room listening to records—Depeche Mode, Split Enz, R.E.M.—and building a giant house out of playing cards, which James keeps leaning in and blowing over before it can fall. Meanwhile, Michael Stipe is singing on my turntable, but I can’t understand what he’s saying, and the band refuses to print lyric sheets, a personal pet peeve of mine.
Do you have a CD player yet? Becky asks James.
The jury is still out on those things, he says as he replaces the ace of hearts. I mean, there’s purity in hearing the music the way it was created, but there’s also something to be said for the accumulated history of records. Those scratches and pops were earned.
Becky smirks. Sorry I asked, she says.
Then she reaches into her bag. Here, she says, I got this off the bathroom wall at The Echo.
She holds out a grimy scrap of paper.
I draw back and ask, You actually touched something in The Echo’s bathroom and took it home with you? Why aren’t you wearing gloves?
James leans over her shoulder. A phone number? I didn’t think you were that hard up, kitten.
She elbows him in the ribs, but he laughs.
I think that’s how Connor met his last boyfriend, I joke and then realize it’s been a couple of days since I heard from him.
No, she explains. The sign said: Dial-a-Daze: Call in times of questioning to be moved toward times of transcendence. I’m curious, can we call?
Becky’s eyes are lit up, and I shrug. Is it local? My parents will be pissed if they get hit with a charge for long distance.
Becky nods.
Sure, why not, I say. I haven’t seen her excited about anything in a while.
She gets to the phone before I do, while James opens the kitchen window and lights up, trying not to catch my mother’s pink gingham curtains on fire.
Becky waits until the sounds of sirens on the street fade away, and then she dials and holds the phone receiver out to us.
We lean in. There’s a pause. Then a smoke-worn voice whispers, The world is made up of pieces. Scraps of paper. Broken concrete. Incomplete thoughts. We fill in what isn’t there. Sew it together. Seep around each other’s edges.
Becky lets the message repeat. Hangs up. Aside from James drawing on his cigarette, we’re silent.
It’s true, you know, James says after a while. It’s the things that are missing that keep us searching for a reason to stay alive.
Well, aren’t you in a profound mood, Becky says.
Well, what do you think? James asks me.
My mind goes to Gabriel.
And strangely to my brother who always seems like he’s looking for something he may not recognize when he finds it.
What I say is, I think this guy has too much time on his hands.
That doesn’t keep Becky from wanting to call again at lunch the next day from the pay phone outside school.
Today, the voice simply says, Don’t be the wound.
What the hell? she asks.
Maybe it means not to make things worse? I offer.
Or not to be the thing that hurts? she counters.
Yeah, but you can’t blame something for hurting itself, right?
Obviously, she sighs, you haven’t seen my mother lately.
The paper in the fear room is full. I think I might have crabs is written next to I cheated on my French exam because I’m worried my grades aren’t good enough for college and my parents will kill me if I don’t get into their alma mater, and I’m not sure how I got home from Julie’s
party on Saturday night.
I find a small square of open space and write about something that’s been eating at me. I got this flyer about an AIDS demonstration, but I was too afraid to go. And I kind of hate myself for that.
I stop in after school, expecting my mysterious writer friend not to have answered yet, but instead, there is this: No point in hating yourself. I’ve decided that living your life the way you want is the best revenge, he writes. I’m assuming it’s a guy. I mean, otherwise you’re letting those dicks win. And then what’s the point of anything?
I consider writing something about James. Or Gabriel. Or Connor who is still sick, and that fact scares me more than I’m letting on.
Instead, I write, Is that what you do?
Summer break is looming and B-Sides is hiring again. Something must be going on with my parents because this time, even they are warming up to the idea.
If you get a job, you can help with the groceries, my father says.
If you get a job, you might meet a nice girl, my mother says.
If you get a job, they won’t know where to find you and you can stay out all night, Connor says.
If you get a job, maybe you’ll be happier, Becky says.
If you get a job, you may never have time to write another song, says James.
I sometimes forget what being in school was like, James says.
I have a hard time picturing what real life will be like, I reply.
Really? James looks at me through his lashes. Who ever said anything about life is real?
Despite James’s concerns, I fill out a job application at B-Sides.
Name. Address. Phone number.
Experience.
Um.
I write: I’ve shopped here. A lot.
Then I cross it out and write: I’m a musician.
Then I cross that out and replace it with: I play guitar.
But that isn’t right either.
I’m not James. No one is writing about me in newspapers or buying tickets to hear me play.
Does it count if you make something that might possibly be called art, but no one hears it?
I cross out I play guitar and write I love music. No one can argue with that.
It’s stifling hot as James and I walk through Central Park, even though we’ve waited until almost sundown to come out; all so he can check out Belvedere Castle for use as a future performance area. The castle isn’t really a castle. James calls it a “folly,” and it’s more like multiple flights of stairs that ascend to a turret that has just reopened after a massive renovation.
As we approach, James surprises me by running up the stairs and sticking his head out of the window, shaking his hair like Rapunzel. I miss seeing him this way. Light and happy. It doesn’t seem to happen much anymore.
He runs back to ground level and grabs a handful of what Connor and I call helicopter seeds, but which James says are actually called samaras, and takes them back to the top of the turret. Then he instructs me to stand underneath while he drops them down around me, the seeds swirling and spinning like dancers.
Is this helping you decide about whether to stage a show here? I call up to him.
He laughs. Starts to answer. Then stops. The shower of helicopters stops as well, and I look up to see what has him distracted.
You should come up here, he calls down soberly.
Seriously? There’s like, a hundred steps in this thing.
Still, because it’s James and because I’m curious, I haul myself up the stairs and look in the direction he’s pointing. Hundreds and hundreds of people are making their way through the park carrying signs with numbers on them. A somber parade.
I don’t get it, I say.
It’s a memorial, James explains and then falls silent.
I squint and can barely make out the migration of people, some in wheelchairs, some leaning on arms, making their way across the park. Then I don’t have to ask what the memorial is for. If we were trying to hide from this thing, we were fooling ourselves. It’s going to keep going until it’s found us.
What are the numbers on the signs? I ask, not expecting James to have an answer. My heart is suddenly beating too hard, and I can’t blame the heat.
One for each of the dead, James says in a monotone. I forgot this was today.
We watch with a strange sense of sadness and fascination. Then James turns to face me, says, The guy on that 20/20 interview you saw, died four days after it aired. He’s one of the people this is for. He wanted everyone in New York to know what’s going on.
James shakes his hair out of his eyes. You need to know what’s going on, Michael, he whispers, his voice nearly taken by the breeze, As much as they’re telling us anyhow.
Then, weighed down by what we’ve seen, neither of us says anything else as we walk home, except to say goodbye at the subway.
Becky has nothing to do and Andy is on patrol, so I give in to her pleading to go see War Games at the Loews on 83rd.
Three-fifty for a movie ticket? Are they kidding? Becky grumbles as she digs out her money.
I’ll pay you back, I say.
No, I invited you. It’s really the principle of the thing, she says. They’re going to play the movie whether the theater is full or empty, so why not cut people a break?
We get our tickets and popcorn, and grab two seats in the middle. I consider telling her I’m worried about Connor, and about the memorial James and I stumbled onto, and about what I know about why James is being so withdrawn, but then the movie starts, and it feels good to lose myself in something.
Even if that something is the idea that we’re only a Galaga game away from nuclear war.
As we walk out after the movie, Becky grabs my hand and asks, You don’t think that could really happen, do you?
I shake my head. The idea of someone using a game to get into government files sounds absurd. I tell her, James says it’s ten grand to buy one of those new Apple computers for your house. Who the hell is going to fork out that kind of money?
Her hand relaxes in mine. You’re right, she says, not like Russia is wired into the local video store.
I think about telling her that I have a feeling what we need to be afraid of is far, far closer to home, but I don’t because I’d rather do the worrying for both of us.
Less than two weeks left of junior year.
I used to look forward to summer vacation.
Visits to our grandparents’ place upstate.
Connor and I playing ball in the local league.
Camp.
Coney Island.
Free time.
Fun.
This year, Connor is working. Or not feeling great. Or both.
And neither of my parents have asked about my plans.
Have you seen this? Becky asks days later, slipping a page from the Village Voice into my hands during homeroom.
She leans over my shoulder and reads out loud: The Club 99 Arts Group has cemented their next piece with the addition of wunderkind James Barrows, last seen in the group’s production of Kurt Weill and Bertolt Brecht’s Mahagonny. Barrows is said to be writing their next effort according to a recent press release and, if insider reports are to be believed, the enigmatic young man with the delicate features that have all club kids abuzz, will bring the group its next hit.
Becky and I stare at each other. At the article’s photo showing James in an absurd pair of tweed pants with suspenders.
Holy crap.
He’s going to hate this.
James is pissed, and I’m trying not to be amused.
James is always calm, controlled, polite, in charge. But now he’s stomping around my room in his stacked heels, waving the newspaper like a fly swatter.
At least the article is complimentary, I point out.
I
t makes me sound like a total wanker, he says. His British is escaping, so I know he means it. He asks, Who the hell is going to take someone with “delicate features” seriously as an artist?
I don’t remind him of all the bars his looks have gotten him into. I don’t remind him of all the auditions his sly smile has won him. I don’t remind him of all the times he used his cheekbones to get what he wanted.
The suspenders are cool, though, I say and then duck as the paper comes flying toward my head.
The Howard Johnson’s in Times Square has a photographic drink menu. Manhattans and gimlets and things with cherries and oranges and little umbrellas in them.
Becky and I order a load of fried clams to split; James picks at them between sips of his drink. He’s been working his way down the cocktail menu, drink by drink, ever since he turned eighteen and got a fake ID. Not that he needs one. People bend over backwards to give James anything he asks for.
Today’s choice is something called a rusty nail.
Don’t you need to get a tetanus shot for that? Becky asks.
The drink looks watery and strong, and has two cherries bobbing up and down in it like life buoys. I feel guilty because James could go into any nice place he wanted, instead of having drinks in here so we can join him.
Something needs to change, he says. My image or my looks or maybe my next project should be more mainstream, I don’t know.
Is this all about that article? I ask.
I glance around to make sure the waitress is far away and then grab one of the cherry stems and bite into the fruit. It squirts in my mouth and tastes like cherry lighter fluid.
James shrugs. I’m just worried about losing time to make my mark.
Look— I say, although I’m not sure what I’m going to point out. Maybe spending your life afraid of something that may or may not happen, is like dying twice.
Thankfully, Becky cuts me off. You know, she says, I don’t even know what I’m doing after next year. If I get into college, I have no idea how to pay for it. And if I don’t go to school, who will hire me? Not like I have any experience in anything aside from hiding my mom’s boyfriends’ drugs.
James opens his mouth and closes it. Not even he has anything to follow that up with.
We Are Lost and Found Page 10
