Everybody Scream!

by Jeffrey Thomas

  “There are security guards!”

  “People die there!”

  “Troublemakers.”

  “Wait until Dad comes home.”

  “Daddy said I could.”

  “You just want to meet boys, Fawn, and you can do that next week safe and sound in school.”

  “So what if we meet boys? Then it won’t be us three girls defenseless, will it?”

  “Such a smart, sarcastic mouth.” Dolly marched into the bathroom off the kitchen, could be heard rummaging in a cabinet. Came back with a bottle of something to settle Fawn’s stomach. The teenager raised her head dutifully to accept the offered spoon, which clinked on her teeth. Dolly said, “You’re driving me crazy, you’re killing your mother, but what do you care?”

  “Oh–how am I killing you?” Fawn twisted her face.

  “By wearing me down and upsetting my nerves. I hope you have children someday…you’ll find out.” Dolly spooned Fawn some more medicine as if in punishment. “Heather’s asshole of a father had better not be late picking you up tonight like he was last night or I won’t have her over in my house again. That understood?”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  “Your stomach will be fine in a minute. I’ll make you some toast at least.” Dolly went to pour juice. So much of her previous artistic inspiration had been wrung out of her. Kids; they eroded you. But Fawn was the pride of Dolly’s life.

  After breakfast Fawn returned to her room to shower and call her friends, and Dolly got in a little work on the large panel that she had gained permission to hang in the hall outside her apartment, after much persistence and after inviting the owners of Robin Plaza to a dinner party. It was–by most anyone’s standards, but for those of the highest tolerance and arrogance–horrible.

  Even Dolly didn’t seem too thrilled with the growing quagmire of red, blue and yellow this morning, and abandoned the painting, wiped her hands on a towel as she sought out her daughter. She opened the soundproofed door without knocking and wasn’t surprised to see Chauncy Carnal of Sphitt standing before her in his characteristic broad stance wearing his white leotard with the crotch cut out, masturbating in the direction of her daughter while he serenaded her with a twisted pouting sneer, his white mane cascading onto his bare bony tanned shoulders. He was growling the surly/sultry ballad Fall to Your Knees, Fawn’s current favorite song.

  What distressed Dolly was seeing Fawn’s willowy body naked, rocking and bouncing on what first might have looked like a strange black saddle she was strapped into, minus a horse. It was actually that damn “love bug” Chana had bought Fawn for her birthday and which Fawn had managed to keep secret and hidden for almost a month. It was furry and mindless, a genetically designed beetle play-thing, some of its legs locked around Fawn’s white legs and waist, two of its gentle feelers stroking and coiling around Fawn’s slight breasts. Her head thrown back and mouth open in abandon, eyes closed for the moment and music loud, she didn’t know her mother was there at first, until Dolly made some noise in looking about for the remote control that would banish Chauncy Carnal’s convincingly sweaty hologram. Fawn gasped, embarrassed.

  “Don’t you respect my privacy? Why can’t you knock?”

  “I’ll respect you when you show a little respect around here, brat. Turn that disgusting hologram off. And get off that thing! I’m going to have your father take that stupid thing away! You have to be so damned preoccupied with sex!”

  “I’m normal, okay? Do you want me to do it with real boys instead?”

  “I want you to have a little taste!”

  “Oh come on, I know you’ve tried Herbie, too–don’t deny it!”

  “Oh you little smart-mouth brat. Just wait until Daddy gets home tonight. And if you still think you’re going out today you can forget it.”

  “Oh come on–what did I do?” Fawn wailed, but too late–the door had slammed shut. “Bitch!” she hissed to herself, sneering as she fought back tears, motionless astride her obedient pet. It continued caressing her breasts as if to console her. Chauncy Carnal, undaunted, bellowed out the ballad’s tear-wringing crescendo:

  “I love you so much

  I just want one last touch

  Just taste once my tears

  They’re the liquid of my fears

  But you say I secrete

  More than you can eat

  Though I beg you please

  You won’t fall to your knees

  I love you so much

  I love you so much

  I love you so much!

  That I hate you, you spoiled little bitch.”

  “Oohh...shut the fuck up.” Del Kahn reached out to the radio alarm like a drowning man to a life preserver of sanity, tendons straining, fingers wiggling, until with a final grunt of effort he touched the dial and gave it an emphatic click which banished the awakening assault of Sphitt’s In Your Face. Del rolled away from the radio onto his back to groan. He couldn’t have felt more jarred if he had awakened to the members of Sphitt shaking his bed, kicking it, and pursing their lipstick pouts down at him. Sophi listened to that station; he seldom did. They seldom played any of his own songs these days. Very seldom.

  Rolling his head, he surveyed Sophi. The detonation of music hadn’t pierced her thick dark tangle of hair, all that he saw of her. Funny, that was the first thing you focused on with her–the first thing he had, anyway, that body and those eyes aside. Thick dark hair, long, a lion’s mane on a lioness. Del and Sophi had been married five years. She had never cut her hair short, never dyed or frosted it blonde or any other color and certainly hadn’t shaved herself bald a few years ago when that was big. None of that would be Sophi. Other women could get away with that, with all of that. Their mutability was their identity. Sophi’s identity wasn’t dependent on the latest fashion or fad; bald-headedness, green frost. Sophi was her hair. If fashion had led her like a ring through the nose, she might have never married Del Kahn in the first place. Even five years ago he had been largely forgotten.

  He stole out of bed stealthily so as not to rouse her, made it to the floor, padded out and through the parlor into the narrow kitchen. The bathroom was the last room, but for some low-ceilinged basement-like storage space below. They’d had the trailer three years, though for some of that time Del had briefly lived elsewhere, on and off, depending on moods. His moods to leave, or her moods which made him leave. They had talked about it and both agreed that it was this semi-regular leaving that kept their marriage intact, like steam vented off to prevent a total explosion.

  Del finished urinating, flushed the toilet, ran a hand over his mirrored jaw. Yeah, it was cramped, you couldn’t shave without bumping your elbow on the wall. But how about those tour buses, fifteen, seventeen years ago? Talk about cramped. At first he had loved the trailer for its nostalgic references to those tour days before he and the band became so big that they simply teleported to the gig and back home that same night. He still loved the trailer, it was home, but sometimes its closeness chafed him, and he had to leave. Today he was here.

  Shaving could wait; coffee was the priority. In the low-ceilinged kitchen, its walls and ceiling turquoise plastic, the cupboards, counters and floor an imitation swirly pink marble, Del filled a pink mug that was made from a Tikkihotto sea shell. The smell of coffee–one of the little pleasures of life that mean so much but have so much else stacked against them. Del paced the narrow kitchen idly in his bare feet, wearing underpants and v-necked undershirt. Flipped though a magazine on the little table. Moved the pink blinds to gaze out the window at the activity of morning, people starting themselves up for work like machines, passing by with Styrofoam cups of coffee in hand, or cigarettes, which served them the same purpose. He’d have to get Sophi up soon, but he liked these few minutes alone with himself first.

  He clicked on the radio on the kitchen table. It was a replica of a Sears Roebuck “Silvertone” from 1948, a child’s radio, dark brown with an ivory cowboy on a horse on the side (Silvertone spelled out i
n his lariat), and the dial Del turned for a suitable station was an ivory plastic cowboy hat. The radio in the bedroom that had woken him was a replica 1938 Majestic “Charlie McCarthy,” white, with a painted representation of a monocled ventriloquist’s puppet projecting from the front, in top hat and tails. The hidden auto-alarm feature was not characteristic of the original. These were Sophi’s, and she did have some original collector’s radios, mostly Choom. Del had given her a few old Tikkihotto radios from a trip he’d made to their planet as one of his last performances. Sophi collected odd, quaint, bizarre knickknacks, most of which had once served very common day-to-day uses. Their furniture, refrigerator, their plates, lamps, their salt and pepper shakers were all from such older times as to be conspicuous, forming a unified crazy-quilt of the past. Yeah, Del had mused on it before, Sophi collected relics, once popular but passed over for newer fashions. Like me.

  Nothing appealed to him. He shut the radio off, moved back into the parlor and inserted a chip in his modern music system. Forwarded to a particular cut. Salon and Saloon. Jim Croce, a twentieth century singer-songwriter. Let it never be said that Del Kahn would allow another artist’s work to fade into the oblivion of the past, if that artist had something beautiful or meaningful to say. It wasn’t that there was no beauty or meaning in today’s music–not at all. In a place like Punktown, the versatility was such that any sort of music was accessible. And of course beauty and meaning were subjective, when it came to art; what to Del might be a sappy, corny, commercial-minded piece of ordure might be another’s heart-rending ballad, and there were no doubt those who found a personal meaning even in what to Del was the most loathsome music, such as that of the snidely hip Child Beaters, Tongue Tongs, or Spectral Excrement...the favorites of some college stations, a nasty-hearted sort of post “fuck-sound” rock...and, of course, the music of groups such as Flemm and Sphitt.

  Del liked a little of a lot. Classical, jazz, folk, country (very little, but still), pop, rock, even fuck rock, and a lot of other-world stuff. But he didn’t like a lot, too. He didn’t like to smell money in his music too conspicuously, or the oil of a factory machine, or the cigar smoke of some business meeting concoction. A lot of that was inevitable–he knew that well, did he ever. But it was something he had fought against, and only tolerated to its most necessary level. It had to be art. And not prop art, either, not a posture, not a bloodless hip fake. Sophi’s trailer furnishings and decor made up from flea markets and antique shops were hip, funny, but it was a passion with her, nostalgic and sentimental and heartfelt, from her spirit. It had to be real.

  After his song ended Del finished his cooling coffee and let the chip play out softly while he went to shower and shave.

  With the water hitting him, he could see other trailers outside through a little window. Most were white to Sophi’s turquoise, and most were of a less domesticated nature. Thick black cables snaked across the dirt path between them. There were strewn empty popcorn cups, soda and beer cups, half-eaten remnants of food, even here away from the carnival proper. Even as he started to become disturbed by the trash one of the maintenance kids scuffed along dragging his wheeled zapper, picking up the more salient refuse and dropping it into the disintegrator. He wore elbow-high black rubbery gloves to protect himself from accidentally getting his hands too close, and a Flemm t-shirt. You’d think they were the only fucking group on the planet Oasis, Del thought.

  Last night for the fair. Del had mixed feelings. He had enjoyed the experience more this year than the first two that Sophi had run the fair, because this year he had barely allowed himself to participate in the organization and execution of it. It was Sophi’s pet–why should he bang his head against a wall, keeping after the endless details and responsibilities? For once he’d had some real fun. He’d had a chance to meet people, and get to know the crew people of the fair and carnival themselves. Some people knew of his past achievements, many didn’t–which was good, in a way, since his privacy had always been vital to him. Actually, maybe he’d had too much fun, met too many people, got to know others too well. Like any work community, this one was a jealous, gossipy bunch and he was sure that Sophi knew about his several summertime flings with crew members. She hadn’t said anything overtly, though...just a few of her knowing sort of dry remarks, such as her familiar offer to have a new, inconspicuously flesh-colored wedding band made for him. Despite their arrangement, he kept things quiet. It was a silent arrangement, at this point. Sometimes, though, it felt like a silent volcano to him. Caution was best.

  So, that crazy and dream-like carnival excitement would end tonight. The carnival’s end was as sure a sign of the end of summer as was the starting of school after this weekend. According to the calendar, summer would continue on a few more weeks. But everyone else knew better. It was already autumn. The weather had already changed–the past few days had been gray and cool, chilly at night. Normally he loved autumn, but the closing of the carnival was always a bit depressing, as if again he felt that he had to return to school. He could empathize with the flocks of kids, squeezing what last summer juice they could out of this final night (though their too-great squeezing seemed to irritate him more each year, especially with all these arrogant swaggering louts dressed up like Chauncy Carnal).

  Autumn wouldn’t leave Sophi totally without projects, by any means. Some of the carnival (which she outright owned, initially purchased primarily through Del’s resources, though the fair which featured the carnival was organized by the township with Sophi placed at the immediate helm) would break up and go south for the cold seasons, and other parts would teleport to tour some Tikkihotto towns (Del’s coup, with the aid of the people who had promoted and helped facilitate his shows there previously). Last year the Kahns themselves had gone south with the carnival but this year, thank God, they were staying up here. He wanted to kick back, this year, just rest, while she did her buying and dealing and organizing for next year, and her long distance overseeing of the dispersed schism carnivals.

  But what happened when he got tired of kicking back, just resting, as he knew he must? He had before. He didn’t want to think about it but the water wouldn’t wash away the question. His business manager kept urging him to produce, at least, and he kept saying that he wanted to some day, but he didn’t feel the drive. His keyboard player, Rusty Scupper, was doing a second solo album, splitting the vocals with another singer (Rusty was a pleasant singer, with the right–light, bouncy–material) and had hinted to Del about doing a duet. Somehow Del had ducked his good friend’s first album, but how could he do that again? The first album hadn’t sold very well. Rusty, all friendship and fun aside, was actually asking his friend to help him make some money and strengthen his self-supporting projects. Del had been hoping that Rusty wouldn’t be offended if he wrote a song or two for him instead. He just didn’t want to put his voice out there again just now. He wasn’t ready.

  He’d try to push Rusty into recruiting some of the other members of the old band for guest appearances. They’d do it–they were all good friends. Del still saw them all, though not very often, and seldom more than one at a time. That is, except for Tex. Even the others all shunned Tex Plano now. Not that some of them might not still care for him, but they didn’t dare aggravate Del. Tex, the percussionist, had been Del’s friend and a band member from the beginning. That was why, when he found out that he’d been fucking Sophi for several months, he nearly wanted to kill him. Literally kill him. But he didn’t, and he didn’t even fire him, and that wasn’t even why Del didn’t want to reassemble the group. Del never went to Tex with his gun to threaten him, as he had fantasized, and he never had to speak to him–Tex backed off by himself like a naughty dog when Sophi told him that Del knew about them. Del was polite to him. The others were polite, but that was it. When Del admitted his feelings to his then-manager David Hellmich, Hellmich told him he should have followed through and killed Tex. No one would prosecute a star, they could make it look like defense anyway, and th
e publicity would juice up his drooping career. Del had fired Hellmich not long after that, and his new manager knew best to just concern himself with seeing to the royalties.

  Ah, summer. The last drops from the faucet, tonight. No more blasting light, blasting music, blasting noise, blasting life. No more distractions from the things that nagged him.

  Yet he didn’t want to follow the carnival south this year. No, it would be too crazy to try to sustain the fun he’d had this season. But more than that, despite the uneasiness, he just didn’t want to keep running. He didn’t know what else he planned to do once he tired of resting, but...he was trying to open up to possibilities.

  He shut the shower off, dried, stepped out, shaved. He heard the kitchen radio go on, but took his time in finishing. Tucking his damp towel loincloth-like around his waist, Del padded out into the kitchen. Sophi was there at the table. She was slumped over a steaming black coffee as if to unblock her sinuses, chin in hand, elbow propped, in a white terrycloth robe, a cigarette unfurling its lazy ghost serpents. Her eyes, a feline light green with naturally heavy lashes emphasized by makeup, appraised him, even after all these years making him uneasy until he knew what was behind them. Maybe alcohol, still, from the look of the weighted lids, but not necessarily. Her eyes were always a little narrowed, making them more piercing, though more so now with the smoke and the clouds of sleep still dispersing. Their heavy brows were peaked in the middle. Her hair was a thick tousled mass, rich and weighty even to the eyes. Del knew from the sight of it (let alone the feel) why women in some cultures were compelled to hide their hair from men so as not to distract and beguile them. Her nose was pointed at the end–no dainty upturned item–but not one of the big, mannish, asymmetrical “ethnic honkers,” as Sophi called them, popular with models now (which some models even acquired through surgery). Her lips were tight and firmly drawn, sealed, the lower lip thrust out beyond the upper a bit, and her jaw was squared. When she smiled (though she didn’t now) she seldom parted her lips to show her teeth.