T.C. Boyle Stories II: The Collected Stories of T. Coraghessan Boyle, Volume II

by T. Coraghessan Boyle

  I watched the KFUN fans line up outside the Soul Shack, watched the line swell and shrink, and fixated on the taillights of the cars moving silently down the boulevard. I couldn’t read, couldn’t watch the portable TV Tony had set up for me, couldn’t even listen to the chatter of it. Everything seemed so inconsequential. I would say that my mind wandered, but the phrase doesn’t begin to do justice to the state I was in—I no longer inhabited my body, no longer had a mind or a being. I felt a great peace descend on me, and I just sat there in silence, studying the red LED display on the console as it chopped and diced the hours, moving only to lift a listless hand to acknowledge the thumbs-up from one or another of the baggy-pantsed teens drifting by on the sidewalk. The club emptied, the streets went silent. I didn’t even bother to take my restroom breaks.

  In the morning, the light climbed down from the tops of the buildings, a light full of pigeons and hope, and Tony appeared, as usual, at quarter of six, with two cups of coffee. There was something wrong with him, I could see that right away. His face lacked dimension. It wasn’t a face at all, but a flat screen painted with Tony-features. He looked worried. “Listen, Boom,” he said, “you’ve got to give this up. No offense, but it’s like having a dead man here doing the show with me. You know what you said yesterday, on the air, when I asked you how it felt to set the record? You remember that?”

  I didn’t. I gave him a numb look.

  “You said, ‘Fuck you, Dog Face.’”

  “I said ‘fuck’? On the air?”

  Tony didn’t respond. He handed me a coffee, sat down and put his headphones on. A moment fluttered by. I couldn’t feel the paper cup in my hand. I studied Tony in profile, hoping to see how he was Tony, if he was Tony. “Just keep out of my way today, will you?” he said, turning on me abruptly. “And when the show’s over, when you’ve got your twelve days in, you go home to bed. You hear me? Rudy’s going to take over for you the next two days, so you get a little vacation here to get your head straight.” And then, as if he felt he’d been too harsh, he put a hand on my shoulder and leaned in to me. “You deserve it, man.”

  I don’t remember anything of the show that day, except that Tony—Gooner, as the KFUN audience knew him—kept ringing down the curtain on my record, reminding everybody in KFUN land that the Boomer would be going on home to bed at the conclusion of the show, and what would the Boomer like? A foot massage? A naked blonde? A teddy bear? Couple of brewskies? Ha-ha, ha-ha. One more day, one more show, one more routine. But what Tony didn’t know, or Cuttler Ames or Dr. Laurie either, was that I had no intention of giving up the microphone: I was shooting for thirteen days now, and after that it would be fourteen, maybe fifteen. Who could say?

  A handful of people were milling around outside the glass booth as we closed out the show, but there was none of the ceremony of the preceding day. The record had been broken, the ratings boosted, and the stunt was over as far as anybody was concerned. The mayor certainly didn’t show. Nor did Dr. Laurie. Tony let out a long trailing sigh after we signed off (“This is the Gooner—and the Boomer—saying adiós, amigos, and keep the faith, baby—at least till tomorrow morning, same time, same place”) and made as if to help me out of the chair, but I shoved him away. He was standing, I was sitting. I was trembling all over, trembling as if I’d just been hosed down on an ice floe in the middle of the Arctic Ocean. Don’t touch me, I muttered to myself. Don’t even think about it. He dropped his face to mine, his big bloated moronic moon face that I wanted to smash till it shattered. “Come on, man,” he said, “it’s over. Beddy-bye. Time to crash.”

  I didn’t move. Wouldn’t look at him.

  “Don’t get psychotic on me now,” he said, and he took hold of my left arm, but I shrugged him off. The people on the street stopped what they were doing. Heads turned, eyes zeroed in. He gave them a lame smile, as if it was all part of the act. “You’re tired,” he said, “that’s all,” but there was no conviction in his voice. “Boomer?” he said, as if I were floating away from him. “Boomer?” A minute later I heard the glass door at the back of the booth swing open and then shut.

  At quarter past nine I went to do my update, but the mike was dead: they’d cut the power on me. I flicked the on/off button a couple of times, then shifted in my seat to glare at the engineer in the sound truck, but the engineer wasn’t there—nobody was. So that was it. They were going to isolate me, the sons of bitches. Cut me off. Use me and discard me. I got up from my seat, and who was watching? Nobody. Or no, there was a six-year-old kid standing there gawking at me while his mother jawed with some other mother in front of the Burger King outlet across the street, and I locked eyes with him for an instant before I jerked the mike out of the socket. What came next I don’t remember too clearly, or maybe I’ve repressed it, but it seems I began to pound the mike against the Plexiglas walls, whipping it like a lariat, and when that was in fragments, I went for the console.

  When they finally got me out of there, I’m told, it was past noon and I was well into my thirteenth day—a record that has yet to be surpassed, incidentally, though I’m told there’s a fakir in India who claims he hasn’t slept in three months, but of course that’s unofficial. Not to mention impossible. At any rate, Dr. Laurie had to come down and reason with me in a rigorous way, a squad car began circling the block, and Cuttler ordered Rudy and the sound engineer to cover up the glass walls with black plastic sheeting from the Home Depot up the street. We were getting publicity now, all right, but it wasn’t exactly the touchy-feely sort of publicity our august program director had in mind. I’d latched the door from the inside and forced the remains of the console up against it as a makeshift barricade. Rudy was on the roof of the glass cage, unscrolling sheets of black plastic as if it were bunting. I watched Dr. Laurie’s face on the other side of the transparent door, watched her mouth work professionally, noted and discarded each of her patent phrases, her false pleas and admonitions. Anything could have happened, because I wasn’t going anywhere. And if it wasn’t for Hezza I might still be in that glass box—or in the Violent Ward down at the County Hospital. It was that close.

  I wasn’t aware of how or when it occurred, but at some point I realized that Hezza’s face had been transposed over Dr. Laurie’s, and that Hezza was smiling at me out of the screwholes of her dimples. I don’t know what it was—psychosis, terminal exhaustion or the simple joy of being alive—but I’d never seen anything more beautiful than the earflaps of her knit hat and the way they tucked into her cheeks and made her face into the face of a cut-out doll in a children’s book. I smiled back. Then she bent her head, scribbled a moment, and pressed a sheet of paper to the glass. I LOVE YOU, it read.

  —

  Of course, this is the sort of resolution we all hope for, even the sleep-deprived, but it wasn’t as easy as all that. When we got to my place, when we got to the bed I hadn’t seen in thirteen days, the skin of irreality was so thick I couldn’t be sure who it was at my side—Hezza, Dr. Laurie, my ex-wife, one of the lean shopping machines I’d watched striding down the avenue from the confines of my glass cage. There was a stripe of sun on the carpet. I pulled the curtains. It vanished. “Who are you?” I said, though the earflaps were a dead giveaway. Something began buzzing from the depths of the house. Outside in the alley the neighbor’s dog barked sharply, once, twice, three times. She looked puzzled, looked hurt. “Hezza,” she said. “I’m Hezza, don’t you remember?”

  This time I didn’t have to shout, didn’t have to do anything really except fall into her where she lay naked on the bed, the blissful bed, the place of sex and sleep. I made love to her through the sheath of exhaustion and afterward watched her eyes slip toward closure and listened to her breathing deepen into sleep. I was tired. Had never been so tired in my life. No one on this earth—no one, ever, not even Randy Gardner—had been so tired. I closed my eyes. Nothing happened. My eyes blinked open as if they’d been trip-wired. For a moment I lay there s
taring at the ceiling, then I closed them again and by force of will kept them closed. Still nothing. Hezza stirred in her sleep, kicked out at an imaginary something. And then a figure stepped out of the mist and I didn’t see him. He had a gun, and I didn’t see that either. Swiftly, a shadow moving over open ground, he came up behind me and fired, hitting the gap between the parietal plates.

  Boom: I was gone.

  (2002)

  The Swift Passage of the Animals

  She was trying to tell him something about eels, how it had rained eels one night on a town in South America—in Colombia, she thought it was—but he was only half-listening. He was willing himself to focus on the road, the weather getting worse by the minute, and he had to keep one hand on the tuner because the radio was fading in and out as they looped higher into the mountains. “It was a water spout,” she said, her face a soft pale shell floating on the undersea glow of the dash lights, “or that’s what they think anyway. I mean, that’s the rational explanation—the eels congregating to feed or mate and then this eruption that flings them into the air. But imagine the people. Imagine them.”

  He could feel the rear wheels slipping away from him each time he steered into a curve, and there was nothing but curves, one switchback after another all the way up the flank of the mountain. The night was absolute, no lights, no habitation, nothing—they’d passed the last ranch house ten miles back and were deep into the national forest now, at fifty-five hundred feet and making for the Big Timber Lodge at seventy-two. There was a winter storm watch out for the Southern Sierras, he knew that, and he knew that the back road would be closed as soon as the first snow hit, but the alternative route—up the front of the mountain—was even more serpentine than this one, and a good half hour longer too. His feeling was that they’d make it before the rain turned to snow—or before anything accumulated anyway. Was he a risk taker? Sure he was. And he was always in a hurry. Especially tonight. Especially with her.

  “Zach—you listening to me?”

  The radio caught a surging throb of chords and a wicked guitar lead burning over the top of them as if the guitarist’s fingers had suddenly burst into flame, but before he could enjoy it or even recognize the tune, a wall of static shut it out and was suddenly replaced by a snatch of mariachi and a superslick DJ booming something in Spanish—used cars probably, judging from the tone of it. Or Viagra. Estimados Señores! Tienen Vds. problemas con su vigor? His fingers tweaked the dial as delicately as a recording engineer’s. But the static came back and persisted. “Shit,” he muttered, and punched the thing off.

  Now there was nothing but the wet slash of the wheels and the rise and fall of the engine—gun it here, lay off there, gun it, lay off—and the mnemonic echo of the question he’d yet to answer: You listening to me? “Yeah,” he said, reaching for his buoyant tone—he was listening and there was nothing or no one he’d rather listen to because he was in love and the way she bit off her words, the dynamics of her voice, the whisper, the intonation, the soft sexy scratch of it shot from his eardrums right to his crotch, but this was sleet they were looking at now and the road was dark and he was pressing to get there. “The eels. And the people. They must’ve been surprised, huh?”

  She feasted on that a moment and he snatched a glimpse at her, the slow satisfied smile floating on her uplifted face, and the wheels grabbed and slipped and grabbed again. “That’s the thing,” she said, her voice rich with the telling, “that’s the whole point, to imagine that. They’re in their huts, frame houses, whatever—tin roofs, maybe just thatch. But the tin roofs are cooler. Way cooler. Think of the tin roofs. It’s like, ‘Daddy! Mommy!’ the kids call out, ‘it’s really raining!’”

  This was hilarious—the picture of it, the way she framed it for him, carrying it into falsetto for the kids’ voices—and they both broke up, laughing like kids themselves, kids set free in the back of the bus on a school trip. But then there was the road and a black tree-thick turn he nearly didn’t make and the last spasm of laughter died in his throat.

  A minute fled by, the wipers beating, sleet trapped in the headlights. She readjusted herself in the seat and he saw her hand—a white furtive ghost in the dark of the cab—reach down to check the seatbelt. “The tires are okay, aren’t they?” she asked, trying—and failing—to keep the concern out of her voice.

  “Oh, yeah,” he said, “yeah, plenty of tread,” though he’d begun to think he should have sprung for chains. The last sign he’d seen, way back, had said Cars Required With Chains, and that stabbed him with the first prick of worry, but chains were something like seventy-five bucks a set and you didn’t need chains to get to work in Santa Monica. It seemed excessive to him. If he could have rented them, maybe—

  And there went the back wheels again, fishtailing this time, a broad staggered Z inscribing itself across both sides of the road and thank God there was nobody else out here tonight, no chance of running into a vehicle coming down the opposite way, not with a winter storm watch and a road closure that was all but certain to go into effect at some point in the night . . .

  “You’re really skidding,” she observed. He glanced at her a moment—sweet and compact in her black leggings and the sweater with the two reindeer prancing across her breasts—and then his eyes shot back to the road. Which was whitening before them, as if some cosmic hand had swept on ahead with a two-lane paintbrush.

  “You know my theory?” he said, accelerating out of a turn and leaning into the pitch of the road—up and up, always up.

  “No, what?”

  “If you go fast enough”—he gave her a quick glance, straight-faced—“I mean really fast . . .”

  “Yeah, uh-huh?”

  “Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? You won’t have time to skid.”

  There was the briefest hesitation—one beat, and he loved that about her, that moment of process—and then they were laughing again, laughing so hard he thought he’d have to pull over to keep from collapsing.

  —

  He’d met her three weeks ago, just before Thanksgiving, at a party in Silver Lake. Friends of friends. A Craftsman house, restored down to the last lick of varnish, good wines, hors d’oeuvres from the caterer, a roomful of studiously hip people who if they weren’t rockers or filmmakers or poets had to be training to swim the Java Strait or climb solo up the South Col of Mount Diablo. He figured he’d tank up on the hors d’oeuvres, get smashed on somebody else’s thirty-two-dollars-a-bottle cabernet, then duck home and watch a movie on DVD, because he wasn’t really interested in much more than that. Not yet. He’d been with Christine for two and a half years and then she met somebody at work, and that had shaved him right on down to the root.

  Ontario was standing by the fire with his best friend Jared’s sister, Mindy, and when he came to think of it later, he saw that there might have been more than a little matchmaking going on here from Mindy’s perspective—she knew Ontario from her book club, and she knew that Ontario, sweet and shy and reposing on a raft of arcane information about meteorological events and the swift passage of the various animal species from this sore and wounded planet, was six months divorced and in need of diversion. As he was himself, at least in Mindy’s eyes. The wine sang in his veins. He made his way over to the fire.

  “So I suppose you must hear this all the time,” he said, trying to be clever, trying to impress her after Mindy had embraced him and made the introductions, “but are your parents Canadian?”

  “You guessed it.”

  “So your brother must be Saskatchewan, right? Or B.C., how about B.C.?”

  Her hair shone. She was dressed all in black. Her eyes assessed him a moment—from behind the narrow plastic-frame glasses that were like a provocation, as if at any moment she would throw them off and dazzle the room with her unfettered beauty—and she very deliberately shifted the wineglass from one hand to the other. “Unfortunately, I don’t have a brother,” she sa
id. “Or a sister either.” Then she smiled, fully radiant. “If I did, though, I’d think my parents would have gone for Alberta if it was a girl—”

  “And what, let me guess—Newfoundland if it was a boy.”

  She looked pleased. Her lips parted and she bit the tip of her tongue in anticipation of the punchline. “Right,” she said, “and we’d call him Newf for short.”

  He’d phoned her the next night and taken her to dinner, and then to a concert two nights later, all the correspondences in alignment. She had a three-year-old daughter. Her ex paid alimony. She worked part-time as a receptionist and was taking courses at UCLA toward an advanced degree in environmental studies. One entire wall in her apartment, floor to ceiling, was dedicated to nature books, from Thoreau to Leopold to Wilson, Garrett, Quammen and Gould.

  He fell. And fell hard.

  —

  Each turn was a duplicate of the one he’d just negotiated, hairpin to the right, hairpin to the left, more trees, more snow, more distance. The road was gone now altogether, replaced by a broad white featureless plain without discernible limits. He used the trunks of the trees as guideposts, trying to keep the car equidistant from those on the left and the ones that clipped by on the right like so many slats in a fence. It really wouldn’t do to skid into any of these trees—they were yellow pines, sugar pines, Jeffreys and ponderosas, as wide around as the pillars of the Lincoln Memorial—but the gaps between them were what caught his attention. Go off the road there and no one could say how far you would drop. Guardrails? Not out here.