by Chuck Kinder
Which was about the last clear memory Bill would have, strolling relatively sober through the sweet Montana twilight toward the sweet blinking blue lights of that tavern, humming his favorite Willie Nelson tune, “You Were Always on My Mind,” his heart full of a sort of sweet and gentle melancholy and all the best intentions in the world, until he more or less came to, driving across the Bay Bridge into San Francisco at night God-only- knows how many days later, rock-and-roll blaring ungodly from the radio, his gas tank on real-near-dangerous empty, a very young and lovely woman with long, dark hair and a sleeping child on her lap sitting in the seat right beside him, her hand on his knee.
The Queen of California
1
I’m here to make you all stars, Bill said, wagging his huge, shaggy head, when Lindsay finally arrived at the bottom of the stairs to answer the door.
Good God, Billy! Lindsay said. —Where in the world did you come from?
Meet the love of my life, Bill said, and stood aside in the doorway to draw forward a young woman with long black hair and black eyes carrying a sleeping child. —This is Lulu, the woman I love more than life itself. Lulu, meet Lindsay, a woman I loved once, true, but you have nothing to fear from Lindsay, little darlin’, for that was in another lifetime.
The name’s Lucy, the young woman said.
Well, hello, Lucy, Lindsay said. —Hello. Welcome.
Yeah, Lucy said. —Right.
Well, Lindsay said. —Well well. Good God, Billy, come on in. And, Lucy, come in, please. What a lovely child. Is it a boy, Lucy?
Right, Lucy said.
What a pretty baby, Lindsay said, touching the back of the baby’s head of thick, black hair. —How old is he?
About a year, Lucy said. —Give or take a few weeks.
What’s his name? Lindsay said. —He is so cute.
I mostly just call him Kid, Lucy said.
I see, Lindsay said. —Well, why not?
That’s our own boy, Bill said. —I plan to give the litde fellow my own good name. Meet little Bill, Bill said, and tapped the sleeping baby on the head.
Hey, Lucy said, turning the baby away. —You watch it.
Well, folks, just come on up, Lindsay said. —Just make yourselves at home. The old gang’s all here.
2
Holy moly! Jim said as Bill lumbered into the room.
Jim and Ralph and Alice Ann were seated about the round oak table in the turret, candlelight flickering over their faces and upon Lindsay’s grandmother’s china and ornate silverware, and gathering in rich points of flame within the curved glass of the broad, old, wavy windows, beyond which the lights of North Beach spread around and down the steep streets toward the dark waters of the Bay and the glow of Alcatraz Island.
Look! It’s the old Buffalo! Ralph said, and jumped up.
Billy! Alice Ann said. —You old good-looking devil you.
Meet Lulu, folks, the woman I love more than my own life, Bill said, and reached back to take Lucy by an arm and direct her into the room. —And meet little Bill, my own boy. God but I love this woman. No more looking high and low for love for this old buckeroo. The life I’m living with this little woman is real grownup in nature. No more finding myself trapped at every turn by foolish enterprises I keep mistaking for purposes. This is the most realistic relationship I’ve had in years, folks. Little Lulu here is one wonderful gal, folks, a plum wonderful gal.
Well, Jim said, why don’t you folks pull up some chairs and take a load off your feet. Lulu, you and old Bill just sit right down and pile up a plate.
The name is Lucy, Lucy said.
Lucy, hon, would you permit me to hold your little boy while you get a plate? Lindsay said.
Be my guest, Lucy said, and handed the baby to Lindsay, then sat down. —So what about your buddy here? Lucy said, and nodded at Bill, who was busy spearing pieces of roasted baby lamb onto his plate. —Is he really making a big movie down here or what?
If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a hundred times, Jim said, the old Buffalo has been floundering in the same freeze-frame for twenty years.
I mean, is your buddy here really making an Indian movie down here or some shit? Lucy said as she removed her jean jacket to reveal a clinging, low-cut, red halter top and creamy brown shoulders and arms and the ample upper swelling of beautiful breasts covered with tiny tattoos.
As I told my little darlin’, Bill said between great bites of food, I am making a movie of the final interior. By interior I mean a dream of the center of America as a place that can most precisely be defined as a last chance to be yearned toward. Ralph, don’t you hog that macaroni now.
That ain’t fucken macaroni, you big dumb shit, Jim said. —That’s lasagna inbottite, stuffed noodles, which is a traditional dish on the wop-wedding menu, for this is a second honeymooners’ wedding feast to end wedding feasts, and Lindsay has been slaving over it for days.
I’ve never had a meal so divine, Alice Ann said.
Yummy, Ralph said.
Ghost Dancers will be the name of my movie, Bill said between bites and gulps of wine. —It will be about the final return of the ancient Indian spirits to the lost center of America.
Just where did you two kids meet? Alice Ann asked Lucy.
Nevada, Lucy said. —Where I been working. He said he was gonna drive me and my boy down here and put me in a movie. I got a cousin down here, too. I’ve been trying to get down here.
Yes, Bill said, I met my little darlin’, as best as I can recall, over hard-way sixes at four o’clock on the luckiest morning of my life in one of those heartbroke Nevada gambling towns where she clearly didn’t belong. I see my little darlin’s role in my movie as a sort of Indian Madonna.
I’m a full-blood Paiute, Lucy said. —And fucking proud of it.
I see, Alice Ann said. —Lucy, I hope you don’t mind me asking, but what is the meaning of those mysterious hieroglyphic- like tattoos etched on your lovely breasts?
To tell you the truth, I don’t rightly know, Lucy said, looking down at her breasts and touching the tiny tattoos gently with her fingertips. —This one is a fish crying the blues ’cause he’s out of water. Which is what my boyfriend says he felt like in jail. This here is a cross, a upside-down one, though, ’cause my boyfriend don’t like Jesus. And these little ones that look like more tears are really 6’s, my boyfriend’s lucky number. My boyfriend gave me all these, and they kinda hurt, the way he done them with a knife and ink. He learned how when he was in Folsom. You ought to see the ones on him. Him and his jail buddies didn’t have nothing better to do. I didn’t want all these, but when my boyfriend is feeling bad, it’s what he likes to do.
Isn’t my little darlin’ here something else? Bill said. —Didn’t I tell you folks the whole truth about my little darlin’? Little darlin’, all I ask of you is that in the end you don’t go stomping my old heart flat.
Here, Ralph, Lindsay said as she returned from the kitchen with the ketchup and white bread Ralph had requested. The baby was asleep over her shoulder.
Ketchup and white bread, Jim said. —The idea! Ralph, you put that shit on Lindsay’s lamb, I’ll pound you with the bottle.
Ralph puts ketchup on everything he eats, Alice Ann said. —I’ve seen hard-boiled waiters weep watching Ralph empty a bottle of ketchup on filet mignon. I’ve seen Ralph pour ketchup on apple pie.
Ketchup was an acquired taste for me, Ralph said. —A defensive measure from when I was a kid and had to smother stuff that was looking back at me and blinking.
Is anybody ready for their salad? Lindsay said. —I have a nice chicory salad prepared, and there is cassata alia Siciliana for dessert.
By this point Bill had drawn Lucy onto his lap, where she perched clinging to his big belly while he entertained her with a lingering French kiss and caressed her tattooed breasts.
Billy, Lindsay said, could I interest you and Lucy in some salad? Billy?
Is Billy being bad? Bill said, coming up for air, both his and L
ucy’s lower faces wet and shining in the soft candlelight.
What about dessert? Lindsay said.
I could go for some dessert, Lucy said. —You got any ice cream? Chocolate?
Well, actually the dessert is more like cake, Lindsay said. When the baby stirred she began patting its back. —A sort of cream tart. But there is some chocolate in it. But a sort of bitter chocolate. I’m a chocolate nut, too.
Are we all having fun yet? Bill said. —That’s the real question here. Is this the jumping-off place for fun, or what? Folks, I, for one, am experiencing no despair, Bill said, and he buried his face between Lucy’s tattooed breasts, while Lucy smiled and looked about the table with unabashed eyes.
3
Presently the people around the table in the turret simply sat there in silence, their stunned faces glistening with sweat and their eyes glassy, breathing fast and shallow, as they watched the candles burn down and, over the murmur of Italian opera turned low on the stereo in the next room and the muted sounds of traffic on Union Street and the occasional clang of trolley bells down the hill, listened to the heavy industrial sounds of one another’s digestive tracks.
I, myself, Jim said, holding aloft his long-stemmed glass, have just about enough warm spit left in here for a final toast.
What in the world is there left for us to toast? Lindsay said. She was still patting the baby on its little back.
There is always something left in this old world worthy of a toast, Jim said. —The foggy, romantic night beyond these windows of old, curved glass. The flicker of candle flame upon that sleeping child’s face.
Your buddy there has shot his wad, Lucy said, pointing her thumb at Bill who was sound asleep and snoring, his great shaggy head bent forward with his chin on his chest, his breath ragged and his snores juicy.
Your buddy’s got something stuck up his nose, Lucy said.
Good Lord, Jim said, bending forward for a better look. —Lulu’s right as rain.
Will you look at that, Ralph said, leaning over the table. —What in the world is it?
I think, Jim said, that it is one of the most amazing boogers ever seen by human eyes.
It looks like a fucking worm, Lucy said. She took a compact and lipstick from her small red-sequined purse.
Why, it’s a noodle, Ralph said. —The old Buffalo has one of those tasty stuffed noodles caught in his nose.
Dear God, Lindsay said, as she shifted the sleeping child from her right shoulder to her left. —How did Billy manage to do that?
Here, Alice Ann said to Lindsay, opening her arms. —Let me hold him for a while. May I? she asked Lucy.
Just don’t drop him, Lucy said, as she applied black lipstick to her full lower lip.
Well, Jim said, he was grazing his last helping of lasagna inbottite pretty close to the plate. It boggles the imagination. Ralph, reach over there and jerk that noodle out of Bill’s nose.
Who says that’s my job? Ralph said. —I wouldn’t touch something coming out of Bill’s nose for all the tea in China.
Oh, I’ll do it, Lindsay said, and stood up.
No way, Jose! Jim said, and jumped up. —Just don’t you dare touch that thing! I’ll do it. Why me? Why always me?
How far is the Mission District from here, anyhow? Lucy said.
About ten or fifteen minutes by car, Lindsay said; then said: Jim, you don’t intend to stick that fork up poor Bill’s nose, do you?
How much would a cab cost over there? Lucy said.
Five bucks. Six, Jim said, as he slowly speared the noodle and pulled it from Bill's nose. Jim placed the fork and noodle on Bill's plate. Bill’s breathing immediately became more regular and relaxed. —I coulda been a brain surgeon, Jim said.
Poor old Billy, Lindsay said, and patted Bill’s head. —He’s down for the count.
Don’t bet on it, Jim said. —He’s just recharging his Buffalo batteries.
Bill snorted from the profound depths of his snooze, and burped and smacked his lips wetly.
When he attempted to reposition himself more comfortably, he let out an enormous fart and almost tipped the chair over backward.
We’d better get Billy stretched out somewhere, Lindsay said.
Good luck with that, Jim said. —I, for one, am not about to risk life and limb trying to get about a ton of half-baked Buffalo bullshit to bed.
It’s no sweat, Lucy said, and cupped her tiny hand in Bill’s crotch. Bill did not open his eyes, but he immediately mumbled mightily and sat up straight in his chair. —So where do you want to park him? Lucy asked Lindsay.
I’ll show you, Lindsay said.
Come on, big boy, Lucy said, and when she gave Bill’s crotch a hard squeeze, he stood up like a soldier at attention, whereupon like a sleepwalker Bill followed the directional flow of Lucy’s expert touches and tugs, as she walked beside him with her hand fluttering like a tiny bird about the front of his jeans and led him safely from the room.
I don’t think, Alice Ann said, I’ve ever seen a seeing-eye whore before.
The moment Lucy left the room, the baby awoke and blinked its eyes. He looked up at Alice Ann and began to cry. His face remained oddly expressionless as he cried, but streams of fat tears rolled down his plump brown cheeks.
There, there, my precious baby, Alice Ann said, and began walking around the room patting the crying baby’s back, which only seemed to add a slight hiccup to the unabated weeping.
Soon the baby was wailing. —Your momma hasn’t left you, baby. Your momma is here. She is right here, little lamb, Alice Ann said.
Gosh, Jim said, doesn’t that wailing have a strange, old-timey quality to it? Like an old-timey Indian chant, maybe. An ancient, ritualized keen of infinite loss and mourning for the passing of a whole people.
It sounds old, all right, Ralph said. —And it’s getting older by the second.
When Lindsay re-entered the room, she hurried directly to Alice Ann’s side. —What’s wrong with the little baby-baby? Lindsay cooed, and tickled under the child’s chin.
Well, Jim said, as nearly as we can figure out, some kind of infinite loss or other.
Does him miss his mommy? Lindsay cooed.
He doesn’t miss his so-called mommy, Alice Ann said.
Alice Ann, hon, Lindsay said, would you like for me to take him?
Why should you take him?
I don’t know. Maybe he would be more used to me.
I do have some experience with babies, you know, Alice Ann said. —I have had two babies of my own, you know, to care for night and day virtually alone.
Alice Ann sat back down at the table and placed the baby on her knees, where she bounced him playfully, to no avail. His sobs seemed to come from a place in him ever deeper.
That squawking kid is driving me batty, Ralph said. —Can’t its own mother hear the thing squawking? Maybe somebody should go get the thing’s mother.
He doesn’t need his so-called mother, Alice Ann said. —I was a young mother once.
You’d think its own mother would come running, Ralph said.
Maybe he simply needs to be changed, Lindsay said.
I’m telling you-all, Jim said, what’s bumming the kid out is that old infinite-loss syndrome.
