by Alan Osi
Then my training kicked in.
I hooked my hand behind his head, pushed up from my hips, and succeeded in reversing our positions. Now, he was below me, and I straddled him; I hit him once, hard enough to knock his teeth through the linoleum. He curled up, moaning, the fight out of him. I wanted to hit him again; I raised my fist, but instead of letting it fall, I hung it in the air, resisting the urge to punch down over and over and over again, until his head became a bloody smear. Took everything I had. I was screaming.
After forever, some cop pulled me back up against the wall, while another restrained Westgate.
My breath came hard and ragged, and I knew nothing else would be learned, now. “Fucking crazies,” I said and walked out of the interrogation room.
Adrenaline had my hands shaking, shooting pains burned my knuckle and now there was only one way forward, a no-holds-barred raid, and I guess I liked it that way just fine.
106. HAROLD
I would not break.
They would not break me, I would not break.
Though they had my body trapped in this hell,
My mind blurred and burned by isolation and darkness—and the killing emptiness of hours and days where nothing happens, and no one goes,
I would not break.
So my path to Heaven led through Hell—though I was beaten and bloodied by demons, though they may never let me go—I would join my God in death.
This was my test, I would not break.
Devil. You devil, I will beat you.
I will.
Sunday, October 8, 2006
107. PERCIVAL
In a slow motion dance, slowed by chemicals rushing beautifully through our blood, Hailey, Mark, myself, and a few other people were preparing our venue for tonight. The other people here with us were friends of Mark who called themselves The Disconnect. They were something of a party-planning conglomerate, who threw immaculate events that earned the right reputation for what we were doing. There were a lot of different crews like theirs. But, most chased status so hard, they diluted their rep by doing a ton of mediocre scenes. The Disconnect, however, understood the value of their brand. They held their last event in January, and they’d only done a few since their legendary break-out fete, which was in 2004, and featured balloons full of party favors—mostly smoke-able items, tabs, or tinctures of chemicals, such as I’d recently ingested—which floated down from the ceiling almost at random, by way of a weak glue that predictably failed between the hours of midnight and four o’clock. There wasn’t anything really unusual in those balloons, but everything magical in their delivery and balletic effect. It was genius, really.
Of course, they planned some equally impressive tricks for tonight. There was a group of them in one of the back rooms right now, actually testing something. What, I didn’t know. They wouldn’t tell me. It was pretty ridiculous to cut me out of the loop. But, whatever. They did what they did well, and I guess I didn’t need to know, yet. As long as it worked.
Besides, as far as The Disconnect went, I was more concerned with those members working with Hailey, Mark, and me on the two floors of this converted warehouse that would serve as the setting for moondust’s unveiling. And one member, in particular, named June. Black eyes, olive skin, indeterminate racial background, mystery in every inch of her.
There is no woman on earth like an unknowable woman, the kind no man’s brain can ever contain. Like the essence of femininity itself, which as far as we boys are concerned is as magical as unicorns, tougher to understand than rocket physics on ketamine. We don’t have the equipment—or maybe we lack the stillness—the vast calm internal space that holds the possibility of creating life. It gives rise to a level of empathy no man can fathom enough to even envy. Except, of course, on moondust.
I saw it in her eyes, June was that type, magical. Then again, maybe that was all bullshit, and I was just into the way her ass looked in her jeans. Who knew?
There was only one way to find out, through a grin and a clever greeting, an innocuous conversation turning into something warmer, that—if she chose—would grow into desire and detonate us. We’d find ourselves after the explosion, when we sifted through the wreckage to discover what remained.
Probably, as per usual, there would be nothing, not for me—only the urge to be alone again, to shed an unreal version of me, sit in my underwear, and eat cereal while watching the Travel Network, letting the day-after feeling wash over me in hormone tides. The romantic in me always held out hope that I’d feel different this time. Or maybe that was my libido in disguise, whispering sweet sins into my receptive ears.
Why did my desire never stay? It lasted a day or a week, sometimes a few months. But, it never stayed. I had no idea why. But, I could paint this wall the color that they asked me to. And I could create mood with music as well as anyone alive, I could make your blood dance in your veins, move you onto the floor against your will—if I wanted. And apparently I could help to catalyze a cultural phenomenon, and unleash it onto Manhattan.
Moondust. Was the world ready?
I shook the question out of my head. Who was I to worry about the world? The world was an infinity of fractals, a thing so vast and varied that to imagine it as singular was the greatest of human failings. I’d learned that by being people so different from each other, it was hard to put them all under the same conceptual umbrella.
So why worry about the world? We were concrete things, people with needs, needs like safety and freedom, and so we were here. And the show would go on.
I had to laugh at myself a little, because only a moment ago I’d been musing on “the grand mystery of the feminine,” exactly the kind of abstraction I claimed to have outgrown. Yet, here I was, putting a real, flesh-and-foxy woman on this pedestal. I guess the difference between ignorance and idiocy is that idiocy should know better. But, she was gorgeous enough to make my error understandable, this June. It was all I could do to keep from outright gawking.
108. JUNE
He finally spoke to me around noon, right before lunch. I wondered, did it take him that long to find his nerve or had he planned it so? His manner was unreadable, making it hard to tell. He moved in a fluid way, either charmingly unaffected or too self-conscious, which would be decided by what he did, what he said, and how he smiled, if he decided to try.
Did I look forward to it? This moondust stuff had an obscene amount of buzz in my circle. No one even let me try it yet, which was tantamount to a crime. Nico and Bob—I could see those two leaving me out of the loop—but, Sam and Hen? I’d have been weird about it if they hadn’t had such a deep look in their eyes, when they explained—or rather hinted—what moondust was like. It helped that they swore they were bound to the upmost secrecy, because they were getting the stuff second-hand from Bob, which apparently was against some rule? I guess I could have been pissed at Nico. But, since I chose to sit out the event where they shared it, I had no one to blame, but me.
Because of all this, those few who sold moondust held the glamour of scions, creators of American culture. So yes. On some level, I found him interesting, at least intellectually. He was cute enough, too; in other words, his vibe didn’t ruin the illusion.
He wore black tapered jeans and boat shoes. The jeans were current without overdoing the skinny thing that became all the rage not long ago, paired with stylish, yet tastefully subtle, shoes. He saved the color for the T-shirt-sports-jacket combo, washed-out eggplant and olive-green respectively, which he combined with a few days of facial stubble. Not a startlingly original look. But, I doubted he aimed for that, and the color combination worked beautifully with his skin tone. His brown eyes held a shade of hazelnut, they were far set, wide, and expressive. His lips, the color of bricks, begged to rest between my teeth. So yes, I thought him handsome, albeit with the blurred-photograph look of someone who took a lot of drugs. Not that I particularly minded.
As much as it worked on a few levels, the downside to his outfit seemed obvious—we wou
ld spend this day cleaning and painting. It intrigued me he didn’t seem to care. Also that, even after a few hours, his clothing stayed clean, as if somehow he managed to dodge every drip, drop, and dust-particle flying around. I certainly hadn’t. But, then again, I dressed for the occasion, in work-out tights and one of those huge, old sweatshirts that bred in one’s closet.
I felt his eyes on me anyway, glued until I looked back, at which point they tended to wander.
Right around noon, when our collective tummies began rumbling, he sidled over to me. “Can I ask you a question?”
I felt that quickening of the blood, the little catch of breath, which always came with moments like these. “You do have lips, right?”
“I don’t take anything for granted anymore.”
“Hm. I don’t think believing in object permanence counts as taking things for granted. Especially when the objects are attached to your face.”
“Touché. Object permanence?”
I smiled and half-turned away from him, to keep painting the wall, leaving room for him to join me, if he wished, or walk away. “I minored in child development in college.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone use that phrase in casual conversation.”
“Doesn’t say much for the people with whom you converse.”
“Just that we speak English, not Mensa. Mind if I join you?” He raised his paint brush, gesturing to an empty section of wall.
“Only if you promise not to make more nasty insinuations about my vocabulary, you jerk.”
“Deal.”
“So was that your question?” I asked, referencing his original query.
“What? Oh—I was wondering actually about the choice of paint color, and why it’s so important to have this particular shade so that we all had to get out of bed at the ungodly hour we did. I mean, might be kind of a waste, you know?”
“I take it you don’t know Nico and Bob.”
“Should I?”
“Yes. They’re great. They can be a little fastidious, which is why the color choice mattered.”
“I won’t make fun of the fact that you just said fastidious, I promise.”
“You know what a pet peeve of mine is? When people make a statement while declaring they would never make the very statement they’re making. ‘I would never say X. But, X.’ While you’re at it, why not get ‘hypocrite’ tattooed on your forehead?”
He threw his head back and laughed from his belly.
It made me like him.
109. HAILEY
Being the most mechanical of our trio, sadly, I was upstairs, helping two nice chaps named Bob and Nico work on a moondust delivery system. Nico was good friends with Mark, so we’d hung out a few times, and Bob once or twice, too. Also, I’d attended most of their crew’s parties, which were always pretty rad. They had spades of panache.
Downstairs, folks were painting what would be the main ballroom, where the music would be thumping, attended to by Wally Beaver. Up here, on the second floor, there would be no music, but that which would come from downstairs. This was the moondust room. And since the walls were already white-ish, the upstairs didn’t need painting. With proper lighting, it would give just the effect we all were looking for.
Right now the room was pretty sparse. The bar was here already, sans the alcohol that would be the backbone of our profits. The Disconnect had access to a whole bunch of used furniture, by way of being able to borrow it from a second hand shop one of them managed. We’d be ensuring its safety by covering the furniture with cream colored drop-cloths, and one of The Disconnect crew, a girl named Henri, was out getting the sofas and chairs. She was the manager of the second hand store. Mark was with her for muscle, not that he had much of it. Luckily, although she had kind of a sexpot vibe, it had to be said that Henri seemed sturdy, the kind of girl who could definitely handle herself. I liked that about her.
On the walls were three gigantic pieces, a series painted by Nico on very short order and with impressive talent. They were a controlled riot of colors, reminiscent maybe of Jasper Johns. But, not derivative. The whole color spectrum was boldly present, as if he’d strapped dynamite onto a rainbow. The layering of tone—as if the warmest sat on a background of cool violet blues and the white gleamed in front of it all—was somehow evocative of the moondust experience. And that was most impressive.
There was also text, on top of all that color. The piece directly across from the stairs had no words. But, on the other two walls, facing each other, the paintings featured instructions that were, really, the reason for this event. On the left, directions explaining how to take moondust; on the right texted piece, instructions on how to make it. They were both pretty simple. After all, the steps were pretty basic, not rocket science, really.
All in all, the effect of this room was going to be perfect. Just what Perce and Mark and I were looking for: form and function; style and substance. I was really happy with their work, I had to say.
But maybe the trickiest part was also the most important. For the event’s finale, we were going to launch moondust through the air, and we had to ensure that it permeated the room. One goofy fan with an urn of powder in front of it wouldn’t do. It was easy enough to get moondust airborne. But, the difficulty was achieving party saturation. That was really taking some effort.
We were brainstorming ideas. Mark had even mocked-up a little room so we could test air currents, which we did using smoke from cigarettes and miniature versions of the gigantic theatre-fans we probably would end up using, in some fashion, tonight. But, it wasn’t going all that smoothly.
“Shit,” Nico was saying, standing up with his hands on his hips. “None of our ideas are working.”
Then, a lightbulb popped on over my head. “Maybe we’re using the wrong kind of smoke?” I said, while producing a joint I had rolled earlier and put in my cigarette pack—just in case. Bob and Nico smiled.
Bob said, “You’d better tell your friends to watch out, we just may steal you.”
“I’m loyal to the end, sorry,” I said. “But I may be able to squeeze you guys in my busy schedule once in a while. If you impress me.”
“We’ll do our best,” Nico said.
So we shared a joint. As far as figuring something out, it was always good to stay relaxed. Ideas never flowed when people got tight, and pouty gay men were not fun to be around. No one was when they were pouty, I guess. Not saying it’s a gay thing.
“I’m so excited for tonight,” said Bob, after a few puffs.
Nico responded before I did. “I know,” he said. “This is going to be one for the ages, I can feel it. As long as we get this delivery thing figured out.”
“We will,” I said. Of course I wasn’t really sure. But, it was what we all needed to hear. “The waters will part. A beam of light will shine from the Heavens and angels will sing and Keanu will show up in a banana hammock singing spirituals while greasing himself with baby-oil. Promise.”
“Oh, you promise?” Nico said with a laugh. “Great. ‘Cause before you promised, I thought you were bullshitting.”
I grinned at him and responded, “Don’t be negative. How could you, with sweet Mary here?”
“Gosh, you’re right,” he said. Then he took the joint.
I could tell my joking and smoke-able offering were working, I could feel their spirits lifting. And yet suddenly I started to fret. Not about our delivery system, that was going to work itself out, I really believed. About the whole night. One for the ages, Nico had said.
We had so much riding on it. We were trying to keep grounded about the whole thing. But, there was a lot of tension underneath the surface. I mean, a lot could go wrong. Inviting the very thing we’d been avoiding all along: attention from the public.
I imagined all the possibilities. A betrayal of some sort, probably by the reporter. The night being ruined by thugs. Or cops. Or thuggish cops. People being murdered, people I cared about. Or no-one showing up. Or so many people a pani
c started, or a fight, some kind of riot. Or Wally fucking up the music. Or neo-conservative investment bankers crashing the joint. I saw all these possibilities in vivid detail, like invisible private screenings of futures that might be.
But, onward! There was nowhere else to go. So I had to be a brave little big girl. And laugh from my soul.
Although the idea of our event being attended by neo-con wall-street types was terrifying beyond all reason.
With a familiar start, I realized that I’d become completely absorbed in my thoughts. Marijuana had a tendency to do that—you find yourself lost in your own inner world. Coming out of it, I looked around, feeling as if I was seeing everything for the first time. We were all done smoking, and we were sitting on the floor, now. Were we sitting before? I didn’t think so. But, it didn’t matter. My eyes were drawn again to the paintings, and I was filled with gratitude. In my happy-altered place, they seemed works of genius.
“Nico, man, those paintings are beautiful,” I said. My words seemed to jangle both of them out of trances, very much like the one I’d just been in. And Nico, he just beamed.
“Thanks,” he said. “That really means a lot.”
“He worked so hard,” said Bob.
“Well, I mean it,” I said and lit a cigarette, which was golden, I’ll tell you. “No bullshit. They’re sublime.”
“Okay, you are definitely on your way to becoming my favorite person,” said Nico.
“Hey,” said Bob.
“You know what I meant,” he responded, lighting a cigarette of his own. Bob did, too. We lapsed back into quiet, the kind only friends know. And it was good.
