by Rand, Naomi;
“No. What is it?”
“This creepy movie from the fifties. A kid wakes up and he sees a flash of light. It turns out a spaceship is landing. The Martians get to his family, his friends, everyone in the town. When someone is taken over, there’s this telltale zipper on the back of his or her neck. I’ve had nightmares about it ever since I saw it. Did you see Village of the Damned? In that one, all the children are in control and they have these strange eyes that turn yellow. They make the adults do whatever they want, but there’s this one teacher, I think it’s a teacher. He decides that he has to save all humanity and the only way to do it is to make sure the kids can’t find out what he’s up to, so when he’s about to kill them he constructs this wall in his head, brick by brick. Oh, and the kids can read minds, did I mention that? All they can see is the brickwork.”
“Aliens, really?” Lucy was laughing. “There aren’t any aliens. There’s just us poor humans. We’re the only conscious life form out there.”
“How can you be sure? We’re just this tiny dot. Not even a dot. The universe is huge, I mean, there are galaxies on top of galaxies. We’re a smidgen, no, make that a speck or an infinitesimally tiny point of nothingness. Plus, the movies aren’t about the alien menace. They’re about the communist threat. The big fear back then was having our minds controlled. Hollywood made sure that Americans felt scared of it. They were complicit in the whole approach. The movie makers were channeling the zeitgeist.”
“Wow. That’s quite an analysis. The zeitgeist? Do explain.”
“The major ideas that were floating around at the time because of McCarthy and Truman. It was basically that the Russians were out to get us and the Communists were evil, ready to suck out our souls.”
“You’re pretty convincing.”
“I didn’t invent the concept,” Sam admitted.
“Still, you explain it so well. So what’s the big fear now?” Lucy asked. “It’s not drug crazed youth. That was the sixties.”
“Black people,” Sam said. “There’s one that never dies.”
“No kidding,” Lucy agreed. “I went out with this boy for a while. Whenever Lee came over, my father would leave the room. Dad couldn’t out and out forbid me from dating Lee, but he made it clear that I was upsetting him. When I asked him what was wrong, he said he was protecting me from disappointment.”
“You kept on seeing Lee?”
“For a while. But we fell out of love. That happens. But you know all about that.”
It was as much a question as a comment. Lucy had been working on the lost loves angle for days. Sam was embarrassed to admit that she’d had exactly two romantic interludes and neither had lasted more than a few months. Or progressed past mutual groping. To admit that to Lucy was to admit her inferiority. She was a virgin. Lucy wasn’t. Sam could act as if she was jaded and superior, but it was only that, an act. Lucy was the one who actually knew about sex, and love, and boys. It gave her an incalculable edge. Not that this was a competition exactly. Still.
“You’re so different from who I thought you’d be,” Sam said, changing the subject.
“How do you mean?” Lucy gave her a sly look. “Prom queen gets brain transplant?”
“You’re the first prom queen I’ve ever met.”
“And you’re my first native New Yorker.”
Lucy extended her hand. Sam shook it hard. They dissolved into laughter. Sam really liked her roommate, which was more than a little surprising.
Sam had a vision of those pink curtains suffering in the bottom of the closet. She was sorry they had hidden them away. Lucy’s mom was decent and sweet, the polar opposite of, say, a certain Brooke Barry.
In that movie Invaders From Mars, the little boy woke from the nightmare and had a moment of pure relief, realizing it had just been a dream after all. Then he looked out his bedroom window to find a spaceship landing. That was what living with Brooke was like. You woke up every morning imagining the worst was over, but then you walked out of your bedroom and the day unfolded. By the time dinner rolled around, you were just like that boy, terrified and alone and wishing you could go to sleep and wake yourself up to discover you were actually living on a different planet where all the girl’s rooms had pink curtains and comforters, and all the moms missed you solely because you were their baby daughter. Those moms didn’t want to live without seeing your bright shiny face at breakfast. They were there to love and protect and honor and fold you into their arms. Plus, they got up early to cook you French toast with real maple syrup, calling to you as you left the house, “Have a great day.”
“Your mother is intense,” Lucy said, reading her mind. “It must be weird, living with her.”
“Weird doesn’t even begin to cover it,” Sam said. “Your mom seems nice.”
“She’s nice, all right.” The way Lucy said it made it sound like an insult. Lucy stared at their makeshift curtains hanging limply. There was no breeze, not even a gasp of air. “I’m starving.”
“Me, too. It’s the pot.”
“This is nothing compared to Thai sticks. That stuff’s lethal. My brother Jack had this friend who would ship it in to us when we lived in Texas. Then Jack went and found religion and became a crusader for Christ.”
“How’d that happen?”
“No idea,” Lucy said a little too quickly. “Apparently when you make a vow to give yourself to Jesus you give up drugs and start proselytizing like crazy. The first sign is a loss of any sense of humor whatsoever. It’s like Jack got his soul snatched away. Maybe there are aliens, only they’re masquerading as evangelists. He keeps trying to change my heart and mind. I tell him I don’t want reeducation, thank you very much. He went from being fun and great, to being like dad, straight as an arrow.”
“At least you have parents who act like actual parents. Brooke used to keep these tabs of acid in the freezer. I was six when I went looking for ice cream and found them. She told me they were postage stamps with Donald Duck on them, a special limited Disney edition. I wanted to mail a letter with them. So there my mom is, dropping acid, and a few years later she can’t see that Win is dealing drugs out of our apartment. She just thinks he’s got such great pot and coke because all his friends are rich and generous.”
“Families are nuts,” Lucy said.
“Tell me about it.”
“I’m starving. Where do you want to eat?”
“The West End,” Sam said. The West End Bar, fabled land of Kerouac. As a callow tenth grader, Sam had been infatuated with all things Beat. She’d read Burroughs and Ginsberg and Kerouac, then traveled north to pay homage. Inside that dingy bar, she’d nursed a burger and fries and imagined her ever so macho heroes sitting in the next booth. Jack, Bill, sad-eyed Lucien. A year later, she was a year wiser. By then, she knew those former heroes were sexist swine and that Burroughs had fully intended to miss the apple in his William Tell moment and kill his wife. I have seen the greatest minds of my generation, Sam thought. She still recognized their talent, but now it came with a disclaimer. Women were most definitely not allowed on pain of death.
Times had changed. It was all to the good. It was 1980. Sam was a woman, or soon to be one. She would make her own history. Or was it herstory? Sam found a crumpled five-dollar bill in her pocket and pulled it out for show and tell.
“I’m getting ready,” Lucy said, tugging her sneakers on. “Your mom may be a little out there, but at least you know where she’s coming from. My mom is sweet. It’s painful. No one in my family except my dad even raises their voice. You should see us at dinner. All we do is tick off the events of the day as we pass the mashed potatoes and smile. One day we’ll smile so hard our faces will peel off from the strain of it.”
Creepy, Sam thought. She slipped her thongs on. Her toes gripped hold of the rubber, sending a shock of pleasure through her. Drugs were bad for you. They messed with your brain chemistry. On the other hand, they certainly made life interesting.
“After you,” Lucy said, ush
ering her out the door.
They walked south past Salter’s Bookstore on the corner of 115th and Broadway and down to the bar. Inside, they slid onto stools and ordered. Drinks came first, burgers second. Sam downed a rum and coke. Lucy chugged a shot of tequila. The rim of the glass was coated with salt. She bit down on the slice of lime with professional aplomb.
“I got to like tequila in Texas,” Lucy said. “I was a barrel racer down there, but I had to sell my horse when we left.”
Their all American food arrived at that juncture. Lucy hit the bottom of the Heinz catsup bottle with the palm of her hand. Red slop doused her fries.
“You can share mine,” Sam offered, nudging her plate closer. “So when you say you were a barrel racer, what does that mean exactly?”
“They set up these barrels and you ride round them on your painted pony at top speed.”
“Why would anyone choose to do that?”
“Because it’s fun,” Lucy said. “Better than getting high. Can you believe it?”
“It wouldn’t be for me. Horses are way too big and inscrutable.”
“You have to connect with them.”
“I don’t think I want to,” Sam said.
“Don’t knock something you haven’t tried. We should go riding together.”
“Not in this life.”
“Don’t be afraid,” Lucy said.
“I’m not afraid. I’m clear about my limits,” Sam said firmly. “I prefer to keep all my limbs intact.”
“You’re too much.”
“Am I? How exactly?”
“Because you’re funny and original and I don’t know.” Lucy’s attention was drifting, “Where did you get those?”
She was touching Sam’s legs. They were clad in the black jeans that were oh so skin tight with perfect, narrow bells. “Canal Jean.”
“You have to take me there.”
“Can do.” Share and share alike. Lucy had offered the pot. She could offer shopping tips. Sam observed the rest of the room in the mirror above the bar. She realized every male was eyeing Lucy. Sam felt a stab of jealousy. Why did it have to be a competition? Still, Sam was used to being noticed.
It began when she turned twelve. Overnight, she went from a child to jailbait. Sam never understood why, she was still flat as a board. Yet, suddenly indecent comments were flung at her from strangers, construction workers whistled, she got felt up on the subway. Brooke told her to ignore it. So it was up to Sam to learn how to protect herself and walk the New York City gauntlet. Men three times her age whispered, “Mamacita, te amo.” Sam learned how to jeer at them and deal.
Before Sam started hanging out with Lucy, she was positive that she only felt contempt and hatred for these weaklings, these males without self-control. Now, she discovered to her shame, being ignored was equally discomfiting. When she was with Lucy, it was as if she were invisible. It was shallow and stupid, but she kind of missed being hit on. Who would ever have thought it?
“I can’t believe I’m in New York,” Lucy said. “My parents didn’t want me to go to college here. They think this city is the birthplace of sin. Really, it’s my dad who thinks that. My mom doesn’t. She’s just sad I’m so far away but she wants me to be happy.”
“So she’s on your side.”
“I guess. But no one’s really ever happy, are they? You can be pissed, or pissed off, or thrilled, or elated, or bitter, or mellow, but you’re never just happy. It’s such a bland word.”
Sam saw her point. Happiness was what you were supposed to aim for. But did it even exist? Buddhist monks didn’t call it happiness. They claimed enlightenment.
“I would have killed to go to college somewhere else,” Sam said.
“How come you didn’t?”
“It’s a family tradition,” Sam said. There was another, darker reason, but she wasn’t going into that.
“As in your mom bullied you into it.”
“It’s complicated,” Sam told her, then changed the subject. “You got to live everywhere. That’s what I want.”
“You’ve never been to an exotic clime?”
“I got to go to Paris,” Sam admitted.
“That’s pretty nice.”
“Not really. Brooke decided to move there with her boyfriend. He rented her an apartment so he could cheat on his wife with her. Jean Claude used to give me money. Mademoiselle Samantha weel be parfait. It eez good zee fresh air. I spent every day of the month we lived there at the café down the block. I’d read and get free refills on my hot chocolate.”
“While I was bored out of my mind, trapped inside a Quonset hut, learning how to insult people in a whole lot of other languages. Childhood, bushels of fun.” Lucy chewed a piece of burger and swallowed before elaborating. “Aho Kono kuso-ttare. That’s ‘stupid asshole’in Japanese. So do you ever call her ‘Mom’ or is it always Brooke?”
Sam smiled. “I’d like to think it’s always Brooke, but sometimes I forget and call her Mom.”
“Does it drive her crazy when you call her Brooke?”
“It used to,” Sam said.
“That’s cold,” Lucy said. “Why did you start?”
“I have my reasons.”
“Tell me.”
Sam didn’t want to. Certain things were just too painful to expose. She prayed that Lucy wouldn’t press her further.
Lucy reached into her pocket and pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. She knocked one out and stuck it in her mouth. After lighting it, she took a long, pensive pull. Then she placed it in the ashtray. Nestled there, next to the advertisement for Cuervo Gold, the death stick smoked itself.
A jazz band set up on a small stage at the back of the room. The drummer skimmed a wire brush across the drumhead, making a hissing sound.
“You should have gone to the University of Wisconsin,” Lucy told Sam. “Then I’d be here, and you’d be there. You could have dinner with my parents on the weekend. You could be their surrogate daughter. You know what? I’ll trade my family for yours. On Thanksgiving you can have my spot at the table.”
“I think they might notice.”
“I doubt it. In the Land of Lakes, no one ever notices anything. It’s a place of peace and prosperity where nothing ever goes wrong. You’d be just fine. Just say, ‘It’s me, Lucy.’ No one will be so impolite as to doubt you. And you’ll love it there. Us Westcotts are all about our Thanksgiving. We are so grateful that the Native Americans let us infect them with the influenza virus and sold us their land for a handful of trinkets. Thanksgiving is the only day of the year that the entire family gets together. Dear Uncle Jerry. He’s our family lech. He feels you up when he’s giving you that big hug. Then there’s cousin Rory. He’s got a little trouble telling the difference between drinking to relax and drinking till you’re a brain-dead idiot. My dad joins right in. The two of them sit in the den and watch whatever football game is on. They grunt and pound the table when their team is ahead and eventually end up plowed under it. All the women, Aunt Sheila and Aunt Mary and my mom, huddle in the kitchen and bitch about their husbands. Well, my mom doesn’t, but that’s because she’s just so darn nice. Us kids go into the woods and get high, except of course for Jack, who’s working on resurrecting Christ for the New Year.
“Eventually we try and eat mom’s turkey. She does it a different way each year. She likes to add an odd cultural influence so it’s Teriyaki Turkey or Turkey mit sauerbraten. My mom’s generally a pretty good cook, but she just can’t do turkey. She’s tried pretty much every Betty Crocker and Good Housekeeping recipe there is, stuffed it in a bag, cooked the hell out of it, barbecued it. You name it and she’s tried it. Yet that poor bird always tastes like cardboard. And that’s even when you have the munchies.”
“We order in Chinese,” Sam said. “Brooke invites whatever guy she’s seeing at the time. If he shows up, they go to the movies afterwards.”
“All of you?”
“Sometimes they bring me. Win never goes. That is, if he�
�s even home for Thanksgiving. When I was nine, Brooke and some guy took me to Last Tango in Paris. Have you seen it?”
Lucy shook her head.
“Suffice it to say, it’s wildly inappropriate for a nine year old. These two people have sex constantly. I have never been able to look at a stick of butter in quite the same way again. Still, it’s better than being left alone with Win.”
“Why is that?”
Sam made a face.
“Your brother’s creepy?”
“He’s unpredictable,” Sam said. “And holidays don’t improve his mood.” She would have elaborated, but someone was literally breathing down her neck.
“You girls froshes?” the boy asked. His hair was cut painfully short. It exposed his pink scalp and a face that was devoid of acne, or personality. His blue and white team jacket read Columbia. Was it soccer, lacrosse, or tennis, anyone? Sam didn’t care. She was not interested in preppies or their affiliates, jocks. Luckily those types of boys felt the same way about her. It was clearly prom queen Lucy whose siren call had prompted this.
He raised his hand to get the bartender’s attention and was ignored. “Hey! I need some service here.” The boy banged on the bar-top. “We want to buy these ladies a drink.”
Lucy raised an eyebrow at Sam. “Did you hear something?” she asked Sam.
“Nope.”
“Me neither,” Lucy agreed.
“Don’t be a bitch,” the boy said. “It’s just a drink, not the rest of your life.”
Oh callow youth, Sam thought. On the jukebox, Donna Summer slyly promised some, “hot stuff, baby, this evening.” Even more to the point there would be, “some hot stuff, baby, tonight!” Meanwhile the aura that surrounded Lucy’s blond hair pulsed. Sam was reminded of the ending of The Great Gatsby. She loved the book and the way Fitzgerald described Daisy’s essential power, her orgiastic light. The glow Lucy emitted was similar, but she wasn’t Daisy. Lucy was neither insensitive nor selfish. Her looks were a genetic piece of good fortune. Lucy couldn’t prevent the fantasies they spawned. Like any porch light lit on a hot summer evening, Lucy Westcott was attractive to all sorts of Animalia Arthropoda Insecta Lepidoptera, from a common witless cabbage moth to the sublime luna with its jade green wings. The ending was sadly the same for all and sundry, signaled by the thwack of those suicidal bodies as they hit the glass.
