Mayhem (The Remarkable Adventures of Deets Parker Book 1)

by J. Davis Henry

  “Well yeah, you’ll go crazy, but it doesn’t matter, does it?”

  She walked with her arms folded across her chest, nervous, but determined to try the drug.

  “Of course it does. I don’t want to go crazy.”

  “It’s a good crazy. Happy crazy. Music sounds like it’s from another world. Don’t worry.”

  “If I pass out, I don’t want you to try anything with me.”

  “If I pass out, make sure you wake me up if you try anything with me.”

  We continued on in silence, letting the sexual innuendo settle. I was enjoying the night—the sounds of people’s voices drifting in the air, the lights of marquees, and the company of an attractive, good person. She looked disturbed as she wrestled with worries about smoking, fucking, and trusting me.

  “Stay cool, Phuong. Whatever happens, happens.”

  “You’re high right now, aren’t you? It makes you not care, I can tell.”

  I laughed. “What? Of course I care about things. It’s just the perspective of what’s important changes.”

  “I don’t want to get in trouble in school or with the police.”

  When we reached my building, I heard a voice calling behind me, “Hey, Deets, wait up.”

  Chang approached, carrying two guitar cases. Phuong held the door for him as he bumped through the opening. Outside my apartment, I told him I had the mother of all joints and asked him if he wanted to partake in some weed.

  After Phuong’s first drag, she was hesitant and embarrassed. We passed the joint around, giving her tips on how to hold the smoke in her lungs. She was a delicate woman and took tiny hits, puffing up her cheeks and gulping.

  “Don’t forget to breathe.”

  “I’ve smelled this smell before. When will I feel anything?”

  About twenty minutes later, she started crying.

  “You okay, Phuong?”

  Her head bobbed up and down as she raised her hands to her face, wetness dribbling from her eyes. She looked surprised. “It’s so sad the way people are hurting all over the world. It’s like we’re all bouncing around on this big shining globe of beauty, and there are fools who don’t understand, so they ruin it for everybody.” Her voice echoed the pain she felt, yet her tears flowed over a mask of newly discovered joy. “If only they could see the wonder. They’re stuck ... while so many of us enjoy bouncing out into orbit and back again.”

  Chang pulled out a guitar. “Miss Phuong, that has never been said better. Let me play you a song.”

  “It’s like happy flubber. I forgot to tell you that.”

  She smiled, then laughed, and kicking off her shoes, settled back into the couch. “I’m your big sister.”

  Chang played a very solid rendition of the new hit “Help!” by The Beatles.

  Sometime during the night, Phuong stumbled into my bed to sleep while I keeled over on the couch. Chang clumped upstairs to his place.

  Drifting off, I found myself watching a baby suckle on Phuong’s tits. Three sharp shots and Greg’s head exploded in her lap. Wandering away from them, asking myself where I was going, I came across runic scratchings on a brick wall. I reached out to touch the symbols, and my hand became invisible, like it was surrounded by something I couldn’t see through.

  More shots rang out, and I awoke, groggily realizing someone was rapping on the door.

  “Okay, okay, coming.”

  Chang breezed by me with a bag of donuts and a carton of milk. While eating, we listened to Phuong, still lying in bed, yawn and groan.

  “C’mon, you lazy-ass dope head. Breakfast’s ready.”

  Chapter 15

  Phuong and Chang were standing in the doorway, saying goodbye, making plans. She wanted to schedule a day when we could smoke more marijuana. We teased her about the amount she had already inhaled, telling her it should’ve been enough for a lifetime, and nobody else in the world smoked it more than once. She playfully stuck her tongue out at us.

  I heard footsteps, recognizing the distinctive pause-and-thump limp of my Dad coming up the stairs. Phuong and Chang nodded at him on their way out as he assessed them with a sour downturn of his mouth.

  “See you. Don’t forget to mark your calendars, boys and girls.” I laughed.

  Phuong wiggled her fingers in farewell.

  “Hi, Dad. What’re you doing in the city?”

  Dad sat on the couch in the living room, slapped a newspaper against his knee.

  “Who are they? Your contacts in the Communist Party?”

  “What? No, they’re friends of mine.”

  “Did you see you made the front page of the New York Times?” He unfolded the copy. He was angry, his eyes confrontational.

  “It doesn’t mean I’m a communist. I’m just against the war.”

  “What are you doing on the truck in this picture?”

  “I gave the guy a lighter. He was having trouble with matches in the wind.”

  Dad exploded. “You helped him? Don’t you realize it’s a crime to burn your draft card? I don’t know what you think you’re doing with your life, but you should keep your anti-American protests to yourself. This country is the greatest in the world.”

  “I’m against killing. You think that’s wrong? If you do, maybe you ought to be the one who should think about what he’s doing with his life.”

  He leaped from the couch and stepped up to me, his eyes black with anger. His fist clenched. I braced myself, ready to duck or jump away.

  But shame and confusion held sway instead of violence. From a growl deep in his throat, I heard both anger and regret. About me. About his reaction.

  “This country is in a war. The president expects us all to do our part to help win.”

  “Win what?”

  “The war. We can’t let communism ruin all those people’s lives in Asia. Look at how the Russians and Chinese treat their citizens. You should understand you have to fight for freedom and against oppression.”

  “Dad, I don’t think we’re innocent knights in shining armor. I’m guessing there’re resources in that region American businesses don’t want to lose. And I don’t think there is ever justification for war. I mean, what’s wrong with following the philosophy of Jesus and Buddha, or Gandhi?”

  Dad sat back down, fuming, furious that his son was giving him back talk.

  “I saw Greg Somerfeld a while back. He’s a Sargent in the army. He was on leave after a year of service in Vietnam.”

  “Yeah, I ran into him here in the Village.”

  “Oh, he didn’t mention it. I can’t imagine he’d have much to say to you.” He stood up brusquely. “Did you burn your draft card?”

  “No.”

  “You still have some sense, then. It’s the act of a coward.”

  Remembering how brave I thought Bruce Mueller’s protest to be, I answered, “I’m not going to be a puppet that dangles on society’s whims or a mindless sheep that’s led to slaughter. I’ll protest whenever I want to. Y’know, if you talk to Greg again, ask him how he feels about the war.”

  He squinted at me in consternation.

  “I’ll not support you if you’re turning into one of Greenwich Village’s beatniks.”

  “Dad, the atmosphere and opportunity here are great for artists. I’ve been selling my drawings and already have a one man show scheduled for the summer. I’ve been lucky, but the cash you send me really helps.”

  He walked around the apartment, frowned at the lacy, red cloth Maureen had placed on the lamp. Looking in the refrigerator, he asked if I was eating all right.

  “I feel healthy. Daisy took me out for a steak dinner the other night.”

  He studied me sternly for a long moment, thinking about what he wanted to say. I waited, accustomed to his habit of sometimes pausing up to a minute or so before responding in a
conversation. I had grown up knowing that a discussion with him required patience.

  “Remember, the deal was for you to hone your skills as an artist for a year, not to rabble-rouse. You watch yourself and who you hang out with. Dedicate yourself to your craft. You’re gifted. Very, very skilled and original. Don’t throw it all away.”

  “I draw all the time, Dad. Sometimes eighteen hours a day.”

  “One thing you ought to be thinking about is college. Right now you’re classified 1A. With this war heating up, you might be drafted.”

  His apparent turn from practically accusing me of being a traitor to suggesting I go to college to change my draft status didn’t surprise me. They were manifestations of his concern for me. What he didn’t express were his own mixed feelings about the army and missed opportunities.

  Fresh out of high school, Dad had received a visit from the manager of the New York Giants, offering him a chance to play center field. Regretfully, he informed them he had just received his military draft notice. In basic training, a truck he was riding in overturned, resulting in Dad’s left kneecap and tibia being crushed. His unit shipped out, leaving him behind with his leg in a cast. Months later, still laid up in a hospital, he learned Rommel’s tanks had wiped out his regiment at the Kasserine Pass in North Africa. When it became obvious he couldn’t walk without a cane, the army released him and the Giants looked elsewhere for a center fielder.

  He had been spared, but his dreams hadn’t been.

  Chapter 16

  Over the next few weeks, I worked on the series of anti-war pencil illustrations Daisy had suggested. After a day of drawing, I’d meet up with Chang, Phuong, and Ham and smoke some grass. I started to drop by Rolly’s fairly regularly. Although he was busy with song-writing and band practice, he took the time to teach me some guitar chords and a few songs whenever we got high together.

  One afternoon, I asked Rolly what he knew about Santa.

  “Santa? Oh, you mean the guy with the long, white hair and beard. He’s a poet. Reads his stuff in cafes and bookstores. I think he’s published some books. His name is Gerald. Gerald Pigeon.”

  “Pigeon, his name is Pigeon?”

  “Ha, yeah. Amazing ability to connect you with people. Seems like he knows everybody.”

  “Have you seen him lately?”

  “Don’t think so. Nah, not for awhile.”

  “Where do you think I can find him?”

  “I think your friend Daisy at the HooDoo knows him. If not, look around at the notice boards. I think I saw one of his poems posted in that ice cream parlor on 4th.”

  Checking with Daisy, she told me Gerald Pigeon always participated in the poetry readings her gallery sponsored. Handing me his address, she mentioned he had bought one of the paintings from Ham’s show.

  “It was the bluish-black one of the alley called The Monster Beckons, right?”

  “Hmm. Yes, that was it.”

  I recognized the scribbled street and building number. The urge to understand what had happened to Santa became imperative.

  Leaning against a post, I puffed on a cigarette while studying Gerald “Santa” Pigeon’s apartment building. A three-storied decorative mansion from the colonial era, it looked out of place among the tall drab complexes hovering around it. The adjacent Monster Alley looked to be hiding in perpetual shadow.

  Bewildered by possible explanations for Santa’s disappearance, and weary of my anxiety since witnessing it, I stubbed out my cigarette and approached the building. The entrance had no buzzer, the handle rattled without budging, and as I waited for someone to answer my persistent knocking, I marveled at the intricacies of the door. Set in rich mahogany were three panels of a polished black material riddled with tiny irregular pock marks. It had an impenetrable, volcanic feel to it. Two windows, set at eye level and etched in an enigmatic maze-like design, shifted with a myriad of rainbow colors when viewed from different angles. Fascinated, I moved and dodged my head around, watching the blues turn to green, the reds to purple, the silvers to gold and back again.

  I traced my fingers along the puzzling surface. The door clicked open.

  It was crazy-thinking, but I wondered if my head bobbing and finger movements had turned an invisible key.

  Past the threshold stood a long hallway with three doors and a staircase. At the far end of the passage, a garden was visible on the other side of a glass exit.

  The walls were painted in imitation of underground rock strata. Streaks of color and detailed textures stretched the length of the building, depicting layers of sand, granite, and limestone. Shifted or shattered rock were interspersed with worn, water-carved caverns. A massive scattering of bones and sea shells near the ceiling had been rendered with extraordinary intricacy. The artist had been a master of realism, portraying an underground tunnel deep within the earth as if the turmoil of time itself had shaped it.

  The door to my immediate right was a flat, unadorned slab of steel. No knobs, handles, peepholes, or buttons. Spooked by its resemblance to an impenetrable prison gate, I didn’t feel comfortable inquiring there about Mister Pigeon. Further down the corridor, the next entranceway fit into the mural motif with lifelike earthworms, moles, and a complex ant colony illustrated so perfectly the creatures seemed to squirm or race across its face. Although I suspected movement from the room beyond it, no one answered when I knocked.

  The remaining apartment door was covered with stones, fossils, and liquids, interpreted with faultless skill. Despite being beautifully decorated, I felt a spear of trepidation looking at it.

  The door flew open. A short, scraggly-haired, old woman stood in its place, critically assessing me with rheumy eyes.

  “How did you get in here?”

  “Uh, through the front entrance.”

  She scrutinized me as her bottom lip rolled over her top one. She sucked it back down and pouted, mulling over my answer. She pulled on an ear. “It unlocked itself, eh?”

  “I was looking for—”

  “I know who you’re looking for,” she snapped. “He’s not here. You’re on your own.”

  “What?”

  As she closed the door, I heard a male voice behind her say, “That’s a new development.”

  “Shut up. The whole lot of you are fools. Damn suspicious.” The old woman’s response trailed off into indecipherable muttering.

  I could hear her shuffling around but decided not to bother trying to talk to her anymore. The conversation had left me with questions, but I didn’t think she was going to divulge any answers. Feeling disoriented, I made my way down the hall to the garden, hoping to gather my thoughts.

  As I pushed open the glass door, a small enclosed space with aspen trees and stone benches set next to a central, leaf-speckled pool of water, beckoned me. Bushes and an autumnal flower bed encircled the area. About to step out for some mind-clearing air, I stopped myself. Already unsettled by my experience within the building, I didn’t want to risk the door swinging shut and locking behind me. Changing direction, I ascended the staircase, hoping to find Santa Pigeon on another floor.

  Broad-leafed plants towered among orchid-encrusted trees, and prickly cactus mixed with scrub brush, covering one whole wall of the corridor in a panoramic illustration. The opposite side sparkled with a waterfall pouring into a subaquatic view of streams and rivers emptying into a vast blue sea. Marveling at the skill of the muralist, I walked the length of the hall. I kept thinking I could twist my head and see behind a tree or peer under a mossy outcrop. The detail of underwater fan coral swaying with the current or duckweed floating in a pond had me reaching out to touch the artwork, expecting my hand to come away wet. I had to remind myself I was in an apartment building in New York City.

  The second floor had two doors, one on each wall. The first appeared in the mural as a recessed hollow in an old tree trunk. Portrayed so sublimely it sta
rtled me, a manlike ape creature sat on his haunches, staring wide-eyed from within his hideaway.

  Excuse me, I hope I’m not bothering you.

  I tapped on the rotten bark, near the simian’s forehead.

  A pleasant voice called out, “Coming.”

  The woman who greeted me was rosy-cheeked and wore her strawberry-blonde hair in a long braid. She smiled, wiped her hands on a checkered apron. “Yes, can I help you?”

  “Uh, I was wondering if you knew which apartment is Mister Pigeon’s?”

  “Oh yes, the third floor, but he’s not home right now.”

  “Do you know when he’ll be back or where I can find him?”

  “No, I don’t, but I’m sure he’ll contact you when he’s able.”

  I found her statement disconcerting. Was I imagining that everybody in the building hinted at knowing me or knowing why I was there?

  A child’s face peered around the woman’s skirt. “Mommy, I want to show him Pigeon’s place.”

  “Oh, that would be a good idea, Jenny.” She smoothed the young girl’s hair and beamed at me. “You don’t mind, do you?”

  “I, uh, no.”

  Jenny stepped up to me and took my hand. An exact miniature of her mother, with clothing and hair replicated to perfection, their appearance resonated as yet another unusual occurrence inside the strange building.

  “C’mon, mister. I’ll show you. It’s right up here.”

  The top of the stairwell ended at a single door.

  The blue coloring of the entranceway unmistakably depicted sky. Its shimmering aura graced a bird’s eye view of three snow-covered peaks rising from a wooded landscape. I had seen renditions of the heavens that were beautiful interpretations of light and atmosphere, but never any that I perceived as actually being air. I felt I could step over the mountainous panorama and into Santa Pigeon’s apartment.

  At eye level, a sculpted white feather was fastened to the door. It looked identical in size and to be of the same unidentifiable material as the one I had found in the park and given to Greg.