“Let me draw you. I want to draw you. Right like that. Naked with an apple.”
“Kind of biblical, but okay.”
The drawing turned out well. It looked a natural to be in my show.
“You don’t mind if everyone sees you naked, do you?”
“You’re going to show it?”
“Crowds will gather around it, overwhelmed by your beauty. I’ll probably have to make prints to keep up with the demand of all the naughty boys who’ll want to take you home.”
“Oh, you’re goofy. No, of course I don’t care if you show it.” She stood back, looking at the finished drawing taped to the wall. “It’s almost alive. Are you going to call it Teresa?”
“No, I’m going to call it My True Love.”
“Really?” She draped her arms around me, looking pleased. When she kissed me a spark jumped between our bodies.
“Wow. Did you feel that?”
She answered with more kisses.
“You have the best tits. And now they’re electric.”
“C’mon Sparky, I need you to get naked too.”
Teresa was a fountain of enchantment, of wonderful spells, of episodic lovemaking.
“Oh, I love how you feel inside me.”
“I love you, Teresa.” I had never said it before.
Her eyes were glazed, far away, lost in passion. “I love you too.” Her breath washed over me, cleansing me with a moment of joy I knew I would never forget.
Afterwards, we lay in each other’s arms, recognizing perfection did exist as we listened to a song drifting in from the radio in the kitchen. The Beatles were coming through the airwaves, telling us if I said that I loved her, she’d say she loved me too.
“I didn’t turn that on. Did you?”
“No, no, I think we both did. It just came on.”
We became twin hermits, hardly spending any time with anybody else. Sometimes Teresa skipped classes and didn’t open the store because we were either involved in an all-day bed romp, lost in an animated discussion, or just goofing around together, stoned out of our minds. One day at the Central Park Zoo, we bumped into Phuong.
“Deets, where have you been?” She answered her own question with a shy but knowledgeable smile at Teresa.
“Hey, Phuong, we just saw that blue parrot you were crazy about.”
The three of us walked around looking at the animals. Teresa and Phuong couldn’t stop talking and giggling together. We stopped to watch a sea lion. It splashed and frolicked, loving the cool but sunny day. With a grin and a glint in its eye, the happy beast blew a large spray of water in our direction. It barked with a low rumble and a twang, inspiring me to joke it sounded like it was saying “Phuong.” We all hooted with laughter and listened for the pinniped to yelp and yodel again. When it did, Phuong screamed, “He knows Vietnamese.”
I walked out of the zoo with Teresa and Phuong on either side of me, their arms looped through mine, snuggling for warmth.
Soon after that outing, our social life picked up, with Teresa and I smoking weed or sharing a meal with Phuong, Chang, Ham, or some of Teresa’s friends. After one riotous, laugh-filled evening, Teresa asked me teasingly what I thought of her guests, Rebecca and Sam.
“She’s cool, but I couldn’t figure out Sam.” I scratched the top my head, remembering how uncomfortable I felt around him. There was nothing wrong with him. I just had trouble admitting to the disturbing attraction I felt when I looked at his delicate and soft-skinned features.
Teresa giggled. “I was watching you. Sam has the same effect on men as on women.”
The following week, Rebecca showed up with a beautiful woman. Teresa hugged them both, gushing, “Sam, you look ravishing.”
I spent the next hour, distracted, trying to figure out if Sam was a man or a woman. I finally gave up.
What the hell, she or he is beautiful.
During a brief moment alone in the kitchen, Teresa whispered to me, “Sam’s female, but don’t ask her about last week. If you see her acting like a man, treat her like one, or if she’s a femme fatale like tonight, just drool over her like you normally would.”
“What? How come you didn’t warn me? You’re cruel. I can’t believe you kept that from me.”
“Later.” She raised one finger to her lips. “Shh.”
In bed that night, we talked about our friends.
“Oh, and Ham—he’s an art snob. I could kick him in the nuts when he talks about you drawing with colored pencils instead of painting, like ‘Thou shall only use oils’ is some holy commandment.” Teresa’s foot flipped up a section of the blanket to accentuate her frustration.
“He likes your drawings and watercolors.”
“He’s just trying to get into my pants.”
“Ha, probably, but your work is amazing. Why don’t you come with me to the HooDoo and show your portfolio to Daisy?”
“I’ve never sold anything.”
“Well, you will. No doubts.”
The conversation drifted on. Teresa told me Rebecca and Sam were lesbian lovers. Sam was a total enigma, being very erratic and confused, but had a good heart. She had been committed to a mental hospital at a young age. Upon release, she had run away from home, living on the streets until Rebecca took her in. She lived in fear of being recommitted by the authorities or discovered by her parents.
Sales at Teresa’s store started to increase. At first she was ecstatic, but with more than a few customers mentioning they never knew when the shop was open, she adapted to a stricter schedule. It became obvious she was overwhelmed, so I offered to open the store in the mornings and fill in when she was occupied with the bookkeeping or traveling. We decided it would be best if I moved in with her.
Teresa’s older sister Cynthia was the passive owner of the store. She began to stop by on Friday evenings to go over the accounting.
“Best week ever, Teresa. Look at that deposit. But what are these items? Miscellaneous paraphernalia? They’re really selling.”
Teresa looked over her shoulder, ran a finger across the columns. “I’ve grouped some inventory together. I’ve started to stock rolling paper, pipes, and roach clips. Deets suggested we carry kaleidoscopes, so I bought some. Guess what? We sold fifteen of them last week.”
“Why would you carry children’s toys? And pipes? Do you mean a tobacco pipe? What’s a roach clip? Your inventory is diverse enough. This was supposed to be a used clothing store with some crafts and jewelry.”
Teresa looked in my direction for help. I screwed up my eyes in a “she’s-your-sister” look.
“C’mon downstairs. I’ll show you the new inventory.” Teresa glared at me, commanding me to accompany her. I smiled playfully, picked up my guitar, and shook my head.
After a few minutes, I could hear Cynthia shrieking about illegal drugs while Teresa insisted they weren’t breaking the law selling pipes and paper. The outbursts progressed to the older sibling yelling about cockroaches and Teresa laughing. They stomped back upstairs and went straight to the ledger books. Cynthia, an overweight woman, huffed and puffed, finally catching her breath when she sat to look over the handwritten records.
“You’re sure we’re not doing anything illegal and that we’re not promoting drug use?”
“Everything’s cool, Cynthia.”
“Okay, maybe double the order on those toy kaleidoscopes. We’re not going to get rich off these smaller items, but every penny counts.”
“When the weather gets warmer, I want to paint a new sign and change the name to Good Stuff. Here’s a sketch I made. With business picking up, it would be a good time to do it. Deets and I can do the painting.”
“I guess the name is appropriate with the inventory being so diverse. Hmm, Good Stuff, not as sophisticated as I would like, but the design is eye-catching. It’s certainly better than that old
vintage clothes sign.”
On the morning of an anti-war rally in late March, I opened a letter forwarded from my parents’ address. Greg had written to tell me he was back in Vietnam. The army had accepted his request to train as a medic, and, although sickened by what he witnessed on his job, he felt he was on the right side of the war, helping to save lives. He had spent a month in the stockade when he refused a sniper mission by his old CIA contact, but he’d been released and posted to a camp deep in territory he referred to as Indian country.
After reading his news, I reached over and switched on the radio.
“And now here’s the number one song in the nation. Let’s rally behind our brave boys in Vietnam and send a message to all those anti-Americans gathering today to protest the battle against communism. This patriotic song has been on the top of the charts for four weeks now, showing the true spirit of this nation. It’s Sargent Barry Sadler singing ‘Ballad of the Green Berets.’ Spin it.”
I listened to the lyrics, not understanding the value of them at all—medals and manhood and rah-rah for American wars and young people dying and a military hat that some old guy is proud his son is wearing.
“This is too insane. C’mon Teresa, let’s get to the rally before the world blows apart from stupidity.”
Teresa and I were at the edge of a large crowd listening to Phil Ochs as he sang of the folly of sending the country’s young men with rifle and swords to die in wars started by old men.
“It sure ain’t worth a green hat,” I mumbled, remembering the pablum of the number one song on the charts.
Ochs was standing on the same sound truck that Bruce Mueller had stood on when he burned his draft card back in the fall. There must have been three or four times more people protesting at this march.
I heard a guy with a long ponytail say, “FBI are taking pictures. Look at that fascist jerk.” He pointed at a man poking his camera out of an Impala sedan parked nearby.
A few people averted their faces and moved deeper into the throng of marchers.
“I don’t care if he sees me. I don’t believe in this war. And people like him should know it.” The ponytailed guy glared defiantly at the photographer, steadily pumping his arm in the air as he extended his only weapon—two fingers raised in a V.
I was steered by the crowd with Teresa by my side until we were directly behind the Feds’ vehicle. A man sat in the back seat snapping pictures of the crowd. He paused to pick up another camera, handing the one he had to another agent in the front seat, who proceeded to reload more film. He must have clicked off another twenty shots, slowly rotating his aim, until the camera lens was pointing at me.
His finger pushed the lever, capturing my image. He lowered the camera. Damn if it wasn’t that macho sneak, Federal Agent Orville. His expression revealed that he remembered me. His gaze took in Teresa before he turned to his partner Harlan, saying something I was too far away to hear. His head kicked back in laughter. Then he made a motion to simulate exaggerated masturbation and swung the camera back in our direction. He dismissed me, making a show of deliberately aiming at Teresa.
As we walked by the Feds’ car, I poked my head close up to the window. “Agent Orville, you forgot to say cheese.”
“Get the hell out of the way, Parker.”
Teresa looked alarmed. As we walked on, she punched my upper arm. “He knew your name.”
“Hey, ow, we’re at a peace demonstration. No violence.”
“Why did he know your name? Are you in trouble with the FBI too?”
So as we marched with the chanting crowd, I told her of my history with the federal agent. I exaggerated for the sake of drama or humor, painting Orville as a total fool. She was laughing by the time I finished relating my escapades with the investigator.
“Can I tell people my old man is a wanted criminal?” She slipped her hand into mine. “And who is this ex-girlfriend Maureen? Do you ever see her?”
“Yep, there she is right now.” I spotted her standing with about a dozen other people on some steps nearby. They were holding placards and yelling at a group of policemen who stood in line, billy clubs in hand.
As I passed by Maureen, we acknowledged each other with a weak smile and a slight raising of one hand. Teresa and Maureen assessed one another with a few quick glances. My eyes were drawn to a woman nearby, furiously shaking one of my hand-drawn protest signs and screaming, “We want peace, we want peace,” over and over again, directing her words at the cop’s barricade. I was astounded to recognize her as Lola, Maureen’s roommate. Last I saw her she was playing loopy-loop with Maureen’s underwear and badmouthing peaceniks. The world was changing—with new recruits gathering against the war machine.
Chapter 33
One day, returning to the apartment carrying a bag of groceries, I cut across Grove Street near Sheridan Square and saw Amelia sitting on a bench talking to a thin guy with bushy hair. She touched his wrist, then stood and walked out of my sight down Washington Place. I recognized the man as Bob Dylan, his hair teased into a wild tangle. His legs were crossed, one foot lightly swinging to some inner song as he smoked a cigarette. I passed him by, and we both nodded a greeting to each other.
I wondered if I should ask him about Amelia but let it be. This was the first sign of action by the Monster Alley players I had witnessed in two months. Teresa, the store, and my art had occupied my time, and I had been blissfully free of the strangeness surrounding interaction with the alley or the inhabitants of Mister Pigeon’s building.
Then I remembered Dylan knew Santa Pigeon. I turned around, and he half-focused on me. He was red-eyed, drowsy, noncommittal.
“Don’t mean to bother you, but you know Gerald Pigeon, the poet, don’t you? Long white hair and beard.”
He nodded his head in affirmation.
“Know where he is? I haven’t seen him around.”
He cleared his throat. It seemed a struggle for him to speak. “I just got word he’s occupied elsewhere.” He stared at the long ash on his cigarette, then mumbled, “Elsewhere, maybe Boston.” He managed a slight shift of his shoulders, letting me know that’s all he knew.
“Thanks, man.” I don’t think he heard me.
He watched the ash drop off the cigarette and slowly raised his hand, took a drag, and shrugged again, this time in response to some private inner communication.
Boston. Amelia had just dropped an indirect hint about Pigeon, meant to find its way to me. Why not just tell me? Whatever her methods, the respite of the last few months was over. I could feel the mystery calling, the puppeteers circling.
I mentioned the incident to Teresa. She grew silent and pensive as she arranged a window display of macrame and stained glass items.
“What? What are you thinking about?”
“After Dylan said Pigeon was in Boston, what was the first thing that popped into your head?”
“I guess Mister Pigeon, but really I tuned in more on Betsy, wondering how she is, thinking I had just received a message from Amelia.”
“Me too.” She adjusted and fluffed a fan of feathers. “You haven’t been to that alley, have you?” She looked worried.
“No, just worked on my drawings of it. Do you think it would be crazy if I took action instead of just sitting around wondering why I saw Amelia moments before I learned Pigeon may be in Boston?”
Her demeanor softened. “I know you feel Betsy was hurt to challenge or warn you away after the last time you tried to resolve the alley’s mysteries.”
“This feels more like Amelia and Pigeon are relaying something hopeful.” As I spoke, a strange tingling sensation enveloped my drawing hand. My wrist grew warm where Amelia had touched me back in the mansion four months earlier.
A prism of light danced across Teresa’s face from an ornamental bauble she was rearranging. The world felt right.
“I agree. Go se
e Betsy. Don’t shrug it all off anymore. It’s not doing you any good to worry about her the way you do. Maybe her spirit’s calling you. Who knows why Amelia didn’t approach you directly, but I don’t think seeing her was pure chance. You’re communing with something you don’t understand. I think if your intuition says go to Boston and you act in the spirit of love, it can’t be wrong, no matter what.”
She fell into my arms, hugging me tightly, snuffling as she cried softly.
“What’s the matter?”
“Oh, it just seems so unreal, but I believe in you. I don’t think it’s crazy.” She let go of me and rummaged through a box. “Here, give this to Betsy.” Letting the tears fall, she handed me a stuffed toy panda bear.
Chapter 34
As the bus rolled up and down the hills of Connecticut, I thought about the war protesters or soldiers that had given their lives to their causes, both believing their way was the correct path. For the first time in my life, I was acting out a mission I believed in on pure blind faith. If I tried to find a reason why I was on the bus, to tell myself I was finally visiting my friend Betsy was an easy and gratifying enough explanation. That logic had more of a sense of reliability than saying Dylan spoke to Amelia, then told me Mister Pigeon was in Boston, so I better go see Betsy because she’s in the same city. But I knew those circumstances were exactly what had triggered me to act.
Half asleep, the panda bear tucked under one arm against my ribs, I heard the hissing of the bus’s brakes as it rolled to a stop. A sign on a building said Providence, Rhode Island. The driver yelled out that we only had a fifteen minute stopover. A few new passengers boarded and passed by me searching for a seat. Glad that no one had sat next to me, I was yawning and about to doze off again when I sensed someone standing in the aisle next to the empty seat.
“You’d better have a good reason why you’re cuddling with that panda, or I’m going to have to leave the last seat on this bus empty while I stand all the way to Boston.”
Mayhem (The Remarkable Adventures of Deets Parker Book 1) Page 16
