Ziggy, Stardust and Me

by James Brandon

  “You’re kinda weird, man.”

  “Yeah. Guess that’s what my old man pays the lady for, heh-heh.”

  “I dig it,” he says. “Not like the others.”

  “What others?”

  “The other white boys,” he says, gesturing to Scotty and the Apes at the front of the classroom, currently huddled like cavemen around some giggling girls. Almost forgot anyone else was in the room.

  “Nope. Not like them,” I say. “I am definitely different than them.”

  “Different, huh? Maybe that’s your superpower . . .”

  “Yeah . . . maybe . . .” Do not look at him. Do not get caught in those hypnotizing eyes. Stay focused on the broken clock above the blackboard so I don’t feel any more stinging—

  “Your hair’s so blond, man. Almost white.”

  “Hmm? Oh, yeah—”

  “Cool scar,” he says.

  “Huh?”

  “The scar. On your forehead. Pretty far-out. How’d you get it?” He starts to push my hair aside.

  “Don’t!” I brush my swoop back down to cover it.

  “Sorry, man.”

  “It’s okay. I just—” I take a breath. “So, anyway, about love . . .”

  “Yeah . . .”

  Bell rings.

  Praise Ziggy.

  * * *

  —

  After school on our bike ride home, Starla tells me she and Lindsey are going to church on Sunday. “I like Web,” she says.

  “Yeah . . .”

  “What are you guys going to do?”

  “Oh, just meeting at the lake, I guess.” I try to say this as casually as “Man, how about them Cardinals?” Doesn’t work.

  “What? The lake? You don’t even like the lake, Jonny.”

  “Yeah I do.”

  “You sure? You haven’t been back since—”

  “Yes. I’m sure.” I shoot lasers into her eyes.

  “Okay. Okay . . . I just thought you never wanted to go back there.”

  “Well . . . I am.”

  “Well . . . I think it’s good for you,” she says as we pull up to her house. “Hey, you have a session tomorrow, don’t you?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Maybe you should talk to her about it, she—”

  “I will.” I start to ride off but she grabs my handlebars to stop me.

  “She’s there to help you, Jonny.”

  “I know, I know.”

  “Good.” She kisses my cheek before skipping her Schwinn up her driveway. “See you tomorrow?”

  “Of course.”

  Okay, screw Dulick’s five-year apocalyptic prophecy or Starla’s impending departure. She’s right. This damn Presentation-for-Your-Life is definitely going to kill me before then.

  10.

  Wednesday, May 23, 1973

  THE NEXT AFTERNOON, it’s Wednesdays with Dr. Evelyn, and I’m a cold corpse on her long leather couch. Can’t move because the squeaks sound like ten million cicadas screeching in my eardrums. So instead I stay frozen, strapped down without the restraints. Been lying here almost four years now.

  Patchouli smoke slinks from the lighted stick on the bookshelf. I see two new things:

  1) A snow globe with a tiny plastic Arch and riverboats, sitting on the bookshelf

  2) A macramé plant holder hanging in the window in front of me, empty

  “Where’s your plant?” I ask.

  Dr. Evelyn sits behind me, scribbling notes in her notebook like a Spirograph gone mad. “Oh, yes,” she says. “I must get one. A client made that for me for my birthday. Isn’t it beautiful?” Her voice: a hypnotic pendulum.

  “When was your birthday?”

  “Last week. The big four-oh,” she says and laughs.

  “Wow. A milestone year. Something big’s supposed to happen in a milestone year.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah. Get ready.”

  Her bangles clang together. “Bracing myself,” she says. “You too, by the way.”

  “Me too what?”

  “Have a birthday coming up. A milestone one at that.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Guess so.”

  “Guess so? It’s the big one-seven. Pretty milestoney in my eyes,” she says. “In a few weeks, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Any plans?”

  “Got a few up my sleeve.” Lying. Seriously, plans? Party for one, in my closet? Usually it’s dinner with Starla and her parents, but she’ll be gone. Man. Just the thought stabs my stomach. “It’s a pretty plant holder,” I say, changing the subject.

  “Thank you. What kind of flower should I get?”

  “What kind do you like?”

  “So many.”

  The macramé net sways. I leap up from the leather couch, squeeze my head through the yarn, and twisttwisttwist it around my neck like a noose. Fare thee well, cruel, cruel world. It’s been swell, but time for me to go back to the stars . . .

  “Maybe some kind of vine,” I say. “They grow like crazy and are easy to take care of. We have one in our living room. Makes me feel like I’m in The Jungle Book sometimes.”

  “Oh yeah? Good idea. The Jungle Book’s fun.”

  “Yeah. I’m definitely like Mowgli dropped off in Man-Village—” Oh no. I try reeling the words back in, but I’m too late.

  Scribble scribble—Aha! I knew he was crazy!—scribble. Dammit. Usually I’m on lockdown for the question-and-answer portion of this stupid game show.

  Secret: I’ve been doing this so long I know all the rules. Answer each question with the right amount of “Everything’s grrrreat!” sprinkled with a few dashes of “I’ve still got this issue. Wah!” Sound too grrrreat, she’ll see right through you.

  Usually that’s what happens. Today, everything’s upside down. I could barely focus on tying my damn shoelaces this morning, and in English, my brain was so scrambled when I sat with Web all I could gibber about was Pink Floyd and how I thought Roger Waters was the Socrates of music. God. Web kept laughing, so he for sure thinks I’m a Looney Tune. Anyway. Concentrate, Collins. Don’t let her in. I stare out the window. Little tributaries of rain wriggle down the glass.

  “You sure you’re feeling okay, Jonathan? You look a little paler than usual.”

  “Just tired.”

  “Have you been feeling this way for a while?”

  Uh, yeah. “Not really, no.” Which winding labyrinth to take her on this go-round? “Just the past couple days. Nerves, I guess. We have to give a presentation in front of the class. You know I hate that kinda stuff.” Hook, line—

  “Yes, I see.”

  And sinkered.

  Scribblescribblescribble. “It’s good for you, I think. Don’t you? Helps you push through your fears.”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “We must face our fears if we’re to face our fate.”

  I mime these words along with her. I swear I’ve heard them 10,728 times since I first walked into this office. “Yeah,” I say.

  “Do you have to do it alone?”

  “No I’m with Web and—”

  “Web?”

  Dammit, foiled again. “Yeah. He’s this new kid at school. Doesn’t talk much.” A cue I should be taking right about now.

  “Is he nice?”

  “Huh? Yeah. He’s nice. I don’t know. He looks a little sad, I guess. We’re meeting this weekend at the—” SHUT UP, COLLINS. My nerves twist with Dr. Evelyn’s scribblescribblescribblescribblescribble.

  “At the what?” she asks.

  Think, think, think. “The roller rink!” Damn, should’ve thought of that before. A perfect spot actually. We could play Pong at the arcade and skate. Or Kmart! Kmart’s like Switzerland; nothing bad ever happens at Kmart.

 
“The roller rink?”

  “Yeah. With some friends. Just trying to make him feel welcome and such.”

  “I see,” she says, after I swear she’s torn circles in her page. “That’s nice of you. And good for you, too, I think. Stepping out of your comfort zone.”

  “Yeah.” I swallow. “Facing my fear to face my fate!”

  She laughs, but still scribbles.

  “Guess that’s what that means, huh?” I say, trying to change the subject again. “The things that scare you the most are the things that bring you closer to who you’re meant to be.” Or whatever . . .

  She stops writing. “I like that, Jonathan.”

  Raindrops slither faster down the window. The world outside’s now under a blanket of gray, like the filmstrip in health class. Skipping every so often, too.

  “Does your father know about him?” she asks.

  “What? No. Why?”

  “Just curious. He’s always wanted you to make new friends.”

  “Yeah. Guess I’ll tell him.” Lie. Duh. Time to travel down a different path. And fast. “Do you think the earth is dying?”

  “What?”

  “Mr. Dulick said he read it somewhere. Something like we only have five years left. You hear about that?” Sweat drips down my cheeks. I think it’s sweat. Can’t tell, can’t move.

  “No,” she says. “Do you think it’s dying? That we only have five years left?”

  “I don’t know. It would figure, though. Since that’s when I’d be free.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Five years. I’ll be twenty-one. I can finally go to California.”

  “Yes, that’s right, when—”

  “When I get the money Grandma left me.”

  “And you can—”

  “See the beaches and palm trees and swim in the ocean and make music in Laurel Canyon with Mama Cass and Joni Mitchell and be a rock-n-roll star and finally be somebody.”

  “Yes. But why can’t you—”

  “I bet everything shimmers like a disco ball there.” I close my eyes to the colorless world outside. “A snow globe city. Like your collection. Only with glitter.”

  “Is that what you picture?”

  “Yeah. So I guess if the world ends, then—”

  “How do you find that freedom now?” She finishes a thought I didn’t even know I had.

  We sit in silence.

  No scribbles. No squeaks.

  “I don’t know,” I say, opening my eyes. “I don’t know if that’s possible.”

  “I think it is,” she says. “And I think you’re close to finding it out, too.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “Because of the progress you’ve been making.” I can tell she’s smiling by the way her voice lilts.

  “Oh. Of course,” I say. “Right.”

  Bangles jangle. She stands. As she walks by, honeysuckle and jasmine drift with her. I quickly wipe my face and smile. She sits on the other end of the couch, lifting my legs so my feet tangle in the drapes of her long flower-patched dress.

  Dr. Evelyn is definitely a psychedelic version of Catwoman: huge blue-tinted glasses shielding her eyes, hair pulled up in a ponytail stretching her smile, and her skin’s extra-kissed from the sun, like a piece tore off and landed smack on her cheeks.

  “You haven’t had any more of those feelings, have you?”

  “Oh . . . no. Definitely not. I’m fixed.”

  “How’s your memory?” she asks. “You’re practicing the tricks I taught you?”

  “Yeah. I’ve been using my tape recorder.”

  “Excellent. And it’s working?”

  “Guess so. Course I wouldn’t know if I didn’t remember it.”

  She laughs. This time I get to see the Cumberland Gap between her two front teeth.

  “No, I think it’s working. I really do,” I say.

  “Good . . . because we won’t be seeing each other for a couple of weeks, you know.”

  “Oh, right. You’re going to some psychiatry conference?”

  “In Hawaii, yes. So the next time I see you, we’ll be doing your final treatments. And I just want to make sure that . . . you still want them.” She stares, the Spirograph scribbling in her eyes now.

  Don’t let her in, don’t let her in. “I do . . . want them. Why wouldn’t I want—”

  “Because . . . I’ve been thinking . . . there may be other ways . . . to help, I mean.”

  “Other ways? But these are our last ones. Why stop now?”

  “I don’t know. I just . . . want to make sure you’re ready for them again, Jonathan. They take so much out of you, and—”

  “I’m definitely ready. Besides, Dad would never let me stop them now and—”

  “But it’s still what you want?”

  “Yes. It is.”

  She studies me. Hard. She opens her mouth to say something, then stops. After a few long minutes of this, she says, “Okay, I think you’re ready, too.”

  I can’t see it in her face, but I can hear it in her voice: She’s lying.

  Huh.

  I don’t say anything else.

  I’m afraid to.

  Afraid she’ll know I’m lying, too.

  11.

  I TAKE THE LONG way home after the session. Stingraymobile pedals forward, even though I’m sure she’s about to grow wings and shoot me to the heavens because of this crazy wind. Raindrops taptaptaptaptap my plastic raincoat. My thoughts cyclone through me: Why was Dr. Evelyn lying to me? What did she mean by “other ways”? To fix me? Whatever they are, they can’t be good. Could she see through me? Dammit, I should’ve never mentioned Web. And why did I agree to meet him at the LAKE? I know! When I see him tomorrow, I’ll suggest the roller rink! Yeah. He’s probably super smooth on skates, too. Just glides along the rink like Archangel Gabriel or something, beaming just as bright. God. What’s the number to the nearest asylum?

  As I round the corner to my house, the wind howls: “Turn around now, Jonathan! Save yourself . . .” Nope. It’s Led Zeppelin. For real. Dad’s singing down the block for all of Creve Coeur to hear, apparently. Jesus.

  I pop around to see if any of the old pickle neighbors are peeking their heads through the curtains, phone receivers to their ears, cops on the other end. Not yet. But damn, it’s going to be one of those nights.

  Dad Zeppelin has torn holes through the screen door. I carry Stingraymobile onto the porch and walk in to see:

  1) Our orange velvet couch covered in strings of Christmas lights

  2) Dad in his Jockeys hanging said Christmas lights, dancing on the bar. Uh.

  Music thumpthumpthumps the mirror, Dad humphumphumps his reflection in the mirror. No. It smells like skunk, which means one of two things, and I know for certain there’s no live skunk waddling through the house.

  “HEY, DAD!”

  He throws himself against the mirror. “You scared the hell outta me, man!”

  “Sorry!”

  “Staaiirrrwayyyy . . . Hey, help me . . . tooooo heeaavveeennnn . . . with these lights.” His cigarette bounces up and down between his lips, each word springing off it like a diving board.

  Okay, light mood. I’ll take it. I drop my satchel on the couch, turn down the music before it ruptures my eardrums, and duck under the bar to help him. Draped in all the lights, he kinda looks like a dancing diorama of the solar system.

  “How was your session today, son?”

  “Good.”

  “How many more treatments you got?”

  “One more set.”

  “Then you’re fixed for good.”

  “Yeah, for good . . .”

  “Proud of you, bud. Knew you could do it. You’re DY-NO-WHOA-OA-OA—” He boogies his butt and topples over a few bottles before I cradle the r
est in my arms. “Damn, son. Good thing you—” He starts coughing. I snatch his cigarette before it hits the shag and stub it out on some girl’s boobs in his Playboy ashtray.

  BATMAANNNNN.

  His cough, meanwhile, turns to the Penguin’s retch or something gross—

  “You okay, Dad?” I pat his back.

  “Yeah . . . yeah . . . I’m fine. Grab me a Bud, willya?” I do. He guzzles it and settles down on the sun-yellow recliner: heaving, wiping his brow.

  “You sure you’re okay?”

  “Finish it for me.” He waves to the lights, takes a few more glugs. “Goddamn, son. You look just like your momma sometimes. Them eyes . . . your white hair . . .” Oh boy, here we go. “Hey. I ever tell you ’bout the time your mom and I was on that Tilt-A-Thingy at the senior carnival?” Only 1,726 times. Who’s counting? I actually love this story. I love picturing them before me. “And, man, you shoulda seen it, her hair got so tangled up in mine, we were stuck together, you know, like—”

  “Taffy?”

  “Yeahyeahyeah, and . . . they had to . . .” He starts laughing, which instantly turns into another cough-typhoon.

  “Cut your hair out so you looked like the Two Stooges?” I say.

  “Man . . .” He pounds his chest. “Whoa . . .”

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah.” His eyes glaze over, staring through me at the bar. “She was somethin’ else . . .” He’s there now, lost in their laughter, still spinning on the Tilt-A-Thingy. “Man, I miss her.”

  “Yeah . . .” Guess we’re all stuck whirling in our heads sometimes. “So, what’s the occasion for the lights? Memorial Day?” I ask, grabbing another strand off the couch.

  “Huh? Oh. Heather. She’s coming over. Thought I’d spice things up a bit—MAN, I LOVE THIS SONG!” And he’s up again, turning the knob to a thousand decibels. This time using the coffee table as his dance floor, kicking magazines off with each move.

  “WHEN?” I yell.

  “Drank all my . . . What? . . . wiiiinne . . . Soon . . . I don’t know . . .”