The Nirvana Blues

by John Nichols

  The woman said, “Hello, Joe, what are you doing here at this godforsaken hour?”

  Nancy Ryan, for the luvva Pete!

  Such relief!

  Eagerly, Joe barged out of the car, composed himself, and sauntered over to Nancy’s Bug. After all, they wouldn’t dare riddle him with slugs if an innocent bystander, and especially a woman—a mother—stood to be injured by the fusillade. Police departments had codes against that sort of outrage.

  Innocent bystander? Suppose Nancy was in cahoots with them. After all, the Simian Foundation wanted Eloy Irribarren’s land. Very possibly they had informed on Joe, fingering him for this setup. Far from being a disinterested observer, Nancy Ryan might be the spider at the heart of the web—his own “Red Lady.” She would duck below the window ledge of her bulletproof car a split second before sharpshooters hidden in the Miracle Auto Supply attic opened up, hosing him down for good.

  Aloud, Joe said, “Hi, Nancy. What brings you out at this ghastly hour. Benefit’s all over?”

  “My son arrives on the two-thirty bus.” Her serenity seemed genuine. Her eyes betrayed not a glimmer of disquiet. In the seat beside her, Sasha clutched a banana. He curled his upper lip, snapped his menacing teeth, and made a guttural chirping sound.

  Joe squatted, bringing his face to her level. “How come your kid—what’s his name—Stanley?”

  “Bradley.”

  “Yeah. How come he’s arriving at this hour?”

  “Carter flew in from Kansas City to the capital with him this afternoon. But Carter doesn’t want to see me, so I wasn’t allowed to drive down there and pick him up. In a nutshell,” she grinned humorously, “that’s my sad story.”

  Carter, her ex-hubby, did promotions for a professional football team. Several times, in the Prince of Whales Café, Joe had had long talks with Nancy: they had provided a bare-bones outline of her story. New Hampshire–born and –bred, and Radcliffe-educated, at twenty-one Nancy married (and divorced that same year) a nuclear physicist sixteen years her senior. There followed stints as a Kelly Girl, a publisher’s receptionist. a reader at Random House, an editor, a token-seller on the Manhattan subway lines, a research assistant for a Columbia professor, a copy girl at Reader’s Digest, and an editor at Time-Life. She could call some shots by then, and soon started her own industrial consulting firm. The first man she hired was Carter Ryan. After the nuptials, she retired to have a child. Shortly thereafter, they started fighting about how to run the business: divorce followed. Momentarily depressed, Nancy attempted a half-hearted suicide that wholeheartedly failed. The prerequisite therapy raped her wallet for a while. But then, having determined that God helps those who help themselves, she hit the road in search of a new life. Parking the kid with an Akron-based brother, she arrived in Chamisaville, and spent six months at a Sufi Moslem retreat called Davishi in the Midnight Mountains an hour north of town. Then a friend turned her on to Nikita Smatterling, and in the middle of her first winter she stumbled out of the hills, bought a town house, and sent for her son. Stock income, Carter’s child support, and the residue from their marriage settlement kept her comfortable enough so that she could tinker at a variety of odd jobs. During the short time Joe had superficially known her she had been a substitute teacher, a legal secretary, a salesperson at Ragtime Flower-shop, a baby-sitter for the aged and the infirm, a therapist with the county mental health program, and an emergency paramedic with the county ambulance service, to name a few. She also rose quickly within the ranks of the Simian Foundation to become their all-powerful secretary-treasurer, a job, Joe surmised, in which she handled no small amounts of ready cash.

  Nancy said, “By the way, I should have congratulated you earlier tonight. That Irribarren land in Upper Ranchitos is beautiful. How wonderful you can afford it.”

  “Well, yes, thanks,” Joe said guardedly. Had she activated a tape recorder in the glove compartment? Were two earphoned creeps in the auto parts basement crouched over a high-frequency receiver, listening to their conversational drivel, producing tapes that would send him up the river for life?

  “If it’s not prying,” she said ingenuously, “however did you get that much cash all at once?”

  “It would be prying.” But then of a sudden something cracked inside, and he thought, What the hell? They had him, why protest? Better to give up, drop his guard, relax for a minute before his universe collapsed. “Actually, I stole the money. Me and three other guys, we robbed a bank in North Platte, Nebraska, ten days ago.” Put that in your earphones, suckers!

  A thousand percent nonplussed, Nancy smiled and said, “By the way, how’s Heidi? Are you guys still together?”

  “Why wouldn’t we be together?”

  “Well, I remember once, in the Prince of Whales, we had a long talk—that’s all. At the time I gathered things were shaky.”

  “Things are always shaky. Who do you know that’s basking in smooth sailing?” Sasha had bitten off the stem end of the banana. Slowly and deliberately, surgeon-careful, he peeled it.

  “Me. I’m not shaky.” Her smile was positively saintly. Her eyes had the intense luster of a morning star. Mata Hari disguised as a thirty-five-year-old Teen Angel?

  Joe said, “You’re twice divorced, you and Randall just canned it, you’ve held eighteen jobs in the past ten months, you once tried to commit suicide, and you’re chain-smoking cigarettes hoping to drop dead of cancer before you reach forty. That’s not shaky?”

  She had an appealing way of thoughtfully nudging her lower lip with an upper tooth. The slightest little gap in the very center of her mouth remained even when her lips were sealed. And of course her eyes continued to emote an amiable luminescence. Beside her, Sasha finished peeling his banana, kissed it tenderly, and rocked the naked fruit in his arms as if it were a slumbering baby, cooing contentedly.

  “The cigarettes are a bummer, I’ll admit.” She exhaled provocatively. “I’ve tried to stop. I actually once quit for almost a year, and wish to hell I had never started up anew. But I’m working toward it, I’ll quit again, and this time for good. Then,” she chuckled, “I’ll be perfect.”

  Joe enjoyed teasing her. “You got no right to be so cocky. Every time we talk, your life is a mess.”

  “It’s not a mess. It’s just that things happen. But they always happen for a reason. Nothing ever takes me by surprise.” Her serenity would have been galling had it not been tempered by an intricately powerful vitality.

  Joe said, “Well, I don’t know about you, but I can say one thing. I know that I certainly wouldn’t mind a little break from feeling shaky every once in a while.”

  “That’s not hard.”

  “What’s not hard?”

  “It’s not hard if you’re willing to work at it. Unfortunately, most people in our society are programmed into such terrible habits that they lose all sense of how to help themselves, of how to exploit their inner potential.”

  “Like, for instance, how do you help yourself?”

  “No, I don’t want to talk about it because you’re not sincerely interested.”

  “Hey, honest, please—I am interested.” He licked his finger, drawing a circle on her side-view mirror.

  “Nice try, but I can tell you’re not.” A hint of sadness highlighted her smile, a flicker of sorrowful saintliness rippled across her forehead. “I think that if I were really to tell you where I am at, or how I believe that I could help you, you’d just make fun of me.”

  Reaching out with the same hand that held her cigarette, she flicked a piece of ash, or an eyelash, from the tip of his nose.

  “See,” she added. “Look at your expression. I can tell you’re mocking me.”

  “You’re wrong.” Actually, he had a strong urge to embrace her. A kiss before dying—? She glowed like the color of bright autumn leaves heightened by a mist. Sasha quit lullabying his banana. Holding it in his right fist, he grasped the top of the pale-yellow fruit with his left hand and slowly squeezed. Plump, squshy lumps of banana
meat bulged obscenely between his skinny prurient fingers.

  “I wouldn’t mock you,” Joe said. “Scout’s honor. I’m really interested. Sometimes I say to myself, I say, ‘Joe, for Chrissakes, when are you ever gonna grow up? When are you ever gonna take the time to help your own self just a little?’ Believe me, I’m often amazed at my own stupidity, my emotional immaturity, my ignorance. Take the fact that I got this lousy asthma—and the whole world knows it’s psychosomatic, right? But I got it, and I can’t seem to save myself.”

  “You could cure it, Joe. I could show you how to do it.”

  “Yeah, sure … but I don’t have the patience.”

  “The main problem is that you must want to change before you can affect anything.”

  “Maybe, basically, I love the way I am,” he said flippantly. “Maybe, basically, I love waking up at four o’clock in the morning gasping for breath. Maybe, basically, I love getting so frantic over my inability to keep everything under control that I almost faint from self-induced tachycardia attacks. Maybe, basically, I’m so in love with my own bourgeois angst that it’d be silly to ever dream about changing all that.”

  Her lips closed until only that sweet little gap remained in the center of her mouth: the tip of a single tooth rested on the cushion of her sexy lower lip. Her perfume tapped nostalgic roots, reminding Joe of high school days, cashmere sweaters, and circle pins. Christ, he was getting old!

  “It’s possible,” she said. “Most people are like that. But laziness isn’t genetic.”

  Still jousting, Joe suggested, “Maybe we should set up a schedule. I could come to your pad three times a week for serenity lessons.”

  Her face grew intense and serious. “You may think you’re joking, Joe. But I knew this was going to happen.”

  Her abrupt change startled him. Incredibly, his neck prickled. Likewise, his groin. It seemed he could almost feel something—a manifestation of sheer hippie bullshit—pass between them: vibes, god damn their eyes!

  His stomach flip-flopped. His brain said, Whoa, boy, what are you gonna do, reach for a police informer that’s into monkey gods? Sasha inspected his gooey hand curiously, tasted the pulp, made a face, stood, and, leaning forward, pressed his gushy palm against the windshield, leaving a nauseatingly gloppy handprint on the glass. Nancy seemed not to notice.

  “You knew what was going to happen?” Joe’s grin felt lopsided, out of kilter, foolish. “Don’t you suddenly go mystic on me.”

  Calculating his concern, she lightened up, allowing a hint of smile to reappear. “Didn’t you ever … before, when we occasionally met, and we had those long talks—didn’t you ever sense that we had something important to share with each other?”

  “I don’t know. Share what?”

  “I always felt an attraction between us. I don’t necessarily mean sexual. It’s nothing specifically in that realm.”

  Galloping back toward his own turf, Joe feigned astonishment. “You don’t like sex?”

  “I adore it. I just wasn’t speaking of sex right now.”

  For no appropriate reason, Joe found himself spilling some private beans. “When I was younger, I used to believe that I could screw my way into salvation. I knew that was the only logical way to attain it.”

  “Really? Hmm. I suppose I’ve always considered sex something to get out of the way as soon as possible in order to truly open wide the door onto something special and profound.”

  “That’s a funny way to put it.”

  “Joe, tell me truthfully: what are you feeling right now?”

  How did we arrive at that tone of voice? he wondered in dismay, flabbergasted, as usual, by the Machiavellian complexity of women as opposed to the almost moronic simplicity of men. Or was it all an act for his benefit, allowing the drug agents more time to get into position? Joe quickly turned his head, expecting a human shadow to flit around a corner, or a glint to flash off a clandestine rifle barrel. But nothing stirred: the surroundings were abnormally subdued, quiet, suspended. Sasha had crushed the rest of the banana between his tiny palms and created a banana-mâché bas relief against the glove-compartment door. Every few seconds, as he forged his deliberate theatrical carnage, he cast beady eyes at Nancy and rattled his yellow teeth at her: she paid no attention.

  “I dunno,” Joe said. “I feel mostly hung over, I guess. I’m tired. But I feel good. Though it’s been a long day.”

  “No, I mean right now. What are you really feeling? About yourself. And toward me.”

  “To tell the truth, I’m a little confused. Just a minute ago…” He faded, disliking the implications.

  “‘Just a minute ago…’” she prompted.

  “Well, you know, I felt, I mean … my stomach did a flip. I guess you could say I felt attracted to you. That is, sexually.”

  She presented her profile. Even as smoke wafted from her nostrils, she clicked open a change-purse–style cigarette case, selected a fresh weed and balanced it between her lips, then pushed in the cigarette lighter on her dash. Waiting for it to heat up, she closed her eyes, apparently resting, the cigarette stuck attractively between her lips, not dangling. Joe studied her face. All its life had dissipated, displaced by the features of an exhausted, tough career woman, a no-nonsense lady, a remote professional person, and maybe not a stoolie after all. But if her kid didn’t get off that bus, he was in trouble. Maybe, just as the Trailways arrived, he would grab her for a hostage.…

  The lighter clicked out. Nancy pressed it against the tip of her cigarette. Sasha scampered out the passenger window, swung onto the front hood, and, just like a little boy, grinning idiotically, aiming his monkey dick with banana-pulped fingers, he pissed against the windshield. Nancy exhaled languorously, and pushed the washer button, squirting soapsuds against the urine-stained glass. Switching on the ignition key, she activated the windshield wipers, then asked, “Have you ever heard of Alice Bailey?”

  “Nope.”

  She replaced the lighter.

  Joe said, “I think the problem between you and me is we approach life from two totally different angles.”

  “‘Problem’?” Facing him again, she reinfused her cheeks with an almost mystical luster.

  “Well, let’s say difference, then.” The monkey hopped onto the top of the car and rat-a-tatted his fists against the skimpy metal overhead.

  “I think we should get together sometime, Joe. And talk. Seriously. I mean, can’t you feel it between us? Haven’t you always wanted to explore me one day?”

  Joe shrugged, confused and embarrassed. A moment ago his guts had lurched, the sexual pop had almost made him shriek. Now she both angered and bored him; time to extricate himself from the conversation. And be alert. Was that her role in all of this—to divert his attention?

  He used a timeworn escape route. “Well, you know, I mean, maybe … that is…”

  “I honestly believe there’s really no need for anybody anywhere to ever suffer,” she said.

  “Hey!” His head spun around gratefully. “Here comes the bus!”

  * * *

  BATTERED BY TORRENTS of relief, Joe jumped up: saved by The Bell! Then immediately his heart commenced pounding: Peter was going to descend from that vehicle. Carrying a suitcase full of cocaine? Or an airplane flight bag? Or would it be hidden in a tape recorder?

  Veering off the North-South Highway, air brakes whooshing, the Trailways screeched past, traveled down an alleyway and turned around behind the station, then coasted forward to the loading door, facing the highway.

  Joe spun around once, frantically expecting a dozen squad cars, cherry-tops blipping and sirens wailing, to come screeching from all directions to nose-diving halts, pinning him, and Peter as he got off, in the circle of their glaring headlights.

  When the doors hissed open, Joe staggered numbly forward and placed himself ten feet away, directly in front of them, his eyes squinched almost shut, awaiting the fatal bullet. Arms folded, unperturbed, a lit cigarette between her fingers, Nancy
waited nearby, looking real good in a green-and-white-striped jersey, a knee-length denim skirt, and sandals. Sasha kneeled on the Bug’s front hood, fiddling with the windshield wipers. To Joe, the world was deathly silent; the tension was unbearable; he knew the universe was about to shatter.…

  A smallish boy appeared, sleepily rubbing his eyes with one hand, gripping a blue flight bag in the other. To say the least, the kid looked surly. Lacerating Joe with an evil eye, he limped over to Nancy and burrowed his head into her tummy. She hugged him gently but not gushingly as she asked, “How was the plane ride?”

  “Shitty.”

  To Joe, Nancy said, “Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.” She punctuated the saying with an appealing shrug, and, abruptly, he liked her again. With that, Sasha uncorked a jibbering shriek. “Oh dear,” Nancy giggled. “His tail is caught under a wiper.”

  Nobody else got off. Had Peter foreseen the setup and jumped ship early? Perplexed, Joe waited. Then he paced nervously around the outside of the bus, neck craned, trying to see inside. Still, no floodlights sprang aglare: no loudspeakers ordered him to “FREEZE!” And so, taking another portentous deep breath, he entered the vehicle and walked the length of the aisle. But Peter was not on board. Not even in the lavatory, flushing down the cocaine. Outside again, Joe backed away from the bus, staring at it incredulously. He took a few hesitant steps forward again, stopped, shook his head bewilderedly, and finally, facing the deserted highway, he blurted plaintively:

  “You son of a bitch!”

  Nancy had made no move to drive away. She stated the obvious: “Your friend didn’t arrive.”

  “But how could he … but he said … but I talked to him! I talked to him just before he left Philadelphia. He gave me the arrival times and everything. It was all planned.”

  “Maybe he got sick. Have you been at a place where he could reach you by phone?”