The Nirvana Blues

by John Nichols

  Tribby, naturally, scrambled up and down the rope with the blasé dexterity of a monkey.

  Joe whined, “Do I have to?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Aw, shit…”

  Nevertheless, he descended from the Green Gorilla, approached the side of the house, grasped the rope, and winced as terror sheathed his body in clammy goosebumps. Then, seeking to avoid the absolute hysteria that might strike if he overly circumspected the task ahead, Joe jerked himself aloft.

  As he tugged himself painfully along, the soles of his feet went numb; shortly thereafter his calves became deadened. Joe gritted his teeth and would have closed his eyes had he dared. Everest was more human. A whimper, a gasp, a grunt—Joe tried to will himself on high. His fingers grew numb; his head buzzed. After the usual eternity, he found himself at the edge of the crow’s nest, a square box shaped somewhat like an inverted sled, railinged on either side. Two people, in a squeeze, could camp in that rickety coffin.

  “Come on in, Joe. The weather’s great.”

  “Now that I’m up here, how the hell am I gonna get down?”

  “You always ask that question.”

  “I still can’t comprehend why you insist on making the route so dangerous.”

  “It isn’t dangerous. It’s a routine climb. You just think it’s dangerous. But the real peril comes from you projecting fear. I never feel insecure.”

  “Just wait. One night you’ll topple out of this box. We’ll find you in the morning with a broken neck.”

  “If I toppled out right now I’d sail away into the stars. Now look up for a minute, ferme la bouche, and be awed for a change.”

  Joe obeyed. As always, despite his anguish over the precarious rope scene, he was floored by the aerial display. Nothing stood between them and eternity. Though only forty feet aboveground, the pyramid peak seemed light-years closer to the universe. Barely scathed by a polluting atmosphere, the stars sizzled in bold precision. The busy symmetrical beauty of twice as many constellations proclaimed immortality. Meteors, which would have been invisible from a second-story window, zipped through the bewitching clarity. Joe took no stock in the magic of pyramids, but all the same he had to admit …

  Smoke from Tribby’s joint was rich and pungent. One whiff and Joe’s brain slithered sideways—he giggled nervously. “Want a drag?” Tribby asked. Joe declined: one toke would render him insensate and he’d pop free of their hazardous perch, experience a split second of euphoric zero-gravity, then punch against the earth so hard that his brain would squirt out of a split-open skull, zooming across the yard like a sloppy fluorescent softball until it collided against a tree: shplat!

  Tribby said, “What happened at the bus station last night?”

  “All hell broke loose.”

  “I know that, dumbbell. What I mean is, how did you rate the goodies?”

  “You’re not gonna believe this, but Nancy’s monkey picked up one carton of tea.…”

  “And it was in that carton?”

  “How did you know?”

  “Actually, Wilkerson Busbee told me this afternoon. I just wanted to double-check.”

  “How come you talked to him?”

  “I’ve been retained to spring them from the Clarion, Ohio, slammer. Wilkerson had already been briefed by Skipper Nuzum, who learned the details from Natalie. She apparently called Nancy—concerning the logistics of spiriting that imbecilic Hanuman crew from there to here—and I guess she let slip that Sasha had been the hero of that rather convoluted moment.”

  “Sasha—egads. Don’t remind me.”

  “Michael picked some moment to perform his perfidy.”

  “You heard about that already?”

  “Rachel was having coffee in the Prince of Whales when Nancy phoned for help and Nikita Smatterling gallivanted off to the rescue.”

  “Jeesh.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it. Our main problem now is what to do with the dope.”

  “Oy vay!” Joe exclaimed.

  “What now?”

  “I left it in the apartment.”

  “Go back and fetch it.”

  “I can’t. I made an exit.”

  “What sort of exit is worth a hundred thousand dollars?”

  “An emphatic one.”

  “No comprendo.”

  “Don’t try. I’m just sick of being a scatterbrained gangster. I’ll climb back on The Bridge tomorrow.”

  “Heidi won’t do something irrational?”

  “It’s her future as well as my own.”

  “Well … okay. Want me to bring you up to date on some of the more peripheral developments around that land?”

  “No, but go ahead.”

  “Skipper Nuzum dropped by the office today plumb gorged with bile. That shootout last night pushed his panic button. He wants the DA to move on Cobey’s embezzling toot-sweet, as the saying goes. Rumor has it Cobey was one of those deranged depot marauders. So Skipper says it’s time to nail Cobey, double-cross Roger Petrie when he proffers a hand for the payoff, and make Eloy an offer he can’t refuse. Naturally, he assumes you’ll be out of the running.”

  “He doesn’t know you’re helping me unload the coke? Cobey does.”

  “If he did, would I be the first to know?”

  “No, but he wouldn’t keep you on a retainer either, spilling all his plans.”

  “He might. To throw me off the scent, keep me occupied. This way I’m a foil against certain parties while he makes secret moves elsewhere.”

  “You want to hear one of those moves? Earlier today, Skipper stopped me on the road and tried to buy me off. He also assumes Heidi and I will split up, so that even if I land Eloy’s acres I’ll wind up unloading them to pay her off. Then, in about five minutes of fast talking he threatened my life, offered to buy the dope—first, at my original investment, then double that, then he asked me to be front man for him in purchasing the land for an eighteen-grand finder’s fee, plus half my own shit. After that, he said if Nancy Ryan and I tied the knot, they’d make me a stockholder in the Simian Foundation. And he wound up ordering me to hand over the coke gratis and front the land for a ten-percent finder’s fee. All that, of course, is on top of Cobey’s earlier roadside offer to make a deal with Ray Verboten, on my part, for the coke and turn over to me half of whatever he could wrest from Ray. I blew it again trying to neutralize him by coughing up what I know about his plot to grab enough bucks for Eloy’s property by embezzling from Skipper. He left in a huff.”

  “Hmm. Well, that might not hurt us too badly. At least they know we have a few aces up our own sleeves. Cobey I figure we can ignore—though Skipper can’t. In fact, I bet he still won’t muzzle me on the Cobey D. case, even though our cards are on the table.”

  “But that’s crazy—isn’t it?”

  “Like a fox. While I’m preoccupied zapping Cobey and suffering Roger’s sure-to-be-outraged invective, he’s out there plotting with Nikita Smatterling and F. Lee Bailey, for all I’ll know, on how to directly bugger Eloy, with or without your help.”

  “But Eloy won’t jump at his cash if I’m still in the picture.”

  “Without the dope, he figures you’re not in the picture.”

  “But I have the coke.”

  “I know that, you know that, even Skipper knows that. But he’s also aware that you don’t know squat about how to package, much less unload, it. And through Ray Verboten, and other lesser functionaries, the word is already out in the dope hotspots of the Southwest not to touch our scam with a ten-foot reefer. That way, any Chamisaville sale we try will have to be on the black market, and we’ll have to wade through hell to stir even the faintest play. Because anybody who buys from us is telling every other pusher around to go fuck themselves. And Skipper figures that’s as good as if we had no coke at all.”

  “I haven’t pushed a gram, and already I’m blacklisted.”

  “On other fronts, Scott Harrison may or may not have been implicated in the fracas last night.
Regardless, this morning he filed suit in district court against Eloy, figuring he had better move fast to offset the Dallas-Petrie-Nuzum troika. At best, he’ll snarl the property in filibustering litigation so that even if you score the cash, Eloy won’t be able to sell. If that fails, Scott may blow the cocaine whistle on us.”

  “I’ll tell the judge about Scott’s water-rights pact with Roger. That amounts to outright collusion between Roger and Cobey and Scott in the Nuzum embezzlement caper.”

  “Don’t forget, though, that Skipper’s been cooperating with Roger in order to nail Cobey’s ass. They’re all on the take from each other. So if it came down to an actual court fight, they’d all suddenly back off, join hands, and present a united front against you.”

  “I’m not sure I understand the logic, but I suppose that makes sense.”

  “I’ve been mulling over this situation all afternoon, and I’ve finally arrived at a fairly astute analysis of the situation.”

  “Namely?”

  “It’s a can of worms.” Tribby giggled and exhaled iridescent marijuana fumes.

  “I’m not laughing.”

  “But you got to admit it is funny,” Tribby said gently. “It’s like one of those whacky sexual Victorian farces where you can’t tell the players without a program.”

  “To round out the picture, then, maybe you should know this. When I chatted with Eloy this afternoon, he had assumed somebody else won the dope last night, and was planning to rob a bank.”

  “I know.”

  “How could you know that?”

  “In the bar on Saturday night he mentioned it to Diana and she and Rachel got to reminiscing about one thing and another.…”

  Joe said, “This whole crazy shtik is absurd.”

  “I think it’s a rather amusing scenario.”

  “But who stands a chance?” Joe said miserably. “When I start seriously kibitzing the game, I don’t seem to be holding many cards.”

  “One thing I don’t understand is Nancy Ryan’s role,” Tribby mused. “Theoretically, she’s Smatterling’s stooge. When you two got it on, I figured she meant to addle your brain so you couldn’t act. Or to split you and Heidi, thereby rendering the land-purchase pointless. Both of these goals she seems to have achieved without even raising a sweat. But why, then, sic her monkey on the tea box? Without it, you’re not even a twenty-to-one long shot for that property.”

  “You mean you think that bitch seduced me in cold blood just to blow my shot at Eloy’s farm?”

  “Why else would she be doing you up in such style?”

  “Maybe she thinks I’m cute.”

  “Well, I can only look at the developing patterns.”

  “The sex is very heavy.”

  “Bravo.”

  “You’re not impressed?”

  “Not as impressed as I am by the fact that she threw a curve last night by putting the coke back in your hands, when all she had to do was ride out the gunfight on the sidelines and turn the keys to Eloy’s palatial estate over to the Simian Foundation.”

  “You actually figured all along that was the reason she and I started balling?”

  Tribby shrugged. “I got a puzzle. I’m trying to collect pieces and fit them together.” He pointed skyward. “It’s fun, a titillating game. Like drawing lines between all the bright twinkles overhead to make a dipper, a crab, a scorpion.…”

  “Wow.” Joe was momentarily overcome. “It sure is beautiful up there.”

  So they sat, bewildered, placid, thoughtful. Joe said, “I’m beginning to think this whole antic is doomed. I’ll never score that land. It’s crazy. All my life I assumed I had a natural-born right to all the middle-class amenities. I mean, how much is one-point-seven acres and a house of my own just big enough for a four-person family? That’s what capitalism is all about. Every time I click on the TV, or look at magazine ads, there’s a million good-looking Mommies and Daddies and Kiddies and pet Doggies and Kitties leaving a spotless suburban garage in their road-tested, thirty-one mpg, rotary-engine chariots, looking so happy and secure it’s obscene.”

  “But we all know they’re miserable. The promoters just want us to think they’re happy.”

  “If we know they’re unhappy, why do we buy it?”

  “Because we want to be happy, idiot.”

  “But we know beforehand that crap won’t make us happy. So why am I risking my neck—”

  His words slurred, slightly mocking, Tribby said, “Listen, why worry about it? Something will come up. Meanwhile, the adventure makes it all worthwhile. Tomorrow we’ll all meet and devise an infallible plan.”

  “Infallible,” Joe murmured caustically. “Why don’t you smoke another couple dozen joints?”

  “Hey, America is perfect, Joe. We’ll figure out a way.”

  “I dunno. How come I feel so blue?”

  “You got them old Nirvana Blues,” Tribby giggled irreverently. “Things are so good they make you sorrowful.”

  “Tell me about it,” Joe sarcasmed gloomily. And added: “Screw you and your Colombia two-toke.”

  “Did you hear that, Universe?” Tribby guffawed. “Mr. Idealistic here is growing cynical!”

  * * *

  CYNICAL? NOT REALLY.

  Ten minutes later, halfway to Eloy’s land, his single headlight flickered and failed. Joe pumped the brakes, and, several hundred yards farther along, coasted to a stop. As soon as his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, he shifted into first, and continued on steering by starlight. The ghostly landscape of enormous hovering cottonwoods and warm yellow houselights extended a hand of reconciliation. The small snowcap on Hija Negrita burned like a lyrical fire of ice. His brief spell atop the pyramid hadn’t been so bad. In fact, though he hadn’t smoked, Joe felt mildly giddy. He even chortled about his dramatic weighted note. Oh for a photograph of their startled faces! Anthony Quinn had no more Zorbaesque stranglehold on life than did Joe Miniver right now! His blood fluttered like wind-caught daffodils! I wandered lonely as a cloud…! His ego inhabited the coordinated panache of a Romanian gymnast! A magic moment, one of those that occasionally usurped his paranoia no matter how hard he struggled to be wizened and tight-assed, had captured his soul. Joe Miniver cruising down the starlit boulevard in his headlightless Green Gorilla right after a cataclysmic horror show with his rapidly-becoming-ex-family, was a pure rhapsody. Where these natural highs hailed from, he did not know; but God forbid he ever try to look them in the mouth, either!

  Soaring was the only answer.

  A skunk waddled across the road. Silver light glinted off the wings of a veering bat. The nocturnal frog-babble created a summery Christmas sound. Joe wished he could float along, without headlights, on a night like this, forever.

  Slowly, he jounced up the potholed driveway to Eloy’s spread. Geronimo waited patiently in the front field, an ancient argentine apparition. Joe stopped in the middle of the driveway and switched off the ignition. The horse whinnied softly. Both his hands draped over the steering wheel, Joe shut his eyes and sang:

  Tell me why

  The stars do shine.

  Tell me why

  The ivy twines.

  Tell me why

  The sky’s so blue …

  And I will tell you

  Why I love you.

  Then he abandoned the truck. Breaking off a weed, Joe fitted it between his teeth. God that tasted good! He tiptoed up the driveway, praying that he wouldn’t trigger the howls of Eloy’s menagerie. No lights burned in the small adobe. Joe had caught the chihuahuas, turkeys, and geese off guard—nobody made a peep. Her car—Diana’s—was parked in the shadow of the old man’s sagging pickup. She had pitched her tent, right on the edge of Eloy’s six-tree orchard. It was larger than Joe had suspected: a real live-in nylon house that might have slept eight.

  No lights shimmered inside. But when he said, “Diana? Are you in there?,” her whispered reply came back: “Sure. Come on in.”

  Joe unzipped the mesh flaps, and, on
his knees, entered the silken womb. Seated cross-legged on her sleeping bag, wearing only panties and a radiant white T-shirt, Diana was brushing her long hair. Starlight, strained through thin membranes, blurred the highlights in her features, and softened shadows.

  “How did it go?” she asked.

  “All right, I guess. You didn’t have any trouble?”

  “Not a bit. That sweet old man helped me pitch the tent.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “He certainly loves this place.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Guilt over his lust to obtain it punched Joe in the solar plexus.

  “He planted all these fruit trees, and most of the cottonwoods,” Diana said. “And the honey locusts. And the four little aspens years ago. It’s fascinating to hear his stories. When he and his wife built that little house on this land they had barely reached twenty. There wasn’t another house within a mile. He dug that well by hand and lined it with rocks. He’s a funny old guy, really loves to talk. He told me a great story.”

  “Which was?”

  “Well, unlike a lot of old-timers around here, he liked coyotes. In this area they used to run rampant. Sometimes he and his old lady would sneak out before dawn and sit in the apple trees training binoculars on the coyotes when they trotted through the pastureland.”

  “Huh.” Her enthusiastic riff on the old geezer he must soon evict if he came up with the cash to buy the land made Joe queasy. How could he deal honorably with Eloy? The answer, of course, was he couldn’t. Joe wondered petulantly: why was it that God never gave anything even semi-nice, without making you pay for it through the nose?