The Nirvana Blues

by John Nichols

  “So I noticed. Now can we go inside?”

  As she departed the pool ahead of him, a soft lump sailed out of the darkness, landing in the water beside Joe. Startled, he heard a scurrying off in the bushes, a grunt, and scraping sounds as a largish person scaled a wall. And he knew, even before he gave it his attention, what the thing that bumped gently against his tummy would be.

  Another stuffed, popeyed little monkey, of course. And in a note, protected by Saran Wrap, pinned to its furry potbelly, was the usual redundant admonition:

  If this had been a bomb, Joe,

  you’d be eating an eternity sandwich

  right now!

  He had entered the pool raunchy, cool, and cocky—a real bad dude. He exited like a bedraggled kitten somebody halfheartedly had tried to drown. Yet in honor of the Stiff-Upper-Lip Theory of Existence, he maintained an ear-to-ear shit-eating grin—the most painful smile of his life.

  “The water’s too hot, I guess,” he apologized.

  Wrapped in purple terrycloth robes, compliments of the Nuzums, they hurried into the mansion.

  “I didn’t want it in that damn pool anyway. I tried to tell you.”

  An hour earlier, the wall-to-wall white lamb’s-wool rug in the kitchen had triggered in Joe paroxysms of decadent ecstasy: such a thrill (unbeknownst to all those who’d listened to his quasi-Marxist patter) to experience total irresponsibility! But on the trip back his toes curdled against the lavish decadence as he slunk queasily through that citadel of imperialist corruption.

  Her room was a lime-green sanctuary muffled by drapes and another precious carpet on the floor. Kneeling, Iréné pulled an airline satchel out from under the kingdom-sized waterbed. She zipped it open and rummaged through the contents, removing vials of pills, jars of ampules, packets of powder.

  She said, “I hear you’re trying to enter the dope racket. But I suppose it’s just my luck that you don’t toot coke or anything, do you?”

  Helplessly, Joe shook his head. He actually stammered as he asked, “Wh-where did you hear th-that?”

  “Natalie told me you’re sitting on five pounds of pure shit she’s hoping to score for the party tomorrow night. With a load like that you could blow this silly little town to Alaska and back.”

  Morosely, Joe said, “Maybe you better tell Nancy that I think my … uh … ex-wife flushed it down the toilet this afternoon.”

  “You’re kidding.” Her jaw dropped.

  “I don’t know for sure. Maybe she’s lying just to get my goat.”

  “Ray Verboten will kill you both.”

  “You know the man?”

  “I met him this afternoon. What is a greenhorn like you doing trying to play in the big leagues? I had a friend in the Apple, his name was Toby. He got mixed up on the dealing end of some smack. You know what they did when he made an independent move on another man’s turf?”

  Though he felt like a character in a bad TV movie, Joe said, “What?”

  “They gouged out his eyes, punctured his eardrums with knitting needles, shot him point-blank in the forehead with a .357 Magnum, cut off his head and his left hand, and dumped the entire mess on the Gansevoort Pier Halloween night, two years ago.”

  “I’ll be darned.”

  “Well, excuse me a sec, will you? I gotta freshen up.”

  Iréné zipped into the bathroom. Hesitantly, Joe positioned himself in front of the four-paneled dressing-table mirror and gestured obscenely at his traitorous body. Yet, it didn’t look bad. He had good biceps, only minor waist flab, and strong thighs. Though a tiny bit short, his legs were muscular. Same with his hands. He put one behind his back, testing a mono-appended look. His ears could have been smaller. But all in all, for thirty-eight, he looked okay. Not a stud, but no bleep, either. All of a sudden, however, out of a sheer idyll he seemed to be fashioning a disaster. Suppose—God forbid!—that this woman left believing him to be a nerd: impotent, unimaginative, square … maybe even—gasp!—gay? What kind of abysmally cruel overlording factotum out there could play such a joke on this feeble earthling?

  FROM JAWS OF VICTORY, MINIVER SNATCHES SHAME, BLAME, DISGRACE, AND HUMILIATION! “I OFFERED HIM THE MOON BUT HE BLEW IT,” SAYS FRUSTRATED SEX SYMBOL.

  Not to mention, in the late-breaking editions:

  MINIVER BODY, SANS CABEZA, LOCATED IN CHAMISAVILLE ALLEY! HEAD DISCOVERED BY CHILD IN PLAZA DRINKING FOUNTAIN! COPS CITE “TERRITORIAL DISPUTE” AMONG NARCOTICS SUPPLIERS! “HE TOLD ME TO FLUSH IT DOWN THE TOILET,” SAYS WIDOW! LAWYER PAL BARELY SURVIVES MAULING BY TRAINED WILD ATTACK DOGS!

  Iréné reappeared, smiling distantly. Extending a hand, she said, “Let’s go.” Her eyes were funny, wide open yet lopsided. Just as they settled onto the wonderful bed, Joe realized he was way out of his league with this woman, in this house, on this bed.

  Her arms and legs enveloped him. “Now,” she whispered, crudely coy, “we’re going to get it on, you and me. Relax, lighten up, enjoy.”

  But how to relax with a head full of regrets and self-recriminations? Suppose Heidi actually had flushed the coke? She snagged his cock and jerked it roughly until Joe murmured, “Ouch, please don’t.” Self-consciously he tried to generate an erotic drive in himself by kissing her brutally, biting her lips, crushing her tits. Maybe they could sell Natalie a box of talcum powder and use the cash to fly to Brazil? She urged him on breathlessly: “That’s it, come on big boy, hurt me with your teeth, I like that, uh-huh, that’s it, bite me harder.…”

  But the more he tried, the less he succeeded. His teeny nub down there had no feeling whatsoever: in fact, his entire abdomen had gone numb. It wasn’t fun; nor romantic. Suppose that junta in Ephraim Bonatelli’s hospital room chose to throw him off the Gorge Bridge instead? Or forced him at gunpoint to swallow four pounds of Pop Rocks, and then sat there, cackling, as his body exploded?

  Desperately, Joe sucked on her breasts, splashed saliva against her belly, and spent five minutes tongue-gouging her vagina. Enjoying yourself? Heidi leered. Birdy num-num, Joey? Iréné writhed and jammed his face into her pussy, which was every bit as dry as he was limp. “Please, dammit, Joe, I want you to ram it in hard!”

  Hard, already! Heather pointed a mocking finger at him: Oh Daddy, you’re just too weird!

  “In a minute.” Joe surfaced, raising his face even with hers. “Can’t we slow down and be quieter and more considerate? I need to be gentle.” Tears had gathered at his eyes, but she could not notice. As soon as they commenced, Iréné had shut her eyes.

  Incredulous, she said, “Gentle?”

  “Just for a minute. I’ll never get a stiff like this. It feels forced … and self-conscious. I’m sorry.”

  “Whatever you say. You’re the boss.”

  “It’ll be okay soon.” Why wouldn’t she open her eyes and look at him? “I just have to get used to you. You’re so different.” All they needed was a wad of chewing gum in her mouth, and an electric light bulb overhead.

  THE KILLERS KICKED IN THE DOOR, POLICE SOURCES SAY, AND OPENED FIRE WITH TOMMY GUNS, KILLING THEM BOTH!

  “Is something the matter with me, Joe?”

  “No, no, no. I’m just not used to you. You’re very beautiful. And also the sexiest woman I’ve ever been with. You have an incredible body. I feel off-balance, that’s all.”

  “Don’t sweat it.” Her hollow voice came from an insipid, drugged place. Almost feverishly, she toyed with his cock again. “This gig is duck soup.”

  Joe placed his fingers on hers to stay the painful hand job. What Bridge was this he was falling off of—the Verrazano-Narrows?

  “Let me do you,” she urged tensely. “Why are you so uptight?”

  “I don’t know.…”

  Joe gave up, lying back; he stared at the ceiling. Iréné kneeled over him and began to chew, suck, and lick. His heart swelled with a mixture of shame, sadness, despair. He wished to embrace Iréné, holding her protectively, convincing her that it was all right. To avoid enduring another second of this clumsy t
ragic scene he wanted to ask for her hand in marriage, suggest they have a child together, buy a cottage in Wilton, Connecticut, groom the kid for Exeter. Oh Heather, Oh Michael, I hope you never grow up!

  “Come on,” she muttered angrily. “I can arouse this bastard, I know I can. Everybody says I give incredible head.”

  Everybody says!

  But she did. Her teeth never touched. She woggled him in her mouth, doing suction routines he couldn’t believe. She had great teeth—braces as a child? They never nicked him. Tantalizingly, she tickled his nuts. And then she drilled one of those long expert fingers right up his ass.

  Joe arched, released a silent howl, but somehow kept from slugging her. Every pain relay station in his body clanged out four alarms as she reamed his intestine and fellatiated his penis with superstar techniques.

  COPS REVEAL GRECO-HUNGARIAN NOVELIST MOONLIGHTED AS NARCOTICS HIT-PERSON!

  Finally, Joe coughed out: “Stop!”

  “No! Give me two more minutes! I know I can do it! Relax!”

  “You can’t,” he sobbed. “I’m sorry.” Latching onto her head, he forced her mouth away. At last her eyes flew open. Gasping, she blurted, “You … you gibbering dumbbell!”

  “I’m really sorry. It’s all my fault.” His tears meant nothing to her. She was “out of it.”

  “Well, Jesus! Wouldn’t you know it? If they gave out Academy Awards for bad luck I’d have a bathtub full of Oscars.”

  His foot wasn’t inserted quite deep enough into his mouth, however. So Joe gave it a final shove: “It’s crazy. This has never happened before.”

  The look she humiliated him with he richly deserved. “Thanks a lot, pal. You know, you got real class.”

  “I didn’t mean…”

  “I know what you meant. I’ve been around men.”

  “But…”

  “Screw your ‘buts,’ Joe. Get dressed and clear out.”

  “But I can’t leave like this. It’s horrible. It was so wonderful out by the pool. I felt great.”

  “Be brave, sweetie. It happens every day.”

  “But now you probably think I’m a real creep.”

  “‘Probably’?”

  “I had that coming.”

  “Well, you’ve already expressed what you think about me: so we’re even. There’s your clothes. Chop-chop.”

  “If we could only wait a few minutes and calm down. And if you weren’t so rough, or so demanding, I think—”

  “Hey, friend: come on. Don’t waste any more of our precious time.”

  Forever after Joe would remember this moment as the end of his sexual career. Anger hit with a rush and he almost fainted. For a split instant he considered attacking her: he wanted no witnesses. I’ll knock her down, commit rape, and then—using the small marble lamp on the bedside table—I’ll beat her brains to a pulp. The thought lasted for only a second, yet during that time he actually gestured in her direction. What followed, accompanied by an explosion of breathlessness that immediately rendered him a cripple who couldn’t have raped for a million dollars, was a sensation of utter disgrace. Emotionally he would never be able to live down a self-induced beating like this.

  Would she, Joe wondered, self-consciously yanking up his trousers, tattle to Natalie about their lurid nonadventure? If so, he was a goner. It would take eight minutes for Natalie to telephone her first thirty friends. He’d never be able to look another pal, or lover, in the eye again.

  Dressed, buttoning his cuffs, Joe pleaded, “Look, I’m really sorry. I blew it. I’m ashamed. I wanted you too much. I was too excited. I don’t know how else to explain it. I don’t have much experience in these things. I only left home three days ago.”

  She faced him briefly, looking empty and bored. “Oh, it’s okay. What the hell. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.” Then she turned her back on him, sauntered over to a closet, opened the door, and retrieved a large object from inside.

  Joe was flabbergasted. “What is that?”

  “Don’t you know?” She held up the life-size inflatable Japanese creation for his edification. “It’s called a Darling Don. He’s a companion piece to their female creation.”

  Barely able to see, Joe fled, looking for blaze marks to guide him back toward the life he had almost lost.

  * * *

  THE BUS WAS IDLING. Yet where to go? Not home, not after this evening’s debacle. They probably had bureaus, chairs, maybe even the refrigerator stacked against the door in case he returned. From now until a divorce decree became final, he and Heidi would probably communicate solely through their lawyers.

  And as for Nancy…? Right now Joe was convinced that he would never make love again.

  Diana’s tent, then. But if she had awakened at any time between his abrupt departure and his return to find herself stone-cold alone just minutes after their liltingly potent assignation, chances were she’d be awaiting him with her gun cocked.…

  A rational solution, perhaps, to all his problems.

  The crotchety engine idled noisily. Like a heartless gangster, loneliness attacked his vulnerable chakra points. Half-frozen Bowery bums wrapped in urine-soaked weekend editions of the New York Post had nothing on Joe Miniver, a formerly compassionate garbage man, cheerful father of two, and semi-decent husband of one, who had unaccountably lost his way, a syndrome which was no more tenable for being (apparently) the good old American Way.

  What self-destructive catalytic enzyme had been triggered last Saturday night? And why? If only he could prove the adventure was worth it. If only the value of his losses had been replaced by emotional, spiritual, and physical accumulations of similar worth. But the ledger was a mess. “I break our hearts, therefore I am.” An American Descartes in Swingler City. “If only Peter had gotten off that bus!” But Peter, having hay-makered Julane’s jaw, had enough troubles of his own.

  What was happening to everybody? Hey God (you nonexistent werewolf!), I don’t see any sensible pattern emerging from this anarchical circus of Boschian dingle-prancers with red roses flopping out their assholes, bells on their dunce caps, and nasty crab-pincers attached to their colorful breechclouts! Trapped in eggshells of ego, and shivering under the shadowy spell of leering angels flapping pterodactyl wings, they eat strawberries with drugged malevolence, crying “Help!”

  That does it, Heidi shrieked. Joe Miniver, the world’s greatest vapid-mouth!

  The farcical turmoil of his past few days twitched before his eyes like the cardboard pictures in a nickelodeon. Apprehensive and awkward nude women struggled to free themselves from enormous enveloping sheets. Out of their open mouths poured miniature kids covered with blood, and tiny smashed looms, trailing pretty fibers. Carnations snowed into traffic jams. Balancing dichromates on all his fingers, top-hatted Spumoni Tatarsky pirouetted in a circus arena: he was surrounded by guitarists, tennis players, joggers, fugitives from learning, and prissy PhDs. Siddhartha this and Nikita that cantered onstage, flying guru kites on silver strings. Every seventh person wandering through the carnival was a mysterious, trenchcoated Nick Danger arriving from nowhere … bound for oblivion, clutching a tattered suitcase. Hands flailed, tearing off spiffy clothes. Silly pink bodies wiggled and squirmed, screwing each other. Helicopters zigzagged overhead, dangling large grappling hooks, trying to snag priceless granite idols. Lawyers meandered, tapping shoulders, collecting money. Ipus, Baldinis and Baba Ram Bangs and noisy dwarfs in chartreuse jumpsuits tumbled along chaotically, sniffing incense and tooting coke. “Biff, bam—thank you ashram!” Grapefruits fell out of the sky, smashing emphatically on poolside tiles. Key words? How about equity, love, sex, coke, space, death, cosmic, spiritual, and pornography?

  For starters.

  Off to the side, leaning against his shovel and amusedly looking on, stood Eloy Irribarren, a little white-haired old man who could have been God.

  Joe shifted (grind! clunk! grate!) into first and tarried no longer at the Nuzums’ Tara.

  He puttered through the deserted str
eets of the little city. Steam snaked eerily from dozens of construction pits, sewer-line breaks, gratuitous holes in the ground. What kind of fool would burn all his bridges before consolidating a trump card for his new future? For perpetuating the myth of the Zipless Fuck, Erica Jong ought to be lined up against the wall and castigated severely by means of dumdum bullets, steel-jacketed slugs, and other lethal projectiles.

  Sex. Violence. Cocaine.

  Joe drew a weary breath. His glazed eyes canvassed the darkened town. Caught in a commercial riptide, even at 2:00 A.M. Chamisaville’s stores sizzled in an orgy of sputtering neon. Sourpuss cops glared at him from their dented cruisers. Everywhere he turned a law officer scowled: idling beside the Tastee-Freez, circling the First State People’s Jug, shining flashlights into the glass-and-girder mess of Safeway’s abuilding southern branch. Cars were still parked in front of Heavenly Bodies, the new topless disco joint. Lavishly chromed late-model vehicles mingled with a few old pickup trucks in front of Irving Newkirk’s X-rated lodging enterprise, the Sexational Porn-atel. Inside, couples gallivanted on Magic Fingers beds while watching Deep Throat on closed-circuit TV. Intrigued by such sin, Joe had never dared spend a night, even though he and Heidi had joked about it occasionally. Now (and forevermore?) he had no more desire. The lure, merely lurid, was dead for him, dissolved.

  Curiosity had killed this cat.

  Joe mewed plaintively and swung into the 7-Eleven parking lot: he braked near the outdoor public telephone. After first casting about for muggers dressed in black and wearing rubber monkey masks, he dialed home. Heidi’s groggy voice interrupted the eighth ring: “Jesus Christ, you son of a bitch, who’s this?”

  “Me—Joey. Heidi—”

  She hung up on him.

  He located two more dimes and redialed. This time she pleaded with him: “Joey, what time is it? I’m exhausted. I’ll bail you out in the morning. G’night.…”

  “Heidi, I’m not in jail!”

  “Thank God for small favors. Now seriously, call again in the—”