by Tim Sandlin
Bing says, “Back track.”
“You claim you were raised by apes and yesterday was the first time you’ve stepped outside the San Diego Zoo Safari Park. I realize this is Southern California, but that hardly seems possible.”
Bing picks a substance from his nose, examines it closely, rubs it off on the microphone sock, and says, “If a thing is, then it must be possible. Why of the sheep do you not learn peace?”
Turk blinks. Rosemary types. Mitchell thinks about it.
“How wise you are,” Turk says. “Beyond your years and experience. Tell me, Bing, does your power of healing come directly from God?”
Bing looks to Rosemary again, as if asking a question. She points at the ceiling. He looks up at the ceiling and says, “I do not fathom God.”
“Who does? But what we want to know is this: What is your personal relationship with God?”
“I heard the word God yesterday, in the afternoon, but Rosemary did not define for me. Is this a primate?”
Turk stares hard at Bing. He’s done with blinking. “Never heard the word God. What are you, some freak of nature?”
Bing puts a finger on his chin, mimicking Dr. Lori. “Terror in the house does roar, but pity stands before the door.”
Turk allows five seconds of dead air. He’s not afraid of silence over the radio. It’s how he manipulates his listeners into listening. “Do you know the word spiritual?”
Bing shakes his head No.
“Our audience can’t see you, Bing. You’ll have to speak aloud.”
Bing says, “I have not been told that word.”
“What about soul?”
Bing puckers his lips and lifts himself up and down on the stool. He’s got this one. “My friend, Rosemary, works at Soul.”
“And you, no doubt, read it on the sign in front of our Centered Soul studio.”
Bing stops bouncing. His eyebrows knot. “I cannot read.”
“What’s this then?”
“I can only see and smell and hear. Sometimes touch. I cannot read.”
Turk leans back away from the microphone. He reads Rosemary’s notes, shaking his head, rejecting them. He comes back to the microphone, ready to wrap this up.
“Either you have lived an unbelievably sheltered life, or you are the biggest liar I have had the opportunity to come across.”
“Most days are used outside of buildings, away from shelter, so I must be the other.”
Rosemary gives up on typing. The careful observer, such as Mitchell who is more alert to Rosemary next to him in the booth than the guys in the studio, might notice a change in Rosemary’s aspect. It is in the way she regards Bing, a subtle transference of wonder from one man to the other. Bing’s lack of defense mechanisms makes Rosemary crave to defend him.
Turk drums his fingers on the console counter. “Tell me truth, Bing,” he purrs in his best radio tones. “Are you for real?”
Bing crosses his arms, holding himself by the elbows, and he rocks on his stool. He says, “Great things are done when Men and Mountains meet. This is not done by jostling in the street.”
Rosemary inhales deeply. This is more than she bargained for.
38
Near the finish of the interview, Bing comes to the realization that he should make water. He’s never been big on holding past the first urge because he’s never had to hold past the first urge. He generally goes where he is. He knows away from the zoo, surrounded by Outies, he can’t just go where he stands. Only non-human animals go where they stand.
So, as soon as Turk says, “Stay tuned tomorrow for more on this modern day Messiah,” and goes away and Mitchell walks in to retrieve the headphones from his ears, Bing says, “Toilet.”
Mitchell tells him down the hall two doors. He also says, “Great job with Turk. I loved what you said about the sheep.”
Bing says, “Thank you.” He takes pride in being a polite boy. He looks through the glass at Rosemary who is biting her lower lip and peering at her computer. She isn’t looking at him.
Bing says, “I must go now.”
He stands before the urinal with his pants at his ankles, thinking about Betty and Kano. He wonders if Dr. Lori misses him, or even if she knows he’s gone. He wonders what a freak of nature is. He saw a two-headed meerkat once, but it only lived three days. It was baby mouse small and bald. Why would Turk compare him to that?
When he left the zoo, he had no conceptions of outside, so he shouldn’t feel disappointed by it, even though he is. True, he isn’t covered with boils. No one has killed him dead or forced him to be carnal against his wishes. It could be worse. Yet, he had expected more. Rosemary had been right when she said whatever Dr. Lori told him about outside was mistaken, but, even so, whatever Rosemary told him about outside was equally mistaken. They are either both liars or even though they live there they don’t know what outside is like.
The restroom door opens and Persephone enters. She is resplendent. The only word for it, although not a word Bing knows, so he only thinks, Wow. Scarves layered over scarves. Long plum-colored skirt to the floor. Silk belt. Enough jewelry to sink a rowboat.
“Bing,” she oozes. “I shall now examine you.”
When Bing swings toward her his urine stream streaks across her velour skirt.
She looks down at the line across her skirt and says, “I am soiled.”
Bing says, “No. Urine. Dr. Lori instructed me in proper indoor voiding.” Meanwhile his stream is being spent on the floor tile. “She claimed females would not violate the sanctity of the male toilet, and, in exchange, I must not violate the sanctity of the female toilet. It is a social contract.”
Persephone steps away from the splatter. “I need to feel your forehead with none of the others to witness.”
Bing finishes his business and tucks. Dr. Lori had been quite frank about the importance of the tuck.
Persephone says, “I wish to determine the physical lineage of your regressions.”
“What would be the purpose of doing such a thing?”
“It is of tantamount importance to formulate what bodies you have inhabited before this manifestation. They say you are Chosen. That you have come to California to straighten out the mess.”
“I see no mess.”
“I was present at the miracle. I know you are a being at a level above commonality and now I must discover how far above. Prophet or savior? John the Baptist or Jesus? We can’t have the rabble worshipping a false god.”
“There is that word again.”
She moves toward Bing and lifts her heavily blinged hand toward his face. Alarmed, he backs into the urinal.
“This will cause no discomfort, Bing. You will feel naught but a soothing warmth emanating from my fingertips.”
Bing is so far back his trousers are getting damp. “Do not touch my face.”
Persephone advances. “Do not be silly, my young man.”
As she reaches to touch his forehead, Bing bites her on the soft tissue between her thumb and fingers.
Persephone yelps. “Shit fire!”
Bing drops on all fours. He bares his teeth and howls. As Persephone back away, he bluff charges, stopping before ripping her apart.
She begs. “Please, don’t kill me.”
Bing realizes his mistake — inappropriate aggression. A crime worthy of shunning. He flops on his back and presents his belly to her.
This frightens Persephone all over again. “What are you doing?”
From his position of submissive exposure, Bing bleats. He says, “Punish me, if you wish. I deserve pain for my loss of civilization.”
“I don’t want to punish you. I want to study you.”
“Can you study me without touching my face?”
Persephone’s hands flutter from scarf to scarf, adjusting them into more controllable positions. “I’ll do my best.”
Bing is cheerful once more. He has avoided punishment. “Okay.” He flops back over. He stands up and grins at Persephone. �
��What would you wish to know?”
39
Mitchell and Sister Starshine stand on the walk in front of the radio station. It is evening. The air is cool enough to be pleasant but not cool enough for a jacket. It’s that moment when birds seem to take a ten-minute break between the day and night shifts. Mitchell smokes a skinny cigarette that is supposed to be low tar while Sister Starshine drinks Royal Crown Cola from a 64-ounce cup she got for free at a Star Trek convention. Her Hawaiian shirt has perspiration stains in the pits. Her feet are swollen.
“You think these people believed in something else yesterday?” Mitchell says. “Or is this new?”
Sister Starshine regards the crowd gathered across the street — maybe forty-five people in a mix of old, young, poor, not-quite-poor, and sick. Lots of sick. If they represent any demographic group it would be the subset that spends money on lottery tickets.
“They followed a different path yesterday,” she says, “and another one six months ago. I recognize a couple of them from my personal appearances at holistic street fairs. They think if they find the correct faith, they won’t be miserable.”
Mitchell draws deep on his cigarette. He flicks ash to the sidewalk. “Hard to see that bunch as being anything more than desperate.”
Turk Palisades slides out the Centered Soul smoked glass door, one hand slapping his breast pocket for sunglasses he wears even in the low light of dusk and the other hand checking text messages.
He glances across at the crowd and says, “What now?”
Mitchell nods to the clump of humanity milling around in front of a Starbucks. “Bing’s followers.”
Sister Starshine points out a small group on the left, spilling into the Starbucks parking. These folks have lawn chairs and coolers. A dog on a leash is tied to a truck camper bumper. They’re here for the long run.
“The ones yonder claim to be chosen apostles. They’re more important than the disciples because they were all present at the miracle.”
Mitchell says, “I don’t recall but a dozen people at the miracle, not counting the bad boys and us. Some of this bunch are lying.”
Turk stares at the apostles, thinking all of them are lying. He takes pride in his memory and he doesn’t remember any of these pitiful people from California Pizza Kitchen. His mind whirs with possibilities. It only takes a handful of zealots to spark a movement. Turk aspires to leading a movement.
“What’s with the wheelchair brigade?” he asks.
“They think Bing can cure them,” Sister Starshine says.
The sick clump aren’t followers or apostles. They’re people whose last hope is a miracle. Those who can hold posters they drew with Magic Markers and Sharpies. THROAT CANCER — PLEASE HAVE MERCY; BLIND SINCE BIRTH; AIDS VICTIM (NOT GAY).
Turk takes his sunglasses back off to see them more clearly. “Didn’t they listen to my interview? The ape boy can’t read.”
Mitchell flips his butt into the gutter where it rests next to a pile of Mitchell butts. He always smokes one cigarette a day, when he gets off. That’s because he can’t smoke at work and he can’t smoke at home where he lives with his mother. Or in the car. Or anywhere but out front of Centered Soul.
He says, “There’s contagious terminals over there. I’m afraid to walk through them.”
Turk pulls out a comb he bought from Barney’s on Wilshire. Combing his hair straight back helps Turk think big concepts. It’s a trigger routine.
“Don’t be a doubter, Mitchell. If you catch a disease we’ll have Bing run his hands over you and make it all well. No problem.”
He stares at the crowd, his mind afire with possibilities. He loves the feel of the comb passing through his hair. This is the inspiration he’s waited for.
“Miracles are good,” he says. “I can use miracles.”
40
The next morning Rosemary awakens alone under her grandma’s quilt in her double bed in her room in the small house. She stretches, admiring the soft sunlight on her lemon-colored wall. There are many ways to divide humanity into two groups and many people would perform that operation — those who love Disney World and those who hate Disney World, for example. We have hundreds more examples. Those who drink coffee; those who don’t. Those who watch “American Idol;” those who would rather snort Drano. One way of dividing humanity is those who wake up feeling okay and those who wake up feeling like crap. The two sets often switch out within a half hour, but there’s a fairly deep gap in that first five minutes between glad-to-be-alive and not-so-sure.
Rosemary tends to wake up feeling refreshed and hopeful. It must be genetic because there is little in her life that should motivate morning happiness. It’s only a couple minutes later when she recalls her sister’s condition and global warming and dying sea mammals that her heart plummets. But, that first few breaths after awakening is enough joy to keep her going.
On this morning, Rosemary awakens alone and it takes a short time to recall that she didn’t fall asleep alone. She fell asleep next to Bing in her dorky pajamas, hogging the bed and acting out dreams with his limbs.
Rosemary gets up, throws on her flowered bathrobe, and moves out into the living room separated from the kitchen by a sternum-high counter. The open area theory of design.
She sees no Bing, but the front door is open wide. Rosemary clinches her robe tightly to her waist and steps out onto the porch. The dawn is cooler than she’s used to — Rosemary isn’t an outside at the first crack woman — and the light is gentle, as if seen through several layers of Saran Wrap. She looks both ways up and down the block, seeing no movement. A car idles in the driveway two houses down, but no one is in or near it. Someone, somewhere out of sight, is mowing their lawn at first light, which always pisses Rosemary off no end.
She steps from flagstone to flagstone until she reaches the street, then she looks back at her own house. Bing is on the roof, still wearing the silk pajamas.
Rosemary walks back toward the house. She shades her eyes with her hand, looking up at him.
“What are you doing on my roof?”
Bing leans over the edge to see her. His legs dangle. He has on the engineer’s cap and her coral necklace that he didn’t ask to borrow. “You can see me then?”
“Of course, I see you.”
“In the zoo, you wouldn’t have seen me.”
Rosemary does a 360 to check if anyone is watching. Across the street, a woman with her hair in electric curlers opens her door and picks up a newspaper from her flowerbed. She glances at Rosemary and Bing but she doesn’t react. This is an American suburb. If your neighbor does something weird, you ignore him. No judgment calls here.
Rosemary waits for the woman to go back inside, then she says, “You’re in plain sight. How could you think people will look at you and not see you.”
The concept saddens Bing. Invisibility has always been a constant in his life. “I don’t know. I’m used to people not noticing.”
“Maybe it’s the pajamas.” Rosemary doesn’t believe this but she doesn’t want Bing upset either. “They stick out.”
Bing starts to unbutton the top. “I’ll take them off.”
“Don’t do that. People will notice if you sit on my house naked. They’ll call the police.”
“Oh.” Bing looks up and down the street, as if expecting the police. He’s seen police before. The come into the zoo and handcuff drunks and pocket pickers. He avoids them.
“What are you doing up there? Rosemary asks.
“I’m thinking.”
“You had to go up on my rooftop to think?”
“I think better above dirt.”
“What are you thinking about?”
“I’m thinking about Dr. Lori.”
Rosemary doesn’t want to hear this. She is afraid Bing will get homesick and ask her to take him back before he’s fixed Sarah. She wouldn’t blame him for being homesick. The world must be strange to someone raised in a zoo.
“What about Dr. Lori?”
> Bing pokes at bugs in the rain gutter. They’re dead. He prefers live. He isn’t yet reduced to eating dead bugs. That’s only for when he is extremely hungry.
“I’m wondering if she uses the toilet.”
“Yes, Bing. Dr. Lori uses the toilet.”
“Persephone disturbed my toilet time yesterday and I concluded I’ve never seen Dr. Lori use the toilet. I’ve never seen any female human void. Dr. Lori taught me proper procedure, but she didn’t show me how females do it.” He stares down at Rosemary, as if picturing the process. “They don’t have penises, you know.”
“I know that one.”
“I’m wondering if they go.”
Rosemary almost smiles, picturing the woman in the hot curlers sitting at her window, eavesdropping. What would she make of the conversation? No doubt she is working out the words for posting it on her blog.
“Everyone uses the toilet, Bing. Even females. Even Dr. Lori.”
Bing considers. “How do you know? Have you seen Dr. Lori go?”
“I have not seen Dr. Lori go, but she eats food and drinks water. Anyone who eats and drinks has to get rid of the extra somehow, and they do it by pooping and peeing. Everyone, Bing. It’s the law of nature.”
“Even fish?”
“Even fish.”
Bing stares off at the horizon he can see between houses. The sun is fully up now. He can hear freeway noises in the distance, although Rosemary can’t, or at least, she isn’t aware of them. She’s heard the faraway freeway too long to know she’s hearing it.
Bing appears lost in deep thoughts. He says, “I wonder if Dr. Lori does.”
41
Rosemary’s doorbell rings. Insistently. Several times — although chimes might be a more exact description than rings. Whoever is punching her button is not accustomed to killing time in front of closed doors. There’s little to distract the mind from Rosemary’s porch. No doubt whoever is punching the doorbell has, by now, pulled out an electrical device and is checking messages, news, or scores. People in a hurry can no longer be expected to suffer more than five seconds without input.