by Tim Sandlin
“I hope that is not true. I don’t see how love can hate.”
Mitchell parks in the employee lot and he and Turk hustle Bing through the back door. A crack addict who has been living in the station Dumpster for two weeks because he wants Bing to cure him sees Bing’s arrival and scurries around the building to the street to alert the smattering of followers who have already started arriving and are pissed off.
Once through the door, Turk says, “Set up the booth. We’re going live.”
Mitchell peels off one direction. Turk yanks Bing the other.
Turk says, “Let’s see how you handle damage control, kid.”
“Am I damaged?”
69
Bing doesn’t lick the microphone this time. He’s experienced with studios now, especially this one, so he knows what is expected. The host talks. He listens. He answers. Sometimes the host listens to the answer but usually not. Usually the host is working on the next question and doesn’t care what the answer is.
Mitchell is in the booth. Bing can see him flipping switches, turning knobs, adjusting his headset. They are interrupting a Sister Starshine prerecorded show about foods in the fourth dimension. Sister Starshine is interviewing a woman with a loud voice who claims macadamia ice cream soothes the soul and bring a person into the bosom of the Godhead. That’s the word — Godhead. Bing wants to ask Turk how a Godhead relates to God. He’s been learning about God by listening to Rosemary’s radio, and, as Bing understands the theory, God has no body, much less a bosom, to stick a head on. He wants to ask, but Turk is too intense to approach. His eyes crackle. It isn’t a time for questions.
After the next commercial — body salve for the restless chi — Turk jumps in with no words as to why Sister Starshine and the ice cream woman stopped in mid-conversation. Turk says he is bringing a special report on the death of young Sarah Faith in Balboa Park this afternoon. He explains a bit of background — Bing, the zoo, the miracle of California Pizza Kitchen — but mostly he figures his listeners know who Bing is and what happened at the park. Turk assumes the audience up and down the network has turned off their televisions by now and is waiting word as to what to believe.
Turk wraps up the introduction and jumps right into it with Bing. “You told the world you are the coming of the new Messiah, and we believed in you. I believed in you.”
Bing has been turning his cap inside out and back again, but he stops. “You said Messiah, Mr. Palisades. I didn’t know the word –”
Turk cuts him off. “And now you’ve killed Sarah Faith. Here’s what I want to know — why? Why did you cause the death of an innocent, beautiful girl? Her condition was painful, yet not life-threatening. She might have lived for years had you not told everyone you could cure her.”
Behind Mitchell, the booth door swings open and Rosemary enters, followed by Persephone and Sister Starshine. They stand at the soundboard, staring through the glass at Bing. Rosemary’s face is splotched with purple streaks. Her eyes are wet red. She’s a mess. Persephone and Sister Starshine appear to be holding her upright.
Bing looks for a connection between himself and Rosemary. He doesn’t see one.
Turk says, “Stop picking your nose, Bing, and answer the question.”
“I do not recall a question.”
“Did you plan to kill Sarah, before you put on that circus act out at the park?”
Rosemary leans forward. Her face is a brick wall.
“I did not plan Sarah’s death,” Bing says. “I planned to stop her pain.”
Turk snorts derision. “You chose a hideous method of stopping pain.”
Bing tries to smile at Rosemary. She doesn’t respond. He would give whatever he has to get a sign of recognition from her, but she gives no indication she has ever seen Bing before. Mitchell reaches up to touch her shoulder. She doesn’t react to him either.
Bing says, “I did what Sarah wanted.”
Turk writes a note to himself on a pad of paper. He brought a sheaf into the studio before the interview. Now, he shuffles through the pages, as if looking for a clue. “You expect us to take on faith that Sarah asked you to kill her.”
“I don’t fathom faith except as her name. And Rosemary’s.”
Turk’s hand slams the console, making Bing jump. “I am sick of your false stupidity. You know what faith means. You know much more than you ever let on. From the beginning, I suspected the innocent animal shtick was nothing but an act.”
“Sarah wished to be cured of her disease. If that was not possible, she wished for the other.”
“Death?”
Bing nods.
“I told you before, our listeners cannot see you, Bing. Did you or did you not know Sarah would die from your miracle?” He sneers the word miracle.
“We thought she might.”
“We? You and Sarah or you and someone else?”
“Sarah. She thought she had to leave. I thought she might get to stay, she might be okay after, but I was wrong. She had to go to get better.”
Rosemary blinks. Bing wants to speak to her, to be with her without glass between the two of them. He is afraid that she doesn’t want what he wants and that she might not want it for a long time. She hasn’t taught him enough about being love for him to know if it can be taken away. It doesn’t seem possible, but he doesn’t know. Dr. Lori never taught him about love.
Turk shuffles through the papers on the table. He pretends to be looking for something, but he isn’t. He knows where he will go next.
“I want you to listen to these lines from William Blake’s notebooks. You are familiar with William Blake’s notebooks, I take it?”
“I do not read.”
“We’ll see about that.” Turk reads. “Why of the sheep do you not learn peace? Sound familiar?”
Bing remembers. “I said that on your radio program.”
“You admit it then.” Turk flips to the next page. “Terror in the house does roar, but pity stands before the door. Great things are done when Men and Mountains meet. This is not done by jostling in the street.”
Turk looks up and over at Bing. Bing waits.
Turk says, “Well?”
Bing says, “That’s an interesting question.”
“The Gospel According to Bing Bonobo was lifted from William Blake. Every word of it,” Turk says. “I did not know.”
“How can that be possible? You did not know.”
“I have not met Mr. Blake.”
“You expect us to believe that you and the great English poet from over two hundred years ago just happened to say the same lines.”
Bing twists his cap back right-side out and puts it on his head. He crosses his legs at the thighs, then he twines his arms together like two snakes. “I heard someone else say those things.”
“So you admit you stole your entire spiritual philosophy?”
“Is it stealing to repeat?”
“It is if you pass the wisdom off as your own.” Turk rests his weight on one elbow and pivots on his microphone to move physically into Bing’s space. “Face it, monkey boy, you are a fraud. A swindler. A false prophet and now a murderer.”
70
Bing’s eyes never leave Rosemary. Does she believe the words Turk is speaking? It’s important to Bing to know. Does Rosemary believe? By watching closely, he can see a quiver in her nostrils. She’s only five feet away, even if there is soundproof glass between them. He can make out the pupils in her eyes. He can see a faint rise in her chest. Rise and fall, in short breaths. Her hair covers her ears. Bing wishes he could see Rosemary’s ears. He could tell something of her thoughts by the color of the top arc. That’s the spot where Rosemary hides her true emotions.
Turk continues the onslaught. “Your obsession with being a religious mystic turned you into a monster.”
“No.”
“You wallowed in the glory of disciples and apostles. I saw you watching yourself on You Tube. The insatiable craving for attention. You are nothing but a cheap
clown.”
“That is true.” The word clown strikes a memory. “Rosemary said I should not allow you to use me as your clown, but I did.”
Turk glances into the booth at Rosemary. “Yes, Rosemary Faith. The victim’s sister.”
“Rosemary and I are love. She said you might use me to increase your numbers.”
Turk’s mouth twitches, somewhat like a jaguar on stalk. He looks from Bing to Rosemary and back. He runs his fingers through his hair.
“Here’s the truth.” Turk’s voice drips sarcasm. He is a master when it comes to dripping sarcasm. “Son.” He pauses to let that word sink in. “Rosemary sprang you from the zoo for the single purpose of healing her sister. Rosemary never cared for you. She never even liked you. You are nothing to her but a medical device. A medical device that failed.”
Rosemary stands rigid in time. Persephone rests a hand on her arm now, and Sister Starshine is watching her instead of Turk, but Rosemary herself has the lifeblood of a wax figurine. Bing wants to scream and run to her like a child to its mother when the car door is slammed on the child’s fingers. He can’t. Rosemary is both the mother and the car door.
“Rosemary used you a hundredfold more than I did,” Turk says. “I promised to make you famous. She promised love. Well, now, Bing, old sport, you’re famous. I came though on my end of the bargain. You are famous for being a fool.”
Bing stands up.
Turk says, “I delivered my promise, and, if you dream Rosemary loves you, you’re an even bigger fool.”
Bing walks away. As he opens the studio door, he hears Turk go into his purr voice.
“This is Turk Palisades, coming to you from the Centered Soul Spiritual Network, where we bring you the truth and nothing but the truth, twenty-four hours a day.”
Bing goes out and quietly closes the door.
71
Bing can’t find the proper door. The booth is right next to the studio, so it can’t be but one door away, only there’s a corner in the hallway and when he goes around the turn he gets his sides mixed up. The first door he opens looks like a decontamination chamber. The second, a toilet. Then, he gets it right.
Persephone still has her hand on Rosemary’s arm. Mitchell is standing instead of sitting. Sister Starshine is digging into her huge bag of a purse. Rosemary has slumped forward to rest her forehead on the glass. When Bing enters, they all turn his way.
He steps toward Rosemary, hoping to touch her. One look at her eyes puts a stop to that idea.
Bing says, “Are Turk’s words a true statement?”
Rosemary crosses her arms over her ribcage. “That you are a fraud, a swindler, and a murderer. Yes, I would say those words are true.”
“That you do not like me. That you took me from Dr. Lori for your own use and not because you care what becomes of me.”
Rosemary hesitates, as if weighing her answer. “I took you from Dr. Lori for Sarah. Do you think I was nice to you because of the charming way you scratch your anus?”
“You jumped my bones.”
Mitchell clears his throat.
Rosemary says, “I did what I had to to save Sarah.”
“You said we are love.”
“I thought you could help Sarah. I was wrong.”
Bing holds his hands to the sides of his head, like the monkey in the hear-no-evil poster. “We are not love?”
Rosemary lifts her chin. She stares straight into Bing’s eyes. “Of course I don’t love you.”
Bing drops his arms and slumps to the floor. His face loses color. He feels nausea as the room swirls.
“You are not human,” Rosemary says. “No woman is going to love an ape.”
72
Bing lies on the studio floor, more or less fetal. His trunk, arms, and head are fetal, but his legs are splayed like a blown hairpin. He isn’t weeping. He is trying his best to be invisible. He misses invisibility. Where did it go? All he wants is to disappear.
Cowboy boot steps cross the room and stop before his eyes. Mitchell says, “Get up, man. You’re embarrassing yourself.”
Bing makes it back to his feet. The women haven’t moved. Sister Starshine still has her hand in her bag. Bing tries to picture what she was digging for when he came in, but he fails. Rosemary still stares at him, a blank, unblinking slate.
Bing sniffs loudly, like snorting up his life, and turns for the door.
In the reception area, he sits on the tile and takes off his jellies. He sniffs them both, one at a time. They still smell like warm rubber, only now they’ve absorbed a salty, dirty foot odor. Bing licks the right shoe. He wants to chew it and he would have two weeks ago, but now a secretary has come out of an office and is staring down at him. Bing has changed. He no longer feels comfortable chewing dirty shoes in front of strangers.
Bing gets up again. He passes the jellies to the secretary who holds them away from her body, as if he has handed her a dead rat. He walks outside where he is hit first by a spotlight and second by trash.
Tuna fish on pita bread bounces off Bing’s neck followed by a cold Starbucks venti to the chest. Blinded by the light, Bing raises his hands to cover his eyes. The crowd takes this sudden arm movement as aggression and falls back, jeering. Cat-calling. Killer. Judas. False prophet! Only in California would a mob cry out False prophet!
Bing spins away from the light to face the door. He scrapes tuna off his Armani collar, but he can hear them closing in again. A woman yells Asshole! Rosemary called him asshole back at the park. The boy with the dead dog called the motorcycle ride asshole. What can it mean in this context? He knows an asshole is the place feces comes from, but why he should be one is mind boggling. He takes a half brick to the back. It doesn’t hurt, but it does stun him into action.
Bing turns left and walks. The spotlight follows, as do his disillusioned disciples. The ones that aren’t furious are weeping. A woman in stiletto heels and a fur vest has tears streaking black down her face. It’s hard to say which group — angry or sad — troubles Bing most. He’s never considered that any action of his would affect strangers. The emotion strikes him harder than the trash.
After a few steps, Bing drops his knuckles to the sidewalk. He can cover more ground this way. A TV reporter — not Jazmine — appears at his side. Male, tucked-in dress shirt and pressed trousers. Canvas shoes. Haircut close on the sides and back but spiked on top. He holds a wireless microphone in his right hand.
“How must it feel knowing you are the most hated man in San Diego?
Bing stops moving.
“Or all Southern California. Heck, we might be hard pressed to find a human in the United States more reviled than you tonight.” The reporter glances back at his cameraman and spotlight holder, giving the audience a confidential smirk. “Do you have a statement to make?”
Bing grunts and bares his fangs.
The reporter says, “Whoa, there.”
Bing bluff charges. The reporter holds the microphone like a light saber, Bing rips it out of the reporter’s hand and spits it out on the sidewalk. The reporter backpedals until he falls off the curb onto his back, exposing his mid-section to attack.
Bing growls. The crowd clamor goes frenzy.
That’s when a 1987 Chevy Impala painted with a Frida Kahlo-esque mural of snakes in the eyes of a skull smoking a cigar squeals to a stop, missing the reporter’s odd haircut by inches.
T.J. Rios leans out the open passenger window. “Jump in.”
Bing drops the primate rage. “What is that?”
“Get in the damn car. Quick.”
The back passenger door swings open and the guy who opened it scoots to the middle of the seat, making room for Bing who steps over the reporter and into the car.
T.J. barks at the driver, who happens to be his brother, Martin, “Go!”
Martin goes.
73
T.J. and Martin sit in the front with two other gang guys in back with Bing. The one in the middle of the back seat hates Bing because he hates
sitting in the middle. He wants a window. Besides, T.J. was rude when he ordered the back door opened for Bing. He didn’t have time for niceties and he cursed. Said, “Open the fucking door.”
The backseat guy by the far window isn’t friendly either although his surliness is not Bing specific. It’s aimed at an old gnome on El Cajon Boulevard who called him a punk. The old fart was ninety at the least and he stood in a crosswalk, shaking his fist, and didn’t care if the kid killed him or not. He showed disrespect and the kid — Manny — can’t live with disrespect. He should have beat the crap out of the old man, but then they’d have revoked him and he would have gone back inside for beating a ninety-year old. You can’t win with people older than your grandparents.
Bing sits, hands on thighs. He stares straight into the back of T.J.’s head. He asks no questions. He feels no curiosity as to the timing of the rescue. He still can’t get over what Rosemary said.
T.J. twists around to face Bing. He says, “We saw on TV where you let the skanky one die.”
“Rosemary is disappointed.”
T.J. snorts. “No, duh. You were set up to heal the woman and you smoked her.”
Bing was lost on skanky. He has no notion of smoked. He supposes it is a cigarette thing.
“So we turned on that piece of shit radio station,” T.J. goes on, “to see what they had for you.”
“I do not feel Centered Soul is excrement.”
“He sure as hell did a number on your ass. A firing squad would have been sweeter. Soon as we heard what the dickwad put out, we drove over, see if you need a hand.”
Martin laughs a bitter, dry rumble. “You need more than a hand. That crowd would have ripped out your heart and eaten it.”
Bing says, “I do not fathom why they are angry.”
T.J. goes philosophical. Most people don’t realize, but gang leaders can be deep as a regular person. Deeper sometimes. The specter of daily death will bring out abstract thoughts in even the violent.
He says, “Nothing worse than people think they was scoring good shit only to find themselves dumped on. The ones whose dream was to stick their tongue up your butt after what you did when I was shot are the first to call for your nuts on a stick when you don’t do what they thought you promised. Where can we drop you?”