If Rock and Roll Were a Machine

by Terry Davis

  Krista was sitting in Bert’s place dipping into a giant bag of Cheetos when he returned. She and Shepard, Jim and Mike, Darby and Sean, Lauren and Kelly-Mac, and Clara and Sharon were absorbed in something.

  Bert sat on the sidewalk a few feet behind the rest of the kids. He leaned against the store wall. He took a big, messy, luscious bite of dog. This was all right. He would watch and he would listen. It was what he did best.

  Krista told Camille she’d heard he was crying in the locker room, and she asked why. Everybody but Krista and Camille—and Bert—looked away in embarrassment.

  But Camille wasn’t embarrassed. He said he hadn’t seen his dad for four years and hadn’t been to the States since he was eight. He’d put in all those years dreaming about coming to the States and doing the stuff his dad had done growing up. He was in the shower feeling good about having caught a few balls, and the realization all at once came upon him that he was finally getting to do the things he’d dreamed of for so long.

  Sharon asked why Camille didn’t get to visit his dad all those years. Her brother glared at her. Bert had the feeling Mike knew Camille’s story. She asked if it was because his mother wouldn’t let him.

  “She wouldn’t let me,” Camille said. “But it wasn’t because she and my dad don’t get along. My dad was an agent for the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, and he got shot.”

  Bert sat up straighter. He remembered what Scotty’d said about his knees: One knee went in football and the other in an accident in my job.

  “I had my plane ticket and was all set to go see him in Tucson,” Camille said. “I’d flown by myself before. But then he called and said I’d better not come, that he’d been shot while he was undercover and that they hadn’t rounded up all the guys he’d been investigating. My mom about shit.

  “That was ten years ago,” Camille said, “and she only let me come this year because my uncle Steve convinced her those guys weren’t still looking for Dad. Steve’s an agent—”

  Kelly-Mac interrupted. “The biker who tried to pick a fight with Coach is a cop?” he said.

  Bert and Zimster spoke at the same time. “He’s really a nice guy,” they said.

  People laughed at how perfectly synchronized they were.

  Well, that explains a few things, Bert thought.

  “Steve’s with ATF,” Camille said. “He’s on leave now. He just hates to dress up.”

  Bert could see that Camille had talked about himself all he wanted to. And he saw that Krista saw it too. She turned to Zimster, held up a Cheeto and asked what he thought it resembled. It didn’t resemble anything Bert could think of. Maybe a white radish. Except that it was orange.

  Jim blushed. The addition of color to his pasty cheeks looked good, but he was not pleased with the attention. He glared at Jackson and Shepard, then back at Krista. “I didn’t make it up,” he said. “In spite of what these two probably told you.”

  “Make what up?” asked Kelly-Mac.

  “It’s a known fact,” Zimster said. “Granted, it’s not widely known. But nevertheless it’s a fact.”

  “What is?” Steve Thonski asked.

  Krista gobbled down the Cheeto upon which all eyes were focused, dug into the bag for another, then held it up. “According to Jim Zimster,” she said, “one bag out of every lot of Cheetos bags produced contains—” Krista interrupted herself. “How many bags in a lot, Jim?”

  “A lotta bags in a lot,” snarled Pat Sweat through clenched teeth. “A lotta goddamn bags in a lot. Now what are you guys talking about?”

  “About ten thousand, I think,” Zimster said.

  “One out of every ten thousand or so Cheetos bags,” Krista continued, “contains an exact replica of a penis.”

  “Awesome!” shouted Kevin Robideaux. “Radical!” shouted one of his sophomore friends. The whole bunch of them laughed and pummeled one another in typical sophomore fashion as they raced to the door.

  “Not an exact replica,” Jim said. “It’s exactly proportioned, but scaled down. I’m not sure what the ratio is.”

  “Exact?” said Darby. “How could it be exact? They’re all different.”

  “Since when are you a penis expert, Granger?” Lauren Haskell asked.

  “She’s got four brothers,” Christman said.

  The first of the sophomores had returned and was distributing handfuls of Cheetos around the group. People were holding Cheetos at arm’s length, tilting their heads, squinting, consulting their neighbors’ perspective.

  Clara and Sharon got up and went to buy a bag of their own.

  It did strike Bert as a clever marketing ploy. He was witnessing the early stages of a Cheeto frenzy at this moment.

  “They’re so orange,” Lauren said. It got more difficult to understand her as the number of Cheetos she was chewing increased. “And they leave a residue.” She held her hands palms-out and fingers-wide. “You’ve really got to scrub to get it off.”

  Zimster, Jackson, and Shepard howled at this. Bert laughed too. Krista James wore a big smile.

  Was it possible to get drunk on Cheetos? Probably not. But it was possible to get silly when you mixed them with ingenuity. And sex.

  One of the sophomores spoke through a spray of tiny orange granules. “You don’t suppose there’s like a miniature . . . you know . . . in every box of Cheerios?”

  “Nasty!” Jackson said.

  Zimster and Bert joined in the derisive chorus.

  Clara and Sharon appeared clutching a big Cheetos bag between them. “These things are good,” Sharon said as she plunged her hand in again. “I can’t keep ’em outa my mouth.” She looked at Clara. Their eyes grew big and their cheeks puffed.

  When their laughter burst they sprayed Cheetos chunks all down the backs of the sophomore boys who were on their knees emptying their Cheetos bags onto the blacktop.

  Over the laughter and cursing Bert heard the rumble of a Harley-Davidson. Camille’s head turned at the same time and they looked at each other.

  Around the corner and into the light rode Scotty with Rita on behind. They wore jeans, plain leather jackets, and navy blue watch caps like Camille’s. Rita had her hair in a braid. They waved and walked into the store. It was clear that they didn’t want to interrupt.

  But they were back outside in half a minute and walking over to the group.

  “You kids ate this store out of hot dogs,” Scotty said.

  Rita looked at the scattered Cheetos. “Nothing like hot dogs and Cheetos to ease the pain of losing a close one,” she said. She tucked some loose hair under her watch cap. She’s twice as old, Bert thought, but she’s as beautiful as Krista.

  “We’re gone,” Scotty said.

  “You children have fun,” said Rita.

  Scotty and Rita had settled onto the bike when Camille got to his feet in an uncharacteristically graceless manner and hobbled over. He said something, kissed Rita on the cheek, then put his arms around his dad and gave him a smooch. He stood there in the bright light from the store windows waving as he watched them turn south on Division and roll away.

  When Camille returned to the group Krista got him talking about his dad and Rita, which was easy to do. Everybody listened with interest, particularly Bert Bowden, who knew a good story when he heard one.

  Chapter 19

  He Hath Borne Me on His Back a Thousand Times

  It has not been a good day for Bert. He turned in his Camille Shepard profile and Darby held it in her hand as though she were weighing it, looked at him with sad astonishment, and said, “Bowden, you are such an egg. You are such an incredible, inedible egg. Did The Explorer get into book publishing while I was at lunch?”

  “I liked it,” the Hmongster said. He walked over from the darkroom and tossed a fat file folder on the table. “And we’ve got mass photos.”

  “I’ll read it when I can,” Darb Varder said, “and maybe by spring I’ll have cut it down to a length we can use.”

  The piece was a little long
—forty-eight pages. Bert knew he’d gotten carried away. He’d tried to keep it short. But the more he learned about Camille and Scotty and Rita and Steve and Camille’s mom and both his grandfathers and even his stepdad, the more fascinated he became. And if it was fascinating to him, why wouldn’t it be fascinating to other people? Bert knew he was a little off-center, but he didn’t think he was that different from everybody else.

  Maybe he could break it into separate articles. Like the stuff about French schools. The French school system was an academic Marine Corps compared to the American system. A contributing cause of Camille’s breakdown in the shower was probably delayed stress. Who wouldn’t be interested in that?

  Bert’s problem was that he was interested in everything. That was one of his problems, anyway.

  The profile was one thing that went wrong. Then at work Bert put his coffee cup on the stove to keep it warm, and it melted. It was plastic. And it was the second plastic cup he’d done that to.

  Steve, who’d walked in the back door, noticed it right away. “What’s that ugly shit on the stove?” he said.

  It had been a Sinclair gas station cup. Mostly white, red lettering, green handle, green dinosaur. What remained was still mostly white, but that was the only resemblance. It looked like a mutant marshmallow that had melted off the roasting stick. But the green and the little swirl of red added a vomitous quality.

  Before Scotty or Dave could expose Bert as the dufus responsible, Steve spoke again. “Don’t tell me,” he said. “The last two remaining California condors flew in here and took a tandem dump?”

  Scotty walked back into the showroom and Dave returned to grinding valves. Bert remained at the computer, where he was logging parts. “No, huh?” Steve said. “Well, I guess Bootsie was keepin’ his coffee hot in a plastic cup again?”

  Bert rose from his chair, grabbed some welding gloves and a chisel, and scraped the malodorous goo off the stove. “I get all these parts numbers in my head, and I just forget,” he said.

  On his way out Steve stopped behind Bert’s chair. “Make sure you stay off your head goin’ home, Bootsie,” he said. “It might be about time to put that H-D away for the year.” He whacked Bert on the shoulder with his gloves and walked out.

  * * *

  It is about time to put the bike away, Bert thought as he rode home from work. He didn’t mind the cold, particularly since he’d started wearing goggles. If you kept your eyes from freezing, late fall weather actually made for pretty nice riding. But now that Thanksgiving had come and gone Bert was doing most of his riding in the dark when the streets were shiny with dew. It was dark going to school and dark coming home from work. The streets were always wet, but Bert didn’t have the experience to tell when they were also slick. Sometimes the dew froze, and then just a little throttle brought the back wheel spinning out sideways. And that was scary. So Bert rode more slowly and with greater care. Still, it was neat to be riding at all and he hated to give it up.

  Bert was surprised to find both his parents’ cars in the garage when the door cranked up. It seemed like his mom was always showing a house, or his dad was at a dinner meeting. When he walked into the kitchen and saw them both he knew his grandfather was dead.

  His mom was leaning against the sink looking down at his dad. His dad was sitting at the little table looking at something wrapped in aluminum foil that he held in his hands. He was wearing his overcoat.

  The feeling that came to Bert had nothing to do with Gramp. It was about his folks. It was that they were strangers to him. He’d lived all his life with them, he loved them, but he didn’t know them.

  “Your grandfather’s out of his misery,” Donald Bowden said. “We just got the call. I was on my way down there with some leftover turkey. I was almost out the door.”

  The way his dad was hefting the turkey made Bert think of Darby with his story.

  “Don’t need the turkey now,” Bert’s dad said as he rose from the table. He tossed the package into the fridge. “But I’ve got to get down there. And I’ve got to stop and tell your grandmother.”

  A glaze covered Bert’s dad’s face. It was like dew on a dark street. Why is he saying your grandfather? Bert wondered. Why doesn’t he say my father?

  Bert’s mother caught his eye. The nod of her head and the expression on her face told him what he should do.

  “I’ll go with you,” Bert said.

  Bert thought they were headed for Gram’s, but his dad drove to the home first. He made the arrangements with the night supervisor while Bert waited in the hall. I’ll never walk to Gramp’s room again, Bert thought. Never in all my life. He wanted to walk there one more time.

  The little plastic nameplate with ALBERT BOWDEN was still on the door. Bert pulled it off and put it in his jacket pocket. He would give it to his dad. He turned on the light and looked at Gramp’s bed. He knew the body was there, he’d heard the supervisor say it was. There was just so little left of Gramp that it hardly made a bump.

  Bert wanted to see Gramp again. He knew Gramp was gone, that this was only his body. But this body had been Gramp for all Bert’s life, and he wanted to see it one more time.

  He pulled down the sheet and looked. The sight filled Bert with reverence, dread, and wonder simultaneously and in equal proportions. The man was a mummy. He was shrunken and withered and looked like he’d been dead for a long time. Bert had seen his grandfather five days before and, except for the rise and fall of his chest, Bert thought he’d looked dead then. But he hadn’t looked like this.

  With his eyes Bert saw the husk of his grandfather. But in his mind he saw Gramp at his most vibrant. It was this difference between the Gramp that was dead here in front of his eyes and the Gramp that lived in his memory that awed Bert so.

  Bert thought of Shakespeare’s Hamlet. It was the look of his grandfather’s head, so like a skull, that caused him to think of the play his class had read last year.

  Hamlet and his friend Horatio are walking in the cemetery and one of the gravediggers spades up a skull. He tells Hamlet it belonged to Yorick, a court jester. It was Hamlet’s father’s court that Yorick had been jester in. Hamlet turns to his friend and says the famous lines, “Alas! poor Yorick. I knew him, Horatio: a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy: he hath borne me on his back a thousand times. . . .” Bert remembered the lines because everyone in class had had to memorize a famous speech, and he had chosen this one.

  Bert believed he had an intellectual understanding of the passage then, but now he understood it with his heart.

  How many times and in how many different ways did Gramp carry me on his back? Bert thought. And he’s carrying me right now, even though he’s gone from this world. I feel his love lifting me up.

  Bert reached to touch his grandfather’s face one last time. As he did he heard his father’s voice. “Jesus Christ, Bert!”

  Donald Bowden stepped forward and whipped the sheet back over his father’s body. Then he turned and looked down at his son. “What is wrong with you?” he said.

  Bert didn’t know how to reply.

  * * *

  Bert’s uncle Doug was there when they arrived at Gram’s. He put his arm around Bert and gave him a sad smile. He didn’t say anything, but the way he tilted his head and raised his eyebrows said, We knew it was coming, but it’s still tough to believe.

  Bert hugged his grandmother. “I’m sorry, Gram,” he whispered.

  “Berty,” she said as she patted his back, “I prayed and prayed for this. Your grandfather is better off where he is now. Don’t you be sad.”

  “Bert can stay with you tonight, Mom,” Donald Bowden said. “If you need anything he can get it, or you can call me.”

  Bert kept one arm around Gram’s shoulder as he turned to look at his dad. He was happy to stay, he just hadn’t known that was the plan.

  Bert tried to read the emotion in his father’s face. It seemed closer to perplexity than sadness. Bert had seen this expression before. This
was how his dad looked when he had a problem at work. He wasn’t sad; he was pissed off. His words at the home rang in Bert’s ears: Jesus Christ, Bert! What is wrong with you?

  Bert squeezed Gram’s shoulders a little tighter. “I always want to stay with my gram,” he said.

  Bert’s father left then. Doug stayed to watch the late news and to eat some soft-boiled eggs and toast. Then he hugged his mother and gave her a kiss on the cheek. Bert watched them at the door.

  * * *

  Gram was in the bathroom washing her face. She had left the door open, and Bert could see her reflection in the mirror on the door. He was pulling out the sofa bed. The TV was off. “Gram,” he said, “do you think Doug takes after Gramp more, or does my dad?”

  Bert saw her bend to the sink. He heard her splash the water. She didn’t reply for a while. “Children don’t always take after their parents,” she said. She walked into the living room drying her face with a towel. Bert could smell her scented soap. “Douglas is more like his father than Donald. But you’re more like your grandfather than either of his sons.”

  Edith Bowden wore a long flannel nightgown. White with tiny red roses. She snugged her hairnet over her head. “I guess the scientists have it about figured out now,” she said. “They know what gene does what. They could make a baby that would grow into whatever kind of person they wanted. I raised your father and your uncle and your aunt. Those children grew up in the same house with the same parents, they ate the same food, went to the same school. And each one is different from the others. And they’re all so different from your grandfather and me that no one would even guess we were related. It’s a mystery to me, Berty.”

  She kissed Bert on the cheek and told him good night. She closed her door, but then she opened it right away. She told Bert he could watch TV if he wanted, that it wouldn’t bother her. Then she wished him sweet dreams.