“No, Rafi,” Savta screams. She tries to snatch the knife out of his hands.
Raphael blinks at her, then hurls the knife away across the room and launches himself at the wall separating the dining room from the kitchen. “I’m sorry,” he wails, knocking his head again and again against the plasterboard. “I’m so goddam fucking sorry,” he whimpers as he blacks out and slides to the floor, leaving a stripe of blood on the wall.
MARILYN AND JIMMY
1982
Tuesday, 11 November 1982
United States Penitentiary, Tucson
“In Los Angeles, you see a lot of freaks. Star freaks; junkie freaks; queer freaks; straight freaks; religious freaks; red, yellow, black, and white-ass freaks.” The Prisoner stares at a fuzzy brown spider creeping across an intricate web occupying a corner of the cracked concrete ceiling. “But the worst of them are the normal freaks.”
“Why’s that?”
The Prisoner glances down at his cellmate, Klein, who is lying face up on his bunk dressed only in a pair of blue-and-white striped boxer shorts. He notes for the first time that Klein’s belly button is an outie. He also notices the contrast between the kinky black hair that covers his thin legs and his smooth, bony upper body.
“Because, dearie, the normal ones are so fucking boring,” the Prisoner answers.
He climbs down from his bunk and shoots a quick glance through the bars at the empty corridor, then sits next to Klein. He passes a hand over the soft, cinnamon-coloured skin of his stomach and feels the edge of his ribcage as he moves his hand upward. Klein closes his eyes expectantly.
“What kind of freak were you?” Klein asks after a moment.
The Prisoner sniggers. “I wasn’t a freak.” His hand glides up to Klein’s left nipple and kneads it for a few seconds. Klein rolls his eyes into his head and grins.
“I was a world unto myself.”
* * *
Wednesday, 4 August 1982
It’s a blistering summer afternoon in Hollywood. The boulevard is seething with tourists and derelicts jostling past each other on the jammed pavement amidst the usual glitz and garbage. On the corner of Hollywood and Highland, a sunburnt middle-aged Hispanic woman with Frida Kahlo braids, wearing a white dress and a red poncho, perches on a fire hydrant selling Maps to the Stars’ Homes. She’s been sitting on this same fucking fire hydrant selling the same magazine for the past twenty-five years and can spot an interested buyer three blocks away.
On this particular scorcher of a day, she spies a pair of shapely legs through the crowds, draped in a knee-length red satin skirt, hugged by black fishnet stockings, and set in impatiently tapping stiletto heels, waiting at the crosswalk to traverse Highland. The crowd surges forward after the tail-end of a mass of cars inches past the intersection. The woman readies herself to hawk her magazine as the legs move in her direction.
The crowd mounts the pavement on the woman’s side of the street as the traffic signal changes to green. It parts to reveal the owner of the legs, a young and curvy creature with shoulder-length platinum blonde hair, styled into elaborate retro waves that frame a heavily powdered, angular face.
The blond creature sashays up to the woman on the fire hydrant and yanks a copy of Maps to the Stars’ Homes out of her grasp with its elegantly manicured hands. Flipping to the index, it runs a red lacquered fingernail down an alphabetical list of names and stops at the listing Marilyn Monroe / Joe DiMaggio Honeymoon House. Then, flicking a five-dollar bill at the woman, the creature saunters down the boulevard in the direction of the Chinese Theatre.
Later that night, the creature struggles through a hedgerow surrounding a large estate, careful not to tear the pink satin evening gown it has changed into. Its spike heels catch in the dirt and it stumbles to its knees. Picking itself off the ground, the creature pulls them off and hobbles through a break in the greenery the rest of the way to the house. It tests the doors on the ground floor and finds them all locked. Then it jiggles the windows and, finding one in the back of the building that is unlatched, pushes it open and climbs into the darkened house.
The creature glides through the kitchen and across the foyer, then mounts a circular staircase and ascends to the next floor, where it finds a long hallway. Tiptoeing from door to door, it listens briefly at each one, then stops at the end of the hall outside a door from which emanates a high-pitched humming. Finding the door unlocked, the creature pushes it open slowly.
Through the open door, the creature sees a shaggy young man in a tattered nightshirt passed out in an easy chair in front of a TV set, which is broadcasting the end-of-programming test pattern. Lunging forward, the creature throws itself at the young man’s bare feet and hugs his legs.
“Joe, wake up,” the creature says in a hoarse voice.
The young man stirs.
“I’m back, Joe. I’ve come back.”
The young man wakes up and blinks at the creature, then forcefully pushes it away, sending it tumbling backwards.
“What the—?” The young man rises to his full height.
“No, Joe.” The creature scrambles to its feet and smoothens its evening gown. “It’s me—Marilyn. I’m back.”
The creature slinks forward, a pouty smile on its face, its arms thrown open, ready to embrace the young man, who takes a step backwards and bumps into the chair, his eyes growing wide.
“Don’t you recognise your Marilyn anymore, Joe?” it purrs.
As the creature reaches the young man with its cherry-red lips puckered for a kiss, he pulls back his fist and hammers the creature in the face.
Through closed eyes, the creature hears the wail of a siren and the squawk of a police radio. Its head pulsates with sick waves of pain that move in and out like an ocean tide. Streams of sweet-salty stickiness leak into its mouth. It cries out as its nose bumps against a hard surface.
“Shut up, you,” a deep male voice rings out.
The creature pries open one eye and finds itself slumped on the back seat of a squad car, its hands cuffed behind its back with ever-tightening metal restraints that dig into its wrists. It groans as it sits up and looks out the window at the palm-lined streets speeding past the window.
A moustachioed, black police officer in the passenger seat whips around and glowers at the creature through the grate.
“I said shut the fuck up.”
The squad car jerks to a stop in front of the Beverly Hills Police Station, and the moustachioed officer roughly hustles the creature into the hands of a pair of waiting bailiffs. They drag the creature inside and downstairs into the bowels of the building where they yank off its earrings, strip off its gown, and process it into a holding cell in the male section of the jail.
The next afternoon, following swift post-arraignment negotiations between a public defender and an assistant district attorney, the creature stands at the counsel table in a small courtroom of the Beverly Hills Municipal Court, its bruised face now scrubbed clean of blood and makeup, its hair pulled back into a ponytail.
Besides the court personnel, the creature’s parents, Yoshi and Tomoko, are the only people in the courtroom. Tomoko sits in the front row leaning forward trying to make out what the judge is saying. Yoshi sits in the back of the room with his arms crossed, looking out the window at a red brick wall.
“Clyde Koba,” the judge says, alternating between staring at Clyde over the top of his half-glasses and reading from Clyde’s court file, “based on your plea of no contest, this court finds you guilty of criminal trespass, which is a misdemeanour.”
Clyde raps his fist against the counsel table. His public defender’s head snaps in his direction, and she touches his shoulder, but Clyde shakes her off.
“Your honour.”
The judge puts down Clyde’s file and looks at his public defender. Yoshi flashes an angry look at Clyde and shakes his head.
“What is it, Mr Koba?”
“I just wanted to say, for the gazillionth time, that my name is not Clyde Ko
ba. It’s Marilyn Monroe.”
The judge removes his glasses and sets them to one side of the file.
“Yes, Mr Koba. I think you’ve made that abundantly clear to this court. That’s why, considering this is your first and hopefully your last offence as an adult, I’m going to suspend your sentence of one year in the county jail and place you under the guardianship of your mother and the Probation Department, on the condition that you undergo a year of psychiatric therapy.”
“I don’t need therapy.”
Clyde’s public defender nudges Clyde with her elbow. Clyde stamps his foot and looks down at the table, tears coursing down his face.
“Everything all right there?” the judge asks.
Clyde crosses his arms, shuts his eyes, and softly hums a tune.
“Yes, your honour. Apologies,” Clyde’s public defender says.
The judge nods, scribbles something on a piece of paper and hands it to his clerk together with Clyde’s file.
“I’ve made a referral to Doctor Seth Menner, as I see he treated your client after his juvenile incident. Good luck.”
The judge raps his gavel and speeds out of the courtroom.
Clyde turns around and hugs Tomoko over the bar as his public defender waits to one side.
“Clear the courtroom, please,” the bailiff calls out
Yoshi leaps out of his seat and storms out of the courtroom.
Several days later Clyde finds himself back on Doctor Menner’s brown leather sofa, on his back and staring at the ceiling.
“It’s really quite obvious, Doctor.”
“What’s obvious?”
“Look”—Clyde sits up—“I was born on August 5, 1962, just after midnight.”
“Uh huh.” Doctor Menner looks down at Clyde’s red lacquered toenails, which peek through a pair of open-toe heels. “And the significance of that is?”
“Well, isn’t it fuckingly obvious? I was born on August 5, 1962. Marilyn Monroe died on the same day, at the same time. All things are recycled. Ergo, I am Marilyn Monroe. It’s as plain as Mona Lisa’s tits, Doctor.”
* * *
“My opinion is your son is suffering from a near-total rejection of self,” Doctor Menner explains to Yoshi and Tomoko in his office two weeks later. “He rejects his race and thus wants desperately to be Caucasian; he rejects his sexuality and thus wishes to be a woman so his attraction to men may be acceptable.”
“His attraction to men?” Yoshi says. “Excuse me?”
Tomoko stares at her hands, which sit clasped in her lap.
“Mr Koba, Marilyn Monroe is, to your son, the embodiment of the perfect white woman. Thus, his fixation with the star.”
“Oh, Jesus fucks Christ. Now I’ve heard everything.” Yoshi stands up. “You know, you guys really earn your money, I tell you.”
Tomoko pulls at his shirt, and he slumps back into his chair.
“Maybe he actually believes he’s Marilyn Monroe,” Yoshi says. “Did that ever occur to you? There is a family history of mental illness, you know.”
“Doctor, this is tearing our family apart,” Tomoko says.
“We’re ready to sign papers,” Yoshi blurts out.
“What papers are those, Mr Koba?”
“You know, to lock him away. He’s obviously sick. And we can’t take care of him.”
Tomoko’s head snaps up. “Oh, Yoshi, no.”
“Besides, my parole officer’s only just allowed me to move back in.”
“What does that have to do with anything, Mr Koba?” Doctor Menner removes his glasses and sets them on the desk.
“Things might get heated. You know, normal-like, but heated. I wouldn’t want my PO to get the wrong idea, if you know what I mean.”
Doctor Menner glances at Tomoko, who averts her eyes and dabs at them with a handkerchief.
“All parents argue with their kids,” Yoshi continues. “They got the wrong idea the last time. I wouldn’t want them to make another mistake.”
Doctor Menner pushes away from his desk and stands. “Your son’s condition doesn’t warrant commitment, Mr Koba. At least not yet.”
He comes around to their side and hands Tomoko a business card. “I’m going to recommend a therapy group I moderate twice a week in the evenings, on Mondays and Thursdays. We meet on campus at USC. I think your son may benefit from it.”
“Thank you, Doctor.” Tomoko peers at the card and pops it into her purse. “Thank you for everything you’re doing.”
“I’d like a word with your husband if you don’t mind, Mrs Koba.”
Tomoko nods and slips out of the office.
“Mr Koba, with respect.”
“Spit it out, Doc.”
“I question the wisdom of letting you back into the home, given the history.”
Yoshi stands. “Is that all?”
“You’re a volatile man, Mr Koba. Your son needs understanding, not an iron fist.”
“He’s twenty years old. He’s the one who should be out of the house fending for himself. That’s what’ll fix him, in my opinion. Not any of this therapy business.”
“Be very careful, Mr Koba.”
* * *
Clyde follows Doctor Menner into a large classroom in which twelve empty chairs are arranged in a circle. A diverse group of around ten people, composed of both men and woman in their twenties and thirties, mills about socialising, drinking coffee, and munching on glazed doughnuts.
Spotting a large mirror at the end of the room, Clyde breaks away from Doctor Menner and approaches it. He admires his blonde curls; he pivots from side to side checking out how his ass looks in his tight pegged jeans; he kicks up one of his heels and blows a kiss at himself. Then he fluffs the frills of his white chiffon blouse and freshens up his lipstick.
Doctor Menner draws near and takes Clyde gently by the arm.
“What do you see in there?” he whispers to Clyde.
Clyde starts and blinks at the doctor, then averts his eyes.
“I see Marilyn, of course.” Clyde turns back to the mirror and peers into it.
Doctor Menner looks at Clyde’s reflection and nods.
“Now then,” Doctor Menner calls out to the group after a moment. “Let’s begin, shall we?”
The people move to the chairs, and Doctor Menner guides Clyde to the chair next to his. Clyde sits with his legs closed tightly and places his clutch purse on his lap. He looks around at the people and frowns at Doctor Menner. Then he pulls out a pair of round vintage Chanel sunglasses from his purse and slips them on.
“Sunglasses won’t help, darling,” whispers a young man sitting to Clyde’s left with springy shoulder-length strawberry-blonde locks.
Clyde glances at him out of the corner of his eye and leans in his direction. “Why don’t you go fuck yourself, Tiny Tim,” he whispers back.
Doctor Menner taps Clyde on the shoulder and points at the sunglasses. Clyde rakes them off his face and tosses them into his purse. He looks around at the group, which is now assembled in the chairs quietly waiting for Doctor Menner to begin.
“I’d like you all to meet someone who will be joining us for the first time,” Doctor Menner says.
Clyde’s heart jumps the moment he hears those words. He closes his eyes for a moment and pulls himself together. Then he looks up and sees everyone in the group is looking at him
“This is—” Doctor Menner turns to Clyde. “Well, why don’t you introduce yourself to everyone.”
Clyde shoots a glance at Doctor Menner, who nods at him.
“All right,” Clyde says.
He looks back at the group and clears his throat. “I really don’t know why I’m here,” he begins in a soft voice.
“I’m with her, Doc,” says a young man with long brown hair and a beard sitting across from him. “I don’t know why I’m here either.”
The others look at the young man and murmur among themselves.
“That’s perfectly fine,” Doctor Menner says. “We’re all h
ere to help each other.”
Most everyone in the group nods and smiles at Clyde, who glances at Doctor Menner with a puzzled look. Doctor Menner squeezes Clyde’s hand.
“Now then,” Doctor Menner says, “tell us your name.”
“OK, fine.” Clyde sits up. “I’m Marilyn—”
“Your real name, please,” Doctor Menner says.
Clyde looks questioningly at Doctor Menner for a moment. Doctor Menner smiles and nods. “Go ahead.”
“Oh…” Clyde’s face brightens; his frown morphs into a toothy smile. “Oh, yes, thank you, Doctor.” He turns to the group. “My real name is Norma Jean Baker. But my professional name is, of course, Marilyn Monroe.”
A smile plays on Doctor Menner’s lips.
“All right, thank you. Now then, let’s all proceed to introduce ourselves. Be sure to mention a little something about yourself when it’s your turn.”
He turns to a sallow young man with slicked-back black hair and thick sideburns sitting to his right. “We’ll begin at this end.”
“Hello, all,” the young man says in a rumbling, southern drawl, “I’m Elvis Aaron Presley.” He turns to Clyde. “Welcome, and God bless you, even though I don’t believe you’re Marilyn.”
“I don’t give a fly’s twat what you believe,” Clyde snaps.
The others laugh at the exchange.
“I knew Marilyn,” the Elvis clone says. “She wouldn’t have used that kind of language.”
“Next, please,” Doctor Menner says, scribbling something in his notepad.
The man to the left of Elvis stands up. He looks to be in his early twenties with long bushy brown hair, wearing an off-white pirate shirt, faded blue jeans, and a pair of brown leather sandals. He raises his hand at Clyde. “Hey there, welcome. I’m Jim, the Lizard King. And”—he looks at the others—“I still think you people are strange. Real fucking strange.”
“You’re normal?” the young man across from Clyde blurts out.
The others applaud and yell down the Lizard King, who sneers at them and sits, tightly crossing his arms.
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