My mom and dad embrace America more fully than any born-and-bred Americans I’ve ever seen. They show us the nooks and crannies of warm sweet lakes, a Petrified Forest, and the Great White Way.
And I never thanked them for that.
Kristy.
She’s standing in a shaft of golden California sunlight, looking like Madonna, Mother of Jesus Christ our Lord and Savior, writing a note by my motorcycle.
Kristy, Kristy, Kristy!!!
I’m way too happy to see this girl.
I sneak up behind her and wrap my fingers around her eyes. After a flinch reflex she realizes it’s me, and when she relaxes back into my arms, everything in Chickenville suddenly seems A-Okay on this sunny day.
‘Sister Tiffany?’ says Kristy.
‘You didn’t tell anybody about us, did you?’ I ask.
‘Hell, no,’ she says.
‘You swear to God?’ I ask.
‘I swear to God, Sister—’
I spin Kristy around, and she’s all shocked surprise—
‘I mean, David, um … how’s it hangin’?’
‘So, you and Sister Tiffany?’ I smile.
‘You don’t mind?’ She bats eyelashes.
I always forget how funny Kristy is.
‘No, I always wanted to have a three-way with a nun,’ I say. ‘Wanna go for a ride?’
‘Where?’
‘Your place.’
I kiss her lips, which are once again not too thin at all.
‘Are you serious?’ she asks.
‘Sure.’
This is turning out so much better than I imagined.
‘Well, I was supposed to go to the library, but … okay, sure, why not …’ she says, very Holly Golightly.
But again the gods toy with me, for just as I’ve finally forgotten all about it, my pager goes off.
At the dinner table when I’m eight, my immigrant father slurpsucks translucent fat globules off pickled pig’s feet as my brother and sisters and I take turns telling what great American things we did that day.
My six-year-old runty logicdriven towheaded mathgenius brother loathes peas with a searing passion, and tonight he’s decided he will eat no more of them. My mom speaks to him about his peas. He ignores her. Finally, when she presses, he announces in a grown-up voice, ‘I’m not going to eat any more peas.’
My mother makes a show of consternation, but you can tell her heart’s not in it, and the whole thing’s going to blow over in a moment.
Except a burr’s in the bug up my dad’s ass.
‘Eat yer bluddy peas,’ spits my father.
This is odd. He never interferes with the raising of his children. So I assume my little brother will just cave and eat his peas.
To my shock and amazement, he stares my dad down.
This is getting fun.
My pager going off sends shots of sex and fear and dread and money slamming into my solar plexus, and I snap shut without even being aware I’m snapping shut.
And I do it right in front of Kristy.
‘Is everything all right?’ She drags me back from my torture chamber.
‘No, I’m fine. Sure, yeah … I’m fine, everything’s fine.’
But the more I say how fine everything is, the less fine it seems.
‘Is there anything I can do?’ Kristy’s all genuine concern.
‘No, it’s a work thing. I gotta make a call …’ I give her a thin gruel of a smile, trying to stay loose when I feel tighter than a bodybuilder’s ass.
‘You want me to come with you?’ Kristy’s full of care.
‘No!’ I say, too loud and harsh, and I want the word back even before it even leaves my mouth.
Can we do a second take on that?
Kristy sighs. Suddenly I’ve gone from sweet boyfriend to harsh freak.
‘David, what is it? What’s the matter?’ Kristy stands there and asks.
And I love her for that.
* * *
The scary silence is back at the dining-room table, like in one of those westerns when some feller accuses some other feller of cheatin’ and everybody’s waitin’ fer the first gun to be drawn.
‘Eat those bluddy peas or I’ll stot summink off yer bluddy heed,’ my father barks.
‘Stot’ is bounce. ‘Heed’ is head. Clearly he means business. But my runty brother will not be moved.
‘You will sit in that bluddy chair till you finish those bluddy peas.’ My father’s head reddens and his veins bulge as I picture myself loosening a valve on the back of his head and watching the steam blow out his ears like an old-fashioned cartoon work whistle.
In slow motion my brother forks one pea, painfully places it in his mouth, and with strained face forces the poison pellet down his gullet.
Silence. More silence. Crazy straining silence.
After three more excruciating peas go down, everyone resumes their happy banter. Except my dad. He says nothing. I’m laughing my ass off inside. My little genius brother’s twisting our father on his own rack.
‘Hey, I’m sorry, I really am. My boss, he’s … got it in for me, he’s been riding my ass. But I’m really sorry …’
I backpedal and shadowbox for all I’m worth.
‘I’m confused. What do you … do exactly?’
‘Deliveries … packages, envelopes, scripts, you know. I go to Malibu, or Beverly Hills, or the Valley, and if I work at night, or do emergency jobs, it’s really good money. And since my parents cut me off, I gotta make money. It’s a great job, except for my asshole boss …’ I lean in confidentially. ‘He wants to, you know … seduce me.’
‘Oh my God, that’s illegal. Do you want me to tell my dad, cuz he could maybe—’
Obviously I don’t want Daddy in my beeswax.
‘No, that’s okay, I talked to the owner. He’s on my side. And I don’t wanna lose my job.’
‘Sure, absolutely. Well, I’m sorry. If there’s anything I can do, just ask, okay?’
Just ask. The way she says it, it seems like the easiest thing in the world.
‘Lemme go make this call, and … I’ll be right back …’ I move in now, all denial and survival. ‘And I’m really sorry. Will you forgive me?’
‘Of course,’ says Kristy. ‘I’m just glad you felt you could trust me enough to tell me the truth.’
‘Yeah …’ I nod.
I almost believe it all myself.
My dad takes out his fury on the innocent plates and dishes, and even as I’m putting the last bit of roast beef in my mouth, he’s snatching, jerking, and cleaning my plate. He flings knives and forks into the dishwater zing zing zing, wrestles with the pots and pans, cleansing and purging them faster than humanly possible, slamming them back into the cupboards twang bang clang. Then he roars off to the couch, rams on the big TV, and snores in a feverish rhythm.
Years later I’ll read the Edgar Allan Poe story about a guy who kills some old codger, buries him under the house, then goes insane when he hears the dead man’s heart pounding louder and louder, until he can’t stand it anymore and confesses to the cops.
That’s how I remember my father’s snores.
Mr Hartley has a job for me, a good job, right now, two hundred dollars.
‘Absolutely, Mr Hartley. I’m all over it.’
Mr Hartley chuckles.
‘Excellent. David, we’ve had great feedback, and your client from Saturday was very complimentary.’
‘I appreciate that, it means a lot to me … Thanks.’
I’m genuine. I’m real. This is so rare for me right now. And I’m able to do it with my pimp easier than the girl I’m falling in love with.
‘So I was curious what happened on Monday …’
I can hear the sinister pipe organ creeping in the background as Mr Hartley switches gears all over me. My breath is gone. What did I do? What did I not do? What did she say? What kind of shit am I in now? Does Braddy love Mommy?
‘Uh … nothing. Why … did she say something?�
��
A vise squeezes my temples as I tremble.
‘Why don’t you tell me exactly what happened?’ Mr Hartley’s a cagey bastard.
Say as little as possible, and when in doubt say even less.
‘Well … it was just a normal job, you know …’
I don’t think I can say anything less than that.
‘Did she seem … upset?’
If I say she wasn’t upset, he’ll know I’m a liar, but if I say she was upset, then am I responsible for whatever bad shit came down in the wake of my home visit?
‘Uh … yeah. I guess she was a little upset. But I didn’t do anything, I swear to God …’ I’m tap-dancing as fast as I can, and Mr Hartley feels me all the way from Immaculate Heart College to Sunset Boulevard.
‘I’m not accusing you of anything. I just want you to tell me exactly what happened.’ Mr Hartley’s now using his no-more-messing-around voice.
I suppress a sigh of great weight.
‘Well, yeah, she did seem upset. But it wasn’t my fault, I swear to God. She even gave me a tip …’ I’m covering my ass, so there’s not one pink little inch of it showing.
‘David’ – Mr Hartley does that thing grown-ups do when they start a sentence with your name – ‘we’re not accusing you of anything. That’s why I gave you this job today, to let you know we’re very pleased with your work. But I need to know what happened. Now think carefully.’
‘Well, to tell you the truth, she seemed kinda …’
I don’t want to say the word, but I have a feeling he’s gonna make me.
‘She seemed kinda what?’ asks Mr Hartley.
‘Well, kinda … crazy.’
There. I said it.
Pause. Long pause.
‘I don’t want you talking to anybody about this. Nobody. Do you understand?’ Mr. Hartley’s dead-serious scares the shit outta me.
‘Yes, absolutely. No, I mean, I never talk to anybody, about anything.’ I’m playing jump rope with my own tongue.
‘The client had a … problem.’ Mr. Hartley’s voice flatlines.
‘What happened?’ Sweat drips down my rib cage.
‘The less you know the better.’
The way Mr. Hartley says it, I know this part of the conversation is over, which is just fine with me, cuz I never want to think about this shit for the rest of my life.
So I swallow it all whole, and lock it in my pressure cooker, where it will feed on me until I can get rid of it.
‘I might have something for you this weekend. I’m just waiting for a confirmation.’ Mr. Hartley’s back to being buttah.
‘Excellent. I’ll make sure the pager’s on vibrate.’
Mr. Hartley’s wry chuckle is highly gratifying.
He disconnects from me while I disconnect from myself. Did Mommy slit her wrist in a bubblebath? Swallow a bottle of pills? Suck on an antique pistol? She seemed like the dramatic type.
Change the record, Braddy.
My little brother sits at the dinner table till eleven o’clock that night, when he forces down his last poison pea. We’re all supposed to be asleep of course, but it’s much too exciting for that.
He looks so small as he opens our bedroom door, back-lighted like a hero, one small boy standing tall against the Man. He smiles a funny little smile. I want to tell him how great he is, but already the silence has its hand around my throat.
‘What time is it?’
I already know it’s eleven.
‘Eleven,’ he says.
‘Did you get grounded?’ I say.
‘Not yet,’ says he.
He gets into bed. We lie there, not sleeping, coconspirators in a rich secret rebellion. We don’t have peas again for a long time.
I go back to Kristy, tell her I gotta work, kiss her good-bye, then go to a prestigious Beverly Hills hotel for my two-hundred-dollar job. She’s a big-boned sweet-faced executive from some Midwestern beefy beer-soaked wonderbread place, who’s in town for business and heard from a girlfriend who’s friends with Frannie about the service. About me. God love Frannie.
Midwest wants to talk. Wants someone to be nice to her. I talk. I’m nice. Easy Money. She has the surf-and-turf special. She’s nice and she’s nervous, but when she finally calms down, she really gets into it. I’m working on the whole woman’s pleasure-garden-of-earthly-delight thing, and Midwest digs it.
I do have a flash of slime as I wash up afterward and get caught in the mirror staring at the miserable plucked chicken who stares back at me. But I have a whole system now. I feel the warm cookie of my money, and focus on 3-D and all the treats waiting for me after my trick. This gets me up, out, and over to Sunny’s, where I eat ribs slaw and jalapeño cornbread, and suck on beer booze and bong. In 3-D you can be liked, admired, and respected even if you are a houseboy. We have our own chicken language, customs, and jokes, just like lawyers, Freemasons, and astronauts, and I love being part of that. I dip the cornbread into the barbecue sauce and it lights up the inside of my mouth. I’m hungry all the time these days. Lots of day-old birthday cake and tubs of ice cream. But tonight, in 3-D, mercifully, I manage somehow to get full.
When Sunny touches me on the shoulder like family, he makes me feel like I’m King Shit living the High Life.
‘Boy, Ah gotta big-time opportunity for your ass. An’ Ah do mean your ass. Friday night, big ol’ costume party, an’ you is coe-jully invited. Welcome to the Show, bay-bay!’ Sunny does a whoopholler and a funny little dance.
‘What do you mean?’ I’m equal dollops excitement and terror.
‘It’s a costume bawl, an’ there’s gonna be boocoo bucks there, boy. Mo’ money, mo’ money, mo’ money …’ Sunny’s a hog in heaven, lowering his voice as he moves in for the kill. ‘An’ Mamma needs a new pair of shoes.’
This is why Sunny is master pimp. He ties all his love into my ability to make him money.
13.
TINKERBELL & A BABY BULLDOG
You’re nobody till somebody loves you.
—DEAN MARTIN
BLUE NUTHUGGING ELEPHANTBELLS tight as the traffic will allow, sleeveless white T, red high-tops, and black wrap-around Ray Bans. This is the state-of-the-art, goin’-to-the-orgy ensemble Sunny’s chosen for me, and when he finishes primping, preening, and mother-henning me, he closes his eyes to cleanse his visual palette, then pops them open and gives me the once-over twice. Then he grins.
‘Yeaaaaaaah, bay-bay.’
And suddenly it’s all good.
As Moby Dick glides gracefully through the gilded gargoyle gates of the gaudy Mulholland mansion, limos lounge languidly, Alfa Romeos pose pompously, and Jaguars graze gluttonously on the punch-drunk pavement.
Butterflies flutter by in my belly. I feel like Cinderella with my glass sneakers, Moby Dick pumpkin, and pimp Fairy Godmother.
Our all-American rocketship crash-lands again when I’m eight, this time in Virginia, Minnesota, where one-hundred-and-seven-year-old Scandihoovian men in the forty-seven-below dead of winter jump nude through a hole they cut in the ice, plunge into freezing-cold lake water, then spring back to the one-hundred-and-seven-degree sauna. When you go outside, your breath forms little icicles on your eyebrows, eye-lashes, and ’stache, if you have one. Ten thousand lakes, complete with one billion summer skeeters big as World War II bombers that suck your blood like black bug vampires.
My dad’s explosives corporation has sent him to the Mesabi Range that runs just south of the Canadian border so he could strip-mine the mountain. So they’re cutting down the trees, blowing holes in the virgin earth, and scooping out its guts.
One winter the snow’s so high we climb up on the roof and jump off, flying through the sky, landing in a snowcloud, and sinking slow, swallowed by all that soft cold whiteness, like diving into an ice-cream cone.
The mansion’s supported by huge white marble phalli swimming in seas of roses sleeping peacefully in their beds. The door must be twenty feet high, with a giant lionheaded doorknock
er that looks like it would love to take a bite out of your hand.
Sunny gives me the wink and the smile.
I can do this. Woman’s pleasure. Loverstudguy.
When Sunny gives the lionheaded knocker a knock, a seven-foot doorman dressed as a dormouse opens the door as regally as a giant dressed like a rodent can.
Huge music pulsates through the booming woofer-happy sound system. Overhead a chandelier twinkles like a big drag queen on Halloween. Underfoot the marble floor lies cold, majestic, and butch.
Sunny’s a puffed-up rutting peacock who tows me like a houseboatboy into the mansion.
‘Hooooooo-ie, Sunny is in de house!’
Voices retort by the score: ‘Sunny!!!’ ‘Look what the cat dragged in!’ ‘And the cat has brought a chicken!’
Sunny’s got a line for everyone. A slick wink, a knowing nod, a sticky innuendo. Hundreds of eyeballs train their periscopes on me, and I’m awash in the warm wet heat.
It’s one of those times in my life when you know things are either gonna get a lot better or a lot worse.
Marlene Dietrich cruises by with Attila the Hun. Dr Strangelove’s pushed in his wheelchair by Mae West. A six-foot-two Amazon Snow White in a leopard bikini is surrounded by three dwarfs dressed as Doc, Grumpy, and the sleaziest Sneezy I’ve ever seen. A behemoth clad in a black leather Death mask, studded collar with leash attached, and rhinestone codpiece walks by on all fours, ridden by a tiny Japanese Madame Butterfly Lady Godiva woman in heavy Kabuki makeup, lashing him lovingly with her cat-o’-nine-tails.
I feel right at home.
The Minnesota snow is high when I’m eleven. My father’s gone, blowing up the mountain.
My mother and I try to midwife our bulldog Gwenyvere, who bulges heavy with puppies, belly distended to monstrous proportions, panting on old blankets.
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