Eat the Document

by Dana Spiotta

  She told people she had to go back East and take care of her ailing mother. She had five hundred dollars saved, and by spring she finally reached the West Coast. She would get an airtight ID, and she would be safer in a big city. She moved randomly from place to place on the outskirts of L.A. These were the days of pale-beneath-the-tan partying, roller skates and halter tops. And harder, meaner drugs. It was as if someone had taken the aura of the counterculture and extracted every decent aspiration. What was left was the easy liberation of sex and drugs. Was this a function of Southern California, or was every place as weary as this now? Surely the sunshine and beach made the boardwalk a magnet for every marginal person in America. Southern California was full of off-the-grid illegals: draft dodgers, ex-cons, undocumented workers. It was exactly what she wanted. Here she could disappear into the everyday. She could stay far from the rads.

  She drank beer and smoked pot all the time. She walked on the beach and had short relationships with men who lived off her.

  Only one thing gave her purpose: she needed a new identity, not one made up but one that could be built on. It was a project. She scoured microfilm in the local libraries until she found a baby’s obituary. She needed a person with a birth certificate who had never applied for a Social Security number. She needed a baby who had died in a different county from where she was born, so no cross-reference was made with the death certificate. (Bobby described this method as straight out of Day of the Jackal, and why not?) She could easily obtain a copy of the birth certificate, and from there she could get fake “unfake” and untraceable ID. She could get a real Social Security number, a real driver’s license and even a real passport. She methodically built her documents. That was her main achievement of those L.A. years: a safe, airtight identity. She became the dead infant Louise Barrot.

  Louise, I am Louise. It felt different taking someone else’s name instead of making one up. It was a deeper, meaner lie, somehow. The morbid origin of the name did affect her. Sometimes, though she knew this wasn’t what she should be thinking about, she thought of the baby Louise. She thought of the parents watching their baby in the hospital as she struggled to breathe, of her tiny, froggy legs and purple, balled fists. She even kept a copy of the infant’s obituary.

  It took a year to build her new identity and assemble all the paperwork. After that, she had less to occupy her. One year turned into four. She cooked at a cafe in Marina del Rey. She rented a small apartment near the pier in Santa Monica. On her days off, Louise walked along the boardwalk or down Fourth Street. Some days she actually forgot where she was headed but kept walking anyway. On one occasion a man coming from the opposite direction walked straight into her. He didn’t stop but kept walking. His nonreaction to their collision bewildered her. She stood there, unmoving, staring at his back as he walked away. And then, maybe a week later, the same thing happened again. A woman walked toward her on the sidewalk in front of Ralph’s supermarket. She had the sort of unseeing stare that people wear in public. She didn’t sidestep when she got to Louise but walked into her, smacking her shoulder. Again, the woman didn’t stop walking or say anything to her. She kept going. This time Louise felt less disturbed. She almost laughed instead. Louise thought, It’s finally happened. I’m invisible.

  She went on this way. Not visible really. A vapor.

  If you don’t read the paper, time doesn’t move forward.

  But she could see it in her hands—veins more visible beneath the skin—time passed. She didn’t read the news, but she kept the TV on all the time.

  Raid. Kills bugs dead.

  Aim. Fights cavities.

  Oxydol. A better clean.

  Then she met August. With his heavy, handsome face and very long black hair, which he kept pulled back in a tidy ponytail. He smelled slightly of coconut (which she later realized was suntan lotion) and strongly of tobacco. He bought her drinks and spoke to her in measured, soft tones. Gentle even. She didn’t mind his attention at all; in fact, what she felt was overwhelming gratitude. Who was she but a “speck in the cosmos”?

  August kept a clean apartment. He owned a nice stereo and a new, large TV. He didn’t seem to care one way or another about who was president. He wanted her around all the time. She settled into cooking for him and the daily repetitions of an ordinary life. Laundry. Cleaning. Shopping. Why shouldn’t she enjoy being taken care of a little? The character of those first years as Louise was a swift and steady decrease in possibilities. But wasn’t that true of everyone? As time went by, wasn’t every life a kind of narrowing, a steady relinquishing of possibilities?

  PART SIX

  Spring 1999

  Ordnance

  NASH FOUND Henry by the Incendiary Devices section of the Tactics bookshelf. He stood there until Henry looked up. Nash pulled Henry’s hand away until he could see the pamphlet Henry was reading. It was an ecoterrorist broadside titled “Using Explosives to Eliminate and Discourage Outdoor Advertising.” Nash grabbed it out of his hand.

  “Can I have a word?”

  “Of course,” Henry said. He followed Nash toward the back office, which was really just a large closet filled with books, invoices and catalogs. Henry sat on the only chair, and Nash leaned on the desk.

  “I’ll get right to it. I don’t think climbing buildings in the middle of the night is such a great idea, you know?”

  “Neither do I,” Henry said.

  Nash smiled and folded his arms across his chest. “I know you’ve been destroying those billboards.”

  “But those boards are ads for Nepenthex, which is made by Pherotek—”

  “Yeah, I know. I figured that out, finally. They are part of Allegecom, which is the same company that put dioxin in everything from PVC pipes to Agent Orange.”

  “That put dioxin in Agent Orange and kept it in for years even when they knew it affected humans. Even when they could have made it without dioxin, like Agent Blue. And these bastards also made various incendiary munitions, as I’m sure you are aware.”

  “Naturally. A lot of companies made munitions.”

  “Antipersonnel ordnance—”

  “Yep. Designed to destroy humans and keep property intact. Check.”

  “But these guys”—Henry’s voice got quite loud at this point—“they make the antidepressant that was prescribed for me specifically for the depression I have due to dioxin and combat trauma. It was actually designed to treat combat stress trauma, which they caused in the first place.”

  Nash laughed, shaking his head.

  “That would be very ironic, Henry, except for one thing: you were never exposed to Agent Orange or combat of any kind. Furthermore, and perhaps what’s even more important, no one knows why you are tearing down billboards. It is an illegible act. It changes nothing. And whatever else you are contemplating—”

  “That corporate entity and its billboards are morally bankrupt,” Henry said. “That billboard is pornographic and offends decency.”

  There was a knock. Sissy called from outside the door.

  “Nash? There is no one watching the store.”

  “Where’s Roland?”

  “He’s gone.”

  “I’ll be right out. Christ.” Nash put his hand on Henry’s arm. “I’m not unsympathetic, you know. I’ve no problem with property destruction per se. There is nothing sacred about property, particularly this sort. And although I think it would be nice, I also don’t think the gesture has to mean anything to anyone but you, or that it has to change anything for it to be worth doing.”

  “You noticed, though, didn’t you? And they noticed. They had to replace their ad, didn’t they? Twice now.” Henry smiled.

  “But it is dangerous,” Nash said. “And not just because you are an old, sick guy who shouldn’t be rappelling down buildings in the middle of the night. There is the possibility that destroying something changes you in unexpected ways. It’s channeling your worst dark self. It can inspire a wanton side, it can thrill and titillate. How can I put this
? I think it’s cruddy for the soul. I think it makes you into a dick.”

  Nash moved to the door. Henry put out his arm and stopped him.

  “But I feel better. It makes the symptoms abate.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I was exposed, in effect, or I am exposed, by whatever means. And I do take their pills. It is my irony and my insult. And when I destroy their signs—with a fierce but just heart, I swear—I feel better. I can actually have peaceful sleep.”

  “Just don’t get carried away,” Nash said. “You’ve made your point.”

  “It’s about my dignity.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “I feel restored by it.”

  “But maybe…” Nash spoke while leaving the room. Henry followed him.

  “Maybe what?” Henry said.

  “Maybe it is the night ops on the billboard. Maybe you are right. Or maybe it’s their antidepressant that is making you feel better. Maybe it’s the Nepenthex.”

  Jason’s Journal

  HER WHOLE life has become suspect. Not just the fact that she admitted to being in California dive bars with dissipated rock stars. Or her evasions about her life pre-1980s. No relatives, no friends, no mention of anything. But that’s not all—there are other issues once you start thinking on it. Once you have it in your head that someone close to you is hiding something, everything is suspect.

  For example:

  Last night she said something that struck me as odd. She and I were watching the news together. I got bored and went to my room. I scratched out a school essay in about thirty minutes. It’s all so easy, it is just a joke. Then I went online to the Cabin Essence site, which is where I find my bootlegs. I was deep in conversation with a guy in Alabama who posted a bunch of stuff about a tape of the complete “Good Vibrations” sessions (which seems to me a song of such oddness and complexity that I could spend months parsing it and unpacking it) when I heard a knock at the door. I knew it was my mother, and I shouted at her but she couldn’t hear me because I was playing the music loud. I lowered it and hollered “What?” in an exasperated tone. She didn’t answer but knocked again. I got up and opened the door. She stood there with a pale, slight smile, clutching her sweater sleeves, which are always too long so she plays with them, half-burying her hands in them. It occurs to me she does this deliberately to emphasize how petite, how tiny, how frail she is. As if she can’t buy sweaters in the proper size.

  “Yeah?” I said with exaggerated inflection. I did not want to encourage her.

  “Jason.”

  “What is it, Mom? I’m doing a paper for class.” She nodded and then looked around my room a bit. She doesn’t get to come in very often. I keep it clean, and she stays out, at least I think she does. I turned the music way down. I didn’t want to spark any recovered memories about her glorious old days hanging out with Dennis Wilson.

  “What is it about?”

  “What?”

  “Your paper for class.”

  I shrugged. I didn’t know where this was going. I don’t have much patience for her these days. I want her to stay out of my way, ask no questions. She doesn’t understand that this is just the way it goes for mothers and sons in these years. It’s not her, it is just the not-her of her that I want, I want nothing from her except for her not to ask me things or stand in my doorway with a pale, sad look on her face, clutching at her sweater sleeves.

  “Don’t you have a class tonight?” I said. She teaches her adult cooking classes. She tutors illiterate adults. She mentors underprivileged children. It is not like she has nothing to do but talk to me. She nodded.

  “I made you some dinner, it’s in the fridge.” She just stood there. I gave up.

  “It’s about Alger Hiss, HUAC, that stuff.”

  “That’s great,” she said. “That’s very interesting.”

  Oh, Christ, I shouldn’t have said anything, but she wanted something, and I just didn’t have the heart to say nothing. Now she was going to want more.

  “So what do you think?” she said.

  “About what?” I asked.

  “Did he do it?”

  “Did Hiss do it?” I said.

  She nodded.

  “Of course Hiss did it. No one disputes that anymore.”

  “It’s generally known, you’re saying.”

  “He did it all right.”

  “Well, thank God that’s cleared up. All this time I’ve been wondering.” She said this earnestly, and there was a pause, and then she began to laugh. And I laughed. Which was surprising. She finally turned to leave. Then she stopped and looked back at me.

  “Why, though?”

  “Why what?” I asked.

  “Why would Hiss do it?”

  “Who knows? He certainly didn’t make any money from it. I guess because he believed it was the right thing to do.”

  “So why are you writing about the Hiss case, it being generally known and all?” She was quite serious again, not laughing. I looked at her, and I don’t know why I said this, but I did.

  “I’m curious about him. The fact that he spied isn’t so remarkable. Or even that he was in a position to lose so much privilege. I find that sort of admirable if misguided. What I find amazing is how he lied his entire life. How well he lied. If it wasn’t for the facts, it would be quite convincing. How does a person manage to not crack his entire life? Not even on his deathbed?”

  She stood there, and she looked right at me, an open-eyed look.

  “I mean if something is worth doing, shouldn’t you admit doing it? Shouldn’t you take responsibility for your actions?”

  She looked a bit startled. “Maybe other people would suffer if he confessed it,” she said.

  “Maybe. Or maybe he regretted it.”

  “That’s very possible.”

  “Or maybe he was a coward,” I said.

  And then it passed, she was backing up a bit, then moving down the hall.

  “I made some chicken quesadillas. You just have to heat them up.”

  “That’s great, thanks.”

  She turned away. But I stayed in my doorway a moment more.

  “I wonder, you know, about whether his wife knew the truth. Or his friends.”

  She stopped again and looked at me. “And what conclusion have you come to?” she asked.

  “No one knew the truth. He didn’t even know anymore, maybe. To live that long with it, you must have to convince yourself it never really happened. Don’t you think?”

  She shook her head and shrugged. She looked weary and old and far away. “I don’t know,” she finally said. We were weirdly awkward, not our usual awkward. She said, “You’re a bright kid, aren’t you?”

  My mother is a stranger. And she is strange. I am not sure at all what she thinks or feels about anything. And it’s funny because she should be wondering about me, not the other way around. I should be thinking about rock-and-roll and girls and drugs. Not why she gets so fuzzy and confused sometimes.

  I retreated to Gage’s house. He was on some kind of one-night George Clinton–Funkadelic kick. Which meant we had to listen also to P-Funk All Stars and Parliament, and every tributary that leads to and from these bands. What other albums they were session musicians on, what songs of theirs were covered by other people. He put on Maggot Brain from 1971, an admittedly awesome album. The cover alone—an Afroed black-power chick screaming and buried up to her neck in sand. And smokin’ psychedelic funk, very heavy and druggy sounding, with a swell of flange and fuzz at the edges. It had a creepy menace about it still, particularly a drop-dead sad and lovely extended guitar solo on the first song. Gage naturally whipped out a joint. I can’t smoke, it doesn’t make me feel good. It makes me confused and overly deliberate. But I smoked anyhow, and the music became claustrophobic and frightening.

  “You know what this music sounds like?” Gage said.

  “What?”

  “It sounds like his mother just died.”

  I looked sideways at
Gage. What did he mean by that? What was his point? The wail of guitar got longer, more extended and further from the melody. Did it go on forever? Could it please just return? It was all too dark for me, so I begged off and went back to my place to listen to Pet Sounds (the original mono version on vinyl). I put on the old-fashioned headphones with the oversized foam-filled ear cushions and lay on the floor. And I let the Beach Boys’ choir voices wash under and over me until I was in a gloriously unfractured universe of exquisite, naïve beauty.

  Sometimes I think I am in love with my own youth. I do not want to go forward, I always want to be carelessly lost in this music. I never want to get sick of it, and I never, ever, want to outgrow this or anything. I certainly don’t need to know anything more about her.

  La Chinoise

  NASH HADN’T seen Miranda in several months. He had heard rumors that Miranda was moving east with Josh, or had already moved east. She finally resurfaced for a meeting of the Last Wave Cinema Collective, one of Prairie Fire’s underground art and ecto-provo groups. Nash didn’t organize the group, but he let the participants show their films and collect what they could at the door. The unfortunate thing, in Nash’s view, was how lousy most of the work ended up being, how boring: painfully didactic and too often satiric in the most shallow way—just the sort of satire that reinforced oppressive American cultural hegemony rather than challenging it. Nash figured bad films, particularly bad attempts at political or subversive statements, were so unappealing they were not just sad and depressing but counter-revolutionary, reactionary, practically on the payroll of status quo America. He gave no—absolutely no—credit for “heart in right place” or “attempting with limited resources.” He felt insulted by lousy films.

  But tonight Nash found himself doubly irritated and unable to resist glancing over at Josh sitting there next to Miranda. The lights were lowered, and someone showed a video of two G.I. Joe dolls, one dressed like Saddam Hussein, the other, Michael Jackson. It was a nonstarter, a stoner’s idea of social critique. Afterward, the “filmmaker” held a forum.