Wicked and Weird

by Rich Terfry

  “My friend has a crush on you.”

  “Oh yeah?” I said.

  “Yeah. She’s really pretty. You should meet her. You should come to the opening at the art school on Friday night. She’ll be there. I’ll introduce you.”

  “Uh, okay.”

  “You’re gonna go?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Okay. Good. Don’t forget.”

  “I won’t.”

  This proposal made me nervous. Girls made me nervous. I’d never had a real girlfriend—only crushes, a few kisses and Sherry’s boobs. I wanted to back out. But not going would have meant going hungry; I went to the art openings every Friday anyway to eat the free food. It was part of my weekly routine.

  When the day came, I was hoping I could sneak in, grab a slice of pizza and some cookies and sneak out again without the mouse girl noticing me. It didn’t work out that way. Mouse girl was the first person I saw when I arrived at the gallery. There was no escape. She immediately descended upon me and seized me at the elbow.

  “Come meet my friend!”

  The mouse towed me into an adjacent room where stood a work of art more wondrous, more dazzling than any displayed on the walls of the gallery. It was Rose—the Virna Lisi lookalike from the diner! The mouse introduced us then backed away, leaving us alone. The paintings vanished from the walls and other visitors evaporated from the room. Rose was even more beautiful close up, and a bit taller than I had thought. And she was almost as shy as I was. She smiled at a spot on the floor.

  “I play shortstop for the Ecum Secum Pony Boys,” I blurted, having no idea what else to say.

  “I know.”

  “You do?”

  “Of course! I’ve seen you play a few times. You’re the best player in the league. Everyone knows that.”

  “Holy jeez.”

  “I’ve never seen someone hit a ball as far as you can. It’s so exciting. And you’re such a smooth fielder. You play with such soft hands. Can I touch them?”

  “I guess so.” I held them out to her. They shook.

  Rose took them and squeezed with her hands, which were flawless, like hands in magazine advertisements. Long fingers. Everything I’d seen of her indicated that she was a genetically perfect human specimen. She turned my hands over and studied my palms.

  “They’re so big and strong.”

  “I guess so.” I shrugged.

  “Do you want to go for a walk?”

  “Sure.”

  For the next two hours, we walked the wet sidewalks of Halifax and Rose told me about herself. She was a student at the art school, where she had been for the previous few years. She was having a hard time making up her mind what kind of artist she wanted to be. She was interested in painting and fashion and photography and filmmaking—and I would soon learn that she had great talent in each of those disciplines. She considered herself a witch, and baseball was part of her doctrine—but not major-league baseball, mind you. She had little interest in the day’s box scores or the results of the all-star game or the World Series. It was the aesthetics, the poetry, the philosophies of the pastime wherever it existed in the world—on playgrounds, in backyards or on streets—that interested her. To her, stickball played by kids on inner-city streets, or in the Dominican using a table leg and a crushed soda can, was the game at its purest.

  When our walk ended at her place, she took me inside and showed me a shrine that she had constructed in her bedroom. She had built it around the mirror of a vanity desk. It was intricately decorated with the ephemera of the game. There were several old, beat-up balls, an antique mitt from the twenties, a long shard of a broken Louisville Slugger. There were pennants, pins and postcards. Glass jars were filled with dirt from pitchers’ mounds. Photos showed moustachioed players from the 1800s, and old-timey English children wearing frilly collars played rounders on framed canvas. She had beautiful old pocket games that were played by spinning a tin arrow, and an ancient hard-covered rule book that might have been her bible. There were also crystals, buttons, acorns and assorted other good-luck charms and talismans. Wedged into the frame of the vanity’s mirror was a local newspaper clipping of an article detailing how I had helped turn around the fortunes of the Ecum Secum Pony Boys. It included a photo of me crossing home plate in my dirty uniform. Everything was illuminated by votive candles in coloured glass adorned with iconic renderings of Honus Wagner and Walter Johnson, hand painted by Rose herself. She explained that a couple of the balls were home runs that I had hit that summer. She’d pay a kid a few dollars to fetch them from the bushes and swamps for her.

  We stayed up all night talking. Fully clothed. There wasn’t even the slightest suggestion of anything else. I told her about how I had trained myself with rocks and two-by-fours, and she said it was the most beautiful story she’d ever heard. She taught me about her baseball mysticism. Some of it made sense to me, and a lot of it was hard to follow. She talked about the cow being a sacred animal because it gives us leather for balls and gloves. She talked about magic and quantum physics and voodoo. She talked about the energies of inanimate objects and how they can be harnessed.

  We realized it was morning when we heard Rose’s roommate, a red-headed, zaftig girl named Fiona, stirring in the kitchen. I suggested it was time for me to go. On our way to the door, Rose introduced me to Fiona, who was preparing her breakfast buck naked and was unreasonably cheerful given the hour.

  At the door, Rose asked me to kiss her.

  “I can’t.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know how.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t had much practice.”

  Rose, who was a few years younger than me, thought my admission and accompanying embarrassment were adorable.

  “Well, can I kiss you then?”

  “Uh, I guess so.”

  She put her arms around me. My arms stayed bolted to my sides, anchored by handfuls of pant leg. She carefully placed four kisses near my mouth and then magic number five on my lips. They were small kisses, but she let the last one sit on my lips for a moment. Then, without breaking away, her lips still touching mine, she whispered, “Bye.” The letter b made six.

  I was electrified.

  “Bye,” I said, not meeting her eyes.

  “You’re so shy.”

  “I know.”

  “I want to see you again soon. Come sleep in my bed with me. I want to be naked with you. We can get lost in each other. And I don’t want you to worry about anything. I love you and I want to have your babies.”

  “Okay,” I said, laughing nervously.

  •

  I walked home thinking about Kreskin and how one of his prophecies had now come true. Nothing that had happened with Rose struck me as odd, because I had nothing to compare the experience with. I assumed it was all perfectly normal, that this was what happened when people liked each other. I was excited, of course. I had been admiring Rose from a distance for the better part of a year, and all the while she had a shrine devoted to me in her bedroom.

  But I was also worried. If Kreskin was right about Rose, I figured he must be right about my mother too. Calling her meant swallowing a granite boulder of pride. But later that morning, I did just that.

  “Mom, it’s Buck.”

  “Where in the Jesus have you been?”

  Fear shot through my arms, just like in the old days.

  “I’m in Halifax. I’m going to school. Don’t worry.”

  “Well … good.”

  And that was the end of that discussion.

  “Mom, how have you been feeling lately?”

  “Fine. Why?”

  “Just wondering. Have you been to the doctor lately?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t had to.”

  “Will you do me a favour and go?”

  “Why should I?”

  I knew she wouldn’t do it for me. She didn’t care what I thought about anything. But I also knew she was de
eply superstitious.

  “Mom, do you remember the Amazing Kreskin?”

  I proceeded to tell her the story of my encounter, leaving out the stuff about Rose and music and baseball. At first she was preoccupied with the celebrity aspect. Mom had always been a faithful reader of the tabloids at the supermarket checkout. She saw my meeting with Kreskin as a genuine brush with glamour. I had to remind her of his proven extrasensory abilities by citing a few examples. Then I repeated his warning.

  “Mom, Kreskin said you’re sick.”

  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph …”

  “Will you go see the doctor?”

  “Let me go call to make an appointment now.”

  When I got off the phone, I tried to sleep. I had a game that night and needed rest. But I had too much on my mind.

  The game was a disaster. I made two errors in the field and went 0–4 at the plate. I popped up once and struck out three times. It was the start of the worst slump of my life. Over the next couple of weeks, I couldn’t have made solid contact with the bat if my life had depended on it, not even in batting practice. I was lost. It was as if I’d forgotten how to play the game or was wearing someone else’s body. My problem was not only my worry about my mother—it was Rose. She put distracting thoughts in my head. She had me wearing necklaces, stuffing mint and bay leaves into the fingers of my glove, reciting poetry to my bat and looking for the pink glow of energy currents. But mostly I was thinking about her body.

  I had lost my virginity—along with my baseball mojo—in Rose’s bed. This happened a few nights after our first meeting. She was very patient and gentle with me. Extreme high anxiety is not usually a quality one finds in a Casanova, but after a lousy start I began to get the hang of what we were doing, and that first night turned into a non-stop, bed-busting, biology-defying lust marathon. Rose’s body was like that of the sexy space barbarians in a Boris Vallejo painting. And I was her muscular, well-oiled pteracentaur. I became a fiend for her. There was more of the same the next night. And the night after that.

  After a two-week no-hitting, body-breaking sex bender, I called my mother for a medical update.

  “Fuck that Amazing Kreskin asshole!”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “That bastard wrote my death sentence.”

  “Kreskin?”

  “He said I was sick and now the doctors are telling me I got the cancer!”

  “Mom, you don’t understand. It’s not Kreskin’s fault! Cancer?”

  Cancer. Stage IV. She must have been living with it—in denial or secretly—for a couple of years. Now, she told me, she had only months left. Mom smoked and never exercised, so she wasn’t exactly the picture of health. But I had no memory of her ever being sick. I had thought she was indestructible. I had thought she’d bury us all. It seemed as if she’d aged a hundred years in the time it took her to break the news to me. Hearing her words, I felt like a stone falling through water.

  That night I had a dream. I was playing baseball. Rose was pitching. She was naked. Her face was ugly with doggedness, but her body was beautiful and powerful. Mine ached with desire for her as I stood in position at shortstop. My mother came up to bat. She was tiny; the bat was too big for her. Rose pitched. Mom hit a weak ground ball that came right to me. But Mom was too tired to run. She had only walked a few slow paces from the batter’s box when my throw reached the faceless first baseman. The ball hit his glove with a loud pop and Mom disappeared. I looked at the ground and saw both my arms, detached from my body, resting on the dirt.

  I felt nothing.

  •

  As my mom fought cancer, the days grew shorter. Baseball season came to an end. The Pony Boys had been knocked out of the playoffs in the first round. I had broken out of my slump, but because of my injuries, I had the worst overall season of my life.

  Meanwhile, I worked hard at school, keeping my grade point average close to 4.0. I did my homework and wrote raps during evening shifts at the newsstand. Rose and I worked tirelessly and with the foolish enthusiasm of rodents to make a baby. So sure was she in our future as a family that she began stockpiling infant provisions: tiny outfits, picture books and toys. At the same time, I was receiving an invaluable education from her. She taught me art history and introduced me to many of the artists who are still among my favourites today: Egon Schiele, Jean Cocteau, Lee Miller, Max Ernst, Frida Kahlo, Joseph Beuys and countless others. She also introduced me to filmmakers such as Luis Buñuel, Maya Deren, Jean-Luc Godard, Hollis Frampton and Jan Švankmajer. My life was being transformed. But my most important lesson came at the radio station.

  My radio show was named The Bassment (the name of most hip hop programs on campus radio stations worldwide). It aired every Tuesday evening at eight. I’d spend seven days meticulously planning each show. As a rule, each show started with a song from the first few years of the recorded era of hip hop music—1979 or 1980. I felt it was important to honour the pioneers. Then I’d play a mix of the hottest songs of the day (according to my own elitist criteria), classics from the so-called golden era (1986–88), and the odd demo tape from a local artist. I was a little more open than most hosts when it came to the demos because I wanted to support the local scene and because I was obligated to fulfill my Canadian content requirements (30 per cent). But I still had my standards.

  A local artist I refused to support was a guy who called himself “Gangster Smoke.” As the name would suggest, he fancied himself a badass. He was a self-styled, foul-mouthed, guns-and-drugs-glorifying misogynist. In real life, he was a security guard at the mall. To his credit, he did come from the roughest part of town. He phoned the request line week after week demanding that I play his tape. Week after week I refused to do so. Eventually, his demands turned into threats.

  “Play that tape if you value your life, motherfucker.”

  Once, I made a futile attempt to explain the station’s broadcast regulations as outlined by the Canadian government’s telecommunications regulatory agency—rules that prohibited me from playing material considered offensive according to their standards. I also explained the penalties associated with any violation of those regulations. But no self-respecting gangster rapper can be realistically expected to give a shit about any of that. So I began ignoring his calls.

  Gangster Smoke was undeterred. After being ignored for a week or two, he made an appearance at the station during my show, accompanied by several henchmen. It was after hours, which meant he had somehow managed to get through the locked doors of the student union building, past the security desk and through the triple-bolted door of the station. It also meant that I was alone.

  “You’re going to play that tape now, bitch.”

  “I can’t do it, Smoke.”

  “Why the fuck not? No one’s telling you what to play, right?”

  “Well, no …”

  “You pick the music you play yourself?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So you’re the authority, huh? You decide what’s real and what’s not?”

  “I guess so.”

  Mr. Smoke walked across the control room to where I was sitting behind the console, pulled out a gun and pointed it at my face.

  “Is this real enough for you, motherfucker?”

  “Whoa. Okay, okay.”

  “Play this tape. Right now.”

  I played the tape. As it played, he explained that when the song was over, I would go on the air and tell the listeners who he was and that they should buy his music.

  “How about this,” I said. “I’ll give the mic to you and you can say whatever you want.”

  He liked that idea and proceeded to launch into a profanity-enriched screed announcing his plans to take over the rap scene. When I saw that he was satisfied, I turned the microphone off and started the next song on that evening’s playlist. My selection didn’t meet with the approval of Gangster Smoke.

  “What the fuck is this garbage?” he said, pointing the gun at the turntable. “And who
the fuck do you think you are, white boy? Look at you! You look like a fucking clown, dressed in your little rapper costume. And what’s this act you’re putting on, talking like you’re from the street? You’re fucking corny.” Turning to one of the members of his retinue, he said, “Can you believe this shit?”

  “Fucking pussy” came the reply.

  “Someone needs to teach this fucking phony a lesson—what do you think, boys?”

  “I think that shit’s long overdue,” said one of them.

  With that, Gangster Smoke lunged at me and cracked me flush above my right eye with the butt of his pistol. I wasn’t knocked unconscious, but I hit the floor hard and blood ran down my face in a torrent. Then his stooges jumped in. There were four or five of them. They laid the boots to me. I covered my head and waited out the onslaught. It lasted about thirty seconds before Smoke called the dogs off.

  “All right, that’s enough. Let’s go, boys.”

  As my assailants made their way out of the control room, Gangster Smoke offered his closing remarks:

  “Your whole shit’s offensive. You’re a trespasser. White boy can’t come into the ’hood and make the rules. It doesn’t work like that. It’s not your place. You like to think you’re ‘down.’ This isn’t your culture. You’re in fantasyland. You’re running a minstrel show here. That shit doesn’t fly. Clean up your act, motherfucker. Show some goddamn respect.”

  I watched him leave. Then I picked my jaw up off the floor. It did not occur to me to call the police. Justice had been served. I didn’t need time to reflect to understand that. Smoke was 100 per cent right in everything he had said. Sense had literally been beaten into me. I had been humiliated—and I’m thankful for it to this day.

  After that, I thought long and hard about whether there was a place for me in the world of hip hop culture. I gave serious consideration to walking away from it altogether. I credit Rose with helping me make the decision to stick with it (although that decision is a recurring source of existential angst to this day).