The History of Bones

by John Lurie

  * * *

  —

  Toward the end I’d have to dress my dad. He slept in his own room now. Liz, my older sister, was in Boston at college. Evan, my younger brother, got my room, I got Liz’s, and my father moved out of the master bedroom into Evan’s little room. He never complained.

  It must have been clear that he was dying, but my brain couldn’t hold that. He certainly knew. I was down on the floor helping him on with his slippers, and he said out of nowhere, “I’ve led a full life.” At the time, I had no idea why he had said that. Was like a non sequitur. But, in later years, when that moment would cross my mind, I thanked him quite deeply. It really helped.

  The house had a weird feel to it. Liz was gone and Evan and I were running wild. Evan invented a pipe for smoking weed, made out of a gas mask, that he called “The Eliminator.” He had hair all the way down his back and had to hold his head out the car window on the way home to get the marijuana smell out.

  On the news a bunch of uncomfortable, geeky kids with glasses were burning their draft cards. They were being punched and beaten by normal, red-blooded American boys. I didn’t really understand the whole thing, but I was impressed by the violence. The guys who were beating them were just like the guys on my high school football team. The kind of guys that I thought were idiots but desperately wanted to be in with. This was way before opposition to the Vietnam War was commonplace.

  That night, I was in my dad’s room and asked him, “What could I do to make you proud of me?”

  “If you could show as much courage as those boys who burned their draft cards today, I’d be enormously proud of you.”

  I got a suspended sentence on the drug thing. The lawyer went off and discussed something with the judge and it was all settled. My dad looked so sick, it was difficult for him to walk. That was the last time that he left the house.

  There was a nineteen-foot-long flag that flew at the end of the downtown part of Worcester, in Lincoln Square. It was supposedly one of seven flags in the country that flew at all times. We had decided to steal it. I talked about it all the time.

  One night, motivated by this guy Wayne, we go out to steal the flag for real. Everybody else chickens out, so it’s just me and Wayne. Wayne was a little too handsome and never smoked pot because he “didn’t want to change his personality.” We didn’t really trust him.

  But Wayne is serious about the flag; he really wants to do it. I’m surprised because I really assessed him as a phony and didn’t think he had the balls. We park the car around the corner, out of sight. The flag is situated in a big grass roundabout, with traffic going around the outside. It’s late at night. There are no cars. The flag is all lit up, and the light feels soft but strong, like an evening baseball game. We walk onto the roundabout and are completely visible from hundreds of yards in every direction.

  Wayne takes a knife and cuts the rope. I’m not ready for this. I’m not ready at all.

  The flag starts floating toward us in fast slow motion. You can’t believe how big it is. We’re engulfed. We’re underneath the flag, like it’s a tent and we can’t find our way out. I’m terrified.

  We—mostly Wayne—gather the flag up. Wayne starts to run toward the alley where the car is. My legs are frozen, I can’t run. I want to call time-out. I really didn’t think we were actually going to do this. I have to run stiff-legged to the car because my knees won’t bend.

  We bring the flag to my house and stretch it out in Evan’s new room. It’s too big and parts of it have to go up the walls to the ceiling on either side to properly display it.

  When my dad wakes up, I go into his room, beaming. He knows something is up.

  “What did you do?”

  “It’s very big.”

  “What did you do?”

  “We painted city hall red.”

  “You couldn’t have or I would have read about it.”

  “You’ll read about this. We stole the flag at Lincoln Square.”

  I thought that he would see that this was like the kids burning their draft cards, only better because it was funny. But he didn’t. He said, “That’s just stupid,” and went back into his room.

  * * *

  —

  We had a blues band called Crud, and there was our larger entourage, also called Crud. This was mostly with the white kids in Worcester. We each had a Crud number. So if you were in the pizza place you’d write, “Crud 33,” if that was your number, on a napkin and then put the napkin back in the middle of the napkin container. Hopefully it would be found later by another person in the group. With spray paint, we changed the sign that said “Entering Worcester” to “Entering Crud.” We changed the name of the beauty shop in Tatnuck Square from “The Imperial House of Beauty” to “The Imperial House of Crud.”

  At least, that is how I remember it.

  Crud played its first show, and I was playing the harmonica. It went okay. It was pretty messy, and some of the attempts at humor were pretty pathetic, but it was the first time I’d ever played in front of people and I was excited.

  My dad was in the hospital. He was dying. The next day after the gig, I went to see him. This was something that my mom had set up, the last meeting, the farewell, but I didn’t know this. Had I known, I certainly would have behaved differently, but my head was full of excitement about the gig.

  He asked me when my show was going to be. I said with great pride that we had played last night. He looked away from me and cringed. He was disgusted with himself for not knowing what day it was. He had accepted what was happening to his body, but his mind was going and this was not okay. He took a lot of pride in his mind.

  A couple days later, I was still in bed when my mom came to the door of my bedroom and said, “It was all over at seven o’clock this morning.” Just like that. I like the way she did it. My mother, who could be overly dramatic and find problems when there were none, in the face of real tragedy was levelheaded and stoic. I miss them both.

  * * *

  —

  Three girls from my class came to the funeral. They weren’t close friends. I was surprised to see them there. I hardly went back to school after that, so I never got a chance to tell them how grateful I was. And the worst part is that now I can’t remember their names. I made this mistake through a large part of my life, gravitating to the cool people and ignoring the real ones.

  After the funeral, there was a reception at the house. My father’s job was selling Israeli bonds, and there was a lot of the Jewish community there. My parents were devout atheists and they had decided in advance that he would be cremated.

  There was a rabbi who was chasing my mother, who was raised Protestant, around the house, saying, “Forty-five minutes, forty-five minutes to save him!” Then, “Thirty-five minutes!” My mother was in a state, she didn’t know what to do. My mother, who wasn’t Jewish, thought that maybe, just maybe, she was damning my dad to whatever the Jewish version of Hell was.

  I didn’t catch any of this. I knew something was going on because people were ushering me around the house in a weird way. I think people thought that it wouldn’t be good if I started punching the rabbi. It’s a shame because I really needed to punch somebody, and punching the irritating rabbi would have been perfect.

  * * *

  —

  It was a beautiful fall day and the little guy came and took the oxygen equipment and extra tanks away. Didn’t say anything.

  No jokes today.

  My mom was upset that he didn’t offer his condolences. I imagine he didn’t want to get into it. Brings oxygen for sick people, and then eventually they die and he can’t really make a thing out of it. But I remember that my mom was upset. It was kind of cold, but I’m sure he just didn’t know what to say. Kindness is a higher form of intelligence that this guy just didn’t have.

  I lost touch with Bruce Johnson
. I was on Pleasant Street, near my house, and he came walking down the street. He was so thin and loose that he looked like his body was made only of disconnected bones. It was about noon and he was never in this neighborhood when he wasn’t with me. He was disheveled and his eyes were red.

  He mumbled something:

  “I told her to put my balls in her mouth and sing ‘The Star-Spangled Banner.’ ” Then he laughed his little Jimi Hendrix–like laugh.

  “What’s wrong with your eyes?”

  He didn’t answer. Just walked past, toward downtown, laughing.

  About a year later, I was driving near Main Street in the area where the prostitutes hung out. I saw a ravishing girl standing on the corner. Her skin had a scarlet glow. I had to stop at a light and was staring at her beauty for about twenty seconds. Suddenly, I realized that this was Bruce. This was Bruce Johnson dressed as a woman.

  My brain turned over.

  I didn’t understand. I didn’t know anything about the concept of drag queens or transgender people at that time.

  Later, I realized that he’d only played basketball to placate me and he wasn’t interested in it at all, though he had massive skills. I guess the others all knew he was attracted to me, and that’s why they were teasing me outside the church that night. That’s what it meant.

  * * *

  —

  Steve Piccolo was in Crud, our blues band. Steve, Evan, and I decided to hitchhike to New York to see Canned Heat play with John Lee Hooker. They’d put out this double album with Alan Wilson, who had recently died, playing harmonica and all kinds of other stuff. We listened to it all the time.

  My uncle Jerry lived on West Fifty-seventh Street, so we stayed at his place. It was right next door to Carnegie Hall, where the concert was held. After the show, we’re just hanging out on the corner of Fifty-seventh and Sixth in the summer air when Bob Hite, the singer from Canned Heat, comes out. He’s fat, with long hair in a ponytail and a beard. They called him “The Bear.” I go up to him, I’m excited to meet him, and tell him that I play the harmonica and I’ll hitchhike to wherever they are playing next to show him that I’m serious. He’s surprisingly friendly and says okay, that they’re playing tomorrow night at the Spectrum in Philadelphia.

  Me, Steve, and Evan hitch to Philly, find the Spectrum, and sneak into the giant arena in the middle of the afternoon. We’re hours early, and we hide in the Spectrum’s basement and wait there. When the band shows up, we’re in their dressing room waiting for them.

  Bob Hite asks to hear me play, so I take out my harmonica and play a bit. He says okay, I can play, that the first two songs are in E. I have an A harmonica, which is what you need for the blues in E, and I’m all set.

  This is incredible.

  Me, Evan, and Steve stand back and try not to be a nuisance. Henry Vestine, the guitar player, is very strange. His mind seems to be fried; he’s sitting in a corner playing the strangest guitar: reooom, reeoooom, like the Shaggs’ version of a raga.

  Next thing I know I’m standing out onstage in front of twenty thousand people. They’re out there screaming. I play my two songs—I get a solo in each song—play my ass off, and split the stage. We watch the rest of the show from the wings and then hang out in the dressing room after it’s over. The guys in the band tell me I did great. My head is swimming.

  A roadie comes back and says that there are two women here to see John Lee Hooker. John Lee Hooker says, “Shit, I don’t need but one.” He was probably around fifty, but I was seventeen and he seemed like this old, old man. How can he still have sex?

  * * *

  —

  Mark Pluff, Steve Piccolo, and I were going to start a band playing Hendrix- and Beatles-like material that we had written. I was playing guitar. Mark was on drums and Piccolo was on bass. I imagine this was 1971.

  We practiced a couple of times in Mark’s basement in the afternoons. Steve couldn’t make it one day, so Mark suggested that we take acid and then write some music.

  I haven’t taken acid before, but Evan has. Evan told me much later that he was tripping during one of our family dinners. He just watched the roast beef being passed around: whoosh, whoosh, roast beef, whoosh.

  Mark offers me this little orange barrel, Orange Sunshine, which looks like a tiny marshmallow. We take them. Today he’s set up his drums in the garage and we play there.

  I have this beautiful Les Paul guitar, which may have been made as early as 1950, my prize possession. As I start to play it, my hands feel very odd and my fingers are purple. I can’t really manipulate my fingers to do anything that makes musical sense, and I suddenly am not sure what musical sense is. It doesn’t make any difference anyway, because the neck of the guitar has turned into a liquidy rubber and it’s bending away from me. Seems like a swan’s neck that’s trying to get away and could bite me in a moment.

  I gently lay the guitar down on the concrete of Mark’s driveway and walk away.

  Wandering around, I hear a strange, unearthly mechanical sound rising up into the air behind a school, and then the next thing I know, I’m at my house, which is odd because Mark doesn’t live close to me.

  I walk in and my mother has her sacred bridge club going. They’re all seated around a fold-out bridge table in the living room. I’m not around the house much anymore and I haven’t seen any of these women in a couple of years. There’s a big mirror over the fireplace and I’m staring into it and I’m grinning from ear to ear. Can’t stop grinning.

  The bridge club are all looking at me and I’m looking over their heads into the mirror.

  “Oh, he’s getting so handsome.”

  “Yes, he is handsome, isn’t he?”

  I don’t even acknowledge them, I’m looking over their heads and past them. I’m staring into the mirror, grinning from ear to ear. The smile goes past my ears, I’m grinning from neck to neck. I’m really grinning.

  My mom, who has always desperately tried to keep us away from the bridge club, actually offers me some of the sacred bridge club’s sandwiches that they are not going to eat. This is very unusual. We never, ever, get any of the bridge club’s food. Never. Maybe it’s because I’ve been declared handsome, or maybe it’s because my mom senses that something is up and I’d be better off shepherded into the kitchen with some food.

  Well, how nice. I go into the kitchen and say hi to Max the dog. I really feel like I can talk to the dog. I sit down on the kitchen floor and start trying to eat the sandwiches. I’m talking to Max, and clearly, if he had the right vocal equipment, he would answer me.

  “How are you, Max?”

  Max comes over to me and I hold out the plate of sandwiches for him to have a bite.

  “How is it being a dog, Max? Is it okay for you?”

  Max demurely eats half of one of the sandwiches. He’s looking at me kindly and we’re intimate on a level that we haven’t previously experienced. Max has another sandwich.

  “They’re good sandwiches, aren’t they, Max?”

  I don’t think there is anything strange going on here. Maybe this is strange, I know that I’ve never sat on the kitchen floor and eaten with the dog before, but my mom’s never offered me the bridge club’s food before. This is a new experience, that’s all. No, this is okay. In fact, it’s great.

  My mother comes into the kitchen and says, “You’re acting very strangely.” I can see she is not an ally, so I go upstairs to my room, but not before stopping at the mirror and grinning at myself for however long.

  Upstairs I find Hendrix’s Electric Ladyland and put it on the record player. I don’t notice, but the stereo is turned all the way up to ten. It doesn’t seem loud to me, but I’m sure the house must have been shaking. We never listened to anything higher than three or four, even when my mom was out. Ten must have been deafening.

  My mother comes flying up the stairs, but before she can
say anything, I run past her, down the stairs, and out of the house. I don’t say goodbye to the bridge club, I’m laughing too hard.

  I find myself back at Mark’s. My guitar is lying in the driveway where I left it. I put it in its case. I knock on Mark’s door, but his mother answers. Mark’s not there.

  “Can I use the bathroom?”

  “Of course.”

  I go into the bathroom and start looking in the mirror again. This time it’s not as much fun. In fact, some of my skin is peeling off my face. This is scary. I try to take a shit, but the muscles in my stomach are not mine to control. There’s a weird electric jolting feeling, and I think I have to move my bowels but am incapable of figuring out how to do it.

  I start looking in the mirror again. Now it’s a little more fun. I hope my face doesn’t start peeling away again. This is better. I start grinning again.

  Suddenly it dawns on me that I’ve been in the bathroom for two or three hours, maybe longer. I can’t go out, I can’t handle seeing Mark’s mother. And it seems like it must be around eight p.m., his father must be home by now. I’m going to stay in the bathroom until they go to sleep and then I’ll sneak out of the house.

  That doesn’t make sense. No, I have to walk out no matter how scary. So I get my courage together and walk out. I sense nothing from Mark’s mother’s face that suggests there is anything wrong. Maybe I was only in there for ten minutes. Everything’s fine. I say goodbye and leave.

  Later that evening, I run into Mark downtown, miles from his house. This always seems to happen when you’re tripping: You get high with someone and, inevitably, you get split up. Everyone goes wandering in different directions, but, miraculously, some force brings you back together.

  We walk around for a while. Mark has very strange eyes, and he wears sunglasses all the time because light hurts them. I can see his strange eyes behind the dark lenses, and they’re bugging me out. Mark’s psyche had always seemed like granite to me—nothing fazed him—but now there’s something evil lurking in his eyes.