by Bruce Wagner
“Did you know there is only one fucking psychiatrist in the entire country of Rwanda? Right on. Tell me what some analytical asswipe could do to restore the self-esteem of a woman whose baby was torn off her shoulder and thrown against a wall? By her own brother. And now she’s got a cow. That’s all she has left. A cow. 5 dead wall-slammed babies, you know, machete’d or stomped on, a dead hubby, she’s got AIDS from the daily Hutu gangbang, or the Tutsis, the Tutsi rolls, whoever, and now all she’s got left is a fucking cow. Oh yes! Call in the Antioch-trained grief counselors!”
Lew was captious—Joan knew better than to engage. Just ride it out. Besides, she liked to listen: it was only his juicily fractious ch’i talking, and he had a surplus. Ch’i was sexy. Soon it would be dusk and they’d start to drink and she’d fuck it all out of him, out of herself too. All that overt/covert energy would be put to good use.
DREA and Fanny were adorable. They were 9 and 3, with their own wing and handlers. Joan was glad that he wanted her to meet them, regardless of the brevity of the encounter. (Though maybe it doesn’t really mean anything.) She was a bit nervous around the girls, and at 1st they barely glanced at her. They were probably nervous too—not nervous, shy. That was natural. But what do I know.
The nanny supervised while Drea read aloud from The Adventures of Mark Twain. Lew said it was a special dumbed-down version all the schools were using now. Originally put together for kids with disabilities, the book had caught on and been approved for the larger student body.
JOAN thanked him for the gifts he sent to LA, murmuring they were “beyond extravagant.” She didn’t know what to give him in return (full well realizing her shorthaired pussy was enough)—but still, she had to bring something—which wound up being a-silk-wrapped piece of blood coral she got 10 years ago, scuba-diving on the Great Barrier Reef. It had always been precious to her, alien and astonishingly beautiful, a bony, corpuscular vessel, and Lew was dead-on when he said it looked like something Damien Hirst wished he’d come up with. Watching him stare at it as if it were under a microscope, even Joan began to doubt the “realness” of its provenance and thought maybe the object was something she’d dreamed. An aborigine told her it didn’t come from the world of vocabulary (it was like a letter in the alphabet of the nonverbal) and there was no need to describe it—but if one was determined, it could simply be called “the 3rd Unit.” The 3rd Space. The 3rd Twirl. Man likes codes and alphabets. This object is part of the code of a dreaming place called Red Sands. We regard language as an emblem. A word stands for something and then we fall in love with that word. This object is meant to pull you back to Energy, not Word. It was a thing that stood outside a pair; it was the “C corollary to A-B.” She didn’t understand. All Joan could tell Lew was that “it came from the ocean” and suddenly she felt like a liar, an impostor, impoverished of ideas, famulus to the Wizard of Oz. When she dutifully regurgitated the shaman’s explanation, it sounded like a crazy person’s verbigeration.
On that weekend of Lew’s b-day BBQ…not a barbecue, strictly speaking, because the chef frivolously served up deliberately kitschy Sara Lee (still in the supermarket box) along with the bison and foie gras, hearts of palm stuffed with fava beans and pistachios, blood orange gelatin, “McSweetbreads” and columbine, snapdragons and cornstarch paper and edible soyabean stamped with the flavorsome logo of Guerdon LLC; they drank deconstructions of Bloody Marys—that’s what the chef called them, thinking everyone would be amused—Joan just thought it was stupid. The man only dug himself deeper when sharing that he’d recently attended a bachelor party in Vegas where after-dinner drinks cost $2,000 apiece. For dessert (the cake sat in its cardboard vitrine like an objet d’art) they ate marshmallows infused with lavender and a kerfuffle of “Kentucky Fried” sorbet that tasted like, well, chickenskin. A gustatory crew watched from cameras in the kitchen so they’d know when to clear, and when to proffer the next cryovac’d course.
The girls were sent to bed. Supporting cast and crew discreetly vanished. They were deliciously alone as evening fell. Over glasses of Belondrade y Lurton verdejo, Lew rambled on about black holes and bursts of gamma rays burning brighter than a trillion billion suns—but lasting only seconds—and one-square-inch star cubes weighing more than however many quadrillion planets put together. He made his usual racist jokes and ruckus, outright drunk now, pawing her chest, softly, absurdly goosing the crack of her ass through Kate Hepburn capris, and getting contemplative about plaque the doctor said he’d found in his carotid (right-side only) before railing on a fresh bevy of pet peeves. Then he gifted her with Zai skis, and the craziest thing she’d ever seen, called a Henk—a 30,000 dollar carry-on suitcase he’d bought in Vegas, at Wynn’s. Lew said it was made from the same material used for rockets. A briefcase was attached, of horse-hair and rare wood (no doubt). The monogram: JHA. She wondered how he found out her middle name was Alice. She’d always hated it.
IN the morning, on the way to the airport, Lew drove past the gallery site where his brother’s bequest of paintings and artifacts would be showcased, and where he planned to build a studio for his own modest artistic pursuits.
Lew Freiberg, billionaire sculptor.
Also, he said he needed a place to house his “curiosities”—like Clyde Barrow’s bullet-ridden blood-stained shirt that he’d bought at auction for $125,000, and a collection of 3-century-old books, accounts of murder trials bound in the killers’ skin. Richard Gluckman was designing it. She knew Richard and didn’t take it as a threat; a studio was one thing, a memorial another. Still, she was well aware that her New York friend had built spaces for Chuck Close and Richard Serra, and suddenly, that nagged—what if Gluckman had put something in Lew’s head to have Serra do one of those rusted jillion-ton Cecil B DeMille cookie-cutter Ss for the Mem?
All Joan knew was what she’d been told—ARK was seriously in play, along with Rimjob, Andy G, and other unknown soldiers of (fame and) fortune. She was on the short(hair) list; Lew confirmed it late last night. For the life of her, she couldn’t decide if letting him slurp the meat between her legs had strengthened or weakened her case.
But maybe those days and legs—bridge of thighs—were coming to a close, and soon she wouldn’t be capable of getting men to seek the peyote button visions of her clit. Maybe she was already on her way to excommunication—like the ex wife, the son, and the traveling roadshow shrink—all of them wilderness camp-bound. Soon she would be dumbed down, just like the Twain text; sex and hormones and Memorial gone, dumb and dumber.
Dumbed down, rubbed out, and old.
Old.
XLVI.
Ray
HE took Friar Tuck to the park, where he promptly bit a dog and its owner.
The old man hadn’t expected that, because the Friar was weak and sluggish. He was really just bringing him there for sun and fresh air. But when a Weimaraner came along and sniffed his hindquarters, the Nipper nipped, then attacked the woman as she jerked away her pet. Luckily, no blood was drawn on either side. The gal—a big, stocky type—was peeved, but softened when Ray said his friend had been shot, and this was his 1st “constitutional.” Ordinarily, he wouldn’t have played that card but the immediate situation seemed to call for some ham. (A lawsuit was all he needed.) She asked what happened and Ray said the sheriffs shot him by mistake. As it turned out, the woman had actually read about it, and softened even some more. She nodded in sympathy, commenting on the Friar’s sutures. Ray apologized again, and that was that.
He was going to leave but felt winded after the encounter. He sat on a bench on the outskirts of the meager greens. The Friar lay down and closed his eyes. The old man took the letter from the veterinary hospital from his coat pocket, put on his glasses, and gave it a read.
Dear Mr Rausch,
As you know, “Friar” was brought to our hospital approximately 2 weeks ago after sustaining a right radius fracture secondary to a gunshot wound. X-rays of the chest and abdomen, as well as a complete blood panel, were wi
thin normal limits. Because there were open wounds to the right front leg, and because the fractured bone pieces were still in excellent alignment, we did opt to treat Friar’s open leg with a splint. We have been changing the bandage every day. We are very pleased to see that the wounds are healing nicely, and the leg continues to have excellent alignment.
At home, it is imperative that Friar be kept as calm and quiet as possible for the next 4 weeks while his leg continues to heal. This means no running, jumping, playing, or roughhousing. Initially, we would like to see Friar back at our hospital every 2 days to change his splint. This will require a light sedative, so please do not feed Friar breakfast on the morning of these visits. If at any time you notice that this splint becomes soiled, please call us and we’ll be happy to change it immediately. A water-soiled splint can result in a serious underlying skin infection. In approximately 2 weeks, we will take a new X-ray to assess the healing progress of Friar’s fracture.
We are sending Friar home with a pain medication and antibiotics. Please give these medications as directed.
Thank you very much for the opportunity to help Friar. He certainly remains one of our most popular patients. Please don’t hesitate to contact us with any questions or concerns.
It choked him up—he was proud of his little warrior. Getting shot was a big deal. He’d rather have a heart attack any day. Nip still wasn’t sleeping too well; he was way off his game, crying out in the night at faraway sounds. He shook and puked during the day but the docs didn’t seem to think that would last. Ray was anxious to get him in the water, soon as he healed enough to swim. He lifted the submissive animal, cradling Nip in his arms as he hobbled to the car; 2 invalids. Then he laughed. Still had the gumption to take a bite out of a sonofabitch—and that fatso too.
That’s my boy.
THE next day, he cruised Sepulveda after dropping Friar for a splint change.
The boulevard had changed. It used to be ratty-looking but around Washington, he noticed all kinds of new places—coffeeshops, boutiques, upscale malls. He slowed at an elaborate building that actually seemed to resemble a railroad station. He circled around and parked, for a closer look. The sign said ALLIED TRAINS. He threw a quarter in the meter.
The store must have covered about an acre. A couple of employees loitering at the front gave him a deadpan greeting. He asked if this was the same shop that used to be over by Pico and Veteran. They said it was, but had moved to this location in ’86. “Really brings back memories,” said Ray. The men were young, and not up to kibitzing with a codger. They went about their business without asking if he needed help.
Every 10 feet or so was an elaborate, enclosed “city” with a train running through. A multitude of signs read DO NOT TOUCH, KEEP YOUR MITTS OFF, etc. (Ray thought it overkill, and a tad unfriendly.) He sure got nostalgic, though. Remembered buying Chesterfield his 1st set—must have been the early 70s. He could still feel the cold steel heft of the engine in his hand, a Lionel, and see the wonder in his son’s eyes when he opened it Christmas morning. White puffs came from the smokestacks, and when you pressed a button the train whistled. Toward the rear of the store, Ray looked inside a case and saw the very same model. The vintage engine wore a price tag: 13-hundred dollars.
He stopped one of the clerks. “Is that just for the engine or is that for the whole train?”
“Buy it!” said the clerk.
“But is it for the engine or all 6 cars?”
“Cash or credit card,” said the clerk. “Buy it!”
“OK, stop playing around,” said Ray.
An older clerk came around the counter.
The whippersnapper got lost.
“We bought that directly from the owner. It’s probably from about 1961.”
“Looks just like the one I gave my son.”
“Usually, the engine and caboose are what you’re buying—in this case, we’re just throwing them in. It’s the cars in the middle that you’re paying for. See that aquarium? That’s $600 right there. And the scraper on the flatbed—scrapers are rare, but this one’s rare-on-rare cause the flatbed is black instead of red. So that’s 400. See? So we’re actually throwing the engine and caboose in.”
Ray pointed to the set below, a string of Pullman cars with an observation deck.
“That’s not the California Zephyr, is it?” he asked.
The clerk looked at him blankly.
“Well, of course it isn’t. It says ‘Pennsylvania.’ ”
The tag on the Pennsylvania said 45-hundred.
The whippersnapper darted past.
“Cash or credit card! Get in! Get it! Get in and get it, right now!”
The old man scowled at him as he disappeared.
Maybe when the city paid the settlement, he would come “get it.” That punk was really getting Ray’s goat.
As he left he thought about his own defunct emporium, and miniature golfing with the kids—then it occurred to him another son might be on the way. He’d do right by this one, see this one through. He’d have the money to, anyway; it certainly cost a chunk o’ change to raise a kid. Besides, he was a different man now. He wouldn’t walk away. He had Ghulpa, and she was no Marj. She was no ballbuster.
Ray headed back to the hospital. He wondered how a place like that—they sold toy trains, for chrissake—managed to have such a lavish building. How in hell did it stay in business? The owner must be rich: only explanation. A computer geek probably bought it on a whim, for his own personal sandbox. That’s why the folks working there were so rude. Didn’t matter if they made a sale or not.
Yes, I will have a son. Not “Chester.” I couldn’t do that again. We’ll call him Lionel…
He would tell Ghulpa it was an honorable name, and came from “lion.” Well, it did, didn’t it? In a way. Not such a good thing, though, come to think of it, when it came to his BG. She might allow it, because the hearts and souls and strength of lions were so important to her, even though she feared them. Didn’t her beloved Durga, her bloodcurdling Kali, ride atop one?
They would have a lion for a son. What more could she ask for to beat back her terrors than a lionhearted boy?
XLVII.
Chester
CHESS and Laxmi went to the zoo. Though she didn’t like the idea of them being caged, she wanted to show him “the Ganeshas.” They smoked weed before driving over, and he dropped 2 Inderals and 4 vikes. They took her car.
He read aloud from the newspaper as they wended their way through Griffith Park. They were laughing so hard it was tough for Laxmi to steer. Chess had the full-page ad in his hand and declaimed from it, telling Laxmi she should use it for a monologue in her acting class:
What does Mc® mean to me? Everything that I love…to me, Mc means McDonald’s®. So I’m cool with Mc and Mc is cool with me.
Mc is cool with me!
Underneath the Golden Arches, it said, “I’m lovin it.”
“Oh my God!” said Laxmi. “McDonald’s is selling fruit salad with yogurt now! I’m so sure the fruit is cloned!”
“Look at this chick,” said Chess, staring at the graphics. “Here’s what she’s saying: ‘I don’t know who loves this salad more. Me? Or my fork.’ Fork this.”
“It’s so creepy. And the drawings. They’re like from chick-lit novels! Anorexic girls in stilettos with chihuahuas—the chihuahua accessory is so over—they’re just staring at you, and, like, sitting in Eames chairs.”
“Are we spending too much time thinking about MickeyD’s?”
“Yes! Yes! They’ve won! They’ve totally won!”
Laxmi laughed in that abandoned, guttural way she saw Cameron Diaz laugh on reruns of Trippin’.
Chess did some more dramatizing.
“ ‘Having one makes even a bad hair day feel good.’ That’s what it says! I’m serious! Having one makes even a bad hair day feel good!”
“ ‘I’m lovin it’!”
“What the fuck do they mean, ‘I’m lovin it’?”
&nb
sp; “They are lovin it!”
“Love this,” said Chess, grabbing his crotch. Theme of the day.
Laxmi whooped then Chess winced and ouched from a shooting pain. She was laughing so hard she almost swerved off the road into a girl on horseback, which seemed totally surreal.
“Oops,” said Laxmi. Then: “Bad hair day!”
“Do you see these people?” said Chess, holding up the ad so Laxmi could cop another look. “They’re like in some loft, a hip loft with Levelor blinds and red brick—”
“The Pacific Electric Building!”
“—some marketing fool’s idea of a hip loft! It looks like a bad comedy-club set. Check out the shag carpeting! It’s lime. And, what is that, a turntable?”
“They don’t even sell those at Restoration anymore. I went in. I really wanted one. But you know who still has LPs? Amoeba, in Hollywood. They even sell 8-tracks.”
“This fucking ad looks like it was production designed by UNICEF! See the kids on the couch? One’s a spade, right?”
“Kate Spade! And her brother!”
“A cuddly-assed African-American. And there’s a Latino on the end who looks like she’s ready to have her burrito McMunched. Munch munch, munch-a-bunch o’ Fritos…a TJ donkey’s gonna give her oral—a McBurro! Waiter! Bring me a McBurrito, smothered in underwear! And special sauce! Bring me the head of Alfredo McDonald! Laxmi, look at this! It’s the fucking Jesse Jackson Rainbow Coalition munch-a-Latino-for-lunch bunch!” The driver split a gut, futilely waving her hand that she could take no more. “And the guy in the middle? Check out his hair! It’s long. A Filipino mix who thinks he’s hot! Like a reject from Project: Runway!”