“Jesus, Dad, why aren’t you asleep? You scared the shit out of me.”
“See, they say the pot makes you paranoid.”
“I’m not paranoid, you came at me like a fucking jack-in-the-box.”
“I slept all day. I can’t sleep now.”
Marty came to the table and looked at all the Chinese.
“I don’t have much of an appetite these days.”
“This shit’ll give you an appetite.”
“No, I hear it leads to harder stuff. It’s a gate drug.”
“Gateway drug.”
“I don’t wanna become a drug addict, fuck up my future. I don’t know if my lungs can take it. Mariana would be mad.”
“Let’s see. C’mere. Shotgun. Come here. Open your mouth. When I exhale, you inhale.”
Ted turned the joint around in his mouth, lit end inside, as he gestured for Marty to lean in. Mouth to mouth now, Ted shotgunned a huge hit of thick smoke into his father. Marty held it in like a champ. It was the first time Ted could ever remember kissing his father.
44.
They went through about eight containers of Chinese takeout in twenty minutes. Marty had not eaten this much in months. After finishing the last of the moo goo gai pan, Marty belched and said, “When’s it gonna kick in?” Which they both found hysterical. Marty stared at the joint in his hand, rotating it, appreciating it.
“Where do they hide this stuff? It’s fantastische.”
“They don’t hide it, Dad.”
“Marvelous. Marvelous. Get me the phone, I want to tell the world about it.”
“The world knows, Dad.”
“Can I have more? Should I have more? Does it just keep getting better?”
“Not necessarily. Pace yourself.”
“Ah yes, pace. The ol’ pace. Can I have ice cream, then? I’m thinking that ice cream is a good idea.”
“Ice cream is an excellent idea.” Ted went to the fridge, pulled a quart, and handed it to Marty with a spoon. Marty stared, uncomprehending, at the container.
“The ice cream you want is on the inside of that carton, Dad.”
“Froooooozen glah-juh. Froooozen gladjehhhh.”
“That’s right. Frusen Glädjé.”
“What does it mean?”
“You know what it means, Dad, you made up shit like that yourself. It means to sound like ‘ice cream’ in a fake Nordic language conjuring blond images of tasty Scandinavian deliciousness. Fuckin’ works, too, hand it over. What flavor is that?”
“Cold.”
“Cold is not a flavor.”
“I meant, what does any of it mean?”
“Amen, brother.”
“Ted?”
“Right here.”
“Don’t ever let me be without marijuana again.”
“Okay, Dad. Got it.”
“Solemn oath?”
“Solemn oath.”
“And Ted?”
“Still here.”
“I can’t feel my arm.”
“That’s cool, I can see it. It’s there very near your shoulder, just below it.”
“No, it’s fucking fantastic. My arm usually throbs like a motherfucker and now it’s just floating there on cotton candy. You know you’re named after Ted Williams, right? Greatest hitter of all time. Teddy Ballgame. The ‘Splendid Splinter.’”
“I’m aware.”
“Frooooooooooooozen glaaaaaaaahjuhhhh—Haaaaaaagen Daaaaaaaaahssss.”
“Both names of ice creams.”
“Carl Yaaaaaaaaz-secezuh-tremmmmmmski. Harrrrrrrmmmmmmonnnnnn Killlllluhbrooooooo.”
“Both baseball players.”
“You must give me all your marijuana. I am opening the gate. I am walking through the gate.”
“Gateway.”
“Give me that reefer back.”
“Reefer? Really? We’re back in the fifties all of a sudden. Look at you. You want it all? Don’t wanna share? You Bogart.”
“Hummmmmm-freeeeeee Booooooo-garrrrrt.”
“Actor.”
“Smoker. No, I must have all your marijuana because my reality sucks ergo why remain in it? While you on the other hand must not have any marijuana because old as you are you have not yet made your true reality ergo you are running from something that does not exist. And regardless, if you created your reality you might find it good negating the need to escape from it through the use of marijuana, and besides if your reality when you finally created it turned out actually to be not so good God forbid then you could come to me—why? Because I would have all the marijuana and I would gladly share your marijuana back with you, I’m exhausted.”
“What? Wow. Okay, you win, all the marijuana goes to you.”
Marty held the joint up for close inspection. “Where have you been all my life?”
“When the student is ready, the master appears.”
Marty nodded at the old profundity as if it were new. Ted remembered something he wanted to bring up.
“Hey, you know, I wanna tell you that I’m almost finished reading your novel, and I think it’s really fine.”
“It’s not.”
“It is. It’s really good. I like how you constantly shift the storytelling POV from first to third person. Puts the reader on uneasy ground. Like a Dylan song. Like ‘Tangled Up in Blue.’ Can’t wait to see what happens with the crazy Doublemint Man.”
“It’s not a novel.”
“Whaddyou mean, it’s not a novel?”
“It’s a journal, Ted, from my life of that time, not fiction. I just made it look like a novel and threw in some curveballs so your mother, in case she found it, would get off my back, the snoop, she shoulda worked for the CIA. Maybe she did.”
Ted was stunned, absolutely stunned. He felt at once like he’d lost his high, and that he was higher than he’d ever been.
“A journal? You mean it’s all true? About this Maria woman?”
Marty did not answer, which was as good as a confirmation.
“Did you love her?”
“What does the book say?”
“Why didn’t you leave, then? Why didn’t you leave for her?”
“’Cause it wasn’t right. Men don’t leave, they die. Instead, I really got into the Sox.”
“What?”
“I didn’t give a fuck about baseball, Ted. I mean I liked it, sure, but what kind of man roots for a team like it’s life and death? I just found that if I acted crazy enough about the Sox your mother would leave me alone when I was watching a game or reading the paper, whatever. I could be elsewhere. For years. Whenever the Sox were on, I could disappear. And when I disappeared, I didn’t miss her so badly.”
“I don’t even know where to begin asking questions.”
“Then don’t.”
“So the whole baseball thing is a lie?”
“What do you mean, a lie?”
“Something that is not true, Dad.”
“I guess if you wanna be literal. Started out that way, and then as time passed, I didn’t think about Maria that much anymore at all; just thought about the Sox. She became the Sox and the Sox became her. I don’t know how to put it in words. It was like Maria disappeared into the Sox and didn’t really exist for me anymore or existed in a way that didn’t hurt so much anyway.”
“So … you checked out of both worlds, hers and ours.”
“Making a choice was wrong.”
“Not making a choice was more wrong.”
“I make no apologies, son, my life was shit, and I made it that way ’cause that’s what I deserved. I was not a good man. I hate marijuana. It’s a terrible drug. I’m falling asleep on my feet. I’m asleep now. I’m sleeptalking.”
“You made your life shit? Maybe that’s what you deserved, Dad, but we deserved better from you. Mom and I, we deserved better.”
“I don’t want to fight.”
“I’m not fighting. I’m just saying. There’s collateral damage.”
“Stop. I need to sleep
. I can’t do anything for your mother, God rest her soul. I missed that boat. She deserved better than what I gave her, yes, and I wish I could have told her that I understood that while she was alive. But whatever you need, or whatever you needed, can’t you just make believe I’m giving it to you or I gave it to you? That’s something I’m afraid you have to do for yourself at this point. Can you do that for me? Lie to me.”
“I don’t know, Dad, I’m not sure I know how to go about even starting something like that.”
“I bet you do. Good night, Ted. May I kiss you good night?”
“Of course.”
Marty walked over and kissed the top of Ted’s scalp. “Good boy,” he said, and left to go lie down for the night.
“I don’t hate marijuana” were his final words of the evening. Or so Ted thought until Marty popped his head back in and asked, “Hey, can you take me to see that movie The Animal House?”
“You wanna see Animal House?”
“Yeah, looks good.”
“It’s not George Orwell’s Animal Farm, ya know. Very different.”
“Looks funny.”
“It does? Looks like the end of the world to me. Looks like the kids have taken over.”
“Looks funny to me. I like that Chevy Chase.”
“He’s not in it.”
“Whatever. Still looks funny.”
“I’ll take you.”
“We can have licorice and popcorn. Good night.” And this time he left and stayed gone.
Ted remained seated at the kitchen table, marveling at how big the emptiness inside him felt, and how the smallest thing, a sideways word from his father, could tear it open, and how the smallest thing, a kiss from his father, stitched it up in light. Ted wondered how he could hold on to that feeling of being kissed, even as the feeling faded. He reached for more Frusen Glädjé.
45.
In the middle of the night, Ted still couldn’t sleep. He grabbed “The Doublemint Man” and, flipping through to the last few pages, he saw Spanish, which he had not seen in the pages before, and which he could not translate. It was written in a different hand than his father’s, more graceful, curling and feminine.
El anciano tenía la piel morena, de color marron oscuro y como la piel de cuero de tantos años en el sol. Ese era su color ahora. Esta fue la evolución. Ella tambien estaba de piel morena. Y casi siempre con arena blance entre los dedos de sus pies. A el no le importaba la arena en la cama. El todavia la amaba, la amaba aún más por sus arrugas porque ellas no podian derrotar a su necesidad por ella. O su amor. Su joven lujuria se habia convertido en amor y entonces su amor volvo a envejecer en lujuria. Era un círculo. Fue en milagro. Fue la alquimia de la carne. Solo lo atrapado del mar—wahoo, barracuda y mahi mahi, y comian lo que recogian de los arboles—papaya, platáno y coco. No olviden cerveza de la bodega. Caminaban. Nada mas que ellos mismos necesitaban. Estos era ellos. Eran
And below that, what he assumed to be the English translation in his father’s recognizable hand:
The Doublemint Man was tan, deep brown and leathery from years in the sun. This was his color now. This was evolution. She was brown too. And almost always had white sand between her toes. He didn’t mind sand in the bed. He still loved her, loved her more for her wrinkles because they could not defeat his need for her. Or his love. His young lust had turned to love and then his love had aged back into lust. It was a circle. It was a miracle. It was the alchemy of flesh. They ate only what they caught from the sea—wahoo, barracuda, and mahi mahi, and they ate what they picked from the trees—papaya, banana, and coconut. Don’t forget cerveza from the bodega. They did not run, they walked. They needed nothing but themselves. This was them: They were
It ended there. Ended right there in the middle. “They were.” They were what? They were happy? They were not long for this world? They were? It was a story without an ending, and without an ending, impossible to understand. Who was the hero? The villain? Trailing off like that was too real, too much like life. It unsettled Ted, who wanted answers. He wanted art. Ted riffled through the whole book again, just hoping for something to fall into place, for a tumbler to click and the safe to open. He was about to put the old book down when he noticed on one of the last pages a phone number and an address. He ripped that page out of the book and turned out the light.
46.
Early the next morning, Ted woke at dawn, pocketed the address, jumped in the Corolla, and headed back up to Spanish Harlem. It was nice and quiet on the roads. He pressed play for the Dead and they sang “Uncle John’s Band” from 1970’s Workingman’s Dead. Something about having some things to talk about beside the rising tide. Ted got some things to talk about too. Was Uncle John the martyred abolitionist John Brown? Was he any avuncular man of American wisdom? Was he both? Was the old man’s work a journal or a novel? Was the old man one man or two? Was Razzles a gum or a candy? Ted sparked a Rasta fat doobie to see if he could resolve the puzzle. He could not. It was gray. Always that fucking gray. Ted took a deep breath and settled into his negative capability. He was by nature impatient, but he would wait for Uncle John’s band to play him the final truth by the riverside and resolve the gray into the blinding white of revelation.
He lurched his car into a space across from the address on the paper, a tenement that had seen better days. In about twenty minutes, things started to get busy. The workaday world getting to it. He watched the entrance of the tenement as some people went in and out. A man. A man with two school-age children. A young woman. Two old women arm in arm. Could one of them be her? Could that old woman shuffling down the street be her? Was her name really Maria? How many Marias must there be in Spanish Harlem? Was she real at all? Ted felt a little drowsy, so he walked over to a diner on the corner for some coffee.
As he passed the counterman on the way to a phone booth in the back, Ted called out, “Coffee regular, please.”
“¿Café con leche?”
“Right, café con leche.”
This was a country within a country and Ted did not really speak the language. As his father had said, he knew Latin, not Latino. He dialed the number on the paper. Disconnected. He remembered aimless nights when he was a kid hanging with his friends and looking for the strangest name in the phone book. America was a melting pot and the phone book was most definitely the list of exotic ingredients. There were fantastical Chinese names, Filipino names, Russian names, Thai names—it was truly a directory of the universe. But they had found one name to rule them all. Babu Dudumpudi. Ted figured it was Indian. Best name ever, they all decided. Babu Dudumpudi. That guy must have all the answers.
They called Babu up back then and a man had answered, definite Indian accent. The giggling kids asked for “Babu” and “Mr. Dudumpudi,” but could get no further before breaking down into hysterics and hanging up. He wondered if Babu Dudumpudi still had the same number. Was there a Mrs. Dudumpudi? Were there a bunch of mini-Dudumpudis underfoot? He’d bet that Babu knew some shit. He wished he could talk to the ol’ Dudumpuds right now, and ask him all the questions he needed answered, pump him for the wisdom that came with such a name. The dimes dropped back down and clinked in the slot. Ted gathered them up. No, Babu was probably long gone too. He couldn’t remember the Dudumpudi digits anyway. But he had Mariana’s number. He’d never used it. He used it now. She answered. He apologized for calling, and asked her to meet him at the diner. She said she would come right away. Ted took his coffee off the counter and went to sit in a booth to wait.
She arrived within the hour. She had those Jordache jeans on. Lord have mercy. Ted waved her over to the booth and felt his smile a little too broad, a little too happy. He was definitely not a hipster, not Mailer’s white negro. Ted stood up. Mariana offered her cheek and sat down. Ted decided to show off what he had learned. “¿Café con leche?”
“Sure, that’d be great, thanks.”
Ted called to the counterman, “Café con leche, por favor. Dos.”
“Dos.”
/> The counterman came to the booth and asked in Spanish if they wanted anything to eat. “¿Que te gustaría comer?”
Ted hung on his favorite phrase, really his only phrase, “Café con leche.”
“¿Vas a comer tu café?”
“Café con leche.” Ted rolled his eyes at Mariana like “get a load of this guy.”
“¿Algo mas a comer?”
“Don’t do that.”
The counterman glared at Ted.
Mariana jumped in and asked Ted, “Do you like plátanos?” Ted wasn’t sure what plátanos were, but they sounded fine, so of course he said, “Love the plats.”
“Plátanos, please.”
The counterman backed away, muttering under his breath.
“Does your father know you’re doing this? Trying to find this mystery woman?”
“No.”
Mariana inhaled audibly, swallowed, and shook her head just slightly.
“This is all twenty, thirty years ago. Life goes on.”
“I know life goes on. I just wanna know what’s real and what’s not.”
“Uh-huh. For his sake or for yours?”
“What does that mean?”
“I mean, maybe this is the way you need the story to go, not him.”
“Well, yeah, I would like to see why, I mean meet the reason, of why my father, why he checked out. Why he left my mother.”
“And you.”
“And me what?”
“He left you, too.”
“Okay. So?”
“And you think this woman, if she’s still alive, if she actually exists, if she still lives here, and if she even remembers Marty, you think this woman will clear up the mystery? Of? The mystery of…?”
“I dunno. Why he was such a shit.”
“He’s not a shit, he’s a man. And life is hard. I’m sure there were many reasons, too many to ever be happy with one.”
“And me, why I’m not happy.”
“You’re not happy?”
“No, I’m not happy. I don’t write like I can. Or should. Why I’m getting old and am still so nowhere.” Ted was walking far out on a limb. He didn’t speak to women like this, this honestly and vulnerably, especially a woman he liked. He didn’t know why he was giving her so much. Because she was a nurse, a professional? Because this coffee was so strong? Or just because she was who she was, how she appeared to him as a receptive, accepting being, a receptacle poured out into this amazing shape.
Bucky F*cking Dent Page 15