Oedipussy

by Deep, Solomon

  When I awoke the next morning, I was covered in piss and the computer was still running. The smell wafting from the bottle of bourbon made me ill, and my body stunk of sulfur and vinegar. My head throbbed. Everything was crooked as my stomach burned out a sloshy, bilious belch.

  There were some small corners of the rock and roll lifestyle I could have if only I was patient and pathetic enough to allow myself the opportunity. I gave myself the opportunity to be pathetic without hesitation.

  Chapter 21

  "What’s your deal, here?" Chuck's mother Carol stared at me.

  Chuck and his mother arrived at four in the afternoon. I managed to clean up after myself, reorganize my ancient computer components, and draft up and print a contract for his band. After a shave and a shower, they arrived.

  "Trust me, it's a lot more pathetic than you think," I responded.

  "That's what I'm worried about. I don't want my son coming to some creep's house who’s going to try to get him and his friends drunk and rape them. Then I'd have to come down here with my shotgun and get my nice blouse messy." She was funny. Her razor blue eyes were unflinching. She pulled a strand of shoulder length blonde hair to the side and around her ear. "I have all the time in the world."

  "Twenty five years ago I was in an accident. A van I was in got in an accident and fell into Snake River off the bridge -"

  "Oh, I remember that. A drunk guy came and his car smashed into it and pushed you over. You were all seniors at the high school. They spent a year arguing about how to put better barricades up."

  "That's it."

  "-But everyone died."

  "Except for me. I was smashed up pretty bad. I was in a coma up until a few months ago."

  "Seriously?"

  "My friends are dead, my parents are dead, and I almost died a few times over the years. But there was one thing that never changed - even in my coma. Twenty years and I only thought of one thing."

  "Which was?"

  "Music… My friends and I were coming back from our first gig at The Caffeine Machine. Our band got one show in that night. No more birthdays, college, girls, music - especially music. Nothing.

  "I don't know why, but when I saw your son and his friend at the copy store, I immediately wanted to help them. I knew I could help them. It’d give me something to do, and maybe I could somehow live through them and their music."

  Chuck came around the corner and back into the kitchen. He sat down next to me at the table, and across from his mother.

  "That’s where I am a little confused. You don't want anything for this?"

  "I’m disabled. I have an income from a trust and life insurance my parents set up. I don't have anything to do with my time and money. Really. Do you know why I was at the Kinkos, whatever the copy shop is called? I wanted to try to get my job back just so I could interact with people. Twenty-five years later, here I am trying to get my teenage job back. Pretty pathetic if I ever heard it."

  "It's something,” Carol replied.

  “That’s the same night I met Chuck."

  Chuck looked at his mother as she continued.

  "Well… So far I’m surprisingly not weirded out by this at all. I should be, but I'm not. What do you think, Chuck? Ready to go over this contract?"

  He shrugged and nodded in an indifferent teenaged way, which translated to a strong affirmative.

  Over the next half hour, we covered the essentials of the contract - what my responsibilities were, what theirs were, what I would cover, what they would cover, and a variety of other stipulations and clauses that I made up in the hour before they arrived. I kept repeating that this was really just an agreement to follow, and we could break it if anyone needed to. I would have final production say and ownership in anything that I was paying for including recordings and gear (but that we all would own their work equally as shares in the business), but I insisted that I was not a lawyer. I most certainly wasn't a lawyer.

  "...and they can have practice space here, Chuck said?"

  "Oh, yes. The basement is dry and safe, and it’s still set up from when we’d practice. There’s a big space, and the neighbors can't hear the music. I'll show you the space? I mean, you could practice anywhere in the house, but I am literally never down there and you can just keep all your gear there. It won't be in the way, and no one will touch it."

  Carol looked at Chuck. Chuck indicated he wanted to go down and take a look. I wheeled to the door to the basement, and opened the door and invited them to walk down. I turned the light on, pulled myself out of my chair, and slowly made my way down the steps.

  I stopped halfway down, just low enough to see them.

  "Do you want some help?" Chuck asked.

  "No, I’m fine. So, I'll probably end up watching from here or listening from the kitchen and we can debrief afterward. Something like that."

  "So you wouldn't even be in your own basement while these kids practice?"

  "I'll be fine. Can hear perfectly well upstairs - it'll be loud enough."

  Relief and understanding washed over Carol's face - watching me slowly inch my way down a step at a time brought to light the humanity of the whole thing. I wasn't going to rape and kill the children. I was simply a man determined to do something kind and selfless in hopes that it might come back to me in the talent and success of the kids. I was the mind and body of loneliness and sorrow.

  It didn't make any sense.

  "What do you think?" Carol asked her son.

  "This is fine."

  Carol turned her attention to me. "I think we're in agreement, then."

  We signed the contract in the kitchen. I explained what my next steps were - mail ordering a PA system and hardware. Chuck's job was to get the rest of the information to the other boys and get them on board.

  They left. I was alone.

  Finally, something miraculous. I was getting back in the game. So what if I couldn't play, or be the center of the universe's attention? There was no guarantee that my original trajectory would either. I needed to be the center of something, and this was more realistic. I didn't think I had a concrete concept of that as a teenager, but today I knew that these kids were only way I was going to move forward.

  Today, the closest I could get on my own was as a sideshow attraction. The best I could hope for was to live fast and hard like Ian Curtis, banging through my disability with musical electricity. But how would I play my guitar? How did I seriously expect to woo crowds with my thinning hair and gaunt face? How could I show them I wouldn't live past my twenties? No epilepsy, just legs that didn't work. No music and thunder, just holes and age and emptiness.

  I already died before I turned twenty.

  What do people do to give their life meaning?

  If I had children and a wife, they would be my biggest fans. They would worship me, and hold their hands and their lighters in the air. But this body and this mind were so short for this world, lacking years of fostering allegiance. I was already failing. I was already on my way downhill.

  But Jenny...

  Oh, if only I had Jenny, I would have everything. I would have my perfect other.

  What was I getting at with this?

  To see my best friend again, it would be heaven. To have intimacy that is compatible with mine, divine. To laugh at a moment’s notice. To experience the joy of her support, praise, and being such everything. She. Everything.

  And she wouldn't mind if my legs didn't work.

  And her opinion of my work, and her watching me in the darkness of wherever we were playing... That was all I would ever need.

  She was all I would ever need.

  What happened to Jenny?

  I thought to call her again. I touched the phone, and removed my hand. I don't know why I thought it. ‘If only I tried it again it would work.’

  What did I want?

  I wanted the home, happiness, and the worship. I worshipped her, and she worshipped me.

  I wanted everything to be the same as it
was before.

  Why was everything so goddamn complicated?

  I rolled to the junk drawer in the kitchen and removed a pen and a little pad of paper, and I began to draft a letter.

  Jenny,

  I'm sure that you haven't thought of me for a long time. In fact, I know you haven't. I do wonder if you've been thinking of me at all, and if you know what happened to me the last night I saw you.

  I am out of my coma. I’m still in Twin Falls wondering where you have been. I wonder if you’re happy. I wonder if you wonder about me like I wonder about you.

  I’ve had a dream over the past twenty five years that we ended up together, and everything was okay. I was a famous musician and you were there for me. I woke up paralyzed and all of my friends and family are dead.

  Everything can happen over twenty five years.

  My address and phone number are the same, and I copied them below. I would love to hear from you.

  Until then,

  Todd.

  Then I folded it into an envelope and addressed it with a big "address forwarding requested" on the front.

  I started to weep. I wept for my life, and for Jenny. I continued to weep for Jenny. If only, if only, if only, Jenny. If only you were here. If only we could go through this together, I would be so much stronger.

  I could use a bourbon. I was hungry, and I needed sustenance. Spiritual, artistic, bodily, and soul'd sustenance. I needed the food of the muses. These kids weren't the only way I would be able to do it, but they were the most practical.

  I was going to produce and manage of these three boys, and I was going to bring them the success and tools they needed to make everything happen. I was their road to success. They were my road to contentment.

  I lay on the couch that night. I stared at the colors of the television flicker on the ceiling. How wonderful it would have been to have some photos or videotapes of Jenny and me. There was nothing. The flickers on the spackle reflected fuzzy tape of us playing the trivia game, and clumsily making love, and something. Why hadn't we captured our youth? For this situation? For when we were perfect?

  I wanted to watch everything when it was perfect.

  We never thought we'd get old. We never thought.

  My face scrunched up, and again I cried. In the dark. Alone. Lonely. For my high school girlfriend.

  Why? Why, why, why? I asked as I traced 'J-e-n-n-y into the upholstery in cursive with my fingers, wet with tears, and dozed off.

  I dreamt I saw the back of her head. The wind made her hair dance in a shifting breeze. I whispered, 'Jenny,'.... 'Jenny,'... 'Jenny,'... But she didn't budge. Her head was plasticene, and I was looking at the back of a dead mannequin.

  Chapter 22

  "Come on up, boys."

  "Got it."

  The walkie-talkie cackled to life after a rousing forty minutes of music streaming from the basement. I sat at the kitchen table with my legal pad of notes, my notebook from high school, and a stack of CDs with an education in the music that came out before the band was born.

  Six feet stomped up the stairs, and I was impressed with what they had so far. They had an incredible base coat of talent and instrumental skill that would be easy to mold and form into something special.

  The three boys sat around the kitchen table with me. Skepticism and optimism hung in the air above us. They had nothing to lose in terms of extending their patience toward my help - in the least they knew their contract and time were completely voluntary, and Chuck's mother had no problem with their practicing at my house instead.

  "Okay, so let me start with some basics before I tear apart the hour or so of music you just played." They nodded with understanding and approval regardless of my underhanded dig at their repertoire. "I have a bunch of CDs here. I want you to listen to them a few times over before next rehearsal. They are old grunge acts that defined the era and the genre. I think giving them a listen would be exactly what you need to kickstart you in the right direction."

  "Grunge."

  "It's what you should sound like to make sure you don't sound like anything else. Trust me, this is what you want to be. How would you classify yourselves now?"

  "Punk," Mark said.

  "You’re not punk. Try again. At best you are straight rock and roll, but there’s no energy and power in trying to overthrow conventions and a world of oppression by the government and authority. Your songs are screaming and fast drums about girls and hanging out. Come on..."

  Adam pulled out a silver device from his lap.

  "What's that?"

  "It's my tablet."

  "Tablet?"

  "Computer?"

  "Oh, right." I forgot about tablets.

  "Listen," Adam said. He touched a few things on his tablet, and music played from the device. It was fast rock, with a whiny tenor talking over the music very quickly. The boys nodded their heads with the music. They were entranced with its melody and talking, talking, talking.

  "Why are you having me listen to this?"

  "It's punk," Adam countered.

  "No. No, it's terrible. Pop. Can you get any music on there?"

  "Yea."

  "What do you do, type in something? Type in Anarchy in the UK."

  The Sex Pistols began playing from the device, and the boys nodded along with the music. They got it.

  "Now, do Basket Case. Green Day."

  "You're telling me Green Day is punk and not pop? They're Broadway." I didn't have much of an answer, and they started playing Green Day I had never heard before. They smiled with a knowledge they weren't sharing with me, but they were right. Twenty-five years later, Green Day was pop (and Broadway?).

  "Okay, they aren't a great example - but I want to emphasize that it’s the message and the style as much as the music, and what you just played was decidedly not punk.

  "Next topic. We need to get you guys a written education, as well. I have written a list of books. I want you to go to the library and get them out. These books are philosophy. They’ll help with an overall understanding of society and the human mind. Why do you need them? Because if you don't have an education, you can't write important songs. People won't care, and you'll sound like that kid going over and over about some girl.

  "You've got The Republic, Thus Spoke Zarathustra, History of Western Philosophy, Meditations on First Philosophy, Beyond Good And Evil, Zen and the Art Of Motorcycle Maintenance, Madness and Civil-"

  "-you want us to read? All these books?" Their faces were crumpled paper bags. "You’re saying that in order to be good punks that we need to read? That seems like the opposite of what you were just saying. Actually, we'd be bowing down to the authority of our teachers and-"

  "No. Stop. The punks read these. The grunge artists read these. Heck, even the pop stars read these. The Cure's 'Killing an Arab' is from Camus' The Stranger. Kate Bush's 'The Sensual World' comes from Joyce's Ulysses. Look. They're on this list. Just read, and you'll be better artists."

  "We don't - whatever, okay." They swallowed the medicine.

  "Finally, we need to start branding you and getting your work out to the world. Brand is our number one priority. We need to start by recording all of your practices in the event that we can use some of it. We can go back and listen afterward, just like a football team watches footage of their plays to make them better."

  Adam touched a few things on his tablet, and their rehearsal started playback.

  "Incredible," I said. "You already did it? You guys have everything today." He stopped the playback.

  I slid my notebook over with the page open to my ongoing list of band names.

  "Here. What is your name right now?"

  "We don't have one, really. We've thrown Moana Liza around, but..."

  "Exactly. Here is my ongoing list from when I had my band. We were The Dawn Ego. The name came from bouncing around Archetypes and psychology and philosophy - whatever - but you can't have that one."

  "What’s this? 'The President's Member.’”r />
  "That was a connection between the president's penis and I don't remember what. As a matter of fact, I can't believe that there ended up being an actual coincidence with people caring about what Bill Clinton did with his penis, but whatever."

  "Bill Clinton?"

  "Seriously?"

  They stared at me.

  "Okay, well, obviously some of these need explanations. My favorite one we never used was -"

  "What about this one, Oh-eed-eh-pussy?"

  "Oedipussy. That was a good one."

  "What is it?"

  "Okay, so... Oedipus was a king that tore his own eyes out because he had children with his mother and killed his father. An Oedipus Complex was an old psychology term that a guy would be going through when he is motivated by killing his father and marrying his mother. You know 'pussy.' Finally, 'Octopussy' was a James Bond movie. I guess I was thinking that it might be another word for your mom's vagina or something. Sometimes the brilliance is leaving it up to the audience. Mash a couple ideas together, get people thinking, and you have everything you need for a really provocative band name."

  "This is it," Chuck said tapping the page. "Octopussy."

  "-Oedipussy. It's yours, but you have to do it justice."

  The boys smiled. They were satiated with Chuck's choice.

  "Okay. So, we need to brand. Find some art that you feel really represents your work. We need a logo, and we need to put as much on the Internet as we possibly can. Can you get to AOL on that?"

  "What's AOL?" Adam responded.

  "Okay, so no AOL. Next question. How do you guys make groups?"

  "You can make a website. People can download your music for free and stuff," Mark said.

  "Yeah... I mean, is the idea selling the music or getting your name out there?" I asked. "What if ten people downloaded your music? A hundred? A thousand? We should have some kind of place on the internet where people can do this, and then sell our CDs for the real music experience."

  "No one buys CDs," Mark responded.

  "Yeah, mostly people download whatever they want and have ways to work around it if they just want to get the stuff for free."