I knocked gently and spoke softly: “Hey, Lou, are you okay?”
“Who’s askin’?”
“It’s me. Tim.” I could have easily said my real name but I was afraid of confusing him. It didn’t bother me—him still being alive meant I didn’t have to jump off the bridge. Under the circumstances he could have called me Shirley and I would have been fine with it.
“What can I do for you, Tim?”
“Nothing, I’m just checking on you. You’ve been in here a long time.”
“Have I?”
“Kind of. Your friend left.”
“To which friend do you refer?”
“Mona. She’s gone.”
“That nasty cunt’s no friend of mine. She’s a treacherous leper. Stay clear of trash like that.”
“I will.” There was silence between us for a few beats. I was holding onto the wall to my right to keep myself vertical. It was a struggle. “Are you okay, Lou?” I really wanted to get the hell home but I wouldn’t be able to make it without his help.
“I am outstanding, Tim. Just fantastic. Come on in.”
He opened the door and looked at me with a big stretched-out smile that pulled his eyes toward the sides of his head. The pair seemed to be moving independently of each other as they scanned the corners of the room behind me and then every inch of my person up and down. And all in a fraction of a second. He held a black marker in his hand.
“If I was a scientist, and in many ways I am just that, I would publish it and win the Nobel fucking Prize.”
The wall was covered in black-inked script from about waist level to up above his head. At the very top were the biggest words: DOUBT = FEAR = CANCER = DEATH. It appeared to be the title of a monograph that he had composed on this toilet stall wall. The print of the remaining lines was smaller.
Contrary to popular belief, I am no angel of mercy nor am I a mercenary who has battled and slain for the worthless illusions of public recognition and approval. When the tides of popular opinion inevitably turned against me, my detractors began a systematic campaign to debunk, destroy, and persecute. And all this in the name of artistic criterion and aesthetic quantification. I laugh every day at their efforts in futility and the sterile seeds of self-loathing they attempted to plant into the fertile earth that is my mind. Self-hatred turned outward toward an object (me). A projection of their own personal internalized disgust for the limitations of their own minuscule intellect, stunted emotional expression, and defective humanity. I am convinced that the DOUBT of which I speak is the very agent of DEATH and destruction that we call CANCER. They are one and the same. When the jewel that is one’s own unique individuality is stifled, its growth stunted, and its nature ignored, the cellular structure that underlies the entire biological, psychic, and spiritual system has no choice but to turn on itself in fierce rebellion and retaliation, precipitating an unstoppable chain of metastatically catastrophizing events. These calamities are of course not limited to the singular isolated human being. They can of course become pandemic in a home, a state, a nation, and as future generations will undoubtedly witness . . . on a global planetary scale . . . perhaps even beyond the boundaries of our beloved earth. Nothing in the universe is immune.
“I’m done. I just have to sign it,” he said as he took the cap off the marker and crouched down. He scribbled his name and jerked upright with shocking speed. Handing the marker over to me, he said: “You sign it too, Tim. After all, you inspired it.” He left me alone in the stall and went back into the bar.
I had no idea what I’d said or done to inspire his theory but I scrawled Tiny Tim in neat print right below his name. Then I copied the whole thing onto some wads of paper towels. I still have them. They live pressed between the pages of the huge Webster’s Dictionary my father bought me when I started the eighth grade.
I did not copy the schematic drawing of a concentration camp that Lou had made on the adjacent wall. This he had titled Eichmannn (sic) Industrial, Inc. Below the illustration was a “qualitative comparison” of Zyklon B and napalm. This segued into a conspiratorial link between Dow Chemicals and the Third Reich, the details of which are now lost to the ages.
twenty
We strolled the streets in silence. Everything around us—all the sights, sounds, smells, tastes—had a specific place in the new consciousness that had possessed me. The noxious exhaust from the cabs and buses; the dog shit in a pile near the curb; the ancient, hunchbacked woman who moved slow and steady with eyes straight down like she was crossing a stream that flowed through the middle of Avenue A; the siren of the ambulance delivering a bleeding boy who’d fallen down a flight of stone stairs; the laughter of a toothless beggar whose eyes revealed despair—all of it made sense somehow. It was all one singular thing: the good, the bad, the revolting, the repulsive, the joyous, the beautiful, the fortunate, the suffering, and then Veronica and myself. All filling the same frame and telling one singular story. A story that was forever in the middle, without beginning or end; an eternal folding and unfolding of events.
We sat in a café and ate falafels in pita. Through the lens of my expanded mind it was the most logical, delicious, and perfect food one could consume. Each component synchronized and synthesized into a complete, unified, and seamless thingness. The smoothness of the tahini with the crunch of the fried falafel, the softness of the airy pita bread with the crispness of the lettuce and carrots, the burn of the hot sauce with the sharpness of the onions: each part an absolute necessity to complete the harmonics. The sandwich was a microcosm of me and Veronica together in the macrocosm of New York City and all the universe beyond.
Veronica wiped some tahini off the corner of her mouth, then touched her Algiz and looked at me. “So now that we’re united in protection, are you willing to step out into the dark unknown with me?”
In an instant I crashed back into real-time regular thought: the old and familiar reality. My nonordinary perception was done and gone as if it never existed at all. In hindsight, I’m surprised her question failed to send chills or sound an alarm or siren in warning of the events to come. The way it came out of her mouth, it sounded solemn and earnest, a call to arms.
“It’s the opportunity for redemption that I mentioned. I still have the highest of hopes for you.”
“I’m in,” I replied.
In my heart I wasn’t so sure why I had to redeem myself or what I had done that made any redemption necessary. I assumed it had something to do with my reaction to her telling me about tricking with Barry. I should have explained that what I said to her wasn’t meant to be an assault or judgment on her character or the things she chose to do, and that my feelings came from a place of solidarity, respect, and care. I was being protective; she was still technically a minor, a child in the eyes of the law. It was her john who was committing a repulsive act both illegal and immoral.
But I didn’t say any of this. I said nothing at all. She was right and I was wrong. She was superintelligent, sophisticated, streetwise, mature, and mystical. I was none of the above, so I moved to whatever music she chose on her jukebox.
And that was fine by me. I would have followed her down into the sewer and stayed at her side until she was ready to come up for air.
twenty-one
Shortly after I was formally dubbed Tim, Lou gave me an unsealed envelope with a folded piece of paper inside. The envelope was addressed to a man in care of a music magazine located in Los Angeles. He told me to keep the letter until he was ready to send it and that I was welcome to read it but might be better off if I didn’t.
“Be sure to wash your hands after, if you do read it.” He laughed. “Better yet, wear gloves.”
He explained that he was afraid of the force contained within the envelope and that once unleashed on its target, some of its destructive powers could leak out into the world. This energy had the capability to alter the angle of the earth’s axis, so he wasn’t sure if he was ever going to send it. I was to keep it in a safe place and
await further instructions from him.
I, of course, read the letter despite the warnings. It was handwritten in a manic, rabid print, each word tightly compacted and compressed though the spaces between were generous. He had done things to the page itself. I’d rather not say what I imagine he did (it involved bodily fluids) but nevertheless I’m glad I listened to him and wore the suggested gloves, which in my case were mittens.
Before reading the letter, however, I asked Lou what had prompted him to write it. He said the intended recipient had published some extremely cruel and inhumane things about Rachel in a magazine article about Lou’s last record.
The following was Lou’s defense of his lady’s honor:
January 15, 1977
446 East 52nd Street
New York, NY 10022
Dear Unesteemed Journalistic Scum Slash Shallow Size Queen:
I hereby supplicate: through truest intent, purest pledge, duly sworn oath, and most high prayer; all the gods and demons who lit the fires, dropped the frogs, and pissed the blood, who sent the swarms of locusts, malarial fleas, and poxéd lice upon the house of Rameses.
I beseech them to dump the turds of a million infectious buzzards upon your head; the feces infused with the syphilitic pus and madness of all the dead whores of Babylon and Baghdad.
May the facsimile of manhood that lies between your legs wither, fester, and decay like the corpses that filled the pits of Buchenwald and Birkenau.
May your manqué genitalia become a faucet and font of the most fetid and diseased sewage ever to seep quiet through the veins of Calcutta and black-plagued London.
And all the evils of the Aztec Heart Eaters, the thousand and one Arabian Sahars, the most abhorrent, obscene, defiling, and profane spells and incantations in the entire canon of Haddo’s left-handed path, the Yamas, Yantras, Maras, and Mataris, the second face of Mordrake, the 107 adventitious stains, the 909 untimely Turkish deaths, the 51 omens of Jephthah, the hex of the 66 hairs: may they ceaselessly bear their malevolent and wicked fruit upon you and your house for generation upon generation uninterrupted.
GET THE PICTURE, MOTHERFUCKER?
From this day forth I strictly and explicitly forbid you to hear any sound I have ever uttered, created, or recorded, either spoken word or musical note, whether voice my own or instrument born.
For you and yours I now render and infuse every note, riff, vibration, every syllable, with the potentiality described above.
YOU ARE FOREWARNED.
BEWARE.
DON’T SAY I DIDN’T TELL YOU.
YOU WILL REAP TEARS FROM THE FILTH YOU HAVE SOWN.
And happier I could not be.
Yours in Hate,
(here he scrawled his indecipherable signature)
Lou never mentioned the letter after he gave it to me that day. It remains in my possession but is now sealed.
twenty-two
We stood on the corner of Second Avenue and 1st Street. Veronica said we were waiting for one of her sister’s friends. I had a good idea what she meant by this but was not sure how I was going to fit into the picture. I asked her if it was Barry. She shook her head and stared me down.
“You’re not gonna chicken out on me, are you? I can trust you to handle yourself and watch my back, right?”
“Of course you can.” Even though I had no idea what I was agreeing to and ignorant of what support I was offering.
“If you want to back out, please do it now. I’ll understand and won’t think any less of you. I promise.”
But I knew if I were to retreat she would never speak to me again, my cowardice a permanent black mark. Banished for life.
“I’m with you. I’ll go wherever you need to. Just tell me where it is we’re going.”
“Uptown. To someone’s house. He’s picking us up any minute. I don’t want to go into details, but if you’re willing, I don’t think you’ll regret it.”
“I’m willing. I would just rather have some idea of what it is you need me to do.” This was as forceful and assertive as I’d been all day.
She leaned in and kissed me, grabbing both my arms below the shoulders and pulling me in close. She kept her lips against mine for a long time and though she pressed them tightly, they were soft and relaxed.
And everything about it was right: the grip of her hands as they dug into my arms, the temperature of her mouth, the taste of its moisture, the smell of her face and hair, the pounds per square inch of pressure between her lips and mine, the tension in her tongue. Everything as it should be.
When she finally pulled away, she did it slowly and gradually. With our heads a safe distance apart, she looked into my eyes and said: “You’re my work in progress. And coming along quite nicely.”
A small white car pulled up to the corner where we stood. Veronica looked to the driver and gave a little wave. Even though it was starting to get dark, I could see the features of the lone person inside the car, behind the wheel. He was in his thirties and had long, dark, shaggy curls on the sides and back of his head. The hair on top was cut shorter. He had a thin mustache and a small triangle of a beard below his bottom lip. He smiled at Veronica with a tight little grin. I disliked him immediately.
Veronica grabbed my hand and led me to the two-door Honda. The driver reached over and unlocked the passenger side. Veronica swung it open and the man reached back, pulled a lever, and pushed the front seat forward. Veronica and I climbed into the back. The man returned the seat to its proper place, sealing us in the back without access to the door handle. He stepped on the gas and pulled away from the curb.
“Hi, Smitty, this is Matt,” she said as she squeezed my knee, reassuring me that all would be okay.
“Hi, Matt. I’m Smitty . . . Do you like beer?” He had a thin, reedy, asthmatic voice.
I turned to look at Veronica.
“I don’t,” she said.
“Me neither,” I added.
“Okay. We’ll go straight home then. I got soda and chips.” He stared at me through the rearview mirror. His eyes were small and narrowly spaced behind wire-rimmed granny glasses.
“I like gin,” I said. The confidence in my voice surprised me. I think it surprised Veronica too. She squeezed my knee even tighter.
Smitty looked at me again. He was sizing me up, I could feel it. “With tonic and lime?” he asked.
“Just tonic is fine.” I grabbed Veronica’s hand as we turned onto Houston Street on our way west.
twenty-three
Lou would never forget the name he created for me. But he would always forget that I lived in the same building he did.
“Tim, what are you doing here?”
I was waiting for the elevator in the lobby. He came up from the storage bins in the basement holding some small cardboard boxes. I was about to explain to him, for the fourth or fifth time, that I lived on the sixth floor, but before I could he put his hand on my shoulder.
“Can you come up and see me later on? I need help with an amplifier.” Lou was out the front door before I could reply.
A few hours later I stood at the threshold to his apartment on the eighth floor. The door was halfway open but I could see them both in the living room. I knocked on the jamb but neither one heard me. They were in the exact same positions as the first time I was there. Except this time Rachel’s head was tilted down and her shoulders were shaking a little bit.
Lou was at the reel-to-reel deck which sat on the low table in the middle of the room. He was playing a fifteen-second stretch of tape over and over. It sounded like the strangulation and mutilation of a dozen guitars in a room with a hundred radios and TV sets all tuned to different frequencies of static. It was the sound of the city itself, distorted through a fish-eye lens and held to the eye of a man who’d been up for five days straight on some godforsaken strain of chemical stimulant. All violence, paranoia, and apocalyptic terror.
“Can you hear that, babe? Can you hear it constructing itself? A melody perfect and self-arisen
out of the ether. Like the iron filings between the plastic cover and the drawing of the farmer’s face. You know the toy I mean? Woolly Billy . . . Willy Bully . . . You push the magnetic pencil around and pull the filings into the form of a beard or a mustache? . . . It’s like that only it’s automatic, happening on its own accord, out of complete randomness . . . Do you understand what that means? . . . What I’ve proven? . . . Melody existing as a primal force in the universe, inherent in nature, underlying and permeating the mitochondria of cells, lying dormant under existence itself . . . Can you hear it, babe? Can you hear the beauty? The innate intelligence of organized sound completely independent from the mind of man. Fucking Mozart would be jealous, and I’m not comparing me to him ’cause it’s not me who did it . . . IT’S SIMPLY THERE . . . always was and will be . . . We have to be careful here . . . I have to be very cautious how I go about this . . . the FBI, the FCC, without a doubt they’ve banned some of these frequencies . . . they keep these beauties for themselves and the CIA . . . they must be on a list somewhere in Washington . . . subversive potentialities. Extraterrestrial intelligence, sound arranged by sound itself, by nature and electricity . . . positive and negative ions, the celestial poles!! . . . Do you know what this proves??!”
I had arrived at a critical point. Lou was Dr. Frankenstein, minutes after the slabbed cadaver was lowered from the sky where it bathed in the fires of heaven. Salivating at the smell of charred meat, he pressed his stethoscope to the Monster’s chest and heard the lub-dub of its borrowed heart. Life! A corpse no more!
“There’s clarity beneath all the chaos of the universe and this is the empirical evidence.” As the words fell from his mouth, he saw me in the doorway.
“Tim me boy!” He stood up, kissed me on the head, and told me to have a seat. I sat cross-legged on the floor right across the table from where he was sitting. Rachel didn’t move at all, I wasn’t sure if she knew I was there. I could see that tears were flowing down her face, smudging her black mascara and streaking crooked lines down her Cherokee cheekbones.
The Perfume Burned His Eyes Page 7