Heidi drifted, dazed, picking a weed here, plucking a rock there. He hung out, sitting, thinking, squinting; he can’t believe this time will end any more than he thought the sun would really rise on those never-ending nights of not so long ago. Charles requires it to end. Charles said it ended long ago. Heidi said a man loses his connection to life by taking a year to walk out of town toward salvation. And then he finds it again.
Tony sees the point, sees Charles holding a plastic bottle and calling it a fuel cell; like a kid with a chemistry set, seeing the neat way it’s coming together. Charles goes to work on a new idea: gasoline.
Tony won’t push anyone over the edge. He will not refuse to help or leave anyone helpless. But wishing on a star shows better odds than the Charles game.
So Charles follows a lead to gasoline and frames up the last bonfire while Heidi pleads that someone do something.
But what? Tony sees; Heidi wants heroism. She wants her men saving each other with sensitivity and compassion and saving her too. She’s dreamed of it. He calls her name and leads her down to the car. “This is not complicated,” he says. “You have two choices. Both will work. Nothing else will work.”
“You’re so smart,” she says, all ears.
“We clean his clock, knock’m sock’m. One-two, neat, no pain, not much anyway, and carry him down. Then we keep him down, tie him down, barbiturates, anything. It won’t be easy. It’s all I got. You want to talk him down? You’re dreaming. This is it, Babycakes. We take him down or we don’t. Your call.”
“What’s the other choice?”
“Easy. Let him burn. He won’t mind. He’s got the script down, and he’ll be more comfortable afterwards.” Her agony twists to contempt, then worry.
“It won’t work,” she says. “He’s too strong.”
“Kensho knows karate boogaloo. I can swing a bottle, a glass one.”
She shakes her head. “It won’t work. He’s …”
“Stuck is what he is, just like you, just like me. I envy him; you forgive his bad habits.”
She would leave in a huff but can’t, so she huffs in place. Charles laughs and works. Rhonda sings about a man who is blind to love. Tony asks Kensho for readings from the cosmos. Inez shags the sauce, pops the top and serves the thirsty. Tony suggests that Kensho take Charles out so they can take him down the mountain.
“Why me?”
“You spent half your life learning how.”
“Learning nothing.”
“Hey, man.”
“Okay. Okay.” So they march back up the path, hesitant samurai and bold assistant with the idea of doing something to Charles that will make him lay down and fall asleep so they can put him in the truck and carry him home for some soup and tuck him in.
Tony doubts Kensho knows a one-finger touch to the shoulder that will make a man pass out like in the movies, but he thinks Kensho knows something. Kensho makes a strange fist and springs for the Sunday punch, an overhand right to the temple or Tower of Babel. But Charles steps back, turns, blocks and comes in with the uppercut—his best shot—on the button. Kensho goes to rubber, then to mush, then to runny mush.
“I didn’t want to do that!” Charles yodels. “Well, I did, you know, for a long time. I watched it. On TV. But not to him! Well, he did have it coming. Didn’t he?” He goes back to work. Kensho comes to in a minute, smiling, mumbling gratitude and subservience. He takes a drink. “Oh, you can’t beat a madman!” Charles laughs. “It’s a gift. A blessing of sorts. Ho, no!” He works. Kensho has another. The sun lowers; the temperature falls. Tony gathers faggots, because it looks like another night around the campfire.
Kensho comes over holding his jaw. “How many years of practice was that?” Tony asks. Kensho mumbles something about forgetting and what he really needs. He sits by the fire. Tony asks, “Anything else?”
Kensho looks up. “No.” Tony can’t blame him, not after a convincing first-round knockout. Kensho tilts the bottle and looks statuesque, monument to the greatness of drinking, or maybe greatness transcended. He comes up for air and knows what’s wrong: he has to let go more. He guzzles again and passes the bottle.
Tony has a bolt because the sauce takes the edge off. They failed to take Charles by force because they forgot to take the edge off. Charles is still big and strong and correct: a madman does have power. Kensho knows that. A doobie gets things looser still.
Charles works his plastic bottles, getting his piles right so they’ll last a few centuries until they get discovered as ruins with barely decipherable writings. The Post Modern Codex will begin Evian, Product of France … He wants it perfect for all time. He slows down after dark, sits down and smiles.
Kensho smiles too, so Charles throws another punch slo mo just for fun in the playful spirit. But he can’t displace the other spirits of hunger, cold and fear who own the place. He fills the chilly night with a familiar resonance. Ah, Charles; his rich tenor careens round the canyon. The lyric is wise and sad now, like an epitaph. “Buddhists speak of six bardos—existence. Death is only the second. Of six. Did you know that?”
No. That had been unknown, except kind of, by Tony, who read that stuff in Heidi’s library and wondered who in the world lived like that. “In the third, after death, you reach the fork. You go to nirvana. Or seek rebirth. You might have a task to finish. Something noble or something base. You might have to give more of yourself, or you might crave another drink or some pussy, you know.” Charles laughs. “Love makes the world go round with a bit of luck. Otherwise whiskey makes it spin. So if you want to reach nirvana you forget whiskey.”
Charles swills—“Ah! The open spaces. I think I used to be one in a former life. I came back for more. Nomad. That was me. I know what I never knew in this life anyway. No. Nomad no mo. Now you’re all here. We can begin.”
“They consider it a double death,” Kensho says. “Leading to a lower rebirth.”
“Mm,” Charles ponders. “Bit parts. Walk-ons. Nary a break on Broadway. It’s not so bad. I’ve done it. Did the best I could. Everyone does. Take, say … Adolph Hitler. Simple. Evil. Misguided. But a brilliant source of pain. He did that. Listen:” He raises a hand as if to harken the stillness, dark and cold. “Eighty thousand people were marched to the top tier of the temple, quickly now, because we have only three days. Each was laid on a stone slab, face up, and held by the arms and legs. The priest incised each chest with an obsidian knife and reached in and pulled the heart out and held it up to please Huichilobos and Tezcatlipoca. They made rain and told the future when they were pleased. They didn’t waste anything like now. They cut off the heads for display, cut off the arms and legs to eat with tomato and pepper sauce and fed the entrails to the beasts. They burned the hearts on little braziers, five or so a day. Little children were most pleasing. They cry more. Their tears are perfect little raindrops. Listen:”
Faint cries drift from the foothills.
“Hernan Cortez came in the Year of One Reed. Quetzalcoatl dreamed he would, in a ship that looked like a feathered serpent. They did their best. Didn’t they. El Mexica y los Conquistadores. Do you ever wonder who dreamed you? Look, I think the dream is …” Charles can’t readily say what the dream is, so he guzzles a bit of truth elixir and tries another angle.
“Look: You take a wino. Shitting his pants, puking on himself. It’s what he does. Take Danielle Steele. Books to poo poo. How she does it? Better than Son of Sam killed with his gun. Sam was good though. Good at what he did. Take Danielle Steele’s agent—the best! Aunt Jemima makes pancakes. I wish we had some. Don’t you? Mother Teresa took care. Lucky for us, we don’t need her anymore. We’re strong. Dave Letterman is chatty. The best. Don’t you see? Or was that Garraway?”
If anybody sees, they don’t say so. Charles shares his thoughts and impulses nearly coherently as if sharing what he’s learned. Discomfort forms on his audience like surface ice. “You take Jesus,” he says, passing the bottle. “Gifted prophet with excellent handlers, could have giv
en Reagan a run in ’84. Oh, I know you. Pooh pooh on Jesus, too, but my God, what were they supposed to do? They were sacrificing children and fucking their dogs. Well, not that I mind, and they never had a population control problem, and the missionaries with their greed and diseases and inquisition, well, it’s been quite colorful. Don’t you think so? Remember Meher Baba? Not the teenage one but the one who wouldn’t speak for fifty years or whatever, says Jesus got nailed up but didn’t die—deep samadi. That’s all. He says Jesus left the cave on Good Friday. Walked out, talked to the folks, told them adios, my work here is done and walked off to Gethsemane or Booneville or wherever it was. Got married. Raised a family. Died old for chrissake.” He guzzles till it runs down his neck. “You know we never talk about these things. I like Jesus. I want to be like Jesus. Christ, I’m relieved. The idea is pure, you know.”
He needs a rest. Rhonda shivers, her teeth chatter. Charles grins and nods; she’s catching on to liberation. “Forgiveness,” he says. “We are mean, stupid people if we don’t forgive the mean and stupid people. It’s a forgiving circle with us all the way around.” He grins around the circle and is done, time to wrap things up.
Tony takes the lead unwittingly as Kensho took a punch. “Why can’t you forgive yourself?”
“I’m no different than you,” Charles says. “I forgave myself first. Numero uno, you know. I know what I am. I’m an ex-actor. Exactor. Eggs Actor. I’ll tell you what that means. I’m an ex-ex-actor, an ex-exactor, eggs over easy. Sorry. I’m on again, off again. I found the right script. It feels good. Can you feel it? I am forgiven by the one who must forgive. Can you forgive me? Can you forgive you?” Everyone trembles but Heidi. She stares at the fire, pulling it to the palms of her hands. She’s heard it before. Kensho closes his eyes. Charles likes that and nods his grizzled approval. Inez watches. Rhonda shakes like a vibrator, smoking shallow.
Charles says, “You’re afraid to ask, aren’t you?” He addresses Tony and waits.
“Afraid to ask what, Charles?”
“To ask yourself what it is in life that you’ve come to. To ask yourself what you are.”
Tony chuckles fearlessly.
“Why don’t you?”
“Why don’t I what, Charles?”
“Why don’t you ask yourself what you are.”
“Maybe I’m afraid I’ll get it wrong, Charles,” Tony says, losing patience with the game. “Why don’t you help me. Tell me what I am. What is it we do? You have something in mind. Why don’t you tell me what it is, and then I’ll know what you are and what I am.”
Charles smiles his not nice smile, his mean and hurtful smile for those seeking to upstage the star. “That’s easy. I’m a failure. Wouldn’t you agree? Oh, I don’t doubt you thought of it first. But you see, the thing of it is, I’m a failure at the other end of accepting failure. You know many people don’t, right up to the end. I got lucky. You might think it’s obvious, but all anyone can ever do is fail. But the thing of it is … I was very good. I have genius. Do you know what that means? I’m not sure you do. You can fall short of it for years and not know you have so far to go. You’re not supposed to say it once you know it. And you’re not supposed to know it if nobody else knows it. I can’t explain it to you, because you and I have the same appetite but I have something you never imagined. And now I have more, because nobody else can see what I can give—”
“Yes they can,” Heidi says. “I can see it. Others see it. You’re a great actor, Charles. What do you want?”
“Please. I’m explaining something to Dreary Drury. The gift of failure. I have received my … Not my penance. How boring. Not my epiphany. That happened years ago. But my …”
“Your greatest performance?” Tony ventures.
Charles sighs. He turns slowly to Tony with a smile and softly says, “Thank you.” He turns to Heidi. “See? I told you he’s not stupid. You know—” Charles leans over and slaps Tony on the thigh. “I can’t believe we’re friends and you never took the historic tour. I mean, what’s the use of living in a place if you don’t try to understand it. My tour was really very good. Heidi? Wasn’t it?”
Heidi nods.
“If I’m not stupid, Charles, what am I?”
Charles nods vigorously and shrugs. “A murderer. And a whore.”
Tony laughs, “What a relief.” Charles laughs too, his scornful, hurtful laugh. “Who did I murder?”
Charles whispers, “Time. Love. Life. Ask anyone you ever fucked or rode in a cab with. Oh, you are capable of great slaughter. It’s the worst of you. And—you’re a whore. Not a great whore. Certainly not a whore who loves his work. I know people who score maybe one fuck in a year and get more out of it than you could get from a hundred stand ups in alleys.”
Rhonda covers her face.
“I don’t know everything, but I know you’re a fairly bum lay. You should be ashamed. I can’t imagine anything so repugnant. I mean, you can’t fault a savage for savagery. But a man who ignores such opportunity for … for …”
“Style,” Rhonda says.
“Compassion,” Heidi says.
“I lawv him,” Inez chirps.
“But I forgive your ignorance,” Charles says. “I forgave you long ago but only because you got better at things. And because my friend, I love you, one whore to another if that makes you comfortable. Don’t get me wrong. Love is not required. Love is voluntary. And you, I do love, in spite of your murdering.”
“I accept your love, Charles. But I’m still not clear on who I killed.”
Charles crawls over beside him. Tony eases back.
Charles laughs. Tony relaxes.
Charles lunges for a Sunday smooch, lips to lips, holding his new love down until the squirm goes away. Charles gives an inch and breathes in his face. “You killed me, you bastard. You brought me out. I thought I was good. One of the greatest. And look. It was never dreamed so well until you came along. God, I owe you everything. To you goes all my love.”
Tony wipes his mouth. He has no more to say, and it’s time to go. He knows this little scene of suspect homosexuality will make it down the mountain. He should have left long ago. The flames get watched awhile longer until Charles hisses among the coals, “I’m an actor. Forgive me.”
Meditation ends when the fire collapses. Charles lies back down. Heidi moves in beside him.
Rhonda stands, uncertain as a rag doll, knees and voice shaking. “So long, stranger,” is her concession to the demands of love.
The audience files out in soft reflection of fire and ice. Kensho stands straight in compensation to his startling defeat. Inez looks down to conceal her indifference. Rhonda hugs herself. Tony mumbles words and phrases that make far more sense than what a lunatic thinks. Taco follows the prescient lead. Jorge strikes a smile and turns to stone. Charles mumbles that there will be much more after a brief intermission.
XVI
Over the Hill
That time in that place was a last time in a last place. It was another ending, though it begins again elsewhere and people still seek it. Piss and old beer become a stink you get used to, especially after a piss makes room for a new beer. Tony Drury went south and didn’t know it.
Charles, sober, set himself on fire to prove a point, to achieve potential, to realize greatness, to end a show that could not otherwise end. His optimism is his legacy; change is available to anyone and a squeeze to the last drop is no reason to live. He is mostly wrong; so little changes. The second millennium was no different than the first, nor will the third be much different. Some people will live as always, like no tomorrow, like Charles taking potential to the end of the line.
Charles sobers those who see the show and many who only hear about it. He demonstrates commitment to the art form of life with an impressive finale and no self-assessment. You can’t see his fire from down below, but you can feel it. By the time Charles lights up he makes sense, as if sense was all he wanted to make, as if happiness is a logical conclusion, a period
at the end of a sentence, curtains. Gasoline explosions rumble the overture.
A group feels relieved, like a family at the passing of one of its own, one who was too long terminally ill. Or maybe the group itself has passed, and relief is a pleasant delusion for the transition to death. Unspoken is the vague concern that the survivors may be infected. Hiking in the mountains loses popularity because Charles shook them up. They didn’t think he’d do it, not really. Come on. Some brace with a few drinks and let it go with a few more. Then they hear it’s true; then they can see the smoke, hear the bombs bursting in air and imagine Charles in there somewhere between comedy and tragedy, somewhere grinning serenely as a matinee idol. Charles helps them know what they resist knowing.
Tony has to get out and walk it off. So many parts no longer fit. He has to get them moving to see what works, what falls out. He wonders what will follow him down the road. He didn’t take Charles seriously, didn’t believe Charles would do it. He’s no murderer and won’t take the rap for Chuck’s last laugh or attribute this death to his own failing. He isn’t and doesn’t and won’t because he doesn’t have to, because it isn’t true. Nor does he heed the whispers in those blushing moments of his arrival. He only feels the burden of loss, as a sensitive man will.
The liquor tastes like sap.
Heidi gave up and came down late on the day Charles lit up. She wasn’t so rattled; he was that far gone. He reached for death with no doubt. He knew Jorge was only a slobbering half-wit—but a good one. Charles’ dying wish is to place Jorge in nomination for best supporting male in a foreign feature. Heidi says he was calm when she painted on the bones—yes, with a dick bone and a head bone, painted them on with a chalky goo over the dirt. Charles requested that Inez come back to play the drum and praised her willingness to do so.
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