by Laird Barron
A man of unexpected facets, he’s obsessed with ancient aliens (Greys built the Pyramids!) and a hundred and one doomsday scenarios. The universe is a hologram and the only real gods are likely horrifically evolved humanoids or giant blobs of sentient protoplasm. His father worked for a pharmaceutical company and had taken his whole weirdo family on months-long business vacations to Borneo and the Amazon Basin when the kids were little.
We’ve shared bizarre conversations. Craziest exchange happened after I paid him to get the test key to Math finals. Apropos of absolutely nothing (although I had the sniffles), he said, Wonder why I never get sick?
Not really. Fair question though. Granted, the pasty bastard isn’t an exemplar of health, yet I don’t recall him ever missing school from the seasonal crud.
I bleed myself.
Like Dark Ages bleeding? Smoke enemas? Barf me out, dude.
Dark Ages is recent history. Bleeding goes back to the Hellenic. In the 1920s missionaries brought it here from South American death cults. Got to propitiate them old black gods with rivers of blood, y’know.
I’m quite sure I don’t.
Bad blood out, fresh blood in. Ever want to give it a whirl, I’ve got the kit. Make a superwoman out of you for real.
Fresh blood in? What did that even mean? I decided I didn’t give a shit. I’d let it return to haunt me at some future 3 A.M.
He doesn’t do sports despite his “perfect” health and even though he’d wallop most of the boys with his bizarro, predatory grace. Elmer D. (the only dude I know who might take Steely J mano a mano) said there was an incident at wrestling tryouts and Coach Grinky eighty-sixed Steely J hardcore.
Side note: I fooled around with Elmer the summer of our junior year, but have since nixed our romance. His dad wrecked their truck this past winter. Mr. D. burned and Elmer survived with some wicked scars. I pretend he doesn’t exist because now I’m rolling with Mr. Future-All-State-full-ride-to-some-powerhouse-football-town. JV be trading up, haters.
Steely J is solid with the rich kids (especially Fat Boy Tooms). Rumor is, he gophers for them since he can pass for legal, has a boss fake ID, knows no fear, and, most importantly, is scruple-free. You want weed, booze, or heavier stuff, you call Hostettler or Benny Three Trees. You need somebody to hold for you, alibi for you, or step-‘n-fetch-it, Steely J is your prole. He makes book on sports events and makes unwanted pets vanish. He’s the source for cheap designer clothes, “borrowed” power tools, scalped tickets, and VIP invites to password-at-the-door-parties. It’s this last detail that interests me at the moment.
I hit him with the lowdown. “Okay, dude, look. My dad. He has cancer.” This confession has the opposite effect from what I expected. Instead of relief, my stomach tightens. The bile in my throat must be remorse.
“Sorry to hear it.” Steely J speaks in a monotone drawl that pitches slightly to indicate his mood. In this case, it descends toward baritone. He gives a shit, although not much of one. “What kind?”
“The way he guzzles Maker’s Mark, you’d think cirrhosis, but nope. Rectal cancer.”
“Huh.”
“This is eyes-only need to know, so keep your lips zipped.”
“Not planning to do a press release. Damn.”
“Good, or it’s your balls.”
“Sure your purse has got room for ‘em?”
“It’s a coin purse. Plenty of room for your junk. I need a favor.”
“Heck of a way of asking.”
“My dad’s birthday is October ninth. He loved Andy Kaufman, see. Absolutely adored him, is more to the point. Dee Dee Andersen says her brother knows a guy at the Gold Digger who saw the booking sheet for Halloween. That lounge singer character Kaufman did in the ‘70s is on the schedule—”
“Tony Clifton.”
“Yes, Tony Clifton. Live and in person. What I need—”
“The Tony Clifton…Here, in Anchorage?” Steely J’s monotone pitches higher.
“Uh, yeah, sure.”
“Fucking A! Who’s playing him? Zmuda, I bet. Has to be Zmuda.”
“One of Kaufman’s buddies, obviously. That’s not the important—”
“You’d assume one of his compatriots. On the other hand, maybe Clifton actually exists. True story, Kaufman and Zmuda planned to work on a film biography of Clifton and how Kaufman originally discovered him at a hotel in Vegas and they got to be friends, and so on. Fell through because Heartbeeps didn’t sell enough tickets. Bummer.” He drives like turtles screw so we’ve apparently got all the time in the world.
“You should write a book.”
He doesn’t react to my sarcasm. “Comedians tap into the infinite. Black Kryptonite.”
“Fascinating, not really, but—”
“Kaufman faked his own death. Something hinky about these random gigs Clifton does. Think about that — fourteen years and he’s still dropping in to do his old routine, and for what? Nobody except fogies like your dad even remember him. The whole setup is hinky. Kaufman might’ve been sick of the limelight. Fame gets some people down. Heartbeeps was pretty bad. Okay, it reeked. That’s why he faked his death and retired to a South Pacific island and he comes around to yank our chains every once in a while. It’s possible, right?”
“For the love of…No, J. Neither of those are possible. I don’t even.” My lips hurt, we’re way off in the weeds, and I’m about to blow a fuse. The pressure of being Julie Vellum can be crushing.
He licks his cheek. “Yeah, yeah. I know. It would be cool.”
“Please pay attention. Dee Dee says the show is a hush-hush exclusive. One night only. There’s a secret list. I want Daddy on that list.”
He smiles. His incisor is silver. The smile doesn’t change his expression much more than a lone cloud moving across the sky. “Clifton rules. Best character Kaufman ever did, easy. I’ll make some calls, see if it’s legit.”
“Super. What’s it gonna set me back?”
He flicks a glance my way. His tongue protrudes again, tasting the possibilities. “I dunno. BJ?”
I tap the brace that ratchets my neck and chin so severely it might as well be one of those Elizabethan collars the vet puts on a dog. My eyes and nose are still swollen and my lips are fat enough I’m taking vital nutrients through a straw. “You probably play the lottery too. C’mon, dude. I’m in no condition. You’re in no condition. Blowing you is against the Geneva Convention.”
“Well, you look like a walking glory hole. Fifty bucks. Plus whatever the tickets go for, if this is legit.” Fifty bucks is his asking price for everything from shoplifting eyeliner, to scoring tickets, to committing grand larceny or felonious assault.
“Deal!” I almost shake his pallid, sweaty paw before I come to my senses. His parents own a place on the hillside. Didn’t mom and dad J relocate to the Midwest in ‘95 and basically abandon the property? Rings a bell. He’s got a litter of younger siblings. Pale, snot-nosed ankle-biters who look like they should be floating in jars of formaldehyde. Did his family abandon him? You can attend public school until the age of twenty-one. I think he’s close. Does he sleep in his car? In the trunk (a coffin)? Is he communicable? He wears the same sweater several days in a row. Dirt under his nails is a given. Drops of blood crust the toes of his sneakers. His favorite all-weather ensemble is a Seahawks track suit, plus a goose down parka when the mercury dips. He smells ripe and his cheap aftershave is insufficient to the challenge. He habitually sips I-don’t-have-a-clue-what from a mason jar jammed inside a grody Starbucks cup holder. His breath is raw as fuck. He appears pudgy unless you’ve been around ball players and weightlifters and recognize there’s earth-moving brawn under the panda-bear-softness. Why do his eyes make me think of fish? I consider these mysteries for half a second and we’re home sweet home.
Steely J says as I open the car door, “Ever have an imaginary friend? When you were a kid?”
“Jesus,” I say.
* * *
Mom insists I call her Jackie. It’s
a Unitarian thing, maybe? She and Dad lived in California right out of high school. Jackie got knocked up, then she got religion. She was too busy giving birth to me to finish college. By the time I entered Kindergarten, she’d ditched the whole stay-at-home-mom routine (bailed on the church, too), took a few night classes in business, and embarked on a career as a hotshot saleswoman of water purification systems.
Dad couldn’t hack UCLA no matter how he tried. He slunk home to Girdwood, Alaska, in defeat. Grandpa gave him a superintendent job at the chemical plant in Anchorage. Dad’s name is Jeff. He doesn’t let me call him Jeff; he’s not a Unitarian and the Valley didn’t rub off on him. Mom, I mean, Jackie, got the full dose and passed it along to me.
Jackie travels the globe. She stays on the road two weeks out of every month. She’s an absentee parent, which makes her pretty damned rad. Sure, it blew chunks (and to whom it may concern, I don’t suffer from bulimia; my athletic figure is purely genetic) during pre-adolescence not having a mom to teach me how to navigate middle school and getting my period and so forth. Past is the past (Grandpa says it’s prologue). I’ve come to appreciate the combined-arms-power of neglect and guilt. Besides, when she is around, she displays the demeanor of an indulgent queen dishing boons willy-nilly. Boys? Do be careful, dear. Here’s a variety pack of condoms. Money? Let’s tack another twenty onto your allowance. Out late? Be home by dawn. Can I have a car for my sweet sixteen? Tell your father to take you to the dealership. Nothing too fast, okay? Best part is, once I grew tits I magically became eligible for her Machiavellian advice, which she dispenses freely.
Fun and games notwithstanding, there is a single ironclad rule. On my first morning as a freshman at Onager High, Jackie drove me to the front entrance and we sat in the car bopping to “Black Hole Sun” and verifying our makeup. A dark-haired girl in a leather jacket, jeans, and combat boots got out of a stone age Ford truck.
Jackie grabbed my arm real hard and said in a witchy, hateful voice that surely belonged to someone else’s mom, See that little twat dressed like a Jet? That’s Jessica Mace. Her bitch mother is Lucius. Redneck losers. Stay away from them or you’ll be sorry.
I didn’t have the slightest clue as to her damage (and the fact a lot of people consider us to be barely one step out of the trailer park made me wonder if dear old Ma was projecting). My arm hurt with those talons squeezing tight. Why the drama? Yeah, the Mace chick was trouble from the way she stood, all badass nonchalant with her mouth crimped like a real bad ass, somebody who carried a switchblade. Still, I could handle it. Jeez, Jackie. Get real. I’m not scared of redneck trash.
Fear me, then.
What? I’m not scared of you either.
Pow! Jackie backhanded me and smashed my lip. Prior to that shocking moment, she’d never lifted a finger to check my antics. Dad did the discipline in our house. I sat there in shock while she dabbed the blood with a hanky and straightened my hair.
We’re copacetic? She smiled, gangster-hard. Nobody ever really knew her, or this is why Dad drinks.
I swallowed my tears and bailed. Had to slink past Mace loitering on the sidewalk. The girl appraised me with narrowed eyes and a smirk.
You’ve got something on your face.
Jackie needn’t have worried. I hated Mace already.
Three years on and we haven’t revisited the topic. Everything seems rosy between mother-dearest and me. Jackie may be less creepy than Steely J, however that doesn’t make it easier to read her. She is, after all, the one who assigned The Prince as bedside reading. Smile, then stick it to them, honey. Instead of wrist-wrist, elbow-elbow, it’s smile-smile, stab-stab. It is totally better to be feared than loved.
She recently returned from a trip to the Midwest, hell-bent as ever on expanding her empire conference by grueling conference. I haven’t told her of my plan to surprise Dad with Tony Clifton tickets. Maybe I will, when I get some more courage. Since Dad got diagnosed with the big C, she acts as if she almost loves him again. Freaks me the hell out.
Dad’s on a permanent vacation from the plant. He drinks more than ever. Surrounds himself with cartons of Natty Light and Maker’s Mark and slouches in the den in the dark watching horror flicks with the sound low on his pride and joy RCA box — he doesn’t need the volume; he knows the script by heart and mutters his lines with the embittered diligence of a failed actor. He surfaces for dinner that Jackie or I cook (defrost). Sits at the head of the table (at least two beer cans or a whiskey next to his plate) with a drowning man’s grin and asks how our day went. Doesn’t slur, although he speaks slowly and his eyes are bloodshot.
Today, he’s absorbed in the Montel Williams Show and oblivious to me limping past on the way to my bedroom. Bunko, the grizzled tomcat, follows at my heel, same as he always does. Jackie feeds Bunko, Dad kicks him, and I pet him and give him love. He’s as close to a brother as it’s going to get around here.
By the way, the reason I’m an only child is Jackie had two miscarriages and an abortion before she gave birth to breech-baby me. According to her, she’d argued with Dad about whether to keep me at all. I’m not sure which of them was pro or con Julie. My foes say she conceived me in the backseat of Dad’s jalopy and that she needed a baby to keep him leashed. For the record, she doesn’t deny it.
Reflecting on grade school, I realize how lonely our home was due to Mom’s relentless travel schedule. Dad let me stay up late and watch Taxi reruns with him when she was away. Sloppy Joes, Tang, and an ice cream sandwich for dinner on a TV tray on the couch in my Cabbage Patch Kids PJs. Movie of the week or a western or some standup comedy from his stack of VHS tapes. I’m not exaggerating — he loved Kaufman, and Robin Williams, and Bill Hicks (grooved on horror by Lewton, Carpenter, and Romero, but decided I was too young to go that heavy). The rough stuff did it for him — brutal satire and white man madness fumed from those comedians. Except for the profanity, most of it went over my head. No worries; those were the rare occasions that I got to be Daddy’s little girl instead of a piece of furniture.
He cried his eyes out the day after Kaufman passed away. Drank himself into a stupor in honor of Hicks a decade later. Dad didn’t shed tears over Hicks, though. I’m not sure he had any left after 1984.
Whatever our problems, he’s my dad and he’s dying and I have to believe it’s a signal from the universe that Dee Dee Andersen told me about Clifton’s forthcoming surprise appearance. I’m infamous for deviousness not imagination. Until this opportunity, I haven’t thought of a single meaningful gesture to show Dad I care the way a daughter is supposed to care (even though my heart feels kind of numb). I’m selfish and big enough to admit the failing.
* * *
I lie in bed and crank the Matthew Good Band. I do a couple of poppers and hope they can help sort out some of this bullshit. My prayer is, Save the day, Steely J, you weird, weird dude. Bunko nuzzles under my jaw, where the brace seam is snuggest, and purrs. He loves the shit out of my cone of shame.
Rocky calls on my rhinestone-studded telephone in the wee hours after Dad has fallen asleep in front of the TV and Jackie disappears into her bedroom lair downstairs to consult spreadsheets. Rocky’s favorite topics are football and his car in no particular order. Tonight is more of the same. Eventually he remembers to ask how I’m doing. Am I already an afterthought? Did he call so late because he took one of my many, many rivals on a cruise of the Eklutna Flats in his damned midnight-blue Iroc-Z? Time for another popper. Bingo-bongo, better.
Rocky says, “Babe, I ran into your pal, Steely J at the store. Freaky you should ask him to score Clifton tickets. You and him are Kaufman nuts?”
“Hey, now. I wouldn’t exactly say I’m a nut—”
“Fucker gives me the willies.”
“Steely J isn’t for everyone. Still, where would you get your discount ‘roids without him?”
“I meant Kaufman.”
“Kaufman’s definitely not for everyone either,” I say. “You’re in luck, considering the fact he’s dea
d as a doornail, Jim. Supposedly, haha.”
“He was evil.”
“How evil was he?”
“Caveman in a cave raping all the cavewomen evil. Freeze frame his face next time you watch one of his old shows. Pure, violent malevolence.” Rocky breathes heavily, the way he does after a hard practice or a screw-session in his car. “The others have other ones. These celebrity haunts. Jim Morrison. Jim Belushi. Freddy Mercury. Bette Davis. Charlie Chapman. Gilda Radner. Marilyn Monroe. Elvis.”
“Uh, baby? Is this a joke?” I’m losing my pleasant buzz with a quickness. Rocky isn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer. I would not have guessed “malevolence” is within a million miles of his vocabulary. His jokes concern bodily functions and referring to his rivals as faggots. If this isn’t a joke, I’m not sure I want to know what it is.
“Stifle yourself and listen. There’s an entry with a roster in the black almanac, but I haven’t read it, and maybe it’s a lie. I knew one unlucky kid who claimed visitations from Peter Lorre. Makes my blood run cold and mine is bad enough. Sometimes I see Andy Kaufman creeping through the trees outside our house. He shows himself when something awful is on the way.”
“Uh, you see Andy Kaufman. Lurking. Am I hearing you right?”
“You’re hearing me right. Months go by and nothing, then poof! He’s every-damned-where. Follows me home from school and stands under my window and grins. Winks at me through the stacks at the library. I know he’s real because I’ve seen his tracks and because it’s happened to members of my family going back generations. How far? How deep? Deep as a cobra back-slipping into its hidey hole? Is it just entertainers? Maybe it’s all sorts of dead famous people. Did the pale visage of George Washington vex my child grandfather as he huddled with his Boy Scout troop around the fire? Did Ben Franklin meet the Bard on some lonely deer path in Virginia? The way Franklin doped and drank and forswore a Christian deity, I bet it is so.”