by Bruce Bauman
Soon, he dozed off. He didn’t awaken until they entered Gallup, a sun-scorched and desolate, mainly Native American town, whose streets and storefronts of liquor, pawn-, and gun shops were interspersed alongside the ubiquitous McDonald’s, Pizza Hut, and Burger King.
Alchemy flicked on the radio and bypassed the harangues of Rush Limbaugh and Louise Urban Vulter. He settled on a station with Native American music, which the deejay interrupted to speak words neither of them understood except for the hyperenunciated English “Big Sale at Gallup Ford” and “NO Money Down” repeated about seven times. At the same second, they both cracked up. It was one of those seemingly insignificant moments that made them feel like brothers who had shared a childhood of birthdays and Christmases or Passovers, silly games and arcane TV shows, lost toys and cracked bones, angry fights with sorrowful partings, first loves and ruptured hearts, and alliances with and against their parents.
“We need gas. Way, way back we played two high schools around here, and there was a great Mex restaurant we ended up finding at three A.M. after doing peyote. No time to look, I guess.” They pulled into the station. Alchemy ambled inside to get supplies and Moses pumped the gas. Then he called Jay. “Hey, I found him!” His voice burst out with a rare effervescence.
“Good, no, great. How are you feeling? Where are you?”
“New Mexico. We’re driving. And I’m fine. Better than fine.”
“Oh, Moses, I miss you.”
“In less than twenty-four hours I’ll be home.”
“I’m so scared.”
“I don’t know why, but I’m less scared now. You’ll see. He wants to stay at our place. Can you call Dr. Fielding? Tell my mom, too. I’ll call her later. The phone service goes in and out.”
“Alchemy’s staying with us?”
“Yep. Tidy up my room, okay? He can sleep on the futon in there.” He was talking too fast and out of character; he didn’t absorb the meaning of the beats between her silences or the tremulous cadences.
“Moses, it’s such a—”
“Look, it’ll be fine. Jay, I’ll … Shit, there’s a small mob gathering inside the gas station. Love you, and see you soon.”
Someone had a digital camera, and then everyone in the minimart wanted a picture with Alchemy. Moses stepped inside and Alchemy mouthed to him, “Wait in the car.”
A few minutes later Alchemy came jogging out. He hopped in the car and tossed two plastic bags filled with water, Cokes, Gatorades, chocolate bars, doughnuts, potato chips, and pretzels into the backseat. He placed a copy of the Star on Moses’s lap. It was open to two gruesome pictures of Absurda, one of her gaunt body, half naked with a needle by her side, dead on her bedroom floor and another photo of the obviously grieving Alchemy slumped beside her casket. The headline read, “The Tragic Last Days of the Nightingale.”
“This is exactly what I wanted to get away from. Guy handed that to me so I could autograph it for him. I do autographs, and most of the people in there were respectful, but that is too much. Too much.”
“It’s ghoulish.”
Alchemy lifted his hands off the steering wheel and then grasped it hard with his long, agile fingers, his voice pleaded to no one but himself. “What the fuck do they want me to say? I couldn’t save her. I tried. I fucking tried.”
“I’m sorry,” Moses said. He closed the magazine and put it under his seat. Alchemy pressed his foot down on the gas pedal as they sped back onto the 40. “Is this kind of crowd reaction typical?”
“Goes up and down. Depends where I am and if we’ve been in the news. It’s part of the bargain and I accept it. I despise mewling celebs, but sometimes you just want to buy a few Cokes and potato chips in peace. Or be allowed to die in peace.”
Or grieve in peace, thought Moses.
Alchemy lapsed into a turgid silence.
Moses didn’t know the extent of Alchemy’s tangled relationship with Absurda. He assumed that they’d had some kind of affair. They sped along for a long while with no radio, no talking, just the sound of the Focus’s hissing engine and the roars of eighteen-wheelers.
Alchemy broke the silence by asking Moses to grab him another water. He drained the bottle and asked Moses pointedly, “So, what did you think of your new mom?”
“I didn’t really meet her. I saw her. What I know comes from Dr. Ruggles. I wasn’t prepared to confront her.”
“Understood. If I’m still trying to get my head around the idea that you weren’t stillborn, no telling how she would react.”
“With what little I know, I can’t separate the various dueling mythologies.”
“Fabricate, bro. Family tradition.”
“I sort of have done that, but now that needs to be refabricated. If I don’t, I figure I’ll have some kind of nervous breakdown. If I even survive this other shit.”
“Mose, nervous breakdowns are also part of the Savant heritage.”
“You? You worry about that?”
“Hell, yes. Sometimes I feel like I’m in a state of perpetual breakdown.” Moses, unprepared for this admission, didn’t know if Alchemy meant it or was just trying to make him feel comfortable in his new clan. “It’s not just me or the genes. Famous people are the most unstable bunch you can ever meet. You said you’re a history prof, right?” Moses nodded. “How many of the people who had a tangible effect on the world were nuts?”
“Highly neurotic, most. Nuts, too many.”
“See? And with a mother like Salome … how can I not worry about a breakdown every now and then?”
“Great, I’ll add that to my list.”
“Ah, Mose, yours spiked in your body. You’re steady upstairs, I can feel it. You still have to meet our mother. After the operation, when you’re stronger”—Alchemy’s innate confidence that they’d be a match did not derail Moses’s pessimism—“we’ll both go see her. I need to spring her from Collier Layne again.”
“I’d appreciate that. You said before that about fifty guys have claimed to be your father. You don’t know him?”
“I guess you don’t tread in the gossip troughs much.”
“Depends what you call gossip. I read history books that are filled with academic-jargoned polysyllables dissecting Lincoln’s possible homosexuality or Hitler’s getting off on erotic asphyxiation while having someone defecate on him.”
“That’s what I mean about famous people being nuts. And politicians are the most craven ’cause they have the most power. Who was more twisted than the Adolf? Him getting dumped on makes sense to me. Was it a guy? Girl?”
“Supposedly it was his niece who did the dumping. I believe it.”
“Me, too. And Abe, a lover of mankind, that figures. Why he’d have the balls to free the slaves. I bet being a repressed gay guy back then was like being an invisible Negro. Who knew that you history guys were such a lurid bunch? Good thing they didn’t have the Enquirer or People back then, or you’d be out of business.”
“It’s not exactly a lucrative calling now.”
“Back to your original question, I do know who my father is. We met when I was six and then again when I was thirteen. And neither of us had any desire to keep up the relationship. It’s the one secret I’ve been able to keep from the predators.”
From Alchemy’s hard-edged tone, Moses understood that this subject was off-limits. But then he continued, “Our mom was pretty active and they had a one-night stand and, as she says, his sperm won.” His voice was once again relaxed, intimate.
“So you don’t know anyone named Malcolm Teumer?” Moses asked, not sure he wanted Alchemy to answer yes.
“Nope. Should I?”
“Guess not. He is my father. His relationship with Salome is a blank slate to me. He married my mom and then split on us when I was two. Never seen him since.”
“Mose, you got the double, no, triple whammy. No wonder you got cancer.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, it’s that Salome, she’s got these theories about dise
ase. Don’t worry, she’ll tell you all about it.”
Moses didn’t respond right away. He wanted to meditate on cancer and his “whammies” and how Alchemy spoke with such equanimity about their crazy mother and his own barely known father.
In the enveloping sunset, the Focus hiccupped up the mountain pass from Sedona, which, in twenty years, had transformed from pristine landscape to a tourist town dotted with signs for the Vortex Inn and the Crystal Rubbing and Convergence Committee, before arriving in Jerome, a former copper-mining town. Jerome remained less New Age commercially corrupted than Sedona. As they neared Trudy’s home, Alchemy asked almost offhandedly, “Hey, you want me to see if I can hook you up? Trudy might have some friends.”
“Um, I—”
“Sorry, Mose, that’s trespassing. Upon a moment’s reflection, I sense it’s not your gig.”
“Nope. Not my gig.”
“I respect that. I’ve partied with musicians, athletes, politicians, and civilians like you, and they all were fucking their brains out before crawling home to wife and kiddies. I’m not into subterfuge.” Although he didn’t sound like he’d completed his thoughts, Alchemy paused. “I didn’t mean ‘like you,’ Mose.”
“No, I understood.”
“Okay, good. I’ve been to shrinks and I’ve always been exceedingly cautious when it comes to their analysis of me. Most accuse me of being a sexaholic or a hedonist with intimacy issues. Fine. I counter that they have a control problem and most of them are envious and the others are phonies. I’m just doing what most guys, and women, too, would do if they had the chance. I do my best never to hurt anyone. I never coax. You wanna dance? Great. If not, cool. They got to know I don’t promise more than one night of dancing before I bounce.”
“Bottom line, though, how many women … I mean all those rumors of the legions, they’re not an exaggeration?” Moses figured one injudicious question deserved another.
“Well. No. The answer is too many and not enough.”
“Come again?”
“Oh, hell. What BS.” He mocked himself. “That’s my standard response: ‘Too many who just wanted a quick fuck and not enough who were about love.’ Come on, who buys that? I get more love than anyone deserves. I got all the intimacy I can handle in the band. You get to know the other members better than you could ever know your wife. Being in a band is like being married. My loyalty is to Absurda, well, shit, was, and Ambitious, and Lux. My mom, Nathaniel, Xtine. That’s it. And now—maybe you.” He paused and let the promise or threat of that remark reverberate. “I’m thirty years old. Maybe someday I’ll change and want a wife and kids. Now, no way.”
Alchemy slowed the Focus as they neared the two-street town. He stopped in front of Trudy’s adobe-style house, which stood atop the mountain overlooking Sedona’s red rocks to the north and Prescott’s Verde Valley to the south.
Trudy greeted them in her kitchen, where she was cooking dinner. She was in her midforties, much older than Moses had imagined, with a pretty, kittenish face and brown-and-gray-streaked hair. She gave Alchemy a loud smooch. She served them two of Alchemy’s favorite entrees: buffalo burgers and veggie lasagna. After dinner, Trudy showed Moses to his room on the first floor, and then she and Alchemy mounted the stairs to Trudy’s bedroom.
Moses called Jay and got the machine. He left a message. Then he called his mom.
“So how are you feeling?” She asked in a taut voice.
“I’m good. Very, very tired but good. We should be in late tomorrow afternoon.”
“Jay told me. We’re all frayed and stressed. She’s so distraught that she didn’t even come over to swim and have dinner. She made your appointment with Fielding for the day after tomorrow.”
“Fine,” Moses said perfunctorily, now worried about Jay.
“Moses, are you still angry with me?” He heard her inhale deeply on her cigarette. He wanted to nag her about quitting but held back.
“I told you I wasn’t angry at you and I’m not now. But Ma, you need to control your nag genes.” Again came that poisonous word, genes, which had once bonded them but now divided them. Neither one responded to its new meaning. “I’m not going to let forty-plus years of love and devotion change anything because of this. Got that?”
“Yes,” Hannah said, not quite convincingly.
Too enervated, Moses refused to play the cajoling game. If he answered with a hint of uncertainty or impertinence in his voice, the conversation would continue in a circular fashion for hours. “Mom,” he said in an even but firm tone, “I need you to be strong for me now, the way you have been all of my life. Okay?”
Hannah, satisfied with Moses’s answer, allowed the conversation to end on a note that signaled a truce in this new phase in the war of parental territoriality.
At around eleven, Moses heard a commotion in the front room. He stumbled out to see Alchemy fully dressed and with guitar case in hand, while Trudy talked on the phone. “We’re headed over to the CopperPot bar on Main Street,” Alchemy said cheerily. “Come by, if you’re up to it.” Moses took the accompanying pause to the invitation to mean that Alchemy expected him to come.
“You go ahead. I’ll meet you down there.” Feeling both obliged and curious, Moses got dressed. By the time he strolled outside, half of Jerome’s four hundred inhabitants, like characters in a ’50s zombie movie, were marching in lockstep toward the CopperPot.
Moses sat next to Trudy, who had saved him a seat. Alchemy, perched on a stool on the tiny stage, Gibson guitar slung over his shoulders, gulped a beer and puffed on a cigarette. No doubt this appearance would hit the still-embryonic Net. Apparently, Alchemy couldn’t handle five weeks with no sex and no adulation. As the crowd in the bar swelled, Moses felt, as he had that night at the Whisky, the oceanic presence that was the public Alchemy, and what it promised: I am your dream, and in me our dreams merge as one.
He began abruptly, “My homage to Mr. Hemingway.” Alchemy started strumming and nodded slyly in Moses’s direction.
Irony and pity
Oh so witty
A little Aristotle
in a bottle
The son not only rises
it also surprises …
Was Papa havin’ fun
when he wrapped his tongue
’Round his gun, say … hey,
please blow me … away …
He spoke as if talking to an invisible presence. “Because I never thought we could do justice to Roky and Lou Ann, so now …” He effortlessly slid into a song called “Starry Eyes.”
When he stopped singing, Alchemy smiled glowingly at the audience. “As some of you know, I’d been in solitude for five weeks and five days until I was rescued. In fact, if anyone asks, I’m still not here. Tell ’em it was an impersonator, goes by the name of Dusky Goldplate.”
His fingers meandered on the guitar strings for a while before landing on a Leonard Cohen paean to youthful need and hope. Unlike Cohen’s husky Old Testament chastising drone, Alchemy’s voice flowed out like a hymnal with sweet and tortured resignation. He let the last notes linger before he addressed the audience again.
“I wrote this during my recent monastic vacation. I’ve never sung it aloud before so it’s a virgin ride for all of us. It’s called ‘Mystic Fool.’ ” He stooped, picked up his bottle and finished his beer. “For Absurda.”
Hey, careful there, pretty boy,
Let’s sturm und drang
Up the good brew
And take on the entire crew.
But don’t putsch me too far
’Cause when hugs turn to shoves
I’ll be making war and love
With my gun an’ guitar
She left without a good night kiss
Staring at the human abyss
I’m searching for the last note
Of god’s silent song
To carry me along
Carry me, carry me, carry me, please carry me …
The room pulsated with a man-on-a-hig
h-wire tension. Alchemy closed his eyes and bowed his head, and almost everyone found themselves in their land of private laments and regrets, with the echoes of Alchemy’s voice to carry them along. A drunken guy yelled “Chicks and Money!” and another chimed in “I Wanna Be Seen!” breaking the spell. Alchemy unclipped his guitar strap. In seconds, a gaggle of women, young and old, surrounded him. Trudy tapped Moses on the shoulder. “Let’s go.” He arched his eyebrows quizzically. “I’m tired and he’s gone for the night.”
“You’re cool with that?”
“Have to be. He’s Alchemy.”
In the morning, more than a little concerned about Jay and why he hadn’t heard from her, Moses called and woke her up at 7 A.M.
“Hey, where were you?” Moses heard his voice dart out with a mix of accusation and fear.
“At the gym. A late Pilates class. I didn’t want to call you last night in case you were asleep.”
“My mom said you are distraught.”
“Distraught? What should I be, a happy idiot?” Now Jay’s tone was accusatory, petulant.
“No, I’m not saying that. But there’s some hope now.”
“I’m sorry. I’m just anxious. I’m so glad you’re coming home.”
“Me, too.” To lower the tension, and keep up some pretense of normalcy, Moses asked about Jay’s meeting with her latest demanding client. They made more small talk and Moses promised to call her later.
Alchemy strolled by alone while Trudy and Moses were having breakfast at the Flatiron Café. Trudy teased him with lighthearted jests unique to those who have had a long friendship punctuated by casual sex. “Did you play Romper Room teacher with the leetle girls?”
“You could say that. Gave them some, um, breathing lessons. I advised them to take your Tantric yoga class so they can learn new positions from the expert.”
“Thank you,” she said sarcastically, “but that class is full. No beginners.”
“I wouldn’t call them beginners. Not anymore.”