by Bruce Bauman
Hannah and Alchemy began bonding when they agreed America needed to do away with all insurance companies in favor of a single-payer plan. Alchemy joked that it was good to have a lawyer in the family since the insurance company, with its usual audacity, had reduced Fielding’s hospital stay request for Moses. They were appealing, but if they lost, Moses would have to pay. This led to private cigarette chats, when Hannah and Alchemy would sneak out to the plaza patio connecting the hospital’s two towers. At first, they exchanged insignificant talk of the weather, or the guilty pleasures of smoking; at other times they spoke of the immensity of the calamity that had befallen New York. Eventually, Hannah had ventured into the realm of the personal when she thanked Alchemy for his “sacrifice.” His answer: “Never gave it a second thought.” Alchemy, deftly if indirectly, then raised the specter of Salome.
“This is unsolicited and presumptuous, but you did a great job raising Moses. There was always the prospect of a headline declaring I had a brother or sister who I’d find intolerable. I’d have no problem returning them to oblivion. Mose and me, we’re dissimilar in many ways, but he is a damn good man.” Alchemy’s grace and empathy disarmed Hannah’s psychic tripwire for silver-tongued boys.
“Thank you. I did my best under extremely difficult circumstances.”
“Difficult circumstances bring out the worst or best in people. In you, it brought out the best.” The look in Alchemy’s aquamarine eyes, saturated with the soft fluid of understanding, dissolved Hannah’s lingering qualms about his sincere goodwill toward Moses. “No question, he was better off with you than with Salome.”
“You think so?”
“Without a doubt.”
She felt a compulsion to reach out and embrace him. She saw now that Alchemy’s gift was the ability to raise either the maternal, sexual, or fraternal instinct so it precisely suited the needs of his audience, be it one fragile woman or one hundred thousand roaring fans.
“Without a doubt,” he repeated.
Never again would they speak of Salome.
After Moses returned home from the hospital, Hannah rented a furnished apartment in Beverlywood on a month-to-month lease. The doctors informed them: Moses must remain at home, and entertain few visitors, for up to six months. None of them were psychically prepared for the lengthy recuperation period. Hannah took quick trips to New York but did most of her work in L.A. This allowed Jay some respite from being the lone caretaker and also allowed her to give Geri Allen relief from carrying so much of their business load.
One morning while Moses dozed in his bed, surrounded by books, Hannah and Jay sat around the white wrought-iron table in the small backyard drinking coffee underneath palm and pomegranate trees. They were looking over an article in the newish issue of People magazine with the ridiculous heading, “The Sexy Savior.” Worried that he’d be outed by any number of doctors, nurses, and orderlies who could connect him to Moses, Alchemy decided to preempt any sneak attack. He made a deal that People would get the first photos of the Insatiables with their new guitarist if they ran this article without any photos of Moses and without mentioning Jay, Hannah, or Malcolm. Alchemy supplied a few quotes about how happy he was to find his brother, who had been given up for adoption at birth, only he wished this wasn’t the reason. All of them, including Moses, were satisfied. It looked like Alchemy’s gamble worked; although the story was picked up by a few places, no more details or slanderous innuendos came out.
A call from Sidonna Cherry interrupted their perusing. “How’s our boy?”
“All in all, he’s doing very well,” Jay answered while holding up her hand, indicating to Hannah she’d explain in a minute.
“Super. It’s taken a while, but Lively got back to me, and he is game to arrange a meeting with Teumer if asked, and if Moses is willing to travel to Brazil. No guarantees, though.”
“I’ll speak to Moses. I’d say any significant travel is months away.”
“You ring me when he’s ready. Later.”
Jay cautiously explained the conversation, as Hannah’s lips curled with indignation. “I’ve never known that man to say ‘good morning’ without an ulterior motive.”
“I suppose you’re right. He probably has an angle.”
More than probable, Hannah thought, although that was a lesser worry. “You think Moses will see him?”
Jay recused herself from the role of judge or accomplice in her husband and mother-in-law’s game of Tag—You’re Guilty. She did her best to alleviate Hannah’s insecurities regarding Salome, but frustration edged into her voice. “Why don’t you ask him?”
Hannah still couldn’t broach that subject. Instead, she delighted in the fantasy of mother and son embarking on a revenge trip. Moses would reject him outright, and Teumer would realize that she hadn’t needed him at all. She’d inform Teumer in no uncertain terms that she preferred living alone, being independent, focusing on her career and her son. It was a damn rewarding life. If, in the Book of Fame, her achievements were negligible when compared to Salome, the big-shot artist, at least Hannah was sane and proud: She’d become a prominent attorney. Her son loved her and was thankful for the love and care she gave him. He was kind. He’d faced his illness with courage. Above all, he was a mensch. What more could she want?
Peace of mind.
28
THE SONGS OF SALOME
There’s No Place Like Home
Ruggles replaced Shockula, and after almost three years of extended vacation, he freed me on the condition I live under Hilda’s supervision. Ruggles believed the healthiest place for my soul was beside Alchemy. I sat uncomfortably buckled into the passenger seat as Hilda drove along Route 25 toward Orient. I felt oneness with the fallow fields streaking by. Before I even entered, I sensated the house vaporized with the same fallow air. Still, I was free to love my son. All summer Alchemy bounded about, almost giddy to have me around, the three of us living a near-ordinary life. I could walk anywhere in Orient whenever and wherever, eat when I got hungry, climb to the roof of the house and commune with the moon. Go to the movies. Have sex! Only, Hilda’s wary gaze seemed to follow me everywhere. I was not going to spend my life decaying in Orient, nor ever again would I part from Alchemy.
Nathaniel, “rehabilitated” and released from prison, remained on probation. In his letters, he’d been pressing me to move in with him to his apartment on 3rd Street between First and Second Avenues. Xtine had a steady girlfriend. Even if she hadn’t, full-time coparenting didn’t suit her, and the Chelsea would not be Ruggles’s idea of an ideal home. Before we could move anywhere, I had to win Ruggles’s approval and find out from Bicks Sr. what legal rights Hilda possessed to keep Alchemy from me.
Another condition of my release ordered therapy with a New York mindsucker chosen by Ruggles, which afforded me an excuse to go into the city every week. I would vamp around for the day and take the last bus back. A few months after my release, I spent four days with Nathaniel. On our second night, he dressed up in his “courtroom suit,” hair patted down, gray-brown goatee trimmed neat. He planned an evening not exactly in keeping with the revolutionary who believed dinner at the Odessa verged on extravagant. We stopped at the Barclay for a drink and imbibed the waterfall-like playing of an underfed harpsichordist. As we strolled up Fifth Avenue to the Top of the Sixes for dinner, at a corner newsstand Nathaniel eyed a Post headline lauding Reagan. I waited for his usual tirade, but instead, he clapped his hands. “No politics tonight. Promise.”
Near the end of the evening, both of us tipsy doodle—he even danced with me during “Night and Day”—he placed his hands flat on the table. “Salome, we should think about getting married.” I gagged on my champagne. He quickly handed me a napkin and added, “for practical reasons.”
“Nathaniel, I’m the paragon of impracticality.”
“That’s why I love you and why I’m prepared to wait. I agree with you that ‘marriage’ is often a codified ritual that keeps a woman subordinate to a man. You do
n’t need to answer now.” He began twirling his napkin, his legs wriggling like a Saint Vitus’ dance sufferer. Marriage would undermine Hilda’s claims to Alchemy. (Though, he joked, a convicted felon and a “certifiable” might not make the ideal couple in family court.)
I tried not to cry. I couldn’t help myself. I swilled my champagne, thinking, What response would hurt him least?
“Oh, Nathaniel”—I hiccupped between sobs—“I love you so.”
“As well you should.” He deadpanned.
“I can’t promise you monogamy.” I couldn’t admit that I’d been occasionally sexing it up with one of the stud fishermen I’d met in Orient, and two weeks before I’d checked out the scene at Studio 54. Studio’s odor smelled of a snooty Philistine profligacy, not democratic Dionysian freedom. I made sport with a coltish South American tennis player there. After three years of celibacy, nothing could put a damper on my libido.
“I’m not asking for it, nor am I promising it to you. We’ll practice a polyamorous lifestyle.”
“I’ll make your life more than a little untidy.” That was one massive understatement. “And I’ll always be a liability.”
“Life is a risk. You think I want safety? Look at my life. Your instability is my stability. Do you think I don’t know who and what you are?”
“And who and what do you think I am?”
“A selfish, out-to-lunch artist with a heart as big and soft … as a marble.”
He made me laugh. I loved him and wanted to be with him—most of the time. He believed he could accept my flighty ways and catch me before I stumbled. He was the right father for Alchemy. Male artists throughout history had wives and mistresses—why not start a new trend?
I took his clammy right hand between mine. “Let’s live together first. When I’m ready, I’ll propose to you.”
What could he do but acquiesce? I redecorated his shabby two-bedroom walk-up. Alchemy helped me paint the walls bright red and blue and hang yellow velvet curtains over the windows. I brought in fresh flowers and began picking up furnishings at thrift stores. Yes, I became nesty. But nests are not built to last forever.
When Bicks Sr. arrived from Florida a few months later, we met for dinner at the Café des Artistes, his favorite eatery just around the corner from his apartment.
“You’re looking hardy.” His voice strove for effervescence yet limped out ruptured and hoarse.
“I most certainly am.” Unlike him. Beneath his usual sartorial uniform of bow tie, vest, pressed suit, and shined shoes, he looked less lifelike than a rotting wax museum mannequin.
“Salome, don’t tell me what your expression is saying. I look sickly because I am.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t get sentimental. It’s not like you. I’ve had a good, long run.”
“Okay, Bicks. Question, then. If I marry Nathaniel, will that get me out from your son’s control when you …”
“Die? Probably not. Which leads me to a serious bit of business. Your time in Collier Layne has drained your trust to a low level. We made some nice deals on the land that was once your father’s farm. We have no other source of replenishment.”
“Which means?”
“Though small, the monthly stipend you received before is being withheld.”
“In case you decide to send me back to the brain-burn unit?”
“It will not be my decision. But yes, if you must return.” I appreciated Bicks’s honesty—honesty within limits, at least. “Irrespective of your financial situation, you should marry Nathaniel if you love him. Other impediments can be overcome.” The old undercover swisher understood my needs better than most.
“Speaking of fathers, you know that Lively came to see me at Collier Layne?”
“No, no, I didn’t.” He adjusted his hearing aids.
“Don’t get your diapers in a knot.” I decided to test his limited honesty. “Something in his Bible Belt forthrightness forced him to fess up that Marcel Duchamp and Greta had a quicksilver assignation that produced me.”
His cheeks puckered, and I thought he might spit out his foie gras.
“Miss Garbo never revealed that information to me.”
“That my father was Duchamp, or someone else?”
“Neither. I never asked and she never volunteered.”
“You wouldn’t tell me if she had, would you? Don’t bother to answer.”
“You’re not going to try to stalk her again, are you?”
“I wouldn’t call wanting to meet my mother ‘stalking,’ and no, I don’t want to see her.” I pulled out a brand-new red beret and handed it to him. “This is for her. She’ll understand. Promise me that she’ll get it.” He nodded.
Inside I’d taped a picture of Alchemy and written on the back of it, “Now we’re even.”
29
MEMOIRS OF A USELESS GOOD-FOR-NUTHIN’
Pee Brain, 1996
The fiasco in Fon du Lac—or “Fun to Fuck,” as we called it—brings me and Absurda closer than ever. Life, and I ain’t being sarcastic, was great. Even though we played New York a bunch of times, I don’t see my family. I took Absurda for a drive ’round Flushin’ once. We come back to the city to play a three-night sold-out gig at Irving Plaza. The shows was nutso. We’d only play such small venues when we’re doing some Alchy political deal or the KROQ Almost Acoustic Christmas shows ’cause they gave us airplay that helped launch us.
On the third night, I invite some of my guys from Flushin’. Most of them has moved out ’cause the hood is changing. Only Nova and two other guys made it.
Sue and Andrew think they’re doing me a favor by inviting my mom, my sister Bonnie, and my brother Lenny. My dad ain’t invited but shows anyway. Like I wanna see their grizzly mugs. They never stopped panhandling me and I ain’t ready to donate even more to the lavish Lifestyles of the Lowdown and Pusillanimous. Learnt that last word from The Wizard of Oz. Don’t think I’m some cheapo, ’cause when we signed our mega-mil deal with Kasbah in ’98, me and Walter Sheik work out a charity-tax-trust where I lay out over a million large for them to divvy up and then put the closed sign on the Mindswallow ATM. I buy Bonnie a house in Valley Stream and a beauty salon so my mom lives and works with her. Does well, too.
They’re all together just to the right of the stage. We’re jamming during “Licentious to Kill,” where Alchemy usually swoops into a Jack the Ripper act. He slows us down and starts one of his raps and we follow his lead. “Lots of you know Ambitious here, and he and Lux are my brothers. Ambitious’s family is in the audience tonight.” My guys, they boo my family. Others applaud and whistle. I’m feeling anxious about where he’s going with this. “Now, Ambitious, tell me. What’d your father always say about you?”
Catches me totally unprepared. My guys are hollerin’ “Asshole,” “Moron,” “Jailpussy.” I’d forgot about that beaut. Still, I spit out instinctively what Alchy’s wanting. “That I am forever gonna be a useless good-for-nuthin’.”
I stare at my family, who is thinking this is pretty damn funny, except my father, whose eyes are popping, and I hear his ferret hiss like he wants to rip my skin off.
“Yeah, now this might surprise you, Ambitious … because I agree … I think you’re a damn useless good-for-nuthin’.” I look at him like, “What the fuck side you on?” I hear my guys laughing and I mouth for them to “shut the fuck up, you cocksuckers,” and above it all I hear my dad’s squeally laugh. Alchy keeps going, “You heard of Oscar Wilde?” I nod, though I’m not fully sure who he is except some gay writer who got tossed in jail for doing what comes natural. “Oscar Wilde said, ‘All art is quite useless,’ and I agree with that, too. So to me, that makes you an invaluable piece of beautiful art that I wouldn’t trade for nuthin’ in this world.” I want to go over and hug him, only he wails on the word “Killllll …” and we pounce on the chord.
Years later, he pens “Friendsy for You” ’ for the Nihilists CD, which has my fave lyrics:
With a fre
nzy like yours, who needs enemies?
With enemies like you, who needs friends?
Your sex life goes in one hand and out the other,
True enough, you wanna do my mother
With a soul brother like you, the fun never ends
Your father says “you a loser wit’ no heart”
I say you’re a piece a priceless fuckin’ art
After the show, I allow Nova and my family backstage. I introduce them to the band, and my mom starts cozying up to Absurda right away. I invite Nova (but not my family) to the private party downtown at Madam Rosa’s. My mom’s parting words is, “Ricky, ya always was a selfish little shit.”
At the party, me and the guys are getting bombed and also doing some excellent blow. Everyone in the club, including Mr. Alchemy, is inebriated on something. The Sheiks and Andrew has arranged for Absolut Vodka to sponsor the minitour and they was gonna sponsor the next big one, too. So the spirits was flowing. The club is filled with all kinds of slurpies wanting a piece of the Insatiables’ action. Alchemy is poontang king of the road. Sometimes, I’m sort of jealous because me and Absurda are still a pair. Been about four years at that time. I never before had no girl love me like that.
Around 4 A.M., I need to piss something fierce and the bathroom is fill up ’cause Falstaffa and Marty is using it as their pharmacy. I step outside. Madam Rosa’s was on St. John’s Lane, this tiny street just below Canal. I stumble past the bouncers, and after about fifty feet, I see Alchy’s back, and at first it looks like he’s pissing, too. I’m about to yell, “Stop right there, you’re under arrest for desecrating the spotless streets a New York.” But before I do, I hear Absurda. She’s squatting down in front of him, so she can’t see me and I can’t see her face. “Thank you, oh … Alchemy … thank you … You’re the best. Ever.” I don’t need to see her to get what that voice means.
I just feel sick. I feel so burnt. I say screw them, it’s too fuckin’ perverted. I lam back inside and Nova is rappin’ with these two chicks. I join the discussion. Then this guy, looks like to be around my age, steps between us. “Hi, my name is Stevie Stevens and I work for the ad agency of AY&S Worldwide, and I’m dying to talk to you. We’d love to use your song ‘American Van’ for one of our GM commercials.”