by Bruce Bauman
Moses planted his hands flat against the tabletop to still his trembling. The maneuver didn’t stop the fast-spreading schvitz stains under the armpits of his light blue button-down shirt.
Salome began to sing: “I just saw the devil and he’s smiling at me …”
Despite weeks of role-playing with his newest therapist, Moses’s armor melted away. Past became present. He stood in front of his mother at the age of fifty-three, suddenly an infant—defenseless and bereft of language.
“What? Stop.” Alchemy recognized the tune. Indignant, he glared at his mother, who glared at Moses, who looked bewildered. Salome unfurled the scarf from her neck and wrapped it around her fist as if loading up to land a right cross.
“You think I don’t know about your blood sucking?”
Moses and Alchemy glanced at each other. Alchemy mouthed, “Oh, shit.” Her ability to keep her awareness a secret flabbergasted Alchemy—and rendered him momentarily speechless.
“Alchemy, how did this Moses”—Salome’s voice was witheringly derisive—“beguile you?”
“We’re brothers. It’s an incontestable fact.”
“If I taught you anything, you know that there are multiple truths, but there is no such animal as an ‘incontestable fact.’ ”
“Mom, listen to me,” he pleaded, “he is my brother and your son.”
“I’ve lived fifty years with the loss of my child and lost he shall remain. I’m leaving.”
Alchemy stood beside Moses as they watched their mother make her way toward the door. Alchemy patted Moses on the back. He said resolutely, “You are my brother.” Moses wished he could dissolve and fade into a faraway cosmic soup. He managed a what-can-you-do? shrug.
“I’ll be right back.”
Alchemy followed Salome to the car and asked the driver to take her home. She got in the backseat. “Traitor,” she hissed.
“Mom, we can talk about this later.”
“Not to me you won’t.” She closed the door. The car drove off.
Alchemy returned to the conference room holding a bottle of Grey Goose taken from the office fridge. He held the bottle by the neck in one hand and two glasses in the other.
“Mose, I never suspected …” Still unable to find any words, Moses waved away Alchemy’s placations. “She’s a fanatical maker of myths that become even more unshakable when the myth is exposed.” Alchemy poured a glass and swooshed his vodka like mouthwash before he swallowed it. “It’s small consolation, but at least you had Hannah and she loved you.”
“It is more than consolation. It was a treasure and I’m so grateful for that.”
“Mose, you understand quantum physics?”
“Only sort of.”
“I thought I did. I just met Amy Loo and Spencer Frieberg, from riteplay.com, the music site, and we’re investigating making quantum computers. When they whip out their equations …” He smiled sardonically. “I love the idea that anything can appear one way and then another depending on how you look at it. Salome is right about this—all truth is subject to interpretation.” Moses flinched, unable to suppress a sudden feeling of betrayal. “When we first met I was really laid low by Absurda’s death. Remember, you asked me if I believe in God?” Moses nodded, not sure where Alchemy was going with this. “I didn’t answer because, well, I had no answer. I spent many hours meditating on that question in the monastery. No matter how I looked at, I couldn’t make that leap of faith.” He finished his vodka and poured another one. “Ambitious, searching for a reason, blamed me for Absurda’s death. In the monastery I realized that when reason fails—and it always fails when tragedy hits—everything and anything can be blamed on someone else or the ‘mysterious ways of God.’ Shit, Salome is proof that reason is irrational and the irrational is reasonable.
“Mose, even with everything I have in life, the emptiness, the terror of the nothingness, it can paralyze me. I realized my aim is finding meaning in life in a world without God.”
“I’ve always struggled with that. When the cancer hit, the struggle to understand why became as hard to comprehend as the cancer itself. I accept I may never grasp the reasons for my cancer or Salome’s behavior. Or plenty of other things.”
“Maybe. I didn’t try to find you, but I’m sure lucky you found me. Look at your situation and your bad health. What if I hadn’t been born? Or you couldn’t find me? Was it worth finding out all of this shit? If you hadn’t …”
“… I’d probably be dead.”
“So is the pain of tonight worth being alive?”
“Right now, not so sure. Last week and next week, yes.”
“Drink, please. It’ll get you to next week faster.” They both took a gulp. “I’m not sure what any of this means ultimately—” Alchemy’s cell rang. “Can I take this?”
Moses nodded and half listened. “Yes, still at the foundation. Laluna, I’ll see you tomorrow. Promise.”
Alchemy hung up. Moses didn’t ask who was this Laluna on the other end of the phone. He thought she’d be gone in a week.
“I think it might be smart if I get back to Topanga and make sure Salome doesn’t do something unhealthy.”
Alchemy finished his vodka, apologized again—he should’ve handled it differently—and then left.
Moses thought no matter what they did, this is how it had to turn out. A bit drunk, Moses returned to his office and placed the Insatiables’ Blues for the Common Man into the CD player and played “Invisible Party.”
It’s not the mental dissection
Or the lack of introspection
But being blessed and lucky
That gets your ticket to the
Invisible party
He poured another vodka and called the only person he believed ever understood him. She didn’t answer. He left a message saying the “outcome” of summit Salome was the inverse of meeting Teumer; this now topped his disaster list. His cell phone rang back almost immediately. He answered quickly with an enthusiastic, “Hey!”
“Moses?” He heard the unexpected voice of Sidonna Cherry. “Got no answer on your home phone so thought I might try this. Got a minute?”
“Yep, still at work.” He tried to hide his disappointment. “What’s up?”
“I have an automatic search on Teumer, and, well … Teumer died a week or so ago.”
Moses’s immediate reaction was no reaction. “Moses, I’m sorry. I can e-mail you a translation of the Brazilian obituary.”
“No reason to be sorry. And the obit, I’m sure it’s one big lie. Maybe later.” He didn’t feel like explaining the evening’s events. “Thanks much. I have to go.”
He took another drink. Finally, his eyes began to close and he nodded off on his office couch. He awoke sometime after midnight. His father was dead and he didn’t care one bit. He felt no relief, hate, or sorrow. Was that awful? No. Since meeting him, not for one second had he regretted their lack of relationship. At least in that one space of his life, Moses had found peace.
He sat at his desk and checked his e-mail and phone messages. Nothing from Jay. He logged on to his Facebook page. No message there either. He pulled up Jay’s page and saw she’d posted that she’d be attending an opening at L.A. Louver. She should have been home by now. He checked her information: Her status had been updated from “single” to “in a relationship.”
61
MEMOIRS OF A USELESS GOOD-FOR-NUTHIN’
Under the Bridge, 2006 – 2009
Lost in la-la land without the Insatiables, and them New York guys blowin’ me off, I start boozing and drugging. I call Camille, who is in Montreal shooting a TV thing. She sounds truly happy for me, and not a little pleased that I took her advice and left the band. And she’s sure I’ll eventually find my way. I do find my way to celebrate with her in Montreal. It’s a fun time. But when she’s done, she flies off to Paris and I head back to L.A.
I spend my time playing video games and getting blitzed. One night I puked and then passed out in the lobby of
the building. After the janitor wakes me, I sit and talk to him for an hour. I got nowhere else to go.
I get a call from Andrew saying the Sheiks need me to sign some papers. After a long night of drinking, I show up at Kasbah and proceed to conk out on the floor of Buddy’s office. I feel drops on my head. I open my eyes and Randy Sheik is holding his damn wiener in his hand. He and Lux are cracking up. I scramble up and am about to turn out Randy’s fucking lights when Lux starts squirting me with a water gun. I wanna be pissed but I gotta laugh, too.
Alchy shows up. I ain’t seen him much. Immediately, he asks to talk to me alone. The paper signing was only an excuse to get me there. He starts yammering that he can’t lose me like he lost Absurda. He has an idea that I should record an album of cover songs. He’ll even produce it when they get back from touring if I want. The Germans will give me an advance to do the album. I say thanks, but no thanks.
Things didn’t go better for me. I take a walk one night over to Skid Row, which ain’t far from my place. I ask a couple of them guys if they wanna party. I take out my bottle of scotch. I got so drunk … we must’ve gotten into some fuckin’ fight. I woke up in a back alley all bruised and banged up, five hundred bucks and my wallet gone. I say to myself, Do I really wanna end up a good-for-nuthin’ gutter rat dead in some backstreet?
I get my shit together, and Andrew helps me put a bunch of guys together to record Pedestrian Tastes, which turns into my band Ferricide. Andrew and Sue get us a contract with the Germans. When the Insatiables come back after their six-month tour, I ask Lux to play on a few songs and he does. I don’t ask Alchemy ’cause he’s put on his Good Samaritan costume, which interests me about as much as going ice fishing in the raw.
Then I start what becomes almost three years of touring or recording with Ferricide. When the Insatiables tour, they sell out arenas; I play for two thousand people. It don’t bother me as much as you’d think ’cause I like running my own band. The guys, who is mostly young, look at playing with me as a big deal, not like I owe them something. I picked the producer and road manager. We don’t make much money but enough so I ain’t losing any. It was good times, and positive for my head, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to missing playing with Lux and Alchy.
I still ain’t found no one who I want to be an article with. In off time, I play the good dad and hang with Ricky Jr. But at the end of three years, I’m damn tired of the road. I’m not sure what I’m gonna do next, I just know sittin’ around for too long is no good for me.
Alchemy is getting consumed with the Nightingale Foundation, and the name don’t please me at all. I got a call from Buddy Sheik asking me to meet with Mose and him. Maybe I can contribute to the foundation.
Alchemy’s damn sneaky about keeping parts of his life separate when he wants to, but I’d met Mose a few times over the years. We never hung out or nuthin’. He was kinda cool in a twerpy Jerry Seinfeld way, if that makes sense. He don’t Fancy Dan his smarts, but he sure knows a lot. He and Alchemy don’t look much alike except around the mouth. Girly lips. Mose got light eyes and is balding, and must never step in the sun ’cause he’s superpale. Alchy calls Mose his “half brother.” When a writer asked Alchemy, “Which half?” he answered, “Whichever half I choose.” Him and Mose roll their eyes and nod their head just a tic if you say something they think is idiotic and they don’t want to actually call you on it. It was freaky since they wasn’t raised together.
During the meeting, I see how tight Alchy and Mose has become. Alchy gets pissed when I tell him I ain’t in the donating mood. Mose is cool and says, “I get it. Drop by the new offices anytime and see what we’re doing. Or if you have some special interest, we’re open to all ideas, especially with working-class kids.” He made me feel kinda guilty. Buddy shows me the tax advantages and eventually I donate plenty over the years.
As I’m getting ready to leave that day, Alchemy says that me and him should talk soon. I says, “Sure, but it’s on you to call me.” I ain’t holding my breath.
62
THE MOSES CHRONICLES (2009–2010)
I Don’t Vant to Be Alone
Moses accepted the outcome of Salome’s Nightingale office performance with nary any self-castigation, only a bemused cringe. His adjusted Livability Quotient consisted of consciously sublimating his anxieties and finding satisfaction in managing the foundation, which remained his only social outlet. He jokingly called his new situation “existential everydayness.” Overwhelmed with Insatiables business, Alchemy involved himself when called upon to show up for fundraisers, drop a note to a donor, or sign off on budgetary priorities. Moses sent a nightly e-mail apprising him of the day’s news. Rare as Alchemy’s presence in the office was, he generated a palpable excitement when he breezed in, assembled the staff, and invited them to the tiny Café Largo. He and Lux, billing themselves as the ProTeans, were doing a private showcase with a guest guitarist.
On the night of the show, the Nightingale contingent and select members of the media milled about, waiting for Largo to open its doors when, ten feet from the entrance, a shriek and a command—“Owww! Let me go! You don’t own me!”—silenced the anticipatory buzz. A rattily dressed, muscle-bound man was twisting the blue, pink, and black hair on the girl’s head. Moses summoned his stern professor’s voice. “Stop that! What’s going on here?” The reply: “None of your damn business” and a punch to his chest. Moses tumbled to the sidewalk. Alchemy, followed by Sue and two bodyguards, streaked out of the club. The man, cursing with pathetic bravado, slinked down the street. The fracas quieted. Alchemy yelled, “Thanks, Mose!” and hustled the girl into the club. Sue helped Moses get up. “You just rescued their new guitarist.”
The ProTeans appeared on the unlit stage. Alchemy announced “Laluna,” and a lone spotlight shone on her. Laluna’s fingers twisted the guitar strings into the ominous opening notes of “Exile’s Revenge.” Laluna was slim but no waif, with thin lips, small, slightly crooked teeth, tiny copper piercings in the corners of her bottom lip, high rounded cheekbones, and a nose with a light bump (perhaps from being broken). Her outfit mashed four decades of fashion into one: calf-high white suede boots, pink Spanx with nothing else covering her butt, a sleeveless pink cowl-neck sweater, peace sign earring hanging from one ear and her “Gypsy Cross” from the other. Laluna’s axe-wielding energy and flair added a beautiful menace the band had lacked on stage since Absurda’s passing.
Laluna’s brash performing presence gave way to taciturnity once she retreated backstage. She hovered behind Sue, holding the neck of a beer bottle. Sue formally introduced Moses to Maria Lopez Appelian, nicknamed Laluna.
Laluna managed a barely audible, “Thanks, for, you know.”
“I didn’t help much until reinforcements arrived.”
“You need to be careful, man. My father could’ve killed you.”
“Your father?”
She nodded.
“Better me than you.”
“Guess so.” She shrugged and took a hefty gulp of her beer. The conversation petered out until Alchemy appeared.
“Mose, didn’t you just love our guitar angel?”
“Sure did.”
“We have to get together soon. I’ll call you.”
Stunned and perplexed, Moses stared squinty-eyed as Alchemy and Laluna slipped out the back door. Sue’s gaze followed his.
“Believe it or not, Mose, the man of a million trysts may finally have found true love.”
“When did it start?”
“Let me see, it’s been so long.” Sue’s exaggerated pause emphasized her sarcasm. “A month. Maybe two. Since she crawled out of her stroller.”
“Just how young is she?”
“Eighteen or nineteen. They’ve rented a ‘safe house’ to hide from her Neanderthal father and Salome. Even I don’t know where it is.”
Cynicism over the durability of their relationship prevailed among the Insatiables’ inner circle. You could count Moses among the cynics when he visited
the “safe house,” situated on a dead-end block in Eagle Rock. Laluna’s mom, who was not much older than Alchemy and still quite attractive, answered the door. She cooked them dinner but, despite their entreaties, chose to eat in front of the TV in her room.
“We’re buying this house for her mom”—Moses caught Alchemy’s use of we—“and giving the old grump some bucks.”
“My father’s idea of how a dowry works.”
“Hey, my mom paid for Bent to see me. And then he sold me to some old perv.”
“And my father … kinda wanted me dead …” Moses chimed in.
Laluna’s eyes opened, aghast.
“He failed. And despite them, or maybe to spite them, we’re all still here.”
Laluna raised her beer bottle, “To family values, we gotta love ’em.”
Moses asked if Alchemy had “christened” her Laluna. “Nope. Mose, okay if I call you that?” Moses nodded. “As a child, my paternal grandfather, who didn’t speak much Spanish, loved the sound of the words. He said they reminded him of the ‘sad smile of the cloud-covered moon.’ ” Moses could immediately see what the uncle meant.
After more alcohol and more stories, at evening’s end, Laluna, her understated humor and empathetic warmth emerging, said, “Mose, thanks for making this easy.”
Moses sensed a deep intimacy between Alchemy and Laluna that bypassed the twenty-year age gap. They converted him from cynic to believer.
Soon, Laluna officially joined the band and took up residency in Topanga, and “LAlunamy” became a fixture of the gossip columns and blogs.
It didn’t take Laluna long to notice that Moses infrequently came to Topanga, and when he did, Salome was gone or retreated to her cottage. Alchemy judiciously parceled out the details of Moses’s past. When pressed, he said, “It’s Moses’s business to tell you, not mine.”
Laluna took the initiative to find out. She met Moses for lunch at the foundation. Never one for long-winded diplomacy, she straight-out asked, “What’s up with you and Salome?” Moses did his best not to demonize Salome or heroicize Hannah. He tried not to sound too self-pitying and he purposely omitted the details of Teumer’s inglorious past. The confession was not cathartic, only depressing. “I’m sorry, Mose. Sucks. Terrible. You and I, we got to work together. Salome, she doesn’t get with me either.”