by Jarett Kobek
Michael Alig tackled Baby. As they plunged into the lukewarm liquid, Baby wanted to be angry, attempted to will himself toward rage, but it was like a wall in his brain blocked the chemical receptors responsible for negative emotions. He wasn’t angry. He was happy, happy at being touched and happy with the liquid, happy that his clothes were soaking wet, happy that Michael Alig was trying to push his head under water, happy that people were cheering and touching him.
—Who am I? he yelled above the splashing water.
—You’re Baby Baby Baby, someone said. You’re a rabid dog. Now bark like one!
And Baby barked, grabbing the body of a sweet man beside him, this slick-skinned, waterlogged Adonis of the Lower East Side. They kissed and Baby’s head exploded with waves of pleasure coming off the tongue, his body attuned to nothing but this moment, like his erection was the only constant in an ever-changing universe, a holy erection akin to those housed by the pantaloons of Walt Whitman in the month of March in the year 1855, like Baby’d journeyed to the fifth dimension and looked down at time, like his atomic particulars were not newly configured but had always been from the Big Bang at the beginning, pressed against this man, in this pool, in this city, with beautiful humanity around him, listening to this terrible song that was the best song ever recorded, don’t stand in the corner waiting for the chance, make your own music, start your own dance, that was the only song ever recorded.
—Oh please, whispered Baby into the wet mouth of this Greek divinity, never let it stop. Never ever let it stop.
Then there was the time when Michael Alig and Michael Musto, the gossip columnist for the Village Voice, attended the 1988 Dark Shadows Festival at the Vista International Hotel, beneath the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center.
When the dust settled, Michael Alig phoned Baby, furious with Musto, who’d scored full green room access and left Alig among the common attendees, the actual scum. Most of who were incredibly ugly and disgusting. Fat old hairy men and women who hadn’t considered personal style in decades.
—And if you can believe it, said Alig, Musto wormed his way to Jonathan Frid! They had themselves a nice fucking little lunch!
—Who’s Jonathan Frid? asked Baby.
—What are we even talking about? Don’t you know anything? He’s the actor that played Barnabas Collins!
Weeks earlier, Michael Musto had visited Tunnel, going around asking club kids questions about the history of Western Civilization. Who was Homer? Who is Richard Nixon? Who was Nietzsche? Who wrote War and Peace? Who’s the Vice President? Most people couldn’t answer. This didn’t surprise Baby. He’d spent enough time around Alig’s misfits to realize that their candles did not burn with the brightest flames.
With Michael Alig watching, Musto asked Baby about Baudelaire. Baby spoke about the French poet at some length, faking off the jacket copy he’d read on a translation of Les Fleurs du Mal.
—You know, said Baby, Baudelaire’s fine and everything, but honestly? I prefer Rimbaud.
Baby hunted down the next installment of the Voice, desperate to read Musto’s column, which appeared under the title of “La Dolce Musto.” The writer dedicated two inches to his impromptu pop quizzes, critiquing the Downtown resurgence, suggesting that it was staged by New York’s lesser minds. There was no mention of Baby’s discourse on French symbolism.
Michael Alig read the same column and telephoned, shrieking into Baby’s ear —Do you see? Do you see what he’s like? He’s the stingiest AIDS case in all of New York!
The point of clubbing, or, rather, one of its points, was to be noticed by Michael Musto, to be registered by the living barometer of city life. Musto aped the vamping style of classic columnists like Hedda Hopper but subverted the genre through an intense queerification, giving as much focus to the denizens of the demimonde as he did to genuine celebrities. Queens like Lady Bunny and LaHoma van Zandt received treatment equal to that of Marlon Brando and Madonna.
Musto had taken note of Alig on several occasions, the latter’s name appearing alongside Burt Reynolds and Jack Nicholson. In print, who could say which person was more important? Everyone was bolded. Everyone mattered.
—Who’s Barnabas Collins? asked Baby.
—He’s only the fucking vampire! shouted Michael Alig. He’s the whole fucking point of the fucking show! No one’s watching Dark Shadows in 1988 for fucking Quentin Collins, are they? Why don’t you ever listen?
Whenever he talked with Michael Alig, Baby focused not on the words being said but on their hidden meanings. Baby parsed every vocal inflection, every shift of mood, aching and hungry to solve the great mystery. Why is Michael paying attention to me? I’m a nobody. The whole city lies at his feet.
Then there was the time when Alig revealed that he’d grown up in Indiana, in South Bend. That city was significantly larger than Baby’s Podunk little town, but the two bore more resemblance to one another than either did to New York. Both men were products of that great nothingness known as the American Middle West.
Michael Alig escaped the gravitational pull of South Bend by enrolling in the architecture program at Fordham University. He dropped out soon into his first semester, entranced by the lure of club culture, picking up work as a busboy at Danceteria. The rest was history.
—Okay, said Baby. He’s the vampire.
Alig hung up, still fuming.
The next Tuesday, Baby picked up the newest Voice. Michael Musto dedicated half of his column to the Dark Shadows Festival. He wrote about intimate chats with the stars. Of lunch with Jonathan Frid, there was no mention.
Musto wrote not a word about Michael Alig. Baby imagined his friend poring over the column, burning with outrage, looking for a soul upon whom to vent his spleen.
I hope it isn’t me, thought Baby. I hope he calls Magenta.
Then there was the time when Queen Rex and Baby took a cab to the Chelsea Hotel, with the intent of visiting a queen named Christina.
—Do you actually know Christina? asked Queen Rex.
—I went to her birthday party at Tunnel, said Baby.
—She’s crazy, said Queen Rex. But strangely sweet. I like her. Don’t mention the birthday party.
Queen Rex buzzed their way into the Chelsea. Baby kept up with her stride, denying himself the opportunity to examine the artwork that covered every inch of the lobby’s walls. Queen Rex talked to the desk clerk sitting behind a glass enclosure.
—We’re here to see Christina, she said. Room 323.
—Sure, said the clerk. Just take the elevator.
Queen Rex knocked on Christina’s door. Baby wondered why he’d asked to come to the Hotel Chelsea at 11:57 pm on a Wednesday. They had class in the morning.
Regina never cared about class, which was a great mystery, considering her precarious relationship with the university.
In the beginning, Regina had come on aristocratic, treating NYU like an institution unworthy of her serious consideration, as if school were just another experience into which she’d stumbled, like she was an upper-class twit from F. Scott Fitzgerald’s wretched early work. This illusion was maintained for some while, delicately balanced within the rooms of Baby’s memory palace until it toppled beneath the accumulation of too many stray facts and inconsistencies.
For instance: Regina said that she lived uptown. Everyone assumed this meant the Upper West Side, but once she let slip that she lived in Washington Heights. For instance: the New York accent breaking through her controlled voice, on occasion axing youse a question. For instance: she talked about her high school in a manner that made it sound like an expensive private school, but Baby read a New York Times article describing Midwood as one of the city’s elite public schools. For instance: her clothes were always two seasons old, a style which everyone believed intentional until Brandywine remarked that she’d never seen Regina in anything new.
Baby axed Regina to tell him the truth. She admitted that she was paying for NYU through a mixture of student loans and wages ea
rned waitressing at Primola. Baby couldn’t understand. I’m the one who’s been given everything, thought Baby, so why’s she throwing it all away?
From behind the door, a muffled voice:
—O, yes.
Locks twisted and unlatched. The door opened, revealing Christina, long blonde wig, tight blue minidress, torn stockings. Mere description of her attire conveys no sense of the main event, of Christina’s ravaged body. Her bloated face buried beneath an excess of lipstick and mascara, her huge gut straining at the fabric, the too-visible hint of testicles, her broken teeth, her watery yellow eyes that barely opened.
—O, O, O, Regina, is that you?
—Hi, Christina, said Queen Rex. I wanted you to meet my friend, Baby.
—O, O, isn’t he delightful? Isn’t he something that you could just eat, really?
Christina’s accent was an affectation, the world’s least convincing German accent, the voice long and drawn out in an ultra-masculine bass. Baby’d met a lot of queens, their voices ranging the entire spectrum, but never one who sounded anything like Christina.
—Isn’t Christina’s apartment beautiful? asked Queen Rex.
Baby could think of many words for the clutter and debris that filled the one-room suite. He would not have chosen beautiful.
—Yes, said Baby, it’s lovely.
—O, O, O, did I tell you about the woman who lives above me? She is an electronic insect, really, you know, is a creature from another world. O, O. Do you want something to drink, Baby? I mean, really?
Christina hobbled to the kitchen, limping on her left leg, carrying a black cane.
—O, O, Baby, said Christina. Come here and get your alcohol.
She handed him a dirty mug bearing the word OPIUM in gilded letters. Queen Rex stood next to an electronic keyboard synthesizer, looking at paintings hung on the walls.
—You’ve got to see these, said Queen Rex. They’re all so wonderful. Did you do all of these yourself, Christina?
—I mean, really, Regina, someone has to do them, don’t they?
The signifier of the mug helped Baby conclude that Christina was a queen with a heroin problem. The slurred speech, the non sequiturs, the jaundiced eyes, the disregard for physical appearance, the algebra of need.
Her paintings were executed with skill, demonstrating an ease of line that one would not expect from a drug addict faking a broad Teutonic accent on the third floor of the Chelsea Hotel. Each image featured an idealized depiction of the artist. In one, Christina looked like an ingénue of the 1950s, clad in a long black dress. In another, she’d rendered a simple line drawing of herself reclining on the sidewalk outside of the Chelsea Hotel.
Her best canvas re-created the label of Beefeater gin. Instead of the Yeoman Warder, Christina had drawn herself in full fantastic drag before the Tower of London. Baby’d seen this one before, hanging on a wall in the basement of Tunnel. At her birthday party.
—This is wonderful, said Baby. I love the wit.
—O, O, O, O. Is my favorite gin, really. O, O. Have you been to London? It’s full of wretched people, you know, and the world would be a better place if the Nazis bombed them into nothing.
Christina’s television, in the middle of the room, was turned on its side. The black-and-white image ran against the vertical orientation. No sound emerged from its speaker, but the image played on, blue gray and snowy, set to Channel 13, showing images of the Brooklyn Bridge.
—O, O, O, isn’t the television hilarious? Is actually, well, I’ll explain it to you soon. Is actually about the way in which we are all disgraced, and the bridge is pointing to the left now, you know, really.
Baby moved a few fashion magazines off a metal chair and sat down. Long ago, he’d mastered the art of wielding his drink like a shield. With careful observation of a dialogue’s participants, and with maintenance of proper beverage placement at key moments, he could spend an entire evening without saying a thing.
Baby inspected a milk-white vinyl record hanging on the wall. NICO. BEHIND THE IRON CURTAIN. Christina had drawn herself on its label.
—The same effect as so many other airliner, you know. Speak of the film, put it in your left ear, just left the other one hang there, with Walkman you can watch film birthday well, you really won’t eat any more response to the, you know, the occasional woman who go ‘How you get that kid to get that off his head because he can’t hear any of these really important instructions?’ You know, instructions that she’s obviously memorized. And the woman comes up to you and goes like, ‘O, you must take those off during takeover.’ And you go, ‘O, I didn’t know that. Excuse me.’ That’s sort of, it really is the next worst thing that can happen to you. O, Dutch is a method of transmission for a film for people who read in triangular pyramids, which doesn’t happen to be on right now.
After Christina explained her idea about blowing up New York with the help of her former landlord, Queen Rex suggested that she and Baby would depart. Christina walked them to the elevator, pressing the call button.
—O, this is the elevator that Sid Vicious died in. No, no, his ghost would always come up in this elevator. And that’s the only room I’ve ever seen Sid Vicious in, is within that elevator. He used to come in and attack me sexually and suck on my nipples. And he still did. He’s not in that elevator, I mean, after all, he made so much money off his money. I mean a lot of people make money off of film. I mean, after all, I’m dead. O, O, O, did I tell you about the time when I saw Andy Warhol’s ghost?
Outside on 23rd Street, Baby thought of seven different questions about Christina, but before he could speak, Regina threw her arms around him, hugging him.
—Baby, she said, can I stay with you tonight?
—I’m not sure about Adeline, said Baby.
—What if I’m quiet? asked Regina. What if I’m as silent as a mouse?
—I don’t know, said Baby.
—It’ll help me, said Regina. Because I can wake up and we can go over to school tomorrow. Otherwise I’ve got to take the train all the way up and then back down.
At 7th Street, the apartment lights were out. Adeline’d expressed her extreme displeasure about Baby bringing home club people in general, and Regina in particular.
—Can’t you keep these creatures within their natural habitats? she’d asked. Why must you allow your scum entrée to our humble abode?
Regina and Baby snuck into the dark. Adeline’s door was shut. Baby led Regina into his room. They slept, his arms draped over Regina.
Then there was the time when Baby met Loretta Hogg, a receptionist named Dean who became reasonably popular with people in the know. Among the many shticks of clubland, Loretta Hogg distinguished herself by going out every night wearing a fake pig nose. The effect, taken in concert with her long stringy hair, left Baby greatly disturbed.
There was the time, at Red Zone, when Loretta Hogg sat on a table all night with an apple in her mouth.
Then there was the time when Baby ate MDMA at The World, a club on East 2nd Street near Avenue C. The drug hit strong, sending unusual waves from his brain, different from the normal vibe. No sensations of delight in the people around him. Instead a deep fear, high anxiety. He remembered reading that the original definition of panic was the sensation of being lost in a dark woods, a terror brought on by the Great God Pan. Pan-ic.
Pushing outside, he bumped into the doorman, a friend of Michael Alig’s named James St. James.
—Watch it, honey!
Several blocks away, far from the club, Baby continued to hear the echo of the dance floor. Synthesizers, pounding beats. Hi-hats and handclaps. Haunted by house music.
Over to Broadway and up to West 4th Street. Baby walked to Washington Square Park, sitting on a park bench near the red monolith of NYU’s Bobst Library, the building reminding him of his own relationship with the university. A warm reassurance of belonging, strong enough to bring Baby into contemplation.
Los Angeles. Jaime, yes, but something else, too,
some unknown occurrence within the missing hours of his acid trip. An unknown amount of his life lost, gone, disappeared. Who knows what he’d done? Costing him the boy that he loved. His broken heart. Did something else break, too? Some part of his psyche fracturing during ego death.
The park grounds were dirty with litter and filled with an assortment of the homeless and criminals. People tried selling Baby drugs. Smoke, smoke, smoke. He ignored them, moving toward the white marble arch. He’d never before noticed that its statues offered two separate depictions of George Washington. Blood was smeared beneath both, chicken bones scattered.
Baby rounded to the arch’s west side, where he discovered a door cracked open, light coming from within. There was no reason for indecision. He went inside.
Industrial illumination cast shadows across the interior brick walls. A spiral staircase at the other side of the chamber. Baby climbed up, body attuned to the mortar and masonry, the bricks breathing with him. Up and up and up.
He came to the attic. Cluttered with junk. Too dark to discern. Baby continued ascending until he came to the trap door above him. He pushed through and emerged on top of the arch, looking south toward the giant aberrations of the World Trade Center.
North, up the infinity of Fifth Avenue, buildings dissolving into a vanishing point. From the ground, tricks of perspective prevented the pedestrian from comprehending the arch’s true height. Baby experienced the real thing through atmosphere, seven stories up, the winds whipping around his ears.
He sat, back against the marble, eyes closed. Sequences of lights played in the darkness, his body shivering with the stone. If he tried hard enough, patterns emerged in the lights, shapes, almost celestial bodies. Earlier that day, he’d read a poem by Robert Lowell. “Skunk Hour.”
The narrator drives up the central hill of town, sneaking up on lovers in cars. His mind isn’t right. Radios play the song “Careless Love.” I hear my ill-spirit sob in each blood cell, as if my hand were at its throat. Then, as Baby’s professor pointed out, the poem quotes Milton: I myself am Hell. Nobody’s here. Love o love, o careless love.