The Stardust Lounge

by Deborah Digges

  We dance among five or six couples wearing bright satin team shirts of green, gold, and blue, their names sewn on the pockets. The boys are wearing oversized clothes they love from a secondhand store in Iowa City. Stephen's well-worn denim jacket has colorful patches sewn on the front—the Roadrunner, hot cars, and trucks. Though it's November, he wears surfer pants, and his favorite Michael Jackson tennis shoes.

  Charles sports that Stetson, paint-stained jeans, a Hawaiian shirt, and an Iowa Hawkeyes tie, clothes he's not allowed to wear in Columbia, so he wears them to visit me.

  I'm in jeans, boots, and a sweater. Their father is dressed impeccably.

  We're odd among the bowlers in their team shirts and shoes, the waitresses in matching dresses and caps. The three of us appear to be out of uniform, or in the uniform of some tribe not native to these parts.

  Before Charles and his father arrived, our waitress produced for Stephen a battered book of children's Bible stories, and between orders, she sat with Stephen explaining to him how Jesus loved him. Stephen was tolerant. He listened to her and nodded, though he tapped his little foot to the music. Perhaps to get away from her at last, he pulled me out on the dance floor.

  So we're dancing. And when Charles and his father arrive, Charles and I dance, too. Soon Stan will be here to take Charles and me back to Iowa City while Stephen travels with his father to spend the weekend in Missouri.

  My car will stay in Ottumwa until it's fixed.

  We'll drive in opposite directions only to turn around and meet back in Bloomfield on Sunday night.

  In the meantime we're dancing—Charles and I, Stephen and I, and sometimes, if we can convince Charles, all three of us take hands and create a circle, circle counter to the clockwork box step of the couples, the citizens of Ottumwa, my former husband looking at his watch, my future husband, Stan, who's just arrived.

  The night's held back by our lights and the warmth of the cafe. Outside the window the extravagent yellow star atop its pink rainbow flickers and whines against the clatter of dishes and music. It washes our reflection, shows us luminously to one another.

  We're dancing, our circle abutting the story in place, the couples moving against us, making room for us as we dance in and out of the margins. What do we know of our strangeness? So little yet. Exhilarated, feeling the pull of the centrifugal, we tighten our grasp.

  Police Reports

  Tuesday, 4:30 P.M.—Youths who had climbed the fire escape to the roofs of downtown office buildings and who were throwing objects at pedestrians were arrested and taken to the police station.

  Saturday, 1:34 A.M.—Youths were reported to be skateboarding and causing a noise disturbance in the Jones Library parking lot. Subjects were gone when police arrived.

  Sunday, 12:20 A.M.—A man reported to police that youths broke into a private swimming pool in Echo Hills and were skateboarding in the pool. Subjects were gone when police arrived.

  Friday, 10:30 P.M.—Teens caught causing a woman to scream and setting off car alarms were sent on their way by police.

  Saturday, 8:01 P.M.—Police removed fluorescent post-its with obscene messages from the walls of the Bangs Community Center.

  Saturday, 9:45 P.M.—A woman reported to police that her daughter and some friends were harassed by youths making lewd comments and attempting to block the girls’ paths as they were leaving the Hampshire Mall in Hadley. Subjects were gone when police arrived.

  Sunday, 10:10 P.M.—Two girls reported seeing boys holding a gun while walking on Main Street. Police did not find the boys and couldn't determine if the gun was real or not.

  Friday, 10:30 P.M.—Youths reported to be looking in car windows and trying doors outside Bertucci's were gone when police arrived.

  Saturday, 9:30P.M.—Youths fled police who confiscated a marijuana pipe and fireworks from the high school parking lot.

  Monday, 7:18 A.M.—High school staff told police that someone had run a chair up the flagpole and painted obscenities on the wall leading into school. Police advised staff to question students.

  Monday, 8:30 P.M.—A man told police that youths jumped out of the bushes at the corner of Amity and University and threw eggs at his daughter's car. Police are investigating.

  Monday, 11:06 P.M.—A South Amherst woman reported that her daughter was receiving annoying phone calls. Police referred family to the phone company.

  Wednesday, 4:30 P.M.—Youths were reported to have released a pet snake among swimmers at Puffer's Pond. Subjects were gone when police arrived.

  Friday, 11:43 P.M.—A woman reported to police that youths had thrown Slim Jims into her dogs’ kennel and tried to coax them out. Subjects were gone when police arrived.

  Sunday, 2:04 A.M.—Police found youths jumping from vehicle to vehicle on Fearing Street. No damage was caused by their activity, police said.

  Tuesday, 9:30 P.M.—Police checked out speeding vehicles on South East Street.

  Thursday, 2:19 A.M.—Police received a report that a person driving too fast on Hobart Lane left skid marks when leaving the area.

  Monday, 5:20 P.M.—Amtrak officials told police that youths had jumped on the top of a passenger car while it boarded in Amherst and ridden to Springfield. Police are investigating.

  Monday, 9:45 P.M.—Youths attempting to overturn an occupied phone booth were told by police to stop.

  Fall, 1993

  I am sitting in a waiting room of a therapist's office in tiny downtown Amherst. Stephen, who has been living at a friend's house, has agreed to meet me here. Yes, he'll bring the dog, too. Whether he comes home or not, he says he thinks I should take G.Q. home. He is worried about the pup, who is uncomfortable in a strange place.

  What is in store is uncertain. I've spoken to the new therapist over the phone, briefed him on our troubles. The therapist has been recommended by the parents of the child with whom Stephen has been staying.

  I imagine a session in which we'll cull the same grueling details of the last three years, details under which Stephen will smart and grow sullen; under which I, through the telling, will feel the old anger and frustrations rising.

  The waiting room is lively—boys around Stephen's age playing video games on the floor in front of me. From the room to my right I hear shouts and congratulations, Latin music from the room to my left.

  I look around for something to read to isolate myself. They can't fool me, I'm thinking. I'm not about to get my hopes up only to have them dashed tonight, or tomorrow, or in a week—whenever tensions heat up between Stephen and me. Besides, it's 10:00 A.M. on a weekday. Shouldn't these kids be in school?

  I hear Stephen and G.Q. approaching, hear the bulldog's panting, Stephen talking softly to him as they enter the suite. I spring up from my chair to hug my son, drop to my knees to caress G.Q., who is so excited he pees on the therapist's rug. Stephen takes a paper towel from his pocket and kneels beside me.

  “He does this a lot,” he says. “Now I come prepared. He's really missed you,” he adds, blotting up the urine. “He hasn't been eating too well.”

  “I missed you both,” I answer, trying to catch Stephen's eyes. “He looks okay. You've been taking good care of him.”

  When the therapist appears at his office door, we stand, stiffening again, freezing away from each other, the panting dog between us, stand up into familiar roles of difficult son and clueless mother.

  But the dog won't let us for long. He's panting, huffing. Stephen breaks character as he suggests that maybe G.Q. needs some water. I fill the paper cup the therapist offers us.

  The therapist gestures at the kids playing Nintendo. “Why don't you let these guys watch the dog and we go throw some knives and talk,” Dr. Eduardo Bustamante greets us.

  “Throw knives?” Stephen and I are baffled.

  Dr. Bustamante doesn't look like the other therapists we've known. For one thing he is young—I imagine he is younger than I—and quite handsome. He speaks with a slight Spanish accent.

  “Ya, throw kn
ives—not at anyone.” Eduardo laughs. “Well, not really. Come on in here, I'll show you.” Eduardo leads us to the room from which I'd heard shouting.

  “See you later, Isaiah,” he says to a boy putting on his coat. “Here's the keys.” Ed hands car keys and a ten-dollar bill to the kid. “I'll take the Super Chicken Burrito and a milk. You get what you want.”

  “Sure, Ed.” The kid grins.

  “Don't steal this car.” Ed laughs as the boy heads out the door. “Little joke between me and Isaiah,” he says to us. “Ever stolen a car, Steve?”

  “No,” Steve answers.

  “Well, I mighta been known to,” Ed says, laughing.

  Ed offers Stephen and me a box open to knives of different sizes and lengths.

  “These are just throwing knives,” he reassures me. “See?” He runs his index finger against the blade. “Dull. Now, what you do is choose a knife.”

  Stephen and I look at each other. “Don't worry,” says Ed. “It's fun. Go ahead. Choose a knife. Good.” Ed beams as Stephen and I select a knife. “Now, throw the knife at the box.”

  Stephen and I look down to the end of the room to an enormous cardboard box—maybe a refrigerator or piano box—with crude faces like a lineup drawn with a marker across the top.

  “Why?” asks Stephen, suspicious of being made a fool of.

  “Because it's fun,” says Ed. “Because you can get real good at it, use your lizard brain.”

  “Lizard brain?” I ask. I'm thinking that we need to get out of here. We won't be rude, but in a moment I will say that we have to go. We'll get the dog and proceed out the suite door and down the corridor …

  “Never mind,” says Ed. “We'll talk about that later. Steve, throw the knife. Let's see what you can do.”

  Stephen self-consciously aims and throws. His knife hits the board bluntly and falls clanging to the floor. Stephen folds his arms.

  “Not bad,” Ed comments. “First time and all.” Ed fires a knife into the cardboard.

  “Love that sound,” he says. “You know that thwaktssst… try again.” He offers Stephen another knife from the box. Stephen makes another attempt.

  “Now you,” Ed says to me.

  “Oh, I can't,” I say.

  “Go on, try, Mom,” Stephen says.

  “You guys keep practicing,” Ed offers. “I've got to make a phone call. Be right back.”

  “But what about our session?” I say. “I mean, shouldn't we talk?”

  “Sure, what do you want to talk about?”

  “Well, this recent trouble … our lives …”

  “Okay, if you want to. Steve, you want to talk about the past?”

  “Not really.” Stephen breaks into a grin.

  “You know,” Ed considers, “neither do I. The past is the past, right?”

  “Maybe we need to be going,” I say. “Stephen should be in school now …”

  “Whatever you like. But why don't you throw some knives first. I'll just be a minute.”

  “We'll wait,” Stephen answers for us. He would do anything to keep from having to go back to school.

  “Good.” Ed pats Stephen on the shoulder. “Good man. Help your mother,” he adds.

  “This is crazy,” I whisper to Stephen when Ed leaves us alone.

  “I know!” Stephen laughs, his face opening a bit, his eyes tentative.

  “Crazy!” I repeat, grinning.

  “I know!”

  “We agree on that, do we?”

  “Maybe.”

  “What are we doing here?”

  “Dunno.”

  “In Amherst, Massachusetts …”

  “Dunno.”

  “With our dog …”

  “With our dog named GQ…”

  “In the middle of the school day …

  “In the middle of math class …”

  “Next to the fire station…”

  “While the dog pees on the floor …”

  “And you clean it up …”

  “Because I'm used to it …”

  “And carry paper towels in your pocket…”

  “With kids playing Nintendo …”

  “Instead of going to school…”

  “And taking this guy's car to buy lunch …”

  “We're assuming he's a car thief?”

  “We're assuming they both are?”

  “He said, ‘Don't steal this car’!”

  Now we're doubled over in laughter.

  “And throwing knives …,” I say hardly able to talk.

  “Knives!”

  “Yes, knives!”

  “Using our lizard brains.”

  “Our lizard brains?”

  “Our lizard brains!” Stephen stands poised. Between bouts of laughter, he aims and throws. “Here, lizzy lizzy lizzy!” he shouts. The knife hits the box and goes all the way through.

  “Throw it, Mom!”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you! Throw it! Keep your eye on the target. Okay! Ready! Aim! Throw!”

  From In the Shadow of Man:

  Mike's rise to the number one or top-ranking position in the chimpanzee community was both interesting and spectacular… . Mike had ranked almost at the bottom in the adult male dominance hierarchy. He had been last to gain access to bananas, and had been threatened and actually attacked by almost every other adult male. At one time he had appeared almost bald from losing so many handfuls of hair during aggressive incidents with his fellow apes

  All at once Mike calmly walked over to our tent and took hold of an empty kerosene can by the handle. Then he picked up a second can and, walking upright, returned to the place where he had been sitting. Armed with his two cans Mike continued to stare toward the other males. After a few minutes he began to rock from side to side Gradually he rocked more vigorously, his hair began to slowly stand erect, and then, softly at first, he began a series of pant-hoots. As he called, Mike got to his feet and suddenly he was off, charging toward the group of males, hitting the two cans ahead of him. The cans, together with Mike's crescendo of hooting made the most appalling racket; no wonder the erstwhile peaceful males rushed out of the way… .

  Eventually Mike's use of kerosene cans became dangerous—he learned to hurl them ahead of him at the close of a charge…We decided to remove all the cans, and went through a nightmare period while Mike tried to drag about all manner of other objects. Once he got hold of Hugo's tripod … and once he managed to grab and pull down a large cupboard… . The noise and trail of destruction was unbelievable. Finally, however, we managed to dig things into the ground or hide them away, and like his companions, Mike had to resort to branches and rocks.

  By that time, however, his top-ranking status was assured… .

  School photo

  Spring, 1994

  To walk into our house this morning is to enter a war zone. The awful aluminum doors have been kicked in. They hang from their hinges, the scalloped frames busted out, gouging the torn screens. The doors below the sink are likewise kicked in, and the door leading to the basement. Here and there is evidence of Stephen's attempts to assuage the damage, attempts at what Ed calls “reparation.” Broken glass and Grape-Nuts have been swept into a milky pile. A brick props a cabinet partially torn from the wall.

  It's spring in Massachusetts. Stephen is God knows where. Sometime in the night the car screeched out of the driveway and I understood that Stephen, his license suspended, must have secretly had a key made. Or maybe he hot-wired the car.

  Our initial work with Ed seemed to create an iota of harmony between us, but the months since have proven that the problems we face, separately and in relationship to each other, are no easy fix. With Stan gone—no weekend visits, no calls to either of us—I suspect that Stephen feels a great deal like I do, hurt, confused, and abandoned.

  And I imagine that from Stephen's point of view, he feels suddenly stuck, locked in this life with his mother. Apparently not the old scared mother, either, whom he could easily manipulate, but some e
merging animal of a mother who attends parent-training sessions where she learns “techniques” like refusing to listen to him until he lowers his voice, playing dumb a lot to trick him into solving his own problems, and walking away when he kicks out a door. He is locked in with this infuriating mother and the only thing to do is up the ante.

  But what is the ante, and why must it go up? Ed warns against it, but I still cull the past looking for reasons, in the end unable to come to terms with Ed's idea that for some children, indeed for Stephen, adolescence is simply a nightmare, a terrible, seemingly unending nightmare in which he is at risk, at one moment being chased down, in the next doing the chasing. He is paranoid, besieged, his hormones are raging. He is truant, destructive. I'm afraid he will kill himself or someone else with that car.

  And there has been another incident at school involving a gun. Granted, it was not Stephen but a friend of his who brought it onto school grounds. The gun was brandished at a group of kids “in fun,” Stephen explained to the principal as we sat with police in the office. Who had pointed the gun? Stephen refused to give names. Had Stephen taken possession of the gun? He insisted no. He only held it for a moment.

  During the interview Stephen remained calm; the mess in the kitchen is the aftermath of his rage at police and school officials, and at me for attempting to question him further about the affair. He is suspended from school pending more investigation. In the meantime his license has been revoked for too many speeding tickets.

  Driving through town one evening, I was pulled over by the police. When the cop came to my window he apologized.

  “Whoops!” he said. “I thought you were Steve. I know the car, you see …”

  The car, the car, the car. The gun, the car, the gun, the car. Where is Stephen at this moment? What speeds did he drive to get there? I'm remembering along Route 2 the makeshift shrine—a cross, some teddy bears—erected at the spot where a teen collided head-on, killing himself and the driver of the other car.