by William Poe
Simon paid his bill to the sympathetic waiter, a handsome man who had tried to engage Simon in conversation as he brought complimentary shots of Schnapps between the glasses of gin and tonic. Staggering to the door, Simon worried about getting pulled over by the county sheriff, sure that his blood alcohol was over the limit. Simon remembered what Arthur had once told him about Blaine, gossip that at the time Simon hadn’t taken seriously since he knew that Arthur was attracted to Blaine and wanted to put Simon off of him. Arthur claimed, feigning a conspiratorial tone, that mental illness ran in Blaine’s family, that Blaine himself suffered bouts of depression, that rumor had it Blaine’s brother lived on the streets of Little Rock, refusing to let anyone provide help. Arthur tended to overdramatize, but on the misty-eyed drive to the mansion, Simon wondered if Arthur had been truthful. Simon desperately needed an alternative explanation for Blaine not showing up at the restaurant, rejection, by friend or lover, being the primary trigger that cast Simon into the abyss. A remedy awaited that Simon both desired and feared.
Along a deserted stretch of road, a few miles from Sibley’s decrepit welcome sign, Simon turned onto a dirt trail, one of the many pathways carved into the woods to provide routes for fire trucks trying to navigate their way to blazes begun by a lightning strike or the mischief of local miscreants. Slumping over the steering wheel, anxiety brought forth a familiar voice: the angry god. Not the deity worshipped in temples and churches, but the demon of addicts, a ravenous spirit demanding appeasement through immediate sacrifice. Another voice, weaker, spoke in the cadence of the pastor who’d led him to baptism, a sermon overlaid by the patter of the Korean oratory that had lulled Simon into compliance on so many Sunday mornings at Sun Myung Moon’s headquarters in New York: “Have faith, follow your heart.”
Simon knew the location of holy places where the strong voice might be appeased, revealed to him upon arrival from Hollywood, sites where priests administered a white-rock sacrament—the holy wafer of Simon’s addiction. Commencements would be ongoing at the Twelfth Street chapel, a parking lot of the Delta Express convenience store. The officiators would be waiting to escort those galvanized by sin—those guilty of denying their god—toward salvation, steps away, where for a price, holy men administered relief.
A vortex of darkness opened before Simon as he stared out the window toward a sky devoid of stars, the moon hiding its face behind clouds of shame, the deathly quiet broken when Simon fired the ignition, which throbbed as if humming a chant of blame. Was Simon not to blame for leading so many innocents astray to become disciples of the man claiming to be God? Sacrifice would quell the angry chorus and satisfy the hungry gods. He would offer his conscious mind, served up through the sublime administration of cocaine.
Simon backed out of the dirt fire road, his mind, functioning on autopilot, leading the way toward Little Rock—north on University Avenue, forward to the office building at the corner of Twelfth Street, a right turn bringing him to the Delta Express–adjacent tracts of low-income housing, government projects, dominoes lining dimly lit streets clearly in view—and waited for a guide to take him through to the inner sanctum. A coterie of priestly suppliers each claimed a corner for their particular denomination—here, release through heroin’s grant of oblivion; there, dousing of reason through the energetic mania of crystal methamphetamine; and Simon’s object of faith, the charity of a living smoke that doused all pain through escape to insanity.
No longer could Simon deny the pain he felt that Thad was gone, or entertain the folly that Blaine might replace Thad if he had left him for Felipe. This nonsense would end, and end now!
Simon watched for a hooded acolyte, cautious of the false wafers doled out by the ecclesiastics of trickster gods, those who substituted pebbles for the holy rock. Simon anticipated the aroma of rich white smoke, the sense of an ectoplasmic substance coursing through his sinuses.
Shadows captured his attention, shrouded figures that recognized his car, shadows slinking toward him from the interstices of the complex. Simon slowed his vehicle to a stop, shut off the lights, and waited for a cloaked figure’s approach. Other motions caught his eye: men proceeding from the opposite side of the street, the tallest among them reaching beneath a loose-fitting coat to produce a rifle, its barrel aiming through the passenger-side window, and cold metal pressing into Simon’s cheek.
Simon hit the accelerator, knocking the rifle askew, nearly sideswiping a parked car as he sped away, an eye on the rearview mirror as one of the ghostly men held a revolver at the end of an upraised arm, pointing the barrel toward the clouded sky. Two shots rang out, shots that echoed through the alleyways as porch lights brightened the dreary housing and curtains parted just enough to check on the action.
Simon had taken a step toward what he believed would be his inevitable death, the final payment of indemnity for abandoning his messiah, the ultimate retribution demanded from the Christian God for Simon’s having led so many of his followers to Sun Myung Moon.
“Know thyself,” Harris had advised, referring to Socrates, modified for Simon’s benefit: “Forgive thyself.”
Approaching the gray timbers of the mansion after parking beneath the sweet gum he’d planted as a child with Mandy, Simon entered the empty house as its caretaker, the role once occupied by Aunt Opal, who had gazed from the upstairs window of the room Simon now inhabited, concluding her life in Sibley after seeking the mysteries of spiritualism in exotic lands. Did Simon and his aunt share a common destiny that made them seekers unable to resist the lure of ancient memories? Was the mansion a yoke harnessed to their lives?
When Aunt Opal had pressed the lucky quarter into Simon’s palm, she imbued a prescience that set Simon on a course of life he was yet fully to embrace. Aunt Opal now rested under the protection of her tombstone angel, while Simon continued living, trapped in a monument to his family’s past.
Ferdinand brayed about his hunger, angry at being ignored. Simon opened the back door for Cicero, who had been frantically scratching at the threshold, and tiptoed across the dew-laden Bermuda grass, unlatching the barn doors and uncovering the painting of the man and adolescent boy consumed by flames. He placed the work under one of the halogen lamps and applied black pigment to the edges of the canvas, as if darkness itself would extinguish the flames and allow the couple to proceed. Ferdinand’s incessant plaint grew louder as Simon neared the corral and scooped feed from an aluminum bin. The glow of a mercury vapor light, set high on a pole, reflected in the slit-like aperture of Ferdinand’s yellow eyes.
“You’re my pet devil, aren’t you, boy?” Simon petted Ferdinand between his stubby horns as the goat withdrew to the more important task of eating. Simon filled Ferdinand’s water trough from the garden hose, stretching it as far from the back porch as it would reach and adjusting the brass nozzle to stream water the remainder of the distance.
Cicero had been up to mischief before Simon let him out, and his tail—little more than a nub—tried to reach between his hind legs as he preceded Simon back inside. Only Cicero knew what he had done; a quick examination of the room failed to uncover the wet deposits on the rugs or the presence of unseemly odors. Simon lifted Cicero onto Vivian’s bed and watched him sniff her pillow before nestling under the comforter, then went upstairs to check the answering machine. The darkness of the indicator light seemed to mock him. No one had called—not Blaine, not Thad, no one from the Spotlight, not even Dean. Simon dialed Blaine’s number. No answer, not even a machine. Simon then dialed Howard’s Antelope Valley ranch, the number he and Thad had used during their late-night calls.
“We’re sorry, the number you have reached is out of order or is no longer in service.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Harris spoke from experience when he told Simon not to support his sobriety with intellectual distractions that might inspire the mind’s better angels but do little to illuminate the dark corners of the heart. Intellectual distractions were not going to comfort the little boy seekin
g a place to cry, the little boy unable to get Lenny’s attention. Simon might come to understand through reason how Connie and Derek so easily lived a life of faith when a skeptical mind kept Simon questioning, their simple love contrasting with the troubled relationship of young Simon and his friend Ernie, the tumultuous relationship between Simon and Thad. But facing loneliness and despair, reason failed to hold back desire for solace through the absolution of cocaine.
Simon’s happiest childhood moments had come through attempting to describe his inner life as he scribbled with crayons on the construction paper Vivian bought for him. Vivian had never understood how much Simon wanted to confide in her, held back by the fear of rejection if he told her what went on during sleepovers with Ernie—forbidden things, things that would make Vivian cry. Simon knew boys weren’t supposed to touch each other, but he craved intimacy with Ernie. When Ernie had rejected Simon, puberty arousing in Ernie a desire for girls, the pursuit of art gave Simon access to an inner sanctuary. If only his communion with paint and canvas could hold demons at bay with the same force now as crayons on construction paper once had. Simon needed to know Thad’s loving gaze, to feel the softness of Thad’s hair touching his cheek, to listen to the sound of Thad’s voice, feel his gentle breath, as they lay next to each other in bed.
With palette knives Simon furiously slashed paint onto a fresh canvas, allowing an image to slowly take shape, a semihuman figure holding a caliper as if to measure the enormity of a demon, followed by brushing a patina of dissonant hues over the natty surface—forceful acts that did nothing to quell Simon’s desire to escape.
“Find a meeting!” Simon uttered aloud, hoping to summon willpower from his weakness. Simon threw a drop cloth over his painting and went inside the mansion to fill Cicero’s water bowl and turn on a few lights so the cavernous structure would seem less foreboding upon his return. Then he got into the Pontiac and sat with the motor running, trying to press the accelerator but succeeding only when he pushed his foot with his hand. Simon drove as if in a trance to Asher Avenue, where he knew of a Cocaine Anonymous group. He nearly turned back as he approached the highway, afraid the car might drive itself to Highland Court, fear of armed drug dealers providing no deterrence. Simon knew the leader of the Cocaine Anonymous group would ask if he had been sober for at least twenty-four hours, and though he had not used drugs for many months, saying yes would feel disingenuous—he had sinned in his heart.
The group’s meeting place on Asher Avenue reminded Simon of a Teamsters Union hall from a 1930s socialist propaganda film. As he entered through metal doors wide enough to accommodate a forklift, the leader of the Cocaine Anonymous group, a middle-aged man dressed in faded work shirt and khaki slacks dotted with splotches of white paint, had just begun introductions, making sure everyone referred to themselves by first name and last initial, and reminding them that whatever was said by a member should remain in the room. The eleven men and one woman sat in a circle of folding chairs under a bright overhead light that formed an island in the darkness.
Simon’s eyes adjusted to reveal a mottled concrete floor, an abstract painting made by work boots scraping into layers of paint, each revealing an age of use—here some dancehall maroon; there, deeper in, an industrial green pointing to use as a die shop, an era also noted by a rusted sign on the front of the building. Simon took a seat and stared at the floor, discerning further patterns in the worn paint: That looks just like a map of New Jersey, and isn’t that the Eiffel Tower?
The moderator, introducing himself as Quincy Z., interrupted Simon’s reverie by asking participants to recite a credo. As they chanted, Simon finally looked into the faces of those gathered—Blaine sat opposite!
“My name is Simon P., and I am an addict.” In saying the words, Simon felt the depth of their truth, remembering that, only a few blocks away, the priests of cocaine awaited, hands outstretched to offer indulgences as a reward for returning to the fold.
His anonymity defeated, Blaine hesitated, never announcing himself, then abruptly sprang to his feet, pushing back hard on the metal chair so that it collapsed onto the concrete with bouncing clangs.
Simon chased after him, calling out, “Blaine, please stop.”
Blaine dashed across the street, ignoring Simon’s plea. Simon waited for a break in traffic, arriving too late to prevent Blaine from dashing off in his aging Volkswagen. Simon hurried back across Asher Avenue and accelerated the Pontiac onto the street, in his hurry almost colliding with a pickup truck. Simon anticipated the route Blaine might take to locate the nearest drug dealer. Blaine had never seen the Pontiac, and even if he had, he would never expect Simon to follow him. Even so, Simon stayed two car lengths behind as they maneuvered toward Little Rock’s east side, a neighborhood more dangerous even than Highland Court. Simon knew the area well, having faced gunfire while trying to get cash from a drive-through bank, the memory knotting his stomach as they drove past, then along Sixth Street, veering with Blaine toward an unexpected direction, Blaine perhaps worrying that the car matching his every move might be an unmarked police car—they were now the only cars on the road. Simon allowed more distance between their vehicles, sure at that point of Blaine’s destination. Simon maneuvered the car into one of the bays of a car wash across from the dance club that dominated eastside social life, the car wash being the spot where Simon had often waited for a dealer going by the nickname BT, so named because people told him it was “’bout time” he showed up, given BT’s tendency to arrive pitifully later than promised. If BT was in the vicinity, Simon didn’t see him, but he recognized another of his suppliers, a character who went by the street name Snake. BT had explained that Snake earned the nickname because he was a snake in the grass. Simon suspected he’d earned it for a different reason, given the fellow’s braggadocio about his physical attributes, which he said men and women both hired him to experience, tales Snake described to Simon in hopes of earning money for more than supplying cocaine.
After hours, the car wash, situated some distance from any streetlights, provided a relatively safe haven. Simon had been able to turn off the headlights and ease into the bay undetected by the people mulling about the club’s entrance. If Snake or BT approached—two men who let nothing escape their attention—Simon’s resolve might weaken. He didn’t want to remain long in the area.
Crack houses dotted the east side, but the dance club was the focal point, with an alley across from the entrance serving as a gathering place for unemployed men to warm themselves during winter against rubbish fires rising from oil barrels and in summer to stand beside air vents from the manufacturing plants that walled the alley, men with connections to dealers higher on the social ladder who were sequestered inside the club. While Simon strained his eyes to see, Blaine’s silver Volkswagen passed in front of the club, his arm hanging outside as a signal that he needed service.
Twice Blaine circled, but no one approached; even if his usual dealers recognized the car, they wouldn’t want to be seen talking to him, as their peers would assume Blaine was a cop and believe he had become a snitch. Simon’s technique had been to drive past the club and wait at the car wash. After his second pass, Blaine parked on a street parallel to the alley. Simon locked the Pontiac and made a stealthy approach to Blaine’s window. Thinking Simon was a dealer, Blaine leaned his head out the window.
“Found you, my friend,” Simon called out, breathless from the sprint to reach Blaine’s car before he could drive away.
“Did you follow me?” Blaine angrily shot back. “Really?”
“Don’t shut me out,” Simon pleaded.
Blaine fixed his gaze, looking straight ahead as if thinking, This isn’t happening.
Simon touched his shoulder. “You can talk to me. I understand.” Blaine’s pitiable expression tore into Simon’s heart. He understood now why Blaine had so determinedly pursued a friendship with him.
Blaine’s eyes fixed on a distant point.
“Can I get into your car?”
/>
Blaine nodded.
Simon tapped the hood as he came around, mindful that Blaine might use the opportunity to escape, but Blaine pressed the button to unlock the passenger-side door and allowed Simon to sit beside him.
No words were required—that someone cared enough to make such an effort softened Blaine’s resistance. Simon could hear the two voices in Blaine’s head, the one insisting he push Simon away, then another, more convincing, urging him to take Simon into his confidence.
“Has this been going on for long?” Simon asked.
“What would you know about it?” Blaine spewed, the first voice dominating.
“You’d be surprised.”
Blaine’s hazel-green eyes glistened with emotion, his demeanor telling Simon that he had much to share as the second voice claimed victory.
“I was in a religious cult for ten years, and when I left, when I abandoned my faith, I turned to cocaine for comfort and escape.”
“What changed, Simon? How have you stayed clean?”
“Can I make a proposition? A voice is telling you to put up with me long enough to make your getaway so you can score some coke. Here’s an alternative. Let’s go to my home in Sibley. It’s about thirteen miles out in the country, very secluded. I have the property all to myself. Let’s go there and talk. How about it?”
Simon saw the wheels in Blaine’s head turning. If he didn’t agree quickly, Simon would have to wait for another chance. Following him farther would be useless—this had to be Blaine’s decision.
“All right,” Blaine agreed. “Should I follow you?”
“How about this? I’ll follow you to the university. You can park your car there; with the student decal, it won’t get towed.”
Blaine smiled for the first time. “Okay. We’ll get on the freeway at the Broadway on-ramp.”