Mayhem (The Remarkable Adventures of Deets Parker Book 1)

by J. Davis Henry

  “Do you think she’s sending you somewhere again?”

  “I don’t know. What can I do but live my life and see what happens?”

  She stared at me for awhile. I knew her mind was buzzing with more insight still to be shared. “Did you notice all the monkeyless fish are facing the same way and the ones with monkeys the other direction?”

  I burst out laughing. “Nothing is real anymore.” I looked at the photos in my hands, flipped the first in one direction. “Got a monkey on your back, this way.” I spun the other photo sailing out across the room. “No monkey, over there, please.”

  “Don’t give up. You’ve been checking out that alley for two weeks straight, looking for answers. You found some clues today. Whatever is going on, it’s speaking to you. There isn’t a great crowd in that alley. No one is selling tickets to see the miracle box.”

  “Everybody has their own trip.”

  “No, not like this.” She threw her hands to her face as tears choked her words. “When Lola called you a magic man, I thought someone was reaching for you. Someone far away, like you were the only one who would hear and answer.”

  I didn’t know what she meant. “I’m right here and can’t hear a thing, don’t want to go anywhere, and if I do, you’re coming with me.”

  She sniffled a bit. “I’m okay, the feeling was just so powerful. What’s next?”

  My mind went back to the window box. “Why did the fish turn around? And where did the monkeys go?”

  “Do you remember me making monkey sounds when I was on your shoulders in the Poconos?”

  “Yes, you and I had become a tree up on that little hill just past the meadow.”

  “Then we made love.”

  Her eyes were so blue. Looking into them, I knew I would always need her. And in that moment, I was struck by a thought as clear as the sea and sky in her eyes. I didn’t need ceramic monkeys or reptile-tongued doctors or pigeon wizards. They needed me. But I stood helpless, trapped by the rules of their puzzle.

  I scratched the top of my head. “So what are you saying? The window box, the tree, the monkey vibes. What?”

  “There’s a touch of coincidence. Monkeys, trees.”

  “Well, okay. Like it tapped into our energy?”

  “Or is using relatable symbols.”

  “What is it? An illustrated story? Some kind of magic psychic message board?”

  “Maybe it’s an interdimensional game board.”

  “Like chess but with monkeys and fish? What about something not really like you or I would depict it? Like directions or a map?”

  “Maybe all. Why is it there? And why did Jenny leave her skip rope in it? And what about those bird tracks? I remember you said you saw a hoofprint once.”

  I slumped back against the couch. My thoughts were suddenly bulbous and heavy, a lava lamp bubble sinking one moment, slowly rising the next. “And a sniffing wall. That blew me away. I thought it was searching for something, not just smelling me. Remember, that window box is just part of one insane alley.”

  “But what do you believe? I know you have theories spinning around in your head.”

  I blew out air, my lips flapping out a putt-putting sound. “What do I believe? Hmm.” Staring at the ceiling, I tried to sort out the possibilities. “The alley is too strange to figure, but Doctor Steel, he operates like he’s from some other dimension. I don’t know if he’s human. I’m not sure if his tongue is physically real or an hallucination. It doesn’t matter, really. The whole situation must be some kind of war. His opponent is Mister Pigeon or me or women I know. Probably Amelia and Jenny too, I don’t know. I have no idea how he knew where to find us in the Poconos or how he manipulates evil acts, but I believe it’s within his capabilities. Maybe he controls people with some kind of psychic hypnotism?”

  “So who are you to him? Does Pigeon or Amelia have the same influence over you like snake-tongue does over rapists and murderers?”

  “Pigeon? What’s his role?” I paused, reflecting on my brief encounters with Santa. “He has something to do with the white feather.”

  “Why do these energies swirl to you as a central point?”

  “The first time I met Steel, he made it sound like I had decided to play with some kind of group of bizarro nuts.”

  “Obviously it wasn’t your conscious choice. Maybe there are still others you don’t know about.” Teresa was rocking slowly back and forth. She stared towards the floor, but her concentration was directed inwards.

  “I don’t know. I mean there’s Hank the friendly ghost and panda miracles and a living shadow thing who seems to be a totally different element than anything imagined before. Then there’s a dream dog that probably saved Betsy and possessed me, plus a wild Indian hallucination that can communicate to me. They’re running loose in the Poconos. And what about Jenny and her magical jump-rope? I don’t know, does this happen to everyone, and I’m the only one confused?”

  “Of course it doesn’t happen with everyone. You’re in contact with a mess of energies from another plane of existence which are able to manifest themselves in a semi-coherent manner. What their existence or purpose is, well, who knows, but they’re swirling around you.”

  “It’s crazy. I can’t make sense of this.”

  “But you keep trying to. While you’ve been going down to the alley, I’ve been reading as much as I could about communication with the dead, aliens from outer space, saints who have visions, people who’ve been terrorized by demons. There are all sorts of stories about visitations by elves or devils and dreams that come true, but what I’ve noticed is most of the incidents don’t involve consistent contact with bizarro creatures. Although these encounters usually alter or affect a person’s life, you seem to be under constant supervision or surveillance as you’re being interfered with. Maybe they’re not bugging you every day, but enough where you’re feeling defined by whatever or whoever these beings are.”

  “Monster Alley is crucial, but I can’t figure it out. I thought I could find something decipherable, and then along comes the monkey-fish puzzle. Now understanding seems even more remote.”

  “It’s the nature of mystery to remain mystery.”

  “Is that really true?”

  She laughed. “I don’t know, but it sounds profound.”

  Chapter 48

  The day had been productive and communicative. Teresa was in a good mood, and I was crazy with desire for her. We hadn’t made love since that terrible drunken night weeks before, so when we settled into bed, I gently kissed her and slipped my hand towards her breasts.

  “No, don’t. I can’t. Not yet.”

  I tried to convince her otherwise, and she asked me to please understand her, but I grumbled, she got mad, and I rolled away, frustrated and horny, harboring a stubborn inability to accept her rejection.

  Even with Teresa’s beautiful nakedness sleeping next to me, even after all the growing pains we’d had together lately, plus all the support she gave me, and our deepening sense of spiritual love and intellectual togetherness, it was Lola’s cunt and ass my imagination went wild with as I quietly satisfied my physical needs.

  Teresa woke me in the night and asked me if I loved her.

  “Of course I do.”

  “I need you to be more understanding.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Y’know, like earlier tonight.”

  “Okay.”

  “Don’t you want to hear what I mean?”

  “I just asked you that.”

  “I don’t think you really care.”

  “Of course I care. I just said I loved you.”

  “You did not. Besides, I had to ask you.”

  “I just woke up.”

  Her tone lightened. “You still should love me even in your sleep.”

  My voice rose in pi
tch as I protested her insinuation. “I do.”

  “I saw a book at the Peace Eye. I think we should read it together. It’s about sex.”

  “Why? What’s there to read about? Don’t you enjoy being with me?”

  “Of course, but it’s also about communication and being sensitive to each other’s needs. We need to work out some hang-ups that are getting in our way.”

  “Okay, what are we going to do?”

  She patted my hand. “Right now, let’s go to sleep.”

  I couldn’t. Instead, I lay there nervously worried she had been awake during my fantasy romp with Lola.

  Chapter 49

  One morning, Phuong and I hopped a train down to Washington, DC. I had three anti-war placards on wooden stakes with me. A sneer or a hostile glare would manifest itself on most of the passenger’s faces who noticed us. A young woman with a flower in her hair and a man wearing a combat jacket flashed us the peace sign as they walked down the aisle searching for seats. A loudmouth in a dark gray suit, sitting nearby, pretended he was talking to his companion as he opined how war protesters should be rounded up and held in camps like the Japanese in World War II. He emphasized that he believed anyone that consorted with the Vietnamese should be tried by the military. I leaned around my seat, looked back at him across the aisle, and catching his eye, held two fingers up in a V shape.

  “Peace, man.”

  His mouth turned downwards, creating an inverted letter U beneath his nose. “You little pipsqueak agitator. I fought for your freedom in the big war. You think someone in Hanoi or Moscow can get on a train and flaunt their anti-patriotism.”

  A woman across from me joined in the attack. “You’re a coward. Anyone against war is a coward.”

  The guy in the combat jacket stood up. “I was in Vietnam and performed my duties there. I believe this war is wrong.”

  A new voice called out, “You were in the military and dare to speak out against the United States of America?”

  The man in the gray suit rose from his seat and poked a finger in my direction. “Let me tell you something—we’ll whip the communists over there, and here too.”

  “You’re a traitor,” the woman yelled at the young veteran. She looked over at me, her facial features pulled back in disgust. “You look like a girl. Get a haircut.”

  The person behind us growled, “If this damn train wasn’t so crowded, I’d move. The stink here is unbearable.”

  Phuong muttered, “Never should have come with you.”

  I stood up in the aisle and held up a sign that read Peace Now. “All we’re saying is that killing is wrong.”

  “Right on, man,” the Vietnam vet chimed in.

  “Not in war. In war, killing is justified.” The World War veteran pointed at my sign. “Put that away, you little punk. You’re causing trouble.”

  The train rocked and stuttered.

  The woman near me snipped bitterly, “Filthy peace-lover.”

  I looked at Phuong, incredulous. She patted my empty seat and whispered, “Sit.”

  I sat down, but held the sign up so anyone in the compartment could see it.

  Phuong leaned over to me. “You’re real popular.”

  We both snickered and grinned.

  After arriving at Union Station, we walked with the Vietnam veteran and his girlfriend south to the Capitol building, then along the mall towards the Washington Monument. People were filtering in from all directions, gathering to march on the White House.

  Phuong had planned on visiting someone in Georgetown, and after making arrangements about where and when to meet me later, she hailed a cab.

  Thousands of anti-war protestors were milling around, moving slowly across The Ellipse. I marched with them, feeling the camaraderie of a unified purpose. I held my Peace Now sign above my head, gave away the other signs I’d made, and chanted in unison with ten thousand sensible, loving, new friends.

  Hours later, when the crowd drifted apart, I walked the six blocks up Pennsylvania Avenue to Washington Circle to meet up with Phuong.

  Sitting on a bench, I saw her approaching on K Street with a man dressed in the standard dark jacket, pants, and red tie of the businessman and politician. She hadn’t seen me yet. The man leaned closer to put his arm around her waist and kiss her. Phuong’s body stiffened. Tilting away from him, she appeared to be admonishing the man but not in an unfriendly manner. She smiled, then glanced around nervously, shrugging out of his embrace. He nodded in acceptance, and they talked for a few minutes before parting ways. I expected her to cross the street and enter into the park, but she walked off in a different direction. Not wanting to lose sight of her, I followed. She entered a phone booth and dialed a number as I waited for a chance to cut through the traffic.

  Finally reaching the far curb, I caught up with her and tapped on the booth’s glass. She looked startled. Frightened, almost. She said something rapid-fire into the mouthpiece and hung up.

  The doors folded open, and she smiled sweetly. “I didn’t expect you to be here yet.”

  But her eyes were wary, full of questions, and I had the feeling I had just witnessed something she didn’t want me to know about.

  On the train ride back to New York, she fell asleep with her head resting against my shoulder. Her hand slipped into mine, and underneath her sweet perfume of tropical flowers, I could smell sex and sweat and secrets.

  I mentioned the scene between Phuong and the man, then her reaction to me in the phone booth to Teresa.

  “It doesn’t sound like a big deal. She’s older, from a different culture, and with a white man. She’s probably dating him and feels she needs to cool it in public.” Teresa dipped her brush in a small wet tray, and a light pink spread across the tip of the hairs. “Don’t go freaking out about it. Just let her be. If she wants to share that part of her life with us, she will.”

  “It’s odd though, because she wasn’t shy about sleeping on my shoulder or holding my hand on the train.”

  “Well, maybe if she was asleep, she didn’t realize it. Or maybe she just couldn’t resist.” Dabbing the pink onto an almost completed painting of a field of white roses, she laughed, and her eyes twinkled. “Oh, I got the new sex book I told you about. Why don’t we look through its pages tonight. I’m ready to see how it goes. But for now, really, get out of here. I can’t paint while you’re around.”

  Chapter 50

  Three days before my opening, I still had four pictures to frame, one which was larger than any wood I had on hand, one drawing to finish up, and another I hadn’t started yet. I didn’t want to disappoint Daisy and felt unsure of her reaction to me squeaking by with just twenty pieces. I justified my minimal production by reminding myself that eight of the illustrations were very large.

  Ham told me he had a frame that would work for my oversized drawing of a dog-faced Indian in the midst of a war charge, so I went over to his apartment to collect it.

  When he heard about my workload, he said, “Man, you got some sleepless nights ahead of you. Don’t you have any older pieces you can show?”

  “No, man. I already added in the nude of Teresa and the giant red frog from our living room. Otherwise, I’m following a theme.”

  “You have a nude of Teresa? I’m not missing this exhibit.”

  “Yeah, well, dream on.”

  He handed me a vial with about ten pills in it.

  “Hey, man, this stuff is strong, but it’ll keep you wired to work straight through until the doors open and all those patrons of the arts rush in to guzzle Daisy’s wine.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s called methedrine. It gives you a nice buzz, but man, you can stay up forever working. Speeds you up.”

  “Never done it. What do I owe you?”

  “No big deal, man, just give me back what you don’t use. Don’t go gulping
a bunch. Just take a hit at a time.”

  I drew and erased and hammered and sawed and placed tiny nails with obsessive precision. I cut my finger on the edge of some glass without realizing it, then talked incessantly to myself as I trimmed away the part of my drawing where blood had dripped. My measuring tape whizzed back into its holder, sandpaper rasped delicately, but with furious determination, and stain was placed in fanatical, detailed simulation of the barn wood’s natural color. Cigarettes were demolished one after another.

  Teresa wandered into my work area at three in the morning. “Aren’t you ever going to sleep? Did you eat?”

  “I can’t remember when I last ate.”

  “I’ll make you a sandwich.”

  She turned, and I was behind her—stripping her quickly, fondling and spreading her labia.

  She leaned forwards over my worktable and gasped, “Oh, oh... Oh? This is from chapter three in the sex book, isn’t it? I thought you said you could stay on chapter two forever... Ooh, wait... Okay, like that... I peeked at this earlier.”

  “Let’s look at it together. I think your legs... while my...” I stretched over to where the book lay and flipped open the little hardback to a beautifully painted and detailed illustration of a naked Indian rajah in a turban. His huge, erect wand was set to disappear perfectly into a woman with rings through her nose and a ruby on her forehead. Her body contorted erotically across two pages with obvious invitation.

  Teresa twisted her body in imitation of the figure. “Oh, oh. Wait, let me get into that position.”

  Afterwards, Teresa lay naked, asleep on the couch, while I popped another pill and filled the details in of every shadow on a drawing of black hands hidden in a night forest.

  I colored and finessed my work all the next day, took two more little white doses, and worked six hours straight on a rendering of a half-bird, half-snake creature reflected in a black dog’s eye without looking up from my paper and pencils.