Boonville (10 page)

They were betting on me, John realized. But there came a point when things were at their fullest and could hold no more. He was beyond that now, the number that followed infinity. Everything rolled off, part of the same extreme.

“Hold your horses, Meyers,” Hap told Billy Chuck. “Our boy had help from Prairie Mama. Doubt your bet was on a tag team match.”

“My bet was Daryl wouldn't put his head on a stick by noon today,” Billy Chuck said. “Did Prairie Mama put all that hurt on Daryl?”

“She's one mean hippie,” Deputy Cal admitted. “Off-duty, I wouldn't mess with no feminist weighin' three-fifty.”

“It's the organics make ‘em jimheady,” Hap offered.

“And the world that makes them mean,” Pensive said, returning to the bar.

“No offense, Pensive,” Hap excused himself.

“None taken,” Pensive said. “By living life as a holistic experience, you find untapped strength in yourself and the world around you. By not indulging in the artificial, you remain pure, spiritually and physically.”

She paused.

“What's John doing on the floor?” she asked.

“Taking in the seminar,” John answered, pain too intense to bother with. “When are we going to hold hands and burn incense?”

“We don't go for that shit in town,” Billy Chuck told him. “That's what the hills are for, personal expression.”

John tried to get to his feet again, latching on to Pensive, who was the only one in the group extending a hand. He stood for a moment, and then decided the floor was a better idea.

“Boy's jake-legged,” Hap said.

“Anybody got any painkillers?” Billy Chuck asked. “This dog can't hunt.”

“Horn of skee?” Hap offered.

John felt ready to faint. On top of everything else, he was dehydrated. He took a sip of the water that Pensive had gotten for him.

“Hell,” Billy Chuck said, “I got a .22 in my truck.”

“It might come to that,” Hap admitted.

Pensive offered to mix a batch of linseed oil and herbs at her house, adding that she had some mushrooms she used as a relaxant.

Suspicions confirmed, John thought. But I don't need any Pensive Prairie Peyote. This is the last place I want to start hallucinating. Isn't there a doctor or hospital? We are in America, aren't we? This is the twentieth century?

“We could take him to Doc Testicles,” Deputy Cal suggested, reading John's expression. “But when Big Jack cut off his thumb, Doc just gave him a lozenge. One of those cough drops for sore throats. Said, ‘Suck on this, maybe it'll take your mind off the pain.' Big Jack stuck it in his mouth and put his thumb in his shirt pocket. I drove him over the hill to Ukiah General.”

“You boys call him Doc Testicles ‘cause he holds on too long durin' physicals,” Hap asked, “or ‘cause he wears those fruity jogging shorts without underwear and you can see all the way to Boulder?”

“Don't talk that way about Dr. Goldberg,” Pensive told Hap. “He's a fine doctor and a natural man.”

“‘Au natural,'” Deputy Cal said, and Hap and Billy Chuck sniggered.

I'm at death's door and they're making puns, John thought. This is funny to them. Something to tell the boys at the Lodge, the
one about the tourist who was killed his second day in town. Knock, knock. Who's there? My cowboy-boot up your ass.

“I could take him to Ukiah General.” Deputy Cal said. “Personally, I'd rather die in a ditch than check into one of those rooms. I visited Cloris there when she rolled her Bronco. I asked a nurse for her room number and the Grim Reaper himself pointed me down the hall. Makes the morgue look like a dance hall. But we could take John there.”

Put me out near the road so a tourist can find me, John wanted to say, his pain receding along with his consciousness. Hee and haw all you want, but get me to the curb. I need my bed. Get me to Christina. She'll make everything all right. I don't even hurt anymore. I just want to leave this town.

“What about Blindman?” Hap asked.

“He has good Valium,” Pensive said.

More suspicions confirmed.

“But I heard Blindman beats his wife,” Pensive said, reconsidering. “I don't have the kind of forgiveness in me to do business with a wife beater. It would be giving approval to his actions, saying commerce is more important than conduct.”

“We organizin' a boycott or tryin' to help Squirrel Boy?” Billy Chuck said. “Get a petition going on your own time. I don't pity any woman dumb enough to let a blind guy hit her. She should be quiet and stand still. He'd never find her.”

“The visually impaired often heighten their other senses,” Pensive countered. “Didn't you ever see
Wait Until Dark
?”

“No,” Billy Chuck confessed. “But I played football against the School for the Deaf. They used to bang a drum on the sidelines to know when to hike the ball. Got every decent deaf player in the state and some fakes that just said, ‘Huh?' a lot. Kicked the shit out of us. But you could curse their mothers and all you'd get was a smile.”

“Bottom line,” Deputy Cal stated, somewhat professionally, “aside from a wife beater, Blindman's a drug dealer, shoplifter, ex-Moonie, ex-Joneser, a contributor to the delinquency of minors, and after that bridge incident, a murder suspect. You can do what you want for John's sake, but as an officer of the law, I ain't consorting with a piece of shit the likes of him.”

“What do you want to do, Squirrel Boy?” Hap had the courtesy to ask.

“Snuggle-bunny,” John replied, fuzzily. “I need to leave this place. I thought it would be all right, but it's not. I scraped my knees sliding. I should go to my room.”

“Let's get him to his grandma's,” Deputy Cal said. “Put him to bed. He'll be fine. He needs sleep is all.”

“I'll check in on him,” Pensive promised. “Billy Chuck, follow me in your truck, I'll drive him in Edna's car.”

“Edna's car?” Billy Chuck asked.

“The Squirrel Lady,” Pensive clarified.

Deputy Cal lifted John's arm around his neck and Pensive positioned herself beneath the other, John hanging limp between them. They left for the parking lot, passing alarmed tourists. Billy Chuck readied himself to assist in negotiating the steps. Hap held open the door. A wind blustered, carrying the scent of pumpkins, apples, and cut wood.

Grandma, John said to himself, we're not in Miami anymore.

They had to wait as logging trucks barreled past. John's steps were heavy and uncertain. They crossed the highway. Billy Chuck and Hap followed, helping to lean John into the passenger seat of the broken Datsun.

“Too bad his mind's fixed on leavin',” John heard Hap say, as Pensive fished the keys from John's pocket and Cal shut the door behind him. “I think he fits right in.”

J
ohn wondered if waking up in Boonville was the worst thing the world had to offer. Worse than Turkish prisons, worse than being buried alive, worse than reruns of “Three's Company,” fruitcakes, heavy metal, herpes, Lee Iacocca, being trapped in an elevator with Barbra Streisand, Liza Minnelli, and Whitney Houston, who all want to sing rounds of show tunes until you're rescued. But you're never saved. And they find you magnetically attractive. Liza thrusts her tongue down your throat, pancake makeup smearing against your cheek, blinded by eyeliner and false eyelashes, as one of Barbra's nostrils swallows your penis, blowing you with her nose, while Whitney becomes so excited she strokes herself into a lather, climactically crying out in Muzak ecstasy, “I believe children are our future!”

“Hey, Squirrel Boy, you wanna buy some codeine? I got codeine, hash, health crystals! Wake up!”

John felt a lump the size of a tangerine beneath his left eye, uncertain whether his vision had been permanently impaired or if it was dark outside. Somebody was banging on the door. He was too exhausted to answer. It was a tough call, one he didn't make immediately because his sleep hadn't been restful. Anytime Liza, Barbra, or Whitney worked cameos into your dreams, your subconscious was doing you wrong. John was sure in his closet of nightmares, probably with their hands on the knob. Glenn Close, Nancy Reagan, and Connie Chung were getting ready to put in disturbing appearances, along with Margaret Thatcher, Jane Fonda, and Lady Macbeth.

Why were his worst dreams filled with women? They couldn't represent the ones in his waking life, he thought. How
could his mind, even asleep, confuse Glenn Close with Christina? Margaret Thatcher with Grandma? Baabaa with Mama? He hated his father more than anyone, his subconscious knew that. Why didn't he dream of Richard Nixon, Donald Trump, or Andy Rooney? Running post patterns for Dan Marino in US 1. Fishing trips with Sylvester Stallone, William F. Buckley, and Benny Hill. Sandwiched in a sleeping bag between the Shah of Iran and John Denver, who were rubbed down in marshmallow cream. That seemed more relevant a neurosis than anything the women stirred. Except for John's recurring “subverted flower” dream.

The “subverted flower” dream started with John jogging on the beach, pants chafing his legs, shirt untucked, feet sinking into loose sand. Why am I running? Sand fleas feasting. He knew there was a reason because he wasn't dressed for exercise. Seagull shit baking. He was tired, having run all the way from the far end of the beach. Lubed cocoa butter. Away from something. Squealing rectal wetness. Something he had done, but felt no remorse. Saliva slicked cock. Something that undeniably felt good. Bikini torn Gottex. Purging him momentarily. Fisted scream release. But had followed him. Cunt fuck. And was ready to devour him whole.

John couldn't run any faster. He felt sick and wanted to stop. Then the beach tilted and he fell. Fall, falling, fallen. Forward onto fours, running like a dog. The one in Frost's poem, changing from man to beast because of what he had done to the girl in the field, the subverted flower. A hand hung like a paw, his arm worked like a saw. Women watched, knowing. John wanted to prove them wrong, run on two legs or stop running altogether, but the slant of the beach made it impossible. He fell with infinite dream-like fluidity, again and again and again, pulling at his pants as if his trousers were what tangled his stride. But everybody seemed to understand it was natural for him to run palm to toe, obeying bestial laws. Finally, he gave in, skirting down the beach as much on his hands as on his feet. Panting, John looked and saw the worst.

“Rise and shine, Squirrel Boy! I got coke so pure it'll make you homesick! I'll get the wifeback to cook some arroz con polio and we'll fiesta! Mexicans are practically Cuban!”

John didn't want to guess who it was on the other side of his door. His worst nightmares, even the “subverted flower” dream, fell short of the terror of dealing with Boonville. He pulled the
blankets over his head, closing his eyes.

“Don't, John. Stop.”

“What?”

“I'm not in the mood.”

“Not in the mood?”

“I'm not in the mood, and I don't want to be forced into having sex.”

“We've been sleeping together for seven years and all of a sudden I'm forcing you into having sex? What are you talking about? When do I force you to have sex?”

“Right now, for one.”

“Right now? When else?”

“All the time.”

“All the time?”

“I'm saying, I'm tired and I don't want to have sex. Do I have to feel bad about it? If we're going to start making it, I've got to get more sleep.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means you're content with your career in marketing, so it's up to me to make changes so we can get somewhere.”

“Get somewhere? Where do you want to go? Somewhere we never have sex?”

“Fine. Go ahead, fuck me.”

“Christina, why are you being this way? I love you.”

“If you loved me you'd get a job with a future. There would be a ring on my finger. We would have children. There would be a spark when we made love. It's time to quit fooling ourselves, we're getting what we settle for.”

Blam! Blam! Blam!

“I'm not getting any younger, Squirrel Boy! I know you're in there, open up!”

Instead of waking, John continued his somnolent drift. He heard his father's voice, saw his face, the chiseled rock resting below a Florida Gators hat, flushed cheeks, eyes squinting from the white noise in his head. Most people's First impression of John's father was that he was the kind of guy who had earned the right to drink beer and watch the ball game after a routinely bad day of working outdoors. Despite his resemblance to a member of the road crew, John's father sold insurance from an office in downtown Miami where he had air-conditioning, a swivel chair, a
water cooler, and a view of the site where the last “Putt and Dry” had stood before being sold by John's grandfather to overseas investors who built a high-rise, which became the corporate headquarters to the largest advertising firm south of Saatchi & Saatchi. That was reality, savage and mundane. John's father started every day at the office drawing the curtains, standing in the shadow of success, taking a nip of Old Grand-Dad, and flipping off the skyscraper. But the rugged workman image was what he liked to project.

“He'll learn the hard way!” his father yelled.

“Put that belt away!” his mother cried, equally hysterical.

“No Communists are going to live under my roof!”

“He's twelve, Jim. It was a report, a class assignment. Everybody did Cuba.”

“He's reading the wrong books. There will be no pro-Castro garbage in my house while I'm paying the bills. I'll show him red!”

“You've scared him enough. Let him be!”

“He's got to learn!”

“Stop! He's afraid!”

“He better be, those cigar-breathed bastards are ninety miles away. I suppose he'll really be scared when they come to rape his mother. You want to watch the Commies rape your mother, John?”

Whap! Whap! Whap!

The way John saw it, he could either relive the day his father beat him with a belt or open his eyes and see which of Boonville's residents was continuing that fine tradition. There was no third choice. This, combined with his recent experiences, seemed like a valid argument for handguns.

“Wake up, Squirrel Boy!”

Green glow of alarm clock: 4:12.

Late or early? John wondered. And on the subject of time, what day was it?

He saw a mysterious figure standing over him, illuminated by the moonlight, swinging a cane whose handle had been carved to resemble the head of a frowning squirrel. The specter wore wraparound sunglasses and had a bald head, pasty skin, white shirt, and white pants. John thought he was either still dreaming or being visited by the ghost of Boonville Past.

“Wake up, Squirrel Boy. I'm Blindman!”

“You hit me with that cane again,” John rasped, a strange bitter taste climbing from the back of his throat, “you're gonna be a dead man.”

“Tough talk, coming from someone that can't hold their liquor and just got his butt kicked,” Blindman said, addressing a spot three feet to the left of John's eyes. “But your grandma was good to me, so I'll cut you slack. Pick your poison, Squirrel Boy.”

Blindman tossed a paper bag to that same spot three feet to John's left. The bag crashed onto the nightstand, knocking over John's alarm clock and picture of Christina. The lamp wobbled ovals, found the edge of the nightstand, and fell from sight. There was a disheartening crunch.

“Pick that up, will you?” Blindman said.

Without thinking, John reached for the bag. It was a familiar movement, one he performed almost daily in Miami to retrieve his alarm clock. Maybe that's why he responded with obedience; in his lassitude he thought he was in bed with Christina beginning a day like any other. He never could get a handle on things in the morning, not without three or four snooze bars, half a pot of coffee, and Christina telling him he was going to be late for the fifth time. John wasn't a morning person. Every day he slid from beneath his covers grudgingly. For the illusion of extra sleep, he set his clock twenty minutes fast. It didn't occur to him that he was waking himself up that much earlier. The fact that he didn't use the correct time annoyed Christina. She hated waking up before she had to.

“What time is it, really?” Christina would ask, letting John know this was one of his habits that would never become endearing.

Half-asleep, John would knock over the alarm clock, along with his keys, a pile of change, a glass of water, Christina's diaphragm, and one of the books Grandma had given him, a symbolic collage he didn't have the presence of mind to ponder. Fumbling to turn off the buzzing, he would inadvertently switch the clock's alarm setting from “ringer” to “radio” and they would be blasted by “classic rock radio,” most likely the instrumental solo of “Magic Carpet Ride.” But during the instrumental solo of “Magic Carpet Ride,” you never know it's the instrumental solo of “Magic Carpet Ride.” Until the chorus kicks in, you think you're listening to a recording made to communicate with dolphins. In the morning, it's even more confusing. On occasion
the alarm lasted to the next tune, usually Neil Young's “Ohio.” John was convinced the DJs of “classic rock radio” only played ten different songs, a stack of 45s with grooves deeper than radial tires. “Tin soldiers and Nixon's coming…” Any record from the loop was enough to keep John awake and on edge. He would pound the clock with his fist.

“Squirrel Boy,” Blindman said. “You there?”

“Yes,” John replied. “It's hard to believe, but I am here.”

“Between you and me, you're not retarded, are you?” Blindman asked. “I don't sell to retards. I let Bobby Dee buy, everybody knows that. He's got Down's syndrome, but he's not too far down, not after all the speed I pass his way.”

“No,” John said, noticing he had slept in his clothes for the second straight night. “I don't think I'm retarded.”

“Thing is with retards,” Blindman explained, “Half of them don't know they're retarded. The quiet ones take me a while to catch on to. They're sneaky handicapped. You pity them like Krishnas or Reagan because they seem harmless, but next thing you know they own every copy shop in California or get themselves elected president of the United States.”

John resumed his stretch for Blindman's bag. The movement reminded him of his beating; his stomach felt ulcerated and his body abscessed. He got snared in the tatters of his bloodstained oxford. There was a ripping sound, a loosening, a slight breeze beneath his armpit. Grabbing the sack, he felt relieved his intruder was sightless.

Meanwhile, Blindman was telling him a story about Tim Stoen, the lawyer for the People's Temple, who let his wife and kids go to Guyana flying coach. According to Blindman, Stoen picked out the flavor of Kool-Aid they served at “the last picnic” and had somebody buy generic cyanide so he could put another nickel into his bank account. Stoen got out of the cult the day before the slaughter. Blindman had been deprogrammed a year earlier, confessing to John that he had gone from drugs to the Moonies' chinchilla ranch, to Jones, and then back to drugs.

“Go with what got you here, that's my motto,” Blindman said. “My mother was a junkie and that's why I'm blind. Fuck it, two tears in a bucket. But tell me how a sleaze like Stoen can run for Congress and get twelve thousand votes? Don't people remember?”

John asked himself, do I look like a priest? The
Miami Herald
?
Why are people telling me these things? But his concern shifted from Boonville's need of an audience to Blindman's bag, which he discovered was full of drugs.

“Guy like that,” Blindman said, “they ought to string up by the balls, cut off his dick, and stick an apple in his mouth.”

“Blindman,” John interrupted, not asking about the apple-in-the-mouth part of the punishment, although it intrigued him, “this bag is full of drugs.”

“There's more where that came from,” Blindman assured him. “Mexicans aren't the only ones that can deal in this town. I can't be expected to survive on my state check without a supplement.”

“I sympathize,” John said, trying to be diplomatic. “But I'm not into drugs.”

He tried to return the sack, but Blindman refused to take it. John pressed the portable pharmacy to Blindman's chest. Blindman looked left, then right, tapped at the sack with his cane, but wouldn't take hold of it.

“Blindman,” John said, “you can't come barging into my home, hitting me with your cane and expecting me to buy drugs? I don't even know you. The last thing I need is some pixilated pariah giving me a cult update while it's still dark outside.”