Generation X (14 page)

"He'd been drinking. He said to not mind the apartment, which

belonged to a model friend of his named Lenny. 'Spelled with an
i,'
he said, 'you know how models are.'

This was obviously not the same little boy from Tallahassee. " T h e apartment had no furniture, and owing to the power failure, no light, save for birthday candles, several boxes of whic h h e h a d scavenged out of Lenni's kitchen drawer. Curtis was lighting them one b y o n e . I t was so dim.

I could faintly see that the walls were papered in a jetsam of black-and-white fashion photos ripped (not very
carefully
ripped, I might add) from fashion magazines. The room smelled like perfume sample strips.

The models were predominantly male and pouting, with alien eyes and GQ statue bones that
mouéed
at us from all corners of the room. I tried t o p r e t e n d I d i d n ' t n o t i c e t h e m . A f t e r t h e a g e o f t w e n t y -five, Scotch taping magazine stuff to your walls is just plain scary.

"' 'Seems like we're destined to always end up meeting in primitive rooms, eh, Curtis?' I said, but I don't think he got the reference to our old mobile love hospital. We sat down on the floor on blankets near the sliding door and watched the storm outside. I had a quick scotch to grab a buzz, but didn't want it to go past that. I wanted to remember the night.

"Anyhow, we had the slow, stunted conversation of people catching up with time. Every so often, as there is with strained reminiscences, there were occasional wan smiles, but mostly the mood was dry. I think we were both wondering if we'd made a mistake. He was maudlin drunk.

Maybe he was going to cry soon.

" T h e n t h e r e w a s a b a n g i n g o n t h e d o o r . I t w a s
S y l v i a .
" 'Oh fuck, it's Kate,' he whispered. 'Don't say anything. Make her wear herself out.

Make her go away.'

"Kate was a force of nature outside the door in the black black hallway. Certainly not the meek little Sylvia of that afternoon. She'd make the devil blush with the names she was calling Curtis, demanding that he let her in, accusing him of banging and getting banged by anything that breathes and has a wallet, then quickly refining that to anything with a
wallet.
She was demanding her 'charms' back and threatening to have one of her husband's goons go after his 'one remaining orchid.'

T h e n e i g h b o r s , i f n o t h o r r i f i e d , m u s t a t l e a s t h a v e b e e n f a s c i n a t e d .

"But Curtis just held me tight and said zero. Kate eventually spent herself out, whimpered, then soundlessly vacated the premises. Soon we heard a car roar and tires squeal down in the building's parkade.

"I was uncomfortable, but unlike the neighbors, I could sate my curiosity. Before I could ask a question, though, Curtis said 'Don't ask.

A s k m e a b o u t s o m e t h i n g e l s e . A n y t h i n g e l s e . B u t n o t
t h a t . '

'""
'Very well,' I said. 'Let's talk about hummingbirds,' which made him laugh and roll over. I was glad at least that some of the tension was g o n e . H e t h e n s t a r t e d t a k i n g o f f h i s p a n t s , saying, 'Don't worry. You don't
want
to make it with me anyway. Trust me on
that
one, Baby Doll.'

Then, once he was naked, he opened his legs and cupped his hands to his crotch, saying 'look.' Sure enough, there was just one 'orchid.'

'' 'That happened down in—,' he said, me stupidly forgetting the

name of the country, someplace Central America, I think. He called it

' t h e s e r v a n t ' s q u a r t e r s . '

"He laid back on the blanket, scotch bottle at his side and told me about his fighting for pay in wars down there. Of discipline and cama-raderie. Of secret paychecks from men with Italian accents. Finally, he was relaxing.

"He went on at some length about his exploits, most of them about

as interesting to me as watching ice hockey on TV, but I kept up a good show of interest. But then he started mentioning one name more than others, the name
Arlo.
Arlo, I take it it was his best friend, something more than that—whatever it is that men become during a war, and who knows what else.

"Anyhow, one day Curtis and Arlo we re out 'on a shoot,' when the fighting got life-threateningly intense. They were forced to lie down on the ground, covered in camouflage, with their primed machine guns

pointed at the enemy. Arlo was lying next to Curtis and they were both hair-trigger itching to shoot. Suddenly, this hummingbird started darting into Arlo's eyes. Arlo brushed it away, but it kept darting back. Then there were two and then
three
hummingbirds, 'What the hell are they doing?' asked Curtis, and Arlo explained that some hummingbirds are attracted to the color blue and that they dart at it in an attempt to collect it to build their nests, and what they were trying to do was build their nests with Arlo's eyes.

" A t t h a t p o i n t C u r t i s s a i d , ' H e y , m y e y e s a r e b l u e , t o o —,' but Arlo's sweeping gestures to move the birds out of his eyes attracted the enemy fire. They were attacked. That was when a bullet entered Curtis's groin and when another bullet entered Arlo's heart, killing him instantly. "What happened next, I don't know. But the next day Curtis joined the mop-up crews, in spite of his injury, and returned to the battle site to collect a n d b a g t h e d e a d b o d i e s . B u t w h e n t h e y f o u n d t h e b o d y o f
Arlo,
they were all as aghast as anybody who picks up bodies regularly can be, not because of his bullet wounds, (a common enough sight) but because of a horrible sacrilege that had been performed on his corpse —the blue meat of Arlo's eyes had been picked away from the whites. The native men cursed and crossed themselves, but Curtis merely closed Arlo's eyelids then kissed each one. He knew about the hummingbirds; he kept that knowledge to himself.

"He was 4-F'ed that day, and by nightfall was numb and on a plane back to the States, where he ended up in San Diego. And at that point his life becomes a blank. That's when all of the things he wouldn't tell m e s t a r t e d t o h a p p e n .

"' 'So
that's
why you're looking at the hummingbirds all the time, then,' I said. But there was more. Lying there on the floor, lit by a sad t r i a d o f t h r e e b i r t h d a y c a n d l e s t h a t also illuminated a sullen beefcake on the bedroom wall, he began to cry. Oh, God,
weep
is the right word.

102

GENERATION X

He wasn't crying. He was weeping and I could only place my chin on

his heart and listen—listen while he blubbered that he didn't know what h a p p e n e d t o h i s y o u t h , t o a n y o f h i s i d e a s a b o u t p e o p l e o r n i c e n e s s , and that he had become a slightly freaky robot. 'I can't even break into
p o r n o
n o w b e c a u s e o f m y a c c i d e n t . N o t a n d g e t t o p d o l l a r . '

"And after a while we just laid there and breathed together. He started to talk to me, but his talk was like a roulette wheel that's almost slowed down to a full stop. 'You
know,
Baby Doll,' he said, 'sometimes y o u c a n b e v e r y s t u p i d a n d s w i m a b i t t o o f a r o u t i n t o t h e o c e a n a n d not have enough energy to swim back to shore. Birds insult you at that point, when you're out there just
floating.
They only remind you of the land you'll never be able to reach again. But
one
of these days, I don't know
when,
one of those little hummingbirds is going to zip right in and make a dart for
my
b l u e l i t t l e e y e s , a n d w h e n t h a t h a p p e n s —'

" B u t h e n e v e r t o l d m e w h a t h e w a s g o i n g t o d o . I t w a s n ' t h i s intention; he passed out instead. It must have been midnight by then and I was left staring at his poor, battle-scarred body, under the birthday candle lighting. I tried to think of something,
any
thing, I could do for him, and I only came up with one idea. I put my chest on top of his, and kissed him on the forehead, grabbing onto his tattoos of trains and dice and gardenias and broken hearts for support. And I tried to empty t h e c o n t e n t s o f m y s o u l i n t o h i s . I i m a g i n e d m y s t r e n g t h —my soul—was a white laser beam shooting from my heart into his, like those light pulses in glass wires that can pump a million books to the mo on in one second. This beam was cutting through his chest like a beam cutting through a sheet of steel. Curtis could take or leave this strength that he so obviously lacked—but I just wanted it to be there for him as a reserve.

I would give my
life
for that man, and all I was able to donate that night was whatever remained of my youth. No regrets.

Anyway, sometime that night, after the rains ended and while I

was sleeping, Curtis disappeared from the room. And unless fate throws us together again, which I doubt quite strongly, I suspect that was it for us for this lifetime. He's out there right now, maybe even as we speak, g e t t i n g p e c k e d i n t h e e y e b a l l b y a r u b y -throated little gem. And you know what'll happen to him when he
does
get pecked? Call it a hunch, but when that happens, train cars will shunt in his mind. And the next time
Sylvia
comes knocking on his door, he'll walk over and he'll open-it. Call it a hunch."

None of us can talk, and it's obvious to us what Elvissa will re-member earth by. Fortunately, the phone rings in my bungalow and definitively cuts the moment, as only a phone ring can. Tobias takes that moment to excuse himself and head over to his car, and when I

enter my bungalow to pick up the phone, I see him stooped down and

looking at his eyes in his rented Nissan's rearview mirror. Right then I know that it's all over between him and Claire. Call it a hunch. I pick u p t h e p h o n e .

WHY

A M

I

POOR?

It's Prince Tyler of Portland on the phone, my baby brother by some five years; our family's autumn crocus; the buzz-cut love child; spoiled little monster who hands a microwaved dish of macaroni back to Mom

and commands, "There's a patch in the middle that's still cold. Re heat it." (Me, my two other brothers, or my three sisters would be
thwocked
on the head for such insolence, but such baronial dictums from
Tyler
merely reinforce his princely powers.) 'Hi, Andy. Bag ging some rays?" "Hi,

Tyler. Actually I
am."

'Too cool, too cool.

Listen: Bill-cubed, the

World Trade Center,

Lori, Joanna, and me are

coming down to stay in

your spare bungalow on

January 8 for five days.

That's Elvis's birthday.

We're going to have a

KingFest. Any problem

with that?" 'Not that I

can think of, but you'll be

packed like hamsters in there. Hope you don't mind. Let me check."

(Bill-cubed, actually Bill3, is three of Tyler's friends, all named Bill; the World Trade Center is the Morrissey twins, each standing six feet six inches.) I rummage through my bungalow, hunting for my reser

vations book (the landlord places me in charge of rentals). I muse all the while about Tyler and his clique—Global Teens, as he labels them, though most are in their twenties. It seems amusing and confusing—unnatural—to me the way Global Teens, or Tyler's friends, at least, live their lives so
together
with each other: shopping, traveling, squabbling, thinking, and breathing, just like the Baxter family. (Tyler, not sur-prisingly, has ended up becoming fast friends, via me, with Claire's brother Allan.)

How cliquish
are
these Global Teens? It really boggles. Not
one
of them can go to Waikiki for a simple one-week holiday, for example,

without several enormous gift-laden send-off parties in one of three classic sophomoric themes: Tacky Tourist, Favorite Dead Celebrity, or Toga. And once they arrive there, nostalgic phone calls soon start: sentimental and complicated volleys of elaborately structured trans- Pacific conference calls flowing every other day, as though the jolly vacationer had just hurtled toward Jupiter on a three-year mission rather than six days of overpriced Mai Tais on Kuhio Street.

"The Tyler Set" can be really sucky, too—no drugs, no irony, and only moderate booze, popcorn, cocoa, and videos on Friday nights. And

elaborate wardrobes—
such wardrobes!
Stunning and costly, coordinated
REBELLION

with subtle sophistication, composed of only the finest labels. Slick. And
POSTPONEMENT: The

they can afford them because, like most Global Teen princes and prin-tendency in one's youth to avoid cesses, they all live at home, unable to afford what few ludicrously over-traditionally youthful activities and artistic experiences in order