Home Land: A Novel (7 page)
“How is it out there?” said Hollis.
“Cooled off a little,” I said.
“Not on the terrace, lump. I mean how is it
out there.”
out there.”
“Out where?”
“In the fucking darkness, pal.”
“It’s not so bad.”
“Larry, is it?
“Lewis.”
“Lewis. Do you know, Lewis, that I can look right at you and tell by a single glance you are consumed by demons of nearly unimaginable ferocity? Do you know how I can ascertain this?”
“The shape of my head?”
“Primarily, yes. Do you pray, Lewis?”
“I don’t believe in God.”
“Who said anything about God, twat? Hey, do you like antiques? You’ll never guess what I’ve got in my car.”
“You’re right, I won’t.”
“A goddamn war mace. It was used by Ostrogoths to split skulls. Fucked-up skulls like yours. Got it in the mail. From an Ostrogoth.”
“I didn’t know there were any around.”
“He’s an Ostrogoth by choice. You can be whatever you want to be in this country, in case you haven’t heard.”
The terrace door slid open and Gary stepped in, his eyes puckered, pinked.
“Good and stoned for the meeting?” said Hollis.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I practically invented drugs,” said Hollis. “Don’t play Hollis, son. Players don’t play Hollis, and you sure as hell shouldn’t. Let’s go. And now that you’re all Bakey Bakerton, just shut the fuck up. No sharing until tomorrow. You got me? You better not share. Are you coming, Larry?”
“No,” I said.
“Well, then, you can lock up. And make sure Bishop Bowlpacker here didn’t start a fire under that bench.”
“Will do,” I said.
“I’m watching you,” said Hollis. “I’m noting the shape of your head.”
I WENT HOME, studied my head in the mirror. Misshapen, sure, but in the same old ways. I cooked up some dinner, shells and peas, leafed through these magazines I’ve been getting lately. Free offer. No immediate obligation. Congratulations, you have thirty days to cancel our plan to pluck out your pancreas. How did they get to me? Did I buy something? Sign something? That girl with the clipboard in the park? I’d figured she was just handing out those light-up sweatbands to get a fad going. Didn’t they double-check with the credit bureau? Don’t they know I’m not good for it?
I guess that’s the whole idea, though. That’s what Gary says, anyway.
I’ve read a lot on the subject, but I don’t really understand this capitalism stuff. It doesn’t seem tenable.
Nice in theory, though.
Then, Catamounts, the shocker. I’m tonguing shell for pea when I read it: “Actor Killed in Acting Mishap.” Apparently, in the dull interlude of a camera jam, Lenny put his prop pistol to his head, pulled the trigger. The blank charge tore through his temple. God’s a lousy comic, a Catskills hack. Give God the hook!
I called Gwendolyn.
Her voice was fuzzy from the pharmacy. She said she had a house full of out-of-work actors groping through her fruit baskets, her pill drawer. Grief-scene fuel. A director who’d known Lenny less than a week had punched a breakfront in the kitchen, torn meaningful tendons.
“Lenny, why?” he’d cried. “Why did you fuck me?”
He’d had Lenny attached to star in the “Jew of Malta” set on an alien mining colony.
Mourning rituals were invented hourly. They’d found Lenny’s agent in the garage. He’d knifed a strip of felt from the pool table for a bandana, wept while he reenacted choice bits from pioneering black sitcoms. Lenny’s personal trainer had dug out Lenny’s favorite pair of snakeskin boots, basted them with teriyaki sauce on a no-fat grill. The accountant had stolen paperwork from the study, deal memos, itemized tax returns, hauled them down to the beach with a compound bow, shot them, aflame, into the sea. The poodle was on suicide watch.
“Come home,” I said.
She said maybe she would.
“It’s terrible about Lenny,” I said. “We never got along, but that’s only because we both loved you so much.”
“I go now,” said Gwendolyn.
“You go now?” I said.
“Phone off. Funny feel.”
“Whatever pills you’re taking,” I said. “Don’t take anymore.”
“Anymore I take I want. You don’t tell it, me.”
“Okay, baby,” I said. “Just come home.”
“Don’t baby it, flatter yourself.”
“Understood.”
WELL, alums, it’s been a week and I’m still waiting for Gwendolyn to call back. I’ve put off mailing this update to Fontana thinking I’ll have a hopeful, if fragile, conclusion to this installment. I’ve left messages in Malibu, even talked to a woman named Quince who said Gwendolyn was “at a loss” and could not be disturbed. I told her to tell Gwendolyn the “L” in Lewis was for Love.
“You’re adorable,” she said. “You’re the one Gwen ditched, right? Or are you the one who took her to that holistic abortionist and then tried to ball me?”
“Ball?”
“We’re saying ball again.”
“Ditched,” I said.
“Good. I’ll tell her you called. Oh, fuck.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Guillermo’s on the patio with matches and gasoline. I’ve got to go.”
Quince let the receiver drop, bang down on something like a cabinet. I heard grunts, hard breathing, Quince shouting, “Guillermo, Guillermo!”
Now a fainter voice carried over the receiver.
“Lenny, look! Look at me, Lenny! I’m going to be a star. I’m about to blow up!”
Dogs wailed into the telephone. Hundreds, it sounded. I’d forgotten about the dogs.
GARY PICKED ME UP that night.
“I’ve got a gift for you,” he said.
We drove down Hoyt, turned off Mavis near the county line, parked outside a house on a cul de sac called Drury Court. The place sat back behind some birch trees, a modified ranch. We sneaked up to a shrub-mobbed window.
“Consider this woe compensation,” said Gary.
“I’m not woeful.”
“Just fucking look.”
It was a big room with a shag carpet, antique lamps, a cabinet TV from days when entertainment lurked in the guise of furniture. Fontana was on his hands and knees, yoked to a vacuum cleaner, naked beneath his harness. We could hear the suck and whine of the machine. A whip tip of knotted rawhide kissed his strap-reddened back. Fontana plowed out of view and now came the bare lovely legs of the living-room tiller. I jutted my head past the hedges for a better look.
Jazz Loretta!
The years had been kind to her. Slavish, even. Black eyes still beamy. Her body a pale and beautiful root.
Her sorry domination of the educator Fontana, her slack way with the bullwhip, the giddy-ups, it was not good theater. Probably this pair would have been laughed out of any decent dungeon in the Northeast. But their joy looked true. Truer than mine, the peeper’s. I pulled back from the window. The Hoover howled, revved.
FUCK ME, Ostrokitties.
The next batch of FakeFacts is due to Penny Bettis in a week. Landlord Pete will be knocking on the door soon, too. Whither all my bank, Catamounts? Rent, utilities, a fifth of Old Overholt, a few tacos, boom! (Message to the Old Overholt folks: How about a case of your fine rye for this excellent product placement in
Catamount Notes?
)
Catamount Notes?
)
But I’m not bitter. It’s my bed and I’m going to make it. If I’ve learned anything it’s that you must bide your time until your time comes, knowing full well, of course, your time may never come. That’s the bitch about biding it.
These FakeFacts are killing me, though. When I agreed to this gig I figured the possibilities for cola mythography were endless. Maybe they are, maybe it’s me who’s reached the frontiers of invention. I’m no genius, after all, just sorry-ass Teabag. But still, ever
since I started writing these updates I’ve felt this godly hum in the gut. It’s all I’ve got.
since I started writing these updates I’ve felt this godly hum in the gut. It’s all I’ve got.
Maybe it beats what Stacy Ryson has, which is two hundred-odd pounds of pud-headed malevolence to call Honeycakes, or such appeared to be the case the last time I saw her at the River Mall. I’d hopped the bus out there to perv on rich wives from Tobias Hills, drop in on Roni’s mother at Slice of Life, cop some snatches of what contemporary amnesiacs call punk rock on those consoles at the record outlet.
Also, I’d found myself in the market for a battery-operated pencil sharpener. There’s a top-notch Manila Mo’s at the mall. This might seem funny because Manila Mo’s is a chain, but good management makes all the difference. Those dreadlocked anarchists who follow the G-8 around like it’s a legendary acid band are right about how we’ve all crawled up to die in the anus of the oligarchy, but don’t listen to them when they carp about corporate homogeneity. Go get some Taco King in Nearmont, then get some at the mall, you’ll see what I mean. There’s a jalapeño fetishist in Nearmont who’s going to maim a child with his pepper juices someday.
But back to matters Rysonian and cruel. I’d just slipped off my Music Mania in-store headphones after subjecting myself to the bloated plaints of Spacklefinger—yes, Catamounts, I do mean
that
Spacklefinger, the one fronted by our very own Glave Wilkerson, pseudopoet of Eastern Valley, purveyor of arena rock in deserted clubs near a decade now, whose major label debut,
Sporemonger,
arrives not a moment too soon, as Glave, who might have been an okay dude in high school were he not such a monumental suckass and sister-pimper, is beginning to resemble the very dads his anthems of teen disaffection rebuke—when lo and/or behold, there was Stacy Ryson, strolling down the concourse in mutual butt-grope with a big goon in designer glasses.
that
Spacklefinger, the one fronted by our very own Glave Wilkerson, pseudopoet of Eastern Valley, purveyor of arena rock in deserted clubs near a decade now, whose major label debut,
Sporemonger,
arrives not a moment too soon, as Glave, who might have been an okay dude in high school were he not such a monumental suckass and sister-pimper, is beginning to resemble the very dads his anthems of teen disaffection rebuke—when lo and/or behold, there was Stacy Ryson, strolling down the concourse in mutual butt-grope with a big goon in designer glasses.
I cut them off near a potted fern.
“Stacy,” I said.
She turned, stood, unnerving in her yogic rectitude. I smiled,
gave big teeth. They’re not pretty, my teeth, kind of pointy, buttercolored, but then I hardly tend to them, not since Gwendolyn left. It’s tough brushing alone.
gave big teeth. They’re not pretty, my teeth, kind of pointy, buttercolored, but then I hardly tend to them, not since Gwendolyn left. It’s tough brushing alone.
“Do I know you?” said Stacy.
Her goon struck a pose of high moral alert. His head was shaved, shaped like a cut dick, his eyes sealed in smug eyewear.
Damn if it wasn’t Philly Douglas.
“Friend?” he said to Stacy, laid his hand on her taut freckled arm.
“Yes,” I said. “Friend. Old friend. Lewis Miner.”
“Miner?” he said. “Lewis?”
“Eastern Valley. Class of ’89.”
“No shit.”
“I saw you score three touchdowns against Edgefield.”
“Three? Try four.”
“I left early.”
“Didn’t you sell me fake speed once?” said Philly.
“That was my friend Gary.”
“My dog died from it.”
“I won’t ask.”
“No, maybe it’s better if you don’t ask, Miner. Like maybe it’s better if I don’t ask about those updates Stacy showed me. Your homo shower fantasies starring me.”
“Trust me,” I said. “You’re not the star.”
“Phil,” said Stacy. “Please. That’s enough. Lewis, it’s nice to see you again.”
“Nice to see you, Stace. You look fantastic.”
“How she looks is none of your business,” said Philly.
“I’ve got eyes,” I said. “They do business.”
“I hope you weren’t too offended by my letter,” said Stacy.
“No,” I said, “flattered is more like it. I’m excited about correspondence with someone of your caliber. So, do you still live around here?”
“We’re in the city now. We were just in town visiting my folks. Philly and I are engaged.”
“Congratulations. I should send you something, right? A card? Can I get your address?”
“To be honest, Lewis, I thought of my letter as more of a onetime thing. I just wanted to explain my, or, rather, our, meaning women, or, some women, at least, the position we might take regarding your update, had we read it, or rather, had women other than myself read it.”
“You did a wonderful job explaining. I was just thinking about your letter today while listening to the new Spacklefinger LP.”
“That’s Glave’s band, right? I hear they’re getting big now.”
“Spacklefinger rock,” said Philly Douglas.
“They’re crap,” I said.
“Come on, Phil, lets go,” said Stacy. “Good to see you, Lewis.”
“His name is Teabag,” said Philly. “Don’t you know how he got that name?”
“I’m sure Stacy knows,” I said.
“What’s the story, Phil?”
“Forget it,” he said.
I guess Philly Douglas suddenly didn’t want to tell his fiancée how he’d ordered his buddies to hold me down in the shower room so he could mash his balls into my face. It hadn’t bothered me much at the time. I’d been under the impression it was some kind of a hazing ritual. What hurt was afterward, when I still didn’t belong. Funny, but years later I saw this boy on TV who’d also been teabagged contrary to his will. He had a suit against his school for millions. His spirit had died. He couldn’t play sports. What a whiner.
“There’s no story,” said Philly now. “He’s just fucking Teabag.”
Yes, Catamounts, Philly seemed loath to relive the incident, especially maybe the part where Will Paulsen swooped in, peeled Philly from my face, threw him up against the wall. This would also be the part where Philly maybe pissed his pants. He may have been a football star, a real backfield beast, at that, but he was no Will
Paulsen. Philly was bigger than Will, but that didn’t matter. Goliath never stood a chance, either. Too much mythology at stake.
Paulsen. Philly was bigger than Will, but that didn’t matter. Goliath never stood a chance, either. Too much mythology at stake.
Now Philly took Stacy by the wrist, tugged her toward a window full of wicker goods.
“Jazz Loretta whips Fontana,” I called out after them. “Gary loves Liquid Smoke. The pressure from my father was all in my head!”
“What the hell?” said Stacy.
“I’m giving you the news!” I said. “I’m bringing you up-to-date!”
“Don’t come back here!” Philly shouted past his shoulder.
It was a silly thing for him to say, Valley Cats. No man can tell another man to stay out of the mall. That’s not how America works. That’s not what the framers intended. Philly must have been flustered, all those dangerous old nut-dangle tingles, plus to meet someone with a legitimate sonic aesthetic. How can he defend a band whose hideous music is rivaled only by its insipid lyrics, a sample of which I’ve just downloaded from the
Sporemonger
home page?
Sporemonger
home page?
I have no home and I’m alone
Too scared to even face me
I close my eyes, close my eyes
Pray to Jesus to erase me
I want to be a nothing man
Because I’m nothing, man
Nothing without you, girl
Too scared to even face me
I close my eyes, close my eyes
Pray to Jesus to erase me
I want to be a nothing man
Because I’m nothing, man
Nothing without you, girl
(words by Glave Wilkerson,
music by Spacklefinger)
music by Spacklefinger)
Catamounts, I implore you to shield your young from this pernicious drivel. What happened to hating the state apparatus, or just wanting to be regional Antichrist? Sure, it all gets set to a car commercial in the end, but at least give it a shot. Bang some dope, for
Pete’s sake, roll in broken glass. Don’t flee the melee in your heart. Don’t bitch to Jesus about it, either. If that Essene wild man was around today, and, say, headlining some monster summer tour, you can bet your ass Spacklefinger wouldn’t be allowed within five hundred miles of the stadium. There would be a tremendous wall of blood-colored lightning to keep those bastards at bay. That’s just my opinion, of course, but I’d also take any odds that if there’s one thing Jesus and the Devil agree upon, it’s that Glave Wilkerson is not punk. The man has the soul of a college boards coach.
Pete’s sake, roll in broken glass. Don’t flee the melee in your heart. Don’t bitch to Jesus about it, either. If that Essene wild man was around today, and, say, headlining some monster summer tour, you can bet your ass Spacklefinger wouldn’t be allowed within five hundred miles of the stadium. There would be a tremendous wall of blood-colored lightning to keep those bastards at bay. That’s just my opinion, of course, but I’d also take any odds that if there’s one thing Jesus and the Devil agree upon, it’s that Glave Wilkerson is not punk. The man has the soul of a college boards coach.
Which reminds me, I’ve yet to comment on the latest issue of
Catamount Notes,
wherein it was announced my old flame Bethany Applebaum is making a mint helping the doltish progeny of the rich gain admittance to our nation’s leading universities. Bravo, Bethany! Tuck those little one percenters in all safe and cozy. Keep that ruling-class razor wire sharp and shiny!
Catamount Notes,
wherein it was announced my old flame Bethany Applebaum is making a mint helping the doltish progeny of the rich gain admittance to our nation’s leading universities. Bravo, Bethany! Tuck those little one percenters in all safe and cozy. Keep that ruling-class razor wire sharp and shiny!
Bethany, your father was head of the lathe workers local. Would he pop and lock in his grave knowing you’ve dedicated your life to helping these entitled cretins? You busted your hump to get to Cornell. All that panic and self-cutting, those blood-speckled scrunchies on your arm. Is this your way of giving back to the gatekeepers? Or is your cynicism a huge holy shimmering thing no mortal could view in its entirety at once?
Please write in and let us know!
I WALKED AROUND THE MALL for a while. I won’t talk about the mall, alums. You know about the mall, the scent of mallness that pervades it. It’s the scent of scents canceling each other out. Perfumes, pizza, leather, sweat. How do people proceed?
They had a scientist-type in one of my magazines talking about ants. Nobody tells ants what to do, he said. Ants just know what’s best for ants.
Moreover, they know what’s best by smell.
Maybe that’s what Daddy Miner was driving at about the flowers at the Moonbeam.
Plastic roses might confuse.
See what I mean?
Nor do I.
But I must be an ant-guy because I could smell where to go.
Slice of Life is a tiny shop near the River Mall entrance, or, I suppose, exit, depending on your worldview. Either way, it’s the only place in the whole joint that doesn’t smell like mall. I guess you could say it smells like home, if you grew up a long time ago and your mother baked soda bread all day while your father worked the beet fields, or smoked his pipe on the porch and lectured the Labrador on the merits of William Jennings Bryan.
We didn’t have that kind of home.
We had pouch dinners and Reagan and such.
Point is, the smell in Slice of Life, that hot bread smell, it will calm you, or at least it calmed me. You know how that squidlike placenta flops out of a woman after her baby is born, all purple and weird? Wouldn’t it be better if, instead of a mutilated infant octopus, a perfect round of sourdough bread slid out?
But perhaps I digress.
There was a big wait at the Slice of Life counter. I stood off near the door for a while, watched Roni’s mother work the bread machine. She was a fatter, prettier version of her daughter in a shower cap, the same wire poking down past her chin.
“Listen,” she was saying, “Use the tea towels. You’ve been using too many paper towels … I don’t care about the trees, Roni … I know, I know … but your law school fund is going in the trash with all those goddamn paper towels. Stop using them, Roni. What do you think people did before paper towels? They had lives, you know. They lived lives … I know they’re more … right, absorbent. Absorbent! That wasn’t even a word! They invented that word to sell paper towels to people like you … I told you, I could care less
about the damn planet … what’s the planet without my Roni in law school? Okay, baby? Okay … you have to go, I know. See you later. And tell Mr. Miner to stop staring at you … yes, you can tell him straight out. He’s a dirty old letch. Okay, Mommy loves you.”
about the damn planet … what’s the planet without my Roni in law school? Okay, baby? Okay … you have to go, I know. See you later. And tell Mr. Miner to stop staring at you … yes, you can tell him straight out. He’s a dirty old letch. Okay, Mommy loves you.”
The line had thinned and Roni’s mother caught my eye across the counter.
“Can I help you?”
“Just sniffing,” I said.
“Where do I know you from? You look familiar.”
“I work over at the wicker store.”
“Oh, right. I haven’t been in there lately.”
“We’ve got a sale on picnic baskets,” I said. “Vintage design. You and your sweetheart can ride out to the countryside, eat cherries, read poetry before one of you goes off to die in the senseless slaughter.”
“The senseless slaughter?”
“The trenches. The Boche.”
“You don’t really work in the wicker store.”
“I should,” I said.
THE BUS RIDE gave me time to shake off my encounter with Stacy and that bastard Phil, not to mention Roni’s mother’s slander. Who was she to call my father a letch? A man sidles up to claim his Darwinian due and if he doesn’t fit the demo he’s an outcast, a pervert, a slimeball at best. Besides, she’d never caught Daddy Miner caressing her daughter’s ass near the basement boiler. She hadn’t earned the right to call him a letch.
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