Technicolor Pulp (17 page)

I’d hung out with Rosie before many times, but we always just drank and Doobe was with us. We outnumbered him. But now things
are even, and I’m in trouble. The thing that haunts me is that the guy told me once he wanted to come back in his next life
as a sword swallower. Even my limited imagination-al facilities have huge vivid pictures of what this guy, Rosie, might be
capable of. The thought of his dick nestled in the fold of my butt cheeks while he gives me a rubdown just gives me the… HEE-BEE-GEE-BEES!
I just can’t do it… But I can do
it for awhile. I can do it as long as there’s a table and at least one pair of blue jeans between us.

I finally agree, after many choruses of “Miss You Much,” to go to his favorite italian eatery for a bottle of good red wine
and a no-strings-attached meal.

To make him a fantasy in my mind… To make him like a beautiful young girl sitting in a cafe… Smoking like a man with man’s
clothes on… Sitting… Looking out… Looking with a face… A face so smooth… With skin so smooth like a face that’s never wandered…
I can look at that face… I can see that face and it makes me feel old… I feel old… Like I’ve lived on this planet for so much
longer than Her… Or HIM… Or anyone other than those with the leather and glaze… I watch Rosie… Eating veal… While I eat liver
and onions… It’s succulent and I like watching Rosie eat his food, and he likes that I’m watching him, and we drink the wine,
the good red wine… I’m floating again… I’m beyond this, I think… But I’m so very much in the middle of all this and that bothers
me… It scares me more than anything… I’m so THERE and I don’t know WHERE that is… How can I know anything when I don’t even
know WHERE or WHO I am?… I’m looking at Rosie and she looks beautiful, because I see her as he deserves to be seen… As a beautiful
young girl, more innocent than me… Too innocent for me… I have my liver and onions and we drink wine… And we talk… And laugh…
And then the meal’s over, and we’re at the train station and Rosie’s looking at
me, and the only thing left is a single verse… The part where I get my ass out of there, intact, with his tongue and his cock
far away, sad, with Mum for another night, sadder….

Rosie gives me a smile. He’s a good person, maybe in another lifetime. I’m still in the habit of chasing down big, juicy pussies
and things with a lot less hair on them, but I still love the guy. I just don’t know him that well. He gives me one last hug.

“… Oh Jimi…” I gather it’s a “What could have been” kinda sigh, and he walks away.

Life gets real different. Two months ago, I’d fancied myself some young jockish rogue, slinging scotch, and drowning in little
rich girls. Now, it’s midnight, and I’m watching a melancholy half-breed hairy italian, who’s got a penchant for singing Janet
Jackson in my ear, walk down the corridor of the train station. It’s an odd life….

So Doobe and I end up saying good-bye at Heathrow Airport.

“When do ya think yu’ll come back to America?”

“I don’t know… Maybe soon… My grandfather’s real sick… And I’m thinkin’ about goin’ back to school… What are you gonna do,
Jimi?”

“I guess it’s back to the races for me… I don’t think I’ve been gone long enough to clear my debts or anything… What is it…
7 years, right?”

“Jimi… You definitely ARE a runner, I’ll say that.”

“I’m a dancer.” We laugh and hug. I know we won’t see each other for a long time. Something passed between us in Paris, with
Jane, and me leaving, not wanting to share their laughter and tears. Maybe the thing that brought us together, Ray, is now
the thing that makes us not be able to stay together. We remember, and then we have to forget. We try to forget, so we can
go on.

“Jimi… I’m just glad you made it over… You’re always welcome on my couch, buddy.”

I give him a last squeeze and I walk up the runway to the plane. I think he meant it… That I’d always be welcome on his couch…
But I know it’s over. Whatever IT is, I know IT’S gone. I can’t be showing up on their couches anymore—all these people I
used to know, went to school with, hung out with. My tour of yesterday is over. I’ve milked it out: boarding school, college,
the whole east coast schoolboy party circuit is way old. I gotta blame it on that, on them. There aren’t too many other things
I can point the finger at. The show’s over, and I’m still taking bows like there’s a full house in front of me.

“Jimi… Why didn’t we make love last night?” she says, rolling over, up and outta bed, deftly avoiding my sleepy lunge. “Oh
shit… I’m already late for class.”

Back in Hell and it’s colder than ever. Two months of enlightened self-annihilation hadn’t meant shit. Hostage to HER emotions
and MY pain-lust. She’s pacing the room in a frenzy, throwing dirty panties, trying to unearth a cigarette, and I’m wondering
what’s happened. As IF it could change. As IF ME going away was going to change her, or it, or this, or me. TV shows go on
hiatus and so does bad love… And they both always pick up right where they left off.

“I don’t know, Linds… I think it’s HARD for two people to fuck when ONE of’m is running circles around the room… A question
of physics really.” What am I supposed to do? Act as puzzled as she is? She’s not puzzled at all. She just hates me and doesn’t
realize it. I see it, though… I think I even feel it myself.

“Do you always have to use the word FUCK… You’re really a pig!”

“Lindsey, of all the ridiculous things I STILL do… Saying that you and I make LOVE is not one of them.”

She stops moving and stares at me with a set of eyes that only Charlie Manson would call sexy. Pure hate. I’m held down by
the gaze as if each eye is a spike holding me, running through me, pinning me to the mattress, piercing my lungs and making
me real scared. That’s it… REAL SCARED!

“You’re just so morbid!” and spins out into the hallway.

Spikes removed, I claw my way to the end of the bed with a jaundiced eye on the bathroom.

Standing in the bathroom, listening to the spray hit, and jerking my way through a full-on pee-shiver, I see the back of her
head storm through the room and bound back out, accompanied by a series of disgusted groans. It’s painful to look at the bitch
from any angle. It’s funny. It’s actually just funny. I can’t help but laugh… The emotions… The time… Even Europe all seems
like such a waste because I did it for her. Jimi Banks became an expatriate because he was lovesick for a girl who just really
isn’t happy when he’s around. The piss hitting the bowl, splashing back up in my hand. Always dirty, always getting dirty.
Puke on my face… Piss on my hands… Shit on my nose. It’s all so beautiful… And it’s just so filthy. I could hope all I want,
that some cosmic eclipse would erase every mishap, every misword, every misfuck, but I just don’t think it matters anymore.
The hate
had taken on a life of its own. When our eyes meet, puppets come up from out of our psyches and spit on each other. FUCK IT…
SHE’S SUCH AN ASSHOLE ANYWAYS… WHERE DID OUR LOVE GO?… BACK WHERE IT CAME FROM… THANK FUCKING GOD… IT DOESN’T MATTER… I’M
AN ASSHOLE TOO… IT DOESN’T MATTER WHO’S WHO OR WHAT’S WHAT… I mean… There’s no doubt I’m a selfish drunken bum fag coward
liar and whatever else fits. But at least I’m not stringing this shitty thing along and pretending I don’t see it. I see.
I see. And now I’m fucking out of here.

I walk out of the bathroom and there she is, buzzing around the living room all pissed off. I start to laugh out loud.

“You’re happy I missed my class, aren’t you, Jimi?”

“I wish it were that painless… This laughter’s taken months, miles, and so many dollars to muster.”

“What?”

“I shoulda laughed this laugh back in July… It’s been rotting inside of me and choking me because I’ve been afraid to let
it out.”

“Oh now, we’re gonna have THIS talk again… !”

“I was standing in the bathroom looking at every angle, every little wall, every brush, every bottle, every THING in there,
and all I saw was us, and none of it was any good… I hate every bit of
it… Linds, I’m goin’ back to the island… We’re through… Not that that’s any BIG news to you… I’m just saying it out loud for
my OWN good… I gotta get outta here.”

“OK… Well… You know,” she says, stopping, “… Call me or maybe I’ll call you… I mean someday… I wanna know what you’re up to…
You know….”

The moment. The moment when it’s finally been said and a small piece of truth creeps back in. The faces relax, and the eyes
soften, and I see again. Lindsey becomes a human again. No longer a goddess or a monster… Just the girl I fell in love with.
I run my fingers through her hair and down the side of her face. The anger subsides for the first time in months.

“I do… I gotta go, Linds.”

“I know.”

“I don’t really want to though.”

“Something’s gotta change… This is hell on both of us, Jimi.”

“I’m afraid to leave you.”

“I think it’d be better.”

Looking at her face as I stroke her hair. Talking to her again. No shadowboxing, just words. It doesn’t matter what the words
mean when they’re put together. It’s just nice to hear them again. Hoping I can make something from nothing, wishing.

“Can we make LOVE one more time, Linds?” Hating that I said it, but feeling a need to say it. Trying to find some last piece.
“… And then I gotta go… I gotta leave here… This place makes me
sad anymore… I’m fucked up about it… Can we do that?”

“Ah… Yeah… OK… I’ve already missed my class anyways.” And gets back in bed.

I get in next to her and start to give her kisses. Our tongues occasionally brush past one another. Lindsey’s got her sweater
on and I’m naked. I’m at the Final Chapter and she’s missing her lecture. IT’S HORRIBLE. AND IT’S PERFECT. I kiss her down
her bare thighs until I get to the inside of her. I lick and kiss the folds. I take each lip into my mouth and suck on it.
Pulling her apart… Thinking of other things… Thinking of other times… Trying to be tender… Her body feels tense and cold…
But there’s warmth inside of her… I peek up at her face… The eyes are closed… She’s left me… I hate myself for trying to make
this something new again. I should’ve just kissed her and left, but that little piece of me still hopes. The HUMAN in me.
Going back to what once was… Remembering the laughter… Remembering the good… Thinking just maybe… She begins rubbing herself
while I rock inside… It lasts a couple of minutes and then we come. The desperation rolling down my body in frozen beads.
I give her a kiss.

“Is there anything left here? Anything at all?”

“No, Jimi… You were right before.”

I get up and put my clothes on. It’s still early in the morning. Early enough for me to get out to the island without ever
having to deal with any REAL world.

Lindsey follows me through the apartment to the front door. I turn around as my hand twists the knob. I wanna cry but I feel
like I’ll pass out or something weird if I let it all loose. Lindsey looks serene, calm. I can tell by the stillness that
THIS is how it should really be. The birds outside. I hear them. The sun. I feel it. Nature tells me. I remember the first
time I saw her, sitting on the Navigator porch in her waitress outfit, laughing and drinking with her friends. I take her
hands in mine. They’re warm.

“You know… I’ll never forget the first time I saw you… I thought you were the most beautiful girl to’ve ever come out to the
island… Here it is… The summer’s over… You and I lived together… And now, we’re saying good-bye… It was beautiful, wasn’t
it?… I mean I remember it all being so good when it was happening….”

“Jimi…” she says, and squeezes my hand just tight enough for me to feel her one last time. “… It was a nice summer…” and lets
go of my hand and turns away. “… It really was.”

I walk down the stairs and out of the building. A stray cat runs in front of me. The air is crisp, the sun is climbing. There’s
no wind. Cars hurry past me on the street. I hoist my bag over my shoulder, straightening my jacket under the strap, looking
for a train or a bus or anything to leave on. All the other people seem to be walking down the hill, so I turn right and start
after them. I look over my
shoulder up at her window, trying to catch one last glimpse… Maybe just a shadow, anything, a last tiny piece… And then I
leave….

Standing out on a narrow stretch of beach with high grass to my right, watching the ocean roll in when I think of it, drinking
buck-fifty bottles of red wine, reliving the joys, and then tasting the bitter. In and out… Over and over… Synchronicity…
A gulp of juice… A picnic on the beach… The last time I saw her… A telephone I can’t pick up… The waves roll in and take it
back out, only to wash it back in again. How many times can I tell her I’m sorry and how many times will I not accept the
apology?… A shell is forming around me… A beard on my jaw… A smile on my mouth… A joke on my tongue… I’ve retreated… The sand
sparkles and shines in front of me… A strip of light across my vision… I lay in wait under the shadow of a bottle I hold over
my head… I’ve been to this place before… But I always lied and told myself I had somewhere else to go… The sea is my movie…
Thinking something must happen… And knowing it won’t come from me… Waiting….

The island clears out with the weather. LATE FALL. Work’s hard to find. Islanders hold on to their work. If there are only
two houses to paint, then they do it alone and stretch it out over the winter. If they don’t know me, they don’t care. If
they do know me, they won’t hire me. It’s a small place and a reputation can ruin. My rep is “he’s an OK guy to get drunk
with, but don’t hire him for anything.” They buy me a drink, hand me a couple bucks, and casually tell me to shut up. As long
as I get the drink… I DO shut up. It goes like that for weeks. A couch here, a buck there, a free meal—just enough to stay
conscious. Finally, Joe Duffy takes me on as his mate and I become a lobsterman.

Galloping across the water on the roof of his 31-foot rig with R.E.M. cranking, smoking a joint while Joe steers through the
roof with a broomstick. We rise up and then drop in with each swell. This ain’t the Love Boat but it sure beats raking leaves
for a ham sandwich and a six-pack—my last gig. We’re a piece of driftwood out here, ducking and jiving like a scared flyweight.
I’m as small as I suspected. NOTHING. The depressing french guys are right.
We work all day, sometimes I clear a C-note. Sometimes I make twenty. Either way, Joe buys me two poached with hash every
morning, and a bucket of beers every night. Fuck the car payments, they can have it back if they want it.