The Nirvana Blues (82 page)

“I'm a street person,” he wheezed, disliking himself already for the rap to come; his self-righteousness emerged from a dark hypocrisy hissing dangerously, like a cobra. “I like the action of real people, real struggles. I can't stand the effete cosmic bullshit of privileged dingbats with nothing better to do than lug a ten-thousand-pound, million-dollar statue all the way from India to the Rocky Mountains for the purpose of grooving on an idol when they get ripped on Moroccan kif and feel in need of a spiritual hit so they can float around in bare feet looking beautiful and transcending the hellish carnage of Life in the Trenches where nine-tenths of humanity, not blessed with trust funds or PhDs or a Westchester childhood, toils.”

“My my. You certainly are touchy today.”

“I hate India. I can't help it.” Why couldn't he shut up, groveling through the upcoming charade with at least one small shred of dignity? “All those geeks in loincloths and turbans selling zen this, Hanuman that, and Tibetan such-and-such to rich Americanos, while ninety percent of the people over there suffer hellish torments every day, and live in putrid sinkholes.”

“Have you ever been to India?”

“No—have you?”

“Not in a way you'd understand.”

“Try me.”

“Well, I haven't actually been in, you know—in person. My corporeal body.”

“What way have you been?”

“I don't want to discuss it with you. All you do is make fun.”

“I won't make fun of you. Seriously. I'm really interested.”

“Well, there are ways of traveling to a place other than buying a plane ticket, or taking a boat.”

“Sure. You can get on a train.”

“See what I mean? You can't resist.”

“No, hey, please—I wasn't trying to be funny.”

“Well, anyway—you know.”

“Know what? What did you find over there?”

“Tranquillity. Peace. A beauty that is so radiant it's almost impossible to talk about, especially in this sort of situation.”

“Where did you find it?” Somehow, he still had the chutzpah to flush angrily. But how hollow sounded his words! “Do the beggars, who deliberately maim themselves in order to earn a living, sell you three Tranquillities for a nickel on the streets of Calcutta? Do little baskets of Beauty float among the turds in the open sewers of Delhi? Can you get a real hit of Peace watching them burn—on the banks of the Ganges in Varanasi—the ten thousand bodies a day that expire from cholera? Or did some Nepalese sherpa with a life expectancy of thirty-eight, earning two dollars a day for risking death by leading you up to world fame and glory at the summit of Mount Everest, give to you the secret of Eternal Radiance?”

Quietly, she said, “Well, that settles
that
conversation. I hate to say it, but you're not being very fair.”

“I'm talking about people
starving
to death.” Tears dribbled from his eyes. “I'm talking about crippling parasites in every stomach, open running sores on every limb, millions of families who sleep in their own excrement on the sidewalks every night. I'm talking about one fucking doctor for every five hundred thousand people, while there's a fakir-guru on every street-corner, selling pie in the sky so that all that slavery just perpetuates itself!”

“I know what you're talking about, but…”

“But what?”

She parted her glistening lips a trifle and whispered, just a tad mockingly: “But, but, but.”

He melted. His own ineffectual blood sabotaged the crying of these blues.

“You got no conscience,” he complained meekly.

“I have so many things I could teach you, if only you would let me.”

“I'm afraid of you. After today I want nothing more to do with you.”

“I'm not afraid of you.”

“So I noticed.”

“After today what will you do?”

“I don't know. I've destroyed all my credibility. I'm badly damaged goods.”

“You're not damaged goods, Joe. Not to me.”

“What am I to you, then?”

“Oh, I don't know exactly. You're a large, vital bundle of raw material without any real guidelines, I suppose.”

“And you just happen to have the correct guidelines, right?”

“You might say that.”

“Tell me something,” he asked, truly puzzled. “How do you get off being so calm and cocky?”

“I found an inner peace.”

“Where?”

Nancy laughed, and declined to reply. Bradley said, “Mom, Sasha's making mean faces at me. Tell him to stop. I hate his guts.”

“He's only an animal, darling. He doesn't know any better.”

Their motorcade reached its destination. One shabby vehicle after another filed into the west end of Eloy's front field, destroying the grass. Joe parked between a midnight-blue Dodge van decorated with Day-Glo characters from the “Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers” comic strip and a chartreuse 1952 Chevy pickup packed full of little children wearing calico granny dresses and yellow wisteria crowns.

“We're here.” Nancy affixed a slim red-leather leash to Sasha's collar. “You can get out now.”

“I'm scared.”

“Of what?”

“Of all those vibes out there. I forgot to wear my tennis shoes. I'm not grounded. I'll be electrocuted.”

“Very funny.”

“They'll put acid in the punch—I'll have a horrible trip, I'll freak out. I wanna go back to my Lone Star beer and honky-tonk women.”

Bradley said, “Mom, is he crazy?”

“Nope. He's just a little boy like you, dear. Now come on, everybody—alley oop!” She opened her door. Unbalanced by his pink eyepatch and arm cast, Sasha lost control in midleap, did a somersault, and hit the deck with a pained squeal.

Joe slouched as low as possible behind the wheel. “It's a trap,” he groaned. “Half the revelers out there are narcs, just cruising around, looking to bust heavy political types like me.”

“Joe, you're really absurd.” She giggled over his antics.

“Oh yeah?” Joe sniffed the air. “Get a whiff of that. What are they doing, burning an entire marijuana field so that everybody inhaling the smoke in unison can get loaded at the same time?”

“All right, that does it—let's go, Bradley.”

“Wait for me,” Joe cried. “Do you want the car locked?”

“In this place?”

Catching up to her, Joe raised his collar, hunched his shoulders, scrunched down his neck, and, though honestly terrified, he pantomimed the acts of a comically paranoid man: “Hey,” he whispered, “do you think anybody'll notice my karma?” His hand bumped into Diana's gun—why hadn't he left it in the car? It was burning a hole in his pocket. I'll shoot that helicopter out of the sky! I'll commit suicide! I'll go berserk and take a bunch of them with me! I'll assassinate Nikita Smatterling! I'll plug the Hanuman when they swing open those U-Haul doors!

Nancy laughed lightly, and touched her fist to his nose, a symbolic punch.

“Is my aura okay? If it isn't, will they notice and attack like a pack of jackals?”

“Absolutely.”

“But I'm too young to be reincarnated!” Mayhaps he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown?

“In your last life,” she joshed, “I bet you were a toad. In your next life, I hope you reappear as a gnat.”

“Then por lo menos, in my next life, I'll be gnattily attired.”

“Oh lord.” Politely, she made a funny gesture that suggested barfing. “You know, you really don't have to feel so self-conscious, though. Nobody will stick their tongue out at you. And anyway, they've all had their rabies shots.”

Nevertheless, Joe wished he could dart unnoticed behind a bush and speedily unload the revolver.
Stop me before I kill again!
Then he thought: The next time Sasha does something obscene, my final act in life will be to pull out the gun and tattoo my monogram across that monkey's scrawny chest!

A grove of silvertip poplar trees in cardboard buckets had grown up near the aspen gazebo, compliments of Ragtime Flowershop. Gray cooking-smoke seeped idly up through the new-leafed branches at the east end of the field, carrying delicious smells of exotic foods in preparation. Heading there, they passed the U-Haul: its side door was still locked to keep folks from prematurely viewing the Hanuman. The cable harness and the ring on top gleamed lazily, inviting grappling hooks. Surrounding the ring atop the trailer, among a cornucopia of colorful fruits and flowers, sat a gold-framed photograph of Baba Ram Bang. Other people ambled past the trailer, selfconsciously ignoring it as they trickled toward the food. A little child, naked except for a beaded headband and cowboy boots, her face decorated by white paint, sat beneath the U-Haul cradling a stuffed monkey in her arms. Sasha scampered out to the end of his leash, hissed and clattered his rotten teeth, and, with his good hand, lifted the pink eyepatch, exposing his gory wound. Nancy tugged him away gently, clucking her tongue, but not before the little girl had started crying.

From off to one side, Egon Braithwhite called out to Joe: “Shin hua mabuchi!”

Joe gritted his teeth, refusing to turn around: he continued advancing.

“Ma jhong! Ma jhong!”

Joe upped the pace as the U-Haul receded behind them.

“Hi ti rabba mogup!”

Nancy said, “Aren't you going to answer him?”

“I would, but I don't know whether to say ‘Chop hee go dum dum' or ‘Bee tachiwa!'”

And then Diana appeared, forlorn, mystifyingly beautiful. Though Joe's instincts said “Turn away,” her dark eyes held him: they stared at each other briefly. Her anguish and agony, muted by a curiously serene tristesse that positively glowed from her bearing, floated through the air, caressed Joe, caused pain. She seemed sweetly superior and scornful … and pitying—
Are you one of them now, Joe? Do you cuddle monkeys in your sleep?
He wished desperately to explain, avow eternal love for her—Diana's soul intrigued him so much more than Nancy's.

A demure smile … then she quietly took her provocative darkness elsewhere.

Incense smoke mixed with the pungent vapor of five cook-fires. Half a dozen swarthy, turbaned east Indians scurried between large cauldrons, basting, tasting, prodding, and probing their stews, brews, goulashes, and other concoctions. About thirty people already sat in a large circle near the campfires. Baba Ram Bang hunkered at the head of the circle, leading a song. Some people jangled cheerful little castanetlike contraptions affixed to their fingers. Rama Unfug was energetically filming the scene. Joe quickly canvassed the crowd, searching for the telltale bulges of burp guns and surreptitious hand grenades hidden under the clothing of the various troops involved in protecting the Hanuman or planning to pinch it. But nobody seemed even the least bit prepared for holocaust.

Anyone expecting a bunch of American freaks all decked out as swamis, gurus, and holy men and women would have been sorely disappointed. Costumes ranged from T-shirts and jeans, through everyday, run-of-the-mill, slightly shabby summer stuff. A few far-out costumes added flavor. Nikita himself wore a linen hospital gown whose enormous cuffs were elaborately embroidered with Far Eastern designs. His youngest kid, Siddhartha, was attired in a white Mowgli loincloth and sandals. Nearby another child checked in wearing a Hopalong Cassidy (or was that a Lash LaRue?) cowboy outfit. Dr. Phil Horney had chosen to appear in a tie and cord sportcoat, doubleknit slacks, and oxblood cordovans. His wife preferred her spiritual events in a revealing black body shirt, old fashioned pedal pushers, and a silver concho belt. Cowboy hats—perched atop Old West-moustachioed hippies—outnumbered turbans six to one. A gaggle of far-out dudes and outtasight chicks wore Hanuman T-shirts. Others' skimpy tops advertised the wearer's personality. Natalie Gandolf's T-shirt said “Nice Jugs”; Skipper Nuzum's ballyhooed “Go, Boomer Sooners!” A dozen kids' shirts displayed the
Grease
and
Star Wars
symbols. One Joe noticed in particular said “Any Man Who Eat Fried Chicken Bound To Get Greezy.”

A hideous revelation shook Joe. His paranoia had
fantasized
the upcoming conflagration! Under pressure, his mind had floated off its moorings. He had dreamed up the helicopters, Joe Bonatelli's grapefruit, Jeff Orbison's offer to bribe Tom Yard. For days, Chamisaville's gathering surrealism had been but a figment of his schizophrenic imagination. He had projected a hysteria that didn't exist except in the morbid chambers of his own disintegrating brain!

As she approached him, Iréné Papadraxis's breasts jiggled tantalizingly behind the slogan “I'm a Real Softy.”
Oh no,
Joe cried;
I'm a goner!
No doubt she would slip one hand behind her back, removing a silver, pearl-handled derringer, and plant an odd-caliber hollow-nosed slug in his sternum. As he fell, Diana would reappear, this time packing a loaded police .38, and commence blasting. Heidi, no doubt, would add her two cents with a sawed-off twelve-gauge shotgun spewing those good ol' double-ought buck loads. Then Ray Verboten would out with his reliable betsy, no doubt a .357 Mag, and deliver the coup de grace.

MINIVER MEETS MONSTROUS MAKER
AT MALEVOLENT MONKEY FETE
!

Instead, Iréné did worse.

She mortified him mortally by extending an amiable hand and smiling cheerfully. “Hello, Joseph. I'm so glad you could make it.” Her professional politeness chilled him to the bones. How could people experience the depravity they had suffered through last night, and be so detached and civilized next morning? It was like television: you blew each other's brains out, marched into exterminating ovens, and crippled your opponent for life on the same emotional level at which you bought a car or waxed your kitchen … and nothing truly mattered.