Venus Drive (4 page)

Someday, I shit you not, we are going to smash the state. We are going to smash it good. We've got time on our side. We are up in the hills with time on our side, and time's pal, history, is pulling for us, too. Martin says it, and I believe it. What's not to believe? What is to be done will be done.

Up here, we are so far from our old homes. We are so far from where inside our old homes are mothers and fathers and TV's to believe, shiny bars to hang towels from, bottles of things to wash our hair with and soften our shirts. We are far from the campus, too, where maybe I was out of my league, or maybe they were out of mine. Damn them, the ones on campus, and the ones in town. They walk around like everything is howdy-dory. They are blind to everything they cannot see. Soon as I heard about smashing the state, I was in. You don't have to convince me the smell I'm smelling is the stench of the state. Look around, sniff it—the coffee, the roses, the rot, the aroma.

Up here, we must beware. We are safer in the hills but we are not safe. The long arm of the law is bendy and long. All we can do is wait. We are waiting and we wait.

Some days, Martin and me, we shoot the shotgun over the landlord's roof. Some days we get in the truck, go four-by-four on the pond road when it ices, skitch it. Every day we cut the trees where they grow thick on the ridge. Martin cuts them and I haul the wood to the road. The landlord says to cut what we need for heat. The forest, it comes with the rent. But we always cut more for barricades, for bonfire fuel.

The barricades are for the revolution, the bonfire fuel for bonfires, which the landlord forbids, that fucking kulak.

We like to skitch and we like to loaf, but we can only do it until Martin's wife Lucy comes home. Then we have to look busy. Lucy says the revolution, for revolutionists, is twenty-four-seven, but most days Lucy goes off in her blood-technician whites. Me and Martin, we drive out for a snack.

“Doing hillbilly shit is a good stress reliever,” says Martin.

“Look at Trotsky and his opera,” I say, “I mean Bronstein. Look at Bronstein.”

We are watching our pie cool at White Power Pizza. White Power Pizza is also called Hank's, after Hank Krull, the owner, but if I say to Martin, after a long day of kulak-roof-buckshot-lofting, or pond-road skitching, or pond-ice sliding, “Hey, let's go to Hank's,” he has no idea what I might mean, but if I say “White Power Pizza,” we are four-by-four with all due speed.

We are watching our pie cool and feeling the coolness of glances from Hank and his White Power Pizza men. They are boys, really, fallen from football glory, with iron crosses on their floury arms, tiny tears inked under their eyes. Every pseudo-hillbilly in a fabric-softener-softened shirt knows the meaning of this cooling glance. It's the one that comes before the knuckle-dusters, the brickbats, the blackjacks, or those funny circle blades for slicing pies.

“What the hell are you looking at?” says Hank.

“Just watching a pro at work,” Martin says.

“The key is to keep the ovens clean. They had a problem with that in Poland.”

Hank winks, shoots us a little Nuremberg number with the flat of his hand.

Every revolutionist is a student of the odds, says Lucy, or maybe Bronstein said it first. It's a truth every Bronstein better heed.

We abandon our perfect pie, hurry out to the truck. We drive back up the pond road, past the landlord's house. You can see her through the window with her sons, small and sandy-headed darlings, sitting like a family yuletide greeting while she reads to them from one of those big-assed animal toddler books, the kind where hippos lecture on democracy.

“Fucking kulak!” I scream, my voice lost to wind.

Brothers and sisters, we are compound-bound.

 

The compound is our little house off the forest road. I love our little house, the graveyard beside it, the woods all around. I love to stagger out and piss in graveyard snow. I stare up at the moonpie moon, or dream of the little girls buried at the treeline under crooked stones. They died of typhus in the age of Millard Fillmore, my favorite president from that special time when I had to memorize those ruffle-throated men. Maybe our house is haunted, but it only makes me love it more, the whine and shudder of floorboard and strut. It's all grained up with ghostliness. I love the iron hook I carry for the hauling of the wood that Martin cuts. It is hooked in my coat for readiness.

I love to play with the little minds of the sandy sons when they come over, curious.

Also, I love Tina, in my sleeping bag, up in the attic room. Good, sweet Tina with so much to give to the world and giving it to me, sleepytime hummers and wake-ups, too.

But don't get me wrong. Most of all I love the revolution. Maybe I'm just tired of the wait.

The landlord thinks we are communists. We are not communists. What could a kulak, with her damn hippos, know? Communists? Sure, there are some around, the next town over. We saw them once at White Power Pizza, dumber than fence-holes, yacking their excuses for Misters Stalin and Mao. Not us. We say forget it after Bronstein got it. A clusterfuck from then till now. That is our tendency, as Martin says.

Me, I tend to say, “Let's get the twelve gauge,” or, “The pond road is totally iced. Let's ride.”

Martin tends to need persuading. Martin tends to pour more coffee and talk about Bronstein. He loves the pointy-bearded man so much, he says his born name. Bronstein, Bronstein, Bronstein. Bronstein does Siberia, Bronstein smites the pesky Kronstadt sailors, Bronstein peers through learned spectacles into the dark tomorrow.

“Bronstein had Hitler pinned,” says Martin. “He knew what was coming. He figured Stalin out, too. Ergo, ice pick.”

I can't help but like the ice pick part. I can see the skullmeat in the garden.

 

There's a winter's worth of wood already, but we keep the maul and wedge out front with some scraps to whack at for when Lucy drives up. While we make our preparations, drink down our vodka-and-Gatorades near the scrap-whack part of the yard, the little kulak boys come over. They are miniature soldiers, future sausage casings of the pork apparatus. They sit smug on our stump chairs, as though they own them, which in the world as it is, as opposed to how it could be, they do. I throw a bag of shake and a packet of extra-wides into the lap of the older one.

“If you can roll it, you can smoke it,” I say.

“I'm ten.”

“Happy birthday,” I say.

“It's not my birthday.”

“Then happy nothing,” I say

“Everywhere,” says Martin, lowering the maul to the grass, “there are children younger and fiercer than you, ready to shuck the yoke of oppression.”

“The yolk is too runny,” says the smaller sandy son.

“That's the point, little man,” I say.

“What's the hook for?”

“For the gruesome necessaries,” I tell him.

“Mom says she's going to evict you.” says the older son to Martin.

“Do you believe the hippos operate under false consciousness?”

“Mom said the university kicked you out because you were crazy, and your friend here because he was dumb.”

“Don't you see the crisis built into late hippo capitalism?” says Martin. “There's nothing idealistic about it. It's fucking math.”

“Don't curse-word me,” says the boy. He hands the shake and papers to his smaller kulak brother.

“Take this to Mom,” he says. The other boy speeds off through trees.

“You're in deepies now,” says the older sandy son. “Mom said one more little thing and she was calling Hank Krull.”

The boy walks the snowholes of his running brother, a mittened form between the bends of birch.

“Deepies,” Martin says. “Don't tell Lucy. Don't tell her a thing.”

Some days we're up there smoking on the prayer rock off the hill trail, smoking on the big slab facing east. Martin says the local braves used to sit here a few hundred years ago to watch the sun go up, watch the wagons roll by, beseech the Great Spirit to kick Manifest Destiny's ass.

“But the only way to win,” says Martin, “is to organize people.”

“What people?” I say, wave out to the half-stump woods.

“They're coming over tonight.”

“Tina, too?” I say.

 

Tina is my lady of the revolution. She was a daughter of Midwest mansions, come to university to study slides of the paintings that hung in her father's halls.

Then she took Martin's elective, “Introduction to Resistance: Semiotic to Semi-automatic,” and he saw in her the makings of a revolutionist. This was just before the graduate-school dean kicked Martin out for “beliefs antithetical to the pursuit of happiness.”

Martin took Tina home to the compound, to Lucy and me. We ate rabbit cassoulet. It was Martin's specialty. We drank a case of beer, then laid into some good port. For the sake of function I had given up shooting speed.

Tina came upstairs to see my Kronstadt, to kiss it.

“Martin really loves you, you know.” she said.

There are certain reasons why women tell you of another man's love for you, but I did not know them then.

“Pledge allegiance to me,” I said.

“Martin says we will eat in communal kitchens,” she said. “Thousands at a time. Everyone will work three days a week. No surplus.”

“We'll get married in a tank,” I said. “We'll win over the army and they'll give us a tank. A Bradley Fighting Vehicle.”

“Forget it,” said Tina. “When the state withers away so will monogamy and marriage. Good riddance. Besides, I've only been with four men so far. Only one without rubbers.”

“Anyone I know?”

“Martin thinks the house is bugged. Do you think so?”

“Assume surveillance, rest assured,” I said, quoting my mentor.

 

We are scrap-whacking in the yard, all business, when Lucy drives up. She gives us her don't-we-have-enough-wood look, cluckety-cluck.

“Don't even,” says Martin. “It's been a long day.”

“A long day of what is the question,” says Lucy. She can be sitcom mom when she isn't technician-white lady, or Rosy-Lucy Luxemburg.

“Oh, Lucy,” says Martin.

“Crazy bitch,” I say.

“Hey,” says Martin. “Watch it.”

“In a good way,” I say.

Martin does some whacking. He always lets me slide, slither out from what I say. Maybe he feels guilty, being my teacher once, and me still a little slow. Maybe it's our fabric-softener softened shirts. We are from the same kind of towns. We both know the sound of swivel-head spray at midnight on a summer lawn. We both know the weak secrets of us.

“Bronstein came from a farm-owning family, you know,” says Martin.

“About the ice pick incident,” I say. “Was he wearing his glasses?”

“Every day with you. Enough.”

Maybe he's right. Maybe it's being in the hills like this, with people down in town doing good and evil, and us just having to wait.

 

When Martin brought me here to meet Lucy I knew from the first moment that there was something between us. Call it chemical, call it mineral. It's vegetable when she is out in the garden in her morning robe, picking radishes for dinner. Somehow, though, without even a kiss, I suddenly became their son, the sulky one, the wild one, all the ones they vowed to never bear.

I made peace with my lust as a matter of priority.

Lucy is our rock, our reason.

Martin is the teacher, but it's Lucy who will set us free.

Still, the meals the man cooks! My God, if he were not the Bronstein of his age, he could have gone to New York City, been master chef to the ruling class.

“The idle's aproned idol,” Martin said.

Tonight is Greek night, lasagna.

“A popular peasant dish,” says Martin.

Lucy drinks off her wine.

“I couldn't find this poor woman's vein today. They give you three tries, then someone else takes over.”

“You'll feel better at the bonfire meeting,” says Martin.

“Tina's coming over with some new recruits,” I say.

Lucy lifts up the wine bottle as though to examine the label. It's the usual vineyard scene, happy serfs up to their hips in grape.

“Christ, how did this happen to me?” she says. “I tell them about all this at work and they think you should be committed.”

“What did I say about that?” says Martin. “At work, you never heard of me.”

Lucy bangs the bottle on the table edge. In the biopic of Lucy it will break, but now it only bounces.

“I'm going to kill someone,” she says.

“That's silly,” says Martin. “For now, I mean. It's anarchic, futile. We must build a base of—”

“Fuck your futility,” says Lucy. “I'm going to fire a bullet into somebody's ear.”

“That's nice talk for a nurse,” says Martin.

“I'm a blood technician, my dear. I have a job. Did you get this month's check from mommy yet? You're thirty fucking years old. And your little moron friend here. Can't decide whether he wants to do you or me.”

It hurts, but I forgive each sentence before the next hisses out.

“You know,” says Martin slowly, “Bronstein did not rise out of destitution, either. It's not a requirement. Would you rather my mother give the money to the Policeman's Benevolence Association?”

“Fuck Bronstein,” says Lucy. “I'd waste him with an ice pick in half a second.”

“You need a nap,” says Martin. “But first, how about a little surprise?”

“I'll get it,” I say, go to the kitchen for the key lime pie.

 

The new recruits drive up in a rusted sedan, a classic suburban bougiemobile, the kind my father used to drive me around in to show off all those atrocities of the state, the natural man-made wonders that always have those splintery benches nearby to drink warm root beer on. Put a quarter in the bughead metal scopes and maybe you can see the blood of workers drip-dried on the dam walls.