Zombie (5 page)

HOW A DUMB ACCIDENT CAN CHANGE YOUR LIFE.

Supposed to meet a guy, young Wayne State kid, at the fountain at Grand Circus Park, downtown Detroit, it was a hot muggy summer night seven, eight years ago & Q__ P__ in the city for the weekend alone & fresh-faced amid the winos around the pigeonshit fountain strung out on Thunderbird & heroin some of them so far gone you’d mistake a young guy for old, a white guy for black, eyes bloodshot or filmed over in mucus & skin gray-moldery like an exhumed corpse. & this was the time I think this was the time when I was taking a course in learning to be a real estate agent in Mt. Vernon, my big sis Junie’s idea & it was a reasonable one, just didn’t work out. Maybe I’d been drinking too but I wasn’t drunk, for sure I am never what’s called DRUNK but steady on my feet & steady-eyed, steely. & I was looking pretty damn good in my tight jeans & palomino-skin jacket worn for reasons of style despite the 90° heat, my hair like wings oiled & combed back from my face curving just under my
ears. Just come from sleeping & waking dazed not knowing where I was at first in the balcony of one of the big old palatial movie theaters on Woodward FIERY BOY LOVE & FORBIDDEN ECSTASIES. & now it was midnight & thrumming from electricity though Woodward & Gratiot were practically deserted. & I waited for my friend, & waited, & he never came & I was pissed wasting much of a Saturday night & went to some bars on Grand River & must’ve gotten drunk & afterward walking along the sidewalk I was grabbed from behind by two or three unknown assailants, might’ve been more of them standing watching, a nigger gang?—just teenagers but big & strong & laughing-elated doped to the eyeballs throwing me down like it’s a football tackle onto the filthy pavement & KICK KICK KICKING yelling
Where’s your wallet, man? Where’s that wallet?
I’d just seen a cop-cruiser pass through the intersection but nobody came to my rescue, if there were witnesses on the street they didn’t give a shit just walked away, or stood laughing at whitey getting pounded, his glasses broken & nose bloodied & the more he squirmed like a fish on a hook the more the kids laughed & yelled ripping my palomino-hide jacket & got my wallet within seconds but still laughing, chanting
Where’s your wallet, man? Where’s that wallet?
like these were words to some nigger music which maybe they were. & I’m sobbing & trying to say
No! don’t hurt! oh hey please! no, NO!
like not even a child but a baby, an infant might, & I’m pissing my pants & when it’s over & they’re running away I don’t even know it I’m still sobbing, trying to
hide my face, double up like a thick writhing worm trying to protect my insides with my knees, & a long time afterward somebody comes over to peer at me & ask,
Man, you alive? You want some ambulance or somethin’?

It was when I saw my face next day the revelation came.

Blinking & leaning close to the mirror because I didn’t have my glasses, & there was this FACE! this fantastic FACE! battered & bandaged (& blood leaking through already) & stitched (more than twenty stitches they gave me at Detroit General for three bad gashes) & the lips bruised & swollen & these were bloodshot-blackened EYES UNKNOWN TO ME.

& I understood then that I could habit a FACE NOT KNOWN. Not known ANYWHERE IN THE WORLD. I could move in the world LIKE ANOTHER PERSON. I could arouse PITY, TRUST, SYMPATHY, WONDERMENT & AWE with such a face. I could EAT YOUR HEART & asshole you’d never know it.

Phone rang & it was Mom. Asked how I was & I said. Asked about my classes at Dale Tech & I said. Asked about my sinuses & I said. Asked about the caretaker’s job (which was Dad’s idea for Q__ P__, not Mom’s) & I said.

Has it been six months since my dental check-up Mom asked & I said I didn’t know & Mom said she was afraid it was more than six months possibly a year? & did I remember all the dental work I’d had to have done ten years ago when I’d neglected to have my teeth examined regularly & cleaned & I said & Mom said should she make an appointment for me? with Dr. Fish? & I stood there holding the phone receiver & through the opened doorway & along the hall at the mailboxes there was the one called Akhil talking with the one called Abdellah & I wondered what they were saying. If I could hear them, if the language they spoke was my own.

Couldn’t remember where I’d hidden them. Groping around on top of the beams filthy with cobwebs & desiccated husks of insects & my fingers came away empty. ROUND-LENSED GLASSES & CLEAR PLASTIC FRAMES. In school across the aisle his silky hair & face I stared at & the light winking off the lenses like there was a SECRET CONNÉCTION between us.

Except there wasn’t.

Or maybe there was & he denied it. Pushing me away if I stood too close in cafeteria line. Bruce & his friends & I’d slip in behind them & pretend like I was standing with them sometimes pushing up against them, a boy’s back.

BRUCE BRUUCE BRUUUUCE! I would whisper jamming my fingers in my mouth & my mouth against the pillow wet from drooling.

A door opened in my dream & I
was
BRUCE.

His parents came over to talk to Dad & Mom. I hid away hearing their terrible voices. Dad came finally to get me
—Quentin! Quen-tin!—
flush-faced & his glasses damp against his nose & his goatee quivering when he discovered me hiding curled up like a big
slug behind the trash pail in the cupboard beneath the sink.
What do you mean biding from me, son? Do you think you can hide from
me? Led me by the arm into the living room where Mom was sitting stiff-smiling on the cream-colored brocaded sofa with two strangers, a man & a woman, Bruce’s parents, & their eyes like shattered glass in their angry faces & Dad stood with his hands lowered to my shoulders & asked in a calm voice like somebody on TV news had I
purposefully
hurt Bruce? tangling his neck & head in the swing chains
purposefully
? & I jammed my fingers in my mouth, I was a shy slow-seeming child & wide-eyed & the light of fear always quick in my face. I stared at the carpet & the little round plastic things that bore the weight of the coffee table & the sofa & were intended to protect the carpet & I wondered if there was a name for such things & who is the source of NAMING, why we are who we are & come into the world that way—one of us BRUCE, & one of us QUENTIN. Mom began to speak in her high quick voice & Dad cut her off calmly saying it was my responsibility to speak, I was seven years old which is the age of reason. & I started then to cry. I told them no it was Bruce, it was Bruce who hurt me, scared me saying he would strangle me in the swing chains because I wouldn’t touch his thing but I got away, I got away & ran home & I was crying hard, my elbows & knees were scraped & my clothes soiled.

& Mom hugged me, & I was stiff not wanting to press into her breasts or belly or the soft place between her legs.

& Dad said it was all right, I was excused. & Bruce’s parents were on their feet still angry but their power was gone. Bruce’s father called after me like a boy jeering,
& what did you do with our son’s glasses?

Mom called. Left a message on the answering tape saying she’d made an appointment for me with Dr. Fish. Also would I like to come to dinner Sunday.

At the time the phone rang I was on the third floor in Akhil’s room using a screwdriver to open the rusted furnace vent which had been only partway open. Crouched over & my face heavy with blood. Akhil is from Calcutta, India. Maybe he is Hindu? A physics grad student & maybe one of Dad’s but I would never inquire nor would Akhil make any connection between the CARETAKER of this property in his jeans & sweatshirt & PROFESSOR R__ P__ who is so distinguished.

Akhil is shy & dusty-skinned & slender as a girl. In his mid-twenties at least but looks fifteen. Their blood so different from ours. Ancient civilization. Monkey-like. He speaks English so soft & whispery I almost can’t hear
—Thank you sir
. Take care NOT TO MAKE EYE CONTACT but in our mutual awkwardness I did glance at him, & he was looking at me, he was smiling. Eyes liquidy-brown like a monkey’s would be, a warm glisten in them.

Oh Jesus my eyes slid down him, the slippery length of him. Melting at his crotch. A shimmering puddle at his feet.

Q__ P__ was observed standing quickly. Had to get out of that room. My voice loud & American & movements clumsy but I believe this is what any CARETAKER of any rooming house in University Heights would say under the circumstances
That’s O.K., it’s my job
.

Thursday was Q__ P__’s busy day!

Chores at the house. Drive-in breakfast in the van at Wendy’s on Newaygo Street. Swallowed two uppers with black coffee. Swung around to Third Street to XXX VIDEO to return last night’s video & rent another, a new release. Feeling O.K. 10
A.M.
meeting with Mr. T__ in the county services building, the old wing beside the courthouse. Where you walk through the metal detector & two county sheriff’s deputies give you the eye. & upstairs in the probation dept. Mr. T__’s door is shut & I wait for a few minutes & I’m O.K., I’m cool. Shaved last night & had a shower yesterday morning, or day before. Always wear a necktie, coat & a belt for my trousers at Mr. T__’s. A black dude looking like Velvet Tongue waiting for his probation officer too but I don’t want to look too close nor does he. & Mr. T__ calls me in & there is a handshake &
Have a seat, Quentin, how’re things going?
& I say.
How’s your caretaking job?
& I say.
How’s your classes at Dale Tech
? & I say—pretty good, a B in Intro to Computer & a B—in Intro to Engineering & Mr. T__
nods & writes something down. Or anyway doesn’t question.

Asks me how’s my group therapy, am I attending faithfully & I say. How’s my private therapist & I say.

& my medication? still taking your medication? & I say.

Tells me his sister’s son got a degree in electrical engineering from Dale Tech & has a good entry-level job with GE in Lansing.

Tells me our next meeting he’s sorry he’s going to be away on vacation so we’ll schedule it for four weeks same time same place O.K.?

There is a handshake at the end of the session. & Q__ P__ observed polite & respectful YES SIR. NO SIR. GOODBYE SIR.

Leaving Mr. T__’s office I see the black dude so resembling Velvet Tongue is just leaving his probation officer too & I hold back letting him get to the elevator first & take it down without me.

NO EYE CONTACT ANYWHERE BENEATH THIS ROOF.

Then out to Dr. Fish in Dale Springs. Driving the expressway north & out of the city. The edge of the lake. Tin-colored & the sky the same color. 11:30
A.M.
appointment, same office in the same building Dr. Fish has had for years. Receptionist is new & doesn’t know me nor the female assistant, Asian-American with a flat face & breathy voice, calls me in & puts on her gauze mask & rubber gloves & seats me in the chair & prepares me for X-rays & teeth cleaning & I’m a little stiff & she
lowers the chair with a pneumatic hiss & my stomach lurches & eyes shoot open & the girl is looking at me
Sorry! was that too fast?
For just that instant I was BIG GUY going under, or RAISINEYES, or who was it—BUNNYGLOVES. & I saw Velvet Tongue in my place in my own body in this chair & it’s like my eyes were his! But it passes. I’m O.K. The girl lays the lead bib over my chest to protect me from X-rays & arranges the little X-ray cardboards in my mouth so I’m almost gagging but I hold on, I’m cool. The girl says
Please hold, don’t move
& noiseless leaves the room & sets the machine humming. It might be that Q__ P__ is being photographed and/or videotaped here, might be Q__ P__’s actual brain is being X-rayed & the negatives sent to the county offices & East Lansing, the capital of Michigan & the F.B.I. in D.C. & to Dad c/o Physics Dept., Mt. Vernon State University. But I am not agitated, I am calm & unsuspecting. I have nothing to hide. What happened with the black boy was Q__ P__’s first offense, & a suspended sentence followed no actual jail time beyond the detention center—THAT IS THE PUBLIC RECORD. Flatface in her gauze mask returns & I’m almost asleep so calm & she takes out the X-ray cardboard & positions another & leaves the room again & sets the machine humming. & again. & again. WHEN Q__ P__ FIRST REALIZED THAT EVERYTHING HAPPENS AGAIN & AGAIN. & SOME PEOPLE KNOW, & SOME PEOPLE NEVER KNOW. Seventh grade, when my friend Barry died. When I PEELED OFF THE CLOCK HANDS. Flatface returns & the
next step is cleaning my teeth & flossing which takes a long time. At a distance there is prickling & stinging in somebody’s mouth but I’m almost asleep.
Please rinse
, & I wake up rinsing my mouth taking care to shut my eyes not wanting to see the blood-tinged liquid. Somebody’s gums smarting & bleeding. This goes on for a while & finally it’s over & Dr. Fish himself comes in & he’s wearing a gauze mask too & rubber gloves & I feel a little shiver, excitement like a spike in the cock, behind the mask & glasses you don’t know Dr. Fish is an old guy in his fifties at least, his hair’s still O.K. unless it’s dyed?—& he’s looking at the teeth chart the female assistant has handed him & the X-rays & asking me how I am, how’s the family Quentin, & the high school, he’s confusing me with my sister Junie but that’s O.K. Now Dr. Fish examines my mouth & he’s fast & frowning & up close you can see the turtle-pouches around his eyes. This the man to see into your soul.
Please rinse Quen-tin
. Laying down one of the silver picks on a tray on a wad of cotton batting, the tip is shining with blood. There’s a sick excited sensation in my gut, I’m rinsing my mouth & can’t stop myself from seeing tendrils of blood in the water, I’m faint & excited & wish I could see Dr. Fish’s hands & that silver pick in Q__ P__’s mouth like on a video!
Sorry if this hurts, Quen-tin
, Dr. Fish says, it’s his mouth saying it, another pick in his hand,
you haven’t been in for an exam in quite a while, eh?—almost three years. Afraid you’ve got several cavities &
what might be the start of pyorrhea
. Then the exam is over & Dr. Fish removes his gauze mask & rubber gloves & he’s smiling asking do I have any questions? any questions? & he’s ready to move on to the next patient in the next examining room & I’m clumsy-shaky rising from the chair & Dr. Fish is looking at me & I can’t think of any question to ask him & he’s turning to leave & I think of one.

“Do bones float?”

“Excuse me?”

“Bones. Do bones float?”

Dr. Fish stares at me & blinks once, twice. “What kind of bones?—human, or animal?”

“There’s a difference?”

“Well, there might be.” Dr. Fish shrugs & frowns backing off, I get the idea he’s stalling not knowing the answer. “It would depend, too, on whether the bones were heavy, or, you know, dried out—hollow & light. If so they would float, I’m sure.” There’s a pause & he adds, “You mean float in water?” & I nod sort of vague & he’s at the door, a little wave of his hand like a Thalidomide flipper, “Well, Quen-tin. See you next week?”

It was already arranged that the bill would be sent to Mom. No need for me to stop at the front desk. The receptionist called out surprised asking did I wish to make an appointment? & I mumbled no, I’d call sometime. & out of there, & that smell, fast. & in the van able to breathe & driving back to Church Street it came to me Fuckface Fish didn’t know the first fucking thing about BONES. Dentists are not
doctors. Nor scientists of any kind. Probably didn’t know any more than Q__ P__.

A MEMENTO of the visit, though, in my pocket.