Freaks and Revelations (10 page)

“That’s okay. I don’t mind.” I can feel how my face sparkles. He seems not to know what to say. He slides out of bed and puts on his robe. He leans to give me a kiss on the cheek.

“Darling boy, that means
you
have to go.”

“Oh. Right. Sure. Okay.” I slide off the bed, look around for my clothes. “Of course. Well, thanks for dinner, and everything.”

“You’re very welcome.”

Out in the living room, I hear him turn on the shower running in the bathroom. I stop by the closed door.

“Nigel?” I call. “Do you think maybe I could borrow five dollars?” Where am I getting the guts to do this? “For the train home?”

“Of course, sweetie,” he calls back. “My wallet’s on the table, take the ten.”

I take the twenty and slip out the door.

{5}

All I notice this morning are people
together
: brothers and sisters, friends, moms and kids, lovers, husbands and wives.

And me. Alone.

My nook’s not cozy now, it’s grungy and cold. Kids in the park look sad and tired. Polk Street’s filthy, with awful men, cheap bars. I don’t know what to do with myself. I can’t stay in The Castro today. I get coffee from Tony, then see Tommy and Nick coming. I head the other way. I end up where I always do when I’m feeling bad—down at Union Square. I climb up on a planter to watch the people.

I wonder what Davy’s doing, if Dad’s working on a new painting, what Marianne’s having for lunch. An ache as big as the city wraps itself around my heart. This is no big adventure, I’m not a brave boy, I have no quest. I’m just another lonely street kid. Nothing special.

A woman with a little girl stares from the other side of the square. She’s wearing yellow, my mom’s color, except she’s blond, like her daughter. Like me. She smiles as she sweeps a strand of her daughter’s hair back from her face, then crosses toward me.

“Sweetheart, are you all right?” she asks. The little girl peers up, her head tipping back. Her hair shines in the sun, like a halo.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“What’s your name?”

“Tommy.”

“When did you run away, Tommy?”

Is she a cop? A social worker? I should jump down now and run, but I don’t.

“Is your family in the city?”

I shake my head no.

“East Bay?”

No again.

“Marin?”

I nod yes. I’ve never been there, but it sounds good.

“You have a mom?”

I nod. “She’s at home.”

“Okay. Tommy, you seem like a good boy and I want to tell you something really important. Mothers love their children more than life. Whatever happened, your mom will forgive you. I promise. She’s probably worried sick.”

She pushes a strand of hair out of my face. Her skin is smooth and cool. I think she’s beautiful.

“Here’s five dollars. Catch the Muni to Lombard then Golden Gate Transit across the bridge, all right? Check on the bus stop to see which number. Okay? Promise?”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

“Who shall I say is calling?” the operator asks when I tell her I’d like to make this collect. I close the door to the phone booth to hear better. It took me a whole hour of thinking to decide that woman was right. How could my mom come find me? Or my dad? They don’t know where I am. They’ve got to be worried sick.

“Her son.”

“Which one?” Mom asks. Of course—Paul doesn’t live there, either.

“Jason.” I hold my breath, all of a sudden panicked, anticipating a click. Instead, she accepts the charges.

“Are you okay?” she asks, not sounding mad at all.

“I’m fine.” My stomach relaxes. I smile. I’ll be going home soon.

“Where are you calling from?”

“A friend’s house.”

The operator’s stayed on the line.

“You are not, young man. You’re at a pay phone in downtown San Francisco.”

This silence is heavy. My stomach twists again. I hear Mom light a cigarette.

“Don’t call me up just to lie to me, Jason.” Her voice is flat now, like that night.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“What do you want?”

“Can I come home now?” I blurt it out. I didn’t know I was thinking it.

“Are you done being gay?”

I sigh. “No.”

She takes a drag of her cigarette and I hear the smoke whoosh out. I imagine her wearing her yellow dress, her hair up; I picture the smoke curling around the sides of her face.

“Look, Jason. You’re my son and I love you. When you’re done doing—whatever you’re doing there—call me and you can come home.”

“I can never be ‘done,’ Mom.”

“Then you’ll never come home, will you?”

Click.

*   *   *

Saturday, as I wash up and shampoo my hair in the Shell station sink, I feel a pang. If I were home, I’d have hot water and a shower and real shampoo. I’d be fooling around with Davy or getting ready for dinner or talking to Marianne. Mom would be finishing up setting the table and—I stop myself. I’m not home. I’m here and need to move forward. I finish up, duck out the door, and realize—so is Davy. Here. In the city. Right now. Not that far away.

I get to the Conservatory right when morning classes are ending. A woman I don’t recognize stops me at the entrance gate.

“Yes?” she says, with a pleasant smile.

“Hi. I’m looking for my brother. Davy Commagere?”

“Oh.” Her face darkens. “You’re Jason, aren’t you?” She checks the lock. “I’m sorry, dear, you can’t come in.”

“But…”

“Please go, or I’ll have to call the police.”

I back away. What did my mother tell them? The woman goes in and I sneak around the side and go in the main hall door. I see Isabelle. Her eyes widen; she pulls me around the pillar in the back corner.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” she whispers.

“I need to see Davy,” I whisper back.

“I don’t know, Jason.”

“Please?”

“All right, okay. Stay here. I’ll get him.”

I squish as far into the corner as I can, wait until he rounds the corner with his sassy dancer’s walk, towel draped over his shoulder, looking like always, except older.

“Hi,” I say, stepping out, a big smile on my face. “You got taller.”

He doesn’t smile back. “You’re not supposed to be here, Jason.”

“That’s what everybody keeps saying.”

“You need to go.” His voice sounds distant, cold.

“What?”

“Just go.”

“But I want to talk to you.”

“I can’t be around you, okay?”

“Davy, I—”

“Go. Now. I mean it. Don’t come back here.”

“Look, whatever Mom said—”

“It’s not Mom, Jason.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I don’t want to see you, okay?” He grabs Isabelle’s hand and starts off.

“Davy!”

He whirls. “You’re not my brother anymore. You got that? You’re not my brother.”

Neither one of them looks back. I should move, but I seem to have forgotten how. People slow down and stare, whisper. I hear my name. I think I see Michael. Down at the end of the hall, the woman from the gate starts walking toward me. A security guy is with her.

“He didn’t mean that.” I’m talking to myself, but I speak out loud. Somebody laughs.

“You! Jason!” the woman calls. I move then, out the hall door, around to the street.

“He didn’t mean it.” I say out loud, again. I hear the gate shut behind me. Boys and girls chattering. I keep walking. Davy’s not used to me like this, he needs some time. It always takes him time. A few days, a week, a month, maybe, we’ll be fine. I’ll give him some time. He’ll think about it, we’ll get together and talk. This day will seem funny then. I look at my fingernails, oh boy, do they need cutting. I wonder if Nick still has that manicure set. Maybe we could also do a little trim on my hair.

This will all work out fine. Davy’s my family. Families don’t just stop.

Late 1978

A YEAR AND A HALF BEFORE

LOS ANGELES COUNTY

{1}

“Fix me, fix my head! Fix me please, I don’t wanna be dead!”

Black Flag wails from the cassette deck and we all sing along. I could fly right now. Mark weaves between cars on the freeway and an asshole in a black pickup lays on his horn. Aw, rough life, poor baby had to brake. Four hands shoot out four windows, middle fingers pointing up.

“Fuuuuuck yoooooou!”

We chant it like a chorus, then laugh. I laugh loudest of all. I open my second beer and my brain spits out possibilities too vast to consider in one moment. This is what it’s all about. Life. Life is good. The speed of this car. The music blasting. Rosie bouncing and singing next to me. Mark’s brand-new scorpion tattoo curving around his neck.

In the backseat, Jack lights a joint. Jack’s my age, my new hero; he dropped out of school. He stays with Mark sometimes. Mark’s like my big brother now. He’s twenty-five. I twist to get the joint and that shit-ass ice-pick pain shoots down from my bad hip all the way to my heel. It takes my breath. I hold the joint to my lips but can’t inhale, not right away. I shift my weight; it doesn’t help. How long is a metal pin supposed to hurt? Forever? Is that the price? Even now?

Who cares. It’s only pain. Who cares.

I toke and pass the joint to Rosie, open a third beer. I chug the entire can, my miracle physical therapy. Mark stops at the light at the end of the off ramp.

“Montclair sucks, man,” Rosie says, peering around at the low flat buildings and smoggy horizon.

“The world sucks, babe, get used to it,” Mark tells her.

“Let’s go to Irvine instead, okay? Social Distortion’s playing free.”

“Hell no. I’m getting that hundred dollars.” Mark’s beady eyes cut one way, then the other.

“Only if Doug wins the fight,” Rosie argues.

“He’ll win.” Mark jabs my arm. “My boy can do anything.”

He says it; I believe it. I never actually hit anyone, but shit. Like Mark says, I’m sure as hell big enough. If he thinks I can? You just watch.

Two Hells Angels rev their choppers in the lane to our right, all decked out in leather jackets with the sleeves cut off. One guy has a helmet that looks like a German soldier.
What’s that supposed to mean, asshole? You think you’re cool?
I like their death-head logo. I don’t like their long stringy hair. I really don’t like the fat-ass ugly redhead on the backseat of the first bike.

“Jeeeeezus H., what y’all sposed to be?” she asks with a twangy southern voice, smirking at us. “Is it Halloween already?”

“Fuck you,” Rosie says back.

“Yes ma’am, she’ll be glad to, come on out the car.” The guy waggles his tongue between the V of two fingers. His girl laughs.

Like a shot, Mark’s out of the driver’s side. He stands on the floorboard and sends an empty whiskey bottle whirling over the Chevy. Roy chucks a second. They miss the bikers but glass shatters all over the street. Jack wraps his chain around his hand, I take hold of my blade, and we climb out too. Four Punks, three with buzz cuts and me with my four-inch purple Mohawk. All of us in boots, none of us smiling. One biker reaches for a club, the other for what looks like a short axe. The club guy faces us. The light turns green.

“Who the f—”

He doesn’t get to finish that thought. A screech of brakes, car doors slamming—six more Punks closing in. Moving fast. We don’t even know them; we don’t even have to. Two women in the car behind Mark’s slide down in their seats, mouths open, as the Punks from behind glide on past. We surround the Angels, two deep. Their eyes shift one way then the other, trying for a way out. Stupid assholes. They started the shit and now don’t know what to do.

“Come on, Eddie,” the redhead says, reaching for his arm. “It’s not worth it, baby. Let’s go.”

Eddie tries to act cool getting on his bike. Like he’s not scared shitless. Mark grabs his own crotch and pumps a couple times. We laugh. The guy flips us off but we just laugh harder. They have to drive through the broken whiskey bottles to get away. The light turns red. Sun glints off the rings Mark has through his lip. We high-five the cavalry and they pound the top of the car behind us walking back. The people in the line of cars just stare.

“Montclair sucks,” Rosie mutters as we climb back in the car.

{2}

Way too many people crowd in the basement of the Police Athletics League, all different kinds—Punks, hippies, jocks,
assholes
. The noise of them starts my head pounding. My hip still throbs but a healthy dose of Jack Daniels is taking care of that. The big problem now is, where’s the music? Even a fight contest at a police hall ought to have music. I tip my flask. Jack snatches it away.

“You wanna get us arrested?”

“I don’t fucking care.” I grab it back, but pocket it. He’s right—cops frame the room, each with a lame-ass grin on his face, the kind that never shows in the eyes. Like somebody told them this is how you look to make people like you. Like having a fight competition will make us get along and all that old hippie shit. I take a breath, wish I hadn’t. The room stinks of B.O., pot, and bad breath. The ceiling’s way too low. If there’s an earthquake, we’ll be squished, no chance of escape. Ceiling fans whir away but all they do is move the stink around. I have the urge to duck, run, get the hell out of here.

“Check it out,” Mark says. He elbows his way forward. Rosie holds onto the back of his coat and takes me by the hand.

The boxing ring’s dead ahead, set high, thick double ropes and everything. I half expect Rocky to come dancing down the aisle any second. The two guys in there now are big, one even taller than me. Both are older, like my brother’s age, punching away. One’s long-haired and greasy. The other wears a skintight P.A.L. T-shirt and sports a huge blond pompadour, plastered into place. He obviously wants us to know he’s full-on rockabilly.

Suddenly this doesn’t seem like such a good idea, a hundred dollars or not. If I knock the pin loose in my hip—or worse, snap off the top of it, I could be looking at a wheelchair for life. Whatever happens, it’s going to hurt. I pull Rosie back toward me. She loses Mark’s coat.

“What if I changed my mind?” I shout. They really should be playing music. “What if I want to go to Irvine right now?” Why am I talking to her? Why can’t I just tell Mark no?

“Can’t hear you!” she shouts back.

Mark’s already at the ring, standing on an upside-down bucket to talk to the cop in the corner. He points and they glance my way at the very second Rockabilly’s fist connects with Longhair’s face. Longhair twirls, a snake of blood flying out of his nose as he plummets to the mat. Shit. He grunts as he hits, bounces, then stays still. The crowd goes crazy. Rockabilly holds both his arms up in victory, then turns to help Longhair stand. They grab gloves, smile like they’re old buddies. The cop hands Longhair a black T-shirt, the same as the one Rockabilly has. When Longhair holds it up to show the crowd, he gets a round of applause. He grins like he’s won a year’s pass to Disneyland.

“Scared?” Mark asks, suddenly behind me, thumping my shoulder. His beady eyes dart around, never really landing on me. I don’t answer. The noise of the room steadily creeps inside my skull. Rockabilly reminds me of somebody but I can’t think who. A trickle of sweat runs down my side. Why don’t I speak up?

“I’m counting on you, Doug. I know you can do this. Three minutes. That’s it. You just gotta stay
up
for three minutes.” He throws an arm around me, gives me a quick man-hug. “Okay?” I feel his hand in my pocket, slipping out the flask. My hip gives a warning twinge but I still don’t speak up.

“You can do it, Dougie,” Rosie adds, pulling me down to kiss my cheek. I step on the bucket and slip under the rope. The Punks in the room jump up and hoot and clap. I raise my hand in salute.

“Nice haircut,” a fat cop says, nodding at my Mohawk. He’s a moron and I try to think of something to say back, but I’m having trouble concentrating. Hot air blasts down from the fan whirling overhead.

“How old are you, son?” The cop’s face gets way too close. Beads of sweat in the whiskers on his upper lip gross me out.

“Nineteen,” I lie, like Mark said. “And I’m not your fucking son.” The cop offers me a clipboard.

“Thank God for that. Sign here. Know the rules?”

I don’t know shit about rules, but I scribble on the release form and nod. I can’t take my eyes off Rockabilly; he’s swelling up. One cop holds out boxing gloves. I shove my right hand in, then my left, feel my thumbs slide into pouches. Another cop talks; I see his lips moving but don’t quite catch the words. I need to throw up. The beer?

Rockabilly holds his gloves out. I don’t know what he wants me to do. He taps the tops of mine. I glance at Mark and Rosie, see them cheering. The noise is completely inside my head now, like a 747 taking off. I can’t
think
. Cement seems to be filling my body, pressing against my lungs, squeezing my heart. For a quick sec, I go outside myself, see how I must look up here—six-four and 140 pounds, Black Flag T-shirt, ripped jeans, and engineer boots. Then Rockabilly winks and too late, I recognize who he reminds me of.

A bell sounds; Rockabilly circles to the left. I manage to turn to keep him in my sights, but he still clips me a good one. I stumble back a few steps, then swing. Miss. Turn around and swing again. Miss. The plane accelerates. I put up my arms. His fist jabs at my shoulder. His eyes crinkle, his lips stretch to a smile. He hits me harder, I trip over my own boot. I somehow connect with his jaw. He looks as surprised as I feel, then dances up and wraps his arms around me.

“Stupid. Asshole.” He speaks slowly, over-pronouncing every word, hissing them into my ear. “Punk.” His tongue flicks at my ear lobe. He pounds my kidneys, thrusts me off of him. I go to swing, but he’s quicker. His fist lands so hard in my gut, the air rockets out and I collapse forward, folded over but still standing. I hear Rosie yell my name. Did I make it? Was that three minutes?

I try to straighten up; Rockabilly sends his other fist into my face. Impossibly sharp pain, like crystal shattering, I see/hear/feel my nose crunch. The room blurs. I fall in slow motion. Land with a jolt on hands and knees. My hip explodes. I imagine the metal pin giving way, the entire hipbone falling off, my leg connected to my body only by skin. Blood drips in steady rhythm from my nose to the mat. My face throbs. I can’t breathe. Darkness rims my vision; stars appear.

“Had enough, Shithead?” He squats beside me. He’s got that cop smile on his face.

The bastard knows I can’t answer. I can’t catch a breath.

“You didn’t last two minutes, you stupid little shit.”

My father’s voice. My father’s words.

I’m seven again, locked in the body cast. Ten, driving home from Henry’s. Twelve, Carl on the floor because he tried to hit back. Helpless. Trapped. Like now. With no one to blame but myself.

My own
stupid
self.

I don’t know how I come up off the mat or how Rockabilly stands up at the same time so my fist can meet his jaw with such force that he tumbles backwards into the rope. I
clearly
recall his face, the surprise as he bites hard on his tongue, leaks blood from his lower lip. How he raises his fists and tucks his head, curls his upper lip, stares back without blinking. How he dances back and forth, sneers and cusses and mouths ugly warnings.

He isn’t smiling.

He’ll show no mercy.

I don’t care. At all.

Time is suddenly mine. Rockabilly continues to punch, but now I don’t actually feel it. Brain function intensifies with each blow he lands—the moments separate and stretch so when he attacks, I see it coming like slow motion. I knock him down. Kick him in the butt.

“Mind the rules!” the referee shouts.

“Boot Party!” the Punks yell. I slam the heel of my boot into the small of his back.

One of the Punks that helped with the bikers tries to climb in the ring. Two cops snatch him down. Two more grab my arms and drag me back. The Punks are the ones smiling now. Rockabilly’s on his knees, panting. I don’t bother to call him names. He’s small now, I don’t need to. I hold up my arms and the crowd goes wild, even the jocks.