Freaks and Revelations (7 page)

“Close your doors,” Mom orders. Suddenly, it’s me and her and Jesus. She picks up her rosary and turns the beads over and over in her hands, staring at them a good long moment before speaking. My eye itches but I don’t dare scratch it.

“Where did you hear that word?” Her voice is monotone, low, under normal.

“In San Francisco.”

“From who?” Each syllable is pronounced, sharp, a weapon. Like her eyes slicing up and through me.

“Lots of people.”

“What does that mean—‘lots of people’? Which people?”

“Lots of people. Tons.”

She pauses. I cannot look away as much as I would like to. I have to breathe faster to keep oxygen in my lungs.

“All of those people are going to hell.” Ice.

“No, there’s too many.” I’m not talking back; I want to explain.

“They are going to hell, Jason. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” But I don’t.

“Do you want to go to hell?”

“No.” Barely a whisper.

“Good. Take it back.”

“I can’t.” It does not occur to me to lie, to agree, to pretend.

“You take it back or you will burn in hell.” She growls her words.

“But, Mommy, if God made me gay, then—”

“Don’t you dare say that word with His name!” She raises her arm.I think she’ll hit me; instead, she crosses herself. Still, I inch back.

“But if God made all the people then he must have wanted me to be—this way. Why would he send me to hell?”

A pause. “This is the worst kind of sin, Jason.”

“But—” I feel myself shrinking. Her eyes are not real to me, they’re demon eyes. My skin turns cold. My legs shake.

“The
worst
kind.”

“What can we do?” My voice comes from outside my body.

“You have to take it back.”

I wait to see if I can, then shake my head no, barely.

“Take it back.”

“I can’t.”

She blinks, then moves to the room I share with my brother. I hear Davy rush to his bed as she opens the door.

“No son of my mine is going to hell.” Her voice is higher now. She snatches clothing from drawers and stuffs it into my backpack. She marches back to the front door and opens it. She tosses out the backpack and grabs my arm. “You can’t live here.” She shoves me onto the porch.

“But, please, I—”

“Call me when you change your mind.”

She starts to close the door, but stops. “If you go to your father’s, I’ll have you both locked up.” I still can’t look away. “You know what the police do to boys like you, don’t you?” Her face gets dark and old as she leans in close to me. “They hook you up to electrical wires and burn you till you stop. Is that what you want?”

I shake my head no.

She sighs. Pauses. Speaks. “Do you take it back?”

“I can’t.”

I imagine fire will shoot from her eyes and I will burn right there. But she just shakes her head and straightens up, composes her face, becomes beautiful again.

“Go on, then. See how you like living with perverts.”

1978

TWO YEARS BEFORE

LOS ANGELES COUNTY

{1}

Mission Bay, near San Diego—one more white middle-class badge of success. It’s what my dad lives for. We go for a month each summer and rent a house along the ocean. Not to
do
anything, just to show we can afford it. I can’t believe I’m part of this family. I can’t believe they don’t know shit about anything.

“How about I’ll stay here,” I say, the week before we’re scheduled to go. Already Chelsea won’t be joining us; she has to work. Mom’s doing dishes and I’m at the kitchen table, eating a tuna sandwich. She whirls around like I slapped her.

“Fine. Do what you want,” she snaps, glaring. “What do I care?’”

“Hey, I want to go, but the band has gigs.”

“I just told you—I don’t care.” She goes back to washing. “Your father’s not going either. It’ll be great. You can hang out with him. I’ll spend my time with your grandma.”

This changes everything. “Why isn’t he going?”

“Why do you think, Doug?” Like it’s my fault. “He has to work, of course.” She wipes her hands on her apron, starts putting dishes away. “Why do I try so hard?” she mutters as she drops plates on top of each other, that stupid smile plastered on her face. I used to love watching her work in the kitchen. She seemed so completely in charge of things. Now she’s too skinny, her face looks wrinkled and old. Now I feel sorry for her.

But I’m definitely not staying home alone with my dad.

First day, I meet up with the same guys I always see there and we hike over to where the out-of-staters park their RVs. They always leave their kids’ bikes lying around.
Always.
Every year. We each snatch one and pedal like hell. We splash some paint on ’em, change the decals, and voilà! New bikes. I take the Sting Ray; riding at that angle, my hip barely hurts.

Now, a week into it, we’re lounging on the cliff, trying Quaaludes for the first time. This kid Chris got a bottle from his sister.

“Dude, I can’t feel my lips,” I say, smacking them together. Not much else either. It’s nice, easy. “What happens if you take two?”

“Check it out.” Chris shakes out another pill.

I swallow it and ease myself down onto the ground, shading my eyes with both hands so I can take in the bluffs from this point of view. The sky sure is blue. This is a good high—relaxing and mellow, makes me feel like I could do anything. Conquer the world. Slap my dad upside the head and tell him what a loser he is.

Or even—I smile—do Dead Man’s Drop.

I grab my bike and race toward the housing development that ran out of money. There’s a street up there that just
ends
. No barrier, nothing. It’s been talking to me for a while, but now—now’s the time.

“Let’s ride!” I yell and speed off. The guys scramble for their bikes.

From the top, tipping the front of my bike over the edge, the incline looks steeper than I remembered. The street on this side of the hill goes almost straight down and levels out just before it stops. A person could get seriously hurt. Do I care? Not much. Because, you know what? You only live once.

I push off. Wind whips my hair back and makes me yell “Yeeee haaaaaa!” like I’m some old-time ride-’em cowboy. I whoosh past the guys; they’re a blur, yelling and egging me on. At the end of the street, the asphalt curls up just a bit and I’m launched up into the sky—flying! I’m Superman!

Then I’m in the Bay.

My bike’s totaled, but hey, I stole it, didn’t I? I manage to avoid my hip. My arm gets scraped on a rock, but it’s worth it. And I’m still high. We head over to Chris’s. Smoke some pot. He’s met a couple girls and they come over but I’m still not good around chicks, so I let the guys tell my story. I don’t get back to my place until late.

No lights on, and Mom’s car is gone. Front door’s not locked. Grandma’s passed out on the couch. I scarf leftovers from dinner and settle on the couch just as the phone rings.

“Dad’s been sleeping with his secretary,” Chelsea says, not bothering with hello. “I don’t know how Mom found out but she did. She drove all the way up, and Doug, she tried to shoot the bitch.”

“Wait, what?” This is not making sense. “Chels—are you high?”

“No! I swear. She got Dad’s gun from the house and went to his office.”

“Did she actually—”

“No, but she scared the hell outta her. Dad called the cops.”

“Is she in jail?” I almost hope she is. That’d be the end of him.

“No, he changed his mind when they got there. They’re both home now. Where have you been? I’ve been calling you all night.”

“Out. Damn. What a bastard.”

“I know. She shoulda just shot
him
.”

*   *   *

I spend the last two weeks alone with Grandma. My father insists, since he already paid for it. I talk to Chels almost every day and we both agree that now, finally, our parents will get a divorce.

“I could stand that,” I tell Chelsea.

“Hell, yeah. I might even move home,” she agrees.

I stay high most of the time, mellow highs, nothing hardcore. I write a shitload of music. Finally, Chelsea comes to pick me and Grandma up. She’s got bad news.

“No divorce,” she announces. “They’re going to counseling.”

“As they should,” says Grandma, from the backseat. Neither one of us listen; she’s my dad’s mom. We drop her off and head toward the house. Chelsea keeps the car running.

“I don’t want to see him,” she says.

“Me either.” I get out. “I’ll call you if anything good happens.”

Dad’s coming out of the kitchen as I open the front door. He’s holding a Coors and a bag of chips. The first thing I notice is that I’m taller than he is—with my boots on, by at least an inch. We stand there, staring at each other like we’re at the OK Corral, neither one sure who’s going to draw first. I shut the door and he settles into his chair.

“Heard you went in the Bay,” he says, not even looking at me, with this slimy smirk on his face.

“Heard you did your secretary.”

The second it’s out, I can’t quite catch my breath. A nasty taste swims up in my mouth and my legs tremble. But I stand my ground. I stare right at him. I clench my fists so he can’t see my hands shaking. What sounds like a jet plane starts to takes off in my head. But he doesn’t swell. He doesn’t even twitch. Color comes into his cheeks. He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again. He walks the few steps to his chair and sits down. I still don’t move. He guzzles the beer and opens the bag, then picks up his newspaper and ignores me.

{2}

Craig’s mom, Anne, waves to me as I come in the front door. They’re having an end-of-summer party and our band is gonna play. Craig’s cousin Nell, on the couch with a bunch of her friends, nods at me, lifts her hand. My mom doesn’t like that I’m here. She disapproves of Craig too. I don’t care. Craig and his mom are like family to me.

Craig calls from the patio and I go out and pick up a beer. He’s blasting Wasted Youth now; our band’s set up to play later in the backyard.

“Raised by money they been deprived

Look at them with bleeding eyes…”

When we play our set, I trash my voice but everybody loves us. I lose track of the beers, greyhounds, peppermint schnapps, and screwdrivers I’m drinking. The last thing I remember is being shirtless on Craig’s bed with a girl whose name I think is Peggy, wondering if I’ll finally get laid.

Then it’s morning, and I’m on the couch, sunlight drilling into my brain, drool crusting around my mouth. I drank way too much, I’ve got that sick-drunk feeling and I need to throw up or maybe just run my head into a wall. I put my hands up to rub it.

“What the—?!”

Somebody cut my hair! I don’t know who; I could have done it myself, for all I remember. It’s short, really short. I drag myself to the bathroom, stepping over bodies still passed out on the floor, and check it out in the mirror. It’s barely an inch long, with a tag in the back made of the old long hair. Someone braided that. Peggy?

“Oh, man,” Craig busts up when he sees me. “Your momma’s gonna kick your ass.”

“Who cares,” I say, trying to play it off. It’s not my mom I’m worried about. I seriously doubt my dad’s gonna let this one go. “Hey. We still going surfing?”

Anne drops us off. People stare. Older people move away, put a hand on their kids. I like this. Walking on the beach with my new hair makes me feel older somehow. We paddle out to where the surf Punks are, to wait for a wave.

“Check it out—fresh cuts!” announces one of the surf Punks; his buddies bust out laughing.

“Check out the fag tag!” yells another.

“You got a fag tag, man,” still another Punk calls to me. “Are you a fuckin’ fag, man?”

I hold up my finger, pretend I don’t care, but the second I’m back at Craig’s house, I chop it off. “I’m gonna do a Mohawk,” I say.

“No, man, you got to grow that from scratch or it don’t count.” He grins. “But I got an idea.” He gets his cousin to bleach it bright orange.

My parents are eating dinner when I come in. My father’s mouth freezes before he can yell at me for being late. My mother’s hands fly to her cheeks.

“Oh my God, Douglas, what did you do?!”

“Like it?” I ask.

“No. I do not. I do not like it at all.”

“Oh well, sorry, too late now, huh?” I sit, ready to bolt if my dad comes after me. I’m not about to be Carl.

“What are your teachers going to say?” Mom gets up and comes over to look at it closer. She almost but not quite touches it. My dad keeps shoving food into his mouth. Suddenly, I
want
him to say something. I want “stupid asshole” to come spewing out. I want to see what I’ll do. I don’t get the chance. He just keeps slopping in the food.

*   *   *

My outside now matches what goes on in my head. I’m coming into my own. Finally. My hair’s a badge announcing who I am. I get a new tattoo to celebrate—Evan does it, a death head, up on the back of my shoulder. Two days later, I shave all my hair off and start to grow my Mohawk for real.

Start clubbing—for real.

Meet PUNKS, lots of them, including the other Punk from my school.

“What’s your name again?” I ask her.

“Rosie.”

“Rosie at the Roxy,” I tease. Her boyfriend comes up behind her.

“This is Mark,” she says as he slips his arm over her shoulders. “Doug,” she points to me.

“Hey,” Mark says, his eyes darting. “Seen ya around.” He’s way older, maybe twenty-five. I like his tattoos.

“Doug’s in my grade at school. People pick on him too.”

“No shit,” I say, thinking of just last week, when a bunch of jocks surrounded me, pushed me back and forth, called me names. The vice principal walked right past. Didn’t do a thing.

“Yeah?” Mark says, checking me out more carefully now. “Guy your size, they shouldn’t get away with a lot.”

“They don’t.” At least they won’t from now on.

“Maybe you could keep an eye on Rosie too, huh? Save me from having to come out there and kick some ass, probably get arrested.”

Hell yeah, I’ll watch out for Rosie.

We all have to take care of our tribe.