The Convulsion Factory (6 page)

He’s known Allison almost ever since he can remember, because they grew up in the same neighborhood until Alex’s parents became more upwardly mobile than Allison’s, so it’s not like she’s a girl so much as that she’s just Allison. Her hair is magenta, and her face is as pale as a china doll’s and looks like she’s still about twelve years old.

She motions him to follow her into the back room. It’s off-limits to non-employees but the main manager is on vacation this week, she explains, so everybody has a grand time breaking as many rules as they can get away with, and Alex wishes he’d brought in some greasy food, too.

They talk for a while and then he gets bold and decides to share his secret with her because secrets that only you know aren’t really secrets at all, only obscure trivia. Allison will be safe. She does mushrooms with her father. Nothing surprises her.

“What do you think about this?” he says and tugs up his shirt to show her the carpet of safety pins.

Allison stares for a moment, then says, “I didn’t know you were into punk.”

“I’m not, really,” he says.

“Wow. It still makes a statement. Wow.” She reaches out and touches a few of them and her fingers are cool. “What are they for?”

He tells her how he puts in one per night and why he does it, and she nods and says, “It still sounds pretty punk to me.” So he tells her he didn’t get the idea from hardcore punks at all, even though it may look like it at first glance. Alex explains how back in the winter he was looking for an alternative to MTV just to prove to himself that his mind wasn’t a one-track echo and that he ran across the Discovery Channel. They had all kinds of interesting stuff, like headhunters in the interior of Borneo and primal religious drug use in Amazon rain forests and all kinds of things he never even dreamed went on in the world, and then he really got entranced when he saw something about a tribe in Africa that practices ritual scarification. He tells her he likes their idea of resculpting your body to break up the monotony of skin and that it can be linked with spiritual meanings and symbolize what matters.

“I guess you’re right,” Allison says, and then adds, “Any old wimp can get a tattoo or a navel ring.”

He can tell she honestly approves and then she says how three years ago she threatened her parents that she would get a bone through her nose and they talked her into just getting a few extra holes pierced up the outer rim of her ears instead, which was all she’d really wanted in the first place.

Breaktime is over soon and she has to rejoin the other kid at the counter, because even though the managers may suck, the rest are generally careful not to shaft each other. She hugs him and tells him to maybe come back after she’s off work and maybe they can hang out together awhile. Alex browses and buys a new CD by some band he’s never heard of, mainly because he likes the song titles, such as “The Blood is the Life” and “Ride the Meathook,” and thinks maybe they’ll become his new anthems.

He leaves the mall and discovers that way out in the parking lot a small crowd has gathered around a well-dressed preacher sermonizing from atop his van. Alex skates up to listen to the message, which some are heckling and some are amening, and it turns out to be the evils of demon rock and roll.

Alex yawns. The preacher goes on to cite statistics compiled by organizations Alex has never heard of, and tragic incidents he’s never heard of either, all irrefutable evidence of how demon rock has festered like a sore in the minds of America’s youth and turned them all into a horde of disrespectful, wayward delinquents who cause their long-suffering parents to wring their hands in anguish. The preacher explains how he subscribes to more than a dozen rock magazines and how appalled he is at the things he reads there, and then he asks for contributions, presumably so he can continue to subscribe to his magazines and continue to be appalled all for the good of America’s children. Alex leaves.

He surfs the sidewalks home wishing he’d brought his Walkman along so he could pop in the new CD and fester some more, but wishing won’t make it happen, so he hurries home and walks into the house and it’s very quiet and that’s when he finds Mom on the couch with her empty glass and empty bottle of pills and realizes with a curiously hollow sensation that she has OD’d again.

*

Everybody who is anybody figures she simply lost track of how many she was taking and how much she was drinking. It’s happened before, though with less permanent results. Suicide isn’t really considered, after all, since she’s left no note, and anyway, she didn’t exactly make it all the way to the morgue.

She’s brain dead, the doctor tells Alex and his father, and the first thing to pop into Alex’s mind is
I could’ve told you that years ago
. He hates himself for it a moment later and tries to remember something from when they tried Catholicism so he can do penance, but his memory of it isn’t that good.

Dad takes leave of absence from work and spends a lot of time at Mom’s bedside and holds her limp hand and stares into a face that not only doesn’t recognize him, but worse, won’t even acknowledge him. Dad doesn’t shave much anymore, and after a couple weeks, Alex thinks maybe Dad should at least keep himself maintained, or else Mom will wake up and not know him for real. Pretty soon, Dad doesn’t talk much anymore, either.

Alex keeps his own vigils and stares down at her, with tubes in her arms and up her nose, and it’s like a time machine. He remembers staring down at her in much the same way years before, only his face was much closer to the bed in those days because he wasn’t as tall, and he would shake her and call to her and she would groan and stir and her breath would smell like bad medicine and eventually he would toddle off to fix his own breakfast.

The weeks go by and the days get longer and hotter and little by little they don’t sit at her bedside as much as they did in the beginning. Alex thinks it’s like going to visit a grave, only the body’s on top instead of underground.

Pretty soon it’s summer and Alex is out of school and he’d just as soon still be going, because there’s even less incentive now for getting up in the morning. He can’t really get excited about hanging out at the mall from opening until closing.

The house reminds him of some story he read or movie he saw, he can’t recall which. But it took place during the Civil War, in a house straddling the Mason-Dixon line, half in Union territory and half in Confederate. One brother was for the North, the other for the South, and so they each lived in their separate halves for the most part and pretended the other did not exist. Alex now understands what that must’ve been like, and thinks maybe the Civil War still rages, in spirit if not in strategy and tactics.

There’s probably no point to continuing his rituals with the safety pins, but old habits are hard to break.

Dad spends most of his time at home at his worktable in the rec room, and overhead fly his plastic dreams, frozen in time and motion, and instead of winning dogfights and Kelly McGillis they collect only dust. Sometimes Alex wanders in and watches him stare down at scattered pieces of the Stealth Bomber model, like he’s trying to assemble them by sheer will of the mind.

The rest of the time, Alex watches MTV and the Discovery Channel. They’re a lot more interesting than Dad. He cries, too, sometimes, lets the tears drip down his body while he’s shirtless, and he tries to joke with himself by saying it’s a good thing the safety pins are stainless steel.

“Dad,” Alex says one day, and Dad is hunched over his table and has needed a haircut for a long time. “Dad? Do you think she did it on purpose?”

There is no answer.

“Do you think she really just wanted to sleep forever?”

Alex doesn’t know why he’s trying, but trying seems more important than getting an answer. He feels like an explorer, climbing to the top of Everest in a blizzard. He’s a bold adventurer.

Finally Dad looks up, and his eyes are ringed with dark circles that look like bruises.

“She needed to be watched more,” he finally says. “She needed to be watched. Very fragile, you know. I should have watched.”

It’s all Alex can coax out of him, and Dad repeats it several times, and finally his old man clambers atop the worktable and starts flailing at model airplanes. His arms wildly windmill about and plastic clatters and then plastic flies and airplanes are going into crashdives left and right. Dad looks like King Kong at the end of the movie as he snatches a Sopwith Camel free of its little cable and flings the bi-plane across the room to shatter against the fireplace hearth.

Dad can reach no more, so he leaps down in a rage and grabs a cue stick from the pool table and trashes yet more planes and Alex covers his ears and wails as if he really were in a war zone, and finally Dad falls sobbing to the floor, his fury spent. Alex looks up, and most of the planes are downed, with occasional chunks of debris still dangling from the wires, and now Dad looks like what he really is: a demented little boy in a room full of broken toys.

Dad cries for several more moments and then scrambles about the floor, scooping up the broken models and cradling the wreckage to his chest. He stares off into space, damp lines running down his cheeks.

“What am I doing?” he whispers. “What am I doing?”

He gathers what he can, whatever he hasn’t overlooked because it’s too little or too far-flung, and he carries the whole jumble back to the work table and lets it clatter into a heap. And there he sits, while Alex stares, Dad, looking sorrowfully at all the broken pieces.

“I need more glue,” he says at last and gives a decisive nod of a chin that used to seem a lot firmer and a lot stronger to Alex’s eyes. “That’s it. I need more glue.”

Without another word, he rises and walks past his son and a minute later comes the sound of the BMW starting up and then Dad is gone.

Alex rises too, wanders over to the worktable and delicately fingers the broken plastic. Last remnants of a mismatched squadron, sleek on the outside and hollow on the inside.

In the last few years, Alex has been astounded at how little he weighs. At least it seems that he should weigh more, that there should be more mass to him since he’s flesh and blood and bone. Now, though, he’s not so sure. And he wonders if maybe he’s hollow too, because now it feels that over all these years, these fifteen years, he was just another model. Dad’s big project from 1982.

Is he real? Does he exist? He wonders like he’s never wondered about anything. Just one word from Dad would clarify matters. Just one word might work wonders.
Just one word
.

Alex goes to the garage and brings in the ladder and sets it up in the rec room. He looks at all the tiny wires hanging down and frees up the few that still have bits of plastic attached. Dozen and dozens of tiny cables. And their hooks.

Maybe it will hold and maybe it won’t. At least he knows he’s certain to get a good distribution of weight.

He positions himself at the apex of the ladder and lies out flat, balancing precariously, and now he’s parallel to the ceiling and looking at all the eye-screws Dad has imbedded up there to hold his treasures.

Alex takes each cable and meticulously hooks them into the safety pins.

And when he pushes away the ladder he feels important at long last, and thinks that whenever Dad makes it back home, he’s bound to take notice this time.

The afterglow fades, always.

The quicker it happens, the more compulsively you’re left to wonder about the night’s beginnings. Even if the object of earlier affections is still lying beside you, cuddled in the crook of your arm, it doesn’t matter. The afterglow fades, and the questions turn cruel and demanding:

How did this happen? What twist of fate and chemistry turned us from strangers into lovers in a few hours?

Gary knew it would happen all over again the moment he saw her. Some bar on Basin Street, past the French Quarter’s upper boundary. Fewer than a dozen drinkers, most of them hardcore, beyond redemption. Lights were low, smoke was thick, exotically resilient bacteria grew on the floor.

Look at her clothes and you wouldn’t think she belonged. Look in her eyes and you reconsidered. Slumming, like Gary, for the fun of whatever waited to be found.

It took twenty minutes of flirtatious eye contact through the smokebank before she came his way, taking the stool next to him. This he took as a good omen: She was no hooker. No hooker with her looks would work this stretch, and even if she did, she wouldn’t have wasted twenty minutes. Gary may have been new to New Orleans, but knew that some games were universal.

“What are you?” was the first thing she said.

“Career? Astrologically? How do you mean?”

She smiled, traced a lacquered fingernail around the rim of her glass, some fruity concoction, sweet contrast to his whiskey sour. “You’re not a tourist, I can tell that right off. No tourist ever comes around here unless it’s some conventioneer drunk out of his mind. But you’re not a native, either. Are you.”

“Long-term transient,” Gary said, and clinked his glass to hers. “But not all who wander are lost.”

One eyebrow ticked upward as she appraised and approved, or pretended to. “You’re literate enough to read bumper stickers, at least.”

Talk progressed, easy and loose and non-binding. They traded names, Gary for Lana, and libidos simmered during the seductive ballet. He liked best these encounters where roles were blurred. Who was predator, and who the prey? A tossup, one answer as valid as the other. In the end, he supposed it didn’t matter, as long as the orgasms were mutual.