Dear B——,
There’s one girl out there for you, your father tells you. —Some people call her a soulmate. It’s your first task in this life to be worthy of that soulmate. To be able to provide financially for her. Do you understand?
Yes sir, you say.
It’s your second task to find her, he says.
Yes sir, you say. Your mother listens to this conversation from the next room, feigning sleep, a book tented over her eyes.
He continues to give you advice, at first about women but quickly modulating into business: you get the sense the two fields of endeavor have the same meaning, designing a life around oneself. It’s 1962, and for three, four summers now, you’ve worked for your father at Prometheus Parcel. He’s never promoted you, but neither has he fired you. He has some sense of you as a working man, a status he’s extended to you like a line of credit. You are good at self-starting, at knowing how to stay out of his way: he likes to tell you that.
I need to grow you as a leader, B——, he says. —Eddie’s coming up behind you, and Adam after him. I need you in a position to help groom them, too. Then they’ll rise as you’re rising.
He is building something from the three of you, a sigil to bind your lives.
There’s a dream you have on the night of the conversation about women. You’re walking, befuddled, goofy-footed, through living rooms with walls painted aquamarine, avocado, magenta, each color DuraLux fresh, overstuffed couches in each room, fanned stacks of National Geographic, Playboy, Life, Time, bookshelves lined with identical green spines and nothing on their page, a mobile on the ceiling twirling like a turbine. And the living rooms have windows that look into other living rooms, mysteriously sunlit when you aren’t in them, the promised high tide marks of golden rays dappling through the doorframes, and someone is baking a peach custard pie in a kitchen you can’t see. But you can hear music: the needle spreading dry brush ink over cartoon images of Doris Day, Edith Piaf, Chet Baker doing Gershwin, unreal voices that sing as you trip and scuff your feet on beige carpets-of-the-future—
A girl sings along. What does she look like? Is she in her bedroom? Her skirt sweeps with her as her feet accelerate from vanity to desk to bedcovers to door, hem snaps back in time to the implicit backbeat—maybe she’s arranging her souvenirs; she’s been to the beach, to the county fair, beneath the bleachers. And she sits at her desk, her head in her hand with her eyes open, she leans back on her chair; she sings along with the record, clears her head; music is in her, lets her float away somewhere wholesome, somewhere good, and what does her bedroom look like? Doilies on a night table? Four poster in walnut with carved angels? Record jackets, plates with leftover staling crusts, mayonnaise long since turned, glasses of milk now evaporated, secret stash of Virginia Slims tucked into the base of a drawer of stockings and slips? How does she live there? What is it like to exist there when no maleness is present to exterminate its purity, like a photon you can only measure by destroying? The sarcophagus of a pharaoh queen, its enchanted air sealed away from the likes of you, and a big brass key on a white lace ribbon dangles from her desk—
Basically, oh shit B——, your dream self had better find that room pronto, while she’s still singing, before the hypno-spiral groove on the record runs out—you speed up your pace—race from living room to living room, clumsy, worthless, trip over throw rugs, smash your knee on hassocks, get your head caught in the dangling bead cord of the ceiling fan, aw, gee—the smell of peach custard is getting stronger—the music is getting louder—her voice, never scuffed with puberty, gets brighter—everything gets brighter—the colors of the walls bleach out—you are so close to her bedroom B—— you can taste the air of it—
And you wake up in the bedroom you still share with Eddie and Adam, the reek of balled socks and the silhouettes of old baseball trophies in the windowsill and green sunspots flashing over your eyes as they adjust to the dark. And you wonder if this is what your father was trying to explain to you.
You were still in high school when you started walking at night: around junior year, after dinners when your father held court, yelled at your mother for her passivity or your little brother for his secrecy or your middle brother for his crimes. He never yells much at you specifically these days, which is either a function of your working for him for some years now or your relative height. You don’t know whether he knows you sneak out to walk at night, uncontrolled. You hope he finds out and the anxiety of it rips him up, and then you hate yourself for hoping that. When you hate yourself like that, a good trick is to take your finger and twist it as far as you can without breaking it. If you hurt yourself, you get scared, and you calm down. It’s vital to stay calm. It’s vital to leave the house because the house is where you die.
The first time you sneak out, you take a quick terrified loop around the block, head hunched into your shoulders and eyes crazy, and you stare into the window of every car that zooms toward you, imagining your father’s face behind the wheel, ready to take you back home. But the more you walk the streets of Hawthorne, the safer they feel, like you’re a crab crawling on an unfamiliar beach, bringing more and more of your own smell with you each time you visit. And soon you can even sit on the curb to rest without worrying that someone might see you. You can lie down on the asphalt, wondering if a car will fly into you, not minding if it does. It’s peaceful, like you’re in space, freefalling through stardust. This is how adults feel: numb and awake. And the little victory of the escape means something, a heavy metal thing you can slip into your pocket.
Where do you go, B——, when you wander the neighborhood at night? Down the identical grid streets, noticing the details only suburban kids know as elves know forests: the pinwheel garden in one yard, the shoes neatly lined under the porch rocker of another, the forgotten doghouse with a name painted in gold, the rustle of trees, the quiet rivers of rain that disappear down storm drains. You pace at the bus stop, watching four lanes of fat steel cars shift and glide, then across the street, across the highway. Sometimes kids from high school are in the cars, belching football songs or racing; sometimes they recognize you and wave and invite you to join them. You wave back; you say you have other plans. You think about things you did with those kids, how they remember them, how you remember them; you wish you had recordings, so you knew what really happened, so your own perspective didn’t corrupt it.
Some nights you walk miles, watch the neighborhoods give way to shipyards, construction companies, vacant lots destined for future capitalization. And then you come to beaches. You hop the seawall and walk past trash heaps of picnic plates and cairns of spare rib bones, somewhere under the black sky the movements of crabs, dead rays drifting in the surf. If you could hold your breath you could walk west to Hawaii, your country’s last star, your ankles sinking into the cold muck of ocean trenches, balancing one foot in front of the other against undertow and riptides and strange lantern fish, and if you miss one step the undertow drags you out and away, and the harder you struggle, the faster you disappear.
Tonight, your dream of the infinite apartment still swimming around you, you don’t think you should go to the ocean alone.
Tom Happy still lives at the corner of Mt. Vernon and Fairway. You haven’t spoken to him since last summer, when he worked briefly at a soda fountain on your walk home from Prometheus Parcel, and he told you his story of his financial ruin at the hands of a succession of girlfriends.
They were takers, he’d said. —Whereas me, I understand how to make money grow. —He looked anxious that you believe this about him. Something about the memory of his anxious face is what brings you to his house this night. You want to see someone, tonight, who’s a little bit afraid of you.
You knock on Tom’s screen door, holding your windbreaker together with your hands in the pockets and the Wollensak recorder you bought last summer with your Prometheus Parcel wages under your arm, the succulent containers on the porch dreaming slow dreams while you shift your weight from foot to foot and make the porch boards creak. The kitchen lights flip on, the door cracks, and here’s Tom Happy, his sandy hair sticking up behind his ears. A plaid Pendleton shirt hangs open on his skinny frame. Here on his porch, he looks like a dog trained to bite throats.
My goodness, Tom says. —What’re you doing here? It’s not like you to come visiting.
Hey, you say. —Nothin’ much. I was wondering if we could talk, and uh, if I could record it, so I can listen to the recording when I don’t feel normal, you know?
He looks at you, B——: your hunched shoulders equalize your height.
Sure, B——, he says. —Mi casa su casa, always.
You’ve been to his place before, of course; at least once a year like clockwork your mom somehow arranges with your dad to let her bring you and your brothers by. But tonight, the order of your aunt Marcella’s house is broken: pillows from the couch are strewn over the floor, wine-stained glasses rest on the teakwood table, a belt, black leather, hangs at the end of the bannister. Tom rubs his head and leads you into the kitchen, pours you both tall glasses of water and twists his fingers against his bony temples. His eyes are two stove burners on low.
So what’s on your mind? he asks. —You’re interested in recording me, huh? Come to hear the secret of my great success? —He laughs, peevishly.
You look at your water glass. —Sure, you say. —Do you have anything stronger?
It’s after midnight, he says. —Which means it’s before noon.
Forget it, you say. —I don’t want to be trouble.
I’m kidding, Tom says.
From a locked liquor cabinet in the next room—the key already in its lock, already half turned—he draws a bottle of gin. You drink, let the juniper reek settle in your nose.
You can tell me anything, B——, Tom says. —You know that. Thick as thieves! So what’s on your mind?
Nothing, you say. —Nothing—I just, you know, I had to get my head on straight. I’ll be fine in a minute. Then we can record.
Tom swallows his water and sits forward in his chair some, hands on his knees. You draw up your shoulders, trying to lift your collar farther up your neck.
I dunno, you say. —It’s stupid. I had a creepy dream about girls.
Doesn’t sound so creepy to me, he hoots. —Now haven’t you ever had those before, B——? Hasn’t your dad taught you anything about the birds and the bees?
You flush; you have made a mistake in talking about your dreams. —I guess he, uh, made me go on a date the other day, you say. —Does that count?
Tom stops laughing. Again he lets his hands clasp, one fist working into his palm as if he’s crushing a leaf.
Listen, B——, he says. —Friendly advice. Fuck that old man, okay? He’s just a nasty piece of work. My mom and I—let’s just say we don’t always see eye to eye, you understand. But she hates him and always has, and there I agree with her 100 percent.
You feel yourself relax: there was a reason you came here.
Listen, now I’m serious, Tom continues. —You’re not a kid anymore. None of us are. You should be thinking about moving out on your own, getting your own job instead of that creepy package company.
Aw, he’d never let me do that, you interrupt.
What do you mean, let you? Tom snaps. —You just do it! I’d do it myself if it weren’t for this precarious financial situation in which I’m finding myself of late—
He details some recent reversals in his career, now advanced to a diner attendant at Sal’s Famous, while you try to pay attention to what another person is saying and mostly succeed. You don’t mean to be rude. It’s not as if you’re uninterested; Tom’s good at finding ways to apply the lessons he’s learned from his stories of tip-stiffing surfers and ministers fussy about their coffee preferences to your own situation. It’s just that it’s a lot of work to guess whether people are thinking bad thoughts about you or not. When they tell you stories, you can be sure they aren’t; people don’t tell important things to people they hate or want to hurt. So it’s a time you can let your brain relax: you can find some ease with yourself, elsewhere. You like your cousin, you think.
And then he takes the ease away: —We could even go into business together, he suggests.
The music in your head has been churning as he talks; now you can feel it shift into a minor key. And you might have gotten up, made your excuses, probably followed a completely different course in your life, had you not heard the second set of footsteps on the stairs, felt the softer air that moves into the kitchen in advance of the yawning girl, like medieval cupids bearing trumpets. A long plaid bathrobe shifts open and shut over her tall leg as she walks across the linoleum.
Tom? she asks. —You never came back to bed.
Tom puts his water glass to his mouth. She notices you staring at her leg, quickly adjusts her robe.
There was sort of an emergency, sweetheart, he says. —SOS. Men at work.
You flush. She smiles at you, leans over Tom, ruffles his hair and plants a kiss on the pinprick bald spot nestled at the crown of his curls.
Introduce me, she asks.
Look who’s giving the orders, Tom says. —All right. B——, this is Anna Lee. Anna Lee, this is my cousin B——. B—— was having some trouble sleeping, so he washed up on our shores. That’s just the kind of buddies we are.
Hello, you say.
Hi, B——, she says. She yawns, shakes the yawn out of herself, lets her eyes flutter open. Her eyes are purple and brown; they are huge, draining eyes. —Are you thirsty or anything? Do you need something to eat?
We’ve taken care of the thirst angle, Tom says.
I’d, uh, have something to eat, if it’s not too much trouble, you say.
Then I’ll see what’s in the icebox, she replies.
You force yourself not to watch her walk away. A knife is drawn from a block; a latch is undone; a jar is set on the table.
That’s my mom’s best bathrobe, Tom calls after her, giving you a sidelong glance. —Don’t get any mayo on it, right?
I won’t, she calls.
You stare at Tom. —Gee, it seems strange that Aunt Marcella would let your friend use her robe, even if she is sleeping over.
Tom looks at you, trying to assess whether you’re actually this naïve, or whether you’re fucking with him (as we say in the future). You let him assess you in silence.
Listen, B——, he says finally. —Keep quiet about this, all right? Don’t queer this whole thing for me.
I’m not queering anything, you say, eyes level. The breadbox opens; the breadbox closes; a knife is scraped over toast. —So did you make love with her?
Tom leans back in his chair, picks up the rest of his gin and water, knocks it back as if he’s ascended a spectacular peak.
That’s one way to describe it, sure, he says, worldly-wise.
Did she cry? you ask. —What kinds of things did she say?
He squints. —It’s not that articulate a situation, he explains.
You suddenly feel stupid, unsure of why you were curious about what Tom’s girlfriend said in the first place.
I mean you know from experience, Tom says carefully. —Don’t you?
You look down at the floor, and Tom leans his chair forward. He looks at you with real concern.
You’re not serious, he says, looking at you as if he can’t believe this: that hair, that height, those sad eyes.
I mean I dunno, you say. —Like I don’t know—like how do you know that a girl’s really interested in you, like that she really wants to do that?
Tom taps on the table, his excitement battling his desire to keep this quiet, just between you. —That’s where you’re messing up, he says eagerly. —That’s the whole fly in your particular ointment. It’s not your job to figure out whether a girl’s interested in you. It’s your job to make her interested in you. Listen, here’s what you do. You get yourself invited over to a girl’s house. That’s the first step. You figure out some pretext for that; there are a million; if you can’t, just invite yourself. Then you get alone with her. Then you just look into her eyes. You look at them until she asks you what’s wrong.
He demonstrates this on you; you feel a little electronic shiver. —What next? you ask.
Then you say something insulting to her, he says. —Not, you know, real overtly insulting. Just maybe you ask her if she’s lost weight since last you saw her, or you talk about how you just wanted a moment with her where she shuts up. Just get her kinda off her guard. Then, while she’s off balance, try to figure out a way to touch her.
He’s still staring into your eyes; you laugh, uncertain of the correct response.
It’s like with one hand, you offer her the stick, he continues eagerly. —Then you slip her the carrot. —He laughs happily. —You get the idea, right? You wouldn’t believe how often it works. —He gestures at the kitchen, where Anna Lee is working to feed you. —Exhibit A for the prosecution, he giggles.
Wow, you say.
He’s watching you still, strangely intent, and then he clears his throat. —You gonna try it yourself, now? he asks, voice soft. —You can practice on her, on Anna Lee. That is, if you let me get mad and throw you out afterward.
You look up at him, and he winces, seals his chest with his arms.
I don’t know, you say. —I think maybe it’s better to you know, find a girl who you don’t have to hypnotize?
He nods. —And Cuba could overthrow the Castros all by their lonesome, too, he says.
Anna Lee returns, bringing a sandwich for you and a sandwich for Tom, a glass of water for herself.
So, Tom’s friend B——, she asks. —What brings you here so late at night?
You remember wanting to record Tom, to create a tool to restore a sense of normality for yourself whenever you need it, but this idea no longer appeals to you; he is not helping you to feel normal. —I don’t know, you say. —I was walking.
Tom jerks his thumb at you. —He was having dreams about girls.
Really? asks Anna Lee. —Could you tell me about them? I’m taking a class on psychology at El Camino. Maybe I could analyze your dream and figure out what’s disturbing you.
This oughta be good, Tom stage whispers to you, and Anna Lee smiles harder.
They’re kinda personal, you say. —You’re in college?
Uh huh, says Anna Lee. —C’mon, I won’t make fun of you.
Trusting this, you tell her about the maze of living rooms—the colors on the walls—the music rising from unseen record speakers—the girl’s voice singing along.
Interesting, says Anna Lee, frowning and nodding slightly. —What music was playing?
Uh, I dunno, you say. —A song I can’t figure out.
How does it go? she asks.
What do you care how it goes, Tom asks.
Don’t be mean, Anna Lee says, curling her lip at him. —If it’s stuck in his head, I’m sure it’s important. Come on, B——, you can’t hum it?
Of course he can hum it, Tom says; he smiles at you. —He can hum anything.
And as your cousin says this, you suddenly feel you can meet Anna Lee’s eyes.
The piano, an upright, is concealed in your aunt’s sewing room. The top of it strains under neatly stacked skeins of yarn (arranged primaries first, secondaries after, white and black and brown flanking to North, South, West), and the wall hangs with cross stitches, dogs and crosses and Bless This Houses and clouds over ponds, none of them complete. There are stacks of magazines bound with twine on all the shelves.
You sit on the bench while Tom guards the door and Anna Lee sits on your aunt’s desk, ankles crossed, between two vegetable-shaped pincushions. Anna Lee smiles at you, and simultaneously you feel two things: (1) if you play this song for her, she will be your friend, and (2) it’s wrong for you to be friends with her when she’s dating someone who is, structurally, a more appropriate friend. These feelings confuse you, and you respond by shutting them off. Instead, you rest your hands on the keys, close your eyes, and play the song from your dream.
When you’re done, she opens her eyes and looks at you. —That’s wonderful, she says. —What was that?
Tom’s gas-flame eyes are turned on you, turned up. —I’ve never heard that song before, he says. —Where’d you hear that?
You shrug. —Maybe I made it up? you ask.
Nobody makes up songs like that, Tom scowls.
Maybe someone else made it up, then, you say, widening your eyes to make them mysterious. They laugh; this means you’re safe.
Inevitably, they ask you to play some more, and lacking any other songs you’ve invented, you go through your repertoire of whatever you remember. Christmas stuff, Ivory Tower, Gershwin, the Diadems, a couple of Four Freshman things, Chuck Berry. Different stuff, dumb stuff. At last, Anna Lee requests “Teach Me Tiger.”
Aw, c’mon, he doesn’t want to play that, Tom groans.
I love that song, Anna Lee says, leaning forward. —You can play it, B——, can’t you? I can sing the words if you’re uncomfortable.
No, it’s cool, you say, and you begin to play before Tom can stop you. Wah-wah-wah-wah-wah, you sing, and then, self-conscious, you stop. Tom, by the door, looks uncomfortable.
I guess I’d better get home and get to sleep, you say after a time.
Sure, says Anna Lee, her voice slurred, and you turn. She’s looking at Tom. After a moment, he notices and returns her look.
Yeah, B——, you better get home, he says.
On your way out the door, he winks. —Come over and play again sometime, he says.
Sure, yeah, you say, wondering if he means it. And then he closes the door, and you’re alone on the porch, and you wonder why you feel quite this alone. Why you wish you had been invited to stay too. It’s not until you’ve crossed all the lawns to your house, until you’re back home in bed with the your Wollensak recorder safely stashed atop the upright piano, that you realize you’ve forgotten to record anything that will help you.
Wah-wah-wah-wah-wah, you whisper to the dark bedroom, and in the shadows the bodies of your brothers stir.
Love, Gala