Luminous Airplanes (20 page)
I spent the day in a hospital in Albany. There was almost certainly nothing wrong with me, a cut on my forehead, some bruising on my chest, but even so, said Dr. Weiss, the attending physician in the emergency room, there might be a tiny hemorrhage, something the machine couldn’t detect, but which, if it went untreated, could give us problems. I think the fact that I was admitted to the hospital wearing nothing but a Mylar blanket had aroused his concern. And sure enough, when Dr. Weiss was gone, a nurse came in and told me that she was going to ask a few questions. What was my name? Where was I? What year was it? Who was the president of the United States? I answered the first three correctly and objected that the fourth wasn’t a good test of mental acuity. Imagine a hermit, I said, who’s been living without television in a hut in the woods, he’s still clear in his mind, but … The nurse made a note in my chart and that afternoon I was visited twice by other nurses who took my temperature and blood pressure and asked me the same questions. Finally I told them who the president was and they had no choice but to let me go.
Charles was waiting for me with some of my clothes. “How would you feel about a beer?” he asked.
“I shouldn’t drink. I might have a concussion.”
“Just one beer.”
He drove us to Maplecrest: a gas station, the cracked plaza of a supermarket that hadn’t been able to stay in business, then my uncle’s garage, dark for the night, a couple of houses decorated with jack-o’-lanterns and skeletons and American flags, a bar that took up the ground floor of a white, two-story house. The Crossroads, it was called, although there wasn’t actually a crossroads there. Possibly it had moved from another location. Charles got us a couple of beers and we found a table at the back of the room.
“Listen,” my uncle said, “there’s something I didn’t tell you the other day. When I was seventeen, eighteen, I was what you’d call a stoner.”
“So?” I said. “It was the sixties, everyone smoked pot.”
“That’s true. But the thing is, when Rich, your father, came to Thebes, he didn’t have a connection. I happened to be fairly well connected in those days, so I hooked him up.”
“You sold my father dope?”
“I’m not proud of it,” my uncle said.
“I’m sure if you hadn’t done it, he would have got his pot from someone else.”
“Very likely,” said my uncle, laughing.
We sat for a while, watching bubbles rise up through the jukebox’s glowing tubes.
“That’s what you wanted to tell me?” I asked.
“I feel responsible for what happened,” Charles said. “I didn’t contribute to your father’s mental stability.”
I thought about this. “How much pot did you sell him?”
“The thing is,” my uncle said, “it wasn’t just pot. My friend Douglas Turpin had a brother who was a Hell’s Angel in Albany, he could get us coke, speed, acid, PCP, and sometimes we sold a little, just between friends. Then Richard Ente comes to town, and he was so cool, I won’t say I didn’t feel the tug of the desire to do mischief. Not to hurt him, just to show him that we were all players in the same game. You know what I mean?”
What Charles did was, he found out that Richard had never dropped acid, and invited him to climb a mountain and watch the full moon rise. “When we were at the top of Espy Peak,” he went on, “I took out my tabs, and Richard said, What’s that? and I said, Acid, it’s part of the ritual. He couldn’t back out. I gave Richard a big dose, probably bigger than I should have given him, and he and Doug and I all sat there waiting for the moon to rise. Then it came on. I was, like, Richard, tell us about the moon! But Richard had turned very, very white, and whatever he knew then, he wasn’t telling. I guess he experienced some heavy things, like, afterward he told me he had died about halfway through the trip. He said death was gentle, like potting a plant in a bigger pot, you moved the consciousness into the earth, where it had room to grow, and if you left it long enough, you’d find you had a planet-sized mind. Fucking Richard Ente! I thought I was showing him, and there he was, showing me.
“Then Richard went away for a few months. When he came back that summer, he was, like, Charles, my man, I’m counting on you, you’ve got to fix me up with that good stuff that you were kind enough to procure once, in what seems to have been another life. Richard was always strange, but now he was
really
strange. He talked a lot about balance, about how evil was necessary in order to make good. Even the greatest evil, World War Two, and everything that happened to the Jews, was necessary. We paid in blood, Rich said, and now we will collect in light. I ought to have said something to Oliver, but how could I tell him that I’d given his attorney LSD?
really
strange. He talked a lot about balance, about how evil was necessary in order to make good. Even the greatest evil, World War Two, and everything that happened to the Jews, was necessary. We paid in blood, Rich said, and now we will collect in light. I ought to have said something to Oliver, but how could I tell him that I’d given his attorney LSD?
“Meanwhile, Richard made me come with him to meet these old mountain freaks who lived on state land. They baked their own bread, and we brought some back to my folks.
Hoc est enim corpus meum
, Rich told them, holding out this little crusty loaf. I thought that was pretty funny. The truth is, I was in awe of him! The more drugs we took, the more it seemed like we were walking down a path together, a spiral path that led right to the center of a garden. The garden was all of human thought, and when we climbed the hill in the center of it, we would understand everything anyone had ever said or done.
Hoc est enim corpus meum
, Rich told them, holding out this little crusty loaf. I thought that was pretty funny. The truth is, I was in awe of him! The more drugs we took, the more it seemed like we were walking down a path together, a spiral path that led right to the center of a garden. The garden was all of human thought, and when we climbed the hill in the center of it, we would understand everything anyone had ever said or done.
“Also,” my uncle continued after a moment, “there was a social benefit to be reaped from supplying Rich with drugs. For a while, I was the second-coolest person in Thebes. You should have seen, I had this black leather cowboy hat with a green feather in it, like Robin Hood had stuck in his hat, or hood, whatever. I’m only telling you so you understand, I wasn’t trying to harm Richard in any way. I only wanted to be someone different, not just a Thebes kid anymore; and I was, I
was
different. I drove Richard down to Albany to hear Janis Joplin at the Civic Center, we got good tickets from Doug Turpin’s brother, in the front row, and a drop of water landed on my cheek, I thought from nowhere, and Richard said, Holy shit, you know what that is? That’s Janis Joplin’s sweat, don’t touch it, that’s some precious sweat you’ve got there, mister. I wiped it off. It’s sweat, I said. Don’t sweat it. Like it was nothing to me then.”
was
different. I drove Richard down to Albany to hear Janis Joplin at the Civic Center, we got good tickets from Doug Turpin’s brother, in the front row, and a drop of water landed on my cheek, I thought from nowhere, and Richard said, Holy shit, you know what that is? That’s Janis Joplin’s sweat, don’t touch it, that’s some precious sweat you’ve got there, mister. I wiped it off. It’s sweat, I said. Don’t sweat it. Like it was nothing to me then.”
My uncle stopped talking, and I didn’t know what to say either. I didn’t understand how Charles could have sat by and watched as Richard Ente lost his mind, and at the same time I appreciated how completely he must have been under Richard’s spell. What a number Richard had done on him, I thought. What a number he’d done on all of us. Finally I asked, “What did he promise you?”
“What?”
“You said he promised everyone something. What did he promise you?”
“You really want to know? You and me, he said, you and me, Charles, we’re kindred spirits. We both want to know the truth of things. I want you to go to college and read everything. You have a first-rate intelligence; get it in order. Because one day, you and I are going to meet again. We’re going to talk this life business through, and we’re going to blow it open. Richard suggested that I move to California. San Francisco or Big Sur, some place by the ocean. I’ll find you there, he said. I’ll always know where to find you.” My uncle coughed. There was a deep knocking in his chest, like a vending machine delivering a can of soda.
I went to the bar and ordered us two more beers. I put a dollar in the jukebox, because I thought we needed music to take us away from ourselves. Soon Robert Plant was singing, Good times, bad times, you know I’ve had my share, which fit the moment, even though I hadn’t chosen it for that reason, I didn’t know Led Zeppelin at all, I had chosen these songs because they were the only recognizable noncountry tunes on the jukebox, with the exception of a
Best of Frank Sinatra
album that I knew we needed to avoid. Charles’s big gray head rose and fell to the music. In the orange light of the jukebox he looked at once older and younger: younger, because I could see how he had looked when he was twenty. His hair was restored to shoulder-length luxury; his mustache grew black and sleek; in his eyes the certainty that he was at the center of the room, wherever he happened to be sitting, that he, Charles Rowland, was an event, a sensation, shone like a stage light. Older because I knew how many years had passed since that moment, and because I could see how badly those years had used him. He had been fixed too many times already, and when the next thing broke, whatever it was, his hip, his lungs, he would be beyond repair. Richard might have broken him first, or it might have been Oliver, who had ruined even his girls. With his only son he must have been a terror. Always tinkering with the last male Rowland in history, always making improvements. Now look. Charles doesn’t see that I’m looking at him. His thick gray fingers drum on the table and his lips move to the song. Good times, bad times. His eyes are lost in a past he will not share with me. Maybe he’s back in Vietnam. Maybe he has gone to California at last. I bring the beers back to our table and he grins at me.
Best of Frank Sinatra
album that I knew we needed to avoid. Charles’s big gray head rose and fell to the music. In the orange light of the jukebox he looked at once older and younger: younger, because I could see how he had looked when he was twenty. His hair was restored to shoulder-length luxury; his mustache grew black and sleek; in his eyes the certainty that he was at the center of the room, wherever he happened to be sitting, that he, Charles Rowland, was an event, a sensation, shone like a stage light. Older because I knew how many years had passed since that moment, and because I could see how badly those years had used him. He had been fixed too many times already, and when the next thing broke, whatever it was, his hip, his lungs, he would be beyond repair. Richard might have broken him first, or it might have been Oliver, who had ruined even his girls. With his only son he must have been a terror. Always tinkering with the last male Rowland in history, always making improvements. Now look. Charles doesn’t see that I’m looking at him. His thick gray fingers drum on the table and his lips move to the song. Good times, bad times. His eyes are lost in a past he will not share with me. Maybe he’s back in Vietnam. Maybe he has gone to California at last. I bring the beers back to our table and he grins at me.
“Fucking music,” he says.
He salutes me with his mug and I salute him back. Charles sets the mug down and belches. End of story. Or not quite the end. When he’s finished with his beer, Charles looks up at me with a sly, almost evil happiness that makes him look like the uncle I remember from childhood. “You know what we ought to do right now?” he says. “We ought to go see some girls.”
This is going to be a mistake, I thought, as I got into Charles’s truck. We drove north on Route 296, away from Maplecrest. Charles had the radio on, and we listened to Talking Heads’ “Burning Down the House,” and Bon Jovi’s “Living on a Prayer,” a strange combination, as though, as these songs grow older, all their actual, musical qualities are forgotten and the only thing that anyone remembers about them is that they’re from the past.
“You like this stuff?” I asked.
“Not really,” Charles said, “but there’s no radio for men like me.”
He stopped the truck in an unpaved parking lot outside a concrete pillbox with a yellow sign atop it that read SPHINX CLUB.
“I used to go to a place like this in San Francisco,” I said.
“No shit?” Charles said. “I bet that was sweet.”
It wasn’t. In the gloomy winter of 1997, I’d gone a few times to a club where you got to sit in a dark cubicle and look at naked women through an almost soundproof sheet of glass. I went in the afternoon, mostly, though the word
mostly
makes it sound like more of a habit than it was. At first I was charmed by the collegial atmosphere that existed on the other side of the window; the women were all in one big, bright room and as they gyrated they talked to one another. It was impossible to eavesdrop on them through the glass, but it looked like they were having pleasant conversations. As I watched them dance I found myself wondering what they were talking about. I imagined that they were acquaintances who used their time together to catch up on one another’s lives, the way women in other casual settings might do the same thing. Johnny’s fine, I imagined one of them saying to another as she twirled lazily around the silver pole in the middle of the room, he’s going out for the soccer team, and he’s decided this year, no more Spanish.—Is that so? the woman who was leaning against the window right over my head replied. Marcia didn’t take Spanish either after the seventh grade. I wonder what it is, do they have a bad teacher?—They think it isn’t cool, said the pole girl. Oops! Looks like you dropped something! —Thanks! said the other woman, and she got down on all fours to look for it. I found this fantasy strangely erotic. I wanted to be idle with the women in the big bright room, where sex was as simple and harmless as a conversation in a supermarket.
mostly
makes it sound like more of a habit than it was. At first I was charmed by the collegial atmosphere that existed on the other side of the window; the women were all in one big, bright room and as they gyrated they talked to one another. It was impossible to eavesdrop on them through the glass, but it looked like they were having pleasant conversations. As I watched them dance I found myself wondering what they were talking about. I imagined that they were acquaintances who used their time together to catch up on one another’s lives, the way women in other casual settings might do the same thing. Johnny’s fine, I imagined one of them saying to another as she twirled lazily around the silver pole in the middle of the room, he’s going out for the soccer team, and he’s decided this year, no more Spanish.—Is that so? the woman who was leaning against the window right over my head replied. Marcia didn’t take Spanish either after the seventh grade. I wonder what it is, do they have a bad teacher?—They think it isn’t cool, said the pole girl. Oops! Looks like you dropped something! —Thanks! said the other woman, and she got down on all fours to look for it. I found this fantasy strangely erotic. I wanted to be idle with the women in the big bright room, where sex was as simple and harmless as a conversation in a supermarket.
I stopped going to the club when I found out, by looking in the mirror at the back of their room, that the women could see me almost as well as I could see them. They knew my face; they might remember me from previous visits; they might, and this was the clincher, they might make me a topic of conversation. The guy in booth three is a serious masturbator, I imagined the pole girl saying to her friend. You can tell by the way he holds his dick
.
Her friend looked down at me. He’s not touching himself!—Make him start
,
said the pole girl. Her friend made a face at me as though we were having sex. I see what you mean
,
she called over her shoulder. What is it, something in the wrist?—It’s his concentration
,
said the pole girl. Do you see how he’s frowning?—Oh, my god, you’re right
,
said her friend. That’s so intense! Hey, have you ever been to the Zen Center?
.
Her friend looked down at me. He’s not touching himself!—Make him start
,
said the pole girl. Her friend made a face at me as though we were having sex. I see what you mean
,
she called over her shoulder. What is it, something in the wrist?—It’s his concentration
,
said the pole girl. Do you see how he’s frowning?—Oh, my god, you’re right
,
said her friend. That’s so intense! Hey, have you ever been to the Zen Center?
I sat in the darkness, holding my penis as though to protect it from the cold, and I thought I saw the women look at me, and there was no companionship in their eyes, nor any compassion. That was unpleasant, but it was clear as soon as we stepped inside the Sphinx Club that this was a much worse place. The loudspeakers played Nirvana for a skinny girl on a stage that stuck into the room like a wooden tongue. The girl looked too young to be there, and really was too thin; her torso rested on her hips like a puzzle piece that didn’t fit the piece below. There was a red spotlight on her, but even so you could see the blue tracery of her veins.
Charles was saying something, but the music echoed so loudly off the concrete walls that I couldn’t understand him. He motioned for me to stoop so he could shout in my ear. “You know what I call this place? The Kountry Kunt. With two
K
s, like the Kountry Kitchen and the …”
K
s, like the Kountry Kitchen and the …”
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