The Anomalies (3 page)

They got us sitting in a big, happy circle like little kids in a kindergarten class. Some of us are in wheelchairs. Some of us are hooked up to machines. Some of us have grandchildren who haven’t visited us in two years despite the checks we sent them.

But not me. And I’m not dressed pathetically like them either. When people get this old, it’s almost like they give up on fashion altogether. Their outfits are so plain that I can’t figure out whether I’m underdressed or overdressed.

The group therapist fag takes roll and doesn’t mention the fact that one of us died since the last meeting. Then he pulls out some papers and says “take one and pass it over” like he always does.

“Okay, group. First off, this handout has a list of signs and symptoms of depression,” he lisps. “Now, as I read them off, I’d like for you all to consider whether or not you’ve been experiencing them. Okay?”

“Lay ’em on me,” I say. It’s not like anyone else’s keister was going to respond.

“Okay. Symptoms of depression: decrease of weight, increase of weight, loss of motivation, sleeping too much, sleeping not enough, uncontrollable crying, thoughts of suicide, becoming slower at everything, loss of concentration, loss of interest, and isolating yourself from everyone.”

Just as I had reckoned, everyone in the world is depressed. The half-dead folks sitting in this circle are no exception. You can already smell the formaldehyde.

“So those are just some things you can be watching for to help you decide whether you’re depressed or not, or to see just
how depressed you truly are.”

As it usually goes at these therapy sessions, there’s complete silence. I don’t know. Nobody really needs to say anything, I reckon, because the looks on their faces say it all. They’ve got shriveled dispositions and wrinkly brains and blank stares. And Kip’s left with the task of filling in the blanks, but he’s not too good at it.

“Wow. You all look like you’re in really deep thought. Would any of you like to share with the group what you’re thinking?”

Of course no one wants to share anything. I decide to say something just because I can’t stand the silence.

“I’m thinking if this is gas in my stomach or what,” I say.

“Hmm. Well, did this feeling start after you ate?” He always has a follow-up question.

“Don’t worry about it, girlfriend. I’ll make out. You asked what we were thinking, and I told you. Move on to someone else.”

“Well, Opal, I don’t think we should skirt the issue. Your gas problem might be a cause for concern because it might be a side effect of your medication.”

“Honey, trust me. It’s gas. I’m not on any medication.” I just wonder exactly how many cocks this guy can fit in his mouth.

“Well, okay then. Whatever you say. Now, Trixie, the last time we met you said you had stopped taking your medication, and we talked about how it’s important that all of you stick with the medicine that you’ve been prescribed. So have you started taking your pills again?”

“I can’t,” answers Trixie.

“Why not?”

“Because Jesus has been taking them.”

“Okay. Like I told you last week, Trixie, you’re going to have to confront Jesus. Jesus has to realize that your medication is for you.”

“I know. I’ll talk to him tonight.”

Shouldn’t we be laughing right now? That’s a question that’s always on my mind. Not laughing at her or with her, but for her, I guess. But the princess has already moved on.

“Now Blanche, how is your new medication working out?”

“What does it mean when it feels like my ears are on the bottom of my head?” Blanche replies.

I look around to see if anyone else is wanting to laugh. They’re not.

“Well, I’m not sure,” says Kip. “Do you think your new medication is causing you to feel like your ears are on the bottom of your head?”

“Yeah. I think so. Either ’cause of that or ’cause I’m a horrible person, and I’m going to hell.”

“No, baby. You ain’t goin to hell,” says Trixie. “You just need to invite Jesus into your life. The only thing is, once he’s there, you can’t get him to leave.”

I can’t take it anymore. I let out a big laugh that had been building up as bad as the gas in my belly. Trixie laughs some too, along with a few others. It’s about the only signs of life this group has shown in the three months since I’ve been going here.

“It’s good to laugh,” says Kip. That’s the most helpful piece of therapy he’s ever given us, and he may have just had the breakthrough he’s been hoping for.

I remember from my college group therapy classes how important it is to maintain control of your group, so I try to steer things back on course. I’ve found the best way to get out of these sticky situations is to just change the subject!

“Now I think we better move on to Carl. Carl, last week you told us you wanted to die.”

Carl is sooo grumpy! He refuses to smile!

“Yes. That’s right, and thanks for bringing it up again in front of everyone.”

Well, excuse me for doing my job! “Uh-huh. Now, do you still feel this way?”

“Yep. I still want to die. I’m tired of this life. In fact, I would like to die as soon as possible.”

“Okay. Well, Carl, hearing you say that really saddens me, because I care about you, and so does the rest of the group. We don’t want Carl to die, do we, group?

They just kind of mumble “no.” They are no help. (As usual!)

“You said the same damn thing last week and the week before that,” says Carl. “I just don’t care anymore. I’m old and I’m tired and I’m sick of you telling me that I should live when I don’t want to.”

“Well…I want to help you.” I really do.

“You people just don’t understand. ‘I want to help. Can I help you?’ No. If you really want to help, pray to God that I die. Say, ‘Lord, please kill Carl.’”

“Well, I’m just not going to do that, Carl.” I think back to my favorite textbooks. “Hmm…Okay—scenario: What if you could have one wish—anything in the whole, wide world. What
would it be?”

“To die before noon,” he replies.

“Hey, it’s 11:45,” says Opal. “You better watch out, Carl!”

“Opal, please! Don’t be so insensitive. Carl is hurting right now.” She is awful! I wish she would go someplace else.

“That’s okay,” says Carl. “I don’t mind. It is kind of funny.”

“Well, I don’t think it is. Carl, remind me before you leave to have you sign a suicide contract for me.” He waves his hand dismissively at me. “Well, okay. Let’s talk about you then, Opal. Have you made any lifestyle changes since we last met?”

“You mean have I quit gettin some derriere? No! At my age, what difference does it make?”

“Well, your nieces sent you here because they were worried that you were being a little promiscuous, and they thought that was a bit abnormal, and to be honest, I would have to agree.”

“What’s wrong with being abnormal?” she asks defensively. Okay, Kip. Stay in control. Keep it together.

“Well, nothing. I guess I shouldn’t have used that word. Maybe I meant ‘unhealthy.’”

“Lay off, Kip.”

I might be mad if she hadn’t called me by name.

“Well, let me ask you this: Why do you think you behave the way you do?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

Think fast, Kip.

“But I haven’t been spending the night with strange men that I met in bars.”

“That’s not what I heard.”

That old bitch! The whole group is laughing at me now, even Comatose Connie, as we at the nursing home like to call
her. This is the most life the group has ever displayed.

“Okay. Very funny. You won this round. But you never answered my question. Why do you think you behave like you do?”

“I don’t know. I guess ’cause I just have a tarlit load of wild oats to sow. Luster tells me I’m aging backwards.”

“And Luster is the young African-American gentleman with whom you socialize?”

“Yeah. The black guy.”

“Okay. Well, that’s interesting. Why do you think you associate with someone so markedly outside your own social group?”

“’Cause I’m loony in my old age. Is that what you want to hear?”

“No. I want to hear the truth.”

“He wants to hear the truth,” echoes Carl, mocking me. The group laughs. Urgh!

“Fine, Kip. Truthfully, I reckon I am loony. I guess you could say I always have been. Never bothered marrying a man. Never could start up a family. Never had the desire to be called ‘mammaw.’ I don’t know. All I know is I’m eighty years old, and I don’t want to die.”

As Opal is talking, I notice that she has the entire group’s undivided attention. I wonder if I should cut her off as she rambles on and on.

“And why not go wild in your twilight zone? Why screw around, spring breakin when you’re a stupid kid and you gotta live with yourself and your mistakes for sixty more years? My time is right now. I drink, I smoke, I get laid, and I’m alive, goddammit. If you got a problem with that, then you can just kiss my elderly white ass.”

Poor thing. She probably doesn’t even know what she’s saying. After hearing her talk like that today, I’m afraid her nieces were right in wanting to put her in a nursing home.

“Okay. Well, that’s nice, though I really wish you’d tone the language down. But let’s move on to Gertie. Now, Gertie, you’ve been having trouble keeping your oxygen from getting disconnected. Why do you think that is?”

I don’t know why we have to hang around at the public swimming pool, what with how so many people secretly piss in it. But there’s nothing else to do in this poor excuse of a town, and at least Ray likes it here. Ember and I brought our basses since neither of us likes to swim, and I’m teaching her some Maiden. Meanwhile, Aurora’s playing that game she likes with the guys.

“Are you more like fleece or leather?” she asks.

“Fleece,” says Luster.

“Leather,” says Ray.

“Are you more like pancakes or waffles?”

“Waffles,” says Luster.

“Waffles,” says Ray.

“Are you more like a bath or a shower?”

“A bath,” says Luster.

“I just can’t know. I just cannot answer that,” says Ray.

I make Ember play “Innocent Exile” with me. She’s really getting good. She has a crudload of potential.

“That’s good!” I say. “You all, this girl gets better every day! I’ll declare, she can play as dirty as Cliff Burton.”

“Rock onward, rabid child,” hollers Luster.

“I sure do hope we can go on tour or something with this band,” I say. “I’m thinking by the way they’ve been talking, my nieces and that therapist boy are wanting to lock my rear up in a home.”

“We won’t let them,” says Aurora.

I won’t let ’em, either. I’m not gonna let ’em do anything with me, just as long as I can remember who I am.

While I was talking, Ember ran off to splash water on the tanning people, and now Aurora has resumed her game.

“Are you more like bacon or sausage?”

“Sausage. Definitely sausage,” says Luster.

“Sausage,” I agree.

Ray doesn’t answer, though I’m fairly sure he would say bacon. He’s mesmerized by some mustached fellow across the way who’s rubbing on suntan lotion.

“Excuse ’ems,” says Ray, and he prances off toward the man. I gotta give it to him. That Ray sure does have stick-to-it-iveness. With a spirit like that, one of these days, he’s gonna find exactly the man he’s been looking for. Course, that never did work for me.

“There he goes again.” Aurora and I watch Ray do his thing. “So how are things going with you and the Ken’s Fried Chicken guy?”

“Ooh! Great!” says Aurora cheerily. “I really think he respects me. He’s easy to work with, and he hasn’t even asked me for a blow job.”

“Maybe you’ve finally found a good one,” I say.

“God, I hope so.”

It’s just so hard for unusual people like us to find anyone. I reckon that’s one of the reasons why I finally got so I’d just take
anybody, around the time I turned seventy-three.

We hear someone yell “faggot,” and Ray comes scurrying back to us.

“No luck?” I ask.

“No. I was mistaked. I hate this. But at least I was able to block the punches he gave me.”

“Cheer up, Ray Fuquay,” says Luster. “You want to go for a dip? I know how that makes you feel well.”

“Okay!”

Luster can’t even swim, but he knows Ray doesn’t like to get in the pool by himself. Luster can be a real good guy if he likes you, just like he can be a mean ol’ sonbitch if he doesn’t. He’s got so much to offer people, if they’d just give him a chance, and if he’d just give them a chance. But it’s pretty rare that both sides are willing.

As I’m proceeding to teach Ember some Dead Kennedys, Ray and Luster climb on up out of the pool. We’re right in the middle of “Stealing People’s Mail” when I hear Aurora gasp. I look up to see that Luster’s shorts have fallen down.

In the station wagon on the way home, Luster won’t speak to any of us.

“Luster, don’t feel badly,” says Ray. “You cheered me up majorly. You made me feel much more mannish about my manhood today.”

“Shut up, gay-wad,” replies Luster.

“Luster, I’ve known about your tiny wang for a couple of years,” I say. “What’s the big deal? I haven’t treated you any differently, have I?”

He doesn’t answer me, but I know him well enough to know how to get through to him.

“Luster, I’m surprised you don’t see the poetry in this.”

“What do you mean, woman?” he asks.

“Why, you’re such an original, it’s in your bones. You were born not to be like all those typicals.”

At this, he smiles and laughs that great big wild laugh, forgetting his worry. I have to admit, I would’ve made a great mother. It is a shame I never could find a decent man in this world that liked me back.

As it goes so oftenly, my wife is cooking the kitchen when I get to my apartment after the work. She wears bunned-up hair, an apron, and makes the house smell foreign.

“Hey, honey. How was the work today?” asks she.

“Eh, shitty as usual.”

Milkah, Aymon, and I sit down for the dinner. Every night we try to do this. Tonight I notice Aymon’s strange clothings for the 1th time, I think. He wears a baseball jersey, but not to baseball in. He wears gold necklaces and backward baseball cap. He reminds me of the dressings of Luster’s brothers.

My son is funky. I feel more normal now. If only my wife could loosen up and wear sweatpants once in a lifetime.

The utensils scrape and chink the plates, and that is all we have. I just must say. Something.

“So, Aymon, I heard you not in coming home last night at all. What time did you get in?”

“’Bout six a.m.”

“What were you doing out so late?” Or should I say it “early”?

“I don’t know.”

I try so hard to father him, but he’s never home any more. No blame on him for not wanting to be here. His mother and I constantly yell words. Mean ones. That’s why I’ve been out with friends so much. Needing to get away from this place. At least I always get home way before the bedtime. But my son is only 16 and should not be out that late (or early), and I want to do some fathering here.

“Were you sleeping with girls?”

“Come on, Dad.”

“What were you doing? Can’t you tell me?!”

My wife suddenly yells words in Arabic, and I don’t want to hear it.

“No! Do not revert to the old language!” I command. “We agreed that in the new home, we would speak new home’s language. Now, answer it, Aymon. What were you doing out until six a.m.?”

“I guess I was practicin rappin.”

“What do you mean, ‘rappin’?” voices Milkah.

“You know. Rappin’. Like: Thundercat, Thundercat, Thundercat, whoa. Kitty litter, Lion-O. Mecca lecca hi, mecca tiny ho. Futon, crouton, I don’t know. By the power of Grayskunk he, climbed into the shit with me.”

Oh my ass. I hear this rhythmic talking coming from my only child’s lips, and I see the wife has a terrified look on her face. Just like mine. For once, my wife and I have on the same pagedness.

“Listen to him!” cries Milkah. “Look at him! Look at what this country has done to him—to us! Are you happy, Raykeem?!”

“Quiet!” I order. “Please, Aymon…who taught you how to do this stuff?”

“I learned it from my friends at school. We started our own rap group. We’re called ‘Mothah May I.’”

My wife covers her face. I guess alone I must do the dealing with this.

“Son, I’m glad you found a place for music in your heart and life. I play band, too. But judging by what I just heard you did, I must now ask you something…I always hoped this day would never come. Son…have you been smoking marijuana cigarettes?”

Milkah uncovers her face. We stare at our son. Afraid of the answer.

“Uhh…I don’t know. Kind of?”

My wife screams Arabically. I cover my ears to shield it. She pulls my hands off the ears.

“That is it! We are moving back to Iraq!” she says.

“Back, back, movin back to Iraq. Got my foot in a cast and a fanny pack,” “raps” my son.

“It can’t be so!” I mouth loudly. “We can’t go back now!”

“Two loked-out G’s playin pinball, mad collectors of rare antique dolls.”

“We’ve lived here two years, Raykeem. Face this–you are not going to find that man!”

“Yes I will!”

“What are y’all talking ’bout?” questions Aymon. “Is Dad gay?”

“No!” says I. “I wish people would stop saying that!”

Not gay. I promise.

“I’ll tell you what I talk about,” says Milkah. “Do you want to know why we rearranged our lives and moved to America?”

“I thought it was for freedom.”

“We lied to you,” says my wife.

“We moved to this country because your father wants to apologize to an American soldier that he shot in the Gulf War.”

I had never heard myself say it aloud before. It’s even stupider sounding in the air than in the head. My husband is a foolish man with foolish ideas. I was a fool for giving up my life
for him and following him here.

“Why?” my son asks.

“I just feel awful about it,” says Raykeem. Fool! War is what men do! They shoot at each other. Men have always fought, since before men were men. They have always fought wars and always made love. Perfectly natural. Why should he feel awful about it? It is not as if it is something personal.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” asks Aymon.

“I didn’t want you to think I was a bad person for shooting someone,” says Raykeem. That’s not the only reason. He doesn’t want his son to tell people that his father is totally nut-balls in the head.

“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to think your father was fruitcake,” I say.

“I already thought that. Look at how he dresses.”

I look at his father. He is wearing the stringy tanktop and short shorts like he likes.

“This is how United States peoples dress!” says Raykeem.

Raykeem Fuquay is not gay. He looks and acts like so, sissy and lovey and so, but he is all man. I do wish he were into penis for an excuse to get out of all this.

“How do you know the guy you wounded lives here?” asks Aymon.

“I don’t for surely, but he’s gotta be located somewhere down here nearby. I saw he was wearing a Kentucky Wildcats logo on his military helmet. We chose to settle in this town for now since there were so many of such logos seen here.”

I look at my son looking at his father strangely.

“Look, I realize our reasons for moving here may seem somewhat, uh—”

“Retarded?” says Aymon.

“Yes. But who gives a care?! No regrets here!” continues Raykeem. “I’ve grown to love this wacky country. I love the people. So diverse. Could I be friends with black men and little girls in Iraq?”

I can no longer take this man’s shit. I jump up and throw my napkin on the table.

I run off to the bedroom before they can stop me. I don’t care if we ever sit at the eating table again. I don’t care if either of them follows me back. I want to go back where we belong. I don’t care, even if I break this home for good.

We practice the band music in Luster’s dirty living room. It is tiny here. Not a good place to be in general. We don’t make it better, because I’m not for suresome, but I think our music is sucking badly.

Aurora got the beat but hits cymbals and floor-tom too oftenly. She’s giving off a bad noise. Ember’s four-string thing is too big for her, and she barely can stand up with it. Opal plays electric guitar awesomely, but she plays solos when she probably should not. I am having bad trouble remembering what I am playing on my keyboard guitar. But at least Luster is putting everything in the world into his singing.

“Girl, you move like a squirrel!” he sings. “I said gir-ir-ir-irl, you move like a squirrel! And I found the cure to the common cold. It’s you!”

Then young Ember falls over with her big guitar on top of her. Luster tells us to stop playing.

“That sucked a possum’s ass,” he says. “That was crap
quadrupled. I do not even know if that was rock music or not. Ray, did you even know what song we were playing?”

“‘Hygene Bygene,’ right?” I asks.

“No!” shouts Luster. “It was ‘Squirrelly Girl!’ Was that not obvious!?”

“I’m sorry. I have a lot on the mind.” Like others, Luster gets very impatient sometimes. He seems obsessed with moving forward. While I am feeling so behind.

“Fine,” he mouths. “Let us move on to ‘Classroom Assroom.’ You start that one, Ray.”

“Right.” I tell my fingers to play an opening melody, when I notice that Luster is giving me a dirty one.

“Hold on,” he says. “That was not ‘Classroom Assroom.’ That was ‘Ironic Decency.’”

“I’m—I’m sorry.” To be honestly, I had no idea of what I was playing. It may very well have been Spin Doctors for everything I know.

“Is there something wrong, Ray Fuquay?” asks Luster.

“It’s…it’s just that my wife and I had the big fight last night. Now she’s going to take my son and return to Iraq.”

“Oh my God. Is she serious?” asks Aurora.

“Afraid so. She was packing up her ’jamas this morning.”

“Bummer,” says Luster. “No, let me update that. That is a flaming bummer.”

They all tell me they are sorry. I don’t know if it’s the language or what. But it’s hard to give up appropriate responses when people say they’re sorry in sorry situations. Others have this problem. I said “I’m sorry” at a funeral once here. The woman said, “I am too.” Words can’t get it through sometimes, or all the times.

“Thank you. But okay, ‘Classroom Assroom,’ take two.”

“Hey, you have had a rough day today, Ray,” words Aurora. “Maybe we should call it a night.”

“Perhaps so,” voices Luster. “This practice is sucking Belinda Carlisle anyhow.”

With the day problems getting in on the night’s thunder. It seems like that is how our practices always end.

“We don’t suck that bad for a band that’s only practiced like five or six times,” says Aurora, taking down the drums.

“Exactly. That is the problem,” tongues Luster. “This was only our sixth practice. We should be practicing like six times a week if we really want to get somewhere.”

“You know your brothers wouldn’t go for that,” says Opal.

We hear deep, booming car speakers that shake the whole house. Another form of night’s thunder working against us. Boom, boom…boom.

“Speaking of my brothers, here they are,” yells Luster over the noise. “Aurora, why not patch things up with your dad? Your house would be perfect for practice.”

Luster is right. Aurora has a soundproof basement, and she lives in a rich neighborhood with not much neighboring. But as it goes so oftenly, a person is the problem. Since Aurora went Satanist, her dad will not speak to her.

“It’s not that simple. He’s convinced we’re like a death metal band. I know he wouldn’t allow it,” says Aurora.

“Tell him we are not death metal. Tell him we are a power-pop new wave heavy metal punk rock band that rocks to the fifth power impossibly,” speaks Luster.

The noise from outside stops, and three of Luster’s brothers enter. They are big guys wearing sunglasses, basketball jerseys, bandanas, baggy jeans, gold jewelry, and all named
Jerome.

“Ah, fuck. Y’all freaky mothah fuckas playin that freaky shit again?” words Jerome.

“Yes, Jerome, you assface. We call it rock music,” says Luster.

Jerome throws a brown paper bag on the couch. I can tell just by looking at it that it’s probobably bad. But I totally realize it might only be groceries. I don’t care what Luster says. People still deserve the doubt benefit.

“Well, speaking of rock, little brother, Jerome and me finally got us a shitload of crack rock, ya know whum sayin, and we gonna sell that shit now, know whum sayin, so you and your mothah fuckin friends should fuck off, ya know whum sayin.”

I could not speak worse. Jerome throws a big gun down on the coffee table. The other Jeromes stand on both sides of Aurora.

“Shit, Jerome,” says Jerome. “We might let this one stay, ya know whum sayin. Whuzup.”

“Hi,” says Aurora. She looks very uncomfortable like.

“Whuzup,” words Jerome.

“I guess congratulations are in order for my brothers,” says Luster. “Selling crack is the pinnacle of their earthly careers. They have been waiting their whole lives to graduate from selling marijuana and acid to selling crack.”

“Shit yeah, mothah fucka,” replies Jerome.

“Why not reward yourself by watching Scarface for the thousandth time?” asks Luster.

“Probably will, you know whum sayin,” replies Jerome.

I think I am the only one that notices that Ember has just taken a Ziploc bag full of whitish stuff out of Jerome’s brownish bag. But this could still be groceries. She can easily hide the
baggie underneath the big T-shirts like she wears.

I say nothing. Ember is a very bright bad girl. I’m sure she knows how she’s doing. I don’t want to get anyone in trouble. So I keep it quiet. I shut my mouthhole and let things be.

The brothers still stare at Aurora. She smiles nervous like. In public places, she always feels self-conscious. Thinks people are looking at her. But that is probably because they are. Right now is such.

“Uhh, Luster, maybe I could denounce Satan for the sake of the band,” she says nervilously. “Besides, my dad is a minister. He’s always preaching about forgiveness.”

So does my heartless wife with her Allah, Allah, Allah.