The Nirvana Blues (84 page)

And then all of a sudden it came over him—a terribly dark and menacing cloud, a burgeoning thunderhead, an urgent cry of lamentation. Dizziness almost forced him to his knees, and Diana's loaded pistol came alive in his grasp … he nearly swooned from an attack of bellicosity. A sense of outrage (over the swindle, the complacency around him) such as he had rarely experienced compelled Joe to close his eyes quickly so nobody could see the frightening devils aborning underneath his quivering shell. The wound, an enormous rent in the center of his heart, left him breathless.

Joe opened his eyes. The statue's perverse and ominous eyes regarded him haughtily. They stroked him with sensual, more-superior-than-thou disdain. They rebuffed and mocked and baffled; they were sinister and derisive, fraudulent and farcical. Cancer was spreading across the land like a plague, yet hundreds of insidious new chemicals reached the markets every month. The ozone was about to perish. The earth itself was becoming leached out, poisoned, useless. Though only six percent of the world's population, Americans consumed thirty-six percent of its resources. Millions of soldiers, laundered greenbacks, corrupt puppets, and CIA assassination squads kept those resources coming. In fact, they assured that Americans would have
eaten the entire earth
by the year 2000! Nuclear wastes, impossible to dispose of, waited to be disposed of. Priorities were technological instead of human. The system ate the soul first, in order to nourish the body—half the budget went for weaponry. Like a sick, vengeful moon, the Ku Klux Klan was rising.…

Where was the helicopter?

Nancy said, “Can you believe it?”

“Believe what?” he mumbled dimly from the heart of a tumultuous isolation.

“This. That. The Hanuman.”

“Do you like it?” His voice reverberated oddly in his own ears.

“I love it.”

“Why?”

She winked gently. “Because it's there.”

Egon Braithwhite sneaked up behind them and hiss-whispered into Joe's left ear: “Oro goiboi! Cha chee kow uru bonangie!”

“You son of a bitch!”

He'd had it. Never again! No more! Joe whirled and, screaming
“Speak English!,”
he uncranked a bolo punch that connected with Egon's temple. The bearded beanpole dropped, poleaxed, and Joe landed on his back, flailing away hysterically, punching, kneeing, even savagely biting Egon's whiskers! God damn if this retarded clown would ridicule him one minute longer! If he had to tear out the maniac's tongue and grind it beneath his heels, Joe could do it! Passionate angry words gurgled in his throat; they emerged nonsensically in sputtering blasts of incoherency! He pummeled the squeaking nudnik, who seemed incapable of fighting back. In fact, Egon curled into a protective tuck, and in very short order Joe found himself belaboring a human armadillo. Heaping insanity atop insanity, Egon pled for his life in his make-believe language. ‘Ho mangi noguchi! Ow ow ow! Choro me no go chabitsu! Oro guduyakki! Ay ay ay!” Showing no mercy, Joe tried to bang him into silence. He hadn't been in a fight, in a real down-to-earth, playground-style, hit-'em-with-everything-you-got fracas since childhood days. And for a moment, he exulted. Hot dog, warm puppy, cold frank! Hit 'em with a left, hit 'em with a right, stand up, siddown,
fight fight fight!
A week of frustration catapulted from his body through his flying fists! Joe unleashed a triumphant cry—half bloodthirsty, a quarter Tarzanian, one-eighth triumphant, another eighth apologetic.

For some reason, in the midst of his vengeful fury, he looked up just in time to see something zooming toward his head. His brain even defined the object before it hit—one of those fuzzy toy monkeys, no doubt flung by somebody in a silly effort to end the slaughter. Afterward, Joe recalled very clearly scoffing at such a meek effort to halt his ferocious onslaught. He actually laughed during that split instant before the toy reached his forehead.

Worse yet, he had actually taken his eyes off it in order to guide a cattle-killing blow against the back of Egon's noodle.

The metaphors applying to the nature of the force with which that lightweight stuffed simian struck him were:

1) like a ten-ton truck.

2) like a runaway freight train.

3) like an elephant shot from a cannon.

It knocked him off Egon so hard he bounced head over heels in the dust as if tumbling from a speeding automobile. At the end of these acrobatics, Joe sprang to his feet, arms outstretched, lost his balance, and careened through a crowd of people, leaning over at a steeper angle with each step until he crash-landed again, plowing a furrow with his nose. And he lay there, wide awake but paralyzed. In his ears police and fire sirens screamed. Bare feet planted themselves only inches from his nose, and he heard a pontificating voice—vibrating hollowly as if amplified through an echo chamber:
“It's not nice to fight, Joe.”

Stunned … immobile … helpless. Joe grew dizzy and blacked out, even though still wide awake. Many hands touched and gripped his body. Lifting gently, they carried him somewhere. He heard sobs. And singing. Melodic castanets jangled. He smelled incense and cedar smoke. A car engine started. Obviously, they planned to drive him westward, tie lead monkeys around his neck and ankles, and dump him into the Rio Grande. Wanting to struggle, Joe couldn't move. In motion, they bounced over potholed roads. He still heard weeping, but although his eyes were wide open, nothing made sense. No coherent light entered his brain. And he couldn't lift a finger, or wiggle a toe. A direct whack from a lightning bolt would not have rendered him more helpless. Vocal cords had been shocked right out of his throat; his glottis had been whomped.

Eventually, they quit bouncing, tires hummed, the weeping petered out. And all Joe could do was lie there helplessly (or stand there or crouch there—in what posture lay his body?), trapped in the spell of an east Asian monkey god, awaiting his total destruction … or deliverance.

*   *   *

N
ANCY'S QUIET
, melancholic voice broke the spell.

“Well, you really did it this time, Joe.”

He did not exactly open his eyes. Rather, he stretched them a little, while also shaping his mouth in a silent howl. With that, the dark magic membrane obstructing his vision burst and sunlight flooded his brain. At the same time he located his voice and muttered awkwardly, “Did what?”

“You blew it. Even in my eyes—and I'm a pretty tolerant person—you blew it.”

The VW Bug was parked in Nancy's driveway. She sat in the front seat, Joe huddled in back. The engine had been cut, Bradley had flown the coop. His fur matted with pear, peach, and pomegranate gore, Sasha squatted on the front hood, fiddling with his dick as he peered in at them.

Joe said, “What happened?”

“You went crazy. You tried to kill Egon Braithwhite. You were like a mad dog. I've never seen anybody flip out like that, not even in football games on television.”

“Something just snapped.”

“I don't know, Joe. I really don't.” From her tone he realized he was about to be bagged again, this time by the one person imbued with an aggravatingly saintly patience vis-à-vis his spontaneous transgressions. A new quality in her voice suggested that even her sponsorship was now being withdrawn. Nancy wanted no further part of his act.

Joe said, “I guess, once again, I owe you an apology.”

“I don't believe in apologies.”

“I was having a good time, you know. I thought it was lovely out there.” Sasha grabbed hold of the aerial …

“So why suddenly go berserk?”

“He came up behind me and said something in that fake language.”

… and slowly bent it over double.

“Is that any reason to attempt murder during the key moment of a spiritual festival put on by a lot of considerate and fairly aware and centered people?”

“In case you forgot, a few days ago the organizer of it tried to blow away Ephraim Bonatelli with a loaded pistol. By the way, whatever happened to the helicopters?”

“You mean the accident at the Forest Service helipad? How did you know about that?”

“They had an accident?”

“According to Jeff Orbison. He arrived late just as we left.”

“Oh Jesus! What happened to Tribby? And to Ralph?”

“Tribby? I don't know. Was he supposed to be in a helicopter?”

“You don't know? Oh man—but there was an accident?”

“Apparently nobody was hurt.” She draped her hands on the steering wheel. “Why talk about that?” Sasha hopped out of sight onto the roof.

“But … I mean … oh wow.” Joe closed his eyes, shattered.

“Really—nobody was hurt. Apparently they both tried to take off at the same time: in a hurry, I suppose. And they forgot to release the tie-down cables.”

“Say that again.” Joe opened his eyes.

“According to Jeff, they started to lift off, but, because they were anchored, they tipped over into each other. The helicopters were more or less destroyed. But nobody inside suffered much damage.”

“You're making all this up.”

“That's Jeff's version. You know this town.”

Joe giggled hysterically. Who was programming this farce—Heather's hermaphrodite karate god? Did any dignity remain in Chamisaville? He could picture it, all right. Tribby and Ralph and Rimpoche galloping for one bird, while Ephraim Bonatelli and—who else? Nick Danger with his suitcase full of Daring Debbies?—sprinted for the other bubblecopter. No doubt Ralph had forgotten to remove the—what were they called? The flight boxes? So a crazy lawyer in search of passion, and a dwarf in a chartreuse jumpsuit with a naked blonde in silver cowboy boots on the back, fired up their engines, popped their clutches simultaneously, and toppled into each other, rotor blades slamming together with a hellacious
twang!
like a thousand machetes shot from cannons into an armada of garbage cans … and that was it. They all tumbled onto the helipad shouting vile curses at each other, then sprinted for the bushes before the authorities arrived, leaving behind that mangled hardware worth a couple million dollars.

Somehow, miracles kept happening to save his bewildered ass. He should have been happier. Instead, the taste of defeat lay bitter on his tongue, and in his heart. If only, just once, something
definitive
could happen.

Reaching forward, a satanic wish implicit in the move, Joe placed his fingers against her neck. He wanted to humiliate, shame, destroy her. At least he would take one of them down with him: there had to be a victory
some
where. Nancy hunched one shoulder, giving a slightly annoyed wrench of her head. “Please don't touch me.”

“I wasn't making a move. I just meant to be friendly.”

“That may be, but I don't want you fondling me anymore.”

“You don't understand,” Joe said. “That Egon has been driving me crazy for weeks. I can't make him talk English anymore. I think he actually believes we're communicating. I wouldn't mind so much, except every time I'm in a café, or a movie, or at a party, he starts yelling at me in that made-up lingo. It's embarrassing. I even believe he's insulting me half the time. I'm convinced the words are vulgar epithets. I mean, how much ridicule am I supposed to take?”

“I hate to be this frank, but you seem impervious to ridicule. All Chamisaville is laughing behind your back.”

“Why?”

“Because you've been making a spectacle of yourself.”

“Me and Anton van Leeuwenhoek.”

“Joe—”

“Nancy, this past week I haven't acted any different from anybody else in town. In fact, far as I can figure out, the second we tumbled into the hay last Saturday night I started living this enormous cliché that, God knows how, I had avoided for years.”

“Not very many people around here have the distinction of fomenting a brawl during the unveiling of a very sacred and meaningful statue. What you did was tantamount to commencing a free-for-all in a cathedral.”

“Nancy, I didn't intend to sabotage the event. But all of a sudden it seemed so supercilious. Even criminal. Look what's happening in the
world!
And when that creep snuck up behind me and dropped a nonsense epithet in my ear, something snapped. He epitomizes everything. I lost control.”

“It was awful.” Joe realized she was crying. Overhead, Sasha blammed “shave and a haircut!” against the tin with his good fist. “I thought I would die. First Sasha, and then this.”

“I'll admit we Minivers aren't building a very good reputation among the Hanuman set. Yet believe me, there's nothing deliberate…”

“You might not
think
it's deliberate. But subconsciously you really want to destroy everything I believe in.”

“That's a lie,” Joe lied, attempting conservative vehemence. “I don't want to hurt you, or put you down. Believe it or not, I respect you. Maybe I don't agree with your philosophy, but shoot, we're all different. That's what makes a horse race.”

Bam baddle bam bam … bam
bam!

“You don't mean what you're saying. At heart, Joe—and I don't blame you for this, understand, because blame isn't one of the games I play—but at heart you are a very prejudiced person.”

“Not prejudiced, just skeptical.”

“What makes it so sad is that you're very attractive, too. You put out a charismatic and loving energy … that is, when you're not being a total neanderthal. It's rare to meet somebody with your intensity. I'm going to miss you very much.”

“‘Miss me'? What is this, the big kiss-off?” Their eyes met in the rearview mirror, hers red-rimmed and bloodshot, his fatigued and cruel-looking. “Only minutes ago, almost, I could do no wrong. You said that you loved me.”

“I guess I finally realized that no matter what I did you wouldn't reciprocate. I made a mistake. I read you incorrectly.”