In the Light of You Page 11

  I went out to my room and found her sleeping on my futon in nothing but panties and a white T-shirt. Her dark black swastika tattoo screamed through the thin cotton.

  “Uh,” I said. “I’m up now, so you can go to Richard’s room if you want. Probably more comfortable.”

  “Okaaaay,” she mewed, not opening her eyes. She rolled over and wrapped her thighs around a pillow. “Your bed is gross.” But she made no move to get up. “Will you cover my feet up, Mikal? They’re freezing.”

  I covered her with a quilt and turned to leave.

  “Oh, hey,” I said. “I don’t know if you know, but there’s a big party at Meat’s on Friday. Kind of a ‘Get Better, Phil’ thing.”

  “Sounds fun, but I gotta study all weekend. Big test Monday. Soooooo tired.”

  “All right.”

  We’ll see.

  We’ll see …

  Friday morning Richard woke me up before leaving for work.

  “Mikal, I picked up all the literature about starting classes in Spring. It’s on the coffee table if you wanna look it over.”

  “I still gotta take the GED.”

  “I’ll help you. You’ll ace it no problem.”

  “Man, you up for it really? Putting up with all those liberal PC assholes every day?”

  “Dude, I love PC. Political correctness is one of the greatest things to ever happen to the Movement. Whenever society as a whole decides to give words more weight than they warrant? Advantage: us. Whenever people think language is our master and we’re its servant and not the other way around? Advantage: us. Hell yeah I’m excited to face those douchebags every day. They’ve handed me all the weapons I need. Thank god for PC.”

  “Huh. Yeah. Plus it gives the … what would you call it … the ‘respectable right’ the chance to play the First Amendment martyr card.”

  “Exactly. See, you’re catching on. You going to Meat’s tonight?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe? What do you mean maybe?”

  “Maybe. I’m not in a party mood. I want to talk to him. But I want to talk business.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “Bombs. Pipe bombs. Cocktails. Chemical shit.”

  “Well, Meat is the man as far as that goes. He’ll be excited to chew the fat about that stuff. I’ll see you there tonight. Get a ride with Joey. Oh, and by the way, we’re completely out of grub.”

  “I know.”

  So I spent the rest of Friday morning looking over college literature and thinking about bombs. It’s hard to know how to feel. I didn’t really feel too much.

  Three o’clock rolled around. No Sherry. Five. No Sherry. Eight-thirty. No sign of her. And I thought some more about bombs.

  14.

  FRIDAY evening I took the last bus into town, got off at Fourth and Jamestown, and followed the noise from there. A “block rocker” it was indeed. Even the front yard outside the house was packed with people. As I buttoned up my flannel and adjusted my knit skullcap it occurred to me that I looked more like a longshoreman than an Aryan Warrior just then, which was certainly the right way to go. Like any self-respecting Skin of the time I loathed Seattle “grunge” rock and whatever it may have stood for, so sans red braces and geared in everyday hiking boots, I felt undercover and in disguise. Even more anonymous than normal. Perfect.

  Thinking about it now, I had to have been an imbecile walking into that house party alone and without an Uzi at least. Talk about enemy land. This was a bacchanal hosted by The Devil himself, and it was everything I had trained myself to hate. The air was thick with weed and cloves and my fear of the contact buzz had to be addressed and discarded once and for all the moment I walked in the door.

  The placed was loaded with multi-cultists, and they danced to rap and funk and world beat and even the heavy stuff was infected with tribal drums and third world ooga-booga. College chatter every which way about books I had never read and issues that don’t come up in my house, with my clan, around my campfire. These people were for all intents and purposes my peers, and yet they might as well have been from the Fifth Dimension. The twilight zone or the band. Either way. I overheard a couple of people talking about counter-protesting a demonstration by the local chapter of the Ku Klux Klan at the end of the month. Seems the Klan, in a desperate move to remind everyone they still existed, had won a permit to march on the square. Poor, sorry, cousin-fuckin’ bastards. I did feel naked and spotlighted and persona non grata for a just brief moment until I realized just how inconspicuous, incognito, and inconsequential I truly was. And as for The Devil himself, I had sworn to end his life. But I didn’t even bother to case his house for a bombing, as initially planned. I was there instead about a girl and a secret and that’s just the way it was and it seemed to make sense at the time. A girl who wasn’t mine. A secret with its own designs. In the house of The Devil and a onesided holy war. Like I said, it seemed to make sense at the time.

  There was a front yard and a backyard, two floors plus a basement, and a couple hundred bodies to wade through. That house was as good a place as any to lose myself, and that’s just what I did that night. Stands to reason, as I had already lost all sense of perspective and I must have lost my mind. I had certainly lost Sherry, as if she had ever been mine to find or keep in the first place. I didn’t even know if she was there.

  I wove through the crowd out to the backyard to find a large bonfire and a mammoth grill cooking up barbecue. A well-worn boom box blasted out some old-style hip hop I recognized from my Blackchurch days. I grabbed a plastic cup, made my way to the keg and pumped out some domestic swill.

  “What can I get you my man?” this red-headed Jew-fro’d hippie minding the grill asked me, then proceeded to sing along with the radio, “Excuse me Doug E … Excuse me Doug E … Excuse me Doug E. Fresh you’re on! Uh-uh, On … on … on …”

  I wanted to say “nothing,” but I hadn’t eaten all day and the fixings on the grill smelled like it had been cooked up by the Almighty.

  “Well,” I replied, “is this meat or, uh, like, tofu meat substitute?”

  “It’s fucking meat, dude,” the hippie laughed, feigning offense and flipping a rack of ribs. “Tofu. Pshhh. Hey Greg, did you hear this fuckin’ guy?”

  “Greg,” a Korean in a jester’s cap and Stigmata Dog T-shirt, giggled like a moron and gave the thumbs-up. I chuckled and shrugged.

  “All right. Just had to make sure. Pull me some of that pork.”

  “Right on right on. Get you a bun. This shit is the bomb-ditty-bomb-bomb.”

  ??? Okay …

  “Hey, y’all know a girl named Sherry Nicolas? I’m supposed to meet her here.”

  “Naw, doesn’t ring a bell. Look around the house. There’s a lot of smokin’ boo-tay here tonight, so even if you don’t find her …” They then broke into a fit of giggles. I opened the bun on my plate and saw that it was saturated with a thick, pungent goo. The hippie slopped a steaming heap of tangy pork onto my bun. “Haw yeah …,” he said, licking his lips.

  “What’s this stuff on the bun?”

  “Green butter, baby. Buh-ZAM! It’ll make you the happiest motherfucker in the world, dude. Guaranteed.”

  Aw fuck … Awwwww FUCK …

  I thought about throwing it out right then and there, or maybe pretending to take a bite then tossing it away when I got back inside. But my stomach twisted and growled and demanded I eat at least a bit of it. I brought it to my lips, intent on taking just a nibble, but instead I chomped into it, munching it all down in two full bites. It was, bar none, the most delicious sandwich I had ever tasted, and if it had been seasoned with Strychnine I would have done the same.

  “Goddamn, bottomless pit!” the hippie hollered. “You want another?”

  “No, I’m good. Shalom.”

  “‘Kay. Whatever.”

  I guzzled my beer, grabbed another, and headed back into the house.

  “Wow. That’s fascinating, Chad,” I heard Niani Shange say. I peered into what was probably meant to be the dining room to see her hitting a joint and passing it to this pasty, preppy neckbone in a polo shirt and sandals-with-socks. Niani wore a tight black pullover shirt and an ankle-length peasant skirt. Her hair hung in kinky ringlets, ornamented with colored wooden beads. I wondered what her hair felt like.

  “Essentially,” she continued, “whatchoo, whatchoo, what you are saying is … we can’t give welfare to the poor because then they’ll lose their drive to work. But … we MUST give welfare to corporations or else THEY’LL lose their drive to work. That’s just. Wow. Brilliant. It really is.”

  “You’re twisting my words, Niani!” The neckbone protested and coughed out a cloud of white smoke, and I felt like I would really like to get in on that conversation myself, but I quickly skittered away down the hall. I couldn’t trust her to not recognize me. Unlike Jack Curry, whom I ran into head on.

  “My bad,” he grunted, obviously already on his way to Blitzville. He swigged hard off a bottle of Jim Beam, and handed it, more or less, in my direction. I didn’t take it, step back, or even startle, because I knew he didn’t know who I was. His eyes weren’t even open.

  “S’cool,” I said tossing on a character I just yanked out of the air. “Killer party, dog.” He didn’t hear a word that came out of my mouth. He also wasn’t aware of the knife I had pulled out of my pocket and held up to his back. I waved the blade right around his belt line. It brushed lightly against his dread-locks. With the sharp silver tip I made circles in the air, right outside his kidneys. One stroke and you’re dead, fucker. One stroke. One stroke. I flipped it shut as that guy Yoshimoto turned the corner holding a glass of milk. As it was, I couldn’t have gotten away with stabbing Curry anyway. I would not have even made it to the front door alive.

  “What’s with the milk, son?” Curry slurred.

  “We’re pregnant,” Yoshimoto replied defeated and resigned. I was surprised for the moment that he didn’t talk like an extra from Godzilla. There’s just no telling.

  Curry proceeded to dump a quarter bottle of whiskey into Yoshimoto’s milk. Yoshimoto stared at the glass stunned and speechless.

  “Kaketsuke ippai,” Curry said and stumbled on his way.

  Kaketsuke ippai. Drink up to catch up.

  Yoshimoto looked up at me for a brief moment and squinted.

  “Cheers!” I said, hoisting my cup of beer. He nodded and walked off.

  A wave washed over the front part of my brain and trickled down through my body. I didn’t know if it was the butter getting on top of me, or the quality of the air itself, but I felt suddenly coated in a thin slather of Novocain and encumbered by the overall gelatin-like state of the atmosphere. The motion around me clipped to slo-mo and I realized I was walking down the hallway in time with the music, slogging through space, knee deep in cheese casserole. I sank into an available easy chair and shut my eyes, my head bobbing to the pulse of something reggae-esque but strangely alien.

  “Hey, are you all right?”

  I opened my eyes to see a nice little punk pixie sitting on the armrest of my chair. She was skinny and slight, just the way I liked them then, with short, spiky green hair. A thin gold ring pierced her septum.

  “Gimme a sip of your beer and I’ll be perfect,” I said. She handed me her bottle of Killians. I took a bigger swig than what was likely polite, but for some reason I felt entitled. Just the way it is.

  “So are you a friend of Jack’s?” she asked.

  “Aw, hell yeah. That crazy bastard and I go way back.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Um, Don Willis.”

  “Oh yeah! I’ve heard of you! You’re a twin, right?”

  “Yeah. Zary is my brother.”

  “Is he here?”

  “Naw. He’s in jail.”

  “For some reason, to hear Jack talk, I assumed you were black.”

  “Who’s to say I ain’t?”

  “Well,” she shrugged, “not me I guess.”

  She was the first girl I had talked to since Suzi, and I couldn’t really gauge how I was doing. But that question pretty well answered itself when a boho-looking Indian girl slunk by and put her arm around my new friend’s shoulder.

  “Hetel,” Greenie said, “mere dost se miliye Don Willis aur mere dost—”

  “You know,” the Indian girl giggled, “I CAN speak English, silly-billy.”

  “Argh! She never lets me practice my Hindi!”

  “Good to meet you, Hetel,” I said, trying to mask my disappointment.

  “You’re Don Willis?” Hetel asked. “Of the Willis twins? I thought you—”

  “Was black? Yeah, I get that a lot. Hey,” I turned to the green-haired girl. “Your name ain’t Paige by any chance, is it?”

  “Yep. Why?”

  “I think you’re in Women’s Studies with a friend of mine. Sherry Nicolas?”

  “Uh … okay …”

  “Punk rock chick. She’s got, like, short maroon hair with blond streaks.”

  “Oh yeah. Helen Keller. She’s around here somewhere.”

  “Cool.”

  I couldn’t lift my head, but I saw a very pregnant belly waddle through my peripheral vision. “Anybody seen my brother Greg?” it asked. “I’m looking for Greg Cho. Anybody?”

  “Outside,” I said, as I felt myself begin to hover maybe a half-inch above the chair. “By the bonfire.”

  “Thanks.” And the belly waddled away.

  “Come dance with me, baby,” Hetel cooed to Paige. And I spun my useless third wheel.

  “Good to meet y’all,” I said.

  “Ditto,” they chirped in unison, then proceeded to get some manner of freak on.

  Nicely done, Jerk-off. First chick you try to talk up and she’s a goddamn dyke. And with a tongue for the darker magenta no less.

  I watched the two of them dance close together until a brighter vision caught my eye. Niani. Twisting and twirling. Surrounded by a little crowd of folks just thrilled to bask in her glow.

  You’re a sitting target. Keep moving. I wandered out to the kitchen to once again see Jack Curry’s back. He was an easier kill this time, all alone and right by the door. He held the phone’s receiver nearly half a foot from his ear and hollered, “Man, it’s BUMPIN’, D! And all the honeys be sayin’, ‘Where Daddy Molotov at?’ Man, I ain’t lyin’! So git yo’ ass on over here. A’ight. A’ight cool. See ya in a minute. Peace.”

  D … D … D … D? D …

  He stumbled off through the screen door to the outside and I once again missed the opportunity to carve him up like a Christmas goose. My heart was no longer in it anyway. Surprise.

  A disembodied hand waved a joint in my face. I pinched it between my fingers and took a deep drag, coughing and sputtering. The hand laughed and took the joint back with a, “Right on, dude!” And I heard it shuffle away singing along with the music.

  “Thank you, Thing,” I said, my lungs burning and itchy.

  I turned around and leaned against the kitchen doorway. Two frat boys stood next to me holding up the wall. They looked so much alike they could have been the same guy in split screen (and yes, the irony of a Skinhead saying that is not lost on me).

  “Hey,” one said to the other, “you see that hot looking black chick? The one freak-dancing with everybody? I’mma try to FUCK that pussy tonight! I heard she’s a sluuuuuuuut. Straight up cum dumpster, for real though. Some cat in Astronomy told me that last quarter she let him bang her doggie-style while … git this … she ate out his girlfriend, dude! DUDE! He was calling her all ‘Aunt Jemima’ and grabbing her hair and slapping her ass and shit, and she was loving it! Begged for it! GOD, let me hit that!”

  I felt my heart suddenly kick into overdrive and my teeth clenched hard like a vice. My hands balled into fists so tight I thought for sure that my nails would cut my palms open. He ain’t got no business talking about her like that. He didn’t deserve to breathe her air, let alone jab his worthless cock inside her. I’ll kill you, you white ball-cap wearing bucket of swine vomit. I’ll kill you before you EVER touch her.

  “Yeah, I’d split her like a wishbone,” the other replied. “But watch out, ‘cause, man, y’know that psycho grit that lives here with her? Fucking murdered a guy. That’s what I heard. Cut his throat or blew up his car or some shit.”

  I’ll hack you apart. You will know pain, you fucks. I’ll yank your goddamn guts out.

  “Hey …,” the second one whispered to the first, “did you hear what that guy just said?” They turned to look right at me.

  HOLY SHIT!

  The chatter in my head was apparently leaking out. They both glared at me, ready to pounce, and I figured I’d have to make a move. I pulled down the collar of my shirt and showed them the “white power” tattoo.

  “Heads up, kids,” I growled. “I’m about to make a phone call and it’s about to get evil around here. I’m warning you cuz you’re white brethren and I’d hate to see y’all caught in the crossfire. You might wanna amscray.” So they did. And quick. Good thing too because I’m pretty sure my bones had turned to licorice rope by then, and I was truly in no state to fight. So I stood alone, wondering what the fuck that was all about anyway.

  From the opposite hallway I watched Niani pass through the kitchen and out to the back deck. I followed her as far as the screen door and watched as she sat down on the top step behind Jack Curry. She wrapped her arms around him from behind and rested her head on his shoulder. I wanted to die. I felt a bolt of rage shoot through me before I realized that I had no right to it. Not mine to have. That’s just the way it was. The yard was empty by then and the three of us watched in silence as the bonfire died away. Finally Niani said to him, “He’s coming over.”

  “Great.”

  “Y’all could finally patch things up.”

  “Yeah right.”

  “He misses you, you know. Why else would he come?”

  “Arnold? He just wants to pick up some easy sorority girl and punish-fuck her for the sins of the white man.”

  “That’s ugly, Jack.”