In the Light of You Read online

  “I hear ya.”

  “And when I finally do get to class it’s all … screeching. Agenda versus agenda. Before I hopped the bus to get here, my brothers joked that I’d need to beware for all the ‘commie fag liberals’ on campus. Ha ha. But hell, I think I could DEAL with those … whatever they are. I can’t ever get a word in edgewise, and even if I could I wouldn’t have anything to say. “You there! Helen Keller. What do you think about the plight of blah blah blah and the rising cost of suchnsuch.” Uuuuhhhh … And the steamroller just flattens me and rolls on. I don’t matter. I’m invisible.”

  “Yeah?’

  “Yeah …,” she said, absently fiddling with her ankle bracelet. “Richard sees me, though.”

  “Hm.”

  “I like Richard … a lot.”

  “So I heard,” I said. I could almost feel her face scorch up bright scarlet. It singed my shoulder.

  “Oh my god …,” she gasped. “I am so embarrassed now.”

  “I’m just kiddin’ with you,” I lied again. “I ain’t hear nothing.”

  “You’re lying. I can tell. You’re lying to make me feel better. But I know you heard me last night. Ohhhh god.” She buried her face in her hands.

  “I got up to get a few aspirin at some point and I vaguely heard a bit of rustling around. Y’all coulda been rearranging furniture for all I know.”

  “Really?” she asked meekly.

  “If I’m lyin’ I’m dyin’.”

  “I like your tattoos.”

  “Do they look familiar?”

  “I’mma get a beer, ‘kay? You want one?”

  “Be careful. There might be broken glass in the hallway.”

  “I’m in my bare feet a lot. Ah’m jest uh lil ole cuntreh gurl,” she said in a horribly affected hick accent. I laughed obligatorily.

  When she returned she handed me a beer and said, “I’m hungry. You guys have any eatables? Didn’t see anything.”

  “There’s some ground beef in the freezer,” I said. “That’s about it.”

  “I’m a vegetarian,” she replied. “I can’t even be anywhere near beef or I will get horribly sick to my stomach.”

  “Well, welcome to Shit Creek. I hope you brought your own paddle.”

  “You got a car?”

  “No. You?”

  “Nope. God, we’re pitiful.”

  “There’s a grocery right out the backyard if you wanna pick up something.”

  “You reading Mein Kampf?”

  “Tried to.”

  “Boring as hell, isn’t it?”

  “Boy howdy.”

  “I really like reading about, like, Hollywood Babylon-type stuff. All the dirt and la-di-da about old Hollywood.”

  “How old?”

  “Old old. Like 1950s. And even earlier.” She paused contemplatively for a moment, then said, “Richard’s kinda got a bit of a ‘young Brando’ thing about him. Mixed with maybe Douglas Fairbanks.” I didn’t know who the second guy was. I still don’t, actually.

  “Not James Dean?” I asked.

  “Dean was queer, you know,” she said. That hung in the air like a small cloud for a moment as I tried to figure out where it came from. Inexplicably, she followed it with, “Richard gave me a bunch of vinyl records.”

  “To keep?” I asked, genuinely astonished.

  “Uh huh!” she chirped brightly, figuring out from my tone that this was indeed something of note.

  “And you’re feeling special about the key? Pffffft. What did he give you?”

  “The first Bad Brains record,” she answered beaming. “It’s actually a pre-print I guess. Or some sort of alternate release. The cover’s different and it’s got different takes of a couple of songs.”

  “No way! What did he say when he gave it to you?”

  “He said, ‘Those niggers were pretty good until they went metal.’“

  “I think they’re pretty fucking awesome regardless—now, then, and forever.”

  “Me too,” she said. “I think you and I have a lot in common. He gave me bit of classic stuff: Minor Threat, The Dead Boys, Sick Of It All. He insisted I take some other stuff like Final Solution—”

  “OI!” I shouted.

  “All right, they’re good I take it. Okay. He gave me a 7-inch of some group called The Hangmen.”

  “We actually know those guys. If you’re going to be around you’ll meet them soon enough. Craaaaazy fuckers. I think they’re all inbred. I watched their lead singer eat a dead squirrel one time.”

  “Ewwwwwww!”

  “I swear. We was at a rally on this farm way out in Deliverance country. They played. Some other bands played. I guess this squirrel had tried to jump from the garage to the house and bit into a power line. It had been hanging there from its teeth for like two weeks. So Goat Skinner, that’s what everybody calls him, pulls it off the line and chomps right into it. He claimed it was cooked.”

  “Charming.”

  “That’s just the way it is.”

  “This music,” she asked, “… this is all racist stuff, right?”

  “Racialist.”

  “Okay. Sorry.”

  “It’s the soundtrack for the revolution.”

  “The revolution … when white people finally take control?”

  “Well,” I said, annoyed, “… that’s a pretty … simplistic way to put it.”

  “I just don’t do hate all that well,” she said.

  “You know what? I don’t really do hate myself. And Richard really don’t neither. We’re kind of different from other racialists in that way. There’s a lot of unfocused aggression in the White Power movement. You’ll hear a bunch of people shouting RAHOWA, Racial Holy War, and it’s a nice little football chant. But I kind of think—I hope—it ain’t necessary. It’s like when you hear these rich punk rock kids scream about ‘anarchy.’ What, and give up that BMW Daddy done bought you? Gets frustrating sometimes, but ultimately it’s good to have your troops single-minded of purpose without a lotta, you know, complexities in their thinking. And stuff.”

  “So where are you guys coming from?”

  “We’re all about going back to a very simple premise that was good in the past and is still good: complete racial segregation. So-called ethnic diversity is a tragically failed experiment, and it’s time for it to end. It is human nature to want to be with your own kind. Chicanos want to be with other Chicanos. Japanese want to be with Japanese. Forcing everyone together in a pot and saying, ‘Okay! Melt!’ has only led to violence, misery, confusion, and racial impurity for everyone involved. Being that the US is a predominantly white country, we think everybody else needs to go home. Or we can split up the country. Don’t make me no nevermind.”

  “Wow. That’s intense.” She flipped the tab on her can and blew into the opening, trying to get a tone. She continued, “It does make sense, though. I always think it’s so sad when I see mulatto kids. Like, where do they belong? What’s their identity? How could people not think about that before they have those children?”

  I nodded and said, “How that ain’t considered child abuse straight off I’ll never know. Believe me, I lived the experiment. It’s a failure. My parents live in a mostly colored neighborhood. I used to live with them there. Blacks, left entirely on their own, shoot each other up like it’s a game. I’ve watched them do it right in front of me. You add Caucasians to the mix, you add gooks to the mix, and now everybody’s gotta ‘posse up.’ It’s madness, and it needs to end.”

  “Look at me,” she said. “Fresh into town, and I sought you guys out right away.”

  “There you go. Everybody wants to be with their own kind. There was a dude in my old neighborhood who became a Black Nationalist, back-to-Africa type. Senbe Shabazz. He called multiculturalism ‘pollutin’ and dilutin’.’ I tell you, I couldn’t stand the son-of-a-whore personally, but I agreed with everything he stood for.”

  “Except,” she said, “that he felt that blacks are superior to everyone else. Rig
ht?”

  “That’s cool. Everyone thinks their group is the best one. Fuck, every tribe of American Indian’s name for themselves translates in their tongue as ‘The True People.’ But,” I couldn’t help but grin, “WE ain’t called the Master Race for no reason.” Sherry laughed and nodded. “Speaking of Indians,” I continued, “I got nothing but respect for them people. They got it right. They keep to themselves in their own communities and maintain their own culture. There’s the ‘business model,’ as Richard says.”

  “I tell you what, y’all would hate what I see on campus everyday. It’s like one big Benetton ad.”

  “I’ve seen that shit. Queers, kikes, cripples, rag heads, all hanging around together holding hands pretending to buy the world a Coke. That’s why Richard dropped out and why I’m never going.”

  “I was wondering why you’re not in school.”

  “I was expelled. For trying to teach some shaved apes a lesson in reality. There was a lot of hooting and shit-throwing, I’ll tell you that much.”

  “You’ve got … quite a vocabulary for slurs.”

  “It’s a talent, not a gift.”

  “Well, I don’t know about ‘The Revolution,’ but … I’d like to see a revolution where more than one opinion—read: liberal secular opinion—is allowed at college. It’s out of control. My first day of Women’s Studies and there’s this wacko-left freak in class … a man mind you … hollering at a bunch of feminists for not being feminist enough.”

  “Ha ha! For all their bullshit about tolerance, they’re not even tolerant with each other.”

  “And there’s this black chick everybody’s ga-ga over. Oh, she’s soooo great. She’s just some homegirl with a big mouth, but you’d think she was the fucking Empress of Ethiopia.”

  “Of course. Gotta reward every little thing they do.”

  “And just today I had the nerve to mention God in class, and you would have thought I was force-feeding the body of Christ down people’s throats.”

  “You Catholic?”

  She paused nervously then said, “You all hate Catholics, don’t you.”

  I laughed.

  “We’re not The Klan,” I said. “I ain’t got a problem with Catholics. Pope Pious, one of them, was a big supporter of the Third Reich. At least that’s my understanding.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “How could you know? They’re not going to teach that in school. That’s not politically correct. It might make people ashamed of their religion, or worse yet, might make them stop to think that maybe Hitler wasn’t the monster they’ve been forced to believe he was. Either way it’s another symptom of the … infantilization of our culture. That’s why we have to fight.”

  “Infantilization?”

  “You know what I mean. Babyfication … somethin’.”

  She giggled, “That’s so funny, what you do with your voice.”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “When it’s just you talking, it’s all ‘mumble mumble fuckin’ mumble grumble.’ But then when you go on a tear about THE BIG ISSUES, Professor Mikal steps up to the podium. I just think it’s funny. The two yous.”

  “Hmmm. Yeah …”

  I had completely lost interest in the adventures of everyone’s favorite digital vermin, so I shut the TV off. We sat in silence for a moment. After a bit, Sherry asked, “So … if I join you guys, if you’ll let me, do I have to wear those big old steel-toed boots like you’re wearing?”

  I shrugged. “You never know when you gotta kick somebody.”

  “I just don’t like my feet to be imprisoned. A lot of the girls were barefoot last night.”

  “Psh. Shows their dedication,” I said in mock-disdain. Surely she can tell I’m joking with her. If she could, it didn’t show.

  “Well,” she said warily, “I hope I can stay around. I mean, Richard seemed to, you know … enjoy me.” My stomach immediately locked up again. “I’m sorry,” she continued, blushing afresh, “I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

  Just then the boys came bursting through the door like a herd of wildebeests.

  “Hey you,” Sherry cooed to Richard, her voice suddenly regressing to a very high, little girl timbre. “I know you!”

  Richard scooped her up off the couch and gobbled on her neck. She squealed and kicked her legs in the air. He deposited her back onto the couch next to me. She kissed his fingers as he slid his hand across her cheek. I could have done without all of that.

  “How’d it go?” I asked the assembled mob.

  “Killer,” said Joe. “We’re ready to slaughter people.”

  “Sweet.”

  “Yer a fag, Mikey,” Geoff announced.

  “Really? Is that why I fucked your mother up the ass last night?”

  “Yep. Cuz she’s a fag hag. Did you draw a hairy chest on her back?”

  “I sure did.”

  “You guys are messed up,” said Sherry.

  “Duly noted.”

  “Goddamn,” Brian said sniffing. “Were there banana peppers in here? I swear to fucking god just being in this room I’m gonna swell up and die.”

  “Are you going to explode and splatter all over the place?” Phil asked him. “Cuz if you are, then I gotta leave. These are my good pants.”

  “If you die can I have your skateboard?” I asked.

  “No, cuz you killed me, fucker.”

  “Why you gotta hold a grudge?”

  “Anyway,” Richard cut in, “if you niggers are done with Showtime at the Apollo, I’m starving.”

  “Red meat,” Phil said chomping his teeth. “Thick, raw, and menstruating. That’s what we need.” A chorus of ‘Hell yes’ chimed all around the room.

  “What do you say, Sherry?” Richard asked, brushing a few golden strands away from her eyes. “Hungry for anything in particular?”

  “Um …,” Sherry replied, “red meat sounds great to me.”

  5.

  THAT weekend Suzi and I went to meet her father. Her eyes lit up like Christmas morning when he came strolling in and she kissed him on the cheek with a loud smacker.

  We met at a local greasy spoon because Suzi’s mother was home sick with the flu and nobody wanted to be there for that. Suzi had been taking care of her mom to the best of her abilities, bringing her soup and orange juice and whatnot. I guess something or other had enraged the lady, though, because Suzi’s lip was split and fattened on one side and her chin was bruised. Something about a flying vomit bucket and I really didn’t want to hear any more.

  “It was an accident,” her father said. “Her mother didn’t mean to hurt her.”

  We ran out of conversation pretty quickly. I don’t think Old Man was too impressed with me, not that he had much reason to be, and I’d have to say the feeling was mutual.

  “Nice haircut, Mick.”

  “Mike.”

  “Mike.”

  Nothing struck me as particularly wrong about him, but he was no cause for celebration as far as I could see. I couldn’t help but think, Why are you letting this happen? Why are you allowing your daughter to be brutalized?

  “You got a job, Mike?”

  “Sort of.”

  “What do you do?”

  “Well … um …”

  If you really loved her, you know … you wouldn’t … you wouldn’t …

  After dinner Suzi and I said farewell to Father of the Year and went down to Eldon’s Tavern to see a local bluegrass singer named Jasper Highway. The rest of our gang was elsewhere that night, and it was good to be alone. El gave us each a soft drink and said, “No back-talk, you two. Yer lucky I let yuz in.”

  “Isn’t Daddy every bit as great as I said?” Suzi asked me.

  Jasper sang, “I got a heartache, love, deeper than the sea …”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Uh huh. Absolutely.”

  If you really loved her …

  That night we tried to have sex in the shower, but it was too slippery and awkward and by the ti
me we got to bed Suzi said she felt dizzy and fell right to sleep. I heard Richard and Sherry stumble in through the front door and head straight into his bedroom. Suzi rolled over and wrapped her arms around me from behind. I held her hands to my chest and kissed her fingers.

  “Mikal …,” she whispered, half asleep.

  “Yeah?”

  “Could you get me a glass of water?”

  Goddamn it … The last place in the world I wanted to be right then was out in that kitchen … except for possibly the room adjoining.

  “Awww …,” I grumbled. “I’m comfortable. Go back to sleep.”

  “I’m thirsty!”

  I mumbled something incoherent in reply and she rolled back over.

  “Jeez. What a gentleman YOU are. I’ll just go get it myself.” And she stomped out into the kitchen. Half a minute later she came back out to the porch and said, “Holy Christ, you should hear—”

  “I don’t want to hear about it.”

  Richard had picked up a temp job working on an assembly line and I was looking for something myself so I could start pulling my own weight around the house rent-wise. It was a Monday afternoon and I was sitting in the living room pouring over the Employment page when Sherry came in dragging an old ghost behind her.

  “Mikal, I met THE scariest dude ever today. Well, I can’t really say I met him cuz I already had seen him cuz he’s in my Women’s Studies class, right? I told you about that. But anyway, there’s this girl in that class named Paige. She’s hardly ever there. But when she is there all she does is cause fights. Everybody calls her the Raging Bull-dyke, which is fairly right-on except I think she’s actually probably kind of pretty in her own way. Like, imagine young Elvis if he was a woman and had pine-green hair.”

  “Uh … Okay …”

  “Anyway, she’s really laying into the rest of the women and I’m staying out of it, of course. She’s saying shit like, ‘You can’t go slurping the enemy’s goop and then whine when he doesn’t call you the next day,’ and all sorts of crap about men that I didn’t really understand. And Creepy Guy, he’s her friend, he’s just sitting there loving it, soaking it all in. But when people start to fight back against Paige he chimes in with all this stuff about ‘Sojourner Truth,’ and ‘Susan B. Whatsherface,’ and this other chick goes, ‘What right do you have to criticize? Are you a woman? Do you have a vagina?’ And he snarls at her, ‘You mean besides the one I keep in the mason jar?’“