Mixtape for the Apocalypse Page 5

  I just stared at him, unable to think of anything to say. For one thing, I wasn’t sure which dykey friend he was referring to—softly butch but totally straight Lise, or the actually homosexual Laika. I watched him go back into the dark living room and say something to Melissa, and she laughed and answered him in the same tone of voice. They both looked over their shoulders at me and giggled to each other. I wanted to scream at Melissa, “Did you know your boyfriend is a misogynist homophobe?” But I knew it wouldn’t do any good. They were dead to me.

  When I went back into my room, I closed the door securely, propped my chair against the doorknob, and shoved a pair of tennis shoes under the door. I sat on the windowsill and wrote.

  9:50 p.m.

  Well, isn’t this just typical. Puke my guts out, spend all day getting home on the stupid bus, and then find out the only housemate that I can trust has just “moved out.” Took off. Sold Attila the Construction Worker the television set, depriving me of the life-giving rays of Star Trek reruns. It’s almost enough to make me laugh, but my sense of humor isn’t that fucked up yet.

  I guess I got dressed because I want to go out again. I’m exhausted. Where can I go? It’s Sunday night. I’m not going to a bar because I am never drinking again until tomorrow at the earliest. Triste is closed. And if I leave, I’d only have to come back. I feel like packing up my bandana on a stick and running away to join the circus. And I can’t face going out through that living room again—I can’t stand to wonder what the hell they’re laughing at. What’s so funny? Is it the general Camus-like pointlessness of my life? Or is that filthy scarecrow that They Might Be Giants warned me about, following me around, parodying my rants and frustration? I guess that would be pretty funny. If I wasn’t living it.

  I grabbed my shoulder bag, put my journal and sketchbook, all my Bunnymen tapes, my Walkman, and my copy of Understanding Comics into it. I twisted into the gray sneakers I’d recently stuffed under the door, and worked the screen off my window, climbing up and out. I dropped down into the coarse gravel below, a much further drop than I’d realized. It was too far for me to put the screen back on the window—besides, it had to be done from inside—so I scrambled up and cranked the window as far closed as it would go before my arms gave out and I dropped back down on all fours in the gravel.

  Then I just walked, just to get away from them, to be not there.

  Eventually I found myself at the front steps of Lise’s apartment building, eerily lit by the yellow light of the leather shop’s sign across the street. The hangover had stripped the strength from my muscles and I couldn’t go any further. I could have taken the bus to Link-Up and slept in the break lounge, but I didn’t have the outer door keys, and I could barely hold my head upright.

  I buzzed.

  “Who the hell is it?” came Lise’s voice, fuzzy and thick.

  “It’s me, Squire. I’m sorry I woke you up. I know you have to work tomorrow, but I do too and I can’t stay at home—I’m gonna end up in jail or something.”

  “Aw, Christ.” She buzzed me in.

  I found her in the dim light coming from stove lamp, wearing a white Hanes tank top and faded satin pajama pants. The room smelled richly of incense, dope, and feminine sweat—not a bad smell, all told. She smirked at me. “What is it now, Squire,” she said.

  “Can I please crash here?” I asked sheepishly.

  “Sure,” she said. She tossed her blankets on the floor, then grabbed another sheet from a crate of folded linens and wrapped herself in it. “I’ll wake you when I get up. G’night.” She flopped into bed again and closed her eyes.

  I turned off the light, kicked off my shoes and my jeans, and settled on the nest of blankets on the floor, the hardwood pleasantly chilly against my hipbones. Only after I’d relaxed and stopped rustling around did I notice that music was playing—almost silent, humming on the edge of audibility, as if the melody came from the wood and the white paint itself.

  18 August 8:30 p.m.

  Break between TV shows. Lise is in the kitchen making rice, singing along with the Cure. We’re both a little goofy on beer.

  This is pretty cool. I haven’t mentioned going home yet and neither has she. I’m still sleeping on the floor, but there’s a piece of egg-carton foam that I can curl up on tonight. Today at Link-Up I was so sore and stiff that I couldn’t handle almost any calls. I spent the day answering e-mail, writing to Juba, reading alt.gothic, and doing the crossword puzzle online. Nobody seemed to catch on—at least, nobody gave me any shit.

  Must call my mother. I guess she’s getting online now, but she can’t figure out how to find anything. This damned older generation—making everything harder than it really needs to be. They should stop looking for explanation or interconnections—just do as the little manual says. Don’t try to psych it out. Just obey. There’s plenty of time for questioning and going out on your own once you know what the hell you’re doing, but first, please learn how to double-click.

  THINGS TO DO TOMORROW:

  -Go home. Change underwear.

  -Buy Lise some replacement ramen.

  -Tell Juba to resend the attachment. It came through as text, and I was really annoyed.

  -Figure out where Laika went.

  -Get to grips with the ups and downs, ‘cos there’s nothing in between.

  19 August, 1:12 p.m.

  Lunchtime. Chicken in a pita. Pint of muddy brown stout.

  I suppose Laika’s in Seattle. Damn her. How could she leave me here alone? Her stupid girlfriend. I don’t know what I’ll do if I ever see her again. These betrayals I’ve been experiencing lately just blow my mind. I mean, I trusted those girls. I really did. We were a team, goddamn it; practically a family. Then Melissa meets Rob and turns into a fucking white trash bitch supreme, and Laika softens me up with brownies and then just takes off in the middle of the night. I can’t believe it.

  I need to start looking at apartment listings or other houses that I can join. God, I hate that part. L and M and I have been together for almost two full years; we got couches together; we bought bad art; we made coffee for each other. It’s enough to make you puke.

  At least Lise is cool with all this. We had a blast last night. We drank a four-pack of Mickey’s and listened to the Cure until the upstairs neighbors hammered on the ceiling. Then we lay in our respective bedding nests and talked in the dark until something like three in the morning—mostly about high school and all the creeps who made our lives hell. I even remember the names of all the kids who made fun of me when I was little. She was impressed with how much detail I remembered. “Maybe you should cut that stuff out of your memory,” she said. “You gotta get over it someday. Bitterness is a fatal poison.” But I explained that bitterness was my only salvation. She seemed to accept that.

  I really ought to go home. I skipped the underpants today. It’s actually not bad. I feel like Jim Morrison.

  11:45 p.m.

  Lise has fallen asleep in front of the TV. I’m sketching her weirdly bent arms. I didn’t go home. I really miss my art supplies. I take a pencil and sketchbook and an Onyx Micro with me wherever I go, but spare underwear just never made it on the list.

  20 August, 1:00 p.m.

  Lunchtime. Pizza and root beer. Chocolate truffle bar in my pocket, to be enjoyed with my afternoon coffee. A Squirrell night—dinner at Cock’s, supposedly. Mrs. Kaplan—we know her name is Cindy, but Cock wants us to call her Mrs. Kaplan—if he was a dog, he’d piss on her to show his ownership—will probably make another really hideous go at haute cuisine, namely, dry chicken breast halves, a French-cut green bean, and a sliver of pickled ginger. No wonder she’s skinny as a model (except for those amazing tits) and he looks like a Green Beret (with a ponytail). I wonder if she’s going to wear those amazing red clingy pants again. Certainly it’ll be another clingy lacy top so sheer you can see her red satin bra. Red lips, long blonde curls. Probably gives great head. Like I’d know what great head feels like.

  Crap.r />
  I feel quite low today, the truffle bar notwithstanding. No underwear, again. I can feel the seams digging into Mr. Frisky. My jeans smell funny. All of me smells funny. I like the white musk, but it doesn’t quite go with my natural odor, which is something . . . well, I don’t know. I don’t know what I smell like. I know I like it, certainly. I wonder if girls find my smell sexy, or if they’d find me sexier if I didn’t wash. Maybe I should have gone gamy today for dinner with Mrs. Cindy K., Mrs. Cock. She loves comic books, apparently. She loves my comic book.

  10:20 p.m.

  Thank God they have an upstairs bathroom.

  Yes, a yucky dinner, though Lucas and I smacked our lips and made much of it. Lucas kept on talking about his girlfriend, really obviously. Cindy K. kept on looking over at me, sadly, sympathetically, her lips slightly parted to show a slightly crooked front tooth. She had her hair in a ponytail with one tendril left loose and trailing across her table-tanned cheekbone. She kept licking her fork and “yumm”ing, then looking pointedly at me. So I went upstairs and jacked off. Who can blame me? I wish I hadn’t let out that little “ugh!” when I came, though. I went back to the table hot from exertion and Cindy K. asked me with sex-kitten innocence, “Squire, you’re all red, is everything okay? Are you having an allergic reaction? The sauce does have peanuts in it—are you allergic to peanuts?” etc. etc. I had to flee before she brought out “dessert,” which was something like kiwi sorbet. Run in fear.

  I hope Lise has pot. I really need it. I’m starving, for one thing, and I could really use a couple of tokes and then a big bowl of oriental flavoring. Real oriental flavoring. Like out of a foil packet.

  I hate Cock more than ever now. Before I simply distrusted him. Now I know he does shit specifically to fuck with me. “Where’s your girlfriend, Squire?” he asked me in the middle of dinner, when I was dripping peanut-laden sauce down my chin because I was gaping at Cindy K.’s bared honey-baked cleavage so hard. So I instinctively told the truth, I didn’t have any girlfriend, and Cock said “Who’s that blah blah blah,” and I told him that was Laika, who he’d seen at some industry party—I’d brought her because I had to bring a guest, and Lise had been visiting her dad in Vancouver. “I was wondering; she seemed a little out of your league,” he said. What a shitty thing to say. Laika is not out of my league. Laika is a lesbian. A taken lesbian, at that. She’s not even that good-looking, for Chrissakes. She’s just thin. Bastard. I fucking miss her and Lise isn’t my girlfriend.

  19 August 1:00 p.m.

  Lunchtime. Turkey, pastrami, provolone, pickles, dark rye. Best lunch I’ve had all week. Not enough left over for a beverage. Sitting outside, looking across the street into the window of Pronto. Lise inside, working one of the big copy machines. She’s got her head down, staring at the surface. Walkman on. She looks exceptionally pretty today, wearing a dress under her polo shirt.

  She nicely smoked me out last night and we stayed up late talking again, eating an entire bag of rice crackers. What a wonderful friend. I also called Mom today and she was also wonderful. Mom told me about her latest pot- and wine-soaked exploits with the Poetry Coalition—apparently they went skinny dipping in a pond and somebody called the cops. Nobody got hauled in, but there was much ‘splainin’ to do. I laughed so much that I got in trouble, and Trace called me and told me to get back to work.

  I really must go home tonight. I really must. I’m sick to death of these jeans and this T-shirt. And Dave actually called me on wearing the same clothes four days in a row, like he’s the fashion plate of the world. He’s gonna get his. Whatever. I must make my peace with the world. . . bitterness is a poison . . .

  Yeah, right, dude. Good one!

  How did Jim Morrison do it? . . .

  I had another weird thought that I can’t seem to shake, so I’ll write it down.

  My mom tells me that my dad could never fail to get her to come. They only had sex something like five times, but it was always fantastic. Or at least, that’s what my mother says. Seems to me like she was so idolizingly in love with him that when he was even vaguely sexually interested in her, she felt like the luckiest girl in the world. It kind of reminds me of the Angela/David Bowie situation, and mom agrees except that “Your dad isn’t an asshole. David never cared a damn for Angie; he just wanted a mommy. Jeremy honestly cares about me—well, cared.” My mom still, every once in a while, describes him as if he were still alive. Sometimes she seems to think he’s still tripping around Nepal being bored and gorgeous, instead of dead, really dead, reduced to ashes in an urn on a mantel in Stepney, next to a framed picture of Charles and Di and a candy dish of Malteasers. And Gran couldn’t figure out why I wouldn’t eat the Malteasers and instead spent the afternoon outside burning ants with a magnifying glass.

  I thought of something else. Too many thoughts today. They won’t slow down.

  My favorite childhood game was making tents out of two chairs and a sheet. As long as we weren’t expecting company, Mom let me set it up in the living room and “sleep out” in the makeshift tent. It was like a treat. I felt safe in there, buffered against the TV when I wanted the TV on, but everything showing was terrible; buffered against the sight of our dreadful apartment, my mother’s exhausted face, worn out from working two jobs, going to school, and raising me—alone. Kind of like a Lifetime Channel movie of the week, just with a lot of pot smoking. She’d be played by Lily Tomlin, or maybe Sally Field, and I’d be played by Toby Maguire. Dad, in flashbacks, would be played by Donovan Leitch. I wish I looked more like that guy and less like an albino frog in a Mary Tyler Moore wig.

  And now I must go back to work because I’m twenty minutes late.

  Friday Lise and I met for lunch at the pizza place across the street. “I can’t take it anymore. I’ve got to get home and put some underpants on,” I groused.

  “Chafing?”

  “To put it mildly. It would be fine if it was a little cooler outside—but I feel like my johnson’s been acid-washed.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Besides, maybe they’ve forgotten all about how much they hate me by now. Maybe they’ll think ‘Who’s this nice stranger? We like him!’“

  “There is always that chance,” Lise drawled, picking the encrusted cheese off my paper plate and eating it like a monkey pulling grubs from a log.

  “And I’d hate to overstay my welcome.”

  “That’s the funny thing.” She smiled. “I haven’t minded it at all, actually. I kind of like having you around. Maybe I’ve lived by myself for a little too long.”

  “Maybe we’re just getting old and complacent.”

  “You, maybe. I’m still full of spit and vinegar.”

  “That’s ‘piss and vinegar’. Get it straight, wench.”

  I actually did a good afternoon’s work, and went in to Squirrell in a great mood. All I had to do that day was the cleanup work on our piece, since Lucas had taken the weekend off to go visit his girlfriend in Vegas. Cock hovered over me as I bent over my table. “Squire, don’t take this the wrong way, but you smell funny,” he said.

  “Funny?” My good mood went out the window.

  “Flowery.”

  “I’ve been using Body Shop White Musk shampoo,” I explained, bending over the work again. His proximity was giving me a headache.

  “Why?”

  I looked up at him. He was giving me a confused, dubious look. “I’ve been staying with a girl, if you must know,” I said.

  Cock Kaplan looked relieved. “Why don’t you get your own shampoo? Something neutral smelling. Like Head and Shoulders. You smell like a fairy.”

  I sighed elaborately. “Mr. Kaplan, all respect due, but I can come in here drenched in White Shoulders if I want. What does my signature scent or my sexual orientation have to do with anything as far as you’re concerned? I’m here, doing my cleanup work, so we can get the quarterly out in time. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  There was a long moment of silence, stretched tight and thin like
a decaying rubber band. I began to regret speaking so freely, but I kept my head down, willing him to walk away, to forget I said anything, to have a sudden sharp blow to the head which would cause permanent and total amnesia, anything. He just kept standing there, as if waiting for me to say something else. “I want those boards on my desk in perfect—and I do mean perfect—condition at seven o’clock or there will be serious consequences,” he finally snapped, and then turned precisely and marched from the room.

  I had my diary balanced and open on my knees, and I dipped a convenient pen into blue-black India ink and wrote:

  Cock Kaplan sure has a military baton stuck up his ass for being an ex-hippie Hunter S. Thompson burnout freak.

  Maybe he can’t put it to his wife the way she likes it.

  Damn it, I have a line from “Stars are Stars” stuck on my brain. Lise and I were listening to the Bunnymen last night while we did the dishes. It’s not a very nice line, now that I think about it:

  now we spit out the sky

  because it’s empty and hollow

  all your dreams are hanging out to dry

  It was the first thing on my mind when I woke up this morning. I know it’s a sign from my subconscious, trying to tell me something. I carry this mental Ian McCulloch around with me night and day and I always listen to what he tells me. He’s always right, no matter how painful the truth is. I realized this when I was finishing my thesis and I’d been up all night—when the mini-thins wore off, I dropped a half tab of acid to keep myself awake. I was listening to heaven up here and during the long freakout jam that bisects “Over the Wall” and there’s the great line

  I can’t sleep at night

  c’mon and hold me tight

  to the logical limit

  Mac practically howling. Pattinson giving heartbeat. De Freitas imbuing stuttery breath. Seargant just ripping the shit out of every string on that guitar. It’s like having the marrow flayed from your bones. It was the most intense spiritual experience of my life. I really felt like Mac was my symbiote, that he needed me somehow, and I needed him. To survive. To exist. Without me, Ian McCulloch is just another package on the shelf, without identity or worth, and without Mac, I am just a blind and crawling fetus. Echo & the Bunnymen are my spiritual nourishment, my friend, lover, nag, even soothsayer—when I’m listening to the Buns, if I pause in whatever I’m doing or thinking or saying, whatever line happens next is completely appropriate to my emotion, or my situation. But who is the host and who is the parasite? Is it my marrow being sucked or his?