Part 8 (1/2)

'That's what I thought you'd say,' smiles Gloria. 'Debbie, is it okay if I use that yarn?' she asks, pointing to a plastic box full of jean patches and thread and b.a.l.l.s of wool.

'Not the aqua-blue stuff.'

'How 'bout the gold one?'

'Go ahead,' says Deb, newly enthused by the idea of Gloria and Lionel's visit to Serenity Grove if it helps her prospects of getting some alone-time with her warrior poet. 'Just bring it back,' she says. 'Good yarn don't grow on trees.'

'Thanks,' says the dancer. Then to Lionel, 'It's time you got outta that friggin' chair. There's a big world out there.'

'Yeah, look what good it's done me.'

Without answering she moves and squats and grabs the yarn and walks back to the Marine.

'Hold still,' she says and bends and begins wrapping it around his torso, tight around his sweats.h.i.+rt.

'What are you doing?'

'Taking your sorry a.s.s for a walk.'

Normally his mom would object to any of this nonsense relating to her son's happiness and general security, but love's got her by the cash register locked with the tall Indian in what looks like a pro-wrestling hold. And they're whispering dirty things, tongues in ears.

Now Gloria trots over to her trusty moped, the ball of gold yarn unraveling behind her, and ties the last of it to the rusted bar above the back tire. Then she deftly straddles the machine and throws her helmet on and turns the key and lurches forward, pulling Black Jesus from his rocker, as obedient as any sleepwalker, arms out and his legs dancing a rusty two-step.

And off they go, out of the parking lot and onto the waiting roadside, two kids, nothing much to lose, tied to each other by more than just yarn somehow.

By this hour of day Bebop Billy is certainly high as a News 10 helicopter. Out at the far end of the boardwalk he sways to and fro studying the wide blue living emptiness that rolls out before him. After a while, he lifts the plastic recorder to his mouth and blows a slow lament for the world he lives in, the country he stands at the edge of.

What are we headed toward? he wonders as he fingers the holes, lifting, landing, lifting again. How will it all play out?

When the tune is through he breathes and closes his eyes, feels the warm drugs inside him, the warm ocean air on his face. Turning his head slowly to one side he sees he's got company. It's the junky transvest.i.te everybody calls Lady Di. Bebop's seen her plenty of times round the speedway but oddly the two have never shared a word, a needle. No telling how long she's been standing here, watching, listening. Wearing a purple boa about her brown neck and a green see-through sun visor on her head and a t-s.h.i.+rt that says cancer above a big red smiling cartoon crab, she purses her lips and claps a soft little clap, the kind commonly mustered by aristocracy after they've been mildly entertained, maybe a yawn would follow, maybe a paper fan in this heat.

'You in s...o...b..z?' asks Lady Di.

'No,' says Bebop. 'I'm camera shy.'

's.h.i.+t, that makes you one in a million in this tacky a.s.s jungle nine oh two one oh.'

'How 'bout you?'

's...o...b..z? s.h.i.+t, I was almost a big eff-in' star one time. Had a record deal and all that. Opened up for Fester p.u.s.s.ycat.'

'What happened?'

'I don't know. I guess you could say it went down the tubes. That's the easy way to say it. Who can ever really pinpoint the moves that lead us to our own disaster? s.h.i.+t, that would make a hot chorus. You could use that in one of your songs, man. Just cut me in on the royalties.'

'Do you miss it?'

The tranny takes a moment to reflect. She's tall. The three-day-old make-up on her face makes her look like a rodeo clown who just checked himself into a hospital after a significant bender.

'I miss the show,' says the tranny. 'The roar of the crowd. When they scream for you it's like nothing else on earth. You're G.o.d for an hour and a half. You know how you know you're doing a good show?'

'How?'

'It's when the girls start throwing their panties at the stage. You know how you know when you're doing a fabulous show?'

'No.'

'It's when they throw the panties and the panties stick to you like glue. That's how you know you're really on fire. Why'd you choose the recorder, man? Kinda gay, don't you think?'

'Look who's talking.'

'Take that back! This creature you see before you is not gay by any stretch of the imagination. He's just caught between two worlds, baby. But never mind that. All I'm saying is I'd love to see you pick up a Flying V or something. Something with some b.a.l.l.s.'

Bebop looks down at the blue recorder in his hands. What are we headed toward? Then he looks out to the sea. How does it all play out? His high is waning, his stomach a little uneasy.

'I've gotta go,' he tells the tranny. 'So long,' he says and turns away and starts down the boardwalk.

'Hey, I'm sorry, baby,' calls Lady Di.

Billy doesn't hear him because he's blowing on the recorder again. A tune to fix the evening. A tune to bring a scary rain. Just a tune to fill the emptiness that gnaws.

'I didn't mean it, man! That flute's the perfect thing for you. Let's be friends, okay? You're beautiful in every way! Look at you. You're like the Pied Piper with that thing. Fooling all the rats. Leading all the rats out to drown!'

Half an hour later Bebop's lying in the speedway. Spine on the asphalt. Happy eyes on a sick sky. A red balloon in his grimy pocket, his poison, his medicine. Half the contents of that balloon in his bloodstream once again and he strikes the piper's pose and blows a hapless prayer into the warm wind.

'Do you hear that, sweets?' says Tracy on the black sofa. 'I think it's coming from down on the street,' she says and gets up and prances to the window. 'I heard it once or twice before. I think you were sleeping. It's really pretty. But it's just as sad. Isn't that weird?'

'Oh you pretty things,' croaks a nude Ross Klein off-key, smoldering on the other side of the apartment. 'Don't you know you're driving your mommas and poppas insane?'

'Umm, baby? All these lyrics are really brilliant, and enlightening and everything, but sometimes I just wanna talk to you. The real you. I'm sorry. Don't be mad. It's my fault. Maybe I'm missing the point.'

'Let's give them something to talk about. A little mystery to figure out. How about love?'

'Really?' says the girl, turning from the window to face him. 'You wanna talk about love?'

'Sure. Why not? But first I need you to do something for me.'

'Anything.'

'Where's your cell phone?'

'I turned it off like you told me to. And threw the battery out the window.'

'You don't have to lie to me. I saw you sending a text yesterday. It's okay. Just go get it. I want you to make a phone call for me.'

The girl lowers her strawberry blonde head like a shamed child and walks back over to the sofa and squats in her sundress and fishes under the leather cus.h.i.+ons for her Nokia. There it is.

'Who am I calling?' she says once the flip-top's open to her view.