Black Wave (23 page)

14

That night Judy spoke to Michelle for the first time. She came into the store as the sun was setting, the sky streaked with orange and purple, glowing down on the silhouetted neighborhood, the Scientology Celebrity Centre a haunted mansion in the darkness. The ambulances outside the gates had been replaced by news vans. Dishes of light angled at news people, stylists stood by with blotting papers and aluminum cans of hair spray.

Michelle had been collecting bits of gossip from shoppers and junkies as the sun sank. Tom Cruise had killed himself. Michelle's childhood love, John Travolta—Vinnie Barbarino and Danny Zuko, gone bulky and grotesque with the onset of manhood—he too had offed himself, right across the street from where she had stood, leafing through photo books of natural wonders. Michelle thought back to playing
Grease
with Kyle as children, both of them fighting over who got to be Sandy, tugging the neckline of their T-shirts over their shoulders,
Tell me
about it . . . stud,
mashing an invisible cigarette into the ground with the tip of their invisible stiletto sandals, their bony hips swinging. Each sibling was in love with John Travolta. Michelle could never have imagined that the man's life would come to its terminus across the street from where she stood, twenty-eight years old, the world beginning its ending around her.

Giovanni Ribisi and Jason Lee, dead. Kirstie Alley and Juliette Lewis. Karen Black! The Presley women! Michelle started to feel an antsy excitement, as if these famous people were just chilling in the garden across the street, not getting rolled out on stretchers. She wanted to see. But did she? Did she want to see Linda Blair dead from poison, a corpse on a cot? This was not how Michelle had wanted her celebrity sightings to happen. She regretted frittering away her brief glimpses of Gwen Stefani and Marilyn Manson.

Julia Migenes.
Judy shook her head as she entered the shop, upset.

Who Is That? Michelle asked.

An opera singer. Marvelous, just marvelous. The paramedics rolled her out a moment ago. It is awful over there, awful.
Judy shuddered.
But all the more reason to keep our vigil,
she said, determined. She heaved her tote from her shoulder onto the counter, obscuring a paperback,
Baby Driver
by Jan Kerouac, Jack Kerouac's junkie, hooker, memoir-writing daughter. Like her father she was already dead and would be spared this time of celebrity mass suicides. Judy dug from her tote a bunch of waxy white candles and a stack of shiny paper ashtrays. She laid them before Michelle.

So, you have scissors?
Michelle nodded.
Well, let me see, then.
Michelle pulled a pair of scissors from under the register. Judy took them up, snipped a slit into the ashtray and
jammed a candle through it.
Voila! Catches the wax. Won't burn your hands. Do as many as you can.
She lifted her tote back onto her shoulder.
I'll be back in a half hour or so. Want to check in on La Bébête. Allan was crying.
Judy's voice grew hushed.
Crying! European men are just different. More sensitive. He sat inside that car and just cried. No one has come to help him, not with the suicides across the street. There's only so many resources. I'm going to help him sweep up some of the glass so he can try to open tonight.

They're Going To Open? Michelle asked. With All This? She waved a blunt candle at the carnage across the street.

Oh, well, he'll get a lot of business tonight I think, between the vigil and the suicides. That car that got knocked through the window was a convertible, I told him he should just pull the top back and let people sit there. Won't that be a hoot?
She nodded at the craft supplies.
Half hour. Do what you can.

Judy, I'm Working.

Judy waved her hand.
I spoke to Beatrice, she told me I could leave it with you. Just pitch in, why don't you?

Michelle lifted the scissors and petulantly stabbed a hole into an ashtray.
Oh!
Judy dug a roll of ribbon from her tote. She flung the wheel of it to Michelle, red, white, and blue stripes.
And then you tie a bit of ribbon at the base, like so. Sweet, right? One half hour.
Judy jingled out of the shop. Michelle rammed a candle through the gouged ashtray.

15

First there were only a few people at the vigil, but soon there were many. Michelle watched the sidewalk clog outside the bookstore. People held cameras, took pictures of the car lodged in the French bistro's facade. Diners reclined inside the vehicle, the top cranked down per Judy's suggestion. They held heavy-bottomed glasses of wine in their hands, their fingers lacing the stem, they raised the sloshing goblets at the cameras and smiled, their lips purple. Candles flickered everywhere, each one ornamented with red, white, and blue bows tied by Michelle's nimble fingers.

The strip's restaurants emptied onto the sidewalk and diners hoisted their drinks into the air, like it was New Orleans and a great procession was passing by. Someone held a poster-board globe with HONK FOR EARTH painted on it, cars rode by, honking. When cars honked, everyone cheered. Judy dashed up and down the strip, weaving through the people, handing out the candles. Beatrice stopped by the bookstore, holding a glass Coke bottle plugged with a
candle. She and Paul had gotten good seats—not at the French bistro, whose tragedy had lent it novelty, but at the Italian joint down the street. They kept checking in to make sure the bookshop hadn't been set upon by looters. Beatrice placed the Coke bottle on the dime paperback cart, the melting wax blobbing around the ribbon.

Michelle, keep an eye on that? Make sure it doesn't get knocked over and set the books on fire.

The bookstore was empty. Michelle lingered in the doorway, by the dime cart and its burning candle, observing the strip. A man dressed as Uncle Sam was jogging in the gutter, pumping his hands in the air like a mascot at a sporting event, inciting the crowd to cheers. Everyone seemed drunk. A young kid, good-looking, no shirt on, held a large cloth peace flag above his head as he ran laps around the block, the fabric rippling in the wind above his rippled torso. The crowd loved it. A Boy Scout troop arrived and stood across the street from the drunkards, singing patriotic songs paces away from the news crews still covering the celebrity suicides. A couple of news cameras crossed the street, shifting their focus to the vigil. Was the vigil for the fallen celebrities?
No, no,
Judy said, offended. She did not want her event getting appropriated.

Inconsolable Tom Cruise fans had arrived and attempted to assemble an altar at the Celebrity Centre's gates, arranging candles and photos and iconic relics—a pair of Ray Bans, a cocktail shaker. They were quickly brushed away. It had not yet been announced that Tom Cruise was dead, it was all rumor and speculation. The fans were grief maddened, holding above their heads homemade collages of the actor in his many roles—
Jerry Maguire, Top Gun, Legend
.

The cops guarding the Celebrity Centre pushed the
stricken fans across the street to the vigil, where Judy pushed them back toward the Celebrity Centre.
This is not a vigil for Tom Cruise!
Judy shouted at the fans, the news cameras trained on her.
This is a vigil for the planet! Our planet! Planet earth!
Michelle's hand flew to her mouth as she watched Judy rip a
Vanilla Sky
poster from someone's hands and dip the edge of it into her vigil candle. She tossed the flaming effigy into the gutter.

Whoa, uh-oh!
yelled the topless boy with the peace flag. There was no way around the conflagration but into oncoming traffic. He jogged in place, the flag sinking limply onto his head. Judy flung her candle onto the poster and stormed down the street, enraged.

A rebel Boy Scout climbed onto the bus shelter across the street and began chanting,
USA! USA!
The crowd roared its approval. A fire truck cruised by and the crowd howled anew, as if the truck were but the latest float in a parade. The fireman, confused, honked his horn in acknowledgment of the salute, and the crowd howled once more, hoisting their drinks to the noise. Michelle noticed many people crying. Women and men. Insensitive American men, in tears. People waved flags, American flags and peace flags.

Revelers asked Michelle where they could get candles. A Little Gray Lady. Michelle craned her neck to search for Judy. I Think She Lost Her Mind And Left. She gave away the Coke bottle candle.

A blond girl walked by on a cell phone.
Yeah, it's really awesome, you should come down, it's awesome . . .
A young golf punk from her apartment building approached, his pristine spikes standing full mast atop his head.

We were up on the roof, you should see it from there!
he crowed.
You should come up with us, drink some beers.

Can't, Michelle thumbed back toward the bookstore. Working.

Oh.
The punk looked uncomfortable, turned away as if Michelle had revealed a great shame.
You work here? Well, see ya.
He moved into the crowd. Michelle felt a sudden embarrassment at her lack of embarrassment at having this job. She didn't even know enough to know what she should be ashamed about in life. She was starting at subzero, she would never scramble out in a year.

The same pickup truck kept circling the block until finally the topless boy with the peace flag hopped onto the bed and a cheer rang through the crowd. Bystanders leaped from the curb and joined him. Now it truly was a parade. The strangers clutched at each other in the back of the pickup, unbalanced from the beers they still carried or the bumpy motion of the truck or both. They arranged themselves around flag boy, smack in the middle, his flag lifted above him like a kite hoping to catch some wind.
It looks like
Les Miserables, Michelle overheard the comment of a passing gay man.

Beatrice stopped by again, asking if Michelle would like to take a walk down the block.

I'm Okay, Michelle assured her boss.

Go have a look,
Beatrice insisted.
There's nothing to do here.

Michelle made it as far as the bar and grill a few doors down, the crowd growing thicker and yeastier around her as she cleaved into the heart of it. She turned and shoved her way back to the bookstore, dodging open flames and sloshing pint glasses. Too Overwhelming, she told Beatrice, and resumed her post in the kiosk. A tall, red-faced man burst through the glass doors.

How much is that book?
he demanded.
The Australia book? You know they just blew up the Sydney Opera House?
He shook
a handheld communication device at Michelle.
It just happened. How much for the book? Australia is being decimated. You know the whole country was founded by criminals, it's like some time-coded genetic switch got flipped on and they're blowing everything up! How much for it?

It's Not For Sale, Michelle said. She hated the man. It's Not For Sale. It's A Memorial.

Oh.
He deflated. His lower lip sagged down in a pout.
But I want it,
he whined.

Michelle shrugged. I Just Work Here.

No, really,
he pushed.
I want to buy it and then walk around and have everyone out there sign it, to commemorate the evening.

You're Kidding, Michelle said, wishing Joey were there. Where was Joey? Joey would love this. Like A Yearbook?

Exactly!
The man brightened, hopeful.
Like a souvenir.

You Got To Talk To The Boss, Michelle said. I Can't Help You.

The man squinted his bloodshot eyes at her.
You just could've had a really great sale,
he snapped, and stormed away from the kiosk. He paused at the door and dunked his hand into the display window, grabbing the Australia book and pushing back into the throng, the volume held tightly to his chest. Michelle scanned the kiosk for a replacement for the window display. A book of black-and-white photographs from the punk years,
No Future
, the title like a blast of spray paint across the cover. She slid it into the plastic book prop where the Australia book once sat.

That's what's wrong with this country,
a voice shot out of nowhere.
Maybe the whole planet.
Michelle craned her head around. There was a longhair crouched down in the sci-fi stack, sitting on the floor by the pile of
Star Trek
paperbacks. Long hair and oversized pervert eyeglasses.
They think it's a goddamn sporting event out there,
he grumbled.
This is precisely why everyone hates us. America. What's with the flags, already?

Yes, Michelle said, grateful for the sudden presence of someone she agreed with. She shook her head up and down, her fried blue hair bobbing in stiff waves around her head. She wanted to tell him he could pocket a few of the
Star Trek
books and she would look the other way, but he seemed so moral she wasn't sure how he'd take it, so she just gave him a lot of room instead.

16

In the morning a terrible sound woke Michelle up on her futon. A blast and a howl and another blast and a thump. Michelle lay in bed, a warm dread moving through her body. The noises were so loud Michelle could still feel their echoes clotting her ears like cotton. She kneeled on her futon and tugged the worn string that lifted the blinds. Behold the rottweiler. Behold the mess of it, flung around the apartment. Behind him sprawled the man, behold his dreads fanned across the floor, his face gone. There was his gun. Michelle immediately wanted it.

Uh-oh. Is this how shit went nuts? When people start hoarding the guns of the suicided? Michelle had once read the phrase
The way you do anything is the way you do everything
inside a Buddhism book on the Self-Help shelves of the bookstore back in San Francisco. It had resonated with her. The way she did anything was the way she did everything. She did everything sloppily, thoughtlessly, with anxiety. She did everything alcoholically, selfishly. The desire
for the gun, the man's still-warm fingers draped across it on the floor, made Michelle ask herself questions. How did she want to spend the next year of her life? Did she want to live in fear? In fear of her neighbors, of other people, of humanity?

She did not want to live in fear. A gun could help her accomplish this. With a gun, she could afford to risk being kind to people. If she had misjudged their intentions she could simply kill them. Could she? Could she kill someone? Michelle's heart said yes. She could totally kill someone. Michelle had always known this about herself. Still, she was a good person. And she'd be a better person if she had a gun.

In the supply closet out in the hallway Michelle grabbed a ladder and dragged it back to her apartment. It was a new world, one in which extreme acts of bravery and self-protection should not be shrunk from. She hoisted the ladder between the two windows. Michelle had always known her apartment was much too close to her neighbor's, but it was still a surprise to see the ladder bridge the distance so easily. She began to climb onto it, but the slight wobble brought her gaze down to the darkened alley and she felt dizzy. She paused for a moment and breathed, her eyes closed. In every apocalypse movie she had ever seen, people needed guns. She began again her crawling and was soon at the window, puzzling how to leap into the apartment without landing on the dog. Michelle aimed for a square of linoleum sticky with blood and placed her bare foot upon it. She was in.

Michelle was fine. Fine with a pulse of sadness, with a hint of the unreal, but she was fine. Michelle recognized it to be, not the denial Joey had diagnosed her with, but a sort of fast-acting acceptance. Michelle was resilient and
adaptable. Once again she was in the moment. A place people paid money to try to get to, people sat in silence for days at a time, people fasted to achieve a state that came naturally to Michelle. She was fortunate. She felt internally equipped for the end of the world. She would be one of the lucky ones.

Michelle lifted the warm gun from the linoleum, the faceless man's fingers sliding off it smoothly. Chekhov's gun, Michelle thought. What was that famous bit of writerly advice? If in the first act there is a pistol upon the wall then by the second act it should be fired? Was she going to have to use this thing? And also, was the safety on? Of course not, it had just killed its master. The man's face looked like strawberry rhubarb pie, chunky and reddish purple. Michelle did not know where the safety was, she would have to search guns on AOL. She would find an instructional video and learn how not to kill herself.

Bringing the gun back over the ladder was a challenge. She needed a backpack or something. The man's rickety cabinets were held shut with bungee cords, and in a fit of inspiration Michelle went for one. The cabinets flung open, spilling dog treats everywhere, a variety. The man had loved his dog. Michelle felt regret and respect for the both of them and wished they could each have a proper burial, but supposed such things weren't possible. The paramedics were busy carting off dead celebrities and the cops were all stationed outside the shops on Rodeo Drive, Melrose Avenue, and Hollywood Boulevard. Michelle had seen the pictures of them in full riot gear, guns drawn, looking ready to fight off zombies. Probably the man and his dog would begin to molder, and Michelle would become as accustomed to the smell of it as she had the stink of the cows on the highway.

Michelle looped Chekhov's gun through the bungee cord and hung it around her neck. It would be awful if she shot herself in the face as she crawled. Don't think don't think don't think. She thought that maybe guns were harder to shoot than you'd imagine. A friend in San Francisco had once gone to a shooting range with that gay self-defense group, the Pink Pistols. She'd returned with a sore, cramped finger, complaining how hard it had been to pull the trigger. Michelle crawled gingerly across the ladder and made it through her window. She removed her strange jewelry and laid it upon her kitchen table.

Immediately Michelle regretted not ransacking the man's apartment. What was she thinking? She could have picked his pocket. She could have walked around and checked if there was anything she needed. The man was dead, nothing was of any use to him. What were the ethics of the apocalypse? If Michelle was dead and some nice queer girls came upon her she hoped they would help themselves to whatever they needed. She supposed that even if they ate her, why should she care if she was dead already?