Authors: Ed Taylor
No. He says he’s just a guitar player.
Mingus snorted. More like the man with the golden gun.
What does that mean.
It means every artist is a deadly dude. Some get rich off it, some get killed by it.
Theo collapsed onto the sand and rolled over onto his back, tilting his head up at the hill of Mingus.
Are you rich.
I sure don’t live on the beach. Let’s go for a swim. Get some ocean on before I have to go back to the rats.
The air filled with the rough breathing of the water, in and out.
Were you a good student when you were in school, Theo asked.
Mingus laughed: I liked it cause I got a meal out of it. I liked math class.
I don’t like it.
Math class or school.
School.
Hey, it’s like dying, we all gotta go sometime.
Mingus smiled at Theo, but Theo stared at the sand, seeing the sleeping people on the sidewalk he had to pass to get to school, concrete wet at their heads and sometimes at their pants.
Bad joke: sorry – Mingus paused and stared at something, then grinned. For sure, most of what I learned in school didn’t have much to do with school. But school’s okay. I was valedictorian of my class in high school, and I got a scholarship to Yale.
What’s a valditorean.
It’s a person who has to make a speech at graduation.
Why.
It’s supposed to be an honor to be asked.
Making a speech sounds more like a punishment.
Most of the time, far as I know, it is supposed to be an honor. It’s crazy, man, people are more afraid of public speaking than death. You can read surveys about it.
Are you famous.
The thump of waves made Theo talk louder. Mingus always talked loud. People all around turned and looked at him all the time even when he wasn’t talking to them. Out here, the wind carried his voice away like sand. Theo wondered if words could blow away and still sound the same.
Not like your dad.
How famous is my dad.
He’s famouser than all git-out. Mingus was talking in a fake voice. When Mingus got mad or wanted to make fun of something, he talked like that.
Why are you mad.
I ain’t mad, man, I’m just angry that people like me, we have to scream to be heard. Plus he stole every good idea he had from black people.
My dad doesn’t steal things.
Mingus began stripping off, first his hat, then his cape, then his shirt, then his shorts, flinging them all away on the sand, leaving him in ragged, saggy olive-green boxers that made him look like a baby in a dark diaper, eyes still hidden behind plastic shades.
Ask him about that: Mingus with a shiver began running toward the water.
Glancing up Theo saw a group of grownups spilling out onto the sand from the dunes, directly behind Mingus: from the house.
Theo watched as pale people in black pants and T-shirts and boots and chains stumbled toward the water: people who’d arrived in a van with his mother.
They began flopping, sand flying, kicking off boots, stripping off shirts to expose white ribby torsos and nipple rings, snakes and black bands and totem-pole designs tattooed on their arms and backs. One walked toward the water, then stopped to hop and yank off boots and then the man in his black pants ran toward the water and dove forward headfirst, arms at his sides.
Theo pushed out into the water. Then he lowered himself and kicked once, face down, drifting without paddling, away, the water suddenly cold.
So running back into the house now with the fax, Theo carries the secret code, warm on the slick paper and he must bring it to the commander, but he can’t find Gus or Colin and runs with the fax flapping in his hand, down halls and around rooms, bare feet muffled on musty carpet then slapping on slate, tile, wood. He runs.
He likes to run. He’s good at running. He runs up and down any stairs, and adults always walk, sometimes even more slowly, when they go up stairs. But it takes too long if you don’t run.
Noises come from more parts of the house now. Music starts to seep from different areas, different musics. Someone’s screaming. Theo weaves among rooms, dodging and feinting, and hits a carpet and slips, feet pulled toward the ceiling and slams against the slate floor, his head bouncing. Dark.
Now stars. Lights. He sees butterflies of light, lying on his back, and is nauseous. He rolls onto his side and gags up silver strings of spit. Nothing to throw up, he hasn’t even had water. He shivers back down. He’s trembling, he’s underwater, everything fuzzy, blurred. Theo can’t remember what he was doing before. He just woke up and now he’s figuring out what he is, and where. It’s coming back, drifting in. And he’s drifting, the room moving, shifting. He closes his eyes but instantly opens them again: everything spins if he doesn’t.
Staring at a point on the opposite wall, a target spray-painted in white that’s the only sign the room is in use, besides the old rug on the floor, Theo slowly folds himself together and squats for a minute, arms around his knees, the fax crushed in his hand. The air sparks. He turns his head slowly, shakes it a little. Doesn’t help.
What are you doing my love.
His mom, behind him, now downstairs, apparently.
I fell down. I feel funny.
Oh my god.
He hears her, feels the air shift, and then she’s wrapping herself around him, touching his head, the back of his head, looking at her fingers, trying to hug him, but this just tips him over and he’s on all fours.
I’m dizzy.
Oh my god. David Bowie. You’ve got the pupils. I’m going to find a doctor. Lie down, baby, and don’t move.
She swirls from the room. Theo gets back to his feet, crouching. Then slowly he rises. There’s mist in the light, and edges blur. He’s goofy, loose. He walks, to the open door on the other side. The air pulses when his heart beats.
He wonders if this is what being high is like. Or drunk. Some parts of it are okay, some are scary, and hurt. He’s starting to feel a dull ache. He walks, for a while.
He walks. He sees Colin and a woman standing up, face to face, right up against each other. They don’t have clothes on.
He walks past them and they don’t notice. Their eyes are closed. Colin is brown. The woman is very white, and her hair is purple. He neck is banded with what looks like a dog collar; Theo glides past them. He’s gliding, not touching the floor. It’s cool.
He glides and glides, touching the wall to keep from drifting too far off track. He glides through two more rooms and into a third one that’s full of cushions and old newspapers and magazines. The seraglio, Colin calls this room, the cushions shiny and embroidered, scattered. People lie down in here. There is his mother, lying down, with the other woman from
upstairs and two other people, one holding a tape recorder. They all look tired, sleepy. His mother sees him, and he sees her face change. My god. I’m so sorry honey. Are you feeling better now, baby.
Yes, Theo said, dreaming and gliding. I’m going outside.
Okay baby, you go play. I’ll be out in a minute and we can do something. Why don’t we go into town and have a nice lunch.
Okay, Theo says but his mouth is disconnected from his head, which is disconnected from his body. Eating seems a weird thing to do. He just wants to get outside and lie down in some shade. The air’s not moving inside and it’s hard to breathe. Breath. It’s loud.
How does he get out of the maze, everything looks the same, same walls, same empty rooms, and he sees again the snow piled in the hall, feels cold air. Then he smells fresher air from his left and follows the hall toward light and he’s back in the ballroom and someone is lying down on the parquet floor, arms spread wide. Eyes closed, resting on a cheek, mouth a little open. Did he fall. Is he asleep. Like in the city. No one was here earlier. He’s a stranger. Barefoot. Theo notices his legs are tied together at the ankle with what looks like a twisted up T-shirt. Theo keeps walking, past the man. Outside. Must get outside.
Theo wonders if he should be scared. It’s not getting better, but it’s hard to care, because everything seems so soft and he just wants to sleep. It’s the summer. Another day. He moves over the terrace, moving in a giant circle or stuck in a whirlpool, doing the same things he did earlier, walking the same places. How do you climb out. But Theo’s just a kid. There’s so much he has to wait on and depend on the grownups for. He makes sure the dogs get fed. He worries. He worries about his mother.
He worries about Colin and about Gus. He worries about his dad.
People talk about his dad a lot. People write about his dad. They say things about him that Theo doesn’t understand. They say things that bother Theo.
Theo doesn’t feel like a pirate. And right now he starts to cry. Because maybe he’s dying.
Do people know when they’re dying. His head is fuzzy, and he’s dizzy. He wants to be somewhere dark and cool and away.
There is a moment of quiet, like the world is breathing. And from inside whatever room it’s in, Theo can’t remember now, comes the chiming. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty.
Twenty-one
. Twenty two. Twenty three. There’s shouting and a faint clanging crash.
The clock is broken. Theo remembers it sits on a mantel in one of the front rooms, close to where people usually start to congregate, drifting down from upstairs. The sun sits just over the bristly gray-green trees, and the earlier breezes are gone. The air hangs in curtains, and Theo notices Gus now, back in his chair, with a pipe. And a glass, his stubby legs crossed at the ankle. He is wearing a white T-shirt with a blue devil on it, from a college in North Carolina, Theo knows. Gus has on bright red socks and dark shoes. And a hat that says Jack Daniels. Why do pictures of the devil always show him smiling, if he’s supposed to be bad. And pictures of Jesus never show him smiling, and he’s supposed to be good.
Gus is waving at Theo, waving him over. Come here, he’s saying with his hand. Theo shuffles over the wiry grass and
bumpy ground, so hard and dry Theo’s feet hurt. He floats a little but is feeling heavier, more connected. His head hurts.
Have you seen your mother.
I don’t feel good.
Gus sets down his glass on the rusty wrought iron table beside his chair and stares carefully at Theo, curvy pipe smoking. Theo follows the smoke straight up but the light stabs his eyes. Ow. He ducks his head back, closes eyes, feels dizzy.
Here now, what’s wrong exactly. Gus smells sharp and sweet, which is coming from the rum in the glass.
I guess I hit my head.
Hold on, son, how’d you do that. Gus is leaning forward, trying to focus on Theo’s eyes but having to squint and then close one eye to see. Let me see your pupils.
Theo unsquints, but the light’s still bright.
How’d you hit your head.
I was running and I fell down inside. On the rock part.
Christ almighty. Are you seeing lights at all.
No, Theo lied.
You sure now.
Yes. I just have a headache.
Gus collapses back, into the chair, rubbing his face up and down and knocking off the hat. Well, maybe you should take it easy for a few minutes, eh. Maybe get an aspirin. If it keeps up bad we’ll make you up an icepack.
Gus struggles up from the soft seat and lowers himself to the ground beside Theo, stiff and sighing a lot. Whew. That’s not an easy thing to do. Whyn’t you take the chair.
Instead, Theo lays himself down, carefully, to avoid moving his head a lot.
So how do you feel now, son.
Fine.
That’s fine. We can just rest our bones here for a bit, and go in and have a bite of something after a while. How about that.
Frieda said she wanted to go to town for lunch.
Did she. She came in like gangbusters last night. I’m surprised she’s up.
Theo says nothing, but keeps his eyes open. In the blue high up flicker seagulls. The sky is close enough to touch.
Gus, when is my dad coming.
That, my friend, only he and the Almighty know. And his managers, I suppose. But it will be soon.
You said he was going to make a record here.
True, son. Soon as your da tells me I’ll tell you.
Can we get a TV.
Ah, you know how your mother feels about that.
I just want to watch TV. I want to be normal.
Well, bucko. What exactly is normal, in your estimation.
TV.
Anything else.
I don’t know. I don’t remember right now.
Theo drifts with birds, hearing the low rushing of the ocean, and a bugle, and two people singing somewhere in the house, and somebody teasing the dogs, their snarls the kind of thing that happens when people are mean to them but think they’re playing. Adults seem to do that to each other, too.
Theo is anxious to not be treated like a kid. But he wonders how many ways there are to grow up, and can you pick the one you want, or do you even get a choice.
Theo watches the gulls, hears the new sound of Gus snoring a little. Theo listens to the wind, the house, other stuff that must
be the world. Then he closes his eyes to see if the spins come back, and when they don’t, he leaves his eyes closed, watching fire on his eyelids and feeling really, really tired, suddenly.
He’s in a boat, just him, on the water, a rowboat but there aren’t any oars or a motor or anything. Or a life jacket. Just the ocean and the sun, and the boat, and whispering.
Hold on tight
. The waves get bigger, the boat starts to rock, and jump, slow and low at first but then faster and higher, and it’s a bucking bronco, like a horse, and Theo is lifting off the seat and slamming back down, going a little higher each time, and slamming harder and –
He opens his eyes. Sky birds snoring house sounds. He’s on his back in the yard, where he was, next to the mound of Gus. The pipe is cold on the table.
Theo remembers little paper pills his dad sent one time that dropped into water turned into dragons and swans. From Japan. The day is unfolding. He wants to be in the ocean. Paper. Where’s the fax.