Gun Church (5 page)

Someone yelled “Go!” And my old world blew apart with two explosions that came so close together they were nearly one. The padded walls did little to dampen the noise. Jim and the fat kid were down. Frozen in place at first, I talked myself into moving forward.

Jim Trimble lay motionless on the gray industrial floor. As I approached, I saw a Luger clutched in his hand. A gun-smoke ghost lingered above his body like a waiting cab and then drifted away. There were those knots in my belly. I was time traveling yet again. It was like a weird logical progression from my father’s suicide to Frank’s death to here to now. The fat kid was red-faced and rolling around on the floor, hugging his ribs, a pistol at his feet. He made honking noises as he struggled to catch his breath. Was I scared for Jim lying motionless—maybe dead—there on the cold floor? Yeah, I was scared for him and for myself a little bit, too. I had stepped through a wooden door into another world, but it didn’t matter.

That vein had been opened all the way now and I was feeling things again, things other than the self-pity and resentment that had sustained me. I was buzzing, humming. I was my own generator. I was electric. Every inch of me felt alive for the first time in nearly two decades. It was that revulsion/revelation push and pull all junkies know from when they stand at the precipice before taking the dive; that
don’t look/I can’t look away
tug of war we all suffer through as we pass slowly by the scene of a car accident.

But just as suddenly as the rush had come, the bottom dropped out. It is the writer’s curse, I think, standing back to observe and record. I got very close to Jim’s body when I saw that there wasn’t a spot of blood anywhere. Just as I thought I was getting a sense of things, the ground crumbled beneath me. The current surreality shifted away from his bloodless body to the cheering of the assembled crowd. My senses were being pushed and pulled all over the place. I’d barely noticed the others in the room to begin with, but now they were all I could see, all I heard. They were shaking up cans of Bud, popping the tops, and showering each other with the spray. While their faces remained featureless blurs, I saw that they all sported the gray forehead smudges and that their white shirts were covered in those red crosses. A few of them embraced. Some kissed. The absurdity of the setting, the audience’s whoops and high-fives, their whistles and applause were like a Dr. Strangelove tent revival. The only missing elements were sideshow freaks and a calliope.

I willed my eyes to focus and I recognized some of the faces in the crowd, if none of their names. There was a snaggle-toothed girl with bad skin I’d seen drifting through the halls at school like a faint shadow, and this skater boy who boarded around campus with a duct-taped backpack slung over his shoulders. There was the bald, barrel-chested man from the BCCC maintenance crew who reeked of stale cigarettes. Not all the faces I recognized were from school. There was the short-order cook from Stan’s Diner; a nondescript local nobody who worked at the copy center in town; and a deputy sheriff whose main duty seemed to be hitting on high school girls. And there was even a guy in uniform: a rent-a-cop security guard with a 9mm strapped to his thigh. I couldn’t place any of the other people besides Renee and Jim.

I’d forgotten about the St. Pauli Girl. Turning, I saw she was lending Jim a hand, helping him to his feet. I witnessed the resurrection. Jim stared me directly in the eye as he stood, smiling the most unnerving smile:
I know all about you
. I froze in place, pinned but not wriggling. Jim broke his stare and went over to the fat kid, offering his hand, pulling him up. They did a fist pound and embraced hard.

Suddenly—without any cue I could see or hear—things turned again. An eerie silence settled over the blockhouse, the smiles falling away from everyone’s faces. Jim and the fat kid stepped back from one another and, using their index fingers, drew invisible crosses on each other’s chests. As they did so, they recited in unison: “Stop doubting and believe.” Next, the crowd formed a straight line in front of the pews. Renee tugged my arm and whispered for me to sit and watch. The deputy was at one end of the line, Renee at the other. Jim and the fat kid turned to face the line. Jim walked up to the deputy. The deputy reached out and placed his finger on Jim’s chest above his heart and recited, “Stop doubting and believe.” Jim remained silent. When Jim moved on, the fat kid approached the deputy and the ritual was repeated. And so it went until they had both stopped by everyone in line. When it was over, Jim and the fat kid removed their T-shirts and handed them to the snaggle-toothed girl. The silence broke.

Beneath their shirts they wore protective Kevlar vests. It struck me that neither of them wore head or eye protection, or anything to cover their limbs. This was madness and I was sick with the need to know what was going on. I pushed my way between Jim and the fat boy, no one seeming to mind.

“Hey, Professor Weiler!” Jim slapped my back. He winced in pain. “Glad you could make it. The professor doesn’t have a beer. Somebody get Professor Weiler a beer!” Then he took my right hand and curled my fingers around the butt of the Luger. “You ever hold one of these before?”

“As a matter of fact, Jim, I have.”

He smiled that smile again and for an instant it felt like we were the only ones in the room. Then the St. Pauli Girl handed me a Bud.

“Would you like to try it sometime?” Jim asked, letting the question dangle.

“How about someone explaining to me what’s going on?” I tried to sound aloof, but it came out flat and unconvincing.

“Sure, Professor Weiler. You saved my life. Anything for you. Come on.”

We walked back out through the seam in the mattresses, through the door. I followed Jim through the hangar and up some stairs into a dimly lit locker room. I sat down on a narrow wooden bench that ran between two rows of facing lockers. I noticed the Luger was still in my hand and that I didn’t seem to want to put it down.

Jim removed his vest and not without difficulty. Even in the low light, I could see the angry bruise on his chest where the bullet must have hit his vest. It wasn’t so much the fresh bruise that caught my eye. No, Jim’s well-muscled body was a testament to old wounds, a map drawn in discolored blotches and scar tissue. All that was missing was a legend to help me understand the scale of the hurt. Some of the scars on his body were pink and waxy. Some were jagged, others symmetrical. Lines of cross-hatched stitches were scattered on his chest and abs, their color fading like half-buried railroad spurs.

“You’re staring, Professor.”

I said, “It would be hard not to stare.”

“The scars on my back are mostly from my daddy. He used to take the belt to me a lot when I was a kid. It was tough being his son, but when I found your books I had a place to go to be safe, a world far away from Brixton.” Jim shrugged. “This one here’s from a bullet,” he said, pointing at a particularly ragged scar halfway between his right hip and navel. “I stitched it up myself. Hurt like a son of a bitch.”

“What’s all this about, Jim?”

“
This
?” He seemed not to understand.

“This! Tonight.”

“It’s what matters,” he said as if that explained it.

“What matters?”

“What matters to us,” he said, wincing in pain as he tried to pull a hooded BCCC sweatshirt over his head.

I put the beer and the Luger down and helped him get the sweatshirt on.

“C’mon,” he said, grabbing the Luger and tucking it in his pants. “Let’s get back out to the party. We’ll need to talk about this another time. We can meet at Stan’s Diner or something.”

“Sounds like a plan. Stan’s for lunch tomorrow?”

“Make it a few days. I’m gonna be pretty sore.” He turned to go and then stopped to face me. “One thing, Professor Weiler … ”

“What’s that?”

“We don’t talk about what goes on here, not with anyone, not even with each other, okay?”

“Like in
Fight Club
,” I said. “The first rule of Fight Club is you do not talk about Fight Club.”

Jim’s shoulders slumped. “Yeah, like that. And we don’t use names, at least not while we’re here. ’Course they all know who you are.”

As we walked back to the bunker, my mind was zooming in another direction. I was still off balance, contemplating Jim’s wounds, remembering my own wounds—self-inflicted or otherwise. Words began forming in my head. I could see my list of seven first lines, could hear them in my own voice, repeating and repeating. There might be a second line in there somewhere, I thought, maybe even a third, maybe a paragraph. The rush of it was even more intense than it had been with the St. Pauli Girl. I swear I was hard. I felt like a writer again. I was Kipster come from the dead. Jim’s wasn’t the only resurrection of the evening.

My bedroom was heavy with the St. Pauli Girl’s scent and it wasn’t lost on me that my entire universe once smelled this way, of blonds and possibility. Peeking over the edge of my laptop, I studied the St. Pauli Girl’s curves. Her shape, like her scent, was still raw: curing, not cured. She was a demon in bed and it seemed to me she slept as fiercely as she fucked. Her orgasms may not have moved the earth, but they sure as shit moved me. Now fast asleep, Renee was squeezing the feathers out of my pillows and plowing over quilted mountain ranges with a sweep of her bare leg. There was nothing brittle about the blond in my bed tonight. Yet, I couldn’t help but wonder about where such ferocity had come from in such a young woman.

Funny thing about her was that she wasn’t quite so spectacular to look at without her clothes on. Don’t misunderstand, she was by far the hottest woman I’d been with since Amy. Amy was lush and moody and seductive. She had those gold-flecked green eyes that were just unfair, but Amy wasn’t head-turning. I think that’s what turned my head. When I was at the height of my fame and this week’s batch of blonds was taking numbers like at the supermarket deli counter, Amy couldn’t be bothered. The first time we met at Puffy’s in Tribeca, her clothes and hands were speckled and splattered with paint, and she was about as impressed by me as by a moth. Maybe less so. When Amy’s clothes came off, her imperfections blended into a kind of fleshy magic. Renee’s looks were nearly perfect and therefore less interesting. It was a puzzlement, a paradox. The exploration of paradox was why I thought I’d become a writer.

Once I lost my gift, I realized writing wasn’t about paradox at all, but about words. I had been in love with words my whole life and I didn’t think I could love anything more. When I got famous, I didn’t think there was anything I could love more than fame. Then I met Amy and I didn’t think I could love anything more than Amy. Cocaine proved me wrong and proved easier to love than words or fame or Amy.

When I was certain the St. Pauli Girl had settled down into a still sleep, I started typing: