It Feels So Good When I Stop (28 page)

I just sat there for a little while, staring at a framed needlepoint primer hanging on the wall. It said, I Am the Queen of the Kitchen. All Those Who Do Not Bow Down to Me Can STARVE.

“It’s because I plugged your toilet, isn’t it? ”

She came right back at me, weepy and laughing at the same time. “I thought I was the one who plugged it.”

I smiled, but couldn’t go on with the flirty repartee. “And what about the movie? ” I asked.

“I was hoping you’d still want to.”

“Sure.”

She reached across the table for my hand. I let her have it, but I thought I was going to come apart. I stood up abruptly. “I’m going to go now.”

Marie tightened her grip on my hand. I turned my head away. She gave my arm an attention-getting tug. “Let me see you first.” I didn’t want to, but I faced her. She let me go only after I faked a smile.

I pulled Sweet Thunder out from under her back porch. Through the walls of the house, I could hear her crying for a number of things—the least of which was me.

 

JAMES AND DOGSHIT were sitting on the hood of the Suburban. James stood when he saw me. He semaphored me in like I would have otherwise biked right by him—which is exactly what I felt like doing. “What do you want first,” he asked me. “The good news or the bad news? ”

“I don’t fucking care.”

“What crawled up your ass? ”

“Nothing.”

“Fine. The good news is, you don’t have to watch Roy anymore.”

“That’s the good news? ”

“The bad news is, she knows.”

“Who knows what? ”

“Pamela. She knows about you watching Roy.”

“Come again? ”

“She knows you’ve been—”

I came uncorked. “What the fuck do you mean she knows? ”

James got defensive. “Hey, listen, pal. You’re the one who dressed him in that crazy fucking outfit.”

“Yeah, I did. But you were supposed to change him out of it before you brought him home.”

“Well, I didn’t. And now she knows. So sue me.”

“Fuck me,” I said. “Motherfuck me.”

Dogshit chimed in. “How’d she figure out just from seeing Roy in the clothes that he’d been watching him? ”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Yes, James,” I said sarcastically. “How did she put two and two together? What, did Roy learn how to fucking talk overnight, you moron? ”

“Hey, back off, Jack.”

I couldn’t back off. “You know, when Pamela’s your ex-wife, she’ll still be my sister, you fucking idiot.”

“Whoa, dude.” Dogshit put his hand on my shoulder. “Chill out.”

I swatted his hand off me. “I’m not going to chill out.”

“Oooh-kay,” Dogshit said. “I think I’ll take a little walk and let you guys—”

“Don’t fucking bother,” James said. “We’re not going to be here that long.”

“What are you going to do, level me with one punch? ”

“Is that what you want? ” James yelled. He took a step toward me. “Is that what you fucking want? ”

Dogshit got in front of him. “No. It’s definitely not what he wants.”

“Then somebody should stuff a fucking sock in it,” James said.

“That sounds like a great idea,” Dogshit said. “Dude,” he appealed to me.

“You know, James, you’re a real pisser. I lie to her fucking face. My sister. For you. Fuck knows what shit things you did to make her want to divorce you, but no matter. I lied to her anyway. I could have fucked you over a few times but I didn’t. I just lied to her like a genuine fucking asshole. For you. Not me. You.”

“You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t fucking know that? ”

I was exasperated and worn down. “Well, if you knew it, why’d you tell her? I mean, couldn’t you have lied to her just one more time? You had to know she was going to be completely bullshit with me. What were you thinking? Jesus.”

“What do you want me to say? I’m sorry? Is that what you want me to say? ”

“Dude,” Dogshit said to me. “Is that all you want? ”

“I don’t fucking know what I want. I swear to God, I don’t.”

Dogshit turned to James. “I think that’s all he wants.”

“Fine,” James said. “I’m sorry. I am.”

I knew what was at risk when I agreed to be party to James’s plan, but I needed to be mad at somebody. He held out his hand for me to shake, but I wouldn’t take it. “Whatever,” I said. I pointed Sweet Thunder toward Plymouth Street and started pedaling. I added my sister Pamela to the short list of women I’d forced out of my life.

“Oh, that’s right. Whatever,” James called after me. “I apologized. I’m not going to fucking beg you to accept.”

 

I BIKED STRAIGHT to the phone booth at Spunt’s and dialed Jocelyn’s number. No answer, no machine, nothing.

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! ”

I whacked a glass panel with the receiver, but not hard enough to break anything. I tried to slam the phone-booth door, but it was designed so that no matter how much force you put into it, it always closes nice and easy. I had to go back to New York and look for Jocelyn. Ricky was watching me from inside the store. He gave me a small, concerned wave. I left the Spunt’s parking lot and pedaled away from East Falmouth. Fuck Tommy the cop. If he—or any other cop—picked me up, all the better. I’d give him my word never to return so long as he got me off Cape Cod ASAP. I took the feeder ramp onto Route 28 and knowingly became a criminal.

AS I ASCENDED the back stairs, I could hear Richie on the porch, talking to someone on the phone. “I’m going to have to call you back,” he said excitedly when he saw me. He was wearing nothing but a raunchy lime-green towel around his waist. The towel was so small that if the temperature outside had been five to ten degrees higher, his nut sack would have swung visibly—like a produce bag containing two kiwis. “Dude,” he said, “you are not going to fucking believe this.”

“What? ”

“This.” He handed me an envelope.

“What’s this, a summons? ”

“Kind of.”

I checked out the return address. “From Sub Pop? ”

“No shit, it is. Read it.” I peeked into the envelope like it could have been from the Unabomber. “Out loud,” Richie added. “I want to hear someone else say the words. And make sure you enunciate.”

“ ‘Dear Losers: This letter concerns your crummy demo tape. While it leaves much to be desired, miraculously, it isn’t as ear-piercingly horrible as the other thousand we received that day. One song in particular, “Black Smoke, No Pope,” does not completely suck. Though we can’t—for legal reasons—encourage you to continue making music, this letter is intended to come infinitely close to that point. Sincerely, Sub Pop Records.’

“What the fuck is this? ”

Richie was smiling. “Dude, it’s positive reinforcement.”

“Get the fuck out of here.”

“It is. I’m serious. They like our tape.” He tried to high-five me.

“Where in this letter does it say that? ”

“Right here. We’re not as ear-piercingly horrible as everyone else. We don’t completely suck.”

“That’s them liking it? ”

“Hello, come-guzzler, it’s Sub Pop we’re talking about here. Maybe you’ve heard of them? Nirvana? Sebadoh? Mudhoney? Beat Happening—”

“Yes, I’m well aware of who is on the label, thank you. But this doesn’t sound like they’re into it.”

“Dude, that’s their way. Trust me. Think about the Clash. Think about the Pistols. What did the audience do when they liked them? They covered them with loogies.”

“That’s different.”

“It isn’t.”

“I don’t know.”

“I do. Sub Pop is going to fucking sign the Young Accuser.” He started dancing around, and his towel fell to the porch floor. He made no move to cover himself.

“Dude, wrap that shit up.” He boosted himself up onto the railing and yelled, “Sub Pop is going to sign the Young Accuser. Mark my words.”

“You’re fucking insane.”

“And you are afraid of success.”

“Oh, I am? ”

“That’s okay, though, because I’m not. You can be the shy, moody one in the band. Just grab on to this little old belt loop and hang on tight. We’re going places.”

“I’m not grabbing on to anything. Would you put some fucking clothes on.”

Richie wasn’t listening. “Okay, what we do is we start four-tracking our asses off. Eight days a week. Morning, noon, and night. None of this ‘I don’t really feel like it right now’ bullshit. And we get salty. We get tight. But not too tight. We don’t want to turn into fucking Tim buk Three.” He had a revelation. “I got it. Maybe we ask Melanie to play with us. Nothing too over-the-top. Just a kick and snare. Dyke drummers go over huge in Seattle. I’m serious. They eat that shit up.”

“At least put your towel back on.”

Richie went on with rattling off his plans. They were like cracks in the ice spoking out from a single point of impact.

I read the letter a few more times to myself. I wished it had been even more discouraging. I didn’t know how to tell him I was moving to Brooklyn as soon as I could find someone to take my room.

DONNELLY’S PARKING LOT was empty. My hands were shaking as I fed change into the Coke machine right outside the front door. I shielded my bad molar with my tongue and drained most of the icy soda in the first go. I inhaled my cigarette like a POW upon liberation. Goddamnit, it felt good as the caffeine and nicotine exerted their influence.

I heard someone riding a go-kart out back. The driver knew the track like the back of his hand. He stepped on and off the gas pedal in a regular, predictable sequence. I closed my eyes and imagined it was me—younger and unspoiled—tooling around and around the track. I moved Sweet Thunder’s handlebars like I was steering the kart. I might even have been making audible, muffled motor sounds. In my mind I know I was.

“Do you need help, son? ”

I opened my eyes, startled. Mr. Donnelly Jr. was standing close enough to touch me. “No.”

“You sure about that? ”

“You scared me.” I could still hear the sole kart going at it out back.

“You looked like you were going to have a seizure.”

I laughed it off. “No.”

“That’s good.” He waited a couple beats. “Well, what were you doing? ”

I didn’t feel like lying. “I was listening.”

“To the engine? ”

“Yes.” That didn’t seem so strange to him. “And imagining myself behind the wheel.”

He chuckled. “Why pretend? ”

“I wasn’t exactly pretending.”

He patted me on the back. “Why not come and try it for real.”

“That’s okay.”

“Come on. I won’t even charge you.”

“Thanks, but I think I’d rather just think about it.”

“You would? ”

“I think so.”

“Okay. Suit yourself.” He was shaking his head. Once again, he did not know what the fuck to make of me. “Suit yourself.” He opened the door to his known quantity and disappeared into it.