The Nirvana Blues (55 page)

“At the same time, naturally, I kind of envy you, breaking out of the marriage, nailing all this interesting pussy, that sort of thing.”

“But it's a cliché. It's what everybody does.”

“Well, sure. But if I do it, see, I'm aware all that wonderful pussy has feet of clay. Not to mention what my own insecurities would do to me in the rack with a relative stranger. But when I see you gadding about and hear the rumors, you come across as a regular Hugh Hefner, a legend in your own time.”

“What about your goals in life?” Joe asked timidly, convinced that any second now Tribby would cut him short, leaving them both horribly uncomfortable.

“I dunno. I make it from day to day. I used to believe in a very definite structure. But over the last few years I've seen that structure dissolve. Right now I'm just watching other people and waiting.”

“You smoke like you're trying to kill yourself before you hit forty.”

“If I kill myself I kill myself.”

“You're not afraid of death?”

“Yeah, I'm afraid of it.”

“You don't sound frightened.”

“Let's put it this way—I have a desultory fear of it, but I can't be really bothered, you know? I think in the last few years I've become rather lethargic about everything. Yet I weigh consequences—I'm not a total fool. If I figure out something like our coke scam isn't worth it, I'm smart enough to back down.”

“What about passion?”

“Passion? Something seems to have stolen it from me. That's funny. Five years ago I would have bought a machine gun and gone after Ray Verboten. Nowadays, it so quickly becomes a pointless adventure. But I feel passionate about catching trout, I guess.…”

“Me too. I feel like I could kill to get to those fish right now.”

“If I had that machine gun, I'd jump out of this frigging truck, mow everybody down, grab one of those bulldozers back there, clear away the autos, then race off to the Rio Puerco before dark, tie a size-twenty renegade at the end of a ten-foot tapered leader, and, with the most delicate finesse you ever saw, battle a two-pound brown for a half-hour before I finally brought it to shore. I'd clean and gut it on the spot, and eat it so fresh the flesh would still squeak every time I took a bite. Passion,” he finished wryly, exhaling smoke out the window. “Oh me, oh my.”

Joe said, “Sometimes I feel passionate. But I can't sustain it. My body's in constant turmoil. One minute I have highfalutin ideas about the Nobel Prize, a marathon fuck, the idealization of romance, building a house, creating a picture-book farm of Eloy's land—but then I lose it. I can't seem to sustain any emotion except confusion.”

Tribby nodded. “In my youth I was such a fanatic. For hockey. For trading cards. For pet gerbils. Inevitably, I went overboard. I even had a passion for the law at one time. Tell me: do you think it's a necessary part of growing up, of growing mature, or of accepting your place in society, to lose all that passion, to cease being that kind of idealist?”

“All I know is that when I see an old person, let's say like Eloy Irribarren, who still has all this passion and idiotic enthusiasm for something … his old dog, his decaying horse, his treasured land … I experience enormous surges of envy. Sometimes I feel terribly run down at thirty-eight. How do you reach seventy still feeling fresh and peppy and passionate?”

“Tell me something,” Tribby said after a pause. Out there, lines of automobiles extending north, east, south, and west from the traffic light had hopelessly clogged the area. There was no way to haul out the immobile autos once wreckers had them in tow. It appeared as if nobody would escape until helicopters had removed three hundred impacted vehicles.

“Yeah?”

“What you're doing now, messing with these women—are you enjoying it?”

“There's moments. One minute I'm excited, next minute I kill it with guilt. I can't seem to enjoy anything for very long. I'm terrified of consequences.”

“That happened to me a couple times. Any pleasure I might of received I killed with guilt. Just sort of casually fucking somebody for fun—recreational sex is what they call it, right? It's pretty difficult.”

“I wish I could learn how to enjoy myself,” Joe said longingly. He wanted to confess that so far, during all his amorous adventures, he hadn't even been able to come. But such a revelation seemed impossibly intimate. “I wanna have gusto,” he added. “I wanna live big, I wanna be happy. Instead, I bungle everything. And I'm exhausted. Right now my Theta couldn't punch its way out of a paper helicopter.”

“What's a Theta?”

“A place where they show movies and act in plays.”

All of a sholem, Tribby snapped his fingers and exclaimed, “Wait a minute …
I got it!
”

“Oh?”

“Listen to this—wow! Talk about passion! We'll rob their highfalutin' Hanuman!”

“Come on, man. It must weigh a jillion pounds.”

“No, that's easy. When you mentioned the helicopter I had a great idea! Holy Toledo, folks!” Tribby clapped his hands. “This is beautiful!”

Joe shivered, already appalled by the upcoming lunacy.

“It'll be a cinch,” Tribby exclaimed gleefully. “The copter's a natural. Ralph has a set of keys to both the Floresta's birds. And I can fly 'em—no problem. Did you see the U-Haul it's in? Does it have a cable harness? Didn't they already ferry the thing out from Ohio like that? Oh boy!” Tribby quivered with joy. “We'll snatch the monkey and hold it for ransom!”

“Wait. I heard somewhere that it's insured for over a million bucks. With bread like that at stake, they'll have the FBI crawling over this town like fleas on a hot dog if somebody pinches it.”

“So what? We'll fly the statue into the mountains and drop it into a lake!”

Joe said, “Aw, come on, Tribby. That's insane. Forget it…”

“But listen—”

“Shut up.
Please.
”

It was getting dark. Both men fell silent. Tears paced behind Joe's eyes, nudging sentimental triggers with their bootheels: sad and vulnerable, lost and lonely. Dust reeled, ebbed, and eddied; cops shouted, horns blared; rosy-cheeked joggers threaded happily through the bottleneck, inhaling pure carbon monoxide. Over it all levitated the moon, pretty, powdery, svelte.

Joe projected himself onto the Rio Puerco at dusk. Where the water flooded grassy fields at a beaver dam, he waded slowly, barely sloshing, casting superbly. Velvet-brown animals swam past, undisturbed by his presence. Against the nearby hills, silvered in moonlight, horses stood quietly under the thick branches of junipers, watching him. Pale steam fluffed from their nostrils. His fly disappeared, he gave a tug, and was attached to a fish. It stayed under, never jumping, and fought with unorthodox passivity. Joe soon headed it. Something patient and gentle transcribed its fight, something unconnected to the death throes of trout. Finally, Joe urged it to shore and, carefully, with a smooth sweep of his arm, he swung it onto the damp grass at his feet. The thing on his hook was not a trout, but a pale, opulent naked woman about a foot long. Joe closed his fingers over that soft albino form. She squirmed tiredly in his hand. It was like holding the yearning for passion again.

“One of my problems is I don't feel very useful,” Tribby said after a while. “To tell the truth, I doubt that being involved in pursuits of self-interest is really that gratifying over the long run.”

“Well—” Joe started to say, but Tribby cut him off.

“No communism, Joseph. I ain't in the mood for it. If I can't talk about ripping off the Hanuman, then you certainly can't hand me any Socialist crap.”

So Joe clammed up and returned to that sensual little woman he had just fished from the water. And they sat there, waiting for deliverance, while it grew dark.

Elsewhere, out of sight if not out of mind, sleek brown trout dimpled still waters, snagging the hatching caddis fly.

*   *   *

I
N A SAD
and provocative mood, Joe arrived at the Castle of Golden Fools. Discounting the Hanuman-snatch idea, that brief rap with Tribby was the first faintly intelligent and meaningful conversation he'd had in ages. When his lawyer friend had finally whimpered “Fuck the trout,” bid him good-bye, and left the still-trapped vehicle, their parting had been muted and self-conscious. Joe had been touched by their discussion: all appearances to the contrary, words could actually sometimes be used to communicate!

Often, at the end of a long day, Joe would relax in his quiet vehicle at dusk, basking in that lazy pause between his job and the jabberwocky atmosphere of family doings. Those were among the only moments he ever captured entirely for himself. He cherished such lackadaisical sojourns in delectable limbo. Right now, as he gathered courage to head inside, Joe's mood was both plaintive and introspective, yet also semi-cheerful. Clouds representing the carnage of his past few days had parted, allowing him a glimpse beyond into the possibility of compassion. He had pretty much decided to forget Eloy's land, let Tribby (screw his wild ideas!) broker the cocaine for twelve Gs, and put all his energy into recapturing what he'd had before but never fully appreciated. Given ideal conditions, it wasn't too farfetched to believe that with a snap of his fingers he might erase his erratic behavior, wipe the slate clean, and enter his peppy little domicile as if nothing had soured. Joe closed his eyes: Heidi was cooking fried chicken and humming “Si mi chiamono Mimi” from
La Bohème,
happy to have completed a good painting today; Heather was fashioning a magic dollhouse from blocks, paper flowers, pillows, and old jars; and Michael was lounging before the roaring fire, reading
Boy's Life,
his hands unstained by bird, window, and (attempted) monkey murders.…

It's over, Joe thought. Just like that. He was astounded. All the recent turmoil, all the lust, indecision, curiosity, and just plain cussedness that had caused it, was done for. In a minute he would climb up and enter his house as if he had never left it, gently greet his children, kiss Heidi fondly, and say, “I'm sorry.” Tearfully, they would accept his apology. The family, as a single unit, would embrace. After a good wrestle, they might play songs, or even watch Johnny Carson on TV. After the kids crashed, he and Heidi would sit at the kitchen table over coffee, bemusedly hashing over Joe's recent escapades, commenting wryly on the convoluted silliness of humanity. Then: to bed, to bed, you sleepyheads. Between exquisitely clean sheets they'd effect tender easygoing sexual reconciliation. After that? A slumber so rare and beautiful he would awaken next day as refreshed as if he had abruptly turned twenty again.

Mesmerized by this vision, Joe descended from his mythic wheels. Breathing in deeply and gratifyingly, he decided, “I'll never have asthma again.” And, firmly convinced his strange odyssey had forged in him a significantly matured human being, Joe tripped the light fantastic upstairs. Thank you, Peter Roth, for not coming! Almost euphoric from anticipating their reconciliation, he thrust open the door, exclaiming, “Hey, everybody, I'm back!”

Michael sat in the middle of the living-room floor doing a jigsaw puzzle. A large white bandage arrangement somewhat resembling a hockey goalie's mask obliterated two-thirds of his face. Yet both his black-and-blue eyes were visible as he looked up at Joe in terror. Over at the kitchenette table, outfitted in a floor-length pink nightie, Heather was painting her fingernails with a polish so poisonous it was a miracle the entire family didn't expire from the fumes every time Heather loosened the cap.

And Heidi was nowhere around.

Taken aback both by Michael's headgear and by Heather's absolute indifference to his jovial appearance (she couldn't even muster brief eye-contact as she said, “Hullo, Daddy”), Joe stalled momentarily, at a loss for words. Then unexpected anger flared, and he almost hollered “Look up and
greet
your father in a civilized manner when he enters the happy homestead, you little creeps!” But he had just enough presence of mind to avoid that riposte and the antagonisms it would trigger.

Refiring his positive engines, Joe piped, “Hey, what's up, gang? What'sa happen? Where'sa you mommy?”

“She went to bed.”

Heather's professionally frosty voice instantly made Joe want to leap across the living room crying “banzai!” in order to brain the snotty little brat!

“So soon?” Joe fumbled, checking his watch. “It's only eight fifteen.”

“She said she didn't feel good.”

Joe couldn't believe how much fury Heather inspired in him simply by not looking up. Coolly cocking her head, she inspected the glistening poison on her fingernails, a scary female gesture guaranteed to break hearts and chill testicles.

“What was the matter?”

“I don't know.” Heather further stoked his rage by articulating her speech too clearly. “She said you cared so little about us that instead of coming over to wrestle and play the guitar you went trout fishing with Tribby Gordon.”

“She did not say that,” Michael contradicted. “You're making half of it up.”

“Well, it's almost exactly what she said.” Heather altered the tilt of her head, inspecting the fingernails from a freshly provocative and murderous angle.

“She went to bed 'cause she had a headache,” Michael said.

Joe asked, “Michael, what is the matter with your face?”

He mumbled unintelligibly.

“What? Speak up.” How many billions of times had Joe begged Michael—a diabolical mutterer, mumbler, and word slurrer—to pronounce his words carefully, so that occasionally his listeners might catch at least the general drift of his pronouncements.

“They broke my nose.” Michael averted Joe's penetrating stare.

“
Who
broke your nose?”