Broken Sleep (26 page)

“Nathaniel, I’m the paragon of impracticality.”

“That’s why I love you and why I’m prepared to wait. I agree with you that ‘marriage’ is often a codified ritual that keeps a woman subordinate to a man. You don’t need to answer now.” He began twirling his napkin, his legs wriggling
like a Saint Vitus’ dance sufferer. Marriage would undermine Hilda’s claims to Alchemy. (Though, he joked, a convicted felon and a “certifiable” might not make the ideal couple in family court.)

I tried not to cry. I couldn’t help myself. I swilled my champagne, thinking,
What response would hurt him least?

“Oh, Nathaniel”—I hiccupped between sobs—“I love you so.”

“As well you should.” He deadpanned.

“I can’t promise you monogamy.” I couldn’t admit that I’d been occasionally sexing it up with one of the stud fishermen I’d met in Orient, and two weeks before I’d checked out the scene at Studio 54. Studio’s odor smelled of a snooty Philistine profligacy, not democratic Dionysian freedom. I made sport with a coltish South American tennis player there. After three years of celibacy, nothing could put a damper on my libido.

“I’m not asking for it, nor am I promising it to you. We’ll practice a polyamorous lifestyle.”

“I’ll make your life more than a little untidy.” That was one massive understatement. “And I’ll always be a liability.”

“Life is a risk. You think I want safety? Look at my life. Your instability is my stability. Do you think I don’t know who and what you are?”

“And who and what do you think I am?”

“A selfish, out-to-lunch artist with a heart as big and soft … as a marble.”

He made me laugh. I loved him and wanted to be with him—most of the time. He believed he could accept my flighty
ways and catch me before I stumbled. He was the right father for Alchemy. Male artists throughout history had wives and mistresses—why not start a new trend?

I took his clammy right hand between mine. “Let’s live together first. When I’m ready, I’ll propose to you.”

What could he do but acquiesce? I redecorated his shabby two-bedroom walk-up. Alchemy helped me paint the walls bright red and blue and hang yellow velvet curtains over the windows. I brought in fresh flowers and began picking up furnishings at thrift stores. Yes, I became nesty. But nests are not built to last forever.

When Bicks Sr. arrived from Florida a few months later, we met for dinner at the Café des Artistes, his favorite eatery just around the corner from his apartment.

“You’re looking hardy.” His voice strove for effervescence yet limped out ruptured and hoarse.

“I most certainly am.” Unlike him. Beneath his usual sartorial uniform of bow tie, vest, pressed suit, and shined shoes, he looked less lifelike than a rotting wax museum mannequin.

“Salome, don’t tell me what your expression is saying. I look sickly because I am.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t get sentimental. It’s not like you. I’ve had a good, long run.”

“Okay, Bicks. Question, then. If I marry Nathaniel, will that get me out from your son’s control when you …”

“Die? Probably not. Which leads me to a serious bit of business. Your time in Collier Layne has drained your trust to a low
level. We made some nice deals on the land that was once your father’s farm. We have no other source of replenishment.”

“Which means?”

“Though small, the monthly stipend you received before is being withheld.”

“In case you decide to send me back to the brain-burn unit?”

“It will not be my decision. But yes, if you must return.” I appreciated Bicks’s honesty—honesty within limits, at least. “Irrespective of your financial situation, you should marry Nathaniel if you love him. Other impediments can be overcome.” The old undercover swisher understood my needs better than most.

“Speaking of fathers, you know that Lively came to see me at Collier Layne?”

“No, no, I didn’t.” He adjusted his hearing aids.

“Don’t get your diapers in a knot.” I decided to test his limited honesty. “Something in his Bible Belt forthrightness forced him to fess up that Marcel Duchamp and Greta had a quicksilver assignation that produced me.”

His cheeks puckered, and I thought he might spit out his foie gras.

“Miss Garbo never revealed that information to me.”

“That my father was Duchamp, or someone else?”

“Neither. I never asked and she never volunteered.”

“You wouldn’t tell me if she had, would you? Don’t bother to answer.”

“You’re not going to try to stalk her again, are you?”

“I wouldn’t call wanting to meet my mother ‘stalking,’ and no, I don’t want to see her.” I pulled out a brand-new red beret and handed it to him. “This is for her. She’ll understand. Promise me that she’ll get it.” He nodded.

Inside I’d taped a picture of Alchemy and written on the back of it, “Now we’re even.”

Pee Brain, 1996

The fiasco in Fon du Lac—or “Fun to Fuck,” as we called it—brings me and Absurda closer than ever. Life, and I ain’t being sarcastic, was great. Even though we played New York a bunch of times, I don’t see my family. I took Absurda for a drive ’round Flushin’ once. We come back to the city to play a three-night sold-out gig at Irving Plaza. The shows was nutso. We’d only play such small venues when we’re doing some Alchy political deal or the KROQ Almost Acoustic Christmas shows ’cause they gave us airplay that helped launch us.

On the third night, I invite some of my guys from Flushin’. Most of them has moved out ’cause the hood is changing. Only Nova and two other guys made it.

Sue and Andrew think they’re doing me a favor by inviting my mom, my sister Bonnie, and my brother Lenny. My dad ain’t invited but shows anyway. Like I wanna see their grizzly mugs. They never stopped panhandling me and I ain’t ready to donate even more to the lavish Lifestyles of the Lowdown and Pusillanimous. Learnt that last word from
The Wizard of Oz
. Don’t think I’m some cheapo, ’cause when we signed our mega-mil deal with Kasbah in ’98, me and Walter Sheik work
out a charity-tax-trust where I lay out over a million large for them to divvy up and then put the closed sign on the Mindswallow ATM. I buy Bonnie a house in Valley Stream and a beauty salon so my mom lives and works with her. Does well, too.

They’re all together just to the right of the stage. We’re jamming during “Licentious to Kill,” where Alchemy usually swoops into a Jack the Ripper act. He slows us down and starts one of his raps and we follow his lead. “Lots of you know Ambitious here, and he and Lux are my brothers. Ambitious’s family is in the audience tonight.” My guys, they boo my family. Others applaud and whistle. I’m feeling anxious about where he’s going with this. “Now, Ambitious, tell me. What’d your father always say about you?”

Catches me totally unprepared. My guys are hollerin’ “Asshole,” “Moron,” “Jailpussy.” I’d forgot about that beaut. Still, I spit out instinctively what Alchy’s wanting. “That I am forever gonna be a useless good-for-nuthin’.”

I stare at my family, who is thinking this is pretty damn funny, except my father, whose eyes are popping, and I hear his ferret hiss like he wants to rip my skin off.

“Yeah, now this might surprise you, Ambitious … because I agree … I think you’re a damn useless good-for-nuthin’.” I look at him like, “What the fuck side you on?” I hear my guys laughing and I mouth for them to “shut the fuck up, you cocksuckers,” and above it all I hear my dad’s squeally laugh. Alchy keeps going, “You heard of Oscar Wilde?” I nod, though I’m not fully sure who he is except some gay writer who got tossed in jail for doing what comes natural. “Oscar Wilde said, ‘All art is quite useless,’ and I agree with that, too.
So to me, that makes you an invaluable piece of
beautiful art that I wouldn’t trade for nuthin’ in this world
.” I want to go over and hug him, only he wails on the word “Killllll …” and we pounce on the chord.

Years later, he pens “Friendsy for You” ’ for the
Nihilists
CD, which has my fave lyrics:

After the show, I allow Nova and my family backstage. I introduce them to the band, and my mom starts cozying up to Absurda right away. I invite Nova (but not my family) to the private party downtown at Madam Rosa’s. My mom’s parting words is, “Ricky, ya always was a selfish little shit.”

At the party, me and the guys are getting bombed and also doing some excellent blow. Everyone in the club, including Mr. Alchemy, is inebriated on something. The Sheiks and Andrew has arranged for Absolut Vodka to sponsor the minitour and they was gonna sponsor the next big one, too. So the spirits was flowing. The club is filled with all kinds of slurpies wanting a piece of the Insatiables’ action. Alchemy is poontang king of the road. Sometimes, I’m sort of jealous because me and Absurda are still a pair. Been about four years at that time. I never before had no girl love me like that.

Around 4 A.M., I need to piss something fierce and the bathroom is fill up ’cause Falstaffa and Marty is using it as their pharmacy. I step outside. Madam Rosa’s was on St. John’s Lane, this tiny street just below Canal. I stumble past the bouncers, and after about fifty feet, I see Alchy’s back, and at first it looks like he’s pissing, too. I’m about to yell, “Stop right there, you’re under arrest for desecrating the spotless streets a New York.” But before I do, I hear Absurda. She’s squatting down in front of him, so she can’t see me and I can’t see her face. “Thank you, oh … Alchemy … thank you … You’re the best. Ever.” I don’t need to see her to get what
that
voice means.

I just feel sick. I feel so burnt. I say screw them, it’s too fuckin’ perverted. I lam back inside and Nova is rappin’ with these two chicks. I join the discussion. Then this guy, looks like to be around my age, steps between us. “Hi, my name is Stevie Stevens and I work for the ad agency of AY&S Worldwide, and I’m dying to talk to you. We’d love to use your song ‘American Van’ for one of our GM commercials.”

I’m more than a tiny bit distracted, and I says, “ ‘American Van’?” Nova and me, we look at each other and roll our eyes at this tool. The girls are giggling.

“Yes. Your song, ‘We’re an American Van, We’re an American Van, we’re coming to your town …’ The lyrics are perfect for our spot.”

“Sure. Sure.” I really can’t concentrate ’cause I’m discombobulated by Alchemy coming back into the club.

“Can I give you my card?” He sticks out his hand.

“No.” I slap his hand away. “You call Andrew Pullham-Large and talk to him first.”

Absurda is back and surrounded by her girlie fan club, the Nightingales. (They still exist. Only it’s creepy now.)

I feel like I gotta get out of there or I might have to kick some ass. Nova, the chicks we been talking up, and me, without saying goodbye to no one, hop a taxi uptown to party at the Plaza. We go up to my room and are just getting into it when my brother Lenny—fucking Andrew told him where we was staying—starts slamming his fist against the door and screaming, “Ricky, why are you treatin’ us like we’re some smelly ragheads?”

I open up, and he puts his tattooed mitt on my naked shoulder. I take his hand and snap it away like it’s pigeon shit. “Lenny, if I hadn’t made some dough, ya bastids woulda thought a me ’round about I dunno … never.”

“You think you’re so freakin’ special. A somebody. You ain’t shit. You just got lucky. I coulda been in your band and do the same bomp, bomp, bomp crap you do.”

“You coulda been … but you ain’t. Now take your fucked ’tude and get the fuck outta my sight.”

“Not ’til I let ya know how Ma was a fuckin’ wreck after you left. She didn’t leave her room for weeks.”

“Like that’s new? Lenny, Ma was doin’ half the dickwads on the block for a bottle a cheap wine. Christ, she even fucked Nova’s pop.” I look back at Nova and he turns his head away. We never done spoke about it, but I knew. “And Lenny, our dad is a wife-beatin’ prick. And you’re a loony met’ head. Choke on them facts, Mr. Tough Guy.”

He smacks me across my cheek. I jump him and we roll around like two retards in the hallway. Nova’s pounding
Lenny’s head, and one of the chicks is all right and starts kicking him. The other was taking pictures with her little camera. Some guest called security. Lenny and me get arrested. Nova flushes the drugs down the toilet, gets dressed, and scrams ’cause he was on parole. I made the cover of the
Post
. MTV News loved me. Man, Kurt the Lode practically ran the nightly Mindswallow report for a few months.

A lawyer bails me and Lenny out. I don’t hear from Alchemy. Turns out no one else has either for like twenty-four hours. We all assume he is off sexing half the city. Nope. He’s with Salome at Collier Layne visiting her shrink. They’re driving back that night.

My emotions was all confused. I’m still pissed at what I seen and heard and want to pummel him. I’m also, I gotta admit, intimidated, well, fucking terrified, that he’s going to toss me out of the band. And I ain’t exactly thrilled about having to do time in a nonjuvee jail. Before we confab at the Chelsea, I meet Lux in the lobby of the Plaza and he is majorly PO’d. He noogies my forehead like I’m Curly and he’s Moe.

“Ambitious, what the hell were you doing? You shouldn’t be dissin’ Absurda, picking up other chicks in public. Or private.”

“Buck,” I says, itching to try to describe the shit goin’ down between them, “I expect this jive from Alchemy. Not from you.”

“Ambitious, this isn’t jive. This is your band. Absurda is your lady. Don’t blow it.”

Lux, he never come down on me before, and though I’m seething inside, I can’t bring myself to explain more fully so I take his abuse. I need to see Absurda and Alchemy first. “I wasn’t thinkin’. Let’s leave it at that. Me and Absurda, we’ll
handle our private business privately. And you don’t know my family.”