Freaks and Revelations (5 page)

I live for Saturdays. It’s what I think about when Hugo Leone and Ralph Conifer make me climb behind the lockers in the seventh grade hall and wait there until they leave. This started the first day we went to St. Anne’s. I never did anything to them.

“You get outta there before we’re gone, you know what happens,” fat Ralph Conifer says.

“We put the trash in the garbage can!” Hugo Leone chants. “Oh yeah, we put the trash in the garbage can.”

I know they will, they’ve done it.

“You gotta fight back,” Marianne told me once when she came to pick me up and I was brushing the junk off my school uniform. “You got to stand up for yourself. They’re just bullies.”

I think it’s easier to put up with it. They don’t really hurt me, but they might if I argued back. If I call Dad, he’ll talk to their parents and who knows how bad it could get then. Mom would report it to Sister Mary Margaret, and Sister likes them way better than she likes me. I get on her nerves, I can tell that by how her face tightens when I come into English. Besides, if I tell Mom, Marianne will get in trouble for not protecting me. So I just put up with it and wait for Saturday.

Two things happen in this audition. Teachers figure out who stays or moves up a level, and this year’s cast for
The Nutcracker
is chosen. Almost all the parts are already decided, but parents come anyway, to watch, hope, and cheer their kids on.

The crowd of mostly moms is packed into the viewing area at the end of the big studio, politely smiling and nervously pushing at each other to get nearer to the front. Except our mother. She stands out, partly because she looks absolutely stunning in her pink dress, mostly because she’s the only one who isn’t paying attention. She smokes a cigarette, reads her novel, and every once in a while glances toward us.

Davy tells me to go across the floor with him. Instead of doing the leaps and turns we’re all supposed to, he wants us to walk, do a single châiné, and make a big ending pose. Kids bust into laughter. Davy winks at Madame Nevonski, who shakes her head at us—well, at him—and smiles. She adores him. We don’t go across the second time.

Davy heads off with Isabelle and I go stand with a group of boys. I’m laughing at something Michael’s saying when I notice Mom stomping toward me. She walks right into the studio and yanks me to one side.

“Don’t you ever embarrass me like that again,” she says. “Do NOT.”

“But, we were just—”

“Are you talking back??”

“No, Mom, but Davy—” I want to say it’s all right, it was planned, he knew we’d be cast anyway.

“I will deal with your brother separately. You are on restriction, do you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am.” But I don’t.

She might as well have slapped me. My face burns from shame and I don’t even know what I did except follow her precious Davy.

I ditch afternoon classes. I’m not up to dancing or even hanging out with Michael; I go downtown. It’s loud and dirty, filled with people who remind me of Jacques Cousteau’s sharks circling around, looking for blood. Not what I need. Some other time, maybe, I’ll come back and watch all the weirdos, but now, I have to think. I head up Market Street, past the Safeway. I figure I have three hours before Davy will look for me to go back home. I have money in my pocket to get lunch; I’ll just find a good place to eat and this will all seem—I round a corner and freeze.

Am I still in San Francisco?

Or is this a movie set?

It has to be—nothing’s this perfect. Everything on the entire street seems placed just so, clean and colorful. Trees decorate the sidewalks and skinny Victorians stand side by side like brightly painted little soldiers. Flower pots brighten restaurant windows. The air is clean, the street framed by a hint of fog.

But it isn’t just that. It’s the people.

They’re beautiful. They walk together, holding hands, kissing, liking each other—right out in the open. Squeaky-clean faces in fresh clothes, strolling with arms linked, sitting at tables on the sidewalk, leaning in to smile at each other, holding hands over glasses of wine and tea, having conversations. Laughing. Listening. Everything lovely, normal, good.

No one gives me a second glance as I wander down the sidewalk to check it all out. I realize I’ve actually heard lots about Castro Street, but I never expected it would be like this: perfect, a separate magical little village. I want to live here. I want to be one of the beautiful people who talk to each other, smile and laugh and pat each other on the back. I want to go to the outdoor cafes, shop in the stores, sit on the benches, and look at the trees.

The afternoon flies by and too soon, I have to get back. I know I won’t be able to stay away. Maybe I’ll bring Michael here, or maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll just save it for myself. I’ll walk around. I won’t talk to anyone, since I don’t really live here, not yet, but I’ll look. Listen. Soak up all the good energy and light. I’ll try on clothes in the shop around the corner. I’ll sit at an outdoor café and order tea. I’ll move and sway to the music that floats out of the lounges. I’ll sniff the cologne the guys are wearing. I’ll tingle and laugh and feel grand.

{4}

Davy got Fritz. Fritz is major. Fritz dances in the third act, and people who dance in the third act
get paid.
My mother cannot stop smiling. She’s already called her friend Gladys and our grandparents.

“Be sure to tell Joe,” she instructs Grandpa. “My son is the youngest dancer ever to get Fritz.”

At dinner, the rest of us are expected to be happy for Davy, so we are. We congratulate him. We are impressed that he had his picture taken today for a newspaper article in the
Chronicle
. At some point, Marianne asks what I got.

“A soldier,” I say and smile. “At least you’ll see my face.” Last year I was a mouse and the costume covered me completely. We skip evening prayers to go for ice cream. Mom orders a big bowl of five different flavors and we crowd into the booth in the back corner, each with our own spoon.

“Sit up!” she orders and we do. “Use your napkins.” She smiles at my brother. “To Davy,” she says, holding up a spoonful of Chocolate Mint. I hold up my French vanilla and smile. I hate Davy right now. It’s so easy for him to be adored. I watch his every move and can never figure out what he does that makes her love him best.

In silence, we eat.

“Hey, Mom?” Kaitlyn blurts, “what did Uncle Bobby get arrested for?” We jerk our heads toward her; she barely talks these days.

“Don’t, Kait,” Marianne whispers.

Mom sits up straighter, if that’s possible. “Don’t be rude, Kaitlyn. We’re celebrating Davy.”

“I didn’t know Uncle Bobby got arrested,” I said.

“Shhh,” Marianne says.

“Yeah, well, this girl at school is telling everybody he molested a bunch of kids.” Kait pops her spoon in her mouth, speaks through green pistachio ice cream. “I just wanted to know if it’s true.”

“Keep it up, young lady,” Mom says, standing, glaring at Kaitlyn. “You’ll find yourself living with your father.”

“I wish,” Kait mutters; only I hear. The ice cream’s not finished, but we’re all standing up now, putting on our coats, going home. We don’t talk all the way there. Davy pouts; he had a whole scoop left. I’m glad.

*   *   *

“I thought Uncle Bobby moved away,” I say. Me and Marianne are sitting on the couch. She’s doing her nails. Mom’s talking on the phone in the kitchen. Kait was sent to her room. I have no idea where Davy is and I don’t really care. I angle myself so Jesus can’t see me.

“Nope. Arrested.”

“For what? Smoking pot?”

She shoots me a funny look.

“Well, he didn’t exactly hide it. Was that it?”

“Nope. Polaroids.” She hands me the nail polish bottle. “Hold this.” It’s the same bright red as Mom’s. I wonder if it is Mom’s.

“Of what?”

“Naked kids. Gross, huh?”

“Did you see them?”

“No, but I heard. Daddy found a shoebox full.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. Bummer, huh? Our uncle’s a pervert.” She dabs the brush in the bottle, starts on her other hand. “But then, Grandma’s a nutcase. Remember how she called the fire department?” I nod. “Well, she kept calling them—for weeks. They took out a restraining order. Grandpa had to put a lock on the phone.”

“Jesus.” I glance at the statue, whisper “sorry.”

“Yep. That’s when Mom got religious.” She stops painting to stare at me. Really stare.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing, never mind.”

“No.
What?
”

“Paul was in the pictures. So were you.”

“I was not.”

She goes back to her nails, like she’s not listening.

“That’s stupid, Marianne. Don’t you think I’d know?”

“I guess, whatever.” She dabs on her second coat, wipes a smudge with the side of her thumb.

I don’t like the feeling in the pit of my stomach. “Why do you think that? You said you didn’t see them.”

“I heard Mom talking to the cops. And Paul told me some stuff.” She waves her hands back and forth to dry her nails. “It’s why he ran away, you know. Daddy yelled at him for letting it happen.”

It’s suddenly hard to breathe, like on the Halloween when I wore a nylon stocking over my head. I keep looking at my sister. I don’t remember cops at our house, except the ones that brought Paul home. I sure as hell don’t remember any Polaroids.

She blows on one finger, touches it gently to her lip to test if it’s dry. “This family is so messed up.” She takes back the polish bottle and screws the cap on, snags a cigarette from her purse, stares at me once more, chuckles. “All of us, we’re crazy.” She glances toward the kitchen, scoops up matches from the table. “Get me before she comes back in.”

I nod and she slips out to the front porch. Jesus stares down at me and all of a sudden, I feel very small.

*   *   *

The Nutcracker
goes up; Davy’s amazing as usual. I do okay and I have a great time on the tour. Mom gives us each flowers on opening night. I get to miss two days of school when the show goes on tour. Nobody mentions Uncle Bobby again, not even Kait.

Christmas Eve, we have our usual procession. We dress up in robe costumes and march from the backyard to the front. We go from oldest to youngest, so Marianne’s first, carrying Mary and Joseph, since Paul’s not here. Davy has the cow and the lamb. I get stuck with the palm fronds. Kait’s got Baby Jesus. Mom waits in front, by the empty cradle.

We’ve done this for years. It used to be fun.

“Everyone else puts the whole scene up at the same time, Lori,” Dad would tease, back at the old house.

“Everyone else is wrong,” Mom would say, laughing. “Mary didn’t get there until after dark.”

That’s when we march. Except here, in the new house, we’re on a busy street, not a secluded yard like before. “This is so embarrassing,” Kait whispers.

“Shh, just get it over with,” Marianne mumbles, as we go round to the front yard.

“I knew I shoulda burned the stupid statues,” Davy whispers.

“They won’t burn, dummy,” Kait hisses.

A guy in a truck going by honks his horn. “What are you all supposed to be?” he yells out, then laughs.

Mom’s lips tighten. I look back at Kait. She shakes her head slightly. Marianne stares at the ground. Davy’s eyes have gone completely blank. Each of us takes our turn to place our pieces in their proper positions. Marianne sets down Mary and Joseph, Davy does the cow and the lamb, and I lay the palm fronds in the center of the cradle. Kaitlyn, eyes scary with anger, puts in the baby.

We stand in a line, clasp our fingers together, and bow our heads as our beautiful mother prays to a plastic Baby Jesus.

Late 1977

THREE YEARS BEFORE

LOS ANGELES COUNTY

{1}

I start my band the summer before ninth grade. Glenn plays bass. I sing. Roy can’t do shit but he’s got his dad’s guitar so we let him be the guitarist. Glenn shows him some chords and he learns to play them—real fast and real loud. This guy Craig has drums. I buy all the music I can afford: Black Flag, the Clash, Sex Pistols. More Punk Rock’s coming out every day.

Finally! Something in the world that I can relate to.
Punk Rock.
It means: No rules. It’s made for me and everybody else who doesn’t fit in. I grow my hair like Johnny Ramone and start writing songs. Now all that poetry I used to do has a place to go. Words pour out of me. Everything that used to feel crazy makes sense. I make sense. I have a direction. I have my music. It’s what I’m going to do with my life—be a Punk Rocker. Say something important. Make it big. I won’t even have to graduate from high school.

It’s wild.

I’m wild, getting wilder.

On Saturdays, the band rehearses inside an old elementary school that’s been boarded up for years. We pry the wood off the back windows—it snaps easy, rotted. We drag in Craig’s drums and set up in the multi-purpose room, which, for some reason, still has electricity. We can play as loud as we want; nobody is anywhere near around.

Our third time there, we decide to decorate. We spray paint obscenities all down on the walls in the main hallway,
RAMONES
and
BLACK SABBATH
on the blackboards in the kindergarten room. Glenn tries to spray paint a naked girl but he starts with the tits and it looks really stupid.

We work on our own songs and practice covers from any band we can think of. On our break, we drink the beers Roy scored from his dad. Glenn goes back to trying to spray paint tits. He’s on his third pair when Roy interrupts him.

“Gimme that,” Roy says, pointing to the can of spray paint.

“Just wait, I’m almost done,” Glenn said. Roy snatches it anyway.

“What the hell are you doing?” I ask.

“Watch.” Roy pulls a rag out of his pocket, sprays it and drops the whole thing into a plastic bag. He holds the bag over his mouth and nose, sucks in the fumes, and gets this shit-eating grin on his face.

“Oh man oh man oh man!” He holds out the bag.

I don’t let myself even think; if Roy can do it, I can. I grab the spray paint and do exactly what he did. My mouth floods with a chemical taste then, BAM!! My heart jumps right out of my chest and I swear my whole brain slams into the back my skull.

“SHIT!” I manage.

“Yeah.” Roy laughs. “Huffing, dude. Huffing. Punks do it all over in England.”

“I want to,” says Glenn. Roy sprays the shirt again. Glenn huffs. He whoops. We turn to Craig.

“Nah, that’s okay.”

“Chicken?” Roy says. Craig stares for a second, then slowly reaches for the bag. We watch as he huffs.

“Dude, that was bogus,” I tell him. “Do it again.”

“Nah, that’s all right.”

“Pussy,” Glenn says. Craig shakes his head no.

“You can die from that shit, man. I saw it on a TV program.”

“You can die from life, dude,” I say, and huff again.

We start getting gigs! They aren’t much, just some other bands that let us play a set at a yard party here and there. People have yard parties all the time now, all over the Inland Empire, down in Orange County, out in Venice. Punk Rock is coming into its own. It’s not the Punk the British have; our Punks aren’t poor. In America, it’s the middle class that’s messed up. Before Punk, we had nothing but greed and hypocrisy. Now we got a way to fight back, say who we are, stand out.

I start pegging my jeans real tight. I buy a plaid shirt from the Salvation Army and sneak my dad’s engineer boots from the back of his closet. Kids at school try to make fun of me, but I don’t even listen. I don’t listen to anything I don’t want to hear. I don’t care that there’s only one other Punk in my grade. This is not about popularity; I’m just being who I am. I’m tired of faking it. I’m tired of wasting time worrying about somebody else’s bullshit. We’re all gonna die sooner or later—more likely, sooner, so who cares? The world is in
chaos
. I know this. I don’t need shit from anybody. I do my music. I make my own chances.

That’s Punk.

Friday, as usual, I trek over to Roy’s. Time for some R and R.

“Went up to see his mom,” his dad tells me. “Chowchilla. It’s her birthday.”

“Oh. Thanks.” I stand there hoping he’ll at least offer me a beer, like usual, but when a woman pokes her head around the corner, he grins and closes the door.

Great. Here I am, all the way out at the stupid trailer park, needing to relax and no way to do it. My parents are home and Glenn’s not available. What the hell am I supposed to do now? I truck over to the liquor store and wait to see if there might be somebody who’d buy. No luck. The only customers that come in look like they’d just steal my cash. Should I go to the motel? Alone? Stupid idea. But, hey, wouldn’t be my first.

The Mexican guy waves me in. I pay, he lays out the NEB. I chop it myself, then snort, close my eyes, and sink down into the chair. What seems like seconds later, the guy calls out.

“Hey. Come rub my legs,
mijo
.” He pats the couch cushion next to him. “I got bad pain.”

“Your momma,” I slur, nodding off.

“I give you free, today.” I open my eyes; he’s standing directly in front of me. He leans down and ruffles my hair. “One little rub,
mijo
.”

I try to push myself up and out of the chair; he whirls me easily onto the couch, sits down beside me, takes my hand, and puts it on the front of his pants. I can’t raise my arms to stop him. He leans in close; I gag at the smell. He moves my hand back and forth. Reaches for my zipper.

Adrenaline kicks in and suddenly I’m up. I knock the bastard on his ass. I book it out the door, stumble through the parking lot. I moving but I’m not sure how; I can’t feel my legs or lower back. I crawl behind the dumpster to hide there until I come down enough to walk home. My head is splitting. What the hell am I doing here? I could have been raped. Not a white face in sight and I can’t run. I’m on NEB. PCP.

ANIMAL TRANQUILIZER.

Stupid doesn’t begin to describe it.

“Hey, baby,” says a black chick, leaning around the edge of the dumpster. Her eyes are glassy. “You want a date?”

“Fuck off.” I manage to stand up, but that doesn’t last. Some ugly black dude grabs my shirt and sends me flying into the gravel on the edge of the parking lot.

“Apologize to the lady,” he says, his eyes boring into me. His buddies come up behind him. I’m so scared I pee my pants.

“Sorry,” I mumble.

“Couldn’t hear ya,” he says.

“I’m very sorry,” I say.

“Yeah you are,” the guy says and they all start laughing. “You are one sorry mother—”

A cop car drives down the alley and slows, shining a light toward us. The group breaks up quick. I don’t wait around.

When I meet up with Roy a couple days later, I tell him what the Mexican tried to do. I don’t mention the other. He laughs.

“Shit, he tries that with everybody. You ain’t special.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Why didn’t you ask?”

I deck him. He laughs again.

{2}

Here’s what I figure out.

If I want to play music, I got to go out and hear people playing it, see how they perform, get into the scene. Punk Rock’s taking off, moving like wildfire. It’s a revolution. I can’t sit around with Roy all the time. I can maybe drink and smoke some pot, but that NEB shit? Taking those stupid chances? No more. I won’t spend my life being unconscious. I got too much to say. Music is the way I’m gonna say it. Not hanging out with trash, being stoned.

I need to take charge of my life.

“You are so right,” Glenn says, when I talk it over with him. “Roy ain’t shit, man. He can’t even play. We got to move forward, yeah? Check this out.” He holds up a flyer for Black Flag, the one that’s like the Manson girls. “Want to go?”

We don’t tell our parents; we just go. Me and Glenn ride the bus more than an hour to get to Hollywood. We sit in the very back, him in his ripped-up shirt and jeans, me wearing my Ramones T-shirt. We put on our mean faces and like it a lot when this woman chooses to stand up rather than sit near us. We get off up by Highland and stroll down Sunset. Hollywood at night is way better than I ever imagined. The energy’s like a drug. At the Whiskey, we stand in line with all those people I’ve been wanting to meet—the ones with dog collars and spiked hair. Glenn almost chickens out.

“Just shut up and look pissed,” I whisper. We’re both over six feet tall. We do not look fifteen. When the bouncer gives us the once over and nods toward the door, I want to scream out loud.

We’re in!

Music blasts, lights strobe, people press close around us. The MC glares out at the crowd.

“Who let all you long hairs in here?” he rants into the microphone.

I know he can’t be talking to me—my hair’s like Johnny Ramone’s. That’s Punk.

“Don’t you people know short hair is All-American?” he screams.

Somebody yanks my hair from behind, hard. I whirl to see a little round Punk girl smirking. Her head’s shaved. She’s got a safety pin stuck through her eyebrow.

“Hippie,” she taunts.

“Bitch,” I say. My hair is definitely not hippie.

A second later, I smell something burning. Glenn smacks the back of my head.

“She lit your hair, man,” Glenn says and smacks me again.

I cuss the girl out and shove her backwards. She falls into her boyfriend, a big blond flattop wearing a collar with spikes. I didn’t notice him. He pops me one, dead on, center of my forehead. My head whips back like a bobble doll. The girl laughs.

This is not what I expected.

Glenn presses through bodies and drags me away from them, somehow gets us closer to the stage; I’m dizzy and stink of burnt hair, with a bump rising in the center of my face. What the hell’s different from that stupid motel? Everybody keeps trying to mess me up.

The MC rants on as the band sets up behind him. People jump on the stage; he kicks them back off. He punches one guy. Glenn slips me a flask and I gulp some whiskey. It burns going down. I’m about ready to suggest we get outta here when Black Flag kicks in.

“I ain’t got no friends to call my own!”

Lights change colors. People scream out the lyrics. Somebody starts to pogo and in an instant, the entire room’s jumping up and down, as one, including us. Everything starts to blur. The music’s going faster than my heart, but I’m catching up. The pounding in my head is now coming from the stage, and I can’t tell where I stop and everybody else begins. Long hair, short or shaved, we’re all Punk now—one mind, one single body. Nothing else exists. Dez Cadena catapults off the stage and onto the crowd. People carry him over their heads. I reach up and feel his weight as he travels across the room, never dropping the mic from his mouth:

“Depression’s gonna kill me!”