Rumble Fish (5 page)

We went downtown that night, across the bridge, to where the lights were. It wasn't as hard to talk Steve into going along as I'd thought it'd be. Usually I had to hound him and stop just short of threatening him to get him to do anything his parents wouldn't like. This time, though, he just said, “Okay, I'll tell my father I'm going to the movies.” Which was the easiest time I ever had talking him into something. Steve had been acting peculiar lately. Ever since his mother went into the hospital he'd had a funny kind of empty recklessness to him. He looked like a sincere rabbit about to take on a pack of wolves.

He met us at our place. I never went to his house. His parents didn't even know he knew me. I poured half a bottle of cherry vodka into a bottle of sneaky pete to take with us.

“Here, take a swig of this,” I said to Steve as we went across the bridge. There wasn't much space for walking. You were supposed to drive across. We stopped in the middle so the Motorcycle Boy could look at the river awhile. He'd been doing that ever since I could remember. He really liked that old river.

I handed Steve the bottle, and to my surprise he took a drink. He never drank. I'd been trying to get him to for years, and had just about given up on it. He gagged, looked at me for a second, then swallowed it. He wiped his eyes.

“That stuff tastes awful,” he told me.

“Don't worry about the taste,” I said. “It'll get you there.”

“Remind me to chew gum before I go home, okay?”

“Sure,” I said. The Motorcycle Boy was ready to move on again and we trotted along behind him. He covered a lot of ground with one stride.

It was going to be a good night. I could tell. The Motorcycle Boy was basically a night person. He'd come home in the morning and sleep past one or two, and really just be getting awake good around four. He was hearing pretty good, too, and didn't seem to mind us going with him. He didn't use to like me following him around. Now it seemed like he barely noticed we were there.

“Why do you drink so much?” Steve asked me. Something was bugging him. He always was kind of nervous and bothered, but I couldn't believe he'd ever try to pick a fight with me.

“You can't stand your father drinking all the time,” he went on doggedly. “So why do you? Do you want to end up like that?”

“Aw, I don't drink that much,” I said. I was over into the city, on the strip, where there were lots of people and noise and lights and you could feel energy coming off things, even buildings. I was damned if Steve was going to mess it up for me.

“Man, this is gonna be a good night,” I said, to change the subject. “I love it over here. I wish we lived over here.”

I swung myself around a light pole and almost knocked Steve into the street.

“Calm down,” he muttered. He took another swallow from the bottle. I figured that would cheer him up some.

“Hey,” he said to the Motorcycle Boy, “you want a drink?”

“You know he don't drink,” I said. “Just sometimes.”

“That makes a hell of a lot of sense. Why don't you?” Steve asked.

The Motorcycle Boy said, “I like control.”

Steve never talked to the Motorcycle Boy. That wine had really made him brave.

“Everything over here is so cool,” I went on. “The lights, I mean. I hate it on our block. There ain't any colors. Hey,” I said to the Motorcycle Boy, “you can't see the colors, can ya? What's it look like to you?”

He looked at me with an effort, like he was trying to remember who I was. “Black-and-white
TV
, I guess,” he said finally. “That's it.”

I remembered the glare the
TV
gave off, at Patty's house. Then I tried to get rid of the thought of Patty.

“That's too bad.”

“I thought color-blind people just couldn't see red or green. I read somewhere where they couldn't see red or green or brown or something,” Steve said. “I read that.”

“So did I,” the Motorcycle Boy answered. “But we can't be everything we read.”

“It don't bother him none,” I told Steve. “‘Cept when he's cycle-ridin' he tends to go through red lights.”

“Sometimes,” said the Motorcycle Boy, surprising me since he didn't usually start conversations, “it seems to me like I can remember colors, 'way back when I was a little kid. That was a long time ago. I stopped bein' a little kid when I was five.”

“Yeah?” I thought this was interesting. “I wonder when I'm gonna stop being a little kid.”

He looked at me with that look he gave to almost everybody else. “Not ever.”

I really thought that was funny, and I laughed, but Steve glared at him—a rabbit scowling at a panther. “What's that supposed to be, a prophecy or a curse?”

The Motorcycle Boy didn't hear him, and I was glad. I didn't want Steve to get his teeth knocked out.

“Hey,” I said. “Let's go to a movie.”

There were some good ones right there on the strip. We were passing the advertising posters.

“That sounds like a great idea,” Steve said. “Let me have the bottle.”

I handed it to him. He was getting happier every time he took a drink.

“Too bad,” he said. “You have to be eighteen to get into this movie. That is too bad, since it really looks interesting.” He was studying some of the scenes they had on the advertising posters.

The Motorcycle Boy went to the ticket seller and bought three tickets, came back and handed us each one. Steve stared at him, openmouthed.

“Well,” said the Motorcycle Boy. “Let's go.”

We walked right in.

“Was that guy blind or something?” Steve said loudly. In the movie-house dark I could hear people turn around to look at us.

“Shut up,” I told him. I had to wait so my eyes could get used to the dark. It didn't take long. The Motorcycle Boy had already found us seats right in the middle.

“I got in here before,” I told Steve, “and the place was raided. That was a blast. You shoulda seen the movie they were playing that night. It was somethin' else.”

I was going on to tell him about the movie, but he interrupted me with “Raided? Police raid?” He was quiet for a little while, then said, “Rusty-James, if you're arrested or something, can you refuse bail? I mean, can't you stay in jail if you'd rather do that than go home?”

“What are you talkin' about?”

“If my father had to come to the jailhouse and get me, I'd rather stay there. I mean it. I'd rather stay in jail.”

“Aw, relax,” I said. “Nothin' is gonna happen.” I lit up a cigarette and put my feet up on the back of the chair in front of me. Could I help it if somebody was sitting there? The person in the seat turned around and gave me a dirty look. I looked back at him like there was nothing I'd rather do than bash his face in. He moved over two seats.

“That was pretty good,” said the Motorcycle Boy. “Did you ever think of trying out for a chameleon?”

“I don't know them,” I said, kind of proud of myself. “Where's their turf?”

For a minute I heard Steve trying to smother his laughter. Hell, I could hear both of them laughing, but the movie got started, so I didn't pay any attention.

The very beginning of the movie was just some people talking. I figured it wouldn't be too long before we got to the good stuff, and it wasn't, but by that time Steve wasn't looking at the screen anymore. See, the Motorcycle Boy never watched movies. He watched the people in the audience. I'd been to movies before with him, so it didn't bother me, but now Steve was looking at the people, too, to see what was so interesting. There wasn't anything interesting, just some old men, some college kids, some people who had drifted in off the streets, and what looked like some rich kids from the suburbs, slumming. It was the usual people. I knew that was one of the Motorcycle Boy's weird habits, but I hated for Steve to miss parts of the movie, especially since I was sure he hadn't been to a skin flick before. So I poked him in the ribs and said, “You're missin' out on somethin', kid.”

When he looked at the screen he froze. It was my turn to laugh.

“Are they faking that?” he asked in a strangled voice.

“I doubt it,” I said. “Would you?”

“You mean,” his voice rose slightly, “that people
film
that?”

“Naw, this is live from Madison Square Garden. Sure, they film it.”

He sat there for a few minutes more, then jumped up hurriedly.

“I gotta go to the john,” he said. “I'll be right back.”

“Steve!” I hollered at him, but he was gone. After about ten minutes I knew he wasn't coming back.

“Come on,” I said to the Motorcycle Boy. Outside it was almost as dark as in the movie house, until you got used to the colored lights. I found Steve plastered up against a wall, a sick look on his face.

“Well,” I said. “What happened?”

“Nothing. I don't know. A guy just asked me if I liked the movie. What's scary about that?”

It was like he was talking to himself.

“I was gonna tell you.” I took the wine bottle out of my black leather jacket. “You never go to the john in those places. I mean, never.”

Steve gave me a startled look. “So it
was
scary? I didn't just make it up—I mean, is there really something to be scared of?”

“Yep,” I said. Steve looked like he was going to throw up. I thought another drink might help him. It did seem to perk him up some.

“I didn't mean to make you guys miss the movie,” he said.

“We ain't missin' nothin'. I seen better.”

We went down the block. The Motorcycle Boy turned to walk backwards a few steps.

“Sin City,” he read the theater marquee cheerfully. “Adults Only.”

We went bopping on down the street. The street was jammed with cruising cars. You could hear music blasting out of almost every bar. There were lots of people.

“Everything is so cool…” I waved my cigarette at the noise. I couldn't explain how I felt. Jivey, juiced up, just alive. “The lights, I mean, and all the people.”

I tried to remember why I liked lots of people. “I wonder—how come? Maybe because I don't like bein' by myself. I mean, man, I can't stand it. Makes me feel tight, like I'm bein' choked all over.”

Neither one of them said anything. I thought maybe they hadn't even heard me, but all of a sudden the Motorcycle Boy said, “When you were two years old, and I was six, Mother decided to leave. She took me with her. The old man went on a three-day drunk when he found out. He's told me that was the first time he ever got drunk. I imagined he liked it. Anyway, he left you alone in the house for those three days. We didn't live where we do now. It was a very large house. She abandoned me eventually, and they took me back to the old man. He'd sobered up enough to go home. I suppose you developed your fear of being alone then.”

What he was saying didn't make any sense to me. Trying to understand it was like trying to see through fog. Sometimes, usually on the streets, he talked normal. Then sometimes he'd go on like he was reading out of a book, using words and sentences nobody ever used when they were just talking.

I took a long swallow of wine. “You…” I paused, then started again: “You never told me that.”

“I didn't think it would do you any good to find out.”

“You told me now.” Something nagged at the back of my mind, like a memory.

“So I have.” He stopped to admire a cycle parked on the street. He looked it over very carefully. I stood there fidgeting on the sidewalk, zipping the zipper of my jacket up and down. That was a habit I had. I had never been afraid of the Motorcycle Boy. Everybody else was, even people who hated him, even people who said they weren't. But I had never been afraid of him till now. It was an odd feeling, being afraid of him.

“You got anything else to tell me?”

The Motorcycle Boy looked up. “Yeah, I guess I do,” he said thoughtfully. “I saw the old lady when I was out in California.”

I almost lost my balance and fell off the curb. Steve grabbed hold of my jacket to steady me, or maybe himself. He was swaying a little, too.

“Yeah?” I said. “She's in California? How'd you know that?”

“I saw her on television.”

For a second I looked around, trying to make sure everything was real, that I wasn't dreaming or flipped out. I looked at the Motorcycle Boy to make sure he hadn't suddenly gone nuts. Everything was real, I wasn't dreaming, and the Motorcycle Boy was watching me with the laughter shining dark out of his eyes.

“Yeah, I was sitting in a comfortable bar, having a cold beer, minding my own business, watching one of those award shows. When the camera went over the audience, I saw her. I thought I could find her if I went to California, and I did.”

It was hard for me to understand what he meant. Our mother—I couldn't remember her. It was like she was dead. I'd always thought of her as being dead. Nobody ever said anything about her. The only thing I knew was the Motorcycle Boy—my father telling the Motorcycle Boy, “You are exactly like your mother.” I thought he meant she had wine-colored hair and midnight eyes and maybe she was tall. Now, all of a sudden I thought maybe he didn't mean just
look
like her.

I felt the sweat break out in my armpits and trickle down my back. “Yeah?” I said. I think, maybe, if the street had caved in under me, or the buildings around us had exploded, I would have stood there sweating and saying, “Yeah?”

“She's living with a movie producer, or was then. She was planning on moving in with an artist who lived in a tree house up in the mountains, so she may be there now.”

“She glad to see you?”

“Oh, yeah. It was one of the funniest things she'd ever heard of. I'd forgotten we both had the same sense of humor. She wanted me to stay out there with her. California was very funny. Even better than here.”