The Flower Bowl Spell (4 page)

I’m early for my appointment. In the lobby of
the Palace Hotel, I wait by a ceramic horn-shaped vase the size of
a large sow and contemplate its flora—sunflowers, green peonies,
dried pomegranates, and eucalyptus. This would make an ideal fairy
hideout. Cornucopia, the goddess of the harvest, plenty, and the
hearth. A mothering deity, a doting older sis who would tell you to
finish your oatmeal before going outside to play. Not Auntie Tess’s
favorite, but I’ve always found her, in her various
incarnations—Ceres, Demeter, Hestia—a little underplayed. Beneath
the put-others-first philosophy must beat the heart of a wildcat.
Tess finds Persephone, Demeter’s daughter who was swept off by
Hades to his underground kingdom of death, more her cup of tea.
Persephone has heartache and drama. Me, I’ll take oatmeal over
pomegranate seeds any day.

Thinking of Tess leads me to our waning
ritual the other night. Did I get answers to my questions? No. Did
I figure out what questions to ask? Well, beyond the
obvious—
What the hell is going on?
—not so much. I have to
admit to myself, albeit reluctantly, that I’m going to have to try
again.

A hand presses against my arm. “Memphis?”

I shake myself out of my little cogitation of
hotel flora. My twelve o’clock has arrived.

He’s a man of average height, his dark,
straight hair cut in spikes and tipped in red dye. His skin is the
color of oiled teak, his eyes narrow and—dare I think it?—elfish.
His nose is like an upside-down kite with the point of his chin a
matching reversed peak. Underneath the layered T-shirts—short
sleeves over long with a logo that reads
Nevada State
Reno
—and expensive jeans, he is lean. His shoes are sporty
Prada knockoffs. No, on second glance, they are the real deal. It
takes me two seconds to register all of this, and before I can take
a breath he says, “You don’t recognize me, do you?”


Inside my messenger bag, the third-tier
band’s press kit weighs heavy. I have yet to crack the packet. This
is partly due to my preoccupation with fairies. It’s also partly
due to laziness. But mostly, it’s because of my self-imposed rule
of not reading press kits, of not interviewing under the influence
of all sorts of garbage aimed at manipulating the story I will
write. I know the band’s manager will hope my article is favorable
enough to include in future kits. Chances are it will be. I didn’t
go into arts and entertainment writing for the controversy.

I do know that I’m meeting the lead
singer/sometime guitarist, that the band’s name is Arsenic
Playground, and that we are to have lunch together on my meager
expense account. I do know that it is a glorious day, and that I
long to be outdoors exposing my shoulders to the sun as so many
office girls are doing. But things indoors just got
interesting.

I listen to the recording my brain has made
of what he said and look at him one more time. A name bubbles to
the surface and tentatively bobs there: Alice.

“Wait—Alice? Alice’s brother. Tyson?”


“Right. Ty Belmonte. I go by Ty now.”

I find that my hand is on my cheek. My
fingers are cold, but my face is warm, the skin tight. “Are
you—you’re in Arsenic Playground?”


“Yeah.” He shrugs. “It’s my band.” A smile
flashes briefly and is gone. I’m not even sure it was really a
smile. “When my manager told me you’d be interviewing me I thought
no way, can’t be her. But how many Memphis Zhangs are there in this
world?”

“You never know. But for now I’m pretty sure
I’m the only one.”

“You never made it out of Frisco?”

I laugh and take a step back, and yes, I know
I’ve just been dissed. Ah, natives who think they’re hot shit
because they’ve called their city by the pejorative. Never mind if
he thinks I’m small taters. I have worked so hard to put his sister
Alice out of my mind, and have just about succeeded these last two
years. Yet, here’s her big brother thwarting my efforts. He doesn’t
know, of course, and this would be awkward no matter what.

I’ve had very few friends—
real
friends—my own age, but Alice was one. We met in sixth grade. She
was beautiful, a blend of Pilipino and Caucasian with big eyes,
long wavy hair, the same elfish quality as her brother except it
looked natural on her. Tyson, six or seven years our senior, stayed
out of our way whenever I went over to her house. He was someone to
be worshiped and feared—a
teenager
. By the time we entered
high school, he had disappeared into a grown-up life, showing up
now and then in Alice’s family tales. She had two other older
sibs—another brother and sister—but Tyson, the oldest, was her
favorite.

“He watches out for me,” she said once, and I
was surprised to feel something like envy, envy only an only child
can feel. What she said seemed strange, though, because Tyson was
never around. No matter. Alice always seemed invincible. Of course,
she wasn’t. No one is.

Now her brother and I, the ones who wanted to
take care of her, are left here without her. I can tell myself she
knew the risks, that she knew death was a very real possibility.
But that would be bullshit.

I give Tyson another look. He hasn’t aged
much. His shoulders are a bit broader than I recall, but he was
always slight—the illusion of being feather light. Lithe and
sinewy, he ran cross-country and was a forward in soccer.

“How long has it been? At least five years,”
I say and immediately regret it. I skipped the funeral, the wake,
and the memorial. All of it. But Tyson doesn’t give me an accusing
look or any look at all. He turns and we make our way to the Garden
Court where teas and luncheons are held. We admire the domed glass
ceiling and chandeliers and potted palms. I’m glad I’m wearing a
skirt instead of my usual uniform of black jeans. Tyson, even in
his casual attire, fits into this room. He’s the kind of person who
can go anywhere and fit in, no matter what the dress code may be.
It’s not just because he’s a rock nebula either. The man possesses
a natural-born elegance, a physical grace.

The hostess seats us and hands us menus. We
glance at them and Tyson unfolds a cloth napkin into his lap. I do
the same.

Finally, he answers me. “My sister’s high
school graduation.
Your
graduation. That’s the last time we
saw each other. At least, that’s the last time you saw me.”

“Oh. Okay.” I pause. “What do you mean?”

He puts down his menu as a busboy pours ice
water into our glasses. “I saw you once at the Stonestown mall. You
were working at that store.”

“The music box store? Oh, man. That was the
summer after my freshman year of college. What a nightmare.”


He tilts his head.

“If ever there were a reason to take a
baseball bat to something, besides to a baseball, a music box store
is that reason,” I explain. “One music box, sure, I can handle. But
one hundred and twenty-seven music boxes all playing their little
‘Frère Jacques’ and ‘Greensleeves’ and ‘Pop! Goes the Weasel.’” I
shoot myself in the head with my finger gun.

“I think I’ll have the cheeseburger,” he says
and takes a sip of water, leaving me to laugh alone at my own joke.
I wonder for a split second why he didn’t say hello the time he saw
me in the store.

The waitress arrives and we order. After she
leaves I start to grill him, this older brother of my dead friend.
Tyson obliges, filling me in on the last decade, but just an
outline, as if he’s not sure he can trust me with the answers.
College at UC Davis, from which he dropped out after a couple of
years. A stint in the army and then jobs here and there, mostly in
construction or restaurants. All the while, he was involved in
various bands, forming, breaking up, forming anew.

At some point, I remember to turn on my
microcassette recorder and jot some half-hearted notes in my
notebook. There’s really little point when it’s all going to be on
tape. He relaxes a little and we get down to business starting with
the basics: who, what, when, where, why, and the often elusive
how
. My high school journalism has kept me in good stead
during this erratic reportage career of mine. In many ways, Tyson
is no different from other subjects. He’s pleased to have the
attention—I can see it in his eyes, the way they glimmer, even
though he’s not giving me much. I nod, keep quiet. I can’t stand
hearing my voice, goofy on the tapes. I resist the temptation to
check out his aura. It wouldn’t help me write this article—auras
are really only good for getting a sense of feelings, or at their
best, telling if someone is being truthful.

He doesn’t want to talk about himself,
balking when I ask in a careless way about his love life, except in
the context of the band. He tells me about their latest album (they
have two) and the website created by a sixteen-year-old fan their
manager hired. Their coup de grace so far has been a small mention
in
Rolling Stone
: “potential cult fave” on one of the
magazine’s many lists. Arsenic Playground has an underground
following, a semi-hit on the college charts. His mates worry
they’ll be one-hit wonders, but when I ask him if he’s worried too,
Tyson just shrugs.

“What about opening for Yeah Right? That’s a
coup de grace if ever,” I say. “Isn’t it?”

Tyson gives me a funny look. “You could say
that, I guess.”

A shiver runs up the back of my neck. I
glance around the restaurant and down at my notes. My chicken
Caesar salad dressing has blobbed on the page, leaving a
transparent oval.

In a quick motion, Tyson reaches over and
stops my tape recorder. He leans in and looks with something like
aggression into my eyes.

“Let’s hit pause on Arsenic Playground,” he
says. Everything seems suspended—the clatter of diners around us,
ticking clocks, Earth’s rotation—as I wait for him to say whatever
it is he’s going to say next. “What about you, Memphis? What have
you been doing?”

A woman from another table squawks to her
friends, “You’ve
got
to be kidding!”

Suspension broken.

“I don’t give interviews,” I say. It comes
out more harshly than I meant it to, so I smile. “I only conduct
them.”

He sits back in his chair. “You haven’t
changed,” he says, and it doesn’t sound as if he approves.

I want more than anything to ask if he means
I’m still acting like a child. We hardly knew each other way back
when.

Oh, screw it.

I let my eyes go out of focus and relax my
breathing, and his aura reveals itself easily. Puddle brown edged
in cement gray bleeding into marigold yellow. Like pollution. I
look away and pick up my fork.

“Did you wind up going to that school?” he
asks. “What was it called, Benjamin?”

“Bennington,” I say. “For a little while. I
transferred to Santa Cruz. Did some graduate work.” I take a bite
of chicken.

“In what?”


I swallow. “Veterinary school.”

“But you’re a journalist.”

I try not to make a face. I still don’t feel
like a journalist. In fact, I’m not too thrilled with that label.
Journalists are troublemakers. They’re either paparazzi or
investigative blood-seekers with no souls, no scruples. Of course,
I know this isn’t true across the board. But it’s what I’m afraid
of becoming. “I write part-time. Mostly, I walk dogs.”

“Dog walker,” he says, like it explains
everything.

“I couldn’t kill them. The dogs and cats in
vet school. Even if they were terminally ill.”

He nods. I’ve softened him up a little. “Not
married, I take it.” He nods at my naked fingers. I don’t generally
wear jewelry.

“No. Well—almost. Maybe.”

“Sounds like quite a commitment. And his name
is?”

Tyson refuses to talk about his love life,
yet he asks about mine. There’s something combative in this, so I
tell him with defiance in my voice, “Cooper. Cooper Bailey.”

He frowns. “That name is familiar.”

“He teaches French at our high school.”

“I took Spanish.”

“Of course you did. It’s so manly.”

“Hold up. You’re saying your Mr. Bailey isn’t
manly?” As he says the name the realization dawns on him. “No way.
You and Mr. Bailey?”

I grit my teeth but turn it into a grin and
nod.

“Mr.
Bailey
?” he says again. He raises
his eyebrows and whistles.

I expect more questions—there are always more
questions—but Tyson only gazes at me like a creature at the zoo.
Hyena. Possibly Tasmanian devil. Finally, he hands down his
judgment: “What a trip.”

I reach over and turn the recorder back on.
“Let’s continue, shall we?”

****

After we’re done talking, we take a cab to
Fats, the club where Arsenic Playground is playing tonight. In this
case, they’re the main event. Tomorrow they’ll be at the Warfield
opening for Yeah Right. The fan in me can’t help asking Tyson if
he’s friendly with Cheradon Badler, of the toned abs and pouty
lips. In another life I’d like to come back as one of her backup
vocalists—actually coming back as someone like her is too much to
hope for. Tyson acts like he hasn’t heard me, so I ask him again.
He heaves a gargantuan sigh of impatience before answering, “We’ve
met.”

The rest of our short ride is pregnantly
quiet. We are careful to look only out our car windows. As soon as
we get into the dark interior of Fats, Tyson disappears. I know the
owner of the club, and he greets me, leading the way to Arsenic
Playground’s dressing room. Waiting there are Tyson’s bandmates:
Babs, Hugo, and Horatio. Babs is on guitar, Hugo is the bassist,
and Horatio, Hugo’s identical yet slightly better-looking twin
brother, is the drummer. They sit with me and answer my questions,
streams of uninterrupted interruptions punctuated with insolent
silences. I let my cassette recorder do its thing. Hugo lounges
just behind Babs, plucking his bass, either bored or at peace. He
and Babs sing backup vocals for Tyson. They call him Ty, proving
that he really does go by that nifty little nickname. Horatio
claims he himself can’t carry a tune and smirks when I ask, as I
must, how that can be if he and Hugo are identical twins. I see
I’ve fallen into the booby trap of twin wit. Twin nitwit is more
like it.