The Nirvana Blues (65 page)

Joe arched, released a silent howl, but somehow kept from slugging her. Every pain relay station in his body clanged out four alarms as she reamed his intestine and fellatiated his penis with superstar techniques.

COPS REVEAL GRECO-HUNGARIAN NOVELIST
MOONLIGHTED AS NARCOTICS HIT-PERSON
!

Finally, Joe coughed out:
“Stop!”

“No! Give me two more minutes! I know I can do it!
Relax!
”

“You can't,” he sobbed. “I'm sorry.” Latching onto her head, he forced her mouth away. At last her eyes flew open. Gasping, she blurted, “You … you gibbering
dumbbell!
”

“I'm really sorry. It's all my fault.” His tears meant nothing to her. She was “out of it.”

“Well, Jesus! Wouldn't you know it? If they gave out Academy Awards for bad luck I'd have a bathtub full of Oscars.”

His foot wasn't inserted quite deep enough into his mouth, however. So Joe gave it a final shove: “It's crazy. This has never happened before.”

The look she humiliated him with he richly deserved. “Thanks a lot, pal. You know, you got real class.”

“I didn't mean…”

“I know what you meant. I've been around men.”

“But…”

“Screw your ‘buts,' Joe. Get dressed and clear out.”

“But I can't leave like this. It's horrible. It was so wonderful out by the pool. I felt great.”

“Be brave, sweetie. It happens every day.”

“But now you probably think I'm a real creep.”

“‘Probably'?”

“I had that coming.”

“Well, you've already expressed what you think about me: so we're even. There's your clothes. Chop-chop.”

“If we could only wait a few minutes and calm down. And if you weren't so rough, or so demanding, I think—”

“Hey, friend: come on. Don't waste any more of our precious time.”

Forever after Joe would remember this moment as the end of his sexual career. Anger hit with a rush and he almost fainted. For a split instant he considered attacking her: he wanted no witnesses. I'll knock her down, commit rape, and then—using the small marble lamp on the bedside table—I'll beat her brains to a pulp. The thought lasted for only a second, yet during that time he actually gestured in her direction. What followed, accompanied by an explosion of breathlessness that immediately rendered him a cripple who couldn't have raped for a million dollars, was a sensation of utter disgrace. Emotionally he would never be able to live down a self-induced beating like this.

Would she, Joe wondered, self-consciously yanking up his trousers, tattle to Natalie about their lurid nonadventure? If so, he was a goner. It would take eight minutes for Natalie to telephone her first thirty friends. He'd never be able to look another pal, or lover, in the eye again.

Dressed, buttoning his cuffs, Joe pleaded, “Look, I'm really sorry. I blew it. I'm ashamed. I wanted you too much. I was too excited. I don't know how else to explain it. I don't have much experience in these things. I only left home three days ago.”

She faced him briefly, looking empty and bored. “Oh, it's okay. What the hell. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.” Then she turned her back on him, sauntered over to a closet, opened the door, and retrieved a large object from inside.

Joe was flabbergasted. “What is
that?
”

“Don't you know?” She held up the life-size inflatable Japanese creation for his edification. “It's called a Darling Don. He's a companion piece to their female creation.”

Barely able to see, Joe fled, looking for blaze marks to guide him back toward the life he had almost lost.

*   *   *

T
HE BUS WAS IDLING
. Yet where to go? Not home, not after this evening's debacle. They probably had bureaus, chairs, maybe even the refrigerator stacked against the door in case he returned. From now until a divorce decree became final, he and Heidi would probably communicate solely through their lawyers.

And as for Nancy…? Right now Joe was convinced that he would never make love again.

Diana's tent, then. But if she had awakened at any time between his abrupt departure and his return to find herself stone-cold alone just minutes after their liltingly potent assignation, chances were she'd be awaiting him with her gun cocked.…

A rational solution, perhaps, to all his problems.

The crotchety engine idled noisily. Like a heartless gangster, loneliness attacked his vulnerable chakra points. Half-frozen Bowery bums wrapped in urine-soaked weekend editions of the
New York Post
had nothing on Joe Miniver, a formerly compassionate garbage man, cheerful father of two, and semi-decent husband of one, who had unaccountably lost his way, a syndrome which was no more tenable for being (apparently) the good old American Way.

What self-destructive catalytic enzyme had been triggered last Saturday night? And why? If only he could prove the adventure was worth it. If only the value of his losses had been replaced by emotional, spiritual, and physical accumulations of similar worth. But the ledger was a mess. “I break our hearts, therefore I am.” An American Descartes in Swingler City. “If only Peter had gotten off that bus!” But Peter, having hay-makered Julane's jaw, had enough troubles of his own.

What was happening to everybody? Hey God (you nonexistent werewolf!), I don't see any sensible pattern emerging from this anarchical circus of Boschian dingle-prancers with red roses flopping out their assholes, bells on their dunce caps, and nasty crab-pincers attached to their colorful breechclouts! Trapped in eggshells of ego, and shivering under the shadowy spell of leering angels flapping pterodactyl wings, they eat strawberries with drugged malevolence, crying “Help!”

That does it,
Heidi shrieked.
Joe Miniver, the world's greatest vapid-mouth!

The farcical turmoil of his past few days twitched before his eyes like the cardboard pictures in a nickelodeon. Apprehensive and awkward nude women struggled to free themselves from enormous enveloping sheets. Out of their open mouths poured miniature kids covered with blood, and tiny smashed looms, trailing pretty fibers. Carnations snowed into traffic jams. Balancing dichromates on all his fingers, top-hatted Spumoni Tatarsky pirouetted in a circus arena: he was surrounded by guitarists, tennis players, joggers, fugitives from learning, and prissy PhDs. Siddhartha this and Nikita that cantered onstage, flying guru kites on silver strings. Every seventh person wandering through the carnival was a mysterious, trenchcoated Nick Danger arriving from nowhere … bound for oblivion, clutching a tattered suitcase. Hands flailed, tearing off spiffy clothes. Silly pink bodies wiggled and squirmed, screwing each other. Helicopters zigzagged overhead, dangling large grappling hooks, trying to snag priceless granite idols. Lawyers meandered, tapping shoulders, collecting money. Ipus, Baldinis and Baba Ram Bangs and noisy dwarfs in chartreuse jumpsuits tumbled along chaotically, sniffing incense and tooting coke. “Biff, bam—thank you ashram!” Grapefruits fell out of the sky, smashing emphatically on poolside tiles. Key words? How about
equity, love, sex, coke, space, death, cosmic, spiritual,
and
pornography?

For starters.

Off to the side, leaning against his shovel and amusedly looking on, stood Eloy Irribarren, a little white-haired old man who could have been God.

Joe shifted (
grind! clunk! grate!
) into first and tarried no longer at the Nuzums' Tara.

He puttered through the deserted streets of the little city. Steam snaked eerily from dozens of construction pits, sewer-line breaks, gratuitous holes in the ground. What kind of fool would burn all his bridges before consolidating a trump card for his new future? For perpetuating the myth of the Zipless Fuck, Erica Jong ought to be lined up against the wall and castigated severely by means of dumdum bullets, steel-jacketed slugs, and other lethal projectiles.

Sex. Violence. Cocaine.

Joe drew a weary breath. His glazed eyes canvassed the darkened town. Caught in a commercial riptide, even at 2:00
A.M.
Chamisaville's stores sizzled in an orgy of sputtering neon. Sourpuss cops glared at him from their dented cruisers. Everywhere he turned a law officer scowled: idling beside the Tastee-Freez, circling the First State People's Jug, shining flashlights into the glass-and-girder mess of Safeway's abuilding southern branch. Cars were still parked in front of Heavenly Bodies, the new topless disco joint. Lavishly chromed late-model vehicles mingled with a few old pickup trucks in front of Irving Newkirk's X-rated lodging enterprise, the Sexational Porn-atel. Inside, couples gallivanted on Magic Fingers beds while watching
Deep Throat
on closed-circuit TV. Intrigued by such sin, Joe had never dared spend a night, even though he and Heidi had joked about it occasionally. Now (and forevermore?) he had no more desire. The lure, merely lurid, was dead for him, dissolved.

Curiosity had killed this cat.

Joe mewed plaintively and swung into the 7-Eleven parking lot: he braked near the outdoor public telephone. After first casting about for muggers dressed in black and wearing rubber monkey masks, he dialed home. Heidi's groggy voice interrupted the eighth ring: “Jesus Christ, you son of a bitch, who's this?”

“Me—Joey. Heidi—”

She hung up on him.

He located two more dimes and redialed. This time she pleaded with him: “Joey, what time is it? I'm exhausted. I'll bail you out in the morning. G'night.…”

“Heidi, I'm not in jail!”

“Thank God for small favors. Now seriously, call again in the—”

“This is important:
don't hang up!
I got no more money.”

“Joey, are you completely nuts?”

“What did you mean about the septic tank, the rubber suit, and the snorkel?”

“What did I what about what?”

“The septic tank, the rubber suit, and the snorkel, dammit!”

A puzzled silence greeted this exclamation. “Heidi, are you still there?”

“I'm here. But the question is, where are
you?
”

“The Seven-Eleven phone booth.”

“I mean inside your head, Joey. What do you mean—septic tanks? Rubber suits? Snorkels?”

“In the hospital parking lot you said Tribby would need a rubber suit and a snorkel.”

“You mean a scuba suit?”

“Is that what they're called?”

“Joey, it's two
A.M.
”

“But what did you
mean?
” he sobbed.

“About what?”

“About the fucking rubber suit and the snorkel!”

“Apropos what, exactly?”

“Apropos the stuff that came in on the bus.”

“The cocaine?”

“
Must you,
over the phone? Don't you have any regard for security precautions?”

“If this is a lecture, pal, I'm hanging up.…”

“Please,” Joe pleaded. “Just tell me, and I promise, I'll never bother you again.”

“I don't know what to tell you, Joey, because I haven't the faintest idea what the hell you're talking about.”

“Did you flush the cocaine down the toilet or not!”

“That's for me to know and you to find out.”

Click.

Benumbed, Joe stared at his feet. He was standing on a large, rather pretty feather. Stooping painfully, he plucked it off the dirty concrete and twirled it in his fingers, puzzled. From what sort of bird had it fallen? Nothing he had ever seen around here. It could have belonged to an eagle, perhaps, but what eagle had such creamy, pearl-colored plumage? The burnished feather was luminescent; it seemed to glow as if infused with some kind of other worldly, quasi-electric energy.

Tribby Gordon's ancient Volvo eased into a parking place near the phone booth. “Hey, José. What time is it?”

“Time?” Joe blinked uncomprehendingly into the single headlight. Ralph Kapansky rode shotgun beside Tribby—he crickled the fingers of both hands at Joe by way of greeting. From the back seat, Rimpoche snarled uncertainly.

Tribby said, “Yeah. I came in for cigarettes, but the store is closed. My watch must have stopped.”

Dazedly, Joe said, “I think she flushed it down the toilet.”

“My watch?”

“The cocaine.”

“Who?”

“Heidi.”

“I'm out of cigarettes and you're wasting my time with cocaine stories?” Tribby yanked his stick shift into reverse, and swung around, calling as he did: “It doesn't matter, man. Ralph and I are on our way to check out the helicopters. But first we gotta catch the La Tortuga before they call it quits! Come on out to the Floresta helipad behind the district headquarters on Valverde in fifteen minutes! We're developing a foolproof plan!”

Joe paddled away the exhaust fumes with his rarefied feather. The empty parking lot jeered at him heartlessly.

Nick Danger turned a corner, glanced surreptitiously in Joe's direction, shifted his suitcase from under his right to under his left arm, and scurried into more protective shadows. Then the Chicken River Funky Pie van cruised down the street, veered into the 7-Eleven parking lot, and accelerated suddenly, heading straight for Joe. But even before he had time to react, the driver spun his wheel, and, as the van fishtailed, a package sailed out the passenger window, landing at Joe's feet. For a split second, as the two earthbound tires squealed, Joe thought the odd vehicle was going to flip. Instead, aiming in the opposite direction, the van settled onto all fours, and screeched away.

As for the package?

Just another toy monkey with a miniature toy .45 automatic in one hand, and yet another cheerful exhortation pinned to its chest:

We will bury you!