That almost explained his crazy “yes and no” answer about being in war. I’m beginning to see this guy is full of surprises. When I ask him later about this army shit, he starts lecturing me that everyone should serve in the army or do some kind of service as their patriotic duty.
We plan to start rehearsing later in the week. The first rehearsal I pick up my Strat ’cause I ain’t no second-fiddle bass player to a chick. Absurda hooks up, too, and eyes me like “You wanna go?” so I start playing and she mimics whatever I do. Then she starts leading, and, well, I got to give it to her, she could flat-out scorch that baby. First her Flying V and then the Winged Nightingale that Fender made for her. Falstaffa fronts me the money for a bass. I learn to love it.
Alchemy and me are crashing over the Pantera, though he ain’t here that often. He never had no problems bouncing from bed to bed. He told me that growing up with Salome made him feel like no place and every place was home. You know the phrase “any port in a storm”? For Alchy, it was just “any port.” He claimed he found something beautiful in every woman and that gave him comfort and hope. It sounds like a load, but it wasn’t. And even when he was rich and went loopy over Laluna and moved to Topanga, he didn’t feel totally settled.
A coupla weeks later, me and Alchy’s drinking down at the Pantera. I been thinking about scoping him on Absurda, only he beats me to it.
“So, are you going to move on Absurda or not? Better do it before long, or it’ll be too late.”
“Whataya mean?”
“Come on, man, I see the way you’re lusting for her.”
I despised him when he spoke like he had that superior insight from a voice that told him all. “You or Lux ain’t done her?”
“Can’t speak for Lux, but they are certainly not together now. As for me, nope, not even a kiss.”
“Why? ’Cause she done so many guys?”
“If my mom heard you say something so dim-witted and sexist, she’d squeeze your nuts so hard they’d turn to Silly Putty. The rules of getting laid: Approach sex with some sensitivity. Women have a right to fuck as much as we do without being called whatever epithets flash into your head. And remember this, if done right, they enjoy it as much or even more than we do.”
“Scratch the Alchemy doubletalk an’ answer my question.”
“Okay, I ‘ain’t done’ her. So go for it, but remember, she’s like my soul sister. I’ll be watching.”
A couple weeks later after we been rehearsing all night, she and me head down to Tacos Por Favor and I’m stuffing my face. I notice she hardly eats, and I ask her, “You a puker or just don’t like food?”
“Neither. I get ninety percent of my calories from gin and cigarettes …” She licks them cat’s lips a hers and meows, “the other ten percent from hot, creamy cum. Now Ricky, can I have a taste?” and she eyes my enchiladas but I don’t think that’s what she means. She pulls out two hits of X and sticks one right on my tongue. We hook up for the first time. It was hot. I mean hot. We done shit I never done before. I’m dissin’ myself by admitting this, but hell, I was a kid and not that experienced.
We’d ended up at her room in the house she shares with a bunch of losers in this old three-story firetrap in the Rampart district. I am starting to see L.A. is huge, and there are hoods like Rampart, which feels sorta like Flushin’. The TV makes the whole place out to be either Beverly Hills or Compton. Ain’t true at all.
The next morning she is dressing to take off to her waitressing job at Barneys in West Hollywood, I ask, “We an article now?”
She grins and shakes her head, “No, we’re a preposition …”
“What?”
“You meant an item, not an article. Never mind. What do you want us to be?”
“A particle … If ya promise not to go all teachy on me ’cause a the way I talk.”
She kisses me and holds my hand, Catholic school girlie — like. “I won’t do that to you, Ricky.” She never got used to calling me Ambitious, and she’s the only person, after I get to L.A., who I let call me Ricky.
A few months later, I finished my last drop for Marty at around 5 A.M., that’s how I was earning my keep, and I’m gonna crash at the Pantera that night rather than head to Absurda’s. Alchy, he wanted zip to do with that shit, and because he’s allowed Falstaffa and Marty the privilege of being in his inner circle, he don’t have to earn his keep. The Pantera was closed so it was just me and Marty at the bar drinking. Get the Fuck Over Here is snoring on the floor. Falstaffa is upstairs sleeping, and we figure Alchemy has found himself another bed for the night. About three beers in, Marty asks, “How’s it hanging between you and Absurda?” His voice punches out like he’s six feet, not some putz who comes up to my knees.
“Hangin’.”
“You know why Alchemy named her Absurda Nightingale?”
“Yeah, ’cause of the crazy bird squeals she gets from her guitar.”
“More like the squeals she makes when she’s sucking on some guy’s bazooka. And she’s sucked plenty.”
“Yo, dwarf dick, tell me she done you.”
“Meaty enough so I deep-throated her ’til she gagged. Absurda, she’s so horny, she fucks like a man.”
Suddenly, there’s a spitting noise in the doorway that leads up to the apartment. Marty starts trembling, bleating, “Alchemy, please! I was just shittin’ him. You knew I was just fuckin’ with you, Ambitious, right?”
Alchemy calmly strides over. Marty is shivering. Alchemy lays his hand on top of Marty’s head. He holds it there. Marty is bug-eyed. Not breathing. Alchemy coolly says to me, “Pack up. We’re leaving.” He slides his hand down Marty’s forehead and over his eyes and gently closes the lids.
19 THE MOSES CHRONICLES (2001)
Just a Family Affair
Alchemy parked the Focus in the driveway, and Moses felt his body relax. He was glad to be home. He cherished the womb-like solace he found in the sanctuary of his and Jay’s olive green stucco house.
From the small front yard Moses called out, but Jay didn’t respond. His cell phone rang. Moses answered it. “Andrew Pullham-Large for Alchemy.” Moses tossed Alchemy the phone and hurried inside, his panic meter rising. He found Jay asleep in their bedroom. A barely touched bottle of water, a half-filled glass of white wine, and her mother’s jeweled pillbox containing a dozen or so of his Xanax sat atop the wooden bedside table. Her body expanded and contracted with her slow, sleeping breaths. Moses sat on the bed beside her and gently rubbed her tanned shoulder.
Her lids opened, glazed over by a film of white plasma. Her tongue sought to dampen her dry lips.
“Jay, what the hell is going on?” He eyed the pillbox.
She placed her hand in his. “Oh, I’m just scared and I love you so much and …”
“It’s going to be all right.” He gently touched her cheek with his right hand. She inched herself upright and leaned back against the pillows. She reached limply for the bottled water. Moses handed it to her. Jay tilted her head slightly upward, shook her hair so it flung back, and took a very long drink before she spoke.
“It’s not that. Well, yes, it is that. Is he here?”
“Yeah, outside, on the phone.”
“Moses, I have to tell you something. Did he …” She exhaled, then exhaled again even more deeply. Her hands began to shake. She released her hands and drank more water. Moses took her hands in his and steadied her. Only then did he begin to comprehend this space between sounds and what they intimated—
“You and him?”
“It was nothing. Meaningless. Insignificant.”