Soon my body will be a white elephant — scurf’s up!
They stared at the hairy beasts, tripping from the vantage of their go-carts. Laxmi giggled that Ganesha was the guardian of the anus—she actually read that in some Bodhi Tree book — and a man’s cock represented his trunk. Jesus, thought Chess, the motherfucker guards everything. Was Laxmi trying to tell him something? He flashed on his Viagra stash. She said the reason she loved Ganesha more than any other god was because he’d transcribed a famous poem by breaking off a tusk (fuckin Fleetwood Mac again and those dumb drums and horny USC cheerleaders; Jesus, that was 30 years ago) and dipping it in ink. Chess told her he thought that was far out. I’m really starting to talk like her. Soon I’ll be a vegetarian. A Viagratarian. That’s why she kept a statue of the elephant on her desk or in her purse, wherever she did her journaling. She said Ganesha gave her “writing ch’i.”
THEY turned in their scooters and smoked more weed in the car. Poor little Dumbos. Ratty, dusty, and dry. On display. They were gods and people didn’t have a clue.
“Did you know,” said Laxmi, “that elephants communicate? I mean, they talk, but it’s subsonic. They can die of heartbreak. And they go crazy in captivity, they always say it’s this thing called ‘musth’? You know, this male hormone thing? And that’s true, but it’s triggered. Musth is like this testosterone secretion that makes them very aggressive. It’s stinky and drips into their eyes and mouth.”
“I can relate.”
“It has something to do with ketones? My dad used to tell me about all this. He’s really very knowledgeable about certain things — I mean, he’s not a complete pig. Like if you blow into their trunks, they’ll remember your scent for life. Did you know that when they die, the whole herd lingers over the carcass? My dad didn’t tell me that, I already knew it. Chester, it is so sad and so sweet. They mourn. And the heads of the tribe are female. It’s a matriarchy! There’s like this 70 year old female who’s running the show! I love that! That’s why it’s so sad to see them in cages…and they mate for life? You knew that, right? They are so special. They can feel the whole world through the bottom of their feet — that’s how they wound up saving all those people in the tsunami. They could feel the waves coming—”
Chess felt a wave, and leaned over to kiss her.
She kissed back.
XLVIII.Marjorie
LUCAS phoned.
He was glad Bonita came to visit. Surprised, but glad. He hoped it was all right that he gave out Marj’s address. Of course it was. He said Bonita was a good lady, didn’t have many friends, and wanted to “share the joy.” Implicit in his words, to Marj anyway, was that Bonita was lonesome. Lucas had performed a small, cogent act of kindness. The Blind Sisters — and Lucas — were family.
Soon he’d be on his way to Texas to inform a new batch of shadow winners (“Oh yes, the Lone Star State is a major participant in the drawings”) and asked if she wanted to have a bite before he left. “That’s what one vampire said to another,” he joked. “Let’s go have a bite.” He told her not to primp, that he liked the natural look. They had a laugh and he added, “I’ve never been an aficionado of too much makeup.” “Well, I won’t primp if you won’t primp,” said Marj, coyly. They laughed again and set a time. He wanted to eat somewhere at the Grove. He said he liked the Grove.
SHE went next door to check on Cora and Pahrump.
The dog looked weak. Cora said he was sick from the chemo. Marj tried to distract her.
“How ’bout I pick up a lottery ticket for you and Mr P?”
“You’re still buying tickets? From that place?”
“Oh! My yes. It’s very important. The son had to leave school to help out — they’re not going to sell. They’re marvelous people. I spoke with the widow. She will not let this destroy them. God knows it would have destroyed me. Something like that happening to my Ham? She said she still believes in the goodness of people. Isn’t that marvelous? Perhaps it’s cultural. We Americans tend to be so cynical. We used to have more of the rugged spirit.”
“Well, I think they should string them up. Have they caught them yet, the blacks?”
“I don’t think so. There weren’t any witnesses, so no one knows if—”
“The schvartzuhs, always a schvartzuh. Why don’t they just kill their own? That’s what they do, you know. Steinie told me. Whites don’t kill them: the blacks do a very good job of it themselves.”
Marj stroked Pahrump. The animal growled unconvincingly.
“Now you just stop, Rump. Don’t you dare—that’s Marj Herlihy, my dear friend and your guardian angel. She’s going to take away your trust fund if you don’t stop misbehaving! We’re going to take it away, aren’t we, Marj? You really should have seen that hospital. It’s on Sepulveda, just behind where Steinie goes to the gym. And the people who came in! They should make one of those TV shows about it. Someone brought a lovebird they’d left in the sun — it got dehydrated. Oh Marj, the care that is lavished! You could probably bring in a cockroach and they’d know what to do. But it costs a fortune. I met a couple who had a dog the police shot by mistake.”
“Oh Lord,” said the old woman, flinching.
“The police are out shooting dogs when they should be shooting”—she paused, voice lowering to a susurrus of contempt—“blacks.”
LUCAS’S driver dropped them off at a Chinese restaurant in the Grove, across from the dancing fountains.
They spoke of this and that, how glad and lucky he was to have found a vocation which had allowed him to make so many people happy. He said most of the time he felt like the star of “an amazing reality show.” She wasn’t exactly sure what that meant, but he was such a sweet young man, just the kind of boy she wished Chester had turned out to be. Though it pained her to even be thinking that way.
“So: are we going to see you at Spago?”
She looked at him inquisitively, then remembered the lady from Ojai’s words. Marj needed her memory jogged.
“We’re having a gala for the Blind Sisters — well, half the winners are men, but they don’t seem to mind the appellation. In fact, they get a kick out of it! Shall I RSVP for you?”
“Your friend said—”
“Bonita has called me 10 times about what she’s going to wear. What am I, Isaac Mizrahi? Hello! I know someone who needs a Xanax! One day it’s Chanel, the next it’s Oscar—de la Renta. Bonita is a hoot and a half. Did she tell you the State is putting everyone up? At the Four Seasons?”