Burst by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
Download the book in PDF, ePub, Kindle for a complete version.
Chapter 2
Everything about our ensuing little parties gets kind of merged and blended. The three of us just hit it off right from the start in a way usually approached in gradations or never. We started talking about things some husbands and wives probably never do. So to try to think back to any kind of “order” in which to tell about how we got to know each other so well isn’t possible for me. At some point I started calling us “The Unholy Trio,” which they both liked. The vague inference to the commonly used meaning of ménage a trois, which made me consider not saying it, was not taken provocatively; and I was glad for that. It wasn’t a sexual thought. I don’t think ......... It was in our heads. But, I suppose that it might be fairly termed romantic and trusting; with the caveat that I haven’t looked up the dictionary meaning of the “R” word. I did look up the story line of Lon Chaney, Sr.’s silent movie, “The Unholy Trio,” and it doesn’t quite fit either. But, besides me, there are only about three other people in the US who know the movie. I was a movie freak long before I wrote anything other than business reports.
Sometimes I think that Rikki and Mal opened up to me merely because I listened to them. They come from a Generation called
“X,” “Lost,” “Millenial,” or something; while I’m a “baby
Page 19
boomer,” “G1,” “Dinosaur” or something. Apparently things have changed quite a bit as boomers like me might have said; “Quit watching me,” while those to come would say; “Nobody is paying any attention.” I also asked a lot of questions when things they said didn’t make sense to me; which was a regular event. For me it was no game as I was genuinely interested and maybe they could detect that.
Mal began bringing Rikki with him virtually every visit; and she always brought loads of food. What was once three hours of work and a half hour of bullshit became a half hour of work and three hours of bullshit. I say this only in hindsight as while it was happening the enjoyable time just went.
I don’t think that it was so much that Rikki wanted to be here. In fact it probably wasn’t so much that Rikki wanted to be anywhere currently on her palate; while Mal gave the appearance of being more optimistic as he experimented with detachment and mixtures. His primary problems were that he could not extricate himself from the consequences of his protracted entanglement with the law and the consequences of his love for Rikki.
She saw her choices as severely limited in general; any conjured positive actions married to some kind of severe penalty. This was not the least bit speculative on her part. It was the result of her experience. At first, her presence at my house was probably due to that she couldn’t stand being away
Page 20
from Mal; who was supposedly working at my house. He was getting paid to anyway and I often found him outside or in the garage sweating in a manner sufficient to keep a bird bath at its brink; the results of his endeavors often a long story almost as interesting as Franzen’s “Freedom.” My Southwestern styled adobe, which basically means a structure with stucco over something of indeterminate origin and an almost flat roof sat on an acre in an area which contained similar things on an acre, usually larger. This afforded some sense of privacy, especially after Diane and I had installed “native plants” all over the place, focusing on the borders and in close proximity of the back portal. The Spanish Brooms and Butterfly Bushes grew quickly and thickly; though the former can be temperamental, and without any noticeable provocation turn from soft green to brittle brown. As I imposed no restrictions; maybe once; in their current circumstances, the bricked back portal had to have been a good place for them to relax and chill out.
Though they had of necessity, obtained a place to stay, in one room of the house belonging to her reluctant parents, the price extracted was higher than that in the tallest of fashionable NYC skyscrapers. At least Rikki said so; while, when on topic, Mal sounded as if he was the one who assumed the responsible position of negotiator, aiming for a manageable situation. Maybe at the core, it was difficult for her parents
Page 21
to deal with the constant reminder that Rikki was once happily married off, and out of her parents’ hair, to a multi-degreed, brilliant scientist she met at school; she being the same. Now she was back home, not quite yet divorced, with this no account felon who brought his guns. Maybe Mal was just trying to make the best he could of a difficult situation. And maybe Rikki was letting all her anger fly at a world, whose rules she tried to follow, only to be told; “Tricked ya, sucker.” The last straw might have been when her non-working, brilliant scientist and five year husband told her that he was exclusively gay. Yes, there were hints; like the rectal bleeding from the GI Joe dolls he shoved up his poop chute; but I’m again getting ahead and perhaps have digressed into an area totally irrelevant to Rikki and Mal’s main story.
Starting two months prior and during the entire period of their visits I was writing a very long book originally titled
“The Un-Named Eighth Day.” I had done a few before that, all kind of uplifting, hopeful, and with happy endings. I just wanted to break the pattern and try something else. The book which was eventually called “Blasé Eight,” primarily in an attempt to not give away the ending was cynical in tone and kind of depressing if one forgets that it’s only another book.
When I thought that I had written something particularly bright, I’d read a page to them. I guess I liked doing that for
Page 22
a number of reasons, including that they would probably be the only ones to ever hear it. But mostly, I liked seeing their reactions. We were sufficiently close that the perfunctory “very good’s” were out of the wearisome question. I guess we all knew that there was no malice intended, so we said what we actually thought. Most of the time Rikki just smiled and gently nodded as if the words confirmed her long held notions. But Mal always diverted from his usually quiet self and would shrug if he thought it sucked; or hold out his fist and say; “Bones, man,”
if he thought that I caught it.
For me, the most surprising part of the whole thing was that after a while, each started saying that the book was about the two of them. Being as truthful as I am able to be, I always told them; “No, it’s not. I started this, established characters, and had an ending months before I ever met you.” As much as we always took each other’s word, they brought this up four or five more times. No doubt things have a way of creeping in; borders are indeed porous as per DFW. I was also flattered, surprised, and saddened to see that the cynicism I thought I had fabricated out of the air and news reports could be confused with a reality they had known. Sure, authors talk about writing about what it’s like to be alive today; but in actuality they are at least one step removed. ....... I guess I just complimented myself; or maybe they did; I’m not sure. The thing
Page 23
is that if they were here today, I’d say to them; “This is the one intended to be about you. What parts are totally fucked?”
Rikki and Mal were studies in contrast; “studies” much too cold a word; used only because “psychological profile” is worse.
Trying to avoid sounding like some stupidity printed in
“Psychology Today,” suffice to say that she had been a “good”
girl; while he had consistently been a bad boy; the details an exercise which requires explanations as long as this book. On a mental level, in the moment, she was digging his wrongness as a sort of celebration of all that was allowed as well as a “fuck you all” statement by association. In the moment he was digging her. That is stupidly simplistic to say; come to think of it.
But, mal was much less verbal than Rikki.
Rikki often referred to Mal as her guard dog. Starting halfway into the time I knew them, he often affected a black accent and referred to her as his bitch. When first hearing this, I bit my tongue, as she displayed no reaction, and I had heard enough Rap recordings to make me consider the possibility that this term was now an acceptable one. At some point I started to ask about the terms, in the presence of both. “Guard dog” didn’t seem a particularly nice way to describe a person one was ostensibly in love with; though it did carry the possible cachet of bestowing the traditionally valued tribute to masculine protection. My first few queries into further
Page 24
elucidation were basically ignored. Then later, making no eye contact, Rikki told me that no; bitch was still not an acceptable word.
This stuff became more and more prominent toward what I know now to be the end of our parties. I suspect that it made it all too obvious that my sympathies went with Rikki; the natural attraction most likely a meaningful factor; but I thought it to be not only that. Hell, I was 65, with a wife of 44 years I truly loved, and was frankly not all that interested in matters of the crotch anymore; somehow considering that some kind of relief. Since Viagra and its generic equivalents were not any help for females, I considered it unfair; and also a prescription for old male farts to be either gay with each other or a molester of unfortunate children; kind of not-my-thing on either track. These things are hard to measure; but at the time Rikki’s sad face when she said that bitch was not an acceptable term tugged on something in me she would often dismiss as
“sweet,” as if sour no longer had an antonym.
So, when Mal started to make a habit of in my presence saying to Rikki that he was gonna turn her over and stick it right up something or other in his best backwoods Arkansas nigga speech, I tried to defuse things by showing boredom and saying;
“You doin’ that nigga shit again?” If it had any effect at all, it seemed to encourage him. He typed “That Nigga Shit” into
Page 25
Youtube, and came up with a surprise that we both would enjoy for some time to come. Big Pun had covered the territory in platinum decades prior with a song of the same title. Mal and I chilled and mildly nodded to it, as we would periodically do for the rest of our time together.
Since Rikki didn’t throw any tizzies, I thought it possible that I either just didn’t understand or was using old, now irrelevant standards. At this point I thought that I had detected an early sign that the three way free exchange had ended, and that the “Unholy Trio” would soon be no more. Some of their commentaries seemed to try to elicit a side-taking response from me; like that of a referee or a teacher.
I couldn’t and can’t do that for a million reasons, inclusive of an inability and something like, but not exactly a personal distaste for the role of judge and teacher.
Mal and I found some sense of comradery in “live” Youtube films of Lynyrd Skynrd, while Rikki and I liked caged Sia and the death visions of Nine Inch Nails. It seemed more and more apparent to me that each was interested in having me on their side; while I considered negative opinions of them, if any, totally immaterial and uninformed. I’d see them about ten hours per week and I had no idea what went on the rest of the time. It wouldn’t only be presumptuous to render judgements. It was impractical. Too often the idiots who spring for this role wind
Page 26
up being disliked by both parties after they reconciled. If there was any point, it seemed obvious to me that they should be on each other’s side, me an insignificant blip on an imperfect radar device which was pointed elsewhere. My natural, dated, optimistic penchant was to think that there was a temporary mechanical problem which would soon correct itself, if some idiot didn’t fuck things up. Simultaneous with having that thought, I remembered that there are about eight million fee seeking idiots who come out from under their rocks at every opportunity. Not only are some of them well paid, but a few also get awards for their efforts.
Exactly where Mal stood was difficult to gauge. After a risky, free speaking entree, he retreated into the most common male position of; “I only say what I’m sure of,” thereby ultimately saying nothing other than that which can be verified by observing the mercury level on an outdoor thermometer. It may have been partially my fault; but if that was the case I tried to warn him. Mal was an artist; his art taking a number of directions. The seriousness over the poetry and guitar almost a decade passed, he tried to write a post-apocalyptic novel. He had a good idea and wrote the first four pages; which he kept bugging me to critique or something. Just on principle, I really didn’t want to as I’d seen that nothing comes from such things besides hard feelings; that I am not an editor or teacher; and
Page 27
that I don’t feel the least bit comfortable in being any kind of a judge. But he kept pushing for the “expertise” of one who had grossed less than $5,000 from almost two years of offering lowly-rated, indie books.
I ducked and ducked; each time reluctantly knowing that it would be necessary to duck again. Mal kept bugging me. Then one day, I was ready for them an hour before their arrival. I thought I had a bright idea which would put this thing to bed forever. Without any sort of criticism, I just re-wrote the first page as I would have done it. When they arrived, I showed him, and stressed that any form of writing is now acceptable.
Despite what a few “experts” might say; it seems obvious to me that the idea is the most important thing. But, I saw the look on his face; felt awful; and did some yadda yadda to no avail.
You know, basically, all I did was to stress his fat brother’s big ass which was usually making an inverse mountain on the bunk above him and took out three of the four references to being poor found on page one. So much for well-intended solutions.
As previously mentioned, by that time there was a usually subtle rift between the two in a number of areas, and that didn’t help matters. Rikki could have very easily said that she liked Mal’s version better, but she said nothing and maybe even did a brief “I told you it sucked” type of grimace and nod toward Mal. To reiterate a context; by then they both knew that
Page 28
I didn’t get all kinds of freaked when somebody didn’t like my stuff. They had shrugged or made loud “no comments” about plenty before; the latter her modus operandi. So, they were well aware that I had an attitude which did appreciate being liked, but was also able to “Oh well” lackluster evaluations. Hell, I had been getting them all my life and the reversed kudos sought new peaks when I tried to write. You know, after a while it’s like the lack of water rolling off Cobain’s back. As I saw it, the main point at the time was that something had changed for the worse in their personal dynamics which a well-positioned kind word might have helped. But none came and Mal said that he would stop attempting to write.
In what was truly an attempt to show how stupidly I can write, as if that were an example of something not obvious, I perused “Blasé Eight,” in an attempt to come up with something particularly awful and read to them;
“She was compelled to be polite; at the same time intending to not sound discouraging. Her voice faux lilted; ‘Taking the car, honey?’
Rather than seeing her attempt at spur-of-the-moment civility, he took the question as a gambit which really asked;
‘Are you going to drink like a fish?’ as he standardly walked when he intended to get loaded, to avoid any DUI complications.
Page 29
He considered making a sarcastic reply, but settled on; ‘No. Its warm out and the fresh air will do me good.’
She thought that he was making an inadequate attempt at glossing over his intended indulgence. However, rather than comment on it, she sought to avoid potential conflict as she felt a bit guilty over having chased him out. She said; ‘See ya later,’ and heard the front door open and close.
The half mile to the Propicio Bar and Grill was as usual, eerily quiet at the outset, though he seemed to be noticing it at full strength for the first time. His Roderick Usher degree of awareness was un-settling in its suggestion of a less than satisfactory outcome. ‘Ah, just the depressed mindset of an alcoholic writer on death’s door; a blue version of the story; with its attendant market share;’ he thought as he stifled a chuckle observable only to the hidden cameras. The un-attended brown mounds in the barren field .........”
As bad as it was, I realized that it was a mistake as soon as I had finished. I stopped reading and they both chose to make no comment or even show that they might have heard it.
Page 30