F
The Beast Has Eight Beats
Jack perches on a long wood-slat
bench outside the State Park Safeway, holding the trio of objects that Ben
asked him to purchase: a four-pack of Guinness Stout (which he has never tried
before), a twelve-pack of bluefin tuna sushi (which he has never tried before)
and a package of Peruvian coffee beans (which he has tried once). The dusk is
dropping heavily on the parking lot, seasoned with the veil of ocean moisture
that never really leaves the Aptos air. A squadron of cypress trees skulk along
across the street, looking like caped villains with their rough, sweeping
limbs.
He
is yanked from his meditations by Ben, whose face appears before him at dwarf
elevation. Ben sits in a white Miata convertible, which looks very much like a
toy car at an amusement park.
“Jump
in!” says his coach. “I think you can squeeze your groceries behind the seat
there. Not much space, but it’s usually just enough.”
Jack’s
still folding his legs into the meager space beneath the dash when Ben pops the
clutch and they vault across the lot. Jack fights the gravity of a left turn to
wrestle a seat belt across his shoulder, and soon they’re zipping along Highway
One, south toward Watsonville.
Ben shouts over the rush of air.
“Got
this car in a swap, for staining a guy’s deck in Palo Alto! Poor guy – married, two young
kids. I felt like I was taking his bachelorhood away! We’re going to Salinas! Y’got any
rhythm?”
“I
have no idea!”
“You
will soon!”
They
sweep into the rolling farmlands south of Watsonville,
then cloverleaf inland into a series of tree-lined canyons. Ben turns right
onto a familiar stretch of 101, but three miles later he takes a left and
Jack’s lost again: another canyon, more farmlands (ribbons of strawberry plants
underlain with plastic), a street of tiny ranch-style homes, a limestone mine
lit up like a car dealership, then a long, straight drag along the base of the
dark hills east of Salinas. From there, Ben narrates his directions.
“Okay,
a lit-up sign on a brick wall to the left. Kensington? Binghamton? Ah, Foothill Estates! Then
immediately to the right, an angled wooden gate – check! A right at the funky
gray hangar, couple of speed bumps – you can really feel the road in a Miata,
huh?”
They
follow a leftward arc of gravel road, pull through a gap in a high chain-link
fence and arrive at a line of bushes before a long mobile home with a carport.
What’s much more difficult to explain is the scene directly in front of them:
bars of bright red, blue and green flying about the front yard like a trio of
lunatic nightbirds.
“Oh,
it’s that crazy Willie again,” says Ben. He flicks off the headlights and
Jack’s eyes begin to adjust: a small woman and a small man are assailing a
large man with light sabers, constructing a ballet of Robin Hoodish leaps and
spins.
“Grab
your groceries and follow me,” says Ben. “We’ll ignore these roustabouts and
head inside.”
Jack
loads up and feels his way along, tracing a line of concrete squares to the
bottom of a small stairway. Ben reaches the top and is about to enter when the
door swings inward, the porch light comes on and out pops a tall woman with an
impressive head of curly gray-blonde hair. At the sight of Ben she explodes
into a smile, wrapping him in a hug that almost makes him drop the large canvas
sack that he’s carrying. He sets it down carefully and continues the embrace,
the both of them exclaiming away.
“Ben! Terra! Terra! Ben! What the… How the… So long! Geez!”
Some
time later, Ben finally recalls his hanger-on and turns to Jack. “Terra! I have
an initiate for you.”
Terra
gives a witchy cackle, her eyes lighting up with a remarkably bright blue-gray.
“Ah-haeeeh! Young fresh flesh for my par-tee!”
“This
is Jack Teagarden.”
“Hi.”
With his hands full of groceries, Jack offers a rather lame head-nod.
“Nice
to meetcha, Jack. Let’s get your booty to the booty table.” She takes one of
his bags and peeks inside. “Sushi! I love
sushi.”
Inside
is a fairly normal-looking living room: fake hardwood floor, igneous-rock fireplace,
high angled ceiling. The contents, however, are something else: more drums than
Jack has ever seen, standing around in a cluster like the figures in White
Horse’s rocky courtroom.
“So this is
what we’re doing?” asks Jack.
“Ben!” says
Terra. “You didn’t even tell him what we’re doing? What is that, some kind of
life-coach torture trick?” She turns to Jack. “We are the Monkey Tribe. We play drums, and drink and smoke, and
talk and eat and goof off until all hours of the night.”
“But I…
don’t know how to drum.”
“You will
soon! And nobody will make you do it. You’ll simply be unable to resist the
gravitational pull. Believe me – I’ve seen it a hundred times. Now if you’ll
excuse me, Mama has to feed the horses before she gets to party. Need I say,
make yourself at home.”
She
disappears out the front door, letting in a tumult of Jedi shouts. A small
border collie, patchwork of black and white fur, trots in from the TV room to
inspect the newcomers. Ben squats down to rake a hand over the dog’s head and
talk to him in the voice of a pirate.
“Jack me
lad, how’reya doin’ thurr Jack? Ahr, yurr a fine dog you is, Jack.” Ben looks
up and laughs. “Oh. Now that’s funny.
I had not even made the connection. Jack Dog, meet Jack Teagarden.”
Jack
Teagarden gives an awkward wave. He has never really trusted dogs. They’re not
far enough removed from wild beasts. You never knew when one might decide to
use your finger for an appetizer.
“Here,”
says Ben. “Like this.” He takes Jack’s hand and pulls it to Jack’s nose. He
gives it a thorough sniffing.
“Gotta
enter your scent on the canine database,” says Ben. “Well go ahead, give his
head a pat. Christ! We gotta get you loosened up. Let’s start up the Guinness.”
He goes to
the kitchen cabinet and pulls out two pint glasses, then opens two cans of
Guinness and quickly pours them in. They froth up like witches’ brews, then
settle into a chocolate brown liquid with an inch-high cap of custard foam. Ben
hands one to Jack and raises a toast. “To your first. First of many.”
Jack sips
through the foam and strikes the liquid, a bitter licorice shock. Ben lets out
a satisfied sigh, then spots the lemon-sucking expression on Jack’s face and
bursts out laughing.
“Sorry,” he
says. “It is definitely an acquired taste. But the acquisition is half the
fun.”
The Jedis
make their entrance with a burst of laughter and verbal volleys. The smaller
man is giving the larger man a post-game critique.
“The
problem is, you’re looking to win the fight at any cost and you’re missing the
subtleties. The larger aim is the construction of an exciting, aesthetically
satisfying battle.”
The big man
gives an evil, high-pitched laugh. “Pretty funny, coming from a man whose arms
have both been sliced off. Hahahahaha!”
The smaller
man, whose sideburns and Mediterranean nose give him the air of a pirate, stops
when he spots Ben.
“Ben! Who
have you brought with you?”
Ben gives
the man a rowdy hug full of backslaps. “Ivan! Good to see you. This is Jack.
He’s a client; I’ve brought him here for monkey therapy.”
“Aye,” says
Ivan, grinning maniacally. “Everybody needs a little monkey therapy.”
These kind
of comments are doing nothing to put Jack at ease, and matters are not improved
when the rest of the tribe takes this as a cue to squeal and yip like
chimpanzees. Terra comes in, smacking her hands together exactly like someone
who’s been feeding horses. “Oh God,” she says. “They’re at it already.”
“So Jack,”
says Ivan. “That scalawag over there is Willie – who so graciously brought his
high-end light sabers. And the blonde is Constance,
our Scandinavian beauty.
Willie and
Constance are busy placing a set of bongos on a stand, so they offer smiles and
nods. Willie is a robust Latino with a barrel chest and a pompadour of thick
brown hair. Constance is ballerina thin, with
straight blonde hair cut in a line over her eyes, high cheekbones and a
big-toothed smile.
“That’s the
crowd so far,” says Ivan. “But we’ll have more later.”
“So when do
you start drumming?” asks Jack. The “you” is intentional – he cannot envision
being an actual participant.
Ivan cracks
a laugh, his brown eyes sparking. “Nothing happens on a schedule at Monkey
Tribe. It just happens when it does. But first, I think we need to throw some
herbs into the stew.”
Ivan heads
into the kitchen to rifle through a drawer. Jack finds that Ben is still beside
him, looking over him just like a life coach.
“They’re
making a stew?” asks Jack.
Ben
snickers. “No. They’re preparing some pot.”
At the very
thought of an illegal substance, Jack’s heart is racing. “Well I… can’t do that.”
Ben claps a
hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Jack, you don’t have a job, and you say you’re not
going to get one anytime soon. So no one’s going to be testing you. If ever there was a time when you should try some pot,
it would be right now. And if you’re going to get any actual benefit out of
tonight, I am not going to have you walking around with that enormous stick up
your ass. As your licensed mental health consultant, I am ordering you to smoke
some marijuana.”
“But I… I…”
“Absolute
trust?”
Jack is
feeling confused at Ben’s language, at the vision of large objects sticking out
of his rear-end. The next thing he knows, Ivan is handing him a small ceramic
pipe shaped like a penis.
Ivan is
desperately fighting a giggle. “Dude! I am so
sorry. I lost my best pipe last week and… Terra got this as a gag gift at her
wedding shower, and it’s all we’ve got. Works pretty well, though, for a… for a
dick!”
Ivan bursts
into laughter. Once he recovers, he holds the head of the penis to Jack’s
mouth. Oh God, thinks Jack. Don’t think about it, don’t think about it.
“Here,”
says Ivan. “Put your finger on the carb, right near the… scrotum! Oh, God. Don’t overdo it, just breathe in slowly.” He
holds a lighter to the bowl, filled with light green, grass-looking, well…
grass.
Fighting
phobias both illegal and homosexual, Jack breathes in too hard and sends the
smoke straight to the back of his throat. Ivan pulls away the pipe as Jack
surrenders to a hunched-over, hands-on-knees coughing fit.
“Ah the
young ones,” says Ben. “Always so eager.” He takes the pipe and holds in the
smoke, sucking at his teeth.
“Jesus,
Jack. You all right?” It’s Terra, framed by a cloud. From his dog’s-eye view,
Jack can see what an Earth Mother she is – large breasts, broad shoulders,
muscular legs. Something about her face, also, a pale complexion that glows
angelically. Oh God, he thinks. I’m stoned already.
“You’re not
stoned yet,” she says. “Don’t worry. Here, try this.”
She hands
him a joint, which is much more suited to his abilities.
“Okay,”
says Terra. “Now this time inhale, but hold it in for a while.”
He does as
he’s told, and Terra smiles approvingly. Jack looks around for Ben, but he
appears to have drifted off.
It seems to
take forever for the pot to take hold, but just about the time that Jack is
having this thought he realizes that he actually is stoned. It feels like he’s walking around underwater, without
the need for oxygen – or maybe he has gills, how cool would that be? Every few minutes, he seems to
punch back through to his normal consciousness, and each time he finds himself
in a new physical location, as if he’s undergoing some kind of
teletransportation. During one of these, he finds himself having an animated
conversation with Constance over the idea of
voluntary evolution, and he finds that his brain has separated into two
discrete camps. One camp takes what Constance
has said and spits back new ideas in complex, cogent combinations (“It could be
that computerized intelligence is the ultimate tool that we have developed for
intentionally advancing the mass intelligence”). The other camp appears in the
form of a coffeehouse slacker, coolly smoking a clove cigarette and saying,
“Dude! How are you even doing this?
You are so stoned!”
“And then
there’s this constant, individual search for identity. Are we really defined by
our jobs, or the ways in which each of us cultivates our intelligence and,
thereby, our spiritual selves?”
This is Constance. The tone of her voice is simultaneously soft
and firm, a dichotomy that Jack finds intriguing. Did he just think the word dichotomy?
“I mean,
look at your case. That is so fucked
up that you have to go through all that stuff just because some cold-blooded
corporation has to send another thousand jobs overseas.”
“Oh God!
And the really screwed-up part is…” (This seems to be Jack’s own voice, which
sounds oddly loose and vibrant, like a morning-radio DJ.) “…the fucking bastard
who cost me my job got off scot-free. And now he’s letting me stay at his beach
house while he’s off on vacation. But that’s
only because I caught him cheating on his wife in Oregon. You ever hear of the Devil’s Horns?
Or Multnomah Falls? In fact, this house
has its own waterfall. Crazy, high-tech haunted mansion. Scares the hell out of
me.”
“Dude!”
says the slacker. He picks at the fresh rattlesnake tattoo on his arm. “Why the
hell are you telling her all this?
Was that a drum?”
Jack
teletransports
again, surfacing on an easy chair as a black cat purrs at his
shoulder. The stereo is playing an African tribe before the big hunt,
thin,
coal-black men jumping around a fire in Picasso masks. To his left he
finds the
moon goddess Terra, one ear cocked to a round frame drum painted with an
Irish
knot. She holds a stick with bulbous tips on either end, shaking it back
and
forth across the skin to produce a rolling thunder. Above and behind her
is Constance, wearing a focused expression as she works her
hands over two standing drums – he believes these are congas.
Across the
room, Ivan stands with a cylindrical drum tied around his waist, rolling his
hands across the top. The rolls are incredibly rapid, creating high bursts of
sound that ride the top of the rumble like a surfer at the peak of a wave.
Sitting just behind Ivan is Ben, sipping calmly from a pint of Guinness. He
sets it down, then picks up a dark, lacquered frog and runs a stick along its
ridged back, producing a sound very much like a frog. (“Genius!” says the
slacker.) Ben scans the room, one player at a time, mapping the sonic layout.
The front
door opens, admitting a red flame with green cat’s-eyes. Willie jumps from
behind his bongos to perform a greeting dance, gray goat’s hooves tied around
his ankles. The red flame gives birth to a smile, and scarlet lips that kiss
Willie on his plump cheek.
Jack looks
down and realizes that he is holding a drum between his knees, a smaller
version of Ivan’s. The drum carries a circle of dark fur around its rim, held
tight by a fishnet of knots and strings. Jack follows the grain of the skin,
swirls of butterscotch and chocolate against a field of sepia. The swirls are
like words in a sentence; when he reaches the period, he thumps it with a
finger. The drum gives out a hollow sound like black Peruvian coffee. The sound
shakes all the way to his legbones, exiting out his toes, which are tapping to
the beat of the tribe. He strikes the period with his palm and the sound nearly
spills him from his chair. Jack smiles.
An
hour later, they’re still at it. Jack’s hands begin to ache from the
unaccustomed abuse. He scans the room to find his comrades intent on their
work, their eyes settled on a middle space over their drumheads, driving the
great rumbling beast forward. And yet, it’s the beast that’s truly in charge,
like an enormous dog dragging its owner by a leash. Despite the physical distances
between the drummers, they are closer in this conversation, this negotiation of
rhythm, than if they were speaking face-to-face.
Jack’s
hands are doing things that he really doesn’t understand; he has no idea where
this ability might have come from. But on he goes, playing along the drumhead
even as he finds the red flame directly across from him, seated on a low stool
with a drum just like his. She flashes her green cat’s eyes, and appears to be
sending him a message. It arrives in a single thump, and although Jack doesn’t
get it, his hands do. He waits for the beast to circle back to that same place
in time and sends the single thump right back. Flame girl grins, revealing a
leftward quirk in her thick, pliable lips. She waits again on the beast and sends
out two beats. (“It’s a djembe,” says the slacker. “You’re both playing
djembes.”) Jack’s hands follow the circle and strike the same two. The two of
them keep adding beats until they reach eight, and the beast can hold no more. The beast has eight beats! If you play
two beats, you have to wait six more till the circle returns. If you play
three, you wait five, four/four, one/seven. Numbers! No one told him there
would be numbers. He sends the red flame a loopy grin, excuses himself from
their tennis match and sets off into a roll, fractions too small to count,
stirring up the blurred light with his fingers.
Jack
hears an off-beat beneath the rumble and tracks the sound to the far side of
the room, where Ivan sits behind a pair of white drums carved with Chinese
calligraphy. He drives them forward with two padded mallets, stepping out of
his pattern to hammer the two big beats. Jack’s hands are talking to him; they
say, ‘It’s another message.’ The two beats begin to spread around the circle,
making new converts, growing in volume, gathering silent space around
themselves until they are sonic booms, shaking the walls. Ivan flairs the
mallets over his head, a gesture that says, Get
ready. The beast circles once more and down they come, followed by a hacked-off
silence that sucks the air out of the room. The tribe answers with a thrilled
chorus of laughter, shouting, Mexican gritos, a few stomps on the floor. Jack
makes a sound like an overstimulated crow. The ruckus smooths out into a river
of chatter: “That ending! What a I love
that part where you Did you see Ivan dude!
You were going off little clicking
thing God! I’m so I mean awesome! I don’t believe we’ve met.”
A
small white hand, palms red with use. He follows it up the arm to a porcelain
face, cat’s eyes, red flame of hair.
“Hi,”
says Jack.
“Yes
you are. What’s your name, sailor?”
“Jack.”
“No.
That’s the dog.”
“No,
no,” says Jack, then loses himself in a fit of giggling.
Ben’s
face appears between them. “No, it really is Jack. Jack, this is Audrey, the
bird lady of Monterey.”
“She’s
fucking gorgeous,” says Jack, who is completely unaware that he has just spoken
these words out loud.
“Ha!”
Audrey laughs. “Smooth talker.”
“No,
believe me, really,” says Jack. “Not talking smooth ever.”
“Okayee.”
Audrey looks to Ben. “First-timer?”
Ben
laughs huskily. “For everything: drumming, pot, hookah pipe…”
“Hookah
pipe!” says Audrey. “Where?”
“Follow
me,” says Ben. “You too, Jack.”
“Right,”
says Jack – but Jack’s intentions are immediately derailed by the smell of egg
rolls. He discovers an entire tray of them on the table, steaming with heat,
and attacks them like a bear waking from hibernation. This causes a white flame
of laughter from his left. It’s Terra, her face glistening with sweat from the drumming.
“I
don’t know why the munchies are so funny,” she says. “They just are. After you’re done gorging yourself,
young man, Ben says you should go back toward the car and you’ll spot him. And
if you need some extra incentive, Audrey’ll be there, too.”
“Are
those deviled eggs?” says Jack. “And sushi! Oh my God.”
After
consuming an enormous quantity of food, Jack grabs a chocolate brownie and
makes for the front door. The lawn is dark again, and two tall, gangly men are
slashing at each other with light sabers, each of them holding a can of beer in
his free hand. Jack spots the dull white ghost of Ben’s Miata and heads down
the walk. Hearing hoarse laughter from the carport, he rounds the corner to
find Willie and Constance roasting marshmallows over a trio of logs in a tiny
barbecue grill. Beyond them is a shimmering blue light that smells like
strawberries. It’s a hot tub, with three occupants: Ivan, Ben and Audrey. Ben
calls out.
“Jack!
Over here, lad. Have a dip and a smoke. Or a smoke and a dip.”
“Or
a doke,” says Ivan.
“Or
a smip,” says Audrey.
Ben
inserts the tip of a long, thin hose into his mouth and releases a cloud of
smoke. The hose trails back to a tall object on a nearby picnic table, looking
like the kind of lamp that sometimes contains genies. The lamp wears a cap of
aluminum foil, bearing two ash-gray bars with glowing orange hearts.
“Jack,”
says Ben. “Is that chocolate on your teeth?”
“Yes!”
says Jack.
“The
brownies next to the deviled eggs?”
“I
think so. Why?”
Ben
taps a thoughtful finger against his cheek, then smiles. “I’ll… tell you later.
So, are you coming in?”
“But…I
don’t have a bathing suit.”
“Well
that certainly didn’t stop us.”
It’s
about this time that Jack notices Audrey’s breasts, small milk-white mounds
with strawberry-colored nipples. He feels his face growing hot.
Ben
takes another puff and hands the pipe to Audrey. He gives Jack a serious study.
“I’m sorry, Jack. It could be I’m pushing you too hard. Lord knows, you have so
far been a tremendously pleasant surprise. You were terrific on the drums.”
“Numbers,”
says Jack. “It’s all numbers.”
“So
it is! That’s marvelous, Jack. You are a certified public accountant of rhythm.
However, I fear that you will miss out on this delicious feeling, of sitting
naked in a hot tub with nothing but your friends and the stars! Let’s see,
where is that switch.” He finds a
dial on the side of the tub and turns off the underwater lamps. All that
remains is a flickering light from the barbecue.
“Now’s
your chance, Jack!” says Audrey. “Take it off, baby!”
Something
about a gorgeous female commanding him to strip makes Jack laugh out loud; he
decides to further the gag by pretending he’s actually going to do it.
“Okay.
But only if everyone closes their eyes.”
“Fine,”
says Ben. “But you only get ten seconds. Ten… nine…”
It’s
a part of Jack’s corporate nature that he simply cannot resist a deadline. He
tears off his jeans, shirt and underwear, then vaults over the side of the tub
with such haste that he almost slips and falls. He settles into a space between
Ivan and Audrey, submerging his private parts just before Ben calls out zero
and switches on the lights. His tubmates open their eyes, snickering.
Audrey
smiles in a most adorable fashion. “Where do you find these babes in the wood,
Ben?”
“Coffeehouses.
This one was eavesdropping on one of my sessions and found me simply
irresistible. Now, my student prince. You’ve come this far, you may as well try
the hookah. Are you sure it was the brownies next to the deviled eggs?”
“I
think so.”
“Okay,
now this smokes just like a cigarette, and it won’t make you cough like the
pot.”
Jack
accepts the pipe-end from Audrey, trying hard to keep his eyes on her face. He
holds the end in his teeth and breathes in. It’s a sweet smoke, vapor chewing
gum, and he realizes it tastes like strawberries.
“It’s
a flavored tobacco,” says Ben. “Very smooth.”
“Dude!
Check that out.” Ivan gestures over
the back fence. A sliver of moon is creeping past the ridgeline, a silver cap
on the dark east hills. Audrey leans toward Jack to say something, which makes
him that much more conscious of his nakedness. But he has to admit, the
nakedness feels good. It’s not so much a sexual thing as a sense that he has
crossed a line and now is dangling off the edge of the world, utterly
unfettered, in a terrified sort of way. He also can’t believe he’s just had all
of these thoughts in the time that it takes Audrey to lean his way.
“I
hate to admit that I peeked,” she says. “But I couldn’t help noticing that you
forgot to take off your socks.”
In
such close quarters, her whisper may as well be an aria. Ivan and Ben burst
into laughter. Jack practices a rough yoga attempting to remove said socks
without revealing his privates. He lifts them like a pair of used condoms and tosses
them to the cement with a dull splop.
The
laughter dies down; Ivan manages to ignite a joint and send it around the tub.
Jack smokes it without coughing, and feels sophisticated. The talking dies down
in the dance of fireflame, stars sprinkled like grains of sugar on a
pitch-black table. Jack feels that his synapses have been lain open to the
night, and a thought enters the stream like the taste of a strawberry: This must be something like what they mean
when they say “happiness.” He feels Audrey’s fingers folding around his.
He
wakes to a green ceiling, color of avocado flesh, and hears far-off chatter,
plus an odd mumbling sound, like the murmur of bad plumbing. He rolls over and
finds he is facing a fuzzy blue object with eyes. The eyes are dark, with
yellow circles. He reaches out to touch the fuzzy blue object and jams his
finger against a wire.
“Ouch!”
His
exclamation silences the conversation. The flaps of his avocado tent rustle
open, allowing the entry of wild red hair followed by a sharp smile.
“Damn,
boyfriend! ‘Bout time. Sorry about sticking you in here with the birds. They
make all these little noises while I’m trying to sleep, so I always bring an
extra tent. And they certainly weren’t going to bother you, because man did you crash! Too bad, too, because I was
planning on testing out your man-parts – but, oh, probably better this way.”
Jack
feels very much like he must be gawking, and then the word “gawk” boomerangs
through his brain for deconstruction. Such a caveman-sounding word: “gok.” Me
kill mammoth, have bar-bar-cue. But he should probably say something. Even with
bloodshot eyes and electrocuted hair she is beautiful, and how often does he
enjoy the privilege of sleeping in the tent of a beautiful woman?
“Hu…hi.”
“Well!”
she says. “We’re back to square one. I’m Audrey. I was naked in a hot tub with
you last night, but don’t worry, the Monkey Tribe has never once inspired a
sexual harassment suit. So get the hell up, would you? We’re inside, drinking
your coffee – excellent choice, by the way – and we’ve also got a nice little
breakfast buffet. If you’re a good boy, you might even be able to sneak in a
little shower, although I don’t know how long the hot water will hold out. Oh,
and I found these dangling from a rose bush. Ciao!”
Audrey
drops an item on the tent floor and ducks her head back through the flaps. As
his eyes begin to focus, Jack recognizes the blue and white stripes of his
boxer shorts. This brings up the possibility that there might be some gaps in
his memory. Sliding out of his sleeping bag, he discovers grass stains on his
legs. He scoots sideways into his jeans (he’ll leave the boxers alone, thank
you) and scruffs his C-Valve golf shirt over his head. Then he crawls through
the flaps into the shock of sunlight. Standing up, he realizes that every
muscle in his possession is sore.
When
he enters the living room, he is greeted by two small horses, or possibly great
Danes. They are white with black markings, snow fields with chunks of coal,
leading Jack to conclude that there is something in the water hereabouts that
drains all the color from the animals. One of the monsters steps forward and
gives him a blank-faced stare, like a bored bureaucrat asking for ID. Jack sees
that his eyes are a startling sky blue, and wonders if it’s advisable for him
to move, or breathe.
“Luna!
It’s okay.” Terra comes to take the beast by the collar. “It’s okay, little
girl. He’s a Monkey. Now be nice.”
As
if to provide further testimony, border collie Jack splits the great Danes like
a field goal and jumps against Jack’s legs for a rubdown. Jack ruffles the
dog’s head, and then a round of applause erupts from the dining room. A dozen
breakfasters are gathered around a long table, laughing, smiling, clapping.
Terra
notes Jack’s puzzled look and takes him by the elbow to the kitchen, where the
counters are laid out with platters of scrambled eggs, bacon and casaba melon.
“Forgive
them, Jack, but we’ve never seen a Monkey debut quite like yours.”
Ivan
steps in to give him a chummy slap on the back. “And… we have a new activity to
add to our tribal repertoire: naked light saber battles.”
Willie
jumps in with a Darth Vader voice: “You are a worthy opponent, Luke
Bumflasher.”
The
only words Jack can get out are, “I have to…” He walks quickly to the TV room –
noting a small pen near the stereo holding a black pig – then remembers a
bathroom to the right. Closing the doors behind him, he hears Terra say, “Oh
God, I hope we haven’t scared him off.”
Now
that he’s found a refuge, Jack determines to indulge in every stall tactic
known to mankind. He enjoys a long sit on the toilet, staring at the patterns
in the green-and-white linoleum until they begin to reveal faces and Greek
symbols. After that, he takes a marathon shower, using what he can of the
available soaps and shampoos to clean up the streaks of mud and grass, some of
which are located in rather exotic locations. He dries off, combs his hair and
brushes his teeth (these last two accomplished with his fingers) and is
contemplating a shave when a quiet knock arrives at the door.
“Jack?
It’s Ben. Are you okay? Would you let me in please?”
He
considers saying no, but then those dreaded words “absolute trust” float into
his mind. He unlocks the door, then sits down on the closed toilet seat. Ben
comes in, looking impressively natty in white tennis shorts and a flowery red
aloha shirt.
“Look,
Jack. I know this might be shocking news, but last night, you may have
discovered that you have a wild side. A wild, creative, fun side. And it was
beautiful. And just to clarify, you may have started the Striptathlon last
night, but believe me, we were all more than happy to join in. Poor Willie
managed to wander into the electric horse-fence, which is much more embarrassing than anything you did. Is he ashamed? Hell
no! He’s a Monkey. You may think it’s disturbing to find out that you’re a bit
of a deviant, but son! That’s what Monkey Tribe is for. It’s a safe harbor where we all get to be our own insane
little children for a while.”
He
stops to wait for an answer from Jack, but Jack has nothing to offer.
“Listen.
If it makes you feel any better, do you remember those brownies next to the
deviled eggs?”
Jack
blinks his eyes. “No.”
“Well
no, I guess you wouldn’t. Those were pot brownies, and I saw you eating one a
little bit before your… adventure.”
Jack
nods his head. Ben puts a hand on his shoulder.
“Listen.
You have exceeded all expectations. Your Monkey Tribe SAT scores are off the
charts. I cannot ask a single thing more. But sooner or later, you do have to leave this bathroom, and
there’s an entire room of people out there who would love to be your friends.
It’s a good general rule of living that you shouldn’t turn away friends. So
give me five minutes to give them a little briefing, and we will all pretend
that nothing happened at all last night. Deal?”
Jack
thinks about it and realizes that sooner or later he will have to re-enter the world.
“Deal.”
Ben
leaves, and Jack can hear the expected sounds: the general chatter coming to a
halt, Ben’s baritone request, and a gradual return to the noises of a
morning-after buffet, along with someone making small patters on a conga (a
little hair of the dog, as it were). Jack makes a slow re-entry, and what he
doubts will happen actually does. The breezy chatter goes on, and everyone
pretty much ignores him. Terra comes over to guide him into a chair at the
table.
“The
food was getting cold, so I microwaved a plate for you. Dig in whilst I prepare
you a cup of that lovely Peruvian coffee. Black?”
“Sure,”
he says. “Thanks.” He glances out the window at the brown hills, hinting at
green where the recent rains have had their effect. The ridge dips in the
center, a perfect location for a giant saddle. Jack considers a cousin for the
Imp of the Perverse: the Imp of the Distant. Sitting here, the Imp would like
nothing more than to be standing on top of that hill. Were the Imp actually
standing on that hill, he would look down on the merry little farmhouse with
the black and white animals and wish that he were there. Jack realizes how suddenly hungry he feels – the same
wolf-mad hunger he felt at Multnomah Falls – and he tunnels into his scrambled
eggs. Terra places a mug of coffee next to him and runs a hand over the top of
his head. Her fingers leave a trail of electrons, a lighter-than-air tingle
that stays with him all the way through breakfast.
The
Tribe seems to be largely mellowed by the previous night’s activity, but there
are still a few small projects underway. Jack returns outside to find Ivan at
the center of the lawn, unreeling the last few feet from a roll of kite-string.
The object of his effort is a standard-looking frame kite bearing the face of a
red-tailed hawk. Ivan seems to be about the mellowest of the Monkeys, so Jack
walks over to attempt a conversation.
“Hi.”
“Hey.”
Ivan’s wearing fly-eye sunglasses that give him a distinct rock-star aura.
“This thing goes up pretty easy in the afternoon. That coastal wind really
picks up. I put it up yesterday when people were just arriving – they said they
could see it for miles.”
“Cool,”
says Jack. He’s very pleased with his word choice. Cool. Very universal. Ivan ties the kite-spool to a fence of
sun-gray pickets.
“So,”
Jack continues. “Was I… Was I any good last night?”
“At
light saber…? Oh. Right. Not supposed to mention that.”
“No.
At drumming.”
“Yeah,
actually. Yes. It was interesting. You kind of went through the standard newbie
Monkey process. At first you were pretty timid. Considering the nature of our
little group, very understandable. As the pot kicked in, however, I think you
actually got a little too
enthusiastic. You had some good energy, but you were off on your own; you
weren’t keyed in to what the group was doing around you. Again, very
understandable – that first taste of group drumming is very adrenalizing. But I
think by flaming away like that, you sort of broke the back of your
nervousness, and right after that, you started watching everybody else, and
sort of… clicked in. It was very cool. All of a sudden, you just got it.”
“Numbers.”
“Numbers?”
“I’m
an accountant. I’m… well, this is embarrassing, but I’m in love with numbers.
And I didn’t expect there to be numbers in drumming.”
“Yeah!”
says Ivan. “It’s all fractions. You’re taking this continuum of time and
knifing it up like a big submarine sandwich.”
Jack
solidifies a thought by focusing on Ivan’s kite. “I was watching those rolls
you were doing. They were much too fast to quantify, but at one point I
realized that you were dividing each fractional beat into three.”
Ivan
grins. “Triplets.”
“Oh,
like twins?”
“Exactly.
A beat – or a zygote – divided into three.”
“I
don’t even know how I knew it was three.”
Ivan
slaps Jack’s shoulder. “It could be you’re a natural. But it also could be
you’ve never thought with your solar plexus before.”
“You
mean, your gut?”
“I
like ‘solar plexus’ better. Guts are messy.”
Jack
emits a sound, something like a high-pitched bark. He thinks it’s a laugh, but
he doesn’t remember it ever sounding like that before. The front door swings
open, producing Terra and Audrey. Audrey’s hair is damp from the shower, and
hangs down in fetching tendrils, as if she’s moussed them down for a trip along
the catwalk.
“The
red flame,” says Jack. “She’s the one who gave me the numbers.”
“The
Red Flame?” says Ivan. “Sounds like some kind of superhero. So… why don’t you
go thank her?”
Because it would be like talking to the
homecoming queen, thinks Jack. It would be like talking to Katie
McPhillips. He handed her a slice of pizza at the cafeteria once. She said
“Thank you” and smiled. He almost passed out.
“Did
I… the naked thing, last night. I really did that?”
“You
sure did. And I hope you get over the embarrassment soon, because it was
fucking brilliant, and it will soon pass into Monkey lore, and we will be
sitting around telling that story for years. You’re a star, man!”
Jack
looks carefully at the grass, feeling grossly ashamed. Ivan slaps him on the
shoulder. “Look at it this way, Bubba. You could go over there right now, find
yourself unable to produce anything but doo-wop syllables – ramalamadingdong,
sh-boom sh-boom – and still not cause yourself more embarrassment than you did
last night. Besides, I think she liked what she saw.”
Jack’s
not positive, but he suspects that, under the sunglasses, Ivan is winking.
While he’s looking, the surface of said glasses produces the image of a woman.
When he turns, Audrey is inches away, grabbing his hand.
“Hi
Jack. Give me a hand with something, wouldja?” She pulls him toward the green
tent, then gets on all fours to crawl inside. He finds this point-of-view very
unsettling.
“Come
on in!” she calls. He gets on his knees – achy from last night’s battle – and
finds her squatting behind the bird cage.
“We
need to lift it just a little, so it doesn’t tear the floor of the tent, and
take it outside. There’s a handle along the bottom there.”
The
operation is awkward, but the cage is lighter than it looks. Soon they’re
kneeling on the lawn, looking over a pair of large blue-gray pigeons, burbling
excitedly in the sudden light. Audrey reaches inside, moving her fingers slowly
over the larger of the two, and clamps her hand across its body, securing both
wings. She pulls it carefully outside, shifts her grip so she’s holding it with
both hands, and shows it to Jack.
“This
is Mamet,” she says, teacher-like. “He’s a racing homer, which is why he looks
like a regular pigeon on steroids. Mamet’s my fastest flyer, and when he’s
courting a female he sounds like he’s swearing, which is why I named him Mamet.
He’s what you call a blue bar, ‘cause he’s light blue all around except for
those dark epaulets on his wings. He’s a little frantic right now – and you
would be, too, if some gigantic alien being were holding your wings. But watch
this.”
She
returns Mamet to her one-hand grip, then holds him upside-down and strokes his
chest. He grows immediately still.
“It’s
almost a hypnotic trance,” she says. “Now, hold out your hands so they’re
facing each other, and touch your thumbs together. And hold on tight – he’s
pretty strong.”
Audrey
slides the pigeon into Jack’s hands. He’s impressed by the pulse of strength as
Mamet struggles against his new captor. Jack slides his left hand around both
wings and copies Audrey’s upside-down chest stroke. The bird emits two throaty
murmurs and then grows silent. Audrey reacts with a pleased smile, an
expression that would melt him into the grass were he not concentrating so hard
on the task at hand. She reaches into the cage and extracts a slightly smaller
bird covered in dark blue feathers.
“This
is Mamet’s wife, Cigarette. Pigeons are monogamous, actually – much more so
than humans. I think I named her Cigarette because I was trying to give up
smoking. She’s a blue check – note the cross-hatches in her feathers. Now, if
you’ll stand with me…”
Jack
shuffles his feet and presses upward, keeping a close eye on his captive.
“Now,
we go for the release. Put Mamet right-side-up, so he can catch his bearings.”
Jack
flips him slowly over. The bird’s eyes go back to open, alert circles, but he’s
not struggling like he was before.
“Okay
now. On three, we’re going to toss them lightly into the air. Ready? One, two,
three!”
They
toss the birds skyward, and they each take wing, joining up as a pair and
circling the house three times before heading off for the hills of Monterey.
“They
circle like that to get their readings,” says Audrey. “Some kind of magnetic
pulse, or so goes the theory. This is a pretty short flight, though. They’ll
certainly beat me home. I took them
to Reno once.”
“Wow,”
says Jack.
Audrey
seems amused and enchanted at his relative lack of speech, the natural
attraction of the talkative for the mute. She reaches a hand to the side of
Jack’s head, grabs a hank of his hair and pulls him forward for a kiss that
could almost be described as fierce. Jack feels their teeth scrape together,
and a flicker of tongue across his lips.
Audrey
pulls away, wearing a look of triumph. “Sorry. You have this irresistible
innocence about you, and I just wanted to smash it into little pieces.”
Jack
exhales. “O…kay.”
“I’m
glad you decided to become a Monkey.”
“I
am too.”
“Jack!
Stop molesting that poor girl. Time to go.”
It’s
Ben, walking their way with Ivan and Terra.
“All
set to go? Got anything inside?”
“Um.
No. Not that I remember.”
The
fivesome conducts a round of hugs in all possible combinations. Jack recalls
the look of Audrey waving over her shoulder as she strides toward the house. Strides. A few moments later, he’s on a
farmland road, the wind scouring his hair, his lips still vibrating with
Audrey’s kiss. He spots Ivan’s kite, a tiny red dot over the farmhouse. Ben
shouts at him over the noise.
“You
better watch out for that girl! She’ll turn you into a human being.”
The
motion of the car lulls Jack quickly to sleep. Waking up near Watsonville, he’s
feeling groggy, and when Ben asks for directions he forgets his guilty secret.
In a few minutes, they’re pulling up to Thompson’s monstrous house.
“You
bastard!” says Ben. “You’re the owner of Big Brown?”
“Oh
Jesus,” says Jack. “No, I’m just house-sitting.”
“Well
shit – give me a tour!”
Ben
hops out, and Jack follows him up the tiled steps. “I thought you didn’t like
this house,” he says.
“Aesthetically,
maybe. But I’m dying to see what’s inside.”
Ben
is thrilled at the thumbprint security lock, the indoor rapids, the dangling
hi-def, and especially the see-through shower. “Is there a third floor?” he
asks. “Seems like I saw a set of stairs.”
“I
haven’t been there,” says Jack. “It’s a little intimidating.”
“Follow
me,” says Ben. “I will be your Sir Edmund Hillary. Ah, here it is.”
He
boards a flight of stairs next to the bathroom, opens a double door at the top
and flips a switch to reveal a single, enormous room containing a veritable
amusement park: a set of weightlifting stations with a treadmill, a hardwood
floor with wall mirrors and a barre, a wall lined with pinball and video games,
a pool table, a miniature golf hole ending in a scale model of Big Ben, and
what appears to be a single bowling lane littered with balls and pins.
“Wow!”
says Ben. “This friend of yours may be yuppie corporate scum, but the boy
certainly has style. Wait a minute. Is that another set of stairs?”
They
climb a dozen metallic black risers next to the bowling lane, and find
themselves at another double door. Ben swings through to a rooftop sundeck
outfitted with fountains, patio tables, a pair of wooden porch swings and a
large telescope under a white belvedere. A trip to the railing reveals a view
of Seacliff Beach and the Concrete Boat. Ben turns back from his reconnaissance
wearing a conniving grin.
“Jack
meboy. I think I’ve got a brilliant fucking idea.”
