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Paper Airplane On the Moon Chapter One
Nothing Essential Happens In the Absence of Noise
There Mickey Constant sits. (I jab a finger at the sack of shit slumped in the metal, fold-up chair.) Occasionally, I’m able to do that—pull away and view myself from a safe distance. Sits, still in that institutional dining room, swallowing gulps of institutional air, mute with relief, having recently, reluctantly, with the accompaniment of whatever sound a trickle of sweat dribbling down one’s back creates, turned over the Tarot card the serpent delivered and received a large dose of relief . . . for the card was the Ace of Wands. Hand emerging from the clouds, offering the flowering wand. Something about that reminds him of “strength.” The eight leaves floating down (the number eight denoting material and spiritual progress and balance, of course.). The castle on the hill stands like a promise of what the future may hold.
Gone was the accordion and the orchestra! Somewhere in the
background, unseen, a wooden flute was getting a gentle workout by a
moist-eyed girl in a saffron robe. Wait a minute. Castle on a hill? Promise? Future? Like Mickey Constant deserved to be contemplating a future. Like that was safe! Slumped in this chair, ass pressed against cold metal, with zero expectations beyond what feeble little blurts of unconnected electricity my brain has to offer, and I notice: The sweet brown angel, the one they refer to as God, or rather, Akua sitting two tables away noiselessly scribbling something on a napkin with a nubbed pencil. There’s lot’s of name changing going on with females here on the island -- a few “Spirits,” a few “Sunshines,” a “Smiley,” a “Paradise,” and a “Lindia” (adapted from Linda) to name a few -- none as ambitious as Akua, but . . . Akua looked up and appeared in serious reflection for a moment, then resumed her writing. Her fingers moved urgently and quickly, as if writing were . . . well, necessary to life, like breathing. I tried not to stare at her but she's beautiful, someone whom I would have swallowed whole back in my days of fame and debauchery. Mixed blood, Eurasian maybe (those almond eyes!) and young, in her early twenties. I looked away. Past memories have delivered a few ruler whacks to keep me vigilant, make me not stare at beautiful women because. . . well, sometimes they misunderstand, sometimes they mistake it for something it's not. Jesus-Elvis sat at another table, across from hers, a slightly overweight equally young Elvis impersonator taking himself far too seriously. He was studying her too. While he was doing that, Satan leaned over and snatched the carton of milk from the tray in front of Jesus-Elvis. "Look," Jesus-Elvis said, turning to Satan, missing the milk theft. "She's doing it again." Satan tore open the top of the carton. "Shut the fuck up." He drank with a flourish, then belched, and with the back of his hand, wiped his meticulously groomed pencil-thin mustache.
He tossed the carton toward the waste paper basket. It hit the
wall, then bounced onto the floor, leaving a few drops of milk on the
fuchsia-colored wallpaper. Satan pushed the tray away. "Two, but who's counting?" Jesus-Elvis shook his head. Held up his hand. "Cursing." His index finger popped up, pointing heavenward. "Littering." Middle digit appeared, followed by a third. "And stealing." Satan leaned forward, plucked a toothpick from the dispenser, inserted it between his lips, and leaned back in the chair at a dangerous angle. “Get bent.” Jesus-Elvis smirked, trying for Elvis' famous one no doubt. "You're going to be wearing that . . . what did Dr. Bobb call it? That Terminally Cool Suit forever," he said, trying, and failing, to keep the smirk. "Dr. Bobb will make you wear it till it falls apart." "Polyester's my fabric, man," Satan said, casting a loving gaze down at the horribly out-of-date, gaudy leisure suit he was wearing. Waved expansively. "Orange and green are my colors. Hounds tooth's my pattern. It's fucking perfection." His eyes narrowed, mustached twitched; he glared at Jesus-Elvis. "I can wear a fucking gunny sack wrong side out and look better than you, you piece of shit." Punctuated the sentence with a sarcastic chuckle. "Hell, Elvis was fat. Pleasantly plump, but proportioned like fat people should be. You ain't even fat right. You drug your ugly ass up close to a mirror and focused lately?" "I am not fat." Jesus-Elvis, suddenly sullen, looking more like the real Elvis than I’m sure he realized. Satan pointed the toothpick at him. "You ever heard the term, 'cute as a sack of doorknobs'? That's what you look like, man. A fucking sack of doorknobs. A tin-horn Bible thumper with a ridiculous fucking pompadour trying to be the King of . . . something." Jesus-Elvis came out of the chair. He jabbed a quivering finger at Satan. Stood, connected to the shaking finger, then pushed his chair out and hurried to the other table where Akua sat. Plopped down across from Akua, folded his hands together, squeezed his eyes shut and began to mumble. Akua looked up for a moment then resumed her writing. Satan whispered across the space that separated them, "Akua." His voice, low-pitched and solicitous. Akua continued her writing, ignoring him, the slender muscles of her writing hand fluttered. Satan cleared his throat. "Watch him." Nodded toward Jesus-Elvis. "Looks real celestial sitting there praying, but if you look real close you can see he's got a little teensy-weensy hard on." Rocked back again in his chair. "‘Bernard always had a few prayers in the hall and some whiskey afterwards as he was rather pious.‘“ Winked at Akua, who ignored him. “Daisy Ashford. Written when she was nine years old. Didn’t know I knew that kind of shit, huh?“ Akua, still writing, still ignoring him. Jesus-Elvis looked up, eyes volatile. "Shut up! You can't even see me! "Satan snorted, then turned to me. "Dumb shit thinks he can become invisible, too." The lips on my best poker face parted. I asked innocently, "Who you talking about? I don't see anybody." Slow-motion comprehension smeared his pencil mustache into something only vaguely mustache-like. "Why, you old wino. How would you like to burn in hell for eternity?”
Choreography (to their noise)
There’s this old Hawaiian proverb . . . Sorry, I’m pulling your proverbial yang, I don’t know any Hawaiian proverbs, and I doubt if there is one relevant to what I’m experiencing. People who can truly offer Hawaiian proverbs don’t run in my circles, although the few Hawaiian chants I have heard sound surprisingly similar to chants I heard as a Native-American child living in Oklahoma. Interesting. I‘d felt choreographed to fuck with Satan, felt the need to do or say something to put some distance between us. Or at least, from him. Jesus-Elvis & Akua? Distance? The black-gloved finger of worry goosed me. Foggy flashback: nineteen-seventy-something (approximately six months prior to the infamous “accident” and my “disappearance” from the face of the earth): I, Mickey Constant seated in court on the witness stand (I had a different name then). The prosecutor: “Mr. Marten, would you please tell the jury what the defendant, Wallace Polk, your employee—” “Roadie,” I corrected. We knew him as Animal, but I felt it prudent not to offer that bit of info to the court. The prosecutor waved away my interruption. “—Mr. Polk, your “roadie,” did the night of July Third, Nineteen Seventy-one, to another of your employees, Thor Amonon.” “My bodyguard.” I shifted in the hard chair. Coughed. Thor, of the team, Thor & Yar. My midget bodyguards. “Mr. Marten?” The prosecutor’s eyebrows creeping up his forehead. I exhaled; there was no way around the facts. “He bowled with him." Broken neck. Wallace Polk, aka “Animal” went to Fulsom for ten to twenty for using Thor as a “bowling ball.” Both midgets stayed on, and Thor, looking even tinier and more pathetic in the wheelchair, made the original joke, or the novelty, or whatever it was -- of two midget bodyguards . . . The past is not always a reflection of the future, is it? What happened then held a thin connection to what was happening now. There was little danger of Akua, or Jesus-Elvis becoming human bowling balls, but . . . then again? Maybe they would be safer without me. I should come with a warning label. Why was I even considering their safety? That was the fuckin’ sixty-four-thousand dollar question. Mr. Hardass? Mr. Wiseguy? Choreographed or not, I was bluffing with Satan. Betting he was too. In my fragile condition, mental and physical, he could take me. A crippled midget in a wheelchair could take me. Anyone could. Confrontation was . . . not my quest. I had one thing going for me though, I hoped, since my tongue was more or less in rebellion—the slim thread of the Ace of Wands. Satan still glared at me. Behind him, a wad of paper flew through the air. It hit him in the back of the head and he blinked. His gaze released me then. Jesus-Elvis snickered. Akua stood and wadded up another sheet. She didn't speak; I didn't know at the time whether she could, but I realized she’d come to my rescue. She targeted Satan with her smile as the paper crunched and rattled hopeless protest in her hand. It was a threatening smile, her teeth florescently bright against her toffee-colored skin. "You slut," Satan said, rising from his seat. One of the big Samoan orderlies came in then. Must have smelled the hostility brewing. Akua glanced sideways at him, and slowly sat down, still glaring defiantly at Satan. "She's writing!" Satan said, jabbing a finger at the wadded ball in her hand. "That was mine," Jesus-Elvis said. Winked at Satan. Donned his smirk. "You fucking liar!" Satan shouted. They argued back and forth until the orderly escorted Akua and Jesus-Elvis from the room. "We go down to the solarium now," the orderly said in a deep, weary tone, one hinting that confrontation between them was a frequent occurrence. "They always protect each other," Satan mumbled after Akua and Jesus-Elvis were gone. That statement, taken in the context of the aliases they’d chosen had a profound ring to it. After a minute or two Satan laughed, a hollow, eerie laugh and began loosening the caps on all the salt and pepper shakers. He went to the silverware drawer, except the drawer contained only plastic ware, and licked several utensils, placing them back inside. On his way out, he reached behind the refrigerator and unplugged it. A bad parody of the three leading deities of the western world? A very bad parody. And beyond what I felt was a vague sense of connection (I’ve already mentioned nagging, haven’t I?), very vague, they hardly seemed the vehicles of redemption the Ace of Wands promised. Or that they ultimately became.
Everything Is Really An Accident, Everything
I broke into their counselor's office that night. It was either purely accidental or some of Satan's pseudo-maliciousness was already infecting me. I don't know which. I found their files. Read them, RELUCTANTLY! It was after 1:00 AM and I’d gone to the nurses' station to ask for a foam egg crate. A foam egg crate is a wavy foam mattress cover that makes a hospital bed reasonably comfortable. I awoke the nurse. She’d nodded off in an office chair behind the counter. The other two employees, psych techs, as they were referred to, were across the hallway in the break room. Their voices indicated that they were male and female, and the inflection, rhythm, and content of their conversation implied they were flirting, trying hard to fuck each other without touching. In light of the confrontation that might ensue, I didn't want to interrupt them. Neither had I intended to awaken the nurse—it was all accidental. The sleepy nurse was obviously irritated that she had been caught napping by one of the patients. "What do you want?" she barked, rearranging herself and trying to project an image of someone who had just been "resting her eyes." I would have done the same thing. "My back's bothering me," I said. "Having trouble sleeping." She considered my complaint, then her eyes narrowed. "Go down to the kitchen and put some milk in the microwave." "Pardon me?" "Drink it," she said, enunciating each word slowly and louder than was necessary. "I was thinking more along the lines of one of those egg crate things," I said. "The foam covers that go on top of the mattress. I've used them before. Besides, microwaves give me an erection." The perfect thing for her to have replied was: "Well, when you finish your milk, go masturbate." But, of course, she didn't. She stared back at me; her eyes widened. "Kimooooooo," she said, calling past me. I had frightened her. Not the jaded psyche nurse I’d thought. The muffled love conversation over my shoulder continued for a moment then stopped. "What?" Kimo answered, a tinge of agitation in his voice. "Come here," the nurse said. She didn't look sleepy anymore. A chair squeaked. Footsteps approached. From the periphery of my vision I caught sight of Kimo, whom I had met yesterday morning when I was admitted. Kimo was no burly, hulking orderly. Physically not much larger than I am, a lot younger, and his manner . . . well, he's not at all intimidating. He wore glasses, no doubt using brain power to make unruly mental patients behave themselves. I awaited waves of brain power as Kimo stood beside me, looking toward the formerly sleepy nurse. I glanced at him from the corner of my eye. Confrontation! . . . hands mash minor keys on the piano! "What?" he asked her. The nurse nodded toward me. Kimo confirmed my existence, awarded me dignity by acknowledging my presence—he looked at me. I felt his gaze on the side of my face. I had yet to acknowledge him, and because of the discomfort he exuded, I stared straight ahead. Like Jesus-Elvis, I sometimes wish I could become invisible. That was yet one more reason for the wise-guy answer I had delivered to Satan earlier in the evening when he scorned Jesus-Elvis for thinking he was unseen. If he could accomplish it, maybe he could teach me! But Kimo had made me materialize, so out of respect and a sense of fair play, I turned to him and did the same. "What?" Kimo asked again, to me. It would have been easy for me to have repeated my previous request for a foam egg crate, and Kimo might have told me to put some milk in the microwave, and then I would have reported that microwaves give me an erection, et cetera. But I'm not careless.
I May Be Crazy, But I Am Hardly Careless
If I were careless, I would have repeated myself. And careless people (crazy or not) oftentimes wind up embarrassed, or prosecuted, or worse, restrained, wrestled into unfashionable and uncomfortable canvasware and locked in padded rooms. Or, worse yet, dead. I remember never to repeat myself. Never! Under any circumstances. I’ll tell you how to get away with murder, verbally. I’ve occasionally felt an uncontrollable compulsion to issue a statement or two regarding my fellow brother or sister’s behavior, (patience, as someone has said, being a minor form of despair disguised as a virtue). I’ve queried family members directly and to their faces in regards to their single digit IQs. I’ve questioned the moral fabric of important and influential business acquaintances in the music biz. I’ve simply spoken up . . . and gotten away with it. How? By never repeating myself. Another nineteen-seventy-something-flashback: At great financial and career peril, while attending a celebration dinner for the Grammy nomination I‘d received (I didn’t win), I became a virtueless man at the hands of my host, the President of Columbia Records, gloating over his equally obnoxious, perky little airhead of a girlfriend who was doing everything in her power to capture an unfair share of attention at our table. She‘d tried several tactics and having had only limited success, I envisioned her next one: exhibiting her obscenely large, obscenely counterfeit, breast. Desperately trying not to lunge at her with a shish-ka-bob spear and insert it slowly but forcefully into her ear, I winked, grinned benevolently, leaned close to the Prez and his display of proud possession, and said, “Word around town is . . . she swallows.” His eyebrows furrowed. Bald, shiny head wrinkled. “Pardon?” I let my brows furrow. Cleared my throat. “After the Grammy, what follows?” So, as Kimo stood waiting for my response, I knew better than to repeat what I had said to the nurse earlier. I said instead, "There's a spider in my room. It frightened me." I knew that I would obtain no foam egg crate tonight. I knew an expedition would have to descend into the bowels of the hospital and retrieve one. I knew that Kimo and the nurse had other agendas. I didn't feel like standing around arguing about it either; that might involve confrontation. Again, a loud piano chord (in f-minor) rang out. New plan. I would get a sleeping pill. The sleeping pill would make me think I had obtained a foam egg crate, or forget about it all together. Sleeping pills were better than egg crates anyway. I don't know why that had slipped my mind. "You having trouble sleeping?" I nodded. Blinked. Kimo, to the nurse, "Give him something to sleep?" She nodded, looking a little dazed. See? She was now wondering if she had heard me right, earlier. She was questioning my lips, the building's acoustics, her ears, her brain, logic! Unsteadily, she rose from the chair and retrieved a pill from the small room behind the nurses' station. Kimo drummed his fingers on the counter top while we waited. She handed me the pill, then poured a small paper cup of water. I took the water, palmed the pill, and acted as if I‘d swallowed it. "Mahalo," I said, handing her the cup. I turned and walked back down the corridor.
I slipped the pill into my pocket. The moment she‘d handed
it to me, Cole had leaned close and whispered in my ear, "Don't take
the pill, Micky. Save it. You be needing it later." Shine Man
Cole walked with me down the hallway. "Why didn't you want me to take the pill?" Cole shook his large dark head. "Cause you going to need it later." I shrugged. Cole, of course, is imaginary. I am not insane. Well, maybe I am, but I’m not careless. I never discuss Cole with anyone. Never speak to him in the presence of others. Him? Once real enough, now a memory in present tense. My musical mentor from years ago – taught me the vocal phrasing that I was once famous for. Taught me some good shit on guitar, too. Someone from my blurred past who fulfills several roles I guess—adviser, friend, adversary, sometimes my conscience, he says. Calls me his Imaginary Playmate. Son-of-a-bitch. As if I haven’t enough to deal with. Lately, he's been stuck on this Lazarus thing; keeps spouting bullshit about, ‘bringing me back,’ or ‘returning me.’ I don't exactly know where he's talking about bringing me back from, or, do I particularly care. Whether it was Cole, or, as I mentioned earlier, Satan's influence, or vindication for not getting my foam rubber egg crate, or simply boredom, I found myself testing the doorknobs of the rooms on each side of the hallway. I knew that Kimo was already back in the break room, flirting, and the nurse, resting her eyes again. They wouldn't bother me. One of the knobs turned. I cast a quick glance up and down the corridor, pushed the door open and stepped in. Closed it, found a light switch and turned it on. It was a counselor's office. A therapist's. "What do you think, Cole?" I asked, walking slowly to the middle of the room. "Well," he said. "Don't start throwing shit out the window. I know that's what you done thought of. Only get you ass locked up for a few days." I sighed. Sometimes Cole gave me more credit than I deserved. I didn't think I had thought of that yet. I knew what he was referring to, though: I had options. I could take the sleeping pill, and under its influence, I could forget who I am now (whoever that is) and relive my distant past (which I do all too frequently, without chemical prodding): imagine that I’m once again a neurotic rock and roll legend inhabiting an expensive hotel room on an extended tour across the country. I could pretend that I had already screwed a couple of beautiful little groupies and become bored. Seeking thrills (or something), I could throw a chair through the window, followed closely by the computer monitor, the framed pictures on the desk, the file cabinet and the files. "Read the files," Cole said, nodding toward some files on the desk. The seriousness of his tone startled me. "Read them files," he repeated. "Read them files or I’ll have to jerk a half-hitch in your ass." So, I did. Threw up my hands, whispered, “Fuck it,” picked up the files from the desk, and read.
Cole Whistles Between His Teeth
I read and kind of blanked-out. I do that with material I can’t comprehend. Or shit I’m not interested in. Every once and a while Cole would interrupt, saying things like: "Mama. Holy smokes!" and "Jesus!" A real Drama King. A thinly veiled act to get my attention, no doubt—indicate the significance of what I was reading. But to me, the jargon in the files was as boring as an IRS tax form, or a Nahuatlan version of the Theory of Relativity. But Cole prodded me on. I hadn't seen him this excited since the old days. Still not comprehending, simply mouthing psychiatric mumbo-jumbo mostly, I read until my eyes felt like glowing cigarette tips, then let my mind drift again to Flying Furniture Diversion. Dig it—straight-forward, no nonsense recreation, even if I hadn't taken the sleeping pill, even though I was as sober as a judge. I remembered the sense of release I used to experience when I did that sort of thing. The sound of a nineteen-inch Zenith crashing into a sidewalk below produced a therapeutic sound, to me as calming as the tide lapping against the sand, as calming as the sound of clouds floating overhead. "What the fuck do they mean?" I asked finally, rubbing my eyes with balled fists. Cole whistled between his teeth.
The Reluctant Author
The author. I will henceforth sometimes refer to myself as "the author" because at that point Cole suggested I write—start a journal about Satan, Jesus-Elvis, Akua, and the information in those files.
"Me, write?" the future author protested, mentally sizing the file
cabinet, comparing it to the size of the window opening. "I don't
know what they mean. I didn’t understand shit." I shook my head. “Not medical . . . material.” Cole didn't speak for a minute, then he did. "I tell you what they mean when you write." The future author shrugged once again. Screw him. Cole sometimes comes up with crazy shit only to forget it in the morning. He would probably forget, the future author remembered thinking as he closed the file cabinet, nudging it covertly with his knee, calculating its weight. "Cut the shit, son," Cole said.
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