“Oh, Nathaniel”—I hiccupped between sobs—“I love you so.”
“As well you should.” He deadpanned.
“I can’t promise you monogamy.” I couldn’t admit that I’d been occasionally sexing it up with one of the stud fishermen I’d met in Orient, and two weeks before I’d checked out the scene at Studio 54. Studio’s odor smelled of a snooty Philistine profligacy, not democratic Dionysian freedom. I made sport with a coltish South American tennis player there. After three years of celibacy, nothing could put a damper on my libido.
“I’m not asking for it, nor am I promising it to you. We’ll practice a polyamorous lifestyle.”
“I’ll make your life more than a little untidy.” That was one massive understatement. “And I’ll always be a liability.”
“Life is a risk. You think I want safety? Look at my life. Your instability is my stability. Do you think I don’t know who and what you are?”
“And who and what do you think I am?”
“A selfish, out-to-lunch artist with a heart as big and soft … as a marble.”
He made me laugh. I loved him and wanted to be with him — most of the time. He believed he could accept my flighty ways and catch me before I stumbled. He was the right father for Alchemy. Male artists throughout history had wives and mistresses — why not start a new trend?
I took his clammy right hand between mine. “Let’s live together first. When I’m ready, I’ll propose to you.”
What could he do but acquiesce? I redecorated his shabby two-bedroom walk-up. Alchemy helped me paint the walls bright red and blue and hang yellow velvet curtains over the windows. I brought in fresh flowers and began picking up furnishings at thrift stores. Yes, I became nesty. But nests are not built to last forever.
When Bicks Sr. arrived from Florida a few months later, we met for dinner at the Café des Artistes, his favorite eatery just around the corner from his apartment.
“You’re looking hardy.” His voice strove for effervescence yet limped out ruptured and hoarse.
“I most certainly am.” Unlike him. Beneath his usual sartorial uniform of bow tie, vest, pressed suit, and shined shoes, he looked less lifelike than a rotting wax museum mannequin.
“Salome, don’t tell me what your expression is saying. I look sickly because I am.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t get sentimental. It’s not like you. I’ve had a good, long run.”
“Okay, Bicks. Question, then. If I marry Nathaniel, will that get me out from your son’s control when you …”
“Die? Probably not. Which leads me to a serious bit of business. Your time in Collier Layne has drained your trust to a low level. We made some nice deals on the land that was once your father’s farm. We have no other source of replenishment.”
“Which means?”
“Though small, the monthly stipend you received before is being withheld.”
“In case you decide to send me back to the brain-burn unit?”
“It will not be my decision. But yes, if you must return.” I appreciated Bicks’s honesty — honesty within limits, at least. “Irrespective of your financial situation, you should marry Nathaniel if you love him. Other impediments can be overcome.” The old undercover swisher understood my needs better than most.
“Speaking of fathers, you know that Lively came to see me at Collier Layne?”
“No, no, I didn’t.” He adjusted his hearing aids.
“Don’t get your diapers in a knot.” I decided to test his limited honesty. “Something in his Bible Belt forthrightness forced him to fess up that Marcel Duchamp and Greta had a quicksilver assignation that produced me.”
His cheeks puckered, and I thought he might spit out his foie gras.
“Miss Garbo never revealed that information to me.”
“That my father was Duchamp, or someone else?”
“Neither. I never asked and she never volunteered.”
“You wouldn’t tell me if she had, would you? Don’t bother to answer.”
“You’re not going to try to stalk her again, are you?”
“I wouldn’t call wanting to meet my mother ‘stalking,’ and no, I don’t want to see her.” I pulled out a brand-new red beret and handed it to him. “This is for her. She’ll understand. Promise me that she’ll get it.” He nodded.
Inside I’d taped a picture of Alchemy and written on the back of it, “Now we’re even.”
29 MEMOIRS OF A USELESS GOOD-FOR-NUTHIN’
Pee Brain, 1996
The fiasco in Fon du Lac — or “Fun to Fuck,” as we called it — brings me and Absurda closer than ever. Life, and I ain’t being sarcastic, was great. Even though we played New York a bunch of times, I don’t see my family. I took Absurda for a drive ’round Flushin’ once. We come back to the city to play a three-night sold-out gig at Irving Plaza. The shows was nutso. We’d only play such small venues when we’re doing some Alchy political deal or the KROQ Almost Acoustic Christmas shows ’cause they gave us airplay that helped launch us.
On the third night, I invite some of my guys from Flushin’. Most of them has moved out ’cause the hood is changing. Only Nova and two other guys made it.
Sue and Andrew think they’re doing me a favor by inviting my mom, my sister Bonnie, and my brother Lenny. My dad ain’t invited but shows anyway. Like I wanna see their grizzly mugs. They never stopped panhandling me and I ain’t ready to donate even more to the lavish Lifestyles of the Lowdown and Pusillanimous. Learnt that last word from The Wizard of Oz. Don’t think I’m some cheapo, ’cause when we signed our mega-mil deal with Kasbah in ’98, me and Walter Sheik work out a charity-tax-trust where I lay out over a million large for them to divvy up and then put the closed sign on the Mindswallow ATM. I buy Bonnie a house in Valley Stream and a beauty salon so my mom lives and works with her. Does well, too.
They’re all together just to the right of the stage. We’re jamming during “Licentious to Kill,” where Alchemy usually swoops into a Jack the Ripper act. He slows us down and starts one of his raps and we follow his lead. “Lots of you know Ambitious here, and he and Lux are my brothers. Ambitious’s family is in the audience tonight.” My guys, they boo my family. Others applaud and whistle. I’m feeling anxious about where he’s going with this. “Now, Ambitious, tell me. What’d your father always say about you?”
Catches me totally unprepared. My guys are hollerin’ “Asshole,” “Moron,” “Jailpussy.” I’d forgot about that beaut. Still, I spit out instinctively what Alchy’s wanting. “That I am forever gonna be a useless good-for-nuthin’.”
I stare at my family, who is thinking this is pretty damn funny, except my father, whose eyes are popping, and I hear his ferret hiss like he wants to rip my skin off.
“Yeah, now this might surprise you, Ambitious … because I agree … I think you’re a damn useless good-for-nuthin’.” I look at him like, “What the fuck side you on?” I hear my guys laughing and I mouth for them to “shut the fuck up, you cocksuckers,” and above it all I hear my dad’s squeally laugh. Alchy keeps going, “You heard of Oscar Wilde?” I nod, though I’m not fully sure who he is except some gay writer who got tossed in jail for doing what comes natural. “Oscar Wilde said, ‘All art is quite useless,’ and I agree with that, too. So to me, that makes you an invaluable piece of beautiful art that I wouldn’t trade for nuthin’ in this world.” I want to go over and hug him, only he wails on the word “Killllll …” and we pounce on the chord.
Years later, he pens “Friendsy for You” ’ for the Nihilists CD, which has my fave lyrics: