He was there. Sure he was. And he'd gotten into it with a couple of them too, hadn't he? Sure, sure. He must have. Because he didn't care how stoned he was or how voluntarily primitive it got, he wasn't about to stand by and watch something like that… And the thought of it, the thought of that cheap little acidic moment in the back house with all those null and void faces and the thump, thump, _blat__ of the stereo and the girl with her stick legs flailing just made him feel so black inside he wished he'd never left home himself. What could he say? How could he explain it?
“Yeah,” he said, “yeah. I was there.”
Lydia seemed to consider this a moment, her eyes glittering like planets in the uncharted universe of her face. She was a big girl, big in the shoulders and the hips, big all over, black hair, everted lips, flecks of eye shadow caught in her lashes like drift washed up on a beach. Her legs kicked beneath the surface. Her hand tightened on his thigh. She blinked the water out of her eyes and gave him half a smile. “You want to rape me too?” she said.
4
Alfredo was the one who called the meeting, eight P.M., the supper dishes mostly washed, or soaking anyway, and everybody feeling lazy and contented, six pans of brownies cooling on the kitchen table and the promise of a movie afterward (Charlie Chaplin, one Star hadn't seen-something about Alaska, was that possible?). A few people had dressed for the occasion, Verbie in particular, because a meeting was really the template for a party, everybody already collected from their huts and yurts and the back bedrooms and all those acres of strung-out woods, and why not, Star was thinking, why not? Party on. If you thought about it, even peeling potatoes for the veggie stew or hacking the weeds out of the garden was a kind of party. It certainly wasn't work, not in any conventional sense, not when you were surrounded by your brothers and sisters and nobody was standing over you with a time clock.
By half past seven, Verbie was parading around in a lime green cape over a pink ruffled blouse, her face painted the color of the cracked saltillo tiles Norm had inexplicably dumped on the west side of the house one morning before anybody was awake. Jiminy was right there with her, wearing a high hat and tails with nothing underneath but a pair of Donald Duck briefs, some new guy was playing bongos, rat-a-tat-tat, the dogs and even the goats were in a high state of alert, and Maya swept in the door in a Goodwill wedding gown that looked as if the moths weren't done with it yet. And Ronnie? Ronnie was Ronnie, keep it simple. Star settled for a little face paint-a peace sign on each cheek and a third eye, replete with false lashes, centered in the middle of her forehead.
It must have been eight-thirty or so by the time Reba came in and lit some candles and set two pots of chamomile tea and a tray of thick ceramic mugs on the big table at the front of the room. That was the signal, or so Star thought, and she settled in on the floor beside Marco, Ronnie, Merry and Lydia, but it was another half hour before Norm Sender showed up and Alfredo lifted an old circus-prop megaphone to his lips and began saying, “All right, people, all right-can I have your attention up here for just a minute, and we're going to make this as painless as possible, I promise you-”
Star was feeling good, very good-blissful, even-as she sank into the pillows and Marco put his arm around her and one of the yellow dogs threaded its way across the room to settle at her side and prop a big yellow head on her knee. Everything seemed to converge in that moment, all the filaments of her life, the tugging from one pole to another, Ronnie, Marco, the teepee cat, her parents and the job and the car and the room she'd left behind, because this was her family now, this was where she belonged. She stretched her legs, gazed up at the drift of cobwebs stretched out across the ceiling like miniature cloudbanks and the craneflies straining against them. Until Drop City, she'd never belonged anywhere.
Who had she been in high school? Little Miss Nobody. She could have embroidered it on her sweaters, tattooed it across her forehead. And in smaller letters: I AM SHIT, I AM ANONYMOUS, STEP ON ME. PLEASE. She wasn't voted Most Humorous in her high school yearbook or Best Dancer or Most Likely to Succeed, and she wasn't in the band or the Spanish Club and when her ten-year reunion rolled around nobody would recognize her or have a single memory to share. The guys noticed her, though. In college they did, anyway. They noticed her big time, noticed her in the hallway and the cafeteria and downtown in the claustrophobic aisles of the record store, their eyes glazed with lust and a kind of animal ferocity they weren't even aware of. She dated a few of them, but she'd never had a serious boyfriend, and though she was pretty-she knew she was pretty-she couldn't figure out why that was, except that something was out of sync, as if she'd been born in the wrong era and the wrong place, especially the wrong place, where nothing ever happened and nobody ever got anywhere. That's what it was, she decided, that had to be it, and the notion comforted her through all her disappointments and the cardboard array of days and months and years, each as stiff and unyielding as the one that preceded it. She sat through the banal Education classes, Psych 101, faced down the six primary causes of World War I, algorithms and the internal anatomy of the earthworm, thinking there had to be something more.
She graduated, put on a face and started teaching third grade in the very elementary school she'd attended ten years earlier, living in her girlhood room in her parents' house like a case of arrested development, and she was just like her mother everybody said, because her mother taught kindergarten and wore cute petite-size pantsuits and mauve blouses with Peter Pan collars and so did she. But she didn't want to be just like her mother. When she got home at night she balled up her pantyhose in her own petite-size pantsuits, flung them on the floor in her room and lay stretched out on the floor with a speaker pressed to each ear, staring at the flecks and whorls of the thrice-painted ceiling while Janis Joplin flapped and soared over the thunderous changes of “Ball and Chain.” Her mother chattered through dinner, the lace curtains from Connemara hung rigid at the windows, her father guarded his plate as if someone were about to take it from him. She could barely lift the fork to her lips, peas, meat loaf, cod in cream sauce, Brussels sprouts. _And what about Tommy Nardone, is he behaving in class, because I had his brother Randy, and believe you me,__ her mother would say, and she'd nod and agree and go back up to her room and study the sneers of the Rolling Stones on the jacket of the _Out of Our Heads__ LP. And then she went to buy makeup at Caldor one rinsed-out dead bleak soul-destroying October afternoon and ran into Ronnie in the record section-Oh, yeah, he'd dropped out, all right, and he was hustling records just until he could save the _bread__ to get out to California, because that's where it was happening, there and no place else. Oh, yeah. _Miniskirt. Head shop. The Haight. Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.__
“There's been some problems,” Alfredo was saying, “and I'm sure everybody's hip to them, but we all-I mean, me, Norm, Reba and like everybody that was working the communal garden this morning? — we all felt things had come to a head…”
“Which head?” Ronnie said, propping himself up on his elbows. “I think there's more than one here, man.”
“Uneasy lies the head-” Merry chimed in.
Ronnie swung round, playing to the crowd: “Heads of the world, unite!”
There was some foot-stomping, a spatter of applause and a whinny or two of laughter that might have had a bit too much fuel behind it. Alfredo merely sat there, slumped over the table, his eyes burning into every face in the room. When the noise died down, he continued: “Yes, but you all know that two toilets are inadequate for a commune this size, not to mention the fact that we're swamped with visitors every weekend, and with summer coming on it's just going to get worse-”