But Lucille. First she’d taken Bobby, then Benjamin, then Brad. Not one of these brothers knew the rest were boofing her, too. Because with the mornings, with the rising of suns and fungus-eyed friends — whichever friends happened to’ve been in whatever house she and the brother-at-hand had done their boofing in — Lucille would appear all by her lonesome in the crumpled state she’d adopted as style. Back then, the girl wore nothing but Birkenstock sandals and macramé anklets, cutoff Levi’s or OshKosh overalls smeared with the paint of her artistic dabblings — an imitative blend of Arthur Dove and Marsden Hartley with a hint of Homer’s seascapes — them and her Grateful Dead tees, tie-dyed, of course. When the weather was bad, she’d wear some Tijuana poncho and often even a blanket round her neck, like some queen-of-People’s-Park swaddled in mangy ermine. And this was on top of her feeble attempt at sprouting a noggin full of dreads. The day would begin like habit, bong hits all around, the morning’s wine in homemade mugs. Whichever Gladden brother she’d been with had already slipped through the woodwork like the creeping ferret he was, so that when all was said and done, that, as they say, was that.
Later, after these affairs had caved, we began to crush Lucille with gossip. And though for the next few years shadows kept the details grey, the matter cohered vaguely nonetheless. That’s how these things work: one morning, said Misha, who’d got the scoop from Lisa, who’d pinched it from her boy Sam, whom Bobby himself had told, Bobby bragged about the compliments his lovers all gave his beautiful cock, which, according to Lisa-by-way-of-Karen-by-way-of-Lucille, was hardly the case; as for Brad — Lucille’s last of the brothers — he had caught the clap (someone else had slipped between him and Ben); and Ben had a girl in the east who’d found out about his slick business, then told another friend, who, of course — because, again, that’s the way these things go down — was a friend of mine.
And where I was concerned, what could Basil ask he didn’t already know? How many diseases I’d got by the time I hit twenty, or had I shoplifted as a kid or tinkered with sex? The closest it came to that was kissing my cousin when I was five, beneath a blanket on Christmas Eve. Though my dear old toad had no doubt caught us, he was kind enough to wait till morning, dressed like a Hare Krishna elf, to beat me with his paddle.
Nor would Basil ask why I’d called last year at four a.m. to say something was amiss with his granny. She’d just suffered a lapse in health he and his mom went nutty for, some sort of brain hemorrhage I knew nothing of. At the time I considered my little call a motiveless joke spawned by a five-day binge during which I’d consumed three eight balls, seven quarts of bourbon, five cases of sucky beer, and nineteen or twenty packs of smokes — and that’s forgetting my jaunt through Berkeley’s midnight streets in nothing but a beanie with a propeller on top, ranting about Ezekiel’s wheels gleaming of beryl and the predictions of Nostradamus.
But later, in the clarity of my regret, I saw the canker in the bloom. Basil had “fired” me (that was the expression he used once he started talking smack) from what he obviously had considered “his” band. In a dull autumn noon veined with dull autumn smog, we sat over a mound of pad thai and confessed our interests had suffered a rift. He felt, or so he said, I could do better elsewhere. Get out on my own maybe, he’d been stifling my creativity and such, he said. But even in the midst of these shams we both knew he was wonking through his bullshit tulips, making a farce of protecting my ego while disguising the rage of his own.
That he knew I knew he knew I knew all this made it the more obscene. His head had grown bigger even than Dinky’s, which wasn’t to say my own had shrunk. I’d risen from the glop of my tyro swamp, having begun my apprenticeship in music just five years back. Now a producer chose my song from a group of twenty-plus that Basil and I’d mostly co-written, claiming it the stuff of hits. But that didn’t justify anyone calling me greedy, not like they could Basil. The cat couldn’t share a stinking thing — not money, not women, not smokes, not booze, not cars, not drugs, not nada. Why the hell would he share the title Creative Genius — whatever that meant: more groupie sex? a solo name-drop in the Chronicle’s Pink Section or BAM magazine? — even though he’d already taken all but the glamor-light itself with his singing and playing both? People by then were comparing him to stars like Paul Westerberg and Chris Cornell and Sting. Did that matter? Not a stewed red penny. A shadow’s shadow threatened the kid. The shadow itself nigh on crushed him. And the thing that made the shadow, when it came too near, it might as well have been King Kong. We sat there stabbing at our shrimps, hoping the waiter would bring us the check so we could go get drunker than we were.
And the more I thought, the more seeds of deviance I scraped up. In our high school days, Basil’s grandparents left each year for a three-month tour to Europe or wherever, leaving us to our bashes at their mansion in the hills. It was during their last trip, before his grandpa died, that I got plastered on Rainier Ale. I was sixteen years old, shorter and skinnier than I am today, a gawky, graceless runt, for sure, in size five-and-a-half waffle stompers and a Gor-Tex parka stuffed with paraphernalia and drugs, and long, greasy hair, and zits the size of gumballs. Between my having left the party and gained the john, I’d become so drunk that when finally I began to hurl I lost control and shit my pants. And this was no ordinary shitting, either, nothing like a few solid logs you could scrape into the bowl and have done. We were talking about a sloppy, repulsive mess, full of chilidogs and Funyuns and Hostess Apple Pie, to say nothing of all that brew, an honest-to-god shitting if ever a shitting was. Really, I should’ve been proud of that dump, but I was a twerp. It made the Montezuma’s Revenge in some tripper’s shorts look like a painting by Renoir, green and yellow and slimy as it was, running down my legs and the pants at my ankles and even in my boots. To make matters worse — if that were possible — a very special girl had come that night, a little vixen with whom I fancied myself in love. For months I’d been chasing her eye, going so far as to write her a poem she wasted no time laughing at with her friends on the quad. Had I merely barfed, I’d’ve been okay. But I had to go and crap my pants, and that no one could pardon. So there I stood moaning and crying and retching in the shower, and when I called Basil to ask for a pair of trunks, what did he do but burst out cackling. Because that was the kind of guy Basil was. He made buffoonery of your heroics and heroics of your buffoonery. If you told a joke, he made it your inexcusable flaw. You had a flaw, he turned it to a nasty joke. After laughing till he cried, my dear buddy rushed out to the PA for his band. “Hey, everybody!” he yelled at the mike. “Guess what? AJ just crapped his pants!”
Another time, high on mesc, Basil lit some kid’s hair on fire just because it looked, as Basil said, like it would burn real good. Another time yet he turned me in to the dean after the dean had caught us smoking dope in the bushes behind the portables. I’d run down the hill and got away clean while Basil and the other tard with us stayed put like the dean had said. Basil never knew I was the one who’d slashed his tires the night he fell asleep in his van after banging some girl he’d dragged from The Ivy Room. Basil never found out, either, how I’d filled the lock to his apartment with glue. He was living in a rat hole near West Oakland, whose landlord hated to answer his phone. Wearing his clothes for the days it took Basil to get inside pounded him with jock itch.