I think that when we were bunked down in Baja and Juan got the yearning to head back this way, I think even then I knew better. But you know us local boys, suckers for a good story and a long shot. Fine. Call me a cynic. But what does that make all of you out there who doubted us, called us frauds and weak imitations? Even old Uncle Elmore had to go thumbs down. Well, the truth is, we are the real thing. And I don’t give much of a damn tonight who believes what. But, like the original vagabond said, folks, don’t think twice, you know. Here’s the mike, bro, let’s hoover some petrol and see if we can’t make the northern border by nightfall.
Well, friends, it’s that time. We’re wandering bhikkus, once again. Hometown boys make bad. But like I always knew in my soul, what’s the sense of being from Quinsigamond if you don’t know that sooner or later it’s going to break your heart? Hic Calix.
43
The radio falls back to a blast of whiny static for a good ten seconds, then it turns to dead air. Flynn just stares at it, tries to concentrate, as if he can will himself toward sober. Within seconds, he’s unclear on a lot of what was said. He knows the O’Zebedee Brothers addressed him directly, but he doesn’t find this unusual or alarming. These guys know their audience. They know Wireless and they know all the main players. He’s sure they mentioned Hazel. He knows they mentioned the name Speer. And he thinks they may have made reference to Ronnie.
But even this drunk, Flynn isn’t enthused about taking life advice from radio ghosts. And besides, whoever the O’Zebedee Brothers are, they’re leaving town. One more myth that the city will have to live without. It’s possible these boys have the right idea, that now is exactly the correct time to cut losses and run, pull the money out of the bank, gas up the Saab, spend some time in transit. Flynn can suddenly picture it, checking in and out of Ramadas and Holiday Inns, identical franchised rooms, always set off the interstate, their signs visible at night from the shoulder of the highway. He can imagine spending his days in the dim seal of mall cinemas, tiny cement boxes with bad sound and miniature screens, all identical, all showing the same features. Spending his nights back at the hotel lounge, learning to love generic vermouth, teaching his body how to sustain itself on a diet of olives and bar nuts. Experimenting with a new form of small talk, boozy gab time with farm-belt tractor salesmen and local divorcees, corn-fed women with good teeth and a flinty reserve of pride, adamant not to show their disappointment in this life.
But then, interrupting this picture, without warning or reason, comes the image, the real memory, of dancing with Ronnie. He can see that night at the airport, everything set in the smoky-blue beams of the Jeep’s headlights, the lights of Quinsigamond down the hill like an endless pattern of connections, the sound of that late-thirties saxophone just on the eve of bebop, still melodic and moody. And the feel of Ronnie’s hair against his neck, the feel of her arms weighted on his shoulders, the smell he can’t completely define, maybe coconut or vanilla. And the feel of her mouth, the movement, first the softness and then the wetness. And finally, her body pushed into his, so achingly slowly, still aligning its movements with the music from the radio, but just barely, just an imitation of the slow dance now, building into something else, the embrace that involves more than the arms, that draws both their full bodies to each other through their clothes and constructs a rare, flushing heat, a warmth that somehow avoids the idea of temperature, of measurement, and instead becomes a binding force, like magnetism or electricity. And there is an ache to it, but no pain, a deepness that persistently vibrates, that floods into the subconscious in pulses and tells the brain to sublet its functions, to give over to a primal, prerational sensation. The feel of Ronnie, this entire presence, against his body, moving.
Why is that feeling so important?
Because it means something so far beyond the immediate sensation. Because it suggests something that Flynn can only vaguely name, a general, imperfect word like possibility.
And what is it that’s possible?
First, the desire to be absolute flesh. And then, everything else—union, communion, community. The possibility is that words like these can take on meaning in the here and now, can evolve beyond vague and ghostlike icons, beyond the juiceless drone of dry, cold theory. The possibility is that these sounds can become observable action: he and Ronnie, for example, one example, bound into each other and the world.
Flynn’s dizzy with the thought. He feels unreal and light-headed, on the threshold of trance or dream or nausea. He looks around at the dull glint of the hundreds of curios and knickknacks mounted on walls and shelves and bartops, all these jigsaw pieces that make up this bizarre world of Wireless like the topography of a stubbornly elusive dream. And he hears his own voice, his unique noise, out loud, from his own throat, ask, “What the fuck is it I want?”
And from the speaker of the table radio comes the whisper, “You want to avoid me.”
And Flynn comes out of the logy dream state and into a wave of terror that breaks on his body in the form of a classic, unstoppable shudder. There’s a beat, the vague sound of wind, then the voice goes on. “But that’s not going to happen, Mr. Flynn.”
He climbs out of the booth and does a stumbling run for the men’s room. He pushes open the door, slides onto the tile of the bathroom floor, and catches a look at himself in the mirror. He turns to the row of green metal stalls, sees a pair of loafer-clad feet protruding from the last toilet. He steps forward, his stomach seizing up, his head flushing with a rush of heat.
He looks and sees a stunted body propped against the porcelain bowl. Lifeless, the head unrecognizable, that horrid, everlasting image of burned flesh — all hair gone, the skin seared away in uneven layers, the lower, remaining tissue left a shocking, unforgettable, somehow violent pattern of shadings, mainly deep purples and reds gone the tone of mediumrare steak.
Oddly, the rest of the dwarf’s body looks unburned. It’s just the head that’s been torched.
Flynn stares a woozy second and says, “Wallace.”
Then he falls backward, his shoulder slamming against a sink. He rolls on his side as all the Scotch and bourbon in his gut comes jetting upward, and he begins to vomit and heave. When his stomach empties, he pulls himself to his feet and runs from the john back into Wireless.
The radio in his booth has come alive again. But this time, the voice is familiar. Ronnie is yelling, “Flynn, get out.”
Then there’s a bleat of squealing static, a bite of sound track for a moment of implied violence, and the first voice returns, a bit out of breath, saying, “Yes, Flynn, come out of that dark barroom and get some fresh air. It’s a gorgeous night. Wonderful air. You come join us. Up here on the roof.”
Flynn does a sprint for the stairway, turns the corner past the entrance to the Anarchy Museum, and bolts up the dark enclosure that leads to the roof of Wireless, He shoulders open the tin door and comes out into the night.
He stands still and looks to the opposite edge of the roof. There’s a large, meat-faced man with a slicked, modified crew cut plastered away from his face. The hair is a pepperish color. He’s dressed in a zip-up windbreaker with a fleece collar that’s turned up around his neck. He’s wearing black slacks that end too high on his legs, exposing white tube socks and low-cut discount-looking sneakers. The man is a classic barrel-chested type, like some midwestern football coach who built his body tossing hay bales and swimming in always-freezing creeks.