Will Not Attend: Lively Stories of Detachment and Isolation Read online

  Without any prior history of epilepsy, I nearly swallowed my tongue.

  But before I continue, A Brief Symposium on the Above Topic (the record, not epilepsy):

  Shortly after his death in 1933, RCA Victor pressed a limited number of copies of one of Jimmie Rodgers’s last recordings, the prophetic “Cowhand’s Last Ride.” A photograph of the great “Singing Brakeman” was emblazoned on the A side of the disc, making it an instant collector’s item (an idiotic term that didn’t exist in 1933, when food was the prize collectible). To this day, RCA Victor 18-6000 remains one of the rarest and most sought-after records in country music history.

  Luck was not something I was accustomed to, but sometimes life boils down to one good lead. As I gently put the box of 78s into the back of the car, I felt like I had the world by the balls. My carefully planned itinerary would have to be revised; getting that record was now my top priority. Then would come the pot, then would come the fucking. What a day. Perhaps the mythic hellhounds were no longer on my trail.

  This new mission had to be handled cautiously. I needed Gina’s cooperation, but it was becoming increasingly clear that she was a difficult girl, if not completely nuts. We were only on the road a few minutes when I realized we had virtually nothing to talk about and nothing in common. She produced a bag of pizza-flavored Goldfish crackers from her denim purse and devoured them as if she’d just been pulled aboard a Russian trawler after six days at sea clinging to a deck chair. Soon the entire car smelled like vomit. It was time to make my move.

  “Hey, would you mind if we stopped by your grandmother’s real quick?”

  “What?” she responded in a tone that suggested I was speaking another language.

  “Just that old record she has. The one your mom was telling me about.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “The Jimmie Rodgers record. You know, the one with the picture on—”

  “Hey, does your guy have speed?”

  This was obviously going to be a chore.

  “I know he has pot. I didn’t ask about speed.”

  She burned a Kool and flicked ashes on my mother’s carpet. A mile later, I approached the subject again.

  “So, where does your grandma live, anyway?”

  “What?”

  “I mean, does she live around here? In the general vicinity?”

  “She’s over in Camelot Village. Who gives a shit? Fuck! I hate when I get gunk in my eye!”

  She dug a knuckle into her eye socket. A half mile later . . .

  “So, did you wanna shoot over there real quick? Camelot Village?”

  “Why the fuck would I want to go to my grandmother’s? What’s wrong with you, Resnick?”

  Gina downed the last bit of Goldfish crumbs, shaking them directly into her mouth. I glanced over as she licked each of her greasy yellow fingers in a manner that was not particularly erotic. Then she balled up the bag and flung it in the backseat.

  “Why do my fucking toes always itch?” she said, kicking off a clog.

  My mother had returned home from Philadelphia earlier than expected and was in a crabby mood. The Mike Douglas Show had been a bust—she and her friends were expecting to see Leslie Uggams but, due to a scheduling change, got Buddy Rich. “What an obnoxious idiot! He pounds on those drums like a baboon!” According to my brother Jack, she immediately noticed the Cutlass was gone and hit the roof. Later, I learned, he not only ratted me out but also stirred the pot by suggesting, “If he gets in an accident and kills someone, we’ll end up living under a bridge.” Joyce stormed outside and stood in the driveway, hands on hips, waiting for my return. Jack joined her and was nice enough to mention that the car was low on oil.

  If only she knew her Cutlass was well beyond the township border, headed toward that dreamy, not-so-faraway land called Perry County, where a Mr. Jeff Glogower was expecting me—shirtless, grandly reposed on a cherry-colored velour sofa, smoking a joint and caressing a Honduran milk snake that dozed in his lap.

  My efforts to convince Gina that it would be “fun” to stop by her grandmother’s had failed. She displayed little interest in my lecture on Jimmie Rodgers and his influence on American music and showed a blatant lack of fascination when I discussed his brief stint running a transfer car for the old M&O line out of Okolona, Mississippi. I can now conclusively state, so that future generations of young men might learn, that a protracted dialogue relating to the famed Singing Brakeman is not the way into a girl’s pants.

  I decided to back off for the time being. If I had any hopes of getting my hands on that record, I’d have to follow through on my promise and buy her some dope. After that, perhaps, she would have the common courtesy to think about my needs. In the meantime, little distractions like her announcement that she needed to “buy cigarettes and take a crap” ate into both the timetable and my libido.

  We crossed over into Perry County, and I was instantly reminded of the discomfort I always felt when entering the region. Perry County was boisterous no-muffler territory, a land of proud, sun-crowned Aryans who enjoyed the great outdoors in all its savage glory. Indeed, even indoors felt like outdoors here, where the art of taxidermy was plentiful and existed on its lowest rung. In a typical living room, one might find the head of a spectacular white-tailed buck possessing the teeth of a cartoon Chinaman, or a skunk with saucer eyes arched in some hypermobilic position that nature, on its cruelest day, never intended. Perry County was also home to an overromanticized eatery that drew gastronomes from as far away as Grantville and Hummelstown. Gina suddenly let out a shriek: “Resnick, stop! The Red Rabbit!”

  Within moments I found myself parked at the old carhop joint, watching Gina tear into a bacon cheeseburger and french fries with extra “bunny dust.” The legendary bunny dust, one of Red Rabbit’s most popular rabbit-themed condiments, was, as far as I could tell, that exotic spice commonly known as pepper. The car, already funky from cigarettes, Goldfish crackers, and Charlie perfume, now smelled like a rendering plant. Mindful of the time, I urged Gina along, but she was battling a piece of gristle wedged between two back molars. Her opponent was no match, however, and was finally expelled through the passenger window. As we departed, her stumpy fingers rooted through my mom’s glove compartment, searching for a toothpick. She settled for the registration card and my stomach wept.

  I might have been more anxious had I known my mother, cheered on by my brother Jack, was on the phone with the police, ordering them to track me down and haul me in. The township cops were always bored and itching for some action. Once they got the call, their flattops were at full bristle, and all other crime—like kids popping wheelies in the library parking lot—would have to wait. Armed with fresh Slurpees in their cup holders, the officers decamped, and the manhunt for Bonnie and Clyde began.

  Jeff Glogower’s home was tucked away at the end of a long narrow path where wild vegetation reached out spastically, scraping the side of the car, which squealed as if being gutted. Soon the house sprouted from the earth, tall, narrow, and unfinished: a wood-framed vertical shoebox with high slender windows and a flat roof (pronounced “ruff” in this fiefdom). Architecturally, it looked like a lunatic’s take on early-1960s modern. (Though the year was 1978, the seventies would not officially arrive in Perry County for at least two more decades, so one could argue it was downright futuristic.) Jeff was constructing his new residence with the help of a few other Glogowers—big-bearded cousins who roamed around like apes in a private jungle.

  Our little stop-off at the Red Rabbit had wasted valuable time. I instructed Gina to sit tight while I fetched the weed, but she balked, complaining of a “shit fly” in the car that kept landing on her tit. It was a statement that left me with little negotiating power.

  Jeff Glogower opened the door, barely acknowledging us as we entered. He was in mid-conversation with one of his cousins, who held up two linoleum floor tiles. Aesthetic merits were briefly debated before Jeff decisively tapped an injured bla
ck fingernail on his preference, stating, “That’s the cocksucker.” “Cocksucker” was a popular word among Glogowers. It was used as a curse (“That cocksucker owes me money”), a term of endearment (“Five years old and the little cocksucker taught himself to swim”), and a synonym for anything from a pipe wrench to an Oreo (“Hand me that cocksucker” and “Damn, these cocksuckers are good,” respectively).

  The living room, like the rest of house, was still rough, littered with power tools and candy wrappers. Jeff collapsed on the sofa and lit a joint, appearing in no particular hurry to conduct business. Tall and barrel-chested, he dangled his legs off the arm of the couch as he absentmindedly wobbled a floor lamp between his toes. With his long, sweaty blond hair falling over one eye, he looked like a disturbing blend of Teddy Roosevelt and Veronica Lake. Gina and I took the only two chairs, which were upholstered in some sort of mystery fabric that was coarse and nubby; it was like sitting on a dog covered in oak burrs. Jeff suddenly sat up, as if forgetting something, and reached for a snake that was nesting on an orange crate. He laid it on his bare stomach and said, “This dude’s my belly warmer.” Gina laughed hysterically. Her level of amusement was lost on me.

  “Ain’t seen you in a while, Resnick,” Jeff remarked. “What’s your brother up to?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You know he’s fucking crazy, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  Gina emitted a scream that almost propelled me off the dog-chair. A tegu lizard with a large cyst on its tail had entered the room, tongue flickering, and meandered toward a pan of kitty litter. Jeff threw a motorcycle magazine at it.

  “Get the fuck out of there, bitch!”

  He shook his head in annoyance. “Motherfucker always wants to lay in the shitbox.”

  “What’s that thing on his tail?” Gina asked.

  “Just got himself a booger. ’Bout ten I’ll give him a calcium pill.”

  “Awwww,” she cooed as she walked over and knelt by the lizard. “Can I hold him or will he bite me?”

  “Nah, he don’t bite. But he might piss on you.”

  Gina picked up the tegu like it was an infant she’d found on her doorstep. Settling back in her chair, she cradled it, bringing to mind the iconic image of Madonna and Child. I felt a little out of place, being the only person in the room without a reptile resting on his body. Jeff lit a fresh joint and passed it my way. “You wanna try something special? This shit came from the Amazon.” Geography aside, the notion of “special pot” meant very little to me. I was wound so tight, nothing short of anesthesia could get me to relax. Still, in the interest of moving things along, I took a hit and passed it to Gina. She gestured for me to put the joint between her lips so as not to startle the scaly infant she rocked in the crook of her arm. Oddly, the whole combo turned me on. “Who wants to see a baby red-tailed boa?” Jeff suddenly asked with great enthusiasm. Gina frantically waved her hand in the air. I tried to remind her of the time, but she was already trailing him up the temporary plywood stair boards.

  I waited in the bristly chair, holding the joint, worried that a stray ember might fall on the petroleum-based fabric and blow the house up. I smoked it down for lack of anything better to do and dropped the roach in a half-empty can of Schaefer. Through the tall, skinny windows, I caught a glimpse of a stray Glogower urinating on what appeared to be a dead beehive.

  The first indication that something was off was when I spotted the tegu lizard slowly ambling its way downstairs, trailed by the apple-sized cyst that landed on each step with a thump. I abruptly heard Gina cry out, and imagined a Gaboon viper dangling from her arm by its fangs. Heading for the stairs, I heard another scream, but quickly realized it was not the sound of distress. Far from it. Gina and Jeff Glogower were fucking.

  I stopped and sat down on one of the step boards for a little think, but my mind was a mess. Soon, though, I began to feel calm, as the voice of Jimmie Rodgers echoed in my head, singing “I’m Sorry We Met.” Through the window I swore I saw an old freight train disappear through the pine trees. Wow, listen to that whistle! But it wasn’t a whistle; it was Gina, still howling from upstairs. She did not emit the garden-variety noises of lovemaking; beyond the occasional “Yes!” “Right there!” and “Don’t stop!” it sounded more like someone stabbing a wolf pup.

  I needed more marijuana.

  Then the front door kicked open and one of Jeff’s cousins entered holding a paving stone, which he dropped on a floor tarp, sending a cloud of dust in the air. “Tell him we’re going with this cocksucker.” I nodded in approval and he departed. A few more yelps bounced off the drywall, and Jeff’s winded voice called out from upstairs, “Is that my Belgium block?”

  The drive out of Perry County was awkward. I gave Gina the silent treatment, which had little effect since she was sleeping. Certainly she must have known what my intentions were that afternoon. Wasn’t it abundantly clear? I had a very detailed plan! Days in the making! Somehow, Jeff Glogower achieved the same objective with less effort than it takes to feed a mouse to a Malayan horned frog.

  But it was all bunny dust under the bridge now: I had lost interest in having sex with Gina Erdmann. Beyond my bruised feelings, she was a walking fuck-you to rudimentary hygiene. The whole escapade had been a bust, my carefully planned timeline shot. And what about that Amazonian reefer—was it possibly having an effect on me? Could just a few puffs make my head feel like a balloon slowly untethering from a fence post?

  I heard the unexpected sound of Gina’s voice.

  “You ever been in a car wreck, Resnick?” she asked through an extended yawn.

  “No,” I replied curtly. “Have you ever been in a car wreck?”

  “Once. A couple of years ago.”

  She lifted her bangs to reveal a long scar under the hairline.

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t remember. Scott Yoder was driving. You know him?”

  “I’ve seen him.”

  “Yah, well, he’s a fat queer.”

  She lit a cigarette.

  “But you don’t know when you’re in a car wreck. It’s fucking weird. You just touch your head and it’s all wet and you’re laying in some lady’s yard with bloody towels all over the place.”

  Somewhere in the distance, I heard the train whistle again, and I started to perspire. Was I dead? Had I just been killed in a car crash? I vaguely remembered smoking poison. What the hell was she talking about? This fucking chick was a phantom! Did I die because of this bitch?

  Gina belched, bringing me slightly back to earth.

  “So, you wanna go get your record?” she asked.

  I was in love with her.

  Something like civilization returned as we arrived back in Susquehanna Township and passed through two fake watchtowers that marked the entrance to Camelot Village. Gina’s grandmother lived on King Arthur’s Court, just south of Sir Lancelot Circle. My father’s voice came to me with familiar words from the past: “Whoever came up with that place is a first-class asshole.”

  Gina pounded several times on her grandmother’s front door, rattling a panel of faux stained glass that depicted the image of a koala bear flying a kite. “Blinker!” she called out several times. “Blinker, open the goddamn door!” I don’t know why she called her grandmother “Blinker.” I just assumed it was an affectionate nickname for someone with age-related eye disease. An old coot dragging a garden hose from the garage next door confirmed what I was already fearing: “If you’re looking for Blinker, she just got the bus.”

  “Fuck!” I blurted out, kicking the peat moss.

  “That won’t turn the bus around, boy,” he chastised.

  Gina grabbed my arm and led me around the building where she proceeded to pry open a window. I didn’t like where this was going. Sensing my trepidation, she assured me: “Don’t worry. I steal her shit all the time. She’s fucking retarded.”

  That worked for me. I had brothers who’d done worse. Besides, it was getting late, and in
truth, I was only rescuing something that was meant to be mine. The grandmother couldn’t possibly understand Jimmie Rodgers the way I did. How could she?

  I hoisted Gina up and through the window and ran around to the front door. Luckily, the coot was gone. The koala swung open. It had been a long slog, but I was in.

  The blinds were drawn and the apartment was dark. Somewhere a clock was ticking. My head began to thud. “Hurry! Look for the fucking thing!” Gina hissed. I lurched from room to room, searching. My Red Wing boots left imprints on the carpet. Evidence! I rifled through cabinets, closets, and dresser drawers, seeing things I had no business seeing. What was I doing here? Somewhere I heard the sound of glass rattling. Gina was loading a shopping bag with scotch and other prizes. I staggered into the living room and ripped the guts out of a pine hutch. A moment of sunlight bathed the stained glass and a strange rainbow appeared on the wall. It was in the shape of a grizzly bear killing an old lady while flying a kite. Was someone spraying water somewhere?. The coot! He’s on to us! No, it was just Gina taking a leak. Oh, that infernal ticking! It trailed me everywhere, getting deeper, louder! A silhouette of Gina clutching a shower radio skittered by in the hallway. I called out to her. She paused as a stab of light hit her eye. That eye! That red reptilian eye! I stumbled backward toward the kitchen as if I were being pulled. Throbbing drums! Jungle drums! Beating inside my very skull! I’m coming, Jimmie! Lead me! I fell into the tight, crooked room where a steady drip banged on aluminum. A box of Kellogg’s All-Bran stood on the counter like a sentry. The ticking, the dripping, the drums, everything became more rapid, more fevered. “Yes, Jimmie, yes! Don’t stop! Right there!” The empty kettle suddenly whistled as it pulled into the station. My eyes followed the steam as it rose higher and higher, forming a great cloud in Blinker’s kitchen. Then, all at once, it dissipated. And I could see.

  Hanging on the wall, right above the sink, where Gina Erdmann’s grandmother washed her dishes, was the Jimmie Rodgers picture record. It had been fashioned into a clock. A clock with imitation gold hands and a fake pendulum that hung lamely like the tail of a dead stingray. It was hideous. It was blasphemous.