Considering the subterfuge he is
being forced to undertake on behalf of his philandering host, Jack is feeling
much more at ease driving the Porsche. It’s a gorgeously sunny afternoon, and
he’s downshifting the upgrade at the south end of the Pajaro Valley, the somber
green hills spotted with broccoli crowns of live oak. He’s on his way to the
great New Year’s Spectacular at Terra and Ivan’s, and the owner of the Porsche
isn’t due home till the second.
He
tops out onto a long straightaway bracketed by strawberry fields, the
gray-green stacks of the Moss Landing power plant looming on the horizon. This
particular piece of road comes with a musical trigger: “Me and Bobby McGee,”
some line about losing a girlfriend in Salinas. He pictures a baby-faced Kris
Kristofferson, driving this same stretch, sometime in the early sixties, never
dreaming that the lines he was putting together could someday touch the lips of
a million singers, notably one named Janis.
This
thought, like so many others, veers onto Audrey – the days spent in slow motion
at Big Brown, like a couple of rich newlyweds. He had always wondered if their
chemistry would fade without the elements of surprise and gymnastic sex, and
now he has his answer. They spent languid hours together, making unhurried
love, drifting into easy pursuits: a full ten frames of bowling, a DVD and
popcorn on the great white couch, a rainy-day soak in the hot tub, the long
beach-walks that you read about in personal ads. Not that the surprises were
completely gone; at the end of one beach-walk, she pulled him behind one of
White Horse’s larger constructions for a virtuosic blow job.
He
figures that this last thought is what has led him onto the shoulder, until he
realizes that he’s not on the
shoulder. The sudden thumping is coming from a flat tire on the Carrera’s right
side. He pulls to the shoulder, exclaiming, with an operatic intensity of
feeling, “Oh fucking great!”
He
rolls to the flattest spot on the turnout and sits at the wheel, rearranging
his priorities. Arriving at party on time – gone. All bets off. Take care of
the car, Jack. Jack. Right – jack.
He
flips the trunk release and steps out, the breeze of a passing truck whipping
his hair. Surveying the trunk, he spots a handle near the frame and yanks it,
relieved to find that the tire-shaped hump in the floor actually does contain a
tire – one of those junior-NASCAR temporaries that hardly befits a Porsche. He
undoes the brace, lifts out the spare and deposits it next to his right front
tire, which is now as flat as the bottom of a tennis shoe.
Jack.
Lug wrench. Both sides of the trunk contain built-in compartments. He flips the
left-hand latch, opens the panel like a door on a hinge and finds a burgundy
leather pouch. A pouch that might contain tools. He pulls a zipper along the
top to reveal a messy array of DVDs in jewel cases. The cases bear white
file-folder labels, each of them marked with the name of a woman: Shari,
Therese, Juliana, Meghan, Johanna, Brigit (Brigit?) and, at the far left,
Kirsten. The bag contains one other item: a bottle of Viagra.
“Holy
shit,” says Jack. He re-zips the pouch, returns it to the compartment and
closes the panel. Then he opens the right-hand compartment, finds the jack and
lug wrench, and sets to his work. Priorities. All bets off.
The
temporary spare and its red-letter warnings confine him to the driving style of
a 65-year-old school principal, so the early evening is nowhere near as fun as
the late afternoon. This is especially true of the farm road, with its rain-puddle
gouges and metal ridges parading as speed bumps. Terra and Ivan’s driveway is
stacked up with cars, so he parks near the entrance, in a patch of tall weeds
behind a long-drydocked motorboat. He inches around to the passenger door and
is pulling out a sushi platter and a bottle of Gewürztraminer when a new-model
white VW Beetle pulls in and parks at the other side of the entrance. The
driver looks like Audrey, but the car doesn’t match.
“Hi
Jack.”
It’s
Brigit. (Brigit?) She stands in the center of the driveway wearing a red
Santa-hat and a pink ski jacket, holding a bottle of peppermint schnapps. It’s Brigit.
“Going
to give us a kiss then?”
He
sets the sushi and wine on the ground and walks slowly toward the mirage.
Brigit sets down her bottle and spreads her arms. Jack hugs her and kisses her
on the cheek. She kisses him on the lips and smiles.
“If
you could see the look on your face.”
He manages
to separate himself, as if he fears falling under some voodoo spell.
“I don’t…
understand. You’re… What are you doing here?”
“I’m here
for the party, you goof.”
“Okay. Um…
Why?”
She wraps
her arms around herself and laughs, then takes off the Santa hat and gazes
skyward.
“What an
awful lot of stars you have in Salinas! Gorgeous. Oh, um… well. I’m here to see
Thompson.”
“Okay.
Why?”
She slaps
him on the chest and laughs. “You haven’t figured that out by now? ‘Old flame’?
‘Very unexpected’?”
“You’re
really not telling me…”
“I’ve hit
the jackpot… Jack. It’s quite stunning. The impetuous fool hopped a flight to
Portland one day, took me out to dinner and told me that he’s divorcing his
wife. We’ve been chatting ever since, and now he’s talking about moving to
Portland.”
“I can’t
believe it,” says Jack.
“I know!
It’s such a…”
“I can’t
believe that you’re one of the idiots.”
“Beg
pardon?”
“I had you
pegged as a smart girl who got fooled. Once. Now it turns out you’re an idiot.
And you know I think I’ve finally got this thing figured out. For every
raging-dick superdawg like Thompson, there have to be thirty-two complete
fucking idiot women to fall for his act.”
Brigit’s
eyes are wide with insult. “How dare you talk to me like…”
“Oh! You
Brits are so charming. You actually
say things like ‘How dare you.’ That is so
adorable!”
“I… I would
never expect this from you, Jack.”
Jack waves
toward the approximate direction of Wisconsin. “That asshole is in Madison right now, begging his wife for mercy, making
plans for her and the kids to move back into the mansion.”
Brigit
produces two precise blinks. “I would assume he wants to get everything back to
normal before he informs her of his long-range intentions.”
Jack brings
his face closer to hers, like a baseball manager arguing with an umpire. “That
cock-and-bull story he gave you, Bridgey? That’s the same one he gave to the
Santa Cruz bimbette he’s been screwing all during the holidays.”
“I…”
“On the way
here, I discovered a stash of DVDs in the trunk of Thompson’s Porsche, marked
with the names of three dozen women. What do you suppose those are? Movie
rentals? Oh, but don’t worry. One of the names is Brigit.”
Brigit
begins crying.
“Look, I’m
sorry,” says Jack. “You caught me off-guard. This nasty little… pageant keeps
growing on me. I guess it…”
Brigit
begins sobbing. Jack goes to touch her shoulder but she smacks him away.
“I thought you were a gentleman. But I
don’t suppose a gentleman goes about shagging his friend’s lovers.”
The sheer
illogic hits Jack like a splash of ice water. He raises an index finger at
Brigit’s nose, and tries his best to speak calmly.
“Look. As a
guy, I kind of like that horny bastard. It’s one hell of a show, and forgive me
but driving his Porsche, living at his beach house and screwing the occasional
leftover mistress beats the hell out
of my old life. But if you think I’ve got enough imagination to come up with
thirty amateur pornos in a burgundy leather pouch – next to a bottle of Viagra,
I might add – you are giving me much more credit than I deserve. Meanwhile,
I’ve got a party to go to. Ta!”
He fights
the urge to slap her silly, then fetches his wine and sushi and heads for the
front porch. He’s so intent on the conflict behind him that he almost runs into
the giant serpent that seems to have swallowed the front walk. It turns out to
be a long tubular tunnel, constructed of plastic camping fabric stretched
around five-foot hoops. The mouth of the great beast has suctioned itself to
the front door, so he assumes it’s the only way in.
Jack
assumes a Grouch Marx stoop and ventures inside, carefully balancing his sushi
and wine. Toward the end, the tunnel grows increasingly dark. The porch climb
is a game of blind man’s bluff, but eventually he locates the front door,
gropes for the knob and pushes his way inside.
Seated on a
large pillow, surrounded by lava lamps, is Willie. He wears a lime-green warmup
suit, and his hair is greased and spiked upward like a growth of cactus. The
rest of the ensemble includes oversized circle spectacles, pointed Vulcan
Spock-ears, a red clown’s-nose and, around his neck, a large clock on a chain,
in the style of the rapper Flava Flav.
“Dude!
You’re late. Late I tell you. You are so
late. Here – have a toke on this. It’ll make you not care about being late.”
He hands
him a pipe shaped like a penis.
“Hey!” says
Jack. “I remember this one.”
“We call
him Dick Johnson. Sucking cock ain’t so bad when Dick’s on the job. Omigod! I
am such a homo.”
“Don’t ask
don’t tell. That is quite a tunnel out there.”
“Thanks! I
found it at an Army surplus store. I guess they used it for training or
something. This is the first time I managed to get some use out of it.”
Jack
finishes a healthy toke and has already half-forgotten his fight with Brigit.
“Hey, so
where do I go from here?”
Willie
waves his fingers, like a magician in mid-conjure, and opens a curtain to his
left, revealing a dark tunnel three feet high.
“Follow the
signs, O traveler. Especially the sign to the munchies, because you probably
don’t want to cart that sushi around. Unless you’re trolling for a whale. Har!
Hey, can I grab a couple of those? I’m hungry.”
Jack tips up
the plastic cover; Willie grabs a tuna and a California roll. He heads through
the drapes and receives a shock when his knees start making sounds like small
firecrackers. He reaches down to discover a wall-to-wall carpet of bubble-wrap,
then continues forward, crackling as he goes.
Fifteen
feet on, he butts up against another curtain, pokes his head through and finds
a small compartment that seems to serve as an intersection. An LED flashlight
dangles from the ceiling, illuminating a signpost affixed to a Christmas tree
stand. The post holds four arrowed signs reading Munchies, Smokes, Drums and Playroom.
Jack follows the munchies sign, a slight leftward shift, and enters another
tunnel, this one a foot deep with Styrofoam packing peanuts.
He comes to
another curtain and enters a low, dark room lit entirely in red: red lamps, red
Christmas lights and the kind of red flashers that you would find on a cop car.
The room is ringed with large cushions, and upturned milk crates serving as
tables. At the far end is a long, low coffee table covered with platters of
food.
As Jack is
setting down his sushi, a figure unfolds itself from the far side of the table.
At first it appears to be an extremely large snake, but the scales turn out to
be the red sequins of a floor-length evening gown. The wearer owns an extremely
lengthy physique, a quality somewhat furthered by a high bouffant of
fire-engine red. The face is large, also, and equine, adorned by horn-rimmed
spectacles with flashing red lights, a long Roman nose and a generous mouth
done up in cherry-red lipstick. The voice that arises from said lips is
surprisingly deep.
“Sushi!
Fish are ugly. If fish could really see
each other, they would never breed. Maybe that’s why the female fish lays down
the eggs somewhere, and then the male fish comes along later to spread the
sperm. They can’t stand the sight of each other! But I do like to eat them.
Because they’re ugly. And they taste good.”
“You’re
Terra’s brother, right?”
“Yeah. They
call me Troll. I have no idea why.”
“So you’re
in charge of the food?”
He blinks
several times, as if Jack has asked the most preposterous of questions. “Is
anybody really in charge of anything? There’s no control in this world. All you
can do is react. We’re all just a bunch of valence electrons looking to land
somewhere. I’ll bet there are other civilizations. That’s what the Northern
Lights are about. Signals.”
This last
thought freezes Troll in his tracks; he seems to be too enchanted with the
image to speak or move. Jack takes it as an opening.
“I think
I’ll head for the smokes.”
Troll snaps
back into motion, as if Jack has flipped a switch.
“What a fantastic idea! Follow me.”
Jack
follows Troll’s sequined butt through the peanuts, through the intersection and
rightward into a tunnel containing hundreds of black balloons. When they
surface at the far end, Jack finds that he can stand up, which is a great
relief. The space here is a full ten feet high, if only four feet wide. The
length is a matter of some speculation. The ceiling is lined with theatrical
spotlights, shooting multicolored beams into a thick band of smoke. Jack and
Troll wander about 20 feet before they find Ben, sitting in an arm chair, next
to a patio table wrapped in aluminum foil. Ben is taking hits off his hookah
pipe, and wears a bright orange safety vest and hard hat bearing the logo of
the Caterpillar Tractor Company. Sitting on a barstool next to him is Ivan,
wearing a Mickey Mouse hat with fake whiskers attached to his cheeks. Stuffed
between the fingers of his oversized white gloves is a remarkably obese joint
-–what a devotee might call a “fatty.” He passes it to Troll, who takes a
grateful hit.
“Ben!” says
Jack. “So how come no one told me there was a theme?”
Ben takes a
deep pull from his hookah and tries to sound mysterious. “Every Wonderland
needs an Alice. Have a hit, Alice.”
Jack takes
a drag and proceeds directly to a fit of coughing.
“Oh!” says
Ben. “Sorry. No flavored tobacco tonight. We’re all pretty determined to get
wasted. Speaking of, let’s open up that wine!”
“Feed your
head!” squeaks Ivan, nibbling at his gloves.
Ben takes
out a Swiss Army knife and makes quick use of its corkscrew attachment. He
takes a healthy swallow and proclaims, “That’s sweet!”
“Gewürztraminer,”
says Jack, proud of his elocution. “I like my wines sweet and white.”
“Like your
women.”
“Amen.”
“I myself
prefer a zesty Italian chianti.”
“A
well-aged chianti.”
“Touché.”
Troll slams
a hand on the table. “Please! Two languages at a time. Chianti sounds like a
new sportscar. Gewürztraminer sounds like a villain in a science-fiction movie.
You’re tearing me apart!”
“You’ll
have to forgive Troll,” says Ben. “When he gets intoxicated, his line of
discourse is like a feather in a high wind.”
“Hey!
That’s my job.” Willie pops through the smoke, scratching at a Spock-ear.
“You’ve
abandoned your post,” says Ben. “You kwazy wabbit.”
“I’m
lonely.”
“Understood.
I…” Ben stops and cocks an ear. “Methinks I hear drums.”
“Monkeys!”
says Willie.
“Girl Monkeys,” Ivan squeaks.
“Have to
it, men!” says Ben. Troll leads the charge, clomping forward in a pair of
size-15 pumps, and the rest is something like a football squad running an
obstacle course. The stretch of tunnel to the drumming area seems to be empty,
except for faint beams of light striping the floor. Once they break the beams,
however, the secret is revealed: a long line of electronic porch frogs that set
in to croaking like it’s high mating season at the swimming hole.
They
re-emerge in what was formerly the TV room – the only room in the house that
seems to have been left at its normal proportions. A logical decision,
considering the now-familiar gathering of congas, djembes, bongos, toms and
percussion accessories. The walls are laced with white Christmas lights, but
the three lamps have been de-shaded and outfitted with blacklights. This has an
especially haunting effect on Terra, who is done up entirely in white: a
Victorian bridal dress, a tiara with trailing veil, elbow-length cocktail
gloves and whiteface geisha makeup. The lights have a different effect on
Constance, who is done up completely in stripes of red and white: striped hose,
striped skirt, striped sweater and one of those goofy-high top hats, like the
one worn by the Cat in the Hat. Thanks to the blacklights, she is only half
there.
The two of
them work a samba pattern over the congas. The boys scatter to their
instruments. Jack takes a first stab at Ivan’s new dombek, which offers a
resounding bass at its center and pleasant ringing qualities at its rim – an
even wider pitch-range than the djembe. He’s deep into a chaotic solo when
Audrey pops through the entrance and springs to her feet. She is dressed as a
belly dancer: a top of spangled copper rings, bare midriff, a gold-colored
skirt riding dangerously low on her hips, and sheer veils trailing all around.
Jack abandons his dombek to plant her with a freeway kiss. When they’re done,
she rewards his attentions with a blacklit Cheshire Cat smile.
“Are you
enjoying our Wonderland?”
“Oh I am,
definitely. But who are you?”
She shakes
her hips, setting her spangles clattering. “I’m the dragon lady.”
“The
Jabberwock! Kind of a stretch, but all things considered…”
“I breathe
fire,” she says. “So be careful. Who’s the British lady out front?”
Jack has
already worked out his calculations, and is quick with his response.
“That is one of Thompson’s mistresses.”
“Plural.”
“Multitudinous.
She apparently believes that he will be showing up tonight. Which is news to me
– but then, I’m not sleeping with him.”
“You’re
about the only one. Come on, sugar,
let’s drum.”
Audrey
heads for the percussion basket, ties on the goat’s-hoof anklets and plays her
part, gyrating around the room, making sure that her hips get as much work as
her feet. Jack hides his erection behind a large conga as the tempo speeds up
into a windstorm. Twenty minutes later, the whole thing collapses under its own
rapidity.
“Oxygen!”
shouts Terra.
“Food!”
shouts Ivan.
“Appendectomy!”
shouts Troll.
Jack
follows Audrey’s golden ass through the hall of frogs. They emerge at the
intersection, where they discover a blonde girl kneeling at the signpost. She
spots a belly-dancer crawling her way and unleashes a rather stunning
big-toothed smile. She has cutesy baby cheeks and eyes of radiant sky-blue.
“Hi! I’m
new here. What would you recommend?”
“Are you
sober?” asks Audrey.
“Stone
cold.”
“Ah, a
pity. I’d recommend the smoking room. Crawl this way.”
So now Jack
is crawling behind the blonde. Not quite the golden ass of Audrey, a bit on the
economy size, but the tight jeans are working hard to provide him with a
pleasant view. A view that he’s seen before, rising as a full moon over
Thompson’s coffee table. Holy shit! He’s surrounded.
They drift
through the smoke to find Ben and Gina
in the armchair, making out like teenagers. Gina wears a chocolate brown
cowgirl jacket, a crisp white blouse, wraparound leather miniskirt and black
stockings leading to coffee-colored cowgirl boots with gold trim. Jack is
growing increasingly understanding of Ben’s enchantment.
“Hey you
two,” he calls. “Get a room!”
Ben breaks
off their kiss and laughs. “We’d have
a room, if it weren’t for you meddling kids!”
Gina
unleashes the husky laugh that Ben talks about incessantly. “Ha! All those
years, I wondered what was going on at that hippie-house down the road, and I gotta
tell ya, it’s even loopier than I expected.”
She’s
family now, so Jack gives her a kiss on the cheek. “Welcome to the Monkey
Tribe.”
“Thank
you!”
“Now we
need something for Kirsten to smoke.”
Ben offers
up the ceramic penis pipe. “Willie left this one fully loaded. Feel free.”
Kirsten
takes the pipe by the scrotum and threatens to turn into a girl made entirely
of Jell-O.
“If you’ll
forgive the… aesthetics,” adds Ben.
Oh she’s familiar with the aesthetics, thinks
Jack.
“So
Kirsten,” says Audrey. “Don’t mind my asking, but who are you here with?”
Kirsten
wraps her lips around the penis-head, then talks through her exhale, producing
a voice that might very well belong to a Jabberwock.
“I’m
meeting Thompson. He told me to meet him here. Confusing directions!”
Ben laughs.
“Old Stage/New Stage?”
“Oh my God! I must have done three laps before
I got it right.”
Ten minutes
later, Audrey is chewing on a shrimp cocktail when she begins the expected
interrogation.
“So you
know Kirsten?”
Jack takes
a time-consuming mouthful of egg roll. “Not that I don’t love any chance to bring this up, but Kirsten is pals with Bobbie,
the woman I was dancing with on the porch.”
“Ah! And
you also know the Brit in the driveway?”
“I ran into
Thompson and Brigit in Oregon. Which is how I got my house-sitting assignment,
which is how I met Ben, which is how I met you.”
“Hmm. A
rather pivotal personage in our personal histories.”
“Watch it,
honey. You’re alliterating all over the buffet.”
Audrey
toothpicks another shrimp and chews it down, ruminating all the while.
“Being
Thompson’s chief of staff, have you ever thought of warning these women?”
“Ben seems
to think it would be a bad idea. And he’s probably right. I gave it a try with
Brigit earlier; having just driven from Portland in pursuit of her delusions,
she reacted as if I were something she had just stepped in.”
Audrey
ruffles a hand through Jack’s hair, a token of affection for which he is most
grateful.
“Judging by
the presence of both of them,” she says, “I believe our man Thompson has a
death wish. Hey! Before the shit hits the fan, let’s check out the playroom.”
“After
you.”
Audrey
kisses him on the neck. “I know why
you want me to crawl in front of you, and I want you to know that I greatly
appreciate it.”
They return
to the intersection then keep straight on into a long tunnel covered in
ping-pong balls. Audrey puts an extra waggle in her get-along, and Jack
encourages her with a spank.
The
playroom is another midget-cave, six-foot square, lit with colored disco
lights, underlain with mattresses. The mattresses are covered with foot-wide
plastic playballs, maybe thirty in all, with a pair of three-foot beach balls
to act as king and queen. Audrey dives forward, scattering spheroids in all
directions.
“This is
fantastic! Omigod!”
Jack slides
in after, more intent on playing with Audrey.
“I don’t
know,” he says. “Do you suppose there’s much privacy to be had here?”
“Are you
nuts? Not that I don’t appreciate the idea, but someone could come busting
through those curtains at any second.”
“Which
makes it all the more exciting.”
“Jack! What
have I done to you? You used to be such a Boy Scout.”
He lowers
the strap on Audrey’s top and nibbles on a nipple. “Boy Scouts gotta earn their
merit badges some way.”
“You are a
bad boy and don’t stop that because it feels wonderful.” She reaches down to stroke his crotch, but stops when
she hears a high-pitched whimpering.
“Is that
you?” asks Jack.
“Well I’m
sure glad it’s not you,” says Audrey.
“Wait a minute. If this is the back bedroom, then the window should be right
behind this curtain.”
She finds a
spot where two blankets overlap, pulls them apart to reveal Venetian blinds,
then peeks between two of the blinds and lets out a gasp.
“Oh my
God!” she whispers.
Jack slips
in next to her and takes a look. Brigit is standing with her hands on the edge
of the hot tub. She’s still wearing the pink jacket, but her panties and jeans
are around her ankles, her white ass aimed at the Salinas foothills. Thompson,
clothed in a long woolen coat, is fucking her from behind.
“Juh-ee-sus!” whispers Audrey.
Hearing
Brigit’s familiar pantings, Jack feels an odd twinge of jealousy. This feeling
lessens greatly when Audrey takes his hand and slides it beneath her golden
skirt.
The climax
of their hurried session arrives with the wail of a saxophone, followed by a
steadily expanding drumbeat. After reattaching all of her clothing, Audrey
takes a peek out the window and discovers that their personal porn stars have
vacated the carport.
“Show’s
over,” she says. “Let’s go drum!”
Jack
finishes buckling his belt and smiles, then waves her into the tunnel.
“You’re
insatiable,” says Audrey.
After
ping-pong balls and frogs, they enter the drum room to find a short, stocky man
with spiky blond hair standing at center, blowing free-form variations on a
baritone sax as the Monkeys maintain a rolling beat. Audrey grabs a pair of
hand cymbals and continues her belly-dancer act. Jack feels a tingle of
possession, knowing that those fleshy acres are all his. He sidles next to
Constance, who is working a pair of congas like a short-order cook flipping
hotcakes, and taps at a pair of bongos as he gets the lowdown.
“His name’s
Mack,” she reports. “He came from Modesto with Terra’s cousin Shannon – the shy
djembe in the armchair.”
Jack sifts through
the blacklight fuzz to find a handsome, big-boned Irish girl in the far corner
with a head of thick burgundy hair and a fetchingly upturned nose. She pats her
drumhead every few seconds, like a swimmer dipping a toe into the water.
“Willie did
this with electric guitar once,” says Constance. “It works well as long as you
stick to one instrument. This guy
rocks!”
Mack has
worked himself into a Coltranean lather, bending backward to release a long
scream to the ceiling, then tucking himself back together to drop sweet little
blurts into the stew, sweat beading up on his forehead. Freed of the chordal
restraints of bandmates, he must be in riffer’s heaven.
Jack lends
a lusty eye to Audrey, who is swinging her hair like a banshee as she punishes
a tambourine. The illicit sex and costumery has delivered her to a realm even
further out than her usual extremes, and he loves her even more for that rare
capacity. He flexes his fingers and sets to work on his bongos.
With the
novelty of the saxman, the session continues for another half-hour. Mack takes
a deep inhale and blows his way through a final fusillade, hands flying over
the keys, then literally screeches to a halt and stands bent over, gasping for
breath. The Monkeys abandon their instruments to pound him appreciatively on
the back.
Long lost
in his rhythmic pursuits, Jack is surprised to find Brigit kneeling next to the
armchair, chatting with Shannon. He feels very uncertain as to where he stands
in this situation. He has dared to mess with a British woman’s delusions and
now, thanks to Thompson’s outdoor ministrations, has been proven “wrong.” With
Kirsten somewhere along these catacombs, he may soon be proven “right” – and
it’s very dangerous to be right. He notes that Constance and Willie have met at
the tunnel entrance and are about to assume a crawling position, so he rushes
in beside them and tries to lose himself in the herd.
Sated with
pot, sex and drumming, Jack is now craving food, so he returns to the munchies
room and finds that several others have beaten him there. He locates a salad of
chicken curry, mushrooms and beans and falls in love, perching on a cushion as
he wolfs down a heaping bowlful. Mentally speaking, he has had just enough pot
to be dabbling with that time-wormhole phenomenon, but otherwise seems to be
floating along rather nicely. But where the hell is Thompson?
“So Ben
tells me you’re his A-one pupil.”
Gina
Scarletti has shuffled next to him with a plate of eggplant casserole. She
smiles, causing her dark eyes to arch upward in a most fetching fashion.
“I suppose
I am,” says Jack. “Did he give you any reasons?”
“He says
that you see things that the average person doesn’t. And you’re amazingly
adaptive.”
“I wish
there were some things I could see at this party.”
“Ha!
Judging by your date, I’d say you’re seeing plenty.”
“Amen,
sister,” says Jack. “But there are other things. Demons in the walls.” He waves
his fingers, spooky-like.
“Ah. So can
I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Am I doing
the right thing? Marrying Ben?”
“No.”
This serves
to widen Gina’s eyes – yet another touching effect.
“To call
what you are doing ‘right’ is to compare it to an answer on a history test. It
demeans the size and wonder of the thing. You are not just getting the best man
in Northern California, the most evolved
human being that I know, you are getting someone whose very spirit grows miles
wider whenever the subject of Gina Scarletti comes up. And, in a way, you’re
saving his soul.”
Gina hides
half of her face with a hand, feigning embarrassment. “You certainly have a way
of putting things.”
“Thanks.
I’m also stoned. But also grateful. You have shed a ton of light on the life of
a great man, and we are all enjoying the fireworks.”
Gina kisses
him on the cheek. “Thanks, Jack.”
“You’re
welcome. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to see about getting much more
stoned.
“Before you
find the demons in the walls.”
“Exactly.”
Jack
trudges through the Styrofoam snow to the intersection, where the floor is
losing the battle to ping-pong balls, black balloons and packing peanuts. He is
arrested by the image of two butts – one red and spangled, the other bearing a
long coat-hanger mouse’s tail – gathered at the entrance to the front tunnel. A
steady crackling emanates from said tunnel, as if someone were rhythmically stomping
on a pile of leaves.
Jack
approaches the pair and asks, “What goes here, lads?”
“Shh!” says
Ivan. “You don’t want to interrupt the show. Here…”
He offers
the lower curtain-crack (the upper being occupied by the red queen). It takes a
few seconds for Jack’s eyes to adjust to the eery lava-lamp glow, but gradually
he makes out a pair of thick white legs, spread in a vee across the mouth of
the tunnel, and a darker figure like a tree-trunk between them, pounding away
like a battering ram as the bubble wrap cries out in fits of static.
“Ho-lee
shit,” Jack murmurs.
“Whatever
are you looking at?”
It’s that
posh British accent again, always tickling at his ear. He realizes that he has
just been vested with tremendous power. He is the only thing standing between
Brigit and the truth. Make some horrible ruckus, tackle limey-girl to the
ground, and the awful vision of boyfriend’s dick pounding another’s pussy goes
away, an unfounded myth. Jack steps aside and cedes the peephole.
Brigit
bends to the spot, levels her eyes to the gap and peers in as Jack ticks off
the Five Steps of Carnal Shock. Eyes adjust. A smirk at the sight of a humping
couple. Sudden identification of Latino male buttocks. Increase in heart rate
and respiration.
The next
step is the wild card: big flaming confrontation or crestfallen retreat? Brigit
goes for the latter, breathing in hard pants, wiping her face with a hand and
racing toward the smokes tunnel. The intersection turns into an audio chamber.
The left channel brings an accelerating drumbeat of popping bubble wrap; the
right a high-pitched sobbing; the left a duet of moaning female and grunting
male as orgasm arrives; the right a mournful whimpering.
“Bra-voh!” whispers Troll, eye still fixed to
the upper gap. He sees Jack and says, “What’s wrong with Spice Girl?”
“Nothing I
can fix. Because I’m right.”
“Yaknow,”
says Troll. “Sometimes you don’t make sense.”
Red queen
and dormouse trundle off to the munchies room for a post-coital snack. Jack
considers his situation, and realizes that sooner or later he has to go after
Brigit, because even though he’s right, he’s all she’s got.
The
barometer cranks up to full squint as Jack crawls into the black balloons,
thinking what a perfect symbol they make for smokers’ lungs. Brigit is nowhere
among them, so he continues into the colored fog, detecting a cat-like mewling
from the far end. He finds Audrey in the armchair, Brigit strewn across her lap
like a Pietá. It’s the redhead menage a tois of his dreams, only Brigit is
hardly up to it, her head nestled against Audrey’s bare shoulder as she cries
out all her stupid mistakes. The similarity of the two is uncanny; a
psychoanalyst would have a field day with this. He crouches beside the chair to
get the lowdown from Audrey.
“How is
she?”
“From what
I’m assuming just happened, better than I
would be.”
Brigit lets
out a fresh gush. “Oh Jack! You were right. Oh God oh God oh God. Could I be
any more of a…of a…” And then back to Audrey’s shoulder.
“Besides
the sheer logistics,” says Audrey, “I’m wondering how he’s doing this physically.”
“A little
pharmaceutical assistance,” says Jack.
“Oh that’s just lovely.”
Brigit
raises her head and aims a red-hot stare down the tunnel.
“Fucking bastard! Too bad I can’t fuck his
house-sitter again.”
She returns
to her principal occupation of moisturizing Audrey’s shoulder. When Jack lifts
his eyes to Audrey’s face, he can see the little bits of revealed truth
striking her surface like asteroids.
“Only knew
her from Oregon?”
“I…”
“Leave,
Jack. Get out.”
“Are you…”
“We’ll be
fine here, without you, Jack.”
He backs
through the fogged spotlights like a rock star being booed off the stage. For
two weeks, one time in his entire life, he was a dawg, and now he will be
punished. He takes a last glance at the belly-dancer belly that he may never
touch again. It really is a shame.
He crawls
as morosely as one can through the black, black balloons, and emerges at the
intersection to find Kirsten curled up next to the signpost, sound asleep. He
sits next to her and notices that one ample white breast is hanging out of her
low-cut sweater. After some deliberation he reaches over to see if he can pull
her sweater back into place, but Kirsten grabs his hand and pulls it directly
to her nipple.
“Naughty
boy!”
Seeing that
her eyes are still closed, he says, “Kirsten? It’s not Thompson.”
“That’s
okay.” She cultivates a sleepy smile. “We just had some tequila shots, and I
just feel like fucking everybody. I think I just fucked some bubble wrap!”
She
giggles, then seems to droop back toward sleep. “Awfully tired, though.”
“Honey? Can
I get you to crawl a little further?”
“Will you
fuck me?”
“Sure.
Right after we crawl.”
“Hoh-kay.”
She flops
onto her hands and knees like a drunken seal, then slogs her way through the
ping-pong balls. At long last she makes it to the playroom and swan-dives onto
the mattress.
“Fuck now?”
“Sure,
honey. But first let’s get you a pillow.”
“Ooh!
Nasty!”
“Right.” He
finds a cushion against the wall, lifts her head and slips it underneath.
“Silly!”
says Kirsten, grinning into the cushion. “S’posed to put it under my ass.”
“I’ll be
right back,” he whispers. “I’m going to get you some toys.”
Kirsten
raises one fist and says “Yes!”
By the time
Jack hits the ping-pong trail, she’s already snoring. Then he hears the sound of
angels singing.
After the
frogs announce his approach, Jack pokes his head into the drum room to find
three white bowls on a table, glowing in the blacklight. The white queen, the
March hare and the mad hatter run short, thick rods around their edges, producing
pure beams of sound that mix and blend in the air. Then the rod-bearers begin
to sing along, matching the tones of the bowls and then drifting high and low
to create grand choral harmonies. A male voice quivers in and out of
dissonance, creating an edge that sounds like Scottish bagpipes.
Ah, thinks
Jack. A balm for my wicked, wicked soul. He settles on a couch, dangles his arm
over the side and is surprised when his fingers settle on the tip of a bottle.
Even more surprised when he fishes it up and finds his Gewürztraminer, still
half-full. The bottle speaks to him. It says, Drink me. So he does.
Jack comes
to at the sound of Mack’s saxophone, running up and down the angel-chord like a
caffeinated mountain goat.
“Oh my
God!”
This
declaration comes from a woman just entering the room: burgundy-haired Shannon,
the sax-player’s girlfriend.
“I was
crawling past the signpost, and someone reached out of the wall and grabbed my
ass! When I turned around, all I could see was this crazy smile, and this man asked
me if I wanted to fuck. Like he was asking me for the time! So I… I got here as
fast as I could.”
Terra
raises a finger very queen-like and says, “There is a dawg loose among the
monkeys!”
A short
scream emanates through the tunnels, and soon the frogs are announcing another
entrance: Constance, minus the mad hat, her blonde hair flying all over the
place.
“Dammit!
Dammit!” She stands and claps the dust from her clothes. “I went to get some
munchies, and some A-hole was hiding under the table. He grabbed my leg, and
then made several very specific anatomical suggestions. When I realized it
wasn’t you, honey – no offense…”
“None
taken,” says Willie.
“…I
scrammed on outta there.”
“Okay,”
says Terra. “It’s obvious we’re not going to have any peace till we find this
character. Why don’t we spread out through the tunnels? If anybody spots him,
just let out a monkey-yell and wait till the rest of us get there.”
The Monkeys
express their unity of purpose by letting out high-pitched chimp noises. Jack
follows the caravan, feeling a little too drunk to be very effective, and takes
a left toward the playroom – mostly because he has to use the adjacent
bathroom. When he pops in among the playballs, he finds Gina Scarletti, playing
with a Slinky.
“Hey.
What’s all the hubbub?”
“Apparently,”
says Jack, “there is a pervert afoot.”
“Thompson.”
“Oh. Ben’s
told you?”
“The man’s
a legend.”
“Well,
after screwing his way through two mistresses, he is now prowling the tunnels
looking for more.”
“Ah. The
demon in the walls.”
“Exactly.
And the demon’s got Viagra.”
“Oh,” she
says. “That’s just lovely.”
“So where’s
Ben?”
“At my
house, getting more wine.”
“All things
considered, maybe you’d better go there too.”
“Ye-es.
There’s a back way to my house through the garden. God, what a jerk.”
“Amen.”
He escorts
Gina to the intersection (thinking it more seemly this time to crawl ahead of the woman). Gina takes a left
toward the front door; Jack continues to the smoking room to check on his
redheads. He hasn’t heard any monkey noises, so perhaps Thompson has given up
on his quest.
The smoking
room is bereft of anything – even smoke. Jack sits in a chair at the
foil-covered table to catch a breath. He takes a pull from the hookah pipe and
gets nothing. Then he notices that the curtains behind the table have been
messed with, revealing a strip of window glass. He pulls on one side of it and
finds a rather stunning sight.
An
impressive fire fills the spirit garden pit, unleashing long whips of orange
flame. Just over the fence, he sees the silhouette of Gina Scarletti’s hair.
She holds up her hands to either side in a posture of surrender.
On the far
side of the fire is Thompson Flores, fully naked, his skin colored orange by
the flames, his right hand stroking a massive erection. He teeters in Gina’s
direction like a Frankenstein’s monster, wearing a look of demonic possession.
Whether from sheer fright or the surrounding fences and bushes, Gina appears to
be frozen in her spot.
Jack shakes
the window, searches for handles or latches, but can’t seem to get it unlocked.
He’s too far away to be heard, and a dash through the tunnels would take too
long.
When he
looks back outside, he finds that Thompson has shifted his attention – and for
good reason. Audrey has appeared before the statue of Lakshmi, dancing like
Salome as she pulls the veils from her outfit and tosses them, one by one, to
the ground. This, thinks Jack, is precisely what I deserve.
Audrey
undoes her top and flings it to the ground at Thompson’s feet, beckoning him
forward with the general motion of a backstroke. When he turns to look back at
Gina, Audrey calls him again, then turns around, bends over at the waist and
pulls off her skirt.
This,
finally, is too much to ignore, and Thompson walks her way, like a man in a
dream. By the time he arrives, Audrey has dropped to her knees. She welcomes
his cock with both hands, and gives it a couple of pulls before inserting it
into her mouth. Thompson arches backward in ecstasy, eyes toward the stars.
Jack has
always made fun of dramatic types who use the phrase “like a knife through the
heart,” but now he knows exactly what they mean. He can’t seem to breathe, and
has the sudden urge to punch a fist through the window.
Which is
when a phantom-like streak of pink flies from the bushes and a shower of red
sparks explodes over Thompson’s head. He takes a single step and keels over,
crashing to the ground. Jack realizes he’d better get out there; he
speed-crawls the murderously convoluted tunnels, sprints across the lawn and
bursts into the garden.
Thompson is
out cold, flat on his back over the concrete pentagram, his forehead marked by
a lightning-shaped line of blood, his penis still straight as a flagpole.
Audrey, still naked, kneels at his side, a finger to his throat.
“Pulse is
okay. He’s breathing all right. We’d better get him a blanket. My God, would
you look at that thing?” She gives
his erection a slap; it bobs back and forth like a punching clown. “Fucking
asshole. Hi honey.”
Jack wraps
her in a hug. “You are even more amazing than I thought.”
“I am really sorry about the fellatio. I was
working on short notice.”
Brigit pops
in next to them. “And I am really
sorry about that garden gnome.” She unzips her pink jacket and offers it to
Audrey.
The Monkeys
arrive one at a time, and Audrey has to tell the story several times over.
Constance arrives with a blanket for Thompson, which forms a low-lying tent
over his still-hard member. Ben shows up five minutes later, surprised and
ashamed that he wasn’t there in his fiancée’s moment of need, but Gina seems to
have recovered.
Jack
fetches Audrey’s golden skirt, then leads her off to the fireside to warm her
up.
“For a
second there, I thought you had dreamed up the ultimate payback.”
“It did cross my mind,” she says. “But don’t
worry, I’ll get over it. Brigit filled me in on the details: knight in shining
armor, live sex show, revenge fuck, one-time thing…”
She gives
his cheek a light slap. “But no more of that! I do not henceforth want to be
the green monster.”
“Deal.”
Audrey
looks back at the slumped form on the pentagram. “Meanwhile, what do we do with
the porn star?”
“Well.
Assuming he imbibed as much tequila as Kirsten, I think he’ll be out for a
while.”
Terra
arrives to hijack their conversation. “So he probably… won’t remember a lot of
this?”
“Nope,”
says Jack.
“And he’s…
sort of at our mercy. Or lack of same.”
Audrey
smiles. “What are you thinking, white queen?”
Terra’s
eyes glint in the firelight. “It seems that Constance, at her tutoring center,
does a lot of art projects, and she happens to keep her supplies in her van,
and among said supplies she just happens to have a box of permanent markers.”
“Ooh!” says
Audrey. “The white queen is eee-vil!”
Through the
saving graces of a hay-cart, and the sliding properties of a woolen blanket
over hardwood floors, the Monkeys are able to drag Thompson into the playroom
and lay him out along the mattressed floor. Terra brings in a bright desk lamp,
providing an operating-room clarity, then whips aside the blanket. Thankfully,
the erection has subsided.
The female
Monkeys gather at all corners of Thompson’s impressive physique and set to
their work. Audrey chooses the nether strata of the abdomen, drawing an arrow
toward Thompson’s dick and labeling it Weapon
of Mass Destruction. Constance uses his chest to construct a brief timeline
of the night’s events: 8:30 p.m.: shags
Brigit in carport; 10 p.m.: screws Kirsten in front lobby, and so on. Terra
applies a series of insults along his legs: Too
bad such a looker has to be such an asshole!
Gina, who
used to work as a nurse, spends this time tending to the point of gnome impact
on Thompson’s temple. After they turn him over, she inscribes a heart on his
left buttock that reads T.F. loves T.F.
Upon the right buttock, Shannon pens Viagra:
The Evil Blue Pill. Brigit uses Thompson’s broad back to write a letter of
apology to Esmerelda: I fell for him
twice, and I believed his lies about you. I hope you can forgive me, but I do
believe you’re better off without him. I have been an awful person, and I
promise never to do something like this ever again.
Kirsten
lies five feet distant, buried by playballs, snoring away like a buzz-saw.
“Found his
clothes!” says Ivan. He tosses a series of damp articles into the room.
“Well,”
says Audrey. “We definitely should get him dressed. Best to keep him from
discovering our work for as long as possible.”
The logical
manner of delivery is the Porsche. After three cups of coffee, Jack navigates
Highway One, careful of the temporary tire, while Audrey enjoys the distinct
privilege of following them in the Hummer. Thompson shows small moments of
wakefulness, but only enough to shift his position on the passenger seat.
They pull
up to Big Brown as the sky is lightening with pre-sunrise. Jack undoes
Thompson’s seatbelt and is swinging his legs out when Thompson snorts awake.
Audrey dashes from the Hummer to run interference, popping between them and
putting a hand on Thompson’s cheek.
“Morning,
honey. We had to drive you home.”
Thompson
manages a bleary smile. “Did we have fun?”
“Oh, we sure
did, honey. You fucked me in the ass right in front of the whole party. It was
quite a show, you porn star.”
Thompson
grins, which causes his eyes to close. “Sweet!”
“Now I want
you to try to stand with us, honey. My friend and I are going to help you
inside.”
Jack pulls
up the hood of his sweatshirt to hide his face. They prop up one shoulder
apiece and shuffle Thompson up the tiled steps, around the whitewater and onto
the great white couch. Audrey pulls a blanket over him as Jack goes to the
kitchen for grocery bags. He’s halfway up the stairs when Audrey calls, “What
are you doing?”
“After that
graffiti job you Monkey Girls just did, I am not staying here.”
The two of
them manage to pack up Jack’s possessions in a matter of ten minutes, and are
soon headed out the door.
“Farewell,
Big Brown,” says Jack. “I’ll miss ya.”
“I will
too,” says Audrey.
They pile
into Jack’s compact and are ready to go when he stops and puts the car back
into park.
“Sorry.
Forgot something.”
He returns
to the Porsche, opens the trunk and leans inside. Audrey takes a moment to flip
down the car visor and make use of the built-in mirror.
“Yikes,”
she mutters. “Lost cause.”
Jack hops
in and hands her a leather pouch. She turns it over to find a Porsche logo.
“What’s
this?”
“That,”
says Jack, “is insurance.”
Jack
remembers frighteningly little of the drive back to Salinas. He does recall
hitting that same straightaway and singing “Me and Bobby McGee,” but the rest
is a blur.
He wakes up
in the playroom between Audrey and Kirsten, and for just a moment he thinks
that something exotic has happened. But the epic party comes back in a flood,
and he kisses Audrey to consciousness. They pop out of their cave to discover
that they can stand, that Wonderland is undergoing a thorough deconstruction.
All blankets and curtains have been folded and stacked, tunnel floor materials
swept into Hefty bags, motion-detector frogs lined up along the conga drums,
and all that remains is a skeleton of small red-and-white fences, the kind used
in horse-jumping competitions.
“So now you
know,” says Terra. She exits the bathroom in jeans and a plaid shirt.
“Actually, loading those fences into my truck is the next assignment. But
first, let’s get you some fresh-brewed coffee!”
Audrey
smiles. “You are a goddess.”
“Queen,
goddess – it’s all the same to me!” Terra recites, and promenades to the
kitchen.
Audrey and
Jack sort their way through the fences to the dining room table, somewhere near
the former munchies room. Brigit sits at a table with Ivan and Troll, chewing
on scrambled eggs and sausages.
“So Jack,”
she says, trying out a Mafia accent. “Did you take care of that thing for me?”
“Bada-bing!”
says Jack.
“The body
has been disposed of,” says Audrey.
“Thank
goodness!” says Brigit, in British. And may I once again issue thirty-two
brands of apology for all the havoc that I have wreaked. Me and my bloody
ginormous piehole.”
“Yes,” says
Audrey. “But enough! I am officially finished hearing about Jack and other
women.” She grabs Jack by the ear. “Isn’t that right, Mister Teagarden?”
“Yes,
mistress.”
“Good.” She
releases him and gives his ear a kiss.
“God,” says
Brigit. “Wouldn’t you love to be a
fly on the wall when Thompson strips off for his shower?”
“I can’t imagine,” says Ivan.
“I should
certainly hope you can’t imagine!”
Terra sweeps in with a pair of steaming mugs.
“Oh! That
reminds me,” says Jack. “I have some souvenirs.” He heads for the playroom and
returns with the leather pouch, then sorts through it and hands two DVDs to
Brigit.
“I’m just
guessing here, but I’d say that Thompson was a bit of a hidden-camera freak. If
it makes you feel any better, you’re the only one who got two DVDs.”
“I’m so bloody honored. I suppose I would be
smart to toss these before I get another beau.”
“And here’s
one for Audrey,” says Jack.
Audrey
stares at the case, wearing an extremely puzzled expression
“Don’t
worry,” says Jack. “I’m also betting he has cameras all over Big Brown. He must
have caught us doing a few ‘scenes.’”
“Well!” she
says. “I am both flattered and completely creeped out.”
Jack lifts
out one last DVD and holds it like a winning raffle ticket.
“I swear
it’s not me,” says Troll.
“I don’t
know,” says Ivan in his pirate voice. “Ya looked pretty sexy last night.”
A big
blonde train wreck staggers from the playroom, shading her eyes from the
sunlight. “Where’s Thompson?”
Terra walks
over to help her toward the kitchen. “It’s a long story, honey. Why don’t you
sit down and I’ll get you some coffee.”
“And later
on,” says Audrey, “we’re gonna watch some videos!”
The
Monkeys, being polite monkeys, fight hard not to laugh.
Photo: the inspiration for Big Brown (Seacliff Beach, Aptos, CA)
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