Part II: The Devil's Ball needs a band

CHAPTER 5

There are those who believe that Halloween is not just a date on the calendar but a kind of randomly occurring carnival of the soul. A time and a place where normal laws are suspended and anything can happen. Someone once described these phenomena as Fortune's Wheel stopping or the space between the swinging of some cosmic pendulum. If you are familiar with the author Hakim Bey's awkwardly titled "Temporary Autonomous Zone," I'm pretty sure that's what he was getting at. When the angry young Deutschophile stormed off that rainy afternoon, I took her parting statement, "It's Halloween!", to be her way of telling me that I had somehow become involved with a gang of so-called 'Chaos Engineers.' The word 'Chaos' is ancient Greek for unformed matter; it's where we get the modern word 'gas. Chaos Engineers then are individuals who dedicate themselves to manipulating situations, and yes, people like so much unformed matter to create the kind of conditions where a 'Halloween' can occur.

That's what I thought, but it turned out I was totally off base with all that. It literally was Halloween Day, and the small blonde girl was just pissed off and not trying to communicate anything other than a certain fondness for an alien culture you sometimes find in people who were unhappy with their surroundings during their formative years. At the time, though, I was pretty rudderless, and it was easier to interpret the random acts of hostility I was experiencing as some sort of coded message than it was to acknowledge that the last time I remembered being awake was almost a month ago. It just goes to show the lengths the mind will go to get itself around a situation for which there really is no explanation. Go figure.

But like I said, at the time I thought I was onto something and became determined to get to the bottom of it.

I crossed the street and walked up to where the bloodless ghouls who had quit the bus were still cackling noisily. They tried to pull themselves together as I approached. "Hey!", I yelled, "Hey Ghouls! What are you laughing at? Why don't you get out of here? Huh?"

The ghouls could barely contain themselves. They made such an effort not to laugh that I began to appreciate it. There were three of them; two were small, vaguely feminine, and difficult to tell apart. The third—much taller, male, and somehow familiar. He spoke, "Which question would you like us to answer first, Lorre? The former or the latter?"

I've always hated that turn of phrase. I always have to think about what it means. Stupid ghouls. "My name's not Lori, damnit!", I yelled.

The two girl ghouls cracked up, slapping their knees and grabbing their guts like they'd never heard anything so funny. The tall one turned his head and held just a tight smile with visible effort. Just then the rain started to taper off and the ghouls squinted up at the sun, breaking through the clouds. With hisses they crouched low, eyes darting about like a trio of Renfields. The tall one spoke again. "You're acting like an asshole, Pete. Gotta' run, see you tonight."

With that the ghouls dove down a sewer drain, slight steam rising from their backs as they went. This to me seemed proper and I attached no special significance to it. Hmmmmm . . .

A few drunken Poles puttered around, colliding into poles, which I started kicking. Violence feels good, any boxer will tell you. Getting punched feels like getting fucked. Either will do for a drunk—ask one if you're interested. Ghouls think I'm an asshole? Well, that hurts. Stupid ghouls, always being dead, living in sewers. Ought to be a law. I can't even walk down the street with a beer, yet ghouls are allowed to wander unmolested through our dreams and latrines.

I was having some troubles. It had been such a long time since I had lost my mind like this, that it made me uncomfortable. I felt powerless, awkward, like some kind of aging movie-star teenager. Unpleasant. Soon I was pounding my head against a lamppost while kicking a moped some one had chained to it. I don't like to do things half way, so I'm not when this Mod kid runs up and gets all in my face.

"You kicking my bike? What the fuck is wrong with you!?!?"

This was such a complicated and pertinent question that I had to think about it for a moment, which I admit, put me at a disadvantage. He brushed me aside.

"Christ, Lorre," he said, pulling some keys out of his jeans. "You're acting like such and asshole lately!"

I stared at him. He didn't look bloodless; he was kind of ruddy actually. Blue eyed and dirty-Blond, he was all done up with Doc's and a parka which had the slogan "Texas Go Home" stenciled on it. He busied himself with the moped. After a while he looked up at me while still wiping rainwater from various points of his bike. "And you look like shit, too," he said, "did you sleep in that suit? You gotta pull yourself together, man. We ain't on tour here. We have serious work to do tonight if the plan is going to work." He stood and opened the seat of the moped and pulled out a pair of helmets. I stared at him.

"Plan?", I said.

His head shot up. "Don't disparage the plan, Lorre! I know you don't like the cat, but I think he knows what he's doing this time. It's certainly gotten more kids to the shows anyway." He threw one of the helmets at me, I caught it.

"Cat?"

He sighed, 'I know you don't like him. Pete, we all appreciate how you've worked together despite your personal feelings, but you got to get over that shit, you know? Theres always going to be some people you get along with better than others." He looked at me.

I continued to stare.

He threw his arms up and stepped toward me. "I'm serious!", Paul Weller yelled. "Christ! You think we're fucking around here? People are counting on you! You ever stop to think about that while youre sitting around feeling sorry for yourself?!"

He had a point: I did feel sorry for myself, but he was totally discounting my whole I-don't-know-what-the-hell-is-going-on factor. I spoke carefully. "If I feel sorry for myself it's because I . . ."

"Don't want to be involved in something bigger than yourself!", Texas interrupted. "You should give it up, Lorre! You should conquer this urge of yours to control. It can only lead to damage and destruction! It can only lead to decay! There is no 'i' in 'troupe,' Lorre! There's no 'I,' in 'troupe'!

I think I was about to cry. I am just small, I don't know what's going on. I wanted to go home but there was a giant man who named things after himself living there now. "I don't want to control anything. . ." I began.

"Yeah, you do. Yeah, you do," the kid interrupted again, jabbing a finger at my sternum. "You're prejudiced against bloodless ghouls, and you don't want to take your cues from a giant talking cat. I mean, fucking grow up, Lorre! Fucking grow up!"

This was too much! I closed my eyes and started to say, "Look, I don't think-"

ìNo you don't!", Texas snapped, kick-starting the moped. "Now get on! We've got to get to New Brunswick before dusk."

New Brunswick, New Jersey. Yes, my ancestral homeland. I would be able to think there. I 'd be able to get away from these lunatics. Its not like I had an apartment in Brooklyn anymore . . . why not take a free ride home?

I got on the back of the bike.

The sun was out and there might have been a rainbow in the sky as Quadrophrenia and I crossed the Williamsburg Bridge over to Manhattan. Two on a scooter doesn't do much for conversation, which was fine as I didn't feel I needed another earful about all the huge moral shortcomings I seemed to have developed before I woke up this morning.

We skittered off the bridge and onto Delancey Street, causing Texas to let out a whoop, and my jaw to clench. As we went West, past cars and trucks spraying water at us from the still wet pavement, I passed into a reverie. I was still having a lot of trouble with the whole 'Missing Time' thing. It loomed large in my psyche, fragmenting my concentration, and I suspected ruining my complexion.

I marveled at all the great new enemies I'd managed to make. I wondered if I'd met any people who actually liked me. Maybe, I thought, maybe I'm a real jerk while I'm unconscious. If that were the case, how could I work on that? Could I try to be more considerate while passed out? Could I practice somehow?

I wondered if there was a twelve-step program for this sort of thing. I knew the first step would be admitting I had a problem and that at some point every day I went without being a jerk while unconscious would be a victory. But I also seemed to remember this being somewhere towards the end of the twelve steps, and really, I wasn't even so sure I wanted to admit I had a problem in the first place. I mean, maybe I'm fine while unconscious and it was this bizarre cast of characters who were jerks. It certainly seemed possible, even likely! They obviously had no problem yelling at a person, bullying him, getting all up in his face!

Damn it! I bet I'm perfectly decent while unconscious! Perfectly decent but fallen in with a bad crowd! What the fuck? I head-butted the Texan in front of me and we swerved onto the sidewalk.

"Woo Hoo!", Texas yelled. We careened through the vendors that line Canal Street, sending Chinese curses and cheap electronics flying about behind us. "Woo Hoo!", Yelled Texas, "Woo Hoo! Out of the road! Beat it!"

Still screaming, he popped the curb toward the entrance of The Holland Tunnel. A strange thrill filled me then and I forgot what I had been angry about.

The ghosts that live along the banks of The Hudson howled at us as we kicked our heels under the River. Their brothers on the Jersey side got scared away by the police who pulled us over as we arrived, 'cause scooters aren't allowed in the tunnel. You're also not allowed to ride two on a scooter with non-street-reg. helmets, but the police were quickly distracted from all these details by a U-Haul trailer roaring out of the tunnel and side swiping their cruiser. The troopers dove to the ground as the U-Haul then stopped, backed up, and hit the front of their car. Texas and I looked on.

"Holy shit!", one of the cops yelled.

"Yeah!", I agreed.

He gave me a dirty look. He was a kid, maybe twenty. This was embarrassing for both of us.

"Fuck!, he said as he jumped into his battered car and took off after the U-Haul, which I am sure you will have by this time guessed was being driven by a goddamn giant talking cat.

Texas did a little dance with his shoulders. "You can't tell me that wasn't totally cool!"

I couldn't. This annoyed me.

It also annoyed me that in the cab of that U-Haul with that damn cat there had been three attractive young women all throwing their arms around, enjoying Mr. Cat's Wild Ride.

Girls like cats; this has always been my experience.

CHAPTER 6

Stupid cat.

People tell me I talk about the Giant Cat too much. When we are auditioning new people for the band, Ben asks me not to bring it up, but I think they should know what they are in for. I mean, lying by omission is still lying, and that's something I only do for fun, you know? "What do you mean?", the new kid will ask. "Someone in the bands name is 'Giant Cat'?"

"Yes!", Ben interjects, trying to push me aside. "Yes, we all have little nicknames ha, ha. How long have you been playing?"

I am quick, though—slippery. "No," I say, stepping around our husky drummer. "No, he's not in the band. He just hangs around and orders us about mostly. You have to be careful or he will box you in the ear!"

At this point the new kid usually starts looking around the room for some moral support. "You mean this cat is a fan of yours or something?"

"Yes! Yes! We have many fans! We are very popular! You read music, right?"

Ben always trys to dominate the conversation, but I have an engaging manner and people like to talk to me. "No," I say, "I never got the impression he likes the music much. He mostly heckles us at shows, tries to break into liquor closets while we're playing . . . right Lucky?"

What will the new kid do next? He or She will either crack a smile and sign on or back slowly away from us toward the door, leaving whatever equipment or personal effects they may have brought behind. We've gotten quite a few amplifiers this way. Happily, we've gained many more members. Who's afraid of a giant cat, anyway? I don't know who he thinks he is.

Maybe they're right—maybe I talk about it too much.

 

The U-Haul tore off toward the NJ Turnpike state police in close pursuit.

"We following them?", I ask the Texan.

"Looks like they have enough people following them, Lorre. We'll take Rt. 1/9."

"Bumpy, scenic. Why are we going to New Brunswick?"

"You really don't pay attention at rehearsal, do you? I think you drink too much."

"I don't think I drink half enough. What's in New Brunswick?"

"You know!"

"I don't!"

"17 Jones Street! We're going to 17 Jones Street! Gonna burn it down! Sound familiar?"

It did sound vaguely familiar, I realized with something akin to horror. "Burn down 17 Jones? Why?"

Texas threw both his hands out in front of him like he was describing the size of some wonderful fish. "Look," he said, "Save your 'I don't believe in the Great Pumpkin' speech for the trial, you know damn well why 17 Jones is going to burn and burn good!"

I put my palms up as if to take the wonderful fish and shrugged helplessly, "Za?"

Texas's shoulders slumped and his eyelids pursed at me. "It's Halloween, the night of the devil's ball. The devil's ball will be held wherever The Great Pumpkin rises this year. The Devil's Ball needs a band. We want to be that band. To find out where The Great Pumpkin will rise this year, where the most sincere pumpkin patch will be, we need to go to where He rose last year. We need to go to where he rose last year and at dusk light a huge bonfire. We need to stare into the flames, the flames will reveal where The Pumpkin will be, The flames will show us the way. Last year The Great Pumpkin rose at 17 Jones St. in New Brunswick, NJ. We need to go there now and light it up then get to this year's pumpkin patch by midnight, ready to play. Remember? Alright?"

Oh my sweet pumpkin king, I did remember. I remembered the whole thing. The Cat, the band, the last year of speedy anarchy. The camaraderie, the unity, the busting out of clubs like the Hey Kool-aid commercial looking good and tasting great. I hadn't lost a couple weeks; I had lost more than a year. It had been last October the Cat had burst into my apartment, getting me kicked out and ruining John and Jeanetta's years of happy marriage, and yes! Since then, I'd been living with the Cat and a gang full of Texans in some kind of PBS art space, rehearsing day in and day out with a giant cadre of musicians. Practicing more than eating or working because The Devil's Ball needs a band and we want to be that band. We had begun to attract bloodless ghouls from the sewers, which some of us took to be a good sign but I hated them 'cause one of the stole my girlfriend. Stupid with broken heartedness I became even more reckless than what could be considered attractive -- drinking, cursing, mocking my friends, disparaging the plan, questioning the existence of the Pumpkin. I remembered, I remembered it all: taking some horse tranquilizers with Lucky after rehearsal, the drugs not working after a while so taking twice as many more then realizing too late that perhaps that wasn't the wisest idea, and then being gone. And then being gone, and waking up in Lucky's apartment, cat on my chest, and not a memory to my name. I looked at the Texan.

"But if we just need to light a bonfire, why burn down the house?"

Dan Bailey smiled. "'Cause that guy Steve who lives there is a real jerk."

I remembered that, too. I am so down with this band.

Part 3