56. louis’ requiem
act one
“Hey Denver. Boy, that’s a pretty strong message you got recorded. I
don’t know if I could do something like that. That’s really personal.
Hello. It’s Vella calling. I’m so sorry about your father. I know
what you must be going through. I’ve been trying to get you for days
but you probably not picking up the phone. I understand. Look. I’m
just calling to see if you need any help, I know what it’s like to
lose someone you love.”
Denver could hear her sniveling and wiping her nose as she spoke.
“So I hear from Robert that you and Micky are going to have a show in
the spring. God, I can’t believe Benny died so quickly. I knew he was
sick. I didn’t think he’d go like that. Trampled to death.” Vella
gave a sick laugh. “What a way to go. The artists of the gallery got
invited to do a piece for a commemorative show. Now, with Benny gone.
I can deal with the gallery again but I told Robert when he called
that I would have to think about it. We did have a good talk though.
Cleared the air between us. But everybody is dying. I feel more alone
than ever. Was there anyone else there that we know who died?”
“I didn’t go to the Pumpkin Ball last week. What’s that all about
really? A gala event to commemorate the slaughter of six million
indigenous people by the white man. And it’s supposed to be a benefit
for the Sacramento arts community. I mean, c’mon. What are they going
to do with the few cents that they earn? Buy trophies for the St.
Patrick’s parade. I couldn’t go to something like that. Isn’t it
about time, someone builds the indigenous peoples a holocaust monument?”
There was a short pause before Vella continued. “I haven’t left the
house lately. I just went through another phase where I thought the
police were coming after me. When it got dark, I just lit candles.
Tip-toed around the apartment all day, had the radio turned down so
low that I had to listen to it inches away from my head. I got really
paranoid about all the crap that I ordered. I had to send it all
back. I’m better now.” She took a breath or a puff of a cigarette.
“I asked the doctor to reduce the tranquilizers. It took a lot to
tell him that. They stopped me from doing bad things, like
shoplifting. It’s just that I couldn’t stop abusing them. It’s like
being drunk except you don’t have a hangover afterwards. Okay Denver,
call me if you need anything. I miss you. Okay. Bye. Love.”
Denver stood at the bay window, staring at a flashing plastic
flamingo installed in his neighbor’s garden, only listening half-
aurally to the voice emanating from the electronic device. His mind
floated momentarily to the endless streams of shoppers being hurdled
in and out of large shopping malls, participating in the consumer
slaughter that accompanies stuffed turkeys, Made-Rite cheeseballs and
suspicious eggnog concoctions that looked and smelled like baby poop.
“Boy Denver, I can feel your pain. I think that message is going to
haunt me. Meow. Meow. Hi. Meow meow. It’s Nancy and I have something
to say. I’m calling to ask if you’re feeling up to some cake and a
chat. Call me up and I’ll bring over some home baked Pow-Pows and a
bottle of Jack. I would love to see you. Meow-meow.” The answering
machine clicked to rewind.
The signs of the year-end consumer festival that had spun out of
control on the wheels of the father, the son and the holy spook were
already overwhelming Denver. It was psycho, physical and spiritual
terror rolled up into one masculine god, and the worship of a
tortured man hung on a cross was the symbol of salvation. He shook
his head, finding it hard to imagine how this image could inspire
peace, love and goodwill amongst believers.
Denver did not buy into the shopping-for-holiday-glee ethic. He
believed instead in the fine art of wrapping up crude presents
received from holiday’s past and passing them off to some other
relative or friend. He knew he had to be careful not to give the room
deodorizer candle or the ceramic piggy bank back to the original
owner, so he made a list and checked it twice. After all, it was the
gift that counted since thinking had been reduced to a material level.
He contemplated the ironic sides of holiday’s past. He had heard
postal workers telling children that there was no Santa, and that
their letters would not be delivered to the North Pole. He had seen a
Santa in front of the Quantity Market, ringing a brass bell, and a
man with a gun walk over to Santa and demand all his money.
Santa had proven, however, to be surprisingly agile and equally violent,
and had put the would-be assailant in a headlock and made a citizen’s
arrest.
There’s your peace on earth and good will towards men, Denver
thought. Santa is dead.
He took a few steps backward and fell into the oversized commander
chair. When his heart was on the floor bleeding, Denver took the path
of least resistance. He felt obligated to celebrate his sadness even
though it was hard to do anything that he felt was of meaning and
distinction. He hoped he would soon get over it.
“The only thing constant in life is change.”
Denver picked up the remote and pressed power.
“Welcome back to the Jay Carlton Show! Coming right up, our special
guest, Bob Luck,” announced the fat man on television.
Just what I deserve, Jay Carlton is a dweek and Bob Luck is pathetic,
Denver thought and changed channels.
“There it is again! Damn!”
The media had indulged bombastically in the accident in the weeks
that had followed. The pending war, the death of a princess, the sex
affair of the president, man-made disasters, even floods and
earthquakes, all of these topics had taken second place in the news.
All the local channels had compiled in-depths reports to help viewers
understand the chain of events. For the first time since Kate
Burnett’s famous film parody about the city and Bill Sorreson’s epic
tales of the valley, Fresno was once again on the map.
“When I arrived at the front of the F.C.T., I couldn’t believe my
eyes.” Freedom’s head appeared on screen, sunglasses attached.
“I saw bodies lying in muddy water. Hundreds of men and women
in ripped and soiled formal attire milling around the front of the theater waiting
for help. It was all so surreal.” The camera panned back momentarily
to show Freedom sitting in a television studio across from a reporter.
“I could hear distant sirens, and saw groups of people sitting
comforting each other, their faces and hands bloodied. It was awful.
Like a scene in a war film.” She shook her head and pressed her eyes
with her thumb and index finger to hold back the tears. “I can still
hear the screams of spouses finding each other alive and injured or
dead and in rest. It was just terrible.” She held out her hand to
stop the camera from filming her crying.
The reporter bowed her head and a cooked turkey landing on a table
replaced her on the television screen. Commercial break.
Denver flipped backed to Jay Carlton. Bob Luck was sitting in a beige
armchair, casually dressed, and wearing white shoes as if he had just
walked in from the golf course.
“Uncle Bob,” Denver spoke to the television. “I thought you were
dead. Didn’t somebody ever tell you, there are no more heroes?
Recycling is out. Why don’t you just die and take all your old
cronies with you? And what the fuck is it with the white shoes?”
Denver pressed mute and sat in silence. The electric flamingo
ornament outside cast blinking pink shadows inside his living room.
He watched the bobbing heads of Carlton, the fat man, and
everyone’s favorite uncle Bob reiterating anachronisms in the
flashing rose-colored glow.
He knew that there would be no giving of thanks for the Griesses this
year. The entire family was traumatized, each taking their respective
paths to recovery, so there would be no family get-together this
year. There would be no Uncle Bobs asking the same banal questions
they did every year concerning the welfare, whereabouts and whatevers
of their relative.
Denver’s mind spun to holidays past and got caught up in the family
tree. He explored the concept of the uncle, and concluded that
everyone had an uncle whose first name consisted of three letters.
This uncle was related through marriage but kept on showing up at
family gatherings long after the blood relative had died. He was the
typical uncle who would bring a six-pack of Paps but drink scotch and
water’s instead. He was the uncle who constantly stuffed his face
with celery sticks or tortilla chips dipped in Ranch Style dressing
and held a cocktail napkin in his drink hand to whip away the muck
dribbling down his oversized jaw.
Denver would inevitably find himself seated next to this uncle every
year while he told jokes that were far from politically correct,
vulgar and sexist. All the while, he would stuff his face and spit
droplets of his Ranch Style dressing while talking. Denver would be
kept busy nodding his agreement and trying not to forget to laugh at
the punchline.
“I’d like for once to spit in your face, Uncle Bob.” Denver picked
his nose and flicked a booger at the screen. “Ha. Ha. That’s really
funny, Uncle Bob. I’ll have to remember that one.” Denver faked a
laugh and zapped him to return to the NBS documentary. “It was
terrible, just terrible.” Candi’s face appeared on screen. “First the
waiter, then the explosion in the theater, then the espresso machine.
There was a chain reaction and people panicked. Everyone rushed to
get out. It was as if the whole crowd tried to move at once.
A collective mass pulse. Screaming. Crying. Absolute pandemonium.” To
reinforce Candi’s narration of the event, footage of people exiting
and tumbling down the concrete steps of the F.T.C. replaced her
talking head.
“It happened so fast, then it was over. Of course the film crews were
right there with their cameras wanting interviews. And here I was
dressed as Marie Antoinette walking around muddied because of the
flood. It was just too much, seeing friends, I haven’t seen in years,
the family tragedy, the death, all balled up into one evening.”
“Were you injured?”
“No. Lucky stars. I was able to duck into the curve of the banister.”
Candi looked up and placed her right hand on her chest. “You can’t
imagine all the suffering I witnessed.”
Denver knew his interview with the reporter would be shown soon and
decided to flick channels. He did not want to go there again. A small
lump formed in his throat.
“Oh please, not another dumb blond joke.” He had caught Uncle Bob in
a middle of his sit down comedy routine. Uncle Bob babbled on about
Palm Springs, his upcoming Luck Classic Golf Tournament outside L.A.,
golfing with the governor, the man who was now running the state into
a liberalist prison. Denver was sure that Uncle Bob had greased some
palms to get his old film pal into office.
“It’s lovely there,” Uncle Bob said.
“That’s what they all say.” Denver nodded and repressed mute.
act two
When the main course is finished, the men retire to watch the
football game in the livingroom. Meanwhile, the women clear the
table, wash the dishes and prepare pie and cake in jovial slave-like
fashion.
Ol’-time religion once again reveals its dirty self, he thought. It
has butchered a pagan festival that was meant to honor and give
thanks for the bounty of mother earth. A ritual celebrated since the
dawn of communal living has now been enslaved in the chassis of
capitalism, buttered up and ready to be carved, and the Uncle Bobs
always seem to get the juiciest pieces.
Denver pushed mute and interrupted Uncle Bob in the middle of talking
about his old comedy act, and the fat man laughing all the way. When
Jay Carlton conveniently asked about his upcoming plans, Uncle Bob
mentioned his TV special, co-starring Jennifer Foreal and Sarah Wahn.
Uncle Bob went on to recount a story about how he played a joke on
the two of them by putting them in the same dress for the show. When
they appeared on stage together, you could see their surprise.
Jennifer, being the more outgoing of the two, started to rip at
Sarah’s dress. To the delight of the hooting male crowd, they
finished their duet about friendship practically naked.
“That has got to be the most pathetic thing, I’ve ever heard,”
commented Denver. “Pass the canned yams, will you, Uncle Bob? But
no!” Denver shouted at no one. “There will be no can yams for me
tonight. The Uncle Bobs of this country are in their own canned La-La-
wood dream world.”
He punched the remote to mute Uncle Bob’s pathetic blabber and let
out a long somber tone. He bent over and heaved with each sob that
swept over him. He was overcome with loss, his father, his lover, his
job and his tooth, as he sat in his apartment watching television
alone on the eve of a national holiday.
Denver drew his knees up to his chin and curled into a ball in his
oversized armchair. It felt good to release the sadness that had been
building up in him. Uncurling, he sat for a good long moment taking
deep breaths until he was lightened and able to return to being. He
changed channels and started to sing his own version of the yam
advertising jingle being played on the television.
“Yes, we have no canned yams tonight.” He peeled himself off the
armchair. “Fucking hell man!” he said out loud. He walked to the
bathroom shaking his head, wiping the snot on the sleeve of his sweat
shirt and thinking.
What kind of people enjoy being entertained by Jennifer Foreal, Sarah
Wahn, or for that matter, Moses Reed? Why do people rush out and
consume mass amounts of Britnoid, McDonna or Michela J.?
He flicked on the light, stood in front of the toilet bowl,
unbuttoned the fly of his jeans and pulled out his penis. In the
trance of listening to his piss flow, Denver asked himself questions
that only further frustrated him.
What is so interesting about mass media and contributing to the
wealth of these already enormously wealthy people? Why does everyone
have to come together in order to consume one thing? What about
the richness of local talent? Why do people go crazy supporting
hollywood and spend all their money to be masturbated with eye candy?
Why is it always like this for us creative artists?
He tightened his sphincter to pinch out the last drops of urine and
felt a tinge of self pity. “Fucking A!” He kicked the toilet bowl.
Why do I have to pay the price for being honest and critical in this
society where everyone else just laps up the latest shit as if it was
their last meal.
Denver shook his penis, enclosed it within his jeans and flushed.
“Good-bye, Uncle Bob!”
“Denver. Denver!” He heard his mother’s voice on television.
“Mom!”
“Denver. It’s a miracle. God bless you, son.”
“Mom. What are you doing here? What happened? Mom! Mom!”
“Have you seen Louis?”
“What do you mean, Louis? Who’s Louis?”
“Hi. My name is Patty Sanchez. I am your host tonight for a special
look at the events that took place on the evening when the Young
Millionaires went to town and many were killed by their own
stupidity. I, myself, have been personally touched by this tragedy.
Since that evening, working for our affiliate channel KFBC in Fresno,
my life has been changed. I have lost sleep, had migraines and have
become violent. My cosmetologist says that I am suffering from post-
dramatic stress disorder. Like hundreds of others, I am still
battling with the horror of the Young Millionaires. I was there when
push came to shove, standing outside in the cold and rain doing my
job. I remember the tragic moments and have put some of them together
for our viewers tonight. So, please join me for a personal look into
the human side of a disaster.”
Denver returned to the armchair and picked up the remote. He was
about to change channels but changed his mind instead and pressed the
record. It was a documentary that he had not yet seen. Denver had
been recording the televised reports of the tragedy. At least, he
felt, he was doing something creative.
One by one, photos of the victims appeared on the television screen
with a fade-out to their names. Stirring classical music accompanied
the tribute. Dee had given the press the photo of Martin taken for
Realife. The face of his father was published coast to coast, printed
in editions of the Fresno, Sacramento, Stockton and Modesto Bees,
Times, News Week, Sutters Weekly, and their affiliates, digitized and
sent abroad and had probably circulated the globe more than the space
station. Martin was virtually the most traveled and well known adman
in the world.
act three
Denver was facing south looking out the window, reflecting upon the
last time he had seen his father alive. With the upcoming war
overtaking his story in the news headlines, Denver was having more
time to himself and had nearly come to terms with the death of his
father.
He had begun to assemble an altar installation at one end of his
atelier with the silver dollar used at the Young Millionaires Gala as
its centerpiece. He collected memorabilia of his father and placed it
in front. Building the altar helped him to focus his grief and to
center himself.
He pulled open the window a bit, walked over to the altar and stood
in front of a couple of cardboard boxes filled with artifacts of his
father’s life and draped with his work clothes. He served the altar
with donuts of all varieties, cups of coffee, a brass bell and
burning vanilla scented incense on a large brass platter set atop the
boxes. On each side were potted geraniums, his father’s favorite
plant. Placed randomly in front of the boxes were nano-paper clips, a
toy automobile and trial size sample packets of cleaning products to
represent his father’s employment. Hung on the silver dollar were
various certificates of excellence awarded to his father during his
career. Denver had even gone so far as to paint the floor surrounding
the altar with his father’s presumably favorite color, burnt orange.
He kept one large white candle constantly burning on top of the
Madonna statue placed between the silver dollar and boxes. Madonna
was now enclosed in a milky wax shell. Denver took a candle from the
package lying on the window sill, opened the circle of light by
lighting it from the perpetual flame on top of Madonna’s head, and
replaced the candle that was at the end of its wick. He took a set of
joss sticks and lit them from the burning Madonna. As the house
filled up with smoke, he unfurled a synthetic wool blanket on the
floor and sat down in front of the altar.
He rang the tiny brass bell and stared up into the flame. He rang the
bell again and closed his eyes. Images blinked through his conscious
mind. He flashed back to the chaos that had reigned in the first few
minutes after the blast. He caught glimpses of them arriving at the
front of the theater and splitting up in different directions. He
felt the shock of seeing his mother unexpectedly and saw himself
taking his mother over to the steps and sitting her down. His
mother’s desperate phrase kept repeating in his head. “Louis. I lost
Louis.” She remained hysterical, unable to be calmed and constantly
asked about Louis until she was later swept away by the large man
whom both Freedom and Icky knew.
Denver knelt before his altar, opened a bottle of MeMe, his mother’s
favorite perfume, and sprinkled a few drops in the glasses of water
on the brass tray. He returned the opened bottle to the left side of
the candle, rang the bell and remembered Icky splashing through the
water, looking manic and screaming, “The devil is in heaven. This is
crazy. Look at all these people. There’s dead people here. Benny is
trampled,” before running off to help others in need.
Sure enough, the gallerist had died in the stampede. Funny, Denver
thought as he lit a corner of Benny’s business card. A millionaire
rancher from Hanford moves to Sacramento, has his coming out,
opens a gallery, becomes the local art fag done good, and in the end gets
trampled by a bunch of fat cows. Now, if there’s not something
strange about that, I don’t know what is.
He blew on the card and let it burn up on the brass tray. Having to
comfort Benny’s lover Robert, his own mother and sister, and himself
at the same time had been a painful lesson in grief.
He would never forget the last time he had seen his father, dressed
as Louis, king of france, being carried on a stretcher to an awaiting
ambulance. He picked up a few newspaper clippings with his father’s
photo saved from the numerous articles written about the accident,
and passed them counter-clockwise around the statue before letting
the pieces of paper fall randomly. He took a box of the nano-clips,
opened it and sprinkled the contents over the other objects
comprising the altar.
His mind flipped back to the concrete stairs of the theater with his
mother. He watched as his friends ran among the groups of shocked and
injured offering their assistance. He remained with his mother,
trying to calm her down, trying to figure out how she had come to
attend a Young Millionaires Gala, trying to make out what she meant
by Louis.
He focused on a series of images of one woman in particular. A woman
who seemed totally out of place dressed in seventeenth-century court
garb that was now torn, wet and splattered with mud and blood. Her
white powdered wig hung like a bird nest on the side of her head,
ready to fall with the next gust of wind. She wandered listlessly,
checking each group as an angel would, slowly descending and rising
in billowing movements. It was her picture that was used as the cover
photo in the next day’s press.
Memories flooded back and he was once again overwhelmed with sadness.
He sat up and took a deep breath to hold back the sob that was
tightening his throat. Tears welled in his eyes. His left hand landed
on the string of pearls at his side. He picked them up and ran them
through his fingers before draping them among the other objects in
his altar. The pearls were from Marie-Antoinette who had given them
to Freedom on that gruesome night. He did not bother to wipe away the
tear that was tickling his left cheek.
The last image was of Marie Antoinette descending upon him and his
hysterical mother. “Is this woman okay? Does she need any help?” She
looked into his mother’s eyes. “Dee Griess!” she shouted.
Denver was shocked and shot a sharp glance at Marie but his mother
barely seemed to notice her name being called.
“Dee. Do you know who I am?” She grabbed Denver’s mother by the
shoulders and shook her a bit.
Denver saw Freedom’s standing nearby observing and clutching her
throat. Her attention had been sparked when she heard a voice she
thought she recognized.
“Dee Griess. Are you okay? Dee Griess. Do you know where you are?”
Suddenly a 200-pound man bolted out of nowhere. “Debby. Debby. My
little filly.” He picked her up and stood her on her own two feet.
“Debby. I found you. Are you okay?”
“Louis. Louis,” was her only reply.
“Candi?” Freedom said suddenly appearing at the edge of the
constellation.
Denver, Candi alias Marie, Dee alias Debby, and William Bush alias
Cal Tex turned their heads simultaneously in the direction of this
new voice.
“Candi? Could you be Candi Powers?”
The two women stared at each other.
“Liberta?”
“Freedom!” Cal Tex let go of Dee, and Denver quickly rose to catch
his descending mother.
“Will!”
“Freedom!” Candi ran to enfold Freedom. Bright lights appeared and a
camera team started filming their personal encounter. Denver watched
how the stress of the moment blended into happiness. Finally, Candi
pulled away slightly and wiped the tears from her cheek.
“Denver!” Icky yelled. The camera lights spun and caught Icky running
up from behind a privet hedge. “I saw that man who I was tellin’ …”
“Icky. Son of a gun. What are you doing here?”
“Hey you. You’re the man at the house who gave me the money.”
“William!” Freedom said, unraveled herself from Candi and went to hug
him.
Denver shuddered as he remembered the awkwardness of the situation
and the prolonged silence. No word was spoken until Will broke away
and picked up Dee and escorted her to the arriving ambulances.
“Where’s he takin’ your mom?” Icky asked.
“I don’t know who he is.”
“He’s the guy I told you about, the one your parents’ house.”
“I thought maybe his name was Louis.” Denver watched as his mother
was assisted into an ambulance.
“Candi,” Mr. Thorndorn called and stumbled over to where she was
standing.
“Mr. Thorndorn, over here.” She darted a glance at Freedom.
“Thank God you’re alive.” He clutched Candi’s hand.
“Ralph! Why, you son of a bitch!”
“Freedom!” Mr. Thorndorn turned around at the right moment to catch
the full force of her open hand slap across his face.
“You didn’t care if our daughter lived or died.” She pushed him so
that he tripped over a bunch of injured millionaires lying on the
grass. “Why, you goddamn son of a bitch!” she shouted, jumped on top
of her ex-husband and slugged him with all her might.
The ensuing brawl, which had landed the four of them in police
custody on charges of involuntary manslaughter, would probably be
edited out of the version he was now recording. He got up from the
floor in front of his altar, went to check the television and caught
it just in time to edit out the commercial of the turkey landing on a
dinner table. He had seven minutes of advertising space to fetch
himself a snack. The telephone rang, he let the message be recorded.
“Geez Denver! Is that you cryin’ on the answerin’ machine? You sound
like a cow givin’ birth. I’m comin’ over. We got to talk about the
show.”
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