NOW
NOW
Boots was dreaming again, but this time he knew he was alive, because each time he rolled over, his injured leg told him so. It was 3 a.m., and the only sound available to his sleeping ears was the ambient hum of the hospital machinery, full of life-giving electricity. This steady undertone possessed a subtly affirmative quality, in the way that waiting amplifiers on stage, their red lights winking in mesmerizing but indiscriminate patterns of motion, induced a heady quality of heightened expectation.
But despite all this serene man-made wiring, Boots’ internal workings were in turmoil, his damaged leg only serving as the most physical manifestation of his mental agitation. In short, Boots was having a nightmare, and it was a doozy.
He was dreaming about music, but the sounds and images with which his slumbering brain was currently preoccupied were not of the harmonious nature to which it was accustomed. As a matter of fact, Boots was unconsciously rewriting history, and at that very moment his cerebellum was working overtime on an escape plan, in an attempt to duplicate his rapid eye movement somewhere in the vicinity of his injured leg.
What was all the synaptic fuss about?
Well, Boots’ chosen topic was the importance of the romantic ballad in contemporary culture, but due to the less than carefree surroundings, the lateness of the hour and his general tendency towards the absurd, the word “love,” instead of partnering with “above,” rhymed with “stove;” “maybe” didn’t rhyme with “baby,” but rather fit perfectly with “gravy;” “tomorrow” didn’t fit hand-in-glove with “sorrow,” but was paired incessantly with “larder.” As a result, the entire framework of modern popular song, instead of developing as an ode to the joys of young love and forbidden, torturous desire, became an ill-fitting tribute to the wonders of cooking. All the sweet-talking, hot-blooded, motorcycle-riding, surfboard-gliding, guitar- gripping youth of America became obese, drooling, mouth-stuffing images of culinary exploitation. Boots woke in a sweat, simultaneously wanting to puke his guts out and eat everything he could imagine crossing his path.
As a result, the efficient, slumbering hospital suddenly reverberated with the booming, not altogether unpleasant sound of a male voice singing, “I’ll eat nothing but a hot dog, mustard on the side, I’ll eat nothing but a hot dog, with potatoes that are fried, don’t waste your time on lovin’, let your stomach be your guide.”
Immediately thereafter, Boots started working, almost against his will, on lyrics to a song he called “Why Don’t We Chew It In The Road,” and began ringing for the nurse.
###
Several miles away, in the cozy bedroom of her second floor brownstone apartment, Rita, too, was tossing and turning after a disturbing, disorienting day. How many children, after all, had experienced the sudden death of their father, and then just as quickly watched that parent spring miraculously back to life? For the albeit extremely brief time that Boots was believed to be not only dear but departed, not to mention the temporary confusion about the zombie thing, Rita had been almost unbearably miserable to think that her father, with whom she had a turbulent but loving relationship, had left her suddenly and without advance warning.
It was impractical, she knew, to hope for such a thing, but ever since the death of her mother when Rita was just six, she had wished that it was somehow possible for those leaving her behind--relatives, friends, assorted hamsters, gerbils and goldfish--to be able to leave a note as to their future whereabouts. Not as in cases of suicide, when the poor suffering soul calls out one last time through the inefficient channels of pen and paper (or for the depressed but technically minded, word processors)) but as when those leaving us intend to be home late, or are called away on a last minute gig and won’t be back until Tuesday. Death be not polite, she thought.
Added on to her fears and frustrations about her father were those concerning Lips, to whom she felt almost as close. What a pair of idiots, she thought, slamming her right hand down hard into the pillow, scaring the hell out of Eleanor Rigby, the Wheaton terrier who shared her bed each and every night and almost as often, for one reason or another, found herself in a heap on the floor, tangled up in blue bedclothes and assorted pieces of sheet music.
“Sorry about that, El,” Rita said, trying to reach down and console her pet, who instinctively knew that once the falling off the bed phase was completed it was time to begin the late night foraging for food phase, and therefore was no longer to be found in the immediate vicinity. “Where do you go?,” Rita said to her quickly disappearing pet.
And why do I always have to be the one who looks out for Boots, instead of the other way around, she thought to herself, the words inside her head resonating almost as loudly as an actual utterance.
Both had been severely traumatized by the death of her mother, Daphne Bell, at the unthinkably young age of twenty-seven. Unlike Rita’s recently resurrected father, and despite Rita’s hopes for a communiqué from the Great Beyond (which, it occurred to Rita as she stared up at her star-encrusted bedroom ceiling, should be added to her and Boots’ List Of Great Potential Names For Rock Bands New And/Or In Need Of A New Direction), Daphne had not reappeared in their lives, causing Rita to grow up fast and furious as the only daughter of a male rock and roll musician, enduring more than her share of lessons learned prematurely and experiences ensuing too abruptly.
The word “overdose” still affected Rita as would a sudden physical attack, her step faltering, her speech trembling, the air around her and within her lungs turning viscous and impossible to breathe. She remembered all too well the look of incredible sadness on Boots’ face, the playing of the Beatles’ heartbreakingly beautiful “If I Fell” at the funeral, the many days missed from school when Boots couldn’t bear to let her walk out the door.
And, the frustrated doctor who, in an overzealous attempt to explain what had happened, pretended to plunge a needle into a Barbie doll’s arm, then dropping the grisly visual aid to the floor, turning Rita off from drugs, dolls, and interns with a single stroke.
Fortunately, Rita had thought again and again through the years, that entire incident had taken place before Boots had achieved even a modicum of fame, sparing the two of them the fierce immediacy of the media. Since then, Rita had learned to live with, and even occasionally enjoy, the cameras, microphones and voracious instinct for self-preservation possessed by the Fifth Estate (another entry for the List, she thought), but was grateful to have missed it during that awful time.
That awful time.
Daphne’s actual death was only the final chapter in what had become pages and pages of ruinous behavior. Boots and the band were out on the road almost constantly, unaware of the changes rapidly taking place, and Daphne was good at telephone talk, sounding like domesticity itself during Boots’ frequent calls. Home, however, was anything but sweet.
Rita remembered all to well the menacing, smoky stranger who woke her up one morning to get her ready for first grade. “Where’s my mommy?,” she asked.
“Your mommy is in Never-Never Land right now, sweetheart,” the stranger said, scratching his bare chest as he stood in her doorway.
“I want you to go right there and bring her home,” said Rita, as yet unfamiliar with Peter Pan, Captain Hook ,or ticking crocodiles.
“I’d love to kiddo, but I don’t have the necessary equipment right now. And I promised her last night that I’d make sure you got to school before I scored,” said the stranger. “Do you eat breakfast or something?”
“Is mommy alright?,” asked Rita, who was on the verge of tears but somehow knew crying would only make things worse.
“At these prices I would imagine so,” the stranger said. “Now let’s go; Daphne said you were the cooperative sort.”
“I’m not, and I’m not hungry,” Rita said.
“Well, then, get dressed, and hurry up about it. If you miss the bus, I’m not driving you to school. And Daphne will kill me if you’re here when she comes down. Let’s go!”
For the next several months there were more strangers, more missed breakfasts, and a general deterioration of Rita’s routine, until unexpectedly, late one night, Boots appeared at the foot of Rita’s bed, clutching her to him and whispering gently that something really bad had happened.
“What?” asked Rita, afraid that Boots had finally found out about the hamster that had fallen into the guitar with the round hole in the middle of it.
“Well, I’m afraid that your mother has gone away, and won’t be coming back,” said Boots, trying his best to figure out the best way to tell her.
“Is she in Never-Never Land, Daddy?,” Rita asked sleepily.
Slightly taken aback, but thinking this was going more easily than he had expected, Boots said, “Yes, that’s right, Peep, she’s in Never-Never Land.”
“She’s been there before, you know,” Rita said.
“What makes you say that?,” Boots asked, a bit more confused now, but always reluctant to temper his daughter’s vivid imagination.
“We were going to visit her, but didn’t have the necessary equipment,” said Rita. “Do you?”
“I’m afraid not, Peep, but someday we might,” said Boots, whose religious beliefs at that time fell somewhere between “there might be a God” and “Darwin Rules!”
“Will the bus take us?,” asked Rita, yawning and pulling the covers to her chin.
“Yes, the bus will take us, Peep,” Boots said, turning out the light. “Now go back to sleep.”
Despite Boot’s best efforts to spare his only daughter the pain of their present situation, Rita was old enough and smart enough to understand that the stream of people with their hushed voices, frequent hugs and dishes of strange looking food meant that in actuality her mother was gone forever.
“How are you doing, kiddo,” asked Lips, several days following the funeral.
“If my mommy is in Never-Never Land, what was that box doing at the front of the church?,” Rita responded.
“That’s a question I’ve never been able to answer satisfactorily,” said Lips, scanning the room frantically for Boots, or anyone, knowing full well he was the only adult in the house at the time. “That was her coffin,” he said, hoping that the simple, direct, declarative approach would suffice.
“What’s a coffin?,” Rita asked.
“Sort of like a suitcase for people,” Lips said, wondering if the definition of child neglect included running quickly out of the house with no explanation and no intention of returning anytime soon. “How about some milk and cookies, hon?,” he asked, falling into a diversionary tactic.
“We don’t have any more cookies, the people ate them all up,” Rita said. “What’s closure?”
“Wherever did you hear that word?,” Lips asked, torn between his love for his best friend’s daughter, his feeling of inadequacy at not being able to provide the “right” answers to these important, potentially character-shaping questions, and the fact that all of a sudden he really had to move his bowels.
“I heard Daddy say that was what he wanted, and I wanted to know where to get it for him,” said Rita.
Upon hearing this pronouncement, Lips’ physical need for release shifted from his lower digestive tract to his eyes, where he realized tears had begun to form.
“Closure isn’t something you can buy, kiddo, but don’t you worry about it, your Dad will find it himself ,” Lips explained.
“I’m glad, because I only have $1.49 in my piggy bank,” Rita said.
“Me, too,” said Lips, sticking his tongue out and beginning to run towards Rita, who screamed with delight in spite of herself as she ran out of the room.
As for Boots, he kept thinking back to a particular game of “Note-ified,” at the beginning of which Daphne had, uncharacteristically, chosen not to play, declaring that she “did not quite feel herself,” a pronunciation that had produced strikingly mixed feelings in him.
On the one hand, and despite what he could not help but recognize as their increasing differences in just about every imaginable sphere of life, Boots wished no ill upon Daphne. On the other, he found himself secretly hoping that the particular sentiment she expressed that night might be the first intimation of some startling, magical transformation into someone who would actually take on the roles of practicing partner and mother. It was not to be, however, and Boots felt a vague sense of guilt over the fact that he mourned more prototype than person.
As time ticked on, Boots, Rita and their immediate circle reestablished the rhythm of their lives; lives that, Rita realized more clearly the older she became, bore merely a passing resemblance to the comings and goings of others. For example, once she started visiting the homes of her friends, thereby gaining access to various sets of parents and alternate parental realities, it was hard not to notice that none of her peers seemed to have fathers who vaulted around the room yelling at the top of their lungs, “Number 22 with a bullet! Number 22 with a bullet!”
While she came to find this type of enthusiastic behavior endearing, the first several times she heard Boots make this particular exclamation (subsequent outbursts substituting different figures), Rita found herself looking anxiously under the furniture and inside closets, sure she was going to come face to face with a mortally wounded numeral, yet unsure of what her reaction should be. What was the penalty, she wondered, for killing arithmetic? Or was there, perhaps, some sort of reward?
While many of Rita’s friends’ fathers traveled a great deal, they talked about business meetings in Chicago or conventions in Philly; Rita’s dad was “on the road,” and instead of t-shirts that said “Don’t Blame Me, The Liberty Bell Was Cracked Before I Got Here,” Rita got guitar picks with notes attached that said “Ray Davies dropped this yesterday” and autographs on hotel stationery that said “Rock on, Love, Jimi.”
While these cultural artifacts gained in emotional (not to mention monetary) value through the years, they didn’t always play well at Show and Tell, Rita’s teachers believing these offerings to be inappropriate because they were different, and her friends making fun of them because they were not theirs.
“Now, Rita, what interesting object from the land of decadence have you brought in to share with us today?,” she remembered the thunderous voice of her aging but entrenched third grade teacher, Miss Turner (or Miss Terror, as she was not-so-affectionately known among the student populace), asking one significant day as she stalked the aisles, a human Wile E. Coyote attempting to entrap her very own bevy of currently restrained roadrunners.
“Yeah, Rita, what weirdo kinda thing is it this time,” said Tom Boone, who sat across the aisle from her, secretly admiring the incredible array of arresting objects she continued to parade before the class and wishing he had the courage to bring in his drumsticks to play “Wipeout,” but knowing he never would.
“Hush, Tom; let’s not prejudge,” said Miss Turner, forgetting momentarily that she had herself done exactly what she advised against.
“It’s the White Album,” Rita said.
“I’m not quite sure what that is, dear,” said Miss Turner, maintaining her air of composure but secretly fearing some sort of racial incident, times being what they were.
“It’s the new Beatles record, Miss Turner, and it’s really cool,” said Rita, holding up for display the unadulterated cover.
“What’s the rule about slang in this classroom, young lady?,” demanded Miss Turner, who, although happy to discover she was only contending with a musical issue, still longed for the days when the acronym of the moment was WPA, not LSD, and a time when the term “British Invasion” conjured up only images of disgruntled colonists.
“Slang is the lazy way out,” said Rita, repeating the words she knew were required of her, but finding it hard to reconcile, as always, what made Miss Turner’s stuffy form of communication any better than the easy to understand, playful patter engaged in by her father and his peers, who were anything but lazy.
“And what might be a more appropriate descriptive phrase?,” asked Miss Turner.
“It’s really groovy?,” said Rita, proposing one of her household’s favorite words, but instinctually recognizing its unsuitability seconds before the class began to giggle loudly.
“That’s enough, class!,” said Miss Turner, and turning to Rita, “I hope your father is not teaching you to mock authority along with his other bad habits.”
At this slight to her parent, Rita began to cry, causing her classmates to laugh louder in their uneasiness and Miss Turner to begin once again silently examining the benefits of early retirement.
“This is no laughing matter, people, and I will not have tears in this classroom,” Miss Turner said, “let’s all take a minute to compose ourselves.”
“My father does not have bad habits, he just leads a more interesting life than you do!,” yelled Rita, who found herself somewhat surprised but not displeased at the vehemence and thrust of her outburst.
Rita’s classmates began to shuffle their feet and chairs more noisily at this sudden change from the normal classroom routine, the effect of which was to add extra punctuation to her protest, which in turn caused Miss Turner to take more severe action than she had previously contemplated.
“Insolence, thy name is Klondike!,” barked Miss Turner, scaring the class even more, for they all knew that when their teacher started talking like the people in those plays by Shakespeare that their parents liked, there was definitely going to be trouble. “I would like to you march right down to the principal’s office and perhaps there you will find a civil tongue! And take your Caucasian album with you!”
Knowing that arguing was neither appropriate behavior nor likely to be beneficial to her cause, and having made her point quite clearly, Rita accepted her fate (not for the first or last time), picked up the Beatles record and left the room, closing the classroom door behind her not with a slam but instead gently, remembering Boots’ lesson to her that “often the loudest noise is the one that people aren’t expecting to hear.” “My dad’s a better teacher than you’ll ever be, Miss Terror,” she thought as she zigzagged her way down the hall.
“It’s 11:30, so I was expecting you,” said Mr. Clark, with his usual mixture of authority, ennui, and a dash of kindness as Rita entered his office, the severity of which -- typified by the colorless, institutionalized prints, filing cabinets and secretaries -- attested to the inviolability of the universal order to which he so wholeheartedly clung in much the same way that the daily regimen of pinstripe suit, white shirt and indistinguishable tie reflected his own personal sedentary sartorial sensibility.
“I didn’t do anything this time, honest,” said Rita in such an earnest manner that Mr. Clark was inclined to believe her, until he reflected upon the fact that almost all the children who entered his domain pled their innocence with this type of bold sincerity.
“Insulting your teacher is hardly nothing, young lady,” said Mr. Clark, holding in his hand a hastily scribbled note delivered in a similar manner by one of Miss Turner’s young minions. “And in a loud voice, too.”
“But she insulted my father first,” Rita said.
“Indeed,” said Mr. Clark, to whom this piece of information was news, not having been included in the missive from Miss Turner. “And how exactly did she do that?”
“She said he had bad habits and mocked authority,” Rita explained.
“And what motivated her to make such proclamations?,” asked Mr. Clark, who, while unfamiliar with Boots’ ways, remembered distinctly a song of his entitled “Where There’s a Will, There’s a Lawyer,” and, while not disagreeing with the sentiment, recognized the not-so-subtle derision and therefore was prepared to side with his employee unless further enlightened.
“I said the word ‘groovy,’ but didn’t mean to make fun of Miss Terror,” said Rita, who in her attempt to deal honestly with Mr. Clark, realized that she had inadvertently revealed her teacher’s until-that-moment secret nickname.
“What’s the rule about slang in this institution, young lady?,” asked Mr. Clark, deciding to let the offending reference go by unremarked, not in small part due to the fact that in the cafeteria on that very day he had overheard Mrs. Robinson, the math teacher, and Mr. Morrison, the science teacher, themselves refer to Miss Turner as “Old Snot Wrist,” no doubt an allusion to that person’s propensity to blow her nose into a monogrammed handkerchief which she kept firmly embedded in her sleeve.
“Slang is the lazy way out,” repeated Rita for the second time that hour.
“That’s correct. And what, might I ask, was the object of your colorful if totally inappropriate description?,” asked Mr. Clark, as he opened the drawer at the front of his desk that every student who had cause to view it had learned to dread, filled as it was with forms of various colors and sizes, each designed to inflict some sort of irreparable harm on increasingly besmirched records of accomplishment.
“The new Beatles album,” said Rita, holding up the cardboard cover she had been gripping tightly against her side, as though to protect the sublime sounds and aural images inside, which had come to mean so much to her, against the prosaic reality of her current surroundings, which she increasingly found hard to comprehend.
“There’s nothing on it,” said Mr. Clark, who actualized Rita’s fears by forgetting about his drawer and taking the album from her, turning it around in his hands.
“It’s all inside,” said Rita, and while she was referring to the poster and pictures that were included with the package, Mr. Clark interpreted her remark as a metaphorical response, and therefore was unsure whether to be impressed by her aptitude for advanced concepts or angry at what he also clearly viewed as insubordination.
“Its minimalist tendencies do not impress me,” said Mr. Clark, “and is this really the ideal type of object to be bringing to school?”
“I like it, so I thought I would share it,” said Rita. “I didn’t know it was going to cause such problems, and I didn’t even play it for anyone yet!”
“Isn’t it perhaps the case that it is your father who actually likes it, and that you wanted to bring it in as a way to try to please him?,” asked Mr. Clark, thinking that this was a rather penetrating question, one that Miss Clawdy, the school psychologist, would herself be pleased and impressed with, and one that he must remember to share with her during their weekly lunch meeting.
“I like it as much, if not more, than my father, and he is away right now, and doesn’t even know that I have it,” explained Rita, trying hard not to yell at the principal. “Why does everyone think that this has something to do with him? I like the Beatles, this is their new record, and I thought that Show and Tell was supposed to be about sharing things we liked with our classmates. If I’d known that Miss Turner and you were going to be so upset by it, I would have brought in some stupid picture of a foreign country!”
“We’re not upset by it, Rita, and I would appreciate it if you would not take that tone,” said Mr. Clark, who now was not so sure he would tell Miss Clawdy about this particular incident. “You, of course, can bring in anything you want to share with your little friends. You are not, however, allowed to talk back to or yell at your superiors.”
(“They may be older than you, but they’re not necessarily your superiors,” said Wendy McGuire, Boots’ current lady friend who was taking care of Rita while the band was away, later that night. “And just because he’s the principal, doesn’t mean he necessarily has any. You remember that.” Rita was not sure she fully understood these messages, but appreciated Wendy’s willingness to talk to her as though she would, and remembered them vividly.)
“I’m sorry,” Rita now said to Mr. Clark. “I just didn’t like Miss Turner saying those things about my Dad.”
“That may be the case, but we have to obey the rules,” said Mr. Clark. “After all, where would we be if we didn’t do that?”
“Outside?,” said Rita, picturing eternal recess.
“Hm,” said Mr. Clark, picturing eternal chaos and deciding to bring this session to a close. “I like you Rita, and believe you are repentant for your actions. Therefore, I’m only going to give you half a demerit, a reproof not overly severe but a reproof nevertheless.” With that, he reached inside his open drawer and extracted a blue piece of paper, wrote something on it, and put it into a file on his desk. “You may return to class.”
(Thinking back on it, Rita realized that Mr. Clark had indeed done her a favor as a result of his odd form of semi-benign punishment. Although in trouble on a recurrent basis, she had traveled down demerit parkway more slowly than she might have in the hands of a more aggressive authority figure, avoiding the roadblocks of expulsion and all that might have led to, or denied her, further on down the road).
“Thank you, Mr. Clark,” said Rita. “May I have my album back?”
“If you promise not to bring it back to school,” he said.
“No problem. I mean no, sir,” Rita said.
“Very well.” Mr. Clark handed her the object in question, which Rita took, quickly turning to leave the room. “By the way, Miss Klondike, if your father is away, who is taking care of you?”
“Her name is Wendy, and she has a cool, I mean, interesting tattoo on her back,” said Rita as she hurried out of the office before Mr. Clark could attempt to discern the motive behind this parting, provocative remark...
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