My car is spinning into the orange fields. The blurs around me: of orange fruit,leaves, the brown of the dirt , it is all I can see. A few seconds ago there was just the yellow center line and flat top. I remember it so clearly. I am 19. The San Fernando Valley is another place. This is not what you would remember. This is my memory.
I will come back to it. I will take you to it again, but not right now.
. The horses are naying in the yard. The air is warm. There is a party tomorrow night on Stum street. There is not a cloud in the sky. Next week mom is bringing the boys over to play jazz in the back yard. A jam session. Some of them are famous. I have no idea how she knows them. Their horns will gleam in the light and the piano will be by the back door like usual.
You are probably wondering why I have not taken back to that car and the spin, left it hanging. It will come clear. Don't worry. At least some things can.
My older brother has a sort of presence about him. It is like light. I hate it even as I secretly admire it. My mother is like a movie star on vacation ,but for publicity photos. She doesn't tend to enter rooms, she makes entrances. Her hair is perfect. She seems to live in a photograph that never happens.
I saved up for two summers to get that car. Worked at Sam's liquor up the street sometimes 10 hours with that car in my head as I swept or waited at the register. The time I got robbed was absurd. The flash of a gun and my boss wets himself, a pile on the floor. The guy takes the till ..even grabs my god damn pay check, only in my hand a minute or so before (great timing, story of my life) and walks out casual as can be.
The clear sky is not calm. On this day. At this place. It is a beautiful blue. A group of birds is passing above in an arcing line. Something terrible is coming.
My mom pours a drink and sits on the couch like the queen of North Ridge. She asks me why I am wearing such a wrinkled shirt again. I answer "I don't know, I'm sorry, I ironed it .." With a wave of her hand and a rattle of bracelets (always the bracelets..) she dismissed this. I go to my room and change. I look for not my favorite, newest or nicest shirt, but the one with the least creases. This will be a good thing. This is important around here. I walk back in the living room and her non reaction is the approval I was looking for.
The door bell rings and it is some of her friends. The piano player and the sax guy. I had the dates wrong . It is tonight. I welcome them in and see 2 other cars pulling up the drive, clouds of dust.
She rises with a big smile, a little too big to me but they are her friends. Even before the music plays she is having them follow her lead. Like always. They are setting up in the back as I fry myself up a grilled cheese. The butter turning into a puddle is soothing. The smell is a comfort. Outside a horn blasts awkwardly and then a laugh a little too loud. Mom. I flip the grilled cheese and the slight burn puts a brief know in my stomach. Needs to be cooked not crisped . 4 minutes a side. exact.
I wipe my hand on my shirt and it feels wonderful to make a long crease.
The night will be long. They will play and play and laugh and drink and dance and invite friends and they will drink more and talk louder and dance faster and on and on... I sit to eat my sandwich. Turn the gas off. Clockwise. Just so. It tasted good and it is mine. The brief quiet is wonderful. Then the drums start to set up. boom. crash. ting of the cymbal tish of the high hat I want to play them but don't want to go out there. It is her thing. They are surely complimenting her on her dress (that she spent an hour picking out to look casualy thrown on) right about now. Like last time. Like always.
I could take you back to that spinning car. I will in due time. Wait with me. It comes soon enough.
The band is in full swing now. The crowd has swelled aleady by the sound of their voices. I have homework. Need to do it. Need to do something. The sky is darkening now. The lights will soon come on. The night will be and will be what she waits for. Always waiting. Sometimes it feels like we live only to prepare the house and clear it for the band to play. The rest of the time is the steps up to letting them in.
The tempo is building now. Swelling. Rising. My books are open on my bed. The window closed does little good.
It lifts and curls. The sound. It ebbs and seeps. It comes under the doors and through the window sills.
If I sleep I will probably dream of snow or the dust bowl coming this way. She is out there dancing right now I am sure. If her cigarette is fresh then a cloud of lighters is out in a metal flash , if her drink is low someone is rushing to fill it to her liking. Perfect. Dad doesn't care. He reads on these nights. He is either penciling in words in the crossword or reading another book from all of those shelves that line their room. He somehow tunes it all out. He tunes a lot of things out.
A trumpet solo. Jesus. It is like he jumped out of my closet just now. My math test is going to be a killer. Mrs Haver is the meanest bat ever. She is not mean. It is too perfect to call it that. Too many rules and parts to just be that. A page of word problems. Trying to remember. I wonder if a hose would kill a sound? 40 questions tomorrow in first period. I had a dream last night that I was eaten by a pencil sharpener while a group of numbers played rag time in the back of old room 421.
I can almost see the music. It is that loud.
They will trade solos now. It is that time. It always is. Mom will solo always. A constant.
My brother is taking a shower now. It is a glorious noise. Something else. Something he does every night for school to beat the cold water in the morning. His hair will still be perfect.
My sister is listening to a record I think. It is hard to hear. The piano player is doing his solo now. Such a show from a tiny arthritic ball of a man. He runs when an engine starts. He used to send her flowers till one day they were on his car stuck in his windshield. That is the story anyway. That was long ago.
A loud overly spontaneous laugh. A drum roll. A splash of cymbals. A drink falling and crashing glass . Another gale from her. A rim shot. A yell “charleston!”
A spasm in the pipes. A yelp. Sister calling out
are you ok ........A gust of wind rises and ceases. A tree branch scrapes on a window. A squeak of knobs. I throw my pencil at my window. My cat hisses. A punch into something. Brother punching the wall . Cold water. A scream. Hot again. I rip a page out of my math book...
but it all just comes out a rumble no one responds to. Crushed under the weight of what seeps out of the backyard from her and those men.
I turn the page and it may as well be white and clean. As though type was never invented. She will yell at the grade in a few weeks dad will just read.
