Punkzilla Page 3

  By the way, I promise I won’t let anyone know that we’ve been in touch, especially our poor dear sweet mother and that military automaton that passes for her husband. You certainly don’t have to worry about anything leaking from this end. As you know, I of all people in this confused, beleaguered world can sympathize with the need for a disgruntled midwestern boy to make a clean break.

  So you went AWOL, huh? Now two-thirds of Wyckoff boys are official runaways! Congratulations on joining the club! And to pull it off at the frighteningly early age of fourteen! I was damn near twenty-three by the time I drummed up the courage! You’re amazing, Jamie! I’ll be the president of the Wandering Wyckoffs and you can be the secretary of state. As we both know, Edward is too afraid to run anywhere but right to where he’s supposed to be, which is somewhere very near the longitudes and latitudes of his meticulously constructed master plan that lies faceup on the desk in our father’s spit-shined study. Poor, cowardly, airbrushed Edward.

  So at first you really had me with “P-town.” I couldn’t read another sentence. I had a map of the United States out and was combing every page. Is it Pittsburgh? Platteville, Wisconsin? Philadelphia? Provincetown, Massachusetts? I wondered. And then your hilarious reveal a few sentences later! Anyway, I hope “PORTLAND, OREGON, NOT PORTLAND, MAINE” is giving you a new perspective on things. I’m so glad you’ve made some friends. And who all is in this “Posse” of yours? Be descriptive! I want to read about these people, but most of all, I want to hear what you’re up to, baby brother, as in where you’re living, what you do at night, what you are doing to generate income, etc., etc., and spare no detail! Be frank at all costs! Gross your older, decrepit, nearing-thirty brother out!

  Do you have a best friend?

  Do you have a girlfriend?

  I promise not to judge you, Jamie.

  By the way, have you stopped smoking? If not, I hope you’ll at least consider it. The stuff will not only kill the living shit out of you but will also make you broke faster than a gambling habit.

  Also, regarding your AWOL status, I doubt very much that you should have anything to worry about. I can’t imagine that those old potbellied, retired army men from Buckner will be spreading their big bad butterfly net very wide. It’s simply farfetched to think that that contemptuous academy gives a flying piece of pornography where their boys wind up when they get away. From what I understand, with regard to tuition, it’s a nonrefundable situation, so they get Major Wyckoff’s carefully counted money and a simple solution to a boy’s future, which is utter apathy. I can just imagine them sitting in some barracks office, staring at a map of the United States, sticking pushpins in all the cities where they think you’ve run off to, wreaths of cigar smoke hovering. I imagine them drinking cheap bourbon and playing Texas Hold’em, laughing themselves to sleep at the table.

  As dangerous as it can be, it’s probably good that you hitchhiked and didn’t leave a trail; electronic, paper, or otherwise.

  So Christmas is upon us, Jamie — three weeks away to be exact — and Memphis is as lively as a slowly cooked roast. What are your plans for this festive, terrible day? I don’t think there’s a season that depresses me more. Last night I performed a benefit reading of my one-man show, “The Second Guesser,” and the little basement theater was full. Over seventy people showed up and we charged forty dollars and I think it went over very well. It’s a fairly obnoxious anti-Bush, antiwar, anti-just-about-everything piece that takes place in a small-town, southern Indiana Laundromat where two elderly ladies discover a suitcase of unmarked thousand-dollar bills, a logarithmic code that will launch a missile at any target they wish, and a special cell phone that is a direct line to the Oval Office. I, of course, played both ladies (Ethel and Doris) with grace, humor, and excellent midwestern accents, as well as George Junior (as a three-year-old). I was preaching to the choir, no doubt, as the audience was made up mostly of queers, transvestites, poets, and three or four poor wheelchair-bound souls, though one of them was rather strikingly handsome in a kind of John-Stamos-kind-of-way (that’s so not your generation, I know). So there were no converts, but lots of laughs and a good time had by all. Jorge and I are using the money to help the theater buy a new soundboard. For all intents and purposes it was a big success and we reached our measly little goal of two thousand dollars.

  So I must confess that I do worry about you, Jamie (oh, I sound just like our mother, don’t I? All I need to add is your middle name, as in I do worry about you, Jamie Emmet . . . ). Yes, your gay, punk, rather florid brother thirteen years your senior worries like a little granny about you. The last time I saw you — four Christmases ago, I think it was — you seemed like you were in a bad place. I’m not talking about the pot-smoking and I’m not talking about that DVD player that you stole from the loading dock behind the Service Merchandise. That’s just stuff we do, and sometimes that sort of behavior, if witnessed by others — particularly the Cincinnati Police — will land you in a reformatory. I’m glad the Major, as ineffectual as the right-wing Bush fanatic is, knew that particular officer and was able to talk them out of pressing charges. And I’ll even admit that as much as I hate the idea of a military school bearing down on any young man’s life, I’m sure there were valuable things you were able to take from your brief time there; even if it was the simple dose of fear that might possibly act as a vaccine in your enormous, sky’s-the-limit future. I’m not saying that I ever expect you to toe the line or anything as insubstantial and conformist as that; I hope that you will do quite the opposite and question everything — teachers, coaches, priests, lawmakers, prime-time television shows, magazine ads, top-forty deejays, and any intellectual analgesic that could numb the senses and lure you into rote compliance like it has done to the vast, flimsy-minded flock of sheep that is America.

  Okay, enough sermonizing, but one more important question: What do you want to do with your life? Have you thought about that at all? Do you have any goals or things you want to accomplish? Please, please, please share this with me, Jamie. And it doesn’t have to be impressive. If you want to be a truck driver, that’s fine with me. You could be a stock boy in the back of a shoe store in some mall in Nebraska. As long as you’re doing something that you like. Nothing would make me happier.

  Okay, so here’s the serious part.

  I need to share some news with you, Jamie, and this is not easy. About three months ago I collapsed in the middle of the night while I was on my way to the bathroom and a few days later I woke up in the hospital to discover that a malignant tumor that was attached to one of my adrenal glands decided to explode and seed itself throughout my hips and abdomen. I lost a tremendous, almost impossible amount of blood, received a transfusion the size of Lake Erie, and I was lucky to live through the trauma. Well, I lived through that mess, but after a series of tests it was discovered that there was still a serious amount of metastasizing cancerous cells to deal with. Who would’ve thought, right? I mean, there isn’t a soul on either side of our family that has had cancer, so call me a pioneer.

  I was advised by my oncologist to receive chemotherapy treatments right away, which I did, but unfortunately it didn’t work very well and the bad stuff has recently spread to my lungs and throat and I have fallen into serious decline.

  Jamie, as you know I turned twenty-seven last month, and I had this sudden realization that I’m not going to make it to my thirtieth birthday. Hell, the truth is, it’s doubtful that I’ll make it through the next few months — I’ll be lucky to get through the spring. I’ve grown so weak that I’m having trouble writing this letter. Jorge has urged me to tell you this news and I have resisted for a long time, partly because I didn’t want to burden you, but also because the coward in me wasn’t prepared to completely face up to it.

  As you know, aside from a great deal of tragic sympathy I feel for our poor mother, I do not feel much of a connection to our parents. You and Edward were there at the dinner table when I tried to come out to everyone four years a
go — God almighty you were a precocious ten-year-old! You no doubt felt their cold, judgmental stares as potently as I did. One can go get a good healthy injection of Novocain from their family dentist and feel about the same sensation of chilly, bloodless diffidence.

  Aside from you, Edward, and Grandma Beauty (bless her sweet heart; she still sends me chocolates on Valentine’s Day), I have no other family — at least anyone I feel connected to — not even Aunt Julie, who is technically my godmother. She has expressed outward disgust at my lifestyle and when she finds out about my medical state (yes, Jorge is planning on telling Mom and the Major as well at some point), she will no doubt be prouder and more confirmed than ever that homosexuality is a godless, damnable existence. I can just see the fire and brimstone shooting from Aunt Julie’s nostrils after she hears of my demise. Even though I know Edward would like to think that he is open-minded, he is so thoroughly following in our father’s footsteps that I wouldn’t be surprised if they wind up with the same trick knees and arthritic hips.

  So, urged by Jorge, who has fearlessly stood by me as my body has started to rot and wither, I am reaching out to you, Jamie. If it is at all possible, I would love it if you could come out to Memphis and spend a little time with me before I make my merry way out of this godforsaken world. Although I don’t have much money (the medical bills are unbelievable, even with the help of my Actors Equity health insurance), Jorge, who has actually sold a few paintings in the past month (he thanks you for asking!), has been kind enough to enclose two hundred dollars to help you get here. I think taking a Greyhound bus might just do it. The Greyhound bus system may be the last affordable way of crossing this inflation-riddled country of ours.

  There’s plenty of room for you in our apartment. The hospice people have just turned the guest room into the place where I will eventually “expire,” but the study where I used to write has a daybed in it and you’ll be comfortable in there.

  Please give me a call and let me know if this is a possibility. The number is written in red marker on the inside of the envelope. I would love to spend some time with you before the inevitable.

  Do come if you can, Jamie.

  Love,

  Peter

  P.S. Yes, Jorge indeed keeps shaving his head, though I miss his curly hair, and Carlos is still alive and well, though he seems terribly bored by our lives as of late and spends a lot of time licking his paws, chasing an invisible, rather ingenious mouse, and staring out at nothing in particular.

  P.P.S. I’m enclosing a Xerox copy of your letter because, though it is brief, I was so impressed with your writing. Read it and you’ll see! And you’re one hell of a speller, too.

  March 5, 2008

  Dear P,

  I’m sorry I had to stop writing yesterday. I was mad nauseous I really was. I didn’t puke but I kept feeling like I was going to. They turned all the lights off on the bus and I fell asleep and woke up with my face pressed against my window and I still have the chills but I do feel a little better and not so speedy. The sun’s starting to get pretty bright and there are more people on the bus. This one guy keeps turning around really fast and holding on to his hat like he thinks someone’s trying to steal it. His eyes are pretty wild so I think I’m going to have to watch him.

  I had a dream about Torris Stone who was my roommate at Buckner. He’s the one I stole the alarm clock from. In my dream Torris kept taking his arm off and putting it back on like not getting the fit right like it was something he bought at the hardware store that he had to return. I started to help him with needle and thread when I woke up. The bus window was really cold on my face and now my neck is killing me and I feel like the highway is some permanent movie I’m being forced to watch.

  Torris Stone was from Orlando Florida and he was the blackest kid I’ve ever seen and the strongest too. He had an identical twin brother named Terrace and when they’d talk on the phone Torris would call him Twin. He’d say “What’s up Twin you straight?” and “You got them pens I sent you?” He didn’t care that there was a bunch of new cadets waiting in line for the phone. Torris liked to send Terrace pens and spiral notebooks and all this other cadet store stuff that had the Buckner crest on it. He did a lot of smiling and whispering during those phone calls too and I have to be honest P him and Terrace seemed more like boyfriends than brothers and I mean gay like you and Jorge or maybe like Elton John and George Michael.

  Torris could do more push-ups than anyone in Alpha Company and he always prayed before he fell asleep and he prayed before meals too and when I asked him why he prayed so much he said it was because someday he wanted to live in a nice house with a swimming pool and have a Sony flat-screen TV. Once right before taps I asked him if he really thought praying was going to get him a house and a pool and a flat-screen TV and he said “Ain’t nothin’ else gonna get me that.” Everyone in Alpha Company thought he was crazy.

  But I left Buckner and all those military freaks running the place. They weren’t going to give me my stripes before Christmas break anyway. The way it works is that all New Boys are supposed to get their stripes at the end of the first semester but I knew I was doomed to be a Recruit all year Yes-sirring and No-sirring and trying to force myself to kiss everyone’s ass. I sucked bad at the military stuff P like REAL bad especially at rifle drill. There’s this thing called Fifteen Count Manual Arms that involves fifteen different moves with this huge-ass World War I Winchester rifle and I could only do about seven of the moves right because it was so heavy. I was always lagging behind my squad too and we got dropped for push-ups a lot and I mean A LOT a lot like at every formation practically mostly because I couldn’t keep up so I didn’t make too many friends in my squad or my platoon OR my company.

  Torris Stone was the only one who had any sympathy for me. He helped me practice those other eight rifle moves in our room. We used half of a broom handle that we weighted down with a metal rod and a bunch of duct tape. Eventually I caught up with my platoon thanks to Torris but I did enough push-ups at that place to last a lifetime.

  Mom wrote me like four letters the first month I was there and I would write her back saying how good things were but I mostly lied and I think deep down she probably knew that. I stopped writing her back after like two letters and I think she started to panic because I got a pretty mean letter from the Major which sort of freaked me out.

  In addition to me being a fuckup at drill I wasn’t so great at knowing all the traditions like for instance this saying that was carved into the side of a World War II tank that was parked at the end of the Old Boy Memorial Guard Path. The saying was “By perseverance study and eternal desire any man can become great” and you were supposed to have it memorized by the end of your first formation. It’s from General George S. Patton Junior and we had to know basically everything about that guy’s life like all the battles he fought and what armies he commanded and this famous prayer he invented called “General George S. Patton Junior’s Prayer” which goes “Almighty and most merciful Father we humbly beseech Thee of Thy great goodness to restrain these immoderate rains with which we have had to contend. Grant us fair weather for Battle. Graciously hearken to us as soldiers who call Thee that armed with Thy power we may advance from victory to victory and crush the oppression and wickedness of our enemies and establish Thy justice among men and nations. Amen.”

  I can say the prayer forwards and backwards no shit P and that part about the immoderate rains makes me grind my teeth because at Buckner whenever an Old Boy or a faculty member or one of the retired TAC officers would quiz me on it I would say IMMEDIATE rains instead of IMMODERATE rains and I’d have to drop and do push-ups.

  At Buckner there was this Pakistani kid Abdus who they called Bin Laden even though he was fat and could barely do ten push-ups and he was mad short too like five feet two even shorter than me and the real Osama Bin Laden is supposedly like seven feet tall and has anorexia.

  Abdus had an English accent he was from this part of London called Shephe
rds Bush and at the end of the first quarter he was awarded the Head Star for posting the highest grade point average in the corps of cadets which is pretty impressive for a New Boy considering all the pressure you’re under those first few months. But the Old Boys from Delta Company were jealous and one night they broke three of his ribs when he was sleeping. What they did was they put one of his cricket balls in a pillowcase and beat him. They never got busted either because Abdus’s roommate who was this Internet porn addict from Baltimore named Kenny Kandinski claimed that he slept through the whole thing. When I left Buckner Abdus was still there walking around in a flak jacket and sort of muttering Muslim prayers to himself.

  P I fucking hated that place with all the old stone buildings and these portraits of the ex academy presidents staring back at you when you walked through the rotunda in the HQ. Torris was about the only nice person there. I hope he’s doing okay. The faculty was always trying to get in his head because he’s stronger than everybody but he wouldn’t try out for the football team. They would say “Why don’t you USE those muscles Cadet Stone?” and he would smile and go “Sir I DO sir. I do all them PUSH-UPS every day.”

  You know Buckner is in Missouri right? Man talk about boredom. Picture a cornfield and a road next to it and a car going down the road with a family in it and maybe a little kid with popsicle stains on his face staring out the back window. That’s Missouri. There’s lots of fields and strip malls and trees and churches and telephone poles and birds. Ohio is pretty boring and I know you know that more than anyone but Missouri is cursed with a different kind of boredom P. It hangs in the air like somebody’s bad breath. People get old there and I mean like into their NINETIES.