Bruce Wagner - Dead Stars

She phoned anyway. Dawn felt different now, a part of. A bonafide member of the community that once denied her.

“I’m interested in the Cultivating Presence retreat.”

“Do you have hospice experience?”

“Yes,” she said, wondering if the woman could read the sorrow in her voice. “Yes, I do.”

“ Wonderful. Can you hold a moment?”

Wonderful was an odd word in this instance, but why not? Afterall, she’d just read an article in a Buddhist magazine about a student who told his guru he’d been diagnosed with cancer. The guru said, “Congratulations!”

“Thank you for waiting. Our computers are a little sluggish today. They seem to have minds of their own.”

“Hate it when that happens,” said Dawn affably.

“Don’t you?” said the woman. “Ah — here we are. The Cultivating Presence Workshop…” She was slowly reading from the screen, stalling while the software fired up. “I know our literature says ‘retreat’ but most people just call it a workshop. Ah — okay. It looks like we are completely full.”

“Even the commuters?”

“I don’t know why we had so much interest this year. It’s wonderful , but I can’t put my finger on it. Can I put you on a wait list?”

“Yes. How many—”

“Now just wait a moment… it says that there’s 40 people on it already — can that be? Well, it must , because the iMac tells me so! That doesn’t look so terrific… don’t think it will happen. I like to tell people the truth, what’s the point in leading folks on? Now we’ve got another workshop — excuse me, retreat! — coming up in around 6 months. That’s a very special one , people like it as much if not more than the Cultivating Presence training — oops. Wait — now, hold on — isn’t that crazy? I spoke too soon. Aren’t we having a time of it today?”

. .

Jacquie had sent him to pick up the ashes. She told him that if he wanted to, he could take a portion before dropping them off at the house. Rikki expected an urn, but they were in a brown plastic container instead, about the size of a rural mailbox. A sticker on it said WE HEREBY CERTIFY THAT THE CREMATED REMAINS ARE THOSE OF JERILYNN CRELLE-VOMES. The box was heavy .

He sat in the car for about a ½hour, smoking a blunt and sniffing the last gram of yay. He broke the seal on the box. The ashes were in a plastic bag with the same affixed certification. He’d planned to take some but now he wasn’t so sure. 1st things 1st tho: he drove to Tom-Tom’s to get more blow. She was staying in a Travelodge in Mar Vista. She had an emaciated stray cat over there & was nursing it back to health. Rikki hadn’t seen that side of her.

He brought in Ree’s ashes. They set them on the table and tripped a while. They smoked some weed & crack, then balled. Her pussy was infected so she only wanted her ass fucked, which was cool. Rikki thought about the ashes. Kind of like Ree was watching.

He got his 8ball and on the way out, Tom-Tom said, “Did you forget something?” They both laughed at the lameness & the stonedness. Rikki went to the side of the bed & bent over to get the box. It was tipped on its side. He thought they must have knocked it over while they were fucking. Then he saw the plastic bag protruding, with clawed holes on top. Rikki said Hey! Tom-Tom came over & looked. She went to the head where the kitty cowered behind the toilet with its paltry, fastidiously created litter. The room stank from its humid, sickly droppings.

“Goddammit!” shouted Tom-Tom. “Not OK! Not fuckin OK!” As she rousted it, she told Rikki to open the front door. She tried chasing it out but it hunkered under the bed and hissed when she reached for it. She gave up & inspected the box in Rikki’s hands. He’d shoved the bag all the way back in.

“Just get some scissors and cut around the holes — clean up the edges. Say it broke while you were taking your share.”

. .

Beth Rader, the woman from Gagosian to whom Pieter emailed the image of the dead newborn, was persistent. She told Jacquie to let her know if she ever changed her mind.

Jacquie knew there was no way. She was done with that part of her life. She didn’t know where she was going, but she knew where she’d been.

As scary as it was, she’d take the not-knowing every time.

. .

Jacquie and Nikki went to court for the adoption hearing. To see the motley family collected together, and to know their poignant history, as the judge did, was not without impact. He was friendly, almost folksy, which made sense to Jim. In this courtroom, gentility & care should and did reign.

“I was made aware of your situation,” he said to Rikki, “from a lovely note your soon-to-be-legal father sent to the court. You’ve had a heck of a lot thrown at you — everyone in the family has — that’s quite an ordeal to go thru. You’ve probably had to grow up a little faster than you’d have liked. But Mom & Dad say you’re stepping up to the plate. Handling yourself like a man.”

“Yes, sir — I mean Your Honor sir. I’m trying.”

“Fake it till you make it. Ever heard that one, son? ‘Fake it till you make it’?”

“No sir your Honor sir.”

“Well now you have. That’s one beautiful baby. Bring her closer, ma’m, can you bring her a little closer? Oh, now she’s a little doll now, isn’t she. What’s her name?”

“Nikki,” he said.

“ Excellent name — I have a goddaughter named Nicki, so good choice! I like your taste in women. In women’s names, anyway. Ours is Nicole but everybody calls her Nicki. How do you like the experience of being a father? I know you haven’t been one for long, but how do you find it so far?”

“Uhm… it’s — pretty good.”

His tentativeness caused laughter from those waiting for their own cases to be heard. The judge laughed a bit himself.

“All right,” he said. “If the parties are willing, I approve, & wish you good luck. And I want you to take a good look at your Mom and Dad, son, remember this day. I hope you know how fortunate you are. Because these two people saved your life. They gave birth to you as surely as the mother who gave birth to your Nikki.”

“Yes your Honor sir.”

“Good luck to yall. And don’t forget! Fake it till you make it.”

As they left, a bailiff came forward & whispered to the judge, whose visage went from startled to dour. Rikki was arrested just outside the court.

Number Our Days

Mt

Olympus was a memory. Betty White’s groomer got so horny for T 2that she flew back from Prague for an unannounced 48-hour booty call. A chaotic eviction followed; the squatters were no more.

The whole deal went down the day after Reeyonna met her moneymaker. Jerzy was helping Rikki throw his ½sister’s clothes and whatever into some Hefty bags when the chick Cherokee got there & went apeshit. Tom-Tom smacked her in the face and Bolt & Dr Phil got between em whilst sundry tweaking daydream believers didst scatter. General fucking bedlam ensued. Rikki said he was gonna cut and run because Ree didn’t have anything of value in her room anyway, it wasn’t like she had a wallet or ID & credit cards to steal (he left the bloody sheets on her bed as a fuck you to whomever). Jerzy got real calm and went to the poolhouse for his stash & his $$$. Jerzy came from a long line of… coke, so he did some, took his prints from the garage, carried them to the van. On the way out, he ran into a shirtless Bolt who was in a panic because the broad was threatening to call the police. Jerzy clocked how Bolt’s stubbly back was overdue for a wax. Phil tried his lame-o diplomat thing on the front porch but Cherokee shoved him and he fell on the ground. Tom-Tom literally shouted to Cherokee she would fuck her and let her eat her pussy RIGHT NOW if she just promised to let everyone go without doing the 911 thing. The shit was too fuckin funny.