Luis Alberto Urrea - The Water Museum

Wyatt’s stuff, the detritus of a lifetime, musty cardboard and paper feeding silverfish in the garage. Records and a turntable. Who had record players anymore? But the old man had loved his Technics turntable and his Infinity speakers that were almost as tall as Joey. And his cassette deck with wack faders so you could make suave mixtapes where the tunes seemed to swell out of each other. Joey had the stereo stacked at the foot of his bed, and he dragged in records from the garage, where the old man kept them with his 1936 Indian Chief motorcycle. It leaned on its kickstand beneath the swastika flag — red and black and white and chrome under a couple of LED spotlights. The Indian-head light on the front fender was startling orange.

Joey hated taking the bus everywhere, but he was still too scared to try the big bike. Pops used to tell him it was alive, the knucklehead motor super-tuned and possessed by a speed devil. He’d ridden on it tucked in behind the old man — the bitch seat, Pops called it, though it was Moms who rode there, and he’d take down any fool who called her that. The old man’s club colors would flap around in the wind and slap Joey in the face until he cried — the wind sucking his breath out from between his teeth, the whole world seeming to tip when Pops leaned into a curve, the roar moving up his ass into his gut and jetting up his spine till he thought he might lose the top of his head. It was a monster. Besides, it had a stick shift. Who’d ever seen a motorcycle with a stick shift?

All these records nobody’d ever heard of. But Pops said this was real music. This was real soul right here, real class, and anybody worth a damn would spin these disks and see the light. The black light, ha, am I right, Jo-Jo? Right, Dad. Study this shit like literature: Mose Allison, Blue Cheer, Three Man Army, SRC, Doug Kershaw, Bo Diddley.

I’m just twenty-two and I don’t mind dyin’.

Muddy Waters, Electric Prunes, Aorta, Spirit, Crowbar.

“Living in the past, son. I’m just living in the past.”

“I hear ya, Pops,” Joey’d say.

He knew that was just an old Jethro Tull song.

Among the daggers and guns was some inexplicable stuff. Joey thought all of it was way-cool: cow skulls, a jackalope, a Mr. Bill bendable action figure, an eighteen-inch Alien figurine, a talking Pinhead doll from Hellraiser. He left the guns but put the toys in his room with the stereo.

* * *

Joey got up as usual at 6:30 and put on the coffeepot for his mom. She was dogged out every night from serving cocktails at the Catamaran. She had to step lively — the girls coming in behind her were young and hard and she was showing the miles, as she often said. She was still hot, his friends told him, which pretty much made him gag.

He heated up the coffee and cooked up a pan of oatmeal. He watched her sleeping on the couch, the TV turned on — her plasma night-light. Joey snuck her pack of Newports off the table and took them out to the trash can in back and covered them with the newspaper. The morning was all yellow and blue — sea air snapped in cold and salty. A lone gull looking tragic hung above him as if on a wire. Doves screwed in the palm trees with ridiculous rattling. A mockingbird dive-bombed Hobbes the tomcat. Back inside, Joey emptied the ashtray and poured out her hooch bottle before waking her.

He had work today. He was starting to like the job. It was at Mrs. Filgate’s house. The lady who used to work with Grandma at the Broadway. Nice lady — sold china. Little cups with pictures of German villages and shit on them.

On Mondays she had late shift, so she had to stay at the store until 9:00. This was no big deal, except she was married to this ancient dude — Freddie Filgate. Like, fifty years older than her or something. So Joey went to the Filgate house on the edge of Tecolote Canyon and worked on the yard all day. Then he sat with Mr. Filgate at night, made him his hot dogs and beans and watched the news and stuff until Mrs. Filgate came home and paid him $30. He’d take his money and walk a mile or so to the Dunkin’ Donuts shop and visit with Sherri, the donut gal. Sooner or later he’d call one of his buds or Moms and they would drive by and pick him up.

Here’s the great thing he loved about Freddie Filgate: he was so old he couldn’t remember anyone’s name, so he called everyone Willie. That cracked Joey up so bad: Willie. Reminded him of that record Pops had: Willy and the Poor Boys . It was hilarious. He liked being somebody else for a day.

* * *

Big Brother and the Holding Company, Quicksilver Messenger Service, Nazareth, Sabbath.

He was gentle with his mother. He took her big toe in his fingers and shook her leg. Purple nail polish, toe rings, ankle bracelet. Freakin’ Moms thought she was still a cheerleader at Clairemont High. She had a butterfly tattooed on her ankle, too. In memory of the baby she’d miscarried after Joey was born. His phantom sister.

“In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida, baby,” he sang. “Dontcha know I love you?”

She stretched, yawned, opened her eyes. Put her hand over her mouth. Her eyes darted to the table, but her ciggies were gone. Bottle, too. Fleeting guilty smile.

“Jo-Jo,” she said. “That was your dad’s favorite song.”

Joey nodded. He knew all about the old man’s favorite songs. There were only about 1,347 of them.

“Got your gruel on the stove,” he said. “Butter and syrup, right?”

“Yes, please.”

“Raisins?”

“Yum.”

She propped herself up with pillows — there was a red crease down her cheek like a scar. Her makeup was smeared. Moms had smearing eyes.

She turned up Matt Lauer with the remote as Joey brought her the steaming bowl and her coffee.

“You’re a good boy.”

“I know it.”

“Got work today?”

“Yup.”

“You be polite to Mr. Filgate.”

“I will.”

“They’re good people.”

Unlike us, he knew, was the hidden message in that particular comment. Well, he was cutting that happy crappy off at the pass. He thought they were all right. Not perfect, but fuck it.

“For sure,” he said.

He put on his army coat. He’d painted the RAF bull’s-eye on the back like The Who. He shoved his old man’s Walkman deep in the pocket. Mixtapes in his other pocket. At least it had earbuds. People would think it was an iPod. He wiggled his mom’s celly at her. She nodded. He slipped it in his back pocket. “Don’t booty-dial me this time,” she said.

He gave Moms a quick smooch and headed for the door.

“Honey?” she called.

“Yeah?”

“Got money?”

“Don’t worry. I’m good,” he said. He had seven dollars in his pocket. There was no work around here anywhere. If the old man hadn’t taken the fall, Joey’d still be in Arizona, working for his uncle Victor putting in swamp coolers on Indian roofs in Sells. He’d been out there sleeping on Vic’s couch since he’d dropped out. He glanced back at Moms. She was smiling at him with that You’re a dumbshit look on her face. “Oh,” he said. “You meant money for you.”

He gave her the five and kept two bucks for bus fare and a donut.

“Love you,” she said.

“Love you back.”

It was the rule.

* * *

Pops had been Sergeant-at-Arms for the Visigoths MC. That was one reason Joey’d gone to Arizona. The war between the clubs.

Joey had Wyatt’s colors in the closet on a hanger — the VISIGOTHS upper rocker curving down over a lurid iron fist, and the bottom patch curving back up, saying DAGO. 1 % on the front along with swastikas and the number 13 and a pentagram and some various German medals. They called him The Philosopher, since his name was Phil, Philip Wyatt, but mostly because of the crazy books he read. They were out in the garage with the big Indian and the Iron Butterfly records. The Philosopher or, yeah, more commonly, Philthy Phil. Joey smiled. He knew that if he stepped outside wearing the vest, he’d be dead in an hour. It gave the colors a weird sense of dark power. That kind of freaky-deaky stuff Pops was always reading about.