Bruce Bauman - Broken Sleep

Socrates, with two teenage boys on either side of him, leaned on his cane. The poet Noma Moma Dada read a tribute, and the French filmmaker Matsa Brie announced the upcoming premiere of a documentary on Socrates’s life, before introducing the icon of honor. Socrates dropped his cigarette into his scotch glass and listened to it fizzle out. “I have spent my life attempting to halt the urbane decay that many of you represent,” he said, inching his long neck tauntingly toward a gaggle of young admirers. “I leave you with one thought: If you care more about riches or material goods than about virtue … then I have failed you. And you will fail yourselves.” He shook his head indignantly, as if he foresaw his fate as the forgotten.

Holencraft yelled, “Thank you, Socrates!” and everyone began drinking again. I felt a pinch on my ass. I turned, ready to slap the offender. His body shriveled and colorless, I wouldn’t have recognized Raphael Urso, except for his Willem de Kooning eyes bulging out in flinty disgust at the world. He laughingly said, “Whoa, there, Salome. Where’s Brockton?”

“Virginia.”

“Let’s do what we shoulda done years ago.”

“Raphael …” I snapped my middle finger against his forehead. “That’s all I ever wanted to do to or with you.” Ever good-humored, he laughed. Alchemy, with a female friend, unexpectedly showed up. “I’m going to talk to my son.”

Absurda had seen him, too, and we arrived by Alchemy’s side at the same moment. Absurda and Holencraft were exiting stage left for a night of indoor sports at the Stanhope. I witnessed a furtive exchange of glances and pursed lips between Alchemy and Absurda. He hummed, twinkle-eyed, “Do wah diddy diddy, dum diddy do …”

I’d never previously decoded the telegraphic signs of desire and denial tapping between them. I sensated the specter of Gravity Disease tainting her soulsmell of suede shoes and a champagne bottle’s cork. I wasn’t sure if the aura of Alchemy hindered or helped her. After a time, she left for California. No matter; she couldn’t truly escape her disease, or him.

New York and I seemed to be vibrating at different frequencies. I found it harder and harder to venture out alone. My immune system began to wilt from loneliness, and the psychic temblors of another bout of Gravity Disease sent me retreating to Harlottesville and Nathaniel’s (mostly) nonjudgmental empathy. I counted the days between Alchemy’s school breaks and waited for a stirring from my psychopomps.

During the Christmas break of Alchemy’s junior/senior year (he was graduating in three years rather than four), we traveled to New York and all decamped at the 3rd Street apartment. Nathaniel intended to talk to him about his postgraduation plans. I didn’t care what he did. Watching the evening news one night, Nathaniel flew off on a predictable tirade about the impending invasion of Iraq and the brainwashed public. Alchemy seized the opportunity he must’ve known would come.

“Nathaniel, you taught me that when Nixon abolished the draft he did more to undermine the antiwar movement than anything else because it removed the threat to the middle-class and rich kids and their parents.”

Nathaniel nodded.

“You used to quote some French guy, ‘To resist is to create. To create is to resist.’ I think it’s a good motto in art and in life.”

Again, Nathaniel nodded. I sensed something off, but he caught me completely by surprise with what he said next.

“I enlisted in the army. I’ll be going to boot camp in July. I will resist creatively and create with resistance. And it’ll look good in the future.”

Nathaniel clasped my hand. I pulled it away. “Future! What future is that? Do you want to kill yourself to hurt me? To sacrifice, waste years shooting at people! This isn’t the fucking best way to rebel against us.”

“Mom, stop shrieking. Do you think every decision I make is because of you? You are so narcissistic. I’m making my own choices now.”

Nathaniel tried to be reasonable. “Alchemy, the way to protest a war is not to fight in it. It’s—”

“Nathaniel,” I cut him off. “Alchemy”—I lowered the volume of my voice—“I haven’t dedicated my life to you so you can die in a war started by two egomaniacs with penis problems.”

“Mom, don’t make this about anyone else, you’re still making this about yourself. You always make it about you. Whether it’s ten minutes of almost great sex in a Porta-Potty or—”

“Stop. Stop. My son cannot be this cruel.” I got down on my knees and begged him not to punish himself — to punish me, in some other way. Whatever detours I made, how foolish my actions seem, the greatest accomplishment of my life was having him as my son. Still on my knees, my voice a beaten whisper, I said, “Someday you will ache like I ache right now.” Alchemy’s face implacable, I pleaded with Nathaniel, “Please. Please don’t let him do this. Stop him.”

Nothing could sway him. In July, Alchemy left for Fort Bragg.

Then came the fire. Bellows told me that, according to Dr. Ruggles’s records, I set the Let’s Fuck Time pieces afire in the pit outside and then set some of the older Pearl Diver drawings afire in the hallway. Nathaniel and I suffered smoke inhalation and his hands suffered minor burns. Guilty and ashamed, Nathaniel agreed with Ruggles to send me back here. And I became forever unfree to walk the streets on my own.

Sctfree1: mose, you there?

Moses wasn’t sure if he wanted to talk now. Since returning from Rio, he’d sent only one e-mail to Alchemy, detailing his meeting with Malcolm. Though he did miss their talks, messaging, and e-mail exchanges.

Sctfree1: ok, call me later.

Moses did not want to speak on the phone.

MThead23: Yes, I’m here now. What’s up?

Sctfree1: last night the chameleon mom took the form of a grand inquisitor. she asked who was that masked man at the hammer who left during my talk? meaning you.

MThead23: Geez. It’s been months.

Sctfree1: months, years, they mean nothing to her. i said you’re a collector whose parents were holocaust survivors. she sniffed like maybe she didn’t believe me. i didn’t push it. she’s a freak.

MThead23: Freaks me out. You think she knows?

Sctfree1: don’t think so. she’s never given one clue she knows any more than what she’s always believed happened.

MThead23: OK. Tell me what form she next takes.

Sctfree1: maybe now is the right time for you to meet her? you and jay come up here?

Moses took a long drink from the bottle of water on his desk.

Sctfree1:???

MThead23: Thinking. Still absorbing all the changes. The good, the less good, and the awful. I don’t think Teumer can do me any more damage. Salome … she feels, very present.

Sctfree1: get that. when you’re ready, say the word.

Again Moses hesitated before typing.

MThead23: The word is if I do see her, it will be without Jay.

Sctfree1: whatever works best.

MThead23: Jay and I, we’re not working so well anymore. It’s been hard on her with all of my shit. We’re taking a break.

Sctfree1: wow. i’m sorry. you wanna talk? in person?

MThead23: Not now.

Sctfree1: soon. i’m in need of your eminence grise expertise.

lotta questions about the nonanswers blowin’ in wind.

MThead23: Send an e-mail. I have to go.

Go where? he thought.

The tunnel of love, as Moses and Jay had once affectionately nicknamed their home, now suggested a dank, abandoned subway tunnel. His and Jay’s bed was as welcoming as a water-soaked electrified third rail. Divorce papers he didn’t want to sign and decisions whether he could afford to buy Jay’s half of the house or sell and move awaited him after finishing his day at SCCAM and making the enervating drive from Pasadena to Venice. He spent hours reliving his meeting with his father. With each passing day, he felt better about how it had gone. He did not feel better about how he’d behaved with Jay. As a child, he’d sworn never to desert Hannah and that promise was kept. But he had failed miserably with his wife. He hadn’t physically abandoned her, but she was right — emotionally he had sealed himself off. He began to see that somehow his fear of his father had translated into behavior that helped ruin his marriage. He blamed no one but himself. Moses understood that free-floating fear and hate caused only self-destructive reactions. He could never attain peace of mind by hating, by being afraid. His least-troubled hours were spent in the classroom, re-creating the triumphs and tragedies of histories past, or gabbing in the cafeteria with his students while marveling at their youthful optimism. He often procrastinated in his windowless basement office in the humanities department. All signs of his married life erased as efficiently as Malcolm Teumer’s war crimes past. Gifts from Jay no longer hung on the walls. Photographs of Jay with her head resting on his shoulder, which he’d featured prominently on his desk, now removed. He wondered if anyone had noticed.