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"What are you talkin' about?"
"If my father had to come to the jailhouse and get me, I'd rather stay there. I mean it. I'd rather stay in jail."
"Aw, relax," I said. "Nothin' is gonna happen." I lit up a cigarette and put my feet up on the back of the chair in front of me. Could I help it if somebody was sitting there? The person in the seat turned around and gave me a dirty look. I looked back at him like there was nothing I'd rather do than bash his face in. He moved over two seats.
"That was pretty good," said the Motorcycle Boy. "Did you ever think of trying out for a chameleon?"
"I don't know them," I said, kind of proud of myself. "Where's their turf?"
For a minute I heard Steve trying to smother his laughter. Hell, I could hear both of them laughing, but the movie got started, so I didn't pay any attention.
The very beginning of the movie was just some people talking. I figured it wouldn't be too long before we got to the good stuff, and it wasn't, but by that time Steve wasn't looking at the screen anymore. See, the Motorcycle Boy never watched movies. He watched the people in the audience. I'd been to movies before with him, so it didn't bother me, but now Steve was looking at the people, too, to see what was so interesting. There wasn't anything interesting, just some old men, some college kids, some people who had drifted in off the streets, and what looked like some rich kids from the suburbs, slumming. It was the usual people. I knew that was one of the Motorcycle Boy's weird habits, but I hated for Steve to miss parts of the movie, especially since I was sure he hadn't been to a skin flick before. So I poked him in the ribs and said, "You're missin' out on somethin', kid."
When he looked at the screen he froze. It was my turn to laugh.
"Are they faking that?" he asked in a strangled voice.
"I doubt it," I said. "Would you?"
"You mean," his voice rose slightly, "that people film that?"
"Naw, this is live from Madison Square Garden. Sure, they film it."
He sat there for a few minutes more, then jumped up hurriedly.
"I gotta go to the john," he said. "I'll be right back."
"Steve!" I hollered at him, but he was gone. After about ten minutes I knew he wasn't coming back.
"Come on," I said to the Motorcycle Boy. Outside it was almost as dark as in the movie house, until you got used to the colored lights. I found Steve plastered up against a wall, a sick look on his face.
"Well," I said. "What happened?"
"Nothing. I don't know. A guy just asked me if I liked the movie. What's scary about that?"
It was like he was talking to himself.
"I was gonna tell you." I took the wine bottle out of my black leather jacket. "You never go to the john in those places. I mean, never."
Steve gave me a startled look. "So it was scary? I didn't just make it up--I mean, is there really something to be scared of?"
"Yep," I said. Steve looked like he was going to throw up. I thought another drink might help him. It did seem to perk him up some.
"I didn't mean to make you guys miss the movie," he said.
"We ain't missin' nothin'. I seen better."
We went down the block. The Motorcycle Boy turned to walk backwards a few steps.
"Sin City," he read the theater marquee cheerfully. "Adults Only."
We went bopping on down the street. The street was jammed with cruising cars. You could hear music blasting out of almost every bar. There were lots of people.
"Everything is so cool..." I waved my cigarette at the noise. I couldn't explain how I felt. Jivey, juiced up, just alive. "The lights, I mean, and all the people."
I tried to remember why I liked lots of people. "I wonder--how come? Maybe because I don't like bein' by myself. I mean, man, I can't stand it. Makes me feel tight, like I'm bein' choked all over."
Neither one of them said anything. I thought maybe they hadn't even heard me, but all of a sudden the Motorcycle Boy said, "When you were two years old, and I was six, Mother decided to leave. She took me with her. The old man went on a three-day drunk when he found out. He's told me that was the first time he ever got drunk. I imagined he liked it. Anyway, he left you alone in the house for those three days. We didn't live where we do now. It was a very large house. She abandoned me eventually, and they took me back to the old man. He'd sobered up enough to go home. I suppose you developed your fear of being alone then."
What he was saying didn't make any sense to me. Trying to understand it was like trying to see through fog. Sometimes, usually on the streets, he talked normal. Then sometimes he'd go on like he was reading out of a book, using words and sentences nobody ever used when they were just talking.
I took a long swallow of wine. "You..." I paused, then started again: "You never told me that."
"I didn't think it would do you any good to find out."
"You told me now." Something nagged at the back of my mind, like a memory.
"So I have." He stopped to admire a cycle parked on the street. He looked it over very carefully. I stood there fidgeting on the sidewalk, zipping the zipper of my jacket up and down. That was a habit I had. I had never been afraid of the Motorcycle Boy. Everybody else was, even people who hated him, even people who said they weren't. But I had never been afraid of him till now. It was an odd feeling, being afraid of him.
"You got anything else to tell me?"
The Motorcycle Boy looked up. "Yeah, I guess I do," he said thoughtfully. "I saw the old lady when I was out in California."
I almost lost my balance and fell off the curb. Steve grabbed hold of my jacket to steady me, or maybe himself. He was swaying a little, too.
"Yeah?" I said. "She's in California? How'd you know that?"
"I saw her on television."
For a second I looked around, trying to make sure everything was real, that I wasn't dreaming or flipped out. I looked at the Motorcycle Boy to make sure he hadn't suddenly gone nuts. Everything was real, I wasn't dreaming, and the Motorcycle Boy was watching me with the laughter shining dark out of his eyes.
"Yeah, I was sitting in a comfortable bar, having a cold beer, minding my own business, watching one of those award shows. When the camera went over the audience, I saw her. I thought I could find her if I went to California, and I did."
It was hard for me to understand what he meant. Our mother--I couldn't remember her. It was like she was dead. I'd always thought of her as being dead. Nobody ever said anything about her. The only thing I knew was the Motorcycle Boy--my father telling the Motorcycle Boy, "You are exactly like your mother." I thought he meant she had wine-colored hair and midnight eyes and maybe she was tall. Now, all of a sudden I thought maybe he didn't mean just look like her.
I felt the sweat break out in my armpits and trickle down my back. "Yeah?" I said. I think, maybe, if the street had caved in under me, or the buildings around us had exploded, I would have stood there sweating and saying, "Yeah?"
"She's living with a movie producer, or was then. She was planning on moving in with an artist who lived in a tree house up in the mountains, so she may be there now."
"She glad to see you?"
"Oh, yeah. It was one of the funniest things she'd ever heard of. I'd forgotten we both had the same sense of humor. She wanted me to stay out there with her. California was very funny. Even better than here."
"California's nice, huh?" I heard myself asking. It didn't seem like me talking.
"California," he said, "is like a beautiful wild kid on heroin, high as a kite and thinking she's on top of the world, not knowing she's dying, not believing it even if you show her the marks."
He smiled again, but when I said, "She say anything about me?" he went deaf again, and didn't hear.
"He never told me about her," I was saying to Steve. The Motorcycle Boy was ahead of us, slipping through the crowd easily, nobody touching him. Steve and me pushed and shoved at people, getting sworn at, occasionally punched. "I never bugged him about it. Hell, how was I to know he could remember anyth
ing? Six ain't old enough to remember stuff. I can't remember anything about being six."
An old drunk guy was creeping along in front of us. I couldn't stand for him to be blocking the way like that. It made me mad, and I slammed my fist into his back and shoved him into the wall.
"Hey," Steve said. "Don't do that."
I stared at him, almost blind from being so mad. "Steve," I said with effort, "don't bug me now."
"All right. Just don't go pounding on people."
I was afraid if I hit him or something he'd go home, and I didn't want to be left with the Motorcycle Boy by myself, so I said "Okay." Then, because I couldn't get it out of my mind I went on: "You'd think it'd cross his mind to tell me he saw her when he went to California. I woulda told him, if it was me. That is something he shoulda told me."
The Motorcycle Boy had stopped to talk to somebody. I didn't know who, and I didn't care. "What is the matter with you?" I asked him. I didn't see why he had to go around messing everything up. I felt like the whole world was messed up.
"Nothing," he said, walking on. "Absolutely nothing."
Steve laughed, crazy-like. We stopped to pass the bottle back and forth again. Steve leaned on a glass store window.
"I'm dizzy," he said. "Am I supposed to be dizzy?"
"Yeah," I told him. I was trying to shake off my bad mood. Here I was, having a good time, having a really good time, and I shouldn't let people mess things up for me. So what if the Motorcycle Boy saw our mother? Big deal.
"What the hell." I straightened up. "Come on."
We ran and caught up with the Motorcycle Boy. I started clowning around, trying to pick up girls, trying to start fights, just giving people trouble in general. It was a lot of fun. I might have had a really good time, except for Steve, who was scared, giggling, or throwing up. And except for the way the Motorcycle Boy was watching me, amused but not interested. After an hour Steve sat down in a doorway and bawled about his mother. I felt bad for him and patted him on the head.
