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Dear Reader, please forgive the second person; if ya want, just think ‘I’ whenever you read ‘you’.
K. So just like, first of all, ya gotta finish Volume I, and ta do this, ya gotta finish that story you started ta tell about [1] the Thanksgiving trip to the Keiser’s place down in Florida & the electric butterfly you meet there, & how when you watch her fly away is the first time you see God’s eyes in the sky [2]. It's called ‘Where the Mountains Are,’ the story; cuz you will wake up on the way back from this trip to the sound of a soggy-glass knock, & how you remember smelling the paper before you even open your eyes, & how it is that when you do finally open your eyes, and when you do see that your dad is pressing a newspaper against the window for some reason, & how it seems now that it takes your eyes forever to like, adequately focus, cuz you remember seeing the uniforms & you remember you were thinking… wait…is that… sure is Crimson & Gold, &... wait... are those … sure are…
And so then you understand everything; you understand everything, then.
And how just like ab*so*lute*ly perfectly absurd it is that this all happens at a gas station in Tennessee, like,
Where the mountains are.
&
Purcell won state last night; beat Willoughby South 26-7. In that same hour, turns out, you were dancing with your lava-winged dragon you named Tinkerbell – ha ha.
Your first Tinkerbell [3].
Anyway. VOL. I, ctd:
Where the Mountains Are
The last thing you remember before the first time you remember seeing a thing and thinking:
That’s God
is how worried you are about how much it hurts when you hear Ric Ocasek ask Jackie [4] what took her so long [5] in “Heartbeat City.”
And ok, so you remember, you were starting to tell about the strange thing that happens to you down in Florida, in Don & Jean’s backyard, with that electric or on fire or whatever, orange & blue butterfly spinning with the God’s-eyes (actually I don't remember if I told ya about her Gods-eyes yet) blooming across her back, & I was all ready to start this here book off with the finishing-up-a-the-telling a that story – I swear – but first I gotta tell about that bathing suit your sister had that summer [6] -- you’re almost positive it was 1984 -- she musta been about seven or eight, which woulda made you about nine or ten, & she had this turquoise bikini that looked like it was plugged into somethin, too, with these different-sized black polka-dots all over it, & all summer long the butterflies you remember fluttering in the sun in your backyard in those cartoon yellow blue days back when there used to be stars in the sky at night & everything else, still, too, & all summer long, these butterflies wouldn't leave her alone, perching on her shoulders like diminutive angels' wings, & your sister just kept floating around everywhere with these things all over her, like in a chlorine-dream, just like that kinda thing happened to everyone.
So you're down in Florida in the Keiser's backyard with that citrus smell all over the air e’rywhere, & you’re on your way to grab an orange offa one a the Eden-trees in their backyard, tip-toeing like a bewildered ballerina through the sparse yellow grass -- stiff as straw -- & [7] you’re cussin’ every other step cuzza those vicious little burs I toldjabout last time, I mean like in that last book, andja get ta that little island with about half a each foot left, & you're reaching up for one a the oranges & as soon as your fingers touch the rind there’s a bright orange explosion in the bottom corner of your right eye, & you remember you’re thinkin how… I mean, ok so your first thought is, like… I mean, I know this is slightly… well, nuts, k; I mean, I need you, dear reader, to know that I know this is nuts, k? But the first thing you think is:
My eye’s on fire [8].
Then you see how crazy this is, & you realize that, no, it’s just a tiny dragon.
You think, quote: oh she’s just a tiny dragon, unquote. Mostly cuzza how much my eye’s on fire strikes you as so, like, preposterous, right, that the thinking of another thought – for the sake a your own… sanity, right -- becomes necessary, like, poste haste. So… tiny dragon’s what you conjure… I guess cuz you don’t know how crazy this sounds till you hear yourself think it [9], & it is not until you feel her tiny feet tugging at the skin on the back a your right hand that this cycle of: crazy thought => urgent requirement to escape crazy thought => crazy thought, is interrupted – her dragon claws pulling you back into the night where the world’s her stage to dazzle the people thereabout with every detectable fluttering of her wings, & she’s fluttering them now as you’re listening to Bobby say something about someone muttering small talk at the wall in the background, & she wants you to watch, so she pinches you back into the dream, where it turns out you’ve turned your right hand over for her to dance on your palm properly, the hand floating in the middle of the picture like it’s been her stage since before the beginning of the world & the start of Time, both [10].
…
I don’t know, Mr. Agent-man. I’m pretty sure that’s pretty good, though. You’ll either see what I mean or you won’t. If you do, I got it made. If you don’t – after reading all the parts where the words are – then I’m delusional. Either way, I figure I’m set for life.
Where the Mountains Are, ctd. (again)
The first thing you remember thinking – nuts, I know – you remember thinking, my eye’s on fire, then ya got that ice-water through your veins & all through your gutty-wutts thing, & yeah, sorry bout the Clockwork again, but I only did it for around three syllables last time, not that anybody’s counting, I mean, like, in my-last-&-I-can’t-believe-I’m-sayin’-this, book. Like, right before the finding of the yourself of the being of the nose to nose with Johnny Carson. You remember? The quote, getting of the bit’ spatshka, unquote. Right before you didn’t cry because boys can’t cry when they’re twelve? Something glandular, surely, you’d said. About the not being able to cry when you’re twelve. After the hanging up a the sweater Grandma Harrison had got me; & the not crying again while I held that tiny Sony remote [11] under my chin. Watching a gap-toothed David Letterman trying very hard to be funny. Safely tucked into my winter comforter for all the world just like an angel in her winter cloud.
And ain’t it a good thing how you figured out what a sentence you wrote a little while ago about how watching those games on YouTube will be the bravest thing you’ve ever done meant.
You will have to watch them without dad.
And okay, so, but you’re askin: but you’ve started it with the finishing up a the writing about the on fire-butterfly with the God’s eyes on her back like the sun’d gone & melted a puddle a blue skylight on each wing, like, way too many times not to be done with it already. You’ve started a novel since the starting-it-with-the-finishing-up-a-the-writing-about-the-electric-butterfly.
So you decide it’s time to bite the proverbial bullet on this thing, & to get it done. For once & for all, & for better or worse. Today.
… & you still have not watched those games on YouTube. Not any of em. Just a few plays here & there. Like Case leaking into the end zone to beat Moeller that night before his hand turned into a star.
******************************************************************************
… & you’re thinking, I mean, your first thought is, my eye’s on fire, but then you see that, no, she’s just a…. tiny dragon’s your best guess, but you have no schemas for this. Cuz, while she looks, floats, etcetera, like a butterfly, she also looks like her wings are on fire. Two thin lips of fluttering-flame, whispering,
follow me Dylan follow me Dylan,
& you’re thinking, well this oughtta be awesome, & right on time, too; you’re not in the mood for A Christmas Story. Ninety degrees at eight pm ain’t Christmas. Ninety degrees at eight has nothing to do with Christmas. I mean, don’t get me wrong, ninety degrees at eight ain’t bad. I’m not sayin that; it’s just not Christmas is all. But she’s not beckoning. Your new friend. Her with the lip-wings dripping fire, pouring off her like electric sweat, melting back into the night. All she wants is your eyes, & she’s had those since before she said hello, & she ain’t even haffta say it. And all she wants now is for you to watch her dazzle.
So, watch her dazzle you do. You cup your palm a bit; turn your hand over. You watch her hop off the back a your hand & stick the landing before skynight-dancing, just scribbling all over the sky from one finger to the next, spinning in the air like some displaced figure skater, her lava-sweat branding scars on your fingertips like burnt-orange, ragged flags. And all you can figure now is that that was just Beauty, like, staking her claim on you, bathing your (writing) hand in magic.
And after her… um… audition, she settles on your shoulder like an incandescantly-winged & very diminutive parrot, bereft of words – muted, utterly – just lookin for all the world all of every bit as pretty as yon sunset with the green-stripe through the middle of it, like being pretty was her only purpose in the world; & you can’t wait to show your shiny new friend to Don & Jean & the kids & your dad. You walk as quickly & as carefully as you can, so as not to startle her –- & so far, so good –- on your shoulder she staying through every stinging step back to Don & Jean’s back door, & you can’t believe your luck as you’re knocking cuz on your shoulder she’s still glowing, & the spot on your shoulder she’s perching from is warmer than the rest a you, like she’s generating her own body-warmth -- & who knows, maybe she can be your new magic pet -- & now Don’s opening the door, & now you’re watching her fly away just like you knew she would, but as she’s slipping back into the sky – aiming herself all wobbly-like, right at that green Bengals’ stripe that’s torn the sun of this night in half -- you watch a pair of blue eyes bloom across her back, one slow-melting blue puddle on each wing, & just before she’s gone for good, the eye on her right shoulder… winks at you, & when she does this, you hear a whispered click, & your eyes quit the silly dancing in your head they been doin since you met her, so you forgive her for setting them on fire.
Endnotes
[1] & I promise you, Holden – or if this is the man JD himself, even -- if you don’t leave my voice alone, there're gonna be murders. Plural. I'll kill ya twice; I’ll snatch you right out that book & magic you into the being of an alive thing, & after I kill ya the first time, I’m’a study up on how to bring ya back ta life so I can kill ya again. I’m just sayin.
Leave. My Voice. Alone.
[2] The second time will come when you meet a certain Dr. TJ Eckleberg -- &, don’t worry, you will be hearing about him plenty, I imagine, from now on. So, you know, don’t say I didn’t warn ya.
[3] & I reckon it’s safe enough to say you’ll pro’lly hear at least a little about my second Tinkerbell. In this volume, I’m sayin.
[4] or like how your eyes caught on fire just now listening to Bobby tell someone how much of a drag it is to see em.
[5] And now you’re remembering how the first time you see Jay Koch catch one a those spinning leather balls way up, up in the sky like that, that he is the man glowing Crimson & Gold in your bat signal because when you see him stretched-out in the air right in frunta you -- like live & in person, et all -- you actually feel him shake his shadow awake, & it's blooming in real life like, right there in the middle of your eyes. And all he’s doing is becoming who he is – cuz he has no idea he is the Shadow in your bat signal anymore than you do before you see him there.
And now you're remembering that he was the six-two center of the team you remember your dad was always telling everyone Stahl took to the state title; and then that he was just a junior and the second guy off the bench on that team, so it had to've been the team the year after we won state he was the starting center of, and then how that team featured a five-four point guard who'd transferred from some school in Chicago so he could play for Coach.
Wimpy Woods.
My God.
Where are you now?
Still the best handle you've ever seen. He made Magic Johnson look like he was moving in slow motion, & I am not kidding; & to watch that kid play point on the press makes you remember the stories your dad would tell decades later about what would happen to triple A defenses when Billy Hamilton got on base.
And about how thrilling it is to be remembering like this after forgetting for so long cuz you were so afraid they might not be there if you, like, looked for em, & then that if they wouldn’t be there how scared it makes you to know how much you wouldn't be able to face the rest a your life without em cuz you know almost exactly how much you needed em to get this far.
[6] ’84; you’re almost positive.
[7] Or:
& cussin’ your confounded leaving of the flip-flops all the way & what this really reminds you of – this hoppin & cussin you keep doin the whole way to that little island a orange trees (&, actually, you’re remembering now how it was really sorta two islands banked up against one another, adjacent, like a figure 8) is Huck’s pap after he barks his shins on the tub.
You just could not stop yourself from writing bewildered ballerina.
You & the forest & the trees.
Your Grand Ma, your dad’s mom – that German gypsy witch chanting prayers all night every night like magic spells, the one you once threatened yes you did to wrap a rosary around the throat of till she turned blue which doesn’t make any sense like at all to you, cuz well she’s a witch, & if they don’t float you doubt they turn blue like ever like at all like no matter how long you choke em or whatever it is you’re chokin em with, but also, you’re thinkin now, you’re remembering how that’d be a curious experiment… ta sorta see which magic is better. I toldja bout her in that last book, in the story I told about with the girls & the broken eyes in it – warned you about that. About you & the forest & the trees.
[8] Only you don’t emphasize eye’s; you don’t emphasize any words, in either pitch or volume. You just think -- my eye’s on fire -- like that’s some kinda normal thing.
[9] Or:
…& as soon as your fingers touch the rind, you watch a seem of bright fire scream open on the back a your hand; & you’re remembering how long it takes you to recognize the thing’s a butterfly, cuz – remembering it now it’s like you’re watching a slow-motion dream, or like you’re… watching yourself in a… slow-motion movie -- & she’s the only color in it, like the red coat at the end of Schindler’s List – or her hair at that bar in “You and Her” -- & you watch yourself smiling at how after you think the crazy thing about your hand like, spontaneously, like… manifesting
lit*er*al fire,
you think – cuz your hand don’t hurt like it oughtta, it bein on fire & all – you think:
oh thank God, it’s just my eyes caught on fire, just now…
&… ok; only your eyes don’t hurt either, & it’s not till you feel her dig her tiny nails into the skin on the back a your hand that what you’ve almost, like, final-answer-decided is a tiny dragon, is actually just a butterfly caught her wings on fire, somehow, only she musta put whatever that stuff is lets people light theirselves on fire & not burn, cuz her wings ain’t goin nowhere. I mean, they’re on fire & all, it’s just they ain’t burnin away like they oughtta be, like they’re fire-proof -- made a magic stuff – cuz by all rights those things shoulda gone up in smoke way before the fire even got to ‘em.
[10] & look -- quick -- look there, see... cuz that’s God, there, too. See Her, there – on yer shoulder, there -- makin a run for it there with Her wings in the air…
[11] Do you remember that, Kell? That little Sony remote, went with that little Sony TV? And didn’t it end up like over at the-
L
O
L-
Deitch twins?
Yeah? And were you ever over there when me & Donnie’d stay over, & next morning we’d hit up like, e'ry drive through in like, a ten mile radius with the ‘we came through the drive through about an hour ago’ act we used ta do. And who’s gonna argue with a couple Slim Shady clones rollin through the drive-thru in a jet black custom Mustang – five-point-o – in the middle a rush hour? Lmao. Yeah dude, we’d come back with enough food for a couple a football teams. Which, gawd knows, one could show up, like -- any-minute-now -- over there. You remember that place, right? I just mean, you know what it was like over there. How anything could happen. It was, like, you could be there for days, & nothin’s goin’ on & nothin’s goin’ on & nothin’s goin’ on, & next time you look up, it’s like, everything’s goin’ on, like, everywhere you look, right? Like, we’d just be smokin’ weed all day for like a week -- like, three, four, like, just outta high school hippies with white people problems, & so ignorant of our what the cool kids these days are callin’ privelege, that if there were any Justice in the world, we’d be haunted by it [both the privilege itself, & our ignorance of it] for till past forever. For starters. Then we’d call LaRosa’s so we could have something to eat on the ride home. Wow.
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