First Person Peculiar Read online

  “Okay, I’m game,” I say. “How about a Bloody Mary?”

  He licks his lips and his eyes seem to glow. “What goes into it?”

  “You’re kidding, right?” I say.

  “I never kid.”

  “Vodka and tomato juice.”

  “I don’t drink vodka and I don’t drink tomato juice.”

  Well, I figure we could spend all night playing Guess What The Fruitcake Drinks, so instead I pull out a contract out of my center drawer and ask tell him to Hancock it.

  “Vlad Dracule,” I read as he scrawls his name. “Dracule. Dracule. That’s got a familiar ring to it.”

  He looked sharply at me. “It does?”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “I’m sure you are mistaken,” he says, and I can see he’s suddenly kind of tense.

  “Didn’t the Pirates have a third baseman named Dracule back in the 60s?” I ask.

  “I really couldn’t say,” he answers. “When and where will we be performing?”

  “I’ll get back to you on that,” I say. “Where can I reach you?”

  “I think it is better that I contact you,” he says.

  “Fine,” I say. “Give me a call tomorrow morning.”

  “I am not available in the mornings.”

  “Okay, then, tomorrow afternoon.” I look into those strange dark eyes, and finally I shrug. “All right. Here’s my card.” I scribble my home number on it. “Call me tomorrow night.”

  He picks up my card, turns on his heel, and walks out the door. Suddenly I remember that I don’t know how big his group is, and I race into the hall to ask him, but when I get there he’s already gone. I look high and low for him, but all I see is some black bird that seems to have flown into the building by mistake, and finally I go back and spend the rest of the night on my couch, thinking about dinner and wondering if my timing is just a little bit off.

  Well, Pride and Prejudice, the black-and-white girls’ band that ends every concert with a fist fight, gets picked up for pederasty, and suddenly I’ve got a hole to fill at the Palace, so I figure what the hell, 50% is 50%, and I book Vlad and the Impalers there for Friday night.

  I stop by their dressing room about an hour before show time, and there’s skinny old Vlad, surrounded by three chicks in white nightgowns, and he’s giving each of them hickeys on their necks, and I decide that if this is the kinkiest he gets, he’s a lot better than most of the rockers I deal with.

  “How’s it going, sweetheart?” I say, and the chicks back away real fast. “You ready to knock ‘em dead?”

  “They’re no use to me if they’re dead,” he answers without cracking a smile.

  So I decide he’s got a sense of humor after all, though a kind of dull, deadpan one.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Barron?” he goes on.

  “Call me Murray,” I correct him. “The PR guy wants to know where you played most recently.”

  “Chicago, Kansas City, and Denver.”

  I give him my most sophisticated chuckle. “You mean there are people between L.A. and the Big Apple?”

  “Not as many as there were,” he says, which I figure is his way of telling me that the band wasn’t exactly doing S.R.O.

  “Well, not to worry, bubby,” I said. “You’re gonna do just fine tonight.” Someone knocks on the door, and I open it, and in comes a delivery boy carrying a long, flat box.

  “What is that?” asks Vlad, as I tip the kid and send him on his way.

  “I figured you might need a little energy food before you get up on stage,” I answer, “so I ordered you a pizza.”

  “Pizza?” he says, with a frown. “I have never had one before.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” I say.

  “I told you once before: I never jest.” He stares at the box. “What is in it?”

  “Just the usual,” I say.

  “What is the usual?” he asks suspiciously.

  “Sausage, cheese, mushrooms, olive, onions, anchovies …”

  “That was very thoughtful of you, Murray, but we don’t—”

  I sniff the pizza. “And garlic,” I add.

  He screams and covers his face with his hands. “Take it away!” he shouts.

  Well, I figure maybe he’s allergic to garlic, which is a goddamned shame, because what’s a pizza without a little garlic, but I call the boy back and tell him to take the pizza back and see if he can get me a refund, and once it’s out of the room Vlad starts recovering his composure.

  Then a guy comes by and announces that they’re due on stage in 45 minutes, and I ask if he’d like me to leave so they can get into their costumes.

  “Costumes?” he asks blankly.

  “Unless you plan to wear what you got on,” I say.

  “In point of fact, that is precisely what we intend to do,” answers Vlad.

  “Vlad, bubby, sweetie,” I say, “you’re not just singers—you’re entertainers. You got to give ‘em their money’s worth … and that means giving ‘em something to look at as well as something to listen to.”

  “No one has ever objected to our clothing before,” he says.

  “Well, maybe not in Chicago or K.C.—but this is L.A., baby.”

  “They didn’t object in Saigon, or Beirut, or Chernobyl, or Kampala,” he says with a frown.

  “Well, you know these little Midwestern cow towns, bubby,” I say with a contemptuous shrug. “You’re in the major leagues now.”

  “We will wear what we are wearing,” he says, and something about his expression tells me I should just take my money and not make a Federal case out of it, so I go back to my office and call Denise, the chick who dumped the soup on me, and tell her I forgive her and see if she’s busy later that night, but she has a headache, and I can hear the headache moaning and whispering sweet nothings in her ear, so I tell her what I really think of no-talent broads who just want to get close to major theatrical booking agents, and then I walk into the control booth and wait for my new act to appear onstage.

  And after about ten minutes, out comes Vlad, still dressed in black, though he’s added a cloak to his suit, and the three Impalers are in their white nightgowns, and even from where I’m sitting I can see that they’ve used too much lipstick and powder, because their lips are a bright red and their faces are as white as their gowns. Vlad waits until the audience quiets down, and then he starts singing, and I practically go crazy, because what he’s doing is a rap song, and worse still, he’s doing it in some foreign language so no one can understand the words, but just about the time I think the audience will tear the place apart I realize that they’re sitting absolutely still, and I decide that they’re either getting into it after all, or else they’re so bored that they haven’t got the energy to riot.

  And then the strangest thing happens. From somewhere outside the building a dog starts howling, and then another, and a third, and a cat screeches, and pretty soon it sounds like a barnyard symphony, and it keeps on like that for maybe half an hour, every animal within ten miles or so baying the moon, and then Vlad stops and bows, and suddenly the kids jump to their feet and begin screaming and whistling and applauding, and I start thinking that maybe it’s Liverpool all over again.

  I go backstage to congratulate him, and when I get there he’s busy giving hickeys to a couple of girls who snuck past the security forces, which isn’t as bad as sharing a snort with them, I suppose, and then he turns to me.

  “We will expect our money before we leave,” he says.

  “Out of the question, snookie,” I say. “We won’t have a count until the morning.”

  He frowns. “All right,” he says at last. “I will send an associate of mine to your office to collect our share.”

  “Whatever you say, Vlad bubby,” I tell him.

  “His name is Renfield,” says Vlad. “Don’t let his appearance startle you.”

  As if appearances could startle me after twenty years of booking rock acts.

  “Fine,” I say.
“I’ll expect him at, say, ten o’clock?”

  “That is acceptable,” says Vlad. “Oh, one more thing.”

  “Yes?” I say.

  “That scarab ring you wear on the small finger of your left hand …”

  I hold it up. “Yeah, it’s a beaut, isn’t it?”

  “I strongly advise you to take it off and hide it in your desk before Mr. Renfield makes his appearance.”

  “A klepto, huh?” I say.

  “Something like that,” answers Vlad.

  “Well, thanks for the tip, sweetheart,” I say.

  Then a Western Union girl enters the room and unloads a bushel of telegrams on Vlad.

  “What is this?” he asks.

  “It means you’re a hit, baby,” I said.

  “Oh?”

  “Open ‘em up and read ‘em,” I encourage him.

  He opens the first of them, scans it, and drops it like it’s a hot potato. Then he backs into a corner, hissing like he’s a tire losing air.

  “What’s the problem?” I say, picking up the telegram and reading it: I LOVE YOU AND WANT TO HAVE YOUR BABY. LOVE AND XXX, KATHY.

  “Crosses!” he whispers.

  “Crosses?” I repeat, trying to figure out what’s bugging him.

  “At the bottom,” he says, pointing to the telegram with a trembling finger.

  “Those are X’s,” I say. “They stand for kisses.”

  “You’re sure?” he asks, still huddled in the corner. “They look like crosses to me.”

  “No,” I say, pulling out a pen and scribbling on the telegram. “A cross looks like this.”

  He shrieks and curls into a fetal ball, and I decide that maybe he snorts a little nose candy after all, or that he just doesn’t know how to handle success, so I kiss each of the girls goodbye—their cheeks are as cold as his hand, and I make a note to complain about the heating system—and then I go home, counting all the millions we’re going to make in the next couple of years.

  Well, Renfield shows up the next morning, right on schedule, and I wonder what Vlad was so concerned about, because compared to most of the heavy metal types I deal with, he’s actually a mild, unprepossessing little fellow. We get to talking, and I find out that his hobby is entomology, and I can see that he’s really into his subject because his homely little face lights up like a Christmas tree whenever he discusses bugs, and finally he takes the money and leaves.

  Right about then I am figuring that a Mercedes is really too small and I am seriously considering getting a Rolls Royce Silver Spirit instead, but the fact of the matter is that I never see Vlad and the Impalers again. Pride and Prejudice makes bail, and Buckets of Gor beats their rap on a technicality, and suddenly the only thing I’ve got for my new superstar is a gig sponsored by a local church group, and he turns it down, and I call his hotel to explain, and he’s checked out with no forwarding address.

  I check Variety and Billboard for the next year, and I see that he’s shown up in some minor league towns like Soweto and Lusaka, and the last I hear of him he’s heading off to Kuwait City, and I think of what a waste it is and how much money we could have made for each other, but I never did understand rock stars, and this guy was a little harder to understand than most of them.

  Well, you’ll have to excuse me, but I gotta be off now. I’m auditioning a new group—Igor and the Graverobbers—and I don’t want to be late. The word I get is that they’re talented but kind of lifeless. But, what the hell, you never know where lightning will strike next.

  ***

  This is one of my favorites among my own stories, and (I think) a legitimate use of “Flowers for Algernon’s” methodology for a totally different but valid purpose. It was a Hugo nominee, and as I write these words it’s being made into a movie in China.

  Down Memory Lane

  Gwendolyn sticks a finger into her cake, pulls it out, and licks it with a happy smile on her face.

  “I like birthdays!” she says, giggling with delight.

  I lean over and wipe some frosting off her chin. “Try to be a little neater,” I say. “You wouldn’t want to have to take a bath before you open your present.”

  “Present?” she repeats excitedly, her gaze falling on the box with the colorful wrapping paper and the big satin bow. “Is it time for my present now? Is it?”

  “Yes, it is,” I answer. I pick up the box and hand it to her. “Happy birthday, Gwendolyn.”

  She tears off the paper, shoves the card aside, and opens the box. An instant later she emits a happy squeal and pulls out the rag doll. “This is my very favorite day of my whole life!” she announces.

  I sigh and try to hold back my tears.

  Gwendolyn is 82 years old. She has been my wife for the last 60 of them.

  * * *

  I don’t know where I was when Kennedy was shot. I don’t know what I was doing when the World Trade Center collapsed under the onslaught of two jetliners. But I remember every single detail, every minute, every second, of the day we got the bad news.

  “It may not be Alzheimer’s,” said Dr. Castleman. “Alzheimer’s is becoming a catchword for a variety of senile dementias. Eventually we’ll find out exactly which dementia it is, but there’s no question that Gwendolyn is suffering from one of them.”

  It wasn’t a surprise—after all, we knew something was wrong; that’s why she was being examined—but it was still a shock.

  “Is there any chance of curing it?” I asked, trying to keep my composure.

  He shook his head sadly. “Right now we’re barely able to slow it down.”

  “How long have I got?” said Gwendolyn, her face grim, her jaw set.

  “Physically you’re in fine shape,” said Castleman. “You could live another ten to twenty years.”

  “How long before I don’t know who anyone is?” she persisted.

  He shrugged helplessly. “It proceeds at different rates with different people. At first you won’t notice any diminution, but before long it will become noticeable, perhaps not to you, but to those around you. And it doesn’t progress in a straight line. One day you’ll find you’ve lost the ability to read, and then, perhaps two months later, you’ll see a newspaper headline, or perhaps a menu in a restaurant, and you’ll read it as easily as you do today. Paul here will be elated and think you’re regaining your capacity, and he’ll call me and tell me about it, but it won’t last. In another day, another hour, another week, the ability will be gone again.”

  “Will I know what’s happening to me?”

  “That’s almost the only good part of it,” replied Castleman. “You know now what lies ahead of you, but as it progresses you will be less and less aware of any loss of your cognitive abilities. You’ll be understandably bitter at the start, and we’ll put you on anti-depressants, but the day will come when you no longer need them because you no longer remember that you ever had a greater mental capacity than you possess at that moment.”

  She turned to me. “I’m sorry, Paul.”

  “It’s not your fault,” I said.

  “I’m sorry that you’ll have to watch this happen to me.”

  “There must be something we can do, some way we can fight it …” I muttered.

  “I’m afraid there isn’t,” said Castleman. “They say there are stages you go through when you know you’re going to die: disbelief, then anger, then self-pity, and finally acceptance. No one’s ever come up with a similar list for the dementias, but in the end what you’re going to have to do is accept it and learn to live with it.”

  “How long before I have to go to … to wherever I have to go when Paul can’t care for me alone?”

  Castleman took a deep breath, let it out, and pursed his lips. “It varies. It could be five or six months, it could be two years, it could be longer. A lot depends on you.”

  “On me?” said Gwendolyn.

  “As you become more childlike, you will become more curious about things that you no longer know or recognize. Paul tells me you
’ve always had a probing mind. Will you be content to sit in front of the television while he’s sleeping or otherwise occupied, or will you feel a need to walk outside and then forget how to get back home? Will you be curious about all the buttons and switches on the kitchen appliances? Two-year-olds can’t open doors or reach kitchen counters, but you will be able to. So, as I say, it depends on you, and that is something no one can predict.” He paused. “And there may be rages.”

  “Rages?” I repeated.

  “In more than half the cases,” he replied. “She won’t know why she’s so enraged. You will, of course—but you won’t be able to do anything about it. If it happens, we have medications that will help.”

  I was so depressed I was thinking of suicide pacts, but Gwendolyn turned to me and said, “Well, Paul, it looks like we have a lot of living to cram into the next few months. I’ve always wanted to take a Caribbean cruise. We’ll stop at the travel agency on the way home.”

  That was her reaction to the most horrific news a human being can receive.

  I thanked God that I’d had 60 years with her, and I cursed Him for taking away everything that made her the woman I loved before we’d said and done all the things we had wanted to say and do.

  * * *

  She’d been beautiful once. She still was. Physical beauty fades, but inner beauty never does. For 60 years we had lived together, loved together, worked together, played together. We got to where we could finish each other’s sentences, where we knew each other’s tastes better than we knew our own. We had fights—who doesn’t?—but we never once went to bed mad at each other.

  We raised three children, two sons and a daughter. One son was killed in Vietnam; the other son and the daughter kept in touch as best they could, but they had their own lives to lead, and they lived many states away.

  Gradually our outside social contacts became fewer and fewer; we were all each other needed. And now I was going to watch the only thing I’d ever truly loved become a little less each day, until there was nothing left but an empty shell.

  * * *

  The cruise went well. We even took the train all the way to the rum factory at the center of Jamaica, and we spent a few days in Miami before flying home. She seemed so normal, so absolutely herself, that I began thinking that maybe Dr. Castleman’s diagnosis had been mistaken.