Period Page 6
feel it when I do,
since you’re not me,
though I hold you so
dear, so deep, past
the point of knowing
what’s real. There’s
something there, but
it’s not here. Here’s
my thing, a thing
where you’re held
all the time, or so it
feels. You shouldn’t
have left me alone,
as I said. It makes
you too much of a
thing. Your thing
isn’t love. It’s here,
but that’s mine, not
you. You’re there.
NATETAN:
Okay, I just opened that website. What the fuck is going on? Those are pictures of me. What kind of bullshit is this? Who are you?
ANONBOY16:
Course they’re pictures of you. What do you mean?
ANONBOY16:
Hello?
ANONBOY16:
You still there?
NATETAN:
You made the whole thing up, didn’t you? How do I know you’re not lying? How do I know you’re not some friend of Walker’s who’s trying to fuck with my head?
ANONBOY16:
Don’t know any Walker. Don’t even know how to lie.
ANONBOY16:
Hello?
NATETAN:
You send me a picture that you say is you, but how do I know that? You say you wrote me because some psychic told you I’m George Miles’s energy source or whatever, and now there’s a website with all these pictures of me, and it says they’re George Miles, and my dream in life is to be like him. It’s pretty weird, even for my life.
ANONBOY16:
What are you saying? You’re not George Miles? Don’t understand, sorry. Don’t know what’s weird or not. My whole life’s strange now. But everything I said is true.
ANONBOY16:
Hello?
NATETAN:
Prove it. I want to come meet you. I really need to get out of here. Everything’s fucked up with Walker. He doesn’t believe in me anymore. What’s your address and all that?
ANONBOY16:
Don’t know. Live with that forest ranger in a tree house. It’s miles from anything.
NATETAN:
Right. Come on, please. Okay, I’m not George Miles. That was bullshit. I was just fucking with you. But you wanted to know about the guy in the pictures, right? That’s me.
ANONBOY16:
Don’t know what to believe. Don’t trust you. You said you’re a liar. You say you’re not George. Then you say you are. Then you say those are pictures of you, but you’re not George. Don’t know what weird is, but that’s weird.
NATETAN:
I swear it’s true.
ANONBOY16:
You swear what’s true?
NATETAN:
We can be friends.
ANONBOY16:
Friends how? You’re a liar, and I don’t know who I am.
NATETAN:
I know. It’s perfect.
ANONBOY16:
No.
NATETAN:
Please.
NATETAN:
Tell me where you live. I’ll hitchhike. No problem.
ANONBOY16:
No. Gotta go.
NATETAN:
Fuck.
I can’t stumble backwards.
Not even a daydream
will light my way there.
Its history is historical.
Its point’s been forgotten
and I grow inconsolable
when I think about then,
then so numb to everything else
I beg myself to reopen.
To spend one afternoon
like I did when George lived,
his beauty astonishing me,
my interest frightening him,
being too far from home.
His words few and slurred,
my words influencing no one.
I see straight through me.
I don’t know how he felt.
I’m still his inattentive admirer.
There is someone that wild
about him still alive looking
over my shoulder at such
an illusion of him—a boy
I would kill myself to see.
—Walker Crane
Converse
The Omen’s rustic van turned down a battered dirt road, into woods made unreal by a low, swishy fog. Etan saw a dim ghost off their one, crooked headlight, and stuck out his thumb. He had long hair, girlish cheekbones, no build, and a t-shirt inscribed with The Omen. He climbed in back, recognized their distinctive facades, and tried everything to impress them. Then Henry handcuffed and gagged him at knifepoint. When the trees nailed Duke’s image of nowhere, he parked on a shoulder. They hustled the hitchhiker into a field, lit a campfire, and let him run around squawking until he collapsed on the ground like an exhausted tornado.
5:37: Hot in here. Muggy.
5:38: Opened the window some.
5:40: Birds, wind. Fog a ways off.
5:41: Tops of trees.
5:42: Maybe a wild dog.
5:45: Yeah, it is.
5:46: It’s eating something.
5:50: Bored.
5:51: Gonna check my e-mail.
5:53: Waiting for it.
5:53: Fingers crossed.
5:54: Just one from Etan.
5:55: Wondering if I should read it.
5:56: Thinking.
5:56: Subject: Answer me or else.
5:57: Shit.
5:58: Reading it.
6:01: He’s gonna kill himself if I don’t answer.
6:02: Closed it.
6:03: Deleted it.
6:05: Sad.
6:07: Thinking I should take a walk.
6:08: Might help.
6:09: Looking down the ladder.
6:10: Yes, no, yes, no.
6:11: Climbing.
— Let me make sure this is working. Say something, Henry.
— Satan rules?
— Duke speaking. Hello, hello. Okay, I’m set.
— We don’t have a ton of time. Not to mention it’s freezing.
— I know. So what’s about to happen?
— The whole story.
— Your call.
— From the beginning.
— Or not. Either way, let’s get going.
— You mind?
— It’s up to you.
— Well, we were on tour. During our vogue. You know all this.
— Forget me. I’m everyone.
— So … let’s see, we’d just played the Hard Rock in Vegas, and I was in the casino—I forget where you were—and I saw this guy. And I thought, I want him. It was more than a thought. I had to have him. I was a little high. I thought, what do I want from him? I went down the list. Friendship, sex, boyfriend, mentor. Then I canceled them out for one reason.
— Being what?
— He wasn’t into me.
— You could have said, I’m in The Omen.
— If I’d wanted to fuck him.
— And you didn’t? Yeah, right. Back then? Come on.
— I wanted a quick, complete read. Sex, sure. Why not? But that wasn’t the point. Sex was just the most obvious … whatever. This is strange.
— What’s strange?
— Being interviewed as me. By you. I feel a little stiff.
— Stiff’s okay. It’s refreshing. So you thought, I want to kill him.
— No. No, I thought something like, I want to take him somewhere and find out what I want. It’s just that before I saw him, I’d been confused. I’d think, Am I a sadist? I’m not. Am I a closeted murderer? No. I was categorizing, and when I saw him, I stopped.
— So why wasn’t he your first?
— I don’t know. Because I didn’t know what I wanted. He was with friends. Plus, there was you. I didn’t know wha
t you’d think. I mean you you, not everyone you.
— I figured. What did he look like?
— You know. The obvious.
— Give me something concrete.
— Okay. Skinny, pale. Gawky. Turned up nose, long brown hair. You know, imagine my usual type without any Goth trappings.
— Hm. Lukas Haas in Mars Attacks? For the record.
— Less horsey.
— That guy in … the Bertolucci film. What’s it called? Who fucks his mom? I guess that’s a little obscure.
— Close. Maybe girlier. Let me think.
— Well, looking at him, and removing a few years, I’d say … the young Richard Lloyd. Marquee Moon, or just before.
— Wait. Vincent Kartheiser.
— In Another Day in Paradise?
— Younger. In Heaven Sent. No, wait, in Masterminds.
— I can see that. So do you regret losing out?
— What do you mean?
— That it was impossible with him.
— Well, it’s not, as you know.
— I mean then. Don’t be an asshole, Henry.
— No, no. It’s perfect. If I’d murdered him then, he’d have just been the first. I’ve sort of blocked out the first one.
— The name escapes me. The guy who lived.
— Yeah, exactly. No, it’s like fate. I just realize my whole “guiding their souls into Hell” overlay was the problem, and, bang, he reappears. I’ve practiced, I’ve learned, I’ve fucked up, and now I’m ready for him. Square one. Full circle. It’s perfect.
— I guess we should say he’s right here.
— Yeah. Over there. Five feet away. Less. Unbelievable.
— And you’re absolutely sure it’s him.
— I’m sure. He said so himself.
— Then as soon as you started to gag him, he said he’d been lying.
— He got scared. It’s fucking obvious, okay?
— He also said he was immortal.
— Come on, Duke. It goes with the fan thing.
— So the first guy who says he was in Vegas that day is the one.
— It makes no sense, and it makes perfect sense.
— Maybe it makes too much sense.
— It makes everything up to this point make sense. To me, anyway.
— Look, what am I supposed to do here, Henry? Do I call you on this, or do I let you just play this thing out?
— You’re upset.
— Bullshit. About what?
— About you-know-what. You’re upset that it’s over. That you’re the less famous guy in The Omen again.
— I’m a lot of things.
6:31: Walking south, I think.
6:33: Can’t tell.
6:35: Nicer trees. Smelling ’em.
6:38: More of ’em.
6:40: Feeling one’s bark.
6:40: Colder than me.
6:41: Not as cold as the ground.
6:43: Strange leaves, too.
6:43: Reminding me of things.
6:45: One of ’em especially.
6:46: Important.
6:47: Tore it off.
6:47: It’s in my pocket.
6:55: Just walked some more.
6:56: Wish I brung my coat.
7:01: Boulder or two.
7:03: Resting on one of ’em.
7:09: Something.
7:09: Over there?
7:10: Someone’s coming.
7:10: Yeah.
7:10: A man.
7:11: Gonna hide behind the rocks.
7:13: Still hiding.
— So, indulge me, Henry. I want to throw out some reasons why people don’t kill, and see what you say.
— You wrote them down? Let me see.
— Yeah, I have a list here.
— Wow.
— Quit looking. First, guilt.
— You’re serious. Well, hunh. Okay, to feel guilt, I’d have to know that I fucked someone up. How can I know that? I can’t possibly know what some dead guy’s friends or family feel, since I don’t know them. Let me guess. They cry, they’re shocked, they’re depressed, they’re pissed off. Even there, I’m imagining things.
— Haven’t you wondered what they’d have become? The guys.
— The world’s here. It’s doing fine. Nothing important is missing. Just little things, personal things.
— I still say you can’t know that.
— What do you think would be different if they were around?
— The point is, you can’t predict with teenagers. They’re still developing. They’re just human transitions.
— Exactly. They’d been some kid, but they weren’t anymore. They might have become some adult. They were just these in-between creatures who lived to get high, and fuck, and listen to us, and whatever else. Make plans. So they had huge plans or goals, none of which would have panned. Remember us at nineteen? The Rolling Stones of the nineties? Ring a bell?
— You’re generalizing.
— Sure.
— Then get specific. Pick one guy.
— Any guy? How about this one. To be boring.
— Him, right. He could do something three hours from now that he won’t get to do.
— Okay, fine. What do we know about him? He’s some hick. He likes our stuff. He’s into Satan. He was in Vegas once. Not that smart. Isn’t artistic. Needs a bath. Pretty typical.
— And he’s cute.
— He’s cute. So he would have turned people on. Or been loved, had kids. Played bass or drums in a bad local band. Even that’s pushing it. So you tell me what’s missing.
— It doesn’t matter what I think. You never feel guilt.
— I don’t see the point in making up some adult and then blaming myself that he never existed. That would be psychotic.
— I’m not sure if you want to explain this on tape, but he’s the last guy you’re … well, we’re going to kill, right?
— Well, that’s the idea. That’s the hope. Oops.
— What?
— I think he heard. I mean the guy. Look at him. He must know. Struggle, struggle, struggle. Amazing.
— Why don’t you take off the gag and find out?
— Yeah, right.
— So, are you satisfied?
— With what? Oh, not really. That’s what I’m saying. I thought I’d be somewhere much heavier than I am. I thought I’d be more than the nth guy who killed cuter guys. Ah, youth. But there’s never been a better record. Thanks to you.
— Do you know that for sure?
— Pretty sure.
— Anything close?
— Well, how can I know? I’ve read things. I’ve seen what’s around. Nothing I’ve seen tops the stuff that you’ve shot.
— So what have you seen? For the record.
— Well, the Berdellia stuff, the complete Randy Kraft stuff. All those guys. Kearny, Bonin, Gacy—
— Gacy? I didn’t know he kept records.
— Sporadically.
— Any shots of Robert Piest?
— The last one. The gymnast.
— Yeah.
— Why?
— When I was a kid, I had a thing for Robert Piest, or the fact that he’d been murdered because he was cute, or something.
— He was classy.
— But when I read the accounts, it was such a letdown. Nothing happened. The guy wouldn’t put out, so Gacy strangled him to death. It took, like, five minutes.
— Yeah, but for a moron like Gacy, who’d kill the first loser he saw on the street … to score with someone like Piest, a real teenaged boy with a promising life, then to throw that away … Damn. I wonder if he knew.
— Knew what?
— He knew … had to know that he’d never score bigger than Piest. And that he could never kill Piest, and do the kid justice. That he didn’t have the brains, or the time, or the equipment. I’ll bet it killed him to throw Piest away. I’ll bet he would have sold his soul to do it over again. I’l
l bet no one else in the world even mattered to him after that. I’ll bet he was completely in love.
— So were there any pictures?
— A couple. God, you’re obsessed.
— They must have been “after” pictures.
— I’m trying to remember. I think he’s lying in a bathtub. On his side, curled up. His pants are down around his knees. Maybe he’s handcuffed, behind the back. Not great shots.
— This is embarrassing, but did he have a nice ass?
— A great ass. He was a gymnast.
— See, I don’t know why, but I find that so frustrating.
7:31: He just left.
7:31: Hunter maybe. Had a gun and all.
7:33: Says a town’s not too far that way.
7:33: East, I think.
7:35: Thinking.
7:36: Calculating when it’ll be dark from the shadows.
7:37: Gonna walk there.
7:40: Dog. Looking strangely at me.
7:41: It’s following me.
7:43: It stopped.
7:44: Just nicer and nicer trees.
7:49: Okay.
7:49: Looking down into a valley.
7:50: See buildings.
7:51: Simple ones, wooden. Some of ’em smoking.
7:53: Like whatchacallit.
7:54: Can’t remember.
7:54: Hate myself sometimes.
7:57: Sorry. Sad.
7:58: Going down there. Got a feeling.
8:00: No trail anymore. Making one up.
8:04: Scared.
8:06: Just fell.
8:07: Skidded and ripped my pants.
8:07: Bleeding.
8:09: Can’t walk too well.
8:10: Stupid, stupid, stupid.
8:16: House.
8:17: Can’t walk anymore.
8:21: Crawling to it.
— I want to get back to the list.
— You mean away from Robert Piest.
— Yeah, so?
— I’m just making the distinction.
— So what about the spiritual stuff around murdering someone? You know, karma, the Christian Hell, blah blah blah.
— I’m one of those guys who thinks … what, religion’s how wimps get their emotional exercise? I don’t know, Satan rules? It’s kind of a joke, all that. Religion. It’s just like a tone, isn’t it? Sometimes I half believe in fate, which is sort of spiritual.
— Fate as in …
— I don’t know. That things happen. That time’s sort of prearranged, maybe. We can’t tell, because it’s an avant-garde thing. A Walker Crane kind of thing. So we’re part of it. When we’re born, there’s this weird, ordained path to our deaths. Our own little story line, maybe. And we take it. Is that too convenient?