The Dead Do Not Improve (20 page)

1
. And so we found ourselves at the 12 Galaxies. Field Agent Tovah Bernstein, née Officer Bar Davis, had given each of us a pager. When trouble comes, she said, press the red button. She promised her team would provide a swift response.

Who was this team? The bar was overrun with its usual crowd of dudes in their mid-thirties, each one aging catastrophically—spare tires tucked into tight V-neck shirts, horn-rimmed glasses, lenses greased up by the usual straggle of thin, long hair, a feigned earnestness, referential fucking humor—a cabal of high school girls forever updating and reupdating the parlor scenes from
Little Women
.

Also, I admit it: Carrying a gun is nice. Each time the holster banged against my chest, it felt like a bionic heartbeat. Ellen had stowed her gun in her handbag, reasoning that if there was a need to shoot, I should be the one to pull the trigger. How grateful I was to hear that! Till then, I had simply assumed that she, athlete supreme, feminist by bodily example, and recipient of better alumni magazines, would have taken the lead.

2
. The lights dimmed. The crowd shuffled up toward the stage. I looked over at Ellen. She just shook her head.

A thin man trudged onto the stage. From our spot back at the bar, all I could make out was the flash of a large pink birthmark on his cheek. I can’t remember if it was the left or right cheek. When his somber march to the microphone stand came to its end, he about-faced and said, “Thank you guys for coming out to the party. We have two wonderful performers tonight, including the man, the legend, Frank Chu. Afterward, myself and Alan, my co-owner over the years, will be saying some words for the closing of the club. But before all that tearful sadness, let’s celebrate what made the 12 Galaxies a Mission staple since 2002. Our great performers. So, first let’s welcome Mr. Brownstone to the stage.”

The black curtain behind the stage ruffled and split. Out came James, naked, save a codpiece and Ellen’s teal shoes. Pigeon-toed, ankles collapsing from the effort, he strutted up to the mike.

“Hello, everybody. Thank you so much for coming out tonight. You could’ve been anywhere, but you’re here with me, and I thank you. We have a great show for you tonight. Frank Chu is here. Thank you so much. I am Mr. Brownstone, your host for the festivities, and I’d like to get you warmed up with a little of what I call … po-eh-tree!”

From speakers hanging over the stage, a trio of voices sang out an unmistakable gospel harmony: “Well Mary, Mary don’t you weep … Tell Martha not to moan … Martha don’t you moan. Pharaoh’s army … Pharaoh’s army … know they’ve been drowned in the Red Sea … Singing, Mary … oh Mary don’t you weep … Tell Martha not to moan … Moh-whoawhoawhoa-an …”

The familiarity of the hymn, the gospel chords unmistakable from
Mahalia Jackson YouTube searches,
Ray
, and all those civil rights videos watched to kill time in elementary school Februaries, sent a charge through the crowd. Cell phones and flipcams were glowing.

I’m proud to say, I knew better. Because when the gospel trio got to the second “Martha don’t you moan,” the alto collapsed down into a flat, souring the harmony into something else, a chord I had heard hundreds of times before in Seth’s orange Volvo.

James, thank God, complied.

“Bonebonebonebone … bone … bone, bone, bone. Bonebonebonebonebone … bone … bone, bone, bone, bone! Now tell me what ya gonna do, where there ain’t nowhere to run.… When judgment comes for you, when judgment comes for you! What you gonna do, when there ain’t nowhere to hide, when judgment comes for you, ’cause it’s gonna come.…”

I heard Ellen gasp, and sweet relief washed over me again. She knew. Swelling in a pause, James threw up his hands in a maestro’s pose and waited as the crowd took in a deep breath, ready to sing along.

“Ehhh
son
, liggimowahlay, easyseemichar-LAY, lilboogodogogotay, and I’m gonna miss everybody, Imaoh​nahro​hwiBo​magaw​hathe​yloay … whepl​aywid​estin​adee fometosay … duhdo​omack​asayl​illaz​ykaymay, todlmayseewell
Bury Me
myGan-​Ganan​dhweny​oucaa​aayn.…”

DURING ONE OF
those mornings in the orange Volvo, when we were feeling wild enough to skip precalculus, Seth and I tried to transcribe every word in
E. 1999 Eternal
. How could we have known, back then, how much damage we were doing to our future selves? Because every time “Tha Crossroads” comes on, everyone, well, everyone I know, at least, starts singing along incoherently, but smiling, and I, who know the
actual words, feel cheated, at least a bit, because there are only so many songs a bunch of kids who grew up together can sing together without feeling territorial, nasty, or horny, and when these moments come unforced, it’s nice to be thinking the same things as everyone else.

I understand. I am being insufferable. It has occurred to me several times over the years to just go ahead and fake it. Mumble along with the crowd and hit the only distinguishable parts that everyone knows—“can anyone anybody tell me why? We die, we die, we die …”—and the unmistakable, feet-splitting “And I miss my uncle George.”

And yet, Ellen’s radiant face, a swimming pool at night, the kids stomping around, incoherently babbling along to this song, which could have been about anything, really (how would anyone know?), but, by dint of the music video, which featured some overly lit, dry-ice-choked stage on which the five Bone Thugs, solemn angels, clasped their hands, and pleaded for the Angel of Death to not take away their friends, that we all knew was about death, and not our deaths, but a scattershot brand whose quickness we would never quite comprehend, and, of course, the understanding that my days on earth might end tonight, all of it, dare I say, the synthesis of these melancholy, conditional thoughts, opened up a battered vault of nostalgia.

I staggered a bit. I thought of Ronizm, Bone Thugs, quesadillas in plastic bags. For some reason, I felt very sad about my sister. Once all this was over, I was going to give her a call.

JAMES HOBBLED OFFSTAGE
to riotous applause. A woman sidled up next to me at the bar. Her breasts were bundled up in a T-shirt that read
ZENGATRONIC
.

This Zengatronic smiled. She said, “James told me to tell you that he
apologizes for stealing your girlfriend’s shoes, and if you come backstage, he will both return the shoes and reimburse the cost. Please follow me.”

I reached into my pocket and hit the button of my pager. I saw Ellen do the same. Then, up near the stage, at the end of the front row of folding chairs, a head, hair grease shining in the floodlight, popped to attention.

The
heavy bolted upright, reached beneath the lapel of his leather overcoat. Steeling himself for the sight of a gun, Finch held his breath, clenched his pecs, anticipating whatever takedown he would have to employ. But the heavy only pulled out a pager, clicked it a couple of times, grunted, and settled back into his seat.

Mr. Brownstone’s performance had sprayed a viscous satisfaction over the crowd. Everyone was smiling wanly at one another, faces glistening, happy to share in the melancholy connection found only when we sing childhood songs with strangers. Especially sad, silly songs. Finch, thirty-nine in August, had never heard “Tha Crossroads” before, but even he, forever cynic, now hardened to a seemingly impending death,
could feel the joy knocking around his chest reach its tendrils out and join hands with these sappy children.

The heavy, he noticed, had craned his neck to look back at the bar, where Lionface was talking to some Asian kid in a power tie and a sturdy-looking girl whose vintage dress and hat could not quite cover up the fact that she belonged somewhere in the Marina. But before he could speculate on the identity, or, perhaps, utility of the two costumed kids, the lights dimmed.

Followed by a lone spotlight, Frank Chu trudged up the steps to the stage. Someone had put him in a beige suit, but it wore badly, loose in the ass and shoulders, dragging at the cuffs. Sweat glistened off his brow, and even from his seat, Finch could smell the unmistakable pungency of ginseng root or ginkgo leaf or one of those mediciney smells that, along with rotting fish and edible frogs swimming in kiddie pools, turn every Chinatown into a summertime horror show. At least for most of us.

His tortoiseshell sunglasses hung low on his nose, but even their opulence, squared off and clearly of the right brand, could not cover the deep lines that creased his cheeks, the gristly fat that hung down from his chin. Tightly gripped in his right hand, dented and sweating, was a can of Budweiser. Without his sign, which stood propped up against the bar, he could have been any half-cocked Chinese grandfather in any of the karaoke bars on Geary or down on Jackson, ready to sing a ballad to God knows what, probably a cherry blossom, in the preferred Chinese guttural baritone.

Good Lord, Finch thought to himself, Frank Chu looks old.

Maybe it was the oppression of the spotlight, but as Frank Chu stood at the mike, soaking in the whoops from the crowd, blinking against the flashes of the digital cameras, he cowered a bit. After the hoots and
catcalls died down, he adjusted the mike stand down, and began his raspy, rhythmic speech.

“I am glad, ah, you are all here to support, ah, my fight against the 12 Galaxies, ah, and their treasons and perversions against humanity, this is a kind place where they have given me many things like checks for one hundred dollars for advertising, ah, their bar on the back of my sign and many free complimentary Budweisers. For many years, the 12 Galaxies, ah, controlling their hurricane devices, ah, have committed war crimes against humanity, ah, like turning on their wind machines, ah, to drown the population of New Orleans because of their ancestries. The 12 Galaxies have continually withheld payment from me and my family, led by President Bill Clinton, he and the 12 Galaxies have withheld payment as they, ah, turned us into movie stars, ah, and we have support of many movie stars, ah, and they agree the 12 Galaxies must pay.”

A cheer rattled through the crowd. Even the heavy managed a slow clap.

“It is the sum of three point five billion dollars, and for many years, I have notified the authorities of this injustice done to me and my family. In 1998, the
San Francisco Chronicle
wrote a cover piece on my protests, bringing to light the injustice done to me and my family by the 12 Galaxies, who have withheld payment for many years. I thank them for their help. In 2001, the
San Francisco Examiner
named me the city’s best protester, and I thank them for helping me expose the battle between the eighteen thousand galaxies and the 12 Galaxies. But tonight is about the 12 Galaxies nightclub, which, for many years, has supported me with checks for a hundred dollars and many free complimentary Budweisers. In 2002, the club opened to help me expose the 12 Galaxies and reclaim the three point five billion dollars owed to me by President Bill Clinton.”

Someone yelled, “Impeach Clinton!” Frank Chu grimaced.

Finch had no real opinion on that. He looked back at the bar, but Lionface and the kids were gone.

Instead, he opened up his cell phone and stared in again at the image of Sarah’s hairy bush. The heavy grunted, tried to slap away the phone. In one quick motion, Finch lifted up his shirt and pulled down the waist of his pants, exposing an inch of pubes and the remains of what had once been a ripping six-pack. He snapped a photo. Smoky, dark, and badly pixelated, the photo made his pubes looked like mold creepers, but the shadowy effect had restored his six-pack to some of its prior glory. Finch typed, “LET’S COMPARE???”

The heavy jammed something into Finch’s ribs. It was probably a gun.

Finch hit
SEND
.

Zengatronic
led us through the crowd, past the stage, up to a blacked-out door. Again, I pressed the pager. Again, the thick-necked Guido type in the front row started upright. Sitting next to him was some older guy who reeked of half-formed, if not fetal, authority. Were these our saviors? I tried to make eye contact, but then thought better of it. Zengatronic knocked on the door and then turned to us. Her mouth stretched out into a receptionist’s tight smile. Ellen, hyperventilating, opened up her handbag. For a second, I thought she might puke right in there, but then I remembered.

The gun.

The door swung open.

Before committing myself, or us, rather, to whatever was beyond that door, I looked back at the crowd for Tovah Bernstein’s bleach-blond hair. There it was, just one row back, incandescent in the dimming overhead lights. Not indelicately, she leaned her head out into the aisle, looked me straight in the eye, and nodded.

Okay.