A Kind of Mirraculas Paradise Read online

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  CONTENTS

  Genesis

  IM ROBERT

  The Way Society Was

  THE CAGED WINDOW

  A Blank

  ::WEEEEE:::

  You Can Call It Anything

  A LIVING ZOMBIE:

  A Real Shocker

  FAMOUSE

  The Right Treatment

  GOD HAD ANSWERED

  Three Days

  LOUISIANA

  Any Other Way

  THE FANNZE

  What a Shame

  THE SERVICE

  The Story of Annadonia

  TABBACO ROAD

  The Fifth Portrait

  PARADISE

  For Uncle Bob

  Genesis

  Late one hot summer night several years ago, I got a call from a number that wasn’t in my phone. I had recently moved to the Midwest for graduate school and was at a party in someone’s living room. I wouldn’t usually answer such a call, but in recent days I’d met and given my number to a lot of people. I found a bedroom and, shutting the door behind me, answered.

  “Hey, man. How you doing?” It was my uncle, my mom’s older brother Bob.

  Though I couldn’t tell you when we’d last spoken, I recognized his voice right away. Bob had been a teenager in Berkeley in the sixties, and his voice sounded stuck there. He sprinkled his sentences with “Yeah, man” and “Right on” and “Far out.” He laughed a lot—his was a wild, wheezing laugh—and, given that he was a smoker, his laughs would often devolve into a loud hack.

  “Hey, Bob,” I said. I set my glass on a dresser and flicked on a light. He asked if I had moved yet, and I said yes. Some relative must have told him that and that I was studying writing.

  “Hey, I wrote a book, man. I wrote the story of my life,” he said.

  “Is that right?”

  He talked for a while. He asked for my new address, and without much thought, I gave it to him. I told him I had to go, though.

  “Oh, alright, sorry, man,” he said, and repeated several times, “Thank you, Sandy, thanks, man.” It was unclear what he was thanking me for or what I had agreed to do.

  “It’s totally fine,” I said, and hanging up, quickly forgot about the conversation altogether.

  :::::

  I didn’t know my uncle well. The most time I’d spent around him had been when I was a kid, in the nineties. I’d grown up just north of San Francisco, in a little enclave of aging hippies on the coast, and most of the rest of my mom’s family lived about an hour away, in the East Bay. Bob’s house was somewhere else, somewhere I’d never been. Sometimes Bob would be at my grandfather’s house when we went for Christmas. In the summer, my grandfather would fly us all out to his vacation place in northern Minnesota, and sometimes Bob would be there, too.

  The property had a main lodge in its center, and an old tennis court, and a dock. Little sandy paths ran through the birches, connecting everything together. The single-family cabins were each named after a different tree. When my parents, my little brother, and I joined, we stayed in a cabin with a sign beside its screen door that read PINE.

  Bob was single and didn’t have kids. He didn’t often water-ski or swim or play tennis. He’d mostly sit off to the side, in the shade, wearing long sleeves and jeans, sometimes a vest. His hair was long and blond beneath a dusty cap, and he wore glasses. He smoked all the time—mostly cigarettes, but sometimes a pipe that smelled like wood and cherries. He didn’t sleep in a cabin like the rest of us, but in the lodge, up a dark staircase I don’t remember ever ascending.

  Bob was a musician, and he knew I liked to sing. In the evenings, before the bell in the lodge was rung for dinner, I’d hear him playing guitar through our cabin’s screen. I’d go sit beside him. I’d fiddle with the moss on the cement step and Bob would strum, and we’d try to figure out what to play. We didn’t know many of the same songs. Sometimes we just took turns describing those we did know. Sometimes he just played, or I just sang. Sometimes we made up songs together, songs that were absurd and funny to either or both of us. If you’d asked me then, that would have been my main opinion of my uncle Bob: he was hilarious.

  :::::

  One day Bob and I were buckled into the backseat of a rental car, waiting for someone to drive us into the town nearby, probably to play miniature golf and get ice cream. From his pocket, Bob pulled out a powdery plastic bag of pills. He removed one, held it up, and then chewed it with his teeth, like steak. He laughed like he wanted me to laugh, too. So I did.

  He produced another pill and did the same. Several pills later, the ritual was finished and he put the bag away. Something was frightening about this.

  “Why are you taking pills?” I asked.

  “It’s noon. Gotta take pills at noon,” he said, and grinned.

  I smiled back.

  Later I found my mom. She spent her days down on the dock, wearing sunglasses and a big hat, killing mosquitoes and horseflies with a pair of swatters.

  “Why does Bob take pills at noon?” I asked.

  The lake’s water stank in the midsummer heat.

  “Because he’s crazy,” she answered.

  “Why?”

  “I think Dad sent him to military schools after the divorce or something,” she said, “and he got messed up in there.”

  My mom is a shy woman, and this was the kind of topic that made her face redden and her voice fall.

  :::::

  He’d call us fairly often back then.

  “Hi, Bobby,” my mom would sigh when she’d realize it was him. She’d pace around with the phone to her ear, muttering “Uh-huh” or “Yeah,” too polite to hang up but also not that interested. Eventually, she’d say she had to go, that she was busy, which was never a lie.

  Sometimes she’d hand me the phone. He’d say, “Hey, Sandy,” and launch right into talking about whatever was going on where he lived—a neighbor who kept bees, a friend who was going panning for gold. He’d talk about stuff he’d seen on TV. He’d ask me questions about my interests and schoolwork, and no matter what I said, he’d seem really interested, saying, “That right, man?” and “Far out.”

  He’d mail us cassettes of his music, which were labeled things like “HERMIT” and “March 96.” His songs were long, sometimes very long, and unvaried, always low and melancholy. Sometimes there’d be a noodling electric guitar, or a synthesized drumbeat, or unintelligible vocals, like someone yelling underwater. Sometimes he’d share a new song by playing it into our answering machine. Occasionally, he ran out our tape.

  He’d leave comedic monologues on our answering machine, too, ones performed as a duo of characters he’d created by recording his voice and then either speeding it up or slowing it down. The first character was called the Slow Man. His messages always began “Helllllllo. This. Is. The. Slooooooow. Maaaan.” The fast-talking character was called Timothy Headache. Timothy Headache usually wanted something—to sell you a car or be elected to office. His messages would screech real fast: “Hey oh boy this is Timothy Headache and wow have I got a deal for you!” In fourth grade, I’d perform imitations of both the Slow Man and Timothy Headache to my friends at recess. I referred to their creator as “my crazy uncle Bob.” r />
  What “crazy” meant I wasn’t exactly sure, and the fact that I didn’t understand it bothered me. As a child, I often quizzed the adults I knew about their pasts, and back then I’d ask my mom fairly often about her brother, about what happened to him and why. About why their parents had divorced, and why Bob lived with just their father after the divorce while my mom and her sister lived with their mother. My mom didn’t seem to know the answers to these questions. She didn’t like talking about her past, often saying she had a bad memory. My mom, whose family called her Debbie, had been the baby of her family, four and five years younger than Bob and their older sister, respectively. My mom was quiet, like her dad. My sense was that, as her family split apart over the course of the sixties, few in her family paid her much mind. I picture her, little pretty Debbie with her milky hair, running by and out of view.

  Her explanation about her brother—something about a military school—remained unsatisfying. She remembered going to see him in the hospital. It was “creepy,” she said. Guys in pajamas, smoking cigarettes, strung out. When I was a little older, she admitted that whatever had happened to Bob may have had to do with drugs.

  At some point, Bob stopped joining us on those vacations to Minnesota. I don’t know that I noticed his absence all that much; we stopped going, too, when I was in middle school. Eventually, he stopped driving down for Christmas, though again I didn’t much notice, and at some point his calls mostly stopped, maybe because we got better at not answering. On holidays, though, Thanks-giving, or one of our birthdays, he’d call in the morning. First thing the phone would ring, and my mom would say, “That’s Bobby.”

  :::::

  The idea of going to visit Bob never came up during my childhood. A few times a year we’d drive to the East Bay to see my mom’s other relatives. For a long time I figured he must have just lived too far away. Later, I realized this wasn’t true; his house was only about three hours north, near the Oregon border.

  Once when I was about sixteen, my mom and I even passed near where he lived and we didn’t stop to see him. I felt bad, and a few years later, when another opportunity came up to drop by, I decided I would. I was road-tripping with a couple friends across the country in their two cars, which they wanted back at school, and realized our route would take us right near Bob’s house. I dug up his number and asked if it’d be alright if some friends and I stopped by to see him the next day.

  He sounded so shocked and thrilled.

  As we sped up I-5 the next morning, I contemplated this decision I had made to go see my uncle. I had no idea what his house would be like or what state it’d be in. I couldn’t remember when I’d last seen him. I apologized to my friends in advance for whatever happened. We could stop at Wendy’s or something after, I said. I’d buy them lunch.

  :::::

  Off his exit were mostly parking lots. Plastic trash wafted on chain-link fences. We continued out into the country, where the hard red earth was dotted with occasional houses and oak trees. Finally, off a long unpaved road, I spotted his five-digit address.

  His home was modest and painted brown and not as ramshackle as I might have guessed it would be. It was August, and so hot our tires swelled.

  We parked in front. Bob walked out, as did his two dogs, both girls. They circled us, curious and shy. I had failed to mention that we’d be arriving in two cars; this fact really caught him off guard.

  “Driving up here, I thought you were the CIA, man!” he exclaimed several times. I explained what was going on, and he got it and laughed, shaking each of their hands. He was rounder than I had remembered. We hugged briefly, and as we separated, I was startled by how much his face looked like my mom’s.

  We followed him into his space. It was dark inside—the blinds were drawn—and it stank. It stank like someone had sat inside smoking cigarettes for twenty-five years. The walls were as yellow as his teeth. A television was talking loudly to itself.

  My friends and I sat in a row across his peeling faux-leather sofa. Bob lowered himself into a big chair. I realized his bed was also in the living room, right behind his chair. In one motion, he lit a cigarette and looked at each of us, seemingly overjoyed we had come.

  He started showing us things. “This is a new television.” He tapped its top. “I had the old one on for about twenty years, and it finally died. Don’t worry, I got this new one within the hour.” He laughed and we all laughed and he coughed.

  He next wanted to play us a song, a track he’d recorded. It was like the ones he used to send us—low and slow, with guitar and drum machine and words I couldn’t understand. We sat listening and he stared at us.

  One of my friends was also a musician and thought Bob might want to hear a song he had recently recorded himself. He took out his iPod and plugged it into the stereo while Bob muttered that he’d never seen such a thing. Bob looked impatient while my friend’s song played. In a corner of the ceiling, hanging on a fishing line, was a model of Han Solo’s Millennium Falcon. The cobwebs clinging to it were thick and orange as coral.

  My friend realized that Bob might at least like his new tattoo, given that he liked rock music. It was John Lennon’s self-portrait from the cover of Imagine, he explained, rolling up his sleeve.

  Bob leaped back in horror. “Whoa, man, don’t show me that thing!” he yelled. “The government tracks us with those things!” He pointed at me. “Never get one of those, you promise me, Sandra?”

  “Okay,” I said.

  Next he wanted to show us his recording studio. As we followed him down the short hallway, he pointed out a framed poster hanging in his bathroom, a wolf on a cliff beneath an oversize moon. “Isn’t that something, man?” he asked me.

  His toilet bowl was stained a dark brown.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  The studio occupied what appeared to be the house’s bedroom. It was filled with guitars and amps and keyboards and other equipment, all coated with a thick layer of dust. He pointed to a certificate tacked on the wall, something about welding. It had never occurred to me that Bob might have had a job. He pointed to another piece of paper in a frame, something about the military.

  “I’m a veteran,” he said, which didn’t sound to me like it could possibly be true.

  He began turning on all his equipment, and as he did, the anticipatory buzzing in the room grew and grew—everything was already turned up as loud as it could go. He looked at us and grinned, and when he depressed a single key, the whole place quaked as if we were in the belly of a great laughing beast.

  Afterward, we sat on his back porch. It was hot enough to make you sick. He served us shrimp that had been arranged on a black plastic tray by someone at a supermarket, and a box of Wheat Thins. I felt terrible that he’d gone out of his way to buy us these things, and I thanked him.

  We looked out at his property, the dirt, the wisps of blond grass, the coyote bushes and oak trees. We complimented it, and Bob told us about his neighbors and his irrigation lines in front, which fed a couple saplings.

  After a while, my friends walked with Bob back toward the cars. I lagged behind. As I came down the small step off the porch, I felt the wood break beneath me and, stopping myself from falling, turned back to see the stair dangling like a child’s tooth.

  I could hear Bob and my friends talking on the other side of the house.

  I hastened to join them, deciding not to tell Bob what had happened. It was clear the step had been bound to break, and it seemed he didn’t often go outside anyway. We had to get going, I told myself, and I didn’t want to get into a whole thing with my uncle.

  Bob and I hugged goodbye. My friend took a picture of us standing side by side. My friends and I got into our cars. Bob and his dogs returned inside his house. We drove back out of town and away. Countless times since, I’ve thought about how content I would have been to remain knowing only that much about Bob.

  :::::

  When the fat manila envelope arrived, I wondered for a second what it
was.

  And then I remembered his call the week before, when he’d asked to mail me something.

  Bob had written my new address in Iowa City in large capital letters. He’d affixed a small sticker with his own address in a corner.

  Inside was a stack of yellowed paper about a half inch thick. On a piece of notepad paper he’d written a brief note in capital letters: “ITS A HORRIBLE MESS (SPELLING ETC.) BUT I WILL PAY YOU FOR IT PLEASE DONT WORRY ABOUT MY BELIEFS LOVE YA.”

  I thought back to our conversation, wondering what it was Bob believed he was paying me to do.

  :::::

  I flipped through the pages, which were still curled with the memory of his typewriter and stank like cigarettes. He’d used almost exclusively capital letters, with no paragraph breaks; each page was a wall of text. There were colons everywhere, sometimes big rows of them, and the spelling indeed looked pretty bad. There were places where he’d typed letters on top of one another, or crossed things out and written other things in.

  From what I could tell, it seemed to be a rather straightforward autobiography, the facts of his life set down in order. It opened with a description of his life as it was when he was a kid. He stated his father’s name and profession. He gave the names and ages of his two sisters. He wrote that he had attended John Muir Elementary School in Berkeley, California, which was

  VERY DISAPLINED AND FOR THREE YEARS I HAD A HUGE CRUSH ON A GIRL WHO ALWAYS ENDED UP IN THE AJACENT CLASS ROOM NEXT TO OURS: LYDIA TREEANTOPOLIS: I WAS TO SHY TO TELL HER I LOVED HER.

  He gave the first and last names of his friends and talked about how they’d spent their time together. It went on:

  I WAS ALWAYS THINKING HOW TO IMPRESS LYDIA BUT SHE WAS HARD TO FIND: I REMEMBER ONCE IN FOURTH GRADE I WAS REALLY FEELING GOOD ABOUT MYSELF WHEN MY DAD FIGURED IT WAS TIME TO GET A CREW CUT: SO HE TOOK ME DOWN TO THE BARBER, SHAVED MY HEAD AND HAD THE GUY SHAVE RECEDING BALD SPOTS ON MY FORHEAD SO I WOULD LOOK LIKE MY DAD: I WAS IN TEARS BUT THE BARBER AND MY DAD: I HATED THE GUY: AND TO MAKE THINGS WORSE WHEN I GOT HOME AND DIDNT WANT ANYONE TO SEE ME, MY SISTER DEBBIE SAID LYDIA IS OUT IN FRONT OF THE HOUSE:, MY FIRST CHANCE TO TALK TO HER BUT I LOOKED LIKE AN IDIOT AND WAS WORRIED ABOUT SCHOOL THE NEXT DAY ANYWAY: WHAT A BUMBER: