<<< Back Table of Contents Next >>> 20 Eye of the Storm When Destroyed Teen came out, there were write-ups in the national magazines, not just in the alternative or local press. This was a sign to Anton that his audience had grown too big. Those who had been with him all along were starting to drift away, and the newcomers had no idea what he was talking about. The content of the articles confirmed this. Instead of taking the time to understand his message, they fell back on clichés like "moody" and "rebellious." They were turning him into an easy-to-digest caricature of himself. They discussed his polymorphous sex life, his bizarre clothing and hairstyles, his penchant for lighting things on fire at his shows. They speculated on his connection to Satanists and teenage gangs. They dug up a former teacher of his to say he'd always been a role model, "but now he's gone too far." They reported on the trouble he was having scheduling his tour, because authorities in certain cities were afraid the youth would riot. The Clean Kids Initiative had called for a national boycott, and powerful supporters were applying pressure from behind the scenes to allow the shows. He could sense the hand of Reinhold in all this, but what did it have to do with his music? As for the handful of writers who took his work seriously, their reviews were mixed. They said he'd evolved rapidly since his first album, but he still had a long way to go. He had to laugh at this, because such people would never be satisfied. "Mature work" would never come out of him. He wouldn't live that long. Everything that needed to be said, he was saying already. What he didn't get to by the age of twenty-five would be stale anyway. He recruited musicians to tour with him, and he named his band Exploding Youth. Voices in the media accused him of telling America's teenagers to blow themselves up. When a kid in Arkansas did just that while they were on tour, of course they blamed him. For the next few days he found himself repeating the same lines over and over. "Was he my fan? Does it matter? I'm not responsible for his stupidity. A kid can explode with laughter or anger, frustration or excitement. Exploding Youth means we're bursting with energy. It means watch out, make room for us, we're here!" At a show in Philadelphia, he sang, "Whatever happened to the race of Cain?" as a kind of chant. It was spontaneous and he had no idea what it meant. The next thing he knew, there was a group called the Race of Cain terrorizing shopping centers in his honor. So the viral effect of his words continued to haunt him. He was both inspired and frightened by this. His fans' efforts to idolize him were misguided, but at the same time, they deserved his respect. At least they were responding. What if his message had been met with a resounding silence? The thought made him shudder. • • • Steve lay on the floor of his bedroom in southeast Texas, a pillow propped under him, listening to Destroyed Teen on headphones. His homework was abandoned beside him, and his eyes were closed. He was making a video in his head. He heard quiet guitar strumming and an eerie wail. He saw a closeup of Anton singing, and behind Anton was the night. Anton sang the words "golden glow," and a rush of sound enveloped him. A refinery stack let out a burst of flame. Steve hadn't been able to make the trip to Austin to see Anton play. His mother didn't approve of Anton at all. She'd ordered him to stay home that night, or she would lock him out of the house. Since then he'd stayed in his room, plotting his next move. • • • Becky decided to visit Anton a few weeks after the end of the tour. She told herself that she should be studying, but she went anyway. She was ready to believe the positive image Anton had given of his lifestyle, but from the moment they met at the airport, she was appalled. "My god, look at you!" she said. "What are you talking about?" He released her from his embrace. "You have circles under your eyes. And those ratty things." She meant his clothes. "People pay hundreds of dollars for stuff like this." He took her bag. "Should we stop by my studio so you can wash and rest, or do you want to jump in and see the town?" "Let's find a bed and breakfast. I can wash up there." "You're not staying with me?" "I don't want to intrude." "Intrude on what?" "On your privacy. If you have guests over, you won't have to worry about me." "You're my guest. Who else would I have over?" She shrugged. "Other rock and rollers." "'Other rock and rollers.' You are so clueless!" She shrugged again. "I just think it's better this way." At the bed and breakfast, she asked him to wait in the lobby while she freshened up. After a few minutes, she came out in fresh clothes, her hair brushed and tied back. "Are you sure you want to go out?" he said. "You're not tired? I could come back later." "Let's go." Despite her critical remarks earlier, she was excited to see Anton. She was as eager to see the city as he was to show her. They started by visiting a few of the places that had mattered to him in the past. As they approached the old coffee factory that had once been Trashtown, he could still see traces of color on the walls from its murals and slogans. The building had stood empty ever since Reinhold had made them leave, but there were rumors that developers had their eye on it and it would soon be torn down. "It's sad to see it like this," he said softly. He explained that Trashtown had been his home when he'd first come to Portland. He told her what techno-primitivism meant, that it was both a musical style and a way of life. "We were a tribe of urban scavengers, making art from scraps." She listened politely, but all she could see was an abandoned building. He realized that even if she could have seen Trashtown in its glory days, she wouldn't have liked it. He provided a running narrative as they walked, pointing out the Clarion Cafe where he'd gone to write lyrics, and an empty lot where the Psychic Rangers had played an early concert. On their way to Zombieland, he thought of stopping by the Community Project, but he didn't want Becky to meet Sabrina or any of that crowd. In Zombieland they ate pasta in a sunny cafe with wood floors and paneling. He drank beer from a local brewery, while Becky had herbal tea. She seemed to like the cafe, and she remarked that there were even places like it in Iowa now. After their meal, they toured Zombieland. He showed her a microcinema with screening rooms for ten to fifteen people, a trance music boutique where customers could listen on headphones for hours at a time, a bar that served oxygen with herbal scents through face masks, and a newsstand with publications in thirty languages. He pointed out the New Jerusalem Chapel, but it was shuttered for renovation. He felt a pang of regret. Little by little, the places that meant the most to him were changing. What would be next? It was getting dark, and lights started to come on in the windows of the boutiques. As they passed the Impulse Gallery, he saw that they were showing Cynthia and Doreen's latest work, so he took her inside. The centerpiece was a robot representing a raped woman, struggling and pleading for help against an invisible aggressor. As a counterpoint there were paintings celebrating lesbian sex, with fleshy intertwined limbs and pointed breasts. Becky stopped before each piece and studied it carefully. She said nothing until they left, then she smiled bravely. "That was interesting," she said. "Interesting? Is that the best you can do?" "You know I'm not an art critic." "Just say what you think. Did you like it?" "Not really. I thought it was too personal." "Of course it's personal. It's about intimacy and rape." They went to Club Omaha. No longer the black-painted rock bar where he'd begun his career, it was now an exclusive club with plush fabrics and designer cocktails. Its small stage was ideal for intimate performances, and tonight he'd asked a friend of his to appear, a transvestite shaman who specialized in Butoh dance. As he studied the drink menu, Becky leaned over him to read along. When he looked at her in surprise, she confessed that she drank occasionally now that she was in college. "Besides, this is a special occasion." She asked him to order for her, so he chose a blend of vodka, mulberries, and lime juice, and got absinthe for himself. His friend came on stage wearing a bizarre headpiece made of feathers, glitter, and steel wool. He carried a long staff with a gourd rattle at the end. He was painted white from head to toe, with glitter on his eyes and nipples. What followed was a mixture of chant and interpretive dance. It felt erotic and spiritual to Anton, though no doubt the absinthe helped. After the show, Kliff made an appearance. He was dressed in his finest style, in a dark velvet coat, high boots, and a cane with a silver tip. His hair was long and sleek, and his coal-black eyes flashed confidence. Anton introduced him as "my best friend in Portland, and the impresario of my career." He sat with them exchanging reminiscences about Trashtown, and offering suggestions for what they might do the next day. Becky seemed ill at ease and remained mostly silent. After a while, Kliff excused himself. "Mrs. Harrison is back from Bermuda, so I'm working tonight." "Mrs. Harrison, the senator's wife?" "She gets insecure without me. And you know I have a soft heart, especially when there's money involved." Becky stuck out her tongue once Kliff's back was turned. Anton raised an eyebrow at that, because it seemed so out of character. Soon she was ready to leave, so they went outside and hailed a cab. He dropped her off at the bed and breakfast, and went home by himself. The next day she was refreshed, and a bolder critic than the night before. Over breakfast, she confessed that she was unimpressed by what she'd seen so far. She was appalled by the drugs, the pederasts, the loose women, the oppressive decor. "This is Babylon! You've fallen in with a gang of criminals." Her criticisms of Kliff were especially pointed. She called him "that hoodlum, that parasite." "How did he leave such an bad impression? He was the perfect gentleman last night." "He's a gigolo, right? A high-priced prostitute." Anton laughed. "He's a man of many talents." He was reminded of her moralistic streak, her disdain for permissiveness. "What do you see in a friend like that?" "Are you kidding? He's loyal, and a great manager. He's been the key to my success. And he's good looking. I like attractive people." "You call that attractive? I call it shady." "To me it's attractive." "I guess that explains why you turned your back on your friends back home." She bit her lip. "I didn't mean that." "I never turned my back. I left to start a career. If I'd stayed in Iowa, I would never have recorded an album. Nobody today would know my name. That's the reason I left, not to meet shady people." They ate for a while in silence. "Aren't you curious about my music? It's why I came here. It's the only way to judge if I did the right thing." The night before, he'd tried to talk to her about his creative life. He'd mentioned an underground film soundtrack he was working on, and a dance piece with the transvestite shaman. She'd shown only polite interest. Nor had she given the slightest indication that she'd ever listened to Fever Dreams, Extreme Liberties, or Destroyed Teen. She said now, "I know your music appeals to a lot of people. I read the reviews you sent me. They say it's revolutionary, a sign of the times. But honestly, Anton, it's not the kind of music I listen to." "How do you know, if you've never tried?" "I did try. I played the CDs. I just didn't get it." He was beginning to wonder if the understanding they'd shared in high school was an illusion. Maybe the reason she'd always been so honest with him wasn't because she knew him so well, but simply because she was opinionated and fixed in her ways. For her part, she couldn't see why anyone would choose his way of life. She gestured to the neighborhood outside, the eccentric people walking by. "This isn't freedom, it's an addiction. Everything here is unnatural." He gave her a blank look. "I'm not proud of how I live, I just do it. What's excessive to you is normal to me. There's people in Zombieland who sell themselves to stay alive, or to buy themselves a moment's pleasure. That makes me the innocent in this picture. I live this way because I prefer one set of compromises to another. To me it's better than living blindly, or hiding from reality. I always feel safest at the heart of the whirlwind. I'm not waiting in the dark for the storm to crash down on me. I am the storm." It was raining when they went outside, so a long walk like before was out of the question. Instead he took her to his favorite bookstore, where she browsed through the mythology section before turning to the English classics. In the end, she bought a novel by Jane Austen. After that, they went to an art cinema and saw Fellini's 8-1/2. She liked it, though she thought it was too long. He wanted her to spend the night at his studio, and all his seductive powers were focused on this goal. Yet his chivalry and wit, his style and grace were lost on her, and she remained as elusive as ever. As nonchalantly as possible, he asked her if she'd met anyone at the university she was attracted to. "I wish I had time for that. I'm so busy with my studies." She felt a twinge of regret. "In fact I should be studying now, but I took a few days off. I don't even write poetry any more. And of course there's Timmins to look after." That gave her a twinge too. "He's not giving you a hard time, is he?" "Oh, no. He's as gentle as can be. Some people might call him demanding, but once you understand him, it all makes sense." She flushed and changed the subject. "What about you, are you involved with someone?" He didn't want to mention Kliff. Sensing his hesitation, she eyed him curiously. "A lot of girls throw themselves at me," he said finally. "It comes with the territory, I guess. But it's a hassle more than anything. Sometimes I can't help myself, so I give in. But it means nothing to me, and I tell them that. That way, they won't imagine it being more than it is." Her anger surprised him. "Do you have any idea how arrogant that sounds? Just let some woman service you, right? And when you're done with her, toss her out. I don't suppose it occurs to you that she has a brain attached to her body. In fact, there's a whole person there who wants to be taken seriously, just like you." He laughed. "I guess I'll cut off my dick and carry it on a stick around the city, with a sign around my neck saying 'Apology to Women.'" "How noble of you." "Don't get me wrong. I do respect women. It's just hard to find one who shares my interests. Women artists are out of the question, because we'd fight over everything. And women who aren't artists bore me, for the same reason I don't like men who aren't artists." "So why am I here? I'm a woman." "You're different! That's what I'm trying to say." "You've got a fine way of saying it." They lapsed into silence. Becky cheered up before long, because she was determined not to let their spat ruin her visit. In fact, she was the one who suggested they go to his studio. "It's raining, and we've seen the sights. What else is there to do?" "We could visit some friends of mine." "I don't think I want to meet any more of your friends. So let's go to your place. I'd like to see your work, and how you're getting along." They hailed a cab. As they rode to the warehouse, the rain became a steady downpour. When they arrived, they could hear it pounding on the roof. It was almost night, so Anton switched on a light by the door. They removed their jackets, hanging them on a coat tree. He guided her to a couch on the far side of the room, where he turned on a second light. The outlines of the space became visible. He poured drinks. She saw that the studio was a single large room, with a band of windows near the ceiling. At one end was the kitchen, and at the other, a loft where she supposed he had his bed. An old-fashioned bathtub stood in the center of the room. Paintings, totems, and trophies hung on the walls. Musical equipment was scattered about: guitars, keyboards, tribal instruments. There were couches, oriental rugs, and huge bookcases. To her surprise, the place had a homey, lived-in feeling. It was full of curiosities, yet large enough not to feel cluttered. Her attention was drawn to an easel with a canvas on it. Colors in tubes and jars lay on the floor. The unfinished painting showed clouds against a blue sky, with a horizon and rows of corn below. He saw where she was looking and said, "I've started to paint." The idea had come to him around the time that Timmins had moved into his farmhouse. Timmins liked to paint things that were far away in time and space, so Anton painted what Timmins could see with his own eyes. Becky got up to examine the painting in detail, then looked around the walls to see if there were others like it. He operated some spotlights with a hidden lever, so the walls were lit up and the paintings clearly visible. "Most of them aren't mine. There's one or two. I think you can tell them apart. But mostly I'm a collector." She moved from one to the next, looking at each carefully. "Oh! Nice." Apparently she approved of his taste in art. She came to a massive, sloppy painting whose theme was insects. The insects were invading an urban skyline, or possibly building it. Doll parts and torn newspapers were glued to the canvas. She screwed up her face. "That's by a friend of mine," he told her. "Sebastian. He's actually hot right now." She continued on with less interest, until she came to the Virgin of Guadalupe. "This one's by Timmins!" she exclaimed. "It's not his usual style, but it's definitely Timmins." Anton was impressed. "He made it for me at the hospital. Do you think it should have more yellow in it?" "Of course not. I like it the way it is." "Me, too." She completed her tour and returned to the couch, where she settled into his conveniently placed arm. She was happy to be out of the rain, surrounded by a pool of light. The last canvasses she'd looked at had been Anton's own, of the Iowa plains. "They remind me of home," she said dreamily. He basked in the mellow mood. "I thought I'd become a painter since Timmins isn't here. Someone has to do it." She drew back slightly. "What are you talking about? Timmins is still doing it." "Of course, but someone has to do it here." He was imagining all of Timmins' paintings that he hadn't seen. "Your paintings aren't at all like Timmins'." He shrugged in response. "I wish he was here now. Wouldn't it be great if we could all live together in Portland?" She laughed. "I'm sorry, but that makes no sense." "Don't you think he'd like it here?" His arm took in the paintings on the walls, and everything else they'd seen in Portland. "Maybe for a few days. But this isn't the right place for him. He's better off where he is." He knew she was right, because Timmins had said so himself. He hadn't forgotten the conversation they'd had at the mental hospital. It was their whole reason for buying the farmhouse. But he was feeling petulant, so he defended his idea. "Are you saying he couldn't make it here? That's awfully patronizing. I could introduce him to gallery owners and collectors, and jump start his career. The hipsters in Zombieland would love his stuff. His therapist at the hospital was no genius, but even he could see that. It's only because Timmins is stuck in Iowa that he's still unknown." "Do you think he wants to be famous, like you?" "Why not? When you're famous, people give you whatever you want. Besides, it's an insult to your talent to hide it from the world, don't you agree?" "I'm not especially talented, so I wouldn't know. But to some people, peace of mind is worth more than fame. And you know that Timmins is vulnerable. Can you imagine him here, in the middle of all this decadence?" "His paintings are full of decadence. Haven't you noticed? He's already been here, he's already seen it. He's painted my whole career! What exactly do you think would be strange to him about the real thing?" She was taken aback, because she could see he was right. Timmins had painted Anton's lifestyle as if he'd seen it firsthand. Things she'd assumed to be the work of a hyperactive imagination had turned out to be real in every way. Her common sense pushed this aside. "Imagining it isn't the same as living it," she said. "How would he deal with a parasite like Kliff? Timmins has no common sense, no survival skill." "Becky, that's pretty brutal." "I'm not saying it's bad! I love Timmins as much as you do, but—" The challenge in Anton's eyes made her stop short. She backed up and chose her words carefully. "Timmins likes to live alone, you know that. It's why you bought him the farmhouse. Right now, wanting him here, you're thinking only of yourself." He brooded for a while, staring into space. He felt an emotion that was strange for him, jealousy of Timmins. He'd reached a pinnacle of success at a young age, but that wasn't good enough for Becky. Timmins, on the other hand, had her loyalty without even asking for it. He jumped up and went over to a large video screen, which he switched on as he rummaged through a pile of tapes. "I don't usually do this, but since you're here...." He looked over his shoulder to see Becky getting comfortable on the couch. "This tape was put together by a friend of mine, Farnham T. Sparks. He's got a magazine called Rebel Youth that covers the music scene here in Portland. Lately he's been branching out into video, and he put together this documentary about me." He popped the tape into the player and pressed the button. It began with a flood of testimonials from fans and enemies. "We want to warn all parents, all young people, that Anton Dupree is a monster, a destroyer of lives." "He's in my head, he's in my dreams. He gave me my first real feelings." "He changed me completely. Before, I was worthless. Now, there's someone who speaks for me." "His innocent facade is just that, a facade! This young man is a danger to society." "It's the best music ever for having sex." "I'd die for him if he asked me to. I hope he will." There were scenes from his concerts: naked dancers, walls of flame, a guitar exploding in midair as he hurled it into the crowd. There was the legendary thirty-foot dive a fan had taken from the rafters in Cincinnati, breaking only one arm. There was crude footage of the Trashtown House Jam showing sweaty bodies, wild drumming, and Anton on the catwalk with his bass. There was the riot in Los Angeles he'd been accused of starting, because it had broken out after his last concert there, while he and his band were on their way to the airport. A pop psychologist analyzed the dark undertones in Anton's psyche, and the demons in society at large. There was an interview with Vince in his garden, balancing his young daughter on his knee. "What a prima donna. Look at him now, the little bomb thrower. Soon he'll be whining that he's got nothing left to accomplish, because all he knows how to do is up the stakes." There were even scenes from Rough and Tumble, the porn film he'd made with Kliff, though he wisely stopped the tape before it got to that part. "What do you want me to say?" Becky asked once it was over. The video had made him excitable, so he paced up and down in front of the couch. "It shows that what I'm doing is making a difference. I'm shaking things up. There's people who hate everything I stand for, but they'd become me if they could. They know that what I'm doing is important. There's no one else in my position. I'm unique." "So what are you complaining about? Haven't you done everything you set out to do?" "I'm not complaining! But I'm on my guard at all times. Every moment I'm slacking off, someone is working to get ahead of me. The meter is running, Becky. There's so many people out there who want what I've got. They want it just as bad as I did, and for all I know, they deserve it just as much. I wish them luck." "You never used to think this way." "Are you sure?" "You used to want things because they were important to you. 'Someone has to do it, because no one else is.' Remember that?" "Didn't I say that again just now?" "The competitive part is new. If someone else wants to take the lead, why not let him? 'No one would be happier than me to see someone else go first. It would open the way for the rest of us.' You said that too." "Things have changed, Becky. I did get there first. Only people aren't as generous as I might have been if the roles were reversed. It's not enough for them to join me where I am, they want to knock me out of the picture. They want my words, my sound, my message. They want to be Anton Dupree. I told you, I'm the heart of the whirlwind. If I step outside for an instant"—he made a violent gesture—"BOF! swept away in the storm." She was skeptical. "How did that happen?" "I must have had something, for things to turn out this way. I knew what to do. And here I am, twenty-one years old. The center of power and influence, or so it seems." There was a long pause. "And you know what?" He startled her with a violent look. She stared back at him curiously. "No, what?" He wanted to tell her about Reinhold, the Citadel, and the referees. He wanted to confess that his career had been helped along from the start. That he was confused about what to do next. That he felt trapped by his success and wanted to get out. Instead he dropped his eyes, his intensity played out. "Let's get something to eat." She felt a wave of annoyance. "If it's bothering you so much, why don't you just walk away?" "I can't." "Why not?" "I've forgotten how." "It's easy. Just do it! Look at me, I have a life." "Becky, you can't start your life over. You never did it the first time." She frowned. "Famous people aren't the only ones who do things." "That's not the point. I'm saying it's too late for me. I'm in too deep." "Are you in trouble?" she asked, finally concerned. "It depends on what you mean by trouble. Not everyone would call this trouble, I guess." "What would you call it?" "Don't you think I ask myself these questions a hundred times a day?" He was bored now. She hesitated. "Is there anything I can do to help?" "No." He changed his mind. "Stay here with me." "You mean stay? Stay here to live?" He was about to respond, but instead he turned away. "That's not possible, Anton. We live in two different worlds." "You've got that right." She said carefully, "I think it's time for me to leave, go home to Iowa. I'll call and change my flight. I really should be studying for my finals." He gave her a long look. "Won't you spend the night with me, at least?" "My room is already paid for." "You know money is no problem for me." She didn't bother to respond. "I love you, Becky," he said quietly. She was startled, unsure she'd heard right. "Anton, that is fucked up! Of all the times you could have said such a thing, you pick now, when it's already too late." "Why is it too late?" "We were saying goodbye." He made a futile gesture. "I did all of this for you, you know. The music and everything else. I wanted to share it with you. Even now, I still do." "That is such bullshit." "I never could love anyone else. Just you and Timmins, that's it. I'm sorry I didn't say it before. There's certain things you don't tell a person, that's all." She was incredulous. "Like 'I love you'?" He reached to take her hand. "Goodbye, Becky Simms." She squeezed his hand back. "Goodbye, Anton Dupree." "Should I call a cab?" "That would be nice. I'll wait downstairs." They embraced briefly. She took her coat and went out, casting a worried look over her shoulder. The door clicked shut, leaving Anton alone in the dark. <<< Back Table of Contents Next >>>