<<< Back Table of Contents Next >>> 20 Eye of the Storm When Destroyed Teen came out, there were write-ups in major national publications, not just in underground zines or the local press. To Anton, this was a sign that his audience had gotten too big. Those who had been with him from the beginning were starting to tune out, and the newcomers had no idea what he was talking about. The content of the articles confirmed this. Only rarely did they make an effort to understand his music. Mostly they fell back on overused words like "moody" and "rebellious." They were turning him into an easy-to-digest caricature of himself, an icon for the clueless. They preferred to focus on the legend of Anton Dupree, the boy who came out of nowhere to be a voice of discontent. 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 an old teacher of his to testify that 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 the authorities in certain cities were afraid the youth would riot. Powerful supporters were rumored to be applying pressure 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, and he was showing amazing range and potential, but he still had a long way to go. He laughed at this, because such people would never be satisfied. They would keep waiting until it was too late. "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 named the band Exploding Youth. Some loudmouths in the media accused him of telling America's teenagers to turn themselves into human bombs. Kliff had warned him that people might think this, but he'd kept the name anyway because he liked it. When a kid in Arkansas actually blew himself up while they were on tour, of course they blamed him even though the band was in Denver at the time. For the next few days he found himself repeating the same lines over and over. "Exploding Youth doesn't mean what you think. A kid can explode with anger or frustration, laughter or happiness. It means we're bursting with energy. It means watch out, make room for us, we're here!" The effects of his words continued to haunt him. At a show in Philadelphia, he sang, "Whatever happened to the race of Cain?" over and over 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 running around, terrorizing shopping centers in his honor. 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 shiver. • • • Steve lay on the floor of his bedroom, 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 added a closeup of Anton singing, and behind Anton was the night. Anton sang the words "golden glow," and a rush of sound enveloped him. In Steve's imagination, a refinery stack let out a burst of flame. Anton had come to nearby Austin, but he hadn't been able to make the trip. His mother didn't like his Anton fetish. She'd insisted he stay home that night, or she would lock him out of the house. Since then he'd stayed in his room, plotting his revenge. • • • Becky agreed to visit Anton a few weeks after the end of his tour. She told herself that she should be studying, but she went anyway. She was ready to believe the positive image he'd given of his lifestyle, but from the moment they met at the airport, she was appalled. "My god, look at you!" "What are you talking about?" He released her from a brotherly embrace. "You have circles under your eyes. And those ratty things." She meant his clothes. "People pay hundreds of dollars for this look." He took her bag. "Should we stop by my studio so you can wash up and rest, or do you want to jump right in and see the town?" "Let's find a bed and breakfast, I can wash up there." He frowned. "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. Do you think I've got people coming and going all the time?" "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? 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 with a tour of some of the places that had meant something 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 murals and slogans. The building had stood empty ever since Reinhold 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. "What a waste." 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 a half-ruined building. He realized that even if Trashtown had still been the vibrant community he had known, she wouldn't have liked it. As they passed an empty lot where the Psychic Rangers had played an early concert, or the apartment where Vince and Diane were living when he first met them, he provided a running narrative. On their way to Zombieland, he thought of stopping by the Community Project, but thought better of it because 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 a long wooden counter. He ordered beer from a microbrewery, and Becky drank herbal tea. She seemed to like the cafe, and mentioned there were even places like it in Iowa now. They toured the neighborhood after their meal. He pointed out 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 through face masks with diverse herbal scents, a newsstand with publications in twenty languages. He pointed out the New Jerusalem Chapel, but it was shuttered and some type of renovation was going on. He felt a pang of regret. Little by little, the places that meant the most to him were changing beyond recognition. What would be next? It was getting dark, and lights started to come on in the windows of the boutiques, giving the street a melancholy glow. As they passed the Impulse Gallery, he saw that they were showing Cynthia and Doreen's latest work, so he invited her inside. The centerpiece of the show 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 limbs spread or intertwined, and pointed breasts. Becky stopped before each piece and studied it carefully. She said nothing until they left, then smiled bravely. "That was interesting." "Interesting? Is that the best you can do?" "I don't know what to say. I'm not an art critic." "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." "I guess I'm not comfortable with that." They went to Club Omaha. No longer the black-painted grunge 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 the 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. Becky's look was polite and attentive. 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 manager and best friend in Portland." He sat with them exchanging reminiscences about Trashtown, and offering suggestions for what they might do the next day. After a while he excused himself. "Mrs. Harrison is back from Bermuda, so I'm working tonight." "You mean the senator's wife?" "She gets so insecure without me. And you know I have a soft heart, especially when there's money involved." Hearing that, Becky stuck out her tongue at him once his back was turned. Soon she was ready to leave, so they went outside and hailed a cab. Anton dropped her off at the bed and breakfast, and rode home to his studio. The next day she was refreshed and vigilant, and a bolder critic than the night before. Over breakfast, she confessed that she was unimpressed by what she'd seen so far in Portland. 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." "He was the perfect gentleman last night. How did he leave such an bad impression?" "He's a gigolo, right? A high-priced prostitute." "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. We've made a lot of money together. 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. No one today would know my name. That's the reason I left, not to meet Kliff." They ate for a while in silence. "Aren't you curious about my music? It's why I came here, so 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 a few side projects, like an underground film soundtrack, and a dance piece he was working on 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. Now she told him, "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, I can't judge. 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. Perhaps 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 screwed up his face. "It's not something I'm proud of, 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 kind of makes me the innocent in this picture. But I live the way I do because I prefer one set of compromises to another. To me it's better than living blindly, hiding from reality. I'm not waiting in the dark for the storm to crash down. I am the storm. I've always felt safer at the heart of the whirlwind." They went outside. It was raining, 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, then turned to the English classics. In the end, she bought a novel by Emily Bront‘. After that, they went to an art cinema and saw Fellini's 8-1/2. She liked it, though she said it was "long and disorganized." He wanted her to spend the night with him at his studio. All his seductive powers were focused on that goal—his style and grace, his chivalry and wit—yet 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." Saying it gave her a twinge of regret. "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. "I know you're a big help to him. He's not giving you a hard time, is he?" "Oh, no. He's as gentle as can be. I guess some people might call it demanding, but once you understand him, it all makes sense." She flushed and changed the subject. "What about you, are you involved with anyone?" He wanted to announce that he was only serious about her, but what came out was, "Lots of girls throw themselves at me. It comes with the territory, I guess. Sometimes I can't help myself, but honestly it means nothing to me. In fact, I tell them that. That way, they won't imagine it being more than it is." She attacked him furiously. "You men have it easy! Just let some woman service you, 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 ass. In fact, there's a whole person there who wants to be taken seriously, just like you." "Were you listening to what I said?" "All too well." "What do you want then? I guess I'll cut off my dick and carry it on the end of a stick throughout the city, with a sign around my neck saying 'Apology to Women.'" "How noble of you. What good would that do?" "Don't get me wrong. I do respect women. It's just impossible to find one on my level. Women artists are out of the question, because we fight over everything. Women who aren't artists bore me, for the same reason I don't like men who aren't artists." "Where do I fit in?" "You're different! That's what I'm saying." "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." "If they're anything like Kliff, I don't need it. So let's go to your place. I'd like to see your work, and how you're getting along." As they took a cab to the warehouse, the rain became a steady downpour. When they arrived, they could hear water pounding the roof. It was almost night, so he switched on a light by the door. They removed their wet 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 on three sides near the ceiling. At one end was the kitchen, and at the other, a loft where she guessed that he had his bed. A bathtub with claw feet stood in the center of the room. Paintings, totems and trophies hung on the walls. There was musical equipment scattered about, guitars, keyboards, tribal instruments. There were couches, oriental rugs, 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 blue sky, with a horizon and rows of corn below. "I've started to paint," Anton confirmed. The idea had come to him around the time that Timmins moved into his farmhouse. Timmins liked to paint visions of things that were far away, so Anton painted what Timmins could see with his own eyes. Becky got up to examine the painting at close range, then looked around on the walls to see if there were others like it. He operated some spotlights with a hidden lever, so the walls were lit 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 canvas 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. It showed insects invading an urban skyline, or possibly building it. Doll parts and torn newspapers were glued to the canvas. She screwed up her face. He laughed. "That's by a friend of mine, Sebastian. He's actually hot right now." She continued on with less interest until she came to the Virgin of Guadalupe and exclaimed, "This one's by Timmins! It's not his usual style, but it's definitely Timmins." "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 Anton's conveniently placed arm. It felt good 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. "Timmins is doing it." "Someone has to do it here." He was imagining all of Timmins' paintings he hadn't seen. "Your paintings aren't at all like Timmins'." "I wish he was with us now. Do you think it makes sense for him to come to Portland?" "No. I'm sorry, but I don't." "Don't you think he would want to live this way?" His arm took in the paintings and everything else in the space. "Maybe for a few days. But this isn't the right place for him. He's better off where he is." "That's awfully patronizing. Are you saying he couldn't make it here?" He imagined introducing Timmins to gallery owners and collectors, helping him launch his career. After all, Timmins was a very talented painter. Even the psychiatrist at the mental hospital had seen that. It was only because he'd stayed in Iowa that he was still unknown. "Timmins is vulnerable. Can you imagine him in the middle of all this perversity?" "Look at his paintings. He's been here. He's seen it!" She considered this seeming impossibility. It was true that Timmins' paintings, which she'd assumed to be the work of a hyperactive imagination, had turned out to be a perfect copy of things she'd seen in Portland. Her common sense pushed this aside. "Even if he can imagine it, that's not the same as living it. How would he deal with a parasite like Kliff? I love Timmins just 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 is better off in familiar surroundings. Have you forgotten why you bought him the farmhouse? He likes to live alone, and thanks to you he can. Right now, wanting him here, you're only thinking of yourself." He had to admit she was right. He brooded for a while, staring into space. He felt an emotion that was bizarre for him, jealousy of Timmins. He'd reached a pinnacle of success for someone so young, but apparently 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 settling herself into 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 of 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." "Then what are you complaining about? Haven't you done everything you set out to do?" "I'm not complaining! But I'm on guard all the time. Every moment I'm slacking off, someone is trying to get ahead of me. The meter is running, Becky. There's so many people out there who want it, too. 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 about that?" "You used to want something for a simple reason, because it was 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 stuff 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." "As it happens, I did get there first. I made it across. But people aren't as generous as I would have been if the roles were reversed. It's not enough for them to cross over to where I am. They want to take my place. 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." "How did that happen?" "I must have done something right, for things to work out the way they did. Look at me, twenty-two 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 explain that his career had been helped along by others from the start. He wanted to admit that he felt trapped by his success, and was ready to get out. Instead he dropped his eyes and muttered, "Let's get something to eat." She felt a wave of annoyance. Sensing what he wanted to say, she prompted him. "If it's bothering you so much, why don't you just walk away from it?" "I can't." "Why not?" "I've forgotten how." "It's easy. Just do it." "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 it 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." Suddenly he changed his mind. "Stay here with me." "That's impossible, Anton. We live in two different worlds." "You said it." "I think it's time for me to leave, go back to Iowa. I should be studying for my finals." He hesitated. "Will you at least spend the night?" "My room is already paid for." "You know that I'm rich." She didn't bother to respond. "I love you, Becky," he said under his breath. "Anton, that is fucked up!" The anger in her voice surprised her. "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." "Did what?" "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 >>>