TH E B IG MAR B LE F I LI NG CAB I N ET
My family goes to the cemetery to visit my dad’s grave every year on September 6, which is the anniversary of his death.
This year, it happened to fall on Labor Day, so we were off school.
We call it a grave, but it’s really this big building on the cemetery grounds with stacks and stacks of dead people in drawers, like a big marble filing cabinet. My dad is in powder form in a little vase inside one of the sealed filing cabinet drawers. It says “Charles Evan Henderson” and “Peace” on the outside of his drawer. There’s also the seal of the Santa Carla Police Department, and a little cup you can put flowers in.
As usual, my mom put flowers in the cup, and we all stood there looking at the cup with the flowers on the filing cabinet drawer. It always feels awkward. There’s nothing to say. We just stand in a clump, looking up. My mom and Amanda cry, quietly. I feel sad. But for some reason it doesn’t make me cry. There may be something wrong with me there.
My mom gets mad at me for not crying, like it shows that I don’t care or wish to show respect. It’s not like that. I got in big trouble once for bringing a book with me on one of these visits. It wasn’t even on purpose. I just automatically take whatever book I’m reading with me everywhere I go without thinking. But it really hurt her feelings and she wouldn’t speak to me for two weeks after that.
When I get nervous or worried about something, I do this weird thing with my ears. They start to itch way on the inside and I have this urge to move them back and forth on the outside, trying to relieve the itch. My jaw gets involved also. It can make my whole face look funny and kind of 29
warped and disturbing; plus my glasses go a little crooked.
Once I start doing it, I can never stop it on purpose. If it stops on its own, because I get distracted or just calm down, and I notice that it has stopped, I’ll be relieved for a second, but that will remind me about it and I’ll start doing it again. The more I try to control it, the more out of control it gets. It’s a real problem.
Standing by my dad’s grave with my mom and Amanda is the classic situation for the ear thing. I just get more and more nervous and twitchy. This year, my ears were going like crazy, maybe even more than usual. I was drenched with sweat, too. I tried biting the inside of my cheek really hard to give myself some other irritant to focus on. That sometimes works, but this time I couldn’t bite hard enough to have an impact, even though I could taste a lot of blood in my mouth.
As I stood there, not exactly trying to cry but imagining how much of a relief it might be if for some reason I did, I couldn’t help thinking of Mr. Teone’s mockery. Hi, I thought sarcastically in the general direction of my dad’s drawer. The big marble filing cabinet is the one place I never feel like my dad can hear me talking, though. It just feels empty and lonely and stressful. Definitely not my favorite place.
WE ALL DI E D I N A P LAN E C RAS H
I’m regretting how sloppy I’ve been with my notebooks, now that I’m trying to go back and remember exactly when everything happened. I mean, I write down all our bands, which ends up being a kind of record of events, but I hardly ever put any dates in there, and even though it was only a few months ago, the timeline seems a little fuzzy. My best recollection is 30
that it was around the middle of September, three weeks or so into the school year, when the Baby Batter Weeks officially ended. And when Sam Hellerman came up with a strange and unexpected proposition.
The band broke up in the customary way. That is, one day, when I met Sam Hellerman at the corner of Crestview and Hillmont Avenue on my way to school as usual, he started to whistle the first line of “Sweet Home Alabama.”
Which told me that he wanted to change the name of the band again. That’s because we had our own words to that line: “We all died in a plane crash,” which was how all our bands ended. I could see his point. Baby Batter had been a great band, but it was time to move on.
We worked out the details of the new band on the way to school. The Plasma Nukes.
Logo: an intercontinental ballistic missile with a broken-in-half heart dripping blood on the side. “Plasma” super-imposed in fancy cursive and “Nukes” underneath in retro computer bubble writing.
Credits:
Guitar: Lithium Dan
Bass and Calligraphy: Little Pink Sambo
Vox: The Worm
Machine-gun Drums: TBA
First Album:
Album cover: a woman’s high-heel shoe on a chessboard, with blood dripping out of it (front). Band members’ heads in jars on shelf (back).
I was Lithium Dan and I played in a cage. Little Pink Sambo was Sam Hellerman. And we just made up the lead vocalist. The drummer was imaginary, too, but for the record, TBA is pronounced like tuba.
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* * *
As for Sam Hellerman’s bizarre proposition, it went a little like this:
“There’s . . . this . . . this . . . sort of party . . . um . . . thing I heard about,” he said.
Pause. “Really?”
“Wanna go?”
I gave him a “yeah, right” look. Then I realized he was serious. I stared at him. Sam Hellerman and I weren’t the kind of guys who got invited to parties. The last party I had attended had had cake and streamers and a
