Thursday, May 31, 2007

The Catalyst, chaptor three (Sorry again about the length)
(The following is an excerpt from a police report file.)
“Relations: Daughter of Molly and Alfred Burgham, sister to Laura Burgham. Age: Died at 15 years and 6 months. Description: Dark brown hip-length hair, hazel eyes, candy-red lips. Nice rosy, somewhat blemished complexion. About 5-foot-6 inches tall. Slender, statuesque, slightly athletic body. She had a birth-mark on her arm that looked like a “1” and mysteriously turned as dark as a tattoo when she died. Cause of Death: Was left with a bullet in the side of her stomach for too long, in an abandoned building. Identification: Nikki Alexandra Burgham.”

The corpse of whom was found in the exact same room of the exact same secluded Parish Center where I was told, for the first time, that the only reason I know is because I “was never there.”(Although “The Human Shields”/Nikki’s head-phones never told me what it was I know.) Yeah, on the 1st of December, 9:15 in the morning, there she lay in an unhappy heap on the cold, almost frozen floor. Her hair was bedraggled, her skin was ashen. You could tell Nikki had been crying by the mascara that had run down her cheeks. Plus, her expression was this really pathetic strife-filled attempt at a smile that should’ve been the very dictionary definition of “unconvincing.” She always did that when she was depressed. You know, pretend to be happy and try to hide her pain even though it was obvious that she was on the verge of a tearful break-down. Not that I blamed her for crying. I mean, not only had she been left with her side pierced and punctured open by a lump of steel and gun-powder at 100 miles per hour; but she had been shot my the man she’d obsessed over throughout her entire adolescence! And how did I know everyone’s favorite human Shield/Mardi Gras decoration was responsible for Nikki’s death, at the time? Well, actually I didn’t. Oh, sure, before dying Nikki had evidently written, in her own blood, on the floor, using her finger as the pen/blood-brush/stylus: IT’S OKAY, JAY. I STILL LOVE YOU
But, of course, I didn’t immediately assume that this poor girls “Jay,” was Jason Wenterz. Why? Because, honestly, has a world-renowned rock-star EVER been convicted of killing his biggest fan? No. Well, at least, it hasn’t been proven until now. However, I still refrained from making this conspiracy known to anyone besides Laura, for obvious reasons. The obvious reasons, being: (1.) no one else would possibly believe me, and (2.) I could get locked up in the mad house. I mean, sure, no one recognized the sun-glasses-clad bleach blonde, allegedly Albino, morbid-looking man at the funeral who mysteriously disappeared the second said funeral was over; and everyone found it a bit suspicious when Mobile Fallout Shelter released a song called “The Hands of Nikki Bhurgam” to the public, mere weeks after Nikki’s death. And, yes, they grew even more suspicious when they saw/heard the songs lyrics: “Oh, confessor,/I have another confession to make…/ [WHISPERING]/ How much repentance do you suppose it would take?/ Look at this tangled web of thorns and/ sores, and know/ she’ll never grow up./ Look at these tangles and brambles/ of sacrifice and wonder why./ The only reason I pulled the trigger:/ she was a shine, and I, just a glimmer./….Her last words:/ ‘It’s okay. I still love you.’/ Mine to her were: ‘Save yourself and die young.’/ Oh,/ murderer/ murderer/ Yeah, I asked her/, but she wouldn’t answer./ Not before or after I pulled the trigger./ She’s the gold, I’m the glimmer./” But it doesn’t matter. Because for one thing, in the minds of everybody else, the similarities in the song to Nikki’s death are/is all 1 big coincidence; and for another, the idea of a rock star shooting his biggest fan just sounds too fictitious to be believable. (In other words, Jason is literally getting away with murder.)
And then there are all those oh-so-aggravating Jason fan-girls who are constantly trying to convince themselves that Jason is a nice compassionate person, deep down, and simply refuse to believe that he would do half the stuff he does. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I admire them for having so much faith in him, and being able to see past all his many, many vices. But I just find it SO grindingly superficial when people only listen to Mobile Fallout Shelter for Jason’s so-called “sex appeal,” and don’t even know who all the other guys in the band are! (Not only that, but they don’t even know what genre of music Mobile Fallout Shelter is!) Seriously, I cannot tell you how many times I’ve heard: “Yeah, that weird guy in the hat, with the guitar? He’s, like, SO freakin’ fat, innit he? It’s like, O.M.G., go on a diet!” It is at these times that I practically choke to death on self-restraint not to whip around, slap said Jason chaser across the face, and shout: “LOOK!! HIS NAME IS MIKEY RALPHSON, NOT ‘THAT WEIRD GUY WITH THE HAT AND GUITAR’!! AND HE’S NOT FAT!! HE JUST WEARS BAGGY CLOTHES, YOU IGNORENT DITZ!!” And don’t even get me started on the lack of appreciation for Andy and Brent. (Which is really ridiculous, because Andy “Sir Starburst Head” is the freaking name-sake of the band! Yeah, that’s right, without the scarlet wax-like tuffs of Mr. Dragon Ball Z Hair, Mobile Fallout Shelter would still be “Jay, Mike, Andy, And Brent.”) But I’m getting off topic. A fraction of my point is, like I said, Jason is an untouchable cause/catalyst.
The rest of my point is, he’s not just another pretentious, immoral, deceiving jerk on MTV, who no one except his neighbors and colleagues have to worry about. No, he’s the deranged, murdering, seemingly invincible, oh-so-hideously gorgeous compulsive liar adorned with every psychological complex and potential law-suit you can imagine. In other words- Yes. He’s dangerous. Suffice it to say, that if those provocatively dressed, heartless users, who loiter/lounge about in night clubs/bars and are the very definition of “compassionless”; are human strikes to the face, then Jason is a human kick in the stomach. (Ladies and gentlemen of “almost okay”, meet the epitome of brutally beautiful and maliciously magic.) However, you would never suspect that if you were to casually encounter and get into a conversation with him, before even knowing anything about Mobile Fallout Shelter, and Jays’ role in it. It’s true, he has a way with words. Although, he’s more amusing, than articulate; meaning he’s got every ounce of the antics, faux friendliness, and charisma to compensate for his lack of intellectual speech. (Not that most rock stars sound all that intellectual anyway, but you know what I mean.)
And, contrary to popular pre-conceived assumption, he doesn’t just babble about himself for hours on end. No, he’s perfectly capable of having (and enjoying) a conversation without boring his “audience”/listener(s) to tears. In other words: he is both a satirist and a sanguine. That’s probably the whole reason why he’s considered the front-man: because he is the most out-going member.
In fact, as he’s now politely listening (or pretending to listen) to me cautiously stammering out the flattering/polite version of why I’m not going to be the co-lyricist for Mobile Fallout Shelter, I almost dare to believe I’ll make it out of Chicago with my dignity and bodily health intact.( Ha! Yeah, right!) As I try to explain, my eyes are fixed on his nose because there’s no way I’ll be able to pronounce coherent sentences and look into the vacuum of Jays’ eyes at the same time. (Not that I’m doing all that well of a job without being sucked into his eyes, but you get the idea.) “….So, ummm, you see, if I started lyricing, er, I mean, writing lyrics for Mobile Fallout Shelter, then they just wouldn’t be Mobile Fallout Shelter anymore, so….Yeah.” I conclude, allowing my voice to trail off awkwardly, still stuck within the role/defense mechanism/barrier of the boring, ordinary, oh-so-unimpressive Nobody from Nowhere, MD. Its been about 2 minutes since Hell froze over, and in case you can’t tell by my loss of verbal fluency and “wounded-deer-caught-in-the-head-lights” look, I am baffled.(Still baffled, I should say.) Nevertheless, during these 2 minutes, I’ve been awkwardly trying to explain to Jay that without their semi-offensive, confusing lyrics, Mobile Fallout Shelter simply would not be Mobile Fallout Shelter; ergo, making me the co-lyricist would just positively ruin the band. (Although, as we all saw/read, it didn’t come out sounding quite that eloquently.)
Ignoring that for a minute (or this entire chapter, you decide), I choose this alternate explanation of my reason(s) for rejecting Jasons’ offer because I figured it would save Jay some dignity and not encourage him to hold a grudge. (After all, it’s bad enough that his band forced him to ask some 15-year-old, semi-poetic nobody [me] for lyrical help, but having said semi-poetic nobody TURN HIM DOWN? Now that’s just an insult!) But, as he stares inquiringly into my flushed, oh-so-uncomfortable face, in expressionless silence, I can’t help but wonder if he heard a word I said. That, and IT.IS.SO.QUIET! (Fortunately this won’t last long, as my head is about to explode from all the tension.) Now this painfully uncomfortable silence continues to repetitively bash against my skull for about a minute more, then Jay --his face still an unreadable mask of gorgeously feminine lashes, enigmatic dark eyes, and stainless alabaster skin--FINELLY asks, “So, we—Mobile Fallout Shelter, I mean— is really that precious to you?” For my reaction, I just nod, not daring to open my clumsy mouth again. “And what is it you like about us?” He asks, making the amount of curiosity in his tone equal to that of condescending malice. (Oh my Microsoft WordPad! Why doesn’t he just give me a lobotomy and get it over with?!) “Um…I don’t know, I just like your music, I guess…” I stammer, sounding just as quiet and almost as awkward as before.
At this, his eyes widen and brighten with a curious intrigue.(Yeah, I didn’t see what the big deal was either.) But all he says is: “What’s your favorite color?”
“Um….I don’t know,” I say, because I honestly don’t.
“And you like anime, right? I mean, you’re on Myotaku, so…”
“Uh-huh.”
“What do you like about anime?”
“Um….I don’t know, I just like how compelling it usually is, and how realistic the characters are, and stuff.” Strangely enough, instead of trying to clear up the lack of information in my reply by asking more questions, or doing whatever a normal/sane person would do, he just blinks, smiles, cracks up, and mutters something under his breath. (And now he’s talking to himself and laughing at nothing….Yup. Definitely insane.) Well, despite the fact that, by now, I have given up all hope of being able to understand him, I reluctantly ask: “Er… What’s so funny?” The only reply I get is a politely dismissive: “Oh, you just remind of someone I used to know…Or ‘not know,’ rather. That’s all;” along with a perfect, apologetic “I’m a psycho, sorry you have to deal with me” smile, and an indifferent shrug. “So…About the co-lyricist job…” I begin, FINELLY summoning the nerve to ask if he’s angry with me for not accepting the said job. But, before I can even begin finish the sentence, Jason reads my mind. “Oh, right. Um, it’s okay, you don’t HAVE to want to do the job.” He says, giving me a reassuring smile. “But, would it be okay if I, like, made a copy of that 1 song-slash-poem? I mean, I just really liked that 1, and I promise I won’t steal it from you, so...? Can I?” Being relieved that the most popular member of 1 of my favorite bands of all time doesn’t want to kill me and all, I’m in a rather generous mood, so I nod and say: “Yeah, sure, dude.” Then, of course, I pick up my portfolio of poems and drawings Jay took a look at earlier and ask him which poem he wanted. “Uhhh, it was the one that went”-and then, to my delighted amusement, he sings the first few lines of it-“ ‘Melatonin./and Motrin/and Morphine-Drip/ are just a few of my favorite things./’” So I flip through the pages of my work, find the desired rhyme, rip it out, and hand the paper, on which it’s written, to Jay. He then thanks me and goes to his computer/scanner to make a copy of it.
While, he’s making said copy, my mother returns from Jays bath-room, obviously completely oblivious to what just took place and greets me with a “Hey, Where’s Jay Wen?” (“Jay Wen” is Mother Dearest’s nick-name for Jason; and I only have one thing to say about it: Ew. Ew, ew, ew! EWWWWW!) At this, my face creases into a confused, perplexed frown as I consider the question: “how the hooblech am I supposed to explain to my mother that a world-renowned rock star just offered me a job writing lyrics, which I turned down; so instead he just settled for making a copy of 1 of my poems?” (Man, not even I understand it!) However, I do eventually come up with something, and it is: “Well, he had to go to the bath-room, but he thought you were still using it, so he went to use the one down-stairs, so…yeah.” At first, she just blinks and shrugs, then casually accepts my answer with an unsuspecting: “Oh. Okay then.” And with that, she takes a seat next to me, on 1 of the living room couches, and says: “We’re gonna have to go soon. Remember, you’ve got school tomorrow.” At the mention of my school, I can’t help but gag, to which my mother doesn’t react. She already knows perfectly well how I feel about traditional education/High school. (And yet, she still makes me go, the torturous mommy!)
Now the strange part is, when Jay gets back, he seems to already know I don’t want my mother to know what occurred while she was in the bath-room. Because, instead of just causally and openly handing me back the original poem/paper, he surreptitiously drops it unto my lap, as he walks by, without even glancing at me, while my mother is distracted by her thanking him for paying for our trip over here and informing him that in order to get back to Maryland in time for Monday/tomorrow, we must leave for the air-port right now. So, either Jason has hidden cameras in his living room, which are accessible from his computer, or he just loves sneaking things to and from people because he fancies himself quite the sapphire-haired, guitar-wielding, un-British version of James Bond. (The name’s Wenterz. Jason Wenterz.)
So, yeah, I agree with my mother on the time, not wanting to prolong the confusion that is the company of an insane incoherent poet; gather up my portfolio of drawings/poems and my coat, mom does the same only without the portfolio part, and Jay drives us to the air-port in time for our flight. So, I escape in time to not be murdered/beaten by Jason, Jason doesn’t kill/molest anybody, and my mother doesn’t suspect a thing. That’s how it ends, right? Wrong. Yeah, right as I dare to think this series of surprising events has come to an end, Jason surprises me. As I’m exiting his car, he grabs my wrist, violently yanks me back into whispering distance of him, swiftly brings his other hand to my up-side-down head so it’s being held inches away from his mouth, and murmurs insidiously into my face: “See you soon, Schnee. Enjoy it while it lasts.” Because, you know, Heaven forbid Jay Wenterz should ever be the least bit un-cryptic. And, then, immediately after saying this, he- now I must you warn you, upon reading this, you might just throw up in your mouth a little, but: immediately after saying this, he delicately brings my head closer, and closer, and closer, and CLOOOOOOOOOOOOOOSER to his mouth…AND KISSES ME ON THE MOTHR-(BEEP)ING FORE-HEAD, THE HORRID CHILD SEDUCER!! Plus, while telling me to “enjoy it while it lasts,” he snaked his free hand down the back of my shirt and did something weird with his fingers once he reached the center of my spine.(The REALLY sad part is, that’s the most action I’ve gotten in 2 and a half years.) Luckily for Jason, I never get the chance to make my over-reaction verbally visible.
Because before even my mother, who is standing on the pavement, facing the air-port, can turn around in time to observe this scene, Jay rapidly pushes me out of his car, so that the first thing I collide with feels more like the side-walk instead of the air.(Yeah, first he kisses me than he shoves me out unto the side-walk. Well, isn’t he just the epitome of moral decency?) I only have one reply to this: “Ouuuuuuuuch!” However, he obviously hadn’t intended to push me quite THAT hard because the next thing he does is gracefully drop down beside me and play innocent: “Oh, what happened, sweetie? Did you trip? I’m sorry…” And Mr.Over-Cunning is so convincing as the innocent witness, that, once again, my mother doesn’t suspect a thing. Truth be told, I really don’t care what she thinks as long as we can get the Hell out of here before Jay tries to break my wrist again. And there is a God, because, due to us nearly being late for our flight back to Baltimore County, that’s exactly what we do. Now fast-forward past the entire flight and ride home.
When I take the first few steps across the threshold of said house, quite exhausted from the paranoia and unbelievablity of the previous hours, the first thing that pops into my head is the unjustifiably enormous pile of home-work my teachers gave me to do over the weekend. Translation/interpretation of thought: “Welcome back to reality, honey. Now shut up and get to work!”

Comments (4)