When we’re back on the road, I push in the tape again. What the hell, I’ve got eight bucks invested. I can’t just throw the damned thing away. I balance the speakers, low, and I’m inside that harmonica. Outside it’s beautiful: clear sun and deep drops on both sides with pine trees all around. I watch huge cumulus clouds booming ahead and let that music come into me.
I don’t know where Dad’s mind is. We’re in the same car but it seems as if he’s a thousand miles away. There’s no sense keeping up a conversation; it doesn’t go anywhere. He’s probably still sweating all that crap in California.
I don’t know why it is but I don’t seem able to save money. I get a chunk together and it disappears. Sometimes I think I have holes in my pockets; I have it, then when I reach for it, it’s gone; like I dreamed it.
I’m working in that boatbuilding place, sleeping in a sort of flop-house, trying to get a bundle together when I get a letter from Mom saying Dad’s in California and Grandmom’s had a heart attack. I hitch down there, figuring maybe I can help.
By that time Grandmom’s out of the hospital but Granddad’s totally bonkers. He’s gone, flipped. He doesn’t know who I am, doesn’t know who my father is. And Dad looks awful; he must’ve lost fifteen pounds since I last saw him. He’s pale, balder, grayer; worried-looking. I move into the garden room; Dad’s sleeping in the side room.
I stick it for more than a week, then Tom comes down from Santa Cruz. He’s cut out, too, and has a car. My folks own a forty-acre hill in Topanga Canyon, so Tom and I move up there. Tom has a terrific battery-driven stereo and a tent.
We haul water in the car and shop at the Topanga market. I borrow Dad’s little Honda 175 and we ride it over those fire trails, ducking the fire department. I take a few spills and knock in one side of the gas tank, bend the brake pedal and break off the clutch handle, but I pound out the tank, spray it with some paint, bend the brake pedal back into place and replace the handle. When I’m finished, you’d hardly notice.
While Dad’s with Granddad in the hospital, I come down and sit with Grandmom. That woman’s absolutely insane. All day long, it’s ‘Why don’t you shave off your beard; what’re you hiding from?’ or, ‘Why do you wear that long hair?’ or, ‘If you must have long hair like a girl, at least wash it.’
God, it’s a constant hassle. One day she comes at me with a pair of scissors. ‘Here, Billy, I’ll just cut off this one part sticking out over your ear.’ I duck away. ‘Come on, don’t be silly; let me trim your neck anyway.’
Then sometimes she comes into the back bedroom while I’m sleeping, after she’s supposed to be in bed. She comes sliding in, snooping into everything.
One day she goes through all my underwear; throws them into the bathtub and washes them. She’s supposed to have a heart attack and she’s washing my underwear. She tells me no girls like boys with dirty underwear. What a mind!
Then she asks if I know how to wipe myself properly. I almost expect a demonstration. She tells me to use several sheets of paper folded over and wipe from the outside, not between the legs, and to wipe at least three times. I can’t believe it; she has no idea of privacy. I don’t know how Dad takes it; imagine having her for a mother.
Finally I blow up. Dad’s out painting and she’s been bugging me all afternoon, wanting to know if I go to church, if I’m still a virgin, do I have a steady girl. I tell her she’s driving me crazy, she’s driving Dad crazy and she probably drove Granddad crazy. She has a crying fit, goes into her bedroom and slams the door.
When Dad comes home, I tell him what happened.
‘What the hell, Billy, you know she’s sick.’
He doesn’t sound mad, only discouraged. I feel like a shit, but I’ve about had it. Tom’s gone back to Santa Cruz; he left me his tent. If it gets too bad, I can always move back on the hill again. Tom’s going to be a psychologist.
Hell, there’re already too many psychologists; too many everythings. Too many engineers, too many chemists, too many doctors, too many dentists, too many sociologists. There aren’t enough people who can actually do anything, really know how to make this world work.
When you think about it; when you look at the way it really is; God, we’ve got – well, let’s say, there’s 100 percent. Half of these are under eighteen or over sixty-five; that is, not working. This leaves the middle fifty percent. Half of these are women; most are so busy having babies or taking care of kids, they’re totally occupied. Some of them work, too, so let’s say we’re down to 30 percent. Ten percent are doctors or lawyers or sociologists or psychologists or dentists or businessmen or artists or writers, or schoolteachers, or priests, ministers, rabbis; none of these are actually producing anything, they’re only servicing people. So now we’re down to 20 percent. At least 2 or 3 percent are living on trusts or clipping coupons or are just rich. That leaves 17 percent. Seven percent of these are unemployed, mostly on purpose! So in the end we’ve got 10 percent producing all the food, constructing the houses, building and repairing all the roads, developing electricity, working in the mines, building cars, collecting garbage; all the dirty work, all the real work.
Everybody’s just looking for some gimmick so they don’t have to actually do anything. And the worst part is, the ones who do the work get paid the least.
I know I’m not the first one to figure this out, but I think even Marx was only looking for a way out of work; Lenin, too – two more middle-class slobs.
So Tom’s going back and be a psychologist. He can join the vast army of psychologists catering to all the people feeling guilty because they aren’t doing their part. Not only that, none of them can even take care of themselves anymore.
I wonder where the hell I fit in with all this.
The next day I phone Dr Ethridge. He’s been Dad’s doctor at Perpetual the past fifteen years. After being put off several times by switchboard operators and nurses, I get through.
I explain what’s happened. Ethridge goes into his act.
‘Ahh, Mr Tremont, this kind of thing happens all the time. Dr Santana knows exactly what he’s doing; he’s a fine young surgeon. I’ll go see your father this morning; he’s been a patient of mine a long time. You know, we both come from Wisconsin.
‘We might just have to accept it, Mr Tremont, this could be the onset of senility.’
He’s giving me the same bullshit as Santana.
‘So fast, Dr Ethridge, instant senility? I’ve never heard of such a thing.’
‘Well, Mr Tremont, you know he was getting forgetful.’
I keep at him.
‘But, Dr Ethridge, he went in for the operation perfectly aware and now … well, wait till you see him.’
I pause, he doesn’t say anything.
‘Dr Ethridge, would it be all right if I come with you when you see him this morning?’
There’s a pause again. He could be reading or writing something at the same time he’s phoning.
‘Oh, no, that won’t be necessary. I’ll see him on the morning rounds and phone you after lunch.’
He hangs up.
I tell Mother I’ve talked to Dr Ethridge and he feels everything is going to be all right, we aren’t to worry. Of course, she wants to go see Dad.
‘No, Mom, the doctor says we’re not to visit; he needs rest and sedation. Dad’s nervous and anxious about the operation; an older man like him doesn’t adapt easily.’
‘Jacky, if we can