Freedom [51]
“Richard’s excited about Margaret Thatcher,” Walter said. “He thinks she represents the excesses of capitalism that will inevitably lead to its self-destruction. I’m guessing he’s writing a love song.”
“You know me well,” Richard said. “A love song to the lady with the hair.”
“We disagree about the likelihood of a Marxist Revolution,” Walter explained to Patty.
“Mm,” she said, spitting.
“Walter thinks the liberal state can self-correct,” Richard said. “He thinks the American bourgeoisie will voluntarily accept increasing restrictions on its personal freedoms.”
“I have all these great ideas for songs that Richard inexplicably keeps rejecting.”
“The fuel-efficiency song. The public-transportation song. The nationalized-health-care song. The baby-tax song.”
“It’s pretty much virgin territory, in terms of rock-song content,” Walter said.
“Two Kids Good, Four Kids Bad.”
“Two Kids Good—No Kids Better.”
“I can already see the masses taking to the streets.”
“You just have to become unbelievably famous,” Walter said. “Then people will listen.”
“I’ll make a note to do that.” Richard turned to Patty. “How you doing there?”
“Mm!” she said, ejecting the wad into the coffee mug. “I see what you mean about the vomiting.”
“Try not to do it on the couch.”
“Are you all right?” Walter said.
The room was swimming and pulsing. “I can’t believe you enjoy this,” Patty said to Richard.
“And yet I do.”
“Are you all right?” Walter asked her again.
“I’m fine. Just need to sit very still.”
She in fact felt quite sick. There was nothing to be done but stay on the sofa and listen to Walter and Richard banter and joust about politics and music. Walter, with great enthusiasm, showed her the Traumatics’ seven-inch single and compelled Richard to play both sides of it on the stereo. The first song was “I Hate Sunshine,” which she’d heard at the club in the fall, and which now seemed to her the sonic equivalent of absorbing too much nicotine. Even at low volume (Walter, needless to say, was pathologically considerate of his neighbors), it gave her a sick, dready sensation. She could feel Richard’s eyes on her while she listened to his dire baritone singing voice, and she knew she hadn’t been mistaken about the way he’d looked at her the other times she’d seen him.
Around eleven o’clock, Walter began to yawn uncontrollably.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I have to take you home now.”
“I’m fine walking by myself. I’ve got my crutches for self-defense.”
“No,” he said. “We’ll take Richard’s car.”
“No, you need to go to sleep, you poor thing. Maybe Richard can drive me. Can you do that for me?” she asked him.
Walter closed his eyes and sighed miserably, as if he’d been pushed past his limits.
“Sure,” Richard said. “I’ll drive you.”
“She needs to see your room first,” Walter said, his eyes still closed.
“Be my guest,” Richard said. “Its condition speaks for itself.”
“No, I want the guided tour,” Patty said, giving him a pointed look.
The walls and ceiling of his room were painted black, and the punk disorder that Walter’s influence had suppressed in the living room here vented itself with a vengeance. There were LPs and LP sleeves everywhere, along with several cans of spit, another guitar, overloaded bookshelves, a mayhem of socks and underwear, and tangled dark bedsheets that it was interesting and somehow not unpleasant to think that Eliza had been vigorously erased in.
“Nice cheerful color!” Patty said.
Walter yawned again. “Obviously I’ll be repainting it.”
“Unless Patty prefers black,” Richard said from the doorway.
“I’d never thought of black,” she said. “Black is interesting.”
“Very restful color, I find,” Richard said.
“So you’re moving to New York,” she said.
“I am.”
“That’s exciting. When?”
“Two weeks.”
“Oh, that’s when I’m going out there, too. It’s my parents’ twenty-fifth anniversary. Some sort of horrible Event is planned.”