forearm and steep his brush in the crimson stream and swirl it into a drop of nightmare black. In that sensual, gory moment I wanted to press my mouth to the gash and drink the nourishment his veins would give me, and I knew Sammy would not mind, if the sweetness of his blood was what I needed. Instead I reached out to touch his painting with my fingertips, and Sammy, smiling, delicately outlined the bones of my hand in bloody black with his brush.
Gene and Sammy clutched each other against the dark when the candles flickered out. Saint (born John St.John) sold grass by the ounce to buy drums. He wore sunglasses at night and liked the candles to go out. I was the ordinary one of the bunch, the short-haired boy, so I wrote home and said I wanted to take a business course at a local college. When the money came, I bought a battered bass from a pawnshop. Sammy figured out how to play it and tried hard to show me, but his long thin fingers tipped with chips of black nail polish were more magical than mine. He braided strands of his glittering hair; they fell around his face as he played.
In decaying little clubs with runes and cryptic names spraypainted on their walls, we made music for crowds of Dachau children with blue-black hair and flickering fishnetted hands. Sometimes a long wing of depression, a chill of horror touched Gene’s days and midnights, brought on by acid or mushrooms or the skewed whorls of his brain. He raged through the church, and only our love for him kept us from hating him. He clung to the door of my room and accused me of having a thing with Sammy; he said he could taste my spit in Sammy’s mouth. I looked at dark-eyed Sammy standing in the hall behind Gene, and Sammy shook his head.
Gene lay on the slatted wooden floor and spoke of pathological self-destruction. He said he might never eat again: he could die among his bones, stop his heart by not feeding it, ignoring its pleas for bread. He could steal Sammy’s razor blades and peel his skin away in thin slices. “I could make you kill me,” he told Sammy, and Sammy gathered Gene into his arms and bowed his face over Gene’s and rocked Gene’s bony uncomfortable body, crooning a wordless plea for Gene to live, lulling them both into a rhythm of uneasy sleep.
One night Gene raved and sobbed until three. We could hear the rawness of his throat, as if his very voice were speckled with blood. Finally the church was silent.
Saint and I, too unnerved to sleep, crept into Gene and Sammy’s room. Sammy made room for us on the mattress and held us throughout the rest of the night, whispering meaningless words to drown out Gene’s ragged breathing.
We played more gigs. Sometimes Gene laughed and was human. Past midnight we leaned out the upstairs windows of our church and stared out over the cupolas and pinnacled monstrosities of our city. The roots of madness twisted more deeply into Gene. He told Sammy he didn’t want to write lyrics together any more; only Gene could make them dark enough, love their darkness, give the skeletal words the meaning they wanted. Gene drank two bottles of bourbon and left a red hand-shaped mark on Sammy’s ivory cheek because Sammy had said he loved the sun. When Sammy shut himself in another room, Gene bloodied his fingers trying to get to him through the unlocked door.
One night Gene took a piece of rope and climbed alone to the bell tower of the church. There was no bell there, but the spiders had filled the empty tower with a bell of webs. The spiders watched Gene strangle, listened to his vox humana squeeze away.
Saint changed his name back to John and went to work for his father’s pharmacy in Atlanta. Sammy cut down the rope in the bell tower and staggered under the meager weight of Gene. After the body was gone he lay on the mattress for days, fingering the rope, pulling it apart and braiding its fibers, destroying it and weaving it again. His eyes were black-green like rotting leaves. He did not speak,
Gene and Sammy clutched each other against the dark when the candles flickered out. Saint (born John St.John) sold grass by the ounce to buy drums. He wore sunglasses at night and liked the candles to go out. I was the ordinary one of the bunch, the short-haired boy, so I wrote home and said I wanted to take a business course at a local college. When the money came, I bought a battered bass from a pawnshop. Sammy figured out how to play it and tried hard to show me, but his long thin fingers tipped with chips of black nail polish were more magical than mine. He braided strands of his glittering hair; they fell around his face as he played.
In decaying little clubs with runes and cryptic names spraypainted on their walls, we made music for crowds of Dachau children with blue-black hair and flickering fishnetted hands. Sometimes a long wing of depression, a chill of horror touched Gene’s days and midnights, brought on by acid or mushrooms or the skewed whorls of his brain. He raged through the church, and only our love for him kept us from hating him. He clung to the door of my room and accused me of having a thing with Sammy; he said he could taste my spit in Sammy’s mouth. I looked at dark-eyed Sammy standing in the hall behind Gene, and Sammy shook his head.
Gene lay on the slatted wooden floor and spoke of pathological self-destruction. He said he might never eat again: he could die among his bones, stop his heart by not feeding it, ignoring its pleas for bread. He could steal Sammy’s razor blades and peel his skin away in thin slices. “I could make you kill me,” he told Sammy, and Sammy gathered Gene into his arms and bowed his face over Gene’s and rocked Gene’s bony uncomfortable body, crooning a wordless plea for Gene to live, lulling them both into a rhythm of uneasy sleep.
One night Gene raved and sobbed until three. We could hear the rawness of his throat, as if his very voice were speckled with blood. Finally the church was silent.
Saint and I, too unnerved to sleep, crept into Gene and Sammy’s room. Sammy made room for us on the mattress and held us throughout the rest of the night, whispering meaningless words to drown out Gene’s ragged breathing.
We played more gigs. Sometimes Gene laughed and was human. Past midnight we leaned out the upstairs windows of our church and stared out over the cupolas and pinnacled monstrosities of our city. The roots of madness twisted more deeply into Gene. He told Sammy he didn’t want to write lyrics together any more; only Gene could make them dark enough, love their darkness, give the skeletal words the meaning they wanted. Gene drank two bottles of bourbon and left a red hand-shaped mark on Sammy’s ivory cheek because Sammy had said he loved the sun. When Sammy shut himself in another room, Gene bloodied his fingers trying to get to him through the unlocked door.
One night Gene took a piece of rope and climbed alone to the bell tower of the church. There was no bell there, but the spiders had filled the empty tower with a bell of webs. The spiders watched Gene strangle, listened to his vox humana squeeze away.
Saint changed his name back to John and went to work for his father’s pharmacy in Atlanta. Sammy cut down the rope in the bell tower and staggered under the meager weight of Gene. After the body was gone he lay on the mattress for days, fingering the rope, pulling it apart and braiding its fibers, destroying it and weaving it again. His eyes were black-green like rotting leaves. He did not speak,
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