DON'T HIT ME, BILLY...

By Stephen Jay Schwartz

 

I really do believe that every single experience we've had is stored in our memories. Even the little nonsense nothings - a mailbox I passed twenty years ago on an old country road - is there, waiting, with perfect clarity, for something or other to trigger it to life before my eyes.

I'm constantly amazed by the odd places I go in my head when a particular scent fills my nose - sometimes it's just a flashing image: a stream I ran beside at age ten; a kitchen in a forgotten friend's house where I "invented" peanut-butter by coating peanuts in butter and slamming them with a hammer; or chasing garter snakes in the backyard with my dad.

Everything is there - glimpses of my Kodachrome life.  I've always claimed to remember the moment of my briss.  Eight days old, just after the cut, when large, hairy hands placed a fluffy, purple dinosaur in my crib. I remember thinking it was hardly compensation for what had been taken.

My wife says there's no way I can remember this. She says it's a made-up image, malarky all the way.

Malarky. Now, that's a word from a different era. Brings memories of my wife's stepfather who died recently at the age of 89. He was a swing-time jazz musician and his vocabulary was filled with jumpin' jive words, like malarky.

So, I was shaving the other day and I saw a flash of myself at age 19, standing in a studio apartment in Santa Cruz, California, with a drink in my hand. My eyes downcast, listening to the stomping of feet toward me, seeing a glimpse of a muscled arm rising.

And me, repeating the words, "Don't hit me, Billy. Billy. Please. Don't hit me."

I don't know why the memory came to me at just that moment, as I held the razor to my cheek. Nothing to prompt it. Just me staring at my face.

It was only a year ago, right? Maybe ten. At the most fifteen. It couldn't have been twenty-eight. But it was.

I had arrived at Christie's home. We'd spent the afternoon together with her four year old daughter. Christie was twenty-three and she worked at the video store in downtown Santa Cruz, owned by the TV producer I had come to work for as an intern. The "TV producer" ended up being a flaky, local entrepreneur and coke dealer. It was the best internship I ever had.

Christie took a liking to me right away. But she had this "friend" named Billy, who seemed to hang around a lot. I never really saw Billy, just a shadow here and there. He was twenty-seven - a real man with dreams and plans that apparently included Christie. Her cute little daughter came from a previous relationship, so Billy had no claim to her. And, according to Christie, Billy was just a friend.

Christie had a car, which was more than I had, and she let me drive her and her daughter around that afternoon, getting take-out at Pizza My Heart and an ice cream at Baskin Robbins. This was a long time ago, when Pizza My Heart had only two locations--one in downtown Santa Cruz (by the bus station) and one in Capitola. 1985. Just yesterday.

We watched the sun as it set over the Pacific and then Christie asked me to take her home. Take us home. It looked like I'd be spending the night.

We drove to her place and then past it because there was a car hovering in the shadows.

"What's Billy doing here?" she asked, rhetorically.

She told me to keep driving. We went back to the beach, watched the stars come out in the sky. Then I drove back and, still, Billy's car in the driveway.

"I think Billy thinks he's your boyfriend," I said. "Maybe I should go home. While the buses are running."

"No...no, Billy's just a friend...." she said, without conviction.

We drove around town a bit then returned to discover that Billy had left.

I carried her sleeping daughter and put her in bed, which was uncomfortably close to Christie's bed, which, from the way things were looking, would be my bed as well.

Christie fixed me a drink and we stood for what seemed like seconds when the white light of a car's headlights flashed the window.

"Who could that be?" she asked, rhetorically. I was getting pretty tired of 'rhetorically.'

There was a soft knock at the door and Christie opened it.

"Billy, what are you doing here?"

 His hands in his pockets, an "aw, shucks" slump, genuine and kind. "Where've you been tonight, Christie?"

Then he sees me over her shoulder. My drink in hand, a dopey smile on my face. "Hi, Billy," I said, in ironic monotone. A slow wave of my hand.

He turned around quickly, a rush of anger. Stepped away from the door, stepped back and away again, then forward with determination, his hand moving through his hair, his cheeks blowing red.

"Billy," Christie said, "what's going on?"

I knew what was going on.

He stomped into the house, pushing Christie aside.

"Billy!" she screamed. "Billy, stop!"

And me, just watching him come. I was no match for him. I knew it. There was really only one thing to do.

"Billy. Don't hit me, Billy. Please. Don't hit me."

A calm, pleading appeal. I made no move to defend myself. I guess in the back of my mind I pictured the tables turned - would I be able to hit a defenseless kid who meant no harm, a kid who clearly hadn't slept with my girlfriend or friend or whatever I chose to call her?

Billy approached like a bear with his arm cocked all the way to his ear. He stood above me, a foot taller, knuckles shaking in a now-or-never fist.

In the background, Christie screaming, "No, Billy, stop, stop!"

In the foreground, a droning mantra, "Please. Billy. Please. Don't hit me, Billy."

The combination worked. He turned on his heel, brought the anger to his lungs. "Get the fuck out of here!" and pushed me from the house.

The door slammed behind me. It was a cold winter night. The buses had stopped running and it would be a long, long walk to my apartment on Pacific Avenue. Seven miles, was my guess. I sat in the shadows in the front yard, listening to Christie talking nonsense and Billy punching walls.

Somehow, she managed it. Explained that I was just a friend from work who bought her and her daughter some ice cream--on my way home when Billy came to the door. I don't really know what all she said, except for the "I love yous" and "Oh, Billy, it's only you, you know that." After an hour he stepped through the door and came to me with his hand extended.

"Sorry, man. I totally misunderstood," he said.

Me, I'm glad he didn't show up twenty minutes later.

"Well, yeah, okay," I said. "But now I don't have a way home. I could use a ride."

Billy wasn't about to drive me home and he wasn't going to let his whatever-she-was spend a minute alone with me in a car. We compromised and they let me borrow her car so I could drive to my apartment, where I slept lonely and alone in an ice-box room above the local Mexican club, the Acapulco Lounge. Mariachi music until two a.m.

A month or two later Billy took Christie and the kid back to wherever it was he came from, Minnesota, I think, where they could have a normal life among normal friends. She was twenty-three, Christie. She'd be in her fifties now.

How did this start? Oh, yeah. Memories. That one came while I was shaving.

Time is not what we know. I'm convinced that everything that ever happened to me happened no earlier than fifteen years ago. Whenever someone asks me how long I've known this or that person, or when I left Albuquerque, or when I went to music school, I always think, "Well it had to be around fifteen years ago." Because that's as long as anything has every happened in my life, right?

I'm one of the most sentimental, nostalgic persons I know. I love my memories, good and bad. I used to be the only one like this, until I met all the friggin' authors. Now I know I'm not alone. It's a gene we're born with, me and the writers. We're lost in our memories. We're lost in our minds.

Not a bad place to be, if you have to be anywhere at all.

                                                    *     *     *

Come read next week's episode, when Stephen finds Billy dealing blackjack in Vegas and says, "Hit me, Billy. Please. Hit me."*

* The last bit is just a bunch of malarky.

Scent of a Woman

by JT Ellison

Shalimar.

Quick. What's that make you think of? Can you smell it?

Shalimar on cold fur, whispering against my mother’s skin as she came to tuck me in after an evening out at a fancy ball.

Shalimar means Temple of Love in Sanskrit. And really, isn’t that why we use perfume and cologne? To attract? To comfort. To leave behind a memory? I am fascinated by what people choose to dab themselves in. It’s so much more than smelling pretty, really, it’s more about who you are. Your scent says a lot about you. So don't laugh when I say this is probably the most intimate post I've ever done on Murderati.

I don’t wear much perfume these days. Instead, I’m a dedicated fan of La Vanilla, which is a rollerball delivered essential oil of vanilla. It is yummy. Delicious. When I wear it my husband tells me I smell good. That’s good enough for me.

But I’ve tried my hand at a number of perfumes over the years.

I started out with the age-old classic, Love’s Baby Soft.

I remember how special I felt when I graduated to White Shoulders.

Then on to Charlie, which I always felt vaguely silly wearing.

Anäis Anäis, my first teenager girl perfume.

Tresor, my second teenage girl perfume.

Joy, which trumped all of the above and was without a doubt my signature scent from about fifteen to thirty.

Chanel no. 5, which they’ve sadly just changed the formula on.

Gio, which, to my utter horror, was discontinued and parades now as Aqua di Gio, a pale imitation of its scrumptious predecessor.

Arpege, which I still wear on occasion, but has a tendency to make drunk men corner me by the bathrooms and tell me I smell pretty.

Philosophy Amazing Grace, which I do still wear. Mostly in my hair, at the beach, for some reason.

Despite that list, I’m incredibly picky when it comes to scent. Patchouli makes me sneeze. Red Door gives me an immediate migraine. Obsession was just so, well, obsessive. Most perfumes seem too loud, too forward. And when it comes to men’s scents – forget about it.

My man wears this great subtle cologne that no one can smell but me, because you can’t smell it unless your nose is literally up against the skin. (He’s going to kill me for that. I foresee Randy being sniffed at close range at the next conference bar…)

But I’ve dated them all.

Polo – Sorry, boys, but GAG ME WITH A SPOON. Granted, Polo used with a modicum of discretion probably wouldn’t be bad, but for some reason, men loved to drown themselves in it. There was one guy in high school who you could literally smell coming from two halls away.

Royal Copenhagen – okay, that’s more like it. A subtle, powdery scent.

Davidoff Cool Water – I am so not going there… but I do still have the clear glass heart Christmas ornament he gave me. Shhh....

Drakkar Noir – It sounded so freaking cool – I wear Drakkar – but the guys who did were utter Guidos or on the wrestling team. I always wondered how that felt, being pinned to the mat by a guy wearing Drakkar. Well, how it felt for the guys. Ahem.

My Dad was an Aqua Velva Guy. I am immediately sent into his arms any time I smell it. Same with Old Spice and my grandfather.

But Shalimar… wow. A classic. We were watching MAD MEN the other night, the first season, and Joan’s roommate asks her is she’s wearing Shalimar, and I was thrust back in time, to the mirrored perfume tray on my dresser, chock full of lovely glass bottles. To the feeling of being a woman, fresh from the shower, dabbing perfume in my pressure spots – inside the wrist, inside the elbow, behind the knee, behind the ear, between the breasts. Seeing my olfactory palate change as I matured.

There’s something so indefinable, yet so concrete, about how a woman smells. And no matter what, those smells are attached to memories. Good memories, bad memories, indifferent memories. Memories that make us laugh, or cry, or feel vaguely ashamed.

Think of the pheromones we put off naturally, the undetectable aromas that attract a mate. Think of how we spent so many years disguising them, drowning out our natural scent in favor of smelling like a flower. To what end? Attracting bumblebees?

Well damn. That just makes me think about Spanish Fly.

I thought I’d drag you down memory lane with me. But there is a point to all of this. Tell me about your favorite scent, your favorite cologne, from now, or then. A scent that evokes a memory. Something that you love, or hate. That makes you tingle inside, or draw back in disgust.

And I’ll do a random drawing for a galley of my new book, SO CLOSE THE HAND OF DEATH.*

Ready? Go!

Wine of the Week: Zen of Zin  Good wine depends on scent. It's part of the experience. Your nose makes your taste buds work properly. This one is yummy - cherry and strawberry; spice vanilla and orange peel. And if I’m not mistaken, a little bit of earth overlaid with Pacific Ocean breeze. Those Sonoma Valley Zinfandels are unmistakable.  

 *I’ll announce the winners on my personal blog, Tao of JT, Sunday night, and leave a note here in the comments. If you’ve already entered over there, please don’t double dip. I’ll do two separate drawings so it’s fair to everyone.