The Gates of Margo

2/2010


Someone once told me, “17, that’s when everything goes wrong.” It seems that when I started hanging out with Margo I literally drove into some other world when I was 17 and then drove out of it when I was 18. These transitions happened in events that seem to me like two gates.


1. Mount Misery


After a few months of driving a car and hanging out with Margo, often while she would run into a store for a scratch-off and a Dutch cigar, I’d sit there in my own world, skinny, pale, sleepless, with a prophetic feeling that we were within hours of death, I would stare at the same, dull, Long Island roads aligned with soulless houses and strip malls.

Margo was just over five feet tall. She had black hair with pink ends, a ring in the middle of her nose, she was pale, showed cleavage where she’d stick her money, wore colorful shoes, tight jeans, a tight hoodie zipped up halfway, thick, black, rectangular framed glasses, had long, red finger nails, had drawn on, high arched eyebrows, and would walk fast and usually talk fast and incessantly. I was a skinny boy that looked young for my age. My head was all shaved except for 2/3rds of my scalp, a big patch of hair that hung almost to my shoulder and had blonde streaks in it that were always dyed one color or another. I wore black, blue or red eyeliner, sometimes big circles drawn around one eye. I wore some colorful, striped shirts from the thrift store or black band t-shirts. I cut thumb holes into my long sleeves.

Margo would get back in the passenger’s seat and gutting the Dutch Cigar out of the slightly open door while telling me, “We have to get Lance, but I’m going to say to him that I have to be home at five, because that’s when we could get the yay from Patty and I don’t want to share it with him.” I’d reach past my coffee, water and red bull and put on the oldies station.
She got the way to move, me Cherry
(She got the way to groove me)
(She got the way to move me) Cherry baby
(She got the way to groove me) Alright


We were in my car in a parking lot before midnight, behind an elementary school. Margo’s red fingernails pointed upwards as she played a geometric puzzle on her phone. I was reading Allen Ginsberg’s Pocket Book of Poetry.
America when will you be angelic?
When will you take off your clothes?
When will you look at yourself through the grave?

“What are we doing?” Margo said in a complaining drone.

“I don’t mind just talking,” I said while reading.

She was quiet. Then she said, “Let’s go to Mount Misery.”

I rose from the book. “Mount Misery? I drove so much today Margo.”

“But I have to be home in an hour. I want to do something before the night is over,” she said.

“I just don’t want to drive all the way over there. It would be more climactic for me to not drive for two seconds,” I said.

“Okay. Do you have any pot at your house?” she asked.

“Well. Yes. But my mother’s going to ask me what I’m doing. I’d rather just not go into my house.”

“I don’t want to finish these lines here. I want to finish them at Mount Misery.”

“Why do you like that place so much anyway?” I asked.

“I feel good there. There’s something comforting about it,” she said.


I drove off in disbelief that I was actually embarking on that trip. On the highway I put on what I called moon glasses. They highlighted colors but made darkness darker. The lights looked like yellow stars through them and the darkness dark like space. Margo was quiet from crashing. 50 Cent was playing on the radio.
Look homie, I don’t dance. All I do is this.
It’s the same two-step wit a lil’ twist.
Listen pimpin’, I aint new to this. I’m true to this.
Pay attention boy, I teach how to do this shit.


Mount Misery was a long, narrow, windy, inclined path through some woods off the turnpike. There was little light and cars needed to drive very slowly to get through. We drove shortly in and parked at the gate for a small cemetery. After we snorted two short lines, a rowdy car of Goths stopped behind us on the road. One gothic girl got out and the jokesters went off without her. We were getting out anyway for fresh air. Margot and the girl talked and I went into the graveyard to pee. As I unzipped near a grave, I heard dashing. The trees shook in the woods and through my moon glasses I saw footprints in the bright, yellow-glowing snow.

After I returned we all went for a walk in the cemetery. “I think I saw someone run into the woods,” I said.

“No you didn’t,” said Margo.

“It’s probably that guy that tries to scare everyone,” said the girl.

“You mean that guy,” Margo said, “Who drives that beat corvette really fast through the path?”

“Yea. Weird things are more likely to happen to you hear when I’m around because I tend to put bad luck on people.”

“Really?” asked Margo. “Maybe you should walk a little bit farther away. No, I’m just kidding.”

“It’s true though,” she continued. “Terrible things happen to people when I meet them.”

“I wouldn’t even know darling,” Margo said. “Crazy things are always happening to me anyway. I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.”

The car of goths was waiting at the gait. The girl kissed Margo and said goodbye. The car took off and Margo said to me, “So are you ready to do one monster line at the top of the hill and then we’ll drive home?”

I nodded.

We drove up to the top of the hill, where the path ended. Margot sorted the coke. I said, “Sorry Margo. It’s been rap all night.” I switched the station to classic rock.
Yeah, keep your eyes on the road, your hands up on the whe-el
Keep your eyes on the road, your hands up on the whe-el
Going to the road house, gonna have a re-al,
good time

After our lines we rubbed the ends of cigarettes in the coke bag, lit the cigarettes and cruised down the hill and rounded the bend. The first drag of the cigarette tasted sweet and satisfactorily poisonous.
Let it roll, baby roll

I cruised a little faster. A truck came at us. I drove around it onto some ice and, screaming, we slammed into a tree; Margot’s window shattered on both of us and my head slammed against the steering wheel. The music had stopped: I yelled, “Margo!

“Wait! I can’t find-“

“Margo, are you alright!”

“Stop yelling! I can’t find my glasses!”

There was glass in my mouth. The windshield was broken. My moon glasses and cigarette had flown somewhere.

“I found them,” she said. “Pink, there’s glass in my mouth.”

“Me too.”

“Is my face bloody?” she asked. There were cuts on her face that were only bleeding a little bit.

“You have some cuts but it’s not so bad.”

“I’m going to call the police,” I said.

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I can’t drive this car.”

“Shit,” she said. “I have to go bury my razor blade and the bag.” She got out of the car.

With shaky hands I dialed 911. “Hi I just crashed my car on Sweet Hollow Road.”

“Do you need an ambulance?”

“No.” While talking I saw Margo talking with people at a car that had been coming our way. At the end of the call I ran out towards them.

“These are my friends,” she said to me. “This is Pink.”

“Are you okay man?” said the driver.

“Yea man! We crashed to Roadhouse Blues, which is pretty ideal.”

“You’re fucked up Pink,” Margot said. “You’re going to be like what the fuck in a minute.”

I turned back to look at the car. The whole front was bent inwards. I went in the car to see if there was anything I needed. Margo’s friends took off
and she got in the car. “They’re going to come back to drive us home,” she said. “They just need to drop people off first.”

“Cool.”

“Did you call your mother’s boyfriend?”

“No. No, no, no.”

After a minute I said, “Margo.”

“What?”

“Just before we crashed, I had a vision of a woman in a white gown screaming in the woods.”

“Really?”

“Yea.”

“What did she look like?”

“She had black hair. She was in her forties.”

“Cool.”

The police car came, it’s red and blue lights flashing on the trees. The officer gave me a report to fill out. Margot called her grandmother while I narrated the whole story excluding the cocaine and the moon glasses.

“Hi Grandma,” she said. “Yeah. Listen. Pink and I got in an accident. We’re okay and my friends are going to drive us home.

“Just some cuts,” she said. “Yea, I think so.” She turned and asked me, “Are you okay?”

I nodded.

“Yeah, he’s okay. He’s just has this gash between his eyes.” I looked in the rearview mirror and saw the big, red bump and a dry line of blood
between my eyes.

For some reason the police had us stand outside but didn’t invite us into their car. We were cold, standing on the edge of the haunted woods. I prayed that all of the ghosts in the woods would come out and scare the police. There was a thick, 12-foot branch hanging from a nearby tree, dangling by a thread. I walked over and pushed it. It swung slightly.

The cops left when Margot’s friends came and we got in her friend’s car. “You can drop Margo off first,” I said.

“Is she closer?” the driver asked.

“I need to be home,” Margo said.

“How long have you had that car?” the driver asked.

“I’ve been borrowing it from my mother’s boyfriend.”

“Shit. Does he have another car?”

“Yes.”


At home, my mother was on the couch with the light on, the TV on and she was folding laundry into a basket. I sat on the other couch. “I crashed Bruce’s car,” I said.

“You what? You crashed Bruce’s Car? Are you okay? You could have died! Were you drinking? You could have died, Pink. You could be dead! Were
you on drugs? Who was there?”

“It was just Margo and I. We didn’t drink or smoke anything.”

“Is Margo okay? Do I have to call her grandparents?”

“She’s fine. She just has a few cuts on her face.”

“They could sue us Pink. Don’t you understand? Now I have to deal with that! You better call Bruce. Where’s the car?”

“It was towed.”

“Towed? That costs money. Why didn’t you call Bruce?”

“I just didn’t want to tell you yet.”

“You don’t respect Bruce. He does so much for you and you disrespect him. Call him right now.”

I called him. He said, “Hey buddy. Aren’t you with Margo? What’s up?”

“I’m sorry. I crashed the car.”

“Oh shit. Are you and your friend okay?”

“Yea but the car is wrecked.”

“Are you in it now?”

“No. I got a ride home.”

“So you’re with your mother?”

“Yes,” I said unintentionally dreadfully.

“Oh god. Is she flipping a shit?”

“Yes,” I said rubbing the back of my neck, looking over at my mother faulding clothes and muttering to herself.

“So it’s not possible to be driven,” he stated as a question.

“No. I don’t think so.”

“Okay. Where’d you crash?”

“Into a tree on the side of this really dark road. The path was so narrow and I went around this truck and got caught on the ice.”

“Where?”

“It’s called Sweet Hollow Road in Huntington.”

My mother said, “What were you doing in Huntington?”

Bruce continued, “Sweet Hollow Road. What were you doing there?”

“It’s just like a place to go because we were bored. It’s just like a haunted road.”

“Okay,” said my mother, irritated. “Give me the phone.” I gave her the phone and got up but she said, “Sit down. You don’t go anywhere.” Then she
sat down and said, “He’s fine. He’s just stupid. He could have died and he doesn’t have any respect or appreciation that you let him borrow the car.”

Then she said to him, “Yeah, but you know what? It’s not fare. How many kids have to fucking die because they don’t give a shit? Okay. Okay. I have
to go. You too. Bye.”

I looked at her and she looked at me. She asked me, “What is wrong with you?”

I shrugged. “I’m a terrible person. I should die.”

“No. You’re just disrespectful. God.” She fumbled trying to put a thought together and then finally said, “I don’t know anymore. You know what? Go
away. Get out of my face.”

In my room there was an Exorcist movie poster on the wall of the possessed girl and her green, scarred, cold face. I tore it off the wall, crumpled it
up and threw it into the closet. I took the lid off my stereo and opened the triple CD cartridge. I reached beneath it and pulled out a glasses case. I sat
on my bed taking a bowl out of the glasses case and a dime bag, crumpled a big weed nug in the bowl and took a drag. I sat there for a moment thinking about whether anything really happened at Mount Misery that would cause me to still feel terrorized by everything around me, or if I was just torturing myself from infantile projections. Why was it that I still felt as though I was in the woods?

The worst thing that could possibly happen has happened and now I’m still here and this life is really still happening. Do I really have to feel what all of these conditions dictate that I feel? Can I just be happy anyway even if everyone around me tells me that I’m in deep shit and am fucked forever?

What if I watch TV? Can I shake Mount Misery off me if I just sit here in the dark?

I looked at the room, already bored with the same old life that I had been living. It seemed like a good enough reason to look into another world for a little while. I turned on the TV and watched South Park, the extremely bright and colorful, two-dimensional cartoon with mocking-toned voice-overs. I ran down to the kitchen for munchies. On my jog back up the steps this female presence in my mind, some eternal consciousness that was not me but was within my awareness and was part of me suggested to me without words, happiness is always an option.







2. White Railings


Just over a year later I was nearing the end of my first year of college at some prestigious art school in Manhattan that I had already transferred my transcript from, to a public school somewhere else in the city and planned on moving in with my father partly to shorten the commute and partly to change my scenery. It was a Wednesday, the one day that I didn’t have work or school, and I was in my neighborhood driving my black Volkswagon Jetta through the wet, sunshiny day to meet a best friend of Margo’s that I had been dating since August. Jenna, my girlfriend, was a thin, Indian girl that wore tight jeans and tight red tank tops and listened to Jay-Z. She smoked long cigarettes and was mildly addicted to coke.

Earlier that morning I drove to the DMV in the rain, listening repeatedly to a Nine Inch Nails song from the early nineties. The DMV was in a town closer to Queens, in an area extremely dense, developed, industrial, beat and poured on by rain.
In this place it seems like such a shame.
Though it all looks different now,
I know it’s still the same.
Everywhere I look you’re all I see.
Just a fading fucking reminder of who I used to be.


I sometimes wondered what it might have meant that a boy from a Jewish house and a girl from a Muslim house lived on opposite sides of a town border road called Jerusalem and were dating each other. I drove down Jerusalem, over the overpass and before I made it to her school to pick her up, (she was a senior in high school) I parked on a side street to wait for her to call me. Since the sun had come out, I decided to put on The Velvet Undergound, a band from the 60s, and some of their particularly raspy songs.
(White light), white light goin’ messin’ up my mind
(White light), and don’t you know it’s gonna make me go blind
(white heat), aww white heat it tickle me down to me toes
(White light,) Ooo have mercy white light have it goodness knows

After some 15 minutes after she didn’t call me or even pick up her phone, I decided to move from that spot. I drove the opposite direction towards my old high school on the other side of town. Of course when I got there kids were pouring out of the school to get home and walk dogs, go online, watch TV, smoke a bong, change for practice, go to work, watch porn or masturbate without it but with classmates on the mind or play the drums.

Escaping the 2:30 tangle, back on the road, I had to take two long roads, 106, the main road of my early life, and at the end, Jerusalem. Down 106,
I turned up the song, Sister Ray. It was the longest Velvet Underground song. The guitar played one riff repeatedly, an electric viola squeeled, the singer droned on nonchalantly.
Doug and Sally inside
They cookin’ for the Down Pipe
Who’s staring at Miss Rayon
Who’s busy licking off her Pig Pen

Seemed down at Jerusalem there was one massive, black cloud in the sky. Now I wasn’t sure whether I was heading for Jenna or not. My cell sat neutrally in the cup holder not vibrating.

By the middle of Sister Ray I was turning on Jerusalem.
Cecil’s got his new piece
He cocks it shoots it between three and four
He aims it at the sailor
Shoots him down dead on the floor

I drove down past my street and I drove past the yard of my old elementary school and I drove to the border of 3 towns where cars were all
cramming to a slow down onto the overpass because there was a light right after it. I slowed at the slope and it occurred to me to drive left and see some friends at my old job, for they certainly showed more love for me than my girlfriend. While I contemplated whether turn left of go forwards, the black cloud either moved or broke and a shaft of light illuminated the wet, vertical, white railings of the overpass. This inspired me to make the left to see my good old friends.
Now who is that knocking
Who’s knocking at my chamber door
Now could it be the police
They come and take me for a ride-ride

When I turned a car that I didn’t see drove into the front corner of my car: the air bag exploded in my face as I pressed down on the brake and the car spun. While it was spinning, in the silence of the silenced music, I recognized the feeling of the worst possible thing that could happen is happening, that I might not even survive, and I accepted it. When it stopped I pushed down the airbag and all I could see was bright light illuminating orange dust that flew up from the airbag. The bridge of my nose hurt as if I was punched. I pushed the door open but it would only open a fifth of the way. As I climbed out, both sets of my limbs hurt, even my cribs and shoulders, I said out loud, “Oh Lord, Oh Lord.” I then hoped that I was having an epiphany.

What’s the epiphany? Is my life changing?

There was the girl that collided with me, standing in front of her car, which was half off the road on the pass. It was apparent that she was a student from the high school. “I just bought that car!” she yelled.

“You’re alive,” I said, approaching her. “You’re alive. That’s good.”

“As her complaints faded out of my attention I walked like a withered tree to the sidewalk near her car and paced slowly back and forth. A man asked me if I was okay, a tough guy in Speedo shades and a windbreaker.

“I’m cool.”

Then he went to her. I called my mother.

“Yes?” she asked.

“I crashed at the intersection of Jerusalem and Loring. Car’s dead. I’m fine. A girl is mad.”

“Stay right there.”

As I waited I looked at my ruined car and laughed. Two young teenagers on bikes on the other sidewalk told me to stop laughing and past over the top of the hill.

An ambulance and my mother came. My mother just asked if I was hurt and if I was drinking. And, “Where’s Jenna?”

“I don’t know.”

She sighed in a disgusted way and we went in the ambulance by invitation. We sat on boxes while a paramedic interviewed me. I took a yellow lollypop from my pocket and unwrapped it.

“Last name?”

“Noche.” I put the lollipop in my mouth.

“First name?”

“Pink.”

My mother was filling out a form.

“Any pain?” the paramedic asked.

“My ribs hurt, my leg, my arm.”

“Son. Please take that lollipop out of your mouth. It’s pretty disrespectful. This is a serious situation.”

I looked at him madly. My mother said, “Just take it out Pink.” I slow took it out. My mother said, “I don’t think this is necessary. I can take him to our doctor.”

“He could have a concussion mam.”

“Did you hit your head Pink?”

“The airbag hit me.”

“Do you feel dizzy?”

“No.”

“Yea. It will be cheaper if we go to our doctor. It’s fine.”

“Are you sure? Pink, speak up if you feel that your bones hurt severely.”

“I’m cool,” I shrugged and put the lollipop back in my mouth.

The Velvet Underground CD was stuck in the car stereo forever but I grabbed a roach joint from the car and got in my mother’s jeep. As we drove onto the road I spotted Jenna with some friend of her. “Can you pull over?,” I said, “It’s Jenna.” My mother pulled over a bit and Jenna came to my window.

“Hey,” she said, smiling.

“Hi.”

“Was that your crash up there?”

“Yea.”

“That looked bad. Are you okay?”

“I’m okay. Going to the doctor.”

“Did anyone else get hit?”

“Some girl. She’s okay.”

“Man. I was going to call you.”

“Whatever Jenna,” I said.

“I was just going to go to Erica’s first.”

My mother said, “Come on Pink.”

“I’ve got to go,” I said.

“I’ll call you later.”

I nodded and put my window up as we took off.

My mother said, “That girl is selfish. She only cares about herself.” For an instant I almost defended Jenna. “Lose that girl, Pink. Just focus on school
and don’t drive for a while. Take a cab to the train. There’s only a few weeks left.”

We drove in silence. Then she said, “Where were you going?”

“I was supposed to pick up Jenna an hour ago but she was a no-show so I was going to go to see my friends at the store instead.”

“I don’t even want to hear about that Jenna anymore. God forbid you should have a concussion. Hopefully we don’t get sued.”


There were two quiet magazine readers in the carpeted lobby. My mother leaned against the desk, keys in hand. “Hi. My son just had a car accident. He might have fractured some bones.”

I sat on the X-Ray table, my mother in the chair. The doctor was outside. My mother was in the dim. We were quiet. I looked ahead of the few
remaining weeks of school left without a car. I wondered how I was supposed to meet with Margo. I looked at how I was moving far away in a few months. It suddenly became clear that even if I wasn’t moving something was naturally steering me away from Margo anyway. I wanted to fight this thing, which seemed to be divinity. I wondered how I could fight it. It was going to win. I began to cry.

“What is it? What’s wrong? Don’t worry about the car,” she said. “Is it the car? Hey,” she barked. “At least you survived.”

“I know. That’s what I said to that girl,” I wiped the tears from my cheeks. Tears went into my mouth.

Then after a moment I cried harder and covered my face.

“Are you okay Pink? Is it that selfish girl? Tell me. Look at me,” she continued. “Is school bothering you? Pink! Look at me…

“It’s okay,” she said. “Let it out. Let it out. Tell me when you’re ready.”

“It’s,” I muttered. “It’s because…”

“What?”

“Margo.” I looked at the floor. “I can’t be friends with Margo anymore.”

Transformed

I was 16 I think. It was summer. There were some people talking to my mother in the kitchen. I looked through her album collection because I'd already enjoyed her Janis Joplin and The Turtles CDs. I also knew her boyfriend's collection too well and exhausted his Kinks, Hendrix, Violent Femmes, Pink Floyd and other CDs. For the first time I saw the spine labeled, Lou Reed: Transformer.

The Velvet Underground was my favorite band then. I was high as much as I could afford to be to the point of being high in front of my mother and forgetting I was high. Class though was one place I couldn't manage but the bus stop, my off-periods, and before gym and art classes were lighting up times, with the scratchy, mellow Velvet Underground playing in my head. They were just like any band except their long, one verse songs were more simple than the Kinks and felt shrouded in the mist of sleepiness and other worldliness, sad people found in the holy ghetto blocks of 1960s New York City and I blazed in my shrouded teenage suburbs in their soundtrack.

This was new. I knew the band broke up in 71 or other. What came later, I vaguely knew the that the singer, Lou Reed wrote Take a Walk on The Wild Side, which was all I knew. On the cover his face was death white against a black background. His eyes were thickly rounded in blackness, more death. He had a big round acoustic half-in the photo. It said Lou Reed on a yellow melting top border, Transformer. "What does that mean?" I thought. I snuck it past the kitchen and went to my room upstairs. I first lifted the cover off my stereo, opened out the 3 CD cartridge, reached in half to elbow length and took my eyeglass case from the bottom. Then I put the CD in & the volume to 12, a low level, not wanting my mother to hear in case it was embarrassing. Some ordinary electric guitar riff began and it was like regular old rock n roll, between Kinks and the Stones so I put it to 15, the case back on the stereo, took the bowl from the glasses case and filled it with pot. I put it to 16 and blew smoke out the back window. As it went on I felt it was much happier than Velvet Underground, much more alive and particularly flamboyant. It became much to let my mother know so I lowered it to 13 and then 12 but sat near the stereo and took a hit. I looked at the back of the album cover. There were two pictures next to the song list, a woman or man, maybe a transvestite emerging from dark curtains, making a kissing face. The other was a man in a tight t-shirt, muscles, a cop hat or other and very tight jeans. There was a huge, long bulge half way to his knee. "Is that supposed to be obvious?" I wondered. Then I felt very high. "Could mom hear the music?" There was a broadway element to the music. There was a very gay element. It was happy, proud, outlandish, very 70s and still very rock n roll. I remember half way through thinking that liking the music was a decision. Either be embarrassed by it and turn it off or love it forever and turn it up. So I turned the extravaganza up and felt very good. Later I'd tell my mother I took it and I never gave it back, ever.