My Ugly Jesus

My Ugly Jesus Betsy Boyd (bio) "Ticket to Ride" came on the classic rock station. Griggs cradled the wheel in his left hand and bongoed the dash with his right, right in time with Ringo. "Drum's the heart of it," I think he said. "Take the wheel," he told me. We'd done this before. He needed both hands for that kind of car drumming. As he drove us around that night, Griggs was feeling very up for a while. We'd just graduated—Griggs from high school, me fifth grade—and I felt excited too. We picked up Dairy Queen with money from Mom, pitched our plastic cups out the windows, and squealed like hogs. We laughed at our parents' expense, imitating their Mississippi accents, their shared habit of urging, "Don't y'all take foolish chances" and "Life is one gift you do not want to return." After we ran out of things to mock, we watched the shadowy Texas landscape ooze past. A raccoon crossed the highway, and my brother slowed the car just in time for its black eyes to shine a frightened greeting. "That was close," Griggs said. "Beautiful animal." We drove on, deeper into the country than we normally traveled. After a while, Griggs set his hands at ten and two, jerked the wheel, and raced toward a telephone pole. He'd never done that before. The second before impact, he swerved and came to a stop by the side of the road. Then he started laughing—cackling—like he'd told the funniest joke. I sat there, the backs of my knees slick with sweat, pretending I hadn't noticed. "Did that scare you?" he asked. I couldn't talk. "Lou-eeese?" he said, putting on the voice of his alter ego, Nelson Feathers, who talked like his lips were clothespinned shut. "Do you deezapprove of yer crazeee bruh-ther?" When I began to cry, Griggs leaned over and encouraged me to punch him. I knocked one fist against his arm. End Page 81 "Hey, don't you feel extra alive right now?" I could feel my heart bumping against my walls. "Come on," Griggs said after a minute or so. "You want to hear this new song I've been working on? Nobody else has." I nodded—of course I wanted to be the first. He put the CD into the player. What came out was a horn solo that started fast, drove faster, then slowed and braked altogether, like making fun of its own speed, that's how I remember it. The song reminded me of Griggs, his sides—his walls. "I like it," I whispered. "Maybe this will sound crazy." "What?" "You can't tell anyone, Louise." "I won't." "I know something." "What do you mean?" He said the rest like it was a secret to himself: "I'm supposed to share my music." "That's why you're going to music school, right?" "I'm not sure I need to go." My mouth dropped open. "My music is going to change the world. There's no stopping it." "Dad won't let you skip college." I waited for him to talk. "This is an eternal concern." I laughed like I figured I was supposed to. "I never asked for this," Griggs said. And then the huge raccoon reappeared—I mean, it had to be a different one, but we agreed it was the same who'd crossed our path minutes before. "That's freaky as shit," Griggs said. "Totally," I replied. On the way back into town, Griggs explained how he was going to wake everybody from their spiritual coma—with his music—and though he told me this part in his clowning Nelson Feathers voice, I could tell he meant it. His meaning it felt both exciting and worrisome. Because what if End Page 82 people never woke up? I loved Griggs's music, his piano, his horn—and his voice when he sang, which rarely happened in public because he hated to be "stared at." Griggs had just been admitted to the Julliard School as a pianist. But he played trumpet with such freedom and...