The Adventures of Vernon Q. Public by Eric Suhem
Subtopian Manifesto X. by Trevor D. Richardson It’s election time...again. And that means that the Republican clone from every other Republican clone is going to come out and say words while the Democrat clone says words back. This issue will come out prior to the election announcement, but it really doesn’t matter, does it? The message for this month is simple: we’re here, doing this work, to try to envision a different reality. Not just a different Democracy or a different America, but a different existence as a species. We don’t necessarily know what that looks like, but the backdrop of Utopia vs. Dystopia with an encouragement toward sci-fi seems the most likely place to make some discoveries. As we always say, there will never be a Utopian form of government. Some might say that our need to be governed prevents us from ever finding paradise. To that I would say, what would it take for us to no longer need to be governed? Anarchy doesn’t have to mean violent chaos. It can just be a peaceful call to the end of institiutionalizing humanity. Is it truly possible to find a balance between the natural world and civilization? Might it happen more reasonably if we were to attempt to balance the beauty and allure of nature with our ability to create and push back its violence? Isn’t that better than covering it up or destroying it? These are the questions we should be asking. People may say they want the world to end, but they don’t mean it. They like hospitals, dental care, electricity, running water, microwaves, movies, video games and automobiles. They just wish the infrastructure could change. They want to see capitalism fall, or Washington, or Wall Street, or Starbucks or Wal-Mart, but they want to be able to keep their morning coffee. This may seem like I am making a cynical point, but has anyone ever really analyzed this issue? Could it be done? Could we selectively start again rather than destroy the planet by fire in hopes that a new breed rises from the ashes? Does it always have to be so extreme?
Be on the lookout for Subtopian Press’ upcoming release of
Collaborating with Angels Rob Lee’s photo-memoir
Spring 2013
regulars
The Grand Tour
Neither candidate is talking about the over 2 million people in jails and prisons in the US. -- Bill Quigley in Counterpunch Talk about justice...go down to the jailhouse and that’s all you see - just us. -- Richard Pryor Tourists in California are missing a great opportunity. Where else can you travel north-south on either of two major highways and be so close to so many prisons - pardon me, correctional facilities - some in plain sight. And not just any prisons. Famous prisons, notorious prisons, prisons immortalized in song. Folsom State Prison, made famous in Johnny Cash’s “Folsom Prison Blues,” is the only correctional institution on my list not conveniently located on or near Highway 101 or Interstate 5. It is, however, a mere ten miles east of I-80, a bit west of Sacramento, so qualifies as near a major highway, and should be included in the Grand Tour. Just south of Brookings Oregon, on the outskirts of Crescent City, is Pelican Bay, a high-security, high-tech facility noted for “cruel and unusual punishment” in its practice of severe solitary confinement and these prisoners’ lack of access to reasonable exercise space. This is where they send the “really bad guys” and this must surely include the guards and other staff. I don’t wish to stereotype, but will venture that it takes a special personality to be a prison guard. A retired San Quentin guard operated a shop in Sausalito in the 70’s, and sold fishing and boating equipment, and guns. There was a snack bar in the Bait Shop where you could drink beer. It was to my knowledge the only place where you get drunk and then buy a handgun and bullets. The owner was a mean-faced dour character who eyed everyone suspiciously and wasn’t commonly known as Rotten Richie for nothing. 1
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San Quentin, visible from highway 101 in Marin County, needs no introduction, as it’s been celebrated in crime novels and movies, seemingly forever. Anyone knows what you mean if you just say “Q.” The irony of its presence in Marin, former wealthiest county in the U.S. and birthplace of the smug yuppie, where BMW used to mean “Basic Marin Wheels” or “Break My Windows,” depending on your social status, is no longer even noticed. Continuing south on 101, we come to the Salinas Valley Prison at Soledad, easily visible from the road. It is known for the Soledad Brothers, a trio of black inmates who conspired to kill the guard who opened fire on prisoners in the exercise yard and shot three black men to death. George Jackson, one of the three conspirators, wrote a book, Soledad Brother, calling attention to racism and cruelty at the facility. Jackson was later killed at San Quentin when he staged an uprising and freed an entire floor of prisoners. California Mens’ Colony at San Luis Obispo is not especially notorious, but there it is, right off 101 and should be included in the tour package. The Federal Correctional Institution at Lompoc is a minimum security prison, reserved for the likes of big drug traffickers, and white-collar criminals (who have the misfortune to get caught). Conveniently located off highway 101 in Santa Barbara County. (A good account of the music business, cocaine trafficking, and doing time at Lompoc - The Fortunate Son by Jake Rohrer - can found here: http://theava.com/archives/10732). Along Interstate 5 between San Francisco and Los Angeles, Avenal State Prison is the most overcrowded prison in the state of California. Which, I would guess, is quite a distinction. A bit farther south our tour includes the wonderfully-named Pleasant Valley state prison at Coalinga, which houses Sirhan Sirhan, the alleged assassin of Robert Kennedy. I say “alleged” in the same sense that Lee Oswald was the alleged assassin of JFK and James Earl Ray was the alleged assassin of Martin Luther King Jr. Was Sirhan Sirhan our first mass media bit of Islamophobic propaganda? Before that all we had was Johnny Carson jokes about King Farouk, and Ray Stevens’ Ahab the Arab, the now socially verboten novelty song.
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A TIME
staff writer
Elections seem to bring out the worst in people. All people. Open an ear to any coffee shop conversation, or an eye to any social media feed, and it’s obvious. What may have once been a well-thought-out dissertation in a person’s mind quickly devolves into a sputtering of insults when faced with
election process itself shares some functionality with more violent happenings. Eerily, elections in the United States resemble the assassination of Julius Caesar and Murder on the Orient Express, Agatha Christie’s famous murder mystery.
someone too stupid to “get it.” This spontaneous combustion of human kindness is what strikes me, and striking though it is, at least these spats never escalate into lethal violence.
In case you’re not familiar with milestones in Western civilization, both the historical assassination and fictional novel involve a group of people stabbing a man to death. It took up to sixty men and twenty-three stab wounds to bring down the unwitting Caesar, and twelve people twelve stab wounds for their sleeping victim on the Orient Express, Mr. Ratchett. The shared compelling element is that the person to actually strike the killing blow is unknown, so that the
And yet, there is still an incredibly dark tone to the whole season, isn’t there? While the average derogatory-ridden discourse may not usually result in anything worse than hurt feelings or wounded egos, the
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Rachael Johnson, a fresh voice in the Seattle w r i t i n g scene, offers her regular column,“Stuck On Re p e a t , ” which puts a unique spin on current news sto r i e s b y taking a look bac k at othe r mome nts in history wh e re the same thing we nt down. It’s true what th e y s a y, history re pe ats its e lf.
TO KILL perceived consequences of the deed might be enjoyed without one person shouldering tremendous guilt and blame.
dent for all of society’s ills, it only takes mild contemplation to realize that, yes, it still took a country to elect him. But, it’s so much harder to focus blame on millions of people rather than just the one man. Those millions of people, meanwhile, banded together to stab their ballots in hope of a shared vision. Yet,
The numerous perpetrators lends an indirectness is to what would normally be a direct act. Committing one stab wound out of twentythree seems downright passive compared to committing all of them by oneself. The indirectness, or non-confrontation, is furthered by the fact that both Caesar and Ratchett were caught unawares. Caesar was among “friends” in broad daylight and Mr. Ratchett was sleeping. This brings us to three key points: shared consequences, a reduced but shared blame, and indirection.
even those millions of people did not directly elect the president, the Electoral College did. Out of 538 individuals, only 270 need vote for the same person to commit the dreaded deed. In short? Millions of stabs, over five hundred perpetrators, and for better or worse, the resulting future. pp
As incredibly easy as it is to blame the presi-
4
Middle of the day downtown Portland, Ore., though hard to tell from the gray. Street wet, and her steel-toed boots weren’t the best for a high-speed foot chase. Nor her body. Legs wobbly, they’d lost feeling half a block back, and her lungs burned. Inside a world of soft white substituting for sight, she could hear their footsteps gaining. Let me live through this, she vowed, gasping and gulping heart racing and out-of-breath, And I will never smoke anything again. But she had another promise to keep first. One every mother makes: To keep her little girl safe. Day Seven without sleep, and their numbers were reaching critical mass. The infected passed for normals, masquerading during the day and stayed up all night. She knew. She’d stayed up too, watching mindless hybrid drones build vats to harvest their extraterrestrial mold. A two-stage, indirect parasite. Difficult to stop. Difficult to prove. Worse, it’s been harder to spot the infected by their aberrancies—unvarying walk, inability to smile, the lack of personhood in their eyes—their minority lessened by the day. But she was smart. And lucky. Her allergy kept her from breads and doughnuts. They got to you through the grains. The Central Mold Hive Mind. From space. She understood why the uninfected—scared, beaten and starved into submission—would be skeptical of her message despite the evidence all around them. For now, she was on her lonesome. Coffee and cigarettes were never enough. Jimmy was a bust. This was all because of the aliens. Needing to stay up. She hates them. She hates them. She hates them. She wished she could go to sleep. No food, no sleep. That’s how it’ll be for a while. But she’s a human being, goddammit, not some second-stage stiff working for The Hive Mind. There’s got to be a better way. The present was a vicious circle, a perfect conspiracy. Where was she now? On the MAX. TriMet’s Red Line train was heading out of downtown, not the way she intended but it looked like she’d ditched the private security. Her head and vision still blurred, but respiration normal and the pain was speaking again in her extremities.
5
As she sat, she could feel the bruise blood pool in her thighs sore from where the coins in her coveralls banged. A trickle tickled the inside of her throat, but she couldn’t let them know. No attention to herself. A charley horse galloped in her right triceps while the need to cough expanded, feeling like spiders’—dozens of—eight legs scrambling for footing behind her nose, weakest arachnids falling and collecting in the bottom of her throat. Don’t you yawn, cough, or cry, girlfriend, she told herself. They’re watching you. The westbound train was eerily empty. Her eyes shut to concentrate and head suddenly snapped forward, waking her abruptly. She’d quit breathing and gasped for air. This is serious, she told herself; got to stay awake. They stole your dreams while you slept, replaced them with their own. Her body needed more product. Her hands had begun already to wash and wring themselves with need. Jimmy Asshole. That’s what she’d call him to his scrawny, pocked-out face, the face-picker. But Carl, short for Carla, knew she’d never have the opportunity. Jimmy’s in jail. Jimmy must’ve figured it out too late. Her hope was that the collective celestial mold mind influencing its enthralled Earthling inhabitants could not read human minds, despite their limited telepathy using the overhead power lines. She needed twenty-four hours to complete her research. And to rescue her daughter. Carl fought not to fidget. The sleeplessness confused her thoughts. She used to carry textbooks and her clunky company laptop on the MAX Red Line those days when she wasn’t on-call with a fleet vehicle assigned. She’d preferred the commute by MAX. Gave her time to think, not drive. The only female lineman. Trying to become management, get her degree. Her daughter. Back then, before Mom died, Carl couldn’t fathom life getting any more crazy or hectic. Now here she was a meth-smoking, unsecured grounding wire too afraid to borrow books from the library for the trail it might leave. People stared. Who are all these people? Really? She’d used to wonder at all the types of businesses and jobs when she was pulling wire. All types of ways of surviving. There was a time when she was just like them, day-in, day-out, alarm clocks and regular meals. Once upon a time, her sweat was clean and teeth didn’t ache. Jimmy. Step into my office, he’d said first time they met. And she was impressed. Wasn’t an office so much as a fire hazard inside a trailer. Bills and reams of paper. Stacks of mail in the narrow hallway. None of it addressed to him. Later, when she went to pee, she saw the clear garbage bags filled with office confetti piled inside his bedroom. On the twin bed, symmetrically positioned along the footboard, four 8.5” x 11” cardboard squares with strips of scotch-tape reconstructing shredded memos. She jumped. He’d startled her by running a finger down her spine. Jimmy asked her if she had money, said he needed new equipment, always needed some new equipment. Carl said yeah, she had money. He’d said that’s okay; how about we get you to work it off anyway? No touching today; we can start with letting me watch you pee. Tomorrow might be a different story, Carlie. Just leave the door open a smidgen. That’s right, baby doll. She saw it fast approaching down the aisle out the corner of her eye. Crap. Crap. Shit-caked crap a mile high and two miles deep, Carl cursed quickly. Meanwhile, her body was already reacting before the Doberman Pinscher’s growl hit the eardrums. The beast—a service animal “in training” according to its saddle, as people shrug and believe anything these days—was springing open-mouthed with canines bared and sighted for her kooch. Whatever downward force her gray-blue coverall’s burdened pockets exerted on her seated, bone-skinny body’s overcome with sub-second response. Carl had boots on the ground and ready to run before the attack dog’s maw could close. It yelped, muzzle chomping down on a pocketful of copper and zinc and instantly going slack with the gut-hurting sound of teeth cracking.
Moving faster than her sense of vision could sustain, Carl lurched through the white and stereo sounds 6
of shouts and curses, felt gravel under her feet, and hopped up a small platform. She’d hoof it the few miles back downtown. She had to get back to where the underground electric utility network safely hampered The Hive Mind’s communications. She double-timed it, sounding like a damn piggybank walking while the charley horses paraded around her nutrient-hungry muscles and bit her bottom lip, tears seeping as salt from dusty ducts. Carl was not oblivious to her straits, her condition or the impossibility of it all. In fact, she saw herself more clearly than most. She understood she’d become the enemy. Chemically dependent. Different. Different from people of the clock, the Workweek Regulars, those so focused on the next day’s plans and fears they cannot see today, that what was happening was as big and clear as Mount Hood on a sunny summer day. She could detect the more looks, more nods, more movement around her, but the gap between the Hybrids and Regulars grew smaller by the hour. Because people had lost control. Sheeple, the recent electronic sheep/ people human abomination The buildings still stood, but now boards in place of windows. No one voted; no one had a say in this. Bankruptcy. Out on our asses. And we did it to ourselves. Baa. She understood the temptation: job shortages, declining real wealth, mortgage rates, furloughs, ever weaker unions. Doesn’t mean Carl didn’t blame them. Sometimes she wondered how their elected leaders could just sit around and let these ferrous, microscopic, grain-polluting invaders win. How industry let it happen. How people could. Other times she wondered at the devastation and questioned how long the parasitic alien bastards had been planning the total domination of the human race. Welcome, invaders. So how was your trip? Let us take you to our leaders. Will you have some tea? Milk and sugar? Infest our grains? What took you so long? You bring jobs?
Welcome, invaders. My name is Carla Pegram, and I am here to stop you.
-----------static in her head. She tries changing the channel. There was no use in yelling. Wind-up people. Robots. Cheap and fast and more, more, more. In love with low, low prices. She’s become the enemy, a dirty outsider, a holder of nonconventional ideas. The day had gotten warmer, drizzle dryer, and the smell of meth was in the air, the sharp, feline urine smell. Carl’s nose radar located the source: Bicyclist on a mountain bike going her direction (south) as she turned the corner. A block later, he passed again. Inconspicuous, no identifying marks whatsoever, perfectly anonymous except for the quarter-inch crescent scar running from the bicyclist’s eye to lip and the fist-sized swastika on the mottled skin of his hairless forearm, a symbol of hate composed of erect penises with distended testicles, and his half-missing ear. “Momma” his Burnside Bridge Nazi boys called him and gave him the bitch work to do. From the pungency of what was fuming from the 20-ouncer under the bicycle crossbar, Carl knew the product was nearly done. Still volatile, could still go boom, but the bottle contained chemistry close to smokable. Carl salivated despite herself, her entire body taut with want, wanting what Momma was cooking.
“Cooking” was a misnomer, Carl thought, a term that had outlived its accuracy except maybe for 8
Mexican mega-labs and tundra Canadians. You didn’t need an apron or mixing bowl, Betty Crocker cookbooks, or oven, heat, flame, or electricity of any kind. “To cook” was to mix a magic potion. Shake-and-bake components, confined inside the single-use caldron of a plastic coke bottle, started a self-sustaining chemical reaction, a little miracle granting the summoner’s only wish. But once the jinni’s out the bottle, a sludge remainder’s left inside, toxic, sticky, and stinky. And that’s what she expected to find in the abandoned car. Empty Aladdin’s lamps. And enough homemade C-4 in the trunk to blow this city sky high. But Momma presented a new hitch in her plan. As Carl reduced to a single digit the number of blocks between her and her target, the Datsun, she unzipped her coveralls down to the top of her sports bra and slowed her walk. The sun, she saw through the autumn gray, had furthered its descent into midday. Above ground, people waited for buses. Worker bees ate late lunches, quick sandwiches with infected bread, bagels, burritos, brioche, bread pudding, and other bready food and snacks from home and the food carts. The rich did nothing but talked and bought. And there was Momma yet again, cycling back around Chapman Square. And there’s the heat, crawling all over this place. A block from her destination, roughly sixty feet: Undercovers on cop Motorola’s as distinctive as cop knocks, cop walks, cop cursing, and cop shoes. Like stingers whose nest had been disturbed, these plainclothes piggies swarmed around the Datsun. Carl approached. A look into the Datsun’s cracked windshield—emergency parked at an angle somewhere between parallel and perpendicular to the curb—showed the empty baby seat. In its reflection, behind her on the one-way street, Momma the two-wheeled cooker pedaling madly in comedic low gear in her direction on the sidewalk. Further back, the plainclothes cops, eager and off their cell phones, were speed-walking toward. Carl’s casual glance as she passed took in a dozen or so baked bottles abundantly visible between Coleman lantern fuel cans in the backseat. Approaching Carl as she passed the Datsun, a number of people. Most immediately, two steps away, an oblivious college kid like every other too cool, scrawny, post-Regan pubescent Portlandier in need of an attitude adjustment and a gym membership. His mirrored aviator glasses provided a perfect look at what’s behind her. The boy’s yoyo went slack like his jaw and a half-blown gum wad fell out. The cops yelled. Carl, studying the evolving scene in the sunglasses, in these few seconds despaired, rallied, and calmly waited before finally sidestepping in a long, lateral stride and clotheslining Momma off the bike. Her body jingled from the jolt to the pennies; his ricocheted back onto the sidewalk; the bicycle continued rolling riderless into the street. She patted Momma’s pockets quickly for any crinkle before remembering the tube pouch beneath the seat of bike getting away. Dollars to doughnuts, she muttered, that’s the bank. Two badge-andblues ran for her while one plainclothes cop cable-tied the semiconscious Momma’s hands, but before any of the three could order her for a second time to freeze, Carl was on two wheels and pedaling hard into oncoming traffic. Carla Pegram had just added mugging and avoiding arrest to an assault charge. But that’s not why the two police busted tail after her. She’d bet of greater concern was the miniature meth lab nestled inside the bicycle’s beverage holder. She wobbled, trying to pull it free while furiously pedaling her escape. An officer nearly got a paw on her before he saw what she was doing. He yelled something to his fellow tax-paid goon over horn honks. But too late. The bottle was free and midair behind Carl, inches from them stopped cold when it exploded. Fireball! 9
She let its force hurl her the wrong way down the one-way street, shifted gears, and was on her way before she felt first, then heard, the Datsun explode. Fourteen/Fourteen-times-fourteen/Fourteen thousand blocks later but still downtown and somewhere safe, Carl had cashed her pipe and was preparing another hit. The pouch was a gold mine. Probably two full Tina’s worth of secret weapon quality chem. She’d weighed it in hand under the dim basement light of an abandoned building whose meter she used to read back right after high school in the days of meter readers. She’d, and now again, watched pinches of Mountain Dew shit burn beneath the flame of her butane and disappear into her lungs until her back teeth began to ache and left pinkie twitched uncontrollably. She felt better, and what an understatement. World brighter, and her steps were lighter. It was like the world had softly punched her in the shoulder and let her know it was just giving its kid sis a hard time. The realization of things not being so bad began to permeate and settle into the bedrock of her being. She was ready for this world. Its obstacles were only challenges to test her mettle. Now a girl in tutu with a rhinestone tiara smiled at her—seven, eight years old on the sidewalk outside a funky coffeeshop—holding a star-tipped, sparkling wand in one hand, alternately her father’s and an ice cream cone in the other as they walked, paused, licked, walked, and the princess was like her: Baby’s breath in a bouquet. Not one of them: Burnt black tortilla chip lurking in the bottom of the bag. Carl welcomed her, another one of hers. And for a substantial moment, Carl’s sight stretched across the entire planet, all of Planet Earth, peering into every home, business, nook, and cranny, and witnessed the resistance gathering. Here was one soon-to-be revolutionary in sweatband and aerobics leotard pushing a car to get the clutch to catch and back on the road—only, it’s not her car she’s starting and the gym bag in the passenger seat’s full of guns and First National cash; here’s a woman with a busted lip pulling herself up back off the kitchen linoleum to prepare her darling husband a real gut-buster of a meal thanks to an advanced chemistry Ph.D. and continued studies in explosive powders; here a Taiwanese martial artist ready to risk life and limb to demonstrate how her nunchucks can deflect arrows as the row of a dozen ninja archers draw their bows and arrows; here’s an Australian knife expert; a Brazilian gunslinger; an Egyptian gymnast; African beastmistress; Native American tracker with beads braided into her hair; Indian mystic, bellydancer, and seductress; Islamic burqaed disguise expert and explosivist; Slavic muscle; blind forger; wheelchaired mechanic; for brains, a primly dressed agent—runway model gaunt and beautiful with high cheekbones—logging off a high-security CIA computer and leaving her badge on its keyboard, convinced she can no longer definitively kill suspected families of suspected terrorists with unmanned drones; and leading the pack of dangerous women, their leader, the first to get hip to the alien invasion, a hardworking, solid-headed, pragmatist named Carla Pegram. Here they were, she saw them, her army, her reserves spread across the globe. She was not so alone in her fight. Dimming daylight, in fall, on a Thursday. A passing car radio mentioned something about Asian wheat shortages and stock prices. The road was concrete instead of asphalt. An industrial district, gentrified or still industrial working class she could not tell in this light, but clean streets and people not working and laughing a lot. She couldn’t tell who was rich or poor anymore. Her good feelings stopped. What do they see? She realized she’d been studying her reflection in what could be an electric sports car but was unsure there was such a thing. How she can see through the windshield to the front bucket seats and meanwhile her shadowy face but not also be seeing herself seeing? In other words: Who is she? Why can’t I see me? she demanded of the universe. This bothers her: Not my reflection. My face. My face seeing. Why can’t I? See me? Seeing? Knowing all the while what she feared to ask: How will I know if I ever become not-me? 10
She had a great job once. Children would watch her as she sometimes saw herself from the outside, with big open mouths usually reserved for firemen whenever she drove up in the big bucket truck dangling all the equipment she, a big girl, could ever want to play with. She did something real, worthwhile, respected. Now she’s the enemy. Only reason she’s standing here in the sunsetting street reeking with aching gums and bruises was because they U.A.’ed her. Only a minor accident. But company policy. It was late, and the driver for their crew wasn’t sleeping much and ran over a kid’s tricycle, thank god without kid. The driver pissed Adderall for his “ADHD” and got off scot-free. Besides Carl, another got shown the door for marijuana, though he never came to work high, he said halfway through a six-pack with her, throwing empties over the fence into the yard of fleet vehicles before the cops came but let them off with a warning. Because they understood. Because she was like them back then. Because she still had a daughter and a home with house payments due monthly. And cops are people too. But not anymore. Carl shook her head. Memories used to be safe as houses. But there were new neighbors, clean neighbors developing again in your dream space. What they tore down, what once stood, no one could remember. They looked like people on TV. Their words were cautious. Sometimes they spoke with two hands, sometimes one, but that is not the point. They feigned concern; they pretended to offer a better world than the one you knew was real, the neighborhood you’d lived in your whole life, the place that was you.
Aliens made Carla Pegram smoke meth.
They acted like they were walking, but she could see them run-walking in the corner of her eye, trying not to attract attention. That meant The Hive Mind still needed a few more loyal hybrids to reach critical mass. They hadn’t taken over completely. Or were they afraid what the Obama-era cameras might be watching from the streetlights and space? Smart. Real smart. But she’d see who was smarter. Like a migratory bird, she had returned to roost. Somehow Carl knew she’d end up here before close. Bookstores never carried detailed enough information. Plus, she was banned from Powell’s. She was banned from the Multnomah Public Library too, but there remained still so much to learn, like how does radio on powerlines work? How do you jam transmissions like they do to Cuba? What proof does the archeological record provide that humanity has staved off an invasion before? How’d we do it then? Can a chemical be used by the resistance to identify infected grains? Kill the mold? Reverse the infection’s course? So many questions, too many, and each mental door opened to another hall of questions in a series of mazes in whose center lies the Minotaur with heads like a hydra and breath of a basilisk to slay: Them. There was a tug from inside her coveralls, a small hand reaching up touching her petite breast. Carl got the message. Keeping her head down, she beelined her way through the three sets of doors and up the engraved marble stairs to the library’s second floor bathroom. Carl put her ear to the floor to better hear, then crawled under the stall, not considering the piss and vagrant fecal matter, not considering she could have easily stood and walked around. But maybe her daughter’d locked the door. Didn’t matter; it was her. Carl hugged her soft body tight, so young, so cushy like hugging a sleeping bag full of laundry. “I knew I’d find you. It’s okay; it’s all okay. Mommy’s alright. Shh, did you hear that? You keep quiet too. It might be Them coming for me.” Or, Carl thought though was too scared to say, for you. They might be coming for you.
She communicated telepathically to her daughter: “I’m so sorry, baby.”
She communicated telepathically more: “No, I’m not baby-baby-baby-ing you. I know you’re a big 11
girl. What are you, five, six now? Only four? Well, you’re such a big girl. What I was saying— “No, baby, you don’t hold it like that. What I was saying is I’m out of those espresso cookies. This is all I have, and it’s got to be smoked. It’s risky, you know, smoking it; they’ve got the sensors. We shouldn’t do it here at least. What was that? You know you’ve got to speak up in your mind, almost yell like a big girl to make yourself heard telepathically. Oh, look at you, all dirty.”
“I said, ‘Stop it, bitch,’” Baby thought back. “I know how to smoke a pipe.”
It was her daughter all grown up. She’s all tattoo and no bra, but the most startling was her posture, how her head hung back at a sharp angle that made the defiant curl in her lip even more pronounced. How long had it been? It hasn’t been all that long, has it? Carl doubted her very sense of time and knew she needed to get her baby girl away. She’d nearly nodded off sitting here nursing her next to the toilet seat. From the looks on faces and the security brown shirts waiting outside the bathroom, maybe she wasn’t speaking all that telepathically. They backed away, giving ground so they could encircle her. She let them know she’s got her daughter secure in her pouch. Their faces blank. Like a kangaroo, Carl tried to explain to the humans left among them. Hand shaking, she searched her big pockets. She’s an American citizen, she proclaimed. Her hands found the wrong things. She had dug around while they were yelling; she had something right here for them somewhere. She’d been anxious like this before. Of course. This is the end. She’d fought hard. Her whole life. It was a loop and here again before her eyes: this is/was the end of her story. All over again all over again. There was someone yelling in her ears, and it was her. Pain shot through the universe as pennies cascaded down the marble library steps like guts spilled. Her arms hurt and the world turned white before Carl realized she’d been strapped to a stretcher and noticed for the first time the high ceilings over the library steps as they hurried her out. They’ve won. This was how they’ve always wanted her. Tamed, mute, bound. This was her proof, and it was too late. The bystanders will stand by and let it happen. She saw. The ordinary people watching her looked but did not see; they never looked at her before. Now when they did they could not understand. Because this is what the city wanted. Welcome, sophisticated invaders. Have our children. Be our masters. pp ----Thomas Logan has a fistful of essays and short stories published and a Master’s in Fine Arts for fiction. He has worked in various capacities for Fictional International and smaller journals and am presently the Fiction Editor for the literary journal The Grove Review. This year Thomas has been printed in Big Pulp, the anthology Zombiality, and the best of House Fire. I presently have literary fiction contracted with Gold Man Review for publication in November.
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There’s nothing to do here but sit around and
ish bastard and Jane is a willing victim. I’d pay her
chain smoke. Jane never comes out earlier than
rent for her but they don’t take my kind of currency
a quarter til three. We’re locked in a time loop,
where she lives. Eastern shore, Western front, all
a high school dance, paired off two by two. I’m
quiet and lights out at 9 after the wards have their
the wallflower and she’s the jock. He’s with some
feed. I tried to bust her out once, but she liked it in
dilapidated mess of a prom queen—skinny wrists
there. Three shitty squares a day and a hard mat-
and big, green eyes. Royal blue strappy dress and
tress. Consistency and wartime friends, suffering
cheap-looking clear, 4-inch plastic heels. Her
from the same plight as you. Rain on my parade.
crown askew and her dark coral lipstick smudged.
Diamonds on my windshield. Mud on my shoes and
Jane has kissed her in the bathroom after the girls
a heart attack in my throat. That’s what you get for
did shots of Jack Daniels. Jack is a greedy, self-
a 9 to 5 job and a gun. pp 13
16 12 14
15 21
dystopia
OM G b e e y o t c h yoo cray-cray. D is shiz z - nit
flowery speech there is no room f o r p o e t r y,
i s o ff d a c h a i n ! ROFL! LMAO! LOL! Dis
no poe tr y a nd it’s a pr e tty shor t ju mp to n o
s uk k a h w a n n a t a lk bout da end o da wor ld?
literature, no music, no art at all. T h i s i s a the me tha t a lso a ppe a r s in the oth e r c o n-
Okay, n o w t h a t I have that out of my sys-
tender for “World’s Most Epically F a m o u s
t e m . L e t m e j u st ask one question. What.
Dystopian Novel,” Brave New Wo r l d , i n
Th e. F u c k ? S e riously. When did it be-
which we have a character who is a c t u a l l y a
c o m e s o h a r d t o just speak words? I mean,
ta le nte d wr ite r but ha s no pla c e in a w o r ld
y o u k n o w, s a y a word as it exists in fully
whe r e pe ople only r e a d te c h ma nu a ls . A
fo rm e d se n t e n c e s w ithout any additio na l or
sentiment, perhaps, a lot of artful a s p i r i n g
s u b t r a c t e d s y l l ables like an ordinary human
wr ite r s c a n r e la te to. The point is th is : a t-
b e i n g i n t h e E n glish speaking world. Why
tacking language has an effect on s o c i e t y.
i s i t so h a r d t o just say things? Why d o y o u h a ve to fuck w ith it?
Pe r iod. Tha t’s a f a c t.
D o y o u g u y s r e member New Speak? You
The f unda me nta l shif ts in soc ie ty h a v e u n i-
s h o u l d , i t ’s f r o m 1984 and I’m pretty sure
laterally been reflected in the spe e c h a n d
EVE RY B O D Y has read that book. In Or-
literature of the times. An argume n t m a y
wel l ’s n o v e l h e has his protagonist wor k-
be made for which came first, the l i n g o o r
i n g fo r a b r a n c h of the government that
the philosophy, but the point is still te c h-
al t ers t h e d i c t i o naries. T heir stated g oa l
nically valid – as culture changes s o d o e s
i s t o h a v e a s f e w w ords as possible and, of
speech. In the early days of the U n i t e d
t h e w o r d s t h e y do have, to keep them as
States people spoke like walking K i n g
s ho rt a s p o ssi b le. T he foundational sup-
James Bibles and the staunch asso c i a t i o n
p o rt f o r t h i s e ff ort w as efficiency, people
between morality, intellect and or a t i o n w a s
d o n ’t n e e d l o t s of flowery, superfluous
ne ve r c le a r e r. I n the pa st c e ntur y, a s in d u s-
l a n g u a g e , t h e y need the bricks and mortar
try has grown exponentially, a larg e a m o u n t
o f s p e e c h r e q u i red to get their jobs done
of the new words and phrases we’ v e a d d e d
b e c a u s e , a f t e r all, that’s all people are good
to our cultural dictionary have ref l e c t e d o u r
fo r, m a i n t a i n i n g their piece of the ma c hine .
te c hnology ( a sse mbly line , c ybe r s p a c e , b lo-
Orw e l l i s r e a l l y clever though, see he give s
gosphere, demographic) and now, a f t e r t h e
y o u l o t s o f d e t ails about the efforts ta ke n
long, complex evolution of our cu l t u r e a n d
t o a b b r e v i a t e l anguage and, while you are
our language, we are watching it d i s a p p e a r
l e a r n i n g a b o u t a utilitarian society, you
under the weight of laziness, trend i n e s s ,
are a l so c a t c h i n g a glim pse of the dumb-
postur ing, style a nd idiots. Ma yb e w e d o n ’t
i n g d o w n o f t h e mind and spirit. Without
have a government agency dumbin g u s d o w n 16 16
dystopia
b y er a si n g o u r language, but w e don’t ne e d
reasoning, inf word s . mAe nr idM a n y t h i n gduh, s c a we n b reason e said o t h e “A if your capacity is diminished then i t i s c a n D r e a m”. I t c a n b e s a i d t h a t e v e r y tha t muc h e a sie r to f ool you, to c o n tr o l y o u time we “tweet” from our iPhones that even. How would you feel if you l o o k e d we’re experiencing it first hand. On the back one day and realized that yo u r w o r l d o t h e r hconquered a n d , t h e dby u dae military i n “ Wa t clehamdee n” wasn’t r, b u t
i t . We ’ r e d o i n g it to ourselves. And the e ff e c t , s h o u l d t he trend continue, will be t h e sa m e . T h e dumbing down of language m ean s t h e d e a t h of art, intellect, and e ve nt u a l l y, t h e h u m an spirit. Words are where i d e a s a r e f o r m e d, and ideas have ascended n a t i o n s t o t h e s eat of power and crumbled t y ran n y w i t h t h e union of belief and c onvict i o n . To l o se t hat is to lose ourselves .
you g r e nwe a drees tea xting s d i s cin o da ca rnonyms? cers. I guess it’s d i f f e r e n t f o r e ve r yo n e . Oh, wa it. Too la te .
I s u p p o s e t h e “A m e r i c a n D r e a m” i n p a r Awkwa r d… ticular that I’d like to address in the
B i g B r o t h e r d o esn’t have to be real for us t o f a l l u n d e r t h e boot heel of an industrial,
“ G e t R ibitc ch W t h opp ut Doing Anything to TTYL, hei s!
m i l i t a n t o r a u t h oritarian force. We c a n c r eat e i t o u r se l v e s, out of ourselves, by ske w-
E a r n I t ” t h i n g . Ye a h … T H AT o n e . A d m i t i t ,
i n g o u r v a l u e s behind the veil of internet
yo u ’ ve a l l t h o u g h t a b o u t i t … D R E A M E D
s p e a k , t e x t j a rg on, and the corrupt value
a b o u t i t . S o w hy a r e p e o p l e s t i l l t e r r i -
s ys t e m i n h e r e n t in such common phrase s
f i e d t o a c t u a l ly d o i t w h e n t h e y h a v e t h e ----perfect opportunity? I’m of course re-
as “ma k i n b a n k .” Watch w hat you sa y becau s e i t r e f l e c t s w hat you think. A nd wha t
f e r r i n g t o t h e ve r y A m e r i c a n “ f r i v o l o u s
y o u t h i n k r e f l e cts what you believe, who
l a w s u i t ”… o r a s I c a l l i t , t h e “A m e r i c a n
y o u a r e . I f y o ur head is a mess of broken s peec h p a t t e r n s, capitalist greed disg uise d
L o t t e r y ”.
Tyler Fisk is an art student at PS U a n d a n
a s h ip h o p l y r i cs, and the ever-shrinking v o cab u l a r y o f a w orld gone stupid in a s ym p o si u m o f o ver-stimulation then you s ho u l d u n d e r st a nd something. Your mind is f r a i l . S t u p i d i t y, greed, social programming, n egati v i t y, a n d a general lack of an inte lle c-
amate ur juggle r. He lik e s his dog a n d wis hI’m gonna paint a scenario for you here. e s he c ould c arry on Gonzo J ourn a lis m b u t I m a g i n e yo u ’ r e i n l i n e a t a m a j o r r e also k nows it probably die d with Th o m p s o n . t a i l e r. Yo u ’ r e b uy i n g s o m e t h i n g s m a l l … He lik e s art but doe sn’t lik e talk in g a b o u t lit. i k e He a phasn’t a c k o f done A A bmuc a t t ehr ias e s a. Yo u tekri nyde lt,y s o wri p a y t h e m e r cthis h a n will t a n dbewshort. hen they ask if
t u al f i l t e r a r e b uilding up in your mind like S PA M a n d y o u don’t even see it. Language
yo u ’ d l i k e a b a g yo u s a y s o m e t h i n g r i -
i s t h e p r o g r a m y our brain runs on. It is the
d i c u l o u s l i k e “ Ye s p l e a s e ! D o n’ t w a n n a
o p era t i n g sy st e m of the com puter you stor e i n y o u r h e a d . Keep it sharp or it will be c o r r u p t e d . A s your vocabulary and sentence s t ruc t u r e d i m i n ish so does your capac ity f or
s e e msubjugated e d t o t h i nby k i tidiocy w a s l and a u n cgree h i ndg w g ahsi l e was
g e t t a c k l e d o n my w a y o u t ! H a h a ! ”.
FREEZE! Allow me to break this down
f o r ya : Yo u ’ ve a l r e a dy PA I D f o r a T I N Y
17 24
dystopia
political Cacophony by
Arthur Brand Maybe it is a testament to the state of our democracy that every single election is rife with its own parodied catch phrases. Expressions like “hanging chads” and “I demand a recount” are not to be forgotten behind the cacophony of Big Bird, Romnesia and Binders Full of Women. Society seems more interested in turning the gaffs of its leaders into pun Halloween costumes than it is in larger, more immediate issues. Moreover, it often feels as though the truth of either side is being pummeled into silence behind the white noise of mass media honing in on irrelevancy and word choice, or the satirizing slur of the internet, fake news or bloggers. The point being that the biggest joke of all, at this point in time, is that defining moment when a debater says, “Let’s just stick to the issues.” We’re fooling ourselves if we think that is what this is all about. It hasn’t been about the issues in decades. Maybe since the advent of television, maybe even earlier than that, the presidential race has been a verbal shadowboxing match where each side puts up the old dukes and tries their best not to beat themselves into embarrassment by trying to say too much. We aren’t concerned with what they’re talking about. We’re interested in how well they talk about it and if they make fools of themselves on air. We vote on appearances, commercial propaganda, and a gut feeling of which choice is the lesser of evils. These are all superficial right down to the often studied occurrence of candidates getting support in the polls based on how they look in a suit or
behind a podium. It isn’t educated discourse, it isn’t even intellectual, it’s high school popularity contests on a national scale. We’re not looking at who is going to be the best for the country or our children, we’re looking at who shouts in our ear the loudest and looks the best doing it. It was proven years ago that people, across the gender line, will regularly vote for the most handsome candidate, the guy that looks best on television, and that, by and large, what is being said counts for very little. An election race is a timed trial to see who will mess up the fastest and/or the most often. The best proof of this in my experience was the 2004 election between Bush and Kerry. We’re at the debate, as usual, and Kerry was doing that thing that he did really, really well. He took a question, argued both sides of it, made no connection to anything real, and managed to say yes and no while still saying nothing at all. It was a miserable sight. I’ve never been a Bush fan, which is probably no surprise to anyone, but I really hated John Kerry in this moment. And so did Dubya. You could see it all over his face, he was fuming, but unable to address the fact that this guy was basically skating through the whole debating with only one strategy: stall for time, let Junior make an ass of himself, and check the polls in the morning. And damn if it didn’t work. Granted, the little sneak didn’t get the election, but
18 16
dystopia
I remember a dramatic spike in his favor after this debate because the media would not let go of the fact that George W. Bush kept making poop faces every time Kerry double-talked. It didn’t matter that Kerry’s two minutes of discourse were completely devoid of any substance, it didn’t matter that within a single debate his stance on different issues changed and changed back depending on who was asking the question, and it didn’t even matter what Bush said (whether it was good or bad). In the end, the only thing that mattered was George W. Bush acted like a little brat while Kerry acted too boring for anyone to care. So he “won” the debate. Now we have our current set of clowns in the center ring and the political circus has never been more replete with pratfalls and pie in the face. Obama’s strategy, near as I can tell, has been pretty similar to Kerry’s back in ’04: keep it civil, and less is more. He isn’t arguing, not as much as some people wish he would anyway. Romney will get to yammering and the camera pans to the president who, standing their calm and poised, albeit probably broiling under the surface, simply says, “Okay,” or “Please continue, Governor.” It’s like he’s playing for time, counting on his opponent sticking his foot in his own mouth or stepping on a landmine when he’s trying to go on the offensive. Something like that anyway. But that first debate, Romney “won” because nothing embarrassing enough was said and Obama appeared passive. Still, it proves my point. No one listens, least of all in the media, to the issues at hand or the intellectual content of the arguments. They’re just watching, like emotional vultures, for the moment where someone makes a fool of himself and loses the election. If that isn’t proof of how we vote I don’t know what is. The stances on drug use, abortion, foreign policy, the deficit, the economy, jobs, or military spending aren’t on trial here. What is on trial is how many points you’ll lose with the American people when you say “Binders full of women.” Or how silly your opponent can make you look if he says, “I’m trying to run a serious campaign looking to the future while this ass clown over here
just M a nkeeps y t h italking n g s c aabout n b eBig s aBird.” i d o f t h e “A m e r i -
c a n D r e a m”. I t c a n b e s a i d t h a t e v e r y Our fair president has actually uttered the t i m e “Romnesia” w e “ t w e e -t ” af clever r o m o*** u r alluding i P h o n eto s the that word idea w e ’ rthat e eonce x p e rRomney i e n c i n ghasi tsaid f i r swhere t h a nhed .stands O n t on he an issue he immediately forgets and says something o t h e But r h ano n done , t hseems e d uinterested d e i n “ Wa c hfact m e n” else. in tthe that flip-flopping s e e m e d t o your t h i nposition k i t w aisscrappy. l a u n c hInstead, i n g g awe’re s concerned with whether or not a black guy president gshould r e n a be d eon s aair s dthrowing i s c o d adown n c e rsome s . I gslang. uess it’s d i f f e r e n t f o r e ve r yo n e . You let the assholes in high school be the popular kids for two reasons: their parents were I s uand p p othey s e twere h e “A e r i cata convincing n D r e a m”you i n they parrich thembest had shit figured out. Period. That’s it. They were ticular that I’d like to address in the wealthy and good enough actors to conceal their “ G e t R i failings c h W i twhile, h o u t most D o i nlikely, g A n having y t h i n gmore to personal
than state affairs E a r nmost. I t ” tThe h i nsad g . Ye a hof …T H AT is, o nine all . Athe d mnoise, it it, posturing, made up words, nitpicking over pettiness, yo ’ vecacophony a l l t h o u of g hAmerican t a b o u t politics i t … D Ryou EAM ED anduthe have fooled a b o u tyourself i t . S o into w hythinking a r e p eanything o p l e s thas i l l changed. terriYou’re still letting the rich kids convince you they’re f i e d t o a c t u a l ly d o i t w h e n t h e y h a v e t h e cool and you’re still letting them steal the election and p e r become f e c t o pclass p o r tpresident. u n i t y ? Ipp ’m of course ref e r r i n g t o t h e ve r y A m e r i c a n “ f r i v o l o u s ----l a w s u i t ”… o r a s I c a l l i t , t h e “A m e r i c a n L o t t e r y ”.
toahave I ’ mArthur g o n nBrand a p a iisn tgrateful a scen r i o fgotten o r y oto u write here. more than one article for this issue, but thinks it I m is a gsilly i n e toyoprint u ’ r ethei nsame l i n ebio a ttwice. a m aHe j o rthinks r e - it sillier t a is i l eeven r. Yo u ’ r etobwrite uy i ntwo g s odifferent m e t h i nbios g ssince m a l lhe … didn’t like the first one and his feelings haven’t l i k e a p a c k o f A A b a t t e r i e s . Yo u k i n d l y changed. Please read Arthur’s other article. pay the merchant and when they ask if yo u ’ d l i k e a b a g yo u s a y s o m e t h i n g r i -
d i c u l o u s l i k e “ Ye s p l e a s e ! D o n’ t w a n n a g e t t a c k l e d o n my w a y o u t ! H a h a ! ”.
FREEZE! Allow me to break this down
f o r ya : Yo u ’ ve a l r e a dy PA I D f o r a T I N Y
19 24
13
14
UTOpia G u y s , i t ’s t i m e w e h a d a d i s c u s s i o n . H a v e a s e a t . L e t ’s t a l k a b o u t J o seph Gordon Levitt, the guy that your s i s t e r, g i r l f r i e n d , m o t h e r a n d , h e l l , e v e n your best friend, loves more than they l o v e y o u . L e t ’s b e h o n e s t h e r e . I l o v e him more than I love you, and I really like you guys. But the dude just has that thing w h e r e y o u w a n t t o s e e w h a t h e ’s g o i n g t o d o n e x t . T h e r e ’s t h i s o n e e l e m e n t t h a t you’ll find in people that makes strangers want to be around them and loved ones want to fight for them. It is, unfortunate-
m o n i k e r. H e r e a l l y c o m e s o ff a s j u s t a bro. His video is choppy as they deliberately left in the cuts for all of his mist a k e s i n d e l i v e r i n g t h e m e s s a g e , h e i s n ’t d r e s s e d u p i n a n y p a r t i c u l a r w a y, a n d h e ’s s h i f t i n g h i s w e i g h t a w k w a r d l y, a l m o s t swaying through the entire thing. More than that, as you progress through the site you learn more details through other videos and they get increasingly heartfelt a n d , I d a r e s a y, e v e n h o n e s t . H e a l m o s t winces when he confesses the property laws in this country are a bit dated. He l y, s o m e t h i n g t h a t y o u e i t h e r h a v e o r d o n ’t f l i p p a n t l y s a y s , “ I ’ l l u s e m y p o s i t i o n i n a n d i t c a n n o t b e f a k e d . T h e r e i s n ’t a w o r d e s t a b l i s h e d m e d i a t o h e l p p r o m o t e c e r t a i n for it, but the best way I know how to p r o j e c t s . ” A n d i t d o e s n ’t c o m e o ff c o c k y d e s c r i b e i t i s t h a t t h e s e p e o p l e s e e m g e n u - o r e v e n l i k e h e ’s s t o o p i n g d o w n i n s o m e ine, completely committed and sincere in a c t o f c h a r i t y o r m e r c y. I t f e e l s m o r e l i k e everything that they do. They’re the sort h e ’s s a y i n g “ w e ’ r e a l l i n t h i s t o g e t h e r a n d t h a t p e o p l e c a l l “ r e a l p e o p l e . ” We l l , I I stand to gain as much as you do.” d o n ’t k n o w t h e g u y, b u t I ’ d s a y t h e r e a son Levitt is doing so well for himself is But enough about my man crush on b e c a u s e h e i s o n e o f t h o s e p e o p l e . A d d t o t h e b e s t g u y i n H o l l y w o o d . L e t ’s t a l k that the fact that he has consistently made about his idea. HitRecord is an online g r e a t c h o i c e s i n t h e m o v i e s t h a t h e ’s m a d e a r t s t u d i o a n d p r o d u c t i o n c o m p a n y. I n and also knows how to freakin’ bring it an almost socialistic fashion the projeven if the movie is only so-so and you ects posted there are worked on comget the sort of person that people want to munally by people all around the world be proud of and CAN BE. Amazing. a n d “ r e m i x e d . ” Yo u c a n p u t a s o n g o n the site and someone else can use it in an My suspicions were confirmed reanimated video. Someone else can come cently when I learned about the website along and mix the video into a completely H i t R e c o r d . o rg . G o c h e c k i t o u t . S e r i o u s - d i ff e r e n t v i d e o m o n t a g e a n d r e w o r k t h e l y. R i g h t n o w. G o s e e . T h e f i r s t t h i n g audio and so forth. In the same way that you see is a video introducing the idea property is often shared within a single behind the site. The guy in the video – c o m p a n y, H i t R e c o r d i s s h a r i n g c r e a t i v e Joseph Gordon Levitt, introducing himself property with the community as a whole a s “ R e g u l a r J o e , ” a n d i t i s n ’t j u s t a u s e rfor the benefit of all involved. If your n a m e o r s o m e o t h e r i n t e r n e t a v a t a r- b a s e d s o n g g e t s u s e d i n s o m e o n e e l s e ’s v i d e o , 22
utopia o r s a m p l e d i n t o s o m e o n e e l s e ’s m u s i c , o r anything like that, and the remix goes on to see some money you get a cut of the money made. Everybody is a part of everything and you agree upon signing up t h a t y o u ’ r e o k a y w i t h t h a t . Yo u d o n ’t even have to ask permission because everyone using the site has already given their permission at the outset. More imp o r t a n t l y, w h y w o u l d y o u r e f u s e s o m e body if all it could mean is potential gain for you and your work? Even more imp o r t a n t l y, o f c o u r s e G o r d o n L e v i t t w a n t s
with audio/visual accompaniment, all of w h i c h w a s t a k e n f r o m H i t R e c o r d . o rg . I t ’s an impressive idea with an even more impressive support system, but there is one s i n g l e r e a s o n w h y i t i s t h i s m o n t h ’s t o p story from Utopia: Using your position, no matter where you might be, to help everyone, including yourself, is how we build a better world. People talk about the message of Christ as if it is somehow visionary or even Uto-
to come in and promote certain projects, he stands to gain as much as everyone else involved because everything is shared e q u a l l y.
p i a n . I d i s a g r e e . T h a t ’s r i g h t , I ’ m a rg u i n g w i t h C h r i s t . Wa t c h o u t , f o l k s . T h e message of selflessness is only half right. Yo u d o n ’t m a k e a b e t t e r w o r l d b y s i m ply putting the needs of others in front He does explain that some of the o f y o u r o w n . Yo u m a k e a b e t t e r w o r l d s p o i l s g o t o t h e c o m p a n y, b u t t h a t i s n ’t by putting the needs of others alongside a n y t h i n g n e w. P u b l i s h e r s , r e c o r d l a b e l s , your own and doing what is best for you a n d m o v i e s t u d i o s t h e w o r l d o v e r w i l l t a k e a n d f o r t h e g r o u p . We d o n ’t n e e d e v e r y their share of the profits, but what truly rich man to give away his possessions and impresses me is that somebody who does w a l k t h e e a r t h d e s t i t u t e . We n e e d e v nothing more than post a photograph or a ery rich man to use his wealth and power short poem stands to gain as much credto build infrastructure that stabilizes ibility and compensation as the guy that t h e i s s u e s p l a g u i n g t h e w o r l d t o d a y. I n remixes the thing into a music video. Ev- terms more appropriate to the example of e r y b o d y ’s a r t i s g i v e n e q u a l v a l u e a n d i t s opportunity for success is enhanced by the resources of everyone involved, some of them newbies and beginners, some of them as established in the art world as Joseph Gordon Levitt. Yo u c a n g e t o n t h e s i t e a n d w a t c h videos of some of the “records” being presented at film festivals like Sundance. One in particular stands out in which Sirius Black is reading a nursery rhyme
H i t R e c o r d . o rg , t h e a r t w o r l d d o e s n ’t n e e d a population of creative looking out for n u m b e r o n e . I t n e e d s p e o p l e t h a t u n d e rs t a n d t h a t i n w o r k i n g t o g e t h e r, s h a r i n g resources, time, credit, and, yes, even p r o p e r t y, w e a l l b e n e f i t . T h e w r i t e r o n H i t R e c o r d . o rg t h a t h a s t h e c o u r a g e t o l e t go of a little bit of his credit and control stands to gain an entire production company of people that can help get the word o u t a b o u t h i s s t u ff . A n d w h a t ’s t h e a l ternative? Sitting at home with awesome
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utopia work collecting metaphorical dust in your hard drive? Mailing out letters to people w h o d o n ’t c a r e t o r e a d w o r k f r o m a n u n proven writer? In sharing you stand to gain a world of talent, resources, and even n o t o r i e t y.
something that I would say is completely original: collaborative production, not with owners versus clients, publishers versus writers, record execs versus musicians, or studio producers versus actors, but with everyone as equal partners in the loss and the gain. It is brilliant and, for t h i s w r i t e r, i t ’s e x a c t l y w h a t I w a n t t o b e when I grow up.
But there is an even simpler way to say t h i s . I t ’s s o m e t h i n g w e a t S u b t o p i a n h a v e b e e n s a y i n g a l l a l o n g . Yo u w i l l m a k e i t m u c h f a r t h e r i n l i f e , a n d i n a r t , i f y o u t a k e I h a v e o n l y t w o m o r e t h i n g s t o s a y. A s k a little time to help someone. By makyourself how you can use your position, ing someone else look good you also make whatever that may be, to help the people
yourself look good. That is something u n d e r y o u . A n d , f i n a l l y, g o c h e c k o u t t h i s t h a t H i t R e c o r d . o rg a n d “ R e g u l a r J o e ” h a v e s i t e . I j o i n e d . Yo u s h o u l d t o o . p p come to understand and they’re doing it in a way that is personal, safe, exciting, and communal to the point of being what some ----might call downright “Un-American.” It i s n ’t a v e r y c a p i t a l i s t i c i d e a , i t d e f i n i t e l y s e e m s p r e t t y s o c i a l i s t i c , b u t i t ’s a g o o d idea and it is built on the attitude that if things are going to work they are going David Renton is a church bra t b y to have to change. This is an example of he ritage only. As a man he fi r m l y that change, but it is also an example of believes in the importance of ske p t i c i s m , somebody making the change they want to me ntal and spiritual e duc ation with o u t s e e . A n d t h a t , I ’ d s a y, i s w h a t m a k e s i t a symbol of hope, not just for the art world, indoctrination, and is a consp i r a c y b u t f o r t h e w o r l d a t l a rg e a n d t h e o f t e n theorist only where the Catholic c h u rc h festering heart of the American dream. is c onc e rne d. David is a str u g g l i n g While so much industry is eating itself novelist and works a day job w h e re h e from the inside through greed and poor leadership here comes a guy who is makwatches people treat retail work e r s l i k e ing plenty of money and doing just fine second class citizens and los e s m o re on his own, who could just as easily not faith in humanity by the da y. do anything but make movies and make money and be very happy with his life. But no, he takes that next step, he invests a l i t t l e t i m e a n d a l i t t l e e n e rg y i n s t a r t i n g 24
I Drink the Whiskey Drink. I Drink the Coffee Drink
I spent a good portion of my teen years hearing about how worthless I was. I recall many of my father ’s lines, “you don’t do anything, you just sit around, play video games, and get fat,” or “for someone who thinks he’s so smart, you don’t have any common sense,” or when I started getting tattoos I recall him standing in the doorway of the bathroom, me not knowing he was there, only hearing his voice, “I thought you were smarter than that.”
_______
I high school I remember Emily Sage Dillingham say, “I didn’t come here to make friends, now leave me alone,” and then her storming away from me. ________
I can’t count the number of women who have turned their heads away from 25
me when I tried to kiss them. The sheer volume of women who have rejected me is staggering.
_______
_______
The first rejection letter I ever received came from a small press thing in New York called Soft Skull Press. It had just been a torn scrap of paper with a logo and some plane printed text on it that stated it wasn’t what they were looking for. That was over ten years ago.
Leslie dumped me, even after she told me she loved me and was smitten with me. She dumped me, first, for her ex-boyfriend, who had once trashed her apartment and strangled her, leaving marks on her neck. When that didn’t work out she left me on the benches for a guy she met online because he was more “mature” and “had his shit together.” And all this over the course of three weeks.
I’ve received hundreds of rejection letters from magazines over the last few years. I keep them all in a file folder on my desk. Most of them are just form letters, politely stating that my work doesn’t suit their needs. Sometimes there are statements of encouragement or personalized statements rejecting my work.
________ In my working life I remember the manager of Blockbuster picking at her nails during my interview and yawning. I remember my old boss Cathy King telling me that I was probably more suited for working in retail than
Once I received a rejection letter from a magazine called Back Street and an editor called Ray Foreman. On the front of the letter was a long pretentious text explaining poetry and on the
in a hospital. I recall thinking a nutless monkey could to my job. A nutless monkey is probably what it takes.
other side of the letter Ray had wrote in pen, “you’re wasting your time with your poetry.”
________
Well Ray, all the poems I sent you have now been published.
Kevin Sampsell told me flat out he wasn’t going to read my manuscript for Some Kind of Monster, even though he took it at the 1000 words reading a year before and said he would.
_______ Live a life of failure and rejection and it begins to stick to you, follow you around, create an air of defeat. Before 26
reviews long you stop putting yourself out there. But sometimes it teaches you things, I suppose, to keep trying perhaps.
stops along the road and looks back, proud of the distance they have come only to turn and look ahead at all the distance they have to go. And they feel weary.
You have to lost to know how to win, right?
But that’s exactly how you’re suppose to feel.
_____
Every “no” is just one step on the road to that inevitable “yes.”
I remember many rejections. But I remember many other things too. I remember Chris Crutcher taking some of my writing after lecturing in one of my high school creative writing classes and emailing me days later telling me I was already a writer. I remember Mrs. Bekkedahl liking my short story so much that she wanted to read it to the class before it was even finished. I remember the reading we did in high school and every one getting a big laugh out of the story I wrote and then Sara coming up to me the next day in class and putting a hand on my arm telling me she wanted to read more of my writing. I can recall a good number of women tell-
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Well, the kickstarter program has come to an end, sadly it wasn’t not a success, but just the same I would like to thank Kody Ford, Melissa Favara, Micheal Street, Tony Pfannenstiel, Jen Mills, Kristen Roybal, and Ryan for your support and your pledges. Maybe we will have better luck next time. Despite popular misconception, Kirby Light isn’t real. He’s an illusion. He’s been published in various online and offline magazines and you can find his ebooks “Cheap Thrills and Night Terrors” and “No Solace for the Innocent” on the Kindle store.
ing me that they wanted to read more of my writing. I remember the first time I got published and how it went from something so small to now writing this column and being on the radio last June. Sometimes down is where you have to be. Some times a sense of grind and failure and futility are just symptoms of a coming success. Every one 27
poetry
Robert A. Davies
The Golden Banana His brother says he wouldn’t stay here. Stepping into the apartment you know right away why the cat circling for love hard candies strewn on the floor the sink bowl encrusted-grey paintings hung and unhung cassettes unwashed dishes in piles. Stepping into the bedroom you see him on the floor actually on a boxspring mattress head shaved bearded face impassive impressive. The Buddha is dreaming under the Banana Tree. 13 28
poetry
Under the Golden Banana (Why that’s a male strip joint!) gold nuggets snuggle up. He smiles it is all so unreal. Also this fungus in his blood that makes getting up on his feet seem impossible. He will get up for his brother who wasn’t in Nam. His brother helps him to dress now it is time to go to the hospital. Then his gay everything about him eyes steps soul bounces god his wonderful brother will take him home. When he is well he will go to the Golden Banana. He will need a laugh it has all been so ridiculous. He will order drinks for the house even the queens. He will pick one out they will dance till the cows come home everyone in line for the cure only ordinary things to worry about eviction the job the mere pain in the neck. And then he will find a simple place to stay where he needn’t hear the neighbors’ loud music only his own. 29 14
He can begin again to put the pieces together paint what is worthy of him find harmony at last. (Published in Poetic Space)
Windows It is like recovering from years of illness now in the clear looking out a window no stained glass more like an ordinary window just-washed clean this retirement. And what I see out there is what I saw before it’s sunny and cool I go for a walk I see the same shapes my world familiar not clouded welcome no noose pulled tight and there are other windows to get to (Published in Fireweed) 30
Jigsaw Puzzle I have always been a dreamer. Last night I was working on a puzzle the picture forming dark as our months of winter. I wanted some ray of light yellow and green forsythia jasmine daffodils if not a summer landscape. And beneath the dark pieces
I began to perceive a suggestion of dawn emerging in these dark times. It was a false dawn of phantoms like a statement eerily misleading for the part omitted. Winter had come to stay. (Published in Melons and Mendelssohn)
I Don’t Know Why As I step out of my skin the years peel away to these woods alone, only an acre of trees river more like a creek in summers without rain --
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the surrounding hamlet its post office for sale rusting train rails school and inn burned most of the trees chopped heaps of rubbish in a failed country –
yet at the edge of these woods I hear an owl-like ha hoo surprise a burst of feathers, hear the clunking of the creek then the sough of the firs, the presence, I know, of someone calm in the coming years darker as they may be. (Published in Windfall)
Where From? I’m from Hockalungah where at Divinity Field our empty lot for playing football I first heard an expression meaning to scrape the lungs of phlem spitting it out in an impressive glob. You don’t get over these things even over 2,000 miles away. Same with bollocks as in bolocky Bill the sailor.
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Only recently have I heard hock a lunger and that was a Montanan speaking. Back in Hockalungah the field is gone the old houses dressed to kill are occupied by no hockalungahs l
In other words the town has left me. They even lack piazzas have porches now and nobody would say I like your place. I’m a refugee living in Oregon though it’s hard to drop that soft perhaps Irish O.
Robert A. Davies lives in Portland, Oregon. I have published widely in the Little magazines and more recently in CounterPunch.com, Windfall and Poetrymagazine.com. I was co-editor of Mr. Cogito magazine for more than 20 years. I have published TRACKS IN OREGON (a finalist for the Oregon Literary Award), TIMBER, SOMETIMES SUBVERSIVE and MELONS and MENDELSSOHN.
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The Critic’s Critic
Critiquing the Critiquers of Critics by Arthur Brand
Well, folks. It happened again. Another merging of leviathan powers in America. George Lucas sold his company, Lucasfilm, along with Industrial Light and Magic to the Disney Corporation to the tune of four billion dollars and change. This is not necessarily a bad thing, but it is enough to give me pause. Disney already has stock in so much of this country, more things than you know, some things beyond your imagining. They have a television channel, a cruiseline, and multiple theme parks larger than some countries with their own currency to boot. And now they have Star Wars. The word is they’re aiming to release an Episode 7 by 2015. Which would be great, except for the fact that the last three totally sucked.
example. It is the fact that everyone, everywhere has tacitly agreed that all of the new “episodes” are enormous piles of trash, that George Lucas is a hack, and that we should dial back the history of Star Wars to 1995 for ourselves and our posterity. Never before have I encountered a more dramatic example of the fans turning on the very creator of the cult world they live and thrive in. In one sentence someone will say, “Thanks George Lucas for giving us Star Wars, but fuck you for giving us Star Wars too much.” Isn’t that what it boils down to? We are so critical as a society, maybe even as a species, that we would literally bite off the hand that fed us for so long. This thought occurred to me today when I read the news about the Lucasfilm buyout and I took a moment to analyze my own reaction to the news. First, I thought, “Oh, great. Disney gets stronger. The Mouse always wins.” Then I thought, “They’re gonna mouse up the Jedis.” Then, I further thought, “Well, it couldn’t be any worse than the bullshit Lucas has been pulling for years, at least he won’t have his hands on the reins anymore. That’s a plus.” And then it hit me, like a bucket of water in the face, “You asshole, where do you get off saying that shit about George Lucas? What have you given the world?” After I promptly kicked my own ass and apologized I sat down and wrote this article. My point, when it’s all said and done, is this man gave all of us something special and we have been so greedy for that power grab inherent to raking someone’s work over the coals, like the bullies of the creative property world, that we neglected to remember one thing: he gave us lightsabers and he has just retired. That is a bittersweet thing. He left his legacy to the immortal Disney because he knows he will be gone someday and that is a thought that fills me with woe. Someday George Lucas will be as dead as Yoda and thi is the first sign of what is to come. pp
And that brings me to my point for this particular essay. It occurs to me that society has become a mass population of nitpicking douche bags. Everybody has an opinion. Everybody thinks their opinion matters a whole lot, more than everyone else’s in fact, and everyone is willing to see this fault in everyone around them except themselves. The question is, what is entertainment’s role in this phenomenon? We didn’t used to be this shitty, and I have watched generations of new people come up in the world and come out more snobby, more self-important, and more crappy to each other than the one before. Could it be that as we have grown more accustomed to media and technology, more saturated by an intellectual economy that buys and trades in negativity and creative insults for the work of others, and, by and large, a system of heckling so inherent to our culture that ideas like Mystery Science Theater 3000 (a show about making fun of people’s work) or the trend to watch bad movies “ironically” or even this segment of The Subtopian (critiquing the professional critics) could succeed to a point beyond cult following right into a mainstream way of life. Do I go too far? Am I overreaching? You’re the critcs, you tell me. The point, ladies and germs, is Star Wars was once something that was fun, innocent, and exciting and it has grown to a point that it is crushing under its own weight. The die hard fan boys that will fight you over whether Luke or Anakin were the true “balance of the Force” or who will correct your pronunciation of Nien Num, or who know all the extended mythology from books and comics and blah, blah, blah or one example of this. But there is another, broader, more indelible
Arthur Brand doesn’t want you to know anything about him. He believes strongly in the power of people as individuals and has zero faith in the power of people in large groups. He is suspicious often, angry always, and dumbfounded regularly. He dreams of a free America and hasn’t seen it in his lifetime. 34
America has gone mad. Bonkers. Batshit. Completely flippin’ nuts! We’ve worshipped at the altar of the self for far too long and have gotten stone drunk slugging from the chalice of the American dream. We’ve collectively traded in the sane train for the short yellow bus, and we’re riding it like a rocket ship to hell—intoxicated on prescription drugs and our own hubris—laughing and grinning and hurling shit at the cameras like a pack of demented monkeys. And we won’t stop until we’ve razed every-mother-fucking-thing to the ground from here to the fiery gates. Seymour Krim saw through the glitter and glamor of the American Dream portraying it as the sick, cynical, selfobsessed mad carnival it is. He opens his essay, For My Brothers and Sisters in the Failure Business, with these prophetic words, “We’re all victims of the imagination in this country” (577). And I would add, we’re all inmates in the same asylum too. Welcome to the madhouse, my friends. There’s plenty of room and enough drugs for everyone. Enjoy the “dizzying spectacle of the senses” (578) and step right up to the American Dream machine where we can all be anything, do anything, have anything, say anything, and want everything! As Seymour Krim writes: Our secret is that we still have an epic longing to be more than we are, to multiply ourselves, to integrate all the identities, and action fantasies we have experienced, above all to keep experimenting with our lives all the way to Forest Lawn to see how much we can make real out of that prolific American Dream machine within. (580) Here, we all live “by the crotch of pleasure” (578) and the pursuit of the twenty-four karat, diamond-plated American Dream. Krim writes, “The American Dream may sometimes seem like a dirty joke these days, but it was internalized long ago by our fevered little minds and it remains to haunt us . . . ” (577). And haunt us it does. Forest Lawn is a privately owned “cemetery for the stars” in Glendale, California. Many famous actors, actresses, musicians, and athletes have been buried there.
§ We’re a country of extremes quantifiably divided into the haves and the have-nots, the winners and the losers, the successes and the failures; we’re a nation gone mad for the cult of success; we’re a people choking on the Kool-Aid of excess. In a country as sharply stratified as ours, it often seems like we’re either driving Humvees to our McMansions or pushing shopping carts to our outdoor living rooms. In a nation consumed by material excess and sharply divided between two extremes, there is rarely a middle ground. Seymour Krim writes, “It is still [our] work or role that finally gives [us our] definition in . . . society, and thousands upon thousands of people . . . are like me . . . who never found the professional skin to fit the riot in their souls” (578). When the available mechanisms for achieving personal and professional success are removed, but the incorrigible drive to become successful remains, we often look for a form of escape. During the ‘60s and ‘70s, when Krim did the majority of his writing, tramping around Europe as an expatriate was still an option for relieving the constant pressure of America’s addiction to success. He writes, “[Europe] is a relief for Americans who come from a society that glorifies individual achievement to the aching and breaking point to live over there for awhile, and try to recuperate from the American heat in a different psychological climate” (Krim, 583). But today’s world is a far more complicated place than it was in Krim’s time. Because of a variety of economic and social changes, the world is becoming increasingly homogenized by the day. Europe is no longer the ShangriLa that Krim describes. Today, we often turn to drugs (both the legal and illegal variety) as a mechanism of escape. Many Americans drink alcohol, smoke dope, or ingest mood stabilizers to relieve the pressure and strain caused by America’s addiction with success. § Seymour Krim came of age in the late ‘50s and early ‘60s, long before mood stabilizing drugs, before 911, before mass public shootings, before the Columbine and Virginia Tech massacres, before the Iraq and Afghanistan Wars, before reality T.V., before Basketball Wives and The Kardashians. He penned To My Brothers and Sisters in the Failure Business in ‘67, but America has arguably grown a far more selfish and violent place since the 1960s. Last night for instance, I left the sanctity of my home for the insanity of the asylum. I was headed to a rehearsal with my gospel band. During the trip, my bus was delayed by a bank robbery and later detoured by a drive-by shooting. Flipping through the pages of Krim’s essay, I witnessed an old man shit himself on the Trimet and overheard a gaggle of teenagers planning a gangbang. Once home—tired and utterly exhausted, I fell asleep to the idiotic “huh-huh-huh” drug-induced laughter of my teenage neighbors boring through my brain like a dentist’s drill. It escalated from dentist drill to jackhammer when they began playing guitar and singing in two part harmonies between the hours of four and six in the morning. No worries. Nobody matters but you, Mr. Beaker. The cult of the self has raised a nation of Mr. and Mrs. Beakers. ‘Cuz it’s all “me me me” in America. § America’s sick obsession with success combined with the loss of opportunities to achieve it, the cult of the self, and the “me me me” attitude are the sources and the expressions of our madness. It’s everywhere and all around us, and it often has disastrous consequences. When I awoke, I discovered the news of another mass shooting. This time it was at a Batman premiere in 36
Aurora, Colorado. Twelve people dead and another fifty-nine wounded. Blood and guts and brains spewed all of over those new Cineplex seats. It certainly puts new meaning to the title “Dark Knight.” Seeing a dejected and traumatized fan exiting the movie theater in full batman regalia—speckled in blood and gore, lost in a fog of shock, attacked by the wolves of chaos—I couldn’t help but to think that this was the perfect image of the American dream—bloody and violent, confused and pathetic, starving for attention. Come one, come all. Witness the greatest freak show the world has ever known. Welcome to the spectacle of America. Come and enjoy the last gasps of a culture in the throes of death and taking the rest of the world along with it—grinning and chucking shit across the globe like some great big demented monkey. Welcome to the mad house. We’ll provide the drugs; you supply the feces. pp
Works Cited Krim, Seymour. The Art of the Personal Essay: An Anthology from the Classical Era to the Present. New York: Anchor, 1994. 576-85. Print.
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serials
Thought Chip Record: Agent Emmett Anders QSEPT9F30 :: 000erroR3778PM Right now on the main screen Joe is driving his red convertible down that desert highway. The antique radio is playing a garbled recording of Hank Williams singing “Lost Highway.”
In the passenger seat next to him is Mr. Smiles.
The radio says, “Just a deck of cards and a jug of wine.”
Mr. Smiles says, “All right, Joe. Enough bullshitting. Let’s cut to the chase. I’m not always going to be around to hold your hand in these dream hacks. I need you to learn the power of dreams for yourself.”
The radio sings, “As a woman’s lies makes a life like mine.”
Joe says, “What do you know about the power of dreams?”
On the day we met I went astray.
Mr. Smiles lights a cigarette, two parts American white trash, one part American Indian. Redneck meets redskin. He tries to hide it in the way he dresses or talks or moves, but it’s still there, evident as a splinter under the skin.
I started rolling down that Lost Highway.
Sucking in the smoke he lets it tuft out of his nostrils like an angry bull snorting steam, ready to charge. He says, “Look, Joe. I know this stuff, I do. But I wish you weren’t so hung up on it. I wish there were some other way to get you to learn the dream hack. I wish your grandfather were still alive, he could have told you better than me.”
“So, what?” Joe asks, “You aren’t going to help me then?”
“No, no,” he smiles, holding up a hand in self-defense, “I am. I’m just warning you, it’s not easy for me. All my life I tried to be anything but Indian. I tried to get you to be anything but Indian, but every time I tried you just came right back to your little chant, ‘The power of dreams,’ that Blackfoot harpy really got in your head. I gave you work to do to try to hone your mind, to teach you diversity, maybe even a new chant, but you still kept coming back to Old Man and the power of dreams. I saw you struggling, not with the work, but with something inside. I’d even hear you fighting with it and I could think back to when I got back from Iraq, scarred inside and out, talking to myself, seeing my pain in front of me like a person. Doctors called it PTSD, but I knew the truth, it was a vision. I fought that vision and when I beat it I found my mind intact and went on with my life.”
I was just a lad nearly twenty-two. 39
serials
Joe nods, a little confused, but seeing where he’s going with his story at the same time.
Neither good nor bad, just a kid like you.
“I see you nodding so I hope that means you get me, Joe,” he says, “What I’m trying to say is I’ve seen you fighting your own visions. I feel guilty for trying to turn you away from them, trying to make you like me.”
And now I’m lost, too late to pray.
“So I’m going to help you understand our stories. But, you should know, I haven’t thought about them for a long time. When I was a soldier, those stories were a comfort to me, but the things I’ve seen, and the greed that sent us over there, I came to feel like a traitor.”
Lord, I think I’m lost on the Lost Highway.
“It was a white man’s war,” he continues, “I left the reservation to live in the white man’s world and wound up a soldier. I fought that war for the white man’s greed, but I carried our stories inside. It ate away at me. First lesson, I guess, is part of being Indian is keeping yourself separate from it all.” “People talk about transcendence,” Joe says, “Is that what you’re talking about? Like that, is it like transcendence?” “You could say that, Joe Kid, that sounds right to me. I didn’t transcend and I lost my way. I abandoned the stories because they made me feel ashamed. A descendent of the first people to walk this land and there I was carrying a gun for our enemy, killing natives of another land for reasons I did not know or understand. Does that make sense, Joe?” “The vision you fought, Mr. Smiles, was it something that reminded you of the stories? Did you beat it so you wouldn’t feel shame anymore?”
“You’re very smart, Joe.”
“I get that a lot.”
Mr. Smiles sighs and drags his cigarette long and thoughtful. The car winds through unnecessary curves in the desert road. Wind blows dust. Tumbleweeds somersault across the horizon. Billboard signs on the Internet Highway show all the websites Joe could be visiting. The Internet Movie Database. Cracked.com. Youtube. Cliché porn sites with puns in the name. The bottom of every sign reads, “Like us on Facebook.” Joe looks lost. In the back of his mind he’s wondering what it’s all about. Why the history lesson? He just wants to find a way to contact the High-Fivers for the biggest secret show of all time without alerting his alien overlords, AKA me and mine.
Mr. Smiles says, “The vision haunted me, pale and blue like a night horse 40
serials
riding in moonlight. It would stand over me, staring, begging me to follow it, judging me its eyes. It never spoke a word, but I could hear it. It would ask me why I was forsaking it. The vision was my father, dead long before I left the reservation, but he followed me for all the years I was in the white man’s world.”
You’ll curse the day you started roaming that Lost Highway.
“When I was over there,” Mr. Smiles tells me, “I’d see him and it would make me weak. I would shake. Sometimes I couldn’t steady my rifle to take a shot. It happened one day where he appeared, standing between me and a young insurgent soldier. I hesitated, seeing my father instead of the boy, and the boy shot me, narrowly missing my heart. In the hospital the vision worsened. I saw him every waking moment and in my dreams too. I screamed for it to leave me be. I asked forgiveness. I did all I could, until finally, one day…”
“You killed him,” Joe says, finishing for him.
Sighing white smoke, Mr. Smiles slumps into the passenger seat, “I did. Yes. I choked him, strangled him to death in the middle of one hot, lonesome night when everyone was asleep and the nurses were making rounds. When they found me they said I was hanging at the foot of my bed with a bed sheet around my neck. They called it a suicide attempt, but after that I didn’t see my father again. And I stopped believing his stories.” “Wow,” Joe sighs, “I’m sure I can find someone else to teach me about our stories if this is too much.” “No, son,” he shakes his head vigorously, “No, it has to be me. It’s always been me. There’s a reason you were taken away the night you woke up in that field. There’s a reason you went to that hospital and got hurt in all those ways. It’s all so you could come full circle, back to here. Do you remember how you once fell asleep under a tree reading our legends? You asked about an alien connection to the first people, do you remember?”
“Yeah, I read about Star Boy and the Sky Country, so what?”
“There are many myths from many tribes and they all tell similar stories, but there is one regarding a change that will come to the world, a beginning of a new time. It is the beginning of the end of the world as the Hopi describe it. They tell of signs of things to come, some of them have already come to pass, some are on their way.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“You asked me to teach you our ways, I am telling you what I know. Their signs foretell the sea turning black and many things dying because of it, the land criss-crossed with iron, crossed with a spider’s web, and the youth of the nation wearing their hair long like the first people and coming to join us in our lands. The land has been webbed over by steel and wire and radio waves, wireless networks. We don’t see it, but we’re caught in a massive web with the same great spider at the center. There are many things you haven’t yet put together, 41
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the Spider Man in the story of Poia, the great spider hanging over everything… the spider in the Sky Country, the invisible web of networks in the sky is in you now, as it is in me. It’s where we are. When the internet was created there were microscopic programs devised to perform basic tasks, internet bots, some called them, others called them spider bots or spiders. These spiders have grown, multiplied, and even been reprogrammed to collect data, make predictions – in more recent years, to spy.”
“For Them?”
“Yes, Them. I am trying to tell you that you have long sought after the power of dreams so you could fight back against Them, but you could not have known until now that your power was also coming from Them. The spider’s web has evolved, it isn’t telephone lines or train rails anymore. It’s invisible, but real as a web of silk. And they know every tiny vibration of every fiber of that web and some of it is in you.” “What do I do?” Joe asks, his mouth almost forming the first sounds of “father,” but hesitating, letting it drift away like pollen. Mr. Smiles says, “Understand the story. The vision that came to our ancestors was something gentle they could trust. It would guide them within, showing them the power and knowledge they needed in order to survive. A spirit guide doesn’t have to be an animal or a ghost, it can be…”
Kid Joe interrupts, “That’s what you are, isn’t it?”
“Listen to me, Joe. I am trying to teach you something important. You know the legend. You know how Old Man roamed the earth, creating this and that, breathing life into the mud to create his first people. You know that he promised them spirits to teach them in their dreams. And through the power of dreams they survived. What you still don’t understand is that dreams come from the person, it isn’t a magic on the outside that takes you, it’s something you have within that you must learn to listen to. The trick to all things in life is learning to find yourself, knowing your own mind, and trusting to follow it.” “And the road we’re on is my own mind. I just come here, think, and it can happen?”
“The only trick is being able to get here, Joe Kid.”
Joe squeezes his eyes tight and there is a sudden sound above them in the sky. It’s a small biplane making letters with red smoke. Joe’s message to the world, to his people, “Secret Show, Montana Badlands, find these coordinates [redacted by transcriber]” GPS coordinates pinpointing the exact location of the internment camp. Clever. But this could go very well or horribly wrong. Desperate situations allow for little middle ground. The message is sent. Everyone that ever joined an 42
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electronic mailing list or contacted the Johnny High-Fives or liked something on Facebook or downloaded a song are all contacted covertly with a thought piggybacked on the Watcher Network, hidden within our own source code – a splinter in the mind, like the involuntary tic of a schizophrenic. And still the father doesn’t tell his son the truth. He lets him believe he’s a hologram from the future or an Indian spirit guide or just anything other than the guy on the other end of the tin can implanted in his brain. I don’t understand it. The feed changes. On the big screen Joe wakes up in a hotel room bed. He’s sweating head to toe. Now he’s leaving the hotel holding his laptop. Smart move, he pretends the hack was done on a computer like any normal person would do it. Now the boys are on their way to Bend, Oregon, to pick up a converted school bus from some guy named Leonard that works as a beekeeper on his forty some acres. Joe says, “It’s done, boys, bulk email to all our followers sent totally below the radar. With a little luck the High-Fivers are on their way to our biggest show yet.” “Any other bands?” Lee asks, casually pulling the Gremlin onto the highway. Beardo and Cedric are in back looking like two awkward adoptive brothers on a family road trip. Joe says, “I invited all of them, we’ll see who shows. We actually gonna play?” “Yeah, we’ll set up as close as possible without getting shot. You invite the Voice?” “Melinda? Yeah, and she’d better show, she’s kind of the whole plan, you know? You think this’ll work?” “Nope,” Lee grins, “but it beats the hell outta sitting around waiting to die while the only people daring enough to take a stand get boned by the government. Right, Professor?”
“I heard that,” Cedric drones from the back seat.
Cut. Thought Chip Record: Agent Emmett Anders Now::000here3081maPN
I upload the concert date, hoping for some cameras out there in the middle of nowhere. If nothing else there’s always cell phones and any American-made automobile built post-2001 – GPS, hidden cameras masked as digital rearview mirrors, OnStar, all sold to consumers as luxuries and special features. I’ll have 43
eyes somewhere.
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Phantom Joe reappears and says, “You still on this? I’ll save you the time. The show doesn’t matter. It’s who wasn’t there to play it that matters.” On Screen 3, Lee is scrambling to find Joe. There’s some indie rock band wailing in the background. Screen 5 shows a crowd the size of a small town gathered around a flatbed trailer somebody donated to the cause. It’s Woodstock all over again – crappy amps, crowds too big to hear anything. Warehouse clamp lights and tarp awnings pass themselves off as overhead stage rigging. It’s not much to look at, but the crowd is impressive. Screen 4 shows dust building in the distance. Black HUM-Vs and dirty Jeeps peak over a hill, descending on the crowd like a dragon. Back on Lee and he’s cornered Beardo, shouting in his face, “Where’s Joe? Where’s the Vagrant? We’re on in five and he’s MIA.”
Beardo says, “He do this a lot?”
“No way, man. I’m the flaky one. You think they got him? Think they nabbed Joe?”
“Relax. They don’t seem to even know we’re…”
The military vehicles surround the crowd, some people scream, some run, but there’s nowhere to go. The indie band drops everything and bails out. It’s chaos everywhere. Lee shakes his head, swears under his breath, and goes out on stage, picking up the abandoned guitar and tapping the microphone.
It’s a weird impulse from where I’m sitting, but he starts to sing.
“Come you Masters of War, you that build the big guns, you that build the death planes, you that build all the bombs…”
It’s Bob Dylan’s “Masters of War.”
The din of screams, the roar of engines, fades to white noise behind this one voice. Lee sings, “You that hide behind walls, you that hide behind desks, I just want you to know I can see through your masks.” The crowd goes quiet bit by bit. Lee isn’t even touching the guitar. He’s just singing. No Joe. No music. Just words. The soldiers file in like drone ants, weapons in hand. But no one in the crowd cowers, they just listen to Lee. “You that never done nothin’ but build to destroy. You play with my world like it’s your little toy.” A man in sunglasses and black fatigues yells into a bull horn, “This is restricted territory, you are dangerously close to a government missile testing facility. For your own safety please calmly return to your vehicles and vacate the premises.”
“You put a gun in my hand and you hide from my eyes. And you turn and 44
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run farther when the fast bullets fly.”
“If you will not move,” the man with the bull horn blasts over the song, “We will be forced to move you. Please cooperate.”
“Like Judas of old. You lie and deceive.”
Someone in the crowd throws a beer can and the men react with warning fire overhead.
“A world war can be won. You want me to believe.”
Joe catches my attention on Screen 1. His Thought Chip record is screaming, but not his words, someone else’s. A man. Mr. Smiles. He says, “Go, go, go, head for that gate.” Joe ducks behind a parked military vehicle and books it for an open chain link gate with barbed wire and an automatic lock. Not sure how it was opened. Had to be White on his end. That is, Mr. Smiles. How can he?
Mr. Smiles almost whispers, “Wait here a tick. Okay, you’re clear, go.”
Just as a guard exits a back door to the facility Joe slides in. Inside it’s quiet. Floor to ceiling concrete like a parking garage. The cells aren’t really cells so much as kennels like a pound. There’s more chain link fence material barricading off certain sections of the structure. It goes on for several hundred yards. A man leaning on the gate says, “Hey, look, there’s a kid in here. Hey, kid, let us outta here, will ya?” Joe looks past the man and recognizes someone near the back. He says, “Mr. Lamb?” The man looks beaten, exhausted, totally withered. The wife is nowhere to be seen. Audrey either. It’s just her father, leaning against the wall like a worn out broom.
Joe says, “Mr. Lamb, where’s Audrey?”
“That you, Joe? How are you – where did you? Never mind. You have to find her. You have to get her out, Joe.”
One of the other prisoners says, “Yeah, Joe. Get us all out.”
Back on Screen 4 the crowd is cooperating at Lee’s request, but not so much that they’re keeping their mouths shut. People slur about fascism and Gestapo brute squads, but instead of moving on or running to their vehicles, they sit down in the sand and watch the stage. Beardo runs to the drum set and starts a basic jazz rhythm. Lee starts picking the steady melody of “Masters of War” and resumes the song. “But I see through your eyes and I see through your brain. Like I see through the water that runs down my drain.” 45
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Cheering ramps up from the crowd.
The military men tighten their circle, hemming the people in, as if to prevent anyone from wandering over the perimeter into their illegal camp. The man with the megaphone continues to demand evacuation of the area. “You fasten all the triggers for the others to fire. Then you sit back and watch while the death count gets higher.” On Screen 1 Joe is enjoying the relative emptiness of the base. He’s running from cell to cell, room to room, looking in and calling out to Audrey. Everyone is so distracted by the sit-in outside there’s only a handful of guards on the grounds. Joe turns a corner and stops cold. Running to the door of one of the cells, Joe says, “It’s you.” She’s near the front, sitting on the concrete floor, her head in her hands like a kid asleep in school. When she hears Joe she looks up coolly and says, “We have to stop meeting like this, mud and shit all over your face. It’s unseemly.”
Joe says, “I gotta get you out of here. Wait right here.”
Audrey says, “Well, I do have this appointment, but for you I guess I’ll make the time.” Joe opens a metal door and tiptoes into a narrow room. He finds a terminal and says, “Okay, what do I do?” The voice in his head says, “Tell it what you want. Find the road in your mind and then find the terminal.”
“How can I?” Joe says, “I’m not asleep and this isn’t a dream.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Mr. Smiles says, “Dreams are just where you start. You don’t need them to use your gift. The way into that terminal is routed directly to your subconscious. Just go within. And hurry, someone’s coming.” You hide in your mansions while the young people’s blood flows outta their bodies and is buried in the mud. Sweat slides down Joe’s forehead and cheeks, collecting, forming into streams. He looks constipated. It clearly isn’t working. Joe says, “Now isn’t the time for a lesson, just tell me what buttons to push.”
The voice in his head shouts, “Goddammit, we’re out of time.”
You throw the worst fear that can ever be hurled, fear to bring children into the world.
All the locks open simultaneously and Joe looks up, shocked.
He says, “You mean you could’ve…”
“Not now, just go. Go!” 46
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Joe runs to Audrey, grabbing her hand dramatically, and tells the crowd to follow him out. Mr. Smiles, screaming in his Thought Chip, says, “Hurry, Joe, they’re close. I think they know.” Screen 6 shows the mob of escapees rushing two of the guards, pulling weapons out of their hands and forcing them into a cell. On Screen 7 a group is beating a guard senseless. It looks like they might do it. For threatening my baby, unborn and unnamed, you ain’t worth the blood that runs in your veins. On Screen 3 some of the soldiers surrounding the concert pull out, as if alerted to trouble at the prison. It looks bad for Joe. The soldiers are catching on that they have bigger fish to fry. How much do I know? Not to talk outta turn. You might say that I’m young. You might say I’m unlearned. Joe gets to the exit and holds the door open, waving people on like a traffic cop. He tells them to turn right at the gate and run till they see the green bus. I hit a few buttons and cue up a camera on the bus. The door slides open and it’s Cedric behind the wheel. He tells everyone to hurry. On Screen 1 Joe waits for the last of the prisoners, Audrey beside him, hand in hand. But there’s one thing I know, though I’m younger than you. Even Jesus would never forgive what you do. The man with the megaphone says, “In light of your refusal to obey the law I am afraid you will all be detained, please do not resist arrest, it will only make matters worse.” As the soldiers begin moving in on the crowd a woman shouts, “Just hold it right there.”
It’s Melinda Voice with a camera man and a sound guy with a boom mike.
Melinda says, “We are broadcasting this perfectly peaceful collaborative performance live for my internet podcast, I’m afraid you’ve been live to the whole world since you got here. Now, unless you want your questionable arrest of these citizens to go on record, I suggest you clear out and let these folks go on about their business.”
The man says, “This is federal land, you have no right to be here.”
“Actually,” Melinda says, pointing to a sign behind the man, “That’s federal land. This is state property and out of your jurisdiction.” A punk kid in the crowd shouts, “Yeah, so fuck off, pig,” and hurls a beer can directly at the military man’s head. It connects loudly and the last of the foamy contents sprays out over his black uniform.
There’s this concussive blast, loud as heaven’s trumpet and deafening to the 47
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point of stillness. Then a voice, “Computer, freeze program.” Everything stops and there’s my Joe, Phantom Joe, the hacker living in my head, standing right in the frozen action on my screen. He looks out at me from the monitor and says, “Pretty cool, huh? Get it, Anders? Computer, freeze program. You know? Like Captain Picard on the Holodeck, right? You’re a Trekkie, I figured you’d get a bang out of that.” Joe ducks under a frozen wave of large caliber bullets, suspended in mid-air like an infant’s crib mobile. He moves through the crowd like a ghost and says, “Not that I don’t blame them, I do, but the response is instinctive. Barely a reflex action. You gotta understand. It’s a cruel fact of war that it takes little more than applying pressure to one finger to end another person’s life. More than that, it’s a cruel fact of life that we are hardwired to follow the crowd in a moment of panic.” He points to the different sparks of light from the many assault rifles and says, “See? One soldier reacts, then another, and in less than two seconds they’re all firing into the crowd. Their leader, the general or sergeant or whatever he is, is screaming, ‘Stand down, men, stand down!’ But look at these soldiers, they’re practically children, most of them drafted out of high school since the president reinstated the policy, others enlisting for the promise of paid college tuition or getting out of debt. Maybe it’s for the sake of control, picking young, impressionable soldiers for such an ethically murky assignment, but it makes it all the more likely that when one bullet flies everyone else is squeezing their triggers.” Joe points at my monitor, thumb up, index finger out, a child’s imaginary gun and says, “Bang,” the feed ramps up. The bullets connect too fast to track. Lee and Beardo dive off of the stage and hide behind the truck. Dozens of people in the crowd collapse into each other like marionettes with their strings abruptly cut. The rest rush the stage, climbing out by the only exit point. Lee and his stand-in drummer are in danger of being trampled to death by their own fans as they pour over the truck, fleeing to the many vehicles that got them there. Then there’s the silence that rolls in like a fog after every battle since time began, the echo of gun fire rumbling like a hunger growl in the air, the faint whimpers and groans of the wounded, and the stillness of the dead. The man with the megaphone says nothing, he just turns his back and makes a sort of helicopter gesture indicating to his men that it’s time to back off. Meanwhile, on Screen 1, Joe and the prisoners are loaded up on the green bus and already screeching onto the highway, their escape masked by the tragedy. Lee and Beardo stay behind to break down the stage while a parade of cars scatters in all the different directions the spectators call home. If Joe had known he could have been there to help cover the bodies, but he didn’t. You can see it on their faces, they’re young, inexperienced in war. The time had come. The veil had finally torn. In the quiet corners of the wild, where prying eyes rarely look, America was at war with itself. They go about their work in silence, feeling a kind of dread that prevents nagging fears from being spoken lest they come true. Their thoughts are on Joe. Maybe he’s dead. Maybe 48
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he’s been captured. What if he tried something stupid and brought the hammer down on all of them? This field of blood is not their America. It’s a war zone. It’s Iraq. Vietnam. Kuwait. Saigon. Libya. Afghanistan. Anywhere but here. There was no way of knowing if anyone would come to collect these dead. But it felt wrong, infinitely final, to bury them there in the Badlands. So they cover the bodies with coats, torn tarpaulins, blankets from the now obliterated picnic atmosphere of the concert. As they get ready to leave, Beardo driving the flatbed and Lee at the wheel of his Gremlin, Lee says, “I feel like I’m shipwrecked and had to bury my crew. I thought something bad might happen, but nothing like this. Maybe jail time, you know, like everybody got in the old protest days and all, but not this. It seems so unreal.”
Beardo sighs and says, “Can I bum a cigarette?”
Lee hands him one and muses, “That’s America…”
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Thought Chip Record: AgentlemenEmmettAnders #113SEPT9F30 :: 0003840PM Lee follows Beardo in the Gremlin, loaded up with guitars and the drum set. The green bus, Cedric at the wheel, loaded up with the now fugitive techie terrorists, takes a separate route back toward Portland. They will all arrive at a preselected rendezvous point and make a plan for how to keep their people safe. Nobody there has a clue about the shooting. Night settles in around the bus like a flood tide. The green paint job looks black in the moonlight. The desert sand is blue dotted with black as the first signs of vegetation dot the horizon. On one of the seats near the middle of the vehicle, surrounded by strangers, Joe and Audrey sleep in each other’s arms. In his mind Joe is back on the Lost Highway, driving the red convertible, searching for something. I assume he’s looking to have it out with Mr. Smiles about how things went down in the prison, but then he gets there and it all makes sense. A right turn off the highway takes him to a gravel parking lot. Joe gets out and climbs up a hill on his belly, trying to stay hidden. He looks down into a small gulley and there it is – the Badlands internment camp. A cameraman and another familiar figure are a few yards away. This shot, this footage – the real reason Melinda Voice was there. On the wall of a nearby sand dune, a projected image of Melinda delivering her report on the story appears like an old time movie. The movie shows footage of the camp from before the catastrophe, guards marching around prisoners at gun point, soldiers in formation – the usual. Melinda quietly speaks into her microphone, practically on her belly in the sand. It gives the impression of devotion to her cause while simultaneously appearing slightly unprofessional. She says, “This is Melinda Voice, live from the Montana Badlands. Over this hill is proof positive of a secret prison on US soil. Your own military is seizing American citizens. No one is read their rights. They’re just taken and held in what, for this reporter, was once an illegal action. My question to anyone seeing this now is, ‘What are we going to do about it?’” Melinda ducks down suddenly and continues, “These are not terrorists. They have been convicted of no crimes. These are people just like you and me being treated like suicide bombers and spies. Our president has cleverly blurred the lines between overseas terrorists claiming holy war and citizens striking back against their own corrupt government with the only weapon available to them: technology. The internet. Which is what we are doing right now with this live video podcast.” The screen shows Audrey and her family, among others, being herded from one bunker to another in a single file line.
Melinda says, “We will return now to the concert on the other side of the 50
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invisible line that borders this complex, with a little luck, no one will have noticed...” An unmanned strike drone buzzes overhead and the cameraman catches it on the feed. Melinda runs to the crowd with her cameraman puffing heavily in tow. The indie band from before Lee’s set, something called Sex Cave, is wrapping up their final number when Melinda joins the crowd. Now it’s the black forms of the HUM-Vs surrounding the crowd. The sergeant ordering everyone to leave. Lee singing “Masters of War.” Melinda stands up for the people, the beer can soars and the bullets fly. It was all broadcast without a single cut away. The cameraman is hit first. He hits the ground, taking the camera with him and just barely catching the gunfire perforating Melinda’s torso. She goes down without a sound. The rest of the feed is the sky, dust, the almost inverted angle of a desert field filling with corpses and panic. It’s a horror medley of screams, footsteps and a stampeding mob. Joe stands up in his dream and there’s Mr. Smiles. He says, “It’s true, son. She’s gone.” He wakes up abruptly, shaking Audrey awake in the process. She stirs and says, “You all right? Bad dreams, Joe Kid?”
“You know I hate when you call me that. It’s bad enough when Lee does it.”
Audrey sits up enough to see his eyes and says, “And you know you didn’t answer my question just then. What’s wrong? We got away, right?” “Not all of us. I feel like things might have gone sideways at the concert, like using the band as a diversion was a mistake. I don’t know, maybe I’m crazy – I hope.”
“Whaddaya mean, ‘you hope?’”
“Nothing. Go back to sleep.”
Audrey sighs and sits up, staring Joe full in the face, “I swear you boys are all alike. Always in such a hurry to be martyred. Maybe you’re right, Joe. Maybe. But you got me out, you got us out. And look over there. You did that.” She points to Cedric driving the bus and his little girl, barely eighteen, appropriately sitting on the wrong side of the yellow line, fast asleep with her head resting against his leg. Audrey says, “You’ve always thrown the good out with the bad. We shared a cell in that shithole – looked after each other in there. Her name’s Naomi and all she talked about was how much she was worried about her dad. He already lost her mom and she didn’t want him to lose her too. Nothing else mattered to her and because of you they’re together. And then there’s that.” Audrey points across the aisle to her parents, sleeping peacefully, and says, “They were held separately. This is the first time they’ve seen each other in two months. You did a good thing, Joe. Maybe you didn’t get them all, but you got 51
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us out, right?”
“Yeah,” Joe shrugs, “I guess you’re right.”
She pulls his arms back around her and settles into his chest, kissing him on the arm closest to her, and says, “I don’t know how you did it and I don’t care. You never cease to amaze me, Joe Kid.” Cedric gets on the PA and says, “I’m sorry to disturb everyone, but we are going to be doing a little ride swap. We’ve been lucky to make it this far and I don’t intend to push it. At the bottom of the next hill there’s a rest area, we’re going to pull in nice and quiet and get into the school bus that is there waiting for us. I know some of you will want to use the facilities, but I’m afraid we can’t afford the time. We have to keep moving. This needs to be as smooth and fast as possible. Is that understood?” Elsewhere, on a different highway, Lee drives alone, drinking coffee and chain smoking. He’s nervous, agitated. Everything happened so fast there was no time to look out for Joe. For Lee, especially after what he just witnessed, it’s just as likely that they were all captured and executed by now. Anything could have happened. There’s the black rectangle of a disposable cell phone sitting in the passenger seat, the kind you can buy at any convenience store and just pay to add minutes. He left his personal cell back in Portland, conveniently placed on a table at the Hollywood Bungalow in case someone tried to trace it or track his movements. He feels it was clever. Lee flinches and drops his cigarette when the dark of the Gremlin erupts in silver-blue light and the unwelcome buzz of a phone on vibrate rattles his silent ride. It’s a text message. They agreed to no cell phone use until they were at the rendezvous. Radio silence. Old military protocol. Army. Navy. Air Force. Marines. He looks at the phone and the message has no number attached to it. It doesn’t say “unknown number” or “withheld,” it’s just there. A message sent from nothing. It says, “Ishmael. The ship still sails. – Moby Dick.” Exhaling blue smoke in the dark of the car, Lee smiles and says, “White Whale. Son of a bitch. How’d he get this number?”
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Thought Chip Record: Agent Emmett Anders MM/DD/YY :: 0003854.4 PM They make it back to the People’s Republic, figuring the shanty town would be a good place to lay low for a while. Lee and Joe reunite, Audrey in tow. Joe is caught off guard by the flood of emotion. Lee pulls him into a bear hug and says, “I’m so glad you made it out okay. How is everything? Did Cedric find anything? I...” He stops. Audrey is there. Right in front of him. Another, bigger flood of emotion washes over him and it occurs to me that he didn’t expect to see her. He kisses her four or five times on the cheeks and forehead and squeezes her until she groans. Beardo hangs back awkwardly, but the look on his face says that, unlike Lee, he hasn’t forgotten about the shooting. Joe says, “I’m glad to see you too, buddy. I’m sorry I didn’t let you in on the caper back there. I just saw an opportunity and went for it. I mean, we had the bus and it was parked in just the right spot and everything was just...well, I went for it. But, listen, I’m sorry if this sounds crazy, but, um... did anything happen while I was away? I had this bad dream and…” “Did anything happen?” Beardo practically shrieks, “Are you fucking kidding me? I just had the worst goddamn day of my entire goddamn life and you idiots are blubbering all over each other. People are dead. They shot that reporter right in front of us and walked away like it was nothing. What are we gonna do?”
“It’s true then,” Joe sighs, “We got The Voice killed.”
Audrey shoves Joe, finger in his face like a misbehaving puppy, and says, “Oh, no you don’t! I hate that. Why do the good people always blame themselves for the sins of the bad ones? If people really did get shot then that’s on the guys with the guns. You boys were just trying to do a good thing. You hear?” Audrey glares at Beardo like he’s got his arm halfway up a goat’s ass and says, “That goes for all of you. The only thing you’re guilty of is risking everything to try to save some innocent people. More than that, you revealed the evil that’s out there for what it is. People know now, it’s out there in the world, on the internet. It’s gone viral by now and it’s spread too far to ever be censored.” My Joe appears on screen and says, “Freeze program. Hi, it’s me again. Joe Vagrant. You might remember me from such shows as ‘That Crazy Bastard that Burned Down Blackfoot Forest,’ or ‘What the Hell Kind of Name is Johnny HighFives Anyway?’ I’m here with a friendly reminder that our young heroine was right. By the time the long drive from Montana to Portland was concluded the news was booming with the story of the indie reporter that got herself shot. The next day headlines were rife with phrases like, ‘Massacre in the Badlands.’ There were mixed reports about the US military seizing citizens without trial or habeas 53
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corpus. Large corporate-owned news media sent out misinformation about a hoax and ‘elaborate conspiracy theories.’ Free Radio calls it the end of Democracy. The legalization of government seizures of the citizenry had been a fact of life since the early part of the new millennium, but no one had seen it so openly, so shamelessly flaunted in the eyes of the public. We now return you to your regularly scheduled program – Computer Exit.” Phantom Joe is gone and his younger self says, “She’s right. 1901, Albert Einstein wrote in a letter to Jost Winteler, ‘The world is a dangerous place, not because of the people who are evil, but because of the people who don’t do anything about it.’” On Screen 2 I ramp up the feed and watch time at top speed. A week passes. Two. Joe and Lee don’t quite settle in, but Audrey and her family, out of fear as much as necessity, make a home for themselves in the lean-to subtopia that was once southeast Portland’s hipster community. Time is passed in acoustic sets around steel barrel campfires. They eat home grown vegetables, eggs from backyard chickens, and get water from Mt. Tabor Park paid at inflated prices by the gross income of every member of the Republic. One night Audrey sits in a circle with some people I’ve never seen before and talks about how the Bible says the early church pooled their resources to build their own community and survive the threat of the Roman Army. She says this place is just like that. They’re their own kind of church, dedicated to each other, humanity, and truth instead of any one god. And for just a second, a spark of memory in the dark of her present setting, she’s a kid again and this is her youth-led Bible study. Everything comes full circle. It’s just a different church. Evenings in the People’s Republic are fire dancers and jugglers, unicyclists, street busking puppeteers, jug bands or five dollar portrait painters – from the perch of my techie cubicle it looks like, minus the death of Melinda Voice hanging over them like a swarm of circling vultures, the People’s Republic could be an okay setup. But Joe and Lee are rambling men by both name and occupation and soon they’re itching to hit the road. I wonder about a romance between Joe and Audrey growing beyond fleeting kisses and brief flirtation and it occurs to me that this is the first time in their lives that the chance at something together might be had. I mean, despite his own feelings, Lee seems to have pulled back and left a wide road for his best friend, but since that road was opened they’ve been separated by a traveling life style or a secret prison or Christ knows what else. They do come close. One night, under a tent draped with warm hues and prayer flags and hanging lanterns they find themselves alone. Audrey and Joe smoke salvia from a ceramic hookah. On screen there’s little more than a couple of kids rolling around and laughing or yelling or staring off, glazed over, into space. But Joe’s Thought Chip record is alive with the weirdness of his psyche: She says salvia was used by native people to tap into the spirit world and speak with their ancestors. You go to a dream place and, for the first people, dreams and the afterlife are one and the same. 54
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The red needle spark of an angel dances on her lips as she talks. Marijuana smoke billows blue. It’s dark as hell here. Hold your breath. Count to three. It’s soon now. Two crippled angels trying to leave the world by any means possible. She says go and I breathe, breathe, breathe in. I glance at my girl and see a twinkle in her brown eyes. It hits. Time stops. Movement becomes picture. Sight a still-life like a stained glass window. God turns a knob and gravity increases with speed test magnitude. Without asking permission invisible hands pull me backward. I liquefy and puddle down and down. I’m still breathing in and it hurts. I cough white tire burn gusts and a voice, vaguely familiar, mutters, “Oh, shit…” Voice comes out a whimper like a little boy. The girl’s eye twinkle is still frozen in front of me. Mouth thick with drool. Can’t swallow. Spit thick as wool. Will choke if I swallow. Need to or it might happen at the wrong time. I swallow the Brill-o Pad wad and it hurts going down. I choke. This is where I die. The pale girl window shatters. A Fireworks Special explodes orange and pink and red. Pieces spiral toward me. Glass-light sparks arrange into perfect patterns like a spiral staircase from above. Each step visible, detailed, and within it, more steps, more staircases. The sparks flush down toilet eyes and behind it – Oblivion.
I’m dead. It’s dark as hell here.
Hell. This is Hell. It’s darker, deeper than the absence of light. Worse than blindness. Whoever she was, she’s gone now. In this place, words leave shoes at door. There is a long silence in the Thought Chip. On screen Joe and Audrey wordlessly paw at a gas lantern hanging above them like a lamppost. Joe Vagrant appears below the lamp, “Now it’s raw emotion. Imagine feeling words, but not being able to think them. Feel panic. Lose your knowledge, kill your identity. Your soul does not know your name. No America. No Lee, Audrey, president, mother, father, lover, Portland, sun, Jesus, God, win, lose, flower, funeral, breath, hope, faith, sight, fire, devil, sin, coffee, ice cream, sex, child, wine, rhyme or reason. Everything is gone.”
He says “I was dead. Joe Vagrant did not exist.”
Kid Joe, transfixed, crawls toward the lantern hanging innocently on a metal pole. The Vagrant narrates, “How long was it? Felt like forever. This might have been going on for minutes or centuries. Had I known the words I would have been screaming, instead my sensations, my unvoiced panic, shouted, ‘I want to live. I’m real, I know I’m real. I had a life. Give it back, you bastards. I knew. I, I, I…’” 55
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He lets his hands fall to his sides and shrugs, “Then in absent word paranoia, I think, ‘Maybe this is it. Maybe I never was, there was only this darkness. Maybe this is how God felt before he made the earth.’ “With nothing to reflect ourselves in we have no identity. Maybe God created man to be able to believe in himself. God made the heavens and the earth to get out of Hell. Then I know I’m God and I’m in Hell. I’m there for years, knowing nothing, until the tiniest shard drifts back, a gold flake drifting in a midnight river. An orange spark. And I feel like that’s me, I’m the orange spark.” The Thought Chip says, “Orange. Orange. Spark. Orange. Spark. Orange spark.” Vagrant says, “Now I know the word ‘orange.’ I know the word ‘spark.’ More pieces. Shards of the stained glass window float back, forming Megabyte rows that line up with their color. Logarithmic microchip lines flow down the assembly line, pack together, and form the lantern hanging over my head.
“Now I know the word ‘lantern.’”
Lantern. Lantern. Orange spark lantern. Lantern.
On the screen, his younger self cackles, yelling at the lamp, almost gibberish, but a mixture of a few familiar words. Continuing the narration, Vagrant says, “Out of the lantern, a lighthouse beam fires 360 degree hope right out of its face, circling brown-orange around my hell. Light hits a pillow. I know the word “pillow.” Lights up a shoe. I know shoe. In the light I learn “rope.” I learn “bottle.” Book. Wall. Ceiling. Match. Vagrant says, “Then there’s Mr. Smiles. Standing hazy in Oblivion with a few lamp lit objects floating around him, he points over my right shoulder. I turn to see her brown eyes and a smile. I know Audrey. And reality returns with a… well, you’ll see.” Joe’s brief and even accidental connection to the back of his mind yields unexpected technological results. That same instant the salvia hit half of the Portland City Council is spammed with a mysterious email containing 36 haikus about those hipster tee shirts with the trees that have their roots showing and, as if through some shudder in the brain, traffic lights on Division Street blinked in Morse Code the first seven words from Captain Kirk’s Star Trek speech causing three minor collisions, the exchange of more than a few angry words, and one cyclist being ejected from his conveyance. Through some other tic in Joe’s brain, the image of Audrey smiling as his reality reassembled itself only deepens his infatuation. Now seeing her as some sort of delivering angel it’s no surprise when, maybe for the first time in their lives, they kiss passionately, deeply, not holding back any desire or impulse, but connecting like two lovers who have known each other’s bodies since time out of mind. The cuteness of their fickle exchanges goes out the window without a word and is replaced by a true, mature, intimate connection as Audrey pulls away her clothing, instigating this newest dimension to their affection. 56
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My Joe says, “I hate this part.”
It’s right then, at this most perfect with the hope and aim of Joe’s whole existence literally on his lips, that a sudden scream from outside tears through their tent walls like a knife and Audrey leaps backward, scooting across the floor like a frightened feline. Vulnerable and afraid in nothing but her bra and unbuttoned jeans.
“Fuck,” Phantom Joe sighs, leaning against my tech wall.
More shouts and footfalls from outside followed by a garbled voice in a bullhorn. Lee bursts into the tent and pauses, only briefly, at the sight of Audrey in this state of undress. His face is a spectrum of emotions – pain, jealousy, surprise – and then it’s buried as quickly as it appeared and he says, “Joe, c’mon, we gotta go. They’re raiding. I think they’re looking for us.” Joe jumps to his feet, locking nervous eyes with Audrey as he buckles his belt. Lee hurries Joe out through the back. Joe grabs Audrey’s hand and says, “You’d better come too. You aren’t exactly innocent in all this.”
The three of them –
“The Three Amigos,” Phantom Joe muses.
The Three Amigos, together again, follow Lee through a small alley. A door opens with a metallic clang and there’s Cedric, gesturing like an air traffic controller. He guides them into what looks like a bootlegger’s basement. Cedric, Audrey, Joe and Lee sit silently in the dark of the room, listening to the sounds of violence from both cop and civilian as it quickly ebbs into a pragmatic interrogation of the Tent City denizens. A voice in the crowd urges everyone to remain peaceful, saying they have nothing to hide and nowhere else to turn. Then a young girl’s voice tells everyone to not give them a reason, they’d destroy their entire community if challenged. Even below ground you can feel the wave of agreement move through the mob. Cedric, sitting awkwardly on the other side of the basement, looks pale as death.
Audrey says, “It’s her, isn’t it? That’s why you look so scared.”
He nods, but doesn’t answer.
Joe says, “She’ll be fine, Cedric. The police know most people here don’t have ID anyway. There’s no way they’re gonna know who she is or where she came from.”
Cedric nods again and silence moves over them like a spotlight.
Lee glares. An arm’s length away, Joe and Audrey sit cradling one another like fear-struck refugees, and Lee looks as angry and wounded as the dying bystander of a political bombing. The pressure of the situation outside only fuels his confused emotions. Like Joe once told me, Lee really loved her, but nothing is fair, especially not in love and war, and with war outside and love in front of 57
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him the betrayal must feel as thick as the irony.
Joe says, “I think they’re going. Jesus, that was close.”
“You’re lucky I came looking for you. Lucky one of us is a good friend.”
“C’mon, Lee, don’t do this,” Audrey says, “Not now. We didn’t mean to hurt you, it just happened. You know how these things go sometimes.” “I’m just saying, maybe if you two weren’t...weren’t doing what you were doing – maybe you might have heard this coming, maybe you would’ve been ready. How would it have been without me, huh? What if the police stormed in while you were down to your bare asses and – fuck, I don’t even wanna think about it. I can’t stop thinking about it. I can’t stop seeing it. It’s like it’s all over me.” Lee storms out into the rainy black of the Portland night. No one stops him, no one raises their voice. After a little beat Joe pulls himself away from Audrey and goes after him. Audrey whispers, “Joe, wait – you don’t know that they’ve gone... shit.” He’s gone. Out on the street, Joe looks around for a sign of his friend. He picks a direction and runs full board to try to cover some ground. Joe finds him at the Gremlin, still parked outside the borderline of Tent City. Lee pulls away one of those car covers people use to keep their vehicles safe from sun damage, but I suspect this was more of a covert tactic on the odd chance that the Gremlin was flagged in some kind of database. Which it was. Lee climbs in behind the wheel as Joe runs onto the scene, half out of breath, puffing, “Thought I’d – phew, gotta quit smoking so much – thought I’d find you here.”
“Yeah? Where the hell else am I gonna go?”
Joe drops his weight into the passenger seat and the door creaks closed. He says, “Look, I’m sorry you’re mad, but I’m not sorry that happened. You know how I feel about her. I just wish... man, it’s like, when we were kids and I saw the two of you together in the forest, you remember that?”
“Yeah, I remember you trying to jump off that bridge like a pussy.”
“Shut up, dude, that brought up some bad shit, okay? I never told you this, but the first time I ended up in the hospital with Dr. John I was just a little, little kid. It was the day They bombed that religious rally, remember that?” Lee nods, “The one that got McKinley into office and started all this bullshit sliding.” “Exactly, well, that day I got real freaked out, like so freaked out I thought the bombs were aliens invading and shit, see? Anyway, Dr. John came over and he tried to make me feel better. He told me to take a nap and when I woke up I came into the living room. I saw my mom going down on that rat bastard in the 58
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middle of our dirty stank ass carpet and I just kind of...”
“Freaked?”
“Freaked.”
“I don’t blame you,” Lee laughs, “I mean, your mom wasn’t exactly a looker and that carpet was some nasty ass carpet, I mean, it was always all crusted over and thick, crunchy like old oatmeal or something. But enough about your mom’s carpet, what was really gross was the floors in that trailer.”
“Fuck you.”
Lee laughs again and says, “What’s your point, dude?”
“The point is every bad thing that ever happened to me in my life started that day with her on her knees like that. Then I walk up on you two and there’s Audrey, the girl of my dreams, giving it to my best friend.”
“On her knees in the exact same way, I get it. That sucks, man.”
“It did. Anyway, that’s why I tried to jump.”
“We did jump, dumb ass.”
“I know we did,” Joe nods, “And we’re lucky we didn’t get ourselves killed, but what I’m trying to say is I wish I had a bridge I could jump off of with you right now. Butch and Sundance, you know? All over again.” Lee sighs and lights two cigarettes, passing one to Joe. He says, “‘For a minute there, I thought we were in trouble.’” They drag their cigarettes silently for a minute and Lee finally says, “Fuck it, I hate it, but she’s your girl, Joe. I always wanted her, probably always will, but the thing is I always knew she’d end up with you. Something made it inevitable, you know? It just tears me up that she wants you too. I never had somebody the way you do. I never wanted anything so completely it was part of my personality. It’s just you have so much, Joe. You can do anything you set your mind to.”
“You can too, Lee, c’mon.”
“No, I don’t mean that in this bull shit motivational speaker high school auditorium kinda way, I mean somehow you literally can do whatever you try to do. You’re like a freak or something. I always figured that was why you had those seizures, you know? Like in the movies when somebody pushes too hard and they just crash, fuckin’ what’s his name from Joy Division crashing and burning on stage, yeah?”
“That guy had epilepsy, Lee.”
“You get the point. I mean, I’ve always been jealous of that. I always wanted to be the kind of artist that pushed himself so far for his work that he suffered, 59
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lost sleep, lost weight – went insane. I always wanted to be plagued by genius, but I’m not, not the way you are. And on top of everything else, you get the girl.” “That sucks,” Joe sighs, lighting another smoke with a match, “We should get out of here.” “How’s that?” Lee asks, “I don’t think I heard you right. Did you say we should leave?” “I mean it. Look at us, living in tents, hiding out in basements full of stills and half full bottles of homemade booze. We’re supposed to be performing, you and me. That was the plan.”
“But Audrey. You and Audrey, you can’t leave that.”
“Believe me, I don’t want to, dude, but I have to. For you as much as for her. The cops are gonna keep looking for us. We played the show that got the whole country to notice what’s really happening. We’re wanted men, right?”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
“Well, that means we have to leave, for the good of everyone here. Everyone we care about. If I love Audrey I have to leave to keep her safe, otherwise she just winds up right back in that prison. And that can’t happen.”
“But, Joe, c’mon, it’s Audrey. What do you think she’s gonna say?”
“She’s gonna say she’s a big girl and she can make her own choices, I know, but I ain’t giving her that choice. I’m leaving and she’s not invited. This is that bridge, Lee. The one I jump off for you. Got me?”
Joe tells me he’s seen enough and I jump ahead.
He says, “It was hard to leave, but we knew this was our last night in the People’s Republic, the thought of them hiding us like Jews in Nazi Germany was too much. We knew we’d become a burden and told everyone we had to go. After that we started drinking to sort of say good bye, the rest is kind of a blur, but I remember the barn dance ambiance, the feeling around the fire of Sherwood Forest and the Merry Men killing time with booze and music. The party that night was different than the others, there was the faint whiff of a funeral wake under the honeymoon charm of the celebration.” On Screen 2, Lee sits with Cedric and Beardo smoking lazily on piles of old throw pillows. Beardo says, “It’s gotten really bad out there, guys. I went outside of Tent City today to mail a letter to the folks. On the way I caught a CBS News broadcast of the President’s most recent speech. He said he makes no apologies. This is just the ugly nature of America today. There are enemies on our soil, lying in wait everywhere. His words, man. The way he’s telling it, both the religious invaders and the financial anarchists are working diligently to corrupt the national integrity. It was a risky move, but he didn’t apologize for the Badlands fiasco, he didn’t try to defend it or nothing. He just said, yes, I signed 60
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the order, yes this is real, and yes it is going to stay. People all over the city, the whole goddamn country, are either terrified or they’re in full support of his decision. The news is calling him the first president to ever take action.” Cedric says, “How long til we’re deemed a security risk or a breeding ground for terrorism and they come breaking through our walls like Orwell’s Thought Police? More than ever the left and right are as polarized as a magnet. I feel darker times lie ahead than even this.”
Lee asks, “What will you guys do?”
Cedric says, “Keep printing, fight the power any way we can. The paper will have to be the voice of the people. With protesting ruled a felony under the new terrorism laws I won’t dare risk my daughter getting captured again. We’ll have to work in the shadows.” Beardo says, “Not me. I mean, if it’s okay with you, Lee, I want to keep tagging along. I was wondering if... now don’t feel like you gotta answer right away, but I was thinking maybe I could play bass for your band. You boys have been a two man gig for so long maybe a third player might mix up the dynamic, make new tunes possible. Like I said, you don’t...” “You’re on, Beardo. You saved our asses out in the desert. I can’t imagine what I would have done in the Badlands if you hadn’t been there. I’d love to have you on board. The longer me and Joe are out there the stranger he gets. I mean, don’t you guys ever wonder how he does the stuff he does? He just looks at something and knows how it works or what it’s made of. There’s his insane memory and let’s not leave out the occasional seizure. Not to mention infiltrating a government facility with nothing but his sneakers. I’ll be damned if he’s given me a good explanation for how he pulled off that little miracle.”
Cedric says, “You mean that wasn’t the plan all along? I just assumed...”
“Hell no, it wasn’t,” Lee almost shouts, “We were just playing a show to get Melinda close to her story, you know? Maybe get enough people out there and start a campaign to get them folks sprung loose or whatever. But old Joe just waltzes in... Anyway, Beardo, we’d love to have you on board, for moral support if nothing else. I just hope being out there might make some kind of difference because waiting around here’s liable to kill me.” Pause. Over on Screen One, Joe is sitting with Audrey. They’re staring into the fire and drinking some kind of tea. Silence is all over their faces, moated in the turmoil of the party. Audrey says, “I wish you weren’t going. No, that’s not true. I wish I were going with you. And don’t say any of that trite bullshit about how ‘we talked about this’ or ‘it ain’t safe.’ I know all that, but I still wish it.”
“I wasn’t gonna say any of that, Audrey,” Joe says into his weird tea.
“Oh yeah? What were you gonna say then, huh?” 61
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“I was gonna say I wish I were staying. I like it here. It feels like the kind of place where a guy could sit down and write the next great novel or something, you know?”
“Then why don’t you?”
“What? Stay?” Joe asks, “This place won’t stay the funky, creative, special place that it is with those fascists breathing down our necks. I owe it to everybody here, to you, to go away.” “Ugh, this is so unfair. I just got you back and you already have to go again. I can’t believe I have to waste away here while you go change the world with your music.” “Well, then don’t,” Joe says, looking up from his tea, “Don’t waste away. Do something. Start something here. This is a special place. Everything feels different, moves different. It’s like there’s kerosene in the air and we’re all just waiting for the right person to light the match. Besides, our music ain’t all that special. It’s just the way we bring people together. If I ever get interviewed again, fat chance of that now that I’m public enemy number one or whatever, I’d say the thing that makes us special is the people, the fans, all the different sorts of folks that come out and discover each other through our shows. You know? I mean, let’s face it, we’re not that good, but the idea is...”
“What’s the idea, Joe?”
“We’re better together than we are apart. The American Dream has us looking out for ourselves even at the expense of our neighbors. That shit ain’t true, man. The truth is the only reason me and Lee are making a living this way is because people come together to support us. We need them way more than they need us. And if they ever figure out how to come together without the unifier of a Johnny High-Fives show then that’s probably when the long ride will end. Basically, the big idea is that the poor, the artists, the dreamers, all the weirdos in this place, they’re the precious commodity, not their work or their money or even what they create.” Joe Vagrant, appearing over my shoulder, says, “What did Orwell say? If there is any hope it lies with the proles.”
“Just them,” Audrey sighs, “You feeling anything yet?”
“Starting to. Everything looks kind of waxy. Like there’s fire on everyone’s skin. Like that PS3 game Uncharted, remember that? Everyone looks kind of real but also totally plastic.” “I guess it’s kicking in. Nobody said how long it can take for mushroom tea to start working on you. For a minute there I thought the asshole that sold us this stuff pulled a burn or something. Holy shit! You’re all wet. You’re like liquid. Your beard is seaweed. You should see your beard.”
“This is funny. Everything sounds scratchy,” Joe says, laughing a little 63
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while chomping his teeth hungrily, “Your voice, it’s like... it’s like I feel like I could chew it.”
“You’re so weird.”
“No, I’m serious. It’s like I’m chewing sounds and spitting them out and that’s what talking is. And there’s patterns in everything. I feel like I’m looking at your blouse through a microscope. Like I can see every fiber.”
“My mouth feels like it’s full of steel wool. It tastes exactly like metal.”
“This was a good idea, Audrey. I think I can see the Lost Highway and my father. I normally only see it in my sleep but it’s there in front of me.”
“What do you mean, Joe?”
“I think I can see through to what’s in the back of my brain. I see my father and it’s like I’m following him. Road in the desert and a city of fire. White lights in the sky. The nightmare that lives inside of me. Who’d have guessed, the power of dreams wasn’t the answer, it’s the power of roots, earth, hallucinogens our ancestors used to commune with the dead. Of course.”
“Joe, you really are insane. You know that?”
“You’ve told me that before, yes. And don’t think I didn’t believe you, because I believe everything you say.”
Audrey giggles and says, “I like Tripping Joe, he’s honest.”
“What? Where is he? I’ll tear him apart. I’m a very jealous man, Audrey. You should know that about me. You know you’re my girl, always have been. Where’s this Tripping Joe son of a bitch. I’ll rip his lungs out.” Audrey giggles again and kisses Joe softly on the mouth and they laugh together, the way they did as children when Audrey cleaned Joe’s wounds. He says, “Hey, Audrey, if you could have any name, what would it be?”
“I like my name, Audrey Lamb, it’s a nice name.”
“It’s the prettiest goddamn name there ever was, but if you could change it, you know, to start over so the law couldn’t find you and all that fugitive kind of talk... you know? What would you change it to?”
“Can I still be Audrey?”
“I’ll allow it.”
“I guess I always figured it’d change ‘cause we got married. When we were kids and we got married, you know? I’d sit in bed with my flower ring and say your name with mine like the way grownups do. I thought I’d take your name, Joe. So, I guess, maybe... could I still do that?”
“Audrey Vagrant? I don’t know. It doesn’t really roll off the tongue, does 64
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it?”
“No, dummy, Audrey Blake. I’d wanna be Audrey Blake.”
Joe kind of snaps out of his trance and looks at her, surprised, flattered, maybe happy, it’s hard to tell through the mushroom haze. Then he says, “I almost forgot that was my name. I haven’t been a Blake for a long time. You’re right. You should take that name. Keep the home fires burning and all that.” As if to someone else, someone invisible, he says, “Sure I’m sure. Is it done? That’s it?”
“What?” Audrey asks.
“He says it’s done.”
“What’s done?”
“You’re now Audrey Blake. We’ve made a phantom of Audrey Lamb, a paper trail that leads in circles like a snake eating its tail and a chain of purchases heading south, away from here. They’ll never find you now. You have a new social security number, a new identity. For all intents and purposes, you’re a new woman.”
“Very funny, Joe. Way to kill the mood.”
“Yeah, very funny. I’m totally joking. Just wait. You’ll see. You’ll see when the paper work arrives at Hollywood Bungalow.” “I’m supposed to believe you did that with your mind while tripping on mushroom tea?”
“Believe what you want. You’ll soon find out. I’m magic, man.”
From across the lot Lee shouts, “Joe. Hey, Joe. It’s time, brother. We gotta go.” Joe says, “Okay, let’s get serious now. Here’s my serious face, look at me being all serious and stuff. Listen up, darling. I’m gonna go away, but I don’t want you thinking I’m leaving you. I’m going so you’ll be safe. I wish I could stay. I wish I could be with you or take you with me. I wish a lot of things. But the fact is I put a target on my back when I broke you out of the Badlands and that means…”
“Joe!” Lee yells, interrupting.
“I know,” he shouts back, then, turning to Audrey, says, “I was just gonna tell you I figured something out. Remember when we talked about how people seem to hate each other? Like that’s our natural state, we hate first, it’s this knee jerk reaction that’s part of society, but eventually, when we get to know someone, we learn to appreciate them. Well, I was thinking it has something to do with the way we don’t need each other anymore. You know? Like, technology makes it so we can have and do pretty much anything for ourselves. It diminish65
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es the value of your neighbors, right? Well, here people need each other. Here they’ll value you and you them, yeah?”
“Yeah, Joe.”
“With that in mind, I think this is the safest place I can leave you. The raids will stop after word gets out about our next show, the law will know we left Tent City. Watch after your parents, they’re a lot more naïve than you are.” Joe turns to leave and Audrey grabs him, almost violently, in a dramatic hug. He pulls her in close and looks like he’s holding back tears, a rare expression for someone like him. They kiss slowly and Audrey whispers in his ear, “I love you, Joe Kid.”
“I love you back, Looney Tune,” he smiles.
“The word is lunatic, dummy.”
They pull themselves apart and Joe walks away glumly. Audrey says good bye a few more times as he saunters off. Lee says his own goodbyes, remarks about how it’s bittersweet and maybe they’ll see each other soon. Waiting by the car, Joe is greeted by Audrey’s parents, Dale and Marcy. They look like the kind of couple that would own a small business together, landscaping yards or renovating houses. They have sweet, tired faces and, if time allowed, I would enjoy studying up on their pasts. Dale says, “Joe, before you take off we just wanted to thank you for coming after our little girl. I mean, we’re thankful you got us out too, but you know what it’s like, no, you don’t know what it’s like… Well, being a parent all you really care about is the safety of your children...more than your own, that is...what I mean is we would’ve been happy with just Audrey getting out, but you also got us...” Marcy interrupts, “What my husband is attempting to say is we’re grateful. You went above and beyond what any person could have imagined, and you did it at the expense of your own self. Now you have to go on the run and you can’t be with our Audrey...” “The way we know you want to… always wanted to, want to so much...” Dale cuts in awkwardly, “I know we never talk much, Joe. I know I had a zillion chances to say this and didn’t, but I’m saying it now. I’m sorry for how I treated you as a kid.” Joe laughs awkwardly, failing to hide how hard he is tripping and patting Dale’s face with a clammy hand. On Screen 6 I can see the data his Thought Chip is processing. Their eyes are more than double their proper size and they seem to be absorbing the colors from the background fires, tent fabric and graffiti. After too long of a pause, Joe says, “Aw, c’mon, Mr. Lamb. It’s another lifetime by now, you know? You don’t have to...”
“No, I wanna. I’m sorry how… when you escaped the hospital that night… 66
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I threw you down and yelled. I’m sorry I kept my baby girl from testifying at the courthouse and all. I’m just sorry I wasn’t a better person to you, not very neighborly and not very Christian, but if the good Lord tells us anything it’s better late than never and it’s never too late for forgiveness.” “Forgiveness, right,” Joe kind of trails off, reflecting on his shaky history with faith, “Listen, you guys are okay. Just take care of each other and keep Audrey outta trouble. She’s gonna want to act out more than ever, yeah?”
“Yessir,” Dale nods, “We know full well.”
Joe sees Lee kiss Audrey on the forehead as he says goodbye. His face floods with jealousy as Lee strolls over. Smiling a little halfheartedly, Lee says, “Well, St. Joseph, you ready to get some road under us?”
“Ready as I’m gonna get, anyway.”
He turns toward the Gremlin and thinks better of it for a second. Turning back to the Lambs he grabs them both by the neck and hugs them aggressively. Their expressions break the way parents sometimes do when dropping a kid off at college or something like that. Joe practically runs to the car, hops in the passenger seat, looks behind him and sees Beardo waiting patiently in the back and nods without saying a word about why he’s still in the car with them or what he’s doing. It’s just silently understood. As Lee puts the Gremlin into gear and backs away from Tent City, Beardo pats a hard guitar case and says, “It’s a bass. It was Naomi’s in high school. She brought it here to try to play in a band. She wanted me to have it, isn’t that neat? It makes her happy knowing it’ll be traveling with the HighFives.”
Joe looks at Lee and says, “You know about this, right?”
“We discussed it.”
“All right, cool. Long as this clown didn’t invite himself without so much as a please or thank you I’m cool. I won’t abide any stowaways on this here boat! We run a tight ship and if you ain’t got a ticket I’ll feed you to the fucking sharks!”
Beardo turns to Lee and says, “Is he okay?”
“Yep, he just discovered the wonders of psychedelics. He’ll be his old self in no time.” Joe yells, “Old self? I’ll never be that guy again, he’s a asshole. I’ll be a new self and then I’ll kill him too. I swear to God, them coppers’ll never take me alive. But...hey, when did Beardo get here?” Beardo says, “Just now, I’m gonna play bass for you guys now, is that cool?” 67
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“Fuck yeah, that’s cool. Good to have you on board, Beardo. You probably know the tunes just as well as we do, yeah?” “Yessir,” Beardo nods, “And listen, if you don’t mind, I think the best place to head from here would be Moab.”
“Utah?” Lee grimaces, “Dude, why Utah?”
“Moab’s a cool town, man. Small, sure, but the people there, they’re like us, you know? And I figure that if we’re on the run then maybe we ought to not go to, say, San Francisco or some big place like that where they’d expect a band to go. I know some folks down there. They’d never give us up. Good folk.” “Hell, I ain’t never been to Moab,” Joe shrugs, “Let’s do it. New player at the table let him call the game.”
“All right, fucking Utah it is,” Lee shrugs, flicking on his signal.
The little Gremlin merges onto a road toward I-84. They pass by a building that was once the Multnomah County Library* before it sold all of its books and became a refugee center for the displaced and unemployed and was finally requisitioned by the new citizen police militia as their headquarters. Beardo points toward what looks like some of the militia men scrambling around in the darkness and says, “What do you suppose they’re up to?” Joe shrugs, “Who knows, ever since the city police ran out of money things have gotten steadily creepier. I mean—” BOOM! He doesn’t finish the thought. The concussive blast from the explosion is enough to knock out the passenger side window, showering Joe in a mosaic of broken glass. Fire pours out of the windows and doors of the library like inverted waterfalls and the streets fill with the sound of shrieks and shock and panic. Lee mutters, “Fuck this,” floors the gas pedal and peals out around frightened pedestrians and a few smoldering corpses. Beardo shouts, “What are you doing? What are you doing? We have to help these people! We can’t just…we can’t just…” “Shelf that shit, will ya?” Lee shouts, “We’re wanted men, you volunteering your half-assed medical aid might as well be volunteering for a jail cell.”
“What jail cell, man?” Joe yells, “They just blew it up.”
“Who just blew it up?” Lee shouts back.
“I don’t know, THEM, Christ! You’re right, we gotta get outta here.”
The Gremlin bawls past a wall of sirens, fire trucks, and volunteer paramedics. The streets are chaos. Through the open window you can hear the weeps and screams of pedestrians, voices crying out their half-cocked theories, it’s the Hadjis, it’s the anarchists, the hackers, the fundamentalists – it was the 68
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government. Lee swings the Gremlin wildly onto the interstate and they fall silent in the howl of road wind fuming through the broken car window. He says, “Christ, I need a cigarette. That was too much.” Joe shakes three out of his pack and shoves them all in his mouth in a row. He strikes two matches which are promptly blown out by the wind and finally gets a little fire on the third. He lights them all and drags heavily to get them burning, handing them off to his traveling companions. This ritual complete, Beardo and Lee each put down a window a few inches and wince into the wind of the road, unified like prepubescent blood brothers forging a bond of fire and smoke rather than the smearing of wounds.
Joe says, “You know what this means, right?”
“Nothing,” Lee says, “We’re fine. Everything’s gonna be fine. She’s gonna be fine, Joe. This don’t mean shit. There’s been terrorist bombings before and we pulled through.” “No, you’re wrong,” Joe says, “Look at the history. Every bombing on U.S. soil starts a chain reaction. 9/11 led to the Patriot Act and the war in the Middle East. The church rally bombing when we were babies seated McKinley leading directly to the war on anarchists and hackers. And this time it was a police station, man. They’re gonna go ape shit over this one.”
“What is this one so different?” Beardo asks.
“Maybe it ain’t, except for one thing. They didn’t have McKinley for president. This is the motivator he’s been waiting for. It’ll mean road blocks, lock down, investigation... You know how hard it’s gonna be to get back here? You know how hard it’ll be for Audrey to get out? This is a line in the sand, boys, whoever it was just changed things – maybe for good.” They really did. Theories abound, the president declares it was the anarchists, his newest terrorist threat – hackers turned militant. The authoritarian crackdown polarizes stances. Those in support of McKinley, his faith, and his approach join up or acquiesce, those against it fight back. As the grip tightens the fury of resistance burns hotter. It’s a beginning, the birthplace of a new conflict, a fight on American soil. The second civil war. To be continued in Dystopia Boy 0.9 >>
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