Too many months of cold dark... there's water dripping but he can't see it. The chill is familiar, it hides in his bones. The smell of old water lingers and curls, threading down the hacked stone and collecting somewhere behind the shadow. This is the price you pay. This is the price you pay. The words ring hollow but not empty. The man in the suit said them so they must be true.
K. shivers and clutches at his threadbare blanket. Every muscle aches, every pore cries for something that isn't there. The tremors can't be ignored. His brain tells his limbs to move when there's no operant stimulus, no tangible goal, and he wonders if it will get worse. His belly's on fire and sleep seems so far away. What time is it out there he wonders, is there still a sun? What happened to everyone else. The man in the suit says they're dead, but he can't be telling the truth. It was never about the man in the suit or his fellow-travelers. What was it about K. wonders.
No voices for almost a week. At least it seems like it's been a week. Hard to tell. The meal tray comes and there's scant nourishment for another lightless day. The panic comes slowly and imperceptibly. Washington, 1789-1797, Adams I 1797-1801, Jefferson, 1801-1809, Madison, 1809-1817... As long as there are names and dates, they were real. The man in the suit said that names and dates are as fickle as the wind, but he has a name and a date somewhere, and even if they change it later, on his deathbed wheezing and small, he'll know the terminus.
He crouches down on the frozen stone and thinks about explosions and shattering, the stillborn dream of justice and the wasted blood. There should be anger, but it ebbed away long ago. Maybe all that remains is defiance for its own sake. I have no other weapons.
3.28.2009
3.27.2009
Spitflare and lime-green exploding in mid-air, a shower of incandescence pouring out on the dark ground, the river punctuated by bursts of ephemeral light wisping away in the wounded sky. Summer days, saliva days, sunburned and truculent. Beer in the cooler and it's all right.
The crowds move down seventh street to get a better view. Kaleidoscope eyes and frantic calm waiting for the next big one. The rat man is here and he's got his doberman, mean motherfucker tore up that kid over on Church but the owner got out of the lawsuit. Says the kid provoked him and had a better lawyer. Smoking a cigar in a chain link fence, low house empty and dark. Got tons of shit in there to sell they say. The old neighborhood is shit and the clouds are moving in but tonight's a break, a time for wonder and exuberance. Finale's coming on strong and it's a hurricane in purple and gold, a sky for Persian kings and myrrh. July wind blowing hot breath lifting skirts and scattering paper and old newspapers.
Jen's on the hill with a Bud sketched in grey and silver watching the boats on the river, red lights burning in the deep. The rest of the group's waiting for the big shine, laughing at the men with moustaches and the old people. When's the bonfire a pale-faced girl asks feels the flush of beer and the suspension of time. We'll meet up at my place someone yells and the rockets bathe him in crimson light. There's no moon but no one minds.
The crowds move down seventh street to get a better view. Kaleidoscope eyes and frantic calm waiting for the next big one. The rat man is here and he's got his doberman, mean motherfucker tore up that kid over on Church but the owner got out of the lawsuit. Says the kid provoked him and had a better lawyer. Smoking a cigar in a chain link fence, low house empty and dark. Got tons of shit in there to sell they say. The old neighborhood is shit and the clouds are moving in but tonight's a break, a time for wonder and exuberance. Finale's coming on strong and it's a hurricane in purple and gold, a sky for Persian kings and myrrh. July wind blowing hot breath lifting skirts and scattering paper and old newspapers.
Jen's on the hill with a Bud sketched in grey and silver watching the boats on the river, red lights burning in the deep. The rest of the group's waiting for the big shine, laughing at the men with moustaches and the old people. When's the bonfire a pale-faced girl asks feels the flush of beer and the suspension of time. We'll meet up at my place someone yells and the rockets bathe him in crimson light. There's no moon but no one minds.
Checkmate
A beach on the northeast spire of Nantucket
“So we're here again. Same bleak coastline, jagged rocks, black surf and all, empty sky stretching out over a thousand nameless skulls - ”
“Millions, actually. Please don't shortchange me, I do take my work seriously and all,” Death interrupted.
“Millions, then. Hell, it's probably billions, but who's counting?” continued Postman undeterred.
“I am. My actuaries use the best and newest statistical methods. You fools think your representative samples can capture the germination of an idea or calculate the Zeitgeist to a reasonable degree of certainty, but in my line of work, we must have complete accuracy. None of this confidence interval garbage.”
“I'll grant you that for the time being. Just out of curiosity, say, what's, uh, the current tally? asked Postman.
“731,895,435, currently increasing at a rate of 712.3 per hour, and accelerating by 2.3% per 100 days, seasonally adjusted of course. Those, of course, represent the numbers just from your line of work, my friend, since the Sumerians, just for sake of organization. We have numbers for the preceding era as well.”
“Masterful.”
“Oh yes, we've got this business down. But let's get to the point, Postman.”
“Yes, please. I see you've brought the chessboard again. Carved ivory and onyx, and are those diamonds you've used for the eyes?”
“Yes, the finest quality, of course.”
“Of course.” Postman paused, brushing a stray hair from his face. The wind howled and swirled in icy intervals. “But why the artifice? We all know the drill, and I must confess, I'm a terrible dancer.”
“Oh you do yourself a disservice. I was speaking with Greta the other day – you remember her? college girlfriend, had that terrible car accident after you two split, and anyway, she had nothing but rave reviews for your moonwalk. The times have changed, you know, and salsa is just as good as break dancing, as far as I'm concerned.”
“Hmm, yes, that was some time ago. What's she uh, doing for you nowadays?”
“Well she always had a way with words – ”
“Very true.”
“—and we make every effort to accommodate the talent we receive. No point in wasting a gift when we need every disembodied soul we can use.”
“Efficiency, sir, I do admire it.”
“Well anyway, we've employed her as a speechwriter.”
“Oh that seems like a perfect fit. She was a fantastic columnist back in the day, you know, for the college paper. But uh, for whom exactly is she writing speeches? I can't imagine there's much in the way of politics... down there.”
“Quite right, but there certainly is plenty of politicking up here, and we do need to meet our quotas”
“Quotas? I'm afraid you've lost me.”
“Your move, Postman. Anyway, it's quite simple really. Our operation – like yours – depends on a certain rate of growth, which requires steadily increasing returns to maintain our margin. Now I'm really more of a neutral overseer. I don't deal with the division that Greta's been assigned to. I prefer to keep my hands dry and clean, if you follow me. But anyway, there's a segment of our operation whose responsibility is quite simply to ensure that we hit our target numbers. That's all.”
“I still don't quite follow. My firm's growth is based on sales, procuring government contracts, bribing politicians and the like, but we're still subject to the shareholders and still have to produce something,” Postman replied.
“Quite right. And – “ Death winked slyly at Postman – “We are after all in the same general industry. Greta's division is responsible for ensuring that we hit our numbers. Think of her as a PR person. Certainly you employ those too.”
“Oh hundreds of them, lobbyists too.”
“Naturally. Greta's one of our stars actually. She cut her teeth with that Milosevic fellow, did some fine work there, we were all quite impressed. Since then, she's been staffed with the old fart from Zimbabwe – what was his name?”
“Mugabe.”
“Ah yes, Mugabe. He's one of our top field reps. Now I, of course, don't explicitly condone any of this, you see, but the most important thing is to make sure we hit your numbers. As a man of industry, you must understand.”
“Yes, it makes more sense now. So why have you brought me here? Check, by the way.”
“Mm, yes, but you left your knight exposed. Well, we've been in business a while here now, and I'm thinking of taking you on as a sort of personal assistant.”
“I'm listening.”
“Well it's a good position. Excellent pay, the best benefits, plenty of deferred stock option – don't you think for a second that the underworld has experienced a real estate bubble. You want a villa on the banks of the Cocytus? Not cheap, my friend. You need connections and a good pile of oboloi.”
“What are the responsibilities?”
“Given your expertise, I was thinking of using you as a chief liaison to the U.S. Defense Department. Your contacts would be invaluable.” Death paused for a moment, focusing intently on the chessboard. With a flourish of his blanched wrist, he deftly knocked Postman's king off the board and to the ground. The piece and the board slowly ebbed to a pale mist and evaporated. “Checkmate!”
“It would seem so. Say, what about my wife and kids?”
“Oh they're not going anywhere for a time – think of it as providing for their future. You'll have a good –“ Death pulls out a weathered black notebook and flips nimbly through the yellowed pages “—a good twenty years before you have to worry about her, and the kids have much more time. And just think – you'll be working closely with Greta and the P.R. department, and there's no place like hell to strike up an old flame,” Death chuckles.
“Well said, well said! A scotch?”
“Please.”
Postman pulled a bottle of Laphroaig 18-year and two whiskey glasses out a brown leather satchel that had been resting behind his chair. He calmly poured out two doubles – neat – and handed one to Death. Taking long slow sips, Postman stared out across the grey sea. After a short time, Death stood up, reached out a bony hand, and asked, “So do we have a deal?”
“It certainly looks that way.”
“Brilliant. Welcome aboard. We'll take my private plane.”
“So we're here again. Same bleak coastline, jagged rocks, black surf and all, empty sky stretching out over a thousand nameless skulls - ”
“Millions, actually. Please don't shortchange me, I do take my work seriously and all,” Death interrupted.
“Millions, then. Hell, it's probably billions, but who's counting?” continued Postman undeterred.
“I am. My actuaries use the best and newest statistical methods. You fools think your representative samples can capture the germination of an idea or calculate the Zeitgeist to a reasonable degree of certainty, but in my line of work, we must have complete accuracy. None of this confidence interval garbage.”
“I'll grant you that for the time being. Just out of curiosity, say, what's, uh, the current tally? asked Postman.
“731,895,435, currently increasing at a rate of 712.3 per hour, and accelerating by 2.3% per 100 days, seasonally adjusted of course. Those, of course, represent the numbers just from your line of work, my friend, since the Sumerians, just for sake of organization. We have numbers for the preceding era as well.”
“Masterful.”
“Oh yes, we've got this business down. But let's get to the point, Postman.”
“Yes, please. I see you've brought the chessboard again. Carved ivory and onyx, and are those diamonds you've used for the eyes?”
“Yes, the finest quality, of course.”
“Of course.” Postman paused, brushing a stray hair from his face. The wind howled and swirled in icy intervals. “But why the artifice? We all know the drill, and I must confess, I'm a terrible dancer.”
“Oh you do yourself a disservice. I was speaking with Greta the other day – you remember her? college girlfriend, had that terrible car accident after you two split, and anyway, she had nothing but rave reviews for your moonwalk. The times have changed, you know, and salsa is just as good as break dancing, as far as I'm concerned.”
“Hmm, yes, that was some time ago. What's she uh, doing for you nowadays?”
“Well she always had a way with words – ”
“Very true.”
“—and we make every effort to accommodate the talent we receive. No point in wasting a gift when we need every disembodied soul we can use.”
“Efficiency, sir, I do admire it.”
“Well anyway, we've employed her as a speechwriter.”
“Oh that seems like a perfect fit. She was a fantastic columnist back in the day, you know, for the college paper. But uh, for whom exactly is she writing speeches? I can't imagine there's much in the way of politics... down there.”
“Quite right, but there certainly is plenty of politicking up here, and we do need to meet our quotas”
“Quotas? I'm afraid you've lost me.”
“Your move, Postman. Anyway, it's quite simple really. Our operation – like yours – depends on a certain rate of growth, which requires steadily increasing returns to maintain our margin. Now I'm really more of a neutral overseer. I don't deal with the division that Greta's been assigned to. I prefer to keep my hands dry and clean, if you follow me. But anyway, there's a segment of our operation whose responsibility is quite simply to ensure that we hit our target numbers. That's all.”
“I still don't quite follow. My firm's growth is based on sales, procuring government contracts, bribing politicians and the like, but we're still subject to the shareholders and still have to produce something,” Postman replied.
“Quite right. And – “ Death winked slyly at Postman – “We are after all in the same general industry. Greta's division is responsible for ensuring that we hit our numbers. Think of her as a PR person. Certainly you employ those too.”
“Oh hundreds of them, lobbyists too.”
“Naturally. Greta's one of our stars actually. She cut her teeth with that Milosevic fellow, did some fine work there, we were all quite impressed. Since then, she's been staffed with the old fart from Zimbabwe – what was his name?”
“Mugabe.”
“Ah yes, Mugabe. He's one of our top field reps. Now I, of course, don't explicitly condone any of this, you see, but the most important thing is to make sure we hit your numbers. As a man of industry, you must understand.”
“Yes, it makes more sense now. So why have you brought me here? Check, by the way.”
“Mm, yes, but you left your knight exposed. Well, we've been in business a while here now, and I'm thinking of taking you on as a sort of personal assistant.”
“I'm listening.”
“Well it's a good position. Excellent pay, the best benefits, plenty of deferred stock option – don't you think for a second that the underworld has experienced a real estate bubble. You want a villa on the banks of the Cocytus? Not cheap, my friend. You need connections and a good pile of oboloi.”
“What are the responsibilities?”
“Given your expertise, I was thinking of using you as a chief liaison to the U.S. Defense Department. Your contacts would be invaluable.” Death paused for a moment, focusing intently on the chessboard. With a flourish of his blanched wrist, he deftly knocked Postman's king off the board and to the ground. The piece and the board slowly ebbed to a pale mist and evaporated. “Checkmate!”
“It would seem so. Say, what about my wife and kids?”
“Oh they're not going anywhere for a time – think of it as providing for their future. You'll have a good –“ Death pulls out a weathered black notebook and flips nimbly through the yellowed pages “—a good twenty years before you have to worry about her, and the kids have much more time. And just think – you'll be working closely with Greta and the P.R. department, and there's no place like hell to strike up an old flame,” Death chuckles.
“Well said, well said! A scotch?”
“Please.”
Postman pulled a bottle of Laphroaig 18-year and two whiskey glasses out a brown leather satchel that had been resting behind his chair. He calmly poured out two doubles – neat – and handed one to Death. Taking long slow sips, Postman stared out across the grey sea. After a short time, Death stood up, reached out a bony hand, and asked, “So do we have a deal?”
“It certainly looks that way.”
“Brilliant. Welcome aboard. We'll take my private plane.”
3.26.2009
We shot up in your bathroom, the fluorescent light snaking around our shoulders and spilling onto the white tile floor. I caught your face in the mirror as we stepped out and your hair was a tangled mess but the eyes were on fire. We lay on the couch sucking on cigarettes in the half twilight. Outside the college girls floated by, covergirl masks grotesque in the dying light. I heard dogs barking and car horns and a rondo of angels on amphetamines. You were talking about the Gulf and the water, always the ocean with you. I feel the sand on your stomach and the salt on your skin and picture the clouds skating across the cutting azure.
I'm transported to the tall grass on Lake Michigan, ten years old, scrambling in the icy surf grabbing shells eyes closed in the red lidless glare of a summer sun. Alone for a moment while my parents took the dog to the other side, I hoard my bits of crab, the green bottle glass worn down to jade by the cold and the waves. The gulls cry, and I imagine myself on an island far out in the lake, where rusted ships rest their bony remains. A forgotten island of gulls sand crusted in white shit, a cacophony of feathers and silence. I'm the emperor of the birds.
Back to your place and it's nighttime now. We smoke before we leave and you're impressed by my rings, laughing as you cough and I laugh too. We bundle up and head out into the dark, counting block by block to make sure we haven't gone too far, trying not to sway and laughing at everything. For a moment the world is perfect, the halos around the streetlamps a blinding second of eternity, the shattered glass a curbside symphony.
When we get back, I ask if I can crash here and it's ok. We take off our coats and settle in, your hair scattered across my chest.
I'm transported to the tall grass on Lake Michigan, ten years old, scrambling in the icy surf grabbing shells eyes closed in the red lidless glare of a summer sun. Alone for a moment while my parents took the dog to the other side, I hoard my bits of crab, the green bottle glass worn down to jade by the cold and the waves. The gulls cry, and I imagine myself on an island far out in the lake, where rusted ships rest their bony remains. A forgotten island of gulls sand crusted in white shit, a cacophony of feathers and silence. I'm the emperor of the birds.
Back to your place and it's nighttime now. We smoke before we leave and you're impressed by my rings, laughing as you cough and I laugh too. We bundle up and head out into the dark, counting block by block to make sure we haven't gone too far, trying not to sway and laughing at everything. For a moment the world is perfect, the halos around the streetlamps a blinding second of eternity, the shattered glass a curbside symphony.
When we get back, I ask if I can crash here and it's ok. We take off our coats and settle in, your hair scattered across my chest.
3.24.2009
That was the tarragon summer – lying in open terror falling through empty sky. Sometimes we'd sneak out in the middle of the night to the bluff just to hear the churning silence, the waking leaves and broken stars. On our backs in the hazy blackness discussing Nixon and the war, and what turning eighteen would mean. I'd share a pack of cigarettes I stole from Allard's, and we'd smoke and cough, two orange eyes darting and weaving.
Your brother came back in July solitude to kick cans in dusty alleys and sell us cheap weed. The night before he shot himself we went down to the pond and passed a joint to the fireflies all radiant and dizzy. The moon reeled and pitched on the water, still bathwater warm. You showed me the scar – a grinning purplish thing snaking along your right shoulder, a gift from the old man.
You young thing, I was so much older than you even then. I knew your secrets. When the world cracked and splintered – when they found his drained shell on the bathroom floor and blamed you fair little thing, all wide luminous eyes, narrow shoulders, and high cheekbones – I knew you'd come to me. Knew we'd stall in breathless silence fumbling toward some kind of light, that your tears would burn my tongue, that the world was too small, a pinprick lost in this swelling thing billowing out suddenly within me.
When the dawn light touched the tarragon, we push south toward the sea, together.
Your brother came back in July solitude to kick cans in dusty alleys and sell us cheap weed. The night before he shot himself we went down to the pond and passed a joint to the fireflies all radiant and dizzy. The moon reeled and pitched on the water, still bathwater warm. You showed me the scar – a grinning purplish thing snaking along your right shoulder, a gift from the old man.
You young thing, I was so much older than you even then. I knew your secrets. When the world cracked and splintered – when they found his drained shell on the bathroom floor and blamed you fair little thing, all wide luminous eyes, narrow shoulders, and high cheekbones – I knew you'd come to me. Knew we'd stall in breathless silence fumbling toward some kind of light, that your tears would burn my tongue, that the world was too small, a pinprick lost in this swelling thing billowing out suddenly within me.
When the dawn light touched the tarragon, we push south toward the sea, together.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
