Denny’s was a Godsend. Open all night, he made a home in a booth there. Piled his regular people jacket in the corner and leaned into it waiting for his burger and fries. While he was waiting he slipped back in time.
Nightclub.
It might as well have been called The Golgotha Club. This is the place where dreams came to die.
He was feeling good, so he decided to go talk to the trees. They looked just like people and they had drinks in their hands, but they were trees.
“How’s it going?”
Silence. The would pull out their cell phones and start texting, or just play around with them.
The establishment of good rapport with others is essential to sanity.
He awkwardly moved on, double fisting, to the next trees. Silence. The wind blowing through their ears.
Eventually he found people who would talk. He didn’t like small talk too much, but as soon as he got off it, that’s when the conversation fizzled out.
“… I wonder what kind of effect advertising really has on these people. Everywhere you look there’s people flaunting brand names, like it’s their own name …”
“… see, most people here fit into my six categories of obnoxiousness and uh, I’m having a hard time finding anybody here who fits into my six categories of charisma …”
“… I mean what is a soul, right? Let me tell you, there is life after death, you just have to make sure somebody clones you …”
“… I know Henry Falconer …”
Each time, he tried to cut the crap and have a real conversation, it was nullified by bored glances around the room, raised eyebrows coupled with slow nods, and cell phone play.
Just people being people, he guessed. Real conversation, it appeared, was no fun.
***
He ate his fries one at a time, each one bringing him a sliver of infinity closer to the present.
Gallery.
He was the one there who just had to have something interesting to say. There was a taker.
They were talking about art.
“It seems to me,” he said, “that artists these days are so cynical. They think everything’s already been done so they don’t try to push the boundaries. They don’t try to find new genres and new mediums to express themselves in.”
“Maybe,” the taker said, “they’re happy expressing themselves in the medium they’re working in. Maybe they don’t need to create new genres, new mediums and new classifications.”
“But, the audience needs it, don’t they?”
He didn’t get an answer. The conversation moved to film. The taker was caught up talking about his favorite scenes from Star Wars.
“… and then when he shoots Greedo …”
“… and then when …”
“… and then when …”
“oh man … that was awesome!”
It seemed he was missing the whole point.
“I know Henry Falconer.”
The conversation was put to bed, where it died, surrounded by loved ones, became one with infinity.
Otherwise it was mostly the same. A whole lot of dressed up people avoiding eye contact.
***
He started in on his burger.
A group of young men were making a big ruckus, laughing, goofing off, twisting off salt shaker caps, mixing condiment ingredients. They were giving the waitress a hard time about beer. They just wanted to keep their buzz going. People being people.
The pub was quieter than this.
The pub where people acted like people. It too, was a Godsend, but people were still obnoxious there too. Puking and cussing and spitting and punching, people dressed down but still on display.
The city was a zoo whose big attraction was people. Different dress codes, different style of speech, but all basically alike.
***
By the time he got to the metro station he realized it was eight in the morning. It was a new day, for most it was just beginning for Adam it was just ending. People shuffled into the underground station in waves of three, waiting to ride the river of steel, all it costs is a token.
There was a three headed attack outside the station doors, three people working, doing their job. Two of them were handing out newspapers, Adam walked right past them, the third, he handed Adam a pamphlet about the exciting new religious group called the Adamites.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Monday, September 22, 2008
35
One more round.
Adam left the gallery. He stood on the street cold and alone, waiting for a taxi to swing by so he could hail it. But in the meantime, none came.
He walked.
Walked and walked, watching squares of sidewalk slide under him, out of his field of vision. He imagined each square was quartered into four triangles and he wasn’t allowed to step on the connecting lines, only on the triangles themselves. When he passed things like sewer drains, those created two more lines that bisected and trisected the triangles into smaller triangles and pentagons. Cracked pavement threw his game for an interesting loop. It was all in his head. Lines and shapes, but no color, only the grey of the pavement, and no sound except the cars and taxis whooshing by. Occasionally he’d hear a distant siren.
Sirens. What eerie, captivating music they made when heard in the distance. Up close, the sound was unbearable and the reality of the situation hit him full in the mouth, rattling his skull.
In the hospital he had looked out the window, surveyed the cityscape and declared it his for the taking. Now, he saw it for what it was: lines and shapes, dull colors and distant sounds.
So he walked, avoiding lines, staring at the ground and before he knew it, he had wandered far, far away from the artsy fartsies. The dull orange of the streetlights gave way to the kaleidoscope of neons and he knew without looking, avoiding lines, that he was back downtown.
One more round.
He wandered off the busy downtown street. The street filled with raucous and unaffable young men and women, into a place he suspected might have put them there. An Irish style pub, winding down for the night.
Adam took a seat at the bar. Everybody wore regular people clothes, there was nothing to distinguish Adam from the rest of them, he wasn’t sure why that depressed him. But, it got him thinking.
It got him thinking about the way he was thinking. His newfound attention to petty detail, wrapped up in himself, not fully aware of his surroundings, sweating the small stuff, avoiding lines. A whole bunch of little things.
It was all a matter of perspective.
“Yeah,” a drunken frat boy hollered next to him, pint glass raised to the heavens, “to perspective!” He cheersed Adam, finished his last gulp of beer, wiped off his mouth with his shirt sleeve, and stumbled toward the door with his arms wrapped around his two friends’ shoulders.
“Well, looks like I’m talking to myself,” Adam said to himself.
“Last call!” yelled the bartender, ringing a bell.
Adam ordered two drinks.
“Hey,” another young man in regular people clothes said, “You’re not crazy if you talk to yourself.”
“Oh yeah,” Adam said.
“Naw, you’re only crazy if you answer yourself. Right Jamie? Right!” The young man, apparently named Jamie, laughed. Adam couldn’t help but chuckle.
Now here was a place where everybody talked to everybody. They were all regular people and had the clothes to prove it. He was finally witness to it. A strong community. He felt comfortable there.
Still, he couldn’t help feeling he was missing the big picture.
***
Adam walked and sat, walked and sat, and thought. He was still thinking about the little things, the little events. Not long ago he was conversing with infinity, now he couldn’t concentrate on anything larger than a moment.
All the little things.
He tried to synthesize the night’s events into a single package. A night’s feast of experiences that refused to be concentrated into a bite-sized morsel.
Man, Adam thought to himself, all the little things.
He walked and then sat, got up, walked a bit more, then sat some more.
Was it that he was suggestible? Did his environment rub off on him? He had always been the rubber, so to speak, up to this point, what had gotten into him?
All the little things.
After all the walking and sitting and thinking there were still some things he’d avoided thinking about, until now.
The sun was coming up.
Three little moments. Three slivers of infinity…
Adam left the gallery. He stood on the street cold and alone, waiting for a taxi to swing by so he could hail it. But in the meantime, none came.
He walked.
Walked and walked, watching squares of sidewalk slide under him, out of his field of vision. He imagined each square was quartered into four triangles and he wasn’t allowed to step on the connecting lines, only on the triangles themselves. When he passed things like sewer drains, those created two more lines that bisected and trisected the triangles into smaller triangles and pentagons. Cracked pavement threw his game for an interesting loop. It was all in his head. Lines and shapes, but no color, only the grey of the pavement, and no sound except the cars and taxis whooshing by. Occasionally he’d hear a distant siren.
Sirens. What eerie, captivating music they made when heard in the distance. Up close, the sound was unbearable and the reality of the situation hit him full in the mouth, rattling his skull.
In the hospital he had looked out the window, surveyed the cityscape and declared it his for the taking. Now, he saw it for what it was: lines and shapes, dull colors and distant sounds.
So he walked, avoiding lines, staring at the ground and before he knew it, he had wandered far, far away from the artsy fartsies. The dull orange of the streetlights gave way to the kaleidoscope of neons and he knew without looking, avoiding lines, that he was back downtown.
One more round.
He wandered off the busy downtown street. The street filled with raucous and unaffable young men and women, into a place he suspected might have put them there. An Irish style pub, winding down for the night.
Adam took a seat at the bar. Everybody wore regular people clothes, there was nothing to distinguish Adam from the rest of them, he wasn’t sure why that depressed him. But, it got him thinking.
It got him thinking about the way he was thinking. His newfound attention to petty detail, wrapped up in himself, not fully aware of his surroundings, sweating the small stuff, avoiding lines. A whole bunch of little things.
It was all a matter of perspective.
“Yeah,” a drunken frat boy hollered next to him, pint glass raised to the heavens, “to perspective!” He cheersed Adam, finished his last gulp of beer, wiped off his mouth with his shirt sleeve, and stumbled toward the door with his arms wrapped around his two friends’ shoulders.
“Well, looks like I’m talking to myself,” Adam said to himself.
“Last call!” yelled the bartender, ringing a bell.
Adam ordered two drinks.
“Hey,” another young man in regular people clothes said, “You’re not crazy if you talk to yourself.”
“Oh yeah,” Adam said.
“Naw, you’re only crazy if you answer yourself. Right Jamie? Right!” The young man, apparently named Jamie, laughed. Adam couldn’t help but chuckle.
Now here was a place where everybody talked to everybody. They were all regular people and had the clothes to prove it. He was finally witness to it. A strong community. He felt comfortable there.
Still, he couldn’t help feeling he was missing the big picture.
***
Adam walked and sat, walked and sat, and thought. He was still thinking about the little things, the little events. Not long ago he was conversing with infinity, now he couldn’t concentrate on anything larger than a moment.
All the little things.
He tried to synthesize the night’s events into a single package. A night’s feast of experiences that refused to be concentrated into a bite-sized morsel.
Man, Adam thought to himself, all the little things.
He walked and then sat, got up, walked a bit more, then sat some more.
Was it that he was suggestible? Did his environment rub off on him? He had always been the rubber, so to speak, up to this point, what had gotten into him?
All the little things.
After all the walking and sitting and thinking there were still some things he’d avoided thinking about, until now.
The sun was coming up.
Three little moments. Three slivers of infinity…
Saturday, September 20, 2008
34
On to the next scene!
A short metro ride across town, he entered the artsy fartsy district, where there was always a lot of interesting and one might say, zany, goings on to catch the eye and capture the imagination. Things in windows, things hanging off light posts, distracting things. Mailboxes and fire hydrants painted and stenciled with all sorts of colors and designs. Oh, nearly everything had been stenciled in the artsy fartsy district, and that which had not been stenciled had been stickered.
It had a more stimulating and inspiring atmosphere than the numbness of downtown with all the meatheads and preppies.
It didn’t take long to find an event, or what looked like an event. On the street, he found a nebulous swarm of skinny young men and women, smoking, some truly young, some young at heart, outside a narrow, featureless building. A gallery. They wore colorful, interesting clothes and scarves and hats, interesting pants and jackets that looked vintage but somehow fit just right. Bicycles were chained all over, anywhere something stuck out of the ground, there you’d find a bicycle chained up.
Adam strolled confidently into the gallery in his regular people clothes. A skinny androgyne stood by the door, collecting cover charges, stamping hands, bored out of his/her wits. Two other skinny androgynes served drinks from a large silver ice-filled bucket on a long white table, bored out of their wits. He grabbed a pair of drinks, paid eleven bucks, outrageous!
He stood there in his regular people clothes, double fisting. He figured he must be the most interesting looking person there, being the only one who looked any different. He figured and sipped.
The place was packed, and an excitement born of self-importance and fast, loud conversation cycloned through the humid, stuffy room. About ten framed photographs graced the limited wall space. He walked over and checked out each one in turn. Little handwritten notes with messages like -450 or -725 were pinned beside each photo, outrageous!
Yeah, yeah, yeah, a gallery.
If the downtown people presented themselves like peacocks the artists and scenesters in this place presented themselves like lions. All puffed-up with scarves or furry necked leather jackets or big puffed-up egos. But, Adam wasn’t saying, he was just saying, you know? Who was he to yeah, yeah, yeah, a judge.
Adam always had this thing at parties. He wasn’t necessarily the most talkative person in the world, but he became a seeker. His policy would be to look out for the most interesting looking guy or girl standing around not talking to anyone.
In high school Adam had had a policy. Sit next to the quiet kid. The kid with no friends. That kid always had something interesting to say, because they didn’t ever have anybody to talk to, just all the time in the world to study stuff, feel left out and think about everything. Besides, if that kid blew up and went on a shooting spree, who do you think that kid is going to leave off his list?
Of course, this Adam didn’t necessarily have any direct experience with such matters. He’d never been to a party before. He’d never gone to high school. He was a couple months old. But he retained the memories of someone with all the experience he--
“How’s it going?”
It appeared somebody else there played Adam’s game. There was a quick moment of ‘who me?’ then Adam replied:
“Not too bad.”
“So,” Adam’s new friend said, “what do you think?” and held his arms out expansively.
“It’s alright,” Adam took a sip from the drink in his left hand. He was getting better at holding things with his left hand, “that painting of the old guy sitting in front of the brick wall kind of stirs something in me. Er … I mean, photo.”
Laughter.
“The one where the old guy’s sitting with his cane,” the new friend said with a smile, “kind of looking off to the side? Stirs something up in you, huh?”
“Yeah,” Adam said, “I don’t know what, though.”
The guy laughed again, “I guess it doesn’t really matter what though, hey?”
The guy cheersed Adam and the two of them clanged drinks, and sipped.
The place really was hot and humid. He realized part of the excitement of a place like this was the sensation of getting warm in the ears and face, like when he used to get hyper as a kid. Er … when the old Adam got hyper as a kid. This Adam was kind of just like a baby.
Baby Adam turned to mention something about the warm/cool color contrasts of another photo but the guy had cheersed him and left.
He stood alone for about ten more minutes, sipping his two drinks, wondering if he would ever talk to anybody again. The tiny, sardine-packed world around him nattered away.
A short metro ride across town, he entered the artsy fartsy district, where there was always a lot of interesting and one might say, zany, goings on to catch the eye and capture the imagination. Things in windows, things hanging off light posts, distracting things. Mailboxes and fire hydrants painted and stenciled with all sorts of colors and designs. Oh, nearly everything had been stenciled in the artsy fartsy district, and that which had not been stenciled had been stickered.
It had a more stimulating and inspiring atmosphere than the numbness of downtown with all the meatheads and preppies.
It didn’t take long to find an event, or what looked like an event. On the street, he found a nebulous swarm of skinny young men and women, smoking, some truly young, some young at heart, outside a narrow, featureless building. A gallery. They wore colorful, interesting clothes and scarves and hats, interesting pants and jackets that looked vintage but somehow fit just right. Bicycles were chained all over, anywhere something stuck out of the ground, there you’d find a bicycle chained up.
Adam strolled confidently into the gallery in his regular people clothes. A skinny androgyne stood by the door, collecting cover charges, stamping hands, bored out of his/her wits. Two other skinny androgynes served drinks from a large silver ice-filled bucket on a long white table, bored out of their wits. He grabbed a pair of drinks, paid eleven bucks, outrageous!
He stood there in his regular people clothes, double fisting. He figured he must be the most interesting looking person there, being the only one who looked any different. He figured and sipped.
The place was packed, and an excitement born of self-importance and fast, loud conversation cycloned through the humid, stuffy room. About ten framed photographs graced the limited wall space. He walked over and checked out each one in turn. Little handwritten notes with messages like -450 or -725 were pinned beside each photo, outrageous!
Yeah, yeah, yeah, a gallery.
If the downtown people presented themselves like peacocks the artists and scenesters in this place presented themselves like lions. All puffed-up with scarves or furry necked leather jackets or big puffed-up egos. But, Adam wasn’t saying, he was just saying, you know? Who was he to yeah, yeah, yeah, a judge.
Adam always had this thing at parties. He wasn’t necessarily the most talkative person in the world, but he became a seeker. His policy would be to look out for the most interesting looking guy or girl standing around not talking to anyone.
In high school Adam had had a policy. Sit next to the quiet kid. The kid with no friends. That kid always had something interesting to say, because they didn’t ever have anybody to talk to, just all the time in the world to study stuff, feel left out and think about everything. Besides, if that kid blew up and went on a shooting spree, who do you think that kid is going to leave off his list?
Of course, this Adam didn’t necessarily have any direct experience with such matters. He’d never been to a party before. He’d never gone to high school. He was a couple months old. But he retained the memories of someone with all the experience he--
“How’s it going?”
It appeared somebody else there played Adam’s game. There was a quick moment of ‘who me?’ then Adam replied:
“Not too bad.”
“So,” Adam’s new friend said, “what do you think?” and held his arms out expansively.
“It’s alright,” Adam took a sip from the drink in his left hand. He was getting better at holding things with his left hand, “that painting of the old guy sitting in front of the brick wall kind of stirs something in me. Er … I mean, photo.”
Laughter.
“The one where the old guy’s sitting with his cane,” the new friend said with a smile, “kind of looking off to the side? Stirs something up in you, huh?”
“Yeah,” Adam said, “I don’t know what, though.”
The guy laughed again, “I guess it doesn’t really matter what though, hey?”
The guy cheersed Adam and the two of them clanged drinks, and sipped.
The place really was hot and humid. He realized part of the excitement of a place like this was the sensation of getting warm in the ears and face, like when he used to get hyper as a kid. Er … when the old Adam got hyper as a kid. This Adam was kind of just like a baby.
Baby Adam turned to mention something about the warm/cool color contrasts of another photo but the guy had cheersed him and left.
He stood alone for about ten more minutes, sipping his two drinks, wondering if he would ever talk to anybody again. The tiny, sardine-packed world around him nattered away.
Friday, September 19, 2008
33
Adam stood in line outside the nightclub. Blah, blah, blah thumping music. Blah, blah, blah, laughing immature women, blah, blah, blah, self-important men with short hair and dress shirts, blah, blah, blah, bored looking bald headed bouncer stood feet shoulder width apart, clasping wrist in front of him, white curlicue wire stretching to his ear. Blah, blah, blah, a nightclub.
Adam was uninspired but dedicated. Conspicuously decked out in regular people clothes, he was a pigeon in a row of peacocks. If it were a police line-up, he‘d be toast for sure. He felt he must be the only interesting looking person in the line, being the only one who appeared different. No one paid much attention though, they looked, smiled and clucked with the other peacocks. He wasn’t sure why that depressed him.
The line shuffled forward, before too long it was his time to meet the gatekeeper.
The bouncer didn’t want to betray his tough guy countenance but couldn’t suppress a raised eyebrow as he was looking Adam up and down. Maybe he gave everybody curious glances.
“ID.”
Adam showed his ID. The bouncer scanned it carefully, chewing gum.
“Step forward. Raise your arms.”
Adam stepped forward and raised his arms out to the side, a caricature of Christ for the bouncer to search for weapons. Adam felt his pride swell, he had no weapons, he was a weapon. A weapon for a new age of enlightenment. Then again, maybe not so much anymore.
The bouncer waved his white, metal-detecting wand over Adam’s left arm. A slight whine. Over Adam’s right arm. Slight whine. Chest and back, multiple whines, legs, double whines. The bouncer looked doubtfully at his wand, gave it a shake. Second pass, whined again.
The bouncer patted Adam down thoroughly, getting rather personal in places.
“What,” the bouncer said, “you got piercing or surgical pins in you or something?”
“No.”
***
Inside, he screamed for two drinks. Double fisting, that was his policy. The trick was to drink both at once, so neither drink warmed to palm temperature.
The place was a dizzying array of loud light and bright noise.
People having fun.
People being people.
Dancing, flirting, laughing, yelling.
A lot of darkness followed by flashes and fast motion, blah, blah, blah, a nightclub.
He wanted so desperately to enjoy himself.
So blah, blah, blah, he talked, blah, blah, blah, and the women played with their cell phones fake distractedly, but not really, and gave him suspicious looks, blah, blah, blah, and no one had anything to say.
Blah, blah, blah, a nightclub.
The place was packed with emptiness. He’d been to clubs before. Plenty of times. When he was younger.
He had never been younger.
When the old Adam was younger. Anyway, he should have known. Should have remembered. Or reviewed the old Adam‘s memories. He would have known. This was the kind of scene that had got him off on his trip in the first place.
He ordered two more drinks. A Bud and a vodka and cranberry. Yeah it was a girly drink but who was he to judge? Girly drink or not, it was still a hard drink. A hard, watered-down drink, surrounded by hard, watered-down people. People who were hard like an eggshell.
He finished his drinks, wiped his mouth with his sleeve and left.
Adam was uninspired but dedicated. Conspicuously decked out in regular people clothes, he was a pigeon in a row of peacocks. If it were a police line-up, he‘d be toast for sure. He felt he must be the only interesting looking person in the line, being the only one who appeared different. No one paid much attention though, they looked, smiled and clucked with the other peacocks. He wasn’t sure why that depressed him.
The line shuffled forward, before too long it was his time to meet the gatekeeper.
The bouncer didn’t want to betray his tough guy countenance but couldn’t suppress a raised eyebrow as he was looking Adam up and down. Maybe he gave everybody curious glances.
“ID.”
Adam showed his ID. The bouncer scanned it carefully, chewing gum.
“Step forward. Raise your arms.”
Adam stepped forward and raised his arms out to the side, a caricature of Christ for the bouncer to search for weapons. Adam felt his pride swell, he had no weapons, he was a weapon. A weapon for a new age of enlightenment. Then again, maybe not so much anymore.
The bouncer waved his white, metal-detecting wand over Adam’s left arm. A slight whine. Over Adam’s right arm. Slight whine. Chest and back, multiple whines, legs, double whines. The bouncer looked doubtfully at his wand, gave it a shake. Second pass, whined again.
The bouncer patted Adam down thoroughly, getting rather personal in places.
“What,” the bouncer said, “you got piercing or surgical pins in you or something?”
“No.”
***
Inside, he screamed for two drinks. Double fisting, that was his policy. The trick was to drink both at once, so neither drink warmed to palm temperature.
The place was a dizzying array of loud light and bright noise.
People having fun.
People being people.
Dancing, flirting, laughing, yelling.
A lot of darkness followed by flashes and fast motion, blah, blah, blah, a nightclub.
He wanted so desperately to enjoy himself.
So blah, blah, blah, he talked, blah, blah, blah, and the women played with their cell phones fake distractedly, but not really, and gave him suspicious looks, blah, blah, blah, and no one had anything to say.
Blah, blah, blah, a nightclub.
The place was packed with emptiness. He’d been to clubs before. Plenty of times. When he was younger.
He had never been younger.
When the old Adam was younger. Anyway, he should have known. Should have remembered. Or reviewed the old Adam‘s memories. He would have known. This was the kind of scene that had got him off on his trip in the first place.
He ordered two more drinks. A Bud and a vodka and cranberry. Yeah it was a girly drink but who was he to judge? Girly drink or not, it was still a hard drink. A hard, watered-down drink, surrounded by hard, watered-down people. People who were hard like an eggshell.
He finished his drinks, wiped his mouth with his sleeve and left.
Monday, September 15, 2008
32
The white unmarked man rolled up the tinted passenger side window of the black unmarked car, then the whole black and white affair rolled away into the rainbow of traffic.
In Adam’s hand was an envelope. He was a kind of secret trust fund baby now, indentured to an absentee father he hated and never saw.
He had gotten away. From the madness of the group and the pressure being a kind of messiah. The group was an extension of himself, and he had gotten away from it. But he hadn’t gotten away from the men in black suits, the envelope money that was magically replenished the moment it ran out and the dreams. The dreams were hazy now, blurry. Kindergarten drawing dreams. Dreams about labs and examination tables, seen from inside a vat of unidentifiable liquid. Unformed things, colored outside the lines. Things with no hope of escape.
He tried anyway. The best place to escape and hide was in plain sight.
Escape is best made in a crowd.
Embrace it, he thought. Embrace the masses. He was sick of hating them by now. There was still a large part of him, that he had been trying very hard to bury, that felt like he could beat them, but he was losing his motivation. He probably could beat them, but he was tired so he decided to join them anyway.
Know all you can about an opponent before engaging them.
Somewhere in there, he knew that fighting was the wrong way to go about change.
Subvert the culture and values of an opponent from within.
He had his envelope money, and it was time to hit the town.
***
David hit Adam’s couch with a thud. David was his name, the man Justin had rescue from the back alley and brought home. Marsh and the twins were out shooting second unit stuff around the city, Fargas was at his own house and Thomas and Leah hadn’t been around much lately. David had Justin’s undivided attention.
“Do uh,” David began, “do you have a butter knife I can have? Something you don’t use much.”
“A buttaknife?” Justin said.
“Yeah. If I can find a plug, I can strip the wire and hook up the negative and positive electrodes to the butter knife and it’ll give off heat.”
Justin thought about it. He thought over everything carefully these days. He said, “Naw man, you don’t need no buttaknife ‘cause you be livin large wit us now.”
“Any piece of metal will do, really,” David continued. “Any piece of scrap metal will give off heat if you can find a plug. I usually try to stand under lights because they give off that little bit of radiant heat.”
Justin nodded thoughtfully and really listened to what the man had to say.
“Yeah,” David went on, “that’s pretty much my life. Find a source of heat. Find a warm place to sleep for the night. It gets pretty cold, nights.”
“Not no more,” Justin said. “It’s warm in here as shit,” he pointed at the couch, “might as well make yo’self comfortable.”
“Hn,” David said, “I don’t like couches. I don’t like the way they make my spine curve.”
“Well shit, muthafucka, don’t make no difference to me, you can sleep on the floor then, know what I‘m saying?”
In Adam’s hand was an envelope. He was a kind of secret trust fund baby now, indentured to an absentee father he hated and never saw.
He had gotten away. From the madness of the group and the pressure being a kind of messiah. The group was an extension of himself, and he had gotten away from it. But he hadn’t gotten away from the men in black suits, the envelope money that was magically replenished the moment it ran out and the dreams. The dreams were hazy now, blurry. Kindergarten drawing dreams. Dreams about labs and examination tables, seen from inside a vat of unidentifiable liquid. Unformed things, colored outside the lines. Things with no hope of escape.
He tried anyway. The best place to escape and hide was in plain sight.
Escape is best made in a crowd.
Embrace it, he thought. Embrace the masses. He was sick of hating them by now. There was still a large part of him, that he had been trying very hard to bury, that felt like he could beat them, but he was losing his motivation. He probably could beat them, but he was tired so he decided to join them anyway.
Know all you can about an opponent before engaging them.
Somewhere in there, he knew that fighting was the wrong way to go about change.
Subvert the culture and values of an opponent from within.
He had his envelope money, and it was time to hit the town.
***
David hit Adam’s couch with a thud. David was his name, the man Justin had rescue from the back alley and brought home. Marsh and the twins were out shooting second unit stuff around the city, Fargas was at his own house and Thomas and Leah hadn’t been around much lately. David had Justin’s undivided attention.
“Do uh,” David began, “do you have a butter knife I can have? Something you don’t use much.”
“A buttaknife?” Justin said.
“Yeah. If I can find a plug, I can strip the wire and hook up the negative and positive electrodes to the butter knife and it’ll give off heat.”
Justin thought about it. He thought over everything carefully these days. He said, “Naw man, you don’t need no buttaknife ‘cause you be livin large wit us now.”
“Any piece of metal will do, really,” David continued. “Any piece of scrap metal will give off heat if you can find a plug. I usually try to stand under lights because they give off that little bit of radiant heat.”
Justin nodded thoughtfully and really listened to what the man had to say.
“Yeah,” David went on, “that’s pretty much my life. Find a source of heat. Find a warm place to sleep for the night. It gets pretty cold, nights.”
“Not no more,” Justin said. “It’s warm in here as shit,” he pointed at the couch, “might as well make yo’self comfortable.”
“Hn,” David said, “I don’t like couches. I don’t like the way they make my spine curve.”
“Well shit, muthafucka, don’t make no difference to me, you can sleep on the floor then, know what I‘m saying?”
Friday, September 12, 2008
31
Peter chewed the inside of his cheeks raw. It was better than grinding his teeth, he didn’t have strong teeth, plus it was an obvious sign. He sat back on Adam’s couch with his feet spread way out, drinking glass after glass of tap water, trying to stop his hands shaking from anger released adrenaline.
“Really?” Eunice said, with gleeful fascination.
“Oh yeah,” said Fargas, “I’ve been all over. Everywhere I go it always happens.”
“Well, uh,” she said, quickly glancing up and down at him, “you ought to lock yourself up.”
“It ain’t me, babe,” Fargas said, smiling.
Peter chewed the inside of his lip.
“These things happen,” Fargas continued. “They always happen. It happens to everybody and it’ll happen to you.”
“Yeah, but not soon I hope.”
“Aren’t you curious what’s on the other side?”
“I’ve always been fascinated by death, but I never wanted to get too close up to it. Not until I’m a feeble old hag.”
“Me? I’m pretty eager to find out what’s waiting after death, even if it’s nothing, you know? To know! … but, uh, I’m not that eager.”
They laughed. Peter chewed, then sipped.
“So death follows you around, huh?” Eunice said.
“In a way. Seen a lot of it. I used to think if I got away from the big city, hid out in the small towns I could escape it. Or at least most of it. Nothing doing. You go to some small town in Iowa to get away from big city life, big city death and BANG! First murder in twenty years.”
She leaned in and put a hand on his chest, “are you a serial killer, Mr. Fargas?”
He laughed, uneasily, but only from the flirtatious placement of the hand, not the accusation.
“Maybe,” he said, “maybe I have a double life I don’t know about. Better not spend the night with me, I kill in my sleep.”
CLANG!
Eunice and Peter exchanged death-ray stares. “Sorry,” Peter said, “glass slipped.”
“Yeah,” Fargas continued, “ain’t never seen a dead body though. They’re just always off in the background.”
***
Justin knew where they had gone. He could pinpoint from years of experience the exact alley the video had been shot in. He knew downtown exceptionally well, better than most. He thought about it the whole way down on the metro bus. If the man was not there, in the alley, he could most likely determine the area and route the man would most likely be found.
It took knowledge. Knowledge would win the day again. This was the lesson he was continually learning. Knowledge of downtown.
The busiest corners in the general vicinity of the alley, the busiest corners with the highest ratio of younger people. This was useful because on average, young people, and especially teenagers, were more likely to give away loose change to a bum, than say, the stressed out looking woman with her hair in a too tight bun in a brand-new ‘power outfit.’ He didn’t need a university study to tell him this, he knew from experience. He had street smarts.
Which were the busiest corners on the way to New Brixton park, otherwise known as ‘Krakhed Sentral,’ as the graffiti on the park sign attested.
Which way did the streets slope up and down.
The only thing that would throw off his careful calculation was if the man had a bicycle. That would throw the whole thing off.
But since he had accounted for it, Life’s Little Ironies ignored that speck of chance. The man was sitting against a wall right where Justin’s friends had left him in the alley.
“Really?” Eunice said, with gleeful fascination.
“Oh yeah,” said Fargas, “I’ve been all over. Everywhere I go it always happens.”
“Well, uh,” she said, quickly glancing up and down at him, “you ought to lock yourself up.”
“It ain’t me, babe,” Fargas said, smiling.
Peter chewed the inside of his lip.
“These things happen,” Fargas continued. “They always happen. It happens to everybody and it’ll happen to you.”
“Yeah, but not soon I hope.”
“Aren’t you curious what’s on the other side?”
“I’ve always been fascinated by death, but I never wanted to get too close up to it. Not until I’m a feeble old hag.”
“Me? I’m pretty eager to find out what’s waiting after death, even if it’s nothing, you know? To know! … but, uh, I’m not that eager.”
They laughed. Peter chewed, then sipped.
“So death follows you around, huh?” Eunice said.
“In a way. Seen a lot of it. I used to think if I got away from the big city, hid out in the small towns I could escape it. Or at least most of it. Nothing doing. You go to some small town in Iowa to get away from big city life, big city death and BANG! First murder in twenty years.”
She leaned in and put a hand on his chest, “are you a serial killer, Mr. Fargas?”
He laughed, uneasily, but only from the flirtatious placement of the hand, not the accusation.
“Maybe,” he said, “maybe I have a double life I don’t know about. Better not spend the night with me, I kill in my sleep.”
CLANG!
Eunice and Peter exchanged death-ray stares. “Sorry,” Peter said, “glass slipped.”
“Yeah,” Fargas continued, “ain’t never seen a dead body though. They’re just always off in the background.”
***
Justin knew where they had gone. He could pinpoint from years of experience the exact alley the video had been shot in. He knew downtown exceptionally well, better than most. He thought about it the whole way down on the metro bus. If the man was not there, in the alley, he could most likely determine the area and route the man would most likely be found.
It took knowledge. Knowledge would win the day again. This was the lesson he was continually learning. Knowledge of downtown.
The busiest corners in the general vicinity of the alley, the busiest corners with the highest ratio of younger people. This was useful because on average, young people, and especially teenagers, were more likely to give away loose change to a bum, than say, the stressed out looking woman with her hair in a too tight bun in a brand-new ‘power outfit.’ He didn’t need a university study to tell him this, he knew from experience. He had street smarts.
Which were the busiest corners on the way to New Brixton park, otherwise known as ‘Krakhed Sentral,’ as the graffiti on the park sign attested.
Which way did the streets slope up and down.
The only thing that would throw off his careful calculation was if the man had a bicycle. That would throw the whole thing off.
But since he had accounted for it, Life’s Little Ironies ignored that speck of chance. The man was sitting against a wall right where Justin’s friends had left him in the alley.
30
Thomas crouched down behind the bushes outside the Slaters’ home. There was a light on in the basement. Miss Slater was doing laundry. He moved slowly up the front steps and brushed off his brand new black pants without making too much noise and fuss about it.
He rang the doorbell. It wasn’t something he liked to do usually, ringing the bell, he preferred to knock, but he supposed it would have to do, since Miss Slater was in the basement. He adjusted his new black tie and sports jacket.
“Hello,” she answered the door.
“Hi, Miss Slater?” Thomas said. “You’re the owner of 9331 Glenbrook Drive?”
“Yes I am,” she said, confused.
“Did the rent on the place go through okay?”
“Uh, yes it did.”
“And you’ve received payment for how many months, so far?”
“Just this month. Can I ask what this is about.”
“Sorry Miss Slater, they sent me down here just to confirm payment. No one else has contacted you about payment?”
“No, why would they?”
“Do you know when you’ll be receiving the next month’s payment?”
“No, the rent is all paid up until the end of July.”
Thomas made a mental note of that.
“Right,” Thomas said, thinking on his feet, “well, after that time, you can expect Mr. Falconer to contact you on the 31st of that month for further payment.”
“No one named Falconer contacted me.”
“I’m a representative of his.”
“Henry Falconer?” she was skeptical.
“Thomas Falconer actually, attorney at law. Adam‘s lawyer.”
“Thomas Falconer? Well, Adam’s father was the man who gave me the cheques, and he also gave me Adam’s notice on the place. He said it would be empty by August first.”
Thomas made another mental note.
“Adam’s father wrote the cheques you say?”
“That’s right. Adam’s been under the weather since his accident, that’s why he’s moving back home in August. You say, you were sent by a Mr. Thomas Falconer?” she reached for something inside the doorway.
“Thank you for your time,” Thomas quickly hop-stepped down the stairs.
“Hey,” Miss Slater called after him, “wait!” She was looking up a Thomas Falconer, attorney at law in the Yellow Pages, “come back here!”
Thomas ducked into the alley, three houses down the lane. He’d never realized how hard it was to run in a black suit with sunglasses and stop everything from flying out into the street.
***
“Hello?” Leah answered her phone.
“Hey, it’s Thomas.”
“Oh, hey.”
“Hey, listen, I’ve been doing some investigating and uh, I’ve got some pretty disturbing news about the place.”
“Adam‘s place, what about?”
“It’s about Falconer.”
“Falconer? I still can’t believe Adam knows him, the guy’s running for president.”
“I know, right? Anyway, I went down to Adam’s landlady’s place and its true, I pretty much confirmed Falconer’s paid his rent.”
“Yeah.”
“But, he’s only paid until the end of July, and he’s given notice on the place. Said it would be empty by August first.”
“What?”
“Yeah, that’s not all. The man who wrote the cheques claimed to be Adam’s dad.”
“Oh my God, Adam doesn’t have a dad.”
“I know, tell me about it.”
He rang the doorbell. It wasn’t something he liked to do usually, ringing the bell, he preferred to knock, but he supposed it would have to do, since Miss Slater was in the basement. He adjusted his new black tie and sports jacket.
“Hello,” she answered the door.
“Hi, Miss Slater?” Thomas said. “You’re the owner of 9331 Glenbrook Drive?”
“Yes I am,” she said, confused.
“Did the rent on the place go through okay?”
“Uh, yes it did.”
“And you’ve received payment for how many months, so far?”
“Just this month. Can I ask what this is about.”
“Sorry Miss Slater, they sent me down here just to confirm payment. No one else has contacted you about payment?”
“No, why would they?”
“Do you know when you’ll be receiving the next month’s payment?”
“No, the rent is all paid up until the end of July.”
Thomas made a mental note of that.
“Right,” Thomas said, thinking on his feet, “well, after that time, you can expect Mr. Falconer to contact you on the 31st of that month for further payment.”
“No one named Falconer contacted me.”
“I’m a representative of his.”
“Henry Falconer?” she was skeptical.
“Thomas Falconer actually, attorney at law. Adam‘s lawyer.”
“Thomas Falconer? Well, Adam’s father was the man who gave me the cheques, and he also gave me Adam’s notice on the place. He said it would be empty by August first.”
Thomas made another mental note.
“Adam’s father wrote the cheques you say?”
“That’s right. Adam’s been under the weather since his accident, that’s why he’s moving back home in August. You say, you were sent by a Mr. Thomas Falconer?” she reached for something inside the doorway.
“Thank you for your time,” Thomas quickly hop-stepped down the stairs.
“Hey,” Miss Slater called after him, “wait!” She was looking up a Thomas Falconer, attorney at law in the Yellow Pages, “come back here!”
Thomas ducked into the alley, three houses down the lane. He’d never realized how hard it was to run in a black suit with sunglasses and stop everything from flying out into the street.
***
“Hello?” Leah answered her phone.
“Hey, it’s Thomas.”
“Oh, hey.”
“Hey, listen, I’ve been doing some investigating and uh, I’ve got some pretty disturbing news about the place.”
“Adam‘s place, what about?”
“It’s about Falconer.”
“Falconer? I still can’t believe Adam knows him, the guy’s running for president.”
“I know, right? Anyway, I went down to Adam’s landlady’s place and its true, I pretty much confirmed Falconer’s paid his rent.”
“Yeah.”
“But, he’s only paid until the end of July, and he’s given notice on the place. Said it would be empty by August first.”
“What?”
“Yeah, that’s not all. The man who wrote the cheques claimed to be Adam’s dad.”
“Oh my God, Adam doesn’t have a dad.”
“I know, tell me about it.”
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
29
Justin was hanging out on the front porch.
Yo were u bin? Read the incoming text message.
Bin bizzy. He sent back.
Getin likked dogg. U in?
No I’s chillin.
He was hesitant to divulge the information of his wherabouts to all but his closest of friends. He knew they wouldn’t understand. Not yet. They weren’t ready. But they would have to be sooner or later, if his plans for the Adamites were to become a reality.
He still had the same simple philosophy he’d always had: you’re either with him or against him. It was Justin against the world. Same old Justin. Only now, the modes had changed. The basis of comparison for his basic existential axiom, ‘with him or against him,’ had changed. What was considered to be ‘against him’ was now quite a different thing. The attitudes and behaviors behind which it was meant to be ‘with him’ were now quite perceptively different.
His other basic tenet, ‘fuck the world,’ remained a constant in his thoughts only now … now it seemed a strange and foreign idea, but one he was still deeply attracted to. He saw that to ‘fuck the world’ could be a beautiful thing. An act of love as Leah might put it. To open up the world to him and to be one with his environment seemed to him a more rewarding pasttime than trying to tear it down in a bitter dust cloud of rage or apathy.
He wasn’t all ‘fruity and shit’ like Leah, but the world was now his to deflower. He still wanted to tear down, but now he was preoccupied in building back up and creating the world anew. A new way of life based on the model of he and his posse, the Adamites. One where people really thought about what they were doing and how they were interacting with other people.
He saw that people were essentially split up into three basic categories: the alpha doggs, the drones, and the high-minded muthafuckas.
He was ruminating on this idea when one of his friends sent him a video message:
Chek owt dis krakhed MF! LOLZ!
It was a video of a tired looking man with hard-etched features in disheveled used clothing dancing and singing in a worn-out grizzly voice. The toothless man clapped his hands above his head and danced a pathetic jig in some urine stained back alley with Justin’s friends crowded around, doubled-over, laughing, hands to mouths saying “oh shit, son.” When the man was finished, standing there panting, out of breath, one of them threw some small change callously in a dingy, cloudy puddle. The man went on his hands and knees, digging his dark stained fingers into the undetermined liquid to retrieve it. The last image on the video was the face of the friend who sent the video, close-up, laughing hysterically.
He was once like them. They were his crew. How many jigs had he made crack heads dance in back alleys over the years? How many songs had they sung? Now they all crowded around his conscience, knocking and banging around, looking not for loose change, but for empathy and surprisingly, getting it.
He saw in the video not a crackhead, but a man. A man who’d been sold a lie. A man who’d turned off and lost his mind in a vain effort to feed it. A man who he no longer saw as the enemy of society but the victim of it.
Yes, what it was to be against him had become a quite different thing indeed. And the truth was, he didn’t find that video very fucking funny at all.
Yo were u bin? Read the incoming text message.
Bin bizzy. He sent back.
Getin likked dogg. U in?
No I’s chillin.
He was hesitant to divulge the information of his wherabouts to all but his closest of friends. He knew they wouldn’t understand. Not yet. They weren’t ready. But they would have to be sooner or later, if his plans for the Adamites were to become a reality.
He still had the same simple philosophy he’d always had: you’re either with him or against him. It was Justin against the world. Same old Justin. Only now, the modes had changed. The basis of comparison for his basic existential axiom, ‘with him or against him,’ had changed. What was considered to be ‘against him’ was now quite a different thing. The attitudes and behaviors behind which it was meant to be ‘with him’ were now quite perceptively different.
His other basic tenet, ‘fuck the world,’ remained a constant in his thoughts only now … now it seemed a strange and foreign idea, but one he was still deeply attracted to. He saw that to ‘fuck the world’ could be a beautiful thing. An act of love as Leah might put it. To open up the world to him and to be one with his environment seemed to him a more rewarding pasttime than trying to tear it down in a bitter dust cloud of rage or apathy.
He wasn’t all ‘fruity and shit’ like Leah, but the world was now his to deflower. He still wanted to tear down, but now he was preoccupied in building back up and creating the world anew. A new way of life based on the model of he and his posse, the Adamites. One where people really thought about what they were doing and how they were interacting with other people.
He saw that people were essentially split up into three basic categories: the alpha doggs, the drones, and the high-minded muthafuckas.
He was ruminating on this idea when one of his friends sent him a video message:
Chek owt dis krakhed MF! LOLZ!
It was a video of a tired looking man with hard-etched features in disheveled used clothing dancing and singing in a worn-out grizzly voice. The toothless man clapped his hands above his head and danced a pathetic jig in some urine stained back alley with Justin’s friends crowded around, doubled-over, laughing, hands to mouths saying “oh shit, son.” When the man was finished, standing there panting, out of breath, one of them threw some small change callously in a dingy, cloudy puddle. The man went on his hands and knees, digging his dark stained fingers into the undetermined liquid to retrieve it. The last image on the video was the face of the friend who sent the video, close-up, laughing hysterically.
He was once like them. They were his crew. How many jigs had he made crack heads dance in back alleys over the years? How many songs had they sung? Now they all crowded around his conscience, knocking and banging around, looking not for loose change, but for empathy and surprisingly, getting it.
He saw in the video not a crackhead, but a man. A man who’d been sold a lie. A man who’d turned off and lost his mind in a vain effort to feed it. A man who he no longer saw as the enemy of society but the victim of it.
Yes, what it was to be against him had become a quite different thing indeed. And the truth was, he didn’t find that video very fucking funny at all.
Monday, September 8, 2008
28
“Oh, please.”
“--Zelda McNeil. Robert McNiven. Trudy Nilsson. Luis Rodriguez--”
“Would you stop?”
“--Estadio Salvadores. Nancy Simms--
“Would you let me finish please?”
“Well, the list goes on, General.”
“Yes. And I don’t doubt the veracity of these victims’ families claims, but the fact is the US military is not responsible for saving the lives of American citizens, only defending them.
“But, that’s completely ridiculous, General--”
“Now, now, let me finish. What I mean to say is this: of course we’re very sorry that people have had to lose their lives, but all these people died--”
“Lester Smalls. Dennis Smith”
“--from some kind of accident that had nothing to do with the military. Now, how in the world would you attribute these deaths to the US military? It doesn’t make sense.”
“Because, General. You now have the cure. You can save these people’s lives.”
“Listen, we’re not cloning people’s blood.”
“But you can. You have the technology to take lost blood, quickly generate replacement red blood cells that are an exact match to the host and redirect them back into the blood stream. Now why would you keep this technology from hospitals across the country, when you know it would save countless lives, General?”
“The military does not possess the technology you have described.”
“Well, I’d love to hear what a man named Adam would have to say about that.”
Marsh paused the video and said, “we’re gonna lead into this interview from the footage we got of protests at hospitals around the country, then cut right here and get Adam’s take on all this when he comes back.”
“I’m still not convinced he’s coming back,” Peter said, calmly.
“Well,” Marsh said, “we can sure find him easily enough.”
Peter nodded.
***
“And it’s not just our government,” Marsh boomed, “we have documented evidence, irrefutable proof that the US, Canadian, British and Swiss governments have been funding research in this area to the tune of sixty million -taxpayer- dollars per annum. Just Google it, ladies and gentlemen, type in ‘US gov genetic research funding’ and it comes back with over a quarter of a million hits from such sites as MSN and Reuters. This is main stream news, I’m not making this stuff up as I go along.”
Marsh was on fire.
“In fact,” he continued, “all the G8 countries have been pooling their resources and conducting tests - not on lab mice, not on stem cells - but, on human test subjects!” He paused for a dramatic second. “All the while, the taxpayers, that’s me and you, the people who are paying for this research have not reaped the benefits of these tests, they’ve been dying due to lack of blood in hospitals. Blood banks are closing in every region of the country at an unprecedented rate. You can go to Newyorktimes.com and check that out for yourself and you’ve got to ask the good lord why. What are they setting us up for? I believe it‘s another step towards their backroom policy of depopulation. Folks, the good lord in heaven told me in a dream last night that it is my duty as an honorable American citizen to inform each and every one of you listening out there to save your blood. Hoard your blood, because the next time you need to go to a hospital or a blood bank … there may not be any there for you.” Another dramatic pause. “We’ll be back, live on the Mike Marsh Show in fifteen minutes to explore this worrying question.”
The Mike Marsh fanfare blared from Marsh’s headphones as he set them down on Adam’s dinner table.
Leah crossed her arms and walked slowly out of the room. It was her turn to leave the house.
“--Zelda McNeil. Robert McNiven. Trudy Nilsson. Luis Rodriguez--”
“Would you stop?”
“--Estadio Salvadores. Nancy Simms--
“Would you let me finish please?”
“Well, the list goes on, General.”
“Yes. And I don’t doubt the veracity of these victims’ families claims, but the fact is the US military is not responsible for saving the lives of American citizens, only defending them.
“But, that’s completely ridiculous, General--”
“Now, now, let me finish. What I mean to say is this: of course we’re very sorry that people have had to lose their lives, but all these people died--”
“Lester Smalls. Dennis Smith”
“--from some kind of accident that had nothing to do with the military. Now, how in the world would you attribute these deaths to the US military? It doesn’t make sense.”
“Because, General. You now have the cure. You can save these people’s lives.”
“Listen, we’re not cloning people’s blood.”
“But you can. You have the technology to take lost blood, quickly generate replacement red blood cells that are an exact match to the host and redirect them back into the blood stream. Now why would you keep this technology from hospitals across the country, when you know it would save countless lives, General?”
“The military does not possess the technology you have described.”
“Well, I’d love to hear what a man named Adam would have to say about that.”
Marsh paused the video and said, “we’re gonna lead into this interview from the footage we got of protests at hospitals around the country, then cut right here and get Adam’s take on all this when he comes back.”
“I’m still not convinced he’s coming back,” Peter said, calmly.
“Well,” Marsh said, “we can sure find him easily enough.”
Peter nodded.
***
“And it’s not just our government,” Marsh boomed, “we have documented evidence, irrefutable proof that the US, Canadian, British and Swiss governments have been funding research in this area to the tune of sixty million -taxpayer- dollars per annum. Just Google it, ladies and gentlemen, type in ‘US gov genetic research funding’ and it comes back with over a quarter of a million hits from such sites as MSN and Reuters. This is main stream news, I’m not making this stuff up as I go along.”
Marsh was on fire.
“In fact,” he continued, “all the G8 countries have been pooling their resources and conducting tests - not on lab mice, not on stem cells - but, on human test subjects!” He paused for a dramatic second. “All the while, the taxpayers, that’s me and you, the people who are paying for this research have not reaped the benefits of these tests, they’ve been dying due to lack of blood in hospitals. Blood banks are closing in every region of the country at an unprecedented rate. You can go to Newyorktimes.com and check that out for yourself and you’ve got to ask the good lord why. What are they setting us up for? I believe it‘s another step towards their backroom policy of depopulation. Folks, the good lord in heaven told me in a dream last night that it is my duty as an honorable American citizen to inform each and every one of you listening out there to save your blood. Hoard your blood, because the next time you need to go to a hospital or a blood bank … there may not be any there for you.” Another dramatic pause. “We’ll be back, live on the Mike Marsh Show in fifteen minutes to explore this worrying question.”
The Mike Marsh fanfare blared from Marsh’s headphones as he set them down on Adam’s dinner table.
Leah crossed her arms and walked slowly out of the room. It was her turn to leave the house.
Friday, September 5, 2008
27
“That was the police,” Thomas said, flipping his phone closed, “I guess he called them and said they should stop looking for him, ‘cause he’s fine.”
“What,” Leah said.
She had thought something was seriously wrong. She had reached out, Justin too, into universal mind, universal time and space, extra dimensions of extra colors they never knew existed or could exist. Colors that reacted to light and shadow likes musical notes, some sweet, some sour. He wasn’t there. He was gone.
“Where is he,” she asked.
Thomas’ lips twisted as he bit the inside corner of his mouth, and shrugged.
Thomas stood in silence, Leah sat. she glanced over at Marsh who frowned in ignorance. Justin stood up.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said, “I gets that shit, yo. The wise motherfucker seeks enlightenment in solitude and shit. He’s like those bearded motherfuckers who go off into a cave in the mountains, right? Then comes back with some mindboggling shit. ‘I’ve seen God,’ and shit.”
***
Leah didn’t really know anymore. Why didn’t she know him? They kept telling her that people often go through many different kinds of personality changes after a near death experience. But it was more than that. Something physical. She knew, Adam was different. He wasn’t the same.
If she were to take a step back and look at this thing from a wider angle, she’d see that the whole thing was crazy. Everybody around was caught up in a frenzy of hype. Adam was gone, and had left the group rudderless, without purpose. It was anarchy.
But Leah had a few ideas of her own.
***
“It’s time to talk about something really important,” Leah said, “love.”
Each of those assembled shifted uncomfortably, one by one they fell to the need to fidget. Leah had spoiled the mood, like when parents decide to bust in and give their children ‘the talk.’ Fargas glanced over at Eunice, trying not to get caught, but hoping he would be. Leah pressed on.
“I mean, what is the purpose of this group? Why are we still together? Because Adam might come back? We all like what he has to say, but we have to be strong on our own.”
“But,” Eunice said, “with no Adam, there’s no film.”
“The film’s not important,” Leah said.
“Not to you,” Eunice shot back.
“Okay, fine,” Leah said, “the film is important. But, what’s it about? Adam, or his legacy. This group is --”
“Adamites,” Justin interrupted, correcting her.”
“The ‘Adamites’ are part of his story now, and we’ve got to get a message out just like him.”
“But,” Fargas said, “what is this message of his? Love thy neighbor?”
“Why not,” Leah continued, “love your neighbor, love your enemy. Love everything and everybody. Love the good and the bad, because we’re all just tiny specks of infinity.”
“Meh,” Justin said, “that shit’s been done, yo. Them fucking hippies said all that shit way back in the sixties and it didn’t work. They just ended up with addictions and STDs and babies and shit.”
“Love isn’t about getting laid or doing drugs,” Leah said, “it’s about knowledge. Knowing yourself so that you can love others and make the world a better place.”
“I gotta agree with Justin here,” Marsh piped up, “it’s a weak message. It’s outdated, and no one’s going to buy into it. People need to feel like they can move up in the world. What you’re suggesting sounds too much like it leads to communism. Everybody loves each other, so everybody respects each other and makes the world a better place, so we all become equals. That’s communism and it’s not going to fly here in America.”
“I’m not talking about communism,” Leah said, slightly flustered.
“But that’s where it leads to,” Marsh continued, “that’s the end result.”
“Besides, it’s going to be a slow process. Get people involved here and there. Get out, get to know people. Spread the message.”
“We tried that already,” Marsh said.
“Yeah, and look,” Leah pointed to Fargas, “we don’t want to preach to people. We want to have sit down discussions with everyone who’s into it. Everybody who will listen. See that we’re real people with real minds.”
“Naw,” Justin said, “that shit is wack, yo. I ain’t sitting down with e’ry mothafucka in America. Mosta them dumb shits ain’t worthy anyway, like 75 percent of them. I want to tear it all down, all this shit. Start over.”
“You see,” Marsh said, nodding, “they don’t want a better world. They want a world that they’re better off in.”
“What,” Leah said.
She had thought something was seriously wrong. She had reached out, Justin too, into universal mind, universal time and space, extra dimensions of extra colors they never knew existed or could exist. Colors that reacted to light and shadow likes musical notes, some sweet, some sour. He wasn’t there. He was gone.
“Where is he,” she asked.
Thomas’ lips twisted as he bit the inside corner of his mouth, and shrugged.
Thomas stood in silence, Leah sat. she glanced over at Marsh who frowned in ignorance. Justin stood up.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said, “I gets that shit, yo. The wise motherfucker seeks enlightenment in solitude and shit. He’s like those bearded motherfuckers who go off into a cave in the mountains, right? Then comes back with some mindboggling shit. ‘I’ve seen God,’ and shit.”
***
Leah didn’t really know anymore. Why didn’t she know him? They kept telling her that people often go through many different kinds of personality changes after a near death experience. But it was more than that. Something physical. She knew, Adam was different. He wasn’t the same.
If she were to take a step back and look at this thing from a wider angle, she’d see that the whole thing was crazy. Everybody around was caught up in a frenzy of hype. Adam was gone, and had left the group rudderless, without purpose. It was anarchy.
But Leah had a few ideas of her own.
***
“It’s time to talk about something really important,” Leah said, “love.”
Each of those assembled shifted uncomfortably, one by one they fell to the need to fidget. Leah had spoiled the mood, like when parents decide to bust in and give their children ‘the talk.’ Fargas glanced over at Eunice, trying not to get caught, but hoping he would be. Leah pressed on.
“I mean, what is the purpose of this group? Why are we still together? Because Adam might come back? We all like what he has to say, but we have to be strong on our own.”
“But,” Eunice said, “with no Adam, there’s no film.”
“The film’s not important,” Leah said.
“Not to you,” Eunice shot back.
“Okay, fine,” Leah said, “the film is important. But, what’s it about? Adam, or his legacy. This group is --”
“Adamites,” Justin interrupted, correcting her.”
“The ‘Adamites’ are part of his story now, and we’ve got to get a message out just like him.”
“But,” Fargas said, “what is this message of his? Love thy neighbor?”
“Why not,” Leah continued, “love your neighbor, love your enemy. Love everything and everybody. Love the good and the bad, because we’re all just tiny specks of infinity.”
“Meh,” Justin said, “that shit’s been done, yo. Them fucking hippies said all that shit way back in the sixties and it didn’t work. They just ended up with addictions and STDs and babies and shit.”
“Love isn’t about getting laid or doing drugs,” Leah said, “it’s about knowledge. Knowing yourself so that you can love others and make the world a better place.”
“I gotta agree with Justin here,” Marsh piped up, “it’s a weak message. It’s outdated, and no one’s going to buy into it. People need to feel like they can move up in the world. What you’re suggesting sounds too much like it leads to communism. Everybody loves each other, so everybody respects each other and makes the world a better place, so we all become equals. That’s communism and it’s not going to fly here in America.”
“I’m not talking about communism,” Leah said, slightly flustered.
“But that’s where it leads to,” Marsh continued, “that’s the end result.”
“Besides, it’s going to be a slow process. Get people involved here and there. Get out, get to know people. Spread the message.”
“We tried that already,” Marsh said.
“Yeah, and look,” Leah pointed to Fargas, “we don’t want to preach to people. We want to have sit down discussions with everyone who’s into it. Everybody who will listen. See that we’re real people with real minds.”
“Naw,” Justin said, “that shit is wack, yo. I ain’t sitting down with e’ry mothafucka in America. Mosta them dumb shits ain’t worthy anyway, like 75 percent of them. I want to tear it all down, all this shit. Start over.”
“You see,” Marsh said, nodding, “they don’t want a better world. They want a world that they’re better off in.”
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
26
He didn’t get very far, maybe half a block, before a black unmarked newer model car pulled up beside him. A man in a black jacket and tie and white shirt who looked just like every other healthy white male in his early thirties leaned out the passenger side window. He handed Adam an unsealed envelope.
He waited there, rooted to the spot, watching the car pull away and blend in with every other car on the road, before he lifted the cover to peek inside.
Money. Quite a bit of it. A healthy stack of twenties.
How was he supposed to clear his head? He was the center of a universe gone apeshit.
A little more digging revealed a yellow post-it note, rendered nearly invisible against the yellow envelope. The note was simple enough and easy to read.
It read, ‘Grocery money.’
Was this some kind of code, clue, or slang word he wasn‘t familiar with? He supposed it didn’t matter, since he wasn’t going to be sticking around much longer, anyhow.
***
“When’s the next train leave,” Adam asked.
He anticipated her next question.
“Going anywhere, I don‘t care,” he said.
The woman behind the counter stared bitchy daggers at him and just sat there chewing her gum.
“Listen,” he said, “I’m not fucking with you.” He shoulder checked to make sure no one was watching, then flashed the wad of cash in the envelope.
It still wasn’t enough to impress her and she went right on chewing her gum. He could tell by the rhythm of her chewing that she was passive aggressively telling him off.
One chew, da-Douche.
Next chew, da-Bag.
In rapid fire procession, da-douche, da-bag, da-douche, da-bag. And it didn’t take extra-sensory perception to figure it out, either.
“Five minutes,” she said, “to--”
“No, no, no,” he interrupted her, “Don’t tell me, I want it to be a surprise.”
“I’m going to need to see some ID,” she said, rolling her eyes. He showed it to her. Finally she perked up, and said, “you’re going to have to give me a minute,” before storming away.
“But I only got five,” he called after her, she pretended not to hear as she talked to her manager.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the manager said, “your travel benefits have been restricted.”
“My travel … what the fuck are you talking about? Just give me a ticket. Look at this stack of money!”
“I’m sorry, sir. Your name is on our terrorist list.”
“WHAT?!”
She glanced out of the corner of her eye. Adam could guess what she was glancing at. Without seeing for himself, Adam turned and ran. He could hear the clean black shoes chasing him, leaving black scuff marks on the clean, shiny tile floor.
He wasn’t a kid anymore, spraying graffiti outside the train station. Why, after thirty years of age, was he still running from train station security?
He didn’t bother checking the airport for the next available flight out of town.
***
But, Adam knew he never really was a teenager. Not for very long, physiologically, anyway. The memories were there, but they were borrowed, like his DNA. Sooooo last year.
Eternity had spoken to him in dreams and pictures and colors and waves of sound, and it had told him so. Eternity had told him that he was grown in a test tube. A Test Tube Man. A New Man. An Extra Man with an extra soul.
But, somehow, it just didn‘t seem all that important. He just didn’t really care anymore.
He waited there, rooted to the spot, watching the car pull away and blend in with every other car on the road, before he lifted the cover to peek inside.
Money. Quite a bit of it. A healthy stack of twenties.
How was he supposed to clear his head? He was the center of a universe gone apeshit.
A little more digging revealed a yellow post-it note, rendered nearly invisible against the yellow envelope. The note was simple enough and easy to read.
It read, ‘Grocery money.’
Was this some kind of code, clue, or slang word he wasn‘t familiar with? He supposed it didn’t matter, since he wasn’t going to be sticking around much longer, anyhow.
***
“When’s the next train leave,” Adam asked.
He anticipated her next question.
“Going anywhere, I don‘t care,” he said.
The woman behind the counter stared bitchy daggers at him and just sat there chewing her gum.
“Listen,” he said, “I’m not fucking with you.” He shoulder checked to make sure no one was watching, then flashed the wad of cash in the envelope.
It still wasn’t enough to impress her and she went right on chewing her gum. He could tell by the rhythm of her chewing that she was passive aggressively telling him off.
One chew, da-Douche.
Next chew, da-Bag.
In rapid fire procession, da-douche, da-bag, da-douche, da-bag. And it didn’t take extra-sensory perception to figure it out, either.
“Five minutes,” she said, “to--”
“No, no, no,” he interrupted her, “Don’t tell me, I want it to be a surprise.”
“I’m going to need to see some ID,” she said, rolling her eyes. He showed it to her. Finally she perked up, and said, “you’re going to have to give me a minute,” before storming away.
“But I only got five,” he called after her, she pretended not to hear as she talked to her manager.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the manager said, “your travel benefits have been restricted.”
“My travel … what the fuck are you talking about? Just give me a ticket. Look at this stack of money!”
“I’m sorry, sir. Your name is on our terrorist list.”
“WHAT?!”
She glanced out of the corner of her eye. Adam could guess what she was glancing at. Without seeing for himself, Adam turned and ran. He could hear the clean black shoes chasing him, leaving black scuff marks on the clean, shiny tile floor.
He wasn’t a kid anymore, spraying graffiti outside the train station. Why, after thirty years of age, was he still running from train station security?
He didn’t bother checking the airport for the next available flight out of town.
***
But, Adam knew he never really was a teenager. Not for very long, physiologically, anyway. The memories were there, but they were borrowed, like his DNA. Sooooo last year.
Eternity had spoken to him in dreams and pictures and colors and waves of sound, and it had told him so. Eternity had told him that he was grown in a test tube. A Test Tube Man. A New Man. An Extra Man with an extra soul.
But, somehow, it just didn‘t seem all that important. He just didn’t really care anymore.
Monday, September 1, 2008
25
The pamphlet was nearly ready.
“I need one more anecdote, yo,” Justin said, pencil in hand. He held a sheet of ruled paper, the kind you’d find in an elementary school classroom. On it, was a list of nine key proverbs, all from the mouth of Adam.
Questions are more useful than answers.
The five senses are five devils through which the world enters and the spirit escapes
Advertising sells not a product but one’s soul.
Opposition is a force made not by two, but within one.
Spiritual enlightenment does not occur when one builds up one’s mind, like a bodybuilder.
Do not seek the elevated consciousness, but seek the subconscious. Because therein lies truth about self.
One can only help oneself. Then by consequence of experience can one help others.
The establishment of strong community identity is essential to survival.
Nine out of ten spiritual leaders agree, desire is the leading cause of suffering.
There was also a symbol sketched out on the page. Justin held it up for Adam to see.
“What you think, yo?”
“I think it’s a triangle,” Adam responded.
“Word,” Justin replied, “it’s sideways. That shit’s gonna be our symbol. It represents body, mind and spirit, motherfucker.”
Justin pointed with his finger to each point on the triangle, starting with the bottom and ending at the top, which he tapped for emphasis.
“Body. Mind. And Spirit.”
“What,” Adam asked redundantly, “you got a symbol now?”
“Word.”
“And what are you calling yourselves?”
“Adamites.”
It had gone too far.
“So, like,” Justin continued, “we need one more catchphrase. You got one?”
“Yeah,” Adam said, grabbing his jacket in a hurry, “don’t follow leaders, and watch the parking meter.”
Justin stood blank faced for a second, then a smile crept over his face, “word!”
Adam stood in the doorway and said, “it’s from Bob Dylan.”
“Oh yeah,” Justin said, “no, I gets that shit. It’s going in.”
Adam rushed out the door so that he could breathe again.
“I need one more anecdote, yo,” Justin said, pencil in hand. He held a sheet of ruled paper, the kind you’d find in an elementary school classroom. On it, was a list of nine key proverbs, all from the mouth of Adam.
Questions are more useful than answers.
The five senses are five devils through which the world enters and the spirit escapes
Advertising sells not a product but one’s soul.
Opposition is a force made not by two, but within one.
Spiritual enlightenment does not occur when one builds up one’s mind, like a bodybuilder.
Do not seek the elevated consciousness, but seek the subconscious. Because therein lies truth about self.
One can only help oneself. Then by consequence of experience can one help others.
The establishment of strong community identity is essential to survival.
Nine out of ten spiritual leaders agree, desire is the leading cause of suffering.
There was also a symbol sketched out on the page. Justin held it up for Adam to see.
“What you think, yo?”
“I think it’s a triangle,” Adam responded.
“Word,” Justin replied, “it’s sideways. That shit’s gonna be our symbol. It represents body, mind and spirit, motherfucker.”
Justin pointed with his finger to each point on the triangle, starting with the bottom and ending at the top, which he tapped for emphasis.
“Body. Mind. And Spirit.”
“What,” Adam asked redundantly, “you got a symbol now?”
“Word.”
“And what are you calling yourselves?”
“Adamites.”
It had gone too far.
“So, like,” Justin continued, “we need one more catchphrase. You got one?”
“Yeah,” Adam said, grabbing his jacket in a hurry, “don’t follow leaders, and watch the parking meter.”
Justin stood blank faced for a second, then a smile crept over his face, “word!”
Adam stood in the doorway and said, “it’s from Bob Dylan.”
“Oh yeah,” Justin said, “no, I gets that shit. It’s going in.”
Adam rushed out the door so that he could breathe again.
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