Adam burst unannounced into his own home with the pamphlet still in hand, damaged by folding, twisting and hand sweat. Justin was there to greet him. He held the pamphlet out for Justin to see.
“What’s this?”
“Yo, man,” Justin said, distractedly, “I don’t know but your computer got jacked.”
It didn’t register with Adam, “this pamphlet,” he said, “did you print these out?”
“You’re not listening, bra.”
“The pamphlets.”
“Oh, shit. Yeah I ran them off an shit at the nearest Kinko’s and shit.”
“Then, who handed me this?”
“That was probably my friend Marco.”
“Ah. Probably your friend, Marco. How come I’ve never met this Marco and he’s handing me pamphlets about myself.”
“I been bigging him up in the way of the force, yo. Relax, G.”
“Don’t tell me to ‘relax, G.’ This is getting way out of hand. I can’t do this anymore, I can’t cope with the craziness.”
Justin caught a big whiff of Adam’s breath.
“Oh damn, man. You been out all night drinking and shit? Yo breath is rank, you know what I’m sayin?”
“Yeah. Yeah. I know what you’re saying. Don’t ask me how, but I know. I’m going to bed.”
***
Adam awoke after four black hours of dreamless sleep with a headache and an unsettled gut. He took a leak and went to check his e-mail but found his computer was missing.
“What is this?”
A knock came at the door. He opened it and found another agent.
“Long night?” the agent said. He handed Adam an envelope and walked off.
Adam closed the door, scratched his head sleepily and opened it. He brushed the money aside and took out the post-it note. It said Grocery Money, all in capitals, underlined with three angry exclamation points.
Adam smiled.
***
“There was sensitive material on that computer,” Marsh said, “I can’t stress that enough.”
“You,” Adam emphasized, “had sensitive material on my computer?”
“I’ve webcast the show from it, and downloaded some documents I was going to use for my next show.”
“Well,” Justin said flippantly, “it’s gone now.”
“You’re not helping,” Adam said, “it’s your fault to begin with. Tell me again what happened.”
“Well, I grabbed this crackhead motherfucker off the streets, you know what I’m saying? And I took him in for the night, on the real. I thought I’s getting through to him and shit. Motherfucker was talking shit all night, for reals. Man, I woke up, that motherfucker was gone.”
“With the computer,” Marsh added.
Justin made a smacking sound with corner of his mouth.
“Who said you could take in vagrants, anyway?” Adam asked.
“I don’t know,” Justin replied, “I guess I just assumed. Look, I fucked up, yo.”
“Yeah, well,” Adam said, rubbing the back of his head, “Marsh here has some important documents on it and I think we ought to try to track it down.”
“Forget it,” Marsh said, “it’s gone. Just leave it, it’s probably sold by now for rock cocaine money. Pff, that computer is probably all smoked away by now.”
“No,” Adam said, “don’t worry about it. We’ll get it back. Show me,” he said to Justin, “you found him once you can do it again, take me to him.”
***
And there was David, right where Justin had found him the last time.
“Ooowhee,” Justin said, “you dumb as shit, son. Right in the same place I found you. Shit.”
David jerked around, rubbing his head and swinging his arm off erratically. He had a cardboard roll from wrapping paper in his other hand. He turned back around and began smacking the roll against the wall, destroying it easily.
“I don’t have your TV,” David said and laughed, “I don’t know what happened to it.” He laughed again and hit the wall again.
“Yeah, I think I got an idea what happened to it,” Justin said, stepping up, “what’s up now, boy?”
Adam grabbed Justin by the chest and held him back.
“You think you’re wise, boy,” David said, “yeah, you may be wise but you don’t know like I know. I know it’s like, whuagh!” he went into a karate pose and struck the wall again, “whuagh! You don’t know shit. You don’t know the things what I’ve seen, things that - that you couldn’t fathom in your whole entire lifespan. But I see them and I just smack them down, whuagh! And I’m smacking and I’m smacking and they keep on coming but I just keep on smacking them down like whuagh, whuagh, whuagh!”
“Yeah, yeah,” Justin said, “you smack them down, motherfucker--”
“Motherfucker, who in the fuck you think you’re calling a motherfucker? Whuagh!”
“Where’s the computer, yo?”
“The comp - what? - the computer? I told you, I don’t know nothing about no goddamn computer. The State Department took it.” David laughed, “yeah - those motherfuckers - they take everything. They took my dentures and they were there in the morning in the house and then I smacked them down. I smacked them down, and smacked them down. Boom, boom, boom! And they followed me here and now here they are again.”
He took a flying jump kick at the wall and fell down like a rag doll on the wet puddly pavement.
“Look,” Marsh said, “he doesn’t have it. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“Yeah,” Justin said, “this shit is whack. Last time I ever help out a crackhead, motherfucker!”
David was sprawled out on the ground. He reached over and yelled nasily toward Justin, crying.
Adam had a hard time just walking away, but he just didn’t feel like he could help anyone anymore.
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Thursday, September 25, 2008
36
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.
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.
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.
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