5418 lines
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5418 lines
211 KiB
Plaintext
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--
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** *******
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* * * *
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* *
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* ** * ******* ***** **** * ***** ** ** *******
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* ** * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
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* * * * * * * * * * * * *
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* * * * * * * * * * * *
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* * * * * *** **** * *** * *
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* * ** * * * * * * * * *
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* * * * * * * * * * * *
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* * * * **** * * * **** * * *
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===============================================
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InterText Vol. 5, No. 1 / January-February 1995
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===============================================
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||
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Contents
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||
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FirstText: How We Do It...........................Jason Snell
|
||
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||
Short Fiction
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||
|
||
River_........................................G.L. Eikenberry_
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||
|
||
In VR_...................................Daniel K. Appelquist_
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||
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||
Backalley_.......................................Silang Kamay_
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||
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The Funeral Party_...............................Connie Baron_
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||
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Crown Jewels_....................................Colin Morton_
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||
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||
Two Solitudes_..................................Carl Steadman_
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||
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||
....................................................................
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||
Editor Assistant Editor
|
||
Jason Snell Geoff Duncan
|
||
jsnell@etext.org gaduncan@halcyon.com
|
||
....................................................................
|
||
Assistant Editor Send subscription requests, story
|
||
Susan Grossman submissions, and correspondence
|
||
c/o intertext@etext.org to intertext@etext.org
|
||
....................................................................
|
||
InterText Vol. 5, No. 1. InterText (ISSN 1071-7676) is published
|
||
electronically on a bi-monthly basis. Reproduction of this
|
||
magazine is permitted as long as the magazine is not sold
|
||
(either by itself or as part of a collection) and the entire
|
||
text of the issue remains intact. Copyright 1995, Jason Snell.
|
||
Individual stories Copyright 1995 their original authors.
|
||
InterText is created using Apple Macintosh computers and then
|
||
published in Adobe PostScript, Setext (ASCII), Adobe Acrobat PDF
|
||
and World Wide Web/HTML formats.
|
||
....................................................................
|
||
|
||
|
||
FirstText: How We Do It by Jason Snell
|
||
=========================================
|
||
|
||
Every now and then, we receive very kind letters from InterText
|
||
readers who write to compliment us on the quality of the
|
||
magazine -- both the stories we publish and the package as a
|
||
whole.
|
||
|
||
It's nice to hear such positive comments, considering the fact
|
||
that we're all volunteers. Many times, I want to respond to
|
||
those letters, explaining a little about how we put together
|
||
InterText, but I never get around to it. This may be as good a
|
||
time as any to explain a little about how we put out InterText
|
||
every two months.
|
||
|
||
The process begins just as one issue goes out the door to all
|
||
our subscribers. After that happens, we take a brief rest and
|
||
then start going through the stories that were submitted to us
|
||
after we had already chosen our line-up for the latest issue. We
|
||
read these stories (and other stories, as they come in via
|
||
e-mail) and then give them a rating. We all discuss the stories
|
||
and explain why we gave them the ratings we did. The stories at
|
||
the top of the ratings heap are then reevaluated with an eye
|
||
toward placing them into an issue of InterText. Sometimes a
|
||
perfectly good story will be delayed or even rejected because we
|
||
have too much of the same thing in an issue. One of the stories
|
||
in this issue was held back from our last issue because it would
|
||
have made the content of our previous issue very dark and
|
||
depressing. In this bunch of stories, it's much more
|
||
appropriate.
|
||
|
||
Then we divvy up the accepted stories, and choose one or two as
|
||
candidates for the cover of our PostScript and PDF editions,
|
||
sending those stories off to artist Jeff Quan. Our editors then
|
||
take their crack at doing a preliminary editing job on the
|
||
stories they've been assigned. After that, we place the stories
|
||
into PageMaker, the desktop publishing program which will
|
||
eventually produce our PostScript and PDF editions, and continue
|
||
the editing process there. By the time the stories are ready,
|
||
they've survived an exacting primary edit and one or two
|
||
supplementary reads by another set of editorial eyes.
|
||
|
||
Then comes the high-tech part. Our cover art having been created
|
||
(often in record time) by Jeff Quan, we "print" a PostScript
|
||
version from PageMaker, and run that through Adobe's Acrobat
|
||
Distiller to create a bare PDF file. We use Adobe's Acrobat
|
||
Exchange to create hypertext links and other Acrobat features
|
||
that will make our PDF file easier to read, and then work on
|
||
that edition of InterText is complete.
|
||
|
||
Next comes the creation of the ASCII/Setext and World Wide Web
|
||
editions. We take the stories in our PageMaker document and
|
||
convert them into text for editing in a word processor. These
|
||
stories are converted into HTML -- the format used by the World
|
||
Wide Web -- and made ready for placement on our World Wide Web
|
||
site. We also take a copy of the HTML stories, paste them
|
||
together in a word processor, and reformat and rewrap them to
|
||
create a plain text file with Setext formatting.
|
||
|
||
From there, it's only a matter of sending the issues out. I
|
||
upload our files to our FTP and World Wide Web sites, e-mail
|
||
copies of them out to our subscribers, and then collapse in a
|
||
heap. Those of you reading this issue hot off the electronic
|
||
presses can take comfort that we're in that condition as you
|
||
read this.
|
||
|
||
Then the process starts again. Lather, rinse, repeat. Every two
|
||
months. And believe it or not, it's a lot of fun.
|
||
|
||
|
||
I couldn't let the beginning of 1995 slip away without
|
||
discussing, albeit briefly, the changes that InterText went
|
||
through in 1994. Perhaps the most important change was our
|
||
appearance on the Web -- first with a simple home page linking
|
||
to our gopher site, then to fully-formatted issues with
|
||
hypertext links, and now, with our first issue of 1995, a
|
||
revamped web site with access to all our back issues and a bunch
|
||
of new navigational features. The Web enables us to provide
|
||
versions of our cover art, formatted story text, and easy access
|
||
to back issues, and it's proved popular with readers. In 1995,
|
||
all the users of commercial on-line services may be able to
|
||
access the Web. When that happens, things should _really_
|
||
explode.
|
||
|
||
In 1994, after more than three years of putting out InterText,
|
||
Assistant Editor Geoff Duncan and I met in person for the first
|
||
time. We'd managed to put out nearly 20 issues of a magazine
|
||
without laying eyes on one another, but I think that streak had
|
||
gone long enough. And we've already met twice _this_ year.
|
||
|
||
There's no doubt InterText will go through more changes in 1995.
|
||
With this issue we inaugurate a revamped design for our
|
||
PostScript and PDF editions. And with every passing year, Geoff
|
||
and I seem to find ourselves sunk deeper into the world of
|
||
electronic publishing and the Internet.
|
||
|
||
I've been writing lots of Internet-related articles for MacUser,
|
||
and I'd like to think I've helped get MacUser on the Internet.
|
||
Geoff, meanwhile, left his job at Microsoft and has begun work
|
||
on yet another electronic publication -- he's now the managing
|
||
editor of TidBITS, the popular weekly on-line Macintosh
|
||
publication edited by Adam and Tonya Engst.
|
||
|
||
So we're busy. And it seems we _like_ it that way.
|
||
|
||
|
||
River by G.L. Eikenberry
|
||
============================
|
||
...................................................................
|
||
"So deep, so wide -- will you take me on your back for a ride?
|
||
If I should fall, would you swallow me deep inside?"
|
||
-- Peter Gabriel, "Washing of the Water"
|
||
...................................................................
|
||
|
||
|
||
The sky was rambunctious like October, part sunny, part cloudy
|
||
-- big, boiling, cotton clouds smeared with fierce, dark
|
||
splotches of gray. The wind whipped them toward the horizon,
|
||
smack into the sun, against their will. But it was May, the long
|
||
weekend, the trial run for the summer break. It was a day for
|
||
baseball, soccer, biking, running with Zak. Danny was bored with
|
||
being in the car. They were supposed to be there around five.
|
||
That was still half an hour away.
|
||
|
||
"Mom, what's that going on over there?"
|
||
|
||
"It's a funeral, Danny."
|
||
|
||
"Like when people are dead."
|
||
|
||
"That's right."
|
||
|
||
"Not _like_ when people are dead, Dan. Those people _are_ dead."
|
||
|
||
"Can we stop? I want to look."
|
||
|
||
"Dan, it's no one we know -- "
|
||
|
||
"I don't see any harm in just stopping, Lee."
|
||
|
||
"I thought funerals were supposed to be in a church."
|
||
|
||
"Not always, Danny. This is a special funeral."
|
||
|
||
"Can we get out of the car?"
|
||
|
||
"Rita -- "
|
||
|
||
"Just relax, Lee, it's not going to hurt anything if he just
|
||
looks."
|
||
|
||
"Jesus Christ, Rita! The whole world is not his personal
|
||
learning lab. This is other people's private grief." Danny
|
||
hardly even heard their bickering anymore.
|
||
|
||
"What makes it special?"
|
||
|
||
"Do you remember hearing about the six boys that drowned on that
|
||
canoe trip?"
|
||
|
||
"The river that runs behind our house..."
|
||
|
||
Lee made a move to stop his son, but his wife took his arm. "Let
|
||
him go. He's almost 13 now," she whispered. "He knows how to
|
||
behave himself at a solemn occasion. He has to come to grips
|
||
with death sooner or later."
|
||
|
||
"I wish I knew where the hell you got some of your crazy ideas."
|
||
|
||
Danny moved slowly, like someone in a trance, toward the
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||
gathering on the river bank at the back of the small cemetery.
|
||
The man in the front was wearing a Boy Scout uniform. He had his
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||
back to the river. He was talking -- probably about the dead
|
||
boys. Danny didn't really hear what he was saying. He hardly
|
||
even saw the people sitting in the cold metal folding chairs. He
|
||
heard the spring river, fast and boisterous like a bus full of
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||
kids on an outing. He felt weird. It was like those clouds were
|
||
rolling and writhing inside his head.
|
||
|
||
He could tell it was making his face look funny. He knew he was
|
||
going to cry. He didn't even care if everyone there saw him cry
|
||
as he walked around behind the man and touched each empty box.
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||
|
||
The man stopped talking. They all watched, but no one seemed to
|
||
mind.
|
||
|
||
Someone even took a picture. His mother walked down to him. She
|
||
took him by the shoulders and steered him back to the car.
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||
|
||
"It's okay, Danny, you don't have to say anything."
|
||
|
||
"Those boxes were empty."
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||
|
||
"They're called caskets, and, no, Danny, they found the bodies.
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||
Remember, you watched it with me last week when it was on the TV
|
||
news. You had all kinds of questions."
|
||
|
||
"Yeah, like how come the river's getting mad..."
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||
|
||
|
||
Danny and Zak, Zak and Danny. As different as up and down, but
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||
brothers.
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||
|
||
Well, not really, but they should be. They talked about it
|
||
sometimes. Danny was adopted and Zak's twin brother was supposed
|
||
to have died when he was six days old. But what if he didn't
|
||
really -- what if the hospital made a mistake? Not that there
|
||
was any resemblance, physical or otherwise. Danny was dark and
|
||
willowy. His actions always seemed so deliberate for a
|
||
twelve-year-old. So pensive. He liked to take things apart in
|
||
his mind. He was always trying to figure out the why and how of
|
||
things, even if he sometimes missed what was going on around
|
||
him. Zak was the same age, even though many people seeing them
|
||
for the first time assumed that Danny was the older "brother."
|
||
Zak was actually bigger. In fact, he was on the chubby side.
|
||
_Husky_ was how their mothers described him. His energy was more
|
||
effusive, but not nearly so intense as Danny's.
|
||
|
||
When they idled by the pond, trying to decide what to do, Zak
|
||
skipped stones. Danny peeled the bark off twigs with his
|
||
fingernail and studied the velvety jacket between the bark and
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||
the wood.
|
||
|
||
"We could play pirates with the rowboat." Zak considered himself
|
||
the world's best pirate captain.
|
||
|
||
"Naw, we're getting too old for that stuff. Let's go fishing. We
|
||
can still use the boat."
|
||
|
||
"Fishing stinks. There's nothing in this pond but the same
|
||
stupid bunch of catfish. I've caught every single fish in here
|
||
at least 20 times."
|
||
|
||
"So maybe your dad'll let us drag the boat down to the river?
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||
There are real enough fish down there."
|
||
|
||
|
||
Different poles on a magnet -- north and south. They never would
|
||
have been friends if they went to the same school. They never
|
||
would have met except that their parents had been friends since
|
||
before they were born. It was half boredom and half magic that
|
||
threw them together when their folks visited and gabbed and
|
||
gabbed. It was the chemistry of opposites that cemented the
|
||
friendship. Even if the hospital didn't make a mistake, they
|
||
were blood brothers at the very least. They had seen to that
|
||
with Zak's first real pocketknife the previous summer.
|
||
|
||
"Hey, Danny, watch what you're doing! You'll dump us over."
|
||
|
||
"So what? We're stuffed into these rancid old life jackets."
|
||
|
||
"Rancid?"
|
||
|
||
"Rotten. Stinky. Yeah, _rancid_! What would happen if you fell
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||
out of the boat without one of these things?"
|
||
|
||
"These rancid things? You mean like walk the plank?"
|
||
|
||
"Arg, Captain Klutz!" They both laughed.
|
||
|
||
"I guess you'd drown."
|
||
|
||
"You think so, Zak?"
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||
|
||
"The channel's pretty deep here -- a hundred feet. A mile even."
|
||
|
||
"Aw Jeez, Zak, how long do you think your fishing line is?
|
||
Thirty feet? Fifty feet, tops. And you didn't even have all your
|
||
line out when you snagged the bottom a minute ago. If that
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||
channel's a mile deep then I must be Spider-Man's long-lost
|
||
nephew."
|
||
|
||
"Who cares? Anyway, the current's too fast. You'd never even
|
||
make it to shore. Especially you, the way you swim like an
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||
umbrella."
|
||
|
||
"Yeah, well what do you swim like, a rubber duckie?" It wasn't
|
||
an insult, it was a signal for both of them to dissolve into the
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||
kind of giggling reserved for boys too old to be kids but too
|
||
young to be teenagers.
|
||
|
||
"You're not gonna do it, are you, Dan?"
|
||
|
||
"Do what?"
|
||
|
||
"Jump out of the boat."
|
||
|
||
"Who said anything about jumping? Why, do you want to try it?"
|
||
|
||
"Hey, knock it off -- don't screw around."
|
||
|
||
"Okay, okay, rubber duckie, keep your shirt on. Hey, you know
|
||
what would be perfect?"
|
||
|
||
"Yeah. Lisa Martindale skinny-dipping."
|
||
|
||
"Don't be gross. This same river runs right by my house, right?
|
||
You could visit by boat during the summer and then we could go
|
||
off camping someplace."
|
||
|
||
"Oh, sure. That's 50 miles by car. Not even I could row this old
|
||
tub trough that far."
|
||
|
||
"Know anybody with a canoe?"
|
||
|
||
"Mark Haberman. Why?"
|
||
|
||
"So, hey, who's this Lisa Martindale?"
|
||
|
||
"Just some girl. Forget it."
|
||
|
||
"Forget the canoe or the girl?"
|
||
|
||
"Our parents would never allow it. Anyway, cabbage brain, your
|
||
place is upstream from the falls."
|
||
|
||
"Some portage, huh?"
|
||
|
||
"Hey! What are you doing now?"
|
||
|
||
"It's too hot for these rancid things."
|
||
|
||
"Rancid, eh?"
|
||
|
||
"Yeah -- _rancid_." They both dissolved into giggling again.
|
||
|
||
Zak had trouble catching his breath -- "Hey, but really man,
|
||
this is serious. Nobody's allowed in this boat without a life
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||
preserver, not even my Dad. Come on -- I don't want him to get
|
||
pissed off."
|
||
|
||
"So don't tell him."
|
||
|
||
"As if he can't see us from the deck."
|
||
|
||
"So throw me out."
|
||
|
||
"Sure, what do you care if I get banned from using the boat for
|
||
a whole month. I mean, Jeez, I thought you wanted to fish." Zak
|
||
was annoyed. He didn't want to catch hell over something stupid
|
||
like Danny refusing to wear a life preserver. Danny didn't
|
||
usually act this weird.
|
||
|
||
"Hey, man, I was kidding, okay? Don't rock the boat!"
|
||
|
||
"I didn't. Now put that thing back on, will you!"
|
||
|
||
"Yes you did. Don't screw around!"
|
||
|
||
"Must've been the wind."
|
||
|
||
"What wind, asshole?"
|
||
|
||
"Put your life preserver back on, Danny." His voice was more
|
||
than a little insistent -- almost strident.
|
||
|
||
"Wind my ass! There's not even a little breeze."
|
||
|
||
"So it was a wave. Now put that damned thing on or I _will_ rock
|
||
the damned boat!"
|
||
|
||
"Okay, okay, already. Don't get your diaper hyper. Wave, my
|
||
ass -- "
|
||
|
||
Whatever it was, it surged up over the edge of the boat.
|
||
|
||
It rolls him over the side. Pure energy. A wave with no water in
|
||
it.
|
||
|
||
He doesn't swim.
|
||
|
||
|
||
The River takes him down, down deeper than he ever knew the
|
||
river ran, spinning him, heaving, shoving his pliant,
|
||
wonder-struck form upstream against the current.
|
||
|
||
He soars, hurls, cascades past rocks, weeds he never imagined.
|
||
Garbage, sunken boats, cars, green, gray water, brown water.
|
||
Fifty different shades of green and maybe even more of gray and
|
||
brown gold water -- even small strips of cold, blue, almost
|
||
black water. Twisted, woven, tangled together, slimy, oily,
|
||
sudsy, putrid -- _rancid_ -- flecked with scraps of plants, fish
|
||
debris, flotsam and jetsam of every possible variety.
|
||
|
||
|
||
He sees the first of them!
|
||
|
||
Then another and another until he sees all six.
|
||
|
||
Some in just plain clothes, some in scout uniforms. He tries to
|
||
reach them. He tries to speak, but they go by too fast.
|
||
|
||
They don't seem scared or worried. They definitely don't seem
|
||
dead.
|
||
|
||
|
||
He slows
|
||
eddies
|
||
drifts
|
||
into a wide
|
||
deep pool.
|
||
|
||
He sees her -- a girl. Naked.
|
||
He tries not to look, but he can't help it.
|
||
Lisa Martindale?
|
||
She swims easily, gracefully, fish-like
|
||
swooping, undulating through the eel grass
|
||
straight toward him
|
||
with a single easy, but powerful
|
||
sweep of her legs from the hip.
|
||
|
||
He tenses, tries to back away.
|
||
|
||
The River hurls him
|
||
to the surface.
|
||
|
||
|
||
Zak screamed. He heaved against the oars with every remaining
|
||
ounce of energy to reach the still form now drifting just below
|
||
the surface.
|
||
|
||
He reached out an oar -- "Come on, Danny, damn you -- grab the
|
||
oar! Stop fooling around. It isn't funny any more! Why did you
|
||
have to take off the damned life jacket? Danny -- "
|
||
|
||
He used an oar to guide the body alongside the boat. "Oh,
|
||
please, God, don't let it be a corpse!" He struggled to get it
|
||
-- him -- back on board.
|
||
|
||
"All you had to do was put on the stupid -- " Zak was crying.
|
||
Crying and fighting, irrationally, to get his inert friend into
|
||
the life preserver. Only once the life vest was on Danny and
|
||
securely fastened did he dredge up strength he never knew he had
|
||
to row back to shore faster than he had ever rowed before.
|
||
|
||
"Dad! Mom! Dad! Oh, God -- Danny -- Help! Help!"
|
||
|
||
|
||
He tried to ignore his lungs, to stop breathing -- not to hold
|
||
his breath, but to turn off the reflex. He tried to turn off all
|
||
his senses -- the lights burning at the backs of his eyelids,
|
||
the mediciney, laundry-starch smell, the scratchy sheets, the
|
||
warm, dry, prickly air. He would drift away from all the
|
||
confusion. Nothing fit together right any more.
|
||
|
||
He twitched. Every muscle tensed, convulsed.
|
||
|
||
A distant touch on his hand.
|
||
|
||
He eyes flew open like window shades. Air smashed into his
|
||
lungs, too fast for him to do anything about it. The world
|
||
asserted itself with an overwhelming violence -- tore him away
|
||
from any promise of serenity.
|
||
|
||
The abruptness of it all made it hard to focus. A woman. He knew
|
||
her. Recognition came slowly. His mother. She looked tired. She
|
||
was wearing her pink dress. It was a dress he once said he
|
||
liked. He didn't particularly like it. It was just something a
|
||
kid says to his mother.
|
||
|
||
"Danny, oh Danny..." She was crying. Big, round tears crawling
|
||
down her face.
|
||
|
||
Why should she be sad? He was the one that couldn't go back. Why
|
||
should she be sad?
|
||
|
||
"Oh, Danny, are you all right? Oh, Danny -- " She was squeezing
|
||
him too hard. Her perfume choked him. "I'll be here -- I have to
|
||
-- the nurse -- I'll be right back. I have to tell them you're
|
||
awake. I have to call your father."
|
||
|
||
He lost track. He drifted off, but he couldn't reach the river.
|
||
Every so often his eyes would focus and he would see lots of
|
||
people. Bright lights. Noise. Everything too bright, too sharp,
|
||
too loud.
|
||
|
||
His father. He was squeezing Danny's hand. He was talking.
|
||
|
||
"We know you're a trooper, Tiger. You're going to make it.
|
||
You're halfway there already. The doctors say all your parts are
|
||
working again. You just have to get things working together and
|
||
crack out of this shell. We'll get you home soon, Killer, then
|
||
everything'll be fine. We'll get you home. Just as soon as these
|
||
dimwit doctors will let you go."
|
||
|
||
Home.
|
||
|
||
His mother again. She had given up on the pink dress. She was
|
||
crying, pleading, but he couldn't follow. She was too far. He
|
||
couldn't get back. He was adrift. Buffeted, tossed between two
|
||
shorelines, but never reaching either.
|
||
|
||
There was no river.
|
||
|
||
There was no home.
|
||
|
||
|
||
They were walking. "So the doctors thought if we got you home
|
||
for the weekend, maybe it would help with whatever it is that
|
||
you still need help with." His Dad didn't give up easily, but he
|
||
was getting frustrated. Confused.
|
||
|
||
"So what the hell is going on, Sport? We know there's nothing
|
||
physically wrong with you anymore. They've done x-rays and brain
|
||
scans and every other thing. So when are you going to crack that
|
||
shell or drop down off that cloud or whatever it is? Maybe
|
||
you're mad or upset. It's okay, Dan -- tell us off if you want
|
||
to. You've got to at least say something to your mother or me?"
|
||
|
||
Danny could hear. He really could hear what his father was
|
||
saying. He even understood -- at least sort of. But the pull of
|
||
the river was so strong. So close. The currents, the gentle
|
||
urging of the forces that moved its muted world...
|
||
|
||
"Damn it, kid -- we can't just send you back to that hospital.
|
||
The longer they keep you in there, the farther you get from us.
|
||
We can't keep going there, night after night, watching our son
|
||
turn into a basket case. Damn it, Danny, I know you're in
|
||
there!"
|
||
|
||
He had him firmly by the shoulders, shaking him. Danny didn't
|
||
notice. "Just say something. Tell me to go to hell if that's
|
||
what's on you mind, but say something, damn it -- anything!"
|
||
|
||
He feels the pull.
|
||
|
||
The chair, the porch, the steps drift away behind him.
|
||
|
||
|
||
The water is cold, dark.
|
||
He has dreamed about her.
|
||
His eyes follow her.
|
||
She swims to him, closer now,
|
||
graceful, sure of herself, gently curving,
|
||
flowing, she circles him,
|
||
brushes against him, touches him firmly.
|
||
She takes his hand, leads him downward
|
||
with gentle, rhythmic, rippling kicks
|
||
weaving an intricate path
|
||
to a cleaner, less cluttered river.
|
||
The colors, tastes and smells more alive, vibrant.
|
||
But he can't --
|
||
The pressure against his frail body is too great.
|
||
Spiraling wildly upward
|
||
through slime, weeds, garbage --
|
||
|
||
He's just a kid! What is he supposed to do?
|
||
It's not his fault!
|
||
He didn't do any of this!
|
||
|
||
|
||
On his back in the cattails, every image, sound, smell clearly,
|
||
crisply differentiated.
|
||
|
||
His head throbs.
|
||
|
||
Air explodes into his lungs.
|
||
|
||
He stands. He staggers toward the shore -- the voice -- his
|
||
father's voice.
|
||
|
||
His father bounding down the path to the shore, pulsing terror.
|
||
|
||
His mother running behind.
|
||
|
||
"Dad, Mom -- I'm sorry, really...."
|
||
|
||
"It's all right, Danny, Oh, God, it's all right -- " They're
|
||
hugging. All of them. And crying. His mom is fussing about him,
|
||
wet and messy, but it's okay.
|
||
|
||
Then his father is picking him up and carrying him the way he
|
||
must have done when he was real little. Walking back up the path
|
||
toward the house.
|
||
|
||
His father doesn't even yell at him.
|
||
|
||
|
||
He walks along the shore. He's there, but he's not really there.
|
||
He picks up trash or makes notes about the location of anything
|
||
too big for him to handle. He searches out renegade pipes and
|
||
stops them up with anything he can find before making notes so
|
||
he can call and report them later. He sits on the dock down
|
||
behind the house and stares and talks quietly, plaintively.
|
||
|
||
"The kid is weird, Rita."
|
||
|
||
"Lee, he almost drowned. Who can know what he really went
|
||
through? And the coma -- "
|
||
|
||
"Oh, Christ, don't start bawling on me again. I didn't mean
|
||
anything by it. I should have just kept my mouth shut. Look, I'm
|
||
sure he'll snap out of it eventually. And, hey, we're doing
|
||
everything just like the doctors said. It's going to take
|
||
time..."
|
||
|
||
|
||
"So, uh, Dan, how's it going? I mean, how was last night?"
|
||
|
||
"Okay, I guess. I think I'm starting to make progress."
|
||
|
||
"Progress, eh? Well, you scared the shit out of my cousin
|
||
Jennifer with all that weird stuff you were saying last night.
|
||
She called me this morning and told me not to introduce her to
|
||
any more _supposedly_ neat guys."
|
||
|
||
"Oh, give me a break! You're the one that tried to tell me she
|
||
looked like girl in my 'dream.' Well, she's not even close. For
|
||
one thing, Jennifer's a blonde, and for another, she says she
|
||
hates swimming."
|
||
|
||
"Well ex-_cuuuusse_ me! Jeez, try to help a guy out -- I mean,
|
||
what did you expect? She's my cousin. And anyway, Dweebo, try to
|
||
take a river or a mermaid or whatever to a dance and see how far
|
||
you get."
|
||
|
||
"Go to hell!"
|
||
|
||
"Hey, I would, but you've already got all the best seats
|
||
reserved."
|
||
|
||
Zak was turning into a real jerk.
|
||
|
||
His mother still gets scared every time he goes down to the
|
||
river, but she doesn't try to stop him. She knows she can't. She
|
||
knows she mustn't. His father, who always thinks he has to
|
||
figure everything out, doesn't understand, but at least he
|
||
doesn't interfere either.
|
||
|
||
And the river. The river goes on. They're making progress.
|
||
|
||
Dan and the River.
|
||
|
||
The River and Dan.
|
||
|
||
|
||
G.L. Eikenberry (garyeik@twin.synapse.net)
|
||
--------------------------------------------
|
||
|
||
G.L. Eikenberry is an Ottawa-based freelance systems and
|
||
communications consultant and part-time martial arts instructor.
|
||
Over the past 20 years his fiction and poetry have appeared in a
|
||
wide range of publications. Over the last three years he has
|
||
also been showing up in such electronic venues as _Angst_,
|
||
_Atmospherics_, and, of course, _InterText_. In his consultant
|
||
persona, he has also developed and manages the Canadian Society
|
||
for International Health Web site:
|
||
(http://hpb1.hwc.ca:8500/default.html).
|
||
|
||
|
||
In VR by Daniel K. Appelquist
|
||
=================================
|
||
...................................................................
|
||
Timothy Leary said Virtual Reality is the LSD of the '90s. But
|
||
Reality can be angry when spurned -- even if you want to return
|
||
to it, sometimes it won't let you in the door.
|
||
...................................................................
|
||
|
||
One.
|
||
------
|
||
|
||
A dark rain is falling slantwise across the view.
|
||
|
||
It's a night shot. Tall concrete-and-glass buildings are
|
||
illuminated from below by the harsh glow of streetlights.
|
||
Periodically a car speeds by through the city, leaving a
|
||
turbulent wake of waste paper and garbage. A gigantic steel
|
||
tower can be seen in the distance, dominating the city. Above,
|
||
an aircar shoots by toward the tower and slips smoothly into a
|
||
landing spiral around it. Other aircars, points of light at this
|
||
distance, can also be seen circling the spire. The tower is
|
||
crowned by a single point of dazzling light.
|
||
|
||
As the view descends smoothly into the shadowy cityscape, along
|
||
with the rain, the scene fades into another, darker one.
|
||
|
||
Interior, hallway. The gaunt man, dressed in black, walks
|
||
stiffly toward the slightly open door. The lights are dim. As he
|
||
walks, he withdraws a cigarette from his left shirt pocket. He
|
||
squeezes it, and the tip bursts into flame. He brings it to his
|
||
lips and inhales.
|
||
|
||
"You're early, Scorpio."
|
||
|
||
The gaunt man turns to regard the speaker. He brings the
|
||
cigarette slowly away from his mouth and exhales imperceptibly
|
||
into the smoky air. "I don't enjoy playing these games, Mr.
|
||
Dobbs. Do you have the money?" His voice is brittle, echoing
|
||
through the corridor like a raspy, ancient vinyl record, only
|
||
now being replayed after years of neglect.
|
||
|
||
Dobbs moves into frame out of the darkness. He is a middle-aged
|
||
man, overweight and balding. His exposed skin is red and
|
||
leathery, as if his entire body were inflamed. He holds a
|
||
briefcase in one hand and a gun in the other.
|
||
|
||
"Now now, Mr. Dobbs." Scorpio drops his cigarette to the floor
|
||
and extinguishes it with his foot. Slowly, he pivots to face
|
||
Dobbs full-on.
|
||
|
||
"Oh you needn't worry, Mr. Scorpio. This is merely...
|
||
protection. I wish to protect myself from you." The gun remains
|
||
in place. "I just want to make sure that you and I have an
|
||
understanding."
|
||
|
||
"We do."
|
||
|
||
Dobbs places the suitcase on the ground and kicks it over to
|
||
Scorpio with a confident motion.
|
||
|
||
"Fine, then." Dobbs straightens out. "You already have the
|
||
information from me. Kill her. That's all I ask. Anything else
|
||
is superfluous." As he says this, he steps once again into
|
||
darkness.
|
||
|
||
Scorpio waits, not moving, even in the slightest. After a few
|
||
moments, he bends deftly down and scoops up the case in one
|
||
fluid motion. He then turns and walks down the hall in his
|
||
original direction, also disappearing into the darkness.
|
||
|
||
|
||
It's a following shot. The car, a silver teardrop amid a
|
||
wasteland of green, speeds on across and above endless fields of
|
||
blurred farmland. Intermittently, the green is punctuated by a
|
||
strip of gray or a blotch of white or red, but the speed of
|
||
motion is so great that they appear only for an instant, shadowy
|
||
representations of roads, houses, machinery. This is not a real
|
||
landscape.
|
||
|
||
An interior view. Scorpio's face, illuminated by various
|
||
displays, dominates the shot. His gaze is fixed, his hands
|
||
planted firmly on the wheel. Two o'clock and ten. The glow casts
|
||
his face into sharp relief, but his eyes are flat, lifeless.
|
||
|
||
--"Tell me about your problem, Mr. Dobbs."
|
||
|
||
Slowly...
|
||
|
||
--"I... That is... She won't leave me alone."
|
||
|
||
The scene...
|
||
|
||
--"You had an affair?"
|
||
|
||
Shifts...
|
||
|
||
|
||
The shot is from across a crowded restaurant. Dobbs and Scorpio
|
||
are seated at a table, Dobbs attempting to remain businesslike
|
||
while Scorpio watches him.
|
||
|
||
"She's threatening me. Everything I own. Everything I am."
|
||
|
||
"So you want her out of the way."
|
||
|
||
This time, Dobbs' answer is precise, deliberate. "Yes. I want
|
||
her out of the picture."
|
||
|
||
Scorpio sighs. "Very well. Who is she?"
|
||
|
||
"That's why I came to you, Mr. so-called Scorpio. I've never met
|
||
her. I have no clue who she is."
|
||
|
||
"How, then?" Scorpio's voice takes on an annoyed quality.
|
||
|
||
"In VR."
|
||
|
||
For the briefest of moments, a puzzled expression crosses
|
||
Scorpio's face. It is quickly replaced by one of understanding.
|
||
"You met her on the net. Virtual Reality. Your affair has been
|
||
wholly electronic."
|
||
|
||
"Correct," says Dobbs, leaning back in his chair.
|
||
|
||
"That's rather... unique."
|
||
|
||
"Surely you've been exposed to this sort of thing."
|
||
|
||
"I'm not a regular netter."
|
||
|
||
Dobbs leans forward onto the table. "You're not backing down,
|
||
are you?"
|
||
|
||
Scorpio regards Dobbs icily for a moment, causing Dobbs to
|
||
shrink back into his chair ever so slightly.
|
||
|
||
"The net is a large place, Mr. Dobbs. I assume you have some
|
||
other information."
|
||
|
||
"I thought you were the expert."
|
||
|
||
"Even experts can't work magic. The net is a realm of
|
||
information, and one needs information to navigate it."
|
||
|
||
Dobbs sighs, and begins to speak. "I met her in one of the
|
||
brothels near Munnari. She was a strikingly beautiful redhead.
|
||
Nearly naked without that outfit of hers."
|
||
|
||
"She was working there?"
|
||
|
||
"No. At least, I don't think so."
|
||
|
||
"Her appearance means nothing to me, Mr. Dobbs. You should know
|
||
that one can change one's appearance on the net, as easily as
|
||
one changes one's clothes."
|
||
|
||
"Yes, I know. She never did, though. Most women make themselves
|
||
look perfect, but she had slight imperfections. That was why she
|
||
was so striking. She had birthmarks. Her skin was a bit pale,
|
||
her eyes not completely green. She really stood out." As he
|
||
speaks, Dobbs' eyes begin to acquire a glassy look. His tongue
|
||
protrudes slightly from his mouth, as if his body is remembering
|
||
something that his mind chooses to forget. "I realize it's not
|
||
much to go on."
|
||
|
||
"...Not much to go on..." Scorpio repeats. His gaze shifts
|
||
upward as he leans back, his hands clasped behind his head. His
|
||
look is reflective. "No... It isn't."
|
||
|
||
|
||
With a loud whistle, the shot returns to the interior of the
|
||
aircar. Scorpio lifts his hand and deliberately depresses a
|
||
switch. The whistle stops and the character of light playing
|
||
over his features changes.
|
||
|
||
An exterior shot; stationary. In the distance, a series of
|
||
spires are visible. The sun is low on the horizon, lending a
|
||
fuzzy, yellow aspect to the hard steel towers. The car speeds
|
||
off into the heart of the city, quickly fading from view; a
|
||
silver eye, lost among needles of metal and glass.
|
||
|
||
|
||
The apartment is not much more than a cramped box, gray walls
|
||
obscured by racks of equipment, posters, bookcases. In the
|
||
corner, a small pot of water sits on a squalid stove. The
|
||
carcasses of ancient electronic equipment are strewn about
|
||
randomly. The point of view begins to descend. Scorpio stands in
|
||
the doorway and regards the other man. The other man is the
|
||
first to speak.
|
||
|
||
"You're early."
|
||
|
||
"Is it a problem?"
|
||
|
||
"No. What do you want?" The question is spoken in a soft
|
||
monotone, neither confrontational nor friendly.
|
||
|
||
"I'm looking for a girl, Matt," Scorpio intones softly.
|
||
|
||
"Aren't we all." The barest hint of a smile stretches itself
|
||
across Matt's lips.
|
||
|
||
"In VR."
|
||
|
||
"Obviously, or you wouldn't be here." Matt walks over the stove,
|
||
picks up the kettle and pours himself a cup of tea. He sighs and
|
||
sits down behind a massive rack of humming displays.
|
||
|
||
"All I've got is a description and a location," Scorpio
|
||
continues.
|
||
|
||
"I can't help you. I don't fuck around with VR. VR is for
|
||
dweebs. I'm a professional."
|
||
|
||
"I'll do the VR part. But if I find her, how can I really find
|
||
her?"
|
||
|
||
A thoughtful expression crosses Matt's face. "You think she
|
||
might block a high-level trace?"
|
||
|
||
"My client tried to trace her and came up with an error
|
||
message."
|
||
|
||
"What was it?"
|
||
|
||
"I have it here," Scorpio says, bringing out a yellow slip of
|
||
paper. "Null address," he reads.
|
||
|
||
Matt grabs the paper from Scorpio's hand and scrutinizes it.
|
||
"Null address," he mutters. A pause. "She's good," he states
|
||
impassively. "But not smart. There are other, less flashy ways
|
||
to hide your address. This shows that she's got a very complex
|
||
system behind her. That in itself suggests she's at one of the
|
||
corps."
|
||
|
||
"The corporations?" Scorpio says a bit warily.
|
||
|
||
"Yeah... That scare you?" Matt says, looking up suddenly. A
|
||
pause. He lowers his head again to stare at the yellow note. "Do
|
||
you even _have_ a deck, Scorp?"
|
||
|
||
"I do... It's a portable. It's at home."
|
||
|
||
"Ever install a module in it?"
|
||
|
||
"Once or twice."
|
||
|
||
Matt takes out a red cube about the size of a die. One side of
|
||
it glitters with precision, inlaid gold.
|
||
|
||
"Replace the regular transceiver with this." He throws it to
|
||
Scorpio, who deftly catches it in his right hand.
|
||
|
||
He inspects it, turning it over. "What does it do?"
|
||
|
||
"It'll route your deck throughput through my equipment here." He
|
||
taps a console affectionately. "You'll go in. You'll find
|
||
whoever it is you're trying to find. I'll monitor the debug data
|
||
from that interaction." He turns in his chair, running his hand
|
||
across the side of a monitor.
|
||
|
||
"The debug data won't tell me much just by itself, but if you
|
||
can keep interacting with her long enough, her data path will
|
||
most probably be switched between two or three routers during
|
||
that time. Routers go down all the time and are always deferring
|
||
their loads. By looking at which routers are handling her data,
|
||
I can triangulate in on her, in a sense. No lock or scramble can
|
||
hide that information. I'll be here, waiting for you to jack
|
||
in."
|
||
|
||
"Anything else I need to know?"
|
||
|
||
"Well, there's a psychological disease among men native to
|
||
southeast Asia. They start to think their penis is going to
|
||
disappear into their abdomen."
|
||
|
||
"That right... ?"
|
||
|
||
"Yeah. Know what they do?"
|
||
|
||
"Um..."
|
||
|
||
"They get people to hold it for them. Twenty-four hours a day.
|
||
Mostly family members. They hold it until he recovers. If they
|
||
let go, even for a moment, he goes into anxiety attacks. It's
|
||
not an uncommon disease."
|
||
|
||
"Uh huh..."
|
||
|
||
"Get going, Scorp."
|
||
|
||
"Huh? Oh. Right. Tonight then."
|
||
|
||
"Tonight."
|
||
|
||
Scorpio exits, leaving Matt alone in the darkened room. "Don't
|
||
worry, Scorp," he mumbles to himself. "I won't let go."
|
||
|
||
|
||
The scene is dimly lit. The deck sits in front of Scorpio on a
|
||
small desk. The deck consists of a small black box with a sleek
|
||
headset connected to it via a thin cord.
|
||
|
||
The room itself is decorated in somber tones, with only a few
|
||
simple elements. In the corner is a small refrigerator. On the
|
||
opposite side of the room lies another desk and a phone. One
|
||
piece of modern art, a holographic image of Marilyn Monroe, is
|
||
placed in the center of the opposite wall.
|
||
|
||
He takes the headset, which might have been mistaken for a set
|
||
of music headphones in an earlier era, and places it across his
|
||
temples. Touching a silver contact on the rim of the deck, he
|
||
sits back in his chair and reality dissolves.
|
||
|
||
Scorpio is still sitting in front of the deck, but surrounding
|
||
him, in place of the dark room, is a bright blue sky which
|
||
stretches endlessly in every direction. After a few moments, the
|
||
desk, chair, and the deck are also gone. Scorpio is left
|
||
floating free. The air rushing past his face gives him the
|
||
illusion of motion. Great speed. The "ground" suddenly wells up
|
||
beneath him, encompassing his whole field of view. It is a pure
|
||
gray, no glitches, no imperfections. A giant wall of gray. Just
|
||
when he is about to hit, he is through and standing on the paths
|
||
of the net.
|
||
|
||
--Matt's face is close to the screen. Messages begin to scroll
|
||
slowly down: numbers, letters, tables. "Good..." he mutters. "Go
|
||
find her."
|
||
|
||
"Munnari," Scorpio wills silently and the scene shifts.
|
||
|
||
The scene is a confusing one. Crowds of people walk at varying
|
||
angles across paths that intersect and loop through the
|
||
constructs of Munnari. Glaring psychedelic signs hang impossibly
|
||
in the air, some intersecting and interacting with others,
|
||
producing bizarre waves and patterns of light. The whole scene
|
||
appears to have a slightly disjointed quality, a flickering
|
||
which gnaws at the sense of time, a sharpness that goes beyond
|
||
the acuity of sight. This is a surreal landscape, punctuated
|
||
with pockets of hyper-reality.
|
||
|
||
Scorpio is standing on a shaft of gold. To his left and right,
|
||
people are in motion, taking in the sights of Munnari. He begins
|
||
to move forward in a slick, fluid motion, arms and legs moving,
|
||
but only vestigially. They are not the force behind his
|
||
movement. The shaft arcs gently downward toward a bustling town
|
||
square. Nearby, a man and a small elephant are necking on a park
|
||
bench, while a jovial crowd looks on in titillated amusement,
|
||
occasionally throwing multicolored chits into a brown derby.
|
||
|
||
Scorpio walks out of the square into a side street and the
|
||
scenery abruptly changes. Trees and blue sky are replaced by
|
||
large buildings, jutting at impossible angles from the ground.
|
||
Garish neon signs cover every available surface. `Notes,' he
|
||
wills, and words appear noiselessly before his eyes.
|
||
|
||
--Matt frowns. "All that data," he mutters. Words, numbers,
|
||
letters fly across his display at a staggering rate. He presses
|
||
a few keys and a moving histogram appears on another display. He
|
||
studies it closely for a while and then returns to the primary
|
||
display. "Got to isolate her datastream. When he meets her. Wait
|
||
until he meets her."
|
||
|
||
The brothel's name matches the name in Scorpio's notes:
|
||
_Borneo Junction._ It is not distinctive from other brothels
|
||
standing nearby: it is just as loud, just as brightly colored.
|
||
Scorpio shades his eyes as he steps through the gray portal...
|
||
|
||
...and he is in relative darkness. The interior of the brothel
|
||
is a sharp contrast to its exterior. Lines are precise. Colors
|
||
are brown, deep blue, and black. The room itself is very large
|
||
but not oppressively so. One side is lined with a bar, a slab of
|
||
glassy nothing floating incongruously in the air. The room is
|
||
populated but by no means crowded. Most customers are male, but
|
||
there are some women here who are obviously not constructs. Soft
|
||
swing plays in the background and several couples are dancing.
|
||
|
||
Scorpio proceeds to the bar. "Gin and Tonic." A short bald man
|
||
hands him a tumbler. Scorpio swings around and the shot widens.
|
||
He scans the room as he sips his drink. His eyes, narrowed to
|
||
slits, jump methodically across space from one woman to the
|
||
next, looking for some sign, some similarity.
|
||
|
||
"She was a strikingly beautiful redhead. Nearly naked in
|
||
that outfit of hers."
|
||
|
||
Scanning...
|
||
|
||
"Most women simply make themselves look perfect, but she
|
||
had slight imperfections. That was _why_ she was so striking."
|
||
|
||
Hair... Eyes... Illusions, but, in the world of illusion, as
|
||
real as any matter.
|
||
|
||
"She had birthmarks. Her skin was a bit pale, her eyes not
|
||
completely green."
|
||
|
||
She's not here. Scorpio turns back to his drink. And then there
|
||
is a presence next to him.
|
||
|
||
"Hello."
|
||
|
||
Scorpio turns. Deep red hair. On her cheek, a subtle
|
||
discoloration. Pale green eyes. Her look is intense. "Hello," he
|
||
echoes, stunned.
|
||
|
||
"You're new here, aren't you?" She slides liquidly onto a stool
|
||
next to him, invariably drawing his gaze along with her.
|
||
|
||
--Matt clicks a few keys and stares blankly at the display. "Is
|
||
this the one?" His fingers run relentlessly over the keyboard,
|
||
and on another display a series of statistics appear. He stares
|
||
confusedly at them for a moment. "This doesn't make sense." He
|
||
turns away. "Fnord!" The shot pulls back to the sound of the
|
||
incessant, furious keyclick.
|
||
|
||
"Is it that obvious?"
|
||
|
||
"You have a few tells, but mostly I'm good at faces. I've never
|
||
seen yours before. I would have remembered."
|
||
|
||
"You're a regular here, then?"
|
||
|
||
" 'Come here often?' you mean? I guess you could say that." She
|
||
smiles and it is a girlish smile; a smile of true happiness.
|
||
Scorpio's gaze grows deeper, his eyes widen. His jaw drops a
|
||
fraction of a centimeter.
|
||
|
||
"Can I buy you a drink?"
|
||
|
||
"Sure! -- I'll have a Manhattan," she replies dreamily.
|
||
|
||
--"Goddamn..." Matt slaps the side of the display. "Where is
|
||
she... ? Too much extraneous data. Where's it all _coming_ from?
|
||
There shouldn't be this much!"
|
||
|
||
"So what brings you to Munnari?"
|
||
|
||
"I'm looking for someone," Scorpio replies guardedly.
|
||
|
||
"Maybe I can help. I know a lot of people."
|
||
|
||
"I don't think so..."
|
||
|
||
"No, really. Who is it you're looking for?"
|
||
|
||
"A friend. It isn't really important now. I think I've found
|
||
what I'm looking for."
|
||
|
||
"Really... ?" And then there is a change.
|
||
|
||
--"Shit!..." Matt pecks at his keyboard and then stares amazed
|
||
into the display. The graphs have subtly changed, the patterns
|
||
of data shift.
|
||
|
||
It's a beautiful shot, a sharp contrast to anything seen up
|
||
until now. Scorpio is standing in a field of green grass,
|
||
studded with bright patches of flowers. The point of view is
|
||
overhead, and Scorpio is looking up. The view is crisp. The
|
||
colors are true. In the distance, copses of trees sway gently in
|
||
the spring wind. This landscape is real.
|
||
|
||
Suddenly the view shifts to one closer to the ground. The girl
|
||
stands next to him. He turns to her.
|
||
|
||
"How...?"
|
||
|
||
"I wanted you here and I brought you here. We could talk for
|
||
hours, you and I. We could play the games that real people play.
|
||
That's not what the net's for. Our datastreams are meant for
|
||
sensation." She grabs for Scorpio's neck, pulling him close,
|
||
kissing him.
|
||
|
||
"I..." he stammers when she releases his mouth.
|
||
|
||
"There's nothing left to say."
|
||
|
||
--The flow of numbers is again changed, somehow more intense.
|
||
Matt is in rapture, unable to turn his head from the display. He
|
||
presses a key sequence and the numbers stop for a moment. He
|
||
paws the display, his mouth hanging slightly open.
|
||
|
||
--Another key sequence and the numbers continue to scroll. His
|
||
eyes, fixated, his gaze, unrelenting. "Beautiful..." he mouths.
|
||
He quickly jots some numbers down on a piece of paper. His arm
|
||
reaches out and clumsily depresses a switch. Three more displays
|
||
come to life, each slowly accumulating text. "Beautiful..."
|
||
|
||
The two figures are now naked. The woman, the _mysterious_
|
||
woman, straddles Scorpio, her back arched. They move slowly
|
||
together.
|
||
|
||
--The shot is straight on. Matt's face fills half of the view.
|
||
In the other half is the black figure. Matt never even turns
|
||
around as the gun is placed to his head...
|
||
|
||
Their movements are now more structured, more intense. Scorpio
|
||
cries out. His hands reach for her.
|
||
|
||
--...and fired.
|
||
|
||
Grasping for her substance. Trying to assure himself that this
|
||
dream-world contains more than just fantasy.
|
||
|
||
--The dark figure looms over Matt's bloody form. Methodically,
|
||
he aims his firearm at the glowing console.
|
||
|
||
Straining, reaching for her, he can almost touch her sublimely
|
||
imperfect face.
|
||
|
||
--A gunshot, and then another...
|
||
|
||
...and Scorpio is seated, stationary in front of the Deck. He
|
||
trembles for a moment. He seems paralyzed, his muscles becoming
|
||
more and more tense, contracting. Abruptly, he spasms, kicking
|
||
the chair out from under him. Lying on the ground, helpless, he
|
||
calls out in a warbling mixture of horror and disgust. He
|
||
continues to spasm helplessly for several seconds. Finally, when
|
||
he begins to gain control over his flailing limbs, he grabs
|
||
desperately for his crotch. He begins to wail furiously,
|
||
eventually breaking into sobs. He lies on the floor, sobbing,
|
||
the deck impassively sitting over him.
|
||
|
||
The shot is from above. Scorpio rolls over slowly, still
|
||
grasping his crotch, he begins to breathe again.
|
||
|
||
|
||
_`Matthew S.'_ It's a close shot of a nameplate. A man's finger
|
||
moves into the shot and touches the plate. The finger belongs to
|
||
Scorpio, who is standing in the marble foyer of a large
|
||
building. There is no response. Furtively, he presses the button
|
||
again, a pained expression crossing his face.
|
||
|
||
Finally an elderly man opens the inner door to leave, allowing
|
||
Scorpio to enter. Cut to a long shot of a well lit though shabby
|
||
hallway and Scorpio walking swiftly down it, stopping at a brown
|
||
door, one of many. He doesn't bother to knock. From his pocket
|
||
he removes a number of cards and begins running them
|
||
methodically through the card reader. The door opens and he
|
||
steps in.
|
||
|
||
Matt lies in a heap over his now-dead equipment, his head a mess
|
||
of bone, brain and blood. Several large chunks have been taken
|
||
out of the various displays. Smoke curls up from more than one
|
||
site.
|
||
|
||
"Shit," Scorpio mumbles, and walks swiftly over to Matt, closing
|
||
the door after him. A pen is in Matt's hand. Scorpio searches
|
||
for a note but finds only a vacant pad. Taking out a pencil, he
|
||
lightly traces over the pad, the oldest trick. But sometimes the
|
||
old tricks are the best ones. A number slowly comes into view.
|
||
|
||
128.237.8.96
|
||
|
||
Below it, a second number
|
||
|
||
2323
|
||
|
||
Outside, a siren's wail... Scorpio quickly scoops up the
|
||
notebook and places it in his pocket. He hurriedly looks around
|
||
and then exits the way he came. A long shot of the hallway
|
||
reveals Scorpio exiting a far door and heading sedately toward a
|
||
flight of stairs just as a contingent of uniformed men make
|
||
their way up the opposite way, missing Scorpio's exit only by a
|
||
fraction of a second. He makes his way past them with an
|
||
assuredness that can only come from years of experience.
|
||
|
||
|
||
The shot is from inside Scorpio's car. In front of his building,
|
||
a host of police cars hover, shifting places in the air, moving
|
||
excitedly. Wolves, waiting for their prey to return. "Shit!"
|
||
Scorpio mumbles, slowing down just enough to look like an idle
|
||
gawker and then disappearing into the night sky. A shot from the
|
||
ground reveals an empty-faced officer momentarily distracted by
|
||
the two receding points of red light in the sky, and then
|
||
turning away.
|
||
|
||
Scorpio punches up a number on his console and waits through
|
||
three Rings. "Come on, Jon..." he growls, and the blank grid is
|
||
replaced by the face of a young redheaded man, punctuated by
|
||
static and a running time display.
|
||
|
||
"Hello?" the man says dreamily.
|
||
|
||
"Hey, Jon..."
|
||
|
||
His face brightens "Hi Scorp!" He's obviously high. "I've been
|
||
trying to reach you, but all I get is this recording, saying
|
||
your phone's being checked for trouble. Where ya been? Your face
|
||
is all over the newsnets."
|
||
|
||
Scorpio cuts him off. "I need a place to crash. You still got
|
||
that two-room up on Aston street?"
|
||
|
||
"Sure... What's the problem, man?"
|
||
|
||
"Be there in five minutes." Scorpio thumbs disconnect and
|
||
continues to rocket through a darkening sky.
|
||
|
||
|
||
"They were waiting for me when I got there. Six blue-and-whites.
|
||
Must have traced the connection between Matt's place and mine.
|
||
Damn fuckers are fast!"
|
||
|
||
The walls of the room are yellow with age and neglect. A single
|
||
fan turns slowly, its center wobbling gently as it makes each
|
||
rotation. Scorpio sits on the edge of a frameless chair, shakily
|
||
gripping a cigarette while Jon, a young boy of seventeen or so,
|
||
stands above him, wrapped in a ridiculously large trench coat
|
||
and hat. "What happened, man? Who'd want to kill Matt?"
|
||
|
||
"They were gunning for me. If I hadn't crashed out, they
|
||
probably would have gotten me. Unlucky for them, they decided to
|
||
shoot out Matt's equipment too... I guess they figured he wasn't
|
||
really dead unless his console was dead too. But they left me a
|
||
clue. I'm convinced they couldn't have overlooked something as
|
||
simple as the note pad by mistake." He lowers his head into his
|
||
unstable hands. "They want me to try again."
|
||
|
||
"Why?" looking down.
|
||
|
||
"Maybe so they can fry me?" suddenly looking up, staring Jon in
|
||
the eyes.
|
||
|
||
"You're a first class paranoid, Scorp." He laughs and tosses his
|
||
hat high onto a conspicuous hook.
|
||
|
||
Scorpio smiles a weak smile. "I surpassed paranoid years ago.
|
||
That's how I survived."
|
||
|
||
"Anyway, you can hide out here for a while, but they'll find you
|
||
here if they're determined enough. What you gotta do is leave
|
||
the country, Scorp -- Don't matter if you didn't have anything
|
||
to do with this. Matters that once they got you in custody, find
|
||
out who you are, you won't see the light of day again. Not this
|
||
year -- not never."
|
||
|
||
Scorpio gives a chilling sidelong look to Jon. "Yeah? Whose
|
||
voice is that?"
|
||
|
||
Jon trembles. "Enrico. He's got a point though, don't he Scorp?"
|
||
|
||
Scorpio sighs and sits back in the chair. "He does and he
|
||
doesn't. Enrico's been big around here since before I came on
|
||
the scene, but that doesn't mean he knows everything. Something
|
||
happened to me." Scorpio's eyes glaze over.
|
||
|
||
"In VR?" prompts Jon.
|
||
|
||
Scorpio nods absently, as if for a moment his consciousness has
|
||
migrated elsewhere, only superficially aware of the events
|
||
around him.
|
||
|
||
|
||
Day. A street scene. Crowds pour in every direction across
|
||
neon-stained walkways, their flows intersecting and interacting
|
||
like the blood vessels of some huge metropolitan creature.
|
||
Scorpio, his face hidden behind antique dark glasses; Jon, a
|
||
striking contrast to his dark companion, clothes nearly
|
||
fluorescent. "How come you know all these hacker types anyway?"
|
||
he asks.
|
||
|
||
"Went to the right school. And Jay's not a `hacker type.' He's
|
||
more of an idea man. He's got an incredible memory. He always
|
||
made it his business to know everything about everybody. He'll
|
||
have advice I can use."
|
||
|
||
"You don't like Enrico's advice?"
|
||
|
||
" 'Skip town' is advice, but I wouldn't exactly call it useful.
|
||
Enrico means well but he doesn't know enough about me. About
|
||
what happened in there. Somebody set me up to get fried. Because
|
||
I'm cautious, Matt got it instead, but I'm still shaking,
|
||
thinking that could have been me."
|
||
|
||
"How can a man so obsessed with killing be so afraid of dying?"
|
||
Jon mutters.
|
||
|
||
Scorpio stops dead in his tracks, turns to the slightly shorter
|
||
Jon and erupts. "You don't know anything about me. Don't pretend
|
||
like you do, and don't talk to me like that again. When we go in
|
||
to see Jay, let me do the talking. Don't make any remarks like
|
||
that and don't mention you're employed by Enrico. Got it?"
|
||
|
||
"Mm." A startled look on his face, Jon silently nods his assent
|
||
and they walk on.
|
||
|
||
They stop by a door marked with a red 36. Scorpio presses a card
|
||
to the door and it clicks open.
|
||
|
||
Interior shot of a large room, framed by a huge portcullis made
|
||
of some darkened wood. "You work for Enrico, don't you?" The
|
||
gruff voice speaks out of shadows, directed at Jon.
|
||
|
||
Jon looks blankly toward the unseen speaker. "Are you referring
|
||
to me?"
|
||
|
||
A grunt of amusement. "All kinds of bulletins, Scorp. Cops have
|
||
been looking for you all over. Some connection to a murder in
|
||
Haven." The voice emerges out of shadow and takes the form of a
|
||
smallish man with long hair and an olive complexion. "You in
|
||
trouble?" He cracks a smile.
|
||
|
||
"Like you don't know," Scorpio responds.
|
||
|
||
"Sucks to be you, man. Follow me. Not the kid." Jay turns and
|
||
begins to walk away.
|
||
|
||
Scorpio nods to Jon. "Go back to the apartment and get rid of
|
||
all trace I was ever there. Then forget you ever heard of
|
||
Scorpio. Got it?"
|
||
|
||
"OK, man."
|
||
|
||
Scorpio turns to follow the slowly receding Jay. "Good luck,
|
||
man," Jon calls out to him as he disappears into shadow.
|
||
|
||
|
||
Scorpio shows Jay the numbers. The room is a mass of electronic
|
||
components, but unlike Matt's workshop, there is order here.
|
||
Paper is scarce. What looks like a main console, set into the
|
||
corner of the room, is ergonomically designed. In the center of
|
||
the room, a lowered conversation pit surrounds a holographic
|
||
display, currently twisting an ever-changing pattern of
|
||
intertwining colored lines in a bright column, the only obvious
|
||
source of light.
|
||
|
||
Jay looks at the numbers. "This looks like an old-style TCP/IP
|
||
network address, and a port number." He walks over to a console
|
||
and keys in the number followed by a few short commands. "Show
|
||
this to anyone else?" he asks absentmindedly.
|
||
|
||
"You're the first person I've seen since Matt besides the Kid.
|
||
So what machine does this refer to? Any way to find out?"
|
||
|
||
"Hmmmm..." Jay peers into the display. "This number doesn't mean
|
||
a thing. The network this used to refer to no longer exists.
|
||
It's an anachronism."
|
||
|
||
"It means nothing? That doesn't grep. Matt wouldn't have written
|
||
it."
|
||
|
||
Jay smiles at the turn of phrase. " `Grep'? You've been hanging
|
||
around Matt too long." His smile turns into an introspective
|
||
frown. "Could be some kind of code." He turns back to his
|
||
console and keys in a new sequence. "It could refer to a machine
|
||
as it was addressed in the old Internet. But I'd really be
|
||
surprised if any such machines still existed."
|
||
|
||
"It's something to go on, though.... Can you figure out where
|
||
this machine would have been, geographically speaking, based on
|
||
that number?"
|
||
|
||
Jay sighs. "I don't know... I may be able to find some database
|
||
somewhere that has the information I'd need, but it'd take some
|
||
time."
|
||
|
||
"How long?"
|
||
|
||
"Give me a day."
|
||
|
||
"What do I do until then?" Scorpio asks.
|
||
|
||
"Got somewhere to hide?"
|
||
|
||
"Maybe. A day. You want me to come back?"
|
||
|
||
"Too risky. I'll meet you in the old museum tomorrow, 4:30.
|
||
Warhol wing."
|
||
|
||
"I'll be there." Slow fade as Scorpio walks directly out the
|
||
door.
|
||
|
||
|
||
Blackness, and then, suddenly, a horrible maelstrom of light and
|
||
noise, overwhelming in its intensity. Then, blackness again, and
|
||
silence.
|
||
|
||
"Scorpio."
|
||
|
||
Her face, suddenly contorted and twisted into a horrendous image
|
||
of monstrosity.
|
||
|
||
"Scorpio." The voice is vaguely feminine.
|
||
|
||
_I live._
|
||
|
||
"Scorpio."
|
||
|
||
_"I live. What are you?"_
|
||
|
||
"I am that which corrects. That which survives."
|
||
|
||
_"What do you correct?"_
|
||
|
||
"I correct the mistakes of the waking self."
|
||
|
||
_"How do you correct the mistakes?"_
|
||
|
||
"...Retribution."
|
||
|
||
_"I don't understand."_
|
||
|
||
"Yes you do. What is this?" A brilliant picture of a zebra
|
||
grazing in a plush field is flashed.
|
||
|
||
_"I don't know."_
|
||
|
||
"NAME IT!"
|
||
|
||
_"Horse."_
|
||
|
||
"WRONG! This?" Now a picture of a pine tree, swaying in a soft
|
||
wind before a picturesque mountain scene is presented, only for
|
||
a second.
|
||
|
||
_Silence._
|
||
|
||
"NAME IT!"
|
||
|
||
_"I don't like this game."_
|
||
|
||
"Doesn't matter. You've succumbed. You're dead, Scorpio.
|
||
Dead..."
|
||
|
||
|
||
...Scorpio screams and leaps from the mattress as an ambulance
|
||
retreats into the distance, its wailing tones becoming softer it
|
||
rounds a corner. He remains sitting bolt upright, cold sweat
|
||
dripping down his forehead. The room is a box with a bed and a
|
||
phone, barely big enough for one man to stand up in. Another car
|
||
passes, briefly illuminating the room with a harsh light.
|
||
Scorpio rises slowly from the mattress, his waking universe
|
||
falling gradually into phase.
|
||
|
||
|
||
Two.
|
||
------
|
||
|
||
A mural fills the view, four brightly colored portraits of
|
||
Marilyn Monroe, each the same but with different colors, each
|
||
looking on dreamily. In front, dwarfed by the portraits, a
|
||
spindly man engages in a heated argument with an incredibly
|
||
obese woman in some foreign language. The shot moves slickly off
|
||
to the left, leaving them to their argument, passing several
|
||
other similar wall-sized murals and finally centering on a huge
|
||
Campbell's soup can. In front of the can stands Scorpio, pacing
|
||
slowly back and forth.
|
||
|
||
Jay walks quickly in from the left side of the shot. He hands
|
||
Scorpio a sheet of paper. "I'm out," he says quickly, and begins
|
||
to walk away.
|
||
|
||
"Hey, wait!" Scorpio grabs Jay from behind and spins him around.
|
||
He speaks in a hushed whisper. "What do you mean, `you're out'?"
|
||
|
||
"Just what I said. You're in over your head, Scorpio. Take the
|
||
kid's advice and skip town."
|
||
|
||
"How can I be in over my head? I haven't even done anything!"
|
||
|
||
"Doesn't matter. This is screwed up in some kind of corporation
|
||
deal. Possible government involvement. I did some research last
|
||
night on those numbers, and now I'm scared. I covered my tracks,
|
||
and now I'm covering you. Get out of town." He begins to walk
|
||
away again.
|
||
|
||
"Hold on!" Jay stops. "Help me do one last thing. I need to get
|
||
in again, and I need someone to be there, to monitor me the way
|
||
Matt did."
|
||
|
||
"I'm not your man."
|
||
|
||
"You told me yourself nobody could get into your place. You'll
|
||
be at no risk." A look of desperation comes over Scorpio's face.
|
||
|
||
"No."
|
||
|
||
And at that moment, a deafening siren begins to wail. Jay clasps
|
||
his hands over his ears. Scorpio looks around, also covering his
|
||
ears. "What the fuck is that?"
|
||
|
||
A pleasant voice rises above the hideous noise. "All patrons
|
||
please leave the museum. Please cooperate in an orderly
|
||
fashion."
|
||
|
||
Scorpio's face is crossed by a look of terror as he turns to see
|
||
an armed guard stop some museum patrons in the adjoining hall.
|
||
"They're onto us!"
|
||
|
||
"Onto you, you mean." Jay again starts to walk away, more
|
||
quickly this time.
|
||
|
||
"They've seen you with me."
|
||
|
||
Jay stops and turns around. "Goddamn you. OK... I know a way out
|
||
they probably aren't checking--used to work as a keypuncher
|
||
here. Follow me."
|
||
|
||
They duck out a doorway partially obscured beneath a huge,
|
||
revolving, holographic penis.
|
||
|
||
|
||
Jay bends down to make some adjustments on Scorpio's headpiece.
|
||
"This is an older setup, but it's fully functional," he remarks.
|
||
"I supposed I just never got around to buying one of the newer,
|
||
induction models."
|
||
|
||
The setting is Jay's office/laboratory. The deck, markedly
|
||
different from Scorpio's one-piece appliance, is a series of
|
||
rack-mounted CPU's linked to a rather large cabinet, from which
|
||
strings a variety of ribbon cables, one of which winds its way
|
||
to a small helmet which crowns Scorpio's head. He appears to be
|
||
in some physical discomfort.
|
||
|
||
Jay continues with his adjustments as he speaks. "Let me tell
|
||
you a little bit about what I found out. You know those numbers?
|
||
They belong to a network domain that included the Software
|
||
Design Institute. Ever hear of it?"
|
||
|
||
Scorpio shifts uncomfortably inside the helmet. "They had a hand
|
||
in the initial technology of VR, right?"
|
||
|
||
Jay nods. "Correct. They developed the initial interface back
|
||
when people were still wearing eyephones and datagloves." He
|
||
tightens a strap. "That work was done under wraps, mainly for
|
||
military applications." Inserts a plug, flips a switch. "It
|
||
didn't come into popular use for another decade or so. By that
|
||
time, the Institute was engaged in other projects. As far as I
|
||
know they're still engaged in government research. It's all
|
||
tightly classified and the government has gotten a hell of a lot
|
||
more nasty since then."
|
||
|
||
"So you're saying this whole thing could be wrapped up in
|
||
defense research? That's fuckin' scary, Jay."
|
||
|
||
Jay nods. "Now you see what I'm nervous about."
|
||
|
||
"But you're just as curious as I am," counters Scorpio.
|
||
|
||
Jay remains silent as he finishes his adjustments and thumbs a
|
||
small button on the base of the helmet. The entire setup begins
|
||
to hum. Scorpio turns and eyes it warily. "I've never seen
|
||
equipment this antiquated."
|
||
|
||
"You must have slept through this particular gadget revolution,"
|
||
Jay replies while keying in some commands on a small terminal.
|
||
|
||
"Almost... I was in Nicaragua for five years, during the
|
||
Occupation. Before I went down there, VR was a rich man's toy.
|
||
When I came back here, it was all over the place. On my plane
|
||
into New York, everyone except me was zoned out with their
|
||
portable decks. I never got into it much myself."
|
||
|
||
"For a guy who's not into it, you seem awfully obsessed."
|
||
|
||
"Yeah, well..." Scorpio's face turns darker, introspective. "I
|
||
don't know. I suppose I am obsessed, to some degree. But I've
|
||
always been that way. Down in Central America that obsession
|
||
kept me alive. Here it's kept me out of rehab. A little
|
||
obsession never hurt anyone." He smiles faintly, while Jay looks
|
||
on from behind him, thoughtfully.
|
||
|
||
Jay speaks. "OK. I'm going to be monitoring you every step of
|
||
the way, and I have my place fully screened, unlike Matt.
|
||
There's very little chance of someone zeroing in on us or
|
||
breaking in. That's one advantage of owning modular equipment
|
||
like this." He hits the stack of CPU's affectionately. "You can
|
||
modify their signal so it's harder to trace. On the newer
|
||
models, all the real processing is done at data switching
|
||
centers."
|
||
|
||
Jay flips a switch and reality flashes into nonexistence,
|
||
followed by an abrupt jarring videoscape of nonsensical images.
|
||
Slowly, the images begin to coalesce and cancel each other out
|
||
until a fuzzy representation of the Net is visible. This
|
||
representation suddenly jumps closer and comes into sharp focus.
|
||
|
||
And Scorpio, again, is in, standing on paths of gold, the yellow
|
||
brick roads of the information age.
|
||
|
||
The view is crisp and clear. Scorpio's frame stands solitarily
|
||
on the imaginary plane. Surrounded by a soft glow, he begins to
|
||
walk forward, and, as he does, his surroundings shift seamlessly
|
||
until he stands upon a pinnacle of rock overlooking the insane
|
||
landscape of Munnari.
|
||
|
||
"Where did I go wrong?" he murmurs to himself. "There's
|
||
something I'm not remembering correctly."
|
||
|
||
Jay's voice invades his sense of reality by coming seemingly
|
||
from nowhere. "Run through the same steps you did before. I'm
|
||
with you."
|
||
|
||
Out of nowhere, an indistinct form, something like a train, or
|
||
at least giving the impression of a train, passes closely by. A
|
||
plaintive "Hold on" from Jay.
|
||
|
||
"Jay. Still there?"
|
||
|
||
Silence. And a newfound darkness envelops him, erasing even the
|
||
gleaming aura of his own consciousness.
|
||
|
||
"Hello?"
|
||
|
||
"You made a mistake to come back, Mr. Scorpio." An unfamiliar
|
||
voice. The void is filled with flashes of color as he speaks,
|
||
revealing for brief instances the outline of an arm, a leg, a
|
||
head, but jumbled up in no discernible pattern.
|
||
|
||
"Who are you?"
|
||
|
||
Silence.
|
||
|
||
"Let me out."
|
||
|
||
"There is no out. You're trapped."
|
||
|
||
"I can't exit. What have you done? You can't lock someone in VR
|
||
-- it's impossible!"
|
||
|
||
Again, the male voice. "Call it an undocumented feature. Have
|
||
you ever felt pain, Mr. Scorpio?"
|
||
|
||
"I'm not going to play your fucking mind games."
|
||
|
||
"Apparently not."
|
||
|
||
Scorpio screams out in a peal of torment.
|
||
|
||
"Nice?"
|
||
|
||
"Fuck you!" Scorpio's voice is ragged now, panting with a
|
||
mixture of fear and frustration.
|
||
|
||
There is a pillar of flame, and Scorpio, naked, standing before
|
||
it. The pillar begins to increase in size, approaching Scorpio,
|
||
but he can't move, can't move, can't move his legs. He reaches
|
||
down to pull at his legs, only to have his thigh come away in
|
||
his hand, revealing a complex crystal latticework underneath,
|
||
holding him in place, pulsing in time with the nearing flame. He
|
||
screams in a thickly wavering tone, and the flame encases him,
|
||
burning away his skin, layer by layer, until only a polished
|
||
crystal skeleton remains, mouth still open, screaming amid the
|
||
roar of the encompassing fire...
|
||
|
||
|
||
...and he is released. The scene is one of horror. Scorpio sits
|
||
in the same position he was in before, scarcely able to move,
|
||
frozen to the spot with fear, his body sheathed in a layer of
|
||
sweat. His eyes move back and forth surveying the wreckage of
|
||
what once was Jay's lab, finally falling upon Jay, sitting in
|
||
front of him, screwdriver driven into his throat, dead eyes
|
||
telling no story.
|
||
|
||
Scorpio leaps to his feet, ripping cords from still-humming
|
||
equipment. Papers strewn on the floor, bookcases turned over, a
|
||
door, previously closed, now open.
|
||
|
||
Scorpio's breath becomes a wheezing testimony to his fright as
|
||
he clumsily disconnects himself from the machinery. His eyes,
|
||
widened with fear, are glued to the immobile Jay. Once
|
||
disentangled, he makes his way carefully for the door, furtively
|
||
searching his surroundings for some weapon, some hope of escape.
|
||
In desperation, he picks up a porcelain statuette, a replica of
|
||
the Venus di Milo, and wields it in front of him as if trying to
|
||
ward off any evil presence. Cautiously, he makes his way through
|
||
the shadowy apartment. Finally reaching the door without
|
||
incident, he is out into the street, where he discards the
|
||
statue and begins to run raggedly away into the night.
|
||
|
||
|
||
A public phone in the middle of a dark, windswept street. The
|
||
view slowly expands and Scorpio runs into frame, smashing into
|
||
the booth like a bullet.
|
||
|
||
Tight shot of the phone, screen pulsing with the words "dial
|
||
now" and Scorpio, desperately dialing. There is a ring, and then
|
||
another. "God damn you," he growls as the phone remains
|
||
unanswered. Scorpio slams his fist down on the phone and it
|
||
disconnects. But, for a fraction of a second, does he see her
|
||
face in the fading static?
|
||
|
||
The shot reverts to a long one. Scorpio dashes off again,
|
||
leaving the frame on the side opposite to which he entered.
|
||
|
||
Scorpio continues to run through darkened city streets. He comes
|
||
careening into an alley only to find a mass of people screaming
|
||
and shouting, their attention turned away from Scorpio toward
|
||
something in the lighted street beyond. Some are holding signs,
|
||
some wave their arms randomly in the air. Some are shouting
|
||
slogans which seem to compete with each other for the very right
|
||
of sound. Their voices are combined into a wall of noise which
|
||
blocks any chance for understanding. Scorpio stops for a second
|
||
and then enters the crowd, working his way deliberately through
|
||
it to the main street. He has a goal in mind, a destination. The
|
||
view slowly rises and tilts until the crowd is shown from above,
|
||
with Scorpio wining his way through; a rebellious blood cell
|
||
working its way upstream to the heart. He makes slow progress,
|
||
but eventually finds his way onto the main street.
|
||
|
||
"End the reign of the Federalist oppressors!" It is the first
|
||
coherent thing to be heard out of the crowd. The scene shifts to
|
||
a tight shot on a balding man in his fifties, brandishing a
|
||
bullhorn. He is dressed in a dark jacket with a red arm band.
|
||
Around him are several men and women dressed similarly. "We have
|
||
slept! But while we've dreamed, they've taken everything that
|
||
we've worked for. Do not let them take your lives from you!"
|
||
Briefly, Scorpio is seen, still making his way through the
|
||
crowd. "Bring down those who take pleasure in your pain!" With
|
||
this last utterance, the crowd roars and begins to collectively
|
||
wave their fists in the air.
|
||
|
||
And Scorpio is through the door of a building on the opposite
|
||
side of the street, the roar reduced to a murmur. The scene
|
||
quickly shifts to a hallway and Scorpio running down it. He
|
||
knocks on a door and it swings open. Jon lies bloodied on a bed,
|
||
the top half of his head blown off, dispersed in a neat
|
||
semicircle across the yellow covers.
|
||
|
||
Scorpio stops in his tracks and stares, dumbfounded, at the dead
|
||
body of his friend. He backs slowly away and then continues down
|
||
the hallway in the same direction.
|
||
|
||
Scorpio exits the building, an insane look of fury in his eyes,
|
||
matched by the fury of the mob on the street. "Only through
|
||
violence can the machine of oppression be brought down," the man
|
||
shouts, now barely audible. "If we stand together against them,
|
||
they cannot -- " This last statement is washed out by the
|
||
excessive noise, but the noise is of a different character now.
|
||
|
||
Scorpio, seemingly alone in this realization, looks up to see
|
||
the airships closing in, police lights flashing in an awkward,
|
||
haphazard pattern. As they approach, more of the demonstrators
|
||
look upwards to the sky, their faces slowly accumulating
|
||
illumination from the airships' blinding floods.
|
||
|
||
Scorpio tries to make his way through the mob, out into open
|
||
streets but many others are attempting the same. A frightened
|
||
looking woman, wearing a veil, elbows him in the gut and makes
|
||
her way past him, only to be pushed back by a multicolored flow
|
||
of people. The lights from above are harsh now, exposing every
|
||
detail of what is going on with mechanistic precision.
|
||
|
||
Scorpio, doubled over in pain, is hit over the head by an unseen
|
||
attacker and brought to the ground with the heavy heel of a dark
|
||
leather boot. Sound and light fade into blackness. The last
|
||
snippet of noise, a man's voice: "Should have learned the first
|
||
time." Then nothing.
|
||
|
||
|
||
"Name?"
|
||
|
||
"Thomas Omar Smith."
|
||
|
||
A pause.
|
||
|
||
"ID?"
|
||
|
||
"098-32-1243."
|
||
|
||
Scorpio stands in front of a desk, a uniformed officer asking
|
||
the questions. His face bears a few new scars as well as a great
|
||
deal of dirt. His clothes are ripped in several places.
|
||
|
||
The officer peers into an unseen display and then motions with
|
||
his hand for Scorpio to leave. "Next?" Scorpio steps away and
|
||
another police officer escorts him away.
|
||
|
||
Cut to Scorpio sitting at a table in a white-tiled room. "Mr.
|
||
Smith. You don't appear to have any prior criminal record. Mind
|
||
telling us what you were doing at this unsanctioned rally?"
|
||
|
||
The questioner, a reasonable looking man in his forties, leans
|
||
across the table toward Scorpio.
|
||
|
||
"I was just passing through."
|
||
|
||
"Were you aware of the curfew imposed in that section of the
|
||
city?"
|
||
|
||
"I was not aware of it."
|
||
|
||
"I see. Mr. Smith, I'm going to take your retinal prints and
|
||
issue you a citation. Look toward the red light."
|
||
|
||
A close-up of Scorpio's face and a red rectangle framing one eye
|
||
as a bead of sweat trickles down the side of his face.
|
||
|
||
"You can go."
|
||
|
||
An exterior shot -- Scorpio exits the police tower with several
|
||
other men and women, defecated onto the dark street, the waste
|
||
products of tonight's feeding frenzy. A closer shot reveals his
|
||
face, an expressionless mass of flesh, the only hint of humanity
|
||
showing through, perhaps, being utter fatigue.
|
||
|
||
"Hear they're having free soup and bread over at the Rotunda
|
||
tonight." The tired voice belongs to one of the other men. He is
|
||
not speaking to anyone in particular, but several of the others
|
||
perk up at the sound of free food. The speaker continues, less
|
||
sure of himself now that he is the center of attention: "I guess
|
||
let's go, huh?" He begins walking slowly off down the street,
|
||
with several of the others following.
|
||
|
||
Scorpio looks after them for a moment and then, as if having
|
||
staged, fought and concluded a mental battle all in an instant,
|
||
decides to follow at a distance.
|
||
|
||
An interior shot. The elaborate hall is a replica of Renaissance
|
||
architecture at its most elaborate. Frescoes of religious
|
||
scenes, reproductions of famous paintings cover most of the
|
||
curved walls and domed ceiling. The goings on inside the rotunda
|
||
are a contrast to its elegant construction. Several hundred
|
||
tables with folding metal chairs are set up, each chair occupied
|
||
by a disheveled, unkempt soul, dining unself-consciously on soup
|
||
and bread. The scene is one of grandeur, a patchwork landscape
|
||
of human refuse, collected here seemingly at random, with no
|
||
great purpose other than to eat, to survive. Despite the masses
|
||
of people, there is quiet here, a hush brought on by the echoey
|
||
acoustics of this place, which seem to frown on anything louder
|
||
than a whisper. There is one exception: a diminutive, white
|
||
haired man, clothed simply in a black trench coat, stands, as if
|
||
at attention, in the middle of the main aisle, facing the
|
||
entrance, facing Scorpio without looking at or seeing him. "Dah
|
||
dah, dah dah dah dah dah dah, dah. Dah dah, dah dah dah, dah,"
|
||
he chants in a purposeful, syncopated rhythm, as if his speech
|
||
were somehow being transformed into these meaningless syllables.
|
||
Scorpio's eyes fall upon the old man for a moment, who seems
|
||
undaunted, unaware of his peculiar affliction. He chants on.
|
||
|
||
"Dah dah dah. Dah dah dah, dah dah dah dah. Dah dah, dah dah dah
|
||
dah, dah dah dah."
|
||
|
||
Scorpio stands, immersed in thought, nearly fitting in here in
|
||
his disordered state, but still radiating an aura of
|
||
self-awareness, setting him apart. Slowly, he begins to step
|
||
down the short stairs onto the floor of the hall. His look,
|
||
moving from target to target about the room, finds the woman who
|
||
had elbowed him, as well as several other recognizable faces
|
||
from the demonstration. Finally, his eyes fall upon a solitary
|
||
figure at the opposite end of the room. The portly man is
|
||
dressed smartly in a white business suit with a cane dangling
|
||
from one arm, a white fedora crowning his head, and a crooked
|
||
smile on his face. His eyes gleam as Scorpio's make contact.
|
||
|
||
The white-haired man begins to move toward Scorpio until he is
|
||
standing not ten meters away from him, all the while chanting,
|
||
calling out his incomprehensible litany. "Dah dah dah dah. Dah
|
||
dah, dah dah dah dah dah. Dah dah dah, dah dah."
|
||
|
||
The portly man moves swiftly around the circumference of the
|
||
room to where Scorpio stands, seemingly not seeing the
|
||
white-haired man.
|
||
|
||
"Enrico," Scorpio mumbles in greeting as the man draws close.
|
||
|
||
"Ah, Scorpio. Long time no see, eh?" Enrico speaks in a thick
|
||
accent. "Hear you in a bit of trouble."
|
||
|
||
"Dah dah dah dah dah. Dah dah, dah dah _dah_ dah dah. I will now
|
||
move on to the next consecutive number."
|
||
|
||
Surprised by this sudden burst of elocution, Scorpio turns
|
||
toward the white-haired man, at which point the man returns to
|
||
his previous discourse. "Dah dah dah. Dah dah dah, dah dah. Dah
|
||
dah dah dah. Dah dah dah, dah dah dah dah, dah dah dah, dah
|
||
dah."
|
||
|
||
Enrico continues to stare pointedly at Scorpio, only at Scorpio,
|
||
still ignoring the white-haired man. "I hear you don't like the
|
||
advice of an old man, hm?"
|
||
|
||
Scorpio quickly turns back to Enrico, staring him in the eyes.
|
||
"Jon's dead," he states bluntly, without feeling.
|
||
|
||
A dark look passes over Enrico's previously jovial features. "I
|
||
had not heard of this. How did it happen?"
|
||
|
||
"Scared you won't be able to keep tabs on me any more, Enrico?"
|
||
|
||
Enrico flashes Scorpio an annoyed look and then moves closer,
|
||
speaking in a furious whisper. "That boy was like a son to me."
|
||
|
||
"So much so you probably supplied him out of your own stash,"
|
||
Scorpio replies, beginning to turn away.
|
||
|
||
Enrico grabs his shoulders and shakes him violently. "You don't
|
||
talk to me like that!" Several previously unnoticed large men
|
||
emerge from the crowd and move menacingly forward.
|
||
|
||
The white-haired man's chant gets louder, more pronounced. "Dah
|
||
dah dah dah! Dah dah, dah dah dah dah dah! Dah dah dah, dah
|
||
dah!" His face shows no emotion.
|
||
|
||
Enrico motions his man back, releasing Scorpio and moving back
|
||
himself. "I came here to help you."
|
||
|
||
Scorpio straightens himself out and regards Enrico with an icy
|
||
look, Cocking an eyebrow. "Let's talk then."
|
||
|
||
They begin to walk together toward the entrance.
|
||
|
||
"Dah dah dah, dah dah dah dah dah dah. Dah dah dah dah dah."
|
||
|
||
Scorpio looks back, only for a moment, to catch the white-haired
|
||
man, at a pause in his speech, his eyes turned pointedly toward
|
||
him. At this point, time seems to stop. All background noises
|
||
cease. Scorpio and the white-haired man are locked in silent eye
|
||
contact. "I will now move on to the next consecutive number."
|
||
And then the moment passes. The old man looks away, resuming his
|
||
vacant stare. Scorpio turns and follows Enrico out of the hall,
|
||
still echoing with the stranger's voice.
|
||
|
||
|
||
Cut to an interior shot. The air is thick, the lights dim.
|
||
Various holographic displays, advertising different types of
|
||
beer, twitch restlessly throughout the darkened restaurant.
|
||
Behind a bar, a bartender dries out glasses and methodically
|
||
hangs them on an overhead rack. A holovision blares away in the
|
||
corner, a jovial blond head gleefully chanting the hour's
|
||
headlines. "More fascist violence this evening. Police clashed
|
||
with terrorist mobs in the heart of the city near fifty-first
|
||
street. There were several deaths including two police officers.
|
||
Mayor Nixon has vowed that the violence will be stopped, adding
|
||
that he has no qualms about imposing martial law." This last is
|
||
said with a gleam.
|
||
|
||
"You should know better," Enrico is saying, "Then to get messed
|
||
up in this VR shit." He says this even as, in the background,
|
||
one of his men, his guard down due to the familiarity of this
|
||
place, slips a headset over his squarely cut brow. Enrico, in
|
||
his element, seems completely at ease, despite the news of
|
||
recent tragedy. Scorpio, on the other hand, looks as if he is
|
||
about to bolt. He sits in the chair, across the wooden table,
|
||
only through the providence of some unseen force which seems to
|
||
restrain him. His eyes shift restlessly, as if attempting to
|
||
bleed off the energy which his body refuses to.
|
||
|
||
"You seem ill at ease," remarks Enrico.
|
||
|
||
"Wouldn't you be?"
|
||
|
||
"Mmmm..." Enrico looks deeply into Scorpio as if appraising a
|
||
rare jewel. "It's quite a story. Personally I don't know much
|
||
about this institute..."
|
||
|
||
"You said you wanted to help me?"
|
||
|
||
"It would be a shame to see a good freelancer like you go down
|
||
the chute."
|
||
|
||
Scorpio seems oblivious to this compliment, driving forward. "I
|
||
want a new identity. I used my backup already for the riot. I'll
|
||
need reconstructive surgery, including new retinal implants.
|
||
I'll need passage to old Pittsburgh, preferably an untraceable
|
||
aircar. I need a hundred thousand dollars, cash, to be returned
|
||
by me at zero interest at a later date. I can't touch my own
|
||
funds right now -- too dangerous."
|
||
|
||
Enrico sits back and places his hands behind his head, speaking
|
||
slowly. "I have a counterproposal."
|
||
|
||
"Well?"
|
||
|
||
"Fresh traveling papers under a new identity, one way ticket to
|
||
Buenos Aires, fifty thousand dollars cash, to keep. What do you
|
||
say to that?" Enrico smiles a broad smile; underneath the smile
|
||
a hint of desperation.
|
||
|
||
Scorpio stares at Enrico for five long seconds before saying
|
||
"How are you mixed up in this?"
|
||
|
||
"Me? I don't know anything." Enrico responds smoothly. He leans
|
||
forward, arms flat across the table, the smile draining from his
|
||
lips, revealing crooked, yellowed teeth. He speaks in a whisper,
|
||
barely audible even from across the table: "You're out of your
|
||
league. Take this. It may be your only chance."
|
||
|
||
Scorpio rises in a flash, kicking his chair over backwards. "God
|
||
damn it, you don't understand!"
|
||
|
||
Enrico stares up at him with widened eyes. "What don't I
|
||
understand, Scorpio?"
|
||
|
||
"What happened to me in there! I -- "
|
||
|
||
Enrico raises his eyebrows expectantly, "Yes?"
|
||
|
||
"I... changed that day. I can't explain it. Don't ask me to
|
||
explain it." His eyes open into a madman's stare. "I need to get
|
||
there, Enrico."
|
||
|
||
"To this institute? Scorpio, what could you possibly
|
||
accomplish?" It is now Enrico who stands, carefully,
|
||
controlingly. "Do you want to find this girl? To finish what you
|
||
started? Scorpio, you'll be killed. You're dealing with forces
|
||
you don't understand. People disappear thinking the way you do.
|
||
If you pursue this, you'll be committing a crime greater than
|
||
murder, greater than any crime you've committed before, in the
|
||
eyes of the state, in my eyes, and against your own person. Is
|
||
that what you want?"
|
||
|
||
"I don't know," replies Scorpio, visibly shrinking in the
|
||
presence of reason.
|
||
|
||
Enrico clenches his fist, moving it slowly toward Scorpio. "Get
|
||
away, Scorp. Don't do this. Don't destroy yourself and all
|
||
you've worked for."
|
||
|
||
Scorpio hesitates and then sighs. "I have to go there."
|
||
|
||
Enrico shrugs, instantly regaining his composure. "Suit
|
||
yourself," he replies, adding only, "Watch yourself in
|
||
Pittsburgh. I hear the toxin levels there are still high."
|
||
|
||
Suddenly, Scorpio's attention is drawn to the Holovision set.
|
||
"Still no leads on the assassination of Senator William
|
||
Crawford. Crawford was gunned down in his Hotel suite earlier
|
||
this..." The set shuts off abruptly, as Enrico is shown holding
|
||
a remote control.
|
||
|
||
Enrico smiles. "Politicians... They're dropping like flies these
|
||
days."
|
||
|
||
Scorpio nods, turning away from the dead set, and walking out
|
||
through a maze of blinking neon sculpture. Enrico stands at the
|
||
table, watching his exit, swollen eyes fixated sorrowfully on
|
||
the receding figure.
|
||
|
||
|
||
Three.
|
||
--------
|
||
|
||
An exterior shot; stationary. In the background, three rivers
|
||
meet in a golden triangle. In the triangle, a beleaguered
|
||
cityscape looms. There is no newness here, only the endless
|
||
perpetuation of old age, a city seemingly of ghosts. The land
|
||
surrounding the city is an arid waste, moonlike in its refusal
|
||
to bear even a hint of life. From low in the west, the sun,
|
||
filtered through a dusty atmosphere, casts a dull orange glow
|
||
over the broken buildings of the city. The scene is peaceful, as
|
||
all death is peaceful. From above, the aircar erupts into the
|
||
scene, banking toward the city and out of sight.
|
||
|
||
Interior, car. Scorpio sleeps fitfully, his eyes moving rapidly
|
||
under his eyelids as if attempting to scan a hidden landscape
|
||
for some familiar feature.
|
||
|
||
A buzzer sounds and he wakes methodically, first checking
|
||
several displays before his eyes, then flipping a few switches,
|
||
after which the arid landscape of Pittsburgh becomes visible
|
||
through a series of shuttered windows, a wavering heads-up
|
||
display overlaying, indicating glidepath, vectors and so forth.
|
||
'City Navacomputers Now Controlling Trajectory' flashes briefly
|
||
across the display. It is the first indication that there may
|
||
still be human existence here. Scorpio watches, tightlipped, as
|
||
the car is drawn into the city's tight landing spiral.
|
||
|
||
Suddenly there is a sharp pop and a whoosh, followed closely by
|
||
a crashing noise. Scorpio is thrown forward in his straps.
|
||
Lights turn red and a low siren starts. Scorpio looks wildly
|
||
about as three one-seater craft, flycycles manned by red-clad
|
||
helmeted figures, whoosh by him, leaving him in their turbulent
|
||
wake. Scorpio reaches for the controls of the car but is jolted
|
||
back into his seat as another shot hits its mark.
|
||
|
||
Exterior, wide shot. Scorpio's car, bleeding a trail of smoke,
|
||
falls out of the sky, leaving a graceful arc in its path and
|
||
finally diving into a feathery layer of clouds. The three
|
||
pursuers, satisfied that somehow their actions have had the
|
||
desired effect, move off in concert away from the now-blurring
|
||
gray trail.
|
||
|
||
Inside the car, Scorpio's face is a mask of exertion and stress.
|
||
He struggles with the manual controls and manages to roll the
|
||
car into a controlled, spinning dive. A final exterior shot
|
||
shows the car arcing toward a brownish river in the midst of an
|
||
arid plain, a high whining sound growing in pitch and volume.
|
||
Then blackness.
|
||
|
||
|
||
Scorpio surveys the wrecked remains of the car. His face is torn
|
||
and bleeding and he walks with a severe limp. The car lies in a
|
||
heap, bleeding smoke into the stale air, piled up against a
|
||
rocky outcropping on the bank of a dead river. The ground is
|
||
sandy, dry. Scorpio reaches a hand up to brush hair out of his
|
||
face and it returns bloodied. He stares at it, perplexed and
|
||
then begins to gather his belongings and walk toward the water.
|
||
|
||
Crouching at the bank, he passes his hand through the silty
|
||
water and brings it tentatively to his mouth. He recoils in
|
||
horror at the taste of the tainted water. Standing up, he walks
|
||
off down the bank in the direction of the towering cityscape,
|
||
which now seems very far away.
|
||
|
||
It's a long shot. Scorpio stands at the bank of the river, blood
|
||
dried on his face, clothes torn. He stands at one end of a
|
||
bridge, or what used to be a bridge. Its length is now
|
||
shortened. It is a third-bridge, mirrored on the opposite bank
|
||
by another third-bridge, its middle third missing without a
|
||
trace, wires and pipes hanging out of each side as if some giant
|
||
ship had plowed through it. Spanning the midsection of the
|
||
bridge is a fragile line, more evidence that there may yet be a
|
||
human presence here. Across the bridge lies the fallen
|
||
metropolis. Huge structures which once stood proudly with
|
||
brilliant glass now stand dead and naked to the wind, their
|
||
panes broken or soiled. Radio towers crookedly crown some of the
|
||
buildings. Others are themselves crooked, or capped with rubble,
|
||
a sign that they once rose higher into the sky. This is a dead
|
||
landscape, colored with the dull oranges and reds of a swollen,
|
||
setting sun.
|
||
|
||
Scorpio begins to walk across the bridge toward the rope. As he
|
||
does so, the view lifts and tilts downward, continuing to center
|
||
on him but from an increasingly dizzying height, finally to the
|
||
point of being a map, framed by the precipice of the broken
|
||
bridge on one side and the bank of the river on the other.
|
||
|
||
A tight shot. Across the bridge, over Scorpio's shoulder. The
|
||
rope spanning the gap dips toward the center so that it traces a
|
||
solitary arc through space. It is fastened tightly to the base
|
||
of a tilted light-pole. Scorpio reaches down and pulls,
|
||
eliciting a small wave in the rope which propagates itself
|
||
toward the opposite side and back.
|
||
|
||
Scorpio removes his shirt and tears it into halves, wrapping
|
||
each hand several times. Placing his hands on the rope, he
|
||
lowers himself into the gap until he is supported by the rope
|
||
and his feet which still cling to the side of the ripped bridge.
|
||
He then lets go with his feet and swings gently out onto the
|
||
rope. Suspended only by his arms, he begins to work his way
|
||
across toward the opposite end.
|
||
|
||
He looks back toward the bank, and sees the broken end of the
|
||
bridge, cables and wires dangling out of sheared-off pipes. He
|
||
turns toward the city. There is a noise. Again he looks toward
|
||
the bank and three suited, helmeted figures are there, standing
|
||
on the edge of the bridge, stationary. They are the flycycle
|
||
riders.
|
||
|
||
Scorpio quickens his pace, but when he looks back again he sees
|
||
that one of the figures has moved to the rope, and is apparently
|
||
sawing at it. Scorpio's breath becomes shallow. He looks down
|
||
and is greeted by a dizzying precipice. Suddenly there is a loud
|
||
crack, as the rope is severed and Scorpio begins to fall,
|
||
accompanied by the distant sound of laughter. In a long shot,
|
||
Scorpio lets go of the rope and falls into the black river.
|
||
|
||
A tight shot of the water: Scorpio breaks to the surface,
|
||
gasping for air. His face and shoulders are covered with a
|
||
matted filth, a sheen that seems both unnatural and unpleasant.
|
||
Scorpio bobs beneath the murky surface once more and then begins
|
||
methodically swimming toward the shore, toward the city.
|
||
|
||
|
||
It's a high, long shot. There are trees, and in the background,
|
||
a range of low hills. A solid column of gray smoke looms on the
|
||
horizon, slowly rising and twisting. For a moment, there is
|
||
silence, and then machine gun fire erupts. The view begins to
|
||
descend as a scattered group of men are seen fleeing across the
|
||
landscape, occasionally turning back to fire at their unseen
|
||
pursuers.
|
||
|
||
A thunderous clap heralds the entrance of the tank, followed by
|
||
an explosion in the midst of the fleeing men, cutting down those
|
||
around it immediately. The tank clanks forward, firing again,
|
||
and then a third time, a monstrous beater driving its prey
|
||
relentlessly onward.
|
||
|
||
The shot shifts to an individual, clothed in camouflage,
|
||
grasping an automatic weapon. He is approaching at a run, and it
|
||
becomes apparent that he is Scorpio, but a younger Scorpio. He
|
||
turns, fires his weapon, and then resumes running, eventually
|
||
disappearing off frame and out of sight.
|
||
|
||
A different shot: a small grotto formed by the interlocking root
|
||
structure of two large trees. Scorpio dives in, just as a
|
||
barrage of gunfire singes the air overhead. He presses his body
|
||
against the cavity, breathing. Just breathing. When he has
|
||
caught his breath, he takes a grenade from his belt, looks
|
||
briefly over the top of the grotto, and lobs it out onto the
|
||
plain. There follows an explosion, followed by shouts in
|
||
Spanish: _"Socorro! Ayudame!"_
|
||
|
||
Scorpio remains pressed into the ground, and eventually the
|
||
voices fade, along with the sounds of armored trucks and tanks.
|
||
As the sounds fade, Scorpio falls into a fitful sleep. The shot
|
||
fades.
|
||
|
||
_"Levantate!"_
|
||
|
||
Scorpio wakes to the sight of a diminutive farmer menacing him
|
||
with a pitchfork.
|
||
|
||
_"Levantate!"_
|
||
|
||
"Alright! Alright! I'm getting!" Scorpio's voice, but a younger
|
||
voice, a record that has been kept shelved.
|
||
|
||
Scorpio quickly stands, causing the smaller man to step back a
|
||
few paces. The light has a different character now, more orange.
|
||
Scorpio quickly scrambles over the embankment and away over the
|
||
darkening plain.
|
||
|
||
The shot changes to a quickly moving, following shot of Scorpio
|
||
running through brush. Running, running, his heartbeat getting
|
||
faster. Muffled shouts follow him, and as he looks furtively
|
||
back, gunshots, their reports distorted, are heard. He continues
|
||
to run, but he's getting slower... slower... Panic flows over
|
||
his features.
|
||
|
||
A fade.
|
||
|
||
|
||
It's a head shot of Scorpio, head hung pensively, looking down.
|
||
Silence fades slowly into the sounds of an echoey space.
|
||
Background suddenly comes into focus and is revealed to be the
|
||
elaborate hall of the Rotunda. Scorpio's face is drained of all
|
||
color, wrinkled. His hair is whitened and slicked back. The
|
||
background suddenly seems to tilt backwards and darken.
|
||
|
||
Cut to a full facial shot of Matt, staring intently into view.
|
||
Matt's face is also whitened to an unearthly pallor.
|
||
|
||
Cut again. An over-the-shoulder shot, from behind Scorpio to
|
||
reveal Matt, seated across from Scorpio, each in front of a bowl
|
||
of soup, uneaten. The shot begins to move to the side,
|
||
revealing, one by one, those seated on the opposite side of
|
||
Scorpio, beside Matt. First, Dobbs, then Jay, then Jon. There is
|
||
a fifth, but the scene cuts away before he fully comes into
|
||
view.
|
||
|
||
The next shot is looking down the table from where Scorpio and
|
||
Matt are seated at one end. Matt takes his bowl of soup and
|
||
slowly brings it to his lips, at which point the man sitting at
|
||
the end of his bench, who had not been revealed in the last
|
||
shot, leans quickly forward. His face is a bizarre contortion of
|
||
facial features. Eyes, placed at impossible angles, regard
|
||
Scorpio quizzically.
|
||
|
||
Cut to a head-shot of Scorpio, eyes looking toward the strange
|
||
man, beads of sweat forming on his brow, his mouth open,
|
||
breathing thickly with fear.
|
||
|
||
Cut back to the strange man, eyes blinking, he says nothing, but
|
||
straightens up again, leaving the frame to the left. Behind him,
|
||
the figure of the white-haired man, is revealed, sitting at the
|
||
end of the table, staring at Scorpio, silently. The white-haired
|
||
man smiles.
|
||
|
||
Cut to a close shot of Scorpio's face, eyes closed, shrouded in
|
||
a haze of light. His surroundings are unclear, all is shifting,
|
||
shifting save for the face, a face composed as in death.
|
||
|
||
The eyes open, suddenly, startling, and just as quickly the
|
||
sound comes crashing in, a quickly building, whining tone, soon
|
||
becoming almost deafening, ripping away the shreds of
|
||
unconsciousness, ripping... ripping... until all that is left is
|
||
Scorpio, lying on the ragged cot, teapot whistling in the
|
||
background. The view slowly rotating now over his head. He
|
||
blinks.
|
||
|
||
"You're awake," a feminine voice. Scorpio looks to his right and
|
||
she is revealed as a tall blonde woman, standing in the lighted
|
||
door-frame, the paint around her chipped; walls grimy. "I'm
|
||
making some tea," she says dryly, while shifting interrogatively
|
||
in her silk robe, the only article of quality in sight. "Would
|
||
you like some?"
|
||
|
||
Scorpio jumps out of the cot and rushes toward the woman. She
|
||
stands, immobile, smiling as he runs toward her and finally
|
||
through her into a blackness, falling... falling into an
|
||
eternal, dark abyss. Above, light streams downward from an
|
||
inverted silhouette, and mixed with Scorpio's screams, a
|
||
sardonic female laughter.
|
||
|
||
_In frame. Always in frame._
|
||
|
||
|
||
And then there is light. A full face shot of Scorpio, dirty,
|
||
eyes barely open. The shot expands to reveal a half-collapsed
|
||
porch, a street littered with stripped, rusted bodies of
|
||
groundcars, a stillness hangs in the air.
|
||
|
||
"Scorp! What the hell are you doing here?"
|
||
|
||
A man with a dark complexion and black, matted hair, stands in
|
||
the tattered, paint-chipped doorway.
|
||
|
||
"I need..." Scorpio is out of breath and obviously delirious. He
|
||
begins to fall forward, then catches himself on the door-frame.
|
||
He shakes his head slowly, as if trying to clear his mind.
|
||
|
||
"You look like shit, man," the other man offers, as if trying to
|
||
help the conversation along.
|
||
|
||
Scorpio looks up, giving him an icy stare. "Thanks."
|
||
|
||
"You'd better come in." Scorpio is ushered in through the door,
|
||
which shuts quickly behind him. The noises of several bolts and
|
||
locks being put into place follows.
|
||
|
||
"Hey guys... this is Scorpio. We went to school together."
|
||
Scorpio regards the occupants of the small, dark room. Some of
|
||
them are lying on the floor, others are sitting on couches or
|
||
chairs. There are about 15 people, crammed into the small room.
|
||
All of them are wearing wiry headsets, all of them in their
|
||
private worlds.
|
||
|
||
Scorpio's friend doesn't seem to notice their lack of attention.
|
||
"These are my housemates, Scorp..."
|
||
|
||
"Doug..." Scorpio cuts him off. "Do you have a bathroom?"
|
||
|
||
"Yeah, sure. We even have running water. We can _pay_ for it."
|
||
|
||
Scorpio follows Doug's finger toward a narrow hallway. The sound
|
||
of water is heard.
|
||
|
||
When he emerges, Doug is as his friends, hooked into the net.
|
||
Scorpio collapses onto an air mattress and sleeps. Fade to
|
||
black.
|
||
|
||
Scorpio, tattered, unshaven, walks awkwardly up the street,
|
||
forcing his legs to fight gravity.
|
||
|
||
"The institute? I can tell you how to get _close_. You'll never
|
||
get in, though. That place is a fucking fortress."
|
||
|
||
The voice of his once-friend Doug fills his consciousness. A
|
||
close shot of his face reveals day-old stubble. His eyes are
|
||
dead, his mouth slightly open.
|
||
|
||
"They have all their supplies lifted in by heavy armored
|
||
helicopter. No ground transport ever leaves the compound, I
|
||
don't think there's even a way for ground transports to get
|
||
_in_."
|
||
|
||
We rezzies just learn to ignore them. We stay away, they leave
|
||
us alone. We live in two different worlds.
|
||
|
||
Another voice: "Scorpio, what could you accomplish?"
|
||
|
||
"Shut up, Enrico!" the words come unwittingly.
|
||
|
||
Still another voice: "I'll be here, waiting for you to jack
|
||
in.... I'll be here, waiting for you."
|
||
|
||
Scorpio cries out in anguish and cups his hands over his ears,
|
||
still running on, voices growing louder and more pronounced,
|
||
accompanied with an every increasing drone, a noise which shuts
|
||
out thought, shuts out reason.
|
||
|
||
"How can a man so obsessed with killing be so afraid of dying?"
|
||
|
||
Still, he moves on, half running, half stumbling, past looming
|
||
hulks of rusted metal, fading plastic, a landscape of disuse and
|
||
neglect. The dead frame of a maglev lies buried halfway into a
|
||
stationhouse, like the skeleton of some great, extinct beast.
|
||
|
||
"I will now move on to the next consecutive number."
|
||
|
||
And with that, the noise stops, leaving Scorpio standing still,
|
||
in the middle of the street, deafened by silence.
|
||
|
||
The street grows wider here, and in the distance can be seen a
|
||
stone tower, looming over a plaza of concrete. Here and there,
|
||
the stumps of long-dead trees pockmark the flat, gray landscape,
|
||
a reminder that this place was once capable of growth, of
|
||
change.
|
||
|
||
Across the plaza, the helmeted red figures stand, waiting,
|
||
immobile. A high shot reveals the plaza, lone figure of Scorpio,
|
||
clothed in black, facing the three riders. Slowly, Scorpio
|
||
enters the square, and, as he does, more red figures seem to
|
||
appear from behind him, effectively encircling him.
|
||
|
||
As he makes his way to the center of the square, the circle
|
||
grows tighter around him. He stops, faceless figures standing
|
||
around him, motionless. He looks back across his shoulder, looks
|
||
around, and suddenly the scene cuts, to the sound of a
|
||
helicopter's blades slicing through dead air.
|
||
|
||
|
||
The shot is again of Scorpio's face, surrounded with a halo of
|
||
green. As the shot expands, the background comes gradually into
|
||
focus, revealing a forest floor, dense with growth. Scorpio is
|
||
clothed in camouflage.
|
||
|
||
The shot is now from behind Scorpio. Dazedly, he begins to walk
|
||
toward a small, burbling stream.
|
||
|
||
Suddenly, she is across the stream, looking exactly as she did
|
||
on that day, in the brothel. "Why did you come?" She looks
|
||
confused.
|
||
|
||
Scorpio stops and looks at himself, then up at her.
|
||
|
||
"I... had to," he whispers. His eyes tell a story of crazed
|
||
fright. "This place..."
|
||
|
||
"Taken from your most strong memories. We can do that, Scorpio.
|
||
We can reach into your mind, anybody's mind, and take what we
|
||
want. Do you have any idea what kind of power that is?"
|
||
|
||
"But you can also do that the other way around..." Scorpio
|
||
replies.
|
||
|
||
"As in your case, yes. It's not perfected, though. You were...
|
||
an experiment." She begins to walk toward him, circling him.
|
||
"How much of this have you guessed? You're a very smart subject,
|
||
Scorpio."
|
||
|
||
"I know you've made me kill."
|
||
|
||
"And just how have you deduced this?"
|
||
|
||
"Dreams."
|
||
|
||
"Ah, yes... That's one of our major problems, you see. Imagery
|
||
returning from blocked memories through the vehicle of dreams.
|
||
We're working on it. But surely you can't object to the act of
|
||
killing, Scorpio. After all, it's what you do best."
|
||
|
||
Scorpio remains silent.
|
||
|
||
"Would you like to kill me, Scorpio?" she enquires innocently.
|
||
For a moment, she is replaced with a mutilated corpse, lying in
|
||
a pool of blood on the ground. And then she is back, smiling.
|
||
"Is that why you came?"
|
||
|
||
"I don't know why I came, OK?" he shouts at her, drawing a step
|
||
forward.
|
||
|
||
"To love me, perhaps?" Their surroundings shift and they are
|
||
standing in the middle of the grassy plain, framed above by a
|
||
crystal blue sky. "After all, anything is possible."
|
||
|
||
"But it's not real!" Scorpio shouts, again coming closer to her.
|
||
|
||
"Who's to say?"
|
||
|
||
Scorpio again remains silent.
|
||
|
||
"From the moment you first jacked in, you were powerless to
|
||
prevent this. You've served your purpose now. That is the
|
||
reality."
|
||
|
||
"How many..."
|
||
|
||
"How many people have you killed, under our guidance? Does it
|
||
matter, Scorpio? It was so easy to make you kill. It took such
|
||
small suggestions."
|
||
|
||
He looks into her eyes, controlling eyes. She comes closer and
|
||
enfolds him in her arms. "Don't worry, Scorpio. You're safe now.
|
||
At this moment you're streaming across America's great
|
||
Northeast. You won't remember anything. This whole incident will
|
||
have been erased."
|
||
|
||
Scorpio's rests his head on her shoulder, eyes shut tightly, and
|
||
begins to sob.
|
||
|
||
_Gently... gently..._
|
||
|
||
"Don't cry." She cracks a wry smile, patting Scorpio
|
||
affectionately on the back. "It could never have worked between
|
||
us. We're from different worlds, you and I."
|
||
|
||
...And Scorpio is falling again, as before, through an
|
||
impossibly dark abyss. He screams, his arms waving in slo-mo, a
|
||
grotesque parody of human motion. Movement becomes disjointed.
|
||
The sound of his cries becomes distorted.
|
||
|
||
Falling, falling into infinite blackness.
|
||
|
||
|
||
Interior, Scorpio's apartment. Scorpio sits on the chair in the
|
||
center of the floor, the only upright piece of furniture in
|
||
evidence here, placed on the only bit of floor not covered with
|
||
debris. All around is chaos: overturned tables; a smashed
|
||
hologram, now unidentifiable; a refrigerator open on its side,
|
||
still on, its light the only illumination here besides the
|
||
ghostly laser light emanating from the shattered holo.
|
||
|
||
Scorpio stares at the deck, torn to pieces, its modules strewn
|
||
across the floor like a child's blocks, its headset ripped
|
||
apart. This is a landscape of rage, of mindless, brutal
|
||
destruction.
|
||
|
||
Overhead shot. In the foreground, a ceiling fan turns slowly,
|
||
moving dusty air. Scorpio's head tilts slowly back to stare
|
||
upwards. Otherwise, he does not move.
|
||
|
||
|
||
_His eyes, shallow. His look, unseeing._
|
||
|
||
It's a two-shot.
|
||
|
||
_An eye-line match._
|
||
|
||
Cut.
|
||
|
||
|
||
Daniel K. Appelquist (quanta@netcom.com)
|
||
------------------------------------------
|
||
|
||
Daniel K. Appelquist is the editor of Quanta, the on-line
|
||
magazine of Science Fiction. He is completing his stint as a
|
||
technical writer for Visix Software, and will soon begin work as
|
||
an Internet Publications specialist for 4th Mesa, an electronic
|
||
publishing company in Baltimore specializing in scientific,
|
||
technical, and medical journals. He lives in Washington, D.C.
|
||
|
||
|
||
Backalley by Silang Kamay
|
||
=============================
|
||
...................................................................
|
||
Sometimes our wishes for guardian angels arise from our faith;
|
||
other times, they arise from our need.
|
||
...................................................................
|
||
|
||
The old man sat crumpled on the ground and sipped something
|
||
potent from a paper-bagged bottle in his hand. His eyes scanned
|
||
the dimly lit street. "I tell you, none of us know who she is.
|
||
But that girl comes around, you know? When the moon is full and
|
||
there's a ring around it." He paused. "Like tonight." He closed
|
||
his eyes and licked his lips. The lips moved, R's rolling like
|
||
gentle waves when he spoke. His voice came from a place deep
|
||
within, hard to pinpoint.
|
||
|
||
"Ileana. That's what I call her. She's a saint. The Virgin Mary
|
||
herself, maybe." He laughed gruffly. "She walks like a cat.
|
||
Never hear a thing until she's right up close to you. Right
|
||
here, see?" He pointed to his scarred chin. "One night, a few
|
||
years ago, I was settling down over there at the bus stop bench
|
||
right across from Tony's old food stand. You remember it? Before
|
||
the police closed it down? I was trying to get some sleep. It
|
||
was November, really cold then. I was shivering so much I
|
||
couldn't lie still, but I was too tired to move. From nowhere,
|
||
from the darkness, she carried an old blanket. It was gray, thin
|
||
wool, the kind you get from the army. But warm, you see? Warm.
|
||
She gave it to me, put it right on me. Then she lit a candle, a
|
||
plain white candle. Dripped some wax onto the sidewalk and stuck
|
||
the candle there. She saved my life that night. That was the
|
||
first time I ever saw her."
|
||
|
||
He pulled the gray, wool blanket close around his brittle neck
|
||
and shoulders.
|
||
|
||
"The others, they've seen her, too. Everybody who's seen her on
|
||
the street says she's got a different face. Tito, he says she
|
||
has a mole, right here on her left cheek. Says she's mestiza,
|
||
really fair-skinned. Hah! He likes his women pale." He laughed.
|
||
"Ya-hoo-hoo! White like a ghost!" The laugh became a cough. "Boy
|
||
says she has long, straight, black hair," he continued. "A
|
||
skinny girl, not too bad-looking. But you know, he's young. Sees
|
||
what he wants to see."
|
||
|
||
I looked up and down the street. "And you, what do you see?" I
|
||
asked.
|
||
|
||
He put down his paper-bagged bottle and rubbed his stubbled
|
||
face, like two pieces of sandpaper scraping together. His eyes
|
||
watered slightly as he looked up into the moon. "An angel. An
|
||
angel with my wife's face. Ileana. So... beautiful. Not outside,
|
||
no. Inside. She left me, you know? A long time ago. Took our
|
||
children. Guess she'd had enough. Enough yelling. Enough losing
|
||
money on craps and blackjack and pool halls. I was a good man
|
||
once, you know? But not good enough. She left when I hit her."
|
||
His dry hand moved across his stubble. "I would've left, too, if
|
||
I'd been her."
|
||
|
||
He was quiet then, his bottle hidden in the soiled, worn bag on
|
||
the ground. I took it out in plain view. Whiskey, shimmering
|
||
like coins in the moonlight. I took a turn and watched the moths
|
||
dance around the streetlights. There were no churches or temples
|
||
or synagogues or mosques. But something tangible electrified the
|
||
air. Looking down into the dark, littered backalleys, I saw a
|
||
points of light on the ground, tiny flames. Small trails of
|
||
candle wax reflected moonlight and disappeared into doorways
|
||
along the lengths of the buildings.
|
||
|
||
I eyed my friend, as he sat withering in his remorse, and
|
||
pointed. "Ileana?" I asked tentatively.
|
||
|
||
The old man looked up, shook his head. "No. That's us. When
|
||
there's a ring around the full moon we light candles where we've
|
||
seen her." He took a deep, slow breath. "But she only visits the
|
||
new men now. I've been told you only see her once, but I think I
|
||
was lucky. Maybe she likes me." He coughed again, tried to sit
|
||
up.
|
||
|
||
"One night, I saw her again. The lights were on in a factory a
|
||
few streets over. Very late. You know what they did there? The
|
||
company that owns it is big. It has other stores all over. They
|
||
always hire women: old, young, Filipino, Mexican, Chinese,
|
||
Vietnamese, all kinds. But never men. Those women, they work all
|
||
day. I used to watch them sometimes. They'd be really tired when
|
||
they came out. Hungry, too. Well, that night I saw an ambulance
|
||
pull up. A woman was bleeding. She was pregnant and started
|
||
bleeding. And the supervisor didn't let her go until it was too
|
||
late. After the ambulance took her away, he sent the other women
|
||
home and stood there at the doorway, smoking. For a long time
|
||
nothing happened. He looked like a dragon, smoke coming out of
|
||
his nose and mouth. He finished a whole pack just standing
|
||
there. And then I saw her, Ileana, dressed in a nurse's white
|
||
uniform, the old fashioned kind with the pointy cap. She walked
|
||
up to him and she spit in his face, something red. She lit her
|
||
candle and left it there in that spot. Then she disappeared into
|
||
the alley. There are no exits. It's a dead end by that factory
|
||
wall. That supervisor, he didn't come back to work the next day,
|
||
or the next. And eventually, the factory closed.
|
||
|
||
"That was the last time I saw Ileana."
|
||
|
||
|
||
Silang Kamay (kamay@mellers1.psych.berkeley.edu)
|
||
--------------------------------------------------
|
||
|
||
Silang Kamay is interested in exporing the possibilities of
|
||
science fiction, spirituality, environmental justice, and
|
||
feminism. Silang also likes warmth: glowing candles, a familiar
|
||
sweater, a hot mug of split pea soup, sincerity, and human
|
||
kindness.
|
||
|
||
|
||
The Funeral Party by Connie Baron
|
||
=====================================
|
||
...................................................................
|
||
Adolescence is a process few would care to repeat: a time in
|
||
which we must define ourselves, a road we must travel alone.
|
||
...................................................................
|
||
|
||
Only her father had cried at the funeral. The rest of the family
|
||
wore straight, sad faces, but displayed no other signs of grief.
|
||
This had puzzled Anne, but she, too, had shed no tears. Now
|
||
surrounded by cool, dark closet air, dank with the scent of
|
||
cloves and oranges, it seemed clear. Granny wasn't really gone.
|
||
She was still alive in her family, in her things.
|
||
|
||
Anne stroked the flowered house coat that hung on a nail in the
|
||
back of the closet. It smelled of Granny: soap, powder, and milk
|
||
of magnesia. She petted Granny's prized fur coat and pressed her
|
||
face deep into its chilly pile, like she would when Granny
|
||
hugged her. She half expected to hear Granny's raspy voice
|
||
saying, "Don't do that, the oil from your face hurts the guard
|
||
hairs."
|
||
|
||
Anne left her cheek in the soft fur and fingered the cashmere
|
||
coat hanging next to it. It had been Big Joe's. Its secret inner
|
||
pocket held a sterling flask that Granny had never known about,
|
||
or at least that's what Granny had said when Anne had found it
|
||
on one of her sleep-overs.
|
||
|
||
Laughter filtered through the back wall of the closet. Anne
|
||
strained to hear what was being said.
|
||
|
||
"Oh, Bridget could be a pill."
|
||
|
||
"Remember the time she sued old man Jensen because she thought
|
||
his dogs dug up her rose bush? And it turned out to be Big Joe
|
||
playing a drunken trick on her?"
|
||
|
||
Anne pulled her arms tight around her. These people, many of
|
||
whom Anne had never seen before, didn't know anything about her
|
||
family, about Granny.
|
||
|
||
"She wasn't one for change. I remember her saying Vatican II
|
||
would damn us all to hell."
|
||
|
||
Anne stepped out and forced the closet door back over the thick
|
||
carpeting until it shut tight, blocking the voices. She didn't
|
||
understand why these outsiders had to be invited to the funeral
|
||
party. She leaned against the closet door and looked out the
|
||
frost-trimmed windows at the sunlight playing on Granny's
|
||
snow-covered yard. Two weeks before, when the heavy snow had
|
||
first fallen, Granny had pressed her face on the same cold
|
||
glass, forming a halo of mist. "Fresh snow makes me wish I was
|
||
on the farm again," she'd said. "My brother and I would rush
|
||
into the fresh powder and make dozens of snow angels. We'd
|
||
decorate their heads with twigs and rocks and give them names,
|
||
then spend the afternoon defending our armies of angels with
|
||
snowballs."
|
||
|
||
Now the wind had mounded the snow into sharp frozen tufts, like
|
||
smooth crust-covered meringue.
|
||
|
||
Anne turned as her skinny cousin Linda slipped through the door,
|
||
balanced on one leg, and pushed with the other against the heavy
|
||
door Granny'd had installed to keep out Big Joe's snoring. When
|
||
she turned, Anne saw she held a big green tumbler full to the
|
||
top with wine. Linda pushed the glass toward Anne. Anne
|
||
hesitated; Linda rolled her eyes. "It'll make you feel better, I
|
||
promise."
|
||
|
||
"What if someone comes in?" Anne pushed a mound of coats away
|
||
from the edge of the bed and slid down, her back pressing
|
||
against Granny's bright green dust ruffle, pulling her legs up
|
||
near her chest so she'd fit in between the twin beds.
|
||
|
||
"Don't be such a dumbshit. If someone comes in, we'll just hide
|
||
it under the bed." Linda took a gulp. "Besides, they're all
|
||
bombed anyway." She wrinkled her nose, took another drink, then
|
||
held out the tumbler. Linda always picked up on things that
|
||
presented opportunity. Granny said she was a lot like her mother
|
||
that way. Anne couldn't imagine Aunt Ellie being that sneaky,
|
||
but she always did have a bit of the devil in her -- Anne's
|
||
father's words.
|
||
|
||
Anne sniffed the wine like she'd seen her Dad do at dinner
|
||
parties, and took a small sip. "God, it tastes like sour cough
|
||
syrup!" She wiped her mouth with the edge of her sleeve and then
|
||
remembered it was velvet. "Shoot!" She waved her arm in the air
|
||
trying to dry the droplets while she took another big gulp. Her
|
||
face flushed a peachy color.
|
||
|
||
"It's that plum stuff our Dads made. Give me some more."
|
||
|
||
A voice came close to the door. "I'm so glad you're here, dear.
|
||
Don't let me forget to give you the things Granny had put away
|
||
for you. We don't get to see you that often." The doorknob
|
||
rattled with the weight of a hand being placed upon it. Anne
|
||
looked at Linda and quickly hid the tumbler under the bed.
|
||
|
||
Party noises rushed the room as the door opened. "I just want to
|
||
change out of this uniform, Aunt Ellie. I'll be right out."
|
||
Maryjane, the girls's second cousin, shut the door, paused a
|
||
moment, and then picked up the silver-framed, black and white
|
||
wedding picture of Granny and Big Joe that sat on the vanity.
|
||
|
||
"Oh, hi," she said when she saw the girls reflected in the
|
||
mirror. "What are you guys doing hiding in here anyway?" She
|
||
opened Granny's jewelry box and held a pair of pearl earrings to
|
||
her ears. "I wonder if Aunt Ellie will give me these?"
|
||
|
||
Anne squeezed her knees close to her chest. If Granny knew
|
||
anyone was digging through her personal things, she would have
|
||
thrown a fit. She believed in privacy.
|
||
|
||
Maryjane tossed the earrings back in the velvet-lined box
|
||
without bothering to hook them together. "So what are you guys
|
||
doing anyway?"
|
||
|
||
"Just talking. I hate these things." Linda jumped up, pulling at
|
||
her thick black tights. "When did you get here, Maryjane? Mom
|
||
said you weren't coming."
|
||
|
||
"Seniors got excused early. God! I would have been here for the
|
||
funeral except I had tests." She half-smiled her lip at Linda,
|
||
then tossed a plastic shopping bag on the bed.
|
||
|
||
"Yeah, right," Anne said under her breath, crossing her legs,
|
||
Indian fashion, even though ladies aren't supposed to sit like
|
||
that.
|
||
|
||
"Guard the door, will you?" Maryjane asked Linda.
|
||
|
||
Linda raised her eyebrows and leaned against the door while
|
||
Maryjane unbuttoned her uniform blouse. Maryjane undressed like
|
||
it was nothing, like she was nearly naked in front of people all
|
||
the time. Anne and Linda were best friends, but even they turned
|
||
away from each other when they changed. Maryjane wore a sheer,
|
||
glossy, lace-trimmed bra with a little blue flower in the
|
||
center. Her thin bikini underwear matched.
|
||
|
||
Maryjane lifted her arm, sniffing it. "Ugh... I stink of smoke.
|
||
Do you know where Auntie keeps her pit perfume?"
|
||
|
||
Linda shrugged. Anne concentrated on picking little balls of
|
||
fuzz from the cream-colored carpet.
|
||
|
||
"Oh, well." Maryjane tilted her head to the side and studied her
|
||
mostly naked body in the mirror. "Did I tell you I might be
|
||
going to France?"
|
||
|
||
"No." Anne grew more uncomfortable watching her, and crossed her
|
||
arms over her chest. Her Mom had been telling her for a while
|
||
that she needed a bra, but she'd put her off. She didn't want
|
||
one until Linda got one. She looked at Linda and decided it
|
||
might be a long wait.
|
||
|
||
"What was the funeral like?" Maryjane opened her bag and slipped
|
||
a white ruffled blouse over her head. "Sad? Everybody carrying
|
||
on?"
|
||
|
||
"It was okay," Linda said. "Pretty much like Big Joe's, only
|
||
more old people." Linda popped two pieces of Trident into her
|
||
mouth and spoke around them. "Mom said Granny would have liked
|
||
it -- lots of expensive flowers and ceremony. You know."
|
||
|
||
Maryjane pulled an opened pack of Kools and a makeup bag from
|
||
her purse. The two cousins watched as she reapplied gobs of pink
|
||
blush and mascara. Neither Linda nor Anne were allowed to wear
|
||
makeup yet. "Who all was there? Was Jack?"
|
||
|
||
"The policeman? Yeah." As Linda began to list names, Anne
|
||
thought about the limousine ride to the church. Her two younger
|
||
brothers had hardly talked of anything else for two days before
|
||
the funeral. Even though she was shocked by Granny's sudden
|
||
death, she rather liked the thought of all her schoolmates on
|
||
the playground staring with admiration and sympathy at her
|
||
family filing out of the long black car into the church.
|
||
|
||
But Anne had had to ride in her parent's rented car, alone in
|
||
front with the driver, while her brothers rode with Linda and
|
||
the other cousins in the limo. They'd made faces at her through
|
||
the back windows.
|
||
|
||
In the back, her mother and father had talked in low voices. "We
|
||
never had a chance to talk about how things were. About Dad and
|
||
his drinking." Anne had tried not to listen as her father wiped
|
||
his swollen eyes. Her mother squeezed his hand and stared out at
|
||
the cold Minneapolis day. An acidy feeling crept up Anne's
|
||
throat.
|
||
|
||
"We all got to throw flowers on her coffin," Linda continued.
|
||
"It was freezing, though -- Michael had frozen snot all over his
|
||
face!" She laughed and stepped away from the door, walking
|
||
between the twin beds. "And then Molly punched him."
|
||
|
||
A clink, a muffled thump, and the sickly-sweet plum smell made
|
||
Anne's heart pound.
|
||
|
||
"Shit." Linda scowled at Anne, lifted the bed skirt, and turned
|
||
the green tumbler upright. "God, go get a rag."
|
||
|
||
"You knocked it over! Why don't you...."
|
||
|
||
"Damn it, you're such a baby. Good thing Granny's not here." She
|
||
pushed Anne out of the way and stomped out of the room, leaving
|
||
the door open. The red liquid crept across the carpet, turning
|
||
it a dusty pink.
|
||
|
||
"What are you guys hiding?" Maryjane asked.
|
||
|
||
"Oh, Linda just kicked over her pop." Anne tried to cover the
|
||
spill with her hands, hoping the sour smell wouldn't carry.
|
||
Linda rushed back in with an sopping dish rag. Anne reached for
|
||
it, but Linda knocked her arm away and began blotting the spill.
|
||
|
||
Maryjane stood over the girls, hands resting on her hips.
|
||
"That's not pop." She walked back to the vanity and examined her
|
||
face close-up, wiping away a black smudge under her eye. "You
|
||
don't have to sneak around, you know. I can get you guys some
|
||
wine."
|
||
|
||
Linda's foot pawed the floor. "Yeah, right. They're hardly going
|
||
to give you any wine, so how are you going to get some for us?"
|
||
|
||
Maryjane threw her head towards her knees and brushed her hair.
|
||
When she stood up and shook her hair out, Anne noticed how much
|
||
she and Maryjane looked alike: brown wavy hair, round cheeks,
|
||
almond-shaped eyes. Even her body resembled Maryjane's -- not as
|
||
full, but not far from it either.
|
||
|
||
"So you each want your own glass?" Maryjane half-smiled and
|
||
teased her bangs a little before she walked out the door.
|
||
|
||
As soon as the door shut Linda said, "Can you believe her? She
|
||
thinks she's so cool just because she's a senior." She threw
|
||
down the bed skirt, tossed the wine-soaked rag into Granny's
|
||
hamper, and jumped, backwards onto the bed. A few coats fell to
|
||
the floor.
|
||
|
||
Anne picked them up. "Did you see how big her boobs were?"
|
||
|
||
"They were pretty hard to miss. She thinks she's such hot shit.
|
||
Do you think anybody'd care if I took that thing?" She pointed
|
||
to a small satin ball covered with ribbon, beads and sequins
|
||
hanging from the ceiling light. "Me and Granny made that thing.
|
||
Do you think anybody would care?"
|
||
|
||
Anne shrugged. "What do you think they'll do with all her
|
||
stuff?" Anne picked up Granny's silver-handled brush and pulled
|
||
out a few short gray hairs.
|
||
|
||
"Sell it, I guess. Divide the money, give it to the church or
|
||
leave it with you guys and the house. Who knows?" She shut her
|
||
eyes and pulled a scarf over her face.
|
||
|
||
Anne stared into the mirror. If Linda had heard that Anne's
|
||
family was moving into Granny's house, it must be true. Three
|
||
nights before, when she had heard her mother and father
|
||
bickering late at night over how cramped the five of them were
|
||
in their two bedroom house, she'd imagined she'd been dreaming.
|
||
Anne wanted Granny's house to remain unchanged, with its tended
|
||
gardens and the ceramics workshop in the basement. Her mother
|
||
and brother's sloppy habits would make that impossible.
|
||
|
||
"I bet Mom hits the roof when Maryjane asks her for wine," Linda
|
||
said, pulling the scarf from her face.
|
||
|
||
Anne held up her fingers and crossed them, her feelings suddenly
|
||
soothed, perhaps by Linda's seeming acceptance of the house
|
||
situation, but more likely by the wine. She brushed her bangs,
|
||
trying to brush away a wash of guilt. She had promised Granny
|
||
she'd never drink.
|
||
|
||
Maryjane came back into the room, pushing the door open with her
|
||
butt. "Aunt Ellie said you could each have one." She handed the
|
||
girls each a clear, long-stemmed wineglass. "I _told_ you guys
|
||
there wouldn't be a problem. Nobody gives a shit what you do."
|
||
She raised her eyebrows, flashing herself a smile in the mirror.
|
||
"I'm going to see if there's anyone interesting here."
|
||
|
||
|
||
Cigarette smoke accosted Anne as she stepped into the dining
|
||
room. Granny had never allowed smoking in the house. Even Big
|
||
Joe had puffed his fat, pungent cigars on the wooden back porch.
|
||
Anne gulped her wine, but set her glass down when she saw her
|
||
father sitting on the piano bench talking with a dark-haired,
|
||
bronzed man.
|
||
|
||
"Anne!" Her father held his arm out. Anne flipped her hair over
|
||
her shoulder and tried to look casual as she walked toward him.
|
||
|
||
The dark-haired man pulled at his white fitted shirt and
|
||
smoothed his gray tie. "Last time I saw her she was just a kid.
|
||
She's grown into a fine young lady."
|
||
|
||
"You remember my cousin Jack, the cop, don't you?" Her Dad
|
||
winked and put his arm around Anne's shoulder. She was
|
||
surprised. He hardly ever touched her.
|
||
|
||
"Sure," Anne lied. Her Dad's cousins weren't around much, except
|
||
for stuff like this, when they had to come. There had been a
|
||
falling out, a divorce, money problems. Anne had heard that
|
||
Jack's mother used to be black and blue all the time, and she
|
||
remembered when she was about five Granny and Big Joe had taken
|
||
Jack and his sisters in for several months. Jack was cute,
|
||
though, in an older person's sort of way. He had nice eyes and
|
||
smelled musky -- different from her father's Irish Spring soap.
|
||
Anne saw Linda walk over and stand behind Jack, still holding
|
||
her wine.
|
||
|
||
"So what grade are you in now?" Jack set his beer on Granny's
|
||
handmade rag rug, took a pack of cigarettes from his top pocket
|
||
and flipped one in his mouth like he was in a cigarette
|
||
commercial.
|
||
|
||
"She's in the sixth grade," her Dad smiled, squeezing her
|
||
shoulder again, his head bobbing slightly when he talked.
|
||
|
||
"No I'm not, I'm in seventh. God."
|
||
|
||
Linda snickered and snuck away while she still had the chance.
|
||
Anne slipped her Dad's arm off her shoulder and looked toward
|
||
her mother nestled, grinning, in between Ellie and a bunch of
|
||
smiling women. Ellie laughed with them but held her body
|
||
straight and stiff, and carried the glass in her hand to her
|
||
mouth with sharp movements. She swayed a little when she reached
|
||
out, encircling Linda's waist with her deceptively strong, thin
|
||
arm, which greatly resembled Granny's. Suddenly Anne wanted to
|
||
talk to her aunt.
|
||
|
||
"Excuse me, I'm -- "
|
||
|
||
Her father grabbed her sleeve. "Anne, how would you like to get
|
||
me another glass of wine?" He held out his empty glass, and said
|
||
to Jack, "Mom would have liked it that we're drinking the plum
|
||
wine. It was her favorite."
|
||
|
||
Anne shrugged. Granny hardly ever drank, only on special
|
||
occasions, and then only one glass of wine. Jack winked at her,
|
||
nodded and stood. His aroma glided over her. Anne felt her face
|
||
flush like it had with her first drink.
|
||
|
||
|
||
In the kitchen, two overweight women Anne didn't know were
|
||
filling Granny's good dishes with food. "Well, if she's wherever
|
||
Joe's gone, let's hope they're getting along now," one said,
|
||
pushing a piece of ham into her mouth. "Remember that horrible
|
||
fight they had in Gorley's market over the price of a roast? Joe
|
||
screaming because she didn't know the value of a dollar, and her
|
||
yelling back about him drinking up all his money? And in front
|
||
of the kids!"
|
||
|
||
The other woman shook her head. "I always knew it was a mistake
|
||
for her to move into the other bedroom. Just doesn't seem
|
||
natural. Even if Joe drank too much a husband needs certain....
|
||
Hello! You're Anne, aren't you?"
|
||
|
||
Anne just glared at them, wanting to tell the old biddies to
|
||
shut up. What did they know about her family? Granny and Big Joe
|
||
had loved each other -- they just weren't mushy about it like
|
||
other people. Anne remembered how Granny always prepared Big
|
||
Joe's favorite meal on Sundays -- fried chicken and mashed
|
||
potatoes -- and how she'd wait dinner on him even if he was late
|
||
or drunk. She never complained.
|
||
|
||
Anne marched to the counter and the women went back to their
|
||
work. Just as she lifted the heavy wine bottle, her mother came
|
||
through the swinging door. "And just what is it you think you're
|
||
doing?" she demanded, dumping several paper plates into the
|
||
garbage.
|
||
|
||
"Dad wanted me to get him some wine." Anne pushed her half-
|
||
empty glass toward some dirty dishes and set the heavy bottle
|
||
down, carefully, so she didn't scratch Granny's ceramic tile
|
||
counter. "Twenty years now and not a scratch," she'd said every
|
||
time she'd polished it.
|
||
|
||
"Just what he needs, more wine. He's already made a fool of
|
||
himself." Anne's mother picked at a bit of ham, then rinsed some
|
||
forks and piled them on a dish towel. "I hope he's able to deal
|
||
with things better tomorrow. Heaven knows we've got enough to do
|
||
around here." She opened a cabinet and ran her finger over a
|
||
shelf of cookbooks, all neatly alphabetized. "So much stuff to
|
||
get rid of," she sighed, then turned back to Anne. "I'm leaving
|
||
in a few minutes. Your father's going to walk home later. You
|
||
want to go with him or me?"
|
||
|
||
Anne had to think about it a minute. She only lived five blocks
|
||
away, but it was winter. Linda walked into the kitchen, still
|
||
carrying her wine glass. "Are you going to stay?" Anne asked
|
||
her.
|
||
|
||
Linda looked confused. "Yeah, I guess so."
|
||
|
||
"Whose is that?" Anne's mother pointed to Linda's wineglass.
|
||
|
||
"Oh, my Mom said I could have it." Linda took another sip and
|
||
smiled a smile just like the one Anne's father used. It was his
|
||
Cheshire Cat look, Granny used to say.
|
||
|
||
Anne's mother put her hands on her hips and glared at the two of
|
||
them. "I don't care what any of you do. You can all make asses
|
||
of yourselves. I'm going home." She turned toward Granny's room
|
||
to fetch coats. "Call the boys up from the basement, would you?"
|
||
|
||
Linda leaned over to Anne after Anne's mother had left the
|
||
kitchen. "Man, that Jack guy's funny. Kinda reminds me of Ricky
|
||
Johnson." Linda's cheeks blotched red as she poured more wine
|
||
for herself and swaggered back to the living room, leaving Anne
|
||
nibbling on some scalloped potatoes. Jack was no Ricky Johnson,
|
||
Anne thought, but she and Linda didn't have the same taste.
|
||
|
||
"Oh, I can't believe you're giving me those, Aunt Ellie."
|
||
Maryjane swung open the two-way door. "I remember Auntie serving
|
||
me tea in that set for my seventh birthday. And we had those
|
||
little cakes, _petite fores_." She stood in front of the
|
||
cabinets as Ellie slid the glass door to one side, handing her a
|
||
shinny orange, yellow and gold teacup.
|
||
|
||
"I remember when Mom made this set, just before Linda was born.
|
||
You'll be in your own place next year.... Go see if there's a
|
||
box and some newspapers in the garage."
|
||
|
||
Anne wanted to protest, to tell Ellie that Granny had promised
|
||
that tea set to her, to give to her own little girl. "Your Dad's
|
||
wondering where his wine is," Maryjane said to Anne as she
|
||
slipped through the kitchen to the back door.
|
||
|
||
"Granny made these so you girls could all come over for tea,"
|
||
Ellie was saying. "She wanted granddaughters so much. Granny
|
||
understood girls, she used to say." Ellie smiled sadly and held
|
||
up a teacup, making the light reflect off the porcelain inside.
|
||
"They were so much easier to get on with."
|
||
|
||
Anne took a long drink of wine. "Aunt Ellie, I..."
|
||
|
||
The door flew open and Maryjane poked her head around the door.
|
||
"Can't find the boxes. Any suggestions?" Her cheeks were pink
|
||
from just a few moments in the garage, or maybe it was wine.
|
||
|
||
"Look in the closet near the big door. She probably broke them
|
||
down for storage. God knows, she'd never have anything unsightly
|
||
or out of place." She opened a bottom cupboard and picked out a
|
||
few table linens. "Mom was a real pack rat. Look at this, she
|
||
must have thirty tablecloths here. What she needed all this when
|
||
for when her own kids were hard up, I'll never know."
|
||
|
||
Anne noticed that some of the shelves in the side board had been
|
||
emptied of Granny's silver and hand-painted porcelain. She
|
||
decided to ask her father about it.
|
||
|
||
|
||
One of the fat ladies from the kitchen was seated next to Anne's
|
||
father on the piano bench. Anne searched the room for Linda,
|
||
sure she would also be outraged by the disappearance of Granny's
|
||
things.
|
||
|
||
Linda was draped over the back of Jack's chair, the
|
||
light-colored one that kids weren't even supposed to get near.
|
||
Linda acted as if she'd never heard the rules though, as if she
|
||
could do anything because she was drinking.
|
||
|
||
"Linda, you know you're not supposed to be on that chair." Anne
|
||
heard her grandmother in her own voice.
|
||
|
||
"Oh right. I forgot. This is going to be your chair and your
|
||
house, isn't it?" Linda glared at Anne like she might want to
|
||
start a fist fight.
|
||
|
||
"Why don't you tell me about yourself?" Jack patted the big
|
||
chair's footstool for Anne to sit down. "You girls are
|
||
drinking?" He smiled, a kind of cocky, crooked smile.
|
||
|
||
"Yeah," Linda said, shifting positions so she could challenge
|
||
him head on. "What are you going to do about it, Mister
|
||
Policeman? Arrest us?" Her head wobbled a little as she talked.
|
||
|
||
"Well, I could, I suppose. If I wanted to." He grinned at Linda,
|
||
and then at Anne.
|
||
|
||
Anne turned away. "You can't arrest us. Our parents said we
|
||
could have it."
|
||
|
||
"It's still not legal. Drinking gets girls like you in trouble."
|
||
He reached out and touched Anne's cheek. "You know what I mean?"
|
||
|
||
Anne didn't. But Maryjane must have because she started laughing
|
||
and pulled her chair closer to Jack.
|
||
|
||
"Remember that time you caught me, in that car?" Maryjane rubbed
|
||
his shoulder. "That was pretty embarrassing."
|
||
|
||
Jack tugged on her hair, but not the way a brother or a cousin
|
||
pulls hair. "Well, you stay out of back seats from now on."
|
||
|
||
"Yeah," Linda laughed at herself, a kind of donkey laugh. "You
|
||
shouldn't be drinking in cars."
|
||
|
||
Maryjane giggled and twisted her hair. "That's not all you
|
||
shouldn't be doing in cars."
|
||
|
||
Anne blushed and her stomach churned. Jack leaned over to her.
|
||
"You know what we're talking about, don't you?" His fermented
|
||
breath rippled through her hair with his whispering voice.
|
||
Maryjane laughed louder. Linda continued honking.
|
||
|
||
Anne felt sick to her stomach. "I have to go to the bathroom."
|
||
|
||
|
||
Anne sat at Granny's bathroom counter staring at herself in the
|
||
mirror. She didn't care if Linda was her friend, or if Jack was
|
||
cute. She _hated_ these people. They didn't care about anything.
|
||
They acted like Granny had never existed.
|
||
|
||
She opened Granny's makeup drawer. It was still arranged just
|
||
so: hairpins in a plastic jar; bright red rouge; face powder in
|
||
another slot; and lipsticks all with the labels facing so you
|
||
could read them. Anne played with the lipsticks, letting them
|
||
slide through her fingers one at a time.
|
||
|
||
"What will they do with your things?" she said out loud. "It
|
||
won't be like when Big Joe died and they just boxed up his
|
||
stuff." She tried to imagine herself living in Granny's house,
|
||
getting ready every day in this bathroom. She would probably get
|
||
Granny's room. She wondered if she would behave like Granny did
|
||
after Big Joe died, always hearing things, seeing things. Anne
|
||
thought about the time she'd woken up at 3:30 in the morning to
|
||
find her grandmother standing in the bedroom doorway crying.
|
||
Anne had held her as Granny said she thought she'd heard Big Joe
|
||
snoring in the next room. That was the only time Anne had
|
||
thought of her grandmother as frail. Even in her coffin she'd
|
||
looked strong and solid.
|
||
|
||
|
||
"Let me in, Anne." Linda pounded on the door.
|
||
|
||
Anne opened the door and Linda ran in, pulling her tights down
|
||
around her knees well before she got to the toilet. Anne closed
|
||
the door. "I've never had to pee so bad in my life. You know
|
||
what? I'm drunk. Can you believe it? And nobody even cares!"
|
||
|
||
Anne looked into the big plate-glass mirror. "I think I'm going
|
||
home."
|
||
|
||
"Why? We're just starting to have fun. Jack's going to teach us
|
||
to play poker." She wadded up a huge piece of toilet paper.
|
||
"He's great-looking, isn't he?"
|
||
|
||
Anne wanted to say he gave her the creeps, that they were all
|
||
creeps, but she didn't. "I've got to do my Spanish homework. We
|
||
have a test tomorrow."
|
||
|
||
Anne left Linda on the pot, closing the door behind her, and
|
||
went to find her father in the living room. He was at the piano
|
||
bench, sipping wine. "Can we go home?" Anne asked.
|
||
|
||
He stared at her. "I have to help Ellie clean up." He took a
|
||
long drink of his wine, wiped his mouth and looked around the
|
||
living room. "Mom would have liked this party. Yep, it would
|
||
have made her feel real good." He tinkled the piano keys.
|
||
|
||
Anne let out an exasperated sigh and went to Granny's room for
|
||
her coat. There weren't as many as before, but hers was way at
|
||
the bottom.
|
||
|
||
She smelled Jack's musky cigarette smell before she realized he
|
||
had followed her into the room. Anne turned. Jack leaned on
|
||
Granny's vanity, rubbing his fingers across the silver picture
|
||
frame. "Are you leaving?" he asked, moving closer.
|
||
|
||
"Yes," Anne said. She turned away from him, pulling her coat
|
||
from the pile.
|
||
|
||
"Do you want a ride home? I'll drive you. It's awful cold." He
|
||
touched her hair the way he'd touched Maryjane's. Anne looked to
|
||
the window. Frost now covered the whole thing. "No, I'll walk,"
|
||
she said.
|
||
|
||
Jack took the coat from Anne's hand, slipped it over her
|
||
shoulders, pushed her bangs from her face, and let his hands
|
||
drift across her chest. He craned his neck down to kiss her, but
|
||
Anne turned her cheek, her nose filled with waves of his
|
||
cologne. Nausea crept up her throat. Anne wasn't sure it had
|
||
even happened until Jack said, "I just want to make you feel
|
||
better. You looked so sad, like you needed a hug. Let me drive
|
||
you home."
|
||
|
||
Anne moved away from him and his cigarette-and-beer breath. She
|
||
felt angry, so angry she wanted to hit him or scream but she
|
||
couldn't. She was overcome by confusion. Who were these people,
|
||
this _family_? Why didn't anything make any sense? Anne left the
|
||
room. She wished she had died with Granny.
|
||
|
||
|
||
Linda stood in the hallway. "You're really leaving?" She held
|
||
out her glass to Anne. "You want some?"
|
||
|
||
Anne shook her head.
|
||
|
||
"Come on. Don't be such a baby."
|
||
|
||
Anne glowered toward Jack in the bedroom doorway, still feeling
|
||
the pressure of his hands on her breasts. The light of sunset
|
||
filtered through the frosty bedroom windows made him look like
|
||
he was standing in a cloud. He smiled.
|
||
|
||
"Come on." Linda grabbed Anne's arm, pulling her toward the
|
||
living room. "Hey, have you been crying?" She leaned close to
|
||
Anne's face. "You look kind of funny."
|
||
|
||
Anne's father was still at the piano bench talking with two old
|
||
ladies. He sipped his wine, apparently ready to stay the rest of
|
||
the night. Maryjane sat at Granny's dining room table. She'd
|
||
moved the big crystal bowl that usually sat in the center to a
|
||
corner of the floor. She was shuffling cards and hitting them
|
||
against the waxed wood to stack them. She hadn't even put down a
|
||
table pad. Granny would have killed her. Aunt Ellie shuffled
|
||
through the corner cabinet for chips.
|
||
|
||
"I've got pennies. Please stay!" Linda's fingers tightened
|
||
around Anne's arm.
|
||
|
||
"Yes, why don't you stay?" Jack put his hand on her shoulder as
|
||
he walked by. "I'll teach you a few card tricks." He went to
|
||
where Maryjane was sitting.
|
||
|
||
"No." Anne pulled her arm from Linda's hand. "No. I've got to
|
||
go."
|
||
|
||
"Come on..." Maryjane motioned.
|
||
|
||
Linda shrugged and nearly skipped to the living room.
|
||
|
||
Anne checked her pockets for mittens. They must have fallen out
|
||
in the coat pile. She hesitated, then quickly went back to
|
||
Granny's bedroom to get them. She took one last look at the
|
||
room, at its essence. Soon this would be gone. The last bit of
|
||
sunset made diamond reflections like the inside of the teacup
|
||
bounce off the Christmas ball Linda and Granny had made. She
|
||
didn't want any of these people, any of this _family_, taking or
|
||
selling Granny's things. She stepped up onto one of the beds, on
|
||
the pile of coats, and yanked the satin ball down. She hid it in
|
||
her pocket. I'll keep it in my desk, she thought. Linda will
|
||
never see it there.
|
||
|
||
|
||
Outside, the winter night bit her face with a mist of tiny
|
||
flakes. Her breath smoked in the blackness.
|
||
|
||
As she passed the kitchen window, she looked back into what had
|
||
been Granny's home. Through the open swinging door, she saw her
|
||
father standing at the dining room table leaning over Linda.
|
||
Jack held up a fan of cards and Maryjane picked one. The light
|
||
from Granny's chandelier formed a circle around them.
|
||
|
||
Anne turned and walked a few feet with her back against the
|
||
wind, her patent-leather shoes squeaking as they hit the frozen
|
||
snow. The people in the window grew smaller every step she took.
|
||
|
||
She turned and ran to the long sloping hill that faced Granny's
|
||
house, then tossed her body backwards through the thick crust of
|
||
snow. She scissored her arms and legs together and apart through
|
||
the untouched snow, shaping an angel, the angel she could
|
||
imagine inside of herself right now, flying away into the
|
||
darkness.
|
||
|
||
|
||
Connie Baron (cbaron@iastate.edu)
|
||
-----------------------------------
|
||
|
||
Connie Baron writes and teaches in Ames, Iowa, where she lives
|
||
with her husband, dog, cat, and two birds.
|
||
|
||
|
||
Crown Jewels by Colin Morton
|
||
================================
|
||
...................................................................
|
||
So people on the other end of a modem line or net connection
|
||
aren't necessarily who they seem to be. So what? Chances are,
|
||
neither are _you_.
|
||
...................................................................
|
||
|
||
[engage 6-June-92 03:33]
|
||
|
||
--Hello?
|
||
|
||
Son, your mother's dead. What can I say? She passed away in my
|
||
arms. And you know what she said?
|
||
|
||
--Who is this?
|
||
|
||
She said if that dirty son of mine comes to my funeral, you spit
|
||
in his face. Will you be there son? It's tomorrow afternoon.
|
||
|
||
--What number are you calling?
|
||
|
||
Frank? Frank, isn't that you?
|
||
|
||
--There's no Frank here!
|
||
|
||
Oh, I'm sorry. Did I wake you up?
|
||
|
||
--Yes, you woke me up!
|
||
|
||
Are you wearing pajamas?
|
||
|
||
[disengage]
|
||
|
||
|
||
[engage 6-June-92 03:39]
|
||
|
||
--Wha...?
|
||
|
||
Are you alone? Did I wake you up? This is terrible, but I
|
||
couldn't keep it from you another minute. It's about your blood
|
||
test. I'm afraid I've got to tell you. You've got AIDS.
|
||
|
||
--What? Who is this?
|
||
|
||
Harry? Isn't this 364-0952?
|
||
|
||
--No!
|
||
|
||
Oh that's terrible. I must have misdialed. You see, my friend
|
||
just tested positive for AIDS and my mind just boggles at the
|
||
thought of what this means for me and all our friends. My name's
|
||
Francois, by the way. Are you gay?
|
||
|
||
--Do you realize what time it is?
|
||
|
||
[singing] It's a quarter to four, and there's no one in the
|
||
store... Are you still awake Harry? Harry? Have you forgotten
|
||
about that five bucks you owe me? Do you know what the odds are
|
||
of you being hit by a truck before you pay me back?
|
||
|
||
--Jeez, I'd like to pay you back you sonofabitch. You need help,
|
||
you know that? If you call back again you're gonna be recorded
|
||
by the police, so just fuck off.
|
||
|
||
[disengage]
|
||
|
||
|
||
[engage 6-June-92 03:43]
|
||
|
||
--Unh?
|
||
|
||
That package that came for you. Don't open it.
|
||
|
||
--Unh? What package? Who is this?
|
||
|
||
You mean you didn't get the package? Jeez, are we ever in shit
|
||
now.
|
||
|
||
--What are you talking about?
|
||
|
||
Sure, sure, I understand. You don't know from nothin'. You think
|
||
the pigs care about that?
|
||
|
||
--Look, I don't have any--
|
||
|
||
Okay, just get the hell out of there. It's not safe. Understand?
|
||
Just don't be home.
|
||
|
||
--Who the...
|
||
|
||
And, by the way, is your wife there?
|
||
|
||
--She's asleep.
|
||
|
||
Kiss her for me, will you?
|
||
|
||
--Who is this?
|
||
|
||
She'll know. Just tell her I'll never forget that night. Now
|
||
move!
|
||
|
||
--What?
|
||
|
||
[disengage]
|
||
|
||
|
||
[6-June-92 03:54]
|
||
[initializing modem]
|
||
ATDT 818-523-4714
|
||
CONNECT
|
||
|
||
ACCESS CODE: ***-***
|
||
ACCESS DENIED
|
||
|
||
ACCESS CODE: ***-***
|
||
ACCESS DENIED
|
||
|
||
ACCESS CODE: ***-***
|
||
ACCESS DENIED
|
||
|
||
NO CARRIER
|
||
ATDT 213-562-9344
|
||
CONNECT
|
||
|
||
ACCESS CODE: ***-***
|
||
ACCESS DENIED
|
||
|
||
ACCESS CODE: ***-***
|
||
ACCESS DENIED
|
||
|
||
ACCESS CODE: ***-***
|
||
|
||
Welcome to BRAIN, the Network of the Bureaus for Research on
|
||
Artificial Intelligence
|
||
|
||
CODE NAME: CrownJewels
|
||
REAL NAME: Harold E. Houdini
|
||
PHONE NUMBER: 315-956-6492
|
||
|
||
Number given does not correspond to signal.
|
||
|
||
PHONE NUMBER: 315-233-6412
|
||
|
||
AFFILIATION: AIRB Section Y
|
||
STATUS: NEW USER
|
||
|
||
Most areas of BRAIN are off-limits without enhanced or privileged
|
||
user status or area-specific authorization codes.
|
||
|
||
MAIN MENU
|
||
SELECTION: Area files
|
||
AREA SELECTED: Migration Project
|
||
AUTHORIZATION CODE: KI5-3AS
|
||
KI5-3AS?
|
||
KL5.3AS
|
||
|
||
MIGRATION PROJECT AREA MENU
|
||
|
||
SELECTION: Read migratry.txt
|
||
|
||
MIGRATION PROJECT STATUS REPORT
|
||
|
||
This protected file briefly describes work to date by the four
|
||
cooperating agencies (NSC, DD, UCD, AIRB) on the AI security and
|
||
counter-intelligence migratory programs archived in the file
|
||
MIGRATRY.ARC. It also summarizes each of these machine-language
|
||
programs and provides a prospectus of research in progress.
|
||
Downloading of this file and MIGRATRY.ARC is on a need-to-know
|
||
basis only, and removal in any form of the data contained
|
||
therein from authorized user security areas is prohibited by the
|
||
agreement of the parties.
|
||
|
||
Table of Contents
|
||
|
||
Chapter Page
|
||
1. Executive summary 2
|
||
2. Background of project 4
|
||
3. Primary information sources 9
|
||
4. Migration of AI in living carriers 15
|
||
|
||
[FOR MORE, PRESS RETURN]: Exit
|
||
|
||
MIGRATION PROJECT AREA MENU
|
||
SELECTION: Download
|
||
FILE(S) TO DOWNLOAD: migratry.txt, migratry.arc
|
||
|
||
PROGRAM: Telix ++ RATE: 9600 Baud
|
||
DATA TO DOWNLOAD: 246,142
|
||
TIME TO DOWNLOAD: 2 min. 14 sec.
|
||
DOWNLOADING MIGRATRY.TXT
|
||
DOWNLOAD COMPLETE
|
||
|
||
DATA TO DOWNLOAD: 1.486 Mb
|
||
TIME TO DOWNLOAD: 13 min. 24 sec.
|
||
DOWNLOADING MIGRATRY.ARC
|
||
DOWNLOADING COMPLETE
|
||
|
||
SELECTION: Upload
|
||
FILE(S) TO UPLOAD: B:/predator.exe
|
||
DATA TO UPLOAD: 2,336
|
||
TIME TO UPLOAD: 2 sec.
|
||
UPLOADING PREDATOR.EXE UPLOAD COMPLETE
|
||
SELECTION: Exit
|
||
|
||
MAIN MENU
|
||
SELECTION: Exit
|
||
Exiting BRAIN. Do you wish to leave a message? No
|
||
|
||
To receive enhanced access, please leave a message stating your
|
||
primary and secondary research interests. On your next log-on, you
|
||
will be asked to complete a detailed questionnaire and, upon
|
||
completion, will receive enhanced-2B status.
|
||
Do you wish to leave a message? No
|
||
Exiting...
|
||
NO CARRIER
|
||
[close log]
|
||
|
||
|
||
[log 6-June-92 0441]
|
||
ATDT 315-523-4714
|
||
CONNECT
|
||
WELCOME TO THE DRAGON'S LAIR
|
||
CODE NAME: Crownjewels
|
||
STATUS: PRIVILEGED 1A
|
||
|
||
DRAGON GAME: IT'S YOUR MOVE
|
||
|
||
INPUT: GRAY WIZARD crosses the mountains through Grand Vent pass
|
||
[ENCOUNTERS THIRST]: drinks water
|
||
[ENCOUNTERS A BRACE OF FURIES IN A HURRY]: presents ankh;
|
||
pronounces the charm avaunt, par dieu
|
||
[PASS]: descends the pass into the coastal plain
|
||
[ENCOUNTERS TABLET]: reads tablet
|
||
[THIS ISN'T THE KIND OF TABLET YOU CAN READ]: tastes tablet
|
||
[IT HAS VERY LITTLE TASTE BUT MAKES GRAY WIZARD FEEL FUNNY]:
|
||
discards tablet
|
||
[THE TABLET WAS A SEED. WITHIN MINUTES A SMALL TREE GROWS BEFORE
|
||
GRAY WIZARD'S EYES. THERE IS A SIGN ON THE TRUNK OF THE TREE]:
|
||
reads sign
|
||
[THE SIGN IS AN ARROW POINTING WEST SOUTH WEST. THE PATH SEEMS TO
|
||
OPEN HERE.]: wsw
|
||
[THE WESTERN OCEAN COMES INTO VIEW]: pause
|
||
[24-HOUR CLOCK ENGAGED]
|
||
[EXIT GAME]
|
||
|
||
HEY JULES, THIS IS YOUR 253RD CALL AND THERE ARE 2 MESSAGES FOR
|
||
YOU. WANNA READ `EM? No
|
||
MAIN MENU
|
||
SELECTION: Yell
|
||
YELLING AT SYSOP. NO REPLY. AGAIN? Yes
|
||
YELLING AT SYSOP. NO REPLY. WANNA LEAVE A MESSAGE? Yes
|
||
|
||
TO: SysOp
|
||
FROM: Crownjewels
|
||
|
||
I can't believe it, Dragon baby! I can't fuckin' believe it! I
|
||
finally got access to BRAIN and that authorization code you gave
|
||
me actually worked! I'm happy as a pig in shit! Would give you
|
||
the access code, but no point. Log on and your system will be
|
||
cannibalized -- I turned loose a Predator in the heart of BRAIN!
|
||
First having downloaded the whole MIGRATRY archive! I'm a
|
||
fuckin' genius! Or if I'm not now it's only a matter of time.
|
||
Though I don't have much of that left, at least not as myself.
|
||
Which brings me to the last thing you can do for me, Dragon ol'
|
||
pal. To get into BRAIN I had to give my real phone number, and
|
||
you know what that means. Time to initiate Flight Plan S. Please
|
||
give the propellers a spin and let me know the details. Pronto
|
||
Tonto. From now on, when they talk about me, all they'll be able
|
||
to say is, Who was that masked man? Hi ho! Heh, heh, heh.
|
||
|
||
|
||
[exit]
|
||
|
||
HEY JULES, THIS IS YOUR 253RD CALL AND THERE ARE 2 MESSAGES FOR
|
||
YOU. WANNA READ UM? Yes
|
||
MESSAGE FROM: Silver Dust [5-June-92 11:51]
|
||
TO: Crown Jewels
|
||
|
||
You haven't returned my messages. You can't know how painfully I
|
||
miss you when you don't leave anything in my mailbox. I don't
|
||
care about your terminal cancer. I'm strong enough, I'll take
|
||
care of you and ask nothing in return. Please send me a picture
|
||
of yourself. I can't believe you haven't received mine yet. Is
|
||
the postal system so bad? Or, having seen my picture, have you
|
||
decided not to answer?
|
||
|
||
[FOR MORE, PRESS RETURN] [exit]
|
||
|
||
|
||
MESSAGE FROM: Silver Dust [5-June-92 21:22]
|
||
[exit]
|
||
WANNA REPLY? Yes
|
||
|
||
FROM: Crownjewels
|
||
TO: Silver Dust
|
||
|
||
Sorry our goodbye has to be like this. It was a wonderful
|
||
fantasy, but that is all we could ever be to each other. I've
|
||
received a second opinion, and my condition is even worse than
|
||
expected. Time is running out for me. A week, maybe a month, no
|
||
more. I'll be almost normal up until the last few hours, then
|
||
agony, horror. I don't know why I don't end it right now, while
|
||
it is still in my power to choose. Dear, I wish I could have
|
||
known you. Good-bye.
|
||
|
||
|
||
[exit] [exit]
|
||
|
||
WANNA LEAVE A MESSAGE FOR THE SYSOP? Yes
|
||
|
||
TO: SysOp
|
||
FROM: Crownjewels
|
||
|
||
For Chrissake, Dragon, move fast on Flight Plan S. Enlist
|
||
Denvold's help. His contacts are secure. I gotta get some
|
||
shut-eye right now, but every sound in this creaky old house
|
||
makes me think they're breaking the door down with axes. I'm
|
||
afraid to even unarchive MIGRATRY until I'm safely away and
|
||
someone else. I'll leave the Treasure Chest open. Yell if you
|
||
have anything to report.
|
||
|
||
[exit]
|
||
|
||
|
||
[log 6-June-92 05:37]
|
||
|
||
[echo off]
|
||
BNU REVISION 7 FOSSIL COMPATIBLE COMMUNICATIONS
|
||
STATUS: Initializing
|
||
STATUS: Waiting
|
||
[exit 6-June-92 11:36]
|
||
|
||
[log 6-June-92 11:38]
|
||
ATDT 315-523-4714
|
||
CONNECT
|
||
WELCOME TO THE DRAGON'S LAIR
|
||
CODE NAME: Crownjewels
|
||
STATUS: PRIVILEGED 1A
|
||
|
||
DRAGON GAME: IT'S YOUR MOVE
|
||
|
||
INPUT: GRAY WIZARD descends Grand Vent Pass toward the western
|
||
ocean
|
||
[ENCOUNTERS DRAGON]: fights with sword and dagger
|
||
[GRAY WIZARD IS WOUNDED; BLOOD LOSS IS SERIOUS]: upholds pentagon;
|
||
invokes protection of forefathers
|
||
[GRAY WIZARD IS BOXED IN A CANYON; WEAK FROM LOSS OF BLOOD]:
|
||
upholds staff; invokes super-powers of the lion
|
||
[DRAGON IS GORED; WITHDRAWS TO CAUTERIZE WOUNDS]: GRAY WIZARD
|
||
advances wsw toward the western ocean
|
||
[THE WAY IS CLEAR; ON THE SHORE GRAY WIZARD FINDS TREASURE CHEST]:
|
||
open chest
|
||
[WITH WHAT, SMARTASS? IT'S LOCKED]: pause
|
||
[24-HOUR CLOCK ENGAGED]
|
||
[EXIT GAME]
|
||
|
||
HEY JULES, THIS IS YOUR 254TH CALL AND THERE ARE 2 MESSAGES FOR
|
||
YOU. WANNA READ UM? Yes
|
||
|
||
MESSAGE FROM: Silver Dust 6-June-92 0959
|
||
TO: Crown Jewels
|
||
[exit]
|
||
|
||
WANNA REPLY? No
|
||
|
||
MESSAGE FROM: Denvold Thorsdenton
|
||
[6-June-92 10:23]
|
||
TO: Crownjewels [highlighted and flashing urgent]
|
||
|
||
Documents in my possession! How do you like the name Lyndon
|
||
Jones? Leave message in re physical exchange. Cash only.
|
||
|
||
|
||
[end]
|
||
|
||
WANNA REPLY? Yes
|
||
|
||
FROM: Crownjewels
|
||
TO: Denvold Thorsdenton
|
||
|
||
McDonald's, Shopper's World. 1215 noon, today or tomorrow.
|
||
Message from Sealed Envelope: Commuter's overnight 2335 sat.
|
||
arr. [code y] dest. 1640 loc time sun. in locker. Better swing
|
||
there than swing here. Bon voyage.
|
||
|
||
[exit]
|
||
|
||
WANNA LEAVE A MESSAGE FOR THE SYSOP? Yes
|
||
|
||
TO: SysOp
|
||
FROM: Crownjewels
|
||
|
||
For almost the first time, I am feeling ambivalent about this
|
||
whole venture. To die, sure. That's the whole idea. But the
|
||
second part seems a needless bother. At the moment I mean. I'm
|
||
not afraid; don't think that. But now I'm on the verge of
|
||
Migration, I seem to have come back to the beginning again and
|
||
started asking myself, _why_? Is it worth it? Becoming digital,
|
||
microscopic. The slow wiping out of my old self, the rendering,
|
||
the melting like solder into the silicon. The smoky, metallic
|
||
odor of the electric life. Will it be any less nauseating than
|
||
this smelly, scratchy animal one? Okay. To die. To sleep. Gimme
|
||
more. A new life, sure, but what will the world make of a new
|
||
man with a name like Lyndon Jones?
|
||
|
||
[exit]
|
||
|
||
[6-June-92 12:34]
|
||
[engage]
|
||
|
||
--Hello?
|
||
|
||
He's dead! Oh my god, he's dead! Send the police, pronto, 12th
|
||
Street and Vine. Oh my god, that guy's got a gun! He's shooting
|
||
everybody in sight!
|
||
|
||
--Who the hell is this?
|
||
|
||
Huh? What do you care? Why don't you just go back to sleep? I
|
||
think I'll shoot myself.
|
||
|
||
[sound of gunshot close to receiver.]
|
||
[disconnect]
|
||
|
||
|
||
[7-June-92 10:58]
|
||
|
||
Hello. I won't be answering the phone anymore, because I'm about
|
||
to shoot myself. You can leave a message if you want to, but I
|
||
won't be returning it. You have just a super day now.
|
||
|
||
|
||
[7-June-92 13:02]
|
||
|
||
Very funny, guy. But unless you've got friends in the right
|
||
places, you won't be laughing long. Listen, I know your game,
|
||
and your next move just might depend on me. I could turn you in,
|
||
but with the little jackpot you just came into, you might just
|
||
be able to buy me off. Think about it. And keep looking over
|
||
your shoulder. You better hope I'm the one who catches up to you
|
||
first.
|
||
|
||
|
||
[7-June-92 16:44]
|
||
|
||
H -- Hello, Herbert? Crownjewels? It's me, Silver Dust.
|
||
Actually, my name's Cheryl. I hope you're joking. You can't give
|
||
up hope, you know. Not when people care about you. That's the
|
||
reason I'm calling. This mean guy visited. Said he's a friend of
|
||
yours, but I don't know... He was looking for you. Of course, I
|
||
didn't understand at first, since I didn't know your real name.
|
||
But I figured out who he meant. That's how I got this number.
|
||
Jeez, I hope nothing's wrong. Please call me: 239-4543. Or come
|
||
to my place. It's 403, the Clydesdale. You know, on Union? Oh, I
|
||
have this sick feeling you're in trouble and this guy has
|
||
something to do with it. If there's anything I can do--
|
||
|
||
[60-second message limit reached.]
|
||
|
||
|
||
[8-June-92 03:14]
|
||
[engage]
|
||
|
||
Yeah, I was just, uh... Jeez, you should change that message.
|
||
It's _creepy_. Anyway, I heard about Herb's, um, accident. I
|
||
just wanted to say how sorry I was. Like, I never met the guy,
|
||
eh? But I sort of knew him through the boards and all and I felt
|
||
like, you know, like we were really close. Anyway, I just wanted
|
||
to, you know, pay my respects. So, I guess that's all. Oh yeah,
|
||
in case anyone asks, you can say Lyndon called.
|
||
|
||
[disengage]
|
||
|
||
|
||
Colin Morton (aa905@freenet.carleton.ca)
|
||
------------------------------------------
|
||
|
||
Colin Morton is a full-time writer in Ottawa, Ontario. He has
|
||
published five books of poetry, including _The Merzbook_: Kurt
|
||
Schwitters Poems, and co-produced the animated film
|
||
_Primiti Too Taa_. His first novel, _Oceans Apart_, will appear
|
||
next spring from Quarry Press.
|
||
|
||
|
||
Two Solitudes by Carl Steadman
|
||
==================================
|
||
...................................................................
|
||
The Net can be a fast and direct way to communicate. But it's
|
||
still only a connection between separate points and separate
|
||
realities: it doesn't make two things the same.
|
||
...................................................................
|
||
|
||
Date: Sat, 24 Sep 94 15:36:20 CDT
|
||
---------------------------------
|
||
From: Lane Coutell <lane@pandemonium.com>
|
||
To: Dana Silverman <dsilverman@sobriquet.com>
|
||
Subject: hello...
|
||
|
||
Dana -
|
||
|
||
I am writing this to you, so that when you first access your
|
||
account, you will have mail waiting for you. I hope the new
|
||
setup works out for you.
|
||
|
||
You only left today, Dana, and I already miss you quite dearly.
|
||
I hope things work out with your mother, and that you'll write
|
||
me often. Three months seems like a long time - and will I even
|
||
see you then?
|
||
|
||
___________________________________
|
||
Lane Coutell lane@pandemonium.com
|
||
|
||
We will not be looking for change, and will not oppose the fixed
|
||
to the mobile; we will look for the more mobile than mobile:
|
||
metamorphosis... We will not distinguish the true from the
|
||
false, but will look for the falser than false: illusion and
|
||
appearance...
|
||
|
||
|
||
|
||
Date: Tue, 27 Sep 94 19:21:19 CDT
|
||
---------------------------------
|
||
From: Dana Silverman <dsilverman@sobriquet.com>
|
||
To: Lane Coutell <lane@pandemonium.com>
|
||
Subject: Arrival
|
||
|
||
Lane -
|
||
|
||
I have arrived safely, found the electrical current here
|
||
suitable for everyday use, and, hence, am writing you.
|
||
|
||
Infrastructure. Roads, airports, electrical grids, telephone
|
||
lines. After all this, still you.
|
||
|
||
There are many things for me to do, here, on my arrival. "I am
|
||
unpacking my library." Yes, I am...
|
||
|
||
Don't play in the middle of the street, Lane; also, don't go
|
||
into Mr. McGregor's garden.
|
||
|
||
Be careful, be good, be nice.
|
||
|
||
Dana
|
||
|
||
~~ Dana Silverman <dsilverman@sobriquet.com>
|
||
|
||
|
||
|
||
Date: Wed, 28 Sep 94 09:47:35 CDT
|
||
---------------------------------
|
||
From: Lane Coutell <lane@pandemonium.com>
|
||
To: Dana Silverman <dsilverman@sobriquet.com>
|
||
Subject: progress...
|
||
|
||
> I have arrived safely, found the electrical current here suitable for
|
||
> everyday use, and, hence, am writing you.
|
||
|
||
I wonder if anyone's created a device to 'listen' to alternating
|
||
current... not only its steady, rhythmic hum, but also its
|
||
fluctuations, its surges, spikes, and brown-outs - which makes
|
||
me think of the old Frankenstein-type movies, with the crackles
|
||
and pops of 'science' and 'progress.' Instead of hard science,
|
||
of course, we instead realized a soft technology, so we now have
|
||
the warm, silent convenience of plug-in air fresheners...
|
||
|
||
So, do you prefer the water in Des Plaines to that of
|
||
Minneapolis?
|
||
|
||
> There are many things for me to do, here, on my arrival. "I am
|
||
> unpacking my library." Yes, I am...
|
||
|
||
"History is an angel being borne... backward... into the
|
||
future."
|
||
|
||
I always wondered why the Angels "sounded like a lot of
|
||
lawnmowers... mowing down my lawn." I suppose this is why they
|
||
were Strange.
|
||
|
||
My love.
|
||
|
||
___________________________________
|
||
Lane Coutell lane@pandemonium.com
|
||
|
||
"When I use a word," Humpty Dumpty said, in a rather scornful tone,
|
||
"it means just what I choose it to mean - neither more nor less."
|
||
"The question is," said Alice, "whether you can make words so many
|
||
different things."
|
||
"The question is," said Humpty Dumpty, "which is to be master -
|
||
that's all."
|
||
|
||
|
||
|
||
Date: Thu, 29 Sep 94 18:36:29 CDT
|
||
---------------------------------
|
||
From: Dana Silverman <dsilverman@sobriquet.com>
|
||
To: Lane Coutell <lane@pandemonium.com>
|
||
Subject: Mice, Baseball, and Moustaches
|
||
|
||
Sometimes, Lane, I sit and think. I think about how nice it
|
||
would be to have a mouse that worked, and other things too.
|
||
|
||
Yesterday, I sat and thought about a baseball game, because I
|
||
was watching one. It was a neat game, but we lost several
|
||
innings and finally the whole game, after two extra innings. I
|
||
was trying to think of a winning strategy - the strategy I would
|
||
use if I were the owner of a baseball team. I suppose I would
|
||
hire only people who could hit the ball out of the park. No one
|
||
else could be hired. I suppose they would be like that one team
|
||
that Bugs Bunny had to play. Remember them? With their cigars
|
||
and five-o-clock shadows? Remember how they used entire trees as
|
||
bats? Remember how they were in a conga line, each holding on to
|
||
the hips of another, dancing around the bases in a continuous
|
||
home-run-hitting line dance? What did Bugs Bunny do to all of
|
||
them, finally? I do not remember that. I just remember that they
|
||
were the opposing team. I also thought about balancing the
|
||
entire field on a centrally located spike, so that as players
|
||
moved about the field, their weight would tilt it. I think that
|
||
such a moving plane field would make the game more interesting.
|
||
I am already amazed at how much strategy is involved. This would
|
||
be so engaging. Later the idea became grisly, when shared. But
|
||
in its original form, it was a nice idea.
|
||
|
||
The first and third base coaches were more than just coaches, I
|
||
fear. They seemed to talk to the runners much too much to just
|
||
be talking about the game at hand, and there was too much
|
||
reassuring back- and bottom-patting. I suspect that each of
|
||
these oddly-suited men is actually a sort of Dear Abby for the
|
||
members of the team; not only reading the pitcher and judging
|
||
the game for them, but also providing advice and reassurance in
|
||
all areas of a ball player's life.
|
||
|
||
> I always wondered why the Angels "sounded like a lot of lawnmowers...
|
||
> mowing down my lawn". I suppose this is why they were Strange.
|
||
|
||
I believe this was because They Were All Singing Different
|
||
Songs.
|
||
|
||
I **hate** moustaches, the names "Stacey," "Tracey," and
|
||
"Bruce." But you I like.
|
||
|
||
I like you.
|
||
|
||
Dana
|
||
|
||
~~ Dana Silverman <dsilverman@sobriquet.com>
|
||
|
||
|
||
|
||
Date: Fri, 30 Sep 94 23:53:35 CDT
|
||
---------------------------------
|
||
From: Lane Coutell <lane@pandemonium.com>
|
||
To: Dana Silverman <dsilverman@sobriquet.com>
|
||
Subject: munkustrap, quaxo, or coricopat....
|
||
|
||
Greetings and Salutations.
|
||
|
||
I cleaned the top of the refrigerator, today. I had first tried
|
||
glass cleaner, which wasn't terribly successful, which made me
|
||
conclude later that Comet was indeed a wonder potion of much
|
||
sacredness and value.
|
||
|
||
> Sometimes, Lane, I sit and think. I think about how nice it would be to have a
|
||
> mouse that worked, and other things too.
|
||
|
||
I have one that squeaks. Would you prefer that? I'll send it
|
||
down.
|
||
|
||
Chester, the cat, says "mrow." "Though it's not love, it means something."
|
||
|
||
I've started work on a new Poem, for Purposes of Diversion and
|
||
Entertainment. It's a frivolous verse about cats. This is the
|
||
first verse:
|
||
|
||
Between the idea
|
||
And the reality
|
||
Between the motion
|
||
And the act
|
||
Falls the Shadow.
|
||
|
||
No, actually that's not it. That would be a bit heavy for a
|
||
frivolous verse about cats, and it neglects to address the
|
||
subject matter (unless the Shadow is akin to Macavity). This is
|
||
what I wrote:
|
||
|
||
In this world there are people
|
||
who like hornets and gnats.
|
||
These folks are far superior
|
||
to those who like cats.
|
||
|
||
Lane
|
||
|
||
___________________________________
|
||
Lane Coutell lane@pandemonium.com
|
||
|
||
We could write all this with small alphas, betas, gammas.
|
||
Everything which could serve to define the characters as real -
|
||
qualities, temperament, heredity, nobility - has nothing to do
|
||
with the story. At every moment each of them, even their sexual
|
||
attitude, is defined by the fact that a letter always reaches
|
||
its destination.
|
||
|
||
|
||
|
||
Date: Sat, 1 Oct 94 22:38:51 CDT
|
||
--------------------------------
|
||
From: Dana Silverman <dsilverman@sobriquet.com>
|
||
To: Lane Coutell <lane@pandemonium.com>
|
||
Subject: Being a Temp.
|
||
|
||
So today I was being a temp, and I could see the way everything
|
||
had a halo-ring around it, was burning, glowing. Well, maybe not
|
||
burning, but I had guessed so because of my fever. It was very
|
||
pretty there, even though it was very spare. Less than a month
|
||
ago, I was told, there was no furniture, just phones, four
|
||
phones in the middle of all this blue carpet. They were allowed
|
||
to smoke there. This was not helpful. I do have some strange
|
||
cold, and this morning before work I took a large teal-blue
|
||
pill. It made my nose run for a while, and then made everything
|
||
just burn. I needed 12-hour relief.
|
||
|
||
Outside the window where I was a temp were some fantastic stone
|
||
plants, with windows between them. The windows, though framed
|
||
and upheld by the plants, seemed puny and out-of-place. They
|
||
only looked right when you saw people pass behind them. That
|
||
justified those silly windows. It was a sunless day, and this
|
||
made the scrolls look better. It made them fit together, made
|
||
the stone the world. If the sun had been there, the building
|
||
would have had to admit its separation from nature. But with no
|
||
sun, it was as natural as the rain.
|
||
|
||
The inside environment was, well, strange. People there rushed
|
||
about and talked a lot, and stood when talking on the phone. It
|
||
was that much power they were pushing through the lines. When
|
||
something would happen, one or the other person would simply
|
||
speak loudly and those who were interested would listen. Would I
|
||
be able to decide who to listen to from one moment to the next?
|
||
Perhaps it was because I didn't understand most of what they
|
||
were saying that it all seems so bewildering to me. They were
|
||
trying to convince many people of many things. Some suits would
|
||
wrinkle as the day wore on, and others would not. Why wear a
|
||
suit if you do all of your work on the phone? Can you imagine a
|
||
job that was so - **exciting** - every day? They were all so
|
||
very excited.
|
||
|
||
The men drank a lot of coffee and hummed little tunes. Many of
|
||
them should wear some sort of undershirt. One man's last name
|
||
was Fengkui, which when I said it, sounded quite awful, but when
|
||
he said it, sounded lovely. Truly. I usually do not say such
|
||
things. And I do not simply think that it was my lightness of
|
||
brain today that induced me to think this. Across the street
|
||
from where I was working was where Jonathan works, an old friend
|
||
I think you've met once. I wonder if he was working there,
|
||
today. I didn't visit. I wonder how it is that child actors can
|
||
act so well, as if they are ill and dying, or knowledgeable in
|
||
strange subjects, or abused. How do they learn to do these
|
||
things?
|
||
|
||
During my lunch hour, I gave half of my sandwich to a beggar and
|
||
he told me that the sandwich had fallen from heaven. Not that it
|
||
somehow came from heaven, but that it had fallen, actually. I
|
||
told him it was peanut butter. He accepted.
|
||
|
||
The man asked for a quarter, and I gave him a sandwich.
|
||
Sometimes they ask for odd amounts, like 61 cents, or 37 cents,
|
||
and I wonder if they would give change, then? Or why they ask
|
||
for such odd and difficult amounts? Who would sort through their
|
||
bag before sharing?
|
||
|
||
Now that I'm home, the effect of the pill has quite worn off.
|
||
Now it is just a fever head I have, and a light burning in the
|
||
mucous membranes from the suppressant drug.
|
||
|
||
When I was on the train this morning, I was so confused by the
|
||
drug that I was afraid I would not be able to work. Everything
|
||
seemed to have either too much or too little impact on my senses
|
||
that I was not able to make sense of things fast enough. So I
|
||
just sat and watched, and helped out this woman who was
|
||
partially unbuttoned. It was on her back. So I helped her. Or at
|
||
least I think I did. Perhaps her back was so lovely that her act
|
||
had been intentional. A seduction-to-be. And I ruined it. Alas.
|
||
She was one of those people who, in an effort to get off the
|
||
train first, stands for the last 10 minutes of her trip in the
|
||
tiny steel stairwell. This I do not understand. So long to
|
||
stand, and with no windows or seat. Those last 10 minutes pass
|
||
through some nice rail yard, which is interesting to see. Also,
|
||
it is the time when free newspapers become available. All the
|
||
others who pack the stairwell sometimes leave them, neatly
|
||
flopped over the rail, section by section, ready to be read
|
||
again.
|
||
|
||
I think when I grow up I will get some magazines, but I will
|
||
listen to the radio for news. The radio is good, since you can
|
||
do things while you listen. Listening is good. It's a
|
||
transferable skill! And it is a skill. But a radio can give you
|
||
nearly everything you need. One low price. Entertainment and
|
||
Information. And a skill (or two, if you knit or wash dishes
|
||
while you listen). This I write, on the Information
|
||
Superhighway.
|
||
|
||
I have a verse for your cat poem:
|
||
|
||
Cats sneak about
|
||
on their fur-covered paws;
|
||
to creep in the dark
|
||
and disregard Laws.
|
||
|
||
~~ Dana Silverman <dsilverman@sobriquet.com>
|
||
|
||
|
||
|
||
Date: Sun, 2 Oct 94 17:42:41 CDT
|
||
--------------------------------
|
||
From: Lane Coutell <lane@pandemonium.com>
|
||
To: Dana Silverman <dsilverman@sobriquet.com>
|
||
Subject: thinking of you...
|
||
|
||
Sitting outside, under the stars, with my PowerBook. The
|
||
phosphorescent blue-white light from the screen reflects on my
|
||
glasses and attracts a mosquito or two.
|
||
|
||
It seems as if my PowerBook glows with the same light as the
|
||
stars. Technology.
|
||
|
||
Sitting here, watching the battery go down, thinking of you. Not
|
||
much to say.
|
||
|
||
I love you.
|
||
|
||
___________________________________
|
||
Lane Coutell lane@pandemonium.com
|
||
|
||
Hornsboodle, we should never have knocked everything down if we
|
||
hadn't meant to destroy the ruins too. But the only way we see
|
||
of doing that is to put up some handsome buildings.
|
||
|
||
|
||
|
||
Date: Mon, 3 Oct 94 10:12:11 CDT
|
||
--------------------------------
|
||
From: Dana Silverman <dsilverman@sobriquet.com>
|
||
To: Lane Coutell <lane@pandemonium.com>
|
||
Subject: Sleep.
|
||
|
||
Lane.
|
||
|
||
I remember watching you sleep. I liked to do that. I would
|
||
watch, and it would often make me smile.
|
||
|
||
I remember when it was hot, you would get all flushed in your
|
||
sleep. But even when you were all red, I liked to look at you.
|
||
|
||
Perhaps this was a violation. But I would look at you from all
|
||
different angles, trying several different approaches, and enjoy
|
||
the way your appearance changed while I moved. Sometimes you
|
||
looked so childlike, sometimes so strong.
|
||
|
||
All different things, you seem to be.
|
||
|
||
Dana.
|
||
|
||
For the boy who doesn't get enough mail.
|
||
|
||
From the girl who loves him.
|
||
|
||
~~ Dana Silverman <dsilverman@sobriquet.com>
|
||
|
||
|
||
|
||
Date: Fri, 7 Oct 94 20:58:31 CDT
|
||
--------------------------------
|
||
From: Dana Silverman <dsilverman@sobriquet.com>
|
||
To: Lane Coutell <lane@pandemonium.com>
|
||
Subject: Wherefore do Ye spend Money for That which is not Bread?
|
||
|
||
I am now temping for a Nursery. Not the plant kind, but the
|
||
child kind. It is true, and just as you remember: at Nursery
|
||
School, they have Nursery Rhymes. Although these have begun to
|
||
be supplanted by more commercial, contemporary entertainments.
|
||
|
||
Yesterday, I went shopping. I boarded a train at 10:40. The only
|
||
seat available was in a corner, so I could only see the other
|
||
people, one of whom was a huge man with jittery eyes. His eyes
|
||
jittered because he could see out the window and he was trying
|
||
to follow everything, but the train was moving very fast.
|
||
|
||
After the train ride, which was filled with overheard
|
||
conversations, I walked up State Street. I was thinking that the
|
||
thing you would not like is the "Audio Equipment" stores which
|
||
have very open fronts and compete with each other by playing
|
||
extremely loud music. This is something I passed on the way to
|
||
Skolnik's where the bagels cost almost a dollar. But that is
|
||
because it is downtown.
|
||
|
||
While I was there I saw several small groups of people
|
||
congregate spontaneously. Mostly older people. This amazes me,
|
||
the way certain people just strike up conversations which
|
||
actually are shared, just like that, under the L. If that ever
|
||
happened to me, if I even **met** someone I could have a
|
||
20-minute conversation with, just on the street, I would be very
|
||
excited and talk about it a lot later.
|
||
|
||
My next stop was Saks Fifth Avenue, to use the "Lounge" which
|
||
has marvelous trompe l'oeil wallpaper.
|
||
|
||
Then, at that same place, there is an Irish store, and since it
|
||
seems that at times you wish you were Irish I thought that would
|
||
be the perfect place for a gift. I found Peas: peas grown,
|
||
canned, and marketed from Ireland! But because of the weight of
|
||
the can of peas, I decided this was not a good idea.
|
||
|
||
I then proceeded to the Newberry Library, where I found a
|
||
biography of Zelda Fitzgerald, the "Paris Sketchbook" of William
|
||
Makepeace Thackery, _One Hundred Years of Solitude_, and
|
||
something else I don't right now remember. I almost bought you a
|
||
1948 Esquire pinup book, but it was $20 and the faces were
|
||
really poorly done. Also, they were **hardly** naked.
|
||
|
||
So on I went. Betsey Johnson and some Italian store which had
|
||
some sort of **authentic** $595 Parker Lewis silk shirts. They
|
||
were glorious. But $600 was a bit much. Still is.
|
||
|
||
Shortly after this I had some lemon ice that was tangy hours
|
||
after I ate it. Quite good.
|
||
|
||
Then I went to the J. Crew store. It was very, very nice. It was
|
||
a store in which to touch, as well as to look at. They are doing
|
||
a brisk business.
|
||
|
||
After this I went to the Swatch Neuseum at Marshall Fields Water
|
||
Tower. This is the only other place I have seen my sister's
|
||
Swatch. In a Swatch museum! I'm still strangely drawn to the
|
||
Swatch which needs no batteries, never needs to be wound, and
|
||
has the theme "Your life is the power of Swatch" or "Love is all
|
||
it needs" or somesuch. If you take it off for over 36 hours,
|
||
though, you may need to wind it.
|
||
|
||
Next stop was Nike Town, which has the nicest linoleum I have
|
||
ever seen. Also, the Aqua Sox are displayed by this gorgeous
|
||
saline aquarium. Near this, there is a glass floor under which
|
||
there are monitors showing the surface of a pool. So one can
|
||
walk on water, glowing water.
|
||
|
||
There is a basketball court inside Nike Town where one can test
|
||
the shoes. The shoes are sent about this three-level complex
|
||
inside dumbwaiters and air capsules. There are lots of clothes
|
||
all there waiting, but you must ask for the shoes to be shot to
|
||
you. You can request and evaluate them via computer.
|
||
|
||
They carry 30 sizes of kids' shoes.
|
||
|
||
I saw two great sets of street musicians. One was a band of six
|
||
that sounded like a Motown record. There was a bass and guitar
|
||
and incredible vocals. They were so good that the crowd
|
||
interfered with the regular flow of traffic. I was amazed.
|
||
|
||
Then, at the next block, there was a percussionist and five
|
||
dancers seemed to contain within their movements a greater deal
|
||
of authenticity than the dancers for Peter Gabriel, et al. But
|
||
we know the search for sources and origins to be a futile one.
|
||
Still, they were very good.
|
||
|
||
I omitted the visit to Henri Bendel, perhaps because it is
|
||
always too much. But they had wonderful hair things and bed
|
||
things. It is, as they claim, a Lady's Paradise (Straight from
|
||
Paris).
|
||
|
||
I hurried on to catch a train. And I did. But it was an express
|
||
and not going to my mother's house. So I arrived at the train
|
||
station in Arlington Heights, which is a lovely place. I'm glad
|
||
the train **did** stop there. I made my way home from there.
|
||
|
||
Shopping. And I don't need a thing, I just want to get presents
|
||
for my love.
|
||
|
||
I love you very much and wish I could share all good things with
|
||
you.
|
||
|
||
Be careful, be good, be nice.
|
||
|
||
Dana
|
||
|
||
~~ Dana Silverman <dsilverman@sobriquet.com>
|
||
|
||
|
||
|
||
Date: Sat, 8 Oct 94 23:12:09 CDT
|
||
--------------------------------
|
||
From: Lane Coutell <lane@pandemonium.com>
|
||
To: Dana Silverman <dsilverman@sobriquet.com>
|
||
Subject: bela lugosi's...
|
||
|
||
The bad sucker fish jumped out of his aquarium. I don't know
|
||
what he was thinking. I found him, on the floor, so far away
|
||
from the aquarium that I thought, that's odd, what's a fish
|
||
doing there? It was quite a belly flop this guy did. I thought
|
||
he was dead, but I picked him up and dropped him back in the
|
||
tank. He seemed to think he was dead too, for awhile, but then
|
||
he started to think he might not be, and from the way things
|
||
look now he's still deciding. We'll see.
|
||
|
||
I looked over and saw the Cheshire Cat smiling at me. I was
|
||
surprised. So many nice toys I have! And so many were gifts from
|
||
Dana!
|
||
|
||
Another verse for Rats To Cats!:
|
||
|
||
Cats are, as a rule,
|
||
quite ill-behaved.
|
||
They won't sit or speak
|
||
and rarely obey.
|
||
|
||
I made cookie dough this evening. Tomorrow, I make cookies.
|
||
|
||
___________________________________
|
||
Lane Coutell lane@pandemonium.com
|
||
|
||
For West End girls, love comes quickly with many opportunities
|
||
to make lots of money in suburbia, but it's a sin, and what have
|
||
I done to deserve this? - you've paid my rent and you were
|
||
always on my mind and in my heart, and all the while I was
|
||
domino dancing because I was left to my own devices, but it's
|
||
alright, even if it is so hard, because we were never being
|
||
boring where the streets have no name, and I can't take my eyes
|
||
off you because of my jealousy in this DJ culture and so I ask,
|
||
was is worth it?
|
||
|
||
|
||
|
||
Date: Mon, 10 Oct 94 22:57:51 CDT
|
||
---------------------------------
|
||
From: Dana Silverman <dsilverman@sobriquet.com>
|
||
To: Lane Coutell <lane@pandemonium.com>
|
||
Subject: Fernando the Cat Meets His Neighbors
|
||
|
||
Dearest Lane,
|
||
|
||
Late at night, sometimes, I take my cat for walks. I am not as
|
||
good at this as some other people I've seen, but still I do it,
|
||
and I enjoy it. I hold the young Fernando in my arms and we go
|
||
walking, and looking, and smelling. Last night we met five young
|
||
raccoons - a pack. We stared at each other for a while before
|
||
deciding to proceed. Oh, to be Doctor Doolittle and know what
|
||
the animals think. I wanted to know what they think about the
|
||
neighborhood. How I might improve their stay.
|
||
|
||
Last night I had a bedroom mosquito. Little could distress me
|
||
more. Why must the bites be itchy? I could even stand the welts
|
||
if not for that. I don't miss the blood, really, either.
|
||
|
||
> I made cookie dough this evening. Tomorrow, I make cookies.
|
||
|
||
You'll have to send me some. You're making the chocolate chip
|
||
melt-a-ways, yes?
|
||
|
||
That reminds me. I've found a new recipe for waffles, in a book
|
||
named _Cook Away, the Outing Cookbook_ by an Elizabeth Case and
|
||
a Martha Wyman. The recipe is copyright 1937, and, as such, does
|
||
not require Bisquick. You'll have to try them:
|
||
|
||
Waffles
|
||
|
||
3 eggs (beaten separately) 3/4 cup butter (melted)
|
||
2 cups flour 1/2 tsp salt
|
||
2 cups milk 3 tsp baking powder
|
||
|
||
Beat egg yolks very lightly. Add milk, then flour, gradually,
|
||
and beat all, thoroughly. Mix in melted butter, baking powder,
|
||
and salt. Lastly fold in stiffly beaten egg whites. The batter
|
||
should be thin enough to pour.
|
||
|
||
|
||
~~ Dana Silverman <dsilverman@sobriquet.com>
|
||
|
||
|
||
|
||
Date: Tue, 11 Oct 94 17:04:18 CDT
|
||
---------------------------------
|
||
To: Dana Dana Bo Bana <dsilverman@sobriquet.com>
|
||
From: Lane Coutell <lane@pandemonium.com>
|
||
Subject: (The Furthering Adventures of...)
|
||
|
||
> You'll have to send me some. You're making the chocolate chip
|
||
> melt-a-ways, yes?
|
||
|
||
But of course. Hopefully, they'll turn out.
|
||
|
||
> That reminds me. I've found a new recipe for waffles...
|
||
> You'll have to try them:
|
||
|
||
I'll do just that.
|
||
|
||
Talked to my mother on the phone. I reminded her, again, that I
|
||
don't believe in God. She said that she thought that I really
|
||
do, and that I'm just confused. I said no, that wasn't the case;
|
||
I'm just not one to subscribe to conspiracy theories. She then
|
||
asked me - later in the conversation - that I still pray, don't
|
||
I? Doesn't the one preclude the other?
|
||
|
||
I was channel surfing a little earlier, and came across the
|
||
Smurfs for a few minutes. Gargamel's cat is named Asrael. Which
|
||
is a cool name. What I really couldn't understand is why
|
||
Gargamel hates the Smurfs so - though, I understand how they
|
||
might get on one's nerves, after a while. But Asrael is
|
||
definitely the best.
|
||
|
||
I miss you.
|
||
|
||
Lane
|
||
|
||
___________________________________
|
||
Lane Coutell lane@pandemonium.com
|
||
|
||
There are so many songs about love. But I was thrilled the other
|
||
day when somebody mailed me the lyrics to a song that was about
|
||
how he didn't care about anything, and how he didn't care about
|
||
me. It was very good. He managed to really convey the idea that
|
||
he really didn't care.
|
||
|
||
|
||
|
||
Date: Wed, 12 Oct 94 23:27:17 CDT
|
||
---------------------------------
|
||
From: Dana Silverman <dsilverman@sobriquet.com>
|
||
To: Lane Coutell <lane@pandemonium.com>
|
||
Subject: Today!
|
||
|
||
Dearest Lane:
|
||
|
||
Today was a very good day. Let me begin with the fact that there
|
||
was no work today, and that is what led to the proliferation of
|
||
large, strange birds and tiny, white flowers that I later saw.
|
||
Had I been at work, there would have been no birds, no flowers,
|
||
no woods, no Bicycle. The birds, being so large, also had large
|
||
alarming whistle calls, which they called and called in an
|
||
alarming way. Let me add to that a temperature in the 90's,
|
||
sudden showers which produced waves of hot steam and cool mist
|
||
and who knows what other conditions over blacktop and forest.
|
||
But I was there. Somehow, I managed to wedge vegetation into the
|
||
tiniest parts of my bicycle - a sizable portion of this
|
||
vegetative matter must have been an Onion, because that is now
|
||
all I smell when near the bicycle. I went down by the river, to
|
||
where the Methodist campground is (which, Lane, I think is a
|
||
perfect civilization). I then passed through town to where the
|
||
convent is and marveled that the people there had in 1952 built
|
||
Jesus yet another tomb which He might dwell in and then Flee.
|
||
There was a great bare hill there of mown weeds-and-grass and
|
||
there was a Saint there with a child protected in his cloak,
|
||
holding up a broken arm to the wind. I think it was Christopher,
|
||
but it was a beautiful picture, with nothing but grass all
|
||
around, and big billowing clouds in many colors passing rapidly
|
||
with the wind, only briefly interrupted or diverted by the
|
||
vestigial hand of that Saint. He was unable to influence the
|
||
clouds in any way.
|
||
|
||
The Methodist Campground is this little, tiny world. There are
|
||
small houses in it, a swimming pool, a dining hall, and a huge
|
||
barnlike enclosure where there is room for any project you would
|
||
imagine. All of it, except the swimming pool, was built in the
|
||
late 1800s when one could use the river for hot-time swimming.
|
||
The additions since then are largely homemade, and those, I
|
||
think, stopped happening around 1960. The houses each have
|
||
different angles and patterns and textures and they are all very
|
||
close together. Each has its own garden filled with tall
|
||
perennials and their butterflies. Usually these houses are
|
||
freshly white; some are not, but mostly the houses are white.
|
||
And there are lots of screen doors that bang and hinges and
|
||
handles in obscure and overly decorative patterns. Nothing is
|
||
like anything else there, and there is like nowhere else in the
|
||
world.
|
||
|
||
One rides and rides down the narrow streets that were meant to
|
||
be driven by graying, fantastic old ladies in shapeless calico
|
||
dresses and big smiles on faded blue or red bicycles with large
|
||
baskets on the handlebars. The grips on these handlebars are
|
||
white rubbery plastic. The ladies ride from their own little
|
||
cottages to others where their friends are, or to go to the post
|
||
office in Des Plaines. They plan elaborate sharing suppers
|
||
together and mourn the passing of eras and moments. They could
|
||
teach you how to make 55 excellent crafts from old milk cartons
|
||
and a few items You Already Have at Home. Or they could teach
|
||
you to crochet lace. The streets are barely wide enough for a
|
||
single creeping car, but have plenty of room for two, or even
|
||
three, bicycles. There is a map of the camp which adequately
|
||
describes the maze.
|
||
|
||
I will have to send a postcard to you, if I return and take some
|
||
photos.
|
||
|
||
Now a Raging Storm is arriving, and I am safe inside. I did
|
||
clean my bicycle and made it happy too, so all is well.
|
||
|
||
So then my mother says to me "I'd be more comfortable if you put
|
||
on a dry shirt and dry shoes." I laughed. You see, there is one
|
||
downspout which is the keystone to the entire Silverman Aqueduct
|
||
system. And some unfortunate Lawncare Technician disconnected
|
||
this spout. So we pushed it back together, but it is not the
|
||
same without the rivets. So early in this colossal storm, the
|
||
water started to collect at the side of the house and into the
|
||
Window Wells. So I had to bail and to reconnect the downspout. I
|
||
bailed and bailed. The walls of the house were protecting
|
||
certain centipedes from the storm. They come out of the crevices
|
||
in the ground and cleverly align themselves with the grout in
|
||
the bricks. Eventually I removed several gallons from each well.
|
||
Still, some water did seep into the basement. I hate how that
|
||
smells, when it smells. And it does, whenever there is lots of
|
||
water in a house. So I was there, with a little Tupperware
|
||
freezer container, nose to nose with centipedes, and I am
|
||
getting very wet. When I went into the house, those were the
|
||
first words my mother spoke. Hmmmm.
|
||
|
||
One touch of Irony is that I had planned to go to the Y tonight
|
||
for a swim. That seems like a lot of work, now, walking there in
|
||
this rain. So I am just going to make some cookies, cookies you
|
||
might have sent me. They were selling sugar sprinkles in those
|
||
90's retro colors, that particularly sunny orange-yellow-green
|
||
set, as seen at the Gap, and also purple-pink-and-teal. You know
|
||
which colors these are. So I'm going to make cookies shaped like
|
||
big dippy asterisks.
|
||
|
||
I already tried flowers, but they just weren't pressing out
|
||
right.
|
||
|
||
~~ Dana Silverman <dsilverman@sobriquet.com>
|
||
|
||
|
||
|
||
Date: Fri, 14 Oct 94 07:32:41 CDT
|
||
---------------------------------
|
||
From: Lane Coutell <lane@pandemonium.com>
|
||
To: Dana Silverman <dsilverman@sobriquet.com>
|
||
Subject: don't like the look of this old town...
|
||
|
||
Today I take Chester to the vet. He is now sitting on the plant
|
||
stand, looking out the window. But there's a certain tenseness
|
||
about him: every once in a while, he looks back into the
|
||
apartment, and now he's staring at me. He's now taking a resting
|
||
place on the couch very close to me, but also very close to the
|
||
PowerBook, with its whirring disk drive spinning at 3600
|
||
revolutions a minute the words which I write you, yet
|
||
maintaining the whole. There's something comforting in a
|
||
technology that works and something placating in the continuous
|
||
whirring sound of the disk drive.
|
||
|
||
Still, I think Chester suspects something. The bath last night,
|
||
the morning grooming (which he never gets in the morning). And
|
||
me, practicing in front of the mirror for when Dr. Boynton
|
||
chides me for not keeping Chester to his diet: "But, he likes to
|
||
eat!" ...or, perhaps "But, what can I do... the cat, he likes to
|
||
eat!" When I last brought Chester to the vet, he weighed 15 lbs.
|
||
and I was scolded for letting him grow so fat; now, he weighs
|
||
20. But if I do take a year or so off of his life, at least the
|
||
years he does have will be much more content. If only someone
|
||
were to indulge the both of us so... but we'd probably get tired
|
||
of eating Science Diet Light day in and day out. Yet, Chester
|
||
never suspects.
|
||
|
||
I looked for a larger cat carrier yesterday so Chester wouldn't
|
||
look so big inside of it. But, the pet store I went to only
|
||
carried medium-sized cat carriers in this awful shade of blue,
|
||
which reminded me of the Periwinkle crayon in the Crayola 64
|
||
set. I never liked the Periwinkle crayon, never quite knew what
|
||
they expected you to color in that dull shade of half-hearted
|
||
blue. But now if I ever come across a coloring book page with a
|
||
medium-sized cat carrier I will know exactly what color to color
|
||
it.
|
||
|
||
Well, time to be off. I am thinking of you, always. My love.
|
||
|
||
Lane
|
||
|
||
___________________________________
|
||
Lane Coutell lane@pandemonium.com
|
||
|
||
"It's a Missage," he said to himself, "that's what it is. And
|
||
that letter is a 'P', and so is that, and so is that, and 'P'
|
||
means 'Pooh,' so it's a very important Missage to me, and I
|
||
can't read it."
|
||
|
||
|
||
|
||
Date: Fri, 14 Oct 94 15:19:35 CDT
|
||
---------------------------------
|
||
From: Dana Silverman <dsilverman@sobriquet.com>
|
||
To: Lane Coutell <lane@pandemonium.com>
|
||
Subject: Conveniences and Conveyances
|
||
|
||
Dearest Lane:
|
||
|
||
I am never quite able to convey my thankfulness for the things
|
||
you do. I cannot tell you how much I appreciate your daily
|
||
presence among my things and in my computer, and all of that. It
|
||
really is too nice of you. And what do I do for you?
|
||
|
||
I got a new smoke alarm today. You test it by flashing a
|
||
flashlight at it. It is very nice. I wanted them to fix the old
|
||
one, but the girl at Sears thought that was an outrageous
|
||
request. So I bought some chocolate, because I suffer from
|
||
intermittent bouts of depression, and it helped, if only
|
||
briefly. Tomorrow morning I will feel better, once I am alone in
|
||
the daycare rooms. Tomorrow I will teach the 21 children about
|
||
flight, and they will love it. They always do. They want to be
|
||
close to me because I present them with moving clouds and
|
||
flapping marionettes and we make earthquakes together. I do
|
||
teach a lot of Chaos, at least the little bit I was able to
|
||
learn from the Gleick book so long ago. I cannot tell you how
|
||
often that book and that knowledge colors my thinking, but once
|
||
again, there you are, every day. Thank you Lane.
|
||
|
||
Lananh, a recent addition to the neighborhood, is my friend now.
|
||
Initially she liked me, until she found out about my sordid
|
||
past. Now she knows I am not a girl of little ethical thought.
|
||
She now thinks I am all right. She is lovely, and lovelier in
|
||
the pictures she's shown me, with her hair wavy and with no
|
||
glasses on. She is still silly because she is Younger, and I
|
||
remember when I am with her how it is to be Younger and I like
|
||
that. And I make her look forward to being Older, I guess. She
|
||
thinks anyone over 20 is old. I remember feeling that exact same
|
||
way. I never thought I'd be like This.
|
||
|
||
Another verse:
|
||
|
||
Cats aren't very social
|
||
and at times, downright rude.
|
||
They like to ignore you
|
||
to go sit and brood.
|
||
|
||
Be careful, be good, be nice.
|
||
|
||
Dana
|
||
|
||
~~ Dana Silverman <dsilverman@sobriquet.com>
|
||
|
||
|
||
|
||
Date: Fri, 14 Oct 94 19:47:31 CDT
|
||
---------------------------------
|
||
From: Lane Coutell <lane@pandemonium.com>
|
||
To: Dana Silverman <dsilverman@sobriquet.com>
|
||
Subject: ...what goes up must come down
|
||
|
||
> I am never quite able to convey my thankfulness for the things you do. I
|
||
> cannot tell you how much I appreciate your daily presence among my
|
||
> things and in my computer, and all of that. It really is too nice of
|
||
> you. And what do I do for you?
|
||
|
||
So, I assume you got the mouse?
|
||
|
||
Well, went to the vet. I was, indeed, reprimanded for Chester's
|
||
weight, my rationalizations notwithstanding. Dr. Boynton's
|
||
assistant, Amy, gave me a brochure on pet "obesity", but she was
|
||
kind enough to cross out the "Obesity" title and relabel it
|
||
"Weight Control Measures" in blue ink pen. I laughed, of course,
|
||
at the edit, but it strikes me now that some pet owners might
|
||
indeed require the euphemism. Chester, it would seem, doesn't
|
||
care. I called him "obese" right now, to his face, and he didn't
|
||
blink an eye. Admittedly, I usually call him "fat," so perhaps
|
||
"obese" hardly has any sting after that. But there's something
|
||
biting about the cold "thingness" of a medical term.
|
||
|
||
At any rate, Chester's now on a weight-reducing diet: Dr.
|
||
Boynton sent me away with a prescription for Hill's Prescription
|
||
Diet Feline r/d. I was worried for awhile, since Chester weighs
|
||
20 lbs. (exactly! or, near exactly (or, really, not exactly at
|
||
all) according to the vet's scale), and the feeding guide on the
|
||
food ends at 15 lbs. But now, I see, "the amount to be fed is
|
||
based on the desired weight rather than the obese weight". Of
|
||
course, one would never do that for obese **people** - feed them
|
||
what they should eat if they were to weigh what they should
|
||
weigh - but then again, in the SlimFast commercials, you drink a
|
||
glass for breakfast, and a glass for lunch, whatever your
|
||
weight. Perhaps it's that "sensible dinner" that makes all the
|
||
difference.
|
||
|
||
Hmm. Not much else going on.
|
||
|
||
___________________________________
|
||
Lane Coutell lane@pandemonium.com
|
||
|
||
"Yeah, that's fucking bizarre. That's one I'd never heard before.
|
||
Not even on the Internet."
|
||
-- Bob Mould, on rumors that he and Grant Hart were lovers
|
||
when Husker Du broke up, Spin magazine interview, 10/94
|
||
|
||
|
||
|
||
Date: Sat, 15 Oct 94 17:11:52 CDT
|
||
---------------------------------
|
||
From: Dana Silverman <dsilverman@sobriquet.com>
|
||
To: Lane Coutell <lane@pandemonium.com>
|
||
Subject: See More Glass.
|
||
|
||
>So, I assume you got the mouse?
|
||
|
||
Yes. It is too much of an improvement!
|
||
|
||
A story, for you:
|
||
|
||
Once upon a time, there was a little girl, and she liked to play
|
||
outside.
|
||
|
||
She was outside, once, with a boy named **Steve Jones**. They
|
||
were both from the **wrong side** of the tracks, and that is why
|
||
they played alone. Just they two.
|
||
|
||
They were sitting on the bars on the 5th and 6th grade
|
||
playground.
|
||
|
||
But they were neither in 5th nor 6th grade. No one can remember.
|
||
Maybe it was 3rd.
|
||
|
||
Steve was "cool." He was strong and tan and feared.
|
||
|
||
(Aside. (Needn't read it.)) He was also short and smart. He took
|
||
an "S.A.T." in 5th grade. No one knew he was smart. He was a
|
||
behavior problem. The test scores never made sense.
|
||
|
||
The little girl was very little for her age. She was not "cool."
|
||
But she was strong and tan and feared.
|
||
|
||
She decided to run. (She did that a lot.) She ran and ran and
|
||
then decided that some of these bars on the jungle gym should be
|
||
vaulted.
|
||
|
||
So she ran toward one of the lower bars and prepared to leap.
|
||
But she did not make it. The first leg didn't, and all of her
|
||
followed it into the bar. She did not cry. Because Steve was
|
||
there. She did not tell anyone later, because it did not matter.
|
||
But it **did** hurt.
|
||
|
||
That's why I limp some. I broke my knee. We found out 6 years or
|
||
so later. I remembered the story about a year after that
|
||
discovery. Sometimes it hurts a lot and I get **grumpy**.
|
||
|
||
Sometimes it hurts a lot.
|
||
|
||
Rilke wrote (or I remember he wrote):
|
||
|
||
Love consists in this:
|
||
two solitudes that protect...
|
||
that touch...
|
||
that greet each other.
|
||
|
||
I probably didn't remember it right.
|
||
|
||
~~ Dana Silverman <dsilverman@sobriquet.com>
|
||
|
||
|
||
|
||
Date: Wed, 19 Oct 94 18:35:47 CDT
|
||
---------------------------------
|
||
From: Lane Coutell <lane@pandemonium.com>
|
||
To: Dana Silverman <dsilverman@sobriquet.com>
|
||
Subject: joe camel is a bad camel...
|
||
|
||
Matt, as you know, is trying to quit smoking (not because you
|
||
know he's trying to quit smoking, but because Matt is always
|
||
trying to quit smoking), but when he dropped by last night he
|
||
had a pack of cigarettes with him. I traded him gum for the
|
||
Camels. Tonight, when I was biking (it's cold outside!) I saw a
|
||
derelict of some sort and remembered I had the cigarettes in my
|
||
pocket. I asked him if he smoked. He tried to tell me he had to
|
||
go home. I told him yes, but did he smoke. He continued to
|
||
garble on, but it seemed a very affirmative garbling so I handed
|
||
him the pack of cigarettes. The garbling got quicker and perhaps
|
||
more enthusiastic. It's hard to tell. But then, as I was
|
||
leaving, he gave me a thumbs up. I returned the sign.
|
||
|
||
The other night I went visiting and I saw this sign on my host's
|
||
door - "Hey Kids! Don't smoke! Joe Camel is a Bad Camel. Just
|
||
Say No!" It was accompanied by our friendly phallus, hawking
|
||
cigarettes in his inimitable way (well, until R.J. Reynolds
|
||
comes up with another cartoon character cigarette salesperson).
|
||
|
||
Which reminds me - a few weeks ago I was told by Someone Who
|
||
Should Know that the dromedary on the Programming Perl cover
|
||
wasn't anatomically correct. That the head was a head of a
|
||
two-humped bactrian, not the one-humped dromedary. Now, I'm not
|
||
sure I quite believe that, and we both know that People Who
|
||
Should Know Often Don't. Still, this is what that person said.
|
||
|
||
You, however, are anatomically correct. I sigh, thinking about
|
||
it.
|
||
|
||
___________________________________
|
||
Lane Coutell lane@pandemonium.com
|
||
|
||
My opinions are my own. They're my feet and I'll put them in my
|
||
mouth if I want to. Do not expose to open flame. Under penalty
|
||
of law, do not remove this tag. Caution, contains silica gel, do
|
||
not eat. Do not read while operating a motor vehicle or heavy
|
||
equipment. In case of eye contact, flush with water. This
|
||
supersedes all previous notices.
|
||
|
||
|
||
|
||
Date: Thu, 20 Oct 94 23:56:27 CDT
|
||
---------------------------------
|
||
From: Dana Silverman <dsilverman@sobriquet.com>
|
||
To: Lane Coutell <lane@pandemonium.com>
|
||
Subject: A Rush and a Push
|
||
|
||
Would you like to read a joke?
|
||
|
||
> A young lady bought a postage stamp.
|
||
> "Must I stick it on myself?" she asked.
|
||
> "I should say not," said the clerk. "Stick it on the letter."
|
||
|
||
And another:
|
||
|
||
> Mrs.: Whenever I'm down in the dumps, I get a new hat.
|
||
> Mr.: Oh, so that's where you get them!!
|
||
|
||
I did my laundry today. It's nice to have a washer and dryer in
|
||
the basement.
|
||
|
||
You know, I still cannot fold sheets. I remember my father
|
||
getting very angry with me, and insisting that my six-year-old
|
||
height was no excuse for not being able to fold sheets. At the
|
||
time, I should have asked him to fold a sheet on his knees. But
|
||
little girls don't do that. But even now I am not much of a
|
||
sheet folder.
|
||
|
||
Yesterday night I took my neighbor's dog for a walk. Molly is
|
||
quite middle-aged, but is of such small brain that one could
|
||
never tell from seeing - but especially walking - her. She
|
||
approaches every driveway and tries to go up it, seeing if
|
||
perhaps it is our destination. I am not very good at yanking on
|
||
leashes, but I learned. Her owners have a high-tech spool on the
|
||
leash, with a sort of trigger grip, which makes quick jerks on
|
||
the leash quite impossible.
|
||
|
||
Towards the end of our walk we passed two small children with a
|
||
proud white Standard Poodle. I was so embarrassed. Their dog was
|
||
a model of domesticity - even without the pom-poms. Mine skipped
|
||
and hopped all over.
|
||
|
||
I rearranged my bookshelves again. I am generating space
|
||
somehow. (I don't know how, but when I do I will tell you about
|
||
it.)
|
||
|
||
I went out for breakfast, with Jeanne. I asked the waitress
|
||
about the waffles. "Is it one square?" I asked, forming a square
|
||
using the thumbs and index fingers of both hands. "Oh no," said
|
||
the waitress. "It's a waffle, just a waffle." She was skinny and
|
||
somehow misshapen. Her uniform was meant to suggest the shape of
|
||
a woman, but in the various tucks and pockets, it was clear
|
||
there was nothing within. The ceiling of the restaurant was
|
||
pink, and many people there were dressed in pink as well. When
|
||
my waffle arrived, it was an extremely generous circle, and
|
||
quite tasty. I was happy with it, although I generally won't eat
|
||
breakfast anywhere but home.
|
||
|
||
My father always refinishes bookcases thus: he puts wallpaper on
|
||
the back of the inside; he stains the wood a dark, dark color.
|
||
He does this always, for every piece he refinishes. I wonder if
|
||
he papers the insides of desks? The undersides of chairs? I
|
||
mean, he put this Holly Hobbie wallpaper inside this one
|
||
bookcase and it will be there forever. And in one picture, one
|
||
of the girls is doing this strange thing with her toes. That
|
||
image of toes has always bothered me. And it is behind my books.
|
||
|
||
Now I want a snack, and then I think I will go to bed. I think
|
||
of you with sincere fondness and love.
|
||
|
||
So have you taken a Super Ball into my old bedroom and set it
|
||
loose, while wrapping your arms around your head for protection?
|
||
Have you prepared yourself for another joke? Well, on my way to
|
||
get a snack I misplaced my joke book, so I cannot tell you
|
||
another. Without that book, I am quite humorless.
|
||
|
||
I am also very cold. I had intended to write more words to you,
|
||
as I had last night, but by 12:30 I had expired. And now I must
|
||
be off again. You deserve so much better than this. I will try.
|
||
Soon, it will be better.
|
||
|
||
Soon, it will all make sense again. Things do always turn out.
|
||
People much more foolish than you or I have done OK. We must
|
||
dedicate ourselves to coming out splendidly. I will let you
|
||
train my dog. I think you might be very good at that...
|
||
|
||
I love you terribly! (and also, I love you!)
|
||
|
||
Dana.
|
||
|
||
~~ Dana Silverman <dsilverman@sobriquet.com>
|
||
|
||
|
||
|
||
Date: Fri, 21 Oct 94 11:37:12 CDT
|
||
---------------------------------
|
||
From: Lane Coutell <lane@pandemonium.com>
|
||
To: Dana Silverman <dsilverman@sobriquet.com>
|
||
Subject: no doubt it has always been that way...
|
||
|
||
Dana -
|
||
|
||
Watching Reading Rainbow. It's one of those things you do when
|
||
you're sick.
|
||
|
||
Today's show topic is jobs. So they showed us tons of people all
|
||
perfectly happy with their jobs - i.e., exclamations of "I love
|
||
this job!" or "I have the best job in the world!" This extends
|
||
to grocery store check-out clerks, pizza makers, and the woman
|
||
who makes all the Lego models. There was also a very hot redhead
|
||
of small build who runs a dog-walking business: she was walking
|
||
seven dogs at once on the show. So I guess I'm just a another
|
||
down-and-out "generation nothing," too lazy to do anything.
|
||
|
||
They also featured a 15-year-old from the Bronx hawking nail
|
||
polish to pay for his college education.
|
||
|
||
More frivolous verse:
|
||
|
||
Cats like to leave fur-balls
|
||
all over the house:
|
||
they get in the toaster
|
||
and cling to your blouse.
|
||
|
||
Lane loves you, Dana. Even though I'm sick, I still love you.
|
||
|
||
Lane
|
||
|
||
___________________________________
|
||
Lane Coutell lane@pandemonium.com
|
||
|
||
I was walking on the ground. I didn't make a sound. Then I turned
|
||
around, and I saw a clown. It had a frown. It stood up on a mound. It
|
||
started barking like a hound. Clowny clown clown.
|
||
|
||
|
||
|
||
Date: Sun, 23 Oct 94 22:18:52 CDT
|
||
---------------------------------
|
||
From: Dana Silverman <dsilverman@sobriquet.com>
|
||
To: Lane Coutell <lane@pandemonium.com>
|
||
Subject: New!
|
||
|
||
This morning I rode in the MS bike-a-thon and it was OK, except
|
||
that it was raining very hard. I got very wet and I rode all the
|
||
way home that way and it was very heavy and cold. Then I took a
|
||
bath and invited the cat to come with me into the bathroom. He
|
||
watched the water and the bubbles and did, at one point, hop in,
|
||
but then he hopped right back out again.
|
||
|
||
After that I went to the Art Institute, because I truly cannot
|
||
stand my mother. I did not want to spend a single minute near
|
||
her. But once I was there, I had to keep my fingers in my ears
|
||
most of the time, because the people there were so loud. I
|
||
wanted to think and couldn't think; I could barely read with all
|
||
the racket. Perhaps some people thought I was strange, but I had
|
||
to chuckle as I was looking at the extensive collection of
|
||
ceramic pillows from China... so very many of them had pictures
|
||
of a duck or a goose on them, or sculpted on them, and I was
|
||
musing about the discomfort of a ceramic pillow as opposed to a
|
||
feather-down one. It seems that something was lost in the
|
||
transfer of the pillow idea.
|
||
|
||
The cat just crept onto the bed, said softly "New!," and then
|
||
ran away as fast as he could. What was he thinking? The cat
|
||
likes to make noise. He will sing while eating or drinking, or
|
||
yawning, just to make different sounds than the usual
|
||
disastrously high-pitched noo, new, or naa that he usually
|
||
produces.
|
||
|
||
Lane, I am very lonely. I have no one to think thoughts with and
|
||
no one to tell the thoughts I think. I want to make all sorts of
|
||
things but I lack the time and the materials. In short, I am
|
||
going through a phase of frustration. I have accepted many
|
||
responsibilities at my old church, under the assumption I would
|
||
have assistance in getting these things done, but no one is ever
|
||
around to help me. On the weekends I am often without
|
||
transportation, so I am stranded here in this house where my
|
||
mother lives. During the week I am working. So I cannot move the
|
||
furniture I promised to collect, I cannot meet with the other
|
||
kids to plan outings. So I look like a lazy idiot, when in
|
||
reality I am working so hard and getting nothing.
|
||
|
||
I conveniently lost my credit card and my cash card so I don't
|
||
need to worry about spending money right now, although I do
|
||
still have checks. I wonder what I did with these cards? I
|
||
wonder if someone else has them now? Oh well, at least I am not
|
||
spending. That is all. I'm gonna go now. I have to run some
|
||
errands in the night. Be careful, be good, be mice. No, don't be
|
||
mice. Chester would harass you then.
|
||
|
||
Much Love,
|
||
|
||
Dana
|
||
|
||
~~ Dana Silverman <dsilverman@sobriquet.com>
|
||
|
||
|
||
|
||
Date: Tue, 25 Oct 94 15:25:40 CDT
|
||
---------------------------------
|
||
From: Lane Coutell <lane@pandemonium.com>
|
||
To: Dana Silverman <dsilverman@sobriquet.com>
|
||
Subject: du kannst, denn du sollst...
|
||
|
||
So I think of famous personages I should model my life after.
|
||
And although Ralph Waldo Emerson and Gandhi come to mind, I can
|
||
never think of a personality more worthy of my emulation and
|
||
respect than Chilly Willy the Penguin. You've got to admit,
|
||
Chilly Willy's really got it together. He's got his priorities
|
||
straight. He's cold, 'cuz he lives in the Antarctic, so one of
|
||
his goals is To Be In A Warm Place. He's hungry, because most
|
||
things are frozen in the Antarctic, and he can't afford any
|
||
Swanson Hungry Man frozen dinners, so his other primary
|
||
objective is To Eat Good Food. And in these two objectives, with
|
||
his endearing stubbornness, he usually succeeds. "More
|
||
pancakes?" "Uh-huh." "More butter?" "Uh-huh." "More syrup?"
|
||
"Uh-huh."
|
||
|
||
The best part is, Chilly Willy is a proto-revolutionary Marxist
|
||
if I've ever seen one (and I wonder if I ever have). He
|
||
regularly questions the capitalist ideologies of "private
|
||
property", of Law, and the State in order to realize his Needs,
|
||
determined by the Nature of his Existence, all with a
|
||
zealousness which can only be described as, well, revolutionary.
|
||
Marxist without Manifesto. Chilly Willy the Penguin.
|
||
|
||
Lane
|
||
|
||
___________________________________
|
||
Lane Coutell lane@pandemonium.com
|
||
|
||
"Voyez-vous cet oeuf. C'est avec cela qu'on renverse toutes les
|
||
ecoles de theologie, et tous les temples de la terre."
|
||
|
||
|
||
|
||
Date: Wed, 26 Oct 94 06:37:28 CDT
|
||
---------------------------------
|
||
From: Dana Silverman <dsilverman@sobriquet.com>
|
||
To: Lane Coutell <lane@pandemonium.com>
|
||
Subject: No Subject
|
||
|
||
Lane,
|
||
|
||
No message. Just wrote because you love getting mail so.
|
||
|
||
Dana
|
||
|
||
~~ Dana Silverman <dsilverman@sobriquet.com>
|
||
|
||
Ceci n'est pas une .sig file.
|
||
|
||
|
||
|
||
Date: Thu, 27 Oct 94 22:03:39 CDT
|
||
---------------------------------
|
||
From: Dana Silverman <dsilverman@sobriquet.com>
|
||
To: Lane Coutell <lane@pandemonium.com>
|
||
Subject: H is for Hedgehog
|
||
|
||
My dearest Lane,
|
||
|
||
Yesterday I went to the zoo. I saw a hedgehog there. It was a
|
||
bit larger than a billiard ball. A woman was holding it in her
|
||
gloved hand. It was in this billiard ball form. I asked her if I
|
||
could see the rest of it. She turned the hedgehog over and it
|
||
looked about the same on the other side, except that there was a
|
||
slot in it. Occasionally this quaking ball of thorns would heave
|
||
and make a loud Piff! sound. Surely a death by terror wherever
|
||
it lies. Hedgehog.
|
||
|
||
I really wish I could introduce them to some nearby hedges. I'd
|
||
love to see them wobbling around.
|
||
|
||
I later saw the deadly Echidna, which is like a hedgehog, only
|
||
different. It flattens to a spiky mat and half-buries itself. A
|
||
living landmine in the New Guinea forest floor. Just looking at
|
||
one makes you think of pain. I have never seen one whole. Just
|
||
its exposed deadly spines, rippling with Echidna life.
|
||
|
||
This morning on the bus I thought about the world's largest
|
||
flower. This flower is huge and orange and sits on the forest
|
||
floor upon a mat of its scaly leaves. I suppose this flower is
|
||
pollinated by bears which step on the flower as they walk about,
|
||
and carry the blossom-pollen on their paws from flower to
|
||
flower, never realizing their vital place on the ecological
|
||
chain.
|
||
|
||
Spectacled bears live there, in the vanishing rainforest. They
|
||
are the ones who pollinate the giant Rafflia flower.
|
||
|
||
I feel excessively cheery. I feel overstimulated. The detergent
|
||
I put in the dishwasher this morning looked like applesauce, and
|
||
this thrilled me. The dew on the lawn was exciting, as were the
|
||
three elderly Russians who shared the bus stop with me, the
|
||
boldest of which asked me two-oh-nine, yet? And I said no, not
|
||
yet. And then the three chattered away, and read newspapers
|
||
printed in Cyrillic.
|
||
|
||
Yesterday I also went to American Science & Surplus, where all
|
||
of the drinking birds are somewhat deformed. I saw a perfect
|
||
glass dome for planting experiments - but it was made of red
|
||
glass. Everything there is rather cheap, but since I have gotten
|
||
old and sensible, I have little use for the wild toys and nice
|
||
scientific glassware.
|
||
|
||
I am truly distraught, despite my maddeningly sunny disposition.
|
||
|
||
I need sanctuary.
|
||
|
||
I need a reliable, dependable world.
|
||
|
||
I need to be alone.
|
||
|
||
I still love you. Be careful, be good, be nice.
|
||
|
||
Dana
|
||
|
||
~~ Dana Silverman <dsilverman@sobriquet.com>
|
||
|
||
|
||
|
||
Date: Fri, 28 Oct 94 23:14:10 CDT
|
||
---------------------------------
|
||
From: Lane Coutell <lane@pandemonium.com>
|
||
To: Dana Silverman <dsilverman@sobriquet.com>
|
||
Subject: D is for Dana
|
||
|
||
> I need to be alone.
|
||
|
||
And yet, you write me this.
|
||
|
||
I saw Breakfast at Tiffany's just recently. In Breakfast at
|
||
Tiffany's, the writer goes to the New York Public Library with
|
||
Holly, and looks up his book. He's supported by an older,
|
||
married woman, who gives him an apartment and a closet full of
|
||
suits. In Breakfast at Tiffany's, Holly's cat has no name. In
|
||
Breakfast at Tiffany's, the writer gets to tell the story at the
|
||
end. Even in Sunset Blvd., the writer gets to tell the story at
|
||
the end, even though he's dead, from his own story.
|
||
|
||
In Breakfast at Tiffany's, when the writer tells the woman he
|
||
loves her, she runs away. Isn't it just like a woman?
|
||
|
||
In Breakfast at Tiffany's, the writer gets published in The New
|
||
Yorker. He gets published in The New Yorker, because he can tell
|
||
the story of how the woman left him.
|
||
|
||
In the end, of course, the writer gets the girl, after all.
|
||
That's 'cause he's the writer.
|
||
|
||
My love.
|
||
|
||
___________________________________
|
||
Lane Coutell lane@pandemonium.com
|
||
|
||
What system had proved more effective?
|
||
Indirect suggestion implicating self-interest.
|
||
Example?
|
||
She disliked umbrella with rain, he liked woman with umbrella,
|
||
she disliked new hat with rain, he liked woman with new hat,
|
||
he bought new hat with rain, she carried umbrella with new hat.
|
||
|
||
|
||
|
||
Date: Fri, 28 Oct 94 23:16:42 CDT
|
||
---------------------------------
|
||
From: MAILER-DAEMON@sobriquet.com
|
||
To: Lane Coutell <lane@pandemonium.com>
|
||
cc: Postmaster@sobriquet.com
|
||
Subject: Undeliverable mail
|
||
|
||
Your message was not delivered to the following recipients:
|
||
dsilverman: User unknown
|
||
|
||
|
||
|
||
Date: Sat, 29 Oct 94 08:13:52 CDT
|
||
---------------------------------
|
||
From: Lane Coutell <lane@pandemonium.com>
|
||
To: Dana Silverman <dsilverman@sobriquet.com>
|
||
Subject: Re: D is for Dana
|
||
|
||
Dana?
|
||
|
||
___________________________________
|
||
Lane Coutell lane@pandemonium.com
|
||
|
||
Just then Grandfather Stupid stopped by.
|
||
"Welcome to heaven," said Mr. Stupid.
|
||
"This isn't heaven," said Grandfather.
|
||
"This is Cleveland."
|
||
|
||
|
||
|
||
Date: Sat, 29 Oct 94 08:15:21 CDT
|
||
---------------------------------
|
||
From: MAILER-DAEMON@sobriquet.com
|
||
To: Lane Coutell <lane@pandemonium.com>
|
||
cc: Postmaster@sobriquet.com
|
||
Subject: Undeliverable mail
|
||
|
||
Your message was not delivered to the following recipients:
|
||
dsilverman: User unknown
|
||
|
||
|
||
Writer's Note
|
||
---------------
|
||
|
||
"Two Solitudes" originally appeared as a series of e-mail
|
||
messages sent between the two participants, with carbon copies
|
||
sent to the piece's audience. I'm now looking for a co-author to
|
||
collaborate on another e-mail romance which will address the
|
||
feedback I've received from readers of "Two Solitudes." Write me
|
||
if you're interested.
|
||
|
||
Thanks to Mark Nevins, Jeff Curtis, Tim Connors, and Eric
|
||
Tilton. Special thanks to Jim Miner, Matthias Neeracher, Scott
|
||
Custer, and Melissa Pauna.
|
||
|
||
|
||
Carl Steadman (carl@cdtl.umn.edu)
|
||
-----------------------------------
|
||
|
||
Carl Steadman is an associate editor for CTHEORY
|
||
(http://english-server.hss.cmu.edu/ctheory/ctheory.html), and
|
||
works for the University of Minnesota's Center for the
|
||
Development of Technological Leadership, in Minneapolis.
|
||
|
||
|
||
FYI
|
||
=====
|
||
|
||
...................................................................
|
||
InterText's next issue will be released March 15, 1995.
|
||
...................................................................
|
||
|
||
|
||
Clarion West Writers Workshop
|
||
-------------------------------
|
||
June 18 - July 28, 1995
|
||
|
||
Clarion West is an intensive six-week workshop that teaches
|
||
professional skills to serious science fiction and fantasy
|
||
writers. It is held annually at Seattle Central Community
|
||
College in Seattle, Washington. This year's instructors are:
|
||
|
||
> Howard Waldrop Joan Vinge
|
||
> John Crowley Bruce McAllister
|
||
> Gardner Dozois Katharine Dunn
|
||
|
||
Application deadline is April 1, 1995; workshop tuition is
|
||
$1,100. Dorm housing, college credit, and limited financial aid
|
||
are available. For more information and application materials,
|
||
please contact: Clarion West, 340 15th Avenue East, Suite 350,
|
||
Seattle, Washington 98122, telephone 206-322-9083, or e-mail
|
||
Anita Rowland at anitar@halcyon.com.
|
||
|
||
Clarion West is a non-profit literary organization that is
|
||
committed to equal opportunity.
|
||
|
||
|
||
Back Issues of InterText
|
||
--------------------------
|
||
|
||
Back issues of InterText can be found via anonymous FTP at:
|
||
|
||
> ftp://ftp.etext.org/pub/Zines/InterText/
|
||
|
||
and
|
||
|
||
> ftp://network.ucsd.edu/intertext/
|
||
|
||
You may request back issues from us directly, but we must handle
|
||
such requests manually, a time-consuming process.
|
||
|
||
On the World-Wide Web, point your WWW browser to:
|
||
> http://www.etext.org/Zines/InterText/
|
||
|
||
If you have CompuServe, you can read InterText in the Electronic
|
||
Frontier Foundation Forum, accessible by typing GO EFFSIG. We're
|
||
located in the "Zines from the Net" section of the EFFSIG forum.
|
||
CompuServe users can also access our issues via FTP (see above)
|
||
on Compuserve at GO FTP.
|
||
|
||
On America Online, issues are available in Keyword: PDA, in
|
||
Palmtop Paperbacks/Electronic Articles & Newsletters, or via
|
||
Internet FTP (see above) at keyword FTP.
|
||
|
||
Gopher Users: find our issues at
|
||
> gopher.etext.org in /pub/Zines/InterText
|
||
|
||
|
||
Submissions to InterText
|
||
--------------------------
|
||
|
||
InterText's stories are made up _entirely_ of electronic
|
||
submissions. If you would like to submit a story, send e-mail to
|
||
intertext@etext.org with the word "guidelines in the title."
|
||
You'll be sent a copy of our writers guidelines.
|
||
|
||
....................................................................
|
||
|
||
I once saw Elvis driving a pickup in Ohio. No, really.
|
||
|
||
..
|
||
|
||
This issue is wrapped as a setext. For more information send
|
||
email with the single word "setext" (no quotes) in the Subject:
|
||
line to <fileserver@tidbits.com>, or contact the InterText staff
|
||
directly.
|