The Subtopian Magazine, Issue Six by The Subtopian

SUBTOPIAN MANIFESTO VI. by trevor d. richardson What is it about organizing that leads to the inevitable bastardization of the ideal that first brought you together? Is it the old “absolute power corrupts” argument? Probably. Is there more to it than that? There usually is. I can’t help wondering if it has something to do with what I sometimes think of as the Huddle Effect. When you bring people together the tendency is for them to turn inward, talking in a literal and metaphorical circle, like cliques on a highschool campus standing around between classes. They huddle up. Looking to each other, backs to the outside world. At first it makes sense, they’re just hanging out together, just being friends and stuff. But the inevitable outcome is that they forget about the people outside the huddle. They forget about the needs of others, the greather good. Institutions are the same way, I think. It doesn’t matter how noble or pure their initial motivations were for coming together. Eventually they get caught up in their personal politics and eventually, in trying to meet the needs of the group, they lose sight of the people they’re trying to help, provide for, or represent. This is why I am always suspicious of people organizing for any reason. I mean, it’s just a matter of time, right? The ironic thing is that Subtopian is built on the idea of working together under a common name for the benefit of each person involved. If Subtopian grows then so do the potential opportunities for each of its moving parts. So, maybe I should be suspicious of myself? I am. All the time. I worry that trying to earn money or new readers or any following might take away from the initial dream: building writers and helping them get noticed. All I can say is, be wary, even of us. Even of me. Especially be wary of us because we’re the guys with good intentions and we can fall the hardest if we’re not careful. But where was this headed? I can’t remember. All I can say is that there is a doctrine of fear out there that will tell you what to think by telling you what to be afraid of, it’s just that simple. “Fear anything that contradicts accepted notions of how things should work.” I say it’s the opposite. Fear anything that tells you what to be afraid of. Fear the church for threatening you with hell. Fear the economy for threatening you with poverty. Fear the government for threatening you with anarchy. Fear anarchy for threatening you with government. And somewhere, inside this notion, is my questioning of what anarchy really means. If the system were to crush itself under its own weight, would we really explode into chaos, murder, rape, insanity, and somehow backslide overnight into the throes of bygone centuries? Or, perhaps, would we just keep doing what we were doing? I mean, how active of a role does the law really play in your life? You drive above the speed limit, safely, on a regular basis. For example. What I mean to say is, if organizing, institutionalizing, human existence has gotten us to this twisted point in time then maybe it ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. Maybe the only way to Utopia is by simplifying, minimizing, or even destroying what we’re doing. Think about it. Human beings will continue to do whatever they want, with or without laws, so the answer isn’t in more rigid security, the answer is in treating the problem. Dealing with the heart sickness that makes people self-destructive, caring for one another, giving instead of selling wherever possible, treating a neighbor like a neighbor... I could go on. The simple point is, until people learn to value each other, really value one another as people, and not just see a commodity for trade, we will always be corrupt. And whether you’re talking about anarchy or rule of law, the issue is the same, people will be shitty. You’re either looking at disjointed, unorganized shit or a massive, organized, unitarian shit hanging over you. Not sure which is worse, but I do know this: no one will ever create a Utopian form of government.

REVIEWS

Table of Contents

Static Music Reviews

Find Your Smile Andrew Norman

REGULARS

Pearls for Swine: thoughts from a mad hermit

Road Notes Dateline L.A. Jeff Costello

REGULARS

Snake Oil Rachael Johnson

SHORT STORIES Racist, Well-Dressed Girl Joseph Trinkle

Three Poems Raoul Dufy

SHORT STORIES Subterran Presents... Berlin Ben’s Big Night Out Corin Reyburn

DYSTOPIA

UTOPIA

POETRY

Layover Kirby Light

You Can Beat ‘Em So Please Don’t Join Them 23 Trevor Richardson

Stuck on Repeat

REGULARS

Your Argument is Immoral: A Personal Message 27 Arthur Brand SERIALS Part Two of Collaborating with Angels 31 Rob Lee CRITIC’S CRITIC Roger Ebert’s Review of “Prometheus” 73 David Renton SERIALS 77

Dystopia Boy 0.6 Trevor Richardson

reviews

regulars

Dateline L.A.

Somebody somewhere wrote something to the effect that all the world’s wisdom can be found in the movies. This is akin to the old bit about an infinite number of monkeys and typewriters. Still, there are some great bits to be found in movie scripts. After all, everyone here has a script, a treatment, an idea for a movie in the works. Hell, even I do. One page, an opening sequence, that’s all, and a story idea. Will I really do it? Who knows. Work ethic, salesmanship, not my strong suits to say the least. Funny how everyone likes to talk stink about Hollywood, but nearly everybody goes to the movies.

In the movie Soylent Green, the “1984”-like fascist state provides food that is made from dead humans. At the end of the movie, Charlton Heston, having discovered this, spills the beans: “Soylent Green is people!” In real life, I suspect Heston wouldn’t have minded that, as long he got to shoot the people headed for the cannery.

When Romney says corporations are people, it’s true in the same sense that soylent green was people. Remember, the Matsushita corp. (for example) has a 250-year plan, clearly showing that humans are expendable, and relevant only to the extent that they can serve, or nourish the self-aware entity that is the corporation. So yes, corporations are, in part, people that have been digested.

Los Angeles can be weird. Although San Francisco claims credit or blame, depending on one’s outlook - for 60’s counterculture, L.A. has had oddball religions and cults, men with long hair, and outlandish behavior for a long long time. My daughter lives half a block from the Yogananda Self-Realization Fellowship. The property was acquired by the swami in the 1920’s. Whatever goes on there, is still going. One difference between there and San Francisco is the way vanity is expressed. Everyone is beautiful in L.A., they have to be since movies and TV and fashion demand it. Oddly, it’s farther south in Orange County where obsession with one’s appearance reaches absurd levels. You can go into a drug store or supermarket or even a Denny’s and see old women wearing clothes that might belong on young teenagers, and their faces stretched back so far by plastic surgery they’re fit for horror movies.

Lots of name dropping in L.A. But so many people are connected to movies and TV somehow, it’s often just shop talk. San Francisco vanity is not as much about knowing others, it’s about “me.” There’s no nut case like a San Francisco nut case and lots of them have costumes to prove it.

Scientology has strong roots here and is headquartered in Riverside County, although it started in New Jersey. One center in Hollywood, and another, “celebrity only” place - you can’t go there - in Los Feliz, not far from the Tate-LaBianca Manson Family murder scene. Oddball cults of all sorts have flourished here since long before the beat generation and Elvis Presley paved the way for the hippies.

Despite the freeways and congestion, the car culture has dominated L.A. for so long that everyone is used to it, and drivers here in general have better road manners than in most cities. The common frustrated-driver gesture is a hand in the air as if to say “What were you thinking,” as opposed to horn-blowing, loud insults and the Finger in New York. I remember arriving in Los Angeles the first time in 1969, from Boston, and noticing right away how polite everyone was. This was before drive-by and random freeway shootings of course, but these were not geo-specific, rather, a sign of the times. Road note: The stupidest, most risky driving I encountered on the latest L.A. - S.F. run was on 580 between Altamont and Oakland. They all have a more important mission than you do. 38 6

regulars

Stuck by Rachael Johnson

Repeat

Staff Writer

Snake Oil It’s common wisdom—nay, universal wisdom—that

diarrhea, or diabetes (“Apple Cider Vinegar Health

perfection will always elude the human race. Of

Benefits”). If you don’t like the taste, it can also be

course, that does very little to lessen our desire for

used topically, though I’d recommend drinking it up

it. We want to be fit, healthy, and, most importantly,

with a spot of honey. By the way, honey can be used

beautiful. We dislike hunger, pain, temperature ex-

to treat burns, suppress coughs, and renew your skin

tremes, and even lack of sleep. Everything should

(“The Many Benefits of Honey”)!

be perfect, and we’ll do whatever it takes to make it so—that is, as long as we don’t have to work too hard,

Sound too good to be true? Sound a bit like snake

think too much, or spend too much time.

oil? Well, yes and no. The term originates from when Chinese immigrants were working on the Transconti-

But don’t worry! All you really need is a little bit of

nental Railroad, a labor which naturally caused aches

cash and a friendly ear. Want to get rid of those pesky

and pains. The ancient remedy they shared with their

free radicals, rework your muscles, and improve your

non-Chinese co-workers was an ointment made from

digestive health? Drink up some Acai (ah-sigh-ee), a

the Chinese water snake (Hix). What doomed its

delicious fruit from far-away South America (“Acai –

reputation in the decades to come wasn’t that it didn’t

Dr. Perricone’s Superfood”). Are you suffering from

work—it was that it did, and “miraculously” so. Thus

high blood pressure, kidney disease, glaucoma, or

spawned snake oil salesman, who bottled whatever

an ear infection? Take these cod liver oil pills—and

they had on hand and fraudulently called it snake oil,

shoot, some people pop them right over open wounds

rattlesnake oil even.

to speed up recovery (“Cod Liver Oil”)! But the prices add up, so I’m sure you’re wondering about a more

Snake oil salesman would not have become as notori-

economical cure-all.

ous as they did if they weren’t successful at taking people’s money. Key to this was the showmanship,

There exists an elixir made from fruit that can be

which involved those time tested tactics of having

grown in your own backyard: apple cider vinegar. May

insiders placed throughout the crowd and sharing fake

not sound all that fancy, but it’s said to alleviate most

testimonials (Hix). Above all, however, their success

of what ails you, be it bad breath, age spots, weight

was because of our innate desire to fix all of our prob-

problems, cellulite, acne, yeast infection, constipation,

lems with the utmost efficiency and the lowest effort. 7

regulars

It is this desire that brings foods like acai and fish oil into vogue before they are set back on the shelves, not because they aren’t truly nutritious and good for you, but because their lack of perfection makes them sub-

Rachael Johnson, a fresh voice in the Seattle writing

ject to fashion. It is this desire for true perfection that makes legends (complete falsehood, really) pervasive

scene, offers her regular column,“Stuck On Repeat,”

throughout the ages: from the Philosopher’s Stone (a

which puts a unique spin on current news stories by

stone that makes gold AND an elixir that grants eternal life), to the fountain of youth, to the cure-all panacea.

taking a look back at other moments in history where

The latter is named for Panacea (meaning all-healing), the Greek goddess of universal remedy, who was said

the same thing went down. It’s true what they say, his-

to have carried a poultice which could basically cure

tory repeats itself.

anything (Atsma). So, alas, the forces within us that create the economy of super-foods are forces that have fueled our most fanciful dreams, all the way back to a time when we believed a giant held up the sky.

“Acai - Dr. Perricone’s No. 1 Superfood - Oprah.com.” Oprah.com. Oprah, 15 July 2005. Web. 20 June 2012. <http://www.oprah.com/health/Acai-Dr-Perricones-No-1-Superfood>. “Apple Cider Vinegar Health Benefits.” Homeremediesweb.com. N.p., n.d. Web. 20 June 2012. <http://www.homeremediesweb.com/apple_cider_vinegar_health_benefits.php>. Atsma, Aaron J. “PANACEA : Greek Goddess of Cures & Panaceas.” Theoi.com. N.p., n.d. Web. 20 June 2012. <http://www.theoi.com/Ouranios/AsklepiasPanakeia.html>. “Cod Liver Oil.” Webmd.com. Webmd, n.d. Web. 19 June 2012. Hix, Lisa. “How Snake Oil Got a Bad Rap.” Collectorsweekly.com. Collectors Weekly, 20 May 2011. Web. 20 June 2012. <http://www.collectorsweekly.com/articles/how-snake-oil-got-a-bad-rap/>. “The Many Benefits of Honey.” Honey.com. National Honey Board, n.d. Web. 20 June 2012. <http://www.honey.com/nhb/benefits/>.

There’s a stain on my favorite shirt, and that’s all I can think about as I sit in the crowded auditorium, listening to someone I presume to be the dean or school president give a speech that I can’t follow. I spilled coffee on it this morning as I rushed to get my clothing on and brush my teeth and do whatever the hell else it is I do in the furied, fear-based mornings. The dean or school president keeps going on and on about excellence and accomplishment, as if we’re all utterly rapt with this divine, inspirational oration, but instead of listening I scan the audience of bored faces, trying to find another shirt with a coffee stain on it. There’s a girl next to me that has a perfect, aesthetically-pleasing face and a smart outfit on. Her clothes fit her so well, and impart a sense of style that is as once judicious and spontaneous, natural. I wonder if I’m supposed to think about those kinds of things instead of just staring at her boobs, because I’m a guy and, best I can tell, straight. But I don’t stare at her boobs (which are perfectly fine). I think about how she’s dressed and how I’m dressed, and why my clothing choices never make sense, like a baby dressed himself, and whether that even matters at all because I spent four hours last night listening to Alan Watts, being reminded that I’ve never been born and I’ll never die and the universe is just a fantastic, buzzing fuckbucket—I’m pretty sure I don’t think clothes matter, but I live in a society where I have to wear them, and why don’t I look as natural as she does. I debate whether natural is the right word as my eyes stumble upon a young man two rows ahead 9

of me who’s starting to lose his hair. It’s subtle, but I’m sure of it. In two or three years that spot in the middle of his head is going to be bare. I wonder if he knows that. I wouldn’t notice until I was really going bald, or more likely when someone informed me of such. It would be a very nice thing to do, to tell him. Perhaps he hasn’t any idea because he constantly forgets he has a body; that happens to me sometimes. I ought to tell him about it. He seems like a nice guy, from the back anyway. “You’re sweating,” the completely naturally-dressed girl next to me says. “Like, you’re sweating a lot.” “I drank a lot of coffee,” I whisper. She probably doesn’t even know how snappy a dresser she is. “I spilled some on my shirt, see? I’m the only one in the auditorium. With coffee on his shirt, that is.” “Uh-huh,” she says, nodding pensively, brows furrowed in depthless thought. “I guess that’s a bold statement.” “What?” she asks, leaning in toward me, a bit hesitant. “It’s bold to make such a statement. I mean, I can’t see everybody’s shirts so I can’t be sure. But I’d gamble that I’m the only fucker that spilled coffee on himself this morning.” She laughs and, when she does, she opens her eyes really big and they’re incredibly oppressive. “Do you gamble?” I ask her. She laughs again and says, “No.” “Good,” I say. “Gambling’s for assholes.” And I give her a classy wink and return my attention to the speaker, who’s no longer the dean or school president, but now some alumni-guest-speaker person. Here we go again with accomplishment and goals and all that. I kind of wish I had a sandwich. Right now I would be rude as hell and just eat away at a ham and pepperoni sandwich and not even feel that bad about it. It’s not my fault all these speeches are so shitty. But I don’t have one, so I put sandwiches out of my brain and try to refocus on this goddamn thing I’m at, figure out why I’m even here. It’s some kind of ‘mandatory’ seminar that I got an email about practically begging me to come, but I can’t remember what it’s supposed to be about, and all this monotonous oracular isn’t helping me in the least. “Why are we here?” I ask her, tapping her on the shoulder to get her attention. She looks at me funny for a moment, squinting and shaking her head. “What do you mean?” “It’s very simple, actually: I forget why we’re here. I feel like it’s something to do with graduation, maybe? Or campus safety?” “This is the National Honors Society ceremony,” she says, “for language majors.” “Oh, shit. You’re right,” I say, and I swear if she laughs one more time when I speak, I’m taking back all the nice things I said about her in my head. That’s when the dean or school president comes back up to the podium and everybody starts clapping like this is the first day in everybody’s life that they heard a couple of speeches about accomplishment and desire, etc. There’s a guy standing next to the dean or school president who’s probably the blackest person I’ve ever seen, let’s call him Midnight, and he’s right by a table covered with neat stacks of certificates. “Sharon Ackman,” the dean or school president says, and a girl gets up and starts making for the stage, probably feeling awkward as hell. He keeps calling out names and a queue is starting in the leftcenter aisle as the people mount the wooden structure in perfect meter, receive their certificates and handshakes from Midnight, smile ridiculously at no one in particular. “What’s your name?” the girl asks, not at all thinking about her clothing. She’s facing me and lean10

ing in a little too close. “Don’t flirt with me,” I say, because I’m just trying to cut to the goddamn chase. I withdraw two green pills from my left pocket and pop them in my mouth, swallowing without any water. “I barely even looked at your breasts. I was looking at your clothing.” “What?” she says, loud enough that many people close to us turn around to see what’s the matter. “I’m just saying: don’t flirt with me, I was only looking at your clothing before and I really don’t want to make a scene, and your breasts are absolutely fine. I just didn’t think to stare at them very much.” “Are you retarded?” “That’s incredibly racist,” I say, apalled. “I only named him Midnight because he’s black like midnight, but I meant it in a really nice way. You, though, you’re being fucking racist.” She sighs and turns her attention back to the ceremony, clearly afraid of confronting her blatant racist tendencies. They’re about midway through the alphabet and people are still receiving their certificates and smiling, and the balding person gets up and starts walking toward the stage when they announce, “Ryan Letterman.” I get up and follow him down the aisle, wondering if I’d been a bit harsh with the girl. “Hey,” I say, moving quickly to catch up with him. He’s got some long fucking legs. “Hey, Ryan.” We reach the queue and he looks back at me, over his shoulder. I grin to show him that I’m perfectly normal. “What?” he says. “Hey man. You’ve got quite a stride there.” I offer a handshake and he accepts it rather weakly. “Like a fucking giraffe, Ryan. That stride’s amazing.” He hesitates a moment, looking around like a wild-man. “Do I know you?” The dean or school president announces another name—Aaron Mattel. “Yeah, I’m Aaron. We had a class together.” “Really? I don’t remember you.” “I get lots of haircuts,” I offer. “Anyway, you have a great stride, and I’d like you to know that. Also, you’re going bald, in case nobody’s told you.” “What?” he says, pinching his face together like people do when they smell something shitty. “What did you say?” The line is getting shorter and there’s only two people ahead of Ryan. He steps closer to the stage and keeps looking back at me with that stink-face. He’s definitely not as snappy of a dresser as the racist girl, but today he’d chosen a nice ensemble: some new khaki slacks and a sky blue button-down shirt. I’m probably a better dresser than he is, but not by much. “I wasn’t going to tell you, figuring that maybe you already knew. But then I said to myself, ‘Aaron, you can’t be sure. Go tell him. What if he has no idea?’ You know what I mean? Anyway, it’s okay. Lots of people go bald and it’s normal. You’re still beautiful,” I say. This is when the girl in front of him ascends the little staircase and wobbles over to Midnight’s table. Handshake. Awkward smile. Camera flash. Ryan says nothing more and doesn’t look at me, which is perfectly understandable. He’s got a lot to think about—hats, Rogaine, toupees, shit like that. He walks up, remnants of the fart-smelling lip-twist falling away as he toothily smiles for an invisible camera. I climb the staircase. I’m sweatier than I care to be, and I pop a few more pills into my mouth as I walk toward the spotlights. The dean or school president is quick to shake my hand and Midnight proffers a gold leaf piece of paper. His teeth are so white. 11

I wave my arms, refusing the certificate. I can’t accept something like that when there are more important things going on here. I take the few steps back over to the podium and make for the mic, when the president puts his hand on my arm to stop me. “What are you doing, Son?” he whispers. I shake him off. “This is about racism,” I say gravely, and he stares at me, witless. “People of the University,” I begin, clearing my throat loudly like the professionals do, “and people of the great state of Pennsylvania: I have something very important to say. Racism is not over.” The dean or school president fidgets nervously with his suit and makes slow nodding movements. “It’s not over by a longshot. Sometimes, it’s easy to think that we’re in a post-racial world, that equality is finally upon us. Look upon this stage; look into the audience around you.” People slowly begin oscillating their heads, glancing at the people next to them. “It’s easy to believe that because we’re all together, here in this auditorium, among this mighty diaspora of human beings, that we live in a post-racial society. Well, I have to say that that’s not true. We have come a long way,” I look over at Midnight, “a very long way, but the war isn’t over yet. While I was waiting to have my name called, I overheard some very racist remarks, remarks about the color of people’s skins, people’s looks; a young lady even used the word ‘retarded’ to describe a boy in the audience.” Some mumbles issue from below me. The dean or school president gives me the eyes, like what the fuck are you doing, Son. But I will not be deterred. “This brought me great sadness,” I say, emotion clearly leaking through my words. “As we are here, at this National Honors Society celebration, being acknowledged for our academic excellence, we must remember what the word honor means. The Greeks called it ἀρετή. Plato, founder of the first institution of higher learning, used it in his Allegory of the Cave, and he wasn’t referring to academic achievement, or handshakes and certificates. He was talking about honor as virtue. Virtue to overcome the illusions of this world; virtue to look beyond the illusions to the true nature of our souls, as an undulating, fantastic oneness with each other. I ask you: When will we venture beyond the illusion? The illusion of racism?” I stop, shaking and covered in sweat, my face obviously wet, as a quiet clapping spreads across the crowd. It gets louder and louder and the dean or school president is polite as he hip-checks me out from behind the lectern and mumbles a ‘thank you’ into the mic. I turn around and Midnight’s clapping and smiling like hell, and people are starting to rise from their seats, overcome with themselves, laughing and whistling until the din becomes a roar. I raise my hands above my head and close my eyes. I teem with their love and idolize their adoration. They know that I’m a perfectly normal American with coffee on his shirt that just wants to get to the bottom of all this racism, etc.

---

Joe Trinkle is a fiction writer and essayist currently living in Philadelphia. He attended Kutztown University of Pennsylvania for Writing and was the co-founder of the Allentown Writers Workshop. Previously published in New Fraktur Arts Journal, WINKpinup, and Subtopian Magazine, his work is also forthcoming in several journals. Right now he’s busy making lots of words fit onto pages, but by the time you finish reading this, he’s probably checked his email at least once. Write to him at jdtrinkle@gmail.com

poetry

INTÉRIEUR À LA FENÊTRE OUVERT Raoul Dufy, 1928 A frightened goose suddenly aware of danger & rousing the whole flock with its cries does not tell the others what it has seen but rather contaminates them with its fear. So it is with the mass-production of “pseudo Dufys.” Still, a well-painted turnip is more significant than a poorly painted Madonna, & because when he left Ecole des Beaux- Arts he was convinced instruction more hindrance than help, Dufy deliberately switched to his untrained left hand. He vowed to express “not what I see, but what exists for me, my reality.” Only in this way does communication by ruthless simplification become possible, for the experience

13 13

poetry

that exists for individual consciousness is, strictly speaking, not communicable. Anxiety. Pacing the floor. Looking out one window then the next. Back & forth. Blue & Red. Chairs where no one sits, a quick plunge to the plage.

MORE SALT THAN SUGAR Dry as a bone the sun biting through dry air thistles & dust thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s how it was the shade such a meager blessing until our love appeared like an oasis hostile against the facts Dry as a board, you said when our love ran dry (as if youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d drunk all my thickened passion in one gulp) & like a mirage it disappeared Yet each Spring the poppies have burst red again biting vivid as the rain & a man has a million directions towards which to dream Palm leaves scattered across your face your shoulders leaning into the wind bitten lips panting for air steamy eyes bleached pale & clear 14 14

What is there left to miss? handfuls of dust? scentless as the dry moon? when every precious drop was more than enough? when each aroma has salted the sea?

SECOND SIGHT Out on a balcony or in the hall by an open window for a smoke, that’s where we meet, the city at our feet the lights glistening in the night like a shining of the apocalypse as if the constellations had fallen— the lights glistening on the opposite hillsides so that, what I’m saying is the lights we see are like the stars of fallen constellations glistening on the distant hill only we don’t notice it we don’t notice it then.

I conduct experiments on the fly. Nobody knows about them and 75 percent are failures. When something does hit though, oh boy. It’s like all the Generik card-giving days at once. Like knowing you’re smarter than everyone else in your class. It’s like being plugged into an electric socket designed specifically for satisfaction. Things start moving into place and you can’t turn back.

My mother made me put the machine away, and from then on I had to invent in secret. I dropped out of school a year later. Was kicked out, really. The instructing official wrote: “Benjamin does not follow instructions. He is highly creative and finishes projects ahead of time, but we would prefer that he just follow directions. There is no more our institutions can do for him.”

I was twelve when I had my first big success. Invented a love-o-meter that analyzed how truly in love a pair of individs were, by means of chemical responses in the brain and so forth. I tested it on my mother and father. This was followed by crying, shouting, and a stubby lawyer with parts of his beard missing.

I moved out when I was fourteen. Homeless for a month before I constructed a top-of-the-line greenhouse from discarded materials. It’s amazing what people throw away. It wasn’t long before I had higherfunctioning electricity, heating, and a Superintelligence hookup that were faster, better, and cheaper than 16

Days, weeks, or minutes later, I come around. The gel pad is sparking and sizzling, discarded on the floor next to me as it works to resume its shape. In a handheld mirror, I see that I’m pretty this time. Not supermodel pretty, but cute girl who works at the organic foods store pretty at least. Long brown hair, pale blue eyes, short and thin with perky breasts. I spend just a moment admiring myself. Then I pop a couple of preloaded hypodermic needles into a suede handbag and head for the stairs. A girl should always have various medications on hand in case something goes wrong.

everyone else’s on my level. Other citizens would hire me to wire up their houses and paid me cash—Generik’s public sector would shut me down if they knew about it. Tonight I’m working on my pet project. It’s a genderdisguise device, in laymen’s terms. A complex series of DNA-simulation electronics which fools the body’s chromosomes into reconfiguring themselves—temporarily. After an hour and a half, it wears off. I plan to market it to the public under a faux name—Berlin Ben, I’m thinking. German engineering is always so tidy, and branding is important.

I’m on my way to Tuesday Night Grief Counseling at 8 PM, when a strange urge strikes me. I don’t feel like holding women as they weep tonight. In fact, women who cry just make other people uncomfortable. Women who laugh and dance are what I want to be around. What I want to be like.

Currently, I use the genderswap device to sit in on women’s recovery meetings. They cry while I hold them and they remind me of my mother. The device is ready for another test after my latest tweaks. I adjust the settings to vary slightly from the presets, wearing a taupe-colored dress and espadrilles. I’m down in the basement and there are wires strung up through the ceiling to the first floor—I’m using practically all the electrical outlets in the house. The wires lead in an intricate network to a orange-green gel pad in the shape of a large hand, metal discs on each of the finger pads and three on the palm.

I’m going out dancing tonight. Most individs in my greenhouse complex go to one of either two places on a work night—the Generik lovehouses or the NightChapels. The lovehouses contain appalling technology—you construct your mate for the evening from a kiosk, but there are less than a dozen levels of customizations. I don’t know how people stay interested in a sex partner whose attributes are as 2-dimensional as a vintage computer game. I could build a better one from scrap metal and 107 lines of code.

I position my hand in the center of the gel pad. Cold, orange-green ooze envelops my fingers. It gets thicker until my hand is stuck, I raise it in the air and wave it around ominously, pretending I’m a comic book villain.

The NightChapels are mostly full of loathsome individuals but they have great music—that thump-thump bass and the tinny voices creep their way into your veins and make the rest of the experience bearable. There’s one in my sector called Hypocrite Wedding. I think it’s kind of divey, but the old modified hip kids love it, and they’re beautiful on the dancefloor. I enter the club after an awkward flirt with the bouncer. He’s not my type, neither are most of these guys, I think.

The hardened gel begins to crack. I close my eyes at the sensation, it feels both wonderful and terrible. Like sudden all-over-body acupuncture, a solid punch to the gut, and someone kissing your neck. It makes me really queasy but it’s all in the name of science. 17

Still, I’m glad I shaved.

Since that evening, I’ve been transforming every other night for the past six months. Each time it feels a little stranger turning back. I’m beginning to experience paranoid aftershocks—on an off-day when I’m not using the gel pad, sometimes I’ll look in the mirror and see her. My mother always liked to warn me about the side effects of being too clever. She said it would only make life harder for me, and that she could see why I had trouble making friends.

Out on the dancefloor, white lights pulsate on the off-beat to the thump-thump-thump. I’m dancing with two girls—one is a bottle blonde and the other is a Siamese twin. Her sister won’t look at me. I copy their movements, raising my arms above my head the way they do, and slowly rotating my hips in a dip-and-rise figure 8. A couple of guys come over to our spot on the floor. The really good-looking one gravitates to the bottle blonde—he has his hands on her waist within seconds. The other one, shorter, but with striking eyes and a cutting-edge haircut, dances with me. He moves slower than the tempo of the music. When the song stops, he pulls me flush against him. He puts his lips against my neck.

Sometimes I pour over photographs I took with my InstaClick on my nights out. I’m always smiling and surrounded by other gorgeous people. I try and show them to Ben but he doesn’t care, he just wants to get back to his work. It’s almost better when he’s sulking and ignoring me though, because when he does deign to speak to me he’s all snark and bile. “Little Berlin Bethany, crying by day and dancing the night away,” he’ll say.

My skin feels electric, I’m lightheaded from the thrill of physical contact. It feels like acupuncture needles and a solid punch to the gut.

“It takes two to tango,” I tell him. pp

Panic hits me all at once, as my gown turns to rags and my coach to a pumpkin. I push firmly against the chest of my short-lived love interest and rush for the door. I watch my hands change—the palms spread out as the fingers get shorter and thicker. My metabolism has sped up, I can run faster, so I do. Back in my greenhouse, the dress is too loose and the shoes are too tight. I’m exhausted and my muscles ache. I feel like a burlap sack of cornmeal with rats inside, eating away at the goods. I get into bed, idly noting the faded striped pattern on my pajamas—was I always this unfashionable? It doesn’t matter, though. I’m a scientist. My work is much more important than all the silly things people like to spend their credits on in this colony. Sleep weighs me down suddenly, and I dream of sugarplum neon, microscopes, and three-way sex with a go-go girl and a satyr. 19 18

---

Corin Reyburn lives in Santa Monica, California,and enjoys single malt scotch, felines, and the use of unconventionalinstruments in rock n’ roll music. Corin’s poems and stories have appearedin Free Focus, Silicon Valley Debug, Clutching at Straws, QuantumMuse, and M-BRANE SF. Reyburn works as a freelance web designer whenthe thought that one might need to earn some money strikes, and is currentlyworking on a speculative fiction novel about underground waste. See infrastratos.wordpress.com for more work and information.

Layover We walk through the Portland Art museum and she stops for a moment to look at something in the modern art gallery. “Why do you think girl’s like shiny things?” She asks. “I don’t know,” I reply. “Why do you think more guys don’t like shiny things?” she asks. “I think it’s because the guys are too busy looking at the cute girls looking at the shiny things.”

faucet and soap dispenser. They go off again and again. Later, outside, we smoke a cigarette. “Are you going to write about this later?” she asks me. I smile, “Of course I am.” I live with my parents currently and she only comes over once. She doesn’t meet them. She comes over after work and puts on a pair of my pajama pants and we sleep in my bed. She wraps herself around me the whole night.

We’re having sex in one of the bathrooms where we both work. She’s bent over the sink in front of the mirror, her hands occasionally passing the automatic

We lay in bed. It’s something like

four in the morning. We always lose track of time when we are together, keeping each other awake with pillow talk. As I talk she gets a devious grin on her face, which I barely make out in the dark. As I talk she reaches up and puts a finger in my nose. She laughs.

Fewer texts, fewer visits, it came over the course of what seemed like just a few days. It seems like that perhaps because it did come over just a few days. Then there was the phone call and that long drive she needed to take out of town, the one I went on with her. She wore that purple shirt that would slip and hang off one shoulder, looking very good. We drove through the mountains, through towns to Biggs and the white wind mills out there. We smoked cigarettes and looked at the stars and all the red blinking lights of the windmills in the night. She told me that she wanted to try to get back together with her exboyfriend, he was always there and now wasn’t talking to her and she couldn’t take it and that’s why she needed to get out of town so bad. She was very upset by his new absence. She wanted to go back to being friends, “for now.” Until she found out what would happen with him. Despite myself, I comforted her. We drove around, looking for a place to sleep, getting lost in Goldendale. We slept at the viewing point, in her car, and although it was bad, it was a good time. We talked about the stars and infinity and somehow it started raining, even though there were no clouds. And we talked about this and laughed.

She wears a tank top and a skirt, flip flops, sunglasses, and her hair in a French braid. She looks gorgeous and clean and like something that belongs in the sun. We walk to Laurelhurst Park and lay on a blanket, half in the shade and half out. I read to her from one of her college text books and lay there and we talk for several hours, her dog lying between us. We go to the Japanese gardens. I hold her hand and it matters. She keeps pointing out the moss and how it makes everything look so clean. We’re in the dark of her apartment. We’re having sex. She drags her nails up my side, accidentally tickling me, and I laugh She puts her hands over my mouth, laughing herself and saying, “Quiet, quiet.” We’re in the dark of her apartment again, still. I lay on my back with an ashtray on my chest. She sits next to me, cross-legged and without pants. We’re flicking our ashes in the ash tray. I see her smile in the dark. Her hair hangs down, wild with love. “It is different with you,” she says.

“Do you think he’ll call me?” she asks. “Yes,” I said.

“That doesn’t sound sincere.”

“It is. He’ll call you. I know he will. I’m not fortunate enough for him not to.”

Then came the pushing away. 20

had started, each one changing. “I’m hurt and need space,” or “you want a relationship and I don’t,” every reason punctuated with “we’re just going to go back to being friends, for now, until, I don’t know when.”

“Oh,” she says, “that sounds really sad.” “Yeah, but it’s pretty fuckin sincere, isn’t it?”

Then the day came when I found out that there was yet another guy, a new one, who had also been there this whole time. The real reason for the end to this affair. “It’s a clean slate,” she says. “No connections, no reason to judge me on my past actions. Just a fresh start.”

She laughs.

In the morning we watch the street skaters using the track just below the windmills and the viewing point. We go into Biggs and I buy her breakfast. Surprisingly we laugh during breakfast. We walk up to pay and joke around. We laugh. As we leave the restaurant and get into her car, she asks me what I’m thinking. I don’t reply. On the drive back to Vancouver we climb beacon rock. On the climb I tell her she has a great ass. She wants me to explain to her why she has such a great ass. So I do.

And I’ve thought about this so many times. I’ve played the scene out again and again. It’s almost become boring. Almost. Just words and anger coming through. “You’re doing this to punish me” and “You’re my best friend” and “you just can’t be there for me” and “this is what it comes down to, me doing my own thing.” Defenses. Not mine, hers. I took it calm. No yelling. No anger. No name calling. I needed to be there for myself for a while and that was it. I know the phrase, show don’t tell. I left, walked away. I walked down the stairwell, slowly, with my hands dragging down the walls beside me.

We return to Vancouver and she drops me off at my house. The two of us, just friends again. I go inside and take a nap. While I sleep a solar eclipse happens. After that came distance and a drunk phone call, to me, from her drunk ex at four in the morning, full of threats and stupidity. Then the end of her hopes of reconciliations, after he had found out about me, even though they weren’t together. Then more distance. Only once after that I stayed with her, both of us falling asleep on her floor. I kissed her, the last time. And then there was more distance, less talking. She gave me more reasons why we weren’t continuing with what we

Time passes. I don’t see her. And then… I left the KBOO reading. People behind me scattered from the building. I said goodbye to no one, even though I should have stopped to talk to the blonde, but I didn’t. Almost midnight, I couldn’t quite find it in myself to go home. I walked through the empty streets of southeast Portland. Not much action happening on a Monday night, or nothing apparent. I walked a 21

reviews few blocks south, thinking about the last week. The town stank. A few people wandered here and there. Cars passed. I watched the lit city in the night. I walked several blocks. I passed some bars with loud music playing on the inside. I passed more bars. Eventually I turned and began to head back. I walked along up her street. I passed her apartment building, wondering if she had listened to the radio broadcast. The windows of her apartment were dark. Her car wasn’t out front. I walked through the dark, thinking of a moment, of that one morning, months before, when we woke up late and had knocked all the pillows off her loft bed. They had fallen and when they did they knocked the cactus off her desk. It lay on the ground there.

Despite popular misconception, Kirby Light isn’t real. He’s an illusion. He’s been published in various online and offline

“Damn,” she says. “It fell again.”

magazines and you can find his I examine the cactus from my perch. “It looks like a penis.”

ebooks “Cheap Thrills and Night

Terrors” and “No Solace for the

She laughs.

We lay in bed all morning and I give her a back rub. We go and get donuts at Voodoo Donuts. She kisses me goodbye when she drops me off and I almost tell her right then that I love her.

Innocent” on the Kindle store.

I thought about this as I walked through southeast Portland after the KBOO reading and as I climbed into my car and started the engine, I thought of that line from the Bukowski poem, Layover: I no longer know where you are. I started my car and drove off into the Portland night. 22

dystopia

I like the part where the plucky reporter is

eloquent even, you might say refined. But it

chasing the guy on the bike trying to get

gets dragged through the mud by self-impor-

some answers. More importantly, the young

tant assholes for years until it looks like that

female standing in the doorway, apparently

guy in Tombstone after those red sash guys

attempting to deliver some kind of property-

lasso him to a running horse. Remember

related gospel or something, warrants further

that? He’s all bumpy and dirty and bloody

study. I’ve watched this thing several times

and dead. That’s what happens when you get

and I still have no effing clue what she’s

too many people in on the same idea. They

talking about. Seriously, it’s like some kind

ruin it. No, that’s not what I want to say,

of tragic hybridization of a dozen different,

they murder it. To death.

formerly well-formed, logical arguments, This is true down the line.

stitched together like some kind of intellectual Frankenstein frightening and confusing the townspeople. Something about everyone

Organized religion = grand vision warped

having a right to a home, but, as the reporter

into a bunch of self-important stargazers that

indicates, not having to pay for it? I don’t

think they know truth.

know. All I could think was, “How could you do this? She IS the 99%. You’ve completely

Democracy/Government = lofty goal bent

destroyed your own message by attacking the

over the rail by hundreds of greedy mongrels

very person you’re sworn to protect.”

for nearly three centuries and beaten into submission like a…well, you get the picture. That almost got pretty dark.

My conclusion: groups of people come together and develop talking points that eventually blossom into straight up dogma. That

Take the so-called “free press.” There was

is then filtered throughout whichever com-

a time where journalism existed to expose

munity of whack jobs we’re talking about at

the dark underbelly of the world, to force

the moment and it goes on to be regurgitated

out truth and hold people accountable. Our

so many times that it loses all meaning. Be

founding fathers thought this was such a vital

wary of institutions – that’s what I’m trying

presence in a fair society that they protected

to say. If there is such a thing as a coming

it in the Bill of Rights. I mean, if you want

dystopia it will be caused by large groups of

an example of what good reporting can do

idiots looking out for their own.

you should watch that George Clooney movie that won some awards and nobody watched,

In any institution there is an original vision.

what was it called? Good Night and Good

That original vision inspires the aforemen-

Luck. It’s the story of Edward R. Murrow us-

tioned talking points AKA future bull shit.

ing his position at CBS to take on Joseph Mc-

The original vision is usually very clear,

Carthy and his Communist Witch Hunt. It has 24

a happy ending and it shows you what can be possible when people do what’s right instead of what’s required of them. But today? Our rulers found a way around stifling the rights of the press. They bought them. They own the companies, they own the people that should be holding them accountable, and so truth falls by the wayside. In short, by making media into an institution it will be destroyed from the inside out. It is an inevitability. But how does this apply to the Occupy thing? Glad you asked. It’s simple, really. Occupy has become an institution. It has followers, leaders, organization, and its own dogma. That’s the dogma that the poor, silly, house-stealing tramp was trying to express to the KATU reporters. It’s the dogma that has so much of America divided. Strong belief vs. strong opposition. Just like the institutions of capitalism vs. socialism. Just like Murrow and McCarthy. Just like atheists and Christians. Or just like everybody that’s ever opened their door to one of those Jehovah’s Witness guys. They run their script and you want to punch them or dive out of your own window to escape. The point is, all of this stuff gets reduced down to the same core problem. People talk and weaker people listen. The weak people take what they hear and use it to act out whatever crazy passions they’ve twisted the original thought into justifying. Some assholes took the message of the Occupy Movement, a potentially great thing, and used it to steal some lady’s house so they didn’t have to pay rent or work. Moreover, the police found evidence that they were watching other houses, preparing to run the scam on a few other lonely saps. And what is their response, “Well, haven’t you heard of the Occupy Movement? It’s a good thing. And, we needed somewhere to stay so… and people should have homes… and we’re young and cool and super interesting so we shouldn’t have to use money or earn anything for ourselves. We’re better than that. Have you heard my band?” Now, you may be saying, how do we know they’re Occupiers? I had the same thought. Maybe the police just said they were to drag the Occupy name through the mud. I wouldn’t put it past ‘em. You know why? They’re an institution and institutions are corrupt. Period. Still, what if they weren’t? What if they were just a bunch of punk twenty-somethings? It doesn’t change anything. They’re still assholes and there’s still the issue of the stupid girl prattling on about the right to property and shelter and humanity or whatever the hell she was trying to explain to the journalists. The point is, organizations create messages and messages create whack jobs. I don’t have any broader meaning than that. Except, of course, there’s a few things you don’t do. You don’t rape people, you don’t pick on retarded kids... oh, yeah, you don’t steal houses from elderly school teachers. And if you do, you suck, and if you are Occupiers then you just destroyed any good will or achievement your movement accomplished. 25

You get the point. I’m in danger of beating a dead horse here. All I’m trying to say is, we should tar and feather these assholes – I mean, what? Sorry, don’t know where that came from. I meant to say, “We should be wary of who we put our faith in, especially when it is a group or an idea, because the bigger it gets the easier it is to corrupt.” That’s what I meant to say. Christ, I’m so bad with words. Tar and feathering… do people even still do that? If so, I mean, like, where would you get stuff to do it? Oh yeah, watch that video, Gloria Johnson seems really nice. She doesn’t even say anything all that bad about the losers that did this to her. She just says “I feel like crying.” Me too, Gloria. People suck and I don’t know what to do about it except rant, write, and dream of vigilante justice. So here’s some truth for you: never join anything. I think we’d all be better off if we just lived our lives and took care of the people around us. As soon as you organize you start down the path of those guys that cut off their stuff so they could ride a comet spaceship to God, or David Karesh and the Branch Davideans… or the US government. You get the picture. I often think of this Bible quote, “Let the dead bury their own dead.” It’s kind of Christ’s way of saying, “Fuck ‘em, they’re all idiots anyway.” I like that, mainly because I’m a huge jerk, but because I love the way you’re cleared of responsibility. Just walk, leave it all, just live your life, be good to people and that’s it. No need for systems, titles, paperwork, positions, doctrine or fights. That’s my dream, anyway, and it’s the only way to fend off Dystopia. pp

Tre v o r Richardson is the founde r of The Subtopia n Ma ga z ine and the auth o r o f A m e rican B astards. He is an advocate of challenging authority throu g h s e l f - i m provement, a kind of spiritual anarchism, and firmly believes that i f m o re people took an inward view at changing the world instead of a su p e rf i cial one, that things would ac tually c hange . He hate s ofte n and is c o m f o rt a ble w ith that, but w h at he lov e s he lov e s with an unflappable ra g e t h a t b inds him , heals him and de stroy s the worst parts of his life . He is c u rre n t l y w orking on publishing Dystopia Boy, his se c ond nov e l, and ha s a g ra p h i c novel in the w orks too. Visit www.tre v ordric hardson.c om for mo re .

UTOpia

Yo u r A r g u m e n t

Is Immoral:

A Personal Message

by Arthur Brand

First of all, I hate you. enough for you?

No?

That utopian each other for the chance to win a debate,

We l l , h e r e ’s w h y. o r e a r n m o r e m o n e y, o r g e t a h e a d i n l i n e ,

Yo u r a s s u m p t i o n s a r e f l a w e d , y o u s t a n d u p

or win an election.

I hate the way you

f o r n o t h i n g y e t a rg u e e v e r y t h i n g , y o u d o b a s e m o r a l i t y o n i n s t i t u t i o n s r a t h e r t h a n a s y o u ’ r e t o l d w i t h o u t a s k i n g w h y, y o u b e -

human need.

The Republican party says

l i e v e f e a r t a c t i c s a n d e m o t i o n a l a rg u m e n t s s o , t h e c h u r c h s a y s s o , I h e a r d i t o n t h e s o b l i n d l y y o u c a n ’t e v e n s e e t h e l o g i c a l , n e w s , I r e a d i t o n l i n e , I s a w a Yo u t u b e p r a c t i c a l t r u t h w h e n i t ’s p r e s e n t e d t o y o u , v i d e o a b o u t i t … y o u k n o w w h a t ? you misspell words on protest signs, you you.

Fuck

T h e r e , I s a i d i t , I f e e l b e t t e r n o w.

h a v e o r h a v e s e e n a b u m p e r s t i c k e r t h a t B u t s e r i o u s l y, y o u w a n t t o k n o w w h a t ’s you thought was “so you,” your ideas are

w r o n g w i t h A m e r i c a t o d a y ? Yo u a r e . E v -

n o t y o u r i d e a s , t h e y ’ r e O b a m a ’s o r R o m -

e r y t h i n g a b o u t y o u , e v e r y t h i n g y o u d o n ’t

n e y ’s o r B u s h ’s o r F o x N e w s ’ o r N P R ’s d o o r d o n ’t s a y, e v e r y t h i n g y o u d o o r s a y o r C h r i s t ’s o r B u d d h a ’s o r M a n s o n ’s , y o u t h a t i s w r o n g , f l a w e d , o r d e s i g n e d t o s e r v e are a gutless, spineless, brainless sack anyone other than the common good. I’m and you’re proud of it because you are reminded of a Bob Dylan quote, “Even Jean American. feel.

I h a t e h o w y o u m a k e m e s u s w o u l d n e v e r f o rg i v e w h a t y o u d o . ”

I h a t e t h e r a w, c o l d , s h a l l o w e m p t i -

ness that swells up in my gut every time

I saw a photo of a man holding a sign

y o u c u t m e o ff i n t r a ff i c b e c a u s e w h e r e v e r

that said “Obamacare is immoral.” What?

y o u h a v e t o b e i s s o m u c h m o r e i m p o r-

Yo u ’ r e i m m o r a l a n d I h a t e y o u . O v e r l o o k -

tant than me. I hate the way you devalue ing the obvious flaws in bringing moral27

utopia i t y i n t o a n i n t e l l e c t u a l d e b a t e , h a s a n y o n e r e s p e c t o f p e o p l e ’s p o s s e s s i o n s , i t i s n o t ever stopped to point out that all of our our place to intrude. discussions as a people, all of our irrational fears, our misguided positions, and our

The second man says that it was a mistake

duality of consciousness, are immoral?

to let the man own the lake in the first p l a c e a n d t h e r e f o r e t h e e n t i r e a rg u m e n t i s

I t d o e s n ’t m a t t e r w h o w i n s t h e a rg u m e n t m o o t . b e c a u s e h a v i n g t h e a rg u m e n t i s w r o n g t o begin with.

I want to give you a hypo-

The third man, the owner of the lake,

t h e t i c a l . Tw o m e n a r e s t a n d i n g o n a d o c k d r o w n s . by a lake.

There is a sign that says: No

Swimming, Private Lake.

The men dis-

cuss the meaning of the sign.

S e e m y p o i n t ? B o t h a r e w r o n g . I t d o e s n ’t

One says

matter what your stance is, you’re wasting

the owners have every right to post a sign time debating the logistics while sometelling strangers to keep out.

The other one is dying.

Think about that.

This is

says it should be for the public, available why I hate all of you. While so incurably f o r a l l t o e n j o y, t h a t t h e b e a u t y o f n a t u r e a d d i c t e d t o w i n n i n g a v e r b a l w a r y o u ’ r e should be free to everyone, not hoarded by overlooking the casualities. No one tells a w e a l t h y f e w.

Meanwhile, the owner of you that even discussing it is the wrong

the lake is drowning, screaming, begging move, whether you’re for or against, it for help.

d o e s n ’t m a t t e r. have a choice.

T h e f i r s t m a n s a y s t h e y s h o u l d n ’t g o i n , i t w o u l d n ’t b e r i g h t .

We ’ r e n o t s u p p o s e d t o Not when it comes to is-

s u e s o f h u m a n i t y, d i g n i t y, a n d q u a l i t y o f

I mean, the sign says life.

Keep Out. Yo u c h o o s e a p a r t y, R e p u b l i c a n o r D e m The second man says that this is a ridicu-

ocrat, liberal or conservative, you even

lous attitude, a man is drowning and you minimize it down to a basic call sign: left w o n ’t h e l p h i m j u s t b e c a u s e a s i g n s a y s o r r i g h t . A s i f a l l a rg u m e n t s c o u l d b e d i i t ’s w r o n g ?

v i d e d s o e a s i l y, “ T h e s e t h i n g s l o o k l i k e this so they go on the right…these look

The first man says we are living in a soci-

like this so they go in the left pile…see?”

ety that is built on ownership, capital and 28

utopia Shut up!

u n i n s u r e d A m e r i c a n s t o b e a b l e t o a ff o r d insurance by driving down overall costs.

I t ’s i r r e l e v a n t , a l l o f i t .

W h i l e y o u a r e T h a t ’s a l l . I t i s n ’t a f e d e r a l i n s u r a n c e p l a n .

w a s t i n g y o u r l i v e s a w a y a rg u i n g f o r y o u r

I t ’s a s t r u c t u r e d s y s t e m t o p r e v e n t i n s u r-

side of the room or selecting what position ance companies from raping your wallet. i s g o o d f o r y o u r p a r t y i n s t e a d o f w h a t ’s P e r s o n a l l y, I a m t h r i l l e d a t t h e p r o s p e c t o f g o o d f o r e v e r y b o d y, p e o p l e a r e d r o w n i n g b e i n g a b l e t o g o t o t h e d o c t o r a g a i n . A n d in financial debt, losing their homes, un-

I’m all about taking power away from big

a b l e t o f e e d t h e i r c h i l d r e n , u n a b l e t o g e t c o m p a n i e s t h a t t r a ff i c i n m i s e r y.

If you

proper care for medical conditions and have any qualms you should do some reso, so, so much more.

Christ Almighty! search. For example, did you know that the

A r e y o u s o d u l l t h a t y o u c a n ’t s e e t h a t ?

only way uninsured types can get health-

H e a l t h c a r e f o r e v e r y b o d y i s s o m e t h i n g s o c a r e i s b y g o i n g i n t o t h e e m e rg e n c y r o o m ? many people are afraid of because it goes

Ye a h , n o t o n l y i s t h i s a n i n c r e d i b l y s t u p i d

a g a i n s t a p o o r, w e a k , o l d a s s u m p t i o n t h a t w a y o f d o i n g t h i n g s b e c a u s e t h e g u y w i t h is built on greed instead of basic human the chest cold is taking away from stab r i g h t s . I t ’s t h e l a k e t h a t n e v e r s h o u l d h a v e w o u n d g u y, b u t i t a l s o d r i v e s u p t h e o v e rbeen sold.

all costs of the entire process, both in the e m e rg e n c y r o o m a n d t h e h o s p i t a l a t l a rg e

All I can say is the only reason this rant

b e c a u s e o f i n e ff i c i e n t u s e o f r e s o u r c e s .

has been allocated to “Utopia” is because they passed the Patient Protection and Af-

F o r m y m o n e y, e v e r y t i m e t h e s t r a n g l e -

f o r d a b l e C a r e A c t o f 2 0 1 0 o r, w h a t y o u h o l d b i g b u s i n e s s h a s o n t h e l i t t l e g u y g e t s might only know as “Obamacare.” I feel I loosened even a little bit I start feeling have a little more hope. I might even hate like Utopia might be possible. you all a little bit less.

I’m just

so relieved, so peacefully encouraged that something has been done. People are suf-

I n c a s e y o u w e r e w o n d e r i n g , t h i s i s n o t a f e r i n g , I ’ m s u ff e r i n g , p e o p l e y o u k n o w ratified bill to plunge America into a so-

have ailments they ignore because they

cialist nightmare.

c a n ’t a ff o r d t o t r e a t t h e m a n d i f y o u h a v e

I t ’s a c o m p l e x d o c u -

ment, carefully crafted in an attempt to a problem with changing that then you are keep everyone protected and happy while immoral. Hell, even if it is socialist, who s t i l l a l l o w i n g t h e e s t i m a t e d 3 2 m i l l i o n c a r e s ? I t ’s r i g h t , a n d w e c a n ’t a v o i d d o i n g 29

utopia the right thing just because it runs con- human right, not something to be capitaltrary to some outdated status quo

or as- ized on, and it would be immoral to deny

s u m p t i o n o f w h a t A m e r i c a s h o u l d b e . We i t t o a n y o n e f o r a n y r e a s o n . s h o u l d d o w h a t ’s g o o d f o r o u r p e o p l e , n o m a t t e r h o w t h e y v o t e , b e c a u s e w h a t A m e r- S t e w o n t h a t a n d f u c k o ff . ica is supposed to be is a land of promise where your dreams can come true. People Go America!

Maybe we can finally start

a r e s u p p o s e d t o w a n t t o c o m e h e r e f r o m c a t c h i n g u p t o C a n a d a . T h a t ’s r i g h t , f u c k a l l a r o u n d b e c a u s e t h i s i s w h e r e i t ’s a t . i n g C a n a d a , I j u s t s a i d i t , I h a d t o s a y i t I n s t e a d , o u r o w n p e o p l e a r e l e a v i n g t o g e t b e c a u s e i t ’s t r u e . help elsewhere.

Yo u m a d e t h i s h a p p e n ,

They’re buying cheap not me.

drugs and getting free medical treatment o u t s i d e o u r b o r d e r s b e c a u s e , w h i l e y o u Yo u h e a r t h a t , A m e r i c a ? We l o s t t o a rg u e o v e r t h e d r o w n i n g v i c t i m s , o t h e r C a n a d a . countries have us licked.

To C a n a d a o r

F r a n c e o r w h e r e v e r e l s e , h e a l t h c a r e i s a Yo u r a rg u m e n t i s i n v a l i d . p p

---

Arthur Brand doesn’t want you to know anything about him. He believes strongly in the power of people as individuals and has zero faith in the power of people in large groups. He is suspicious often, angry always, and dumbfounded regularly. He dreams of a free America and hasn’t seen it in his lifetime.

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The Critic’s Critic

David Renton Critiques Two Reviews of Prometheus: Roger Ebert’s and John Semley’s from Slant Magazine

Since this little experiment in film writing started at Subtopian the form has been, more or less, find a movie review and hack it to bits. I’m going to break form here a little bit. I have a couple reviews I want to draw from. F i r s t o f a l l , I j u s t w a t c h e d P ro m e t h e u s . N o w, I g e t t h e i m p r e s s i o n t h a t a l o t o f people went into this hoping to watch “Alien 5” and maybe didn’t get what they wanted. This could explain some dissatisfaction and on that merit a lot of the reviews out there can be disregarded. I didn’t. I was down for a prequel, an o r i g i n s t o r y, w h e r e w e l i k e l y w o u l d n ’ t see the insect-like obsidian monsters we’ve all come to love, or if we did see them it would not be until the final shot of the movie. Bingo, won that bet. As p r e d i c t e d , * S p o i l e r A l e r t * i t ’s t h e f i nal shot of the movie. The birth of the Alien.

twentieth century fox

giant muscle-bound albino guy standing b y a w a t e r f a l l . R a t h e r c e r e m o n i o u s l y, he opens a vessel filled with what looks l i k e s o m e k i n d o f s p a c e c a v i a r, e a t s i t , and immediately begins decaying and s p r a y i n g b l a c k c r a p e v e r y w h e r e . We pan in for a closer look and see the cellular structure of his body changing and becoming something else. This moment is not directly addressed in the rest of t h e m o v i e , b u t w e c a n a s s u m e t h a t h e ’s o n E a r t h a n d j u s t p r o v i d e d t h e r a w, g e netic material to begin the process of human evolution on our planet. Those first few amino acids and protein markers and peptides and all that other crap you learn about in high school Biology apparently came from a ghost-like space w r e s t l e r w i t h n o t h i n g t o l i v e f o r. W i t h all this in mind, I just feel like we’re going over familiar territory here. Oh, what an intriguing notion, aliens began life on Earth. Hasn’t this been brought up about a zillion times in other movies, intellectual debates and coffee shop dis-

O k a y, I ’ d l i k e t o s t a r t w i t h s o m e c o m ments from Roger Ebert in his Chicago Tr i b u n e r e v i e w : “ R i d l e y S c o t t ’s ‘ P r o m e t h e u s ’ i s a m a g nificent science-fiction film, all the more intriguing because it raises questions about the origin of human life and d o e s n ’ t h a v e t h e a n s w e r s . I t ’s i n t h e classic tradition of golden age sci-fi, e c h o i n g S c o t t ’s “ A l i e n ” ( 1 9 7 9 ) , b u t c r e ating a world of its own.” I would just like to call BS on the grounds that the questions raised about the origin of human life were not original, nor were they especially intriguing. The movie opens with the shot of this 73

The Critic’s Critic cussions? The lead actress even delivers the cliche line often brought up by Creationists when met with this argument, “ O k a y, s o t h e y m a d e u s , b u t w h o m a d e them?” God, right? She means God?

the cargo bay like a rabid trapeze artist. The crew shoots him approximately nine billion times and douses him with a flame thrower for good measure bef o r e h e i s f i n a l l y d o n e , o u t o f t h e s t o r y, never spoken of again, and effectively a complete waste of our time.

I don’t think she meant Flying Spaghetti M o n s t e r.

3 ) T h e t e a m ’s l e a d s c i e n t i s t f i n d s t h e corpse of a giant alien monster soldier thing and they take his severed head back to the ship. Upon examination they learn that his creepy bug skull face is just a helmet and underneath is the face of our dear old albino giant from before, o r r a t h e r, s o m e o n e t h a t l o o k s e x a c t l y like him. Only his skin is crawling with these black wormy scabs and for some weird reason they decide to stab an electrode into his brain to make the head, and the wormy scab things, think the d u d e i s s t i l l a l i v e i n s t e a d o f , y o u k n o w, d e a d f o r 2 , 0 0 0 y e a r s . E x a m p l e Tw o i n o u r “ N O O N E W O U L D D O T H AT ! ! ! ” s t u d y o f P ro m e t h e u s a n d i t s i n t e rg a l a c tic numb skulls. For some insane reason shit starts to grow in the ancient head and it explodes in green goop and smoke. This, also, goes unaddressed and simply swept under the rug for the next s e r i e s o f i n s a n e e x e r c i s e s i n s t u p i d i t y.

E b e r t ’s n o t i o n o f a “ g o l d e n a g e s c i - f i ” is also under question here. It isn’t a strong film at all. It is filled with non sequiturs. There are at least five different monsters in this movie, all of which h a v e n o t h i n g t o d o w i t h e a c h o t h e r, a n d most don’t even connect to the inevitable birth of the Alien. L e t ’s t a k e t h e m o n e a t a t i m e . * S P O I L ERS* 1 ) T h e r e ’s a w h i t e p h a l l i c e e l w i t h a head that looks like a scrotum. This m o n s t e r e n c o u n t e r s t h e t e a m ’s b i o l o g i s t w h o , r a t h e r s t u p i d l y, a p p r o a c h e s t h e c o c k a n d b a l l s s n a k e l i k e i t ’s a b a b y r a b b i t , s a y i n g , “ H e y, c u t i e , c o m e h e r e … oh, you’re strong,” as it bites his hand and proceeds to tear his arm off. One of many moments in the movie where the mind reels in a different kind of horr o r, t h i n k i n g , “ N O O N E W O U L D D O T H AT ! ! ! ”

4) One standard in the Alien franchise is the presence of an android/robot with no personality and the innards (which w e a l w a y s g e t t o s e e ) o f a Ta u n t a u n f r o m E m p i re S t r i k e s B a c k , a b o w l o f C r e a m of Wheat, giant milk maggots, and those weird novelty fiber-optic lights you can b u y a t S p e n c e r ’s i n a n y m a l l i n A m e r i c a . We l l , w e g e t a n e w o n e i n P r o m e t h e u s . His name is David and he likes being a total prick pretty much all the time despite apparently not having a soul, emotions, or a mind of his own. Anyw a y, D a v i d d e c i d e s t o i n f e c t t h e l e a d i n g l a d y ’s b o y f r i e n d w i t h a d r o p o f b l a c k g o o f r o m t h e s h i p . I d o n ’ t k n o w w h y, nobody does, except apparently his boss told him to because it will somehow help h i m a t t a i n i m m o r t a l i t y ( s e r i o u s l y, w a t c h

2) In the process of trying to save the moronic biologist, the resident geologist/Scottish Highlander/Mad Max extra/ metal head gets doused in acid blood from the predatory penis melting the helmet of his space suit and causing him to fall into a pool of black goop. The goop infects him somehow and he app e a r s l a t e r a l l f o l d e d u p l i k e Wi l e E . Coyote after a cliff fall where he immediately stands up with a swollen cranium and looks like some kind of inhuman hybrid of that bass player from Limp Bizkit, those big-headed Martians from M a r s A t t a c k s , t h e P r e d a t o r, a n d a w e r e wolf. He then begins murdering people rather primitively (smashing their heads with his bare hands) and leaping around 74

The Critic’s Critic just common sense.

the movie, I’m not exaggerating). So the two lovers knock boots and the leading lady watches her boyfriend get all veiny and gray and decaying like the guy a t t h e b e g i n n i n g o r, m a y b e k i n d o f l i k e the Scottish werewolf acrobat we already forgot about from five minutes ago. He winds up begging Charlize Theron to murder him with a flame thrower and everybody is sad for zero seconds before we move on and forget he was in the movie at all.

O k a y, y o u g e t t h e p o i n t . I t ’s j u s t a bunch of stuff that happens. I’d hardly say it qualifies as Golden Age sci-fi and I definitely resent the comparison to the original Alien. The thing that made the original Alien so good was that you never saw the thing in full light, everyone was stuck on the ship with nowhere t o g o b e c a u s e , y o u k n o w, S PA C E , a n d n o b o d y s a w i t c o m i n g . E v e r. I m e a n , you couldn’t expect a lizard to jump out of John Hurt. But even then, they think they have the thing licked when they find its exoskeleton and mistake it for its corpse, then it turns around, gigantic, and kills everyone. Then, when y o u t h i n k i t ’s b l o w n u p o n t h e s h i p , i t ’s somehow on the escape pod and Ripley is like practically naked and has to shoot i t o u t t h e a i r l o c k . I t ’s a s t r e a m - l i n e d , simple, yet terrifying situation that doesn’t let up and doesn’t try to earn more than it should with heady concepts or too much special effects. This one, w h i c h M r. E b e r t s a y s i n t h e s a m e s t y l e , gives you an open world with almost any direction to run in, multiple means of escape, and monsters you see coming for a mile away but, for some reason, you stick your hand in their mouths anyw a y. M o r e o v e r, t h e m o v i e i s o n e r a n t about the meaning of life, the origin of h u m a n i t y, o r t h e s e a r c h f o r t h e d i v i n e a f t e r a n o t h e r a f t e r a n o t h e r. I t ’s a b o u t a s far from streamlined as you get and it is definitely trying too hard.

5) In another non sequitur that leads to very little despite being dropped in for the sake of shallow character development, the heroine of the story is barr e n . H o w e v e r, c r e e p y D a v i d g i v e r s h e r a checkup after the boyfriend fire and lets h e r k n o w t h a t s h e ’s p r e g n a n t a n d s h e freaks out. This part is especially dumb b e c a u s e t h e s e c o n d s h e f i n d s o u t s h e ’s pregnant she starts getting these intense cramps and pains and begins writhing in a g o n y. I ’ m t a l k i n g l i k e t h e v e r y s e c o n d she finds out. Like, “I’m pregnant?” O h , o w, o w w w w, o u c h t h o u g h ! O w. S h e then runs around for reasons that don’t matter and winds up hooking herself into a capsule that performs automated surgeries on men only but somehow manages to do a perfect C-section. (I serio u s l y d o n ’ t g e t i t e i t h e r, w h y a n y o n e would have a medical device tuned to men only on a ship that has just as many l a d i e s i s b e y o n d m e . ) We l l , t h e C - S e c tion for Boys removes a little torpedo squid (monster number five) and she runs off, leaving the thing there in the clamp of the medical device like a toy in one of those claw machines at arcades, just waiting to drop into the chute and go home with some unfortunate child. Ye t a g a i n , “ N o o n e w o u l d d o t h a t ! ” Yo u kill the damn thing. If you got knocked up last night and already look to be three-months pregnant for your check up t h e n i t ’s p r e t t y a p p a r e n t t h i s t h i n g g r o w s pretty damn fast. So, yeah, you burn t h e m o t h e r. J u s t l i k e y o u r c r a z y, v i r u s i n f e c t e d , m u t a t i n g b o y f r i e n d s a i d . I t ’s

I f y o u r e a d o n t h r o u g h R o g e r E b e r t ’s review you’ll find him analyzing every character and, in my opinion, giving them far more credit than they deserve. His comparison of David to HAL-9000 from “2001” is campy and ill-founded. If you ask me, he just wanted to write the sentence “…walking, talking, utterly fearless HAL 9000.” HAL had his own agenda and pursues it without hesitation. David is obeying the instruction of his “father” a decrepit old Guy Pearce who 75

The Critic’s Critic wants him to find the answers to these aliens that created human life so that he, in turn, can become young again. David expresses, more than once, his resistance and even disdain for being s o m e o n e e l s e ’s p u p p e t , y e t h e f o l l o w s t h r o u g h w i t h i t d r a m a t i c a l l y, h a t e f u l l y, and often even arrogantly despite having no emotional characteristics. So, he may be interesting, but a HAL-9000 he i s n o t . E b e r t g i v e s C h a r l i z e T h e r o n ’s character too much credit as well. She does exactly nothing in the whole movie except burn a sick guy and possibly fuck the pilot. She stands around looking old and eventually runs away to save herself only to get crushed by falling debris. B u t , a c c o r d i n g t o E b e r t , s h e ’s a “ s t r o n g woman.”

many ideas that are not followed through on enough to even create a mystery or a question, instead, they just seem like plot holes. But, because I know when s o m e o n e e l s e h a s s a i d i t b e t t e r, I ’ d l i k e to quote from John Semley of Slant Magazine instead: “The filmmaker isn’t as concerned with matching the clockwork pacing or clinic a l t e n s i o n o f 1 9 7 9 ’s A l i e n , a m o v i e holding the double distinction as being one of the most perfectly constructed horror pictures in the history of the medium and, with apologies to Blade Runner (and his Orwellian Macintosh computer commercial), quite obviously the best film Ridley Scott has ever made… I t a s p i r e s t o S t a n l e y K u b r i c k ’s 2 0 0 1 , but in its maddeningly unresolved plot threads and cornball cosmic mysticism, it lands closer to Mission to Mars— t h o u g h P ro m e t h e u s l a c k s a n y a c t i o n s e t piece as gripping as the Brian De Palma f i l m ’s s e n t i e n t s a n d s t o r m . ”

The story reaches its climax when they wake one of the giant white guys from s t a s i s a n d h e t e a r s o f f D a v i d ’s h e a d . Everything builds to this moment, all of the trite questions of existence can be answered by this creature and he just k i l l s m e r c i l e s s l y. S o , y e a h , t h e r e ’s y o u r a n s w e r, I g u e s s . A l o t o f w e i r d s t u ff happens, everyone runs around and, long story short, that squid baby you should h a v e k i l l e d e a r l i e r ? We l l , i t ’s a g i a n t squid monster now and it looks like a forty foot version of the “face huggers” from the other movies. The main girl tricks the ancient albino into running into the squid thing and it pretty much face fucks him to death and puts a baby in him. The girl flies away on an entirely different alien ship than the one they w e r e e x p l o r i n g , b r i n g i n g D a v i d ’s h e a d w i t h h e r, t o g o t o t h e A l b i n o h o m e w o r l d i n s t e a d o f E a r t h ( n o t , b y t h e w a y, t o destroy them with all the crazy bioweapons laying around, which would have b e e n c o o l e r, b u t t o “ a s k t h e m w h y t h e y wanted to do this to us,” which didn’t go so well for David, so we can assume her head is off somewhere).

If you haven’t seen Mission to Mars you won’t get how awesomely accurate this is, but maybe you should. If you watch P ro m e t h e u s , w a t c h M i s s i o n t o M a r s b e fore you go, I think it will enhance your righteous indignation and might help you laugh. Sources: h t t p : / / ro g e re b e r t . s u n t i m e s . c o m / a p p s / pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20120606/ REVIEWS/120609989 h t t p : / / w w w. s l a n t m a g a z i n e . c o m / f i l m / r e v i e w / p ro m e t h e u s / 6 3 3 4 --A s e v e r, S u b t o p i a n i n v i t e s a n y o n e a n d everyone to submit their critiques of the C r t i c s . We w a n t t o h e a r w h a t y o u h a v e t o s a y. Vi s i t t h e C r i t i c ’s C r i t i c p a g e f o r m o re i n f o r m a t i o n .

M y f i n a l s u m m a r y o f t h e m o v i e i s i t ’s a total mess, a scattershot pursuit of too 76

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Thought Chip Record: Agent Emmett Anders 09/0&/30 :: 0002001 PM

December 3rd, 2024. John.

Six weeks after that talk with Dr.

I keep replaying it in my head. This one moment that made me realize you don’t choose your friends. Maybe they choose you. Or maybe, like me and Lee, life just slams you together like two colliding cars. This lady, Melinda Voice, she wanted to interview us after all that Gandhi stuff went down. In the interview she said, “Joe, do you remember what I told you the first time we met?” “You said it wasn’t that I was trying to hide evidence,” I replied, “You said I was trying to protect Lee. You said I wanted to slay the dragon. Like a knight gallant.” “Right,” she said, “And like a knight gallant you have the same sense of pride, morality and justice. You, eight years old at the time, knew that something was wrong and something needed to be done. You knew nobody would do it for you and you didn’t just give up or decide you were too small or weak or young. You just went out and did it. For your friend.” That’s when Lee cut in saying, “Exactly. I never told anybody this, but it was figuring that out that helped me wake up. The nurses would sometimes gather in my room to talk in private. There was just me and this other kid that couldn’t talk or eat or breathe on his own. Anyway, I could always hear them, but I just wouldn’t respond. I guess they started thinking it was a safe place to hide out and gossip. “Whatever, I’m getting off track,” he continued, “I just mean to say that this one day I heard them talking about Joe and how they thought he was really interesting and probably a good kid under all the trouble and rough edges or whatever. This one nurse said something about how he burned that place down and how she thought that was an admission of guilt. But the other one, she was smart, she said, ‘What 78

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if he did it for that one over there?’ And she pointed at me. I didn’t look at her, but I could feel her pointing at me. Then she said, ‘Maybe he did it to try to save him. I’m just saying, we don’t really know, it was all handled so quickly, we don’t know. What if he’s just a good kid with a lot of bad luck?’ Lee shrugged, “Anyway, when I heard that, things started to work around in my head. I started to see my way out, like thinking about Joe that way kind of shined a light or something. The next day was when I woke up.” Thinking about it, it still feels like a dream. He said it was because of me starting that fire that he finally got better. I did something wrong and it made someone better. All of the times I prayed, all the church services at the hospital, all the bad dreams about aliens destroying the world and all the times I did my best to be good and ask God’s forgiveness so They wouldn’t come back – none of it mattered. It was the fire that saved Lee. It was a fire that made us become friends. The fire and everything that came after. Sometimes life passes me by like I’m just watching it. I’m on my bike, pedaling up that same long hill where Audrey and I ran away from Anthony and his boys. Six weeks ago I had to get permission to pee. Too much has happened. So much you have to look back to understand it. You can’t really get it while it’s all happening to you. Lee got out of his room. Out of the hole, finally. He started talking. First there was the lawsuit against that nurse that went down on him or whatever she did. Dr. John called in lawyers to fight it and he had us separated from the rest of the kids. Lee and I were put in a bunk together, a cell, really. Solitary confinement if you ask me. Looking back I can tell now that he just didn’t want our story to infect the other kids, make them think that he was anything but master of his world – his hospital. Lee got a lawyer to fight his case for him and try to spring us loose. He came clean about everything. It was all Anthony. The only reason he said my name that time was because he was afraid for me, not because he was blaming me. 79

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It was all a big misunderstanding. Dr. John fought him. He said Lee and I had become close, that he’d say anything to get me free. Probably true, but it still hurt my side of things. The lawyer came to the hospital one day and I told him my story, how I did lie, a little bit, because I was ashamed that I stole the porn mags and didn’t want my mom to find out. But I didn’t do anything to hurt Lee, and really, it always seemed dumb that everyone believed that a bunch of twelve year olds would listen to an eight year old kid with a pile of porno. Right when I had them on the ropes, right when it gets to where John’s only argument is that I’m somehow unstable, I have a lot of issues, and I need to stay in the hospital for my own good, I get sent back to the yard and Anthony says something about me and Lee being gay for each other. I hit him. I knew those moves Mr. Smiles showed me and maybe I overdid it, but I leave him missing teeth and a fair amount of blood. I see John smirking and I realize I gave him what he wanted, I looked insane. Looking back I have to wonder if it was planned, if John got Anthony to fight me on purpose just so I’d look bad.

The story behind the story.

Next was all the Gandhi stuff. We realized we were powerless. We had to fight back and anything violent would only give him more reason to hold us there. So we stopped eating. We went on a hunger strike, I’d read about them from this book Mr. Smiles told me I ought to read. After three days and a lot of fussing and bribing from Dr. John, we moved up to a vow of silence. We said nothing, participated in nothing, we were like two monks, two warrior monks, transcending the battle with the power of a shared will, and a willingness to suffer for the truth, for what’s right. Some of the kids at the hospital caught wind of what was happening and they started to participate. The place got real quiet from what Lee and I could tell in our little ivory tower at the far side of the complex. We started seeing the Doc more and more, worry was growing around his eyes like a crack traveling across your windshield, bit by bit, day after day and you’re just waiting for that moment where the glass finally shatters. 80

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Next that reporter got wind of our little revolution. Melinda Voice. She has some kind of talk radio show and wanted to interview us. We do the interview, me and Lee, and like that we’re suddenly local celebrities. Newspapers are talking to us. They do a spot on the news. The wrong kinds of eyes turn toward Dr. John’s hospital and so he caves. The glass finally breaks. I get set free. Lee settles his lawsuit out of court. His parents lose custody but get out of doing jail time. Lee moves in with his aunt on the other side of town and sees his parents on supervised weekend visitations. And that’s it. We’re normal kids again. Except it’s my first night home and what happens at six o’clock? Dr. John strolls in the front door and kisses my mom on the cheek. I freak out and bail. I wanted to hit him but instead I pedal out of there, up the hill, speeding to Audrey like a bat. It’s all I can think to do. I hear it, over and over in my head. Melinda asking Lee about us and him saying that I was protecting him. Him saying that after everything, we’re friends. And Melinda says something. She says it was our ability to overcome a challenge and find friendship rather than hatred for each other that makes this story – more than the fire, more than the Gandhi stuff. I got away from Anthony’s gang and Lee got hurt, he should hate me. I tried to help and got blamed instead. I should hate Lee. But I don’t. We’re friends. We worked together to solve a problem. I can hear something else. All of my prayers. The lessons we heard at our little hospital version of church. I was so desperate to save myself, save the world from damnation, prevent the wrath of God from riding in on the wings of extraterrestrial angels. But in all that time something happened, something unexpected, I got used to the stories and they became a kind of comfort. Maybe I love God, maybe I don’t, that’s the kind of thing you can’t honestly decide about yourself, any more than you can decide your own art is good. But I did discover that in all the time I was there, trying to trick Dr. John into believing I was good, something got in. I got used to seeing reality through the Bible. I got used to thinking in references to passages of scripture. And now it’s in there. And I find myself feeling like Lee and I are the prodigals returning home. 81

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Thought Chip Record: Agent Emmett Anders 00/00/00 :: 0022314

There’s nothing there. Well, I mean, I guess there’s something there, but it isn’t Audrey’s trailer. For just a second I get this flood of nostalgia and hope. I think about when I was a kid, wearing her little Green Lantern ring and dreaming of her going to some big city to become famously beautiful. I think, maybe she did, maybe she’s there right now. But then the first tide of hope rolls out and just leaves behind that dirty sea foam stuff and those dead animals and the seaweed with the popped little pod things. I just feel gross and sad. Where is she? The trailer parked in her spot is newer and it has green trim. A light flicks on and I see an old Indian man staring at me through the glass nervously. I pedal away so he doesn’t get the idea that I’m casing the joint or something. I bomb down the hill letting my momentum take me all the way to the bottom. I pass my house, all the lights are on and they’re probably fighting about what to do about their troublemaking adolescent screw up. Following the road takes me to the town square. There’s these rows of benches painted green that are all chipped and flaky. At the far end I see Lee looking kind of spaced out and blue. I wheel up, trying to seem all cavalier, all James Dean or whatever, but he still asks me what’s the matter. “Nothing,” I say, “Just didn’t really expect to see the old Doc strut through my front door, not after everything that’s happened, you know?” “You thought your mom would chuck him of own her free will?”

“I guess I hoped she would.”

“Man, she’s old, she’s gonna hang onto whatever man she can get. You want him gone you gotta tell her. Force her even. Make her choose.” 82

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“Yeah,” I say, “I guess.

So what are you doing out?”

“Snuck out. My aunt’s house gives me the creeps. She has this kid, my cousin, I guess, I really like him, you know? He has Autism and he’s really funny, but he doesn’t seem to get how he’s supposed to go to bed at night, right? So she has to lock his door and he just shakes it and beats on it and it freaks me out. It’s like he’s Frankenstein or something, you know, all locked up in the dungeon. Anyway, I had to get out and get some air.” I sit down beside him and just shrug, “Ain’t we a pair? Neither of us really has much of a home, do we?” “So what are you doing here? straight to Audrey.”

I figured you’d run

“I did,” I laugh, “You think I’d be here staring at your ugly face if I could be with a pretty little Indian princess?” “Shut up, you love me,” he says, shoving me with his elbow.

“You wanna ride bikes?”

“Are you coming onto me, Joe?”

“Shut up, fag, I mean do you want to get out of here? feel like having some road rolling under me. What do you say?”

“I always feel like having some road rolling under me.”

Lee hops on his bike and we just sort of go – no real direction in mind. The roads at this time of night are always blue and open, there’s just the moon and the occasional floodlight. We ride side by side and just kind of talk in puffs up long hills and yells on the way down. He tells me what it was like for those years he was silent, like that moment when you’re panicked, when something scares you and you freeze up, that old deer caught in headlights feeling – he says it’s like that only it lasted four years. He says he wants things to be different now. He wants to live big. He wants to never be afraid again. And the strangest thing about all of it is the way he tells it to 83

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me. It’s like I’m his big brother now or something. He’s older than me by a few years, but he’s telling me all this stuff like he wants my help or approval or something. Weirder still is how I feel like I want to help, like I want to protect him. I find myself telling him I’d do anything for him. I tell him that he knows that, doesn’t he? And he says he does. The next thing I know he’s painting a long black line across the street with his back tire, slamming his brakes to a screech. I stop and practically scream, “What? What is it? What’s wrong, man?” “That place,” he says, “That’s where we need to go. want to go there, Joe.”

At the far end of a gravel parking lot, squatting under the blue-out sneer of a halogen floodlight is a little church. It’s brown brick with a white steeple and the way the lot is all framed in by big trees makes the little building look like a fat reptile hiding at the far end of a cage. I don’t see anything so impressive about it, but Lee is emphatic. This is where we need to be. He says we’ll find ourselves here, that what we need is some enlightenment. I hear Mr. Smiles say, “Enlightenment? Nobody ever found enlightenment from a church. Don’t believe me, ask the Spanish Inquisition. Don’t do this to us, Joe. If you go this way, I won’t follow.” It’s hard, but I kind of shake him off and say, “All right, Lee, if that’s what you want to do, let’s do it. It would be nice to be part of something that wasn’t a congregation of misdemeanors and meth babies.” He laughs and pedals across the lot to the front doors of the church. We sit down on the front steps and kind of just talk about nothing for a while, just the kind of talk that can fool you into feeling normal if you let it.

The feed jumps forward again.

It’s that same dream, the same dream I always have.

The Other Voice says, “Variations on a theme.” 84

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The room is white. I’m strapped down to this metal table. There’s these oversized heads, glassy eyed, pale skin, and they’re staring down at me like I’m some kind of lab rat or something. I scream but no sound comes out. My body won’t move. I look up and something is different, this time I see an open window in the white wall. There’s an old Bible time looking town and it’s getting bombed by flying saucers. I try to scream, I try to make them stop, ask God to make it stop. But I’m helpless. I’m paralyzed. Then I wake up. Lee and I fell asleep on the church steps. It’s Sunday morning and the church people are already starting to file in. Some people seem nervous. Others greet us warmly. Lee rubs his eyes and says, “You roofie me or something?” “That’s right, Lee, I roofied you to get you to come to the church you already wanted to go to. We fell asleep. Stayed out too late talking. You wanna go in? I mean, we’re already here and all, right?” “Yeah, let’s go in. sure.”

My aunt will be here soon, I’m

“Your aunt? You acted like you’d never seen this place before, now you’re telling me it’s your aunt’s church?” Lee nods, grumbling to his feet, “Yeah, she told me she wanted me to go and I freaked out. It made me think about the hospital and those weird little church ladies that would visit us and teach us Sunday School lessons.” “So we didn’t wander at all, did we? straight here.”

You steered us

“Guilty as charged,” he says, “I wanted to size the place up.” We go in and find a pew at the back. Some people stare at us but most just seem glad to have a couple of young men in their church without their parents making them show up. We probably smell like sweat and morning breath, but it doesn’t matter. The Bible says come as you are, that’s what we’re doing.

Lee’s aunt strolls in with some kid that looks about our 85

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age.

She notices Lee and runs over to him melodramatically.

“Oh my God, you came,” she shouts, “I called to you this morning and you didn’t answer so I figured you were still asleep. Hi, I’m Mattie.” That last part was to me. I just got that. I shake her hand and give my name and she says it’s great that Lee brought a friend. The kid introduces himself as Johnny and says, “Nice to meet you. High five.” I give him a high five and he says, “I like you.” Mattie says something about leaving us to our business and takes Johnny with her toward the front of the church. “Dumb broad,” Lee grunts, “Didn’t even know I was out all night. I guess she has her hands full with Johnny.”

“So that’s the cousin?

The retard?”

“Dude,” Lee says, punching me in the arm.

“Sorry, so that’s the Autistic cousin, that’s Johnny?”

“Yeah, and get used to the high-fives. He high-fives for everything. Yesterday he came out of the bathroom and was all, ‘I peed by myself, Lee, and didn’t even dribble. High five.’ What do you say to that? He was so proud, I couldn’t say no. So I slapped him some five and his hand was all wet.” “He’s just like a giant kid, you know?” I say, “I can see why you like him.” The pastor comes to the front of the church and says, “I hope you folks don’t mind a capella this morning. Our praise band is stuck in Helena. Apparently they were playing a gig with their other band, their ‘real band.’” He says that last part kind of tongue in cheek and the crowd giggles politely. The pastor continues, “Anyway, the van broke down. They’re stranded until they can get a mechanic to look at it tomorrow. Keep them all in your prayers this morning.”

Mattie raises her hand, bouncing like a third grader, 86

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“Oh, oh, Brother Beau, my, um, my nephew Lee plays. He’s here for the first time this morning and he’s a very talented guitar player ever since he was a little, little boy.” “That true?” I ask him, “Musta learned before all that hospital crap, right? You didn’t pick up guitar in your sleep, did you?”

“No,” he whispers, “that’s your area of expertise.”

Brother Beau says, “So how ‘bout it, Lee? We aren’t going to pressure you, but we do have the instruments our boys use to lead worship so if you feel led you’d be most welcome.” Lee makes a big show of it. Shaking his head no and holding up his hands in pantomime resistance. Everyone starts cheering and clapping and he blushes like mad. I tell him there’s two guitars, I could go on with him. He kind of shrugs and we both stand up, looking musty as hell with our greasy hair and dusty clothes, but no one seems to mind. We get on stage and Lee picks up one of the guitars and drags the chord over to the microphone. He says, “I’m happy to play but we don’t really know any of these songs.” “I do, Lee,” I tell him, “We used to sing these in church time when the missionary ladies came to the – well, you know, when they came to lead worship.”

“Take it away then, maestro.”

“It’s real easy,” I say, “They’re all based on a three chord progression, you just kind of find the pattern.” I hit a few chords and he follows along. Brother Beau hands us a printout with the lyrics and the chords handwritten in above the words. We do our best to get through and before long Lee’s got the hang of it. I sing, awkward and scraggily, but once Lee knows the song he kind of just takes over and I’m shocked, his voice is awesome. He’s kind of gruff but still hits every note and kind of swaggerish at the mike. He’s a natural. The crowd loves it.

I don’t see it happen but there’s a clang on the church 87

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drum set and I spin around. It’s that fucking Johnny kid and he’s slamming into the drums like they’re his worst enemy. His rhythm stinks and he’s adding this heavy metal clang to what was otherwise a relaxed acoustic set, but nobody stops him and we just kind of shrug and go with it. I see Mattie and she’s holding her hands over her heart like she couldn’t be more proud. I sort of realize that’s how everybody looks and I get it. It’s Johnny. The giant kid. He can do anything and people will think it’s adorable and heartwarming as hell. Lee and I grin at each other and we play through the set with this moron clubbing the drum heads behind us. The next song on the set list is this really cheesy song that says, “I’m not ashamed of the Gospel.” It’s pretty hokey but the whole church starts singing too and that is kind of cool. It’s nice seeing everyone together on something and all. Johnny on the drums is just wrecking them, like really murdering them. It’s painful to watch really, even more painful to hear, but I feel like I’m the only one noticing. Lee looks the most like himself I’ve ever seen. That probably seems weird, but it’s the only way I know how to say it. He looks the most like Lee right now on stage. Anyway, we play the songs and everyone in the church is singing and there’s an overhead projector where some kid is laying out transparencies with the praise song lyrics printed on them. I sing. It’s weird too because I’ve never really sung around other people before. I feel kind of scared at first, but then I realize that everybody here kind of sucks at singing and I’m definitely not the worst one here. So I kind of just relax and try to enjoy it. And I realize that everyone’s singing because they’re trying to feel God. Like they really believe that singing these songs will bring him into the room. I don’t know how to feel about that. Part of me thinks it’s dumb, but another part of me kind of likes the idea. I like it because it’s something that’s about who you are on the inside. It seems to me like it would be about what’s in your heart and how much you mean what you’re doing. Like God would know, wouldn’t he? So if he shows up it’s because you were pure. That idea is nice. That people can actually find a way to be pure in large groups anymore. It seems impossible, but worth trying. 88

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So I sing. I try. I join in, and I’ve never joined in on anything. I hear Mr. Smiles telling me not to. He tells me I’m better than this. I’m supposed to be a skeptic. I’m not supposed to be a joiner. But it feels good, I can’t help it. I sing with my whole voice. Not halfway or quiet or anything. I sing like I want to see God. After the singing stuff the preacher guy, Brother Beau, with hair only on the sides of his head comes out in a toobig suit and starts to talk. I feel a little worried, like, “uh-oh, time to get bored,” but he’s actually all right as far as preachers go. He doesn’t yell or talk about guilt or disappointing God or any of the usual stuff. He just tells us that God loves us and wants us to be the best possible versions of ourselves we can be. He says that’s what forgiveness is all about, not just trying to get to heaven, but really maximizing our potential as human beings. It’s a nice idea. Almost as nice as the singing. Anyway, the preacher man tells us “Jesus says he wants to have life and have it more abundantly.” Somehow this means “live life to the fullest” and somehow live life to the fullest means living with God. I feel like he jumped a few logical connections there, but the point is still made. He says being a Christian means having a relationship with God and that sometimes, like in any relationship, we do things we have to apologize for, but that doesn’t mean we have to ask for salvation all over again. We just ask forgiveness, admit a fault, and move forward, the same as in any other relationship. He says some people don’t want to admit their sins because they don’t think a Christian should sin, but a sin is just doing something that hurts God and that happens to everyone. He said the only sin that can’t be forgiven is the one that isn’t admitted, the one you don’t ask forgiveness for. Then he sort of wraps things up by saying that everyone here has something they’ve done that they haven’t admitted to God. Some music starts playing through the speakers and then things get kind of weird. People start walking to the front of the church sanctuary. I have flashes of that lemming dream, just for a second, everybody walking into the sea, but it goes away. At first I don’t really know why this is happening. It’s like they’re just going to walk right up 89

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on the stage and grab the preacher or something, but they don’t, they stop at the steps to the stage and bow down. It looks weird, like they’re worshipping him or something, but he starts going to each one, one at a time, and touching their heads and praying in a whisper. Out of context this looks bizarre. It reminds me of circle time in kindergarten. Like, is this some kind of warped Show and Tell where we share our guilt instead of our homes? More people move to the front, but I don’t move. I won’t. Not even if the whole church empties its seats and dog piles the altar.

I don’t like Show and Tell.

This all goes on way too long. But when it’s over there’s a lot of hugging and some tears and everyone smiles and laughs. Then the service lets out and everyone shakes our hands and thanks us and asks if we’ll be back next week. It’s kind of nice in a way. Johnny gives us high-fives and says, “I played the drums, Lee, did you see me? Did you hear?” Lee says, “Yeah, Johnny, I’m pretty sure they heard you in the next county.” Johnny laughs and says, “That was funny, Lee. funny. High five.”

You’re

Lee says he’s going to make sure Johnny gets to the car okay and steps out. I suddenly feel exposed, alone, I look around the church and – Something just hits me from behind. I clench my fists, ready to fight ‘em off, practically flashing back to the hospital and Anthony and all that stuff. But it’s not like that. I go through all these emotions in the space of a second only to realize I have soft, pale girl arms wrapped around me and the air fills with the scent of coconut shampoo. “You’re here!” Audrey screams, “Did you see me? tally snuck up on you.”

I to-

“Get off me, will ya?” I shout, laughing stupidly, “If people were meant to talk this way we’d all have our heads on backwards.” 90

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She kind of turns me loose and spins me around to face her. She’s even prettier than I remembered, prettier than in my dreams. The sounds and the murmuring river of voices all around me in the church just stop and it’s like we’re alone.

Audrey says, “Hey, Joe.”

“Hey, Audrey.”

“Audrey, what are you doing here?” I ask.

“Didn’t you hear? We moved. Daddy got a job here at the church doing maintenance and landscaping and stuff. He said he wanted to get me off the reservation, he wants us to have a better life, you know? We go to the same school now, silly.” “Holy shit. Oops,” I say, covering my mouth, looking around nervously, “What I mean is that’s the best news of all the best news there ever was ever.”

“Nice to see some things don’t change,” she laughs.

“What?

What does that mean?

Are my pants off again?”

She laughs, “Close, but no cigar. again? It shows. That’s all I mean. little bit of a puddle over here.”

You been fighting Looks like you got a

Audrey brushes a little mud away from my temple and smiles, looking me right in the eye the whole time. She says, “And, what’s this? Is that a pine needle? What’s the matter with you, anyway?” “I know, I know. We rode our bikes here last night and fell asleep like a couple bums. But, hey, it wouldn’t have been proper of me to show up any other way, right? Got to keep up the tradition, mud and crap all over.”

“At least you ain’t been crying.”

“Shh,” I whisper, “None of that, the ladies will hear.”

“Ladies?” she asks, looking shocked or insulted or something, “You scoping the place out? Don’t forget, we’re married.” 91

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“Oh, shit.

There’s one now, how do I look?”

Audrey looks over and sees this blue-haired old broad with a purple dress and yellow, papery skin. She pretty much immediately busts out laughing and punches me in the stomach.

“You’re bad,” she says.

“Duh, I just got out of jail, didn’t you hear?”

“Come on, that wasn’t jail and you know it.”

“Felt like it. Anyway, whatever. Me all muddy and crap from a fight. Not a bad way to reunite after four years. It’s great to see you. You look even better than you did in my dreams.” She blushes and looks at her feet and it hits me, like, I didn’t mean it to sound like flirting but I ain’t taking it back. Lee strolls in from outside reeking of cigarettes and says, “Dude, is this her?”

“Her who?” Audrey asks, seeming surprised.

“Great to meet you. Lee Greene,” he says, shaking her hand, “You’re Audrey Lamb, I’ve heard all about you. All horribly perverse sexual fantasies, I’m afraid, but it’s still a pleasure.” “Lee!” I shout, punching him in the arm, “I’m sorry, Audrey. The guy’s a menace. I don’t know why I keep him around. Obviously I would never…” “Will you shut up? You’re worse than when you were eight,” she says, smiling. Audrey’s family calls her over and she says, “Oh, shoot. I have to go. See you two at school tomorrow?” I ask her where to find her and she just says “you won’t” all secretive and mean and joking. My face flushes as I watch her disappear into the crowd as everyone files out the door. Lee just stares at me grinning.

“Dude,” he says, “hot.” 92

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Brother Beau finds us in the crowd and gives Lee and me big hugs, which is weird, but he tells us that their praise band is made up of youth and they’re all “fixing” to graduate. He’d like it if we were there to take their place. The pastor says the church is still small and their youth pastor just left. He’s been running both the youth group and the church services. He makes it real clear that he could use all the help he can get. Lee says we’ll think about it and we head back out to our bikes still lying in a jumble in the parking lot. Lee asks me if I want to come over and hang out but I tell him no, I should check in with my mom before she has a conniption. We pedal off in separate directions and I feel preoccupied, weighed down even. The kind of thing that could be keeping me away from the one thing I’ve always wanted – learning the power of dreams and finally getting a good night’s rest. Something that preacher said got to me. I feel like we do things sometimes because we’re afraid of the consequences if we don’t or because someone is standing there making us or because it just comes out in a natural conversation or any hundred other reasons. But I just find myself thinking, like, when there’s something boiling up in your gut, something heavy and dark and real, but totally yours, something no one else touches or knows about, something they can’t even hold you responsible for, and you still act on it, still face up and confess it, that’s big – that matters. It should be praised more than it is, it shouldn’t go unnoticed. It’s what I should have done when I stole those magazines. It might have changed things. Might have saved Lee sooner. What did the preacher say? He said if you want to be a child of God you have to release your burdens. You can’t be with God if you’re holding onto something bad. Mr. Smiles is on my handlebars, riding with his feet sticking straight out in front of him and squealing like a kid on a rollercoaster.

“What are you doing?” I yell, “Get off, you’re too big.”

He says, “You’re right, Joe. Of course, you’re right. You’re as smart as they come. But did you ever think, maybe 93

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that’s what happened with Dr. John? Maybe he was so guilty from hurting you when you were three that he just wanted you buried away?” He’s gone before I can answer. But he’s right. I don’t want to be like that. I feel like I should have gone to the altar and prayed. I wheel by the gas station I stole from but it’s all boarded up. Out of business. The owner is long gone. What do you do with a mistake you regret when there’s no one there to forgive you?

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Thought Chip Record: Agent Emmett Anders 01010010100101:33 PM

“Where the fuck have you been?” she shrieks, slapping me hard across the face.

I hit the ground and she’s over me, breathing heavy.

She yells, “I’ve been here all night just worrying about you. I thought you got killed or taken away or God knows what? Where did you go? It’s been hours?”

“I’m sorry, I…”

“Don’t give me that. Where did you go? You went to see that little Indian whore up the hill, didn’t you? Answer me!” “I’m sorry, I didn’t think. church.”

I just… I was at the

“What?” her tone kind of changes and she stops, mid swing. I tell her I ran into Lee while I was out thinking. We talked all night and ended up at the church. We went and I just got back. I tell her I just needed some time to think and then I do something I never thought possible. I say, “Momma, I love you and I’m sorry if I scared you, but we need to have a talk.”

She sits down and says, “It’s John, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Momma, it is.

We need to make some changes.”

“So you’re not mad about being home again? run out because you hate me?”

You didn’t

“No, no, that’s not it at all. Is that what you thought? No, it’s him. He’s been awful to me, to both of us. I don’t think you even know. Why do you think we’ve barely spoken in four years, Momma? It’s him.” “I thought you didn’t want to speak to me,” she says, “I thought you were upset that I couldn’t save you and didn’t 95

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want to see me. momma anymore.”

I thought you didn’t want me to be your

“I know, Mom. I figured that much out. He had me thinking you didn’t want me for a son anymore. I thought – for years I thought you were disappointed in me.” “How could I be, son? From what I hear you’ve grown into a remarkable young man. I’m just sorry I missed so much of it. And then having you here like this, all of a sudden, it’s like I just met you or something. But I’m impressed by the boy I’m meeting. I’m sorry I let things get this way. Do you think we could forgive each other?” I tell her there’s nothing to forgive. We’ve been tricked. He played on our fears and insecurities. I say, “He has to go. You hear me? If you want me home, if you want me to be your boy again, you get rid of that man. It’s him or me, Mom. If you want us to be a family again then it has to just be you and me the way it was when I was little. We have to start over.” “Okay, Joey Baby. Why would I pick him over you, anyway? The man that’s kept us apart all this time? The man that’s lied and tricked to keep you in that terrible place to keep you away from me? Why – how could I?” “I mean it, Mom. He has to go. Can I trust you to do that? I don’t care about anything else that’s happened. I don’t blame you for anything, you understand? But if you don’t get him gone I’ll blame you. You say you still want to be my mom, you say you still love me. Well, prove it. Choose me.” “I will, Joe. I choose you. He’ll go. Joey Baby, I could never…I have never stopped loving you. Nothing can ever change that. It’s part of what being a momma is.” She hugs me and we sit together on the couch. She turns on the television and finds repeats of The Twilight Zone. For just a minute everything feels okay. It feels like I’m a little boy again and none of those terrible things ever even happened. Momma asks me to help her out with some boxes and we put them on the porch. When John gets home from work the door 96

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is locked and Momma tells him to take a hike. Just like that. I feel so proud. She says, “There’s your shit. Take it and go.” Doesn’t even try to explain. He bangs on the door for a while but she says, “John, you know I have a gun now don’t make this get nasty.”

Then there’s just silence and I go wash the dishes.

It’s later on now and I’m in my old bedroom, the first night I’ve been in here since I got out. I can’t sleep and keep seeing terrible things when I shut my eyes. Zombies tearing Audrey apart. Aliens burning cities. God killing my father with a flying saucer. I can’t sleep. I don’t sleep very well, never have, but tonight is worse than ever. Tonight is the last night before I start back to school. Real school. I am starting the eighth grade. I mean, it beats the terrible Jesus School I got at the hospital where the teachers are practically nuns and everything they tell me is either for God or against him, but I’m still nervous.

Whispering in the dark, I say, “Hey, you there?”

There’s a pause for half a beat and then he says, “Yeah, what’s up?” “I’m scared, I guess. Which years are the formative years? Is it when you’re a baby and your brain is all wide open or is it when you’re first hitting puberty and figuring out how to be alive and stuff?” “It’s a dumb question, Joe,” Mr. Smiles says, “They’re all formative years. But if you’re wondering when your personality irons itself out I think it’s the very early part of childhood. That’s when the rules are set. From there everything around you gets interpreted by them.” “Yeah, I thought so. I guess it doesn’t really matter though. I was in that hospital in those early years and the adolescent years. That hospital’s been my whole life.” “Is that what’s troubling you? You’re scared about going back to the real world? Don’t worry, kid. You’ll knock ‘em dead. I mean, none of those people are sure of them97

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selves either. teachers.”

They’re all just as scared as you, even the

“I guess. Thanks or whatever. So when do you suppose I’m gonna be grown enough to not see you anymore? It’s already pretty embarrassing, you know, thirteen and still talking to an imaginary friend.” “Not this again,” Mr. Smiles groans, “I told you, kid, I’m real. I just ain’t in the same world as you. I’m coming from someplace else.” “I refuse to believe that my spirit guide is a middleaged man.” Mr. Smiles says, “Maybe you can’t learn the power of dreams because you already have, you’re just shutting your eyes to it because you don’t like the shape the spirits sent you.” “Shut up. You’re in my head, I’m just crazy or broken from all the seizures or something weird with all the drugs they got me on. That’s part of growing up too, ain’t it? You get cynical and stop believing in fairies and stuff. It’s not enough anymore. One of these days you’re really going to have to tell me who you are and what you want.” “One of these days,” he sighs, “Maybe. night.”

My door creaks open and it’s Ma.

“Joey, baby, it’s late. were you talking to?”

But not to-

“Nobody, mom.

What are you doing up?

Just praying.

Who

I’m nervous.”

She smiles in the half-blue bend of the moonlight and sits down beside me on the bed. She takes my hand and says, “I know we’ve had a rough few years, but it’s going to get better, I promise. We just have to take care of each other, right? We can’t let anyone else come between us ever again, not if we’re going to be a family. Okay?”

“Yeah, sure, mom.

Okay.”

“Now listen, don’t you worry about school. 98

You’re the

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smartest boy in the whole wide world and you’ll do fine. And don’t worry if the kids don’t like you right away. Just remember what I used to always tell you. This too shall pass. A day will come where none of them even have faces to you anymore. You’ll remember names, but won’t see who the name belonged to, or you’ll remember faces without names. They won’t matter. People come and go in our lives, but family is forever. You just stay on the straight and narrow, look out for your old mother, and life will take care of itself.” I give her a hug and pretend to lie down and go to sleep. The weight of the coming day sits full on my chest like a Siberian tiger, breathing warm air, the stink of nature, blood and hunger in my face. I feel a dread that floods through my veins like a drug when it hits me – I miss the hospital. I think about how Mr. Smiles told me that people in hostage situations form an attachment to their captors. That’s how They get you. They get you so used to the routine of things, so built into the system, that getting out feels impossible because all the tricks and thoughts and ideas and methods you’d use to change things are all coming out of your head – and your head is filled with Them. Time jumps forward again, it’s like a dream within a dream. Moments sift by like they’re on a factory conveyor belt. Like they’re bowling pins, knocked down and reset by those automated arms. The school year is already in full swing by the time I’ve checked in. There’s a lot of whispering, a lot of girls talking to other girls, pointing and saying stuff. Things like, “That’s that Joe guy, isn’t it?” I hear all of it, but I act like I don’t. Some people say how they heard about me on the radio or how the story was in this or that newspaper. How me getting let out made the news. Others say they don’t like me being at their school. I hear someone say I’m just some creep that molested a crazy kid or something. It’s an attitude common to people in a small town like this. Those people don’t care I was cleared of all charges. I don’t care about those people.

In English I have to write a paper about The Outsiders. 99

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The teacher tries to let me off the hook ‘cause I’m new and all, but I tell her I already read it and it’s no problem. She seems surprised, like they don’t have school at the hospital or something like that. But I write her the paper and hand it in early. She seems more surprised by that and I just sit at my desk, watch the clock, and doodle. In math class my teacher seems to dislike me. He probably fits into the “I don’t like you because the story on the news had the word ‘molest’ in it” crowd. He calls me to the front of the class to make me do mixed fraction multiplication on the board. First day at school and I already have a teacher that hates me. Some of the kids seem mad at him though, so that’s kind of nice. Mr. Smiles shows up and I feel scared that someone’s gonna know. But they don’t see him, only I see him. And he tells me the answer. He talks me through so I can “show my work.” When I’m done the teacher seems mad at me for not embarrassing myself and that seems kind of nice too. I go back to my desk and watch the clock and doodle some more. The day goes on like this. It’s like all the usual stuff people are afraid of or hurt by or nervous about when you’re thirteen at school only made worse by being in a world that seems foreign after so much time, being weird and being famous for getting shoved in a box naked. Why did I ever do that interview? Lunchtime now. Lee and I go behind the school to smoke. Some bigger kids find us and start calling us fags. They say we came back here to suck each other off the way we did in the hole when we were kids. Obviously we have to fight them. Big or not, they’re not really that impressive in a fight. We do kind of get knocked down and roll around in some plants and trees and stuff but it ends when I put one of their heads into the brick wall of the school. Nobody notices the fight and the big kids are too embarrassed to tell so it just kind of ends. I get home after school and mom says some people called from some paper and they want to interview me. She seems happy about it. Like she’s proud to have a famous son or something. 100

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I say, “Mom, remember what Andy Warhol said.”

“That Bob Dylan’s so hot right now?”

Laughing, I say, “No. teen minutes.”

Everyone’s famous for only fif-

I hear that other voice, the one that isn’t mine as an old man and it isn’t kid Joe and it isn’t Mr. Smiles. That other voice says, “These aren’t your only fifteen minutes. Warhol never mentioned the people that get more than one set.” Mom says, “I see your point. right, baby?”

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This too shall pass,

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Thought Chip Record: Agent Emmett Anders 0P/Ob/E0 :: 0002215 PM

Time passes like this and my first week is gone like a sneeze. Then another, and another, and soon I’ve settled into a routine and it’s like the hospital never even happened. It’s school and home and church. Seeing Lee and Audrey where I can. Hanging out with Mom so she doesn’t get depressed and lonesome. And every night there’s the bad dreams. Two seizures in the past month, not sure why, but it’s that same feeling, like something’s trying to get in. I’m barely enrolled and it’s already time for Christmas vacation. Mom told me there was a time when people went to school a lot more than we do now. Something to do with money running out so we have less school days. It’s probably all a conspiracy to make poor people dumber so the rich people at the fancy corporate schools can have an edge. Seems sensible to me, the kind of thing They would do. Lee and I start playing more and more at the church. The other guys are getting phased out slowly and we worked it out where Johnny can play drums on one song, the very last song of the praise set. He loves it and so does the congregation. It’s pretty much the only place Lee and I get to go without the old ladies in our lives flipping out and worrying and whatnot. Mattie’s leaving Lee in charge of Johnny more and more. She says it’s because Johnny loves him so much, but I kind of wonder if she just enjoys the free time. Like, maybe she’s taking advantage some. Anyway, with Momma all alone now and Lee getting saddled with Johnny every day after school we really don’t get out much. But they can’t keep us away from the praise band, to them that’s important. So, I guess it’s not the best reason in the world, but we are at church a lot. I don’t say anything, but I also go because I have guilt, a lot of guilt for all the things that happened, stuff I’ve done, and I feel like maybe that’s why I can’t sleep right. 102

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Anyway, at church Audrey always sits right up front and smiles at us like she’s at a rock concert or something. Lee has gotten really good at the whole stage presence thing. We never really discussed it, but he’s totally stepped up as the lead singer. Probably for the best, I sing dumb. The only way I can get my voice to move right is if I sing wrong, silly, like I’m Ethyl Merman after a zillion cigarettes covering Woody Guthrie. Brother Beau says he really appreciates us and that since we started the congregation has doubled in size. I don’t say it, but I wonder if it has anything to do with me and Lee being on the radio and stuff. Like, maybe people are coming because we’re an oddity, the jail bird praise and worship band in the center ring. A while later we’re sitting around playing old video games at Lee’s aunt’s house. We’re racing these go-carts around the jungle and Lee keeps screaming and leaning into his controller real bad. He finally just shouts, “Will you stop already? Christ, how are you so good at this?” “I’ll never stop. me.’”

‘Untamed equines could not deter

“Stargate quotes? You’re busting out Stargate quotes at a time like this? Who are you? Really? What is your purpose here? You’re some kind of alien doppelganger sent to impersonate Joe and take over the world through Mario Kart.” “No, I just really love that show. I know it’s old and all, but it’s awesome. Remember that one episode where a guy in the show makes a television show about the Stargate program? Is that what people mean when they say ‘meta?’ Did it ever make you wonder, like, in the show the reason they allow the fake show to happen is because it’s good plausible deniability if America ever found out about the Stargate program. They could just say, ‘Wasn’t that a bad television program?’ And that’d be it.”

“What’s your point?”

“Like, wouldn’t it be crazy if the Stargate stuff was real and they really did allow Richard Dean Anderson to star in a television mockup of what was really going on? Then in 103

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the show that is imitating real life they have a character make a show that’s imitating the premise of the show that’s imitating real life? What if it really was real?” “Joe,” Lee says, firing a red shell and knocking me off my course, “I think that is what you call meta.” Time passes. The thousand mirrors scroll by. August, 2025. I’m fourteen. Lee has his license now and we go to shows together in this beater car he bought with some of his lawsuit money. Mattie is always out socializing and doing church planning stuff and being a red hat lady or some crap. I really don’t know what she does, but Lee gets stuck with Johnny pretty much twenty-four-seven these days, but it’s cool, we just take Johnny with us when we want to go out. He just sits in the back seat slapping five and singing the wrong words to our music. We’re at a show in Butte, the guys that used to be the praise band before us have this sub-pop rock band that’s okay, but we mostly like having a reason to get out of town that the guardians can understand. The whole show the guys keep talking about how they love God and are grateful for all the opportunities he’s given them. They pray at the beginning of the concert and people eat it up. They say it’s the bass player’s birthday and everybody sings happy birthday to Mike. Johnny runs up on stage and high-fives Mike and everyone laughs. After the show Lee and I go out back and smoke while Johnny sits on the car and stares at a flickering street lamp, smiling. The guys from the band go by holding Mike by his arms and legs. They’re carrying him to the band van but they don’t notice us. One of them opens the slider door and the inside is all gay dungeon porn, all over the walls and ceiling and floor. Just covered. Lee mutters some swear under his breath as the guys throw Mike in and say things like, “Happy Birthday, fag.” They disappear back into the building and Lee looks at me kind of angry. “What?” I say, “It didn’t mean anything. being guys.” 104

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“Yeah, I know. It just gave me a weird feeling, you know, like a flashback kinda thing.” It hits me. I didn’t even think about it like that, but he means the Box and Anthony and all that dungeon fort crap. I can’t believe I didn’t think about it, and Mike all screaming and all. I never thought about it, but Lee is still kind of a PTSD mess. He says, “This is bullshit, man. They act all high and mighty and pure on stage and then pull that kind of crap. You know, I think the only difference between a Christian rock band and a secular rock band is the secular band doesn’t try to hide their faults, they’re just out with it.”

The feed jumps forward again.

Here we are at the church. Brother Beau talks about faith. It gets to you. It’s gotten to all of us, I think. In the past few months I’ve gone from working hard at all the weird tasks Mr. Smiles set in front of me, from art and music and looking for conspiracies everywhere and seeing the story behind the story to now, where I’m just working at learning the scriptures. I read it day and night, I fast and pray and work with all the ferocity I applied toward my training in the hospital. The Other Voice says, “Maybe he’s just traded one master for another. Dr. John to Dr. God? Hospital to church?” We become this unstoppable force, Audrey, Lee and I. Maybe it’s because we’re like celebrities around here now with the news and all, but everybody follows along. The town explodes with Bibles and religion. Kids plan early morning prayer around the flagpole at school. They arrange prayer meetings and prayer walks and gatherings and meet around lunch tables to talk Christ over cafeteria food. They meet during the week for “cell group” meetings. The voice of Mr. Smiles and his paranoia echoes in my head when I hear those words. Cell group meetings. I hear him say, “Just like sleeper cells in terrorist organizations – dividing across the country, lying in wait.” The idea of a cell group is they start out small, just a few people praying together, but as they grow they divide, 105

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they spread. It’s like mitosis – pretty soon you have a whole bunch of people all over town praying the same prayers and whatnot. I guess it’s kind of cool. Lee and I start one and in no time we have subdivisions all over town, but we stay together. We always stay together. These kids, they start coming together on weekdays, after school, meeting up at random places – a Dairy Queen, somebody’s house, school playgrounds. They bring their Bibles and they talk about what they’re thinking about, what they’re going through. It’s kind of weird, seeing kids do this without adult supervision or anything, but it seems kind of natural. For a minute things clear up and I’m Anders again. As Anders I’m surprised, maybe even suspicious, but the kid is into this stuff. Totally taken in. Not asking questions. Not being the skeptic he was trained to be. He’s just in it. Chasing after a girl and her Lord and her friends. Trying to win her favor in any way he can. Maybe even trying to prove to himself that he can change, that he can have better luck, a different set of choices in front of him. Maybe he’s trying to atone for something in his past. Hard to say. But he’s all in. The kids take turns, week to week, sharing ideas in a relaxed sermon kind of set up. It’s strange. They just circle around, pow-wow style in the grass and someone stands up and talks. I finally decide it’s my turn. It’s November, but we’re still outside because we can’t find any place to meet without restrictions and stuff. It’s cold as balls and I’m shivering, convulsing, when I try to talk. Some of it’s probably nerves. It was easy talking at the cell group meetings because we were just friends hanging out, but these things, they’re more like church, they’re more organized and it’s a lot more intimidating. Tonight is my first time. I say, “What I’ve been thinking about lately is why there are so many religions. I mean, if ours is the truth then why do we need so many others? What is it that makes us, as people, want to make up ideas? How do these ideas become a faith?”

We’re outside of the Dairy Queen, on a little grassy 106

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hill beside a small road. A truck goes by with a bad muffler and for a minute there’s nothing but the sound of exhaust blowing like a storm. I feel frustration wash over me and try to collect my thoughts. Audrey smiles up at me and it calms me down. Everyone is sympathetic, attentive, maybe even a little proud. Mr. Smiles says, “They’re just so proud of their little ex-crazy half-Indian pet. They all feel like they’ve saved your soul. You make them feel legitimate.” I shake it off, knowing he’s not really there, and say, “We all know that Christ is the only path to heaven, it says so in the Bible. But what can we say to those people who claim that theirs is the one true faith?” I know I’m talking but it sort of flies by in a blur. Like I black out or something. I have a vague recollection of saying something about how we should worry less about being warriors for God and more about being his saints. I know I said something about how even if somebody isn’t going to heaven it doesn’t mean there isn’t something to learn from them. Some people seemed shocked or mad about that. I remember telling everyone that their Bibles had become an idol before God. That the cross, as a symbol, was an idol, even their own self-image was an idol before God. Then it’s over, I’m saying, “Maybe we need to be more spiritual and less factual. Maybe we need to be still and know that he is God.” I sit down and some people actually clap. Audrey holds my hand and leads us in prayer. My chest feels tight and warm. My hand is sweaty and I feel embarrassed. Lee pulls out his acoustic and starts playing a praise song. We all sing along and Audrey whispers in my ear, “You did a really good job, Joe. I know that was hard for you because you’re kinda shy and all, but you did great. I think it’s the first time anyone’s said anything challenging at these meetings. You upped the ante.” To be continued... DYSTOPIA BOY 0.7 >>

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