by Adam Felber
Here’s a new one for The List. What about making one day out of every year car-free? Maybe ambulances only, I guess, but that’s it. Imagine that! What the cities would look like, what they’d sound like! It would be like a beautiful dream, like a snow day with no snow, like when everybody in that story realizes that the elephant wasn’t crazy after all and there ARE little people living on flowers. Maybe not like that last one, but you get it, right?
Here’s another one: a soda pop that tastes like pussy. All the boys who really like the taste would buy it, and all the boys who don’t would have to drink it anyway or their friends would think they were homos. And all the queer girls would buy it too. You could call it Cootchie or something cute like that. It would sell, maybe.
I don’t know if that second one’s on The List or not. Think about it more.
Spent my whole birthday on Mass Ave, getting presents. Didn’t even have to tell anyone it was my birthday, since I’ve been telling them all for weeks that it was coming. That’s how you do it. Makes the day more special. I got a radio from Carl, and a new wheelie basket from Bonnie, and Mohammed gave me more donuts than even I could finish and he even lit a candle in one for me, right there out in front of his store! Stevie the skate rat ran into the 24 and got me a rose, which just goes to show what I’ve been saying about Stevie all along—he’s different. Not just friendly, but he could’ve been my friend if things had turned out completely differently, like in one of those fancy alternative universes that you always read about but never get invited to. Stevie just has this glow around him. It actually LOOKS like a glow to me—I see it. That’s almost definitely because I’m crazy and I spend too much time in my own head, but maybe that’s just part of being old, too—your own version of the world gets more real than the world everyone agrees on. But, then again, that sounds a lot like crazy, too, doesn’t it? Who cares! It’s my birthday!
Numbers from today: 16, 59, 4, 600, and 3 (again!). Colors: pink, pink, orange, gray, and pink. Robots: 7—one new one, working in the Woolworth’s, but he didn’t see me see him. Good night and Happy Birthday!
Grant is exhausted. He was ready to sleep right after Johnny played—he was lulled, completely at peace.
Grant would never have put Johnny’s playing down before tonight. Never. But if a shadowy government agency had abducted Grant and put him in a dark interrogation chamber with one overhead lamp and slapped him around and burned him with cigarettes and absolutely forced him to give his honest assessment of Johnny’s playing, Grant might have been compelled to confess that there was a little too much artifice and attitude in Johnny’s approach, like he was trying to be a rock star first and a musician second.
But not tonight. Tonight Johnny had played like a blues lifer on a Tuesday night who had no reason not to just put himself into it, nothing more or less. And somewhere in that solo, Grant heard a little of Grant in there. Not like Grant could play a note, not that Johnny was playing a portrait of Grant—it was just a phrase or two with a conversational cadence and sense of humor that Grant recognized as part of the “Johnny-and-Grant thing.”
Grant knows that his structurally unsound ego is always casting about for additional support, but he honestly thinks this is more touching than having a song written for him, because it’s an unconscious tribute to their friendship and Grant’s place in it. Besides, Grant thinks, any song that Johnny actually wrote for him would probably have a title like “Give the Dweeb a Chance” or “You’ve Really Got to Relax, Dude.”
Fortunately, there’s not a lot of time to think about that now. They’ve only just gotten free—part of the crowd actually followed them, like they needed to be close to Johnny. So they had to circle the block and meander and tell people to piss off for a solid hour. But now they’re in the clear, and they can head to Johnny’s house, which is only a couple of blocks from the Square in the first place.
Johnny’s new house is actually his grandmother’s house, and he moved in with her only about a year ago. That sounds weird when Grant thinks it, but he’s aware that it’s only weird if you don’t know Johnny’s grandmother. Then it’s weird, too, but in a different way.
By the time they get to the door, Johnny’s walking fine, totally unassisted, and Grant realizes how many Deb-watching opportunities he’s missed in the last hour. He’s seen, but he hasn’t been really watching, so the mental jpegs and mpegs are a little fuzzy. This is what he’s got:
1) Still frame, Deborah laughing as Johnny kind of topples over on her. She’s holding him up, but in danger of falling herself. A small sound file of her wonderfully wicked-sounding laugh accompanies this, but it’s crappy quality and might just be a splice from an older file.
2) Five seconds of decent-quality mind-video. Deborah looks right at him and says, “You all right, Lieutenant?” They’d been playing some kind of imaginary army game, Operation Johnny, trying to get him home and away from the crowd. She’s smiling, it’s a definitely intimate smile, with a slight attempt to play-act the smile away. A treasure.
3) Still frame: the silhouettes of Deborah and Arlene behind them once Johnny started walking better. Grant doesn’t know what they’re talking about, but there’s a sentimental cast to the image—it’s a quiet, easy shot of two people he loves.
4) Eight seconds of surprisingly good video. It’s from a minute ago, when they realized it was safe to take Johnny home. Deborah is jumping up and down under a street light, crowing, “Free! Free, I tell you!” Amazing breast bounceage, plus tremendously adorable. Someone (probably Grant himself) goes “Sshhhhh!” and Deborah clutches her hands to her mouth, giggling, collapsing toward Arlene. All four of them are laughing with conspiratorial delight. It’s a keeper. Grant makes sure his mind’s got it firmly before he moves on.
They’re in the house now, and Johnny’s grandmother has apparently gone to sleep. Grant realizes that he is staring at the mantel, on which there is a wicker duck that he’s never noticed before.
What draws Grant to the wicker duck is the amount of work it must have taken to fashion it. To weave all those strands together, into that undeniably ducklike shape. It’s incredible, really. And kind of sad: Let’s face it, Grant thinks, this might be the absolute best wicker duck in the entire world. And even the best wicker duck in the world is still, when all is said and done, nothing but a wicker duck. What’s it like, Grant wonders, to devote your life to something that no one will ever really care about and that at best will be bought by some old lady who’ll probably never notice it again once it’s situated on the mantel? Worse, what if it’s not even really a choice? What if the creator of this wicker duck is someone who just happens to have an extraordinary gift for weaving wicker? Whatever he makes, no matter how good he is, it’s not exactly a medium that’s ever going to get him any kind of acclaim. There’s no Wicker Wing at the Museum of Fine Arts. The Rodin of the wicker world is destined to see his work pawned off at garage sales like all his brethren’s.
Grant has now thought the word “wicker” one too many times, and the word no longer makes sense to him. Wicker wicker wicker wicker wicker. He turns toward the kitchen to join his friends and get a few more glimpses of Deborah, the watching of whom, he realizes, might just be his one, true, useless talent in this world.
The President of Montana stepped out into the night, away from the lights of his big and overoccupied farmhouse. The last of the sunset was hitting off the police car at his gate, and he waved to the familiar figure leaning against it.
“Thanks, Boone. I’ll take it from here. Hiya, Deke.”
“Earl. Or should I call you Mr. President?”
“Might be a good idea. Especially if you step over the property line.”
“Don’t you mean ‘the border’?”
“Right you are. Thank you, Sheriff.”
“Uh-huh.”
“What can I do for you, Deke?”
“Well, I just wanted to come check things out. How are you all?”
“Fine, fine.”
“Is that Dixon Reese back there?”
“Yep.”
“He looks kinda different. Dixon! Whatcha doin’ with that big ol’ gun, boy? ‘I shot the she-riifff.’ Is that it? Ha! … He’s pretending not to hear me.”
“That’s Dix.”
“I dunno. Something’s just not right about him. You better keep your eye on that one.”
“I kn—… I … Don’t worry, Deke. We’re just fine.”
“Okay …”
“…”
“So—what’s this I hear about you declaring war on the United States?”
“Just that, I guess.”
“Wasn’t seceding enough for you boys?”
“Guess not.”
“Well, listen, Earl, I’m an employee of the government. Now, if it were up to me, I’d just go on letting you all do your thing, just like I been doin’.”
“I appreciate that, Deke.”
“But now you go and declare war, and it’s kind of a problem, you understand?”
“…”
“See, it’s news now, and Jackson over at the County’s breathin’ down my neck and tellin’ me to take care of it. So I’m here to ask you to stop it.”
“Stop what? We’re not attacking anyone or anything.”
“Yeah, but you declared war, Earl.”
“Yup …”
“Well, can’t you just undeclare it? Declare peace or something? Just so we can go back to where we were at last week.”
“I don’t think I can do that, Deke….”
“Why’re you looking back at Dix when you say that, Earl? You scared of him?”
“No. Dix is my best military man. But he’s my man. Look, Deke, I’m sorry we had to declare war on you and all, and I hope you know it’s nothing personal against you …”
“Oh, I know that, Earl.”
“… but we did what we had to. For our country, the Free State of Montana. We’re not gonna go looking for any trouble, but that’s how it is.”
“So you declared war, but you’re not gonna do anything about it, huh?”
“Yeah. That okay?”
“Well, it’s okay with me, Earl. But, honestly, it might not wash up at the County. I’m serious, Earl, I might have to come back here with a squad or something worse. You know, beyond the County …”
“You fixin’ to pull a Waco, Deke?”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Earl, I’m not kidding here! People could get hurt. Look, you don’t really want to do this. I can tell.”
“You do what you have to, Deke. I’m sorry.”
“Oh Jesus, Earl, don’t be like that. You really willing to do this?”
“Guess so.”
“Goddamnit. Okay. We’re in for it, then.”
“Looks like it.”
“All right. Well, I better head back, then. Sorry it went this way, Earl.”
“Me, too, Deke.”
“Love to Tammy.”
“Right back at your Barbara, Deke.”
“Uh-huh.”
“…”
“…”
Dr. Schrödinger didn’t even ask. After boring the entire population of Harvard Square, the man just jumped into our car and let us take him home, as though he’s our new roommate. And the sound of his cat, Werner, continues to emerge from somewhere within our house. There is no doubt that the cat is not having a good time. When we ask Dr. Schrödinger what Werner’s doing here, his ready reply is “Proving a point.” He says this with the hint of a creepy smile. And now he’s in our kitchen, prattling on about Chaos.
“—which is really a misnomer, you see. It’s really about the surprisingly elegant equations that explain the exquisite order in seeming chaos. For instance, look at the pattern of frost on this glass that I put into your freezer while it was still wet. Ignore the fact that the glass has cracked a bit, and notice the distinctly fernlike frost patterns.”
We stand there, only half listening, mainly aware that Dr. Schrödinger has frozen and cracked one of our best wineglasses, and that if he was conducting this experiment today he must have known he was going to be following us home tonight. And, slowly, one melodramatic yet half-serious thought begins to enter our minds:
Dr. Schrödinger must die.
Chapter 5
THE DECISION TO EMBARK on Johnny Watch was made for two principal reasons, only one of which was spoken:
1) There was obviously something very wrong with Johnny, and
2) There seemed to be something very right with Johnny.
Those twin insights, far from canceling each other out, existed simultaneously and, for the moment, without any visible friction. Johnny needed help. Johnny could help. Either way, he bore watching.
Of course, for Grant, Arlene, and Deb, the only spoken reason was concern for Johnny’s well-being; it seemed infinitely more morally defensible to tend to the unwell rather than to glom on to the godlike. Still, the unspoken reason loomed large, apparent to all, clinging to the air of the room with a third (also unspoken) reason: Everybody loves a slumber party.
For Grant, there was a lot of tension surrounding the decision. He could borrow stuff from Johnny, but Arlene and Deborah had to run home to get their “stuff,” meaning that there was always the chance that they’d get home and decide that Grant could handle the situation on his own. Grant devoted a lot of energy to stressing out loud how much help Johnny might need in the dead of the night—lots and lots of help, making it all that much more important that they all sleep togeth—… um, near Johnny. They promised they’d be back, and Grant spent the next forty-five minutes worrying that they wouldn’t, while watching Johnny eat a full pint of Ben & Jerry’s with whipped cream, chocolate syrup, peanuts (salted), and small cubes of cheese. Considering the amount of ice cream he’d consumed during their Square excursion, Grant was deeply impressed. Especially by the way Johnny would look up at him, messy-faced, after each bite, and say something like “Wow—this is totally good.” As though it were his first bite. Every time. Grant would just stare back at him, smiling (which was apparently enough), gradually growing bored, and preparing himself for the dreadful disappointment he’d feel when the phone rang and he learned that Deb was not coming back. The phone, however, failed to ring. In less than an hour, the front door creaked open.
They returned, yes, thank you, Lord, they came back.
Dear Diary,
Just a couple hours later, and I’m up again! It’s not my birthday anymore.
Why can’t ol’ Brenda sleep? For once, it’s not the robots. Pretty quiet on that front. I’m not sure what’s going on, but here I am. So we’ll continue with the History…. Where were we? Somewhere around 1500. Just before Mr. Shakespeare …
1500—Bad year in China. The Emperor Ming had just replaced the entire Empirical Guard with ornamental vases, leaving him open to attacks from all sides. The people couldn’t sleep at night, they were so worried. Somehow, all of the plots against the Emperor—mostly from his twelve sons, one of whom was a shemale—failed. Nobody remembers why, but probably because most of the plots were too damn tricky and subtle—real court-intrigue kind of stuff. Poisoned gloves and rickety ladders and whatnot. The Emperor ruled on, even though he was unguarded and usually naked. Finally, in 1506, the he-she gave up and just bashed the Emperor’s head in with a vase and declared himself Empress.
Over in Europe, things were better. Everybody was all abuzz about America, and they were building ships and throwing parties like it was 1367 all over again. A man named Hans Glemperer bought six new hats on the same day just because he could! In France there was some kind of war going on, but nobody paid much attention—some of the battles had to be canceled due to poor attendance. It was a great time to be a European. Africa was still ruled by the ancient astronauts, so the people spent most of their time watching alien TV, which is just as bad for you as the human kind.
Right here in the New World, the Indians were enjoying their last few years of peace. But they were wise
enough to know it wasn’t going to last, so they spent most of their time writing their diaries and screwing. Who can blame them?
1510—More of the same in most of the world. China went through another couple of emperors and duchesses, until Wang took over. He was clever enough not to get himself killed, ruled for forty-five years, and then just vanished. Wang’s real name was George Jameson, a time-traveler from twenty-second-century Minnesota. I met him near Inman Square last year, when he was just on his way forward to get some replacement body parts back home and then head back to become Elvis. A very nice man, even if he was going to kill the REAL Elvis in 1951 and take his place.
India was a hoot—they were writing the Kama Sutra and smoking opium. One weird thing, though—the women had balls until about 1540. Just hanging there, just like the men! So they had to change all the Kama Sutra books after all the women’s balls suddenly went away. No, I’m kidding, they didn’t have balls. That would be impossible.