Artificial Light

by James Greer

  “A common misapprehension,” said Trip, stumbling slightly over the last word. “Perpetuated by monoglot writers. Clearly the true etymology is German. Either punkt, meaning point, dot, spot, or place, or punktierung, meaning geomancy, divination.”

  “Nobody likes you,” said Joe. “You can stop trying.”

  His remark garnered amused chuckles from Daryl and Co-Daryl, but the Rose Scholar frowned and tried to direct Trip’s attention back to the original topic.

  “You think he was really in love with his sister?” she asked.

  “It doesn’t matter what I think. It matters what you think I think.”

  “But how do you know what we think you think?”

  “I’m just kidding,” said Trip, rattling the ice cubes in his nearly empty glass. “Having fun. Same reason I put ice in this exquisite Bordeaux.”

  He sighed and looked at the Rose Scholar. “What matters is the truth. And don’t get all What is truth? on me, unless you want Pilate’s shade in your room late tonight with a scolding finger poking you in … inappropriate ways.”

  Disgusting the way he talks to girls. Disgusting the way they respond, with curious smiles, drawn by his filthy talk about filthy things. What he knows about Orville Wright, everybody knows. If he knows so much, he should write that book instead of the one he keeps droning on about. Bragging them into bed is the real point. Can’t believe anyone falls for. Even she fell once, at least, maybe more, you never know with what girls tell you, less than what’s real.

  Slender epicene leans, in the slate-blue shadow of a tensely breathing maple sapling, against the bricks of a tall building. Always the same place/time, leaning, one leg bent, foot flush against the wall, right angle to the veiny sidewalk, so the blue-jeaned knee juts out and you can see little stripes of pink kneecap through the threadbare part of the jeans. Left arm tucked behind back, right hand pats the front pocket. Keys or coins jingle mutedly. Epicene means boy and girl, or both at the same time. Hair is tousled, fine, brown like a dark wood, like cherry almost. Eyes green with spidery streaks of yellow. Small sad beautiful boy/girl waiting for someone, I hope me, I think me, and the heat of the afternoon visibly floats and on it I float, too.

  Amanda Early bent down to tie the laces of her burgundy work boots. Her skin was still flushed from scrubbing, and she could feel wet strands of her short dark hair pasted against her nape. Even now when I remember the dream, I remember the floaty feeling. If you know you’re dreaming it’s called a lucent dream or something. I’m bad with the exact way to say words, but I’m good at describing things.

  She straightened and stood before the bathroom mirror. My face, for instance, is, I don’t know, is it ovoid or ovular or elliptical, but the word I would use is moonlike or moony. I have pale skin, chalky-white, in addition to the egg shape or upside-down egglike shape of the face. Plus I have a very large head.

  Sad lucent epicene: I miss you. I dream about you a lot. This is called reoccurring. I’ve never stroked your fine hair, your smooth skin, or kissed your green eyes. I wake with somehow your smell or the memory of your smell in the folds of my sheets. You have something that makes me happy for the time of the dream, and then when I wake up makes me unbearably sad for its lack in my actual life. The sadness comes from the distance between the possibility and the real facts. But now I understand: You are growing inside me.

  Returning from the bathroom, Amanda slumped in her seat and stared at the fire. When you talk to a man and he contradicts whatever you’re saying, it’s not from his true opinion, it’s just the way they establish territory or something. Mary said that and I think she’s right. Definitely, with Trip, he has this superiority thing where even if he’s wrong and he knows it, and you know it, he finds some way to put a twist on his wrongness that makes him overall right. Somehow, because he’s older and a guy, he cannot stand the sound of anyone else’s voice expressing an opinion. Like waving a red flag at a bull.

  With Michael you get a different problem. Doesn’t react to an opinion like a normal male, doesn’t react at all. Which can be worse when he’s just a wall of no reaction. This creates the effect of listening, but there’s no evidence of real listening. Trip, at least you know he understands the words coming out of your mouth because he moves quickly to squash them, like mosquitoes of thought. But Michael will fry before he lets you see a tiny clue about what he might be thinking. If he does say anything in reaction it will be a joke, which is better because then at least you know he heard you.

  Amanda turned toward the back of the big room, hearing a commotion. Kurt and Henry were carrying guitars and amplifiers and setting up to play. Never knew Kurt even had music equipment here. Trip walked over to see about joining in but was waved off. Amanda saw Michael Goodlife talking to Fiat, head bent close to her ear. Fiat smiled at something Michael said. Felt good to tell someone my secret, could only be Fiat because you can’t trust anyone, not even new best friend Mary Valentine. Always happens you make friends with someone before you leave. Right before you leave. Somehow that eases pain of parting because there’s a warm feeling of friendship lingering across distance. Someday after all I’ll come back. But it will never be the same.

  She surveyed the twenty or so people gathered in Albion’s ballroom: drinky, laughy, dopey, silly, angry, smarty, pretty. Likely never see them again. Is that sad? Is that what’s meant by bittersweet?

  Henry Radio tapped into a microphone plugged into one of the amplifiers. “Hello. We’re Blazing Moon Kids, and we’d like to play a few songs to celebrate the record deal recently signed by our good friend Michael Goodlife.”

  Smattering of applause, some drunken hoots. Amanda looked over at Michael, who had an expression of extreme shyness coupled with arrogance, if that’s even possible, she thought, he both wants the attention and hates the attention. Kurt sometimes seems the same way, although since he’s had the attention for so long now I think mainly just hates the attention.

  Kurt and Henry began playing and singing, Amanda didn’t recognize what. Their two voices sounded good together, raspy or ragged or some word like that. The song sounded familiar but old-fashioned, like something from the ’70s. Where’s know-it-all Trip when you need him.

  Amanda watched everyone listening with either real or feigned interest. These are all good people, one way or another. I won’t miss them. I’ll find more good people, or not even any people, because I can make my own people now. A power no Druid priest could command or bestow. I will see the stones and the sites. I will see them because I have wanted to see them for so long, the desire to see them has an automatic quality, like breathing.

  The song ended and Kurt motioned to Michael to come join him and Henry. “You know ‘Little Black Egg’?” asked Henry. “The Nightcrawlers?”

  Michael shrugged in gesture of no idea.

  Henry pretended outrage. “Kid signs a major goddamn record deal, never heard of The Nightcrawlers? Big hit in ’66. Well, not a big hit. Come on, we’ll show you. It’s cake, man. Nothing to it.”

  Michael strapped on a guitar and huddled with Kurt and Henry, who shifted their hands up and down the necks of their guitars and hummed a quiet melody. Michael nodded that he understood the gist of the song and the three boys started playing. It made a lovely sound, Amanda thought, three guitars gently plucked and strumming. Soundtrack to my exit.

  Henry started singing: “I don’t care what they say, I’m gonna keep it anyway.”

  Will anyone notice my leaving? She stood up and made her way toward the door. All eyes fastened on the musicians.

  “I won’t let them stretch their necks to see my little black egg with its little black specks.”

  She slipped out the door. Eye contact with Fiat Lux as she quickly shut the door behind her. Slight smile and nod.

  Amanda Early stepped into the cold and cloudy night. A scrim of snow remained along the edge of the sloping lawn and the steps leading to the street. Strong scent of coming rain in the air. Fading now, in the distance
, she heard the song following her down.

  “I found it in a tree just the other day, and now it’s all mine I won’t let them take it away.”

  Michael Goodlife struggled to control his self-consciousness, face hot with mingled pride and shame, as he moved through the changes to the song. Try not to think about. Playing with Kurt and Henry. Try. AEDA AEDA AEDA AEDA. Don’t look up or you will melt.

  “Here comes Mary, here comes Lee, I know what they want to see.”

  F#mEF#E F#mEDE. Will I ever do anything this thrilling again? No, because a thrill repeated loses its. EF#D. Walking lead-in. AEDA.

  “Oh father, what can I do? Little black egg’s gonna tell on you.”

  She’s watching. I can feel her eyes on me without even looking. In the car. Glad to get that off. Lighter now. Did I ever? Oh God, I did. I do. I still do. That’s what all this is about. AED AED AED.

  Mary Valentine watched Kurt and Henry and Michael play the song, watched without listening, eyes fastened on Michael, on his long lovely fingers. Tears brimmed her eyes. I thought I heard my name. What’s done is done.

  “I won’t let them stretch their necks to see my little black egg with the little white specks.”

  She dabbed her eyes with the robin’s-egg-blue scarf. I don’t care who sees, she thought. I don’t care who thinks I’m being dramatic. I don’t care. I’m going now. I’m going.

  “My little black egg.”

  “My little black egg.”

  “My little black egg.”

  Notebook Seventeen

  I will admit, because I am in an admitting mood—and likely ought to be admitted, at this point—that there was a quality to the last night at Albion, both special and strange. Events seemed to unfold in a tule fog (Scirpus californicus), or tularemic haze (Francisella tularensis), in the shade of a tulip tree (Liriodendron tulipifera), under a bridge too far, sorry. The angles of coincidence converging at Albion—like the wires on the utility pole outside my apartment on Hickory, on a rare cloudless day, black lines framing trapezoids of azure—helped produce this effect: Henry Radio, a rare and welcome guest; Michael Goodlife, a rare guest, celebrant; Mary Valentine, a frequent guest but never before in my memory synchronous with Michael; Amanda Early, a frequent guest, bursting with secrets that suffused her lunar face with a rosy glow; Joe Smallman, troubled, distracted, worried, enthralled; Trip Ryvvers, drunk and prolix; Kurt, our host, unusually animated, almost merry.

  Fiat Lux, bittersweet.

  Sometimes you understand more than you think. Sometimes you have feelings of melancholy at the exact moment everything looks swimming. By any measure, this night was one of the happiest and most carefree in the short sad history of Albion. By any measure, I knew that this night would be the Last Night. I didn’t know, of course, but I had a foreboding. Many people have forebodings when things seem to be going too well, when everything’s just absolutely too perfect: These people are nuts. More charitably, these people are superstitious, and I am not superstitious. When enough bad stuff happens to you, you become conditioned to expect bad stuff, and bad stuff no longer surprises you. That’s exactly when bad stuff stops happening, because surprise is its chief asset. So I would have no reason, granting the logic of my premise, to expect this night to be the Last Night, or to expect any other unpleasant news or incident, because that would not take me by surprise. In other words, my foreboding was unassisted, and unprompted, and uncorrupted by the usual incunabula.

  This dread and darkness of the mind cannot be dispelled by the sunbeams, the shining shafts of day, but only by an understanding of the outward form and inner workings of nature. Furthermore, you must not suppose that the holy dwelling places of the gods are anywhere within the limits of the world. Flimsy nature of the gods, he goes on to say, and who’s to disagree?

  Here you see Henry and Michael and Trip gathered around Kurt. There you see Mary and Amanda emerging from the bathroom with tear-stained faces, smiling and laughing. Here, Michael and Mary in cordial conversation. There, Joe Smallman glowering, love-struck, unnoticed. Here, Kurt imparts to Michael hard-won advice on navigating the shoals of industry. There, Henry and Trip do the same, as Michael nods and sips his whiskey drink. Here, Mary says to the boys for ten dollars she will make out with me for three minutes.

  Here, Amanda imparts a secret to me. Here, I explain to Joe Smallman that we are not in high school, and if he has something on his mind he should just say. Here, Kurt goes into another room and brings out some guitars. Here, we laugh and listen as Henry and Kurt and Michael play old songs, and sing, a thing I have never seen them do before, and Mary cries bright tears, and slips away unnoticed. Here, Trip imparts a secret to me. Here, Joe Smallman, courage failed, says goodnight and leaves. Here, Michael imparts a secret to me. Here, we sit and recline around the fire, drinking, smoking. Here, Kurt brings out an old pipe he says he found in a disused desk drawer, filled with what he thinks might be a residue of opium, and lights the pipe, and passes it around.

  These all are gods, and partake of flimsy nature of gods. Some no longer exist, some exist still, some never existed at all. I have trouble remembering the next few hours, or more precisely ordering my memories, because I took a few puffs from the pipe, and my senses went all wobbly. My senses are wobbly now, too—but it’s an unpleasant wobble, a sort of Lofoten Maelstrom (67 deg. 48 min. N, 12 deg. 50 min. E) of the body/mind. Nothing like the gentle eddies of my opium high, though if I hadn’t been drunk I probably wouldn’t have smoked the pipe, as my stand regarding opiates (anti) is I think well-documented. But you never know what a girl will do when in her cups, and I took several deep draws of hot smoke into my lungs, without questioning what mixture might be in the bowl, because I like to smoke, I like to draw hot smoke into my lungs.

  The windows and walls of the house open out, collapse into the unreal horizon. Rivulets of light stream into the room, exploding in slow motion. Even my bones have turned liquid. I grip the edges of the carpet and fly off, over the city. I spy: Bergson’s Matière et Mémoire, one copy, facedown near a lamppost on Wyoming; three drawings in colored chalk, nature of representations unknown, sidewalk along Wayne; several stinking beggars the breath of my compassion causes to choke mightily and spit greasy gobs onto the shoes of passersby, Patterson just outside the Montgomery County Fairgrounds; the Pelasgian Hercules, father of Actaeon the stag-cult king, walking into the Moonlight Diner near the Cinerama movie house; buckets of unattended mineral paint in an alley behind Burgers and Cold Beer, West 3rd; Mother Zero, twisting her way down Ludlow toward 1st Street; a 12" x 15" print of Turner’s Beach & Inn at Saltash Cornwall nailed to a tree next to a dumpster behind the Canal Street Tavern; the very image of Oscar Wilde, slumped shirtless in a chair at entrance to same, drool puddling in his lap; a book on numerology, hollowed out and stuffed with vials of crack in a plastic bag, under the right rear tire of an old, broken-down Utero near the entrance to the interstate on Stewart; an aboriginal hand-stencil on the outside of a Ukrainian church, Germantown; a broken and pitted double terminal head of Joe Jones, King of Southern Ohio Recreational Vehicles Sales and Leasing, and his wife Blodeuwedd, half-buried in the dirt next to a gingko sapling on the verge of Calvary Cemetery; a rogue elephant trampling through Carillon Park; the sixth and final memo for the next millennium—too late—trampled by the panicked crowd, pages flying all over the place, one of which I grab at great personal risk as I fly overhead, but turns out to be, instead, the sheet music for an obscure sonata by a composer I wouldn’t know from Adam/Eve; a huge silvery sheet hung like a sail from the top of an apartment building on St. Paul Avenue; several dozen clothespins sprinkled with gold glitter, two of which are affixed to a small icon of the Madonna on a gallery wall, Dayton Art Institute; a yellow coincidence, hovering on my window sill, Hickory.

  When I returned—to my senses, to consciousness, to Albion—everyone had left. The fire had died to embers, and when I lifted my head from the moldy silk pillow on the floor by the hearth, I saw K
urt sitting in his usual chair, slump-shouldered and striated by the dying firelight.

  “You snore like a horse,” Kurt observed dryly.

  “Thanks. How long?”

  “Couldn’t say. Long enough.”

  “Everyone gone?”

  “Just you and me, kid. You and me and the ghost of Christmas past.”

  “I … What was in that pipe?”

  Kurt didn’t respond. He closed his eyes for a few moments.

  “You know that thing,” he said after a while, “when it’s dark and you close your eyes tight and then open them and you see all these sparkling silver dots? Like somehow the light was stored in the sockets or the iris or the tips of your nerves?”

  “I get that when I sit up too fast sometimes,” I said.

  “Then you close your eyes again, and an artificial light appears before your eyelids? Then through the red transparency of light I can see a close-up view of blood cells floating.”

  “Are you sure that’s blood cells? I always wondered if it was germs or, I don’t know, plankton? I don’t know the science.”

  Kurt nodded, opened his eyes. “Things have been different around here lately.”

  “Different? I hadn’t noticed,” I lied.

  “Yes you have. Everyone has. I’ve been gone a lot. And even when I’m here, most of the time I’m barely here.”

  I couldn’t resist. “Where do you go?”

  He shifted in his chair, leaned forward, staring into the fire. “Different places. If you mean physically, mostly on the West Side.”

  “The West Side? You mean here, in Dayton? But you’re gone for days, and when you come back it’s like you’ve been on an expedition or something, you’re all haggard, and—”

  “I’m a junkie, Fiat,” Kurt interrupted, flatly. “I go to drug houses and take drugs. Specifically heroin. I go on binges and sometimes I’m out of it for a while, and when I come back down I don’t know where I am or what happened. That’s the best part. For however long, getting out of my head. Not being me. Even for a minute, it’s worth everything. I think you know what I mean.”