Stars: The Anthology

by Janis Ian

  Halfway through his PowerPoint presentation he feels the carpet seem to slide away. He keeps talking, practically knows the lines by heart now. But his Self, as he likes to think of it, is elsewhere. Out there.

  He talks on about a big real estate deal along the Mexican border, water rights and pollution guarantees and the rest of it, but the zest is gone. Instead he's thinking about virgin lands and wind-swept forests and big skies. Somewhere.

  A raised hand in the audience. "Mr. Jefferson, what's the ten-year rollout on convertible trust deeds here?"

  —and the room swims away into deep moist green, towering trunks, rippling waters, dizzy desires all around him.

  ~~~~~

  Lenin wears a big floppy hat to the demonstration. He tells himself it's to keep down his sun exposure, a man with a premature bald spot at age 29 has got to watch that. But a woman in his affinity group smirks at the hat, guessing that he wants to make it a little harder to identify his face. There's plenty of TV around and there will be footage on tonight's news. That's the point, after all. But he doesn't figure to get him in trouble at work, either.

  They form their lines, keep discipline, shout their slogans. Eco stuff, mostly, with a demand for a Global Minimum Wage. As an economist he wonders what the hell that would mean but keeps his mouth shut.

  Pretty soon there's some shoving and chanting and yelling and he gets into it, shoving back. A cop trips him and laughs. All the power of private capital comes rushing up into Lenin's face and slams him in the nose. He rolls over and gets some blood on his black suit, the standard uniform with vest he always wears to these things. A woman runs over and hands him a towelette for the blood and the cop kicks him in the butt. Lenin backs away but catches the cop's eye.

  "You can kiss my ass," he mouths clearly enough for the cop to hear but nobody else. The cop's face is a quick study in surprise-irritation-rage, coming just that fast.

  The kids around Lenin are all in jeans or sweats and he feels out of place in his suit. They use tactics borrowed from punk rock, warmed over Spanish anarchism, rave culture. Amazon folk songs blend with obscenities Overexposure has long ago robbed both of any impact on him.

  A call went out well before this demo, all about defining principles and goals, skimpy on theory and long on rhetoric. So for weeks he had dutifully spent time with affinity groups fighting for microscopically narrow causes, using consensus-based decision making that took forever. He had thought a lot about their "ways of being"—methods that ranged from the strictly legal, through the iffy quasi-pacifist, in practice which meant tripping cops or throwing paint. He disliked all the phony-talk euphemisms like "diversity of tactics" that really meant old fashioned street fighting. That negative finger-pointing stuff wasn't the way to go now, somehow.

  He walks away from the scramble, confused. His nose hurts and he wonders if the hat looks silly with the suit. Maybe that's why the woman laughed.

  ~~~~~

  Goldman wakes up early and finds some coffee in a tin. She gets some hot water going but it's a battle in this strange kitchen. The woman with dirty-blonde hair, what's her name, is a messy housekeeper.

  With a biologist's eye Goldman inspects the scummy dishes in the sink and scrawny plants on the windowsill. Sunlight slants into the kitchen bright and clean, like a reproach.

  Her mental cobwebs are just clearing as she fetches the L.A. Times from the driveway. A Santa Ana is blowing, unfurling her hair and making her skin jump. There's the usual mercantile news on the front page so she takes refuge in the comics. There's the one about a woman bio prof that's always good; she identifies with the strip's surreal logic. After she's sucked the juice out of those there's the ritual skimming of the bookshelves, only there aren't many. She picks up A Primer of Soto Zen and reads the first entry from Zen Master Dogen (1200-1253). It's about a monk who carried around Buddhist relics in a box until Dogen told him to give them up. The monk refused and next time he opened the box there was "a poisonous snake coiled within." A pretty good joke, she thought, a symbol of the folly of worshiping mere signs instead of the essence.

  Just then the dirty-blonde woman comes shuffling in, naked and yawning. The breasts that so fascinated Goldman last night, after she ditched the Trotsky guy, show some sensual sag and big brown nipples.

  Without a word the woman slurps up some of the Colombian coffee, hooks a hand around Goldman's shoulder and cups her breast. A warmth climbs up into Goldman's mind, a mingling of sweaty musks from last night and the savory zest of the coffee scent in this cluttered, moist apartment. Then hands sliding over soft skin, sniffs and savors, murmurs, her mouth somehow salty on a nipple.

  It stops her thinking, which she supposes is a good thing. Live in the moment, that's what it will be like when the Revolution comes.

  ~~~~~

  Washington gets out of his Mercedes to see what the crowd is all about. Turns out it's a demonstration against free trade. "Against free traffic, too," he mutters irritably.

  A thin guy passing in an old black suit gives him a sharp, pinched-eye look. "We're against exploitation, man," the guy says and Washington recognizes him.

  "Say, did you go to Cal?"

  "Uh, yeah."

  Washington recalls. They were in the same year and argued with each other in economics classes. There's blood on the man's old-style black suit and a kind of desperate glaze in the guy's eyes. Val, that's the name. Washington always remembers names, had drilled himself to, it was essential in networking.

  Val's nose starts trickling blood again. Washington sees that his Mercedes is going nowhere because masses of people are streaming in both directions. Rag-tag types running from the cops a block away, and media hounds closing in on the scene, hungry for it. Yet somehow Washington doesn't want to turn his back on all this, senses a humming of promise.

  He takes Val into a bar to use the john to clean up. Washington sits in a booth and orders them both Irish coffees. It's uncharacteristic for him, no booze before 5 P.M. has been his rule, but he's not feeling like hitting the office today anyway. The same-old same-old won't cut it for him any more. Time to move on.

  Val comes back, bloodstains gone from the suit. He is embarrassingly grateful for the Irish coffee waiting. Suddenly Washington is telling Val about how pointless it seems to him, all the deals and perks. "No scale to it, you know?" he concludes. Even though he's been in on the birth of two Fortune 500 companies in ten years.

  "Been there, done that," Val says heavily. The phrase has called up some private demons for him, too, Washington can see that. "Things looked great for us at Cal, y'know? Then first thing you know, you're running up your frequent flyer plastic and buying a Grass Hog weed whacker at Home Depot and it's all over."

  They have three more rounds of Irish coffees and then a sandwich lunch with arugula salad. It's almost like the old Cal days, disagreeing on nearly everything but enjoying it. Washington asks what line of work Val is in and gets a story he's heard before. Econ degree, some grad work, fooled around with politics until the same old games got boring, pointless. Part time professor at some state school, then some startups to learn about real economics. "But not at the center, you know?" Val says with an almost tearful tone.

  They stare at each other for a long moment. "Going nowhere," Lenin says and Washington knows that he doesn't mean himself, but the world.

  Washington sighs. "Back then, we were busy searching after truth and beauty…"

  "And now they turn it into late night movies."

  "Guess you had to be there."

  Rueful chuckles. They watch a basketball game for a while on the TV. Neither had noticed this is a sports bar. Guys are starting to trickle in, it's early afternoon. Some are in jeans and others in three-pieces. They're all there for the game, getting away from whatever reality they're living in.

  He and Val talk over the basketball game, not really interested. They get excited about something and then guys nearby are shushing them, Hey, you don't wanna hear the game why you her
e? so soon enough they're out on the street.

  The demo is over, the TV vans packing up their antennas on their roofs. Washington should get on to his office. But there's an electricity between them, sparks from the collisions of frustrations, dreams, ideas. He hasn't felt like this in years.

  His cell phone's been ringing all the time. He's been getting offers for absurd chunks of cash. He turns it off and goes for a walk with Val instead.

  ~~~~~

  Franklin uses his new tunnel phone to make the call. It's a beautifully made gizmo he just had to take apart as soon as it came in from shipping. He tries it out by walking around his office and having his secretary listen to how the mike tracks him and adjusts its acoustic feed. Her voice comes back good and clear on the five-speaker input, too.

  He walks over to his view, straight down the barrel of the Sunset strip. His company's media-mogul logo dominates even the big studio signs in view. He ordered it positioned there, so he could glance out and see their latest big deal show looming over the tourist crowds.

  The pleasure fades, the way it does a lot lately. All this talent, just to amuse. He taps his fingers, makes a decision. His second call on the new phone is to an old girl friend from back in business school. One night they had a hot-'n-heavy after a big group report was done. Just one, but he has found himself thinking about her lately.

  Her voice shifts from office-official to warm and soft when she recognizes him. "Wow, all these years! Great... Dinner? Tonight? I'd love to, but..." Long pause and he finds himself holding his breath. "I've been on the road a lot, and I'd planned to just stay in tonight. Why don't you come over? 7:30?"

  Bingo! He brings a bottle of Aussie Shiraz and a couple pictures of one of his inventions. He thinks it's good to be up front about his sideline interests, so women don't think he's just another media pirate, though he is that, too.

  She's lovelier than he remembers, a little too thin for his taste now. Instead of the severe black business suits she always wore then, she's in a soft blue blouse and willowy skirt with flowers on it. Her mouth is as tough looking as ever, she's some kind of lawyer, but she has on one of those cable music channels, wispy atmospheric stuff. One of the new scent gizmos has flavored the air like a pine forest and her auburn hair shimmers in the recessed lighting. He drones on about his work while she draws him out, standing in her sandals and stirring vegetables and ostrich meat in a wok. He gets an erection just talking and finds it hard to think. He pours the wine and does the usual number about the Australians being overrated. That leads to some conventional talk about the troubles in Malaysia. She sips the wine and tells him she really tries to use only American products. The World Trade Organization is trying to flatten out the whole planet, she says, and he decides to just nod and move on to something else.

  He tells her about some of his inventions, especially the one to electrocute his Thanksgiving turkey as an act of kindness. For his trouble he got stunned, not the turkey. When he regained consciousness he had said, "I meant to kill a turkey, and instead I nearly killed a goose." She laughs at the right places and it's going well.

  They talk until it's late. She's devoted to a variant of the usual twelve-step program. There is a picture on the wall of her standing next to a guy in a white suit, beaming self confidence. He can't follow what it's all about.

  His usual game plan, directing the soulful talk after dinner to more intimate areas, keeps sliding away. Maybe his heart isn't in it. He makes some moves and she responds with a breathless ardor but his erection doesn't come back. That's a first and he doesn't understand what it means. She works on him, a little too hurried, but it's no use.

  Contrary to his absolutely solid pattern, he starts making his goodbyes. She seems reluctant to let him go. At the door she tells him that she always wanted to get back in touch again, that she has thought about him for years. There is a note of desperation in this that Franklin recognizes, he hears it a lot these days. It probably isn't about him and her at all but something else, something they both sense. But he doesn't think climbing into the sack with her is going to help either of them this time.

  He leaves, gunning his sports car on the freeway, and gets a ticket. This really ticks him off and to cool down he stops at a frond bar he remembers from years before. This late it's nearly deserted and he sits at the bar and orders from the wine menu. A woman two stools away looks at him and turns a certain way so he can see the outline of her breasts, which are ample, in her silky blouse. He gives her the full 100-Amp smile and in a few minutes they're in a booth ordering some of the new Jaipur appetizers. Her name is Emma Goldman and he gets an erection right away.

  ~~~~~

  Trotsky decided to move to California because he was just too tight-wound in Manhattan.

  So he keeps trying the Venice scene, making himself sit in those coffee shops. He even goes roller-blading and throws a Frisbee on the beach, getting a tan in cutoffs. He works as an accountant, some of it under the table for some tech companies to keep the taxes down. Maybe not completely ethical but what is, these days?

  He thinks he's mellowed out some since New York but there's the old dissatisfaction simmering behind his eyes. Nothing will make it go away. During one of his frustrating walks on the beach he runs into Kropotkin from the old gang on the East Side. Kropotkin is wearing a baseball cap on backwards, real out of date, and says he's trying to break into screenwriting. Working as a waiter right now, but he's got plans.

  Kropotkin gets email from Stalin, who's still trying to find a shady angle in politics back East, something in New Jersey. Trotsky tells Kropotkin to stay away from Stalin, the man is a control freak. They say the usual about getting together real soon now. Each is wearing the new clip-on ID pens that picks up digital info on who you talked to, all automatic over infrared. So they have each other’s contact info and all, but as they look at each other Trotsky realizes neither will use it. He still thinks Kropotkin's a pleasant dreamer but, face it, a loser.

  The thing with Emma Goldman didn't work out and he can't figure why. He thought he was coming over pretty well. The sex was good. Things started to go sour at that coffee shop meeting and he took her out a week later for dinner at a fish taco joint.

  They just didn't click any more. Maybe he wasn't upscale enough. Or maybe, he thinks, he still talks about his ideas too much. About Siberia and all.

  He tries getting high, an area he has always scorned. Dope was OK but made him go to sleep. Ecstasy just made him hear stuff in the music of those mixer clubs, themes and resonances that he knew the next day could not possibly have been there. Those meat-rack clubs got to him, too. Everybody wore that retro look, 1940s sleek or the Latino peacock thing. Trotsky was still in black jeans and shades.

  So he goes out to a seminar on The Human Prospect. A pretentious title, sure, but he has always been tempted by the big perspectives, things beyond the present. There's a thick folder of handouts, three-color pie charts and dimensional projections.

  The meeting is full of the usual futurology elements. Here comes overpopulation, greenhouse climate change, bioengineering, cloning, the whole menu. Everybody nods and an old leftie gets up and somehow ties this to the execution of the Rosenbergs. There's a verbal slugfest over anti-Semitism and racism and Israel.

  He gets up and leaves. On the way out he exchanges sour disappointed looks with a guy wearing all black, the usual business signature. The guy makes a sardonic wisecrack and Trotsky comes back with one that makes them both laugh in a wry, sad way.

  They stop at a bar to trash the "seminar" they've just been in. Right away they hit it off. Trotsky has his ideas about a genuine Revolution from below, based on people getting as part of their pay some shares in their company.

  "Self-ownership, that's it," the guy agrees, name of Jefferson. "Every man a capital owner."

  "And woman," Trotsky adds automatically. Jefferson nods and they have another round of some dark African beer. Trotsky unloads his idea then, a plan so odd that Jefferson
at first can't see it. "Take Siberia? How? Why?"

  "It's the biggest virgin territory on Earth."

  "Virgin? But people are there, left over from the Soviets."

  "Okay, call it California virgin. The girls around here, by the time they're in junior high school they know plenty, have done some. But still essentially intact."

  Jefferson smiles. "You should have been a lawyer." He is a big guy with an easy smile, the kind people warm to right away. Not like himself, Trotsky realizes ruefully. Jefferson is the sort of figure the Revolution needs.

  So he reels off the numbers. Siberia has a tenth of the total land area of the planet. It has big reserves of timber, metals, oil. Two crappy railroads, a few airports. The Russians abused it for four centuries and now the Chinese are infiltrating it, grabbing at the water supplies already.

  "The communists never knew how to open a frontier, right," Jefferson says thoughtfully.

  Trotsky pounces. "Magic word—frontier. Who owns the imagery? Us! Westerns!"

  "You want there to be...Easterns?"

  Trotsky laughs, liking this guy even more. "In time, sure. Rough and ready. There are thirty million people living there, tough people."

  "Let's not treat them the way we did the Indians," Jefferson says archly.

  "Exactly! This will be a frontier with social justice."

  Jefferson frowns. "That phrase usually means income transfers."

  Trotsky sees he has to be careful here. Time to show he's not some warmed-over socialist, he's ahead of that, sure. But Jefferson in his black take-me-serious suit and that every-man-a-capitalist idea is going to want economic freedoms. "Okay, got you. We give everybody in Siberia, native or immigrant, shares in the profits."

  "Immigrants?"

  Trotsky is getting wild-eyed, he knows that, the look that puts people off, maybe that did him in with Goldman. But he can't stop. "Sure, immigrants. From around here, even. Gals who work in factories, guys who thought they'd never do more than pump gas. From everywhere."