People Park

by Pasha Malla

  Come on, son, called the shirtless guy from the couch. The Hand went to him, he folded her into his arms. The visor was blank but Calum sensed a sneer beneath it, he felt mocked. And the way he was holding her, it was familiar . . .

  And he was back down below the night before, the darkness full of screaming, grabbed by those big strong hands, that humid skin against his own, the suffocation, Calum had felt so feeble — and the sense that whoever it was had no face: here he was now, in his mask, holding the Hand, who dreamily stroked his chest. He placed one hand atop her head, onto the pattern of hair, and confirmed what Calum feared: a perfect fit.

  Calum’s next throw went pinwheeling wide and high. The intended target watched it sail overhead: the light landed, popped, loosed a dusty puff up from the warehouse floor.

  Jeers, screeches, catcalls, whistles. Someone cawed. Someone mooed.

  Calum took his final tube from the pile. His reflection warped in the cloudy glass. He could hear the Hand taunting him and the guy — her brother? — taunting him too. But he wouldn’t look at them. His thoughts blurred, their words became noise.

  Behind the girl’s sunglasses were the faint shadows of eyes. But they were dead eyes. There was nothing in them. They were nothing Calum could understand.

  Calum cocked his arm. From the depths of Whitehall came the rumble of a train pulling out of the Barns, clacking up onto the tracks, heading south into the city. As its sound faded the boy on the other stool collapsed, hitting the floor with a dull thud. Blood trickled from his headwound, drastic and crimson on the cement. Calum lowered the tube, waited. But nobody moved. If anything, the air went rigid with impatience.

  Come on, said the Hand. Throw!

  Calum tried not to register the kid passed out and bleeding on the ground.

  Throw! roared a dozen voices.

  So he threw.

  IV

  HE 10:30 MEMORIAL unveiling would not be covered by In the Know, or any We-TV correspondents. A small crowd gathered in a clearing in the southeast corner of People Park known as Circle Square. Surrounded by poplars, in its centre was an inactive fountain clotted with dead leaves and bounded by the Community Gardens, the Hedge Maze, and Friendly Farm Automatic Zoo, where, when activated, mechanical beasts (animaltronics) lurched into educational couplings.

  The attendees comprised a few patrons of the arts in extravagant hats, a pair of cardigan’d archivists from the Museum of Prosperity, a shifty photographer, a curious family in Y’s paraphernalia on their way to the common. In the shade at the square’s southern edge a special area had been designated for protestors — Pop and Debbie — and though the sun arcing above the park was bright and warm, a chilly breeze whistled up from the lake. Debbie shivered. Lark, intoned Pop, peeling a hardboiled egg, a nip bequeaths the air.

  Loopy, of course, was the belle of the ball. With her black-clad assistant at her side she waited impatiently for the Mayor to inaugurate the unveiling. Other than its materials (debris salvaged during the Homes’ revitalization), Loopy had kept quiet about the Lakeview Memorial. A white cloth draped over the sculpture suggested a ghost, six feet tall and hovering there starkly. Somewhere under that sheet was a plaque, Debbie knew. Pop had been consulted on the text, though he and the archivists had clashed over the word restribution, and in the end it comprised only the names of every resident of Lakeview Homes, 51,201 in all (It is I, claimed Pop, the extemporaneous one!). A tombstone of sorts, thought Debbie, though that seemed morbid. Better: a document and testament. It was, at least, something.

  A few pigeons scrabbled and pecked at the cobblestones. With nothing else to shoot, the photographer pointed his camera at a passing cloud, which to Debbie resembled a vulture. She shivered again, and thought, with a bitter twinge, that she’d attended Loopy’s last opening too — she was becoming a regular Loopy groupie. As with most of Loopy’s exhibits, aside from the retrospective that consumed the second floor of the Museum of Prosperity, her previous show, Us:, had gone up that past September at Loopy’s Orchard Parkway gallery, Loopy’s, at which Loopy commandeered an underpaid, high-turnover staff of students from the Island Institute, her current assistant was one of these. Us: featured portraits of the most popular Faces of We-TV.

  Even before it opened the project was celebrated on In the Know: What a diverse proclamation of municipal pride, Isa Lanyess had gushed. This truly is the best city on earth, and who better than Loopy to show the people of our beloved island to us, in all their and its glory. Loopy also guested on Salami Talk, flirting along to Wagstaffe’s inane questions. How do you like your sausage, soft or hard, he yucked. Oh, I like it hard — very hard, Loopy said, batting purple eyelashes, and they both took big bites out of rods of cured meat, and winked. At home, Adine threw the remote at her TV.

  For divergent reasons (politics, indignation), Debbie and Adine decided to crash the opening. From the sidewalk outside Loopy’s they watched the city’s sophisticates congratulate each other for being there. Photorealist paintings wallpapered the room from floor to ceiling, art appreciation burbled out onto the street alongside a tinkle of inoffensive jazz.

  Debbie hid behind Adine. What if we get kicked out? For sure Lanyess’s in there. We weren’t invited. I don’t want to —

  Can you relax? said Adine, and by the elbow steered her inside.

  Fifteen minutes later Debbie was following an irate Adine up to the rooftop patio of a pub above Cathedral Circus. A jug of cider arrived, they drank in silence, Debbie eyed Adine warily across the table while traffic wheeled through the roundabout below. Down in the park the poplars swished in the breeze, with the late-summer twilight just starting to settle over the city.

  Debbie said gently, It’s nice here.

  Except for all the people, said Adine. See, here’s the thing: people suck.

  Aw, come on. They don’t.

  And by people, I mean people in this city especially. They think the world ends at Guardian Bridge, and all a superdoosh like Loopy needs to do is hold a mirror up to their stupid insular world and they’ll love her for it.

  Debbie listened. As far as she knew, Adine had never been off the island.

  Was that art? No, art challenges people, but people don’t want that. They just want to be reassured, to see themselves, to see each other, to feel comfortable in the world. What kind of art only makes you comfortable? Paintings of We-TV? What the fug is that?

  Well, said Debbie.

  But Adine was on a roll: As if that whole culture isn’t inward-looking enough. You’d think if you were going to paint people from TV you’d, I don’t know, have something to say. But no, she just replicates what’s already there. And people love it!

  Wait, inward-looking? Don’t you think that if people were a little more inward-looking then maybe —

  You’re not hearing me: people suck.

  But, Debbie said, wait . . . Isn’t there merit in showing people that there are other people like them? Being a person’s lonely, what’s wrong with art that makes us feel less alone? To create a space where people can connect, with a common language —

  No way. Adine tipped back her glass, swallowed. Whose common language?

  Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t love the show either, but don’t you think it was at least an attempt to show some diversity —

  Diversity! That word’s a fuggin joke. If it was diverse then you’d have a diverse crowd. But everyone there, all those rich dooshmasters — what they were doing? Shopping. Patrons of the arts? Yeah right. They’re fuggin customers.

  Debbie resisted defining the word patrons, instead reached across the table for Adine’s hands. She scowled, but offered one, which Debbie stroked. Maybe it’s your job then to make stuff that shows people something they haven’t seen or thought, that’s apart from their lives? That challenges what they think they know?

  Right, I should be working. That’s what you think.
You think I’m lazy.

  No! I didn’t say that.

  Fug that, said Adine. Fug that, fug you, fug everything and everyone.

  Something hitched in Debbie’s throat.

  Adine filled Debbie’s glass. You know what I mean. Come on, let’s get drunk.

  Two hours later, with Adine asleep on her shoulder Yellowlining home, what had begun as a slight yelp of hurt burrowed down into Debbie’s guts and gnawed away down there, persistent and parasitic. She was sad — not at being attacked, that had passed, but at the chasm she felt opening between them.

  Until that night, whenever Adine told her of any conflict — with neighbours, motorists, gallerists — Debbie had sided with her wholly: the world was wrong, Adine was right, and the unwavering allegiance helped stitch them together. But Debbie had enjoyed Us:, it’d been nice, inclusive, heartwarming. Of course she kept this to herself, and so at home in bed, feeling disloyal and duplicitous, Debbie did the only thing she could: took Adine in her arms and held her, as close and long and hard as she could.

  THERE HE GOES, said Starx, turning on the car stereo — too far, too hard, the grind of distorted guitar filled the Citywagon.

  Olpert watched Raven disappear into the We-TV building with Wagstaffe and a pair of pages while Starx banged away on air drums. This music wasn’t music, it was noise, Olpert looked at the radio, thought about turning it down.

  We’ve got an hour to kill, screamed Starx. What do you want to do?

  Do?

  We can’t just sit here, can we? Let’s just drive around. Find some trouble.

  But.

  Your turn to drive though.

  Drive? I don’t really —

  But Starx, weirdly quick, had already circled the car, opened Olpert’s door, and now waited there massively on the sidewalk while a sax solo wailed from the speakers.

  Though there wasn’t much traffic due to the holiday, navigating downtown’s one-ways, plus his hangover, plus his natural anxiety behind the wheel, plus Starx’s music, plus Starx with his seat slid into the backseat, thumping the dashboard, howling, Drag you down, drag you down, drag you mutherfuggin down, caused Olpert’s grip on the steering wheel to tighten into white-knuckled panic. As he turned onto Paper Street, the song climaxed in a commotion of cymbal crashes and throaty howling.

  Olpert cracked his window.

  What are you doing.

  It’s, Olpert yelled, it’s just a little loud. The music, I mean.

  It’s freezing out.

  I don’t drive very often. I’m, Starx — I’m finding it hard to concentrate.

  Not a Cysterz fan, I guess. Starx snapped the radio off. Better, princess?

  Olpert pulled to a stop at Lakeside Drive. He turned, hand over hand, toward Bay Junction and the southern edge of People Park, while Starx played with the powerlocks: chunk, chunk. Chunk, chunk.

  A barricade blocked the roundabout’s exit to Parkside West, two Helpers sat in lawnchairs arm wrestling atop a cooler. Olpert leaned out, displayed his khaki, was waved through onto the empty street.

  Where are you going? said Starx.

  You said just drive around!

  By the park? What if the HG’s see us, figure we’re shirking duties? Think, Bailie!

  Down the slope Crocker Pond shimmered in the sunlight. Spectators, already numbering in the hundreds, filled the common.

  Hey, said Starx, I need to express myself. Pull over.

  What?

  Urinate.

  Here?

  Yeah here, I’ll go in the trees. Nothing quite like urinating in the open air.

  Can’t you wait?

  Bailie, what the fug, mine’s not your average flow. Starx clawed across the frontseat, grabbed the wheel, and yanked the Citywagon over two lanes toward the curb.

  A thump — something smacked the windshield, something white and sudden from above. Instead of braking Olpert stomped the gas, the car shot under the Yellowline tracks, veered into the Citywagon lot, and with a succession of explosive highfives, tore the sideview mirrors from a row of vehicles parked along the median.

  Bailie, whoa, what are you doing?

  We hit a bird, moaned Olpert, we killed a bird.

  Brake! Fuggin Bailie, brake!

  I’m braking, I’m braking.

  The car slowed, Olpert signalled, checked his blindspot, pulled over, stopped.

  We hit a bird, said Olpert.

  Yeah, I saw that. Quite a performance, Bailie.

  The bird, he said, do you think it’s dead?

  Starx got out of the car. Olpert trembled, tried to steady his breathing. The walkie-talkie crackled and Griggs, in a typically listless monotone, droned, Silentium. Logica. Securitatem — and before Prudentia Olpert clicked the thing off. In the rearview he watched Starx survey the debris, shake his head, move south.

  Oh man, Bailie, he called. You gotta come see this.

  Olpert joined him: at the end of a trail of shattered glass and plastic, lying in a heap of feathers against the curb, was a dove.

  Oh no. It isn’t.

  Fuggin right it is.

  No.

  Have you ever seen any other doves in this city? In the wild?

  It’s not a pigeon?

  What, an albino? Come on, Bailie. You know exactly what and whose that thing is.

  I didn’t — I didn’t even see it, it came out of nowhere.

  At the end of the street, the two Helpers had their hands raised in identical exaggerated shrugs — like, What the fug?

  Starx waved. Nothing to see here! Back to work!

  Hey, don’t! What if they come look? What are we going to do?

  Whoa. Hold on. We? This was all you, pencildick.

  Me?

  Yeah you. I wasn’t the one driving.

  That’s — that’s not fair. You grabbed the wheel!

  Which reminds me, said Starx, and he headed off into the bushes, unzipping.

  Olpert crouched beside the dead bird. One wing was folded, the other splayed, the head tucked into its chest, the tiny gnarled treeroots of its claws. No blood. Though Olpert imagined the damage was internal, its organs pulverized to stew. Dead, dead, dead — and he had killed it.

  Starx returned. He nudged the dove with his shoe. Then, in a single, swift movement, he scooped the little corpse under his toe, lifted it up, and launched it into the bushes.

  There.

  That’s where you peed!

  Bailie. It’s dead.

  Olpert stood. Still, some respect . . .

  Respect? Starx grabbed Olpert by the shoulders. Listen, you were driving, the bird should’ve been smart enough not to fly into traffic. Maybe that magician dopes his birds. Maybe he abuses them and they get suicidal. Whatever, it’s not your fault. The guy lets these things loose in the city? You figure he figures he’ll lose a couple. Partner, am I right?

  Yes, but —

  Hey hey hey. No buts. This is not a big deal. Dead bird? Who cares. A million of those things die every day crashing into skyscrapers.

  Really?

  Probably. Listen, why don’t I drive the rest of the day?

  Will you?

  Starx put his arm around Olpert and walked him back to their car, sweeping the broken sideview mirrors under the parked Citywagons as they went.

  Sliding the driver’s seat back Starx said, Those Helpers won’t sell us out. Don’t worry.

  Are they friends of yours?

  Not really . . . but silentium, right? It’s the first fuggin pillar.

  Olpert looked over his shoulder: past the line of Citywagons, silver and symmetrical and identical, the two Helpers were taking turns putting each other in grappling holds.

  And hey, Bailie, said Starx, what about that chick last night.

  Debbie?


  Yeah, that’s the one. Before your . . . upset, I thought she seemed into you.

  You think?

  Sure. Just, next time? See if you can chat her up without puke-painting your khaki.

  You really think she was into me?

  You bet. Now let’s get out of here before that bird’s pals show up for vengeance.

  POP LEANED IN and on a gust of eggy breath said, Lark! Birds.

  A half-dozen pigeons had made their way to the foot of the sculpture. Get those stupid things out of here, Loopy told her assistant. The girl looked at Loopy, then the birds, and with a sigh tiptoed over flapping her arms. They scuttled around behind the sculpture, more aggravated than scared. The assistant followed at a crouch, clapping, and the pigeons hopped along, circled the sculpture’s base, and the assistant gently shooed them around again, around and around. Debbie watched with interest.

  At the next pass Loopy went hurtling at the pigeons with the wings of her caftan spread wide, cawing and shrieking, and the flock ruffled up and came to rest on the lip of the fountain, cooing and cool. Returning to her spot by the covered sculpture, Loopy didn’t take her eyes off the pigeons, ready to pounce at the slightest provocation.

  At last the Mayor arrived, wheeled by Diamond-Wood, who clattered behind on his crutches. Stop, she called, with a wary scan of the cobblestones. We’ll be fine here.

  Those who had heard tell of Raven’s bisection gawked. Debbie wasn’t sure what she was seeing: a white sheet draped over the dessert cart gave the impression of an enormously wide-waisted skirt supported by a trestle the size of a writing desk.

  Hello, good to see you all, said the Mayor. Now let’s get this shet-show on the road.

  His ducktape gag peeled aside, Diamond-Wood offered a few hastily rehearsed words about the arts, the importance of community, and how firmly the New Fraternal League of Men were dedicated to these things, though the High Gregories extended regrets at not being able to attend personally. To Loopy Diamond-Wood said, Thanks, most of all, to our artist laureate for this wonderful sculptural work to commemorate our park’s twenty-fifth anniversary —