Spondulix: A Romance of Hoboken

by Di Filippo, Paul

  “The Cardinal is awfully big and predatory-looking. What are you going to do with the kittens?”

  “Given the Cardinal’s savage ancestry, I think the question might be, ‘What are the kittens going to do with me?’”

  At that moment someone bumped into Rory from behind. He turned, ready to utter an apology or receive one.

  Ped Xing, the rabbinical bhikku, wore his white coverall as if the garment denoted some high enlightenment. A pair of goggles covered his eyes, the straps compressing his long sidecurls. Ped Xing clutched in his hand a futuristic-looking splat gun of the type often seen at Whitey Blacklaw’s side during his spondulix deliveries and cash pickups. (Blacklaw frequently alluded to the deadly nature of the pellets chambered in his gun—alternately corrosive, infective or hallucinatory—in a tone Rory could not definitely interpret as either ironic or serious. Rory assumed now, however, that Ped Xing’s gun contained only the traditional dye capsules.)

  Ped Xing had evidently been backing up in a duckwalk stance. Upon bumping Rory he crouched even lower, swiveling around to see whom he had encountered while simultaneously taking a bead with his gun. Recognizing Rory, the combative bodhisattva lowered his weapon and straightened up to his full height.

  “Ped, what the hell is going on?”

  Ped Xing hushed Rory. “Quiet, moll, this is war. Or a valid simulation thereof. I can’t let the other Nuts find me. It’s every man and woman for himself. Herself. Every sentient being for itself. Whatever.”

  “War?” said Addie. “I don’t understand.”

  Xing sighted ominously down the barrel of his splat pistol out to sea. “Lew Sterling’s idea. Something he got out of a management book. We’re playing Survival to sharpen us up for competition in the world of high finance. All the Nuts are officers now, you know, at Hoboken Savings and Loan. Salaries, titles, perks, all that good stuff. It’s all samsara, natch, but we still have to do whatever Sterling and Earl say. Not as nice as the old lazy days in some ways, but whatcha gonna do? Oh, that reminds me.”

  Ped Xing unzipped his coverall down to his waist, revealing a white scrawny hairless chest. A second splat gun protruded from the waistband of his jockey shorts. He took out the pistol and rezipped. Then he removed a spare pair of goggles from a pocket.

  “As a second-string Beer Nut, you’re also an officer of the S & L. According to Directive Number 509, you’re supposed to be playing Survival, too. Even if you don’t play, you qualify as a target. So here’s your gun and eye-protection. I’m doing you a big favor, moll. I could have scored some serious points off you.”

  Rory automatically accepted the gun and safety glasses even as he said, “Ped, this is crazy, I refuse to get involved.”

  Ped Xing laughed. “Much too late for that, moll. You should have thought of that before you contributed the fingernail polish for the cockroach race. But just remember: Zen Master Kenzo, wandering without a home, achieved satori one night while sleeping under a pile of paper money left as a tribute at a shrine to the Buddha.”

  Leaving this enigmatic tale hanging in the air, Ped Xing again dropped into a crouch and scuttled away behind a bulkhead.

  Standing bewildered with the gun in his hand, Rory was suddenly overcome by a strange feeling, weirder even than déjà vu. The sensation could have been described as “might have lived.” Intimations of an alternate timeline unfolded for Rory.

  Many years ago, when he had slit open that envelope bearing the government’s “Greetings,” he had taken a stand against violence. His life had gone down one path. Yet here he stood today with a gun in his hand, facing the choice again, as if the two separate paths had converged. Why did life always continue to test you on the same questions like a tiresome pedant?

  A shrill cry sounded suddenly from belowdecks. The wailing combined yelps of victory with sobs of defeat. The noise of pounding feet and panting breaths swiftly followed. Several people burst out of the hatchway and onto the upper level. In the lead ran Hilario Fumento, pursued by Hy Rez and Special Effects.

  The hapless writer galloped across the boat as if intent on hurling himself overboard. His gun dangled useless and forgotten from his grip. Many hits had liberally besplattered his Survival suit with Technicolor bulls-eyes; his eyes beneath his goggles were glazed over with a fear thick as the honeydrip upon a taco-flavored donut. The apothegmatic writer barreled into Rory, who caught Fumento under the arms only to have his mortal burden collapse.

  “‘There is nothing like the prospect of hanging in the morning to concentrate a man’s mind,’” quoted Fumento, then fainted, his epigrammatic sensibilities giving way under the stresses of the barbaric hunt. Rory lowered him to the deck.

  Pausing back near the hatch, Hy Rez and Special Effects grinned gleefully. “We’ve got him now,” said Special, brushing a hank of hair out of his vision. He braced his arm and got ready to pot the senseless target once again. Just as he squeezed the trigger the ferry rocked on a swell. The shot went awry and struck Addie fully on the chest. A flower of blue paint blossomed on the white fabric slope of her left breast.

  Rory’s anger exploded into archaic, bestial fury. The time in the barn when he had broken all the windows, the injustice done to his fellow Olympic athletes, the Peeping-Tomism of Jacky Ray, the way Erlkonig was ruining his life—All these past incidents paled to insignificance before what he felt now. Shimmering crimson veils wreathed the world. All his blood vessels, which apparently contained molten lava, threatened to burst at once.

  Rory’s bearded face must have looked like the Medusa’s, for Hy and Special lost their jaunty demeanor and turned to stone. “Hey, moll, sorry—” said one. But apologies availed naught. Rory let out a saurian bellow, a leonine challenge that transfixed all spectators. Sweeping his gun up, he emptied its clip at the two frozen technicians, spotting them from neck to ankle. Then he bent down and wrenched Fumento’s gun from the writer’s lax hand.

  Hy and Special emitted squeaks of dismay, then regained enough control of their limbs to make a break, tumbling all over each other down the stairwell. Rory stopped long enough to affix his goggles, then swarmed straight over the outer rail of the ship! Hanging by one arm above the waters of the Hudson, he swung like Tarzan through a large squarish open window on the lower level, passing between two seated elderly ladies playing cards. He was waiting at the foot of the stairs for Hy and Special when they cautiously exited. They stopped dead, as if seeing a specter. Rory felt his facial muscles tighten in a ghastly smile.

  “Get ready to meet your foul maker,” said Rory in a voice that emerged sounding closer to Clint Eastwood’s than he’d ever intended. Utterly unmanned, his victims fell to their knees, begging for mercy. Rory had none. He splatted them both directly over their black hearts.

  “Ahem.”

  Rory turned. Ped Xing stood nearby. The monk tossed something at Rory, who snagged it from the air. A dozen spare clips for his splat gun. Then Xing shot Rory.

  The rest of the twenty-minute trip passed in a mad blur of running, hiding and sharpshooting. From bilge to fo’c’s’le the game played itself out. Rory lost track of how often he reloaded, how many Nuts he bagged. Battle subsumed all thinking.

  In midvoyage the Manhattan-bound ferry passed the Hoboken-bound vessel, also carrying a load of Beer Nuts. The two teams lined up on their respective port sides and exchanged a fusillade that left both boats looking like artists’ dropcloths.

  “You couldn’t hit the broadside of a subway car!”

  “Avast! Drop your sails and heave to, matey!”

  “You drop your pants!”

  “Surrender Dorothy!”

  “Sighted shit, flushed same!”

  As the boats pulled away from each other, a final defiant chorus of raspberries and Bronx cheers signaled competing claims of victory.

  Everyone’s ammunition ran out just as the ferry pulled into Battery Park City. The players assembled in the bow to determine some kind of rough score. Rory—though certainly not devoid of hi
ts himself—received unanimous acclamation as top-scorer, accepting accolades until he felt as unjustifiably puffed-up as the Brave Little Tailor. Everyone patted him in a brotherly fashion on his back and shook his hand.

  Disembarking, Rory rejoined Addie, who stood already on dry land. She had remained aloof from the unseemly fray, and was herself unspotted save for that first hit that had so unhinged Rory.

  Rory smiled sheepishly at her. He felt like an utter idiot. What kind of romantic date was this? Why had he continued to play the nonsensical game after venting his original rage? Could he have actually been enjoying himself? Was that any way for a principled, former ’Sixties pacifist to feel? A vegetarian caught with a roast-beef sandwich halfway to her lips could not have exhibited more guilt.

  “Gee, Addie,” began Rory, “I’m sorry this had to happen.”

  Surprisingly, Addie did not launch into recriminations. Instead, she gazed adoringly at Rory, with glistening eyes. “Don’t apologize. I’m happy to learn I matter that much to you.” She grabbed Rory’s hand and squeezed it.

  Touched by her reaction, Rory returned Addie’s cow-eyed adoration. “The world. That’s what you mean to me.”

  They walked happily away from the dock, heading toward lower Broadway. Suddenly Rory imagined what he—and to a lesser degree, Addie—must look like, and worried aloud to Addie about his appearance.

  “Don’t fret too much. You’ll look just like another sloppy painter in SoHo—not that the breed hasn’t diminished since the low-rent heyday of the neighborhood. But we’ll get you some new clothes first thing anyhow.”

  They reached Canal Street and walked leisurely eastward. Rory contemplated the surprising peace he now felt. Shooting at the Beer Nuts had dissipated all his tensions. For the first time he could understand why people enjoyed guns and shooting at things. He thought of his father’s brave experiences in the Second World War. If only the old man could have seen Rory’s performance, he might actually have shown some pride in his wayward son.

  They soon attained one of Addie’s destinations, a funky boutique named Muchacha Linda. Inside Rory quickly claimed a Hawaiian shirt and pair of baggy shorts as replacements for his stained jeans and pullover shirt. Meanwhile, Addie took several items into a dressing room. She emerged wearing a summery minidress that stunningly displayed her long legs. Rory let out an involuntary whistle, causing Addie to blush.

  “You approve?”

  “Wrap it up, I’ll take it!”

  While Addie continued to shop, Rory moved to the register to pay for his items, intending to change immediately into the clean garments. The young woman at the register—head half-shaved, half pink-haired—scanned the items and announced, “Seventy-five fifty.”

  Rory palmed his wallet, forked out bills without thinking, and handed the clerk four twenty-spondulix notes.

  She took the bills without a moment’s hesitation and handed him back an appropriate assortment of spondulix in change.

  Rory accepted his change and headed toward the dressing room to swap outfits. Halfway there he froze. Turning back, he saw on the register a familiar green-and-black decal.

  “Oh. My. Sweet. Lord.”

  Dressed in fresh garments, carrying his dirty clothes in a Muchacha Linda plastic bag, Rory repeated the payment procedure for Addie’s selections, waiting to see if she would notice anything untoward. She said nothing, and he waited to quiz her until they were again outside.

  “Addie, where are we?”

  “Why, Manhattan, of course.”

  “Maybe you can explain to me then why that girl took our Hoboken funny money.”

  Addie sobered. “I never thought twice about it. But she did accept it without blinking, didn’t she?”

  Rory held his head in his hands. He couldn’t speak. Addie led him to a nearby coffee shop, where they gratefully sat down at the counter and ordered iced teas. The waitress accepted a five-spondulix note in payment,

  “Keep the change,” Rory croaked.

  After a period of silent sipping, Rory found he could converse sensibly again.

  “This sucks. How did spondulix escape from Hoboken? I never thought they would. Now I feel like Typhoid Mary!”

  Addie spoke with adequate solemnity, but did not seem quite as distressed as Rory. “It’s a shock, I agree. But we should have expected as much. Earl and Sterling would never be content with dominating a single small city.”

  “I wonder what kind of market penetration they’ve achieved?”

  “Let’s find out. Better to know the facts than hide your head in the sand.”

  Rory laughed miserably. “As if we could!”

  Thus began a kind of mad fox hunt or birding expedition, the sole quarry of which were the far-from-elusive spondulix. Addie and Rory commenced to range about on foot, looking for the spondulix sticker in shop windows. They easily spotted it everywhere. In restaurants and galleries, fabric marts and newsstands, electronics retailers and food wholesalers, antique stores and bookstores. At first they suspected only SoHo had been infected. So they hopped the subway uptown, emerging from the depths every ten blocks or so. In each new neighborhood they encountered the dreaded sticker. You could buy books at the Strand, houseplants on Sixth Avenue, cameras in Herald Square, and anything from any of Macy’s many floors, all for spondulix. The home-grown cash would purchase tickets at Madison Square Garden or jewelry at Trump Tower, hot dogs and falafel from street-side vendors or a carriage ride around Central Park. By the time they reached Lincoln Center and spotted the spondulix logo on the main entrance doors, Rory and Addie felt a kind of hysterical, exultant exhaustion. The city now looked alien, foreign, its natives incomprehensibly complacent.

  They had been conquered and didn’t even care.

  “One last push,” said Rory, and hailed a cab.

  They zoomed up to the Cloisters, paying the hack with spondulix. At this northern landmark nearly at the island’s end, Rory hoped to find the limits of spondulix, some uncontaminated bastion of old-fashioned fiscal rectitude.

  The ticket-taker at the Cloisters, however, happily accepted the gaudy bills for the price of admission.

  Wandering wearily and unseeingly through the museum, the pair emerged into the Cloisters’ peaceful gardens. By unspoken agreement they moved to the western wall and looked out at the Hudson and the towering Palisade cliffs. Downriver, just out of sight, they could sense Hoboken throbbing like the hidden heart of the world, pumping play-cash like anemic blood into the globe’s veins.

  “I’m beaten,” said Rory. “My life is now completely and utterly fucked.”

  Addie was pulling on her shapely chin. She seemed a million miles away. “Getting you out of this mess will really require some thought.”

  “Thought? How about a miracle? Nothing can stop Sterling and Earl now. Unhitch myself from this whole insane conspiracy, that’s the only thing left for me to do.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Oh? How so?”

  “If you just drop out, you’ll abandon all influence on spondulix.”

  “Influence? What influence do I have? The impact of a bug on the windshield of a speeding truck!”

  Addie put her arms around Rory. “Let’s not try to make any decisions now. You’ve had a rough day. And you’re in too deep to see things as clearly as I can.”

  Rory wondered when in his life that statement had ever not been true.

  Chapter Nine

  Bretton Woods

  The intercom on Rory’s desk signaled for his attention. The sleek hi-tech box sought to attract his notice by emitting a Donald-Duckish quacking noise, the kind of mindless rant Donald indulged in whenever something in his classic, pre-sophisticated cartoon life infuriated him and he couldn’t stop himself from blowing up.

  “Wak-wak-wak-wak-wak-wak-wak-wakl” About a dozen times per second.

  Hy and Special had programmed this sound file into Rory’s unit as a good joke. They refused to remove the offending gimmick. Thus Rory had
the opportunity to enjoy their brand of humor about fifty times a day.

  Just one more annoyance threatening to drive him around the bend. With the invention of spondulix, he realized, he had set out for a little innocent and irresponsible joyride down Route 666. But before he knew what awaited him he was heading up into the Mountains of Madness, leaving behind Sanityburg, speeding toward Gonesville, the town where all the belfries had bats in them, all the attics featured squirrels, none of the elevators went to the top floor, and every picnic was one sandwich short. He was rounding Deadman’s Curve now, the tires of this insane enterprise sending gravel flying, and if he didn’t plunge off the guardrail-less shoulder of the road into the abyss, he’d enter Gonesville soon, playing crazy eights with a not-quite-full deck until he lost all his marbles.

  Sometimes Rory wondered why he had to try to keep on steering and braking. Why couldn’t he just find acceptance within himself, sit back and enjoy the view on the way to Gotterdämmerung? If he hadn’t had Addie to keep his spirits up and advise him, he surely would have surrendered control long ago, pulled a U-turn and hightailed it out for some lost frontier.

  Rory stabbed the proper button of the squawking intercom with his forefinger, silencing the annoying Disney sample. “What the hell is it now? Who is this? Didn’t I tell everyone not to disturb me this morning?”

  Nerfball’s voice issued from the demonic box. Gone was much of the plaintive whine that had once characterized his speech. Instead, his voice thrummed with confidence and assertiveness. His newest duties in the corporation that was Honeyman’s Heroes, Inc., had really bolstered his sense of self-worth.

  “I know what you told us, Rory. But I had to make a command decision to override your orders. We’ve got a major crisis here on the battlefront. Flip on your monitor and pick up the video-feed from Bay Six.”

  Rory sighed dramatically. “Okay. One second.” All this vaguely military-style talk went up his craw. What were they running here? A sandwich shop or Operation Dessert Soup? Rory swivelled in his ergonomic chair to face a closed-circuit television screen hoisted on a wall-mounted arm. From desktop controls he powered the monitor on and selected the proper channel. A swirl of colors resolved into a giant close-up of—what was that? A vast flesh-colored plain spotted with holes and dotted with irregular green and red circles. God, it looked like an illustration from a medical textbook, positively obscene!