“There must be a way up!” says Toe, slamming one fist against a column. “This is stupid! We’ve got these powers, let’s use them! It’s just a problem we have to solve.”
“I’ve got an idea,” says Tyler slowly, staring up at the stone pagoda. There are purple flashes in the clouds. “We can get one of us up there. But only one.”
There’s a solemn pause, broken only by Daniel’s quiet cough.
“Not bitch,” says Tyler.
“Not bitch,” says Alex hastily.
“Not bitch!” yells Daniel, at the same time.
“Not–hey!” says Toe, snapping around, off guard. “Guys! No fair!“
Petros doesn’t smoke or drink. He avoids caffeine and excessive sugar, and the only herbs he consumes are from his kitchen window garden. He doesn’t drop, roll, shoot, buzz, pop or snort. He doesn’t take aspirin.
Yet Petros is an addict. He’s addicted to catfish: fat, ugly Tennessee catfish, served on wax paper in an enormous basket; catfish with all the trimmings: corn pone hush puppies, sweet pickle tartar sauce, fries cut so thick they’re still cold in the middle and cole slaw so deep in diesel mayonnaise it’d make the devil sweat.
Someday, catfish will kill him. Petros won’t mind.
Thursday, October 16, 2003
Perhaps he has it in him. He notices her, at least, and where and how she walks.
She sees so many people, walking, and portents cascade off her, and no one looks. She wants that, in this world, but she’s tired: she needs someone to teach, and that someone must be able to see her as she truly is.
Finally, one Monday she snaps her fingers and whispers, and two trolleys cross before her: a sure sign, an omen, to reveal her in her full glory at last.
She’s disappointed. He’s not the right one: Grimacing Woman is all he sees.
Wednesday, October 15, 2003
They decided eventually that doggy style was the best way to drive the war machines, and that’s how Erin is driving now, strapped belly-down to the underside of her titanium beast. Guns blaze; jets thunder.
She licks sweat from her lip. Her DC-94A has no tongue (but if it did!) and so can’t mimic that, but it reacts just fine when she stretches her legs to catch their landing shock.
Machines go green and red in her vision. She tracks polygons and squeezes her hands: jets blaze, guns thunder, and Erin grins. Really, honestly, what girl doesn’t love blowing shit up?
Tuesday, October 14, 2003
She loves her name. Most people don’t pronounce it right at first, but she enjoys correcting them, so that works out well. She loves the way her boyfriends say it; she can’t help but laugh when her mother yells it in anger.
She has a particular memory of a vacation, when she was young, and standing out on a dock somewhere in Florida. They were setting off fireworks across the river; some of them hurt her ears, but she really liked the ones that trailed noise on the way up. She thought they were talking to her. Boom, pop, crackle, Xiao!
The Albanians are out on their stoop again. Franklin was wary of them at first; they looked harsh, rawboned, frighteningly Eastern European. They did not look friendly.
They still don’t, not exactly, but they seem to have accepted him. During some brownouts, without air conditioning, they’ve invited him across the street. They sat and drank sweaty beers together.
They’ve already started that, tonight–one of them is singing. Franklin doesn’t want to laugh, but the song is just absurd enough to revive his heavy steps.
“YOOON GIRL!” yodels Petrit, strangled, tragic. The others nod, genuinely sad. “GET OUT OF MY MIIINE!”
The ketchup’s stuck. Jerusha is trying all the useless things: tap, clink, shake, wait. Tap again.
The man walking in is wearing a coat despite the heat, and he sweats. Surely none of the others felt this way. The vest is heavy on his shoulders. He knows it’s glorious; he just can’t keep from thinking, nervously, thinking again…
His hand is cold on the doorplate. He stops. If.
When the ketchup hits the plate, Jerusha will die, concussed face-first into a shattering wall. For now, though, it’s stuck. For a few seconds, it stays stubborn, clinging solidly inside the narrow neck.
Thursday, October 9, 2003
He’s down and scrambling, the great club out of his hands. Slagjor has no breath to curse, but spends it trying to launch himself toward the corner. He can’t get much purchase, and doesn’t get far; he hears the whistle of the crude broadsword, and just manages to roll to one side. Chips shower his face.
It seemed like a good idea at the time: magnificent, inspiring, a vicious monument. It’s only now that he considers the practical aspect. All the other warlords looked good in their throne rooms, but they never told him how slippery a bone floor can get.
Wednesday, October 8, 2003
1985: This book would not have been possible without the help and support of my parents, Alexandrei and Susan, my dear friend Vera Linares, and God.
1989: This writing of this book owes a great deal to Miss Vera and the CBLDF.
1991: This book was written for all of you, and it comes without apology. I’m done.
1996: This one goes out to you, my Vera, my heartsong, who saw me through a great and nearly endless night.
1998: To Vera, with love.
1999: As always, for Vera.
2001: This book is for Vera.
2003: This book is for Jen.
Rob could set his clock by Grimacing Woman. Every day he comes to the bus stop, he can measure how early or late he is by her distance from the corner. She must plod by, every day, at a perfectly constant speed.
Today when he gets to the stop, two trolleys cross in the intersection, parallel to each other and perpendicular to him. They cross so perfectly that they have to be significant of something, like curtains, like the opening of an Austin Powers musical number.
There’s only Grimacing Woman on the other side, though, when they clear. He’s early today.