“You don’t get the same quality of nicknames,” says Ticonderoga. They’re playing chess in the park. Ticonderoga likes to use six bishops.
“You don’t,” agrees Flynn.
“Used to be you earned a nickname.” Ticonderoga cracks sunflower seeds. “Me, I broke a pencil off in a man’s nose.”
“Everybody knows that story.”
“Exactly! Snap, I’m Ticonderoga! These days, it’s Vinnie the Bull because… he’s like a bull. Sure, and Sammy, he’s kind of like another bull.”
“Durkheim. Ritualization of collective effervescence.” Flynn knocks a bishop sideways. “Jersey could have been his petri dish.”
“Nobody ever mentions your nickname, Flynn,” Ticonderoga says narrowly.
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
Pennsylvania is really fucking empty.
“We’d better build something,” says William nervously. “They’re expecting more than, you know, an infinite velvet-gray plain.”
“Not infinite,” says Hannah. “Just extending to the horizon.”
“So effectively infinite.”
“From our perspective, yes.”
“Isn’t all infinity just a matter of perspective? I mean, even the universe itself, to God–”
“The numerical concept of infinity ignores perspective.”
“But what about countable infinity compared to uncountable infinity?”
“Wait, which one of us is talking? I’ve lost track.”
“I must be William, my voice is deeper.”
“Okay.”
“So. Um. Hannah.”
“Yes?”
“Why are you going all velvet-gray?”
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
The leather of the steering wheel crinkles and falls away under Gia’s hands. Why is Gia driving? She hates driving.
“I don’t know how much of this you’ll remember.” Gia is crying, but not sobbing. Her hair is brown. It should be black. “I want to tell you, I want you to maybe know, okay?”
Del feels the springs begin to poke through his seat. It’s not Gia, it’s Rachel. Rust lances up the hood.
“I just.” Rachel’s shaking. “It wasn’t my idea to put you here, Dad. It wasn’t.”
Del inhales, cold and clear. The tires shred into the road.
Monday, November 28, 2005
“Please stop fiddling with that and drive,” Jan snaps.
“My car, my dial,” says Serena, and twists it down. The blaring advertisements echoing through the downtown canyon crackle and fade.
Jan shakes his head. “Broad-spectrum antiharmonics. That just makes them breed new frequencies, you know.”
“And my triclosan hand soap created SARS, sure,” says Serena. “You can stay ahead if you’re willing to pay for it. And for this–” she closes her eyes and inhales the silence. “I’m willing.”
“Might be paying more than you think,” sighs Jan.
Behind them, the ambutank roars up, siren on high, silent as surprise.
Friday, November 25, 2005
“I looked up ‘steeplechase’ yesterday,” says Percival nervously.
“Okay.” Jephthah duct-tapes Percival’s wrists together. “Boaz, bring them steaks over!”
“It’s a British horse race! Also a track event. There is a canine version, but not combined–”
“American traditions are different,” Jephthah says. “Hold still.” He finishes strapping Percival with ribeye and begins attaching the Burger King crown, which says GORGE 3. Behind him, the dogs bay wildly.
“King George wasn’t even alive on the first Thanksgiving!” Percival shrills.
“Well, depending on how careful they are,” says Jephthah cheerily as Boaz releases the hounds, “you just might live through this one!”
Thursday, November 24, 2005
Mauri painted her toenails the other day on a dare from herself: one foot blue, the other black. Afterwards she wore slides, then sandals, then no shoes at all. Nobody noticed her toes.
Mauri sits with her toes in her hands on her bed. On the wall, between two windows, is a print of a Cornell box, which flattens it out but who cares. Outside the window in the Cornell box it’s blue. Her son is throwing his father’s clothes out the window into the white sky, shouting. Mauri squeezes her toes in time to blue skies, wet sand, green bottles.
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
“There,” says Salem, “him. Shut him up.”
Bollweevil frowns. “But he’s not a subscriber–why him, anyway? He annoys you?”
“Government wants to be your Jesus!” shouts the man on the bench. “And if I weren’t the radio, the numbers on the eyes inside your eyes!”
“It’s an incantation around that whole block,” Salem snarls. “And if your business ethics get sticky, need I remind you you’re living on borrowed mind?”
“Fine. Paper, pen, scissors.”
Salem’s pockets produce a penknife, a receipt and a China marker. Bollweevil scribbles, counts and makes one cut. The man on the bench swallows his tongue.
Monday, November 21, 2005
The clouds aren’t like in cartoons, with spring and bounce; they’re just clouds, but there’s a surface underneath them, as hard as glass. Brea’s heels go click on it.
The clouds are low tonight, and up above them are the tops of buildings: square office blocks, blinking radio wireframes, the tip of a steeple. When she sweeps aside the mist to look down, though, the bottoms of those buildings aren’t where they should be. She thinks of aquariums. Refraction.
All the windows up here are dark, but the clock tower is lit from within. She walks toward it, click click click.
Friday, November 18, 2005
“We were brothers, Worm,” snarls Smithfield. “Do you remember? The hazing, the drinking, the house, the nights–God, the nights–”
“We were rented friends.” Walmsley sighs. “Not that I’d choose this, but you and the rest of IT are in the way.” He smashes a glass paperweight into Smithfield’s hand. “Development will have those rack servers.”
“Never!”
“Give it up, Smithfield!” Walmsley roars. “You’ve lost! We’ve taken Shipping, Receivable, HR–there’s no rescue coming! Now tell! Me! The password!”
Smithfield opens his mouth, and Northwood bursts into the meeting, silk tie around his bleeding head, battlemouse whirling so fast it keens.
Thursday, November 17, 2005