by Jarett Kobek
“May we sleep?” I asked. “I’m exhausted.”
“Sure,” she said. “I hope so, anyway. I might be too high to sleep.”
Her tossing kept me awake, long sun-kissed legs kicking against me as she sighed, exasperated, pulling my bedclothes. She ran to the bathroom every forty minutes, her body frantic to flush out unholy toxins.
We didn’t sleep until about 8 am. Sheer ruination. I was up by noon.
*
When the evening hours rolled around, we sat in Baby’s bedroom, talking about Pump Up the Volume, a movie that, incredibly, all five of us had seen.
Meself, Baby, Erik, Stacie, and Jon. The quintet was thus.
The unusual factor was Jon. He never saw films, especially those made in Hollywood. Especially those starring actors like Christian Slater.
Pump Up the Volume offers the story of an Arizona high school student. Under the nom de guerre of Happy Harry Hard-On, he operates his own pirate radio station. He broadcasts tepid social subversion to his classmates. These children of suburbia are bored with their lives, bored with school, bored with America, bored with each other, bored with life. They take to this anonymous unknown broadcaster and his message. Society comes down hard. Teachers, principals, cops, the FCC. Tears and lamentations.
“It’s such bullshit,” said Jon, sucking down a shot of tequila. “Another bourgeoisie vision of rebellion and youth gone wild.”
“Be that as it may,” I said, “I liked it.”
“You like everything,” said Baby.
“She always has,” said Stacie.
“Even if one strips away all the terrific clichés and demands of the three-act screenplay, there is something enormously appealing about Christian Slater establishing that radio station in his parents’ basement. One doesn’t often see that in film, one doesn’t often see private worlds, disconnected realities built by outsiders through force of will, constructed with taste and abstention.”
“I enjoyed it,” said Erik, long brown hair running along his shoulders.
“He also likes everything,” said Baby.
“Why’d you like it?” asked Stacie.
Erik was one of those mad people who are fully functional. They maintain jobs and operate in the wider world without difficulty, but their inner lives are overrun with divergent thinking. These people take their sweet time before revealing the full scale of their lunacy, by which point one is sucked into their sphere of influence.
“It’s all just Christian allegory, isn’t it?” asked Erik. “It’s the Crucifixion without the Resurrection. Or maybe it’s about Jesus after his return, when he rises from death and is so different. Maybe Happy Harry Hard-On is the resurrected Christ of the 1990s.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” asked Baby.
“Think about it,” said Erik. “He preaches a message that outrages the power structure. He slums about with the lowest and the worst of society. He performs miracles, heals the suburban soul. His demise is a ritualized slaughter. No one ever listens to me, but it’s true, Happy Harry Hard-On is the new Jesus.”
“Oh, Erik,” I said.
We’d run out of tequila. I ventured into the kitchen, hoping to discover more. Baby followed. I rummaged through our cupboards, looking for remnants of previous debauches.
“We’re out,” he said. “Drier than a dry county.”
“I’ll purchase more.”
“Wait for me,” he said. “I’ll go with you.”
We left behind Erik and Stacie and Jon.
“What a crew,” I said to Baby on the stairs. “What a bunch of misfits.”
In the deli, we debated different brands of tequila and vodka before settling on a bottle of each. We went as cheap as possible. The bill came to about $20.
I said good-bye to the man behind the register. I wasn’t sure if he’d grown fond of us, but at the very least he must appreciate our faces. He saw us almost every day.
“What in the world do you think Erik was saying? Nuevo Cristo?” I asked.
“I’ve learned to not anticipate what comes out of Erik’s mouth,” said Baby. “Should I worry about this Christian Slater thing? What if it’s an early warning sign of Evangelicalism?”
Erik was in the kitchen, reading a paperback of The Yellow Wallpaper. I worried that he might unfold the story’s secret meaning. Another Christian allegory, with Gilman’s protagonist as the repressed female psychotic Christ of the nineteenth century.
“Hello,” he said.
“Where are Stacie and Jon?” I asked.
“They’re still in Baby’s room,” he said, shrugging towards the open door.
I removed the bottle of tequila. At Baby’s door, I heard Stacie talking, saying, “It’s, like, okay, what you’re talking about, with your music, right, like how it can’t fulfill you anymore and how you’re wondering, like, if something hasn’t changed, like, if you’re all fucked in the head because you don’t think hardcore can work in the ’90s, like, the thrill is gone, right? What you’re describing, really, is an experience that Kierkegaard would call the transition from the aesthetic to the ethical, which is, like, this moment when one is forced to choose between good and evil, not in, like, an absolute sense, but is forced to, like, understand that there is a choice and that choice must be made. The aesthetic personality is, like, a passive participant, while the ethical person is an individual who is actively reclaiming their actual, innate sense. Achieving the ethical isn’t really about choosing good over evil, but rather like hardening yourself toward the necessity of that choice, okay? And it isn’t that the ethical means you can no longer be aesthetic, it just means you’re, like, moving up to the next level of experience.”
Baby came over and stood behind me.
“God in Heaven,” I whispered. “It’s like tenth grade all over again. It’s like Jon is Ian fucking Covington. Absolute déjà vu.”
“You could be right,” said Jon. “That’s great insight. You seem very wise.”
“Who is Ian fucking Covington?” Baby asked.
“He was my boyfriend,” I said. “Stacie screwed his brains out.”
“I totally understand what’s going on,” said Stacie. “I’ve been told I’m very perceptive, especially by, like, really sensitive people. And I can tell you’re really really sensitive. You’re, like, an artist. I admire artists.”
“This isn’t the past,” said Baby. “You can’t repeat the past.”
“What do you mean you can’t repeat the past?” I asked. “Of course you can.”
“It’s hard being creative,” said Jon.
“Why don’t you go in there and say something?” asked Baby.
“I should,” I said. “Really, I should. Yet it’s a funny old thing, Pooh Bear. I’m not jealous. I’ve never been jealous about anyone but you.”
“And by their fruits ye shall know them,” said Baby.
JANUARY 1992
Baby Beats Jon in the Street
Jon screwed out Stacie’s brains, really giving her the time, but for many months this tryst was an unrevealed secret that haunted us like Communism or the plot device of a minor Gothic novel.
Their frenzied coupling occurred on the last day of Stacie’s visit, a few hours before she hailed a cab and disappeared from our lives.
That very afternoon, I’d arrived home, dropping off books between class and work, and found the dynamic duo. They were, supposedly, waiting for Adeline. They said hello, smiling, innocent, angelic. Flushed faces. The rife humidity of sex hung over the apartment. But what could I say? I hadn’t one inch of proof. I couldn’t go and smell the sheets, could I?
Months later, on a January night, the universe revealed its fractal nature, sucking me into a fourth-dimensional quantum entanglement with this illicit rendezvous.
I’d come home with the hope of getting some writing
done. Unlocking the front door and going inside, I saw Jon’s dirty denim jacket over a kitchen chair. Adeline’s door was closed. I assumed they were in her bed, busy with their drab vanilla flavor of hetero love.
I started typing, writing, pounding the keys, entrancing myself with the thin wild mercury machine music of my fingers. The story was titled “As Sure as Eggs Is Eggs.” It’s about an alternate reality, the historical departure point being the British defeat of the colonial rebels during the American War of Rebellion.
No United States, no Constitution, no Bill of Rights. The Louisiana Purchase still happens, but the land transfer occurs as part of the Treaty of Amiens. There is no War of 1812. William Wilberforce and Thomas Clarkson end slavery throughout the Empire, its final abolition occurring in 1833, thereby averting the American Civil War, saving the lives of 600,000 potential soldiers. The brute force of this extra-human capacity mixes with British ingenuity, causing a volatile reaction that sparks a massive scientific and technological revolution. Every major advance of our twentieth century occurs before the death of Queen Victoria.
Which all sounds great, I admit, but there are downsides, too. The English caste system solidifies in the Americas, taking on new and disquieting forms.
By unconscious social agreement, all colonials carry upon their person the freshly laid egg of a chicken. Social distinctions are judged upon the thickness of shell, the quality of color, size, and visual heft.
The shelled accoutrement is a fact of modern life. As part of Her Majesty’s social welfare programs, every individual on the dole is issued a bargain-basement chicken, dooming the poor to a lifetime of undersized, yolkless eggs. The upper middle classes are trapped within a cycle of perpetually purchasing new hens, desperate for the latest innovation. New breeds emerge with daily frequency. A secondary market of accessories serves individuals who desire not only luxury but personalization. One key accessory is the mandatory opaque white cube carrying case with self-generated spotlight illumination, highlighting the smoothness of the egg’s curve and accentuating speckles.
The North American continent is absolutely lousy with egg knowledge. The Western British Empire is crazy with poultry experts.
I hadn’t gotten any further than establishing setting when Adeline’s voice shattered the thunder of my typewriter. She sounded positively apoplectic, shouting: —Just get the fuck out! Just get the fuck out! Just get the fuck out! Just get the fuck out! Just get the fuck out!
The front door slammed.
I peeked my head into the kitchen. Adeline stood by the bathtub, face as red as her hair.
—What the hell happened? I asked.
—Oh, not much, she said. Jon merely fucked my childhood best friend.
—What.
—Stacie, she said. He fucked Stacie. When she was visiting.
—What.
—Do you need the photo developed and framed? asked Adeline. Jon screwed out Stacie’s brains.
I floated above my physical self, my spirit tethered by an invisible umbilical cord, a silvery ectoplasmic tendril. I watched myself throw open the front door. I watched myself barrel down the stairs.
Jon was walking toward Second Avenue, contemplating his transgressions, only halfway down the block. A book in his right hand, jacket thrown over his left shoulder. He heard my footfall, turned back, saw me and started running. Adeline came outside, shouting, but I was too crazy to understand her words.
He rounded the corner, past the Kiev. I gave chase, bursting through the locked hands of a love-struck couple, shoving the man up against the restaurant.
—You had better run, I shouted. I’m going to hold you down and paint you green.
Jon leapt into Second Ave. I barreled after him, not giving a damn about oncoming traffic. My rage could bend steel, would crumple hoods.
—Leave me alone! he shouted.
—You can’t outrun me! You fucking asshole! I set the school records for the fifty- and hundred-yard dashes!
He turned down 6th Street, gaining a frantic burst of speed as he ran past the Indian restaurants, ignoring the Bangladeshi barkers who invited him inside with offers of free wine.
Jon dropped his book and his jacket, hoping to lighten his load, but the jacket tangled in his legs. He crashed against the crumbling pavement, right before the entrance to Shah Bag. He lay dazed, bleeding from a gash across his forehead.
The Christmas lights of Shah Bag lit his body. As part of their business model, all the 6th Street Indian establishments kept these lights hanging year-round. I stood above Jon, thinking that it was interesting how he’d managed to fall into the Xmas penumbra during the only time of year when the illumination was seasonally appropriate.
I picked up the book. A hardcover entitled Defiant Pose, authored by Stewart Home.
Jon lifted himself on the flats of his hands, crawling like an infant.
Using Defiant Pose as a makeshift weapon, I hit his head with as much strength as I could muster. The book was light, only 167 pages, but the lead vocalist of The Inverted Bloody Crosses had been weakened by his tumble, and was leveled by a modest hardcover debut.
He collapsed into the sidewalk.
A waiter came out of Shah Bag. I’d eaten there several times. The waiter looked at Jon, looked at me, and spat on the ground.
Then there was the time when I beat the living shit out of Jon.
Also, I kept his book.
FEBRUARY 1992
Baby Gets a Letter from Parker Brickley
There was Erik, there was NYU, there was Adeline, and there was my burgeoning career as a writer of science fiction, a literary subgenre that in those days still held some water.
During sophomore year, I’d taken a survey course in La Belle Époque with a professor named Jindrich Zezula. In the last week of the semester, I’d sat down at my typewriter with every intention of finishing my final paper on Émile Zola.
Four hours later, when I stood up, I’d written the first half of an exceptionally dubious short story. Two thousand words of unrefined excrement inflicted upon the English language. I destroyed the evidence.
Others followed. I couldn’t stop. Ideas poured out of my head, but writing did not come naturally. Writing was work, writing required an apprenticeship. I spent a year doing little but fucking Erik and shitting out terrible short stories.
After committing twenty-seven of these crimes against humanity, there was a new coherence, an awareness of construction and flow. The language no longer impeded the intent. In my arrogance, I began mailing out manuscripts.
My first sale was to Gardner Dozois at Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine. Entitled “Heroin of the Masses,” it was a shamefaced conceptual theft of The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars by David Bowie. By the time that it appeared in print, I couldn’t even read it, unwilling to relive its youthful naiveté.
But that’s life. Sometimes your parents die in outrageous circumstances that force you to leave town. Sometimes your brother throws himself off the Colorado Bridge in Pasadena, California. And sometimes you make your literary debut with the questionable pop eschatology of an alien singing lead vocals in a post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post glam band, on stage at the Pyramid Club, a book of prophecy in his right hand and a dirty syringe hanging from his cephalic vein.
*
Then there was the time when I was browsing books at the Strand and came across a biography of Johnny Appleseed, a pioneer who seeded apple trees across the American Middle West. In addition to his agricultural efforts, Appleseed was an adherent of Emanuel Swedenborg, a radical free-love mystic who’d ascended to heaven in the eighteenth century and came back to Earth full of saintly knowledge.
I grew up hearing myths about the man who planted trees, but what if all along he’d been sowing a differe
nt crop in warmer soils? What if his true purpose was spreading doctrines about the transcendent union with Christ through sexual abandon?
I wrote a story called “The Sun That Sleeps Too Long.” It was about a twenty-fourth-century analogue for Swedenborg, a character whom I didn’t bother giving a new name. I called him Swedenborg 2.
Like his namesake, Swedenborg 2 ascends to heaven, but the mechanism of his journey is alien abduction. The extraterrestrials probe him. They dissect him. They subject him to stress tests. They torture him. When the aliens exhaust their bevy of abuses, their advanced technology allows them to reconstruct Swedenborg 2’s body.
In the process of reconstruction, they implant Swedenborg 2’s brain with nano-tech that will allow the aliens to track him through the galaxy. Unfortunately for everyone involved, the implantation is scheduled on the first anniversary of ΩΩΩΩΩ’s death.
ΩΩΩΩΩ was the mate of ΦΦΦΦΦ. ΦΦΦΦΦ is the technician tasked with implanting nanotech in Swedenborg 2’s brain. In the hours before the operation, ΦΦΦΦΦ gets rip-roaringly drunk. ΦΦΦΦΦ botches the job.
Swedenborg 2 returns to earth. He discovers himself capable of performing miracles. He heals the sick. He raises the dead. He turns water into wine. He performs exorcisms on swineyards.
He also can’t stop talking. He babbles constantly about the alien abduction, which he has mistaken for Heaven, and establishes a new gospel based on infinite and endless sex. This holy horny glossolalia is another side effect of the implant, crammed into Swedenborg 2’s left anterior cingulate cortex, leaving the new messiah in a state of perpetual arousal. His dick becomes a dowsing rod, a holy celestial wand.
