by Mike Heppner
Simon moved closer to the window, the voices becoming more distinct:
“Lydia, what are you talking about? You were the one who told me to put a good word in for the kid.”
“Did you even look, Steven, did you even consider—”
“Of course I did!”
Big globe lanterns made distracting splotches upon the glass; from outside, Simon’s parents resembled strange demons with normal bodies but glowing circles for heads.
“Those posters, those signs in that store are so patently sleazy—”
“Well they are and what do you want me to do about it . . . dag-DAMN-IT!”
“Steve, I feel like I’m intruding.”
“No, Jim, you sit right there, this is something we all need to hear. Now my wife—”
“Oh, Jesus.”
“Lydia, will you listen to me! Now, my wife, Jim, for months, months and months and months . . . ‘You talk to Cam Pee, you set it up.’ That’s what she said. R-right here, where we’re sitting. And I said—FINE!”
“No, you did not say fine.”
“I said FINE! because I wanted her to be happy, which is all I ever try to do.” He tossed his knife and fork at his plate and patted his beard with a napkin.
Lydia glared at him. “I expected you to use some discretion, Steven. I expected you to use your head.”
“That’s not what you told me. You said, ‘Whatever it takes, whatever it costs, I don’t care.’ ”
“Those commercials are pornographic!”
“Steve, I’ll just . . . you know, some other time.”
“Jim, no, come on.”
“Jim, what do you think? The ads. On the TV. Do you have an opinion?” Lydia leaned across the table, pointing at Jim with her fork.
On the spot, he stammered, “I think they’re . . . doing a swell job, Lydia, I don’t know what else to say to you here.”
“That’s my son, Jim!”
“Lydia, I know. And he’s a real talented kid. We all just love him downtown.”
“Well, ain’t that fucking great!”
Simon felt his father’s anger as he stood and banged his legs against the edge of the table. “Hey, now. Wait. Wait right there. Do not— Lydia?—when we’ve got guests—”
“Oh, please . . .”
“You can say WHATEVER YOU WANT TO ME—”
“Fuck it, Steve.”
“The language is just about to make me . . . POP M’TOP!”
“Steve, I’m just gonna go.”
“Jim, no!”
“Jim, please. Have some more pasta.”
Simon returned to the shadows, watching as the man with the high hair left the house and drove away. Slowly at first, he reemerged, showing himself, not caring anymore. His nakedness was a constant surprise to him, something he rediscovered every few seconds. His dick pulled him along, past the window where his parents argued and threw things at each other. He opened the door; a dark window showed his reflection—a pale outline with nothing inside. He pressed his belly against the glass. He wanted to rub it, to rub the whole building with his dirty parts. Losing his nerve, he hurried into the foyer. His parents’ voices carried from the dining room, following him up the stairs, spiraling high above the landing and shooting down the dark corridor to his bedroom, where they accumulated at the foot of the mattress in a train wreck of muffled noise.
“I want those ads gone tomorrow! Tomorrow morning, Steve!”
“Now how the heck do you think I’m gonna manage that? Go up to Cam Pee . . . ‘Oh, I’m very sorry, sir, my wife, she’s a little temperamental—’ ”
“Why the hell not? Why can’t you say that? Blame it all on me. I am temperamental.”
The voices roared like furnace fire inside the heating vents as Simon pulled a heavy comforter over his head. Dirt from the muddy trail left a grit that collected between the sheets.
“Lydia, are you . . . are you even using your head? Are you even using your mind? What do you think I got this gad-darn promotion for? That’s an extra nine thousand dollars a year!”
“We don’t need the money.”
“I know we don’t need the money! I know we . . . goshdamnit I know! None of it! The . . . why even go? Why even go, Lydia, why do I do it, why do I bother?”
“Listen, if you want to play man of the house, you’re not gonna—”
“It’s . . . it’s all stupid!”
“—you’re not gonna hold my son hostage just so you can feel like—I DON’T CARE!”
“Lydia, just stop.”
“OH, SHUT UP! SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!”
“What? What?”
“SHUT AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH—”
“I’m trying to have a civil conversation—”
“I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! Unnnnhhhh. Unnnnhhhh. Unnnnhhhh.”
“I’m trying to have . . . I’m trying . . .”
Turning over in bed, Simon kissed the pillow, then licked it, mashing it with his lips until it changed shape, became another pair of lips, also kissing. Moving his right hand between his stomach and the mattress, he felt his penis and found that it was warm and hard and standing flat against his belly. He rubbed the shank with his thumb, forcing his face deeper into the pillow, each kiss torn away, twisted.
“Steve. I’m sorry.”
“Look, Lydia—”
“Don’t. Please.”
“Can I just say one thing?”
“One thing.”
Simon licked his palm and wrapped it around his dick. His skin felt tight at first, then slid easily as his hand pumped the shaft. Strange tingles danced across his belly like big spider legs, and he knew that soon he would have to stop. The tingle was a curtain, spreading sometimes, flashing silverfish glimpses of the space beyond. Reluctantly, he removed his hand and rolled onto his back, staring out the window, but the moon was on the other side.
“It’s gonna get better, Lydia. Things look kind of crazy right now. That’s just the price of fame. Give it—”
“Okay!”
“What?”
“That was your one thing.”
Polymicroniphate
1999
Julian Mason slept through New Year’s, the big football games, the first few days of drifting snow and ice on the shingles. He closed his eyes, saw a gravestone, then changed the year from 1998 to 1999. The numbers created a balance, perfectly in line with the year of his birth. For days he contemplated the tombstone, substituting 2004 and 2007 and 2016 with mixed results. He thought about his work with Olden Field—a dismal way to end his career. Candace was a woman, Julian’s dead mother, but now Candace was a typeface—big words gone electric, spelling untrue things, outright lies, real facts altered as provocations. It cheapened her, this stupid egg code; he’d reduced his mother to the level of accomplice.
Cooped up one morning, he put on his once stylish Members Only jacket and trudged through the cold, picking his way down a snowy hillside to where the other houses—most of them unoccupied for the winter—clustered around the frozen lake. Olden was standing next to his tiny shack, chopping wood, stacking it against the crumpled foundation. An open pit burned a few feet away, heat licking a ring of black melt. “Julian.” He fanned the snow from the ax with his bare hand. “Those shoes, they’re not doing it for you.”
Julian looked down at his slick leather wingtips. He felt sloppy and pathetic. “These?”
“You need to get yourself some construction boots. Heavy-duty. The weather gets nasty up here.” He pointed at some power lines lacing black strands across the sky. “Thank God for mass communications. You need to check your e-mails every now and then. I sent about a half-dozen messages last week.”
“I never use the thing.”
Olden hefted the blade and split a chunk of maple braced between two logs. “Now, Julian, that’s silly. You can’t afford to think that way. How old are you? Sixty, sixty-five?”
“Sixty-three.”
“Sixty-three. That’s a good age. A ma
n’s age.” Unnerved, Julian stood away from the ax, the silver swish, the heavy wooden collision. “I’m looking forward to being sixty-three. See, if you were ten years older, I would’ve said okay.”
“Okay to what?”
“To your attitude. That crusty-old-man shit. But dude, you’ve got, what, twenty years left?”
Julian stared at the backs of his hands. The veins were thick and prominent, making his skin look purple in places. “That would be . . . very optimistic. Black men, we don’t usually—”
“Twenty years easy!” Olden set down his ax, planting the blade in the snow. “Okay, fifteen. But that’s a long time!”
Julian looked toward the lake and saw the fifteen years stacked up— something finite, compact enough to contemplate as a single unit. He swallowed. “I think I would like to stop doing this. This thing. If it’s all right with you.”
“Stop doing what?” Olden asked, his voice different now.
“Our little project. I’m not comfortable. I feel like I’m doing something wrong.”
Olden laughed and shook his head. “Julian, man. I don’t know . . .”
Julian spoke quickly, making excuses. “Well, I’m sorry, sir, and I feel very badly about this because I should’ve asked more questions at the outset, and I understand you were trying to do me a favor, and I appreciate it . . .” The young man’s expression remained solemn, unconvinced. Julian’s voice rose high like a woman’s, and he saw his mother yelling from the front step—Julian, you bring the broom over here, don’t leave it there, that’s right, you take the broom, there you go, all right now, you my baby. “I know that it’s not what you want to do, but I have my own sense of . . .”
“Ethics?”
“Right.”
“Ethics, personal values.”
“Yes, of course, but don’t misunderstand me. All I’m saying—”
A strong wind blew over the sagging rooftop. The fire collapsed, then collected itself under a burst of black smoke. Olden held up both hands: Wait. “Look, Julian.” He straddled the woodpile and sat down; the logs shifted, forming a more solid shape. “You’re one of the good guys, man. We’re doing people a favor here. Everything we as Americans have erected around ourselves—all this scaffolding—is an illusion. There’s not a damn thing in the Egg Code that’s real. And we did that, Julian. You and me. We made it all up. The phony facts, the crazy paranoia. So if this is wrong . . . then maybe this is wrong too.” He made a box with his hands and placed it in different locations. “And this and that and the other. And then maybe people will stop believing everything they read.”
Julian looked at the ground, the black footprints leading across a white field. He felt spun around, talked into something. “I don’t know what you’re saying.”
Olden patted the old man on the shoulder. “Listen, I’ve got to run a few chores. What are you doing today?”
Stacking the last of the firewood, he got his keys from inside the house, and together they drove thirty miles south to the outskirts of Crane City. By the time they reached the mall, it was noon and the parking lot was full. Inside the main shopping area, bodies congregated around a fountain, its twenty-foot-tall geyser making a shimmering, jungle-canyon sound above their heads. A woman stood with her two children, laughing and munching on a Nutty Buddy as one of the kids pretended to control the other like a marionette. Olden led Julian to an illuminated sign marked HOW TO GET THERE, then pointed at a bookstore on the second floor. Upstairs, there were fewer customers, a more select breed. The music inside the bookstore was loud and belligerently sophisticated—the Goldberg Variations, but only the fast parts, played on a synthesizer by Kitaro. Near the back wall, fat and skinny books crowded the shelves. Olden picked one and skimmed the pages.
“Look at this, Julian.” He pointed at a sentence, but just as quickly closed the book, as if by reading it one might miss the point. “This is what the Internet can’t do. You can’t boil this down, can’t reduce it to the mindless essentials.”
“Well, that’s the truth.” Julian scanned the wall of books and tried to look impressed.
Olden replaced the book on the shelf. “This is what I’m working to save. Nothing dumbed down.” He made a face, impersonating an idiot. “All you really need to know about organic chemistry in six easy steps— kiss my ass! Nothing is easy, Julian. Intelligence is a gift. Not everyone has it.”
“No, I suppose not.”
“What do you think?”
“I think you’re right.” Julian hesitated; everything he said seemed to underwhelm the young man’s expectations, so he added, “I guess I understand what you’re trying to do now.”
“Yeah?”
“Basically you’re just trying to send a message . . . that we all need to reach out and take a step back.” More comfortable now, he looked at his watch, thinking, I need to go to CVS.
Disappointed, Olden wandered away, drawn to the noise up front. A college girl sat near the magazines, her legs draped over a leather armrest. Smiling at her, he felt a quick longing for Scarlet. It seemed odd that someone he knew so intimately could also lead a separate existence, could shit and eat and play with salt shakers and maybe even buy a wok. He would call her someday, maybe later in the month. Too much to do. This was the price of idealism, the penalty for refusing to work for the government. Every spare moment wound up getting sacrificed to the big cause. Near the registers, where shoppers gathered around magazines devoted to their own special interests, the thought occured to him: I need a hobby. Picking up a windsurfing magazine, he browsed the slick, glossy pages. Near the centerfold, a column of text streamed over a photo of a wet suit, limbs arranged in an action pose, knees bending, braced against the wind. Olden read the first sentence, then the next, stopped, started again.
WET SUIT WARNING. Researchers from the University of California at Berkeley have discovered a strange skin disorder related to certain brands of wet suits, such as the one pictured here. According to Dr. Wayne Teal: “Some skin types are more sensitive than others. The body secretes an acidic compound— called Polymicroniphate—that reacts in hazardous ways with certain substances.” Dr. Teal refers to the case of Billye Daye, a windsurfer and part-time accountant who was rushed to Crescent City General Hospital earlier in the year. Dr. Teal continues: “In Mr. Daye’s case, the rubber content of the wet suit produced just enough thermal energy to cause the material to bond with his epidermis.” Dr. Teal cautions that while this phenomenon is uncommon, all persons in the windsurfing community should be on the alert for any unusual rashes or abrasions. Thanks to staff writers at WWW.EGGCODE. COM for their helpful contributions.
He dropped the magazine, and it slid under the base of the display rack. He wanted to make them all disappear, to hide every single issue behind bookshelves and under doormats and inside empty wall cavities. The lie grew, spreading across the store and out into the concourse. The whole process seemed corrupt. This was the moment, the time of the great transference. In this way, the Egg Code had created its first fact.
Olden roamed the aisles, amazed by what he saw. Numbered signs itemized the contents like merchandise at a drugstore, nasal spray after-shave foot cream, except here it was art and architecture and poetry and eastern philosophy. He could smell the paper and the glue of the bindings, and it made him feel ill, for he’d always thought of books as perfect, incorporeal things, untouched by the filthy hands of the peasantry, bold conceptions hatched directly from the minds of great men and transmitted across the centuries for the benefit of a certain few. He now realized his awful vulnerability, his complete reliance on the dictates of commerce. He wondered what greater damage he could have done, given the chance. It was too easy, for Christ’s sake. Hands trembling, he picked through the remainders, pulling out a random volume, a hardcover first edition of Mathematics the Fun Way written by some cat with a made-up-sounding name. There he saw weird fractals fanning out in dizzy spirals, multi-arrowed flowcharts indicating the basics of topological though
t, great sinusoidal waves analyzed as a function of x and y . . . but where was the proof? Sure, there were proofs, proofs on every page. But where was the proof for the proof? This was the curse of the times. Every opinion carried the same weight, for there was always proof out there somewhere, some unnamed source willing to support the most crackpot theory, and the worst sin of all was to suggest that one idea was better than the next. An overabundance of alternatives—this was life at the dawn of the third Christian millennium. Glass beads everywhere.
Reaching the front of the store, Olden leaned against a display table and gaped at the stacks of new books. One display in particular caught his attention—a black-and-white photograph of Donna Hasse Skye dressed in a tweed blazer, cut to fit a man. The picture emphasized the angle of her jaw, the sharp but not unattractive wrinkles common to middle age. Take me seriously, the picture said. There’s nothing remotely funny about this. Brown and orange print spelled the name of the book— first in English, then in Chinese, then in Arabic, then in Russian, then in . . . the whole thing reminded him of those signs downtown telling you not to smoke in forty different languages. A few words made a pitch along the bottom half:
From noted spokeswoman Donna Hasse Skye comes this touching compilation of tales from around the world, brought together in one beautifully rendered volume. Many of these tales have never been heard before outside of their native lands. Listen as Ms. Skye recreates the legends, dreams, and aspirations of our diverse planet. Much more than just a collection of stories, Many Voices, One Vision is a powerful sermon to the world, an inspiring travelogue that teaches even as it entertains.
