by John Domini
Editors have no idea. One station actually ran the Monsod story second. Apparently some deep thinker at Channel 3 believes that a prison riot matters less than a visit from Ronald Reagan. Ronald Reagan, that doddering perennial also-ran! And not one of the local stations could spare more than five minutes for Monsod coverage.
Then there were the errors of fact. On Channel 7, a prolonged exterior shot showed smoke erupting from a smashed top-story window. According to the voiceover, this fire was in the prison workshop.
No way. Hollywood. The workshop is three stories below the window in the shot, on “D” Level. This reporter himself passed the workshop, Thursday morning. This reporter was there, the alternative. A spokesman for conscience.
Zia see. What makes a tourist a tourist, Zia see. Thursday.
I’m talking two white males, aged 25-30, cruising the downtown. Cruising that dubious urban corner—part financial district, part Boston Garden hardhat spillover—and part ours, right? Part the cruise lands of our kind. The basements where we’re trying to brew a new beginning.
Dilettantes in the demimonde. Visitors at the zoo. Thursday night, these two were trying to pass as blue boys. You know, blue boys. S&M, swat & moan. One fellow wore some sort of uniform—could that have been a prison guard’s uniform, Teresa? Santa Teresa, a security uni from a Massachusetts state pokey?—while the other guy was covered with bruises.
And I mean, bruises was just the beginning. I hadn’t seen anything like this guy since my last fight with my boyfriend. Hadn’t seen anything like those stitches in his scalp since the last time I checked out the tracks in my forearm.
The worst distortions appeared on… this reporter didn’t get the channel… it was on one of the networks, anyway. One of the networks had an interview with one of the extra security, called in for the emergency. And they wrapped this interview up neat as the last fade on The Waltons:
Q: You say that one of the prisoners was killed?
A: His door got open somehow, some kinda weakness in the materials looks like. We just had an inspection here this morning.
But enough about me. The question is, how’d I know that these two were tourists?
Hmm. There were their outfits, for starters. That guard’s uniform had potential, granted, and the name patch was a nice touch (C. Garrison, it read). But the guy carried entirely the wrong kind of accessories on his belt (a walkie-talkie? a bunch of keys?)
Kit’s head rested against the trolley window. For some moments now he’d been sitting this way, with his back to the car’s center aisle, watching the reflection of his own eyes floating over the concrete and cable of the T’s underground walls. Now suddenly that reflection began gliding over exteriors. Landscapes. Through his own dim-mirrored eyes, Kit saw duplexes and three-stories in scrappy garden blocks. He saw aluminum siding, sheeny as polyester.
The ethnic-pride suburbs. The Sons of Columbus.
The Sons, Leo called it. The club was just the place for Sea Level to begin dragging demons out into the light. Just the perfect irony. Six months ago, Kit had arranged the details of the contract at the Sons. His first visit, he’d met Zia. Later he’d returned for the final signatures, under a studio portrait of Leo and his two boys. And now here Kit was, once more meeting Zia at the Sons—in this business, you knew where your writers were. But this time he was coming to tell her she was off the paper.
She was off Volume One, Numbers Two & Three. No room for entertainment reporting in the kind of issue Kit had in mind. No room for fluff when you’re telling the whole truth.
Zia needed to hear it right away, face to face. She needed to understand, also, that she had a conflict of interest. Her father’s products had turned up in the crawlspace under E Level. Mirinex products. Pipe fittings.
Kit had spotted the stuff as soon as the Building Commission inspectors came out of the utility closet. He couldn’t miss it, really—Mirinex, Inc., embossed on the familiar U-joints and right angles. The inspectors carried them in their fists, in their Baggies. The two state employees had forgotten all about not making waves. They’d come out screaming, kicking, hacking up tear gas. And what else was Kit going to look at, if not the evidence in the inspectors’ hands? What, when under his own hands Junior’s face was disappearing?
Q: You say that one of the prisoners was killed?
A: His door got open somehow, this one con. Some kinda weakness in the materials looks like. We just had an inspection here this morning, y’know.
Q: His name was Rebes? Carlos Rebes?
A: Junior, they called him. That was his street name.
Q. And you think Junior started the trouble?
A: That’s what it looks like.
Q. He got out first?
A: When Rebes gets out, see, that’s when you have your disturbance. He starts acting up, see, that’s when it gets out of hand. I mean Junior—he had a hostage situation down there, y’know. He had the inspection team tied up. Then like, he’s the one started it, so he’s the one who goes down. That’s what it looks like.
Their outfits were part of the giveaway, no question. Part of how you could tell these were tourists. I mean, the name patch on the “prison guard” was a nice touch. C. Garrison, in clean, state-employee stitching. Nice. But the guy carried entirely the wrong kind of accessories (a walkie-talkie? a bunch of keys?) and his pants were way too loose in the crotch. Way too loose in the crotch for a self-respecting blue boy. Especially one all Irish-pouty and pumped up, like this jocko. As for the other guy, well, again, one did see potential. The bruises, for instance. And did I mention that he was lean and Scandie, rather David-Bowie-looking with his twingabled hairline, his vulpine jaw? Po-ten-tial. I loved the stains on the jacket too.
But I mean, stains don’t fool me. I mean, I saw his pants. I mean—permanent press! Office wear! Plus when it came to footgear, the guy didn’t even know about red sneakers. I heard the unmistakable squeak of L.L. Bean.
Channel Whatever’s interview continued for perhaps another half-minute. This reporter couldn’t stand to watch. This reporter knows why Junior Rebes died. It wasn’t because he “started it.” It wasn’t a matter of “sow the wind, reap the whirlwind.” No way. Hollywood. Junior Rebes died as a result of poor choices, poor building materials, the wrong people in the wrong places…
Junior Rebes died, in short, for reasons that go way beyond the grasp of a rent-a-cop and a talking head. His killing won’t fit into what the TV-news folks like to call “information units.” It can’t come down from the satellite feed in a single simple bite. When Channel Whatever finished its interview, who should come on the screen but Farrah Fawcett-Majors, the Girl of the Moment, utter hollow hype—and yet her face alone seemed more honest than the so-called “news.”
Their outfits were part of the giveaway, sure.
And uhh…the “Garrison” fellow? The beef in the uni? He uhh, he uhh… he came and went. Rather a ghostly Garrison. One moment the guard and the gangly Scandie would be deep in conversation, gesturing over fistfuls of red scotch—and the next, Mr. Uni would disappear. Blink and he’d be gone. Quick as a Ramones song. Scandie would be left like his homeboy forefather Hamlet: with th’incorporal air holding discourse.
Strange stuff, yeah.
Garrison’s hard. He’s the part I never quite put in place.
But our beaten-up Scandie, he went on proving himself out of touch. He never felt my eyes on him. And whenever Garrison’s signal faded (don’t ask me), the blonde poser watched the TV news. I mean, he watched the network news—he believed in that tripe.
Those painkillers he was taking didn’t fool me either.
Her face. Infinitely honest. The hair out of whack, the mouth intricate. A face like a hamper in a haystack.
This reporter.
Why did Junior Rebes die? Well, why do you need an alternative press? Spokesman for conscience, for complexity, for the scum of the earth…
This reporter was doing important work, sitting in a bar watching TV.
Every sip of Johnny Walker was a blow for social responsibility. After all, the security guard in the network interview wasn’t even on the scene when Rebes died. He wasn’t even there. Junior had stopped breathing—his chest had gone still, under this reporter’s hand—long before any backup security arrived.
So he looked like a tourist, yeah. He acted like a tourist. But for the real proof—deep, dream-deep—we need the angels on my shoulders. The angels Cue and Ayy.
Cue: (striving for journalistic objectivity) Who the fuck are you?
Ayy: A wounded warrior in the battle for truth.
Cue: (holds up a thought balloon: WHAT KIND OF PAINKILLERS IS THIS GUY TAKING?)
Ayy: A wounded warrior, (indicates stains) Bloody but unbowed. You oughta see the other guy.
Cue: The other guy? What, your friend in the uni?
Ayy: For starters. The guard is only the visible symptom of the infection. The lesion, the buboe. The outbreak above the horizon.
Cue: Yeah, yeah, yeah.
Big media. It could turn Christ himself into an idol, a graven image. You know the network showed a photo of Junior Rebes, too? And you know the murdered convict actually looked a little like Farrah Fawcett-Majors? The womanly lips, the wedge-like eyes… after a moment, this reporter couldn’t stand to look.
This reporter had believed in that face. Believed. Behind Junior’s face lay a mess, sure, but this mess nonetheless constituted a soul. In there, dream-deep, waited a secret worth knowing. A secret so powerful it would single-handedly replace all the world’s lies…
Or so this reporter had thought, till he saw even the face of his Monsod source turning to sheer screen, sheer blonde hype, blonde on bone … and then Farrah herself came on, and she’d been astonishing, the most honest thing up there …
Whatever she was about, this Girl of the Moment, this hamper in a haystack, she was true to it, haunting and true .
. and this reporter .
. and this reporter.
Ayy: The guard is only a pawn in their game. He is an appendage of the machine, a puppet of the bourgeois.
Cue: Hoo boy.
Ayy: I saw the pipe fittings.
Cue: (again, the thought balloon)
Ayy: I saw the pipe fittings. The BBC inspectors came out of the closet, and I saw.
Cue: Well, of course you saw. Isn’t that the point, when someone comes out of the closet?
Ayy: I saw their Baggies. I saw the infection itself.
Cue: You know, I’m starting to think you’re not such a tourist after all .
Ayy: I saw the bourgeois sickness, in all its grease. And I know who controls the means of production. I know and I’m going to bring him down. No matter what Garrison says.
(the guard reappears with a big, red, Irish grin)
*
The Sons of Columbus on a weeknight. The foyer was unlit, the reception rooms sober, the furniture folded against the walls. More than anything, the place said: cost-efficient. For a banquet at the Sons, they brought out the long tables. For Vegas Night, the round tables. The kitchen doors groaned when they swung, heavy chipboard, dark enough to hide the dirt from a Boy Scout’s hands and strong enough to take a crack from a caterer. The club was a working three-dimensional design for the immigrant work ethic. Seven days a week, any job, any hours.
Kit was still thinking of Garrison. Charley Garrison—talk about an immigrant work ethic. Even the chill of the walk from the T recalled the way his feet had held the cold from Monsod’s basement. That morning Garrison had said nothing till the inspection team was safe. Wordlessly the guard had herded everyone upstairs and out through the cellblocks a different way, to a different sally port. Only then did he pull Kit aside. He spoke in a cracked whisper, a tone that prodded Kit like a second frisk. He told Kit not to write about the fight with Junior.
You know the kind of trouble you’re in for, Garrison had whispered, you write about that fight? Whoa. The guard had told him to say only that Junior had died in the disturbance. That’s all that pervert scum is worth.
And then, downtown, Kit had seen just that story on TV.
(the guard reappears with a big red Irish grin. Ayy swivels to face him)
Ayy: This man says, what’s the big deal about the truth? He says, “Whoa” (he does a pretty good South Boston accent, actually), “the truth, that always comes down to the same sorry shit anyway.” Always comes down to fear or greed or some other sorry shit. That’s all you’ll get, Garrison says, once you’ve gone through all the excuses.
Cue: Uhh, you’re some kind of reporter?
Ayy: (proudly) With an alternative newsweekly. A journal of politics and opinion.
(Garrison disappears)
Cue: Uhh, you know something? I myself—
Ayy: An alternative newsweekly. Where every day there’s a war on. The Bastille must be taken every day.
Cue: What paper is this?
Ayy: And this next issue, this is going to be big. We’re not just going to do the prison, Rebes, that story. We’re going to do the whole building-contracts scandal. In Massachusetts.
Cue: Building contracts in Massachusetts. Well. That is fascinating.
Ayy: (oblivious) This next issue, it’s going to be huge. A double issue. Maybe even forty pages.
Cue: (massages inside of elbow)
Ayy: This issue, it’ll be single-subject only. The scandal only, a single simple dirty picture. Hit ‘em between the eyes.
Cue: (goes on massaging)
*
“Hey, what happened to you?”
Kit had propped himself in an open kitchen door. Here a radio droned, setting loose 101 Strings on stainless steel. And there didn’t appear to be any Sons tonight in the Sons of Columbus. Kit saw only women. Even the ones with no fat to speak of had that flesh to them, Italian flesh. Kit couldn’t tell at first where the knots of dough left off and the kneading hands began. They wore loose workaday dresses that bagged over apron strings. Scarves held their hair.
“Hey? You with us?”
Kit touched his neck. One of the women came away from the counter and, just like that, put her own hand over his. Lightly she fingered the bruises beside his ear.
“You really got a bump there,” the woman said. A smoker, she studied him with one eye closed. “What was it, some kinda accident on the Expressway?”
“Yeah, looks bad,” another woman said. “Sure you don’t wanna lie down?”
Nobody asked what Kit was doing here. Not even a can-I-help-you? The smoker raked the hair back from his temple.
“Stitches too,” she said. “Y’know this kind of thing can throw off your sense of balance.”
Kit had heard the same at Massachusetts General. But these women were nothing like the nurse there, none of that professional distance. Kit’s neck gave at the smoker’s touch. Oh, a touch. The moan in his ears returned, the noise that had deafened him in the Law Library. He wanted to speak.
And then, perfect timing, Zia.
She said something about a message at the office, something about never expecting him here. The words reached him spottily, through a buzz of surprises. Kit faced a Zia Mirini he’d never seen. The moan that’d been building up in him broke, hushed, and he couldn’t stop staring. Even with the apron on, it was obvious Zia’s dress had been designed for better than kitchen work. Loud pink trim laced the spattered flour. After a moment Kit placed the dress, he’d seen it at the office. But he’d seen it with yellow cowboy boots and the usual hair. Tonight Zia wore a scarf, like the others. No makeup.
Kit found his voice. “Zia,” he said, “you look like the poster girl for a convent.”
More new sides to the woman: “God, how’d you know? I’ve been shooting for Joan of Arc since I was twelve.”
He grinned up the better side of his face.
“So what are you a poster for, Kit? What happened?”
A reasonable question. Kit’s voice failed him again; he got no further than telling her he’d gotten into Monsod.
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“Oh you did? You did?” Zia actually clapped her hands. “Oh I’m glad, Kit. That’s fantastic for you. And it’s great for the paper, I mean—really great. Congratulations.”
His grin was getting to his bruises.
“Honestly, Kit. You’ve done something incredible.”
The smell of bread was torture, a vapor his stomach couldn’t hold. Or was it the news he’d planned to give her that made him so queasy? What he’d had in mind as he’d headed out of the city had seemed so sturdy, so clear. Self-evident. Yet here in this touchy-feely kitchen, before this happy young stranger, Sea Level’s next issue already seemed like a bogus reason for doing anything. Had he come all this way just to hurt Zia? To show her his bashed-in face and then tell her she was laid off?
“Zia, can we talk?”
She shared a look with the smoking woman, a glance he couldn’t read. For the first time since Monsod, Kit wanted a good look at himself. The best he could find was the kitchen’s security mirror, the bulbous circle of glass up in one corner of the room. The reflection turned him upside down. Or the proportions were all wrong, the head too heavy, patched and barely holding together.
To: K
From: Corinna Nummold,
Administrative Assistant
RE: Projected budget, SL #2 & 3.
Kit, I’m sorry, but I don’t belong here. I don’t want any part of this.
I mean, I realize you’re planning a double issue, next issue. I realize you need figures for that. A projected budget.
But Kit—it’s you who don’t realize. You can’t even begin to try to realize. Double issue’s going to cost you, Kit. Cost you a lot more than a man can pay.
See, to get the rates for the issue, I went to the libraries. I mean, you got to go where the facts are, right? And Kit, I’m telling you. I heard something.
There’s a crying in the libraries, Kit. That’s what I heard. A crying and a sobbing, a noise nobody can make sense of. Right there in the libraries.
