I received a letter the other day from an organization that I belong to but cannot name warning me that my special orders list may be requested by the state at any time and that I have no right to refuse this request or even the right to contact an attorney—this is now the law. They wanted me to know that if the occasion should arise that I receive such a request that I should get in touch with my lawyer anyway and that they would pay for my representation. I’m telling you this because I believe you deserve to know why I and many other booksellers have not been fulfilling your special orders of late. You should also know that your electronic orders through the net are being monitored as well.
The words are disappearing. Books on my shelves are being bought and not replaced. When I try to replace them, they have either been priced prohibitively or they are simply not available from the distributors anymore. My shelves are emptying and all I can do is watch it happen. As your local bookstore owner and your friend, I feel that I have to at least warn you that the books you’ve been reading and have in your possession are not safe anymore. I’ve been running this bookstore for many years and I’ve never thought I would see this day. The books I sell—the physical paper ones, electronic ones, and the ones I’ve downloaded to your mind—have all been hand chosen by me. And these words are in danger. They can be retrieved from you at any time. If any of you have the following books in your possession, I would highly recommend that you secure them in a safe place:
The Fire Next Time by James Baldwin
The People’s History of the United States by Howard Zinn
Kindred by Octavia E. Butler
The Plutonium Files by Eileen Welsome
Fortunate Son by Gary Webb
Letter from a Birmingham Jail by Martin Luther King, Jr.
I say this because I have noticed men in the store that I’ve never seen before. New people come in off the street all the time that I don’t know, but these men feel different. They hang around and seem more interested in my customers than my books. I have no proof of it, but I think they are watching me and the activities in my store. I first noticed them after the last author reading we had here a few weeks ago where we discussed the implications of the latest election and the new laws that have been quickly passed. So many of you turned out and asked such poignant questions that even the author himself found it difficult to answer some of them. His spouse came by today and asked me if I had heard from him. That he never came home and that she thought that he gone out of town for a meeting but no one has seen or heard from him since that night. Maybe he has simply gone away somewhere and will return soon, but I must admit that I’m a bit scared.
I feel now that I have no choice but to close the store until further notice. I’m sorry for anyone who is inconvenienced by this. I wish there was another way. I know that some of you think that this store is simply a business, but trust me when I say that what I’ve been doing here did not make me in any shape, way, or form wealthy. I barely made a living. Actually, most months I was lucky if I broke even. I did this because I love words and the work of the men and women who dare to write them. I did this for the ideas and the knowledge and the courage to think new and different thoughts. So for the next twenty-four hours, I’m making every book in my mind-database available for free. Download all you can while you can. Words are the weapons of the future. Your ability to know is under attack and I plead with you to protect the words.
I wish all of you well.
Stay safe,
Your Former Local Bookstore Owner
STATUES OF LIMITATIONS
Jay Russell
“Yo! Bobby G!”
“Hey, Sal. I forgot they brought you in for this gig.”
“They try the rest, they come back for the best. Those losers from Staten really scrambled the eggs, left the City in a hole. The mayor sent ’em shlong-in-hand back on that goddamn ferry. But we’re doing great stuff. Winning!”
“Good for you. I guess this job’s got to be turned around quick.”
“Always the way, huh? The state’s been so late on the bandwagon they want to move fast now. I get the bum’s rush on the civil war shit—fuck those good ol’ cocksuckers—but all the rest? Hey, at least it’s more overtime for us.”
“There is that. So you guys doing all the decon and recon work in the Park?”
“Pretty much. We picked up a few of the other contracts, too.”
‘That’s great. Like what?”
“Port Authority. Who do you think deconned the Gleason statue. How sweet it was!”
“Aw, jeez, is the fat man gone already? I didn’t realize. Man, I loved The Honeymooners. I watched those reruns every darned day after school on Channel Eleven. Remember? I think about all the palookas in the sitcoms what came after and how much they owe to Gleason. ‘Bang! Zoom! Right to the moon, Alice.’ Heh-heh.”
“That is not amusing, Bobby, however significant Jackie Gleason was to the history of television comedy. That right there, what you quoted and which I shall not repeat for reasons I know you will appreciate, was a frightening cultural endorsement of the domestic abuse and female oppression so typical of the post-war era. There is nothing funny about physical violence or the incessant direction of micro-aggressions at your partner-in-life, my friend.”
“Yeah. I mean, of course not.”
“Not to mention his treatment of poor Ed Norton.”
“I hate to say it, but I always suspected maybe Norton was kinda retarded.”
“Bobby . . .”
“Developmentally disadvantaged.”
“Don’t you mean ‘challenged?’”
“Yeah. That.”
“In hindsight, I suspect Norton might have been situated on a particularly problematic developmental spectrum. Asperger’s, most likely. Tragically undiagnosed yet brutally seized upon by Ralph in order to deny Norton the opportunity to self-actualize. And all just to prop up Ralph’s own neurotypical privilege. Sad.”
“Asperger’s. Yeah, you might be on to a thing there. Poor Norton. Say, did you ever think maybe Ralph and Ed were more than just pals?”
“And if they were?”
“We-e-e-ll . . . that would have been great. I mean, if they had only been permitted a safe space wherein they could truly explore the limits of their identities. So, uh, have you replaced the Gleason statue with anything yet.”
“Of course.”
“I Love Lucy? I heard they wanted to keep with the TV theme. Gosh, she was great, too. So important not just as a physical comedienne but as a pioneering female producer and innovator in a restrictive and uterophobic post-studio system.”
“You fucking whacked out on the drugs or something, Bobby? You forget how Lucy was always cracking wise about Ricky’s Latino heritage? Entirely tone-deaf vis-à-vis her own blinkered ethnocentrism.”
“Ummm, yeah. I see that now. But hey, you remember those episodes where they—heh-heh—went to Italy? When she stomped the wine grapes and they started throwing them at each other. She got it right in the mush and . . .”
“Bobby.”
“Huh?”
“Are you—like myself—not the scion of a proud Italian-American heritage.”
“A what now?”
“An heir. A legatee of Italo-Roman achievement.”
“My mom’s dad was from Milan. I think. Until he was like . . . two.”
“Surely, then, you recognize the shameful bigotry foregrounded in those vulgar, early televisual representations. You, too, must be sensitive to the deep pain that stems from diminution of personhood arising from hurtful, cultural stereotyping. Undeniable comedic value notwithstanding, of course.”
“Notwithstanding, yeah. I see that. Wow. I mean: I’m woke.”
“I should hope so, my countryperson. In any case, we did retain a majorly media-based personage.”
“Whose statue did you put up instead?”
“Rush Limbaugh.”
“Beautiful.”
“Right? The likeness is unc
anny. Down to the fucking cigar and a little bottle of painkillers poking out of his pocket.”
“I’ll have to take a look. Maybe bring the kids.”
“Hell, yeah. Little girls can’t get enough of him. Better Rush than some gender-treacherous Disney Princess, eh?”
“Hey, did I hear your crew also did the work at Rockefeller Center?”
“With aplomb, my friend. With fucking A-plomb.”
“It was Atlas you were eighty-sixing, yeah?”
“Well, they couldn’t fucking keep that piece of shit now, could they? One man holding up the whole world. Could you—if you tried—come up with a more emblematic and insidious three-dimensional trope for two thousand years of hegemonic patriarchy?”
“Uh, wasn’t he a Titan?”
“Howzat?”
“Atlas. Wasn’t he a Titan? Not actually a man, that is to say.”
“Potayto, potato. You can’t spell Titan without ‘tit’.”
“Say what now?”
“He. Had. To. Go.”
“I gotta admit I always liked that one. I remember coming into the City at Christmastime with my folks and my little sister. The lights were so pretty in Rockefeller Center. And the massive tree they’d put up every year. Just like fairy land. We’d have a skate around the rink, sit down for a special lunch up in the Rainbow Room. On the way home I always made the family stop to admire that statue, that bigly-ass sphere perched on his shoulders. Somehow, it made me think of the world as a single, wondrous place. Looking at that thing . . . I could dream. Yeah, dream.”
“Keep dreaming, patriot. We kept the sphere. Torched that sucker right off. Not so much as a scratch on it after a spritz of WD-40 and a chamois.”
“Really?”
“Shit, yeah: nothing WD-40 can’t make better. Gleams like a new iPhone. Beautiful.”
“And Atlas?”
“Gone, history. Yesterday’s phallocentric news.”
“What did you do with him?”
“Jersey. Bayonne.”
“Oh. My. So who holds the world up now?”
“Ayn Rand.”
“I can get with that.”
“Great likeness, if you ask me. Really captured her frigid, go-thither expression. Those dead eyes follow you around like you’re a taker. You can practically taste the Objectivism. That is art, friend of mine!”
“There’s a lot of talented people out there.”
“Amen. But you know, you gotta look hard for talent if you want to make great things happen. ‘Course, we couldn’t find anyone in this country could do the work.”
“Natch.”
“You want to see some really smart stuff we done, you take yourself—or the whole family; hell, why not make a day of it?—up to 83rd.”
“The Met? You taking care of all the museum statuary, too?”
“Nah, Breitbart Deconstruction plucked that juicy plum. Quelle surprise. They’re on it as soon as they finish recon on the big, green CAFAB immigrant-magnet in the harbor. They’re still scratching their heads over how to ship her to Crimea so she can lord it over the luxury links at the President’s new hotel there.”
“I saw that on Fox. So what are you working on up by the museum?”
“Alexander Hamilton on East Drive.”
“Oh, yeah, how could I forget? Heck, he’s been there forever, hasn’t he?”
“Eighteen-eighty.”
“Jeez. You’re gonna have to help me here, Sal: what’s the issue with that one?”
“As I’m sure you know, and despite his later achievements, Hamilton was a highly problematic figure in his youth. He…but what am I telling you? You’ve fulfilled the legal requirement to see the show. You wouldn’t have passed your official probationary period otherwise.”
“Of course.”
“It wasn’t a big job, really, more a . . . what d’ya call it? A subtle one. Mostly the face. Very delicate.”
“What’d you do to him?”
“Now it’s Lin-Manuel Miranda.”
“Win!”
“It’s just so much more relatable now. And isn’t that what everyone wants?”
“I’m putting it on the bucket list, baby.”
“Can I confess something to you, though, Bobby? Can I trust to your complete discretion?”
“You know me, Sal.”
“I’ve always felt that Miranda skated perilously close to cultural appropriation through the usurpation of a hip-hop idiom in his admittedly otherwise dynamic and original artistic oeuvre. Though please know, Bobby, that I say this in the full understanding that at least one of Mr Miranda’s esteemed forebears was reputedly of genuine African descent.”
“My lips are sealed, Sal.”
“You’re a gem, Bobby.”
“What else you working on then?”
“You name it, we’re on it. The Mayor has made clear his absolute determination to decon/recon on a completely equality-neutral basis. There’s a heap of old marble we already took care of.”
“Let me guess: Christopher Columbus?”
“First to go. Where that genocidal motherfucker stood, you can now experience an interactive, replica smallpox blanket made entirely out of chewing gum reclaimed from Park sidewalks.”
“Hans Christian Andersen?”
“Fairysplainer! Forgetaboutit. Now everyone can enjoy a non-binary Little Match Child.”
“The Shakesepeare on sixty-seventh?”
“Pffft! That plagiarizing, paternalistic fraud? Replaced him with a statue of Marlowe.”
“How’s that better?”
“The truth is out there, my friend. It. Is. Out. There. We put the kibosh on the Romeo & Juliet by the Delacorte as part of the deal.”
“You’ve lost me.”
“Heteronormative much?”
“Yes, of course. Umm . . . Walter Scott?”
“Ivan-hoe? I don’t think we want to be valorizing anyone who refers to independent sex workers—very probably illegally trafficked—employing so offensive a linguistic schemata. We retained a Scottish influence, though: now it’s Mel Gibson in Braveheart war-paint.”
“Beauty.”
“Duke Ellington on 110th went to that big twelve-bar in the sky, too.”
“What?! Why?”
“Do you really want to be encumbered by the legacy of monarchical, aristocratic titles and hierarchies?”
“But . . . wasn’t that the first ever statue of an African-American in the park?”
“Still a win: we went like-for-like.”
“Who?”
“MC Hammer.”
“—”
“It’s always Hammer time!”
“True dat.”
“Doing what needs to be done, Bobby. I mean: ain’t that the American way?”
“Which leaves us only with this.”
“She’s the last job on this contract, yeah. But I’m sure there’ll be more work to come. The times they are ever changing. That’s what makes America great.”
“Still, I’m really sorry to see her go. My mom used to bring me here when I was a kid.”
“Do tell.”
“We’d come into the City on the seven train and head straight to the big Brentanos store on Fifth. She’d let me choose any book I wanted—god it would take me forever to decide, but she didn’t mind. Then we’d walk all the way up here, stop for a hot dog and kraut, a Dr Brown’s cream soda at a Sabrett’s along the way. We’d chat and look at all the funny people, the beautiful people; exotic, interesting guys and dolls. Manhattan felt so fantastic then. It was a thrill to see the horses and carriages ferrying the tourists around the Park from fifty-ninth. If I got lucky, we’d even browse in FAO Schwarz. It was ever such a long walk to the Pond, but I never complained or got tired. Because at the end of it my mom would sit me right on that big mushroom at Alice’s feet. She’d perch on the edge of the little toadstool there, between the Mad Hatter and the Dormouse, so we were eye-to-eye. And she’d read to me from my new book. Sometimes beginn
ing to end, straight through. I remember she even read Lewis Carroll to me on this spot. It was wonderful.”
“Hmmm. Then you must feel all the more violated knowing that Alice in Wonderland so utterly embodies the appropriated excrescence of a retrograde, colonial, paedophiliac sensibility. Fuckin’ shame when you think about it.”
“Shame. Yes. Shame.”
“Well, my guys better start smashing her up. Really good to see you, Bobby.”
“Yeah, you too, Sally. Hey! You didn’t say: what’s replacing Alice?”
“Steve Bannon tweeting Pepe the Frog. Cast entirely from recycled Chinese smartphones. Gonna be beautiful. Bring the kids!”
SUFFOCATION
Robert Reed
“I’ve heard this.”
That’s what people say. They’ve watched the news, glanced at a web page, maybe put hours into exhaustive research. But “Here’s something I heard” is the familiar phrase. Informal, chatty. Two people standing at the mouth of a cave, discussing matters that don’t need to be important. That’s what everybody’s wishing for, regardless where they happen to be standing today. Trivial talk and a good deep shelter at their backs.
Long ago, months and worlds ago, my daughter was getting her hair dyed. I was sitting in the hairdresser’s lobby when another customer stepped through the front door. My age, my color, but besides that, nothing like me at all. How could I tell? Just could. We said our hellos to each other, nothing but polite. Then another hairdresser came out to welcome him and his gray hair, and the two of them vanished into her room. “How’s your day?” talk turned into whispers. Whispers, and then the guy announced, “I’m tired of hearing about Guam. Fuck Guam.”
Smiling, his gal shut her door.
That’s been the rule since the inauguration, at the salon and in a lot of other places, too. If you’re going to talk, keep it private. But I really wanted to hear. This was an experiment: Was it possible to become even angrier than I already was? I walked next to the closed door, listening to two people describing events they barely understood. We blockaded an island that they couldn’t name, and the fucking Chinese shot down one of our planes, and of course we had to hit back. Orders were given and some of the orders were obeyed. That’s why an important, unnamed island was left burning, and one of our ships was sunk, and we hit five of their boats, and they punished another island that they claimed to own. Taiwan. Which the people on the other side of the door successfully named. Taiwan was struck by conventional munitions, but one initial report mentioned a mushroom cloud, and that’s when the first of three nukes were launched. That’s why Guam went away. But the other two nukes were ours, and the Chinese blinked. At least that was the learned opinion of the experts celebrating on the other side of that door.
Welcome to Dystopia Page 13
