Saturday, July 28, 2007
Radiation and you
I've always been fascinated by radiation, and I just read this article in an old Smithsonian, which inspired the "only job" story. The particularly inspiring bit can be found at the bottom of the linked-to page.
It was the only job, part 2
The boy's arms were swinging like young trees in a hurricane as he busted through the swamp. Peter felt slow running after him in his two-pound work boots, but at least it hadn't rained lately and the mud beneath him only gave a little as he ran. Peter hadn't even begun to breathe hard and the hungry boy had inexplicable stamina as they were soon out the other side of the swamp and onto a dirt road. So now it would be a true sprint.
Peter felt he was gaining on the boy, who ran wildly, his head back and his bare feet slapping the dust full-on. The blue-gloved hands flailed through the air on limp wrists. The boy hadn't looked back once. Peter began to sweat with exertion as well as heat as they pounded down the road, one minute then two then three and he still felt like he was gaining, but he obviously wasn't going to catch the boy before they came to the village.
It was in the village that the boy's stamina began to give out on him. Peter's boots left skids in the dust as he darted around the corner of a corrugated metal shack to follow the boy, who was only slowing down in his attempts to shake Peter. An alarmed brown chicken, fleeing Peter's feet, ran into the side of the shack with a scrape of beak on metal, and fluttered off in the other direction. Finally at the yard of another rusting shack, its guano-spattered satellite dish jutting almost at eye level, the boy stumbled and Peter reached out a hand to grab him, tumbling on top of him instead.
The boy was weak as Peter's little sister and Peter wrenched the canister right out of his hands. "Get off, get off," coughed the boy, his human voice surprising after his animal bearing and behavior. His hands flapped painfully at Peter's face, and Peter grabbed one by the wrist and realized the boy didn't have gloves at all. His hands were coated with glittery dust, the same that now sifted from the canister as Peter tried to set it down outside of reach.
The boy was clearly frightened but his behavior was so irritating that Peter felt only anger. "I'll hit you!" said Peter, wrestling down the thrashing bony knees and trying to grab for the boy's other wrist. "You're going to jail, you thief."
"I didn't steal... it was just junk, let me have my medicine," he mumbled, the dust clear and glittering around his dry lips. Then, "I'm dying."
Peter didn't have to think of a reply to this assertion because now there were people in the yard. Peter held tight on the boy's wrists and shifted his glance to the canister with only his eyes. A pregnant woman in a red dress with high padded shoulders bent down to pick up the canister and he couldn't do anything. She was like his mother.
"You boys are too old to be fighting over silly things. And in my yard." The woman had clenched teeth clothed in a terrible frown. She tipped the canister to shake out some dust onto her palm. Clearly possessing no idea of what the substance was, and just as clearly not caring, she passed it to the deferent man who had come up behind her. The man took one look inside and made an "O" with his mouth, and pulled his shirtless friend close so they could both peer inside.
"Now stand up, both of you," said the mother.
Peter didn't want to let go but he had to. When he was standing, the other boy dealt him an absurd and painless kick on his calf, rolled a bit on the dirt to demonstrate how abused he was, and eventually crawled to his feet. The sun was right in Peter's eyes and he rubbed his glittering, dusty hands on his uniform pants before speaking.
"Ma'am, I'm from the--" He stopped, squinting. Things were giddily out of his control, he sensed. He tried to stand up taller. "I work for the United Nations. The boss will be here soon."
The hard woman gave him an angry stare, but his uniform was still new enough to be recognizable as such and vaguely convincing. "What d'you do for the United Nations, boy?"
Peter glanced dismayed at the crowd that was making a circle around him, at the other boy, who was sullenly sucking his fingers again. He took a deep breath. "I reconnoiter and retrieve abandoned radiation threats, ma'am."
"Well, that don't give you a right to go fighting in my back yard," she huffed, unmoved as a great cow. She was just as stern as his mother but not as smart. Nowhere near.
"Ma'am..." he began in a pained tone. He was beginning to feel very uneasy and slightly shaky. Something, an insect or a bead of sweat or just nerves, was tickling across his stomach. He glanced at the clump of shirtless men who had possession of the canister and saw a scene from a dream. They had all smeared the glittering powder across their chests and faces and were admiring each other and drawing patterns and now a naked fat-legged little girl was waddling up to them and her uncle was scooping out more powder from the glowing blue hole to dab on her smooth black eyelids...
Peter was ashamed, so ashamed the month he was in the hospital. Every day he thought about the pain in his hands and his thighs and his lungs for hours, but he thought about his shame more. He had seen the little girl once; she was blind and half her face was eaten away, but she was alive still. Five of the men had died and the skinny boy had died, just as he'd said. The mother he didn't know about, and the rest of the townspeople he didn't know about, for the fabulous canister of otherworldly glitter had been passed around town from curious hand to curious hand while he trotted whining like a dog after it, possessed by the greatest distress he had ever known and utterly unable to find the thing to say to get the canister back. His body that had seemed so strong when he raced down the other boy had seemed like a dream body, impotent and unable even to reach out a hand for the thing he wanted, let alone swing a fist. And so he had wasted through the miserable dream that afternoon until everyone began to burn hideously and were driven by wide-eyed neighbors to the hospital.
Over the month, at least eighty people were found who'd been contaminated by the cesium chloride, and there were probably more who just weren't smart enough to come to the hospital.
Peter's own mother had come to visit him, missing two days of work, and he was glad but he could hardly look in her eyes for the shame. She came and went and he went back to staring at the television and thinking he deserved the pain. His sixteenth birthday came and his mother couldn't get away but she sent him a present, a watch from China, and he wore it and liked to look at it but it didn't matter.
The only thing that mattered was when Charlie came and asked when he'd be ready to go back to work. "We all discussed it," said Charlie, "and I told Grandpa you deserved a little retirement with your payments, and take it easy the rest of your life, but he said no." Charlie took his cap off and rubbed his old stubbly head. "Grandpa said this is the work for you, especially since... begging your pardon... there won't be no little ones in your future now, you know what I mean. He said we need a young strong boy like you we can actually use to bring the lead sheets up and get'm set. And I suppose we do. All I know is I'm not getting any younger and my back hurts terrible sometimes, and you know Grandpa and Lovejoy aren't getting any younger too."
The pain was forgotten. Peter sat up straight in his bed. "Thank you Charlie," he said. "I will start next week."
"I know," said Charlie, and next week Peter was there in a lead vest helping drag the big lead sheets up to be fitted around another radiation therapy machine they'd found in an abandoned hospital on the west side of town. When the machine was secure they'd put it on the cart and have it brought to the truck to be taken away by the other boys. One of the boys who helped load the trucks was about 16 and had been hired since Peter's hospital stay, and he looked up to Peter with a shy awe that Peter loved.
The scars on Peter's hands and thighs were thick and rippled, and Peter still hated the day he got them but he liked having them. He had taken the job two months ago because it was the only job he could get that paid enough for him to help his mother too, and now it was the only job Peter had ever worked at where he did the work of a young man but got the respect of an old man, and he loved it.
Peter felt he was gaining on the boy, who ran wildly, his head back and his bare feet slapping the dust full-on. The blue-gloved hands flailed through the air on limp wrists. The boy hadn't looked back once. Peter began to sweat with exertion as well as heat as they pounded down the road, one minute then two then three and he still felt like he was gaining, but he obviously wasn't going to catch the boy before they came to the village.
It was in the village that the boy's stamina began to give out on him. Peter's boots left skids in the dust as he darted around the corner of a corrugated metal shack to follow the boy, who was only slowing down in his attempts to shake Peter. An alarmed brown chicken, fleeing Peter's feet, ran into the side of the shack with a scrape of beak on metal, and fluttered off in the other direction. Finally at the yard of another rusting shack, its guano-spattered satellite dish jutting almost at eye level, the boy stumbled and Peter reached out a hand to grab him, tumbling on top of him instead.
The boy was weak as Peter's little sister and Peter wrenched the canister right out of his hands. "Get off, get off," coughed the boy, his human voice surprising after his animal bearing and behavior. His hands flapped painfully at Peter's face, and Peter grabbed one by the wrist and realized the boy didn't have gloves at all. His hands were coated with glittery dust, the same that now sifted from the canister as Peter tried to set it down outside of reach.
The boy was clearly frightened but his behavior was so irritating that Peter felt only anger. "I'll hit you!" said Peter, wrestling down the thrashing bony knees and trying to grab for the boy's other wrist. "You're going to jail, you thief."
"I didn't steal... it was just junk, let me have my medicine," he mumbled, the dust clear and glittering around his dry lips. Then, "I'm dying."
Peter didn't have to think of a reply to this assertion because now there were people in the yard. Peter held tight on the boy's wrists and shifted his glance to the canister with only his eyes. A pregnant woman in a red dress with high padded shoulders bent down to pick up the canister and he couldn't do anything. She was like his mother.
"You boys are too old to be fighting over silly things. And in my yard." The woman had clenched teeth clothed in a terrible frown. She tipped the canister to shake out some dust onto her palm. Clearly possessing no idea of what the substance was, and just as clearly not caring, she passed it to the deferent man who had come up behind her. The man took one look inside and made an "O" with his mouth, and pulled his shirtless friend close so they could both peer inside.
"Now stand up, both of you," said the mother.
Peter didn't want to let go but he had to. When he was standing, the other boy dealt him an absurd and painless kick on his calf, rolled a bit on the dirt to demonstrate how abused he was, and eventually crawled to his feet. The sun was right in Peter's eyes and he rubbed his glittering, dusty hands on his uniform pants before speaking.
"Ma'am, I'm from the--" He stopped, squinting. Things were giddily out of his control, he sensed. He tried to stand up taller. "I work for the United Nations. The boss will be here soon."
The hard woman gave him an angry stare, but his uniform was still new enough to be recognizable as such and vaguely convincing. "What d'you do for the United Nations, boy?"
Peter glanced dismayed at the crowd that was making a circle around him, at the other boy, who was sullenly sucking his fingers again. He took a deep breath. "I reconnoiter and retrieve abandoned radiation threats, ma'am."
"Well, that don't give you a right to go fighting in my back yard," she huffed, unmoved as a great cow. She was just as stern as his mother but not as smart. Nowhere near.
"Ma'am..." he began in a pained tone. He was beginning to feel very uneasy and slightly shaky. Something, an insect or a bead of sweat or just nerves, was tickling across his stomach. He glanced at the clump of shirtless men who had possession of the canister and saw a scene from a dream. They had all smeared the glittering powder across their chests and faces and were admiring each other and drawing patterns and now a naked fat-legged little girl was waddling up to them and her uncle was scooping out more powder from the glowing blue hole to dab on her smooth black eyelids...
Peter was ashamed, so ashamed the month he was in the hospital. Every day he thought about the pain in his hands and his thighs and his lungs for hours, but he thought about his shame more. He had seen the little girl once; she was blind and half her face was eaten away, but she was alive still. Five of the men had died and the skinny boy had died, just as he'd said. The mother he didn't know about, and the rest of the townspeople he didn't know about, for the fabulous canister of otherworldly glitter had been passed around town from curious hand to curious hand while he trotted whining like a dog after it, possessed by the greatest distress he had ever known and utterly unable to find the thing to say to get the canister back. His body that had seemed so strong when he raced down the other boy had seemed like a dream body, impotent and unable even to reach out a hand for the thing he wanted, let alone swing a fist. And so he had wasted through the miserable dream that afternoon until everyone began to burn hideously and were driven by wide-eyed neighbors to the hospital.
Over the month, at least eighty people were found who'd been contaminated by the cesium chloride, and there were probably more who just weren't smart enough to come to the hospital.
Peter's own mother had come to visit him, missing two days of work, and he was glad but he could hardly look in her eyes for the shame. She came and went and he went back to staring at the television and thinking he deserved the pain. His sixteenth birthday came and his mother couldn't get away but she sent him a present, a watch from China, and he wore it and liked to look at it but it didn't matter.
The only thing that mattered was when Charlie came and asked when he'd be ready to go back to work. "We all discussed it," said Charlie, "and I told Grandpa you deserved a little retirement with your payments, and take it easy the rest of your life, but he said no." Charlie took his cap off and rubbed his old stubbly head. "Grandpa said this is the work for you, especially since... begging your pardon... there won't be no little ones in your future now, you know what I mean. He said we need a young strong boy like you we can actually use to bring the lead sheets up and get'm set. And I suppose we do. All I know is I'm not getting any younger and my back hurts terrible sometimes, and you know Grandpa and Lovejoy aren't getting any younger too."
The pain was forgotten. Peter sat up straight in his bed. "Thank you Charlie," he said. "I will start next week."
"I know," said Charlie, and next week Peter was there in a lead vest helping drag the big lead sheets up to be fitted around another radiation therapy machine they'd found in an abandoned hospital on the west side of town. When the machine was secure they'd put it on the cart and have it brought to the truck to be taken away by the other boys. One of the boys who helped load the trucks was about 16 and had been hired since Peter's hospital stay, and he looked up to Peter with a shy awe that Peter loved.
The scars on Peter's hands and thighs were thick and rippled, and Peter still hated the day he got them but he liked having them. He had taken the job two months ago because it was the only job he could get that paid enough for him to help his mother too, and now it was the only job Peter had ever worked at where he did the work of a young man but got the respect of an old man, and he loved it.
Friday, July 27, 2007
It was the only job, part 1
It was the only job Peter had ever worked at where the old men did the dangerous work, and the young men got to sit around and watch. Now it was a hot three o'clock in the Nigerian sun and he was exhausted with boredom. He rested his chin on top of the stone wall to relieve his aching neck, his eyes fixed on the action fifty feet away in the garbage-strewn swamp. The old men crept up to the largest pile of junk, their geiger counters held out in front of them like pistols, like the best defense was a good offense, except in this job there was only defense, and only for the young.
Peter was 15 and he wasn't married, and hadn't a thought of children, but he'd stopped trying to argue with the old men two weeks into the job. "You're young," said Charlie. "You'll want sons when you start getting older. Trust me." So he shut his mouth. Charlie was up there now, shuffling in a careful gait with his inadequate apron making his body shapeless. The old men looked like very evil hunters. They were very black in their age and dressed in dark uniforms and soundless and entirely intent on the rusting white assemblage in the middle of the junk heap, and it was spooky to see them converge on it.
It was most likely an old radiation therapy machine. Somebody had dumped it here outside Lagos in the 70s, probably, and nobody but the crew had any idea what it was--or so they hoped. At least, nobody but the boy they paid to find dumping grounds knew it had any significance at all, and certainly no one knew there was probably enough cesium inside to make fifty dirty bombs.
The old men had frozen. Charlie leaned back suddenly as if something had hit him in the chest. He glanced at Lovejoy, who glanced at Grandpa, who paused only a moment before spitting on the ground and calling, "What you doing in there? You come on out, now." His voice was high and confident like a flute. "Come on out, now."
And Peter waited but he couldn't see anything. He licked the sweat off his upper lip. Charlie and Lovejoy shared another glance, a long one. When Grandpa took a step forward, they did too. Peter felt a high, excited feeling under his ribs. He couldn't move. He saw the figure rise, and it was very thin. Grandpa opened his mouth again. "Now just come away from that. We trying to do some work here."
The figure looked at the old men. It was a bent, beaten youth who might have been about Peter's age, but who obviously hadn't had the luck to land a job and a home and steady bread. The youth's ribs showed and he had nothing on but some dirty shorts and a pair of bright blue gloves. He had a rusting canister clenched in one fist and the corners of his mouth also shone blue.
As Grandpa strode forward quickly on his old stick legs, the youth thrust a hand into his mouth. He pulled it out glistening, then ran.
"Stop!" shouted Grandpa, and Charlie and Lovejoy after him. Charlie broke into a careening run, his mouth hanging open to suck at the mosquitoed air. Lovejoy dipped his dark head down to peer into the junk pile then ripped out a curse. Grandpa half-turned and looked back at Peter so sharply that Peter's shins were bleeding from his crash over the stone wall before he even thought. He bounded downhill into the swamp and through the brush, overtaking Charlie in an instant, the creepers clutching at his wrinkled uniform. His eyes didn't adjust as he plunged in, but he still saw the flash of a bare smooth arm ahead of him as the other boy sprinted away. He heard Charlie yell after him but Charlie's words weren't anything to the look he'd seen in Grandpa's eyes. Peter was young and crazy with sitting around and he knew he could catch this boy.
Peter was 15 and he wasn't married, and hadn't a thought of children, but he'd stopped trying to argue with the old men two weeks into the job. "You're young," said Charlie. "You'll want sons when you start getting older. Trust me." So he shut his mouth. Charlie was up there now, shuffling in a careful gait with his inadequate apron making his body shapeless. The old men looked like very evil hunters. They were very black in their age and dressed in dark uniforms and soundless and entirely intent on the rusting white assemblage in the middle of the junk heap, and it was spooky to see them converge on it.
It was most likely an old radiation therapy machine. Somebody had dumped it here outside Lagos in the 70s, probably, and nobody but the crew had any idea what it was--or so they hoped. At least, nobody but the boy they paid to find dumping grounds knew it had any significance at all, and certainly no one knew there was probably enough cesium inside to make fifty dirty bombs.
The old men had frozen. Charlie leaned back suddenly as if something had hit him in the chest. He glanced at Lovejoy, who glanced at Grandpa, who paused only a moment before spitting on the ground and calling, "What you doing in there? You come on out, now." His voice was high and confident like a flute. "Come on out, now."
And Peter waited but he couldn't see anything. He licked the sweat off his upper lip. Charlie and Lovejoy shared another glance, a long one. When Grandpa took a step forward, they did too. Peter felt a high, excited feeling under his ribs. He couldn't move. He saw the figure rise, and it was very thin. Grandpa opened his mouth again. "Now just come away from that. We trying to do some work here."
The figure looked at the old men. It was a bent, beaten youth who might have been about Peter's age, but who obviously hadn't had the luck to land a job and a home and steady bread. The youth's ribs showed and he had nothing on but some dirty shorts and a pair of bright blue gloves. He had a rusting canister clenched in one fist and the corners of his mouth also shone blue.
As Grandpa strode forward quickly on his old stick legs, the youth thrust a hand into his mouth. He pulled it out glistening, then ran.
"Stop!" shouted Grandpa, and Charlie and Lovejoy after him. Charlie broke into a careening run, his mouth hanging open to suck at the mosquitoed air. Lovejoy dipped his dark head down to peer into the junk pile then ripped out a curse. Grandpa half-turned and looked back at Peter so sharply that Peter's shins were bleeding from his crash over the stone wall before he even thought. He bounded downhill into the swamp and through the brush, overtaking Charlie in an instant, the creepers clutching at his wrinkled uniform. His eyes didn't adjust as he plunged in, but he still saw the flash of a bare smooth arm ahead of him as the other boy sprinted away. He heard Charlie yell after him but Charlie's words weren't anything to the look he'd seen in Grandpa's eyes. Peter was young and crazy with sitting around and he knew he could catch this boy.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
The best thing that ever happened to shamelessness
It's not a sin to be rich. It's not a sin to have fun, my momma said. She would know. She was living it up until two days ago. Now I'm left here with four spaceships and nowhere to go.
Momma did know how to have a good time. So did her boyfriends. Daddy wasn't that type really, but even he could live it up once he had some liquor in him, provided the boyfriends weren't kissing on Momma too much. But that was before Daddy left for good, taking the bank with him.
It's lonely in space. It's especially lonely when you haven't been able to get a date since Saturday. The party ended on Saturday. Now I call the LaunchPad for more cuties and they all say, "Maybe next week." I know they're just itching to get out of here now that both the money and the power have gone. And I have these four spaceships and I can't even buy fuel for them.
Momma was a killer. Not literally, unless you count indirectly. But figuratively speaking, she was the bomb. She had nails out to here. She had a woman she brought in from China just to organize her four thousand dresses. She had the gravometer set at .5 Gs on the deck of this thing so that she could wear the eight-inch heels she bought off the Princess of Mars. She had class. And she had something nobody else in this corner of the Galaxy would ever have, which was a contract with XFashion Biogene.
She got it as a wedding present from Daddy. Daddy was smitten with her. Momma was smitten with his honor -- he was the only man who ever told her they should wait before doing the horizontal moonwalk -- and with his money. Mostly with his honor. Or his money. I don't know, they hadn't decided to make me yet. When they got married, twenty years ago, Daddy was the heir to the throne of Intervelop Industries and Momma was the queen of celebrity on thirty-five worlds. She'd been a nobody but a nobody with a mushroom cloud personality and teeth that were out of this world, and somehow she was exactly what they were looking for. I've seen broadcasts of her from that era. She was the best thing that ever happened to shamelessness.
Daddy walked her down the aisle in a five-piece suit. Momma wore white. She had to. It was in her BeautyFool contract. The first thing after the wedding, I guess, she had to leave for L.A. to star in one of her boyfriend's films -- Barry Huck, who was always in the top five or at least the top ten. After the ten or so I could count on seeing pretty much every month, I lost track.
But it wasn't the boyfriends or the fashion contracts or even the excess that did Momma in. It was the loneliness. Because it is lonely up here, you know.
"Angel," she used to tell me, "you're the only one I can talk to." And she would tell me everything, all night long -- but it was always night -- she would talk to me about the terrible things her agents signed her up for, and how Daddy was falling out of love with her, and how Frank and Tip used to fight so awful over who got to sleep with her that night. It was always like this. When I was five years old I used to tell her to not be sad, and it'd make her smile. Now I'd tell her she was incredible, she was gorgeous, she was still young, she had more style than anyone ever born, that she had more hair on her head than an eviorg -- and she wouldn't care.
I couldn't stand it. I couldn't stand to see Momma cry. Not with all those cameras around all night long. Not with her eyelashes so perfect for once, with the new eyelights. So one night, with my heart wound up like a streed converter, I finally told her the truth.
"Momma, you'll be a hundred soon," I forced out. "I think you should let me take over, just for a while. Just like you and Daddy planned when you made me."
Well that was on Friday, and I haven't spoken with her since. Because after she heard that she turned away from me and clicked up the corridor in her stiletto slippers, and she wouldn't talk to me, not even when I said I took it back and that I never wanted to be a model, I just wanted her to be able to relax for once.
But I did want to be a model, kind of.
Because it's awfully quiet here since Momma opened the airlock, and I may have the Jetter and the Mach 90 and the twin Starliners, but all the staff has disappeared, and now I'm making myself sturkey sandwiches in the echoing galley, and drinking all the champagne... and I can't get a hold of Daddy, whose men say he needs to be alone right now, and I can't get a hold of Momma's agents, whose secretaries say it's for the best, and I can't get a hold of any of those fine things at the LaunchPad because they're spooked. And it's very empty here with Momma gone.
Momma did know how to have a good time. So did her boyfriends. Daddy wasn't that type really, but even he could live it up once he had some liquor in him, provided the boyfriends weren't kissing on Momma too much. But that was before Daddy left for good, taking the bank with him.
It's lonely in space. It's especially lonely when you haven't been able to get a date since Saturday. The party ended on Saturday. Now I call the LaunchPad for more cuties and they all say, "Maybe next week." I know they're just itching to get out of here now that both the money and the power have gone. And I have these four spaceships and I can't even buy fuel for them.
Momma was a killer. Not literally, unless you count indirectly. But figuratively speaking, she was the bomb. She had nails out to here. She had a woman she brought in from China just to organize her four thousand dresses. She had the gravometer set at .5 Gs on the deck of this thing so that she could wear the eight-inch heels she bought off the Princess of Mars. She had class. And she had something nobody else in this corner of the Galaxy would ever have, which was a contract with XFashion Biogene.
She got it as a wedding present from Daddy. Daddy was smitten with her. Momma was smitten with his honor -- he was the only man who ever told her they should wait before doing the horizontal moonwalk -- and with his money. Mostly with his honor. Or his money. I don't know, they hadn't decided to make me yet. When they got married, twenty years ago, Daddy was the heir to the throne of Intervelop Industries and Momma was the queen of celebrity on thirty-five worlds. She'd been a nobody but a nobody with a mushroom cloud personality and teeth that were out of this world, and somehow she was exactly what they were looking for. I've seen broadcasts of her from that era. She was the best thing that ever happened to shamelessness.
Daddy walked her down the aisle in a five-piece suit. Momma wore white. She had to. It was in her BeautyFool contract. The first thing after the wedding, I guess, she had to leave for L.A. to star in one of her boyfriend's films -- Barry Huck, who was always in the top five or at least the top ten. After the ten or so I could count on seeing pretty much every month, I lost track.
But it wasn't the boyfriends or the fashion contracts or even the excess that did Momma in. It was the loneliness. Because it is lonely up here, you know.
"Angel," she used to tell me, "you're the only one I can talk to." And she would tell me everything, all night long -- but it was always night -- she would talk to me about the terrible things her agents signed her up for, and how Daddy was falling out of love with her, and how Frank and Tip used to fight so awful over who got to sleep with her that night. It was always like this. When I was five years old I used to tell her to not be sad, and it'd make her smile. Now I'd tell her she was incredible, she was gorgeous, she was still young, she had more style than anyone ever born, that she had more hair on her head than an eviorg -- and she wouldn't care.
I couldn't stand it. I couldn't stand to see Momma cry. Not with all those cameras around all night long. Not with her eyelashes so perfect for once, with the new eyelights. So one night, with my heart wound up like a streed converter, I finally told her the truth.
"Momma, you'll be a hundred soon," I forced out. "I think you should let me take over, just for a while. Just like you and Daddy planned when you made me."
Well that was on Friday, and I haven't spoken with her since. Because after she heard that she turned away from me and clicked up the corridor in her stiletto slippers, and she wouldn't talk to me, not even when I said I took it back and that I never wanted to be a model, I just wanted her to be able to relax for once.
But I did want to be a model, kind of.
Because it's awfully quiet here since Momma opened the airlock, and I may have the Jetter and the Mach 90 and the twin Starliners, but all the staff has disappeared, and now I'm making myself sturkey sandwiches in the echoing galley, and drinking all the champagne... and I can't get a hold of Daddy, whose men say he needs to be alone right now, and I can't get a hold of Momma's agents, whose secretaries say it's for the best, and I can't get a hold of any of those fine things at the LaunchPad because they're spooked. And it's very empty here with Momma gone.
Wednesday, January 3, 2007
A view from the end
My mother always said despair was a sin. I won't give in to it. We're good people. We believe in tradition and love and justice. But the thing my mother always hated most wasn't cruelty, or greed, or anything like that. It was despair. She said the worst thing a person could do was to give up. That there were a lot of sins against man, but despair was a sin against God.
I know things seem pretty grim now. We've lost contact with the other towns, and Turk says there's no reason to believe they haven't been wiped out. I agree it's unlikely, but it seems they could just be unable to communicate. They could be hunkered down, like we are.
I always thought I'd be a good leader, but it's like I never had any time to prepare... Lupin was killed, and the old colonel, and people started asking me what to do, Mary and her sister and the old colonel's wife. Because I have such a strong voice. People thought I seemed like a leader. I always thought I'd be a pretty good leader. I just never had any practice... the old colonel used to say that to hesitate was the worst thing. So I told everyone we needed to get out and took them up on the mountain.
The air reeks even from here. The cloud of smoke hangs over the town in the February air, just staying in one place, but I can smell it from here. I thought I was going to cry this morning. Everyone else is crying, just about. Mary's little sister is worried about her house and her cat. I'm too busy worrying about my life for that nonsense. I wish everyone would shape up. Maybe I'm a little inexperienced, but they're not making it any easier. I wish people would just use their heads. Nobody cares about your cat when the entire world is being destroyed.
My mother was the strongest woman. When I was young and the invasion was new, she still used to smile a lot, I remember. She made me laugh. She used to say if she ever met one of them she'd give them a piece of her mind. She was angry a lot, but I loved it. She had so much energy for that. When she went on a rant, talking so fast I could hardly follow her, I loved her. I didn't really think she could save the world, but if anyone could, sure it would have been her. She was righteous.
I'm looking at the smoke again when Turk runs up, panting like an idiot. "They're coming," he says. "They're coming up from the town." So I stand up and start yelling. I have everybody get up off the warm rock and go into the forest. I figure we'll go over the pass into the next valley.
I hate these people. A couple middle-aged women are crying and they're slow to get up. God, I'm yelling right in their face. I love my voice though. I wonder if the invaders can hear it, wherever they are.
Finally I just run, right into the trees, getting whacked in the face by branches, and other people start to follow. I'll kill myself running up the side of the mountain. But I'm in better shape than most of these people and I've got to lead. Maybe if they see me doing it they'll do it too.
I feel the lurch in my stomach before I hear the explosion. Chunks of rock and wood the size of cars fly past me in an instant, rocketing against the mountainside and rebounding into snapping tree trunks. I didn't hear anybody cry out. Hopefully whoever got hit didn't feel much. The black smoke blows over me in another minute, and I start coughing as I run.
I really didn't think any of this would happen. I feel like my life went wrong about five years ago. I was supposed to go to college, learn sports medicine. Even while I'm running I have this damn nagging feeling in the back of my mind, like I have to go back, like there's something I forgot to do. It was one thing when the invaders first arrived. I was only a kid. For all a four-year-old knows, stuff like that is normal. And it was normal. It sucked but it was normal. In a little town like Millhoe, it was normal. We saw the deaths on TV and we couldn't travel much but we pretty much went about our lives. I was going to be a physical therapist or something. Turns out the libertarians were right. We were never going to be allowed to live.
It's just... I can't give up. It would be a crime. Anyway my mother would hate me for it if she were still alive. Her hate was a wonderful thing to behold. My stomach drops again and then the mountain disappears in front of me, and I swear I see grey sky and birds for a second but it's just my imagination, I'm seeing powdery dirt and dust, and then I know something's hit me when the trees seem upside-down. It's strange-- I don't know what-- those bastards! I think, I won't give up because to despair is a sin and it might not matter anymore but God my mother raised me better than that.
I know things seem pretty grim now. We've lost contact with the other towns, and Turk says there's no reason to believe they haven't been wiped out. I agree it's unlikely, but it seems they could just be unable to communicate. They could be hunkered down, like we are.
I always thought I'd be a good leader, but it's like I never had any time to prepare... Lupin was killed, and the old colonel, and people started asking me what to do, Mary and her sister and the old colonel's wife. Because I have such a strong voice. People thought I seemed like a leader. I always thought I'd be a pretty good leader. I just never had any practice... the old colonel used to say that to hesitate was the worst thing. So I told everyone we needed to get out and took them up on the mountain.
The air reeks even from here. The cloud of smoke hangs over the town in the February air, just staying in one place, but I can smell it from here. I thought I was going to cry this morning. Everyone else is crying, just about. Mary's little sister is worried about her house and her cat. I'm too busy worrying about my life for that nonsense. I wish everyone would shape up. Maybe I'm a little inexperienced, but they're not making it any easier. I wish people would just use their heads. Nobody cares about your cat when the entire world is being destroyed.
My mother was the strongest woman. When I was young and the invasion was new, she still used to smile a lot, I remember. She made me laugh. She used to say if she ever met one of them she'd give them a piece of her mind. She was angry a lot, but I loved it. She had so much energy for that. When she went on a rant, talking so fast I could hardly follow her, I loved her. I didn't really think she could save the world, but if anyone could, sure it would have been her. She was righteous.
I'm looking at the smoke again when Turk runs up, panting like an idiot. "They're coming," he says. "They're coming up from the town." So I stand up and start yelling. I have everybody get up off the warm rock and go into the forest. I figure we'll go over the pass into the next valley.
I hate these people. A couple middle-aged women are crying and they're slow to get up. God, I'm yelling right in their face. I love my voice though. I wonder if the invaders can hear it, wherever they are.
Finally I just run, right into the trees, getting whacked in the face by branches, and other people start to follow. I'll kill myself running up the side of the mountain. But I'm in better shape than most of these people and I've got to lead. Maybe if they see me doing it they'll do it too.
I feel the lurch in my stomach before I hear the explosion. Chunks of rock and wood the size of cars fly past me in an instant, rocketing against the mountainside and rebounding into snapping tree trunks. I didn't hear anybody cry out. Hopefully whoever got hit didn't feel much. The black smoke blows over me in another minute, and I start coughing as I run.
I really didn't think any of this would happen. I feel like my life went wrong about five years ago. I was supposed to go to college, learn sports medicine. Even while I'm running I have this damn nagging feeling in the back of my mind, like I have to go back, like there's something I forgot to do. It was one thing when the invaders first arrived. I was only a kid. For all a four-year-old knows, stuff like that is normal. And it was normal. It sucked but it was normal. In a little town like Millhoe, it was normal. We saw the deaths on TV and we couldn't travel much but we pretty much went about our lives. I was going to be a physical therapist or something. Turns out the libertarians were right. We were never going to be allowed to live.
It's just... I can't give up. It would be a crime. Anyway my mother would hate me for it if she were still alive. Her hate was a wonderful thing to behold. My stomach drops again and then the mountain disappears in front of me, and I swear I see grey sky and birds for a second but it's just my imagination, I'm seeing powdery dirt and dust, and then I know something's hit me when the trees seem upside-down. It's strange-- I don't know what-- those bastards! I think, I won't give up because to despair is a sin and it might not matter anymore but God my mother raised me better than that.
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Midnight in the garden of ice and plenty
The cold made pins and needles on her skin. And there was a lot of skin. It was the rage that year. There were clots of young men dressed in clear plastic, their rosy cheeks... all of them... bare to the snowy night. There were women in ermine, old ladies with diamond teeth. When they opened their mouths, the light sparkled even through the cloud of their breath.
Vitelina needed more cream towers. The first batch of fifty had been consumed within minutes. The patrons were crowding around the ice table, rending the edges of it slick with melt. All the food was white or clear. The spun sugar goblets dissolved when pale punch was dribbled in, leaving hands sticky. The white cygnet meat sweated with crystals of ice.
It was the first party of 2157. Madame Faurme was entertaining one hundred fifty-seven guests in her garden outside of the city. It was one of those affairs. It would have to be memorable.
Vitelina had served at many of Madame Faurme's parties, but never one this demanding. The temperature of the spouting mermaid fountain had to be constantly checked as the night went on, lest the water fail to seize into ice as it touched the growing stalagmite at the base of the flow. Likewise the mischievous cherub fountain.
The night was growing colder; the stars were painfully close. Above the garden a wet mist began to hang, risen from the fountains and sugar-goods and breath and trampled snow. And sweat. As Vitelina pushed toward the house, she came upon a tangle of youths in sharp rustly plastic, stuffing snow into whatever warm folds appealed to them. Their hair was plastered to their bodies. Their grunts and laughs were muffled in the hovering fog that reached to obscure the stars.
By the time Vitelina had returned with a triple-deck platter of cream towers and radish flakes, she could scarcely see where she was going. She led herself through the garden by sound. The greatest mass of guests was there by the food, and when she unloaded her platter, they fell around her with gleaming eyes. The wireless lights were floating in a soup of white above their heads now, but the light was enough to show their teeth, their white and glittering teeth, and the still-rosy glow on their cheeks.
The vodka moat would have to be replenished.
Vitelina stepped slowly to the faucet beyond the bleachedberry hedge. The snow was wet and pasty and clung to the sides of her glistening plastic shoes. Her toes throbbed in their cold cage. She would make more money working eight months for Madame Faurme than she would in the next ten years. But the toes, the toes. And her hands... the handle of the vodka faucet was slick. She lifted it and beyond her vision, a silver glissando tickled the air.
And was it colder when she returned to the food-heaped ice tables than when she had first passed that way? Vitelina pulled her polar bear hood around her tighter. She watched the guests warily. The sugar goblets dipped into the vodka moat, over and over. Shards dissolved, fell steaming in the white slush below. Tongues appeared to do their pink work. Everything was wet. No one was shivering but Vitelina. She turned and the flush on the cheeks of the woman behind her frightened her. Vitelina hurried to the garden's edge.
She would do rounds. She would look for something to clean. There, ten steps through the fog along the outer hedge, where the sounds of the eating and drinking were almost too muffled to be heard, she found something. It was a woman, her legs wrapped around the translucent body of an ice stallion, her blonde hair long and lank, sufficing for a mane on the unmoving beast. The strange woman did not shiver. She was already cold. White.
Vitelina wanted first to go back, but she decided to go on. Twelve steps more into the fog, she came upon lovers, lying blankly in the snow, which did for clothing on them. Their ermine wraps were tossed aside. They had been pushing snow atop each other in smooth mounds when they lay down to close their eyes. The sweat on their cheeks had already frozen to crystal. The vodka reddened their skin no longer.
Five steps onward, there was a circle of trillionaire septuagenarians, their riches now in faux diamonds that hung at their lips from imagined confections of snow. They lay now where they had consumed, on a round bench of ice three feet thick. All Vitelina could hear was the chattering of her own small teeth. The warmth had been sucked out of the night from above, and the air seemed so sharp she feared for the coverless skin of her arms and her thighs.
Madame Faurme would be in her drawing room, where she spent every party. She would be watching through the windows. She would be disappointed, of course, that she could not see her guests through the fog. She would want to know at once if anything had happened that would reflect unfavorably upon her reputation. If the cooks had botched a dish, Vitelina must report it. If the ice sculptures were melting badly, Vitelina must report it. If guests were behaving in a rude fashion, she must report it all the quicker.
Vitelina hung in the air, her feet lost to her as the miasma thickened. She could not feel them. They were gone.
Tremblingly she turned, feeling her way along the pale hedge until she reached at last the black door to the kitchens. She walked as if on stilts. She could scarcely tell with her numb fingers, but she felt the black door must be warmer than the outside. Some heat existed here, from the world of the house. The garden was dead silent.
Vitelina slid her hand to the right, along the brick of the house, pushing her numb feet through the snow, which was freezing up in an uneven mess. Her steps began to crackle and squeak. The sound seemed to follow her, unnerving her until by the time she reached the door to the undergarage her heart was racing. She yanked open the door and thumped onto the dark stairs, pulling the door closed behind her, fearing the skin of her palm might be left behind on the slick metal knob. She reached in against her fluttering chest, fumbling for her key. When she clenched it, she saw a light wink on hazily on in the concrete distance, and she made for it.
Vitelina needed more cream towers. The first batch of fifty had been consumed within minutes. The patrons were crowding around the ice table, rending the edges of it slick with melt. All the food was white or clear. The spun sugar goblets dissolved when pale punch was dribbled in, leaving hands sticky. The white cygnet meat sweated with crystals of ice.
It was the first party of 2157. Madame Faurme was entertaining one hundred fifty-seven guests in her garden outside of the city. It was one of those affairs. It would have to be memorable.
Vitelina had served at many of Madame Faurme's parties, but never one this demanding. The temperature of the spouting mermaid fountain had to be constantly checked as the night went on, lest the water fail to seize into ice as it touched the growing stalagmite at the base of the flow. Likewise the mischievous cherub fountain.
The night was growing colder; the stars were painfully close. Above the garden a wet mist began to hang, risen from the fountains and sugar-goods and breath and trampled snow. And sweat. As Vitelina pushed toward the house, she came upon a tangle of youths in sharp rustly plastic, stuffing snow into whatever warm folds appealed to them. Their hair was plastered to their bodies. Their grunts and laughs were muffled in the hovering fog that reached to obscure the stars.
By the time Vitelina had returned with a triple-deck platter of cream towers and radish flakes, she could scarcely see where she was going. She led herself through the garden by sound. The greatest mass of guests was there by the food, and when she unloaded her platter, they fell around her with gleaming eyes. The wireless lights were floating in a soup of white above their heads now, but the light was enough to show their teeth, their white and glittering teeth, and the still-rosy glow on their cheeks.
The vodka moat would have to be replenished.
Vitelina stepped slowly to the faucet beyond the bleachedberry hedge. The snow was wet and pasty and clung to the sides of her glistening plastic shoes. Her toes throbbed in their cold cage. She would make more money working eight months for Madame Faurme than she would in the next ten years. But the toes, the toes. And her hands... the handle of the vodka faucet was slick. She lifted it and beyond her vision, a silver glissando tickled the air.
And was it colder when she returned to the food-heaped ice tables than when she had first passed that way? Vitelina pulled her polar bear hood around her tighter. She watched the guests warily. The sugar goblets dipped into the vodka moat, over and over. Shards dissolved, fell steaming in the white slush below. Tongues appeared to do their pink work. Everything was wet. No one was shivering but Vitelina. She turned and the flush on the cheeks of the woman behind her frightened her. Vitelina hurried to the garden's edge.
She would do rounds. She would look for something to clean. There, ten steps through the fog along the outer hedge, where the sounds of the eating and drinking were almost too muffled to be heard, she found something. It was a woman, her legs wrapped around the translucent body of an ice stallion, her blonde hair long and lank, sufficing for a mane on the unmoving beast. The strange woman did not shiver. She was already cold. White.
Vitelina wanted first to go back, but she decided to go on. Twelve steps more into the fog, she came upon lovers, lying blankly in the snow, which did for clothing on them. Their ermine wraps were tossed aside. They had been pushing snow atop each other in smooth mounds when they lay down to close their eyes. The sweat on their cheeks had already frozen to crystal. The vodka reddened their skin no longer.
Five steps onward, there was a circle of trillionaire septuagenarians, their riches now in faux diamonds that hung at their lips from imagined confections of snow. They lay now where they had consumed, on a round bench of ice three feet thick. All Vitelina could hear was the chattering of her own small teeth. The warmth had been sucked out of the night from above, and the air seemed so sharp she feared for the coverless skin of her arms and her thighs.
Madame Faurme would be in her drawing room, where she spent every party. She would be watching through the windows. She would be disappointed, of course, that she could not see her guests through the fog. She would want to know at once if anything had happened that would reflect unfavorably upon her reputation. If the cooks had botched a dish, Vitelina must report it. If the ice sculptures were melting badly, Vitelina must report it. If guests were behaving in a rude fashion, she must report it all the quicker.
Vitelina hung in the air, her feet lost to her as the miasma thickened. She could not feel them. They were gone.
Tremblingly she turned, feeling her way along the pale hedge until she reached at last the black door to the kitchens. She walked as if on stilts. She could scarcely tell with her numb fingers, but she felt the black door must be warmer than the outside. Some heat existed here, from the world of the house. The garden was dead silent.
Vitelina slid her hand to the right, along the brick of the house, pushing her numb feet through the snow, which was freezing up in an uneven mess. Her steps began to crackle and squeak. The sound seemed to follow her, unnerving her until by the time she reached the door to the undergarage her heart was racing. She yanked open the door and thumped onto the dark stairs, pulling the door closed behind her, fearing the skin of her palm might be left behind on the slick metal knob. She reached in against her fluttering chest, fumbling for her key. When she clenched it, she saw a light wink on hazily on in the concrete distance, and she made for it.
Friday, December 1, 2006
Rehousing it
So I went to write for a bit, as you will see below, hoping it would perk up my mood, but it was rather heavy going, especially toward the end. I just didn't know where to take the story. I forced an ending and then randomly clicked on a link to my own archives, landing on this:
"The book I'd been reading (until I had to return it to the library, anyway) was very heavy on the inseparability of plot and character. Plot, it averred, is what characters do next -- asserting that plot problems can be solved by changing the nature of your character. Now I see that. Stories get a lot easier to write when you have a character who really wants something. And would do just about anything to get it."
Well, jeez. I have no idea what my character wants. I went into the story thinking about setting, and that was about it.
"The book I'd been reading (until I had to return it to the library, anyway) was very heavy on the inseparability of plot and character. Plot, it averred, is what characters do next -- asserting that plot problems can be solved by changing the nature of your character. Now I see that. Stories get a lot easier to write when you have a character who really wants something. And would do just about anything to get it."
Well, jeez. I have no idea what my character wants. I went into the story thinking about setting, and that was about it.
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