Sam Lipsyte - The Subject Steve

"Get it with golden mustard?"

"I did."

"Smart move."

"Thank you."

"You're not from around here, are you? I can tell by your mannerisms. You use your hands a lot."

"I'm eating."

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"What do you think of cops?"

"Cops," I said.

"I want to write a TV show about a cop and another guy. The cop part is easy, but the other guy, what he thinks about the cop, I need to do research. So I'm asking all the smart people I meet what they think about cops."

"Why do I qualify as smart?"

"The mustard. Your mannerisms."

"Who's the other guy?" I said.

"He's this guy. He's not a cop. It's becoming a real pain in the neck. I'm blocking on the non-cop mentality. Can't you give me something?"

"Cops have guns," I said.

"That's it. That's all I needed. I knew you were the guy to ask. Fare thee well, me. Good afternoon, breakfast."

"Excuse me?"

"I'm just beginning to pick up the lingo."

"I should get going," I said.

I got some news on the radio. The oldest man in the world had just admitted to lying about his age. "I feel bad about it," said Willett Phillips, fifty-three, "but the yogurt people dangled a lot of cash in front of me." Harvard seniors were gearing up for an international event they'd organized for credit, A Day Without Exploitation. The CEOs of several major corporations had already pledged to pay overseas factory workers minimum wage for the day. Some American-based companies had promised full health benefits for the twenty-four-hour period. "If I'm going to lose my arm," said Glen French of Flint, Michigan, "I pray it's on Tuesday." Speeches and a concert were planned. In other news, the third unclaimed nuclear device in as many weeks had been detonated over the Pacific, this time in the vicinity of the Cook Islands. When asked to comment, a spokesman for the State Department said, "Somebody's having some fun." Meanwhile, advertisers were lining up to air spots on The Realms , the runaway underground multimedia hit to be pancast by several networks and content companies at once. Said Realms creator and host Bobby Trubate from his headquarters in Death Valley, "We'd do this for free, but we wouldn't. The main thing, though, is to win people over to the idea of spirit-based branding. We're a spiritual delivery system. People are tired of reality, and they're too smart for fantasy. It was just a matter of time before somebody figured out what was next. This is the marketplace of ideals, and we mean to corner it. The Realms is just the tip of the ice pick. I want our advertisers to know that. The dream of the wireless Xanadu is alive. I'm literally on the verge of decreeing stately pleasure domes, here, people."

I hit the tuning scanner, found some old-time Muzak. It was the purest, truest thing I'd heard in a while. I pictured the viola section in loose-fitting Hawaiian shirts, listened to them ride the chordal swell. They were doing a rendition of something once regarded by rock magazine capsule reviewers as cruelly melodic and teeming with surplus malaise. These fiddle boys were bowing such sweetness back into it. I wept on past the Ohio state line.

The question of why William's credit card was still valid tender continued to gnaw when I heard the birdsounds in the glove box. Glad chirp of sparrow on a microchip. I dug around for the phone, found it, flipped it.

"Go," I said.

Goddamn, it was good to say that.

I got the buzz of bad frequency, a harried satellite.

"Hello?" I said. "William?"

"It's Bobby. Can you hear me?"

"In and out."

"Good. ."

"I missed that."

"Now?"

"Yeah."

"How do you like Indiana?"

"Are you tracking me?"

"Drama queen."

"What happened to the freedom of the open road?"

"You're free to stop at any roadside concession. There's a Stuckey's coming up. I recommend the candied almond log."

"Is that my password?"

"No, it's just totally tasty."

The redemption van crapped black smoke in the Stuckey's parking lot. I pulled William's convertible up beside it, got out. The van door slid open and Dietz smiled down. His ponytail was tucked inside his derby. The loop hung down like a silky noose.

"Brother in fire," said Dietz, giggling. "Welcome to the whirligig."

"I've got a ride," I said. "But thanks."

"I don't think you're going to get too far," said a voice behind me. It was Old Gold. He was tearing up packets of diner sugar, pouring them into William's gas tank. Dietz grabbed me by the arms. His grip was tremendous. We had to wait for Old Gold to tear up all the packets, dig for more in his pants.

"I told you we should have gotten the fucking box," said Dietz. "Eighty-nine cents."

"That's a rip-off," said Old Gold.

"We expense it."

"Then we have to explain it."

"Just cut the tires."

"Radials," said Old Gold. "Bad for the knife."

Old Gold drove. Dietz sat in back with me. There was a shovel there, the bed of it shiny, the blade edge blacked with oil. Dietz picked it up, poked at some bright netting torn loose from clementine crates.

"My mother used to wear ones like these," he said. "Slut hose."

"No more boat," I said.

"There's always more boat."

"Shut up back there," said Old Gold. "Dietz, did you drop those tabs? That's all I need. I'm commander of this operation."

"What, nobody ever did a magic dance on your Navy SEAL Team?"

"I wasn't no SEAL," said Old Gold. "I was an intelligence."

Dietz fell back laughing, hugged the shovel blade.

"Good stuff, Dietz?" I said. "See anything special?"

"I don't have visions anymore, man. Too many golden fucking arches obstructing the view. Lookie there. Death burgers on both sides of the road. Motherfuckers get you coming and going."

"It's your peers that are responsible, Dietz," I said. "They made this world."

I pointed out the window to the world.

"My peers? My peers been dead since '73. Don't lay that trip on me, man. Those people you're talking about, they were pigs all along. Pigs with beards, pigs on skag, little sows with blond hair down to their asses and sweet little piggy tits. Must I give you a lesson in cultural. . cultural. . oh, shit. ."

Dietz began to wriggle, beetle-like, batted his arms in the air.

"Good morning, evening!" he said.

"Don't mock the rituals," snarled Old Gold. "It's bad karma."

"Karma?" said Dietz. "You moron. Hey, pull over. Let's get a burger. They make them with fetus meat now."

"Can it, Dietz," said Old Gold. "Or I'm going to do something evil."

"Evil?" said Dietz. "You don't have the sensitivity for evil. All you're capable of is mean. Man, if Heinrich was still Heinrich he'd show you a thing about-"

"I said can it," said Old Gold.

"Indiana," said Dietz, after a while, as though it might be a disputed philosophical supposition.

"This here is downstate Illinois," said Old Gold. "They have signs about it for people like you who can't tell the difference."

"Mind if I ask you guys a question?" I said.

"Mind," said Dietz. "How many times do you think I've said the word mind?"

"Where are you taking me?" I said.

"To your rightful place," said Old Gold.

We took a turnoff, sped up a ramp. Withered fields whipped by. I looked down at the shovel, up at Dietz. I wondered if I'd have to dig my own grave like some mob saga hood. I could storyboard the whole thing if they wanted.

"Turn here," said Dietz.

I peered out the window for a peek at my last location, but the only sights I saw were airport signs, a tinted tower by a pond.

We flew out on a cheapo line, Phaethon Air. Dietz flourished tickets and we charged through the gate. Old Gold drove off with the van. Phaethon security was a coke-shaky clubkid with a billy bat. He wanted to know if we'd left anything unattended in the terminal.