Sam Lipsyte: The Subject Steve

I shivered in my pit, stared up at the stars. There were forms now finally in these decals of the void, I could see it, a cosmos of my own, a god grid tailored to this niche of one. Up in the bitter firmament Cudahy heaved his shot and Fiona picked her pock and a box of Hinks Civic stainless nibs spilled out in milky light. Here was Renee, frozen in her sneeze of sorrow, and Captain Thornfield's captainless hat. There was Heinrich preaching from his porch, Bobby in his blazing robe, Estelle in lewd galactic concourse with her only spawn, big jiz splooging across the vaults of heaven. There was Donald, his stars stifled somehow, and the Kincaids, Big Fran and Little Fran, indistinguishable save for the far stars that looped to make the apron string bow. Here was William, young William, with his straw of happiness, his art rock toupee. Here was Maryse asquat a chamber pot filled with candied yams, a viscid bile coursing down her chin. There was my mother, the navigator, flying through the star shatter of some celestial head-on, a Ziploc bag of Cheez-Its in her fist. I saw them all up there, the Philosopher and the Mechanic, two-faced, one-hooded, a fire-sale Janus, Greta and Clarice double-dipping Jesus, Mr. Ferguson, Wendell Tarr, Dr. Cornwallis, the Rad Balm girl. There were even bears up there. I saw fucking bears up there. But where was Steve? I searched the suns of night for a constellated me.

What the hell ever happened to Steve?

The Subject Steve is without a doubt a dead subject. He's probably dead in the desert somewhere, though initial air searches have recovered nothing but a stolen van and a diary. We surmise Steve ran out of gas and staggered off into the waste. Whether his disease or the elements claimed him first we will never know. Click here tocook up a theory, or click here toorder souvenirs from Steve's life, including his Jews of Jazz calendar and snapshots of his family. Click here for spycam video of his sexy daughter inflagrante delicioso! Click here for apeek at the newest offerings from the Realms, Inside the Mothering Hut and It's Your Funeral: The Digger DaShawn Digs Real-Life Graves .

I heard footsteps, too quick for people feet. They had the pouncy sound of people-hunters. I heard barks and breathing. Dogs, desert dogs. Hell's hounds here for their treat. I looked up from my hole, saw cold eyes burn green in fur.

Let the bastards note, I thought.

"Fuhk Oo," I said into my ball gag.

"Hey," said a voice, "don't talk to my dog that way."

Warren vaulted down into the hole. He had a steak knife in his hand. His wolfhound hopped in after him, sniffed my hair.

"No, Pascal," said Warren, shinned the dog off, cut my ropes.

I tried to get up, fell back in the hole.

"Here," said Warren, hoisted me out.

Far off I could see the lights of the hangar. The redemption van rumbled towards us with the headlights dimmed.

"I thought your dog was dead," I said.

"I'm an artist," said Warren.

"Why are you doing this?"

"I don't know. I guess I'm just tired of the bullshit."

"What bullshit?"

"I don't know."

"You're the spokesman of your generation."

"Yeah."

"You're not really articulating."

"Steve, I'm saving your life."

"Thanks."

"Look," said Warren, "someday my name will come up in conversation, as it seems to so goddamn often these days. Some of your friends will scoff at my work, all the attention it's been paid. Hype, they'll say. Marketing. A dearth of authentic talent. But you'll stick up for me. You guys don't know what the hell you're talking about, you'll say. That guy saved my fucking life."

I wanted to tell him I'd be dead by then, that maybe he should talk to Spider or Wideband about this.

Now the van rolled up and Trubate was out the door. He wiped at his nose with his robe sleeve.

"Fucking outstanding," he said. "Fucking beautiful. A rescue mission. Now I know why I went through all that bullshit with your jerk lawyers, Warren. You are a motherfucking genius. You are without a doubt the most significant artist of your generation. Now where do you want it?"

Trubate got his gun out. Warren whipped the knife. The blade wheeled in high-watt light. The grip hit Trubate in the eye. He drew his hands up to cup it, hollered, staggered back, let the gun drop. I dove on the thing, stood slowly with a bead on Trubate.

"You don't have the balls to shoot me," he said.

He squirmed in the sand. Fluid from his eye squirted down his cheek.

"I never did," I said. "I never had the balls for anything, Bobby. I'm a ball-less wonder. De-balled. Sans balls. Without balls."

"That's all I meant," said Trubate.

I shot him in the head.

"Shit," he moaned.

Warren went over to where Trubate lay.

"No blood."

"Rubber bullet," I said.

"I think you stunned him," said Warren.

"I'm stunned," said Trubate. "I don't fucking believe this."

"Fuf nath ta beleef?" I said.

"What did he say?" said Trubate. "What did that motherfucker say?"

"Slap leather," I said. "Fill your hand."

"You'd better go," said Warren.

"Need a ride?"

"I'd better stay. I'm under contract."

"Me, too, I guess."

"Not for what I'm getting."

"You're a good man," I said.

"I don't know about that," said Warren. "I feel more like a boy. Everybody my age does. It's like we're all trying to come to terms with a moment that won't quite reveal itself, and here we are, devoid of a context within which to situate ourselves-"

"Warren," I said.

"What?"

I got in the van, drove out across the desert floor. The desert was forever. The whole wide world was a road. There were lit shapes in the distance. Hills, houses, power lines, who knew? The van shook as it picked up speed. The steering wheel stabbed my hands. The radio was full of static. I could have sworn I heard a voice there just the same.

It said, This ain't no joke, Jack.

It said, Fare thee well.