Justin Taylor - The Gospel of Anarchy

Thomas has never been to Seattle. Hasn’t been much of anywhere, in fact, which always bothers him when he thinks about it — and then the being-bothered is what bothers him because it’s such a problem of privilege. Some people live under power lines, or grow up in the middle of some refugee camp, or sweat their childhood out in some factory or mine. Thomas’s biggest bitch in life is that the family only ever took vacations to see his aunt on Long Island, plus of course the occasional cruise. What’s next? Complaining that they never sent him to Europe? Actually, his mom thought studying abroad was this totally great idea for his junior year, and had been more than willing to pay for it, but then he dropped out instead. Okay, slow down. Nobody can control where they come from. It’s not your fault your father played markets. And again, it’s not like he’s a Rockefeller. His parents both still work. The nest is pretty much feathered, but it’s hardly gilt. And it’s not like he takes their money anyway. Not like they offer. “When you’re ready to behave like an adult,” they said, “we can discuss how to fund your going back to school. Until then, there’s really nothing to talk about.” Too true. And so he hasn’t talked to them in how long?

Ah, but he’s really getting into it tonight, isn’t he? Time to crack another beer.

Seattle. City of wind and grunge, heroin and hi-tech and, uh — what else? Starbucks. Aren’t they from there? And Nike, maybe. Yeesh. Still. The WTO protest is going to be a big deal. He’s sure of it. Seattle’s going to be a game-changer. The movement is going to make itself known, take the overlords by surprise for once, and declare with one resonant voice that another world is possible, and we demand it be delivered to us now. After that — well, who knows? If they can win big in Seattle then anything might follow. This could be the beginning of the new New Left. Maybe they’ll be able to light a little fire under that fake-ass progressive Al Gore. If he wants to run for president next year he’s going to have to distance himself from Blow-Me Bill’s neoliberal scam job. That hayseed motherfuck. Air strikes in Africa, more pot smokers arrested than under Nixon, telecom deregulation, the extraordinary unchecked violence of “free trade,” the promise of health care betrayed, plus whatever actually happened to that Vince Foster guy. When this is what the liberals look like, who needs conservatives? This whole bullshit line about the “global village.” Stinks about as rotten as “two-party system.” They just want to solidify their position. New command and control centers for the capitalist war machine. Time to sound the alarm loud and clear, wake the world up from this fucked fever dream, and that’s what it’s going to be all about in Seattle.

“Man with no eyes appears,” sings Dead Moon. Or, really, moans it. Then something something, “room 213.” He’s never been able to figure this song out. The only thing he knows for sure about it is it’s a minute and a half too long. Maybe there’s a reason these guys never sold out when grunge broke big. Like, maybe nobody offered.

Thomas downs the last of his beer and picks himself up off the floor. He puts the bottles on his windowsill, looks out across the dark front yard. There’s light in the VW, soft and small: more candles, he’s almost sure of it. It’s like the Middle fucking Ages in this family. He turns from the window, hits the STOP button on the tape deck. When Dead Moon winks out of existence it is instantly replaced not with silence but with the noise from the living room. There’s a full-blown party going on out there. There’s a fire in the Western world.

He’s in the bedroom doorway now, appraising the scene. He’d like to lock his door, but you can only do that from the inside. Not like anyone’s going to steal anything — not like he has anything worth stealing, except the stereo, which is too bulky to move without someone noticing. His real concern is that nobody ends up screwing on his bed. Nobody but him, that is. So he shuts the door firmly, as in, people take heed . Not that anyone’s paying attention to him, but he at least knows what he meant.

Now he’s back in the kitchen, shouldering his way through clusters of kids in conversation (“yeah the problem with Chomsky,” “and my sister was all like,” “you missed that show how could you miss that fucking show it was the best show I ever saw I can’t believe”) on his way to the beer. He’s both astonished and impressed to see how low supplies are running. This crowd’s got appetite, that’s for sure. If there was only some way to harness that energy for anything remotely useful. He grabs two of the last beers, jams one uncomfortably into his pocket and cracks the other, takes a big swig, then surveys the traffic jam of bodies that fill all the floor space, halls and doorways, slouched on couches, leaning against walls. Where did all these other people come from? He turns the other way, out the kitchen door again, past a loose clutch of chattering smokers in their dingy convivial cloud.

He sees a circle of poets over by the tent, gathered close about the candle’s sunken light. Anchor’s with them. This is her favorite part of the service, to sit and listen and clap for her friends. She never brings anything of her own to share, has never tried to write a poem, she says, but Thomas is pretty sure she’d like to. Maybe she’s working up the guts. What he would like is to grab her attention — whisk her away to his room, where they can talk and screw, but it would be wrong to drag her from this moment. Because she really would come, if he asked her to. In fact, he should go away before she notices him standing there, because if she sees him it won’t be about her anymore, it’ll be about what he hears, his opinions and approval: him him him. It makes him wary and nervous, the command he has over her. He’d break her of it if he only knew how.

In the unlit side yard, some guy who apparently ran out of patience with the bathroom line is pissing on the side of the house. He’s got both palms flat against the wall like a suspect, his dick swinging free. A short ways beyond him two girls, who obviously had this spot long before pisser arrived, are rolling around on the ground and kissing, leaves clung up all over their tee shirts. Thomas steps literally over them as he passes into the front yard.

The slide door of the VW is closed, but the small light within is still shining, and they’re not making fuck noises or anything, so Thomas knocks.

“Oh, hey man,” says Owl, popping up from the floor of the van, his face filling the window: a pair of Coke-bottle glasses beneath a floppy rainbow Rasta hat. He’d be a perfect cartoon if not for the beard stubble. And the worry lines. How old is Owl, anyway? Closer to Rooster’s age than Anchor’s. Yikes.

Owl slides the bus door open and Thomas climbs in. There’s music coming from a small beat-up boom box that’s plugged into the extension cord that snakes out the bus’s front window, an umbilicus connecting it to the house. The music is hippie shit — aimless, all high-end, and on these speakers might as well be coming over a tin-can tree house phone. But hey, to each their own. Right? Selah’s stretched out on the back bench. The guys both sit cross-legged on the floor, where the middle bench should be but isn’t. This is where they sleep, on a foam pad that’s presently rolled up and stuffed under Selah’s seat. For once, she’s not making a necklace, but her hands are still busy at work. She’s rolling a fat jay; exactly what Thomas had hoped. “Can I offer you something?” he asks. “A few bucks.”

“Nah man, pleasure’s ours. This is your juice flowing through our troubadour.” He pats the boom box affectionately on its lid, which sets the CD skipping. “Ah man .” He pops the lid open, pulls the still-spinning disc from the tray, starts to fiddle with something inside. Clearly not the first time Owl’s had to do triage on the boom box. By the time the jay’s lit the air is once more filled with the sound of breezy, shapeless tin. Now Thomas is feeling fine. Relaxed, a little silly — totally mute. Pot always makes him feel like he’s got his head stuck in a cotton ball. A not unwelcome sensation, though sometimes it makes him nervous because he hates to feel like he can’t express himself, can’t say what’s on his mind or pick a fight. But now, here, with these two well-beloved weirdos, in the shabby and substantial comfort of their hot dark van, it is a welcome relief from the polymorphous chaos of the party. He is glad to be confined within himself in silence, no longer cross-legged but now slouching against the van’s inner wall.