John Domini - Talking Heads - 77

So he looked like a tourist, yeah. He acted like a tourist. But for the real proof — deep, dream-deep — we need the angels on my shoulders. The angels Cue and Ayy.

Cue:( striving for journalistic objectivity ) Who the fuck are you?

Ayy:A wounded warrior in the battle for truth.

Cue:( holds up a thought balloon: WHAT KIND OF PAINKILLERS IS THIS GUY TAKING?)

Ayy:A wounded warrior, ( indicates stains ) Bloody but unbowed. You oughta see the other guy.

Cue:The other guy? What, your friend in the uni?

Ayy:For starters. The guard is only the visible symptom of the infection. The lesion, the buboe. The outbreak above the horizon.

Cue:Yeah, yeah, yeah.

Big media. It could turn Christ himself into an idol, a graven image. You know the network showed a photo of Junior Rebes, too? And you know the murdered convict actually looked a little like Farrah Fawcett-Majors? The womanly lips, the wedge-like eyes… after a moment, this reporter couldn’t stand to look.

This reporter had believed in that face. Believed. Behind Junior’s face lay a mess, sure, but this mess nonetheless constituted a soul. In there, dream-deep, waited a secret worth knowing. A secret so powerful it would single-handedly replace all the world’s lies…

Or so this reporter had thought, till he saw even the face of his Monsod source turning to sheer screen, sheer blonde hype, blonde on bone … and then Farrah herself came on, and she’d been astonishing, the most honest thing up there …

Whatever she was about, this Girl of the Moment, this hamper in a haystack, she was true to it, haunting and true.

and this reporter.

and this reporter.

Ayy:The guard is only a pawn in their game. He is an appendage of the machine, a puppet of the bourgeois.

Cue:Hoo boy.

Ayy:I saw the pipe fittings.

Cue:( again, the thought balloon )

Ayy:I saw the pipe fittings. The BBC inspectors came out of the closet, and I saw.

Cue:Well, of course you saw. Isn’t that the point, when someone comes out of the closet?

Ayy:I saw their Baggies. I saw the infection itself.

Cue:You know, I’m starting to think you’re not such a tourist after all.

Ayy:I saw the bourgeois sickness, in all its grease. And I know who controls the means of production. I know and I’m going to bring him down. No matter what Garrison says.

( the guard reappears with a big, red, Irish grin )

*

The Sons of Columbus on a weeknight. The foyer was unlit, the reception rooms sober, the furniture folded against the walls. More than anything, the place said: cost-efficient . For a banquet at the Sons, they brought out the long tables. For Vegas Night, the round tables. The kitchen doors groaned when they swung, heavy chipboard, dark enough to hide the dirt from a Boy Scout’s hands and strong enough to take a crack from a caterer. The club was a working three-dimensional design for the immigrant work ethic. Seven days a week, any job, any hours.

Kit was still thinking of Garrison. Charley Garrison — talk about an immigrant work ethic. Even the chill of the walk from the T recalled the way his feet had held the cold from Monsod’s basement. That morning Garrison had said nothing till the inspection team was safe. Wordlessly the guard had herded everyone upstairs and out through the cellblocks a different way, to a different sally port. Only then did he pull Kit aside. He spoke in a cracked whisper, a tone that prodded Kit like a second frisk. He told Kit not to write about the fight with Junior.

You know the kind of trouble you’re in for , Garrison had whispered, you write about that fight? Whoa . The guard had told him to say only that Junior had died in the disturbance. That’s all that pervert scum is worth .

And then, downtown, Kit had seen just that story on TV.

( the guard reappears with a big red Irish grin. Ayy swivels to face him ) Ayy:This man says, what’s the big deal about the truth? He says, “Whoa” ( he does a pretty good South Boston accent, actually ), “the truth, that always comes down to the same sorry shit anyway.” Always comes down to fear or greed or some other sorry shit. That’s all you’ll get, Garrison says, once you’ve gone through all the excuses. Cue:Uhh, you’re some kind of reporter? Ayy:( proudly ) With an alternative newsweekly. A journal of politics and opinion.

( Garrison disappears ) Cue:Uhh, you know something? I myself— Ayy:An alternative newsweekly. Where every day there’s a war on. The Bastille must be taken every day. Cue:What paper is this? Ayy:And this next issue, this is going to be big. We’re not just going to do the prison, Rebes, that story. We’re going to do the whole building-contracts scandal. In Massachusetts. Cue:Building contracts in Massachusetts. Well. That is fascinating. Ayy:( oblivious ) This next issue, it’s going to be huge. A double issue. Maybe even forty pages. Cue:( massages inside of elbow ) Ayy:This issue, it’ll be single-subject only. The scandal only, a single simple dirty picture. Hit ‘em between the eyes. Cue:(goes on massaging )

*

“Hey, what happened to you?”

Kit had propped himself in an open kitchen door. Here a radio droned, setting loose 101 Strings on stainless steel. And there didn’t appear to be any Sons tonight in the Sons of Columbus. Kit saw only women. Even the ones with no fat to speak of had that flesh to them, Italian flesh. Kit couldn’t tell at first where the knots of dough left off and the kneading hands began. They wore loose workaday dresses that bagged over apron strings. Scarves held their hair.

“Hey? You with us?”

Kit touched his neck. One of the women came away from the counter and, just like that, put her own hand over his. Lightly she fingered the bruises beside his ear.

“You really got a bump there,” the woman said. A smoker, she studied him with one eye closed. “What was it, some kinda accident on the Expressway?”

“Yeah, looks bad,” another woman said. “Sure you don’t wanna lie down?”

Nobody asked what Kit was doing here. Not even a can-I-help-you? The smoker raked the hair back from his temple.

“Stitches too,” she said. “Y’know this kind of thing can throw off your sense of balance.”

Kit had heard the same at Massachusetts General. But these women were nothing like the nurse there, none of that professional distance. Kit’s neck gave at the smoker’s touch. Oh, a touch. The moan in his ears returned, the noise that had deafened him in the Law Library. He wanted to speak.

And then, perfect timing, Zia.

She said something about a message at the office, something about never expecting him here. The words reached him spottily, through a buzz of surprises. Kit faced a Zia Mirini he’d never seen. The moan that’d been building up in him broke, hushed, and he couldn’t stop staring. Even with the apron on, it was obvious Zia’s dress had been designed for better than kitchen work. Loud pink trim laced the spattered flour. After a moment Kit placed the dress, he’d seen it at the office. But he’d seen it with yellow cowboy boots and the usual hair. Tonight Zia wore a scarf, like the others. No makeup.