John Domini - Talking Heads - 77

The guard had grown older again, under his cap.

“You notice,” Kit said, “they didn’t send anybody higher up to come and get—”

“Harvard. Fucking rich-boy faggot Harvard.” He yanked up Kit’s bicep, the arm flopped from the elbow. “You think that impresses me? Think that scares me? Viddich, you couldn’t even begin to get what I’ve got. You couldn’t even dream about it. For starters I’ve got this truck here, can you dig it? I’ve got it free and clear. ”

With his free hand Garrison smacked the steering wheel. In the thing’s leather sheathing one of the lace-holes popped.

“Let go of me, Garrison.”

“Free and clear, dicksuck. I’m not just talking a quadrophonic eight-track and a CB. I’m talking fucking four on the floor with enough power to hire out as a snowplow, and I even got the commercial license and insurance. All mine, I told you. All free and fucking clear.”

“Let go. Your boss is waiting for me.”

“Whoa, to-ugh guy. Hard co-re. You know what else I got, smart boy? Got two shotguns. Two excellent guns, right there behind your fucking head. Right there on a rack behind the curtain and Harvard here never even knew about it.”

Kit went on letting his arm hang, keeping his look unimpressed. He wasn’t about to turn his head.

“Plus my old man and me, we got six acres on a lake in New Hampshire. Six acres with fishing year-round. Any trouble comes after me, man, I’m up to my lake. Any of your college boy bullshit comes my way, I’m in my truck and I’m gone. I’m gone. Six acres. Plus my guns and my truck. That’s what I got, man, and that you don’t fuck with. You and your fucking rich boy Indian blood on the face bullshit, whoa — that bullshit means about as much to me as your computers in space sci-fi media bullshit. You just want to keep the woods beautiful for nutty faggot rich boys like yourself.

“What you got, Viddich, it don’t even touch what I got. Don’t even touch it, any of your bullshit. You ask me, the cash for this truck was the best money I ever made in my life.”

Cash, sure. Bribery was strictly a cash business.

“I got my truck, dicksuck. Got my truck and my guns and my place. You think you can get away from this shit, this city that’s falling right down into the shit? Think Harvard’ll save you? Harvard ain’t going to worry about some head case like you. You’re nobody. No friends. This newspaper of yours, you can roll it up tight and stick it up your ass for the good it’ll do you when this city goes down into the shit. Roll it tight and stick it up your ass. That’s your paper. That’s all you got. Me, I got my truck and my guns and my place. You — fuck you. You and this niggerdick up the ass you call a city. Fuck you! Fuck you all!”

*

Any time you wantto tell a tourist, my basement boys and girls, take a look when our Scandie pseudo comes into The T. The T, you know the place. Uhh-nder the boardwalk, down by the se-ee-ee-ahhh (heavy breathing, get it?). Under the boardwalk and under construction: that’s The T. The club wants to be plywood partitions and steel fencing forever. Plenty of graffiti, plenty of leakage in the overhead pipes. Like dancing in the Elsinore dungeons, hey Scandie?

The T — that’s our scene, my hard cores. I’m a siren for our scene, remember, the voice of leathers and plastics everywhere. And The T, see, is about imitation. It’s an imitation wreck. And imitation, see, is our hard core. Our scene’s home sweet home.

Though, in our case, it’s not so sweet. It’s more like out ow ! out. Yeah, that’s imitation, punk style — out ow ! out.

Zia see, my homeys. A Movement dinosaur like this David Bowie clown — no, clone; the word is clone —he doesn’t even realize he’s a clone. He comes down into The T, down the entrance ramps and over the coffer dams, and he’s checking for Building Code violations. He’s inspecting the plumbing (what there is of it). The battle for truth goes on (and yawn). The Bastille must be taken every day.

Not in our scene, my sluts and greasers. I mean, the boy’s been bumping into me day after day for a week, he should’ve figured it out by now. In our scene we build our own Bastille. An imitation—“dig it.” Our times, they are a mimicking. Our counterculture apes the authority culture, looking for something we can wear on an earring. Something The Man doesn’t want to see on an earring , check — something that pokes fun at his worst secrets.

And now another visitfrom the angels on my shoulders. Cue:( that slut ) Why, if it isn’t the hard-nosed muckraker. Ayy:There’s leakage. Definite leakage. And the expressway’s right overhead. Cue:Here and everywhere, big boy. Here and right up into the castle of the King. Ayy:The expressway, thousands of cars a day. Any leakage down here will undermine the supports. Cue:Frightens you, doesn’t it? Something you never wanted to see on an earring. Ayy:I’m serious. This isn’t an earring. Cue:Don’t be so sure, man. Leakage, seepage — it’s everywhere. Everybody’s got a closet.

He had rough going to reach Leo. The site was no more than a vast steep-walled pit. Echoes of the overhead traffic never faded, ringing in the heaps of waiting metal, the corrugated steel and copper pipes. Underfoot, plywood walkways wobbled on the boggy floor. When hardhats came by they always carried cable or tools, and these were bulky guys anyway, heavy-muscled in parka vests and jean jackets. Kit had to stand aside. He was aware again of his Nutshell Library. That was bad luck, that he hadn’t been able to get rid of the thing. Having it out with Leo face to face — and on his turf — felt questionable enough to begin with.

Ayy:This isn’t an earring. This is the Central Artery. Cue:This is The T, sweet butt. Only thing it’s good for is to dance. Ayy:Aw, is this a joke to you? A party? I’m trying to change the world. Cue:Yeah, and the only way to do it is to dance. Come out and dance! Come out and confront your filthiest closet selves. Ayy:( pulls Percodan from pocket, frowns at label ) Cue:Come out even if it hurts. Come out especially if it hurts! Out, ow, out! Ayy:But if this is all just a big club, if nothing’s going to change. Cue:Oh, things will change, smart boy. Imitation is the sincerest form of anarchy. Ayy:What am I doing here? What?

Kit found his man at the far end of the site. Leo stood with three or four workers, against a pit wall that appeared different somehow, set back. Hatless like Kit, he might have been out for a night of disco; his still-thick Italian hair was slicked back and his overcoat was a flashy black and white check, knee-length and double-breasted. Not that Leo wasn’t one of the boys, here. As the old crew chief spoke, the workers around him moved in synch. They rocked, they shrugged. Their chests were thrust up, their knees locked back.

At the entrance Kit had only needed to mention Leo’s name. If he were here as a reporter, he couldn’t have found better access. If he were here as a reporter.

“Kit, kid.”

Kit took in the familiar mask, the satchelmouth.

“I guess Garrison found you,” Leo said.

Kit looked past him, checking the set-back wall behind him.

“You two talk?”

Kit compared the wall to the floor. A border of corrugated steel rippled up at the floor’s edge, another cofferdam close by the feet of Leo and his friends. Beyond this border the site dropped away again. A second, smaller area had been dug out, still lower. Kit couldn’t see into it, but the drop-off looked to run nearly the entire way along this side of the site.