Pasha Malla - People Park

Just look at the number of people, cried Lanyess. What a turnout!

Simply amazing, said Wagstaffe. Everyone’s here.

On the little TV in their kitchen Cora and Rupe were treated to a grandiose dollying shot over the common.

Rupe said, How come we can’t go there too, Ma?

Hush now. We can see everything fine at home.

But this wasn’t true: the picture was too small, identifying faces was akin to picking out raindrops from a monsoon.

Do you think Calum’s there?

Hush.

If he still hasn’t come home, Ma, don’t you —

Cora swatted at him. I said hush!

Ma? Is that him? There! Is it —

There’s just so many people, said Cora softly. There’s too many people to tell.

THE NEXT DAY, said Olpert, the walk to school was the saddest walk of my life.

Yeah?

The whole way from Bay Junction I thought about that apple, the way it just exploded, and I thought — and don’t laugh at me here, I was a kid — that my heart felt the same way. Like it had just. . shattered. But with such a soft little tap.

Fug.

And, Starx? Is love like that? I figure it’s that stuff, that steaming stuff, and you soak your heart in it, and then someone pulls out a hammer and smashes everything to pieces. And then you feel so so so so so so small.

Starx stared at him. He didn’t say a word.

The light inside the boathouse clicked off. Raven didn’t emerge. Instead, moaning: a mantra or a dirge.

Olpert turned back to his partner. Am I crazy?

Love’s crazy, Bailie. Though Starx seemed to be talking to himself — No, thought Olpert, more a memory of himself. Love’s a fuggin punt to the grapes for sure, he said.

BY QUARTER TO NINE People Park and its adjacent neighbourhoods were filled to capacity, there was nowhere else for anyone to go. And while Gip focused unwaveringly on the illustrationist’s trunk, spotlit at the front of the stage, Kellogg was more interested in the shifty guy with the thing on his face, who emerged from the shadows every so often to examine the crowd. And each time he did Kellogg drew his family a little closer.

Everywhere people trained video cameras on one another. Eyebrows lifted, fingers pointed, lenses reflected lenses to infinity. There you are, people said, waving, Good to see you — Say something to the camera — I don’t know you but hi! What boundless cheer, thought Kellogg, how good and decent a city could be. He wrapped his arm around Pearl, who hoisted Elsie-Anne on her hip, and she hugged him back while Gip chanted Ra- ven under his breath — what a champ! Had the Pooles ever had such a perfect, happy time? Not as a family, together, never. And the show hadn’t even started yet.

NFLM Helpers moved through the crowd handing out sparklers. Go on, Annie, said Pearl, and warily Elsie-Anne shouldered her purse and took a sparkler and held it at arm’s length, hypnotized by the flaring tip. That’s not how you do it, Dorkus, said Gip. He snatched the sparkler and whirled it through the air: RAVEN, RAVEN, RAVEN. Easy now, said Kellogg. I just wanted to show her, said Gip, though he’d already lost interest. The sparkler was discarded, it fizzled on the ground into a dead tin stick.

IN MATCHING BLACK outfits Havoc, Tragedy, and Pop descended from Knock Street Station into Lower Olde Towne. At the station’s entrance Pop removed his balaclava and glared into the security camera. I am whom I am, he howled. Envision me!

Tragedy elbowed into the shot, wonky eye shooting off lakeward, to shake a masturbatory gesture at the lens. Restribution, he said. Right?

Restri-fuggin-bution indeed, agreed Pop. Now let’s get our moves on.

Lower Olde Towne was devoid of life, the tourist shops and artisanal craft stores closed, the B&B’s along Knock Street seemed to be sleeping. From the station the trio pushed north, over cobblestones mottled with mats of hay masking paddies of horsedung. But the horses were stabled in Kidd’s Harbour, their drivers downtown for the big show — along with, it seemed, everyone else.

The trio assembled under the awning of an Islandwear boutique. Pop opened his duffel, removed a can of spraypaint, puffed a bright green burst onto the wall.

Fuggin yeah, said Havoc, that’θ a θtart.

I’ve crafted a text, said Pop, removing a sheaf of papers from his pocket. He handed a section each to Havoc and Tragedy. I’ve divisioned it into chapters, one to each of us.

Tragedy leafed through the pages. Wow. We got enough paint?

Pop spread the bag open: it was full of cans. Absolutesimally, he said.

YOUNG PEOPLE occupied the common’s eastern hillside. Most were drunk. Voices hooted, ciders made the rounds, empties were pitched into the orchard, bottlecaps flicked and forgotten. A small group started a lethargic and half-ironic Ra- ven chant, abandoned to apathy. The booze had them grasping at heedlessness and rebellion, despite curfews and homework in the backs of their minds.

Edie shared a flask of schnapps with a boy from school. He got hold of a sparkler, wrote, FUG, and a mum racing by with her daughters shielded their eyes.

Laughing, Edie handed him the flask.

Where’s Calum, he said.

No idea, said Edie, I haven’t heard from him since yesterday. Though if he wants to ruin his life, whatever, it’s his problem, she said, watching the boy drink. He doesn’t care about his future? Fine. I tried to help him, but you can only do so much, right?

What? the boy said.

Nothing, said Edie, and reclaimed the flask, and took another drink.

LESS THAN A MINUTE, said Wagstaffe, and Isa Lanyess neighed, The countdown’s begun!

Adine checked the phone again — no Sam, no one. From the TV, kettledrums rumbled and a brass section belched its way through a melody that suggested some imminent triumph. She imagined spotlights dancing, the crowd tensing, the conjoined anticipation of cuddled-up couples. With this came thoughts of Debbie — so Adine reached for the remote and turned up the sound.

Isa Lanyess said, What a magnificent celebration of twenty-five years of this beautiful space, and Wagstaffe clarified, The park, yes, let’s not forget — only thirty seconds to go!

Adine stared into the blackness of her goggles, images of Debbie flitting in her mind’s eye: surrounded by friends, someone else holding her, an insipid snuggly orgy —

On TV the drums were intensifying. Isa Lanyess screamed, Ten seconds, and We-TV’s co-hosts roared in chorus, Nine, eight, seven, six, five. .

Four, shouted everyone in Cinecity.

Three, said Rupe and Cora.

Two, thought Adine, grudgingly.

One, whispered Gip.

The drums stopped.

The lights went out.

Every clock and watch froze at once: it was nine.

From somewhere a lone trumpet wailed a single, sad note. The Podesta Tower searchlights swung over the crowd, illuminating thousands of expressions of rapture and wonder. The videoscreens came to life in a grey mess of static, which organized into a shuffle of photographs meant to mimic movement. A ten-second, grainy loop played on repeat: the silhouette of a raven flapping across a colourless sky.

The trumpet paused. Into the silence pattered a drumroll, not just suspenseful but militaristic — a reveille. As it crescendo’d the birds on the videoscreens flew faster, faster.