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“You ever smoke weed?”
“Sure,” Dylan lied.
“It’s no big thing.”
“I know.”
“Everybody gets theyselves high on something-that’s what Barrett says.” Every-body gets they-selves high on some-thing carried like musical DNA a trace of Mu-tha’s gone but the boy is keeping it together.
“It’s okay, I did it before, I just don’t want to right now.”
“Before?” Mingus tested him gently.
“Sure,” said Dylan. “My mom’s a pothead.” As it came from his mouth Dylan knew he’d betrayed Rachel, tossed her out like a skully cap you played indifferently, didn’t mind losing.
Shrugging around in your own language, falsely casual, you discovered what you already knew. The stories embedded in the words like puns, waiting.
Ru
“Yeah, well, speaking of which, my moms kicked Barrett out for smoking drugs,” said Mingus. He was compelled to chip in his own disaster, then went mute. Possibly mentioning anyone’s moms out loud, even your own, was miscalculation enough to blow an afternoon.
You were never ineligible for a screwup like that-say the unsayable word and watch it foul the sky. Dodging any mention of Intermediate School 293 or the terms white or black you might think you were in the clear, but you’d be wrong.
There ought to be a whole other language. As it was, talk of Rachel pointed like a sundial shadow to situations like Robert Woolfolk, stuff you’d worked to leave obscure. Then you were right back where you didn’t want to be. Pi
A white boy in sixth grade, squirming in the glare.
Yoked.
Yo mama.
Mingus made the pipe disappear into his jacket. The two of them clambered up the grade, scaled the fence easily, and in silence stalked back along Pierrepont, putting the Promenade behind them. Though Dylan was ready now to be offered the El Marko, ready to uncap the pi
Mingus stalking ahead. Leaf still in his hair.
Dylan wasn’t even a toy, not yet.
Probably Mingus was high too, his brain in some other quadrant, the Negative Zone maybe. That part was too much to factor. Just another revoltin’ development, to quote Ben Grimm, more commonly known as the Thing.
He’d learned to let the mail sit until the boy came home from school, to let the boy toss down his knapsack and sort whatever had been pushed through the mailslot and palm away the Ru
Tonight, after Dylan had passed through the hallway and moved to the kitchen to unpack his homework on the table, Abraham found a thin package pushed through the slot, return-addressed with the name of his new employer. Though he guessed its contents instantly, he held the package in his gaze for a long minute, darkness massing behind his eyes, a sort of headache of pride and rage. When he finally tore it open a shudder of self-loathing went through him, and he nearly ripped the package in half down the center, destroying the thin mass-market paperback book before it was unveiled.
Neural Circus by R. Fred Vundane, the first in a series called the New Belmont Specials, heralded as “Mind-Warping Speculative Fiction for the Rock Age.” Jacket art by Abraham Ebdus: a third-rate surrealist landscape or moonscape or mindscape of brightly colored yet somehow ominous biomorphic forms, indebted to Miró, indebted to Tanguy, indebted to Ernst, indebted even to Peter Max, and repaying none of those debts in the least. The art department of Belmont Books had overlaid his gouache-on-pasteboard with an electric-yellow sans serif font meant to resemble computer-screen lettering. Abraham wished now he’d denied them the use of his real name, substituted a pseudonym instead, as the author apparently had: A. Fried Mothball or J.R.R. Foolkiller. The colors he’d applied with his own brushes hurt his eyes.
Abraham carried the book into the kitchen, thinking he’d drop it casually onto the table in the middle of Dylan’s homework. Pique compelled his wrist and he flipped the book to the floor instead. It skidded, spi
“What’s that?” said Dylan.
“My first published book,” said Abraham, unable to modulate the bitterness in his tone.
Dylan scooped the book up from the floor and took it into the parlor, wordlessly. Abraham moved a package of defrosted lamb chops from the refrigerator to the sink, ran the tap. Set onions on the counter, considered them. He could only bear the silence for a few minutes before peering in to see Dylan screwed into the corner of the couch, his whole body curled around Neural Circus. Dylan didn’t look up as Abraham entered. The kid read books like he was engaged in some sort of scavenger procedure, scowling in concentration, turning pages at improbable speed while he flayed away the inessential flesh of prose and inspected the skeleton of story, the bare facts or crucial nonsense. Dylan Ebdus didn’t read, he filleted.
Abraham returned to the kitchen. He sliced onions, tossed the chops in a pan. By the time he’d gotten di
“Not bad,” said Abraham Ebdus’s son. His tone suggested he’d read plenty that were worse. And then, in an act of almost unbearably dry wit, the boy returned the book carefully to the spot on the floor where Abraham had thrown it, covered his mouth with his fist and mimicked a slight cough, and turned to his di
The book lay there through di
He dipped his brush, and focused his hot, onion-stinging eyes on the small celluloid frame where he’d left off work. His film’s plot had lately turned to the banishment or purgation, by degrees, of color. By infinitesimal movements, small blottings and eclipses, black and gray were coming to dominate the zone above the horizon line at the center of the frame, and white and gray the zone below. What colors remained were muted, fading rapidly as though disheartened by the trend, their obvious death sentence. They’d seen the writing on the wall. First they came for the crimsons and I didn’t speak up, then they came for the ochres -
The New Belmont Specials were purgatory for the banished colors, Abraham decided now. By expelling onto the jacket designs his corruptest impulses-the need to entertain or distract with his paints, the urge to do anything with his paints apart from seeing through them to the absolute truth-he’d further purify his film. The published paperback art, he saw now, with a thrill that felt almost vindictive, would be a Day-Glo zombie standing in for his painting career, a corpse that walked. Meanwhile, thriving in seclusion, like a Portrait of Dorian Gray in reverse, would be the austere perfection of the unpublished, unseen film.