Devil

Was this the same cat? The same cat who'd hiss and show its teeth every time Beth went near it, or even held one finger out for inspection and detente? It was hard to believe. But there was the copper burst around the right eye, and the mustache. This was Devil.

Only now, Beth had Devil in her arms, and the cat wasn't fighting for its life. She was lying there, actually folding herself into Beth's arms. A drowsy infant. An angel. Beth sat on the green painted steps out front. I peeked past the curtains and just watched them, Beth rocking Devil, and I know you can't see into an animal's mind, but it sure as hell looked like Devil was enjoying the attention. Like she was drinking it in and would let herself be lullabied out there on the steps. For the world to see. For the other cats to see.

And it was great. But it was also… I don't know. Not wrong, really. But like some part of the world had been squeezed down and molded to fit into our convenience. I'll bet she was purring. She looks so peaceful. Isn't that what new parents say about their sleeping babies?

Beth had a way of going a little overboard at times, treating our dog Rudolph and our cat Moonie like children. Cooing to them. Talking to them in baby-talk. Making sure the blankets they liked to sleep on were straight and smoothed and just right. And if they slept together, which they did so rarely it was remarkable, Beth would flush with pride. "Look at my babies" she'd say barely above a whisper. "Quiet—don't wake them." The first few times, she took their picture, and she would actually show people that picture.

The Tourist

I stood on the corner and my hat really did fly off my head. No one told me the bus drivers would drive like that here. The guide books said nothing on that subject. "Tipping is not mandatory," they counseled. "Spitting in public is highly inappropriate," they scolded. But when it came to the bus drivers: silence. I thought about getting on the next one just so I could be on the other side of the onslaught for once. Maybe that could have given me a chance to catch my breath.

Since the plane had landed, I had been in the middle of a tornado. The chattering I couldn't crack was a ceaseless gust. My practice with the tapes wasn't going to get me very far. The first person I talked to, a kindly grandmother-type with a face like a big pink sofa cushion, had hurried away, shooing her grandchildren ahead of her. Not a good sign. By studying my traveler's phrasebook, I was able to decipher the bigger, more imposing signs inside the terminal. "Exit" and "Taxis."

I guessed that the one ubiquitous sign—a blue rectangle with white script—said "Please smoke cigarettes freely." A haze inside the airport softened and coated everything with an invisible film. Maybe the grandmother had been offended that I hadn't offered her wee ones cigarettes.

My map was wilting like a leaf, and I was hardly holding up any better. I had worried the poor thing ever since the plane took off eleven hours ago. I was going to find my way through force of will, if not knowledge and organization. If I stared hard enough, arrows would light up and point the way. My eyes felt like they were shrinking in my head, compressed into little blue pearls. I kept up my tourist's jog along the street, watching out for buses—I could identify them by the gathering roar that preceded them. My traveler's checks were weighing me down. I was hungry. I could not have been more lost. A big cheery sign looked like it might be saying, "Come in here and have a bite," so I did. The menu was a tossed salad of mysteries and secrets and I pointed to a few things when the waiter came to me and I hoped for the very, very best they had.

Drum and Bass

He blew down Litzer with those Carters blazing. They were pumping out bass by the pound. He was an aircraft carrier he was so heavy. He was the center of the world, man, and the sound flowed from him like lava. He was hot. He was on fire. He was heavy. He felt it boom through the steering wheel. You're not careful, the sound would buck you right out the sunroof. Buck you out like a bull with a migraine.

Hang on tight, we're taking a left onto Fearing, and he was sailing. The steering wheel glided through his fingers like wind through a screen door. This was the best part, when the bass drum and the bass duked it out, and he felt it through the soles of the Hollies he was wearing tonight. The baby blues with the white trim. Hot. And cold, both. He was a nuclear ice cube. He could have a body in the trunk, and they would have been dancing back there. He was the party. And the party was rolling on, spilling like love from a volcano up and down Fearing.

He passed little people in front of Racquel's, and they looked up at him with love in their eyes and they felt the vibration in his wake. Their clothes and their hair drawn to him in the vacuum he made. He was so fast he sucked the air out and then he sucked out what was left. He wanted it all. It was all his.

Everything was brown with his Larsens. They mellowed everything out to a golden glow. The streetlights, tail-lights, traffic lights, all quietly mellowly goldenly brown and smooth. Coca-cola. Sweet honey. The world parted when it saw him coming and closed up behind, folding him in its honeyed embrace. He rolled on. And he was the party.

Train Coming

Train coming. That's what they said, those guys who pedaled around selling secrets. It was like the guys selling pills. What would you get? A good night's sleep with sepia dreams, or a crushing headache? You'd never know until you forked over the trade. Up to you. Same with the news boys, those dirty gossips. Train coming. One guy from Ill—what the ghosts used to call Philadelphia—bought the word and spread it out, like tossing seeds from a bag. Some people want to believe so much, it pushes their eyes wide open.

Train coming. Coming from where? Going to where? No point in asking. No one knew. The news boys could have heard from someone farther out, just trading down the chain. They were right about the guys from the lab. Trucks showed up just when they said they would. Maybe this train business was for real. Still, the details were a little bare. "Train coming. Day after tomorrow." That was it. No times or anything. Not that you'd expect more.

There were still a few clocks here and there, but most people I knew looked funny at guys who kept them. You know those eccentrics? People who collect whatever? Birdbaths or umbrellas? You know what those things are? These guys and their clocks, same thing. No one talked about time anymore. Numbers weren’t the currency in those days. Everything moved slow. The air was fragile and resisted all attempts at order. Clocks, calendars. No one cared about things like that anymore.

Train coming. I didn’t want to get sucked into that whole mess, that quicksand. People learned to live right here right now. It took practice. Even after it was automatic, you could still feel tomorrows tugging at you. And what did that get you? But the hell else am I going to do? Watch the flies blurring the air outside my window? I went to the station. Tracks were still there. Had never seen a train come by. Thought I heard one once.