52: Washington, DC

51: Puerto Rico

“Bienvenidos   Puerto Rico!” went the note on my desk. Something seemed wrong, but I couldn't put my finger on it. I looked out the window. I’d just moved to this city to supervise the U.S. Census. I knew no one.

“Perdon,” whispered this timid voice through the open door. “Un momento.”

I looked up, flustered. “I’m sorry?”

“Como?” Enricuo replied, smiling.


Months went by. Enricuo’s English got no better; mine got worse. I lost one phoneme first, then the second … soon whole words, whole sentences were gone. I tried to stutter through it, but one morning my tongue fell completely silent.

“Es Ingles,” Enricuo told me. “Borinquen resiste. Lee este.” He set some book on the desk. “Un mes. Espero que mejore.”

“One month!?” I scribbled on the cover.

He shrugged. “O dos.”


Terrified, I went to the doctor. “De donde es usted?” the nurse inquired.

“The U.S.,” I wrote, holding my notebook out to her. The doctor looked me over one or two minutes longer before he spoke: “Por que?” then, seeing my confusion: “Why? Why did you come here, to Puerto Rico?”

“For the longest time, I felt something missing,” I wrote. “There’s this hole in my life, this … void.” I stopped, pencil hovering, wishing I could find some word we both could use.

"Un hueco," he whispered to himself, then he pointed to the door. “You should go home.”


But it’s not so simple. I sit with my pencils splintering the moment they touch my notebook, my thoughts coming unmoored the moment they occur, then drifting off, gone … somehow I keep getting to point B only to discover it's the point of no return. I flip through once more from the beginning; count down to the closing line. There were only twenty-five letters left—how could it just end like this?

50: Hawaii

Aloha, Aloha Oe
(to the tune of “It’s Only a Paper Moon” as played by Cliff Edwards; sweetly, with Slothropian ennui)
by King Kainoa Dotcom


Well, “Aloha,” aloha oe.
Sail away on the trash-strewn sea.
‘Cause the springs would be sweeter here
If we said farewell to thee.

Like the sun in a vog-free sky,
It’s as clear as a thing can be
That there’d be fewer tourists here
If we said farewell to thee.

Akahai Lokahi 

Oluolu Haahaa Ahonui.
Revive the cause
Of Queen Liliuokalani.

So, “Aloha,” aloha oe.
You’re to blame for 1893.
A-and we wouldn’t be Americans
If we said farewell to thee.


(kazoo solo)


(repeat from bridge)

49: Alaska

These are dark days in Unalaska, a slog. Rain and snow fall almost sideways; even the sun’s scared to stay for long.

My Goose’s over at DUT. I’ll be down at Amelia’s if anybody’s looking, watching the north wind whip up whitecaps in the harbor, drag clouds across the sky; waiting for the moon to show above the mountains where the sun may rise.

48: Arizona

Start
You lean in to blow on the fire, gently coaxing the flames from tinder to twigs to branches, then sit back on your heels to watch.

The desert is pink and purple in the sunset. In the distance, the dark green wooded mountaintops of the Sierra Madre float like islands, rising up from the ocean of the plains.

You take the letter from your backpack and read it again. “Tucson High School class of 1980 30-year reunion,” it says across the top, “November 24, 2010.”

Well, why the hell not. You climb into the dirt-brown Chinook and pat Rusty on the head. His tail gives a halfhearted, sleepy wag.

Spit in your hand and brush back your hair, check your face for stubble in the mirror, sniff your armpits and smell your breath. Nothing. You smile.

It’s been 30 years; you could tell them anything … so which story do you want to tell?

For denial, go to 1
For anger, go to 2
For bargaining, go to 3
For despair, go to 4
For acceptance, go to 5


1.
“Everything went great at 3M after my big invention,” you tell Rob, whose fat, sagging face you barely recognize. “I’m sure you’ve heard of it.”

You wait for the obvious question but he’s busy drinking, so you take a sip of scotch then go on. “Anyway, that’s around when I finally married my sweetheart Shelly and bought our house on Lake Superior. It’s beautiful up there.”


2.
“Actually, Larry, the whole story about how I invented Post-it Notes is a joke, and I never liked that bitch.” You wink and clap him on the arm. “Truth is, I’m an assassin.”

Larry laughs. You toss back your scotch and reach inside your jacket. “You think that’s funny?” you ask. “Say you prayers, asshole.”


3.
“It wasn’t fair!” You’re talking to this girl you had a crush on all through 10th grade, you’re pretty sure. “Shelly got pregnant and I had to marry her. She’s been holding it over my head ever since.”

You finish off one scotch and hoist the other. “I’ve made a killing,” you continue, “but it’s all gone to her … for another house, another car, you name it.” You lean in for a kiss. “But if I could turn back time, I’d trade it all for you,” you glance down at her breasts and nametag, “Brenda.”


4.
You’re six or seven scotches in when Shelly finds you slumped over at a table in the corner. “What are you doing here?” you ask, the words slurring together, like somebody tried to scrub them out with an off-brand eraser.

“I heard about that dirty movie you made of us, you pig,” she says. “Now you’ll be hearing from my lawyer.”


5.
“I live in a van out in the hills by I-10,” you shout from your perch atop the DJ table. “I lost my job at 3M last year. The bank took my home, my wife left me; my kids won’t answer my calls. I’ve lost everything,” You look at the glass of scotch shaking in your hand, and put it down, “but I’ve found myself.”

The DJ, Scott something-or-other, is nodding his head, either in agreement or to the music. “I wanna rock with you,” the speakers sing, “all night.” Everybody keeps dancing.


End
You open your eyes and stare out the windshield. Another stupidly beautiful sunset is just ending. Beside you, Rusty barks and wags his tail.

You fold the letter up and put it back in its envelope, get out of the van, and toss it into the fire. The ashes and embers rise like moths, the invitation going up in smoke, like a dream.

47: New Mexico

It’s a player’s house, I know it; there’s magic and XP everywhere in this bitch.

I start searching the crates, the barrels … the medicine cabinet is the fucking motherload: more bottles than I can count, pills in every color of the rainbow – ambien, benzedrine, codeine, diazepam – “Are you a believer in miracles,” I sing to myself. “Da-doo una time some-thing miracles.”

I’m popping them into my mouth like skittles when the old man comes in, a huge chrome revolver in a holster on his hip. “What the fuck are you doing?” he shouts.

I give him the signal, slapping two fingers on my arm. He pulls his gun and drops into a crouch. Time for plan B, I think. “Can I get a couple of extra-large chalupas?” I ask, “And an orange coke?”

A metallic click echoes off the bathroom tile as he cocks the hammer back. “Sorry, I thought this was a Taco Bell.”

He shakes his head. “Son, do you think this is a game?” He asks. “Shit,” He stands up and looks at the gun in his hands. “What kind of world are we living in?”

“The World of Reality,” I say, but he ain’t listening.

46: Oklahoma

Dust rising from distant horizon. Pickup truck streaking along perpendicular gravel roads. Route 66 stretching south, southwest.

Cement road running through ruins. Houses falling into their foundations. Ghost towns returning to prairie.

Smoke rising from faraway refineries. Rusting oil derricks pecking at barren cornfield. Fat crows chasing the worm.

Rows of parallel lines intersecting. Some solitary farmer plowing rows of stones. This dry landscape, ever changing. His straw hat shading faded gray overalls. A scarecrow harvesting bumper crops of nothing.

White clouds turning gray, coalescing. Raindrops kicking up footstep puffs of dust.  Dark sky spiraling down, funneling. Dirty road turning muddy in the mirror. A tornado slashing unmarred plains like calligraphy.


Country giving way to city. Buffalo retreating from the roadside. Trees turning back into houses.

Round red barn crouching, windowless. Glowing soda bottle reaching 66 feet high. Giant metal crucifix standing empty.

Turning south into Oklahoma City. Golden sunlight falling on buildings, reflecting pools. Countless chairs lying in rows.

Red traffic lights turning green. All-glass building complex reflecting all the others. Elevated walkway spanning the street. Skyscraper shadows standing as still as scarecrows.  Sundials marking movement of space and time.

City limits decaying into suburbs. Telephone poles and wires springing up alongside. Passing Will Rogers World Airport. Predator drone floating in the cornflower sky. Listless guard watching the horizon for tornadoes.


Driving along route 66 again. A lonely highway chasing the setting sun. A hitchhiker looking westward, squinting.

Following a route on GoogleMaps. The Great Plains forming an upturned palm. Oklahoma’s finger pointing the way.

Driving an unmarked black sedan. Cameras automatically snapping nine frames at once. Making panoramas of the states.

45: Utah

In the other room Bryce is crying. I rub my eyes, waiting for the Oxy to kick in. “God, just shut up,” I whisper. Why isn’t John home yet? He knows I’ve got a reading to finish. The words have all run together. Where the hell was I?

… and while recent studies have shown the popularity of online pornography in Utah (Edelman 2009), the topic of sexuality has been of interest there from even before the states conception, as can be seen in this early proto-Harlequin:

“Message for you from Deseret, Miss Smith.” She took the piece of paper from the telegraph operator:

“Take off your petticoat stop now ride me like the transcontinental railroad.”

“Oh John,” she swooned. The Western Union man stepped forward to catch her as a wave of pleasure spread outwards from her sacred wound.

What is captured in this scene is both the tension between spirituality and sexuality, between technology and distance peculiar to the Utah Mormon experience …

Bryce starts crying again. I lean back in the chair and rub my swelling belly. John still isn’t home. “Who do I need to massacre to get a bottle of gin and an abortion in this town?”

44: Wyoming

That body tied to a buck fence, beaten, bloody: a roadside scarecrow.

Scared, cowed; nobody asked and you never told. Now dress for the day. Put your camouflage on. Look in the mirror: Are you a victim or an actor? Is that a costume or a uniform? What are you fighting for? Who are you hiding from?

43: Idaho

“I just had the best idea.”


“Well, remember when I told you the Amish were coming?”


“On account of I read about it in the paper. Anyway, I got to thinking: sure they might find a little farmland here and there today, but what they really need is a home they can take west on the Oregon Trail tomorrow. That way when the evils of the modern world and the coyotes come a-calling they can just pick up and move on.”


“Not just any mobile homes; log cabins. Just like our Founding Fathers, and like the settlers of old. This is bigger than you and me and Boise. This is the American Dream all over again. This is Manifest Destiny.”


“Look it up. Anyway, we’ll worry about all the details later. The slogan is the best part. Just listen to this: Horsepower Houses – As Green As Grass.”

42: Washington

Jay kicks the back of your chair again. “Dyke,” he whispers, just loud enough for you to hear.

You keep doodling without looking up. It’s hard being a vampire, you think, for like the zillionth time this year.

A spitball flies by and lands on the floor. Monique giggles and you hiss at her.

The problem isn’t that no one understands you, it’s that they think they do. You’ve known you were destined for immortality since you read Anne Rice when you were 10, but since then your subculture has been totally co-opted, your own identity subsumed under a trend that you’re outside of.

It started with those stupid movies, the ones where the vampires all have dramatic hairdos and preppy clothes, and their pale skin sparkles like they shower in that stupid glitter from Claire’s. Since then instead of being a freak, you’ve become a vampire fashion victim.

The wall clock ticks one minute closer to 7:30. You tap your pointed pewter rings on your desk, rolling them – clickclickclick – like claws on linoleum. In the corner of your eye, Craig is wadding up another spitball. You sneer and put your pen to paper.


The bell dies away. “We have a new member of our class today,” Mrs. Schreiber says, after everyone has more or less settled down. “I’d like you all to say hello to your new teaching assistant, Mr., um …” She glances at a piece of paper. “Collins.”

“Cullen,” a man’s voice says, softly, but in a way that cuts through the classroom chatter. You look toward the door. An impossibly handsome man is standing there, auburn-haired and dressed like a cloudy sky, with pale white skin and piercing blue eyes. He looks at you and smiles. “Call me Edward,” he says. Your blood runs hot in your veins.

He takes a seat by Mrs. Schreiber’s desk, and class continues more or less like normal, except every time you look, he’s watching.

Or, rather, every time he looks up, you’re the one watching him.


The bell rings, followed by the shuffling cacophony of a classfull of students fleeing their desks as quickly as possible. By the time you’ve finished the last sentence and closed your notebook, even Mrs. Schreiber has vanished.

You reach down for your backpack, and when you look up Edward is watching you again. He meets your gaze for a moment, before dropping his eyes to the leather-bound book in his hands. You stand and walk toward him. “What are you reading?” you ask.

“The Götzen-Dämmerung.” he says. “It’s about hammering,” he adds, smirking.

“Thus Spoke Zarathustra,” you say, rolling your eyes.

He laughs and you sit on the corner of his desk. “So what’s an interesting girl like you doing in BHS?” he asks.

“Wishing I could get the hell out of here.”

“Everything ends eventually.”

“Does it?” You glare at him pointedly.

He coughs and looks down at his book again. “Anyway,” he says, “aren’t you a little young to be reading Nietzsche?”

“Aren’t you a little old to be a TA?”

He looks up just like you wanted. You lean in and kiss him, biting down on his lip, letting the littlest trickle of his blood flow into your mouth. You can see the cracks in his ice blue eyes. You see yourself reflected in them.

After what seems like an eternity, he breaks away. “I should go,” he says, standing hurriedly. “I’ve got to call Bel… um, my friend.”

You follow him to the classroom door and watch him walk down the hall. “This isn’t over,” you say.

41: Montana

The wolf is dead by the time I reach it, its eyes already going glassy, its tongue lolling out. The bullet hole is a spot of lichen, spreading. A thin red line runs down from its mouth like a riverbed.

I breathe in, deep. There’s a chill on the mountain air, sweet to the tongue and clear.

I sling my rifle and kneel down, run my fingers through the matted fur. I taste the blood that coats my hand, rust red.

I throw up on the rocks beside the body, then sit down and watch the clouds. The world spins. Is this what it’s supposed to feel like?

40: South Dakota

To the whiteman standing by the Coffee Corner in Regent Sunday morning.

I saw you watching, just like I saw the unpainted metal silos rising over the buttes and grasses, like I saw the low hangers and fenced-in lots at the edge of town, the concrete wall with its painted sunset over pitch-black plains.

I’m through with two-state solutions: I’d erase the lines and start again. Hit me back if you want in. This land could be our land.

39: North Dakota

You hear the Indian Chief thundering down the enchanted highway, heading south, long before you see it at the edge of town.

She tears down Main Street, deep red and gleaming chrome, dragging a giant metal head. White sparks weep from its painted face where it strikes the ground.

A red light catches her by 2nd. She turns to look at you, revs her engine, and then she’s off again.

38: Colorado

Another morning at the campus in the mountains. I push a button for another cup of coffee. A light turns on, a cup drops, a stream of tepid brown liquid trickles down.

I open the manila folder again and look at the blurry photo paper-clipped to the front flap, a short, skinny, dark-haired man in a blue tracksuit, leaning over a table, caught in action.

Age: 38

Birthplace: Shanghai, China

Grip: Shake Hand

I’ve only been working as a tech here for a couple months, so I got stuck in the final group, picked last like in grade school gym class, working on this middle-aged guy who probably wouldn’t even have a shot at the games again.

The idea of one country against another doesn’t seem to apply anymore, since Team U.S.A. is mostly Asian at this point, half-Chinese. The lobby is empty again. I shake his hand, thinking: You’ll show me, will you?


The equipment manager takes him off to get suited up. I tinker with the sensors, run the system test another time.

“Man, I’d totally bone that Natalie chick,” one of them says, a trainer, says.

“Dude,” the physician replies, “she’s like, fourteen.”

“Nah, bro, she’s just Asian.”

The Chinese guy starts to stretch his arms, does a quick Tai Chi like warm-up, followed by a couple of test swings while I calibrate the sensors. I turn the difficulty up, increase the speed, and watch his arms move even faster, a blur. The balls were smaller back then, faster.


We break for lunch. The Chinese guy hits the showers while I shut down the robot and run the data-processing algorithms. “Bro,” says the physician. “Mr. Miyake. This is, like, some total Karate Kid shit.”

The equipment manager brings the Chinese guy back, dressed in his tracksuit again, then they all head out the door together. I’ve got a salad in the fridge, so I don’t mind staying behind to analyze this morning’s data, recalibrating TOPR, preparing the table for this afternoon’s training, starting to draft our group’s report.


The athletes all come in to the OTC in the morning, then go out and party at night. Team U.S.A. may not have taken home any medals in 2008, but they totally owned the competition during the after-parties, playing champagne-pong. There’s always another game, another season.

The Chinese guy has been nice enough, and I can see why they keep him on the team. The data is pretty interesting, actually. The changes in speed and spin, the variance with different coefficients of friction, the effect of hardness and softness of rubber and sponge.

Word has a special AutoSummarize feature. No one is going to read the short version either.

37: Nebraska

I was standing in a field with Dusty when Anne called to wish us a happy belated something. “Was it a holiday yesterday?” I asked. “I must’ve forgot.”

Dusty wandered off to relieve himself. Anne said something about an international day of morning. “Yep, I had one of them once,” I said, “over in Ogallala, at IHOP.”

I zoned out for a bit after that. Anne tends to ramble; always has. Anyway, I must’ve been thinking of Denny’s.

Next I knew, she was talking about this mosque, how it was a slap in the face; that there ought to be a law.

“Shucks, sis, do you even know how big a block in New York City is?” I asked. “You probably can’t even see one from the other. And I know you can’t from Kenesaw.”

Anne cussed and hung up, and I walked back to my truck with Dusty, looking at my phone, waiting to get that wasted hour back. “You agree with me, don’t you, Dusty?” I asked. He just shook his head.

“Ah, what do you know?” I said, and spat in the grass. “You’re a cow.”

36: Nevada

“Get your claws off me, you fruit-faced iguanodont! Not in a million years!” You try to upend the table but it’s too heavy. Plan B: grab the rake and send the chips skittering like beetles around the wheel. “And that’s Dr. RD to you!”

The croupier takes your card. “Typographer, Lexicographer, Lotus-Eater, Astrologer, Numerologist, Freelance Writer,” she reads. “Well, aren’t you just a jerk-of-all-trades.”


Out at Red Rock Canyon, gray burros watch you through oversized black eyes. The prostitute mutters something from the trunk. She was more comfortable back there, she said, with the drugs.

You take a swig of Jack. Machineguns fire across the ridge. The road signs are shot to hell. You know how the people of Nevada feel. Las Vegas is Area 52. The aliens are among us.


Nearing Black Rock City, you see it. A figure with arms outstretched, burning up like Touchdown Jesus, red on black.

First the satellite images and now this: A crescent moon inside a pentagon. A beastly number somebody miscounted. A warning sign everybody missed.

One of the guards looks uncomfortably familiar. Black bug-eye shades block half of her red duck-billed face. She smiles, says: “What are the odds?”


You drive like you’re trying to set the land speed record, salt and dirt and dust kicking up to the big black empty TV-screen sky, gone.

35: West Virginia

Since the accident I’ve felt like half a person, or less. If anybody asks, I tell them that the problem is I haven’t got a leg to stand on. What I mean is that outside of complaining I can’t do anything for myself.

Useless. Fucking useless.

When we talked about posthumanism in college it seemed like a good thing, sort of. We would all become better as post-people, perhaps. Fitter. Happier. Something else.

So where have you gone, Giorgio Agamben? Do you have a theory for this? How one stupid thing changes everything—a piece of coal falling from a truck, a car tumbling into some abyss. Is this bare life? Is this what letting be looks like? Is this what indifference is?

The worst is that I thought I was done with Appalachia, but here I am: back in my old bedroom, all tucked in and waiting for dad to bring me dinner, a child again.

I wonder what he thinks about it, my father. Whether he ever wanted me to leave. Whether this is better. Whether it matters to him that I’m the last man in our family, or was.

Do I need to tell him this is it? That we’re living at the end of history?

34: Kansas

The house is at the end of a long, cracked asphalt road, fenced in. The field around it has gone to seed. I peer in through yellowed, ruffled curtains. An old television in the den is on, but I don’t see anyone.

I return to the front door and ring the bell. There is no name on the mailbox, no address, just the words “20th Century Castles.”

The chimes decay into a humming sound, a rumbling. The plate glass vibrates against my cheek. Inside, a man and woman appear, walking toward the door.

I step back as they open it. They’re wearing matching gray coveralls. The man is balding and the woman has a beehive. They’re blinking like they haven’t seen the sun in years.

Louis Armstrong is singing softly in the background. “What are you doing here?” the man asks after a long time. He draws his wife closer to his side. “How did you find us?”

“I work for the United States Census,” I say. “This is the last household on my list.”

“We’re not on anybody’s list,” he says.

I blink, and he grabs the notebook from my hand. I watch him leaf through its yellowed pages, shake it. Blank forms flutter to the ground. He closes it and looks me up and down, taking in my tangled hair, my stubbled cheeks.

I look at my feet. My soles are worn to paper. My satchel is stuffed with leaves. My pen is out of ink. My pin says “Census 2000.”

The door closes. The man and woman watch me through the glass. “How many people are living in this home?” I ask. I press my hand against the window. “Is there room for another one?”

33: Oregon

“So,” Zil said, “Marge will lead the main group along the official route while the black bloc splits off and does direct action?”

B nodded sharply, or seemed to, his chin half-buried in a black bandana.

We all looked at the map, a red-sharpied route drawn arbitrarily through a mass of green. It had been my idea to stage a city-style protest in Deschutes National Forest, a huge parade chanting “Whose trees? Our trees!” past a line of riot police poised uncomfortably in a patch of wildflowers. Now we’d been planning this thing for days, or plotting I guess, and I couldn’t help but feel like the absurdity of it was getting away from us.

Marge was already in the middle of a new sentence. “And we need to keep the non-arrestables separate,” she was saying. “Maybe that’s something for the street medics?”

“You mean tree medics?” I asked.

“What?” I shrugged and Marge started talking again.

My gaze slid over to the window, over the parking lot of the Bend Super 8, a semi-derelict strip mall, the highway. Suddenly everything seemed to come apart before my eyes, exploding into component parts and processes, multi-dimensional schematics of materials and labor stretching back through history.

In another time and place it might have been a religious experience, struck me as a divine plan, but here and now it just seemed incredible that so much effort could go into something so banal, that this was the world we all agreed upon.

“The chants need to be inclusive,” Marge was saying. “I feel like no one should feel like their voice is being silenced.”

Zil nodded. “Maybe we should schedule another meeting to come up with ideas?”

B shook his black-hooded head. “Fuck more meetings,” he said.

“Did we ever agree on a plan of action?” I asked.

“Oh for Goddess’ sake,” said Marge. “I propose we follow Zil’s.”

“Seconded.”

“Major objections?” Zil asked. “Minor objections? Friendly amendments?” We all looked around silently.

“Consensus.”

32: Minnesota

“I have cancer,” she says.

“Oh Jeez,” he says, “I’m so sorry.” He stands there a little longer then wanders off. The two women turn back to each other.

“You know, Bess,” Deb says, “you could break it to them a little easier.”

Bess chews her pierogi slowly and takes a swig of beer. “Do you mean less quickly,” she asks, “or less glibly?”

“Well, it’s a bit of a conversation-killer, any way you slice it, but you could be a little nicer about it, you know.”


Deb leaves, but Bess is still drinking, thinking again about how she doesn’t want her life to be one of those stories where the afflicted wife wastes away while looking out the window at the prairie, or wherever, feeling some combination of dread, anger, despair, philosophicality, and, finally, acceptance.

Or where it’s the husband playing out the remaining time God gives him on this good Earth, getting right with himself and going out and helping the homeless, or fishing with his son, or something.

Or where it’s some solitary person, and the story takes on a metaphorical quality, something about sickness and society.

Or where it’s just beside the point, whatever that may be.

In reality, it’s been a year since Bob died, and it still seems entirely out of character, how he went from being a big old pink-cheeked lummox to nothing in no time flat.

It had been his idea to refer to his tumors as “The Vikings,” because they’d showed up one day without warning and whatever they didn’t rape or enslave they burned. It had ended badly, but for a month or two they’d both laughed whenever the evening sportscast started, or the words “cancer” and “ravaged” were used together.

She takes his picture out of her wallet. In it, he’s showing off the purple and yellow logo he had tattooed on his cancer-ravaged chest. She laughs because it was so stupid and so perfect.

She orders another beer and turns back to the TV.


By last call Bess is crying and sends a text to Pam. “I’m watching SportsCenter reruns,” she writes, “and I’m drunk.”

“Bess?” Pam replies. “It’s two in the morning.”

She gets in her car and drives, full of the kind of grief where you go the wrong way down the street for no reason, where you end up at the lakeshore with your headlights off, nose of the car dipping toward the water.

“Goddamn it,” she says, because she’s one of those characters after all, staring out over Lake Wobegone and trying to remember a time when driving in didn’t seem like the only reasonable thing to do.

She can imagine Garrison Keillor narrating this on MPR. “It was cancer,” he intones, sad and tongue-in-cheek, and then you hear the sound of Foley-work oars and whistles across the water as The Vikings come.

She chuckles and turns the car radio on, throws the shifter into reverse. The end will come soon enough, but she isn’t done laughing yet.

31: California

I was born under the sign of Serpentarius.

I was raised by snake handlers, healers. I left my family behind.

I abandoned the land of my birth, my ancestral home. Now the world is open like an abyss before me, but not silent and not empty.

I am come to muster my forces, to begin a battle, to end a war. I have donned my armor, sloughed off my scales.

I am changing.


“Okay, what do we get from this so far? Who exactly is doing the ‘talking.’ Is the main character narrating all of the scenes to himself? Is this supposed to be a dramatic monologue? Is there a point to it? A plot, maybe? What relationship, if any, does it have to what we see happening on screen?”


I watch the bullets fly through the air, striking the wall behind me as the music begins, all pounding drum and soaring horns.

I draw my dual 1911A1s and dive sideways, squeezing the triggers, letting the bullets fly, counting rounds as the leave the barrels: eleven, twelve, thirteen.

I duck behind a pillar and drop the magazines. The music is gone again. I hear my heart beating, my blood circulating, my nervous system working. A dull thud. A low hum. A high whine. A kind of silence that reminds me of more harmonious times.


“Well, the reification of the narrative, its refiguration in text – both as speech and thus again as subtitles – is pretty clearly a way of providing a kind of subtext, or a meta-text, if you will; of making it more complex by restatement, of distancing the action both from the speaker and from us. It almost calls into question the legitimacy of visual experience on a conceptual level even as it reaffirms it on the level of content. I think we really ‘see’ the difference between the violence of action and the violence of description, the creative versus the destructive, in a way.”


I am young. The bombs are falling in the muffled distance. Somewhere sirens sing. I huddle in the shelter with my father and mother, waiting for the fourth line to change, for it to be aligned with everything.

I wait, but the way out is obstructed.

I am tired. The dim lights flicker. The bombs fall closer now, but barely louder. The walls shake in fright. The heat from our bodies oppresses me.

I can feel my parents’ eyes on me, their hopes in me, like I hold some secret power, like I am their future, an illumination rising from the darkness like the sun.

I stare into the darkness before me. I feel the earth cool against my back.

I eat what my mother feeds me. I eat until I am full.

I am full of fire.


“This part actually reminds me … Apparently the state stone of California is this rock called serpentine. Sounds a little like the first line of this movie, right? Anyway, the goddamn rock is full of fucking asbestos! Pardon my French, professor. But, I mean, if any state had an official stone that caused cancer, it would be this one. The damn thing even looks like a bloated serpent, if you kind of squint at it hard enough. See? Eureka is the eye, Sacramento is the brain, and there’s La Paz at the ass end. We talk about being the golden state, but this place is one long natural catastrophe. We think we’re so goddamned lucky, but all of us got snakebit and stuck here. It’s like we’re living in a goddamn prison colony full of con artists, snake-oil salesmen, and plastic surgery disasters. There’s a goddamn lobby fighting to keep serpentine instated for Christ’s sake. We need to escape from LA for real. We need to rejoin the goddamn human race.”

“Interesting. So, what I’m hearing is that this is all allegorical? I think that there’s a possible interpretation there, but we need to work it out a little better. Make it clear. This is pretty dense material. Were you talking about the relationship of the snake to the figure of the healer? Or the poison to the cure? I’m not sure if I follow you. Maybe if we start by diagramming out the relationships between the characters. Anyone? Do we know who the main character is … or ‘are’?”


I snap back to the present as the magazines hit the floor. The slides flick forward. They are waiting for me at the rally point. I dive out again, guns blazing.

I arrive as they are about to extinguish their small campfire, to douse it with water from the cooking pot. I ask the cook to stay his hand, to let me eat a little first.

I am one and they are 12. They have eaten and are eager to break camp and go. The general is waiting for us. The cook ignores me.

I close my eyes as the fire goes out. Everything is dark. I am 33 years old. I am 5 years old again.

I wonder if this is my family now.

I listen. In the silence shells are falling. It is 1945. It is 1917. This is the end and the beginning.

I am flying gracefully. The air is full of heat and sound. The ground is above me, the sky below. Dark and light. High and low. Hot and cold. Through contemplation of existing forms it becomes possible to change the world.

I wake who knows how long later in a ditch. The others are all dead I think. The buildings are all rubble. The pieces of reality come back together slowly, imbricated. I am not dead. I am delivered.


“Okay. There’s a father, a mother, a general, the group of twelve soldiers, and a few unseen characters – whoever was doing the shooting, for example – and the narrator, who seems pretty clearly to be aligned with the voice of the son in the first section.”

“That’s a pretty comprehensive list. Let’s take a look at it. It’s interesting that you said ‘son’ there, to start. We can certainly assume that this character is male, given the historically gendered nature of the military. But is that ever stated? Is it implied? Are we reading too much into the lines about the ‘sun’ rising?”

“Wow. Yeah, I totally didn’t get that the first time.”


I squint as we exit the bunker. Our house, our neighborhood, our city, destroyed.

I hold out my hands to my mother, my father, my teachers.

I am 18 when I let them go at last.

I roam what remains of Europe. I witness the work of old masters. I see will triumph over intuition. I watch order rise to power.

I see beauty between numbers too, opportunity in crisis, truth in multiplicity. I know that spring is coming.

I tremble like a leaf of grass.

I meet M in Seattle. It is 1938. We are accompanist and dancer. I watch his body, lithe, lissome, sinuous, serpentine. I go home to my wife and dream of handling him.

I watch him moving to my music, changing as the rhythm changes, a mixture of physical arithmetic and arbitrary limitations.

I am twinned with him, sublime.

I move east with my wife because I must. Chicago is an empty promise. Marriage is not a prison, but a cage. It follows me like luggage as I am drawn to New York and M.

I practice with him endlessly, long after the others have departed. He dances as I hammer out pieces for percussion. The innocent moment comes. A lingering touch, a kiss.

I feel a phase shifting, a life unbalancing.

I am changing.


“Here we see how the issue of gender gets a bit more complicated, not to mention time, several decades of which have been either collapsed or elided.”

“Yeah, at this point I was a little confused as to ‘where’ the story was happening, too. Like, it seems like World War I and II, and ze talks about being in Europe, but then ze is in America again.”

“I don’t know. The way I see it, it’s, like, a commentary on capitalism, you know? The uniformity of industrial nations, the dehumanizing effects of mechanization. So, like, both Europe and America are the same. History is flat. The economy is imaginary everywhere, you know?”

“Interesting. What do you mean?”

“Well, like, it’s just made up, right? And on a kind of, um, meta level, movies are part of the story we’re telling about ourselves, the world we’re, like, making in the image of us, sort of like, um. I don’t know. Sorry, I forgot what I was about to say.”


I return to camp barefoot. The sun is rising as I reach the gate. The guard shields his eyes and lets me in. I am returning from the desert. It is the year 30 AD.

I proceed to the banquet table. I take bread, break it, and sit down to eat. My comrades drift around me, wraithlike. I wonder if the general is waiting. I wonder when my last supper will be.

I go to see her later, the general, my wife. She calls me and I go to her like one hypnotized. She comforts me, convinces me to lay my arms aside.

I rest. It is a time when heaven seems to be on Earth, when this desert landscape seems like a second paradise.

I drink deep of dreams and remember nothing. I draw sustenance from inexhaustible subconscious springs. I sleep until I am well again.

I awake. As I rub the sleep away the scales fall from my eyes.

I know now she is on another side, or I am. We stand apart, opposed. She has fallen, gone over to the order. She plotted this all along, to break my spirit, to betray me.

I must move slowly, quietly mass my forces. I struggle to stand.

I was weak but now am strong; was blind but now I see.

I am only strong because of M.

I find her in the garden. I greet her. I take her by the hand. I whisper to her in the semi-silence. I lead her to a half-secluded place. I dance with her to the incidental music of the world. I make love to her.  I take her as my own. My one and only, my thirteenth disciple.


“Now things are really getting tricky. We’ve got a third – and completely different – time period going on. Was anybody expecting this? Did we see this change coming? What do we make of it?”

“There seems like there’s a lot of overlap going on.”

“Go on.”

“Well, there’s still a man and wife and an M. There’s a group of soldiers in one and disciples in the other. The general is also the wife, which is a little weird … and M is a woman in this one. And I don’t think I really get the desert bit at all.”

“At this point, it may be fruitful to go outside of the text and investigate a few other primary sources. If you’ll look at your first handout, you’ll notice it’s essentially a list of calculations. ‘Serpentarius is the 13th sign of the zodiac. California is the 31st state. 31 backwards is 13. L-A-C-A-L-I-F-O-R-N-I-A is 13. Hollywoodland has 13 letters. The sign was installed on July 13, 1923, 20 years after the neighborhood was founded, 1 plus 9 plus 0 plus 3, or 23 minus 10 years after JC.”

“JC?”

“Oh shit. I remember that from fucking high school English class. Doesn’t that pretty much always mean Jesus Christ?”

“Perhaps. Who else has those initials? How many other characters could this be?”


I feel time flex as the flux flows through us. There is a moment of immense power coming.

I am on the cross my blood is flowing.

I am in Japan and the bomb is dropping.

“I am in film class and the film is boring.”

 “All right, very funny. I wasn’t going to bring this up until later, but let’s talk about the idea of boredom. First, why don’t we examine our terms? Do we think of ‘boringness’ as an intrinsic quality? Is it objective or subjective? Can we say, for example, that this film ‘is boring’? Or is it that we are bored by it? And if the latter, what does that say about us? Let’s go around the room. Just say the first thing that comes to mind.”

“Each time the perspective shifts, I feel more, um, distanciated from the character Like, I can’t really relate to him.”

“Yeah, it just feels totally random.”

“It was boring to me at first, but then I started thinking about it like poetry. It has a weird dream logic to it, I think.”

“Like counting sheep, you mean? That’s what it felt like to me.”

“Me too. Like a hypnotist saying ‘you are getting sleepy’ over and over in that really droney voice.”

“Yeah, but different, you know. Because that’s not the movie’s message, right? Even if it is sort of about the power of suggestion.”

“The cinematography is pretty good. It kept me interested.”

“Was the person who made this autistic? I mean none of the characters have names or faces.”

“Whoa, yeah. Now that she mentions it, I’m like, totally getting an ‘outsider art’ vibe from this.”

“That is totally offensive. This whole thing is. I mean, aside from Jesus Christ, dragging the A-bomb and the Orient into this? What was ze thinking?”

“It reminds me a lot of a short film I made, actually. The main dude was this total Christ-figure, too, but it took place in the present day California. The way I handled it was to have him read passages from the bible to the camera, and then the narrative action totally mirrored them. Like this one scene where he reads the crucifixion right before his fucking Nazi father kicks him out of the house and tells him to go back to school or get a job you know? As if that shit was even fucking possible. Pardon my French. Anyway, I thought my method worked pretty well.”

“Sorry, what was the question?


I am a composer of aleatoric processes. I am removing myself from my work even as I am speaking through it. I am creating structure and subverting it. I have nothing to say and I’m saying it.

I gather my friends. Together we make happenings, frame sound and silence, not music or noise, there is no useful distinction between these two ideas.

I am overcome with wonder at the world but

I do not tremble at the fragility of this moment as it decreases.

I do not care how one is followed by another. Everything always falls in its proper place. Everything always changes.

I am one and many, multiple. M and me and them, 12 plus (1 plus 1) is 13. There is no useful distinction between one and two, between I and us. I am one and we with M.

I (and he) read to them from the book of changes while he (and I) dances. Penetration produces gradual and inconspicuous effects. It should be effected not by an act of violation but by influence that never lapses.

I am a modest, balanced, and entwined, fixed and temperate but not unchanging. M says the same to me, a vow.

I watch the sun go down and we do not wait for it to rise. I do not need to tie the one to the other. We are not tied, not tethered, incoherent to each other and ourselves.

I know that all that is visible rises beyond itself, extends into the invisible world, where it becomes, at last, clear, consecrated, ordered by us.

I do not believe that it should or must, but that it does. This is the structure in which all change occurs, in which all chance exists.

I heed the gentle, penetrating whisper of the wind as it shifts, sibilant, coiling itself around me.

I adapt to it.


“Well, I think that last segment speaks for itself. Any thoughts or questions?

“So, basically that was like The Matrix meets Passion of the Christ plus a little bit of Adaptation.”

“Whoa, yeah. He’s right. They totally should have cast Nic Cage in that.”

“That would’ve been pretty awesome. Does he have 13 letters in his name, though?”

“No, I don’t think so, but he was in that movie Snake Eyes, so I think that counts.”

“And I think he has a star on the walk of fame, so that might affect his astronomical calculations.”

“Seriously, though, Professor. What the hell was that?”

“Yeah, I feel like we all just wasted two hours of our lives.”

“Well, I won’t answer that question directly, but there are a few different literary models it may be useful to consider. Like the memoir, for example, the allegory (as was mentioned earlier), and the work of historical fiction.”

“So it’s just some kind of mash-up?”

“Not exactly. If I told you that this script was written using chance techniques, would you believe me? And how would that affect the way we appreciate it? Is the method used to generate a text important if it isn’t represented in its content?”

“Do you mean the author was just calling out plot twists based on heads or tails, flipping coins like fucking Rosencrantz?”

“You mean Guildenstern?”

“Dude, it doesn’t matter. The point is the author is fucking dead to us.”

“It was the I-Ching, wasn’t it, Professor?”

“Perhaps. Now we’re running out of time, so there’s a saying that I want to tell you that I think will both tie in to one of our earlier discussions and give us a starting point to write about this work in a larger context, which is part of your assignment for the week. It goes like this: 'In Zen they say: If something is boring after two minutes, try it for four. If still boring, try it for eight, sixteen, thirty-two, and so on. Eventually one discovers that it’s not boring at all, but very interesting.’”

“But that was already at least like, 120 minutes. How many more times do we have to watch it?”

“Very funny. Class dismissed. I’ll see you all next week.”

30: Wisconsin

This story is so incredible you want to cry.

It’s about a man named Jerry who everybody loves. One day he gets shot by robbers. The doctors think he’s going to die for sure. But he tells a joke to get them laughing, and says that he’s choosing to be alive. He survives.

“Wow!!” you type, “Can you believe it?!” You enter Andrew and Jessie’s addresses and press send. Hopefully your kids will get this one.

You close your email and try to read the AOL, but you get halfway through one article and then it changes for another. You don’t know how to make it stop.

Maybe if you had one of those Ipads it would be easier … then you could check your email while you were shopping, too. Steve might buy you one. You email him to ask.

Speaking of shopping, you should have gone an hour ago. Now it’s too late to make it to Pick n’ Save and back before he gets home.

There’s a little brick cheese in the fridge … frozen peas and carrots … a case or so of Schlitz … maybe you could throw a beer cheese soup together.

Still, it would have been nice to have made a real dinner … bratwurst and potatoes … sweet corn … cheddar bread and butter … apple kuchen … instead of wasting the day on the computer.

Oh, if only you were a better wife, a better mother to your kids. They never call you anymore, and barely ever reply to your emails. You don’t even know what Andrew’s job is. You only heard about Jessie’s new boyfriend through The Facebook.

“Honey,” Steve calls from the other room, “I’m home.” The front door closes with a click.

“Hi Snookums,” you call back to him, dabbing your eyes. “How was work?”

“Good.” His reflection appears in the computer screen, wearing his “Bob & Bob for Presidents” t-shirt and propping his dry-erase placard against the wall. “What did you do today?” he asks.

“Oh, nothing much.” You check your AOL again. “Did you get my email?”

“No, dear,” he says. “I’ve been on the picket lines.”

“Oh, you must be so tired!” You turn toward him and start to cry again. “Oh, Honey, I’m so sorry. I just got wrapped up in this story … and then I was surfing the web … and I didn’t remember dinner or where you were striking … No wonder the kids never tell me anything.”

“Aw, Angel Cakes,” he puts his hand on your shoulder, “don’t cry. Look,” he points at the screen. “There’s an email from Andrew now.”

You wipe your eyes and there it is, an email with the subject line: “Re: Fwd: Fwd: The power of positive thinking - AN AMAZING STOREY!!!”

“Dear Mom,” it begins, “I was thinking about killing myself today. Then I got your email and everything changed. It was like a light turned on in my mind. I knew I didn’t have to be sad any longer. That I could be as happy as I want to be.”

“So I called up my boss and told him that I quit. I called my girlfriend and asked her to marry me. I erased all of my depressing music. I deleted my angsty poetry. I’m going to dedicate my life to helping others like you helped me. I love you, Mom. And Dad. I love both of you.”

Your heart feels like it’s about to burst, it’s so full of relief and joy. “Thank you, Jesus,” you whisper. “Oh, thank you.”

That such a little thing could make such a difference … it’s like a miracle.

29: Iowa

 

She is on a mission to homogenize America.

She colors swing states on a map, plots politics on a graph, determines what drives candidates toward the center over time.

She thinks, as her plane descends – the cornfields of Iowa rising to meet her in perfect squares – how this is the land of standardized tests, respected writing centers, influential caucuses and mediocre presidents.

It is the perfect place to foment a quiet insurgency, to construct a newer and more moral majority, here in the heart of the country.


He wrote a story about a woman on a mission to homogenize America.

He assigned it to a student in the workshop, told her to revise it in the style of a reading comprehension question, to have the plot climax at a caucus.

He thought, as he drove east from the city – the white sun perfectly centered in his rearview mirror – how Iowa was where coastal writers came to be reborn, refined, and suburbanized.

It was the perfect place to solve the crisis of national identity, to heal a divided and subdivided society, here in the heart of the heart of the country.


She had written a show about a man who wrote a story about a woman on a mission to homogenize America.

She had set it in West Branch, cast a professor at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, recruited a new student, and let the plot transform from Iowa Exam narrative to Iowa Caucus conspiracy.

She had thought, as the unmarked car took her west along the Herbert Hoover Highway – the rectangular houses, square grass patches, and uniform rows of corn plodding past – how this was where fiction came to become reality, how it had been the perfect place.

28: Texas

“Hello,” the caller said. “Anthony?” It was an old man’s voice, ornery and a little confused.

“Sorry,” John replied. “I think you have the wrong number.”

“Is this Anthony?” the caller asked.

“Sorry,” John said again, and hung up.

He was in the kitchenette later, getting a beer, when he heard the phone vibrating against the surface of the desk again. He sprinted the four steps back into his bedroom and picked it up, hoping it would be Gabe this time.

“Hello?” he said.

“My name is Sal Esposito,” the man said. “I’m calling for my son Anthony.”

John closed his eyes. “Wrong number,” he said.

“Please,” the man said, choking up. “I just want to talk to my son.”

After he hung up this time, John flipped through his phone’s settings looking for a “block” feature. He couldn’t find one, so he saved the number to his contacts instead, under “Wrong Number.” When it came up on the caller ID five minutes later, he hit “Ignore” and put the phone back down.

Five beers and two voicemails later it was almost 2300 hours, and John’s shift was coming up. He’d listened to the first voicemail, which started with “Hello? Anthony? Hello?” and sort of trailed off. He deleted the second one without listening to it. Gabe had never called. He got into the shower, turned it on, and gasped as the first burst of cold water hit his skin, then closed his eyes and started jerking off.

Specialist Packard was waiting for him at the guardhouse. “Sergeant Davis is lookin’ for you,” he said in that retarded West Texas drawl.

“Shit,” John said as he signed into the log: 0012 hours. Late again.


John’s phone rang again the next afternoon while he was sleeping. “Motherfucker,” he said as he flipped it open. “Hello?” he mumbled.

“Late shift again, huh bro?” Hank laughed. “You got to get yourself a cushy government job like mine. Forget that Army shit.”

“One year,” John said, “four months, three weeks, two days, and a wake-up.”

“But who’s counting, right?” His brother laughed again. “Look, I gotta go. You should come over for dinner tonight. And bring a fucking girlfriend this time.”

Hank hung up. John put the phone down and went back to sleep.


He woke some time later to the phone buzzing again. He picked it up and stared groggily at the screen but couldn’t make the number out. “Who is this?” he asked.

“What, you don’t know my number by now?” Gabe asked.

“C’mon,” John said, “I told you I can’t put it in my phone.”

Gabe snorted. “Yeah, sure. You coming out tonight, or what?”

“Definitely.” John looked at his bedside clock. “I mean, I agreed to have dinner at my brother’s, but I can probably meet you after that.”

“Well, don’t go out of your fucking way.”

“Hey,” John started, but Gabe had already hung up. “What a bitch,” he muttered, and rolled out of bed, feeling his naked skin peeling off the sweat-soaked sheets.


It was around 1730 hours when John pulled into Homestead Meadows, a loose collection of prefab buildings in the middle of nowhere. His brother was in the driveway working on his red Camaro, leaning over the engine, fat ass sticking up into the air.

“Hey bro,” Hank said, as John started toward him. “Grab a beer and get in,” he gestured to a cooler next to the car. “I need you to pump the gas for a second.”

John took a bottle, popped it open, and took a long drink, then settled into the driver’s seat and turned the key. The engine sputtered to life just as his phone started vibrating in his pocket. He dug it out. “Wrong Number,” it read. The next thing he knew, Hank was shouting and trying to wave the clouds of smoke away from his face. John shook his head and put his phone away.


They ate in front of the TV, Hank and his wife Amber on their recliners; John next to their three boys on the couch. A UFC match was on. “Hank tells me you’re looking to get a job like his,” Amber said during a commercial break.

“I’d like to,” John said, “I just gotta get my discharge first.”

“Bro, you shoulda told me that was the problem,” Hank called from the kitchen. He walked back into the living room with a couple more bottles of beer in his hands. “I know plenty of girls could help with that.”

“Cut it out, Travis. Ricky.” Amber said, talking to the two older boys wresting on the floor.

“I was thinking that I should shoot for an assignment up in Vermont,” John said. “I read about this town there where the border runs right down the center of the street, cuts through a couple houses, even a library. It must be crazy there, a lot of international disputes over late fees, or people smuggling paperbacks from one side to the other.”

“Hell yeah,” said Hank. “That would be some Super Troopers shit.” He took a swig of beer. “But hey, come out on patrol with me tomorrow. I’ll show you how much fun Texas can be.”

“Yeah, sure.” John looked at his watch. 2115 hours. “Oh shit, I gotta go.”

“Not staying for dessert?” Amber asked. “I made Jello.”


Gabe was waiting across the bar, a white tank-top and faded cut-offs clinging to his body, the light melting on his amber skin. He was by the jukebox, dancing. It was just like the first time John saw him.

“Where you been, amigo?” Gabe asked when John walked over, not looking up. “I haven’t seen you in, like, forever.”

“Working,” John said. “You know.” He crossed his arms, then dropped them back to his sides.

“This is my favorite,” Gabe said as a new song started, “’Amor Prohibido,’ by Selena.” He paused, then added dramatically: “the slain Tejano superstar.” He looked at John at last. “So, you gonna dance with me, or what?” he asked.


They fucked in the men’s room like always, Gabe smiling and unbuckling John’s belt; John bending Gabe over and thrusting, sweating, gasping, swearing under his breath. He ran his hands up from Gabe’s hips, along his sides, his neck, into his deep black hair. Afterwards they sat at the bar, drinking. Gabe had one hand on John’s leg, stroking it absently.

“C’mon Gabe, watch it, will ya?” John muttered, without looking down.

“I thought you said nobody from your unit came here,” Gabe said, leaning in, “that it was strictly off-limits.” He smiled and dug his fingers into John’s front pocket, rubbing them slowly up and down. “Or maybe there’s somebody else you don’t want to see.”

He withdrew his hand quickly with John’s phone in it, and flipped it open before John could grab it away. “Ay, carajo,” he said. “’Wrong Number’? Who the fuck is that?”

John reached out for the phone again, but Gabe danced away. “Back off, maricón,” he said over his shoulder as he headed back to the jukebox. John sat back down and watched him feed the machine a dollar and select another Selena song.


John drove straight from the bar to Fort Bliss, and got to the gate just as his shift was starting. Sergeant Davis was waiting for him.

“The CO wants to see you in his office at 0800 tomorrow,” he said, and looked John up and down. “Now unfuck yourself and get your damn uniform on.”

The Captain chewed him out in the morning, John standing at attention in his office, trying not to fall asleep. He could barely pay attention to anything. “Yes sir,” he repeated, again and again.

Afterwards, he drove out to Homestead Meadows. The sun was high above the mountains, the light bending through the waves of heat coming off the car, the road, and the dirt. He squinted and rubbed his eyes. His brother was in the driveway waiting for him.

“I told my partner you’d fill in for him today,” Hank said. “I got you a spare uniform.”

John changed in the backseat on the way to the border, where they both got out and looked around. A long stretch of steel mesh and vertical bars, maybe 20 feet tall, stretched off into the desert for miles. “We find a coupla wetbacks out here every week,” Hank said, as they were climbing back into the car, “so let me know if you see anything brown that’s still alive.”


They spotted them just after noon, a huddle of bodies crouched down on the wrong side of the wall. Hank gunned it and three of them took off running. “Watch those two,” he said, and John jumped out. The SUV tore across the dusty ground.

John walked over to the two Mexicans, a teenager sitting against the fence, an older woman holding him in her arms. It looked like his leg was broken. Nobody moved or said anything. A couple minutes later they heard gunshots.

Hank returned in the SUV eventually, the three runners in the back. “Shit, Hank. You didn’t shoot ‘em, did you?” John asked.

“Nah, just at ‘em.” Hank laughed, and John shook his head. “What’s your problem, bro?” he asked.


The sun was almost setting by the time John got back to his apartment. He’d had to wait while his brother took the Mexicans in for processing, then again while he filled out his paperwork. It felt like there was a layer of sand building up behind his eyes that he couldn’t rub away.

He tried calling Gabe at the last number he called from, but the phone just rang and rang. When the machine finally picked up, it turned out to be a bar.

“Fuck,” John said, flopping down onto his bed. All he wanted to do was fuck someone or kill himself.


Ciudad Juarez was off-limits too, supposedly, but the Mexican guard just waved him through. He parked and started walking – down side streets, into back alleys – until he found the place.

The bartender had just slapped his change from the first shot down on the counter and John was already ordering another. He couldn’t tell if the music was actually familiar or just loud. He looked around.

A young guy was sitting in the corner, slick black hair, a tight button-down shirt open at the cuffs and collar. John slammed his tequila and ordered another.

They were in the bathroom when it happened. John had his pants around his ankles; the boy had John’s cock in his mouth. John half-saw, half-felt a blinding flash of light, then everything went dark.


John called his brother from the border in the morning, and waited in a holding area while he came to pick him up. All Hank said as they drove back into El Paso was that John was fucking lucky to be alive. John wasn’t sure about that.

He picked up a spare key to his apartment from the manager. He dug out his old cell phone from his desk and turned it on, then rummaged around for paperwork from his bank, his car insurance, and his credit cards.

The phone buzzed against the desktop – five missed calls; five new messages. The last four were what he expected: Specialist Packard a little after 0015, then two from Sergeant Davis, then one from the CO. The first message was from Gabe.

“John,” he started, “answer your phone, you fucking puta. I just want you to know…”

The phone beeped, cutting off Gabe’s voice for a second. John lowered it and looked at the screen. “Wrong Number,” it said.

He stared at the phone for a long time, Gabe’s voice buzzing from the speaker, the ringer beeping. He wanted to throw it out the window, to crush it in his hand. Finally, he flipped the phone open. “What the hell do you want?” he asked.

“Hi, I’m calling for Anthony,” a man said, “Anthony Esposito.” It was a young man’s voice, clipped and professional.

“Sorry,” John said. “You have the wrong number.”

“Do you know where I could reach him?” the man asked. “It’s about his father.”


John was lying in bed listening to the phone ring. He couldn’t bring himself to pick it up, to look at it, to think about it. He didn’t want to think about anything.

But he couldn’t help it.

If he never answered again, would it be a tragedy? If he never spoke, would it be a shame? He couldn’t decide whether it was worse that no one would ever ask him, or that there was no one he could tell who would understand.

27: Florida

“Tell me what I’m looking at.”

“It’s a graph, sir.”

“Who am I, Laurel and Hardy? I can see that.”

“Abbot and Costello, sir.”

“Which one?”

“One, sir?”

“The first or second?”

“Who was first?”

“Don’t start with me. Davis!”

Davis snaps his head up from his notepad, where he’s been doodling furiously, drawing either a giant flaccid penis or the State of Florida. “Yes, sir?” He asks.

“This looks like the chart of my last heart attack. What does it mean?”

“It’s the numbers from last week, sir.”

“Christ. Dora!” he yells in the direction of the door. “Get me BP on the line.”

“Yes sir,” comes a voice through the intercom.

Davis resumes doodling. The other three men in pastel polo shirts squirm slightly in their chairs. The man holding up the chart – Cooper – begins to put it down, then the phone on the desk rings, and he leaps back to attention. The director picks the receiver up. “You smarmy British son of a bitch!” he yells. “We need another twenty-five million.”

The voice coming through the receiver is muffled. The men pretend not to pay attention, looking out the plate glass windows onto downtown Tallahassee or rereading the motivational posters on the walls. The director makes an obscene gesture with his free hand. A tiny green lizard runs across the outside of the window. An orange flash of lightning lights up the horizon. The tinny voice is still talking, without pause.

“Look,” the director says, interrupting, “it’s embarrassing, emasculating. We have to put this little box up on our website with all this bullshit about black balls and deep whatevers. Look at that exclamation point! It’s pink, for Christ’s sake. And the charts!” He points at Cooper, who stands up stiffer. “They’re limper than Prince Charles’s prick. We’re getting fewer tourists than Kansas. You owe us big time.”

Lightning flashes again as the storm clouds swirl in. Thunder covers some more incomprehensible dialogue. The director shouts again: “Is that the best you can do, you lily-livered limey bastard? Well, I suggest you get that queen mother of yours over here and tell her to suck it.” He slams the phone back onto its cradle. Davis jumps up and looks around. The rain starts more or less on schedule.

“All right people,” the director gazes around the table, “rally caps. It’s the bottom of the ninth with two outs and the bases loaded. It’s first and goal with 5 seconds remaining. We’re at half-court and the shot clock is running down. It’s some sort of, um, last minute soccer situation. But we can turn this thing around.” He stands and pounds on the table with his fists. “This doesn’t have to be the Gulf Oil Crisis – it can be the Gulf Oil Opportunity!”

“Like in Chinese, sir?” The man seated next to Davis asks.

“Gomez, have you seen me out working in the rice paddies? Wearing one of those pointy hats? Building a giant wall to keep the Mongols out? Did my skin turn yellow while I wasn’t looking? Am I being inscrutable? Mysterious? Exotic? Oriental?”

“No, sir.”

The director pounds the table again. “You’re damn right I’m not! And if you say I am again I’ll have you and your family sent to the goddamn labor camps. We’ll see who’s a Maoist then, you pinko. Why, if this was thirty years ago I’d take you out back and shoot you myself.” He sits back down and looks around the table. Now, what the hell were we talking about?”

“The Gulf Oil Opportunity, sir,” the man seated next to Cooper by the window says.

“I like it!” The director snaps his fingers. “Good thinking, what’s-your-name. Give yourself a kiss on the ass.”

“A pat on the back, sir?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” The director looks at him more closely. “What is your name anyway?”

“Wang, sir.”

“Wang?” He stares incredulously. “What the hell kind of a name is that?”

“Chinese, sir.”

“Chinese? Well, I don’t like it.”

“Should I change it, sir?”

“Change it!” He snaps his fingers again. “That’s it! You’re on fire, what’s-your-name. Give yourself that pat on the ass after all. Dora!” He yells at the door, “get me someone in Design – tell him we need the biggest map he can find. Gomez, convene us a focus group.”

“Yes, sir.”

Gomez leaves. A designer arrives a few minutes later, dressed all in black, carrying a silver laptop under one tattooed arm. He sets it on the table facing the director, launches a web browser, and stands back as a map of Florida loads, pushing black frame glasses up his pierced nose. No one says anything, so he shrugs his shoulders at the room in general, and leaves. The director grabs a Sharpie from the table and scrawls “Gulf of Florida” on the screen, then steps back to admire his handiwork. The wind howls dully through the plate-glass windows. The rain rakes across the glass. Palm trees cartwheel down the streets like tumbleweeds. Gomez enters with the janitor. “Sorry, sir,” he says, “he was the only one I could find.”

“What about me?” comes the voice from the intercom.

The director looks around. “Did someone say something?”

Cooper and Wang both shake their heads. Davis is busy doodling. “It was just the wind, sir,” Gomez says.

“Dora!” the director yells, “close the damn door!” He turns the laptop toward the janitor. “Okay, José, what do you see?”

The janitor glances at it for a second, then back at the director. “The Golfo de México, señor.”

“Jesus H. Christ,” the director bellows. The janitor cringes and crosses himself. A swarm of cockroaches skitters up the wall. “Okay,” the director says, “I say we write the whole Panhandle off. Maybe lease it to Mexico until this all blows over. José, give your people a call. I’m prepared to make concessions: a chupacabra in every pot, all the pesos you can eat, and free siestas for everyone.” The janitor says nothing. “Not mañana, you lazy Mexican,” the director shouts. “Now! Make it happen!”

The janitor nods. “Si, señor.” Water spills across the carpet as he opens the door, soaking it, coating it in a thin glimmering film. His footsteps slosh down the hallway. A couple of small fish swim in.

“Sir, aren’t there a few other states in the way?” Wang asks, pointing at the screen.

“Fuck ‘em,” the director says. “Hell, maybe they’d even want in. I mean what the hell kind of tourist goes to Texas or Alabama? Gomez, get our focus group back here – we’ll ask him. Dora, get me Alabama on the line.”

The intercom is silent. The lights flicker and the air conditioning sputters off. Outside, José floats in a yellow bucket, using a mop to pole himself away. A family of five is huddled together atop an overturned mobile home. A couple of lifeguards paddle a surfboard past a half-submerged elderly woman wearing a clear plastic rain bonnet and holding a transparent umbrella aloft. Two men in suits prepare to dive from different windows of an office building. One jumps, and then – after flowcharting his potential best-practice action items going forward, leveraging the most up-to-date metrics of rational self-interest and goal-oriented excellence, and synergizing real-time big picture data analysis – the other operationalizes a proactive paradigm shift as well. Inside Visit Florida, the dark liquid rises above the ankles of the five men in the conference room. The director looks down, grabs Davis’s water glass, scoops some of the liquid up, and puts the glass back on the table. The liquid sloshes back and forth, and when it settles a thick, black-brown-red-orange layer forms across the top.

“Tell me what I’m looking at.”

“It’s oil, sir.”

“Oil!” He slams his hand down. Oily water flies everywhere. “It’s profit! Here’s the idea: We open the beaches and charge a flat fee for people to come and take as much as they want to carry away. ‘Winter’s coming in Minnesota,’ we tell them. ‘The next increase in gas prices is just around the corner. Heat your home, fuel your car, etc.’ If BP can turn a profit on this, why can’t we?”

“Is that legal, sir?” Wang asks.

“What do we care? It’s business! Hell, invite the foodies, too. They love oil!” He leans over, grabs one of the gasping fish that’s flopping in the shallow water on the floor, and smacks it on the tabletop until it dies. It lies there, glistening. “We’ll sell ‘em our seafood as pre-oiled. Pre-seasoned, even! Organic and all-natural, fresh from the Gulf of Mexico.”

“Florida, sir.”

“Shut up, Gomez. We can even get some celebrities on board. Rachel Ray, if she’s still cheap. Or that guy who says ‘bam’ all the time.”

“Bigelow, sir?”

“No, Bourdain. That asshole will eat anything.”

“What about FDA approval, sir?” Wang asks.

“Approval? What happened to the free market? What happened to life, liberty, and the pursuit of business? What the hell country is this?”

“America, sir.”

“America! Don’t talk to me about America, you namby-pamby East Coast Ivy League liberal puke. I spent 10 years eating gooks in Indo-China for breakfast and for what? America! Listen up: America is an obese toddler crying for his mama at the Fourth of July fireworks because his deep fried ice cream just fell into the dirt. America is a 40-year-old bleach-blond bimbo in daisy dukes draped across the hood of a red Camaro. America is Mr. John Doe working every day to buy a second home in a state so sunny that the Mexicans pay for the pleasure of cutting the goddamn grass. America is little Janey and Jimmy settling in the suburbs, where its designer chinos, appletinis, plastic picket fences, and a vacation home in Florida where the sand is always whiter than the population of Bumfuck, Wisconsin and the rain is as regular as me after a bran muffin. America is your goddamn balanced breakfast, made in China. Get me?”

“Yessir.”

Lightning flashes. Outside, the water is on fire. The lights inside go out. The room glows blue-green a moment longer, before the battery in the computer dies, and then everything is dim and orange.

The director leans back in his chair and looks around the table. Oily water pours from his shoe as he crosses one leg over the other. “All right. Let’s hear some slogans for next year.”

“This one is for the thrill-seekers,” Davis says, selecting a mock-up from his sodden portfolio. He flicks a few cockroaches off and holds it up. Gomez leans over and lights the glass of water on fire. “Florida,” the placard reads in a jaunty font, orange on green, “Rock you like a Hurricane.”

“Christ,” the director says, and looks out the window. The burning water is halfway up the spiderwebbing glass. A manatee drifts by forlornly. An alligator swims after it, glancing into the office and yawning like a bored tourist at SeaWorld. The director fans himself with a stack of brochures. “It’s too hot today,” he says.

26: Michigan

Sometimes when D feels like thinking, she cycles out to the roundabout, tires gripping asphalt as she rides in circles, faster and faster, around and around. This time of night, the glow from Detroit, Lansing, Flint, and Ann Arbor is a pale ring of limestone on the horizon, bleeding up into the granite sky.

Usually there aren’t any cars out this late, but tonight a truck passes, the driver honking and shouting. D can’t hear him, or doesn’t care to. She wishes she could stay here, in motion, forever. She wishes there were nowhere else in the world.

But it’s almost 3am, and her shift starts at four. She makes the inevitable final lap and turns off toward the city. She can make it back by then.


Sometimes when E feels like thinking, he drives up and down Lake Shore Drive, catching glimpses of the bay through a screen of suburban houses and scrub trees, of dark water stretching to the white shores of Sleeping Bear.

He’d come back to Escanaba after college, gotten a job at the family gift shop, selling Waterford crystal, handmade chocolates, Hummel figurines, novelty t-shirts, picture postcards, and Yooper everything.

He’s manager there now. By the time he finished his shift tonight, the city streets were empty. He has to be in again tomorrow morning. He just wants to drive until then.


D gets back to her house a little after noon. Kyle is in the shower – one of Sarah’s old college friends who showed up last night without warning. Some other friend is still asleep on the floor.

She waits by the bathroom door, listening to the running water, waiting to wipe the film of butter and flour from her skin. She closes her eyes and leans back against wall.

“Your toilet is broken,” Kyle says. D snaps out of her doze to see him shirtless, one of her towels wrapped around his waist.

“What are you doing here?” she says.

“Man …” he looks almost wistful. “When I read about this city online, I had to come.” He smiles. “It’s just so fucking crazy here.”

She blinks and shakes her head. “Online?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Sarah posted a link to this article on facebook.”

“Fuck.” D closes her eyes and mutters: “Suddenly I feel sorry for any person, place, or thing ever written up by the New York Times.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”


There’s a customer waiting for E to open the shop, her face pressed up against the glass. When he glances at her she knocks on the window. “Are you open?” she mouths.

E sighs and digs the keys out of the drawer. The woman is joined by a large man and a large young boy. They press in closer as he unlocks the door.

“Good morning,” E says, holding the door open. “Can I help you guys?”

“I want candy,” the little boy says.

“Be quiet,” the woman replies.

The man follows. “You got a toilet I could use?” he asks.

The woman is leaning against the counter when E returns. “You got anything that really says ‘Michigan’?” she asks, looking around. “Like a big stuffed wolverine, or something?”

“I want candy!” the boy yells.

“I said ‘shut up,’ Ryan,” she says.

“No!” He picks up a Christmas ornament and throws it to the floor. It bounces, so he picks it up and throws it down again. The woman doesn’t even look at him.

The man comes out of the bathroom. “Excuse me,” E says, nodding to the boy.

“Excuse me!” the woman says. She grabs the boy and drags him away. The man follows them out the door.

“Have a good day,” E says.


Sometimes D feels like she’s living in the post-apocalypse … or the post-post-apocalypse, even. Like this city is a case study in how many times society can break down and be remade, decayed and deformed.

She and Sarah have made a lot of plans over the years. They were going to move into an artist collective. They were going to buy land and start an urban farm. They were going quit their jobs and start a bakery of their own.

The last idea had gotten as far as the quitting stage when Sarah backed out. It was too risky to start a new business, she said, in these “troubled economic times.”

Now, D’s bedroom is plastered over with useless blueprints, her closets filled with silk-screened shirts, her desk stacked with letter-pressed “grand opening” cards, all emblazoned with a clever logo for the bakery that never was.

The problem, she thinks as she picks one up and traces the image with her fingers, isn’t what sort of life you try to build, but who you try to build it with.


Sometimes when E thinks about his life on the U.P., he cycles the verb through all of the tenses: Lived. Has Lived. Lives. Will live. Will have lived. Had lived. He recites them faster and faster as they go around and around. There’s something depressing and poetic about the way the future becomes the past.

The mailman waves through the window as he drops today’s bundle into the slot. Mixed in with the usual stack of bills and fliers is a postcard, made of rough recycled paper. On the front is a design that looks like the state seal, in silver, with a cupcake instead of a shield.

E turns it over. His hands tremble slightly as he reads:

“Dear E, Sometimes when I’m biking through the city I see the People Mover passing by. Do you remember that? ‘The monorail to nowhere,” we called it. “The train of yesterday’s tomorrow, today.” I thought it was a joke back then, but now I think it must be a commentary on Michigan’s motto: “If you seek a pleasant peninsula look, look about you,” like everything looks better as long as you’re going around and around and never stop. I guess it’s terrible here, but I love it … and everybody has to be from someplace. Si quaeris peninsulam amoenam circumspice, D.”