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Authors: Paul di Filippo
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jaw.
While his comrades clustered around the stricken teacher and tried to calm the shrieking kids, we bumped a silent and complacent Burr down the corridor and out the door.
“Toss him in the back!” Fiona said, and we did.
It was only after we had ditched the Lincoln, transferred Burr to the back seat of the Toyota, loaded its trunk with a few possessions, and were on the interstate heading south out of town, that the cause of our rapid departure spoke.
“Why’d you do it?”
I thought about it. “Remember when we were six, and you got me real mad and I threw that rock at you and it hit you in the head and you fell down unconscious?”
“Yeah …”
“I owed you one.”
“But now the score’s even, right?” said Fiona.
“Right.”
“Right.”
And the three of us drove away.
One of my favorite Steely Dan songs is “Any World (That I’m Welcome To),” in which the narrator fantasizes about slipping through time and space and alternate dimensions to a more hospitable clime, some realm that consorts better with his temperament. This dream of fleeing to a personal Utopia is a powerful one, rich enough for endless variations. Here’s my take on the theme, with a reminder at the end that “in dreams begin responsibilities.”
The Emperor of Gondwanaland
Hey, Mutt! It’s playtime, let’s go!”
Mutt Spindler raised his gaze above the flat-screen monitor that dominated his desk. The screen displayed Pagemaker layouts for next month’s issue of PharmaNotes , a trade publication for the drug industry. Mutt had the cankerous misfortune to be assistant editor of PharmaNotes , a job he had held for the last three quietly miserable years.
In the entrance to his cubicle stood Gifford, Cody, and Melba, three of Mutt’s coworkers. Gifford sported a giant foam finger avowing his allegiance to whatever sports team was currently high in the standings of whatever season it chanced to be. Cody had a silver hip flask raised to her lips, imbibing a liquid that Mutt could be fairly certain did not issue from the Poland Springs cooler. Melba had already undone her formerly decorous shirt several buttons upward from the hem and knotted it, exposing a belly that reminded Mutt of a slab of Godiva chocolate.
Mutt pictured with facile vividness the events of the evening that would ensue, should he choose to accept Gifford’s invitation. His projections were based on numerous past such experiences. Heavy alcohol consumption and possible ingestion of illicit stimulants, followed by slurred, senseless conversation conducted at eardrum- piercing volume to overcome whatever jagged ambient noise was passing itself off as music these days. Some hypnagogic, sensory- impaired dancing with one strange woman or another, leading in all likelihood to a meaningless hookup, the details of which would be impossible to recall in the morning, resulting in hypochondriacal worries and vacillating commitments to get one kind of STD test or another. And of course the leftover brain damage and fraying of neurological wiring would ensure that the demands of the office would be transformed from their usual simple hellishness to torture of an excruciating variety undreamed of by even, say, a team of Catholic school nuns and the unlamented Uday Hussein.
Gifford could sense his cautious friend wavering toward abstinence. “C’mon, Mutt! We’re gonna hit Slamdunk’s first, then Black Rainbow. And we’ll finish up at Captains Curvaceous.”
Mention of the last-named club, a strip joint where Mutt had once managed to drop over five hundred dollars of his tiny Christmas bonus while simultaneously acquiring a black eye and a chipped tooth, caused a shiver to surf his spine.
“Uh, thanks, guys, for thinking of me. But I just can’t swing it. If I don’t get this special ad section squared away by tonight, we’ll miss the printer’s deadlines.”
Cody pocketed her flask and grabbed Gifford’s arm. “Oh, leave the
While his comrades clustered around the stricken teacher and tried to calm the shrieking kids, we bumped a silent and complacent Burr down the corridor and out the door.
“Toss him in the back!” Fiona said, and we did.
It was only after we had ditched the Lincoln, transferred Burr to the back seat of the Toyota, loaded its trunk with a few possessions, and were on the interstate heading south out of town, that the cause of our rapid departure spoke.
“Why’d you do it?”
I thought about it. “Remember when we were six, and you got me real mad and I threw that rock at you and it hit you in the head and you fell down unconscious?”
“Yeah …”
“I owed you one.”
“But now the score’s even, right?” said Fiona.
“Right.”
“Right.”
And the three of us drove away.
One of my favorite Steely Dan songs is “Any World (That I’m Welcome To),” in which the narrator fantasizes about slipping through time and space and alternate dimensions to a more hospitable clime, some realm that consorts better with his temperament. This dream of fleeing to a personal Utopia is a powerful one, rich enough for endless variations. Here’s my take on the theme, with a reminder at the end that “in dreams begin responsibilities.”
The Emperor of Gondwanaland
Hey, Mutt! It’s playtime, let’s go!”
Mutt Spindler raised his gaze above the flat-screen monitor that dominated his desk. The screen displayed Pagemaker layouts for next month’s issue of PharmaNotes , a trade publication for the drug industry. Mutt had the cankerous misfortune to be assistant editor of PharmaNotes , a job he had held for the last three quietly miserable years.
In the entrance to his cubicle stood Gifford, Cody, and Melba, three of Mutt’s coworkers. Gifford sported a giant foam finger avowing his allegiance to whatever sports team was currently high in the standings of whatever season it chanced to be. Cody had a silver hip flask raised to her lips, imbibing a liquid that Mutt could be fairly certain did not issue from the Poland Springs cooler. Melba had already undone her formerly decorous shirt several buttons upward from the hem and knotted it, exposing a belly that reminded Mutt of a slab of Godiva chocolate.
Mutt pictured with facile vividness the events of the evening that would ensue, should he choose to accept Gifford’s invitation. His projections were based on numerous past such experiences. Heavy alcohol consumption and possible ingestion of illicit stimulants, followed by slurred, senseless conversation conducted at eardrum- piercing volume to overcome whatever jagged ambient noise was passing itself off as music these days. Some hypnagogic, sensory- impaired dancing with one strange woman or another, leading in all likelihood to a meaningless hookup, the details of which would be impossible to recall in the morning, resulting in hypochondriacal worries and vacillating commitments to get one kind of STD test or another. And of course the leftover brain damage and fraying of neurological wiring would ensure that the demands of the office would be transformed from their usual simple hellishness to torture of an excruciating variety undreamed of by even, say, a team of Catholic school nuns and the unlamented Uday Hussein.
Gifford could sense his cautious friend wavering toward abstinence. “C’mon, Mutt! We’re gonna hit Slamdunk’s first, then Black Rainbow. And we’ll finish up at Captains Curvaceous.”
Mention of the last-named club, a strip joint where Mutt had once managed to drop over five hundred dollars of his tiny Christmas bonus while simultaneously acquiring a black eye and a chipped tooth, caused a shiver to surf his spine.
“Uh, thanks, guys, for thinking of me. But I just can’t swing it. If I don’t get this special ad section squared away by tonight, we’ll miss the printer’s deadlines.”
Cody pocketed her flask and grabbed Gifford’s arm. “Oh, leave the
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