Read Online The Subject Steve: A Novel by Sam Lipsyte - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sam Lipsyte
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believe it. Even now the elite are developing the right nanotechnology for the job. The Center for Nondenominational Recovery and Redemption was founded by Heinrich of Newark and Notwithstanding Naperton with the belief that the tired and the sick were getting a raw deal in our republic, sent off to the corner with a broken toy called God, or Goddess, or Higher Power, or inner peace. All modes have conspired against you. Take your place among us and deliver yourself unto yourself. We accept all major credit cards.
Now came a page entitled simply "The Tenets."
There is a vast gulf between those who have been mothered by fire and those who have not. Respect said gulf.
Periods in the trance pasture are mandatory.
Chores are sacred, prayers debased.
Televisions, radios, telephones, or any other devices designed for broadcast or communication to or from the given world are expressly forbidden.
God is dead. Godless man is dead.
Violence will be met with decisive violence.
You are you.
To each according to his culpability, from each according to his bleed.
We are spawn of woodland apes. No code has been undone. Neither faith nor reason will deliver us. We must look to the trees.
The given world has already calculated the potential worth of your unhappiness. No country, no religion, no corporation is your friend. No friend is your friend.
Now something damp and tentacled was doing a dance in my hair.
"It's your time to shine," said Parish.
He handed me the mop, pointed to a bucket on wheels. The water stank of some chemist's idea of the woods. I mopped the dining hall, tried to picture a New-and-Improved Pine-Scented Forest. Antibacterial spatterdock was just sprouting near a lake of lye when my eyes began to sting. I went to the kitchen to rinse them, found Parish peeling a kiwi.
"Good job," said Parish. "Don't forget to punch out."
He showed me how, dropped a slice of rye into an Eisenhower-era toaster. We waited for it to pop. There was a corkboard near the door, a spotty hunk of pumpernickel pinned to it.
"The problem," he said, "is that the punch bread rots."
"That would be the problem with punch bread," I said.
I hiked back up the dirt track to my cabin, found Heinrich lying on my cot.
"Power nap?" I said.
His eyes ticked past me toward the rafters.
"See that rope?" he said.
"Noticed it last night."
"Guy name of Wendell. Bunked here for a while. Of course he figured the drop all wrong. Strangled. That's usually how the do-it-yourselfers go. No time to learn the craft."
"Why did he do it?" I said.
"That's the question of a child, Steve, but I'll try to answer it. Wendell was a slave. But half free. The pain is too unbearable for a man like that."
"His family must have been upset."
"We were his family. We were upset."
Heinrich gripped the cot frame, vaulted off it.
"Your bunkmate," he said, "that Bobby. He talks too much. I adore him, but sometimes I worry he will never reach continuum awareness. I'm not worried about you."
"Maybe you should tell me what you're talking about before you decide not to worry."
"It's no big secret, Steve. Just try to remember the one or two moments in your life when fear broke for lunch. Quite a feeling, right? Now imagine feeling that way all the time."
"I don't think I have too much time left to feel anything."
"That's what Naperton thought."
"Behold," I said, "subsequent diagnostic procedures proved it so!"
Heinrich's punch landed somewhere in the vicinity of my liver. Next thing, I was performing a sort of fetal waltz across the floor planks.
Heinrich hovered near the door.
"I'm not saying it's great literature," he said, "but we take the
Tenets
pretty seriously around here."
I didn't hear him leave.
Dinner that night was some lewd stew I'd watched Parish concoct, undercooked carrots and pulled pork in ooze. I believe he threw some kiwi in there, too.
"All I know," he'd said, "is that there's got to be vat of something at the end of the day. That's all I
Now came a page entitled simply "The Tenets."
There is a vast gulf between those who have been mothered by fire and those who have not. Respect said gulf.
Periods in the trance pasture are mandatory.
Chores are sacred, prayers debased.
Televisions, radios, telephones, or any other devices designed for broadcast or communication to or from the given world are expressly forbidden.
God is dead. Godless man is dead.
Violence will be met with decisive violence.
You are you.
To each according to his culpability, from each according to his bleed.
We are spawn of woodland apes. No code has been undone. Neither faith nor reason will deliver us. We must look to the trees.
The given world has already calculated the potential worth of your unhappiness. No country, no religion, no corporation is your friend. No friend is your friend.
Now something damp and tentacled was doing a dance in my hair.
"It's your time to shine," said Parish.
He handed me the mop, pointed to a bucket on wheels. The water stank of some chemist's idea of the woods. I mopped the dining hall, tried to picture a New-and-Improved Pine-Scented Forest. Antibacterial spatterdock was just sprouting near a lake of lye when my eyes began to sting. I went to the kitchen to rinse them, found Parish peeling a kiwi.
"Good job," said Parish. "Don't forget to punch out."
He showed me how, dropped a slice of rye into an Eisenhower-era toaster. We waited for it to pop. There was a corkboard near the door, a spotty hunk of pumpernickel pinned to it.
"The problem," he said, "is that the punch bread rots."
"That would be the problem with punch bread," I said.
I hiked back up the dirt track to my cabin, found Heinrich lying on my cot.
"Power nap?" I said.
His eyes ticked past me toward the rafters.
"See that rope?" he said.
"Noticed it last night."
"Guy name of Wendell. Bunked here for a while. Of course he figured the drop all wrong. Strangled. That's usually how the do-it-yourselfers go. No time to learn the craft."
"Why did he do it?" I said.
"That's the question of a child, Steve, but I'll try to answer it. Wendell was a slave. But half free. The pain is too unbearable for a man like that."
"His family must have been upset."
"We were his family. We were upset."
Heinrich gripped the cot frame, vaulted off it.
"Your bunkmate," he said, "that Bobby. He talks too much. I adore him, but sometimes I worry he will never reach continuum awareness. I'm not worried about you."
"Maybe you should tell me what you're talking about before you decide not to worry."
"It's no big secret, Steve. Just try to remember the one or two moments in your life when fear broke for lunch. Quite a feeling, right? Now imagine feeling that way all the time."
"I don't think I have too much time left to feel anything."
"That's what Naperton thought."
"Behold," I said, "subsequent diagnostic procedures proved it so!"
Heinrich's punch landed somewhere in the vicinity of my liver. Next thing, I was performing a sort of fetal waltz across the floor planks.
Heinrich hovered near the door.
"I'm not saying it's great literature," he said, "but we take the
Tenets
pretty seriously around here."
I didn't hear him leave.
Dinner that night was some lewd stew I'd watched Parish concoct, undercooked carrots and pulled pork in ooze. I believe he threw some kiwi in there, too.
"All I know," he'd said, "is that there's got to be vat of something at the end of the day. That's all I
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