A particular chunk of asphalt, in the crotch of the curb and the road,
partway across a bridge over the Ventura Highway. It is a marker of the moment -- it is the moment -- the
bridge is forgotten, the time of day, the weather conditions, the ride to the
nearby ramp, the emotional state, these are gone as well. The present state of the chunk? Unknown and inconsequential.
in the crotch
Teatrain is not asleep and not awake.
He
thinks for a moment it is raining, but it is not. The piano and storm of the Who's Love Reign o'er Me reign
over him, and he approaches consciousness in a sweet melancholia.
Teatrain That smell. Still there. Cannot be my imagination. Teatrain heads down the aqua
blue
hallway, through the livingroom to the kitchen. It's here. I
know the smell is here. The
kitchen is yellowed by the light, the late morning light, the wainscoting looks
gold and the chocolate brown of the shelving is, well, chocolate brown.
__
Hi, Tee, says Evan, packing a knapsack, readying to leave.
__
Do you smell something?
__
No, I don't. I thought we covered that matter pretty extensively yesterday.
__
Don't give me shit about it. I
know I smell something.
__
Okay, you smell something. What do
you smell?
__
Same thing I smelled yesterday. Something
gone bad.
__
Like what?
__
Like something gone bad. I don't
know what.
__
Well, I've got to go. Let me know
if you find whatever it is that you're looking for.
__
It's not a goddamn quest. I'm
telling you something stinks.
They were both smiling
now, indulgent friends.
__
Well I'm sorry I can't help you look today, I really had a lot of fun looking
for it yesterday. But I've got to
get going.
__
You really don't smell it?
__
No, I really don't smell it. But
that doesn't mean it doesn't exist or that you don't smell it. After all we live in separate
realities, don't we?
__
Go do whatever you've got to do.
I'll find it and put it in your bed, Okay?
__
Fine by me. I can't smell it,
remember?
__
Fuck you. And have a nice day.
__
You as well. Catch you later.
Evan shouldered his backpack and
left the kitchen, whistling like a bird.
It smells sort of like garbage, but not quite, thought Teatrain. Now he opens the refrigerator for the
thirtieth time, thinking that the best possibility is that the dread smell
emanates from within. He still
smells the smell, but there is no appreciable difference in the strength of the
scent. He surmises, just as he did
the day before, that the source is not in the refrigerator. He sniffs the garbage pail next to the
fridge, it's not exactly a rose bouquet, but there is nothing particularly
insulting about it. He hadn't
expected anything, yesterday he emptied the garbage and cleaned the pail with
soap and disinfectant. Now it
smelled mostly like plastic and soap.
He sniffed around the pantry, near the sink. The dishes were all clean -- he had done them yesterday as
well. But the smell remained, no
doubt about it. Not overwhelming,
but everywhere. Perhaps, he
thought, it is just the stench of the decay of my life. But while he enjoyed his figure he
didn't believe it. He smelled
something real and disgusting, not something cerebral and poetic.
Back to the
refrigerator. There didn't seem to
be any other choice. He began to
empty the refrigerator, taking the items out one by one, sniffing them, then
placing them on the table. He had
done exactly the same thing the day before, but the only possibility he could
think of was that he had somehow missed the offender. He was halfway through the condiments on shelf of the door
when a heavyset twenty-five-year-old woman came into the room. A multicolored scarf from Pakistan kept
her red hair from her face.
__
Hi Tee.
__
Morning, Carrie.
__
What are you doing?
__
Do you smell something?
__
No. What do you mean?
She was looking at him
inquisitively, as if there had to be more to the question than there appeared
to be.
__
Do you smell something gone bad, you know, a foul smell?
Carrie sniffed about, a bit
too dramatically for Teatrain. But
then again she was sniffing, at least pretending to take him seriously.
__
No, I don't. I really don't.
She stopped sniffing and
looked at him.
__
Well, I do.
With this he returned to
the refrigerator, passing items hand to nose to hand to table. Carrie had intended to fix herself
something to eat, but she changed her mind in the face of his efforts -- it
wasn't that big a table. Besides,
she had something she wanted to discuss.
__
The phone bill is overdue. So is
the gas. So is the electricity.
__
The bills are overdue, murmured Teatrain.
__
What?
__
You were saying that the bills are overdue.
__
Yes.
__
And?
__
Well, don't you think we ought to pay them a little more regularly? Of course they're in your name so it's
up to you ... but one of these days they're going to shut something off and
then it's going to be everybody's problem.
__
They already have.
__
What?
__
Before you and Timmy moved
in. They shut off the phone for a
couple weeks. It was kind of nice.
__
Well it wouldn't be nice if they shut off the electricity or gas. We wouldn't have heat or light. And besides you use the phone more than
anyone else, I think.
By now he had moved onto
the main shelves. Out came the
orange juice, then the milk, then some seltzer water. He sniffed everything, even the seltzer water.
__
What do you want, Carrie?
__
Well, I just thought we ought to pay the bills on time. It seems like the right thing to do.
__
Do you want to take care of the bills?
__
Well I didn't that I ... I didn't mean to say that you weren't doing a good job
or anything like that ... I ...
__
That's exactly what you meant to say.
And it's true. I'm doing a
lousy job with the bills. Do you
want to take care of them?
__
Well, I ...
__
Fine, you're hired.
__
Well if it's okay with everybody.
__
I assure you it's okay with everybody.
He was down on his
haunches, at the produce drawer.
He sniffed the celery as he took it out. It smelled fine.
On the other hand it felt a little rubbery so he threw it away. Carrie watched him as he placed the
fruit on the table.
__
Well okay then, she finally said.
__
Okay.
She
picked up the bills from the corner of the table and walked into the
livingroom. The refrigerator was
completely empty now. He opened
the freezer and found what he expected -- there were only ice cube trays
inside. Taking no chances he
sniffed each of these. Then he
released the cubes into the sink, and washed the trays with soap and hot
water. He refilled them with cold
water and returned them to the freezer.
He stood in front of the open refrigerator. He considered, and then commenced sponging it down, filling
a pot with hot water and ammonia cleaner.
Then he replaced the food, sniffing again as each item passed through
his hands. When he finished he had
to conclude that the smell did not come from the refrigerator.
But it came from
somewhere. It was as strong as it
had ever been, perhaps even stronger now.
He went into the back hall, sniffing. He opened the door to the back hallway sniffing. He returned to center kitchen,
sniffing. He closed his eyes,
trying to triangulate with his nose.
He walked slowly back into the kitchen, following the scent. For a moment he imagined himself a
bloodhound, he chuckled, and it ruined his concentration. He froze and began again. He moved toward the pantry, convinced
that he was on the trail. Standing
in the pantry he was sure that he getting close. He opened his eyes wide. He thought he had checked everything in the pantry the day
before. There wasn't much. Four cereal boxes, some pasta, a few
cans. He checked each of these,
moving them to opposite sides of the shelves as they passed his nose. The source was nearer.
He began to pick up the
pots and pans on the upper shelves, one by one. They were empty and smelled only of metal, if at all. He came to a large aluminum pot
with a cover. He took it down,
lifted the lid, and took a whiff.
His stomach contracted in a spasm, he dry-heaved. His eyes watered and stung. He wretched again. He looked into the pot and saw a
remarkable collage of gray webbing and what appeared to be red and brown
moss. To his regret he took
another breath through his nose.
The stench was overpowering.
He held the pot in front of him, gingerly, and made his way out to the
back porch. He placed the pot in
the far corner, and escaped to the livingroom to let his stomach rest.
He
Last night or this morning I dreamt that
I
was watching an infinitely long (or at least unending to my view) marching
column of propositions. Each line
in the column was a separate proposition.
At first the propositions were in words, in English, but I could not
exactly read them. They were
blurry in the way only things in dreams can be blurry, a blurriness that
doesn't bother you the way it would in conscious life.
There was one word in each
proposition that stood out, it seemed to be italicized, except that in this
case the italicization meant that the letters were slanted every-which-way,
like they are when one is trying to write very fast. I wasn't able to read any of these words either, or if I
was, I don't remember any of them.
But I do recall a sense that these words were the keys to the propositions,
and that they were words that required much work to find their proper
context. These words, as I recall,
were never the same in any two of the propositions. I have the feeling that I didn't have enough time with the
column to discover anything about it, past this simple description.
Towards the end of the
dream the symbols changed from words and letters to logical notation, or
perhaps to numbers and mathematical notation, I can't remember.
The most important part of
the dream was that I had a definite purpose in the situation. I was supposed to find meaning in the
propositions. I was aware that all
the propositions were true, my problem was to find meaning among this infinite
number of truths. The italicized
words were supposed to help me somehow.
I was just getting to work on the proposition, starting to read them as
they marched by perfectly in step, when I woke up.
Last night or
Neil is mopping the floor,
as
someone does every morning. He is
doing a good job, with plenty of hot water and soap. But the effort could no more exorcize the spirit of the
floor than a Negro mother could whiten her boys face with a washcloth. Outdoor grime, indoor spit, five
complete pint drafts, spillings from innumerable other pints, a zodiac of hard
liquor drinks, sticky mixers, drips of piss (in the men's room), bits of
Chicago pizza from next door, bits of sandwiches from behind the bar, chips
from down the street, broken glass, coinage, currency, newspaper, flyers,
books, odd pieces of paper from pads and notebooks, gum wrappers, cigarette
packs, cigarette stubs, pocket lint, hair, fingernails, all this and more
dropped in a night, leaving an indelible if microscopic record of a time, a
bar, its people.
flyers
travel flyers
most exciting part of the
journey
is it not ... you know well the quality that Falling's is famous for. So sit back and enjoy yourselves. I assure you that you are in for a
journey quite unlike any you have had before.
As we get started I'd just
like to mention a couple things that will let the trip run more smoothly for us
and be more enjoyable for you. The
machines, of course, are all tied to the guide as we begin, so that we may all travel
together. Upon arrival the
situation will be clear, and I will provide an outline of our location along
with an overview of what to expect at that particular place. After the introduction is completed,
the individual override becomes operational, so you may leave the group then to
do your own exploring. There are
line nets so that you may venture out with a friend or a group you came with,
or perhaps a close friend you just met.
Just enter the hookup as the machine explains. You can choose a leader or it can be set up to take
direction democratically.
You should watch for the
blue light in the atmosphere. That
is the signal that the group is soon to move on. When you see the light you should return to the most recent
starting point. You can do this
manually as long as you have remained in the local area -- which, by the way,
is something we urge you to do: our tours are designed to give you the most interesting
experience available in every locale we visit. The other option is to merely switch on the tracer, which
will automatically bring you back to our gathering point. It has been programmed to bring you to
the appropriate gathering point for every location on the tour, so you can also
use it to find us if you get lost.
One of our people will remain at the gathering point for the duration of
our stay in an area. Don't
hesitate to ask if you any assistance whatsoever, that's what we're here for.
Please be prompt when you see the light. We will not leave a sector unless we
have everyone with us, so if you dally you will be holding up the whole group, which
would be quite impolite, wouldn't it?
There are tethers to all of you, and if you do not return for some
reason we will come find you. But
please do not make us do that if it can possibly be avoided. It takes extra time, and we may have to
sacrifice some latter part of the tour to make up the time, a thing nobody
wants to have happen.
That's all in the way of
directions, no more schoolmasterly jabbering from me. Again, welcome to Falling's Tours. I know you are in for the time of your lives.
all tied to the guide
spits a couple times
Seaman First
Class MacNamara spotted
a
last bit of puke on his sneaker and made his way over to a poor excuse for a
patch of lawn on the Atlantic Ave. side of Waterfront Park. He managed to leave the offending item
on a dandelion, went up the ramp through the bare grape arbor, crossed a much
better piece of lawn, and came to a standstill on the cobblestone walkway that
bordered the water. He could see
the ship from where he stood, but then he could see the ship from anywhere. She had burnt a hole behind his eyes.
He turned his gaze to the
restaurants and offices on the piers and shore. Nice place at lunch, he thought, lots of secretaries. But at six a.m. there wasn't even a
stray dog or a fat waterfront rat to be seen.
Mac took stock. He was hungry and almost out of cigarettes. He had noticed that the Christy's over
by the aquarium was open when he was crossing Atlantic Ave.
Christy's was flouro lit so
that the contrasts jumped right at you.
Still the overall effect was a few million watts short of the average
supermarket. Cool neon told you
where to look for things that weren't there, for the most part, or so it seemed
to Mac. There weren't any
chocolate covered mini donuts, the pretzel logs were gone, and the whole
Hostess rack was empty, excepting a lone vanilla pudding pie whose hull
appeared to be compromised. Mac
cruised the aisles slowly, looking for something he thought he could get down
and keep down. Presently he forgot
he was looking for food and began considering the vagaries of packaging. This led him naturally to the cleaning
products, available here only in small portions. But the littleness seemed to amplify the intensity of their
colorations. Mac caught himself
mid reverie and glanced about the store, checking for signs that his continued
presence and seeming lack of purpose might become a problem.
There were none. The store was busy, it seemed, for the
hour of the day. There were three
security guards in the aisles.
None of them were on duty at the store, they were likely from the office
buildings in the area. They would
purchase coffee and snacks, which would be placed in little burnt orange fold
up boxes for transport. One of the
guards was white, defiant stubble, veins you could climb on his nose. A classic drunk Irishman. Mac had seen him in the most unlikely
of places, and of course here, the most likely. The other two were Nigerians, Mac guessed, noting that they
were speaking to each other in a foreign language, though their uniforms were
from different security companies.
Mac worked once, for about a month, as a security guard. He relieved a Nigerian, a nice enough
fellow who did the overnight and went to Northeastern during the day. He told Mac interesting stories about
life back home. Unfortunately the
man smelled truly horrible and Mac quit partly because he could not face the
accumulated stench in the small office they shared.
Through the plate glass windows
Mac watched the Frito-Lay truck pull up.
The driver, in uniform, hopped through the open door and came into the
store to take a quick look at the shelves. He returned to the truck for stock and a two-wheeler. Meanwhile the Coke man showed, and then
in a minute or two the Wise Potato Chips rep followed. Mac, leaning on a freezer case, smiled
at the convergence. Food for the
needy. Mac settled for freshness
if he couldn't have perfection. He
went with sour cream and onion chips, a coke, and threw in a brownie for good
measure.
Only one register was, the
other was grinding out the nights sales (a staggering litany of pecuniary
arrangements -- the paper ribbon seemed to be easily filling the large box
behind the counter). One clerk was
doing something with a calculator and a clipboard. The other, a woman in her middle twenties in a yellow
sweatshirt dress, not unpleasant to perceive, was joking with the Frito-Lay
hombre. Mac was in no hurry, so he
put stuff on the counter and turned back to face the aisles, as if the racks
and refrigerators and linoleum were the best show in town.
The lady in yellow eventually
approached him. She smiled as if
he hadn't been standing there for a bit and knowing that she knew it.
__
Is that all, she said.
As if people always buy
this kind of junk at this time of the morning, thought Mac. Of course to her it must seem that
that's exactly what people do. Mac
nods and takes a look at his left flank.
He spots a yuppie checking dates on endive dip, finding nothing this
side of the full moon. The yuppie
instinctively holds a nostril and gives a snort, apparently on a supply run for
a continuing scene. He gives up on
the endive, shuffles over a step and grabs the last pint of sour cream. (ironically, the dairy man has yet to
appear). Then he heads for an
aisle, probably looking for the soup mix that doubles as dip spice. Mac considers hustling him for an
invite, but lets it go. Instead he
reaches for his last bill, a fin, and pays the lady.
__
Have a nice day, she says.
__
I'll do my best.
With this he hits the
double doors and is out in a day that has got on considerably since he's been
gone.
Mac's got a walk ahead of
him, so he starts out full stride, popping the chip bag and unwrapping the
brownie on the fly. A couple cabs
were on the street, empty.
Otherwise, nothing. He
struck out for Southie, munching while he walked. The aluminum of the Federal Reserve Building gleamed in the
early morning sun. He walked
across the plaza to the revolving doors in the middle bottom of the glass
wall. Locked. A guard came over, hearing the doors
tried and seeing the unshaven seaman.
Mac pointed to the lobby and requested a lookabout. The guard just shook his head. No.
With the brownie gone, the
coke still a third full, Mac is taking Canal St. with an even beat. In a few minutes he is passing in front
of the entrance to the yard. There
are two MP's at the gate, turning away a station wagon full of carousers who
want a look at the ship. The MP's
inform them of the tour hours, and they make a major fucking production out of
turning service time into civ time. Mac walks on by. Turning in never occurs to him, so he is
not confused and sees no reason to ask himself why. One quiet homunculus inside pulling the levers.
Mac walks on by.
Tom Dickie. He
was far from the largest of the ninth grade boys, but he was
easily the most feared. He was also, most