from the behind the wheel of the parked van. “We took you in the middle of the night, but…
Hey
, you’re a guy that age and your med’ reports say—
score
, by the way! The daily use pill with the TV commercial of the
man and woman sitting in side by side bathtubs .”
“Let’s get you together before we meet the world,” said Doug.
The Special Ops guys let him cram himself into the closet bathroom.
“Remember,” Doug said through the closed bathroom door: “Your name is Vin.”
After he flushed the van toilet—
Such a weird concept!
—Doug met him in the cramped aisle between the beds. Passed him a paper cup of pills to help him forget what he wasn’t supposed to remember and act like he believed what other people saw.
A plastic bag labeled “For Our Forgetful Guests!” that had been repurposed from a Los Angeles hotel waited beside the metal sink. The bag held a disposable toothbrush and a tiny tube of toothpaste trademarked with a notorious TV cartoon squirrel.
“We figured,” said Doug, “feel fresh for a fresh start.”
Brian called out from behind the van’s steering wheel: “Don’t be impressed, he’s had the whole ride here to think of that one.”
Mouthful of minty toothpaste.
The sink faucet worked—
Amazing!
He rinsed, spit.
Raised his eyes to the metal plate polished to reflect like a mirror.
Saw a silver-haired, craggy & scarred faced, blue-eyed man staring back at him.
Whispered: “Your name is Vin.”
Thought:
“Condor.”
Radio Voice from the van’s dashboard:
“—is it for this edition of Rush Hour Rundown on New Jersey Public Radio, but throughout the day, stories we’ll be following include attempts to bring Occupy Wall Street movements to middle America, life after Gadhafi in war-torn Libya, the last days of that Ohio zookeeper who freed his wild animals and then killed himself, and the billionaire brothers who’ve bought a chunk of America’s politics, plus the latest actor to play Superman talks about his divorce from the,
um
, generously proportioned socialite hired by reality TV to play someone like herself, and one of our only two surviving Beatles is getting married—again. Finally,
remember
: today we’re supposed to be terrified. Go forth in fear.”
WHAT?
“Coming up, the third in our six-part series on how climate change—”
Click
, off went the radio as Brian turned: “Did you say something?”
Doug held out the black leather jacket to
Vin
, said: “You ready to go?”
Then slid open the van’s rear compartment side door and with the nostalgia of a paratrooper, hopped out into the rush of cool gray sunshine.
The silver-haired man put on his black leather jacket.
Stepped out into the light.
I’m in a parking lot.
Low gray sky, cool sun glistening on rows of parked cars surrounding a tan cement, crouched dragon building. Waves of sound whooshing past.
Slouching from the dragon building came a trio of zombies.
“No fucking way!” muttered Vin, muttered Condor.
Zombies, but their make-up and costumes were so lame you could tell who they weren’t.
“Happy Halloween,” said Brian as he posted beside Vin.
The zombies climbed into a five-year-old car with New Jersey license plates.
Doug said: “Today, everybody else is in costume.”
His partner shook his head: “Don’t be impressed. He’s had the whole ride to think of that one, too.”
“Go figure,” said Doug. “It’s fucking 2011 and everywhere you look, zombies .”
“If we’ve got zombies,” said Condor, said Vin, “do you got guns?”
Call it a pause in the cool morning air.
Then Doug answered: “We’re fully sanctioned.”
Condor shrugged. “As long as what you’re full of is sanction.”
The Escort Operatives stared at him with eyes that were stone canyons.
“You expecting trouble?” said Brian.
“Always. Never.” Condor shook his head. “My meds are supposed to suffocate expectations.”
“You just need some breakfast,” said Brian.
Hey
, you’re a guy that age and your med’ reports say—
score
, by the way! The daily use pill with the TV commercial of the
man and woman sitting in side by side bathtubs .”
“Let’s get you together before we meet the world,” said Doug.
The Special Ops guys let him cram himself into the closet bathroom.
“Remember,” Doug said through the closed bathroom door: “Your name is Vin.”
After he flushed the van toilet—
Such a weird concept!
—Doug met him in the cramped aisle between the beds. Passed him a paper cup of pills to help him forget what he wasn’t supposed to remember and act like he believed what other people saw.
A plastic bag labeled “For Our Forgetful Guests!” that had been repurposed from a Los Angeles hotel waited beside the metal sink. The bag held a disposable toothbrush and a tiny tube of toothpaste trademarked with a notorious TV cartoon squirrel.
“We figured,” said Doug, “feel fresh for a fresh start.”
Brian called out from behind the van’s steering wheel: “Don’t be impressed, he’s had the whole ride here to think of that one.”
Mouthful of minty toothpaste.
The sink faucet worked—
Amazing!
He rinsed, spit.
Raised his eyes to the metal plate polished to reflect like a mirror.
Saw a silver-haired, craggy & scarred faced, blue-eyed man staring back at him.
Whispered: “Your name is Vin.”
Thought:
“Condor.”
Radio Voice from the van’s dashboard:
“—is it for this edition of Rush Hour Rundown on New Jersey Public Radio, but throughout the day, stories we’ll be following include attempts to bring Occupy Wall Street movements to middle America, life after Gadhafi in war-torn Libya, the last days of that Ohio zookeeper who freed his wild animals and then killed himself, and the billionaire brothers who’ve bought a chunk of America’s politics, plus the latest actor to play Superman talks about his divorce from the,
um
, generously proportioned socialite hired by reality TV to play someone like herself, and one of our only two surviving Beatles is getting married—again. Finally,
remember
: today we’re supposed to be terrified. Go forth in fear.”
WHAT?
“Coming up, the third in our six-part series on how climate change—”
Click
, off went the radio as Brian turned: “Did you say something?”
Doug held out the black leather jacket to
Vin
, said: “You ready to go?”
Then slid open the van’s rear compartment side door and with the nostalgia of a paratrooper, hopped out into the rush of cool gray sunshine.
The silver-haired man put on his black leather jacket.
Stepped out into the light.
I’m in a parking lot.
Low gray sky, cool sun glistening on rows of parked cars surrounding a tan cement, crouched dragon building. Waves of sound whooshing past.
Slouching from the dragon building came a trio of zombies.
“No fucking way!” muttered Vin, muttered Condor.
Zombies, but their make-up and costumes were so lame you could tell who they weren’t.
“Happy Halloween,” said Brian as he posted beside Vin.
The zombies climbed into a five-year-old car with New Jersey license plates.
Doug said: “Today, everybody else is in costume.”
His partner shook his head: “Don’t be impressed. He’s had the whole ride to think of that one, too.”
“Go figure,” said Doug. “It’s fucking 2011 and everywhere you look, zombies .”
“If we’ve got zombies,” said Condor, said Vin, “do you got guns?”
Call it a pause in the cool morning air.
Then Doug answered: “We’re fully sanctioned.”
Condor shrugged. “As long as what you’re full of is sanction.”
The Escort Operatives stared at him with eyes that were stone canyons.
“You expecting trouble?” said Brian.
“Always. Never.” Condor shook his head. “My meds are supposed to suffocate expectations.”
“You just need some breakfast,” said Brian.
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