Talking Heads (31 page)
The guard, at last nosing off Storrow, could only glance away from the ramp traffic for a moment.
“What I do, it's the future.” Kit gestured at the truck's digital clock. “I'm alternative press.”
“What? Viddich, are you being a wiseass again?”
“Not really.” In fact he wasn't, for all that he enjoyed this round. Or he wasn't a wiseass any more than Tom Wolfe. “Alternative press, think about it. We started in the â60s and we're headed straight for the future.”
“The future,” Garrison said, “is that Grand Jury.”
“Come on, listen. Learn something. Do you know what happened to the media in the '60s?”
The guard heaved an incredible sigh, a varsity man after a long day at practice.
“It's personal, Garrison. Personal voice, personal feelingsâit's all over the media already, and it's only going to grow.”
“Grow.” A disgusted syllable.
“Don't you see it happening? Haven't you heard about cable television, dialing up any news you want, 24 hours a day? It's personal, man. Your own personal alternative news. Besides that, pretty soon everyone's going to have a computer.”
“A computer?” Garrison was squinting, trying to figure an angle. “My neighborhood, what people want is a video camera.”
“Okay, a video camera. A video camera or a computer, it's the same phenomenon.” Warnings were going off in his head: You're having too much fun with this. “The same, sure. Whether a person's on camera or on the computer screenâin either case, they're becoming part of the media. In either case, it's not, ah, it's not trained professionals gathering data and then putting what they select before the public.”
“What they
select,
” the guard said. “What they select, yeah, that's all it is.”
“But not any more, Garrison. That's not what's happening with the new technology.” Kit wasn't a cowboy, noâhe liked to talk, and never more than when he had a worthwhile insight. “Now what's starting to happen is, the public selects and produces its own news. Alternative press, it's everywhere. It's call-in radio, roundtable talk TV. And pretty soon everybody's going to have a computer, and you can bet they're going to be talking to each other too.
“Computer to computer, Garrison. Everybody's going to have one, everybody's going to put their story on it. One big electronic medium, and everybody's going to be part of it.”
Off the Central Artery, the guard had picked up speed. As Kit waited for a response, the man actually beat a yellow light.
“Personal is all over the media, Garrison,” he said quietly. He flexed his thigh against his Nutshell Library. “It's the future.”
“Viddich. Fuck you.”
Kit snorted.
“Fuck you. Really. That Grand Jury, those guys, they don't care about your theories, Viddich. Computers and the media, who gives
a fuck
?”
Hardball was good, Kit figured. If the last round was hardball, that would get him ready for Leo.
“Don't care what you did back in Minnesota, either.”
“Aw, Garrison. I knew I shouldn't have told you.”
“You could have drunk all the blood west of the Mississippi, man. Not going to mean a thing. If you don't have any friends in that Grand Jury, they'll rip your balls out and hang âem up to dry.”
“Generally speaking,” Kit said, “people don't try to frighten other people unless they're frightened themselves.”
“Whoa. Viddich, myself, I'll tell you. You ask me, I'd like to see your balls hung up to dry.”
Garrison whipped around a pothole fast enough to make the cab rock. “You know I hate to say this, Viddich. I hate to keep trying to help a bright-boy asshole like you. But our friends, man, they can still be your friends. Still.”
Kit's turn to heave a sigh.
“You hear me, bright boy? Spite of all your bullshit, they can still be there for you. Our friends.”
“Like Forbes Croftall?”
“Fuck
you.
” Garrison braked hard. Kit rocked in his seatâwas he bracing for a punch?âand discovered that they'd reached the site. The MTA work in progress. Outside the tinted cab window, across a flagged-off strip of waterfront cobblestones, there ranged head-high plywood walls. Support 4x4's had been set close together, and between them ran a second layer of protection, crosshatched steel fencing. Razor wire wound along the top, shivering in the harbor winds.
“Why do I bother?” the guard was saying. “I told you, I told youâbut nobody can tell a bright boy like you.”
Kit counted only two view holes in the plywood. The rest of the wall had been angrily grafitti'd, blood red, ripe black, and scraps of greasy sandwich wrappings fluttered from under the fence. Pedestrians hustled past with eyes averted. All the site needed was a skull-and-crossbones.
Garrison grabbed his arm. “Hey. Dicksuck.”
His grip hurt, but Kit didn't try to pull free. Hardball. “Garrison,” he said. “Think about it. These friends of yours, they don't care about you.”
The guard had grown older again, under his cap.
“You notice,” Kit said, “they didn't send anybody higher up to come and getâ”
“Harvard. Fucking rich-boy faggot Harvard.” He yanked up Kit's bicep, the arm flopped from the elbow. “You think that impresses me? Think that scares me? Viddich, you couldn't even begin to get what I've got. You couldn't even dream about it. For starters I've got this truck here, can you dig it? I've got it
free and clear.
”
With his free hand Garrison smacked the steering wheel. In the thing's leather sheathing one of the lace-holes popped.
“Let go of me, Garrison.”
“Free and clear, dicksuck. I'm not just talking a quadrophonic eight-track and a CB. I'm talking fucking four on the floor with enough power to hire out as a snowplow, and I even got the commercial license and insurance. All mine, I told you. All free and fucking clear.”
“Let go. Your boss is waiting for me.”
“Whoa, to-ugh guy. Hard co-re. You know what else I got, smart boy? Got two shotguns. Two
excellent
guns, right there behind your fucking head. Right there on a rack behind the curtain and Harvard here never even knew about it.”
Kit went on letting his arm hang, keeping his look unimpressed. He wasn't about to turn his head.
“Plus my old man and me, we got six acres on a lake in New Hampshire. Six acres with fishing year-round. Any trouble comes after me, man, I'm up to my lake. Any of your college boy bullshit comes my way, I'm in my truck and I'm gone. I'm gone. Six acres. Plus my guns and my truck. That's what I got, man, and that you don't fuck with. You and your fucking rich boy Indian blood on the face bullshit, whoaâthat bullshit means about as much to me as your computers in space sci-fi media bullshit. You just want to keep the woods beautiful for nutty faggot rich boys like yourself.
“What you got, Viddich, it don't even touch what I got. Don't even touch it, any of your bullshit. You ask me, the cash for this truck was the best money I ever made in my life.”
Cash, sure. Bribery was strictly a cash business.
“I got my truck, dicksuck. Got my truck and my guns and my place. You think you can get away from this shit, this city that's falling right down into the shit? Think Harvard'll save you? Harvard ain't going to worry about some head case like you. You're nobody. No friends. This newspaper of yours, you can roll it up tight and stick it up your ass for the good it'll do you when this city goes down into the shit. Roll it tight and stick it up your ass. That's your paper. That's all you got. Me, I got my truck and my guns and my place. Youâfuck you. You and this niggerdick up the ass you call a city.
Fuck
you! Fuck you all!”
*
Any time you want
to tell a tourist, my basement boys and girls, take a look when our Scandie pseudo comes into The T. The T, you know the place. Uhh-nder the boardwalk, down by the
se-ee-ee-ahhh
(heavy breathing, get it?). Under the boardwalk and under construction: that's The T. The club wants to be plywood partitions and steel fencing forever. Plenty of graffiti, plenty of leakage in the overhead pipes. Like dancing in the Elsinore dungeons, hey Scandie?
The Tâthat's our scene, my hard cores. I'm a siren for our scene, remember, the voice of leathers and plastics everywhere. And The T, see, is about imitation. It's an imitation wreck. And imitation, see, is our hard core. Our scene's home sweet home.
Though, in our case, it's not so sweet. It's more like out
ow
! out. Yeah, that's imitation, punk styleâout
ow
! out.
Zia see, my homeys. A Movement dinosaur like this David Bowie clownâno, clone; the word is
clone
âhe doesn't even realize he's a clone. He comes down into The T, down the entrance ramps and over the coffer dams, and he's checking for Building Code violations. He's inspecting the plumbing (what there is of it). The battle for truth goes on (and yawn). The Bastille must be taken every day.
Not in our scene, my sluts and greasers. I mean, the boy's been bumping into me day after day for a week, he should've figured it out by now. In our scene we build our own Bastille. An imitationâ“dig it.” Our times, they are a mimicking. Our counterculture apes the authority culture, looking for something we can wear on an earring. Something
The Man doesn't want to see on an earring
, checkâsomething that pokes fun at his worst secrets.
And now another visit
from the angels on my shoulders.
| Cue: | ( that slut ) Why, if it isn't the hard-nosed muckraker. |
| Ayy: | There's leakage. Definite leakage. And the expressway's right overhead. |
| Cue: | Here and everywhere, big boy. Here and right up into the castle of the King. |
| Ayy: | The expressway, thousands of cars a day. Any leakage down here will undermine the supports. |
| Cue: | Frightens you, doesn't it? Something you never wanted to see on an earring. |
| Ayy: | I'm serious. This isn't an earring. |
| Cue: | Don't be so sure, man. Leakage, seepageâit's everywhere. Everybody's got a closet. |
He had rough going to reach Leo. The site was no more than a vast steep-walled pit. Echoes of the overhead traffic never faded, ringing in the heaps of waiting metal, the corrugated steel and copper pipes. Underfoot, plywood walkways wobbled on the boggy floor. When hardhats came by they always carried cable or tools, and these were bulky guys anyway, heavy-muscled in parka vests and jean jackets. Kit had to stand aside. He was aware again of his Nutshell Library. That was bad luck, that he hadn't been able to get rid of the thing. Having it out with Leo face to faceâand on his turfâfelt questionable enough to begin with.
| Ayy: | This isn't an earring. This is the Central Artery. |
| Cue: | This is The T, sweet butt. Only thing it's good for is to dance. |
| Ayy: | Aw, is this a joke to you? A party? I'm trying to change the world. |
| Cue: | Yeah, and the only way to do it is to dance. Come out and dance! Come out and confront your filthiest closet selves. |
| Ayy: | ( pulls Percodan from pocket, frowns at label ) |
| Cue: | Come out even if it hurts. Come out especially if it hurts! Out, ow, out! |
| Ayy: | But if this is all just a big club, if nothing's going to change . |
| Cue: | Oh, things will change, smart boy. Imitation is the sincerest form of anarchy. |
| Ayy: | What am I doing here? What? |
Kit found his man at the far end of the site. Leo stood with three or four workers, against a pit wall that appeared different somehow, set back. Hatless like Kit, he might have been out for a night of disco; his still-thick Italian hair was slicked back and his overcoat was a flashy black and white check, knee-length and double-breasted. Not that Leo wasn't one of the boys, here. As the old crew chief spoke, the workers around him moved in synch. They rocked, they shrugged. Their chests were thrust up, their knees locked back.
At the entrance Kit had only needed to mention Leo's name. If he were here as a reporter, he couldn't have found better access. If he were here as a reporter.
“Kit, kid.”
Kit took in the familiar mask, the satchelmouth.
“I guess Garrison found you,” Leo said.
Kit looked past him, checking the set-back wall behind him.
“You two talk?”
Kit compared the wall to the floor. A border of corrugated steel rippled up at the floor's edge, another cofferdam close by the feet of Leo and his friends. Beyond this border the site dropped away again. A second, smaller area had been dug out, still lower. Kit couldn't see into it, but the drop-off looked to run nearly the entire way along this side of the site.
“Hey. Kit, kidâyou with us?”
“That's the dig, isn't it?” Kit asked. “The dig, where the archaeologists work.”