uptown to
pick up Mister Dryden and Avalon. I'd be the last one in the car
today, it was so late.
The guards at the barricade's pedway looked to be vets of the
Brooklyn campaign, judging from their mien and their insignia.
When I showed them my IA card they waved me through, sans
exam, sans questioning. Just outside, some Army boys took turns
raping a woman; one standing near appeared to have rigged a
reproduction of his unit's insignia from a coat hanger and held
the decorative end over a fire. I turned my head, so as to pretend
I hadn't seen. Jimmy stood by the car, watching; when he saw
me he waved.
"Hop in," he said, looking up at the sunny gray sky. I slid in
beside him, nodding to Mister Dryden and Avalon who were in
the back, seated some feet apart. We took off, aiming toward
Broadway. Most of our trip passed in silence, as if by speaking
we feared we might break our bond and spoil our luck. On occasion a few words slipped out, as if to increase tension.
"Anything but party this afternoon?" Avalon asked; she lay
curled up in the back seat's corner. Mister Dryden sat in the seat
behind me, playing a game-to have judged from the beeps, and
lack of dialogue-on the IBM.
"Dad'11 want to sport after."
"And chapel?"
"You know Dad," he said.
Midtown and Times Square and the Clinton Twilight Zone were
as they ever were. After we entered the Upper West Secondary
Zone at Sixty-first, surroundings felt busy but not so tenuous (the
ridge east of Broadway, further up, was high enough to remain
above the water, it was believed, and so remained better kept).
At 120th West Harlem began. That Twilight Zone ran to 181st;
there, the Inwood Secondary Zone-boozhie-laden, like the Upper West-picked up.
At 119th, Jimmy patted my arm and motioned beyond the exit.
"Bullyrige it looks up there," he said.
Between 120th and 135th the subway became an el. Youngsters had derailed the train. The Demon Lovers, likely; they'd
divided the area since domesticating the neighborhood Droozies.
Jimmy and I lifted binocs so we could viz more clearly what was
downcoming. Half the cars remained on the trestle, half hung
over the side. The front car lay crumpled in the intersection of
Broadway and 125th. Members of the gang scampered over the
sides of the cars, tossing in mollies, ducking as they blasted.
Others ran through the cars still on the track, greeting those who
hadn't escaped.
"Duppies look like roaches, don't they?" said Jimmy. He turned
on the broadcaster, tuning what might be heard on the train's
intercom. The automatic recording played, saying, "there is another train just behind this one. Step lively."
Army vehicles positioned, rocketing the train. As the fires
climbed up the cars, the bright graffiti blackened; flashes flew up
with each blast like sparks from a fireplace log. Only the need for reliable public transport kept trains running; only in Manhattan, only during the day. The fare was high-a quarter-but I
doubted that anyone paid, not anymore. I never went in the subway; trouble finds you well enough without your looking.
"Overmuch warifying. Boys too blueswee and jang-bang with
vex. We'll take Henry," said Jimmy. "Belt up."
We belted, and we turned onto 120th; Jimmy switched on the
electroshield. We passed Riverside Church and Grant's Tomb,
dark and battered in the afternoon haze. Handy, unoccupied
structures were often used by the Army boys for target practice.
The drive up Riverside was uneventful. Residents of West
Harlem needed fuel too badly to live with the comforting sight of
a forest at riveredge, and where once a squirrel could leap from
limb to limb for blocks without touching ground, stumps replaced
trees and stews replaced squirrels. As a teenager, I remembered
hearing stories of the Naturals, who, it was said, lived in the
park, having turned against civilization as they found it, living
off whatever or whoever might be caught. They were said to wear
cloaks of
pick up Mister Dryden and Avalon. I'd be the last one in the car
today, it was so late.
The guards at the barricade's pedway looked to be vets of the
Brooklyn campaign, judging from their mien and their insignia.
When I showed them my IA card they waved me through, sans
exam, sans questioning. Just outside, some Army boys took turns
raping a woman; one standing near appeared to have rigged a
reproduction of his unit's insignia from a coat hanger and held
the decorative end over a fire. I turned my head, so as to pretend
I hadn't seen. Jimmy stood by the car, watching; when he saw
me he waved.
"Hop in," he said, looking up at the sunny gray sky. I slid in
beside him, nodding to Mister Dryden and Avalon who were in
the back, seated some feet apart. We took off, aiming toward
Broadway. Most of our trip passed in silence, as if by speaking
we feared we might break our bond and spoil our luck. On occasion a few words slipped out, as if to increase tension.
"Anything but party this afternoon?" Avalon asked; she lay
curled up in the back seat's corner. Mister Dryden sat in the seat
behind me, playing a game-to have judged from the beeps, and
lack of dialogue-on the IBM.
"Dad'11 want to sport after."
"And chapel?"
"You know Dad," he said.
Midtown and Times Square and the Clinton Twilight Zone were
as they ever were. After we entered the Upper West Secondary
Zone at Sixty-first, surroundings felt busy but not so tenuous (the
ridge east of Broadway, further up, was high enough to remain
above the water, it was believed, and so remained better kept).
At 120th West Harlem began. That Twilight Zone ran to 181st;
there, the Inwood Secondary Zone-boozhie-laden, like the Upper West-picked up.
At 119th, Jimmy patted my arm and motioned beyond the exit.
"Bullyrige it looks up there," he said.
Between 120th and 135th the subway became an el. Youngsters had derailed the train. The Demon Lovers, likely; they'd
divided the area since domesticating the neighborhood Droozies.
Jimmy and I lifted binocs so we could viz more clearly what was
downcoming. Half the cars remained on the trestle, half hung
over the side. The front car lay crumpled in the intersection of
Broadway and 125th. Members of the gang scampered over the
sides of the cars, tossing in mollies, ducking as they blasted.
Others ran through the cars still on the track, greeting those who
hadn't escaped.
"Duppies look like roaches, don't they?" said Jimmy. He turned
on the broadcaster, tuning what might be heard on the train's
intercom. The automatic recording played, saying, "there is another train just behind this one. Step lively."
Army vehicles positioned, rocketing the train. As the fires
climbed up the cars, the bright graffiti blackened; flashes flew up
with each blast like sparks from a fireplace log. Only the need for reliable public transport kept trains running; only in Manhattan, only during the day. The fare was high-a quarter-but I
doubted that anyone paid, not anymore. I never went in the subway; trouble finds you well enough without your looking.
"Overmuch warifying. Boys too blueswee and jang-bang with
vex. We'll take Henry," said Jimmy. "Belt up."
We belted, and we turned onto 120th; Jimmy switched on the
electroshield. We passed Riverside Church and Grant's Tomb,
dark and battered in the afternoon haze. Handy, unoccupied
structures were often used by the Army boys for target practice.
The drive up Riverside was uneventful. Residents of West
Harlem needed fuel too badly to live with the comforting sight of
a forest at riveredge, and where once a squirrel could leap from
limb to limb for blocks without touching ground, stumps replaced
trees and stews replaced squirrels. As a teenager, I remembered
hearing stories of the Naturals, who, it was said, lived in the
park, having turned against civilization as they found it, living
off whatever or whoever might be caught. They were said to wear
cloaks of
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