flying us out and taking care of everything."
"That is interesting. I will likely stay here."
"Why? You won't be feeling well, so I get it, but-"
"I thought we were doing this as a hobby."
"We were. But the idea was that if we did well we'd see where it goes, right?"
"I will not be going. I will stay here. I am waiting for my college acceptances. I will get those and focus on going to college."
"Okay," Steve interjected, "but we figured that we'd be taking a year off from college and see where this goes. There isn't one way to do things, you know? We'll be fine."
"You don't understand." John's robotic, collected response was vexing. The gestures, the head tilting, all I could do was put another quarter in and watch him operate. He was imagineered, with a repetitive cycle of movements as a featured performer in The Carousel of Progress. He was jammed between generations, stuck repeating 'it's a bright big beautiful tomorrow,' over and over again in a horrific simulation of humanity. The oven kept exploding, and exploding, and exploding.
"I am waiting to hear back from MIT, Harvard, Oxbridge, and I will be going to whoever accepts me and moving on with my life. This band was a simulacrum of rock stardom. Our accident marked the end of my operation."
Oxbridge? Simulacrum? What was this?
"Well," Steve began, "we wish you luck. I know you'll get into MIT." Steve's words fed him more quarters.
"No, no, Steve, wait. John. John, last night you were fine and you really wanted to be a part of this and we had a great time. What happened?"
"I was hit in the face by a truck moving in the southbound lane of the bridge over Snake River. I died, Todd, and then I was reborn." I wanted to punch the bandaged cocoon head, mechanically bounding back and forth through the same repetitive motions, over, and over, and over again. "I have a second chance. Everything is going to be okay."
Steve turned to me, and parroted, "everything is going to be okay." Was I the crazy one?
"Fine. Yes. Everybody's right." The weeping Vietnamese relatives remained with their heads bowed and their beads dancing in their hands across their mouths. This made no sense. Who let these fucking candles and incense in the hospital?
"Let us know if you change your mind," I continued. "This is all a good thing. I hope you get well. We can find another drummer, but we can't replace you."
"You're right."
I stood, shaking my head. John had stopped talking, and the robotic motions soundlessly continued.
"Bye John."
We turned to leave. The bodies of his relatives parted around us like the sea, and we the staff of Moses struck down into the sands on the shore. We were our exodus.
"So now to find Kurt, if he still wants to be in the band," reminding Steve of our mission. I realized I didn't normally know where to find Kurt.
We left the hospital and pulled out of the parking lot.
"And where is home for Kurt?" I asked. Steve shot me a look that communicated 'are you serious?' "What? I've never been there before. He's always come over to my place, or we've met him out."
"Down by the bridge," he replied, with an unspoken 'duh.'
We drove for five minutes and ended up by the high school. Steve directed me behind the building to a small bridge over a runoff stream that I had never noticed before.
We turned onto a service road, and down a vertical slope with such a steep diagonal grade that the car could barely hold on. The angle was nauseating. Two treads in the ditch worn away like scratches in the earth was the only indication it was even possible to drive on it. Steve took the wheel, and we zigzagged into the ditch. I covered my eyes as he steered; my perspective was a mess. He somehow folded into an impossible turn.
And we stopped. We were safe. It was so strange.
Steve got out and started walking under the bridge, and I followed. When we drove over it, the bridge looked three or four feet above the ditch. It's job was to bypass a little stream of water for
"That is interesting. I will likely stay here."
"Why? You won't be feeling well, so I get it, but-"
"I thought we were doing this as a hobby."
"We were. But the idea was that if we did well we'd see where it goes, right?"
"I will not be going. I will stay here. I am waiting for my college acceptances. I will get those and focus on going to college."
"Okay," Steve interjected, "but we figured that we'd be taking a year off from college and see where this goes. There isn't one way to do things, you know? We'll be fine."
"You don't understand." John's robotic, collected response was vexing. The gestures, the head tilting, all I could do was put another quarter in and watch him operate. He was imagineered, with a repetitive cycle of movements as a featured performer in The Carousel of Progress. He was jammed between generations, stuck repeating 'it's a bright big beautiful tomorrow,' over and over again in a horrific simulation of humanity. The oven kept exploding, and exploding, and exploding.
"I am waiting to hear back from MIT, Harvard, Oxbridge, and I will be going to whoever accepts me and moving on with my life. This band was a simulacrum of rock stardom. Our accident marked the end of my operation."
Oxbridge? Simulacrum? What was this?
"Well," Steve began, "we wish you luck. I know you'll get into MIT." Steve's words fed him more quarters.
"No, no, Steve, wait. John. John, last night you were fine and you really wanted to be a part of this and we had a great time. What happened?"
"I was hit in the face by a truck moving in the southbound lane of the bridge over Snake River. I died, Todd, and then I was reborn." I wanted to punch the bandaged cocoon head, mechanically bounding back and forth through the same repetitive motions, over, and over, and over again. "I have a second chance. Everything is going to be okay."
Steve turned to me, and parroted, "everything is going to be okay." Was I the crazy one?
"Fine. Yes. Everybody's right." The weeping Vietnamese relatives remained with their heads bowed and their beads dancing in their hands across their mouths. This made no sense. Who let these fucking candles and incense in the hospital?
"Let us know if you change your mind," I continued. "This is all a good thing. I hope you get well. We can find another drummer, but we can't replace you."
"You're right."
I stood, shaking my head. John had stopped talking, and the robotic motions soundlessly continued.
"Bye John."
We turned to leave. The bodies of his relatives parted around us like the sea, and we the staff of Moses struck down into the sands on the shore. We were our exodus.
"So now to find Kurt, if he still wants to be in the band," reminding Steve of our mission. I realized I didn't normally know where to find Kurt.
We left the hospital and pulled out of the parking lot.
"And where is home for Kurt?" I asked. Steve shot me a look that communicated 'are you serious?' "What? I've never been there before. He's always come over to my place, or we've met him out."
"Down by the bridge," he replied, with an unspoken 'duh.'
We drove for five minutes and ended up by the high school. Steve directed me behind the building to a small bridge over a runoff stream that I had never noticed before.
We turned onto a service road, and down a vertical slope with such a steep diagonal grade that the car could barely hold on. The angle was nauseating. Two treads in the ditch worn away like scratches in the earth was the only indication it was even possible to drive on it. Steve took the wheel, and we zigzagged into the ditch. I covered my eyes as he steered; my perspective was a mess. He somehow folded into an impossible turn.
And we stopped. We were safe. It was so strange.
Steve got out and started walking under the bridge, and I followed. When we drove over it, the bridge looked three or four feet above the ditch. It's job was to bypass a little stream of water for
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