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Watch this, she says.
She flips a switch on her breastplate, and the Buddha Cows on her wings float up, over and over, like a crazy digital billboard.
Cool, huh?
Who are you? I ask.
Why don’t you find out?
How?
She puts her hands to her mouth like she’s going to shout. Instead she whispers. Wake up.
SOMETIME AFTER THAT
Can’t sleep. Every time I start to drift off, I think about the old lady, Mrs. M, and what she said. If she said it. Maybe I dreamed it.
My head hurts. Lungs hurt. Arms. Legs. Everything.
Turn on the TV to pass the time. Same old shit on YA! TV. Some show called “The Inside, Outside, and Backside of Music.” Parker Day’s the host. He’s tricked out in his “serious outfit”: black pants, black turtleneck, black-rimmed glasses, even though the f**ker for sure has perfect eyesight. They’ve even photographed him on some gloomy, windswept heath to give it that tragic oomph.
“Unless you’ve been in a time warp, you know the story of the Copenhagen Interpretation,” Parker says as they go to voice-over. “From an Inuit fishing village to international music stardom, the Copenhagen Interpretation was living the dream as musicians and messengers of world peace. The release of their debut, Small World, launched them into the spotlight. It was quickly followed by their masterpiece, Words for Snow. Many claimed the vibrations produced by their music brought on a feeling of well-being, even euphoria, and their concerts promoted harmony. As lead singer Thule said, ‘What’s so hard about being kind?’ Traveling with their ever-present interpreter”—there’s a still of some guy in a Hawaiian shirt at a microphone—“the CI toured the world, and the world would never be the same again.”
A quick-cut montage of images set to a Copenhagen Interpretation sound track zips across the screen: a blurred shot of the four band members covered head to toe in heavy coats and hoods, like Antarctic explorers; another blurry image of them in the same outfits playing some festival; another indistinct photo of them in the snow.
“And then, one day, at the height of their fame,” Parker’s voice continues as the screen fades to black, “they were simply … gone. In the middle of the Big Benefit Concert for Peace but Against Non-Peace and People Generally Being Not Nice, in the middle of what everyone agreed was a bitchin’ set, they simply vanished. Were they the victims of foul play? Had they grown weary of fame? Were they aliens visiting from a musically advanced planet? Or, as some suggest, had they eaten each other in a drug-induced, hate-fueled orgy of excess—the dark side of celebrity? When we come back, we’ll explore. …”
That’s all I can take of that. Flip to the news. A shellacked anchorman giving the daily grim. Teenaged soldiers carrying guns. Bombed marketplaces tattooed with blood. Crying villagers. Melting ice caps, confused polar bears. Kneeling guys in black hoods behind razor wire. A wildfire in another state. Guys watching it burn, the fire reflected in the mirrored lenses of their sunglasses. Jeez, someone needs to push the reset button on this planet.
The anchorman smiles and they cut to a cute story about a Captain Carnage championship going down.
NIGHT
I can’t breathe.
Shit. My lungs. Tight. Can’t take in. More. Than a gasp. Of air. Pain.
Dad. Getting up. Scared. “Cameron? Cameron!”
Can’t say his name. Can’t ask for. Help. No air. Dad’s eyes. So scared. Running out. Shouting.
Dad. Back. Glory, too, and. Some guy in green. Pulling a cart. Serious machine.
Glory. Snapping on. Gloves. Lightning quick. “Okay, baby, hold real still for me.”
She’s never. Shit. Never called me. Baby. Guy in green. Plastic tubing. More people running. Body seizing. Shaking. Can’t. Can’t stop.
“Gotta get him tubed,” Glory barks. “Give him that shot, now.”
Arms. Holding me. Down. Roll to side. Pain. My hip. Shot going in. Medicine. Hot like fire.
Breathe, Cameron.
Glory’s face. Determined. Grim. “Hold him good.” Fingers. Opening my mouth. Tube. Coming in. Oh f**k. Snaky plastic. Too much. Makes me choke. Want to. Scream. Gagging. Choking. My heart. Frantic general. Screaming. “The hell’s going on out there? Report, soldier, report!”
Stop. Can’t. Stop. Shaking. All over. Panic. Like a wave. Taking me. Under.
Glory. Near. “Easy, easy, it’s okay, baby, don’t fight it, just a minute and it’ll all be over.”
