"WHY are you telling me this?"

  The North, South, and both Seaboards had been compromised.  People, on pain of death, had been fighting máno y màno to embody Republic, but the enormity and brutality of Unions and anger over taxes had tipped the scales of justice into mob rule. 

  "We might not make it out of here." 

We were eight. "Jawdroppers," a

  three year older boy called us.  "Anything amazes them."  But even the grownups were in awe of having survived the year, and, of the shirt. 

  An old denim shirt.  Found at a tag sale.  It had had a history.  People would talk about it whenever somebody wore it.  "Uncle Joe used to wear that on the tractor." To, "You know, I was wearing that shirt the night your father proposed." Since there was a lot of misery going around, the shirt kind of took on a reputation for being (i)lucky(i).  Though it wasn't a shield. 

  "Bad things can happen to anybody in any shirt," one of the older girlfriends told a slightly younger girl convinced the shirt (i)did it(i).  "And anyway, missy, it wasn't the shirt that got you preggers." 

  "Just use this one!" A boy who'd invested several months of allowance into a floundering tee-shirt shop whipped the shirt out of the closet and hucked it at a woman who worked there. 

  "For what?" Asked a little sister of the woman. 

  "We are (i)considering(i) the purchase of an embroidery machine." 

  That shirt disappeared for quite some time. 

"Did MY JELLO shake?"

  It was the second time the man asked the question.  The phone receiver was grimed in garden dirt plus sweat. 

  "Sir I don't know Sir?" 

  "There is (i)never(i) a question mark near that phraseology." 

  "Sir?" 

  "Why don't you know?" 

  "Everyone fell asleep Sir." 

  "Dagnabbit."  Someone threw a roll of papertowels into the tiny home office. 

  "Sir, I have a lot of questions." 

  "So do I."  (i)click(i). 

  "They're saying it's like a sandhole now." 

  "Sandtrap?" 

  "Yeah, after all those helicopters were swarming there.  The brush or whatever grows down here, (i)gone(i)." 

  "And I bet they want someone to pay the dry cleaning bill." 

  "I don't know 'bout that, but did you know that we all, people my age, lost the chance for a merit badge or whatever because a few of us were late to 'Noogah?!" 

  "How'd they figure that?" 

  "Some of us were (i)technically(i) late!  Which was because nobody's got money for this shit.  You should have seen the dead cars on the routes to there." 

Streams of "young people" were

  making the rounds in cities and megacities the world over.  This was an interstice between modes of State.  Like a regroup, or backstage in a Variety Show.  Many were pissed off, feeling shuffled around though born into existence.  But many had spread the word on taking a break from the "stupid grown ups". 

  A lot of people in a tariff-loaded environment had little or no "cash flow".  Something "organic" was happening though, especially in the ways in which the slow, conservatory-type appreciators of history and time were "coming out of the woodwork" and making effort to somehow join hands in a human chain leaning more towards survival than destruction. 

  "What kind of restaurant should it be?" A man on a development team looked into a fry pan at a lumpy mass of sauce.  "That was for Tapas," a woman wanting into the kitchen side of team explained.  "Did they eat them all?" The man asked.  She shrugged a (i)dunno(i). "We'll list it as market research," the man said.  He wandered towards a dining area with water damage and bits of acoustic ceiling tile on the floor.  Saw an open bottle of Club Soda and took advantage.  He was rubbing at a stain on his shirt when laughter floated from the far side of the dining area.  He squinted to see. 

  "Who are they?" He asked the woman.  She explained (i)caught between Services(i) which she'd learned about from them.  "One was even ICE, but," she made a winding gesture near her head.  "That one's (i)nuts(i)?  Does the person have weapons?"  The woman took up a dry, fresh napkin from a pile and offered it to the man.  "I didn't finish my sentence," she said. 

  "Why?" The man asked as he took the napkin and put more soda on it.  "To be honest, I'm very afraid right now.  Especially with all the stuff going on." 

  "There's always a lot of stuff going on.  Like in a restaurant." He gave a weak smile.  "Finish your sentence." 

  "I will try.  The government is like a head." 

  "Oooooh.  I get it." 

  "They were saying that because of young people fitting into careers with the Services and the Services becoming màs modern, uh, more modern, there's like mergers." 

  "You speak Spanish too?" 

  She nodded.  "Saving my highlights for actual interview.  Why don't you talk to them?  Stain's gone." He stopped rubbing and looked. 

  (i)Damnit!(i) The man pounded the steering wheel of the towncar.  He'd made it three blocks and got stopped behind other vehicles at a redlight.  "Thees vood be much eassier in Moscow." 

  "Why?" Asked the younger of two women in the backseat.  She pushed the sliding pages of writing back at the elder woman. 

  "Becauss dere dey do have passages for diplomats to smoothly travel." He looked at his big watch and the clock on the dashboard and sighed.  Rapped fingers.  Turned on the radio news.  "Turn it off please," the woman said while running a pen through several lines of a paragraph.  The man did.  "Vee 

  "We 

  "May never gatch up." 

  "TRY.  (i)We've got to try(i)." 

Two different fingers,

  two different hands. 

  "They're calling this one black-on-white violence," the man said to the woman.  The woman smelled like hair wax and had indeed added a layer of lustre.  She'd also developed a rhythm to the task at hand.  She kept her coiffed and braceleted hand from moving past the brief until a photgrapher from the Court's group shot a still of each sheet.  But her eyes were on two Capitol CC monitors and a TV live broadcasting. 

  It had been about four days of cascading "rallies". 

"He's being unreasonable," the woman stood

  full frame in the mirror over the sink.  The Ladies Room was a flurry of activity.  Women changing out of work clothes and into dancing gowns; tampons and pads being exchanged and discreetly (i)tucked(i); knives and guns tucked as well.  Pistols strapped, daggers slid, purses stuffed with tissues and weapons. 

  The aroma of perfumes and hairsprays and starches and ladysweat kept building. 

  "Why you say?" 

  "Now he's set himself up at a table in the hall and won't budge until he's (i)viewed(i) every last prospect."  The woman standing center stage in the mirror silently mouthed the words, (i)unreasonable(i), (i)budge(i), (i)prospect(i). 

  "I mean, what does the guy even need an assistant for?" 

  A third woman, without pushing, took the helm.  The mirror framing way too thin but somehow not frail.  Sinewy.  "I could tellya but I'd have tah killya," she mocked in a gangstah tone. 

  Pearls and silvers and golds being taken out of little jewelry boxes from Department Stores.  Nails and shaky hands fumbling with clasps.  Leaning-ins almost clashing earrings. 

  From behind the tall, tall women adding even more dazzle a small voice, a bookish woman, said, "Guy hasn't moved from that spot because," her voice faltered.  All the women in the bathroom formed almost a cave around the woman.  "Because why honey?" One put a hand gently on a forearm. 

  "He, uh," clearly a struggle, how to word such import.  "Out with it," said a slightly older woman.  The bookish woman looked into each set of eyes looking at her.  Then quickly blurted, "He got stabbed." 

  "Like mugged?" 

  "Who hasn't?" 

  "Girl fights?" 

  "Like he's been defending the Hill against Soviets." 

  A heavy as lead feeling plummeted upon the space and the women stood together not speaking for several minutes. 

"MY VOICEMAIL'S BROKEN," the woman announced

  and promptly threw it against the floor.  "Take mine Gram," a flawless woman interested in communications and all things local in the U.S. handed her a blackberry.  The woman got up from the benchseat and placed it on the floor in front of the flawless woman's pointy high heel shoes.  "TOO MANY BUTTONS."  

  "Okay Gram." The woman bent at the knees, smoothed the perfect line of her butt in-skirt and picked up the phone.  Still no callbacks.  "Me either," she told a woman in a mechanic's jumpsuit with one smudge of grease on her cheek.  That woman checked her phone and a pager.  "Nuthin'." 

  "(i)YET(i) chillun'." 

  "She said (i)yet(i)." 

  "Yeah.  We heard.  We're on a bus, remember?" Said the girl of a couple with feet on the backs of seats, heads on the seats of seats, and color coming back into their faces. 

  A knock on the bus door and a cracking of the ice built up on the rubber stops as it was opened.  Bare boney hands handing in a pizza box.  "Nothing's signed yet.  Look these over." 

  "Not unless there's sausage on mine." 

  The unused for food box opened revealed draughts/drafts of things.  

  "Like screen pixels, that blows my mind.  Did anybody snag reading glasses?" 

  No one had had a chance to snag anything.  In the churn for footing on professional ladders people were "lucky" to still have shoes on their feet. 

Vitriole vomit.

  In that space between "in" and "out" there is a mess of vitriole.  Like puke outside a hall or near a rollercoaster.  That happens.  It's like the people confronting Beowulf. 

  Some people comment (i)poor guy(i) or (i)poor people(i) and cruise on by.  It's a mark of centeredness to not join in.  It's somebody's limit on control of self.  It can be an influence.  It certainly taints the pool atmosphere. 

  There was this guy.  He'd been in wars before.  Had powered himself and others through lacks so devastating there was affect on generations.  Suffering so poignant, there was no way to unsee what had happened.  The guy often held his tongue, especially when the pitch of commenting gathered itself around the notion of (i)you don't know(i).  But the guy would mutter and cuss and be cantankerous with chores and labors.  Somebody suggested he should find other work, (i)less stressful(i).  Somebody else took it personal if necessary, and asked, "Who the fuck are you negative vibing on?" 

  The guy chose not to talk to that one.  But he told some others, "the enemy". 

  "But it's peacetime." 

  "You may think so, but it ain't really." 

  "Does it help?" 

  "Does me.  So I'm ready." 

  "Not on my radiostation." The woman zapped the board with the mute button. 

  "It's not yours bitch." 

  "I'm done here." The woman's face wasn't literally covered with spit and puke and the nasty bugs that come out of peoples' mouths, but you could see it that way.  She took a folder out of a sleek pursey briefcase.  "Here's the incoming programming.  And you will be bleeped on all that cursing.  FYI." 

  Like the muppet Animal, Howard Stern kept blathering on about superficial stuff on the Rock station even as hijackers were aiming for our buildings.  9112001 wasn't his fault, but airwaves choked with vitriole didn't help that morning. 

 Fifty years already?  No way.

  A car pulled up.  Mine was booted.  Guys.  (i)Great(i).  One notoriously snobbish.  He threw the CD out the window at me.  "Achtung baby," he said like a toast. 

  "What does it mean?" 

  "Give it a listen.  When you get out of the gutter." 

  Of course they drove off with the traffic. 

  "Not (i)in the gutter(i) just because I'm not (i)on point(i)." 

  "Don't drift too far away.  I want to show you the books." 

  Somehow the perfect capsule of emotions in the music.  My age?  Or that thing that some can do?  Like we're all stuck, or all trepidatious about some general consciousness thing, or we just don't know (anything really)...but somebody, some artist, some writer, some intellect, some spiritual person (i)does something(i). 

  Transmissions. 

"Just let them go by," a caped figure

  said to some flask sipping nervous about the big dance guys. 

  Gold chains, hairy chests sticking out in the cold, silly shaped hookah-like cocktail plastic-glasses.  They were loud and boasty.  Proud to have escaped any responsibility. 

  "Offtah fucksome kids Epp?" 

  Other officers tackled the heckler. 

  A man in an almost stiff wool dresscoat broke from talking to some women.  The women shivering in dresses and nylons, no coats.  Nicotine stained fingers and dark lipsticks.  

  Jagged wind rippled the American flag.  It's metal grommets tinging against the metal pole like sailboats in a marina. 

  A giggle turning into a wet cough. 

  "Why shouldn't I try to get them on my dance team?" The man in the wool dresscoat had put on leather gloves and grabbed the flag pole.  "I miss the Sea," he said.  

  "Vhy vood yoo?" A dark uniformed soldier asked. 

  "Vhy not?" 

  The man let go of the flag pole.  Reached into a coat pocket.  Pulled out a rolled and folded piece of paper.  Straightened this.  Held it up to look at it in the light on the flag.  More WANTED poster xerox copies.  The man looked through them.  Chose one, let the wind blow the rest away. 

  "This redski said he was going to send all my new friends to the meatgrinder." He told everyone sort of acting like they weren't paying attention.  "I'm thinking they might like dancing better.  I think I have some invites here," he pulled out a stack from his breast pocket.  "Oh Assistant, will you hand these out please?!" 

  More than one woman came forward.  "I'll leave them here." He snapped the rubberband on the tickets.  Put the flyer on the rope holder and hung the invite tickets by the rubberband also on the flag rope holder.