Forgotten Ground Regained

Excerpt from Mister Either/Or

1.4Stay for a stand-off? Stupid talk.Dutchie’s dead, and duty dictatesyou steal his stash. Stuffing your backpackwith contraband that houses horrors, perhaps, or an antique scam, you scout escape routes.Hope’s out back: where blind bulletsshot up the sunroom, shattered glass doorsframe a plush paradise of produce. An Olympian lunge, and you land mashingsweet potatoes. Slats of slanted latticework lift your velocity over a ten-foot fence, and trash-bags greetyour lengthwise splat. Spoiled seafoodnukes your nostrils, but now’s no timeto gag and grimace: gung-ho gunmenhave rushed the alley. Up instantly,you trust in your All Stars, your track training,but that weird weight whacking your backsideshrinks your stride and saps stamina. There’s hope, though, Hoo-ah!, half a block on:sun-lit signage for a subway station.One leap from street level to the lower landing,and you start stumbling but stay standing.Parades of posters rush up and pushiPhones, action flicks, online degrees—Interminable tunnel!, and the tough guys hunting youkeep closing. Clips of silenced potshots purring, pocking concretebefore your feet, you’re fucked, man, finisheduntil a heartening headwind howls in:by the grace of God, a getaway train.You hurdle a turnstile, then hide, hunched down,amid a cluster in the closest car.Ding, then, dong, the doors have met,and rescue is rolling. You rise and smile, straining to strike stoic straphangersas, no, not a nut, a normal person. Focus, freak. Finish the mission.You lucked out, sure, but this line runs localthe wrong direction and reeks like someonesoiled himself. Screw mass transit.Once clear of the catacombs, you can catch a cabdown to the Village, dump, daintily,Armageddon or whatever it isat Warehouse Delta and unwind somewhere.Your mind is drifting toward dives and dartboards,warm waitresses, when Whoosh! an emergencyexit opens. Outside airruffles coiffures. Fucked-up featurespeek in, pug-nosed, pugilistic— one of the goons, his gun a growthin pleated pants. Puke must have breachedthe next doors down and now is naughtily crossing cars, a crime in this town.Vlad your Glock is getting giddy,but shots can sheer in shaky surroundings,blast bystanders. It’s bad news causingcollateral damage. Don’t yet, dumb-ass;chill till chance chooses a path.
1.5Waiting, you’re whistling, weighing angleswhen a curve kicks the car to larboard.Physics forcing freight straight on, you all sway starboard, and the start startlesyour instincts to action:
 on the upswingback to balance, you bum-rush Ugly,check him hard, hack his Heckler across the car. Cough, though, gasp,he bounces back a black-belt champof duck and parry, pooh-poohing puncheslike last year’s fads. Feints, footwork, and your mouth is mashed. A meat mustachesprouts, spreads, and the split-lip smacksof old pennies. At your eyes’ edges aghast grannies, grinning fiends, and hipster camera phones clicking close-ups.Stung by stardom, you sound a wounded bellow, bear-hug the ballet danceragainst a grab-bar and go gangbusterskneeing his nuts. Neutered, his resistancecoughs and crumples. Kicks quiet him.The train slackens, slithers to a station. Your fans file out. Some few may tell Metro popo, but most migrate to the car next door. This kid, though, creeps up— fifteen, sixteen, his septum sporting stainless-steel hoops, his hair a hennaedmess of dreads . An admirer . . . maybe? What’s he want? Change? A chance to be champ?When you bark, “beat it,” the brat shoots youa sweet-ass smile and swipes your backpack.
No part of this site may be used or reproduced in any manner for the purpose of training artificial intelligence technologies or systems