Ignoring the urge to inquire if Carmine, unable to resist the attention, has perhaps also been running around, “What happened exactly? Or no, not exactly.”
“Carmine’s been reading the papers, he’s bought into the whole story. Thinks he’s a hero now.”
“He’s not a hero?”
“He’s a precinct detective. A second or third responder. In the office most of the time. Same job he was always on, same petty thieves, drug dealers, domestic abusers. But now Carmine thinks he’s out on the front line of the War Against Terror and I’m not being respectful enough.”
“When were you ever? He didn’t know that?”
“He appreciated attitude in a woman. He said. I thought. But since the attack…”
“Yeah, you can’t help noticing some attitude escalation.” New York cops have always been arrogant, but lately they’ve been parking routinely on the sidewalk, yelling at civilians for no reason, every time a kid tries to jump a turnstile, subway service gets suspended and police vehicles of every description, surface and airborne, converge and linger. Fairway has started selling coffee blends named after different police precincts. Bakeries who supply coffee shops have invented a giant “Hero” jelly donut in the shape of the well-known sandwich of the same name, for when patrol cars show up.
Heidi has been working on an article for the Journal of Memespace Cartography she’s calling “Heteronormative Rising Star, Homophobic Dark Companion,” which argues that irony, assumed to be a key element of urban gay humor and popular through the nineties, has now become another collateral casualty of 11 September because somehow it did not keep the tragedy from happening. “As if somehow irony,” she recaps for Maxine, “as practiced by a giggling mincing fifth column, actually brought on the events of 11 September, by keeping the country insufficiently serious—weakening its grip on ‘reality.’ So all kinds of make-believe—forget the delusional state the country’s in already—must suffer as well. Everything has to be literal now.”
“Yeah, the kids are even getting it at school.” Ms. Cheung, an English teacher who if Kugelblitz were a town would be the neighborhood scold, has announced that there shall be no more fictional reading assignments. Otis is terrified, Ziggy less so. Maxine will walk in on them watching Rugrats or reruns of Rocko’s Modern Life, and they holler by reflex, “Don’t tell Ms. Cheung!”
“You notice,” Heidi continues, “how ‘reality’ programming is suddenly all over the cable, like dog shit? Of course, it’s so producers shouldn’t have to pay real actors scale. But wait! There’s more! Somebody needs this nation of starers believing they’re all wised up at last, hardened and hip to the human condition, freed from the fictions that led them so astray, as if paying attention to made-up lives was some form of evil drug abuse that the collapse of the towers cured by scaring everybody straight again. What’s that going on in the other room, by the way?”
“Couple kids I do some business with off and on. Used to live downtown. Another of these relo stories.”
“Thought it might be Horst watching porn on the Internet.”
Once Maxine would have zinged back, “He was only driven to do that while he was seeing you,” but feels reluctant these days to include Horst in the back-and-forth she and Heidi like to get into, because of… what, it can’t be some kind of loyalty to Horst, can it? “He’s over in Queens today, that’s where they evacuated the commodity exchange to.”
“Thought he’d be long gone by now. Back out there someplace,” waving vaguely trans-Hudson. “Everything all right otherwise?”
“What?”
“You know, in terms of, oh, Rocky Slagiatt?”
“Copacetic, far ’s I know, why?”
“I guess ol’ Rocky’s a lot chirpier these days, huh?”
“How would I know?”
“With the FBI shifting agents off of Mafia duty and over to antiterrorism, I mean.”
“So 11 September turns out to be a mitzvah for the mob, Heidi.”
“I didn’t mean that. The day was a terrible tragedy. But it isn’t the whole story. Can’t you feel it, how everybody’s regressing? 11 September infantilized this country. It had a chance to grow up, instead it chose to default back to childhood. I’m in the street yesterday, behind me are a couple of high-school girls having one of these teenage conversations, ‘So I was like, “Oh, my God?” and he’s like, “I didn’t say I wasn’t see-een her?”’ and when I finally turn to look at them, here are these two women my own age. Older! your age, who should know better, really. Like trapped in a fuckin time warp or something.”
Oddly enough, Maxine’s just had something like it happen around the corner on Amsterdam. Every schoolday morning on the way to Kugelblitz, she’s been noticing the same three kids waiting on the corner for a school bus, Horace Mann or one of them, and maybe the other morning there was some fog, maybe the fog was inside her, some incompletely dissipated dream, but what she saw this time, standing in exactly the same spot, was three middle-aged men, gray-haired, less youthfully turned out, and yet she knew, shivering a little, that these were the same kids, the same faces, only forty, fifty years older. Worse, they were looking at her with a queer knowledgeable intensity, focusing personally on her, sinister in the dimmed morning air. She checked the street. Cars were no more advanced in design, nothing beyond the usual police and military traffic was passing or hovering overhead, the low-rise holdouts hadn’t been replaced with anything taller, so it still had to be “the present,” didn’t it? Something, then, must’ve happened to these kids. But next morning all was back to “normal.” The kids as usual paying no attention to her.
What, then, the fuck, is going on?
31
When she goes to Shawn with this, she finds her guru, in his own way, freaking out also. “You remember those twin statues of the Buddha that I told you about? Carved out of a mountain in Afghanistan, that got dynamited by the Taliban back in the spring? Notice anything familiar?”
“Twin Buddhas, twin towers, interesting coincidence, so what.”
“The Trade Center towers were religious too. They stood for what this country worships above everything else, the market, always the holy fuckin market.”
“A religious beef, you’re saying?”
“It’s not a religion? These are people who believe the Invisible Hand of the Market runs everything. They fight holy wars against competing religions like Marxism. Against all evidence that the world is finite, this blind faith that resources will never run out, profits will go on increasing forever, just like the world’s population—more cheap labor, more addicted consumers.”
“You sound like March Kelleher.”
“Yeah, or,” that trademark sub-smirk, “maybe she sounds like me.”
“Uh-huh, listen, Shawn…” Maxine tells him about the kids on the corner and her time-warp theory.
“Is that like the zombies you said you were seeing?”
“One person, Shawn, somebody I know, maybe dead maybe not, enough with the zombies already.”
Hmm yes, but now another, you’d have to say insane, suspicion has begun to bloom in all the California sunshine around here, which is, suppose these “kids” are really operatives, time troopers from the Montauk Project, abducted long ago into an unthinkable servitude, grown solemn and gray through years of soldiering, currently assigned to Maxine expressly, for reasons never to be made clear to her. Possibly in strange cahoots also, and why not, with Gabriel Ice’s own private gang of co-opted script kiddies… aahhh! Talk about paranoid jitters!