Though, in our case, it’s not so sweet. It’s more like out ow! out. Yeah, that’s imitation, punk style — out ow! out.
Zia see, my homeys. A Movement dinosaur like this David Bowie clown — no, clone; the word is clone—he doesn’t even realize he’s a clone. He comes down into The T, down the entrance ramps and over the coffer dams, and he’s checking for Building Code violations. He’s inspecting the plumbing (what there is of it). The battle for truth goes on (and yawn). The Bastille must be taken every day.
Not in our scene, my sluts and greasers. I mean, the boy’s been bumping into me day after day for a week, he should’ve figured it out by now. In our scene we build our own Bastille. An imitation—“dig it.” Our times, they are a mimicking. Our counterculture apes the authority culture, looking for something we can wear on an earring. Something The Man doesn’t want to see on an earring, check — something that pokes fun at his worst secrets.
And now another visit from the angels on my shoulders. Cue: (that slut) Why, if it isn’t the hard-nosed muckraker. Ayy: There’s leakage. Definite leakage. And the expressway’s right overhead. Cue: Here and everywhere, big boy. Here and right up into the castle of the King. Ayy: The expressway, thousands of cars a day. Any leakage down here will undermine the supports. Cue: Frightens you, doesn’t it? Something you never wanted to see on an earring. Ayy: I’m serious. This isn’t an earring. Cue: Don’t be so sure, man. Leakage, seepage — it’s everywhere. Everybody’s got a closet.
He had rough going to reach Leo. The site was no more than a vast steep-walled pit. Echoes of the overhead traffic never faded, ringing in the heaps of waiting metal, the corrugated steel and copper pipes. Underfoot, plywood walkways wobbled on the boggy floor. When hardhats came by they always carried cable or tools, and these were bulky guys anyway, heavy-muscled in parka vests and jean jackets. Kit had to stand aside. He was aware again of his Nutshell Library. That was bad luck, that he hadn’t been able to get rid of the thing. Having it out with Leo face to face — and on his turf — felt questionable enough to begin with.
Ayy: This isn’t an earring. This is the Central Artery. Cue: This is The T, sweet butt. Only thing it’s good for is to dance. Ayy: Aw, is this a joke to you? A party? I’m trying to change the world. Cue: Yeah, and the only way to do it is to dance. Come out and dance! Come out and confront your filthiest closet selves. Ayy: (pulls Percodan from pocket, frowns at label) Cue: Come out even if it hurts. Come out especially if it hurts! Out, ow, out! Ayy: But if this is all just a big club, if nothing’s going to change. Cue: Oh, things will change, smart boy. Imitation is the sincerest form of anarchy. Ayy: What am I doing here? What?
Kit found his man at the far end of the site. Leo stood with three or four workers, against a pit wall that appeared different somehow, set back. Hatless like Kit, he might have been out for a night of disco; his still-thick Italian hair was slicked back and his overcoat was a flashy black and white check, knee-length and double-breasted. Not that Leo wasn’t one of the boys, here. As the old crew chief spoke, the workers around him moved in synch. They rocked, they shrugged. Their chests were thrust up, their knees locked back.
At the entrance Kit had only needed to mention Leo’s name. If he were here as a reporter, he couldn’t have found better access. If he were here as a reporter.
“Kit, kid.”
Kit took in the familiar mask, the satchelmouth.
“I guess Garrison found you,” Leo said.
Kit looked past him, checking the set-back wall behind him.
“You two talk?”
Kit compared the wall to the floor. A border of corrugated steel rippled up at the floor’s edge, another cofferdam close by the feet of Leo and his friends. Beyond this border the site dropped away again. A second, smaller area had been dug out, still lower. Kit couldn’t see into it, but the drop-off looked to run nearly the entire way along this side of the site.
“Hey. Kit, kid — you with us?”
“That’s the dig, isn’t it?” Kit asked. “The dig, where the archaeologists work.”
“What, down there? You interested in that stuff?”
“That’s where they’ve found the, the artifacts?”
“Invaluable artifacts.” Leo shook his head. “So invaluable those Harvard wise guys didn’t even come in today.” He shared a look with the men beside him, shaking his big head. Kit too, though in his case he was shaking off a flashback to Garrison’s raging: Fucking rich-boy faggot Harvard.
“I need to talk to you,” he said.
Leo’s smile showed some tongue. Kit couldn’t believe how he’d sounded, breathless, desperate.
“It won’t take long,” he went on. “I’ve, I’ve got other appointments.”
“Sure, Kit. You’re a busy man, sure. There’s been a lot going on over at your place.”
Jab, twist. Again Kit recalled Garrison, the secrets he’d known, the things Zia must have let slip to her Pop. Maybe Kit should have taken a break after he’d wrestled free of the guard. A walk in the sea air. But now Leo was shrugging again, nodding again, and with a flat gaze he let the hardhats know he and Kit needed some privacy.
Cue: Out, ow, out! Imitation is the sincerest form of anarchy. Ayy: (no longer with us) Yet I’ve seen this before. I’ve seen it, smelled it. Cue: Got sex on the brain? The sexual revolution, is that your ‘70s hang-up? Come out and get into Human Sexual Response! Ayy: I’ve seen graffiti like this before. I’ve smelled cold iron and standing water.
(He’s still got that bizarro sidekick, “C. Garrison.” The ghost in the uni, the prison guard. Briefly it flickers beside him.) Cue: (unimpressed) Sure, bring the cops. Cops, senators, presidents — hey, Watergate was a ’70s thing too. Come on and dance with Oedipus: the King is a motherfucker! Ayy: Then there’s the sea so close. (Garrison disappears) The muck at my boots, the wind in my face. Cue: (more serious, trying to reach him) The Talking Heads, that’s our scene. Scandie see? The Talking Heads borrow the greatest authority in the authority culture, the very definition of reality. Ayy: The sea, the wind … Cue: The Talking Heads toy with the darkest secret of all, the emptiness that shadows The Man — the fear that whatever the muckraker rakes is no big deal, whatever the believer believes in is merest rhinestone. Ayy: I’ve been here before. I have. Cue: (giving up, singing) Cellars by starlight, something in the air.
*
Leo said nothing till his friends on the crew looked like figures on a distant TV. Kit couldn’t make out faces.
“Whew,” the old man began. “If I’d had my head on straight, I’d’ve done this inside.”
He’d gone right into his act, fixing up a fat Brando smile as he pulled together his checked lapels. An act, but it worked: for the first time in a while Kit noticed the cold. The wind here whistled along the lower site’s dam, high-pitched enough to be heard through the traffic.