Kurt had an assembly line cranking out his access points now. Half a dozen street kids worked in the front of his place, in a cleared-out space with a makeshift workbench made from bowed plywood and scratched IKEA table-legs. It made Alan feel better to watch them making sense of it all, made him feel a little like he felt when he was working on The Inventory. The kids worked from noon, when Kurt got back from breakfast, until 9 or 10, when he went out to dive.The kids were smart, but screwed up: half by teenaged hormones and half by bad parents or bad drugs or just bad brain chemistry. Alan understood their type, trying to carve some atom of individual identity away from family and background, putting pins through their bodies and affecting unconvincing tough mannerisms. They were often bright—the used bookstore had been full of their type, buying good, beat-up books off the sale rack for 50 cents, trading them back for 20 cents’ credit the next day, and buying more.Natalie and Link were in that morning, along with some newcomers, Montreal street punks trying their hand at something other than squeegee bumming. The punks and his neighbors gave each other uneasy looks, but Alan had deliberately put the sugar for the coffee at the punks’ end of the table and the cream in front of Natalie and the stirs by the bathroom door with the baklava and the napkins, so a rudimentary social intercourse was begun.First, one of the punks (who had a rusty “NO FUTURE” pin that Alan thought would probably go for real coin on the collectors’ market) asked Natalie to pass her the cream. Then Link and another punk (foppy silly black hair and a cut-down private school blazer with the short sleeves pinned on with rows of safety pins) met over the baklava, and the punk offered Link a napkin. Another punk spilled her coffee on her lap, screeching horrendous Quebecois blasphemies as curses, and that cracked everyone up, and Arnold, watching from near the blanket that fenced off Kurt’s monkish sleeping area, figured that they would get along.“Kurt,” he said pulling aside the blanket, handing a double-double coffee over to Kurt as he sat up and rubbed his eyes. He was wearing a white T-shirt that was the grimy grey of everything in his domain, and baggy jockeys. He gathered his blankets around him and sipped reverently.Kurt cocked his head and listened to the soft discussions going on on the other side of the blanket. “Christ, they’re at it already?”“I think your volunteers showed up a couple hours ago—or maybe they were up all night.”Kurt groaned theatrically. “I’m running a halfway house for geeky street kids.”“All for the cause,” Alan said. “So, what’s on the plate for today?”“You know the church kittycorner from your place?”“Yeah?” Alan said cautiously.“Its spire is just about the highest point in the Market. An omnidirectional up there… ”“The church?”“Yeah.”“What about the new condos at the top of Baldwin? They’re tall.”“They are. But they’re up on the northern edge. From the bell-tower of that church, I bet you could shoot half the houses on the west side of Oxford Street, along with the backs of all the shops on Augusta.”“How are we going to get the church to go along with it. Christ, what are they, Ukrainian Orthodox?”“Greek Orthodox,” Kurt said. “Yeah, they’re pretty conservative.”“So?”“So, I need a smooth-talking, upstanding cit to go and put the case to the pastor. Priest. Bishop. Whatever.”“Groan,” Alex said.“Oh, come on, you’re good at it.”“If I get time,” he said. He looked into his coffee for a moment. “I’m going to go home,” he said.“Home?”“To the mountain,” he said. “Home,” he said. “To my father,” he said.“Whoa,” Kurt said. “Alone?”Alan sat on the floor and leaned back against a milk crate full of low-capacity hard drives. “I have to,” he said. “I can’t stop thinking of… ” He was horrified to discover that he was on the verge of tears. It had been three weeks since Davey had vanished into the night, and he’d dreamt of Eugene-Fabio-Greg every night since, terrible dreams, in which he’d dug like a dog to uncover their hands, their arms, their legs, but never their heads. He swallowed hard.He and Kurt hadn’t spoken of that night since.“I sometimes wonder if it really happened,” Kurt said.Alan nodded. “It’s hard to believe. Even for me.”“I believe it,” Kurt said. “I won’t ever not believe it. I think that’s probably important to you.”Alan felt a sob well up in his chest and swallowed it down again. “Thanks,” he managed to say.“When are you leaving?”“Tomorrow morning. I’m going to rent a car and drive up,” he said.“How long?”“I dunno,” he said. He was feeling morose now. “A couple days. A week, maybe. No longer.”“Well, don’t sweat the Bishop. He can wait. Come and get a beer with me tonight before I go out?”“Yeah,” he said. “That sounds good. On a patio on Kensington. We can people-watch.”
Kurt had an assembly line cranking out his access points now. Half a dozen street kids worked in the front of his place, in a cleared-out space with a makeshift workbench made from bowed plywood and scratched IKEA table-legs. It made Alan feel better to watch them making sense of it all, made him feel a little like he felt when he was working on The Inventory. The kids worked from noon, when Kurt got back from breakfast, until 9 or 10, when he went out to dive.
The kids were smart, but screwed up: half by teenaged hormones and half by bad parents or bad drugs or just bad brain chemistry. Alan understood their type, trying to carve some atom of individual identity away from family and background, putting pins through their bodies and affecting unconvincing tough mannerisms. They were often bright—the used bookstore had been full of their type, buying good, beat-up books off the sale rack for 50 cents, trading them back for 20 cents’ credit the next day, and buying more.
Natalie and Link were in that morning, along with some newcomers, Montreal street punks trying their hand at something other than squeegee bumming. The punks and his neighbors gave each other uneasy looks, but Alan had deliberately put the sugar for the coffee at the punks’ end of the table and the cream in front of Natalie and the stirs by the bathroom door with the baklava and the napkins, so a rudimentary social intercourse was begun.
First, one of the punks (who had a rusty “NO FUTURE” pin that Alan thought would probably go for real coin on the collectors’ market) asked Natalie to pass her the cream. Then Link and another punk (foppy silly black hair and a cut-down private school blazer with the short sleeves pinned on with rows of safety pins) met over the baklava, and the punk offered Link a napkin. Another punk spilled her coffee on her lap, screeching horrendous Quebecois blasphemies as curses, and that cracked everyone up, and Arnold, watching from near the blanket that fenced off Kurt’s monkish sleeping area, figured that they would get along.
“Kurt,” he said pulling aside the blanket, handing a double-double coffee over to Kurt as he sat up and rubbed his eyes. He was wearing a white T-shirt that was the grimy grey of everything in his domain, and baggy jockeys. He gathered his blankets around him and sipped reverently.
Kurt cocked his head and listened to the soft discussions going on on the other side of the blanket. “Christ, they’re at it already?”
“I think your volunteers showed up a couple hours ago—or maybe they were up all night.”
Kurt groaned theatrically. “I’m running a halfway house for geeky street kids.”
“All for the cause,” Alan said. “So, what’s on the plate for today?”
“You know the church kittycorner from your place?”
“Yeah?” Alan said cautiously.
“Its spire is just about the highest point in the Market. An omnidirectional up there… ”
“The church?”
“Yeah.”
“What about the new condos at the top of Baldwin? They’re tall.”
“They are. But they’re up on the northern edge. From the bell-tower of that church, I bet you could shoot half the houses on the west side of Oxford Street, along with the backs of all the shops on Augusta.”
“How are we going to get the church to go along with it. Christ, what are they, Ukrainian Orthodox?”
“Greek Orthodox,” Kurt said. “Yeah, they’re pretty conservative.”
“So?”
“So, I need a smooth-talking, upstanding cit to go and put the case to the pastor. Priest. Bishop. Whatever.”
“Groan,” Alex said.
“Oh, come on, you’re good at it.”
“If I get time,” he said. He looked into his coffee for a moment. “I’m going to go home,” he said.
“Home?”
“To the mountain,” he said. “Home,” he said. “To my father,” he said.
“Whoa,” Kurt said. “Alone?”
Alan sat on the floor and leaned back against a milk crate full of low-capacity hard drives. “I have to,” he said. “I can’t stop thinking of… ” He was horrified to discover that he was on the verge of tears. It had been three weeks since Davey had vanished into the night, and he’d dreamt of Eugene-Fabio-Greg every night since, terrible dreams, in which he’d dug like a dog to uncover their hands, their arms, their legs, but never their heads. He swallowed hard.
He and Kurt hadn’t spoken of that night since.
“I sometimes wonder if it really happened,” Kurt said.
Alan nodded. “It’s hard to believe. Even for me.”
“I believe it,” Kurt said. “I won’t ever not believe it. I think that’s probably important to you.”
Alan felt a sob well up in his chest and swallowed it down again. “Thanks,” he managed to say.
“When are you leaving?”
“Tomorrow morning. I’m going to rent a car and drive up,” he said.
“How long?”
“I dunno,” he said. He was feeling morose now. “A couple days. A week, maybe. No longer.”
“Well, don’t sweat the Bishop. He can wait. Come and get a beer with me tonight before I go out?”
“Yeah,” he said. “That sounds good. On a patio on Kensington. We can people-watch.”