The Recipe for Revolution. Carolyn Chute
so the maggot-assed politicians say of both birds and men.
So John Lungren who is always packin’, he is gazing out at the rain that’s driving down on the other side of the glass. He’s going back and forth in one of Rex’s glider chairs. He says, “It’s like McDonald’s brags of the 200-billionth gray burger being sold, these agribiz lobbyists and their puppets, they see a farmer’s life as just another gray burger.” And somehow his revolver is magically in his hand, his thumb on the action, aimed out into that silver sheet of hard drizzle, and I’m like feeling it in my arm, wrist, my clenched teeth . . . the burning . . . and maybe the hottest part of my rage is how so many millions of two-leggeds in this nation of delusions thinks such a feeling is not normal. Hell, it’s normal. It is love for your fellow man, and I don’t call the oligos men.
John slips the firearm back in his shirt and I’m wondering a lot of things.
Can I tell you a little something about myself?
In this drawer of my desk are three hundred Nembutals. You see, when you have a magic wand, when you are almighty, you can get anything you desire. Merchandise-wise.
Sometimes I line the nameless bottles up and they look cheerful. Helpful friends in amber plastic. I twist one of the caps off. I sniff the contents. Once I ran a big glass of water to prepare.
The only thing that stops me is that I would be found with wet pants and a goofy look on my face. But that is coming not to matter anymore.
Okay, I have told you about myself. More than I intended. Fortunately, you can’t hear me. No one can. This office is the ultimate desolate place.
The screen remains blank and dumbstruck.
** High Frequency Active Auroral Research Program.
†† Battle dress uniform.
‡‡ Growth.
§§ Don’t forget the character list at the back of book. ☺
¶¶ This is Gordon’s neighbor Brianna Vandermast.
*** This is Bonnie Loo St. Onge.
††† This is Claire St. Onge.
‡‡‡ Big-band leader of the 1930s–1950s, along with his brother Jimmy.
§§§ Pronounced Oh-RELL.
¶¶¶ Spy.
**** Yes, typical newspaper error.
†††† The vast building of kitchens, shops, and parlors is horseshoe-shaped with nearly all doors opening directly onto a continuous screened horseshoe porch and all of this wraps around a quadrangle of trees and grass.
‡‡‡‡ Central Maine Power.
§§§§ Yes, this is the woman with two kids delivered by Gordon’s old friend, the barely-making-ends-meet socially responsible lawyer, on that chilly night in the farmhouse dooryard.
¶¶¶¶ And this was before almost total Artificial Intelligence and robotization was the Market God’s command.
Pleased to Meet You
Foggy. Flights out of Boston can’t get off the ground. And none are lifting off from here. Paul and Jacquie Lessard and Rick Crosman trudge off to the airport food vendor by the escalator to buy frozen yogurts. Nathan Knapp has gone to find a men’s room. Gordon St. Onge stands at the big plate-glass window looking out into the dark fog. Arms folded over the chest of his short black-and-red wool Sherpa-lined vest. Plastic billed cap (Bean’s Logging and Pulp) low over his eyes. The graying chin of his short beard looks more electric than the overhead fluorescents. A lot of people have been staring at him. They actually stop in their tracks and gaze, the way some would read graffiti on a turnpike overpass.
A moment ago, someone actually asked, “Are you Gordon St. Onge?” Some whisper and stare. But all in all, they let him be.
He hunches deeper into his vest and layers of shirts. It’s hot as hell in here. Dry heat. He is dripping under his clothes but can’t get the nerve up to take off his wool vest and outer shirt. He feels big and stupid and bare enough. He does not feel like a “prophet” or a “leader,” as some have called him. He feels weird in these kinds of places.
A man steps up beside him at the plate glass, looking out. The man is of average height. A confident man. Ultra confident. Gordon reads this right away. A man, Gordon thinks, who might gauge your value by your financial portfolio, not by the weight of your soul. This guy is not dressed like a politician or an attorney on the go but he does, indeed, move like one. He wears an olive-colored camp shirt with patch pockets and faded and worn but not witheringly ragged jeans. Gordon sees a sport jacket on the plastic seat the man has just been sitting in. No valise. No computer, such as so many carry now. Not even an overnight bag. If you leave your carry-on unattended these days, it will be considered a bomb by airport authorities, and confiscated. Then your valise or satchel will be somewhat detonated. And maybe you will be mercilessly grilled.***** Gordon looks into the guy’s face. He is nearly a Rex York look-alike. Maybe it is not an attorney’s bearing, maybe military. But what is the difference?
The guy looks at his watch. It has a breathless little hairlike gold second hand, sweeping away the moments, unlike Rex’s watch face, which is black and complicated and manly and cluttered with lifesaving outdoorsy data.
Gordon looks back out at the fog.
The man speaks. “Gordon St. Onge, we met once. Mutual friends . . . Morse and Janet Weymouth, at their home . . . a few years ago.”
Gordon seriously studies his face, Rex’s face. Rex’s age. Late forties, early fifties. But the mustache is trimmer, doesn’t crawl down along the jaws. And the eyes are not pale and steely like Rex’s but a boggy brown-green. And rather warm. And the voice has a touch of Deep South so that the word “at” is pronounced “ay-hat” and “friends” is “frey-yends,” single syllables made sensuous and sludgy, though Gordon has heard southern accents less diluted than this. This guy’s words are wrenched by so much world travel and so many crowds but still his subtle drawl has its beguilement.
Someone passing by is now staring just as hard at this man as others have been staring at Gordon.
Now