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by furious nomads, protect its approaches

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such as Texas Petrochemical, which provides its neighbor Goodyear with butadiene

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who has appeared mostly in supporting roles

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Let every lesson be of an elevating and ennobling character.

First Pages of Novels That Won't Be Written - 1

I bunked with Tim from Davenport, Iowa, who brushed his teeth compulsively. He’d do it right after waking up, before meditations, after meditations, before prostrations, after prostrations, before and after meals. The bristles of his brush were tangled and curled, rust-hued by the blood that seeped from his lacerated gums. Tim had a haunted look. A lot of us did. But he did worse. Something bad must have happened to him along the line. He didn’t say what. I didn’t ask. We weren’t supposed to talk about that stuff, anyway. We talked about our practice. We talked about our meditation. We talked about Richard. We peered at each other, trying to discern a sign of doubt. We tried to keep each other in line.

“Ijn’t he magnifishent?” Tim asked me through a pink froth of blood and toothpaste one morning, spitting little flecks of fluoridated foam in my direction.

“Yes. He’s magnificent,” I replied, dutifully. But not just dutifully. He was magnificent.

Tim spat into the basin, sipped from his tumbler, gargled, and spat again.

“I mean, the teachings just yesterday. I mean, wow.”

“Right?”

“I started to have that feeling I used to get when I still got high, except it was, you know—”

“Yeah, I know—”

“Pure. It was pure, like a beam of light, you know.” Tim made funny, wincing faces. From the pain, I guessed.

“I know.”

Most times the women were separated from the men. This was to protect us and to nurture us, to further us along our paths, and who could disagree? Would you disagree? Except during Pairing Time. Pairing Time was when Richard matched members of each sex according to his own beautiful, crazy logic, and we were sent away to fornicate. Then just as soon as we began to fall in love, or in hate, or whatever happens, he’d pair us with someone new. If there were leftover ones he’d pair them with each other—two men, two women, forced to engage each other sexually, to confront themselves, their darkest fears, or perhaps desires. It didn’t matter. This was all a means to an end and we knew it.

In early spring of my second year I began to hear the wails and moans of women

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That said, a going-to-jail note was different

A young man ranted in some rapid-fire mumbo-jumbo on the train. No one even glanced in his direction, as far as I could see. I imagined myself intervening if he really freaked out. But of course he didn’t. They never do.

The walk down Seventh Street, with the trees and the street shaded by the rows of brownstones, and the approach to the brighter, open space of Eighth Avenue, reminds me of some place I’ve seen in dreams, or in an old book of fairy tales, or both.

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I uncovered it, and a gentle breeze quickly fanned it into

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But orders were orders

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John smiled within his helmet.

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His mention of "the invisible government" was, I believe,

The day grew difficult. The tax assessment from 2010. The death of the security guard. Still, the sky was an unbroken blue. Blue like ice cream, Jackie said.

Last Monday night we got up in the middle of the night to watch the eclipse. It was that strange nothing time when the lights are off and the dishwasher runs and no one’s on the street.

I felt afraid when I lifted the hatch. What if the darkening moon was up there waiting for me? All I wore was my bathrobe and my slippers.

It was cool and misty. The sky was mostly covered in high clouds. You could see Manhattan. You could see planes landing in New Jersey. The Statue of Liberty and her torch. But no moon. We gazed at the sky for a while. We knew we wouldn’t see the moon but we felt like we should spend a little time up there. The dew settled on every surface and still felt scared.

Finally we decided to go down and back to bed. I was happy that we tried.

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EXACTLY the name on the identification documents.

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Mrs. Bingham said, "I wouldn't know."

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Rand put a hand on my shoulder.

There's Lots I Don't Know

I gaze at the triangular conference call thing on the table. No one’s on the line. Or is someone on the line? Maybe someone’s on the line but they’re on mute. Or someone’s on the line and they’re silent. Or no one’s on the line. The team is seated around the table as the account supervisor holds forth, reviewing the project work plan.

I see it says 12 volts DC just above where the power cord is plugged in. It really says “12VDC” but I’m pretty sure that means 12 volts DC. Direct current. As opposed to alternating current. But I’m not completely sure. I’m not completely sure about the V and I’m not completely sure about the DC. I’m only sure about the 12.

The power adapter. What does that mean, adapter? Adapt to what?

I don’t even know what the fuck a volt is. Volts. Voltage. I know there’s such a thing as a nine-volt battery. Why is that the only battery we know by its voltage? The others are A, B, C, D, whatever. No. Not A. Double-A. Triple-A. Like baseball. Like minor-league baseball. For some reason, the system for identifying certain batteries that are suitable for smoke detectors and remote controls and other small appliances is the same system that is used to designate the lower rungs of professional baseball.

What the fuck is the voltage of a double-A battery? If it’s nine, I’m throwing up my hands.

Maybe every battery has to be nine volts but only one of them gets to be called that. I don’t know. How the fuck would I know?

The lights dim and flicker in our apartment when you turn the toaster on. You Google something like that, it says you might not be getting enough voltage. How could something like that be happening? Where the fuck did the missing volts go?

There’s electricity coursing through our bodies all the time. I’m pretty sure I read about that somewhere, or saw it on TV. We are electric beings. We touch things and some of our electricity goes there. Someone touches us. Their electricity flows into us. Electrons flying up and down the lengths of our arms at almost the speed of light. I’m pretty sure electrons travel close to the speed of light. But I may be completely wrong.

What the fuck is a watt? That’s something else to do with electricity. You talk about volts, you talk about watts. But fuck if I know.

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