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First Ten Pages

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CITIZEN OF THE WILD

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No one remembers when the schools closed. Or when the planes stopped flying overhead. You forget the name of your neighbor’s son who quietly disappeared, and how his family left in sadness for the desert camps.

All we remember is the Colors. The first law of your new government -- we call them the Leadership now, don’t we? -- inks itself all over our city. 

Paint the houses, the Leadership decrees. Give color to the streets. Every wall must be painted with curvy blue waves or green triangular leaves -- it reminds us of summer, of July, doesn’t it? 

Our city of dull bricks and grey cement -- a working man’s city -- is recast as a carnival. Clean, blue lines adorn the walls of that tall building. Jagged slashes of ink tuck themselves behind this dark alley. Upon every archway or windowless wall or bridge pillar you see shapes, colors, and patterns. Not messy, but deliberate. Focused. Subtly symmetric and expertly proportioned. 

No portraits. No faces. No humanity. Only the abstract, the undefined contours of a band of green. A jagged blue wave. The tall, block-letter advice “OCEAN CLOSED. INCONVENIENCE REGRETTED.”

It is not graffiti, oh no. That kind of art is unbridled, unregulated -- like freedom -- and we all know that graffiti is not allowed. Nicknames and hearts, bombs and bubbles --- these things are not allowed. The Colors are regulated. They are not of rainbows. They are not for children or their crayons. They are for bureaucracy.

‘All prayer house doors must bear stripes’ so that our gathering places are clearly marked  -- were the steeples not tall enough markers? – yet now every house of prayer is branded and those that dare to protest are shuttered. Your presence was never in the pew, so what do you care?

‘All signage must be hand-painted’ so that the wealthy artisans are employed -- for who among you would criticize art? -- but now we have the Painter Unions who owe their loyalty to the Leadership, of course. And if you are not born a Painter, you can never be a Painter -- you’ve accepted that, haven’t you?

Maybe the last one – the famous one – is the easiest to accept. ‘None shall use Red, except for the Leadership.’ You never liked the color red, did you? Doesn’t matter much anyhow. It belongs to them now – every cloth, ink, tile, and drop of it.

Red governs you, and so it must stand apart.

For if society must organize itself

To properly divide and invest the common wealth

For the good of all of us

Then there must be planners, no?

Of who gets what, and when, and how much.

Otherwise our wealth would be wasted by the givers.

For everything found in abundance is given away in abundance

Unless there are planners to ration it, preserve it,

Save it – from who? – from you.

Because you want the world

You want to change the world

But not yourself

Because everything is getting smaller

Fracturing

Frictioning

Until every nation dissolves into a singular identity
And every state into a citizen

Into the wild

***

They will call you the first Spark. Yet you will never ignite, or burn, or explode. You will be sitting beside that favorite street of yours, dreaming of the ocean, of her. Not knowing the role you will play in the coming hours, what history or destiny or fateful chaos will hand you. 

Not knowing that it is you -- not the Painters or even the Preachers -- but you, lowly you, who will paint it, kill it, find it, free it, lose it, win it? -- for all of us.

***

Defiance is the last thing on your mind as you walk alongside the high walls of Larimer Street. The beige concrete barriers are tagged with graceful arcs of bluish graffiti, painted waves, as a reminder of what the barricade is protecting. You can smell the salt of the sea as it is caught by the wind and thrust over the wall. As much as you long to see the ocean again, you long for something else even more.

Liberty is not a possession. She is a lady.

She is sitting outside the cafe across the street. Waiting to meet a friend, an old friend. Waiting for you.

The distance is short – a single street, not more than ten steps? – but the true expanse between your intentions to her acceptance is – uncertain.

Wander the world with lust

Fall in love with every new road

But roads will never love you back

And there are greater distances

inside of ourselves

“Hey there.” She greets you with a warm smile. “You look good! Like a true country boy.”

“Do I?” You look down at your plain, bespeckled shirt with slight embarrassment. “This is my first time back in the City. Everyone dresses differently now.”

Everyone, especially her. She wears a simple white-slash blouse topped by a distinctive indigo scarf around her neck line. More than anything else, it is the presence of the scarf that surprises you. This is the first time you’ve seen her in one. No one used to wear them. Now you look around the cafe and see a gallery of them – women of all ages – covering their necklines in flowing fabrics of aqua, teal, violet and amber. It is colorful, no doubt, but it is a sign of something else. A kind of culture, a society, that didn’t exist before. It is unfamiliar. It is unnerving.

Two lovers sit

Is this world so dangerous, so venomous

That their love need be hidden? 

Veiled love is not true love

Both of you sit around a small wooden table, sprawling across wire-frame chairs and clutching cups of steaming coffee. She leans far back to catch the early morning sunshine. You settle into the shade, admiring her.

She is almost exactly as you remember – or imagine? – her. Here, in this quiet moment, are born those little flickering loves of this woman. Her hair -- it curls, darkly -- and her smile -- it shines, it shines -- and her maple blue eyes -- are a kind of gravity, a force unto themselves.

She delves into you. “So how are you? What was it like? Out there in the camps?”

“It was tough. You would have hated it, all the heat and dirt. Thousands of people. Some of it was really beautiful though, the desolate places in between. That part you would have liked.”

“Wow. It sounds ... wild.”

There’s something you’ve carried with you for a long time. Set it loose. 

“Why didn’t you come visit? You could have, you know.”

“I wanted to, really. But you were so ... far away. And the city is where I belong, you know?” 

Her answer stings, just a little.

“You always were a city girl. Look at you! Already dressing like a princess. How many suitors are chasing you now?”

“A few.” She passes a flirty glance your way. “Not enough.”

“Lucky you.”

She blushes and fiddles her cup. “So where are we? I know you didn’t pick this place for the coffee. It’s terrible.” 

“No, not for the coffee. For the view.” You nod in the direction of the painted wall, of the ocean. There is something special about sitting outside a cafe, with nowhere to be and nothing to do, that digs out old memories that were long buried away. 

Her eyes alight. “Here? Now?”

“A promise is a promise. I found a way in, right over there.”

“Seriously, right now?” 

“You ready to go? Or do you need a proper swimsuit like one of those preppy city girls?”

She drops an empty cup into its saucer and slides out of her chair.

“Now I remember why I like you. You’re the only one crazy enough to break into the palace beach for a swim.”

You lead her across the street and down the block, away from the cafe patrons’ suspicious eyes to a joint in the barrier wall. From the road, the wall appears uninterrupted. But a side view reveals a gap, maybe half your height in width, created by two overlapping sections. The main wall’s prickly adornment of barbed wire and spikes overhead block most of the sunlight from entering the gap – everything except jagged shards of light – and give it the appearance of a sewer tunnel. The rush of wet, salty wind adds to the effect. The space is tight. It is menacing.

You extend your palm – almost a romantic offering? -- ready to give encouragement. She needs none. Instead of joining hands, she grabs your wrist and pulls herself in front of you. Her maple blue eyes shine confidence. She’s enjoying this little adventure, isn’t she? 

Into the gap you go.

The darkness is not absolute. Sunlight illuminates a small spot about ten paces away. She moves towards the sunspot, only to discover a new wall which blocks the way. It is a small lateral section that joins the two mismatched pieces. Unlike the main wall with its razor defenses, the top of the lateral wall is bare. It permits the light.

She looks curiously up at its peak, far above your reach. “Where’s the door?”

“I’m the door.”

Changing places in this small gap requires a bit of agile footwork. There is a whistling moment as you pass her  – there in the flush-tight spaces between the walls – where a hand on the hip, a brushed body, a second of locked eyes, create a kind of rhythm, a kind of romance. Slow dancing in the jagged light. Only for a moment.

Align your right shoulder next to the lateral section. Press your back against the far wall and kick up your feet onto the lip of the other one. 

This climber’s stance allows you to hover above the ground by applying steady pressure with your legs and back, braced on both sides by a wall. A step and a shuffle lifts you upwards.

The acrobatics earn you her smile. “Clever.”

You hoist yourself over the brim and offer your arm as a ladder. She holsters her purse inside her waistband like a gun and takes your hand.

Into the brightness you go.

***

The drop on the other side is short. You easily jump down onto the flat surface of a large, concrete rim. The sea wind is loud and forceful.  The view is utterly beautiful.

The ocean that lies before you is epic. A series of three successions of waves roll toward the rim and crash into pieces at its heel. The water’s color changes with distance – from beige close in, to aqua green among the waves until fading into grayish blue further out. It tastes of salt. It tastes of freedom.

The two of you are standing on the exposed rim of a long coastline. To the right, the barbed walls guard an endless expanse of concrete shoreline. Far to the left, the rim juts outwards and transitions into a sandy white dunes. Tall towers – lifeguard stands or watchtowers? – protect the edge of this distant beach. The tip of a marble dome, the famous Pearl Palace, is barely noticable beyond the dunes. 

She peers over the edge of the rim. The drop is steep but the water is deep.
“Where’s the beach?”

“Gone. They stole all the sand to build a bigger beach for the palace.”

She casts aside her purse, kicks her shoes off, and begins to roll up her pantlegs.
“You promised me a beach.”

You try to quickly wrestle your shirt off, but it is fighting back.
“I promised you a race.”

The dangling tails of her scarf are rearranged to knot her hair in a pony tail.
“Ready?”

You are struggling to untie your laces.
“No cheating!”

“Go!”

You both dive headlong into the ruffled waters. 

For the first time after many years --- or was it a lifetime? --- you are immersed in the ocean, in the comfortable warmth of the sun-drenched water. Furiously swimming away from the walls. Chasing her again.

Her dynamic energy in the water captures you. Look how she strides fearlessly over each wave -  how she instinctively knows when to swim, or float, or glide through the tide to avoid being slowed down or tossed aside by the rougher waters. There is grace in her, in the way she moves. She tames the wildness of the sea. She tames you. 

You trail behind by three strokes. Arm thrusts and leg kicks propel you further and further from the coastline. The water’s color is different now -- a darker shade -- to reflect the changing terrain on the ocean floor below.

As soon as she reaches the darker waters, she disappears. The bottoms of her feet flash briefly above the surface and then shoot underwater. You are close behind.

Deeper, deeper you dive through this glorious grey-blue world.

The ocean floor is carpeted in thick black mud. She reaches it first, sinking her hand into the earth and seizing a portion. A kick gives momentum for the ride back. Tiny streams of sand escape her finger cracks and mark a trail upwards to the surface.

For a few moments she is alone at sea, adrift and exhausted. The sea breeze whips across the surface of the water and fills her senses with that wet, beautiful smell of desolate emptiness -- and victory. Then your head pops into view.

She proudly presents a palm full of mud. 

It’s your  game with her. Swim, dive, dig. The bigger mud pile wins.

Her remaining morsel of mud is sizeable -- half the size of her palm.
“Ta-da!”

You show yours, a wad of black sand no larger than a thumb.

She smiles. “Mine’s bigger.”

With a dramatic flourish, your other arm unveils a second handful with a mountain of mud in its palm.

“Surprise. I win.”

“Two hands? Not fair!”

She playfully smears her mud down the front of your face, from your forehead to your chin. With quick retort you lay your hands on her cheeks and give her an equally as dirty punishment. 

You shout, she shrieks. You spin, she splashes. When the levity of the moment subsides, the two of you look at each other laughing and laughing. Soldiers in camouflage. Sea monsters. Quite a pair.

“Come on.” She swims back towards the shore while you pause to wipe the stinging sand-salt from your eyes.

By the time you catch up, she is hoisting herself onto the rim and out of the sea.

Her darkly-curled hair is a dripping waterfall. Waterlogged clothes cling flush-tight to the curvature of her body. She is fit. She is sexy.

She is leaving.

“I have to go. My ride is waiting.”

You linger in the water, hesitant to end your swim so early.
“It was good to see you again.”

“This was great, though. Really.” She walks to the edge, crouching and extending her arm. “Need a hand?” 

“Yep!” With a leaping lion’s speed, you lunge forward in an attempt to seize her wrist and drag her back into the water with you. 

She is faster, dodging your attack and rapping the top of your head to dunk you underwater.

“Nice try, rabbit.” She winks. “Next time.”

The ocean-side of the barrier wall is short so she easily scales it alone.

“See you again, maybe? Before you go back to the camps?”

You linger treading water, not yet ready to leave.

“Not going back. My assignment is over. Free as a bird these days.”

“Hmm.” She pauses, fiddles in her purse, then stuffs a small white card into a crack in the wall.

“Don’t be late.”

“What’s that?”

“Your prize.” A flirty remark, thrown from over her shoulder.

Into the darkness she goes.

Years later, you will remain captive to this memory of youth, this memory of the ocean, this memory of her. 

Even in the days of torture, when your soul is turned to stone and your enemies probe it with knives for weakness. 

Because memories of love are holes in your armor. They can break you. They can save you.

Hearts are made of glass 

To permit the light.

***

You’re back at the cafe, wringing water and memories from your clothes when a white pickup truck plummets into a nearby parking space. 

A rough man with a charcoal tan cat-calls you from the driver’s seat.

“Seriously? You saw her first? Instead of me, your best friend?”

Try and hide your smile. Bite it down. It’s impossible.

“Priorities.”

“Like a damned fool. Welcome back. Jump in.”

Jump in and take your old place in that rusty pickup. By his side.

“Thanks, Emmii. It’s good to be back.”

“You’re wet.”

“Went for a swim.”

“Where? In your coffee cup?”

“The palace pool.”

“Yea? The ones that are filled with champagne? Did you bring me a bottle?”

“Why? We both know you can’t handle your liquor, Mr. Two-Beer High-Gear.”

“Well see if your ass can handle five gears of this.”

Emmii catapults the vehicle into motion and conjures a thunderous roar of wind through your open window.

Smell the clarity of that air! Cleaner than the desert dust. No dirt, no sand, no coughing -- just intoxicating purity. 

The city is alive. You are blood coursing through its veins.

The city is people. You are part of them again.

“So catch me up.”

 “We’ve missed you. The North End is the same. The boys got jobs working at the Port.”

“How’s business?”

“Tough. The government ended the subsidies. Prices are high. The frustration on the street is higher. But my trading business is fine because it’s flexible. I can adapt to the price changes and still make a profit. This year was good. We’re buying an apartment.”

“We?”

“Kithaa.” 

“Big boy! She’s gorgeous. How long have you been together?”

“One year. Our anniversary is tonight, actually. I ran into her at last year’s Holy Day party and we’ve been dating -- on-and-off -- since then. ”

“On and off? Sounds like a typical Emmii relationship. Rollercoaster love.”

“Man, love is a jungle. You Fight to get in and you Fight to get out.”

“That’s some real poetry you got there. Great advice.”

“Move it!” Emmii bangs the wheel. He honks loudly and angrily at the traffic ahead -- at you, at her, at life.

“Whoa there, big guy. Calm down. What are you so angry at? You’ve got a great job, beautiful girlfriend, and your own apartment...”

Emmii broods.

Throw the punchline. 

“...there’s only one thing a guy with all that can still be angry about.”

You wiggle your small pinky finger in front of his face.

Emmii swats you away, laughing.

All movement on the road is halted. Traffic police flash red lights -- the sign of an impending motorcade movement by the Leadership. 

Through the cracks in the cars you sight blurs of red --- sleek, powerful luxury cars and security trucks rolling by at top speed.

You sit for forty minutes.

Would they stop, if you waved at them? Would a princeling stop to shake your hand? Could they even see you at all through their tinted windows, through the blackened glass?

Red governs you, and so it must stand apart.

Give unto Red your bread

And Red will return to you a daily ration.

For this noble duty, the small gratuity is levied

Of a palace and a crown.

And what of justice, or happiness, or worship?

Give unto Red it all,

And Red will return to you a portion of what you seek

With the rest of it – the better part? – as tax.

The motorcade passes. The traffic police recede. 

Your life is returned to you, taxed forty minutes.

***

The Port is hive of activity. Gargantuan steel ships cast mammoth shadows over a neverending expanse of docks and blocks of shipping containers piled ten stories high. Throngs of men unload large sacks of grain from incoming flatbed trucks – balanced precariously atop their heads – and stack them tightly into outgoing containers. The bulky, heavy sacks strain their backs and make them walk crooked. These men move mountains.

Emmii parks the pickup truck alongside them.
“Gentlemen! How goes it?”

One of the mountain men comes over to shake Emmii’s hand.

“Ah, you know. Surviving. What you got today?”

 “Just one load.Three quarter price.”

“A quarter more? Deal.” The mountain man whistles loudly. His signal diverts a line of workers from stacking the container to stacking the back of Emmii’s pickup.

Emmii points to the ships, directing your attention to their multi-colored flags.

“See those flags? These ships aren’t from here. All this grain is grown in the desert camps but sold by the Leadership in foreign markets. The best quality stuff is sold overseas at half price to ensure a competitive share of the market. The leftovers are sold here in the city at full price. I buy from the docks at three quarters and sell in the North End at four fifths, at full price in the South End.”

“Raw deal. So the Leadership profits from us, and you profit from the Southies?”

“Yea. It’s business.”

“More than that. It’s politics.”

The mountain men carry their political cargo towards Emmii’s truck. Sacks of dreams and full bellies and long, hard days are piled high into the bed.

Emmii gifts a wad of cash to the mountain man cupped in a firm handshake.

“Thanks, Emmii. You going tomorrow? The boys are ... undecided.”

“I’m staying out of it, but something’s got to break, huh?”

Emmii’s eyes glimmer as he releases the brake and rolls the truck into motion.

“These days, one of these days...something’s got to break.”

***

Emmii’s sack-filled chariot gallops downtown.

He stops the truck by half-mounting a curb and gives you directions that are as detailed and precise as his love life.

“It’s over there.”

“Over where?”

“There, in the alley. Walk that way. You’ll find it. Royal Taylors is the name of the shop. I’ll wait here for you.”

The tailor’s shop is near a busy street tucked inside an alley. You push the door but it resists. Locked?

A old grey tailor appears to open it.

“You lock your door these days?”

“I have to watch my back, just like every other businessman.”

“Who would rob a tailor? What is there to steal? Pocket litter?”

“Not the criminals. The tax-collectors.” The tailor winks, “What can I do for you?”

“A suit. For an event tonight.”

“Well that’s too soon for a custom job. See what we’ve got on the rack that will fit you.”

As you peruse the shelves of clothes, the tailor waits patiently on a wooden stool. He twirls a needle on a string in small circles. 

A gray suit? Too dark. Beige? Too bright. Maybe navy blue? 

The tailor is soon bored and turns on a small radio. Two buzzing voices fill the room. It’s some kind of talk show.

“What kind of Holy Day are we celebrating? Are we better off than last year? Are we safer? Are we happier?”

“What do you think?”

“You’re the host. You tell me.”

The host’s voice is feminine. It is distinctive. It shines attitude. It exudes confidence. It is strong, it is familiar – it is hers. The voice on the radio – it is hers.

You knew she worked in radio before you left, but you never knew she was on the air. Now she’s a radio host herself? Quite impressive. With her own talk show about politics? Very interesting. Why didn’t she mention it at the cafe?

Because you only talked about yourself. Maybe if you pressed her more, talked less, she would have revealed her secret broadcast. Or was she trying to hide it?

You lean closer to the radio, intrigued by the discovery of her entering your life again in the most surprising ways.

“There’s too many people now in the city. Our economy can’t provide the same amount of entitlements to everyone, especially if half the populace isn’t contributing.”

“You mean working? If half the people don’t work but still collect benefits?”

“That’s right. And that’s the reason for this citizenship initiative. It’s a promise from the Leadership to the people. Those who contribute will be provided for. Citizens are entitled to all of the city’s services --- jobs, healthcare, pensions, housing, and access. All that is required is to serve for four years in the city’s interest.”

“What about those who already served four years, do they have to serve additional time?”

“No, they’ll be grandfathered in.”

“And what about those who can’t serve or work --- like orphans, or elderly, or the sick?”

“There’s a charity fund for them. The Leadership also cares for those who cannot care for themselves.”

“What about those who don’t want to be citizens. Who choose not to serve.”

“The nobles. Anyone can register as a noble. As a noble, you’re entitled to keep the full benefits of your labor, nothing more and nothing else. It’s an honorable life.”

“Sound more like a transactional life.”

“Those who work as nobles are entitled full compensation for their labor and can purchase benefits on the free market. Those who serve as citizens are taxed but given full benefits later. It’s a fair system. The people want our economy to be fair. Fairness is good.”

“The free market. Let’s talk about that. Some politicians claim that the system is rigged. Labor is cheap. Nobles receive too poor a wage and can’t afford benefits, while citizens are required to wait until retirement to collect their benefits. In the meantime, the Leadership pockets all the economy’s profits and provides nothing in terms of benefits. You can see it at the port. They load those foreign ships full of our city’s wealth, and none of the people see the benefits.”

“I’d ask you to look yourself at our streets --- are they not clean? --- at our hospitals --- are the sick not cared for? --- and our borders --- are they not safe? Peaceful? Do you remember the bloody and wartorn days of our parents generation? Are most things not better now?”

“It appears so.”

“The Leadership have been caretakers of this city for the past forty years. All of us have prospered under their guidance.”

“Let’s hope this next year is just as prosperous.”

“It will be.”

A loud knock emanates from the back of the room, behind a wall of mirrors.

The tailor rises. “Give me one moment, son. It’s the back door. I’ll be right back.”

The radio voices continue their debate.

“Any final words?”

“Thank you to everyone who voted already. Remember the census polls are open today and tomorrow. Enjoy your Holy Day. Be strong. Be a citizen.”

Static noise interrupts the broadcast. Some kind of interference blocks the reception of the show. Her voice is replaced by a buzzing drone.

You fiddle with the buttons. No success. The signal is lost. 

The tailor reappears. “Did you find anything?”

“Yes, this one.” A slim, navy blue suit. Classy.

“One hundred seventy. That’s a great suit for you.”

“Sir, your radio lost its signal. Can you fix it? I was enjoying that talk show.”

“That politics show piece for the Leadership? It’s all propaganda. You’re better off listening to the buzz.”

The tailor walks over to the radio and turns it off.

“This thing is an old piece of junk anyway. Weak reception. It only works right on the roof.”

“What if I take it off you hands. How much?”

“Sell it? You got the cash, you got the radio.”

“Thirty?”

“Deal.” 

Dig out those fresh new bills. Your bounty from years of service in the dirt with no luxuries, no outlet for lavishness, nothing worth buying.

The tailor reaches to accept it with a hand stained on the palm with a small spot of red –- with blood?

“Are you alright, sir? Is that blood?”

The tailor dodges the question. “Great suit. A good color for you.”

He’s hiding something, but it’s none of your business. Be polite. Pay him and collect your suit.

On your way out the door, you catch a reflection of the back room in the mirror. A rough man -- maybe a laborer? – sits on a steel bed clutching his exposed arm. He’s wounded, severely. A large red slash seeping blood divides his forearm. The wound is stitched closed with precise lines of string. A tailor’s string.

A tailor to the rich, a doctor to the poor?

The stitch of a suit, of skin.

The same needle tends both. 

Yet only one hurts.

***