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but I broke 8000 words. Time for another excerpt:
“So, you work for the city, too?” she asked.
“Sometimes. I do a lot of temping - it leaves me free to work on my independent projects.”
“Like movies, or writing?” Amanda was impressed, but tried not to gush too girlishly.
“Um, more like a sort of performance art.”
“Oh.” That usually stopped people from asking questions. Victor only hoped he hadn’t overplayed his hand. He tried to steer back to the mundane:
“We’ve probably worked in the same department, but I don’t recall seeing you before; and I know I’d remember.”
“I don’t exactly blend into the woodwork,” (aargh, he’d offended her) “Sometimes I think I’d like to.”
“It’s overrated. Trust me.” He smiled and she smiled back. Whew.
“Gym class.” Amanda’s talk had turned to high school horror stories, and Victor while cautious about revealing too many details of his life, groaned in unison with her. It would have aroused her suspicions if he hadn’t - as mentioned before, he did not look particularly athletic, though he was fit enough to climb and sprint across rooftops when he had to; and the sentiment against the tyranny of baggy shorts and T-shirts was quite genuine.
“God, I hated it,” she was evidently on a roll with the topic, “If I ever kill myself it’ll be because of the memory of that stupid balance bar. I must have fallen off it a dozen times, always with the whole class watching. It was like there was some basic law of physics that everyone else knew about and I didn’t. And there were all these chin-ups and push-ups and things you were supposed to be able to do so many of and if you didn’t you were a fat slob who’d go to an early grave. I’d pull and pull and my arms just refused to move. I don’t know if many of the other kids were any good either, but at the time it seemed like they all were. Funny thing is, I may be fooling myself but I don’t think I’m that all that bad, now. I can touch my toes and sit cross-legged and I know I couldn’t do either as a kid; and I always hear everyone else my age complaining about their back or what a long walk it is to the coffee shop.”
“I expect by now you’re one of the fitter people in your graduating class, even just by default. I know I am.” He’d attended his high school reunion some years before – not officially of course: he’d erased his academic records, and no one was likely to remember him from his teenage years anyway. He’d been there in disguise as a waiter, trying not to sneeze from the excess of oregano in the hors d’oeuvres, looking in on his former classmates. It had been appalling. He was not unfamiliar with the idea that people age, and in his circles those who lived long enough to worry about it usually also had battle scars, guilty consciences and in some cases genetic mutation to show for it, but it seemed to Victor his classmates had suffered an altogether more insidious process: they had become the insides of their heads, and the insides of their heads were chillingly dull. The Obscurant silently made a vow never, in any of his evil schemes, to subject someone to twenty years as a small-town real-estate agent married to his or her high school sweetheart, even if it ever fell into his power to do so. By the look of it, it was a fate harder on body and soul than any of the chains or electroshock wheels he’d seen deployed over the years. He’d been quite depressed by the whole incident, and even unleashing the komodo dragons in the school gymnasium later that evening hadn’t given him as much pleasure as it should have.
Afterwards, he’d sat, invisible or as near as made no difference, on the graffiti’d cupola of the bell tower, contemplating the local volunteer fire brigade as they argued with the police and animal control about who had jurisdiction over the situation. The police and fire chiefs had always been rivals, he recalled, since their track and field days or earlier. He wondered if the town authority figures of his childhood had held ancient grudges against each other too, of lost trophies and stolen prom dates. How innocent he’d been, making his smoke bombs and plotting to rob the Girl Guide cookie shipment. Adults had all seemed to him to be on the same side in those days, a comforting belief, even if it hadn’t been his side they were on. Now he felt like a ghost, grateful to be one, and anxious to return to the twilight world where mortal rivalries were white-hot and exultant and death was cheered like the homecoming queen, not whispered about in overstuffed living rooms.
Dinner was finished, and lingered over, until at last the coffees could be nursed no longer and they had to face the question of whether or not they would meet again. Victor took out the slip of paper upon which the waitress had written Amanda’s number.
“This is yours. I could give you mine, if you like, or –“
“Keep it.”
“Then I may see you again?” He paused. His Friday schedule was full up, but: “Saturday? For lunch? Then we’d have the whole afternoon to catch a movie, or walk, or anything you like.” Amanda nodded and smiled at him as she picked up her purse and slung it over her shoulder.
“Thank you, this turned out a good day after all.”
“Thank you.” She shook his hand again awkwardly, outside the diner, as if she fancied the idea of hugging him but didn’t want to overstep bounds, and strode off down the sidewalk. Victor turned in the opposite direction and made for his hotel, at a contemplative stroll.
“So, you work for the city, too?” she asked.
“Sometimes. I do a lot of temping - it leaves me free to work on my independent projects.”
“Like movies, or writing?” Amanda was impressed, but tried not to gush too girlishly.
“Um, more like a sort of performance art.”
“Oh.” That usually stopped people from asking questions. Victor only hoped he hadn’t overplayed his hand. He tried to steer back to the mundane:
“We’ve probably worked in the same department, but I don’t recall seeing you before; and I know I’d remember.”
“I don’t exactly blend into the woodwork,” (aargh, he’d offended her) “Sometimes I think I’d like to.”
“It’s overrated. Trust me.” He smiled and she smiled back. Whew.
“Gym class.” Amanda’s talk had turned to high school horror stories, and Victor while cautious about revealing too many details of his life, groaned in unison with her. It would have aroused her suspicions if he hadn’t - as mentioned before, he did not look particularly athletic, though he was fit enough to climb and sprint across rooftops when he had to; and the sentiment against the tyranny of baggy shorts and T-shirts was quite genuine.
“God, I hated it,” she was evidently on a roll with the topic, “If I ever kill myself it’ll be because of the memory of that stupid balance bar. I must have fallen off it a dozen times, always with the whole class watching. It was like there was some basic law of physics that everyone else knew about and I didn’t. And there were all these chin-ups and push-ups and things you were supposed to be able to do so many of and if you didn’t you were a fat slob who’d go to an early grave. I’d pull and pull and my arms just refused to move. I don’t know if many of the other kids were any good either, but at the time it seemed like they all were. Funny thing is, I may be fooling myself but I don’t think I’m that all that bad, now. I can touch my toes and sit cross-legged and I know I couldn’t do either as a kid; and I always hear everyone else my age complaining about their back or what a long walk it is to the coffee shop.”
“I expect by now you’re one of the fitter people in your graduating class, even just by default. I know I am.” He’d attended his high school reunion some years before – not officially of course: he’d erased his academic records, and no one was likely to remember him from his teenage years anyway. He’d been there in disguise as a waiter, trying not to sneeze from the excess of oregano in the hors d’oeuvres, looking in on his former classmates. It had been appalling. He was not unfamiliar with the idea that people age, and in his circles those who lived long enough to worry about it usually also had battle scars, guilty consciences and in some cases genetic mutation to show for it, but it seemed to Victor his classmates had suffered an altogether more insidious process: they had become the insides of their heads, and the insides of their heads were chillingly dull. The Obscurant silently made a vow never, in any of his evil schemes, to subject someone to twenty years as a small-town real-estate agent married to his or her high school sweetheart, even if it ever fell into his power to do so. By the look of it, it was a fate harder on body and soul than any of the chains or electroshock wheels he’d seen deployed over the years. He’d been quite depressed by the whole incident, and even unleashing the komodo dragons in the school gymnasium later that evening hadn’t given him as much pleasure as it should have.
Afterwards, he’d sat, invisible or as near as made no difference, on the graffiti’d cupola of the bell tower, contemplating the local volunteer fire brigade as they argued with the police and animal control about who had jurisdiction over the situation. The police and fire chiefs had always been rivals, he recalled, since their track and field days or earlier. He wondered if the town authority figures of his childhood had held ancient grudges against each other too, of lost trophies and stolen prom dates. How innocent he’d been, making his smoke bombs and plotting to rob the Girl Guide cookie shipment. Adults had all seemed to him to be on the same side in those days, a comforting belief, even if it hadn’t been his side they were on. Now he felt like a ghost, grateful to be one, and anxious to return to the twilight world where mortal rivalries were white-hot and exultant and death was cheered like the homecoming queen, not whispered about in overstuffed living rooms.
Dinner was finished, and lingered over, until at last the coffees could be nursed no longer and they had to face the question of whether or not they would meet again. Victor took out the slip of paper upon which the waitress had written Amanda’s number.
“This is yours. I could give you mine, if you like, or –“
“Keep it.”
“Then I may see you again?” He paused. His Friday schedule was full up, but: “Saturday? For lunch? Then we’d have the whole afternoon to catch a movie, or walk, or anything you like.” Amanda nodded and smiled at him as she picked up her purse and slung it over her shoulder.
“Thank you, this turned out a good day after all.”
“Thank you.” She shook his hand again awkwardly, outside the diner, as if she fancied the idea of hugging him but didn’t want to overstep bounds, and strode off down the sidewalk. Victor turned in the opposite direction and made for his hotel, at a contemplative stroll.
