<<< Back Table of Contents Next >>> 7 Looking Up Moving through the downtown crowd, Anton fantasized that he was the Angel of Death. The apocalypse was about to happen and it was his job to pick the survivors, which meant that downtown would soon be empty. He would spare a few skateboarders and bike messengers for the sake of their style, but all of corporate Portland would be wiped out. The broad-shouldered executives, the secretaries on their lunch break would be consumed in flames, carried off in foul smoke. Everything they possessed would vanish too, their houses, their cars, their families. It pleased him to imagine such a violent reckoning. Humanity would be divided into two camps, the Believers and the Fallen. The Believers were the social misfits, the crazies, the misunderstood. They'd won a place in the Garden without realizing it, because they were touched by grace. The Fallen were people who obeyed the rules. They saw the Garden as a company where they held stock, or a suburb where they owned a house. Secure in their righteousness, they never paid attention to the real Garden right in front of them. Instead, they built their castles outside its gates. Anton stopped at an intersection, unsure what to do. Should he turn left to buy tobacco, or walk into the park to be with the trees? That was always good for a little oxygen. Suddenly he realized that he was watching a girl whose looks he liked. Her face was intelligent and perky like an elf's, and her green jacket and short skirt made her look even more like an elf. Her blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she wore little or no makeup. She was standing at the crosswalk, but when the light changed, she didn't move. He walked up to her. "Hello. I'm Anton, and I'm from Iowa." She stared at him blankly. "Go on." "Just thought I'd say hello. You seemed like a good person to talk to." "You mean you pick people out on the street and talk to them, just like that?" "Yep." "And you're from Iowa." "That's right." "I'm from Minnesota. I was Apple Harvest Queen once in my hometown." He raised an eyebrow. "Just kidding. I don't trust city people, they're too hard." He flashed a grin. "Know any good hard places we can go to have a drink?" "If you mean leather joints, no. I'm a real woman, not a transvestite, and I don't have herpes. I'm not into those fifties nightclubs, either." Her frankness surprised him. "Why not any old corner bar?" "You mean a working-class bar? You can't take women there." "I can. What's the problem?" "You don't take women to a place like that!" "Oh, come on. They'd think you were my prostitute." She eyed him furiously. "Well, they would." She started to turn away. "Okay, I'm sorry I hurt your feelings. It's not important. I mean, of course it's important, but not to me really. I mean, you're making it up! There's no reason to get hurt over something like that. You're the one who didn't want to go." She stood there blinking, unsure what to do. "Since we can't agree on a place to talk, it looks like our little meeting on the street will come to a close. With all these people moving around us, it's impossible to establish any real intimacy." She thought it over. "We could buy a soda at that stand there, and walk to the park." "Now, there's an idea!" Together they approached the stand. "Do they sell beer here?" "I don't think so." "I'd like a beer." "I don't think they have beer here." She ordered a soda, pushing her coins across the counter with stubby fingers. "Excuse me, do you have beer?" "We don't sell beer here, it's against the law." "They don't have beer," she told Anton. "I can see that!" He stepped to the counter. "I'll take a soda." "What flavor, son?" "Whatever. Same as hers." He pulled coins from his pocket, muttering. "It doesn't matter. I stopped drinking soda back in fifth grade. Now here I am in the city, and I can't even get beer from a fucking cart on the street!" He turned on the girl, furious. She recoiled. "We don't use that word in my family." "What word, 'cart'? 'Street'? What are you, a virgin saint?" She blanched a little. "I'm an intern at Randall Martin," a big ad agency. "If you ask me, you're out of your depth there." "What do you know about it?" "More than you'd think, at the moment." "Let's not argue." Their sodas arrived on the counter, sparkling with color. She handed one to Anton. "Look, it's lemon! It's not so bad." He took it from her, and they crossed to the park. "What do you do?" she asked. "Are you a student?" "I play bass." "How wonderful, a musician! I have a cousin who's an artist. I've always admired creative people." She settled on a bench. Her breezy confidence made Anton bristle, but there was something about her that he liked. He told her about the squat, calling it "a punk circus, a laboratory of the surreal." She seemed fascinated, until he got to the hardships they endured. Her expression clouded over and she wrinkled her nose. "Are you runaways, then? How do you get your food?" "We go to markets when they're closing, and they give us what they can't sell. We juggle in the street for money. We do odd jobs around the neighborhood. Some of us even sell our artwork! And the shows I do with my band bring in most of our cash." She frowned at him, shading her eyes. "That's fine, but eating spoiled fruit? Going without a shower for days? You can hardly call that supporting yourselves." "You're judging us by the wrong standards. Lentils and rice are fine with us. We don't need the latest fashions. We've got different priorities from the rest of you. We're artists! Artists have two choices, experiment or die." Realizing she didn't get it, he tried relating it to what she knew. "In your line of work, how can you tell if a product will sell? You test it on a target audience, right? Well, we do the same, only we're our own test market. If we like something, we keep it. If we don't like it, we throw it out. So far, we've thrown out everything the rest of you spend your lives trying to get. Television, fancy clothes, designer shampoo. What have we put in its place? Art, music, dance! Our lifestyle is chaotic, but we do have one rule, and that's respect. If you take something, give something back. Keep the wheel turning. That's what creativity is all about, don't you think?" "I don't know, I—" She smoothed her skirt and looked at her watch. He took the hint. "It must be time for you to get back to work." She gave him a breezy smile and stood up. "It is the height of the busy season!" She offered her hand. "It was nice to meet you, Anton. You've given me a lot to think about." She was already on her way. "You should come to one of our shows!" he called after her. He told her the time and place, but he knew it was hopeless. She was one of the Fallen who would be wiped out in the coming apocalypse. She dashed away, perky as ever, unaware of her fate. He sat for some time with his pen against his teeth. After a while, he began to write. He met a woman, difficult and strange. He liked her. He smiled at her without realizing he was doing it. She smiled back and he felt like dancing. He invited her to a cafe. She decided to come. They sat at a table near the fountain, and watched the people who came and went. After a while they tired of the table, and went to the fountain itself. They were holding hands unselfconsciously. Such states aren't meant to last. They are suspended in an instant that neither begins nor ends, but after a while it is over and can never be recaptured. This doesn't prevent people from trying. He wondered why no woman had ever inflamed his hopes, except Becky. She was different from the rest, because she challenged him, kept him guessing. Ideas he thought were clever, she treated as cliches. "You don't believe that. How could you? You're just trying to be controversial." She thought his lyrics were obvious or sloppy. His music wasn't to her taste. She even had doubts about the way he was raised. "Your parents didn't do you any favors by inflating your sense of talent. Talent doesn't just happen, you know. You have to work at it!" She knew all about that from her own experience. In her poetry, it took her weeks to craft a single stanza. She chipped away at images of panicking horses, graves of piled stones, or the plains in winter until nothing was left but a sense of stoic isolation. Afraid that her work was too personal, she used an abstract language from which all trace of herself had been removed. She was the only woman he knew who could make him think. She rejected Christianity as a slave religion, admired midwifery and folk medicine, and championed the virtues of Diana and Aphrodite as an antidote to male power. Refusing to be intimidated, she lured him into debate. If there was a contradiction she would catch it, if there was a false assumption she would point it out. Even Cynthia, who could see right through him, never engaged him head on like that, but simply danced around the perimeter. Becky's stubborn insistence on pinning him down infuriated him, but he cherished her all the more for it. They were bound together, too, by love of Timmins. Anton showed his love in a fierce, unflinching defense of his soulmate, while Becky saw Timmins as a lost soul to be watched over and reformed. Their attitudes conflicted at times, but they both wanted to see Timmins surface and come into his own. Their shared desire to protect Timmins helped them to see what they had most in common, a need to uphold what was precious in the world. Anton felt strange about being away from his friends for so long, but he told himself he was doing it out of loyalty to them. Of course he wanted to succeed as a musician, but his goal was higher than that. If Becky had been there to draw him out, he might have told her that he was looking for clues to the line between life and death, the mortal and the immortal. He wanted to break into the castle to steal its treasure for the benefit of all mankind, but first he had to find the castle. So far, he had no proof it even existed. • • • Reinhold was taller now, thinner and more athletic. His office, too, had changed. It was airier and more impressive. His suit was an expensively tailored Italian model, and there was a single discreet ring on his left hand. Studying his immaculately groomed fingernails, he told Kliff, "I like Anton, he's clean. He doesn't have that rough trade quality you've got." "Yeah." "And he's intelligent. That's a quality I don't see much in this business. Too intelligent, you might say." "Anton's cool, he knows the score," Kliff assured him. "Of course he knows the score. But it might be better if we don't let him see the ball, or the referees." "Referees?" Reinhold waved his hand. "Johnny Champion, Sabrina Lee, the Professor...." "Why would he meet Champion? Or any of those guys?" "I don't know, you tell me." "What's that supposed to mean?" "Nothing, really. It's just the kind of cryptic remark I make now and then to keep my proteges on their toes. Forget it, have a beer. Or there's some Château Latour '61 you can guzzle, if you want." "Real Château Latour?" "As real as it gets, these days." Reinhold turned his attention to the folders on his desk. He flipped through them, making notations with his finely crafted pen. • • • Club Omaha was a tiny place in the heart of Zombieland, long and narrow, with a small stage at the end painted black. Anton knew it by reputation. "It's like playing in a shoebox," said disgusted musicians. Kliff saw it differently. "It's where every act in town gets their start. A tradition we should follow, by the way. Fans have their expectations. You don't want them to think you got there without them." The owner was a flunky of Reinhold's. "He's always there around three in the afternoon, at a table in the back, watching the showgirls go through their routine. He likes to wear Hawaiian shirts and cheap cologne." Kliff wrinkled his nose. "Showgirls? In a place that small?" "Sure, it's a classy joint. They're bodybuilders who hang in cages above the stage. On Wednesdays they wrestle each other." As they walked through Zombieland to the club, Anton remembered what it was like to be new in town. Back then, he'd wandered the streets looking for an authentic gesture, something true. He'd expected the musicians, the poets, the hooligans of the night to pour from the cafes with cries of, "Fellow artist, where were you? Eat with us, sleep with us, share our women. You've found us, brother, we are your people!" It hadn't happened. Instead he'd met Kliff. Now he was the front man for the Psychic Rangers, and the promoter Reinhold was interested in him. Things were looking up. Soon people would be coming to him for favors, instead of the other way around. Would he be any more generous to them than they'd been to him? They passed piercing parlors and underground newsstands, a boutique selling mandalas and bundles of sage, a specialty music store with only a handful of albums on display. At the heart of Zombieland was the New Jerusalem Chapel with its neon cross and marquee proclaiming, "Make a Joyful Noise Unto the Lord." Club Omaha was a few steps away. It had a sign in the style of the Old West, with wooden letters attached to a wood backing of a different color. The doors swung both ways on hinges, with diamond windows and leather padding held on with tacks. Just inside, on show nights, a freckled redhead sat on a stool with the cash box and hand stamp, a piece of hay sticking from his mouth. As Kliff had predicted, the owner was sitting at a table in back. Anton could tell from the man's expression that he already knew Kliff. He wasn't sure if the reaction was one of pleasure or disgust. Kliff introduced them. "This is Anton, from Iowa, the most talented musician in town right now." The owner looked Anton over as if measuring him for a suit. "Have a seat," he said finally, gesturing across the table. He snapped his fingers for the barmaid. Large, buoyant breasts soon dominated their field of view. "What'll you have, boys?" she asked, popping her gum. Their drinks on the table, they got down to business. "What kind of music do you play?" the owner asked. Anton fidgeted. "You'd have to hear it to understand." "Don't be difficult," Kliff said. "What can I say? Rock these days is just the soundtrack to a beer commercial. Punk is dead. Metal is dead. Techno has energy, but no soul. My music isn't like any of that. For one thing, it's got a lot more range." "Call it something!" Kliff hissed. "Okay, speed jazz. Psychedelic hip-hop. Hardcore swing. It has a lot of hip-hop in it, actually. It's driven by language patterns and a strong bass line. We add tribal rhythms to that, whatever works." The owner was skeptical. "Will it work in my club, is the question. It may surprise you, but kids like to hear what they're already used to. And what they're used to is...." He trailed off, looking at Kliff. "This is the best band in Portland," Kliff assured him. "They've already got a following. They've been playing together for almost a year now. We figured it was time for a step up." The owner stood, beckoning Kliff, and walked to a dark corner by the bar. He put his hand on Kliff's shoulder. Kliff gestured emphatically, poking him in the chest. Anton stayed at the table, watching with a detached smile. So this is how deals are made, he thought. After a minute or so, the man shrugged and reached for a phone on the bar. He spoke into it briefly, set it down, and returned with Kliff to the table. "Okay, you're on. We'll start a week from Thursday. That gives us time to print flyers, put ads in the papers. You and the boys'll distribute the flyers. We'll bring you in for three nights, then we'll see. If the draw is good enough, we'll have you back. Sound good to you?" "Fair enough." The owner snapped his fingers for another drink. "Gina, tell the girls to come out." Back on the street, Anton couldn't contain his disgust. "What a dump. What was that on his finger, his class ring from high school?" "That's a Super Bowl ring! Dude's a former linebacker." "Was that Reinhold on the phone? He called Reinhold, didn't he? And Reinhold said do it." "That's right." "What's up with that, anyway? How does a porn producer end up running every club in Portland?" Kliff shook his head. "Some things, it's better not to know." • • • One day around this time, Anton returned to his attic studio to find a pile of electronic gear in the middle of the floor. There was a twenty-four-track digital mixing console, a computer workstation, a selection of microphones, cables, and monitors, everything they would need to record their album. When he realized what he was looking at, he grew distraught. "What have you done?" he told Kliff. "We can't afford this." "It's an indefinite loan from an admirer. He knows you'll put it to good use." "You mean somebody had all this stuff lying around and decided, hey, let's help the kid out?" "That's what you wanted, isn't it? Someone who believes in the cause?" "Don't try to convince me there's no strings attached." "Dude, it's recording equipment. He wants you use it." "In exchange for what?" "In exchange for making an album! He's your supporter, Anton." Anton was suspicious, but he figured it would be pointless to refuse. If Trashtown already had a network of hidden supporters, what harm could come from one more favor? Besides, there were clear advantages to recording in house. He wanted to use Sasha's drum circle to fill out the band's sound, but the spontaneous flavor of their jams would be lost in a professional studio. Many of Cynthia's scrap-metal instruments were too bulky to move to another location. Most of all, as Kliff pointed out, "You can record whenever the mood hits you. There's no need to schedule time, or worry about how much it costs." Instead of feeling like they needed to polish each song before taking it to the studio, they could lay down a rough version and then rework the individual parts, adding or removing layers until they got what they wanted. The rehearsal process and the recording process would become one. They began cutting tracks, some of them entirely new songs, such as "Silent Beauty," "Life Underwater," and "Otherwise." Anton used the new equipment to push the limits of composition, breaking each track into particles, rearranging them, interweaving them with sounds from nature or the street. Sometimes this changed the piece so radically that it became unrecognizable to those who had first played it. His approach to rehearsals also changed, so that they rarely played together as a band any more. He preferred to work with the others one on one, going over and over the same passage until he got what he wanted. Or he would work alone, remixing tracks they had already laid down. Whenever they got fed up with his obsessive habits, he would tell them, "Half of the time I'm wrong, but indulge me. When it works, it's something you can't get anywhere else." He relied on Travis for help in producing the album. Travis was a cool-headed musician with a clean, minimal line, but his real genius came as a producer. He knew how to turn the band's sounds into something luminous, hyperreal. They got additional help from Jake Rivers, Portland's best sound engineer, who worked the board at their larger shows. Jake couldn't always see where they were going with their music, but his advice saved them from many of the pitfalls of beginners. Anton's growing self-confidence led him to feel that he could handle everything himself, all of the instruments and all the studio work too, but he relished the exchange with other minds and souls. In the evenings they played out, often three or four times a week. Vince and Blake in particular got their kicks from playing live. It kept the band in shape, and it showed them what worked. For the Psychic Rangers, there was no finer pleasure than the meltdown of hundreds of fans in a sweaty, delirious trance, a primal union pulsing with intelligence and life, until finally the crowd drifted away into the night, unable to contain one more particle of happiness. As a transmitter of this magical force, Anton felt blessed. "The power of music is infinite. It's inside me, but it doesn't belong to me. It speaks for itself." A number of their songs made it onto DJ playlists on the West Coast party circuit. They were written up in 'zines devoted to skate culture, graffiti art, and urban fashion. Anton was sought out for interviews, which he held at the squat because it was a model of their way of life. Underground journalists came from up and down the West Coast to talk to him. That was to be expected, because he belonged to a culture of nomads. Most of them were in town on other business, and decided to check out the latest Portland phenomenon, the Psychic Rangers. Before long, word came from Los Angeles that there was "major label interest," but he didn't take it seriously. For him it was another world. He told one of his interviewers, "Our mission isn't easy, but it's necessary. In each generation someone carries the torch, and that's us. We open the gates of heaven and hell, and the angels and demons come swarming out. People need that. The world has to be reinvented, or it will wither away. Imagination is the key. It's a kind of sorcery, taking something that exists in dreams and making it real, here and now." Guided by Kliff's instinctive sense of timing, they had become the most popular band in Portland. Even rival musicians understood this. They mimicked the band's style and copied their songs. Some of their fans tried to follow their lifestyles down to the smallest detail. "He's been wearing that striped shirt for days! I wonder what thrift store he got it in?" Anton was recognized on the street by "complete strangers who think they know me," as he complained to Kliff. That didn't please him as much as he'd thought it would. "They're wasting my time. I have work to do. My whole life is work now." "Public relations is part of the work too," Kliff reminded him. • • • Périne, a French photographer, had been living in Portland for several years. She'd originally come to cover the Olympics, but they were held in Stockholm that year. When she realized there had been a misunderstanding, she decided to stay. She specialized in image makeovers for aging executives, but she was eager to try something new. Hearing about the Psychic Rangers, she visited them at the squat. She photographed them as they rehearsed, then caught them at the Icon, a performance art space, where they played in drag against a backdrop of footage from Auschwitz. She got them to pose on rooftops and in rail yards, which symbolized to her the desolation of American life. Finally she invited Anton to her studio for a private session. "What for?" he asked. "For me," she said, smiling. He looked her over. With her black derby and baggy white blouse, she looked like a mime without makeup. She had a shock of curly bangs and small, pointed breasts. He accepted the offer. The day of their rendezvous, he rang the bell of her studio near the river. The latch buzzed, he pushed the door open and went in. She offered him tea and a joint, giving him a few minutes to look around. He eyed her cameras and lights, tripods and meters. "Do you have a darkroom?" "Of course. Would you like to see it?" She gave him a quick tour. When they returned, she put on some robot music by stoner Tokyo DJs. "Is this okay?" "It's a little cheesy, but why not?" He finished the joint and stood watching her from under the brim of his baseball cap. "Take off your shirt, please," she said as she set up her camera. "In fact, take off all your clothes. You can leave the hat on if you like." He took off the hat and placed it on her head. "You wear it. It looks good on you." He removed the rest of his clothes, placing them on a chair. The weed had put him in a sort of trance. He felt self-conscious, and he didn't know where to stand. "Over there," she pointed. "Don't worry, I'm a lesbian." "Oh." "Though I sometimes make exceptions." "Oh." The strobes flashed as she released the shutter. He knew that the shutter opened for a mere fraction of a second, and the strobes went off at exactly the same moment. How did that work? She advanced the film. "Okay, arms in the air like this. How does it feel?" "Contorted." "More contorted, more! That's it." She fired off two more shots. "Now squat down. Hug your knees tightly. Head down. Look at me." She was shooting almost mechanically. The room was awash in light. "This is a workout." "Don't talk, do. We want our models to be brainless. A good model should be glamorous, rien de plus." She came over to him and tweaked his nipple. "Stand up, please." As he stood, she brushed her fingers down his side. "You have such wonderful smooth skin. How old are you, Anton?" "Eighteen," he said hoarsely. He felt blood rushing to parts of his body where he wished it wouldn't go. "You're just a puppy." For some reason, these words had a powerful charge for him. He was transfixed by her lips, which were round and full. She retreated behind her camera. "Turn to the left. Head up. Wonderful! If only you could see yourself! We need some closeups now." She repositioned the tripod, bringing it closer to him. "Interact with me. Watch me through the lens." They continued like this for another half an hour. When it was done and he was collecting his clothes, Périne surprised him with a question. "Which do you prefer, sex or making love?" He considered this. "You mean there's a difference? I want them both." She frowned. "What do you mean?" "Love without sex is wishful thinking. Sex without feeling is a waste of time." "Bravo! You'll go far, you have spirit and heart." He grinned and pulled on his pants, which were cut off below the knees and held up with a piece of clothesline. He slipped on his shirt and sandals. "Do you like women, Anton?" This startled him. For the last half hour he'd been thinking about Périne's upwardly turned breasts, which were the size not of melons, but of ripe peaches. Hadn't she noticed the effect she had on him? His troubled silence told her something. "Do you like men?" He blushed. "I guess it depends who it is." Fully dressed now, he shifted from side to side, waiting to be excused. She came up to him, quite close. Touching her lips to his, she removed his hat from her head and settled it on his own. She backed off a bit as he grinned cockily at her from beneath the brow. "Remember, Périne is your friend. If you ever need me, I'll be here for you." She walked him to the door. • • • A few weeks before the release of their album, Kliff arranged for Anton to be interviewed on the Pirate Radio Network. It was his first chance to reach a broader audience in other cities. The interviewer knew almost nothing about the Psychic Rangers, except that they were the next big thing in Portland. An old hand in the business, she was bored with flash-in-the-pan acts and one-shot wonders. Still, she warmed to Anton a little. There was intelligence in his eyes, and he seemed earnest. She began the interview with a simple question, asking about the band's career. "We're working on our first album—" Anton said. "You mean you haven't even finished one album? What am I interviewing you for?" He laughed. "We're real close. We'll be out of the studio in a couple of weeks. We're perfectionists, is all. In the meantime, we've got samples." He produced a CD. "This music is one step from the final album. We mixed it in a few different styles. One is industrial slash and burn, another is trance with drums and chanting, and in a third we got real funky." "You guys are versatile, then." Anton replied by popping the CD in the player, selecting a track, and flipping the right switches to send it out over the air. The interviewer sat back in wry amusement. "This boy knows how to work a radio console," she was thinking. He spoke over the first chords. "All we've been doing for the past few weeks is working these things out in the studio, intensively, day by day. Problem solving, innovation. I'd say we're ready." The music swelled to a roar, then burst, and the pieces came crashing down. From out of the din, a song emerged. She let it go on for a minute and a half, fading out at the second chorus. "You've got something there, I admit. If you have an album of songs as strong as this one, you'll have a following. Assuming the guys who got there first don't stand in your way." "What guys? Who else is doing stuff like this?" His competitive instincts were aroused. "It's original, I'll grant you that. But there's only room in this business for so many acts. People like Money Flavored Gelatin and Bad Neighbor may not like the challenge. Or then again, maybe they will. It all depends on your staying power, and the strength of your support." "Staying power isn't a problem. As for our support, it's not about us, it's about the music. As long as we remember that, we'll be all right. Can I play another cut?" "Sure. Only this time, I work the controls." • • • It nagged at Anton that he'd been living in Portland for over a year, and he hadn't even bothered to send a postcard home. He'd done nothing to ease the fears of those who loved him and were worried about him. He wondered what his parents were thinking, what Becky was thinking, how Timmins was faring without him. "They must think I'm dead, abducted by some cannibal and made into soup. Of course, Timmins knows where I am. I'm sure he's told them, too. I wonder if they believe him?" His telepathic bond with Timmins, though distorted by distance and time, was still intact. Sometimes when he was alone, it seemed that Timmins was in the room with him. Looking up, he expected to see his friend sitting crosslegged at the window, hunched over a sketchpad and scribbling fiercely, stopping only to push the hair out of his eyes. Or he would feel Timmins standing over his shoulder, watching him work, which meant that Timmins was curious about what he was doing. Even as a child, Timmins had been passive and withdrawn. Now that Anton had left Iowa, he'd grown sluggish and confused. Without Anton's spark, he had no motivation to do anything. In recent months he'd lost the urge even to paint. His visions were dominated by Anton, but he refused to paint them because he didn't want to impose the future on his friend. After all, his paintings had a way of coming true. Anton's adventures were the perfect subject for him, but he held off out of respect. Deprived of his best visions, his art withered on the branch. Certain things that Anton had tried to tell him in the past, he could see now for himself. For example, people didn't always act for noble reasons. Sometimes they acted out of malice, or took out their resentments on those they thought were weak. Because he often got the brunt of this, the atmosphere in his hometown was stifling to him. There was no one he could interact with, because they were afraid of his unique gift. Anton had experienced the same thing growing up, but he'd spat it right back at them. He'd always been the one who set the terms. In a sense he'd been Timmins' protector, clearing a path. Was Anton still clearing a path, or was he just looking out for himself now? Neither of them knew the answer. Instead of biding his time until Timmins was old enough to leave home with him, Anton had vanished one day without warning. Using their private channel, Anton told him that he had still no idea why he'd done it. "I just got it into my head one day, but I'm not complaining. It seems to have been a good move." Even so, he had his regrets. What had he done for Timmins since coming to Portland? He told himself that he would return to Iowa after the release of his album, to rescue his childhood friend. He would bring Timmins to Portland to share his new life. He imagined that Timmins would be eager to join him, but one morning, Timmins sent him a message that he had other plans. It was a vision Anton had seen once before, on his first night in Portland, as he lay in his room at the Windsor Hotel. This time he was in his Trashtown studio, drifting in and out of sleep, gathering his forces for the day ahead. In the vision, Timmins was standing barefoot in a freshly plowed field. Around him were rolling hills cut by a river, and behind him a white farmhouse. He wore overalls and a John Deere cap. His hair hung down to his shoulders. He seemed harmless enough. "This is what public school did to me," he said. "Pathetic, isn't it? Clearly, something here ain't working." He started to walk across the field toward the house. "I've been seeing a therapist, and he says it can be corrected, but it'll take time. I don't mind putting in the effort. It's the years of my life that are being wasted, that get to me." He got to the front porch, opened the screen door, and started to go in. "I live here by myself now, ever since my entire family was killed in a car accident. Jennifer was nine years old. She'll never sing 'Edelweiss' again." Anton sat up, confused. Timmins was telling him things he already knew, mixed with things that made no sense. Was Timmins seeing a therapist? He didn't think so. "I live here by myself," Timmins had said, but he knew that Timmins lived with his grandmother in town. Was this a message from the future? Was Timmins showing him the house where he wanted to live? Maybe it wasn't a real house, but rather a symbol for the isolation Timmins felt, or the independence he wanted. But Anton had a hunch it was a real house. It seemed familiar somehow, from the bike expeditions they'd made together as kids. Timmins' message was simple. Iowa was his home. He had his problems there, but it was what he knew. He was saying, "Let me stay here, it's what I want." <<< Back Table of Contents Next >>>