<<< Back Table of Contents Next >>> 15 Mythic Character The tour finally over, Anton was back in Portland. One afternoon as he was walking home, he came across a kid doing skateboard tricks on a loading ramp near his studio. The kid lost control of the board just as he was passing by, and it skidded to the sidewalk. He stopped it with his foot, handing it back as the kid ran up. "Thanks, dude." The kid was a skinhead with black boots, flannel shirt and suspenders. "No problem." "Hey wait a minute, you're Anton Dupree!" Anton's eyes narrowed. "You're wrong." "Naw, you look the same. The clothes, the face—I seen it enough times to know." "You saw me on stage, right?" "Sure, at Lizard Lounge, New Jerusalem—" "Am I there now?" "Naww...." "Then I'm not the same guy, right? I'm just a kid on the street, like you." "Man, you're—" "What you don't realize is, we're not supposed to meet. There's so many guys like you, and for all of you, there's only one Anton Dupree. For us to meet face to face like this, what do you think are the odds? It can't happen, so it's not happening." "What's happening then?" "Hell if I know. Do I look like a philosopher? Go home and take a nap." "Listen—" "No, you listen. I've got a life of my own. I get paid to deal with folks like you. That's my job. And right now, I'm not working." He started to walk away. The kid waited until he was halfway down the block, and began to unleash a steady stream of abuse. "So you're Mr. Big, are you? Mr. Bigshot Rock Star. Yeah, well fuck you, Anton Dupree. Fuck you, glamor boy. Your music sucks! You've sold out, you can't even play no more...." Anton reached his door and climbed the steps. There was a leather briefcase on the landing. He picked it up. Across the street, two of Reinhold's men were sitting in a dark sedan. They watched him lift the briefcase and open it. One of the men spoke into a radio handset. "He's received the payment." Anton was surprised, even shocked, by what was inside. He looked up and down the street, but didn't notice the car in which the two men were sitting. He took the keys from his pocket and went inside, taking the briefcase with him. "He's taking it inside," said the man with the radio. The other man started the car and they drove away. He opened the briefcase on the kitchen counter. It was full of stacks of hundred-dollar bills. He counted the bills in one stack, then the number of stacks, to arrive at a total of two hundred fifty thousand dollars. He pushed himself away from the money and surveyed the pile from a distance. "What kind of crazy stunt is this?" The vibe that came from the briefcase was unsettling, like a noxious odor with no obvious source, or a tone so shrill it could hardly be detected. He started thinking of all the things he could do with the money, but stifled these thoughts. He wanted to put the money back where he'd found it, but was reluctant to even touch it. Looking for a way out of his dilemma, he picked up the phone and dialed. "Square Peg Foundation," came a disembodied female voice. "Can you get me Reinhold on the line? Colonel Reinhold," he specified. "Colonel Reinhold?" The lady at the other end seemed troubled. "I'm sorry, you must be looking for someone else. Mr. Reinhold doesn't go by—" "He's the one. I've been there before, to your office. It's where I met him." He was getting agitated. "This is Anton Dupree. Just tell him I'm calling, please." "He isn't in today, Mr. Dupree. May I take a message?" "This is urgent! There must be a way for you to put me through to him, wherever he is." The lady made sounds indicating that she was being asked to do more than was appropriate. Nevertheless, after a long pause and a series of clicks she said, "Hold on, please," and the call was put through. "Reinhold," said the Colonel. "Colonel Reinhold! It's Anton. You know, the Psychic Rangers? I know you know me, or you wouldn't pretend not to." He got to the point. "I just found a briefcase full of cash on my front porch. Two hundred fifty thousand dollars, it looks like. You wouldn't happen to know anything about this?" Reinhold chuckled. "As a matter of fact, I do." He was pleased that Anton had been bold enough to call him right away. Not many people would do that. Most would spend the money, some would report it to the police, and all of them would find ways to persuade themselves that they had no idea where it came from. Anton, on the other hand, went straight to the source. No lack of confidence in that boy, reflected the Colonel. "I did think I should check with you," Anton was saying, "before I went and spent it on anything. After all, who knows where it's been, or what strings are attached." Reinhold was seated in his inner sanctum, in a high-backed leather chair facing a curved bank of twenty video screens. The screens swarmed with diverse images, the floor of the Tokyo Stock Exchange, a construction site on the Moon, a video for a popular rock band, a violent and degrading sex rite, a live report from a battleground in Africa, and a static shot of a private bathroom, currently empty. As they spoke he switched channels on the screens in front of him, surveying his infinite realm. "There's no strings attached, Anton. It's yours to spend as you like. You've already earned every penny." "What do you mean by that?" "Some of the projects you've done with us have been extremely lucrative. You're an amazing talent, and much in demand right now in certain quarters, I don't mind saying." "You mean you're paying me for work I've already done?" "Exactly." "But what work? I haven't worked for you since—that film I made with Kliff." He was grateful that Reinhold couldn't see him blush. "You've been of service to us on numerous occasions, whether you're aware of it or not. And believe me, we're extremely grateful. What you need to remember is, we never pay in advance. For one thing, it's too complicated to enforce a contract if someone wants to back out. And it saves us from explaining to people like you what we want them to do. It's better to let you improvise, and then take it from there. We pay once the job is finished, and we're scrupulous about sharing the rewards. That's to your advantage, because even now you owe us nothing. The money you've received is your royalty, your share of the profit." "That's impossible! I produce my own projects. What have you got to do with it?" "Your record label is independent, but that's only a fraction of your output. Your noncommercial projects are just as interesting to me." Anton was confused. "Did I do something for you I don't remember, or—what did I do?" Reinhold sighed. "My specialty is to connect people, to serve as a bridge. There are people who collect rare or unusual things, and there are people who produce those things. Sad to say, those two groups are often far apart. So I'm the bridge. If you're a collector, you can go through commercial channels, in which case you'll get a version that's dumbed down for the masses, or you can go through me. What good is brilliant material like Child of Violence if it's never released to the public? Let's say a gentleman in Berlin or Singapore wants it for himself and a few friends. Let's say I know the album exists. Perhaps I even commissioned it, whether you know it or not. I also know the collector and his tastes. Should I refuse to put two and two together to make a profit?" On his screens, a man fell screaming from a helicopter, a box of cereal danced and sang. "So that's what happens, more or less. The details aren't important. In fact, the details are sometimes dangerous. All you need to know is that a large sum of money shows up on your doorstep one day, and you've earned it." He underlined this last point. "You've earned it, Anton. You're a gold mine, in fact. There are many, many people in the world who would pay dearly for a piece of you. Those photographs you did with Périne are years ahead of their time. The Trashtown videos, the music you didn't release...." "I did those things for fun! I didn't expect to get paid for them. A photo shoot, a few jams, even that film with Kliff, back when I needed to eat—why not do it, if the moment's right? It costs me nothing. I'd do it anyway." "That's the beauty of it, isn't it? You'd do it anyway. Only we make sure those moments, which cost you nothing, keep on coming—and that the results reach people who appreciate them. What good does it do you to record a perfect ballad that never gets released, because it doesn't fit your public style? I understand the strategic choices people make in their careers as well as anyone. You never want to show the world everything at once. It saturates the market, and it gives your competition valuable clues. So you learn to be selective, but why not use that extra material? You can be sure there's an eccentric lady somewhere who would love that ballad and pay dearly for it, only she's a shut-in who has no idea you exist. That's my work, making the connections that need to be made in order for everyone to get what they want." "And you're doing all this out of kindness? I can't help thinking you want something in return." "The money is yours, take it. You've earned it already, like I said. You can run off to Indonesia for all I care, and never write a song again. But why stop now? I hope you're in it for the long haul. I hope you won't throw this windfall away on cheap toys, like a Jaguar with a glove compartment full of coke. We've had that happen. Maybe you'll invest some of it back into your career, and do something creative to guarantee your future. You could diversify, start a magazine. If you like, Kliff will find you a reliable financial adviser who's attuned to the interests of a young musician like yourself. One who'll look out for your interests better than you can. I repeat, though, there's no strings attached. It's yours to blow how you want. Only I hope you realize that if you invest it wisely, more will follow. That's how it works. Think of it as the first in a long line of payments, all of them equally painless, all of them equally well earned. Do you like that?" Anton hesitated. "I'm not sure." "Well, think about it. I've got work to do. The Colonel is a busy man." Their conversation over, Reinhold turned his full attention to the console. He was no longer surfing, but investigating a specific issue with intent. Rapid commands typed into the keyboard brought up screens of market data, video facsimiles of documents, a couple of foreign news broadcasts, a Lebanese cabinet meeting, the interrogation of a balding political prisoner, the execution of the same by firing squad, the lobby of a Middle Eastern bank, the back seat of a financier's limousine. He flipped a switch, opening his private intercom line. "Get me Johnny on the line. Code Red." Anton hung up the phone and stared at the unwieldy pile of cash. He lifted one of the stacks to see how it felt, ruffled it under his nose, and stood there pondering. "This is a test," he told himself. "A test, an initiation, a baited hook." He tossed the stack petulantly back into the briefcase. He added the remaining money and shut the case. He watched the threatening object for a moment, as if to make sure it wouldn't spring open on its own. Then he stashed it under the sink. He understood that this was his opportunity to freelance with money that wasn't really his own. If he handled himself responsibly, investing in smart career moves rather than blowing it all at once on expensive pleasures, if he followed the advice Kliff would give him and plowed his cash back into the Reinhold empire from which it had come, he would earn the Colonel's respect and be trusted with ever larger amounts. His standard of living would increase, along with the range of action permitted him. There would be the occasional gift of designer clothes for his wardrobe, or a work of art for his collection, or technology for his stage show, all because he was a fashion leader and people wanted a piece of his name. His name had prestige value, which was bizarre because it was the name he was born with, but now he felt pretentious even using it. Anyway, he would be well taken care of. On the other hand, if he proved himself unwise, if he foolishly went his own way and fell flat on his face, this would be the last large sum of cash he would see. He called Kliff and left a message. "Hey, pal, it's me. I just talked to the Colonel. I need your opinion on something. Stop by and see me, I'm at home." He walked to the opposite end of the room, hands stuffed in his pockets. He stared up at the windows, restless and waiting for Kliff to return. He remembered when Kliff had first brought him to this place. It had been raining, and they'd gone up to the roof. He realized that he hadn't been on the roof in a long time. He climbed the ladder and slid back the hatch, leaving it open so he could hear the buzzer when Kliff came. Outside, it was a beautiful summer day. He picked a spot and slumped down on the tarry gravel, back against the wall. He took a little pipe from his pocket and packed it with sticky green bud, holding the smoke in his lungs for a while before letting it curl from his mouth and nose. He needed to get a grip on things. He had to figure out what to do. Sabrina had made a play for him without Reinhold's approval, and now he had Reinhold's countermove. He was smart enough to see the connection. In fact, it was what Sabrina had predicted would happen. "He'll probably try to win you over. By playing us off against each other you can learn a lot." What a bunch of cynical operators he'd fallen in with. He wished he could rid himself of them both, but he was in too deep to back out. To be honest, he'd said yes at every step of the way. The temptations of fame, of having a voice people would listen to, had been too great for him. Now he'd achieved his goal. This was his chance and he needed to use it. "Look around you for clues to the pattern," Sabrina had said. "Take advantage of the opportunity to inform yourself." If he lost his nerve now, he deserved to be called a sellout, as the kid in the street had said. But if Sabrina was right and Reinhold was grooming him, he could use that to work his way into the Colonel's confidence. Once he understood the master plan, he would expose it, bringing the whole rotten mess into the open. He would be the snake in the grass, the virus in the blood. He was ready for that, but it was a dangerous game. He needed a way out in case things went bad. More than ever, he saw the wisdom of keeping Timmins away from his life in Portland, not just to protect his friend but also to protect himself. Even though people saw Timmins as weak or helpless, in fact he was untouchable because he lived in a world of his own. Once Timmins had the house he dreamed of, Anton too would have a refuge in time of need. He thought of buying the house with the money Reinhold had given him, but he was sure that every penny would be traced. It would be better to dip into the proceeds from Extreme Liberties, but even that was dangerous, because Kliff kept the books and would likely inform Reinhold. Suddenly he had to laugh, because he'd remembered the saying, "Art is the best cover." It gave him the answer. He would collect paintings. A painting has no fixed price, so he could claim to have paid more than he actually had, and pocket the difference. After a few purchases like that, he would have enough money to help Timmins. He hadn't solved his anxieties, but he'd made progress. And being young, rich and stoned on a summer day softened his mood. He pulled out a pocket recorder and said the first thing that came into his head. I'm an exemplar, a role model, what they all want to become! I want to live my life as a kind of ceremony—an initiation into practices unknown to many, a progress toward barbarism, a tribal rite. He'd bought the recorder during the Extreme Liberties tour, at a shop on Canal Street in New York City. He'd figured it might come in handy for something, but he hadn't used it much until now. I want the world to be my mirror. I'm obsessed with that. I want to hear myself when I turn on the radio. I want to see myself in the magazines. I want my name on cigarettes and bars of soap manufactured by a religious cult. I want to blow up the world! He kicked his legs out, arched his back and stretched. He was in a strange mood. He repacked his pipe and lit it, taking a deep breath. I don't want to be entertaining, I want to be dangerous. A shining example, a righteous sword. Telling the truth to kings is rarely pretty. They don't want to hear it. They want to sit around on their thrones and get fat, like you or me. I want to live in extreme misery, boredom I can't comprehend, until my soul, thirsty for joy, is forced into a blind and extravagant rebellion. If I wanted rebellion for its own sake, that would be easy, because there's plenty to rebel against. But I don't, I'm into respect. I'm looking for people and situations I can honor. I know there is beauty here. I can feel it, can't you? His anxiety returned and he put the recorder away. Where was Kliff? He must be out tending to his network of dealers and spies. He didn't want to go inside, but there was nowhere else to go. He stood up, checked the ground to make sure he hadn't left anything, and slipped back through the hatch. He was heading down the ladder when the buzzer sounded. When he opened the door it struck him. There was an elegance about Kliff that showed in his clothes, his mannerisms. He no longer had the nervous tics of a hungry kid looking to get out of the rain. He was the ruffian he'd always been, but his style had evolved. They had the same reaction upon seeing each other, happiness that the other was looking good. They embraced, and in their glances there was complicity at how far they'd come. "Look at us," they seemed to be saying. "Who would have thought?" "So you talked to Reinhold?" Kliff said once the door closed. "He left me a present. It was anonymous, but I figured it was from him." "You have Reinhold's phone number?" Kliff wore a puzzled look. "I called the Square Peg Foundation." "They put you through?" "I insisted." "What was the present?" "A briefcase full of cash." "So he made his move." He didn't make much of an effort to pretend he was surprised, as he might once have done. He figured they were past that now. "Join me in the kitchen," Anton said. "I'll pour you a drink." "Did he give a reason?" Kliff said as they crossed the room. Anton opened a kitchen cabinet and peered in. "Gin and tonic? Vodka and cranberry? Whiskey and soda?" "Cognac," he said, seeing the bottle there. Anton got down two glasses and poured the drinks. "He made it sound like a thank you gesture. For services rendered, that sort of thing. I'm still not sure what he's really after. He just wants to give me some money, I guess." "And your reaction?" Anton laughed and handed him the glass. "He said I should talk to you about getting a financial advisor. He wants me to invest it in projects, a magazine for example." "If that's what you want. How much money is it, anyway?" "A quarter million. Want to see it? It's under the sink." He pulled out the briefcase, tossed it on the counter and opened it, bringing the stacks of money into view. Kliff whistled. "I don't usually see this much money in one place." "It's kind of scary when you think about it. Incriminating. Like I did something wrong." He latched the case and put it away. Taking his glass from the counter, he guided Kliff back to the main room. They settled onto some sofas, setting their glasses on the table in front of them. Bowls of nuts and pretzels were already laid out. "Is there a quid pro quo?" Kliff couldn't help asking. "I'm sure there is. But what he actually said is that it's for work I've already done. Side projects, hidden albums. Things he's sold to private collectors behind my back. He said that if I invest it wisely, there'll be more to come." "Gotta love the Colonel." Kliff reached for an almond and studied it for a moment before popping it into his mouth. "What's your take on this? What do you want to do?" Anton shrugged. "Play along and see what happens." Kliff couldn't help noticing that Anton had changed a lot. Where was the indignity, the righteous anger? "Do you want to start a magazine, like he said? Or a film project, what?" "A magazine sounds cool. We could call it Rebel Youth, Voice of the Midwest." Kliff pulled out a book of names and phone numbers. "I know a few people with the right experience and the right attitude. Fans of yours who know what you're after. Do you want someone who's really from the Midwest?" "That would be nice. But I'm beginning to get bored with authenticity." They tossed around ideas for the magazine, but before long they were back on the subject of money. "I'm not sure I like the idea of putting my stuff up for sale with Reinhold," Anton said. "It seems he wants to find a buyer for everything I do. Doodles on scraps of paper, songs I sang in the shower. Bus tickets and chewing gum." "Don't worry. If there's something you want to keep off the market, he'll respect that. And he won't step on arrangements you've made with other collaborators. He's just trying to pick up the loose pieces, which has advantages for you both. There's bound to be cases where he sees opportunities you're not aware of." "To him, I'm a product. Or worse, a line of products." "Look at the advantages. Nine times out of ten, when someone approaches you with an idea for a project, it's total bullshit. With us, you know that if we promise you a job, the job will happen. The photo shoot will take place, the radio show will come to pass. If not, we would never make the promise. That's how we work. We don't want to waste your time." Anton decided to wait and see. He'd been sucked into a relationship with Colonel Reinhold, and time would tell how compromising it would turn out to be. The possibilities looked endless, but what was the price? The money under the sink, with its eerie vibe, felt like it would contaminate everything. Perhaps he would never be independent again. With everything he wanted now in his hands, why did he feel like such a prisoner? • • • A groupie came into the bar and sat down beside Anton breathlessly. "I never come to places like this, but I just had to see you!" It took Anton a moment to register her presence. She slithered closer on the bench and said huskily, "I'd like to get close to you. Would you like that?" He showed his revulsion. "There are people who like fucking. I find that hard to imagine." She reached out to touch his arm. "Do you know who keeps me company at night when I can't sleep? Do you know who's always there with me when I close my eyes? It's you, and you, and YOU that I think about, night after night in the dark!" Her self-control gone, she pressed herself against him in a swoon. "Anton...." He recoiled. "You feel sticky." "Anton..." she said again, desperately this time. "Your flesh is moist!" He pulled away violently, and she burst into tears. He stood up, smoothing his sleeve. "Listen, talk to my manager. He'll throw you a few crumbs. An autographed album, a T-shirt I never washed." He looked her in the eyes. "Now will you get out of here! Scoot!" He pointed to the door. "Hurry away!" She slunk off. He returned to his work, scribbling lyrics on a paper napkin. He wondered if he would ever be rid of these creatures. The more of a jerk he became, the more he attracted them. It didn't make sense. Being an asshole actually seemed to provoke their desire. Were there women that desperate? He hardly believed it. Or were they a hallucination, a distorted projection of his own fantasies of power? Whichever it was, someone was in sad shape. • • • Rebel Youth, Voice of the Midwest was published in Portland, but its cut-and-paste, comic-book style reflected the Midwestern sensibilities of its editor, Farnham T. Sparks. He'd been tossed out of his Wisconsin hometown at the age of nineteen, when the zine he put out there, Clown Killer, caused a stir. Like so many other young people exiled from their roots, he'd been drawn to Portland by the techno-primitive scene. In the early days of the movement, local musicians had felt a sense of solidarity, rooting for each other and showing up at one another's shows. But now it was all about marketing, and some of the pioneers of techno-primitivism felt left behind. Others were swept along on a tidal wave of hype who would have preferred not to be. Rebel Youth was one of the main sources of knowledge on the evolving scene, salvaging its early history in photos and interviews, tracking the activities of its key figures, and giving people a place to debate the pros and cons of success. There were people who hated Anton for what he'd done, because they thought he'd taken a good thing and twisted it for personal gain. It amused him to let these voices speak out in the pages of his own magazine. As Kliff told him, "Making you controversial is the sincerest flattery people can offer you." It was inevitable that much of the coverage in Rebel Youth centered around Anton and the Psychic Rangers, and their personal lives got attention as well. In one of the issues, a groupie who had been Anton's lover recalled her experience. He carried a notebook in his shirt pocket. He didn't wash. He thought he was God, I mean literally. Maybe he is. He was great in bed, lousy in bed, who cares? He told me, "I won't wash my dick for a week now. I want the smell of you to turn sour." Instead of making love to me, he read Rimbaud. I loved him. I still do. He's simply the most beautiful creature I've ever met. He's a shaft of golden light, a shadow over deep, swift-moving water. His eyes are the depths of the sky. It was the purest, most eloquent, exalted love. It wasn't physical—oh, sure, it was physical, but it was more than that. Everything he said or did was brilliant. He wasn't trying, it was completely unpretentious. He couldn't help it, it just spilled out of him. Only sometimes, I wouldn't realize until later how brilliant it was, because at the time it would just zip by as a loudmouth thing to say, something obnoxious. Or it would take me so long to get it that I wouldn't remember what it was about, only that he was being brilliant and an asshole at the same time. The Psychic Rangers weren't the only ones to benefit from the publicity given to techno-primitive scene. Their notoriety spilled over onto other artists who were part of the same movement. Cynthia had returned to being a chanteuse and released her first single, "Cannibalism in America." It claimed to be about the paternalistic violence at the roots of the American soul, but to Anton it was just a bunch of pop fluff, theatrical moans and posturings. Still, he had to envy Cynthia's densely textured sound layerings, the "processed textures" that garnered her so much space in the music press. He was convinced that he could have come up with the same idea, only his brainwave patterns had been interfered with by some kind of subliminal plot. With all the publicity he was getting, Anton was distressed at how few people understood what he was trying to say. Rather than asking him about his lyrics, or the evolution of his music, or what techno-primitivism meant to him, his interviewers liked to focus on his celebrity lifestyle, as if that were an end in itself. "How does it feel to be a mythic character?" was a typical question. "It means I get a lot of attention. Not always the right kind of attention, but it does help me to get out the issues I feel are important." "Like what, for example?" "Like the sex lives of prisoners, that's always intrigued me. Or whether the Apollo moon landings took place in a Hollywood studio, to prove we were winning the special effects race with the Russians." He got a confused look, and seized the advantage. "There's something else I want to say about being a mythic character. It's about how everything from the time before, when I was just an ordinary guy, is mythologized after the fact. My childhood in smalltown Iowa becomes a mythical childhood in a mythical small town, where I rode a mythical bicycle to a mythical school. My job as a short-order cook in a diner becomes a mythical job, where I busted my ass symbolically in anticipation of my future fame. That bothers me—the way everything is rearranged so it points to an inevitable future on the world stage. I may sound like I'm being overly modest to say this, but it wasn't that way at all. "I do think, though, that to some extent I'm being called upon to be a messenger. So I'd better have my shit together and know what I want to say. I'd better not be blinded by all the attention, because it's not about me, it's about the message. Other people have gone before me who carried this torch a lot further than I could hope to. The best I can do is to say my piece simply and clearly, and step down. It's not about holding a position of influence, or showing how cool I am. It's about saying what has to be said." "What has to be said?" the interviewer asked. "I'd like to advise the teenagers and twenty-somethings out there to make it happen while you have the chance, because in a few years it's gonna get ugly. These are the days of legend, people, the times of sweetness and light you thought you'd never know. Sure, from where you're standing it could get a lot better, but instead of that, all those crises in the far corners of the world, things like the collapse of national economies or nuclear war among religious zealots, are gonna land on you with the force of the inevitable. It'll feel inevitable when it happens, and you'll wonder what you were ever thinking, letting a moment like this slip by like it was nothing special." He felt tired of shallow controversy, the hangers-on who clambered for his attention, the need to flatter people he would have kicked in the shins not long ago. As an escape from all this, he headed to the Community Project, especially for its freestyle rap battles and poetry nights. He was gratified that they treated him not as a celebrity, but as an artist and fellow striver. "At least they think I have potential," he told himself. He usually went with Sebastian and his girlfriend Melissa, because Melissa dabbled in poetry and enjoyed doing readings. He would stop by their studio beforehand, or have a drink with them afterwards. The trouble was, Melissa needed a lot of support for her writing, and he was in no mood for that. He could predict the kind of critique she was looking for. "I really like the part about 'the eyes of a child in all our eyes.' It's the most sensitive poem I've heard in a long time." That wasn't for him. He'd kept hoping to run into Sabrina at the Community Project, but he hadn't seen her since the end of the tour. No doubt her duties as a Reinhold enforcer kept her busy, and she didn't have time to indulge her romantic side as the Blues Singer. He had fantasies of what might happen between them if she were fully in character. After seducing him with her voice, would she let him beat and abuse her? Would she remain "classically passive" as he left bruises on her porcelain skin? Despite her absence, her intelligence seemed to hover everywhere at the Community Project, to the point that when he stepped into the room, he felt like he was inside her. It was eerie the way her assistants performed their roles as if they were under remote control. Big Joe was a cipher who never said a word, nodding to his customers as he polished glasses and poured drinks. Peter greeted people at the door, set up chairs, and occasionally stepped onstage to explain what would happen next. Sometimes he would read one of his own poems, which sounded like they'd been written by a robot. Anton's favorite was "Waiting for Control." Cybele glided about, elusive as moonlight on water, with a tinkling of bells. When she danced, there was a whirl of movement followed by a sudden pause, leaving an image or emotion fixed in the mind. It made him uneasy to think that these people were Reinhold agents. Had they tasted the assassins' paradise, the garden you could never leave, or were they still waiting for their chance? Luckily, most of the people who came to the Community Project knew nothing about this. They were serious-minded people who cared about poetry and art. When they were around, the atmosphere stopped being creepy and became lively and animated. Sebastian seemed to thrive in this environment. He was no longer doing outrageous stunts like he had at Trashtown. In those days, Anton would have expected him to perform a fire show here, torching his sculptures in the middle of the floor. Instead he spoke passionately about painting to whoever would listen, inviting them to his studio to see for themselves. Melissa was another story. She was nervous as if she had to prove something, and overly protective of her imagined talent. Anton could see that whatever had drawn her to Sebastian wouldn't last much longer. <<< Back Table of Contents Next >>>