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Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781627797832 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Holt, Henry & Company, Inc. |
| Publication date: | 08/04/2015 |
| Sold by: | Macmillan |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 300 |
| File size: | 2 MB |
About the Author
Todd Wiggins is the author of Zeitgeist. He currently lives in London with his wife, the novelist Tricia Sullivan.
Read an Excerpt
Zeitgeist
By Todd Wiggins
Henry Holt and Company
Copyright © 1996 Todd WigginsAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-62779-783-2
CHAPTER 1
Discount Euthanasia ...
The priest, a flushed young Caucasian, was running down Broadway when they saw him, carrying a briefcase in one hand and a Kalashnikov in the other. Dorian had stopped for a red light at 125th, beneath the girders of the 1/9 el. The priest, fifty feet distant, vestments billowing, veered suddenly toward the car — a black '65 Mustang, top down in the oppressive May heat. He bounded through the intersection, dodging traffic, and vaulted into the back seat in a tangle of polyester with the admonition "Drive, drive, drive!"
Growing up in the sanctum of a Gwynedd valley had not prepared Dorian for New York's preternatural humidity, let alone armed clergymen at Harlem's edge. A creeping midday funk embalmed his pallid face, an intimate sheen virtually fused with the skin, impossible to brush or wish away. Nor was he dressed for the occasion: in conformity with his perception of Left Bank chic, Dorian's wardrobe was a uniform parade of decrepit black suits and matching turtle-necks, thanks to which he now perspired copiously. His weak blue eyes appealed to his black companion for support.
Prophet, resplendent in white boubou, fez, and wire-rimmed glasses, did not deign to look at the gunman-priest. Instead he gave a bored sigh and said, "Get the fuck out of the car."
The priest, having arranged his skirts as primly as a debutante, leaned forward in disbelief. He appeared not much older than they — twenty-five at most — and his features were dark and beautiful, possibly Italian. "Excuse me?" he said.
A green light supplanted the red. Dorian gripped the wheel, his foot wavering on the accelerator. Prophet gazed into the middle distance, unperturbed. Other motorists were scattering from this small corner of the City toward any avenue of escape. The Mustang remained inert, with not a horn raised in protest.
Prophet sighed again. "I said get the fuck out of here."
The priest sank back, clearly at a loss; then, belatedly, he jabbed the rifle into Prophet's neck. "I think you should reconsider."
Prophet snorted. "You got ten seconds," he said, "then I kick your ass. One."
"... Wait a second."
"Two."
"I will use this gun, asshole."
"Three."
"Goddamn it I said move —"
"Four."
"Prophet," said Dorian.
"Five."
"I said —"
"Six."
"Prophet."
"Seven, what?" He followed Dorian's gesture toward a company of uniformed policemen, all heaving ever closer. Pedestrians crouched behind cars and telephone poles, watching with detached expectancy. (This again ...)
"Jesus Christ," said the priest.
The policemen were thirty yards away, guns drawn. "Police!!!" they screamed, as if to dispel any lingering skepticism.
"Prophet for god sake what —"
"Move. Now."
"Toward there ...?"
"Move!"
With an indignant shriek the car lurched into motion, shuddering west along 125th Street, where the promise of New Jersey sprang to life upon the horizon.
"Which —"
"Take a right up here," said Prophet.
Beneath the imposing trestles of Riverside Drive they passed among grim warehouses and car cemeteries, and then "Left!" toward the river and finally "Right! Go right!" ("All right, Christ!") pursuing an entrance ramp until it merged with its fellows into a three-lane conspiracy heading north, under the steady vigilance of high-rises and billboards, one of which proclaimed the opening of a discount euthanasia clinic in Times Square.
"Faster," said Prophet.
"Christ I'm already going eighty!"
"Faster; what?" He turned as the priest leaned forward. The priest's eyes looked brown from a distance, but up close Prophet could see they were gold as the burnish of a wedding ring.
"I didn't mean to go this way," said the priest.
"You wanna get out, be my guest. Faster Dorian."
"Well fuck at least stop the car!"
"Can't stop now Pater, less you want a thousand cops on your ass OK here Dorian, take a right here."
"The bridge? Do I take the bridge or Cross Bronx —"
"The bridge, you idiot."
"Upper or lower le —"
"Doesn't matter there, take the upper level watch it! —" as a van fled bleating off their left flank "— now good, just follow this around and you'll be fine."
"Goddamn it," said the priest.
"What's your problem?"
"I meant to go to SoHo, that's what!"
"Risk you run, leading a life of crime," said Prophet cheerfully. "Way I see it, we're doing you a favor. And hey, quit waving that shit around and put it under the seat."
"Why the hell did we drive away?" snapped Dorian. "We should have left him for the police. Come to think of it, I should never have left Abergynolwyn."
"Pining for the Celtic hinterlands," said Prophet, adopting a credible Welsh accent. "Taliesin, Taliesin, wherefore art thou — man what the fuck you want now?" as the priest tapped his shoulder.
"Listen I really need to —"
"Look shut up, right? Soon as we stop I'm gonna get out and kick your fat papist butt."
"Prophet," said Dorian, as the bridge yielded to the welcome of Fort Lee, the City vanishing behind them in a sickly haze, "where should I —"
"Just follow 95 south, and stay in the express lane. The traffic, Jesus."
"I think I should warn you," said the priest.
"Warn me what, Aquinas?"
"Well first, I'm not really a priest."
"I never would have guessed," said Prophet.
"No I mean I was until yesterday afternoon, but then I sort of got excommunicated."
"S'too bad. After I kicked your ass I was gonna confess my sins, ease the burden of my poor black soul. Now I'll just have to kick your ass and feel guilty."
The ex-priest stared at him. "Yeah? Yeah well fuck you, you little —"
"Shut up, both of you," said Dorian. "Prophet, where the hell are we going?"
"Going to California, I thought."
"Yes but I mean now, where are we —"
"California?" said the ex-priest.
"Get onto 80 west up ahead and stay there," said Prophet. And, turning: "That's right Augustine, you wanna get out you better do it quick."
"Goddamn it I wanted to go to SoHo! Jesus shit —"
"What's in SoHo?" asked Dorian.
"My squat. My medication ..."
"You got allergies?" said Prophet.
"No I don't have allergies I'm schizo phrenic you little —"
"Ai! Yo!"
"Fuck off Prophet," said Dorian. "How long before the medication wears off? Maybe we could stop and pick some up."
"No no no it's Stelazine it's a prescription drug you don't just waltz in —"
"Maybe we should take him back, Prophet."
"Fuck that, the man holds a gun to my head he'll go wherever the hell I say. He flips out, we'll lock him in the trunk." He glanced back at the ex-priest. "The fuck's your name, anyway?"
"Fish."
"Fish?"
"Well it's no worse than Prophet now is it?"
Prophet sank nearly to the floor, cackling. "Fish!!"
"What exactly were you doing back there, before you jumped in the car?" asked Dorian.
"Armed robbery."
"You mean a bank?"
"Crack house."
"God damn are you stupid," said Prophet, recovering himself. "You make a habit of it?"
"Armed robbery? Let's get something straight: I've got the worst fucking disease in the world and it's barely under control and I was kicked out of the Church and no parish'll hire me and everything sucks, OK? I've got fifty dollars to my name, so don't blame me for armed robbery. Blame the goddamn century."
"The what?"
"The twentieth century. It's not just an era: it's a disease, a pathology. It's the scene of the crime."
"Well you'll like us then," said Dorian as they entered a landscape of factories and motels, some offering hourly rates, not to mention a billboard from which a scowling female octogenarian wielding a small pistol assured passersby that the Lady Zygote(r) was so compact even she could use it ... "We're philosophers, just like yourself."
"Shut up Dorian I am not a philosopher," said Prophet. "I'm a propagandist, got it? Have to kick your ass too."
"Aw quit with the black attitude," sneered Fish. "You look like you're barely five feet tall, I mean I've known hedgehogs that could kick your ass —"
Prophet lunged toward the back seat, jostling Dorian's hand on the wheel. The car swerved across two lanes to the startled outrage of a neighboring semi and the detriment of a red Porsche gone spinning onto the berm.
"Jesus!" Dorian slowed the car to forty as the semi rumbled past accusingly and barreled into the distance, while the chastened Porsche lingered a wary fifty yards to the rear. Fish, meanwhile, had imposed a wrist-lock on Prophet, who howled like a voice in the wilderness.
"Quit it both of you!"
Fish relinquished his hold, glowering.
"Now," said Dorian. "Let's get everything nice and sparkling clear, before we proceed any further. Fish, I'm driving to California. If you'd like to come along —"
"Yeah but what about my Stelazine?"
"Well Fish, there's nothing I can do about that. I'd be happy to let you off here, where are we, Willow-brook?" as they passed a broad expanse of parking lots, all full, the cars like drones attending a queen, in this case a shopping mall. "You could probably catch a bus into the City, although I suppose you'd have to leave that rifle in the car."
"Fuck!"
"Indeed yes: 'Fuck.' In fact," said Dorian, always glad for the chance to expound, "I'd say that word has become the fulcrum of Western civilization. If one could recapitulate your beloved twentieth century in a single word — well, I certainly can't think of a better one. Anyway, what's the verdict? I mean obviously if you have a family or something one doesn't just rush off to California."
"I was a priest, remember? Besides, my parents disowned me. They're Jewish."
"... Ah. All right then, fair enough. Now I should mention that I'm bisexual, in case you're sensitive about that sort of thing."
"Please, it's 1999. Why should I care?"
Dorian glanced at Fish. "Well, I've always been a sucker for men in black, not to mention Mediterraneans. Do you intend to keep wearing that?"
"Ain't like he brought something else," Prophet pointed out. And to Fish: "How much money you get, anyway?"
"I haven't counted it yet," Fish replied, snapping open the briefcase and riffling through stacks of bills from which the knowing countenance of Benjamin Franklin stared back at him. "Jesus — maybe fifty grand?"
"What!" said Dorian.
"Look I had no idea it would be so much, I mean petty theft was all I ever —"
"Oh Christ are we fucked."
"Don't think I'll be paying you gas money Dorian, know what I'm sayin?"
"Well at least the serial numbers are discontinuous," said Fish, scrutinizing the fine print. "What, are we stopping ...?"
The car was slowing along the berm. "We're getting rid of that money," said Dorian. "I don't even live in this country. The last thing I need is —"
"Is your pretty ass in jail, right?" sniggered Prophet. "Ah Dorian, you're so clean and white and, and sacrosanct. Some big-ass brother comes along in the shower, how bisexual you gonna be then?"
"Prophet —"
"Bet you never had it that rough, eh Glendower? Can just see it, back in Oxford, pretty blond men just like you, everybody in cricket whites, that shared moment in some quiet backwater punting the Cherwell, eh old boy? You and some viscount in a blue-eyed clinch —"
"Prophet for god sake!"
"Long way from Attica, thass for sure. I mean think about it, s'ard imagining Oxford and Attica on the same planet, eh old boy?"
"Prophet you're scaring him!" said Fish.
"If you ever say anything like that to me again," Dorian grated, "I'll — I'll —"
"Yeah, sure you will," said Prophet. "Welsh ubermenschen, they haunt my dreams. All hail the Plaid Cymri."
"Look I don't want to get anyone in trouble," said Fish. "Drop me off in the next town, I'll figure out what to do then."
"No no no, you stay right there. We'll drive to California, have ourselves a good old time."
"Well what the fuck," said Dorian, goading the car into motion. "At the end of the summer I'll be back in Gwynedd, who the hell could track me there?"
"That's right!" said Prophet, slapping the dashboard.
"And it's not as if I committed the robbery."
"I'll say you were my hostages," said Fish.
"We won't press charges," Prophet assured him.
"I mean what the hell do I care?" queried Dorian, as much to the sky as to his companions. "My book has been declined by every publisher in New York. I failed all my classes at Columbia. I've been expelled from the foreign exchange program. I'm down to my last five hundred dollars and all my friends back at Oxford are HIV-positive. My future lies in farming, assuming I don't have AIDS. What have I got to lose?"
"Precisely," said Prophet. "I couldn't have put it better myself. You with us Fish?"
"Well," Fish replied, "there'll be a warrant for my arrest, once they do a little research. My neurochemistry is the laughingstock of God's creation. I've been excommunicated for sins of the flesh. I know I don't have anything to lose." He sighed. "I guess there's nothing special about SoHo after all."
CHAPTER 2Post-Hexaemeronic Stress ...
Not a bad beginning, is it.
I think this story just might work.
Did you notice the snappiness of the writing, the paciness that nicely counterbalances the rich, mandarin sentences of my own commentary? Perfect for shorter attention spans.
And just so we're clear on everything: one of those three men — Prophet, Dorian, or Fish — is my correspondent on Death Row. The preceding chapter marked the beginning of his journey there.
It gets even better.
I have a narrative of my own which runs parallel to that of my friends, and to which I will repair from time to time throughout these pages. The diversion will not be unprofitable — trust me on that. I can promise you considerable entertainment at my expense, in part because murder has been the least of my accomplishments. For example, I was almost murdered myself. I even died for a short time, and my report on the afterlife will be included for your review. Was Lazarus so forthcoming?
At any rate, I cannot explain my involvement in his story without telling you some of mine, and you'll see that they dovetail rather nicely in the end. The more I think about it, the more I'm convinced that my recent life makes for not uncompelling reading; and perhaps, as I intimated earlier, I might persuade myself to reveal why murder is sometimes best for all concerned.
On a wet and steamy night in Manhattan, September 1998, I, Venus Wicked, existentialist call-girl and self-styled autodidact, presented myself at 923 Fifth Avenue at eight o'clock, inquiring after Mr. Yoram Bickel. "He's expecting me," I added haughtily to the concierge, who appraised me with flaring nostrils and curling upper lip. It must be the perfume, I thought. I'd received a free sample only that afternoon. It was called Narcissa, and aptly so: after a generous application I'd begun to salivate, filled with a self-esteem I hadn't known in years. Perhaps the concierge was merely subverting his lust, but that would have been par for the course, with or without the perfume. I tend to have that effect on men, and on many women as well.
Not that I was dressed like a whore. Per the client's request, I wore a black skirt and matching jacket, with starched white shirt and black stockings. I might have been going to a job interview. In fact, given the price of the outfit (paid for by my agency, which had a wholesale deal with some mob family in the garment district), I might have been buying the goddamn company.
This was my first assignment. I'd changed careers only that morning, after realizing I had forty dollars in the bank and bills mounting toward a thousand. I had come to New York to write novels, but in the end I wrote very little. I was too busy thinking about writing. There are a thousand and one distractions to which unpublished writers succumb, like spending long hours in the bookstore or library perusing the new releases and glibly assuring ourselves that we can do much, much better. Envy is the mother of invention, and conceit the father; necessity paints on a much narrower canvas. The intent of every serious novelist, at heart, is to surpass, discredit, and ultimately negate the work of her peers and mentors (at least it's sure as hell mine). But though I stockpiled envy and conceit ad nauseam, the prophylactic called Laziness rendered me sterile. I filled my days by assiduously denigrating the work of others, which left precious little time for my own. In spare moments I considered the many uses of my impending fortune, while slowly I went broke.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Zeitgeist by Todd Wiggins. Copyright © 1996 Todd Wiggins. Excerpted by permission of Henry Holt and Company.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Contents
Cover,Title Page,
Copyright Notice,
Dedication,
Epigraph,
Prologue: Here at the Millennium ...,
1 Discount Euthanasia ...,
2 Post-Hexaemeronic Stress ...,
3 A Portrait of Dorian Bray, with Incidental Music ...,
4 Saved by Technology; or, Another Satisfied Customer ...,
5 Big Plans for Everybody ...,
6 Of Bikers, Strip Joints, and the Collapse of Logical Positivism ...,
7 Trends Among the Heterosexual; or, The Lawyer's Last Gasp ...,
8 How to Save the Catholic Church ...,
9 The Fate of the American Novel; or, Rednecks on the Make ...,
10 Broadening One's Mind; or, How to Get Away with Murder ...,
11 On the Future of Y Chromosomes ...,
12 The Philosopher-King in Deep Shit ...,
13 Perspective ...,
14 The Case for Heresiarchy ...,
15 Y Chromosomes Revisited; or, The Need for a Stronger Pornocracy ...,
16 The Amber Waves of Flames ...,
17 Pomp and Circumstance ...,
18 The Return of Odyssea; or, The Advantages of Formal Karate Instruction ...,
19 Our Penal System: An Exegesis; or, Bottoms Up!,
Acknowledgments,
About the Author,
Copyright,