A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius (49 page)

Like most of the new young help, Zev has more energy than we know what to do with. We send him on errands, we have him file things. We run out of things for him to file, until Paul bets us that he can get Zev to file a gigantic box of record company publicity photos—hundreds of them, none of which we
’
ll ever need, much less in alphabetical order.

It takes him almost a week, but he does it, entertaining us all and for a time distracting us from the fact that in many ways we
’
re starting to hate each other—our frustrations about our stagnancy spilling over into the way we talk to each other—
“
No, I bet that
’
ll get done real soon, sport
”
—our self-loathing turned against each other.

Appropriately enough, Zev, largely oblivious and still optimistic, comes up with the next cover story: The Future.

The opening essay:

The Future: Is It Coming?

It
’
s fun to wonder about the kinds of things that will happen in the future. Who will do what? What will happen? Those are big questions that are really hard to think about. But try something smaller, like food in The Future: What will we be eating? Will food taste the same, or will it taste different? Will it still be chewy? What about clothes? Will they be tighter, or looser?

We ask a variety of experts what they foresee happening in 1995, and beyond:

The future of window cleaning

by Richard Fabry, publisher, American Window Cleaner:

“
More and more people will notice professional window cleaning

tools...after all, they are pretty. Many are made out of brass and

have a nice 3-D sculptured look to them—almost as if they deserve

to be shown off in a museum.
”

The future of beverages

Susan Sherwood, editor, Arizona Beverage Analyst:

“
Overall, people will be drinking less, but drinking better in
‘
95.
”

Zev writes to William T. Vollmann, soliciting his predictions for the year. Vollmann writes back, in crayon, on the other side of the letter, indicating that he
’
d like to contribute, but would like to be compensated. Because we have never paid anyone for anything, and have less money now than ever before, we ask if there
’
s anything nonmonetary we can do. He says okay, this is what he wants: a) One box of .45-caliber Gold Saber bullets; b) Two hours, in a warm, well-lit room, with two naked women, to paint them, in watercolor.

Zev runs to the gun shop on Second Street, and one of our part-time assistants, a bartender named Michelle, says she
’
ll model and will bring along a friend. Vollmann drives down from Sacramento with a friend, who sits with Moodie in his kitchen as Vollmann paints Michelle and friend in the living room.

We wait until after the session to hand over the bullets.

The issue
’
s gravamen is
“
Twenty in their 20s,
”
a ha-ha both on ourselves and on a recent
New York Times Magazine
spread heralding
“
Thirty Under Thirty,
”
a list that included no one we had heard of, or imagined we would ever hear from again. Most important, it did not include us, and that was perturbing. Our intro:

Slack this: Might presents twenty young movers, shakers and money-makers who can
’
t even spell
“
slack.
”
Twenty of the hottest,
hippest, hard-rockin
’
est twentysomethings ever to throw on a pair of used jeans and Doc Martens. Twenty who earned their inheritances. Twenty who know that being young, having fun and drinking Pepsi is more than just a slogan. Twenty who
’
d like to buy the world a Coke, and are already lining up at the counter. Your twenty, my twenty, our twenty.. .Might
’
s twenty.

In our spread, all of those to watch are famous, rich, attractive, well dressed, and more often than not, the progeny of the already famous, rich, attractive, and well dressed. Brent, Moodie
’
s roommate, dresses as Lt. Sanders, jet-set son of the Colonel. Our newest intern, Nancy, poses as Juliette Tork, rock-star-hopeful daughter of the Monkees
’
Peter. There is of course a Kennedy (we call him Tad; he has had run-ins), a surname-less model, a black filmmaker (
“
I want to make fairy tales for black folk
”
), a Hasidic rave organizer (Schlomo
“
Cinnamon
”
Meyer), and a rapper from the Upper East Side (hit single:
“
Double-Parking Bitch
”
). For no good reason at all, we send another Scud in the direction of poor Wendy Kopp:

Cindy Kahn, 25, Founder, Streets for America Streets for America, an idea born from Kahn
’
s senior thesis at Harvard, is now a multibillion dollar nonprofit corporation. Placing recent college grads on the streets of America
’
s most dangerous cities, the program
’
s purpose is to reinvigorate the country
’
s police force with fresh faces, open minds and good breeding.
“
All the regular cops seemed to be so stupid and ugly,
”
says Kahn.
“
It was time to bring some class to law enforcement. You can bet hardened criminals will sit up and take notice if the person who
’
s cuffing them is well-dressed and, say, has a master
’
s from Yale.
”

And of course we take a swipe at Lead or Leave:

Frank Morris, 29, and Frank Smolinov, 29

founders, Organize or Emigrate!

These two comprise the brains behind the politically neutral but

politically influential Organize or Emigrate! Claiming
“
somewhere

around 130 million members,
”
the organization, in just two years,

has managed to produce three pamphlets and a button. But they
’
re
not resting on their laurels.
“
We won
’
t sit down to an hour-and-half-long meal, or even read our fraternity newsletter, until every man and woman in Generation X has seen our picture in a major magazine,
”
says Smolinov. So what
’
s next?
“
What we
’
re looking for is a Cabinet appointment,
”
Morris says.
“
But it looks like Perot isn
’
t going to run in
‘
96.
”

Zev, with a gesture that says
“
Who, me?
”
poses as Kevin Hillman, whose entry strikes eerily close to home:

Kevin Hillman, 26, Author

“
Slacker? Not me,
”
laughs Hillman. He can afford to laugh, too. His book, Slacker? Not Me! has been perched atop the
Times
bestseller list since early January and shows no signs of slipping. The book is simply the transcribed recordings of a week
’
s worth of conversations between Hillman and his friends, captured by accident on a tape recorder.
“
I just forgot the thing was recording, and when I listened to it, it was just so, so; so damned real!
”
Next month Hillman guest VJ
’
s with Kennedy on MTV
’
s Alternative Alternative Nation Weekend Rock and Jock Tribute Water Polo Weekend.

Shalini poses serenely, in Indian garb, as electric lutist Nadia Sadique—
“
equally adept at classical lute, country lute, and bottleneck-slide lute.
”
Two weeks later we get a call from a producer of
Where in the World Is Carmen Sandiego?
an educational show on PBS.

They absolutely must have Nadia on the show.

We promise to forward the message to Nadia
’
s manager. After a brief discussion, we decide that Nadia
’
s manager will be Paul. We hook up the phone to a tape recorder, and Paul returns the call of the producer.

PAUL: Hello, Mr. Meath, this is Nadia Sadique
’
s agent, Paul Wood-Prince.

[It is my understanding that Paul came up with that, Wood-Prince, on the spot.

producer: Hello! Yes, I was just given your number. How did we find you?

PAUL:
Might
magazine.

producer: Yeah, we saw the thing in
Might
magazine. Are you familiar with our show?

paul: Yes.

producer: Oh good. Nadia seems to be exactly the kind of person that we might use for a walk-on on the show, or to illustrate some musical clue. And of course the other thing we love about it is that she plays the lute.

PAUL: [Silence}

producer: That
’
s sort of an inside joke on our show. Every day we steal something that
’
s called
“
The Loot.
”

paul: Uh-huh. Right.
“
The Loot.
”

producer: And so if we could have her playing the lute, it would be great. It
’
s just our kind of joke.

PAUL: She
’
s also from Bangladesh.

producer: Oh yeah, we love that multicultural stuff.

Paul hardballs Meath over dates and fees, and finally books the fictional Nadia on the show for the following month. (We beg her, but Shalini will not go. Nadia is a no-show.)

The cover of the issue features five of the twentysomethings to watch, all looking off the page to some brighter tomorrow, over which are the words:

The Future: Here to Stay!

Just before the issue goes to press, the owner of our building finally catches on that we
’
re still there. We
’
re given a week to get out.

We move our offices from the condemned warehouse to the fifth floor of a glassy office box in the middle of the city. The
Chronicle
promotions department, wanting us closer so Moodie and I can provide lightning-quick service, have let us move in with them—along with Shalini and
Hum,
Carla and
bOING bOING
— giving us about 800 square feet, with floor-to-ceiling windows, for $ 1,000 a month—which Moodie and I easily pay by overcharging them for our design work.

But the grind has begun. The windows don
’
t open, and even the availability of near-constant jokes about Jews and Mormons fails to stem the tide of frustration, decay. We
’
ve reached the end of pure inspiration, and are now somewhere else, something implying routine, or doing something because people expect us to do it, going somewhere each day because we went there the day before, saying things because we have said them before, and this seems like the work of a different sort of animal, contrary to our plan, and this is very very bad.

At home it
’
s returning library books late, and getting posterboard for Toph
’
s map of Africa, and grocery shopping at the place where they know us and know that we don
’
t need a cart to carry the bags to the car, not us, because two men can carry six bags four for me and two for Toph, we love carrying the stuff, side by side, and thus insist upon it. And one night after the grocery store and immediately after a bookstore visit, from the north of Shattuck Avenue, right in the left-middle of Berkeley
’
s downtown there comes a moving, gurgling volcano of lights. White lights popping from motorcycles, police cars yelling in red and blue, and then a slow river of shiny black. A procession. Too late for a funeral—it
’
s already dark—but then, what—

They drive past, and about when we think they
’
ll be out of sight, they stop.

A man walks toward us, from the direction of the caravan.

“
It
’
s Clinton,
”
he says.
“
He
’
s eating at Chez Panisse.
”