The School on Heart's Content Road (26 page)

One of the girls from the town who was around that night said she thought maybe
some
people with stocks weren't exactly capitalists. “They aren't the ones running the Federal Reserve. Not the ones disappearing Chileans. Maybe they would be for democracy for . . . everybody.”

Michelle
tsk
ed. “
These
guys have to be leftists.”

Whitney stood up, flyer in hand. “Seems people get into being left
or
right. Like frogs or toads.”

Chuckles and tee-hees.

Bree spoke in her cigarette-softened way that the left was more for people, while capitalism was about accumulation. “Getting more people involved with the left might save the world.”

That's when we heard the voice, gravelly and wet. “The octopus is three hundred years old. Its tentacles and suckers are stuck to
ev-er-ree-thing,
left and right.” It was Gordon, who we believed was still asleep because his eyes were still closed, even as other folks were stirring to leave.

All the other voices stopped.

The gravelly voice from Gordon's face, dark with beard, and dark with crimson lighting, repeated, “
ev-er-ree-thing
.” He opened one eye and it swept the room, lighthouse fashion. “Remember? Remember?” Then he opened the other eye. He fixed his green gaze on Bree. She turned her face away, raggedly red-orange hair tumbling over her work shirt.

“Save the world?” He sat up, blinking. His voice cleared, so it sounded more like himself. “Whoever sees the whole world as their object of fascination will be working toward centralization. Even if you are nice people.” He spoke in such a sad way, rubbing his eyes. “You would have to have a second man-eating octopus to fight the first one.”

Whitney drew in closer to him, her arms akimbo.

Michelle was holding a photo close to his face of Haitian men in a big cage. “You gave these to us!
You
were the one pounding your fist and slobbering all over everybody about
Mammoneers! Rememberrrrr
?

Somebody still on one of the couches, maybe Dee Dee, let all her breath out through her lips, horse style.

Bree was now standing, but outside the circle of girls, which had squeezed around Gordon.

Committed leftist Nathan was leaving, slipping out, like he'd never been there.

Gordon stood, solid and towering, the carnival light thickening his shoulders and head. He said, “Left is only the left legs of the octopus. The New World Order is industrial and centralized . . . and guess what? Debt-based. All tied in with the same bankers and system. And ‘open door' imperialist policies. If it's big, they have their suckers on it and—”

“
Weee
know that!” snarled our flashy Samantha. “We want to start a new one. More chopped up. Like . . . anarchism.”

“But you were talking global system,” another adult voice supported Gordon.

“Weren't you? You said
left.
” Another voice.

Bree smiled. “
I
said left.”

Samantha was rocking from foot to foot. “What about the Settlement? You guys are
growinnng
.” She said the word
growing
in a singsong nah-nah way. “The co-ops are all over the state. That's organized.”

Gordon said evenly, “
Not
a global system. Not a great net. Not an octopus. And, sadly, we aren't a threat to the octopus, which is the big ugly child of both big communism and big capitalism. Or, rather, all three are tools of the grand accumulators. The world doesn't even know we're here.”

“No?” one of the girls said with a squint.

He lowered his eyes.

In most ways, this night doesn't stand out special for me. This was actually a typical night, the back-and-forth of ideas, the way Gordon's squirrelly mind and loud mouth would always derail everyone. You had to get a squirrelly head yourself to defend your premises.

But there was something this night in the eyes of our girls, their eager eyes made scorchy red and deeper by the little parlor lamp. They were not going to go long with the wind knocked out of their sails this time. All over their silhouettes were sparkles.

Samantha leaned toward Bree and, with just tongue tip, teeth, and lips, no voice, said, “No hope.” She was smiling.

Michelle now did the same but with the swishiness of a whisper.

Then Dee Dee too, and Whitney, and the others—and now Bree—a whispered chant of
No hope
. . . pause. . .
No hope
. . . pause.
No hope no hope no hope,
on and on with fluttering eyes.

More advice from the screen.

Hi-ho, there! Do not talk among yourselves. Listen to meeeee!

History as it happens (as recorded by Rawn, age seven, and Lani, age eleven, with assistance from Whitney and Margo and Michelle, who are right here).

We listened to a tape of a lecture by Gordie's friend Bob, Bob Monks. Whitney understood it, Michelle understood it, and Margo understood it. It was hard but it was good to be there because Margo gave me a neck rub. I am Lani. Rawn fell asleep but Gordie says Bob is smart as hell. He talked about the Business Roundtable. Margo said it's the most powerful union in America. Most unions are not powerful but weak due to laws made by big business. The Business Roundtable is a union of CEOs of the most giant corporations. So they don't make laws against themselves. Bob Monks is worried about their power, and Gordie said to notice that, because Bob is not a leftist. He is a corporate lawyer of capitalism. Everyone says this proves that everybody is worried. Where is everything going? Big question, right?

In a small American city in the Midwest.

Yet another station wagon waiting to make a left turn in light predawn traffic exhibits
yet
another MY CHILD IS AN HONOR STUDENT bumper sticker.

Out in the world in a rattling rocking factory in China.

Workers bend to inspect the flow of glossy MY CHILD IS AN HONOR STUDENT bumper stickers, broken into smaller orders
from varying towns and schools. This batch is green with white English language lettering. Unreadable. Unappreciated.

In thousands of American and other First World schools.

The uniformly practiced fingers of millions tap the keyboards, the uniformly expectant eyes of millions are lit by the yawing radiance of screens. Millions of brains are locked to uniform programs of study in a haze of trust and belief, snatching at the high-speed and uniformly correct answers and theories required for tests, for scores, for honors.

Secret Agent Jane gathers evidence.

There is a person named Gail here at Gordie's house today, one of the mothers, Michelle's mum. Michelle is one of the oldish girls who is always too busy. She goes to the university with Claire on Wednesdays and talks all the time about stuff nobody cares about. This lady, Gail, has a cute body, nice and shape-ish. And her hair is a good long braid, black hair. But her face is line-ish. And she has too much tattoo. If you have a little tattoo on your leg or arm or titty, a little shamrock or butterfly, it is okay. But Gail has HUGE FLOWERS of smoodged colors around her neck—yes, her
neck
. In front of her shirt, over the button; you can always see part of it.

She is making a rug. She didn't bring any books or games. She doesn't even
try
to make me happy.

The cat likes her and sits by her foot or in the next chair. She calls him Duey. But Bev calls him Frank. He is black and scary and lazy. I hate him. Some cats I like. But all cats here are just dumb. Maybe my Mum will call and say she's coming soon. Maybe the lawyer guy Kane has thought of a way. I reach up for the phone a couple of times when it rings. It's the kind on the wall. Turns out it's only people who want people. I let the phone drop and smash the wall right in the middle of their dumb words. Gail doesn't care if I do this. She just keeps working on her dumb rug no matter what I do.

Gordie comes in from a door with sheds and other doors. He has BAGS. Yes, stuff from the store. I squint my eyes and work up the
power. The room glows a meanish pink. I fix my glasses better and I know he knows I know where he's been. “What did you bring me?”