Glimmering

In July it snowed in New York. Environmental terrorists seized the George Washington Bridge and closed it off to traffic, erecting makeshift shelters and hanging an immense banner painted with a cerulean antelope. The strike forces marshaled by city and federal government were destroyed by napalm guns Blue Antelope had obtained from the sympathetic interim governments of Madagascar, New Zealand, and Kalimantan, as well as by ecologically noninvasive nerve gas smuggled in from the group’s Icelandic mission. News of other attacks by radicals filtered through the net to reach Jack at Lazyland: logging operations brought to a halt in the Pacific Northwest and Brazilian rain forest; the flooded ancient temples at Ayutthaya in Thailand captured by armed Buddhists who joined forces with the Christian environmental extremists. Pope Gregory XVII’s weekly message from St. Paul’s was interrupted by students wearing animal masks. In North America and Japan, outlaw electronic and video broadcasts by Blue Antelope spokesman Lucius Chappell made outraged claims that multinational corporations including GFI, TRW, Matsushita-Krupp and Gibson/Skorax were involved in a global conspiracy to release newly developed neurological toxins into the water supplies of First and Third World countries. The wife of Yukio Tatsumi, CEO of multinational giant Gorita-Folham-Ized, was found dead in their Paris apartment, an apparent suicide. Friends said she had been despondent for some time. The wildfires that had consumed Houston roared their way into Galveston Bay and on into the Gulf of Mexico, igniting offshore drilling platforms like Catherine wheels. The poisonous chemicals released into the clouds caused spectacular effects that could be seen as far away as Tampico and New Orleans.

At Lazyland, life teetered on. Jack had several messages from lawyers representing both The Golden Family and the interests of The Gaudy Book—the latter, despite all Jack’s protests, arranged by Leonard Thrope. It appeared that the sale would proceed without any difficulties; by year’s end, little Jackie Finnegan would be a relatively wealthy man. The realization caused him neither great happiness nor distress, only gratitude that he would be able to provide better for his ancient grandmother. Keeley and Jack’s brothers had to approve the sale, which they did. Jack had already spoken to Jule Gardino about changing his will once the sale was complete: upon his death, the estate would be divided amongst his siblings and their children, with provisions made for Keeley, if she should outlive him. Provisions also had to be made for someone to take over the helm of The Gaudy Book itself—Jack was serious about no longer wanting to be responsible for managing an outdated literary quarterly, even one that would continue under the benison of a zillion-dollar multinational corporation. Especially one that would continue under a multinational corporation.

But qualified prospective candidates were few. Articles about the magazine’s sale had appeared on all the major financial sites, sparking inquiries from a number of corporate leaders and venture capitalists with literary ambitions, as well as from an incarcerated former director of corporate finance who had written a best-selling autobiography. There was also a witty letter and set of vitae from a professor of American Popular Food Culture at Tokyo University, and several annoying foot couriers sent by an agent representing the author of Lovemaking Secrets of Chianghis Khan. Jack left these unread on his computer or his desk, and found himself experiencing bursts of happiness whenever the electricity failed.

The truth was, he was more preoccupied with the dwindling level of his vial of Fusax. Or rather, in the curious fact that while the Fusax seemed to dwindle and dwindle and dwindle, the bottle never quite emptied. He was only taking a few drops a day now, under the tongue. Even so he was certain that any day there would be nothing left in the vial.

But there always was. Not much, surely not enough to last more than a few days, a week at most; but then the weeks became one month, and another, and then it was summer, or what passed for summer with its fractal sky, its scintillant air that shone like gaudy night but smelled like burning petroleum.