Twenty-Two
Friday morning dawned hazy. Slow boats mirrored themselves against the patina of the early light on the brackish water of the rivers. Exhaust from the first commuters’ cars mingled with the steam from sidewalk vents drifting spirit-like along the near deserted streets. The weakened sunlight glanced off glass office blocks and shadowed the few picturesque areas left in the city. The towers of the world trade centre stood sentient against the young skyline - a temporarily eternal symbol of success and failure. Traders, clerks and admin staff heading out of the subways and aiming for the various entrances avoided looking up at their Medusa. Workers unloading the first deliveries in the garment district hid behind their racks and wheeled them down the alleyways kicking the vagrants awake like so many snow ploughs. Heads bowed and backs arched, cleaners left the buildings breathing the unconditioned air in snorkel plumes. Somewhere a new born child gasped its first breath and screamed the verdict. New York, New York.
Max jogged sedately past the entrance to the zoo in central park. The crisp stillness of the early morning was starting to dissolve to the summer haze that would engulf everything from Nine O’Clock on. At the moment though, the green of the grass contrasted nicely withthe flowers in the attended beds and the lack of litter was testament to the overnight cleaning crews. A siren wailed through the streets behind him as he moved further into the park. Other joggers in assorted day-glo colours raced past him. It always amazed him that anywhere else in the world, joggers greet or at least smile to each other - brothers in their mutual pursuit of a healthier lifestyle, but in Nu Yoik you could be surrounded by hundreds of these people and yet be totally isolated. Eye contact was a big no-no. futilely he smiled at people anyway hoping that instead of thinking him dangerous, they would feel ashamed at their own grouchiness. He watched the sun hanging light above the buildings to the east, the sweet clean light caught the trees in the park at an angle that gave them a sharp and majestic grace. He’d long harboured a fantasy of climbing one of them at the dead of night and been ready at the very first light to catch and share the beauty.
His book was coming a little too slowly, even for his liking. It was about a famous author who writes a book concerning the murders of various foreign ambassadors stationed in Washington. Unfortunately for the hero, someone breaks into his computer, steals the manuscript and now the murders are actually happening. Countries are rapidly pulling their people out of the U.S. and making unofficial mutterings about C.I.A. plots etc. our shocked hero finds himself chief suspect with nowhere to turn.
Although not a very original idea, Max was enjoying writing it due to its scope for foreign adventure and secret agents. He’d travelled a bit and was looking forward to doing further research for the final draft. The trouble was the same as ever - the hero’s moral stance. He didn’t think it was enough, in the P.C. nineties, to have the typical James Bond type. Nowadays, to avoid certain corners of wrath, you had to be aware of minorities, women’s rights, abuse of children, intolerant upbringing and all the rest. The villain had to have pure evil in his veins - no-one else’s fault of course. Max didn’t agree with this. Peter Worth Inc. didn’t give a fuck however, they just wanted to shift copy. It was of course, just Max’s pride that stopped him bowing to the dollar. The public wanted a scapegoat - preferably one they knew of old - a delinquent Russki for example…and the more times you blew him up, the more they loved it.
Max jogged sedately past the entrance to the zoo in central park. The crisp stillness of the early morning was starting to dissolve to the summer haze that would engulf everything from Nine O’Clock on. At the moment though, the green of the grass contrasted nicely withthe flowers in the attended beds and the lack of litter was testament to the overnight cleaning crews. A siren wailed through the streets behind him as he moved further into the park. Other joggers in assorted day-glo colours raced past him. It always amazed him that anywhere else in the world, joggers greet or at least smile to each other - brothers in their mutual pursuit of a healthier lifestyle, but in Nu Yoik you could be surrounded by hundreds of these people and yet be totally isolated. Eye contact was a big no-no. futilely he smiled at people anyway hoping that instead of thinking him dangerous, they would feel ashamed at their own grouchiness. He watched the sun hanging light above the buildings to the east, the sweet clean light caught the trees in the park at an angle that gave them a sharp and majestic grace. He’d long harboured a fantasy of climbing one of them at the dead of night and been ready at the very first light to catch and share the beauty.
His book was coming a little too slowly, even for his liking. It was about a famous author who writes a book concerning the murders of various foreign ambassadors stationed in Washington. Unfortunately for the hero, someone breaks into his computer, steals the manuscript and now the murders are actually happening. Countries are rapidly pulling their people out of the U.S. and making unofficial mutterings about C.I.A. plots etc. our shocked hero finds himself chief suspect with nowhere to turn.
Although not a very original idea, Max was enjoying writing it due to its scope for foreign adventure and secret agents. He’d travelled a bit and was looking forward to doing further research for the final draft. The trouble was the same as ever - the hero’s moral stance. He didn’t think it was enough, in the P.C. nineties, to have the typical James Bond type. Nowadays, to avoid certain corners of wrath, you had to be aware of minorities, women’s rights, abuse of children, intolerant upbringing and all the rest. The villain had to have pure evil in his veins - no-one else’s fault of course. Max didn’t agree with this. Peter Worth Inc. didn’t give a fuck however, they just wanted to shift copy. It was of course, just Max’s pride that stopped him bowing to the dollar. The public wanted a scapegoat - preferably one they knew of old - a delinquent Russki for example…and the more times you blew him up, the more they loved it.
posted by Neorelix at 8:53 AM
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