js&cs.thebridge-第38部分

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


ke　had　ever　seen；　which　explained；　of　course；　why　his　son　had　purchased　two。
　　Garth　loved　his　exploding　Kennedy　T…shirts。　They　spoke　to　him。　Moreover；　they　spoke　on　his　behalf　to　the　world　at　large。　Like　the　black　dove's　foot　earring　dangling　from　his　ear；　the　buzzwords　and　slogos　buttoneered　to　his　lapels：　THROBBING　GRISTLE；　SILENCE　=　DEATH；　THE　SEX　WAS　BETTER　IN　PRISON。
　　Or；　most　specifically；　the　one　stenciled　huge　across　his　black　leather…clad　back：　the　word　future　in　blood…red　letters；　blotted　out　by　the　chalky　white　circle　with　the　diagonal　slash　through　it；　the　universal　negative　symbol　like　a　canceled　stamp　across　it。　It　summed　up　Garth's　attitude　toward　life　very　nicely。
　　NO　FUTURE。
　　That　was　what　Garth　had　to　look　forward　to；　and　boy　was　he　excited。　Only　just　sixteen；　and　already　it　was　over；　or；　even　worse；　it　might　drag　on　like　this　for　years。　A　lifetime　of　hypocrisy；　followed　by　an　ugly　gray　descent　into　middle…aged　decrepitude　and　ultimate　pain…filled　oblivion。
　　Just　like　dear　old　Dad　。。。
　　Garth　cringed　involuntarily。　〃So　can　I　use　the　phone　now？〃　he　inquired。
　　〃No！〃　Blake　hissed　the　word　like　the　first　spit　of　poison　out　a　gas…chamber　vent。　〃Can't　you　see　I'm　busy？〃
　　Garth　groaned；　shrugging　heavily。　〃Aw；　c'mon。　Lydia's　an　hour　and　forty…five　minutes　late。　It'll　only　take　。。。　〃
　　〃Goddammit　。。。　！〃
　　Outside；　a　car　horn　sounded。
　　〃No　problem；　Dad。　Thanks。　You're　a　real　pal。〃
　　Disgust　wadded　like　puke　in　his　throat。　He　split　before　he　got　some　on　the　rug。
　　
　　Leaving　Blake；　for　a　moment；　in　the　grip　of　a　genuine　moral　dilemma。
　　Then　the　front　door　slammed；　and　a　car　engine　gunned。　The　squeal　of　tires　that　followed　relieved　him　of　all　responsibility。　Jesus　Christ；　he　thought。　Maybe　it's　time　to　start　fresh；　after　all　。。。
　　Then　he　returned　to　the　phone；　and　the　matters　at　hand。
　　
　　
　　　Thirty…Three
　　　
　　The　Scuzzbug　was　moving　before　Garth　was　fully　seated。　He　liked　it　that　way。　It　was　more　of　a　challenge。　〃HEY；　DAD！〃　he　hollered；　loud　as　it　got；　out　the　still…open　door。　〃SUCK　MY　SCROTE；　YOU　IMPOSTER！　YOU　ALIEN　SCUM！〃
　　〃I　like　that；〃　Lydia　said；　peeling　out　in　a　fog　bank　of　rubber　and　dust。　With　her　deep　green　eyes；　too…wide　features　and　sidewalled　mane　of　bone…white　hair；　she　looked　like　a　spookycute　nineties　version　of　those　little　troll　dolls　in　the　toy　bins　at　Woolworth。　〃I'm　sure　the　neighbors　will；　too。〃
　　〃ADMIT　THAT　YOU　ARE　AN　IMITATION　POD…MAN！〃　he　continued；　even　louder；　hanging　half　out　the　door　as　the　car　pulled　a　wide　screeching　one…eighty　in　the　crushed　stone　of　the　drive。　〃ADMIT　THAT　YOU　ATE　MY　REAL　FATHER'S　BRAIN！〃
　　They　broke　the　circle；　headed　out　for　the　street。　〃Say　'bye　now；〃　she　said。
　　〃　'BYE　NOW！〃
　　And　then　they　were　off。
　　〃Feeling　better？〃　Lydia　asked　pleasantly。
　　〃You　bet。〃
　　〃I'm　so　pleased；〃　she　deadpanned；　slowing　the　Scuzzbug　to　a　mild…mannered；　law…abiding　crawl　the　moment　she　hit　the　main　road。　On　the　street；　she　couldn't　afford　to　drive　so　crazily；　the　cops　would　pull　her　over　in　a　second。　Even　without　provocation；　cops　pulled　her　over　from　time　to　time；　just　as　a　matter　of　principle。
　　Because　the　infamous　Scuzzbug　of　Lydia　Vickers　was　an　act　of　visual　terrorism　on　wheels。　Like　the　woman　herself；　it　was　born　to　raise　eyebrows　and　frighten　the　natives　of　Paradise。　She　felt　quite　certain　that　no　one　had　ever　seen　its　like　before。　She　knew　she　certainly　hadn't。
　　From　the　inside；　it　was　just　a　beat…to…shit　black　VW　Superbeetle；　pletely　upholstered　in　leopard…skin　print　and　festooned　with　weirdo　stickers。　Funky…cool；　but　not　unheard　of。
　　The　exterior；　however；　was　something　else　again：　covered　bumper　to　bumper　in　a　fetid　gray…green　fuzz；　painful　to　look　at　and　loathsome　to　the　touch。　This　experiential　delight　came　courtesy　of　Lydia's　day　gig；　where　she　worked　on　the　loading　docks　at　the　Yummy　Potato　Chip　pany　in　Hellam。
　　It　seemed　that　the　oiled　soot　emanating　from　the　Yummy　Potato　Chip　smokestacks　would　drift　across　the　parking　lots；　dousing　every　car　in　range　with　a　tacky；　mottled　goo。　Airborne　panicles；　dust　and　road　dirt　would　quickly　and　permanently　adhere　themselves；　transforming　any　vehicle　within　range　into　a　veritable　scuzz　magnet。
　　Of　course；　turning　her　cherished　Superbeetle　into　the　ugliest　car　on　earth　certainly　hadn't　been　her　idea。　At　least　not　at　first。　For　a　while　there；　it　had　driven　her　nearly　insane。　But　after　a　brief；　pitched；　and　losing　battle；　Lydia'd　gradually　e　to　admire　it；　the　cultural　statement　it　made。
　　So　instead　of　fighting　the　endless　uphill　battle　of　scrubbing　it　down　three　times　a　week；　she　instead　reversed　and　assisted　the　process：　driving　through　industrial　areas　a　lot；　always　leaving　her　car　exposed　to　the　elements；　never　ever　washing　it。　Etcetera；　etcetera。
　　And　in　no　time：　Voila！
　　A　legend　was　born。
　　
　　〃So；〃　Garth　said；　staring　out　the　immaculate　windshield…along　with　the　windows；　lights；　and　mirrors；　the　only　things　Lydia　ever　cleaned…〃what's　the　deal？　When　you　woke　me　up　this　morning　。。。　〃
　　〃Afternoon；〃　she　corrected。
　　〃　。。。　you　sounded　like　it　was　pretty　major。〃　His　grin　was　huge。　〃So　what's　the　goddam　story　here？〃
　　Lydia's　poker　face　began　to　falter。　〃Oh；　nothing　。。。　〃
　　〃e　on！〃　His　too…enormous　smile　chiseled　away　at　her　posure。　She　actually　cackled。　〃WHAT？〃　he　bellowed。
　　〃Okay；　okay；〃　she　relented。　〃Look　in　the　back。〃
　　He　looked。　There　was　the　usual　pileup　of　Lydia…clothes　and　bizarroid　lifestyle　accessories。　They　just　seemed　to　be　piled　up　quite　a　bit　higher　than　usual。　Like　they　were　trying　to　cover　up　something　big。
　　Like　maybe　a　couple　of　boxes　of　。。。
　　〃Ooo；〃　Garth　said；　pausing　just　for　the　moment　of　impact。　Beside　him；　Lydia　beamed　with　pride。　〃Ooo　ooo　ooo！〃　he　elaborated；　sweeping　the　camouflage　aside。
　　And　there　they　were：　one　thousand　copies；　hot　off　the　press。　One　thousand　little　eighty…eight…page　Molotov　cocktails；　with　his　and　Lydia's　names　all　over　them。　Just　waiting　to　be　fired　and　flung。
　　One　thousand　copies　of　their　homemade　brainchild　pride　'n'　joy。
　　NO　FUTURE…The　Magazine　of　Famous　Last　Words。
　　〃TA…DAHH！〃　Lydia　trumpeted；　exulting　in　their　triumph。
　　〃God　DAMN！〃　he　echoed；　pulling　the　first　one　off　the　stack。　〃Just　look　at　this　thing　。。。　！〃
　　But　Lydia　was　driving；　so　Garth　had　to　content　himself　with　looking　alone。　And　though　he'd　seen　the　original　a　million　times；　there　was　nothing　like　seeing　it　mass…produced；　knowing　it　was　there　for　the　world　to　experience。
　　〃God　damn；〃　he　repeated；　almost　reverent　this　time。
　　The　magazine's　cover；　like　the　contents；　was　a　malign　collaboration…artwork　by　Garth；　layout　and　pasteup　by　Lydia。　It　was　a　wraparound　slap　in　the　face；　an　unremitting　motherfucker　from　front　to　back。　Garth　was　pleased　that　it　had　printed　up　so　well。　They'd　spent　months　honing　the　premiere　issue　to　just　the　right　aesthetic　of　blasphemy；　melding　Steadmanesque　inkblotch　and　mutant　photomontage　in　an　ultimately　neon…colorized　assault　on　placency　and　the　neutral　reaction。
　　Beneath　the　schizo　surf…punk　masthead；　the　central　image　was　simple　and　direct：
　　There　was　a　paunchy　naked　white　man　with　an　ugly　pinched　grin；　and　he　was　raping　and　killing　the　New　Year's　baby　for　the　banner　year　2000。　The　man　held　the　screaming　baby's　head　up　by　its　hair　while　his　crotch　interlocked　with　its　raw　baby　buttocks。　In　his　right　hand；　he　held　a　power　drill。　It　was　boring　into　the　baby's　skull。　Blood　drooled　from　its　mouth。　Its　sex　was　indeterminate　and　entirely　beside　the　point。
　　Behind　them；　a　mob　had　assembled。　They　were　laughing　and　shouting　and　waving　signs。　The　faces　belonged　to　George　Bush；　Dan　Quayle；　Ronald　Reagan；　Jerry　Falwell；　Ivan　Boesky；　Donald　Trump；　Jesse　Helms；　and　a　dozen　others。　They　all　had　their　pants　down；　waiting　in　line。　Their　signs　read　GO　GO　GO　and　BETTER　HARDER　FASTER。
　　That　was　the　front　cover。
　　The　back　cover　was　even　better。
　　It　was　a　mirror…image　mob；　representing　the　opposition。　They　all　had　variations　on　the　old　sad…eyed　black　velvet　face；　modeled　after　hippie　ikons　Abbie　Hoffman；　Ralph　Nader；　Buckminster　Fuller；　The　Beatles　and　the　Kennedys　（not　to　mention　dozens　of　more　contemporary　hero…figures；　from　Bob　Geldof　to　Michael　and　Jesse　Jackson）。
　　Though　they；　too；　were　shouting　and　waving　signs；　not　a　one　of　them　was　laughing：　and　though　all　of　them　had　their　pants　around　their　ankles　as　well；　none　of　them　seemed　to　be　wanking　off　with　any　degree　of　success。　Their　signs　read　CUT　IT　OUT　and　THAT'S　NOT　NICE。
　　And　at　the　front　of　the　sad…eyed　crowd　hung　poor　old　Jesus；　three…quarters　crucified。　He'd　gotten　one　hand　free；　and　it　held　a　magnifying　glass。　He　was　trying　to　find　his　dick　with　it：　squinting　real　hard；　also　without　success。
　　The　little　sign　nailed　above　his　head　read；　simply：　WUSS。
　　〃So；〃　Lydia　blurted；　practically　beside　herself；　〃what　do　you　think？〃
　　〃I　think；〃　Garth　proclaimed；　〃that　this　is　the　most　vile；　repugnant；　penocentric　wad　of　indefensible　swill　I've　ever　seen。〃
　　〃Me；　too；〃　she　agreed；　smiling。　〃Don'cha　just　love　it？〃
　　〃You　bet！〃　Garth　said。　He　felt　all　warm　and　fuzzy　inside。
　　〃Yeah；〃　Lydia　beamed；　gunning　the　Scuzzbug　down　South　George　Street；　〃if　this　don't　get　us　orphaned；　nothin'　will。〃
　　And；　of　course；　it　was　true。　Taken　together；　it　was　an　utterly　obscene　tableau；　calculated　to　outrage　and　horrify　even　the　most　open…minded　member　of　the　studio　audience。
　　That　in　itself；　though　gratifying；　was　simply　not　enough。　So　Garth　and　Lydia　had　found　it　necessary　to　go　that　extra　mile；　by　adding　that　little　personal　touch。
　　The　face　on　the　paunchy　baby…raper　belonged　to　Werner　Blake。
　　The　face　on　the　dickless　Jesus　was　Lydia's　father；　Frank。
　　It　was　their　special　〃Sins　of　the　Father's　Day　Salute！〃
　　And　it　was　just　their　little　way　of　saying　thanks。
　　
　　Because　Garth　and　Lydia　were　pissed；　no　question　about　it。　When　they　said　NO　FUTURE；　they　weren't　just　pulling　a　petulant　teenage　hissy…fit。　They　were　only　sixteen　years　old；　and　they　knew　that　their　civilization　wouldn't　last　out　the　century。　They　knew　that　they'd　been　fucked　out　of　their　birthrights　by　the　greedheads　who　ran　the　world　and；　worse；　the　cowards　who　watched　it　a