An Excerpt from the novel, Death and Life in the City of Dreams
In this excerpt, Townsend Meadows, a disillusioned city planner, returns to the place of his childhood, the old square in the heart of the city’s downtown. But things are not as he remembers. At the base of a memorial obelisk that stands in the center, a group of disheveled street people sit idly, smoking, passing time. The sight fills Townsend with resentment, but the situation takes an unexpected turn . . .
The Lost Ones
The huddled gathering still sits in a circle at the base of the obelisk, smoking cigarettes and talking quietly, their belongings set about them in little heaps. A man with a beard and moppish hair, wrapped in a tattered military jacket, plucks on an old guitar. An odd low-riding tricycle is parked nearby. Beyond the obelisk a man stands alone in the shadows, with his head back, turning slowly, his arms held wide.
Townsend keeps his distance and skims the far edge of the plaza, studying the polished stone. A striking thing, the obelisk, and the cornucopia of bronze that rests above a plaque mounted to the granite base.
A Prayer for the Children of Evermore.
A weight on his shoulder, the memory of his father’s hand. “A prayer for you, Tommy. You’re a child of Evermore, and this belongs to you.” But Townsend is filled with resentment, at the disheveled state of the square, and the presence of these intruders. An affront to his memories of this place his father so admired.
He sees that they are watching him, and he feels his face redden. He starts to turn away when a little dog jumps from the lap of its owner and charges, fangs bared, snapping and yipping. Townsend stumbles back, startled by this raging ragamuffin, and he trips over a low iron fence.
“Aw, shit!” His head hits the ground with a thud, sending his world into slow motion, the yelping of the dog lost in the leaves of the trees swaying above. And a numbing darkness envelopes him.
“The garden is dying.” That strange creature, Lydia, shouting at him. “The garden is dying, and no one cares. I can’t save it by myself.” Juanita there, with arms crossed, nodding her agreement. “Why, Townsend? Why are you here?”
Turning slowly, his head held back, an airship drifts above the trees…
“Ugh.” Townsend opens his eyes. Blurry faces hover over him, hands reaching down. He raises his arms in surrender and feels himself being pulled up. A hand in his pocket, someone tugging at his wallet. He swings out blindly.
A voice shouting, “Goddammit, Stevie!” The hand yanks back.
“What the fuck, dude? Finders keepers.”
“Not on my watch, asshole.”
The world comes into focus, the bearded one confronting a tow-headed beanpole of a kid with tattoos creeping up his neck.
“Fuck you, Danny. Who made you king? I just want the money’s all. I won’t take nothin’ else.”
“Back off, Stevie. You don’t wanna mess with me.”
A woman with sandy-blond hair takes the bearded one’s arm. “Don’t, Danny. Don’t hurt him.” She looks at the beanpole. “Just stop, Stevie, before you get your skinny ass beat all to hell.”
The kid shrugs. “Whatever, Clarice. Mind your own shit.” He steps back.
The bearded one brushes leaves and dirt from Townsend’s shoulder, the name, McFarland, on the breast of his army jacket. A worried smile, his face pocked and stained. “Sorry ‘bout that.”
“What happened?” Townsend’s hand goes to his wallet, then to the lump on his head. His own voice sounds distant.
The bearded one shrugs. “You were weirding us out, man. Standing there staring. Freaked little Elvis out, too. He’s usually pretty mellow.”
Little Elvis is in the arms of a woman. He’s still growling, his fangs bared unapologetically. The woman starts to plead, big eyes, short and buxom, her lip quivering. “Please don’t call the cops, mister. Elvis didn’t mean no harm.”
Townsend exhales and tries to steady himself. He rubs the back of his head. “I’m not calling any cops. It was my fault. I was looking at that monument, trying to read the plaque. Guess I scared the little guy.” He reaches out to let Elvis smell his hand. The dog gives him a sniff and growls.
“It’s cool, man. No worries.” The bearded one shrugs. “Little Elvis guards his lady, Maggie, with his little life.” He smiles wide.
The woman shakes her head. “You sure you’re ok? You look a little dazed.”
The beanpole grins, a mouthful of rotten teeth. “You went down like a rock, dude. Bam!” He smacks his hands together. “Pretty damn funny, seeing that little shit of a dog take you down.”
The bearded one pushes him aside. “Shut up, Stevie. Give the guy a break.”
“Really, I’m fine.” Townsend wants to move on. He starts to walk, but his legs wobble and he staggers.
The bearded one catches him. “Whoa, man. You’d better sit for a minute.” He leads Townsend to the steps of the monument, the others straggling behind. Townsend eases himself down, strange thoughts of that woman, Lydia, and dying roses and airships and a spiraling career all flitting through his mind. He looks up through the trees, to the windows of Thatcher’s penthouse.
The bearded one sits down and extends his hand. “I’m Danny.”
He takes the man’s hand with uncertainty. “I’m Townsend.” He’s met with a firm handshake.
“Good to meet ya.” Danny lights a half-smoked cigarette and points around the circle, starting with the dirty-blond. “This here’s Clarice. The skinny fucker is Stevie. This is Maggie— and, uh, you already met little Elvis, Maggie’s bodyguard.” He shrugs with an apologetic smirk. “And that’s Motorman.” He nods toward the one standing alone in the shadow beyond the obelisk, still turning with his head back, his hands held wide, his mouth parted in a low guttural chant, “Om, nah nah…”
Danny calls to his friend. “Hey, Motor, take a break, buddy. Come and have a sit.”
Motor stops turning. He looks at his hands, his body swaying.
Danny swipes his hair back. “He’s not crazy. Just talks to himself a lot. And he does some weird shit. Like that spinning thing. Says it keeps him centered. I think it just makes him dizzy.” Danny takes a drag on his cigarette. “But I’ll tell you what—I ain’t never known anyone like him. The man is brilliant.” He points to the trike. “That’s his ride. Made the thing himself. Scavenged parts. Got all these tools packed into that bin on the back.”
Motor comes toward them and sits on the steps by the monument’s base, across from Townsend. He takes out a knife and starts drawing the blade through a joint in the granite paving, talking to himself in a low mutter. A mottled scar on the side of his head ripples with the workings of his jaw.
Townsend strains to hear his words. He looks at Danny. “How’d he get the name, Motorman?”
Motor raises his head. “Grease monkey, eh— Third Armored Division. Motorman to the rescue, that’s what they used to say.” He looks down and resumes his task, working the granite crevice with his blade.
Danny nods. “We were in Iraq together. Well, not exactly together. I saw a lotta kitchen duty. Motor wasn’t so lucky. A roadside bomb took half his squad out. He’s got a hunk of shrapnel in his head.”
Motorman is focused, pulling his blade through a seam in the stone.
Danny nods to Townsend. “How about you? What’s your gig?”
“I work for the city.” Townsend shrugs, kind of an apology. “I’m a city planner.” The words feel hollow.
“Sounds like a good gig, man. You get to imagine all the cool stuff that’s gonna happen in the future, huh? Like bio-domes and monorails and flying cars and shit like that?”
Townsend pulls at his shoelace. “Well, not exactly.” He looks at the square, and the buildings beyond the trees. “I mean, no. Not at all. I’m basically a paper-pusher. The actual planning part is pretty rare these days.” He looks up at the obelisk, in the weight of its gravitational pull, and he feels the memory there, beyond his grasp, of a city in the clouds. He turns back to Danny. “I had a dream—the city was alive—a living, breathing thing. And it was beautiful. And then the sun came up, and I saw the city crumbling. And I stood there, watching, not knowing what to do.”
He looks at Motor, working the blade of his knife through the seam of the granite pavement. Townsend turns back to Danny and shrugs. “Just a dream. But I guess I’m trying to understand—to find a way—to heal the city.”
Motorman stops what he’s doing and holds his knife up, the blade glinting in the sun. “Every breath, eh. Every thought, every turn is a gift.” He presses his palm against the base of the monument. “This stone, this prayer. Someone’s dream.” He turns the knife in his hand, and the light off the blade cuts across his face. He looks at Townsend and holds his gaze. “We got to dream while we can, brother, ’cause in the end, all we are is vapor.” He opens his fist, and his eyes trail upward.
Townsend stares at Motor, the rippled scar on the side of his head that twitches with his every word. For some reason he thinks of Annie, her withering body, her vital spirit.
A gust comes up, the leaves tossed around them—the trees and stone and this huddled gathering of souls washed in the wavering light. A glimpse of some truth hidden just beyond the veil of his understanding.
Motorman gives him a knowing nod, and returns to his task, running his blade through the seam in the granite paving.
Danny scratches his beard. “You say the weirdest shit, Motor.” He picks up his guitar and starts plucking notes. A loose rendition of Moon River, slightly out of tune.
“Jesus Christ.” The beanpole glares at Motorman. He fetches a vape from his pocket and holds it to his mouth and takes a pull on the thing, an electric bluish light spreading across his face. He exhales a cloud of steam. “I’ve got your vapor right here, you crazy motherfucker.”
Danny stops his strumming. “Chill out, Stevie. Keep your shit to yourself. And where’d you get the money to buy that juice?”
“Got me a special discount.” He takes another pull, the bluish glow at his lips. He lets loose a ring of mist that trails into a feathery haze. The metallic taint of cherries and vanilla hanging in the air.
“Right, a special discount.” Danny shakes his head and returns to his strumming.
Townsend looks at the plaque on the monument’s base. He reaches out to feel the words, cast in bronze…
By our hands we have tilled the land, and shaped a township into a city, Alive and full of promise, with opportunity for all…
“Beautiful prayer, don’t you think, mister?” The woman, Maggie, sits crosslegged with little Elvis in her lap. “When I read those words, it makes me wanna cry. It’s so hopeful.” She strokes Elvis’ tangled coat and smiles, revealing a few missing teeth. “I’m a child of Evermore, you know.”
He nods. “Yes, they’re beautiful words.” She does seem child-like, though she’s probably in her mid-forties. Townsend can see that she’d been very pretty once. A lovely doll, left outside too long.
Maggie reaches for her purse, a scuffed-up vinyl thing bulging with stuff. She pulls out a bottle and pops the cap and takes a swig.
“Is that Pineapple Fizz?” Townsend sits up. “I haven’t seen a bottle of Pineapple Fizz since I was a kid.”
Maggie flashes her gap-toothed smile. “Yep. My favorite. Want some?” She holds the bottle up.
The memory of that sweet tangy nectar comes back to him. “No, thanks. I’m good. I didn’t know they still sold that stuff.”
She nods. “Leo’s Market, on the West Side, by Jordi Park.” She takes another swig and sets the bottle down. She pulls out a tattered copy of People and begins thumbing the pages, pausing on a spread of Hollywood beauties. “I wanted to be a movie star when I was young,” she says to no one, caressing the pictures with a calloused finger. “I could’a been famous. I was one of the most popular girls in school.”
“Yeah, well, I guess I coulda been famous too, come to think about it.” Danny stops his strumming. “Took top honors in our troop’s chili cook-off.” He licks his lips. “Chunks of lamb, red beans, onions, ancho chilies, and a secret ingredient–roasted dates. Oh man, that was some tasty grub. Maybe I’ll open me a restaurant. Danny’s World-Famous Chili House.” He looks at Townsend, his eyes wide and earnest. “I just gotta get a few things worked out, is all.”
The beanpole sits up. “Sounds good, dude. How about you fix us up some of that world-famous chili right now?”
Danny smirks. “Sure thing, bro. I’m on it. Be ready in no time.” He takes a drag on a cigarette and strums his guitar.
Townsend feels that same grieving, somewhere in the pit of his gut. Sitting here, eavesdropping on their shared despair, their flailing hopes. He looks at Maggie, thumbing through pages of smiling celebrities, lost in her world of impossible longing—and he sees a beautiful wounded child.
All of them, children. The lost ones. The ones who couldn’t find their way home.
A rush of uncertainty washes over him, his own life spiraling pointlessly, his beautiful wife stricken by some fucked up illness. The whole of his world tenuous and unreliable.
Townsend pushes himself up. “I need to be moving on.” He brushes the dirt and bits of leaf from his legs and riding shorts, testing his balance. Soreness lingers at the back of his head.
“No worries, man.” Danny stands and extends his hand. “Come back anytime, brother. I gotta feeling we’ll still be here.” An awkward look flashes across his face, and he leans in. “Say, uh, Townsend, brother—you wouldn’t have any spare cash would you? Nobody here has much money.” Danny looks at his feet.
Townsend’s stomach tightens. He’d been expecting a thorough shakedown when he’d opened his eyes to find the circle of doubtful faces looking down on him.
“Let me see what I’ve got.” He takes his wallet out. Two twenties and some smaller bills.
“Sorry, man. I hate to even ask, but—”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m glad to help.” He thumbs the smaller bills. He looks at Maggie paging through her magazine, hopeful, lost. He holds out the twenties. “Why don’t you fix them up a batch of that world famous chili?”
Danny looks at the bills, and then at Townsend. And he reaches up and wraps his arms around him, his moppish hair in Townsend’s face, the scent of a wild animal. “Geez, man, thanks. I won’t forget this.”
“Uh, it’s alright.” Townsend eases himself from Danny’s embrace. “I’m pretty sure I won’t either.” He kneels down to tighten his shoelaces. “Think I’m gonna drop by this Leo’s Market, and have myself a Pineapple Fizz.”
Danny steps back and looks him over. “Uh, Townsend, my brother— you can’t go into the West Side looking like that.”
“Like what?” He looks down at himself. Lycra bike shorts and jersey, scuffed up biking shoes.
“Bro, you go into the West Side dressed like Spandex Man and you’re just asking to get your ass kicked.”
“Oh, come on. It’s not that bad.” Perhaps two years since he’s been anywhere near the West Side.
“Well, maybe you ain’t been paying attention. There’s folks is really struggling. And you don’t exactly fit in, you know what I’m saying?” A thought flashes across Danny’s face. “Here, take this.” He slips his jacket off and holds it up. “Urban camo.” He grins.
“I can’t take your jacket, Danny.” Townsend waves him back. “I’ve never even been in the military.”
“Don’t make no diff, bro. I want you to have it. I want you to be safe.” He presses the worn fatigue toward Townsend, and holds it open. “You can give it back to me next time we see each other. Got me a room in the El Capitan, just down Slawsen Ave. It’s a dump, but it’s home. Come by for a beer.”
“Well, I, uh…”
“Come on, man. No big deal.”
Townsend relents, though he feels silly, like a kid dressing up to play army. He slips his hand into a sleeve. Then the other. The fabric is worn and filled with the scent of a man who has learned to survive. Danny tugs at the sleeves and pats him on the back.
“There ya go. Perfect fit. Ain’t nobody gonna mess with you today.”
Townsend walks through the square toward Perry’s Café, leaves scurrying at his feet. He pauses and turns back toward the small gathering still conferring in the shade, the obelisk presiding silent in their midst. He looks up through the canopy of trees, and he can see the spired crown of the Zenith Building, sunlight caught in the windows of Thatcher’s penthouse. His hand goes to the back of his head, the lump from his fall still tender.
Motorman’s words trail somewhere beyond the lingering ache. “Got to dream while we can, brother, ’cause in the end, all we are is vapor.”