over the telephone line from Pia, all the way from Waimea-and now while
she’s obsessed with being Kaha Huna, I’m obsessed with the monkeys of
the new millennium. I suspect that’s what the tabloids would call
them, don’t You?”
“The millennium monkeys. Has a ring to it.”
“That’s why I haven’t reported them. I’m not going to make myself a
target of the press or anyone. I’m not going to be the geek who saw
Bigfoot or extraterrestrials in a spaceship shaped like a four-slice
toaster. Life wouldn’t ever be the same for me after that, would
it?”
“You’d be a freak like me.”
“Exactly.”
MY awareness of being watched became more intense. I almost borrowed a
trick from Orson, almost growled low in my throat.
The dog, still standing between Bobby and me, remained alert and quiet,
his head raised and one ear pricked. He was no longer shaking, but he
was clearly respectful of whatever was observing us from the
surrounding night.
“Now that I’ve told You about Angela, You know the monkeys have
something to do with what was going on out at Fort Wyvern,” I said.
“This isn’t just a tabloid fantasy anymore. This is real, this is
totally live, and we can do something about it.”
“Still going on,” he said.
“What?”
“From what Angela told You, Wyvern’s not entirely shut down.”
“But it was abandoned eighteen months ago. If there were still
personnel staffing any operations at all out there, we’d know about
it.
Even if they lived on base, they’d come into town to shop, to go to a
movie.”
“You said Angela called this Armageddon. It’s the end of the world,
she said.”
Yeah. So?”
“So maybe if You’re busily working on a project to destroy the world,
You don’t have time to come into town for a movie. Anyway, like I
said, this is a tsunami, Chris. This is the government. There’s no
way to surf these waters and survive.”
I gripped the handlebars of my bike and stood it upright again.
“In spite of these monkeys and what You’ve seen, You’re going to just
lay back?”
He nodded. “If I stay cool, it’s possible they’ll eventually go
away.
They’re not here every night, anyway. Once or twice a week.
If I wait them out . . . I might get my life back like it was.”
“Yeah, but maybe Angela wasn’t just smoking something.
Maybe there’s no chance, ever again, that anything will be like it
was.”
Then why put on your tights and cape if it’s a lost cause?”
“To XP-Man,” I said with mock solemnity, “there are no lost causes.,)
“Kamikaze.”
“Duck.”
“Geek.
“Decoy,” I said affectionately and walked the bicycle away from the
house, through the soft sand.
Orson let out a thin whine of protest as we left the comparative safety
of the cottage behind us, but he didn’t try to hold back. He stayed
close to me, sniffing the night air as we headed inland.
We’d gone about thirty feet when Bobby, kicking up small clouds of
sand, sprinted in front of us and blocked the way. “You know what your
problem is?” I said, “My choice of friends?”
“Your problem is You want to make a mark on the world. You want to
leave something behind that says, I was here.”
I don’t care about that.”
“Bullshit.”
“Watch your language. There’s a dog present.”
“That’s why You write the articles, the books,” he said. “To leave a
mark.”
“I write because I enjoy writing.”
“You’re always bitching about it.”
“Because it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but it’s also
rewarding.”
“You know why it’s so hard? Because it’s unnatural.”
“Maybe to people who can’t read and write.”
“We’re not here to leave a mark, bro. Monuments, legacies,
marks-that’s where we always go wrong. We’re here to revel in the
world, to soak in the awesomeness of it, to enjoy the ride.”
“Orson, look, it’s Philosopher Bob again.”
“The world’s maximum perfect as it is, beauty from horizon to
horizon.
Any mark any of us tries to leave-hell, it’s only graffiti.
Nothing can improve on the world we’ve been given. Any mark anyone
leaves is no better than vandalism.” I said, “The music of Mozart.”