Bomb Cyclone and its Effects on Harvard - 13

A Novella

III

Not Done On the Edge of the Pru

1

Tumphoria ends with a glump into the Trumptatrum. Or so it seemed from the Tao Jones Industrial Average. Even the rich, had their money to lose. We just had our lives for the connivance of the NRA and their lackadaisical lackluster lackeys. Watch everything on Amazon. l'existence précède l'essence. An oppressive situation of bad watchery, endemic to our age of suicide. Existentialism provides no answers, even in its Marxist or Xramist (as described by Václav Havel) persuasion.

While most of mankind was obsessed with the absurd event, manufactured, called the Super Bowl, others had different ideas about what was important in the few miles called the surface of the earth. This was what I was interested in, because who cares about the Super Bowl? It is an updated form of gladiatorial combat, with men dying every day from concussions. Disgusting.

I suppose I should tell where I was, because it was different from where I last spoke to you. It was down in a town known as “Boston” - not a city, such as Philadelphia or New York, nor a capital in any real sense the way Washington DC was. But I do have to grant it was a large town, very large. And communities sprung around it, to be nestled in a giant megalopolis which it held the north end of. Then it petered out, with outposts until you hit Manchester, or perhaps Concord, New Hampshire.

It was night, and one could see from our window, two giant towers, one of which was called the Pru. And on the Prudential there came a sign: “Not Done” - only it was. People who think football is a competitive sport, need to realize, that it is not so much a competitive sport, as a Showtime for all of the things that make the US great, even though there abominable. Halftime shows, advertising wars, bone crunch hits - and the referees making judgments that give one side or another the game. Last year it was Trumpolanda's year - and so his favorite football coach won. But this year was different, and it could be seen on Friday - the micro-crash. Not the end of course, because business was moving his way along. Malls were sloughing off retail with abandon, and dry pretty beacons alluring the gloom. And was good for the economy, because rich people did not shop at malls. And rich people held a vast share of enumerated wealth. Poor people shopped at malls, on credit if they could. On debit, if they had been caught out with too little capital before. But right now the men watched the Super Bowl, and in this party in another room that was the sequester - watching a pseudo-competitive sport. But here in a different room, with hardwood floors and white walls and ceiling, there was a different conversation altogether. It was called: “Is this a crash, yet?” of course, nobody knew for sure, because the money that would propel stocks higher was hidden off on distant shores. Shores such as the Cayman Islands.

And nobody knew how much that was, because - wait for the gag - the money was quietly shipped out by Kraft, of Patriots fame. Last year - the Patriots were going to win, this year - the money shipped out, and the Patriots were going to lose. This is how Super Bowls are decided.

I know you do not believe me, it will be written in ancient history. Remember we will be in ancient history one of these days. Just out of reach of the reader, but not out of the reach of the writer – was that author's gift of turning the edge surreal, and living within its confines, stretching out to borders - as Dada and the surcrew thus defined them - Magritte boiled his tea, and Apollinaire held sway - but Salvador Dalí took the profit in its loss. Contes des fée est n'est pas 'once upon a time' – ask Perrault, but not in Parliament, which was obsolete in France, when he laid his pen down. Chateau d’Ussé de Loire still stands, however. But even this rests on the silted peat, as finally mote in God's own European river.

Staring out into the gloom of mizzle of fine rain - across the Charles River, which widens out like a bay. There are two sides, the Boston side, and the Cambridge side – before the river narrows down to a point at the Museum of Science and then discharges to a cloaca maxima – where it joins with the Mystic River before heading out to the harbor. On the Bostonside – it is a wall of skyscrapers, towers, and apartment buildings with a long curve of condos - centered on Beacon Hill where the capital is, and which emerged over the greenspace of the Boston Common, and then to a bit farther away the bird infested Public Garden – whose name is Storrow Dr., a c strip of esplanade in the middle metropolis. Of cars and trucks molted amidst the deciduous forest that ensconced them. Busy, busy, busy - to get where they come from, to whichever place they are watching the Game. The Game, the Game. The Cambridgeside has caught up, some, with a growing patina of glass buildings on the northern tip, to the Tech and beyond. But away from the shore, it is smaller apartment buildings and houses. After that, it is Harvard – Yard, and all. A murmuring whir of traffic lights – even along the Cambridge Memorial Drive. In Cambridge, the was a sense of decorum – even on highways. Memorial Dr. was also cascaded – in part with Sycamore trees, whose bark grew thin to yellow and green welts.

To look - frozen lights on the towers in their labyrinthian exterior – and a dromedary swing in white and red shadowing the tributary speckled luminescent with echoes from above – a dark patch between the worlds. Cutting two wide bridges, near the Longfellow, and far the Harvard – which went by the front door of MIT. Glow. Harvard and MIT. Castor and Pollux my ex-BF once compared the to. He, of course, wanted to go to M.I.T. Pollux. And study Music, a Religion of atonality. I was in college because when I was not mouthing off in private I was doing everything demanded of me in public. Like studying. And more studying. And for dessert, more studying.

A nudge and the landscape gave way to an innerscape of young people talking. With the walls covered with paintings and drawings. It was a bright university collection – of Harvard and MIT, with every skin color you can name. No Tufts - which was pseudo-elite - nor BU, NU, or BC – which are sporting with educational on the side.

But that doesn't mean what we think it means. There are frightening bit people at the top paragons of teaching – and they teach frightening bright students. There are also the clingers on, disgraced zealots of the Washington game, who need time to cool off – so egregious were their sins, so outrageous was their denial of what could not be denied, with pictures that cannot be wished away.

This was the zone where clingers were interdicted: Trumpanzee parade is not allowed.

We were jubilant in our concerns – There had been a stock market correction on Friday, stemming from Bitcoin and other cryptocurrencies dropping by more than half. The talk was whether there would become a correction, as the various currencies without a central bank would go much lower - the consensus was that there would be a correction, but no more than that at this time. I only listened and heard some strains that came from my supposed father. It was not the punchy voice of trader speaks - which made very a little into a suppose it big deal - but there was only a trifle of panic. But I grew weary of this and looked around for someone who was not engaged in this discourse. Some other kind of tête-à-tête – a gossamer discourse that would detract from the incubating seethe within me.

Thus – thus, not so, and certainly not and – my eyes scoped for the one person that was close to me, but still far away – Lily.

“I know sounds corny - but how are you/” Again, with the lift in the voice which I no longer felt. Even to Lily.

“I sometimes do not think you know what a party is for.”

“Tu m'étonnes. That is because I do not go to parties, my parents do not let me, and I would not go anyway.”

“Can you say introvert?”

“It is easier than becoming an extrovert. Did you get the papers I scanned in?”

“You are certainly the hardest person in the entire world. Yes, I got the papers, but I don't know what to make of them.”

“Thank you. The problem with them is twofold – how many people are there, and who are they.”

“OK. Can we stop the multimodal conversation?”

“But it is fun. But alright. Thank me.” Though this was still multi-modal.

“You are welcome, in a sort of twisted way.”

“How do you know that I am the hardest person?”

“I have talked with everyone at the party, how many have you talked to.”

“Counting the guy who was handing out the drinks? One.”

“Exactly.”

“I do not know what to do.”

“You stand up and talk about a novel, but you do not live one.”

“The keyboard is more interesting than most people are.”

“But how do you know how to write them?”

“Listen, they tell you as much as you need to know. It is easier being a 3^rd person, anyway.”

“You have such good advice, at least for someone who does not speak to anyone.”

“Speaking is overrated.”

“How do you know, you never do it, except one-to-one.”

“I observe and conclude. Somewhat accurate conclusions, as it turns out.” There is a line in North by Northwest that is similar to that, and steal from the very best. I would be better off in whatever decade that was – I think the late 1950s, but I am not sure. And I need to stomp out the “I” in the parade. Make a note of that. My principle.

“You take the cake, as the weirdest person I know.”

“Someone has to document the interactions between people. And a novel is the best place to do that. Short stories do not work, there for points about the interaction of people. But I said before: novelists are not people, they are too busy observing to exchange with others ideas until they are formed. It is the rewriting, not the writing, which makes each style point meaningful.”

“It seems like you have a form out an idea, in advance.”

“The difference between real life and a novel is the novel has made sense.”

“Steal from the very best.”

“I was just thinking exactly that.”

“It was written on your face. Stravinsky said it: only he said it with notes, not words. Fools borrow, geniuses steal.”

“And get away cleanly. How do you know that quote anyway?”

“Hello! Chopin! It is my area of specialization.”

“Who knew that you could write a novel with trills. Font très mal d’écouter toutes sortes de gens.”

“It sounds like you practiced some instrument once upon a time.”

“Flute. And the arpeggios run up and down in my head.” I could not help tilting my head at this, it was a gesture from my professor in his shade.

“Revenons à nos moutons, you need to learn how to work a room.”

“Must I?” Only in my head did I curl my face up like a ball.

“Muß es sein?”

“Another quote?”

“Yes, but one that I do not perform, because it is a string quartet.” Her left foot was turned in, a realized that it was a sign of her being amused.

“Beethoven?” The only string quartet composer that I know.

“Yes. Was it a lucky guess?”

“I heard 3 of his early quartets.”

“Parental involvement? It sounds like you did not exactly like them.”

“Everything is in my life. And no I did not. Not, particularly.” Another difference, parental involvement for me was always somewhat dull and unamusing. Clearly, for her it was different.

“The quote comes from a late quartet. It was performed after he was dead.”

“What is this supposed to mean?”

“Only he heard it while he was alive.” Looking straight at me again, I may have been the only person who did not respond. But - I felt it.

It was at this point that the gaggle of students swarmed over me, and I had to join the party in a real, as opposed to metaphysical, sense. That is, I needed to learn how to work a room, and Lily was the only person who could teach me.

So, thus, and sarabande - into the crowded gloms of studenteeze, my marching orders were set. Underneath the traffic lights and spire to the god of commerce. I needed to know what I was doing in the mess of gravity that pulled me in. The only thing I knew is my birthplace was not where I thought was. I was not born locally. It was born in the Midwest because your SSN is from the place where you were registered. I learned this as part of the government elective that I took in 7th grade. It did not click until I actually looked at it as part of getting my first job. 2 weeks ago. The road to my past was through my parents and where they came from.

Sobriquet, I needed a new nickname. Sally would not do it, and Sarah was not an option. It was a nom de guerre. Viol commis par une connaissance.