The Uncanny Valley

By S W Campbell

We all know a Paul. A person who seems to see stuff that isn’t there. The type the polite call quirky and the blunt call nuts. Conspiracies? He’s got a few. He’s got his finger on how the world really works. He knows what kind of shit is coming down the pipe. Flee across the West Texas desert to Mexico? Makes sense to him. Feel

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shawn Campbell
• Release date: Mar 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9780997710557

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The Uncanny Valley

S.W. Campbell

Published by Shawn Campbell

The Uncanny Valley

Copyright © 2017 by Shawn Campbell

All rights reserved.  Printed in the United States of America

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. 

ISBN: 978-0-9977105-5-7

To Adrianna, for telling me I should show people my stories, and to Mallory, for bothering me enough about this book to get it done.

Chapter 1

The America I was born in is dead.  It’s not that it was really much better than the one we have now, but at least we had the illusion, something to believe in.  Anymore it’s just right there in your face, something that can’t be ignored.  Maybe it’s the technology that has done us in.  That always seemed to be the limiting factor in the past.  Hell, anymore everyone walks around with a little tracking device in their pocket.  They can’t leave it alone for a second, might miss a Facebook update or something.  We’re all connected.  We’re all together.  We’re all watched.  How much longer until the curtain is drawn back?  How much longer until the hood is opened and we’re forced to look at all the gears?  I don’t know, but you won’t catch me goose stepping with the crowd.    

My left arm spasms, then my right.  A sharp cutting pain in both that fades to the uncomfortable buzzing of a hit funny bone.  My heart beats loudly in my ears, the slow rolling rhythm of lubs and dubs.  The world shifts back into focus.  Alice bounces across the desert at the nail biting speed of 30 miles per hour.  Her aftermarket struts squeaking with every bump.  Jostling across the flat sandy ground with the sagebrush and half dead greasewoods whipping past on each side.  My mother’s Saint Christopher medallion, hanging from the rearview mirror, flashes in the starlight.  I sit in the driver seat, my hands gripping the wheel tightly, my head leaning forward so my nose is only inches from the windshield.  Occasionally I jerk the wheel one way or the other.  Trying to avoid an especially large rock, thick sagebrush, or imagined coyote.  Every bit of my efforts are bent on keeping us moving forward into the bleakness of the west Texas wild.  

Thirty miles per hour may not be fast on the highway, it’s damn near illegal on the freeway, but it’s on the edge of insanity when you’re driving out across the desert.  Even more so when it’s the middle of the night, with a new moon, and your headlights are covered with transparent red packing tape.  Why transparent red packing tape?  Because red light doesn’t ruin your night vision.  Plus it’s a lot harder for an observer to see at a distance.  Now is not the time for stupid questions.  There’s not a lot to worry about on this patch of desert off of Highway 90.  It’s pretty desolate.  My biggest concern is gullies, if we hit one of those we could all be fucked.  

Off in the distance the lights of farmhouses glint like stars.  Well, not really like stars.  It’s a clear night and no moon, so the stars really look like stars.  The farmhouses are just poor imitations compared to the skies above.  There is nothing like a clear moonless night sky in the middle of nowhere.  It’s something you don’t get to see in the city.  Cities are too bright.  They’re always too bright.  There’s no such real thing as darkness in a city.  All those houses, headlights, lit-up signs, and street lamps create a dome of light, which only the biggest and best stars can push through.  In a city the sky is a roof with a couple little lights twinkling.  In the middle of nowhere the sky is a great emptiness filled with the wonders of the universe.  

I have to be careful looking up.  I keep getting drawn in, my brown eyes lifted upward.  Millions of fiery balls of gas stretching their light over millions of years to reach us.  The great cloudy band of the Milky Way stretching across the heavens.  Bring me any asshole who thinks they're an important big shit, stick them out in the middle of nowhere with nothing but the night sky, and I guarantee they’ll come back humbled.  You can’t help but feel insignificant.  That’s why people huddle together around the light in their man made jungles.  Hell, even cavemen stayed close to their fires.  It’s all arrogance, not fear.  They weren’t afraid of any god damn monsters.  They were just afraid of having to look up into the void.  Afraid to realize everything about them doesn’t mean shit.

Yep, the dome of light over our cities hides a lot of ugly truths about the universe.  It also hides a lot of ugly truths about ourselves as well.  When you're in the city you don’t notice all the strange twinkling stars that move across the sky at a rapid pace.  You don’t notice all the damn satellites peering down at you with their camera lense eyes.  Searching, tracking, and watching.  When you're out in the middle of nowhere you can’t ignore them because you can see them.  You can’t pretend that you're all alone.  You can’t ignore the cold hard……

Something bounds through the red dimness of the headlights.  I hit the brakes and swerve.  My head bumps against the windshield.  Not too hard.  Thank god.  Shit.  I need to be watching ahead of me.  Not gazing out at the stars like I’m god damn Galileo.  This is no time to quit paying attention.  

Lindsey’s voice cuts through the silence of the cab.  

What was that?

Nothing.  Looked like an antelope.

She looks behind us at the kids buckled in the backseat.  Making sure they’re all right.  Both are still sound asleep.  Those kids have been through so much shit that they could probably sleep through Judgment Day.  I lean back in my seat and rub the sore spot on my head.  My hand runs through my salt and pepper hair.  Still thick despite my age.  I have a thick skull.  At least I didn’t whack my nose.  It’s been broken enough times.  More bulbous than Roman anymore.

Where are we?

"I don’t know.  We’ve been off the road for a couple of miles now.

Are you sure you can find Mexico?  

Of course I can find Mexico.  It’s just everything south of us.  Can you grab me a beer?

Are you sure you should have one?  You’re driving.         

The classic line of questioning to a simple request.  God I wish she was still asleep.  I love my wife, but sometimes I love the silence more.  Besides, I really don’t think she has the right to question me having one beer while driving.  Not after all the shit she’s pulled.  

Yes, I’m sure.  Just hand me one and go back to sleep.  It will be daylight soon.

Lindsey reaches back behind her, pulls a beer out of the cooler and hands it to me.  I watch her bony frame out of the corner of my eye, and consider calling it a night so that the two of us can have some fun before the kids wake up.  There’s not enough damn time for that though.  We have to keep going.  We have to cover as much ground as we can.  There will always be more time later.  I have to stay focused.

I crack open the beer and Lindsey settles back in her seat and closes her eyes.  I sip my beer, stare forward, and enjoy the silence.  In my head I remind myself to mark down that I drank a beer.  We’re on tight supplies and everything needs to be kept account of.  It’s probably a little early to be dipping into my beer supply.  Thank god we stopped in Marfa to replenish after the Big Bend didn’t work out as planned.  

We had six cases of beer to start with.  I’ve drank seventeen beers so far, thirteen of which were needed to calm me down after all the shit at the Big Bend.  We then bought another two cases at the store in Marfa.  That would give us a total of seven cases plus seven extra in the cooler minus the one I was drinking.  Twenty-four beers per case times seven cases is one-hundred-and-sixty-two beers.  

Wait.  Is that right.  That doesn’t seem right.  Four times seven is twenty-eight, plus twenty times seven which is one hundred and forty.  You add those two together and you get……..shit.  My mind is blank and for some reason simple math seems to be eluding me.  My memory is shit but I usually have no problem with numbers.  Granted I haven’t slept in a while, I’m exhausted, a little strung out, and most definitely distracted.  But this shouldn’t be that hard.  Maybe if I break it down differently.  Twelve times fourteen.  Two times four is….

It just all seems so unreal doesn’t it.  

Lindsey’s voice sounds loud in the silence.  The only other sound is the hum of the engine, the squeaking of the aftermarket shocks, and the fizzing of my beer.

What?

I said it just seems so unreal.  You know, driving out here in the middle of nowhere in the dead of the night.  Rushing about like a bunch of chickens with our heads cut off.  Each day a blur so we can barely even think about it.

We’re doing the best we can.  I never asked for this.

I know.  It’s just…..

Yeah?

It’s just I wish we could have brought Roger Snuggleton with us.

God, this conversation again.  It seems like every day since we threw everything we could get into Alice and got the hell out of Sweetwater she’s felt the damn need to bring up that fucking cat.

I know Linds.  I know, but we couldn’t find him and we sure as hell didn’t have time to start looking for him.

I know.  I know.  But still.  We could have looked for him.  We didn’t have to be in that big of a rush.

My wife knows very little about the world.  It’s times like these that I have to remind myself that she’s only twenty-seven.  It doesn’t help any that I’ve tried to keep her sheltered from the worst of things.  I keep my mouth shut and hope that will be the end of it.  I sure as hell wasn’t going to put my family at risk for some god damn cat.  Especially a cat, if I’m being honest about it, I never even really liked.   

The most Roger Snuggle….whatever ever did for me was not claw my leg or vomit in my shoe.  I would have put him in a bag and drowned him a long time ago except Linds and kids adored the shit out of him.  Either way, a cat shoved in a car on this type of trip would have been way too much trouble.  An uncontrollable variable at a time when everything needs to stay under control.  I take another drink of my beer and hope Linds has fallen back asleep.  All of this talking is distracting me from my driving.  I look at the speedometer.  Alice has dropped down to twenty.  

It’s just that none of it seems real you know.

I grunt to let her know I’m listening.  If I don’t show I’m listening she’ll just get mad, and that’s not shit I really need right now.  

Sometimes I feel like none of this is real at all.  That maybe I’m not real.  Sometimes it feels like maybe I’m just some character in somebody else’s dream.

I grunt again and take an extra large pull off my beer.  I hate it when she gets fucking whimsical.  I wish she would just shut up and go to back to sleep.  Leave me alone with my thoughts.  I have to do all the thinking for everybody 24/7.  Don’t I deserve just a little time to be alone with my own thoughts?

Wouldn’t it be funny if all of this is just some dream Roger is having?  That all these weird things are just in his head while he’s snoozing under the porch?

I look over at my wife.  She gazes out into the night, half of her face blackened by shadow.  I hope the look on my face gets my thoughts of what the hell through to her, but apparently it’s too dark.

I can tell you one thing.  If this is all just some dream Roger is having I guarantee he’s probably all wiped out on catnip.

She giggles to herself.  I look at my wife’s gaunt face again and say nothing.  I hope to god she’s not back on the drugs again.  We spent way too much time and money getting her cleaned up last time.  If she’s back on then I might as well dump her out right here in the middle of the desert.  Don’t get me wrong.  I love my wife more than I love myself, but I love my kids more.  They come first in all of this.  They’re the important thing.  

We ride in silence for a while, both of us watching the shadowy terrain slide past.  I finish my beer, crinkle up the can, and throw it on the floorboards.  No roads, no worries about getting pulled over for drunk driving.  I’m glad my wife isn’t talking right now, especially if all she’s going to do is talk about that damn cat.  I like little pussy talk and little talk from pussy.  I laugh a bit to myself.  

What’s so funny?

Nothing.

If I tell her what I’m laughing at she’ll just call me sexist and go off on some kind of rant.  I’m not sexist.  I believe women are capable of doing anything a man can do.  I just enjoy a sexist joke now and again, that’s all.  

Who laughs at nothing?

I guess I do.

Whatever asshole.  I don’t really care anyways.

Blessed silence again for a few minutes.  

I wish we could listen to the radio.

We went over this a hundred times.  Anything that picks up a transmission can also transmit.

I know.  I know.  I’m not stupid.

I think about pointing out that if she wanted to prove that hypothesis she needed to quit acting stupid, but I don’t.  Marriage is about love and compromise, but mostly about knowing when to keep your mouth shut.  Silence reigns again and after a while I hear gentle breathing sounds indicating that Linds has returned to the Land of Nod.  The well of words has finally run dry for the night.  

I breathe a sigh of relief and lean back behind the seat to grab a second beer, reminding myself to take two off the inventory sheet in the morning.  Can’t forget to take them off the inventory sheet.  There’s not going to be anymore stops in civilization from here on out.  We have to make what we have last.  I open the beer and take a drink, then move my head back close to the windshield, and watch the suspicious satellites go round and round overhead.      

Chapter 2

In 1957 the Soviets launched Sputnik, the world’s first artificial satellite.  Twenty months later the CIA launched Corona, the world’s first spy satellite.  Corona was a technological marvel, a five-foot camera, one hundred miles overhead, taking pictures on over a mile and a half of film.  The film would be sent back to Earth via a re-entry capsule, which was hooked mid-air by a passing jet to ensure the top secret photos never fell into enemy hands.  Over thirteen years, six generations of Corona were launched one hundred and forty-four times.  The first generation could resolve images down to 40 feet in diameter.  The second generation could do ten feet.  The final generation, three feet.  It’s frightening to think of what they were capable of fifty years ago.  It’s even more frightening to think of what they must be capable of now.  

There are some places that from looking at them you would never suspect that they are a drug house.  They sit in nice quiet neighborhoods, painted an inoffensive color of beige.  The house is always kept perfect.  The lawn is neatly trimmed each week.  The landscaping is impeccable and has the look of being professionally done.  The curtains are never drawn and inside you can see a comfortable sitting room with a big flat screen television and large leather couch.  

Sometimes as you walk your dog you see the owner getting his mail out of the box, or maybe retrieving the paper thrown into the bushes by the paperboy.  He’s a nice older gentleman with a full head of gray hair and bright cheerful eyes.  He’s kind of quiet, likes to keep to himself, but all in all that’s not a bad thing.  His wife is a lovely middle-aged woman who waves every time you see her.  Sometimes the grandkids come to visit and you can hear them playing in the backyard, wrestling and screaming with rambunctious joy.

They seem like the perfect neighbors.  You never have a problem with them and they never bother you.  They seem like the nicest people you’ve ever met.  The American dream in living color.  Then one day you get back from work to find the entire house has been boarded up.  The nosy neighbor that lives next door tells you that the police came by and took the old couple away for cooking and distributing meth.  You’re left stunned and dazed.  All you can think is here you’ve been driving across town for meth, when you could have been buying it right next door.  

The house just off Lancaster Avenue is not one of these hidden drug houses.  It is most definitely a crack house.  It has broken windows and peeling faded paint.  It has piles of trash half covering the weed patches and bare dirt that had once been a yard.  This isn’t really the kind of place I want to be at.  It’s too much like the flashes from my past to be a good idea.  It’s too close to the old life I’m trying to avoid.  I’ve been here before, not this specific house, but this type of situation.  

I have a handle of tequila in my hand and four joints already rolled in my pocket.  I’m ready to party.  To be honest, I really didn’t want to come out tonight, but Larry had hinted pretty heavy that he needed some alone time with his old lady.  I could hardly blame him.  I’ve been squatting on his couch here in Fort Worth for the past three months.  Ever since they gave me my walking papers.  Who was I to try and tell him that I didn’t really want to go out?

This is most definitely a party.  The flashing strobes through the windows and the constant vibration of the bass are a dead giveaway.  Skeeter climbs up on the porch, opens the door, and walks in like he owns the place.  I follow.  Who am I to judge this house and the people inside?  For Christ sakes, I’ve just gotten out of prison.  I have no right to give a Sermon on the Mount.  

The inside of the house looks much like the outside.  It’s overflowing with people who are most definitely not the right kind of people.  Muscle heads in wife beaters and baseball caps with the tags left on.  Fat girls wearing way too much makeup and way too little clothing, bellies and muffin tops hanging out over their waistbands.  Human skeletons of both sexes with long stringy hair and bony joints sticking out at odd angles.  Some freegan kids against the back wall, standing around with their greasy dreadlocks and patched dingy clothes.  Black, caucasian, and Asian.  All the major races represented.  All but Mexicans.  Mexicans usually go to their own parties.

By the looks of everybody the party has already been going on for quite some time.  It’s only 10 PM.  The whole cast of characters is glassy eyed and jerky in their movements.  Some dance by themselves.  Some make out on shabby old pieces of furniture or in shadowy corners.  Some shuffle around mumbling to friends only they can see.  Some just sit and stare, comprehending the mysteries of the universe.  Booze is everywhere.  So are bongs, pipes, needles, and pills.  There are even a couple of lines some little chubby Asian girl is snorting off the coffee table with a rolled dollar bill.  No one is trying to hide anything.  It’s all out in the open and no one is giving a shit who sees.  The liberated zombies of the modern world.  

When Skeeter walks in everyone cries out his name like he just walked into his local bar.  A couple wiggers in their baggy pants run up and give him a hug, slapping his back.  One gives me the eye and whispers something in Skeeter’s ear.  Skeeter puts his hand on the wigger’s shoulder and says something back.  I can’t hear him over the constant pounding of the bass, but I can see his mouth move with the words.

He’s cool.

It’s just a simple check of credentials.  Nothing to get upset about.  I’m just some random dude.  An unknown.  Who knows who I could be.  Maybe a narc, or maybe even a cop.  This is not the kind of place you just walk into.  You have to know somebody who knows somebody.  

A kid like Skeeter is always loved at a place like this.  He has something that a lot of these people lack.  Money.  Skeeter’s real name is Roger Something Something the Third.  His daddy is some big shit who owns a small chain of stores selling crap.  His uncle is on the Fort Worth city council.  Kids from money always end up either striving to prove themselves or giving up and just not giving a shit.  Skeeter is the latter.  We call him Skeeter because he is an annoying little shit who’s always buzzing around.  It doesn’t matter, a kid with money can always find friends.    

The wigger talking to Skeeter gives me a head nod, letting me know I am approved to stay in this den of degradation.  I give a head nod back and sit down on the nearest stained couch.  I take a pull of tequila, light one of my joints, and sit back to absorb the chaotic happenings around me.  Say what you want about people who hang out at a crackhouse, but they’re a generous lot.  Within the first fifteen minutes I’m offered a buffet of narcotics.  Hardcore druggies never want to get high alone.  It’s always better if someone else joins you on your journey.  I politely refuse each offer and turn and give away drinks of tequila to show that I’m cool with the overall communistic vibe.  It’s been a long time since I’ve touched anything but pot, booze, and cigarettes.  It’s been a long and interesting road.  One that I have no interest in walking down again.     

The kids next to me are working themselves up into a frenzy of jabbering back and forth.  One pimply faced guy with glasses keeps talking over all the others, pontificating to the crowd about the hidden world that only the dumb ass sheeple can’t see.  

......and for another thing, jet fuel doesn’t even burn that hot man.  Only about 600 degrees max.  The fucking melting point of steel is clear up around 1200.  It doesn’t make any god damn sense.  They found fucking melted steel in the debris.  Where the hell did that come from?

I listen to his rant for a little bit, the preacher not even slowing down to take a breath.  As long as you can keep talking without a break, no one else will ever get a word in.  I can tell that several of the other kids want to break in, eager young pups, their heads filled with what passes for original thought, but he isn’t giving them a chance.  Stupid uneducated little shit.  Thinking he’s so smart without ever once having a single logical idea.  Regurgitating some random crap that he read on the internet one day.  I believe in live and let live, I’m a Libertarian, but that’s no excuse for stupidity.  I can’t stand these kind of people.  I stand up and walk deeper into the house.     

I make two circuits and smoke my way through my second joint before I see her.  Living room, dining room, kitchen, backyard, through a sliding glass door into a bedroom.  You can go anywhere you want at one of these parties.  As long as a door is open or unlocked, it’s all free game.  Nothing worth stealing except drugs anyways, and those are all freely given.

She’s sitting alone on an old musty green couch on the back porch.  There’s a fire blazing in an oil drum surrounded by a variety of people in various states of reality.  Some talking and some dancing around the flames.  She sits with a beer in her hand, watching the fire, her pale blue eyes glassy and reflecting the fire.  She’s just a slip of a girl, thin almost to the point of gauntness.  Her hair is dishwater blonde, long and straight.  It frames a face with sharp features.  The flickering flames in the barrel create a dance of light and shadows all around her.  Her space never darkens.  I catch myself staring.  Here in this den of crackheads, surrounded by detritus slowly circling the drain, is an angel.  

She looks away from the fire and looks at me, catching me staring.  I don’t avert my gaze.  She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.  I can’t look away.  I’m afraid if I do she’ll disappear and I’ll never see her again.  She lowers her head, looks down at her feet, then looks up at me again.  I’ve never been shy.  I’ve been through enough that I’m pretty hard to intimidate.  I’m not like these fucking kids.  I smile and walk up to the couch.  I see her give me the once over as I approach.  I know what she sees.  An older man.  A thick head of black hair streaked with gray.  A body more fit than most men my age.  There’s not much to do in prison except read and work out.  I hold out the bottle of tequila and shake it.  She looks up at me for a few seconds, doing nothing, then reaches out and takes the bottle.  She swallows a healthy pull.  I sit down next to her.  

Hi.  My name’s Paul.

I’m Lindsey.  Her voice is soft and quiet, a little hard to hear over the constant booming of the music.  

Nice to meet you Lindsey, is it all right if I call you Linds?

Why would you want to call me that?

I don’t know.  You just seem more like a Linds.  Plus it’s a hell of a time saver to cut off that extra syllable.

Her lips curl in a smile showing a row of perfectly white teeth.  A short snort of laughter escapes from her.  

You’re funny.  

She hands back the tequila bottle and I take another pull to try and hide the fact that I’m grinning like an idiot.  She looks up at me, her head slightly dipped.    

How do you know Davey?

Who’s Davey?

The guy who owns the house.  This is his party.

Oh.  I don’t know Davey.  Skeeter brought me here.  I’ve been staying with my buddy Larry for the past few months and he wanted me to get out of the house for a little while so he could have some alone time with his old lady.

Oh, that was nice of you.  

Yeah, well his old lady doesn’t really like me much.  Thinks I’m some kind of low life.  But Larry is a pretty good guy.  We were in the Marines together.  

Larry’s girlfriend has never actually come out and told me she doesn’t like me.  She doesn’t have the guts to actually call someone a piece of shit to their face.  She never says a word, but it’s definite that she doesn’t like me.  She never tries to hide the look of disgust she always has on her face when she sees me.  She never tries to hide her disdain.  When I first moved in I tried to be nice to her.  Tried to start a few conversations but only got curt responses back.  I don’t know why she doesn’t like me.  Anymore, the feeling is mutual.  Both Larry and I had been pretty wild in our Marine days.  Maybe she’s worried that Larry’s going to revert back to how he used to be.

The tequila and joints must be taking effect.  I come back out of my own head realizing that Linds is asking me a question and expects some kind of response.  

What?

I asked why doesn’t she like you much?

Probably because I was in jail for the past five years.  

The words pour out of me.  I don’t even consider lying about it.  I was in jail.  It was something that I had done.  I made some mistakes and I paid for them.  I don’t feel any shame about it.  

She stares at me quietly for a little bit.  Her eyes focusing and unfocusing.  At least I think they are.  It’s hard to tell.  My own vision keeps wavering on the edge of clarity.  

What were you in jail for?

Made some mistakes.  Me and a couple buddies were cooking meth.

Why?

At the time I was addicted to it.  

I take out my third joint and light it, taking in a deep draw to make sure it’s truly lit.  I offer it to her.  She takes the joint out of my hand and takes a deep drag.  She lets out a short series of coughs.  I smile as I take back the joint.  

I’m not addicted anymore, prison cleaned me up pretty good.  To be honest, it was probably one of the better things to happen to me.

So what are you doing now?

I’m working as a fabricator at an engineering firm.  I was a combat engineer in the Marines.  The engineers design it.  I build it.

Sounds like a pretty good job.  

Yeah.  

Her eyes break from mine and look out over the scene of the dancers around the burning barrel.  One is down on the ground, convulsing, and the others keeping dancing, careful not to tread on his flailing limbs.  What is this girl doing here?  What is this angel doing here in these ruins?

Looks like Petey’s epilepsy is acting up again.

Is that Petey on the ground?

Yeah.

Should we do anything for him?

No, he’ll come out of it in a little bit.

What are you doing here?

What?

You don’t belong here.

What?

You're too good for this place.  This is the kind of place where if you hang out too long it’s just going to drag you down into the shit.  This place is quicksand.

What are you doing here then?

I’ve been through enough shit that I know what to avoid.  I’ve already made my mistakes.

Oh.

Do you want to get out of here?

What?

I saw a Pancake House about ten blocks up the road when Skeeter drove me here.  Do you want to go get some pancakes?

I can see the gears turning in her head.  Calculating the risks of going off with a complete stranger she met at a crackhouse to go get some pancakes.  

Sure, why not.

I stand up, take her by the hand and lead her out of the house.  Past the dancers in the backyard, past the couple having sex in the back bedroom, past the open market of drugs in the living room.  Right out the front door.  I hand the bottle of tequila to some random kid as we walk out.  Linds stares and watches it disappear back into the depths.  We go out into the night and start walking up the darkened street.  

Her voice seems louder now that we’re alone.  

How old are you?

Thirty-nine.

You don’t look it.

No, everyone tends to look pretty young in my family.  We never lose our hair.

I like your hair.

Thanks.  

We walk for a bit in silence.  Police sirens scream in the distance as we approach the more major streets.  She moves lithely beside me.  I eye her curves by the glow of the streetlight.

How old are you?

Seventeen.

Oh.  

Shit.    

Chapter 3

None of the 9/11 conspiracies ever made much sense to me.  All of them are so fucking complicated and convoluted.  Nobody on the planes.  The towers getting brought down by controlled demolition.  A cruise missile hitting the Pentagon.  Shit.  It’s not really the lack of scientific understanding that bothers me, it’s the total lack of thought about the number of people.  The more convoluted the plot, the more people who are going to be involved.  Some