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Message-ID: <35155asstr$1013209808@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: nickurfe@yahoo.com (Nicholas Urfe)
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NNTP-Posting-Date: 8 Feb 2002 08:43:36 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} cuyahoga.007 [urfe] [new]
Date: Fri,  8 Feb 2002 18:10:08 -0500
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.
                                                  ::

                                            as falls cuyahoga,
                                      so falls cuyahoga falls

                                                  ::

Vanessa Cuyahoga, pouring gin into a shaker. That looks good, Mom,
says Addison.

No, says Vanessa, dolloping a judicious allotment of vermouth in after
it.

It's not like I've never had booze before, says Addison.

Addison, dear, I let you fuck whoever you want whenever you want.
Vanessa's tits shimmy under her gauzy black peignoir as she shakes it
with one business-like hand, ice chucking, liquor sloshing. The least
you can do, fetching the strainer, is follow my rules about alcohol
and drugs and smoking. Strainer in place, she pours with a practiced
whip of her wrist.

The least I can do, says Addison, is pretend to follow them. You never
let me do anything. Vanessa sipping shoots her a sour look. It's true,
says Addison.

Vanessa sets her glass down. Well, Edie. Perhaps your father would be
more permissive?

Edie giggles. My dad would freak.

If he saw you with a cigarette? Or a martini glass? Vanessa swooping
across to the kitchen table from the bar. Or if he saw you eating out
my daughter's pussy on a rock by the Falls?

And Edie blushes and looks down and away. Addison snorts and kicks up
one foot under the table, finding Edie's lap on the chair across from
her. Hey, says Edie. Stop. Addison cocks an eyebrow at her.

Vanessa setting the martini glass on the table puts one hand on the
back of Addison's chair. It's just you and your mother, then, Edie?

I've got a brother and sister. Well, half-brother. He lives with, unh,
my dad, actually.

And are you girls out at school? Scooping up martini for another sip.

Addison snorts. Yeah, Mom. We're in the GLBT club and everything. We
march. We wear little pink triangles on our backpacks.

We are gonna do the kiss-in next week, says Edie. Only Addison wants
us to wear short skirts and feel each other up. Ow!

Goodness, says Vanessa. Stroking Addison's cheek. That does get the
juices flowing. Tilting Addison's head up, Addison's lips parting,
bending down to kiss them. Edie's eyes half-closing, smiling, as
Addison's bare toe kneads her underwear. Her hand idly stroking
Addison's calf, under the cuff of her pyjama bottoms.

Good martini, says Addison, licking her lips.

You hush, says Vanessa. Stroking Addison's hair. So were you
practicing upstairs today, in your room? Crossing now around the table
to Edie's side, against the wall. All afternoon?

Yeah, Mom. We need a lot of practice.

Mmm, says Edie, shuddering a little. Breathing out her nose, and in
her mouth. Vanessa, stroking her shoulder. Toying with a spaghetti
strap. Tell me all about it, says Vanessa.

We just fucked. That's all.

That's all? Just came home and crawled up each other's cunts?

Mother. You are so vulgar. Both feet in Edie's crotch now, working.

It's a perfectly valid word. Sliding down to cup a breast, Edie
inhaling sharply. So tell me. I'm dying to know what you girls were up
to in that room, all afternoon. Fingers nipping under the tank-top
now, along bare skin.

Gee, Mom, says Addison. Edie's hand on the table clenching, a small
white-knuckled fist. Where's Dad? What's he been up to?

In the bathroom stall, door locked, standing over the bowl, one hand
on the slick blue wall, braced. Fly open, swollen cock in the other
fist, silent as he works. The first jet of come a long shallow arc,
lost against the wall somewhere. Second more of a fall, into the bowl
this one, dissolving in sudden tendrilled oily clouds upon the shock
of contact. The third dribbles. Eyes fixed on the little wire-and-bead
mandala, resting on the narrow shelf above the toilet's flush sensor,
maybe the height of his waist.

Mandala in his hand now, Jackson Cuyahoga waits with mothers, business
partners, boyfriends, kids where the security checkpoint bottlenecks
the concourse. He tosses it once and catches it and then flips it to a
startled young man, very blond, with a thick black leather bag looped
over one shoulder. The very blond young man manages to catch it,
nearly drops it, hooks it with one finger. Doctor Cuyahoga, he says,
in a voice turned and smoothed by a Scandinavian accent.

Doctors see patients. I just think a lot. Call me Jackson. Did you
check anything?

The very blond young man shakes his head. I travel lightly.

Jackson nods.

It's in the tunnel to the parking garage that the very blond young man
says oh, I think I've heard of this before.

Yes? says Jackson, punching the elevator button.

It's a model, says the very blond young man, fiddling with the
mandala. A metaphoric representation. There's a ding, and the doors of
the central elevator slide open.

Awful solid for a metaphor, says Jackson, as they step in. He punches
the sixth floor button.

It's a model of the universe, says the very blond young man. He's
squashed it into a flat ring, a rosette of interlocking wire circles,
a scalloped butter-cookie shape. The birth of the universe. The flat
plane, the, and he opens it, hooks his fingers in the center rings and
pulls it open, blooming, a flat ring now surrounding a central bulge
like a wire-frame flying saucer, the Big Bang, he says, pulling it
open further into a small irregular globe. The fluorescent light
catching the small orange beads. The universe. No. I can't remember -
there is more to it. More shapes you can make. The very blond young
man has squished the center of the globe, pinching it tight, forming
two symmetrical lozenge shapes. He grins. Universal mitosis?

Jackson shrugs. I don't know, he said. You tell me. I just thought it
was a kind of a neat toy.

Ah.

Torvald.

Doctor Cuya - Jackson? Yes?

You understand what this semester will offer?

I am to basically act as your assistant. Access to your notes, your
research, the Lab, time at the Observatory, the Seminar...

The elevator dings. The doors slide open. The sixth floor is almost
empty of cars. Some ten spaces away sits the Range Rover, alone, an
odd color in the orange sodium vapor lights.

Do you understand what it entails, then? says Jackson, stepping out,
one hand in place to hold the elevator doors.

Your, says Torvald, not stepping forward, your reputation has
proceeded you, Doctor. He adjusts the weight of the bag on his
shoulder, but still does not step forward.

Relax, says Jackson. Nothing's going to happen in a parking garage.

Oh.

I just don't like parking near anyone else.

Oh.

You've already made your decision, Torvald.

Torvald half smiles, half shrugs. I suppose I have, he says.

In the car, Jackson pulls out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. Offers
them to Torvald. No thank you, sir. Jackson shakes one out, takes it
in his lips. Starts the motor. Pulls a butane lighter from his jacket
pocket and flips it open, lighting his cigarette. You don't mind, do
you? he asks.

No sir.

A reputation? says Jackson, as he puts the car in gear.

Just that - you are allowed, ah, certain indulgences. Because of the
work you do for your government.

Jackson snorts. That's a damn cynical way to put it.

As Jackson is paying the parking attendant he looks over at Torvald.
Sleepy?

It was a long flight, sir.

I have a little detour in mind. Take us forty-five minutes or so.

Would this be one of your certain indulgences?

Jackson seems amused at the idea.

It's dark out on the highway. The occasional white light shining on
this or that sign, the islands of red and orange and yellow lights at
offramps and overpasses. The blue lights shining inside from the
dashboard. Jackson's face underlit, his cheekbones dim muffled lines
of light, the coal of his cigarette a minor counterpoint. Torvald
leaning back in his seat, his face turned to the side, the speed of
their passing unseen in all the darkness. His eyes closing, his mouth
setting, his eyes opening, slowly blinking. A riot of light sliding
by, taillights stuttering, an unmarked cop car, cherries spinning red
and flashing, spotlight and headlights on a sporty yellow hatchback,
pulled over on the left-hand shoulder. Jackson's hand flicking the
turn signal. Pulling right towards an offramp. Torvald, shifting in
his seat. Resting an elbow on the door, his cheek and chin on his
hand. His other hand toying still with the wire mandala. Looking over
to Jackson and scratching the back of his neck. Jackson, his dark
sweater, his black jeans lost in the darkness. A pinkish orange street
light slides past and suddenly there he is, bodied forth, dark against
the lighter color of the leather seat, and gone again. His eyes never
turning from the road ahead of them, narrow now and rather steep.
Paved, but not too well. Trees loom thickly to either side of the
headlights. Jackson takes a deep breath, his cigarette flaring,
leaning forward, plucking it from his mouth. Stubs it out in the
central ashtray. The sound of gravel under the tires, sudden, sharp,
crisp.

Well, says Jackson. The car stops. He yanks on the parking brake.
Shuts off the headlights.

Well? says Torvald, looking about the darkness.

Come with me, says Jackson, opening his door.

Up a rise on foot and then beneath them, glittering, a sea of stars:
house stars and sign stars and logo stars, street stars shooting for
the vanishing point out there somewhere, freeway stars like snakes
swooping and curling over it all and filled with crawling and flying
car stars, and towering buildings full of stars, clustered here, and
over there, and there.

It's beautiful, says Torvald.

Yes, says Jackson. But was it made for us?

I'm sorry?

Here we stand, says Jackson, the only two beings who could possibly
appreciate this, all this. This beauty. Surely the only likely
explanation, the only conceivable, possible explanation is that it was
created for us? That our presence here, as observers capable of
appreciating what we see, is the desired end result of all those
zoning and planning laws, the invention of electricity, the automobile
. . . those lights . . .

Your analogy is flawed, says Torvald.

Oh? says Jackson.

You are attempting to ridicule the anthropic principle, says Torvald.
But all of this, these lights, were created by us. For many different
reasons, but all for us, and what we need. And our presence, here, at
this place, has everything to do with the view. He looks sidelong at
Jackson. Or almost everything. We - you and I - are here not by
accident, but by design . . .

Or so you presume, says Jackson.

Torvald shrugs. Or so I presume.

I do not like reducing anything to two choice, or options. This, or
that, says Jackson, turning and climbing back down the slope. Torvald
follows. The universe is more complicated than black and white.
Nonetheless, and he turns, leaning against the front grill of the
Range Rover, the engine tocking as it cools, nonetheless, there are
two broad paths these next few months can take. And academically,
professionally, there is very little difference between the two of
them.

A moment passes. Torvald stands in the trail before the car, looking
down, Jackson a dark shape in the darkness, the car gleaming faintly
behind him.

Scientifically? says Torvald.

Scientifically, says Jackson. I would say that there is more to
science than academics and professionalism. Far more.

I appreciate this, says Torvald, but I thought we had agreed: I have
already made my choice. He shifts his weight, but does not step
closer.

Choices can be unmade. Changed. When someone says, there is no turning
back, that's almost always precisely because there is.

Ah, says Torvald.

We play a game, says Jackson. Because a game has rules. It can be
stopped or started at any point. But we play a game because it can be
won. Or lost. Played well, or badly. Do you understand?

Torvald opens his mouth to say something, and stops, looking back up
the slope at the dusty rosy glow of the city stars. There are, he
says, dozens of coincidences in the formation of the universe.
Parameters which, if they were not what they are, to a ridiculous
number of significant digits - well, there would be no stars, no heavy
elements, no planets. No us.

I see, says Jackson. Folding his arms.

The gravitational constant, for one, says Torvald. Its ratio to the
mass of a proton is ten to the negative thirty-eighth power.
Unthinkably close to nothing at all. But were its strength increased
by just two factors of ten - just two, ten to the negative
thirty-sixth -

I know the math, says Jackson.

- just that much more, and stars would last ten thousand years, not
billions. Life would never have a chance to evolve.

Life as we know it, says Jackson, but Torvald keeps on, doesn't hear
him. How can you look at that, at the ratio of the mass of the proton
to the neutron, at the frightfully complex interaction of
electromagnetism and strong and weak nuclear forces, how can you look
at all of this and not see the hand of design?

I don't know, says Jackson. How can physicists can look at the
frightful complexity of the universe, its unthinkable size and scale,
at our unutterably insignificant place in the scheme of things - how
can they look at all that and forget their basic responsibility?

Which is? says Torvald.

And Jackson grabs his collar, reaches out and takes it in a fist,
quick, and just holds it, hold him at arm's length. Why did I do that?
he says.

I, says Torvald, I don't -

Tell me. Why? Hypothesize.

I - you. You want to - prove a point. You - Jackson crooks his arm and
Torvald takes a step closer, and Jackson's fist twists in the collar
of his shirt. Why? says Jackson, and Torvald says you, I, you want to
intimidate me, overpower me, you want to dominate me, you, and Jackson
says, Which is it? and Torvald takes another step closer, he could put
an arm around Jackson now but he doesn't, Jackson's still leaning back
against the car but now he straightens up, leans forward a little,
Which is it?

And Torvald says, You want me.

Is that it? says Jackson, in his ear.

I, says Torvald. I. I don't know.

There is no why, says Jackson. His voice so quiet. There is no why.
There is only what and how. Einstein took care of where and when
pretty handily. He smiles, his lips parting just slightly, the surface
tension of the thin film of saliva slicking them pops. I grabbed you.
I pulled you closer. There is only what, and how, says Jackson, and
why is just a story we make up to tell ourselves and it has about as
much bearing on reality as a comic book or a video game.

They stand there a moment, not moving. Jackson holding Torvald's shirt
in his fist, his forearm pressed against Torvald's chest, his cheek
against Torvald's cheek. His breath on Torvald's skin. Torvald looks
down, away, swallowing. His Adam's apple jumps, bobs.

The minute - the instant - you start looking for why, you've forgotten
the purpose of science. Jackson's voice a whisper. The instant you
decide, maybe this is the reason why, or that, you've given up. The
moment you think maybe all this was just swept into being by some
unknowable Creator at the snap of his monstrously ineffable fingers,
that all this happens because it was meant to, you've given up looking
for what, and how. You've abdicated your basic responsibility. The
minute -

The moment you ask yourself why, says Torvald, looking up again,
quietly, into Jackson's ear, you've started playing a game.

And Jackson leans back, looking at Torvald. Smiles. Your first point,
he says, and he kisses him. Torvald is rigid, surprised, it's just
Jackson pressing his lips, his mouth against Torvald's. His hand
knotted still in Torvald's shirt, his forearm pressed against
Torvald's chest. One of Torvald's hands opening, closing, unsure what
to do. The other wavering. His shoulders slackening, his mouth
opening. His head turning, his tongue licking. His arms coming up now
to wrap around Jackson as Jackson's other hand comes up to cup the
back of Torvald's head.

Why, says Jackson, against his lips.

Because you want me.

Why, says Jackson, loosening a button on Torvald's shirt, and another.

Because I'm young. Because I'm - Torvald's hands tugging at Jackson's
sweater. Jackson stepping back against the car, more buttons opened,
his hands on the bare clean skin of Torvald's chest. Why?

Because I'm brilliant. I'm beautiful.

Hmh, says Jackson, smiling tightly. His hands on Torvald's hips, on
the buckle of Torvald's belt. Why?

Because you want me, you want to mold me, show me, convince me -
Jackson swinging Torvald around suddenly, laughing, Torvald's back now
against the car, his belt buckle clanking open. Oh, my, says Jackson.
I, says Torvald. Why? says Jackson, his hands spreading Torvald's fly,
Torvald's cock sliding forth, hesitantly half erect. Why?

Because, says Torvald. You're gay -

Jackson on one knee before him. Why?

Because, says Torvald. Because. Because. His hand on the back of
Jackson's head. Oh, because -

And Jackson says nothing at all.

Oh, says Torvald. Oh -

The engine tocks once more. Somewhere the sound of propellers, a
helicopter. Rotors. Perhaps a jet engine, there's been a constant
susurrus of engines, of wheels on pavement, of wind somewhere. The dim
and rosy glow of the city cut jaggedly by the slope's leafy
silhouette. Oh. A scrape of gravel as Jackson stands. Oh. Takes
Torvald's face in his hands, long-fingered hands, the glint of a ring,
rosy silver in the darkness. I don't, says Torvald, as Jackson kisses
him, as Torvald kisses back. Torvald's cock still gleaming upright,
the head of it bulbous, wet. Jackson leaning against the car, pulling,
guiding Torvald on numb feet to one side, around him, behind him now,
hips to hips, Torvald's head leaning back against him, one foot toes
up, heel useless in the gravel, Jackson's hand around his waist,
Jackson's hand on his cock. Torvald's hand splayed on the hood of the
car. Groaning. I don't. I don't. Shh. Jackson's hand sliding slick
along Torvald's cock. His heel dragging in the gravel. I don't. Shh.
Oh. Oh. The come in one long stream, lost in the dark. And again. A
sound like momentary rain.

Oh.

Jackson, licking between his thumb and forefinger. Smiling.

You, says Torvald.

No, says Jackson.

You're hard, says Torvald.

No, says Jackson.

I felt it. You -

No, says Jackson. He takes Torvald's hand, pulls him close. Kisses him
like taking a bite from something. Torvald's eyes closed, licking his
lips, licking the air. Not yet, says Jackson. Not now. Not here.

Why not? says Torvald.

They stand there a moment. Torvald's pants hanging open, his cock
slowly curling in upon itself. Shining wetly even now. Jackson's hand
running through Torvald's hair. Jackson's head shaking, his lips
quirking in a flat dull smile.

Torvald buckles his pants as Jackson shakes a fresh cigarette out of
the pack.

I'll have one of those, says Torvald.

In the car. Trees to either side of the headlights again, but also
mailboxes. A streetlight, the color of luminous pink grapefruit. Some
music, stately, serialist, plays over the speakers. Tell me about
gravastars, says Jackson.

I, says Torvald. Shaking his head as if shaking water from it. I
haven't read the paper. Mottola and Mazur?

Yes, says Jackson.

I haven't read the paper.

Read it, says Jackson. We're going to be looking at the possible
implications on Smolin's theory of the natural selection of universes.

I don't, says Torvald, but Jackson doesn't hear him. The idea that
maybe a gravastar could serve equally well as the birthpoint of a new
universe, he says.

I, says Torvald, and then oh. Oh. He frowns. In the shallow well in
the dashboard before him the wire and bead mandala. He takes it in one
hand, poking it with the other. It's a question of the entropy, he
says.

To start, says Jackson. Gravel again under the tires, sharp, crisp. Of
course, if I had been Mottola and Mazur, I'd have named it something
else.

Oh? says Torvald.

The car stops, Jackson jerking the handbrake up. In front of them a
Mazda Miata, roof up. The lights of a house through the greenery
there, a front door. Opening. Sounds like something from a bad Star
Trek, says Jackson, trailing off. In the doorway there a woman, tall,
silhouetted, dark hair to her shoulders, quite obviously naked beneath
the gauzy black peignoir tied loosely at her neck and waist and
brushing her bare ankles. A martini glass in one hand, raised to her
lips, tossed back. Turning inside and gone then, the door still open.

I, says Torvald. Um.

I should probably, says Jackson, shutting off the engine, warn you
about my wife.

                                                  ::
                                                  
                                            as falls cuyahoga,
                                      so falls cuyahoga falls
                                             an object lesson.007
                                                 
                                                          --n.
                                                  ::
                                                  
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/nickurfe/www/
http://www.ruthiesclub.com/
nickurfe@yahoo.com

This story may be freely circulated by anyone, anytime, anywhere.
"Prospero's magic" from the Prospero's Books soundtrack by the
 Michael Nyman Band.

.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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