.
                                                  ::

                                            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 father, then,
Edie?

I've got a brother and sister. Well, half-brother. He lives with,
unh, my mom, 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.org/~nickurfe/
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.

.
