On the subway, I read all the signs. Even the Spanish ones. If you see something, say something. Si usted ve algo, diga algo. I try to infer how “algo” contributes to both phrases; that is what occupies my language-oriented brain. I puzzle out all the words on the LEARN ENGLISH NOW! Cards, fascinated by the relations between the Romance languages. I nearly miss my 14^th St stop because I am studying the map of the 123 line I all ready know.

Sex and the City’s Carrie once screamed, “I have an addiction, sir!” She meant her cigarette, a habit I think California and Bloomburg are right to condemn, but I’m not sure I have the right to feel righteous when I, too, have an addiction.

If my mother and I are out to lunch, and she goes to the bathroom, I pull out my book.

If I am nearing the end (read: within 100 pages) of a 473 page novel, I will bring another 628 page novel along as a backup. I will do this for a week and a half in which I have almost no time to read Novel A in the first place, stealing only a few pages on the bus ride home or before bed. I do not feel the extra weight.

I no longer bring magazines with me because they are too short. I finish my favorite in an hour each month. I wish they would publish more often.

My one wish is to be able to download words into my head. I want to be able to finish Gone With the Wind in the shower, and literally fall asleep reading Harry Potter against my closed eyelids. Audio books defeat the purpose, and besides, they go too slowly.

Sir, I am addicted to reading and rereading and yet again reading “Start” on my Windows toolbar, “Stop” on street signs. It is impossible not to. Even if the sign says stop, I can’t.

Richenda Gould, 19
Princeton, New Jersey

Nobody recognized her.

She was the tough girl,

The rough girl,

The badass, Do Not Touch Me girl.

She wore leather,

Chunky, heavy heels,

And pierced eyebrows

With fake eyelashes.

But when she wore pink,

She bowled the whole school over.

Her low-riders were on vacation,

The bra straps went back under.

She wore a jean jacket,

And her hair in a high bow,

But she chewed bubblegum

As she sauntered.

Her way through the hallway emptied,

Like Moses parting teens,

And she never cast a look

to any of those boring kids.

‘Cause the badass girl

Was wearing a skirt,

And her tough self was riding the wave.

Smooth silk tickled her ankles

In strappy black sandals

While her hips swayed and swished

To her class.

Her bubblegum cracked

As she opened the door,

When it closed, she looked back,

And she winked.

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If you didn’t have money and you had to grow old and die somewhere, this was as fair a place as any. The staff was kind and attentive for the most part, and the place wasn’t exactly decorated, but you could bring almost anything of your own that you wanted, as long as it could fit in the 22×18ft room without giving the staff a problem. He’d seen people expire in worse.

David… David, that was his name. It had taken him longer to recall it today than it had yesterday. The effort was exhausting, but he didn’t move. He had nowhere to go.

Like a victorious king, a new insurgent swept into the room. The fly went on a cursory circuit about and between and over David’s things, at last deciding that they were beneath it. It landed on the window frame– directly in the path of David’s line of sight.

Bzzzzbzzz…

“Shut up,” David mutters belatedly. A beat, two, three, four, “Shut up! God-damned-blasted– Nurse!” With effort, he grasps for the call button, eyes searching wildly for the invader.

“Nurse! Nurse, there’s someone in my room! …Nurse!”

At last the old fellow’s eyes land on the insect, and he falls silent. He squints hard, trying to see it. “Little bastard,” he whispers hoarsely, spitting. “You… why are you here? How dare you come here? I suppose you think you’re smart. Breaking in on an old man. Making him feel insecure. Well, I am secure. I am. I am!” He stops for a moment, jaw waggling, trying to regain control of its spasms.

“You don’t know the half of it. What it’s like here. Surrounded by- by OLD people! Your hear me, Frank!? You’re OLD!”

The man shuffling his way down the corridor turns to look in the room. “So’re you,” he replies obstinately, with no patience for the other man’s shit. Resolutely, he continues his measured trundle.

David stares again at the wall, jaw working slowly. “Bloody-damned… you dunno what it’s like to be left somewhere, do you?” His gaze lands again on the fly. “Left here, all by yourself in this god forsaken hellhole. People always coddling you… they treat us like babies. Can’t walk… can’t talk… Can’t think! They treat us like we dunno how to think! Like we’re stupid! Like we like that! It’s- it’s damned insulting. You know that? I am… insulted. I’m… I’m damned… insulted. Being here. I am. I’m insulted…”

“How are you feeling Mr. Bennet?” a chipper woman comes in wearing the pink-rimmed pin of nursing home staff.

David mumbles incoherently.

“That’s good,” she smiles, taking the handles of his wheelchair. Her calm manner is coached to be soothing. “Come along, it’s time for your afternoon medicines anyway.”

The wheelchair squeaks every time the wheel turns, and, uninhibited, the fly does what he does best. He flies.

Where the wooshing of cars driving between the great columns of steel and glass buildings is all that’s heard on the street. Where all you see when you look into buildings, and cars, and eyes, is the reflection of the brighter lights outside. Where people walk by with their heads down; they never meet each other’s gazes. They’re too afraid to.

It’s where everything seems darker, always. It’s where a teenage guy stands with his hands in the pockets of his pleather jacket, and watches the glaring, gaudy light flicker on the extra-wide TVs in a display window. He’s not really watching them.

“Last night’s attack on the hill lead to massive losses on both sides. Here with me now is Kurt Monroe, RHN’s expert guerilla strategist. Thank you for being here, Kurt.”

“Thanks for inviting me, Lucille.”

Someone walks past him and their shoulders collide. “Watch it!” comes the throaty reply, more intended malice in it than actual oomph, and the insurgents’ shoulders hunch once more as he hurries on his way.

Paul watches him with guarded eyes, and turns away from the smiling anchors on the TV to begin his own walk home.

Home isn’t really all that far from here. It’s a few blocks down, and over; the flashing, zippy, fluorescent advertisements fade away somewhat, and he climbs the creaky metal steps to his front door. He’s lucky, he knows. A lot of people don’t have homes to go to.

*

Inside is just like the outside, lit by the yellow glow of old light bulbs. The TV is on here, too. Brian is glued to it, playing vicious video games, his swaying punctuated by the realistically pathetic screams of actors pretending to be dying soldiers. Paul glances at him briefly, kicks off his shoes, and makes his way to the kitchen.

Their mother is seated at the tiny kitchen table, a single fluorescent light fixture shining down on the room like a heinously cheerful bug zapper. As Paul enters, she doesn’t look up. “Hi, hon. Enjoy your walk?”

“Yeah, Mom,” he says, leaning down and kissing her on her cheek. It’s still soft. Not soft in the way it was when he was little. The elasticity is fading. It’s soft in the used way. Pliable. His eyes skip from Denise’s tangled hair to the masses of shiny papers strewn across the table. She’s clipping coupons. Again.

She doesn’t have to say anything more; he knows where dinner is. Paul crosses to the refrigerator, its chrome handle a remnant of long outdated fashions, and opens the freezer. Four frozen dinners sit in a neat stack on an otherwise empty shelf. Each a different brand, each a different meal. The rest of the freezer is full of them.

Unthinkingly, Paul reaches for his, and pauses. “Who’s coming for dinner?”

“Matt’s home on leave, remember?”

“Oh. Yeah.” Paul tosses his dinner on the stained counter.

“He’ll be home at 7,” his mother continues absently, flipping blindly through the ads.

“Sure.” Five minutes and thirty seconds, fifty-percent power. Stir. Two minutes at full. Let sit. Stir.

A groan comes from the living room. “I can’t believe I died! Dumb cat!”

“Brian, leave that cat alone! You know she just wants you to play with her!”

“Why can’t we give her to an animal shelter or something?”

“You begged me for that cat for your tenth birthday!”

Paul walks to the living room, and picks up the indignant tabby, scratching her head. She purrs, body molding to his immediately.

“Make her shut up- I can’t hear,” Brian complains, restarting his game.

Without a word, Paul carries the tabby upstairs. She’s happier with him. She knows Brian won’t pet her, especially when he’s playing his games. She must have been out to piss him off on purpose. ‘Smart cat,’ Paul thinks, stretching out on his bed and letting her make herself comfortable on his chest.

She’s still purring when he wakes up nearly an hour later. Groggily, he looks at the clock and winces. His dinner will be inedible, gone hard and cold in the microwave.

The cat sits up abruptly, and bounds off. There is the sound of the front door opening, and Paul’s stomach drops.

“Hey, Mom! I’m home!”

A hero’s welcome.

“Oooooh, Matt!” Their mother’s chair scrapes on the linoleum floor, and then she and he are hugging. Slowly, Paul gets up, and runs a heavy hand through his hair. It’ll have to do.

“Oh, Matt, you’ve grown, I swear! Let me see you! Oh, Matty… My baby’s home!”

“Hey, take it easy, Mom,” Paul can’t remember ever hearing that loving note in his older brother’s tone before. Or that weariness. He trudges downstairs, and stands extraneously at the foot.

“Put those down, put those down! Come on in, Matty. I’ve got your favorite for dinner- pork and potatoes. And ice cream. Let me take your coat. Look at all these pins!” Denise holds the heavy jacket, running her cracked fingers along the rainbow of pins. Her hair is still a mess. She’s still wearing her old, worn, sea green bathrobe, the one she’s had forever. Brian was probably born in that bathrobe. There are dark, puffy bags under her eyes, and her skin is sallow. The yellow light doesn’t help. “Paul, come get your brother’s things.”

The teenager walks forward, hands in his pockets, and meets the eyes of the man who is also his brother. There’s a full four-inch height difference between them now. They size one another up, remembering that the last time they saw each other, it was nearly a foot separating them. There are other differences. Matt’s hair is shorter. Much shorter. It makes him look like a different person. He’s still in uniform, still has his hat on. Paul hates this man, and the creature he’s turned Matthew into.

Mutely, Paul takes Matt’s duffle from the floor. They exchange a wordless greeting, and Paul disappears down the hallway to put Matt’s bag in his old room.

“How was the flight, Matty?”

Chuckle. “Left a lot to be desired, but, hey, that’s flying for you.”

Tinkling, girlish laughter. “That it is, that it is. Brian, come say hello to your brother.”

Grunt. She lets the kid get away with it.

“Christine called to ask when you’d be home, you know.” Her voice fades; they’ve gone into the kitchen.

“Aw, no, Mom… What’d you tell her?”

“I told her you wouldn’t be home ‘til Thursday. After that, you’ve got to sort it out yourself. She’s such a nice girl, Matt. She obviously likes you.”

“Mom,” Matt’s uncomfortable with the topic.

Paul lugs the duffel onto Matt’s bed in the dark. Fumbling a bit, he turns on the lamp beside the bed. His brother’s room looks like something out of a 1950s recreation catalogue. Plaid. Baseball clippings. Wooden furniture. Model airplanes hanging from the ceiling.

“Brian! Brian, put that thing down! Say hello to Matt!”

“Just a minute, Mom!”

Paul glances at the drawer where Matt always kept his stash. Drugs. Porn. Condoms. Bad attempts at sketching. If Matt was a girl, he’d keep his diary there.

“Brian!”

“Just a minute!!”

Paul turns away from the too-perfect, empty scene and plods downstairs.

“It’s OK, Mom.” There’s an attempt at laughter in the voice, even if it falls short. “I bet I know where he is.”

Somehow, Paul knows. Perhaps he’s been watching people too long. He just knows. Time seems to slow down as he puts one unsteady foot in front of the other.

Matt stares at the TV with its mock battles, his every muscle tense. Blindly, he pushes past Paul and goes to bed.

Their mother is still chattering happily in the kitchen. “He’s always glued to that thing these days,” a loving chuckle. She hates those games. “So, Matt- Matt?” She comes to the door and looks at Paul.

Paul shrugs helplessly.

*

The next morning, the world is another place. Paul gets up early to take another walk, and to think. The sun is shining. It makes everything seem slightly brighter, even though the light never really reaches the cement.

People flow around him like mercury. Heads down, shoulders hunched, and eyes averted. Something in him wants to meet their eyes; seek them out. He wants to defy convention and find another aching human soul in this built-up monstrosity. Someone else like himself. The neighborhood changes, and there are more veterans on the sidewalk. The lucky ones are still asleep. Any one of them could have been, could become, Matt. Gone mad, or just useless.

Ahead is the newsstand where Mom- Denise- would always stop, a boy in each hand and another staring into the distance boredly, and skim the racks for new magazines. Venus and Rapture and the like. Stupid things full of clothes she would never be able to afford or wear, gossiping about people she would never meet, and stuffed with samples she would never use. He asked her why she bought them, once.

“I like to look at the pictures,” she had told him, as she grappled with Brian, trying to get him to eat his peas. Paul must have been about seven.

Ten years gone by. And the stand is still here. It doesn’t do much to comfort him, not here, where nothing changes.

A man stands on either side of the counter, one selling, one buying. Both talking. Both hushed, careful to keep their voices low. At once, Paul knows it’s not a conversation they want overheard, and that it is imperative he hear it.

“…the hill was a bungle.”

“Course it was. But whose?”

“Military’s, of course.”

“Don’t shit me. The military knows what it’s doing. Gov must’a put pressure on them. Said, ‘Boys, this war’s takin’ too long. Wrap it up.’”

The man behind the counter rolls his eyes. “Army guys don’t know shit.”

“They don’t take dumb risks, Joe. They don’t wanna die. The gov’ll cut their funds.”

“Like they couldn’t afford it. Defense budget’s inflated past next week.”

“It always is.”

“We spend more on defense than anything else.”

“You want them flaggies ta take over?”

“You know they won’t.”

“They could.”

“And my eldest could come home tomorrow and say the war’s over.”

“Don’t joke about that.”

Their eyes follow Paul as he walks by, resolutely facing forward. They wait until he has passed too far to hear them before they continue. Always hushed.

Paul fights down the tiniest flicker of something in his chest. The city’s full of it. Full of all these hushed, wary voices.

When he gets home, Matt’s sitting on the stoop, smoking a cigarette. One of those new, specially flavored, non-damaging ones they brought out specially for the army. There’s a whole box of them sitting on Matt’s dresser now.

Paul stops a step below him, hands weighing down the sides of his brown jacket. Matt looks up at him. “What?”

“I thought you didn’t smoke.”

“Didn’t. Don’t.” Self-consciously, Matt tosses it away. “Where’d you go so early?”

“Town. A walk.” Paul leans against the stair rail.

Matt’s fingers fidget without anything to do, and he scratches the back of his bare neck. He’s only in old jeans and a white t-shirt, despite the morning chill. He looks up at Paul again. “You do that a lot these days?”

“Yeah. Sort of.”

“S’good exercise.”

“Yeah.”

A neighbor starts her car, and drives away. It doesn’t leave any visible smog, but the noxious fumes sting Paul’s nose and eyes. They always try to improve things without going so far as to make them environmentally sound.

Matt stares after her, and his fingers meet at the tips beneath his chin. “Think I can come next time?”

Paul shifts his weight, ready to go back in. “Yeah.”

As he closes the door, Matt lights another cigarette.

It’s all the same anyway.

*

“Christine called again,” Denise bustles around the kitchen, a spatula in one hand and a plate of browned sausages in the other. The microwave pings, as hard-boiled eggs wait to be served. In the time that Matt has been home, she has returned to life. She glows again. She combs her hair. She puts on makeup. Her voice always has that special trill.

Brian doesn’t care. He just wants to be left alone in front of the TV with his game console. He doesn’t want his mom to give him big kisses on his cheek while he’s eating, or to remind him to clean up his room. He liked when she didn’t care.

“Again?” Matt glances up from the newspaper. He shaved this morning. He smells like aftershave; something akin to their father’s favorite brand. Perhaps a descendant product. His hair is growing out, and he’s slowly relaxing. He’s like Dad in a lot of ways now. Denise treats him like an adult, and he acts like one. “When? What did you tell her?”

“Oh, you know,” Denise’s tone is too gay: strained. “A little of this, a little of that. Us girls catching up on old times.”

Paul glances up from his food. Were they, too, talking in hushed voices? Hell, even Brian’s friends talked in hushed voices. Then Brian would shift uncomfortably and change the subject; especially when he saw that Paul was watching them.

“Did she leave a number?”

“On the notepad.”

“Thanks.”

The family eats in silence. The oldest brother has replaced the father, in a warped sort of way. The mother has put on a cheery façade, forcing herself not to remember that in a few weeks, her son will be gone again. She doesn’t want to acknowledge that Paul, too, in a few months, will be the subject of the gruesome photographs on the front page of every newspaper in the country.

Shiny photographs of men in uniform, carrying weapons said to be accurate a mile away, even in the smog of grenade smoke. Even if the soldier can’t shoot straight. That’s progress for you: better ways to kill.

“Anyone want more hash browns?”

Breakfast finishes, and they disperse. Denise does the laundry. Brian returns to his video games. Matt closes the kitchen door, and calls Christine. Paul sits with the cat on the stairs, letting her nuzzle his hand.

It’s almost like a normal Saturday for a while. Then the kitchen door opens, and the cat slinks away. Paul goes to the living room, certain something is wrong.

It is.

Matt’s blood runs cold. Another virgin actor is torn apart by a badly rendered three-dimensional missile. ‘Blood’ sprays across the battlefield, and Brian’s army continues on, ravaging the make-believe landscape.

“YEAH!” Brian crows triumphantly, as he takes careful aim and sets off the final animation. He eagerly watches the nuke careen between chicken wire and broken bodies, zeroing in on the terrified face of his opponent.

The enemy’s scream is long, and loud.

And then the screen is black. Matt stands up from behind the TV, hand shaking faintly as he throws the cord away, like a dead snake. Disgust is written in every line of his face.

“NO! You loser! How could you do that!? It took me three months to get this far!”

“You don’t have any idea, do you!?” A deep voice bellows up from the depths of Matt’s chest, and all five of them are shocked. The cat escapes the brawl. Paul takes Denise’s trembling hand, putting his arm around her; being strong for her, as they watch that which has possessed her firstborn son and his oldest brother rage against the family baby. “You haven’t a clue! It’s all just a game to you, is it? Those are people dying!”

Brian whimpers, staring up at Matt with wide eyes. They shine brightly, wet. There’s the faint smell of urine. Matt’s eyes are blazing with a fire none of them have ever seen before. He is another person.

His diatribe lasts until Brian has broken down in shame and tears. Still, he would continue on, but Denise is crying as well, and Paul’s eyes are moist. The elder brothers’ eyes meet, Paul’s pleading, and Matt recoils, seeing himself reflected there.

He flexes his hands, unsure what to do. Without realizing it, they fall back into a ready combat position. Gruffly, he walks over Brian and to the front door. “I’m going to have a smoke.”

*

It’s almost noon. The tabby lies in Paul’s window, sunning herself luxuriously as he strokes her mottled fur. Below them, and a little to the right, Matt sits on the stoop and smokes another of those smokeless cigarettes. It really makes the old name redundant. Things aren’t what they used to be. The fumes that drift their invisible way up are making Paul dizzy, but he doesn’t want to leave Matt alone. He doesn’t want Matt to get hurt. He’s also a little afraid of him.

A car pulls up, and stops in front of their house. It’s not old, or new, or expensive, or cheap: just somewhere in the middle. Matt’s eyes watch it pull up, and Paul follows his gaze to the driver.

She steps out carefully, and closes the door, key in hand. Her purse is still on the front seat. She leans against the car, and she and Matt stare at each other for a long, long time. Finally, he throws his fag away, a little ashamed of himself.

“It isn’t easy, is it?”

Matt laughs bitterly. “What the hell kind of dumb question is that?”

Christine’s eyes are sympathetic, and pitying. “What are you going to do with them?”

When he speaks, Matt’s voice is hushed. Paul almost misses it. “Can’t tell what you don’t know, Christine.”

She sighs, and stands. Reluctantly, she opens the car door and removes an embossed hardcover. “Sign my yearbook? For old times?” she offers it to him with a pen.

Matt signs the book, and hands it back to her. They say their good-byes, and this time their voices are too quiet for Paul to hear. She drives away, and Matt comes back inside.

The tabby jumps from the sill and leaves the room. She follows Matt into his room. Paul is slower. He leans in Matt’s doorway, watching the cat rub against his brother’s back.

Matt turns on the bed and looks up at Paul. He almost smiles. He has dark patches under his eyes like Denise’s. “Hey, you,” he says. “C’mere.”

Paul does, and he sits on the other side of the bed. The room looks more like Matt’s room again; the cover isn’t smoother than smooth, and there’s miscellaneous junk on the bedside table, and clothes thrown onto the chair by the window.

Matt’s dog tags hang from a drawer knob.

Methodically, Matt opens a small white envelope, and removes the contents. Paul frowns, watching him. They say things like “Passport” and “Flight 882.” He doesn’t get it. Or, he does, but he doesn’t want to. Or he can’t. He shakes his head, denying it. “Matt-“

“Shut up,” Matt says grimly, and Paul does. He sorts through the papers, naming them all. Fake ID and plane tickets. To Canada.

“Matt…” Paul starts quietly, head whirling. “Matt, you’ll get caught… They have border patrols and shit… they have your name… they have your thumbprint…”

“It’s not for me, dumbass.” The papers are pressed into Paul’s palm. His fingers close over them instinctively. Willingly.

A moment of silent communication between the brothers. Paul gives a minute nod, and stands. The cat mewls in protest.

Matt nods back, and gives a mocking, self-loathing salute.

Paul gives a giddy grin and returns it; Thumb and index finger touching, the other three splayed outward. The salute of the anti-war activists. Matt grins back, and adopts the fingering.

*

Fall, and Paul is at the border. His heart is pounding. His hands are thrust into the depths of his pockets. It’s a helluva lot colder this far north. He wishes he’d brought gloves. There’s a long line of people waiting to get to the desk. Every one of them clutches their papers like their dying hopes. Which, of course, they are.

It is Paul’s turn. He hands the man his passport, and awkwardly shifts the weight of his bag over his shoulders. The man is checking his papers. They’re all in order. Paul triple-checked them a thousand times.

He watches the stamp fall with a thunking thock onto each page. Once, twice, three times. He watches the clerk sign his name to the documents, lending them validity. Paul is so, so close.

As the man hands back the papers, he meets Paul’s eyes; holds onto the passport and the stubs for a second too long. Paul’s gut falls into his shoes. It’s over.

“Enjoy your stay, Mr. Barnabas.” A quick nod, and the eye contact is broken, the man returned to his repetitive tasks.

“Thank you.” It’s so smooth. It’s so subtle. It’s so surreal.

Paul is walking through the gate, putting the papers back in his backpack, his suitcase floating neatly behind him. He walks through the terminal doors, and sunlight- real, white, warm sunlight- nearly blinds him.

Matt is back on the front. Fighting daily for his survival. Brian and Denise and the cat live in the bubble of frustration that is teenage sons coming of age and their mothers. But Paul… Paul is free.

With a giddy grin, he walks on, and leaves the city of hushed voices behind. With a smile, he walks into his father’s arm, and smells the glory of sweet and musky aftershave.