The Everything Box (23 page)

THE STRANGER CAME INTO THE CITY ACROSS THE
Golden Gate Bridge, crossing from the warmth of Marin into the fog of San Francisco Bay. The mist was cold and wet, but in a pleasant way. He pulled his jacket tight around him. Tourists shivered in spectacularly inappropriate shorts, taking snapshots of each other against the swirling gray background. Joggers and cars passed by.

The stranger looked over the edge of the bridge, thinking of all the suicides the Golden Gate had inspired.
Wouldn't it be glorious to see one of those?
He looked around hopefully, but no one seemed interested in taking the bait. Disappointed, he kept walking.

He went through a parking lot at the end of the bridge where other bridge walkers had left their cars, and continued into the city. It had been a long walk from Red Bluff, and he had a longer walk still to go, but there was plenty of time to make it. As long as he didn't linger too long at any one place. The trick was to plan his city excursion. The stranger took out a well-thumbed city guide, at least ten years old. He examined the dog-eared pages, compared them to his map, and plotted what looked like a good route, tracing promising fault lines and old cemeteries that had been plowed under during one of the city's fabulously corrupt building booms.

San Francisco was a dense city, but it wasn't large. He'd once walked from its far eastern edge to the ocean in five hours. This time, it only took him two hours to reach his first stop: an old music club he'd been to with friends years earlier. He walked through the SoMa district, got lost twice, but eventually found the address. But not the club. It was gone. All that was left was a weedy, fenced-off vacant lot with a sign showing a picture of a gleaming twenty-story condo tower that the sign said would soon occupy the lot. There was a phone number of a realty company and a photo of an attractive man and woman in matching company jackets. They looked like brother and sister. Or clones. Did everybody know how to clone yet, or was it just real estate companies? It was something to look into.

The stranger tore the page from his guidebook and dropped it into a recycling bin on the corner before moving on.

He walked to North Beach, past the Tosca Café, Specs' bar, and City Lights Books. He'd been to all those places on earlier trips and was relieved to see them still there. Just across the alley from City Lights was the Vesuvio Café. That, too, was still intact. But he'd also been there before, so he decided to try somewhere new. The stranger walked around the corner onto Broadway and down the block, looking at the Bay Bridge in the distance. He checked the address of a café in his guidebook and went inside.

He ordered a double espresso from a young man at the counter. A lot of the people in the café had various piercings and tattoos. The stranger also had tattoos, but he kept them hidden. They weren't for anyone's eyes but his and those of a few close associates. He hoped for a reunion of sorts soon, but not today. Today, he would sit in a café, drink coffee, and look at his guidebook.

When the barista called the name he'd give him, the stranger went to the counter to pick up his coffee. There was a large framed photo on the wall behind the cash register. Three young men. One in baggy dress pants and two in jeans. As he paid for his coffee, the stranger nodded toward the picture.

“It must be interesting working where they used to drink,” he said.

The young man looked over his shoulder and shook his head. “I don't know, man. I'm not from around here.”

“But surely you recognize them. That's William Burroughs on the end.”

The barista looked again. “That's a real old photo. Were they a band? My buddy, Ryan, is into all kinds of seventies classic bands. I think I've heard of them. Burroughs Turner Overdrive?”

“You're thinking of Bachman-Turner Overdrive. And they were Canadian. No, that's William Burroughs, Jack Kerouac, and Lawrence Ferlinghetti. They were writers.”

The barista frowned. “Maybe. I'm not really a word guy. I'm more into hyperedge interactive visual happenings. Music. Video. Lights.”

“Yes. That began in this area, too. In the mid-nineteen-sixties. They were called Acid Tests.”

The young man shook his head. “You sure? I've never heard of them.”

The stranger smiled. “Of course. Why would you? They're old and gone. What's the use of old things? The now. The future. The unexpected twists and turns down the road. Those are the only things of value.”

“Exactly,” said the barista. “You get it.”

“Thank you for the coffee.”

The young man waved a counter rag at him and helped the next customer. The stranger drank his coffee, but didn't stay. He was restless. So much had changed. It wasn't his place to judge—that was for wiser heads than his—but it was hard not to be a little peeved at humanity's capacity to forget. To minimize even its own accomplishments.

He turned south down Columbus Avenue until it turned into Montgomery, walked through the Financial District, then down onto Market Street. Not sure where to go, the stranger turned back toward the Pacific. He thought about returning all the way to the ocean, but that would take more time than he'd allotted himself. He took out his guidebook and thumbed through its worn pages. Everything he looked at seemed gray and lifeless to him now. The trip to North Beach had been a bad idea. The walk through SoMa hadn't
been much better. He understood how an animal, when in a trap, might gnaw its own leg off, but gnawing your leg off when things were going well, when you were prospering, that the stranger didn't understand at all. He knew that despair was a sin, and while that's not quite what he felt, part of him felt empty and even foolish. He threw the guidebook into a trash can and simply wandered along Market Street, no purpose or destination in mind.

He came to another vacant lot. Unlike the first one, this was paved. A dozen large, immaculate buses sat in rows. On the side of each bus in big block letters was
LIQUID INDUSTRIES, DISRUPTING THE DISRUPTION
. At the edge of the parking lot was a ragged circle of men and women. They had drums and, while they were playing with a tremendous amount of gusto and volume, they didn't quite seem to have the concept of rhythm down yet. Several policemen stood in a semicircle nearby eyeing the drummers. The stranger walked over to them.

“Excuse me, but what's happening here? Is this a religious ceremony?” he said.

One of the cops gave the stranger a look like he was considering arresting him just for being there. “It's a drum circle. Hippies protesting fuck-all.”

“I'm not familiar with them. What are the tenets of ‘fuck-all'?”

“Are you being a wise-ass?” the cop asked, reaching for his nightclub.

“No, sir. It's just that I'm new here and want to make sure that I understand the situation.”

“Listen,” said the cop. “Business has been good to this town. It brought in a lot of money, even if it also brought a lot of douche bags. These lowlifes don't like the corporate buses, so they do this all day. It's giving me a goddamn migraine.”

“Me, too,” said a couple of the other police.

“So, the people who own the buses and are driving the local economy are people you don't like.”

“Rich assholes.”

“And the people protesting the businesspeople are also people you don't like.”

“Hippie assholes.”

“Is there anyone around here who isn't an asshole?”

“What?” said the policeman, reaching for his club again.

“Never mind. A pointless question,” said the stranger. Before the cops could begin debating whether it would be more fun to beat or pepper-spray him, he walked over to one of the drummers.

“Hello. What exactly is it you're doing?”

A young woman nodded. “We're showing that we won't take it anymore.”

“And banging drums is how you're going to unseat an entrenched oligarchy?”

“We're doing it for Mother Earth,” said the young woman.

“Yeah. This is the rhythm of her heart,” said a young man next to her.

The stranger scratched his chin. “Maybe she should see a doctor. Her heart seems to be skipping a lot of beats.”

The young man gave him a darkly assessing look.

“Thank you. You've been very educational,” said the stranger.

“Are you a narc?”

“What's a narc?”

“Yeah. He's a narc,” said the young woman.

“You know, you can take lessons for this sort of thing,” said the stranger. “Drumming, I mean. People have been teaching it to each other for thousands of years.”

The drummers ignored him. When the stranger turned, one of the cops crooked a finger at him to call him over.

“What's your connection to this bunch?” he asked.

“I was just curious about what they—and, of course, you—were doing.”

The policeman stood absolutely still for a moment looking at the stranger. Then he said, “Let's see your ID.”

“You mean a driver's license or birth certificate?”

“You carry a birth certificate around with you?”

“No. I don't have one.”

“Then yes, a driver's license.”

“I don't have one of those, either.”

“How about a passport?”

“I don't have any ID and I threw my guidebook away. I wrote my name in it, if that would help. It's just back a block or so.”

Two more policemen came over and stood on either side of the stranger.

“I'm going to ask you one more time . . .”

“You can ask all you like. I don't have any ID. But if it's any consolation, I think I now know why you're in such a bad mood. That awful drumming is giving me a headache, too.”

One of the cops took the stranger's right arm in a powerful grip. “Come with us,” he said and tried to move him. But the stranger remained rooted where he was, much to the policeman's surprise.

“I don't think I'll be coming with you. I don't have time. But I want to leave you all with something.”

The cop kept tugging on his arm. Two more grabbed the stranger, but couldn't move him.

“What I want to leave you with is a thought: with all the wonders of the world at your disposal, the one thing you shouldn't be is boring.” The stranger turned to the policeman on his left arm. “You're boring.” He turned to the policeman on his right. “You're boring, too.” He shouted to the drum circle. “Technically, you're not boring. You're well meaning, but you're awful. Just horrible.”

The city began to tremble. Market Street rippled down its length, like waves at the edge of the ocean. Skyscrapers swayed. Windows broke and glass rained into the streets below. The policemen let go of the stranger's arms and tried to run, but the street was wobbling too violently for them to get more than a couple of steps before they fell. Buses and cars smashed into each other. Electrical wires snapped.

A crack opened in the street. It split a nearby crosswalk and shattered the pavement where the stranger stood. The crack, an extension of a heretofore unknown fault line, ripped open the parking lot and one by one, the Liquid Industries buses slid into the Earth, followed by the drum circle and the police. Buildings toppled behind him. When the shaking stopped, for a second there was only the
sound of geysers where fire hydrants and water mains had broken. Then the silence was torn apart as a million car alarms went off at once. People covered their ears. Some screamed. Others simply turned in slow circles, looking at the damage in mute shock.

The stranger checked his map—the one he kept folded up, not the one from the guidebook—and started down Van Ness Boulevard, where he'd left himself a relatively undamaged corridor that he could pass through. He climbed over wrecked cars, made his way past shouting drivers, heading for the freeway. He took a new guidebook from his coat pocket and riffled the pages. This one had palm trees and a picture of the Hollywood Chinese Theater on the front. The cover of the book said,
A WALKING TOUR OF LOS ANGELES
. The stranger took a breath. Walking was the thing. The only thing right now. He headed onto the entirely undamaged 101 freeway—now mostly deserted, since all the entry ramps had collapsed—and started south.

THE DARK HIGH MAGISTER OF CLADIS ABADDONIS SAT
in his holy Barcalounger, eating fish and chips from his silver TV tray. He'd spent a good deal of the previous day getting bent, cracked, and stretched by the chiropractor downstairs in room 4. Today, his back felt a little better, but the smell of bleach from the cleanup in room 8 was spoiling his lunch. It was always some damned thing around here. No wonder so much of his flock had run off with those San Diego bastards. What could he offer them, other than discounted cod and fries? It was a sad state for the Lodge, but that might all be changing soon.
It better,
he thought, or, to his secret shame, he might have to—if not quite defect—at least strike an alliance with his enemies down south. His old Datsun was on its last legs and the no-money-down deal from those San Diego Volvo shits was sorely tempting. But no, he wasn't ready to throw in the towel for a Bluetooth radio. Not quite yet, he thought. The Magister still had some tricks up his stained and fraying sleeve. But they depended on other people, some of whom were late.

He poured more balsamic vinegar onto his fish, then checked his watch. A moment later, Adept Three and Acolyte Six came panting into the sacred chamber.

Adept Six said, “Sorry, Dark High One. There's construction down the block and we had to park clear over on Seventh Street.”

“We ran all the way,” said Acolyte Three.

The Dark High Magister waved for them to calm down. “It's fine. I've been listening to those jerks banging away for days now. What are they building?”

“A Red Lobster, sir.”

“A fish restaurant. Well, that's just great. Why doesn't City Hall come down here and shove a big ole corkscrew up my ass? Right up it.”

“We could always sabotage it,” said Acolyte Three. “Superglue the locks shut. Sugar in the gas tanks of the bulldozers.”

“They have video surveillance these days, dumbo,” said the Magister. “They'll see you and that's two more members of the Lodge gone. No. This is a sign that we have to move faster bringing Lord Abaddon back to this wretched world. Let Red Lobster see how it feels to be skull-fucked when a thousand-foot bottom-feeding sea bastard comes a-calling.”

“But, Dark High One. We run a seafood restaurant, too.”

The Magister draped his napkin over his unfinished cod. “Everything has its reasons, especially Lord Abaddon. Besides, the restaurant will be gone soon. The moment we retrieve the Convocation Vessel. Speaking of which,” he clapped his hands together, “how did the raid on the Caleximus pricks go?”

“It was awesome,” said Acolyte Three.

“Yeah. Really well,” said Adept Six.

“Don't be shy. Details, boys. Details. I barely get off the throne these days except to crap and get bent like a pretzel by that jerk in room four. I want to see our moment of triumph in my mind's eye.”

Adept Six and Acolyte Three looked at each other. The acolyte, the junior member of the Lodge, smiled shyly at the adept, like he was doing him a big favor by letting him go first. “You know, sir, I'm not really much of a public speaker.”

“Don't be nervous,” said the Magister. “What did you do first?”

“Um. Adept Four pretended to buy a peach cobbler.”

“And?”

“He didn't.”

“Then what?”

“He threw the cobbler on the ground. The van came around with the rest of us and we got out.”

“What happened then? Come on. I want to feel the mayhem,” said the Magister.

“We knocked over a table and stuff went everywhere,” said Acolyte Three. “I stepped on some cakes.”

“Good for you. That almost makes up for you puking in the sacred chamber.”

“Thank you, Dark High One.”

“I slipped on some butter cream and hurt my knee,” said Adept Six.

The Magister looked at him hard. “Not exactly Purple Heart–worthy, eh?” he said. “But tell me, did you put the fear of Cladis Abaddonis in them?”

“Oh, yeah. Right in them. And on them. Like a whole bunch of muffins.”

“And scones,” Acolyte Three added.

“Right. We covered them in misery and scones.”

“Excellent. Then what?”

“Then we ran away.”

“You ran?”

“There were security guards coming.”

“We didn't really run,” said Acolyte Three. “We just got in the van and expeditiously fled.”

“Yes. That,” said Adept Six.

The Magister leaned back in his lounger. His back pinched him hard. When Abaddon came back, that fraud in room 4 was right up there on the annihilation list with Red Lobster. “You weren't kidding when you said you weren't a public speaker.”

“Sorry, Dark High One,” Adept Six said.

“What about you, Acolyte? Did you suffer any crippling cupcake injuries? Lose a leg to a fritter? An ear to some sprinkles?”

Acolyte Three leaned forward a little, showing a tiny bruise. “I
get a lemon bar in the eye. It really stung. But it was good, too. I think she used real lemons, not like the plastic ones you get from the store.”

“That's the kind my mom used,” said Adept Six.

“Mine, too.”

“My goodness,” said the Magister. “How did either of you survive the slaughter? I have to admit, I'm disappointed in the level of carnage in your story. Did anyone at least draw blood?”

“Adept One ran into the van and broke his nose,” said the acolyte.

“Not
our
blood, you idiot. Them. Did you leave them bloody and bruised?”

“No, sir,” said the adept. “But we did get this.” He handed the Magister a brown paper bag.

“It's heavy,” he said as he took it. When he looked inside, he smiled. The Magister reached in and pulled out several neat rolls of quarters. “Now we're talking,” he said. “You got their cash drawer. Excellent. How much did we walk away with?”

“One hundred and six dollars and eighty-three cents,” said Adept Six.

The Magister curled his lip. “It doesn't put us quite up there with Donald Trump, but it's better than nothing,” he said.

“Thank you, Dark High One,” said the adept.

“Yes. Thank you,” said the acolyte.

The Magister dropped the cash on the TV tray, which bowed a little under the weight of all the change. “Now, I have a little secret I can share with you,” he said.

Adept Six's eyes widened. “Don't tell me the Caleximus bunch have the Convocation Vessel!”

The Magister put a hand to his brow. “Why would you even say that? Isn't that the first thing I'd bring up when you got here? ‘Hello, boys. How was your day? Oh, by the way, get ready for fiery doom because our mortal enemies are about to call down Armageddon on us.' Don't you think that would be something of a priority announcement?”

“Sorry, sir. Of course, Dark High One. I'm just a little nervous with the end so near.”

“Sure. It's understandable.”

“Are we worthy of hearing your secret, sir?” said Acolyte Three.

The adept gave him a look, as did the Magister.

“Don't do that. Just because he's a moron doesn't mean you have to be a suck-up.”

The acolyte looked at the floor. “Sorry, sir.”

“Never mind. Here's the secret: I know where the Convocation Vessel is.”

The adept and the acolyte looked up at him. “Where?” they said, almost in unison.

“I don't know exactly a hundred percent where it is, but I have a pretty good idea,” said the Magister. “You see, it turns out your little Twinkie assault did more good than you think.” The Magister looked at his charges, pausing for dramatic effect, though he wasn't sure they'd know what dramatic effect was if it came in wearing a tutu and hit them both with a Hello Kitty sledgehammer. As seriously as he could, he said, “We now have an agent among the Caleximus heretics.”

“Who?” said Adept Six.

“Oh, no. That's still my little secret for now. Suffice it to say that after your humiliating attack, he's lost faith in their false god and is ready to tell us everything we need to retrieve the Vessel.”

“Where is it, Dark High One?” said Acolyte Three.

“A man named Coop has it,” he said.

“Then let's go and take it from him.”

“Yes, why didn't I think of that? Maybe because I don't know where he is because those Caleximus boobs don't know where he is. But they're looking for him. That's the important thing.”

“Should we be looking for him, too?” said Adept Six.

“Why should we? We have our mole. He'll tell us when they're closing in. We'll wait for them to find him and then swoop in and take him right out from under them.” He looked at the adept. “There are still twelve of us, right?”

Adept Six nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Thank goodness. Yes. This will be a breeze.”

“What about Lord Abaddon?” said Acolyte Three. “He's been waiting for us to call him back since the new moon.”

“Well, he's just going to have to hold his britches a little longer just like the rest of us, isn't he?”

“Yes, sir.”

The Magister took his now greasy napkin off the remains of his fish and chips. “Okay, boys. That's the new business. Is there any old business we need to get to?”

“Room 8, sir?” said Adept Six.

“Of course. I almost forgot,” the Magister. “First off, please tell everyone who helped that even though I never got any change back from the cleaning-supplies money, I and the entire Lodge appreciate their efforts.”

Adept Six shuffled his feet nervously. “There wasn't any change, Dark High One.”

“You lost it, didn't you? Just admit it and all will be forgiven.”

Adept Six nodded. “I swear, I put it right on my nightstand . . .”

“I knew it. For like ten seconds I thought you'd stolen it, but after your exciting tale of the Apocalyptic Pie Fight, I realized you had the imagination of a damp sweat sock.” The Magister turned and pointed at Acolyte Three. “From now on, you're in charge of the money. Got it?”

The acolyte beamed at him. “Yes, Dark High One. Thank you.”

“Don't thank me. Thank Slippy McClumsy over there.”

Acolyte Three started to thank the adept, but when he saw the look on the man's face he knew he was no more than an inch from being beaten to death with the coins from the bake sale. He just gave him a quick nod and turned back to the Magister.

“Is there any more business?” said the old man.

“Weren't you saying you wanted to rent out room 8, sir?”

“Oh, yes,” said the Magister. He took some three-by-five cards from his pocket and gave each of the men a pile.

“Go around to some of the universities and put those up on the bulletin boards. The last time we put an ad on Craigslist, all we got were weirdos and Frank, and we know how that turned out.”

“Yes, sir,” said the acolyte.

The Magister said, “Anything else?”

Adept Six pointed a finger. “Yes, you might want to move—” He never finished the sentence. The change from the bake sale collapsed the golden TV tray. The rolls of change mostly survived the fall, but fish and chips were scattered all over the sacred chamber. The Magister wiped his hand on his napkin and tossed it onto the floor with the rest of the mess. “Get out the bleach, boys,” he said. “We have a room 8 situation in the making.”

The Magister started to get up, but a back spasm dropped him back onto his lounger. He sighed. The goddamn end of the world better happen goddamn soon, he thought. If it wasn't exploding acolytes decorating his rooms with meat wallpaper, it was Red Lobster horning in on his damned fish business. He made a silent prayer to Abaddon that the Caleximus bunch weren't quite the fuckups he'd always told his flock they were.
Just let them find this Coop asshole.
That's all I ask. Then rise from the ocean and drown the world, Abaddon. Starting with San Diego.

The Magister watched the acolyte and the adept picking the food and money off the floor, counting the rolls of pennies and quarters in his head. There had to be twenty pounds at least. A nice haul, he thought. They'd go well in the seat cushions with the other Lodge funds, all of which he'd converted to coins. The Magister calculated that his chair weighed more than four hundred pounds these days. When Abaddon returned and the floods came, he wasn't taking any chances on floating away. He, his throne, and his lousy back were going down when the first waves hit the land, and there was nothing those assholes in San Diego, Caleximus, Red Lobster, or any of his dumb-ass flock could do about it. The Magister closed his eyes and crossed his fingers.

Find Coop, you sons of bitches. Find Coop.

It was eight in the evening. The two women sat across from Mr. Babylon in his favorite booth in Týden Divu, the Jinx Town bar so recently and rapidly exited by Coop and Giselle. The women—
Giselle and a somewhat nervous Bayliss—were sipping Manhattans. Babylon was drinking a Roy Rogers with obvious distaste.

“I hope you don't mind me not joining you for real drinks, ladies,” said Babylon. “Doctor's orders.”

“Not at all,” said Giselle. “We're just happy you could meet us on such short notice.”

Babylon swirled his drink, giving it a look of curdled loathing. “My pleasure. I'm always open to business opportunities. Though this one will, I'm afraid, cost more than many.”

“The good ones always do,” said Bayliss.

Good for you, thought Giselle. Get her away from Nelson and get a couple of drinks in her, and she takes off. I'll have to remember that. Giselle took a quick glance around the bar. No one was paying them the slightest bit of attention. She had to concentrate hard to cloud so many minds and make sure they wouldn't remember her, but that and her blond wig seemed to be doing the trick. She just had to remember not to drink too much.