Ch. 14: Kook Talk 6

Mayor is moved by compassionate identification, and Gilbert seizes upon a windfallen plan


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CHAPTER 14: KOOK TALK 6

The pigeon remained unperturbed and stoic, and at the moment its feathery neck
was severed cleanly from its body, it made no sudden movement or sound of alarm. No-
But walked away, head lowered, in silence. Gilbert and the Mayor shuffled over to in-
spect the suicide scene. “Look at those eyes, Spaz.” The Mayor’s voice, gruff and raw.
“Those wise and ancient eyes still glittering from the other world. Stay with him, Spaz.
I’m gonna get a box from Champ. My brother deserves a proper burial.”
Gilbert stared down at the carcass. Clouds eclipsed the sun. The wind blew dis-
carded wrappers and cigarette butts. Traffic rumbled by, pedestrians sauntered or ran,
talking or in silence as if the world was merely backdrop to the human drama. This
changes everything, Gilbert thought, looking down at the severed head with one eye still
seeming to glow. It’s gone beyond nutty speculations. I should call my parents. But.
What possible good could come from that?
I don’t know. I should let them know how their son is.
You mean, you want to warn the others, don’t you?
Is it wrong that I would like to be understood by them? Validated by them? They
brought me into this game. Their union beckoned me from the emptiness. Being me,
being honest is all I have to give back.
The wind quickened. Leaves scuttled and twirled into the street to be crunched or
lifted onward by the random business of cars and bicycles. They made you, yes. But they
never knew you.
How could they have?
The Mayor returned with an empty bento container. “Leave us now, Spaz. Leave
us in this, our time of grief.”
“Alright Mayor. We’ll talk later.” Gilbert stepped into the Coffee Tavern. Champ
sat near the window, reading a book called The Miracle of Raw Food. Little Meredith,
hands and face now clean, rested on Champ’s lap.
Champ smiled. “The kid’s mine now.”
“What?” Gilbert watched the Mayor trudge along the sidewalk, holding aloft the
makeshift casket, eyes lifted, lips silently intoning.
“Melanie agrees with you. She’s a bad mother.” Gilbert went to his table. The
Oregonian was open, a headline circled: Rally at 2pm! NW Primitivists. Park and Main.
He pushed the paper away and gazed out the window. Overcast light. Street rumblings.
Busy people. It’s passing me by. I’m stuck. I haven’t been alive for so long.
Then go.
Why?
Maybe you’ll meet others who think like you.
Doubtful, and I already have the Mayor.
Is that good enough?
No. Gilbert snatched up the paper. Feel alone in your revulsion towards the
stink-pit of modern civilization? Well, come join a growing legion of like-minded souls
who yearn for a simpler existence. We’re the Northwest Primitivist Society. Bring your
signs and lift your voices above the din of techno-slaves shouting into their headsets and
cell phones. Together, we can reanimate the world. Gilbert got up. Why the fuck not.