Spring 1989 • Vol. XI No. 2 Fiction |


The night the thing got into gear, I was sitting in the living room talking to Annie about what was going on with our son, Chris. I thought I had a good explanation: "Where Chris's brain used to be," I told her, "there's just music now." It was only a couple of days before that he'd been walking down the street with his group of friends who call themselves "The Planet of the Guys." They were stopped in front of a pawnshop, looking in at the musical instruments and the jewelry. Chris must have been monkeying with his dials, juicing the volume and moving the bass way up, so that suddenly his head was in quadrophonic with "Street-Fighting Man," or "Born to Run," or maybe an original composition of his own with a refrain that ran, "Come on and do it. Come on and blast that front window with your head." He did. He cannonballed the glass dead center. I can picture the thin lines, very delicate and cool, running out from the middle until the window had a nice semi-geometric design embr

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