The author, at a party in Chelsea, explaining the universe
Forecast is being serialized semiweekly across 42 web sites. For a full list of participants and links to live chapters, please visit www.shyascanlon.com/forecast.
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Chapter 29
I was beginning to grow impatient with Blain. His cavalier attitude toward this so-called short-cut was completely irresponsible. Seattle’s underground “edu-musement” facility had, over the last couple of years, become a completely unsupervised no-man’s land which, even after the public had long since moved on to another equally ignominious scandal, remained strangely impenetrable to both public and private repurposing. Public appeals had been made, long-standing redevelopment bids were in place, but the city hadn’t budged in what had, at least in my opinion, become one of the most underreported stories of malfeasance in recent years. This park was the only thing standing in the way of a considerable urban renewal project that would have re-zoned neighboring land for mixed-use commercial and residential development, and ushered in an entirely new era in Seattle’s underground expansion. The profits, both economic and cultural, would have been enormous. Moreover, most citizens of Seattle seemed to agree. New land-use proposals had been on the ballot twice, and each time the majority vote was for clearing out the old park and creating an attractive mixed-income project that would have addressed the vagrancy and crime problems at that point preventing the rejuvenation of commerce, and would have created over a thousand new jobs for the estimated 5 year development period. Yet not one finger was lifted toward enacting the legislation. I know I’m running off at the mouth a bit here but really, it’s been not only a scandal, but an embarrassment, a blight on the reputation of our representatives if not the local democratic process. And perhaps more relevantly, it is the reason why, instead of having a relatively safe commute to her destination across town, Helen was now being led–again, highly irresponsibly–through an extremely sketchy area. Having a large man and a dog by her side settled my nerves somewhat, but that Blain was part of the underworld he was leading her through did not entirely ease my concern. There was no non-compete agreement in place. This was not some kind of Sherwood Forest where thieves stood together in common defiance of the capitalist machine, laughing and patting one another on the back for their clever wealth redistribution techniques.
Have you ever considered how the quasi-socialist origins of the edu-musement park, and the social-welfare dimension more generally since they first broke ground, has reflected the agenda and direction of Seattle as a city? Look at what they were doing! So you have this city, like every city, of course, but you have the city of Seattle, having so recently seen, quite literally, its darkest hour: overrun–again quite literally–with urban decay, with poverty, with homelessness. And the renewal program that cleaned it all up relied of course on those very people who were living in its most abject filth. This is wonderful, while the project is underway, but what then? It can only keep them occupied for so long. After Seattle had been thoroughly scrubbed and relit, it still faced the overwhelming public policy nightmare of the superlative overpopulation of its underclass citizenry. The Great March had brought everyone up from southern urban centers harder hit, or more slow to adapt, and all these people–like Helen’s parents (though apocalyptic tourism is a separate issue altogether)–were coming up for what they saw as a more peaceful coexistence with nature. And then of course there was the psychological collapse of those whose very identities had been inexorably tied to the technologies we could no longer use, and, and… What were we going to do with them all? Seattle had been rebuilt! There was no more power shortage! There was a goddamn power surplus!
Of course, certain policy wonks had been pushing for an underground amusement park for years – ever since the weather had made them too dangerous above ground. But the engineering nightmare and lack of resources for the undertaking had basically turned the issue into a lampoon, another sign that the city’s elected officials were out of touch with the actual needs of their constituents. I mean, an underground park? Think about it. It’s preposterous. It would never have taken hold in any other social climate. But here the city was, in crisis, and all of a sudden an idea once thought absurd seemed, at least on paper, to solve the city’s biggest problems. Put the homeless population back to work creating something that would generate significant revenue for the city! The liberals couldn’t complain because it would give thousands of people food, shelter, and healthcare. The conservatives couldn’t complain because–and this was the best part–it kept the riff-raff out of sight. It was perfect. And after they’ve built the park? Why, they could simply build housing for themselves down there and we’d never see them again! It was like some kind of sinister New Deal, but Seattle, with its socialist leanings, looked right past the fact that we were simply sweeping our problems under a good hundred feet of concrete, soil, and sewer-system carpet.
And now look. A public policy, not to mention public health, disaster. And what happened to the spirit of public welfare we’d officially trumpeted when we sent all those people down there in the beginning?
During the first steps of Seattle’s massive clean-up effort, the time was right for strip clubs. In fact, the entire entertainment industry boomed as enormous numbers of the city’s disenfranchised men and women, now working hard by day, sought venues by night for celebration, relaxation, and distraction from their sore backs. By the time Knuckle had raised the roof of his back-yard strip shack the word had spread and people began to pour in. People would begin putting down their tools at 6:00 and by 7:00 he was turning people away. He’d never seen anything like it. He couldn’t keep the alcohol pouring fast enough; he couldn’t keep the Dirty Dogs coming fast enough, and he was already thinking about opening a place across town so he wouldn’t lose potential customers to the bars they passed along the way. His one problem was that the girls kept getting scared off.
It wasn’t that his club was dangerous. These people, he understood, hadn’t worked in a long time. They hadn’t had income. They hadn’t had freedom. They hadn’t had self-respect. The atmosphere in the club during those early days was frenetic, with people piled all over, drunken outbursts, song – the fact was that a rather fervent (though, Knuckle would argue, good-natured) “fuck-all” attitude was common among the men on most nights. Truly, he didn’t begrudge his ladies their turn-tail-ism, but he knew he had to do better. He couldn’t keep training new women every day. He was losing time, and patience. He had to find women that could take care of themselves. The men liked novelty, but they wanted to root for a home team. They wanted to look forward to someone and pretend to fall in love. They wanted to ask her out and be rebuffed and know that was the way it had to be but long for it nonetheless. They wanted someone foxy and feisty, and Knuckle knew Zara would be perfect. So though it was not without a tinge of anxiety, Zara hadn’t even come back with her parental “permission slip” before he’d decided to let the girl dance.
Her parents had been thrilled anyway, of course. At least Jennifer.
“You want to what?” her mother put down her paperwork and jumped up from her desk.
“Knuckle opened up a strip club behind Dirty Dogs,” Zara explained, “and I’m going to give it a shot.”
Jennifer came around the desk. “Oh honey that’s a great idea I just know you’d just be–Marshall! Marshall?”
“What is it Jen I’m–”
“Marshall get in here your daughter has some great–”
“Mom,” Zara moaned. Her mother was, predictably, ruining it for Zara by getting more excited than she was herself. I saw this so many times. It never failed. Jennifer hooked an arm around Zara’s shoulders and brought her in tightly for a “mother-daughter” hug. Then yelled in her ear.
“Marshall? Come in here!”
Jennifer held her out at arms length and looked her over, then mashed herself forward again.
Zara was growing impatient.
Within seconds her father loafed into the room and asked, in his vaguely bewildered voice, “What is it, dear?”
“Zara, tell your father what you told me.”
“What is it, dear?” he said.
“I’m going to be a stripper,” Zara repeated, now entirely without enthusiasm.
“Isn’t that wonderful?” Jennifer said, and hugged her daughter again, from behind, shaking her shoulders in quick, excited jerks.
Marshall wasn’t immediately moved. He took a moment and squinted his right eye like he was trying to picture it.
“That’s lovely, dear.” He began. “Though I must say that I was hoping you’d take part in the clean-up effort in some way. There are some great opportun–”
“Marshall,” her mother broke in, again yelling in Zara’s ear, “you don’t seriously mean to downplay the role of entertainment in the Phoenix process of social re-generativity? This is a critical success factor!”
Marshall seemed ruffled, but kept his calm. “I, I, no, of course not. I’m not downplaying anything. I’m simply–”
“Good. Then why don’t you congratulate your daughter.” At this point Jennifer gave Zara a little shove toward Marshall, who fumbled for a moment, not quite knowing what was expected of him, but then regained himself and opened up his arms.
“Zara dear,” he said, “you know I didn’t mean to question the authenticity of the pathway you’ve chosen toward self-actualization.” He patted her head as though she were still a little girl.
“Of course not, dad,” she said. She felt so sorry for him. She felt sorry for both her parents. She stood apart and looked at them, back and forth. Her mother beamed at her almost psychotically, and her father’s stoned expression seemed somehow meaningless. Zara felt defeated. She thought about telling them to forget the whole thing but instead slumped off in the direction of her room, not turning when her mother asked her where she was off to so soon, and didn’t she want a glass of champagne to celebrate.
“I’m fine, mom,” she called out as she made her way down the hall. “I’ve got to practice.”
“Oh, of course! Absolutely!” he mother’s shrill voice agreed. “Good thinking! And dear, if you want any feedback on your routine, just ask me or your father! We’d be happy to help!”
Zara slammed her door and flopped down on her bed, face-first. The wind had picked up, and it threw litter and leaves against her window. She lay and listened for a while, and eventually the dull, soft pats found a pattern that slowly pulled Zara out from her bad mood. Was she actually doing something socially constructive? She hadn’t thought about it. She began to run through various counter-arguments in her head–all the usual stuff–until it occurred to her that what was most significant here was not whether she could participate in some dialectical process with her mother, but that she hadn’t thought at all about anything other than her simple, selfish desire to strip. Even if there were a socially redeeming dimension to the job, that’s not why she wanted to do it. This lightened her mood considerably. She turned over on her bed and let out a brief, girlish giggle. She hadn’t even thought about it! She hadn’t thought about anything! She thought about running out and bragging to her parents about her discovery. She imagined telling them that she didn’t give a flying fuck about the social impact of her decision. But just as soon as she’d had the thought she thought again. She didn’t want to give them any reason to doubt their assumptions. The first thing they’d do–the only thing they’d know how to do–would be to absorb any damage her counterstrike had caused and co-opt her own reasoning. They’d just explain it in their words. Because of course it would fit. They’d find a way of explaining it away. Zara determined right then that the less they knew about her thought process the better. They could confabulate all they wanted to, guessing about her motivations and tagging them with pseudo-scientific perspective and historical precedence. Let them think themselves under the table. She wasn’t going to say a word.
Amazingly, Zara regained most of the enthusiasm she’d felt initially. She felt almost like she had as a girl just after she’d decided to play house. The surrender. The palpable fantasy of it. Zara rolled off the bed and opened the closet. She rooted through began to piece together an outfit that would easily come off. She heard the phone ring but didn’t pay any attention. There were leggings to consider. There were layers. Interestingly, she found herself gravitating toward a look more girlish than sultry, but she let her instincts guide her, not thinking too much about what appealed, or why. She’d just pulled out a perfectly simple baby-doll dress she hadn’t seen in years when she heard a car pulling up outside. She briefly looked out the window as she heard her front door open, and caught a glimpse of her father trudging through the front yard’s overgrown grass, then climbing into the backseat of a long, black car.
Sighing loudly, she wondered how much longer she could put up with her parents’ suffocating level of support.
