April 2003: The Musicians
TheboyswouldhikefaroutintotheMartiancountry.Theycarriedodorouspaperbagsintowhichfromtimetotimeuponthelongwalktheywouldinserttheirnosestoinhaletherichsmellofthehamandmayonnaisedpickles,andtolistentotheliquidgurgleoftheorangesodainthewarmingbottles.Swingingtheirgrocerybagsfullofcleanwaterygreenonionsandodorousliverwurstandredcatsupandwhitebread,theywoulddareeachotheronpastthelimitssetbytheirstemmothers.Theywouldrun,yelling:
"Firstonetheregetstokick!"
Theybikedinsummer,autumn,orwinter.Autumnwasmostfun,becausethentheyimagined,likeonEarth,theywerescutteringthroughautumnleaves.
Theywouldcomelikeascatterofjackstonesonthemarbleflatsbesidethecanals,thecandy-cheekedboyswithblue-agateeyes,pantingonion-taintedcommandstoeachother.Fornowthattheyhadreachedthedead,forbiddentownitwasnolongeramatterof"Lastonethere’sagirl!"or"FirstonegetstoplayMusician!"Nowthedeadtown’sdoorslaywideandtheythoughttheycouldhearthefaintestcrackle,likeautumnleaves,frominside.Theywouldhushthemselvesforward,byeachother’selbows,carryingsticks,rememberingtheirparentshadtoldthem,"Notthere!No,tononeoftheoldtowns!Watchwhereyouhike.You’llgetthebeatingofyourlifewhenyoucomehome.We’llcheckyourshoes!"
Andtheretheystoodinthedeadcity,aheapofboys,theirhikingluncheshalfdevoured,daringeachotherinshriekywhispers.