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.