Meanwhile in Dopamine City by Pierre D. B. C

Author:Pierre, D. B. C. [Pierre, D. B. C.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Science Fiction, Contemporary
ISBN: 9780571334001
Amazon: 0571334008
Goodreads: 46260938
Publisher: Faber & Faber
Published: 2020-08-06T07:00:00+00:00

Swarms of dapples like hatching spiders fell on the car from the trees. They flickered in time with hard feelings, in and out of sync with speeding clouds, or speeding time, or speeding shame, or who cared, Lon couldn’t dick around the truth any more when the one idea he had to climb to, away up the list of explanations for the last twenty-four hours, sat flashing like a newborn’s bruise. He went and it stung and retold the truth this way: yesterday he surprised his child doing a good deed for the children’s ward of the hospital where her mother had died, a fun civic duty in good faith, and his response, when she had been too wary of him to tell the truth, had been to browbeat and corner her and smack her. In the only safe space she had in the world. Sweet Lord, what the fuck.

The other figure was probably Egan, skulking in via the kitchen, saying he’d come from up the stairs; they would have uploaded the video in his room after abandoning Lon on the sofa. Both kids too leery of their father to confess the simple truth. Because earlier simple truths they confessed must have proved a bad idea. Now the ice bucket fucking challenge, and that little girl still had the spark in her to stand up to him and launch a case for reason and freedom and peace.

Birds eddied around as if the wind were his fault as well, as if each little bird were a jettisoned hope of motherless children simply looking for an ally, for a hero, for the man with the guitar in the picture they posted, the man who made them beam and glow, the laid-back man with time in his life for music, for life, for them; not a pipeline pigger, not a sewer rat, not someone plodding against their will to make a buck, but someone being who they wanted to be, who they had to be, who they could be in life. The sorcery this implied was that they knew who that was, and that maybe it was the same person Diane had thought it was, which also implied it was someone other than who he was being, and it might take some effort to become. Lonnie Lonregan. The name had started out as a heretic gag: he’d used it to sing funny songs about them, to wrinkle his brow, deepen his voice and croon them into hysteria. As for tours – sure, he’d done some gigs, played some taverns back in the day, had even stayed over in Eastwood; but the tours the kids meant on the page they’d built were the tours they’d taken together, lined up on stools like passengers as he sang them around the world and into bed.

It was as if the heretics were throwing Diane’s voice. From the grave or genetics or instinct or magic, they were nursing that better world, of music and gags and laughter, where

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