The New Yorker

It has just gone 0528 on the first train to London and the carriages are already full.  My fellow passengers muse themselves with pages of the Metro and cast suspicious glances in my direction as I flick through the July issue of The New Yorker magazine. 

“America remembers” declares the most prominent cover line on the front cover half sleeve that opens to reveal a cartoon scene depicting the ground zero monument where the twin towers once stood.

Tourists and locals shuffle about taking photos and carrying various articles of undeterminable paraphernalia, smiling happily in the summer sun.

 My eye is drawn to one individual who stares disparagingly at a woman in a scarf; a security guard stands between them somewhat metaphorically. This is certainly a weighty prospect to be considering at this tender hour but I continue.

The first pages pass quickly, with letters from readers and preludes, listings and reviews of events happening in New York City.

“Stones and Bones”  

  

The main story appears on page 38. Adam Gopnik gives an insightful account of his visit to the 9/11 Memorial and compares it to various other historical sites. His observations pertain to the psychology behind the bricks, mortar and marble cladding.

The page turns easily but the subject matter remains heavily provoking and politically charged. The rest of the articles seem fluffy in comparison.

Cartoons and poetry occasionally break the torrent of text and the photography is gritty, deep, carefully thought out and tells its own story.

If you expect more from a publication this is the magazine for you, its quirky design belies a wealth of worldview altering, progressive journalism between its slender leaves.  

                   

The New Yorker is a grown up publication for grown up readers. It stares critically at American society and American society stares back like a child awaiting the approval of an austere parent.

The Heart Attack

The summer wind blows merrily, promising rain to ease the suns fever. Thatched roofed, white with red trim, the shabby cottage drowns in an ocean of green countryside. Alone it braces the forces.

Inside, a German Shepard looks tentatively at its owner. Aware that the situation has somehow deteriorated, confused as to what action to take.

The only human occupant scribbles furiously at his desk pausing only to pour the contents of a bottle of Jack down his throat and grimace as it burns.

“What you looking at Bernard? Stupid mutt,” slurs Stanley Marsden, a writer and photographer of some repute. Age, booze and self-loathing have taken their dues on his temperament and once good looks.

Bernard produces a high pitched sound in a response.

“Get! I'm f***ing busy or drunk … pick one!”

Its been two years since Stanley and Bernard moved into isolation. The cottage’s ground floor serves as the living area and study and the first a spacious and seldom used bedroom. Here, Stanley hopes to find the words of his greatest work yet. Words that had eluded him until this morning, they flooded onto the page.

“Out dog! Go run in the field, chase from the squirrels,” Stanley laughs out loud at his own drunken error, “Silly dog.”

The front door stands open but Bernard is far too concerned with his human’s odd behaviour to be tempted.

“I should have got a cat. Someone offered me a cat once, I said no. Cats don’t … care.”

A new sadness creeps over the pen-smith; as if the sum of his sorrows has arrived to collect a great debt.               

“Miriam,” he says to no one in particular, the memory is sharp and direct. The warm familiar depression has taken its place in his head next to the booze; they make dark and uncomfortable fellows.

The misery has arrived.

“She loved us you know. She could have loved the whole world and still had more for us.”

Bernard barks a bright acknowledgement.

Stanley feels a familiar tug in his chest and the anxiety blossoms, causing his breath to quicken until he is almost gasping for air. Not now pray not yet. He grits his teeth and clenches his fists in anticipation for pain that doesn't materialise.

He closes his eyes and sees her, Miriam. She’s naked and her bloom is full, still supple, still taut, she laughs and beckons him with those heavenly eyes.

It passes.

Too many troubled shades; the hours of work, selling out, the book tours, the drugs, the trusting and quick to please interns all circling like bats over a tombstone.

“I could have changed the world Bernie, just got caught up in this nonsense. I could have changed the world but I got rich instead. It’s corrupted every part of my life. We forgot the things that matter, lost sight of the beautiful things in life. I miss her so much.”

Tears roll across his face, he wipes them away crudely but they return: “I'm dying Bernie. The vale is so thin. I’ll never finish this. I always thought you’d go first old boy.”

The second wave hits him hard. His chest binds and a bolt of pain powers through his left arm. He falls to the ground contorting his face and neck involuntarily searching for just one more breath; Bernard rushes over and tries helplessly to comfort the stricken man, licking his face and whimpering.

His heart is a trapped bird in a ribcage. They’ll never find me, is his final thought as the bird breaks free.

The human lies motionless; Bernard howls mournfully for the sorrowful loss of a life so short. 

Troubled Nightmares

Clayton McKinley groans into consciousness as the sunlight blasts away the remains of his troubled nightmares.  Shadows creep as the light dances through the tiny single bed apartment on the 6^th floor he calls home.   

At least I made it to the couch, is his first thought; it’s not a happy one. He sits up, rubs his eyes; across the shabby living room, in the only other chair, rests a familiar figure dressed in a deeply red suit, blue shirt and black tie.

“We have dealings Mr McKinley,” says the steely toned voice, his short blonde hair unnaturally cultured; a toothy grin on his weltered and scarred face.

Clayton aches, his head pounds and trying to recall his visitor’s name is a struggle worth foregoing.

“I bare you gifts Mr McKinley,” says the figure pointing to a pair of Glock 9mms on the battered coffee table.

He recognises them immediately.

“Lincoln Garfield-Kennedy at your pleasure,” he introduces  himself grinning menacingly, a desperate void comes over the two men.

“I have one purpose Mr McKinley,” says Lincoln cutting into the silence, “I am here to facilitate your madness.”  His teeth glow in the enduring sunlight. “Do you recall the events that brought us to this point? Last night?  Think a minute it will come to you.”

Clayton covers his face and exhales, what is this sceptre talking about? The haze lifts unexpectedly, a street, a pub, a girl dancing, a cab, it dawns on him she’s still here. The suddenness of his realisation punches him square in the gut with the force of a prize fighter. He turns to look at the closed bedroom door with foreboding.

“She’s in there lying lifeless on the bed, red eyed and purple lipped,” whispers Lincoln, as if not to wake her, “You had fun last night. Be assured, she suffered greatly”.

Clayton’s stomach gives-way in a wave of bile and booze, it spews through his fingers and onto the filthy carpet before he can do anything about it.

“You strangled her with her own panties, you sic f***”.

“Why are you here?” says Clayton, when the heaving eventually subsides enough. He knows the answer even before the question is uttered; his throat burns and tears glisten in his bloodshot eyes.

“I am here to relieve you, unburden you of the guilt and remorse. You sir, are a predator and they are lambs. You have a need for mayhem and destruction.

“Now I could tell you that this is because your father beat you like rug, or your whore mother rejected you as a child or even that the gods have chosen you to do their terrible biddings against the wicked.

“What it all comes down to is this; Killing is who you are, like a singer sings or an artist draws naked b*****s, it makes you whole”. 

        

There is no denying this; Clayton recalls the powerful elation that came over him in the seconds that her life slipped through his fists.

“Pick up your weapons harbinger, bring savagery to the civilised; bring the darkness of Hell to the sheep.”

He obeys.

“Bring them death,” says Lincoln.

Clayton pauses at the front door, looks at his bare feet and putrid soaked clothing and steps out despite of this, guns at his side ready for malicious intent.

As the shots and screams rise in the morning air Lincoln throws his head back and laughs.