State of the Art

You see, sweatshirts were illegal.

But it was more than that. They had come to symbolize all of the world's evil; the decadence of the arts, the decay of civilization, the destruction of moral values. In the bowels of the earth, Satan sat in a La-Z-Boy recliner, watching the Super Bowl, slopping beer and chili on the front of an Oxford sweatshirt.

I owned a sweatshirt. It was hidden in a secret compartment in the back of my closet. Tonight I would don my sweatshirt. It was white, but very dirty.

Flitting from long shadow to long shadow, I approached the foundation of a burned-out house. Only a few uneven layers of charred brick remained above ground. Mother Nature fought back with thick thorn brambles and patches of dried poison ivy that rustled in the wind. The moon shone off pale white flowers that were tough and rubbery, and when sniffed, gave the mind a great rush of beauty before blowing it to bits. Through this no-mans-land, I crept to within inches of the structure. I called out a word softly.

“Love,” I said.

That was a good password. No one said that anymore.

After a moment, I heard rocks shuffling from within the rubble. A figure arose and came towards me. Stepping into the moonlight, I again beheld her fragile beauty. Her dark hair fell about a hooded heather blue sweatshirt. Her sharp features were tense. “I've been anxious,” she said.

The girl lived in the carefully camouflaged basement of the fire-bombed house in the ruined city. And in that city where she foraged for food at night, I had found her. She had been wearing her sweatshirt. She had run. I had gone after her. I told her she need not fear me, that I too wore a sweatshirt. I told her of a secret society whose members gathered in their sweatshirts in the cold of night in the wilderness under the stars.

I had come to take her to just such a meeting.

“God do I feel old,” I thought as I glanced at the young girl wrapped in shadows beside me. The undergrowth crunched lightly beneath our feet as we made our way to the outskirts of the city. The gloom encroached closer upon us, but we did not find each other in the dark and stumble on hand in hand. This just isn't that kind of story.

A small patch of light appeared ahead and I sensed that the girl knew we were being watched. “Had we not been wearing our sweatshirts, we would be captives by now,” I said. We emerged into an open enclosure. In the center of the clearing was a round flat rock. On the rock was a cage. In the cage was a ferret.

Near extinction, but then what wasn't, the black-footed ferret served as mascot for this band of cotton clad outlaws. The ferret embodied all the traits now honored among these people: stealth, audaciousness, a keen sense of hearing (since that which is about to kill you can rarely be seen) and innate curiosity. The Pharaohs of Egypt knew of them, and American Telephone and Telegraph used them to chase rats out of their fiber optic conduits. The nose of the ferret was legendary, and if for no other reason, this was worthy of admiration, for women with prominent noses were considered beautiful.

Suddenly a tall but very old man in a sweatsuit of royal purple strode to the rock, placing a small dish of blueberries, a rare treat, in the ferret cage. The ferret nibbled at the top berry. The old man revealed a book bound in black leather, R.P. Dunlovie's Theory of Taxation, embossed in gold on the cover.

“That old man is called the Stylemaster, and that book is like a bible unto us,” I explained to the girl. The Stylemaster opened the book, and began to chant words the girl did not understand:

Money has no value. A corporation is formed to deliver goods or services with the intent of earning a profit. The corporation hires people to perform the necessary functions of running the business. The corporation must pay taxes on its profits, and also a head tax on its employees. The cost of these taxes is passed on to the consumer to ensure that the corporation can return dividends to its principals and investors. The corporation pays its employees for their time and skills in performing the duties necessary for the profitability of the concern. These wages are taxed by the federal government, the state government and where applicable, the local government. Additionally, the federal government taxes wages for the Federal Insurance Contributions Act (FICA). What is left is the net amount. From this net amount, the employee must maintain a residence that accrues property taxes. Purchases of food, clothing, gasoline, and all other commodities are taxed. Utilities are taxed. Money bequeathed to heirs is taxed. Death is taxed.

The men and women, thirty-three in all, joined in, and though she did not understand, images formed in the girl's mind. She saw gardens and landscapes of majestic grandeur, and seas of blue dancing with dolphins. She saw men and women burned at the stake. She saw castles wrought of gold, and banquet halls gleaming with gold, and food served heaping on golden platters, and human remains lying amongst the legs of the tables and chairs. She saw pyramids and great walls and monuments and temples. And she saw all painted red with blood.

She saw beauty and she saw ugliness and she knew that there was no such thing as culture.

The chanting ceased.

“Each of us here are outstanding in our fields, concurrent with the most advanced theories and technologies and fluent in the accumulated knowledge of all related subjects and the inter-connectedness of the different areas of specialization. Each of us, if you will, represents the state of the art. Astrophysicists, oceanographers, chemists, physicists, biologists, musicians, mathematicians, historians, jurists, psychologists, economists, linguists, artists, physicians, anthropologists, architects, philosophers, engineers,” I said.

“What do you do?” asked the girl.

“I am a writer,” I said, feeling proud and useless. After all, it was a purely economic war. If I could have shelter and food enough for the few years my health and spirit would yet let me live, I could turn my attention to the sensual imagery that my pen longed to release.

“But I am skilled in none of these things. I am but a simple girl,” said the girl.

“There are more of us than the thirty-three you see here. This is a meeting of the Proficients. You may choose what interests you most and be taught in all the ways and how all works within the plan of God,” I replied.

“None of this seems to make sense,” said the girl.

“You already begin to understand,” I said.

I raised my right arm and holding my palm outward, called to the company, “Hail Stylemaster! A child of the cotton, polyester and rayon wishes to become one with us.”

“Then come forward and swear by the book!” cried the Stylemaster.

The girl stepped up to the round flat rock and looked at the gold markings on the cover. She placed her right hand on the book. After a brief swearing-in ceremony, the Stylemaster said to the girl, “You now belong to the Advanced Order of Knowledge, otherwise known as A.O.K.”

The meeting adjourned.

"I do not wish to go back to my hiding place tonight," said the girl.

“You may spend the night at my townhouse,” I said to the girl.

The girl and I sat on my bed watching Animal Planet and turned to each other and fucked. We did not really love each other, but what the hell.

I rolled over in my sleep and woke out of a quantum mechanical dream. By electrocommunication, I knew that the girl lie awake also. “What does happen when an irresistible force meets and immovable object?” the girl said, as if merely by saying something, it took on symbolic meaning.

“As for myself,” I said, “I find more awe and wonder in the unexplainable phenomena that occur around us.”

We were a virtual pair.*



*Pairs of every conceivable particle and antiparticle are constantly being created and destroyed everywhere, at every location all across the universe. The particle-antiparticle pairs simply exist for such short time intervals that direct observation is impossible. For this reason, they are called “virtual pairs.” They don't “really” exist; they”virtually” exist; constantly flashing in and out of reality.