“Yeah, guy came in a few hours ago. Said his name was Ecksaye, asking for you. You ain’t around, so he splits.”

“I see. Th-”

“Then about a half-hour after that, another guy comes by. This one calls himself Mr. Ecksby and asks for you too. You wasn’t around then either.”

“I’m aware of that. Wh-”

“About twenty minutes ago, third guy drops by, same story. Says his name’s Ecksy. Think they’re related?”

“Unlikely, since judging from what you told me they spell and pronounce their names differently. Keep me posted.”

So XA, XB, and XC had been looking for him after all. And, judging by the belhop’s account, they were going about things as ineptly as ever.

“Does that amuse you? Viac Funiked was the name of the first president of Pilchardania, the man who led us to freedom after the first World War. At home I am often laughed at because our names are the same, and I see that here it is no different. Your laugh, however, is as borne of ignorance as my countrymen’s was of knowledge.”

Cesar reddened and could only mumble a reply.

The man jabbed at him with his walking stick. “What’s that? You didn’t expect a man with such a name to speak your language? Or did you honestly think I’d join in your fun at my expense?”

Tobias rested a boot on the amplifier. “This, my friends, is the Ampbust 262. Only 250 were ever made before federal noise regulations forced the maker out of business.”

A quiet gasp resonated throughout the group. “What are those?” somebody asked, pointing to nearby amp-like shapes under a tarp.

“These are three more of ’em. Barn finds, picked ’em up for a song and restored ’em myself.” Tobias waited for this to sink in for a moment.

“And?”

“On the same circuit, grounded, with a high-quality axe to back them up? We could tear down a wall or tear a hole in the freakin’ fabric of spacetime, man.”

My generation was immersed in lovey-dovey sentiments about “being ourselves” and “doing what makes us happy.” Our parents probably thought they were doing us a favor–the Woodstock and Summer of Love generation, they felt like they had to struggle with their parents to go off and do what they wanted. Hell, even today there are scads of movies and TV shows lionizing the 60’s radicals who bucked what their parents wanted in order to Live the Dream.

The problem was, much of my generation decided that being themselves and doing what makes them happy was being slackers and mooching. I think that a lot of what made our parents such go-getters was the fact that–at least as they saw it–people were always telling them they couldn’t or shouldn’t do things. Who wouldn’t want to go out and get busy confronted with that, especially if there were millions in the same boat? But if from the start you’re told that you’re special and mollycoddled, you get kids working at a 7-11 with a Masters degree, just content to scrape by. Say what you will about the unshaven pot-smoking hippies of yesteryear, but they got shit done.

I was determined to avoid what was, to me, the ultimate badge of shame: moving back in with Mom and Dad and gradually abandoning all pretense of an independent life. Which led me, straight-arrow, to my current predicament.

“I’ve gotta be honest with you, Sandy,” Karen sighed. “Cats creep the hell out of me.”

“Because you are creeped out by things that are awesome?” Sandy riposted. “That explains your Netflix queue.”

“Because of a lot of things,” Karen said. “Like the claws. They can pop out at any time, without warning. One moment you’re petting a loving animal on your lap, and the next it has a dozen needles stuck in the flesh of a very sensitive area. Or you try to pet a cat on the tummy and then five of its six ends are suddenly pointy and whirling. And you can’t talk about declawing, because cat owners react to that word as if you just said ‘Auschwitz.'”

“It’s cutting off the tips of their fingers,” Sandy said. “How would you feel about that?”

“If I was always going around clawing at people you’d look at it differently.”

“Mmm-hmm, right,” Sandy said. “Was that it, or did you have some more ranting while you’re at it?”

“And then you’ve got the cats that bite you and scratch you at will, and while you sit there oozing blood the owner goes ‘Oh, it’s just a love bite!'” Karen continued. “It’s a classic example of toxic codependency in an abusive relationship–the cat bites me and scratches me and scars me and I have to wear long sleeves to cover up the marks but it still loves me.”

“That’s a pretty dangerous sentiment to go spreading around,” said Sandy. “Especially around cat fanciers like me who will defend our fuzzy compatriots unto the death.”

“Ah, lacrosse,” said Greg “The favored sport of the common unadulterated douchebag.”

“Hey, man,” Mike said. “Just because they’re playing lacrosse doesn’t make them douchebags.”

“Look at the sunglasses on a cloudy day, the untucked shirts, the askance ballcaps barely concealing duck’s ass haircuts,” Greg said, observing the ball as it moved fluidly between stick-nets. “If those aren’t douchebags they do a good impression.”

“Well, that doesn’t mean that all lacrosse players are douches,” Mike countered through a mouthful of sandwich.

“Think about it: when have you even known a lacrosse player who wasn’t a douche? The motion’s enough like paddling that the skill transfers right over to the Phi Qoppa Jackass initiation,” said Greg. “I bet they use the sticks when the Initiation Paddle breaks.”

“I used to play lacrosse.”

“See? There’s your proof right there.”

“Why do you have all the panels drawn backwards?” Rich said, examining Sadie’s artwork.

“You’re supposed to read it right to left,” she said.

Rich wrinkled his nose. “Why? That’s really confusing, not to mention counterintuitive.”

“Because it’s manga!” Sadie cried as if she’d been waiting for the question and the chance to educate its boorish originator. “Manga is written and read right to left!”

“But isn’t that because manga is Japanese and they read right to left?” Rich said, squinting as he tried to follow the flamethrower-toting faerie through the correct sequence of her adventures.

“Look at the translated ones in the library, they’re right to left too.”

“Of course not. They only translated the word bubbles and stuff,” Rich said, flipping a page and carefully examining a panel where the flamethrower faerie was suddenly tiny with stub limbs and wildly swinging a mallet. “If the whole comic was flipped it would create all kinds of problems. But you wrote in English and drew from scratch–very nicely, might I add–so it should be left to right.”

“That’s just not how manga works!” Sadie fumed.

“And your English text is left to right inside the bubbles on your right to left pages! If you really want to be authentic, shouldn’t you write the words right to left too? Or is that tfel ot thgir?” Rich could barely contain a smile at Sadie’s reaction so far.

“Give me that,” Sadie grumbled, snatching the comic back with an expression not unlike the flamethrower faerie. “Philistine.”

It meant sitting between Tarkovsky and Miller, and life offers few choices more dismal than that.

Now, one naturally assumes people who work in bookstores to have a natural love of learning and language, much the same as one expects this of librarians or professors. While there were numerous counterexamples littering the store (gum-popping Sherry or chain-clad Günther, for instance), Tarkovsky and Miller fit the assumption to a tee. Both were intelligent and articulate and made no secret of how delighted they were to inflict both on an unsuspecting world.

How, then, was the word ‘dismal’ to be associated with them?

Tarkovsky (not his real name, but nevertheless what everybody called him) was a pedantic formalist, delighting in the rules, structure, and grammar that suffuse written and spoken communications. He savored pointing out and bitterly mocking any perceived infractions, from split infinitives to dangling participles to unnecessary vowels (a passionate follower of Noah Webster, he disdained foreign spellings). Miller, for his part, was a linguistic freethinker, fascinated by finding convoluted and unusual ways to express himself. He verbed nouns, dangled participles, and engaged in Spoonerism as a parlor game. If a sentence couldn’t be twisted into an avant-garde puzzle for a listener to riddle out, he wasn’t interested in it.

So, needless to say, fierce battle would soon be joined.

Volved Sagenned was the writer in residence, and considered quite a coup at the time he’d been retained. A Nobel prize winner, his books had sold millions of copies in translation and he was considered to be at the forefront of the “new wave” of former Warsaw Pact writers reflecting on the losing side of the Cold War.

He was also an irritable, self-absorbed old man with an impenetrably thick accent and absolutely no idea how to teach a class.

“He isn’t even required to teach, you know,” Kelly hissed. “He just does it for the stipend. His contract gives him six figures for three credit hours.”

“But he’s already making seven figures just by lending us his name,” whispered Harry. “Can’t he accept a little less in return for not making our lives hell!”

“Enough!” Sagenned roared. “The talkings ends now. Yes, ziz van iz not zo deaf ahz to naht heer shew hizzing like nezt of serpent!”

The students quickly fell into line even if they didn’t quite understand what he was saying.

“Paparz on desk, at vunze!” the author barked. “Tventy pagaz on ze meaning ov Krishnakov’s charakter! Let uz be determine who haz properly grazped!”

“I’ll meet you at the A-Bomb.”

It wasn’t a real A-Bomb, of course, but there was a piece of obsolete machinery in the field behind Hafmann Hall. No one had any idea what its purpose was–some kind of emergency generator from way back when, perhaps, or a piece of modern art that got mistaken for something practical when the Art Department moved to Dilcue. It still got a fresh coat of paint every now and then, which was the extent that it was officially recognized.

Thanks to struts that kept it off the ground and a cap that kept the rain off, the whatever-it-was looked like a genuine Fat Man/Little Boy A-Bomb. It helped that the spot wasn’t visible from any of the surrounding buildings thanks to a copse of bushes.