The Only Words That Are Worth Remembering Read Free Page A

Vocationals to ride the tour bus through the Old Miamy Ruins. I liked the sun and wind and the smell of lotion. The tour was gratis because the Bosom Chiefs considered those ruins a history lesson. I learned by heart the haunting names of Old Miamy’s landmarks. Civil Center, Bass, Arse, Jungle Island. Before long I could parrot back the whole boilerplate script.
    Whenever a tourist asked me to take her picture in front of the Four Seasons, I felt it my duty to oblige. Hundreds of people had contributed to that shell of a building; thousands had enjoyed its ice machines, imported bedclothes, and heated lap pool. I owed it to them to tell their story. Their dissolution held promise for us as a society. It is a comfort to know how swiftly and thoroughly a civilization can crumble when nobody wants it anymore.
    The highlight of every Miamy tour was Pork & Beans. This was a gated housing compound built by the famed Commie Gunt called Roserfelt. He was a Chief in his own way, stinky rich and hitched up to the finest families, but old Roserfelt had a deviant attachment to the poor. It may have been sexual. He wanted to see them pampered and put up like sultans, so he gave them Pork & Beans. He gave them police and water at no extra charge. Men addicted to drugs and women hooked on pregnancy got free sirloin and sedans and potable water. Swimming pools, in-unit toilets, a doctor that made house calls in a hi-tech van: Pork & Beans was paradise for do-nothings. I paid special attention to getting this part of the tour just right and would practice it every chance I got.
    Pop had always been one to encourage my hobbies; he would have listened patiently to my Pork & Beans speech, clapped me on the back, and narrowed his earnest eyes. “You will amount to something, boy.”
    But in Pop’s absence Faron was in charge. That we were twins and should have been equals made no difference. (Umma told us after Faron was born it took me a full hour to work my way out of her tubes.) My brother decided I should not entertain any dreams as lofty as Old Miamy tour guide. He said mining was a safe bet for both of us.
    One morning in late summer, after Umma went to the clinic and before we were to report for Vocationals, I made the mistake of practicing Pork & Beans on Faron. He stood behind the kitchen bar making steam patterns on the laminate with his toast. I hung my legs over the edge of the top bunk and started in.
    As I laid bare the terrible history of the Pork & Beans housing complex, I could sense my brother’s rising irritation. He ground his toast to dust on the counter. When I reached the end of my speech—“The tower blocks were painted a cheery pink to match the flamingo, a narcissistic bird that eats garbage”—he leaned forward and blew a cloud of crumbs across the living room.
    He stalked over and kicked his lower bunk flush against the wall. Though I didn’t get it at the time, the implication was that I needed to be crushed a little myself. Faron always meant well. He was my protector, especially when it came to disappointment.
    â€œYou want to be a tour guide so bad?” he said. “Get down.”
    I followed him into the stairwell, awed by his tone. He was our man of action and I loved him dearly, even when he went too far. Only one Stairdweller dared to give us trouble. She was a ropy gal in a handcrafted shirt made out of Fatty Meats takeout bags. She wagged a sharpened prybar and told us to open our rucksacks. I offered her a sandwich but before she could take it Faron punched her in the neck. The girl hacked so hard I thought she might die, but then she coughed up something and spat at me.
    The next landing was where the Stairdwellers kept rabbits. As I often did, I stopped to poke a finger in the hutch, but it wasn’t a bunny that sniffed me. It was a boy. Dry blood colored his mouth. The surviving rabbits huddled in a back corner, ears down. Their eyes were asking for help,