Ryan Postma
Journal Entry 2/24/96
1:09 am
Chicago, Illinois


I can’t help but flash back to an A-Team rerun in seventh grade. The scene was precious, a scandalous group of twenty-somethings in an abandoned warehouse with their pick of the toys. Communications gear, random weapons (numbers lock, stock and barrel), a used car lot exhibition with fresh paint jobs and filed serial numbers, fresh licenses expected at any minute. It was perfect--right down to the ghetto blaster in the corner tuned to the local suburbanite blue-collar station playing some shitbird’s cover of “Young Americans”.

“Gee my life’s a funny thing, am I still too young?”
Sally painting the siding of a stolen school bus, wondering how any of it got this far this fast, wondering if she’ll ever see Harvard Square again, wondering if Jeff meant what he whispered in her ear last night.

“Scanning life through the picture window...”
Nate finally feels like he’s living his life. He’d been primed since grade school--what a good boy, what a smart boy, what a strong boy. He hadn’t even thought of his parents in three days, he doesn’t know if he’ll ever see the inside of a classroom, a doctor’s office or a library ever again. He certainly doesn’t care. He finishes attaching the paneling to the side of the bus, completely captivated by his work.

“But the freak, and his type, all for nothing...”
Bates puts the finishing touches on a communications program that will record all the Mutant frequencies for posterity or otherwise. He was new to this group of self-made outcasts, he wanted to be accepted like anyone. The best laid plans...but he’d show them all. He was up for it, all of it.

“Where have all Papas’ heroes gone?”
Chris wonders what his parents would think about this one. They flipped the bill for six years of college and everything in-between. He had done his best by them to be sure, but there was a fine line between love and crime and the gang had called it all in for this one. This was the big one and there’d never be another. He knows it. He’s in.

“We live for just these twenty years...”
Jipping couldn’t be happier. He’s always been one to eat it all up and ask for seconds. This will make the film that every young writer dreams of, this is the ultimate hero’s journey. Burning the candle at both ends just doubles the light.

“Do you remember the bills you have to pay--or even yesterday?”
Cliff is running at a fever pitch, he just spent 23 years priming himself for this? I don’t honestly think he’s thinking about it one bit. Cliff’s is running in that zone that he sets himself up for when something needs to get done. Not entirely healthy, but I’ve never seen him leave something unfinished either. John Henry.

“Not a myth left from the ghetto...”
Plakke looks to be in a bit of a daze. I haven’t really talked to him in months and don’t know how he’s incorporating all of this into his recent thought patterns. He’s here, and that’s enough. I think all of this overwhelmed him a bit, this may explain his odd sleeping patterns of late.

“Sit on your hands on a bus of survivors...”
I cringed when that lyric came over the speakers. I look over at Rob and he seemed to shudder for a moment, too. The letter. It can’t stay in the dark much longer and we’ll have to read it to everyone before we go much further. I know why Rob’s here, and it frightens me.

“Ain’t that close to love, well, ain’t that poster love?”
Scott. The cleverest of us all. The director. I’d die for him if need be. Without him this whole thing would fall apart. What is going through his head, sitting over there in the corner and watching? If I were to guess I’d say he’s thinking, that’s what. He’s three moves ahead and he knows it. Thank God.

“I heard the news today, oh boy...”
If there was a turning back point for me it was the moment I looked in that laughing-man’s face. I looked in his face and saw a fool, a prop, a grunt, a hireling. Nothing more. I made my decision and will stand by it forever. I will finish this thing. I’m never coming home.

“Ain’t there a man you can say no more? and
ain’t there a woman I can sock on the jaw? and
ain’t there a child I can hold without judging?
ain’t there a pen that will write before they die?
ain’t you proud that you still got faces?

Ain’t there one damn song that can make me
break down and cry?”


The song comes to a snowy-static end as the radio station signs off for the evening. Two giant sliding doors open quietly on a deserted street.

A diesel roars to life.

It sounds like music.






-dem bones-
--Letters from a Savior; Offer for a few--


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