Mira Corpora by Jeff Jackson Page B

vanished into the park.
    I dash across the street, but the man is nowhere to be seen. The entrance to the park brims with the usual shuffling armada of runaways with stolen skateboards, homeless with borrowed shopping carts, police practicing blindness behind their shades. On a hunch, I follow the route that winds along the park’s perimeter. The sun shimmers off the concrete and the oaks overhead are too exhausted to supply a full canopy, so I have to keep squinting. I spot him in the distance, arms swinging briskly at his side, as if his shadow is a prison he’s determined to outrun.
    Somebody calls my name. I spot Hank and Lena cuddled on a nearby wooden bench, waving me over. I nod but keep walking. No time for niceties. The man appears to be heading for the exit by the steel band shell and I can’t risk losing him. I hear my name again and soon am flanked on either side by my friends.
    â€œImpressively rude,” Hank says. “What’s the story?”
    â€œSorry.” I speak without breaking my stride. “I’m following somebody.”
    â€œIntrigue,” says Hank. “I like it.”
    â€œSee that guy up there?” I’m careful not to be so flagrant as to actually point. “The one in the gray bathrobe?” There’s nothing to do but blurt it out. “I think that’s Kin Mersey.”
    There’s a silence, then Lena says: “Oh my God.”
    The man leaves the park and immediately tacks east, heading deeper into the shittiest streets of this shitty neighborhood. The three of us follow in a state of entranced speechlessness. It’s only now that we notice the lack of silver tags from our graffiti campaign. In their place are rows of unconscious homeless men curled atop cardboard pallets, their gray beards flecked with bits of newspaper. Stray dogs lick discarded alkaline batteries, looking for a leftover charge. The air is perfumed with stale urine and rancid government cheese.
    As we walk, I shuffle through the endless unconfirmed
stories about Kin Mersey in my mind. There’s only one rumor that truly interests me. It claims Kin has feverishly continued to write songs, generating tunes shot through with shards of terrifying beauty, creating music so radical that even his fans aren’t ready to hear it.
    The storefronts start to thin out, but the man doesn’t seem to register the change. Soon it’s strictly rubble-strewn lots, half-demolished concrete foundations, construction fences slotted with suggestive gaps. He pauses at a traffic light to cinch the bathrobe tighter, keeping the terrycloth from flapping in the updrafts from passing vehicles. We cluster around a telephone pole, pretending to be fascinated by a handwritten notice about a missing hamster. This is the closest I’ve been to the man since he first passed me. My heart hammers in the slender vein dividing my forehead.
    â€œYou really think it’s Kin?” Hank whispers.
    â€œIt does sort of look like him,” Lena says.
    The man’s face is swollen. His hands are chafed and raw. But the resemblance is clear. A red scarf is wrapped around the same squat neck that you’d never believe could house such an unearthly voice. The same unkempt blond hair, the same gangly frame, the same pupils drowning in that peculiar shade of cerulean blue. The words buzz in my mouth as I speak them. “It’s him.”
    The man races onward. We automatically fall in behind. The crosstown expressway looms ahead, emitting a high-pitched rumble, the singing sound of rubber tires on asphalt. Several metal shopping carts lie gutted on the pavement like they’ve been gang-raped. Blackbirds squat on the telephone wires, chirping intricate tunes no one can hear. By now it’s obvious we’re tailing the guy. We’re the only figures in this desolate landscape. The man doesn’t acknowledge our presence, but my senses tingle with an animal suspicion that he