Idea in Stone | Page 6

the odd rock or crater. Fireworks went off overhead in
the dark space-sky. Stefan reached for the can of beer which, of course,
by dream logic was at his side. He took a sip, then placed it back down,
noticing as he did that the ground wasn't dusty anymore, but covered in
prickly, purple, almost floral undergrowth. Looking up again, he saw
the whole moon covered in purple.
~
Stefan's stereo turned itself on, blaring music. He sat upright in bed, but
couldn't see. Blearily panicked, he groped at his face, discovering that
his T-shirt was up over his head. He pulled it off and looked at the
clock beside his bed: seven-thirty. Time to get up for work. He looked
down and scratched his stomach. There was something in his
belly-button. Lint? He plucked it out and looked at it. It was a tiny
piece of newsprint with the letter E on it. He shook his head and put it
on his bedside table, then went upstairs to have a shower.

Chapter Two
Jacks and Queens
Stefan waited for the subway, leaning against the glazed,
curry-coloured tiles of the platform wall. He let the other passengers
crowd along the ledge: he wasn't in a hurry to get to work, he didn't like
being jostled in a crowd, he was afraid of "pushers", and he wanted to
feel cooler than everybody else. And cool, he knew, was all in the little
details.
For one, his job allowed him to dress however he wanted. Today he
wore a T-shirt and a pair of baggy hemp trousers his mother bought
him as a birthday present a few months ago. To his surprise, they
became his favourite trousers, and they also seemed indestructible. He
allowed that some of her wingnut ideas had merit. Some.

A subway train, silver and burnished like something from the back of
the cutlery drawer, pulled up and its doors opened. The crowd flowed
toward them like water to a drain. A voice came over the station's
public address system telling the riders to let the other passengers off
first, but it went unheeded. As the voice spoke, Stefan heard something
else, as if a second person was speaking close to the announcer. But
Stefan knew otherwise. The faint, broken words were a mix of English
and perhaps a foreign language, but the voice was as familiar as his
own. He'd learned to dismiss it years ago.
He pictured a film clip he'd seen of a Japanese subway in which men
used large aluminium potato-mashers to shove people into the cars. He
smiled.
The pixel-board on the platform showed that it was now after 9am.
Predictably, the crowd thinned, and Stefan moved away from the wall.
Minutes later, the next train arrived, comfortably empty, and Stefan
strolled leisurely through the doors as they opened. The subway game
was all about getting a seat, and he'd just scored a goal.
~
Stefan waited in a small room that was beige in every way except for
the posters on its walls, relics of past children's shows. Cartoon
characters and live entertainers looked down at him, smiling so big and
happy they looked about to drool. He moved the overflowing ashtray
on the coffee-table aside, put his legs up, and leaned back. His fingers
probed and massaged under his jaw, loosening the root of his tongue
from below. He hummed with his mouth closed and stretched the soft
palate at the back of his throat.
A woman opened the door, smiled, and said, "We're ready for you Mr.
Mackechnie." He nodded, picked up his jacket and satchel, and
followed her. They walked through a maze of halls decorated with
similar posters and children's broadcasting awards.
The production assistant remained strangely silent as they walked.
"You're new here," said Stefan. "What's your name?"

"I, uh, my name's Wendy."
"Hi," said Stefan, "nice to meet you. So did you study broadcasting, or
is this just a job?"
"I'm, uh, I'm sorry, I was told not to speak to you before you go into the
studio. The producer got really mad at me the other day after I talked to
one of the talent. He fell out of character and had to warm up again."
"Who did you talk to?"
"Ron Emery."
"Figures. He does the voice-over for a goddamned lightbulb. There is
no character. Certainly not the way he does it. Yeah, don't worry about
all that crap with me."
Wendy laughed, relieved. "What do you do to get into character for
Bloob?"
"I do a funny voice."
"Yeah," she said, "but people really respond to him. You must do
something. There's a quality to your performance that's really special."
"I don't know. I brush my teeth. Have you ever been in the booth at