Pynchon as protagonist--3 of 4

[Paul Di Filippo]

"Dibs on the barn!" yelled Pig, pulling Sugarbunny by
the hand toward that relatively unscathed structure full of
moldering but comfortable and soon-to-be-rolled-in hay,
leaving me and Viorica to sack out in the ruins of the
farmhouse.  We unrolled some bedding in the angle of two
standing walls and a bit of roof.  The air was effervescent
on our bare skins, the stars jealous of what they saw. After
sex, she told me a little about herself.
"I survive conscription work in Soviet munitions
factory at Timisoara, until I can take no more.  I sneak
across the border of my soon-to-be-ex country and then
journey through all of Yugoslavia to Adriatic, dodging all
kinds of bad men, and swing passage on hobo ship which is
sunk off Sicily.  For six months I am prisoner of
hill-bandits who use me like love-doll.  Rescue comes in a
big shoot-up with Britishers--Special Forces--who are
looking for their kidnapped ambassador but find me instead.
I arrive in London just in time for guess what?"
"Not Napalm Night?"
"You bet.  Whole city and plenty of citizens burned up
by flaming Russian Vaseline.  Some kind of big mess."
That about summed up the whole world just then, so we
fell asleep.
In the morning we were awakened early by a rooster's
arrogant assertion that life was worth living.  We tracked
him down, found his harem and rustled up some eggs.  The
girls produced government-issue Tang and Pop-Tarts, and we
had a fine breakfast in the ruins of civilization.  Pig ate
enough for two--horses, that is.
Back on the road we raced over the remaining miles to
Hamburg.  The tanks and trucks and Jeeps and APC's we
passed were all heading toward the city; no one was leaving.
It seemed the entire European theater of operations was
funnelling into the old Hanseatic city for the big show,
their courses bent like rays of light around the King's sun.
We saw teams from all three Stateside networks and the BBC.
I thought I recognized Walter Cronkite.
"Make me a star!" shouted Pig as we zipped by.
The gals dropped us off in the center of the war-torn
town well before noon.  "We've got to get these capitalist
color catechisms to the people who really need them, boys,"
said Sugarbunny. "We'll catch you at the show tonight.
Thanks for the company."
"Lady Jane," I said, trying my best to sound like
Jagger, "may I kiss your hand?"
She extended it graciously out the driver's window.
"You coulda had more than that to kiss if you asked," said
Pig.  "Nyuck, hyuck, snurt."
"Pig, it would insult the entire species to call you a
sorry example of humanity."
"Heads up for anti-personnel mines," Viorica advised as
Sugarbunny shifted gears.  "Ivan planted plenty before he
retreat!"
Made wary by Viorica's parting words, we picked our way
gingerly down the center of the empty street, two cautious
cocks come to Cuxhaven.
"What now?" I asked Pig.
"Get drunk, of course.  That was half the reason for
going AWOL, remember?"
We found a functioning rathskeller, The Iron Stein,
occupying the roofed-over basement of a building that didn't
exist anymore.  Inside, patchily illuminated, various locals
mingled with off-duty troops from all nations.  A cadre of
Canadians consorted with a flock of Kiwis, while a gaggle of
Ghurkas slopped swill with a passel of Portugese.  B-girls
and con-men lived lower down on the food-chain.  Pig
and I
were liberally supplied with occupation scrip, and we
plunked it down on the bar for some of Herr Feldverein's
best homebrew.
Pig, on my right, slurped down two boilermakers to my
every one, and was soon snoring gently on the bar.  I
doubted he had gotten much sleep with Sugarbunny.  I myself
was at the stage where vision is muzzily enhanced, and
thoughts flit free as dogs in a Dylan song.
The fellow on my left gradually became the focus of my
attention.  He was an older man, easily past sixty, but in
good shape.  Bearded, dressed in a kind of modified safari
getup popular with correspondents and other white guys
slumming in foreign climes, he radiated an air of melancholy
wisdom the likes of which I had never felt before.  In my
boozy condition, I felt it incumbent upon me to try and
cheer him up.
"Mister Hemingway, I presume," I said lifting my glass
in mock recognition.
"Sorry, son, he's got the glamour assignment with the
occupying forces in Cuba."
I could tell by his voice that he
was completely sober,
perhaps the only such soul in the room. "You are a writer,
though?"
"Yes.  Herald-Tribune.  And you?"
An inexplicable shiver unzipped my spine.  Was I
misinterpreting his question?  And if not, why had he asked
such a thing? My uniform was obvious as Senator Johnson's
hernia scars, and I had thought none of my bruised karma was
showing. I swigged my beer and said, "No, 'fraid not.  In
another lifetime, maybe, if I hadn't left school...."
He laughed then, as bitterly as I've ever heard anyone
laugh.  "Another lifetime....  You wouldn't want one,
believe me."
"And how can you be so certain?"
He grabbed my sleeve and stared me down.  "I'll tell
you a good story, son, and let you decide."
He let me go, and then began.
"I was eighteen in 1985--"
I had to interrupt.  "Twenty years in the future."
"Your future.  Once my present.  Now, nobody's future.
Anyway, shut up.  I don't tell this one often, and might
change my mind.  I was eighteen in 1985, and a simple
soldier.  The
world I lived in was one you probably can't
imagine.  You see, in my world the United States and the
Soviet Union were both armed to the teeth with atomic bombs.
Do you have any notion what those are?"
"Something to do with atoms, I bet," I managed to
wise-mouth.
"That's right.  Explosive devices that split atoms to
unleash unimaginable destructive power.  They were invented
during World War Two--"
"They were?"
"In my world, yes, they were.  And after the war,
thousands were manufactured and mounted on rockets--"
"Rockets now," I said.  "This is quite a story.  I've
always liked rockets, but I've never seen any big enough to
carry a bomb.  A firecracker, maybe."
"Believe me, they can be built big enough to cross
continents.  Can you picture such a world?  Held hostage by
two insane superpowers with enough megatonnage to destroy
the whole ecosphere?"
Megatonnage? I thought.  Ecosphere?  A madman's
glossolalia....  But the putative nutcase ran right past my
speculations with his story.
"Well,
in 1985 it finally happened.  The Soviet premier
was Yuri Andropov, a mean bastard, former KGB man.  The
Russians were losing in Afghanistan--"
"Afghanistan?  Didn't the British have something to say
about that?"
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