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Eighteen-year-old
Grant Vang shot around the corner on his ten-speed, jumped
the curb, then veered sharply to miss a group of university
students clustered on the sidewalk. Frat boys. Dinkytown was
famous for frat boys and Bob Dylan. And more recently the
University of Minnesota student who'd been killed in a
hazing.
Watch it, freak! one of the cluster shouted.
Without looking, Grant threw
the finger over his shoulder. He turned into a narrow alley,
jumped off the bike, and ran beside it before it stopped. A
quick lock, then he stepped into his uncle's shop.
The old man didnt look up
from his dark corner. You're late.
Grant waited for his eyes to
adjust. The scent of unburned incense barely covered the
sweet-sour stench of decay. It was an old building. I've
been busy.
Have you found someone to take your place?
I'm working on it.
You have to get a replacement. You'll be leaving soon.
Replacements aren't easy to come by.
His uncle made a clicking
sound with his tongue. You're too picky.
I'm not going to use just anybody.
The bell above the door
rang, announcing a customer. The university student. The one
Grant had almost hit. He glanced at Grant, then strolled to
a shelf and feigned interest in the jars and candles. He
picked up a carved wooden box. What's this?
A reanimation kit.
The kid made a ho-ho-ho
face. To bring somebody back to life? People pay you for
this crap? Looks like it's been opened. Like it's been used.
Nothing here is new.
You sell old stuff? What kind of place is this?
My uncle is a doctor.
The kid snorted. Whatever
you say.
Grant heard his uncle
humming behind him. Even though he didn't turn around, he
knew the old mans eyes would be closed, his hands folded on
the top of his cane. The hum? Sign on the Window.
Sometimes it was Lay Lady Lay, but he tended to go
with Dylan's more obscure work. Occasionally he'd toss in a
Springsteen number. He liked his Springsteen.
You tell him what's wrong and he puts together
ingredients that will cure you, Grant said. He can
cure anything. Got STDs? If you do, he can get rid of them.
I'm clean.
He can also create a spell that will bring about your
heart's desire.
Yeah, right.
Whatever you want. Grant took the wooden box from
him and replaced it on the shelf.
Now that they stood face to
face, the frat boy's eyes narrowed. You look familiar.
Have we met before? I mean before you almost ran over me out
there.
We all look alike to you, don't we?
The visitor shrugged. What
are you? Japanese?
Try Hmong.
Grant's uncle jotted
something down on a piece of paper. Scratch, scratch,
scratch. He folded it three times, and handed it to Grant.
Grant passed it to the kid.
Jesus Christ. Your fingers are like ice. And your skin
If your uncle's so great, why doesn't he do something about
that?
Grant felt his cheek.
Peeling. It just started.
The kid held up the paper. What's
this?
Memorize the words, then eat them. After the sun sets
below the horizon and the moon is a sliver in the night sky,
stand with your back to the foot of a freshly-dug grave,
close your eyes, and repeat what it says three times.
Grant held out his hand. Twenty bucks.
Twenty bucks? For some words on a piece of paper?
That's cheap for your heart's desire, wouldn't you say?
Here are some words: Screw you!
The kid turned and left.
Grant turned to his uncle and smiled.
The frat
boy's heels sank in the soft dirt. He closed his eyes and
repeated the words from the paper. Dead man, dead man,
when will you arise? Cobwebs in your mind, Dust upon your
eyes.
Before he reached the third
dust upon your eyes, Grant stepped out from behind a
tree trunk and shoved. The kid crashed through the grave
blanket of woven fronds and flowers to the empty coffin
below. Grant jumped into the hole and slammed the lid on the
box. He climbed out, grabbed a shovel, and filled as fast as
he could, ignoring the screaming and pounding. The dirt was
soft, and it didn't take long. Pretty soon he was patting
the soil into a smooth mound. He smiled and ran his fingers
across the headstone. Grant Vang. Death three days ago. He'd
been pissed when his uncle had used the reanimation kit on
him, but it looked like things were going to work out.
When he got home to the
apartment above the shop, his uncle said, I see you
found a replacement.
Grant kicked off his dirty
shoes and plopped into a chair. He was the kid who
killed me. Did you know that?
I had my suspicions. Glad the Dylan lyrics worked out.
Perfect.
Well, this is Dinkytown. No way was I using Springsteen.
'Dead man, dead man, when
will you arise? Cobwebs in your mind, Dust upon your eyes'
from Dead Man, Dead Man (Words and Music by Bob
Dylan) 1981 Special Rider Music |
