Uranians by Theodore McCombs EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Author: Theodore McCombs
- Language: English
- Genre: Science Fiction
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 2 MB
- Price: Free
TOWARD A THEORY OF
ALTERNATIVE LIFESTYLES
I. A LOAF OF PETER KAZIMIRS
Peter Kazimir looked miserable in sleeveless black shirts. The fitting
room’s slatted door was draped in unhelpful layers of baggy, drop-arm, and
slashed tees and tanks, all black, and the sales clerk kept tossing more cuts
and sizes on top of them, but the color flattened him, and fundamentally, he
was a gangly, sallow monkey with arms too long for his torso, and the solid
loaf of Peter Kazimirs extending forward and back in the facing mirrors,
infinitely multiplied, promised he would never be anything else. He banged
out of the fitting room and on to the men’s apparel floor but stopped short
when he saw Francisco wasn’t there.
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Fran, Fran, he called over the mannequins and shirt racks, reddening. It
didn’t take much, these days—three weeks after their breakup—for Peter to
feel abandoned. In giant ads on the department-store columns, giant,
beautiful people leaned forward out of steel-blue voids, their glances heavy
and smoky.
Fran, severely: What? I was looking at sockies.
Peter hugged the mess of black clothes to his chest. Nothing fits, he said.
Fran wore a cut-off band shirt and rubbed his arms to warm himself. The
mall, like all of Miami, was over-air conditioned. It was a muggy, glaring,
boiling summer outside, the kind of weather meant for fleeing; it was a
grayer, cooler summer in Berlin, where they were headed in a week for
Peter’s birthday. Peter was turning twenty-nine and although Fran had left
him—they were kaput, split, Fran had moved out all his stuff—still Peter
hadn’t let Fran out of the trip. The tickets were nonrefundable, and he
needed Fran there to help him get into Collider.
Collider, where everyone wore black, was the club where people like Fran
went—scruffy, sulky queers looking for heavy synth beats and faceless sex
in a corner—but it was so underground and real, and admission so coveted,
that straight men held hands in queue and sissied their voices just to have a
shot at the door. It was the world capital of hypnalectronica, and though the
club cultivated a strict code of silence, through the cracks came whispered
stories of veil-lifting, of visions of alternate universes.
The door policy was strict, too: nothing but black, no large groups, don’t
talk or laugh in line, don’t look too clean. No nice shoes, but boots,
sneakers, shoes you could dance in for eight hours. Someone had designed
an app that would look at you through your phone’s camera and tell you if
you’d get in,
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