No, he can’t get too specific about things. He can’t actually tell about Ronnie. Not yet. The general mood is enough. It’s simple. Just let them know that joy is still possible in this life.
But now, looking at their faces, divided into two distinct sections on opposite sides of the room, he’s almost deflated. He picks out Wallace Browning’s face and their eyes meet. Wallace looks like a mess, his face gone a papery shade of gray, his eyes narrowed to veiny slits. But in classic Wallace fashion, he doesn’t want Olga’s accident discussed in public. So Flynn will abide by his wishes and not say a word in front of the others.
Flynn’s eyes appraise the rest of the sullen crowd. He wants to walk back outside, yell over his shoulder, I’m part of something else now. They’re both pathetic, he thinks. Both camps. Wallace and the old boys, chauvinists, know-it-alls, segregationists. And Hazel and her New Wave brats, cold, more and more humorless, superior in their imagined decadence. Does this always have to happen when a movement grows? When a family gets larger?
The museum is filled with smoke, cigars from Wallace and company, imported Gitanes, and maybe a joint or two from the kids. Ferrie and Most wouldn’t appreciate this. But Flynn won’t mention it. Why start things off more negative than they already are? In a sense, this is just another sales call, and the emphasis has to be upbeat. He has to keep his voice full of possibility and enjoyment. Unfortunately, Flynn’s coming down with the salesman’s worst enemy. He’s losing faith in his product. And he’s losing his ability to hide that fact.
There’s only one fallback when this happens: let the words take over. Just keep talking until something comes to you. Let your subconscious steer you toward a current you can’t yet see.
So Flynn brings his hands together in an air-snapping crack that’s made louder by the acoustics of the old factory and jolts both groups from their muttering daydreams.
“Okay,” he almost hollers, tossing his suit jacket over the arm of a bronze Madonna clothed in jungle fatigues. He’s all motion, kinetic energy. He loosens his tie and unfastens the collar button of his shirt, then starts to roll up his sleeves like an aggressive seminar leader about to kick off a weekend course in some new self-help discipline.
He picks a point midway between both groups, a show of impartiality. He puts his hands on his hips, turns his head slowly from side to side, letting the crowd think he’s surveying them, picking out faces and doing obscure calculations in his brain. He wishes he had a long-handled microphone to hold onto, make pointing motions with.
“First of all,” he starts, “I want to thank each one of you for agreeing to come here today. I know in some cases it meant missing work. And I think that just shows how committed we all feel to our little family here. And I use the word family.” He pauses, nods, raises his voice. “Family, that’s right. I see your faces. Some of you don’t like my terminology …”
He pivots on one foot, lets his body sway loosely from side to side, then actually turns his back on them, hoping he’s taking the right tack. He sucks in a huge pocket of air, then screams out, top of his lungs, “Well, tough shit.”
He comes back around, catches the shocked faces. He’s won at least some minimal ground, a momentary advantage. The thing now is to capitalize on it. They were all expecting Mr. Conciliatory, all appeasement and pleadings. He knew going in that the whole thing would be dead in five minutes if he came out soft and begged for compromise. He’s got to slap their faces and appeal strictly to the fear that brought them to Wireless in the first place, the chronic terror that they just don’t belong to something. He’s got to threaten them with breakdown, with the total dismantling of this thin subculture, make them flash on a previous life void of connections and a shared purpose.
And the first volley looks like it’s worked. Wallace’s gang looks white, like small pains are starting in their barreled chests and they all forgot their nitro medicine back at the house. Hazel’s clique suddenly seems younger, like stunned children blasted by the first stinging lick of a fire hose.
“You heard me.”
He lets his volume drop a bit. He’s learned from studying the cable preachers that continuous shouting loses its effectiveness within the first five minutes. “Every one of you heard me, goddamn it. I’m here today for one reason. To let off a little personal steam before I walk. You are all a bunch of spoiled goddamn little brats who should have your asses kicked red by the real world.
“You know what I’m thinking? I’m thinking that, regardless of your age”—a look to Wallace—“you really don’t have a clue what you’ve involved yourselves in here. It’s an old story, people. You don’t miss it till it’s gone. And then it’s too late. When I use the word family, I couldn’t be more exact in my thoughts. I use it after much thought. After sitting up alone all night in my office wondering what I can say to all of you, wondering how I can save something that I’ve given my heart and soul to, given all my goddamn faith to.”
Hazel opens her mouth to speak and he jumps over to her. “You shut up right now,” he yells. “This is my shot. When I leave, you bastards can bitch at each other all you want.”
He spots a visual aid next to Hazel, reaches down, and pulls Gabe up to his feet. The kid is about fifteen, sixteen years old, all birdlike hair and acne, awkward bones, embarrassed by his own presence.
Flynn throws an arm across Gabe’s shoulder. He can feel the boy shaking.
“Look here. Our newest family member. Well, we’ve set a fine example, haven’t we? We’ve just convinced this one how understanding and accepting we can be, right? How we take care of our own? How we work it out inside? Yeah, nice goddamn job. Should be real proud.”
He gives Gabe a shove back toward his seat and starts to pace between the two camps.
“You know, people, we weren’t the first jammers in the world”—again, a disappointed eye for Wallace, who flinches and stares down at the floor—“not by a long shot. And most likely, we won’t be the last. So maybe in some larger scheme of things, we just won’t matter that much. That’s probably the case. That’s the thing we all seem to fear, try to keep hidden. That’s the big goddamn secret, right? That in the end, we just don’t matter.
“I think every one of us ends up here for the same reason. Fine. Argue with me till one of us drops. My mind is made up. We all end up here because we’re lacking something. Because we want to belong to something. You know, you could jam in the privacy of your own home, down in your basement, up in your attic. Maybe you could get up on top of one of the big hills in your car. Stay mobile. But it doesn’t work out that way. We all end up here. ’Cause we want to be together. ’Cause whether we admit it to ourselves or not, we feel better when we’re with each other.
“Have you checked out how cold it is out there lately? Or have you been too busy fighting with each other? Huh? I’m going to say this once. Simple declarative sentence. It’s the only truth I know these days. So consider yourself warned. You don’t want to listen to me — the hell with you. You don’t care enough to save this thing — screw it. Let it fall apart. Here’s the sentence: All we’ve got is each other. There you go. You think differently, you’re nuts. I know the truth. You’ve all lost sight of the reasons you came here in the first place. And you’re going to pay for that unless you wake up fast.”
He pauses, looks down, puts hands in pockets, lets the voice start to come back just a hair toward friendly. “There is nothing here that can’t be worked out. There are no problems that cannot be mediated. I’m willing to be the middleman. I’m willing to be the sounding board. For God’s sake, use me.”