mona liebowitz: an artless novel. by dave dumanis

chapter three.

2012-02-23T14:20:00.002-08:00

(3)

TheBig Split had happened the exact same night Mona was conceived, aperfectly ordinary rainy night spent in bed between her mother, anaspiring photographer and playwright then in her 3^rd yearof college, and her father, Joshua, who was tall and good-looking andmuscular and didn’t have a whole lot else going for him beyond athriving business selling meth to anyone who wanted it.

Whathad triggered the Big Split was an Alabama nuclear power plant goingCode Red—a meltdown. Everyone said it couldn’t happen here in theUnited States, even though we were using the same faulty,corner-cutting, disposable power plant technology deployed inFukushima, Japan during that country's combinationquake/tsunami/nuclear disaster. Everyone said nuclear power wascompletely safe, which possibly it could have been if the power plantoperators had spent a little money to take some safety precautions;but they hadn’t.

Asa result of that Alabama plant blowing up, hundreds of people died ofinjury and radiation poisoning, mostly plant workers and residents ofthe immediate area. But the real repercussions came in the form of aU.S. Government edict that Alabama, and about a dozen other southernstates, were under perma-quarantine until further notice.

Sincemost of the southern states had been looking for an excuse to secedefrom the union anyway, that’s exactly what they did. There was nowar; they did what they did entirely legally, with explorationcommittees and bills and votes and so forth; but because these stateshad been a huge drain on the federal economy anyway thanks toconstant tornadoes and hurricanes and draughts and floods and a lownumber of qualified workers, no one objected.

Andso, the Big Split. The United States of America, now known as theAmerican States, was still a country, albeit a smaller one. And tothe south of it appeared a new country: The New American Republic, orNAR. (There was talk of the new country being called the Confederacy,but that didn’t last.)

MonaLiebowitz’s mother, as mentioned, had been in college when this allhappened. A nominative liberal at the time, she nevertheless didn’tprotest, or organize any sit-ins, or lie-ins, or die-ins, or marches,or flash mobs, or email or Twitter campaigns. She did what wasnecessary to ensure that she graduate from college with a degree,which, except for coursework, was as little as possible. She playedit safe, so that she could live to take pictures another day.

AsDenise and Joshua lay in bed together, she made idle conversation.And he responded in kind.

“Welive in another country now.”

“Yeah,so?”

“Doyou think life will be any different?”

“Honestly?No. I think it’ll be about the same.

“Idon’t think life is going to be as good, somehow. A dozen states, alittle tiny country. Provincial. It can’t be good for the arts.They barely have any funding now, as it is.”

Joshuaturned to her and put an arm around her shoulder – an arm that,like its owner, wasn’t even smart enough to be nervous. “We’regoing to be fine,” he said. And he rolled over onto his 5 o’clockshadow and drifted off to sleep, and Denise watched his muscles riseand fall, knowing somehow (though she wasn’t at all sure how) thatwhat they had just done would result in a baby being born.

Ofcourse, things weren’t fine. Facing enormous cleanup anddetoxification bills, an enormous deficit right from the git-go, andprecious little in the way of revenue generation—tobacco not beingwhat it used to, taxes having been declared purely voluntary underthe NAR constitution, and tourism having been dealt a nastyblow—something had to go, and that thing was, as Denise hadpredicted, the arts.

Thearts, the argument went, weren’t good for much of anything. Theydidn’t really make anyone any money, not real money, leastof all the artists themselves. They created and perpetuated schoolspending programs whose results were dubious at best. And, let’sface it, they encouraged people to be deviants and drug addicts,rather than upstanding, churchgoing, productive members of society.If something had to go, let it be these cursed, these god-damned,these fucking arts.

Andso it was. Not liking to do anything halfway, the Congress of the NARvoted, by majority rule so it was all fair and square and tidy, tomake the arts illegal. Painting, photography, playwriting, playperforming, sculpture, music, acting, rug-weaving. If it didn’thave a purely practical or purely entertainment purpose, it wasagainst the law and punishable by an enormous fine (or prison, ormandatory capital).

Withthis fine in place, some conservatives laughed, the arts were finallya revenue generator—forthe first time in history.

Meanwhile,Denise sleepily rolled over and asked huskily, “What do you thinkof the name ‘Mona’?”

“It’sOK, I guess,” Joshua replied rotely. “Not as nice as ‘Denise.’”

“Iwas hoping you’d say that,” Denise replied. And she turned overon her pregnant belly, and snored in the new and forbidding country.

Meanwhile,the NAR groped its way toward nationhood. Nuclear cleanup progressed,with men and women in white bunny suits, often illegal immigrants,doing most of the cleaning. Truck drivers drove trucks; Wal-Martcashiers checked out giant bags of Cheetohs; and, because they wereexempt from the arts control laws, country singers and soap operaactors continued to crank out soppy tunes and dopey shows where theyplayed their own identical cousins—all prescreened by officialgovernment censors, of course.

Againstthis backdrop, Mona Liebowitz was born, screaming loudly as if inprotest. With Joshua long since having taken off with a brassy coffeehouse waitress who happened to have a cute butt, Denise had to raiseMona herself, and truth to tell she preferred it that way. Lyingthere on the delivery table, stoned out of her mind on tranquilizersand an epidural, watching her red-faced screaming crying daughteremerge from her body, she still had enough presence of mind toconsider her life up until now, and the significance of this moment.

That’sit for art, she thought. My life as an artist is over, and goodtiming too. My life from here on out will be dedicated to raising mydaughter. And although it’s not what I want, I will do a damn goodjob of it. (Abortions having been officially illegal and punishableby Mandatory Capital since the birth of the NAR.)

Shetook a good look at the baby as the nurse held her up. The baby waswet, shiny, slimy, loud, and clearly extremely unhappy. Denise triedto feel love. She tried to feel motherhood, nurturingness,compassion. She could feel none of those things.

Butshe would be a good mother, all the same.

“Wouldyou like to hold the baby?” the nurse asked.

“Notright now,” Denise said. “But thanks.”

“Younamed her Mona?” said the nurse. “That’s a beautiful name.”

“Thankyou,” said Denise. “Good night.”

TheBig Split didn’t really affect Denise’s rearing of Mona all thatmuch. Some foods were regionally harder to get, like cheese and mostvegetables, while local specialties, like greens, pork, and peaches,were dirt-cheap. The really big differences was that all pre-schoolswere now corporate-sponsored, since it was generally agreed thatexpenses were too huge for any of them to survive on their own. ForMona, Denise chose Pabst Blue Ribbon Beer Pre-School, which had anexcellent reputation among reviewers on the Internet and which made abig selling point of not feeding beer to the enrollees.

Themain difference Denise noticed on Parents’ Day was the lack of artclasses. She knew about it, of course, but she hadn’t reallyunderstood it viscerally until she went in and spied on Mona for aday. There was playground play, there were organized games, there wasa nap, there was lunch, there was TV time, there were somerudimentary studies in the alphabet, numbers, colors. But somethingfelt strange, something felt just a little off. Something wasmissing. There was no drawing, or coloring, or papercrafting, orChrist-Doh.

Denisewatched Mona as the preschool put her through her paces. Mona lookedfine—she wasn’t breaking down and crying—but neither did shelook like she was having any fun. She looked dutiful. Butdutiful, Denise knew, isn’t a good thing for a preschooler to be.It’s a preschooler’s job to play. And as Denise looked at Monaswinging from the jungle gym, and matching colors on a bingo card,she knew that Mona’s kind of play was nowhere to be found here.

Sheshed a small tear, visible and knowable only to herself. And wipedit. It was the last one she would ever shed for Mona.

chapter two.

2012-02-23T14:16:00.005-08:00

(2)

Whileincapacitated during her first time in Sick Bay, lying on her backand resting up to heal a fracture she'd sustained through "normalrecreation" according to the Official Approved Record, Mona hadnoticed something. Sick Bay was full of all kinds of fluids. Brightlycolored fluids. Medicines, plasmas, stains, serums, soaps anddisinfectants, blood. Everything with its own distinct shade and hue.This was a revelation.

Neverbefore had Mona thought of medical supplies as a kind of art medium.But now, suddenly, that was the onlyway she thought of them.

Nowshe was back in Sick Bay, but this time with a mostly-healed back.During the day, she slept as much as possible, knowing that thenight nurse was much more preoccupied, distracted, and less vigilant.To further put the nurses and Hosts off their game, she acted assubmissive and docile as possible. "Please may I have a cup ofjuice," and "Thank you very much, you're too kind,"she would say, managing the utmost sincerity and a smile that lit upthe room. "That's wonderful of you." And she wouldgraciously accept whatever was brought, except for pills, which shetongued and spit out and surreptitiously disposed of.

Andnow, night was falling. Mona kept hoping against hope that Joyce hadnoticed her wink, and would somehow make it out of the Guest Room tojoin her here, late at night, to make art.

Withthe Night Host two rooms away and long past caring—Mona hadmonitored her rhythm last time around, night for night and hour forhour—it was painting time. Mona got up off the adjustablebed—slowly, so as not to disturb her still-healing back. She rifledthrough the drawers until she found what she was looking for: a smallbrush, typically used for painting stain or identifying markings onpatients’ skin. It was camel’s hair, pointed, and to allappearances practically virgin. And it was Mona’s.

Monaturned the brush lovingly and examined it more closely. The words“NOT FOR ART PURPOSES” were stenciled on it in golden paint. Ifyou were caught making art with any instrument that bore such amarking, punishment tended toward the severe, and Mona knew it. Sherubbed at the legend with a pointed fingernail. It came right off.Now, if she was caught, no harm done. Well, that wasn’t true. She’dprobably get two weeks in Meditation – alone in the dark, being fedlow-protein food through a hole. But that was better than four weeks,or eight, or forever.

Timeto paint.

Monarummaged through every drawer, cabinet, closet, and shelf, for everypossible source of color. With purple stain, she painted an enormoussea extending over all four walls, and added the violently floppingtail of a whale swimming in that sea – just the tail, taking overan entire wall by itself so that it was clear that the whale, whichmust be just under the surface, was immense, taking up all fourwalls. That done, she added,courtesy of some disinfectant, an enormous round yellow sun—seeingwhich pleased her almost as much as it would have to see the realsun, though she hadn’t in a couple of months. During exercisehours, there never seemed to be a view of it from the yard.

Thenthere were blood samples, from the fridge. She used these sparingly,to create various birds and sea creatures. They went on as a brightcrimson, and quickly turned a lovely natural rust.

Andthere were the pinks and blues and greens of various washes andtinctures and liquid oral medicines, reserved for those who couldn’tor, like Mona, wouldn’t take their pills: a brilliant rainbow ofmedical know-how. They became jellyfish, and octopi, and tinysardines and giant salmon, and flying fish leaping out of the water,and majestic rays flapping their butterfly wings toward nirvana. Allthese and more Mona painted with her unlawful and forbidden medicalbrush, her stolen partner in crime.

Andwhen the painting was done, when Mona had completed her MiraculousMedical Mural, she walked around to admire her work. The effect, shehad to admit, was nothing less than stunning. And now every patientwho entered these portals would be cheered and amused by Mona’swild, unleashed, unstoppable imagination.

Thatlast, of course, was untrue. The examining room would be repainted inthe morning with an all-hands-on-deck Host Team, she knew. And shewould be subject to horrific punishment.

Ifshe were still here.

Monapeeked out the window, taking one last look just in case Joycehappened to be standing there, valiantly, just outside the medicalwing. But she wasn’t. Undaunted, she took a look around, taking inall the fish and all the crustaceans and all the soaring, diving,gliding wild sea creatures on all the walls, taking as many mentalphotographs as she could, pictures that would last through anybeating and brainwashing they could throw at her.

Theshe climbed back into her adjustable bed, and floated off to sleep.

Mona,all of four years old, watching TV, Approved Bible Story Cartoons, onher daddy’s sofa. Her mother is not there, having long ago signedthe divorce papers.

Mona’sdaddy, Joshua, a large, heavily muscled and whiskered, slow-movingman of 30, sidles up to her with a plate of Mallomars. “Want one?”His voice is booming, almost other-worldly. Coming from him, this isnot a question, it’s a command. Mona dutifully complies, taking theseasonally available cookie and eating it and smiling a shy littlesmile as the sticky marshmallow gets all over her teeth and lips.

“Mona,”says her daddy, “I love you very much. I love you so much that I’mgoing to share a secret with you. A secret that will make you feelvery, very good inside. But you have to promise never to tellanyone.”

Eventhen, Mona knew enough to be suspicious. Even then, something aboutthe situation seemed a little fishy, a little out of whack. For onething, it wasn’t her birthday. For another thing, her daddy soundedstrange. He had an oddly high, over-friendly sound to his voice,which Mona wasn’t used to at all. Also, his breath smelled like hehad drunk too much of the light brown juice that he liked to drinkbut never let Mona share. But she loved her daddy, and she lovedsecrets. So she said “OK.”

ThenMona’s daddy asked her if she would like some of daddy’s speciallight brown juice. And of course that was like reading her mind.

Hepoured it into a glass for her. She stood up and took it and sniffedit. It smelled horrible, like the nail polish remover her mommysometimes used. She made a face.

“It’sreally OK to drink,” her daddy says. “It smells bad and tastesbad, but it will make you feel real, real good.” And so she did.

“Lechaim,”Mona’s daddy said. “To your health.”

Thelight brown juice burned going down Mona’s throat, and made herfeel like an octopus and a shark were fighting inside her belly. Shesuddenly felt dizzy and a little like she was going to throw up, butthen that didn’t happen. She did sit down, though. That made herfeel better, and then she began to feel happy and good and silly.

Andthen Mona’s daddy said, “Sweetheart, I have something for you toeat that’s better than a cookie. But like I said, you have topromise not to tell anyone. Pinky promise.” And yes, Mona held outher pinky and shook her daddy’s pinky, same as any other pinkypromise.

Andthat’s about when Mona’s daddy unzipped. He gave instructions,and she dutifully obeyed; and when it was all over, he fell asleepalmost immediately. And, though Mona was just four years old with astill-nascent moral sensibility, it was the falling-asleep, thatthing in particular, that hurt her feelings and made her realize thatsomething was not quite right—was very, very wrong, in fact.

Monawent to the bathroom and vomited, and then peed, and then brushed herteeth, in that order. Then, pale and still dizzy from the booze, shewobbled back into the living room. Her father was still asleep,sprawled out on the couch in front of the still-going Jesus cartoons,slack and looming large.

AsMona grew older, she realized the true nature of what had happenedthat night. And the time after that, and the time after that, and themany times after that. The taste of chocolate and marshmallows mixedwith whiskey stuck in her mouth, and not even the strongesttoothpaste could wash it away.

Andthat’s how Mona Liebowitz lost her trust in all people. Andinstitutions. And belief systems. Then, and forever.

Icould tell you things only get happier from here. But unfortunately,that would be a lie.

Afterher painting jag and accompanying nap, Mona woke up to find herselfin the Meditation room. It wasn't known as “Solitary Confinement”because, according to the latest Official Approved National Poll,parents still had a strong negative reaction to that term. Mona feltgroggy and nasty, as though someone had removed half of her brain.She looked down at her arm. A cotton ball had been hastily taped toit with an adhesive bandage. I've been shot up with something, shethought.

Sheyanked the bandage off with a hard tug. Underneath wasn't the niceneat tiny pink dot she'd expected, but a series of dots,geometrically executed in the shape of a flower—the mark of a typeof airgun, she knew, typically used to give complicated vaccines.

Shelooked around. She'd heard a little about Meditation from the otherGuests. It was a place where you were supposed to get someperspective and realize your wrongdoings. The reality was, she couldtouch the ceiling with her hands. She could touch the walls with bothhands simultaneously. Meditation was a tiny cell, with thin air thatwas barely even breathable. Mona felt a tickle in her throat andrealized she'd better conserve air and energy.

Onceher eyes sharpened up and got used to seeing again, Mona noticed shewasn't exactly, entirelyalone in isolation. A lone picture of Jesus, unframed and tacked tothe wall, was staring up at her. This, of course, was not art. Thiswas Approved Imagery, and as such was not subject to the laws andregulatory statutes that governed it.

Mona spat on thepicture. Then, she ripped it from its flimsy tacks, and flung it tothe floor.

“Nothingpersonal,” she said to the picture, as though to a spurned lover.“It's just that, you know, you've never really been there for me.”

The picture, nowface down on the unclean floor, didn't answer.

Mona'shead was starting to clear now. The sleep injection was wearing off,and the severity of her situation was sinking in. There was no way,she realized, that she would be able to stay here for more than acouple of days without starting to hallucinate imaginary friends andconfidants and believing they were real. She had heard stories ofpsychological studies, where prisoners placed in solitary confinementinstinctively kept their minds working by discovering patterns—realor not—in the cracks in the walls and floors. But Mona'swalls and floor had no cracks. The light was barely bright enough forMona to have recognized the picture of Jesus. For all she knew, itcould have been a picture of Charles Manson.

“Mona,”said a voice.

Monaturned. Then she turned again. She couldn't tell where the voice wascoming from, and maybe it hadn't even said her name. But she'd heardsomething.

“Mona,”a voice said again.

“What.”

“It'sJune.”

“Oh.”Pause. “Hi June.”

“Keepyour voice down. I could get thrown in there with you for eventalking to you.”

“Sorry.”Whispering. Fortunately, the loud and ubiquitous dance pop helpedkeep the words from carrying.

“Ijust came to visit you, and say hi, and let you know it's not as badas you think.”

“Howdo you know?” said Mona.

“Howdo you think? I was in there myself. I staged an underground reading,with music, movement, the works. I thought I was so fuckin' smart,and so fuckin' funny, and so fuckin' clever. And they caught me, andthey threw me in Meditation.”

“Forhow long?”

“Howwould I know? Two days, two years. The point is I got out and I'mstill me, and I'm not crazy. Angry as shit, yes, but not crazy.”

“Allright then,” said Mona. Then, after a pause: “How's Joyce?”

“Yourgirlfriend’s fine,” said June.

“She'snot my girlfriend!” Mona retorted in a loud stage whisper. But shefelt herself turning bright red.

“Whatever,”June said, still whispering. “That's between the two of you.” Shebegan singing, playground-style. “Mona and Joyce, sitting in atree—“

“Stopit!”

“Whatare you gonna do about it, locked in there?”

Silencefor about 30 seconds.

“Sorry,”said June. “I didn't mean to rub it in. Anyway. I'll see you whenyou get out.”

“Yeah,”said Mona.

“Bythe way,” June added, “Joyce did ask about you. If that meansanything.”

“Yes,it means something!” Mona cried, momentarily forgetting her voice.“What did she say?” She tried to picture Joyce's face andrealized that it was already getting hazy in her mind.

“Shesaid she missed you. And she said she'd try to get you out of thereas soon as she could.”

“That's...that's nice.”

“Don'thold your breath, though. I'd expect the Warden to come by beforeyour girlfriend.”

“TheWarden? Huh? Why?”

“You'llfind out. If you're lucky.”

Sheexpected it to happen.

Andit did happen.

Just about a weekin, or maybe it was two weeks, of being alone with her artistic,creative thoughts, and living on water and occasional servings ofwhat she was sure was Approved Judeo-Christian Matzo, after possiblyeven three weeks of this, Mona saw a little person.

Nota cliché little person, to be sure; not a leprechaun in greenbuckled hat and pointed shoes, nor a Munchkin, Oompa Loompa, or oneof the Seven Dwarves. In fact, he, and it was definitely a he,was dressed in perfectly normal, nondescript clothing, and spoke in anormal voice, and was clean-shaven, and was perfectly ordinary inevery way except that he was eleven inches tall.

“Can I help you?”said Mona, not remotely surprised to see him.

“That's not thequestion,” said the eleven-inch-high man. “The real question is,Can you help yourself?”

“Not really,”Mona said. “I'm a little tied up right now. Although not literally.I don't think.”

Theeleven-inch-high man jumped, just for effect; and as he jumped, justa few inches into the air, a misty little rainbow appeared betweenhis feet and the place on the floor he had jumped from, like motionlines in a comic strip. “Like most folks, the thing that's tyingyou up more than anything is your own damn mind. Name's Kimball.”

“That's probablytrue,” Mona agreed, “but it's hard to get much perspective onthat when you're locked in a box smaller than most people's shoecloset, and is Kimball your first name or your last name?”

“Or...are you?” saidKimball, keeping the dual-track conversation going, “and wee peopleonly have one name, in case no one ever told you.”

“’You people?’Isn't that a size-ist slur?”

“Notwe people, weepeople,” Kimball corrected. “Look I only have so much time. Yousummoned me. What's this about? I can grant you one wish, if that'swhat you're after.”

“I did not summonyou.”

“Er, you may notbe aware of it, sister, but you did. Now, I'm not incapable ofhelping out people in need. That's generally when I appear—whenfolks are at their wits' end and require a last resort, to pull themout of the depths of unconsciousness they feel themselves sinkinginto. So I'll ask again: how can I help?”

“I want...”Mona thought and thought for the right way to put her words... theyweren't coming to her as freely as they used to. “I want to be ableto do my art. And I want it to be an asset here, not a liability.”She stared at Kimball with a combination of deep sadness and darkcynicism. “Is that anything you can help me with?”

“I'll see what Ican do,” he said. And then he leapt to the ceiling, producingenormous rainbow stripes reaching from the ground up to both feet,like a jet taking off on a fuel tank full of Skittles. And then hewas gone.

chapter one.

2012-02-23T14:15:00.000-08:00

MonaLiebowitz

anartless novel

byDave Dumanis

This is a work offiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purelycoincidental.

There couldn't bea society of people who didn't dream. They'd be dead in twoweeks.

—William S.Burroughs

(1)

Itwas Approved Recreation Period at the JERC, and the halls werehopping. Everywhere adolescent girls were gossiping, making eachother up and doing each other's hair, swapping stories and shinyobjects, giggling, chasing each other. It was the day's one chance toblow off steam, and they were making the most of it.

"Liebowitz,"a pudgy, bespectacled Host intoned, voice hoarse and hair askew."Warden's office." Shorter than most girls three years herjunior, with corkscrew curls that hinted at powerful pent-upelectricity, Mona Liebowitz got up from her cot, where she'd beendelicately peeling today's orange. She hadn't yet met the Warden ofthis latest JERC (Juveile Expression Re-Education Center), so sheguessed this would be an introduction.

"Newgirl?" the Host said. "The Warden's not big on new girls.You'll have to prove yourself. What are you in for, exactly?"fantasy

"Art,"Mona said.

"Comedian,huh," the Host nodded. "Well, we'll see how funny you areafter the Warden gets through with you. Take my advice: don't tenseup. It just makes it worse." She dropped Mona off at theWarden's office and left without another word.

TheWarden was blonde, tall, and 6'5" if she was an inch. "Sitdown, Liebowitz," she said in a voice somehow booming, yetseductive. "Welcome to J-E-R-C," she added, pronouncing theinitials separately rather than as an acronym.

"Thankyou," Mona said, as sincerely as she could manage.

"Closethe door," the Warden purred.

Monadid.

"Liebowitz,your record says you were sent here because your record said you wereartistic," the Warden said, checking her computer screenvia peripheral vision. She said “artistic” in about the same wayshe might pronounced the word “vomit.” "It also says youwere spotted trying to stir up these tendencies among your fellowstudents. Do you realize how serious these charges are?"

"Yes,ma'am, I do."

"That'sgood, because we like it when our guests are sorry for what they’vedone. If you go around bragging and boasting about your infraction,we're not going to take that lightly. Understand?”

"Yes."fantasy

"Yeswhat?"

"Yes,ma'am."

"That'snice," said the Warden. "Now you can give me a really nicehello by dropping and giving me twenty."

"Twenty?"Mona's usually astute face was an atypical blank.

"Youain't never been in juvey before, have you?"

"No,ma'am."

"Well,first time's a bitch. Pushups, now."

Monadropped down to the floor and started doing pushups. She wasn’tused to the action and it was a little hard on her muscles, but shemanaged the first one all right and even came up smiling. Then,almost instantly, what felt like a Volkswagen landed on her spine andshe heard a sickening crack. Fire shot from the small of her back upto her neck.

"Fuck!"screamed Mona, realizing at some level that she was swearing and thatthis could get her into further trouble. Herfantasy veneer of smugcharm was instantly shattered, her trademark smirk nowhere to beseen. "Fuck fuck fuck!" The pain was unbelievable andoverwhelming. Mona looked up in horrible pain—and horrifiedincomprehension.

"That'swhat we do to artists around here," said the Warden. "Don'tforget it. Now get the hell out of my office.”

Asshe recuperated, first for a couple of days in sick bay with lots ofget well prayers read to her (or, rather, at her), then back in themainstream of JERC life, Mona had plenty of time and opportunities toget some perspective. She vividly remembered being scolded by herteacher, Ms. Isaiah-Paul; being pushed around physically by hermother; being intimidated by bigger classmates. She thought about allthe time and energy she'd spent trying to avoid PrayTime andBibleStudy and the other religious nonsense that all the otherstudents seemed to realize was nonsense too, only they were tooembarrassed or afraid to speak up about it. She thought of all thetime spent in Anti-Art class, and special Sunday Anti-Art class, whenshe could have been drawing or painting or writing or playing music.And she decided she was never, never going back to her old life.

Thequestion was how to accomplish this. And as Mona sat in the JERCNourishment Room, rendering her new best friend Joyce's face in herbowl of Oat Loops, she pondered it deeply. Every so often, during herpondering, she would munch a single Oat Loop and then look up andaround at the other Guests, since she didn't want to look tooartistic or too much like someone concentrating on anything otherthan eating and getting on with her day.

Theother Guests seemed to be doing just fine. Joyce yakked at June, ifnot exactly with her, while June paid her intense (if notactually creepy) attention. Melissa and Mary chatted with each other.Around the tables, a Host roamed, hovering closely, taking care tosee that everyone was getting some calories and protein under theirpeach shifts. It did seem odd to Mona that everyone appeared almostas hungry after breakfast as they did before it, but bringing that upwas low on her list of priorities.

Monadidn't know much here, so she decided to concentrate on the fewthings she really knew were true:

1.No one really knew her here, so she could act as religious as shewanted, even pious, and people would think that was just Mona beingMona.#

2.Security was tight; but at the same time, the Hosts depended onGuests being compliant. There was a certain acceptance among many ofthem, a certain lack of fight, in spite of all of them describingthemselves as artists. Someone with an opportunistic streak, someonewho acted compliant but in reality was anything but, might just havethe world at her fingertips.

3.Anyone, Mona thought, who believed in a Giant Invisible Man watchingover everyone, among countless other things that no one had ever seenor proved, would probably believe anything.

Withthese three factors combined, Mona decided as she put the finishingtouches on Joyce's Oat Loop hair, she could do pretty much anything.

Monastirred her cereal, erasing the likeness of her friend Joyce, andturning it back into a bunch of Oat Loops floating on top of a bowlfull of milk. "Excuse me," she said to a passing Host, "Ithink there's something wrong with my cereal. I keep seeing bluespots. And green spots. I think it might be stale or moldy orsomething."

“You’reout of line, Liebowitz," said the host, a wiry, muscular womanwith red hair and freckles. "That cereal was just opened thismorning. I loaded the shipment myself last week."

"Well,then they sent it over old," Mona complained. "If I eatthis I'll poison myself, and word will get around about thesubstandard food here. You don't want to be responsible for losingthis place its funding again, do you?" For Mona had done herhomework while in Sick Bay, plying the nurse with sweetly askedquestions. And JERC had indeed lost its funding a few years ago, whenit was brand new and more of an anything-goes, Wild West kind ofplace. Guest abuse was tacitly condoned by the new government, but adownright murder would look bad.

Theguard eyed the cereal bowl suspiciously. "I'll look into it,"she said, and stormed into the kitchen with the evidence in hand.

Monatook this as her cue. As soon as the guard was through the kitchendoor, she dropped to the floor and started rolling from side to side,writhing, and generally acting like she'd just received a lobotomywithout the aid of anesthesia. "Blabble blabble blabble bibblebibble bibble," she said, imitating every film and video she'dever seen of people speaking in tongues. Then, louder, "Bibblebibble babble burble blabble!" Her back was killing her and shehad to strain to hide her grimace, but she kept on doing it, fightingher body's earsplitting cry to stop.

Alleyes turned on Mona instantly, of course. For a brief moment, allguests were silent and faces were blank, from pure surprise.

"She'sPentecostal?" someone said. Pentecostalism was technicallyoutlawed, of course, as were other “deviant faiths” like SeventhDay Adventism and Mormonism; all of them having been replaced byfederally approved Judeo-Christiansim; but they had hardly beenforgotten, and a lot of "Oh"s and "Oh, right"sand "Oh yeah"s went up as soon as someone mentioned it.

"She'sfaking," said June, the performance artist.

"What?"said a couple of people. And Joyce, more out of personal opinion thanany kind of bunkmate loyalty, said "No, she ain't."

"Sheis," June said. "And her acting sucks, by the way. She'sclearly never studied Method."

Monajust kept on rolling around and bibbling and babbling. Privately,though, she was furious at June. She was so a good actor!She'd memorized the plots of all of Shakespeare's plays, which she'dfound in a dusty paperback on a just-deceased grandmother's shelf,and played them back in her mind over and over, playing eachcharacter in turn including the male ones. June was just beingcompetitive, that was all.

"Weneed to get her to Sick Bay," was the murmur, or in some cases,"she's begging for Sick Bay." This last wassarcastic, since no one really wanted to go to Sick Bay. It was apale, dull, boring place where life dragged by second by second, withonly the dullest and most pathetic cliché entertainment to pass thetime—entertainment that wasn't even entertainingly bad.

Itwas at about this point that Mona took a calculated risk. It was arisk she was barely willing to take, but she had no choice. When shewas pretty sure everyone else was distracted and gossiping, and noone was looking, and the Host was still in the kitchen trying to getto the bottom of the phony moldy cereal issue, she took a moment andwinked at Joyce. Just a single wink, to let her know she was in theresomewhere - that this was all part of a deliberate plan.

And,as three of the senior girls marched her off to Sick Bay once again,she looked at Joyce with peripheral vision, out of the corner of hereye. And just for a moment, she thought she caught Joyce winkingback.

WhenMona was 5, she was considered old enough to participate in her firstPassover seder. She sat quietly with an extremely serious look on herface as the horseradish, sweet apple and raisin mixture, and saltwater were served to her. Her look said, “That is not food, and Iam not about to eat it.” But Denise continued the seder because shewanted her child to have some idea of Jewish tradition, and believed– not without cause – that that tradition was in danger in thisnew country that was still forming and whose leaders, although theycalled themselves JudeoChristian to distinguish themselves fromMuslims and other easterners, virtually always tended to beevangelicals.

“Whyis this night,” Denise asked with great formality, “differentfrom all other nights?” as her new boyfriend, Adam, looked onproudly.

AndMona answered promptly, with a response that – in spite of 100rounds of rehearsal with Denise – was not what she had been taughtto say.

“Because,”Mona said, “the food fucking sucks.”

Adamlooked embarrassed.

Deniselooked mortified.

AndMona said, “May I be excused now, please?” and went to thekitchen for a bag of Cheetohs and a glass of milk that Denise hadleft sitting on the counter.

Thiswas far from the only time Denise tried to get Mona “in touch withher Jewish side.”

Therewas a 3-year-old Chanukah, where Denise tried in vain to get Monaexcited about receiving a pair of socks or a box of crayons everynight.

Therewas the 4-year-old Purim, which Mona proclaimed was simply Halloweenwithout Trick-or-Treating, A.K.A. “the good part.”

Therewas even the 2-year-old Rosh Hashana, when Denise managed to procurea shofar and tried to make Mona blow it, amid much screaming andprotestation.

Atlast, around the time Mona turned 5 ½, Denise gave up. Mona, shedecided, was simply not born to be Jewish. She was born to bewhatever her father, Joshua, had been. She just hoped that didn’tmean “world class asshole.”

Nowstereotypically, we Jews—and I am one, in spite of my vaguelyGreek-sounding name—are not primarily thought of as an artisticpeople. We have certainly produced our share of novelists,playwrights, screen directors, and songwriters—even art agents andgallery owners. But Jewish painters, sculptors – you don't see somany of those. Stereotypically, we are a verbal people, not a visualone. But Mona was no stereotype; and she had inherited her daddyJoshua's gene for causing trouble.

Infact, immediately after the aborted Passover Seder, Mona lockedherself in her room and began sculpting. She was familiar with thetechnique of papier mache, having used it in preschool under adultsupervision; she filled a glass of water in the bathroom, grabbedsome old newspapers that happened to be lying around, easy enough tofind at that time; and went to work, building on a frame ofTinkertoys, untwisted coat hangers, and Legos.

After3 hours of pleading, angry screaming, coaxing, and banging on thedoor, Mona's mother finally gave up, and Mona opened the doorherself. What Mona's mother finally found inside was not, as she hadsuspected, a huge enormous mess and a sullen, precocious little girlcrying herself to sleep. Instead, she found Mona putting thefinishing touch on what appeared to be, against all odds, a giantpiece of gefilte fish. If you're not familiar with this most exoticof gourmet foods, it's a kind of pickled codfish meatball, eatencold, and is just about as appealing as it sounds.

“Whatdo we have here?” asked Denise, at her wit's end.

Monalooked her right in the eye, a deadly serious look, and saidchallengingly: “It's gefilte fish. Made out of papier mache.”

“Aska stupid question,” Denise sighed. “Mona. You know this isillegal. If the police find out about it, they'll confiscate it.”

“Confiscateit?” Mona's composure suddenly broke. She looked nervous.

“Takeit away. Oh, and by the way, they can also report me, and they mighteven take me to jail, or send you to live with some other parentsthat they deem more suitable. Parents who don't allow their childrento create art in their homes.”

“Art?”

“Well,that is what this is,” Denise said flatly. “Isn't it.”

“I,I guess so.”

“Okay,”said Denise. “So, I never saw this, and you never made it. Are weclear?” She put out her hand for Mona to shake – which she did,very tentatively.

“Getin your jammies,” Denise added, “and come morning I don't want tosee this anymore. I don't want to know what happened to it, I justwant it to be gone. OK?”

“OK,”Mona said.

And,in the morning, it was. Mona had dark circles under her eyes, andthose eyes had an odd, dark, sad look in them; and she didn't speak aword. But her room was sparkling, and spotless, and the papier-machegefilte fish was gone, just like that.

Andthat was how Mona Liebowitz learned, at a very early age, that arthad become illegal in the dozen states of the New American Republic.

Monawas much too busy plotting a way out to wonder what kind of effectshe'd had on the other children in her class when she'd distributedher art supplies and told them to go nuts. It was just somethingshe'd had to do. But back at Official Judeo-Christian Federal School118-99, an interesting effect was beginning to happen. Teenagers werebeginning, en masse, to cut Anti-Art Class, which is something they'dnever done in any numbers before. The reason they hadn't done it wasthat they were aware of the consequences.

Butnow, consequences didn't seem to matter much. Anti-Art was attendedby 10, maybe 15 students each day. The rest were nowhere to be found,and the threat of being suspended, or barred from graduation, didn'tseem to deter them in the least. Mona's old Anti-Art teacher, Ms.Isaiah-Paul, taught to a near-empty room, and secretly began to fearfor her job. If someone dared to start doodling while she wastalking, or perhaps sketching a parody of her drawn, bloodless face,she would look over as though to begin scolding them--then lookaround nervously at all the empty seats, and back off.

"Idon't know what to do with these kids anymore," she said one dayas she drank Instant Coffee Plus in the breakroom. The “Plus” inthe coffee was a mild tranquilizer designed to make workers feel atease with their jobs, give them a general glow of well-being, anddispel any dissatisfaction that might lead to ambition, all while notinterfering with the natural pep factor of caffeine. "They don'tcome to class, and when they do they don't listen. I think they'rebeginning to be seduced by art; and if that happens, they're notcoming back."

Geographyand gym teacher Gary Abraham-Noah nibbled from a microwaved tray offrozen fish sticks. He was so charming and well-turned-out that Ms.Isaiah-Paul found it hard to believe he was a schoolteacher."Discipline is the name of the game," he opined. "Thesekids just don't know what it is. It's not a skill that it pays todevelop anymore. Hey, I was caught in the Big Split! Withoutdiscipline, I'd be as dead as this fish stick," he said,pointedly biting off a large hunk of golden breaded fish and chewingit.

Heglowered knowingly at Ms. Isaiah-Paul. His eyes were two daggers thatpierced her heart. "But we're not dead like a fish stick, arewe?" He put his hand over hers. "We're alive. Aren't we?"

"Uhhuh," she responded, rather breathlessly. And, seizing theopportunity, she took the hand that he had given her, and stood up,and led him to the Closet of Sin.

Everyschool where Ms. Isaiah-Paul had worked had had a Closet of Sin.Though the name wasn't official, the concept in general was widelyknown and tolerated. Teachers needed to let off steam from whateveryone conceded was a very stressful line of work, trying to stripteenagers of what were essentially natural instincts. The exactlyCloset of Sin specs varied from school to school, but it was mostoften a janitorial closet, som#

etimes a general supply closet, andoccasionally a large coat closet in the administration building ornear the auditorium. In this particular school, OfficialJudeo-Christian Federal School 118-99, the Closet of Sin happened tobe located in a small alcove between the cafeteria kitchen and theTeacher's Lounge, with lockable doors on both sides if you were luckyenough to have a PTA-issued key.

Mr.Gary Abraham-Noah had that key.

Ablanket came down from the shelf—Ms. Isaiah-Paul took it uponherself to do that part. Clothing came off—Ms. Isaiah-Paul took itupon herself to do that part too, in particular Mr. Abraham-Noah'strousers. And Ms. Isaiah-Paul and Mr. Abraham-Noah commenced to liedown with one another and have sinful, unmarried sex on the floor ofthe Closet of Sin—on top of the blanket so things would stay atleast slightly comfortable. There was lots of groping and lots ofsweating, and frankly not much in the way of experience or technique.After about five minutes of groping and sweating and pumping, Mr.Abraham-Noah stopped. Ms. Isaiah-Paul was a little disappointed, butglowing with the confidence of being desired.

"Yes,"she said finally, after catching her breath. "We're alive."

Itwas the only real vindication of that fact she’d had for years.