The Defective Man

THE YEAR IS 1984 THE JOB IS SOUL-CRUSHING AND HE IS THE DEFECTIVE MAN actual 99th page: the EyeBeaMs. War was in the serials. In hindsight, the world was preparing us to make a choice that no child should ever have to make. We were deciding whether to go over seas and fight or stay home and become servants. The old lot at the end of the street was perfect for our games. It was the type of empty lot every child should have. In our heads it became Eastasie or Eurasia or even Mars. Our imaginations were fertile with youth and in that lot we fought dinosaurs and cowboys and anything else we could dream up. But as we got older, war was the only game we ever played. Always war. It was a game we took very seriously. One day, Rolf and I found some old pieces of wood. First we whittled them into swords, then turned them into very realistic looking guns. We even managed to cobble together some pseudo-armor using cast off GLOP trays. Only Syme was never as creative as Rolf and I. Therefore he was always relegated to the role of the villain. It was a role he cherished, as he would have cherished any role we gave him. He even learned how to speak with a believable Eastasia accent, lisping over his R's and T's and dropping vowels. Somewhere he had found an ugly old yellow shirt and when he wore it his skin seemed to take on that same sallow Eastasia color. Like Orsin, Rolf's dad was former military. He had been kicked out of the service for some unknown