Fantastic Metropolis

Important: The novel excerpted here is a work in progress. As such, the text in these pages is still subject to editing and rewriting, and may even be omitted from the finished novel. Please bear this in mind when reading the excerpt, and do not quote any part of it in reviews without first checking against a published copy.

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The Shadow Year began in the last days of August when the leaves of the elm in the front yard had curled into crisp brown tubes and fallen away to litter the lawn. I remember I sat at the curb that afternoon, waiting for Mr. Softee to round the bend at the top of Pine Street, listening carefully for that mournful knell, each measured DING both a promise of ice cream and a pin-prick of remorse. Taking a cast off leaf into each hand, I made double fists. When I opened my fingers, brown crumbs fell and scattered on the road at my feet. Had I been waiting for the birth of that strange, changeling year, I might have understood the sifting debris to be symbolic of the end of something. Instead, I waited for the eyes.

That morning I had left the house early under a blue sky, walked through the woods and crossed the railroad tracks away from town, where the third rail hummed, laying in wait, like a snake, for an errant ankle. Then, along the road by the fastener factory, back behind the grocery, and up and down the streets, I searched for discarded glass bottles in every open garbage can, dumpster, forgotten corner. By early afternoon, I had found three soda bottles and a half gallon milk bottle. At the grocery store, I turned them in for the refund and walked away with a quarter.

All summer long, Mr. Softee had this contest going. With each purchase of twenty-five cents or more, he gave you a card—on the front was a small portrait of the waffle-faced-cream-being pictured on the side of the truck. On the back was a piece of a puzzle that, when joined with seven other cards, made the same exact image of the beckoning soft one, but eight times bigger. I had the blue lapels and red bow tie, the sugar cone-flesh lips parted in a pure white smile, the exposed, towering brain of vanilla, cream kissed at the top into a pointed swirl, but I didn’t have the eyes.

A complete puzzle won you The Special Softee, like Coney Island in a plastic dish—four twirled Softee loads of cream, chocolate sauce, butterscotch, marshmallow goo, nuts, party colored sprinkles, raisins, m&m’s, shredded coconut, bananas, all topped with a cherry. You couldn’t purchase the Special Softee, you had to win it, or so said John, who, through the years, had come to be known simply as Softee.

Occasionally John would try to be pleasant, but I think the paper canoe of a hat he wore every day had soured his disposition irreparably. He also wore a blue bow tie, a white shirt and white pants. His face was long and crooked, and, at times, when the orders came too fast and the kids didn’t have the right change, the bottom half of it would slowly melt—a sundae abandoned at the curb. His long ears sprouted tufts of hair as if his skull contained a hedge of it, and the lenses of his glasses had internal flaws like diamonds. In a voice that came straight from his freezer, he called my sister, Mary, and all the other girls, “Sweet heart.”

Earlier in the season, one late afternoon, my brother, Jim, said to me, “You wanna see where Softee lives?” We took our bikes. He led me way up Higbee Lane, past the shoe store and Paumonok School, up beyond Our Lady of Lourdes. After an hour of riding, he stopped in front of a small house. As I pulled up, he pointed to the place and said, “Look at that dump.”

Softee’s truck was pulled up on a barren plot at the side of the place. I remember ivy and a one story house, no bigger than a good size garage. Shingles showed their zebra stripes through fading white. The porch had obviously sustained a meteor shower. There were no lights on inside, and I thought this strange because twilight was mixing in behind the trees. “Is he sitting in there in the dark?” I asked my brother.

Jim shrugged as he got back on his bike. He rode in big circles around me twice and then shot off down the street, screaming over his shoulder, as loud as he could, “Softee sucks.” The ride home was through true night, and he knew that without him I would get lost, so he pedaled as hard as he could.

We had forsaken the ostentatious jingle bells of Bungalow Bar and Good Humor all summer in an attempt to win. By the end of July, though, each of the kids on the block had at least two complete puzzles, but no one had the eyes. I had heard from Tim Caliban, who lived in the development on the other side of the school field, that the kids over there got fed up one day and rushed the truck, jumped up and swung from the bar that held the rear view mirror, invaded the driver’s compartment, all the time yelling, “Give us the eyes. The fuckin’ eyes.” When Softee went up front to chase them, Tim’s brother, Bill, leaped up on the sill of the window through which Softee served his customers, leaned into the inner sanctum, unlatched the freezer and started tossing Italian Ices out to the kids standing at the curb.

Softee lost his glasses in the fray, but the hat held on. He screamed, “You little bitches,” at them as they played him back and forth from the driver’s area to the serving compartment. In the end, he got two big handfuls of cards and tossed them out on the lawn. “Like flies on dog shit,” said Tim, describing the scene. By the time they realized there wasn’t a pair of eyes in the bunch, Softee had turned the bell off and was coasting silently around the corner.

I had a theory, though, that day at summer’s end when I sat at the curb, waiting. It was my hope that Softee had been holding out on us until the close of the season, and then, in the final days before school started and he quit his route till spring, some kid was going to have bestowed upon him a pair of eyes. I had a faith like I never had at church that something special was going to happen that day to me. It did, but it had nothing to do with ice cream. I sat there until the sun started to go down and my mother called me in for dinner. Softee never came again, but when the Shadow Year settled in, we all got the eyes.

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The Shadow Year will be available from HarperCollins.