set the aural scene, Hemingway stilled his chaotic thoughts and concentrated on each description, attempting to translate the words into impulses to stimulate his brain into hearing. But just as Homer dreamed the black dreams of a blind man, so did he dream the soundless dreams of a deaf man, his imagination unable to make that leap across a chasm it couldn't find. All that he had was Homer's descriptions.
Sometimes he felt cheated. Sometimes not being able to hear left him feeling morose and bitter. But then he'd remember his friend Homer and the oracles of the home, and was thankful that he'd been spared their trajectory.
They had a busy day ahead of them and a lot of ground to cover. They had to reach Los Feliz Boulevard which was nearly twelve miles of city streets away. Neither Hemingway nor Homer looked forward to reaching their destination. But luckily Balas del Dios were rare occurrences. After all, most of the times that bullets were fired into the air during celebrations, the trajectories were benign. But then there were those rare times when the bullets seemed destined to find a target. The bullet lodged in Homer's skull was the direct result of a reveler firing a .38 Special in celebration of the outcome of some long forgotten wrestling match, the bullet arching towards God, then falling back to strike a nine year old Homer as he stood beside his mother as they waited at a bus stop. Six weeks into his coma, with the doctor's bills piling up, his mother had left him for dead. One week after that, he awoke and was taken in by Father Jim, who'd arrived just in time, as if he'd known the boy had nowhere to go.
Once they hit Silver Lake Road, they headed north, only stopping around noon so each could eat an ear of roasted corn and share an iced lemonade at a catering truck with the garish logo of a dancing taco. Three blocks later, Homer made signs that they were approaching their target. They'd turned north onto Hillhurst and stood on Los Feliz Boulevard. The place was a mix of retro clothing stores, antique fronts, and yuppie attempts at chic modernization. All around people went about their own business.
"I don't see anyone," murmured Hemingway. "Can't you give me anymore information? Can't you be clearer?"
Homer wished he could. Sometimes the information was vague like it was today. He'd felt like a homing pigeon. He didn't know where he was going, until he actually faced that direction. And his only clue was the image of the statue of Hyperion, the Sun God, an unwanted harbinger from an age-old lecture.
There has to be something. Keep trying Hemingway.
Half a block further, Hemingway stopped.
What is it?
"Probably nothing," said Hemingway as he stared at the immense neon sign. In towering purple letters it said The Derby: Hollywood. He relayed his find to Homer.
I've heard of the place. An old 1940s dinner club.
"Just a sign," said Hemingway.
Nothing is as it seems. I feel him nearby, said Homer. Pay close attention and look past the obvious.
When they'd turned sixteen, Father Jim had taken them aside. There was no party. They had too many boys at the home for a party. But sixteen was a special time at the home, and one day late into summer, Father Jim took them to the Hyperion Water Treatment Plant in South Los Angeles. For a long time, all of the city's run-off went through Hyperion. Whether it was rain, drain or the results of ten thousand flushes, everything eventually ended up at Hyperion. Father Jim let them talk to the workers where they were told stories of money, and needles, and the trash of the city that kept sticking to the grates. Occasionally, they'd find babies, some miscarriages, so small that they didn't seem real. But by the averted glances as the workers described the process of removing the bodies, it was obvious that the babies were all too real. As a way of changing the subject, they recounted the tale of a flyblown horse, and how they had to hire a towing company to remove the body. But the tales of the flushed babies stayed with Hemingway and Homer.
"Everything eventually ends up at Hyperion. Someone, somewhere, shoves a body down the drain, and the body travels a lonely underground path, only to be plucked from a grate before it can return to the ocean where all life was first created."