The blazes, virtually all determined to be arson, have destroyed dozens of already dilapidated manufacturing facilities and abandoned apartment complexes in the urban areas of West Atlanta. According to this newspaper, dozens of already condemned or wasted buildings have been razed. Similar reports come from Miami, Raleigh, and other southern towns too numerous to mention. Community groups, having failed to inspire the interest of the authorities, are pictured campaigning at the steps of the White House demanding action.

The firemen always survive the attacks, which typically involve low-powered BB guns and air pistols and, sometimes, large rocks. The snipers only perform their macabre dance while the firefighters do their work within the burning buildings, making each inferno a raging hell of flames and gunfire.

One firefighter described the scene: "It was hot, and I was running with the hose spraying water, and then there were bullets."

Stories in this publication appear to be photocopied articles taken from other newspapers. Paragraphs are out of order, and upside down. Sentences occasionally deteriorate into a faithless approximation of English. Words are missing, and throughout this newspaper stories end in mid-sentence, sometimes in mid-word. There are no by-lines; in fact, except for individuals such as George Bush and Jesse Jackson, none of the people mentioned in these pages seem to have names.

Nowhere in this organ is there any indication of who publishes it or why. The articles reporting the fires contain no factual information. None of the burned buildings have an address or location. No dates are given for any of these events.

Photographs claiming to show firefighters dodging bullets as they run from burning buildings are obviously doctored with techniques no more sophisticated than scissors and paste.

Throughout the rest of the paper are photographs of purported meetings between Ronald Reagan and obscure (perhaps fictitious?) community activists representing unnamed causes in unnamed cities.

They are confusing, high-strung, apocryphal articles about everything and nothing. They are about outrage and lies. They are about fear, but fear of nothing. The advertisements are filled with blatant nonsense and horrendous grammatical and spelling errors, and they appear to be advertising companies and organizations that do not exist.

In Florida, State Road 27 will take you to Miami. North through migrant villages, past a place called Yeehaw Junction, and beside a long grassy alley near the Everglades seemingly held together by 100 miles of truly awesome metal towers.

I don't know what those towers do, or who is serviced by the cables suspended between them, but driving beside them made me want to stand straight and high like them and join the vacuous march through whatever desolate services they provided.

During the summer of 1987, I was driving my car on Route 27 north toward Miami.

Somewhere in between two apparently unnamed cities I complained that the car in front of us was moving very slowly. 35 mph, to be exact, in a 50 mph zone.

The car was a vast station wagon, blue and decrepit, its ass hanging low to the road, almost grazing it at times.

I attempted to pass, lurching far into the opposite lane, but oncoming traffic from the other direction forced me back behind the station wagon.

Moving out of the lane, I could see into the car more clearly. It was completely filled with people. I counted 10 heads, each one facing directly forward, not one of them moving and no one appearing to speak.

At last, the highway opened to 4-lanes. I moved into the left lane and confidently prepared to pass.

But then the driver of the station wagon did something strange. With a yellow bandana in his left hand he stuck his arm out the window, flailing it madly and with such energy that I hit the brakes, not having the tiniest idea why his signal should translate into anything.

But his gesture was so pronounced, and so demonstrative that it seemed I had to honor and respond to him in some manner. The stupidity and impotence I felt by pulling back behind the blue station wagon are, in fact, the basis of a lesson I have always remembered learning out on Florida Route 27.

I moved back behind the station wagon, resuming our 35 m.p.h. pace. Moments later, a yellow car zoomed up behind me and began to pass. The same thing happened: The driver of the station wagon hurriedly stuck his arm out the window and waved the yellow bandana up and down and around in circles.

And the yellow car spiked its brakes, skidded the tires a bit, and for some reason chose not to pass the blue station wagon. Instead the driver filed in behind me, and I presume we both watched in amazement as a large 18-wheel truck roared up and attempted to pass the dingy little station wagon. Out came the bandana, down went the brakes, slow drove the monster truck, and further grew the line of cars led by the mysterious blue station wagon.

None of the passengers in the blue car ever moved. None of them turned to look at us or to clearly indicate that there was some reason that we should not pass.

Instead, several minutes of slow driving passed and eventually the silent car which so commanded our attention turned off the highway onto a different road, leaving me feeling we had just experienced a most puzzling expression of desperation.

Paradise

Riding in the Elevator

A party in Chicago