The man sat at the table. It was an old table, full of memories, about three feet by four feet, out of place in the new flat. It was worn, the varnish scraped away in places by cleaning attempts, the centre surface – which was covered with green tiles – showing a bit of dirt on the grouting. One green chair leg boasted an atrophied horizontal rung, almost completely gnawed away by the dog in his puppyhood. If the dog had gnawed the upright support, the chair would have fallen. As it was, it remained, able to hold the man, able to bear witness to youthful canine folly and the passage of time. The man rested his hands on the table, feeling the cool surface of the green tiles.
On the table was a teacup. The teacup was of the willow pattern. The man and his wife 'collected' willow, in the way that people who are neither wealthy nor particularly acquisitive collect things. Since he remembered this odd china pattern fondly from childhood, the man had bought the pieces one by one from the supermarket during a promotion. Each week, he had bought the one-dollar special that came with the purchase of groceries, first the starter set of plates, then the gravy boat, the salt-and-pepper shakers, and so on. Finally the cups and saucers. When the promotion had not yielded the shallow soup bowls he remembered so well, he had gotten into his car and driven into the Pennsylvania hills, to Zanesville, home of antique shops. There he had paid a premium price – two dollars each – for the shallow bowls. The 'antique' willow pattern – probably from the 1950s – was slightly different from the new. No matter, that would add to the charm of his collection. The man was satisfied.
The teacup came from the china cabinet. The china cabinet was another antique, purchased for two hundred dollars when the man was flush. The reason for the purchase had been twofold: the new house needed furnishing, and that cabinet was the exact twin of the one his grandmother had used in the old farmhouse in the hills. A poor man's treasure from the 1920s, probably bought from a mail-order catalogue with carefully-saved pennies by a dirt farmer who had survived traumatic brain injury and his hard-working wife. The smell of that cabinet when you opened the door was worth two hundred dollars. It was a TARDIS, that cabinet: it took the man back to a place that no longer existed. He kept expecting to smell coconut cake, the cheap packaged brand his grandmother always kept on a stack of plates. He hated coconut cake, but he missed the smell.
The teacup sat on its willow saucer. In the cup was pale tea, jasmine, from the tin the man had bought in memory of his Asian students, who always used to bring him tea. He knew what people said about this tea: that there was detritus in it. That nobody ever, ever sold Americans good tea. (Revenge for Boston?) That tea bought in a tin in America contained floor scrapings, mingled with insect larvae. He didn't care. The tea ball had been washed out. Only pale liquid remained in the cup.
He lifted the cup to his lips, and drank. The faint scent of the lemon took him back for a split second to the creperie in the Rathaus square in Bonn. A cold night, a warm drink. For a split second, he wished the willow cup were a glass one. A glezl tay... He drank it all, and set down the cup.
There was a worm in the cup. It was white, about two inches long. It lay there, glassine and unmoving. The man shuddered, reached out a probing finger, touched it in psychometric divination...where had it been born? Where had it fed, before being fed on, adding its essence to a cup of tea? Had it come from Asia?
It had, possibly. A rice field. More probably, given the geography of this place, a rice field in the Gullah country of South Carolina. The man held the offending object and bellowed.
'ELEKTRA! Please be careful with the dishes! There's a noodle in my teacup!'
The man sat at the table, laughing until the tears came.
09 March 2011
Tinfoil Hats and YOU
Trivia question for my readers (all two of you): Who invented the tinfoil hat?
If you said Nigel from Brightling, you'd be wrong, but I would love you for it.
According to that ultra-reliable source, Wikipedia, the tinfoil hat was first mentioned in despatches in a science-fiction story by Julian Huxley...in 1927. Thus the custom of tinfoil-hatting is of august and hoary antiquity.
As I have now been taunted past endurance on the subject, I have decided to expand the franchise. Read on for a discussion of...
Tinfoil Hats and You
The first question is not, 'Will the tinfoil hat preserve what is left of my sanity?' but the more pressing and important, 'Will the tinfoil hat give me "hat hair"?' Yes, definitely. Well, maybe. My older female relatives are able to avoid 'hat hair' by the use of strong hairspray. A good deal of vinyl acetate, liberally applied to the surface of the coiffure, should prove steadfast against the pressure of the tinfoil if not pressed down too hard. In this respect, a cost/risk/fashion victim assessment should be made by the wearer.
Our less hirsute brethren should note that should the tinfoil fail to keep the bald head warm enough, the hat can be lined with cotton wool, felt, or even dog combings for a cosier feel. Like its life-saving cousin, duct tape, tinfoil is now available in a variety of fashion colours, although tinfoil has yet to feature at that pinnacle of US industrial chic, the high school prom. (Note its popularity in that couture-conscious steel town, Pittsburgh.)
The next question is, 'Do tinfoil hats do what is claimed for them?' Yes, indubitably. The tinfoil hat creates a sort of Faraday cage around the wearer's head, thus shielding the brain from those harmful rays beamed at one by evil governments and aliens from Area 51. The thickness of the tinfoil influences the quality of frequencies blocked – double or even triple layers are recommended. The arrangement of the hat is key to protecting vital parts of the brain. Those who favour the Napoleonic over the Nelson configuration point out that it is important to cover the temporal lobes in order to avoid hearing unpleasant voices (although to avoid hearing boy bands, it may be necessary to move to the Antarctic). Others recommend crimping the tinfoil to add knobs – and simply changing channels on the interlopers. Nigel favours a number of fashion looks – he is a more advanced sort of tinfoil-hat wearer, and believes that the purpose of the hat is to prevent the government from hearing his thoughts, which are copyrighted.
Some students of the tinfoil hat are fond of pointing out that for some energy sources, incorrect arrangement of the hat might lead to its funnelling the unwanted information toward the brain. We would ask them not to say this too loudly.
There is also the all-important question of etiquette. Removing the hat in the presence of a lady, while chivalrous, might expose the wearer to unnecessary danger. We recommend a jaunty twirling of the knobs over the ears (or, in the case of the Nelson Version, over the forehead), to indicate that while one is no fool, one is also, first and foremost, a gentleman.
Should the tinfoil hat be worn while being presented at Court? Yes, certainly. When receiving Birthday Honours, it is practically de rigueur – provided one has been to the correct haberdasher (look for the Royal Patent).
In these uncertain times, the most important question of all remains – can so simple a substance as tinfoil alone stand between us and the constant bombardment of dangerous and idiotic notions beamed into our brains by malevolent powers?
Perhaps not. But it is a start.
The next step is to turn off the television news.
For all you DIYers out there, we offer Nigel's open-source tinfoil hat below. Measure your cranium, acquire a roll of tinfoil in your favourite colour, and may the Force be with you.
08 March 2011
Day Trip to Earth - A Christmas Story
It was a busy shopping day in Exeter, and the sound system at the home entertainment emporium next to the car park was blaring out a hip-hop version of O Come, All Ye Faithful, so it was understandable that none of the passers-by noticed the signature noise – electronic whooshing plus elephant mating call – that accompanied the brief appearance of an out-of-date blue police box. The door opened – momentarily, as they say in that part of the world – and a dark-haired man in his early thirties emerged. He was a bit under average height, muscular, clean-shaven, and wearing jeans, navvy boots, and a pea coat. He turned and called inside:
'Thank you, Doctor. I appreciate the ride!' The blue door closed, the racket repeated itself, and the absurdity disappeared. The visitor shrugged his jacket a little tighter against the sudden chill, and set off down the High Street, taking in the sights and mentally thanking his friend for the sartorial advice. Without the beard, and in these clothes, he seemed to fit right in – and he'd have frozen in a pair of sandals. He dodged the crowds of package-laden shoppers, studied the goods in the windows (wondering what half of them were for), and took note of the decorations – tinsel, coloured balls, bells, weird figures with wings (Were they supposed to be angels? Gabriel would get ironic if he saw that), and greenery everywhere. Most interesting were the statuettes of a fat, excessively jolly-looking fellow in a red-and-white suit, who seemed to be the centre of it all.
'Probably the God of Commerce,' thought the visitor, who was used to the idea of cosmopolitan areas with tutelary deities, though his own people frowned on them, being monotheists. As he was here for the purpose of research and tourism, he found this all highly interesting. His friend the Doctor had assured him that this area was the centre of the known world – an idea which the self-possession of the citizens seemed to confirm – and, as a time traveller, he was curious to learn what Earth thought of itself in the early 21st Century. With all this walking, though, he'd worked up an appetite, so he entered a modest-looking Greek eatery, as he preferred Mediterranean food. A brief consultation in what he still considered the lingua franca of this planet resulted in his sitting at a table by the window, a plate of gyros me pita and a glass of retsina in front of him.
'Is this seat taken?' He looked up to see a friendly face attached to a short haircut and gangly figure in an anorak, holding a tray in one hand and a backpack in the other. He shook his head, and the stranger deposited self and goods. 'I'm Brad,' he said. 'I'm an art student hereabouts. Would you mind if I sketched you after we're done eating? You have such an interesting face. '
The visitor smiled and agreed. He shook Brad's hand and introduced himself as Manny.
Brad grinned. 'I'm good at accents. You're Israeli, aren't you? I can tell.' Manny agreed that he was. Brad was curious. 'What do you think about the Gaza situation?'
Manny said wryly, 'I try to steer clear of politics, though as you know, in my part of the world, this is often difficult.' He looked out the window at the crowds. 'Is there an important festival coming up? People seem to be preparing for something.'
Brad laughed. 'Just Christmas. You know, high tourist season in Bethlehem?' Manny looked blank, so Brad went on, 'The birth of Jesus Christ, you know – manger, shepherds, all that, founding of the Christian religion. Although these days, it's mostly about parties, prezzies, spend, spend, spend, and Santa Claus.'
Manny looked interested. 'Is Santa Claus that god in the red suit?'
Brad chuckled. 'You might call him a god. He's a mythological figure worshipped by toy manufacturers everywhere. He's supposed to come down the chimney on 24 December and leave stuff for the kiddies. But if he's not up to the job...' He winked.
'...the parents have to do it.' Manny understood. He was never big on mythology, being rather more of a realist himself. 'So Santa Claus is the real reason for the celebration, and not this other religion, what was it, Christian?'
Brad thought about this. 'I guess you could say so. Educated people don't believe in religion any more, anyway. Just nutcases. It's all about sending bad people to hell, and something called the Rapture, where the goodies leave the planet...'
'Hm, the leaving-the-planet part is not a bad idea.' Manny added, suddenly shy, 'Has anybody ever heard of a small cult from back a ways that taught about loving your neighbour and sharing the wealth?'
Brad snorted. 'Every once in a while, somebody tries that on. It's called communism, mate, and it never works. Look at Eastern Europe.' Manny would like to have asked more about Eastern Europe, but they'd finished their meal, and Brad asked him to sit still so that he could sketch him.
'The lines in your face are remarkable,' Brad commented as he sketched. 'They remind me of the Shroud of Turin.' Manny didn't know where Turin was, but nodded agreeably, then went back to posing. He complimented the artist on the result, said it was a good likeness, shook hands again, wished Brad a 'Happy Christmas', and went on his way.
On his way to the Ramada Inn – true to family tradition, he had no reservation, but hoped to talk his way into a room – Manny stopped in front of a shop window to look at the display. He studied the scene with puzzlement: A woman and a man, kneeling beside what looked like a feed trough in a barn. The feed trough held an infant. All three – woman, man, and baby – were wearing odd, round hats. There was one of those strange winged angels hovering over the scene, which included animals, shepherds, and three fugitives from a circus with camels. Manny scratched his head, but figured it had something to do with Santa Claus. Then he noticed that some wag in the shop had concealed a toy Dalek in the shrubbery outside the shed.
Manny chuckled. He'd have to tell his friend the Doctor.
'Thank you, Doctor. I appreciate the ride!' The blue door closed, the racket repeated itself, and the absurdity disappeared. The visitor shrugged his jacket a little tighter against the sudden chill, and set off down the High Street, taking in the sights and mentally thanking his friend for the sartorial advice. Without the beard, and in these clothes, he seemed to fit right in – and he'd have frozen in a pair of sandals. He dodged the crowds of package-laden shoppers, studied the goods in the windows (wondering what half of them were for), and took note of the decorations – tinsel, coloured balls, bells, weird figures with wings (Were they supposed to be angels? Gabriel would get ironic if he saw that), and greenery everywhere. Most interesting were the statuettes of a fat, excessively jolly-looking fellow in a red-and-white suit, who seemed to be the centre of it all.
'Probably the God of Commerce,' thought the visitor, who was used to the idea of cosmopolitan areas with tutelary deities, though his own people frowned on them, being monotheists. As he was here for the purpose of research and tourism, he found this all highly interesting. His friend the Doctor had assured him that this area was the centre of the known world – an idea which the self-possession of the citizens seemed to confirm – and, as a time traveller, he was curious to learn what Earth thought of itself in the early 21st Century. With all this walking, though, he'd worked up an appetite, so he entered a modest-looking Greek eatery, as he preferred Mediterranean food. A brief consultation in what he still considered the lingua franca of this planet resulted in his sitting at a table by the window, a plate of gyros me pita and a glass of retsina in front of him.
'Is this seat taken?' He looked up to see a friendly face attached to a short haircut and gangly figure in an anorak, holding a tray in one hand and a backpack in the other. He shook his head, and the stranger deposited self and goods. 'I'm Brad,' he said. 'I'm an art student hereabouts. Would you mind if I sketched you after we're done eating? You have such an interesting face. '
The visitor smiled and agreed. He shook Brad's hand and introduced himself as Manny.
Brad grinned. 'I'm good at accents. You're Israeli, aren't you? I can tell.' Manny agreed that he was. Brad was curious. 'What do you think about the Gaza situation?'
Manny said wryly, 'I try to steer clear of politics, though as you know, in my part of the world, this is often difficult.' He looked out the window at the crowds. 'Is there an important festival coming up? People seem to be preparing for something.'
Brad laughed. 'Just Christmas. You know, high tourist season in Bethlehem?' Manny looked blank, so Brad went on, 'The birth of Jesus Christ, you know – manger, shepherds, all that, founding of the Christian religion. Although these days, it's mostly about parties, prezzies, spend, spend, spend, and Santa Claus.'
Manny looked interested. 'Is Santa Claus that god in the red suit?'
Brad chuckled. 'You might call him a god. He's a mythological figure worshipped by toy manufacturers everywhere. He's supposed to come down the chimney on 24 December and leave stuff for the kiddies. But if he's not up to the job...' He winked.
'...the parents have to do it.' Manny understood. He was never big on mythology, being rather more of a realist himself. 'So Santa Claus is the real reason for the celebration, and not this other religion, what was it, Christian?'
Brad thought about this. 'I guess you could say so. Educated people don't believe in religion any more, anyway. Just nutcases. It's all about sending bad people to hell, and something called the Rapture, where the goodies leave the planet...'
'Hm, the leaving-the-planet part is not a bad idea.' Manny added, suddenly shy, 'Has anybody ever heard of a small cult from back a ways that taught about loving your neighbour and sharing the wealth?'
Brad snorted. 'Every once in a while, somebody tries that on. It's called communism, mate, and it never works. Look at Eastern Europe.' Manny would like to have asked more about Eastern Europe, but they'd finished their meal, and Brad asked him to sit still so that he could sketch him.
'The lines in your face are remarkable,' Brad commented as he sketched. 'They remind me of the Shroud of Turin.' Manny didn't know where Turin was, but nodded agreeably, then went back to posing. He complimented the artist on the result, said it was a good likeness, shook hands again, wished Brad a 'Happy Christmas', and went on his way.
On his way to the Ramada Inn – true to family tradition, he had no reservation, but hoped to talk his way into a room – Manny stopped in front of a shop window to look at the display. He studied the scene with puzzlement: A woman and a man, kneeling beside what looked like a feed trough in a barn. The feed trough held an infant. All three – woman, man, and baby – were wearing odd, round hats. There was one of those strange winged angels hovering over the scene, which included animals, shepherds, and three fugitives from a circus with camels. Manny scratched his head, but figured it had something to do with Santa Claus. Then he noticed that some wag in the shop had concealed a toy Dalek in the shrubbery outside the shed.
Manny chuckled. He'd have to tell his friend the Doctor.
07 March 2011
Horace and the Profanity Filter
Horace usually liked web writing. But not today.
He sat back in his new ergonomic chair – even more backbreaking than the last one, his clandestine sabotage had not been successful – and took a thoughtful sip of the Clarion's tea. And swallowed, painfully. That salesman ought to have been shot, he mused, the new 'comprehensive tea delivery system' was producing swill that was worse than the stuff from the old urn, now retired (and used by his editor for an umbrella stand). Horace reached for the usual remedy – Glenfiddich from the bottom drawer – and applied it liberally, then returned to the Problem At Hand, which was Arabi Tchernovsky, the new Supervisor for Online Decency. Arabi Tchernovsky was skinny, sharp-nosed, and wore her glasses on a leash, and although she'd only been on the job for about a week, Horace hated her. He had already planned 42 different deaths for Arabi, each one nastier than the last.
At first, Horace had paid little attention to Ms Tchernovsky's efforts to keep the newspaper's online presence – a fancy new powder-blue-and-white site which Horace privately compared (unfavourably) to the one produced, for free, by his ISP back in the late 90s – pure, pristine, and free of smut, trash talk, and libel. Editor-in-Chief John Farnsworth, initially skeptical, had taken a look at the statistical figures for libel suits directed at media outlets and become enamoured of Arabi's no-nonsense guidelines.
'Our aim is to have a cavil-free Clarion, ' Tchernovsky announced at one of her training seminars. Farnsworth beamed at her, while Horace privately wondered if Arabi realised what people posted on newspaper websites for, namely to see themselves complaining in print and pixels.
Horace hadn't paid much attention to all this at first – after all, he was not in the business of editing the Clarion's fanmail, and the S.O.D.'s job was to supervise reader feedback, surely? Then the bombshell exploded: A.T., as John was now calling her, unveiled her pièce de resistance. The Fallacy Filter. For writers.
Horace gritted his teeth as he worked on his latest blog, stopping only to refresh his tea mug and search for metaphors. As literary editor and all-purpose blogger, it was his job to enlighten, entrance, and enthuse. To stir the smouldering embers of interest in the written word and its power of imagery, rather than to cheer newsmakers from the sidelines. His brief was to employ the mot juste, the telling phrase, the piquant parable...
How was he supposed to do this with Mrs Grundy on his back? The idea of Arabi Tchernovsky jumping on his back like a demented, bespectacled monkey made him chuckle over his tea. Horace finished his essay for the week, pushed 'Send' to pass it on to what he privately referred to as the 'Word Police', and sat back to wait. He filled in the interval by imagining himself as an operative for S.O.,E. (he'd always loved the comma in that acronym), on a desperate mission to save Humanity, searching for the perfect secret code to escape the prying eyes of the Gestapo...
His reverie on the subject of the imagery in The Life That I Have was rudely interrupted by the 'you've got in-house email' ping. Opened, the missive almost scorched the screen. Horace was unsure whether to call the office geek, as he at first suspected malware.
I have to develop a dirtier mind to solve this problem, he muttered.
Forty-five minutes of wasted company time later, Horace gave an excited yell – one which sent the administrative assistant scurrying for cover (he was afraid of Horace, anyway, ever since the Paper Clip Incident). Horace, laughing hysterically (a not unknown phenomenon at the Clarion), penned – no, typed – the following:
He sat back in his new ergonomic chair – even more backbreaking than the last one, his clandestine sabotage had not been successful – and took a thoughtful sip of the Clarion's tea. And swallowed, painfully. That salesman ought to have been shot, he mused, the new 'comprehensive tea delivery system' was producing swill that was worse than the stuff from the old urn, now retired (and used by his editor for an umbrella stand). Horace reached for the usual remedy – Glenfiddich from the bottom drawer – and applied it liberally, then returned to the Problem At Hand, which was Arabi Tchernovsky, the new Supervisor for Online Decency. Arabi Tchernovsky was skinny, sharp-nosed, and wore her glasses on a leash, and although she'd only been on the job for about a week, Horace hated her. He had already planned 42 different deaths for Arabi, each one nastier than the last.
At first, Horace had paid little attention to Ms Tchernovsky's efforts to keep the newspaper's online presence – a fancy new powder-blue-and-white site which Horace privately compared (unfavourably) to the one produced, for free, by his ISP back in the late 90s – pure, pristine, and free of smut, trash talk, and libel. Editor-in-Chief John Farnsworth, initially skeptical, had taken a look at the statistical figures for libel suits directed at media outlets and become enamoured of Arabi's no-nonsense guidelines.
'Our aim is to have a cavil-free Clarion, ' Tchernovsky announced at one of her training seminars. Farnsworth beamed at her, while Horace privately wondered if Arabi realised what people posted on newspaper websites for, namely to see themselves complaining in print and pixels.
Horace hadn't paid much attention to all this at first – after all, he was not in the business of editing the Clarion's fanmail, and the S.O.D.'s job was to supervise reader feedback, surely? Then the bombshell exploded: A.T., as John was now calling her, unveiled her pièce de resistance. The Fallacy Filter. For writers.
Horace gritted his teeth as he worked on his latest blog, stopping only to refresh his tea mug and search for metaphors. As literary editor and all-purpose blogger, it was his job to enlighten, entrance, and enthuse. To stir the smouldering embers of interest in the written word and its power of imagery, rather than to cheer newsmakers from the sidelines. His brief was to employ the mot juste, the telling phrase, the piquant parable...
How was he supposed to do this with Mrs Grundy on his back? The idea of Arabi Tchernovsky jumping on his back like a demented, bespectacled monkey made him chuckle over his tea. Horace finished his essay for the week, pushed 'Send' to pass it on to what he privately referred to as the 'Word Police', and sat back to wait. He filled in the interval by imagining himself as an operative for S.O.,E. (he'd always loved the comma in that acronym), on a desperate mission to save Humanity, searching for the perfect secret code to escape the prying eyes of the Gestapo...
His reverie on the subject of the imagery in The Life That I Have was rudely interrupted by the 'you've got in-house email' ping. Opened, the missive almost scorched the screen. Horace was unsure whether to call the office geek, as he at first suspected malware.
NOTICE OF NON-COMPLIANT TEXT!!!!!
My Dear Mr Wallingford,Horace was stunned. He perused the (to him) innocent text. He thought about asking Ms Tchernovsky what, exactly, the offensive words were. But he knew better. She would never tell him. It was 'against policy'.
This prose is UNACCEPTABLE. In fact, it is the most blatant violation of the rules of decency in writing it has ever been my misfortune to encounter. The Filter macro has flagged no fewer than EIGHT offensive words in this paragraph.
Please rewrite and resend. Your supervisor will be advised of this waste of company time.
Yours,
Arabi Tchernovsky
I have to develop a dirtier mind to solve this problem, he muttered.
Forty-five minutes of wasted company time later, Horace gave an excited yell – one which sent the administrative assistant scurrying for cover (he was afraid of Horace, anyway, ever since the Paper Clip Incident). Horace, laughing hysterically (a not unknown phenomenon at the Clarion), penned – no, typed – the following:
My VERY Dear Ms Tchernovsky,Horace surveyed his email with satisfaction. That's telling her, he thought, and went in search of fresh floor scrapings from Assam, muttering something about bolshy gloopy chellovecks (Horace was a major fan of Anthony Burgess, and often quoted his hero, Enderby), leaving this on the computer to be seen by the Prophet Zarquon and everybody:
Is your macro, by any chance, vetting these articles without benefit of clergy? That is to say, without spacing or punctuation?
If so, I can see where the problem lies. I can only suggest you subject your own name to the same process. I also suggest you read less science fiction. That stuff has been clinically proven to damage the prefrontal cortex, leading to personality disorders.
Hugs and kisses,
Horace Wallingford
The history of PETA quite astounds us. Convincing one's fellow humans to show compassion is a daunting task, perhaps everywhere in Europe save noble Belgium. Animal cruelty must be opposed: to stem the flood, bait shops must be closed. Zark Ingramsmeg, head of the Gordon Bennett Society, excused his behaviour thus: 'This topic? Not fun. Print able to defend us, won't...We deny having used live prawns in our annual fishing contest. We employ only foul-smelling – but dead – Korean gim. Boid Rimmer will back me up on this. '
06 March 2011
A Good Day's Work
The ghost of Philip K Dick haunts me in my sleep.
The hovercab descended to the curb just long enough for Jereth to step out, then dashed away, the driver proud of his speed and accuracy. Jereth adjusted his pink mohair sweater – he'd been told to dress 'business formal', and this was his best outfit – and looked up at the building that housed today's appointment.
He looked up…and up. Synchrorealities, Inc, covered a lot of celestial territory – the Air Corps considered the campus a no-fly zone. Jereth craned his neck to appreciate the headquarters in all its retrogothic glory. He'd passed it many a time, but today, he was invited in. All the way to the 42nd floor. He shouldered his conservative tartan rucksack – he'd bought it especially for the occasion, to seem more businesslike – and headed for the entrance. The brass-bound revolving door moved with satisfying slowness and a slight whoosh of its rubber gaskets. Take your time, it said. Enjoy the experience. It won't last long enough. Jereth entered the vaulted mezzanine, paused for a moment to gawk (he couldn't help it, he was a sucker for stone arches), then hurried through the wrought-iron gates with their quote about the stars being new, and presented his invitation to the uniformed chauffeur at the special lift that went all the way up. The chauffeur studied the gilt-edged pasteboard, favoured Jereth with a superior smile, and took a large brass key from his kangaroo pocket. He turned it in the panel, pulled the gated door shut, and away it sped, upwards, towards the sky, a metal merkabah containing a hopeful newcomer and his dreams.
When the lift opened again, Jereth was greeted by the man himself: Ottokar Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum, looking dignified in his khaki shorts and safari vest bearing the logo of Synchrorealities – two hands drawing one another. He smiled broadly as he shook Jereth's unresisting hand.
'Jereth Cheloweth, I presume? So glad you could come. Step this way. I imagine you would like to have a look at our view before you begin work?' Jereth gulped – not only because a look out these windows was exactly what he'd been wanting ever since, say, he was old enough to want anything besides a bottle of milk, but also because he was overwhelmed by being in the presence of true greatness. Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum was a household name. Graciously acknowledging Jereth's awkward nod, the director took him on a tour of the office, which was surprisingly quiet, with only a few workers, and led him from window to window, allowing Jereth to gaze his fill at the skyscraper view of the city in which he had pent most of his life, now made small and unfamiliar beneath the mist. When an eagle soared past at eye level, Jereth started, and then blushed, but the director laughed. 'I never get used to that, either,' he admitted in a friendly way. When the tour was over, and Jereth had recovered his breath, Dr Weisheit vom Frelichtmuseum led him into an inner office, where a bright-eyed young man in company uniform offered him a cup of excellent Jav-o-Moque. He accepted with an inner thrill of unwonted privilege.
Dr Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum made himself comfortable in the e-z-chair opposite Jereth. When they had both sipped and appreciated their Jav-o-Moques, pouring the obligatory libations into the enameled saucer that was placed on the floor beside the kafftable for the purpose, the director eased himself back into his chair, gesturing for Jereth to do the same. Jereth, however, sat upright at first, rummaging hastily through his rucksack.
'I've brought some sketches for you,' he stammered. 'They may not be up to the high-type standard you're used to, but…'
Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum made a demurring gesture. That gesture alone is worth millions, thought Jereth. He must practice before a mirror. The director smiled. 'Rough sketches are our favourites,' he explained. 'They are so much closer to the original thought than a more polished version – closer to the original yitzirach, don't you know. Thank you for bringing them.' With another priceless gesture of graciousness, he took Jereth's sketches, the product of many sleepless nights, and, barely glancing at them, handed them to his assistant, who promptly vanished through a side door. He leaned back again, clasping folded hands over crossed knees. 'Now, Jereth,' he smiled encouragingly. 'I am ready to listen. Begin at the beginning, please.'
Thus emboldened, Jereth finally allowed himself to sink back into the really very beautiful e-z-chair, and gave himself just a few seconds to appreciate the softness of its angora damask cushions. The secret to weaving these cushions was a closely-guarded treasure of the Catawba Tribe of Sawdie Daisy, Tennetucky, he knew. Obviously, Synchrorealities, Inc, supported only the best of native craftsmanship. But the director must be waiting. Jereth took a deep breath, and began his recital.
I was born on the North Side of the city, in Gheniville. It wasn't like it is now, all gentrified. It was sort of a slum, full of Walesians, like me, and Germanoslavs. Most of our dads worked in the mills, rolling synthosteel, and our moms stayed at home. The first memory I have was when the little boy next door – about two years old, like me – set fire to the grass with a sparkler on the 4th of Juneteenth. You know, I don't remember thinking in words back then. I just had this picture in my head, you know, of what might happen, and I ran and told my mother...in my memory, the grass looked brown, and the trees, not really brown, maybe sort of sepia, but the fire…the fire was bright yellow, you know, I think that's when I first noticed colour…
Dr Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum nodded intently as Jereth went on, from his early childhood memories, the train that used to come by the house at 3 a.m., and how he got out of bed and opened the door to watch and listen better, and how it scared his dad…on to first grade, the pretty little girl who sat next to him the first day, how her name was Barbara and he thought that was a cool name to spell, b-a-r-b-a-r-a, a pleasing pattern…on through sports and movies and stray thoughts and first loves and firsts of all kinds…and lasts…last kisses, last times to see loved ones before they died, last glimpse of the vintage airplane he'd flown in before the hurricane broke it in half, last view of the skyscraper in Nueva Amsterdami before it pancaked flat in an apocalyptic cloud…on and on, memory upon memory, big and small…the director nodding and the intercom open on the kafftable…
Somewhere during the recital, there was lunch. Jereth was almost too excited to eat, but the delicate flavor of the sandwich – the best ham-and-cheese sandwich he had ever tasted – distracted him for a few minutes. The pickle, even in a city known for its fine pickles, was a revelation. After this meal and a few swallows of Cohola, Jereth plunged in again – describing work, play, love, loss…his listener seemed rapt, although Jereth thought, he must have something more important to do.
Hours later, Jereth was finished. When he came up for air, it was as if he were seeing the room – and Dr Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum – for the first time. The light had shifted. It was afternoon. Dr Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum clapped his hands in satisfaction, and the assistant came from the other room, carrying the most unusual book Jereth had ever seen. The director smiled.
'Jereth, that was splendid,' he said warmly. 'Let's see what we have, shall we?' He held out the book. Jereth took it.
It was made of heavy black cloth, stiff and ridged, with a red sort of oilcloth sewn around the edges – to protect the pages, Jereth thought. The book, about the size of his laptop screen, bulged. On the cover was the title, Jereth Cheloweth, Memories. Inside, each page was a collage of photos, sketches from Jereth's sketchbook, realia such as train tickets and ID cards (Where did they get them? Jereth wondered), all stapled to the ridged cloth. The images on each page were arranged intuitively rather than consecutively. One page, for example, held pictures of girls and women from Jereth's recital. Barbara was there, a six-year-old with a gap- toothed grin and a pageboy cut, alongside a glamorous vamp Jereth barely remembered from his road trip in Romania…Jereth turned over the pages, amazed, and rediscovered his own story.
Dr Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum pointed out pages that particularly pleased him. 'I love this one,' he said of the double travel page with its stamped passport, tickets, and photo collage. 'It speaks to the need in all of us to find common ground amid new experiences. You've done well here.' They sat for an hour, going over the book. Jereth felt a glow of satisfaction. These people chose me, he thought. And they're experts. They knew what they were doing.
At last they were done. Dr Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum walked Jereth to the lift and shook his hand. 'I want to thank you,' he said simply and sincerely. 'Your work has been vital to our enterprise. Here at Synchrorealities, Inc, we appreciate good quality.' He chuckled at a private joke. 'The cheque is not in the mail. The million postcreds have already been credited to your account. You may withdraw any funds you need immediately.'
The chauffeur was holding the lift door, but Jereth hesitated at the threshold, unwilling to leave. 'Er, Dr Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum? I really enjoyed this.'
Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum nodded genially. 'I know. And you wish you could work with us some more.' He sighed. 'I'm sorry. You really have helped us a lot. But it's one day to a contractor, I'm afraid.' He smiled gently. 'Look at it this way,' he suggested. 'You never have to work again.' He clasped Jereth's hand one last time. 'You have done a good day's work. Good- bye.'
Standing outside the towering building, Jereth looked up at it once again, nostalgic already for his one great experience with it. I have to remember it all, he thought. I have to tell Marika all about it. She'll be thrilled.
The man with the million-dollar memory turned on his heel and went to hail a hovercab back to Gheniville.
A Good Day's Work
 |
| Synchrorealities, Inc |
The hovercab descended to the curb just long enough for Jereth to step out, then dashed away, the driver proud of his speed and accuracy. Jereth adjusted his pink mohair sweater – he'd been told to dress 'business formal', and this was his best outfit – and looked up at the building that housed today's appointment.
He looked up…and up. Synchrorealities, Inc, covered a lot of celestial territory – the Air Corps considered the campus a no-fly zone. Jereth craned his neck to appreciate the headquarters in all its retrogothic glory. He'd passed it many a time, but today, he was invited in. All the way to the 42nd floor. He shouldered his conservative tartan rucksack – he'd bought it especially for the occasion, to seem more businesslike – and headed for the entrance. The brass-bound revolving door moved with satisfying slowness and a slight whoosh of its rubber gaskets. Take your time, it said. Enjoy the experience. It won't last long enough. Jereth entered the vaulted mezzanine, paused for a moment to gawk (he couldn't help it, he was a sucker for stone arches), then hurried through the wrought-iron gates with their quote about the stars being new, and presented his invitation to the uniformed chauffeur at the special lift that went all the way up. The chauffeur studied the gilt-edged pasteboard, favoured Jereth with a superior smile, and took a large brass key from his kangaroo pocket. He turned it in the panel, pulled the gated door shut, and away it sped, upwards, towards the sky, a metal merkabah containing a hopeful newcomer and his dreams.
When the lift opened again, Jereth was greeted by the man himself: Ottokar Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum, looking dignified in his khaki shorts and safari vest bearing the logo of Synchrorealities – two hands drawing one another. He smiled broadly as he shook Jereth's unresisting hand.
'Jereth Cheloweth, I presume? So glad you could come. Step this way. I imagine you would like to have a look at our view before you begin work?' Jereth gulped – not only because a look out these windows was exactly what he'd been wanting ever since, say, he was old enough to want anything besides a bottle of milk, but also because he was overwhelmed by being in the presence of true greatness. Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum was a household name. Graciously acknowledging Jereth's awkward nod, the director took him on a tour of the office, which was surprisingly quiet, with only a few workers, and led him from window to window, allowing Jereth to gaze his fill at the skyscraper view of the city in which he had pent most of his life, now made small and unfamiliar beneath the mist. When an eagle soared past at eye level, Jereth started, and then blushed, but the director laughed. 'I never get used to that, either,' he admitted in a friendly way. When the tour was over, and Jereth had recovered his breath, Dr Weisheit vom Frelichtmuseum led him into an inner office, where a bright-eyed young man in company uniform offered him a cup of excellent Jav-o-Moque. He accepted with an inner thrill of unwonted privilege.
Dr Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum made himself comfortable in the e-z-chair opposite Jereth. When they had both sipped and appreciated their Jav-o-Moques, pouring the obligatory libations into the enameled saucer that was placed on the floor beside the kafftable for the purpose, the director eased himself back into his chair, gesturing for Jereth to do the same. Jereth, however, sat upright at first, rummaging hastily through his rucksack.
'I've brought some sketches for you,' he stammered. 'They may not be up to the high-type standard you're used to, but…'
Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum made a demurring gesture. That gesture alone is worth millions, thought Jereth. He must practice before a mirror. The director smiled. 'Rough sketches are our favourites,' he explained. 'They are so much closer to the original thought than a more polished version – closer to the original yitzirach, don't you know. Thank you for bringing them.' With another priceless gesture of graciousness, he took Jereth's sketches, the product of many sleepless nights, and, barely glancing at them, handed them to his assistant, who promptly vanished through a side door. He leaned back again, clasping folded hands over crossed knees. 'Now, Jereth,' he smiled encouragingly. 'I am ready to listen. Begin at the beginning, please.'
Thus emboldened, Jereth finally allowed himself to sink back into the really very beautiful e-z-chair, and gave himself just a few seconds to appreciate the softness of its angora damask cushions. The secret to weaving these cushions was a closely-guarded treasure of the Catawba Tribe of Sawdie Daisy, Tennetucky, he knew. Obviously, Synchrorealities, Inc, supported only the best of native craftsmanship. But the director must be waiting. Jereth took a deep breath, and began his recital.
I was born on the North Side of the city, in Gheniville. It wasn't like it is now, all gentrified. It was sort of a slum, full of Walesians, like me, and Germanoslavs. Most of our dads worked in the mills, rolling synthosteel, and our moms stayed at home. The first memory I have was when the little boy next door – about two years old, like me – set fire to the grass with a sparkler on the 4th of Juneteenth. You know, I don't remember thinking in words back then. I just had this picture in my head, you know, of what might happen, and I ran and told my mother...in my memory, the grass looked brown, and the trees, not really brown, maybe sort of sepia, but the fire…the fire was bright yellow, you know, I think that's when I first noticed colour…
Dr Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum nodded intently as Jereth went on, from his early childhood memories, the train that used to come by the house at 3 a.m., and how he got out of bed and opened the door to watch and listen better, and how it scared his dad…on to first grade, the pretty little girl who sat next to him the first day, how her name was Barbara and he thought that was a cool name to spell, b-a-r-b-a-r-a, a pleasing pattern…on through sports and movies and stray thoughts and first loves and firsts of all kinds…and lasts…last kisses, last times to see loved ones before they died, last glimpse of the vintage airplane he'd flown in before the hurricane broke it in half, last view of the skyscraper in Nueva Amsterdami before it pancaked flat in an apocalyptic cloud…on and on, memory upon memory, big and small…the director nodding and the intercom open on the kafftable…
Somewhere during the recital, there was lunch. Jereth was almost too excited to eat, but the delicate flavor of the sandwich – the best ham-and-cheese sandwich he had ever tasted – distracted him for a few minutes. The pickle, even in a city known for its fine pickles, was a revelation. After this meal and a few swallows of Cohola, Jereth plunged in again – describing work, play, love, loss…his listener seemed rapt, although Jereth thought, he must have something more important to do.
Hours later, Jereth was finished. When he came up for air, it was as if he were seeing the room – and Dr Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum – for the first time. The light had shifted. It was afternoon. Dr Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum clapped his hands in satisfaction, and the assistant came from the other room, carrying the most unusual book Jereth had ever seen. The director smiled.
'Jereth, that was splendid,' he said warmly. 'Let's see what we have, shall we?' He held out the book. Jereth took it.
It was made of heavy black cloth, stiff and ridged, with a red sort of oilcloth sewn around the edges – to protect the pages, Jereth thought. The book, about the size of his laptop screen, bulged. On the cover was the title, Jereth Cheloweth, Memories. Inside, each page was a collage of photos, sketches from Jereth's sketchbook, realia such as train tickets and ID cards (Where did they get them? Jereth wondered), all stapled to the ridged cloth. The images on each page were arranged intuitively rather than consecutively. One page, for example, held pictures of girls and women from Jereth's recital. Barbara was there, a six-year-old with a gap- toothed grin and a pageboy cut, alongside a glamorous vamp Jereth barely remembered from his road trip in Romania…Jereth turned over the pages, amazed, and rediscovered his own story.
Dr Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum pointed out pages that particularly pleased him. 'I love this one,' he said of the double travel page with its stamped passport, tickets, and photo collage. 'It speaks to the need in all of us to find common ground amid new experiences. You've done well here.' They sat for an hour, going over the book. Jereth felt a glow of satisfaction. These people chose me, he thought. And they're experts. They knew what they were doing.
At last they were done. Dr Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum walked Jereth to the lift and shook his hand. 'I want to thank you,' he said simply and sincerely. 'Your work has been vital to our enterprise. Here at Synchrorealities, Inc, we appreciate good quality.' He chuckled at a private joke. 'The cheque is not in the mail. The million postcreds have already been credited to your account. You may withdraw any funds you need immediately.'
The chauffeur was holding the lift door, but Jereth hesitated at the threshold, unwilling to leave. 'Er, Dr Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum? I really enjoyed this.'
Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum nodded genially. 'I know. And you wish you could work with us some more.' He sighed. 'I'm sorry. You really have helped us a lot. But it's one day to a contractor, I'm afraid.' He smiled gently. 'Look at it this way,' he suggested. 'You never have to work again.' He clasped Jereth's hand one last time. 'You have done a good day's work. Good- bye.'
Standing outside the towering building, Jereth looked up at it once again, nostalgic already for his one great experience with it. I have to remember it all, he thought. I have to tell Marika all about it. She'll be thrilled.
The man with the million-dollar memory turned on his heel and went to hail a hovercab back to Gheniville.
I said the ghost of Philip K Dick haunted my dreams. I didn't say he had the last word.
That man never let his heroes have a good time. Or get paid.
I may not be PK Dick. But I'm nicer than that.
05 March 2011
Progressive Dinner
A "progressive dinner" is an old American custom in which a group of people have different courses of a meal at different homes. In this story, the venue of the meal doesn't change - but there's a progressive aspect to the dining experience. ;) Cicero's isn't there any more - at least, I couldn't find it on google. Google street view will allow one to take a virtual tour of Forbes Ave, however.
Put your antennae down.
RAT-A-TAT-TAT....
The corridor of the battleprobe – typical Serenellian design, old, bulky, exuding a general air of malicious militarism – echoed with the sound of plasma bullets, while the accompanying flashes of tracer turned the ugly gunmetal walls an uglier puke green in spurts. Arpad glanced around as he fired, and spotted Arvid doing his patented one-and-a-half millisecond reload. He shouted – the only way to make himself heard above the din.
"To the airlock! Fifteen seconds to detonation!" Arvid's helmet bobbed in acknowledgement, and they ran.
They made it, just in time. The Galactic Police cruiser was jumping into warp when the rogue probe's career of marauding, murder, and general mayhem ended with a hideous bang – a visual one, at least, on the vidscreen, though space doesn't run to talkies. General A'no"iANS gave the two troopers a thumbs-up.
"Good work, you two. As always. There's a reception laid on in the Deck 3 mess. See you there." He winked. "I wouldn't be surprised if there were a couple of citations for you in this day's work."
They changed out of combat gear and into standard uniform. Striding down the corridor, Arpad whispered to Arvid, "Are you looking forward to this dinner?"
Arvid grimaced. "Reconstituted freeze-dried tahacoes and a canned speech about truth, justice, and the Galactic Way? What do you think?"
Arpad grinned. "Then come with me. I know a great little eatery you haven't been to yet."
Arvid flashed his buddy a grateful look. "Swell idea. If I never eat another candied-chili-filled tahaco, it will be too soon."
He would have said more – about the last six months' assignment, about the Serenellians' irritating habit of trying to claim star systems that did not belong to them, about the lousy cuisine in this sector – but Arpad had grabbed his (Arvid's) arm, twisted a dial on his (Arpad's) wrist, and the entire scene had shimmered out of existence...
...to be replaced by something completely different.
The ground was solid, the street was full of traffic, and the hour was blue. Arvid gazed around in appreciation.
"Where are we?"
Arpad checked his wrist device. "Earth, North America, a city called Pittsburgh. 1970 is their year, never mind ours. You'll like it, promise."
Arvid turned around and looked –up. Way up. "That's not your 'little eatery', is it?"
Arpad followed his gaze. "No, silly, that's the university building. 42 storeys. All they have is a hamburg joint in the subbasement. Come with me – wait!" He hissed. "Drop the antennae! Nobody wears them here. It's a hair-only zone. Lots of hair, though." Arvid dutifully lowered his cerebral appendages, and Arpad steered them both down the street, labelled at its corners "Forbes Ave", while Arvid admired the interesting beings. One of them tried to sell him something called The Fair Witness– a sort of blog made from paper – while another made what seemed to pass for music on a stringed box.
Ignoring the strains of one, two, three, what are we fighting for?, Arvid asked anxiously, "Are we dressed okay? They seem to wear a lot of tribal beads."
Arpad shrugged. "We're okay. The beads are optional. This is one corner of the universe where jeans and t-shirts that say 'Galactic Police Force' are not going to raise eyebrows." They meandered through the evening student crowd, past quaint, small shops peddling books, antique (well, maybe not) sound-producing equipment, and ceramic "gifts" intended, no doubt, as insulting messages to one's bitterest enemies. Arvid gawked. In one window, a man was tossing dough into the air under a sign that boasted, 'Flying pizza. You order 'em, we fly 'em.' He pointed to a set of yellow arches over one building. "Did you want to eat there? It says something about hamburgs."
Arpad waved this away. "No. Definitely not. The man who invented that poison should have been spaced. Here we are, the ne plus ultra of fine dining, my friend." He beamed as he pointed to the sign above the entrance: CICERO'S.
Before they could go in, Arvid had another question. "What about this?" He pointed to the small, discreet-er sign beside the door:
Arpad explained. "To eat here, it is necessary to cover both the upper body and the feet. It is a law."
Arvid scratched his head, causing his antennae to appear briefly. "But what if..."
After three thousand years, Arpad knew what was coming. "If you only wear a shirt and shoes, you get arrested. This is a prudish planet. Come on, I'm starving." And he opened the door.
The interior was underlit, comfortable, with leather seats in the booths. Arvid could not resist touching the fuzzy red-and-gold wallpaper, so he didn't. Arpad muttered something about "Early Cathouse", and then a gum-chewing waitress in a pale green uniform turned up, pulling a pencil from behind her ear. (Arpad knew what Arvid was thinking, and gave him a dirty look before he asked about antennae.)
"What'll y'uns have to drink?"
Arpad looked around, and thought fast. "Er, two Censored Marys1, please." The waitress looked blank.
"Sorry. We don't got none of them fancy drinks in here. I can get you whiskey sours, though."
"Sounds good."
"Irish, Scotch, or bourbon?"
"Irish, please. Rocks." While the waitress was off getting the drinks, they studied the menu. Arvid wanted to know how the currency converted – and then wanted to know why these people were giving food away. Arpad explained about the current lack of inflation, then what inflation was, and had just about got to the Orionian Platinum Panic of '03 when the whiskey sours arrived, cold, tart, and inviting. They accepted the invitation, ordered Number Three on the menu – salad, steak, well-done (no starship trooper ever eats rare meat, he's seen too much), baked potato (after explanation of tubers to Arvid), green beans, and ice cream for dessert. The waitress went off to process this. Arvid sipped his iced drink, surprised at the flavours. Arpad was about to tell a Pittsburgh joke – he'd just remembered one – when a persistent beeping began in Arvid's left rear pocket. "Oh, fnark."
Arpad reached across and grabbed Arvid by the arm before he could complete the fatal move of bringing out his mobile. "Not here," he hissed. "The only person on this planet who has one of those right now is the star of a cheap scifi vid. In there." He jerked his head in the direction of a door marked "Men".
Arvid looked at it curiously. "What do they do in there?"
"You don't want to know. Just go in there and answer it." Arvid obeyed, scooting into the room with his pocket still beeping softly. Within thirty seconds, a middle-aged man with a shirt that said "Len" emerged and made his way, somewhat unsteadily, to the bar.
"You wouldn't believe what that guy's doin' in there. He's talkin' on a little-bitty phone." The bartender rolled his eyes and set another beer in front of him. Arvid slid back into the booth.
"Bad news, I'm afraid. They need us in Sector 9. And before you ask, no, they need us now. Something about a mad professor, and temporospatial simultaneity."
Arpad sighed, they took last sips of drinks, clasped arms, and vanished.
The incident in the Farradisic Asteroid Belt, involving (as it did) a galaxy-renowned scientist gone off the deep end, a time-scoop device in urgent need of repair, and the possible end of civilisation as everybody knew it, took longer than Arvid and Arpad liked. So it was a few months later when they rematerialised in the booth at Cicero's.
Nobody noticed this except Len, who was amazingly perceptive for someone with his bibulous habits. The bartender waved away his protests, and wiped up spilled Iron City2.
Since no time had passed, their drinks were still cold, and since Arvid and Arpad were bored with manganochutney and fermented pulpa, they went down a treat. More were ordered, and the salad course arrived.
Arvid looked at it dubiously. "Er, Arpad, I don't like to complain, but we've just travelled quite a lot of light-years for what appears to be a wedge of iceberg lettuce topped with some sort of thick, pink sauce with tiny bits in."
"Arvid, my lad, this is true. Those bits are the reason it is called Thousand Island Dressing – or, at least, I think so. This is a simple Terran dish. But when you consider that this iceberg lettuce is the best iceberg lettuce in the known universe..."
Arvid nodded. Arvid tasted. Arvid's eyes lit up. "You're right! This is amazing iceberg lettuce." They enjoyed this treat in silence, and anticipated steaks...
Unfortunately, at this point, the mobile (silenced by a wary Arvid) began vibrating violently, and the troopers had to link arms before the next round of drinks arrived.
The Horsehead Nebula Uprising is, of course, infamous, and since the details are in all the standard interactive history courses, we will omit them here. Suffice it to say that Arvid and Arpad were heartily tired of alkali deserts, multi-dimensional warfare, and the acrid taste of dried megamarsupial. They slipped into their seats at Cicero's, salivating at the idea of charred bovine.
"Hey!" yelled Len. "They did it again. Those two blonds back there. They shimmered."
"Oh, yeah? Shimmered?" groused the bartender. "You are flagged, buddy. Don't be so nebby. Leave those guys alone." And Len's Iron City tab was closed for the evening.
The steaks were everything the two travellers had hoped for – succulent, well-marbled, robust. The baked potato, complete with sour cream, butter, and chives, startled Arvid with the subtlety of its flavour. The green beans were, well, tasty. They chewed in silence, enjoying the ambience and the novelty of good dining.
The mobile had the good sense not to go off until they'd eaten the last bite. Otherwise, they might have damaged government property.
Long and arduous was the trek of the Galluminids. Many, many years of police escort were required until this spacefaring race – its migration of paramount importance to stellar peace – had at last reached its new haven in Geminid City. The Galluminids are a hospitable species. They gladly share their daily ration of halli halli rice, sometimes enlivened with a dollop of seya sauce. The sacrifices of the Galactic Police were appreciated. They gave them medals and a parade.
Thus it was that Arpad and Arvid arrived again at Cicero's, weary, weary of the galaxy and all its problems, to enjoy their (just) desserts.
Len stared at them, opened his mouth, closed it again, and headed in a zig-zag for the door.
The waitress appeared. "Y'uns decide what ice cream you wanted?"
Arpad looked at her hopefully. "Butter pecan?" She nodded and left.
They sipped the last of their drinks in peace (because, contrary to orders, they had turned the mobile off). The ice cream arrived – two small, shallow bowls, each containing a single round scoop of frozen deliciousness with real pecans in. They picked up spoons, tasted.
And smiled.
"This is fantastic," said Arvid. "It's just...just...fantastic." Arpad nodded.
"Like I said, the food on Earth is the best in all the 7,000 worlds." Arvid agreed.
The bill came to a modest $8.80. Arpad left a good tip.
And slowly, oh so slowly, savouring the moment, the two troopers walked out into the deepening city night.
"Arvid? Have you ever seen a celluloid movie? I think there's one playing down the street..."
 |
| The longest way round is oft the shortest way home. |
A "progressive dinner" is an old American custom in which a group of people have different courses of a meal at different homes. In this story, the venue of the meal doesn't change - but there's a progressive aspect to the dining experience. ;) Cicero's isn't there any more - at least, I couldn't find it on google. Google street view will allow one to take a virtual tour of Forbes Ave, however.
Put your antennae down.
In which our heroes are brave, as usual
RAT-A-TAT-TAT....
The corridor of the battleprobe – typical Serenellian design, old, bulky, exuding a general air of malicious militarism – echoed with the sound of plasma bullets, while the accompanying flashes of tracer turned the ugly gunmetal walls an uglier puke green in spurts. Arpad glanced around as he fired, and spotted Arvid doing his patented one-and-a-half millisecond reload. He shouted – the only way to make himself heard above the din.
"To the airlock! Fifteen seconds to detonation!" Arvid's helmet bobbed in acknowledgement, and they ran.
They made it, just in time. The Galactic Police cruiser was jumping into warp when the rogue probe's career of marauding, murder, and general mayhem ended with a hideous bang – a visual one, at least, on the vidscreen, though space doesn't run to talkies. General A'no"iANS gave the two troopers a thumbs-up.
"Good work, you two. As always. There's a reception laid on in the Deck 3 mess. See you there." He winked. "I wouldn't be surprised if there were a couple of citations for you in this day's work."
They changed out of combat gear and into standard uniform. Striding down the corridor, Arpad whispered to Arvid, "Are you looking forward to this dinner?"
Arvid grimaced. "Reconstituted freeze-dried tahacoes and a canned speech about truth, justice, and the Galactic Way? What do you think?"
Arpad grinned. "Then come with me. I know a great little eatery you haven't been to yet."
Arvid flashed his buddy a grateful look. "Swell idea. If I never eat another candied-chili-filled tahaco, it will be too soon."
He would have said more – about the last six months' assignment, about the Serenellians' irritating habit of trying to claim star systems that did not belong to them, about the lousy cuisine in this sector – but Arpad had grabbed his (Arvid's) arm, twisted a dial on his (Arpad's) wrist, and the entire scene had shimmered out of existence...
...to be replaced by something completely different.
In which our heroes drink something interesting
The ground was solid, the street was full of traffic, and the hour was blue. Arvid gazed around in appreciation.
"Where are we?"
Arpad checked his wrist device. "Earth, North America, a city called Pittsburgh. 1970 is their year, never mind ours. You'll like it, promise."
Arvid turned around and looked –up. Way up. "That's not your 'little eatery', is it?"
Arpad followed his gaze. "No, silly, that's the university building. 42 storeys. All they have is a hamburg joint in the subbasement. Come with me – wait!" He hissed. "Drop the antennae! Nobody wears them here. It's a hair-only zone. Lots of hair, though." Arvid dutifully lowered his cerebral appendages, and Arpad steered them both down the street, labelled at its corners "Forbes Ave", while Arvid admired the interesting beings. One of them tried to sell him something called The Fair Witness– a sort of blog made from paper – while another made what seemed to pass for music on a stringed box.
Ignoring the strains of one, two, three, what are we fighting for?, Arvid asked anxiously, "Are we dressed okay? They seem to wear a lot of tribal beads."
Arpad shrugged. "We're okay. The beads are optional. This is one corner of the universe where jeans and t-shirts that say 'Galactic Police Force' are not going to raise eyebrows." They meandered through the evening student crowd, past quaint, small shops peddling books, antique (well, maybe not) sound-producing equipment, and ceramic "gifts" intended, no doubt, as insulting messages to one's bitterest enemies. Arvid gawked. In one window, a man was tossing dough into the air under a sign that boasted, 'Flying pizza. You order 'em, we fly 'em.' He pointed to a set of yellow arches over one building. "Did you want to eat there? It says something about hamburgs."
Arpad waved this away. "No. Definitely not. The man who invented that poison should have been spaced. Here we are, the ne plus ultra of fine dining, my friend." He beamed as he pointed to the sign above the entrance: CICERO'S.
Before they could go in, Arvid had another question. "What about this?" He pointed to the small, discreet-er sign beside the door:
No shirt
No shoes
No service
Arpad explained. "To eat here, it is necessary to cover both the upper body and the feet. It is a law."
Arvid scratched his head, causing his antennae to appear briefly. "But what if..."
After three thousand years, Arpad knew what was coming. "If you only wear a shirt and shoes, you get arrested. This is a prudish planet. Come on, I'm starving." And he opened the door.
The interior was underlit, comfortable, with leather seats in the booths. Arvid could not resist touching the fuzzy red-and-gold wallpaper, so he didn't. Arpad muttered something about "Early Cathouse", and then a gum-chewing waitress in a pale green uniform turned up, pulling a pencil from behind her ear. (Arpad knew what Arvid was thinking, and gave him a dirty look before he asked about antennae.)
"What'll y'uns have to drink?"
Arpad looked around, and thought fast. "Er, two Censored Marys1, please." The waitress looked blank.
"Sorry. We don't got none of them fancy drinks in here. I can get you whiskey sours, though."
"Sounds good."
"Irish, Scotch, or bourbon?"
"Irish, please. Rocks." While the waitress was off getting the drinks, they studied the menu. Arvid wanted to know how the currency converted – and then wanted to know why these people were giving food away. Arpad explained about the current lack of inflation, then what inflation was, and had just about got to the Orionian Platinum Panic of '03 when the whiskey sours arrived, cold, tart, and inviting. They accepted the invitation, ordered Number Three on the menu – salad, steak, well-done (no starship trooper ever eats rare meat, he's seen too much), baked potato (after explanation of tubers to Arvid), green beans, and ice cream for dessert. The waitress went off to process this. Arvid sipped his iced drink, surprised at the flavours. Arpad was about to tell a Pittsburgh joke – he'd just remembered one – when a persistent beeping began in Arvid's left rear pocket. "Oh, fnark."
Arpad reached across and grabbed Arvid by the arm before he could complete the fatal move of bringing out his mobile. "Not here," he hissed. "The only person on this planet who has one of those right now is the star of a cheap scifi vid. In there." He jerked his head in the direction of a door marked "Men".
Arvid looked at it curiously. "What do they do in there?"
"You don't want to know. Just go in there and answer it." Arvid obeyed, scooting into the room with his pocket still beeping softly. Within thirty seconds, a middle-aged man with a shirt that said "Len" emerged and made his way, somewhat unsteadily, to the bar.
"You wouldn't believe what that guy's doin' in there. He's talkin' on a little-bitty phone." The bartender rolled his eyes and set another beer in front of him. Arvid slid back into the booth.
"Bad news, I'm afraid. They need us in Sector 9. And before you ask, no, they need us now. Something about a mad professor, and temporospatial simultaneity."
Arpad sighed, they took last sips of drinks, clasped arms, and vanished.
In which our heroes return for salad
The incident in the Farradisic Asteroid Belt, involving (as it did) a galaxy-renowned scientist gone off the deep end, a time-scoop device in urgent need of repair, and the possible end of civilisation as everybody knew it, took longer than Arvid and Arpad liked. So it was a few months later when they rematerialised in the booth at Cicero's.
Nobody noticed this except Len, who was amazingly perceptive for someone with his bibulous habits. The bartender waved away his protests, and wiped up spilled Iron City2.
Since no time had passed, their drinks were still cold, and since Arvid and Arpad were bored with manganochutney and fermented pulpa, they went down a treat. More were ordered, and the salad course arrived.
Arvid looked at it dubiously. "Er, Arpad, I don't like to complain, but we've just travelled quite a lot of light-years for what appears to be a wedge of iceberg lettuce topped with some sort of thick, pink sauce with tiny bits in."
"Arvid, my lad, this is true. Those bits are the reason it is called Thousand Island Dressing – or, at least, I think so. This is a simple Terran dish. But when you consider that this iceberg lettuce is the best iceberg lettuce in the known universe..."
Arvid nodded. Arvid tasted. Arvid's eyes lit up. "You're right! This is amazing iceberg lettuce." They enjoyed this treat in silence, and anticipated steaks...
Unfortunately, at this point, the mobile (silenced by a wary Arvid) began vibrating violently, and the troopers had to link arms before the next round of drinks arrived.
In which it is shown that one man's meat is another's invitation to join a support group
The Horsehead Nebula Uprising is, of course, infamous, and since the details are in all the standard interactive history courses, we will omit them here. Suffice it to say that Arvid and Arpad were heartily tired of alkali deserts, multi-dimensional warfare, and the acrid taste of dried megamarsupial. They slipped into their seats at Cicero's, salivating at the idea of charred bovine.
"Hey!" yelled Len. "They did it again. Those two blonds back there. They shimmered."
"Oh, yeah? Shimmered?" groused the bartender. "You are flagged, buddy. Don't be so nebby. Leave those guys alone." And Len's Iron City tab was closed for the evening.
The steaks were everything the two travellers had hoped for – succulent, well-marbled, robust. The baked potato, complete with sour cream, butter, and chives, startled Arvid with the subtlety of its flavour. The green beans were, well, tasty. They chewed in silence, enjoying the ambience and the novelty of good dining.
The mobile had the good sense not to go off until they'd eaten the last bite. Otherwise, they might have damaged government property.
In which it is shown that some things are worth waiting for
Long and arduous was the trek of the Galluminids. Many, many years of police escort were required until this spacefaring race – its migration of paramount importance to stellar peace – had at last reached its new haven in Geminid City. The Galluminids are a hospitable species. They gladly share their daily ration of halli halli rice, sometimes enlivened with a dollop of seya sauce. The sacrifices of the Galactic Police were appreciated. They gave them medals and a parade.
Thus it was that Arpad and Arvid arrived again at Cicero's, weary, weary of the galaxy and all its problems, to enjoy their (just) desserts.
Len stared at them, opened his mouth, closed it again, and headed in a zig-zag for the door.
The waitress appeared. "Y'uns decide what ice cream you wanted?"
Arpad looked at her hopefully. "Butter pecan?" She nodded and left.
They sipped the last of their drinks in peace (because, contrary to orders, they had turned the mobile off). The ice cream arrived – two small, shallow bowls, each containing a single round scoop of frozen deliciousness with real pecans in. They picked up spoons, tasted.
And smiled.
"This is fantastic," said Arvid. "It's just...just...fantastic." Arpad nodded.
 |
| The siren call of Iron City beer |
"Like I said, the food on Earth is the best in all the 7,000 worlds." Arvid agreed.
The bill came to a modest $8.80. Arpad left a good tip.
And slowly, oh so slowly, savouring the moment, the two troopers walked out into the deepening city night.
"Arvid? Have you ever seen a celluloid movie? I think there's one playing down the street..."
03 March 2011
Pantographers
It had gone dark outside when Jim switched on the light in the T-Square Gospel Church's basement. It was chilly, too, although the old boiler in the room next door was making noises indicative of working. Jim shrugged, hitched up the sleeves of his jumper, and started unpacking folding chairs. Soon, four rows of battered metal seats announced Property of MacSweeney's Funeral Home to anyone coming through the street entrance.
There were a few early arrivals: Pamela started the coffee urn, while Giselle unpacked her home-made goodies – oatmeal raisin cookies and some rich-looking brownies (Jim joked with her about the brownies' ingredients). Stu Argyle laid the hymnbooks on the chairs, while Jack Dalrymple set up the speaker's stand and hooked up the laptop projector, in case anybody brought visual material. Setting up went pretty quickly, and the volunteers were soon sipping java from Styrofoam cups while they chatted to the membership, a collection of men and women of pretty much all sizes and ages, dressed mostly in jeans and jumpers, since it was an informal meeting and the fall air was pretty nippy. When everybody had got a coffee, Jim rapped his knuckles on the wooden lectern and called them all to order.
He smiled as he looked around at largely familiar faces. "Welcome. Before we begin, does anybody have anything special to report?" A man Jim didn't know stood up, glancing around nervously, and cleared his throat.
"Er, my name is Alexander...and I'm an alcoholic." He looked down.
There was a brief, embarrassed silence. One of the women patted Alexander's arm gently in empathy. Jim stepped in. "I'm sorry, sir, the AA meeting is next door, at St Eusebius. Dave, there, will help you find it. Give them our best. You folks do fine work."
Alexander, beet-red, nodded as a burly man in construction overalls gestured to him, but stopped to ask, "What do you people have trouble with, then?"
Jim scratched his head. "I guess you might say we all have epistemological problems." Alexander nodded solemnly. "Good luck with that." There were murmurs of thanks as the puzzled visitor was guided out the door to find Bill's other friends. The others laughed, and Jim shrugged as he said, "I declare this meeting of the Pantographic Society to be open for business." He pulled a couple of index cards from his back pocket and consulted his notes.
"Last week, we had three really good recordings, and I got some positive feedback from HQ." Jim coughed. "There were a daisy and an old diaper pin left on my doorstep." The members made approving noises. "Before we get to the reports, have we got any new members?" Jim knew they had, but waited until two shy-looking teenagers, a boy and a girl, raised their hands. He nodded at them. "We'll get to know you later, but if everybody's okay with it, I'll go through the introductory now." Sensing general assent, Jim launched into his spiel.
"We're all here because somebody gave us one of these." Jim indicated the pin on his jumper, the one they were all wearing.
"And, of course, a card with the meeting time and location on it. You were recruited, or whatever, because something you said, or did, struck the person who gave you that pin as indicating that you had a talent for the project we're working on." He grinned.
"Now, don't get worried, and don't run off yet. It doesn't hurt, it's not illegal in any of the 50 states, and it doesn't cost a penny. Really. Just a little of your time. Now, you newcomers hang around and watch us, see what we do. If it's boring, or makes you uncomfortable, don't come back, and nobody will come calling. That's why we don't ask your names, addresses, or phone numbers. If you don't want to know us, we don't want to bother you. And if sitting in a damp church basement seems a waste of your time – or if what we're doing looks, well, dorky – so be it. We can live with that." Jim rubbed clammy hands on his jeans (he wasn't kidding about the damp basement), and nodded to Dave, who had returned from next door. "Dave's got a report for us, then we'll break, and then Emily will lead us in the Exercise." As Dave walked up to the lectern, a few of the more methodical members got out pads and pencils.
Dave turned on the laptop projector, and somebody dimmed the lights, and the group were treated to a video of Dave's kitchen. For the next half hour, Dave (on the video) demonstrated how to make scratch biscuits. The camera was set up so that the viewer could see inside the oven. 23 people sat in concentration as the dough rose and the biscuits turned brown.
Afterwards, there was applause. There were a few questions, such as, "What do your fingers feel like when you have Crisco and buttermilk stuck on them?" and "What does the kitchen smell like when the biscuits are baking?" Dave closed his eyes while answering thoughtfully.
After the presentation, Jim got up again. "Thanks, Dave, that one spoke to my condition. Which is hungry." Laughter. "I suggest we break for snacks. Be sure to get one of Giselle's brownies, everybody. We'll be doing the Exercise in about 20 minutes." Shuffling of metal on concrete, as members headed for the refreshment table or out into the hall for smokes and visits to the john.
The two teenagers buttonholed Jim by the coffee urn. The girl, a petite brunette, spoke without looking at Jim directly. "Hey, mister..."
"Jim."
She shrugged slightly, with one shoulder. "Jim. We get the video, really cool, and we kinda-sorta think we know what it's about, but could you fill us in a little on the cleartext?"
Giselle sailed by, deposited brownies-onna-napkin in unwary hands, sailed on, while Jim mustered thoughts. "Okay, sure. You know what a pantograph is, and what it does?"
The boy, tall, lanky, shaven head and at least two visible tattoos, nodded as he washed down a brownie with a gulp of coffee – if he hadn't seen it, Jim wouldn't have believed it. "Yep. It's just an analogue copier. Invented in 1603. Cool. What's it got to do with making biscuits?"
Jim grinned. "Well, a pantograph can copy a picture from one flat surface – say a piece of paper – to another. It's analogue, as you say, and low-tech, and involves tracing. Right?"
They nodded, mouths full. Jim noted that Giselle's cooking was a hit. "A drawing itself is a way of recording a kind of experience. The visual kind. But what about other kinds of experience?"
The boy wiped his mouth with a napkin. "I get you. Records for sound – wax cylinders. Discs. That's what they used to have. Movie camera, light, movement." He looked at Jim directly for the first time, to see if he understood. Jim did.
"Quite right. But what if there are aspects to an event, an experience, if you will, that go beyond sound and light? Maybe even beyond the ordinary senses people are used to?"
The girl blinked. Then she got it. "Oh! Like the direct apperception of space-time?"
Jim stared at her for a minute, and then burst out laughing, startling elderly Joe Buchbinder, who was just passing. "Direct appercep-...yes, ma'am, you've got the idea." Before he could say any more, the boy chimed in. "Awesome. Yeah. Like the stuff-in-the-cracks you can't explain to your kid brother about why Chirping Angels is a lame group, when everybody says they're the next hot thing, because the space in their songs is, like, dead, man, totally brain-dead..." He stopped, embarrassed, but Jim was smiling encouragement.
"You guys get it. We're doing it, you see? Making our own pantographic recordings. Using this..." Jim pointed to his head..."and this..." pointing to his heart, "...and probably a few other chakras we haven't discovered yet. You see, we think that most people have gone digital about reality. They expect it to be there without their thinking about it. And we suspect..."
The girl's eyes were shining. "...that there might be holes in the paradigm." She fingered her pin. "I think you're right."
The boy looked thoughtful. "But who's reading the recordings?"
Jim shrugged. "You know, I could say something wise, like 'That would be telling', but I wouldn't kid you. I don't have a clue. I don't think the old guy knew, either – the tramp who handed me the box of pins in the diner. I'd bought him some breakfast, you see, and he ate his bacon and eggs and then just sat there, watching me watch the raindrops run down the window outside. Then he gave me the box of pins and a beat-up paperback by Carlos Castaneda, thanked me for the grub, and took off." He laughed. "Ever since then, all I get are cryptic messages on my doorstep."
The boy grinned, showing crooked teeth. "Like a daisy and a diaper pin. Cool." He looked like he wanted to say more, but Pam came around and shooed them back to their seats, and Jim went to play moderator again.
"I hope everybody enjoyed the refreshments. Were there any other reports?" A tall, gaunt woman in her fifties raised her hand. "Marilyn?"
Marilyn spoke with a clipped accent. "I have found the perfect spot for squirrel-watching. In Clark Park. It's not always quiet, but you can sometimes get an entire 10 minutes' worth of reality over there if you're patient." She flashed large, white teeth. "See me, and I'll show you." She sat down.
There were a few more reports of that type, and then Jim said, "Thanks, everybody. Now I'll hand the meeting over to Emily." Emily, a white-haired woman with glasses, walked to the front carrying a box.
She looked around. "Are you all where you can see? Today's Exercise will involve an object." From the box, she took a largish brass vessel, which rang as she set it on the table.
Joe Buchbinder laughed. "Em, that's a spittoon." Emily shot him a sharp look.
"I know what it is, Joe. You are invited to think any thoughts you like about it. Just don't giggle."
Joe snorted. "I don't giggle."
There was laughter at this, and Pam went to sit by Joe, claiming she could see better from there. Emily took her seat, and for the next half hour, the silence was broken only by the grumbling of the boiler as 23 observers took in the is-ness of a brass cuspidor from a second-hand shop...the old, dull, unpolished surface, the crevices in the decorative pattern...the heft and weight of it to the eye...much was read, but nothing was spoken...
After Emily called time, the meeting broke up, and people helped put up chairs and wash the coffee urn before leaving. The boy and girl – who said their names were Brian and Tiffany – thanked Jim. Tiffany was curious.
"I saw that brass turn a thousand colours. Tell me the truth – what was in those brownies?"
Giselle overheard this, and laughed. "Genuine nut and gluten–free product, that was," she insisted. "Several members have allergies."
And with that, the weekly meeting of the Pantographic Society broke up.
There were a few early arrivals: Pamela started the coffee urn, while Giselle unpacked her home-made goodies – oatmeal raisin cookies and some rich-looking brownies (Jim joked with her about the brownies' ingredients). Stu Argyle laid the hymnbooks on the chairs, while Jack Dalrymple set up the speaker's stand and hooked up the laptop projector, in case anybody brought visual material. Setting up went pretty quickly, and the volunteers were soon sipping java from Styrofoam cups while they chatted to the membership, a collection of men and women of pretty much all sizes and ages, dressed mostly in jeans and jumpers, since it was an informal meeting and the fall air was pretty nippy. When everybody had got a coffee, Jim rapped his knuckles on the wooden lectern and called them all to order.
He smiled as he looked around at largely familiar faces. "Welcome. Before we begin, does anybody have anything special to report?" A man Jim didn't know stood up, glancing around nervously, and cleared his throat.
"Er, my name is Alexander...and I'm an alcoholic." He looked down.
There was a brief, embarrassed silence. One of the women patted Alexander's arm gently in empathy. Jim stepped in. "I'm sorry, sir, the AA meeting is next door, at St Eusebius. Dave, there, will help you find it. Give them our best. You folks do fine work."
Alexander, beet-red, nodded as a burly man in construction overalls gestured to him, but stopped to ask, "What do you people have trouble with, then?"
Jim scratched his head. "I guess you might say we all have epistemological problems." Alexander nodded solemnly. "Good luck with that." There were murmurs of thanks as the puzzled visitor was guided out the door to find Bill's other friends. The others laughed, and Jim shrugged as he said, "I declare this meeting of the Pantographic Society to be open for business." He pulled a couple of index cards from his back pocket and consulted his notes.
"Last week, we had three really good recordings, and I got some positive feedback from HQ." Jim coughed. "There were a daisy and an old diaper pin left on my doorstep." The members made approving noises. "Before we get to the reports, have we got any new members?" Jim knew they had, but waited until two shy-looking teenagers, a boy and a girl, raised their hands. He nodded at them. "We'll get to know you later, but if everybody's okay with it, I'll go through the introductory now." Sensing general assent, Jim launched into his spiel.
"And, of course, a card with the meeting time and location on it. You were recruited, or whatever, because something you said, or did, struck the person who gave you that pin as indicating that you had a talent for the project we're working on." He grinned.
"Now, don't get worried, and don't run off yet. It doesn't hurt, it's not illegal in any of the 50 states, and it doesn't cost a penny. Really. Just a little of your time. Now, you newcomers hang around and watch us, see what we do. If it's boring, or makes you uncomfortable, don't come back, and nobody will come calling. That's why we don't ask your names, addresses, or phone numbers. If you don't want to know us, we don't want to bother you. And if sitting in a damp church basement seems a waste of your time – or if what we're doing looks, well, dorky – so be it. We can live with that." Jim rubbed clammy hands on his jeans (he wasn't kidding about the damp basement), and nodded to Dave, who had returned from next door. "Dave's got a report for us, then we'll break, and then Emily will lead us in the Exercise." As Dave walked up to the lectern, a few of the more methodical members got out pads and pencils.
Dave turned on the laptop projector, and somebody dimmed the lights, and the group were treated to a video of Dave's kitchen. For the next half hour, Dave (on the video) demonstrated how to make scratch biscuits. The camera was set up so that the viewer could see inside the oven. 23 people sat in concentration as the dough rose and the biscuits turned brown.
Afterwards, there was applause. There were a few questions, such as, "What do your fingers feel like when you have Crisco and buttermilk stuck on them?" and "What does the kitchen smell like when the biscuits are baking?" Dave closed his eyes while answering thoughtfully.
After the presentation, Jim got up again. "Thanks, Dave, that one spoke to my condition. Which is hungry." Laughter. "I suggest we break for snacks. Be sure to get one of Giselle's brownies, everybody. We'll be doing the Exercise in about 20 minutes." Shuffling of metal on concrete, as members headed for the refreshment table or out into the hall for smokes and visits to the john.
The two teenagers buttonholed Jim by the coffee urn. The girl, a petite brunette, spoke without looking at Jim directly. "Hey, mister..."
"Jim."
She shrugged slightly, with one shoulder. "Jim. We get the video, really cool, and we kinda-sorta think we know what it's about, but could you fill us in a little on the cleartext?"
Giselle sailed by, deposited brownies-onna-napkin in unwary hands, sailed on, while Jim mustered thoughts. "Okay, sure. You know what a pantograph is, and what it does?"
The boy, tall, lanky, shaven head and at least two visible tattoos, nodded as he washed down a brownie with a gulp of coffee – if he hadn't seen it, Jim wouldn't have believed it. "Yep. It's just an analogue copier. Invented in 1603. Cool. What's it got to do with making biscuits?"
Jim grinned. "Well, a pantograph can copy a picture from one flat surface – say a piece of paper – to another. It's analogue, as you say, and low-tech, and involves tracing. Right?"
They nodded, mouths full. Jim noted that Giselle's cooking was a hit. "A drawing itself is a way of recording a kind of experience. The visual kind. But what about other kinds of experience?"
The boy wiped his mouth with a napkin. "I get you. Records for sound – wax cylinders. Discs. That's what they used to have. Movie camera, light, movement." He looked at Jim directly for the first time, to see if he understood. Jim did.
"Quite right. But what if there are aspects to an event, an experience, if you will, that go beyond sound and light? Maybe even beyond the ordinary senses people are used to?"
The girl blinked. Then she got it. "Oh! Like the direct apperception of space-time?"
Jim stared at her for a minute, and then burst out laughing, startling elderly Joe Buchbinder, who was just passing. "Direct appercep-...yes, ma'am, you've got the idea." Before he could say any more, the boy chimed in. "Awesome. Yeah. Like the stuff-in-the-cracks you can't explain to your kid brother about why Chirping Angels is a lame group, when everybody says they're the next hot thing, because the space in their songs is, like, dead, man, totally brain-dead..." He stopped, embarrassed, but Jim was smiling encouragement.
"You guys get it. We're doing it, you see? Making our own pantographic recordings. Using this..." Jim pointed to his head..."and this..." pointing to his heart, "...and probably a few other chakras we haven't discovered yet. You see, we think that most people have gone digital about reality. They expect it to be there without their thinking about it. And we suspect..."
The girl's eyes were shining. "...that there might be holes in the paradigm." She fingered her pin. "I think you're right."
The boy looked thoughtful. "But who's reading the recordings?"
Jim shrugged. "You know, I could say something wise, like 'That would be telling', but I wouldn't kid you. I don't have a clue. I don't think the old guy knew, either – the tramp who handed me the box of pins in the diner. I'd bought him some breakfast, you see, and he ate his bacon and eggs and then just sat there, watching me watch the raindrops run down the window outside. Then he gave me the box of pins and a beat-up paperback by Carlos Castaneda, thanked me for the grub, and took off." He laughed. "Ever since then, all I get are cryptic messages on my doorstep."
The boy grinned, showing crooked teeth. "Like a daisy and a diaper pin. Cool." He looked like he wanted to say more, but Pam came around and shooed them back to their seats, and Jim went to play moderator again.
"I hope everybody enjoyed the refreshments. Were there any other reports?" A tall, gaunt woman in her fifties raised her hand. "Marilyn?"
Marilyn spoke with a clipped accent. "I have found the perfect spot for squirrel-watching. In Clark Park. It's not always quiet, but you can sometimes get an entire 10 minutes' worth of reality over there if you're patient." She flashed large, white teeth. "See me, and I'll show you." She sat down.
There were a few more reports of that type, and then Jim said, "Thanks, everybody. Now I'll hand the meeting over to Emily." Emily, a white-haired woman with glasses, walked to the front carrying a box.
She looked around. "Are you all where you can see? Today's Exercise will involve an object." From the box, she took a largish brass vessel, which rang as she set it on the table.
Joe Buchbinder laughed. "Em, that's a spittoon." Emily shot him a sharp look.
"I know what it is, Joe. You are invited to think any thoughts you like about it. Just don't giggle."
Joe snorted. "I don't giggle."
There was laughter at this, and Pam went to sit by Joe, claiming she could see better from there. Emily took her seat, and for the next half hour, the silence was broken only by the grumbling of the boiler as 23 observers took in the is-ness of a brass cuspidor from a second-hand shop...the old, dull, unpolished surface, the crevices in the decorative pattern...the heft and weight of it to the eye...much was read, but nothing was spoken...
After Emily called time, the meeting broke up, and people helped put up chairs and wash the coffee urn before leaving. The boy and girl – who said their names were Brian and Tiffany – thanked Jim. Tiffany was curious.
"I saw that brass turn a thousand colours. Tell me the truth – what was in those brownies?"
Giselle overheard this, and laughed. "Genuine nut and gluten–free product, that was," she insisted. "Several members have allergies."
And with that, the weekly meeting of the Pantographic Society broke up.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)