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** ************
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*** *********** **** **** ********* *** **** ***********
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**** ** *** ** *** *** *** ** *** *** **** **
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***** *** *** *** *** **** *** ****
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****** *** ******** ****** ******** ****
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*** *** *** *** *** *** *** **** *******
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*** *** *** *** *** *** ** *** *** ****
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********* ***** **** **** ********* **** *** ****
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*** *** **** **
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*** *** ------------------- **** ***
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****** ***** The Online Magazine ***********
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****** ***** of Amateur Creative Writing ************
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---------------------------
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======================================================================
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February 1990
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Volume II, Issue 1
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Contents
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Etc... .................................................. Jim McCabe
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Editorial
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Cops, Cabs and a Decent Pastrami Sandwich ......... Craig Schlechter
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----------------------------------------- Fiction
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Ouroboros Annie ........................................ Jason Snell
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--------------- Fiction
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Trade Agreement ...................................... Phillip Nolte
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--------------- Fiction
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ATHENE, Copyright 1990 By Jim McCabe.
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Circulation: 532 (18% PostScript)
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This magazine may be archived and reproduced without charge under the
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condition that it remains in its entirety. The individual works
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within are the sole property of their respective authors, and no
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further use of these works is permitted without their explicit
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consent. This ASCII edition was created on an IBM 4381 mainframe,
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using the Xedit System Product Editor.
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Subscriptions: Athene is available in PostScript and ASCII form, and
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is distributed exclusively over electronic computer networks. All
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subscriptions are free. To subscribe, send email to
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MCCABE@MTUS5.BITNET, with a message inicating which format (PostScript
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or ASCII) is desired.
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Etc...
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Jim McCabe
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MCCABE@MTUS5.BITNET
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======================================================================
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Some of you may be wondering just what happened to January, and why
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there hasn't been an issue since mid-December. After all, this magazine
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is supposed to be monthly, right?
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Excuse number 1: Winter Break. I lost a couple of weeks of good
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word-crunching time while I was away from school, visiting my family.
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Excuse number 2: The New Look. The PostScript edition of Athene now
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is greatly improved over the older style, and the changes took about one
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week to complete. For one thing, I started using a newer release of the
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publishing software, which was substantially different from the older
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release. So I had to learn how to use all of its now features, and
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also learn the new ways to accomplish the old familiar tasks.
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Those who read the flat text versions will probably not notice too
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much of a difference -- there is only so much one can do with straight
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ASCII. Sadly, about 80% of the subscribers never see how nice the
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laser-ready magazine looks. The PostScript version is the form I consider
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the "true" Athene, and I start working on the ASCII version only after
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I have the ps release available to serve as a model.
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So, this issue was delayed long enough to make it more like a February
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release, and that's how it will be labeled this time.
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I can foresee this style of journal becoming very popular in the
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near future, now that high-resolution printing and display devices are
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becoming so commonplace. At the moment, I am only aware of one other
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magazine that is distributed preformatted, in some page description
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language like PostScript. That magazine is Quanta, a close relative of
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Athene that specializes in science-fiction-related topics.
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But there seems to no reason to stop at just fiction journals. It would
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be nice to see all sorts of magazines distributed this way, catering
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to a fantastic variety of interests. There is really no reason why this
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shouldn't happen over the next few years.
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In any case, here we are today with the first issue in a new volume of
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this magazine. I hope that, with occasional feedback from the subscribers,
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we can set a standard for excellence that will help to make this medium
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more commonplace and respected.
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Cops, Cabs and a Decent Pastrami Sandwich
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By Craig Schlechter
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cs4d+@andrew.cmu.edu
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Copyright 1989 by Craig Schlechter
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======================================================================
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It was midnight, and Gabrielle and I were standing on the corner
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of Grant Avenue and 79th Street. She had the umbrella, and I was
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soaked. I was standing against a building, but that didn't stop the
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rain from hitting me. I pushed my suitcase further towards her, to
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keep it dry. A car in the distance shone its lights on the back of
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her head, making her hair glow with a bright yellow aura, while hiding
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her face in shadow. I wasn't ready for this, and the first thing it
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reminded me of was an image of the Angel of Death from some late movie
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I'd seen. Then the car drove by, and I could see her smiling,
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wide-eyed. It was midnight and raining and we'd been waiting for a
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bus for the past hour, and still she looked so happy, like there
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wasn't anything else in the world she'd rather be doing.
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Gabrielle was a strange girl. I'm not talking specifically about
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her looks, although they were a bit unusual. She had a very round
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face. Not just the shape of her head, but the cut of her hair, the
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curve of her cheeks. Even the concave slope of her nose seemed to add
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to the roundness. And especially her huge dark eyes, circled by
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round-framed glasses. I couldn't tell you if the rest of her body was
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similarly round, because she always wore layers of formless, baggy
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clothes to hide her figure.
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What I really found strange about Gabrielle, though, was her
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outlook on life. It was as if she had been in a coma for the entire
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time between her eighth and eighteenth birthday. Nothing seemed to
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get her angry. She could get condescending and preachy if you didn't
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agree with her, but she would never argue. Of course, that's because
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she would never listen to what the other person had to say. Before I
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met her, I'd never known anyone who sincerely believed that God looked
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out for the `pure of heart'. I'm Jewish, and to me, the existence of
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this kind of naivete in the 1980's is nothing short of incredible.
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One of the first things I learned, back when I was seven and our pet
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collie got sick and died, was that life is not fair. That's the
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cornerstone of Jewish belief. So when I see that someone has written
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a novel about "Why Bad Things Happen to Good People," I just have to
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laugh.
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I remember being invited to a party her roommates were throwing
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for her. It was her nineteenth birthday, and I had been invited even
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though I didn't know her all that well. I made her a gag gift. I had
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taken a "Beware of Dog" sign and switched the letters so that it read,
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"Beware of God". She loved it. She put it up outside her house, and
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it's still there. I guess she thinks anyone who tries to break into
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her house will get struck by lightning or something. Well, the only
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thing I really remember about that party was that during a lull at the
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beginning, when everyone else was getting everything set up, Gabrielle
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said to me, "So, Craig, are you eating right?" I asked her what she
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meant, and she said, "You know, three square meals a day." I assured
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her that I was. She said this was good. I was tempted to ask her why
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she wanted to know, but then some guests arrived and the party got
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started.
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So what was I doing there, soaking wet, staring up into the
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street lamp, waiting on that corner with Gabrielle? Well, I hadn't
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planned on it. Thanksgiving Break was over, and I was returning to
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school. My train had gotten into the station five hours later than
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scheduled due to some blockage on the tracks. I happened to run into
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her at the station; she had just come in from South Carolina. Her
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parents had seen her off, and she had brought explicit written
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instructions on which bus to take to get back to our campus.
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Unfortunately, her train had arrived late also, and the bus on her
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list, the 44B, didn't run after ten o'clock.
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I suggested we get a cab. She said that she didn't have enough
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money, and it was foolish to pay ten dollars each when the bus could
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make the trip for a dollar and fifty cents. I couldn't just leave her
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there, so I said okay, we'll take the bus. The guy at the information
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desk told us about another route we could take (the 49A), with only
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two transfers required (the 45C and 44A.) She wrote it all down on
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that little piece of paper, which I noticed had her name and address
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in gold lettering at the top.
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I had a bad feeling as I got off that first bus. The driver
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seemed surprised that we were asking for transfers. I could have
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sworn I heard him laugh as he drove off, but Gabrielle assured me it
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was the sound of exhaust from the bus.
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And an hour later, we were still there, on the corner of Fifth
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and 79, waiting for a bus I knew in my heart would never come. I was
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now certain that the 45C existed only in the imagination of the
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Department of Mass Transportation. You know, like the Flying Dutchman
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or something, a bus spoken of only in whispers, that appears out of
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the fog, then rolls off into the distance. I pictured Charon the
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Ferryman from the Greek myths, who ushers dead souls across the River
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Styx to the underworld, I could see him in the driver's seat. He had
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a blue bus driver's cap covering the shiny bone at the top of his
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skull. His hand, like a misshapen cluster of Kellogg's Rice Krispies,
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pointed down the aisle, and a voice like steel scraping steel said,
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"Come on in, Craig. Plenty of room."
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"The bus is real late," Gabrielle said.
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"Yes, it is," I said. Cautiously, I added, "Look, there's a taxi
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down there."
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It was really easy to catch any movement on the streets, since
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the only thing out that night besides Gabrielle and I was the rain.
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Off in the distance, I could see a yellow car approaching, the rain
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glistening in its headlights. Actually, I could tell it was a taxi
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before I saw what color it was, simply by the way he was driving.
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"Um," she said. I knew what that meant. Every time I even
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hinted that we give up waiting and find a cab, she refused. She was
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downright indignant about it. When I asked her why, all she would say
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was, "If God had meant for me to take a taxi, there wouldn't be a bus
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route leading right to my door."
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It didn't really make much difference, anyway. The cab I saw was
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off-duty. For the past half an hour, all the taxis that passed by
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were off-duty, or full of passengers. That's the way the city works.
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The three things in the city you can't find when you need them are
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cops, cabs and a decent pastrami sandwich. It never fails.
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I was getting tired of standing in the rain. The only sound was
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the splatter of water and the hissing of cars in the distance. It
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would have been easy enough to start up a conversation with Gabrielle,
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but to tell the truth, I was afraid to. Talking to Gabrielle is like
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playing verbal Russian Roulette. Sooner or later, you're going to say
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something that she will find offensive, and your conversation turns
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into a sermon. It could be anything, from a food that she finds
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`yucky' to a book she thinks is `blasphemous'.
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I yawned, and when I opened my eyes, this taxi was pulling up in
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front of us, nearly running into the lamp post but neatly avoiding it.
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I had no idea where it had come from. Actually, just calling it a
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taxi doesn't do the car justice. It was a jalopy. I don't know much
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about cars, but I can tell a jalopy when I see one. Dark orange rust
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coated the bottom of the car, like diseased fringe. The front fender
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was completely missing, and it had taken the headlight with it. There
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was a huge dent in the back door, and a piece of clear plastic was
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taped across the window. It had the typical checkered pattern along
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the side, but the sign on the roof had been smashed off.
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The driver leaned over to the passenger window and rolled it
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down. He was a thin-faced man, wearing a ratty sheepskin coat. His
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hair was slicked back, and two gold teeth flashed out from a
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carnivorous grin. He had thick eyebrows, and his eyes were set so
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deep, you couldn't see them.
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"You two need a ride?" he asked.
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I nearly burst out laughing. As far as I was concerned, it
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didn't matter if this guy were pulling a rickshaw. I'd be damned if I
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was going to wait out in the rain for another hour. Here was my
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ticket home, how could I refuse?
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As I opened my mouth, Gabrielle piped up. "No, thank you,
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mister," she said.
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"Hey," the man said. "A nice lady like yourself shouldn't be
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standing out in the rain this late at night. Come on, I'll take you
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anywhere you want to go."
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I could see she was starting to stretch her lips, forming the
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word "No". If she used that magic word, our ride to safety would
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disappear, leaving us stranded.
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"Listen, Gabrielle," I said. "It's late, I'm cold and I'm wet.
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All I want to do is go home. Now. I'll pay for the taxi, the whole
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thing. I don't care anymore. Let's just get out of here. Okay?"
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She stood there, thinking. I tried to look as wet and miserable
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as possible.
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"Well, alright," she said.
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The driver popped the trunk open and I put our suitcases in.
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Gabrielle sat in the front seat, I took the back. I wasn't surprised
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at the condition of the interior. The seat covers were torn, and
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graffiti was scribbled all over the back of the seats. There was a
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plexiglass divider between the front and back, with a small opening in
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the center. The plexiglass was covered with stains I didn't even want
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to try and identify.
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I was a bit surprised that the driver had allowed Gabrielle to
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take the front seat, but I wasn't going to argue. It was like now, I
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didn't feel obligated to act like I was having a good time. Every
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time I saw her smiling on that bus stop, she seemed to be saying,
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"Aren't you having fun?" After just five minutes of it, I was ready to
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ask her "What's so goddamned fun about this?"
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The driver turned around and asked me where we were going. I
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didn't even get a word out. Gabrielle told him the name of the
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college, and the nearest major street, and several of the larger
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intersections near campus, until he said "Okay, I know where that is."
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I looked through the hole in the plexiglass, just to make sure
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there wasn't anything vital missing up front, like the steering wheel.
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That was there, but half the dashboard was gone. Something else was
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missing as well, but I couldn't quite place it. It wasn't until he
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started the engine that I realized that the cab didn't have a meter.
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There wasn't even a CB radio on what remained of the dashboard.
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So, I said, "Uh, excuse me...how much is this going to cost?"
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"Oh, twenty-five dollars," he said. That was a little more than
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what I had expected, but I wasn't about to go back to waiting in the
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rain for the Phantom Bus 45C.
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And with a screech of tires, we were off.
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I had learned my city etiquette lessons a long time ago. Number
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one was, when you're walking down the street, never make eye contact
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with anyone. There's crazy people out there who will yell at you if
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you look at them `wrong'. When I was fourteen, a friend and I were
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just walking along, minding our own business, when this old man walked
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right up to us. He started yelling at my friend, "You got a problem
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or something, you got a problem?" All my friend was guilty of was
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looking at this deranged man as we walked past him. So, I learned
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that rule really well. The second rule, and I'm not sure who taught
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me this, was to keep conversation with cab drivers down to a minimum.
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I think it's because the less you open your mouth, the less chance
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you'll reveal that you're just a tourist, that you don't live in the
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city. This is important, because there are plenty of cabbies out
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there who will try and cheat passengers who don't know any better.
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That was why I was keeping my mouth shut, not to mention the fact
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that being sealed off from the front seat as if I were in a police car
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didn't encourage conversation. Unfortunately, Gabrielle's from South
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Carolina, and hadn't even been to a large city until she was eighteen.
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Right after she fastened her seat belt, which even the driver hadn't
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done, she proceeded to start up a conversation. We soon learned that
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our driver's name was Chico. He told us rather emphatically that he
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didn't work full-time as a cabbie. He only needed to make an extra
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hundred dollars or so to pay for his car insurance.
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Meanwhile, I looked out the windshield, and noticed that he was
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driving on the left side, on the wrong side of the road. He breezed
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right through a red light, and I saw headlights in the distance,
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coming straight towards us. I remembered the taxi's broken headlight.
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The car ahead honked, God knows how he saw us coming, and Chico slid
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calmly back to the right side of the road, completely innocent, as if
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he were just changing lanes.
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Chico was still talking, he didn't even break rhythm. He said,
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"No, most of the time, I work in movies. I'm an extra, you know, for
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those action movies. There's this company called Toughs, that's where
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I work. Whenever Stallone or Schwarzenegger needs some bad guys, you
|
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know, some enemy soldiers to kill, they go to Toughs. It's great, I
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was in Raw Deal. It's just there's not a lot of work right now, so
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I'm doing this."
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And all this time, I was thinking, only a hundred dollars for
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this maniac's car insurance!
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By now I felt like I was on some demented carnival ride. The
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whole situation, with Chico the Cannon Fodder at the wheel, driving as
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if he was the last person alive in the entire city, was almost
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surreal. I couldn't believe it was really happening. I was expecting
|
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to see little cardboard pictures of Mr. Badger and the Weasel gang
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pop up, like in Mr. Toad's Wild Ride at Disney World. Only it would
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be cutouts of women with shopping carts, businessmen dropping their
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attaches, all with crazed looks of horror on their faces. That's why
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I wasn't afraid. I was so sure that any moment, the car would stop,
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and the doors would automatically open, and we would step out and be
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home.
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"This is the turn-off, up ahead," Gabrielle said. I looked out
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the window. We were almost home.
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"Okay, that'll be fifty bucks," Chico said.
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I reminded him that he had said the trip would only cost
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twenty-five dollars.
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"Each," Chico said.
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"That's crazy," I said, "I won't give you fifty."
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"Stop at the blue house," said Gabrielle. "The one with the big
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bright light on in front."
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"You want to go home, it's fifty bucks," Chico said.
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"Look," I said, "you told us twenty-five dollars. I wouldn't
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have done this if you had told us twenty-five each."
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"This one this one this one here on the left," Gabrielle said.
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"No, man, it's fifty."
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"Sorry, I ain't giving you fifty."
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Chico slammed his foot to the floor, and we sped off.
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"You passed it!" Gabrielle said.
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"Fifty bucks," Chico said, "or I take you right back to where I
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picked you up."
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I really think he meant it, too. I think he would have driven
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all the way back and left us there, if Gabrielle hadn't been...well,
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hadn't been Gabrielle. She started insisting that he turn back around
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and let us off. He shouted back about how we shouldn't have gotten
|
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into the cab if we were going to try and cheat him. He was paying
|
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almost no attention to the road, just driving in a straight line, away
|
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from her house. They yelled back and forth, and I was lost. I mean,
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I still thought that this was a big amusement park ride, but now with
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a bigger price of admission.
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I think that if Gabrielle had kept quiet, he would have gone all
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the way back into the city and left us. Instead, he turned into an
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alley and screeched the car to a stop. I sat there in the dark for a
|
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moment, still not sure if this was really happening. I looked up at
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Chico. He was holding something, a dull grey metal thing.
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"Have to do things the hard way, right?" Chico said. I leaned
|
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forward to get a better look, then flew back. It was a gun, and he
|
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was pointing it at Gabrielle. "Okay, lady, drop your purse and get
|
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out. And you too, asshole. Just throw your wallet through the glass
|
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here and get out." He tapped on the plexiglass angrily.
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It took a moment for me to realize that I was staring through a
|
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sheet of plexiglass at a short greasy-haired man holding a gun. My
|
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first thought was, is that a real gun? I quickly decided that I
|
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wasn't going to find out. The next thing I thought was, is this
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plexiglass bullet-proof? It didn't matter. He wasn't pointing the
|
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gun at me, only at Gabrielle.
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I've been mugged before, but never at gunpoint. Being robbed by
|
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guys with knives isn't as frightening. It's a lot easier to kill with
|
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a gun. I pulled out my wallet, and popped it through into the front
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seat.
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"Okay, lady," he said. "Let go of your purse."
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She didn't. She looked him right in the eye and said, "You can't
|
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do this. You just can't."
|
|
|
|
"What are you talking about?" he said, a bit taken aback, "I can
|
|
do whatever I want."
|
|
|
|
"No, you can't mean this. Put that away, you don't mean this."
|
|
|
|
He lifted the gun out the window, and fired a shot like a
|
|
thunderclap.
|
|
|
|
"He means it!" I said, as I shoved the door open. "Give him your
|
|
goddamn purse."
|
|
|
|
Gabrielle flew out the door, and landed on the sidewalk. I
|
|
barely got my leg through when Chico drove off, down into the heavy
|
|
darkness of the alley. In a second, all you could hear was his motor.
|
|
I sat there in a daze, listening to it fade into the distance.
|
|
|
|
Gabrielle was going to be furious, I knew. After all, this was
|
|
all my fault. If I hadn't insisted that we take a taxi home, if we
|
|
had just waited for the bus like God had intended her to, this would
|
|
never have happened. Now, she had lost not only her purse, but her
|
|
luggage as well. I remembered something Buster Keaton had once said,
|
|
"The best way to fight a woman is with your hat. Grab it and run." I
|
|
was considering the merits of this solution when I heard Gabrielle
|
|
start to cry.
|
|
|
|
I looked over to her. She was sitting on the sidewalk hugging
|
|
her knees, and trying unsuccessfully to hold back her tears. "Oh,
|
|
God," she said in a shaky voice, "Oh God, oh God, oh God..."
|
|
|
|
She fell silent, and I couldn't think of anything to say. I felt
|
|
like I should say, "It's alright," but it wasn't alright. We had both
|
|
been robbed and dumped here, and she was getting all wet now, and it
|
|
was not alright.
|
|
|
|
Oh, God," she said, and I thought that would be it, but she
|
|
added, "What happened? God, what happened, why? What did I do?"
|
|
|
|
And then I understood. Here was a girl who had lived such a
|
|
sheltered life, she really believed God was watching over her. She
|
|
did all her work in school, and got very good grades. I had met her
|
|
parents one time when they came to visit her. They were almost
|
|
stereotypical God-fearing southern folks. For nineteen years, her
|
|
Lord provided for her, gave her good parents and let her get into good
|
|
schools, made good things happen. But now, to her mind, God had
|
|
turned. God let her get into that car. God let Chico take everything
|
|
she was carrying. All the crime and death going on in the world
|
|
around her, and none of it had actually touched her until now.
|
|
|
|
I suddenly thought, "About time something like this happened to
|
|
her. She had to learn what the real world is like sooner or later."
|
|
And I believed it, but I hated myself for thinking it. She hadn't
|
|
deserved it. Neither had I, for that matter. How could I possibly
|
|
tell her that this was for the best, that it was a learning
|
|
experience? A chill ran down my back, and I shivered. I had to say
|
|
something.
|
|
|
|
So I said, "Look, there's Center Avenue. Come on, let's get out
|
|
of here. We'll go to your house, and call the cops."
|
|
|
|
I offered her my hand. She wiped her eyes and looked up. I
|
|
helped her to her feet. A neon sign across the street blinked, then
|
|
went out.
|
|
|
|
"How," she started to say, then choked up. She cleared her
|
|
throat. "How can you take this so...so easily?"
|
|
|
|
I said, "Listen, we Jews have been suffering for thousands of
|
|
years. In Ancient Egypt, we were slaves. In the Middle Ages, we had
|
|
the Inquisition. In World War II, we had the Holocaust. This is a
|
|
piece of cake."
|
|
|
|
She laughed, then looked across the street. There was a deli
|
|
over there. It was open until the wee hours of the morning, since it
|
|
was so close to a college campus.
|
|
|
|
She said, "You know, I'm really hungry all of a sudden."
|
|
|
|
I reached down to my ankle.
|
|
|
|
"Rule number three of city etiquette," I said, "is to always
|
|
carry a spare ten dollar bill in your shoe."
|
|
|
|
I pulled the crumpled bill out, and waved it in front of her.
|
|
She held her nose and said, "Ugh, don't get it too close, if it's been
|
|
in your shoe all day it must stink!"
|
|
|
|
"Come on, wise guy," I said, "Let's get something to eat. Just
|
|
don't order pastrami."
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Ouroboros Annie
|
|
By Jason Snell
|
|
pa1033%sdcc13@ucsd.edu
|
|
Copyright 1989 by Jason Snell
|
|
======================================================================
|
|
|
|
OUROBOROS: The mythical serpent which eats its own tail,
|
|
a symbol of the unending cycle of the universe.
|
|
|
|
Where Annie went, it seemed, she left a trail of broken hearts in
|
|
her wake. It wasn't as if she didn't care, wasn't as if she had no
|
|
feelings about the men who fell in love with her-- in fact, she loved
|
|
them, too, in various ways and varying degrees. It hurt Annie, when
|
|
she left them. It had always been her doing-- she was the one to
|
|
sense the end before it came, the one who felt life pressing on her
|
|
back like a five-hundred-pound weight.
|
|
|
|
The end hurt them, all of them, and Annie was always the one who
|
|
caused the end. It was their pain-- that was what hurt Annie. It
|
|
hurt her deep down inside, in the part of her heart reserved for love,
|
|
for tenderness, the part of her heart she treasured the most. At
|
|
times, it felt like her heart would break.
|
|
|
|
But it didn't. Though it hurt like hell sometimes, she always
|
|
got through it. Again, and again. She knew the hurt would always
|
|
come at the end-- but she did it anyway. The hurting part of her
|
|
heart had to heal, and love was the only thing that could heal it.
|
|
The problem was that love was what caused the damage in the first
|
|
place. It was an endless cycle-- Annie loving, them hurting, her
|
|
hurting, and then Annie loving again.
|
|
|
|
At least, it seemed endless. It wasn't, really. I'm afraid that
|
|
I was the one who saw to that. There is no such thing as an endless
|
|
cycle.
|
|
|
|
|
|
I've noticed something funny about love, about people and
|
|
attraction-- sometimes, the people you always expect to end up with
|
|
you, the ones you @know@ will end up with you, don't. And the ones
|
|
you don't expect at all, they're the ones that do. It was kind of
|
|
that way between Annie and I.
|
|
|
|
Have you ever heard of instant attraction? "Love-At-First-
|
|
Sight," as the movies call it? I was thinking about that very subject
|
|
when I met Annie. One night I was at a party, talking to a friend,
|
|
when this woman, fairly nondescript, with brownish hair, walked up to
|
|
me.
|
|
|
|
I was definitely thinking about love at first sight. Actually,
|
|
my precise thoughts were: "I wish I could experience love at first
|
|
sight. Instead, all I meet are women like this."
|
|
|
|
Annie and I didn't hit it off. She was a nonentity to me, and I
|
|
was a nothing to her.
|
|
|
|
The next week, at another party hosted by the same group of
|
|
friends, we were introduced to each other. And, several times that
|
|
evening, we were forced to speak with each other. It turned out that
|
|
we had quite a few mutual friends.
|
|
|
|
So I got to know her better. And I actually liked her. She
|
|
seemed very confident, like she knew exactly what she wanted. I had
|
|
no reason to doubt that. And I noticed something very funny about
|
|
her-- she wasn't nondescript, after all. She was actually somewhat
|
|
pretty. And her brownish hair had a slight red tint to it.
|
|
|
|
We were the last people to leave when the party was over that
|
|
night, and as I walked her out to her car, we kept on talking. About
|
|
all sorts of things. And, somewhere in our conversation, Annie
|
|
changed again. It wasn't as much of a physical change, this time, as
|
|
much as a personality change. When I started talking to her, it was
|
|
clear to me that Annie knew exactly what she wanted from life. But
|
|
then she softened. And I saw her as being vulnerable, as being a
|
|
confused woman with a lot of wide-eyed little girl running around
|
|
loose inside of her.
|
|
|
|
I guess that's how she does it. Time and again, the softening
|
|
will do it. I know that as soon as I saw that girl, I wanted more
|
|
than anything to let her escape from the self-confident wall that
|
|
Annie had built to protect herself.
|
|
|
|
|
|
I got the little girl out, finally, after talking with Annie on
|
|
the phone any number of times, going out to dinner with her, and
|
|
spending a lot of time with her. We were good friends-- good enough,
|
|
anyway, for her to drop her confidence and let me see who she really
|
|
was. The self-confidence was a part of her, of course. But there was
|
|
something more. I wanted to see all of her.
|
|
|
|
And, one night, while we were sitting on her couch talking, a
|
|
beautiful little red-haired girl popped out of nowhere. It was then
|
|
that I saw all of Annie-- the nervous, curious, childlike wonder of
|
|
the little girl and the sensual, self-confident woman.
|
|
|
|
And when I kissed her, I felt a shudder of relief come from her
|
|
body. It was as if the last barriers, the final layers of protection,
|
|
had fallen away from her. And as they fell, a wave of fear-tinged
|
|
passion flooded into her. We both clung to each other, like two
|
|
sailors clinging to the mast of a sinking ship, hoping that each
|
|
other's company could save us from the rest of the world.
|
|
|
|
In that embrace, we were safe from the world. Nothing could hurt
|
|
us.
|
|
|
|
|
|
It's funny how strange the human mind is. It strives for things
|
|
it can not have, and refuses anything but perfection.
|
|
|
|
We were looking for perfection. We were looking for protection.
|
|
And we couldn't have either.
|
|
|
|
My mind went about telling me that we couldn't stay the way we
|
|
were, that we weren't really protected. It only took a few months for
|
|
me to realize that we were vulnerable. For Annie, it took a little
|
|
bit longer. I guess that was the first time that she'd been beaten to
|
|
the punch by her partner. I don't envy her the feeling of being first
|
|
to the realization-- it always happened to her like that. But it only
|
|
happened to me this once.
|
|
|
|
My mind started suggesting to me different ways that our
|
|
relationship couldn't work. It started pointing out other women,
|
|
women who were different, women where there was more of a chance of
|
|
perfection. It slowly became obvious that what I had with Annie
|
|
wasn't perfect, and I needed to move on. Maybe, if I kept going on
|
|
long enough, the relationships would get more and more perfect.
|
|
|
|
It was an endless cycle, all right. Lather, Rinse, Repeat. If
|
|
you always follow all three steps, you'll be in the shower until your
|
|
fingers shrivel away. I'd be looking for the perfect relationship
|
|
forever.
|
|
|
|
So why didn't anyone tell me about it then? I wish someone had.
|
|
|
|
|
|
I told her. Not all at once, and not straight out, but the exact
|
|
words really didn't matter. I said things like "it's not working out"
|
|
and "maybe we should see other people", but they were just words.
|
|
|
|
You're not perfect, and I can't accept that. That's what I was
|
|
saying. Once I've gone, you'll find someone better. You'll find
|
|
someone perfect, or try.
|
|
|
|
I looked for the little red-haired girl, and she was gone. I
|
|
tried to look in her eyes, deep down into her soul, looking for that
|
|
girl. And, if I found her, maybe I would want to take her in my arms
|
|
and hold her again.
|
|
|
|
There was nothing in her beautiful golden-brown eyes. At least,
|
|
nothing that I recognized. The emptiness was a wall, stronger than
|
|
her wall of self-confidence, and I had a feeling that I was the one
|
|
who had helped built it.
|
|
|
|
Maybe the little girl was back there, the innocent little girl
|
|
who didn't know love and, therefore, didn't know sadness.
|
|
|
|
But I'm afraid that all that was back there was pain. Because of
|
|
me. I was the one who ended it. I should have known that it was
|
|
coming, and I should have avoided hurting her, but I didn't.
|
|
|
|
How many times had Annie gone through what I was going through?
|
|
How could she take it?
|
|
|
|
As I drove away for the last time, away from what we had been, I
|
|
felt that this was the end.
|
|
|
|
I was tired of loving, and I was tired of pain. I was tired of
|
|
feeling them, and I was tired of causing them.
|
|
|
|
The end of the cycle.
|
|
|
|
|
|
So I'm in this dance club, a few months later, and I meet this
|
|
girl. Nondescript. Nothing special. But we dance, we talk, we get
|
|
to know each other, and now I'm sitting on the couch in my apartment,
|
|
talking to her, noticing how beautiful her eyes really are.
|
|
|
|
And I'm praying for a little girl, hoping there's one somewhere
|
|
inside of her, one that I can bring out.
|
|
|
|
And I find myself wanting the same things, all over again. And
|
|
I'm planning the same things, all over again.
|
|
|
|
When I find that little girl, though-- what then?
|
|
|
|
Love. Pain.
|
|
|
|
And then, begin again.
|
|
|
|
|
|
---------------------------------------------------
|
|
Jason Snell is a sophomore at UC San Diego,
|
|
double-majoring in Communication and Writing while
|
|
serving as the Associate News Editor of the UCSD
|
|
Guardian newspaper. He wrote "Ouroboros Annie" as
|
|
a birthday present for a friend who, according to
|
|
him, "closely resembles the character of Annie" in
|
|
the story. Snell is currently spending lots of
|
|
time studying, and is trying to complete a
|
|
"cyberpunk" science-fiction story.
|
|
---------------------------------------------------
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Trade Agreement
|
|
By Phillip Nolte
|
|
NU020061@NDSUVM1.BITNET
|
|
======================================================================
|
|
|
|
Traffic on the crosstown freeway was a little heavier than usual
|
|
this fine summer morning. Brad really didn't mind all that much, he
|
|
would still have little trouble getting through it. A small gap
|
|
between a Buick and a Toyota became evident over in the passing lane
|
|
and he slashed into it in an instant with a quick twist of his right
|
|
wrist and slight lean to the left. He was past the ancient
|
|
rust-colored Pontiac in a heartbeat. A lean back to the right and
|
|
another twist of the wrist and Brad had a quarter-mile of open road
|
|
ahead of him. The speedometer needle was touching seventy-five before
|
|
he backed off. Brad smiled inside his full-face helmet, it was going
|
|
to be a great day!
|
|
|
|
These morning rides to work on his Kawasaki Ninja were often the
|
|
most enjoyable part of the day. The ritual of suiting up in a heavy
|
|
leather jacket and strapping on a full-face helmet were sort of like
|
|
getting ready to do battle. For a motorcyclist about to experience
|
|
heavy traffic, the simile was perhaps uncomfortably accurate. Still,
|
|
it certainly was a great way to start the day and by the time he got to
|
|
work, he was definitely awake.
|
|
|
|
"Work" was no longer an unpleasant situation for Brad, since he
|
|
and his friend Peter had started their own business. They called
|
|
themselves "Offworld Specialties" and they sold a whole line of
|
|
science fiction products. Name it and you could get it, anything from
|
|
old paperbacks to posters to stuffed aliens to Star Trek T-shirts.
|
|
Most of the their business was mail-order, but they did occasionally
|
|
have some walk-ins. Both men had been working for the same
|
|
agricultural chemical firm when they met and discovered a similar love
|
|
for science fiction. Over a sack lunch one day they had dreamed up
|
|
the idea for a short line of products with a science fiction theme.
|
|
It started out as a mind game but, within a month, they had decided to
|
|
go ahead with a modest ad in one of the fanzines. A year later they
|
|
had both quit their regular jobs and were devoting a full- time effort
|
|
to their fledgling enterprise. The money wasn't nearly as good as
|
|
their previous jobs had been but the business was their's and it did
|
|
seem to be growing. Neither man regretted his decision.
|
|
|
|
Brad could see Peter's battered old Chevette already parked
|
|
outside the ancient building in downtown St. Paul that Offworld
|
|
Specialties called home. Two different philosophies: Peter got up a
|
|
little earlier than most people and drove sedately through light
|
|
traffic to get to work, while Brad lounged around in bed, got up at
|
|
the last minute and rocketed to work dicing with traffic all the way.
|
|
He pulled the big bike inside the building through the open overhead
|
|
door in front. After a couple of blips on the throttle he shut it
|
|
off, put down the sidestand and dismounted. He unstrapped and then
|
|
removed his helmet as he left the garage area and entered the main
|
|
building. "Good morning," he called out as he set his helmet down and
|
|
removed his leather jacket. Peter's muffled voice came out from
|
|
somewhere in back.
|
|
|
|
"Finally decided to come to work, huh?"
|
|
|
|
"Jesus, Pete, are you in the can again?" Brad said, smiling,
|
|
amusement in his voice.
|
|
|
|
"Just get started on that pile of mail orders and don't be so
|
|
damned worried about my bodily functions!" Peter replied, with mock
|
|
anger.
|
|
|
|
Brad chuckled and moved to comply. There was a satisfyingly
|
|
large mound of letters on the long table that they used for handling
|
|
orders. Each letter contained an order and, more to the point, a
|
|
check or cash. Brad smiled, it was a great job, kind of like
|
|
Christmas every day! He had gotten through three of them when Peter
|
|
finally came out of the john. "That's better," he sighed. "Mornin',
|
|
Brad."
|
|
|
|
The men were both in their mid-thirties. At six feet, Peter was
|
|
at least half-a-head taller than his friend. The dissimilarities
|
|
didn't end there. Peter Breck was slender with an unruly shock of
|
|
blond hair and a pair of ice-blue eyes that reflected his Scandinavian
|
|
heritage. In contrast, Brad Weller was stocky and muscular with
|
|
dark-brown hair and green eyes.
|
|
|
|
"Isn't it about time for some coffee yet?" asked Brad.
|
|
|
|
"You bet! Julie put some on, it should be done drippin' about
|
|
now." replied Peter. "Besides we've got some business to discuss."
|
|
|
|
"What kind of business?"
|
|
|
|
But Peter wouldn't say any more until they each had a cup of
|
|
coffee and had sat down. He set a medium-sized cardboard box down on
|
|
the table between them.
|
|
|
|
"I got a phone call yesterday," he began. "It was from some
|
|
character who claims that his firm can supply us with all of the
|
|
products that we have right now at about half the price we're paying."
|
|
|
|
"Sounds like bullshit to me," said Brad.
|
|
|
|
"It gets better," his friend replied. "Not only will they be
|
|
cheaper, the guy said the quality would be better too."
|
|
|
|
"Really," said Brad. "Let me guess. Is that what's in this
|
|
box?"
|
|
|
|
"Yup!"
|
|
|
|
"Well, what have we got to lose? Let's take a look."
|
|
|
|
Peter cut the tape along the seams and filled Brad in on a few
|
|
more details.
|
|
|
|
"He said his company could supply some of the items in our little
|
|
mailer catalog right now. We could expect samples of those products
|
|
today. He wants us to compare them to our present stuff." He fished
|
|
around inside the box. "Hey wow! Take a look at this."
|
|
|
|
He held up a Star Wars T-shirt. At first glance, it looked
|
|
exactly like the ones that Offworld Specialties were selling. A
|
|
closer examination revealed that the fabric was subtly softer and
|
|
shiner than their current product and the colors in the transfer were
|
|
much more vivid.
|
|
|
|
"This looks like nice stuff!" said Brad, taking his turn at
|
|
rummaging around in the box. "Oh my! What have we here?" He grabbed
|
|
it and pulled it out.
|
|
|
|
What they had there was the new version of their dashboard
|
|
blaster. Their present blaster looked a lot like a radar- detector.
|
|
It was a black rectangular box with some buttons on the front of it
|
|
and there was a suction cup that mounted it to the dash of the
|
|
customer's car. If the customer was stuck in traffic or pissed off at
|
|
some idiot at a stoplight, he could vent his frustrations by
|
|
pretending to blast the perpetrator into the next galaxy. It was
|
|
powered by flashlight batteries and, in actuality, all that it did was
|
|
make some nifty sound effects. It wasn't a big seller but at $19.95
|
|
they made just over eight dollars on each one they sold. The new
|
|
product looked like nothing more than an old-fashioned, art-deco ray
|
|
gun with an outlandishly large cross-hair sight on the back of it. It
|
|
was made of a very tough-looking plastic and the quality of the fit
|
|
and finish was excellent. There were several other new versions of
|
|
their wares in the box; each had some noticeable improvement over the
|
|
old.
|
|
|
|
"What kind of prices did he say he'd give us?" asked Brad.
|
|
|
|
"I'm sure he said it would be only half of what we pay now,"
|
|
answered Peter.
|
|
|
|
"It sounds great and this stuff looks wonderful," said Brad,
|
|
shaking his head. "But I can't help thinking there's a catch of some
|
|
kind. You know what they say about a free lunch."
|
|
|
|
"Yeah, I know." He put the blaster back into the box before
|
|
continuing. "Well," he shrugged, "the guy is supposed to call on us
|
|
this afternoon, around one or so. We should at least meet with him.
|
|
What do you think?"
|
|
|
|
"Won't hurt to talk to him, I guess. Meanwhile we might as well
|
|
try the stuff out." said Brad, as he slipped off his tattered
|
|
University of Minnesota T-shirt and slipped into the new one with the
|
|
vivid, multicolored Star Wars emblem splashed across it. The shirt
|
|
felt cool and light on his skin; it was very comfortable. "This feels
|
|
great! I don't know, Pete," he said, shaking his head appreciatively.
|
|
"This is good stuff!"
|
|
|
|
The two friends went back to work and didn't talk too much more
|
|
about their pending business deal. But that didn't mean they weren't
|
|
thinking about it. Finally, at quarter-to-twelve, Peter suggested
|
|
that they take a break for lunch and go to the bank to cash and
|
|
deposit the morning's receipts.
|
|
|
|
"Good idea," said Brad. "Shall we take the bike or the
|
|
Chevette?"
|
|
|
|
"The bike or the car?" said Peter. "Give me a break! I'm taking
|
|
the car." Peter headed for the door. Brad stared to follow him but,
|
|
as an afterthought, he went back for the new products.
|
|
|
|
"Just a minute," he called out, "let me grab that box. We can
|
|
take a closer look at some of the new stuff over lunch." He scooped it
|
|
up off the table.
|
|
|
|
"Julie," Peter called out the their part-time secretary, "mind
|
|
the store. We're going to get some lunch and go to the bank."
|
|
|
|
"Okay," she called back cheerfully. "But remember, I've got an
|
|
appointment at one-thirty today. I'll be gone by one."
|
|
|
|
"No problem," said Peter. "Just leave the place open if we're
|
|
not back. We won't be long."
|
|
|
|
"And don't forget the phone guy is coming in tomorrow to fix that
|
|
noisy line," she added. "The phone will be out for a while in the
|
|
morning."
|
|
|
|
"Great, it's about time!" said Peter.
|
|
|
|
Moments later they had left the old building and were heading
|
|
towards downtown St. Paul. Peter was needling Brad about his
|
|
motorcycle and how impractical it was--again.
|
|
|
|
"You and that stupid crotch-rocket. Damned thing sure is
|
|
worthless; can't even carry two people and a couple of bags of money!"
|
|
he said.
|
|
|
|
"Hey Pete, ease up a bit, would you," said Brad. "I used to be a
|
|
lot worse. At least I gave up road racing when I got married. Look,
|
|
the bike is my one indulgence, and I couldn't afford a Ferrari, Okay?
|
|
Besides, I take great pleasure in knowing that my Ninja will kick the
|
|
ass of any Ferrari or Porsche or Corvette made. You know what, Pete?
|
|
That bike's the closest thing to an x-wing fighter on the planet."
|
|
|
|
"X-wing fighter?" asked Peter, dubiously.
|
|
|
|
"You remember the scenes in 'Star Trek' and 'Star Wars' when they
|
|
make the jump to warp speed?" asked Brad. Peter nodded but still
|
|
looked puzzled. "Well, that's about how it feels to twist the
|
|
throttle on that Ninja. Zero-to-Sixty in less than three seconds,
|
|
quarter-mile in eleven flat, top speed one-sixty-plus! You bet,
|
|
Peter, it's the starship of the 1980's! And I own one!"
|
|
|
|
Peter smiled and shook his head. "You're an incurable
|
|
motorhead!" he said. It didn't matter, they had had the same or a
|
|
similar conversation a hundred times before and, as usual, it was all
|
|
just good-natured banter. Each man had his own turf and each
|
|
respected the other's opinion, even though that opinion might be
|
|
radically different from his own. No doubt this was one of the
|
|
reasons that their friendship had worked so well. It was a good
|
|
cornerstone upon which to build a successful business.
|
|
|
|
Lunch was a quick soup and sandwich at the Center Street Deli.
|
|
They took the opportunity to play around with some more of the
|
|
potentially new products in the box. Brad was especially enamored
|
|
with the stuffed animals. They were cute, cuddly and seemingly
|
|
covered with real fur! Peter liked the little dragon with the ivory
|
|
(?) teeth and the incredible iridescent skin. Neither man had any
|
|
doubts, it was all first-rate merchandise.
|
|
|
|
Lunch was followed by a trip to the First National Bank to
|
|
deposit the fifty or sixty checks that had come in that morning. By
|
|
12:45, the two friends were on their way back to work. As usual, the
|
|
downtown traffic during the noon hour was heavy and slow-moving. The
|
|
poor little Chevette was so underpowered and sluggish that they were
|
|
more-or-less at the mercy of the slowest vehicles on the road--mostly
|
|
more. Finally they got stuck behind a UPS van that was double-parked
|
|
to make a delivery. Not a soul traveling in the middle lane had the
|
|
common courtesy to let them get around the van and so there they sat
|
|
until the driver came sauntering out and moved it. Brad shook his
|
|
fist and hollered at the guy out the window. The driver just smiled
|
|
and flipped him off. Brad was furious! Two blocks later the Chevette
|
|
was stopped for a red light. Across the intersection they saw the van
|
|
stop and the driver get out and go into a store. Again the van was
|
|
double-parked.
|
|
|
|
"I'll fix that son-of-a-bitch!" said Brad. He fished around in
|
|
the cardboard box. "I'm gonna blast his sorry ass!" He quickly found
|
|
the new blaster, dusted off a spot on the dashboard with his elbow and
|
|
licked the suction cup to mount it. After a brief examination, he
|
|
flipped a switch on the side of the Buck Rogers-looking ray gun,
|
|
centered the back of the van in the outsized crosshairs and pulled the
|
|
trigger. To his utter shock and amazement a blue beam the size of a
|
|
pencil shot out of the gun. "Ka-wummp!" With a loud report that shook
|
|
the ground, the back of the UPS van jumped two feet off the street and
|
|
went up in a searing ball of blue-white flame! The two friends looked
|
|
at each other in horrified shock.
|
|
|
|
"Let's get the hell out of here!" shouted Brad.
|
|
|
|
Peter, his face white as death, complied by turning right and
|
|
flooring the accelerator. Mercifully, it was only a short distance,
|
|
maybe five or six blocks, back to the store. Brad rocketed out of the
|
|
car as they arrived and opened the overhead door. With a quick glance
|
|
up and down the street, Peter pulled the car inside, barely missing
|
|
the big Kawasaki, and Brad pulled the door shut. Peter, still
|
|
shaking, got out of the car.
|
|
|
|
"Brad, what the hell happened?" He was shouting.
|
|
|
|
"That God-damned ray gun blew the shit out of a UPS van!" Brad
|
|
shouted back, his voice quavering with excitement. "Jesus Christ,
|
|
it's a good thing the driver was in the store, we might have killed
|
|
him! Where the God-damned hell did that stuff come from, Pete?"
|
|
|
|
A calm and whispery voice interrupted. "You are in some way
|
|
dissatisfied with the new products?"
|
|
|
|
Both men nearly jumped a foot off the floor at the sound. They
|
|
turned to see a short man in what looked like a strangely- styled,
|
|
two-sizes-too-big, cream-colored leisure suit. It had no lapels and
|
|
was secured in front by two huge, sparkling crystal buttons. He was
|
|
also wearing a matching, outsized fedora hat with a floppy brim. A
|
|
pair of gaudy Elton-John sunglasses added the finishing touch to his
|
|
outlandish costume. In the darkness of the garage area they could not
|
|
make out any details of his face.
|
|
|
|
"Who the hell are you and how did you get in here?" Brad nearly
|
|
shouted.
|
|
|
|
"Your attractive secretary let me in before she left," the man
|
|
lisped. "And, as you may have already guessed, I represent the firm
|
|
that is offering to sell you all those fine new products."
|
|
|
|
There was something definitely odd about him. Brad also had to
|
|
seriously question the guy's taste in women; Julie was heavy set, had
|
|
bad acne and was anything but attractive.
|
|
|
|
"Man, you can't sell a functional ray-gun to people by mail!"
|
|
said Peter. "We're God-damned lucky we didn't kill somebody!"
|
|
|
|
"Perhaps we misinterpreted the purpose of the weapon. From your
|
|
brochure it was apparent that it would be used to rid the streets of
|
|
idiots. As you can see, it will be very effective for this purpose.
|
|
|
|
"You're God-damned right it will be effective for that purpose!
|
|
We damned near killed a UPS driver! Okay, the guy was an asshole," he
|
|
admitted. "But that's no reason to kill him. Who are you anyway?"
|
|
|
|
Both men felt their knees turn to water as the short man stepped
|
|
out of the shadows and removed his hat. He was obviously not from the
|
|
earth, meaning that he was humanoid but certainly not human. Without
|
|
his hat, he was even shorter than they had thought at first and he was
|
|
very thin which made the oversized zoot-leisure suit look even more
|
|
outlandish. His head was hairless and sported a pair of delicate and
|
|
very ornate ears which stuck out sharply. His skin was light-blue,
|
|
almost white, and looked smooth to the touch, like doeskin, and his
|
|
lips were thin around a small mouth. Yet, for all of his
|
|
differentness, there was no air of menace about him. At that moment,
|
|
the mouth was apparently in the alien version of a smile.
|
|
|
|
"I am called Roton and I represent the Coalition of Worlds," he
|
|
lisped. "We are certain that we can provide you with products
|
|
superior to those you now sell and at a lower price." He removed his
|
|
Elton-John sunglasses, revealing a pair of liquid, aquamarine eyes.
|
|
"Who is your current supplier anyway? Is it Deneb? Sirius?"
|
|
|
|
"W-we get our stuff from many different outlets," Brad managed to
|
|
stammer as he backed towards the door. Peter stood his ground.
|
|
|
|
"Hang on, Brad," he whispered, grabbing Brad's arm to slow down
|
|
his retreat. "This is starting to make sense."
|
|
|
|
"It doesn't matter," said Roton. "We can still do better. The
|
|
Coalition represents over a hundred civilized worlds!" He looked at
|
|
the two friends, seeming to finally notice their near- flight
|
|
attitude. "What is wrong? I mean you no harm. You look as though
|
|
you'd never seen a Coalition agent before."
|
|
|
|
"To be truthful...," Brad began. Peter interrupted.
|
|
|
|
"It's been a while," he said. "Why have you contacted us
|
|
anyway?"
|
|
|
|
"We wish to open new markets for trade in your solar system and
|
|
your firm is perfect for this purpose. As you can see, we can already
|
|
provide certain items that you can use by modifying some of our staple
|
|
goods and certainly there are many products of your world that we can
|
|
use also. We are very interested in doing business with you but we
|
|
have to be very careful not to alert the competition that we are here.
|
|
In fact, we have purposely not used some of our most sophisticated
|
|
probing devices for fear of detection. Instead, we have been
|
|
monitoring what you call 'radio' and 'television' broadcasts for some
|
|
two weeks now and with the aid of a learning booster we have absorbed
|
|
enough about your culture to communicate. We found your firm in
|
|
something called the 'yellow pages'. You know, 'let your digits do
|
|
the walking'! The (untranslated expletive) Denebians would never have
|
|
looked there!"
|
|
|
|
"Good, good, I'm glad you found us! Umm...Would you excuse us
|
|
for a moment?" said Peter. "My partner and I have to talk a little
|
|
business. Have a seat. You do sit, don't you?"
|
|
|
|
Roton nodded. "Of course, my physiology is very similar to your
|
|
own."
|
|
|
|
"Good," Peter continued, scanning the room for something to
|
|
occupy the little alien for a few minutes. "How about some coffee?"
|
|
|
|
"If you mean the beverage made by straining hot water through
|
|
partially burned vegetable matter; no thank you," he said, making a
|
|
face. "Do you have any Coca-cola?" Peter nodded cautiously, Roton
|
|
continued. "Excellent! That is a product we simply must have! The
|
|
aroma, the bouquet! I know of ten worlds where we can sell all that
|
|
we can get!"
|
|
|
|
Peter got him a Coke out of the small fridge in back and got him
|
|
settled down in a chair. The two friends went into the office to
|
|
talk.
|
|
|
|
"Give me the phone!" said Brad, in near panic. "We gotta call
|
|
the cops, the Air Force or somebody. That's a God-damned alien out
|
|
there for Crissake!"
|
|
|
|
"Hang on a second," said Peter, grabbing his shoulders and gently
|
|
pushing him into the desk chair. "This is different! This alien
|
|
wants to do business with us. I don't know, there must have been some
|
|
kind of mistake somewhere, but it really doesn't matter. What does
|
|
matter is that they've come to us, you and me--first! Do you know
|
|
what that means, Brad? We will be the first humans to have dealings
|
|
with another civilization!"
|
|
|
|
Brad cocked his head. "You're right," he said, starting to calm
|
|
down a little. "This is our chance to be famous."
|
|
|
|
"There'll be fame and notoriety, sure, but that's only the
|
|
beginning. Think of it, Brad! It means new products from over a
|
|
hundred different worlds and we, you and I, have sole rights to sell
|
|
them in this solar system! Brad, Brad!" Peter shook him. "We're
|
|
talking heavy-duty, major-league wealth here! Can you imagine how
|
|
many people would stand in line to buy something from the stars? And
|
|
what about all of the stuff made right here on good old earth. You
|
|
heard him, they want to buy Coca-cola for Chrissake!
|
|
Coca-fucking-cola! If we play our cards right, they'll buy it from
|
|
us! We'll be two of the wealthiest people on earth. We'll need dump
|
|
trucks to haul all of the money to the bank. You can buy that
|
|
Ferrari...Hell, you can probably buy Italy!" He paused to let the
|
|
impact sink in before continuing. "Unless, of course you'd rather
|
|
call the cops or something."
|
|
|
|
Brad swallowed and sat back, his face contorted from the effort
|
|
of the mental battle that was raging inside his head. To his credit,
|
|
he thought for only a moment. "You know, you're right," he said, as
|
|
it dawned on him. "We certainly could take advantage of this
|
|
situation."
|
|
|
|
Brad had always demonstrated a gift for understatement. They
|
|
gathered what self-composure they could and went back into the
|
|
mail-room area to confront the alien. Roton had just finished his can
|
|
of Coke and was sitting with his head thrown back, eyes closed,
|
|
apparently still savoring the aftertaste.
|
|
|
|
"Mr. Roton," said Peter. "How do we go about setting up to do
|
|
business with you?" The alien blinked and brought his head down to
|
|
face them.
|
|
|
|
"Truly an excellent beverage!" he proclaimed. He looked into the
|
|
empty can forlornly before setting it back on the table. "It is
|
|
really very simple," he lisped. "We will draw up a standard contract
|
|
with you as our sole agents for T-shirts, dashboard blasters and
|
|
stuffed animals along with some choice products for us from your
|
|
planet. But that is only the beginning, from there we can go on to
|
|
some serious business. You might say that the stars are the limit!"
|
|
he chuckled, a sort of bubbly hiss.
|
|
|
|
"How long until you can have a contract ready, Mr. Roton?" asked
|
|
Brad.
|
|
|
|
"Just 'Roton' will do," he replied. "It usually takes only a few
|
|
hours. We could do it more quickly but there are always some special
|
|
details for each world we deal with."
|
|
|
|
"We've been talking this over and we're very interested," said
|
|
Peter. "But, I think we may need some time to settle a few things. I
|
|
think we could be ready by tomorrow morning. Would that be alright?"
|
|
|
|
"Not at all irregular. It will be fine. I shall return tomorrow
|
|
to answer any questions you may have. We can have a contract ready
|
|
at, say, nine o'clock for you. It can be signed at that time."
|
|
|
|
"Good, Good!" said Peter. "Until tomorrow, then?"
|
|
|
|
"Actually, there is one more thing," said Roton. "The landing
|
|
craft that brought me here will not return until tomorrow. As I said,
|
|
we do not wish to alarm the Denebian or Siriusian competition so we
|
|
have operated only clandestine flights."
|
|
|
|
"Probably not a bad idea," said Peter. Good, he thought, no one
|
|
else has seen him. He was even more positive that he and Brad had
|
|
made a good decision.
|
|
|
|
"Indeed," said Roton. "The question is: Could you direct me to
|
|
an establishment that will accept a Coalition credit cube? I need a
|
|
place to spend the night."
|
|
|
|
"Um...There aren't any near by," Peter managed to stammer. Shit,
|
|
he thought, we can't have this alien roaming the streets! Could ruin
|
|
everything! Thinking quickly, he came up with a solution. "Why don't
|
|
you spend the night with one of us," he said, managing to stay
|
|
outwardly calm; meanwhile his mind was racing. He himself lived in a
|
|
large apartment complex, no good, too many people. Brad had a nice
|
|
two-story with attached garage--perfect! They could probably get
|
|
Roton into the house without anyone seeing them. "Brad would
|
|
delighted to have you stay with him."
|
|
|
|
"Huh?" said Brad.
|
|
|
|
"Wonderful!" Roton was almost gleeful. "I should tell you that I
|
|
am an amateur sociologist. I would like to study a human family unit
|
|
to gain some insight as to how they work. You know, relationships and
|
|
such. This would be an excellent opportunity!"
|
|
|
|
"Well...okay," said Brad hesitantly, definitely not convinced
|
|
that it was going to work. "As long as we're going to do business
|
|
together, we might as well get used to it. Yeah, what the hell! Come
|
|
to my place tonight. I'll talk to my wife right now. It should be no
|
|
problem." He almost choked over the words "no problem".
|
|
|
|
Roton got a small transmitter out of his breast pocket and spoke
|
|
some unintelligible syllables into it. After a couple of exchanges,
|
|
he announced. "The arrangements have been made. Valtex will come
|
|
down tomorrow with a contract. And I am free for the evening!"
|
|
|
|
They got Roton another Coke and the two friends went back to the
|
|
office to call Brad's wife. They looked at each other for a moment,
|
|
neither wishing to break the spell for fear the dream would end.
|
|
Finally, Brad broke the silence.
|
|
|
|
"Pinch me, Pete! This has gotta be a dream!"
|
|
|
|
"If it is, I hope I never wake up!" said Peter. "Brad, we're
|
|
gonna be rich!"
|
|
|
|
"Yeah, and I invited an alien over to my house. 'Gee Honey,
|
|
guess who's coming to dinner!'" They both cackled excitedly. They
|
|
didn't accomplish much for the rest of the day. In fact, most of the
|
|
day's orders remained unfilled.
|
|
|
|
|
|
Nancy Weller was a reasonable woman. During the time she had
|
|
known Brad, she hadn't pushed him at all. In the beginning, she had
|
|
waited and worried, silently, until he decided, on his own, to give up
|
|
the extremely dangerous sport of motorcycle road-racing. The worry
|
|
had been worth it. Since it was he who had made the decision, he had
|
|
no trouble living with it. Later, when her husband had informed her
|
|
that he was going to quit a secure, fairly-well-paying job to start up
|
|
a science fiction business with Peter she had been worried but, again,
|
|
hadn't voiced any objection. A year later it looked like Brad may
|
|
have made a good career move. However, she had balked a bit when he
|
|
announced that he was bringing an alien home for dinner.
|
|
|
|
"You mean a migrant worker, Dear?"
|
|
|
|
"No, I mean an honest-to-God, not-from-this-planet space alien."
|
|
|
|
"What the hell are you talking about, Brad?" she asked sternly,
|
|
her voice tinged with worry and more than just a trace of anger. "You
|
|
guys didn't have another one of your famous four-beer lunches, did
|
|
you?"
|
|
|
|
"Not this time, Honey. I'm dead serious. Believe me, this is
|
|
the opportunity of a lifetime! Hell, five lifetimes!"
|
|
|
|
She decided to humor him, it had always worked in the past.
|
|
|
|
"Great, what do I fix for supper?"
|
|
|
|
"He says that his physiology is almost like ours. What the hell,
|
|
make your lasagne. Better make a lot, because he's going to ride home
|
|
with Peter--I can't bring him, I'm on the bike--and Betsy will
|
|
probably stop over after work." There was a silence on the line. He
|
|
added. "I love you, sweetheart. Thanks a lot."
|
|
|
|
They say behind every successful man stands a good woman. By any
|
|
measure, Nancy Weller was truly a magnificent woman. With her behind
|
|
him, Brad was practically guaranteed success!
|
|
|
|
|
|
Dinner went splendidly. Roton had two generous helpings of
|
|
Nancy's excellent lasagne and washed it down with a two-liter bottle
|
|
of Pepsi. No doubt about it, there was trouble brewing. Roton liked
|
|
Pepsi even better than Coke. Brad caught himself thinking of what a
|
|
great TV campaign it would make, sort of an ultimate Pepsi Challenge.
|
|
Move over Bill Cosby, make room for Roton! And he might have been in
|
|
a gourmet restaurant the way he reacted to the meal. Even before
|
|
dinner had ended, he had charmed both women completely. The rest of
|
|
the evening went just as well with Brad, Peter and Roton talking about
|
|
potential products and swapping stories about life within their
|
|
different societies.
|
|
|
|
They had a few after dinner drinks. To further their amusement,
|
|
they discovered that something in the Pepsi, the carbon-dioxide maybe,
|
|
affected Roton much the same as alcohol effected the humans. The
|
|
slightly tipsy and very personable alien was great entertainment.
|
|
Finally ten o'clock came around and Peter announced that it was time
|
|
for he and Betsy to be going home. Roton agreed that it was time to
|
|
quit also. Members of his species didn't sleep as such, but they did
|
|
have a similar state, and he was feeling like he needed to partake of
|
|
it right then. By that time, Nancy and Brad had no reservations about
|
|
having their new friend and business associate spend the night.
|
|
|
|
Brad didn't sleep much that night but when he did, he dreamed of
|
|
two-wheeled starships and short, dapper aliens who looked like Truman
|
|
Capote.
|
|
|
|
|
|
Morning found them all in good spirits with, fortunately, no ill
|
|
effects from the previous night's activities. All, including Roton,
|
|
had overslept a bit so they were running a bit late. They served up a
|
|
normal, midwestern breakfast just like any other day. Roton took a
|
|
particular liking to Wheat Chex. Brad mentally marked off another
|
|
product that could make millions for Offworld Specialties. With
|
|
breakfast finished, there was coffee for Brad and Pepsi for Roton.
|
|
Brad decided to double-check the morning's agenda.
|
|
|
|
"When do we sign the contract this morning, Roton?" he asked.
|
|
|
|
"Unless I am mistaken, I believe it is at nine." He consulted a
|
|
cube from his pocket. "Yes, my colleague Valtex will come to Offworld
|
|
Specialties at nine with the contract. I am very excited. I haven't
|
|
told you this yet but this is my first assignment for the Coalition."
|
|
|
|
"Your first?"
|
|
|
|
"Yes, but I think it is going rather well, don't you?"
|
|
|
|
"Ah...sure, but there is one thing that puzzles me," said Brad.
|
|
"Why did you guys pick us to do business with?"
|
|
|
|
"Your's was the only firm that we could find which had some
|
|
experience working with extraterrestrial civilizations," said Roton.
|
|
|
|
Roton had admitted that this was his first assignment; Brad
|
|
figured he that owed a confession also.
|
|
|
|
"But, Roton, we don't have any experience working with aliens."
|
|
said Brad.
|
|
|
|
"How can that be? On the telephone, yesterday, I asked your
|
|
partner if you were the firm that worked with other space-faring
|
|
civilizations and he replied 'yes'!" said Roton. There was an edge of
|
|
concern in his voice.
|
|
|
|
"Roton, we get thirty or forty calls a week where someone asks us
|
|
the same question," said Brad. "We tell all of them 'yes', they
|
|
expect it, it's part of the game."
|
|
|
|
"But the name 'Offworld Specialties?' said Roton.
|
|
|
|
"We chose it because it fits with the illusion that we have some
|
|
contacts in outer space. But none of our customers really believes
|
|
that we do."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, this is most unfortunate!" said Roton, agitatedly.
|
|
|
|
"It's a kind of joke!" said Brad. He looked thoughtfully at
|
|
Roton for a moment. "Maybe you just don't understand our humor. That
|
|
would make sense." A light went on in Brad's brain. "Sure, like that
|
|
damned dashboard blaster. Ours was never intended to work, it was
|
|
just a toy, a noisemaker. Your's blew the shit out of a UPS van!
|
|
Maybe we should talk a bit more, Roton."
|
|
|
|
"You mean you admit that you lied to a Coalition agent?" Roton
|
|
was really getting worked up."
|
|
|
|
"Well, I wouldn't exactly call it lying," said Brad. "I'd say
|
|
that you guys kind of jumped to some conclusions."
|
|
|
|
It may already be too late!" said Roton. "What time is it?"
|
|
|
|
"It's twenty minutes to nine," said Brad, looking at his watch.
|
|
"I'm going to have to leave for work pretty soon."
|
|
|
|
"You must stop your friend from signing that contract!" said
|
|
Roton. "There are severe penalties for lying to a Coalition agent."
|
|
|
|
"I said I was leaving for work in a few minutes. Surely they
|
|
won't sign the contract without both of us there!" said Brad.
|
|
|
|
"Now it is you who do not understand. In our society, time is
|
|
inviolate. If the contract is to be signed at nine o'clock, that is
|
|
when it will be signed, believe me!"
|
|
|
|
"Look, we certainly didn't mean any harm," Brad began. Roton cut
|
|
him off.
|
|
|
|
"The last time someone lied to one of our agents we retaliated by
|
|
destroying the entire planet." said Roton, in near panic.
|
|
|
|
"What!" Brad stood up so suddenly that his chair fell over behind
|
|
him. "Jesus, Roton, isn't there anything we can do?" The panic was
|
|
infectious.
|
|
|
|
"No problem, if we get it straightened out before he signs that
|
|
contract," said Roton. "Otherwise..."
|
|
|
|
"I know, why don't you call Valtex on your communicator and tell
|
|
them not to sign before we get there!"
|
|
|
|
"Good idea," said Roton, with some relief as he reached for his
|
|
breast pocket. His face fell as he failed to find the device. He
|
|
stood up and frantically felt the rest of his pockets. "I...I cannot
|
|
find it! Let me think. I used it in Peter's vehicle on the way here
|
|
yesterday. I...I must have left it there! If you remember, I had two
|
|
Coca-colas before we came here yesterday. I get a bit disorientated."
|
|
|
|
"I'll just call Peter myself," Brad said as he picked up the
|
|
phone and dialed the number. That failed too. "Oh shit! I forgot!
|
|
The phone is down this morning!"
|
|
|
|
It seemed there was only one possible solution.
|
|
|
|
He hollered to his wife as he grabbed his leather jacket and
|
|
full-face helmet. "Nancy! Call the police and tell them to meet the
|
|
maniac on the Ninja at Offworld Specialties. Tell them it's a life or
|
|
death situation. Get Roton in the car and follow me down as quickly
|
|
as you can."
|
|
|
|
He had the jacket, the helmet and his gloves on before he opened
|
|
the garage door. He had the key in the ignition and switched on
|
|
before he even threw his leg over the bike. He stabbed the starter
|
|
button and, as usual, the engine roared to life immediately, throbbing
|
|
with power. There was no time for the customary pre-ride
|
|
inspection--the future of mankind was at stake!. He pulled in the
|
|
clutch with his left hand, snicked the shift lever down into first
|
|
gear with his left toe, blipped the throttle with his right hand and
|
|
let out the clutch. The rear tire left a six-foot long stripe on the
|
|
concrete floor as he launched the bike out of the garage. He slowed
|
|
down only slightly and took a left into the street--right into the
|
|
path of a Buick! He ignored the squeal of brakes and the angry curses
|
|
of the driver as he straightened out the handlebars and twisted the
|
|
throttle to the stop.
|
|
|
|
Engage warp drive!
|
|
|
|
In less than a heartbeat the awesome power of the two- wheeled
|
|
beast was unleashed. The bike lunged forward, the front wheel
|
|
skimming a couple of inches off the street, the rear tire clawing at
|
|
the asphalt. The tach soared to redline in first gear accompanied by
|
|
the soulful howl of the big, inline four in full song. The guy in the
|
|
Buick stopped in mid-curse as the big bike with its obviously
|
|
psychotic rider seemingly evaporated down the street! With the
|
|
throttle still at the stop, Brad snapped the clutch in and out while
|
|
lifting his left toe simultaneously, accomplishing the shift into
|
|
second gear in less than an eyeblink. The front wheel again lost
|
|
contact with the road. The process was repeated for third gear. Brad
|
|
was now a mere eight seconds away from his driveway. His speed was
|
|
already 102 m.p.h. and climbing. Four intersections shot past, Brad
|
|
silently thanked God no one was coming! Too quickly, it was time to
|
|
slow down for the crosstown freeway entrance. After a quick pull on
|
|
the brakes and a downshift to second gear to lose a little speed, Brad
|
|
shifted his weight over to the left, "hanging off" to insure proper
|
|
cornering attitude as he banked the streaking bike over into the
|
|
curve. The rear wheel slipped a couple of times but he managed to
|
|
successfully negotiate the carousel onto the highway at just over 70
|
|
m.p.h. Brad's heart was in his throat, even in his racing days, he
|
|
had never done anything quite that dangerous! Race tracks have
|
|
generous runoffs and hay bales if you make a mistake. On the street
|
|
there are nothing but hard things and sharp angles. Not to mention
|
|
cars. Thousands of cars, all crawling along at 65 m.p.h., or less.
|
|
There were trucks too, big, heavy, ugly trucks that clogged the road
|
|
even better.
|
|
|
|
Out on the highway, and he was on the throttle again, hard! The
|
|
Ninja again lunged forward, eating up the road ravenously, like some
|
|
lithe, hungry, two-wheeled predator. Brad tucked in behind the short
|
|
bubble windscreen of the sportbike's full fairing as he weaved in and
|
|
out of the traffic like a madman on amphetamines. The tach hovered
|
|
near redline in fourth gear as he and the big bike screamed down the
|
|
dashed lines in the middle of the two-lane one-way road and flashed
|
|
between a moving van in one lane and a tow-truck in the other.
|
|
|
|
The noise of the wind tearing at his helmet and clothing was all
|
|
that he could hear but he could feel how hard the engine was working
|
|
by the urgency of the tingling vibration he felt between his legs and
|
|
in the handgrips. Brad realized once again that riding a big powerful
|
|
bike really fast required CONCENTRATION!. Things happen at an
|
|
alarming rate at 130 m.p.h.!
|
|
|
|
Don't try this at home, kids! he thought, as he shot over to
|
|
pass a dirt-covered Cadillac, skirting by it by going out on the
|
|
shoulder. Not surprisingly, most of the people he passed were shocked
|
|
and angered and were making all kinds of gestures at him. At the
|
|
speeds he was traveling and in his state of total concentration, he
|
|
barely saw them.
|
|
|
|
The engine was singing soprano and the speedometer indicating 135
|
|
m.p.h. as the exit for downtown came up on the right--fast! Brad
|
|
grabbed a handful of brake with his right hand. It was like hitting a
|
|
brick wall. The powerful twin discs on the front wheel of the
|
|
streaking black and red bike were so strong and the need of the rider
|
|
so urgent that the back wheel came up momentarily from the force of
|
|
braking. He downshifted twice, fourth to third to second and coasted
|
|
down the ramp and out into the street at half-throttle. There was a
|
|
tiny opening in the traffic; Brad put the hammer down! The warp drive
|
|
kicked in again and the big bike with its white-knuckled rider clawed
|
|
its way around a red Dodge Omni and flashed through the tail-end of a
|
|
yellow light, speed: 80 m.p.h. Just five more blocks to go! Then
|
|
four, then three...Again the squeal of car brakes from a near
|
|
miss--unheard. The "Offworld Specialties" sign came into view. Brad
|
|
again hit the brakes so hard that the back wheel came up off the
|
|
street. He slithered the bike to a stop in front of the building,
|
|
slammed the sidestand down and ran inside, screaming for Peter as he
|
|
clawed at the fasteners on his helmet. He rounded the corner into the
|
|
mail-room just in time to see Peter and another alien by the desk.
|
|
The clock on the wall read 8:59. Peter had a pen poised above a large
|
|
formal-looking document.
|
|
|
|
"Peter!" Brad shouted. "For God's sake don't sign that
|
|
contract!"
|
|
|
|
Peter looked up at him with a kind of bewildered stare. Brad
|
|
didn't even stop. He continued his headlong rush across the room and
|
|
snatched the pen out of Peter's hand.
|
|
|
|
"What did you do that for?" asked Peter.
|
|
|
|
Brad was out of breath from the exertion of piloting the big
|
|
bike. Or maybe it was because he hadn't breathed for most of his
|
|
incredible trip--He wasn't sure! He sat shakily down in a chair and
|
|
put his head in his hands. The enormity of what he had just done, the
|
|
saving of mankind and the personal risk he had just taken, was
|
|
beginning to dawn on him. It would be a while before the adrenaline
|
|
wore off.
|
|
|
|
"We have to talk a bit more about some of the details of the
|
|
contract," said Brad, calmly. "That is, if we want to stay in
|
|
business for very long."
|
|
|
|
Within minutes, the building was surrounded by police cars which
|
|
were full of confused and angry policemen. A short time later Nancy
|
|
and Roton arrived. The spacecraft on the roof and the alien on the
|
|
ground were enough to convince the cops that a momentous event was in
|
|
progress. Besides, they weren't sure who had jurisdiction over the
|
|
matter. Roton and the two friends made a few minor (but extremely
|
|
important) changes in the wording of their contract and, with the
|
|
stroke of a pen, Offworld Specialties really did have contacts with an
|
|
extraterrestrial civilization!
|
|
|
|
|
|
* * *
|
|
|
|
It had been a truly fantastic banquet with delightful and exotic
|
|
cuisine from all over the Galaxy and the lush appointments of the
|
|
formal dining room were opulent in the extreme. Red velvet draperies
|
|
and gold brocade adorned the frescoed walls. The table was covered
|
|
with the very best Denebian linen and was set with "china" from
|
|
Sirius's most famous kilns. Around the table, three friends raised
|
|
their expensive Rigellian crystal goblets in a formal toast. Two of
|
|
the goblets contained the finest champagne, the other contained the
|
|
finest Pepsi-cola.
|
|
|
|
"To the first five years of our prosperous partnership, Brad,
|
|
Roton," said Peter. "May there be many more!" They clinked their
|
|
glasses together and tossed down their respective beverages.
|
|
|
|
"Where to now?" said Roton.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, I don't know," said Brad. "How about Barnard's Star. I
|
|
hear they had a fantastic year for Sardinarian Brandy."
|
|
|
|
Roton disappeared into the control room. Minutes later the sleek
|
|
gleaming starship that was the property of Offworld Specialties came
|
|
majestically about. After a short countdown she flashed into
|
|
hyperspace. With her wealthy merchant crew and her cargo of precious
|
|
goods, the Offworld Ninja was off on another foray as trader to the
|
|
stars.
|
|
|
|
---------------------------------------------------
|
|
Phil is a research specialist in Plant Pathology at
|
|
NDSU in Fargo, North Dakota. He is also a Ph.D.
|
|
candidate at the same time. He's been writing
|
|
science fiction for about three years but has
|
|
enjoyed reading it all his life. He comments, "I
|
|
got interested in the writing end because of the
|
|
many disappointments I've had while attending
|
|
science fiction movies and coming away wondering
|
|
how they could have spent so much money on actors
|
|
and special effects, and so damned little on a
|
|
decent story!" This story marks Phil's second ap-
|
|
pearance in Athene.
|
|
---------------------------------------------------
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
QQQQQ tt
|
|
QQ QQ tttttt
|
|
QQ QQ uu uu aaaa nnnn tt aaaa
|
|
QQ QQ uu uu aa aa nn nn tt aa aa
|
|
QQ QQ uu uu aa aa nn nn tt aa aa
|
|
QQQQQQ uuu aaaaa nn nn tt aaaaa
|
|
QQQ
|
|
______________________________________
|
|
|
|
A Journal of Fact, Fiction and Opinion
|
|
______________________________________
|
|
|
|
Quanta is an electronically distributed magazine of science fiction.
|
|
Published monthly, each issue contains short fiction, articles and
|
|
editorials by authors around the world and across the net. Quanta
|
|
publishes in two formats: straight ascii and PostScript* for
|
|
PostScript compatible printers. To subscribe to Quanta, or just to
|
|
get more info, send mail to:
|
|
|
|
da1n@andrew.cmu.edu
|
|
r746da1n@CMCCVB.bitnet
|
|
|
|
Quanta is a relatively new magazine but is growing fast, with over
|
|
five hundred subscribers to date from nine different countries.
|
|
Electronic publishing is the way of the future. Become part of that
|
|
future by subscribing to Quanta today.
|
|
|
|
*PostScript is a registered trademark of Adobe Systems Incorporated.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
/
|
|
DDDDD ZZZZZZ //
|
|
D D AAAA RRR GGGG OOOO NN N Z I NN N EEEE ||
|
|
D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E ||
|
|
-=========================================================+<OOOOOOOOO>|)
|
|
D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E ||
|
|
DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE ||
|
|
\\
|
|
\
|
|
The Magazine of the Dargon Project Editor: Dafydd <White@DUVM>
|
|
|
|
DargonZine is an electronic magazine printing stories written for
|
|
the Dargon Project, a shared-world anthology similar to (and inspired
|
|
by) Robert Asprin's Thieves' World anthologies, created by David
|
|
"Orny" Liscomb in his now retired magazine, FSFNet. The Dargon Project
|
|
centers around a medieval-style duchy called Dargon in the far reaches
|
|
of the Kingdom of Baranur on the world named Makdiar, and as such
|
|
contains stories with a fantasy fiction/sword and sorcery flavor.
|
|
DargonZine is (at this time) only available in flat-file,
|
|
text-only format. For a subscription, please send a request via MAIL
|
|
to the editor, Dafydd, at the userid White@DUVM.BitNet. This request
|
|
should contain your full userid (logonid and node, or a valid internet
|
|
address) as well as your full name. InterNet (all non-BitNet sites)
|
|
subscribers will receive their issues in Mail format. BitNet users
|
|
have the option of specifying the file transfer format you prefer
|
|
(either DISK DUMP, PUNCH/MAIL, or SENDFILE/NETDATA). Note: all
|
|
electronic subscriptions are Free!
|