“For those of you to whom money is no object and who have all the time in the world to waste, let me just say this. The climate change is something we can all feel. There’s no doubt in anyone’s mind—except in the southern hemisphere, maybe—that we missed summer completely. Are we willing to sacrifice to save the world? Let me put it this way: if we are not willing to sacrifice something this superficial to save the world, then the world needed saving a long time ago.”
“Amen!” shouted a woman, whose yell was followed by hearty applause.
But the crowd immediately shushed when Malcolm presented his follow-up question. “But still,” he said. “Body hair is really, really yucky. Like, super gross.”
“That it is,” said Frank plainly, “but frozen corpses are even yuckier, and that’ll be what we have on our hands if we don’t act quickly. Frozen corpses of African children. I thank everyone for coming today. No more questions, please.”
The crowd was restless and still hungry for information as everyone on stage stood up to leave. The Old Carter Special Forces switched into bodyguard mode, moving the crowd out of the way to clear a safe path to the News 5 and News 6 vans, where each member of the Dinner Summit would be provided safe travel back to his or her home so that they all could begin the tumultuous process of forgetting that the past few days had ever happened.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
TWO MONTHS HAD PASSED SINCE the press conference, and the world was still cold. By this point, however, the southern hemisphere had begun to notice. The world’s governments had remained surprisingly optimistic, much to Laurel’s relief, and the hope was that the cold was now due to the approaching winter rather than a global disaster. For now, at least, Laurel and the rest of the Dinner Summit could rest assured they wouldn’t meet the same fate as the Hopshirites—whatever that fate actually was—but it may be a different story come time for the spring thaw.
Laurel entered her salon, which had changed its name from Wimbledon Quick Cuts Shaves to Wimbledon Facials Nails. Laurel was still no fan of the tinting Georgina had demanded be put on the windows. Laurel could never tell what sort of business load she was entering into until she was already through the front door.
Maybe today would be easier. She greeted Gavin, who’d been looking particularly glum lately, after being forced to admit that he did in fact grow facial hair. Instead of his usual clean-shaven face he now sported a full beard, mustache, and one sideburn. The mustache he’d agreed to without much of a fight, the beard too, even, but he’d almost quit when Laurel had told him that the sideburns were necessary.
“It just doesn’t grow in on this side!” he’d said. “Please don’t ask this of me. It’s degrading. I’ll quit, I’ll file a lawsuit on account of a hostile work environment. Don’t think I won’t.”
“I know you would, Gavin,” Laurel had replied, “but if we’re not behind this ban one hundred percent, we’ll just look like hypocrites. If we look like hypocrites, there’s a good chance we’ll be killed. You’re at the front of the salon. If you were in the back, we wouldn’t have to worry about it. You know that. We have to stand by The Answer.”
So Gavin had taken to sitting at the front desk with his chair facing the wall rather than the door so that people would only see him in profile—the sideburnless side.
And that’s the way Laurel found him when she walked in. “Good morning, Gavin.”
“Buzz off,” he said while pretending to check the calendar on the wall.
“Morning, Georgina,” Laurel said as she set her purse down next to her station.
Georgina looked up from her client, whose face was covered in a thick white masque.
“Have you heard the news?” Georgina asked.
“You know I don’t follow that anymore,” Laurel replied.
“Well, this is important. That bill they were trying to pass, the one that would completely ban any sort of haircutting, unless it becomes a matter of life and death—you know, an ingrown hair or something that requires surgery—you know that bill, right?”
“Uh-huh,” Laurel said, taking out her tools from her bag and setting them on the counter.
“Well, it was shot down.”
“Good for us, I guess,” Laurel said, lining up her brushes.
Georgina huffed exasperatedly and stomped her foot. “Good for us? Good for us! No, Laurel, this is not good for us. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we haven’t exactly been on a wait lately. This salon is going under and quick! We needed that bill to pass, don’t you understand?”
Laurel was taken aback by Georgina’s sudden outburst. “No. I’m sorry, I guess I don’t understand.”
“No one wants to get their hair cut, because it’s only socially outlawed. As long as it’s socially outlawed, people aren’t going to want anything to do with it. But if it’s made illegal…oh yes, then people will come flocking. As soon as it’ll illegal, we’ll have lines out the doors. Of course, we’ll have to be much more secretive than just tinting our windows, because there’d be police, FBI, informants…” The excitement in Georgina’s voice frightened Laurel. “Yeah, we’d really be in business then.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, Georgina,” Laurel said, shaking up some of her top-selling nail colors, “but a new haircut is a pretty obvious thing. People would be idiots to walk around with healthy ends when it could land them in jail.”
Georgina huffed out an exasperated breath. “See, this is why you need to follow the news more. The possession of a haircut wouldn’t have been illegal, just the act of giving one and the sale of it. As long as we’re not caught giving one and there’s no money trail, we can’t be charged. But word would get out, and we would be the hottest place in town, like a stylish speakeasy.
“But we’re not, because they shot down the bill. So here we are, barely able to pay the rent on this space, let alone make enough money to support our families.”
“You don’t have a family, Georgina.”
“You think I don’t know that? You think I—it’s not that I don’t want a family, but how could I afford to start one when I’m not making shit at my job?”
Laurel busied herself in cleaning the mirror. “Surely it’s not that bad,” she said quietly.
“Don’t be thick,” Georgina snapped. “Of course it’s that bad.”
Laurel looked up at the TV where one of the tiresome hair product commercials was just ending.
Georgina followed Laurel’s eye line up to the television. “At least someone’s making money,” she grumbled.
The station returned to a round-table news program, and Laurel was shocked to see a familiar face on the panel of experts. She should have been used to seeing familiar faces on the television by now, but she still hadn’t gotten used to it, even after two months of doing interviews herself.
“I can’t stand that guy,” Georgina said, nodding at Malcolm Goldman’s face on the screen. “He’s the biggest hypocrite of them all. Going around telling everyone to let their hair grow out, but staying perfectly clean shaven the whole time.”
Laurel sighed. “I don’t think it’s intentional, Georgina. The poor ginger just can’t grow facial hair.”
“Well, whatever. Either way, it’s easy for him to go around preaching it when it’s not a problem for him.”
“From what I’ve heard, being a man in your midthirties who can’t grow facial hair has its own problems attached to it.”
“What do you know, anyway?” Georgina said, using way too much fingernail to peel off her client’s masque.
Laurel finished setting up her workspace and headed over to the front desk to check her schedule for the day. Gavin leaned in as she reached past him to grab the desk calendar, and said, “Don’t listen to her, she’s just bitter about having to grow out her mustache.”
“I heard that!” Georgina yelled from across the salon. “And it’s not my fault my mother was Sicilian. You think I’m supposed to be happy about this?” She motioned to her upper lip before g
oing back to her work.
Gavin blew her off. “I never thought anything could silence Italian pride, but I guess I was wrong.” Then he leaned closer to Laurel to whisper, “She told me today that she suspects you’re waxing yours.” He looked furtively over at Georgina for a reaction.
“I’m not,” Laurel said. “It’s just blonde.”
Georgina was glaring at Gavin, who flashed a smile back at his boss.
“That’s what I told her,” he said, “but she’s just so bitter about hers, I guess she didn’t hear it.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
IT WAS THANKSGIVING WEEKEND, AND Wimbledonians were still holding their breath, waiting for spring. Bret hadn’t been seen since the press conference, with the exception of brief sightings as he helped a delivery woman unload giant cans of food from her truck and carried them inside his home, where he was rumored to have an underground fallout shelter.
The Tuesday before school let out for the long holiday weekend, Melanie had requested taking off through the winter holidays, all the way until the start of the spring semester. She’d mumbled something vague about pregnancy and the equator, but was never very specific. The principal was more than happy to see her file for an extended leave of absence after the various spats they’d had recently about climatology curriculum and weather phenomena.
No one had heard directly from Jack in over a month, not since he’d headed north with a documentary crew to host a series on how to survive in the cold. His pop of fame from the Dinner Summit had been enough to lend him the credibility to give tips and demonstrate the techniques for surviving in subfreezing temperatures for months on end. Mostly he interviewed Canadians, but one episode focused on the Inuit of Alaska and was viewed by over fifteen million people worldwide.
Both Eugene’s and Malcolm’s connections had paid off big for Dr. Frank Leinenkugel, who was now the bipartisan voice of reason on just about every news, auto, and gland-related show on television. Laurel would occasionally catch sight of him as she flipped through the channels, but she never stopped to watch, because more times than not, Dr. Leinenkugel was on some news program or the next.
Even if Laurel Sapphire had still watched the news, she wouldn’t have seen a weather forecast on that Wednesday before Thanksgiving. All weather forecasts had been dropped after the meteorologists went on strike back in October, claiming they could no longer function under the public hostility that being the messengers had brought upon them. Or rather, they could function, but only if they were paid double what they had been making.
It’d been just over three months since the press conference, and nothing about the weather had changed. The people of Wimbledon, Kentucky, were really starting to feel the heat, but unfortunately only in a figurative sense.
Wednesday morning, with thoughts of all the pre-Thanksgiving prep she should begin working on cycling in her brain, Laurel yawned, rolled up from her bed into a sitting position, and out of habit did the following: pulled on her slippers to keep her feet warm on the cold wood floor, grabbed her plush robe that she kept hanging up next to her side of the bed and put it on over her long johns, and hobbled into the hall to turn up the heat.
It was right as she was fiddling with the thermostat that she realized she didn’t really need to; she was sweating profusely.
Hello there, menopause, she thought.
She untied her robe, slipped off her slippers, and headed down the stairs to make the morning coffee that Bill insisted was necessary to keep him from freezing to death.
As she made her way downstairs, she heard a sound that reminded her of her youth, as her mind slipped back to the snow days she remembered as a kid, when she’d lurched out of bed before she even knew why, only understanding that something exciting was happening outdoors and that she needed to be a part of it immediately.
Those were the days, she thought, back when snow was a novelty.
But still she heard the sound of children playing outside.
She tiptoed suspiciously up to the front window, not trusting the commotion one bit, and spread apart the blinds with two fingers so she could peep out.
She was almost knocked backwards by the overwhelming sunshine that struck her eyes.
Squinting as she drew up the blinds, she could begin to make out the children who ran around in the street.
“Trevor?” she said, not sure how he’d gotten outside without her hearing him leave.
Sweat was streaming down her son’s face as he ran from his classmates in the middle of a game of tag.
Rather than walking outside to experience the strange weather for herself, Laurel did what every adult would do: she turned on the news to see what it had to say about it.
Mark Donovan, the local weatherman who had been heading up the strike, was back in the studio, tears pouring from his eyes as he predicted a high of around seventy degrees for the next two weeks.
“Sunshine,” he squeaked between sobs. “Sunshine for as long as we can predict. It’s so beautiful…”
Laurel figured she better get dressed; more interviewers were bound to show up on her doorstep now that The Answer had apparently worked.
Laurel hurried back upstairs, not bothering to turn off the television, on which Mark Donovan had just given it back over to Cathy Carmichael with the headlines.
“Thanks for that, Mark. That’s just amazing,” Cathy said before turning to face camera one. “So what are the people of Wimbledon saying now that their tiny little town’s plan worked? Let’s send it out to special reporter Malcolm Goldman as he interviews a few of the locals. Malcolm?”
Malcolm, for reasons unknown, was stationed in front of the local brewery, a small crowd gathering around him as they realized that this was their chance to be on what might eventually become further television history.
“Thanks, Cathy,” he shouted above the noise of the crowd. “The town of Wimbledon, Kentucky, seems to be in high spirits on such a monumental day as this, but it just wouldn’t be America if there weren’t some dissenters, or at least skeptics, mixed in with the locals. But I’d like to let you hear it for yourself, so I’ve asked a few people to come speak with me.
“First up, I have Mary Rosenthal. Mary, I understand you’re not as thrilled with the current weather as most everyone else is. Why don’t you tell us what you think about all of this?”
Mary Rosenthal leaned uncomfortably close to Malcolm, her eyes looking directly and somewhat disconcertingly at the camera lens.
“It’s too damn hot,” she said. “Something should be done about this! Why isn’t anyone else worried by the fact that it’s seventy degrees at the end of November? We shouldn’t be rejoicing, we should be panicked!”
Malcolm nodded diplomatically. “So you believe this is cause for concern?”
“Absolutely,” Mary Rosenthal replied.
From off screen lumbered Old Carter, also starting disconcertingly into the camera lens, while in the background Wally stumbled by, a moonshine jug with XXXX clutched in his hand.
Old Carter grabbed Malcolm’s wrist and brought the microphone close to his mouth. “I’ll tell you what’s what,” he said.
Malcolm was unable to hide his excitement over Old Carter’s good timing. “For those of you who don’t know, this is the man who originally came up with The Answer and stuck to it, even though everyone considered him crazy at first.”
Malcolm shoved Mary Rosenthal off screen and guided Old Carter closer to the center of the shot.
“Old Carter, we’d love to hear your take on this. America, pay close attention to the kind of wisdom that can only be found in those who have lived long enough to learn it.”
Old Carter tapped on the mic, and from behind the camera, Lee could be heard saying, “Ow, shit. Dude, not necessary.”
Old Carter never broke eye contact with the camera. “Here’s what’s what: that she-devil you just interviewed needs to stop complaining. Sometimes this shit just happens. Sometimes it’s hot, and sometimes it’s cold.
You think the earth gives a good goddamn what adorable puppy’s picture is showing on your gay little monthly calendar? You think the earth cares if your calendar puppy is wearing a gay little swimsuit and sitting next to a beach ball? You think the earth sees your gay little calendar and feels guilty that it’s not hot enough for that gay little puppy to comfortably take a dip in the ocean? No. The earth don’t give a damn. Sometimes this shit just happens. But in this particular case, I feel pretty confident that it’s all God’s punishment for us not eating enough whale.”
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
H. CLAIRE TAYLOR HAS LIVED in Austin since the eighties, and now there’s really no reason to leave. She started writing her first novel at age ten and has been making things up ever since. Nowadays, she shares a home with her husband and two black-and-white mutts and suffers from an unhealthy dependency on Post-It Notes. When she’s not working on her novels, she’s blogging and recording silly comedy podcasts. You can find out more about her and her projects at The Official Website of H. Claire Taylor: www.hclairetaylor.com
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