by Ruth Ozeki
His legs felt strangely naked in the green tights, but his feet were sure on the board. The marble under his wheels was as smooth as glass, and he pushed off and started to fly. He crouched low and headed straight for Charmey, who was facing him now, having rounded the target to make her approach from the opposite side. When she looked up and saw Frankie coming, she clutched her bulging stomach and let out a piercing cry.
“Ooooooh! Mon bébé! He is coming!”
Slowly she sank to the ground.
All heads turned toward her and away from Frankie. As the crowd swayed closer to check her out, a gap opened up, and he took it. He sailed in, staying low and light on his board, ducking and weaving. By the time the CEO saw him coming, Mr. Potato Head had achieved what was later judged to be perfect pie proximity. Frankie drew back his arm and let the pie fly. It achieved maximum impact, neither too high nor too low, hitting the CEO smack on the nose. The consistency of the tofu crème achieved maximum coverage, too, being neither too thick nor too runny. A volley of backup pies from splinter factions started to fly, including Charmey’s, just before security closed in and rounded them up, hustling them quickly from the lobby.
Outside on the street a lively demonstration was under way. A parade of mutant vegetables was dancing up and down the sidewalk. Copies of a recent exposé on Cynaco, published in Britain, were being distributed.
From sympathizer copy shops and Internet cafés throughout the city, the commander and her staff faxed and e-mailed press releases out to the international wire services and local networks. When their photographers straggled in, digital images and video clips were uploaded and disseminated, too.
A lawyer was standing by to meet Frankie and the other field agents at the police station. They were charged with misdemeanor battery, but Geek showed up with bail, so they were released and told to appear in court the following week. It was a major party scene when they reconvened that evening at the house, and Frankie was hailed as a conquering hero.
“Way to go, man!”
“Did you see the look on the dude’s face?”
“Couldn’t, dude. There was too much fucking pie on it!”
“What an arm!”
Geek was online, monitoring the congratulatory e-mail and the updates on press coverage that were coming in from all over the world. The commander was reading over his shoulder.
“The Brits were planning to pie him next week in London,” she yelled. “We got him first this time!”
“They’re getting us major coverage in the London dailies!”
“Hey! We scored a back page in New Delhi!”
Clippings from the evening papers had been blown up to poster size and hung up on the wall. TV monitors and VCRs were stacked in a corner, taping the news coverage from the networks and cable stations. The Future of the World Forum had been a well-covered event, and who can resist a pie in the face? It was pure eye candy.
“Tu est magnifique, Frankie,” Charmey whispered that night when they finally returned to the Spudnik and crawled into their blankets.
Frankie was thoroughly jazzed, and he just couldn’t come down. “This is it! ” he said, punching the pillow. “I can’t explain it, but I know. This is the kind of shit I gotta do. I was born for it.”
Charmey curled up against him and yawned. He draped his arm over her belly and let it hang there, absently rubbing, as he went over the day in his mind. Sometimes when he skated, when his feet hit the board and the wheels started to spin, there’d be this moment when time would stop and the world stopped with it—all movement, all sound—and he’d be the only one, soaring alone through the silence. Everything would be so clear and beautiful he just wanted to howl. That was what it had felt like as he floated across that hotel lobby, only even more intense. He sighed. It was good to find your passion.
When Geek and Y told him they were heading back to Liberty Falls, Frankie went ballistic. Geek worked to reassure him. “Don’t worry, little brother. We’re planning something big.”
pied
In the thick, humid days of an early D.C. summer, Elliot missed the dry air of Idaho, even in the air-conditioned comfort of his office.
“So fuck D.C.,” Jillie said, loosening his tie. “Fuck PR! Go farm potatoes.” She looked at him critically. “You’re such a hick, Elliot. I can see you being quite good at it.”
“A propensity for potatoes?” he suggested, weighing her breast.
“A talent for tubers,” she rejoined, dropping her hand to his crotch. “A soft spot for spuds.”
But his heart wasn’t in it. He’d lost his sparkle, the keen edge of his enthusiasm for her, which, sadly, seemed only to sharpen Jillie’s appetite for him. Ever polite, he never failed to rally, but even as he slipped his hands down the small of her back and around the curve of her buttocks, lifting her onto his desk, he was aware of a thinness to their interaction. Together they had a slick veneer. What they lacked was history. So when his phone rang just as he was leaning her back onto his blotter and parting her legs, he hesitated first, but he reached across the desk and picked it up.
“Pied?” he said.
He stepped back and studied Jillie’s scowling face as he listened, then sat down heavily in his chair and started to swivel. She leaned on her elbows and watched him go ’round and ’round. He hung up and groaned.
“Who was it?” Jillie asked.
He raised his face from his hands. “A guy dressed like Mr. Potato Head threw a pie at the CEO of Cynaco.”
“Ah, yes. Pied.”
He dropped his hands and stared at her. “You knew about this?”
“Actually,” she said, sitting all the way up now, “I had heard, yes. They sent out quite a detailed press release.”
“You heard and you didn’t tell me?”
“I figured you already knew.”
“I didn’t. Why should I know?”
“Maybe because it’s your job? I thought Mr. Potato Head was your beat. Those kids you were tracking. The Seeds of Resistance . . .”
“They’re in Idaho,” he said. “Besides, they don’t pie. Unless of course it’s an alliance. With that other group, you know, the corporate crime police.”
“The ones who pied Bill Gates.”
“Yeah.” He looked over at her, reclining splay-legged on his desk. “Wait a minute. Wurtz isn’t running this story, is he?”
“Well, yes.”
“And you’re writing it?”
“Mmm.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I thought we could have sex first and then talk about it.”
He groaned and covered his face again. “I can’t, Jillie. My heart’s not in it.”
“Since when has your heart had anything to do with it?”
When she didn’t get an answer, she brought her legs together and tugged down her skirt.
“So,” she said, trying again, “I gather they nailed their target?”
“Smack in the face,” he said through his hands. His voice was muffled.
“Tofu crème, huh?”
He just continued to swivel.
“Well,” she said, hopping off the desk, “this conversation certainly isn’t going anywhere. I’m going to get something to eat.” She grabbed her purse and paused at the door. “Maybe you should consider potato farming, Elliot,” she said. “Because you’re kind of losing what it takes for a career in public relations.”
He sat there peering at her through his spread fingers, watching the way her tight butt twitched as she walked away. You’re telling me, he thought, and then he groaned. Duncan was going to kill him if it came out in the press that the Seeds of Resistance had anything to do with this.
“Jillie!” he called, jumping up. He needed to ask her what was in her story, but the only response he got was the computerized voice of the elevator as the doors closed behind her: “Going down.”
Elliot went back to his office and picked up the phone. Duncan was away on a spiritual retreat in New Mexic
o, which bought him a little time. He couldn’t do anything to kill the story, but at least he could find out why the fuck he hadn’t been informed. He dialed the Pinkerton’s number. Rodney picked up. He sounded quite miffed at Elliot’s question.
“Sure I knew they’d taken off,” he said.
“You were supposed to be watching them! What happened?”
There was a long silence. When Rodney finally spoke, his voice sounded distant. “Word got out about that pornography Web site of theirs. Folks here don’t think much of that kind of thing, if you know what I mean, and let ’em know. They left town shortly after.”
“I specifically said not to run them out of town. Why didn’t you tell me they were going to San Francisco?”
“Well, now, Mr. Rhodes, I didn’t know where they were going, did I? Besides, San Francisco is outside of my jurisdiction.”
Elliot hung up, then dialed again. “Can I talk to your mom?” he said.
“Yummy!” he heard Ocean cry. “It’s for you. It’s the man in the suit. The one from the nation’s capital.”
Yummy picked up an extension and yelled at her daughter to hang up, but Ocean had wandered off. Elliot could hear her singing her song in the background. “Going to the garden to eat worms, yum, yum, yum. . . .”
“Why didn’t you tell me the Seeds had left?” he asked. “Did you know about this action in San Francisco?”
“You mean the one with the pies?”
Apparently everyone had known about this except him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I thought you wanted to know what they were doing here. In Idaho. So that you could come back and see me. I thought that was the point.”
“It was. It is. But I’ll need more than just that for an article, you know.”
“Oh. Well, I didn’t think you’d be interested in pies. It seemed silly.”
“Pies are never silly.”
“They’re not?”
“No. I mean, yes. Silly is what makes them so insidious. Pies are like stealth bombs on the battleground of public opinion. Media Molotov cocktails that can home in on a CEO and do more damage to that corporation’s image in one televised instant than half a dozen articles in the Times.”
“Oh.” She didn’t sound at all impressed.
“It’s terrorism,” he said. “It’s assault and battery. It’s breaking the law.”
“Elliot, whose side are you on, anyway?”
“I’m not on anyone’s side. I’m a journalist. I’m impartial.”
“Well, I’m sorry. Things got a little out of control here after you left, and they split, but now they want to come back. They just called from San Francisco. They have some crazy idea they want Lloyd’s help with. I don’t know . . .”
Elliot sat up. “That’s good,” he said, leaning forward. “You need their help, too, right? It’s too much for you to handle alone. Do you know when they’ll be coming back?”
There was a long silence on the other end of the phone. “I was going to tell them to forget it,” she said. “I don’t trust them.”
He sat back and swiveled around in his chair. He took a deep breath. “Sure,” he said. “I can see that.” He paused. “Too bad, though. I’d like to hear what they’re up to. It might be interesting, and of course it would be great to see you. . . .”
terminator
On the morning of the Seeds’ return, I woke to the smell of baking muffins and the sound of Charmey in the kitchen.
“—mostly fried,” Ocean was telling her. “In butter.”
I sat up in bed. From the bathroom I heard the sound of water running. I got up and stood outside the closed door. The sweet, humid smell of steam and bath soap wafted from under the door. “Oh . . .” I heard Lloyd sigh. “That feels real good. Haven’t had a proper bath since you left.”
“Well, you just lie back and enjoy while I go help Lilith change your sheets.”
“Melvin?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Don’t you go running off like that again, you hear?”
“I’ll try not to, sir.”
I made it back to my bedroom before Melvin saw me in the hall. I turned up the volume on the baby monitor, and from Lloyd’s bedroom I heard Lilith whispering, “This place is a mess. . . .”
I went to the window and looked out. Below me was the graceless shape of the Spudnik. Beyond, in the garden, Geek was following Momoko down the rows, nodding as she pointed to the beanstalks climbing vigorously up their poles toward the sky. I had meant to spend more time with her, maybe help her weed a little, but I hadn’t gotten around to it.
The Spudnik door slammed and Phoenix came tearing out, wearing a T-shirt I’d never seen before. I heard him take the porch steps in twos.
“Hey!” he yelled. “Look what Frankie got me in Frisco!”
“What’s Thrasher?” Ocean asked.
“Skate ’zine. Totally rad.”
I heard the oven door open, then close. “Oh, wow! Awesome muffins!”
I sat on the edge of the bed trying to decide whether I felt hurt or relieved. Then I heard my son say proudly, through a mouthful of muffin, “Hey, Char, guess what? I was just telling Frankie. After you guys left? I got arrested and put in the slammer!”
I lay back down and pulled up the covers.
A week or so later they called a council meeting on the porch. Melvin helped Lloyd into an old rocking chair, and Momoko sat beside him. It was a warm summer evening. Sprinklers dotted the lawn, and the rainbirds spanned the green fields of potatoes and wheat, as far as the eye could see, pumping pixels of water into the air. A fine spray hung over the earth, catching the last deep angles of light.
Carefully, Geek prepared us. He outlined the political and social agenda of the Seeds. He gave a brief recap of the hazards of biotech, then he explained the idea behind the Fourth of July action.
“We envision something like the Boston Tea Party,” he said. “They threw tea into Boston Harbor to protest taxation without representation. We’re digging up potatoes to protest genetic engineering without our consent. It’ll be an educational event, like a teach-in, to wake people up to the magnitude of this hazardous corporate agenda that is being implemented behind our backs. We’ll call it the Idaho Potato Party.”
“Cool,” Phoenix said. “I’ll help.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “Whose potatoes, exactly, are you planning to dig up?”
“Well, that’s still to be decided,” Geek said. “We’ve closed the Garden of Earthly Delights part of the Web site, by the way . . .”
“Good.”
“. . . and we’re planning to open a Potato Party site with real-time links, so that people can participate online.”
Lloyd broke in. “What do you want from us?”
“We were hoping you’d support the idea, sir,” Geek said. “Enough to let us hold the event here on your property.”
“Here!”
Geek ignored me and continued to address Lloyd. “It’s the perfect place. A small, family-run seed operation. We thought maybe you and Momoko could teach people about seed-saving techniques. . . .”
Lloyd frowned. “We tell folks about our seeds all the time. They see the sign on the roadside and drive right on in. Get a lot of new customers that way. And as for that other stuff, I’ve made my opinions about big corporations known in this community and never needed a party to do so. A lot of the spud farmers think I’m nuts, but a lot of them don’t, I’ll tell you.”
“Excellent! You can be a spokesperson.”
“Can’t say I’m much of a speaker,” Lloyd said, but his eyes were glittering, and he rocked a little faster. “What would I have to say?”
“Well, you could talk about the butterflies for starters.”
“Butterflies?” Lloyd looked bewildered. “Well, we have a nice assortment of seeds for starting a butterfly garden. Buddleias and—”
“Actually, I was thinking about this,” Geek said. He had a folder in front of him, and no
w he took out a news clipping. “This is from the New York Times. ‘Pollen From Genetically Altered Corn Threatens Monarch Butterfly.’ ”
Geek handed the article to Lloyd. Lloyd squinted and rubbed his eyes. He was on a new medication that blurred his vision and made his thinking foggy, but slowly, as he read, the meaning penetrated. “Oh, no!” he said. “Not the butterflies! ”
Geek pulled out another clipping. “Here’s one about the new Terminator technologies.”
“Terminator?” Lloyd shook his head.
“It’s like a death gene, sir. A self-destruct mechanism. They splice it into the DNA of a plant and trigger it. The plant kills its own embryo.”
“But that’s madness! Why on earth . . . ?”
“To protect the corporation’s intellectual property rights over the plant. To keep farmers from saving and replanting seeds. To force them to buy new seed every year.”
“But to develop a trait like that? On purpose?”
Geek nodded. “Crosses the line between genius and insanity. Think what could happen if that gene escapes.”
Lloyd closed his eyes. I watched him with a growing sense of foreboding. His elbows were braced against the chair arms, and now he laced his fingers and let his forehead drop to his hands as though praying. For a while the only sounds we could hear were the creak of Lloyd’s rocker and the hissing of the sprinkler jets. Then Lloyd spoke.
“Not a lot of time before the Fourth,” he said. “What do you need from us?”
“You’re not actually going along with this?” I said.
“Damn right I am. Never heard of anything more frightening in my life.”
It was like popping a cork. “A party!” Ocean yelled. “We’re having a party!”
Lilith ran over to Lloyd and hugged him. Phoenix held up his palm to high-five his grandfather, who fumbled, then shook it instead. Momoko started clapping, although she didn’t seem to know what for.
I couldn’t believe it. “This is insane! You don’t know what you’re getting into, Dad. We can’t have lots of people swarming all over the place. You’re supposed to be getting rest.”
