by Mike McKay
Chapter 22
From the Station, Mark went straight to the ‘nice lady’ near the school. Now the former garage looked a proper shop, with impressive selection of anklets and other bare necessities of hippie life: from bandanas and sunglasses to handicraft tobacco boxes, cigarette paper, and Grass. Two schoolgirls, between Samantha's and Pamela's age, envied a glass display with bead bracelets.
The shop attendant, a girl of about twelve, spotted Mark's bike, jumped to the door and yelled into the house: “Pa? There is a plainclothes dude! With a Police bike!”
The schoolgirls gave Mark a scared look. Twenty seconds later, ‘Pa’ appeared in the garage. He had John Lennon's long hair, complete with a beaded hairband and round glasses. A green tank top read: Say NO to Synthetic Drugs. Chemicals Kill You and Your Planet.
“Are you after me, officer?” the man asked, “I told your guys at the Beat: we are a responsible business. Aren't doing nothing illegal.”
Mark observed that at least the official part of the ‘business’ was done responsibly. An announcement on the garage wall informed ‘dear customers’ that no smoking implements would be sold to any person under fourteen, no exceptions, thank you, end of the story, have a nice day.
“Relax. I'm in the ‘dear customers’ category.”
‘Lennon’ gave a one hundred percent Beatles' smile. “Sorry, dude. Overreacted! Nowadays, you never know what to expect.” He extended his hand for a handshake, but stopped halfway and apologetically demonstrated Mark his fingers, covered with reddish dust: he held a half-polished smoking pipe and a piece of sandpaper. “What do you smoke: Tobacco, Grass, or Blend?”
“Oh, I don't smoke. Fortunately or unfortunately… Just need to buy presents.” Mark pointed to the bracelet displays.
“Cool, man. Kiri will give you professional advice. That's not my part of the shop. Now, if you excuse me, I need to finish this pipe today. ‘Dear customers’ can't wait.”
Mark smiled and nodded, and ‘Lennon’ disappeared into the house. The back of his tank top read: SMOKE NATURAL. Good for the environment. Fun for you.
“What would you like, sir?” The teenager shop assistant asked.
“Do you still sell barefoot sandals?”
“You mean: kama'a-ole? Like this?” She lifted one foot off the ground, showing Mark her own fancy footwear.
“Right! I need four pairs, please.”
The schoolgirls gave him another scared look. Now they think I'm a fetishist, Mark decided.
The purchase went fine, all the same. Kiri was an expert in neo-hippie fashion. The schoolgirls soon joined in, offering the second, and the third, and who-can-count-them-now opinions. Based on the girl's advices, Mark selected the sandals. He picked a light-green-with-burnt-brown pair for Pamela (“they're approved with the school uniform, sir!”) A yellow-and-orange pair, with smiley-face beads perfectly fitted for Clarice (“these are for the optimistic moods!”) For Samantha, Mark needed no advice whatsoever: the design incorporated blackened and partially polished tiny ball bearings, a perfect match to the steampunk flower pendant.
Finally, Mark decided on one luxurious black-with-gold pair for Mary. Kiri sensed they were talking the main present of the day, so an up-sale happened immediately. Mark ended up with not only the sandals, but also a matching bead bracelet and necklace (“These crystals in the middle are real Swarovski! Very rare! Swarovski you can find only at the 'Fill, no other place, sir!”)
The service was impeccable, as in a high-fashion store before the Meltdown. An inquiry was made about the sizes; good I wrote them down, Mark thought. The sandals had been adjusted to match the intended owners. The presents were packed in jewelry boxes made from old glossy magazines. Mark was explained the prices were ‘fixed,’ and given a total price tag: six thousand dollars. Upon Mark's request, the John-Lennon ‘Pa’ was summoned, and gave Mark a generous discount. The entire lot went for forty-five hundred. Samantha was right: very practical. For the price of one pair of ugly school sandals, he purchased fancy shoes for the entire family!
From the hippie shop, Mark cycled to the local market and bought a family-size apple pie from the bakery. With pretty brown crust, and a hint of custard sugar on top, exactly as Mary liked it. The munitions for his ‘Civil War’ battle had been obtained.
Back home, he found William and David-senior sitting at the front deck.
“Heavy guns arrived! Just in time for action,” William announced, turning his face to the characteristic thump of Mark's bike upon the wooden railings.
“Don't tell me the battle has started,” Mark was concerned that Samantha did not listen, despite her real-promise yesterday.
“All quiet yet. The troops are still munching dinner,” William said. “But: getting ready. Today, gran' David and I are for the United Nations.”
David-senior pulled the pipe from his mouth and nodded.
“Where is Clarice?” Mark asked, kicking his shoes off at the entrance door.
“Upstairs. Davy developed a little fever,” William said.
“Should we bring Davy to the doctor?” Nice if we can skip the confrontation today. Without Clarice, their specialist peacekeeper, the battle might get too personal. David-senior was useless in the peacekeeping role, and William, if compared to Clarice, was an amateur. Besides, recently he started playing on the ‘Confederates’ side far too often, and the peacekeepers were not supposed to take sides, were they?
“Rissy says: what's the point? The doctor will advise all the same: Aspirin, more water, and stay in bed, and she's doing all this already.”
“Did you skip the Loop today?”
“I didn't. Went by myself! Sooner or later, I must learn to use my twenty-by-twenty vision, do I? Jack-the-Rapper was giving a show at the market, so I joined his support team. Mister Todd can call it spot-holding all he wants, but I don't give a damn. Jack renamed one song after me: Billy, Who Made Three Out of Each Five. Spot on.”
Mark went inside. On the faces of Samantha, Pamela, and Patrick, he saw the determined readiness of seasoned ‘Confederate’ troops. The infantry was lining up, with the drumbeat and sergeants' whistles, loading their muskets! Mary sat with her cell phone, surfing the Net and getting ready to whack Samantha's brilliant ideas with a parental veto. She suspected Mark was now at the ‘Confederates’ side, but did not expect a surprise flank attack from her former ally.
Mark placed the apple pie on the dinner table. “Honey, how about having tea?”
“You're bribing me, so I let Samantha to become a landfill scavenger. Am I right?”
“Yes!” Mark admitted. The ‘Confederates’ held their breath.
“Won't work! I will never fall for a trivial apple pie. Despite it's my favorite.”
“That's a pity, but the pie we must eat anyhow. The bakery doesn't give refunds. But of course, if you don't like the jewelry, I can return it tomorrow.” Mark jubilantly placed the box in front of Mary.
Mary lifted the lid and poked inside as if the box was made not of the National Geographic cover page, but of red leather. With many carats of gold and diamonds inside, and with a price tag of $4500 in real pre-Meltdown dollars.
When did I give her real jewelry? Last time it was… well, 2013, our five-year anniversary. The present for 2018 was planned, but never happened. After the Meltdown, gold somehow did not make into our shopping lists! And now… All the jewelry Mark could afford for his wife: these cheap glass beads, but with exceptionally rare real Swarovski crystals, obtained only from the 'Fill.
“Beautiful!” Mary put the bracelet on and lifted her hand admiring the black and golden beads and little rainbows in the crystal. She pulled the ‘barefoot sandals’ from the box, and her lips twitched a little. “How inappropriate! What do you call these? Kameole?”
“Kama'a-ole, Mom. You need to make a double ‘a’!” Pamela said. The next second, she and Samantha got to the floor, fitting
the fancy sandals over Mom's ankles.
Mary tapped her bare toes. “At least, they're a perfect fit, darling.”
“I still can guess your size!” Mark said.
“They are… awesome! I love them. Thank you, darling.” She wrapped her arms around Mark's neck and gave a long-long kiss.
To make the attack's success permanent, Mark was quick to distribute the other jewelry. The rest of the evening passed peacefully. Without much struggle, Mary allowed Samantha to stay at the gasoline plant, but only through the summer. Everybody nodded: it was the same with Mike three years ago, and he ended up working at the 'Fill permanently.
Patrick made an opportunistic attempt to send his cavalry after the retreating ‘Union’ troops. “Every boy must have a knife,” the intrepid ten-year-old ‘Confederates’ commander started to explain, but the UN Peacekeepers went into action. The horsemen suddenly stumbled upon the Blue Helmets' personnel carriers and faced William's machine guns. The raid was aborted and immediately forgotten.
At the end, Samantha almost spoiled the bloodless victory by revealing her plans to walk around the gasoline plant in those new kama'a-ole tomorrow. Prepared for this, Mark reacted at once: “Samantha, your barefoot sandals are not for working at the 'Fill. Remember, what Mister Stolz said? You must have PPE for each task in hand.”
Samantha realized her blooper and replied, “oh, sure! I meant: I just take the kama'a-ole with me, and show to the girls. Tomorrow morning, I put my boots on! That's a real-promise, Dad: going to the 'Fill with no shoes is not appropriate.”
She said it just right: going to the 'Fill, Mark smiled. Tomorrow morning, for a good cause of keeping our Mommy happy, Samantha would put her boots on and let her anti-sissy toes suffer for whole two hundred yards, all the way to the nearest corner. Mary in turn would pretend she believes the show, and her daughter is not roaming the 'Fill in bare feet.
Later on, already in bed, Mary admitted the presents were a nice touch, but her decision to let Samantha leave the school was more rational than Mark thought.
“I went to the school today to meet Mister Connely,” she explained, “I can tell you, I wasn't impressed. He's a total idiot! First I learned that not only Pam got a ‘D,’ but about half of her class. Still, we must be proud: our daughter was the only one who got not just a simple stupid ‘D,’ but an advanced, glorious ‘D’ with an exclamation mark!”
“Was the test too difficult?”
“Yes and no. It was all about dates. On the sixteenth of June, Colonel such and such, with a half-battalion of infantry and one cannon, goes to such and such town, and stays for two days. Then, on the eighteenth, he marches up the state, to village such-and-such. And so on. All the little facts the idiot himself didn't know one year ago, but dug recently from a five hundred page monograph. All irrelevant: nothing about the reasons or strategy, nothing about politics, economy, or weapons. One big nothing! He teaches not History, but the Nineteenth Century calendar!”
“Our Pamela is not the type who can keep her mouth shut,” Mark said. A couple more visits like this, and Mary might object her other kids going to school altogether!
“Kids must be so-o-o bored! Well, all the others in the class diligently tried to get the dates right. According to Mister Connely, one girl even got an ‘A.’ I asked if she remembered all the dates. And he said: only forty-five percent, but it's an excellent result. An excellent result, my ass!”
“And what had Pamela done to deserve the exclamation mark to her ‘D’?”
“She remembered few dates, but didn't write any. Instead, she wrote: ‘These dates are freaking useless. Why bother?’ Then, Pam followed her assessment verbally, and in front of the whole class! Want to hear what she said?”
“Samantha already reported. The moth balls. To be frank, I agree.”
“Let's leave the History-Schmistory for now. It's not worth it,” Mary said kissing Mark in the cheek, “but please don't tell Pam it's OK to go around the school and humiliate teachers.”
“Honey, the official term is to ‘blah the teachers,’ or so I was told.”
“Oh, I forgot: Mike sent an e-mail today!”
“Excellent! How is he doing?”
“Fine. Arne and Mike ended up in the same platoon. Mike wrote, they got uniforms with a desert pattern. Like for North Africa, or Middle East. William says it's a positive development, for a change. The survival rates in the desert are way better than in the jungles.”
The hope was thin, but Mark wisely kept it for himself. Perhaps, the boot camp temporary ran out of jungle camo and would eventually issue proper outfits. Or ship the draftees to jungles as is, in the desert uniforms, so their son sticks out like a sore thumb, ready to be picked by a guerrilla sniper. Instead, Mark said: “I think William is right. That's wonderful news, honey!” and returned a kiss…
Twenty minutes later, two pillows and the bed cover were on the floor, Mark's shorts and Mary's nightgown – crumpled at the bed head, while Mark and Mary laid naked, listening to the rain outside.
“You know what? With your presents – you are damn late! By about four years!” Mary said suddenly.
“Why?”
“Do you remember our first battle – about Sam's school sandals? If you just said, ‘Shut up, honey!’ And then – went with the girls and instead of ugly tire sandals bought those hippie ones, our domestic ‘Civil War’ wouldn't happen first place.”
“Better late than never,” Mark said, “admittedly, I disobeyed. I bought Samantha and Pamela bead calflets that day. Did they show to you?”
“No.”
“Our daughters can be trusted with the FBI secrets! To be frank, even today I was scared. I imagined you throw the box at me and call it a waste of money. Did you call it inappropriate?”
“Absolutely right, darling. Inappropriate, impractical, and a total waste of money. So what? Barefoot sandals don't give you blisters and don't jump off your feet. Now I can splash through rain puddles: cool and awesome. And sexy… How did you like our sex tonight?”
Instead of the answer, Mark delivered Mary another long kiss. “Is our ‘Civil War’ over?”
“Over. I won't say nothing about ‘not appropriate.’ How are my double negatives – improving? Please stop reaming Pam. Nothing wrong with 'em.”
“I am flabbergasted, honey. Next, you're going to tell Samantha it's OK to have a tattoo!”
“The tattoo – not yet. But the rest of the teen's fashion is fine with me. Even if instead of Paris la haute couture, it's invented at the 'Fill. Couturier-schmuturier! History-Schmistory! Appropriate-schmapropriate!” Mary slapped Mark's tight, “I am tired pretending!”
“Pretending what?”
“Pretending the Meltdown is temporary and will somehow fix itself. If we accept our present state to be permanent, we can happily live our inappropriate lives as everybody else.”
I am tired pretending too, Mark decided. “I have to tell you, honey. I… They may force me to retire from the FBI.”
“Retire? You mean: now?” Mary sounded strangely peaceful, and Mark thought she did not quite understand the news.
“Now! Next month, or even earlier.”
“Because of the Butcher?”
“Yes. The brass in Washington is getting red-hot about it. They don't give a damn how many more will die, but need a scapegoat.”
“It's OK, darling. Retire. No problems.”
“But how do we live?” Mark could not comprehend Mary's calmness.
“How do we live? Like Ris and Billy. Like our neighbors Levin. Inappropriate. Simple. One day at the time. How Ruth put it: if you want nothing, you're happy with anything. Just-Adjust.”
“But…”
Mary did not let Mark finish. “I have you, darling, and that's all I want!” In a split second, she was over him, her breasts, firm and hot, touched his chest, and her tongue penetrated Mark's lips…
It took Mark over an hour to get to the Station. The continuous drizzle changed to patches of moderately heavy rain, but yet with no wind. Perhaps, the hurricane remains in the Category-4 or skips the heavily populated areas. The latter was not very likely, Mark corrected himself. Not with all those refugees from the northern states, now settled in the South! The entire Coast, from Florida on the east and all the way around and down to the Mexican border on the west, became a ‘heavily populated area’.
By the end of the Twentieth Century, the emergency response was for-real. If the United States were not immune to natural disasters, they at least had ample resources to deal with them. For a Category-5 hurricane, such as Andrew of 1992, the State Government announced a mandatory evacuation and mobilize the National Guards to help people out of the danger zone. Schools, hospitals, sporting facilities – all converted into emergency support centers and evacuation shelters. Dozens of search-and-rescue helicopters in the air and hundreds of rescue crews on the ground. The almighty military provided boats and trucks, emergency power generators, water purification, and mobile kitchens. After the disaster, the Feds would pour billion after billion (of the year-1990 full-weight dollars!) for the infrastructure repairs, and add few thousand able men from the USACE.
At the beginning of the Twenty-First Century, before the Meltdown, the emergency response still existed, but on somewhat reduced scale. If Category-5 Andrew took only sixty-five lives, Category-4 Ike was responsible for one hundred and thirty-five. Category-5 Katrina came with a devastating score of dead and missing: 1971! A voluntary evacuation instead of a mandatory one. ‘Get into your car and drive off.’ If you could. ‘Volunteers, please report to the local school; bring food, water, and blankets.’ If you could. The Police patrolled the streets, to give assistance, but mainly to prevent looting and fires. If they could. Six hundred National Guards would eventually show up, with one-and-a-half amphibious trucks, which fall apart upon touching water. The over-stretched and over-deployed US military flew rescue helicopters. Maximum two or three flights a day, mainly to assess the damage and carry paying customers, – the major networks' crews. And not to forget, the Air Force One circled above the disaster site, so the President saw from thirty thousand feet what happened to the hapless city and parachuted few million dollars of politically-loaded emergency assistance here and there. If the United States dealt with Katrina, it was not for the Federal Government, but for volunteers and NGOs.
Now, after the Meltdown, the emergency response is even simpler. For starters, no evacuation: mandatory or voluntary. With no cars and trucks, how do you evacuate? By foot, you make fifteen miles a day, and in the adverse weather – much less. A bicycle or an omnibus may extend your evacuation range by ten miles. By far, not enough to get off the hurricane's path. And even if you evacuate, what do you expect at the end of the journey? No spare food. No spare clothes or housing. The US National Guard has no Engineers and no equipment – all has been deployed in faraway lands, fighting these endless little wars.
Mark remembered the CNN coverage of Category-4 Sean in New Orleans, in 2027. A pre-election year, late September, and media opportunity – impossible to miss. While her husband took a helicopter flight to observe the rescue efforts, the First Lady distributed new school uniforms. The number of schoolchildren in the affected area far exceeded the uniform kits on board the Air Force One. Each child had to choose between a T-shirt, or a pair of shorts, or a schoolbag (the latter was fittingly equipped with the Republicans' logo.) Those who got into the middle of the endless queue were offered a choice between somewhat less useful items: a baseball cap or flip-flops, also with the Republican red-and-blue elephant. The kids at the end of the line – received a pen, a pencil, or a 48-page notebook. And for the very last, the First Lady had just a hearty handshake, a wish of good luck, and a gentle push from her Secret Service bodyguards: sorry kids, nothing left for you here, move on, move on.
As the Internet later had it, the honest CNN crew had been fired.
All the Houstonites could do at this point, – was to sit tight, cling on their belongings, and hope for the best.
