Amateur Hour

Guy

“You look like a salmon steak, my man,” Guy observed, as Galen settled into the passenger seat.

“Yeah, we got a little burned. Mrs. McKay put aloe on us, directly from one of her plants. It was slimy, but it really stopped the sting.”

“You had a good time, then?”

“The best! We took turns jumping off the high board — even Gerri. Don’t tell Mom — she’d have a cow,” he added, with the confidence of a boy who knew his secret was safe.

“How high, is the high board?”

“Only three meters, and I didn’t try to dive. Didn’t want to look like a total idiot.”

“That can only mean there were a bunch of girls, there.”

“A few,” Galen allowed, feigning a lack of interest. “Not that they don’t act pretty silly, themselves.”

“Well, it doesn’t get better, with age. For any of us.”

“That’s not encouraging.”

Guy laughed. “Oh, I don’t know. Sometimes, it’s fun. There’s such a thing, as being too serious.”

“I guess…” he sounded unconvinced. “Was Nana upset, that I didn’t go, with Mom?”

“She didn’t seem to be. I think she gets it. When I call your Mom, you can talk to them both, how’s that?”

“Perfect.”

Guy pulled into the driveway and shut off the engine, but he didn’t open his door. Instead, he rolled down his window, and pulled out his phone.

“You’re calling, right now?”

“I promised I’d call when I got home.”

“Man, she is strict,” Galen observed, with a grin of his own.

“No foolin’,” Guy agreed.

“You made good time,” Steph said, not bothering with a greeting.

“Traffic wasn’t bad, leaving the city. Everyone was already at work. Once I was out, I was home, free.”

“Doesn’t she ever say, ‘hello’?” Galen asked.

Guy shook his head. “It’s one long-running conversation, that never ends.”

“Hi, Honey,” Steph greeted her son.

Guy handed him the phone.

“Hey, Mom. How’s it going? How’s Nana?”

“She’s great, and so am I. Did you have fun, today?”

“It was a blast. I’m a little bit pink, though.”

“There’s Noxzema, in my bathroom. Have Guy do your back, if it needs it.”

The conversation continued, until after Galen had spoken to his grandmother. At last, he said his goodbyes, and handed the phone back to Guy, stating his intention to heat up a burrito, before going out, on his bike. He got out, then, and trotted toward the house.

“Kid’s got a bottomless pit, for a stomach.”

“So, how burned is he?” Steph asked, with a hint of amusement, in her voice.

“Not quite medium rare. Probably won’t even peel. Did you get any of your stuff done?”

“There wasn’t much. Some banking, and an oil change, on the car. I’m still waiting for them to finish, and trying to get a little work done. You check in, with Kayla, yet?”

“I’m still in the driveway.”

“When I asked you to call, I didn’t mean the second you got there.”

“Ingrate,” he accused.

“No, I’m glad you’re safe, and that Galen had fun.”

“I am, and he did. Guess I’d better see what, if anything, the Chica got accomplished. Call you, later?”

“Sure.”

“Okay. Bye, Steve.”

“Bye, vato.”

***

Kayla

It had taken her an hour, to get organized, but Kayla was on a roll, and had been, for some hours. Spreadsheets were her jam, and she hadn’t bothered even, to eat lunch. She was surprised, to hear the door open, and to see that Galen had returned. That meant, of course, that Guy was back, too.

Where had the time gone?

“Hi, Kayla,” the kid waved, before ducking out into the kitchen.

“Hi, Galen,” she called, automatically. She rubbed her eyes, and stretched, in her chair. All three of the ring binders were open, before her, arranged in such a way that she could glance from one to another, while correlating the data. Converting chaos to order, had always given her satisfaction.

Kayla loved spreadsheet software, the way some people loved video and audio editors. Under the right circumstances, she could go, for twelve hours, straight. All she needed was her single cup coffee machine, and a box of K-cups.

This little job, however, was nearly done. In a few minutes, she could print out her beautiful spreadsheets. She’d already rounded up a fresh binder, and located a three-hole punch. It had been on Guy’s desk, amid his other clutter.

As before, there had been nothing on Steph’s desk, but her laptop (still wide open) and pictures of Galen. She was beginning to wonder if Steph wasn’t something of a technophobe. Her computer was an old one, and she seemed to prefer handwritten notes, if her work on the journals was any indication.

Kayla had just saved her work, and hit the ‘print’ key, when Guy entered.

“How’s it going?” he asked, approaching the desk.

“Finished, except for the printing.”

“Really? Any insights?”

“No. I mean, probably, but I didn’t stop to analyze anything, as I entered it. Slows down the process. First, you create the cheat sheet, then you study it. Don’t worry — I weeded out all the extraneous stuff; organized the commonalities; flagged the anomalies. You’re not getting just another copy of what you already had.”

“Huh. I guess we’ll see.”

“Trust me, Ramirez. I make data my bitch.”

“Whatever you say, Chica. I thought we’d do pizza, for dinner. What do you like, on yours?”

“Pretty much anything, except anchovies. You look surprised.”

“I am, that you’ll even eat pizza.”

“I don’t eat it, every day. It’s fine, once in a while.” She pulled the first sheaf of papers, off the printer, tapped them together, on the desktop, and reached for the hole punch. “I borrowed this, from your desk,” she explained, seeing his look. “Steph didn’t have one, unless she keeps it in a drawer. Hope you don’t mind.”

“No, it’s okay. We’ll have to get you one.” He had an odd, half smile, on his face, as he spoke. “I’m going up, for a little while. Maybe you should take a break, too.”

“I want to finish this. I’m making only the one copy, but I have it saved to a flash drive. Didn’t see the sense in wasting toner, even though some more was delivered,” she pointed in the direction of the door, at the two boxes that had arrived, just after noon.

“Why make the one?”

“Because, evidently, you use a Mac. I don’t know if you could open the files created on Windows software.”

“Oh, right,” he said, as if she’d reminded him, of something, then looked like he wanted to laugh. Kayla didn’t see what was amusing.

“Just how do you and Steph exchange files, anyway?”

“We don’t. We talk. Images go through email.”

“Not very efficient.”

“Maybe not, but it’s effective.”

Kayla shrugged, and rescued another stack of paper. When she glanced up, Guy was crossing the hall, into the kitchen.

Franklin

Franklin had always loved the smell of freshly cut grass, mixed with gasoline, and as the zero turn mower rumbled under him, he was enjoying the day. The sun wasn’t at its zenith, but it was already hot, and he was covered from head to toe in a hat with a neck cape, UV protective sleeves, and basted in sunscreen.

He felt like Paul Atreides on Arrakis, less the Fremen gear. A stillsuit might have been practical here, but what he had, instead, was a prosaic insulated water bottle, filled with ice water. Prosaic, no doubt, but he was sure the ice water was more refreshing than a distilled and filtered sip of his own recycled perspiration would have been.

He was loving Dune, and already looking forward to reading the second book, in the series. By the time he had finished this day’s work, and attended another sponsored lecture, he would have enough credits to buy the secondhand copy he’d had his friend at the bookstore put aside for him. It was in near mint condition, and he’d transferred an extra credit to his friend’s account, to hold it.

Life had improved, since he and Dale had moved up, and into their shared two-man domicile. True, they both had to apply for jobs, now, but the competition for outdoor work wasn’t too steep, during the summer. His pay varied, between jobs, but even the lower end wasn’t too shabby.

Franklin didn’t mind the heat, or getting dirty and sweaty. The basic necessities of food, clothing, and shelter were still provided, by the program. The clothes were crap, like the rest of it (especially the shoes and boots), but the credits he earned, were his own, to spend on luxuries. Evidently, he still had parents, somewhere, who were paying for his ‘education’. Franklin snorted a laugh, at the thought. They were getting robbed.

Dale had landed a good gig, as well. Turned out, he was exceptionally organized and good with numbers, for a delinquent, and he was now an assistant in charge of supplying the delivery vans from the very kitchen, where he had worked, on the serving line. The vans carried meals to the denizens of the Outskirts, and the residents of the Suburbs.

Extra treats from the kitchen, were a thing of the past, and that was a bummer, but the two of them pooled their resources, for a movie night, every Friday, complete with junk food and soda.

Dale’s job was semi-permanent, but Franklin was ever on the lookout, for his next one. There was only just so much grass to mow, in the desert, and it didn’t grow fast, despite all the careful watering it received, after the killing sun went down. He had his eye on a landscaping job, on the school campus, next.

It seemed like he might get the position. His supervisor had put in a good word, for him, at least. He was a hard worker, and it didn’t hurt that he had managed to attend every lecture offered, so far, for both social and economic credit. There was another, this evening.

***

Franklin was already showered, and half dressed, when Dale came in, with his half of the Friday night provisions.

“Shower’s all yours,” he said, after the usual exchange of greetings.

“I’m not going, tonight,” Dale announced, pulling three generic sodas, a bag of wholesale store popcorn, and another bag of generic pretzels out of his reusable shopping tote.

“What do you mean?” Franklin stopped toweling his head, to stare at his roommate.

“I mean, I’m not in the mood to be bored and brainwashed. Look what I scored, for tonight,” he grinned, reaching in for the last item, in the bag. It was a VHS tape of Dune. “It’s the old one, but it’s not bad. I saw it at a sci-fi con, when I was about eight.”

“Come on, man — It’s a five and five split credit. Or, don’t you want the iron to go with that roll of solder?” He gazed pointedly at Dale’s personal space, which was crowded with rolls of scavenged wire, and broken electrical items awaiting repair, which he’d stashed under his bunk. Dale had a good side hustle going, trading these items, after he got them working again.

The shelf above his bunk held a battered toolbox, with a few tools, three rolls of electrical tape, a ring magnifier, a bottle of yellow liquid (about one-quarter full), and a lone roll of solder, still in its box. The brand new roll of solder had cost Dale five credits. The seal on the box was still intact.

“I’ll have the last of the credits for that, by tomorrow.”

“You can always use more. You want some alcohol to thin out that flux, right?”

“Is there anything you don’t tune out?”

“Yeah. The public lectures,” Franklin grinned. “Come on,” he repeated. “It’s only an hour of wasted time. Then, we can watch this.” He went to the table, to dig into his own bag, and pulled out Armageddon.

“Who did you have to kill, to get that?” Dale asked, impressed.

“I finished work, early. There were only two other guys in the shop. If you shake a leg, we can get a shaved ice, before the lecture starts.”

Dale rolled his eyes, but he was capitulating, Franklin could tell.

“What is it, tonight? ‘Your Gonads and You’? ‘Feng Shui for the Two-man Shack’? ‘Women — Who Needs Them’? I can answer that one. I do.”

“Not even close. It’s ‘The Nobility of the Productive Citizen’.”

Franklin laughed, while Dale made retching noises.

“Someone, somewhere, gets paid actual money, to make this shit up. Let that sink in, Franklin.”

“The trick is, not to let any of it sink in. You go, you collect your instant credits, you come home, and watch sci-fi flicks. And, eat Twinkies,” he added, pulling a box, from his tote. “Or, have a Snickers.” He pulled two bars out.

“Damn, bro — where are you shopping?” Dale demanded, as Franklin extracted his own generic sodas, and folded the bag.

“It was a combination of shopping, and trading.”

Dale was satisfied, with the explanation. ‘Premium’ goods were exactly that. They weren’t contraband, only hard to come by.

“Okay. To humor you, I’ll go.”

“Think of some questions, to ask, while you’re soaping your pits. The speakers love that crap. Sometimes they ask your name, and you get an extra credit.”

Dale make three loud kissing noises, and Franklin shot him a good natured finger.

***

Even in the early summer, the desert evenings could be chilly, and it seemed odd, to be wearing a light jacket, and eating a snow cone, but Franklin, being perpetually thirsty, enjoyed it. Dale liked the heavy strawberry syrup, but Franklin preferred just a suggestion of flavoring, on his ice. It quenched his thirst better.

It wasn’t a well attended lecture, and they ended up sitting closer to the front than either of them desired, but it was out of doors, at the amphitheater in the park, so Franklin could breathe deeply of the grass he had cut, just hours ago.

At first glance, the speaker reminded Franklin of Mr. Miles, medium height, lanky, and fair (though his hair was blond). The frames of his glasses were nearly the same, as was the timbre of his voice. Franklin felt a momentary touch of nostalgia. Mr. Miles had been all right, as New Canaan teachers went. He wondered what had happened to the man. Had he succumbed to the evil, yet?

The tone of Professor No-Name’s voice took on a bored, droning quality, after the first five minutes, however, shattering any illusion of similarity between the two men.

“This guy’s vocabulary just doesn’t quit, does it?” Dale whispered, twenty minutes into the presentation.

“If he says ‘function’, one more time, I’m walking,” Franklin replied, his lips barely moving.

“You’ll lose ten credits, instead of gaining them, then,” Dale smirked.

“Worth it.”

“Uh-oh — It’s about to get interesting.” Dale pointed to a small flying creature that had decided to share the spotlight, with the lecturer.

“Is that a bat?” Franklin tried to suppress a chuckle, but it was like watching an episode of a comedy. He knew, already, what was going to happen.

“I think so,” Dale snorted, and slapped a hand over his mouth, to stifle a guffaw.

The animal circled above the speaker’s head, drawing closer. It was surely after one of the ubiquitous moths, fluttering around the lectern.

The screech the speaker uttered was almost as loud as the feedback whine, from the mic, as the bat swooped, on its prey, missed, and became momentarily entangled in No-Name’s curly hair.

Cursing and slapping, he stumbled away from the lectern. Franklin was on his feet, snow cone discarded, and ripping off his jacket, before he was aware of having moved.

The bat, now free from the man’s locks, was brutally swatted from the air, by a flailing hand, and lay, stunned, on the stage floor. The speaker advanced upon it.

“Leave him alone!” Franklin yelled, from the top step. “It’s just a little bat!”

“Get it the hell out of here!”

“Get the hell out of my way, and I will!” He shoved the speaker aside, and dropped his jacket over the confused little animal, and scooped it up.

“What’s your name?” The man demanded, infuriated.

“That’s Batman!” an all too familiar voice shouted, from the audience. Franklin could only hope that Dale couldn’t, or wouldn’t, be identified.

“Kill it!” The man, who really didn’t favor Mr. Miles, in the least, grated.

The boys, who had been getting a bit rowdy, with jeers and laughter, fell silent. It was a sudden, dangerous mood shift.

Franklin, coldly furious, drew himself up, and pinned the erstwhile lecturer with an icy stare.

“No, sir. I’m letting him go. He does perform a function, after all.”

With that, he exited the stage. No one stopped him, as he disappeared into the darkness behind the amphitheater.

The bat was only too eager to escape, once shaken free from the jacket. Franklin heard, rather than saw it fly away. It was pitch black, out here. He donned the jacket, and checked the pockets, hoping he hadn’t lost his flashlight, in all the commotion. It was still there, wonder of wonders, and he pulled it out.

He was startled to find, when he switched it on, that another step and a half would have brought him headlong into one of the two, boxy granite structures that stood side by side, in the middle of the cultivated grass. “That would have left a bruise,” he thought.

He’d asked his supervisor, Mr. DeVere, what they were, when he had started the job, three days ago. The answer had been unsatisfactory. “Columbariums”, he’d said, then instructed Franklin to get to work, weed whacking.

The structures were about eight feet in height, and had twelve tablets, of differing types and colors of stone, on each side. Both towers bore the same inscription, at the top: “Memento Mori” — whatever that meant. It meant as much as the word, “columbarium”, to Franklin.

The tablets on the right hand columbarium were not of differing types, he noticed, on closer inspection. They were all black, and all blank. Eight of the ones on the left bore inscriptions, however. Each was numbered, one through twelve, and had another number, under that. These were longer numbers – fifteen digits, in length.

Fifteen digits. All of the saliva in Franklin’s mouth dried up. He had a fifteen digit number, too. They all did.

“Franklin! Yo — Batman! You out here, bro?”

It was Dale, silhouetted at some distance, by the floodlights.

“Yeah! Coming!” he called, back.

“What a shitshow!” Dale crowed, when Franklin reached him. “I wouldn’t have missed this lecture, for the world!”

“Yeah, well — we’ll be lucky if we don’t get docked, for it. You just couldn’t keep your mouth shut, could you?”

“No,” Dale laughed. “Sometimes, the jokes write themselves, and someone has to tell them.”

“I guess we’ll know, by tomorrow, how funny it is.”

“Chill, dude. No one’s going to give your name up. The code is different, here, in case you haven’t noticed. The Goons are a different breed of rat. They don’t mingle with us. They don’t live or eat, with us.”

“I was a rat.”

“And, now you’re not. There’s your proof — if there were rats among us, you’d have been recruited. Besides, do you think there’s one guy here, who wouldn’t choose you, and a bat, over that moron behind the microphone?”

Franklin had no sure answer, for that, and they were most of the way home, before he spoke.

“You know any Latin, Dale?”

“Latin? Just a few phrases. I didn’t study it, if that’s what you mean.”

“This is a phrase, I saw. ‘Memento Mori’.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that one. It’s something like, ‘you, too, are mortal’. Where did you see that?”

“Some biker’s tattoo,” Franklin lied. “The bat reminded me of it.”

“The bat reminded you of a tat?”

“Yeah, you know. Bat, vampire… The tat was a vampire, with bloody fangs.” It was kind of impressive, the way the lies just rolled off his tongue.

“Your mind really goes into some weird places, man. Maybe you should be writing books.”

“With my sixth grade vocabulary. Sure — I’ll get right on that. Race you to the porch.”