I dropped my bag instead, which had the same effect. “Argh! Goddammit!!” Loki looked up from the screen and glared at me. “You did that on purpose!!”
“Hey,” I said, ineffectively. “You’re on my computer.”
“No I’m not. I’m in your chair.” He spun around once, just for effect. Then, stopping, “Why do I feel like we this conversation have before had?”
“What?”
“Forget it. Annie Sipkins. I’m Loki of Asgard.”
“We’ve met,” I said. “And I distinctly remember not liking you.”
“No, you’re wrong. You thought I was great. We danced, we drank, we fucked like bunnies...”
“Well, I’ve re-ordered all reality since then,” I told him. “And I remember very distinctly not liking you.”
“Argh! Goddammit!!” Loki waved his arms at me. “Don’t say that!”
“Don’t say what? I remember not liking you?”
“No, that you can say. Just don’t say that other thing.”
“That thing about re-ordering all–”
“Sssst!” Loki put his finger to his lips. “That’s what I’m saying!”
“Fine,” I said, exasperated. “Get out of my office chair. I need to sit down.”
Loki hopped to the floor. He was about four, maybe four and half feet high, and his feet er, hooves, didn’t quite reach the ground from my chair. He walked–waddled–past me to the door, and for one glorious second I thought he was leaving. Then he came back with the chair that belonged to Cheryl–well, it belonged to the City of Dallas, but Cheryl sat in it most of the time. I could tell it was Cheryl’s by the traces of long blonde hair draped over the back. “There,” he announced, plunking into the chair. With a push of his tail he spun himself around again.
“I don’t want to hear about it,” I said.
“About what?”
“About whatever you’re here to bother me about. And don’t even try kidnapping me to some other dimension because I’ve got metal taps on my Soft Spots now.”
“Sorry,” Loki said. When I looked up, “Oh, relax. No kidnapping’s going to happen. But I’m positive I’m going to have to drag you back out of your boring, mundane little life–”
“Actually, I kind of like my life,” I said.
“–and involve you in some heroic quest or other,” Loki finished, as though I hadn’t spoken. “Because in case you hadn’t noticed, things are getting a little weird down Dallas way.”
“Yes, I had noticed,” I retorted. “And I’m positive that it’s all your fault.”
“No, actually it’s yours.” This startled me and at the same time didn’t surprise me at all. “You’re the one who burned the Tree of Life.”
“Yeah, well, so what?” I shrugged. “I mean, it’s all still here, isn’t it? The world and all that stuff you like? Pop-tarts? Librarians? Tetris?”
“Sure,” Loki conceded, which surprised me. It wasn’t like Loki to be so darned agreeable. “But there’s always consequences. Any time you do something, you’re gonna create side effects, like ripples in reality.”
“Like that butterfly flapping his wings off the coast of China–” I began.
“And starting World War Three off Papua New Guinea. Exactly. And when you do something like re-ord–” He stopped, clapped his hand over his mouth, and then resumed, “Do that thing you did, well, things can really get weird. Whole planets can disappear. Epochs can be erased. To say nothing of pissing off giants.”
“I’ve pissed off a giant?” I glanced down at the animals, which were still looking up at me with great interest. “Which one?”
“Not any of those,” said Loki. “Skadi.”
“Scotty?” I almost started laughing. “Beam me up?”
Loki rubbed his forehead. “Look,” he said. “I know you’re trying to be funny, but that joke gets really old after the first ten thousand or so years.”
“A thousand pardons,” I said, giggling. “Or is it more like, ‘Scotty! I need more power!’”
“I thought you didn’t watch Star Trek.”
“New reality, new rules. ‘Scotty! You get his tricorder, I’ll get his wallet!’”
“Cut that out,” Loki said. “Seriously.”
“Or is it more like, ‘Scotty! How much longer to repair this goddamned engine?”
A ripple went through City Hall. I felt my office start to wobble under my feet, and the windows shook just a little.
“Warned you,” Loki said as it passed.
“Warned me about what?”
He tossed his head at the window. “Take a look.”
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Why Jen Bailed On NaNo, And Other Stories
Folks, I have to bail on NaNoWriMo for this year. I have a really good excuse, though. I'm in court. (I've always wanted to say that.) Seriously, for most of last week I was getting stuff ready and for most of the last two days I've been sitting in a courtroom listening to a really sad story unfold. It's gonna last at least another week and maybe right up to Thanksgiving. And seeing as I'm crawling home after seven most nights and passing out on the floor (well, actually, Joan makes me go all the way into my room - very annoying) I am not coming anywhere near the necessary word count that would make winning NaNo possible. If the only way to win is not to play I choose to bail. Well, actually I choose not to have any more stress than necessary because frankly there's a lot of it right now. But in case you've gotten fond of the silly posts from the still-unnamed sequel to No Accounting For Reality, those will continue off and on. As soon as I catch my breath. Meanwhile, it's back to the briefs, boys, or as they say in court, litigate this!!
Monday, November 9, 2009
Jenz Fifth NaNo Post
“Okay, this is getting a little ridiculous,” I said to Bill as we stood in front of City Hall,
watching the menagerie. The electric neon Pegasus was the most interesting of the lot. It didn’t exactly fly, quite, but it did flap its wings and leap once in a while, carrying it over the backs of the cows and the small stallions and the giant warhorses. The warhorses, especially, were a little ridiculous. I mean they had to be ten feet high at the shoulder, and not even Clydesdales get that big. Or that coppery green.
“They been comin’ in all morning,” Bill told me. “First the one with the wings. Then the two big ones. Then the smaller ones. I think they came from farther away.”
“They did,” I said. “I’m pretty sure they came from the front of the Marriott on
Stemmons Freeway.”
Bob tilted his head and looked at me sideways. “You think so?”
“I’m pretty sure. I go past them every Wednesday to see my shri–er, I go that way a lot.” I squinted at the ten-footers. “You ever hang around outside the Trammel Crow building, Bill?”
“Not much,” Bill said. “Security’s pretty good over there.”
“Oh,” I said. “I was just thinking those looked like the horses from out front.”
Bill looked at me. Looked at the big horses. Looked back at me. “You know
somethin’,” he said, “I think them horses mighta just walked down here from the Trammel Crow building.”
“That’s what I was saying,” I said. And then I thought of something. “Bill. Let’s go see
if they’re still there.”
“If what’s still where?”
I rolled my eyes. “If the horses are still in front of the Trammel Crow building.”
“You go ‘head,” Bill said. “I’ll stay here ‘n keep watch.”
So I got back into my car, drove up Ervay and over to Pearl, and kept going until I hit
Ross. Sure enough. In front of the Trammel Crow building, where two large statues of horses normally hung out, there were two large pedestals where there should have been two large statues of horses. And one security guard on his cell phone, loud enough for me to hear even inside the car; “No! I’m telling you, somebody stole the horses! Yes! Those horses! Yes! Both of them! No! I didn’t see anybody out here with a goddamned crane and flatbed truck! Look, come see for yourself if you don’t believe me!”
Knowing I shouldn’t, I pulled the car over to the corner, as close as I could get to where the guy was yelling into his cell phone. “Hey!” I bellowed, in that tone of voice that brought absolute silence to a meeting of overexcited junior accountants.
The guy looked up. “What?”
“Your horses are down at City Hall. In the front yard. Under my window.” I didn’t need
to add the “under my window” part, but I couldn’t resist.
“Oh.” The guard blinked a few times. Then, back to his cell phone, “Never mind, Jack. I got a line on where they wandered off to.” Pause. “No, I didn’t mean that in the literal sense. I meant that–never mind. I’ll call you back.”
I was about as involved as I wanted to be on this one, so I rolled up the window and drove back to City Hall. The media was already arriving, staking out camps around the fountain. Bill, who had somehow established himself as master of ceremonies, was steering them this way and that. Some police were stringing a much larger string of Crime Scene Do Not Cross tape around the new herd of animals (I’ve heard of animals) that now consisted of the longhorns, the stallions and the Really Big Horses (I could swear one of them was ten feet tall.) The neon-colored Pegasus, in an apparent agony of impropriety, had sort of frozen next to a tree in hopes of not
being noticed. People noticed. You can’t be flashing electric blue and red around here and not be noticed, unless of course you’re a Dallas police officer.
I went up to my office, pondering What This All Could Mean. Loki never warned me
that when I re-ordered all reality, I might inadvertently bring a bunch of statues to life. Was I supposed to do something about this? Because honestly, I was a bit baffled. And it would have been a bit arrogant of me to assume I was the center of the universe, wouldn’t it? Just because all the statues were standing under my window staring directly up at me was no reason to believe any of it had anything to do with me. Furthermore, it was probably just a coincidence. Just because I could remember the Time Before, when George Bush was President of the United States (that one always gave Pandora the giggles; she said it was something about absolute proof of the Peter Principle, which I didn’t get, and that it was probably just as well I was in this world, where he was Commissioner of Baseball, which I certainly did) didn’t mean any of this had anything to do with me. I mean, who was I, anyway? Just some mousy secondary auditor who’d been kidnapped by the gods, done battle with the
powers of Asgard in the form of the Dallas City Council, died and lived to tell about it, and oh yeah, saved all of reality from imminent implosion. Pish. It had ended happily. I had my nice city job, my adorable wife, my fat little house cat, my President DiCaprio. So what if there were a bunch of statues roaming City Hall. It had nothing to do with me.
Thus reassured, I opened my office door. And there, in my office chair, was a short
dwarflike being with hooves and a tail, playing Tetris on my office computer. “About time you got here,” he said. “I’m about to break ten million. No! Don’t say anything! Break my concentration and I’ll curse you for all eternity!”
watching the menagerie. The electric neon Pegasus was the most interesting of the lot. It didn’t exactly fly, quite, but it did flap its wings and leap once in a while, carrying it over the backs of the cows and the small stallions and the giant warhorses. The warhorses, especially, were a little ridiculous. I mean they had to be ten feet high at the shoulder, and not even Clydesdales get that big. Or that coppery green.
“They been comin’ in all morning,” Bill told me. “First the one with the wings. Then the two big ones. Then the smaller ones. I think they came from farther away.”
“They did,” I said. “I’m pretty sure they came from the front of the Marriott on
Stemmons Freeway.”
Bob tilted his head and looked at me sideways. “You think so?”
“I’m pretty sure. I go past them every Wednesday to see my shri–er, I go that way a lot.” I squinted at the ten-footers. “You ever hang around outside the Trammel Crow building, Bill?”
“Not much,” Bill said. “Security’s pretty good over there.”
“Oh,” I said. “I was just thinking those looked like the horses from out front.”
Bill looked at me. Looked at the big horses. Looked back at me. “You know
somethin’,” he said, “I think them horses mighta just walked down here from the Trammel Crow building.”
“That’s what I was saying,” I said. And then I thought of something. “Bill. Let’s go see
if they’re still there.”
“If what’s still where?”
I rolled my eyes. “If the horses are still in front of the Trammel Crow building.”
“You go ‘head,” Bill said. “I’ll stay here ‘n keep watch.”
So I got back into my car, drove up Ervay and over to Pearl, and kept going until I hit
Ross. Sure enough. In front of the Trammel Crow building, where two large statues of horses normally hung out, there were two large pedestals where there should have been two large statues of horses. And one security guard on his cell phone, loud enough for me to hear even inside the car; “No! I’m telling you, somebody stole the horses! Yes! Those horses! Yes! Both of them! No! I didn’t see anybody out here with a goddamned crane and flatbed truck! Look, come see for yourself if you don’t believe me!”
Knowing I shouldn’t, I pulled the car over to the corner, as close as I could get to where the guy was yelling into his cell phone. “Hey!” I bellowed, in that tone of voice that brought absolute silence to a meeting of overexcited junior accountants.
The guy looked up. “What?”
“Your horses are down at City Hall. In the front yard. Under my window.” I didn’t need
to add the “under my window” part, but I couldn’t resist.
“Oh.” The guard blinked a few times. Then, back to his cell phone, “Never mind, Jack. I got a line on where they wandered off to.” Pause. “No, I didn’t mean that in the literal sense. I meant that–never mind. I’ll call you back.”
I was about as involved as I wanted to be on this one, so I rolled up the window and drove back to City Hall. The media was already arriving, staking out camps around the fountain. Bill, who had somehow established himself as master of ceremonies, was steering them this way and that. Some police were stringing a much larger string of Crime Scene Do Not Cross tape around the new herd of animals (I’ve heard of animals) that now consisted of the longhorns, the stallions and the Really Big Horses (I could swear one of them was ten feet tall.) The neon-colored Pegasus, in an apparent agony of impropriety, had sort of frozen next to a tree in hopes of not
being noticed. People noticed. You can’t be flashing electric blue and red around here and not be noticed, unless of course you’re a Dallas police officer.
I went up to my office, pondering What This All Could Mean. Loki never warned me
that when I re-ordered all reality, I might inadvertently bring a bunch of statues to life. Was I supposed to do something about this? Because honestly, I was a bit baffled. And it would have been a bit arrogant of me to assume I was the center of the universe, wouldn’t it? Just because all the statues were standing under my window staring directly up at me was no reason to believe any of it had anything to do with me. Furthermore, it was probably just a coincidence. Just because I could remember the Time Before, when George Bush was President of the United States (that one always gave Pandora the giggles; she said it was something about absolute proof of the Peter Principle, which I didn’t get, and that it was probably just as well I was in this world, where he was Commissioner of Baseball, which I certainly did) didn’t mean any of this had anything to do with me. I mean, who was I, anyway? Just some mousy secondary auditor who’d been kidnapped by the gods, done battle with the
powers of Asgard in the form of the Dallas City Council, died and lived to tell about it, and oh yeah, saved all of reality from imminent implosion. Pish. It had ended happily. I had my nice city job, my adorable wife, my fat little house cat, my President DiCaprio. So what if there were a bunch of statues roaming City Hall. It had nothing to do with me.
Thus reassured, I opened my office door. And there, in my office chair, was a short
dwarflike being with hooves and a tail, playing Tetris on my office computer. “About time you got here,” he said. “I’m about to break ten million. No! Don’t say anything! Break my concentration and I’ll curse you for all eternity!”
Friday, November 6, 2009
Jenz Fourth Nano Post
8702 words. Not easy to write on vacation (I'm in Phoenix). Here's the latest.
Dallas traffic was unbelievably light that evening. Maybe the story of live metallic psuedo-robotic cows painted to look like real cows had shaken everybody up enough to call in sick. In any case, I made it to the Black Eyed Pea in Uptown in a little under fifteen minutes, a new record. Which meant, by my calculation as I jumped out of my green Toyota Prius and sprinted across the parking lot to the restaurant, I was only about a half-hour late for our anniversary dinner.
Spike, our usual waiter, flagged me down in the lobby. “Your ex-wife is waiting for you at your usual table,” he told me. “And she’s been flirting with this pretty redhead for most of the
last half hour.”
“I’m sorry. I hope she ordered a nice appetizer.” I careened into the restaurant, swept over to the table and fell into the empty chair. “Hi,” I added lamely to Pandora. “Sorry I’m late.”
Pandora gave me a frosty look from across the table. I didn’t see any redhead in
evidence, but then I really didn’t expect to. Like any good husb–er, spou–er, significant sweetie,I live in terror of upsetting my wife. Not because she might beat me up, mind you, but because she might give me that look. Still, Pandora adored me. I wasn’t sure entirely why, having been basically not there for most of the first few years of our relationship and including our wedding, but I’d tried to make up for it by being thoughtful as hell in the years since. Like taking her on nice vacations on my city-accountant salary. Like buying her little gifts, because she liked little gifts. Like always remembering our anniversary. I did remember it, I told myself indignantly. I just also kind of forgot it, is all.
“No worries.” Pandora picked up a menu and peered at me over the top of it. Pandora has the most adorable blue eyes, and they look fantastic behind the Pierre Cardin glasses,magnified to about twice their actual size. The whole package was framed by delicate shoulder-length brunette hair. Okay, I adored her right back. It was the least I could do, considering. “I’ll just order the New York strip steak with the side of lobster and a glass of Chardonnay.”
I smiled at that, because the Black Eyed Pea offers neither lobster nor strip steak (though to my understanding, it does stock a pretty good repertoire of Chardonnay.) Neither of us drink,for that matter; she’s diabetic and I’m–well, let’s just say the last thing I need is alcohol churning around in my system and making things even weirder than they are. “Okay, go for it,” I told her as Spike came up to our table. “I’ll have a Southwestern buffalo chicken wrap and a glass of diet Coke.”
“You always order the same thing,” Spike complained, tugging on his earring. “I buy these neat little gel pens in these neat sparkly colors and I don’t even get to use them.”
“I’ll have the deep-fried sweet and sour chicken livers and the side salad,” Pandora
announced, handing him her menu.
“Ew.” I made a face. “Do you actually know what livers do in the body?”
“Yes.” She smiled sweetly. “They make you threaten me not to kiss me ever again.”
I sagged. “Did I threaten that?”
“Once.”
“When?”
“Let’s see.” She touched her chin with her index finger in that way that so inspires terror in six-year-old first graders and errant library patrons. “2004. In December, in New Orleans. We were walking by the riverfront and I suggested we go down to Harrah’s because they had liver cuts on their buffet, and you said–”
“Okay, okay,” I said, letting her win this round. I let her win a lot of rounds. Mainly
because I hadn’t been physically present to defend myself. Or mentally present, anyway. “Really, I’m sorry I was late. You probably heard something about cows coming to life and roaming around City Hall?”
“Coming to life?” Pandora raised an eyebrow. “I heard somebody stole the metal cows and replaced them with fake cows meant to look like metal cows.”
“Well, they’re also saying that they’re robots created by the kids at UNT Robotics, but they’re metal cows come to life,” I told her. “Honest. I was right next to one.”
Pandora frowned. Her frown isn’t nearly as cute as her smile. “That’s odd,” she
understated. Quite brilliantly, I might add.
“What’s really odd,” I said, “is that the whole herd of them seemed to want to stand right under my window and stare up at me. Like I was the prime attraction in whatever brought them
to life or something. Kind of like the sacred tablet in Night At The Museum.”
Pandora was still frowning. “Do you think,” she asked very carefully, “that it might have anything to do with The Time Before?”
I blinked, a little stunned. Pandora hardly ever mentioned The Time Before – the time, that is, before I start having actual memories of being married to her. As far as everybody we know is concerned, I got a high fever or something a few years ago and sort of went into a fugue state and forgot all about Pandora and how we met at the TCU Library as young naive freshmen and ran into each other a few years after graduation at a band reunion and fell head over heels in love and flew to California and got married and spent most of the next decade wondering if we were actually married or not while various entities fought about it in court. Then Kinky Friedman was elected governor of Texas and signed us into existence as an Official Married
Couple (TM), proclaiming that as far as he was concerned, lesbians had as much right to be miserable as anybody else. And so there we were, the only legally married lesbian couple in Texas–for about five minutes until he finished signing the proclamation. Man, was it a busyweek at City Hall.
I sort of knew better, kind of, but I rarely mentioned it because it upset Pandora and, as I believe I said earlier, I live in mortal terror of–yeah. Besides, my side of it is a lot less believable. Kidnapped by Loki, thrust into the dark sewer of the collective unconscious, taking up arms in the immortal battle of good and evil, rescuing the Tree of Life from the deep freeze in downtown Rejyavik as a new ice age closed its terrible fist over all of Western civilization and a black hole threatened to swallow the planet, being dead, not being dead – well, you get the idea. It was a lot easier to just go along with the whole fugue state thing. Besides, it made me more charming in polite company. “Oh, she doesn’t remember President Schwartzenegger. That’s when she was a little bit out of it,” Pandora would say, and I’d grin stupidly. I’m good at
grinning stupidly. Years of practice.
“I don’t know,” I said when I realized the question was still hanging there in midair. “I guess it could.”
“Because you did that weird thing with reality,” she said.
“Re-ordered all reality. Yeah. Like the Genesis Device blowing up at the end of the second Star Trek movie.”
“You don’t watch Star Trek,” Pandora reminded me.
“I do now. Case in point.” I rubbed my forehead. “But what would that have to do with statues of cows coming to life?”
“Well, nothing,” Pandora said. “Unless it’s not just statues of cows.”
“Tell you what,” I said, wanting to get this subject off the table before our food got here and made everything all awkward. “If anything else weird happens, I’ll just assume you’re right and start to plan accordingly. If not, I’ll just write it off to one more surreal day in citygovernment. Okay?”
“Plan accordingly how?” Pandora asked.
And then Spike was back with our food, saving me the embarrassment of having to admit I hadn’t the foggiest idea. I mean, I didn’t exactly get any warning the last time. Loki just kidnapped me, office chair and all. So she had a point. Plan accordingly how? I dove into my southwestern Buffalo chicken wrap and just didn’t answer.
Which worked fine until the next morning, when I got to City Hall and was greeted by fourteen cows, one electric neon Pegasus, two stallions and two big Chinese warhorses.
Dallas traffic was unbelievably light that evening. Maybe the story of live metallic psuedo-robotic cows painted to look like real cows had shaken everybody up enough to call in sick. In any case, I made it to the Black Eyed Pea in Uptown in a little under fifteen minutes, a new record. Which meant, by my calculation as I jumped out of my green Toyota Prius and sprinted across the parking lot to the restaurant, I was only about a half-hour late for our anniversary dinner.
Spike, our usual waiter, flagged me down in the lobby. “Your ex-wife is waiting for you at your usual table,” he told me. “And she’s been flirting with this pretty redhead for most of the
last half hour.”
“I’m sorry. I hope she ordered a nice appetizer.” I careened into the restaurant, swept over to the table and fell into the empty chair. “Hi,” I added lamely to Pandora. “Sorry I’m late.”
Pandora gave me a frosty look from across the table. I didn’t see any redhead in
evidence, but then I really didn’t expect to. Like any good husb–er, spou–er, significant sweetie,I live in terror of upsetting my wife. Not because she might beat me up, mind you, but because she might give me that look. Still, Pandora adored me. I wasn’t sure entirely why, having been basically not there for most of the first few years of our relationship and including our wedding, but I’d tried to make up for it by being thoughtful as hell in the years since. Like taking her on nice vacations on my city-accountant salary. Like buying her little gifts, because she liked little gifts. Like always remembering our anniversary. I did remember it, I told myself indignantly. I just also kind of forgot it, is all.
“No worries.” Pandora picked up a menu and peered at me over the top of it. Pandora has the most adorable blue eyes, and they look fantastic behind the Pierre Cardin glasses,magnified to about twice their actual size. The whole package was framed by delicate shoulder-length brunette hair. Okay, I adored her right back. It was the least I could do, considering. “I’ll just order the New York strip steak with the side of lobster and a glass of Chardonnay.”
I smiled at that, because the Black Eyed Pea offers neither lobster nor strip steak (though to my understanding, it does stock a pretty good repertoire of Chardonnay.) Neither of us drink,for that matter; she’s diabetic and I’m–well, let’s just say the last thing I need is alcohol churning around in my system and making things even weirder than they are. “Okay, go for it,” I told her as Spike came up to our table. “I’ll have a Southwestern buffalo chicken wrap and a glass of diet Coke.”
“You always order the same thing,” Spike complained, tugging on his earring. “I buy these neat little gel pens in these neat sparkly colors and I don’t even get to use them.”
“I’ll have the deep-fried sweet and sour chicken livers and the side salad,” Pandora
announced, handing him her menu.
“Ew.” I made a face. “Do you actually know what livers do in the body?”
“Yes.” She smiled sweetly. “They make you threaten me not to kiss me ever again.”
I sagged. “Did I threaten that?”
“Once.”
“When?”
“Let’s see.” She touched her chin with her index finger in that way that so inspires terror in six-year-old first graders and errant library patrons. “2004. In December, in New Orleans. We were walking by the riverfront and I suggested we go down to Harrah’s because they had liver cuts on their buffet, and you said–”
“Okay, okay,” I said, letting her win this round. I let her win a lot of rounds. Mainly
because I hadn’t been physically present to defend myself. Or mentally present, anyway. “Really, I’m sorry I was late. You probably heard something about cows coming to life and roaming around City Hall?”
“Coming to life?” Pandora raised an eyebrow. “I heard somebody stole the metal cows and replaced them with fake cows meant to look like metal cows.”
“Well, they’re also saying that they’re robots created by the kids at UNT Robotics, but they’re metal cows come to life,” I told her. “Honest. I was right next to one.”
Pandora frowned. Her frown isn’t nearly as cute as her smile. “That’s odd,” she
understated. Quite brilliantly, I might add.
“What’s really odd,” I said, “is that the whole herd of them seemed to want to stand right under my window and stare up at me. Like I was the prime attraction in whatever brought them
to life or something. Kind of like the sacred tablet in Night At The Museum.”
Pandora was still frowning. “Do you think,” she asked very carefully, “that it might have anything to do with The Time Before?”
I blinked, a little stunned. Pandora hardly ever mentioned The Time Before – the time, that is, before I start having actual memories of being married to her. As far as everybody we know is concerned, I got a high fever or something a few years ago and sort of went into a fugue state and forgot all about Pandora and how we met at the TCU Library as young naive freshmen and ran into each other a few years after graduation at a band reunion and fell head over heels in love and flew to California and got married and spent most of the next decade wondering if we were actually married or not while various entities fought about it in court. Then Kinky Friedman was elected governor of Texas and signed us into existence as an Official Married
Couple (TM), proclaiming that as far as he was concerned, lesbians had as much right to be miserable as anybody else. And so there we were, the only legally married lesbian couple in Texas–for about five minutes until he finished signing the proclamation. Man, was it a busyweek at City Hall.
I sort of knew better, kind of, but I rarely mentioned it because it upset Pandora and, as I believe I said earlier, I live in mortal terror of–yeah. Besides, my side of it is a lot less believable. Kidnapped by Loki, thrust into the dark sewer of the collective unconscious, taking up arms in the immortal battle of good and evil, rescuing the Tree of Life from the deep freeze in downtown Rejyavik as a new ice age closed its terrible fist over all of Western civilization and a black hole threatened to swallow the planet, being dead, not being dead – well, you get the idea. It was a lot easier to just go along with the whole fugue state thing. Besides, it made me more charming in polite company. “Oh, she doesn’t remember President Schwartzenegger. That’s when she was a little bit out of it,” Pandora would say, and I’d grin stupidly. I’m good at
grinning stupidly. Years of practice.
“I don’t know,” I said when I realized the question was still hanging there in midair. “I guess it could.”
“Because you did that weird thing with reality,” she said.
“Re-ordered all reality. Yeah. Like the Genesis Device blowing up at the end of the second Star Trek movie.”
“You don’t watch Star Trek,” Pandora reminded me.
“I do now. Case in point.” I rubbed my forehead. “But what would that have to do with statues of cows coming to life?”
“Well, nothing,” Pandora said. “Unless it’s not just statues of cows.”
“Tell you what,” I said, wanting to get this subject off the table before our food got here and made everything all awkward. “If anything else weird happens, I’ll just assume you’re right and start to plan accordingly. If not, I’ll just write it off to one more surreal day in citygovernment. Okay?”
“Plan accordingly how?” Pandora asked.
And then Spike was back with our food, saving me the embarrassment of having to admit I hadn’t the foggiest idea. I mean, I didn’t exactly get any warning the last time. Loki just kidnapped me, office chair and all. So she had a point. Plan accordingly how? I dove into my southwestern Buffalo chicken wrap and just didn’t answer.
Which worked fine until the next morning, when I got to City Hall and was greeted by fourteen cows, one electric neon Pegasus, two stallions and two big Chinese warhorses.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Jenz Third NaNo Post
Folks, we've broken 5,000. Can Nirvana possibly be far behind?
“Cheryl, they’re not real cows. They’re metal cows that have somehow come to life.”
Cheryl frowned and shook her head. “I don’t think so,” she said.
“No, really. They are. I was close to them this morning and they’re definitely metal.”
“Here comes the vet,” Cheryl said, pointing down to the lawn where a small brown van with Dallas Zoo painted on the side pulled up next to the fountain.
“Well, this should be interesting.” I got up. “Come on, Cheryl. Let’s go see what they have to say.”
“What about the Latino Cultural Center contract?” she asked, hurrying after me.
“I’ll look at it later.”
By the time we got downstairs, the vet was hopping out of her truck. She was a stocky redhead with a green Dallas Zoo t-shirt and a monumental chip on her shoulder. Like most chips, it was invisible, but it was definitely there. She took a look at the longhorns, tilted her head to the left, tilted her head back to the right, and jumped back into the truck.
For a second I thought she was going to peel back out of the park as quickly as she got there, but she came back out with a big metal tackle box. Well, it looked like a tackle box, anyway. When she popped it open, it was full of medical stuff. Long pointy things and short square things and scissorlike things and a bunch of other stuff I didn’t want to really guess at. One of them was a big syringe. She took this out, stuck its needle into an ampoule and sucked up some clearish-yellow fluid that looked a bit like diabetic pee. That done, she approached the longhorns (after moving around some very well-meaning but obviously clueless police officers and ducking under the Crime Scene Do Not Cross tape). One of them, a big male (actually, I
think they were all male but this male was bigger than the other males), detached himself from the group and came over to her. She reached up, skritched him between the horns (well, kind of on his nose, actually) and plunged the syringe into his side.
Or rather, tried to plunge the syringe into his side. Instead of plunging, the syringe took off to the side. The impact with the side of the cow bent the needle up at a sharp right angle, making the whole thing look more like a J-hook than a syringe. She held the syringe up to the light, eyeing it curiously.
“Well?” one of the emergency management guys wanted to know. He was hiding behind one of the police officers, and well back from the Crime Scene Do Not Cross tape.
“Metal,” said the vet. Shrugging, she ducked back under the Crime Scene Do Not Cross tape and tossed the now-useless syringe into a nearby trash can. Bill and two or three of his crazy homeless friends immediately went after it, convinced that it contained heroin insteadof diabetic pee.
“What do you mean, metal?” The emergency management guy looked aggrieved.
“I mean, they’re metal,” the vet retorted. “As in, not animals. So I’m going.” She started for the truck.
“Wait a minute.” The emergency-management guy got brave, stopped hiding behind the policeman and went after her. “You can’t just leave. We have a situation here.”
“No, you don’t. You have a bunch of animated metal cows.”
“That’s exactly what I’m telling you. How is it possible that we have a bunch of
animated metal cows?”
The vet shrugged. (Did I mention the monumental chip on her shoulder? Well, she could barely shrug.) “Look, they’re not cows,” she said, in case this wasn’t obvious. “That is to say, they’re not live animals.”
“Yes they are!” the emergency management guy told her. “One of them even crapped all over the steps to the fountain!”
“So what do you want me to do about it? I’m a veterinarian, not a street cleaner.”
The emergency management guy rubbed his bald spot. He looked like he might blow a blood vessel. I can’t imagine being easily stressed is a good thing for an emergency management guy. “So you’re just going to leave,” he restated the obvious.
“Yeah. When you get some live animals that are giving you a problem, call me again.” And with that, she really did jump back into her truck and drive away.
“Well, there you have it,” said one of the news people, who had been trailing behind the vet. “The cows at City Hall are not real animals, people. They now appear to be complex robotic creations. Suspicion is, of course, likely to fall on the University of North Texas Department of Robotics students, whose past pranks include creating a life-size replica of Mayor Laura Miller that ran the city undetected for most of the 1990s...”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” I said to Cheryl. “Do you realize what this means?”
“Yes. It means Laura Miller was the mayor for most of the 1990s,” Cheryl said.
I sighed. “No. It means people are more willing to believe in animated robotic cows
built as a prank by a bunch of robotics students at UNT than they are to believe that the longhorns at the other end of City Hall have somehow, mysteriously come to life. Why do you think that is?”
“Maybe because one is technically plausible while the other is completely impossible,” Cheryl said, startling me.
“Hmmph.” I hate it when she starts making sense. “Well, that’s–that–” I stopped. I just didn’t know where to go with that.
Cheryl nudged me. “Let’s go back inside. The Latino Cultural Center beckons.”
“Actually, it mostly repulses. It’s purple and orange, for one thing. Whose idea was
that?”
"The architect’s. You know how they get.”
Needless to say, the rest of the day got a bit weird. I’d look at the Cultural Center
contract and look over at the cows. I’d watch All My Children and I’d look over at the cows. I’d rattle off emails about various budgetary thises and thatses and I’d look over at the cows. I’d call one of the junior accountants over some fine point of contractese and I’d look over at the–
“Annie.” Cheryl poked her head into my office. “Phone for you.”
I jumped about a mile. “Don’t do that,” I complained.
“Sorry.” Cheryl pointed at the phone again. “But Pandora’s calling wanting to know if you died.”
“OH SHIT!” I grabbed for the little clock; half past six. “I’M LATE!!” I grabbed my purse and flew past Cheryl, trailing a stream of numbers and chi-squares and equations. The cows watched me run out of City Hall, but they didn’t move from their post by the window. They’d been joined by a couple of horses. I’d notice the horses in the morning.
“Cheryl, they’re not real cows. They’re metal cows that have somehow come to life.”
Cheryl frowned and shook her head. “I don’t think so,” she said.
“No, really. They are. I was close to them this morning and they’re definitely metal.”
“Here comes the vet,” Cheryl said, pointing down to the lawn where a small brown van with Dallas Zoo painted on the side pulled up next to the fountain.
“Well, this should be interesting.” I got up. “Come on, Cheryl. Let’s go see what they have to say.”
“What about the Latino Cultural Center contract?” she asked, hurrying after me.
“I’ll look at it later.”
By the time we got downstairs, the vet was hopping out of her truck. She was a stocky redhead with a green Dallas Zoo t-shirt and a monumental chip on her shoulder. Like most chips, it was invisible, but it was definitely there. She took a look at the longhorns, tilted her head to the left, tilted her head back to the right, and jumped back into the truck.
For a second I thought she was going to peel back out of the park as quickly as she got there, but she came back out with a big metal tackle box. Well, it looked like a tackle box, anyway. When she popped it open, it was full of medical stuff. Long pointy things and short square things and scissorlike things and a bunch of other stuff I didn’t want to really guess at. One of them was a big syringe. She took this out, stuck its needle into an ampoule and sucked up some clearish-yellow fluid that looked a bit like diabetic pee. That done, she approached the longhorns (after moving around some very well-meaning but obviously clueless police officers and ducking under the Crime Scene Do Not Cross tape). One of them, a big male (actually, I
think they were all male but this male was bigger than the other males), detached himself from the group and came over to her. She reached up, skritched him between the horns (well, kind of on his nose, actually) and plunged the syringe into his side.
Or rather, tried to plunge the syringe into his side. Instead of plunging, the syringe took off to the side. The impact with the side of the cow bent the needle up at a sharp right angle, making the whole thing look more like a J-hook than a syringe. She held the syringe up to the light, eyeing it curiously.
“Well?” one of the emergency management guys wanted to know. He was hiding behind one of the police officers, and well back from the Crime Scene Do Not Cross tape.
“Metal,” said the vet. Shrugging, she ducked back under the Crime Scene Do Not Cross tape and tossed the now-useless syringe into a nearby trash can. Bill and two or three of his crazy homeless friends immediately went after it, convinced that it contained heroin insteadof diabetic pee.
“What do you mean, metal?” The emergency management guy looked aggrieved.
“I mean, they’re metal,” the vet retorted. “As in, not animals. So I’m going.” She started for the truck.
“Wait a minute.” The emergency-management guy got brave, stopped hiding behind the policeman and went after her. “You can’t just leave. We have a situation here.”
“No, you don’t. You have a bunch of animated metal cows.”
“That’s exactly what I’m telling you. How is it possible that we have a bunch of
animated metal cows?”
The vet shrugged. (Did I mention the monumental chip on her shoulder? Well, she could barely shrug.) “Look, they’re not cows,” she said, in case this wasn’t obvious. “That is to say, they’re not live animals.”
“Yes they are!” the emergency management guy told her. “One of them even crapped all over the steps to the fountain!”
“So what do you want me to do about it? I’m a veterinarian, not a street cleaner.”
The emergency management guy rubbed his bald spot. He looked like he might blow a blood vessel. I can’t imagine being easily stressed is a good thing for an emergency management guy. “So you’re just going to leave,” he restated the obvious.
“Yeah. When you get some live animals that are giving you a problem, call me again.” And with that, she really did jump back into her truck and drive away.
“Well, there you have it,” said one of the news people, who had been trailing behind the vet. “The cows at City Hall are not real animals, people. They now appear to be complex robotic creations. Suspicion is, of course, likely to fall on the University of North Texas Department of Robotics students, whose past pranks include creating a life-size replica of Mayor Laura Miller that ran the city undetected for most of the 1990s...”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” I said to Cheryl. “Do you realize what this means?”
“Yes. It means Laura Miller was the mayor for most of the 1990s,” Cheryl said.
I sighed. “No. It means people are more willing to believe in animated robotic cows
built as a prank by a bunch of robotics students at UNT than they are to believe that the longhorns at the other end of City Hall have somehow, mysteriously come to life. Why do you think that is?”
“Maybe because one is technically plausible while the other is completely impossible,” Cheryl said, startling me.
“Hmmph.” I hate it when she starts making sense. “Well, that’s–that–” I stopped. I just didn’t know where to go with that.
Cheryl nudged me. “Let’s go back inside. The Latino Cultural Center beckons.”
“Actually, it mostly repulses. It’s purple and orange, for one thing. Whose idea was
that?”
"The architect’s. You know how they get.”
Needless to say, the rest of the day got a bit weird. I’d look at the Cultural Center
contract and look over at the cows. I’d watch All My Children and I’d look over at the cows. I’d rattle off emails about various budgetary thises and thatses and I’d look over at the cows. I’d call one of the junior accountants over some fine point of contractese and I’d look over at the–
“Annie.” Cheryl poked her head into my office. “Phone for you.”
I jumped about a mile. “Don’t do that,” I complained.
“Sorry.” Cheryl pointed at the phone again. “But Pandora’s calling wanting to know if you died.”
“OH SHIT!” I grabbed for the little clock; half past six. “I’M LATE!!” I grabbed my purse and flew past Cheryl, trailing a stream of numbers and chi-squares and equations. The cows watched me run out of City Hall, but they didn’t move from their post by the window. They’d been joined by a couple of horses. I’d notice the horses in the morning.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Jenz Second NaNo Post
3409 words and counting...The media were all over it about ten o’clock that morning. News crews set up camerasall over the front lawn, irritating the homeless guys by chasing them out of the prime spots.
Some guys from the Office of Emergency Management–I didn’t even know the city had an Office of Emergency Management, which should tell you how good I am at handling emergencies–were walking around yelling at people. Police officers put up one of those barriers of Crime Scene Do Not Cross tape to keep the news crews safe from the cows, or more like keep the cows safe from the news crews. The cows didn’t pay attention to any of this. They just stood there on the lawn, staring up at my window.
I tried to work, which is to say, I tried not to look at the cows. It worked about this well: I checked my email. I looked at the cows. I checked my calendar for the day. I looked at the cows. I read a letter from an irate contractor. I looked at the–
"Creepy, huh?” Cheryl said from behind me.
I jumped about a mile, the letter fluttering from my fingers. “Jesus Haploid Christ,” I
exclaimed. “Do you mind not scaring a person?”
Cheryl, a chirpy blonde that was sort of my secretary and sort of the accounting
department receptionist and, I dunno, the director of office potlucks, bent over and picked up the letter, throwing plenty of unnecessary hip wiggle into the movements. “You dropped this.”
“Thanks.” I took it back from her. I looked at the cows. I looked back at the letter. “So what’s the brilliant plan?” I asked. “They gonna get some metalworkers out here, figure out how all fourteen cows slipped their moorings?”
“Actually,” Cheryl said, “I think they’re getting a vet from the Dallas Zoo.”
“A vet? To treat metal cows?”
"Oh, they’re not metal cows,” Cheryl told me. “They’re just painted to look like they’re metal cows. That’s why they need a vet. To make sure the paint won’t irritate their skin.”
I looked at Cheryl like she’d grown a pair of longhorns herself. “Wait a minute,” I said. “You’re telling me that they’re telling them that those guys–” I pointed out the window to indicate which direct object I had in mind at the moment–“are real cows?”
“That’s what it said on the news.”
“Oh, good night.” I turned on the tiny set that I kept next to my keyboard to ensure I
wouldn’t miss a single episode of All My Children. The black and white screen faded in, shimmered a little, and settled into the middle of a newscast:
“–front of Dallas City Hall, where sometime during the night, a crew of suspected pranksters stole all fourteen longhorn statues from the front of the river display.”
“Pranksters?” I said. “They have to be kidding.”
“The replacement cows, which were painted to look like the metal cows, are being
checked out by veterinarians. Authorities suspect that the pranksters are UNT Dallas students from the Department of Agriculture and Animal Husbandry, although no arrests have yet been made in the case.” Change of scene. “An 18-wheeler jackknifed on I-35E early this morning, causing a traffic backup at the 360 interchange that extended all the way south to Houston–”
I snapped off the set. “For God’s sake, they’re not even reporting the real story.”
“No, it’s true about the 18-wheeler,” Cheryl said. “I live out by 360 and this morning it
took me 20 minutes just to get to Starbucks.”
I rubbed my forehead. “That’s not what I meant. I mean why would anybody bother to steal fourteen metal cows that probably weigh two tons apiece and replace them with fourteen real cows painted to look like metal cows?”
“I think that’s why they’re looking at college students,” Cheryl said, helpfully. “Because only a college student would think that something like that makes sense.”
“Cheryl, they’re not real cows. They’re metal cows that have somehow come to life.”
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Jenz First-and-a-Half NaNo Post
I have had a couple of requests for the rest of that scene. This makes for a pretty long blog post, but what the hell. Here 'tis.
Now, you’d think a herd of metallic cows that suddenly sprang to life, did a little moseying and then settled down for naps might be done with their brief return to animation (arguing that they were animated in the first place; they’re metal, for Godsakes). And again, given the source of this information, I wouldn’t have been at all surprised to find the whole herd back by the fake river, striking their usual poses and waiting for tourists. But I’d be wrong. When I showed up on the Tuesday morning after Veterans Day, they were still there, the whole herd of them. The pile of smelly metallic turds, no longer smelly, was also there. What was more, the cows were standing right under my office window - and when they saw me, the whole herd started to moo.
I’ve been freaked out plenty in life, but having a herd of metal cows moo at me was a new one. I took a startled step backward and dropped my keycard. Nice going, Annie, I thought to myself as it hit the ground. If you broke it, there goes next week’s pay check. Not that it’s really possible to break a key card. I think about that whenever I drop anything. It all stems back to a high school music class and a really expensive metronome named “Dr. Beat” and look, I don’t wanna talk about it, okay? It was kind of traumatic.
“They’ve been doin’ that since yesterday,” said the crazy homeless guy, whose name, as I was about to discover, was Bill. He was a big African-American dude, six feet or maybe a little taller, hulking in his thick navy blue coat and scarf, and wearing a red stocking cap.
“Doing what?” I demanded as I retrieved my unbroken key card from the sidewalk. “Mooing like that?”
"Naw. Standin’ under the windah. Lookin’ up at it.”
“That’s my window,” I said, and though it was, the cows might have been looking at any one of the seven windows above and below it. I was, after all, just the Chief Auditor. The deputy mayor’s office was above mine, the mine inspector’s office was above that one, and all the way at the top, where prestige knows no bounds, was the office of the Catering Director. Without her we would all starve to death, so we gave her the best office in city government. Only the Mayor’s is higher and more ostentatious.
“Mebbe they want you to feed ‘em,” the man suggested. “Course, they doin’ okay with the grass and all.”
There are days I wish the library would just open up at seven a.m. so I could walk to my office unmolested, but this was not one of ‘em. However disturbing crazy homeless people may be in a city that’s pretty much determined to pretend they don’t exist, they’re good company when confronted by fourteen metal cows with pointy horns. Long horns, too. Or did I say that already?
“I’m Bill,” he added. “Just call me Bill.”
“Hi, Bill. I’m Annie.” Homeless people disturb me, too, but I wasn’t about to be rude to him. He might hide behind me when the head longhorn decided to charge. “Uh, how long has this been going on?”
“What?”
“The cows,” I said, thinking with mild annoyance that it should be fricking obvious I was talking about the fricking inexplicably animated metal cows.
“Oh. Since yest’day about one, I think.”
“Have the police been here?”
“The po-lice? What they come here for?”
I looked up at him to see if he was for real. He seemed to be. “Well, I just figured, if you’ve got a bunch of animated statues walking around, the police might want to know about it.”
“Girl, them po-lice ain’t interested in nothin’ unless we smokin’ weed out front of the liberry,” Bill told me. “And they ain’t really even interested then less’n we got some to share.”
“Okay,” I said, although it wasn’t okay. Animated metal cows are not okay. Police who smoke pot in front of the library aren’t okay, either, though I only had Bill’s word to go on that. “Well, uh, Bill, I’m gonna go up there and give ‘em a call, okay? You know, just to like make a report and all that?”
“Sho,” said Bill. “Do whatever you want. They ain’t goin’ noplace.” He paused, as if he’d forgotten something. “Oh. You gotta quarter?”
I did, and I gave it to him with a handful of other change. I backed away from the cows,which continued to stand there, cowlike, until I got up to the main doors. I waved my keycard and the door gave a clunk. Still backing up, I eased myself inside and pulled the door shut in front of me. The cows stood there. Well, they stood a little closer to the building, but they just stood there, not trying to follow me. But it was still me they were staring at. Bill, who was moseying off in the direction of the library, didn’t get so much as a passing sniff.
“Okay,” I said out loud to myself. The word echoed in the empty entrance hall. No one ever gets here this early but me. Which sucked, at the moment. It would have been nice to have someone other than a crazy homeless guy who called himself Bill and chatted about pot smoking in front of the library to comment on the phenomenon of animated metal cows. It would be even better if the someone could say, “Oh, yeah, I handled it” in the kind of offhand way that I find so reassuring from law enforcement personnel and so irritating from my junior accountants.
But, no. It was just me. I backed away from the doors. The cows followed me with their metallic eyes all the way to the elevator. It wasn’t until the doors closed in front of me and I started up to the third floor that I was free of iron eyeballs. The sensation was a great relief for the twenty or thirty seconds it lasted. Then I got out of the elevator, walked down to my office, and there they were again. All fourteen or so of them, staring up at my office window as Bill ambled away into the distance. And, yes. It was my window they were looking at. Not the Mayor’s, not the police chief’s, not the Director of Catering. Just me and mine.
I could tell already that it was going to be a long day, and I hadn’t even put my lunch away in the refrigerator yet.
Now, you’d think a herd of metallic cows that suddenly sprang to life, did a little moseying and then settled down for naps might be done with their brief return to animation (arguing that they were animated in the first place; they’re metal, for Godsakes). And again, given the source of this information, I wouldn’t have been at all surprised to find the whole herd back by the fake river, striking their usual poses and waiting for tourists. But I’d be wrong. When I showed up on the Tuesday morning after Veterans Day, they were still there, the whole herd of them. The pile of smelly metallic turds, no longer smelly, was also there. What was more, the cows were standing right under my office window - and when they saw me, the whole herd started to moo.
I’ve been freaked out plenty in life, but having a herd of metal cows moo at me was a new one. I took a startled step backward and dropped my keycard. Nice going, Annie, I thought to myself as it hit the ground. If you broke it, there goes next week’s pay check. Not that it’s really possible to break a key card. I think about that whenever I drop anything. It all stems back to a high school music class and a really expensive metronome named “Dr. Beat” and look, I don’t wanna talk about it, okay? It was kind of traumatic.
“They’ve been doin’ that since yesterday,” said the crazy homeless guy, whose name, as I was about to discover, was Bill. He was a big African-American dude, six feet or maybe a little taller, hulking in his thick navy blue coat and scarf, and wearing a red stocking cap.
“Doing what?” I demanded as I retrieved my unbroken key card from the sidewalk. “Mooing like that?”
"Naw. Standin’ under the windah. Lookin’ up at it.”
“That’s my window,” I said, and though it was, the cows might have been looking at any one of the seven windows above and below it. I was, after all, just the Chief Auditor. The deputy mayor’s office was above mine, the mine inspector’s office was above that one, and all the way at the top, where prestige knows no bounds, was the office of the Catering Director. Without her we would all starve to death, so we gave her the best office in city government. Only the Mayor’s is higher and more ostentatious.
“Mebbe they want you to feed ‘em,” the man suggested. “Course, they doin’ okay with the grass and all.”
There are days I wish the library would just open up at seven a.m. so I could walk to my office unmolested, but this was not one of ‘em. However disturbing crazy homeless people may be in a city that’s pretty much determined to pretend they don’t exist, they’re good company when confronted by fourteen metal cows with pointy horns. Long horns, too. Or did I say that already?
“I’m Bill,” he added. “Just call me Bill.”
“Hi, Bill. I’m Annie.” Homeless people disturb me, too, but I wasn’t about to be rude to him. He might hide behind me when the head longhorn decided to charge. “Uh, how long has this been going on?”
“What?”
“The cows,” I said, thinking with mild annoyance that it should be fricking obvious I was talking about the fricking inexplicably animated metal cows.
“Oh. Since yest’day about one, I think.”
“Have the police been here?”
“The po-lice? What they come here for?”
I looked up at him to see if he was for real. He seemed to be. “Well, I just figured, if you’ve got a bunch of animated statues walking around, the police might want to know about it.”
“Girl, them po-lice ain’t interested in nothin’ unless we smokin’ weed out front of the liberry,” Bill told me. “And they ain’t really even interested then less’n we got some to share.”
“Okay,” I said, although it wasn’t okay. Animated metal cows are not okay. Police who smoke pot in front of the library aren’t okay, either, though I only had Bill’s word to go on that. “Well, uh, Bill, I’m gonna go up there and give ‘em a call, okay? You know, just to like make a report and all that?”
“Sho,” said Bill. “Do whatever you want. They ain’t goin’ noplace.” He paused, as if he’d forgotten something. “Oh. You gotta quarter?”
I did, and I gave it to him with a handful of other change. I backed away from the cows,which continued to stand there, cowlike, until I got up to the main doors. I waved my keycard and the door gave a clunk. Still backing up, I eased myself inside and pulled the door shut in front of me. The cows stood there. Well, they stood a little closer to the building, but they just stood there, not trying to follow me. But it was still me they were staring at. Bill, who was moseying off in the direction of the library, didn’t get so much as a passing sniff.
“Okay,” I said out loud to myself. The word echoed in the empty entrance hall. No one ever gets here this early but me. Which sucked, at the moment. It would have been nice to have someone other than a crazy homeless guy who called himself Bill and chatted about pot smoking in front of the library to comment on the phenomenon of animated metal cows. It would be even better if the someone could say, “Oh, yeah, I handled it” in the kind of offhand way that I find so reassuring from law enforcement personnel and so irritating from my junior accountants.
But, no. It was just me. I backed away from the doors. The cows followed me with their metallic eyes all the way to the elevator. It wasn’t until the doors closed in front of me and I started up to the third floor that I was free of iron eyeballs. The sensation was a great relief for the twenty or thirty seconds it lasted. Then I got out of the elevator, walked down to my office, and there they were again. All fourteen or so of them, staring up at my office window as Bill ambled away into the distance. And, yes. It was my window they were looking at. Not the Mayor’s, not the police chief’s, not the Director of Catering. Just me and mine.
I could tell already that it was going to be a long day, and I hadn’t even put my lunch away in the refrigerator yet.
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