Smalls of the “Shoot Schedule”—not of its start date, mind you, but of its duration. It would last two days, starting both days at sunrise—nice touch, that—and ending at midnight. There would be three “Acts” each day, separated by “substantial intervals for rest, recuperation, and repair.”
Japh and I walked down Glacier Avenue. The town was alive with hammers and saws, people all over from the roofs on down, the street full of traffic. Two rafts dangled iron laddering from cable hooks, laying it for bridges and gangways to join all the rooftops. Inside, jackhammers were connecting basements where possible, following Cap’s example. Headlamps and floods were being installed on eaves and gables everywhere, to light things up for the night fights.
As we walked I noticed Japh had picked up Sheriff Smalls’ trick, scratching his own prosthetic forearm, a souvenir from Alien Hunger, from time to time when he was thinking. Right now he was sorting out what he wanted to say to me.
He said, “Curtis.” Being patient. Trying to make me see his side. “Ike Klemm’s as smart as George Junior, yes. And he has scads of friends down there. That’s cause he’s a shoulder-thwacker, hale fellow well met. George Junior makes himself heard, an’ they call him an asshole cause he says whatever he thinks, but people listen to him for just that reason. I just trust him more.”
My friend was beginning to chap my ass. “Hey. My brother! Listen to yourself. You’re talking the Georges here!”
“I know! True! The Georges are batshit. But I trust ’em. You know, all the jokes Ike tells, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him really laugh.”
“The only time George laughs is when he’s callin you an idiot.”
“Yeah, but he’s really laughin.”
I had to think that one over. And then I had to smile. “You might be right, old tight.”
Along the downslope rim of Sunrise, and spreading maybe two miles farther down the hills, were the homesteads of the Hangers, most of them as old as Sunrise’s, but outside her corporate border. A neighbor community of generations’ standing.
Hangers strictly respected all property lines with Sunrise. Scores of Hangers visited us, shopped, drank, ate out, and partied with us every night of the week.
At the same time, a humorous tension prevailed between our populations. Sunrisers gripped the Hangers’ hands or hugged them in greeting, and said, “Hey, Hang, you lookin good for a guy from Creepy Hollow.”
Because downslope of Sunrise, though still fertile and verdant, the open ground diminished, and Hangers lived somewhat more closely with their trees, and in their little shaded vales, while Sunrisers lived larger and sunnier. Both groups took pride in their lifestyles, and lived mostly on pretty good terms with each other.
We were down near the river now. Waved to Cherokee and Abel putting some extra armor on their hogs. Crossed the bridge over the Glacier River—not wide, but a good fast stream with spring not far past—and stepped into Hanger territory.
The “Georges”—George Senior and George Junior—lived in a cabin in a tree-choked ravine half a mile downslope. For almost his whole life George’s father had called him Junior, and George Junior had called himself Alphonse, a name of his own furious choosing against his father’s equally furious opposition.
They argued about his calling himself Alphonse every day, with the same persistence they showed in arguing about everything else.
Mav Drood, a sweet little old spice grower just across the gorge from them, had once told me and Japh about the Georges with a vehemence that was unusual for her: “Those Georges have got more different arguments than a dog has fleas. The variety of ’em! One argument winds down, an’ another one jumps right up in its place! An’ they run through every single goddamn one of those arguments, every fucking day of their lives!”—this tirade uttered by Mav with a certain
Japh and I walked down Glacier Avenue. The town was alive with hammers and saws, people all over from the roofs on down, the street full of traffic. Two rafts dangled iron laddering from cable hooks, laying it for bridges and gangways to join all the rooftops. Inside, jackhammers were connecting basements where possible, following Cap’s example. Headlamps and floods were being installed on eaves and gables everywhere, to light things up for the night fights.
As we walked I noticed Japh had picked up Sheriff Smalls’ trick, scratching his own prosthetic forearm, a souvenir from Alien Hunger, from time to time when he was thinking. Right now he was sorting out what he wanted to say to me.
He said, “Curtis.” Being patient. Trying to make me see his side. “Ike Klemm’s as smart as George Junior, yes. And he has scads of friends down there. That’s cause he’s a shoulder-thwacker, hale fellow well met. George Junior makes himself heard, an’ they call him an asshole cause he says whatever he thinks, but people listen to him for just that reason. I just trust him more.”
My friend was beginning to chap my ass. “Hey. My brother! Listen to yourself. You’re talking the Georges here!”
“I know! True! The Georges are batshit. But I trust ’em. You know, all the jokes Ike tells, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him really laugh.”
“The only time George laughs is when he’s callin you an idiot.”
“Yeah, but he’s really laughin.”
I had to think that one over. And then I had to smile. “You might be right, old tight.”
Along the downslope rim of Sunrise, and spreading maybe two miles farther down the hills, were the homesteads of the Hangers, most of them as old as Sunrise’s, but outside her corporate border. A neighbor community of generations’ standing.
Hangers strictly respected all property lines with Sunrise. Scores of Hangers visited us, shopped, drank, ate out, and partied with us every night of the week.
At the same time, a humorous tension prevailed between our populations. Sunrisers gripped the Hangers’ hands or hugged them in greeting, and said, “Hey, Hang, you lookin good for a guy from Creepy Hollow.”
Because downslope of Sunrise, though still fertile and verdant, the open ground diminished, and Hangers lived somewhat more closely with their trees, and in their little shaded vales, while Sunrisers lived larger and sunnier. Both groups took pride in their lifestyles, and lived mostly on pretty good terms with each other.
We were down near the river now. Waved to Cherokee and Abel putting some extra armor on their hogs. Crossed the bridge over the Glacier River—not wide, but a good fast stream with spring not far past—and stepped into Hanger territory.
The “Georges”—George Senior and George Junior—lived in a cabin in a tree-choked ravine half a mile downslope. For almost his whole life George’s father had called him Junior, and George Junior had called himself Alphonse, a name of his own furious choosing against his father’s equally furious opposition.
They argued about his calling himself Alphonse every day, with the same persistence they showed in arguing about everything else.
Mav Drood, a sweet little old spice grower just across the gorge from them, had once told me and Japh about the Georges with a vehemence that was unusual for her: “Those Georges have got more different arguments than a dog has fleas. The variety of ’em! One argument winds down, an’ another one jumps right up in its place! An’ they run through every single goddamn one of those arguments, every fucking day of their lives!”—this tirade uttered by Mav with a certain
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