air of being entertained.
For decades Alphonse had lived all over the globe. He’d rather have died than come back and live with his skinny mean old fart of a father, but the hideous and insurmountable fact was that George Senior had no one else on earth who would go through the Hell of taking care of him in his old age.
At our knock he yanked open the door. The crookeder shape of George Senior stood right behind him, giving us the identical bushy-browed glare as his son. Both of them had the mad, big-pupiled eyes of hawks.
Japh spoke in his friendliest, most charming manner, eager to get everything out at once, knowing it was impossible not to anger either of these men. For starters, whichever name you called George Junior would start a row with one of them.
“Gentlemen, we’re sorry to be bothering you, but we’ve come because you’re smart and we need your help carrying some news to your friends and your neighbors.” He paused, inviting an answer. Nothing. The two pairs of hawk-eyes kept glaring at him. “We’d like you to know that anyone willing to come help us fight the Studio gets—”
“Fuck yes I’m gonna fight!” gaunt, rickety George Senior bellowed. He had a powerful voice, despite his skinniness. “They’re fuckin with my mountain! Some a your shit-storm’s bound to splatter us! This is my place here!”
“It’s my place too!” George Junior croaked (he was a heavy smoker). “I fuckin restored this place for ya! I fuckin drywalled an’ painted an’ porched an’ decked an’ re-floored an’ shingled an’ tiled an’ re-roofed it for ya!”
“ You ? You mean you an’ a buncha’ other know-naught goons—an endless horde of ’em gorgin on my bread an’ peanut butter an’ suckin up all my beer!”
And, they were off. Japh and I hung on tight until finally George Junior paused for breath and I shouted, “Please, come up and fight with us, for acres and citizenship! Tell your neighbors. Come up tonight!”
And then we literally bolted, and left them standing there, jaws open, frozen in mid-argument.
* * *
The sun was half sunk, and the sky over Sunrise red now. The vehicles in the street had sprouted headlights. White sparks sprayed down from where they were welding ramps and barricades. Japh and Cap and I just stood in the street, watching it all. Jool commed me from up at Chops and Gillian’s. They were making her a padded leather cuirass. I tried for a joke. “Is that to cover your ass?”
“You’re the ass,” she laughed. She definitely wanted me to be snappy on this point—would stand for no “freaking out about the baby.” “He’s highly portable,” she had lectured me. “Mammal moms fight off predators when they’re this pregnant and a lot more so. Don’t give me any shit about it!” I worried more for her than for the baby, which was not yet as real to me as she was. But I knew it was not in her nature to back down.
George Junior’s com interrupted us. “Buncha people down here are comin up to talk to you all.”
We got Smalls on it. We needed a gathering space now, and decided on the big parking area behind Cap’s Hardware shared by the lumber yards and machine shops. Cap’s little concrete loading dock back of his store made a natural speaking platform with good acoustics.
Just as dark fell the Hangers came up fifty or sixty strong, and the Sunrisers gave them the center of the lot. They parked their pickups and ATVS and hogs at all different angles, got out and leaned or sat on their rides, or stood in little groups in the truckbeds. Stoically listening as hundreds of Sunrisers listened all around them.
George Junior was sitting on the roof of his deformed old pickup with his legs crossed on his windshield. His own and his whole delegation’s body language made it clear that he was their spokesperson.
The Hangers were a body of very opinionated and independent folks. Few of them were followers by nature, or even had much patience
For decades Alphonse had lived all over the globe. He’d rather have died than come back and live with his skinny mean old fart of a father, but the hideous and insurmountable fact was that George Senior had no one else on earth who would go through the Hell of taking care of him in his old age.
At our knock he yanked open the door. The crookeder shape of George Senior stood right behind him, giving us the identical bushy-browed glare as his son. Both of them had the mad, big-pupiled eyes of hawks.
Japh spoke in his friendliest, most charming manner, eager to get everything out at once, knowing it was impossible not to anger either of these men. For starters, whichever name you called George Junior would start a row with one of them.
“Gentlemen, we’re sorry to be bothering you, but we’ve come because you’re smart and we need your help carrying some news to your friends and your neighbors.” He paused, inviting an answer. Nothing. The two pairs of hawk-eyes kept glaring at him. “We’d like you to know that anyone willing to come help us fight the Studio gets—”
“Fuck yes I’m gonna fight!” gaunt, rickety George Senior bellowed. He had a powerful voice, despite his skinniness. “They’re fuckin with my mountain! Some a your shit-storm’s bound to splatter us! This is my place here!”
“It’s my place too!” George Junior croaked (he was a heavy smoker). “I fuckin restored this place for ya! I fuckin drywalled an’ painted an’ porched an’ decked an’ re-floored an’ shingled an’ tiled an’ re-roofed it for ya!”
“ You ? You mean you an’ a buncha’ other know-naught goons—an endless horde of ’em gorgin on my bread an’ peanut butter an’ suckin up all my beer!”
And, they were off. Japh and I hung on tight until finally George Junior paused for breath and I shouted, “Please, come up and fight with us, for acres and citizenship! Tell your neighbors. Come up tonight!”
And then we literally bolted, and left them standing there, jaws open, frozen in mid-argument.
* * *
The sun was half sunk, and the sky over Sunrise red now. The vehicles in the street had sprouted headlights. White sparks sprayed down from where they were welding ramps and barricades. Japh and Cap and I just stood in the street, watching it all. Jool commed me from up at Chops and Gillian’s. They were making her a padded leather cuirass. I tried for a joke. “Is that to cover your ass?”
“You’re the ass,” she laughed. She definitely wanted me to be snappy on this point—would stand for no “freaking out about the baby.” “He’s highly portable,” she had lectured me. “Mammal moms fight off predators when they’re this pregnant and a lot more so. Don’t give me any shit about it!” I worried more for her than for the baby, which was not yet as real to me as she was. But I knew it was not in her nature to back down.
George Junior’s com interrupted us. “Buncha people down here are comin up to talk to you all.”
We got Smalls on it. We needed a gathering space now, and decided on the big parking area behind Cap’s Hardware shared by the lumber yards and machine shops. Cap’s little concrete loading dock back of his store made a natural speaking platform with good acoustics.
Just as dark fell the Hangers came up fifty or sixty strong, and the Sunrisers gave them the center of the lot. They parked their pickups and ATVS and hogs at all different angles, got out and leaned or sat on their rides, or stood in little groups in the truckbeds. Stoically listening as hundreds of Sunrisers listened all around them.
George Junior was sitting on the roof of his deformed old pickup with his legs crossed on his windshield. His own and his whole delegation’s body language made it clear that he was their spokesperson.
The Hangers were a body of very opinionated and independent folks. Few of them were followers by nature, or even had much patience
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