Yarn by Jon Armstrong Page A

to the crowded and shiny Casper Union. "What can I do?"
    "Exactly! You… Warrior Remon… you will be our sensation! You will be our scandal. No man knits fantasy skivvé and no former prisoner ever did!"
    She didn't mean I was going to knit Python Duck's skivvé, did she?
    "Yes," she replied as if reading my mind. "And it is a smoky and desperate map. But without sensation… without spectacle and risk, the creditwarriors will take our Stanton, our yarn, our needles, and our hope." She took my hands and cradled them in hers. "These are the artistry and honor I have searched for. These hands are the labor and the might. You Remon of Loin…" Her eyes focused on mine. "You are the craft that I do not possess. From now on you are Python Duck's Chief Executive Knitter!"
    "Kira," I asked, "are you sure?"
    "Time is desperation and we have arrived at the endgame. Tell me now: Can you grace the loops?"
    "Yes!" I squeezed her hands in mine. "I will knit for you."
    "I will honor and assist you, Remon. We have a day to design your line, and relaunch our glory! We must now loveeffort!"
    The next day the flagship was darkened. Workers redid the floor with plush black fabric. The walls were covered with green poles and the ceiling was dotted with thousands of blue lights. Pyramids of dirt were piled six feet tall.
    "What is this?" I asked.
    "The fantasy skivvé of pure male savagery."
    I thought of my life amid the corn and how so much of it was spent working corn plants, pushing the kernels into the dry land, watering them, tending them, and harvesting the ears. It was hardly pure male savagery.
    "The real slubs weren't like this. They were much more dull. There were brutal moments, but that was all about recycling. Mostly we farmed and worked in mills." Although she listened, she didn't hear. And maybe it didn't matter. I was happy just to spend that night and most of the next day on the Stanton-Bell. I didn't love making these fantasy skivvé, but I couldn't get enough knitting. I made variation after variation and Kira would come in every hour or so, look them over, and make comments.
    "They're robust and vigorous," she said. "They're male and distinct! Try one with a slightly more narrow tube. I'll return in forty minutes."
    Near shopping dawn, as designers, constructors, and caterers finished, Kira selected three of my skivvé and dressed them on new full-sized, articulated wooden mannequins. Two were naked except for the skivvé; the third also wore a Rebel Sheep jacket and a violet shirt with layers of ruffles. She introduced me to the two newly hired saleswarriors, who like Kira were dressed in their short orange sailor suits with my blue skivvé below. I also shook hands with a clock drummer who was going to play along with Ginn. For a half-hour Kira gave a rousing, if mostly indecipherable, warTalk. Then the windows were opened, and doors were thrown wide.
    To my surprise, hundreds of costumed t'ups were lined up in the hallway, and in an instant the place was full. While some headed straight to the craft and catering tables, most surrounded my skivvé. In my design, the tube was just a couple of inches shorter and open at the end. Below was a single large pouch. As the t'ups stared, pointed, and some even reached forward and squeezed the tubes, I felt exposed and vulnerable. Each frown, each furrowed brow, each small guffaw were jabs to my solar plexus.
    "They're the most amazing skivvé in the history of fantasy garments." To my right stood Worm Jacket. On my left was Giraffe. "Truly an achievement far beyond the mere knitting and design. You are a credit to all the prisoners. I think Kira has found both an executive designer and a cause célèbre."
    Giraffe spoke, but I couldn't quite make out his words through his mask.
    Worm Jacket leaned in. "He wants to see you buttonhole Kira again. He's dé bazed ." He laughed and while the lower half of his face was a smile, his eyes conveyed hurt.
    Kira greeted both men, took me by