Turkey

I stand at the periphery of my grandmother's kitchen, not wanting seem like a backseat driver in here. I figure egos must be a little tender this time of year among chefs, especially ones that have seen as many thanksgivings as my grandmother's and father's. They are tipped over at the waist, observing the bird. As my father bastes, Grammy inserts the thermometer.

"Is this where it goes?"
"Right in the thickest part of the thigh."
"Yeah, that's what I mean. Is this the thickest part of the thigh?"

Huh? I can hardly believe my ears. I had assumed roasters as seasoned as these two must use internal timers, or a delicate tinge in the wafting odors, or shear inexplicable intuition to know when the turkey reached its most succulent and edible state. When it was 'done'. Now here they are trusting some inanimate piece of chemistry equipment? And what's worse! They don't appear to know how to opperate it!

"Hmm, let's look at the picture again."

They have two thermometers in action, evidently they are prepared for faulty readings.

"Let's put one in the breast and one in the thigh."
"I think this one is broken, the breast is less than 140 degrees."
"Mine says 170."
"Well let's switch 'em."

I don't believe this. It's Abbott and Costello in here.

"Well I dunno Grammy, it sure doesn't seem like it's hot enough."
"What do we do?"

What do we do?! I can't help but pipe up. Maybe they just need a little confidence.

"Say, you guys have probably cooked dozens of these babies, right?"
"Well I guess so."
"Sure."
"And this can't be the first time that you've had to measure the temperature, right?"
"Well, no."
"So what did you do last time the turkey wasn't done?"
...
"You know, I don't remember."

Evidently this tradition happens infrequently enough (annually!) that there is time to revert back to amateur-levels of knowledge on the subject of poultry. Who knew. I find myself suddenly worried about other parts of tonight's meal.

"Who's making the cranberry sauce?" I ask, as politely as I can. I'm still treading lightly here, not confident enough to say 'Move over and let me handle this'. I wouldn't want to offend anyone in charge of rationing.

"Annie."
"And she's made it before?" I fear I may have let slip a little bit of nervousness.
"Oh, of course," Grammy responds. I figure I should get out of here before I really do say the wrong thing.
"Well I'll go see if she needs any help."

Annie lives just down the street. I walk the few blocks, and on the way am convinced I can smell burning cranberries. Panic takes hold of me, but a second later I realize I have no idea what a burnt cranberry smells like. I must be tense. 'Get a hold of yourself, Henry.' And by the time I get to Annie's I've managed to restore hope.

"Well hello!"
"Hi Aunt Annie! How's the cranberry sauce coming?"
"Oh, pretty well I guess, but it might be a little runny this year."

Egad! Runny cranberry sauce?! I follow the sound of her voice into the kitchen where I find her looking forlornly into a large pot, stiring slowly, as steam wafts up past her face. I put on a shaky smile and approach.

"Oh, uh, I'm sure it'll be fine." It better be!
"Yeah, I've tasted it, and it's pretty palatable,"--palatable?! This is the garnish of garnishes! Does she realize what's at stake? This dish cannot pass with a grade of palatable, it must be stupendous! Or what else did we all drive here to do?--"but it just stays kinda liquidy, ya know?"

I taste. She's wrong, it's much better than palatable. In fact, the flavor is quite pleasing, and will do nicely for this evening. However, the low viscosity remains. As it should. The sauce is hotter than heck.

"Won't it thicken as it cools?"
"Oh yeah!"

Good grief.

"Hey while you're here, could you help me with the mashed potatoes?"

I am needed! Just as I suspected, every facet of tonight's meal is in jeopardy!

"Why of course, Aunt Annie! What can I do?"
"Well I peeled, cut, and boiled the potatoes, but they really seem to need a lot of mashing! I've mashed and mashed and they just don't seem... I dunno, as creamy as they usually are. Would you look up a recipe for me?"

A recipe?! Again, I'm astrounded. Do these people have no pride? What about all the family secrets and time honored traditions that exist only in the minds of my ancestors lest they be written down and stolen from us by lesser gourmets! Uh oh. A horrible thought. Are we the lesser gourmets?

"Uh, sure. But I think the problem is you didn't add enough milk."
"Oh right! That's why they're usually creamier! They need cream!"

I add milk.

"I think they might be good with butter too!"
"What isn't?" I joke. She must have been kidding about 'remembering' the butter.
"Maybe some salt and pepper?" I offer, keeping things going.
"Maybe... what does the recipe say?"

Oh dear. This is no joke.

Okay, so I'm a little ashamed. Things are not what they seemed around here. And yet I can't remember a year where I wasn't impressed and well stuffed at the end of Thanksgiving. How did they pull this off without incident so many years running? This family seems like a horrible accident waiting to happen, and yet it never really has.

Later that evening, I'm doing what I can to help out as the finishing touches are put on all the dishes. I'm shocked and relieved to find that everything smells and looks delicious. Just a matter of the proper arrangement for a buffet style supper. And this looks to be a real gut buster. We have 24 pounds of turkey for 12 people. We have enough gravy for 48 pounds. We have enough cranberry sauce to fill 12 of the biggest cups at 7-11, and we have a backup bowl. But this is all good. Leftovers will be welcome.

"No, that spoon is for the pilaf."
"What about the brussel sprouts?"
"Put them here."
"Shouldn't they be next to the other hot things?"

My aunties are a-swarm behind the bar where food is gradually coming to rest, serving utensils leaning out at inviting angles. I know my cousins are ready to eat, and have been for about forty five minutes. We are, naturally, behind schedule.

The food goes through a three card monty's worth of switching and shuffling until I have no idea where the stuffing is. Even more comes out of the oven and gets tucked into the remaining nooks on the tile counter. I glance across the dining room to the pies (two pumpkin, one apple, and a cake too) and wish us luck in making any reasonable dent in this feast.

We tuck in. There's no real blessing or toast, except for a last minute recital of "Bless This House" by Grammy and I. I don't remember the whole thing, but she does and fills in the missing parts. Some hear us, but most are enjoying pleasant conversation and wine. It's a wonderful meal.

I'm impressed with myself at 9pm for finishing off slices of pumpkin and apple pie, and cake, with whipped cream. I am likewise impressed with everyone here, and their contributions. We're a pretty successful family when it comes to making food we all eat too much of, and there's something to be said for that. I think it's okay that we take credit for it, even if we're on the verge of disaster in the creation. I've decided that next year, I'll just stay out of the way during the composition of dinner. I feel that my participation this year was already a lot, given the precariousness of our yearly success, and while I might have helped this time, I might just as easily upset some cosmic balance that I clearly don't understand next time I get my hands dirty. Best to just help with the dishes.

Past and Future Phone Call

Past: (Picking up phone) Hello?

Future: Hey, it’s me.

P: Oh hey, what’s up?

F: Just wanted to call and say thanks.

P: Oh?

F: Yeah, these leftovers are excellent.

P: Glad you like em. Took me forever to get that thai peanut sauce right.

F: I remember. Also, what a great place to stash ten bucks!

P: Ha ha, I thought you’d like that. What’d you buy?

F: It was perfect. I was riding home on my bike with Wig, we’re both pretty drunk—

P: Glad to hear he’ll be getting over his cold soon—

F: and we pass by Brooklyn Pizza. We’re both starving, but I’m sure I spent all my cash at the bar. I reach in my jacket pockets almost comically, expecting to pull the fabric inside out with nothing in it, and out comes Hamilton.

P: I can’t wait for that.

F: Yeah, I hope I didn’t spoil the surprise.

P: Nah, I’m sure I’ll forget all about it. Our conversations never stick with me very long. No offense.

F: None taken.

P: When are you, anyway?

F: Tuesday. It’s about one.

P: The 23^rd?

F: Yeah.

P: You get those new bearings I ordered for the Bianchi?

F: Not yet.

P: Rats.

F: I was also wondering if you could do me a favor.

P: You want me to bet on the Suns or something?

F: No nothing like that. I just can’t seem to find the brown and red long sleeve shirt.

P: Hmm. Well I’m wearing it right now.

F: I guess I called too far back. Any idea where you might put it later?

P: You try inside the backpack?

F: Yeah, and the hamper, and even the corner of the bed where it was wedged down that one time.

P: Oh yeah, that was a lousy place to stick it.

F: Whatever, he was drunk. I’m just glad he got home with it at all.

P: I guess they always seem like good places to put things at the time.

F: Hey I gotta go. Any thoughts? I’m pretty sure the last time I saw it was sometime in your today.

P: Let’s see… I got to tutor a couple kids later, then I was going to go for a run… could it be in the laundry?

F: No, I haven’t done any lately. The hamper is full.

P: Shoot, I have no idea buddy.

F: No problem. Maybe I’ll try you later.

P: Lame. It’s looking cloudy outside. Do you remember if it’s going to rain this afternoon?

F: That’s it!

P: What?

F: I remember where you’re going to put the shirt. It’s drying on the chair in the back yard.

P: So I guess it is going to rain.

F: For like the last five minutes of your run.

P: That’s not so bad I guess. I’ll take a shower when I get home anyway.

F: It’s like you can predict the future.

P: Too bad you can’t post-dict the past.

F: That’s why I call you. Thanks again.

P: If I didn’t do these things for you, who would I do them for? I take the long view. Delayed gratification.

F: Just wish I had some way to repay you.

P: Just pay it forward.

F: Yuck yuck yuck. Later man.

P: Yuck yuck yuck.

Jackson Wheat

Jackson’s condition means that he relies heavily on pre-tested and well-rehearsed behavior to keep his world in order. Simple things like recalling the details of a telephone conversation would be impossible were it not for the discipline Jackson managed to impose on himself. His existence is a series of cues and procedures, and though it’s impossible to have a step-by-step contingency plan for everything that pops up, Jackson has gotten pretty close to approximating the life of someone with a short-term memory. Sure he was caught off guard from time to time, sure he had to improvise, and no, he didn’t remember everything everyone told him, couldn’t put a face with every name, and wasn’t good about calling people on their birthdays. But who did? Who could? Who was?

The call ends, and Jackson is counting down the handful of minutes he has to store the information from the brief conversation before his brain writes over it with random 1s and 0s. Fortunately, he has many, many ways of getting data into an external memory, and this situation has an easy protocol. His fingers are already dancing across his phone, which has itself already located the strongest wireless signal and hacked its way in.

In a few quick strokes, Jackson has down the phone number and soon will posses some pertinent information to let his future self know what the deal is regarding these ten digits. It’s easy enough, pretty much automated at this point. As the digits go in, an hourglass turns a few times while his phone pings a massive database where the kid’s info is, theoretically securely, stored. Sometimes the phone will spit back an error message claiming the non-existence of such a number, which tells Jackson the student is giving him fake info, and is trying to fuck with him, but usually the hourglass goes away when the identity is pinpointed in the database, and then his phone downloads a string of 1s and 0s that encode everything he’d ever want to know about the subject, who in this case is named Andrea. Also, a mug shot pops up below the (555) 555-5555, and a prompt that asks what course number should be filed with the new contact. He puts in 113b.

This string of binary is different for everyone, like a strand of DNA, and between any two humans there is a huge amount of overlap. For instance, Andrea is not the first medium-height, blonde, 19 year-old from Scottsdale whose parents will pay him to teacher her second semester business math. To make identifying these oft-recurring specs easier, Jackson has written a program, which takes the mile-long number and turns it into a corresponding, and still unique, color.

In order to house all the info Jackson now has on Andrea, it is necessary to so specifically assign the color that his phone cannot display, and anyway his eye couldn’t perceive, the total subtlety of pigment. The relative percentage of Red Green and Blue in the now formatted number are precise to some two dozen decimal places, which means a lot of people’s numbers look alike in color. But this is precisely the point. Later, when Jackson has no memory of meeting Andrea, and doesn’t know what she looks like, or what she’s studying, or even why the hell her number is in his phone, he’ll be able to look at her entry and remind himself of a lot right away. The raspberry pink will tell him he’s about to have his first meeting with a student who could be classified as an above average math student (from which he’ll gather the real problem in math 113b is give-a-shit, not comprehension) and that said student is from a community with an average household income in a bracket considerably above the national average (which will affect his rates) and that she got his name through craigslist (bit of a wild card—no previous reference).

Had it been a neon green, or near black purple, or fading from pale orange to dark red, Jackson would have been able to assume a whole other set of givens about this individual. It’d be easy to claim that Jackson’s coloring program is nothing more than a sophisticated way to stereotype any and every person in the database. Such a claim would be entirely correct. He depends on the utility in sophisticated stereotyping, and is very good at it. Jackson would love to be able to further segregate individuals, to have some other dimensions to play with that could cue certain useful assumptions. If he could somehow give the numbers volume, or texture, or maybe even fragrance, then he’d really be able to pinpoint a client’s personality. But his phone is limited in its assistance, and for now, visual indications are usually sufficient.

As he tapped Save and Andrea became a permanent part of the Shed, Jackson was distinctly aware of the fact that he didn’t know where he’d met the blonde on the screen looking back at him. ‘Wonder when I’ll see you again,’ he mused.

Just then, his phone vibrated and an alert popped up informing him that he had an appointment with a Laurence Stillwater in ten minutes at the Coffee Exchange on Grant. The number was dark blue. Evidently he’d been tutoring Laurence for some time now.

Miss Buckley

This is a re-typed selection that I originally wrote on a typewriter in high school some time. I was surprised by how much I liked it.

It was fifth grade, I had a teacher names Mrs. Cele who looked like an old goblin, but who actually very nice after you just accepted the fact that she was your teacher for the next nine months. It was almost like every teacher I ever had was giving birth to me every May the way the nine month cycle kept repeating. Especially considering my birthday typically fell less than a week after summer break began. From kindergarten through 6th grade also, I had nothing but grandma-like teachers, all of them Mrs. Most of them were very nice, especially Mrs. Plum whose face seemed to smile perpetually. The corners of her eyes were always pulled back tight with creases from years of smiles that spread over her whole visage. She gave out candy at the end of the week if you behaved well enough. There was only one teacher that I had besides Miss Buckley who wasn't a grandma-type, and that was my first grade teacher Mrs. Laird. Mrs. Laird was still a Mrs. though, and to make matters worse, got pregnant half way through the year. I didn't realize it then, but until I was eleven years old, my life contained a ridiculous amount of mommies.
So in fifth grade, when Miss Buckley began her student teaching term with Mrs. Celi, she hardly compared with the rest of the staff. First of all, she was available. I took great pride in those days having learned the difference between Mrs. Ms. and Miss and being able to address my professors by their correct titles. While my fellow students called her Miss because it was easier to say, and they'd been calling teachers that their whole life, I called Miss Buckley Miss because it meant she was one fish in the sea that could still be caught.
I fancied myself a fisherman.
Perhaps it was because Miss Buckley was the first real woman I had ever laid my romantic little eyes on that she attracted me. Perhaps it was because she wore short skirts and sleeveless tops with legs and arms that didn't jiggle while she wrote on the blackboard. Maybe it was the way her lips still curled up, and stayed pouty and red even without lipstick . In any case, Miss Buckley was something young and new. She was energetic and exciting. She was playful. She wasn't a lady, she was a woman.

Private Tutoring: Using the Force

H: So I’m waiting there for like, ten, twelve minutes.

J: The Grace Period.

H: Right, and so it comes to the point where I gotta text this kid.

J: SOP.

H: Yeah, but I’m only eighty percent sure I didn’t fuck it up and put the date in my calendar wrong. I mean, a Saturday meeting is a little unusual.

J: Sure. Saturday is never the day for school, or what would Sunday be for?

H: And what I wanna say is “What’s the hold up?” but I have to spend a solid three minutes just thinking how to word this SMS so it makes him feel a little bad if he’s late, but doesn’t make me look like a jackass if we had said Sunday.

J: The Lord’s Day.

H: Something like “We are scheduled to meet today, right?”

J: Seems to hit the nail on the head.

H: But it doesn’t, and here’s where I start stressing. Cause this’ll be the second time a last-minute cancellation has been called in by this kid, and it really does suck cause I can’t use that time for other students.

J: Not to mention the fact that you’ve already given up like 40 minutes of your time just showing up and waiting, and commuting back home.

H: Right. I need to make this kid realize that he’s on the hook for the bill next time I show up, whether he gets tutored or not.

J: I see your problem.

H: ‘We are scheduled to meet today, right?’ Gives him an out.

J: Yeah.

H: He’ll just say ‘No, dumbass’ and there’s nothing I can do. No recourse. He get’s off scot free. It’s evasion!

J: I suppose if he’s a total jerk-face he might say that, but—

H: I need him to be the one who calls me on my mistake, if indeed I have made one, so I know it’s legit. That he’s not just blaming me cause it’s cheaper.

J: I understand, still I think a little benefit of the doubt on your part won’t hurt the business too bad.

H: Yeah maybe, but now I’m hovering over my little phone, trying to walk some line that doesn’t exist between polite and accusatory, so that he won’t be offended if I fucked up, but won’t be able to weasel out either. It feels like the right syntax and semantics are out there in the English language ether, but I can’t get them into a 160 character text.

J: I have a solution.

H: Yeah?

J: Turn down the give-a-shit. Just get a coffee, call it a necessary evil of your profession that sometimes you bike to places for no reason.

H: Is it really necessary?

J: Sure. Part of the overhead.

H: Okay.

J: Okay.

…

H: Wanna hear my idea?

J: You bet.

H: So first we assume that in fact, there is no ideal text out there, that gets this point across.

J: I take it you never thought of it.

H: Yeah. So, instead I merely alter my tutoring to fit a new price scheme. He owes me double for missing the last one, right? So I just tutor half as effectively this time.

J: A little passive-aggressive. What are you going to change? Some of your math is incorrect now?

H: No no, I couldn’t totally backstab the kid. I’m still tutoring as usual, giving useful tips and helping to catch errors and so on, but I’m a little slower.

J: Inserting ums, let’s-double-checks, and such.

H: Just enough to make him need more tutoring.

J: I agree, in theory, he’d have to double the number of appointments, and so you’re income would double too—

H: Exactly.

J: But wouldn’t the number of missed appointments likely go up as well?

H: Sure, and that sucks, but at least I’m making as much money as I really should.

J: Seems to me there’s a more likely outcome than him doubling up on the tutoring.

H: What?

J: He could fire his now-shitty tutor, who talks at half-human speed or whatever you’re doing, and get someone else.

…

H: That does seem like an awfully reasonable response.

J: It was a good plan, Henry. Except for all the manipulation and over-thinking, I really liked it.

H: Okay, what if instead, I just start showing up late.

J: I’d still fire you.

H: Double my rates?

J: Canned.

H: Jump him?

J: Have you arrested.

H: This is going downhill.

J: Like I said, it’s in the overhead.

H: I’m at the mercy of my clients.

J: The sad truth I’m afraid.

H: How devastating.

…

J: Okay, there is one thing you could try.

H: My ears are wide open.

J: I don’t like it.

H: I don’t care.

J: It’s dishonest.

H: Fine.

J: It’s a little high-risk.

H: Lay it on me, brother.

…

J: Okay. So you gotta raise your rates somehow, right? Either by changing the scheduling, or payout, the point is right now, you’re effectively getting paid half-time.

H: This is what I’m sayin.

J: So here’s how you raise your price, without him feeling ripped off.

H: (Leaning in close, eagerly awaiting.)

J: (Looks left, then right, then at Henry. Raises his eyebrows as if to say ‘Can you handle this?’)

H: (Nods vigorously)

J: You let him in on the ultra secret, very ancient, and supremely efficient field of mathematics, that all mathematicians have taken an oath never to share with the masses.

H: Huh?

J: You tell him, it’ll ultimately save him years in computation time, and probably make him an impressive fortune if he can use this coveted knowledge to his benefit, but it will take time to learn.

H: (Not getting it yet)

J: You tell him that many promising young students have tried to assimilate this information, and that nearly all fail miserably in their quest for these deeply hidden mysteries, but that you see a certain spark in him, a sign that he might be among those who have the potential.

H: Ooh… like the Jedi.

J: But of course, he’ll need your help.

H: Yes… yes…

J: You can become his mentor, can show him this life-changing truth of the universe, but…

H: It’ll cost ya.

J: Bingo. All you have to do, is generate an entirely new and complex field of mathematics—

H: In all likelihood erroneous and pointless in the end—

J: and keep the charade going long enough to collect.

H: (Thinking it over.) I like it.

J: (Exasperated.) You gotta be kidding me.

H: No! This is totally viable!

J: It’s like your give-a-shit dial is jammed at 11.

H: I’ve been thinking for a while that maybe there’s another superset of numbers beyond even the imaginary ones.

J: Stop it.

H: Numbers with infinite dimension!

J: I don’t think I can recommend you as a tutor in good conscience anymore.

H: Yeah, people love the word infinity. That’s a total hook.

J: In fact, I feel duty-bound to Flag your posts on Craigslist.

H: Corey, your thirteen year-old ass is mine.

…

J: He’s thirteen?

H: Yeah, little punk.

J: Dude, just tell on him. Call his mom.

H: (In disbelief.) Nah man, that’s fucked up. Corey trusts me.

J: I can tell why.

West Kids - Frank and Chief Part Four

It took two hours to get the Titus’ wheels into anything close to working order. After thoroughly investigating the area around an old gas station, they sat down to work at the task of cleaning chips of glass out of the Chief’s tires. They sliced their finger tips, and blurred their vision finding every last tiny shard. They used thorns to push the larger, embedded pieces through and out of the rubber. They switched tires to inspect each other’s work, found more glass, then switched again.

Into the rear wheel went the last spare tube, and then Chief started marking up the better inner tube with chalk. He was marking punctures with small circles, adding them up in his head. When he was done, Frank pumped up the tube again and did his own search for holes. He held the tube close to his upper lip, and moved it slowly along, feeling for the delicate streams of air that sprayed out of tiny invisible holes. The small hairs on his upper lip were like sensitive whiskers, picking up the smallest disturbances in the air. While he did that, Chief counted patches.

The ample supply would be almost entirely spent on this job. He counted again, and confirmed that only one patch would remain. Though the time they took now was cutting a huge chunk out of the remaining daylight, the importance of the job kept him from rushing through any of it. Every patch had to hold, and no glass could go unnoticed. They cowboys had wandered a long ways from the Pond, and the need for fully functioning mounts was crucial, especially now that they would be forced to do some of the riding in the dark.

Frank scanned the road running by the gas station for company. The terrain was open here, away from the tall buildings and shadows by the deposit, and Frank felt more secure now that he could see farther in each direction. But his nerves were beginning to feel fried. He was exhausted. The day had been a rough one, probably his worst in the Desert, and though having Chief there gave him some confidence and courage, he still felt along way from home and that made him scared in a way he couldn’t ignore.

Something moved in the corner of Franks eye, and he snapped his attention around to find it. He looked at the dumpsters up against the side of the gas station convenience store, but nothing was there. His breathing started to speed up again, and Frank almost Signaled to Chief, but just then a skinny cat emerged from beneath the metal bins with a lizard in it’s mouth. The tail hung out and wriggled. Frank heard a crunch as the cat began to chew.

Tired though he was, Frank was eager to get going. Chief was blowing on the tube, drying the last smears of rubber cement. Frank took a deep breath and tried without success to stop shaking. He had been ever since the encounter in the alley.

West Kids - Frank and Chief Part Three

Wrench would have approved of the ingenuity, and Chief was impressed with the results too. After scouring the dump for almost an hour, Frank had unearthed what the two were looking for. There was no chance of finding a decent bicycle tire here, anything like that would have been located and appropriated long ago, but Frank did track down a thin plastic tupperware container to line the inside of his frayed tire walls. He cut out flat rectangles and used spots of rubber cement to hold them in place on the inside of the tire wall, covering the holes pierced by the dog. After re-inflating the tube, both cowboys took a close look at the tire and seemed satisfied with the job. The re-enforcement looked almost stronger than the original tire.

Chief and Frank took time to think about what their next move should be. The conservative move would be to return to the Pond, and call the supply run a loss. This wasn’t unusual. Things came up, plans had to be changed, the Desert did that to you. On the other hand, Frank’s tire seemed fine. It was early in the day, plenty of light left. And the Pond needed supplies. The Desert had sent a lot of cowboys come home empty handed lately; it would be a bit of a relief to come back with something.

Frank was of the opinion they should continue on. He rode around a bit, took his mount off curbs, around tight turns, skidded out in the dirt, and nothing dislodged the repairs. Again he pounded his front tire on the ground to show he could keep on going. So they did.

They went by the usual Locations, and found all of them were dry. Some were picked clean by Gremlins, but most were just unused sites anymore. The Townies didn’t dump as much as they used to, though new kids arrived in the Desert as often as they always had. Frank and Chief rode far out, into parts of the Desert that neither knew well. They saw no one, and the effective patch job bolstered their confidence, so they rode out further and further, looking for new waste Locations. Spots where the Townies dropped their excess, where it could be sifted through once more, and the still edible parts combed out for the mouths of the Pond.

Chief saw something that interested him and made a right turn. Frank followed behind him. The two cowboys were sweaty from riding all day in the sun. Dust was in the corners of their mouths, and their ankles were black with the filth of the trails. Chief’s Atheltics hat had salty veins running around the base, and the top was bleached out from its lifetime of use. Only the underside of the brim was still green.

Frank followed behind Chief and tried to guess what he was after. They had taken several turns over the past few hours following hunches and gut feelings toward dead ends. They had dispensed with explanations to one another for their hunches, so Frank didn’t seek one now. But Chief stayed intent on his path for almost a mile, still apparently seeing signs of a possible Location. They got to a sandy part on the trail where a storm had washed earth into the road years and years before, and Frank felt and heard the change the new surface made against his wheels. It was then that he picked up on the cue that Chief had been following. A set of car tire tracks ran through the sand, perfectly parallel, for about ten feet, and then disappeared where the asphalt resumed uncovered. The watershed pattern was quite clear; a truck had been this way recently.

This was the most encouraging sign of the day. Frank picked up his pace and drew even with Chief, trying to look ahead to see where the tracks might resume. Both cowboys scanned the road, driveways, and intersections. They looked for more loose earth that would hold information. Frank couldn’t find anything, but Chief made a left turn at the next intersection.

They were in a place with lots of tall buildings now. The streets were narrow and long burnt-out traffic lights came at every intersection. The sky scrappers cast short shadows, but riding on the south side of the street gave some shade from the sun, so Frank moved up onto the sidewalk as they rolled along.

Chief continued to lead, following tracks that Frank didn’t see. Frank new he wasn’t guessing, though. Chief was decisive in his riding, and the pair didn’t do any doubling back at all. After about a mile, they came to a little alley so narrow, very little sunlight made it to the street, even now so close to noon. At the mouth lay the negative of the same truck’s tire tread, cleanly pressed in mud. Frank was excited to see such fresh tracks undisturbed. It suggested a recent drop, and a Location unknown to Gremlins. Chief was riding ahead, and to Frank’s surprise, rolled right past the entrance to the alley, craning his neck to see further down the road.

Frank stopped, and let Chief keep riding. It seemed odd that Chief had been able to lead them so close to the drop, and then totally missed the obvious entrance. Frank looked down the alley and though the light was dim, he could see all the way to the dead end where a pile of recently deposited garbage lay slumped in one corner. Nobody was there. The Location hadn’t been searched, nothing was scattered or rifled through. Frank clicked his brake levers once to get Chief’s attention, and then turned down the alley.

Chief saw Frank drop into the alley, leaving his own line of tracks in the mud next to the truck’s, and his heart beat raced. He hadn’t missed the entrance, as Frank thought. Chief was suspicious of this drop so far from home. It needed a careful looking-over before he felt okay going into a dead-end alley.

He rode to the entrance as fast as possible, clicking his brakes furiously to get Frank to stop, but it was too late. When he got to the alley, Frank was all the way to the back and scoping out the deposit. Chief dismounted and lifted up his bike onto his shoulder. He walked slowly down the narrow strip, keeping to the edges where the mud didn’t reach. His eyes searched the ground in front of him.

Frank realized he’d been a little hasty. He hadn’t checked the ground for intentionally placed thorns or nails. Now he waited until his fellow cowboy got to the back of the alley.

Chief didn’t find anything. He set his mount down and leaned it against a brick wall. Then he went to Frank’s bike and inspected the tires. Again finding nothing, he furrowed his eyebrows, and looked back out to the entrance of the alley. Frank waited, not sure what to do. They made eye contact, Chief’s eyebrows still knit. Frank glanced at the deposit, and back to Chief, waiting for the go-ahead. Chief shrugged, nodded, and the two began filling their panniers with the best from the deposit.

The pickings were rich. There was variety, and unusually good quality. Layered into the deposit were whole loaves of bread, a box of peaches with only small bits of rot, several blocks of moldy cheese, even part of a birthday cake. Frank treated himself to a bite of it, and offered the rest to Chief even though he expected the stoic cowboy to turn it down, but Chief surprised him by taking a large mouthful. Frank thought he even caught a small smile on the Chief’s face as he chewed the stale cake, frosting in the corners of his mouth. Frank smiled back. This was the best find in a long time. They’d be able to fill up the panniers to the brim at this one Location, and the Pond would appreciate the improved food. They even found a small packet of beef jerky, and broke the rule about taking meat from a Location.

When they could get nothing else into their bags, Frank and Chief strapped them down. Chief looked at the deposit once more before mounting to leave. He was considering whether it’d be worth it to return here again tomorrow for more when the sound of footsteps echoed down the corridor. Immediately, he and Frank turned to the entrance, expecting to see trouble, but there was no one. They looked at each other then, and both knew that leaving the alley would be tricky now.

Frank felt a fear for his life start in his chest and rip through his body out to his fingertips. He felt trapped in the alley. He hated being cornered, how many Grems were waiting out there? The bricks around him squeezed in around him, and soared above his head. There was no way to escape except by the way they came in. Those Grems had tricked him, had lurked so close by, but been invisible. Frank’s breathing got faster. He looked to Chief.

Chief realized his guard had been down in the alley, and he was intensely angry with himself. They should have had one cowboy stationed at the entrance while the other filled the bags. Now there could be any number of terrible things waiting for them at the entrance. The most likely thing was two Gremlins standing on either side of the alley, just out of sight. If there were more in the area, they probably would have attacked the cowboys outright.

The cowboys couldn’t walk out, they’d be moving too slowly, would be entering a two-on-two fight and giving up the first blows to their opponents. But riding out full speed was almost as bad. The Gremlins could use their velocity against them, jamming sticks in their wheels, or just swinging something heavy across the shoulders to force a dismount. They had to make a move now though. Time waiting to act was time when other Gremlins might decide to show up. Chief let himself be angry for one more second. The idea that this Location was unknown and unwatched was so obviously idiotic to him now, especially with the tracks in the mud virtually highlighting the entrance. He bawled himself out for the mistake. And then he let it go.

Chief Signaled his plan to Frank. Frank looked worried, but understood, and Chief knew it was the best chance they had, so he mounted and rode toward the entrance, gathering speed. Frank followed behind, with just enough space between himself and Chief to allow for an emergency slam-on-the-brakes, should Chief be thrown from his ride as they emerged. The fingers of Frank’s left hand were clamped on his handle bars like a vice. His wrist protested, but Frank could hardly feel it. Both rode with implements at the ready, and as close to the center of the alley as possible. The idea was to force one or both of the Gremlins to have to move out from his hiding place in order to reach the first cowboy, allowing Frank who trailed to deal a secondary blow and hopefully change the fight to a two-on-one, ideally with at least one cowboy still mounted. Chief was the bait, Frank the fisherman.

As he got to the opening, Chief crouched way down and buried his head down between his forearms, waiting for impact. He prepared for a hit originating on his right, banking on a right-handed Gremlin. Sure enough, he was met by a boy a little older than himself with a wooden bat in hand coming from the right side of the alley. Chief had only a split second to swerve toward his attacker, putting his handlebars into the boy’s ribs, and taking some of the weight out of his swing. He still caught a painful shot in his left shoulder, before the collision send the two of them sprawling into the road together.

The boy from the other side of the alley descended on Chief, but Frank was on him with a shot across the back of the head that dropped him to the ground. The Implement connected with rare force, and made a heavy thump. Frank coasted out past the pile up then turned back to come riding in again. His hand was shaking. Adrenaline had taken over his brain and muscles.

Chief was mounting his bike while the first boy righted himself and retrieved his bat. Chief deftly avoided a second swing of the bat as he threw his leg over his saddle and gained speed. Frank raised his implement again and almost charged in, but came to his senses when he saw Chief sprinting away. It was better to avoid the fight now, to use their advantage in the saddle to escape, so he and Chief crushed their pedals and put distance between themselves and now a single Gremlin sprinting after them. The boy Frank had hit with his Implement was still face down in the road. Blood shined on his neck.

As Frank glanced back to see the gap widening, the boy chasing screamed something after them that Frank took for an insult. It was clear he and Chief would easily win out in the chase. But the boy still ran after, falling farther behind, still calling out the same single syllable again. And again. Finally Frank recognized it, the boy was shouting, ‘Now!’ and then he and Chief were forced to swerve wide as a new boy appeared from a side street emptying a bucket of broken glass across their path. Frank was able to miss the bulk of the glass, but Chief’s tires rode right through a messy stretch of shards. A soft hiss came from the Titus now as they passed the second pursuer. The Gremlins ran on behind them, waiting for the cowboys’ deflating tires to ground them, but Chief and Frank rode on.

Chief clenched his teeth and pushed harder and harder on the pedals. The full bags dragged him down, it took much more effort to keep up a decent clip than it should. The ominous hissing of his mount drove his legs. He had to move himself as far as possible while the riding was still reasonable.

Next to him, Frank was working hard to keep up, hauling his own load of weight. He considered dropping his bags, but Chief was clearly determined not to lose any supplies, so Frank put his head down and focused on turning his cranks. The Titus’ rear wheel was flat in no time, and the front dropping in pressure, but Chief rode on as though it was in perfect condition. Frank marveled at the Chief as he watched his legs push on and on, seemingly inexhaustible. The Chief’s body utterly refused to slow in the slightest. After another half mile of watching their prey pedal on un-phased, the Gremlins gave up, panting in the street. Frank turned and saw the original boy from the alley looking after them, hands on his knees. The boy shook his head once in disbelief, and then let is hang down as he gasped for breath.

The minutes went by, and still Frank and Chief saw no one behind them, but their pace was unyielding. Though the Gremlins had given up their chase, it wasn’t safe to stop yet. The cowboys knew that it would be a long ways before they could dismount and attempt to repair the Titus. The Gremlins might be following, hoping to catch up with the cowboys when they stopped.

Frank was out of the saddle, rocking back and forth with the effort to keep up with Chief. The burst of energy that came with the fear in the alley had subsided. There was no hiding it, he was tired. His breathing was controlled and in rhythm with his cadence. His mouth contorted, his teeth clenched. He ignored the thirst in his throat. Ignored his chapped lips and the salt in his eyes. His shirt was soaked with sweat, and his legs begged him to let off just a little. They protested each time he pushed with his quads, and pulled with his hamstrings. His calves were cramping. But as he looked over and saw Chief still forcing the Titus forward on two flat tires, he exhaled and kept on.