Distraction - Bruce Sterling [142]
His phone rang. It was Kevin.
Oscar followed instructions, and located the tent where Kevin had found his man. The place was hard to miss. It was an oblong dome of tinted parachute fabric, sheltering a two-man light aircraft, six bicycles, and a host of cots. Hundreds of multicolored strings of chemglow hung from the seams of the tent, dangling to shoulder height. A dozen proles were sitting on soft plastic carpets. To one side, five of them were busily compiling a printed newspaper.
Kevin was sitting and chatting with a man he introduced as “General Burningboy.” Burningboy was in his fifties, with a long salt-and-pepper beard and a filthy cowboy hat. The nomad guru wore elaborately hand-embroidered jeans, a baggy handwoven sweater, and ancient military lace-up boots. There were three parole cuffs on his hairy wrists.
“Howdy,” the prole General said. “Welcome to Canton Market. Pull up a floor.”
Oscar and Greta sat on the carpet. Kevin was already sitting there, in his socks, absently massaging his sore feet. Pelicanos was not attending the negotiations. Pelicanos was waiting at a discreet distance. He was their emergency backup man.
“Your friend here just paid me quite a sum, just to buy one hour of my time,” Burningboy remarked. “Some tale he had to tell me, too. But now that I see you two …” He looked thoughtfully at Oscar and Greta. “Yeah, it makes sense. I reckon I’m buying his story. So what can I do y’all for?”
“We’re in need of assistance,” Oscar said.
“Oh, I knew it had to be somethin’,” the General nodded. “We never get asked for a favor by straight folks till you’re on the ropes. Happens to us all the time—rich idiots, just showin’ up out of the blue. Always got some fancy notion about what we can do for ’em. Some genius scheme that can only be accomplished by the proverbial scum of the earth. Like, maybe we’d like to help ’em grow heroin.… Maybe sell some aluminum siding.”
“It’s not at all like that, General. You’ll understand, once you hear my proposal.”
The General tucked in his boots, cross-legged. “Y’know, this may amaze you, Mr. Valparaiso, but in point of fact, we worthless subhumans are kinda busy with lives of our own! This is Canton First Monday. We’re smack in the middle of a major jamboree here. I’ve gotta worry about serious matters, like … sewage. We got a hundred thousand people showin’ up for three days. You comprende?” Burningboy stroked his beard. “You know who you’re talking to here? I’m not a magic elf, pal. I don’t come out of a genie bottle just because you need me. I’m a human being. I got my own problems. They call me ‘General’ now.… But once upon a time, I used to be a real-live mayor! I was the elected two-term mayor of Port Mansfield, Texas. Fine little beachfront community—till it washed away.”
An elderly woman in a hairy robe entered the tent. She carefully tied two knots into a dangling cord of chemglow, and left without a word.
The General picked up the thread. “You see, son—and Dr. Penninger”—he nodded at Greta in courtly fashion—“we’re all the heroes of our own story. You tell me you’ve got a big problem—hell, we’ve all got big problems.”
“Let’s discuss them,” Oscar said.
“I got some excellent career advice for you over-achievers. Why don’t you clowns just give up? Just quit! Knock it off, hit the road! Are you enjoyin’ life? Do you have a community? Do you even know what a real community is? Is there any human soul that you poor haunted wretches can really trust? Don’t answer that! ’Cause I already know. You’re a sorry pair of washouts, you two. You look like coyotes ate you and crapped you off a cliff. Now you got some crisis you want me to help you with.… Hell, people like you are always gonna have a crisis. You are the crisis. When are you gonna wake up? Your system don’t work. Your economy don’t work. Your politicians don’t work. Nothing you ever do works. You’re over.”
“For the time being,” Oscar said.
“Mister, you’re never gonna get ahead