Pasha Malla - People Park

And here again was the relief of People Park, its ordered borders of forest, the southside grid of poplars matching the orchard to the east, the ellipse of Crocker Pond (rowers lit out from the boathouse and skimmed across its surface) a watery yolk amid the greater ellipse of the common, the discipline of the gardens — or, best, the rigour of hedgerows: the nonsense of bushes carved into walls, made geometrical and sane. And on the park’s southern edge was Friendly Farm Automatic Zoo, a perfect square, and Lakeview Campground, the beach, the surf upon the beach, the lake.

But something dark and resentful slithered alongside her pride. Twenty-five Easters before, a collective exuberance had consumed the city, they’d come out by the thousands to be part of a new beginning. The Silver Jubilee was already less a celebration of People Park — or even the citizens, the people — than a forum for the whims of the dastard illustrationist. It felt symptomatic of a larger problem: her citizens were complacent, too comfortable, bored, and like dumb moths charmed by every flickering light.

SINCE STARTING ON nightshifts Olpert Bailie’s sleep schedule required a seven a.m. bedtime and rising in the early afternoon. Friday morning, at the hour he’d normally be tucking himself in, his walkie-talkie buzzed. The voice integrated into his dreams: here was Starx, chasing him through the clouds, Olpert breaststroking along with the city miles below. .

Bailie! Get the fug up! B-Squad’s gotta put in work!

Olpert rolled over, hit TALK: Hi, yes, I’m awake, okay.

I’m just leaving the Temple. Meet me in forty-five at Bay Junction.

Okay.

In the bathroom Olpert supported himself on the sink, head sludgy from the night before, throat raw, inspecting his face in the mirror: red-rimmed eyes, hair a brambled disaster. But looking past his reflection he felt his stomach drop. He was sure before bed he’d scrubbed and hung his NFLM uniform in the shower to dry — yet it was gone.

The bathroom hamper held only mildewed towels. Back in his room there was no sign of it either. What punitive humiliation might How We Do decree for misplaced khakis? Dropping four wriggling worms into Jessica’s terrarium, Olpert only hoped it would be quiet and private, something behind closed doors, nothing televised or broadcast or even, with any luck, seen.

His radio buzzed: Bailie, you on the move?

Starx, hi, I’ve got a little problem.

Didn’t have time to wash your duds? No problem. Your partner’s got you covered.

Olpert let the misunderstanding ride, thanked him.

That’s how we do, said Starx. Now hurry the fug up, you sack of nuts.

Sometimes Jessica would nose up from the soil to see what was going on. Today though there wasn’t time to coax her out, and Olpert left the house forgetting a thing people did called breakfast, and on the ferry ride across Perint’s Cove the dregs of the previous night’s wings and cider rose up acidly in his throat. When the boat docked he came reeling ashore — greeted by Starx, spotlit in a sunbeam, a bottle of some fluorescent orange liquid in one hand, a spare NFLM uniform draped over his arm.

Drink this, he told Olpert. Then put this on.

The drink was disgusting, carbonated in a tart, fermented sort of way, with a tinny, bloody aftertaste. Ugh, what is that?

Secret recipe. My wife’s hangover cure.

Wife?

Ex-wife. Long story. He reconsidered: Well, short story. A story for another time.

Olpert sipped, winced. And this will make me feel better?

Should, said Starx. There’s nothing orange in it. Just goes that colour, for some reason.

Olpert drank, handed the empty back to Starx.

Bailie, nice work last night! No way those dames’ll forget you anytime soon.

Kill me, said Olpert.

Kill you? No way! That, my friend? That’s what some of us call living .

Oh.

Though I’m feeling pretty rotten myself, thanks for asking.

Oh. Sorry.

Not much of a people person, are you?

I beg your pardon?

I mean, we’ve hung out two days now and I know everything about you, from your job to your living situation to your fuggin moles. What do you know about me?

Um. You were married?

People, Bailie — see, normally the way this goes is that I’d ask you something, you ask me something, and in such a fashion of reciprocated dialogue, we’d get to know each other, ta-da. Like fuggin magic.

Oh.

Starx’s expression was hard to read: not quite hurt — disappointed maybe.

Olpert said, What sort of work do you do?

Work? Thanks for asking. I’m in construction, Bailie.

Construction.

Right. Buildings. Or not exactly buildings. More roads. I have the same boss as you, Bailie — the city. We’re civil servants, servants of civics. Civilized.

What do you do?

You know how the road sort of sparkles? Well you think that happens on its own? When they’re tarring roads I’m the guy walking around with a little pouch of powdered glass who sprinkles it over the road. They call me the sparkle fairy.

You’re making fun of me.

Swear! I used to do more hands-on work but I got hurt on the job, they tried to put me in an office, no way. This way I still get to be outside. Sparkle fairy.

Olpert struggled to picture that giant body lumbering around with a pouch of pixie dust.

Starx smacked him on the back, handed him the clean uniform and their Citypass lanyard. Hop along little buddy, you can put your duds on in the car. First stop after we pick up Raven is We-TV Studios. Hey, maybe Wags’ll let us on Salami Talk ?

Maybe, said Olpert carefully, and followed Starx, the asphalt glittering beneath their feet, to the first available Citywagon in the lot.

THE ELEVATOR DROPPED to the ground floor, fetched whoever was coming up the Tower, arrived with a thud at the viewing deck. Pushing away from the window, the Mayor smoothed her blazer and snapped the lapels straight, ready to face whoever it was.

Out stepped three Helpers in khaki: two luxuriantly moustachioed characters flanked a skittish-looking kid on crutches. Strapped over the boy’s shoulder was a callbox, its cord drooped in ringlets at his hip. A fat strip of ducktape covered the lower half of his face. His eyes were afraid.

To what do I owe, etcetera, said the Mayor.

We represent the NFLM, said the man to the cripple’s left, fingering his lanyard.

He’s Reed, said the other, and I’m Walters.

The cripple said nothing.

Mrs. Mayor, we realize you’ve been put in a compromising position, said Reed, so we’ve brought this Recruit here, Diamond-Wood, to be of assistance to you until. .

Until the Jubilee is over, finished Walters.

The HG’s really appreciate what a sport you’re being about this.

Sport? said the Mayor.

There’s talk, said Walters, of erecting a statue of you. We’re already talking to Loopy about it. How do you feel about solid gold ?

Though you do have to admit, said Reed, it was spectacular — that illustration, I mean.

Three sets of eyes crawled over her body to the lower tier of the dessert cart.

Anyway, said Reed, Diamond-Wood here’s at your service. Anything you need.

A personal aide, if you will.

Not that you’d normally require such a thing. Just —

— in your —

— current —

— situation —

— we’re happy to provide logistical assistance.

And he comes with a portable phone, with a direct line to the Temple should you require anything else.