Pasha Malla - People Park

Don’t touch it, said Pop. It’s probably aswim with germinations.

Debbie knelt, placed her fingertips on the bird’s side, felt a heartbeat as urgent as a drumroll. The whole creature seemed to be one trembling, feathery heart.

It’s one of his, the magician’s, said Pop, let it die.

It’s a living thing! Can we take it to your store?

I’ve no time for resuscitations, I have telephonic appellations to dilate. My house, recall, has been abscondered. Though what make of revolutionaire are you, whom is more concerned with enfeebled birds than motorizing the wheels of restribution? Cause for disbarment from the Movement, prehaps?

We have to save it, said Debbie.

But Pop was lumbering away up the path.

In a nearby trashbin she found Havoc’s placard — FUG THIS SHET PARK — discarded the day before, imagined him lisping his way through this slogan, suppressed a chuckle. She folded the cardboard into a little crib, lined it with crumpled IFC wrappers, and tucked the dove inside.

Pop was gone. Debbie imagined him in his store, ranting into the telephone. The thought exhausted her. So instead of joining him she climbed the slipway to Parkside West Station, boarded a Whitehall-bound Yellowline train, which she rode, with the bird in her lap, all the way home.

HOW ABOUT A little tour of the city? asked Starx, starting the engine.

As you wish, said the illustrationist, resuming his seductive pose in the backseat. Perhaps you could cool the air, though. I find it hot.

Starx cranked the dials, swung the Citywagon onto Entertainment Drive. Where to do you think, Bailie?

But Olpert was listening to the A/C. From it came a strange fupping sound. What is that noise, he said.

It’s the car, Bailie, said Starx. And to Raven: This guy, eh — bit of a nervous bird.

Yes, said Raven.

How about a quick tour to the eastend? Maybe a jaunt through Greenwood Gardens and Bebrog, a stop for lunch in Li’l Browntown. Or we could head out to the Institute, go for a walk around the campus?

I’d prefer, said Raven, to first pay another visit to the bridge.

Guardian Bridge? Again?

Yes.

Whatever you say, said Starx. He turned onto Trappe Street and headed north toward Lowell Overpass. He glanced at his partner. Bailie, you all right?

The sound inside the dashboard was like paper rustling. From the vent what appeared to be a snowflake blasted out on a waft of A/C, performed a little loop-de-loop on the updraft, and settled on Olpert’s thigh: a feather.

He closed his hand over it, shut the vents. The sound died — but Starx turned the fans back on. You deaf, Bailie? Our guest finds it hot.

Indeed, said the illustrationist.

The sound returned: the purr of playing cards threaded through a bike’s spokes.

Don’t you think it sounds weird? said Olpert. Maybe we should turn it off.

In the backseat Raven attended to his manicure with a nailfile. I’d rather not, he said.

See? said Starx. And what do you know about cars anyway, Bailie?

The sound grew louder, more urgent. A second feather came sailing out of the vent. And then another, and another — and with a mighty cough the vents spewed a sudden blizzard: hundreds of feathers swirled into the car in a white squall.

Starx yelled, What the fug!

Olpert was overwhelmed by the scratch and tickle of feathers, a swarm of clawfooted moths. One flew in his mouth, he gagged, batted at the air, and brushed madly at his face.

Starx pulled onto the shoulder and killed the engine. The fans died. The feathers settled. The car’s interior suggested the aftermath of a to-the-death pillowfight.

Wow, said Starx. Weird.

Olpert swept a layer of down onto the floormats.

Most intriguing, said the illustrationist from the backseat.

These wagons, said Starx, they’re communal, never know what other drivers have got up to in them. Maybe the last person tried to roast squab on the carburetor.

Ah, said Raven.

They sat for a moment before Starx restarted the engine, tentatively. Olpert kicked the feathers into a little pile on the floormat and placed his loafers overtop.

Hey, said Starx, mind if we crack the windows now instead?

Fine, said Raven thinly. Though such an episode does raise certain questions, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Bailie?

Olpert made the mistake of checking the rearview: Raven’s eyes were splashes of black paint eddying down a drain.

It’s interesting, continued the illustrationist, holding Olpert’s gaze, to consider how these situations might have come about, to speculate and wonder. Though I would argue it will be more interesting to see how they influence what comes next.

How’s that then? said Starx, merging onto the Overpass.

Oh, just that any anomalous event — he twirled his hand absently — might have much larger ramifications than one might expect.

Like what? yelped Olpert.

Oh, Mr. Bailie, who can say? Raven looked out the window: Guardian Bridge rose into view. Who can say, ever, what might happen, to whom, and when.

T STREET’S Milk & Things the doorchimes dinged as usual, but instead of Pop lunging at Sam for a handshake, a thin, hesitant voice wondered, Who’s there?

Two men Sam had never seen before stood with Pop at the counter. One was short, his eyes went two different ways, the other tall and thin and from whose neck sprouted a silky yellow beard. Spread upon the counter was an ICTS System Map. Something was wrong.

Just entreating some friends, said Pop. Please, whatever you need, it’s on my house.

If you had a fuggin houθe, growled the thin man, and the little one sneered.

In the back of the store the MR. ADEMUS’S THINGS shelf was empty, surrounded by sawdust and building supplies and various junk. Sam dug through the pile, found a hinge, pried it back and forth, listened to it squeal.

At last Pop came over. Barely done?

Do you have locks? And those loops for locks. To hold locks okay.

Is this a constructional project?

Sam leaned in, whispered, I’m going to trunk him. But I need locks.

Pop pulled out a combination padlock, which hung open. I don’t know the code, he said, so unless you’ve an intuitional mind, once this locks, it’s locked.

Sam was careful not to close it. The suspicious men watched. Sam pointed at them. Don’t spy on me okay, he said. I’m just doing the work.

He’s just doing the work! screamed Pop. One of my loyal customers, no one to dubiate, gentlemen, carry on. Once he’s outfat he’ll be on his way. And you — Pop lowered his voice — Mr. Ademus, recall: once that locks it will stay locked.

It will stay locked, said Sam. Forever?

Prehaps. Now, for further requirements, you should retail to the dumpster, you’re welcome!

Pop walked Sam to the door, ushered him into the parking lot, and waved, grinning — but once the door closed his smile disappeared and his fat fingers trembled as they flipped the OPEN sign to NOT. And with heaviness and resignation Pop faced the cagey, tense men inside his dirty store.

BY MID-AFTERNOON People Park was bustling. Helpers draped the gazebo in black curtains, erected scaffolding rigged with floodlights and huge videoscreens, constructed a catwalk that jutted out to the barricades. Since Raven required more power than could be supplied by generator, the NFLM ran cables up the Slipway and through downtown to Municipal Works, where they tapped right into the grid. Meanwhile the common filled steadily with people, joy sparkled in the air, and the sun shone down upon it all.