Wednesday, 29 September 2010

• Bye-Bye,Bunny, Book One, Cry me a Rainbow

  Cry Me a Rainbow, Part 2, Chapter One

  Bruce's deceased eldest daughter Alaya appeared, then swam swiftly away.  Daddy Bruce cried out. Karina, math magi,  nuzzled her Eternal Companion--Bruce of Alpine with the girls and wasn't that Rigel darling and little Lizzy feisty. So many cousins up for School from Down South all  the time.

  Karina was the daughter of a poly-matriarch whose kingdom was a now soggy Ranch on the Provo River. Her neighbours down the road still owned their houses and submerged and Bruce had decided to buy them out. The old Marina was submerged. She also learning fish farming. 

  Karina nudged Bruce: “Are you awake?” She asked,

  “Not now, but soon. Bruce sang, sleeping, “I'm late, late, for a very important date. No time to wait, to wait, to wait--I’m late, I’m late, I’m, I’m late. I’m late....I’m late.....” 

    “I Hate the Government”  in ten decibles blared from the family media center.  Kerry Garth, a Goth--had set his stepfather/brother-in-law’s CD alarm the night before. Circus fleas hopped randomly inside 13 year old Celeste’s Science Fair Project--igniting their terrerium with a low blue glow--fleas in ellflocks and white satin, guitars glued on their front sections with with epoxy, they ranted for 90 seconds.

   ''Qual azules d'los cielos en la madrudgadra.'' a sweet, high voice fell on Daddy Bruce’s watery. At first light, la madrugada, the bats cooed, the clowning creatures mimicked the antics of the children, sweetening the apricot dawn by trilling they could outdo the thunder and sometimes the children's racket. They fattened on huge Provo Mosquitos. Kerry and his grandfather had built bat houses to reduce the mosquitos and sold them to family on a sliding scale. That was about the time he came home from the war with his timid wife Eva, without religion and unsure of her place, and their East-German children.

  “I know the bats Daddy, evening and morning. Soon they will bear fruit so they threw out the boys.''  Sweet, sweet, sweet  Karina’s squab cooed in the faint, rising glow.

  ‘’Where are you?’’ Bruce shifted toward the voice onto a empty, twilit shelf. There he floated, just above a rocky shelf, lightly submerged, walking  on water.

  Daddy Bruce pondered. This day, was not the first day of the rest of his life.  A promising Eternity, awaited.  "Make it New, Make it new," he reminded himself, was carved on an Ancient Daoist Emperor’s bath.

  "Don’t you let anybody give you  a wooden nickel,” his Uncle Samuel's voice echoed, the man unseen. . . . Today no one could offer Bruce gratuities.  A watery grave had its advantages.

  "'Taint nothing like a free lunch..." Sam yelled from somewhere.

  "Oh sure.’’  Bruce’s  hubris was a secret love of 10 star New Orleans Diaspora quisine. And while his job was no picnic, his answering machine was full of would bees wanting to explain one cockeyed proposal after another. You had to go English to get more humble native cullinary selections than in the Valliess of the Mountains, but then there were emigrants. Nowhere more appreciated than Utah if they could cook. Bruce snubbed his suitors. 

   Daddy Bruce Bunny, dead to the things of the world, feared his family's judgement.  A flakey family father,  Bruce thought himself. The family jammies sported zoot suit bunny tie-dyed aquamarine chic. Someone must have put bleach in the wash instead of home soap. This morning he would take neither the Road through Kearns around the Kennicott Prominitory at Salt Air, or a straight shot to SLCI. Such bots were advertised, taped out with tape that just said "A Bonneville X offering, 21 and over only." that teased the imagination. A plethora of family theme vacation catalogue options were only available out of SLCI, the family friendly airport.

  SLCI was a hub for Disney sponsered Kiddy Flights. The kids, by advance planning, could get on a plane with their favorite character. The Airport provided costumes.  There were flights of small humans led by Kermit the Frog, and an elegant Miss Piggy, for the kids whose Moms and Dads lived as far away from one another as was possible.  There were Primary Children Songster flights.

  There were How Planes work flights for the mechanical crowd.  For an elevated fee to cover extra staffing big bird and company would serve Coo--kiees and milk to the Sesame Street Enthusiasts.

  Bots stood like manniquins when off shift, modelling WWI and II WAC and Wave uniforms off shift. WWII memorabilia, as much as what covered the WWII Bonneville walls, historical plaques and displays.

  Stateline Sex fiends would soon be rising into the morning mist, delight themselves on Specialitiy Flights. Untried Babalonian option Beauties tasted of wild game and the bots were personable and 100 per cent self disinfecting. He did not plan, this morning to wake up. "Wake up, Bruce," came from somewhere. 

  
  

  2.000

  Stateline’s Old Dead Head Social Engineers at Bonneville International Airport’s Tuesday Night Poker discussion table had organized and laid h’orderves for the twin Airports poker Saturnalia. They set the walls to Saturn's spot. They put on a background tape and a fake poker night home movie. Not that they couldn't have a meeting and play poker simultaneously. 

  The brethren with unexcelled poker-faces represented Salt Lake’s opinion.  Uncle Samuel represented the AAF, the biggest interest in the state, had played endless games of poker with this brothers using pine nuts for chips.

  Daddy Bruce signed off on the Brinks AI dominated view of modern Aviation. The AI pilot didn’t sleep or converse. Delta brought in curvacious autopilots and Bruce joined the Federal Air Marshall’s Service under the President’s Office of Homeland redundancy an agency vague in function. Since Bruce had nothing  to do but stroll up the isle a few times a trip, he could get something done. 

  In a 911 repeat, Air Marshalls were to hang back.  When the heros were done with the heroism of which the American male was uniformly and the Mormon male particularly skilled, the Air Marshall would manually fly and land the plane, cheered on by a high cleavageed, photogenic bot.

  So went the protocol.  The war itself mired and stalled while the Masters of International law tried to reduce cynycism and try, tried to make its accords stick.

  Instead, much as Hitler’s Third Reich, G. Dubb the II’s empire spread, and spread until the center would not hold. Food production ground to a halt.  Drug money came easily, but there was little to buy. All but dedicated home-gardeners were priced out of the market. They needed to eat what they grew and reared. Post 911 "prefereered minorities’’ never took to agriculture as the spurned Mexicans, farmers by habit, once had, millions of them.  Now they sold food South. The embittered public never beleived the propaganda that the average Joe would flock to take up the agri-sector jobs abandoned by deported Mexican laborers.

  Mexican Truck drivers, still insulted, sought Southern markets while the South of the border workforce moved into the merchandise production and sales sectors. The cyberadicted did not flock to take up domestic or business work.

  Utah did well as a breadbasket. Thousands of Returned Missionaries and their converts, still bilingual, readied to meet their convert families at SLCI, with a celabratory Ward Dinner to follow. At Stateline, Northern Nevada’s Tuesday Night Poker scene celebrated the concept of Airports as hubs. Jackpot became the top sellers of Cyber companions and employees in a complex multileveled industry. 

  Bruce had attended the earliest conversations about the future of the twin Airports and the bots.  An underage fly Daddy Bruce was, as a local boy, a fly on Stateline’s wall.  It was here he had first learned most about the Gold Dust Twins--his one time Aunt Kathleen and her best friend Rose of Sharon.  The memories of their old buddies, faded Bruces’ Mother’s implausible exaggerations. 

  Good Mormon girls, they had been--inseperable tomboys.  Rose of Sharon was a horsewoman, as her prototype had been--a tireless stable shoveler, horse trainer and exerciser. Kathleen  speelunked.  

  Her Uncle Samuel had quite a bit to do with her training and she was a good teacher or simple companion, able to climb the steepest slope with steel nerves that never cramped as the originals had done. Kerry’s Aunt was his favorite model and he loved to train her to the secrets of the Mountains.  The  SLCI Services and Recreation credits he gained were detested by the Goth, the first son of his late marrying maternal sister.  The bots were more than machines, less labor intensive to rear and train than children, but not to be exploited.

  The friends grew to bots of mythical stature, bosomy, manic waitresses, since the joke had always been that no one cpould tell the difference between the girls anyway. Bruce could tell.  

  2.000

  Kerry detested adult blather, whilst the Grammy he had grown up calling Ma preferred his tendancy to go on and on. “Out of the mouth of babes,” Karina’s mother often offered when he offered something wise. Kerry was annoyed by his Stepfather Bruce’s Tuesday Night fiscal grousing--he could grouse his way from Liberty Park clear to Wendover.  Kerry told Bruce  he should figure out what his trip was and get into it--wasn’t that what the male-mid-life-crisis was all about?His sister/mother took the change with more grace.  For her, menopause was a happy, long anticipated chance to get on with her life.

  Bruce had planned the night before that soggy morning to take the Mail Rhumba-Shuttle out of SLCI, following a mandatory theraputic and overmonitored nap.  A supposed belted in, waterlogged commuter, Bruce fussed on and on about time.

  If Bruce had had more mortal time, he’d have rather spend it all with Karina--time like the old times with her siblings, cousins and old folks teasing the gibbous moon into brilliance up to Sting-fly springs. Both he and Karina had NTS-tainted seed typical of the native genome. They had sold their Souls as young people to a promise of Health God had no warrent to offer. 

  Green for his rank of servitude, Daddy Bruce Bunny was fated with default assignments. Bruce had Heavy History with both Harmony and Sundance--but could either reach into his watery grave to wake him, help him now? 

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