Eastern Standard Tribe

by Cory Doctorow

night. I can't affordthat stuff here, but Fede'll spring for it if I go to Boston, let me expense it.I'll be a good lad, I promise."

  "I still think you're being an idiot. Why can't Fede go?"

  "Because it's my deal."

  "Why can't whoever you're meeting with come here?"

  "That's complicated."

  "Bullshit. I thought you wanted to talk about this?"

  "I do. I just can't talk about that part."

  "Why not? Are you afraid I'll blab? Christ, Art. Give me some credit. Who thehell would I blab *to*, anyway?"

  "Look, Linda, the deal itself is confidential -- a secret. A secret's only asecret if you don't tell it to anyone, all right? So I'm not going to tell you.It's not relevant to the discussion, anyway."

  "Art. Art. Art. Art, you make it all sound so reasonable, and you can dress itup with whatever words you want, but at the end of the day, we both know you'refull of shit on this. There's no *way* that doing this is better for you thanstaying here in bed. If Fede's the problem, let me talk to him."

  "Jesus, no!"

  "Why not?"

  "It's not appropriate, Linda. This is a work-related issue. It wouldn't beprofessional. OK, I'll concede that flying and going to meeting is morestressful than not flying and not going to meetings, but let's take it as agiven that I *really* need to go to Boston. Can't we agree on that, and thendiscuss the ways that we can mitigate the risks associated with the trip?"

  "Jesus, you're an idiot," she said, but she seemed to be on the verge ofsmiling.

  "But I'm *your* idiot, right?" Art said, hopefully.

  "Sure, sure you are." She *did* smile then, and cuddle up to him on the sofa."They don't have fucking *hot tubs* in Virgin Upper, do they?"

  "Yeah," Art said, kissing her earlobe. "They really do."

  17.

  Once the blood coursing from my shins slows and clots, I take an opportunity toinspect the damage more closely. The cuts are relatively shallow, certainly lessserious than they were in my runamuck imagination, which had vivid slashes ofwhite bone visible through the divided skin. I cautiously pick out the largergrit and gravel and turn my attention spinewards.

  I have done a number on my back, that much is certain. My old friends, thesacroiliac joints, feel as tight as drumheads, and they creak ominously when Ishift to a sitting position with my back propped up on the chimney's upendedbutt, the aluminum skirting cool as a kiss on my skin. They're only juststarting to twinge, a hint of the agonies to come.

  My jaw, though, is pretty bad. My whole face feels swollen, and if I open mymouth the blood starts anew.

  You know, on sober reflection, I believe that coming up to the roof was a reallybad idea.

  I use the chimney to lever myself upright again, and circle it to see exactlywhat kind of damage I've done. There's a neat circular hole in the roof wherethe chimney used to be, gusting warm air into my face as I peer into its depths.The hole is the mouth of a piece of shiny metal conduit about the circumferenceof a basketball hoop. When I put my head into it, I hear the white noise of afan, somewhere below in the building's attic. I toss some gravel down theconduit and listen to the report as it *ping*s off the fan blades down below.That's a good, loud sound, and one that is certain to echo through the building.

  I rain gravel down the exhaust tube by the handful, getting into a mindless,shuffling rhythm, wearing the sides of my hands raw and red as I scrape thepebbles up into handy piles. Soon I am shuffling afield of the fallen chimney,one hand on my lumbar, crouched over like a chimp, knees splayed in an effort toshift stress away from my grooved calves.

  I'm really beating the shit out of that poor fan, I can tell. Theshooting-gallery rattle of the gravel ricocheting off the blades is dulling now,sometimes followed by secondary rattles as the pebbles bounce back into theblades. Not sure what I'll do if the fan gives out before someone notices me uphere.

  It's not an issue, as it turns out. The heavy fire door beyond the chimneyswings open abruptly. A hospital maintenance gal in coveralls, roly-poly anddraped with tool belts and bandoliers. She's red-faced from the trek up thestairs, and it gives her the aspect of a fairy tale baker or candy-seller. Shereinforces this impression by putting her plump hands to her enormous bosom andgasping when she catches sight of me.

  It comes to me that I am quite a fucking sight. Bloody, sunburnt, wild-eyed,with my simian hunch and my scabby jaw set at a crazy angle to my face andreality both. Not to mention my near nudity, which I'm semipositive is not heridea of light entertainment. "Hey," I say. "I, uh, I got stuck on the roof. Thedoor shut." Talking reopens the wound on my jaw and I feel more blood tricklingdown my neck. "Unfortunately, I only get one chance to make a first impression,huh? I'm not, you know, really *crazy,* I was just a little bored and so I wentexploring and got stuck and tried to get someone's attention, had a coupleaccidents... It's a long story. Hey! My name's Art. What's yours?"

  "Oh my Lord!" she said, and her hand jumps to the hammer in its bandolierholster on her round tummy. She claws at it frantically.

  "Please," I say, holding my hands in front of me. "Please. I'm hurt is all. Icame up here to get some fresh air and the door swung shut behind me. I trippedwhen I knocked over the chimney to get someone's attention. I'm not dangerous.Please. Just help me get back down to the twentieth floor -- I think I mightneed a stretcher crew, my back is pretty bad."

  "It's Caitlin," she says.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "My name is Caitlin," she says.

  "Hi, Caitlin," I said. I extend my hand, but she doesn't move the ten yards shewould have to cross in order to take it. I think about moving towards her, butthink better of it.

  "You're not up here to jump, are you?"

  "Jump? Christ, no! Just stuck is all. Just stuck."

  Linda's goddamned boyfriend was into all this flaky Getting to Yes shit,subliminal means of establishing rapport and so on. Linda and I once spent anafternoon at the Children's Carousel uptown in Manhattan, making fun of all hisnewage theories. The one that stood out in my mind as funniest was synching yourbreathing -- "What you resist persists, so you need to turn resistance intoassistance," Linda recounted. You match breathing with your subject for fifteenbreaths and they unconsciously become receptive to your suggestions. I have asuspicion that Caitlin might bolt, duck back through the door and pound down thestairs on her chubby little legs and leave me stranded.

  So I try it, match my breath to her heaving bosom. She's still panting from hertrek up the stairs and fifteen breaths go by in a quick pause. The silencestretches, and I try to remember what I'm supposed to do next. Lead the subject,that's it. I slow my breathing down gradually and, amazingly, her breath slowsdown along with mine, until we're both breathing great, slow breaths. It works-- it's flaky and goofy California shit, but it works.

  "Caitlin," I say calmly, making it part of an exhalation.

  "Yes," she says, still wary.

  "Have you got a comm?"

  "I do, yes."

  "Can you please call downstairs and ask them to send up a stretcher crew? I'vehurt my back and I won't be able to handle the stairs."

  "I can do that, yes."

  "Thank you, Caitlin."

  It feels like cheating. I didn't have to browbeat her or puncture her badreasoning -- all it took was a little rapport, a little putting myself in hershoes. I can't believe it worked, but Caitlin flips a ruggedized comm off herhip and speaks into it in a calm, efficient manner.

  "Thank you, Caitlin," I say again. I start to ease myself to a sitting position,and my back gives way, so that I crash to the rooftop, mewling, hands clutchedto my spasming lumbar. And then Caitlin's at my side, pushing my hands away frommy back, strong thumbs digging into the spasming muscles around my iliac crests,soothing and smoothing them out, tracing the lines of fire back to the nodes ofthe joints, patiently kneading the spasms out until the pain recedes to a softthrobbing.

  "My old man used to get that," she said. "All us kids had to take turns workingit out for him.
" I'm on my back, staring up over her curves and rolls and intoher earnest, freckled face.

  "Oh, God, that feels good," I say.

  "That's what the old man used to say. You're too young to have a bad back."

  "I have to agree," I say.

  "All right, I'm going to prop your knees up and lay your head down. I need tohave a look at that ventilator."

  I grimace. "I'm afraid I did a real number on it," I say. "Sorry about