I reached the end of the Terrhi and Spike tale. Poly was about to pry my embarrassing shower story out of me when I saw Françoise head back toward the kitchen empty handed. He crossed paths with another waiter in Teleport Inn livery carrying a large, steaming tureen and heading for the ecclesiastical discussion table. There was something odd about that waiter—bald, broad-shouldered, brow ridges. He was the Earth First Christian guy I’d marched behind when I’d first arrived at the restaurant. Poly saw me staring and turned around to look as well.
“He’s not a waiter,” she said. “I know all the waiters.” I nodded agreement.
I had a bad feeling and started to stand up, but Poly reacted faster. Her Orishen orchid necklace turned a deep purple and was pulsing in a fast heartbeat rhythm. She got out of her chair and calmly but rapidly moved toward the faux-waiter. She snagged one of the tall wooden pepper grinders from Françoise’s stand with her right hand and quietly circled behind the waiter as he approached the conversing clerics. I saw what she was planning and was just a step behind her. She quickly glanced back to confirm I was where I needed to be.
The phony waiter reached the bishops and prelate and was clearly about to shout some slogan and throw whatever was in the steaming tureen on them when Poly deftly whacked a measured blow to his occipital bone with the pepper grinder. I took a giant step and was there to remove the hot tureen from his hands before he fell. I carried the tureen over to our table, put it down and returned to help Poly carry the unconscious waiter over to a temporary resting spot beneath a recently vacated table for four. The bishops and Nicósn prelate appeared to be involved in a spirited discussion of comparative pangalactic consubstantiation and hadn’t noticed a thing.
As if they’d practiced it, Pierre and Françoise arrived in moments with a large enclosed trolley. While Françoise held up the table’s white linen tablecloth to block the scene, Pierre extruded enough tentacles to shift the faux-waiter into the trolley’s enclosed space and close the doors.
“They usually use that thing for drunks,” said Poly.
Before he left, Pierre took me aside and pulled my ear down near his closest speaking orifice.
“I will call for zhe police to pick up zhis miscreant,” he whispered. “It would be best if you and Poly were not here in case zhere were inconvenient questions.” I nodded.
“You can use zhe service entrance, zhe same way zhis poseur likely entered, to make your exit,” said Pierre. “I’ll do what I can to minimize your involvement.”
“Sounds good to me,” I said. “Good luck.”
Pierre and Françoise trundled the trolley off toward the kitchen. Poly and I checked out the tureen I’d left on our table. It was filled with what looked like bubbling hot purple grape juice topped with croutons. I wasn’t sure what sort of sympathetic magical nastiness the Earth First Christians had planned for the bishops and supreme prelate but it could have ended in severe burns and lengthy hospital stays for the clerics if the faux-waiter had succeeded in his anti-ecumenical protest.
Poly and I each grabbed another bagel chip and a final schmear of Dauushan caviar.
“Do you think we have time to ask for a doggie bag?” I said.
“No, I’m afraid we’ve going to have to eat and run,” said Poly.
She took my right hand in her left and led me through the kitchen, moving at a brisk pace toward the service entrance. I enjoyed the warmth of her palm against mine and didn’t want to break our connection.
“Did you drive here?” I hoped she hadn’t.
“No, I took a cab.”
“Great. That makes it easier.”
I asked my phone to have my van meet us outside. It was waiting for us by the time we got there. The driver’s side door popped open, then the passenger-side door did the same. We reluctantly stopped holding hands and climbed in.
“Head south on Peachtree Road,” I said.
“Seat belts,” said my van.
We complied, then the van followed my instruction.
Poly and I looked at each other from our respective captains’ chair seats, sighed, and shook our heads.
“That was exciting,” said Poly.
“You know it.” I hadn’t had that much excitement since I’d dealt with the rabbots this morning and Spike this afternoon. It was not a typical day.
“We made a good team.”
“I agree,” I said, reaching to take her hand. “The night is still young. What would you say to me buying you a chocolate dipped frozen custard cone at Zesto’s?”
“Sounds like a plan,” she said, squeezing my hand to second her verbal approval. “Caviar and chocolate dipped frozen custard go so well together.”
“Zesto’s, please,” I told my van’s A.I.
“Tout de suite,” it said. Every computer’s got to be a comedian.
As the van headed down to Ponce de Leon Avenue I pulled the handles that moved the captain’s chairs to a side-by-side configuration so it would be easier to keep holding hands. Poly didn’t object. She even smiled at me.
“The way you knocked out that fake waiter with the pepper mill was amazing.”
“Just part of my daily grind.”
I made a well-practiced pained expression in honor of her pun.
“Was that sufficient recognition?” I asked.
“Yes, I think we’re both calibrated for each other’s level of humor now,” said Poly.
“Great. You sure know how to show a guy a good time.”
“Thanks,” she said. “We’ll have to do this again soon…”
“Fine by me,” I said. I liked her idea about doing this again. We sat there holding hands and looking into each other’s eyes while the van did the driving.
Unfortunately, our state of blissful contentment wouldn’t last.
Chapter 10
“Without ice cream, there would be darkness and chaos.” ― Don Kardong
We did have a few minutes before the next round of crazy, however, and used it to get better acquainted on the way to our destination.
Zesto’s, like The Varsity, is an Atlanta institution. It’s been around for more than 85 years. Architecturally, it’s an old-style ice cream, burgers and hot dogs drive-in with lots of chrome, neon and yellow tile. You’d expect the young American Graffiti version of Harrison Ford and his hotrod to be parked in their lot. Zesto’s makes great soft serve and managed to hang on to enough affordable cacao futures to still offer their signature Brown Crown vanilla frozen custard cones dipped in chocolate for less than five bucks each.
Poly was easy to talk to on the ride there. I wished I could signal my van to take the scenic route so that we could have more time to be close and converse but I couldn’t think of any way to pass the word without alerting Poly—though I’d bet she wouldn’t have minded. She started the conversation.
“Jack,” said Poly, her hand warm in mine, “Where’s home?”
It was one of the top ten first date questions and was especially apt here in Atlanta where everyone is from somewhere else. Unfortunately, it wasn’t easy for me to answer, even with the reassurance of Poly holding my hand. I hadn’t rehearsed a response. Would side-stepping the question work?
“I’ve got a garden apartment at Ad Astra,” I said. “I helped the management with security systems and they gave me a deal on the rent.”
“That sounds great,” Poly said, “but where’s home?”
“It’s a long story,” I said. It really was.
“Okay,” said Poly. She didn’t say anything more. She just let the silence hang out there waiting to be filled. I was impressed. She knew how to draw me out. It was like knocking “shave and a haircut” for Roger Rabbit—I had to fill the void.
“I was born in Pennsylvania, near Philadelphia,” I said, “in a town on the Main Line called Bala Cynwyd.”
“I know where it is,” said Poly. “It’s close to Bryn Mawr.”
“Right. My mother’s family was from Wales originally. They were Quakers and ha
d come to America in the 1690s to be part of William Penn’s Holy Experiment.”
“That didn’t last long, did it?”
“No, pacifism has its limits,” I said, “and three of my maternal ancestors fought in the Revolution.”
“Patriots or Loyalists?” she said, poking me in the ribs with the index finger of her free hand.
“Both,” I said, smiling. She rested the hand with the poking finger against my chest and left it there. It was warm. She could keep it there as long as she wanted.
“Did you grow up in Pennsylvania?”
“We were there for a few years, but my Mom worked as an electrical engineer specializing in power systems and we moved around a lot.”
“Where else did you live?”
“Washington State, Washington, D.C., Dubai, Stuttgart, Shanghai, Seoul, Nairobi, Johannesburg, Sydney, Nome, Mumbai, Long Beach, Kiev, Kuala Lumpur, Des Moines, Cairo, Tel Aviv, Barcelona, Buenos Aires, Recife, Tegucigalpa,” I said, pausing to breathe.
“Quite a list.”
“Like I said, we moved around a lot.” I didn’t tell her there were a dozen more places we’d lived before I left for college. “My mom’s a consultant and she took me with her whenever she had to visit clients and job sites.”
“You didn’t stay with your dad?”
“He wasn’t around.”
“Sorry,” said Poly. She managed to make the two syllables sound like she was both truly apologetic and thought I was lucky in that regard. I reminded myself to be careful asking her questions about her father.
“No worries. I had a great childhood. My mom home schooled me, mostly, if home could be considered a suitcase, a tablet loaded with textbooks and a laptop. And she’d also find tutors to teach me the local languages and show me the sights.”
“Sounds like a fascinating way to grow up.”
“It was. After First Contact she ended up working on a lot of galtech integration projects to eliminate coal fired plants. I read a lot of galtech equipment manuals and pestered the off-planet engineers assigned here to do the implementations into teaching me their languages.”
“I can just imagine how eager—and persistent you must have been.”
“Yes, and contrary,” I said. “I didn’t know better. I guess I was both naive and fearless. When I was supposed to be studying with my A.I. tutors I’d sneak out to explore and just talk to people. I did it when we lived on Earth and off-planet and kept my ears open. That’s how I learned to swear in fifteen Terran and five Galactic languages by the time I was twelve.”
“What did your mother think about that?” Poly turned her face so I could see her smile.
“She thought I needed to broaden my vocabulary and taught me how to swear—and negotiate—in another nine.”
“Did you annoy the off-planet engineers?”
“Not really,” I said. “Most of them were kind of lonely and missed their own families, I think.”
“I can see that. You reminded them of their own kids.”
“That’s how it worked. Zummath, a heat exchange engineering consultant from Orish, took me under his wing and looked on me as some sort of grand-grub,” I said. “At least he took me under his wing until he morphed into a centilegger supra-adult.”
Poly giggled.
“He kept telling me it was past time for me to pupate and get on with my life,” I continued. “My mom and I told him it didn’t work that way for Terrans, but he just said that there wasn’t that much difference between pupating and being a college student so I might as well get started.”
“How old were you at the time?”
“Thirteen,” I said. “And ready to soak up as much Galactic science as I could. Zummath helped me sign up to take on-line college classes at Mulbiri Tech on Orish the next fall.”
“Was he a father figure for you,” asked Poly.
“No, Zummath was the original iron butterfly. Orishens are usually easy going but he was more of a drill sergeant,” I said. “He did help me get through Advanced Congruent Topology though.”
Poly nodded a silent “Go on.”
“And besides, my mom had remarried by then and I had a new dad.”
“Oh,” said Poly softly. Maybe I’d been talking too much.
“What about you,” I asked Poly. “Where’s home for you?”
“I’m a citizen of the galaxy.”
“You’re too old to have been born off-planet.”
“No, I mean my mother took me with her everywhere she traveled for work, too.”
Maybe that was one of the reasons we were getting along so well?
“What does your mom do?”
“You know about the Keen Guides?” said Poly.
“Keen’s Guide to Terra? Keen’s Guide to Dauush? Keen’s Guide to the Ruins of Old Pyr?” I said. “Who doesn’t? They’re classics.”
“I know, right? They’re written by Barbara Keen, my mom.”
“And you got to go with her to all the off-planet places she wrote about?” I said, sounding like my thirteen-year-old self.
“Don’t gush,” she said. “It was an odd way to grow up. If it’s Tuesday it must be Tigrammon.”
“But still, to get to see all those planets and meet all those species…” My voice trailed off.
“I did enjoy it, or parts of it,” said Poly. “And it was a great way to pick up Galactic languages, but you end up without anywhere really being home.”
“I know the feeling.” The three years I’d spent in Atlanta so far marked my longest time in one location to date.
Poly squeezed my hand and we smiled at each other.
“Back at the restaurant you said you were a grad student,” I said, hoping that changing the subject would be easier. “What are you studying?”
“I’m working on an M.B.A. at Emory’s Business Institute for Galactic Studies.”
“Cool,” I said, “B.I.G.S. has a great reputation.”
“And an M.S. in Applied Galtech at Georgia Tech,” she continued.
“Okay.” That was quite a challenging dual degree program.
“And at night I’m teaching two sections of Intro to Galactic Languages at Georgia State.”
“While working part time as a receptionist for WT&F and translating menus for the Teleport Inn,” I said. I turned in my seat to face her. “When do you sleep?”
“Not often, or not often enough, anyway.”
“Permission to ask a nosy question?”
“Okay,” said Poly, “if I get one, too.”
“Fine. If your mother is Barbara Keen, successful author and publisher, why are you working three or four jobs?”
“Let’s just say that I wasn’t fond of being a minor planet orbiting my mother’s star.”
“And the classics professor?”
“That’s two nosy questions,” said Poly. “I’m a disappointment to him because I’m not interested in academia. He’s putting all his love and attention into his Ph.D. candidates, not his daughters.”
Daughters? She has a sister? Or sisters? File that info away for conversation topics in the future.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Don’t be,” said Poly. “It’s only going to be this crazy until after I finish both degrees this May.”
“What do you want to do when you finish grad school?”
“Hey, that’s three questions.”
“But the last one wasn’t particularly nosy.”
“You get a pass this time,” she said. “I want to build something.”
“Like a bridge?”
“Like a company.”
“Me, too,” I said. She squeezed my hand.
“Now it’s time for my nosy questions. Tell me what happened after you rescued the cat up a tree.”
“Zesto’s,” said my van as it pulled into a parking place in front.
“Saved,” I said.
“Temporary reprieve,” said Poly.
* * * * *
It was a warm night so we bo
th ordered Brown Crown’s and found seats on a bench at a concrete table on what passed for a side patio. There were several families nearby treating their children to cones. There was even a short, four-sided female Pyr a few tables away holding two cones in a pair of tentacles and licking them with two of her four tongues. Younger children who had finished their treats were running around exploring and making children noises.
Poly and I were having fun flirting with each other, assisted by cones and custard. Brown Crowns tend to drip. We enjoyed catching drops of melting custard or chocolate and wiping off each other’s mouths with napkins. I really wanted to kiss her when she ended up with a frozen custard mustache but knew it was too soon to try. While we ate our cones I told her an abridged version of what happened with the prickly pods in my shower. I left out the awful smell and the green liquid and Shepherd but left in the part where I ended up in a tangled mess at the bottom of the shower stall. It was funny in retrospect.
Poly laughed and didn’t laugh in the right places.
“Jack’s Phone?” said Poly.
“Yes, Ms. Jones?”
“Please send me a link to the video of Jack’s recent shower incident.”
“Sending…” said my phone.
“Belay that order,” I said. I’d have to check its security settings. My phone shouldn’t take orders from anyone but me.
Poly laughed and bit off a piece of what was left of her cake cone.
“It’s not that funny,” I said, clearly aware that it was. “You’re not seeing that video until we know each other a lot better.”
“If I saw the video I would know you a lot better,” said Poly, holding in a laugh.
“It’s bad enough that I told you what happened. A man has to preserve at least some aspects of his dignity.”
“I have another question,” she said, changing the subject. I appreciated that.
“Is it a nosy one?”
“No, I’m saving my remaining nosy question for the future.”
I expected there would be a future, but it was nice to have corroboration from Poly.
Xenotech Rising: A Novel of the Galactic Free Trade Association (Xenotech Support Book 1) Page 9