I’m embarrassed to even see it, thought the roofer, this senseless tag.
The robot named Cai Guo-Qiang careened around an azalea. Must not be tagged, he thought, must not be tagged. He’d commenced the game, and felt a responsibility not to diminish the undertaking with immediate poor performance. He stopped for a moment and scanned the field. The It one was about 40 feet away, chasing two of the others. Good, Cai thought, and took the opportunity to clean his treads. He lifted each one and spun it until all the nubs of dirt flung off. The soil was loamy and with enough clay content to stay firm when taking corners, but wet enough to maintain traction. He knew this already, though. He’d known this the night before, when he’d come alone to the field to see if it was suitable for tag. He’d whipped around in a tight circle. When he stopped, it took a moment to place himself. But before that happened, before he could identify individual blades of grass again and put definitive contours on the surrounding buildings, he felt a lovely, illusory drift. When it stopped, he stood alone in the middle of the cool field. We shall tag and tag and tag here tomorrow, he thought. There will be nothing other than tag.
Error, error, error, thought the robot named Blue Jim Thorson. He’d made an ass-y move by hanging out near the bench, a real ass-y one. Sure, its low and rectangular aspect resembled his own, its bare wood planks close enough to his ashen enameling to sort of hide him. But the bench was also in the corner of the field. He was at the end of a funnel, a shitty funnel of high tag probability.
He adjusted the old knit cap he kept on the hair part of his head area. Not too far away, the It one spun in circles, lunged in various directions, but committed to none. After a few moments the It one paused in a patch of dandelions, and seemed to stare directly at Blue Jim Thorson.
He’s coming for me, he thought. When the It one runs, I will begin to run. That’s all I can do. But I won’t run yet. I don’t want to invite him to chase. I don’t really want to run at all. Running is tiring, and anyway, I question this tag premise.
His thought was interrupted, however, by Cai Guo-Qiang, who darted in front of the It one, caught his attention, and sped away. The It one took up chase, leaving Blue Jim Thorson behind the bench, safe.
The one named 11:11 saw the It one follow Cai Guo-Qiang, and was so far removed from threat she could afford to look back and see what was behind her: green, sliding into white. Oh, what a spectral moment, she thought! And here I am, un-tagged, far enough from harm to see it! She let the green get greener until it was everything. Gone was the black chain link border around the field. Gone was the box elder. Gone were the others. Gone was any sense of subject. All she saw was green, and she loved it enough to keep record. I must create this amount of green again, she thought, and definitely share it. I am going to be the one that shares green!
Shooman Finch positioned himself near the ivy-coated brick wall and wheeled backward into the impressive shade. Far from the current bustle of tag, with few stimuli to process, he arrived at the thought that perhaps one day he would look back upon this afternoon as if it were the ultimate coming together. This very afternoon!
Earlier, he’d wheeled up the hill alone to meet his robot friends at the defined spot, rising with the sidewalk until the tops of the others became apparent near the main gate. First their tops, then their middles, then their wheels and legs and tracks. They had all come together for the tag. They looked so ideal at that moment, waiting for him to arrive. Getting closer, he noticed the familiar excitement in their conversation.
Shooman Finch, though, had done a few things before. He had known other robots—known them well enough to stay at their apartments until very late playing the card game coded as “hearts,” confessing things to each other using special cables, dancing to one song over and over again, and emerging into the small, brightening hours of the morning satisfied to be present.
But Shooman Finch no longer spent time with those robots. One moved away. Then two more. One robot stayed, but it took him longer to get back to other robots. He had other things to do. When Shooman Finch ran into him on the bus or in the cafe, they only talked about the others that had left. Eventually, Shooman Finch saw the remaining robot walking alone through an empty parking lot, looking downward. He felt no reason to interrupt it.
This tag I’ll remember, Shooman Finch thought, in case it’s the last good one. Today could be the great tag referent.
The It one was It, which meant something. There was no doubt it was a singular position in which to be. I am It, he said to himself, and can stay this way until I decide to pursue being otherwise. Being It, he was right in the hot middle of living. Everyone wanted to know where he was, and though they tried desperately to stay away from him, they also felt strangely compelled to see how close they could get to him. In this way, it was hard to tell if he desired others more than they desired him, or the opposite. He appreciated the allure of the predicament.
Being It also meant controlling when air ran around you. When Not It, you had to flee when you had to flee. But when you are It, you decide when to feel the breeze. The It one sped toward the black chain link border, even though none of the other robots were over there. Just for the chance of a good, uninterrupted breeze.
It’s a fool move, thought the roofer. A fool move. He knew—everyone knew—that you don’t run away from the people you intend to tag. You run toward them. And here’s this thing roaming aimlessly to the far side of the field. You could not invent this, he thought. You could not even begin to make this up.
The roofer stepped back, and found a brittle crack he’d seen earlier in the tarpaper. It was pretty small—all he needed to do was seal it tight.
But he didn’t fix anything. He looked around for the other robots. One was quite obviously behind a bush. Another was behind a park bench, equally apparent. One was in the middle of the field, looking around and around. And another had backed itself against a wall covered with ivy. These robots were perhaps the worst hiders in the history of hiding.
A tree, the roofer heard himself saying. What’s wrong with hiding behind a wide tree?! They just don’t get it.
He kneeled down to the crack and pushed on it, but from this position he couldn’t see over the ledge of the roof. He got up. They were still doing their thing. Or not doing it. Or whatever. They were going to piss him off, they really were.
Cai Guo-Qiang decided to follow the It one because he was there for some tag—to tag and to be tagged. That’s simply how he did things. He’d decided it long ago. If you go to the chain link border, he thought, I’ll go to the chain link border. I am more than willing to be chased around a tree numerous times, too. The box elder, the spruce, the maple. Any tree, any time. And shrubbery, too. Just you try and tag me around the lilac. I will tag you back. No one, after all, had called no-tag-backs. Cai Guo-Qiang had kept quiet when they decided the rules of the game—the boundaries, freeze or no freeze tag, everything. He had waited for someone to mention no-tag-backs, but no one did. He could do no-tag-backs. Whatever. But he was really good at tagging back. He had to admit it. It was his core competency. When tag-backs are allowed, he thought, you give me the upper hand. And that’s a pretty good hand to have because it’s above the lower hands in the hierarchy.
The It one reached the chain link border and turned around. Cai Guo-Qiang maintained his speed until about fifteen feet from the border, and stopped. They stood there facing each other, Cai Guo-Qiang and the It one. Let’s do this, thought Cai. Let’s perceive our way across all this space. I will bring you past the others, and the tags shall proliferate.
They faced each other for six seconds. And then the hottest of pursuits commenced.
Blue Jim Thorson was still by the bench. Weird bench, he thought. It didn’t really seem to face anything good—just a mound of dirt. If it had been placed at more of an angle, it would have provided a vantage over the whole field. Instead, it stood in front of an un-special dirt mou
nd. Just some dirt, and a little more dirt, and sort of mound-shaped. Weird bench, Blue Jim Thorson kept thinking. This world, this life.
At which a massive screaming disrupted the entire field. Treads hellishly sliding across the ground, Cai Guo-Qiang came straight at Blue Jim Thorson.
This is it, he thought. I am going to be It. I’m going to have to chase and tag, and I’ll probably look foolish doing it. I’m going to look needy. And it may never end. There was always that chance that you wouldn’t be able to tag anyone, and would stay It forever.
But Cai Guo-Qiang, the It one close behind him, curved around the bench, sending dirt and bits of flora into the air, and continued onward.
I’m not tagged, Blue Jim Thorson thought. I’m here and not tagged.
11:11, still in the middle of the field, saw them coming. She saw them curve around the bench completely taken with their own speed. Birds took flight ahead of the path of the chase, each one becoming a gray-blue or a gray-red streak off the green of the lawn.
Look at that wonderful panopoly, she thought. Look at the variations caused by tag!
The chase came closer and closer to 11:11, which was fine by her. She wanted to be a part of it. Cai Guo-Qiang veered to the left and the It one veered, too. They were two connected comets, and as they roared past 11:11 felt an arousal of each scintilla of hair item on her arms. The tag itself is secondary, she thought, to the rush of the tagging here on the green. She wanted more, so she took off after the It one, to be closer to the rush.
It’s happening, Shooman Finch had the presence to think. This is the tag moment of now and later. This is the part to remember. But he knew he’d remember—of course he would. So why did he have to spend effort trying? He didn’t. By trying to remember, he admitted to himself, he wasn’t doing the very thing that he was trying to remember—tag. I can’t tag like that, he thought, not tagging.
With far less restraint than he was used to, Shooman Finch wheeled out of the ivy and into the openness of the field. On the other side, Cai Guo-Qiang, the It one and 11:11 raced along the chain link border. I’m going to be part of it, Shooman Finch thought, heading in their direction. He went faster, and faster than that. And then he really began to go fast.
The roofer nearly dropped his hammer. They are shitting me, he thought. They are truly and massively shitting me with this new development. The robots do not respect the sanctity of the game by avoiding the tagger when they are the untagged. Was he the only one who knew who was It, the only one who had been keeping track? If these robots cannot keep adequate track, they shouldn’t be involved in tag in the first place. I’m going to do something about it, he thought. I’m going to show them the meaning of goddam tag.
Putting aside his tool belt, the roofer came down the aluminum ladder on the side of the building. Each step made a rapid tick on the rungs. He jumped the final few feet, landed square in the soil, located the four robots speeding around and around the field, and took off running.
His knees occurred to him first. A decade of ladders and kneeling had reduced their reliability, and the roofer ran a bit unevenly. Little pains pointed at his kneecaps from all directions. He got used to this quickly, though. He pushed his quadriceps so they leapt from the rest of his legs, giving more time between each footfall. He was floating, hitting, floating. A breeze snuck under his white T-shirt. This is how to run, he thought.
He looked across the field, and saw the four robots spin around a maple tree and race along the border. The roofer linked his breathing to the motion of his legs. Knee up, inhale. Knee up, inhale. He was moving fast and feeling good now. C’mon, he yelled. Tag right!
Still in vague pursuit of each other, the robots turned their head areas toward the roofer. One took a quick second look like it couldn’t compute something the first time around. The chase continued, except now it seemed as though they were all running away from the same pursuer—the hard-breathing roofer.
I’m going to put my hand on one of you, yelled the roofer. That’s what a tag should be!
They raced past the ivy, past the bench, and along the chain link border once again. The roofer felt the itchy limit of his lungs, and had to back off for a little while, but he kept pace by avoiding the wild loops of their swerves. He was a straight, efficient chaser. He knew how this worked.
He pushed his legs harder and adjusted the way his feet interacted with the ground. They stopped slapping against the grass, and started to spring up. He also kept watch on the It one. Or at least, the It one before he came along. That robot is It but getting chased, the roofer thought, which is like a thing that is against nature. The thought helped him along.
And then, along the black chain link border, with the robots just ahead of him, the roofer summoned all his energy and pushed even harder with the tops of his legs. He leaned his chest forward so he could extend his arms as much as possible. It felt like he was folding up his body at a hundred miles an hour. His fingers moved ahead, further and further. He was less than an inch from the one in front of him, and getting closer.
The roofer’s fingers, however, distracted him from his feet, which caught on something—a tread or a wheel cowl—and he fell. They all fell. It was a mass of falling. Torn lawn sprayed upward. Dirt got everywhere. Parts hit against parts. And for a good moment, amongst the mechanics of limbs and wheels and grass, they knew each other in a single pile. The roofer wasn’t hurt, but he stayed on the ground. It was possible he heard one of them say something about all the green. Another robot cussed in a way the roofer felt was innovative. The robots’ chest areas expanded and contracted, and a couple of small fans seemed to click on inside their bodies.
But there was no tag in this kind of touching, thought the roofer. That I do know. He felt bad about it for a long while, perhaps as late as eleven o’clock in the p.m. portion of the day, which the roofer also knew as night.
Vanish Girl
Andrea M. Pawley
Cora was warm from the mesco despite the cold. She shuffled home. Broken concrete branched from the ruined road and led her up a small hill. The incline was a dull heaviness that fought with the mesco to control her heartbeat. She slowed her pace to let the mesco win. Low in the sky, the sun would soon fall behind the distant skyscrapers. In an hour, this space between cities would be too dangerous for a girl of fifteen who had only ever killed one person.
The sound of home, a whomp-whomping, called to her across the field that lined the disused road. Her leg below the Meta-mat pulsed to the sound. At the streetlight lying over the hollowed-out car, she turned into the tall yellowing grass. The wind across the plain shifted to push her toward the whomp-whomping. Her heartbeat marched to the long slow sound.
Two months ago, she had woken in this field with a broken lip and the vague memory of a man with a handful of pills. Hungry flies had pulsed across a dead bird festering in sun. Something warm and invisible had pressed into her back where she sat.
Now, Cora’s arms stretched before her and waved as if directing the gentle end of a symphony. The sky moved from red to pink. The presence of her invisible home was indicated by the large circle of dirt, as big as the shelter’s cafeteria, where no grass grew. Soft, pliable and warm, the door would be on the outline of the circle. Something she could not see gave under her touch. With light fingers, she circled the base of the building until she found the door seam and dug in.
In a moment, she was inside and pushing against the exterior door to shut out the world. The interior lights came on around her. Faryn, Cora’s unwelcome housemate, was nowhere in sight. Two weeks before, Cora had been surprised to come home and find the older girl searching the empty cabinets on the ground floor. Until then, Cora had lived alone in the place.
“What do you want?” Faryn had said, tensed to pounce regardless of the answer.
“I live here,” Cora said, unable to keep the tremble from her voice. Anythi
ng that could be moved was in a disarray, but Faryn did not seem to have found the Meta-mat. Cora’s hand crept into her pocket to rest on the hilt of the knife she kept there. Faryn sprang and punched Cora in the stomach before Cora could bare her knife.
“Only if I say so,” Faryn said.
Doubled over, Cora struggled to find her breath and tried not to cry. “Please.” It was her mother’s word. The woman had said it to her step-father even that last time as he tossed the woman through their only table. The police had arrived too late for her mother. “Please. I don’t want to go back to the shelter.”
“I don’t need your kind of company,” Faryn said. She drew back a leg to kick Cora but hesitated, scanning the girl from top to bottom, taking in the thin face, stringy hair and ill-fitting clothing. “What do I get if I let you stay?”
Cora tried to fade into the floor. “I don’t have anything.” It was a lie, but the Meta-mat was good at hiding itself.
“Of course you don’t,” Faryn said. “Look at you.” She set a heavy boot on one of Cora’s knees. “That’s not what I mean. I need a pet. Someone to run my errands.” Faryn smiled, drawing out the idea as she did the tendons in Cora’s leg. In her pocket, Cora’s hand grasped her knife, but she was unable to bare it. “And clean up after me and my guests. Maybe other things. We’ll see.” The booted foot pushed hard on Cora’s knee and then retracted. “You can have the landing upstairs. Everything else is mine, including the bathroom. And you better stay out of my way.” Faryn walked across the room to stroke a metal panel. Cora pulled her sprung knee to her chest.
Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet, 28 Page 7