Houston, 2030

by Mike McKay

  At home, the atmosphere was sadder still. Apparently, Samantha did not wait for Mark and attempted to talk to Mary about leaving the school. To make the things even worse, on the way from the 'Fill, Samantha decided to stop at a cheap street hairdresser and got her shoulder-length hear reduced to a half-inch boyish cut, as per the latest 'Fill fashion. Mary was outraged. Such a haircut was positively ‘not appropriate’ for their daughter. And even if it was, Samantha had to ask for permission first! The new ‘domestic Civil War’ battle was approaching fast. On the real (the United States) Civil War front, the situation was too bad as well. Today, Pamela was not prepared for her History test, got herself a huge ‘D’ with an exclamation mark and a nastygram from the teacher. She was now in the girl's room, hastily re-learning the key dates and the names of the generals on both sides. As if she could use this knowledge of the real Civil War anywhere in her life!

  Clarice, who had mastered the art of discharging any such situation, today was not in her usual optimistic mood. Davy complained of a tummy-ache, so William and Clarice had to cut their Loop walk short, collecting mere fifty-two dollars. Now Clarice was upstairs, sitting with her sick son. William and Patrick quickly invented an excuse and both went upstairs too – apparently, to finish off Patrick's school assignment, which was not due in two weeks. Usually, they needed more persuasion to be so proactive with the homework, Mark observed.

  With all the other ‘Confederates’ neutralized in the rooms upstairs, Samantha had no choice, but to hold the battle alone. In accordance to the best Civil War tactics, she was presently in the living room, digging her trenches and commencing a rapid deterrent fire. She was sitting in Mike's favorite chair and pretending to study Mike's synthetic gasoline processing notes. She even held the pencil in her teeth, exactly as Mike liked to do. Mary held the commanding ground in the kitchen, bayonets attached, preparing a heavy artillery bombardment, followed by a frontal assault. Upon his arrival, Mark immediately found himself under the ‘friendly fire’ from the kitchen fortifications: got himself reamed for the office clothes ruined at the 'Fill (and yesterday, I hoped I was lucky, he thought, choking on his cold dinner.)

  Apparently, Mark was the only person available today if not to avert the new ‘Civil War’ battle, but at least to reduce the collateral damage to the innocent civilians.

  “How was your day?” he asked Samantha, simultaneously pressing the power button on the little TV set. The TV came to life, showing the weather forecast. Apparently, a tropical storm in the Gulf had been promoted today to a full-blown Category-2 hurricane. They already had a name for it: Arthur. “A bit early for a hurricane season, what do you think, Samantha?”

  “Ah, now it is such a mess. Remember, three years ago? Mike just started working at the 'Fill, right? The first hurricane also came in April…”

  “I don't want to hear this: ‘Mike just started working at the 'Fill’ anymore!” Mary fired the first salvo from the kitchen, “Mike, for your information, was going from ‘C’ to ‘D.’ With an occasional ‘E’ as a bonus! I am sure his teachers threw a party after he decided to leave! You are a different story all together!”

  Samantha rolled her eyes, showing Mark that her Mom was totally unreasonable today.

  “Cut Samantha some slack, honey,” Mark replied, “we were talking about weather here. The hurricane Arthur has nothing to do with the 'Fill…”

  His daughter nodded in appreciation, turned ninety degrees on the seat and threw her legs over the arm rest, continuing in low voice: “By the way, the day was fine. In the morning, Mister Stolz and I went to the Beaumont Highway market to sell the gas. Mister Stolz keeps calling it: ‘Sammy's first batch.’ As if I made it all by myself! He even tells the shop owner: if any trouble with the batch, call my new chief technologist, Sammy! Then, we were fixing a leaking valve in the number four. Mister Stolz wanted to sell it for scrap metal and go look for a new one, but I said: why don't we drill a bigger hole and cut a new thread? Mister Stolz had a second look and said: OK, Sammy, give it a try. We can junk it any time. It was real hard to drill, but Denny gave me a hand.”

  “And?”

  “Fine. All fixed, does not leak anymore. Mister Stolz was pleased. I am afraid, now he will start calling the number four ‘Sammy's reactor,’ or something like this… Then, we drained number two and loaded number four. And after lunch Mister Stolz sent me to a welder shop in the Mesa slum to pick up some parts he ordered last week.”

  “To the Mike Hobson's Mechanics and Welding?”

  “No, not that. The Chapman and Sons, at the south side. Mister Stolz explained, they tested both. Mike Hobson is better at the mechanical welds, if you need high tensile strength, and all. But for the pressure-tight parts you should go only to the Chapmans. They even have a Tuboscope.”

  Wow. ‘High tensile strength,’ ‘pressure-tight,’ a ‘Tuboscope.’ She was always so good in technology. The influence of two older brothers, one would guess, Mark thought. Samantha had never played dolls, and her favorite toy was Thomas The Tank Engine kit. And the Lego blocks passed down to her by William and Michael…

  “One of the ‘sons’…” Samantha continued.

  “Sons?”

  “As in the Chapman and Sons, Dad. He is about my age. Calls himself Zap, but I am sure, this is not his real name. Zap – is like the arc welding, right? He gave me this.” From under her T-shirt, she extracted a pendant necklace of sorts and handled it to Mark. On a length of what looked like a thin Nylon shoestring (Mark hated those: they always came untied at the wrong moment,) there was a tiny ball bearing, with few little bolts and nuts welded to the sides, blackened, and partially polished, forming a kind of post-apocalyptic mechanical flower. “Cute, is it?”

  “Very cute,” Mark agreed, returning the necklace.

  “He said, he makes those himself. If they are not busy welding something else. While I was waiting for Mister Chapman, Zap was telling me all kinds of jokes. Oh, he is so funny! Unfortunately, the parts were ready, I had to go.”

  “Unfortunately.” Mark was sure, this would not be the last time his daughter met with the artistically-inclined boy welder. If anything, Frederick will require more pressure-tight welds one day. That explains Samantha's today hair style, Mark suddenly got it. You simply cannot wear this cute mechanical flower together with the plain-vanilla school haircut. “But please, be careful. I mean: with the boys at the 'Fill…”

  “Ah, Dad. The boys at the school are the same. No difference.”

  “But at the school they don't give the girls the mechanical flower necklaces either.” No big worries yet, Mark decided. His daughter was still telling him about the boys. At some point in not-so-distant future, she would start denying any boy involvement, and would start disappearing in the woods till the mid-night every other evening. When, there would be the time to worry.

  “That's why I like the 'Fill so much more,” Samantha said. “At the 'Fill, everything is for real. And in the school – just a make-believe. Anyhow. Whatever Mom says, I am not going back to school! The plant – I like it so much better. Mister Stolz – he knows everything! You ask him something, – he picks up a pencil, bang, bang, bang! And he explains it. Easy! And in the school, you ask the teacher a real question, and the teacher repeats the same explanation. Over and over. Just by different words. I always felt our teachers have no clue what they are teaching about…”

  Mark nodded. That was not too far from the truth. With the incomes even lower than a delivery boy pay, the core of the school teacher corps was composed of profound dead-woods. Save for few teaching enthusiasts here and there, but the latter were a rare exception.

  “Dad, I am really fed up with the school,” Samantha continued. “Want to know how Pam blahed her History teacher today?”

  “How, exactly?”

  Samantha pressed her index finger to her lips, turned to check if Mary was not listening at the kitchen door and continued in whisper: “She said: your History-Schmistory, sir, is not even good f
or making moth-balls!” Mark noted that the very tip of Samantha's finger was permanently black now. Well, now her fingertips would be black from all this metal work, the same as Mike's and Arnold's, he thought.

  “She is wrong!” Mark was not too sure Pamela was wrong in her assessment of Mr. Connely teaching, but had to maintain some resemblance of the parental authority. “Knowing a bit of History is not a bad thing at all.” Samantha smiled and wiggled her bare feet in the air. Very well she knew what her Dad thought about the school teachers in general and about Mr. Connely in particular.

  “OK. So you like the job, do you? How about the others at the plant? Are you getting along?” Mark asked to change the subject.

  “Perfectly. Denny – he is our foreman…”

  “That young man on the scaffolding? The only one who worked in 'flops yesterday?”

  “That's him, yeah. He's very hard-working and very serious. A bit like Billy was… before the Army. Sorry, I didn't mean… Anyway. Denny looks after me, and helps in everything. And the other workers, they're all fine. Jack and Paul – these two are exactly like Mike. Funny. Practical jokes, and all. Lindy and Caroline. Lindy is Jack's older sister. She is also quite fun to work with. Denny is in-love with her, up to his eye-brows, but he tries hard not to show it… But everybody knows anyway… Mister Kingsley, a stoker. He looks after the boiler and buys fuel. Cherry Kingsley – his daughter. She is also with the boiler. Missis Prochnow. You have not seen her yesterday. She only brings lunch and brews coffee. Also, we have Mister Spalding. You also have not seen him yet. He is a night guard. He likes me too, but he is a bit weirdo.”

  “Weirdo?”

  “Well, when Mister Stolz introduced us, Mister Spalding was so rude. Something like: and why, the hell, do we need her in here? But then, he somehow learned my surname. Comes to me and asks: are you Michael's sister? I said: yes. And after that, he was the politeness itself. How are you doing, Samantha? Do you need anything, Samantha? Never calls me ‘Sammy,’ as the others, only ‘Samantha.’ Well, he leaves in the morning and comes in the evening, so I am quite safe from him through the day.”

  “But apart from this… weirdo Spalding – you are OK with everybody?”

  “Yeah, Dad. Everything is awesome! Mister Spalding – he is also fine. No probs whatsoever! I wanna stay at Mister Stolz place. And I don't care what Mom says… Dad! Can you convince Mommy, please, please, please?”

  “Very well. You want your dear Daddy to abandon the ‘Union’ and join the ‘Confederates’?”

  “As if you don't want to join us already, Dad…”

  How did she guess I wanted to defect the North, Mark thought. Well, it did look like he did not need to make a decision here. His daughter had decided everything. Time to come into the clear and join the forces. Mark brought his index finger to his lips and looked at the kitchen door.

  “And you are still saying, studying the History is not needed? That's the Civil War for you! Never know who is your friend, and who is your foe. Anyway, now I am firmly on the ‘Confederates’ side. But Mom does not need to know yet, doesn't she?”

  Samantha nodded.

  “OK. The first question: is that ‘nice lady’ shop, next to your school, with the anklets and all the other things – still operating?”

  “Yeah. They grew quite a bit bigger.”

  “Excellent! Now promise me something, Samantha.”

  “OK.”

  “The real promise, not like yesterday.”

  “What – yesterday?”

  “Yesterday, in the morning, you promised Mom to have your rubber boots on while at the plant…”

  “Oh-oh. Here come the boots again…”

  “No, I am not about the morning. The damn mud was so-o-o soft. Or was it: squeaky-clean? Never mind. Then, in the afternoon, you promised me you would put the boots on – if you go outside the Mister Stolz plant, right?”

  “Yeah?”

  “And today, only honestly. Did you?”

  “Ah! Well, to the market I went no-shoe. But we agreed with Mom: to the market no need to tuck sandals anymore, right?”

  “Firstly, Samantha, please speak English. There is no such expression: ‘no-shoe.’ And it's not ‘tuck sandals,’ but ‘put the sandals on,’ or ‘get them on,’ or ‘have them on,’ whichever you prefer.”

  “It is English, Dad! Go no-shoe, or tuck sandals. Everybody talks like this.” That was another Samantha's evasion maneuver. Just convert everything into the modern-English usage philological dispute.

  “When everybody talks like this, they probably mean it. Quite unfortunately, for the slum kids of about your age, ‘having sandals’ does not necessary mean having them on. They keep their shoes locked in a closet, as a real treasure. But as far as the agreement between you and Mom goes, the sandals must be on your feet, and not sticking out from under your belt, as some fashion accessory, right?”

  “What's wrong with having the sandals tucked under the belt, Dad? Mommy wants all the neighbors to see that I have sandals, so I have sandals. And everybody can see them. All appropriate.”

  “OK, just stop it. By now, I've studied all your evasion tactics. Secondly, for this particular agreement with Mom, if I remember correctly, going without sandals is OK for our local marketplace here, but not for the big market at the Beaumont.”

  “But Dad! The Beaumont market is…”

  “Fine, technically you are right. The Beaumont market is also a market. You may go barefoot if you so like it. No objections. But now please tell me: did you have your boots on at the welder's shop?” Mark suspected he knew the answer.

  “But Dad…”

  “Never mind. I am not about the boots or sandals anymore. I gave you an example, so you understand what I mean. Promise, like a real promise. Not like with the boots yesterday.”

  “Promise. Like a real promise, Dad.”

  “Tomorrow. No sudden moves! And don't even think to do something barbaric.”

  “Barbaric? Like what?”

  “Like your today's haircut, or putting a ring in your nose, or inserting tea-plates in your ears, like those African women, or something along these lines. This is for your own good. Don't make our Mom pissed off over nothing, understand? I know, the girls at the 'Fill are very inventive, in terms of the latest fashion. Just hold on for another month or so before following one of these fashion trends. Deal?”

  “Deal, Dad.”

  “Tomorrow morning, at the water run, explain Pamela and Patrick they'd better behave at school. Above and beyond the call of duty! A couple of ‘A’ marks would be good too, but I don't insist. Most importantly: don't ‘blah’ any other teachers. Deal?”

  “Consider it done, Commander.”

  “The most important thing tomorrow. Don't start the battle by yourself, understand? Sit quiet, do your evasion maneuvers, say ‘yes, Mommy,’ pretend you are helping Patrick with his homework, whatever. Wait for me to give you the artillery support.”

  “OK, I will wait for you, Dad. No shit. O-o-ops! I mean: it's a deal!”

  Interesting where she learned these wonderful expressions, Mark thought. ‘No shit…’ Likely, not during her three days at the 'Fill, but in her school. Although, before the 'Fill, she managed to hide her deep linguistic knowledge quite well.

  Thus, the battle of ‘Oh Mom, I Want To Work At The 'Fill’ had been delayed by another day. Samantha obviously passed the instructions to Pamela and Patrick, and the following morning the peace had been maintained through the breakfast and the water run. To Mary's utter surprise, Samantha kissed her in the cheek and apologized for the yesterday haircut. Then, the unthinkable happened. Without any power struggles, for her ride to the 'Fill Samantha put the rubber boots under the trike seat and her ‘unfashionable’ school sandals – on her feet. Mary suspected this could be for the show, but smiled nevertheless. Mark even did not need to suspect: the mud was again so-o-o soft today. He smiled later, when he observed Samantha briefly stopping at the main road corner to take her
sandals off and hang them alongside her rubber boots. He hoped the stubborn girl would be clever enough to stop and put her sandals back on prior to the home arrival, so the full illusion of the ‘appropriate’ would be maintained.