Yarn

by Jon Armstrong

  "Kira Shibui," I whispered, happy to have remembered her name.

  She didn't exactly smile, but something deep in her eyes seemed to warm. Turning, I headed out of the fashion motor boutique. My hands were vibrating, my heart was racing, and I felt like I wasn't getting enough air. In the hallway, I stood for a moment and caught my breath. I didn't know what was happening, but my root had stiffened for the first time.

  DESIGN STUDIO

  "Pheff!" I shouted. "Yes?" came his reply from the storeroom.

  I was in the design room, downing the last of my coffee as I laid out my things on one of the worktables. "You rescheduled Mr. Nezzo?"

  Pheff returned with a box. "Yes, Tailor."

  "What about the Pings?"

  "They're coming next week." He set down the box.

  "Did the button extruder get fixed?"

  "The guy's supposed to come after two."

  I thought it was supposed to have happened the day before. "Okay, but wasn't the Transmission Mills salesman supposed to be here already?"

  "I jotted him. Told him tomorrow."

  "Tomorrow's no good."

  "I'll jot him again."

  "Did you charge my travel water-shears? The ones with the etched golden tank?" On the table was a screen sketch, various travel kits, some clothes, needles, sewers, and several hand tools. "Oh," I said remembering, "make sure to order more D45 for the WeavePlus."

  "I will."

  I knew what I was doing: I was delaying. I was making excuses. There was a part of me that didn't want to go, didn't want to leave my supplies, my projects, and my space. I had found equilibrium; I had found happiness. And I worried that traveling through my past would disturb the toxic dust I would find there. There were things I had laid to rest that should probably stay that way.

  I picked up the basketweave and sniffed it again. When Vada had appeared before the doors, it had been surprising and overwhelming. A part of me wished I hadn't agreed to make her a Xi jacket so quickly. Besides the fact that it was likely impossible, I owed her nothing. Years ago, I had become the tailor I was today and yet, here I was packing up for a trip for a woman I hadn't seen in a lifetime. And I knew I didn't still love her; I didn't still harbor those same feelings of worship and infatuation. At least that was what I wanted to believe.

  There was the detective that I'd told her about, but I had also hired a researcher and bribed two officials from an identity firm. The officials placed her in Bang as a girl. They said she was operated on at some saleswarrior clinic, but disappeared into the slubs of Europa11 before city satins could apprehend her. They figured she was long dead. The identity firm said she was wanted for the murder of a half-dozen CEOs. The detective implicated her in some stolen DNA plot five years ago, but then the trail died.

  I took another bite of my eel scone. I had known Vada in Seattlehama. I had watched from afar for almost a year before we met, and it was during that time that I lusted after her as one might a goddess. Later, when I lived with her-and maybe fell in love-I also came to understand (or maybe that understanding was much later) that she could never really love me back. Then again, my attraction to her had always been powered by her unattainable, mythic, and forbidden nature. It had been Zeno's paradox of the heart, I'm sure.

  Could some remnant of that desire still be alive inside of me? Or did I feel guilty for having left her? Or did I just now feel sorry for her, for whatever ragged shell she had become of the terrorist and entertainer I had known?

  "These?" Pheff returned from the storeroom.

  "Yes." For an instant I almost told Pheff to put the shears away

  and considered the idea of not helping her, of not trying to find the impossible and illegal Xi and of doing nothing. I didn't need some foolish and dangerous journey. I didn't need any more associations with the outlaws of the world.

  The problem was, as I started to form some sentence like, I'm sorry, Pheff… I'm not going after all, let's put this all away… or a simple and mysterious Never mind, I hesitated. Why not spend a day searching for Xi? If I found some, I would make her a death coat; if not, it would only be twenty-four hours of my life. "Get the carbonate case for those shears," I told my assistant.

  "I brought the leather one."

  "Carbonate," I insisted. The shears could, with the gritty cycling supply of water, easily cut through a thousand yarns of fabric or steel plate. While the leather one was fine around the office, I was going to have them in my jacket and didn't want to accidentally cut off an arm. As he headed to the storeroom, I called after him. "Bring a Mini-Air-Juki and a selection of yarn pulls!"

  Pheff stopped, turned, and looked at me quizzically. "Yarn pulls? What do you need those for?"

  "They often come in handy. And I might as well take a titanium crochet hook, a pair of snips, and a few needles."

  He returned with the carbonate case, a silvery hook, a tiny pair of scissors, a card of sewing needles, and a dozen yarn pulls in a jar. Tapping my mouth with my right index, I considered what I had so far and what else I might need. "You know what?" I asked, as I imagined myself in some polluted and reeking corner of the slubs. "Add a swatch of 4M biofilter strata inside the right sleeve of my jacket."

  Pheff raised an eyebrow. "Where exactly are you going?"

  Ignoring his question, I asked, "Do any of our fabric suppliers have a connection to the blackmarket?"

  Pheff laughed. "I hope not!" He watched me sort through the things on the table. "Really, Tailor, where are you going?"

  "It's an excursion," I told him again. "Do me another favor. My first job in Seattlehama was with a man named Withor. He was a yarn jobber who got into thread thievery and some other nefarious things. There was a jobber named Pilla who ran a boutique. See if you can find either one of them."

  Pheff took a screen from his pocket. He asked me for a spelling and a company name. "No," he said as he thumbed the thing. "No listings in Seattlehama for either. None here in Ros Begas."

  "Try any of the cities."

  After a beat he shook his head. "Neg. There's something about Withor getting into trouble for importing illegal yarn, but it's from a couple of years back. I don't see anything about the woman."

  "What about a listing for the slubs?"

  Pheff glared at me. He was right: listings there were as porous as cutwork lace. I wasn't surprised I couldn't locate either of them. I assumed he-and maybe hoped he-was dead. As for her, I felt guilty for having left the way I did, but never had any desire to see her.

  I picked up the Mini-Air-Juki, a handheld sewing machine about the size of a thick MasterCut card. Picking up a swatch of muslin, I gave it a quick test. The Mini-Air-Juki's stitch looked tight from the top, but when I turned it over, I saw that it had left large clumps of the sewing thread below. It badly needed adjustment, but before I did that, I opened the container of yarn pulls.

  I hadn't used them in decades. They were small flesh-colored metal things the shape of fingernail clippings with a tiny cutter and jaw in the center. With a little glue, they fit under the nail and turned a finger into a yarn collection tool.

  I found several sharp ones and added them to my gear.

  "I thought I'd visit our fabric suppliers," I told Pheff. "It's been too long."

  Pheff stared as if he didn't believe.

  "Have we ever bought from Ryder?"

  "No!"

  I had met Ryder at a fashion convention years ago. I hadn't liked him, and had gotten a slimy feeling from him. "Where is he?"

  "He's a ham fighter," said Pheff.

  I didn't know his slang. "Wasn't he the one who had that undersea-themed booth?"

  "Yeah and it stunk like seaweed!"

  Ryder, I thought. That's where I would start. "Oh, and speaking of odor, I need the glue for the pulls."

  After fishing it from a pocket, he set the applicator bottle in my palm.

  I applied a drop of the clear vinegar-smelling stuff to the pull, pushed the little device under the nail of my left
middle finger, held it for several seconds, and did the other.

  "You coming back in the afternoon?"

  "I doubt it."

  "Wait!" he blurted, panicked. "I'm not going alone to the delivery!"

  "You will probably have to."

  "Cut it off!" he cursed, throwing a forearm over his face in denial. Then flinging his arm out of the way, he continued. "Tailor! You know I'm not good at that stuff! He doesn't want me. He wants you. I can't show up with his suit."

  "I'm sure you'll be excellent," I said and then pointed to the mannequin where he had hung my jacket, a single-breasted, five-and-a-half-button front with full climate, a blade-stop liner, and the latest communiqué. "The biolayer in the sleeve," I reminded him.

  "Please, Tailor," he pleaded, as he quickly stitched the material inside my sleeve. Once done, he took the jacket from the mannequin, brought it to me. "Please try and be back in time for the fitting. I don't want to go by myself. The needle is, that guy creeps me out."

  "Never disparage a client! They pay the bills."

  "Sorry, Tailor. It's just that he's so… you know!"

  He helped me into the jacket, and as he adjusted the collar around my neck, I said, "It will be an educational experience for you."

  I heard him grumble to himself as he dusted the collar and shoulders, but he didn't look at me. Focusing my eyes straight ahead, I concentrated on the weight and temperature of the jacket. When he had finished dusting and had fiddled with the collar, he stepped back, still with his head down.

  "Don't judge from the terrain of your life until you have tread upon the rocks and weeds of another's."

  "I'm not judging anyone," he muttered. "I'm just saying I'm not you."

  I put the travel shears in the inside breast pocket, the Mini-Juki in the other, and adjusted my tie. "The people that fill the clothes, the people that animate the sleeves of our shirts and pant legs of our slacks… they are the ones who bring it to life."

  He stared at me, his eyebrows sinking over his eyes. "What?"

  "I'm giving you advice." Maybe I was really speaking to myself when I added, "Cherish wrinkles, stains, and small tears. They mean the cloth has lived."

  As I walked out into the spiral that led to the building entrance, one of the workmen repairing the floor addressed me.

  "No worry, Mr. Cedar." He wiped his wet mouth with the back of his greasy hand. "Besides that it's real tight, there's an open power junction below this board. Any rat trying to get in or out would be roasted."

  With a nod, I turned and strode around the spiral. From there I took the stairs down to the parking garage. The attendants saw me coming at a jog and rushed out to remove the cones from around my gleaming charcoal Chang-P.

  It wasn't until I was in the driver's seat, with several motors idling coolly, the numbers on the instrument panel glowing a soft peach, the hush of Love Emitting Diode's Eternal Skyline playing on the sound system, that I stopped for a moment. My lips and jaw began to shiver, I struggled to take in air… and I began to cry.

  Garage attendants stood waiting for me to exit. I punched the passenger seat and tried to get control of myself. I thought I was crying for Vada, for whatever gaunt, broken shape she had become such that she wanted to die amid the drugged vision dream of a Xi coat. Maybe I was crying for a lot of reasons.

  SEATTLEHAMA: THE THREAD THIEVERY BANG

  During the year that I stole yarn I probably collected enough to make a large, fluffy, and very ugly afghan. I didn't just do celebs, but suicidal salarymen, gastrolace-wearing saleswarriors, C average virgins, blind CFOs, accountants with a missing finger, plump housewives with overbites, and whatever new and quirky category one could image as my customer base began to shift from individual fanatics desperate for a piece of their favorite celeb to costume and fashion designers eager to add meaning, exclusivity, and trend to their lines.

  As for me, the yarn collector, bodice ripper, strand snatcher, thread thief, lint lifter, filament filcher, I improved my tools, my technique, my income, and my status. I took the best entervators to the higher floors; I ate at select restaurants where I was the only former slubber, sampling pickled bald eagle eggs and watching scantily clad dancers curse each other, I shopped for clothes in the glittering Full-Fashion Hallway, along the Violet Building's Consumer Revolution Promenade, and in Zé Brag Atrium, where saleswarriors spun bizarre, gruesome, and erotic stories of style and design to lure in the trippers, the holidays, and the world's consumers.

  And yet for all my newfound confidence, I made no friends. Seattlehama wasn't the city for lasting relationships. Most of the people there were tourists or shoppers on binges for clothes or sex or both. The people who lived in the city and plied the sales and service arts draped together. As for yarn rippers, for a while there was only me.

  Several months after the Tinyko rip, there were so many new orders that Withor hired two men to help. One was named Flak, and the other, Vit. I assumed that the three of us would become friends, but soon learned that I had nothing in common with them. Flak powdered his face and wore filmy white suits that made him look like a ghost. His black hair was teased and starched into a tall point. When I asked if it was supposed to be a volcano, he glared at me with disgust. As for Vit, he carried a large electric pump harp he never played and spent most of his time grooming himself and his endless collection of de Nimes pants.

  It was my job to teach them how to swipe yarn, but during my demonstrations all they would do was scoff and giggle.

  "A former corn prisoner cannot teach us anything," is what Vit finally said. So I left them to figure it out on their own. Sometimes I saw the marks of their efforts: ratty nibbles marring expensive jackets and skirts.

  After almost a year of thread thievery, it no longer satisfied me. "I want to make things," I told Withor. "I can't keep handing over the yarn."

  "Make things?" he laughed at me. "You can't mean design?"

  "Yes, I want to design!"

  "A corn slubber designing fashion!" He tilted his head to the side and smirked. "How charming! You do have a sense of humor!" His smile slowly flattened into a grim line as his right hand crawled-tarantula-like-down the pins that tacked down his tie. "Listen to me: as a former slubber, you are forbidden from quitting, you should be forbidden from even thinking such ridiculous cut." He puckered his lips for a moment, thoughtfully. "But I tell you what: I'll make you a deal. I will release you from your job to pursue whatever ridiculous fantasies you have, but only after one last rip."

  It was all I wanted and was about to agree, when he held up a hand and looked up at the ceiling.

  "Hello there! Yes, I've been anxious to hear from you. Yes, I know the risks!" He leaned far back in his chair. "Listen to me… there is too much that must be protected! I know!… Yes, she knows how to do it.… Well, believe me, I detest her, but she is talented! Listen to me: I just had a luminous idea. It's a perfect back-up plan!… It will all be taken care of. Trust Withor! Goodbye!"

  He stayed far back in his chair and muttered, "One final rip! Withor, you have done it again!" He sat up, and with quick strokes, began drawing on the screen on his desk. "Let me show you the objective."

  "I can stay in the city?" I asked. "I don't want to go back to the slubs."

  Withor looked up at me. Strangely, his sour expression soon turned warm, and with a broad smile, he said, "Of course! It's quite possible you may never leave!"

  CHARCOAL CHANG-P

  The twenty-three lanes of northbound traffic on i6002 was clogged as usual. Far to my left the elevated, neon pink Snuggly Train passed swiftly above, blaring the trademark Snuggly-tune from the speaker towers mounted on each car. I turned down the outside audio.

  With my left thumb, I caressed the slight dimples of the forward horn buttons. Directly ahead was one of those odd, low-slung, seven-wheel Haier-Sapporos painted in an awful purple-and-beige check, warning lights flashing. Perched atop the wide back bumper was one of those bumper buddies, as they were called-in thi
s case a beetle-green automaton goose. The bird paced back and forth, flying up and landing back on one leg, speaking, singing, and trying to get the attention of other motorists. Pointing at me with a wing, it hopped around, bobbing its head back and forth. It seemed to be chanting something. I twisted the outside audio knob to the right, only to hear it repeating, "Chang Pee Pee! Chang Pee Pee!" ad infinitum.

  With a roll of my eyes, I spun the knob back to near zero, and settled myself in the seat. It would take at least thirty minutes to reach the Loop. I turned my mind to the events of the morning, and the strange fabric Vada had been wearing.

  The L-flax fiber and the slight corn aroma meant it must have come from slub mills. While that wasn't necessarily indicative of anything-a lot of yarn and fabric was milled in the flatlands (although I never used it)-I had a hunch that Vada had something to do with its manufacture and use. Well, Vada or her people, or her clan, or her group, or her associates-I was never comfortable with the word Toue, nor had I ever come upon a definition that accurately portrays who they are. Again, I may have been too close.

  I knew the basketweave wasn't made to wear over one's head. I could think of a half-dozen cloaking materials that would have served that purpose -the light-bending bombazine by Dunlop & Misrahi Mills, the super reflective double-weave from Lux Lux, even that refracting gauze from one of the satellite mills. That was the problem with designers. They used the wrong fabric for the wrong reason. They would turn denim inside out; they would cut super-satin the wrong way, and mix incompatible fabrics like a child mixing gouache and house paint. But the real question was: Where did the basketweave come from, and did it signify anything? And what was that touch of smoke I had detected?

  Another cute Snuggly Train shot past us at high speed as if in mockery. When a space opened in the left lane, I swerved in and was finally rid of the checked Haier-Sapporo and its obnoxious robogoose, which had just finished pretending to urinate on my hood complete with (thankfully silent) ribald commentary.