People Park

by Pasha Malla

  II

  ROM THE TOP of the Podesta Tower the Mayor surveyed the city — around and around the viewing deck had spun her, all night. She’d eventually killed the lights and spent the past six hours sleepless atop the dessert cart, perched there plantlike, the kindling of her legs piled on the cart’s lower deck, watching the island reveal itself beneath a steadily paling sky. When at last the sun rose it lit everything purple, then pink, then gold. In the blooming daylight a spattering of traffic grew into steady cords up and down the city’s main thoroughfares, the trains crawled out of the Whitehall Barns and began to whip around the city, and as the deck rotated east and the park came into view, coppery in the morning light, the Mayor, touch green, allowed her spirits to warm a bit.

  The view swung south, to the Islet off the island’s southeastern corner, the first ferry chugging across Perint’s Cove to Bay Junction, then the Mayor was looking west along Budai Beach to Kidd’s Harbour and the mansions of the Mews lording over LOT, north to Mount Mustela and Upper Olde Towne, to Blackacres, to Whitehall again in the northwest, an industrial ghost town, its unused Piers, where no ships had docked in a decade.

  Even from this distance she could sense the neglect, all those weeds sprouting through cracked cement, a riot of green wavering shoots. In a city, the Mayor believed, nature needed to be tamed, or it choked you. And this corner that escaped human control was irksome, the view seemed to linger, she waited impatiently to see something else. The tower obeyed, rotating for sightlines over the Narrows. With the city at capacity, the NFLM had closed the bridge to traffic. Until Monday, no one was allowed in or out.

  And here again was the relief of People Park, its ordered borders of forest, the southside grid of poplars matching the orchard to the east, the ellipse of Crocker Pond (rowers lit out from the boathouse and skimmed across its surface) a watery yolk amid the greater ellipse of the common, the discipline of the gardens — or, best, the rigour of hedgerows: the nonsense of bushes carved into walls, made geometrical and sane. And on the park’s southern edge was Friendly Farm Automatic Zoo, a perfect square, and Lakeview Campground, the beach, the surf upon the beach, the lake.

  But something dark and resentful slithered alongside her pride. Twenty-five Easters before, a collective exuberance had consumed the city, they’d come out by the thousands to be part of a new beginning. The Silver Jubilee was already less a celebration of People Park — or even the citizens, the people — than a forum for the whims of the dastard illustrationist. It felt symptomatic of a larger problem: her citizens were complacent, too comfortable, bored, and like dumb moths charmed by every flickering light.

  SINCE STARTING ON nightshifts Olpert Bailie’s sleep schedule required a seven a.m. bedtime and rising in the early afternoon. Friday morning, at the hour he’d normally be tucking himself in, his walkie-talkie buzzed. The voice integrated into his dreams: here was Starx, chasing him through the clouds, Olpert breaststroking along with the city miles below . . .

  Bailie! Get the fug up! B-Squad’s gotta put in work!

  Olpert rolled over, hit TALK: Hi, yes, I’m awake, okay.

  I’m just leaving the Temple. Meet me in forty-five at Bay Junction.

  Okay.

  In the bathroom Olpert supported himself on the sink, head sludgy from the night before, throat raw, inspecting his face in the mirror: red-rimmed eyes, hair a brambled disaster. But looking past his reflection he felt his stomach drop. He was sure before bed he’d scrubbed and hung his NFLM uniform in the shower to dry — yet it was gone.

  The bathroom hamper held only mildewed towels. Back in his room there was no sign of it either. What punitive humiliation might How We Do decree for misplaced khakis? Dropping four wriggling worms into Jessica’s terrarium, Olpert only hoped it would be quiet and private, something behind closed doors, nothing televised or broadcast or even, with any luck, seen.

  His radio buzzed: Bailie, you on the move?

  Starx, hi, I’ve got a little problem.

  Didn’t have time to wash your duds? No problem. Your partner’s got you covered.

  Olpert let the misunderstanding ride, thanked him.

  That’s how we do, said Starx. Now hurry the fug up, you sack of nuts.

  Sometimes Jessica would nose up from the soil to see what was going on. Today though there wasn’t time to coax her out, and Olpert left the house forgetting a thing people did called breakfast, and on the ferry ride across Perint’s Cove the dregs of the previous night’s wings and cider rose up acidly in his throat. When the boat docked he came reeling ashore — greeted by Starx, spotlit in a sunbeam, a bottle of some fluorescent orange liquid in one hand, a spare NFLM uniform draped over his arm.

  Drink this, he told Olpert. Then put this on.

  The drink was disgusting, carbonated in a tart, fermented sort of way, with a tinny, bloody aftertaste. Ugh, what is that?

  Secret recipe. My wife’s hangover cure.

  Wife?

  Ex-wife. Long story. He reconsidered: Well, short story. A story for another time.

  Olpert sipped, winced. And this will make me feel better?

  Should, said Starx. There’s nothing orange in it. Just goes that colour, for some reason.

  Olpert drank, handed the empty back to Starx.

  Bailie, nice work last night! No way those dames’ll forget you anytime soon.

  Kill me, said Olpert.

  Kill you? No way! That, my friend? That’s what some of us call living.

  Oh.

  Though I’m feeling pretty rotten myself, thanks for asking.

  Oh. Sorry.

  Not much of a people person, are you?

  I beg your pardon?

  I mean, we’ve hung out two days now and I know everything about you, from your job to your living situation to your fuggin moles. What do you know about me?

  Um. You were married?

  People, Bailie — see, normally the way this goes is that I’d ask you something, you ask me something, and in such a fashion of reciprocated dialogue, we’d get to know each other, ta-da. Like fuggin magic.

  Oh.

  Starx’s expression was hard to read: not quite hurt — disappointed maybe.

  Olpert said, What sort of work do you do?

  Work? Thanks for asking. I’m in construction, Bailie.

  Construction.

  Right. Buildings. Or not exactly buildings. More roads. I have the same boss as you, Bailie — the city. We’re civil servants, servants of civics. Civilized.

  What do you do?

  You know how the road sort of sparkles? Well you think that happens on its own? When they’re tarring roads I’m the guy walking around with a little pouch of powdered glass who sprinkles it over the road. They call me the sparkle fairy.

  You’re making fun of me.

  Swear! I used to do more hands-on work but I got hurt on the job, they tried to put me in an office, no way. This way I still get to be outside. Sparkle fairy.

  Olpert struggled to picture that giant body lumbering around with a pouch of pixie dust.

  Starx smacked him on the back, handed him the clean uniform and their Citypass lanyard. Hop along little buddy, you can put your duds on in the car. First stop after we pick up Raven is We-TV Studios. Hey, maybe Wags’ll let us on Salami Talk?

  Maybe, said Olpert carefully, and followed Starx, the asphalt glittering beneath their feet, to the first available Citywagon in the lot.

  THE ELEVATOR DROPPED to the ground floor, fetched whoever was coming up the Tower, arrived with a thud at the viewing deck. Pushing away from the window, the Mayor smoothed her blazer and snapped the lapels straight, ready to face whoever it was.

  Out stepped three Helpers in khaki: two luxuriantly moustachioed characters flanked a skittish-looking kid on crutches. Strapped over the boy’s shoulder was a callbox, its cord drooped in ringlets at
his hip. A fat strip of ducktape covered the lower half of his face. His eyes were afraid.

  To what do I owe, etcetera, said the Mayor.

  We represent the NFLM, said the man to the cripple’s left, fingering his lanyard.

  He’s Reed, said the other, and I’m Walters.

  The cripple said nothing.

  Mrs. Mayor, we realize you’ve been put in a compromising position, said Reed, so we’ve brought this Recruit here, Diamond-Wood, to be of assistance to you until . . .

  Until the Jubilee is over, finished Walters.

  The HG’s really appreciate what a sport you’re being about this.

  Sport? said the Mayor.

  There’s talk, said Walters, of erecting a statue of you. We’re already talking to Loopy about it. How do you feel about solid gold?

  Though you do have to admit, said Reed, it was spectacular — that illustration, I mean.

  Three sets of eyes crawled over her body to the lower tier of the dessert cart.

  Anyway, said Reed, Diamond-Wood here’s at your service. Anything you need.

  A personal aide, if you will.

  Not that you’d normally require such a thing. Just —

  — in your —

  — current —

  — situation —

  — we’re happy to provide logistical assistance.

  And he comes with a portable phone, with a direct line to the Temple should you require anything else.

  From the HG’s. They want you to know that you can —

  — call anytime.

  It’s a fax machine too.

  Well touch green and colour me golden, said the Mayor.

  Yeah! No problem!

  We’ll leave you then, said Walters.

  Lots to prepare for tonight! Sure you’ve got work of your own . . .

  And of course, Mrs. Mayor, as always, you’ll be the guest of honour.

  VIP!

  Obsequious goodbyes followed (two-faced fuggers, thought the Mayor), instructions were whispered to the cripple, and the elevator took the Helpers back down to ground level. Out the window, the view was of the park.

  This is their idea of a joke, isn’t it? said the Mayor, and, turning away, missed the boy’s attempt, heaped over his crutches, at a vigorous and earnest shake of his head.

  Make yourself useful. By the door is a keypad, see it? Enter this passcode: forty-five, ten, twenty-two, forty-four hundred, but before you go thinking you can come up here and mess around anytime you like, it changes every day.

  From behind her: the tap of crutches, a pause, a digital, affirmative-sounding chirp.

  Now hit STOP, she said. Solar-powered, you know that? Another of my initiatives.

  Another chirp. The viewing deck shuddered to a halt.

  Look at it, she said. People Park, a park for people, is how I pitched it to council. And here we are, twenty-five years later. I bet the park’s older than you are.

  The cripple made a noise: Mmm.

  And you know, don’t you, I hope you know — though who knows what they’re teaching you kids in school these days — that the park was all my doing? Of course engineers designed the amusements, and the actual building was taken care of by contractors. But the concept, the layout, the landscaping — all mine. I know people just think of me as a figurehead and nothing else. Most of you have no idea what I’ve done for this place.

  Mmm.

  I wanted a park for everybody. Young, old, handicapped, fat, whatever. Oh, some people criticized my greying measures — but how does a greenspace stand out without a little contrast? Look at it now, how it practically glows! Or will, touch green, in the spring.

  Mmm, said Diamond-Wood, nodding.

  Do you know what this city was before People Park? It was nothing. It was a nothing place. It was disconnected, all these neighbourhoods flung off in all the corners of the island, and in the middle was a cancer. That’s what it was, a cancer. But think of a city as a person — what should a person have in its centre?

  She swivelled atop the cart: A soul. Before it had a cancer, and then it had a soul. I put the soul in. And People Park is the soul, the Mayor said slowly, of everyone. That was its purpose and what it remains. But here we are meant to be celebrating it — twenty-five years of this soul, keep in mind — and instead your organization has brought in an outsider, a fraudulent, ridiculous conjurer intent on humiliating us and stealing our souls. Because that’s what he’s here to do, make no mistake. I mean, look at me.

  Diamond-Wood’s eyes were on the floor.

  I said look at me.

  He glanced up, quickly, then back down.

  You can’t! This is your fault. It’s all your stupid organization’s fault.

  The Mayor gazed out the window. I don’t think people know what they’re celebrating this weekend. They just want to be awed. They’ve forgotten. This magician — what does he have planned? Do you know? Speak, for fug’s sake!

  He pointed at the ducktape.

  So take it off! Oh. I bet those appleheads have some sort of regulation — well come here then, said the Mayor, and tore the gag from his mouth.

  Ow, he said.

  So?

  Sorry, no idea.

  Ah. Good thing I ungagged you then. She rubbed a hand over her face. So you have no idea what’s going to happen tonight.

  Tonight?

  Tonight. With the — what’s his face. Crowboy the Illuminator.

  Raven? Honestly, I’m just a Recruit, hence the ducktape, and I certainly wouldn’t —

  No idea.

  None. The HG’s haven’t even been told anything. I don’t even think he knows. I guess he has to explore the city to figure out what he’s going to illustrate? Honestly, we’ve been told how to arrange the stage, and we’re working with Cinecity to make sure the live feeds are running, keeping the bridge blocked. That’s it. And I’m here with you!

  The Mayor turned away. In the park preparations for the evening’s show were beginning: a cube van had arrived, cartons and crates of various sizes and shapes were being unloaded into the common.

  Mrs. Mayor?

  What.

  It’s going to be amazing, I think. Tonight. It’s going to be —

  Oh would you please just shut up.

  The first spectators were arriving, staking claims with towels unfurled on the muddy grass. The Mayor sighed — and looked at Diamond-Wood.

  Hey, she said. Come closer.

  Sorry?

  You enjoy magic? She beckoned with a finger. Let me show you a trick.

  Diamond-Wood leaned in, wobbling on his crutches.

  Closer, the Mayor whispered, closer, and once his face was near enough to kiss, she plucked the ducktape off the dessert cart, slapped it onto his mouth, smeared it flat, and announced: Ta-da.

  GENTLEMEN, said Raven from the backseat, if I could request a detour.

  It’s gone eight already, said Starx, wheeling out of the Grand Saloon’s driveway and south on Orchard Parkway. We’re supposed to be at the studios at half-past —

  A brief detour. If you could take me to the bridge. Just to see it.

  We’re heading south, said Starx. Bridge is north. Road’s closed anyway.

  Ah, but my understanding is that it’s your people who have blocked off, what is it? Raven flipped through the CityGuide in his lap. The Topside Drive? And it seems that one can turn around at the bottom of this street, and really it’s not far from here at all.

  Starx’s eyes moved between the road, steady with traffic, and the rearview. Olpert, Starx’s XXL shirt billowing around his body, checked the mirror: the illustrationist reclined in a pose both sanguine and erotic, one knee up, hands behind his head, grinning.

  Might no one, he said, have more authority to traverse these blockades
than us?

  At the bottom of Orchard Parkway Starx merged onto the roundabout at Cathedral Circus, but didn’t exit onto Lakeside Drive, just went looping back around. Another Citywagon slid in ahead of them, peeled off toward Bay Junction.

  Mr. Starx? said Raven.

  Fine, but let’s keep it brief, said Starx, and from the drinkholder scooped the walkie-talkie, told Griggs what was happening.

  Olpert’s hangover had found its way into his temples, where it thudded and stabbed. With each surge came flashes of the previous evening, shameful razory nicks — nevermind the great gaping wound of how he’d ended his night. As Starx turned onto Topside Olpert cracked the window, pointed his face into the breeze like a pet.

  At the Guardian Bridge exit the Helpers ushered them through the barricades. Starx nodded officiously, pulled onto the shoulder, and killed the engine. The bridge arced toward the mainland. Beneath it the Narrows swept briskly to the east, twinkling in the sunshine.

  Well here we are, said Starx, turning to the backseat. What can we tell him, Bailie?

  IFC Stadium, where the Lady Y’s play — it’s just back that way.

  He’s a fan, said Starx.

  Olpert shrugged shyly.

  Fine, fine, said Raven. Now, gentlemen? If you’ll give me a minute.

  He swung out of the car, glided up onto the bridge.

  Starx watched. What do you think he’s after? Wait, why’s he lying down?

  Shhh, said Olpert.

  You think he can hear us?

  Starx, come on.

  Look at him, what’s he doing? Is he smelling the road? Bailie? Can you tell?

  I don’t know what he’s doing.

  Oh shet.

  From his knees, Raven was summoning them from the car. Gentlemen, he hollered. Please, I need your assistance and expertise.