machinery—rows of giant rusty drums covered with scaffolding; multistory steel frameworks like half-finished buildings; antlike workers toiling under bleak factory lights—but then the sound began to register: thrash-metal music and the familiar rasp and clatter of practicing skate-punks, punctuated by echoing cheers and catcalls. I could see lots of hardhats, but no one was working. The door locked shut behind us.
This was no longer a factory. It was a playground. An industrial-chic skate park. Curved steel plates weighing tons, and cylinders wide as subway tunnels, had been commandeered for aerial stunts by bike and skateboard fiends. People swung like Tarzan from dizzying catwalks in the rafters or, more alarmingly, bungee-jumped the hundred or so feet to the concrete floor, springing back just in time. A deejay standing on a huge, multiwheeled platform—the mother of all flatbed trucks—plied his stylings before a scattering of headbangers and homeboys and someone wearing a big-headed chipmunk costume. The aisles between machines were Turkish bazaars full of tents and sleeping bags, with clotheslines slung like cobwebs overhead.
Everyone seemed completely unaware of the nightmare outside. What’s more, they were kids, teenagers—boys. Hundreds of boys. A tough-looking bunch in their work boots, hooded sweatshirts, baggy pants, and stocking caps. They were filthy as chimney sweeps from life in the factory. Staring in wonder, all I could do was silently mouth, “Oh my gosh.”
Our appearance on the floor began to have a ripple effect. As people saw us, saw me, they reacted in surprise, pointing us out to others nearby and gradually bringing a halt to all the activities. Some fell back, others began to come forward to meet us. Among the latter were many older men I hadn’t noticed at first. They didn’t look particularly friendly.
One exception was a burly, chinless guy in dirty denim coveralls who came running up, eyes wide, and clasped hands with Cowper. “Fred, you bastard,” he said. “Where in hell did you come from?”
“Hell is right,” said Cowper. He leaned toward the other man, and said, “What’s the bad news, Ed?”
The bigger man pursed his lips, bobbing his head. “It’s like you said, Fred. They screwed us.”
“When?”
“Last week. Had a big recommissioning ceremony, gave us a steak dinner, then dropped the bomb while we were all loosening our belts.”
“Who did? Sandoval?”
The heavyset man nodded bitterly, saying, “Those bastards never had any intention of taking us along.”
“Has she put to sea?”
“Not yet, but they’re not telling us anything. Should be anytime now.”
“I could’ve told ya.”
“You did.”
“Did they give any reason?”
“Yeah, we got a boatload of sensitive materials the day before from Norfolk—you know about SPAM?”
“What do you mean, Spam?”
The other man waved the question away. “Sensitive Personnel and Materials—crap! All the stuff the government can’t leave behind when it shuts down. Basically SPAM got our seat. I don’t care about me, but those kids busted ass for a month, and now they get bumped by a shipment of top secret nonsense? The future is riding with these kids, and they’re fit for duty.”
“Oh yeah?” Cowper said, eyeing the gritty playland. “Where at? Ringling Brothers?”
The other man perked up defensively. “Hey,” he said, “don’t knock ’em for blowing off steam. After last week, we’re all on strike around here.”
“Now, Albemarle, that sounds like union talk.”
Ed Albemarle laughed grimly, “Yeah, it’s a union shop now. We’re gonna start picketing. Give the X-jobs signs to carry.” Throughout the conversation he had pointedly avoided looking my way, though everyone else in the place was. Now he turned toward me, and I could see the nervous whites of his eyes. “And who’s the little lady?” he asked.
Before Cowper could speak, I said, “Lulu. Lulu Pangloss,”
This was no longer a factory. It was a playground. An industrial-chic skate park. Curved steel plates weighing tons, and cylinders wide as subway tunnels, had been commandeered for aerial stunts by bike and skateboard fiends. People swung like Tarzan from dizzying catwalks in the rafters or, more alarmingly, bungee-jumped the hundred or so feet to the concrete floor, springing back just in time. A deejay standing on a huge, multiwheeled platform—the mother of all flatbed trucks—plied his stylings before a scattering of headbangers and homeboys and someone wearing a big-headed chipmunk costume. The aisles between machines were Turkish bazaars full of tents and sleeping bags, with clotheslines slung like cobwebs overhead.
Everyone seemed completely unaware of the nightmare outside. What’s more, they were kids, teenagers—boys. Hundreds of boys. A tough-looking bunch in their work boots, hooded sweatshirts, baggy pants, and stocking caps. They were filthy as chimney sweeps from life in the factory. Staring in wonder, all I could do was silently mouth, “Oh my gosh.”
Our appearance on the floor began to have a ripple effect. As people saw us, saw me, they reacted in surprise, pointing us out to others nearby and gradually bringing a halt to all the activities. Some fell back, others began to come forward to meet us. Among the latter were many older men I hadn’t noticed at first. They didn’t look particularly friendly.
One exception was a burly, chinless guy in dirty denim coveralls who came running up, eyes wide, and clasped hands with Cowper. “Fred, you bastard,” he said. “Where in hell did you come from?”
“Hell is right,” said Cowper. He leaned toward the other man, and said, “What’s the bad news, Ed?”
The bigger man pursed his lips, bobbing his head. “It’s like you said, Fred. They screwed us.”
“When?”
“Last week. Had a big recommissioning ceremony, gave us a steak dinner, then dropped the bomb while we were all loosening our belts.”
“Who did? Sandoval?”
The heavyset man nodded bitterly, saying, “Those bastards never had any intention of taking us along.”
“Has she put to sea?”
“Not yet, but they’re not telling us anything. Should be anytime now.”
“I could’ve told ya.”
“You did.”
“Did they give any reason?”
“Yeah, we got a boatload of sensitive materials the day before from Norfolk—you know about SPAM?”
“What do you mean, Spam?”
The other man waved the question away. “Sensitive Personnel and Materials—crap! All the stuff the government can’t leave behind when it shuts down. Basically SPAM got our seat. I don’t care about me, but those kids busted ass for a month, and now they get bumped by a shipment of top secret nonsense? The future is riding with these kids, and they’re fit for duty.”
“Oh yeah?” Cowper said, eyeing the gritty playland. “Where at? Ringling Brothers?”
The other man perked up defensively. “Hey,” he said, “don’t knock ’em for blowing off steam. After last week, we’re all on strike around here.”
“Now, Albemarle, that sounds like union talk.”
Ed Albemarle laughed grimly, “Yeah, it’s a union shop now. We’re gonna start picketing. Give the X-jobs signs to carry.” Throughout the conversation he had pointedly avoided looking my way, though everyone else in the place was. Now he turned toward me, and I could see the nervous whites of his eyes. “And who’s the little lady?” he asked.
Before Cowper could speak, I said, “Lulu. Lulu Pangloss,”
Similar Books
