The shelves are full of dusty tapes. Some have been re-labeled several times, the stickers piling up thick on their spines.[if !temp:browsed-videos-once]

Shannon combs through the video archive.[if temp:browsed-videos-once+!tugboat-videos-watched-weaver]

(NOTE: Clara and Ezra perform on the deck of the tugboat.)

manual: 5.4: Context Backlash

manual: General wear on the GESTURAL GEAR MOUNTING APPARATUS (5A-1) may result in undesirable play between teeth in the CONTEXT AND HISTORY STATE MACHINE gears, causing stuttering, slippage, resetting, skipping —

manual: If left unresolved, gear slop can gradually throw LIMBS out of alignment, blend MOTIONS, and decontextualize GESTURES.

manual: See also sections 1.8 `General Troubleshooting`, and 5.3 `Gesture Context`.

manual: 1.8: General Troubleshooting

manual: Technicians of sufficient TALENT and EXPERIENCE may skip this section.

manual: General troubleshooting techniques include: [template: technique]; [template: technique]; or [template: technique].

manual: 5.3 Gesture Context

manual: All GESTURES happen in a CONTEXT — the set of preceding GESTURES, the overall ORIENTATION, and extended variables such as TIME OF DAY and interior AFFECT GEAR angles.

manual: TABLE OF CONTENTS

manual: 0. Introduction

manual: 1. Installation

manual: 2. Orientations

manual: 4. Order of Operations

manual: 3. The Passage of Time

manual: 5. Gestures

manual: 6. Final Notes

will: My savior! Our friend here is in a bad way ... any insight?

will: I don't at all blame you, especially down here — on the water, I mean. Sure, it's dangerous. But this is where she lives.

will: Oh, I feel certain she's got a few trips left in her ... if only she had a more capable surgeon! Sadly, mechanics are in short supply down here. I think the setting is too romantic. It scares them off!

will: And what brings `you` down to the Echo tonight?

will: Ha! That doesn't sound like you ...

will: Oh, I just mean that you and your Johnny have always been `complete`. Since I first met the pair of you. Free-standing, like a lighthouse.

will: I'm sure your new friends appreciate the company. It's no shame, to be lonesome ...

will: The river is like that. It always has been.

will: We picked you up at the Bureau tonight ... never seen you that far upriver before. I hope that doesn't mean you've been traveling on the |Zero|?

will: Oh, no, not me. This old river-rat steers clear of weird highways.

will: You've got `that` right. Wow! I could sit in there for hours, just listen to my breath reverberate through that weird architecture. Still, it's always good to be back on the river.

will: I've been traveling this river for more than half my life, more-or-less alone. I `think` I've seen it change quite a bit in all those years ... but I can't say for sure. The water has a peculiar way of making a person forgetful.

will: Some nights I remember a place, but it's full of strange new people. And some nights I meet an old friend on an unfamiliar shore.

will: I wonder which kind of night this is.

`(CLARA draws a card.)`

clara: Three deep breaths, eight white doves, five slow hours.

`(CATE draws a card.)`

cate: Seven blue petals, three deep breaths, eight white doves, five slow hours.

clara: `(To CATE.)` What are we listening to?

cate: Oh, uh, just this tape a friend of mine sent me; they live in the desert ... "`Vecinx`?" Something like that ...

junebug: Sounds good on the `Mammoth`'s P.A.

cate: Yeah, that's the only way I listen to anything lately. Ha ha.

cate: `(To EZRA.)` Your turn, buddy.

`(EZRA draws a card.)`

`(WILL draws a card.)`

will: Three — no, `nine` gray feathers ...

clara: Stay focused! Ha ha.

will: No, I've got it ... um ... seven blue petals.

clara: And ... ?

will: Five —

cate: Oh no! It was "nine, seven, `three`!"

will: `(To EZRA.)` This game is more difficult than it sounds, my friend.

cate: Oh no! It was "seven, three, `eight`!"

clara: `(To EZRA.)` Aw, you're beaten at your own game! Ha ha.

will: I'm just glad it didn't come to my turn again. You took a bullet there, my friend.

clara: Hm? I didn't know you could say "pass."

clara: Interesting.

will: Sounds good to me — this game is hard enough as it is.

cate: And we're only — how many cards in now? Five or something? I assume it will go to fifty-two?

cate: So, in some cases, there may be a stalemate. Though, not with this crowd, I don't think!

cate: That could go on a long time, then! Well, not with this crowd, I guess. Ha ha.

cate: We're all too `soggy-brained`. I know I am. I even take homemade supplements for it: shade-grown lichen boiled with the peel of a lemon, then frozen and crushed with oak leaves. It's a scalp massage oil. You can smell it if I get close.

cate: It dries the brain out a bit, which is helpful for a good memory, if I can remember to use it often enough in the first place!

cate: Oh, don't worry, the `soggy` brain has its benefits, too. If your brain is soft and damp, new ideas can make a clear impression, like a boot in wet sand. But, like wet sand, it can easily get muddied and washed away. So there's a trade-off, see?

cate: It's a shame we can't have it both ways, isn't it?

clara: What's this game called, Ezra?

ezra: `[variable: ezra-game-memory-title]`.

cate: What a relief. Thanks for taking the wheel. Our secret, OK?

cate: Oh! That's homemade: fermented green tea, pomegranate seeds, and a little bit of barley ergot. I call it "Kykeon Kombucha." It helps keep me awake.

cate: Want to try some? No, I guess you probably don't ... The smell is off-putting, but it's actually sweet and lightly carbonated. I'm trying to kick a diet soda habit. Ha ha.

cate: So, how'd you do with the helm?

cate: I just keep my eyes open! That's the most important part.

cate: Speaking of which ...

cate: That shows how deep the water is. The Echo River is fairly deep, but Lake Lethe pretty much buries the needle.

cate: I should have probably explained that to you `earlier`, huh? Ha ha.

cate: That controls the winch, if we need a little more slack on our haul or something.

cate: I should have probably explained that to you `earlier`, huh? Ha ha.

cate: `(Looking outside.)` Oh, hey — there's the gas station. I was `hoping` we'd cross paths soon! It just kind of drifts around; you never know where you'll meet it.

cate: As you can see by this dial right ... `here`, our fuel situation is pretty desperate. I have a bad habit of letting that needle spend a lot of time in the red zone.

cate: We should only be docked at the gas station for a few minutes refueling; you might just want to stay aboard.

cate: So ... you like boats?

cate: That sounds great. I'll have to look out for that one ...

cate: Oh, what kind of boat?

cate: Ah, I see. So this one's a `little` bigger. Ha ha. Same idea, though.

cate: Oh, wow. Well, here you are! I think this is as good a place to start as any.

cate: So, what else did I neglect to explain earlier ...

cate: This area here is called the "wheelhouse." All these gauges and controls help me understand what's going on with `The Mucky Mammoth` and her haul. This is a compass, but it doesn't work very well down here, for some reason. I just go by landmarks, basically, and lights.

cate: Did you see those two lights on the sides of the boat? A red one and a green one? All the other boats have them, too. Some are different colors, or in different configurations. If we cross paths with someone, right away I can work out what kind of boat they're in and what direction they're going, even in the dark.

cate: It's all about `looking`, up here. The other half of piloting this boat happens down in the map room.

cate: Speaking of which ... `(CATE peers out the window)` Have we passed the big rock that looks like a dinosaur yet?

cate: Oh, yeah. "Duck Island." It's named after a nasty old hermit called Edgar Duck who put a claim on it many years ago and tried to build a house there. I heard he didn't have a bed or kitchen, but used all his material on a big fence. He used to blast an air horn if anyone drifted too close!

cate: He eventually died, but the name stuck, and at some point the ducks moved in. Maybe people dropped them off there. I don't know.

cate: Ah. River folks call that "The Lighthouse." It used to be an art museum, but their collection went out of fashion, and they had to put it all in storage. I don't know who put those Christmas lights up. Some artist, I guess.

cate: Oh, "The Story Cliff." I don't know who wrote those words up there, but they tell a story about ... well, it's hard to say what exactly it's `about`. It's a story of some people and animals, and their adventures.

cate: Sometimes, if I'm running ahead of schedule, I like to drop anchor there and read for a while. The nice thing about the story cliff is you can start reading anywhere you want. There's no `beginning` or `end`, just a bunch of `middle`.

cate: That's weird. We should have definitely passed Dinosaur Rock by now ...

`(CATE looks out the window.)`

cate: Oh, wait. There it is, up ahead, see?

cate: No? Well, maybe you're right ... It's worn down a bit since it was first discovered.

cate: It's great, right? What was your old favorite rock?

cate: Cool.

cate: It's strange, though: according to my charts, we should have passed Dinosaur Rock `before` [variable: tugboat-ezra-landmark]. But that's OK, sometimes the charts need updating ...

cate: Hey, Will is down in the map room right now. Could you run down and help him adjust the charts to move [variable: tugboat-ezra-landmark] so it comes a little earlier on our route than Dinosaur Rock?

cate: The map room is down below deck, on the lower level, right next to the sleeping quarters. I'll get on the intercom and let him know you're coming.

conway: Hey-y-y-y.

conway: What's up.

conway: Maps, oh, yeah, I bet they've got a lot of them down here, um ...

conway: Yeah you probably `need` maps to travel by boat.

conway: `Myself`, uh, `personally` ... I don't use them. I read the signs, and I remember the roads, you know. Uh, landmarks. Or I ask for directions if I'm going somewhere I've never been before.

conway: That's OK, to ask for directions. Remember that, kid. No shame in asking for directions.

conway: Naw, I don't think I could ever sleep on a river.

conway: You're right, though: it's been a long day. I should maybe find some coffee to go with all this beer ... or just move on up to the real stuff. Doesn't weigh you down as much, you know? Naw, of course you don't ...

conway: Hey, what am I talking about? Who knows.

ezra: OK. Bye.

Ezra watches the lake drift by. He sees:

[template: lakeSight]

A floating gas station.

[template: lakeSight]

[template: lakeSight]

shannon: Wow, this is harder than it looks.

clara: Yeah, it takes a certain kind of ear.

shannon: Oh, like `perfect pitch`? Do you have that?

clara: Not really that, it's more like ... muscle memory? When I'm playing the theremin, I kind of "hear" with my hands.

clara: I must sound ridiculous!

shannon: No, no, I think I get it.

will: Salutations, small man.

will: Cate says you have an adjustment for our charts. Good timing; I'm just checking my copies.

will: That's how we keep our charts up to date: as we pass through a section of the river or the lake, I draw a new copy of the map and make adjustments for anything we see that doesn't match.

`(WILL points to a small drawing on the map.)`

will: So, this is where we have Dinosaur Rock marked now. This little dinosaur drawing. I drew that.

will: Thank you.

will: Oh, you know, just a dinosaur.

`(WILL points to another small drawing on the map.)`

will: And this here is where we thought [variable: tugboat-ezra-landmark] was. But now I guess we've got to move it back a bit ...

will: But how far? I wonder ... Any ideas? Anything else you remember about when you saw [variable: tugboat-ezra-landmark]?

will: Aha! Well, that'd put [variable: tugboat-ezra-landmark] somewhere in ... `here`. That's the only part of the chart before Dinosaur Rock where the lake "deepens" noticeably. Good work!

will: Aha — that must have been Mary Kennedy out fishing. She usually anchors right around ... here. But you didn't hear that from me; she's `very` protective of her good fishing spots.

will: That'll do just fine! So, let's see, at our current speed that would give us a distance of ... oh, about an eighth of a mile, let's say.

`(WILL measures along the charted lake with a divider.)`

will: Somewhere around `here`. Good enough, eh?

will: That should do it for the new copy. Oh, I made some other corrections: tucked in the banks a little, made this section deeper, and left off a shipwreck that must have washed away or been scavenged into splinters.

will: Of course, it means a lot of clutter; all these old copies.

will: Say —

`(WILL gestures to a pile of old maps.)`

will: I was just about to throw this stack out. Maybe you'd like to hang onto one? They're out of date, but they could be fun to look at. These are mostly river charts, I think. Take a look through and see if one of them catches your eye.

will: Yep, I hear that. I like to travel light, myself.

will: [if tugboat-ezra-examined-map-count=1]

`(The river curves clockwise around a few small islands. A note is scribbled along the margin.)`

note: ISLANDS JUST BELOW THE SURFACE ONLY VISIBLE UNDER BRIGHT LIGHT.

will: They come and go! The islands, that is. I still mark 'em if I see 'em.

will: That one I found wrapped in plastic — quite well preserved! I wrapped it up like that so the chalk wouldn't smear ... must have lost my pencil that day. I don't remember.

will: [if tugboat-ezra-examined-map-count=1]

`(The river curves clockwise. There are no islands marked, but a few other landmarks are indicated with chalk circles.)`

will: `(Pointing to a chalk circle.)` That one was [variable: tugboat-ezra-landmark], I'm pretty sure.

will: [if tugboat-ezra-examined-map-count=1]

`(The edges of the map are torn in gentle strips, probably by an idle hand and an absent mind.)`

will: Oh, yeah, I remember that day. Slow currents. Boring. Not that I mind — it's healthy to get a little bored sometimes.

`(A long tear runs in a clockwise curve along the paper, through the middle of the river. The two sides are held together by paper clips, woven into the paper like stitches.)`

will: Nice.

will: Well, thanks for your help with the chart adjustments. Our next stop is a bar called The Rum Colony ... I guess you're not much of a bar-fly, but you might like to run around on the beach! And the decor is ... well, I'd be curious to hear what `you` think of it.

cate: How's that cold river spray treating you? I thought I saw you squinting; it's "hard water," you know, hard on the eyes. It still irritates mine a little, and I'm piloting a tugboat through it six nights a week.

cate: Don't be too shy to close them in public. Your eyes, I mean. People will just assume you're thoughtful.

cate: You need tea ...

cate: [template: teaIngredientList]

cate: Eye strain. [variable: tugboat-first-tea-ingredient] masks the taste of the rest of it — [variable: tugboat-second-tea-ingredient] in particular has an `eccentric` flavor profile. It's mushroom-based. I'm a big believer in the fungal pharmacy.

cate: The Echo is dicey tonight. Bad luck for you. Expect waves and diversions. Dogwood Drive is by the Silo mail stop, but we may need to spend some time on the `indirect route` before we hit your stop, OK?

cate: And there's other business. Mail to drop off, garbage to pick up, and a few favors to execute, all dotted on the river banks from here to there!

cate: Yeah, that's Valkyrie. I call her "Val." She's a rescue. Isn't she dignified? I've always thought so ...

cate: Huh? I thought that was `your` cat. He came on board with you at the Bureau.

cate: Well, it wouldn't be the first time some strange animal hitched a ride ...

cate: I hope you enjoy the trip on our little `Mammoth`. Take advantage of all the amenities: fresh air, cozy bunks, hot tea, the video room ...

cate: There are some pretty interesting tapes down there, actually. `Unusual`, I mean. `Weird`. Watch out that VCR doesn't take your hand off, though! It's untrustworthy.

cate: There's one with this woman ... She's just, like, standing there `talking`, but you can't really hear her, and there's this awful hum ...

cate: See for yourself, it's down there somewhere.

cate: Oh, please do! I don't know anything about electronics. Maybe try a few different tapes. You'll get the picture.

cate: Hey, do me a favor: go ask Will how the repairs are going and if he needs anything. We're coming up on the next stop here, just refueling and picking up a few things. I could grab a bolt or some wire or something. Whatever he needs.[if !tugboat-shannon-talked-to-will]

cate: I saw you talking to Will. He's an old friend. Don't be fooled by that "burned-out" aura; he's a smart and kind man. I think his only vice is those silly scratch tickets. Speaking of which, we're coming up on our next stop shortly, refueling and picking up a few things.[if tugboat-shannon-talked-to-will]

cate: Well, eyes on the road. Ha ha.

conway: You know, it's the strangest thing: I can't remember why I came up here.

conway: Maybe ... It's homey in that cabin, though. And warm.

conway: Ha ha. Damned noisy river ...

conway: Naw, I'm good.

conway: It's just that thing about ... what was it ... when you walk through a door?

conway: When you go into the kitchen for something, and as soon as you pass from one room into another, you forget what you wanted.

conway: You have to walk back out just to remember! Like you left a part of your brain behind. Hey, I wonder if I could follow that brain-crumb trail all the way back to the room I was born in ...

`(CONWAY cranes his neck over the railing.)`

conway: You were driving for hours. Get any sleep?[if one:shannon-will-drive]

conway: Looks cold down there. And dark. You weren't in the cabin long — get any sleep?[if !one:shannon-will-drive]

conway: Every little bit helps, right?

conway: Yeah, that's when you get the strangest dreams — when you nod off, right? Just kind of dip your toes into sleep, and some weird image floats by and takes a nibble ...

conway: There's a cooler-full down there. They say it just floated by, if you believe that. Got caught on some netting, and they hauled it aboard. A bounty.[if one:shannon-impression-of-conway=leather]

conway: There's a bunch; captain said it was flotsam.[if one:shannon-impression-of-conway=smell]

conway: Yeah, I needed it.[if one:shannon-impression-of-conway=shaky]

conway: What's another nail in the coffin, right?[if one:shannon-impression-of-conway=tired]

conway: Anyway, there's a sign by the cooler. "Take what you need and leave the rest."

`(SHANNON leans over the railing and looks at the river below.)`

conway: Could have fallen off the haul back there. I think that kid was playing on the trash barge earlier.

conway: Yeah. Better keep that kid away from the edge — a person could easily fall in. He's been exploring.

conway: Oh, yeah he's poking around with that tape recorder. Exploring.

conway: I'm fine.

conway: Hm.

conway: It's good for him. It's important to know how to ... Hm. How to be alone.

conway: What's up, huh? You look like there's something you want to ask.

conway: Fine, you can ask it. One question.

conway: Well, I "didn't" ...

conway: I mean, I did, and then I didn't, and then I did again. That's how it always goes — I drift out, finally wind up back at Lysette's with my head between my legs, saying "never again" ...

conway: Fifteen months, this last time. I think I hung on because I knew there wouldn't for much longer be anywhere to go back to. She went to live with her sister, now, and ... she probably won't remember me for long, anyway.

conway: One time she picked me up out of a ditch by the road, blackout drunk at dawn. I came around later that night. She'd taken care of me. I told her I didn't deserve it, and she said I didn't have to deserve it.

conway: Oh, you wouldn't say that if you knew her when she was younger. That girl was wild. Ha ha.

conway: I guess she's got her own problems now. I wish I could help out. Hey, maybe I could make some money and send it to her sister?

conway: Maybe they'll keep me on at the distillery, I mean. Oh, I shouldn't get ahead of myself.

conway: Didn't seem so bad, did it?

conway: It's a way to live, I mean — rent a bed, eat at the cafeteria, shift drink keeps the devil quiet. Ha ha. It's a way to live.[if one:shannon-impression-of-conway=shaky]

conway: It's a way to live, I mean — rent a bed, eat at the cafeteria, drive all night. It's a way to live.[if one:shannon-impression-of-conway=tired]

conway: It's a way to live.[if one:shannon-impression-of-conway=smell]

conway: It's a way to live, I mean — rent a bed, eat at the cafeteria ...[if one:shannon-impression-of-conway=leather]

conway: Not like I have a choice.

conway: I've got to repay my debt. Hell, I should be grateful for the opportunity — if you want to die with any dignity, you've got to settle up. That's why it's such a damned shame when people go sudden.

`(EZRA runs up to SHANNON.)`

shannon: Whoa, slow down! It's slippery up on deck.

ezra: Do you have batteries?

shannon: Yeah, of course. What for?

ezra: Johnny said I could use his tape recorder but it needs a battery.

shannon: Oh, fun. Well ...

`(SHANNON searches her pockets.)`

shannon: Here's ... four different kinds; surely one of these should fit.

ezra: Thank you.

will: `(Singing, quietly.)` ... for we on mold and whiskey fed, and ...

will: `(To SHANNON.)` Oh!

will: Wet gears.

will: Probably; who knows? First thing I tried, anyway ... down here by this little blue box, I took all the gears out and dried each one by hand, and then I loaded them back in again.

will: That took care of the grinding sound, but her trunk keeps doing that sparking, clanking, weeping thing ...

will: Ha! No. This thing's probably older than I am. Got some gray in her pelt, there ... calcium deposits, I guess.

will: To be honest with you, I'm not really qualified for this work. Cate's a friend, you know how it is ... don't you?

will: Hell, I don't know. Scratch ticket.

will: Ah. I wouldn't know if I did ... Ha ha.

will: Thanks.

will: A story, well ... I like to listen to them, I like to tell them, but I don't have one of my own.

will: I also don't have a permanent address, or a pickup truck, or any change of clothes. I wash my laundry in the river, and in that moment I'm truly free.

will: I don't even have any shoes ...

will: So ...

will: Ever walked through rolling farmland?

will: Right. Nobody does it, unless it's their land to farm; I mean they'll walk from barn to tractor, or tractor to truck. You know.

will: Along the highway, that's what I mean; or smaller roads.

will: Well, I sure did. I slipped under or over fences, and I walked barefoot with the seeds when they were just planted, and tilled the earth with my toes ...

will: Hey, I should tell you where I left my shoes.

will: Did you know I'm a classically trained organist? It's true; look at these long fingers and pedal-gripping toes ... It doesn't matter. A minor in French literature earned me a position teaching `Artaud to Zola` at the university.

will: Well, some shitty governor cut state funding for our department, and I was demoted to mopping floors, running wiring through walls or in dangerous places ... I even operated the soundboard at the student theater!

will: I left my shoes there, at the university. It was a protest! "Walk without shoes for ..." something important or tragic.

will: I ended up by the shore, and soon I was drifting along the Echo. It ran for a while above ground, then. It doesn't anymore. But I prefer subterranean waters, anyway. Cate brings me along, and I record what I see and hear. I try to help with maintenance. I drop off the mail and pick up the trash. On occasion, I take the helm.

will: Anyway, that's all I try to remember anymore. I listen to the river's stories, and my own stories get fainter and fainter.

will: Well, I'll just keep drying gears, I guess.[if tugboat-shannon-talked-to-cate]

will: Oh. If you talk to Cate, could you ask her, when she stops for gas, could she pick me up a scratch ticket? Thanks.[if !tugboat-shannon-talked-to-cate]

johnny: `(To JUNEBUG.)` Really?

junebug: You were entranced! You don't remember this?

clara: It's OK. We've all seen a lot of concerts.

junebug: Cyrano opened. His tape machine was broken or something; it got really `cosmic`.

johnny: Right, at the flower shop. I remember `that` show, I just ... sorry, Clara.

clara: Well, you have a second chance to hear it tonight.

johnny: `(To EZRA.)` That was fast. Got the batteries?

johnny: Let's see ... perfect, this one will do! So, you hit this button `here` to record. Hold it right `here` so you don't cover the microphone with your hand.

johnny: I bet you'll find a lot of good sounds just around the tugboat. There's plenty of tape in there, so don't be stingy with it! Just record anything that catches your ear. It really changes the way you `listen` ... for the better, I mean.

junebug: Yeah, Clara here came all the way from Lithuania just to do this Echo River gig!

clara: Ha ha. It's a tour. Tomorrow, I'll be in Nashville, and then Atlanta, and then over to the coast.

junebug: Brutal. Well, we're lucky she's making a stop. Johnny and I saw her play once, and `I` remember loving it. And Johnny was `moved`.

johnny: Speaking of Cyrano, it's his night at The Rum Colony. Cate said she usually stops off there.

junebug: We've got a ways to go, and this boat makes pretty frequent stops. I think Cate said we're moving pretty slowly tonight, too. Weather.

johnny: Cate said we could stop at The Rum Colony. Cyrano's playing.

junebug: Well, that's ideal — I'm supposed to meet a lady there to look at some old engine parts, about ... three hours ago.

johnny: Three hours goes fast at The Rum Colony, ma'am. I bet she's still there.

clara: I hope we don't stop there `too` long. My concert is soon, I don't want to keep them waiting.

junebug: Naw, it's "river time." Nobody expects you to be punctual.

johnny: `(To EZRA.)` Hey, why don't you give that tape recorder a try? See if that cat over there has anything he wants to say.

clara: I often use "found sounds" in my music. If you find some interesting sounds tonight, you can help me out!

will: You got your batteries, small man; go get you some tape!

cate: Hey! Just a quick one, here; I'm going ashore to do some mushroom hunting. This little island is my favorite spot, and I figured we're already running late; what's one more unscheduled stop?

cate: I just need to find Will and get him up here to keep an eye on things ... You know, I bet he's asleep. Could you run down and wake him up for me? Bunks are down on the lower level, right next to the map room.

cate: Thanks!

conway: Hey, kid. What do you think of these little trees?

conway: Yeah, they do, don't they. She's got good taste in aromatic plants, that captain. Keeps the boat smelling fresh.

conway: Yeah, good point. I wonder how they live down here. Maybe she's got a special light bulb in here she turns on in the daytime.

conway: When I was a kid — older than you, a teenager, I guess — we used to shoplift beer and go drink it in this one cemetery, they had a bunch of trees like this. Bigger, though. We used to call them "pencil pines."

conway: I asked Cate about them, and she said these were probably the same species. A lot of people put them in cemeteries. If you cut a branch off one of these, it won't grow back, so I guess that reminds people of the permanence of death.

conway: Anyway, we never knew about that when I was a kid. We used to snap the branches off and whip each other with them.

`(A recorded lecture plays from a tape machine next to WILL's bunk.)`

lecturer: — and even hinted that he had in mind a design for this device, as recorded in the `Diary and Sundry Observations`.

lecturer: `(Reading.)` "Why should personalities in another existence or sphere waste their time working a little triangular piece of wood over a board with certain lettering on it? The whole business seems so childish to me ... if we are to make any real progress in psychic investigation, we must do it with scientific apparatus."

lecturer: Again, for Edison, a technical solution to every problem. He goes on to suggest the parameters of the apparatus, and — yes? A question in the back? James?

student: `(Indistinguishable.)`

lecturer: Yes, this idea of "personalities" lingering after death does `appear` to be in conflict with Edison's theories about what he called "life units," the subatomic entities that animate matter and then scatter to other configurations when a person passes on.

lecturer: But, given Edison's emphasis on `memory` in cognition — remember, we're talking about the inventor of the phonograph — and his colorful description of the "swarm" of interchangeable, drone-like — Edison even uses the word "proletarian" — life units animating the human mind, his theory naturally posits that any individual life unit possesses on its own some fragment of memory.

lecturer: So, according to Edison, when life units recombine from, say, a `soldier` into, say, a `flower`, we may be able — using some apparatus — to coax out from the flower memories of war!

`(The tape stops.)`

`(EZRA stops the tape.)`

`(WILL wakes up.)`

will: Well, hello, small man. You caught me in my pre-dawn nap. I try to sleep in little `nibbles`, when I can; it maximizes my time in the threshold states.

will: Oh, you know: the half-asleep, half-awake, in-between places.

will: Well, I used to work at a university, and I'd always eavesdrop on lectures through the ventilation system. Anything and everything; I'm a polymath by nature. An old friend recently found this box of tape-recorded lectures next to the dumpster there, and passed them on in the spirit of fondly recalling better days.

will: This one is ...

`(WILL looks at the label on the tape.)`

will: `(Reading.)` "History of the Philosophy of Death." Yikes.

will: I play these old taped lectures during my little nibble-naps, to absorb the information more easily. It's pretty effective; I wish I could do `everything` half-asleep!

will: Can't say I learned very much just now, though. I may have been too busy dreaming — a vivid, narcotic fantasia aboard the ... but those are always the quickest to dissipate. I'd better tell you about it now, before the spell is broken.

`(WILL takes a deep breath, focusing on the task of recalling his dream.)`

will: I was small. Not a child — an animal, maybe.

will: I patrolled the corridors of a great iron ship, searching for scraps and ... mice, I think? And crying, always, a weak and mournful "mew."

will: Other crewmen slumped in odd corners or lay drunk on the deck. The halls smelled of shame, defeat, and rotgut corn whiskey. They dumped artillery into the water, tore their flags into cloth scraps and made handkerchiefs to bury their sobbing faces.

will: They drifted on Lake Lethe, drinking the cold, black water and eating eyeless fish — raw, when they at last ran out of cooking fuel! They seemed, in their despair, to forget even language. After an interval of years, the ship crossed a threshold into absolute silence ...

will: Silence, except for my hopeless, whimpering cry ...

will: Anyway, that's all I remember.

will: Oh, no, not "bad." Unsettling. Puzzling.

will: But thanks for your concern, doc!

will: Hm. It's probably for the best — the images of dreams are often wasted on the waking.

will: Well, I've got a stew to start. You may want to hurry back above deck — I believe we're about to pass the bat sanctuary. It's quite a thing to see!

video: ... crushed tomatoes, salsa, or even a little ketchup; here's the thing: nobody has to know. Throw in some more of that spice blend we threw together earlier. Stir all that up and crack a beer, baby; you'll be here for a while ...

ezra: What did she just say to do? Will's trying to make this stew right now.

ezra: He put a couple mushrooms in. Then I think he forgot what he was doing for a little while?

ezra: I saw some maraschino cherries in there ...

ezra: Don't tell me. Will says it's better not to know their names.

shannon: Hm. Maybe I can help him figure it out; I got kind of sucked into this program.

will: ... add a few of these really big caps with the slimy gills. I shouldn't say "slimy" ... moist.

will: The lady in the video called for "portobello," but I prefer never to know a mushroom by name.

will: Sure, sure. `Sam & Ida's`. This stew is for `tomorrow`. It has to simmer all day! Some things are just better done slowly.

will: It will be, but not today; this stew is for `tomorrow`. It has to simmer all day! Some things are just better done slowly.

will: We've added the anonymous mushrooms, so `next`, we ... um ...

will: Hm. I've got the recipe video on pause next door ...

will: I used to follow a recipe I learned from Ida herself; the best cook you're gonna meet on this river. Of course, it had a few secret ingredients; she has the good sense to preserve some mystery around her cooking. Better for business.

will: Ida is so shrewd, she swore me not only to secrecy but to `ignorance`! I had to promise to forget the recipe just as soon as I'd cooked it. Let me tell you: it's not so easy to forget something on purpose as you may think, my friend.

will: Not so easy ...

will: ... and even `that` wasn't enough to convince her!

will: So, I trained rigorously in the art of forgetting, studying for months under a master amnesiac. Finally, I learned to forget so quickly and accurately that I was able to convince Ida to share with me the most obscure secrets of her kitchen.

will: As a demonstration of my trustworthiness, I forgot the names of my own parents, right there in front of her.

will: Every time I wanted to cook this legendary stew, I'd call Ida up on the telephone and ask her for a quick — temporary — reminder. Here on the boat, we haven't got a phone line, so ... I have to seek out culinary wisdom on videotapes of cooking shows.

will: So, back to the matter at hand! Next, we —

will: Oh, it's you. I thought ... never mind. Hello.

will: I don't have any crushed tomatoes. I have some ketchup ...

will: Oh, it's you. I thought ... never mind. Hello.

will: Well, I don't know that it qualifies as a "spice blend," but I spilled the salt in some of Cate's herbal tea here.

will: Oh, it's you. I thought ... never mind. Hello.

will: Right, we're stopping soon at `Sam & Ida's`. This stew is for tomorrow.

cate: `(To WILL.)` Did you win anything?[if !(floating-gas-station-scratch-ticket-choice=none)]

will: `(Tragically.)` I have misplaced the damn ticket.[if !(floating-gas-station-scratch-ticket-choice=none)]

cate: I'm sure it'll turn up.[if !(floating-gas-station-scratch-ticket-choice=none)]

cate: `(To SHANNON.)` Hey there, could I ask you —

cate: `(To WILL.)` Wait. Why are you cooking? We're stopping at `Sam & Ida's` in twenty minutes.

will: It's for tomorrow!

cate: Oh. Well, just don't forget about it this time ... I'm not scrubbing up any more boiled-over sludge.

cate: `(To SHANNON.)` Sorry. Listen, I have a favor to ask. There's a package for the telephone exchange, and I can't get the `Mammoth` back there. Could you deliver it for us?

cate: That guy I mentioned from the TV station, Dashiell Morse, works there now. Thought you might like to chat with him anyway.[if shannon-saw-weaver-video]

cate: Thanks a lot. I've got the dinghy all ready to go. Maybe take your friend with you — one of you can man the outboard motor, and the other can aim the flashlight. It's dark!

Blue-black morning swings across the screen. The birdwatcher tramps through dewy grass. He stops with a wet grunt, and rests the camera on a pile of rocks.

"Birds, From Great Distances, Episode 12" appears briefly on screen. He twists the lens by hand, pushing the frame past trees, onto the road, and coming to a halt zoomed in on a fuzzy, fist-sized artifact resting on the momentary stroke of a telephone wire.

Shannon and the birdwatcher observe. He breathes heavily, and she holds her breath, like she's afraid he might hear, afraid of distracting him or of being discovered and contaminating his perfect isolation.

Traffic picks up, indifferent. As the sky lightens, the black smudge in the center of the frame gradually becomes more prominent, but never in any greater detail.

It's raining heavily as the title "Birds, From Great Distances, Episode 27" flashes on screen. She knows by the sound: the volley of rainwater on mud, tree branches, the rusted bed of an old pickup, and on the birdwatcher's own skin and hair. He swears under his breath. She can hear the rain there, too, in his wet breath and the wet exclamation of his palm, slopping the water from his forehead and shoulders.

The camera is pointed at a cedar shed with one hinged door angling erratically in the storm. From this distance, it's hard to tell if it's been damaged or simply left open. When the door swings wide, she can see that the shed is full of small boards — scraps, maybe, or rough cut pieces meant for very small projects and then stacked carelessly on shelves, in piles, quickly sorted and then forgotten.

And there's the bird: a blue ball taking shelter on the shed floor, nested in scrap wood.

The video is black. Shannon only knows it's playing because of the cicadas, and then "Birds, From Great Distances, Episode 81."

The screen isn't totally dark, of course. It's what she thinks of as `video-black` — a deep, mottled blue, noisy with magnetic decay and the cottony limits of the camera's sensors. It's the black she sees before she goes to sleep, the `night-black`, the `eyes-shut-against-streetlights-black`. She has more words for it than she expected.

She wonders what words the birdwatcher uses for it. She wonders where he is, relative to the camera, or where the bird is, for that matter.

The on-screen title identifies this program as "The History of Weather, Volume 3: Drought."

Over footage of a dry riverbed, the program's narrator explains the differences between modern drought and ancient drought. The narrator proposes that modern drought may hardly be considered weather at all, since its severity and behavior are so influenced by human activity.

It looks like Will — though much younger — reclined on a sofa and taking calls. His arm, draped over the back of the couch, holds a bottle of something clear.

People call in with stories of their encounters with the supernatural. Will offers little commentary or response. He acknowledges them. Sometimes he interrupts to clarify, or repeat something back to them. Mostly he just listens, and pulls from that clear glass bottle.

A handmade banner strung above the couch reads "I BELIEVE YOU."

An elderly couple sit on folding chairs in the middle of a TV studio, undecorated except for a funereal lily in a thin, blue vase on the table. The lights are a bit too dim to make out their features. She reads from a newspaper with unhurried efficiency.

Gloria B. of Munfordville passed away on Monday at her residence. Survivors include her children: Dakota, Montana, Minnesota, and Bobby, all of Munfordville. A memorial service will be held at 7 PM Thursday at Hatton-Huffman Funeral Home in Munfordville, with cremation to follow.

She never knew Gloria. He thinks he may have heard the name, wondering aloud if she ever worked at a cafe down there in Munfordville. The woman who ran that place was once called "Gloria," or maybe still is.

They take a call: someone who knew Gloria B., if not very well. The caller once installed a satellite dish at Gloria's house, a nine-hundred square foot, ranch-style home on two acres at a dead end, backed by weeds and pine.

When the caller mounted the ladder up to Gloria's roof, she slid open her window and tugged urgently at his pant leg. He followed her gaze behind the house to two wild turkeys picking through the weeds. Gloria and the caller watched, silent and still, as the huge birds foraged obliviously into the trees. Then he installed the satellite dish.

At first, she thinks the video might be paused, but on closer inspection she can see the edges of the frame shrinking inwards around the chairs, desk, and loose, gray furniture of a sterile waiting room.

She watches for a while. She's not sure for how long. Several minutes. The zoom tightens — so gradually she sometimes forgets it's happening at all — and finally rests on an oscillating desk fan.

She ejects the tape before the next part of the triptych begins.

A woman sits at a card table with a lamp, notepad, and a beige multi-line telephone. A scrolling marquee reads, "SWAP SHOP BUY SELL TRADE OR WANT TO BUY CALL THE BROKER," and then a phone number, repeating without pause.

Eddie has fresh eggs to trade for a basil plant — a dozen eggs for one plant, which is a steal. Eddie's eggs are good eggs.

Sadie has a bag of fine shells. No reasonable offer will be refused.

Christopher is looking for a scrub plane in decent shape. It doesn't have to be too nice, just something to get a tabletop near to flat from some oak that's been air-drying in a barn for twenty (maybe thirty) years, and while it's true he could get the job done without it since he's got a nice, heavy jack plane his grandfather used to use, he'd just as soon not fuss with grinding a camber onto it, and anyway he has a little extra capital from a swap earlier in the week and wouldn't mind putting it down on a decent scrub plane before the cash burns a hole through his pocket.

Carla is looking to trade typing services for calligraphy services, or vice versa.

The broker takes notes and switches lines, but never speaks, drunk on the hum of commerce.

The words "Tip Of Your Tongue," and a phone number are occasionally superimposed on the screen. A few dozen people sit in bleachers, shouting out ideas, loosely moderated by a short woman with a microphone and laser pointer.

One caller is trying to remember the name of an old friend she hasn't seen in years. It starts with a consonant. It's full of consonants, actually; there are maybe one or two vowels. It sounds long but she doesn't remember having had any trouble spelling it at any point. The friend had brown hair? That's probably not helpful.

Another caller is trying to remember a verb that means "to make oneself vulnerable." Something like "to expose oneself," but not quite that. To become `emotionally`, `spiritually` vulnerable, like with a lover, or a poem.

A third caller just knows there was something he was supposed to do tonight. He offers some biographical background, a narrative of his day. He's unemployed, has no real hobbies, and has already eaten. Few ideas from the bleachers.

That awful hum ... it seems to start before Shannon even hits "play." Then there's the familiar room. There are the blank, gray walls marked with tape, and school desks, and this time she notices a few more details: the murky carpet like standing water, some video equipment stashed in the corner, a row of lockers.

And there's Weaver, looking serenely at the camera. As before, she starts speaking and, as before, there's no sound but that hum. Shannon finds Weaver's words coming back to her, as they appear in captions on the screen.

weaver: ... mail, school, and these magnificent, tragic horses.

weaver: Go underground, as deep as you can go. The air is cool and the earth is damp, and when you close your eyes you are surrounded by the dead. Remember where that is? You'll find your way from there.

weaver: I think this place is what you're looking for. Some of it will wash away soon, but I think you'll be happy here, even without the mail, school ...

The text repeats for a few minutes, and Shannon stops the tape.

cate: `(To WILL)` No, no, it was only a few notes. Slow and sad. Like funeral music, you know?

will: I don't remember it being sad, just simple and unburdened. Maybe that's what funeral music sounds like to me: unburdened.

will: `(To SHANNON)` Oh hello! Cate and I were just trying to remember the mammoth's song —

cate: — but neither of us have heard it for years. Will just found the mechanism.

will: In the mammoth's belly! Hidden in gritty, matted fur. Ha! It's like a big music box — a slowly spinning cylinder covered in metal pins that pluck her dulcet guts and pump the bellows in her bowels.

will: But some of the pins are rusted and worn away. Easy to replace, if we can ever remember what the notes were.

cate: Did I hear you browsing the archive next door? Find anything good?

cate: People just left them on board. Passengers, I mean.

cate: Oh dear. I don't even know what's on half of those tapes anymore.

cate: They used to all be movies and that kind of stuff — I like nature documentaries especially. Some people left home movies or little art videos they'd made. But that damned VCR `devours` anything you leave in it!

cate: It just switches into "record" mode at random, I think, and picks up whatever's coming in over the antenna. Of course the only station we get down here is that WEVP. Community television, you know. They've got that show with the gentleman playing banjo in his birthday suit — I'm sure you've seen it.

will: Oh yes.

cate: And if there's no tape in the machine when it tries to start recording, it makes this `awful` sound! Like putting a squeaky toy in a food processor. I can hear it above deck. Awful!

cate: That's why I put the sign up, "please do not rewind after watching!" At least that way nothing gets taped over anymore.

cate: `(To WILL)` You had a TV show? I never knew!

will: Um ... no, I don't believe I ever have.

will: The title sounds familiar, but more like it's something I heard about, like second-hand information.

cate: They let `anybody` on there, that's the whole idea. "Community television," or "public access," they call it.

will: I `would` say it's possible that I did the show you saw, and then forgot. Wouldn't be the first time. The studio ... no, I can't say that I remember where WEVP is, sorry.

cate: Hm. I don't know. Will?

will: I don't know.

cate: I guess I never thought of it. It must be nearby, right? It is "community" television.

will: Dashiell would know.

cate: Yes!

cate: My hero!

will: `(To CATE)` We were talking earlier — she has an intuition for these things.

cate: You should meet Dashiell. He did a lot of volunteer work for WEVP, in the early days — wiring up antennas and relays, stuff like that. I think you two would have a lot to talk about. He works at the telephone exchange.

will: No, I'm afraid he's been let go.

cate: Oh yeah? That's odd, he still takes the ferry to work every day. I'm sure he's at the telephone exchange right now, in fact — I dropped him there a few hours ago.

cate: We're stopping at the telephone exchange again shortly, to deliver their mail and pick up their trash. You should go ashore when we do — ask for Dashiell!

johnny: Oh ...

junebug: Hm?

johnny: I remember this.

junebug: I told you s —

johnny: — yeah, you don't have to say it.

junebug: Only because it's always true.

johnny: Ha ha.

johnny: She played at the flower shop. Cyrano opened. He was having trouble with his tape machine, so he just droned out on the lap steel. He got really into it, and he went on for, like, `forever`. Everyone was falling asleep.

junebug: Not everyone.

johnny: The tape stuff sounds good. That kid's doing a good job.[if ezra-has-recordings-to-play]

junebug: Yep, he's a natural-born tape-player.[if ezra-has-recordings-to-play]

junebug: Wow, look at Ezra. He's rapt.[if !ezra-has-recordings-to-play]

johnny: Ha ha. Yeah, he's really into it.[if !ezra-has-recordings-to-play]

johnny: So ... we were talking about him earlier, at the gas station ...[if !(floating-gas-station-junebug-third-person-reaction=none)]

junebug: Sure, I haven't forgotten, cricket.[if !(floating-gas-station-junebug-third-person-reaction=none)]

johnny: Cool, yeah, I know.[if !(floating-gas-station-junebug-third-person-reaction=none)]

johnny: Any, um ... What do you think? About Ezra traveling with us for a while?[if !(floating-gas-station-junebug-third-person-reaction=none)]

johnny: I was talking to him back at Sam & Ida's.[if NOT !(floating-gas-station-junebug-third-person-reaction=none)]

johnny: He seems a little lost.[if NOT !(floating-gas-station-junebug-third-person-reaction=none)][if restaurant-ezra-plan=undecided]

johnny: He said he wouldn't mind tagging along with us ... for a ways.[if NOT !(floating-gas-station-junebug-third-person-reaction=none)][if restaurant-ezra-plan=musicians]

johnny: He said he was headed back to meet with his brother, look around for his folks some more, but ... I get the sense he doesn't really know where he's going.[if NOT !(floating-gas-station-junebug-third-person-reaction=none)][if restaurant-ezra-plan=julian]

junebug: Another lost soul ... Well, he's in good company.[if NOT !(floating-gas-station-junebug-third-person-reaction=none)]

johnny: Maybe he could ... He could travel with `us` for a bit?[if NOT !(floating-gas-station-junebug-third-person-reaction=none)][if !(restaurant-ezra-plan=musicians)]

junebug: Hm. I'm not sure that's a good idea.[if NOT !(floating-gas-station-junebug-third-person-reaction=none)][if !(restaurant-ezra-plan=musicians)]

junebug: If I sound hesitant or something, it's just ...

junebug: When I met you — when we met, we were nothing, just these little gray shadows. And we grew, and filled in, and ... but we did all that together. Ezra, sure he's just a kid, but he's already a `person`.

junebug: What would that do to our `system`? Our `chemistry`?

junebug: Hey, I got the masters for the new record back from Lazar. They're OK, but I —

johnny: What?! You listened to them without me?

junebug: You were at the arcade; I didn't want to throw off your pinball game.[if three:breakdown-bike-johnny-hobby=recordings]

junebug: You were at the pet shop; I didn't think I could tear you free.[if three:breakdown-bike-johnny-hobby=animals]

johnny: Oh. OK.

junebug: Anyway, there are a few spots where the strings distorted a little, and the whole thing has `way` too much reverb, but overall it sounds pretty good. The new drum machine fits right into the mix.

johnny: `Nice`.

junebug: The only question is how to do it `live`. I can't control the drum machine and sing and dance at the same time, and you've got your hands full of keytar ...

junebug: I'm just saying ... Maybe we `could` use a third pair of hands up there.[if junebug-wants-ezra-to-join]

johnny: Oh ...[if junebug-wants-ezra-to-join]

johnny: Oh![if junebug-wants-ezra-to-join]

junebug: Think you could teach that kid to play a drum machine?[if junebug-wants-ezra-to-join]

johnny: Ma'am, I could teach a `dog` to play a drum machine.[if junebug-wants-ezra-to-join]

junebug: Well, that'll be our backup plan.[if junebug-wants-ezra-to-join]

junebug: So, listen: if that kid `really` wants to tag along, and you `really` want to try making this a trio, then, I guess ...[if !junebug-wants-ezra-to-join+ezra-wants-to-join-robots]

junebug: Think you could teach that kid to play a drum machine?[if !junebug-wants-ezra-to-join+ezra-wants-to-join-robots]

johnny: Ma'am, I could teach a `dog` to play a drum machine.[if !junebug-wants-ezra-to-join+ezra-wants-to-join-robots]

junebug: Well, that'll be our backup plan.[if !junebug-wants-ezra-to-join+ezra-wants-to-join-robots]

johnny: So how do you think we'll swing that? Playing the drum machine live.[if !junebug-wants-ezra-to-join+!ezra-wants-to-join-robots]

junebug: We'll figure something out. Maybe glue it to the back of your keytar.[if !junebug-wants-ezra-to-join+!ezra-wants-to-join-robots]

johnny: Oh, yeah ... Or swap the buttons out for footpedals.[if !junebug-wants-ezra-to-join+!ezra-wants-to-join-robots]

junebug: Or put the drums on tape beforehand, like Cyrano does.[if !junebug-wants-ezra-to-join+!ezra-wants-to-join-robots]

johnny: Oh yeah. I guess we have a lot of options.[if !junebug-wants-ezra-to-join+!ezra-wants-to-join-robots]

junebug: Life is full of possibilities, cricket.[if !junebug-wants-ezra-to-join+!ezra-wants-to-join-robots]

johnny: Yes, ma'am.[if !junebug-wants-ezra-to-join+!ezra-wants-to-join-robots]

I remember the air was warm, perfumed. You were playing with some petals you found on the floor, and I was looking at the ceiling.

I remember the ceiling was glass. During the week, that room was a greenhouse. I don't know where they put all the plants when they had bands in. Maybe outside, if the weather was nice. It was nice that night; warm, smelled like spring.

I remember the folding chairs — so uncomfortable, but I guess it was their only option. They had to pack everything up during the week so there'd be room to display the flowers.

We were in the back ...

I remember ...

She was really getting into it! The sound was leaking out of her cheap headphones a bit, mingling with Cyrano's drone, and you thought you recognized the music.

I remember it was a driving game. We couldn't see the screen directly, but it was reflected in her glasses. Also she was sharply rocking back-and-forth — hugging corners, I guess — and sometimes she'd sort of jut one of her shoulders forward like she was drifting.

I would have been content just to sit in that folding chair and drift on Cyrano's lap steel soundwaves, but you were feeling restless, so we went for a walk.

He seemed cool.

You were a little put off by the smell — of the chili, I mean. It was obviously spiked. Even in that fresh, fragrant greenhouse, the boozy fumes stung a little. I've heard of cooking chili with a little bit of vodka, but that guy must have made a chili cocktail. Like a "Bloody Mary" with beans.

I would have been content just to sit in that folding chair and drift on Cyrano's lap steel soundwaves, but you were feeling restless, so we went for a walk.

She was a scrawny calico. We'd seen her there before. She must have lived there. I wonder if she preferred the peace and quiet of the daytime flower shop, or the buzz of activity and ear-scratching strangers that came with nighttime concerts.

Why do all the best music venues have live-in cats?

I would have been content just to sit in that folding chair and drift on Cyrano's lap steel soundwaves, but you were feeling restless, so we went for a walk.

We used a code of our own design, inscrutable to observers, transmitted by ...

You wanted to drive through the night, and try to get to a music festival in West Virginia in time to make some tips in the parking lot. I didn't think we'd earn the gas money back, but I was willing to be persuaded.

We abandoned the subject, and the folding chairs, and went for a little walk.

I'd been staring at it all day, cleaned the whole thing with a toothbrush, doused the battery compartment in WD-40, but it still did this weird chirp out of nowhere every once in a while.

I think it still does, actually? I guess we never found a solution. We went for a little walk to take our minds off it.

It was the one about the prisoners exchanging dirty moonshine recipes. I told you the one about the three bears and the outhouse. Then you told me the one about the dentist with the rude prosthetic. We had to leave the room.

Cyrano was really getting into it.

He plays it with the back of a pocket knife; have you ever noticed that? I wonder why. I should have asked.

I watched for a while before I noticed you'd left to wander. Of course I followed.

They're very expressive, but they don't match the music at all — like he's channeling one feeling into his guitar, and diverting everything else out through his eyebrows.

I watched for a while before I noticed you'd left to wander. Of course I followed.

I started nodding a little. You pinched my elbow, and we slipped quietly out of the room.

I remember the air was cool and damp, like a cave ... I remember the lingering perfume of the greenhouse giving way to an earthy plant smell, like we were digging down, into the roots.

We wandered between some low houses and came out onto an empty street.

Did somebody come to the show on horseback? Or maybe he belonged to someone in the neighborhood; it was a residential area.

Nobody in the greenhouse looked like they came in on a horse. Maybe the chili guy.

We checked down in the basement, too.

You thought you heard a truck in the alley, loose and rattling like it might have had a trailer.

When we got outside, it had vanished.

I remember the radio was playing some old Patsy Cline. Right? Or was it Connie Smith ...

The clerk was reading one of those conspiracy-slash-celebrity-gossip-slash-bigfoot-sighting newspapers.

The horse ate the carrots, slowly and glumly. They're beautiful animals, horses; everyone seems to agree. I think it's because they always look so sad.

We made our way back to the greenhouse. We must have taken a shortcut or something, because I don't remember the walk back at all.

I put my head on your shoulder. We heard soft music from a car radio, but couldn't see the car; it must have been around the corner or down an alley or something. You tapped your foot and hummed. I made up lyrics but didn't say them out loud.

You wanted to open it.

So you opened it, and there was that toadfrog. You put him in your pocket, and he traveled with us for ... six months? What a charmer.

So we left it there.

I remember the door was stuck. There was a large gap underneath it.

It wasn't as stuck as we thought. The door burst open, and we fell through.

Through the gap, I could see brightly-colored paper.

You came back with a handful of dirt and confetti.

The room was crowded with colorful wreaths for births, quinceañeras, weddings, funerals.

Celebratory wreaths. But there was something kind of sad about it.

We felt around in the dark, careful to keep one hand on a wall so we weren't totally adrift in the darkness. I remember tripping over something — I guess we'll never know what — and stumbling, and you caught me. After a few minutes we found ourselves back in the basement.

We got back to the greenhouse just as Clara was tuning up. She relaxed her shoulders, took a deep breath, raised both hands into their precise positions, and the room started shaking.

Clara hit a note that made the glass rattle in sympathy a perfect two octaves lower. She looked like a sorceress, tearing down the building with an effortless wave and incredible focus, coaxing the empty air into some kind of moaning, rattling demon. That's the thing about the theremin — it's the only instrument you never touch.

You could see a wave of concern propagating through the greenhouse. People looking up at the trembling glass ceiling, looking at each other to see if anyone else was worried, trying to catch Clara's eye and discern if she was doing it on purpose or not; if she were really trying to bury us all in glass.

It was a tense five minutes. We, the audience, alternated between fearing for our lives and lamenting hers that could have given her the kind of emotional experience to play this devastating song.

Then slowly, gently, Clara's hands came to rest. The theremin went quiet, the glass stopped rattling, and the room relaxed, unharmed.

clara: Thank you, Ezra.

clara: Oh, hm. I don't think I understand your question.

clara: Oh, right. Evaluation. Good music and bad music.

clara: I don't like to think about my work that way. Sometimes it's difficult not to; of course it's natural to want your art to be "good," even if you don't know what that means, but ...

clara: A scientist? Oh no. Ha ha.

clara: But ... like a scientist, I experiment. `Unlike` a scientist, I have no hypothesis.

clara: I try not to be attached to outcomes. Does that make sense? My violin teacher used to tell me to play like a tourist: "Act as though you've never been there before."

clara: I try not to think about anything at all. My violin teacher used to say, "Why make art? To quiet the mind."

clara: Still ... I'm not very good at it. Quieting my mind.

clara: When I'm playing this piece, I'm usually thinking of my uncle, Andrius. I never knew him when I was a child, except in postcards, but we became very close over the last few years.

clara: He was a collector of sounds. Like you! He traveled and recorded the songs of birds, of rivers, of city traffic, of crooked, moonlit highways. He sold his sounds by mail-order to movie studios and private collectors.

clara: They ended up in films and television shows, mostly, dislocated and reattached to other images.

clara: So. No quiet in this mind, I'm sorry to say.

clara: I hope you'll continue making tapes, Ezra. I'm sure there are many more people who would enjoy listening to them, on this river and elsewhere.

clara: That's a very special tape player you have there. It can play forwards or backwards, slow or fast. You may discover some completely new sounds tonight, Ezra.

clara: So. Are you ready?

clara: Excellent. I can tell you have a good intuition for sound, and that's very important in this piece.

clara: Oh, that's OK. In fact, it's probably better; musicians often overprepare, and in this piece I prefer to capture a sense of spontaneity. That's why I'm touring alone, and not asking other musicians to accompany me.

clara: Any questions, before we begin?

clara: Play your tape player. You may play any tape, at any speed and volume, even backwards. Just listen to the music and use your intuition. Or ... it may be better if you try `not` to listen to the music. This technique is called "indeterminacy."

clara: There's only one way to find out.

clara: Hm. It doesn't have a name. Would you like to name it?

clara: "[variable: dockyard-performance-title]."

clara: Perfect.

clara: I agree.

clara: Alright. Let's begin.

clara: What's this place like? "Dogwood Drive," it's in a small town, or ... ?

shannon: It ... I really don't know. Ha ha. I've got the manifest the old man had in his truck, here:

shannon: `(Reading.)` Lysette's Antiques ... Mail-order delivery ... No return address ... Shipping address "5 Dogwood Drive." Packing list ...

shannon: And then it's just numbers. I guess the inventory numbers of the antiques he was supposed to be delivering.

shannon: Anyway, I'm glad you're coming with us.

clara: Yes. I'm always eager to see more of the country. And I enjoy the company. I will have to find a bus or a train to get on to Nashville by evening.

shannon: Well, they have buses everywhere, right?

shannon: Or, hey — `I` could drive you to Nashville. Seems I have a truck now. Only ...

shannon: How are we going to get it up these stairs?

junebug: That's quite a staircase.

junebug: No way out but up.

junebug: I guess we could wait for the `Mammoth` to come back around and take us a little further down, but that won't be until late afternoon.

junebug: Sure, I can think of a few things. Nothing that'll get that truck up the staircase, though.

junebug: Not with that attitude.

junebug: No, there isn't.

junebug: Looks like we're making the rest of this trip on foot.

junebug: Sure; I don't think anyone but us could get it started again.

junebug: Naw. We've been loading and unloading gear since the stars were young. We're our own roadies, right? We've got `expertise`.

junebug: `(To JOHNNY.)` Alright, cricket, let's get this delivery packed and tied into bundles. We're hiking it upstairs.

ezra: What's in there?

johnny: Antiques, I guess.

ezra: "Antiques."

johnny: Yeah, antiques are ... It's like junk, but people will pay for it.

ezra: Oh.

shannon: `(To CLARA.)` Sorry, I guess you'll be taking the bus after all.

clara: It's OK. It will be an adventure.

`(SHANNON sighs and stretches.)`

junebug: Tired? Don't worry, lady. We're almost there.

Junebug and Johnny watched the show from the dockyard with the others.

That gas station isn't anchored to anything; it follows the current. We might run into it anywhere along the river. Cate just starts looking for it when she's low on fuel, and the Echo provides. It's not usually on the `lake`, though ... that was strange.

Yeah, she's a thrillseeker, and you'd never guess it — she seems so `centered`, doesn't she? I've always thought so. Maybe that's why she enjoys rocking the boat a little. She knows she can stay upright through a little bad weather, so she can just relax and enjoy the chaos. Well, I admire her confidence.

But there was plenty of chaos to go around that night already, with that ugly storm upstairs, though we didn't know the extent of the flood damage yet at that point ...

The sign just says "GAS" in big, blocky letters, leaving little room for ambiguity. It has to be legible from a ways off, and anyway nobody wants to be left guessing about where they'll get their fuel, especially not on a night like that, with that storm system tearing around, flooding roads and dashing gardens.

She thought the rude weather upstairs was flooding the river, and everyone headed down to the lake to ride it out on calmer waters.

Anyway, my mechanical musician friends went ashore for a bit, too, looking for some snack foods — Cate doesn't stock anything aboard `The Mucky Mammoth` that doesn't grow wild, and it's not to everyone's taste — or maybe just to stretch their limbs and charge their batteries.

I'm sure they needed that moment to themselves. You wouldn't think a pair who made their living performing on a stage could be so introverted, but they really were, in their way. Sure, they had plenty of friends along the river, where they traveled and performed often in those days, but I think nobody else ever really got through. That inner circle was drawn with two strokes — I mean, for a while, anyway ...

I don't mean confused like ... not like when somebody asks you a question and you don't know the answer, but you feel like you should, and you get that kind of alarmed blankness in your mind's eye. Not like that.

They looked confused like when you see two kinds of motor oil, and they cost the same, and you've never heard of either of them, and you read all the text on both packages, but all that new information just makes the choice seem even more impossible. You might be inclined to flip a coin — but how could you, with something that important?

Naturally, I assume they met the gas station attendant, a man as anonymous and itinerant as the place itself. I assume he talked their ear off — everyone on this river does — but I know that fellow well enough to know he wouldn't want us reminiscing on him now.

So, they came back aboard, `Mammoth` refueled, and we ambled on toward The Rum Colony.

Cate came back from her mushroom hunting excursion with a small basket full of oddly-colored caps and stems, no doubt delicious to a morsel. Of course, she intended to use many of them in her medical practice: to ease the pain, nausea, and anxiety of pregnant women. But I can usually rely on my charms to snare a bite or two.

I have no preferences, when it comes to mushrooms, by which I mean that I treat them all interchangeably. I prefer not to know their names or qualities before I cook them up and eat them. It's useless, after all; they "escape your erudition," as the fella says.

That's a good mushroom hunting island, I guess. It's plenty damp, and they've got the cypress trees there to grow on. Of course they're not indigenous — the cypress trees, I mean.

Everyone down here seems to agree that they were planted as some kind of a marker or memorial. And most people will tell you they've got a distant relation or acquaintance who helped dig a hole or water a seedling.

But nobody remembers what it was all for, and nobody left a plaque or anything. It's a shame — looks like it must have been a lot of work. Well, at least we have the trees.

And the mushrooms!

While those two gentle beasts kept things under control aboard `The Mucky Mammoth`, I went ashore with the rest of the crew to make use of a public telephone.

I called into my answering machine, which I routinely neglect for intervals of months, to chip away at the pile. Cate checked in on a client of hers. She's a birth doula, in addition to being a tugboat captain. Did you know that?

Clara talked to her sister in Lithuania ... illness in the family, I gather.

Anyway, the evening hit a low point not much later on, so let's take a quiet moment here to listen to the river and reflect on the unburdened sleep of dogs.

Cate likes to give her passengers the opportunity to make some floating-around money, and that lab pays cash in small envelopes upon completion of their little gauntlet of non-invasive tests. It's a project of the university. I think they're studying ... I don't remember.

The `Mammoth` also collects their trash — mostly shredded paper, though Cate says once they left half a vending machine on the dock.

But nobody seemed too interested in the lab stop that night. They stayed aboard and played a card game. I read a book. Let me tell you about it:

The town is never named, but it's colorfully described — "woolly" fog, "broken" coastline, "provincial" shopkeepers.

The main characters are mail carriers.

It's some historic landmark being maintained by a bunch of college kids and aging social misfits.

The main characters work in the gift shop.

The building is drab, anonymous, dull ... I think? It's not really described — the book focuses on the people who work there.

The main characters both answer phones.

They're co-workers — Mimi and Jenn. Mimi is older than Jenn, but they seem to be at the same point in their lives. They like their work. They have a playfully antagonistic relationship with their boss.

I actually only read a bit from the middle ...

I don't know what the event was, exactly — I guess I `would` know, if I'd started at the beginning like the writer probably meant me to, but I've never found that way of reading suited me very well. Death of a loved one, I think — something like that.

It's a sweet and uncomplicated passage. Human affection for animals is a good model for pure compassion.

Something got messed up — a document misplaced or filed under the wrong heading ... I wasn't really paying close attention to that part, but the event prompted a long conversation about the procedural history of their work together, and that illustrated a history of their friendship in broad, suggestive strokes.

In my life's work as the Echo River's premier anecdotalist, I've always found that a carefully excerpted moment is more powerful than any epic history. That's my excuse, anyway, for reading books from the inside out.

So I stopped there. My eyelids were getting heavy. We were headed back to the lake, and a chance encounter with `The Iron Pariah`.

I rarely miss a chance to lounge on the beach around The Rum Colony — and I do enjoy a drink, though I don't find their signature liquor suits me — but this time I elected to stay aboard and shoot the breeze with Cate over some mineral water. Still, I heard reports.

Not at all surprising — he seemed to have some momentum, and Patch mixes up some pretty `magnetic` drinks.

See, that beach is lit by a congregation of amber torches stuck in the sand. They mix the torch fuel with citronella oil — it keeps the bugs away, which keeps the bats away, but the light doesn't fall very far from the flame. The rest is shadows and sandy echoes, and that's the part Ezra wanted to tell me about.

I have a childhood memory of running barefoot along the Ohio river at dusk, so I know roughly what he meant ...

I knew better than to pry ...

I'm sure those two were more eager to listen to the house band — I can't remember exactly who was playing, but Patch always has someone in to tranquilize the crowd ...

Oh, if we're talking about The Rum Colony, I should tell you about Patch.

He's the bartender, general manager, "creative director" — I guess that means he books the music ... He's pretty much run the place for the last seven years. A lot of folks assume he owns it, but that is not the case.

The Rum Colony is owned by a dead man named Vernon. Technically, it would be owned by the power company, who once bought a sizable interest from Vernon as part of a state-sponsored investment program, but a clause in that arrangement requires them to keep their hands off the day-to-day — and most the profits — so long as Vernon walks this earth. The upshot of all this is that nobody came forth to identify the body ...

Patch is a good guy, though: kind, trustworthy, and he mixes a strong Mai Tai, if that's your thing.

See that rough circle of rocky protrusions, near the shore? It's more intricate than it looks; more than two-thirds of it is actually underwater. I haven't seen it myself, but listen to this:

It's man-made, and the rocks weren't placed according to their size, so what's visible is a more or less uniformly random selection of the overall shape. It looks like it might be a spiral, all told, or maybe some kind of meditative labyrinth.

At the head of it is a petrified oak stump. That was moved here from above ground, of course, decades ago. That's where the ceremony took place.

The Locke-Lucks were married here. Many frail-tongued observers said they should just go with "Locke" or "Luck," or split the difference with "Look," or even "Lick," or really anything else, but it was never going to happen.

She was a volunteer teaching conflict mediation skills to guards, and he was employed at the side gate accepting deliveries and greeting visitors. Neither of them once saw a prisoner.

They took a chemistry class together where she challenged him to "shoot the moon" — learning formulae and compounds well enough to answer every test question exactly wrong, and achieve a perfect failing grade.

Their driver's license photographs were mixed up by the clerk, a mistake they discovered immediately but never corrected.

Their engagement was welcome news for the family businesses, who had been looking for some opportunity to merge interests.

The natural next step was to start a local paper, what would become `The Echo River Evening Record`.

Surely someone in some branch of those two great trees had elephant husbandry on the brain. This is all speculation.

The ceremony itself was humble and perfunctory, and it must have somehow involved these rocks.

And it must have also involved that petrified stump. Neither family is particularly religious, but rumors persist that the officiant wore a robe.

See that? Just looks like a swirling mess of garbage, doesn't it? Well ... that's what it is.

I don't know why trash seems to collect right there, of all the spots on the lake. It's always been that way. Everyone just navigates around it, like it was an island or something.

"Gemini Canoe & Firewood." The place was run by twin sisters — Cassie, and ... Paula, I think. This was years ago.

They used to rent out canoes to tourists, campers, pilgrims, folks like that. They must have had some kind of deal with the distillery; you'd always see a couple of Hard Times boys posted up on the dock, peddling small bottles to their customers.

Cassie and Paula worked those old canoes to death, wrung every penny out of them. They'd only take one out of commission when it was truly, demonstrably dangerous, and you couldn't get a refund unless your boat was visibly taking on water. The side business in firewood was a stroke of minor genius.

Those all-in-one desks, like they have in schools, if I remember right. It's been a few years since I saw the inside of one!

Those must have washed down from somewhere. I've never known there to be a school on the lake ... Oh, there was "Gemini School of Beauty." It was run by sisters, Cassie and Paula, indistinguishable except for their haircuts. But I wouldn't think they'd have used desks like `that`.

We used to stop there most every night to let someone off for a cheap haircut — student stylists, you know — they spared many a sailor the pain of a botched do-it-yourself do!

But I guess they got in deep to the power company; those blow dryers and curling irons burn a lot of coal. It's a shame they had to close down. The haircuts are gone, but the hair keeps growing!

Yeah, this cluttered place makes a decent local museum. It's as good a history as `I` could ever tell ...

We arrived at a small houseboat neighborhood that sometimes hosted concerts for the pleasure of its residents, where Clara was scheduled that night to perform.

That right there is Ratliff Monuments, if you ever need a headstone carved ... for a loved one, I mean.

Violet Ratliff, never married, nevertheless bore six children (Earl, Kelly, Barb, Ron, Young Earl, and Beauty), and for each birth she locked the doors of Ratliff Monuments for only one day, even with Young Earl, when she was in labor for thirty-six hours.

Well, that's what folks said, and I met her, and I believe them; she had the unyielding disposition of a cliffside.

None of Violet's children had any desire to go into monument-making.

This was to be a lifelong passion for Earl, though cut short by bad wiring.

There's some truth to that; very little demand for monuments to the living, after all.

She ended up reading scripts in a call center, where she only occasionally has to press a button or take down an order. Mostly she talks and listens, which suits her well enough.

The run of the shop fell at last to Young Earl, the only Ratliff still at home when his mother finally passed at eighty-two, and who then had the honor of engraving her headstone.

He's done well, for the most part.

The "showcase," a mock cemetery out front, was mostly washed away. Stone monuments, bobbing violently in the first torrents of the flood, eventually sank and spread along the channel bottom down-river, an elongated graveyard for no human loss, visited by eyeless fish and adorned with indifferent wreaths of algae.

If a few stray stones ended up at the bottom of Lake Lethe, too, we'll never know.

Young Earl is the last of his short line, professionally, and there's nobody around qualified to carve his monument, so he's already claimed one of those at the bottom of the river for himself.

It's his hands, cut and bruised by missed strokes, shaken apart from the inside, too. He learned from Violet, when striking a block of stone with a mallet and chisel, to absorb the extra shock right into his bones so as to keep the apparatus straight and carve a perfect line.

He spends his time outside work just caring for his hands, soaking his bones in salt water, doing little exercises and stretches. It won't improve the straightness of his marks, but it might put off the day he finds himself unable to carve a line at all, scribbling on rocks, like his ancestors. That's the day he has nightmares about. He dreads it like death, though he makes no distinction between the two.

It's easy to miss, but beneath that quarter-acre swarm of moths — that's `[template: mothBinomialName]`, the [template: mothCommonName], [template: mothDetail] — is a quarter-acre sunflower orchard, and beneath that sunflower orchard there are two small lots with small houses, positioned so they just about butt right up against each other.

The houses are empty now of human life. There's no sign of a person, or anything living except for moths and overgrowth. There are some pipes bolted into the cave wall near the perimeter, and a few stone scars where other pipes have been ripped away by scavengers — these once supported the large "grow lamps" that fed the sunflowers.

The lamps are gone now. Once this crop of sunflowers is picked away, it's unlikely anything else will grow here but lichen, moss, and rock formations. The [variable: riverworld-moth-common-name] will move on. The houses will be visible again, at least until somebody strips them for building materials, or the river washes them away.

The houses were once inhabited by two sisters. Why they built their houses so close together — or lived in any proximity at all — is a mystery, since they clearly despised one another.

Maybe by an unscrupulous real estate agent or, more likely, a concerned family member. It stands to reason this sororal rift would have sent ripples of discomfort through the rest of the familial pool — any time these sisters were in the same room, the tension was incendiary, or so I hear!

It didn't work. If anything, close quarters just turned up the pressure until those decades of closely-held resentments and animosities were pretty near to boiling over.

All that energy had to go somewhere, and both sisters had the same idea: they took up gardening. They both cultivated sunflowers, an improbable crop for this location; too improbable to be coincidence. Maybe the sunflower had some special meaning for them, or maybe when one sister saw her rival sowing the impossible seeds, she knew at once she couldn't bear to be outdone.

Which sister had the greener thumb, we'll never know. The stalks tangled, the roots knotted, and the seeds mixed. Those gangly sunflowers merged the two lots into one undifferentiated field.

The two sisters moved out, probably around the time the moths started showing up. Of course there was no selling the lots then, overgrown and bug-chewed as they are.

In fact, if those sisters ever tried to sell, they'd be in for a rude shock. Not long ago, a property tax clerk, having seen the two adjoining lots registered to the same last name, presumed they belonged to the same owner and erased the legal border between them.

Look at those easels and tables, on the beach over there. They call it an "open-air gallery," or probably something more upscale like "al fresco galleria." They say it's a popular design in foreign cities, like Paris and New York. That may be true.

The appeal is clear enough, I guess. Anyone can wander in and out; there aren't any walls or doors. There's no roof either, just a kind of thin cloth membrane, not quite a sheet or a tarp but more like a drape of rolled-out spiderweb, looking like it might bunch up and dissolve if it ever got rained on.

No concern down here for rain! Everybody thinks they're `inside`, just because they can't see the sky — but it's a `microclimate` down here, and it surely does rain.

Right now, they're exhibiting some intimate photographs of small-town life.

The photo is titled "Walker." His eyes are kind of closing, or maybe opening ... probably closing. Because of the scale of the thing you can see all the crumbs in his beard. No, not food crumbs. Crumbs from sleeping outside.

She's got her back to the camera and she's fussing with something, looking at her hands. Maybe she's stuffing a message in a bottle, or folding a paper boat.

After looking at them all in a row, it's hard to come away with any specific memories of people or faces. You just get a kind of fuzzy afterimage, the warm residue of a community, no individual meaningful except as a bit of contrast or shading.

Reviews have been good. It's a popular show, probably because of its relevance — the town depicted in these photos was very recently flattened to make way for a big museum project.

She returned on the dinghy, alone. She had a strong and sudden urge to shut the motor off and let the current take her, but she couldn't work out where that impulse came from, so she did her best to resist it.

The boat was loaded to capacity with black plastic bags and a few larger pieces of furniture wrapped in a blue tarp. Three paddled — the two adults and the older child. The two younger children slept.

They'd been traveling all night, first by car and then for the last few hours by boat. Hungry and tired, they didn't plan to stop until they reached West Virginia, where a relative had offered to take them in.

But the adults were happy to take a break from paddling in weary silence. They asked her about her river journey.

They'd brought some food. The kids had picked the garden clean earlier in the day, so they'd been snacking on fresh bell peppers and tomatoes, and some crackers, rationed carefully for the trip.

They were sympathetic. No miners in their family, but he was once injured at a warehouse job, and had to fight for disability pay — they knew what these companies were like, and what it was like to have to assert your humanity to them.

They wished her well, and paddled on toward West Virginia.

They floated alongside in buoyant pots, bobbing untethered. He corralled them with a long pole in a stream of small adjustments.

He'd just started work for the day, so his stock was full. He pushed a few bouquets her way —

First was [template: bouquet] [template: bouquetOccasion]

Next, [template: bouquet] [template: bouquetOccasion]

Finally, [template: bouquet] [template: bouquetOccasion]

He was alert and easygoing. His day was just beginning. He used to work at `[variable: tiki-bar-carl-failed-business]`, but it closed down. When he wasn't selling flowers, he'd hang out by the highway and listen to the sounds the cars made, study them carefully, and then learn to reproduce them with his own voice. He was working on a record.

He drifted away with the current, pushing his flowers along with the raft.

He said they took turns. The water was cold and the floating bicycle, while technically marvelous, wasn't quite buoyant enough for the both of them. Swimming is hard work — the hardest work that dog had ever done, he expected.

They'd been traveling this way for most of the night: struggling through the icy water, stopping to recover when they could find a rock large enough to start a small campfire. He had his belongings stuffed into a weathered guitar case at the end of a thin rope. It floated pretty well, so he only had to keep an eye on it and occasionally free it from a rock or some driftwood it was caught on.

He would have played her something, but the case leaked a bit, and he didn't think it would sound right until it had time to dry out.

He appreciated the offer, but they weren't in a hurry.

He never worked from photographs, so his paintings could be divided into two categories:

There were the ones he painted from life, and the Echo River was a very good source for these because its currents were so unpredictable and the tunnels so dark. He rendered these in oil paint, by lamplight, working for hours cross-legged on the porch of his houseboat-slash-studio.

Then there were the ones he painted from memory — mostly the memory of a single wreck he encountered as a much younger man, picking up litter where the coastal highway cleaves to the rocky beaches of northern California. These were done in watercolor. He preferred to work on them in the morning, in a room he rented near the airport in Louisville.

He had some postcard-sized sketches in charcoal, too, of `The Iron Pariah`. It wasn't a wreck, exactly, but it felt right. He tried to scribble one down every time he encountered it, though it was so unpredictable, and he was so focused on details, he usually just ended up with a handful of inscrutable marks.

She gave in, shut off the motor and floated for a while. Then, she knew what she'd been craving: a moment of silence.

See that small, brick building? It used to be an upholstery shop. Now it's inhabited by a very skilled taxidermist, whose art is greatly in demand. When it was an upholstery shop, it didn't see nearly as much business.

The old shop's name has been lost to time and weather — this was decades ago — and the only trace of it now is the grayed frame of an old sign behind the new lettering, which now reads "Trapper, Stalker & Sportsman," and then below, smaller, "no specimen is too exotic, no arrangement too fanciful."

Some of the upholstery equipment is still there, too, and still sees active use. Elise is the resident artist, though she's not the owner of the shop.

Ida has very little to do with the day-to-day — she's busy with other endeavors, mostly the restaurant she and her husband run on Lake Lethe.

Very little is known about him. His crime is generally assumed to be violent or otherwise gruesome in some detail, though of course that's all speculation and probably comes from his association with the taxidermy business, even though he never so much as skins a squirrel. He's more like a "silent partner." I guess those are the ones you're supposed to keep an eye on ...

But Judah is old, and keeps to himself, and the consensus seems to be that he's paid his debt to society, whatever that debt may have been.

I met a photographer once — I mean, one in particular. She even took my portrait, I can't imagine why. She said it would `immortalize` me. That was a metaphor, of course. She meant I'd never be forgotten.

As she was disembarking — not far from here, actually — the film fell out of her bag and was borne away by the current. I was working on deck at the time. She shot me a sad, apologetic glance, but I wasn't bothered. It's no shame, to be forgotten.

As she was disembarking — not far from here, actually — the film fell out of her bag and was borne away by the current. I was working on deck at the time. She shot me a sad, apologetic glance, but I wasn't bothered. It's no shame, to be forgotten.

Our passengers, twoone lighter, disembarked at the mail stop by the Silo. They couldn't seem to get that old truck started up again, but we managed to roll it off the barge with only a minor scrape or two. At the last minute, Clara decided to travel with them for a while.

Cate and I said goodbye to our friends — new and old — and `The Mucky Mammoth` rumbled on down the Echo.

I'm sure I talk too much — everyone on this river does. The problem is that we `listen` twice as much as that. We're only telling you half of the stories we hear!

Cate told me that I ought to have been a photographer. She said, "you have an uncanny way of having been in the place at the time the thing happened there, and that's the hardest part of taking a photograph, anyway."

Nice of her to say, but it isn't true. Though I know just about every story on this river, most of them I've picked up second-, third-, or fourth-hand, and so on. Listening, see?

Now, I know what you're gonna ask, so I'm gonna answer it: yes, I'm sure they're all "true." I personally believe a story gets `more` true as it's tossed around from brain to brain and the whole community brings their insight to bear on the brittle facts of experience.

There are a few Echo River stories I witnessed directly. I saw that big owl migration pass through, you might have heard about that. I was there when the old train station flooded. I saw the ghost of Stephen Bishop brew up a batch of white lightning on a raft ... or, anyway, I talked to a few sailors who'd recently crossed paths with him — and, I suspect, sampled his wares ...

One night, when I was working on `The Mucky Mammoth`, we picked up a gaggle of passengers headed down to a mail drop by the Silo of Late Reflections.

I knew a couple of them in passing: a pair of traveling musicians, whom I often encountered on the river. The others were strangers to me at the time: a young woman, a small boy, and an old man whose name I didn't catch. Oh, and a smelly old dog.

We docked at a gas station, so the `Mammoth` could refuel.

cate: We cut it close! I usually find this place up-river. `Everybody`'s on the lake tonight.

cate: Sure, it's not anchored or anything — could be anywhere up and down the Echo. You just kind of run into it when you need it, or hopefully a little `before` you need it.

cate: I usually stop here once a night ... though, to be honest, I'm not sure it's even the same one. Doesn't have a name or anything, and I never really pay attention to who's behind the counter.

cate: Yeah, it's this little game I play: try to get the needle all the way down before I fill it back up ... like playing "chicken" with the fuel gauge.

cate: Sounds ridiculous, right?

cate: It may be. I never thought of that.

cate: Take it where you can get it, right?

cate: Anyway, it's nice to see you two! Most of my regular passengers must have gotten held up elsewhere in their journey tonight. It's that storm, I think.

cate: `(Watching EZRA sprint past.)` Look at him go! That kid has a lot of energy ... it's got to be past his bedtime or something, right?

cate: He'd have to be, with the company he's keeping ...

cate: Sounds familiar. Ha ha.

cate: You don't have any ... of your own, I mean ... No, I guess not. I just realized: you two come through here so often, we chat about all kinds of stuff, but I never thought to ask. About family.

cate: That's sweet.

cate: Yeah, sure. You've got to prioritize.

cate: So ... how about that storm upstairs? Did you two get caught in it? I heard it kind of roamed around, uncertain. I'm sure we'll hear all about it tomorrow: flooding, property damage ... probably killed a few tomatoes. It's got the river churning and everyone headed to the lake here, where the water's calmer.

cate: I myself don't mind navigating a choppy river. Not at all. I've got a good feel for it. Plus, it's better for fungal growth — high water consumes the cave moths, and their wet wings clump together into these little balls of nutrient-dense mushroom food, jammed by current here and there between the rocks. You have never seen a mushroom grow like on a soggy cave moth carcass.

cate: Amazing. If I could get a day off, Val and I would be out there all day tomorrow to harvest. I mean it, they'll be ready by tomorrow. A mushroom will grow just as fast as you can pump water into it!

cate: Hey, are you two headed out this way tomorrow? Maybe I could send Val ashore with you for a few hours. She's got a remarkable nose for mushrooms — you wouldn't even need to know what to look for. Put a bag around her neck, and she'll just bring them back to you.

johnny: Yeah!

johnny: She could curl up in the sidecar. I'll sit on my legs ...

cate: Ah, I should have figured. Seems you two are always on the move.

johnny: It does seem that way.

`(Silence.)`

cate: So ...

cate: I should get back aboard. No rush, I just want to brew some tea before we get underway.

cate: Headed into the station?

cate: `(To JOHNNY.)` She doesn't let you pick out your own snacks? Ha ha.

johnny: `(To CATE.)` It's for the best. I get a little overwhelmed by all those shelves of candy.

cate: Too much of a good thing.

cate: Sure, don't want him falling asleep on you ... naw, he'll be alright. He seems like the type who can hold his liquor. Seems like he has a little experience, I mean.

cate: Hey — while you're in there, could you remind the gas station attendant this fuel is on my tab? Charge to `The Mucky Mammoth`.

cate: Oh, and Will wanted a scratch ticket ... Thanks.

johnny: `(To JUNEBUG.)` I think I'll just watch the lake for a bit, ma'am.

attendant: I had three boxes at the beginning of this week, and they're all gone. Can't keep them on the shelves.

attendant: I'm out. I figured that pot would last the rest of the night, at least.

attendant: There used to be a young man who came by here and traded them for gas. He's a diver; I guess he found them diving. Haven't seen him in a while, though. That right there could be the last of them.

attendant: Quiet.

attendant: To be honest, our whole inventory is pretty low right now. There's a delivery boat that usually swings by earlier in the night, but I guess something came up.

attendant: Where are you headed?

attendant: Well, even if you're not doing the heavy lifting, or navigating, or whatever ... a passenger contributes to a journey, too.

attendant: OK. Yeah, I had a feeling you two might be traveling together.

attendant: I never travel, but I do love travelers. That's what I like about this job — the travelers come to me.

attendant: Yes I do.

attendant: I live here. There's a cot in the back — nobody ever notices it. Not that I do much sleeping, really, but sometimes I lay on it anyway just to keep it in shape.

attendant: I wouldn't say I meet them, but I do sell them gas.

attendant: Well, let me know if I can help you find anything.

al: GLORYITISGOODTOBEAMONGFRIENDS!

attendant: Suit yourself.

al: I can't help it. Every time I step onto that boat alone, I think "this could be the very last time." And then every time I come ashore, back among people, I think ...

al: I'd give you any advice I could, little guy, but I think the most important thing I can say is —

al: `(Solemnly.)` "Glory, it is good to be among friends."

al: It's a ritual of remembrance, for me. Tonight, particularly so. It's my birthday: I am five years old. Do you know why I say that? Well, I'm gonna tell you.

al: Five years and some days ago, I set out on the Echo River, alone, or so I thought at the time ...

al: I was looking for an ice floe — they are occasionally rumored to travel our humble artery on their way from who-knows-where to who-knows-where. Who knows why? It's a mystery.

al: An hour into the journey, my lantern gave out. `Now`, I always carry three or four spares. You'll never catch me in the dark again. Lesson learned, buddy.

al: But that night, when that lantern went out, I was stuck in the dark. I kept my arm extended, running my fingers along the cave wall, trying to keep my bearing as best I could and at least make sure I wasn't going in circles ... I just prayed I'd find another traveler who knew his way back to the lake or above ground, or even just a crack in the rock to get a glimpse of moonlight!

al: I had a large bag of apples with me. After a long while — maybe a day — I was getting weak, so I took my hand down from the rock to tear the bag open. Well, when I reached back out, I couldn't find that cave wall anymore, or any other. I was totally `unmoored`, buddy. Totally adrift.

al: And it was so dark.

al: I started counting time in apples eaten. I drifted in despair for four apples. Then I schemed and planned and dreamed for two apples. Finally, I came to accept my fate — lost at sea — and this phase I think would have continued indefinitely had I not come down to that very last damn apple.

al: Picture me: feeling around in the empty bag, certain that `somehow` there was another one of those fist-sized chunks of life-giving fruit, already softened by time and probably an unappetizing brown ... nope, that was it.

al: Just as I was about to bite into my last meal, I felt a tickle on my upper lip. It hatched, right then, couldn't have been a moment later or I would have eaten it! My last apple was `infested` by a damn fruit fly maggot!

al: Well, that should have been the end of it. I should have eaten that apple — and that fly while I was at it — and put an end to our little food chain suicide pact, but I waited ... out of mercy.

al: After all, this fly was basically a newborn child, right? A gross insect child, but still a child, right? Born into darkness and famine, hungry and alone, I mean, can you imagine that? No other flies out there on the boat, and never would be. No other flies to welcome him into the world, I mean — no fly culture, no fly society, no fly history ... a true orphan.

al: I started to get `depressed` just thinking about it all. Worked out a thick tear, I'm not ashamed to say. Well, that fly landed on my cheek, right under my left eye, right on that salty tear drop, and then — BLINDING GLORY, HIS ASS LIT UP LIKE A CANDLE! That wasn't a fly, buddy, that was a damn lightning bug!

al: So, that's how come I'm here today with you folks — only because I found my way out of that strange river cave by the dim-lit rear of some orphan insect hatched out of my last rotten apple.

al: GLORYITISGOODTOBEAMONGFRIENDS!

`(JOHNNY looks out the window.)`

al: Hello? Anybody listening? Aw, forget it.

norm: `(To ATTENDANT.)` Shit, that floodwater washed you halfway up out to sea — I was looking for you down by New Königsberg same as usual but ain't nobody there, and the river's deep as an elephant's —

norm: `(Noticing JUNEBUG.)` Oh, didn't see you there, ma'am — pardon my language.

norm: Ha ha. Alright, you're no paper flower, I see that.

norm: Well, in fact, I'm headed right here — glad to have found it at last!

norm: `(Extending his hand, warmly.)` I expect you must be Loretta. Enchanted to meet you, sorry I'm late ... hey, is that coming on too flowery or something? "Enchanted?" Repeating it now, I feel a little silly ...

norm: Well, thanks for saying so!

norm: Hm. I guess I don't know.

norm: But now I'm double-embarrassed.

norm: I really don't!

norm: To be truthful, I couldn't tell you!

norm: You're probably right about that. I guess I thought it'd be like "neutral territory," and we both live on the river ... it's not very romantic though, is it?

norm: I met Loretta on the computer. We met each other there, I mean. Or, I guess, we spoke through the computer, and agreed to meet? I don't know the terminology ... I haven't dated in quite a while. Back when I met Greta — that's my wife, excuse me, my "ex," or maybe `I` am `her` ex? I don't know how to say it ...

norm: Anyway, back then there wasn't even such a thing as computers at all! I mean, I guess there probably was, but I never heard of one. I worked in textiles.

norm: So, here I am.

norm: She left me! I'm sure I can't blame her. Ha ha.

norm: Oh, maybe head down to The Rum Colony. Shoot, I forgot to ask if she likes to drink. You really never know, these days. I guess first I'd ask her about that. If she doesn't like rum, I'd maybe try to take her by the bat sanctuary. That's pretty romantic, in a sense. I mean like misty-valleys-and-ruined-churches romantic, not like flowers-and-chocolates romantic.

norm: Of course, they've got that memorial there. That's a little depressing, actually. Maybe we'd kind of sail `around` that ...

norm: Damn it all, I guess I probably missed her. I wonder if she'll agree to meet me again.

norm: Nice of you to say so.

norm: Can't say I would either. You're probably right.

norm: Well, I guess I'll head on back ...

norm: Hey, um. Supposing Loretta doesn't want to see me after all ...

norm: Oh! No, sorry, that's not what I meant.

norm: Ha ha. I won't argue with that.

norm: Actually, I wanted to ask you for some advice. I had to type up a sort of "autobiography" for the computer date, and I spent a lot of time on it but I only got one reply, and that was Loretta herself. I was happy to meet her, but ... supposing she's lost interest now ...

norm: Do you think you could maybe give me some feedback? It's only a paragraph or so. I have it all memorized — I spent so damn long writing it!

norm: OK. Here's how it goes:

norm: `"I'm a good-natured man, retired, and spend most of my time sailing the Echo River, riding currents of subterranean gas and that strange invisible wind that moans out of the small tunnels along the bank."`

norm: `"Seeking a companion to map the river with me. I have two grown children but they live far away."`

norm: `"No goofballs."`

norm: OK. What do you think?

norm: Yeah, you're probably right. I wanted to show my poetic side ... I'll save that for the date.

norm: Oh, just ... I figure it'll come up somehow? I don't know how people feel about dating with kids. Like I said, it's been a while.

norm: Hm.

norm: Maybe I'm afraid it overstates my age a little ... ha ha.

norm: Yeah, sure I am. My son is a schoolteacher and my daughter owns a printing press. Good people. Yeah, maybe I just mentioned it there hoping I'll get asked to brag a little. Ha ha.

norm: I mean like `"serious inquiries only."`

norm: Oh, no. I've got nothing but time ...

norm: I guess it's more like I want the person reading it to know that `I'm` not a goofball — I'm ready to show up.

norm: Ha ha. You may be right about that.

norm: Well, alright, then! Sounds like I'm ready to get back on that computer.[if floating-gas-station-critique-count=0]

norm: Alright. Thanks for your help, ma'am. Really renewed my confidence! I'm ready to get back on that computer.[if floating-gas-station-critique-count=1|floating-gas-station-critique-count=2]

norm: Alright. Thanks for your help, ma'am. You've given me a lot to think about. I'm ready to get back on that computer.[if floating-gas-station-critique-count=3]

norm: You have a good night, now — what's left of it, anyway!

johnny: That guy's a trip, that gas station attendant. Did you talk to him? It's funny, he actually reminds me of that frog we had for a bit.

johnny: Aw, I like to think he was part of the family, you know?

johnny: Oh, is there a difference?

johnny: Huh. I never knew.

johnny: Oh, I don't know. Because he liked to talk, I guess ...

johnny: Oh yeah, I can see that, too. `Aloof`. But strangely chatty.

johnny: Maybe we should pick up another one? A frog, or a cat, or an iguana ... or something ...

johnny: I was just thinking about that old man and his dog — you ever notice how he talks to his dog?

johnny: Yeah, exactly like that. But that's how I feel when I'm talking to you, ma'am — like I'm talking to myself. And when you're talking to me, I feel like you're talking to yourself.

johnny: I mean, not `literally`, but like ... that's how we are who we are, you and me.

johnny: Right, he's just sort of mumbling and humming, thinking out loud. It doesn't matter if he speaks clearly because the dog's only listening to his tone and his hand behind his ear, and his memory of all their time together. I think that's how it is for the old man, too ...[if dog-pronoun=he]

johnny: Right, he's just sort of mumbling and humming, thinking out loud. It doesn't matter if he speaks clearly because the dog's only listening to his tone and his hand behind her ear, and her memory of all their time together. I think that's how it is for the old man, too ...[if dog-pronoun=she]

johnny: Not exactly ...

johnny: Not like that guy in the gas station. That guy lets the world wash over him, static like a rock, but I — you and me both, together, I mean — we're always moving, always changing.

johnny: I think it's because we feel safe with each other, you know? Free. We can try stuff out — change our clothes, swap parts around, just ... `play`.

johnny: I'm not lonely, just curious — with another person to play with, what else could we be?

johnny: Huh. Now `that` would be a whole new adventure, wouldn't it?

johnny: You and me, we're good together. Safe. Free. You know what I mean? We can try stuff out — change our clothes, swap parts around, just ... `play`.

johnny: I'm not lonely, just curious — with another person to play with, what else could we be?

johnny: You really think so? Wow. I thought I'd have to wear you down a little, like I did with the gerbils ...

johnny: Yeah, you're probably right. Why mess with a good thing?

johnny: Yeah, you're right about that, ma'am. No rush.

johnny: Oh, that's Cate. Time to hit the road!

johnny: River, I mean!

johnny: No coffee?

junebug: Somebody spilled it all. It looked pretty old anyway — I'm not sure that old man would have had the constitution for it.

johnny: Aw. You're always thinking of other people's stomachs, ma'am.

johnny: You know — I think I'll go take a look after all. Wish me luck.

johnny: What's that?

junebug: It's a crystal. I bought it for you.

johnny: Wow. Thank you, ma'am.

johnny: Hey, could you hold onto it for a minute? I'm going to look around inside. Wish me luck.

junebug: Sorry, cricket — nothing good on offer.

johnny: Not even those little gummy pomegranate seeds?

junebug: I didn't look.

johnny: It's OK, I'll go check. Wish me luck.

Coffee tilts gently with the lake, burning the air into a film on the glass decanter. This isn't coffee for drinking; it's perfunctory, ornamental.[if floating-gas-station-junebug-errand=coffee]

Junebug surveys a row of chocolates, licorices, cheese crackers — dehydrated, bleached, reconstituted and colorized.[if floating-gas-station-junebug-errand=snacks]

The crystals are rough, dirty. Some are damp — they must have come out of the river.[if floating-gas-station-junebug-errand=crystals]

Junebug selects a white styrofoam cup from a stack and grabs the coffee pot.[if floating-gas-station-junebug-errand=coffee]

A bag on the bottom shelf is decorated with cartoonish pictures of vegetables. Through a plastic window in the packaging, she can see puffed corn shaped and colored like carrots, tomatoes, and broccoli florets, and a few puffy white discs that might represent potatoes.[if floating-gas-station-junebug-errand=snacks]

Junebug tries to scrape some green algae off a larger specimen, examining it for the kind of cloudy inner formation the attendant said was so popular.[if floating-gas-station-junebug-errand=crystals]

She moves her foot quickly out of the way, cursing with a harsh chirp.[if floating-gas-station-junebug-errand=coffee]

Somewhere in there is surely a preservative, in case the rest of the process hasn't done enough to stop the flow of time.[if floating-gas-station-junebug-errand=snacks]

"... ha k ... y u ... " and a few numbers are woven through the algae.[if floating-gas-station-junebug-errand=crystals]

The attendant frowns and pulls a mop and dustpan from behind the counter. Junebug shrugs apologetically and pushes some of the wet, broken glass into a pile with her foot.[if floating-gas-station-junebug-errand=coffee]

This isn't algae at all — it's a decayed plastic bag caught on the rock.[if floating-gas-station-junebug-errand=crystals]

She turns the bag over to look for the ingredients, but only finds a marketing blurb. "Inspired by real vegetables!"[if floating-gas-station-junebug-errand=snacks]

attendant: Looking for crystals?

attendant: What kind?

`(JUNEBUG examines the lottery display case.)`

attendant: Sure, "Bat Bucks." Everybody buys that one; no idea why ...

attendant: "Sudokash." It's a little complicated, but I had a guy in here who won ten dollars off one, just last week.

attendant: "Money Minefield." OK.

attendant: Anything else?

attendant: We've got them on sale. All kinds of folks come in here looking for crystals. There's a few over there with milky white shocks through the middle, like you caught a piece of a cloud. People seem to like those a lot.

attendant: Yep ...

attendant: Popular crystals.

attendant: It's back here, but I'm going to tell you something — it's been sitting on this burner for ... all night, I think. It was brewed by my predecessor.

attendant: You've got to be a particular kind of self-loathing-thirsty to drink this coffee. Or maybe it comforts you just to hold the cup in your hand. It's hot, at least.

attendant: Sure, we have snacks. We have ... how about some jerky? It's "homemade." Not by me.

attendant: You work on the `Mammoth`? I can add it to your tab.

attendant: Sure, they're here every night ...

attendant: It's OK. I have one of those faces. `Forgettable`.

attendant: It's OK. I've learned to accept it. In fact ...

attendant: Sure, I should have guessed. You have the posture of someone on their way to somewhere. I have it, too. I just stand here behind the counter, and nobody affords me any greater importance than a spiderweb brushed out of the way.

attendant: I've learned to cherish it. There's dignity in being forgotten, letting the crowd flow around you unspoiled.

attendant: I used to live in a city — I mean a `real` city. Cleveland, Ohio. I had some family money then, and I didn't have to work. I lived in hotels. In daylight, I walked wherever the people were. My only duty was to the crowd — I was its observer, its historian, its detective, its poet.

attendant: Well, the money ran out, and I dispersed with the rest of them. I took my duties with me here, to Lake Lethe and the Echo River. I live behind this counter, anonymous, invisible, but I live with dignity.

attendant: And yourself?

attendant: `They` enjoy the company too, as fleeting as it is, sufficient unto itself.

attendant: Yeah, that's the way to do it. I can't help it, myself — I travel at the pleasure of the current.

attendant: Hm. And not so easy to forget, I'd say — I see now that you're right. Well, that's yours to bear, then.

attendant: Sure, so you say. I say you can travel in company and still be alone ...

attendant: Snacks are in the back there.[if floating-gas-station-junebug-errand=snacks]

attendant: Coffee and sugar are just around the counter here.[if floating-gas-station-junebug-errand=coffee]

attendant: We keep all the crystals on that shelf over there. Buy one, get one free — of equal or lesser symmetry.[if floating-gas-station-junebug-errand=crystals]

An untouched drink sits on a table, forgotten or abandoned — or simply wasted.

patch: Junebug! Hey, guess who I just saw, like an hour ago.

patch: `Wasted`! I had to send him on his way. Why do you hang out with that guy?

patch: I hear you. Gotta draw some kind of line though, right?

patch: Yeah, you should have seen him.

patch: You just missed her! I tried to hold her back but she's all business.

patch: Hey, I'm sure another one will come on the market soon.

patch: Aw, man ... you know. Carl had that gig for a minute at `[template: failedBusiness]`, but they went out of business. If our numbers were better here, he could just work on his record and it'd be fine, but ... you know how it is.

patch: For now, he's selling flowers on the river. Say "hi," if you pass him!

patch: Hey, any of your friends want a drink? I've got time. Busy night, but everyone's deep in their straws by now. Ha ha.

patch: It's these kooks from upriver — they all came in together. I think it's some kind of work thing.

patch: They're nice enough, but, you know ... I've got to keep an eye out for lightweights trying to swim home or something. I don't have that kind of insurance!

patch: Anyway, I don't mind them, but you know how territorial Dawn and Sonny get after a couple of Mai Tais.

patch: Speaking of which ...

patch: Let's see, what's good tonight ...

patch: `[template: drinkName]`?

patch: [template: drink]

patch: No problem. See you around!

luis: `(Yelling.)` The water is fine! Invigorating. It makes me want to run. I could gallop up and down this beach like a horse!

clerk böhm: `(To METZSTEIN.)` What's he yelling about?

clerk metzstein: He wants to run on the beach. Like a horse, he says.

clerk metzstein: `(To SHANNON.)` Oh dear, what's in these drinks? Ha ha.

clerk metzstein: But deceptively sweet.

clerk böhm: Mine's not very sweet at all, actually. It's just sort of ... pleasant.

clerk metzstein: I really meant "rich," I think. With a sweet aroma.

clerk böhm: We're celebrating!

clerk metzstein: We just hit a big milestone, you know.

`(THE CLERKS both pause, waiting for the other to speak.)`

clerk böhm: Well? Tell her about it!

clerk metzstein: But I don't know anything more than you do. It wasn't part of my caseload.

clerk böhm: Well it wasn't part of `mine`. I wonder just what we're celebrating.

clerk metzstein: It doesn't matter.

clerk böhm: Poor Rick. He's a lightweight.

clerk metzstein: I think he just drank too fast. It's easy to get carried away. Oh, he always gets so `melancholy` when he drinks.

clerk metzstein: Remember? The office picnic at that big, flat rock ...

clerk böhm: Oh, I remember. He was talking Lula's ear off. She slipped away, and he sat on the ground, nursing that brown bottle, crying! Sobbing about "the days that are no more."

clerk metzstein: Poor Rick. It'll never be.

luis: `(Yelling.)` Invigorating!

clerk böhm: `(Yelling to LUIS.)` Catch anything, Luis?

clerk metzstein: So. Did you find what you were looking for? With Lula, I mean.

clerk metzstein: I know what you mean. I've been working on —

clerk metzstein: I'm not sure `where` she is, now that you mention it. Before we left the office, she —

luis: `(Yelling.)` I think I `will` go for a run along the beach. As soon as I'm finished with this drink.

clerk böhm: Try not to yell so loud, Luis, I'm afraid you'll shake the ceiling loose!

caller: Yeah, uh, listen — we got a problem down here.

caller: Man, it's all messed up! I tried realigning that big sewer grate under the livestock pen like you said, right?

caller: Damn thing flooded, man! It's even worse than before. All I'm saying is, we've got to get these computers out of here.

caller: I mean we're running out of time here, man! Hey, I forget — does that big green valve dump water or sewage? You told me earlier but I've been so stressed it just kind of flew out of my mind.

caller: So, should I turn that valve?

caller: Alright, you're the boss.

caller: Yeah, let me talk to [template: personName], please.

caller: [template: personDescription]

caller: No, I'm pretty sure I dialed it right. Did you check in the back? [variable: tiki-caller-friend-name] usually hangs out in the back.

caller: Did you check the stairwell though? [variable: tiki-caller-friend-name] sometimes sits over by the stairwell.

caller: What? Every place has got a back! You've got a front, right? Of course you do. So, the back is on the other side.

caller: Well that doesn't make any sense — how do you get up there then, huh?

caller: I mean from the other ground. Why are you being so dense? I'm just looking for [variable: tiki-caller-friend-name].

caller: Up to where you're at right now, damn it!

caller: The place where [variable: tiki-caller-friend-name] is at. Look, this doesn't have to be complicated.

caller: No time.

caller: Hey, man — I've got other things to do. When you see [variable: tiki-caller-friend-name], just say I called. Alright?

joe: Hello, Joe? This is Joe. I got some log updates:

joe: [template: logUpdate]

caller: What? Who ... ?

`(CALLER hangs up.)`

conway: There she is! You have to try one of these flower drinks.

conway: I feel like I could drink a hundred of them. Not too sweet, not too strong, you know? A real `session` drink.

conway: Naw, it's not one of those ... not one of those really strong drinks. Just sort of ...

conway: I think he said it was a ... well ... how do you like that? I'll just show him the flower. "Another one of these!" I'll say. And then I'll point to the flower. Maybe I'll wear it in my hair! Ha ha.

conway: It doesn't `taste` like a flower. I mean, not like a flower smells. You know: perfumed, sickly-sweet. Like a ... like a `star-thistle` flower.

conway: You know, my dad was obsessed with those awful weeds. We had a small house just about leaned up against a hill, and every spring that hill would `explode` with yellow star-thistle.

conway: ... and he'd tear into them. Angry — I mean, really offended by it. He said they were an `invasive species`! Like foreign squatters on his land or something ... I used to think he was such a stupid old man to take it so personal.

conway: After he died, I mean a few years after, I came by the house again. It was spring, but I didn't see a single yellow flower on that hill. He must have finally got them. Or maybe they followed him home. Ha ha.

conway: You know, my mother was obsessed with those awful weeds. We had a small house just about leaned up against a hill, and every spring that hill would explode with yellow star-thistle.

conway: ... and she'd tear into them. Wild — I mean, really enraged by it. She said they were an `invasive species`! Like foreign squatters on her land or something ... I used to think she was such a wicked old lady to get so violent about it.

conway: After she died, I mean a few years after, I came by the house again. It was spring, but I didn't see a single yellow flower on that hill. She must have finally got them. Or maybe they followed her home. Ha ha.

conway: One of my first long haul gigs ended in a crash; did I tell you about that?

conway: It wasn't so bad, actually. I swerved to dodge some stray cattle, hit a stump on the side of the road, and flipped the trailer.

conway: The whole rig went twisting down into a muddy ditch — it was spring — and I blacked out. I don't think I hit anything, it was just the shock of it, or maybe my brain bounced against the inside of my skull or something.

conway: Anyway, I woke up and I'd been thrown clear. Never worn a seatbelt since.

conway: Oh, why'd I bring that up ... star-thistle! I woke up in a field of star-thistle. The first thing I thought was: "what are all these damn ugly flowers?" Ha ha.

conway: More old stuff ... I'm `drowning` in old stuff tonight. Feels like I've got it piled up all around me, like one of those old guys you hear about who never threw anything away — you know what I mean?

conway: Oh, no, I don't think so ...

conway: In fact, I could use a few more of these `(indicating his drink)`. Just take a book of matches to the room - that should clear everything right up! Know what I mean?

conway: Yeah, it's a nice idea. But I'll tell you what I'm learning tonight — I don't `belong` in the "here and now." That check's been cashed.

conway: Sorry, I'm not making sense, am I? Ha ha.

conway: I just mean to say I'm ... I can't look at anything without remembering something else, and then that reminds me of something `else`, and — I'm buried in it. I just need to get my head clear for a minute, get a clear view of the day, get oriented ...

conway: There was a time, when I felt this way, I'd bite the bullet — try to sober up and get a job ...

conway: Hm. Maybe it is. Seems like a pretty simple answer, right? Just follow the work as long as you can ...

conway: Ha ha. You've got me all figured out ...

conway: There you go — that's the entrepreneurial spirit!

conway: Hm. I don't think I follow your meaning ... but I guess that's not really my role to play. For me, it's more like: "get out of the way and let the younger, stronger, smarter folks get to work." Ha ha.

conway: Well, I guess I've got something in common with a computer after all! Ha ha.

conway: "Work is play for mortal stakes." Or so they say in church ...

conway: Hey, I'm going to sit and look at the water for a minute. I'll talk to you later. Don't be a stranger.

conway: Yeah, you're right about that! I never quite thought of it that way —

conway: `(Noticing SHANNON for the first time.)` Oh!

conway: Oh, sure. I'll be right there.

conway: `(Noticing SHANNON for the first time.)` Oh!

conway: Naw, it's ... nothing.

conway: Hey, let's get out of here. Work to be done, right?

cyrano: I am `so` glad to see you. These kooks are bumming me out, man.

cyrano: You see that guy in the sand over there? He rolled up — kind of off-center, you know — kind of leaning on the stage here, and he was like, "what kind of strings are those, steel or nylon?"

cyrano: I mean — you know me, man. I'm all about breaking down the artificial barrier between audience and performer. But you can't just ...

cyrano: Oh, believe me, I know.

cyrano: You've got to be cool about it. Or just get a drink and stay in your chair, man. If you're gonna drink like `that`, just drink! Ha ha. I mean, don't make it `my` problem ...

cyrano: Oh yeah. It's mandatory around here, man. It's what the people want — I'm just a humble artist, you know?

cyrano: Plus, it's better for tips. You can't look like you care about it, you know? Even if it's your livelihood. A crowd can smell economic precarity, and it turns them `off`.

cyrano: I guess it's no fun to give someone money if they really need it. Too much responsibility. Ha ha.

cyrano: Oh yeah! It's good, man. I mean ... it's OK.

cyrano: Everything's recorded, but I still want to do another pass on it, and maybe work on the mix. But it's no rush on that, because I don't have the cash for blank tapes right now anyway!

cyrano: Patch threw me some bookings, so I'm trying to fund it with tips. But, you know, we're all paying a premium for blank media these days.

cyrano: Everyone's afraid we're dubbing garbage off the radio, so they only sell blank tapes in pallets or overpriced three-packs. Totally cut out the small labels and self-publishers.

cyrano: Crystal and Gordon are just recording over `old` tapes, for their new one — can you believe that? It saves some cash, I guess, but you're always going to have old frequencies bleeding through. It's just chemistry, man.

cyrano: Hey, speaking of which — I'm about mid-set here. Can you take the can around while I play this next one? It's on the tape. I think you'll like it, man.

cyrano: Thanks!

dawn: `[variable: tiki-sonny-rant-subject].` That's his latest rant. But I'm not surprised by anything anymore. Before this, it was bovine growth hormones and global warming ...

dawn: Naw, he's harmless. I just don't know him anymore, that's all.

dawn: He takes bits and pieces of things he reads, and synthesizes them all into some grand theory, and it's always the end of the world.

dawn: But who could know that stuff, right? We can't even predict the weather. I mean: if you could take all these little pieces and predict how they're all going to interact ... well, you'd know everything!

dawn: I'll tell you what I'd do with that kind of knowledge: when I first met a man, I'd look at his shoes, and the kind of books he reads, and what he eats for breakfast, and I'd make damn sure we weren't doomed to spend our twilight years greedily emptying Mai Tais and arguing about `[variable: tiki-sonny-rant-subject].`

dawn: Well, you know what they say about hindsight. Here's to a better yesterday. Ha ha.