Beggars and Choosers (5 page)

Lizzie
said calmly, “Billy said too, him, that nobody would
fix it. Billy, how come you—”

I said, “Because even donkeys don’t got the money, them, that they
used to have to pay taxes with. And too much stuff gets broke nowadays.
They got to make choices, them, about what to fix.”

Lizzie
said, “But why do the donkey politicians got less
money for taxes, them? And how come more stuff gets broke?”

Annie flung her peeled apples into a belt dish and dumped dough on
them like it was mud.

“Because other countries make cheap Y-energy now. Twenty years ago
we was the only ones, us, who could make it, and now we’re not. But the
stuff breaking—”

Annie burst out, “You believe them lies politicians say on the
grids? Land and Samuelson and Drinkwater? Pisswater! All lies, every
time one of them opens their mouth, them, it’s lies—they just want to
get out of paying their rightful taxes! The taxes we earned, us, with
our votes! And I told you not to fill up the child’s head with them
secondhand donkey lies, Billy Washington!”

“Ain’t lies,” I said, but I hated having Annie mad at me worse than
I hated having her mad at
Lizzie
. It hurt my heart. Old fool.

Lizzie
saw it. She was like that, her: all pushing and
pushing one minute, all sweetness the next. She put her arms around me.
“It’s all right, Billy. She ain’t mad, her, at you. Nobody’s mad at
you
.
We love you, us.”

I held her, me. It was like holding a bird—thin bones and fluttery
heart in your hand. She smelled of apples.

My dead wife Rosie and me never wanted kids. I don’t know, me, what
we was thinking.

But all I said out loud was, “You don’t go outside, you, until them
rabid raccoons are killed by somebody.”

Annie shot me a look. It took me a minute to figure out she was
afraid, her, that
Lizzie
was just going to start all over
again:

killed by who, Billy
? But Lizzie didn’t start. She just
said, sweet as berries, “I won’t, me. I’ll stay inside.”

But now it was Annie who couldn’t let it go. I don’t understand
mothers, me. Annie said, “And you stay away from school for a while,
too, Lizzie. You ain’t no donkey, you.”

Lizzie didn’t answer.

Annie only wanted what was best for Lizzie. I knew that, me. Lizzie
had to live in East Oleanta, join a lodge, go to scooter races, hang
around the cafe, choose her lovers here, have her babies here. Annie
wanted Lizzie to belong. Like an agro Liver, not some weird fake-donkey
freak nobody would want. Any mother would. Annie might sneak, her, into
the kitchen of the Congresswoman Janet Carol Land Cafe to do some
cooking, but she was still all Liver, all the way through.

And Lizzie wasn’t.

A long time ago, when I was in school myself, me, and the country
was different, I learned something. It’s fuzzy now, but it keeps
hanging in my head. It was from before donkeys and Livers. Before cafes
and warehouses. Before politicians paid taxes to us, instead of the
other way around. It was from back when they were still making
Sleepless, and you could read about them in newspapers. When there
was
newspapers. This thing was a word about genemod, but it meant something
that wasn’t genemod. Was natural. Lizzie learns at school that donkeys
are inferior, them, because donkeys have to be made genemod so they can
be put to work providing all the things Livers need. But this word
wasn’t about the kind of natural that makes us Livers superior to
donkeys. It was about a different kind of natural, a kind that happens
by itself but makes you different from other natural Livers around you.
The word explained why Lizzie asked so many donkey questions, her, when
she wasn’t no donkey and didn’t have no donkey genemods, although the
word was in her genes. How could that be? Like I said, I was fuzzy, me,
about the word, and about how it worked. But I remembered it.

The word was
throwback
.

I watched Lizzie watch her mother put the apple dish on the
foodbelt. It went under the flash heater and out through the wall into
the cafe. Somebody would choose it, them, on their Senator Mark Todd
Ingalls meal chip. Annie went on to cooking something else.
Lizzie
sat on the floor, her, with the pieces of the broken peeler ‘hot. When
her mother wasn’t looking she studied each one, her, figuring out how
it might go together, and when she grinned at me, her black eyes
sparkled and darted, shiny as stars.

==========

That night we had a meeting, us, in the cafe, to talk about the
rabid raccoons. Forty people, not counting kids. Paulie Cenverno
actually seen one of the sick raccoons, hind legs twitching like it was
splintered, mouth foaming, down near the State Senator James Richard
Langton Scooter Track on the other side of town from the river.
Somebody said, them, that we should put chairs in a circle to make a
real meeting, but nobody did. At the other end of the cafe the
holoterminal played and the dance music blasted. Nobody danced but the
holos, life-sized smiling dolls made of light, pretty enough to be
donkeys. I don’t like them, me. Never did. You can see right through
the edges.

“Turn down that music so we can hear ourselves talk, us!” Paulie
bawled. People slouching at the tables near the foodbelt didn’t even
look up, them. Probably all doing sunshine. Paulie walked over, him,
and turned down the noise.

“Well,” Jack Sawicki said, “what are we going to do, us, about these
sick coons?”

Only a few people snickered, them, and they were the dumbest ones.
Like Annie said: somebody has to serve at meetings, even if serving is
donkey work. Jack is mayor, him. He can’t help it. East Oleanta ain’t
big enough to have a regular donkey mayor— no donkeys live here and we
don’t want none. So we elected Jack, us, and he does what he has to do.

Somebody said, “Call County Legislator Drinkwater on the official
terminal.”

“Yeah, call Pisswater!”

“District Supervisor Samuelson’s got the warden franchise, him.”

“Then call Samuelson!”

“Yeah, and while you’re at it, you, make another town protest that
the goddamn warehouse don’t distribute, it, but once a week now!” That
was Celie Kane. I ain’t never seen her not angry.

“Yeah. Rutger’s Corners, they still got distrib, them, twice a week.”

“I had to wear these jacks two days in a row!”

“I got sick, me, and missed a distrib, and we run out of toilet
paper!”

Next election, District Supervisor Aaron Simon Samuelson was a
squashed spider. But Jack Sawicki, he knew, him, how to serve a meeting.

“Okay, people, shut up now. This is about the sick coons, not about
warehouse distrib. I’m going, me, to just call up our donkeys.”

He unlocked the official terminal. It sits way in the corner of the
cafe. Jack pulled his chair, him, right up close to it, so his belly
almost rested on his knees. A few stomps from the alley gang swaggered
into the cafe, carrying their wooden clubs. They headed, them, for the
foodbelt, laughing and smacking each other, drunk on sunshine. Nobody
told them to shut up. Nobody dared.

“Terminal activate,” Jack said. He didn’t mind, him, talking donkey
in front of us. None of this fake shit about
I don’t carry out
orders I give them I’m an agro Liver, me
. Jack was a good mayor.

But I’m careful, me, not to tell him so.

“Terminal activated,” the terminal said. For the first time I
wondered what we’d do if the thing was as broke as Annie’s apple-peeler
‘bot.

Jack said, “Message for District Supervisor Aaron Simon Samuelson,
copy to County Legislator Thomas Scott Drinkwater, copy to State
Senator James Richard Langton, copy to State Representative Claire
Amelia Forrester, copy to Congresswoman Janet Carol Land.” Jack licked
his lips. “Priority Two.”

“One!” Celie Kane shouted. “Make it a one, you bastard!”

“I can’t, Celie,” Jack said. He was patient, him. “One is for
disasters like attack or fire or flood at the Y-plant.” That was
supposed to make us smile. A Y-plant can’t catch fire, can’t break down
no way with its donkey shields. Can’t nothing get in, and only energy
can get out. But Celie Kane don’t know how to smile, her. Her daddy,
old Doug Kane, is my best friend, but he can’t do nothing with her
neither. Never could, not even when she was a child.

“This
is
a disaster, you shithead! One of them coons kills
a kid of mine, and I’ll tear you apart myself, Jack Sawicki!”

“Hey, stay together, Celie,” Paulie Cenverno said. Somebody muttered
“Bitch.” The door opened and Annie came in, her, holding Lizzie’s hand.
The stomps at the foodbelt were still shouting and shoving.

The terminal said, “Please hold. Linking with District Supervisor
Samuelson’s mobile unit.” A minute later the holo appeared, not
life-sized like on the HT, but a tiny, eight-inch-high Samuelson seated
at his desk and dressed in a blue uniform. He looked, him, about forty,
but of course with donkey genemods you can’t never tell. He had thick
gray hair and big shoulders and crinkly blue eyes—handsome, like all of
them. A few people shuffled their feet, them. If voters don’t watch the
donkey channels, then the only people they ever see not dressed in
jacks are Samuelson’s techs at the warehouse distrib twice a week. Once
a week, now.

Suddenly I wondered, me, if that
was
Samuelson. Maybe the
holo was just a tape. Maybe the real Samuelson was someplace dressed up
for a party, or in jacks—if donkeys ever wore jacks, them—or even
naked, him, taking a shit. It was weird to think about.

“Yes, Mayor Sawicki?” Samuelson said. “How can I serve you, sir?”

“There’s at least four rabid raccoons in East Oleanta, Supervisor.
Maybe more. The area monitor picked them up, it, before it broke. We
seen the coons, right in town. They’re dangerous. I told you, me, two
weeks ago that the game warden ‘bot broke.”

Samuelson said, “Game warden duties have been franchised to the
Sellica Corporation. I notified them, sir, as soon as you notified me.”

But Jack wasn’t taking any of that shit. Like I said, me, he was a
good mayor. “We don’t care, us, who’s supposed to do the job! It’s your
responsibility that it gets done, Supervisor. That’s why we elected
you, us.”

Samuelson didn’t change expression. That’s when I decided, me, that
he was a tape. “I’m sorry, mayor, you’re quite right. It is my
responsibility. I’ll take care of it right away, sir.”

“That’s what you said two weeks ago. When the warden first broke,
it.”

“Yes, sir. Funding has been—yes, you’re quite right, sir. I
am
sorry. It won’t be neglected again, sir.”

People nodded at each other:
damn right
. Behind me Paulie
Cenverno muttered, “Got to be firm, us, with donkeys. Remind ‘em who
pays the votes.”

Jack said, “Thank you, Supervisor. And one more thing—”

“Hey!” a stomp screamed at the other end of the cafe, “The foodbelt
stopped, it!”

Dead silence fell.

The holo of Samuelson said sharply, “What is it? What’s the
problem?” For a minute he almost sounded, him, like a person.

The stomp screamed again, “Fucking thing just stopped, it! Ate my
meal chip and stopped! The food cubbies don’t open, them!” He yanked at
all the plasticlear cubby doors, and none budged, but of course they
don’t never budge, them, unless you put your chip in the slot. The
stomp slammed on them with his club, and that didn’t help neither.
Plasticlear don’t break.

Jack ran, him, across the cafe, his belly bouncing under his red
jacks. He stuck his own meal chip into the slot and pressed a cubby
button. The chip disappeared, it, and the cubby didn’t open. Jack ran
back to the terminal.

“It’s broke, Supervisor. The goddamn foodbelt’s broke, it— eating
chips and not giving out no food. You got to do something real quick.
This can’t go no two weeks!”

“Of course not, Mayor. As you know, the cafe isn’t part of my
taxes—it’s funded and maintained by Congresswoman Land. But I’ll notify
her myself, immediately, and a technician will be there from Albany
within the hour. Nobody will starve within an hour, Mayor Sawicki. Keep
your constituents calm, sir.”

Celie Kane shrilled, “Fixed like the warden ‘bot, you mean? If my
kids go hungry even a day, you mule bastard—”

“Shut up,” Paulie Cenverno told her, murderously low. Paulie don’t
like to see donkeys abused to their faces. He says, him, that they got
feelings too.

“Within one hour,” Jack said. “Thank you for your help, Supervisor.
Dialogue over.”

“Dialogue over,” Samuelson said. He smiled at us, him, the same
smile like on his election holos, chin up and crinkly eyes bright. The
holo pushed a button on his desk. The picture disappeared. But
something must of gone wrong because the voice didn’t disappear, it,
only it sounded all different. Samuelson still, but no Samuelson we
never seen or heard campaigning, us: “Christ—what
next
! These
morons and imbeciles—I’m tempted to just—oh!” The terminal yelped and
went dead.

A woman at a far table screamed. The stomp with the biggest wooden
club had grabbed her food, him, and was eating it. Jack and Paulie and
Norm Frazier charged over, them, and jumped the kid. His buddies jumped
back. Tables crashed over and people started running. Somebody had just
changed HT channels, and a scooter race in Alabama roared by,
life-size. I grabbed Annie and Lizzie and shoved them to the door. “Get
out! Get out!”

Outside, the Y-lights made Main Street bright as day. I could feel
my heart banging but I didn’t slow up, me. Angry people got no sense.
Anything could happen. I panted, me, alongside Annie, she running with
those big breasts bouncing, Lizzie running quick and quiet as a deer.

In Annie’s apartment on Jay Street I collapsed, me, on a sofa. It
wasn’t none too comfortable, not like sofas I remembered from when I
was young, the soft ones you kept around long enough to take the shape
of a person’s body.