It was almost nice to sit and talk with Harriet for a while. Almost like our old life. Two cups of tea and several cookies later, I left. But not until Harriet had assured me she was having Holiday dinner with the couple in D17. I was glad she wouldn’t be alone.
I headed out and walked along the riverfront, in the direction of Michigan Avenue. I was hoping to see Joan, but there was no sign of her or the homeless women she had been hanging out with. Heading up Illinois Street, I cut east. At Rush Street, I noticed an ultra single trannie idling at the light. The driver was Dr. Silverman. Before I could make up my mind to wave or not, the light changed and he speeded off. After what Mr. Jenkins had said about Silverman’s demotion to Metro Hospital, I wondered how he could afford that kind of transit. Maybe he’d made a ton of credits when he was doing research.
Any thoughts I had of the doctor disappeared as soon as I turned the corner onto Michigan Avenue. It was a virtual fairyland of twinkling lights and Holiday music—if you blocked out the verts. I clicked on my PAV to music only and ambled down the street. The decorations and the music were breathtakingly beautiful. But it wasn’t long before I was paying more attention to the sour faces of the people jostling past me, laden with bags and boxes. They weren’t happy; they were stressed. The only smiling people were the few who, like me, were without packages—strolling slowly down the sidewalk, taking in the sights.
I was standing in front of Yum’s candy shop, watching marzipan ballerinas twirling to the strains of The Nutcracker, when the vert interruption hit.
Trannies screeched to a halt. Shoppers’ packages went flying as people bumped into each other, confused by the silence. It would’ve been more comical, except for the fear on the faces of little kids, clutching their parents’ hands.
“Once upon a time, Holiday meant more than a buying frenzy. It was a time for family and friends and compassion for those less fortunate. The spirit of selflessness, generosity, and charity were foremost in a man’s heart. Search your own hearts, people. Is the homeless person, freezing in the harsh winter, less worthy of—”
It was my dad’s voice. Hearing him made me think back to our last conversation, when I’d clicked off on him. Suddenly, a high-pitched electronic screech cut off the speaker. Everyone, myself included, clapped their hands over their ears. Within seconds, a repair trannie flew by, heading to the Media station at the corner of Michigan and Erie. Moments after they arrived, Holiday music was flowing and verts filled the air. I clicked off my PAV to catch snippets of conversation.
An older man said to his companion, “I remember when I was a kid, we’d volunteer at the Shelter and Food works up in Rogers Park. Felt pretty good.”
“Hush,” the woman said. “Someone might hear you and think you agreed with that… that… subversive propaganda.” She glanced around nervously.
“Maybe I should,” he said.
She yanked him away. “We’ve got grandkids to think of…”
I continued up Michigan, purposely avoiding Mars 9, and took a left at the Water Tower. A trannie spun out of an alley, nearly knocking me over. When I glanced down the alley to see if anyone else was going to barrel out and flatten me, I saw a poster stuck on the wall. It was a rough drawing of a homeless man being stunned by a cop. Subversive art. Absolutely illegal… and thoroughly cool. Had the person in the speeding trannie posted it? How long would it stay there before the authorities tore it down? An idea began formulating in my brain. By the time I got home, I had a full-blown plan.
“So,” I said to Wei, “we could reproduce my drawings and post them all over the city.”
“Or,” she said, “we can do a vid interruption made up of your pics. That would be ultra-ultra! We can call the others and see what they think. By the way, Derek’s coming over tonight to listen to Rogue Radio. I heard Sal’s back from his business. Why don’t we get him and Mike to come over, too?”
“Good idea!” I hadn’t gotten a message from Sal, but Wei knew he was back. The bubble of doubt crept up my throat, but I tamped it back down. “Oh, by the way, the vert interruption was great. It was weird to hear my dad talking.”
“It was from an old debate he gave. He’s got such a compelling voice,” Wei said. “People listen to him.”
“Just not enough of them,” I said ruefully. Of course, I hadn’t listened too well when we’d talked. He might be persuasive with the masses, but, as his abandoned daughter, I might need a little extra convincing of his sincerity, at least where I was concerned.
I messaged Sal and Mike, both of whom said they were coming over. Now I needed to figure out how to tell Dee about Rogue Radio without telling her too much about all the rest of our activities.
“So everyone’s coming over tonight,” I said, walking into her room, where she was watching a vid on her PAV.
“Really? How come?”
“We’re going to listen to Rogue Radio.” I waited for the anticipated barrage of questions.
“Cool. Chris was telling me about that. He said the music was tons better than anything Media produces. Is he coming, too?”
“I didn’t ask him. He probably has a date or something.” I was surprised that Dee was so accepting of Rogue Radio, but I guess coming from Chris, it softened things.
“Nuh-uh. He told me he was through with dating. That his last girlfriend was kind of a jerk and he’d rather be teaching me to cook than going out with someone like her again. He’s so nice. And really cute, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, I guess.” My little sister appeared to have the beginnings of a raging crush on Chris. I figured he could handle that, because he really was a nice person. And cute, too. Why was I thinking that? “Go ahead and ask him if you want,” I said.
While she was upstairs, I put the finishing touches on pictures I’d drawn for Wei and her family for Holiday. I wished I’d had credits to buy them something instead. But, I told myself, these were from the heart. Like the vert interruption had mentioned—Holiday was supposed to be about more than expensive presents.
I was sandwiched between Sal and Chris on the sofa, while Derek and Wei were sharing Pops’s chair. Dee sprawled on the floor on a pile of pillows.
“Smells like ginger,” Derek said, sniffing the back of the chair.
“That’s Pops’s chair. Candied ginger’s his favorite thing,” Dee said. To Wei, she said, “Did you know your mother got him hooked on it when she was in high school? She and your dad were friends with our mom and Nina’s dad. They even went to grade school together.”
“That practically makes us family, then,” Chris said.
His thigh was pressed against mine, and I found it more than a little distracting. Especially when he flashed one of his killer smiles at me. I pressed myself closer to Sal and squeezed his hand.
“Missed you, too,” he whispered.
“Shhhh,” Wei said. “It’s starting.”
Dorrie’s voice came through loud and clear. “Tonight we’re going all the way back to the sixties—the nineteen sixties, that is. We’ll be hearing from ultracool Bob Dylan, Neil Young, and Joan Baez. After a quick trip around that decade, we’ll leap forward to the two thousands to hear from Ansley Garnett, Claudette Lucier, and Little Joe Andersen. Wrapping up tonight’s broadcast will be the latest from Chicago’s own Beppo Wills. But you didn’t tune in to listen to me, so without wasting another nano, let’s get something happening here with Buffalo Springfield’s ‘For What It’s Worth.’”