Chapter Twenty-six
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Gettin’ through Northern customs was almost as stupid as fightin’ our way through the media first thin’ this mornin’. Good thin’ we headed out early to catch our redeye.
What could those folks have thought they—the media—were gonna get from a pair of teens, an art major and a dingwit nerd in med school? Sorry sibling. He’s workin’ on his MBA now, to get Papa and Ike off his case. Maybe I should tell him to stand up to ’em, tell ’em to stick it in their ear. But it makes me feel good that he’s still in the same dorm, on the next floor. Lucky him. He got a private room, on accounta his ‘condition’.
Bein’ almost a thousand miles away from him would kill me. How would he cope with it? Was he hangin’ around for me? That would be funny. Call that ironic?
We had an extended wait in customs as they gave Cordiz the run around, concerned about the two weapons she had in her checked duffle. Don’t know what they were all up her armpit for. Maybe don’t have the respect for the Continental Rangers the garden variety Southerner has. Under the impression all Northerners pack. Down South, it’s mostly bows ya’ll find in a giant’s home. For huntin’. We don’t so much need one for self protection. I mean, we’re pretty hard to hurt. And live on a higher plane of integrity—words directly from Uncle Ike.
When it comes to guns, Hale and I are a bit different in that the head of all Southern law enforcement, a gun guy, has been an important element of our lives. Shouldn’ta let that filter into my head. Hale may still face repercussions for shootin’ that fool outside the statehouse.
A famous family can only get ya so far. Gotta hate nepotism, unless it keeps ya out of the proverbial hoosegow. Funny. Hale would prolly love hikin’ for hours on the North Slope Turnpike pickin’ up the occasional piece of litter. Dropped by a human, of course. We giant folk are really into peaceful coexistence with Mother Earth.
Only a single camera crew was hangin’ around the far side of the security gate waitin’ for us when the interrogation completed and our duffels were returned. I have to grin on the inside, how that one gate guard enjoyed flippin’ through Hale’s sketchbooks.
Oh, Cordiz was a little irritated maybe by the time the human lady with the microphone ran toward us. I’m pretty sure the way Cordiz put her in her place, a bit of urine dribbled down the lady’s stockin’s. Poor thin’.
Trolls can really growl. Even scared me a little. Phft.
No way. A guy in a funeral suit stood with a marker-penned placard, read Hale, son of Kriz. A limo, really? Cordiz and I exchanged grins. This might be more entertainin’ than I’d expected. Some pinheaded university professor scheduled a limo for a seventeen-year-old granite carver? No way. But way.
Hale didn’t have anythin’ to say about it one way or the other. Cordiz had fun checkin’ out the mini-fridge for snacks. Pretty sure she was a little disappointed there weren’t any crickets, much less glazed scorpions.
Durin’ the long trip into the city—weird word, so used to village or hamlet—Hale kept his nose pointed out the window, intrigued. Don’t know why. So much concrete and asphalt. Billboards out the wazoo. Power lines strung every which way. Don’t humans have any concept of harmony with Nature? Didn’t help there weren’t more than a few ornamental trees linin’ the boulevards. No hills to hide the sprawl. I was immediately, let down.
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Hale
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The starkness of it all cried out for art. The overly-tall buildin’s screamed apocalyptic. First I wanted to cry, until I began to study the architecture a bit more closely. Had to be some design inherent in their buildin’ philosophy, though I struggled to identify it. Angles. Lines. Diagonals. Glass. Lots of colored glass. Mostly mirrored. Some pinks. Blues. Glass is okay. It brings the outside in, but I couldn’t find much here I’d want to bring inside.
I mostly sketch in charcoal and slate, so I could actually see a lot of what exploded in my face as sketch-worthy. But the absence of green tore at my heart. Sometimes a few shrubs circled an entrance. Strips of manicured grass edged sidewalks. A plea for harmony. Everything in hard edges. I wiped a tear, quickly.
These humans need art.
The limo edged up to a security checkpoint thin’—not a lot of those in the South. Reminded me of the outhouses we can still find up in the hollers. They need a fellow with an in-yar-face gun on their hip to check window stickers, ID. We follow the rules. If we aren’t supposed to go somewhere, we’re not gonna tread.
My respect for these humans was goin’ down, and down.
The uniformed gate guard ensured Hale son of Kriz was on a clipboard, and waved us forward. Between more concrete sidewalks, and green-brown lawns that looked stolen and flung next to the heat-capturin’ asphalt. Maybe they could consider plantin’ a tree here and there. Even on the plains, we groom our villages and hamlets. The East Plain mostly graced four-foot-tall ornamental grass, clusters of cacti, considerin’ they only receive a shock of rain every decade, but the gravel is kept lookin’ nice. And the buildin’s matched their environment.
How could these humans groom the in-between to match their vomited various architectures?
Our driver dialed someone and stated we were approachin’. A couple minutes later we pulled up to another concrete sidewalk facin’ another vomit of concrete-buildin’, separated by more concrete. A youngling—guess they call themselves youths—ran toward the limo.
“You folks have a nice day,” the driver said. Guess our hint to get out of his vehicle.
I remembered, youth is a formal word in their world. They call their younglings kids. To us, that’s a goat. The kid who greeted us with what I think was a fearful smile, wore natty shorts, an oversized cotton tee with the university’s logo on it. On his feet, I think they call ’em tinny shoes—maybe three sizes too big? Skinny sucker. Maybe from low income. Didn’t get enough meat. Very sad. Maybe his papa’s just a bad hunter.
Evidently we were welcomed, and the school was happy to reach out to “their Southern neighbors.” Okay. None of us answered his jabberin’. Maybe because it was supposed to be directed at me, I guess. I was the “honored” guest. I don’t say much to strangers on a good day.
Don’t know why, but Bele and Cordiz often flipped smiles at each other.
The kid, he said his name—sounded like Ishmael. Maybe Mikal. That was too trollish soundin’ for a human though. He got us through a set of double, steel doors. Ick. Steel? Painted gray. In a buildin’ an architect otherwise attempted to glamour up with columns and angles, and diagonals, all in concrete.
Cordiz had to watch her head, braids skimmin’ the straightaways, bend into a forty-five degree to cross threshold. Even Bele and I scrunched for doorways. Humans.
Two long halls. Doors every fifteen feet. The kid finally leaned inside an office with an open door, screeched, “We’re here.” He didn’t give us room to pass him.
Dr. Antony rushed out, hand out. Big smile fieldin’ his smallish, round face. He was repeatin’ a lot of what Mikal blathered. Shook hands warmly with Bele. Gave Cordiz a hard glance I couldn’t catalog, and then took in the large automatic she put on in the limo. Doc—I’d been told humans call their mentors doc, have no idea why, turned back and blathered some more about how ecstatic he was that I accepted his invite.
I was already bored. Didn’t help that our lobby, entrance, at home, has a lot more character than the hallway he was grettin’ us in.
“Follow me. The entire art department is waitin’ to greet ya.”
We straggled down the hall followin’ him, workin’ at tiny steps not to rush him. He explained it was so quiet since the school was on break between sessions. Figgered as much.
Finally he drew us into what I’d call a conference room, without a conference table. Borin’ Formica-like covered cabinets worked around the edge of the room, filled with bricabrac, binders maybe a hundred years old. Slips of paper. Mugs, miscellany out the wazoo. Someone maybe organized the place a hundred years ago. Losing more respect for these humans.
Seven aged, skinny, tiny humans stood about holdin’ mugs. I think they worked at smiles. They must have drawn straws to decide in what order they would stride up to us to introduce themselves.
This was the entire art department?
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