Common 3

CHAPTER 1

Journey into the Unknown

June 1, 2034

Communist Experimental Community, Common 3

The Dons’ family home

Hope Orgazmus lies on her back on Juan Don’s bed. Her legs stretch upward, and she pulls down on the toes of her sneakers. She stares at the large hole in the bedroom floor.

Hope says, Juan, you’re the only albino I ever knocked boots with. I love you more than all of the bullshit in the world.

I’ve told you umpteen times, Hope. My Mentorsan says that love can rumble by like the three a.m. milk train, its horn blaring three times, saying get outta my way and so long! Make up your mind. Are you with me or not? If so, start packing.

Hope says, Just because your know-it-all Mentorsan told you about that stupid train don’t mean it’s true. That dude is one punk-ass creeper. Where did he come from, anyway?

While Hope prepares for their escape, Juan tells her about his Mentorsan. Most of it is secondhand, reinforcing Mentorsan’s aura of divine, mystic detachment.

Juan says, "It is rumored that, before my Mentorsan was drafted into Common 3, he was a movie star. To be hip and progressive he had lived with holy men for three years in the Himalayan Mountains. He smoked weed, took psychedelic drugs, and ate hallucinogenic roots that he claims gave him infinite wisdom, spiritual powers, and impotency.

"He adopted twenty-seven black African babies to atone for all racist oppressions that had occurred since the beginning of creation. He also believed that it would make him seem cooler, more progress-aah, than regular folks. After a while, he tired of the babies and gave them to white Hollywood movie stars. The stars appeared with them on television and in magazines and newspapers. They squeezed all of the goodwill they could out of posing with their back babies. Eventually, the babies disappeared.

"Mentorsan became a mentor to me when I turned three years old. He instructed me three hours a day for fifteen years on stuff like the fairness of equal distribution of everything, and government ownership of everything, including kids, and everyone’s souls. I learned the glorious histories of past and present communist societies like Russia, China, and Cuba. His favorite subject was the wickedness of religion and democratic republics.

Hope asks, What do you remember of what he taught you?

Not much. He talked in rhyming slogans. As he did, he would jump up on his desk and flail his arms in the air. It was as if he had memorized his words but didn’t know their meaning.

Hope says, Sometimes, Juan, you sound and act the same way. Are you sure leaving the Common is progress-aah… cool? We’ve never been to Outside since we were born.

Are you coming or not, Hopie? In ten hours it’ll be morning. Then we won’t be able to escape for a long while. When the word gets out that we didn’t show up at the commissary for dinner, Big Eye will know we left, and send Chasers after us. The moon is waxing. When it’s full, it might as well be day. If we don’t go now, we’ll have to wait until it wanes. I don’t want to wait that long. Do you?

No way, Juan, a full moon would make your shiny white hair and skin glow like them energy-saving street lamps. Anyway, Big Eye won’t be able to see us underground, especially if we do like you always tell me to do—live in my own world, where no one can see me except me. I’ve never been in my own world. How do I know I’d like it? Besides, only a simple fool would go out when the moon’s full and weird things happen It tugs on the ocean, screws with heads, causes folks to go wing nut and to murder or commit suicide like my granny did. Worst of all, I get my period when it’s full. Then you don’t want to bang. I’m sure not going anywhere when the moon’s full.

Hope, if you’re too scared to go, tell me now. I don’t want you to panic while we’re on our way out.

Do you love me, Juan Don? I have to know before I’ll go. Say it like you mean it. Don’t just mumble ‘uh’ and roll your eyes up.

Juan says, Man, are you superstitious. That’s all bullshit… best left to science, not moon shine. Do I love you? At this very moment, I do.

Hope says, Then I’ll go, even though you only love me once in a while, and my parents don’t approve of interracial dating or marriage.

What gives with that, Hopie? Why bring it up now? You’re white, and I couldn’t be any whiter.

"Yeah, but folks think you’re much too white. Unnaturally so, my Mentorsan says. She thinks you’re a wangateur who conjures evil spells, especially on young girls like me.

Make up your mind, Hopie. Jesus!

I’ll go, but you can’t keep using the Lord’s name in vain.

Your belief in your Lord is in vain.

Juan, my Mentorsan tells me that. She’s like you… no feelings, just logical. It’s different for girls. We are born with more spiritual thoughts than men.

Impatient to get going, Juan says, I’ll carry your backpack. Follow me. The tunnel goes under the lawn and fence to the start of the woods. When we get out, we’ll lay low until the security patrol goes by. Then, we’ll go down a path that I made. I snuck out last night and marked it. It takes us to Outside.

Are critters in the woods, Juan?

Only squirrels, chipmunks, spiders, stray dogs, wild pigs, and snakes. Just be careful not to step in dog ma. The smell never comes off of shoes. Dog ma can be deep too. Wear your oldest rides, just in case.

Hope points to her sneakers. It says right here on the side of my sneakers, ‘Common 3 issue number 376.’ I’m ready. I sure hope I don’t step in dog ma. The Minister of Selective Justice said on Common TV that animals and inanimate objects—trees, rocks, and such—can sue in court. Does that mean that we can sue animals? I’d sure sue a dog if I stepped in its ma. Even so, I hope I don’t step in it or on a snake. Snakes make me crawl.

There you go again. Your parents shouldn’t have named you Hope. My Mentorsan tells me that hope is sanity’s enemy because it usually doesn’t pan out. So quit hoping before you end up in the nut house.

Okay, I’m ready. Let’s bounce before its time for you to quit loving me. The path will be our yellow brick road. Once we’re on it, all our beautiful memories will come back to us.

Hope and Juan crawl for seventy-five feet through the muddy tunnel before coming to its end and the overhead escape hatch. The hatch is covered by a board. It is hidden under leaves and branches that are glued on with mud. Juan pushes up on the board and heaves it aside. He climbs out and pulls Hope out.

Juan takes a deep breath and exhales. He is proud that the tunnel he toiled on for a year served its purpose.

He pumps his fist and says, I’ve out-foxed Big Eye. There’s something to be said for the intelligence of youth, even if we aren’t wise. According to the indisputable words of Mentorsan and Common 3 Wisdom Manual Number Thirteen, ‘intelligence and knowledge begin to blossom at age thirty and wisdom on death beds.’ I beat the odds.

Hopie, we can’t use a flashlight. They’ll spot their lights. The path is smooth. All I have to do is feel for it with my feet. If I feel sticks or rocks, I’ll stop and circle my toe around until I re-locate it. I’m to your right. Hold out your right hand and I’ll steer it to the back of my sweater. Then, grab on and hold tight. You won’t have to worry about where you’re going. Worrying breeds fear and picks fights with life that you’ll always lose. Mentorsan says don’t make war on reality. You’ll live longer. Let’s go.

They come to Common 3’s boundary across which is a foreign realm, the place called Outside. Its mysteries wait to be discovered. So do its dangers.

CHAPTER 2

Dinner at George’s Diner

Later, Same Day

Trip to Faithville

Juan’s flashlight’s beam finds the incline of a two-lane blacktop road that winds through undulating meadows and thick woods.

Hope says, I’m tired, my feet hurt, and I’m hungry. How many more miles before there’s a place to eat?

Juan says, I don’t know anything more about where we are going than you do. I’ve never been in Outside either. I bet we’ve been walking for an hour… about three miles maybe.

Hope grabs Juan’s arm and excitedly says, Look, there are headlights coming up from behind us. Should we hide?

I think we should just keep walking and pay no mind to it.

A pick-up truck slowly passes, stops, and backs up next to them.

The driver lowers his window and says, Just so you know, there ain’t nothing ahead of you for thirty miles or so. It’ll take you ten or eleven hours to walk to Faithville. By then the town will be locked up tight as a drum. It’s the only town for a long ways in these parts. If you want a ride there, I’ll be glad to give you one. You shouldn’t be out here alone at this hour. Pull down the back panel, hop in, and pull the panel shut. How about it, young man?

Juan says, Thank you, sir. We would really appreciate a ride.

Hope says, We sure would, mister. We have no idea where we are, or where we are headed.

Okay, kids. Get in the back. There are just a few bales of cotton back there. You can spread out on them.

Later, at the crest of a hill, the truck’s headlights reveal a sign, Faithville 1 mile. Below, the town’s center is marked by clusters of lights. Surrounding the town is a galaxy of suburban lights that glow from windows and street lamps.

Hope says, See all those stars, Juan? That’s what I call real bling-bling. You have bling, Juan, not the cheap kind, but off-the-chain classy, like the glitter of the stars. I don’t think you know how hot and game you are. You don’t know or care about heavenly things, like the sensations of things, and love. I learned from granny that God never speaks in a loud, angry voice. She whispers like wind in these trees. You don’t hear Her speaking softly. I do. I feel Her breath. Someday I’ll teach you about, feelings, love, and God.

Your problems are that you’re naïve and talk too much, Juan says, his impatience with Hope getting edgy.

I’m glad we came, Juan. I’m real hungry. We can stop at a restaurant and get something to eat soon as we get into Faithville.

Faithville is deserted, save an occasional passing farm truck, and a couple laughing as they run to their car. The Big Faith Diner’s red neon lights blink two blocks ahead, welcome beacons to the famished pair.

That must be this Common’s eating place, says Hope, tugging at Juan’s sleeve. Its sign says, ‘Big Faith Diner.’ I guess it’s the only place open."

Hope, I bet that Outside doesn’t have Commons.

They must have hope here, though. Why else do they call it Faithville? Can’t you even figure that out?

The truck pulls in front of the diner. Hope and Juan hop out and thank the driver.

Bob Wider, one of two Faithville real estate agents, stands by Big Faith Diner’s door whistling It’s Off to Work We Go, and toe-tapping one of his shiny white, patent leather shoes. His eyes shift left to right from beneath his black toupee’s brow over-hang, alert for prospects.

Ed and Mary Smiley approach the diner a few paces in front of Hope and Juan.

Bob Wider removes his hat and says, Evening folks. Ed, I’m sorry to hear about your gout and heart problems. My wife suffers from gout. Terrible painful it is.

It’s just old age, explains Ed, praying that that his explanation will discourage Bob from chattering on.

Mary, oblivious to Ed’s prayer for relief, adds, Soon we are going into a government place that takes care of older folks. It’s over near Gainlittle.

Is that a fact? When is soon?

In a month or two, Mary says, I’m not looking forward to it, Bob.

I’ll make a note of that, Ed and Mary, right here in my note book that I keep inside of my coat pocket. Give me a shout when you know for sure that you’re moving. I’ll be honored to sell your house for you. I’ll get top dollar for it, too. Well folks, have a nice meal. Oh Ed, stay away from the ice cream. It will aggravate your gout for sure.

Scott Perkins holds open the diner door for Ed and Mary to enter, and for his wife Ellie and him to exit.

Bob chirps, Scottie and Ellie, how was your meal?

Very good as usual, Scott responds without looking at Bob, anxious to get away from him and to get home to see the last few innings of the Braves’ game.

Bob, not to be denied, says, I was so sorry Ellie to hear of your mother’s passing. You have my sincerest condolences, ma’am.

Thank you, Bob. It was a blessing in a way. Mother was ninety-three and went downhill fast after my father died.

A pity still, says Bob, tapping his note book on the back of his hand. By the way, I’d be glad to list your mother’s house, if you decide to sell it. Homes in that neighborhood are going fast and for top dollar.

We haven’t had time to think about that, Bob, says Ed, tugging at Mary’s sleeve. If Ellie decides to sell it, we’ll give you a call.

Don’t wait too long folks. You never can tell about the real estate market. Prices can drop like rocks before you can say Jack Robinson. And there is a lot going on that could cause a crash.

We’ll talk about it Bob, Ellie snaps back, offended by Bob’s lack of taste in aggressively soliciting at such a sad time.

Juan and Hope had been blocked from entering the diner door by Bob and his audiences.

Bob squints at them to bring them into better focus. Bob is near-sighted, but refuses to wear glasses in public. He is fond of looking at and conversing with the image in his bathroom mirror, his favorite saying being, Widows never make passes at agents with glasses.

Bob greets Juan and Hope, Good evening, strangers. Bob Widers the name. It’s a beautiful night. What brings you two youngsters to our lovely little town?

Nothing brought us here, Hope replies, stifling a wide yawn. We came on our own, in some man’s truck. We’re starved. Is this where we can get chicken, peas, mashed potatoes, and vanilla ice cream?

The finest dinner money can buy, little lady, right here in The Big Faith Diner, the best there is on God’s blessed earth.

Hope pulls open the door and says, Sir, we don’t want to be rude, but we are really hungry.

Don’t let me hold you up. We can chat on your way out. Faithville would be a great place for you two and your parents to settle down. If your folks would like to look at some houses, they should give me a jingle.

Bob hands his business card to Juan and says, My number is on this card young fella.

Hope says, Thanks, Mr. Wider, but my… I mean our… parents won’t move. They’d worry too much about Chasers coming after them and being taken back and forced into the Self Punishment Clinic. We’re sure scared of Chasers coming to get us.

Bob says, Yes… err… of course, little lady. You’ve got a lively imagination. Ladies are blessed with more creative outlooks than men, so it makes sense that you’re the one to fantasize, not your brother. Tell the owner, George Favor, that Uncle Bob sent you.

After they enter the diner, Juan whispers, Hopie, I’ll answer all questions from now on. You shouldn’t have mentioned our Common, the Chasers, or the Self Punishment Clinic. Mr. Wider might tell the Faithville mayor what you said. If he does, the mayor will be scared shitless. He’ll call Big Eye, and renounce us. Then we’d be dead meat. Just shut up from now on.

I’ll talk if I want to, Juan. You’re not the boss of me. You’re, like, so hard-core sometimes.

A tall, bald man of great girth and a crew cut stands behind the cash register wearing a don’t mess with me scowl. His folded arms are liberally tattooed and are the size of the beef carcasses that hang in the restaurant’s freezer. He stares at the couple as though they are lepers.

The big man wipes his hands on his bloody apron and says, Sit wherever you want, kids. The waitress will serve you.

Juan asks, Are you George Favor, sir?

That’s what my parents named me.

Juan says, Bob told us to tell you he sent us.

Yeah, he hangs out front every night and tells every stranger to tell me the same thing. While you are on your way out of here, he’ll suggest that you tell your parents to see him about buying a foreclosed property, one whose owner just died, or a widow or widower looking for a smaller place. Go take a seat in a booth over yonder.

Juan and Hope sit in a booth across from each other.

Hope leans over the table, her hands cupping her mouth, and says, George isn’t very nice, is he.

No, Juan agrees. Neither is that real estate dude. What a con artist.

The tall, obese waitress’s name tag reads "Mabel." Mabel’s hair is dyed red. She has a pissed-off countenance. She has already put in a nine-hour day at fifteen dollars an hour, 60 percent of which goes to the federal government for taxes and ten to the state. She stretches pink gum over her tongue and blows it into a bubble. It snaps with a loud pop as she slams glasses of water in front of Juan and Hope. Without looking, she tosses two paper napkins on the middle of the table. Mable looks out of the window at the vacant street, tapping her foot.

She pops her gum… pop . . . and says, "Tonight’s special… pop . . . is meatloaf with slaw, one veggie, a dessert of your choice for eight-fifty. Otherwise… pop . . . look at the menu. Government says that, if you are under twenty-one, you can’t have the dishes with the red stars next to ’em, pop . . . too much fat, sugar, or something else they say is bad for you, like they know. I have to tell every guest they’re required by law to read the back of the menus. It tells you what vegetables you have to eat with each meal and serving sizes… pop . . . Pick a vegetable from that list. I’ll be back in a few minutes to take your order and answer any questions. You shouldn’t have any, if you can read… pop."

Mabel spins around, goes behind the counter, and into the kitchen, shouting, "Where in hell is my number seven. It’s almost closing time. I’d like to get home before midnight. Pop."

A gruff voice from the kitchen responds, What for baby? You’re old man is wasted and useless by now. If you’d quit working and have twenty kids, you could collect welfare for each one and live the life of Riley until they plant you in some government-owned hole. I could help you to have kids and teach you what a real man is like.

Hope, eyes wide with disbelief at what she just heard, says, Did you hear that, Juan? They can fight here. If they did that in the our cafeteria, they’d be in deep dog ma.

Juan says, Don’t complain. They’re doing boring jobs. Arguing is fun to them. It distracts them. You’d do the same, if you had to slop food onto plates all day. Who likes to do that?

My mother does it at our Common cafeteria, when she’s not working at the plant. She’s no bitch and doesn’t give guff to anyone. I’ll probably have to be a server when I turn eighteen. Mother says I have to work at something then. That’s the law. Big Eye says that all hands must work for the common good and brotherhood of man, whatever that means. Where do we sleep tonight?

Before we leave, I’ll ask George where we can go. If he doesn’t know, I bet Mr. Wider will.

Mabel returns and hovers over Juan, violently grinding her gum, hardening it so that it forms small bubbles that snap several decibel’s louder than larger ones.

Mable says, What’ll it be kids?

Juan responds, Dinner.

No shit, Dick Tracy. Which dinner? Didn’t you look at your menu? We’ve got seven different dinner entrees. Forget the three with the red stars. You’re not old enough for them. Looking at Hope, Mabel asks, What’s yours, sweetie?

I’ll have the same as him, dinner.

Look kids, another customer wants me. I’ll attend to him and be back. Your menus are next to you in that holder. Read one and pick out what you want. When I come back, I don’t want any more horsing around. Tell me what you want. If you don’t, you’re out of here. Understood?

Juan and Hope, both at losses about what Mabel is talking about, meet her tirade with agreeable nods and silence, not wanting to cause any more of a ruckus.

Mabel swishes off to her needy customer, mumbling Smart-assed brats.

Juan takes two menus from the holder and gives one to Hope, saying, Here let’s look at these whatchamacallits?

I think she said menus, or something that sounds like that.

They open their menus and begin to read.

After several minutes pass, Juan says, I think I get it. We can choose whatever dinner we want from this list, except the ones with red stars. That’s unbelievable, cool.

Way, responds Hope, her face dazzling with wonderment.

Juan says, They should do that at our cafeteria. Problem here is, other than the chicken dinner, I have no idea what these other things are, what they taste like—steak, veal, and other stuff. I guess that we should order the chicken dinner. There’s no red star on it. Let’s see, the list of vegetables we are allowed has peas and mashed potatoes in it. Let’s order them. Otherwise, if we ask Mabel what all these other things are, she’ll think we’re joshing her and throw us out. We have to eat something.

Hope holds her menu up and points to the price of an entrée. She asks, What’s this code number in front of this item? Every dinner has one in front of it. They’re shaped like esses with two lines through them in front of the numbers. Maybe we order by the number. The chicken dinner has an ess thing plus eight dot, zero, zero.

I have no idea what the codes are, Hope. Don’t ask Mabel about them. Here she comes. Let me do the ordering, so we don’t slip up.

You always think I’ll mess up. That’s whack you know, just ’cause I’m a girl.

Mabel takes a pencil from behind her ear and asks, Alright kids, what’ll it be? You first, missy.

Juan says, We’ll both have the chicken dinner with peas and mashed potatoes.

Mabel, relieved that she isn’t forced to toss the kids, says, You got it.

After Mabel leaves, Juan says, Maybe having the same dinner is the best way. It must be hard for Outsiders to have to make up their minds about what meal to choose.

Yeah Juan, that would be confusing and stress me out. Big Eye makes it easy on us, not having to think or do anything on our own. Like, we’ve had to eat the same dinner—chicken, peas, and mashed potatoes—since we were old enough to use eating utensils. Hey, what’s that car parking out front?

Juan and Hope watch Sheriff Tom Wilson’s patrol car pull in front of the diner, its six-foot-tall radio aerial waggling when the car stops. Every evening around nine thirty-five Sheriff Wilson comes to the diner for coffee and a Cheese Danish, compliments of the house. George Favor wants to stay in the law’s good graces lest his diner’s sanitation rating is not up to federal standards and needs to be upgraded at considerable expense.

Tom enters the diner and sits on a stool at the counter.

George Favor says, Evening, Tom. How goes it? Working late as usual, hey?

Same ole, same ole, Georgie, you know, a traffic ticket now and then, or Fred Tomlinson abusing his old lady. Nothing changes around here. What’s up with you?

Same as always, except tonight. A couple of strangers blew into the place.

Where might they be?

Over there in the booth, two kids, the strapping albino with the eye patch and the pretty little gal with big jugs.

The Sheriff swivels around on his stool.

After staring at Juan and Hope for a moment, he spins back and says, Georgie, they look harmless enough. When I’m finished here, I’ll go see what they’re about.

I think that guy named Tom is a cowboy, Hope whispers to Juan. He’s got a pistol on his side and wears a big hat. I read about and saw pictures of them in the Common 3 history book for girls. They shot and tortured native Indians and stole their land, beat up and murdered black folks, and threw Japanese Americans in prison for no reason. He’s looking at us like he’s checking us out.

Don’t stare at him, Hope. We shouldn’t be attracting attention. Finish your dinner and we’ll have our vanilla ice cream.

I’m almost done. It’s yummy, a lot better than at our Common’s cafeteria. I don’t get that. Common food is from the Common 3 co-op farm. It’s fresh and organic, grown by our farmers the way Big Eye thinks it should be, with just the right natural ingredients, vitamins and minerals.

Mabel appears and says, I see you’re almost done. How about some dessert? Little lady, you didn’t finish your peas. Didn’t like them?

It’s not that, ma’am. You gave me one-hundred and twenty peas. I counted them. Where I come from the government says that we must have exactly eighty-three peas in each serving. I left thirty-seven on my plate. Peas are counted in our cafeteria by a mechanical pea counter. It makes prefect counts. Our portions of chicken and mashed potatoes have to be certain sizes, no smaller, no bigger. The portions of potatoes and chicken you served me seemed about the right size. The idea of measuring out the sizes came from Mrs. Gale…

Juan says, "Hope, enough! He looks at Mable and says, Don’t pay any mind to her, ma’am. She is delirious. We’ll each have two scoops of vanilla ice cream."

Mabel leaves without a word. She goes to the kitchen freezer, where she puts two scoops of government approved, reduced sugar, low fat vanilla ice cream into each of two bowls, and returns to Hope and Juan’s booth.

After placing the bowls in the middle of the table, Mable takes the green guest check pad from her uniform’s front pocket, looks at Juan, and asks, Separate checks, junior?

Okay, if the government says we have to.

Mabel rolls her eyes up and says, That’s it. You get the only one, sonny.

She scribbles on the top of a check, tears it from the pad and, with a flourish, places it in front of Juan, and says, You pay George at the cashier. And I mean for both meals, junior.

Juan ignores the bill.

After they finish their ice cream, Hope says, I’m done. That tasted funny, watery. Let’s go. This place gives me the creeps, especially Tom He might think you’re an Indian all painted up white, or maybe a medicine man and blow you away. What is that green piece of paper that Mabel put on the table? Hey, Mabel and table rhyme. Mable, Mable, if you’re able, put the green thing on the table.

I don’t have a clue what it is, Hope. She says to take it up to George before we leave. He’s standing behind that machine that rings all the time. Whenever customers walk up there, they give him their green sheets of paper. Then, the machine’s drawer opens with a ring. Maybe it counts customers.

Juan and Hope, Juan holding their check, stand in front of the machine. Juan says to George, Mabel says to give this paper to you, sir.

George takes the check and says, That’ll be eighteen dollars and thirty-seven cents.

Hope and Juan start to leave.

George yells, Whoa, you two, the check.

Juan and Hope keep walking, thinking that George is yelling at someone else. Sheriff Wilson gets off of his stool and hurries to the door. He blocks Juan and Hope’s way out. With his arms across his massive chest, he glares at them with a scowl sour enough to cower the meanest felon.

The sheriff says, Where do you two think you’re going? Go pay your check before I run you in and you have to spend the night in the hoosegow.

What’s a hoosegow, Hope asks, nervously peaking around Juan’s shoulder.

That would be jail, little lady. It’s where we put criminals, like people who don’t pay their dinner bills.

Juan says, We don’t know what a bill is."

Hope says, Yeah we do, Juan. It’s that thing on the front of your baseball cap, the one you wear when you’re weed whacking.

The sheriff says, Oh for Chr… Do you kids have any money, or not?

What’s money? Hope asks, still cringing behind Juan.

Wait a minute, Hopie. I bet I know what it is. They want some of our Common 3 Galoes for the dinner. I have a twenty Galeo bill in my pocket. The Commons printed a bunch of them just this week. I took it off of my folk’s bedroom bureau. They don’t spend Galeos on anything.

Juan hands the twenty Galeo bill to the sheriff.

The sheriff looks at the bill and huffs, What the hell… Alright, that’s it. You are coming with me. First, I have to Mirandize you.

Hope bolts toward the door, only to be grabbed on the upper arm by Sheriff Wilson’s vice-like grip.

Hope screams, Shit man, that hurts. I don’t know what Mirandize means, but coming from a bad ass red skin, black skin, and yellow skin hater like you, it can’t be good.

Be still. If you try that again, I’ll have to cuff both of you. The law is that I have to give you what’s called a Miranda warning before I take you into custody. Now shut up while I do it.

Tom Wilson recites the Miranda warning to Juan and Hope, thinking that they had escaped from the Martinville insane asylum.

Tom says, Georgie, I guess you have two loonies from Martinville. Give me their bill. I’ll sign it and the department will send you a check. Write something in for Mabel’s tip. The last thing you need is her going on forever about being stiffed by two cuckoos. You kids come with me.

Juan, Hope, and the sheriff leave the diner. Hope clings to Juan’s shirt, wondering how many of her limbs she will have to cut off at the Faithville Self Punishment Clinic.

They ride in silence to Sheriff Wilson’s office building. Inside, the sheriff takes them into a conference room, where he has them face him at a conference table.

Kids, I want the truth from you, if you have any idea what that is.

Juan says in earnest, Mentorsan says that truth is an irrelevant abstraction. After it flashes by in a nano second, it’s remolded by those in power according to their dogmas. It becomes a myth, then dogma, then true.

Hope interrupts, If you’re not real careful you can step in dog ma, and its smell never comes off of your shoes. Right, Juan?

Hopie, stop butting in. Tom says you can remain silent. Do it. I’m talking about dogma, not dog ma. I’m trying to answer Tom’s question about truth so we can get out of here.

Hope slumps down in her chair and says, I have some thoughts about truth too, you know.

Juan says, Tom, according to my Mentorsan, the truth disappears in a flash. Therefore, it is up to the big boss to say what’s true. If the boss is not there when a question comes up, the oldest man present decides what’s true. After that, whatever he says is indisputable until the end of time, or until the boss says different.

The sheriff, convinced that he has two lunatics on his hands, asks, Did you run away from the Martinville asylum?

Juan shakes his head no and says, No sir. We ran away from our Common. That is the honest truth, isn’t it Hopie?

Ask Tom. He’s the oldest man here, Hope pouts. Besides, you think all truth is dishonest, so you don’t have to say honest before truth.

The sheriff slaps his forehead and asks, Are you from one of those secret government places I hear rumors about?

Juan says, Yes sir. They’ll send Chasers…

Hope interrupts, Whoa, Juan. You told me not to say that!

Ignoring Hope, Juan continues, If they take us back, we’ll have to go to the Self-Punishment Clinic. There, we will have to punish ourselves… probably lop off a limb or two, or worse, like… kill ourselves.

Good God! Whoever thought something like that up?

Juan explains that it is a progress-aah idea and that, in order to achieve balanced social goodness, everyone has to be treated equally in all things.

He says, There is no room for selfishness in a utopian place like our Common. That is, unless you are a high mucky-muck. If someone escapes from the Common, after a while they become less dependent on the Common’s boss. If they are caught and taken back, they have to be made dependent on the boss all over again. That is what they are punished for… to preserve social goodness and fairness by making everyone, including us, want to hang on to the big boss’s apron strings.

The Sheriff, scratches his head, says, Look, you two seem like nice kids. I don’t want to see you hurt. The goons that they’ll send after you… Chasers as you call them… are probably on their way. Collect your belongings. I’m going to get you the hell out of Faithville fast. I’ll take you to a house in Gainlittle that’s a fair ways away from Faithville. You’ll be safe there, at least for tonight. You can’t stay there too long. You’ll have to keep moving and get to a real big city, where you can disappear, maybe Hollowtown. What in God’s name are they teaching you at that place? Let’s go.

*     *     *

Charles Gulog, one of Compound 3’s top Chasers, pulls his Buick in front of the Faithville diner.

He mumbles, Perhaps Juan and Hope stopped there for something to eat, and gave the owner or a waiter or waitress a hint as to where they would spend the night.

Charles stretches to relieve cramps in his legs and shoulders from the long ride. He sighs and reminisces about his days as a patient of the Martinville asylum, where he was abused day and night by men of authority, all of whom are on his hit list.

Charles picks up a black notebook from the seat next to him. He opens it and stares at the names of the despots who had crushed him… the authoritarian sadists and perverts on his hit list.

He scans the names in the notebook and says, I learned to bury thoughts of revenge against these bastards when I was young and defenseless. Now, however, I will deliver woe to any control freak who attempts to master me.

He opens his car door and says, It is now the present from which the future springs unseen. I am looking forward to the future. In it I’ll add to my list and erase others.

Charles enters the diner. The bell on the door jangles, announcing his arrival. Just as he sits on a counter stool, Mabel pushes through the kitchen’s swinging doors and approaches Charles, the only customer in the place.

Mabel does not like being the only person in the diner. George is sequestered in the back office, closing the books. To make matters worse, the customer that she faces is not local. He looks ill-humored and is ill-formed, from his squashed nose, down to his perpetual sneer, across to his cauliflower ears, down to his hunched shoulders, and further down to his ham-sized hands, and on to the long, house-sized shadow he casts across the counter.

Keeping her chin up as best she can, given the angst that sweeps through her and the tremors in her hands, she tentatively says, "What can I do for you, sweetie… pop? The cook is gone home, and I’m about to leave for the night… pop. All I can offer are coffee, soda or tea, and a stale pastry or pie."

Charles says, Cease the gum popping until I leave. Are you alone?

Mable swallows her gum and, half lying, says, Nah. This place never gets lonely what with the boss and his wife in the back cooking the books, and the kitchen staff cleaning up.

"The boss you say, Mable?

Yeah, he may come out. You’ll recognize him. He’s a huge guy… an ex Marine First Sergeant. I know two guys who served under him. They say he was one hard-assed, mean SOB.

That so? He’s a First Sergeant, is he? Ain’t that something? I’ll stop by on my way home to visit with your First Sergeant. I look forward to his taking my order. What’s his name?

George. He’ll leave in fifteen minutes. He goes out the back door, so you may miss him. Before he leaves, I’ll tell him you want to meet him.

Charles suppresses his anger at the thought of the authoritarian brute, First Sergeant George. Without meeting George, Charles knows he is an abusive bully who is worthy of being listed in his book.

Charles says, Don’t bother the boss. I’d like a cup of black coffee and a prune Danish. Did two youngsters come in here tonight, a boy and girl… strangers? The boy is a tall, husky albino. You’d remember him.

Mabel is certain that this guy will know if she lies, or even half does, like she just did. He would not be amused. She had been badly treated by men, and this dude looks as if he is expert in the pain infliction department. Besides, she thinks he is probably the kids’ father and has a natural right to be after them.

Mable says, Yeah, a big albino kid and young girl came in about eight-thirty, ate dinner, and left around ten-fifteen or maybe ten-thirty.

How’d they pay for their dinners?

"That was a peculiar thing. They didn’t have no money. They didn’t even seem to know what money is. Most kids these days don’t have much sense of the value of a buck. They at least know what money is. The kids tried to pay with must have been Monopoly money.

Sheriff Wilson, who was having a snack at the time, carted them off to jail. Poor things didn’t know what the hell was going on, especially the little girl. She’s a pretty little thing. I felt sorry for her. The boy didn’t know what was happening either. He was sure cool about it, though. It was like oh-hum with him. From the size of him, I bet he is used to having his way, and doesn’t care much about what others think of him.

Where is the sheriff’s office?

It’s a mile that way, a three minute drive from here. You can’t miss it on the right side next to the barber shop. He’s probably gone home by now. His deputy, Miles High, will be there. Believe it or not, that’s his real name. His parents must have a real strange sense of humor, don’t ya think? Anyway, that’s about as much as I can remember. I hope that they’re not in too much trouble. They both seemed like nice kids… from another planet, but nice.

Charles asks, What’s the sheriff’s address and telephone number?

Gee, I don’t know, mister. I think he lives on Willow Way, near his office. Your best bet is to ask Deputy Sheriff Miles. He’ll know for sure.

Charles says, Forget the coffee and Danish.

Throwing a ten dollar bill on the counter, Charles leaves for the sheriff’s office.

Holy moley, says Mabel. Biggest tip of the year, just for ratting out that his kids were here. He’s pissed that they spoiled his night in front of the TV guzzling beer. Well, I’m outta here, thank God.

Charles’s Buick screeches away from the curb toward the sheriff’s office.

Charles smiles, thinking that Mabel’s information could earn him a five-thousand dollar bonus at twenty-five hundred buckaroos a head, ten thou if he returns the boy alive, a difficult task for him given his natural passion for meting out death.

CHAPTER 3

Miles High’s Tête-à-Tête with a Chaser

Same Night

Faithville Jail

Deputy Sheriff Miles High’s feet are propped up on his desk. He flips through the office’s dog-eared copy of last winter’s annual bathing suit edition of Sports Illustrated.

On any other such occasion, Miles would be fantasizing about having sexual dalliances with tanned, slender, smooth-skinned blonds in thongs. Not tonight. Tonight he imagines the day he will succeed Sheriff Wilson as top dog.

No more scurvy jobs, he says. Five years of rescuing cats from trees, dogs from quicksand, kids from parents, and removing road kill is enough.

Miles turns to his favorite page in the worn copy of Sports Illustrated.

Staring at a beautiful blond posing seductively in a sparse bikini, he says, Take tonight for instance, baby. The sheriff drives off to help two kids escape from a mysterious bounty hunter. Here I am as usual, stuck in this boring place, every night hoping for a little excitement.

Miles goes to the kitchenette where he pours a cup of strong, syrupy coffee. He stretches, yawns, and returns to his desk to fill out a report on a domestic disturbance at the Tumbly’s place. Mrs. Tumbly beat the shit out of the mister with an iron skillet for losing the TV zapper right before the reality show "Prancing with Whores" was scheduled to come on. The Tumbly’s skirmish was without serious bloodshed. After the show was over, Mrs. Tumbly cleaned and dressed Mr. Tumbly’s head wounds and gave him a peck on his forehead before lifting him up, carrying him up the stairs, and throwing him in bed.

Miles says to himself, I’ll drop by in the morning to make sure that Mr. Tumbly is still among the living.

He chuckles at the thought of a tussle between Constance Tumbly and Tom Wilson. That would be a toss-up worth the price of admission, he says, throwing the Sports Illustrated on his desk.

Charles Gulog opens the office door. Miles jumps up half out of his skin with alarm at the sight of the bad-looking dude who smiles at him without anything to be tickled about.

Struggling to keep from stuttering, Miles says, What can I do for you, mister?

Where’s Sheriff Wilson?

He went home for the night. Can I help you?

Maybe. Did the sheriff bring two kids in here earlier, a big albino boy, and a girl? If so, are they still here, in jail maybe?

Miles is certain this is the bad-ass bounty hunter the sheriff had mentioned to him. If he shows up inquiring about the kids, Miles is to tell him that the sheriff has gone to the diner for a snack, as he does every night when working late, and that he usually does not return afterward.

Miles tells the stranger this using the sheriff’s exact words, a big mistake. His lack of spontaneity is a dead giveaway.

Charles reflects on Miles’s explanation for a moment and then asks, What’s your name, deputy?

Miles, sir.

Well, Miles sir, didn’t your mamma ever tell you that mendacity is the devil’s tool, and that you will surely suffer if a lie rolls off your mortal tongue?

Miles drops his hand to his side. He undoes the clasp on his sidearm’s holster. He stands and faces Charles.

Miles, bolstering his nerve, says, I was taught not to lie mister, if that’s what you’re saying I did.

Before Miles can react, Charles barrels across the room and rams his shoulder full force into Mile’s chest, knocking him off of his feet and against the kitchenette sink, the impact cracking three of Mile’s ribs. Miles slides to the floor, groggy and his side racked with pain. Charles leans over Miles and removes Mile’s revolver from its holster.

He pulls Miles to his feet by the back of his shirt and says, Now Mr. Deputy, I want the truth so that I don’t have to deliver you to the devil before your natural time. Do you get me?

Yes sir.

The sheriff came here with the two kids, and he left with them, didn’t he?

No sir. It was just as I told you. They weren’t here, and the sheriff is probably home by now.

Charles shoots Miles in the left foot, splintering Miles’s navicular bone. Miles moans and collapses, trying to break his fall by grabbing Charles’s belt.

Charles leans over Miles and says. Now Mr. High, I can go bone by bone until you’re more of a useless lump than you are now, or, you can cooperate and live a long healthy life bothered only by a modest limp. What do you say?

Okay, okay, but you need to call for an ambulance before you leave. I feel like I’m passing out, and I don’t want to bleed to death. You don’t want a cop kill on your hands, do you?

Another one makes no difference to me, deputy. Now get on with the truth, or you’ll bleed into oblivion.

Miles says, The sheriff left with them. I’m not sure where he was going, maybe to his house.

I want his house address and telephone number. You have ’em?

They’re in the black address book in my desk drawer, the middle one. You’ll find his information with the W’s… for Wilson.

Does the sheriff have anyone living with him?

Only his wife Helen, his two sons live in Hollowtown.

Charles removes the address book from the drawer. He leafs to the W section, opens the book, and runs his finger along the pages, stopping on Wilson.

Charles says, Thomas Wilson on 37 Willow Way. Is that right Deputy Miles High?

Yes sir.

How do I get there?

Turn left out of our driveway and go for one mile. Turn right into Willow Way. The sheriff’s house is the third one on the left. It is white with dark blue shutters.

I’ll be on my way, deputy. The sheriff is on my list. When I am through with him, I’ll call 911 for you. Do you have a family?

Yes sir. My wife and three kids.

That’s nice. If you manage to get to a phone and tell any of your fellow cops where I’ve gone, I’ll find out. I’ll come back to this sleepy little burg and gut your family one by one while you watch. I won’t bother with you. That’d be letting you off the hook too easily. I’d would want you to live and think about how you caused the extermination of your family. Besides, you are a wimpy little fart who has no authority. I bet you never intimidated anyone. I could care less about the likes of you. That should be clear enough for even a hick like you to understand.

Yes sir.

Good evening, deputy.

Miles inches painfully along the floor toward the bathroom. Once in it, he will have to work through his pain and stand to open the medicine cabinet. He knows that he must stop the blood flow from his foot wound.

As Miles crawls toward the bathroom, he asks himself, Why don’t I feel guilt about directing the bounty hunter to Tom Wilson’s place? After all, it’s do or die, ain’t it? No one can blame me, can they? I can’t be blamed for thinking that a situation over which I have no control has with it the chance of a promotion for me. Suppose that the bounty hunter flips out and whacks Tom? That would not be my fault.

Miles looks at his face in the medicine cabinet mirror and says, I didn’t send the maniac over the cliff. He was already teetering on the edge. I can’t be blamed if the sheriff happens to get in the lunatic’s way.

Using the situation to fill the sheriff’s shoes, however, is the farthest thing from Miles’s mind, at least as much as his conscience is willing to admit.

Miles chides himself for his seditious thoughts and says, God, Miles. What’s with you? The answer came back from his conscience, My wanting to live the yin-yang life… admission of my dark priority of self preservation, and the idea of seizing an opportunity to make my existence more joyous. That’s what’s with me.

On a less philosophical note, Miles High’s