Meh. My eyes itch.
I'm tired, but I did manage to reach the number of words I was hoping for, 21,000. I've got 21,050 words, and am only about 2,283 behind target. I should be back on in two or three days. But anyway, here it is. Btw, clarification, I meant to say yesterday, but didn't, I called the gang "Bridge Kanulu Warriors", so it would be easier to finish every section with "Bridge Kanulu", but also because this way I get a whole, "why is Bridge Kanulu so important?" thing, which is actually the last sentence of today's writing. Here it is, 2,050 words. Enjoy.
“Better than beer.”
“Got that right, little brother.” I think that sounds a bit weird, but I let it pass. Whatever I am, I’m pretty sure he’s drunk already. He takes a swig and sighs loudly. “Hella better than beer.”
He’s definitely drunk.
“So, you been makin’ us money for a while now, ‘ave you? Twenty million worth.” He tries to whistle. “What’s your cut?”
“Five percent.”
“So, what’s five percent of twenty million?” The idea of so much money seems to sober him up a little.
“One million.”
“Wow. A millionaire already, and you’re only… what? Job said, but…” He gestures apologetically with the bottle and drains it. “A million dollars. Wish I had a million dollars.”
“I’m twelve. How long have you been in the gang?”
“Man, I only joined last time we did this. It’s the first time I seen it from an outside perspuncter.”
“Perspective?”
“Yeah. And I’ve made five grand already, so I’m not doing too bad.”
“How’d you make the five grand?”
“Insurance.” He doesn’t explain any further, and I don’t want to think about it too much. Eventually, he stands the empty wine bottle on the stereo, pushes hard against my shoulder to reach his feet and wanders off, mumbling about bringing back a bottle of something even better. He doesn’t come back. Joan buzzes over.
“How’s it going down there?” he asks. “I see Jonathan just left. He did knives. He closed his eyes so he wouldn’t know when they came, and it worked. No-one hit him, though.”
“How’d you know he was here?”
“Wine on the stereo. He’s the only one who does that. It’s bad for it, but he stands at least one bottle on there every night. He give you some?”
“Yeah, it was good.”
“Yeah, well that’s probably enough booze for you tonight. Don’t want to pickle your liver this early, give it a chance to get ready before you start slugging it down like that.”
“Wait a moment,” I drink the rest of my beer in one go, trying not to let it touch the sides of my throat. “There, now it’s enough.” I stand up and it feels like I leave my brain behind. It stretches behind my eyes and I put a hand against the wall.
“Definitely enough. You’ll be needing a coffee before I take you home.”
I take my hand from the wall and have to step forward quickly to not fall over Joan.
“Maybe two. C’mon, let’s go.” He buzzes to the entrance and up the spiraling ramp that winds around and around the stairs. I walk behind him, carefully. I get to the car without falling over and feel like cheering. I get in the side, and Joan starts driving slower than normal towards the middle of town.
“Coffee shop time. Well done, James. You’re in.”
“I am, aren’t I?”
“Yep. Without blood or even bruising. Dad’s gonna be happy about that, if nothing else.”
“Yeah.” He glances at me.
“You feeling allright?”
“Yeah, just a little woozy… like I’m gonna be sick, but I’m not sick…” He pulls over to the side of the road fast.
“Out, if you’re gonna puke, you ain’t gonna do it in here.” I push at the door, and Joan leans over to open it. I stumble out into the cold air.
I kneel in the grass by the road. I don’t throw up. I just kneel there, taking deep breaths of the cold night air. When I feel better I go back to the car, where the doors still open and climb in. Joan drives us to a coffee shop. He orders a long black for himself and a triple short black for me. The guy looks like this is weird, but he gets them anyway. We sit at a table to drink them. Mine’s so tiny, and so strong. It tastes pure.
“This is good.”
“Yeah, well we need you to have some semblance of sobriety when you get home. Can’t take you home to dad and say, “Well, I got him into the gang without blood, then I got him drunk.”
I see his point, and start sipping faster.
“Well, I suppose you’re in on our project, now. I’ll pick you up tomorrow, after school, and show you how to run the machines. It’s pretty simple, really. Well, from what I know so far. Here, let’s head home, it’s getting a little late. You’ve gotta be home before midnight.” Midnight? I check the clock and it’s quarter to. Wow. I drain my coffee, and almost cough at the strength of it going down my throat, but I don’t. My head feels more settled now.
“Let’s go.” We leave our empty cups on the table and go to the car. Joan doesn’t drive as slowly, and I don’t feel sick anymore.
When we get home and walk in the door, Dad grabs me.
“Lift up your shirt.”
I do as commanded.
“Turn around. Slowly.”
I turn around slowly. Dad pounces on a small purple patch in the small of my back.
“What’s this?”
“Dad, I got that a week ago, falling off my computer chair, remember?”
“Oh. Yeah. Well, you’re not in early, and you’re not hurt at all. Knives?”
I shake my head. “Job talked to the gang, told them I was twelve. They let me into the gang without violence.”
Dad looks like there’s something going on inside his face. He wants to say, ‘good,’ but he can’t, because he hates the fact that I’m in the gang. He’d’ve been happier, I think, if I’d chosen knives and flinched and gotten thrown out. He spins around and walks off quickly.
“Well, that went well,” says Joan. “C’mon, take me up the stairs.” I pull him up the stairs backwards and he buzzes me into my room. “You’re to sleep, OK? If you can’t, just read. No action, no computer, just wait until your brain shuts down.” He buzzes to the door, and looks around. He pumps a fist in the air. “For Bridge Kanulu. I imitate his gesture.
“For Bridge Kanulu.”
* * *
The next day I run out of school right as the bell goes. Joan’s waiting. I knew he’d already be here. He’s the kind of person who’s always there first. I think it’s so no-one sees him getting ready for them. So he can make the place his own.
I get in the side and he drives off.
“We’ll be drawing up a roster, of sorts. It’s subject to change on a day-to-day basis, but if we can get a basic roster, we’ll give you some hours when you’ll be working it. Remember to log the time you arrive and the time you leave, since that’s how we figure out the money. We’ll give you maybe three hours after school. I’ll be with you this afternoon, but the record will say it was just you. Sound good?”
“Yep. So you’re showing me how everything works today?”
“Yeah, that’s about the size of it. I’ve been doing it most of the day. It’s easy. Hang on though, got a stop first…” He swings into a shop I must’ve walked past a hundred times, but I’ve never been in. He gets me to help him into his wheelchair, and then buzzes inside, up to the counter.
“What’s the latest model?”
The lady behind the counter puts a box on it and starts talking in some kind of weird language. I catch random phrases that don’t make sense. “Full QWERTY keyboard,” something about megapixels, decibels, memory size, wireless internet and recharge time.
“Sounds good. How much?”
“One thousand, three hundred and forty-nine, ninety-nine.”
“How much if I ask you for one with a charged battery?”
“We don’t have any. It will require twelve hours of charge before first use.”
“Okay then. I want two. Pay-as-you go plan, charge it to this number.” He puts a card on the counter. It’s got his credit card number on it.
“Very well, sir.” She puts another box on the counter and taps a bit on her computer. “Will you be paying with this card?”
“May as well.” She swipes it and Joan punches in his PIN, gets the card back, and the two boxes. He lays them on his lap and nods at the lady, and buzzes back out the door. I follow.
When we’re both in the car again, I ask, “So what are these?” He tosses me the boxes.
“Phones. One each. Latest on the market, so they’re good and flash. It’s almost everything your computer is. It’s got an MP3 player, video player, camera, video camera, wireless internet if you’re in range… Take one out and have a look.” I do. It looks like a digital camera, but you can slide the screen up and there’s what looks like a tiny keyboard there, with shift key and alt key and everything.
“Wow. This is awesome, Joan. Thanks.”
“No worries, little bro. I figure I owe it to you. I mean, I’m a million richer thanks to you.”
“A million poorer if I hadn’t been taking my cut.”
“If you hadn’t been there to take your cut I wouldn’t have anything. Anyway, you’re family brother, and Warrior brother now… I take care of my brothers.”
We pull up in front of the warehouse, and stroll in. It actually feels kind of weird, walking in here where only other members of the gang are allowed. Joan goes to a plug in the wall and plugs the two phones in. He says he’ll pull them out at the start of his shift tomorrow, to have a look at his, and program them a bit. Then he shows me how to work the machines. He’s right, it’s easy. It’s a touch-screen, and you just press something to select it. There’s a massive database of the kind of guns you can make, and you just have to press the database icon, then scroll though using arrows on the side of the screen until you find the one you want. There’s a button between the arrows that says ‘describe,’ and if you press that before pressing a gun it’ll tell you all about it. There’s big START and STOP buttons on the other side of the screen, and all you have to do is set it and wait. If something goes wrong, you press STOP, find out what went wrong, check the manual - Joan points to a huge, hardback book underneath a chair by the screen, and I hope like hell nothing goes wrong - and fix it. The tools are in the corner, he says, pointing, And there’s a bar in the other corner, because that’s all there is to do when nothing’s going wrong.
“No booze for you. It’s not five yet, and you had a fair bit yesterday, anyway. There’s soft drink, coffee, and a fair few juices. Um, orange, cranberry, apple, pineapple, grape…”
When he’s done explaining everything, and I’ve successfully set the machines to producing 9mm pistols he hands me a card.
“Go swipe it in the card reader by the door.” I do and it prints me a receipt. Joan Jett, 11/13/09 3:16 PM
“What’s this?”
“You just checked in. That’s the exact time, and the computer’s stored it. That’s how we figure out how long you’ve worked. You’ll swipe it again when we leave. Keep that card safe.” I put it in my pocket, and he nods.
“OK, that’s about it until Julius comes at five. Want a drink?”
Nothing goes wrong. I have three coca-colas, two cranberry juices, my new favorite, and a coffee. There’s an awesome coffee maker at the bar. When Joan goes to the toilet I sip his ‘ocean breeze’, which is cranberry juice and vodka. It tastes good. Mainly cranberry.
Julius comes in and swipes his card at 5:03. I know because I swiped mine out just a few seconds before he swiped his in, and I checked the receipt. Joan made Julius a drink, and then we drove home. I’m excited, from all the sugar. I calm down when we get near the bridge, though. I wonder why the gang was named after it.
What’s so special about Bridge Kanulu?
* * *
“Better than beer.”
“Got that right, little brother.” I think that sounds a bit weird, but I let it pass. Whatever I am, I’m pretty sure he’s drunk already. He takes a swig and sighs loudly. “Hella better than beer.”
He’s definitely drunk.
“So, you been makin’ us money for a while now, ‘ave you? Twenty million worth.” He tries to whistle. “What’s your cut?”
“Five percent.”
“So, what’s five percent of twenty million?” The idea of so much money seems to sober him up a little.
“One million.”
“Wow. A millionaire already, and you’re only… what? Job said, but…” He gestures apologetically with the bottle and drains it. “A million dollars. Wish I had a million dollars.”
“I’m twelve. How long have you been in the gang?”
“Man, I only joined last time we did this. It’s the first time I seen it from an outside perspuncter.”
“Perspective?”
“Yeah. And I’ve made five grand already, so I’m not doing too bad.”
“How’d you make the five grand?”
“Insurance.” He doesn’t explain any further, and I don’t want to think about it too much. Eventually, he stands the empty wine bottle on the stereo, pushes hard against my shoulder to reach his feet and wanders off, mumbling about bringing back a bottle of something even better. He doesn’t come back. Joan buzzes over.
“How’s it going down there?” he asks. “I see Jonathan just left. He did knives. He closed his eyes so he wouldn’t know when they came, and it worked. No-one hit him, though.”
“How’d you know he was here?”
“Wine on the stereo. He’s the only one who does that. It’s bad for it, but he stands at least one bottle on there every night. He give you some?”
“Yeah, it was good.”
“Yeah, well that’s probably enough booze for you tonight. Don’t want to pickle your liver this early, give it a chance to get ready before you start slugging it down like that.”
“Wait a moment,” I drink the rest of my beer in one go, trying not to let it touch the sides of my throat. “There, now it’s enough.” I stand up and it feels like I leave my brain behind. It stretches behind my eyes and I put a hand against the wall.
“Definitely enough. You’ll be needing a coffee before I take you home.”
I take my hand from the wall and have to step forward quickly to not fall over Joan.
“Maybe two. C’mon, let’s go.” He buzzes to the entrance and up the spiraling ramp that winds around and around the stairs. I walk behind him, carefully. I get to the car without falling over and feel like cheering. I get in the side, and Joan starts driving slower than normal towards the middle of town.
“Coffee shop time. Well done, James. You’re in.”
“I am, aren’t I?”
“Yep. Without blood or even bruising. Dad’s gonna be happy about that, if nothing else.”
“Yeah.” He glances at me.
“You feeling allright?”
“Yeah, just a little woozy… like I’m gonna be sick, but I’m not sick…” He pulls over to the side of the road fast.
“Out, if you’re gonna puke, you ain’t gonna do it in here.” I push at the door, and Joan leans over to open it. I stumble out into the cold air.
I kneel in the grass by the road. I don’t throw up. I just kneel there, taking deep breaths of the cold night air. When I feel better I go back to the car, where the doors still open and climb in. Joan drives us to a coffee shop. He orders a long black for himself and a triple short black for me. The guy looks like this is weird, but he gets them anyway. We sit at a table to drink them. Mine’s so tiny, and so strong. It tastes pure.
“This is good.”
“Yeah, well we need you to have some semblance of sobriety when you get home. Can’t take you home to dad and say, “Well, I got him into the gang without blood, then I got him drunk.”
I see his point, and start sipping faster.
“Well, I suppose you’re in on our project, now. I’ll pick you up tomorrow, after school, and show you how to run the machines. It’s pretty simple, really. Well, from what I know so far. Here, let’s head home, it’s getting a little late. You’ve gotta be home before midnight.” Midnight? I check the clock and it’s quarter to. Wow. I drain my coffee, and almost cough at the strength of it going down my throat, but I don’t. My head feels more settled now.
“Let’s go.” We leave our empty cups on the table and go to the car. Joan doesn’t drive as slowly, and I don’t feel sick anymore.
When we get home and walk in the door, Dad grabs me.
“Lift up your shirt.”
I do as commanded.
“Turn around. Slowly.”
I turn around slowly. Dad pounces on a small purple patch in the small of my back.
“What’s this?”
“Dad, I got that a week ago, falling off my computer chair, remember?”
“Oh. Yeah. Well, you’re not in early, and you’re not hurt at all. Knives?”
I shake my head. “Job talked to the gang, told them I was twelve. They let me into the gang without violence.”
Dad looks like there’s something going on inside his face. He wants to say, ‘good,’ but he can’t, because he hates the fact that I’m in the gang. He’d’ve been happier, I think, if I’d chosen knives and flinched and gotten thrown out. He spins around and walks off quickly.
“Well, that went well,” says Joan. “C’mon, take me up the stairs.” I pull him up the stairs backwards and he buzzes me into my room. “You’re to sleep, OK? If you can’t, just read. No action, no computer, just wait until your brain shuts down.” He buzzes to the door, and looks around. He pumps a fist in the air. “For Bridge Kanulu. I imitate his gesture.
“For Bridge Kanulu.”
* * *
The next day I run out of school right as the bell goes. Joan’s waiting. I knew he’d already be here. He’s the kind of person who’s always there first. I think it’s so no-one sees him getting ready for them. So he can make the place his own.
I get in the side and he drives off.
“We’ll be drawing up a roster, of sorts. It’s subject to change on a day-to-day basis, but if we can get a basic roster, we’ll give you some hours when you’ll be working it. Remember to log the time you arrive and the time you leave, since that’s how we figure out the money. We’ll give you maybe three hours after school. I’ll be with you this afternoon, but the record will say it was just you. Sound good?”
“Yep. So you’re showing me how everything works today?”
“Yeah, that’s about the size of it. I’ve been doing it most of the day. It’s easy. Hang on though, got a stop first…” He swings into a shop I must’ve walked past a hundred times, but I’ve never been in. He gets me to help him into his wheelchair, and then buzzes inside, up to the counter.
“What’s the latest model?”
The lady behind the counter puts a box on it and starts talking in some kind of weird language. I catch random phrases that don’t make sense. “Full QWERTY keyboard,” something about megapixels, decibels, memory size, wireless internet and recharge time.
“Sounds good. How much?”
“One thousand, three hundred and forty-nine, ninety-nine.”
“How much if I ask you for one with a charged battery?”
“We don’t have any. It will require twelve hours of charge before first use.”
“Okay then. I want two. Pay-as-you go plan, charge it to this number.” He puts a card on the counter. It’s got his credit card number on it.
“Very well, sir.” She puts another box on the counter and taps a bit on her computer. “Will you be paying with this card?”
“May as well.” She swipes it and Joan punches in his PIN, gets the card back, and the two boxes. He lays them on his lap and nods at the lady, and buzzes back out the door. I follow.
When we’re both in the car again, I ask, “So what are these?” He tosses me the boxes.
“Phones. One each. Latest on the market, so they’re good and flash. It’s almost everything your computer is. It’s got an MP3 player, video player, camera, video camera, wireless internet if you’re in range… Take one out and have a look.” I do. It looks like a digital camera, but you can slide the screen up and there’s what looks like a tiny keyboard there, with shift key and alt key and everything.
“Wow. This is awesome, Joan. Thanks.”
“No worries, little bro. I figure I owe it to you. I mean, I’m a million richer thanks to you.”
“A million poorer if I hadn’t been taking my cut.”
“If you hadn’t been there to take your cut I wouldn’t have anything. Anyway, you’re family brother, and Warrior brother now… I take care of my brothers.”
We pull up in front of the warehouse, and stroll in. It actually feels kind of weird, walking in here where only other members of the gang are allowed. Joan goes to a plug in the wall and plugs the two phones in. He says he’ll pull them out at the start of his shift tomorrow, to have a look at his, and program them a bit. Then he shows me how to work the machines. He’s right, it’s easy. It’s a touch-screen, and you just press something to select it. There’s a massive database of the kind of guns you can make, and you just have to press the database icon, then scroll though using arrows on the side of the screen until you find the one you want. There’s a button between the arrows that says ‘describe,’ and if you press that before pressing a gun it’ll tell you all about it. There’s big START and STOP buttons on the other side of the screen, and all you have to do is set it and wait. If something goes wrong, you press STOP, find out what went wrong, check the manual - Joan points to a huge, hardback book underneath a chair by the screen, and I hope like hell nothing goes wrong - and fix it. The tools are in the corner, he says, pointing, And there’s a bar in the other corner, because that’s all there is to do when nothing’s going wrong.
“No booze for you. It’s not five yet, and you had a fair bit yesterday, anyway. There’s soft drink, coffee, and a fair few juices. Um, orange, cranberry, apple, pineapple, grape…”
When he’s done explaining everything, and I’ve successfully set the machines to producing 9mm pistols he hands me a card.
“Go swipe it in the card reader by the door.” I do and it prints me a receipt. Joan Jett, 11/13/09 3:16 PM
“What’s this?”
“You just checked in. That’s the exact time, and the computer’s stored it. That’s how we figure out how long you’ve worked. You’ll swipe it again when we leave. Keep that card safe.” I put it in my pocket, and he nods.
“OK, that’s about it until Julius comes at five. Want a drink?”
Nothing goes wrong. I have three coca-colas, two cranberry juices, my new favorite, and a coffee. There’s an awesome coffee maker at the bar. When Joan goes to the toilet I sip his ‘ocean breeze’, which is cranberry juice and vodka. It tastes good. Mainly cranberry.
Julius comes in and swipes his card at 5:03. I know because I swiped mine out just a few seconds before he swiped his in, and I checked the receipt. Joan made Julius a drink, and then we drove home. I’m excited, from all the sugar. I calm down when we get near the bridge, though. I wonder why the gang was named after it.
What’s so special about Bridge Kanulu?
* * *