NEWDIE STEADSLAW

Chapter Three: It Seems Like Rather a Lot



Without unkindness, the shadow belonged to a clown from the quicksand department, operating in an unofficial capacity, and carrying several decorative screens and a bag of toffee, with which he adorned the scene of the now-prepared Traycup and Roby and took several flattering photographs, offering them to the two in exchange for a mere handful of modestly-used dish rags, which Traycup had aplenty. They each pocketed one of the ’graphs, which perhaps would become important someday, or perhaps, more likely, be forgotten and destroyed in a mudslide ere long, and at the end of long years after still-longer partings, they’d be taken to reminisce about their antique acquaintance and yearn against their short-sighted agoraphilia and the annihilation of such temporaneous relics—but until then, the clown left, asearch of the next sucker.

“We are well afriended,” said Roby, “and unoffended, so let us pretend that it is intended!”

“Friends indeed!” said Traycup. “And with that impact behind us, we’re offer now than ever before!”

Now, their terminal destination was, of course, far-off Oopertreepia, but its location was unknown to one and all, and Traycup was certainly counted in some of those numbers. His only clue was that it was fully elsewhere—“clue” clearly was a too-strong word here—so he threw fistfuls of lonely rice into an industrial mixer and wondered about spotlessness.

“Now,” said Roby, “shall we inquire at the bus station to acquire passage to this far nation?”

“That’s tried and true,” said Traycup, “and quite a bit costfuller than I’m bucked for, at a rate! So, we’ve got to try something organically procured. Fortu’ately, I’ve a parboiled idea: we go by porcupineback!”

“That is a likable idea,” said Roby, “if it can be made achievable! I hope the fee is not steep for the service we seek—perhaps not more than half a nickel apiece? Though that is still not had by me—perhaps you could cover my ticket fee?”

“Fearn’t, it’s quite gettable, or perhaps forgettable, if we’ve got a wit ’bout us,” said Traycup. “Let’s make an amount of haste, for the ’pine departs promptly at the stroke of noon or so.”

Traycup had a plan, and so led the way. Roby, who did not have a plan, followed.

It was quite simple, really—the plan, I mean. In the northern part of the city, in the wheelchair ramp district, there lived a despondent basketball player who had very few thumbtacks, and to his chagrin, had never met a colonel. To Traycup he was a friend of a friend of a friend—a known face, almost—and introductions should be brief, if the cold would break. Traycup and Roby would build a pinewood billiards table, set it to cool on the windowsill, and be back before supper. Thus would the factory supervisor be glad to give them the keys to the yoga room, wherein the first fragment of the crown jewels was stored. With it, they could open their own cinema, and have access to vast amounts of wholesale popcorn.

Traycup explained all this to Roby with the aid of a graphing calculator. The calculator, who had not volunteered for this service, took its things and left as soon as they were done.

“If I give it a little thought,” said Roby, “it seems like rather a lot.”

Traycup eyed her with pity—and then without, to get a good sample size. “I’ll not let a friend get unfriended,” he said happily, “so push that one away. We need only cross one step at a time—or in this case, an accessible pathway explicitly built so as to forgo steps. For, behold! The very wheelchair ramp district of legend is before us!”

The very wheelchair ramp district of legend was before them. The sign said so.

“The very wheelchair ramp district of legend is before you,” said the sign. It took a swig of water, since its mouthals were dry from long unuse. It glared, hating the reminder, but knew not it was unalone.

“That was fast,” said Roby, “but we are here at last!”

“At first,” said Traycup. “Now, we’ve to climb.”

A rather handsome spider came by, wearing no hardhats and not made of bacon. “Climbing, eh?” said that spider. “I can give you a hand with that. I’m headed that way myself, as luck would have it.”

“We’ve at least one apiece,” said Traycup, “so’s to meet you at the half!”

“‘At least one’... what?” said the spider with momentary perplexion, but then the meaning was understood. “Oh, hands. Oh—you’re one of those. Well, let it never be said that I did nothing for the less fortunate. Now, c’mon.”

With a sigh and a rolled eye, the spider flew to the top of the ramp—it used a jetpack—and it sent back a window washer’s rig for Roby and Traycup to embark upon, for the ramp was as tall as a lot of giraffes, and so steep it was nearly vertical, owing to a scaling error on the original blueprints—a flaw for which, rest assured, the perpetrators were promoted to the window tribe and lived ever after.

“Is there a safety of this?” said Roby, boarding the rig. “I hope that nothing shall go amiss!”

Traycup tugged on the complex cabling from which it was suspended. “We’ll make an experiment of’t, and know soon if’t is, and never know if’t isn’t.”

Traycup boarded the rig—or rather, boarded the board, for that thing was no more than a bare plank hung on too much cableage, and they clung to said cableage with their aforementioned hand.

“Listen well,” called the spider, “for here comes the explanation! My pal will do the hauling, and you’ll be atop the precipice in no time! Be well-braced, for the force is a reckoning one!”

Traycup and Roby stood upon this board that was lying on the ground, hanging from a series of cables—each more spurious than the last—looped up and over the top of the mighty ramp through a series of pulleys—each more conditional than the last—and at the far end was connected via a grand harness to the spider’s good friend, Mister Rhinoceros, who was in a charging mood, and had been practicing lately.

“Are they well-braced?” said Mister Rhinoceros.

“Not yet,” said the spider, “so go now, quick!”

Mister Rhinoceros abruptly accelerated to ninety percent of the speed of light and almost as immediately stopped again. This was an oh-so-brief tug, but the great force imparted by the terrific yank transferred into the Traycup-and-Roby-ridden window-washing rig, and they and it were shot up into the depths of the innocent sky, high enough that they could make a map of the whole town if they took a snapshot, but being cameraless—and, moreover, unaware of the desire to make such a map—they did no such thing. They sailed through the air, the encabled rig tumbling gracishly away from them, and they would have lost each other’s company but for that they had entangled their shoelaces. The sky embraced them, they became lost to the clouds, and there was naught about them but each other.

“Oh, hello,” said Careb Stan, purveyor of—well, I’ll let him explain himself. “I’m Careb Stan, purveyor of fine coffee and coffesque products! I’ve beans and brews, if you can tell them apart—and if not, I’ll hold you accountable to your decision regardless!”

“Greets, fine brewster!” said Traycup. “Pardon our intrusion. We’re unaccustomed to such aerial voyages! But, if it’s routine enough to take such a cup, we’ll!” He glanced to Roby, so as to see that she was on boardish for this plan.

Roby said, “A drink, I think, will not help a lot! But I would not mind a coffee, if you can make mine hot!”

“Like to the wise!” said Traycup.

“Oh ho!” cheered Careb Stan. “My first sale in a quadred of seasons! Oh, it’s sold, so get ready to gape!”

Careb Stan ran over to Traycup and Roby, and he stuffed all their ears with coffee beans, so in the light of the sun and the kiss of the rain, they may take root and sprout, grow stalks tall and verdant, and their harvest would bear riches and the thick delight of charm that even embroiderers live and die for.

“This is unexpected,” said Roby, “but at least it seems effective!”

“Well, we’re well-sated with this gain!” said Traycup.

“Now comes the part of the bill!” said Careb Stan. “The fee, of course, is beyond your comprehension, as even crass diagrams often are. But lament not! Your debts can be repaid through indefinite servitude! I’ll be happy to enchain you and see you in bonded labor for an age or two!”

“Alas,” said Traycup, “we’re on a ballistic trajectory at present, and if it untakes us to our whereward, we’ll have to reengage a route!”

“Give me the gift of silence!” wailed Careb Stan. “Now hear the task—it’s matable to your trajectory. It’s advertisement you’re due to do!”

“Ah,” said Traycup. “Capitalism.”

“The very villain,” said Careb Stan. “Spread word of my stand’s stati’, and as I see my busyness increase, I’ll call that covering for what I’m due from you!”

“That’s just!” said Traycup. “Roby, shall we ever on?”

“I can spread some kind words!” said Roby. “And then may we return for seconds and thirds?”

“The acumen of your celebration shall weave that quilt,” said Caleb Stan.

“It’s dealed!” said Traycup. “We’ll send a ’graph at a time!”

With that, he and Roby were off again, continuing their momentum-laden journey skyward, give or take, toward ever higher heights, where there were barely anymore cafes, coffee shops, tea hice, or similar to be found, for indeed, naught was up here save a fast-approaching seven forty-seven.

“What in the name of the annual pie-stacking competition is this?” said the seven forty-seven. “Get away from my frontals! I’m traversing that area!”

Traycup beheld the approaching plane. “Ah! Our chariot awaits!” he said. “Roby, we must seize the wings!”

“Is this part of the plan?” said Roby. “I shall do what I can!”

Traycup and Roby careened through the air with their gradually dwindling force into the path of the seven forty-seven, which attempted to bank or pitch or roll—who knows airplane terms, anyway? Whatever it was doing, it wasn’t a barrel roll. But no one’s moves were enough. The seven forty-seven headed straight for Traycup and Roby, and would’ve sucked them into its engines but for Traycup’s clever plan to seize the wings, and thus have a passage away from the sky and, potentially, to parts beyond.

“Augh—what is this?” cried the seven forty-seven. “You fools! Unhand me at once! I can’t flap with you seizing so! My loftiness is doomed! A crash is imminent!”

The seven forty-seven went into a tailspin and headed toward the city, which of course would have been a disaster for the tourism industry, particularly the one post card dispensing machine next to the brand-new amusement park, since that’s exactly where the plane was headed. It pierced the clouds and loomed over the city, and all the citizens—or at least six dozen of them—gathered to watch the soon-coming catastrophe in unpalatable glee. Traycup and Roby finally braced themselves well. Better late than never.

But now Roby dared an idea. “If flapping is a need, we can do that deed! If we cling to the wings of the thing with not hands but feet, then flapped arms shall stall our fall ere we hit a wall, and save us all!”

“Your daring is endearing,” said Traycup, “and your rhyming twice as so! Let a flap be flapped!”

That finally did the trick! With their fervent flapping slowing the plane’s plummetation and granting a measure of control to its course, the seven forty-seven landed in the parking lot, skidding across the pavement and right between some band camps, and stopped just before it collode with Kevin the hamster. Five dozen of those spectating citizens came to offer congratulations and whatnot, having borne witness to grand heroics. The other dozen just wanted to see some horror today, and went home, seeing as there’d be no show to their liking. Traffic got stopped again, such were the crowds, and so the mayor came to disperse the nonsense again. The mayor was still Yonilicus, and they recognized Traycup from the halibut thing in Chapter One.

“You’re you again?” said Yonilicus. “That’s unctuous! You’re aiming to have your name erased, your sins cast aside?”

Traycup bashfully said, “Spontaneity is irreducible, after some.”

“Bah!” said Yonilicus. “A fine deed’s been done, and a reward’s due. But misdeeds cannot be undone. All actions are remembered forever, so remember that!” Traycup bowed his elbows and Roby shimmied her patella.

“We shall always heed your word,” said Roby. “Now, what is this promised reward?”

“Name your desire slightly,” said Yonilicus, “and it’ll be weighed.”

“Good mayor!” said Traycup. “Here’s our woe: we’re for Oopertreepia, but were stymied by bus and train! So you might flex your role and get us ’board, and we’ll call the square on this one!”

Yonilicus then laughed, a geological tantrum as ever there was one. “You said ‘Oopertreepia’? That’s meant to be a not-known place! Put that idea away, you mellow-headed lad! Such a desire is off the limit. No—that’s flat denial. You get convention instead. Take this!”

Traycup and Roby were each given a medal made of metal and a grand sash declaring them to be officially licensed window washers, and hands were shook, and the press was pressed, and a portion of ado was made. They even made the weather report—take that, forests—and there was a small banquet held in their honor, and all the partridges worked really hard on their gelatin mold, but they wound up showing up late, so everyone had to grind down some mushroom spores for dessert. At last, at the end of all the festivities, Traycup and Roby were thrown out of the ball room, and the door closed behind them, and their personages were devalued as the cycles rolled on.

Roby crossed one of her arms and said, “We are not one step advanced to our destination. We are lacking some plans to depart from this nation.”

“It’s so,” said Traycup. There was a scallion nearby. “Well, if one plan won’t do, there’s other options available next.”

“If you will list them,” said Roby, “then I will listen.”

“Mine was faulty,” said Traycup, “so it falls to you to outdo me.”

“I do not think the ability is of me,” said Roby, and then she added, “but I will surely try it and see.” Roby thought very hard for two thirds of a moment, trying to come up with a method of traveling from one place to another, but despite the efforts of her imaginative contributions, she was unversed in expansive terrain management, and had no revelation. She tried thinking less hard, and forgot what she was thinking about—but upon seeing the friendly and eager face of Traycup, she sought a straw and wung it.

“Allow me to utter—we need a stick of butter,” said Roby.

Traycup laughed with great joy at the obviousness of this plan. “What a fool I am! What an absolute cad! Yes—of course, the direct approach is best here! I’ll not have it another way. Let us get started at once.”

Roby nodded happily, and they were off.

So, first they tried the most common method of acquiring butter and karate-chopped a pigeon that’d never been made out of pineapples, but to their full queriment, this was not successful. It appeared that the pigeon had lied to the jury, and a merely petulant scientist came to collect it. Next, Traycup and Roby became shoe inspectors, and checked their shoes for any trace of botany, but the seven forty-seven had been quite clean in its hygiene, and so they’d have to learn how to thread a guitar through a needle—not until after brunch, though. And I’d just gloss over that scene anyway, don’t worry, I’m not going to make you sit through that. But then, finally, they went and stood outside of a phone booth. Traycup had no idea about turnip prices while Roby knocked on the door, her telephone etiquette a little dated.

“May I make a request?” she said to the operator. “One butter, please, and make it your best!”

“I’m operating,” said the operator, peering from the ajar booth-door, scalpel in one hand and someone’s lung in another. “Can it wait?”

“It cannot, and I have knocked,” said Roby. “A butter is a needed thing, so one stick, kindly bring!”

Beginning to juggle, the operator said, “Very well, very well, but the commissar won’t be pleased.”

The operator, in accordance to tradition, called to the commissar who dwelt atop the booth, and spoke in a language that they made up as they went along. After about two or three years, the commissar finally relented—somewhat. To Traycup and Roby he said, “Aye, ye’ll have yer butter—right as soon as I get me hands on the Blood Onyx of Zykluur! And with yer fine hands, ye’ll do the handing—now ahoy!”

With that, the commissar grabbed both Traycup and Roby, and threw them into his purse, and snapped it shut on them.


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