Chapter 2 first story

When the bus came to the intersection where Comrade Tough had agreed to wait for the bus, she was standing there, wearing a heavy military surplus jacket—a dark olive green—and very baggy camouflage trousers, the hems of which were rolled up. Get up and show your infantry boots.There is a box on each side of the body.The flat black hat on his head was worn so low that it was impossible to see who it was. "According to the rules..." Saint Gutless said into the microphone hanging above the steering wheel. Comrade fierce said: "No problem." She bent down and untied a name tag hanging on the box.Comrade Tough stuffed the badge into the pocket of his olive-green jacket, then picked up the second suitcase and boarded the bus, leaving one on the side of the road, all alone, like an abandoned orphan.Comrade Fierce sat down and said, "Okay."

"Let's drive," she said. That morning, we all left notes.before dawn.With our suitcases in hand, we sneaked out of the house on tiptoe, down dark stairs, and down dark streets, with only the garbage truck to accompany us.None of us saw the sun come out. The Earl of Slander sat next to Comrade Fierce, writing in a pocket notepad, looking back and forth between her and his pen. Comrade Tough leaned over to look and said, "My eyes are green, not brown. My hair is naturally this auburn." She watched him write "Green" and said, "My ass There's a little red rose on it." She stared at the silver cassette player poking out of his shirt pocket, and the little mesh microphone."Don't write about dyed hair, women only fix or change the color of their hair," she said.

Sitting near them was Mr. Whittier, where his age-spotted and trembling hands gripped the chrome-steel frame of his folded wheelchair.Next to him sat Mrs. Clark, her breasts so large they almost seemed to rest on her lap. Comrade Tough squinted at them, leaning against the Earl of Slander's gray flannel sleeve."I guess it's purely decorative and has no nutritional value..." she said. This is the day we didn't see our last sunrise. At the next dark street corner, Sister Vigilante stood waiting, holding up her big black watch and saying, "We agreed on four thirty-five." She tapped the clock with her other hand. The watch says, "It's four thirty-nine..."

The nuns of the order of security wear a fake leather bag with straps and a flap on the front that snaps shut to protect the Bible inside, a handmade leather bag that protects the Word of God. We waited for the bus all over the city.At the corner of the street or on the bench at the bus stop, waiting for St. Gutless to bring the car.Mr. Whittier and Mrs. Clarke, the Earl of Slander, Comrade Tough, and Sister Vigilante sat near the front. Saint Gutless pulled the wrench to open the car door, and standing by the curb was Miss Sneezy.The sleeves of her sweater were bulging from the dirty tissue stuffed inside.She lifted the suitcase, which sounded like popcorn popping in a microwave.She came up to the car on the steps, and with every step the box sounded like a machine gun firing in the distance.Miss Sneezy looked at us and said, "My medicine," she shook the case vigorously, "full three months' worth of..."

That's why you can only take so much luggage.That way we can all fit in. The only rule was one piece of luggage per person, though Mr. Whittier didn't say how big or what kind. When Mrs. Nomad got into the car, she was wearing a diamond ring the size of popcorn, and she was holding a dog leash in her hand, which was dragging a suitcase with small wheels. Mrs. Nomad waved her hand, made the ring sparkle and said, "This is a three-carat diamond that was made after my husband was cremated..." At this, Comrade Fierce bent over the little notebook in which the Earl of Slander was writing, and said: "Rappy is a word."

A few more blocks, two traffic lights, and a few turns, and waiting to get into the car was Killer Chef with a re-molded aluminum case in which he kept all his white elastic underwear and The T-shirts, and the socks, were all boxy and tight as origami.Plus a full set of chef's knives, and underneath that, the aluminum case is full of bundles of hundred-dollar bills.Together, it was so heavy that he had to carry it with two hands. Another street, under a bridge, around a park on the other side, the bus stopped at the side of the road where no one was waiting.The man named "Lost Link" came out from the bushes by the side of the road, holding a bundled black garbage bag in his arms, the bag was torn, revealing a plaid flannelette shirt.

Comrade Fierce looks at the Lost Link, but says to the Earl of Slander next door, "His beard looks like something Hemingway would shoot..." The world that is still in the dream probably thinks we are crazy.Those who are still in bed, will sleep for another hour, then wash their faces, wash their underarms and between their legs, and then go to work that they do every day, and live the same life that they live every day. Those people would yell and yell for us, but they would yell too if we boarded a ship and sailed across the sea to start a new life, emigrate, and clear the land.

This morning, we are all astronauts, explorers.Waking up while they were still sleeping. Those people would yell, but then they would be back serving guests, painting houses, and programming computers. At the next stop, St. Gutless opened the door and a cat jumped up the steps and ran down the aisle between the seats on either side of the bus. Coming up behind the cat was the Negative Inspector, saying, "His name is Cora." The cat's name was Cora Reynolds, "not my name," said the Negative Inspector, and she had The tweed jacket and skirt were covered in cat hair.One collar protruded from her chest.

"It's the gun pouch on the shoulder," Comrade Tough said, leaning over to the tape recorder in Count Slander's shirt pocket. All of this—whispering in the dark, leaving notes, keeping secrets—was our adventure. If you were planning to be stranded on a deserted island for three months, what would you bring with you? Start by saying that all your food and water will be provided, or so you think. Let me tell you that you can only bring one suitcase, because there are too many people, and the bus that takes you to the desert island is only that big. What will you pack in your suitcase?

Sheng Wugut brought boxes of dried pork jerky and dried cheese puffs, and his fingers and chin turned orange from the salt powder from these things.One bony hand was holding the steering wheel, and the other hand was holding the boxes sideways, pouring the contents onto his thin face. The nun of the Security Order brought a shopping bag of clothes, and put a backpack on top of it. Mrs. Clark leaned over her huge breasts, holding them in her arms like a child, and asked if the nun of the order of security had brought a head? Sister Security opened her backpack so everyone could see the three holes on a black bowling ball and said, "My hobby..."

Comrade Fierce stared at the Earl of Slander as he wrote something into his notepad, then at the Sister of the Vigilante's tightly combed black hair, not a single strand of it was loose from the clips. "That," said Comrade Tough, "is the trimmed hair." Our next stop, where the Gossip Detective stands, with a video camera taped to one eye, filming an approaching bus parked on the side of the road.He brought a stack of business cards to hand out, proving he was a private eye.His video camera covered half of his face like a mask, and he filmed us all the way down the aisle to an empty seat in the back, the spotlight on the video camera blinding everyone's eyes. After another street, the matchmaker climbed into the car, leaving horse manure on his cowboy boots along the way.Holding a straw cowboy hat in his hand and a canvas bag slung over one shoulder, he sat down, opened the side window, and spit a mouthful of brown tobacco juice onto the scrubbed bus body. This is what we carry with us for three months.The Gossip Detective is his VCR, the Sister Vigilante is her bowling ball, and Mrs. Bum is her diamond ring.This is what we need to write fiction.Miss Sneezy is her medicine and tissues, and Holy Gutless is his snack.The Earl of Slander is his notepad and cassette recorder. The killer chef is his knife. In the dim light of the bus, we all secretly watched Mr. Whittier, the host of the workshop.our teacher.You could see the shiny round crown with age spots beneath the gray hair brushed to one side.The buttoned shirt collar stood up as a starched white fence around his thin, age-spotted neck. "The ones you sneak away," Mr. Whittier would say, "they don't want you to be smart. They want to know what you'll be." Mr. Whittier will tell you, "You can't be as great and great as they know you are and as great as you yourself hope to be. You can't be both." Mr. Whittier said that those who truly love us will beg us to go and pursue our dreams.Practice our skills.And love us when we go back. Another three months. This little slice of life is what each of us is betting on. It's our risk. It's a time when we're going to bet our talents on some masterpieces.A short story, or a poem, or a screenplay, or a memoir that gives meaning to our lives, a masterpiece that makes us rich enough not to be slaves to our husbands or parents or corporations.Let us be free. All of us, riding through the empty streets in the dark.Miss Sneezy took a wet tissue from her sweater sleeve and blew her nose.She took a breath and said, "Sneaking out like this, I'm afraid I'll be caught." She tucked the tissue back into her sleeves and said, "I feel like... Anne Frank." (Note: Anne Frank, a Jewish girl who was persecuted by the Nazis, has a diary that records the process of hiding and asylum in Amsterdam with her family.) Comrade Fierce rummaged through his pocket for the name tag on the luggage, the only remnant of her abandoned luggage and her abandoned life.She turned the name slip in her hand and stared at it with her eyes.Comrade Tough said, "From my point of view..." She said, "Anne Frank had a pretty good life." Mouth full of cornflakes, looking in the rearview mirror at the holy gutless of all of us, chewing salt and fat, he said, "What?" Inspector Negative patted her cat, Mrs. Clarke patted her breasts, Mr. Whittier patted his wheelchair. Under the streetlight at the intersection ahead, the dark figure of another future writer waited. "At least Anne Frank," said Comrade Tough, "never had to run around with her books..." Sheng Wugut stepped on the pneumatic brake, twisted the steering wheel and parked the car.