Chapter 22

When I woke up the next morning, my mind went first to Chas. It was a Saturday, and he was shopping. SHOPPING? What was that boy thinking of? He had a job to do.

Okay. Nanta and UFH had driven the twenty or so miles to the Bashas’ Diné to do the weekly shopping. They’d dragged Chas with them to get him some new clothes. Jeans and flannel shirts, for the winter, I guess. Chas pushed the shopping cart; UFH pushed another cart with the clothes. Nanta filled the non-clothes cart with every sort of vegetable there was. Were plantains different from bananas? They looked the same to me. And how did an old Ojibwe woman from the Lake Superior part of Canada know about them anyway?

These are the questions that ran through my mind. Can you tell that I didn’t really want to focus on serious issues? I browsed around the others’ minds in the store.

Why was a blonde hottie wearing short-shorts and a cropped T? Didn’t she know it was cold outside in the winter? She picked out a pair of neon green flip-flops. Her arms were covered with tats. On her back, between the shoulder blades, was a stylized ‘BB’ and ‘Property of Hells Angels.’ I couldn’t see it of course, but I sensed it. I asked her to think of what the ‘BB’ meant. ‘Biker Bitch.’ Apparently, one had to earn the ‘BB’ title. I didn’t want to ask for more detail, but her mind went there anyway: she needed to have occasional ‘sessions’ with the local club to ‘renew’ her title. Sorta like the continuing education courses that teachers or the police took.

That cleared up one question, but just led to another. We had Hells Angels on the Navajo reservation?

I went in search of a mind that I hadn’t talked to in a while: Heavy Foot, the husband of Sky, one of Wild Mustang’s extended family. He was a member of the local constabulary. I planted a really random thought in his mind while he was eating his strawberry Eggos: ‘I wonder if there’s any Hells Angels over at the Bashas’ Diné? Maybe I should get somebody from the station to check it out with me.’ The human mind is really amazing. A random thought seems to be normal, because it happens all the time. That was really random, ‘cause he was admiring the baby-bump that Sky was exhibiting. I just let him return to his baby watching. The thought would percolate to the top of his consciousness eventually.

“Hey babe,” he said to her, “just got an i-dear. Gonna pick up Lombardo and see what’s up at the Bashas’ Diné, today. Be back soonish.” That was quick.

That whole thing made me think of Alexandra and James, the Bright Moon twins that were tiny little eggs inside me, percolating somewhere. That got me to roll over in the bed and wake up Rock. Breakfast would wait.

...

A couple of hours later, we went to see what breakfast was at Mamma’s. My mind was still drifting. I zoned in to Niccolo Asandro, of Intel. I didn’t inquire about where my mind went, these days. I just followed along. My mind was just doing it’s ‘random’ thing. Nick was expecting a call from somebody at PARC.

[Lexi, that’s the Palo Alto Research Center, set up by Xerox.]

Who needs an internet with you around, Red?

They wanted to get some of his new 1024 chips in small computers so they could begin working with them. Who was making personal computers with the new chips? I put George Hartworth’s name, and a mental link to Worth Computers, of Denver, into Asandro’s mind. They were the only personal computers currently being planned around the 1024.

Then the phone conversation went off into blah-blah-blah about TCP/IP and GUI interfaces and such. I drifted away at this point. I didn’t need to be involved; my job here is done.

Funny. That was my personal slogan back in Las Vegas, in life #1, when I left a customer centered on the bed, nearly unconscious. Then I thought back to this morning with Bear and Rock, and that brought a smile back to my face. Was that my job was done? Or was it THEIR job was done?

That got me back to Alexandra and James and their date with something that was happening in the mid-90s. Some combat thing.

“She’s drifting again,” I heard Rock say.

“You complaining? Eat your pancakes, meathead,” laughed Bear.

I could hear them, of course. “Yeah,” I said, “Those were the days.” I warbled in my best Edith Bunker voice. It wasn’t very good, but then I had a partial mouthful of chocolate chip pancakes myself. “We’re gonna go look at Chas’s cave later. See if we can make some suggestions.”

“Can I make a suggestion?” That was Rock. “I think we need to keep going to the gun range. It’s a skill you gotta work on.”

“Good idea. Even meatheads can have good ideas.” That was Bear, from across the table.

Rock casually picked up a packet of strawberry jam and tossed it at Bear. Not to be outdone, a plastic container of coffee creamer went right back.

I interrupted the burgeoning food fight. “Hey! You want to get us thrown out of Mamma’s? This ain’t ‘Animal House’ you know.”

“Yeah,” said Rock, who was after all the starter of the food throwing. “We don’t want to get on double secret probation.”

With the children exercising a level of grown-up behavior again, I tuned in to their minds. I sent them a totally x-rated image of this morning’s boinking. ‘I really liked this morning, guys.’