The Silliest Stories Out of Bustleburg Page 2

  “We voted her out of the textbooks, I’ll have you know!” bellowed Mrs. Vostic. “An axe-happy, unwed mother cannot be a hero.” My eyes widened. Bustleburgers can be argumentative, but I didn’t expect a city tour would involve hecklers. Our driver, Phantasma, looked over her shoulder and narrowed her eyes at Mrs. Vostic, but turned back in time to avoid plowing into another impromptu second-hand gun bazaar.

  The clouds in Breezy’s eyes seemed to darken, but she shook her head and took a deep breath. She’d never stopped smiling.

  “As the apparently-contested story goes, her actions were a great help with fires, so Yuckamud was re-named Bustleburg in Miss Jacaranda’s honor.”

  That sounded better.

  “Our next disaster was the Great Wheat Blight of 1827,” added Breezy.

  What? Either Breezy made that up or an imaginary calamity had been voted into the textbooks since I last took this tour.

  “And then the next time Bustleburg burned was during the Civil War.”

  “By the Union or the Confederacy?” asked Fadi.

  “It was a joint effort!” said Breezy.

  Ivan opened his eyes for perhaps the second time since boarding. “Arkanois,” he said, “where the South meets the North meets the Midwest, and no one is happy about it.”

  Breezy coughed and cleared her throat. “So, Bustleburg was re-founded in 1866. Only in 1871, they determined Miss Jacaranda’s farming methods of slashing trees would cause fires, what with all the dry timber left behind.”

  Ivan, who’d almost gone back to his nap, looked up again, his eyebrows raised. “Trees.” He shook his head. “Always a problem. For so many reasons.”

  Breezy nodded, giving us a sad look I took to mean “If you only knew what trees have wrought.” She continued: “Then the locals gave up on Bustleburg, leaving the city abandoned for twenty-nine years with the exception of the outlying wheat farms. In 1899, we had an enormous goat-related fire that made Mrs. O’Leary’s cow of Chicago look like an amateur. That cleared the derelict buildings, and so…”

  She took a deep breath and looked at Mrs. Vostic. “The city was re-founded again in 1900, which is why the sign over the Bustleburg Bridge says ‘Bustleburg Re-founded Again: 1900.’”

  Mrs. Vostic stared at Breezy. She drummed her fingers on her umbrella in anger.

  Breezy bent her head down and stepped closer to Mrs. Vostic. “Would you like me to tuck that away so you have more room?”

  “Don’t you touch Dispater! He’s fine where he is.”

  She named her umbrella? She called it “he”? Oh, for Pete’s sake. I turned to whisper assurances this was not par-for-the-course Bustleburg behavior, but then the bus lurched. I almost fell off my seat.

  Phantasma had hit the brakes hard. She looked back at Mrs. Vostic in alarm. Uh oh.

  “Everything all right?” Breezy asked, patting her hair back in place after the jolt. Phantasma waved “yes” but seemed to be rearranging things at her feet.

  Breezy soldiered on. “Ahem. Ladies and gentlemen, if you look to your left, you can see a little of central Bustleburg, including some of the skyline on the X Axis. Closest to us, we have the Toxaco Tower, erected in 1952. The edifice is forty stories of grey concrete with a ziggurat capital. It was designed by Siggy Pomerantz, a cousin of our Mayor Kakisto. Toxaco is our largest chemical company. They make bug killer, battery acid, and many other volatile substances, but most important is their dedication to researching flame retardant compounds. They’re such saints!”

  I doubted the recruits could agree less. The Toxaco plant was the worst polluter in the nation. I looked at Ivan, expecting him to speak up, but he seemed to have nodded off.

  “Now, then, back to our history lesson. Bustleburg was re-founded again in 1900 and divided into five quadrants.”

  “Really? Five?” asked Jeff.

  “Yes.” Breezy looked particularly pleased. “Most places divided into quarters only have four. But we did them one better!”

  “What’s going on out there?” Fadi pointed behind us at a billboard of our ancient Mayor Kakisto giving a thumbs up next to the words “Hollandton is Solid!” A squadron of delinquents had scaled the billboard without assistance from ladders. They’d crossed out “Solid” and were spray-painting “Squalid” in its place.

  “At least they’re multi-cultural criminals,” noted Wendy.

  Breezy’s smile widened. “Team effort again! We Bustleburgers have a way of fostering that, don’t we?”

  Rochelle looked startled. “No one is stopping them? In broad daylight? I can’t believe it.”

  Breezy agreed. “Surprising, isn’t it? Even with our school system, they can spell ‘squalid.’ But they are right, and the sign does look better with all that red.”

  Yipes. I looked at Joy and Fadi. “My cousin’s family lives near good schools—”

  “You mean North Greyfields Elementary and Van Buren Magnet-ish High, correct? Ooh, those schools are scheduled to close,” Breezy said with a sad shake of her head. “They refuse to follow the mayor’s Every Child for Himself policy, and with the loss in population…”

  Oh, no. I felt like my throat was closing.

  Breezy continued. “Anyway, the families who re-founded the city heard about this delightful idea from India which they decided to implement right away.”

  Rochelle and Jeff looked excited. “Ashrams? Meditation?”

  “The caste system!”

  She’s kidding. She has to be.

  “The founding families decided the quadrants should be divided into Brahmin, Kshatriya, Vaishya, Sudra, and Untouchables at first. In 1901, they discovered they hadn’t enough laborers. They also found it tough to convince the top people to take vows of poverty and, you know, become Hindu and all that. So they changed it to where four quadrants were laborers and one quadrant simply got to be top dogs no matter what.”

  “Burnsvale is always best!” said Mrs. Vostic, nodding at us. “Especially Privilege Pond. But you can’t go there.”

  “The system is double-extra stable,” put in Breezy.

  Everyone looked my way, waiting for me to refute this. I realized I knew less about the city than I’d thought. My palms started sweating again.

  Ivan huffed, curled his lip, and gave us all a disgusted look. “Even though I’m a resident, if you ask me, Burnsvale snobbery causes the bad air—”

  Mrs. Vostic jabbed Ivan with her umbrella. “But no one asked you.”

  A brief gurgle of thunder sounded. “Luckily, the bad air is tempered by all our rain,” chirped Breezy. “The stormy season here lasts from January to about December.”

  She cleared her throat. “If we look to the right, we have St. Valentine’s All-Faiths’ Church, modeled after the Old North Church in Boston, only smaller. It’s simple, but pretty, isn’t it? Constructed with rose-colored brick—”

  “It’s falling apart,” said Mrs. Vostic. “It’s a disgrace.”

  Breezy nodded. “It’s showing wear, but they give most of their funds to support Valentine Hospital, which we’ll pass on Kristen Avenue.”

  “It should be condemned,” rasped Mrs. Vostic, shaking Dispater at our guide.

  I looked behind me at Lisa and Wendy. “My cousin and his family attend church here. Rob checked. If you decide you’d like a church service, they’d be happy to marry you.”

  I hoped their eyes would light up. Instead, they frowned as a low voice said, “That church should be condemned for more than one reason.” I turned around to glare at Mrs. Vostic, but she was inspecting her nails. “They’d marry a toad to a salamander.”

  Formerly-unflappable Breezy now seemed flustered. “Now, now,” she said in a weak voice. “Toads and salamanders deserve happiness, too.”

  Then there was a collective intake of breath as a break in the warehouses allowed us a view across the river of Bustleburg’s industrial East Bank.

  “Am I imagining this?” Joy clutched her pearls in horror. “I can’t count the laws they must be breaking.”

  “This is why you’re all here,” I said.

  The airport shuttles had blacked out windows for “safety reasons,” and there must not have been a break in the clouds when they flew in. So this was the recruits’ first view of the “Death Garden,” our vast assortment of processing plants, refineries, and waste treatment localities. The facility creating most of the problem was still hidden behind the hulking, rusted remains of the former Transnational Banana headquarters.

  “Why, that’s the most important part of Bustleburg,” crowed Breezy, “and why we became such a big city. When other cities said ‘NIMBY,’ we said ‘YIMBY.’ Fadi, if you’re looking for work, there are so many options just across the Yuckamud.” The bus had inched forward. Now to get a view across the river, Breezy had to bob and duck left and right to see past Transnational Banana, although the building was in such bad shape, there were places you could look through it.

  Breezy pointed. “Ah. There’s Happy Tailings Slurry Ponds, which is our copper mine waste impoundment company. Next to it is Hexavalent Chrome-Ola, then a couple coal power plants dating from the 1930s. There are employment options at our superfund sites, too.”

  Beside me I heard Fadi whisper to Joy. “This is terrible compared to Detroit. Are you sure about raising a baby in this?”

  Joy patted Fadi’s hand and leaned forward. “Ivan? Ivan, are you awake? What is the city’s plan to become carbon neutral?”

  Ivan had reverted to his impression of the dormouse from the Mad Hatter’s tea party, but he opened one eye and scratched his beard. “The idea carbon is neutral is flawed to begin with. It’s lawful evil, at best.”

  Breezy chuckled. “We have such a fantabulous city, we can afford to have a sense of humor.”

  And…boom. The big awful. We’d cleared Transnational Banana, and now we could see the hell mouth. The collective gasp this time was more of a scream.

  “Do you see something exciting?” asked Breezy. “Which factory are you marveling at?”

  “The one that’s…glowing nuclear green,” said Jeff. “What the hell happened?”

  No one could speak for about fifteen seconds. Then all at once:

  “Did that building explode?”

  “Was that in the news?”

  “Shouldn’t we be evacuating?”

  Breezy smiled. “That’s Toxaco Chemicals. It’s like that every day.”

  “No. That can’t be,” Joy said. “Seriously, why is that happening?”

  Everyone turned to me for answers. It was do or die time. I cleared my throat. “Right. That massive wall of black smoke? That’s what has worsened exponentially in the last five years,” I said, “and why Environmental Bustleburg would love to have—”

  “Don’t say anything bad about Toxaco,” barked Mrs. Vostic. She shook her umbrella in my direction. “They are the very soul of this city!”

  “They certainly are double-extra important to Bustleburg,” Breezy said. “The jobs they provide. The fire-retardant chemicals we desperately need in this town—”

  Rochelle interrupted. “I’m sorry. Why is there more need for fire-retardant chemicals here?”

  Breezy smiled. “Well, our silly fire department loves to strike, but you can hire the wonderful Dellaflame Corporation, run by our mayor’s son, for any fire abatement services you need.” Breezy turned to Mrs. Vostic. “Do you feel safe from fire, ma’am?”

  The older lady nodded. The flower on her hat bobbed in agreement. “My neighborhood, Privilege Pond, is protected perfectly. But you can’t go there.”

  Breezy pointed to the left. “Let’s stop gawking at Toxaco, shall we? Now we have a nice view of our main east-west boulevard, the X Axis, and all the skyscrapers of central Bustleburg.”

  While Toxaco and the Death Garden factories take up the first five slots, the skyline was among my top-ten least favorite things about Bustleburg.

  “The buildings all look the same,” Fadi observed.

  “That’s right,” Breezy crowed. “They’re all forty stories of concrete, all with ziggurat-stepped crowns, and all designed by Siggy Pomerantz.”

  “Did you say Siggy Pomerantz was related to the mayor?” Jeff asked.

  Ivan opened his eyes. “First cousin. See how they’re all in a row? They’re called ‘The Dominoes.’”

  Breezy said, “And all that sameness makes us…different!” Then her smile faded. She shook her head. “Though we have won ugliest skyline every year for the last twenty.”

  Shouldn’t she be cheering about Bustleburg being the absolute limit?

  I sighed. Every time I watched an individual see Bustleburg’s skyline for the first time in person, I noticed a shiver. The uniform style and spacing is eerie, like rows of identical tenements or pre-fab housing but more ominous since they loom overhead. As a kid, two-thousand miles away in Fresno, I had nightmares about the buildings revealing themselves to be alien robot invaders advancing on my bedroom.

  Rochelle shuddered. “It’s very Warsaw Pact.”

  Breezy tittered. “Now now. It could be worse. They have those lovely ziggurat, uh, hats, so they’re not boxy rectangles. And they’re different colors, too. Toxaco Tower is grey. Hexavalent Chrome-ola is rusty beige. Everill Pharmaceuticals is sort of a dingy camel, and McSplotch Paper is a medium ochre—oh, excuse me, Ma’am? Ma’am? Are you filming the Toxaco plant with your phone?”

  We turned to look at Joy. “Yes. I can’t believe I’ve never seen video of this.”

  “Filming it is illegal,” said Breezy. “Your airport shuttle was windowless, yes? I’m afraid they take it seriously. Our wonderful tour company could be shut down.”

  Joy looked startled. In fact, we all were.

  “Pictures of Toxaco are illegal? How can that be?” I said. I’d seen signs at the checkpoints on the bridge prohibiting photography, but I’d thought you weren’t supposed to photograph the security details.

  Breezy looked sympathetic. “It started when the government said no photos at airports or military bases. Then Bustleburg added power plants and refineries. Then elementary schools, banks, and shopping malls.”

  Rochelle nodded. “I suppose that’s the trend. Was it pointless to bring a camera? They don’t allow photos at the museum either, I guess?”

  Breezy tilted her head. “Museums?”

  Ivan narrowed his eyes at us. “You don’t get it. No public photos.”

  Now Breezy looked doubtful. “Oh, only East Bank enforces it. Family photos are fine, and I’m sure she could take pictures in the skyline’s direction this far from the Origin. I mean every day in the newspaper they…run…”

  Baleful glares from Ivan and Mrs. Vostic made Breezy trail off.

  No one at work had told me not to take photos. Now that I thought about it, Rob and my other co-workers had an odd habit of clearing photos from their phones every time they uploaded them to a specific computer, one not connected to a network.

  No. I do not live in North Korea. I do not. Before I could stop myself, I gave away how little I know about this city. “But how can they restrict public photography? There are security cameras everywhere.”

  Ivan folded his arms. “But how many do you have?”

  Joy wasn’t ready to let this go. “I’m an attorney. I’d love to see the statute you’re claiming exists. You can’t take photos of anything?”

  Breezy’s grin brightened. “You can take as many selfies in your bathroom mirror as you like.”

  Ivan nodded in agreement. “You look like the kind of lady who takes silly cat photos,” he told Joy. “Take as many as you want. Just, you know, silly indoor cats.”

  Breezy raised a finger. “Unless it’s a really scrappy cat, you might only encounter them indoors anyway. Did I mention our zoo has an issue with escaped animals? I’m sure if you take photos, animal control will appreciate it. But be careful!”

  Joy’s mouth was set. She wasn’t filming, but she still had her phone in her hands.

  Mrs. Vostic narrowed her eyes at her. “I wouldn’t risk it if you want to leave Bustleburg with that gadget or…anything else you value.”

  Joy frowned, then stared again at the billowing smoke, still in disbelief. She touched her stomach and leaned closer to Fadi. “I can’t live here,” she said quietly.

  Fadi exhaled in relief. “Oh, good.” He squeezed his wife’s hand. Then he looked up at me and mouthed the word, “sorry.”

  I felt the knot in my stomach tighten. I had to redouble my efforts with the others.

  Breezy decided we needed a new topic. “Since you don’t like the Pomerantz buildings, now you have a clear view of our best skyscraper, the Dellaflame Tower! Perhaps you recognize it, Fadi? Modeled after the Renaissance Center in Detroit, only shorter, the Dellaflame Tower is sixty stories of black glass with an orange and red flame pattern circling the top, surrounded by thirty-story towers painted white to represent gobs of vapor-suppressant foam. Now as we wait and hope and pray for a break in traffic on the X Axis, we very slowly say goodbye to the Damsels District. Up ahead—”

  Jeff interrupted her. “Can you back up? The fire department is on strike, and this Dellaflame Corporation is run by the mayor’s son?”

  “Right,” Breezy confirmed.

  Jeff looked uncomfortable. “May I ask which political party allows for the conflicts of interest going on here?”

  “Oh, we don’t have political parties,” Breezy said. “Decades ago, they realized parties bogged down everything. They got rid of them.”

  I saw the others nodding.

  “Instead, we have warlords.”

  What? “Breezy! We do not have warlords!”

  Breezy shrugged and looked up. “Perhaps a better word would be gangs? Or factions? Teams! Yes. And instead of a platform or ideology, each team has an assigned color.”

  Rochelle buried her face in her hands. “So…color war? Like summer camp or elementary school?” She looked at me. “Is this a joke?”

  Unfortunately, I had an inkling of what Breezy meant. “I thought signs reading ‘Go Orange—Beat Grey’ were a neighborhood league program—the city boosting community spirit since we don’t have pro sports.” Not counting something called extreme croquet.