I was fascinated, because I had always enjoyed the classic Heinlein short story “Life Line.” Which was based on the invention of a machine that would tell you exactly when you would die. And was the first short story Heinlein ever published.

So I lept into writing a story to submit for the collection. And after forty-five hundred words it was ready.

The problem was, I had written an updating of “Life Line,” operating from an entirely different principle. See, “Life Line” had detailed the reaction of the world — most exactly the insurance industry — into this discovery of the moment of death. And that fascinated me. Besides, I didn’t think there were enough dark fantasy/sf stories about actuaries.

Which meant my high concept wasn’t the high concept. I had a story about a machine that would predict the moment of death, barring lifestyle change or misadventure.

So I wrote another story to submit. And then, right as it was ready for submission (and had been read by several people with advice), I hit the same dry period that the rest of my writing and online contact hit, and so it never went to them. Ah well, I’ll include it here sometime.

In the meantime, please enjoy “Death is a Moving Target.”

*** *** *** ***

“What is that?” Michael asked Bruce.

“Mm?” Bruce took another swig of the thick, viscous drink. It seemed to cling to the edge of the plastic tumbler.

“That. What are you drinking?”

“Oh. Mucitol. High fiber. Cleans you out, I guess.”

“You having trouble clearing ballast?” Michael signaled to the waiter.

“Nothing like that. Doc just says I need better diet. You know how it is.” He took another swig. “So I took to high fiber. Lot of good things about fiber.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah, well. I’m going back on Thursday. I didn’t like my Hafner/Baugh date. Gonna see if I pushed it forward any.”

“By drinking library paste?”

“Maybe. If I get a few more months out of this, maybe I’d feel better….”

“Better?”

“Better about not, y’know. Givin’ up the smokes.”

Michael closed his eyes. “You could decide not to smoke for my benefit, you know. You’re probably not doing my Hafner/Baugh any joys, you know.”

“Not worryin’ about yours,” Bruce said. “Too much to think about already.”

“Well, thank you very much.” Michael got up, digging for his wallet.

“No worries,” Bruce said. “I got this.”

“You didn’t drink anything from the bar.”

Bruce shrugged. “Night’s not over yet.”

Michael nodded, walking towards the door.

“Hey,” Bruce called back. “Goin’ to Lindy?”

Michael paused, looking back. “Maybe.”
“You should. Girl’s good for you.”

“When did you become such an expert on what’s good for me?”

Bruce chuckled. “Man, no surprise what’s good for you.”

“Whatever.” Michael kept walking.

“‘Sides. You get back with her, you won’t care if I smoke!”

Michael didn’t answer. He didn’t need Bruce to tell him Lindy was good for him. He had scientific proof of that.

Michael’s cell phone rang. They Might Be Giants — “It Could Be Worse.” That meant the call was from a work number. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and glanced at the screen. Tommy’s pudgy face gleamed on it. God damn it. He couldn’t ignore Tommy. He flipped the phone open. “Yeah?”

“I need you in,” Tommy said. “Massachusetts passed the Child Screening Act eight minutes ago.”

Two weeks before, Michael would have been thrilled. “Why do you need me in?” he asked. “The bid’s ready. The bid’s been ready for a month.”

“They had amendments. Potentially lucrative amendments. We need to brainstorm — nothing huge. I won’t take too much of your weekend. You’ll be back doing whatever you and Lindy in an hour and a half.”

Lindy and I don’t do much of anything, Michael didn’t say to his boss. “I’m not the most sober right now,” he said instead.

“Good. That’ll lubricate things. Get in here.”

Michael sighed. “I’ll need a cab.”

“We’ll reimburse.”

“Okay.”

The cab took twenty minutes to arrive, more or less. Michael was just glad it wasn’t raining. He slid into the back and muttered “Two hundred east Rutherford B. Hayes” to the driver.

“No prob,” the driver called back with an undefined accent. “Radio okay?”

“Yeah.”

The cabbie grunted, pulling out and weaving into the streets. A bad pop song was playing, and Michael looked out the window. A billboard stuck out — muscular man and buff but feminine woman in bathing suits, next to a disgruntled skeleton in a cloak. All Pro Gym Workout, it advertised. Qualified Hafner/Baugh Physician on staff. Break your date with the Reaper!

“Sarah! Your date’s here!”

The pretty young woman on the television looked confused. “But I don’t have a date tonight–” Her face fell as the camera pulled back to show the Grim Reaper holding a rose.

The scene cut to a muscular man in a tee shirt and shorts, the girl working out on a Nautilus machine behind him. “We all have a date with the Reaper, but you can break that date with Tony Wilder’s All Pro Gym Workout! For an introductory price of just nineteen ninety-five and nineteen ninety-five a month with commitment you get access to our full facilities! And with a certified Hafner/Baugh physician on premises you can check your Hafner/Baugh date right here, once a week, and watch yourself break date after date with the Reaper!”

“Oh for Christ’s sake,” Lindy said, snapping the television off. “Would you look at me when I’m talking to you?”

“Fine,” Michael muttered, turning to glare at her. “Happy?”

Lindy rolled her eyes. *”No. *That’s what I’m saying. Jesus, Mike. Do you even care about this relationship?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Are you? I don’t think you’ve been here for months, Mike. And I’m sick of it.”

“So what do you want? Work’s been eating me alive!”

“Is that some kind of dig?”

“Jesus — no. I’m sorry that Hafner/Baugh ruined things for actuaries, okay? I’m sorry that Life and Health Trust decided they didn’t need you any more. But they still need me, all right? When do I stop being punished for something that isn’t my fault?”

“I work at Best Buy, Mike. I went from two hundred thousand a year to ‘would you like a protection plan with that?’”

Mike chuckled. “Same field, if you think about it.”

Lindy glared.

“Oh, Jesus, Lindy.” Mike pushed up out of his chair. “You don’t like it? Recertify. Get into health or pensions. Get into contingency theory.”

“No one’s hiring for those, Mike!”

“Because other morbidity specialists saw the handwriting on the wall and recertified early, Lindy! Hafner/Baugh means–”

“Hafner/Baugh’s a crock!”

Mike snorted, turning away. “No, it’s not,” he said. “And insurance workers who insist it is are the ones who end up at Best Buy.”

“It promises to tell you when you die, Mike. It says ‘this is the date you’re going to die.’ And you know as well as I do it’s not true.”

“Barring misadventure, act of God or lifestyle change, Lindy. You can’t–”

Lindy swore, storming to the other end of the living room.

“You can’t ignore that, Lindy. Yeah — the damn machine can’t tell a person they’re going to be hit by a car. The damn machine can’t predict if you’ll cut back on coffee or start exercising more. It’s a diagnostic tool — nothing more. But it’s a tool that works.”

“How many stupid people die every year because that machine tells them they’re invulnerable? Huh? You remember that snowboarder–”

“Jake Weiss was stupid. His Hafner/Baugh date was in — what, 2067? So he decided he couldn’t be killed. And he did a stupid stunt and he died. That doesn’t make Hafner/Baugh wrong. It means Jake Weiss was an idiot.”

“Yeah, well — actuarial science would have said he was an idiot. It would have said ‘health wise, Jake Weiss is in excellent condition, but lifestyle choices reduce his life expectancy significantly, and risk factors make him a poor candidate for life insurance.’”

“And if we still sold life insurance, that would mean something, Lindy. But we don’t. We sell accidental death and dismemberment. We sell property insurance. We sell End of Life Plans–”

Lindy snorted again.

“Yeah, you laugh all you like, Lindy. Give people a sense of when they’re going to die, and they focus on that. You sell them a product that helps them live well. You sell them a plan that both pushes back their Hafner/Baugh date as much as possible, gives them Accidental Death and Dismemberment, and gives them an estate they pay into for their funeral expenses and to leave their families a fu–”

“It was damn hard to become an actuary, Michael. It involves math that makes most people scream. It involves learning probability and economics and risk assessment. And it’s not glamorous, which is why there were never that many of us to begin with.”

“I’m sorry, Lindy. I really am. You should have been set for life.”

Lindy laughed. It was a desperate laugh, close to tears. “Maybe you can sell me an End of Life Plan.”

Michael looked down, then walked over to Lindy. He put a hand on her shoulder. “Look,” he said. “We… we can work something out. You have business and math skills — there must be–”

“I can’t do this any more,” Lindy said.

“That’s what I’m saying,” Michael said. “You need to understand that things have changed. The world has–”

“No,” Lindy said, turning to face Michael. Her eyes were red. “I can’t do this any more. We used to be equals. Now you’re an executive and I work at Best Buy. I can’t do this any more.”

Michael’s heart skipped. “Lindy–”

“Hey! Sixteen-eighty-five!”

Michael sat up in the cab with a jerk. “What?” he asked, blinking.

“We here. Sixteen-eighty-five.”

Michael blinked again, looking around. They were outside of the Hartmann Building, where the corporate offices of Life and Health Trust were located. “Yeah,” he said, fishing for his wallet. “I’m gonna need a receipt.”

Tommy was in his office — an expansive, corner affair. He was dropping ice into old fashioned glasses as Michael walked in. Jenn was already there. “Michael!” he shouted, grinning. “How are you?”

“Drunk,” Michael said, dropping into a chair. “I thought the floor vote wasn’t until tomorrow.”

“Yes, well, politicians surprise you sometimes. But they passed it. Assuming the Governor doesn’t mess around–”

“He won’t,” Jenn said, a smirk on her face. “The Governor doesn’t want to look unsympathetic to the needs of children.”

“This is a banner day for L.H.T.,” Tommy said. “A banner day. Each and every student getting screened once a month. Each and every student taking home a report that lists their current expected date of death, along with all kinds of recommendations on how to push that day farther and farther away. Recommendations for sports, for nutrition, for–”

“You said there were changes? Amendments?”

“You’ll love this,” Jenn said. “At the eleventh hour, they forced through an amendment requiring schools to provide end of life planning as a part of the process.”

Michael blinked, accepting the glass of scotch from Tommy. “You’re telling me that public schools are — by law — going to have to help ten year old kids plan for their funerals?”

“Ain’t that a kick in the head?” Tommy asked, sitting across from Michael and Jenn. “Some days, it’s no bad thing to be a professional ghoul.”

“I resent that,” Jenn said. “We’re providing a service–”

Tommy laughed. “We’re hitching our train to a cultural death obsession. You know it. I know it. Michael knows it. The day these people found out how long they had to live, it was like nothing else mattered. ‘Make the most of life,’ they say, but what they mean is ‘push back the death date as much as you can, and be ready for it.’”

Michael shook his head, looking at the water beading on the outside of his scotch glass. “I wonder what an actuary would make of all this?”

“I am an actuary,” Tommy said. “And I plan to make several million dollars out of all this, thank you. So! How do we adjust the bid? Or are you too drunk to–”

“Do three levels,” Michael answered immediately. “Basic would come with the core bid — let the state pay the money they’re willing to pay, and give a basic End-Of-Life package with it. We can work out how much money goes into the account per year the student has basic, with an option of banking that for five years after High School graduation or turning it into a Collegiate package then. Either way, post college they can either get a sharply reduced payout with penalties and call that a benefit for having gone to school in the first place or–”

“Or convert to a standard End of Life Plan either through a workplace or on their own,” Jenn picked up. “That was my thinking. Two other plans?”

“Sure. For ten bucks a visit additional, a student could have… I dunno, call it ‘Living Well.’ Add in a discount with partnered health clubs. Add in nutritional counseling at partnered centers. Up the amount of money set aside for the eventual plan per year. Hell, you could loss lead it a little — give a kid who converts instead of gets the payout fifteen dollars a month at end of life for every ten he puts into Living Well, which means he’s invested into the product itself and he’ll want to stick with us.”

“And the top?” Tommy asked.

“We’ll need to go through the process, but we want to make this attractive. Make it more about status than security. You know the tapdance. Call it an investment in the future. Throw in financial planning. Throw in discounts at upper end stores with the card. And throw in an automatic conversion to Capital College Gold when they graduate, without the initiation fee. By the time they’re out of college they’ll either take a sharply discounted payoff that’s a lot more than–”

“I see what you’re saying.” Tommy grins. “Throw in a lot of Health and Wellness shit with it. I mean, remember — we want these kids living to ripe old ages. The longer they live–”

“The more money we make,” Jenn finished. “That’s the best part of this whole thing. We can be as greedy as we like and it’s still in everyone’s best interests that people live healthy, long lives.”

“Yeah,” Michael said, drinking a healthy gulp.

“Michael,” Tommy said, looking sidelong at him. “You’re not sharing in our joy, tonight? Do you have an objection?”

“Not remotely,” Michael said. “We’re gonna make a fortune. I’m entirely behind that.”

“Then what’s the matter.” His smile grew slightly knowing. “How’s Lindy?”

“Wouldn’t rightly know. I haven’t seen her for ten days.”

“I knew it,” Tommy said. “I thought ‘now why would Michael be drinking on a Friday night?’ Especially if he could hear his cell phone in the first place, which meant he wasn’t out celebrating. That’s a good girl, Michael. How’d you lose her?”

“That’s a pretty rude question, Tommy. How do you know I did something wrong?”

Tommy just snorted.

Jenn shifted. “Did she want you to quit?”

“Why would Lindy want Michael to quit?” Tommy snapped. “He’s doing good work here. Making good money–”

“She was doing good work here too,” Jenn said. “Until we fired her and everyone like her.”

“What? You want me to keep a pile of highly paid professionals I don’t need on salary? We don’t sell Life Insurance any more, Jenn. I don’t need people to make recommendations and build tables for a product I don’t sell.”

“Enough, guys,” Michael said. The scotch was making his face numb. “She made her choice. She decided that someone would want to hire her when L.H.T. dropped her. She was wrong.”

“You know. Hartford Life couldn’t adapt. That’s why they’re not in business any more.” Tommy’s smile was almost predatory.

“I really, really don’t want to argue about this,” Michael said. “Lindy’s brilliant. Sooner or later she’ll decide she wants to work in this world and she’ll make a change.”

“Where is she now?” Jenn asked.

Michael paused. “She’s working in the technology sector,” he said.

Tommy laughed. “See? There’s always a way to rebound. Okay. Let’s start figuring out campaigns. I’m going to get the ball rolling — get the word to the workforce that tomorrow’s a work day.” He half-stormed to his desk, ready to make the first call.

“So why are you drunk tonight?” Jenn asked quietly.

“Hm?” Michael asked.

“It sounds like she left you ten days ago. Why are you drunk tonight?”

Michael looked at the ice in his otherwise empty glass. “You think you know what kind of impact someone has on your life. But you have no idea, Jenn. You have no idea.”

“Go on?” Jenn leaned forward. “Seriously. I want to know.”

Michael sighed. “I saw my doctor this morning.”

“–looks like your range of motion’s back to normal. PT still going okay?” Doctor Rivers asked.

“Yeah,” Michael said. “Doug says I could get back on the golf course if you say it’s okay.”

“Well, I’m willing to say it’s okay if you’re willing not to go crazy on your swing any more.” He smiled. “A quick Hafner/Baugh screening and we’ll call you healthy.”

“Okay,” Michael said, slipping out of his shoes. “Hey, why do you screen every time I come in. Just to charge my insurance for the test?”

Doctor Rivers laughed. “Nice try, Mister Insurance Guy, but at this point the copay automatically includes a screening. In fact, I’d be liable if I didn’t screen you when I saw you.”
He began setting up the machine, nodding for Michael to sit in the chair. “Too much diagnostic potential. Don’t forget, death is a moving target. If you suddenly had your Hafner/Baugh date move up, that would tell us some kind of environmental or lifestyle factor had changed.”

“Yeah, I know,” Michael said. “But that doesn’t happen to me. My Hafner/Baugh’s been steady for years. June 17, 2061.”

“And we want to keep it there,” Doctor Rivers said. “No talking please. Put this in your mouth and hold these in your hands.” He stepped around to the machine, and began to work it. After a moment, it hummed and made a couple of ‘thunking’ sounds.

Michael stared up at the ceiling. Someone had taped a picture of a waterfall there. He supposed it was to calm the patients down. In Michael’s case it made him want to pee.

“Michael?” Doctor Rivers sounded off, somehow.

“Yeah?”

“I want you to come with me to the other examination room. I want to retest you in there.”

Michael blinked. “Is there a problem?”

“I’m worried about a misconfiguration, is all. C’mon.”

Michael followed his doctor into the next examination room. They went through the routine there — right down to the ‘thunking’ noises. Michael always imagined it was punching tickets when it made those sounds. All aboard the death train….

Doctor Rivers was frowning as he walked back into view. “We’re going to test you a third time, over at the ER,” he said. “In the meantime, have you had any significant changes in lifestyle since the last time you came in here?”

“What? Well, I’m not golfing right now–”

“We can compensate for recoverable injury, and there’s a predicable shift in Hafner/Baugh after laying off regular exercise in recuperation. I expected you to lose a little time from the date–”

Michael sat up, frowning. “Wait. What is my Hafner/Baugh date?”

“Like I said, I want to compare the result with a machine back in the ER–”

“Okay, but what result are you comparing it to?”

Doctor Rivers took a deep breath. “Well, both the practice’s HBS’s come back with April 8th, 2049.”

Michael stared.

“Now, if the ER bears it out, we’ll start doing a test battery–”

“I’m not exercising as much,” he said. “My recovery–”

“Like I said, we could predict that shift. I’d expect something in 2057 or 2058 at the earliest. And you’ve been doing P.T.”

“There must be something…” Michael’s head was swimming. “Could this be a tumor or something?”

“We don’t know, Michael. But if it were cancer or even precancerous, it’s likely your Hafner/Baugh would drop a lot faster. And it’d be pretty new. We can do an environmental study–”

“Nothing’s changed in my environment,” Michael said, rubbing his head. “Could it have been developing? Something I was exposed to back–”

Doctor Rivers put his hand on Michael’s shoulder. “Michael,” he said quietly. “It has to be a new change. Otherwise, your Hafner/Baugh would have reflected it all along.”

“That thing isn’t perfect,” Michael snapped.

“No, it’s not. But it’s very well tested. Now listen to me, Michael. We’re going to do everything we can for you. We’re going to verify the date on at least one other HBS. We’ll do a complete metabolic workup. We’ll run a lot of tests, and we’ll get you into nutritional and exercise counseling. And we’ll try to figure out what changed in your environment. Sometimes it can be the smallest thing–”

Michael stopped walking. His face felt numb. “Oh God,” he said.

“What is it?”

“Lindy.”

“I’ll talk to her — you won’t have to explain this to her alone, Michael–”

“No. No, you don’t understand.” He looked at the Doctor. “We broke up eight days ago. I mean, it sounds stupid, but… but do you think….”

Doctor Rivers took a deep breath. “It’s not stupid at all, Michael. We see Hafner/Baugh variations when relationships change. It happens all the time.”

“But I haven’t done anything differently since she left.”

“Not consciously. But your habits change at times like this. In men, often diet will worsen. You’re depressed. Out of sorts. And you lose the real benefits of her presence. Sometimes a loved one just makes life better — and there’s a real and tangible medical benefit to that.”

Michael slumped down. He’d mostly gotten over the heartache. Even the loneliness had gotten better. He had been adjusting. “Maybe… maybe once I get used to her being gone–”

“It doesn’t work like that, Michael. If you make some positive changes in lifestyle–”

“I’ll meet someone else. That’ll fix it, right?”

Doctor Rivers smiled sadly. “Maybe and maybe not. Maybe you’re the sort of person who needs someone. Anyone. Or maybe you need her. I don’t know. I do know this is a pretty big mortality jump.”

“What… what if we got back together?”

“I don’t know, Michael. I can’t make any promises, either way.”

“But it wouldn’t make it worse, would it?”

“Probably not. But come on. This might be unrelated to Lindy — we’re going to figure it out. All right?”

“All right,” Michael said. But he already knew the answer.

#

The Best Buy was like every one Michael had been in. Bright lights. Shiny gadgets. Some guys in black and white in the corner. Workers in uniform — however casual — working the aisles.

He found her just next to the high definition televisions. She was working on the budget DVD rack. Old movies for ten bucks. He’d never seen her at work before, wearing the cobalt blue jersey, the khaki pants. A yellow name tag. Her black hair was braided back — she looked maybe twenty-three or twenty-four, not the thirty-two he knew she was.

She didn’t see him approach. He scooped up one of the ten dollar DVD’s — Lifeline. Science fiction thing that’d come out within a few months of the Hafner/Baugh process. “Did you ever see this?” he asked. “It got everything wrong.”

Lindy’s back tensed, and she turned. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

“I want to buy a new television,” Michael said. “Something really big and loud.”

“Michael — I don’t want to have this scene,” Lindy said, turning away. “I’m working.”

“I’ll want a three year protection plan, too.”

“Are you making fun of me?” Lindy demanded, whirling to face him again.

“I love you,” Michael said, quietly. “I need you, Lindy.”

Lindy stared, her eyes widening.

“I can’t… I can’t do this,” he said. “I need you in my life, Lindy. You have no idea how badly. I… it took me a pretty bad shock to figure out just how important–”

“Don’t,” Lindy whispered. “Don’t, Michael.”

“You missed me, didn’t you?”

“Michael….”

“Just answer me that, Lindy. I know you love me. I know there was something there. Tell me you missed me. Or tell me you didn’t and I’ll leave.”

Lindy bit her lip, shivering and turning away. “Of course I missed you,” she whispered.

“Then come home.”

“I can’t,” she said. “I want to, but I can’t.”

“Is it the job?”

“Michael–”

“I’ll quit.”

Lindy stared.

“Seriously. If it’s the job I’ll quit. I’ll fill out an application before I leave the store. The job doesn’t mean anything without you in my life, Lindy.”

“It’s not the job,” she said softly. “You’re bad for me, Michael.”

“We can go to counseling,” Michael said. “I’ll change–”

“That’s not what I mean,” Lindy said. She looked torn.

No. She looked guilty.

Michael felt his heart squeeze. “Is there someone else?”

“Michael–”

“It’s all right if there is,” he said, a little too quickly. “We broke up. You… of course you would–”

“There’s no one else, Michael. You’re bad for me.”

Michael felt his breath leave his body. “What do you mean?” he asked after a moment.

Lindy turned her head. She clearly couldn’t look at him. “I got tested at my gym, the day after we broke up. I’ve been tested twice more since then.”

“Tested?” Michael asked, knowing all too well the answer.

“Michael… I gained two years on my Hafner/Baugh date. Two years. My therapist thinks it’s getting out from under the stress of the relationship–”

“We can change our environment,” Michael said softly. “We’ll go to the gym. We’ll eat better. We can–”

“Oh Jesus, listen to yourself,” Lindy said. “I already go to a gym, Michael. Besides, I’m an actuary, remember? All my training comes down to assessing risk versus reward.”

Michael took a breath. “Meaning?”

“Meaning you’re not a good risk, Michael. It’s unlikely we could make those two years up with lifestyle changes — at least without becoming pretty miserable in the process. So it all comes down to whether you’re worth two years of my life.”

Michael’s face burned.

“I’m sorry, Michael. I really am.”

“Yeah,” he said. “No, of course. You’re right.”

Lindy tried to smile. “Hey. It’s okay. It’s going to be okay, Michael. You’re young, you’re a hotshot executive. Hey — I heard the Child Screening Act got passed. You’re going to have a great year. Any woman would be glad–”

Can they give me eleven years of my life back? Michael thought. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah. I’ll… I should go.”*

*Lindy bit her lip, and hugged Michael. “It’ll be okay,” she murmured.

Michael held her tightly. He tried to memorize her scent….

Lindy let go. “Besides,” she said, trying wanly to smile. “Even with those two years you’ll outlive me by a year. Everyone wins, right?”

Michael felt dead already. “Death is a moving target,” he said. “I’m thinking I’m going to start taking better care of myself.”

The PA crackled. “Lindy to cash. Lindy to cash.”

“I’ve got to go,” she said.

Michael nodded. “I’ll see you around,” he said. He watched her leave. Watched her walk away. Eleven years.

More than that. He watched her walk away, and he knew he didn’t want her to.

He breathed out, slowly, and headed for the door. Time to see what he could do to push the Hafner/Baugh out a little farther. Maybe see a nutritionist. Get into a gym — maybe her gym, so they’d see each other at the gym sometimes. Or maybe not. Still. Now that his old life was over, it was time to start taking death a little more seriously.

Ain’t that a kick in the head?

This is the first of the myths being told “by request” from the What Myths Do You Want To Hear open weekend thread from a couple of weeks ago. Fade Manley asked the question. I humbly submit the answer.

*** *** *** ***

Some people know more about the world’s hidden corners and unseen facets than others. I don’t mean the loci — those men and women who become something more than human for various reasons. No, I mean everyday human beings. Sometimes, they have insights or intuitions that teach them about the side of the world that most of us don’t know anything about. Other times they are taught, by experience or happenstance or a relative.

That, by the way, is an example of zeugma. But I digress.

As an example, I give you a girl named Amanda. Surnames are unimportant in this case, but suffice it to say Amanda grew up in a small town and had small town ambitions. She had steady if boring work as a house painter. She wanted very little out of life — enough money to be comfortable, friends she could hang out with, a place to call her own, maybe a cat….

And love, of course. She wanted love. But that wasn’t unreasonable, was it?

In any case, Amanda was typical to the point of boredom. If it hadn’t been for her Uncle Al, there would have been little reason to even discuss her. But, as we have implied, she did have an Uncle Al and so we do have a reason to discuss her. As it works out, her Uncle Al was one of these people who knew a lot about the world just beyond the edge of perception, and as it turns out he taught Amanda quite a bit about it. He taught her by telling her stories as a child and by giving her challenges as a teenager and finally by sending her on errands as an adult. After all, if you know the real back routes, you can get from Kansas to Boston to pick up a specific blend of tea from Tealuxe in about fifteen minutes on a Honda scooter. She knew the twists and turns, and what trolls you needed to give five bucks to in order to pass their bridges, versus what trolls were just bluffing, and how to recognize a kindly haggish innkeeper off the path who would give you a cup of coffee and some biscuits for a few minutes of conversation, versus the various Baba Yagas who are a plague on the countryside in their packs of chicken legged houses.

But as remarkable as all this seems to you or I, to Amanda this was just everyday life. She had grown up with it, after all, and while we might not know the secrets she knew, she would maintain it was no different than knowing that Mister Potter’s service road cut ten minutes off your travel time between the high school and the IHOP out on State Route Sixteen. So she didn’t think she was remarkable for knowing these tricks.

Really, if she was proud of anything, it was her ability to paint houses.

To be fair, she really was something at it. She could paint more in an afternoon than most house painters managed in three days. She always did exactly the right primer coat for a room, and she was an expert at sanding or scraping walls before she started, and she had a remarkable eye for color and ambient light. Her services were sought after by lazy middle class yuppies from Michaud Hill to the ConAgra Farm Complex. Her rates were fair, though sometimes there was a wait for a hole in her schedule. She was always on time, showing up in her paint spattered coveralls and a series of pastel colored tee shirts. She would take a few minutes to set up dropcloths, queue up a good playlist on her iPod, and get right to work without dillydally.

Otherwise, she had a perfectly normal life. She liked to go to bars and drink beer or the occasional appletini after work, on weekends she would hang out with friends at the Park River Strip Mall, and if sometimes she showed up with a case of Cheerwine soda, even though you pretty much had to go to Virginia or someplace just like Virginia to get it, people didn’t complain. They just enjoyed the soda.

A couple of the guys in town tried their luck with Amanda. She wasn’t unattractive, after all. But while Amanda wanted love, she wanted it to be the real thing. Capital L Love. Passionate, heart stopping love, of the sort you saw in crappy movies. And for whatever reason, none of the local boys who were interested sparked that kind of passion in Amanda.

And then Amanda met The One.

He was in his mid twenties when she met him. He had a slightly scruffy beard and hair, thin and wiry, and he was wearing beat up jeans and a yellow and blue striped long sleeved tee. And if she’d seen him at a bar, she’d have flirted or offered to dance or otherwise opened negotiations, but unfortunately she saw him at IHOP one Saturday morning when she was stopping in for breakfast before an action packed day of hanging out at the strip mall.

I don’t know how, and I don’t know why, but the moment Amanda laid eyes on him, she knew he was the one she had been waiting for. There was no other. There would never be any other. He was it.

Amanda frowned. There really wasn’t etiquette for telling someone you just saw for the first time at IHOP that you loved him and would like to demonstrate this fact as physically and enthusiastically as possible. At the same time, having seen The One and knowing there would be no other, it seemed like a bad idea to sit in a corner and hope fate would cause the two of you to have a wacky adventure together. So, Amanda screwed up her courage, walked across the room, slid into the booth opposite The One. “Have you ordered yet,” she asked.

He looked up from the menu, somewhat startled. He frowned slightly, then shrugged. “Not yet,” he said. “Am I buying or is this dutch?”

“Let’s go dutch, but split the bill down the middle.”

“Are you going to order the steak?”

“It’s IHOP. The steak isn’t significantly more expensive than the pancakes.”

He considered, and nodded. “Divided is fine.” He considered a moment longer. “I’m Trent.”

“I’m Amanda.”

It was a pretty good first date. Trent won Amanda a stuffed toy in the claw crane game. It was a snake, more or less, though it looked like it might have legs. They went out to the reservoir and chucked rocks in it for a while, and they shopped for a while at the Park River Strip Mall, and they had a pretty good meal at Smokey Bones, and they spent a reasonable amount of time kissing each other and seeing what base they could get to without it feeling weird. In the end, it was ruled a ground rule double.

Finally, they were walking through a corn field just after dark, the stars overhead, when Trent said “I really got to get going. I was just looking for someplace out of the way for breakfast.”

“No prob,” Amanda said. “Will I see you again?”

He nodded. “Yeah, you got my number. Text me?”

“Sure.”

They walked to the edge of the field, crossed the dirt road, and Trent started for the wire fence — specifically a place where the wire was broken.

Amanda watched him head for it, and smiled a bit. “Hey!” she called back.

He looked over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

“If you’re looking for the Midsummer Path, that way through sucks. The upper wire snags your clothes. I lost like three shirts that way. There’s a Century Oak maybe a quarter mile up the road — it’s way better if you’re heading more or less West.”

Trent paused, and then walked back. “Yeah,” he said. “Show me?”

So she did, but before he circled the Century Oak knocking the trunk once to signal the dryad that he was a friend and then get onto the Midsummer’s Path heading to where the sunlight came to rest at the end of the day, he and Amanda spent another forty five minutes going for a triple. They got one, more or less, though one attempt to steal home was sent back for failing to touch second.

Amanda spent a lot of time grinning after that weekend. Weekdays she threw herself even more firmly into her housepainting job. She stopped going to bars at night, though. There was no good reason to. Weekends, she met Trent at the IHOP and the two painted the town red. Or, if they were in the mood, they’d nip around the corner to Milan or New York City or — after a series of wrong turns — Wonderland. It was a darn good life.

After a good amount of time like this, the conversation turned to marriage. After all, Trent was pretty happy and Amanda knew he was The One and that there would be no other, so a more formal arrangement seemed to be in order. However, the pair hadn’t done all the amenities like meet their respective families, and they knew that eloping without that step was a one way ticket to landing onto a particularly uncomfortable episode of Doctor Phil. So, Amanda took Trent to meet Uncle Al, her parents having died in a tragic combine related accident some years before. Uncle Al and Trent got on well enough, though Uncle Al seemed slightly troubled. When Trent was in the bathroom, Amanda asked him why.

“Mm. It’s just a feeling,” he said. “He seems a little real.”

“A little real? As opposed to what — being a phony?”

“No no.” He shook his head. “Everything is ephemeral, and most things are as much image as they are substance. Trent seems more substantial than most. He knows the back roads around the world?”

“Yeah.” Amanda frowned. “Are you saying there’s a problem?”

Uncle Al shrugged. “Depends. No reason to worry until we have something to worry about.”

Just then, Trent rejoined them. “Did I miss anything?” he asked.

“Not at all,” Uncle Al said. “Would you two like a cup of tea?”

The rest of that Saturday, Amanda kept a close eye on Trent. And she had to admit, she could see what her Uncle meant. Trent had a quality — like he was somehow anchored to the world more firmly than anyone else. Like he was in sharper focus, and slightly more saturated in color. But she could also see that Trent really did love her, and of course she loved him, so she decided not to worry about it unless it was necessary.

“So tomorrow, we’ll meet my mother?” he asked as they headed to the Century Oak.

“Sure. Where to?”

“West. Meet me here, and I’ll bring you.”

They kissed then, and did a few other things that twentysomethings do when they really like each other, but which we don’t really need to get into, and he headed out. And Amanda went home and found some nice clothes, made sure they were clean, and went to bed.

The next morning, Amanda went out to the Century Oak. Trent met her there after a few minutes, and then they circled the Oak, making sure to knock so the Dryad knew they were cool, and then they headed West on the MidSummer Path, passing through the Orchard of the Peaches of That Feeling You Get During The Dream Where You’re Naked In School And Didn’t Go To Class All Semester And Now It’s Time For A Final That Your Whole High School Grade Depends On.

What, you didn’t think all the magical fruit trees were about Love or Sleep or Memory, did you?

They crossed the Bridge of Accord over the River Dian, and they skirted the edges of the Woods of Despair, avoiding a particularly nasty pair of Baba Yagas who were drag racing their chicken legged houses down the MidSummer Path in what was certainly a violation of the law, and heading down into the valleys and the sands, and Amanda knew they were heading for the greater Metropolitan Los Angeles area. Specifically, the back world sections of it.

Amanda expected that they would cross into the Real World that everyone could see, but instead Trent made a turn onto a golden path. Amanda followed as the path spiraled, seeming to circle the city itself, rising into the air on golden wires and glass, narrowing in as they approached a beautiful palace of shining gold and crystal. And Amanda bit her lip as they crossed into the courtyard and passed by several bubbling marble fountains and through a gateway guarded by brave men. She realized as they walked through the Great Hall of the Palace that whatever Trent’s mother turned out to be, she was probably underdressed.

Finally, they came upon a dias, and upon the dias there was a small table with three wrought iron chairs surrounding it. And on the table there was a silver tea set with three beautiful and delicate china teacups. And on one of the wrought iron chairs sat one of the most beautiful women Amanda had ever seen. She had perfect cheekbones, and her hair was golden and streaming behind her with particularly expensive highlights in it. She wore a beautiful and expensive blouse and coat with pearls, and didn’t even look ironic. She looked younger than Trent, and yet her eyes were old and reflected power. And when Amanda looked at her, she knew that she was looking at a Locus — one of those men or women who embodied one of the principles of the world, be those principles grand or minute. This was as much goddess as human, and a woman accustomed to power that Amanda could have no concept of.

Amanda now knew she was underdressed.

“Mom,” Trent said, pulling a chair for Amanda, “this is Amanda. We’d like to get married. Amanda, this is my mother, the Duchess of Los Angeles.”

The Duchess of Los Angeles looked Amanda up and down, and frowned slightly. “I see,” she said, and even her voice had an echo of power and immortality in it. “Be a dear and pour us some tea, Trent.”

The tea was expensive. It wasn’t prepared any better than Amanda or Uncle Al could do, but Amanda could tell this was tea from rarified fields, picked by hand by wizened men who carefully dried and prepared it. White tea, without milk. On the whole, Amanda preferred Lipton. “It’s an honor to meet you, Your Grace,” she said, bowing her head and showing respect. She knew the rules of etiquette. Uncle Al wouldn’t have taught her how to take the back roads of the world without teaching her how to comport herself with some of the aristocrats who lived there.

The Duchess of Los Angeles continued to look Amanda up and down. “Tell me,” she said, finally. “Do you have a bloodline of power?”

“No, ma’am.”

“How did you learn to walk the pathways of perception?”

Amanda preferred her Uncle’s term — taking the back roads of the world sounded so much less pretentious. “My uncle taught me, ma’am.”

The Duchess nodded, still frowning. “Are you a hero?”

“Not that I know of, ma’am.”

“Do you have any special wisdom?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Have you slain any particular noisome beasts?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Are you rich?”

“No, ma’am.”

The Duchess frowned more. “What do you do?”

“I’m a painter, ma’am.”

The Duchess’s eyebrows arched. “Ah,” she said. “An artist. All right. We can work with that. Do you prefer watercolors? Oils? Would you like to try fresco sometime? I could use a good fresco painter….”

“Not that kind of painting, Your Grace. I paint houses for a living.”

The Duchess looked at Amanda. It was not a good look. “You’re a housepainter.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“That’s it? Nothing else to speak of?”

Amanda shrugged. “I’m a pretty normal person, ma’am.”

“Mom, she’s funny and quick, and she–”

“Shut up, Trent,” the Duchess murmured. She shook her head. “I don’t see how we can possibly make this work. Trent isn’t a locus but he has the blood of the world in his veins. He will be a remarkable full mortal. His wife will also need to be remarkable. Because if the only thing his wife is remarkable for is how unremarkable she is…” the Duchess leaned forward, “…then people will remark on it, and not the way we want. Do you understand?”

“Mother–”

“Shut up, Trent. This isn’t about you.”

“How can it–”

The Duchess fixed a glare on her son, and he shut up. Amanda didn’t blame him for that. He might be her son, but this was a half-goddess and when she said shut up, you shut up.

The Duchess turned back to Amanda. “Do you understand?” she repeated.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

The Duchess nodded. “Very good. It was nice to meet–”

“You’re saying that before I can marry your son, I need to do something remarkable. That’s my understanding. Do I have that correct, your Grace?”

The Duchess’s eyes flashed with annoyance. “I am saying you are not going to mar–”

“Mother,” Trent hissed. The Duchess paused, and looked at her son. And she saw in his eyes true love. And looking back at Amanda, she realized that to Amanda, her son was the One, and there would never be any other. And the Duchess frowned. She knew that if she out and out forbade this wedding, that was a one way ticket to Las Vegas and her only begotten child ending up a fry cook at the IHOP out on State Route 16.

The Duchess slowly nodded. “Yes,” she said. “Precisely. You must perform a great task. We must find you a dragon to slay, or a–”

“I don’t slay dragons, m’lady. I don’t slay anything. If you are to give me a great task, it must be in an area where I am in fact great. That is the way of great tasks.”

The Duchess rolled her eyes. “You’re not great at anything,” she said.

“Yes, I am. I paint houses.”

“Please. We’re discussing–”

“Your Grace, I give to you all honor and respect.” Amanda leaned forward. “But hear me. I am not a princess and I am not a heroine. But I am the best house painter you have ever met. I am fast, I am fair, I am complete, and I am unobtrusive. I give excellent value, arrive on time, work to estimate and never, ever cause trouble for my clients. I will not claim any other airs before your magnificence, but do not dare. Imply. What I do is not great.” Amanda held her head up high. “Because quite frankly, I’m awesome.”

The Duchess narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips. She was tempted to strike the impertinent stripling down, but she too was bound by etiquette. The girl had made a claim of greatness, and by the laws that all Loci must abide by, she had to be accorded due respect until such time as she had a chance to prove her claims. “Very well,” she said. “You say you’re a great house painter? Then we shall see.”

The Duchess rose to her feet, the very act of standing a gathering of ancient power. “Come. We will prepare your task. I have just the thing.”

“Of course, your Grace,” Amanda said, standing up.

Trent stood too. “Mother,” he said warningly, “what do you have in mind?”

“A task worthy of the hand of the son of the Duchess of Los Angeles,” the Duchess said, striding through the halls to a spiral staircase. “We shall have your Amanda paint the ceiling of my home.”

Amanda blinked. “No problem,” she said, looking around. “I assume you’re going to want to have all the ceilings in here painted. I’ll need a layout of the palace–”

The Duchess snorted. “You misunderstand, girl. This is not my home.”

Amanda frowned. “It’s not?”

“No more than a closet in your own house is your home. This is a convenient place for me to store things I don’t want to get rained on.” The trio emerged then onto the balcony of a turret of the palace, overlooking the shining city below them. From here, Amanda could see the city in all its glory. The real world of Los Angeles. The back roads world of Los Angeles. That which anyone could see and that which almost no one could see. It spread out before them, miles and miles and miles of it.

The Duchess swept her hands out. “This is my home.” And she gestured to the shining blue sky. “And that is my home’s ceiling. If you want to marry my son, you will have to paint that.”

Amanda looked up at the bowl of the sky. “…really?” she asked.

The Duchess smiled slightly. “Really. And if you agree to this task, then until it is completed I forbid you to speak to my son, much less spend time in his presence.” She turned to look at the girl. “I don’t care about your little dalliances. If my son wants to spend his weekends doing some plebe in Bumfuck, Kansas, that’s his own affair. But if you’re going to take his name and family, you’re not going to enjoy the benefits of his company during your task to prove your worth. Do you understand that?”

Amanda took a deep breath. “I do, Your Grace.”

“Any pithy comments to make? Or questions to ask?”

“Just one, Your Grace.” Amanda looked up, proudly, into the Duchess’s eyes. “Do you provide the paint or am I supposed to?”

The Duchess looked back, and smiled just slightly. “You do.”

“Color preference?”

The Duchess smiled a bit more. It was not a kind smile. “Since I don’t expect you to get very far with this, I don’t care. Whatever you can afford.”

“I will need to work at night. During the day I’ll have to continue doing my own job, and weekends I have off. That’s my standard deal.”

The Duchess shrugged. “It’s your task, dear. However long you want to take doing it — until you get fed up, anyway — is fine by me.”

“Mother,” Trent said beseechingly. “Please. If she has to do this ridiculous thing, then fine. But don’t keep us apart while she’s doing it. That’s just–”

“Cruel?” The Duchess smiled. “I know.”

“Fine.” Amanda looked resolute. “May I kiss your son goodbye before I go?”

The Duchess snorted. “No. If you’re accepting this task, then the separation begins immediately. Or you can just continue to have an affair. Though I warn you — if you two decide to run off to Vegas and get married without my consent, having asked the price of marriage, then a curse will descend upon you both.” She smiled, unkindly. That loophole was now closed off.

“Understood.” She nodded — without speaking — to Trent, the One of whom there would never be another, and she strode down the steps.

“Mother,” Trent said, quietly, “you can be an unbelievable bitch.”

“You have no idea,” the Duchess said. “No idea at all.”

Amanda spent the rest of that Sunday making preparations. The skies above Los Angeles would take a lot of paint, and of a type you couldn’t get at Sherwin-Williams, so she traveled along the Back Roads of the World to appropriate suppliers. She laid out her budget, and she found a supplier, though the only color he had in enough bulk that Amanda could afford was a rather hideous yellow-grey.

Amanda shrugged. The Duchess had said she didn’t care, and she was going to take her word for it.

On Monday, she finished her day’s work by one. She then went home and caught a few hours of sleep. And then, right at the point where the sun was beginning to go down in Los Angeles, she got up. Solemnly, she put on a brown lycra tee she didn’t care about getting dirty, and her most comfortable paint splattered coveralls. She put a kerchief over her hair, double tied, and synched the iPod she had let charge while she slept. She made her way out, and passed through to the Back Roads at the Century Oak, carrying her supplies in a backpack. She made her way to Los Angeles through the route, and then took a side road when she got close — one that led to the scaffolding and the maintenance ducts that the so called real world was lined with. What, you didn’t think the maintenance staff wandered around visibly, did you? There are many levels to the world. Not unlike Disney World, really.

Amanda put her ear buds in her ear. She hit play on her iPod. And she got to work.

And as she worked, she occasionally glanced down. And there, on the highest tower of the palace of the Duchy of Los Angeles, she could see Trent, looking up. Watching her work through the night.

Come the dawn, Amanda went home, of course. She had to wash up and get ready for her day job.

And the Duchess of Los Angeles got up that morning with a smile. She had been told before bed that the silly girl was actually trying to paint the sky, and she figured that a few days of that would convince her of the futility of it. And that would be that, since she and Trent couldn’t even pursue their affair now. Her servant gave her a mug of truly exquisite coffee and she walked out onto the terrace to enjoy it–

And stared, the mug slipping from her fingers and falling to the streets below, landing in Compton in front of a corner store, shattering and splattering the facade and two kids. Later, various lawsuits would wend their way through the court system for decades stemming from this incident, but even the minor acts of the Loci can have profound effect on our world.

The Duchess didn’t notice this. She was staring.

The sky was yellow-grey.

“MANSFIELD!” she cried out. Mansfield was her majordomo.

“Yes, your Grace?” the servant said, with the calm disinterest of a long time domestic.

“Did that girl — did she do this?”

“Yes, your Grace.”

The Duchess stared, looking on all sides. “Is… is she done? Did she do it in one night?”

“No, your Grace. She has significant detail work left to do, especially on the edges — you can see some blue over there, for instance. And I understand she wants to sand some bits and redo them, as well and putting a second coat down on parts of it.” Mansfield smiled. He appreciated good work. “She’s quite a perfectionist.”

The Duchess’s head swam. By the next night — or Thursday at the latest — the girl would be done and she would be marrying the Duchess’s son. “I must… there must be… get me Gaylord Bennett on the phone. No — ask him to come. Say it’s an emergency. Say it has to be today.”

Mansfield arched an eyebrow. “Of course, your Grace.” He withdrew to make the necessary arrangements.

The Duchess looked out over the sky once more.

“Remarkable,” she half-whispered. And then she frowned more.

Gaylord Bennett looked like a biker. He work leathers and chains and a kerchief, and had a long goatee and sunglasses. Which was befitting the Scion of the Desert Winds. “Gotta admit, Duch — I don’t expect to hear from you. Not after some of the crap you’ve pulled.” Los Angeles, you’ll recall, was largely carved out of a desert, so it could be said that the Duchess’s domain had cut into the Scion’s.

“That’s the past. This is the present. And I want to discuss the future. Did you notice the sky as you came in?”

Gaylord looked up. “I think everyone in the greater metropolitan area noticed the sky. Crappy color.”

“Blame my own short-sightedness for that. It’s not quite finished.”

“So?”

“So… I don’t want it to be finished. I want the desert winds to blow and bits of sand to scar the paint job.”

Gaylord frowned. “I send a high altitude wind in, that’ll scuff up most of the thing. You’ll get light clouds, a mix of the blue undercoat, and I won’t promise it’ll smell all that great. Especially mixed with the paint fumes.”

“I don’t care,” the Duchess said. “Can you do it?”

“Of course.” He smiled a bit. “For a how long?”

“Forever,” the Duchess snarled.

Gaylord smiled more at this. “It’ll cost you,” he said.

“Fine. I don’t care.”

And so it did indeed cost the Duchess. She sent tribute to the Scion’s home, and she gave him the wide span that today we call Death Valley to build his own palace, just four hours from her own domain. She sent some of her most beautiful youths — beautiful and nubile women and robust and virile men — numbering two hundred in total, with a promise of ten more men and ten more women each year, to form a new court for Gaylord even outside his other desert homes. And his people could be seen on her streets. It is said that gang activity — so prevelent in Los Angeles today — stems from this deal, and that each member of a gang has a touch of the wild desert wind in his heart. But that may just be a rumor.

And in exchange, Gaylord sent high altitude winds and heat in, and the paint streaked and cracked, causing blue to spill over throughout the area. And while it was still largely yellow-grey, almost anyone who looked up would figure that the yellow-grey was incidental to the blue. Certainly, if they’d known it was paint, they’d figure it was far from complete.

That night, Amanda returned. With a frown, she realized what had happened. But she did not complain. She put her iPod headphones on and she set back to work, redoing almost all of it, touching it up, working towards perfection.

And with the day the desert winds returned. Which meant that it was now much less comfortable in Los Angeles — the smell of paint, as well as many other smells, was everywhere. Sometimes it was even hard to breath. And of course it was much hotter than it used to be.

And at night, Amanda returned, and set back to work without complaining.

And so, things continued in that vein. Amanda would do remarkable things, and the Scion of the Desert Winds would ruin it. She would take weekends off, because that was her deal. She worked weekday mornings at her day job, painting houses. Nights belonged to Trent, and to the work that would one day see them united.

Trent, for his part, spends most of his nights sitting in a lawn chair on that balcony. He watches her work. And he smiles. You see, he was pretty into Amanda before. He liked her, and maybe even loved her, and he could see marrying her.

But sitting and watching this act of devotion… this act of true love… night after night after night made him realize.

Amanda was it. She was the One. And for Trent, there would be no other.

They do have contact, of course. Enjoined from speaking or being close, they communicate through text message and through e-mail. Trent sends her little videos and Amanda sends some back, and they interact on message boards and spend a lot of the weekend time playing World of Warcraft together — though never with voice chat, of course. Trent is, of course, idle rich trash so he has no job. He can sleep in very late so he can spend his nights watching.

And some nights, his mother joins him.

You see, there is one thing that the Duchess realized after quite some time had passed. She realized that it was not breeding that made one remarkable. And she realized that Amanda was remarkable indeed. Certainly, it was clear no one would ever love her son this much, or be this devoted. And so she decided to let the woman proceed without hinderance.

Gaylord would have none of it. The Duchess had signed an open ended deal, and he wanted his tribute and his foothold into the streets of Los Angeles — a land that had been his before the Duchess showed up. And she had made a deal for him to hinder the girl’s efforts forever, and that’s what he intends to do. In fact, when Amanda gets close to finishing anyhow — which every so often she does — Gaylord calls upon one of his ex-girlfriends, the current Viscountess of the Northwesterlies, to use her flute and whistle up a huge if atypical storm that blows through the city, washing clean the skies and leaving them a pristine blue, meaning Amanda has to start all over again.

But she never complains. She never bemoans. She just sets her playlist going, and sets right back to work.

So when the air is thick and hot and stinky, and the sky is yellow/grey and hazy, and the city seems practically unlivable, you might feel unhappy for yourself, but spare a moment for a smile, too. Because as nasty as that haze might be? That haze comes from love. And looking up, it’s hard not to believe — to hope — that Amanda will manage to actually finish the job in one night, finally, and thus win her new husband. And as the Scion would have failed, the pact would be broken and he would have no reason to continue, and eventually the haze would fade. And the city, albeit with a well painted sky of grey and gold, would move on.

And so would Amanda and Trent.

Anyway, with a little luck I won’t be sued over this one….

*** *** *** ***

When amateur mythologists and fantasists try to populate their pantheons and philosophies with spiritual and mystical essences, they often make the mistake of reaching too far. “Why is there pain?” they ask, and seek an answer. “Why is there evil?” “Why do we die?” “Who renewed Becker for all those seasons, and who’s divine cock do I need to suck to get him smote before pilot season comes along and he does more damage?” These questions are huge, and even if someone could intuit or make up answers to them, they would end up being unsatisfying.

(The answers, since we’ve brought the questions up, are ‘Sam from the television show Quincy,’ ‘the Croissandwich,’ ‘Randy Milholland,’ ‘Sam from Quincy again,’ and ‘Randy Milholland again,’ respectively. You will note that having these questions answered, in the end, didn’t really help.)

A successful mythologist, on the other hand, remembers the golden question always begins with “why.” Mythology, after all, has always sought to explain the unexplainable and to eff the ineffable. This is eternally the difference between mythology and religion, which seeks to explain nothing. When asking the question “why did my wife of five years get hit by a lightning bolt and killed,” mythology explains that Eltana of the Golden Ewe did look down from her mist covered mount and see the beauty of your wife. Growing sore jealous, she journeyed for eight days and nights until she found the Dwarven Smith Daedbot, who makes the golden lightnings on his forge of shining granite, and there did seduce him that her valet, trusty Bohem, could sneak into the forge and steal one shining bolt. Then, when next Eltana saw your wife, she did draw the bolt and fit it to her bow like an arrow, taking aim and letting fly, the bolt flying forth, sparks forking off it like the fletchings of an arrow and striking your wife down once and forevermore. But in so doing, the birds did weep and sing songs of lament, and therefore the Queen of the Heavens did lift your wife’s spirit up and set it in the sky, passing back through time to do so when the stars were set in their course.

Religion, on the other hand, answers “why did my wife of five years get hit by a lightning bolt and killed?” by telling you that by questioning the will of God you have condemned yourself to eternal hellfire. Or, if you are Jewish, an extra day and a half of Hellfire (not to exceed one year total) because you didn’t look up the answer in the Talmud to begin with — what, do I look like a reference librarian to you now?

Therefore, as we tell these tales of modern mythology, it behooves us to always answer questions that ask ‘Why.’

Which brings us to today’s lesson. Why does the drip coffee at Starbucks taste like crotch?

It is well known among those who enjoy the brewed arts that Starbucks is really quite good. Oh, you might have a local barista who can sling espresso that would make Starbucks weep with inadequacy, or you might disdain Starbucks as a corporate entity and therefore, evil, because you are a communist. Or something in between. But to be honest, Starbucks does really well by its espresso. Its lattes are tasty, its frappacinos are icy and delicious, and what they do with sugar free cinnamon dolce syrup, nonfat milk and a small amount of foam would make a jazz man cry.

However, their drip coffee, made the way you would make your own coffee at home if you weren’t so damn lazy, tastes like crotch. Burnt, overroasted, badly blended crotch.

It makes no sense to the scientific mind. After all, Starbucks clearly has testing kitchens and focus groups, and they already have machines that make the lattes with a touch of a button and very little human interaction, making the once noble Starbucks barista one lateral step away from a McDonalds worker — at least McDonalds workers actually have to turn the hamburgers over. Rationally, they should have also found a drip coffee that their focus groups love that comes in sack form that a drone can toss into the top of a chrome machine and push a button on.

And yet, no matter how heartbreakingly good the lattes become, the drip coffee continues to taste like crotch.

Needless to say, the crotchness of the drip coffee is tied inexorably to the automated machines that Starbucks now uses to make the lattes. And, of course, it involves a curse, as these stories are wont to do, a jilted lover, which is almost as common, and a short sighted business plan ultimately buoyed up by technology, which is more common in folk tales than you might think.

Our story begins in the hills of Feynman, where once there was a young coffee roaster. His name was Starbuck, and he was blessed with good looks and an industrious spirit. He provided the coffee for several coffee shops and cafes, and this coffee was universally regarded far and near. Men blind from birth would understand the colors of the rainbow when they drank this coffee. Barren wives would have strong children if they drank the coffee black. Cold hearted fathers would embrace their son’s admissions of homosexuality with warmth and compassion when the coffee had a little cream and some splenda in it. The spent beans, when used as a fertilizer, doubled the yield of corn and soybeans. When Starbuck’s drip coffee was served in carafes at diplomatic and negotiating tables, the lands knew peace at last.

Yet, through it all Starbuck was sad, because he worked very hard to roast coffee for others, but he had no cafe to call his own.

Starbuck knew exactly what he would want in a cafe, too. He would want a warm and inviting place, where the smell of coffee would warm the spirit. He would want a place where conversation was king, inspired by the wisdom of the ages being printed on the outside of the coffee cups. He wanted a place where jazz would be remembered, food would be light and invigorating, and mugs would sell for a season and then go on clearance. As he lay on his cot next to the racks of beans just off from his furnace, he wrote ancient words of power in his notebooks, trying to figure out the perfect combination to bring his dream into life. Words like “doppio” and “venti” and “seven dollars and fifty cents a cup.”

In the end, of course, it came down to funding. Starbuck was given great heaping piles of cash for his superior drip coffee, of course, but the roasting process was an expensive one and besides, Starbuck spent more time than he should at Indian Casinos. So, he went to see many, many bankers.

The bankers were not unsympathetic, of course. They knew he had amazing coffee, and it stood to reason that his cafe would be popular. However, there was still that gambling problem to be concerned with and even without it, there was no shortage of cafes in the lands at that time. Even the smallest, meanest hamlet had six or seven cafes and two diners — three if you counted the IHOP out on Oxcart Route Sixteen. The market was oversaturated, and the only way that Starbuck could support his business model was if he continued to provide coffee to all the other cafes, which of course meant that “Starbuck’s Cafe” would have nothing to offer but pithy sayings on the cups, and that’s not what brings in the tourist trade. You need an angle.

One banker, who could see the disappointment in young Starbuck’s eyes, said “look, maybe you could do something no one else does in the town.”

“Like what?” Starbuck asked, despondently.

“Well… you could have the coffee served by topless waitresses.”

“What?”

“Sure. Put your waitresses in G-Strings and I promse you’ll have a packed–”

“I want a salon of learning and culture, where music and discussion are stimulated by tasty hot beverages,” Starbuck shouted. “I don’t want a cheap strip club.”

“All right, all right,” the Banker said. “Forget I brought it up.”

“All right.”

The pair grew silent.

“Besides,” Starbuck said, “nudity doesn’t naturally mesh well with coffee. It distracts.”

“Mm. Point.”

“I mean, I have nothing against sex appeal. But if you put a woman in a miniskirt and a smile, either the guy buying the coffee won’t ever notice the taste, or he’ll be so into the taste he’ll never notice the woman in the miniskirt. And besides, did you ever try to get a permit for adult entertainment in this town? I swear to–”

“All right already.” The Banker frowned. “There must be some way to conflate sex appeal with coffee.”

“Well, if there is I don’t know it,” Starbuck admitted.

And then it hit the Banker. “Of course,” he said. “The Baristas.”

Starbuck blinked, and his face turned pale. “You must be joking,” he said.

The Baristas were little more than a legend in the towns of the hills of Feynman. Somewhere between a tribe and a cult, the Baristas wandered the woods and the hills. They took the form of men and women between the ages of nineteen and twenty-four, the dressed in nothing but low rise jeans and sheer white tank tops that revealed their dark brown bra straps or the occasional scoop neck lycra tee shirt, while the men sported open flannel shirts over allegedly ironic tee shirts. Trained from an early age in the twin arts of slinging esperesso and snark, they could produce sublime drinks from the pump based equipment they hauled through the woods in their carts. The scent of their ground coffee and their beauty drew men and women alike in like sirens singing sailors to their doom — men and women who spent exorbitant amounts of money for their mysterious yet invigorating drinks, only to be cut down by their biting sarcasm and alluring disdain.

“Neither man nor woman can tame the Baristas,” Starbuck said. “Any who tries is doomed to have their lives crushed immediately after their self esteem.”

“So it is believed,” said the Banker. “But I know a secret that could make the impossible possible. A secret that you could use to harness the alluring disdain and slung espresso skill for your own cafes. Those factors, combined with a good managerial plan to reign in their destruction and your own superior coffee would create a cafe that would draw all to your door.”

“A cafe… harnessing the power of the Baristas. Their untamed spirits yoked to the power of commerce.” Starbuck slowly smiled. “If I can use your secret, does that mean you’ll invest in my cafe?”

“Bet your life I will.”

Starbuck smiled more. “It seems that I am, friend. Tell me. What is this secret.”

The banker leaned forward, a slight smile on his face. “They have a Queen,” he said. “Draw her into your plans, and you draw the Baristas with her.”

The Banker went on to tell Starbuck of the woman called Fiona, the Queen of all Baristas, who bore the secrets of tamper and pump, and whispered in the ears of her followers, teaching them the ways of steam and sarcasm. The Queen was the wildest, the most beautiful, the most sensual and the most easily offended of them all. It was said the gods had blessed her, and also that her eyebrow and labriet piercings weren’t her only piercings, if you know what I mean. And I think I you do. Hint — it involves sex.

Starbuck was intrigued. “So, if I can get this… Fiona… to agree to our plans….”

“She will be able to supply Baristas to work in your cafe. They will bring with them the arts of sensuality, sarcasm and steamed milk, giving your cafe both a draw and an expanded menu. Their espressology and your remarkable drip coffee will more than dominate all the other cafes, with the exception of the IHOP out on Oxcart Route–”

“Yeah, I’m familiar with it,” Starbuck said, considering. “So how do I convince this Fiona.”

“You are a handsome man,” the banker said. “And she is lonely. And I happen to know that she has a secret vice for a really good cup of straight, black drip coffee.”

“How do you know all this?”

The banker smiled, as bankers are wont to do. “I got her a loan for a used oxcart. You’d be surprised how much detail goes into a standard credit report.”

And so Starbuck set out into the hills, with five pounds of his coffee beans, a portable grinder, a filter pot, a carafe and forty dollars in small bills. He walked up and around the winding paths, to the hills that were shrouded in perpetual mist and music was made in garages. For three days and three nights he walked, glad for having brought changes of underwear, and sorry he neglected to bring any kind of food. Tree bark was growing tiresome.

It was in a somewhat lightheaded state that he first smelled the unmistakable smell of freshly ground coffee beans. These beans didn’t smell like his, and he could tell from the distant whine of the grinder that they were being ground extra fine. Espresso fine.

He made his way through the mist, up the rocky path, rounding the corner and seeing a small tent encampment. This was a bazaar, with burly fishmongers hurling their wares and fortune tellers hunched over cards. Here there might be a dealer in antiquities, there there might be a bookseller. He nodded to the pikemen guarding the gate as he entered, and though many in this marketplace might seem passing strange to the eye, in his hunger and fatigue it all seemed to make sense.

He was tempted to stop, and eat, or perhaps buy a book or a wooden pen or something, but he held firm to his mission. He wended his way through the paths and tents, using his keen sense of smell and knowledge of coffee to guide him.

And then he saw it. Six carts, close at hand. Each with a twentysomething looking out at the world with calculated boredom. Their hair was short, their eyeglasses were narrow and librarianish, and their disdain was palpable.

And at the center of the carts, between the brown haired man with a well trimmed soul patch and circular glasses, wearing a golf shirt that was such an ugly shade of green that it had to be intentional and the blond hipster chick in the belly baring black lycra tee shirt and the men’s white Oxford shirt worn open over it, he saw her. Brunette, her hair short and spiky, her eyeglasses oval, wearing a brown tank top with a white woodcut print of a mermaid on the front that showed her black bra strap, a black miniskirt and thick brown tights that descended into a pair of beat up Doc Martins.

There was no doubt. This was the Queen. This was Fiona.

He worried that it would be hard to approach her, guarded as she was by her most fanatic of followers, but in the end the thing these Baristas were most fanatical about were ennui. Starbuck walked between their carts, enduring the derisive snorts of greeting, and stepped up to the circular table where Fiona was sitting.

“Yeah?” she asked, eyebrow arched.

“I’d like to talk to you,” Starbuck said.

“I’d like a pony, but I don’t have one. Unless you brought me a pony. Did you bring me a pony?”

“No.”

Fiona pouted. “I don’t see what we have to talk about, then.”

“I brought you a gift, Majesty. Tribute to your beauty.”

“Wait, you brought me a gift and it isn’t a pony?”

“Well, yes. You see–”

“I didn’t think they made non-pony gifts. I’m not into jewelry, just you know.”

“It’s not jewelry. Your majesty, I–”

“It’s not a Pogues CD, is it?”

“What?”

“Because I don’t know who the fuck told everyone I was into the Pogues. I mean, yeah, sure. Fairytale of New York and shit. I know, but that came out, like, a million years ago and everything else they did–”

“It’s not a Pogues CD. Jesus, can I just give you this?”

Fiona rolled her eyes. “Whatever, Captain Dan. Tell me it isn’t a shirt. One look at that offense to culture you’re wearing–”

Starbuck set his teeth, taking out his coffee beans and hand grinder.

“Oh Jesus. You brought me coffee?”

Starbuck didn’t answer. Instead he filled the grinder and began to grind, his superior beans cracking and releasing both their oil and aroma.

“Hello? I’m the fucking Queen of the Baristas. Do you honestly think I don’t have enough coffee in my life?”

Starbuck measured the ground coffee into the filter. Around him, the Baristas had taken a break from their ennui to watch, the smell of the superior beans cracking even their facades.

“You know, this one guy once brought me white tea he picked by hand in China, then dried for thirty days and nights himself, before canoeing back over the ocean by himself! I mean, sure the tea tasted like dog hair soaked in water, but at least he put some effort into it.”

Starbuck heated water to just the right temperature, Fiona’s disdain crashing around him like the water crashes into the rocky coastline.

Despite herself, Fiona was watching his every move. “Frankly, I’ve been trying to cut down anyway,” she was saying, as she watched him fill the top of the filter unit, the water making the grounds swirl and swell as it began to drip down into the carafe. “I mean, I haven’t really slept for about six years, and at least once I’m pretty sure I had seven heart attacks, all in a row.”

The coffee dripped, black mana descending into the carafe.

“Why won’t you say anything?” Fiona demanded, shaking her head to clear it.

“I wouldn’t dare interrupt,” Starbuck said, smiling a bit and pouring her a mugful. He set it in front of her.

Fiona stared at it.

Starbuck watched her for a moment, then poured himself a mug as well. “It’s not gonna bite you,” he said with a slight smirk.

“Oh, like I’d take your word on that,” Fiona said. She then shook her head, snorting. “Whatever,” she said, picking the mug up with an air of practiced contempt. She sipped.

She paused, and sipped again.

Starbuck sipped his own, watching her.

“Okay,” Fiona said. “That’s pretty fucking good right there.”

Starbuck shrugged. “It doesn’t completely suck.”

Fiona half smiled, and took another sip.

The affair had begun.

For weeks, the two were nearly inseperable. They complained about the service in bars. They bitched about concerts where they had thoroughly enjoyed themselves. They slept under bridges and danced naked in the streets of more artisticly minded communities. And they had lots and lots of sex.

And during it all, Fiona taught Starbuck some aspects of the ancient art of pulling espresso. She demonstrated the black arts of scrying in the sludge pot and the way to tell when milk was properly steamed by how badly the steamer cup burnt your skin when you touched it. And Starbuck taught Fiona the alchemy of the coffee roaster, showing her the means by which carmelization took a good bean and made it a phenomenal one or a terrible one, with a difference of only a few seconds or a few degrees.

And then, one day… ever so casually, Starbuck mentioned his thoughts about a cafe. And Fiona the Queen of the Baristas listened. She listened to him talking about the jazz and printing wisdom on the cups and making the place a homey, comfortable place for discussion and debate. And she listened to him talk about the oversaturation of cafes in the area and how loans didn’t grow on trees.

When she suggested that she could have the Baristas staff it, and actually remake the cafe into a coffeehouse that offered both his drip coffee and the espresso they slung, with banter and disdain served up alongside the lattes, she was convinced it was her idea.

The two were excited as they worked out the particulars. The cafe would be “Starbuck’s,” of course — it was his dream. But on the logo, they would put the symbol of the siren — the mermaid who drew in the viewer with a promise of caffeine and snark — that Fiona used as her own coat of arms. For a time, it seemed like it would be a very casual agreement between the two, even as the banker set up the financing. However, Starbuck became concerned — Fiona was mercurial, as many Baristas were, and obviously there was a chance of a breakup down the line. So he suggested that they draw up a contract, “just to make business business, and keep it out of their personal life.” Fiona agreed, and after they consulted the signs and portents, they put together a contract that would bind the Baristas to service within Starbuck’s coffee house for the numerologically significant thirty three years and thirty three days.

The cafe opened while the particulars were being worked out, and the first two weeks were nothing but success. Many were drawn to the legendary Baristas — was it truly them? Were they truly inside a cafe, their bite managed to alluring but nonlethal levels? And then, when it became clear that it was true, they stayed and chatted, sitting in comfortable chairs, drinking overpriced but delicious coffee drinks and wonderful drip coffee in equal measure.

So Fiona and Starbuck were feeling pretty good on the day the contract was finalized. Fiona signed her name and applied her seal, and Starbuck too made his agreement. He was content. Fiona was wonderful and snarky, his cafe was a hit, and his life was settling down.

The banker also smiled, as he slipped the contract into his files. “Excellent,” he said. “I have to admit,” he said to Starbuck, “when I told you how to land Fiona for this thing, I wasn’t sure it would actually work. I’m glad to see it did.”

The temperature in the room dropped at least twenty degrees.

“‘Land Fiona?’” Fiona asked, slowly.

The banker opened his mouth, looked at Fiona, and closed it again.

“It’s… not like that, babe,” Starbuck said. “Look, I knew–”

“I thought we came up with this idea together! I thought this was supposed to be me helping you with your big dream! Are you telling me you landed me like a fish, so you could get financing for your stupid cafe?”

Starbuck’s head swam. “It’s not… yes.” He said. “At first, yes. But Fiona, something happened. I… you mean everything to me now. It’s not….”

“Yeah? Prove it.” Fiona stood, drawing her bearing up, a rush in the background of ancient waves and seas swirling, the mermaid on her babydoll-T seeming to glare. “Tear the contract up. I’ll send the Baristas back to the hills. Close the place down. Show me I’m more important than your damn cafe.”

Starbuck swallowed, turning to the banker. He reached a hand out to collect the contract, but then he paused. He paused as he remembered the pride he felt as the customers cycled through the line, and as they sat down and played boardgames and discussed affairs of the day.

Later, he would convince himself he simply hesitated too long. But regardless of the reason, Fiona’s eyes turned cold. “You son of a bitch,” she growled.

“Fiona–” Starbuck said.

“Forget it. Forget all of it. We’re gone.”

The banker cleared his throat. “You can’t do that, Fiona,” he said. “You may be the queen, but you signed a contract. Thirty three years and thirty three days.”

Fiona turned her stare on the banker, who felt his blood run cold — literally. He felt his head swell, his skin shrink, his body twist until he had become a statue of pure salt. Some say the salt is pure sea salt, as a mermaid might gather. Some say it is the salt of a woman’s tears. As the banker was ground up and used in various trendy restaurants in the eighties, it’s hard to be certain now.

“Fiona,” Starbuck said, miserably….

“Fine. For thirty three years and thirty three days my Baristas will serve your cafe,” Fiona said, her voice harsh. “They will serve it well and with honor, because a contract is a contract, and anything less would do them a disservice and their espresso a disservice. But you will pay a price for this.” She leaned forward, and in her eyes a Nor’easter blew. “I curse you. I curse your hands and I curse the one thing your cafe makes that my Baristas have no hand in. I curse the means you used to seduce me and get past my snarky exterior. I curse your drip coffee. Now until the end of all days, the drip coffee at any cafe that bears your name will be worse than bad — it will be disappointing, and burnt, and crappy. From now until the stars die in their courses, your drip coffee will taste like crotch.”

And the Queen of the Baristas turned and stormed out, and Starbuck would never see her again.

And in Starbuck’s roasteries the superior beans curdled and turned black and bitter, burnt as if from the glare of a woman scorned. And in all the cafes and coffee shops and even that IHOP out on Oxcart Route 16 men and women spat out what had been great coffee and, with a voice almost as one said “what happened? This tastes like crotch.”

Over time, those cafes found other sources for their coffee beans, of course. Disappointing, compared to the legendary beans of Starbuck, but absent any burnt crotch taste. And Fiona, though she was never again seen in public, was more than happy to wreak another kind of vengence against her former lover, as Baristas began to appear in the towns and cities. They appeared with their carts, and they founded their own coffeehouses, where the snark ran even thicker than in Starbuck’s cafe.

But Starbuck’s cafe, right at the start, had the Baristas making excellent espresso right when all the coffeehouses in town had their beans go to crotch, and by the time replacement beans had been found and the Baristas had founded their own espresso shacks and shops, Starbuck’s was well established as a place to get excellent lattes and the like.

Starbuck himself had no stomach for business — not after he saw the banker turned to salt and Fiona’s departure. So he hired some good businessmen and managers, and they saw the coffeeshop expanded, with new locations added. And over time Starbucks (focus groups didn’t like the apostrophe) spread out over all the land. And for thirty three years and thirty three days Baristas came down from the hills to serve in these new locations, because a bargain is a bargain, and a contract is a contract. And if they spit in peoples’ lattes, well — no one noticed.

Starbuck himself continued to work in his original cafe. And for the most part he was happy — he liked his customers and the atmosphere of his coffee shop was wonderful. They learned new tricks of blending chopped ice with the coffee and making cold drinks, and there was mass marketing and the like. Really, he was happy to let his managers deal with that. He learned how to pull an espresso himself, though he was never really good at the snark side of things.

And through it all, Starbuck continued to roast coffee beans and Starbucks continued to offer drip coffee. And even though that coffee tasted like crotch, Starbuck refused to take it off the menu. Some say it was pride. Some say it was guilt. Some say Starbuck couldn’t quite cope with having the thing he was once renowned for taken off the menu entirely. Either way, the people of the land learned to just order lattes or americanos or the like, and in some rare situations they learned to like drip coffee that tasted like crotch — to the point where the company actually sold their ‘special house blend’ coffees for people to brew and enjoy at home, their spouses silently learning hatred for the brew.

Of course, as the decades passed, the time appointed in the contract drew nigh. Starbuck was just as happy — his sins would come home to roost as the Baristas left. But his company managers, having been appraised of the situation, pushed the research and development department to develop a soulless machine that would grind, measure and pull espresso while steaming milk to a specific, thermometer checked temperature. And so, when the day arrived, and the Baristas solemnly took off their green aprons and stepped out of all the branches of Starbucks in the world, walking their paths and again rising up the hillsides and down to the sea, the cafes rolled out their new machines and hired some teenagers selected for their own cheer, spunk, attitude and disdain to push the buttons.

Starbuck watched this without comment. If you can find his original shop these days, you can still see him in there most mornings, pushing the buttons and preparing truly bad drip coffee. He won’t answer questions about the Queen of Baristas, but he’ll play you in Scrabble and he’s more than happy to up your order from a grande to a venti on the sly.

In the afternoons and evenings, however, he walks into the hills or down to the sea. And he can be seen there with a hand grinder, a bag of coffee beans, and a portable rig. He very slowly, and very carefully measures out his coffee, grinding and pouring it, and preparing two cups. Black. One he sets for someone else, and one he keeps for himself. He drinks every drop, though even he can’t avoid wincing now and again. No one knows what he does with the other cup.

They just know he’s waiting for it to be picked up, with a sigh and a snort and an affected “whatever.” And they do not pry further.