h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

It is one o'clock in Hooverville. The clock strikes, but less ostentatiously. Bunnies frolic in the town square and backyards. All is quiet.

Wlad throws his organ shoes into his backpack and laces up his boots for the walk home. Seventh Street is quiet – not even a customer at the fast food drive-thru opposite the side exit of the First Church of Nighthoover. Wlad waves to the bored food service worker, who waves back.

As he turns from Seventh onto Liberty Street, Wlad sees movement up ahead. It is a doe. She's browsing on the hosta plants in front of the Zoroastrian parish house. Wlad tries to shoo her away, but with predictable lack of success.

'Go away, Bambi! A kysz!'

The deer ignores him completely, just as horses do. Wlad sighs. Well, I tried, he thinks in mental apology to the parish secretary. Deer are good for business at the Tractor Supply Store and Walmart, both of which sell plants.

On his way home, he sees a cat prowling, not his. A fat raccoon trundles by, clutching a stolen suet holder shaped like a cow. He appears quite proud of his acquisition, which still has a full cake of suet.

He also encounters a groundhog, even fatter than the raccoon, and Blondie, the local skunk whose white streak has got out of control. Everybody's cadging calories in preparation for winter, he thinks. 'Wohl dem, der jetzt noch Heimat hat.'

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uVewqA9bcAk

Humming and thinking about Nietzsche, about whom he has mixed feelings, he continues home, stopping only to remove a discarded reefer butt from the curb. Some creature other than a college student might eat that, and he doesn't think it will do them any good. Not that it does the college student who dropped it any good…

His front-room light is on, and Ignatz, his cat, is waiting in the window. When Wlad opens the door, Ignatz rubs against him, the long, striped fur sending electrical sparks up his leg. He reaches down to pet him.

'Hey, there, just wait a minute. I'll get your supper.' While Wlad opens a tin of salmon pate (for Ignatz, not for him), the huge cat 'helps' with encouraging purrs and admonitory headbutting. Somehow, Wlad gets the tin open anyway, and Ignatz subsides into a vaguely musical chorus of 'nom, nom.'

Wlad makes himself a cup of Red Rose tea (the favourite of Pittsburgh) and goes to sit on the porch. Once his eyes adjust to the darkness, he can see two bunnies frolicking in the backyard. He is pleased to note that they, too, look plump and ready for winter. He's watched their progress since they first emerged in spring from under the neighbour's shed, tiny things with quivering ears and diminutive cotton tails. The vulnerability and openness of nature never cease to surprise him. The bunnies, unafraid, hop to within two feet of where he is sitting. They find his present: half a dozen raw carrots. They appear pleased.

Wlad finishes his tea and goes inside to bed.

For what seemed like the thousandth time, but was in reality only the 387th, I pulled out the tatty printout and hopefully asked the question I'd been asking for the last five months.

Five months, Jeez! Seems like yesterday I'd been sitting in my flat, trawling through the internet, looking for a funky rear sprocket for the Triumph.

Thousands of bike pics, from all over the world. Some very cool, mostly stock, off the shelf parts, a few true custom made pieces. Then this picture. No details. Just a row of custom bikes in a small town main street.

A clock in the foreground, the town's name cropped by the framing now simply read *...ille*

More important, vitally important, was the group of bikers in the scene. Three hairy, all leather and tattoos men, and two denim clad girls.

The girl sitting on the red knucklehead stopped me in my tracks, stopped my breathing, almost stopped my bloody heart!

There, smiling shyly at the camera, looking straight into my eyes, ten years older, but unmistakable to me, was Caroline!

Two days later, after an infuriatingly unsuccessful hunt to find who had posted the original photo, (posted on Pinterest, after being posted on Facebook, before it was stolen from a website, then copied from...arghh.. etc etc) I'd booked a flight to the States, bought a cheap rat Harley, and started my epic road trip to anywhere and everywhere ending in 'ille.

*Excuse me mate, do you happen to know where this is?*

The question was posed as a long shot, middle of nowhere gas station at one in the morning, but the search had become almost as automatic as the muscle memory my hands and feet had learnt on the Harley in just a few days riding, months later both were now part of my being.

To my utter shock, the old guy smiled and jabbed his cigarette at the clock.

*Certainly do! That there's the main street clock in Hooverville, used to deliver to the bars there back in the eighties.* He checked his watch, *This time of night, you probably hear the organ from five mile out, that or that blasted siren…...oh, and watch out for bunnies on the roads.....*

The guy was still talking as the Harley roared off towards Clarion County, Hooverville and, hopefully, Caroline.

Sheriff Rowdybush is sleeping.

If he were awake, he would gladly spend some time watching the antics of the nocturnal wildlife outdoors - he likes animals (but only from a distance). He has an allergy to animal fur, so he can't have a pet in the Police Station even though a cat or a bunny might be a welcome companion in his apartment. A Police Dog is also out of the question, as is a Police Horse, a Police Camel or even a Police Elephant - all of those would start him sneezing.

But for now he is sleeping.

If he were awake, he might have gone to the park in front of City Hall and he might have met the new Pastor for the first time. Would they have looked at each other and seen grief reflected in each other's eyes? The Sheriff thought of his darling Deanna so often, he sometimes wasn't conscious of doing it, but sometimes grief would well up inside him and spill out of his eyes and he would remember the first time he cried in front of Deanna and was embarrassed because he was a man - a police officer, even - and she held him and told him it didn't matter and he could cry if he needed to so he felt better.

But for now he is sleeping.

If he were awake, he might have gone on 'foot patrol' down Main Street to check that all was well, and he would have been amused by the flickering lights in the window of the Waffelhaus. He might even have taken the Police Motortrike out for a spin, to patrol past the Post Office and Fire Station, out to the Nighthoover River and up into the Misty Mountains.

But for now he is sleeping.

Arsnio Philpotts yawned as he came down the stairs. In one hand he had a cherry Danish on a plate. In the other, he had a mug of coffee. Both the mug and the plate were from the "Cut for Coffee" pattern, one of Arsenio's favourites.
http://www.replacements.com/p/queens-cut-for-coffee-scalloped-mug/quecufc/86297911

There was still some work to be done before he could open the store, but early morning was rarely busy. No one would notice if he opened late.

But as soon as he got to the front room of the shop, he could see there was a customer waiting out front. And not just any customer: this one seemed to be Gandhi. Well, it couldn't be the actual Gandhi, but it wouldn't hurt to let him in; maybe Arsenio's karma would go up
a bit.

"Mr. Fullpond?" the visitor asked.

"Come in, come in," Arsenio said, opening the door wide and welcoming him in. "My name is Arsenio Philpotts. How may I help you?"

The visitor lost no time stating his business: "My name is Gangal McGonagle. My niece Shakundala will be marrying Flanagan O'Hannigan next month. She is very particular about dinnerware."

"So, you're just the average Indian-Scottish clan?" Arsenio said pleasantly.

"Plus Irish, in my nephew-in-law-to-be's case..."

"Give me a chance to get what she wants" Arsenio said. "If her favorite pattern isn't in stock, I can put in a rush order and have it in your hands well before the wedding."

"Well, here's the dilemma: traditional Indian families use metal plates and bowls. Most china is thought to be made from mud, which is unclean. However, my niece uses her microwave oven a lot, which catches on fire when metal is used in it. Flanagan thinks actual metal plates would be silly even without the combustibility factor."

"And you don't want to doom the marriage before it's even gotten started."

"Something like that."

Just then, Arsenio heard the clock strike one and realized that he had been dreaming. Still the early hours of the morning.

"If this were a novel, it would be off to a very strange start!" Arsenio grumbled. "No best-seller list for you!" He went back to sleep.

Hermione Schmidt woke with a start and sat up. Her black cat, Minx, woke and looked at her with accusing eyes, before going back to sleep. She looked round the room, with its bookshelves and the flower-patterned curtains and heaved a sigh of relief. It was only a nightmare.
She had had the same nightmare so many times, she might have expected it to have ceased to scare. But it still did. In the nightmare, she was standing on a high building, with Sylvester of Highbuild walking purposefully towards her, with a couple of big, heavy men behind him. She retreated closer and closer to the edge, until there was noting behind her except empty air. Then she fell.
However many times she'd told herself not to worry, it hadn't worked. Here she was in the States and Sylvester was back in the UK. She hoped. Although well-paid developers could buy tickets to the States.
Hermione hadn't forgotten the last interview with him. The company had wanted to build a block of twelve storeys in the middle of the town. As Mayor, she had led the opposition, backed by the residents. Sylvester had tried to bribe her, offering her a substantial payment but she had refused. Then he'd quietly said 'Of course, we could arrange an accident. We know you cycle everywhere. It's not that safe, you know, cycling these days'.
After that, she'd left her bike at home and driven to the town hall. But the nightmare had pursued her.
Here in Hooverville, there were no buildings higher than the church and the town hall. That was one reason why she'd decided to stay here. That and the fact that the previous Mayor had just died at a ripe old age. When the townspeople discovered she had been a mayor, they'd urged her to take the job. She'd pointed out that her experience had been in Britain, but that didn't bother them. 'You'll do just fine,' they said.

Sandy listened to the mice in the wall for a while and resolved to get a cat as soon as possible. Perhaps he could get a deaf one that wasn't bothered by the close proximity of Wlad's organ. On the other hand a smart cat might make the connection between the mice and the organ and tolerate it as a very noisy can opener.

He fell asleep but rather than a pleasant memory of Sally found himself addressing his church members without clothes on. He woke up with a start and got up to make himself a cup of hot chocolate. He decided to go over his sermon notes again although he doubted that he could mesmerize
a congregation with his message. He sighed and wrote a note to put on his mirror to remember to get his suit from the drycleaner. He resolved to dig up his notes on humility in the morning.

Calmed by the milk he got back into bed and went to sleep with an image of Sally giggling at him from above. And dreamed no more.

Still mulling things over in my well deserved sleep...

Over the years, the fire station has been built out of stuff from buildings that burned down, following Fred the Firsts credo: "If it's still there, it probably doesn't want to burn, so let us have it". This worked fine so far, as we never had any unplanned fire of our own. Also, it's kind of a passing ritual in this family, to build your own part of the house when you're in training. Just like in the starting days of all Hoovervilles. Lucky for Paula and me to have so much material to choose from at the time. The aftermath of that saw mill fire earned us some nice stately rooms, is all I can say. The turrets and battlements might have been a tad over the top though, but Paula insisted, being royalty-ish.


Let's see if that China shop still has those red and blue revolving lights for in the Christmas tree. A siren would be nice too. While I'm there, I'll ask Arsenio if I can advertise for some extra hands in the fire department, to make the Pete crew complete.

Something like:

Wanted: Strong Lad / Lass / Neuter. Must be able to carry 75 foot 2" apartment hose pack with siamese connection up three flights of stairs without fainting or collapse. (twice).
Offered: Sleep deprivation and regular barbequed lunch. Honor if you're into that kind of stuff. You might even get some money out of it, depending on the amount of fires extinguished.
Interested? Call the fire brigade. Please begin to state loud and clear that you are not reporting a fire first, or you will get extinguished.

No, that's way too long.

Maybe more like:

Like it hot?
Like it wet?
Feeling smoky?
Join the Pros!
You can find us where the heat is...

Yes, that's better. Just wondering if I should add literacy as a requirement. That could cut down the number of reactions, but someone still ought to read all those manuals for the Pete after all.
If you are your own Santa, Santa can be really good for you. That is why we now have the Peterbilt 367 with the 510 horsepower engine. And with all that new foam equipment we can have a white Chritmas at last...
Nothing beats the sound of Kenny's old Hall-Scott 470 straight six 885 cubic inch petrol engine though. Unless it doesn't work, of course. If only those spare parts wouldn't cost a fortune these days. Maybe ask Mom to fabricate a few spare connecting rods on her portable forge.

Wilhelmina wakes when Cassy jumps on her pillow, 'Mrrrrou!'
She sighs 'Okay, okay... you want out? And you couldn't think of that... say... half an hour ago? Right... right...'

Wilhelmina gets up, her feet feeling for her slippers on the fluffy carpet next to her bed. Once she finds them she walks over to the window, pulls the curtain away and looks out into the street. For a moment she watches two racoons quarreling over half a sandwitch. Then she opens the window just wide enough for Cassy to get out. A cold breeze lets her shiver. A motorcycle can be heard somewhere in the distance. An owl hoots.

'Have fun out there, and don't dare to wake me again before morning'. The cat doesn't answer as she jumps down on the wide cornice below the window. Wilhelmina quickly closes the window again, draws the curtains and returns to her cozy, warm bed, soon falling asleep again.

Cassy meanwhile walks along the cornice, then jumps down on the awning of the shop next door and from there takes a long jump down on the sidewalk. A pumpkin grins at her from the Waffelhaus' last window. The cactus next to it just stands there, looking prickly.

Cassy melts into the shadows. She strolls down the road until she reaches the only illuminated house she can see. She lingers at the shop window for a moment, watching two men talk. Then Cassy walks off into a narrow side alley, away from Main Street. Here it is dark apart from the moonlight which make her eyes shine like two little lights. She watches the creatures of the night going about their business, meets a few friends, catches a mouse or two. Cassy isn't bothered about does and not interested in prey as large as bunnies. Still, she likes to watch.

Lola has missed her chance.
An hour ago, she would have gone to sleep without any trouble, lullabied by the organ music. But now the night concert is over, and she's not sleepy any more.
So there she lies in bed, mulling things over.
Story of my life, really. Always just a little too late for everything.
Born at 42 weeks. Started school at 8 years old. Failed my baccalauréat on first try for turning up 10 minutes after the start of the exam. Member of the Henry Letterbox fan club (yes, she really was born 15 years too late).
"Well if I can't sleep, I may as well do something productive".
She throws off the blankets, puts on her socks, and goes downstairs. The new books arrived in the afternoon, but she didn't feel like it was the right moment for unpacking them just yet.
Now is the time.
- "How to be grateful in 1001 languages", by Sam Kyu.
- "From the Ottoman Empire to modern times, a History of Turkey", by Paul Tree.
- "Sweet Scorn, a Modern Romance", by Bruce L Sprout.
Yes, that will make for a lovely Thanksgiving display. She might throw in an album or two by the Smashing Pumpkins, for good measure.
Would that be over the top? It's hard to tell, Americans can be touchy about their holidays, and Lola has been known to be a little off the mark.
Maybe she can ask Wilhelmina for advice in the morning.
Better not risk diplomatic incidents (again).
She takes the boxes to the back of the shop, resolving to not take risks until further information turns up.
She's feeling pleasantly tired again by now, do she drags herself back upstairs, and into bed.
Good thinking, replacing the covers neatly when she got out of bed: it was almost an hour ago, and the bed is still warm inside.
Nice.
Comfy.
Sleepy.
Snory.

In this hour, Elektra Gheorgheni wins the prize for most embarrassing dream by a character.

well earned.

[I'm ready for 3 November]