A Future We'd Like to See 1.52 - :)
By Stefan "Twoflower" Gagne (Copyright 1994)
 
     PFFffffttt, the tire whistled, as my bike scraped to a stop. 
Aw, come on, not NOW!
 
     I hopped off the ancient Schwinn and examined the front
tire.  Poo!  A nail ripped a gash in it... no way to patch it,
and my apartment was still ten blocks away, near the coast.
 
     Ya know, normally I wouldn't care; I love the sea air and
don't mind nature hikes.  But see, this place, it wasn't, like,
NATURAL.  It's Sandline, after all, the community with two halves
to it... sorta metaphorical.  During the day things are okay,
just a buncha volleyball players, sunbathers, surfers, and little
brats running around the arcades pretending to shoot stuff (eww.)
 
     According to my watch, it was nine PM.  Beyond nightfall. 
When the sun goes down and the moon comes out, the gangs, the
Night People come out to feed.  They're really repulsive guys,
all dark and nasty, just WAITING to pounce on any Day People that
got caught out too late.
 
     I like how they're all civilized and junk and keep their
evil little hijinks to nighttime, but it does mean I need to get
home before sunset.  And in this case, well, I was spending a
LITTLE too long working on tomorrow's flower-arrangement orders,
and like... lost track of time.  You know how these things are.
 
     As a result, I was stuck in the middle of the coastal city
of Sandline at night with a flat tire and a long way to go before
I'd be safe.  You couldn't see the beach from here, there were
too many buildings in the way.  Doesn't anybody turn on their
lights anymore?  I couldn't see anything, either, except for the
little patches of sidewalk lit up by the dim streetlamps.  It
felt like I was trapped in a bad gothic movie.
 
     But I've never gotten unhappy in a not-nice situation
before, even that time I was trapped in some mad scientist's
house at age nine, forced to be dramatic.  (It's another story...
I think someone wrote it down, so like go look for it or
something, I don't wanna repeat it.)  So, I brightened up,
matching my smile to the happy-face button on my shirt and pushed
the bike along the road.
 
     SQQUQUUUEEEEEAAAAAKkaaaakkkk...
 
     Well, maybe I should have oiled it this morning.  No worry. 
I'll just quietly continue to push it along, avoid the Night
People and make it home before I have my throat cut open and
money stolen and body beaten to death or worse.  A good night's
sleep was JUST around the corner!
 
     SSQUUEUEAKKSQUUUEEAAAKKKSQUUUAEEAAAAKKK...
 
     Maybe pushing the bike was a bad idea.  Perhaps I could
carry it or something...
 
     That's when I heard the cough.
 
     I jumped back, assuming an attack position before
remembering I hated violence.  Someone in the alley was coughing
a bit, belching out clouds of smoke.  (Yuck.  Smoking.  That's
bad for your health!)  He stepped out of the alley.
 
     It was a Night Person, clearly; black leather trenchcoat,
black shirt, camouflage pants.  He had this awful scruffy blond
hairdo, and a tiny, used cigarette in his hand.  He had an
obligatory Night Person disfigurement, a patchwork of scar tissue
on his neck.  He was also grinning like a maniac.  A kindly
maniac, but a maniac nonetheless.  A scary sight for a florist
who has lost her way home.
 
     "I'll have you know I'm fully armed," I lied.  (I HATED
guns.)
 
     "?" he said, surprised.  Then he laughed, slapping his knee. 
"! (:.  U?  --> p=- ?  (:!"
 
     "Huh?" I said, confused.  He wasn't talking english,
clearly.  It was just this weird string of grunts and chirps and
noises... sounded kind of happy and jovial, though.  Like he was
making a joke about something.  He seemed friendly enough.
 
     ":)," he said, pointing to himself.  He stood up a little
taller.  "& U?"
 
     It was hard to tell, but I think he said 'and you'.  "Umm. 
Fine, thanks."
 
     He shook his head.  He traced the outline of a rectangular
badge on his jacket, sort of like an employee name tag, and
pointed back at me.
 
     "Umm, I work at a flower shop down there a little... Jill's
Bouquets?  I'm Jill Quayle."
 
     "J... ill," he said, carefully trying to pronounce it. 
Obviously he was having difficulty.  Maybe he was talking that
Yttian language or something?  "J'..l.  8.  8)!  U --> 8)?"
 
     "Yeah, Jill," I nodded, when he finally pronounced it
correctly.  "Umm, mister, if you don't mind, I've really gotta
get home."
 
     He nodded.  He placed his hands under his head like a little
pillow and made snoring noises.  Then he shrugged, pointing in
various random directions, giving me a quizzical look.
 
     "Yeah, I'm a bit sleepy."
 
     He shook his head, and tried to clarify.  Hrm.  WHY was I
playing charades in the middle of the night?  I didn't have time
for this weirdo.
 
     "Sorry, mister, gotta go," I said, pushing my blaringly
squeaky bike along.  "Bye!"
 
     That's when the gang member stepped out from the shadows,
planting a meaty paw on my handlebars.
 
     He clearly was a gang member... the green bandanna was a
trademark, I think, from what I had seen on the news.  Three more
green-clad punks joined him.
 
     "Hey there, Missy," he grinned.  "We been followin' you all
night.  That's one loud bike you got there.  Kinda singles you
out, you know?"
 
     "Err, thanks.  If you'll excuse me--"
 
     "Naah, I don't think so," the lead punk said, keeping the
bike from moving.  "This is Agony Knight territory.  Gotta pay a
toll, you know?  Don't you shiny-happy Day People know better
than to trespass when we get the place?"
 
     "Well, I was like busy making flower arrangements, and--"
 
     "She's Day, alright," one of the gangsters laughed.  "Got
that stupidly cheery attitude.  Let's change it, whaddya say? 
Nothing better to do tonight."  He clicked open a switchblade.
 
     That's when the scruffy guy walked up to my bike, waving and
smiling to the gang members who hadn't noticed him previously. 
"AKs!  '|_##_|' AKs!  (:!  ?RU?"
 
     "Hey, who's that?" the thug with the knife asked.
 
     "Hey, guys, it's :)!" the leader said.  "Man!  :)!  What you
doin' out here?  Don't you gotta gig tonight?"
 
     The scruffy guy pointed to his watch, spinning his finger in
a clockwise motion.  He grinned.
 
     "On break then, huh?  Same club tonight, yeah?"
 
     "Hey, yo, who this?" the knife guy asked.  "Why's he talking
funny like that?"
 
     "What?  He ain't talkin' funny, he's talkin' :).  Man, ain't
you heard of :)?"
 
     "'Smiley'?" the knife guy asked, confused.
 
     "Naw, man, :), from the top of the throat.  :).  It's a
dialect or something he made... :)ese.  Suprised you ain't heard
of it."
 
     "Smiley.  Smiiiillieee... ::))))?"
 
     "Close, yeah.  Anyway, you never heard his standup act? 
This guy is the fuckin' KING of comedy, man.  Regular laugh riot. 
Hey, let's do this chick over with and go see his show later
tonight, whaddya say?"
 
     :) shook his head, putting an arm around my shoulders and
pulling me over to him in a friendly way.  (First instinct was to
rip the arm off, but hey, violence isn't any good.)  He pointed
to the two of us, grinning.
 
     "Oh, she's with you?" the leader said.  "Whoa.  Okay, we'll
leave her.  Sorry about that, man, no offense, right?  If I had
known she and the :) were paired up, I wouldn't have jumped her
like that."
 
     :) shrugged, smiling away.  He clearly didn't hold any hard
feelings towards the punks.  "C U l8r, AK?"
 
     "Yeah, man, later.  Come on, guys, I hear there's some
pricks over southside edging on our territory.  Let's go."
 
     With that, the gang members left.
 
     "You're... a comedian?" I asked, carefully wiggling away
from his embrace.
 
     :) nodded, taking a quick puff on the cigarette.  He grabbed
an imaginary microphone and made silly arm gestures.
 
     "But... how can anybody get the jokes?"
 
     He shrugged.  Just works, he was conveying.  Didn't know
how.  Either that or I was misunderstanding this weird sign
language and he was telling me I owned a goat and/or small shrub.
 
     "Weird.  Are you, like, a mutant or something?"
 
     :) glared at me.
 
     "No!  Sorry.  Just not used to, you know, people who are...
umm... different like that."
 
     :) shrugged.  Again.  He seemed to enjoy shrugging on a
regular basis.  I guess it beats lengthy explanations.
 
     "Well, it's been nice, Mr... :)?  Am I pronouncing it right? 
Anyway, I gotta get home."
 
     He put a cautionary hand on my shoulder, shaking his head. 
He pretended to pedal off down the street, grinning like an
idiot.  Then he quickly crouched down behind the air, pulled out
an imaginary machine gun and opened fire, making little BANG!
noises.  He grabbed his chest, tongue rolling out, and collapsed
to the sidewalk.  Nonexistent blood flowed.
 
     I applauded the dramatics.  "Okay, I think I get the
picture.  Can you, like, escort me or something?"
 
     He shook his head, pointing to his watch and grabbing the
microphone that didn't exist again.  He still had to work
tonight.  "U --> :)'s hom?"
 
     "Umm... you goto smiley's houm?" I said, trying to
translate.  "Oh.  No, really, I don't wanna intrude."
 
     He made more bang noises, a warning.  Not sure if he was
going to shoot me or he was repeating his earlier warning that
the gangs might get me.
 
     "Look, pal, I'm not going to just gleefully skip over to
some strange man's house because it's dangerous outside.  There
are dozens of places I could go."
 
     He tapped his foot, waiting to hear where I could go.
 
     "Well... a hotel.  This IS a beach community."
 
     :) rattled a locked doorknob in the air, kicking the door. 
Soundproofed, to avoid tourists from hearing the gunfire. 
Standard hotel equipment; it separated the day from the night.
 
     "How do I know you're not some weird voiceless pervert who
stalks young girls and takes them home to dismember them or
something?" I hazarded.
 
     :) rolled his eyes and laughed.  ":) !>:( --> 8)."
 
     I couldn't make out much in that sentence other than his
name and mine, but it sounded pretty negatory.  Wasn't nice of me
to suggest such a thing.
 
     He paused, motioning that he wanted to explain something. 
He walked along in one place, hopping onto a stage and waving
around the microphone again.  Then he climbed some stairs, opened
a door and formed a pillow, taking a nap.
 
     "Umm... you sleep on stage?"
 
     He shook his head.
 
     "You sleep on the comedy club?"
 
     He pointed upwards, and re-climbed the stairs.
 
     "ABOVE.  Oh.  So I'll just wait upstairs until daybreak and
go home."
 
     He nodded, shaking my hand and giving me a diploma.  "8)
AHA! :).  ++g."
 
     "Alright.  But no funny stuff, okay?"
 
     He started the bit with the microphone again, confused.
 
     "Oh yeah.  Just no funny stuff other than your normal funny
stuff.  Sheesh, no need to take it literally."
 
                              *
 
     The club was called LAUGH AT THIS, and didn't look very
funny at all.  The walls were made of rusted metal, matching the
rusting tables clearly lifted from an outdoor restaurant.  Nobody
was there right now other than the bartender.
 
     "Hey, :)!" he yelled.  "You're on in ten.  Where you BEEN?"
 
     ":) -|- 8)," he explained.  "hh:mm:ss++."
 
     "Yeah, well, don't loiter around next time," he complained. 
"I ain't paying you to miss gigs."
 
     :) looked insulted at the concept of him missing a gig.
 
     "Hey, who's the chick?" the bartender asked, pointing his
dust rag at me.  "That 'J'll'?"
 
     "Hi," I waved, not really knowing what else to do.
 
     "8)," :) corrected.  He pointed to the far stairs, then to
me, pretended to climb the stairs and pulled out the air-pillow.
 
     "That room's for you only," the bartender spat.  "I don't
want it turning into some comedian's harem."
 
     "Hey!" I said.  "Yeesh, I'm not sleeping with him.  I just
lost my way home and he offered to keep me away from the gang war
for the night, okay?  It's simple enough to understand."
 
     "Let him do the explaining, missy.  HE owns the room, not
you."
 
     "How do you expect HIM to explain?" I asked, annoyed. 
"Can't you see the man has a speech impediment?"
 
     :) coughed politely, giving me a silencing look.
 
     "No offense," I weakly grinned.  He motioned for me to go on
upstairs, and went over to argue the matter more with the
bartender.  I hurried up the steep stairs, running into the room
and closing the door behind me.
 
                              *
 
     Below, the club was rocking with laughter.  I had no idea
how, but :) was a big hit.  Long periods of silence where he must
have been doing charades were mixed with his weird, chirping and
squeaking sounds-alike talk.  I couldn't understand any of it.
 
     I don't know WHY he was annoyed at me standing up for him to
that no-good bartender.  It was true, I mean, he DID have a
handicap, and the bartender was being rude, demanding that he
explain things.
 
     Then I realized something.  If he couldn't talk properly,
why not just carry a notepad?  Write things?  Certainly it was
better than playing some silly game of charades and making weird
symbolic sounds...
 
     To figure out why, I decided to snoop around the apartment. 
I can't help it; snooping is a habit I picked up from my mother,
that and my instinct to break someone's neck when they annoy me. 
I wish my parents weren't such psychotics.  I wanna be
pacifistic, but bloodlines won't allow it.
 
     So I snooped.  The furniture was nothing special... an
ashtray, a cheap holovision and a small cot.  However, the wall
decorations were more eye-catching... :) had various news
clippings and playbills about comedy clubs pasted on the walls,
most of them featuring him.  Some of the earlier ones had a
name... Dennis Smiley.  Then later others had a side-ways happy
face, for some reason.  I heard of some musician way back in old
times that renamed himself as a symbol, so I guess it was an
artist thing.
 
     However, in between the two rows of paper was a large poster
of the Mona Lisa with an arrow-through-the-head gag.  On the
left, papers about Dennis Smiley, on the right, papers about :). 
The transition had been covered up.
 
     Well, obviously I wasn't going to take the time to notice
this and not peek behind the poster.  It was just up with
thumbtacks, anyway; he'd never notice if I removed it
temporarily.  I pulled out the top two tacks and rolled the
ridiculous thing down.
 
     Behind it was a small clipping... a news story that wasn't
important to warrant a front page story, just a side note that
maybe a few people would find interesting.  The headline read (in
tiny letters), "Crazed ex-HAAFF Pilot Guns Down Five at Comedy
Club."
 
     Then the laughing stopped.  Was he done with his set
already?  I quickly tacked the poster back up, pushing the tacks
back into the soft cardboard walls.
 
     But there wasn't the usual applause that came at the end of
a nightclub act.  Actually, there were some muffled shouts. 
Clicking noises.  And finally, gunfire.
 
     The door burst open, a wild-eyed :) running into the room. 
He quickly motioned for me to go to the other side of the room,
as he pulled a lumpy, rolled-up object out from behind his cot.
 
     "I don't get it," I admitted.  "What's going o--"
 
     Bullets ripped through the poor floorboards, narrowly
missing me.  I didn't need much more convincing than that,
running over to the window, where :) was hastily attaching a rope
ladder.  He motioned for me to climb down, quickly.
 
     I carefully hoisted myself through the window, trying not to
soil my florist's uniform, and climbed down the ladder.  Through
a nearby window, I saw a blazing fight going on inside... one
half of the room in green, the other half in yellow.  A gang war.
 
     I dropped to the ground, :) climbing down after me.  He
quickly looked around, grabbed my wrist and made a run for it.
 
     "Where are you going?" I asked, pulling away from him.  He
pointed wildly, to some random building, trying to tow me along.
 
     "I don't think so," I said, pulling myself from his grip. 
"Let's make a run for my place.  It's only a ways away."
 
     He shook his head, firing wildly with an imaginary gun. 
"Bang!  Bang!  Bang!" he said.
 
     "Most of them will want to take part in the fight," I
guessed.  "We'll probably be okay.  Better than if we stayed
here."
 
     :) paused, contemplating this.  The nearby window shattered,
ripped apart by gunfire.  Forget contemplation, we were LEAVING. 
I grabbed :)'s wrist and towed him along instead, running into
the city.
 
                              *
 
     Getting back to my apartment certainly was heck, dodging
various gang members joyfully running in the opposite direction,
trying to get in on the fray back at Laugh At This.  Eventually,
though, we were there; a cheap artist's community two rows from
the sand.
 
     :) collapsed, out of breath, on my tasteful yellow
carpeting.
 
     "Sheesh.  You need to go on more hikes," I said.  "It wasn't
THAT bad.  We should be safe here, anyway."
 
     :) nodded, pulling himself back up and trying to regain his
dignity.  He glanced about, wincing at my decor.  I don't see
why; it was decked out in yellows, purples, and blues.  Happy
colors.  A lot more comforting, in my opinion.
 
     "Jeez, I'm thirsty.  Lemme see what I have in the fridge..."
I said, wandering into my tiny kitchenette.  "Do you want
anything, Dennis?"
 
     :)'s throat make a creaking sound of surprise.  Whoops.
 
     "Oh... sorry... look, it's just that I saw all the playbills
up in your apartment, and since it looked like that was your real
first name..."
 
     :) dropped his surprised look, and nodded.  I guess nobody
had called him that in awhile.
 
     I grabbed him a soda out of the fridge anyway, and handed it
over.  "There you go.  Might as well be a hospitable host.  You
certainly were nice enough.  Umm.  Mind if I ask you a question?"
 
     :) shook his head, not minding.  He popped open his soda and
took a swig.
 
     "Well, I was just thinking about your prob... umm... way you
talk.  I was wondering, why not just write things?  Isn't it
easier than acting it out?"
 
     :)'s expression fell.  He mimicked reading a book, confused
by the words, eventually closing it.
 
     "Can't read?" I guessed.  He nodded.  "Well... hmm.  I've
got an idea.  Wait right here."
 
     He protested, but I was already rooting around the happy
little apartment, looking for it.  It was under the crossword
puzzles, as usual; that's all I really used it for, sort of an
electronic dictionary.  "Ever used one of these?" I asked.
 
     He peered at it.  Nope, he shook.
 
     "What?  You're never tried a cyberspace deck before?" I
asked.  "Wow.  You must have been living under a rock."
 
     He went of the microphone and stairs again before I cut him
off.  "Yeah, yeah, I know, you live over a comedy club.  Okay. 
Here, it's simple.  Take this suction cup...  There.  Take it and
stick it right here on the side of your head.  Don't worry, it
doesn't hurt."
 
     He took it carefully, attaching the jack to the correct
place.  He panicked briefly.  I quickly took another cord off the
computer and jacked in myself.
 
     My computer wasn't anything special... a simple grey room,
with a dictionary on the desk.  I just used it for plant book
keeping and crosswords, you see.  He looked around, confused.
 
     "No!  Don't worry.  It's virtual reality.  Just like being
inside a holovision image.  It's not bad for you."
 
     :) calmed down a bit, and started poking at the polygon
walls, wondering why there were so bland.
 
     "Try talking," I suggested.
 
     :) shook a negatory, starting into some symbol-speech.
 
     "No," I interrupted.  "See, this is all mental or some junk. 
No real audio.  So you can probably talk in here."
 
     "I can?" he said, then jumped at the sound of his own voice. 
"Uhhh.  What this?"
 
     I smiled.  "Don't worry.  It's a computer simulation,
intercepts what you want to say so people across a long distance
can hear it.  Do you like it?"
 
     He shook his head wildly, trying to pull off the nonexistent
suction cup.  I reached forward to keep his hand down.
 
     "No, no, don't worry.  Nothing bad."
 
     "Do... do not like talking," he said.  "Not since lost my
voice.  Not as good."
 
     "As good?  As what?"
 
     "--> dis," he said symbolically.  "My way... more, direct. 
Like it better.  No miscommunick."
 
     He looked sheepish.  Obviously he didn't like the situation
I put him in.  Here he was, a grown man, talking like a baby.
 
     "But your way is pretty hard to understand," I said.  "I
mean, it's just charades and these weird sounds-like sounds."
 
     "Not hard!" he protested.  "Memory gang early tonight?  Talk
fine with them.  *I* talk fine with them.  Just takes hh:mm:ss 2
understand."
 
     "Wouldn't this be easier?"
 
     He laughed.  "What, lug a computer with I wherever I go? 
No.  Can't jack audience in for comedy.  Can we leave?  Please? 
It just not the same.  Not my way."
 
     "Alright... on two conditions."
 
     He rolled his eyes.  "What?"
 
     "One, how'd it happen?  What made you lose your voice?"
 
     "That it?  Simple.  Common knowledge.  Not fun, but common,"
he laughed.  "Doing routine.  Going good, audience likes it. 
Then I make a joke about ech-ay-ay-eff-eff, how they are not work
now with dee-pee-double U.  1 was there that night.  1 ech-ay-ay-
eff-eff."
 
     He pulled over the chair from my virtual desk, and had a
seat.  "Had 1 p=-, one gun.  Opened fire, I got 1 in my neck. 
Did not have the $ to pay for good replacement, so had to just
patch and hope for the best.  Couldn't communicate, so I found
way.  Got idea from old joke file... :-) ;-) ])?  Emotiks?"
 
     "So you just talked in those, or the nearest sound-alike of
them?"
 
     "I like it," he said, grinning.  "No way to mix emotion,
misunderstand.  Direct, simple.  Perfect.  You can write it, you
can read it, you can speak it.  Makes good jokes too.  Gangs...
AKs, LOPs, they like it.  Family there.  A unstable abusive
family, but family, hey, cannot complain."
 
     "That's the other thing," I said.  "If you're going to stay
here, I want to hear some jokes."
 
     "Okay... but not here," he said, pointing to the virtual
office.  "My jokes do not sound in talk well.  Got to be
symbolic."
 
     "Okay.  Do like you were doing before, pulling off the cup,
but you have to sort of WILL it," I said.  He nodded, and poked
around for the jack.  His objicon blinked out of existence.  I
jacked out, :)'s more realistic form there.
 
     He stood up, grabbing a nonexistent microphone, just to set
the mood.  He cleared his throat, an awful scratchy sound, and
started.
 
     ":) $ 1 ()()< --> 8[] ## __," he started, pretending to walk
home with a package under his arm, sticking it in some machine
and sitting down to watch a holovision.  He pretended to stomp
around the city, squashing buildings.   "& :) (?), Y 8[] >:( ## ? 
## XX 8Q mm/dd/yy * -2 ?  8[] >:( o=TX=o's?"
 
     I didn't quite get this one, but was willing to learn.  He
ignored the lack of laughter, and continued on.
 
     Gradually, I began to link his sounds to symbols.  Images. 
He was obviously watching a 8[] ()()<, some other kind of monster
movie.  He had other jokes about monsters, and some of the things
linked...
 
                              *
 
     He was right, I realized as he completed his routine.  My
sides hurt from laughing.  The jokes were very simple, not too
packed with details, but after awhile, you understood them; the
basic imagery spawned the picture of what was happening in your
brain, and if you threw in a little imagination, you could see
the punchline.  It was almost like talking in pictures.
 
     By the end, he almost didn't need the charades.  I got the
picture, literally, going on sketchy details to the full scene. 
I can't put it into words very well, and explaining his words
takes too long, so this conversation is only half accurate.
 
     "Sun's coming up," I noted.  "That's the longest comedy
routine I've ever heard."
 
     He had done all his jokes.  All the ones he knew, really. 
Did it work?
 
     "Yep, it worked.  It's not really the ideal language, but
you've come very close.  You must be proud to have worked around
your handicap."
 
     He didn't understand, what handicap?
 
     "Silly, the no-talking thing."
 
     If he couldn't talk, how was he telling me jokes?
 
     "Well, I mean normal talking.  English."
 
     Ytts don't talk english, and they're not handicapped.
 
     "Yeah, but... well... actually, you've got a point."
 
     It's not a problem, he noted.  Just takes a little patience,
which is something people could use anyway.  His lifestyle hasn't
changed at all.  So, all in all, big deal.  He had to leave now,
unfortunately.  He sleeps days, you know.
 
     "Yeah, I figured.  Have you ever considered converting?"
 
     Converting?
 
     "Well, to a Day Person."
 
     He doesn't see the dividing line.  Both 'peoples' have done
a good job making this place their home.  It's a common link.  He
lives here, so he's both.  We all are.  Etc.
 
     "Very philosophical."
 
     If he didn't make observations on human behavior, his jokes
would probably suck, BADLY.
 
     He wouldn't mind, however, maybe doing a few daytime
routines.  If I could find time to make it to them, of course.
 
     "Hmm?  Certainly.  I OWN the flower shop, after all, and can
set schedules."
 
     "@>->---, 8)?" he offered, pulling a rose out of a nearby
vase and offering it.  He didn't get to use that symbol very
often, he grinned.  It's a really old one, long forgotten.
 
     "Thanks," I said, accepting my own flower.  "Ring me
sometime, I'll see if I can get you booked at any daytime clubs."
 
     Thanks, he nodded.  He's gotta run; he's almost exhausted
from fatigue.  At least the streets aren't that bad during the
day.  Thanks for the soda.
 
     And with that, he left.
 
     Flower shop would be opening soon; and here I was, without a
bike.  I pulled open a phone book and looked up both taxi
services and bicycle repair.  I dialed the taxi guys first.
 
     "(:!  8) --> o=TX=o, ? $?" I asked.
 
     "What?" the taxi dispatch said.
 
     "Oh.  Sorry.  Ahem... I need a taxi over at my house.  How
much will that cost me?"