Chapter One

Harry Turquoise’s desk abutted Lester’s, and with their computer monitors at either end of their workspace, they formed a harmonious symmetry. Across the landscape were numerous manila folders, but both had adjacent stacking file trays, and a small caddie within arm’s reach with assorted pencils, markers, and pens – black ballpoints used exclusively by Harry, and retractable blue for Lester. Neither of them had the extemporaneous clutter of personal effects on their surfaces – no pictures or toy figurines; their desks were sterile, serious places much like the government business that transpired in the Seattle Municipal Tower.

The modern building housed various indistinct and bureaucratic sectors of the government, which even upon reading the menu sign in the foyer listing each would seem unimpressive but surprising that there really was a Commission for Sexual Minorities Office or Bike Advisory Board, yet they were all there in glorious anonymity, grinding efficiently like quiet cogs in King County’s infrastructure. The room where their desks were situated was also home to the Office of Sustainability and Environment, which was a recent development; they were moved out of the test station facilities where their three co-workers were based in order to create a more professional appearance for the Department of Weights and Measures.

Harry and Lester were both senior inspectors, though it was hard to say who was in charge of their branch. As far as everybody there could remember, they had been working for the same amount of time, and together. They were also the two field agents who handed complaints of weight abuse and coordinated the “unscheduled” visits by the division’s specially equipped (and unmistakeable) trucks at production, retail and wholesale locations. It was a consumer’s right to make sure his turkey really was half a pound or that the local taxi cabs were not fudging an eighth of a mile for profit, and along with over 3,000 other inspectors across the country acting as public advocates and striving for uniform standards in volume and quantity, by God and one nation under, it would be so.

- - -

Lester drove an old gas guzzling, dirty, white 1974 Chevy Nova, and he and Harry were heading north on I-5 to pay a visit to Chang’s Thai market. The mid-day traffic moved well considering the dawn showers that made the city look like it had just run through the sprinklers. It was their third visit in as many months, and the two prior times there had been nothing infraction-worthy. Harry had begun to suspect that Lester secretly harbored a crush on Eng, the owner’s daughter who worked there part time when she was not at U-Dub studying pre-med. It reinforced the idea that black men had a fetish for Asian girls, and that he was nearly twice her (perceived) age hardly softened matters. There was an ex-Mrs. Phfister currently living in South Carolina, but Lester hardly ever spoke of his marriage to Harry, as was the unspoken rule they shared not to share much in the way of personal information. Conversations tended to be wildly esoteric and philosophical, which made the monotony of reviewing numbers and measurements far less painful.

“You can’t fuck with this groove here,” said Lester, making tiny bobs back and forth with his neck and head. He took the volume knob and gave it a good wrenching. The radio was playing Steely Dan’s “Peg”.

Well, so much stereotypes, though Harry.

“And now check this,” he paused, finger raised like a guillotine, hovering through the repeat of the opening riffs and then dropping. “Yeah, that’s Jay Greydon doing that solo. There were seven or eight guys before him that did some good stuff, but he just nailed that guitar part. Makes the middle section keep the front and back from being too repetitive. It’s just right.”

“Isn’t the band named for a dildo?”

“A what?”

“A dildo,” Harry repeated. “You know, a fake dick. Women masturbate with them.”

“I know what a dildo is.”

“Well, you sounded like you didn’t.”

Lester cocked his head and looked over at his passenger. “How you know Steely Dan is a dildo?”

Harry cocked his head and looked back over. “Ever read Naked Lunch?”

“I don’t read books.”

“Yeah, well you know that William S. Burroughs wrote a book called Naked Lunch, right? That’s the name of a dildo in there. I guess it’s better than ‘The Talking Asshole’ or the other stuff he wrote about.”

“He’s got a talking asshole in that story,” Lester questioned.

“Oh yeah. Talking asshole, drugs, violent orgies…there’s all kinds of radical stuff in there that’s counter-cultural and part of the Beat Generation. You listen to Steely Dan; I’m surprised you’re not up on Burroughs.”

“I told you, man, I don’t read books.”

There was silence between them and the track faded out into a commercial for a local car dealership.

“I don’t even want to think about where the name Pablo Cruise comes from”, Lester said and then laughed. Harry started laughing too.

“Pablo Cruise? I don’t even want to know what else you listen to. No. I don’t want to have to hear what you listen to.”

They pulled up across the street for the market, and Lester flipped his car visor down, which had a city official parking permit on it. Harry got out and rounded the front of the car, but Lester stopped him, barring his hand across his chest.

“It ain’t quite time…hang back. Let’s get into character.”

- - -

As expected, nothing was out of sorts with the bar-code scanner, and as Harry had also figured, he did the brunt of the verification as Lester interviewed Eng at the register, who had pushed her medical texts aside unaware of the underlying cause for their visit. It hadn’t bothered Harry much, if at all, to make the trip since he had only been back at work for a few days since taking temporary leave. He was happy to spend time on the job and with Lester after his grandmother’s funeral. She had raised him after his parents passed away, and aside from the obvious attachment, with no siblings or cousins he was the only one to sort through her belongings and make arrangements to have her Missouri farmhouse sold.

Despite the death of Nana Turquoise, Harry appeared generally unaffected at work, resembling himself before his time off. His easy going and quietly calm nature was a good contrast to Lester, who tended to be more dramatic and charismatic. In fact, in many ways, the two of them were in contrast to each other. Harry’s shock of reddish hair and youthful looks hinted at what Archie would look like, all grown up and free of the two-vagina pitfall of Riverdale. He had never been married, but while Lester was very friendly with women, Harry simply shied away from attaching himself to the opposite sex, and either failed to let the opposite sex rile him, or probably more likely, never entertained the notion due to his lack of experience.

Traffic started to thicken on their way back toward the center of the city, and Lester didn’t address his possible intentions or the results of his conversation with Harry. The clouds had also congregated, threatening to resume their business. The savvy disc jockeys had dug into their crates for more rainy day music, and the hypnotic notes of “Riders On The Storm” played. Harry stared off into the sky, not quite daydreaming and not in a trance, but definitely not in the moment. Lester was preoccupied with circumnavigating the growing collection of cars and looking at the occasional drop of water the splattered on the windshield, maybe every couple of blocks. They were headed to the test station on Dearborn St. to get the reports for the day, though mainly because there were case weights and liquid measures to return, as well as calibrated glassware to be cleaned.

Coming up on City Hall, the impending rain did little to dissipate the crowd of sign waving supporters who were gathered to hear Brother Dave speak on the steps of the same building he was arrested and removed from a week earlier for interrupting a council meeting. There were probably 60 or so people there, though with their banners and cheering they seemed much larger. The Nova was stopped waiting for a light just beyond the steps, and Harry looked back over his shoulder to size up the proceedings. The light changed and they left the scene behind, and Harry turned to Lester.

“You know anything about that?”

“Not really. Doesn’t look like something we need to be involved in.”

- - -

In person, Brother Dave was shorter than expected.

His self-produced program, “The Word”, was a favorite with the fringe elements and townies who tuned in weekly to hear him deliver an assortment of interviews with authors and local figures of equal notoriety or celebrity, and he was seated for the bulk of the program. But even standing on the steps above his cult of adherents he looked diminutive. Brother Dave had not bothered to comb his blonde dyed hair which had grown out to show darker roots, nor trim the scruffy beard that he sported. It was equally comforting and unimpressive to see him decked out in a Mexican style hooded poncho, camouflage cargo pants, and covered in beads, rings and trinkets that made him look like a swap meet hawker, just like on his show.

He stood off to the side from where a makeshift podium was set up with a microphone flanked by a P.A. mounted on stands, talking to a taller, burly woman with short, spiky black hair with horn rimmed glasses and a thick ring in her septum. Admirers of the show would recognize Pam, his producer, but not the slender, tattooed girl beside her also wearing glasses who had her fading pink hair pulled into pigtails; her girlfriend. Missy stood with a clipboard and kept glancing at her watch worried. They had filed the proper papers for the city to allow them to have a short press conference, but was afraid that the observing police would swiftly end the gathering. There was little to conference over and no additional statement to make, yet following the arrest, it was easy to use that as reason to get another public platform. A cameraman from KING 5 was there to add authenticity to it, even though it was likely nothing would air.

Brother Dave, sensing that his crowd was at its maximum, stepped up to address his people.

“Thank you all for coming out today and supporting us in our spreading of THE WORD,” he started, with particular emphasis on the last words. The group clapped and cheered, temporarily giving him pause. He smiled and scanned the people in front of him, even though his eyes were hidden behind a pair of white sunglasses that were unnecessary in the grey gloom. Brother Dave turned to look at Pam, and then looked at the statement which was in his hand, which he read.

“While I can not go into details about the situation last week or the my arrest, I am happy to let you know that no charges will be filed against me for addressing…issues which are important to all of us with our city representatives. There are many ideas they are not prepared to understand like you do, but just because they do not know what we know doesn’t mean we should stop our crusade to inform others. We are going to be responsible for taking care of others and truly providing the safety and security that your government and officials say they can offer.”

He pushed aside the paper, choosing to speak his mind without the polished and scripted plan that Pam labored over that morning.

“Look, we’re all here because we believe in something. Am I right?”

The crowd replied heartily, clapping and flapping their signs.

“I’m not asking you to do anything more than you’ve already done. Keep believing, keep watching, keep paying attention, and keep questioning. There are things we are entrusted with, and the burden of that is something we have to accept. I want you all to watch this Friday and get as many of your friends and co-workers to watch too, for I have a special announcement.” Sensing he had sold his point, Brother Dave took a step back from the microphone and raises his arms wide in the air. The crowd yelled and clapped more.

He leaned back in and spoke, “Friday…thank you!”

Amidst the applause he came down into the audience and started shaking hands and receiving hugs from the people. A young looking girl approached him with bright green eyes and black hair like ravens falling over her shoulders. She was perhaps 18 if not much older and captivated him.

“Hi,” she said sweetly. “I just wanted to say that my friends here sent me some of your shows, and I’ve seen all the rest online. It’s really motivated me to try and make a difference, and follow what I believe in.”

“Oh, uh, thanks. Thanks for supporting what we do.”

“No, thank you,” she smiled and put her hand on his shoulder. “I came here from Florida because I really felt like what you were saying was true, and that this community, this environment was a healthy, positive place. I’m sure that it will empower me the same as it has you.”

She drifted back into the surrounding crowd and disappeared before he could continue or ask more about her, and the well-wishers wrestled his attention back to them.

- - -

After an hour at their testing station, Lester and Harry made it back to their office, though most of the building was in the process of leaving. They sat and logged the reports into the database and added papers to their respective files as the rain fell and gently ran down the window next to their desk. Lester finished first and unlocked the cabinet behind him, pulling out a drawer that had a lock on its lid. That disabled, he lifted it and pulled out a red folder, which he put on Harry’s desk.

“Take this home and thumb through it,” he said, grabbing his coat and locking the drawer and cabinet.

Harry put the file on top of his tray, and went back to typing. “I’ll just look though it here when I‘m done.”

Lester was headed towards the door, and spoke.

“There’s a lot in there. Better you take it home and be comfortable than stay here and work.”

“Anything for the job,” Harry replied, smiling with mockery that Lester would have appreciated if he had been looking.

In truth – the hidden kind that would be a fantasy of obscene proportion to your ultra-liberal skeptic, anti-government radical, or run-of-the-mill lunatic, these two were working for more than just a token wing of the Department of Agriculture, but also the Department Without A Name…if they had a name. More accusatory folks would call them The People Who Gave AIDS To Homosexuals or Who Homeless People Are Arguing With On The Street or The Group That Murdered Buxom D-List Models And Made It Look Like An Overdose, but that would require such substantial elements as, say, proof. Or confessions. Or witnesses. As far fetched and complicated as any number of ridiculous conspiracy theories and convoluted explanations went, they were never traced back to their source or identified the responsible parties in part due to other equally clandestine agencies operating to ensure secrecy, and thankfully so. Because had such inquiries succeeded, there would not be any pornography and music being illegally downloaded or carpool lane admittance for electric cars – all begetting the general (yet questionable) good of society. There had some epic failures in the Department’s past too, but every red folder was a challenge to undertake for Harry.