Yarn (3 page)

I ran a hand over the smooth brushed finish, the marbled gray paint, and solid brass fittings of an A-Max insta-seamer. Turning, I found a clearing and five feet from me, a t'up stood on a knitting machine that resembled a ski trainer with two long hand poles and foot levers. The t'up pushed one pole to the right and spun the other. A set of floating hooks knit blue yarn into a pair of shorts in midair. I wasn't sure how it worked exactly, but decided that the left pole steered the knitting hooks and the other controlled the number of loops.

Three others stood watching. One wore a white suit and held a thick, jewel-encrusted cane. The second wore all black, but here and there on his jacket were small live, wiggling white worms that had been woven into the fabric. The third, in a camel hair suit, had what I later learned was a giraffe mask over his head.

The knitting t'up pulled the right handle to the side. Now a thicker band was formed around the top of the shorts. A moment later, the t'up pulled the right stick far back, pushed on the right footpad, and the machine stopped.

"Artistic zeal!" said the man in white. "Flamboyance and bravery!"

"Best britches for bitches!" enthused the giraffe. "May I?"

Using a pair of connected needles, the t'up took the shorts from the machine, seemed to knot it, and handed the shorts to Giraffe.

Curious, I stepped forward. "What is this?" The four of them turned and looked at me with varied amounts of confusion and disdain.

"This," intoned the man in white, "is the Stanton-Bell Texknitter 222. It's the top-of-the-line artesian, topsumer, craftgasmic, model with the skivvé form." He blinked several times. "Welcome to my fashion motor boutique. Call me Archibald. Are you… um… are you a knitter?"

My confidence faded. "No. But I think I saw how it works."

"You have fine taste, good consumer, sir, but I wouldn't suggest starting on a stand-up Tex-knitter. We have desktop models for socks, collars, and wrist bands for crafters in all sorts of pleasant and complimentary colors."

Meanwhile, Giraffe was tugging the shorts on over his pants. Only they weren't just shorts, but the front had three pouches: one long and two smaller ones for a root and two nodes-that's what slubbers called genitals. And his root was eleven inches long.

"I am the corporate executive slut of my dreams!" said Giraffe, shaking his hips back and forth. "Watch my fantasy grow!" They all laughed.

Meanwhile, I was studying the t'up who had been on the knitter: the shape of the eyes, the smoothness of the neck, and the contours of the body. She was definitely not a man.

When she wiggled her hips, the long root tube on her identical shorts flopped back and forth. She said something about scratchy yarn and while they laughed again, I stepped backward. If someone had inspected the tag at the back of my neck that instant, it would have read: 50% confusion 30% fright 20% arousal.

In the slubber ghetto the main topic of conversation, besides which crop was best, was about the existence, features, meaning, and anatomy of Seattlehama women, or what we called reds.

I was born into the M-Bunny brandclan and we were the planters of corn. Our special crop dominated the hills around Seattlehama. To the south, L. Segu, the soybean clan, was stronger. And while we had our differences, we had several things in common. For one thing the slubs were filled with men and nothing but men. Men planted the crops, tended them, harvested them, processed them, made them into all sorts of things, ate them, and recycled them. Men cleared old roads, tore up old parking lots, razed useless buildings, and planted more corn.

But once a year, a few men who worked the hardest, praised the crop the most, and recycled everything they could were rewarded with the opportunity to have a son. They boarded one of the buses and traveled to headquarters. They wore different B-shirts there and ate something called
krissmascake.
They thought that it was those cakes that made their roots hard. And when that happened, a
red
would come and would lay down with them.

Ordinarily, no one in the slubs had erections. The only exceptions were those who traveled to headquarters, those who were debranded, and those few who, for some reason, had just gone corn rot. If a rep caught you with a hard root, it was said you would be immediately debranded or just recycled, but I never saw it happen.

It wasn't until years later that I understood that those B-shirts and shorts we wore muted our tempers, our anger, and mostly our libido.

I don't know if she sensed the surging of my heart, but the t'up turned and addressed me. "Shopper…" Her eyes darted over my Teardop suit. "From what finger of the glove have you come?"

I didn't understand
finger of the glove
, but feared it had something to do with the slubs. "No," I told her. "I'm… um… I'm just here looking."

"Adrift," she announced to the others. "
Adrift
in the currents of commerce and unfamiliar with the loft and ply of fashion." Her glossy red lips pinched off what seemed like a growing smile. "Shopper, have you never envisioned skivvé?"

The man in the giraffe masked said, "That's Python Duck Weapon's Celebrity Executive Officer, Kira Shibui."

"I am Tane Cedar," I told her. My heart was beating hard and my palms were moist. "You knit
syrup
." I had inadvertently used a slubber word. "I mean… great!"

Her right eyebrow rose with curious skepticism. "A small but curled wood shaving of praise." She eyed the others. Worm Jacket giggled. Giraffe nodded.

They were laughing at me. "I am also interested in yarn and knitting."

"If you desire, Kira," offered the storeowner, "I'll ask him to leave."

She held up a gloved hand. "Allow him to linger." She narrowed her eyes. "Those who harbor hearts that beat not with the liquids of the pedestrian, but with twists of the fiber… we must always show honor." She squared her shoulders and stared at me intently. "I am a saleswarrior for Python Duck… in the glorious skivvé battles amid the grand foundation war." When she inhaled, her breasts were squashed inside her rather stiff-looking outfit. I didn't know how to describe it at the time, but it was like a sailor suit in shiny orange decorated with several large bows. The flared skirt was so short it didn't cover her underwear. The neckline was low, and around her neck rested a wide collar. Her boots and gloves were the same orange. She peered at me. "You must know
the glory
, dear mislaid shopper."

I didn't know what she was asking, but was glad to have her gaze on me.

Her red lips tightened. "Then know this citizen of credit: we of Python Duck are fighting against the keepers of the dark, the wearers of the empty, and the besmirchers of the cloth. We freed ourselves to oppose the awful howl of the gathering void that is
Casper Union!"
She screamed the last two words.

"Casper Union? What's that?"

My question seemed to please her. She turned to the others. "And thus with his genuine confusion, I have freed him from the realm of the counterfeit and the spy."

"Oh, well done, Kira!" said the man in the worm jacket.

"Brilliant!" Giraffe bobbed his head in a nod. "I didn't even think that he might be an enemy spying on us!"

"Now we know," said Kira, raising her voice, "that he is simply from the dim and the dark bones of fashion." She turned and gazed at me with warmth and sympathy. "Someone should mental him in the ways of the lapel, the seam, and the blessed undergarment."

I knew she was making fun of me, but it didn't matter. "I want to learn."

"Then let me unfold one sleeve of the truth: Casper Union is the skivvé maker that cares not for anything but the lack of their own make." She held up a fist. "They are stealing the glory… No! They are
tarnishing
anything that was ever coated with even the thinnest skin of commerce and pride." Pointing a finger at me, she said, "New friend of our sex and shopping city, you must study fashion and its wars. Come to my flagship: Python Duck on level 609 in the Velour Building and behold the fine art and craft of men's fantasy skivvé."

"Best britches for bitches!" said Giraffe.

"We are desperate for fashion passion!" she continued. "And we are desperate for cutting and needling." She turned her face toward the others. "We need the commanding and the strong and the vigorous to help wage the terror upon those with shallow and muddy puddles of soul."

"Muddy puddles of soul!"
whispered the man in the worm jacket, nudging the giraffe.

Returning her attention to me, she asked, "Do you, shopper Tane Cedar, with a proud and curious interest in knit-do you have the formidable vision? Do you have clarity of duty? And most of all, do you have the valor to test the capricious needles of destiny?"

Worm Jacket and Giraffe and even the storeowner turned to me. My eyes leapt from Kira to the others and back again. I swallowed and said, "Yes?" hoping that was the right answer.

"Kira Shibui, Celebrity Executive Officer of Python Duck Men's Fantasy Skivvé!" boomed the storeowner. "Visionary knitter, designer, and warTalker extraordinaire. She truly warms the new Stanton-Bell Tex-knitter 222!" He ran a hand along the top of the machine. "I will have this sent to your flagship tonight!"

Worm Jacket and Giraffe began talking excitedly as the storeowner rambled on with numbers and jargon. Meanwhile, Kira's eyes lingered on mine.

"Kira Shibui," I whispered, happy to have remembered her name.

She didn't exactly smile, but something deep in her eyes seemed to warm. Turning, I headed out of the fashion motor boutique. My hands were vibrating, my heart was racing, and I felt like I wasn't getting enough air. In the hallway, I stood for a moment and caught my breath. I didn't know what was happening, but my root had stiffened for the first time.

DESIGN STUDIO

"Pheff!" I shouted. "Yes?" came his reply from the storeroom.

I was in the design room, downing the last of my coffee as I laid out my things on one of the worktables. "You rescheduled Mr. Nezzo?"

Pheff returned with a box. "Yes, Tailor."

"What about the Pings?"

"They're coming next week." He set down the box.

"Did the button extruder get fixed?"

"The guy's supposed to come after two."

I thought it was supposed to have happened the day before. "Okay, but wasn't the Transmission Mills salesman supposed to be here already?"

"I jotted him. Told him tomorrow."

"Tomorrow's no good."

"I'll jot him again."

"Did you charge my travel water-shears? The ones with the etched golden tank?" On the table was a screen sketch, various travel kits, some clothes, needles, sewers, and several hand tools. "Oh," I said remembering, "make sure to order more D45 for the WeavePlus."

"I will."

I knew what I was doing: I was delaying. I was making excuses. There was a part of me that didn't want to go, didn't want to leave my supplies, my projects, and my space. I had found equilibrium; I had found happiness. And I worried that traveling through my past would disturb the toxic dust I would find there. There were things I had laid to rest that should probably stay that way.

I picked up the basketweave and sniffed it again. When Vada had appeared before the doors, it had been surprising and overwhelming. A part of me wished I hadn't agreed to make her a Xi jacket so quickly. Besides the fact that it was likely impossible, I owed her nothing. Years ago, I had become the tailor I was today and yet, here I was packing up for a trip for a woman I hadn't seen in a lifetime. And I knew I didn't still love her; I didn't still harbor those same feelings of worship and infatuation. At least that was what I wanted to believe.

There was the detective that I'd told her about, but I had also hired a researcher and bribed two officials from an identity firm. The officials placed her in Bang as a girl. They said she was operated on at some saleswarrior clinic, but disappeared into the slubs of Europa11 before city satins could apprehend her. They figured she was long dead. The identity firm said she was wanted for the murder of a half-dozen CEOs. The detective implicated her in some stolen DNA plot five years ago, but then the trail died.

I took another bite of my eel scone. I had known Vada in Seattlehama. I had watched from afar for almost a year before we met, and it was during that time that I lusted after her as one might a goddess. Later, when I lived with her-and maybe fell in love-I also came to understand (or maybe that understanding was much later) that she could never really love me back. Then again, my attraction to her had always been powered by her unattainable, mythic, and forbidden nature. It had been Zeno's paradox of the heart, I'm sure.

Could some remnant of that desire still be alive inside of me? Or did I feel guilty for having left her? Or did I just now feel sorry for her, for whatever ragged shell she had become of the terrorist and entertainer I had known?

"These?" Pheff returned from the storeroom.

"Yes." For an instant I almost told Pheff to put the shears away

and considered the idea of not helping her, of not trying to find the impossible and illegal Xi and of doing nothing. I didn't need some foolish and dangerous journey. I didn't need any more associations with the outlaws of the world.

The problem was, as I started to form some sentence like,
I'm sorry, Pheff… I'm not going after all, let's put this all away…
or a simple and mysterious
Never mind
, I hesitated. Why not spend a day searching for Xi? If I found some, I would make her a death coat; if not, it would only be twenty-four hours of my life. "Get the carbonate case for those shears," I told my assistant.

"I brought the leather one."

"Carbonate," I insisted. The shears could, with the gritty cycling supply of water, easily cut through a thousand yarns of fabric or steel plate. While the leather one was fine around the office, I was going to have them in my jacket and didn't want to accidentally cut off an arm. As he headed to the storeroom, I called after him. "Bring a Mini-Air-Juki and a selection of yarn pulls!"