I took Grace Kelly's proposal went over to Berkeley. Not to the restaurant that used to buy my eggs. Without income I couldn't really justify Allegro non Tropo. Truthfully, without income I couldn't really justify anything I was doing, but I wanted to go someplace and think. I went to my favorite bookstore and hung around for awhile and finally bought a magazine. The bookstore was quiet and small. Back outside the light reflected off the glass of the windows and all those styles and patterns and noise and all the meaningless movement hit me like weather and I put my head down as if I was walking into a driving rain and went up the street to a coffee shop.
Walking into the coffee shop was...not what I expected. I remembered the coffee shop as an oasis. I remembered the coffee shop as a place where I could sit for hours and the city would wander in and out, filtered by the door to a manageable level of people in black and poet manques and graduate student-intellectuals.
The Indian cowbells on the doors rattle as I walk in and I start itching again. A couple of us used to come over here after work for a glass of wine, during the time that we were transitioning the company out of the country and ourselves out of jobs. The smell of the place--of ground coffee and people-- brought back that feeling of dread and helplessness. The helplessness was the awful part. It didn't matter whether I had done my job badly or well, there I was, without a job.
I ordered a cafe mocha for too much money and sat down. They were playing Brazilian jazz. There were a stack of free papers on the window sill. Sendero. Zazz, Free. 'Zazz' was some kind of music.
Tiffin and Wilma were sitting at home waiting for me. Wilma didn't care, but Tiffin did. I want to be home, so I go.
Grace Kelly and two men from Krishnamachari come out to the farm. They are dressed in the city equivalent of leisure wear; soft leather shoes, shorts, loose tops of soft woven taupe for the men, printed like Balinese batiks for Grace Kelly. "Tiffin," I say, "don't jump." Tiffin obligingly does not leave muddy paw prints on their city clothes. It's late in the morning but I'm still wearing the work clothes I put on at four, when it was cold and damp.
They want to see it all despite the mud. I take them into the hen house. It's a long low building with rows of cages for oviraptor females. The roof is mostly skylights because they lay better if they get a lot of light. The floors are concrete. The place positively stinks of musky-ammonia oviraptor smell.
Weldon, the gray and black tease male, is standing near the door. Tease males get the run of the place. Weldon rears up on his legs and looks threatening. "Weldon," I say, flapping my arms, "shooo! Shhhhh! Shhhhh! Shhht!" Weldon dances backwards a couple of steps and then drops, hissing, to scuttle off. The females are clicking madly, excited. The racket is pretty intense.
"Did that one get out?" one of the men shouts to be heard over the din.
"No," I shout. "Females lay better if there's a male strutting around. Like chickens. Weldon is the tease."
"Do you name all your dinosaurs?" the other man asks.
I laugh. "I have about three thousand. Weldon is named after the CEO that laid me off from my last job." I don't add that tease males never get any.
They exchange uncertain smiles.
Back out in the yard we talk about how it will all be changed. They are all consulting their daybooks. Grace Kelly's daybook is ostrich, the two men have sharkskin. I won't need Weldon anymore. I wonder if I could have a daybook cover made out of Weldon hide.
They talk about how much it will cost to convert. Krishnamachari will own the pens and some of the equipment and I will lease it from them. The land will still be mine. They are willing to buy unborn stock in order to provide me capital. They are willing to guarantee me three years worth of minimum orders. I say that anything above those minimum orders will be at a separately negotiated price. They have to go back to the office and talk about that.
The dollars are huge. As much as I am already in debt now. Basically, my business will be worth about what I owe. Its all a gamble, of course. If it turns out that there's a steady market for dinosaur leather then I'll make money. If fashionable women don't want to wear dinosaurs, then I won't. Like selling eggs.
The only difference is that a big chunk of my business will be leased from Krishnamachari. In effect, I'll be working for someone again. They are talking about a schedule for inspections. "If business gets big enough, we may have to have someone working here on site." I must look startled. "At least, maybe, part time," he amends.
These are nice people. They do not mean to take over my life. It's just business. I used to do write the documentation for things like this. I wrote procedures for purchasing. I would sit in Jim's office and he would tell me about how purchasing worked. One thing about being a technical writer, I got to work with all different departments. Funny, it never applied much to dinosaur farming until now. Dinosaur farming was never corporate before.
That is when the alarm starts to go off in my head and I can't rid myself of the feeling that I am selling myself back into slavery.
So I turn them down.
Tiffin watches them drive off.
"I think I may have screwed up," I say. Tiffin cocks her head and listens to me.
"Will you be so trusting when we're homeless?" I ask.
Actually, Tiffin will. Tiffin leaves all the administrative stuff to me. "You're a specialist. Humans are generalists, right?" Tiffin just regards me attentively in case somewhere in all my chatter comes a word she recognizes like 'down' or 'cookie' or 'cheese.' Tiffin is something of a cheesehound. "Cheesehound," I say to her and she leaps onto her feet.
We go back in the house to get some cheese and someone is calling. It's Becker Doogan from the huge lawfirm called James, Daws, Riser, and Clough. "Ms. Sabiston," he says, "I'm calling with good news."
"How good," I say warily.
"AgriGen and the FDA have reached an agreement in lieu of AgriGen filing suit." He flicks his renaissance mane over his shoulder. "Your dinosaurs are genetically enhanced animals, not genetically engineered."
"You mean they're legally chickens?" I ask.
He nods. "Rhode Island Reds, to be specific. You can sell all the eggs you want."
Deus ex machina. James, Daws, Riser, and Clough are lowered from the heaven wielding legal briefs and setting everything to right. "Can I get a copy of the ruling?" I ask.
"Sure. I'm sending one to your attorney, too." He is magnificently pleased with himself. "Congratulations. Are you roasting a dinosaur to celebrate?"
"I may settle for an omelet," I say. "Maybe I can ship you some eggs?"
He wrinkles his nose. "I don't think so."
"Do you ever get tired of working for other people?" I ask.
He thinks for a moment. "Well, yes. A lot, actually. I was thinking about starting my own firm, you know? But my wife and I, we just had a baby girl. And here I get benefits and if I work hard eventually I'll make partner."
I understand. "Well thanks," I say. "Good luck to you and your family."
"Hey Tiffin, you lazy bitch." Tiffin is waiting at the door. "After your cheese we've got a ton of work to do. We've got to gear this place back up again."
The world is an uncertain place. You can try to depend on other people and sometimes they can shield you from the world. I prefer to do it my way.
The End.
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