Y.T. has been privileged to watch many a young Clint plant his sweet face in an empty Burbclave pool during an unauthorized night run, but always on a skateboard, never ever in a car. The landscape of the suburban1 night has much weird2 beauty if you just look.
Back on the paddle again. It rolls across the yard on a set of RadiKS Mark IV Smartwheels. She upgraded to said magical sprockets after the following ad appeared in Thrasher magazine:
is what you will see in the mirror if you surf on a weak plank4 with dumb, fixed5 wheels and interface6 with a muffler, retread, snow turd, road kill, driveshaft, railroad tie, or unconscious pedestrian.
If you think this is unlikely, you've been surfing too many ghost malls. All of these obstacles and more were recently observed on a one-mile stretch of the New Jersey7 Turnpike. Any surfer who tried to groove8 that 'yard on a stock plank would have been sneezing brains.
Don't listen to so-called purists who claim any obstacle can be jumped. Professional Kouriers know: If you have pooned a vehicle moving fast enough for fun and profit, your reaction time is cut to tenths of a second -- even less if you are way spooled9.
Buy a set of RadiKS Mark II Smartwheels -- it's cheaper than a total face retread and a lot more fun. Smartwheels use sonar, laser rangefinding, and millimeter-wave radar10 to identify mufflers and other debris11 before you even get honed about them.
Don't get Midasized -- upgrade today!
These were words of wisdom. Y.T. bought the wheels. Each one consists of a hub with many stout12 spokes14. Each spoke13 telescopes in five sections. On the end is a squat15 foot, rubber tread on the bottom, swiveling on a ball joint16. As the wheels roll, the feet plant themselves one at a time, almost glomming into one continuous tire. If you surf over a bump, the spokes retract17 to pass over it. If you surf over a chuckhole, the robo-prongs plumb19 its asphalty depths. Either way, the shock is thereby20 absorbed, no thuds, smacks21, vibrations22, or clunks will make their way into the plank or the Converse23 high-tops with which you tread it. The ad was right -- you cannot be a professional road surfer without smartwheels.
Prompt delivery of the pizza will be a trivial matter. She glides24 from the dewy turf over the lip of the driveway without a bump, picks up speed on the 'crete, surfs down its slope into the street. A twitch25 of the butt26 reorients the plank, now she is cruising down Homedale Mews looking for a victim. A black car, alive with nasty lights, whines27 past her the other way, closing in on the hapless Hiro Protagonist28. Her RadiKS Knight29 Vision goggles30 darken strategically to cut the noxious31 glaring of same, her pupils feel safe to remain wide open, scanning the road for signs of movement. The swimming pool was at the crest32 of this Burbclave, it's downhill from here, but not downhill enough.
Half a block away, on a side street, a bimbo box, a minivan, grinds its four pathetic cylinders33 into action. She sees it catercorner from her present coordinates34. The white backup lights flash instantly as the driver shifts into D by way of R and N. Y.T. aims herself at the curb35, hits it at a fast running velocity36, the spokes of the smartwheels see it coming and retract in the right way so that she glides from street to lawn without a hitch37. Across the lawn, the feet leave a trail of hexagonal padmarks. A stray dog turd, red with meaty undigestible food coloring, is embossed with the RadiKS logo, a mirror image of which is printed on the tread of each spoke.
The bimbo box is pulling away from the curb, across the street. Squirrelly scrubbing noises squirm from its sidewalls as they grind against the curb; we are in the Burbs, where it is better to take a thousand clicks off the lifespan of your Goodyears by invariably grinding them up against curbs38 than to risk social ostracism39 and outbreaks of mass hysteria by parking several inches away, out in the middle of the street (That's okay, Mom, I can walk to the curb from here), a menace to traffic, a deadly obstacle to uncertain young bicyclists. Y.T. has pressed the release button on her poon's reel/handle unit, allowing a meter of cord to unwind. She whips it up and around her head like a bob on the austral range. She is about to lambada this trite40 conveyance41. The head of the poon, salad-bowl size, whistles as it orbits around; this is unnecessary but sounds cool.
Pooning a bimbo box takes more skill than a ped would ever imagine, because of their very road-unworthiness, their congenital lack of steel or other ferrous matter for the MagnaPoon to bite down on. Now they have superconducting poons that stick to aluminum42 bodywork by inducing eddy43 currents in the actual flesh of the car, turning it into an unwilling44 electromagnet, but Y.T. does not have one of these. They are the trademark45 of the hardcore Burbclave surfer, which, despite this evening's entertainment, she is not. Her poon will only stick to steel, iron, or (slightly) to nickel. The only steel in a bimbo box of this make is in the frame.
She makes a low-slung approach. Her poon's orbital plane is nearly vertical46, it almost grinds on the twinkly suburban macadam on the forward limb of each orbit. When she pounds the release button, it takes off from an altitude of about one centimeter, angling slightly upward, across the street, under the floor of the bimbo box, and sucks steel. It's a solid hit, as solid as you can get on this nebula47 of air, upholstery, paint, and marketing48 known as the family minivan.
The reaction is instantaneous, quick-witted by Burb standards. This person wants Y.T. gone. The van takes off like a hormone-pumped bull who has just been nailed in the ass18 by the barbed probe of a picador. It's not Mom at the wheel. It's young Studley, the teenaged boy, who like every other boy in this Burbclave has been taking intravenous shots of horse testosterone every afternoon in the high school locker49 room since he was fourteen years old. Now he's bulky, stupid, thoroughly50 predictable.
He steers51 erratically52, artificially pumped muscles not fully53 under his control. The molded, leather-grained, maroon-colored steering54 wheel smells like his mother's hand lotion55; this drives him into a rage. The bimbo box surges and slows, surges and slows, because he is pumping the gas pedal, because holding it to the floor doesn't seem to have any effect. He wants this car to be like his muscles: more power than he knows what to do with. Instead, it hampers56 him. As a compromise, he hits the button that says POWER. Another button that says ECONOMY pops out and goes dead, reminding him, like an educational demonstration57, that the two are mutually exclusive. The van's tiny engine downshifts, which makes it feel more powerful. He holds his foot steady on the gas and, making the run down Cottage Heights Road, the minivan's speed approaches one hundred kilometers.
Approaching the terminus of Cottage Heights Road, where it tees into Bellewoode Valley Road, he espies58 a fire hydrant. TMAWH fire hydrants are numerous, for safety, and highly designed, for property values, not the squat iron things imprinted59 with the name of some godforsaken Industrial Revolution foundry and furry60 from a hundred variously flaked61 layers of cheap city paint. They are brass62, robot-polished every Thursday morning, dignified63 pipes rising straight up from the perfect, chemically induced turf of the Burbclave lawns, flaring64 out to present potential firefighters with a menu of three possible hose connections. They were designed on a computer screen by the same aesthetes65 who designed the DynaVictorian houses and the tasteful mailboxes and the immense marble street signs that sit at each intersection66 like headstones. Designed on a computer screen, but with an eye toward the elegance67 of things past and forgotten about. Fire hydrants that tasteful people are proud to have on their front lawns. Fire hydrants that the real estate people don't feel the need to airbrush out of pictures.
This fucking Kourier is about to die, knotted around one of those fire hydrants. Studley the Testosterone Boy will see to it. It is a maneuver68 he has witnessed on television -- which tells no lies -- a trick he has practiced many times in his head. Building up maximum speed on Cottage Heights, he will yank the hand brake while swinging the wheel. The ass end of the minivan will snap around. The pesky Kourier will be cracked like a whip at the end of her unbreakable cable. Into the fire hydrant she will go. Studley the Teenager will be victorious69, free to cruise in triumph down Bellewoode Valley and out into the greater world of adult men in cool cars, free to go return his overdue70 videotape, Raft Warriors71 V: The Final Battle.
Y.T. does not know any of this for a fact, but she suspects it. None of this is real. It is her reconstruction72 of the psychological environment inside of that bimbo box. She sees the hydrant coming a mile away, sees Studley reaching down to rest one hand on the parking brake. It is all so obvious. She feels sorry for Studley and his ilk. She reels out, gives herself lots of slack. He whips the wheel, jerks the brake. The minivan goes sideways, overshooting its mark, and doesn't quite snap her around the way he wanted; she has to help it. As its ass is rotating around, she reels in hard, converting that gift of angular momentum73 into forward velocity, and ends up shooting right past the van going well over a mile a minute. She is headed for a marble gravestone that says BELLEWOODE VALLEY ROAD. She leans away from it, leans into a vicious turn, her spokes grip the pavement and push her away from that gravestone, she can touch the pavement with one hand she is heeled over so hard, the spokes push her onto the desired street. Meanwhile, she has clicked off the electromagnetic force that held her pooned to the van. The poon head comes loose, caroms off the pavement behind her as it is automatically reeled in to reunite with the handle. She is headed straight for the exit of the Burbclave at fantastic speed. Behind her, an explosive crash sounds, resonating in her gut74, as the minivan slides sideways into the gravestone.
She ducks under the security gate and plunges75 into traffic on Oahu. She cuts between two veering76, blaring, and screeching77 BMWs. BMW drivers take evasive action at the drop of a hat, emulating78 the drivers in the BMW advertisements -- this is how they convince themselves they didn't get ripped off. She drops into a fetal position to pass underneath79 a semi, headed for the Jersey barrier in the median strip like she's going to die, but Jersey barriers are easy for the smartwheels. That lower limb of the barrier has such a nice bank to it, like they designed it for road surfers. She rides halfway80 up the barrier, angles gently back down to the lane for a smooth landing, and she's in traffic. There's a car right there and she doesn't even have to throw the poon, just reaches out and plants it right on the lid of the trunk.
This driver's resigned to his fate, doesn't care, doesn't hassle her. He takes her as far as the entrance to the next Burbclave, which is a White Columns. Very southern, traditional, one of the Apartheid Burbclaves. Big ornate sign above the main gate:
WHITE PEOPLE ONLY. NON-CAUCASIANS MUST BE PROCESSED.
She's got a White Columns visa. Y.T. has a visa to everywhere. It's right there on her chest, a little barcode. A laser scans it as she careens toward the entrance and the immigration gate swings open for her. It's an ornate ironwork number, but harried81 White Columns residents don't have time to sit idling at the Burbclave entrance watching the gate slowly roll aside in Old South majestic82 turpitude83, so it's mounted on some kind of electromagnetic railgun.
She is gliding84 down the antebellum tree-lined lanes of White Columns, one microplantation after another, still coasting on the residual85 kinetic86 energy boost that originated in the fuel in Studley the Teenager's gas tank. The world is full of power and energy and a person can go far by just skimming off a tiny bit of it.
The LEDs on the pizza box say: 29:32, and the guy who ordered it -- Mr.Pudgely and his neighbors, the Pinkhearts and the Roundass clan87 -- are all gathered on the front lawn of their microplantation, prematurely88 celebrating. Like they had just bought the winning lottery89 ticket. From their front door they have a clear view all the way down to Oahu Road, and they can see that nothing is on its way that looks like a CosaNostra delivery car. Oh, there is curiosity-sniffing interest at this Kourier with the big square thing under her arm -- maybe a portfolio90, a new ad layout for some Caucasian supremacist marketing honcho in the next plot over, but --
The Pudgelys and the Pinkhearts and the Roundasses are all staring at her, slackjawed. She has just enough residual energy to swing into their driveway. Her momentum carries her to the top. She stops next to Mr.Pudgely's Acura and Mrs. Pudgely's bimbo box and steps off her plank. The spokes, noting her departure, even themselves out, plant themselves on the top of the driveway, refuse to roll backward.
A blinding light from the heavens shines down upon them. Her Knight Visions keep her from being blinded, but the customers bend their knees and hunch91 their shoulders as though the light were heavy. The men hold their hairy forearms up against their brows, swivel their great tubular bodies to and fro, trying to find the source of the illumination, muttering clipped notations92 to each other, brief theories about its source, fully in control of the unknown phenomenon. The women coo and flutter. Because of the magical influence of the Knight Visions, Y.T. can still see the LEDs: 29:54, and that's what it says when she drops the pizza on Mr.Pudgely's wing tips.
The mystery light goes off.
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1
suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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chiseled
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| adj.凿刻的，轮廓分明的v.凿，雕，镌( chisel的过去式 ) | |
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plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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interface
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| n.接合部位，分界面；v.(使)互相联系 | |
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jersey
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| n.运动衫 | |
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groove
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| n.沟，槽；凹线，（刻出的）线条，习惯 | |
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spooled
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| adj.假脱机的v.把…绕到线轴上（或从线轴上绕下来）( spool的过去式和过去分词 )；假脱机（输出或输入） | |
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radar
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| n.雷达，无线电探测器 | |
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debris
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| n.瓦砾堆，废墟，碎片 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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spokes
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| n.（车轮的）辐条( spoke的名词复数 )；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 | |
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squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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retract
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| vt.缩回，撤回收回，取消 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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plumb
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| adv.精确地，完全地；v.了解意义，测水深 | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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smacks
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| 掌掴（声）( smack的名词复数 )； 海洛因； （打的）一拳； 打巴掌 | |
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vibrations
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| n.摆动( vibration的名词复数 )；震动；感受；（偏离平衡位置的）一次性往复振动 | |
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converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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glides
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| n.滑行( glide的名词复数 )；滑音；音渡；过渡音v.滑动( glide的第三人称单数 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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twitch
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| v.急拉，抽动，痉挛，抽搐；n.扯，阵痛，痉挛 | |
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butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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27
whines
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| n.悲嗥声( whine的名词复数 )；哀鸣者v.哀号( whine的第三人称单数 )；哀诉，诉怨 | |
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protagonist
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| n.(思想观念的)倡导者；主角，主人公 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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goggles
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| n.护目镜 | |
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noxious
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| adj.有害的，有毒的；使道德败坏的，讨厌的 | |
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crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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cylinders
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| n.圆筒( cylinder的名词复数 )；圆柱；汽缸；（尤指用作容器的）圆筒状物 | |
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coordinates
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| n.相配之衣物；坐标( coordinate的名词复数 )；（颜色协调的）配套服装；[复数]女套服；同等重要的人（或物）v.使协调，使调和( coordinate的第三人称单数 )；协调；协同；成为同等 | |
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curb
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| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
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velocity
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| n.速度，速率 | |
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hitch
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| v.免费搭(车旅行)；系住；急提；n.故障；急拉 | |
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curbs
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| v.限制，克制，抑制( curb的第三人称单数 ) | |
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ostracism
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| n.放逐；排斥 | |
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trite
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| adj.陈腐的 | |
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conveyance
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| n.(不动产等的)转让，让与；转让证书；传送；运送；表达；（正）运输工具 | |
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aluminum
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| n.(aluminium)铝 | |
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eddy
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| n.漩涡，涡流 | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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trademark
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| n.商标；特征；vt.注册的…商标 | |
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vertical
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| adj.垂直的，顶点的，纵向的；n.垂直物，垂直的位置 | |
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nebula
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| n.星云，喷雾剂 | |
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48
marketing
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| n.行销，在市场的买卖，买东西 | |
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49
locker
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| n.更衣箱，储物柜，冷藏室，上锁的人 | |
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50
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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51
steers
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| n.阉公牛，肉用公牛( steer的名词复数 )v.驾驶( steer的第三人称单数 )；操纵；控制；引导 | |
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erratically
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| adv.不规律地，不定地 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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54
steering
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| n.操舵装置 | |
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55
lotion
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| n.洗剂 | |
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56
hampers
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| 妨碍，束缚，限制( hamper的第三人称单数 ) | |
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57
demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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espies
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| v.看到( espy的第三人称单数 ) | |
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imprinted
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| v.盖印（imprint的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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60
furry
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| adj.毛皮的；似毛皮的；毛皮制的 | |
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flaked
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| 精疲力竭的，失去知觉的，睡去的 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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aesthetes
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| n.审美家，唯美主义者( aesthete的名词复数 ) | |
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66
intersection
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| n.交集，十字路口，交叉点；[计算机] 交集 | |
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67
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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68
maneuver
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| n.策略[pl.]演习；v.(巧妙)控制；用策略 | |
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victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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overdue
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| adj.过期的，到期未付的；早该有的，迟到的 | |
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warriors
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| 武士，勇士，战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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reconstruction
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| n.重建，再现，复原 | |
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momentum
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| n.动力，冲力，势头；动量 | |
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gut
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| n.[pl.]胆量；内脏；adj.本能的；vt.取出内脏 | |
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75
plunges
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| n.跳进，投入vt.使投入，使插入，使陷入vi.投入，跳进，陷入v.颠簸( plunge的第三人称单数 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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76
veering
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| n.改变的；犹豫的；顺时针方向转向；特指使船尾转向上风来改变航向v.（尤指交通工具）改变方向或路线( veer的现在分词 )；（指谈话内容、人的行为或观点）突然改变；（指风） （在北半球按顺时针方向、在南半球按逆时针方向）逐渐转向；风向顺时针转 | |
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77
screeching
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| v.发出尖叫声( screech的现在分词 )；发出粗而刺耳的声音；高叫 | |
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78
emulating
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| v.与…竞争( emulate的现在分词 )；努力赶上；计算机程序等仿真；模仿 | |
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79
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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80
halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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81
harried
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| v.使苦恼( harry的过去式和过去分词 )；不断烦扰；一再袭击；侵扰 | |
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82
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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83
turpitude
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| n.可耻；邪恶 | |
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84
gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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85
residual
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| adj.复播复映追加时间；存留下来的，剩余的 | |
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86
kinetic
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| adj.运动的；动力学的 | |
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87
clan
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| n.氏族，部落，宗族，家族，宗派 | |
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88
prematurely
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| adv.过早地，贸然地 | |
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89
lottery
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| n.抽彩；碰运气的事，难于算计的事 | |
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90
portfolio
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| n.公事包；文件夹；大臣及部长职位 | |
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91
hunch
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| n.预感，直觉 | |
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92
notations
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| 记号，标记法( notation的名词复数 ) | |
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