THE PORCUPINE PARTY

“There’s a reason they call it the Badlands, you know, Ace. The land is bad. That’s the reason. You coulda have swum if you wanted to, instead. But by now, we’ve passed the point of no return. It’s easier to keep going. The next zone is Castle Hill Avenue. Before you ask about castles in The Bronx, there ain’t no castle. It was a hut. And not much of a hill, either. A big pile of rocks jutting out into Pugsley Creek. And, again, before ya ask, no, there’s no Wednesday Creek to go with to go with Pugsley. Enough tour guiding. We’re ditchin’ the bikes and we’ll be gandydancin’ the old 6 Train IRT elevated tracks. We’ll be visible. There will be much crouching and rolling under platforms. If we get through that, we get to go underground through Manhattan.” This was Jerome’s third guide job, but he tried to sound as if he were more experienced. Not to fool the passenger, but to keep him calm. As well as himself.

“We couldn’t swim. I can’t risk these getting wet.”

“True, whatever it is ya got in that fancy pack yer wearin’. But it wouldn’t do us no good at all if the Yonkers border was barricaded, which I heard that it was. We was lucky the catwalk on the Cuomo Bridge was clear. Lucky we was invisible bikin’ down the Putnam Line trail. Lucky New Compact wasn’t lookin’ for us. By ‘us’ I means you. Maybe we could stay lucky and the Constabs is really patrolling and not jackin’ up travellers.”

“How are we supposed to get all the way up there?”

“Easy. Just pay our fare. Three packs of Newports or four of Marlboros. Then they drops the basket down. We ain’t gonna need that when we get to th’other side o’ the Harlem River. Stairs. Plain ol’ normal stairs, like there used to be everwhere.   Wait a minute. There’s something I want you to see. Give ya some hope, just a touch.”

In between the remains of the old courthouse, the setting of Bonfire of the Vanities, and Yankee Stadium, 161^st Street, for five blocks, was a tiny shopping zone. Private security, legitimate scrip readers for transactions. Jerome led Ace to Regina’s bakery. The shop smelled like the last century, maybe even the last century in the next continent to the east. The guide ordered for them, four hard rolls. Before they could give Regina the scrip, she insisted that they each should have a cookie, that they were good boys. She pinched Jerome’s cheek and asked after his mom and sister. Jerome offered his condolences on the loss of Absalom, her husband of 45 years. She took a long, tightly-focused, deeply peering look at Ace, especially at the cut of his clothes. The baker made a decision. She dipped her finger in some cooking oil and then some sugar and made the sign of the cross on the traveler’s forehead. She wished him Godspeed and a successful finish to his journey. The pair took the make-shift elevator—the woven bamboo gondola of a hot air balloon—to the top, got some sightings on their bearings, and started, carefully, a slow march west above Westchester Avenue, each in contemplation, each munching a remembrance of times lost.

“Get down! No, get up, Saint Lawrence Station is just up ahead, roll under the overhang. I’ll make it to you, I’ll get ya up on the platform, you’ll pull yer gear up’n I’ll join yer”

“Thanks. But what are we running from?”

Jerome pointed back east, up the track.

“Irish Mail.” Jerome tried unsuccessfully to camouflage his reaction to the expression on Ace’s  on hearing ‘Irish Mail’”.

“It looks like a hand car out of a western movie, or a Bugs Bunny or Road Runner cartoon. What does he want?”

“Ta eat us? Steal our stuff? Your stuff, that is I means ta say. Stay up here, woncha, safer’n down there. I’ll do the jawboning.”

“He’s offering us a lift. For a fee. He might could get us to the Bronx River, maybe even  hopefully acrost it. Maybe all the ways till the tunnel.”

“What does he want?”

“Our other two hard rolls. You’re the client, whaddaya say?”

“Feed him and give him some of this jerky.”

“How many pockets does ya has, anyway?”

“Sufficient for the task at hand, I hope. Plus 50%.”

It was smooth sailing down to the old New York, Westchester, and Boston railroad station. Ace was impressed by the rat traps along the rails. And not only the trap constructions but the human will to live. And probably the rat will to live as well. Only half the traps were occupied. Sadly, New Compact declared an unemployment emergency and the astounding experiment to train rats to do useful cultivation work was dropped. Along with most other Old Federal granted research.   The solidly-built fin-de-previous-siecle station house was in command of the Bridge over the Bronx River. The Constabs this day were securing free passage, including the stretch past Longwood Avenue, where the tracks went underground.   The three bakery-fueled men were willing to chance death and claustrophobia. They took turns pumping the car and made it to 138^th Street, last stop in The Bronx, where the tracks were not only underground, but also underwater. On that day, however, three of the remaining twelve pumps were out of action. New Compact personnel were turning everyone back, including Ace and his new friends.

“Any chance we’s can switch to the 4 and 5 line? They join up at the Used-to-be-Grand Concourse, doesn’t they?” Jerome immediately recognized his mistake; a real guide would have known all the transfers and intersections in the Three Boroughs. He recovered, hopefully, quickly.

“I mean if it weren’t for the dust-up between Christ The King Church and Sacred Heart. It took three whole months fer the guy wit one collar to jaw with the guy wearin’ a diff’rent  collar ta make a deal for a basketball game. An wuncha knowit, the mackerel-snapper point guard kinda-sorta accidently on purpose made a pass that hit a Pisscapallion forward in the face ” The handcar proprietor never seemed to change aspect despite the fact that cards were dropping, face up, all over the table.

“How much can you carry? I see your friend there is already overburdened. We’ll have to disassemble getting up and down the stairs. If the stairs are still there. Obviously, Mr. Jerome, there will be an additional fee.”

Ace and Jerome had a little wow-pow and then invited the hand pumper into the discussions.

“We’ll give you an 8-pack of double-A batteries to get us to Highbridge. The actual High Bridge, not just the Neighborhood.”

“Gentlemen, I would gladly take those batteries off your hands, but I wouldn’t want it on my conscience sending you to Viveros territory.

Ace fished out something from yet another pocket.

“Night vision goggles. You can probably use those, couldn’t you?” No emotive response from the pumper, but he asked to try the headset on. He was impressed at how he could see in the darkened tunnels.

“Get us to 167^th Street, wait there with Jerome for 15 minutes, get us to the High Bridge, and it’s all yours. It works with those batteries.”

“Deal for sure.”

Jerome made sure the passenger and the railway man knew how dangerous the trip across the Harlem River could be. The “bridge” was a 19^th Century aqueduct, modeled on Roman design and engineering, but before calculus was fully worked out. It had been repurposed as an attraction just before Compact days. For those willing to chance it in its current condition, it was the best way west out of The Bronx.

Ace came back three minutes before his self-imposed deadline and showed his companions a short stack of food/clothing/shelter New Compact vouchers, holographic seals authenticated.

“These are for you guys if you get me to the Church on time. It’s amazing what you can get in the Post Office these days. Chop Chop, let’s take Manhattan.” Pumper traded some wear on his steel wheels running them over concrete for a fast trip across the river.

“Are those goats in the trees, or am I hallucinating,” Ace asked.

“They are goats,” the last member of the party answered. “Goats can climb trees to forage. They can also climb trees to stay ahead of the viveros.”

“Thanks for the reality check, buddy. Are those traffic lights down there?”

“You bet. Welcome to the unchanged land. Sometimes the best way to adapt is to stay the same and let everybody else adapt. New Compact can’t afford to lose another economy. Just look down there.  Auto Parts Row is now the transportation provisioner for the area. Ropa has expanded five-fold, old clothes repurposed or made fit for sale, anything unsalvageable turned into raw material. Keep looking uptown. Live goats and chickens being farmed in Manhattan. No way New Compact loses this. Well. This is it. Hopefully I won’t have to deadhead all the way home. Turn right at the second turn along the path, it’ll lead you down to Smugglers’ Cove, now with real smugglers. From there you get to Dyckman Street and the heart of it all. Good Luck.

“Hold on. What would happen if you put rubber tires on this thing,” Ace asked.

“Never really thought about it before; I’ve always been a railroad man. Randy Railroad, that’s me! Let’s see, it would be a lot quieter, if that does anything for you. Still couldn’t put it on a road, ya don’t steer a rail car, ya know. The rails steer the car.”

“Come down with us. I think I have an idea.”

When they got down to ground level, Jerome pointed to a pungent-smelling shack, the Cantina Chupa Cabra. Ace fished out some more scrip and stood the crew to roast goat, scotch bonnet rubbed, served with potatoes, peas, and coconut milk. The trio had declined selecting their own sacrificial goat.

Another handful of scrip got Randy a set of solid rubber tires and a soapbox derby racer-style pulley steering rig for the front trucks of the hand car. It was go time.

They pumped the car up to the two competing sites for highest point in Manhattan and cut across to Strivers Row, St. Nicholas Avenue. A quick jog to the east brought them to an amazingly well-kept Fifth avenue. It was straight sailing from there. They just might be at the church on time.

“Head’s up! No, wait, heads down.” Jerome pointed out that they were passing the Central Park Zoo. “They left the animals there when things went to shit and they just extended the walls. It’s its own ecosystem now. But nobody knows what the condition the walls are in now. Or how high whatever animals are alive in there can jump or climb.” Jerome pulled a flare gun from a cargo pocket in his pants, just in case.  They heard the roars, shrieks, and trumpeting from inside the enclosure, but they passed by safely. Ace could practically smell a successful mission. He hadn’t been in Manhattan for several years before the New Compact; he was shocked to see what had happened to St. Patrick’s Cathedral and to Art Deco Rockefeller center, but he didn’t have time to dwell. They were so close, only a mile to go.

“There it is!” Behind some barricades, they could see the Marble Collegiate Church, home of Norman Vincent Peale’s pastorship. By this point, the crew could use some of his positive-thinking-induced power. “It says ‘BOARD OF ELECTIONS,’” Jerome continued. “You’re here. I guess they changed the church into a polling station.” The guide had dropped his cornpone accent, fired a shot in the air from his flare gun, and then took off, not even pausing to collect his fee. Ace took point on the now slowly moving hand car. Yet another pocket held field glasses, and he took a look at the scene. And almost feinted.

“Mother of God, Randy. It’s my High School girlfriend. Liesel Shafer.” He took another look down Fifth Avenue, engaging the electronic zoom. “She’s a New Compact officer. Light Colonel. Not a lot of hash or fruit salad. Ink’s probably still wet on her Porcupine Party card. She’s ordering reinforcements for the barricade.”

“I don’t get it, Ace. Isn’t your job to get that pack to this church? On time?”

“Yup. To get it here and to deliver it to the board of elections. Heh. Funny. It looks like the Board of Elections is made out of actual boards. On sawhorses. Any ideas? Not that you’re obligated to help any more than you have, but maybe have a good story to tell ‘round the fire?”

“Airmail it.”

“Airmail?”

“Yup, Airmail. If I disengage the clutch, the see-saw would make a good catapult.”

“Thanks. But they’ll claim the package was damaged.”

“Alright, Plan B. She’s gotta have something left in the tank for you, no? Fond memories of fondling? The time you put your jacket over a puddle so she wouldn’t get her Manolo Blahniks wet? Let her copy your test answers?”

“Plenty of that, sure. But she was always set on politics. She’d throw me under your hand car faster than those goats running from the viveros.”

“Why not give it a shot?”

Ace took the challenge, walking up to the expanded roadblock and waiting. Eventually Liesel came up from her side.

“Anselm. Nice to see you’re alive and well. What can I do for you?”

“Lisa.” Ace’s ex hated being called Lisa. “These are travel orders signed by Frank Charles himself. They can’t be refused, they can’t even be questioned. Under agreement between the Porcupine, Clamshell, and Boron parties, and at the order of Governor Quinn, I am to deliver these 4,267 ballots to the New York County Board of Elections. Which is where you are standing. Each ballot has been certified as valid by all three party observers. There are GPS units in the pack. The pack is being tracked by Postal Satellite,” Ace fibbed.  “Here is your delivery.”

“I’m sorry, Anselm. I can’t accept them. All mail-in ballots are subject to manipulation. They must be delivered by Compact Postal employees only. And as you can see, the road is blocked off.”

Randy had a chance to learn about Ace’s pockets. Ace removed the big pack from his back and he took off his windbreaker, which had been covering the passenger’s 100% up to code Postmaster Uniform. His ex, with whom he had shared loving intimacy, was unimpressed. Then the last layer came off. Liesel finally responded to the gold stars on her old boyfriend’s shoulders and the unit patch of the 104^th wing of the New York State Air National Guard by coming to attention and saluting smartly, yet sarcastically. Coming to attention had meant something completely different when she was going out with Anselm. She ordered her squad to arrest the “traitor” if he wasn’t gone in two minutes.

“Back to the drawing board, Randy. Any other ideas?”

“Well, we’ll have to go up and down stairs, but we can use the 28^th Street station. Even when the subway was fully functional, almost nobody knew about the 28^th Street station. Your friend there is going to have set her cordon sanitaire to at least 26^th Street. So we can retreat to 34^th street, pop up at 28^th, and come in from behind.”

“Sounds good. Let’s rock and roll.” Randy gave his partner a smart salute, and before Ace could frown, he stated his unit, an infantry battalion, and deployment, Korea. Ace returned the salute, equally smartly, and started pushing the hand car to the subway station.

“Demmit,” Ace screamed. He got a good gouge getting pinched by one of the pump handles. “After all that, it ends here in a train station.”

“Not so fast, General. In addition to sharpshooting, I was qualified as a medic.” Randy opened the handcar’s toolbox and took out a first aid kit. It was four precious minutes used to bind the wound, and Randy would have to pump solo, and Ace would only be able to lift at half strength. Nevertheless, they emerged back into the early twilight before the deadline. Randy skateboarded the car along 28^th and took the turn back onto fifth, only to hear the Carillon begin. When they got to 30^th, the church bell began to count to six. For the first time in 24 hours, Ace was separated from his cargo, surrounded by armed troops. Liesel ordered the Sergeant to form everyone up and parade past her old boyfriend. She came over and planted a wet sloppy one on her former lover.

“Congratulations, General Tibbett. You passed. These votes will be counted, of course. I nominated you for this mission. The three parties are trying to come together, and we need people who can do, overcome, survive, and fulfill. Your real mission is just about to begin.”

“Lay, I need a break for a little bit before I do something as stupid as this again.” Liesel smiled at the old pet (literally) name. “How do you feel about roast goat? I know a great place…”