Nano update
Nov. 4th, 2006 08:12 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
valarltd7361 words and cooking right along on Glad Hands.
For those who remember the game scene a few weeks ago, here's the revised version:
He was in Bozeman by eleven. The gate guard gave him a grin, his teeth flashing and his traditional mohawk hair limp in the drizzle. “If it’s lunchtime on Tuesday, it must be the Hummingbird rolling in. How ya doing, Chuck?”
“Fine, Stan.” He smiled back as he signed the log. “Is John here today?”
“Sure is. Saw his curtains twitch about five minutes ago. He’s probably looking for you.” The guard checked the seals on his tanker’s valves and nodded approval. “Drop it in lot C, slot 26.” He made a note on his clipboard, “crude, SeaTac, 1115, 3 Oct 91.” He looked up. “John’ll tell you which one to hook.”
“Thanks.” Chuck knew the drill, knew it better than Stan in fact because he’d been doing it for six months longer. He idled over to lot C and found slot twenty-six. He loved the refinery lot, plenty of room to park. Some places he would have six inches on each side and less than twenty feet in front to maneuver the fifty-three foot trailer. He set up for a straight-line back, a parking style that took over a hundred linear feet, and had the tanker in the hole in five minutes.
He lowered the landing gear, uncoupled the air-lines and hooked the glad-hands at the ends to the storage rack on the back of his tractor. Last, he pulled the fifth-wheel lock. “Gear, hoses, pin,” he muttered as he did every time he dropped a trailer. He pulled out, pausing to make sure the landing gear held. He parked the Hummingbird at the office, and took his paperwork out, making sure everything was signed and in order.
Chuck grinned as he opened the office door. Time for one of his favorite games. He wiped the smile off his face and assumed the standard "Stoic Indian" face from the movies as he put the bill of lading on John's desk and raised his right hand. "How. Dropped'um heap big load, Littlefeather. You got'um place to hitch steel pony?"
John looked up at him, his face equally impassive. "Hitch'um to wagon in slot two tens, Hummingbird. Great White Mother on coast send red errand boy to steal Injun wampum again." He furrowed his brow slightly and added “Ugh.”
“Great White Mother send with much black stink water. You got firewater for thirsty brave?”
They could go back and forth for hours, each trying to make the other laugh with the ridiculous pidgen. The loser had to buy the winner lunch. So far they were evenly tied.
Fred Halfmoon opened the door as they launched into a third volley and slammed the clipboard. "How dare you? A century and a half of work and every damn time I walk in, you two are in here acting like...like Hollywood savages."
Both men looked at him and laughed. Chuck looked back at John. "I think we're both buying Fred lunch today, huh?"
“I don’t want your lunch. I want this to stop.” Fred scowled. “You of all people should know what prejudice does. You Cherokee got run out of Georgia and then out of Oklahoma.”
Chuck turned to him, his face very serious. The Second Trail of Tears was one of his earliest memories and he didn’t like being lectured by a Crow who was still living on land that had been his people’s for a century.
He rolled up the sleeve of the blue workshirt and looked at Fred. The Cherokee patterned armband was old and faded and stretched across his right bicep. “I know exactly what prejudice does, Fred. It puts tattoos on scared three year-olds and exiles them with their families in the middle of winter. But I also have a sense of humor and can mock the stupid stereotypes.” He buttoned the cuff of the shirt back around his wrist.
Fred stared at the tattoo until Chuck rolled his sleeve back down. “Chuck, John, I know it’s a joke. It offends me anyway.” He sounded more subdued, the visceral reminder that Chuck had a great deal of first hand experience with prejudice hitting him harder than any physical blow.
John nodded. “We won’t do it in front of you again.”
Chuck agreed. “And we’ll still buy you lunch if you want.”
“You’re all heart, Hummingbird.” Fred finally smiled at him.
For those who remember the game scene a few weeks ago, here's the revised version:
He was in Bozeman by eleven. The gate guard gave him a grin, his teeth flashing and his traditional mohawk hair limp in the drizzle. “If it’s lunchtime on Tuesday, it must be the Hummingbird rolling in. How ya doing, Chuck?”
“Fine, Stan.” He smiled back as he signed the log. “Is John here today?”
“Sure is. Saw his curtains twitch about five minutes ago. He’s probably looking for you.” The guard checked the seals on his tanker’s valves and nodded approval. “Drop it in lot C, slot 26.” He made a note on his clipboard, “crude, SeaTac, 1115, 3 Oct 91.” He looked up. “John’ll tell you which one to hook.”
“Thanks.” Chuck knew the drill, knew it better than Stan in fact because he’d been doing it for six months longer. He idled over to lot C and found slot twenty-six. He loved the refinery lot, plenty of room to park. Some places he would have six inches on each side and less than twenty feet in front to maneuver the fifty-three foot trailer. He set up for a straight-line back, a parking style that took over a hundred linear feet, and had the tanker in the hole in five minutes.
He lowered the landing gear, uncoupled the air-lines and hooked the glad-hands at the ends to the storage rack on the back of his tractor. Last, he pulled the fifth-wheel lock. “Gear, hoses, pin,” he muttered as he did every time he dropped a trailer. He pulled out, pausing to make sure the landing gear held. He parked the Hummingbird at the office, and took his paperwork out, making sure everything was signed and in order.
Chuck grinned as he opened the office door. Time for one of his favorite games. He wiped the smile off his face and assumed the standard "Stoic Indian" face from the movies as he put the bill of lading on John's desk and raised his right hand. "How. Dropped'um heap big load, Littlefeather. You got'um place to hitch steel pony?"
John looked up at him, his face equally impassive. "Hitch'um to wagon in slot two tens, Hummingbird. Great White Mother on coast send red errand boy to steal Injun wampum again." He furrowed his brow slightly and added “Ugh.”
“Great White Mother send with much black stink water. You got firewater for thirsty brave?”
They could go back and forth for hours, each trying to make the other laugh with the ridiculous pidgen. The loser had to buy the winner lunch. So far they were evenly tied.
Fred Halfmoon opened the door as they launched into a third volley and slammed the clipboard. "How dare you? A century and a half of work and every damn time I walk in, you two are in here acting like...like Hollywood savages."
Both men looked at him and laughed. Chuck looked back at John. "I think we're both buying Fred lunch today, huh?"
“I don’t want your lunch. I want this to stop.” Fred scowled. “You of all people should know what prejudice does. You Cherokee got run out of Georgia and then out of Oklahoma.”
Chuck turned to him, his face very serious. The Second Trail of Tears was one of his earliest memories and he didn’t like being lectured by a Crow who was still living on land that had been his people’s for a century.
He rolled up the sleeve of the blue workshirt and looked at Fred. The Cherokee patterned armband was old and faded and stretched across his right bicep. “I know exactly what prejudice does, Fred. It puts tattoos on scared three year-olds and exiles them with their families in the middle of winter. But I also have a sense of humor and can mock the stupid stereotypes.” He buttoned the cuff of the shirt back around his wrist.
Fred stared at the tattoo until Chuck rolled his sleeve back down. “Chuck, John, I know it’s a joke. It offends me anyway.” He sounded more subdued, the visceral reminder that Chuck had a great deal of first hand experience with prejudice hitting him harder than any physical blow.
John nodded. “We won’t do it in front of you again.”
Chuck agreed. “And we’ll still buy you lunch if you want.”
“You’re all heart, Hummingbird.” Fred finally smiled at him.
