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tinycrow · 3 years

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I don’t believe in miracles

Chapter 1: This secret

She was speeding down the highway, a plain black vehicle, weaving around traffic where she safely could. In the driver’s seat, a woman with green eyes and messy black hair pulled back into a tight braid flickered in and out of reality minutely before stabilizing with a grimace. Bouncing excitably in the passenger seat was, unmistakably, a baby of a non-human race. Their fragile protoform was bare for the world to see with no armour to speak of. The seatbelt clenched tighter around the precious bundle of metal and youth, a gentle reprimand emanating from all around them. The young one stilled, but their little helm turned curiously to look back through the rear window.

From around several cars’ worth of space behind them, a silver car quickly approached. They were stalled by the traffic between them, for now.

~ Ray to Shawn. I’ve got someone on my tail. Evacuate through the ground bridge. I don’t want anyone hurt if I end up having to fight. ~

~ Shawn here. Gotcha, sunshine. Just come home, both of you. ~

The silent communication ended, and her engine revved as she sped up. An exit was coming up, and she wanted to give as little indication as possible as to her intentions. Her sensors let her know that the silver car was almost directly behind her now, doggedly matching her lane for lane. She wondered if it would try to run her off the road.

At the last possible second, she swerved onto the exit ramp, barely missing the barrier. She knew the other car would be forced to take the next exit or risk an accident to double back. In comparison to the other car, she wasn’t the greatest driver, but she was fiercely protective and maybe a tad reckless. Her passenger chirped in excitement, unaware of the danger they were in.

The woman’s brow wrinkled as she flickered in and out again. Not relaxing in the slightest, but not wanting to crash, she reluctantly slowed down. She may not see her pursuer anymore, but she wouldn’t put it past them to surprise her. She decided to take a roundabout way to the warehouse that was her target destination.

Perhaps luck was on her side because she made it without incident. Tapping into the controller that opened the door, she wheeled herself in and closed the door. She then encoded a request to the Gate Room. Soon, a portal opened in midair toward the back of the room. The dark vehicle hurried through with her enclosed passenger.

:: Unknown Location ::

Once on the other side, the vehicle visibly sagged on its axels in relief. The woman in the driver’s seat blinked out of existence.

“Sunshine! You made it!” A man with long hair pulled back called from a nearby console. With a few more presses of his fingers to the on-screen keyboard, the portal closed behind her, and a loud humming from a nearby machine quieted.

The sound of shifting metal and displaced air filled the quiet, and the black car stood up. In its place was a feminine figure of softly curved metal and dark armour plating. Two black door-wings twitched anxiously behind her. Her pedes daintily stepped forward with the youthful bundle now held in her arms.

“Shawn,” she greeted the smiling human. The ‘baby’ chirred in curiosity at the man, though she held them firmly.

The man turned from the console, hands on his hips and no visible fear on his features. Kneeling her much larger form down, she let the curious bundle meet the man.

“And that must be our new kid,” he said gently, “Cute fella’. Hey there, little guy. I’m Shawn Jenkins. Everyone calls me Shawn, except for… well, you’ll meet them later.”

The young one simply stared for a second, and then chirped happily, reaching small hands to touch him. The large, metal woman muttered a “No touchy,” and quickly stood up again. The looks of disappointment from both the baby and the man caused her to laugh.

“I can’t tell who’s more disappointed, you or the kid.”

She rocked said kid slowly, smiling down at her young one apologetically. “Sorry, my little one. Not until I’m sure that you’ve learnt to be gentle with humans.”

“I don’t mind. I’m not made out of glass, y’ know.”

“I know, Shawn. However, I don’t let any of my youngest interact with humans until they’ve gotten more control of their motor functions, just as a general rule. The cleanup is messy.”

It was a topic that had been discussed before, but no one wanted to argue with ‘mama bear’. Instead, Shawn shrugged, and the two headed toward the doors. A set of doors matching the estimated max heights of each species was available, though Shawn went toward the big door. They exited the building into a small but bustling community.

The buildings were big, but not reaching the heights of skyscrapers. This tight-knit community was sectioned into roughly three parts around a central power source, all within a tall dome-shaped forcefield protecting them from the raging storm outside its perimeter. The three sectors were: Industrial, Residential, and Business. Dividing the buildings and sectors were wide streets able to comfortably fit large vehicles moving both ways.

People, robotic and human alike, peppered the streets, sometimes hauling equipment or other supplies. Each one had their own set of tasks to fulfil, so they tended to move with purpose toward their destinations. Besides, no one wanted to be caught out in the cold, and boy it was cold outside.

They talked as they walked.

“I’m headed to the Nursery,” Ray said, “Where are you headed?”

“I’m going to grab some more people to help me with the crates in the warehouse.”

“You could com’ them. That way you wouldn’t need to leave the building.”

Upon closer inspection, every human could be seen wearing an earpiece of some sort. They came in all sorts of shapes and colours—some of them looked very much like earrings, and some like hearing aids—but everyone had a piece that served as the ‘speaker’ and then a ‘mic’ part (not always attached). It wasn’t just a fashion statement. Every earpiece was designed to look innocuous and perform as a communication device. There were a few public channels separating business and social. Then there were the private calls. They were all generally referred to as “the com”, or in other words the ‘communication servers’.

He shook his head. “Nah… I’ve been meaning to say hi to Brian anyway.”

She hummed in response, giving more attention to her young one who shivered in the cold. Transforming, she said goodbye to Shawn and hurried to Residential. Luckily, the Gate Room was on the border between Business and Residential, so the Nursery was practically next door.

This was done on purpose in case of evacuation. Most people were working in Business or relaxing at home, so it would be easy to quickly run to the Gate Room to be teleported to safety. The only problem was that the portion of the population working in Industrial would be the furthest from the gate room.

:: California, America ::

Sideswipe revved his engine in frustration. He was going in circles trying to find out where the strange bot/con could have gone to. The nearest district seemed to be mostly industry and warehousing... Not the worst place to hide, but it shouldn’t have been possible to be this good at hiding, not with the kind of radiation that the stranger was giving off. He knew he had to call it in.

~ Prime, I lost the unidentified Cybertronian. I followed their strange signature to what seems to be a set of warehouses, but the trail suddenly ends. There’s nothing here but scrap. ~

Optimus Prime was silent for a bit, then asked some questions.

~ Did they attempt to fight you or harm any humans? ~

~ They didn’t do either. They just fled as soon as they noticed me. ~

~ We will reconvene with the human soldiers. Send me the unidentified’s readings then. Prime out. ~

Sideswipe did a quick U-turn and headed back to the highway. The ‘con might’ve escaped this time, but now that he could identify them, they wouldn’t manage it a second time.

As he drove, Sideswipe spared a thought to his brother Sunstreaker, who he had been separated from since a mission at a Con compound on a very distant moon. They worked fine alone, but their teamwork was unmatched when it came to fighting. He knew if he were paired with his brother, there would be little chance for this new foe to escape.

Well, there was not much he could do about his brother. He could only hope that Sunstreaker would hear the transmission from Optimus Prime, wherever his brother is, and come to Earth. Though he imagined Sunstreaker would find this planet a little gross. It was covered in dirt particles and saltwater... not great for keeping clean and rust-free. Sunny was admittedly very vain.

:: Unknown Location ::

A weekly meeting containing a small number of individuals was in session, and it was not going well. The current topic of discussion was the possibility of letting in some of the non-hostile aliens into their community.

Max Wilson, a tall and bulky man with shortly cropped dark hair and bronze skin, said on the verge of shouting, “The community has been safe over these past few years because we have kept to ourselves, kept it quiet. The only thing keeping us safe is our lack of presence in their war, Ray!”

“I realize that! But, as aliens on a planet that is mostly populated by humans that hate anything remotely different, don’t you think they could use a place to call home?”

“What about your babies, huh?!”

Despite the warmth of the central heating flooding the building, everyone shivered. The one person that didn’t was the so-called mama bear. She didn’t take insults to her babies or her ability to care for them lightly. She didn’t take threats lightly.

She asked coldly, “Where are you going with this, Max Wilson?”

He paused at the tone and backtracked a bit. “I’m just saying, they’re- they’re not going to like what you’ve been hiding from them this whole time. They’re not going to understand.” Max took a breath, and seeing as no one was stopping him, he continued, “And just think, what if we do allow a few in? They’re obviously going to want to share it with their friends.

What then? How can we possibly maintain our secrecy then?”

Reluctantly, someone else piped up in agreement, “Chief has a point. As soon as our secrecy is blown, we’ll be forced to choose sides in their conflict.”

“Not to mention various governments’ reactions to tech they could only dream of.”

“We’re gonna get nuked,” joked a pale, redheaded woman next to Ray.

Ray’s cold exterior melts a bit. It’s a running joke, admittedly a lame one, but the fact that her friend Linda (the readhead) was trying to ease the tension breaks through her anger a bit. Ray’s digits meet her metallic face with a small clatter that causes scattered laughter amongst the group.

Ray sighs, and then speaks with a surprisingly soft tone. “I get it, I really do. I want to preserve our way of life here as much as possible. This is not just an experiment, it’s a home, and I would never want to jeopardize that.”

They all sense a “but” coming, and the non-human continues...

“... However, you can’t possibly think that we were going to stay hidden forever. Eventually, through one of our own, overheard conversations, or governments piercing through the storm barrier... We have to be prepared for the eventuality that they’re going to know we’re here.”

The room was very silent.

Despite the cold, despite the lack of direct sunlight, despite the layers of secrecy that prevented them from sharing the existence of their home with anyone, and despite the many problems they faced daily, everyone present had chosen to be here because it was a chance to be accepted as who they were and be cared for despite it all. It was a chance for humans and non-humans to live together in a technology-enriched environment unlike anywhere else on earth. There was no real worry about money except for those that handled the collective finances, as most wants were handled by the finance crew. And because of the vetting of each member of their community, there was a feeling of safety that didn’t come with living ‘outside’.

There were many reasons to be upset about the idea of sharing all that with unknowns.

“How about this. We agree to let this go for now, as it seems there’s no pressing need for it right now. All I ask of you is to think about it. Please.”

Gradually, people started grumbling their assent.

“I think Max had some other issues to bring up, before everyone starts leaving,” Linda announced.

The rest of the meeting passed quickly without commotion.

The Nursery was a big building with many wide and tall rooms. From the front door there was the central room or rec room where all could mingle and play. Connected to that central room were the shower room, Ray’s bedroom, and the children’s ‘bedrooms’, the latter which contained multiple beds as well as a ‘couch’ and tables for relaxing or working. All of the bedrooms were a motley of kids of various stages/frames in order to ensure there would always be an older child for the younger ones to turn to in case Ray was not around. She called these groups ‘families’.

The room directly opposite the front door was one the children were not allowed in. The very first frames were kept in that room, some sparked and others not. Other than the electronic locking device on the door, there were alarms as well as monitoring equipment to add some security.

Ray swept her gaze across the living room, the excited baby babble bringing a smile to her metal face. Her children mostly understood English, though she knew that the youngest would still be talking in chittering, beeping, and chirring. She stepped cautiously around the young ones on her way to a couple of kids squabbling loudly. Putting a servo/hand on her black-plated hip, she eyed them quietly until they started to get out of hand. Mindful of the newly acquired child in her arms, she stepped between the children and pushed them apart, breaking up the scuffle they were getting into.

“This isn’t the first time I’ve had to separate you two,” she commented, disappointment thick in her voice, “you know, it makes me sad when my children fight.”

One of them, Moonrider, sulked. The other, Sunstorm, looked unrepentant and seemed to bristle in response.

“Tomorrow, I am assigning each of you to older siblings no longer living in the Nursery. I expect you to listen to them. If I hear good things about you from them, I won’t force you to continue working with them.” She wouldn’t let them do work that was too hard. Most punishments for rowdy youngsters would be either light cleaning or monitoring, quite boring jobs.

“No, please mama.” The previously sulking child now pleaded.

“Oh, whatever will I do? I am so sad. My children want me to be sad.”

“No, I’m sorry mama. Don’t be sad,” Moonrider said.

The other, bristly child looked over to her with a slightly guilty face.

With a sad look on her face, Ray crouched down to their level. “I could really use a hug right now.”

Two smaller bodies attempted to hug her, followed by more, and she cracked a smile above their tiny helms.

:: Somewhere in America ::

After the events in Egypt, Sam returned to college to finish his education. The Autobots returned to base, though after Egypt the human government was pressuring them a lot more than before. The Decepticon threat was not enough reason to continue as they were before, considering the All-Spark was gone as well as the harvester. Now the ever-looming government liaisons were pressuring them for weapons technology and using their status as aliens on a ‘human’ planet against them.

It seems some people were just determined to be intolerant. Was everyone like that? No, they had humans that really cared. But it was admittedly disheartening to see the negative responses from both government officials and civilians alike. Optimus Prime grit his dermas and held his helm high, however.

How long ago was it since he said Earth could be home? A few months? Years? After everything that’s happened, it felt much longer.

:: Unknown Location ::

Because of the tentative status of the aliens on the planet right now, Ray was reluctant to let her older children help out in the warehouses. She reflexively clenched and opened her servos again and again, super aware of the rifle just out of reach. Her human team working the warehouses said they would appreciate the extra muscle. It made sense for her sturdy, strong children to help with the heavy lifting. It would mean they wouldn’t have to rent and store as many forklifts. Things would be done much faster. It was also a chance to show them the world while being carefully watched by her human team, who had all promised her their safety.

Cycling air through her vents, Ray turned her attention back to the plot of land that would become a park. They had dug up and flattened the area with dirt, then piled the material she would need in neat stacks in the centre. It would be a greenhouse of sorts, temperature and humidity carefully controlled to encourage growth. The knowledge she had of the tech behind it wasn’t that complicated, so she didn’t foresee any problems.

Clapping her servos together with a clank, a small spark flashed over her digits. She stood in front of the metal and did a pulling motion with a servo. The metal seemed to almost melt or fall apart, tumbling outwards in little streams and flowing around her to where large beams were beginning to construct themselves. Pivoting on a heel strut, she raised her hand in a lifting motion as it built supportive arches and arches for the doors. Pivoting again, she reached for the glass and similarly called to it. It melted like ice to water and formed the outer shell of the greenhouse. Lastly, she used the leftover electronics and material to create the advanced system to control the climate inside the thinly walled park.

All in all, much faster than teaching her people how to make it themselves. Stretching idly, she looked over her work, scanning a few places to determine its integrity.

“That is cool every time I see it.”

Ray turned to see a familiar redhead with blue eyes, Linda Davies, one of her dearest friends. “Linda, I didn’t see you there.”

She smiled good-naturedly, “Yeah, you seemed pretty occupied. So, how’s the build?”

“Structurally, it is good. But I really don’t know how well the climate control turned out. We’ll have to run it for a day to see.” Ray sheepishly scratched the back of her helm with rounded digits.

Linda walked over to the controls, which came in two pieces of differing sizes for each specie. Going to the smaller one, she examined the screen and buttons.

“So, how does this work?”

Ray ambled up to the smaller control and pointed out how to adjust various things. It wasn’t too difficult, and soon Linda had set the temperature to be comfortable enough for a human to be without a jacket or sweater. Deciding this would be a good test, Ray set the humidity on the bigger control, and they waited for the temperature to start changing.

“This is nice. All it needs now is grass.”

Feeling slightly distracted, Ray hummed in agreement.

Eyeing her large, metal friend, the redhead asked, “Are you worried?”

“I’m always worried.”

“You know Jenkins and all them... they won’t let anyone hurt your kids.”

There was only silence on Ray’s part.

“Besides, they’re only going to stay near the warehouse. All the delivery is still handled by other companies.”

She slowly admitted, “Yes, that’s true...”

:: California, America ::

~ Incoming truck. ~

The whirr of transformations filled the air as the human workers made their way to the wide metal door. Things were going well for the warehouse crew. With help from the ‘bots, moving things through the ground bridge was a lot easier. It was a little messy until they got the hang of hiding whenever a delivery arrived, but once the truck left, the stacked boxes were lifted into the ground bridge. They still required the use of machinery for the delivery trucks, and it wasn’t as fast as the ‘bots moving things straight from the truck into the warehouse, but there wasn’t much they could do about it unless they made their own deliveries.

A red-blue Peterbilt truck backed carefully but skillfully toward the warehouse door. Once the truck was in position, the driver’s side door popped open and a fairly young but muscled man stepped out. He shot the workers a half-hearted greeting before opening the trailer door.

“So, what do you guys do with all this metal?”

Eyeing the curious truck driver with a niggling suspicion, it’s Shawn that answered with practiced ease, “The company stores materials for construction.” Before the driver can ask another question, he immediately asked, “How long have you been a truck driver?”

There was a small pause, before the driver smiled and answered, “About 3 years and counting.”

“You’re pretty young. What’s your name, kid?”

The driver laughed, before trying to walk through the warehouse door. The small feeling of suspicion started blaring a loud warning and Shawn intercepted with a sharp smile.

“Sorry, kid,” he said, “Only company employees are allowed in there.”

The suspicious trucker stopped but didn’t back up. “Sorry,” he said, though Shawn was sure they weren’t at all, “just wanted to check on the load I’ve been carrying for days across Cali. Why the secrecy?”

At this point, the other workers were staring at Shawn and the unnamed trucker with cautious looks. Shawn raised a hand to the trucker and waved him back. Reluctantly, the trucker backed up, but not before spying the headlights of a vehicle around a stack of metal.

“Do you usually park your vehicle inside the warehouse while you work?” There was a look in the trucker’s eyes that screamed suspicion, though his mouth was curved into a constant smile.

“I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to go back to your vehicle while we finish unloading. I’m not sure what other companies you’ve worked with are like, but we’re very busy, and company policy says I can’t have you snooping around our wares.”

The suspicious individual raised their hands in a placating gesture and let themselves be herded back to the driver’s side of the cabin.

“Woah, didn’t mean to step on anyone’s toes.”

Shawn held back a biting remark, and simply hummed in response.

Though he helped the workers until they were finished unloading, he kept a close eye on the trucker. The closely watched man disappeared briefly into the cabin of the truck before exiting again to watch the workers from afar. Eventually, when all the metal was unloaded, the trucker sauntered over to close the trailer door before going back to the cabin to drive off. Shawn made sure to watch for the truck’s disappearance before going back into the warehouse and signalling the other workers.

The warehouse door closed and locked before the hidden bots transformed back to their bipedal selves. Their vocals whirred nervously, but they were otherwise silent.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. They’re gone.” Shawn reassured them.

Another worker piped up, “Though that guy was really suspicious. We should report him.”

“Hey Shawn, what was that guy’s name?”

He frowned as he answered, “When I asked, he avoided the question, so I don’t know.”

The warehouse became noisy with conversation before Shawn decided to take charge and whistled loudly, grabbing their attention. “Okay, I know that was exciting, but we need to get our ‘bots out of here and get back to work. I want ‘bots to grab as much metal as you can carry before you leave. Stay on the other side of the ground bridge, moving things to storage. As for the rest of us, we’ll have to move the rest.”

Sending the request for the ground bridge to activate, Shawn clapped and sent everyone back to work. He knew neither mama bear nor Max (their chief of security) were going to like hearing about the incident. Hopefully, he could convince them that they had things under control, so that the ‘bots could remain to help.

#my fanfiction #I don't believe in miracles #transformers #greyscales

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killingthebuddha · 7 years

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It was the summer of 1990, when I was stuck in Albany because I needed two more courses to graduate. I found a sublet and I signed up for a history course on the Gilded Age, of which I remember nothing, and an English course, The Bible as Literature. The professor was rangy man with a gray beard. On the first day he explained that we would be examining Bible stories as texts like any other, which made my heart rate accelerate with intellectual excitement. The pear-shaped Christian woman who sat next to me had a different view. Whenever she made one of her frequent declarations of faith the instructor looked ready to chew his own arm off. Frankly I liked how she proclaimed her beliefs without embarrassment, and for being the only student in the class who had bothered to ask my name. That is, until she learned that I was Jewish, and she started handing me pamphlets about the upcoming Billy Graham revival meeting.

That summer I went to class, and I must have done the reading, because my transcript indicates that I earned a B in the Bible course and a C in history. (It is typical of my academic career that I earned a B in a course that I found deeply interesting.) I also had a part-time job on campus. I referred to myself as the chairman of the library, because my job was fixing the chairs.

In the evening I’d get high and play guitar. I’d taken a music theory course that had opened up some things for me and I was writing songs. They weren’t necessarily good songs, but there were a lot of them, maybe three or four a week. I was into Paul Simon that summer, especially Hearts and Bones and Graceland. My own songs sounded nothing like his, first because he was Paul Simon and I was some schmuck with a guitar in Albany, and second because I was simultaneously getting into rootsier stuff like the Band and Ry Cooder. I was chasing some combination of lyrical cleverness and rhythm. I wanted Paul Simon’s wit and Levon Helm’s feel. Let’s face it: I never got there. But I like myself for thinking about that stuff at twenty-one. I like myself for trying.

My roommate was my friend Jen. She was a bright, perky brunette who smoked menthol cigarettes and drove a stick shift, which I thought was hot. We had an uncomplicated friendship that was a relief from the tense, neurotic undercurrents flowing between me and my girlfriend, who, in all fairness, was a tall, green-eyed blonde who drove a pickup, which was also hot. But I felt pulled along against my will. Perhaps because I was pulled along against my will. My girlfriend and I had been on and off since high school, and I longed to get away—from her, from Albany, from my overbearing parents, who were, if not physically nearby, never far from my thoughts, judging me, finding me wanting.

When I was a young man, my self-hatred was like an undiagnosed illness: chronic inflammation of the shame organ. I could never understand what my girlfriend saw in me, but she was smart and pretty, so I kept limping back to her. I didn’t know that I was allowed to look for someone more suitable, that her ambition and looks did not, for me, outweigh her overdeveloped sense of injustice and her own crippling insecurities. That I would have been better off with someone like Jen, who by the way liked my songs, or at least pretended to like them, as opposed to my girlfriend, who was threatened by my playing, because it was a space I had created wherein she didn’t exist.

Not that I was any prize. I was always short of cash and I stank of cigarettes, and, as you will soon learn, I could be a dick.

One night Jen brought home a six-pack and we sat on the crappy carpet and I played her some songs. After a few beers the good kind of tension was so obvious that even a timid kid like me couldn’t deny it, and I kissed her. We went to bed and had drunken college sex. It was delicious. After she fell asleep, I lay awake considering that apparently I was the cheating type.

Unless I was supposed to, you know, be with Jen.

But in the morning Jen said that she valued our friendship and she felt really bad, and I said that I valued our friendship and I felt really bad (even though I felt fine), and although it seemed possible that Jen was waiting for me to say I’d rather be with her, and I liked that idea, I wasn’t equipped to ask for what I wanted.

Aside from my self-doubt, another irritant in the summer of 1990 was the Grateful Dead, which was unavoidable. Their fan base had exploded. Maybe the Deadhead subculture, with its meandering nostalgic drugginess, appealed to early Gen-Xers as an antidote to the constrictions of the 80s. Maybe it was more fun to wear a tie-dye than giant shoulder pads. Who knows. I was mostly neutral to their music. My upstairs neighbors, however, absolutely fucking loved the Dead—Ronnie, and Dan, both nice Jewish boys grooving out to “Sugar Magnolia” as they played Nintendo and passed the bong.

Actually Dan wasn’t such a nice boy. A short, swarthy kid, he was already a kind of low-level grifter. For example, one evening Ronnie came home to find that Dan had treated him to takeout Chinese. Ronnie was touched until a few weeks later he saw that the food had been paid for with his own credit card. Finally we got wise to him and started locking our doors. There wasn’t much else to do, as we’d seen the last of him: Dan had disappeared, of course without paying the rent.

One day when I came home from class there was a Fed Ex package waiting for me.

“Dan called,” Jen said. “He asked if we got a Fed Ex package for him in your name. I told him I hadn’t seen it.”

“Good thinking.”

I looked at the Fed Ex. It was the first one I had ever received and it carried with it an air of great mystery and import, as if inside were the manual to adulthood. Instead there were four tickets to a Dead show in Buffalo. I called my bank and sure enough the tickets had been charged to my credit card. Since I hadn’t ordered them, the bank erased the charges.

“What should I do with the tickets?” I asked the operator.

“You, could, you know, use them,” he said.

I invited Ronnie to go with me. We made the four-hour drive in his mother’s Oldsmobile. A big, voluble blond kid, Ronnie was good company. We shot the shit and smoked Camel Lights and listened to his Dead bootlegs until I begged him to put on something else. As usual, when you are young and on a driving trip, there was sense of expectation and freedom. Traffic was light and the sky was big over the New York State heartland.

But inwardly I was anxious. We’d planned to sell the extra tickets for food and gas, and I kept thinking about when my enterprising brother had almost been arrested for scalping Rangers tickets in front of Madison Square Garden. I imagined spending the night in some Western New York jail cell and, God help me, having to call my father for bail. There was no guarantee that he’d help. Freshman year I had taken the bus to Boston to visit a friend; I’d gotten lost, and in those days before cell phones I couldn’t get in touch with my buddy and I didn’t have a credit card. I called home collect and asked my dad for help.

“You’re not getting a fucking dime,” he yelled and hung up.

But the tickets sold easily. Just after we got off the highway, there was a scraggly young dude on the verge, an expression of grit on his bearded face as he held up two fingers, the universal gesture of a Deadhead in need of tickets. Ronnie pulled over, and the Deadhead slapped fifty bucks in my hand. As we hunted for parking at Rich Stadium, I was feeling better. I had cash and a full pack of smokes. I had my own credit card now for emergencies. Most importantly, I had weed.

Ronnie and I set a time to meet back at his car in case we got separated, which, because we immediately got very high, happened within minutes. I wandered the parking lot alone, looking at the Deadheads, wondering if their evident joy grew out of their shared values or if it were merely the drugs. Either way I remember wishing that I could be a part of it. I didn’t want to be a Deadhead. I did however want to submerge myself for a while, to find some relief from the relentless pulsing of the shame organ.

I ran into Jill, a slim, tall, sloe-eyed girl with straight shining brown hair. We had made out twice freshman year. The first time we had been interrupted by my dumbass roommate. The second time ended when she puked. Now she and her boyfriend were following the Dead around the Northeast, supporting themselves by selling homemade granola bars. I was so impressed by their initiative. They had a VW bus and everything. More importantly they had found a way to be in the world. I tucked that knowledge away for later usage—that it was indeed possible to create your own independence while doing something fun.

At some collectively acknowledged moment the deadheads moved together toward the stadium. I had a general admission ticket so I made my way to the open area before the stage. Crosby, Stills and Nash was the opening band and I was looking forward to seeing Steven Stills play guitar. It was a lovely day, and it wasn’t too crowded, and I found a spot maybe 100 feet from Stills, and CSN was singing “Southern Cross,” a song that I loved for its drippy earnestness and killer harmonies.

And yet a pilot light of anger had flicked on in my gut. I had forgotten how Graham Nash gets on my nerves. His leftover sixties things seemed like a pose. I should add that Ronnie and I had dropped acid in the parking lot. I have the impression that Dan the Grifter had given it to us, but that seems impossible. Nevertheless, I had put a tab on my tongue, and it was coming on pretty strong. I watched CSN, and after Graham Nash said something incredibly annoying as the band played the intro to Woodstock, something like, “show us you deserve to wear those tie-dyes and get into it,” the pilot light flared, and I did something that I would forever regret.

“You suck, Graham Nash,” I shouted. “Go back to England.”

“Dude,” said some guy.

I swear to God that I saw Graham Nash look at me, baffled, before returning his focus to the song.

“Graham Nash. You’re a stupid limey.”

A circle had formed around me, dozens of heads backing away from this white-hot center of hostility. I think that was what snapped me out of it, that I was surrounded by people gaping at a crazy person, and the crazy person was me. in the shame organ pulsated with mortification.

So I left. I shouldered my way through the crowds and returned to the parking lot, where a wizened hippy sat on a cooler, chanting, mantra-like, “Groovy, groovy soda. Get your orange soda.” He repeated this line with unflagging enthusiasm, even though it was only me and him and the cars.

I was thirsty.

I bought a soda.

“You look like Bob,” he said.

“Bob Weir?”

“That’s what I said man, Bob. You look just like him.”

“No I don’t.”

“Dude, it’s good. Girls love Bob. Hey,” he shouted, open-mouthed, revealing blackened stumps of teeth. “It’s Bob.”

“I’m not Bob,” I said, feeling close to tears. “I’m Gordon.”

“It’s Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaab,” he shouted.

I ran away from the dentally challenged hippie and kept going until I found a shaded picnic bench on a grassy strip between the parking lot and a chain-link fence. I took out a cigarette. To my surprise, I was also holding a Zippo. I had no idea how I had acquired it.

It was nearing dusk and the air was cooling. I hadn’t been aware of the heat but now I felt the sweat drying on my back. I remembered my orange soda; it was a little warm but the sugar made me more alert. I could hear the roar of the crowd as The Dead took the stage. (The Internet tells me that the first song of the show was an eight-minute “Hell in a Bucket,” which indeed sounds like hell.) I smoked and I played with my Zippo until I felt ready to be around other people.

But when I tried to get back into the stadium, the security guards wouldn’t let me. I tried another gate with the same result. I shuffled back to my picnic bench in defeat. Mostly I was disturbed by my outburst against Graham Nash, who probably never hurt anybody, except maybe Joni Mitchell. I mean, what the fuck? I had just heckled Graham Nash! Was it the acid? Did it have some speed or mescaline or (God forbid) PCP in it?

Anyway, I was calmer now. I could hear Jerry’s guitar chiming away in the mixolydian mode, as it had done for decades to an audience of Caucasians that never seemed to tire of it. And I had to admit that I wasn’t disappointed about missing the show. In fact, I was relieved. There was a kind of clarity in the aftermath of my acid trip that allowed me to assimilate that I wasn’t merely indifferent to the Dead. I actively disliked their music. They were excellent musicians, but it didn’t cohere into anything. It was a sonic mess. They didn’t leave room for one another. At any given moment, an instrumentalist chooses between playing and not playing. Jerry, Bob, Brent, Phil, the drummers whose names I forgot, they were always playing. Every beat of every song, they were playing. Whereas the musicians that I admired—Ry Cooder, Taj Mahal, Levon Helm—they all knew when not to play.

And by the way did anybody really think that Jerry was a good vocalist? Did anyone really believe that Bob was as soulful as he believed himself to be? Could anyone honestly state under oath that they actually enjoyed the tedious, apercussive wankfest of “Drums” and “Space?”

Okay, the Dead had some good songs.

But the Grateful Dead was not a good band.

There is always the temptation when writing about this kind of experience to force a neat little lesson out of the narrative. But that too would be dishonest. It would be years until I put it all together, until I finally understood that I was free to like Stephen Stills, just as I was free to dislike the Grateful Dead and Graham Nash. I was not, however, free to heckle Graham Nash. In other words, it didn’t matter what I liked or disliked, so long as I wasn’t a dick about it.

It took me even longer to grasp that I was allowed to go after what I wanted.

It was fully night now and the lights above the parking lot were painfully bright. The Deadheads flowed through the gates, mobile clumps of hair and swirling tie-dye bearing the scent of sweat and patchouli. The acid had just about run its course; all that was left were wisps or tendrils of color in my peripheral vision. It was time to go home. Or at least back to Albany. Now if I could just remember where Ronnie had parked his mother’s car.

#IFTTT #WordPress

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ds4design · 7 years

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BMW CEO Implores Trump To Get Down With Free Trade

Good morning! Welcome to The Morning Shift, your roundup of the auto news you crave, all in one place every weekday morning. Here are the important stories you need to know.

1st Gear: Free Trade Man

President Donald Trump’s made it known that he despises some of the nation’s free trade agreements, particularly NAFTA and TPP. And while some U.S. automakers are playing nice with Trump — at least, somewhat — BMW made it clear that it supports free trade to the end.

According to Bloomberg, BMW’s factory in South Carolina is currently being expanded to produce upward of 450,000 vehicles annually, and the company employs 70,000 in the U.S.

That, said BMW’s Chief Executive Officer Harald Krueger, has happened because of free trade. From Bloomberg:

“As a global company, we’re present on all important markets,” Krueger said at an industry conference in Bochum, Germany. “That also means that we allocate automobile value-creation in a balanced way internationally. This safeguards continuity in volatile times.”

Trump’s already signed an executive order to effectively put the kibosh on TPP, and now has his sights on renegotiating NAFTA. He’s also threatened the German automaker with, yep, a 35 percent tariff to import any cars to the U.S. that it builds in Mexico. So, to put it lightly, their relationship isn’t off to the best start.

2nd Gear: Bosch Settles

Last month brought a torrent of news related to the Volkswagen Dieselgate scandal, and, as expected, the German automaker’s supplier Robert Bosch GmbH is settling claims of its own. The supplier said it agreed to pay $327.5 million to end class action claims over its role in devising the cheat VW used for emissions tests. From The New York Times:

Owners of Volkswagens and Audis with two-liter diesel motors in the United States will receive $375 per car under the settlement, in addition to the cash they are receiving from Volkswagen under a separate settlement. Owners of cars with three-liter motors, including some Porsche Cayenne S.U.V.s, will receive $1,500.

Bosch said it was not admitting wrongdoing as part of the settlement, which it reached with Volkswagen owners and with the United States Federal Trade Commission. The company could still face criminal charges in the United States and Europe for its role in the scandal. Last month, Volkswagen pleaded guilty in the United States to charges that included conspiracy to defraud the government and conspiracy to violate the Clean Air Act.

Beyond the gargantuan sum of $15 billion that VW has already ponied up in response to the scandal, a half-dozen executives and employees have been criminally charged by U.S. authorities for their role in devising the cheat. Bosch could be facing criminal charges, according to the Times, so it’s not in the clear just yet.

3rd Gear: VW Also Paying (Another) $1.2 Billion

And speaking of VW, it’s tab actually grew more overnight. The company may have the sweeping criminal case launched by the U.S. Justice Department in the lurches, but in the meantime, it’s still settling claims — again, by the billions. This time, it’s with the Federal Trade Commission. From Bloomberg:

The proposed settlement, with the Federal Trade Commission and drivers of about 78,000 diesel models with 3.0-liter engines, is Volkswagen’s latest step in overcoming the biggest scandal in its history and brings the total cost of penalties, buybacks and fixes in North America so far to more than $23 billion. The deal covers VW Touaregs, several Audi models and Porsche Cayennes, according to filings in San Francisco federal court.

...

The total tally includes a $14.7 billion agreement reached last year to buy back cars with 2.0-liter diesel engines that carry the so-called defeat devices, and a $4.3 billion settlement of criminal and civil penalties in the U.S. agreed in January that requires the company to plead guilty to three felony counts. Volkswagen is also involved in investor lawsuits in the U.S. and in Germany related to how the emissions-test rigging affected the stock price, as well as consumer lawsuits and a criminal probe in Germany.

The latest settlement, filed just before midnight Tuesday in San Francisco, requires Volkswagen to repair or buy back vehicles, in addition to offering cash compensations. It includes the buyback of as many 20,000 cars with 3-liter engines, which comes on top of more than 500,000 diesel vehicles the company had previously agreed to repurchase or fix.

With one exec potentially facing a life sentence in prison, this story’s never going to stop being unbelievable.

4th Gear: Chao In

Elaine Chao had what must’ve been the most boring confirmation hearing, compared to other administration picks put forth by Trump. Maybe that worked to her favor: Now she’s at the helm of the U.S. transportation department, after the U.S. Senate approved her on Tuesday.

Interestingly, her nomination drew dissenting votes from a half-dozen Democratic senators, perhaps signaling the effort by the minority party to follow the obstructionist lead of Republicans during the Obama administration. The Detroit News reports that Chao was sworn in at transportation headquarters by Vice President Mike Pence, who said Chao’s leadership and experience “will serve us well as the secretary of transportation, overseeing what we anticipate will be historic investment in our nation’s roads, bridges, airports and above all in our future.”

Chao also has a new Twitter handle. From the News:

Chao tweeted from a newly established Twitter account after the ceremony: “It is an honor to rejoin the extraordinary people of @USDOT and begin working to rebuild America’s infrastructure.”

Chao, a longtime face around D.C., will potentially be tasked with overseeing a $1 trillion infrastructure package being pushed by Trump that’s flush with billions of dollars worth of tax credits for companies hopped up on hopes of privatizing our nation’s roadways.

5th Gear: Tesla Model S Falls Short For Safety Award

The Insurance Institute for Highway Safety’s Top Safety Pick+ award for 2017 were announced yesterday, and for electric vehicles like the Model S and i3, earning top honors just wasn’t in the cards. The coveted + award goes to vehicles that handle five crashworthiness tests well, including small overlap front, moderated overlap front, side, roof strength, and head restraints, according to Automotive News.

With Tesla’s Model S, everything went well, save for the small overlap front crash test. From Automotive News:

The Model S earned a good rating in all IIHS crashworthiness evaluations except the small overlap front crash test, in which it earned an acceptable rating.

IIHS said the Model S “ran into problems in the test when the safety belt allowed the dummy’s torso to move too far forward. That allowed the dummy’s head to hit the steering wheel hard through the airbag.”

IIHS noted that the Model S ratings apply to 2016 and 2017 cars built after October 2016.

The institute also reportedly noted the 2017 Model S only comes with “poor-rated headlights” but Tesla said its working with a supplier to improve them, and a new evaluation will follow when they’re available.

Reverse: Ford GT Hits The Super Bowl

On this day in History, Ford GT makes TV debut in Super Bowl ad on Feb 01, 2004. Learn more about… Read more Read more

Neutral: Will Revamping NAFTA Go Down?

We talked about it quite a bit last month, and it seems almost certain that some form of an adjustment will transpire. But Trump has a reputation for being swayed by whomever has his ear last, so it’ll be interesting to see how much BMW makes an effort on its pro-free trade front. Still, the question remains: How far will Trump take things with NAFTA?

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