Down Town

Finally outside the mechanistic recycling factory, the eleven appliances rode in their motor cart alongside a desolate industrial riverbank. When they had at last sensed that no humans were in the vicinity, they lifted the canvas that covered them and bunched it up to the side of the electric generator together.

Once they were standing against open air, Toaster felt it necessary to tell the other five: "Whew, that was a close shave. Thanks a TON you guys."

"The second team came dashing to bat right when the chips were down," stated Radio. "Hah."

Fan turned to them both from her position on the accelerator. "Well we knew you might need some extra plugs, so we pitched in!" she disclosed with heart.

"Exactly!" the radio built upon. "A collaborative rescue ripe for the headlines!" Thereafter he shifted his undivided attention to Air Conditioner; no one could have predicted it. "And, what's this?" he added, housing sound forgiveness and admiration. "Astounded by the noble perseverance of the air conditioner, the commanding general has presented him with the honorary Soldier's Medal for which no man could even begin to – "

"I don't want your imaginary awards!" Air Conditioner pressed firmly, knowing what to expect from eons of cottage roleplay.

To that Radio retracted his outstretched antenna and chose to silence himself a tad. "...I see."

Back to his speculations regarding the other appliances' motives, Toaster asked a question to anyone listening, just to get it out there. "...So what made you decide to come along after all?"

"Eh," Tape Recorder replied from the cart's railing, "we should've given the masters a second chance before leaving town and, running away. You were right."

"N-now bear in mind..." Coffman stormed from the brake pedal, "I never gave my consent to any of this; they made me go by force, the conspirators!" He stuck his fork-arm at a bemused Fan, Wattson and Pops, though referencing his whole team. "Seeking out new masters is still suicide in my eye."

Blanky was sitting mere inches from Coffman, and he had a belief to express. "I don't see anything wrong with it," he said.

The percolator had no aims in being bested by a "child." "Hm, that's cute," he amusedly scoffed, before he rotated himself to look Blanky close in the face. "And what did your master do for you, little soap-bar blanket?"

Lampy stepped in to Blanky's defense. "Countless things!" That's when he had to mentally retreat and think. "...W-which would include fixing, using, uhh, playing..."

"Not returning to our cottage for three-thousand-plus days," Kirby established out of context, as if holding a grudge.

"Oh yeah!" the lamp remembered. "AND... oh." He should've known the vacuum would spoil his thought process.

"Huh?" Toaster turned and latched a high eyebrow.

Coffman seized this opportunity to gleefully bolster his case with pathos. "Ahh... so he left you at the old homestead did he?" the coffee pot rhetoricized. "And he never came back to pick you up? Heh, yes, sounds like a real thoughtful and caring guy if I were a crockpot's pop."

"He DID go back," objected a drawling voice.

Every appliance stared back at the secluded Air Conditioner, who was sitting next to the tarp and generator.

Aware of his reactionary outburst, the air conditioning window unit gave the wood flooring a hard look and took in a breath. "Yeah yeah... the cat's outta the bag." Swallowing his false presumptions for good, he continued. "...He went back... a couple years ago, when you five skedaddled."

"He, did?" Lampy spoke when no one else would. He shook his head slowly, pulling it away. "Wow... that's, overwhelming!"

Radio immediately began to "swing dance" from side to side. "I knew it!" he trumpeted. "I knew it all the time – our master's got more spunk than even 'Damn Yankee,' crazier than Crazy Horse – why in all my worn years as a newsy newscaster – "

Kirby could not understand the reasoning behind such happiness. "Now HOLD UP for just one minute!" he interrupted with a thundering bark. "You're tellin' me we'd left the cabin, went out into the wilderness, almost sank in MUD, and almost got ourselves ripped apart for NO REASON?"

One brief pause, and Lampy was looking on the "bright" side. "But," he reminded the vacuum, timidly soft, "we found the City of Light!"

"Agh," dismissed the hostile Kirby, "who cares what kind of city it was! They're all the same!" He clamped on his mouth to deliver more force to that sentence.

Unsure how to react, Blanky quietly pondered a scenario of what could have happened those years ago. "So then... we didn't have to go through that spooky junkyard?" he wondered aloud. "The Master would've picked us up anyway?"

The blanket's poor innocence was the straw that broke the vacuum's back. Kirby next cranked over and directed his anger at his so-called leader in the bow. "...Toaster, how many times have you been gettin' us into these messes?"

Overcome by sudden emotional punches, the little toaster had to shoot up his defenses. "What, ME?" he counteracted. "I've just been trying to get everyone moving!"

"Yeah," Kirby cynicized, "right into trouble after MORE trouble!"

"Well I can't predict everything that's gonna happen! The rest of you oughta think for yourselves when it comes to making plans!" Toaster swathed heated glances at the rest of the group.

"We do think for ourselves!" Lampy made clear as day. "But we also trust YOU!"

"And that's smack-dab where our problem is," resumed Kirby where he'd left off.

Toaster couldn't take any more of these self-perceived attacks. "Would you stop putting it all on me?!" For some reason he then threw his lever in the direction of the railing. "Jump off the cart and we'll see how each one of you does WITHOUT my help!"

How bitter and uncalled for was that demand. Lampy, Radio, Blanky, and even Kirby were taken aback. The blow to each their individual egos had been dealt. But Toaster's was not excluded.

With no means by which to rewind time and subdue such rage, Toaster stood completely still in his spot; his eyes appeared frightful and knowledgeable of wickedness.

After a time's worth of quiet, he opened his mouth and forced out words in spite of fear. "...I'm, sorry guys."

Lampy, Blanky, and Kirby avoided looking at him; somehow Radio seemed all right.

A mute clock had been ticking, and the other appliances, after witnessing the event, were getting restless. "...Should we call it quits on the shouting match?" Coffman asked simply, expecting a "yes."

"Let's," Pops suggested at the wheel, "because we'll soon be arriving at a downtown intersection."

From the comfort of the passenger's seat near Pops, Wattson faced the main five to clarify. "In the City of Very Tall Towers."

All eleven of the cart crew noticed that there lay giant dark buildings of the city ahead – growing taller. Furthermore the sun was setting behind those buildings, shading them blacker.

The city's streetlights had flickered on to signal the imposing nighttime, but while the sky had yet to burn out on its oranges and purples, a familiar red roadster zoomed down a street from a bird's-eye view. Rob sat at the wheel. He was a dangerous driver, if only for his being exhausted to the sophomore bone.

He yawned somewhat irritably, eyes half open. "Huh, Chris... college algebra... yeah right..."

Swinging around a corner of urban clutter and inching on downhill, he drove his way toward a modest brick structure sandwiched between two larger business firms. A lit row of letters strung over a roofing shade that read: "Johnson's Repair House: For All Appliances and Domestic Ware." Rob pulled into a parking space in front, crossing the lines slightly. The inside of the shop remained illuminated by white lights, as could be seen through the clear glass shopping windows.

As the door to the shop opened, a bell above jingled. Two people, a middle-aged man and woman, glanced up from their appliance repair work at the main desk. Rob had set foot in the store, which featured shelves of fixed (and waiting-to-be-fixed) appliances, along with an elliptical rug on the floor and a pale carpeted cat tree.

"Hello!" greeted the woman warmly. "How're you doing this evening? You here to drop something off for a touch-up?"

"Oh no," Rob replied at first – until he recalled. "I mean YES, I will." He pointed somewhere using both his fingers. "I was going to a few days ago, but then... by some crazy mishap..." he rubbed the back of his neck, "I lost every single one of my appliances."

The woman's eyebrows scrunched automatically. "Every single one? You're not joking."

"What rotten luck son!" the man outcried.

Supposedly the professional mechanic he was, Rob sagged his shoulders and offered the floor a good gaze. "Yeah, well I was wondering if there was anyone I could, I dunno, talk to and organize a small search party or make signs to spread some awareness – "

Out of reflex the man strode from behind the main desk, to the redheaded kid, and clasped his hand in his. "You're talkin' to us right now!" He forcefully shook said hand. "Hi I'm Henry! Henry Johnson!"

The woman smiled off from the side. "And I'm his wife – pleased to meet you!"

Rob found his whole body to be oscillating from the neverending handshake. "And you too, heh! I'm Rob."

Mr. Johnson then finally released the kid's hand, but once he had done so, he wrapped his arm around Rob's shoulder. "Well now Rob, we can call the print shop across the block and see what we can do. You shouldn't have to shell out the big bucks for more household works."

Rob, already sheepish, gave an uncertain answer to that. "My friends sure act like I should," he contemplated.

"Agh..." Mr. Johnson ground his teeth as he let go and returned to the desk. "It's those kinda people isn't it? They're quite the snobs I'll tell ya what; haven't had a fresh customer in days 'cause they won't bother to fix what they already got!" He threw a dirty rag from his pocket onto the desk's hard surface.

"Ah Hen, now come on," coaxed Mrs. Johnson, "don't scare the boy."

"N-no," Rob told her, "I hear you; I feel the same way." At the corner of his eye the bespectacled young man saw prowling on the floor a little white cat with brown fur patches, a pink collar, and bright green eyes.

"Well all right then." Mrs. Johnson folded her arms against her chest. "Now Jennifer," she said, watching her cat brush herself across Rob's pants, "you behave yourself; there'll be none of this struttin' of all your fur to get attention."

"It's fine Mrs. Johnson!" Rob ensured as he picked Jennifer up. "I like cats!"

"Ingrid!" exclaimed Mr. Johnson offscreen. "Quit makin' the boy uncomfortable!" This didn't help Rob much; he held onto a confused Jennifer from under her arms as he smiled on nervously.