Dear Diary,
A series of bombing has rocked Paradigm. The bomber struck at a church. I wondered how Dastun was doing. He was probably in the thick of the mess. There were few details. The byline read Paradigm Press Corp.
Roger had subscriptions to one daily, three weekly journals, and a two monthlies. The daily publication came from within the Domes, and had a more details that the rag in front of me. He actually skimmed and perused for what fell between the lines, what Paradigm Corp hid. He didn't get everything from Big Ear. While his work ethic was not sterling, Roger was good at hiding the work that he did do. At the beginning of his career, I would imagine that he had to hustle, just like I am doing now.
There were no calls today. I wouldn't have minded a "hey, toots," from the guys at the Pumber's Union if it meant another job. I looked through the want ads. There was one call for a PI from one Maeve Rocko. It promised exciting work. Rocko was an industrialist. She acquired the seed to her domain through inheritance and marriage. Once her first husband died, she took the reigns and used her business acumen and ruthlessness to build a small empire. If Roger realized that I actually listened to his diatribes, he'd probably pass out.
Anyway, Soldano was also an industrialist. His factories and staff produced all types of products, useful and unsavory. One of those factories had created me. Soldano had also produced my big sister. I left a message with her secretary. He told me that he would get back to me later.
I made some cold calls and left messages with suspicious receptionists. Female and PI seemed immiscible to them.
I called a printing shop to price up hand bills. The voice at the other end sounded familiar.
"Estuary Press," the woman said. "Pamplets, handbills, and booklets all printed at a reasonable price and delivered promptly."
I introduced myself and told her my business. We spoke for a bit. Her name was Andrea; Angry Andy from the underground cafe. When I told her that I was in business for myself, the tone of the conversation changed. It went from polite business to meeting a long lost sister. I found myself putting in an order for a hundred at one and a half cents per sheet. A stapler and staples went for ten dollars. I also agreed to come to next League of Women Entrepeneurs on Thursday
During the afternoon, I put up my curtains. They needed to be taken in a bit. My windows no longer offended my sensibilities, and the natural lighting had dropped to the impractical level that I became accustomed to in Roger's place. Home, sweet home.
As I finished the little chore, I heard the clangor of shoes on the fire escape again. I opened my window to see if it was another underlinen bandit. The footsteps stopped. Whoever it was began humming. I decided to check it out.
The fire escape wrapped around the corner of the building to connect with all of the windows around the back. A woman admired the view. Her blue dress flowed in the breeze. She had skin almost as pale as mine and long corn silk hair. She turned around to show an oval face, a sharp nose, and mildly angular eyes. Her eyes were a piercing blue.
"Good evening," she said in a somnabulist's tone. "Care to join me?"
"Join you for what?" I asked.
"To enjoy the sky. It's great over here."
I carefully made my way over to her. I was mindful of the rust trails beneath each riveted support.
"My name is Carrie, short for Carris, like the seed. You can call me Carrie or Carris."
"My name is R. Dorothy," I answered. "What are you doing out here?"
"Normally, I would taking dictation at Truman Reality Limited, a subsidiary at Paradigm. However, my boss is having a torrid affair with a flapper, so I have the day off. It's hush money, but it's not paid, so it doesn't appear on the books. So much goes by the books, but there are so few real books out there. Full of words instead of numbers. Numbers can't move me as much as words can. Do you Remember any good books?"
"A few," I said.
Carris's face perked up.
"Really? Then would you please join me?" she asked excitedly.
"Yes, let me close my window, where do you live?"
Carris lived two doors down from Louisa. Her abode was an absolute fire hazard. Every inch of the walls were lined with shelves. Notebooks and scrapbooks were stuffed in every available inch of wall, except for the walls adjacent to the stove. She'd removed those after a fire destroyed her sketches of Staten Island. I declined to join Carris to scout the landfill mining operations, though viewing a geyser of methane fueled flame sounded interesting.
I told her about "Pygmalion" and "The Great Gatsby". She recorded every detail that I could remember in a composition book.
"Why do want to know?" I asked.
"I think that I speak the way that I do from Memory," she answered. "When someone said that, it made sense. When I was a kid, I got teased for it. It became cruel. I don't Remember anything myself, but the past sounds like such a wonderful place."
We talked for a little while longer. I was tempted to tell her about Dorothy 0's memories. That world was not beautiful. It seemed as ordinary as the smoggy streets of Paradigm. Or maybe it was beautiful, and my elder sister couldn't see it.
R. Dorothy Wayneright
Tuesday 22 November PY 40
Dear Diary,
I recieved a phone call back from Mz. Rocko's secretary. He told me that he had to perform some background checks and said that he would call again Wednesday morning. No calls back from anyone else.
Andrea biked to my apartment with the sheaf of handbills. She wore a blue union worksuit and cap. Her tall mien was the same as I had remembered. When she smiled, she showed off an chipped tooth.
She had suggested a few ideas to me. Outside the Domes, most young laborers are lettered. They can read and sign their names, and read a menu. The next group could muddle through a daily rag. Then there was the fully literate, which we fell into. I added fully literate to my skills in the advertisement.
The bills turned out well balanced and designed. I paid her in full. Andrea thanked me and asked if I had met Crazy Carrie.
"Carris?" I asked.
"You know her?" Andy asked.
"Yes."
She studied me and pronounced. "You ARE her type."
Interesting.
I took a bus to business districts in Kings and the Bronx to put up my advertisements.
I returned to find a letter from Norman.
Dear Dorothy,
I hope that this letter finds you well. The mansion just has not been the same without you. Please visit sometime.
Yours very truly,
Norman
I read the letter three times. I placed it with my box of books for safekeeping.
R. Dorothy Wayneright