A burning Tyger prepares to play with stock-folk

Just finished writing the 1st half of a 2-part chapter of BRYAN THE TYGER. In this episode, I do the prep-work necessary for us to enter the floor of the New York Stock Exchange, for that shall be our next fun adventure.

[I got tired of graffiti-ing tygers onto junk ads, so, for the next few days, the obligatory images that accompany these announcements will be just lazy attempts at hand-drawing copies of ad photos with felt tip marker.]

P.S.

In other news: my Public Private Diary is fully printed; also I made a list of my latest novels that have been printed but not included in any collection.

Chapter Thirty-One

When we reach Brooklyn, I Bryan the Tyger and my soul-mate Myala the Black Panther stop running at the same exact moment that our soundtrack’s Chuck Berry song reaches its conclusion. Then we board the ferry-boat:

We view the river and sunset and the scallop-edg’d waves of flood-tide. We gaze upon the sea-gulls who are oscillating their bodies, and the hay-boat in the twilight, and the belated lighter.

“Ah, what can ever be more stately and admirable to me than mast-hemm’d Manhattan!” I roar.

Myala places her paw upon my paw, and, when we meet eyes, she sez:

“What is more subtle than this which ties me to the man that looks in my face!”

Thus we fondly recite and make all sorts of observations about and references to Walt Whitman’s “Crossing Brooklyn Ferry” until we reach Manna-hata, or: “the island where we all became intoxicated” [“manahachtanienk”]. – We then disembark and enter “The Big Board”: the New York Stock Exchange in the Financial District of Lower Manhattan.

“Jeez, there’s so much to do,” I say; “where should we start?”

Myala replies: “Let’s go into one of these restaurants and order some seafood; then tip the waiting staff heartily.”

“You don’t wanna gamble first?”

“Nah, let’s eat.”

So we enter a diner and place our order. Soon our server brings us two large swordfish. We eat and are filled. We feel good now.

After paying our bill, before leaving, we heap a mass of banknotes on the table, for a tip. (All the customers at the surrounding tables cannot stop themselves from sneaking frequent glances at the mountain of gratuity that we leave.)

We then do the same at every single restaurant in the vicinity: we order seafood, wolf it down, and leave a big tip.

“Well, we’ve eaten all there is to eat here,” sez Myala. “Shall we visit the Stock Exchange now?”

I nod while finishing chewing my bluefin tuna; then I dab my mouth with my ornate linen serviette and say:

“Yes, but give me a few moments to go fetch the Chariot of Fire from our castle in the Alps — for I have an idea.”

“An idea? What about?”

“About something fun to do.”

Myala smiles: “You really think it will be fun?”

Now poised at the eatery’s exitway, looking back over my shoulder, I shout while dashing off into the distance: “I sure do hope so!”

§

After sprinting alone back to our castle on the peninsula, I open the door to the storage garage and wheel out the chariot. In haste, I detach the harness and carry it up into the sewing room. Using some of our spare leather, I augment the harness so that instead of having just one set of shoulder-and-torso straps, it now has two.

Curious about the noise, Nous and Zephyros wander into the sewing room while I am at work. I wave to them with my mighty right forepaw and say “No time to chat, sorry — I’m just amending this harness so that Myala and I can share it: then we can pull as a team. I aim to bring the chariot to New York, as soon as I finish here. We’ve got an adventure planned at the Stock Exchange this afternoon. I’ll tell you more when we return; I’m in a hurry.” Then I leap up and look at the improved fittings:

Finding my stitching on the new double-harness ultra-sturdy, I drape one set of the torso-and-shoulder straps over my upper body, while letting the additional set of straps dangle, for now. Once the harness hooks are secured to the Fiery Chariot, I turn and salute Nous and Zephyros, who are observing me in bemusement; then I bolt back to Brooklyn, so as to take the steam-ferry over to Manhattan, where Myala is waiting.

On a side note: Before the above sewing-scene, when I was sprinting from the eatery to the castle, my trip was accompanied by another of our favorite Chuck Berry songs; and, presently, as I am dashing back to the Fulton Ferry in Brooklyn, yet another rockin’ Chuck Berry song plays on the soundtrack.

“I hope that didn’t take too long,” I shout to Myala while trotting into the parking lot. She is reclining on a divan near the knoll beside that same eatery where we enjoyed our most recent seafood feast.

“No, I’ve only been loafing here several minutes — the ensemble yonder just finished their second tune,” Myala gestures toward the live band that is set up near the patio of the eatery, performing polka for the outdoor diners.

“Ah, they sound good,” I bob to the beginning of the next song they now start to play. “I’ve been sprinting in silence from here to the castle and back, hearing nothing beyond the sound of my own rhythmic panting.”

“Well, we can fix that, if this side-venture of yours makes it into our feature novel,” replies Myala. “Of course, if your little errand proves to be boring, because all you did was, say, suture some straps on a sewing machine, then the scene will surely end up on the cutting-room floor; but, if it is wildly entertaining, then it’ll be easy to spice up your travels during post-production, by editing in some upbeat rock & roll.” She now points at the extra set of straps dangling down from the harness: “What is this?”

“Oh, these!” I had seriously forgotten about our mission at hand, because the orchestra’s polka tune is so lively – I could sit here all day, my brain blissfully bouncing to the beat. “I sewed an extra set of torso-and-shoulder straps onto our char­iot’s harness, so now it can fit two felines. That’s why I left: I went to enhance the fittings so that we can wear them together. And, lo: I made multiple passes on the stitching, so the straps are mega-tough. Here, try the thing on . . .”

Myala bows under the torso-shoulder harness. “It’s a perfect fit,” she sez.

“Ah, then I guessed correctly about your dimensions!”

Glancing at the chariot and then back to us in our dual-harness, Myala sez: “OK, now what do we do? — offer rides in our Mystical Merkabah?”

“Well, as a matter of fact,” I reply; “yes; that was pretty much what I had in mind. — I was thinking we could gallop over to the building where all the traders meet for the Stock Exchange: you know, the place where some important person bashes a gong, which starts the day’s trading; and then, before evening, they bash it again to signal the closing of the market. My idea was that we could prance out onto the trading floor while pulling our Chariot of Fire and roar a greeting: ‘Hop in, if you dare!’ For I assume that such risky business would appeal to those types of folks.”

“Ooh, I like this plan,” Myala replies. Then, after a moment of thought, she adds: “But, are you sure it’s best to confront the brokers? – I mean, wouldn’t we rather interact with their clients?”

I stare at the ground for a while, in contemplation. Then I look up and admit: “Honestly, I don’t understand how the Stock Exchange works — I was just hoping that we could go there and give some people rides in our chariot.”

Myala smiles and laughs: “I’m totally game.”