[Cont.]
At this point, our Herding Co-op decides to move to a brown house in the U.S. suburbs.
“But, precisely what geoposition should we herdsmen all transfer our animals to? — I need to know the absolute location, with the numerical coordinates representing latitude and longitude,” I say to my co-herdsmen Anna Karina, Monica Vitti, and Fernano Pessoa.
They all answer immediately: “Minnesota.”
“OK,” I say; “now, just so you know, this might be difficult; because, usually, people who own as much livestock as we do will keep their sheep, goats, swine, cattle, and scientifically unclassifiable other-beings in a barn, in stables, in the hay, or on the checkered marble floor of their mansion’s ballroom; however, WE are going to have only enough room for us four Herdsmen of the Apocalypse, in this small brown rambler house that we just stole from the bank — there will be no space left for extra animals, aliens, etc.; therefore our herds will need to wander the suburban streets outside our abode and graze on all our neighbors’ yards. Our beasts will certainly get in the way of our fellow suburbanites’ usual activities and wander freely in and out of their respective homes; so I just want to make sure that each of you is aware of what a challenge we’re undertaking, before we all literally climb in bed together.”
“I’m totally fine with the idea of tending our herd in the suburbs,” sez Anna Karina. “Just show me where to sign — I’m committed.”
“So am I,” sez Monica Vitti; “this is something I’ve always hoped that you’d ask me to do, Bryan Ray — ever since I had those scenes in L’Avventura (1960) where I would wander around looking pensive: I was dreaming of you, and of becoming part of a herding enterprise. When the director Michelangelo Antonioni once approached me after yelling ‘Cut!’ when the shot was finished, he said in undertone: ‘That was wonderful — now I’m curious: What was on your mind while the cameras were rolling?’ And I answered: ‘I was thinking of what my life might be like if I lived with Astro Bryan in the suburbs of Eagan, where we and a few good friends would form a small herding outfit to keep watch over multitudes of animals.’ And Antonioni replied, ‘Eagan, Minnesota, in the U.S.A.?’ And I cried, ‘Y-y-yes!’ And he said, ‘Why would you want to tend sheep in a suburban atmosphere — isn’t that type of setup more conducive to driving automobiles? I’ve heard that the operators of motor coaches don’t take kindly to human pedestrians or bicyclists, so I’m sure they wouldn’t want livestock congesting their roads: Wouldn’t a more overtly agrarian area with less paved roads and an expansive countryside be a better fit?’ …I rolled my eyes and said, ‘It’s an adventure, silly. Plus we have much more livestock than sheep alone. And of course the country is superior; but if we let all our goats and pigs and cattle and strange foreign alien creatures roam the streets along with our sheep, then there’s a good chance that suburban drivers will be forced to slow down or maybe even stop their vehicles and climb out, breathe the common air and deal with maddening nature directly, for once. I think that that might be a good thing. It’s at least somewhat perverse.’ Upon hearing this, Antonioni furrowed his brow and nodded; then walked away slowly. I think he was sad, realizing that although you, dear Bryan, would be able to view all his artwork, he himself would never live to read your novels.”
“These are not novels,” Fernando Pessoa gently corrects Ms. Vitti; then he turns to me and sez: “I’m game, as well. Let us rent a pontoon barge and move to the suburbs forthwith.”
“Okie dokie,” I say; “as long as you all understand what we’re getting into.”
So Jeanette MacDonald from circa 1929, who played Athena in my previous book (Not Novel 13), now plays Athena again, and we rent from her the Cloud-Cuckoo-Mobile, which is a pontoon covered with basketball-sized cotton puffs which can drive over oceans or train tracks, so that we can transfer our livestock from this pleasant rolling grassland to Eagan, Minnesota. This takes several thousand trips.
Now, once we’re finished transferring all the creatures who have befriended us and signed up for our herding plan, the Cloud-mobile is hauled away by the deus ex machina (not Athena but some lesser demiurge) and we four herdsmen move into our used small dusty brown rambler home.
“This is cozy,” sez Anna Karina.
I look at Fernando. “By ‘cozy’ she means ‘squalid’ — she’s just being optimistic.”
Anna punches me on the arm playfully and we all share a laugh.
“Shall we have a look outside?” sez Jeanette, who is no longer playing Athena but has remained with us as the unofficial “Fifth Herdsman” of our household, because we all got along with her so well during the animal-transfer montage sequence, and she wanted to stay, so I wrote her into the script.
“Yes, let’s!” sez Fernando.
Thus we all five step out and view the landscape. We see our sheep, goats, swine, cattle, and unknown other-beings grazing whithersoever, amid the winding network of suburban streets and yards.
“You have fat roads here,” remarks Jeanette.
“Yes we do,” I sigh ambivalently.
Now Ms. Karina points out that one of our sheep has gotten into the back of the new red pickup that’s parked at the house directly across the street from us. Anna asks: “Should we go fetch him?”
“That’s actually a her,” I say. “No, let’s wait; be patient — I don’t want to go climbing all over our neighbor’s personal property, without his permission, before we’ve even met; and I’d rather not ring his doorbell at such an early hour: he might not yet be awake. But I bet the guy usually leaves for work soon; so he’ll come out in a moment and wave to us from across the street, and, at that time, we can explain to him that our beast somehow climbed into the bed of his truck.”
“Wait; if you’ve never met whoever lives there,” Anna asks, “then how do you know that it’s a male? — You said ‘Perhaps the guy usually leaves for work soon…” Couldn’t it just as well be a girl? I know girls who own large trucks…”
Just then, like clockwork, as if he had been waiting for his cue, our neighbor opens his front door and steps out, ready to leave for work.
“Hey there,” he waves. “How’s it goin?”
“Good morning!” I say. “We just moved in here — my name’s Bryan,” then I point at each of my co-herdsmen to introduce them: “and this is Fernando, Anna, Monica, and Jeanette.”
“Hey, nice to meet y’all,” sez our neighbor, waving: “I’m Anthony.” Then he begins to load some items into his pickup — large, heavy-duty power-tools and construction materials. Although they’re weighty and enormous, he tosses these things around with ease; he’s apparently accustomed to this routine. He still hasn’t noticed that one of our sheep has found its way into the bed of his truck; so he continues to load it up, casually: When each heavy crate or tool slams down onto the pickup, our sheep flinches and poops.
“Um, I should mention something,” I shout. Then, when Anthony pauses his labor to face me and is now listening, I stammer: “My friends and I are herdsmen of various types of livestock, and, well, you see, during the night, one of our sheep somehow wound up in the back of your pickup there. I was going to climb in and try to get her out, but I didn’t want our first meeting to be one where you catch me wrangling a beast inside your vehicle. But I should come over and coax her out of there now, before you leave for wherever you’re going. Unless you’re comfortable taking her along with you for the day.”
Our neighbor Anthony seems momentarily surprised by my announcement… Then, comprehending the situation, he turns and takes a closer look at the contents of his truck and spies our sheep posing shyly amid the equipment. He laughs, “Ah, look here — I didn’t even notice her standing there when I began loading up!” He fluffs and scratches her head and ears; then pats her amiably on the back. “She’s welcome to stay — I’m not averse to a little company. We’re heading up to Glencoe — gonna build some houses. I’m a general contractor.”
“Ah,” mopping my brow with a lime-green kerchief, while various goats and pigs roam about between our two houses, I shout across the wide street to Anthony our neighbor: “I’m relieved to hear that you’re unconcerned. I guess, then, we’ll let the sheep herself decide whether she wants to ride along with you or leap out.”
“Sounds good,” Anthony yells. “Nice to meet y’all!” he repeats. And then he continues loading his pickup.
Anna Karina, naively smiling and waving, sez: “Have a nice day!”
Soon our neighbor Anthony drives off with the sheep in the back of his truck, and we all begin to pace slowly around the neighborhood, holding our herdsman’s crooks and rods while tending our livestock.
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