Anthony. The dog was silent, lacking the capacity for looking ahead.
That evening, Mr. Fox had his whisky alone again. He had hoped that Harrison might have shown up, but there was no one behind the bar but the Finn and her broom. King Charles came on the telly, breathless, having just landed in a helicopter direct from the Autumn White House. He promised to send for anyone who had been left behind, then commanded (or rather, urged) his subjects to secure the kingdom for the Atlantic. England was underway again. The next morning the breeze was brisk. When Mr. Fox and Anthony arrived at the Boardwalk, he checked the compass on his watch and saw that England had turned during the night, and Brighton had assumed its proper position, at the bow.
A stout headwind was blowing and the seawall was washed by a steady two-foot curl. Long Island was a low, dark blur to the north, far off the port (or left).
“Nice chop.”
“Beg pardon?” Mr. Fox turned and was glad to see a big man in a tweed coat, standing at the rail. He realized he had feared the African might have jumped ship like Harrison.
“Looks like we’re making our four knots and more, this time.”
Mr. Fox nodded. He didn’t want to seem rude, but he knew if he said anything the girl would chime in. It was a dilemma.
“Trade winds,” said the African. His collar was turned up, and his dreadlocks spilled over and around it like vines. “We’ll make better time going back. If indeed we’re going back. I say, is that a new watch?”
“Civil Defense chronometer,” Mr. Fox said. “Has a compass built in. My father left it to me when he died.”
“You bloody wish,” said the girl.
“Should prove useful,” said the African.
“I should think so,” said Mr. Fox, smiling into the fresh salt wind; then, saluting the African (and the girl), he tucked Anthony under his arm and left the Boardwalk in their command. England was steady, heading south by southeast, and it was twenty past four, almost time for tea.
BY PERMIT ONLY
“What about the environmental costs?” my boss asked. My boss, Mr. Manning, always thinks about the environment. He’s Personal Paints’ Environmental Control Officer. Every company has one these days.
“That’s the beauty of it, Manning,” the salesman told him. (At least, I thought he was a salesman.) “Our system accommodates the scientific straight-through smokestack style that is the latest in environmental off-load technology. The fumes go directly into the atmosphere—”
“What? You want me to release the poisonous byproducts of Personal Paints directly into the atmosphere, and you say there are no environmental costs?”
“I didn’t say ‘no,’ I said ‘low,’” the salesman said (at least, he talked like a salesman). “As you know, pollution is legal these days as long as it is properly licensed and paid for. And the new administration has lowered the toxic-particulate fee to twenty-five cents a ton. If you factor in your capital-improvements credit, and the discount you get if you buy the new smokestack from a U.S. company, you will save 39.8 percent the first year over your current smoke-scrubber system. Which doesn’t do all that damn much good anyway, judging from what I see out the window.”
“Hmmm! Well, you’ve got a point there. Are you getting all this down, Miss, Miss—”
“‘Mrs.,’ and it’s Robinson,” I said, trying to ignore Mr. Manning’s hand on my thigh. His sexual harassment permit (on file at the main office) didn’t cover actual genital contact, so I didn’t have to worry about him going much higher, thank God. “I’m writing it right here on my steno pad.” (Recycled paper; I do my part.)
“It’s all covered in the literature I gave you, anyway,” the salesman went on (I was still thinking he was a salesman). “Unrestricted atmospheric off-load is only one element of a total waste-management system that also includes unlimited solid debris dispersal and full-flow aquatic effluent elimination, all for one low EPA fee.”
(EPA! So he was a government man.)
“Well, now, you talk a good game!” Mr. Manning said. “But can you help with our solid-waste disposal crisis? We’re talking heaps of stuff here.”
“With our new accounting system, you no longer spend precious resources trucking trash all over creation looking for legal landfills,” the Environmental Protection Agency representative (for that was what he was) said. “You pay a one-time pollution penalty fee and pile the shit in a big fucking heap on the poor side of town.”
“I like that,” said Mr. Manning. “But what about the sticky, stinky stuff? We have oodles of ordure that emit radioactive steam and drool dioxins directly into the groundwater. You’re going to let us dump this anywhere we want?”
“No, we have a responsibility to protect the public,” said the EPA rep. “The real stinky stuff, you dump it in the woods.”
“I like that too,” said Mr. Manning. “But what about the endangered species? You wouldn’t believe the grief we get from the environmental do-gooders lately.”
“Forget them,” said the EPA rep. “If we listened to them, we’d be up to our assholes in owls.”
“I thought it was eyebrows,” I said.
“Don’t worry your pretty little head about it,” said Mr. Manning, his prowling paw pausing at the hem of my panties, where his permit ran out. “Just be sure you’re getting all this down.”
“It’s all covered in the literature I gave you, anyway,” said the EPA agent. “Since there are no endangered species left, the ES fees have been waived. That makes our direct environmental penalty payment plan even more attractive. According to the most conservative figures—”
While he droned on, I looked out the window. Mr. Manning’s twenty-third-floor office commanded a beautiful view of the river, looking with its gleaming oil slicks like Joseph’s coat of many colors. (I read the Bible every day. Do you?)
The EPA rep was showing Mr. Manning a four-color picture of a thirty-six-inch pipe. “The beauty of a scientific straight-through system is that it never clogs and rarely backs up,” he said. “The effluents are taxed once only and dumped directly into the river, which runs conveniently into the sea. It’s like a pay toilet.”
“This guy’s a poet,” mused Mr. Manning, running his hand along the crack that separated my buttocks. I tried to ignore him (jobs are scarce these days) and kept looking out the window. It was a gorgeous day. You could almost see the sky. The radioactive dump across town glowed warmly, reminding me of home. Since the dump was in my neighborhood, the high-geiger penalty pennies (we called it clickety-clink, or mutation money) had provided bonus burial benefits for five of my six children.
“Plus, it’s all plenty patriotic, since one hundred percent of the environmental penalty money goes directly into the U.S. treasury, and not to some high-tech Jap clean-up scam,” the EPA rep said, winding up his spiel.
“I like that,” said Mr. Manning.
I sneaked a glance at my watch. My chronically underemployed husband, Big Bill, would be waiting impatiently for me to get home to cook supper for himself and our last remaining child, the hideously deformed, demented little cripple, Tiny Tim.
It was 4:59. Mr. Manning and the EPA rep were still working out the details of the quarterly pollution payment plan, which meant I would have to work late, whether I wanted to or not.
Of course, I would get paid overtime.
Finally, at 5:59, the papers were signed and I headed home. The stairs were crowded but the elevator was almost empty. Lots of people are afraid to take the elevator, after the terrifying incidents of the past few weeks, but just knowing the inspection certificate is on file in the building superintendent’s office (even if we’re not allowed to see it) is enough for me.
The expressway was bumper-to-bumper with the big-finned fifties replicas that are popular now that leaded gasoline is available again. It warmed my heart to think of all the ethyl-penalty bucks going into the HEW budget. I knew it was helping to pay for the remedial education of my deranged, learning-dislocated, double-dyslexic little boy, Tiny Tim.
