THE FERAL STRUT

Chapter 6

She didn't mind being laid off. In fact she was the last seasonal on the Rec crew to leave, which gave her more cred for next year. After she decided not to go back to U Dub, her fate was pretty much sealed: work as long as possible, beg for fires, searches, car/moose collisions— whatever socked a few more hours in the O.T. column. She'd even been nice— well, not nice but painstakingly civil— to Jolene the Butt-Cramp.

She stopped to call Ginger and set up a practice. Then she stashed Gris at the Cogwill house, in the garage, and drove to headquarters to turn in the truck and sign out. As Butt-Cramp hovered, she inked the signature line on each of the forms, numbered as everything was in the Forest Circus.

At least her boss, Betsey March, was okay. Once the papers were filled out, they said goodbye in her office.

"You're really sharp in the field," Betsey said. "You notice things other people miss. If you could get by with less antagonistic behavior you'd have an easier time of it. I'll put you down for re-hire. Are you going back to school?"

"Devoting my life to the band. We've got tons of gigs."

"Hmmm. You're just short of the service time for a GS-4. But if you're available in May, you might get bumped in June."

"Bumped– I'd like that."

"I'll send you an offer in March. Meanwhile, good luck"

It took three tries to start the Senior Saab, but after a coughing fit it settled to a steady growl. At Cogwill's, Gris was circling the front yard, peeing forlornly on frost-nipped asters. Krista was trying to shoo him into the four-car garage— no hope.

Gris bounded over and batted her legs with his tail. "Hop in the car," she said, and he did, and curled up on the back seat.

"Hey, girl," she said to Krista. "I was hoping to be back before you got home. Had to sign various dire oaths and say 'bye to Betsey. She's cool, anyhow. But I'm wiping the rest of them totally out of my consciousness."

"Until next year?"

"Yeah, probably. Unless we strike it rich in the music biz."

"That could happen, babes."

Krista cocked her head towards the house. "Come and check out the Farfisa."

It was set up in her room, a red-and-black boxy thing on chrome legs, one of the first really portable electric organs, plugged into a Magnatone amp. She worked the knobs and played a spidery vamp, then grinned. "So-o-o-o cheesy. I love it."

"You got it. Wow. But I refuse to do 'Ninety-Six Tears.'"

"What if we vote?"

"You can sing it. I'd vomit."

"You know I can't sing."

"Neither could the guy who did it first."

"Says Mary Browne, hardcore music critic."

"Right-O! What creeps me out, ain't art."