stiffened, and then pitched forward, face-first, right in Fan’s puddle.
He said, with calm, Be gentle.
Those first few weeks Fan was gone were a quiet period in the neighborhoods of B-Mor. Naturally, as after Reg disappeared, there was the background noise of rumors and gossip, even some mad talk in certain quarters about a conspiracy to make it appear that Fan had willingly left but was actually sent away; of course, the posted video clips dispel that notion, though they say even those can be faked and made to look absolutely real. And we know why some wish to believe it was totally contrived; for it’s much easier to subscribe to various outlandish theories than confront the reality of her departure and what that might say about B-Mor and its ways.
But we will note once again: B-Mor is not perfect, nor was it ever meant to be. It was not a promise of anything to anyone. Yes, our women and children can walk about at night without any fear of assault; yes, there is always enough wholesome food to eat and clean water to drink, with our special celebrations, such as weddings and funerals, graced by lavish spreads; yes, we can count on steady employment if we are sound of mind and able-bodied, and expect a reasonable level of care if we are not; yes, we live in a kennel of our own blood, even if thoroughly mixed after numerous generations, which offers, during the fiercest storms, the most reliable shelter.
Yet there are some needling issues, even aside from the case of Fan, such as the fact that the less durable, discretionary-type goods in the shops have become stretches to the typical budget, and are often nearly unaffordable. Even our own products have become much costlier, the price of a single five-hundred-gram perch equal to what two cost just five years ago. Or that the maximum stay period in the health clinics is effectively one work cycle (six days), no matter the condition or needs of the patient, as the family is now responsible for the fees past that time, fees that are well beyond most any B-Mor clan’s capacity to pay.
An example of this would be the recent experience of the Rivera-Deng family, who occupy not one but two row houses down near the B-Mor waste treatment plant. They are not an especially large family, but because they run a popular aboveground trinkets and bubble tea shop (the subterranean-level shops are almost without exception owned, if never operated, by Charter investors), they could afford to purchase the leasehold on the adjacent house when it became available. They are considered rich by B-Mor standards, though what else this wealth truly buys them is not at all apparent. Harvey Rivera-Deng might show up at a wake in his flecked suit jacket with a contrasting pocket square but we aren’t inclined to offer any notice, much less compliments. He stands stout and flashy in his finery but clutches the same plastic buffet plate as everybody else, jostling to get to the snow-pea shoots before they’re all gone. And this is how it should be. But when his wife, a portly, ever-smiling, sweetly damp-necked woman named Ruby, took seriously ill recently, eventually passing, the feeling we had can only be one of steady, drenching sorrow.
Ruby was not the most healthful person in B-Mor, a longtime diabetic who liked her sweet cakes and scallion fritters a bit too well, washing everything down with creamy bubble fruit teas. One afternoon she collapsed in the back of the shop; one of her kidneys had failed, which apparently led to a stroke that paralyzed one side of her body. She was rushed to the clinic but then suffered another stroke before being stabilized, which left her unable to speak. Otherwise her mind was intact, and Harvey and the rest of the Rivera-Deng clan told her not to worry, that they would take care of her at home, but everyone could see that she would need a dialysis machine to bolster her remaining, chronically weakened kidney, a machine that a physician’s assistant told her
He said, with calm, Be gentle.
Those first few weeks Fan was gone were a quiet period in the neighborhoods of B-Mor. Naturally, as after Reg disappeared, there was the background noise of rumors and gossip, even some mad talk in certain quarters about a conspiracy to make it appear that Fan had willingly left but was actually sent away; of course, the posted video clips dispel that notion, though they say even those can be faked and made to look absolutely real. And we know why some wish to believe it was totally contrived; for it’s much easier to subscribe to various outlandish theories than confront the reality of her departure and what that might say about B-Mor and its ways.
But we will note once again: B-Mor is not perfect, nor was it ever meant to be. It was not a promise of anything to anyone. Yes, our women and children can walk about at night without any fear of assault; yes, there is always enough wholesome food to eat and clean water to drink, with our special celebrations, such as weddings and funerals, graced by lavish spreads; yes, we can count on steady employment if we are sound of mind and able-bodied, and expect a reasonable level of care if we are not; yes, we live in a kennel of our own blood, even if thoroughly mixed after numerous generations, which offers, during the fiercest storms, the most reliable shelter.
Yet there are some needling issues, even aside from the case of Fan, such as the fact that the less durable, discretionary-type goods in the shops have become stretches to the typical budget, and are often nearly unaffordable. Even our own products have become much costlier, the price of a single five-hundred-gram perch equal to what two cost just five years ago. Or that the maximum stay period in the health clinics is effectively one work cycle (six days), no matter the condition or needs of the patient, as the family is now responsible for the fees past that time, fees that are well beyond most any B-Mor clan’s capacity to pay.
An example of this would be the recent experience of the Rivera-Deng family, who occupy not one but two row houses down near the B-Mor waste treatment plant. They are not an especially large family, but because they run a popular aboveground trinkets and bubble tea shop (the subterranean-level shops are almost without exception owned, if never operated, by Charter investors), they could afford to purchase the leasehold on the adjacent house when it became available. They are considered rich by B-Mor standards, though what else this wealth truly buys them is not at all apparent. Harvey Rivera-Deng might show up at a wake in his flecked suit jacket with a contrasting pocket square but we aren’t inclined to offer any notice, much less compliments. He stands stout and flashy in his finery but clutches the same plastic buffet plate as everybody else, jostling to get to the snow-pea shoots before they’re all gone. And this is how it should be. But when his wife, a portly, ever-smiling, sweetly damp-necked woman named Ruby, took seriously ill recently, eventually passing, the feeling we had can only be one of steady, drenching sorrow.
Ruby was not the most healthful person in B-Mor, a longtime diabetic who liked her sweet cakes and scallion fritters a bit too well, washing everything down with creamy bubble fruit teas. One afternoon she collapsed in the back of the shop; one of her kidneys had failed, which apparently led to a stroke that paralyzed one side of her body. She was rushed to the clinic but then suffered another stroke before being stabilized, which left her unable to speak. Otherwise her mind was intact, and Harvey and the rest of the Rivera-Deng clan told her not to worry, that they would take care of her at home, but everyone could see that she would need a dialysis machine to bolster her remaining, chronically weakened kidney, a machine that a physician’s assistant told her
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