Protecting coffee growing sites provides ground for exciting adventures.
So the Story goes...
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“Amy, don’t go near the coffee plantations. You know what happened last time,” shouted Amy’s father.
“Where are they again?” Thiram was straining as he waited for his friends, or rather colleagues.
“Typical of them to get us all excited, and then bailing out to some mundane excuses.”
He started to pace around the shed where they were supposed to meet. He wasn’t clear about all the details, Amy, or Carob would have them. Chico would be here for the ride, but the master plan this time was for the girls to come up with.
What was happening at the plantation? Something unusual for sure; the Lucid Luddite Dreamers and their Silly Intelligence devices were always looking to disrupt the flows of coffee of the remaining parts where they still grew. That was why their mission was so important. Or so he was told.
“Bugger… they could at least answer their damn phones… AI might well be everywhere, but you can’t just be all cavemen about it.”
A rush of ruffled dried leaves and a happy bleating caught his attention at the moment he was about to leave. A panting Amy arrived, with her cream goat “Fanella” in tow —the bleating was from her, obviously. She didn’t take “Finnley”, the black one, she was too unpredictable; Amy would only keep her around for life or death situations that required a fair deal of rude practicality, and a good horn’s ramming.
“Sorry, sorry!” Amy blurted out in hushed tones. “I couldn’t get away from the Padre. He’s too worried about stuff…”
Thiram shrugged “at least there’s one. And what about the others?”
“Oh, what? I’m not the last to arrive? That’s new.”
Thiram rolled his eyes and gave a twig with fresh leaves to Fanella to eat.
Godric, a Swede barista channeler, poured a Coco Valkyrie cocktail to his customer, he saw a goat horned helmet pass in the shadows of a table.
What the frack! he thought. Nothing good comes with the Draugaskald (Ghost-singers).
“It’s the rain,” explained Amy when she’d caught her breath. “Too much of it. They’re very particular about how much rain they like, not too little, and not too much. And there’s been too much. The Padre says unless we can come up with a plan to keep the rain off them, the whole crop is doomed.”
Thiram frowned. “We could buy thousands of golf umbrellas from China, do a deal with El Salvador, and use deportees to hold umbrellas over the coffee plants?”
Amy gave him a playful punch in the arm. “How about we wait and see if Carob and Chico have any better ideas. We don’t have time to wait for the umbrellas and deportees to get here.” Amy smiled, picturing the scene, and then sighed as the rain started again.
“Juan, was it wise to speak to that man?” Dolores asked her husband. “The cat’s out of the bag now, when Chico tells his friends…”
“Trust me, Dolores,” Juan Valdez implored, “What else can we do? We need their help.”
“But you’ve been fictional for so long, Juan. Nobody knew you were real. Until now.”
“You worry too much! It’s hardly going to make headlines on Focks News, is it, and even if it did, nobody believes anything anymore. We can just spread a rumour that it was made up by one of those artifical story things.”
“But he took a photo of you!”
“Dolores,” Juan said with exaggerated patience, “Nobody believes photos any more either. I’m telling you, they make fakes these days and nobody can tell. Trust me,” he repeated, giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
“So we’ll still be fictional, Juan?” Dolores asked in an uncertain tone. “Because I’m not ready to be a real character yet, it seems so….so time consuming, to be real every day, all day… doing all those things every day that real people do…”
“No, no, not at all! You only have to play the part when someone’s looking!”
“I hope you’re right. Too many things changing all at once, if you ask me.” And with that Dolores vanished, as nobody was looking at her.
To Whom It May Concern
I know you’re writing stories and making things up about me, and I intend to set the record straight before my character goes horribly awry. I am a character appeared from nowhere, from a reckless and inebriated momentary random insistence on a new plaything, and new toy, and new story. But let me tell you this: I am born and I exist and this is who I am.
I find my name is Amy; it will do. I neither find an affinity to it, nor an objection. It sounds English, and thus, familiar. I feel English, and so I am. I am a character, not a writer, but I exist; I am Amy.
“Sorry I’m late,” said Carob as she crouched down to fuss over Fanella. “I have excuses, but they’re not interesting. I’m feeling a little underdeveloped as a character, so I’m not sure what to say yet.”
“That’s okay,” said Amy. “Just remember … if you don’t tell us who you are early on…” She squinted and glanced around suspiciously. “Others will create you.”
“I’d rather just slowly percolate.” Carob screwed up her face. “Get it? Percolate?”
She stood up and slapped a hand to her head as Amy rolled her eyes. “Sorry … ” She patted her head curiously. “Oh wait—do I have curls?”
“I’d say more like frizzes than curls,” answered Amy.
Thiram nodded. “Totally frizzled.”
“Cool … must be the damp weather,” said Carob. She brushed a twig from her coat. The coat was blue-green and only reached her thighs. Many things were too small when you were six foot two.
“Oh—and I’ve been lucid dreaming in reverse,” she added. “Last night I watched myself un-make and un-drink a cup of coffee.” She gave a quick snort-laugh. “Weirdo”.
“Was it raining in the dream?” asked Thiram.
Carob frowned. “Probably… You know how in scary movies they always leave the curtains open, like they want the bad guys to see in? It felt like that.” She shuddered and then smiled brightly. “Anyway, just a dream. Also, I bumped into your father, Amy. He said to tell you: Remember what happened last time.”
She regarded Amy intently. “What did happen last time?”
“He worries too much,” said Amy, waving a hand dismissively. “Also, I didn’t even write that in, so how should I know?” She looked out toward the trees. “Where’s Chico?”
“A Mexicano, por favor, ” said the man who had just entered the café.
“Right away,” said Godric with his Swedish accent. “Your face looks familiar.”
“Name’s Chico,” said the man with teeth dyed with betel leaves chewing. “Never been here before. I just popped into existence, called by voices of people I never heard of before. Maybe I just had a rough night. I don’t know.”
Chico spat on the floor Godric had just cleaned. What did they say about customers already?
Amy excused herself and went off to find a lavatory. She didn’t actually need to go, after all she had only just popped into existence and hadn’t been offered a drink yet. But she did want to find a mirror to see what basic character characteristics she had had bestowed upon her when the story character gods had been assigning new players. She had to act fast too, before some other new story character might see her and describe her to the readers before she had even seen her self herself.
Amy was quite glad to not have to learn new pronouns at this juncture.
“Nice dog,” said Chico casting an appreciative eye over the beige and white coloured Breton Spaniel.
“His name’s Cappuccino,” a mans voice murmured, but Chico barely glanced at him.
To Whom It May Concern
I am the new character called Amy, and my physical characteristics, which once bestowed are largely irreversible, are in the hands of impetuous maniacs. In the unseemly headlong rush, dangers abound.
Let it be known that I the character called Amy, given the opportunity to choose, hereby select a height considerably less imposing than Carob.
“So, what are we even doing here?” asked Carob. She tilted her head to look down at Amy. “You said we had to protect the coffee…?”
“From the rain,” said Amy. She folded her arms and stood up as tall as she could — which, to be fair, wasn’t very tall.
“Could be the least of our worries,” muttered Thiram, who had been checking his messages. “AI’s having an emotional meltdown and the plantation irrigation system’s gone haywire.”
He frowned at his screen. “And if that’s not enough, a group of rogue Lucid Dreamers have started sleep-parachuting onto the plantation and creating havoc.”
“Wow,” said Carob. She pulled up the hood of her coat, then tugged it forward until it nearly covered her eyes. “That’s a lot.”
“What were you saying already?” Thiram asked “I must have zoned out, it happens at times.” He chuckled looking embarrassed. “Not to worry.”
As the silence settled, Thiram started to blink vigorously to get things back into focus —a trick he’d seen in the Lucid Dreamer 101 manual for beginners. You could never be too sure if this was all a dream. And if it was, then you’d better pay attention to your thoughts in case they’d attract trouble – generally your thoughts were the trouble-makers, but in some cases, also other Lucid Dreamers were.
Here and now, trouble wasn’t coming, to the contrary. It was all unusually foggy.
“Well, by the look of it, Amy is not biting into the whole father drama, and prefers to have a self-induced personality crisis…” Carob shrugged. “We can all clearly see what she looks like, obviously. Whether she likes it or not, and I won’t comment further despite how tempting it is.”
“You’re one to speak.” Amy replied. “Should I give you some drama? Would certainly make things more interesting.”
Thiram had a thought he needed to share “And I just remember that Chico isn’t probably coming – he still wasn’t over our last fight with Amy bossying and messing the team’s plans because she can’t keep up with modern tech, had to dig a hole, or overcome a ratmaggeddon; something he’d said that had seemed quite final at the time: ‘I’d rather be turned into a donkey than follow you guys around.’ I wouldn’t count on him showing up just yet.”
“Me? bossying?” Amy did feel enticed to catch that bait this time, and like a familiar trope see it reel out, or like a burning match in front of a dry hay bale, she could almost see the old patterns of getting incensed, and were it would lead.
“Can we at least agree on a few things about the where, what, why, or shall we all play this one by ear?”
“Obviously we know. But all the observing essences, do they?” Carob was doing a great impersonation of Chico.
“Do you like the new pamphlets?” Ricardo asked Miss Bossy Pants.
“Thought we needed a bit of building awareness to the readership” he said struggling hard not to try to justify himself.After a moment of reflection, she answered “I can’t say I’m completely hating it, the whole foray into quote-unquote serious journalism, with a tint of eco-consciousness. Even more so it’s starting to look more rebellious nowadays than the fad that it was. But I digress. I mean, apart from the obvious AI showing, tell me Ric… Where are the interviews? the wrangling emotions of the interviews… Have we stopped doing investigative journalism?”
“Look, don’t get upset, ok?” Amy felt she had to nip this in the bud. “There’s something glaringly wrong with the map. I mean, yes, it does make a nice picture. A very nice picture,” she added, and then stopped. Does it really matter? she asked herself. Am I always causing trouble?
Amy sighed. Would life be easier for everyone if she stopped pointing things out and just went along with things? Was there any stopping it anyway? It’s like a runaway train.
“You were saying?” Ricardo asked.
“Pray, continue,” added Carob with a mischeivous gleam in her eye. She knew where this was leading.
“Who is he?” Amy whispered to Carob. “Well never mind that now, you can tell me later.”
Amy cleared her throat and faced Ricardo (noting that he was dark complexioned and and of medium height and wiry build, dressed in a crumpled off white linen suit and a battered Panama hat, and likely to be of Latino heritage) noticing out of the corner of her eye a smirk on Thiram’s face who was leaning against a tree with his arms folded, looking as if he might start whistling Yankee Doodle any moment.
“According to your map, my good man, nice map that it is, in fact it’s so nice one could make a flag out of it, the colours are great and….” Amy realised she was waffling. She cleared her throat and braced her shoulders, glaring at Carob over her shoulder who had started to titter.
Speak your mind even if your voice shakes, and keep the waffling to a minimum.
“My dear Ricardo,” Amy began again, pushing her long light brown hair out of her sweaty hazel eyes, and pushing the sleeves of her old grey sweatshirt up over her elbows and glancing down at her short thin but shapely denim clad legs. “My dear man, as you can see I’m a slightly underweight middle aged woman eminently capable of trudging up and down coffee growing mountains, with a particular flair for maps, and this map of yours begs a few questions.”
“Coffee beans don’t grow in Florida,” Carob interjected, in an attempt to move the discourse along.
“Nor in Morocco,” added Amy quickly, shooting a grateful glance at Carob.
A mad cackle started to shake the Universe again.
“Mmm…” Thiram interjected. “Not like you to be so hung up on details now? Although, I thought that was the whole point — coffee beans acclimation to whole unexpected new places, with the AI models predicting or hallucinating the shifts of weather patterns and all? Surely coffee beans no longer grow where they’re supposed to?”
They all looked at him with eyes like coffee cup’s saucers.
“And what’s that place you’re calling Florida by the way?” he felt pressed to add.
The cackling intensified, shaking their sense of geography to the core.
“Well, I’ll give you a point for that, Thiram,” Amy said, wondering, not for the first time, about his unusual name. Was it a play on the word theorem? I must ask him about it. “But if Florida doesn’t exist anymore, which I am willing to admit it does not, then what is it doing on that map?”
“What was the population of Florida before it was submerged? Twenty four million or so?” asked Chico, appearing from behind a trumpet tree. “That’s 24 million less people drinking coffee, anyway, 144 million cups saved per day (assuming they drank 6 cups per day), which is a whopping 54.5 billion cups a year.”
“Chico! How long have you been hiding behind that trumpet tree?” asked Amy, but Chico ignored her. Nettled, Amy continued, “That would be true if all the people in Florida were submerged along with the land, but most of them were resettled in Alabama. There was plenty of room in Alabama, because the population of Alabama was relocated.”
“Yes but the people of Alabama were relocated to a holding camp in Rwanda, and they’re not allowed any coffee,” replied Chico crossly, making it up on the spot.
“Yeah I heard about that,” said Carob, which made Chico wonder if he had actually made it up on the spot, or perhaps he’d heard it somewhere too.
“I’m going back behind the trumpet tree,” announced Chico, flouncing off in high dudgeon.
“Now look what you’ve done!” exclaimed Carob.
“Why is it always my fault?” Amy was exasperated.
“Maybe because it usually is,” Carob replied, “But not to worry, at least we know where to find Chico now.”
To say that Amy was shocked when she looked up the word thiram would be an understatement. Who would name a baby after a toxic fungicide?
“Oh, guess what!” Thiram announced, entirely coincidentally. “My brothers are coming to join us, Malathion and Glyphosate. We’re triplets,” he added.
“Sweaty hazel eyes… like coffee cup saucers,” muttered Carob discreetly into her phone. “Good grief. Sounds like something that dreadful Elizabeth Tattler might have written.”
Privately, she was shaken to see Ricardo. To her credit, though, she had done a splendid job of disguising her unease.
What if he gave her game away?
Amy wondered afterwards if she should have said “Why is it always my fault” and hoped nobody would think el gran apagón was her fault too. Another one of the issues with typecasting too soon.
The rumours and hoaxes were rife even before the electricity came back on. The crisis of the lack of coffee beans was coming to a head: morning riots were breaking out in the places most affected by the shortage. As soon as the blackouts started, improvised statistics and numbers were cobbled together into snappy psychological colour combination images and plastered everywhere suggesting that the lack of electricity was saving an incomprehensible number of cups of coffee per day, but without causing any coffee related social disorder events.
Amy had heard that el gran apagón was foretold to occur when the pope died, that it was extraterrestrials, that it was el naranjo and his sidekick effin muck, and all manner of things, but the concerns with the coffee shortage happening at the same time as the blackouts were manifold.
The population was looking for scapegoats. Oh dear god, what did I say that for.
Amy supposed everyone was blaming her, for what she couldn’t say, but they had clearly been avoiding her. There was plenty of coffee here anyway, even if the rest of the world was suffering. Don’t even think it, she told herself sternly. We don’t want people flocking here in droves once they realise.
So, do I want people or not? she asked herself. One minute I’m wondering where everyone is, and then next minute I’m wanting everyone to stay away.
“You on the spectrum too, are you?” asked Carob, reading her mind. “It’s ok,” she added, seeing the look of alarm cross Amy’s face, “Your secret’s safe with me. I mean about being on the spectrum. But be careful, they’re rounding people like us up and sending them to a correctional facility. We’re quite lucky to be here, out of the way.”
“Have you been avoiding me?” Amy asked, which was more immediately concerning than the concentration camps. “Because I’ve been here all alone for ages, nothing to do but read my book, draw in my sketch pad, and work on my needlepoint cushion covers. And where are the others? And don’t read my mind, it’s so rude.”
“Needlepoint cushion covers? Are you serious?” Carob was avoiding the questions, but was genuinely curious about the cushion covers.
Amy blushed. “No, I made that up. In fact, I don’t know what made me say that. I haven’t started any sketching either, but I have thought about starting sketching. And I’ve been reading. It’s an old Liz Tattler; the old ones were the best. Real old school Lizzie Tattie, if you know what I mean. Risque romps with potting sheds and stuff. None of that ghastly sci fi she started writing recently.”
“Which one?” Carob asked, and laughed when Amy held it up. “I read that years ago, T’Eggy Gets a Good Rogering, can I borrow it after you? God knows we could all do with a laugh.”
“How do you know the others need a good laugh?” Amy asked, peering at Carob with an attentive squint in order to catch any clues. “You’ve seen then, then?”
Carob smiled sadly and replied, “Only by remote viewing them.”
Amy asked where they had been and what they were doing when they were viewed remotely. Has she been remote viewing me? What if they ask her if she’s been remote viewing me, and she tells them? “Oh never mind,” Amy said quickly, “No need to answer that.”
Carob snorted, and what a strangely welcome sound it was. “I didn’t really remote view them, I made that up. It never works if I try to spy on people. Fat lot of good it is really, it never works when I really really need to see something. Or maybe it works, but I never believe it properly until later when I find out it was right.”
“Yeah,” Amy said, “It’s fun though, I haven’t done it in ages.”
“You should, it would give you something to do when everyone’s avoiding you.”
Carob didn’t know what to say — which gave her a tendency to ramble.
Was everyone avoiding Amy?
Was it because she was dressed as a stout little lady?
Carob cleared her throat. “Well, Amy, you look… most interesting today.”
“I have to agree,” replied Amy, unperturbed. “Now — what is this about you and Ricardo?”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you,” Carob said, shaking her head. “Partly because it’s top secret, and partly because…”
She tapped her temple and nodded to herself — definitely a few times more than necessary. “I’m still working it out.”“But you know him?” Amy persisted. “How do you know him?”
Carob knew Amy could be relentless.
“Look over there!” she shouted, pointing vaguely.
Amy didn’t even turn her head. She gazed up at Carob with a long-suffering stare. “Carob?”
Carob scrunched up her face. “Okay,” she said eventually. “I think the others are avoiding you. Me. Us. Both of us.”
She took a deep breath. “Thiram doesn’t know where we are or what we’re doing here — and he’s not good with that, bless. We don’t know where on earth Chico is — but we do know he spits, which, quite frankly, is uncouth.”
She brightened suddenly. “But one thing I do know — here, amid the coffee beans and the lucid dreamers, there is a story to be told.”
Amy rolled her eyes. “I’ve noticed you still haven’t told me how you know Ricardo.”
It was rather odd — but neither of them noticed the bush inching closer.
Trailing suspect but nothing to report yet, messaged Ricardo.
He knew Miss Bossy Pants wouldn’t be happy.
Chico noticed the inching bush from his hidden vantage point behind the tulip tree. For a moment he wished he wasn’t quite so solitary, and regretted that there was nobody to say look at that bush inching along over there to.
“Sssh!” whispered Carob, holding a hand up to silence Amy. “Did you hear that? Listen! There it is again!”
“Sounds like someone spitting behind that tulip tree. But look over there!” Amy cried, “I never saw such a thing, that bush is moving.”
“And it’s heading towards the tulip tree spitter,” Carob replied grimly. “This could get serious.”
