TVA BABY and Other Stories Read online

  Praise for

  TVA Baby

  “Bisson’s work is a fresh, imaginative attempt to confront some of the problems of our time. It is the Bissons of the field upon whom the future of science fiction depends.”

  —Washington Post Book World

  “With his sharp accuracy and sharp humor, he seems to me the Mark Twain of science fiction.”

  —Kim Stanley Robinson

  “Terry Bisson is one of the sharpest short story writers in science fiction today.”

  —Sacramento Book Review

  ALSO BY TERRY BISSON

  Fiction:

  Wyrldmaker

  Talking Man

  Voyage to the Red Planet

  Bears Discover Fire (stories)

  Pirates of the Universe

  In the Upper Room (stories)

  The Pick-up Artist

  Greetings (stories)

  Dear Abbey

  Numbers Don’t Lie

  Planet of Mystery

  Billy’s Book (stories)

  The Left Left Behind (PM Outspoken Author)

  Fire on the Mountain (PM Spectacular Fiction)

  Biography:

  Tradin’ Paint: Raceway Rookies and Royalty

  Nat Turner: Slave Revolt Leader

  Ona Move: The Story of Mumia Abu-Jamal

  Terry Bisson © 2011

  This edition © 2011 PM Press

  ISBN: 978-1-60486-405-2

  LCCN: 2010916471

  PM Press

  P.O. Box 23912

  Oakland, CA 94623

  pmpress.org

  Printed in the USA on recycled paper.

  Cover: John Yates/Stealworks.co

  Layout: Jonathan Rowland

  DEDICATION

  for Giles

  who put on a shirt his mother made

  and went on the air

  Contents

  TVA Baby

  Private Eye

  Pirates of the Somali Coast

  The Stamp

  Catch ‘Em in the Act

  A Special Day

  BYOB FAQ

  Captain Ordinary

  Farewell Atlantis

  Corona FAQ

  Billy and the Circus Girl

  Brother Can You Spare a Dime?

  Charlie’s Angels

  Author’s Afterword

  TVA Baby

  I’m a TVA baby. My father was a Yankee, from Michigan I think, one of those educated engineers who came down here to dam up the rivers and bring electric lights and indoor plumbing to the bedarkened South: FDR’s potlatch. Then they all went off to the War and some returned and others didn’t. It’s Destiny that decides such things.

  I fly a lot. I slept through the takeoff from Nashville and woke up just in time to hear the man in the seat next to me say, “There’s the Mississippi, Ned.”

  “Ned,” the Ned he was talking to, was a boy of about eight in the window seat. I was in the aisle seat. I looked over them both, out the little oval window, and saw a long lake laid out like a coonskin, running north and south, with skinny legs of muddy water extending east and west.

  “That’s Kentucky Lake,” I said. “Or Barkley, not the Mississippi.”

  “Excuse me?” he said.

  “Kentucky Lake is the Tennessee River,” I said, “dammed up by TVA. Barkley Lake is the Cumberland. Both run into the Ohio here, only twenty miles apart. We’re still a hundred miles east of the Mississippi.”

  “Who is he?” asked “Ned,” the kid.

  “Some nosy A-hole,” said the man. He was about forty with a flattop and an Opryland T-shirt.

  “I was just trying to be helpful,” I said. “You got it wrong. It’s against the law to mislead children!” It should be, anyway.

  “Can I help?” asked the stewardess. “Please don’t shout.”

  “Sorry,” I said. I almost never shout. “I’m a TVA baby. This ignoramus in the middle seat is so ignorant that he thinks Kentucky Lake is the Mississippi River!”

  “I am a Lieutenant Commander in the US Navy,” he said. “On vacation, and I do believe I know a lake from a river.”

  “I can see how one could make that mistake,” I said. Though I couldn’t help adding: “Though I am dismayed to learn that a U.S. naval officer could be so ignorant as to the geographic layout of the country he is supposedly supposed to defend.”

  “Don’t pay any attention to him, Ned,” the man said. “He’s crazy.”

  I hear that a lot. I wanted to kill him. I usually carry a gun for just such occasions, but they are no longer allowed on commercial flights, so I rammed the heel of my hand upward, into his nose and drove the bone into his brain, such as it was.

  Well, then, all hell broke loose. So to speak. First of all, there was the blood; you hardly ever see blood on a commercial flight. And then he was making this honking noise, trying to breathe and spraying blood all over the magazines in the seat pocket, and the back of the seat as well. Then he jerked once and died, but it was too late. All the other passengers were standing up, trying to get out of their seats, which are all jammed together, economy class wise, so it was like a little mini-riot. And here was the stewardess, excuse me, flight attendant, back again.

  “Sir, sir,” she was saying, meaning, of course, me. One only gets called “sir” by cops and such, so I got alarmed. Sureenough, there was a big guy behind me, trying to grab my arms and waving plastic handcuffs.

  You can imagine the chaos. I figured it was time to split. The big guy wasn’t so big with a fork in his carotid; even a plastic fork will do if you know how to wield it. I jammed him face down between the seats to bleed out and grabbed the gun out his ankle holster, and there’s nothing like a gun, even a little one, to cool things out. It’s like waving a magic wand. Everybody got real quiet.

  Even the kid was quiet. The “Ned.” He was watching me like a hawk or maybe an owl, all owl-eyed.

  The gun was a big help. I used it to direct the attendant to the back of the plane. The aisle was clear. Everybody was sitting down again, watching me. I stopped on the way to get my carry-on out of the overhead.

  “Open it,” I said, pointing with the gun at the Emergency Exit door. They’re good for pointing.

  “Not not not allowed,” she said with a combination of words and almost illegible (is that the word?) gestures, but I wasn’t about to take no for an answer. Only authorized personnel are allowed to operate Emergency Exits, so I made her pull the big handle Out, then Up (as instructed by the decal).

  It opened with a big “whoosh” that ripped the door right off, no surprise: it’s windy out there at 500+ mph. She was still holding on, so she went with it, spinning like a top. Anybody could see everything up that short dress. Meanwhile, the kid had left his seat and was holding onto my leg as if he were trying to tackle me, for dear life, so he went with me when I dove out after her.

  He was wearing an Opryland T-shirt like his “dad” and trying to bite me, so I shook him off. He could have stayed in his seat, and should have, but he didn’t. We fell side by side for a minute or so (or so it seemed; it was probably less) with him reaching out for something to grab, while I unzipped my carry-on, and then he was gone.

  How many guys carry a parasail in their carry-on? If that question was asked of, say, a studio audience, only one peson in the audience could raise his hand legitimately.

  That would be me.

  I could see the flight attendant getting smaller and smaller below as I adjusted my parasail for the optimum glide angle. The kid, too. I never saw either of them actually hit, but I figured it had to be bad. Meanwhile, it was cold and it takes a certain concentration to fly those things, even though it looks easy. It’s the things that look easiest t
hat are the hardest, often.

  I descended in big circles. That way you can study the scene below and look for a good place to land. There was Kentucky Lake and Barkley Lake, side by side, and the Ohio River to the north. It felt good to see that I had been right all along, even though I had never doubted it. It was nice to know that my actions had been justified all along.

  I concentrated on my glide angle, and when I looked down again there was only one lake in sight. I didn’t know which one, not that it mattered; they are both just alike.

  I was trying to decide whether to land on the water oron the shore, which was all stickers it looked like, when I saw the boat.

  It was barely put-putting along, a houseboat with a flat roof. I made a pretty soft landing, and almost “stuck it” except for getting my feet tangled in a plastic rope somebody had left up there. But no big deal.

  I must have made a “thump” because two people came out of the cabin, onto this little deck in back, and they were staring up at me. One of them was a girl in a bikini. The other was this fat hillbilly type guy in one of those free hats they love, only this one had a gold anchor on the front, like that made him a sea captain or something. He looked pissed. I could see that this was going to be one of those days.

  “Hey!” he said.

  “Hey yourself,” I replied, and I shot him purely as a precaution. It was the first time I had actually fired the gun. I thought I had missed, because he just sort of sat down, and I was about to shoot again, but then I saw the blood spreading all over the front of his shirt like a map, and I clicked the safety on. I had no idea how many shots were in the gun. I didn’t even know what kind it was! You know how it is when you get busy, and I was still in action mode.

  I took a moment to examine it. It was a Glock nine, so I figured if the clip was full (and why wouldn’t it be?) there were still six or seven shots left. No point in wasting them, though. I climbed down to the rear deck on a little ladder that was there just for that purpose and almost kicked over a tackle box that was at the bottom, like a step. All the shit inside was rusty but there was a knife, of course. There is no such thing as a tackle box without a knife, in my experience.

  Though how they ever cleaned fish with that one is beyond me. I had to use it like a saw to open his throat.

  Then I realized that the girl was gone. How unlike me to forget a girl in a bikini! The door to the cabin was glass and I could see her inside. She was holding a shotgun in one hand and opening drawers with the other, like crazy. I figured she was looking for shells. The door was locked but I kicked it till it splintered and smashed my way in and took the shotgun away from her, and just in time—there were the shells, in the last drawer.

  I scooped up five and loaded the shotgun, a Mossberg 500, and stuck the pistol in my belt. No point in waving both around. She was backed up against a little orange couch and I sat her down, with a push, just to let her know who was now in charge. Now the Captain, as it were.

  Meanwhile, the houseboat was going in circles, so I took the wheel and straightened it out. I had had enough of circles descending! It was a little wooden wheel with spokes, just like a ship would have, only much smaller. An aftermarket add-on, no doubt.

  The girl was just sitting there watching me. Woman, really, but I like to call them girls. She looked real cute in her bikini, and I told her so.

  She didn’t say anything.

  “What lake are we on?” I asked, to break the ice. Plus I was curious.

  Her mouth moved but she didn’t say anything.

  “Barkley Lake or Kentucky Lake?” I asked, to help her out.

  “B-Barkley,” she said.

  I nodded as if I had known all along; and in a sense, I had, within a fifty percent margin of error. I knew it had to be one or the other, which was where this whole business had started.

  She kept staring out the door toward the rear deck, which was a mess. I had gone a little overboard, so to speak, and the guy’s head was half off. She looked kind of horrified, which was understandable, so I made her stand up and take the wheel (which would keep her looking straight ahead, or so I thought!) while I went out and “tidied up” as my mother used to say. The deck was slick with all that helpful blood and the dead guy just slid right off, under the railing and into the water.

  When I came back in I was wearing the “Captain’s hat,” which I thought was a nice touch. The girl was still freaked out, though. Which was understandable. The guy could have been her father or her husband, either one. She was about twenty-something.

  She looked real cute in her bikini and I told her so.

  “D-don’t,” she said.

  Apparently she stuttered. I pretended not to notice. When I was a kid I knew a guy in Boy Scouts who stuttered and we all pretended not to notice, to spare his feelings. I say “all”; some of us pretended not to notice while others were more cruel. I used to tell them, “Cruelty is not a merit badge,” which it isn’t.

  “D-don’t,” she said again. She was backed up against the wheel, staring at me instead of steering.

  Don’t what? But I knew what she was thinking. “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m a TVA baby.”

  That got her attention. I turned her around and showed her how to hold the wheel so the boat would go straight. I showed her from behind, being careful not to bump up against her bikini. She was finding it hard to relax.

  Meanwhile, I had other problems. The gas gauge, which I could see over her strapless shoulder, was on empty! They must have been bringing the boat in when I had arrived, seemingly out of nowhere. In fact, I could see the marina, up ahead about a half a mile, tucked into a cove along the shore.

  They say that when one door shuts another opens. I pointed at the marina, and she said “Aye aye, Sir.” Not really, but that’s what I imagined she might have said had she been more relaxed. She steered straight for it, though.

  Houseboats are nothing if not slow, so I “fished” a cigarette out of my carry-on and went out onto the tiny little front deck for a smoke. I offered her one but she apparently didn’t smoke. Or maybe she had been trying to quit.

  High up above I could see the vapor trail of the jet, already being scattered by the stratospheric winds. Ahead, in the water, I could see something that looked like a log.

  I checked it out as we putted by, at about the speed of a walk-on-the-water walk. It was the flight attendant, with her arms and legs stretched out, as if she were still falling through the air. Transitions are like that: the old persists into the new. She was face down in the water, so I figured she hadn’t survived the fall, which people rarely do, so I signaled the girl to just keep us going, which she did. I was worried about the gas.

  Another “log” was coming up, and this one was the little boy. The kid. “Ned.” He was face up and his eyes wereopen so I grabbed his legs and pulled him on board, still without slowing down. I figured a lot of starting and stopping was the last thing we needed.

  “Where am I?” he asked.

  “Barkley Lake,” I said. “It’s the Cumberland River dammed up. TVA.”

  “Where’s my dad?”

  I pointed up. You could still see what was left of the vapor trail, but the plane was long gone.

  “You killed him,” he said.

  “You don’t know that for sure,” I said. Actually, I had, but the last thing I needed was some hysterical kid on my hands. His clothes were all wet and his bones were all broken, so I scooped him up and put him inside on the little orange sofa. I propped him up and sat the girl down beside him. The marina was coming up and it was time for me to take the wheel.

  “This is ‘Ned,’ “I said. I didn’t know her name.

  “He killed my father,” the kid said. She just stared at him, horrified, then at me.

  “It was his own fault,” I explained back over my shoulder while I steered. “All this is top secret. Navy business. I’m a Navy Seal, and I was sent to take care of him. It’s OK.”

  None of this was strictly true, but
I have read about the Navy Seals. They are a tough bunch of customers.

  “Really?” he asked.

  “Shut up,” I said.

  That shut him up, for a while. Meanwhile, the girl was eyeing the water, like she wanted to dive in and escape, which she could have done in her bikini, so I tied her legs togetherwith a piece of plastic rope. It was time for me to concentrate on pulling in at the marina, which I did. Very smoothly, I might add.

  The gas guy came out to help us tie up. Another hillbilly, also wearing a captain’s anchor hat. He saw all the blood on the rear deck and registered alarm, saying:

  “What the fuck?”

  “Help,” said the girl, speaking up, finally.

  “He killed my dad,” the kid said.

  They were both trying to get me in trouble. The gas guy was backing away, still registering alarm, so I killed him with the shotgun as a precaution. It made a mess of his face, and the girl started screaming. I should have aimed lower.

  Luckily, there seemed to be no one else around.

  I had to help her off the boat, since her legs were tied together; and I had to carry the kid, since all his bones were broken. It was turning out to be one of those days.

  “Stop that damn screaming,” I said, and she did. I sat her down beside the kid and instructed her to sit tight while I checked out the cars in the parking lot. I had had enough of boats, and how many guys carry a key for every kind of car in their carry-on? Pickups, too.

  Again, mine would be the only hand raised.

  I wanted something inconspicuous, so I settled on a Camry and put the kid and the girl in the back seat. First I made sure the gas gauge said full. On second thought, I made the girl in the bikini ride up front with me, where I could keep an eye on her.

  “Fasten your seat belts,” I said. “We’re in for a bumpy ride.” That’s from a Bette Davis movie. You’ll never see Bette

  Davis in a bikini. And it was pretty bumpy till we got to the highway, then it smoothed out, suddenly.

  “I want my mother,” said the kid from the back seat.