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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 1 Eastern Standard TribeCory DoctorowCopyright 2004 Cory Doctorowdoctorow@craphound.comhttp://www.craphound.com/estTor Books, March 2004ISBN: 0765307596 Blurbs:“Utterly contemporary and deeply peculiar—a hardcombination to beat (or, these days, to find).”- William Gibson,Author of Neuromancer “Cory Doctorow knocks me out. In a good way.“- Pat Cadigan,Author of Synners“Cory Doctorow is just far enough ahead of the game to giveyou that authentic chill of the future, and close enough to homefor us to know that he’s talking about where we live as well aswhere we’re going to live; a connected world full ofdisconnected people. One of whom is about to lobotomisehimself through the nostril with a pencil. Funny as hell andsharp as steel.”- Warren Ellis,Author of Transmetropolitan
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 2 A note about this book:Last year, in January 2003, my first novel[http://craphound.com/down] came out. I was 31 years old, andI’d been calling myself a novelist since the age of 12. It was thestoried dream-of-a-lifetime, come-true-at-last. I was and amproud as hell of that book, even though it is just one bookamong many released last year, better than some, poorer thanothers; and even though the print-run (which sold out veryquickly!) though generous by science fiction standards, hardlyqualifies it as a work of mass entertainment.The thing that’s extraordinary about that first novel is that itwas released under terms governed by a Creative Commons[http://creativecommons.org ] license that allowed my readersto copy the book freely and distribute it far and wide. Hundredsof thousands of copies of the book were made and distributedthis way.
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 1 Eastern Standard TribeCory DoctorowCopyright 2004 Cory Doctorowdoctorow@craphound.comhttp://www.craphound.com/estTor Books, March 2004ISBN: 0765307596 Blurbs:“Utterly contemporary and deeply peculiar—a hardcombination to beat (or, these days, to find).”- William Gibson,Author of Neuromancer “Cory Doctorow knocks me out. In a good way.“- Pat Cadigan,Author of Synners“Cory Doctorow is just far enough ahead of the game to giveyou that authentic chill of the future, and close enough to homefor us to know that he’s talking about where we live as well aswhere we’re going to live; a connected world full ofdisconnected people. One of whom is about to lobotomisehimself through the nostril with a pencil. Funny as hell andsharp as steel.”- Warren Ellis,Author of Transmetropolitan
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 2 A note about this book:Last year, in January 2003, my first novel[http://craphound.com/down] came out. I was 31 years old, andI’d been calling myself a novelist since the age of 12. It was thestoried dream-of-a-lifetime, come-true-at-last. I was and amproud as hell of that book, even though it is just one bookamong many released last year, better than some, poorer thanothers; and even though the print-run (which sold out veryquickly!) though generous by science fiction standards, hardlyqualifies it as a work of mass entertainment.The thing that’s extraordinary about that first novel is that itwas released under terms governed by a Creative Commons[http://creativecommons.org ] license that allowed my readersto copy the book freely and distribute it far and wide. Hundredsof thousands of copies of the book were made and distributedthis way.Hundreds of thousands.Today, I release my second novel, and my third[http://www.argosymag.com/NextIssue.html], a collaborationwith Charlie Stross is due any day, and two[http://www.fantasticmetropolis.com/show.html?fn.preview_doctorow] more[http://www.craphound.com/usrbingodexcerpt.txt] are undercontract. My career as a novelist is now well underway—inother words, I am firmly afoot on a long road that stretches intothe future: my future, science fiction’s future, publishing’sfuture and the future of the world. The future is my business, more or less. I’m a science fiction writer. One way to know thefuture is to look good and hard at the present. Here’s a thingI’ve noticed about the present: more people are reading morewords off of more screens than ever before. Here’s anotherthing I’ve noticed about the present: fewer people are readingfewer words off of fewer pages than ever before.
Thatdoesn’t mean that the book is dying—no more than the adventof the printing press and the de-emphasis of Bible-copyingmonks meant that the book was dying—but it does mean thatthe book is changing. I think that literature is alive and well:we’re reading our brains out! I just think that the complexsocial practice of “book”—of which a bunch of paper pagesbetween two covers is the mere expression—is transformingand will transform further.I intend on figuring out what it’s transforming into. I intend onfiguring out the way that some writers—that this writer, righthere, wearing my underwear—is going to get rich and famousfrom his craft. I intend on figuring out how this writer’s wordscan become part of the social discourse, can be relevant in theway that literature at its best can be.I don’t know what the future of book looks like. To figure itout, I’m doing some pretty basic science.
I’m peering into thisopaque, inscrutable system of publishing as it sits in the year2004, and I’m making a perturbation. I’m stirring the pot to seewhat surfaces, so that I can see if the system reveals itself tome any more thoroughly as it roils. Once that happens, maybeI’ll be able to formulate an hypothesis and try an experiment ortwo and maybe—just maybe—I’ll get to the bottom of book-
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Hundreds of thousands.Today, I release my second novel, and my third[http://www.argosymag.com/NextIssue.html], a collaborationwith Charlie Stross is due any day, and two[http://www.fantasticmetropolis.com/show.html?fn.preview_doctorow] more[http://www.craphound.com/usrbingodexcerpt.txt] are undercontract. My career as a novelist is now well underway—inother words, I am firmly afoot on a long road that stretches intothe future: my future, science fiction’s future, publishing’sfuture and the future of the world. The future is my business, more or less. I’m a science fiction writer. One way to know thefuture is to look good and hard at the present. Here’s a thingI’ve noticed about the present: more people are reading morewords off of more screens than ever before. Here’s anotherthing I’ve noticed about the present: fewer people are readingfewer words off of fewer pages than ever before.
Thatdoesn’t mean that the book is dying—no more than the adventof the printing press and the de-emphasis of Bible-copyingmonks meant that the book was dying—but it does mean thatthe book is changing. I think that literature is alive and well:we’re reading our brains out! I just think that the complexsocial practice of “book”—of which a bunch of paper pagesbetween two covers is the mere expression—is transformingand will transform further.I intend on figuring out what it’s transforming into. I intend onfiguring out the way that some writers—that this writer, righthere, wearing my underwear—is going to get rich and famousfrom his craft. I intend on figuring out how this writer’s wordscan become part of the social discourse, can be relevant in theway that literature at its best can be.I don’t know what the future of book looks like. To figure itout, I’m doing some pretty basic science.
I’m peering into thisopaque, inscrutable system of publishing as it sits in the year2004, and I’m making a perturbation. I’m stirring the pot to seewhat surfaces, so that I can see if the system reveals itself tome any more thoroughly as it roils. Once that happens, maybeI’ll be able to formulate an hypothesis and try an experiment ortwo and maybe—just maybe—I’ll get to the bottom of book-Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 3 in-2004 and beat the competition to making it work, and maybeI’ll go home with all (or most) of the marbles.It’s a long shot, but I’m a pretty sharp guy, and I know as muchabout this stuff as anyone out there. More to the point, tryingstuff and doing research yields a non-zero chance of success.The alternatives—sitting pat, or worse, getting into a moralpanic about “piracy” and accusing the readers who are blazingnew trail of “the moral equivalent of shoplifting”—have a zeropercent chance of success.Most artists never “succeed” in the sense of attaining fame andmodest fortune. A career in the arts is a risky long-shot kind ofbusiness.
I’m doing what I can to sweeten my odds.So here we are, and here is novel number two, a book calledEastern Standard Tribe, which you can walk into shops all overthe world and buy as a physical artifact[http://craphound.com/est/buy.php ]—a very nice physicalartifact, designed by Chesley-award-winning art director IreneGallo and her designer Shelley Eshkar, published by TorBooks, a huge, profit-making arm of an enormous,multinational publishing concern. Tor is watching whathappens to this book nearly as keenly as I am, because we’reall very interested in what the book is turning into.To that end, here is the book as a non-physical artifact. A file.A bunch of text, slithery bits that can cross the world in aninstant, using the Internet, a tool designed to copy things veryquickly from one place to another; and using personalcomputers, tools designed to slice, dice and rearrange collections of bits.
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 3 in-2004 and beat the competition to making it work, and maybeI’ll go home with all (or most) of the marbles.It’s a long shot, but I’m a pretty sharp guy, and I know as muchabout this stuff as anyone out there. More to the point, tryingstuff and doing research yields a non-zero chance of success.The alternatives—sitting pat, or worse, getting into a moralpanic about “piracy” and accusing the readers who are blazingnew trail of “the moral equivalent of shoplifting”—have a zeropercent chance of success.Most artists never “succeed” in the sense of attaining fame andmodest fortune. A career in the arts is a risky long-shot kind ofbusiness.
I’m doing what I can to sweeten my odds.So here we are, and here is novel number two, a book calledEastern Standard Tribe, which you can walk into shops all overthe world and buy as a physical artifact[http://craphound.com/est/buy.php ]—a very nice physicalartifact, designed by Chesley-award-winning art director IreneGallo and her designer Shelley Eshkar, published by TorBooks, a huge, profit-making arm of an enormous,multinational publishing concern. Tor is watching whathappens to this book nearly as keenly as I am, because we’reall very interested in what the book is turning into.To that end, here is the book as a non-physical artifact. A file.A bunch of text, slithery bits that can cross the world in aninstant, using the Internet, a tool designed to copy things veryquickly from one place to another; and using personalcomputers, tools designed to slice, dice and rearrange collections of bits.These tools demand that their users copyand slice and dice—rip, mix and burn!—and that’s what I’mhoping you will do with this.Not (just) because I’m a swell guy, a big-hearted slob. Notbecause Tor is run by addlepated dot-com refugees who havebeen sold some snake-oil about the e-book revolution. Becauseyou—the readers, the slicers, dicers and copiers—hold in yourcollective action the secret of the future of publishing. Writersare a dime a dozen. Everybody’s got a novel in her or him.Readers are a precious commodity. You’ve got all the moneyand all the attention and you run the word-of-mouth networkthat marks the difference between a little book, soon forgotten,and a book that becomes a lasting piece of posterity for itsauthor, changing the world in some meaningful way.I’m unashamedly exploiting your imagination. Imagine me anew practice of book, readers.
Take this novel and pass it frominbox to inbox, through your IM clients, over P2P networks.Put it on webservers. Convert it to weird, obscure ebookformats. Show me—and my colleagues, and mypublisher—what the future of book looks like.I’ll keep on writing them if you keep on reading them. But ascool and wonderful as writing is, it’s not half so cool asinventing the future. Thanks for helping me do it.Here’s a summary of the license:http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd-nc/1.0
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 4 Attribution. The licensor permits others to copy,distribute, display, and perform the work. In return,licensees must give the original author credit.No Derivative Works. The licensor permits others tocopy, distribute, display and perform only unalteredcopies of the work — not derivative works based on it.Noncommercial. The licensor permits others to copy,distribute, display, and perform the work. In return,licensees may not use the work for commercialpurposes — unless they get the licensor'spermission.And here’s the license itself:http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd-nc/1.0-legalcodeTHE WORK (AS DEFINED BELOW) IS PROVIDED UNDER THE TERMSOF THIS CREATIVE COMMONS PUBLIC LICENSE ("CCPL" OR"LICENSE"). THE WORK IS PROTECTED BY COPYRIGHT AND/OROTHER APPLICABLE LAW.
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These tools demand that their users copyand slice and dice—rip, mix and burn!—and that’s what I’mhoping you will do with this.Not (just) because I’m a swell guy, a big-hearted slob. Notbecause Tor is run by addlepated dot-com refugees who havebeen sold some snake-oil about the e-book revolution. Becauseyou—the readers, the slicers, dicers and copiers—hold in yourcollective action the secret of the future of publishing. Writersare a dime a dozen. Everybody’s got a novel in her or him.Readers are a precious commodity. You’ve got all the moneyand all the attention and you run the word-of-mouth networkthat marks the difference between a little book, soon forgotten,and a book that becomes a lasting piece of posterity for itsauthor, changing the world in some meaningful way.I’m unashamedly exploiting your imagination. Imagine me anew practice of book, readers.
Take this novel and pass it frominbox to inbox, through your IM clients, over P2P networks.Put it on webservers. Convert it to weird, obscure ebookformats. Show me—and my colleagues, and mypublisher—what the future of book looks like.I’ll keep on writing them if you keep on reading them. But ascool and wonderful as writing is, it’s not half so cool asinventing the future. Thanks for helping me do it.Here’s a summary of the license:http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd-nc/1.0
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 4 Attribution. The licensor permits others to copy,distribute, display, and perform the work. In return,licensees must give the original author credit.No Derivative Works. The licensor permits others tocopy, distribute, display and perform only unalteredcopies of the work -- not derivative works based on it.Noncommercial. The licensor permits others to copy,distribute, display, and perform the work. In return,licensees may not use the work for commercialpurposes -- unless they get the licensor'spermission.And here’s the license itself:http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd-nc/1.0-legalcodeTHE WORK (AS DEFINED BELOW) IS PROVIDED UNDER THE TERMSOF THIS CREATIVE COMMONS PUBLIC LICENSE ("CCPL" OR"LICENSE"). THE WORK IS PROTECTED BY COPYRIGHT AND/OROTHER APPLICABLE LAW.ANY USE OF THE WORK OTHER THAN ASAUTHORIZED UNDER THIS LICENSE IS PROHIBITED.BY EXERCISING ANY RIGHTS TO THE WORK PROVIDED HERE, YOUACCEPT AND AGREE TO BE BOUND BY THE TERMS OF THISLICENSE. THE LICENSOR GRANTS YOU THE RIGHTS CONTAINEDHERE IN CONSIDERATION OF YOUR ACCEPTANCE OF SUCH TERMSAND CONDITIONS.1. Definitionsa. "Collective Work" means a work, such as aperiodical issue, anthology or encyclopedia, in which the Work in its entirety in unmodified form, alongwith a number of other contributions, constitutingseparate and independent works in themselves, areassembled into a collective whole. A work thatconstitutes a Collective Work will not be considered aDerivative Work (as defined below) for the purposes ofthis License.b.
"Derivative Work" means a work based upon the Workor upon the Work and other pre-existing works, such asa translation, musical arrangement, dramatization,fictionalization, motion picture version, soundrecording, art reproduction, abridgment, condensation,or any other form in which the Work may be recast,transformed, or adapted, except that a work thatconstitutes a Collective Work will not be considered aDerivative Work for the purpose of this License.c. "Licensor" means the individual or entity thatoffers the Work under the terms of this License.d. "Original Author" means the individual or entitywho created the Work.e. "Work" means the copyrightable work of authorshipoffered under the terms of this License.f.
"You" means an individual or entity exercisingrights under this License who has not previouslyviolated the terms of this License with respect to theWork, or who has received express permission from theLicensor to exercise rights under this License despitea previous violation.
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ANY USE OF THE WORK OTHER THAN ASAUTHORIZED UNDER THIS LICENSE IS PROHIBITED.BY EXERCISING ANY RIGHTS TO THE WORK PROVIDED HERE, YOUACCEPT AND AGREE TO BE BOUND BY THE TERMS OF THISLICENSE. THE LICENSOR GRANTS YOU THE RIGHTS CONTAINEDHERE IN CONSIDERATION OF YOUR ACCEPTANCE OF SUCH TERMSAND CONDITIONS.1. Definitionsa. "Collective Work" means a work, such as aperiodical issue, anthology or encyclopedia, in which the Work in its entirety in unmodified form, alongwith a number of other contributions, constitutingseparate and independent works in themselves, areassembled into a collective whole. A work thatconstitutes a Collective Work will not be considered aDerivative Work (as defined below) for the purposes ofthis License.b.
"Derivative Work" means a work based upon the Workor upon the Work and other pre-existing works, such asa translation, musical arrangement, dramatization,fictionalization, motion picture version, soundrecording, art reproduction, abridgment, condensation,or any other form in which the Work may be recast,transformed, or adapted, except that a work thatconstitutes a Collective Work will not be considered aDerivative Work for the purpose of this License.c. "Licensor" means the individual or entity thatoffers the Work under the terms of this License.d. "Original Author" means the individual or entitywho created the Work.e. "Work" means the copyrightable work of authorshipoffered under the terms of this License.f.
"You" means an individual or entity exercisingrights under this License who has not previouslyviolated the terms of this License with respect to theWork, or who has received express permission from theLicensor to exercise rights under this License despitea previous violation.Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 5 2. Fair Use Rights. Nothing in this license is intendedto reduce, limit, or restrict any rights arising fromfair use, first sale or other limitations on theexclusive rights of the copyright owner under copyrightlaw or other applicable laws.3. License Grant. Subject to the terms and conditions ofthis License, Licensor hereby grants You a worldwide,royalty-free, non-exclusive, perpetual (for the durationof the applicable copyright) license to exercise therights in the Work as stated below:a. to reproduce the Work, to incorporate the Work intoone or more Collective Works, and to reproduce theWork as incorporated in the Collective Works;b. to distribute copies or phonorecords of, displaypublicly, perform publicly, and perform publicly bymeans of a digital audio transmission the Workincluding as incorporated in Collective Works;The above rights may be exercised in all media andformats whether now known or hereafter devised.
Theabove rights include the right to make suchmodifications as are technically necessary to exercisethe rights in other media and formats. All rights notexpressly granted by Licensor are hereby reserved.4. Restrictions. The license granted in Section 3 aboveis expressly made subject to and limited by thefollowing restrictions:a. You may distribute, publicly display, publiclyperform, or publicly digitally perform the Work onlyunder the terms of this License, and You must include a copy of, or the Uniform Resource Identifier for,this License with every copy or phonorecord of theWork You distribute, publicly display, publiclyperform, or publicly digitally perform. You may notoffer or impose any terms on the Work that alter orrestrict the terms of this License or the recipients'exercise of the rights granted hereunder. You may notsublicense the Work.
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 5 2. Fair Use Rights. Nothing in this license is intendedto reduce, limit, or restrict any rights arising fromfair use, first sale or other limitations on theexclusive rights of the copyright owner under copyrightlaw or other applicable laws.3. License Grant. Subject to the terms and conditions ofthis License, Licensor hereby grants You a worldwide,royalty-free, non-exclusive, perpetual (for the durationof the applicable copyright) license to exercise therights in the Work as stated below:a. to reproduce the Work, to incorporate the Work intoone or more Collective Works, and to reproduce theWork as incorporated in the Collective Works;b. to distribute copies or phonorecords of, displaypublicly, perform publicly, and perform publicly bymeans of a digital audio transmission the Workincluding as incorporated in Collective Works;The above rights may be exercised in all media andformats whether now known or hereafter devised.
Theabove rights include the right to make suchmodifications as are technically necessary to exercisethe rights in other media and formats. All rights notexpressly granted by Licensor are hereby reserved.4. Restrictions. The license granted in Section 3 aboveis expressly made subject to and limited by thefollowing restrictions:a. You may distribute, publicly display, publiclyperform, or publicly digitally perform the Work onlyunder the terms of this License, and You must include a copy of, or the Uniform Resource Identifier for,this License with every copy or phonorecord of theWork You distribute, publicly display, publiclyperform, or publicly digitally perform. You may notoffer or impose any terms on the Work that alter orrestrict the terms of this License or the recipients'exercise of the rights granted hereunder. You may notsublicense the Work.You must keep intact all noticesthat refer to this License and to the disclaimer ofwarranties. You may not distribute, publicly display,publicly perform, or publicly digitally perform theWork with any technological measures that controlaccess or use of the Work in a manner inconsistentwith the terms of this License Agreement. The aboveapplies to the Work as incorporated in a CollectiveWork, but this does not require the Collective Workapart from the Work itself to be made subject to theterms of this License. If You create a CollectiveWork, upon notice from any Licensor You must, to theextent practicable, remove from the Collective Workany reference to such Licensor or the Original Author,as requested.b. You may not exercise any of the rights granted toYou in Section 3 above in any manner that is primarilyintended for or directed toward commercial advantageor private monetary compensation.
The exchange of theWork for other copyrighted works by means of digitalfile-sharing or otherwise shall not be considered tobe intended for or directed toward commercialadvantage or private monetary compensation, providedthere is no payment of any monetary compensation inconnection with the exchange of copyrighted works.
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 6 c. If you distribute, publicly display, publiclyperform, or publicly digitally perform the Work or anyCollective Works, You must keep intact all copyrightnotices for the Work and give the Original Authorcredit reasonable to the medium or means You areutilizing by conveying the name (or pseudonym ifapplicable) of the Original Author if supplied; thetitle of the Work if supplied. Such credit may beimplemented in any reasonable manner; provided,however, that in the case of a Collective Work, at aminimum such credit will appear where any othercomparable authorship credit appears and in a mannerat least as prominent as such other comparableauthorship credit.5. Representations, Warranties and Disclaimera. By offering the Work for public release under thisLicense, Licensor represents and warrants that, to thebest of Licensor's knowledge after reasonable inquiry:i.
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You must keep intact all noticesthat refer to this License and to the disclaimer ofwarranties. You may not distribute, publicly display,publicly perform, or publicly digitally perform theWork with any technological measures that controlaccess or use of the Work in a manner inconsistentwith the terms of this License Agreement. The aboveapplies to the Work as incorporated in a CollectiveWork, but this does not require the Collective Workapart from the Work itself to be made subject to theterms of this License. If You create a CollectiveWork, upon notice from any Licensor You must, to theextent practicable, remove from the Collective Workany reference to such Licensor or the Original Author,as requested.b. You may not exercise any of the rights granted toYou in Section 3 above in any manner that is primarilyintended for or directed toward commercial advantageor private monetary compensation.
The exchange of theWork for other copyrighted works by means of digitalfile-sharing or otherwise shall not be considered tobe intended for or directed toward commercialadvantage or private monetary compensation, providedthere is no payment of any monetary compensation inconnection with the exchange of copyrighted works.
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 6 c. If you distribute, publicly display, publiclyperform, or publicly digitally perform the Work or anyCollective Works, You must keep intact all copyrightnotices for the Work and give the Original Authorcredit reasonable to the medium or means You areutilizing by conveying the name (or pseudonym ifapplicable) of the Original Author if supplied; thetitle of the Work if supplied. Such credit may beimplemented in any reasonable manner; provided,however, that in the case of a Collective Work, at aminimum such credit will appear where any othercomparable authorship credit appears and in a mannerat least as prominent as such other comparableauthorship credit.5. Representations, Warranties and Disclaimera. By offering the Work for public release under thisLicense, Licensor represents and warrants that, to thebest of Licensor's knowledge after reasonable inquiry:i.Licensor has secured all rights in the Worknecessary to grant the license rights hereunder andto permit the lawful exercise of the rights grantedhereunder without You having any obligation to payany royalties, compulsory license fees, residuals orany other payments;ii. The Work does not infringe the copyright,trademark, publicity rights, common law rights or anyother right of any third party or constitutedefamation, invasion of privacy or other tortiousinjury to any third party. b. EXCEPT AS EXPRESSLY STATED IN THIS LICENSE OROTHERWISE AGREED IN WRITING OR REQUIRED BY APPLICABLELAW, THE WORK IS LICENSED ON AN "AS IS" BASIS, WITHOUTWARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EITHER EXPRESS OR IMPLIEDINCLUDING, WITHOUT LIMITATION, ANY WARRANTIESREGARDING THE CONTENTS OR ACCURACY OF THE WORK.6. Limitation on Liability.
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Subject to the above terms and conditions, thelicense granted here is perpetual (for the duration ofthe applicable copyright in the Work). Notwithstandingthe above, Licensor reserves the right to release theWork under different license terms or to stopdistributing the Work at any time; provided, however
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Licensor has secured all rights in the Worknecessary to grant the license rights hereunder andto permit the lawful exercise of the rights grantedhereunder without You having any obligation to payany royalties, compulsory license fees, residuals orany other payments;ii. The Work does not infringe the copyright,trademark, publicity rights, common law rights or anyother right of any third party or constitutedefamation, invasion of privacy or other tortiousinjury to any third party. b. EXCEPT AS EXPRESSLY STATED IN THIS LICENSE OROTHERWISE AGREED IN WRITING OR REQUIRED BY APPLICABLELAW, THE WORK IS LICENSED ON AN "AS IS" BASIS, WITHOUTWARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EITHER EXPRESS OR IMPLIEDINCLUDING, WITHOUT LIMITATION, ANY WARRANTIESREGARDING THE CONTENTS OR ACCURACY OF THE WORK.6. Limitation on Liability.
EXCEPT TO THE EXTENTREQUIRED BY APPLICABLE LAW, AND EXCEPT FOR DAMAGESARISING FROM LIABILITY TO A THIRD PARTY RESULTING FROMBREACH OF THE WARRANTIES IN SECTION 5, IN NO EVENT WILLLICENSOR BE LIABLE TO YOU ON ANY LEGAL THEORY FOR ANYSPECIAL, INCIDENTAL, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OREXEMPLARY DAMAGES ARISING OUT OF THIS LICENSE OR THE USEOF THE WORK, EVEN IF LICENSOR HAS BEEN ADVISED OF THEPOSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGES.7. Terminationa. This License and the rights granted hereunder willterminate automatically upon any breach by You of theterms of this License. Individuals or entities whohave received Collective Works from You under thisLicense, however, will not have their licensesterminated provided such individuals or entitiesremain in full compliance with those licenses.Sections 1, 2, 5, 6, 7, and 8 will survive anytermination of this License.b.
Subject to the above terms and conditions, thelicense granted here is perpetual (for the duration ofthe applicable copyright in the Work). Notwithstandingthe above, Licensor reserves the right to release theWork under different license terms or to stopdistributing the Work at any time; provided, howeverCory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 7 that any such election will not serve to withdraw thisLicense (or any other license that has been, or isrequired to be, granted under the terms of thisLicense), and this License will continue in full forceand effect unless terminated as stated above.8. Miscellaneousa. Each time You distribute or publicly digitallyperform the Work or a Collective Work, the Licensoroffers to the recipient a license to the Work on thesame terms and conditions as the license granted toYou under this License.b. If any provision of this License is invalid orunenforceable under applicable law, it shall notaffect the validity or enforceability of the remainderof the terms of this License, and without furtheraction by the parties to this agreement, suchprovision shall be reformed to the minimum extentnecessary to make such provision valid andenforceable.c.
No term or provision of this License shall bedeemed waived and no breach consented to unless suchwaiver or consent shall be in writing and signed bythe party to be charged with such waiver or consent.d. This License constitutes the entire agreementbetween the parties with respect to the Work licensedhere. There are no understandings, agreements orrepresentations with respect to the Work not specifiedhere. Licensor shall not be bound by any additionalprovisions that may appear in any communication from You. This License may not be modified without themutual written agreement of the Licensor and You
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 1-01-eastern-standard-tribe-del-1
# chapter_title: 01_eastern-standard-tribe-del-1
# book_page: 9 / 169
# chapter_page: 9
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 7 that any such election will not serve to withdraw thisLicense (or any other license that has been, or isrequired to be, granted under the terms of thisLicense), and this License will continue in full forceand effect unless terminated as stated above.8. Miscellaneousa. Each time You distribute or publicly digitallyperform the Work or a Collective Work, the Licensoroffers to the recipient a license to the Work on thesame terms and conditions as the license granted toYou under this License.b. If any provision of this License is invalid orunenforceable under applicable law, it shall notaffect the validity or enforceability of the remainderof the terms of this License, and without furtheraction by the parties to this agreement, suchprovision shall be reformed to the minimum extentnecessary to make such provision valid andenforceable.c.
No term or provision of this License shall bedeemed waived and no breach consented to unless suchwaiver or consent shall be in writing and signed bythe party to be charged with such waiver or consent.d. This License constitutes the entire agreementbetween the parties with respect to the Work licensedhere. There are no understandings, agreements orrepresentations with respect to the Work not specifiedhere. Licensor shall not be bound by any additionalprovisions that may appear in any communication from You. This License may not be modified without themutual written agreement of the Licensor and YouCory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 8 DedicationFor my parents.For my family.For everyone who helped me up and for everyone I let down.You know who you are. Sincerest thanks and most heartfeltapologies.Cory 1.I once had a Tai Chi instructor who explained the differencebetween Chinese and Western medicine thus: “Westernmedicine is based on corpses, things that you discover bycutting up dead bodies and pulling them apart. Chinesemedicine is based on living flesh, things observed from vital,moving humans.”The explanation, like all good propaganda, is stirring andstilted, and not particularly accurate, and gummy as the hookfrom a top-40 song, sticky in your mind in the sleep-deprivednoontime when the world takes on a hallucinatory hypperrealclarity.
Like now as I sit here in my underwear on the roof of asanatorium in the back woods off Route 128, far enough fromthe perpetual construction of Boston that it’s merely a cloud ofdust like a herd of distant buffalo charging the plains. Like nowas I sit here with a pencil up my nose, thinking abouthomebrew lobotomies and wouldn’t it be nice if I gave myselfone.Deep breath.The difference between Chinese medicine and Westernmedicine is the dissection versus the observation of the thing inmotion. The difference between reading a story and studying astory is the difference between living the story and killing thestory and looking at its guts.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 1-01-eastern-standard-tribe-del-1
# chapter_title: 01_eastern-standard-tribe-del-1
# book_page: 10 / 169
# chapter_page: 10
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 8 DedicationFor my parents.For my family.For everyone who helped me up and for everyone I let down.You know who you are. Sincerest thanks and most heartfeltapologies.Cory 1.I once had a Tai Chi instructor who explained the differencebetween Chinese and Western medicine thus: “Westernmedicine is based on corpses, things that you discover bycutting up dead bodies and pulling them apart. Chinesemedicine is based on living flesh, things observed from vital,moving humans.”The explanation, like all good propaganda, is stirring andstilted, and not particularly accurate, and gummy as the hookfrom a top-40 song, sticky in your mind in the sleep-deprivednoontime when the world takes on a hallucinatory hypperrealclarity.
Like now as I sit here in my underwear on the roof of asanatorium in the back woods off Route 128, far enough fromthe perpetual construction of Boston that it’s merely a cloud ofdust like a herd of distant buffalo charging the plains. Like nowas I sit here with a pencil up my nose, thinking abouthomebrew lobotomies and wouldn’t it be nice if I gave myselfone.Deep breath.The difference between Chinese medicine and Westernmedicine is the dissection versus the observation of the thing inmotion. The difference between reading a story and studying astory is the difference between living the story and killing thestory and looking at its guts.Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 9 School! We sat in English class and we dissected the storiesthat I’d escaped into, laid open their abdomens and tagged theirorgans, covered their genitals with polite sterile drapes,recorded dutiful notes en masse that told us what the story wasabout, but never what the story was. Stories are propaganda,virii that slide past your critical immune system and insertthemselves directly into your emotions. Kill them and cut themopen and they’re as naked as a nightclub in daylight.The theme. The first step in dissecting a story is euthanizing it:“What is the theme of this story?”Let me kill my story before I start it, so that I can dissect it andunderstand it. The theme of this story is: “Would you rather besmart or happy?”This is a work of propaganda. It’s a story about choosingsmarts over happiness. Except if I give the pencil a push: thenit’s a story about choosing happiness over smarts.
It’s amorality play, and the first character is about to take the stage.He’s a foil for the theme, so he’s drawn in simple lines. Herehe is: 2.Art Berry was born to argue.There are born assassins. Bred to kill, raised on cunning andspeed, they are the stuff of legend, remorseless andunstoppable. There are born ballerinas, confectionery girlswhose parents subject them to rigors every bit as intense as thetripwire and poison on which the assassins are reared. Thereare children born to practice medicine or law; children born toserve their nations and die heroically in the noble tradition oftheir forebears; children born to tread the boards or shred theturf or leave smoking rubber on the racetrack.Art’s earliest memory: a dream. He is stuck in the waitingroom of one of the innumerable doctors who attended him inhis infancy.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 1-01-eastern-standard-tribe-del-1
# chapter_title: 01_eastern-standard-tribe-del-1
# book_page: 11 / 169
# chapter_page: 11
# language: en
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 9 School! We sat in English class and we dissected the storiesthat I’d escaped into, laid open their abdomens and tagged theirorgans, covered their genitals with polite sterile drapes,recorded dutiful notes en masse that told us what the story wasabout, but never what the story was. Stories are propaganda,virii that slide past your critical immune system and insertthemselves directly into your emotions. Kill them and cut themopen and they’re as naked as a nightclub in daylight.The theme. The first step in dissecting a story is euthanizing it:“What is the theme of this story?”Let me kill my story before I start it, so that I can dissect it andunderstand it. The theme of this story is: “Would you rather besmart or happy?”This is a work of propaganda. It’s a story about choosingsmarts over happiness. Except if I give the pencil a push: thenit’s a story about choosing happiness over smarts.
It’s amorality play, and the first character is about to take the stage.He’s a foil for the theme, so he’s drawn in simple lines. Herehe is: 2.Art Berry was born to argue.There are born assassins. Bred to kill, raised on cunning andspeed, they are the stuff of legend, remorseless andunstoppable. There are born ballerinas, confectionery girlswhose parents subject them to rigors every bit as intense as thetripwire and poison on which the assassins are reared. Thereare children born to practice medicine or law; children born toserve their nations and die heroically in the noble tradition oftheir forebears; children born to tread the boards or shred theturf or leave smoking rubber on the racetrack.Art’s earliest memory: a dream. He is stuck in the waitingroom of one of the innumerable doctors who attended him inhis infancy.He is perhaps three, and his attention span isalready as robust as it will ever be, and in his dream—which isfast becoming a nightmare—he is bored silly.The only adornment in the waiting room is an empty cylinderthat once held toy blocks. Its label colorfully illustrates theblocks, which look like they’d be a hell of a lot of fun, ifsomeone hadn’t lost them all.Near the cylinder is a trio of older children, infinitelyfascinating. They confer briefly, then do something to thecylinder, and it unravels, extruding into the third dimension,turning into a stack of blocks.
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 10 Aha! thinks Art, on waking. This is another piece of the secretknowledge that older people posses, the strange magic that isused to operate cars and elevators and shoelaces.Art waits patiently over the next year for a grownup to showhim how the blocks-from-pictures trick works, but none everdoes. Many other mysteries are revealed, each one moredisappointingly mundane than the last: even flying a planeseemed easy enough when the nice stew let him ride up in thecockpit for a while en route to New York—Art’s awe at thecomplexity of adult knowledge fell away.
By the age of five,he was stuck in a sort of perpetual terrible twos, fearlesslyshouting “no” at the world’s every rule, arguing the morals andreason behind them until the frustrated adults whom he waspicking on gave up and swatted him or told him that that wasjust how it was.In the Easter of his sixth year, an itchy-suited and hard-shoedvisit to church with his Gran turned into a raging holy war thathad the parishioners and the clergy arguing with him in teamsand relays.It started innocently enough: “Why does God care if we takeoff our hats, Gran?”
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 1-01-eastern-standard-tribe-del-1
# chapter_title: 01_eastern-standard-tribe-del-1
# book_page: 12 / 169
# chapter_page: 12
# language: en
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He is perhaps three, and his attention span isalready as robust as it will ever be, and in his dream—which isfast becoming a nightmare—he is bored silly.The only adornment in the waiting room is an empty cylinderthat once held toy blocks. Its label colorfully illustrates theblocks, which look like they’d be a hell of a lot of fun, ifsomeone hadn’t lost them all.Near the cylinder is a trio of older children, infinitelyfascinating. They confer briefly, then do something to thecylinder, and it unravels, extruding into the third dimension,turning into a stack of blocks.
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 10 Aha! thinks Art, on waking. This is another piece of the secretknowledge that older people posses, the strange magic that isused to operate cars and elevators and shoelaces.Art waits patiently over the next year for a grownup to showhim how the blocks-from-pictures trick works, but none everdoes. Many other mysteries are revealed, each one moredisappointingly mundane than the last: even flying a planeseemed easy enough when the nice stew let him ride up in thecockpit for a while en route to New York—Art’s awe at thecomplexity of adult knowledge fell away.
By the age of five,he was stuck in a sort of perpetual terrible twos, fearlesslyshouting “no” at the world’s every rule, arguing the morals andreason behind them until the frustrated adults whom he waspicking on gave up and swatted him or told him that that wasjust how it was.In the Easter of his sixth year, an itchy-suited and hard-shoedvisit to church with his Gran turned into a raging holy war thathad the parishioners and the clergy arguing with him in teamsand relays.It started innocently enough: “Why does God care if we takeoff our hats, Gran?”But the nosy ladies in the nearby pewscouldn’t bear to simply listen in, and the argument spread likeripples on a pond, out as far as the pulpit, where the priestdecided to squash the whole line of inquiry with some half-remembered philosophical word games from Descartes inwhich the objective truth of reality is used to prove thebeneficence of God and vice-versa, and culminates with “Ithink therefore I am.” Father Ferlenghetti even managed to work it into the thread of the sermon, but before he could goon, Art’s shrill little voice answered from within thecongregation.Amazingly, the six-year-old had managed to assimilate all ofDescartes’s fairly tricksy riddles in as long as it took todescribe them, and then went on to use those same argumentsto prove the necessary cruelty of God, followed by thenecessary nonexistence of the Supreme Being, and Gran triedto take him home then, but the priest—who’d watched Jesuitsplay intellectual table tennis and recognized a natural when hesaw one—called him to the pulpit, whence Art took on theentire congregation, singly and in bunches, as they assailed hisreasoning and he built it back up, laying rhetorical traps thatthey blundered into with all the cunning of a cabbage.
FatherFerlenghetti laughed and clarified the points when they werestuttered out by some marble-mouthed rhetorical amateur fromthe audience, then sat back and marveled as Art did his thing.Not much was getting done vis-a-vis sermonizing, and therewas still the Communion to be administered, but God knew ithad been a long time since the congregation was engaged sothoroughly with coming to grips with God and what their faithmeant.Afterwards, when Art was returned to his scandalized, thin-lipped Gran, Father Ferlenghetti made a point of warmlyembracing her and telling her that Art was welcome at hispulpit any time, and suggested a future in the seminary. Granwas amazed, and blushed under her Sunday powder, and theclawed hand on his shoulder became a caress.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 1-01-eastern-standard-tribe-del-1
# chapter_title: 01_eastern-standard-tribe-del-1
# book_page: 13 / 169
# chapter_page: 13
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
But the nosy ladies in the nearby pewscouldn’t bear to simply listen in, and the argument spread likeripples on a pond, out as far as the pulpit, where the priestdecided to squash the whole line of inquiry with some half-remembered philosophical word games from Descartes inwhich the objective truth of reality is used to prove thebeneficence of God and vice-versa, and culminates with “Ithink therefore I am.” Father Ferlenghetti even managed to work it into the thread of the sermon, but before he could goon, Art’s shrill little voice answered from within thecongregation.Amazingly, the six-year-old had managed to assimilate all ofDescartes’s fairly tricksy riddles in as long as it took todescribe them, and then went on to use those same argumentsto prove the necessary cruelty of God, followed by thenecessary nonexistence of the Supreme Being, and Gran triedto take him home then, but the priest—who’d watched Jesuitsplay intellectual table tennis and recognized a natural when hesaw one—called him to the pulpit, whence Art took on theentire congregation, singly and in bunches, as they assailed hisreasoning and he built it back up, laying rhetorical traps thatthey blundered into with all the cunning of a cabbage.
FatherFerlenghetti laughed and clarified the points when they werestuttered out by some marble-mouthed rhetorical amateur fromthe audience, then sat back and marveled as Art did his thing.Not much was getting done vis-a-vis sermonizing, and therewas still the Communion to be administered, but God knew ithad been a long time since the congregation was engaged sothoroughly with coming to grips with God and what their faithmeant.Afterwards, when Art was returned to his scandalized, thin-lipped Gran, Father Ferlenghetti made a point of warmlyembracing her and telling her that Art was welcome at hispulpit any time, and suggested a future in the seminary. Granwas amazed, and blushed under her Sunday powder, and theclawed hand on his shoulder became a caress.Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 11 3.The theme of this story is choosing smarts over happiness, ormaybe happiness over smarts. Art’s a good guy. He’s smart ashell. That’s his schtick. If he were a cartoon character, he’d bethe pain-in-the-ass poindexter who is all the time dispelling themysteries that fascinate his buddies. It’s not easy being Art’sfriend.Which is, of course, how Art (“not his real name”) ended upsitting 45 stories over the woodsy Massachusetts countryside,hot August wind ruffling his hair and blowing up the legs of hisboxers, pencil in his nose, euthanizing his story preparatory todissecting it. In order to preserve the narrative integrity, Art(“not his real name”) may take some liberties with the truth.This is autobiographical fiction, after all, not an autobiography.Call me Art (“not my real name”).
I am an agent-provocateurin the Eastern Standard Tribe, though I’ve spent most of mylife in GMT-9 and at various latitudes of Zulu, which meansthat my poor pineal gland has all but forgotten how to do itsjob without that I drown it in melatonin precursors and treat itto multi-hour nine-kilolumen sessions in the glare of my travellantern.The tribes are taking over the world. You can track ourprogress by the rise of minor traffic accidents. The sleep-deprived are terrible, terrible drivers. Daylight savings time is awidowmaker: stay off the roads on Leap Forward day! Here is the second character in the morality play. She’s thelove interest. Was. We broke up, just before I got sent to thesanatorium. Our circadians weren’t compatible.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 1-01-eastern-standard-tribe-del-1
# chapter_title: 01_eastern-standard-tribe-del-1
# book_page: 14 / 169
# chapter_page: 14
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 11 3.The theme of this story is choosing smarts over happiness, ormaybe happiness over smarts. Art’s a good guy. He’s smart ashell. That’s his schtick. If he were a cartoon character, he’d bethe pain-in-the-ass poindexter who is all the time dispelling themysteries that fascinate his buddies. It’s not easy being Art’sfriend.Which is, of course, how Art (“not his real name”) ended upsitting 45 stories over the woodsy Massachusetts countryside,hot August wind ruffling his hair and blowing up the legs of hisboxers, pencil in his nose, euthanizing his story preparatory todissecting it. In order to preserve the narrative integrity, Art(“not his real name”) may take some liberties with the truth.This is autobiographical fiction, after all, not an autobiography.Call me Art (“not my real name”).
I am an agent-provocateurin the Eastern Standard Tribe, though I’ve spent most of mylife in GMT-9 and at various latitudes of Zulu, which meansthat my poor pineal gland has all but forgotten how to do itsjob without that I drown it in melatonin precursors and treat itto multi-hour nine-kilolumen sessions in the glare of my travellantern.The tribes are taking over the world. You can track ourprogress by the rise of minor traffic accidents. The sleep-deprived are terrible, terrible drivers. Daylight savings time is awidowmaker: stay off the roads on Leap Forward day! Here is the second character in the morality play. She’s thelove interest. Was. We broke up, just before I got sent to thesanatorium. Our circadians weren’t compatible.Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 12 4.April 3, 2012 was the day that Art nearly killed the first andonly woman he ever really loved. It was her fault.Art’s car was running low on lard after a week in the Beneluxcountries, where the residents were all high-net-worthcholesterol-conscious codgers who guarded their arteries fromthe depredations of the frytrap as jealously as they squirreledtheir money away from the taxman. He was, therefore, thrilledand delighted to be back on British soil, Greenwich+0, wheregrease ran like water and his runabout could be kept easily andcheaply fuelled and the vodka could run down his gulletinstead of into his tank.He was in the Kensington High Street on a sleepy Sundaymorning, GMT0300h—2100h back in EDT—and the GPS wasshowing insufficient data-points to even gauge traffic betweenhis geoloc and the Camden High where he kept his rooms.When the GPS can’t find enough peers on the relay network tocolor its maps with traffic data, you know you’ve hit a sweetspot in the city’s uber-circadian, a moment of grace where theroads are very nearly exclusively yours.So he whistled a jaunty tune and swilled his coffium, a fad thathad just made it to the UK, thanks to the loosening of rulesgoverning the disposal of heavy water in the EU.
The java justwouldn’t cool off, remaining hot enough to guarantee optimalcaffeine osmosis right down to the last drop. If he was jittery, it was no more so than was customary forESTalists at GMT+0, and he was driving safely and with duecaution. If the woman had looked out before stepping off thekerb and into the anemically thin road, if she hadn’t beenwearing stylish black in the pitchy dark of the curve before theRoyal Garden Hotel, if she hadn’t stepped right in front of hisrunabout, he would have merely swerved and sworn and givenher a bit of a fright.But she didn’t, she was, she did, and he kicked the brake ashard as he could, twisted the wheel likewise, and still clippedher hipside and sent her ass-over-teakettle before the runaboutdid its own barrel roll, making three complete revolutionsacross the Kensington High before lodging in the RoyalGarden Hotel’s shrubs.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 1-01-eastern-standard-tribe-del-1
# chapter_title: 01_eastern-standard-tribe-del-1
# book_page: 15 / 169
# chapter_page: 15
# language: en
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 12 4.April 3, 2012 was the day that Art nearly killed the first andonly woman he ever really loved. It was her fault.Art’s car was running low on lard after a week in the Beneluxcountries, where the residents were all high-net-worthcholesterol-conscious codgers who guarded their arteries fromthe depredations of the frytrap as jealously as they squirreledtheir money away from the taxman. He was, therefore, thrilledand delighted to be back on British soil, Greenwich+0, wheregrease ran like water and his runabout could be kept easily andcheaply fuelled and the vodka could run down his gulletinstead of into his tank.He was in the Kensington High Street on a sleepy Sundaymorning, GMT0300h—2100h back in EDT—and the GPS wasshowing insufficient data-points to even gauge traffic betweenhis geoloc and the Camden High where he kept his rooms.When the GPS can’t find enough peers on the relay network tocolor its maps with traffic data, you know you’ve hit a sweetspot in the city’s uber-circadian, a moment of grace where theroads are very nearly exclusively yours.So he whistled a jaunty tune and swilled his coffium, a fad thathad just made it to the UK, thanks to the loosening of rulesgoverning the disposal of heavy water in the EU.
The java justwouldn’t cool off, remaining hot enough to guarantee optimalcaffeine osmosis right down to the last drop. If he was jittery, it was no more so than was customary forESTalists at GMT+0, and he was driving safely and with duecaution. If the woman had looked out before stepping off thekerb and into the anemically thin road, if she hadn’t beenwearing stylish black in the pitchy dark of the curve before theRoyal Garden Hotel, if she hadn’t stepped right in front of hisrunabout, he would have merely swerved and sworn and givenher a bit of a fright.But she didn’t, she was, she did, and he kicked the brake ashard as he could, twisted the wheel likewise, and still clippedher hipside and sent her ass-over-teakettle before the runaboutdid its own barrel roll, making three complete revolutionsacross the Kensington High before lodging in the RoyalGarden Hotel’s shrubs.Art was covered in scorching, moltencoffium, screaming and clawing at his eyes, upside down,when the porters from the Royal Garden opened his runabout’supside-down door, undid his safety harness and pulled him outfrom behind the rapidly flacciding airbag. They plunged hisface into the ornamental birdbath, which had a skin of ice thatshattered on his nose and jangled against his jawbone as the icywater cooled the coffium and stopped the terrible, terribleburning.He ended up on his knees, sputtering and blowing andshivering, and cleared his eyes in time to see the woman he’dhit being carried out of the middle of the road on a humantravois made of the porters’ linked arms of red wool and goldbrocade.
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 13 “Assholes!” she was hollering. “I could have a goddamn spinalinjury! You’re not supposed to move me!”“Look, Miss,” one porter said, a young chap with the kind offantastic dentition that only an insecure teabag would ever payfor, teeth so white and flawless they strobed in the sodiumstreetlamps. “Look. We can leave you in the middle of theroad, right, and not move you, like we’re supposed to. But ifwe do that, chances are you’re going to get run over before theparamedics get here, and then you certainly will have a spinalinjury, and a crushed skull besides, like as not. Do you followme?”“You!” she said, pointing a long and accusing finger at Art.“You! Don’t you watch where you’re going, you fool! Youcould have killed me!”Art shook water off his face and blew a mist from his drippingmoustache. “Sorry,” he said, weakly.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 1-01-eastern-standard-tribe-del-1
# chapter_title: 01_eastern-standard-tribe-del-1
# book_page: 16 / 169
# chapter_page: 16
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
Art was covered in scorching, moltencoffium, screaming and clawing at his eyes, upside down,when the porters from the Royal Garden opened his runabout’supside-down door, undid his safety harness and pulled him outfrom behind the rapidly flacciding airbag. They plunged hisface into the ornamental birdbath, which had a skin of ice thatshattered on his nose and jangled against his jawbone as the icywater cooled the coffium and stopped the terrible, terribleburning.He ended up on his knees, sputtering and blowing andshivering, and cleared his eyes in time to see the woman he’dhit being carried out of the middle of the road on a humantravois made of the porters’ linked arms of red wool and goldbrocade.
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 13 “Assholes!” she was hollering. “I could have a goddamn spinalinjury! You’re not supposed to move me!”“Look, Miss,” one porter said, a young chap with the kind offantastic dentition that only an insecure teabag would ever payfor, teeth so white and flawless they strobed in the sodiumstreetlamps. “Look. We can leave you in the middle of theroad, right, and not move you, like we’re supposed to. But ifwe do that, chances are you’re going to get run over before theparamedics get here, and then you certainly will have a spinalinjury, and a crushed skull besides, like as not. Do you followme?”“You!” she said, pointing a long and accusing finger at Art.“You! Don’t you watch where you’re going, you fool! Youcould have killed me!”Art shook water off his face and blew a mist from his drippingmoustache. “Sorry,” he said, weakly.She had an Americanaccent, Californian maybe, a litigious stridency that tightenedhis sphincter like an alum enema and miraculously flensed himof the impulse to argue.“Sorry?” she said, as the porters lowered her gently to thenarrow strip turf out beside the sidewalk. “Sorry? Jesus, is thatthe best you can do?”“Well you did step out in front of my car,” he said, trying tomarshal some spine. She attempted to sit up, then slumped back down, wincing.“You were going too fast!”“I don’t think so,” he said. “I’m pretty sure I was doing45—that’s five clicks under the limit. Of course, the GPS willtell for sure.”At the mention of empirical evidence, she seemed to loseinterest in being angry. “Give me a phone, will you?”Mortals may be promiscuous with their handsets, but for atribalist, one’s relationship with one’s comm is deeplypersonal. Art would have sooner shared his underwear. But hehad hit her with his car.
Reluctantly, Art passed her his comm.The woman stabbed at the handset with the fingers of her lefthand, squinting at it in the dim light. Eventually, she clamped itto her head. “Johnny? It’s Linda. Yes, I’m still in London.How’s tricks out there? Good, good to hear. How’s Marybeth?Oh, that’s too bad. Want to hear how I am?” She grinneddevilishly. “I just got hit by a car. No, just now. Five minutesago. Of course I’m hurt! I think he broke my hip—maybe myspine, too. Yes, I can wiggle my toes. Maybe he shattered adisc and it’s sawing through the cord right now. Concussion?Oh, almost certainly. Pain and suffering, loss of enjoyment oflife, missed wages...” She looked up at Art. “You’re insured,right?”Art nodded, miserably, fishing for an argument that would notcome.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 1-01-eastern-standard-tribe-del-1
# chapter_title: 01_eastern-standard-tribe-del-1
# book_page: 17 / 169
# chapter_page: 17
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
She had an Americanaccent, Californian maybe, a litigious stridency that tightenedhis sphincter like an alum enema and miraculously flensed himof the impulse to argue.“Sorry?” she said, as the porters lowered her gently to thenarrow strip turf out beside the sidewalk. “Sorry? Jesus, is thatthe best you can do?”“Well you did step out in front of my car,” he said, trying tomarshal some spine. She attempted to sit up, then slumped back down, wincing.“You were going too fast!”“I don’t think so,” he said. “I’m pretty sure I was doing45—that’s five clicks under the limit. Of course, the GPS willtell for sure.”At the mention of empirical evidence, she seemed to loseinterest in being angry. “Give me a phone, will you?”Mortals may be promiscuous with their handsets, but for atribalist, one’s relationship with one’s comm is deeplypersonal. Art would have sooner shared his underwear. But hehad hit her with his car.
Reluctantly, Art passed her his comm.The woman stabbed at the handset with the fingers of her lefthand, squinting at it in the dim light. Eventually, she clamped itto her head. “Johnny? It’s Linda. Yes, I’m still in London.How’s tricks out there? Good, good to hear. How’s Marybeth?Oh, that’s too bad. Want to hear how I am?” She grinneddevilishly. “I just got hit by a car. No, just now. Five minutesago. Of course I’m hurt! I think he broke my hip—maybe myspine, too. Yes, I can wiggle my toes. Maybe he shattered adisc and it’s sawing through the cord right now. Concussion?Oh, almost certainly. Pain and suffering, loss of enjoyment oflife, missed wages...” She looked up at Art. “You’re insured,right?”Art nodded, miserably, fishing for an argument that would notcome.Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 14 “Half a mil, easy. Easy! Get the papers going, will you? I’llcall you when the ambulance gets here. Bye. Love you too.Bye. Bye. Bye, Johnny. I got to go. Bye!” She made a kissynoise and tossed the comm back at Art. He snatched it out ofthe air in a panic, closed its cover reverentially and slipped itback in his jacket pocket.“C’mere,” she said, crooking a finger. He knelt beside her.“I’m Linda,” she said, shaking his hand, then pulling it to herchest.“Art,” Art said.“Art. Here’s the deal, Art. It’s no one’s fault, OK? It was dark,you were driving under the limit, I was proceeding with duecaution. Just one of those things. But you did hit me. Yourinsurer’s gonna have to pay out—rehab, pain and suffering,you get it. That’s going to be serious kwan. I’ll go splits withyou, you play along.”Art looked puzzled.“Art. Art. Art. Art, here’s the thing. Maybe you weredistracted. Lost. Not looking.
Not saying you were, but maybe.Maybe you were, and if you were, my lawyer’s going to getthat out of you, he’s going to nail you, and I’ll get a big, fatcheck. On the other hand, you could just, you know, cop to it.Play along. You make this easy, we’ll make this easy. Split itdown the middle, once my lawyer gets his piece. Sure, yourpremiums’ll go up, but there’ll be enough to cover both of us. Couldn’t you use some ready cash? Lots of zeroes. Couplehundred grand, maybe more. I’m being nice here—I couldkeep it all for me.”“I don’t think—”“Sure you don’t. You’re an honest man. I understand, Art. Art.Art, I understand. But what has your insurer done for you,lately? My uncle Ed, he got caught in a threshing machine,paid his premiums every week for forty years, what did he get?Nothing. Insurance companies. They’re the great satan. No onelikes an insurance company. Come on, Art. Art.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 1-01-eastern-standard-tribe-del-1
# chapter_title: 01_eastern-standard-tribe-del-1
# book_page: 18 / 169
# chapter_page: 18
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 14 “Half a mil, easy. Easy! Get the papers going, will you? I’llcall you when the ambulance gets here. Bye. Love you too.Bye. Bye. Bye, Johnny. I got to go. Bye!” She made a kissynoise and tossed the comm back at Art. He snatched it out ofthe air in a panic, closed its cover reverentially and slipped itback in his jacket pocket.“C’mere,” she said, crooking a finger. He knelt beside her.“I’m Linda,” she said, shaking his hand, then pulling it to herchest.“Art,” Art said.“Art. Here’s the deal, Art. It’s no one’s fault, OK? It was dark,you were driving under the limit, I was proceeding with duecaution. Just one of those things. But you did hit me. Yourinsurer’s gonna have to pay out—rehab, pain and suffering,you get it. That’s going to be serious kwan. I’ll go splits withyou, you play along.”Art looked puzzled.“Art. Art. Art. Art, here’s the thing. Maybe you weredistracted. Lost. Not looking.
Not saying you were, but maybe.Maybe you were, and if you were, my lawyer’s going to getthat out of you, he’s going to nail you, and I’ll get a big, fatcheck. On the other hand, you could just, you know, cop to it.Play along. You make this easy, we’ll make this easy. Split itdown the middle, once my lawyer gets his piece. Sure, yourpremiums’ll go up, but there’ll be enough to cover both of us. Couldn’t you use some ready cash? Lots of zeroes. Couplehundred grand, maybe more. I’m being nice here—I couldkeep it all for me.”“I don’t think—”“Sure you don’t. You’re an honest man. I understand, Art. Art.Art, I understand. But what has your insurer done for you,lately? My uncle Ed, he got caught in a threshing machine,paid his premiums every week for forty years, what did he get?Nothing. Insurance companies. They’re the great satan. No onelikes an insurance company. Come on, Art. Art.You don’thave to say anything now, but think about it, OK, Art?”She released his hand, and he stood. The porter with the teethflashed them at him. “Mad,” he said, “just mad. Watchyourself, mate. Get your solicitor on the line, I were you.”He stepped back as far as the narrow sidewalk would allow andfired up his comm and tunneled to a pseudonymous relay,bouncing the call off a dozen mixmasters. He was, after all, indeep cover as a GMTalist, and it wouldn’t do to have hisenciphered packets’ destination in the clear—a little trafficanalysis and his cover’d be blown. He velcroed the keyboard tohis thigh and started chording.Trepan: Any UK solicitors on the channel?Gink-Go: Lawyers. Heh. Kill 'em all. Speciallyeurofag fixers.
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 15 Junta: Hey, I resemble that remarkTrepan: Junta, you're a UK lawyer?Gink-Go: Use autocounsel, dude. L{ia|awye}rs suck.Channel #autocounsel. Chatterbot with all majorlegal systems on the backend.Trepan: Whatever. I need a human lawyer.Trepan: Junta, you there?Gink-Go: Off raping humanity.Gink-Go: Fuck lawyers.Trepan: /shitlist Gink-Go##Gink-Go added to Trepan's shitlist. Use '/unshitGink-Go' to see messages againGink-Go:Gink-Go:Gink-Go:Gink-Go:##Gink-Go added to Junta's shitlist. Use '/unshitGink-Go' to see messages again ##Gink-Go added to Thomas-hawk's shitlist. Use'/unshit Gink-Go' to see messages again##Gink-Go added to opencolon's shitlist. Use'/unshit Gink-Go' to see messages again##Gink-Go added to jackyardbackoff's shitlist. Use'/unshit Gink-Go' to see messages again##Gink-Go added to freddy-kugel's shitlist. Use'/unshit Gink-Go' to see messages againopencolon: Trolls suck.
Gink-Go away.Gink-Go:Gink-Go:Gink-Go:##Gink-Go has left channel #EST.chatterJunta: You were saying?##Junta (private) (file transfer)##Received credential from Junta. Verifying.Credential identified: "Solicitor, registered withthe Law Society to practice in England and Wales,also registered in Australia."
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 1-01-eastern-standard-tribe-del-1
# chapter_title: 01_eastern-standard-tribe-del-1
# book_page: 19 / 169
# chapter_page: 19
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
You don’thave to say anything now, but think about it, OK, Art?”She released his hand, and he stood. The porter with the teethflashed them at him. “Mad,” he said, “just mad. Watchyourself, mate. Get your solicitor on the line, I were you.”He stepped back as far as the narrow sidewalk would allow andfired up his comm and tunneled to a pseudonymous relay,bouncing the call off a dozen mixmasters. He was, after all, indeep cover as a GMTalist, and it wouldn’t do to have hisenciphered packets’ destination in the clear—a little trafficanalysis and his cover’d be blown. He velcroed the keyboard tohis thigh and started chording.Trepan: Any UK solicitors on the channel?Gink-Go: Lawyers. Heh. Kill 'em all. Speciallyeurofag fixers.
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 15 Junta: Hey, I resemble that remarkTrepan: Junta, you're a UK lawyer?Gink-Go: Use autocounsel, dude. L{ia|awye}rs suck.Channel #autocounsel. Chatterbot with all majorlegal systems on the backend.Trepan: Whatever. I need a human lawyer.Trepan: Junta, you there?Gink-Go: Off raping humanity.Gink-Go: Fuck lawyers.Trepan: /shitlist Gink-Go##Gink-Go added to Trepan's shitlist. Use '/unshitGink-Go' to see messages againGink-Go:Gink-Go:Gink-Go:Gink-Go:##Gink-Go added to Junta's shitlist. Use '/unshitGink-Go' to see messages again ##Gink-Go added to Thomas-hawk's shitlist. Use'/unshit Gink-Go' to see messages again##Gink-Go added to opencolon's shitlist. Use'/unshit Gink-Go' to see messages again##Gink-Go added to jackyardbackoff's shitlist. Use'/unshit Gink-Go' to see messages again##Gink-Go added to freddy-kugel's shitlist. Use'/unshit Gink-Go' to see messages againopencolon: Trolls suck.
Gink-Go away.Gink-Go:Gink-Go:Gink-Go:##Gink-Go has left channel #EST.chatterJunta: You were saying?##Junta (private) (file transfer)##Received credential from Junta. Verifying.Credential identified: "Solicitor, registered withthe Law Society to practice in England and Wales,also registered in Australia."Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 16 Trepan: /private Junta I just hit a woman whiledriving the Kensington High Street. Her fault.She's hurt. Wants me to admit culpability inexchange for half the insurance. Advice?##Junta (private): I beg your pardon?Trepan: /private Junta She's crazy. She just gotoff the phone with some kinda lawyer in theStates. Says she can get $510^5 at least, andwill split with me if I don't dispute.##Junta (private): Bloody Americans. No offense.What kind of instrumentation recorded it?Trepan: /private Junta My GPS. Maybe some secams.Eyewitnesses, maybe.##Junta (private): And you'll say what, exactly?That you were distracted? Fiddling with something?Trepan: /private Junta I guess.##Junta (private): You're looking at three pointsoff your licence. Statutory increase in premiumstotalling EU 210^5 over five years. How's yourrecord?##Transferring credential "Driving record" toJunta.
Receipt confirmed. ##Junta (private): Hmmm.##Junta (private): Nothing outrageous. Were youdistracted?Trepan: /private Junta I guess. Maybe.##Junta (private): You guess. Well, who would knowbetter than you, right? My fee's 10 percent. Stopguessing. You were distracted. Overtired. It'slate. Regrettable. Sincerely sorry. Have hersolicitor contact me directly. I'll meet you hereat 1000h GMT/0400h EDT and go over it with you,yes? Agreeable?Trepan: /private Junta Agreed. Thanks.##Junta (private) (file transfer)##Received smartcontract from Junta. Verifying.Smartcontract "Representation agreement" verified.Trepan: /join #autocounselcounselbot: Welcome, Trepan! How can I help you?##Transferring smartcontract "Representationagreement" to counselbot. Receipt confirmed.Trepan: /private counselbot What is the legalstanding of this contract?
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 1-01-eastern-standard-tribe-del-1
# chapter_title: 01_eastern-standard-tribe-del-1
# book_page: 20 / 169
# chapter_page: 20
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 16 Trepan: /private Junta I just hit a woman whiledriving the Kensington High Street. Her fault.She's hurt. Wants me to admit culpability inexchange for half the insurance. Advice?##Junta (private): I beg your pardon?Trepan: /private Junta She's crazy. She just gotoff the phone with some kinda lawyer in theStates. Says she can get $5*10^5 at least, andwill split with me if I don't dispute.##Junta (private): Bloody Americans. No offense.What kind of instrumentation recorded it?Trepan: /private Junta My GPS. Maybe some secams.Eyewitnesses, maybe.##Junta (private): And you'll say what, exactly?That you were distracted? Fiddling with something?Trepan: /private Junta I guess.##Junta (private): You're looking at three pointsoff your licence. Statutory increase in premiumstotalling EU 2*10^5 over five years. How's yourrecord?##Transferring credential "Driving record" toJunta.
Receipt confirmed. ##Junta (private): Hmmm.##Junta (private): Nothing outrageous. _Were_ youdistracted?Trepan: /private Junta I guess. Maybe.##Junta (private): You guess. Well, who would knowbetter than you, right? My fee's 10 percent. Stopguessing. You _were_ distracted. Overtired. It'slate. Regrettable. Sincerely sorry. Have hersolicitor contact me directly. I'll meet you hereat 1000h GMT/0400h EDT and go over it with you,yes? Agreeable?Trepan: /private Junta Agreed. Thanks.##Junta (private) (file transfer)##Received smartcontract from Junta. Verifying.Smartcontract "Representation agreement" verified.Trepan: /join #autocounselcounselbot: Welcome, Trepan! How can I help you?##Transferring smartcontract "Representationagreement" to counselbot. Receipt confirmed.Trepan: /private counselbot What is the legalstanding of this contract?Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 17 ##counselbot (private): Smartcontract"Representation agreement" is an ISO standardrepresentation agreement between a client and asolicitor for purposes of litigation in the UK.##autocounsel (private) (file transfer)##Received "representation agreement faq uk 2.3.22JAN22" from autocounsel.Trepan: /join #EST.chatterTrepan: /private Junta It's a deal##Transferring key-signed smartcontract"Representation agreement" to Junta. Receiptconfirmed.Trepan: /quit Gotta go, thanks!##Trepan has left channel #EST.chatter "Gotta go,thanks!"
5.Once the messy business of negotiating EU healthcare forforeign nationals had been sorted out with the EMTs and theCasualty Intake triage, once they’d both been digested and shatout by a dozen diagnostic devices from X-rays to MRIs, oncethe harried house officers had impersonally prodded them andpresented them both with hardcopy FAQs for their variousinjuries (second-degree burns, mild shock for Art; pelvicdislocation, minor kidney bruising, broken femur, whiplash,concussion and mandible trauma for Linda), they foundthemselves in adjacent beds in the recovery room, whichbustled as though it, too, were working on GMT-5, busy as a9PM restaurant on a Saturday night.Art had an IV taped to the inside of his left arm, dripping salineand tranqs, making him logy and challenging his circadians.Still, he was the more mobile of the two, as Linda wasswaddled in smartcasts that both immobilized her andmassaged her, all the while osmosing transdermalantiinflammatories and painkillers.
He tottered the two steps tothe chair at her bedside and shook her hand again.“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like hell,” hesaid.She smiled. Her jaw made an audible pop. “Get a picture, willyou? It’ll be good in court.”He chuckled.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 1-01-eastern-standard-tribe-del-1
# chapter_title: 01_eastern-standard-tribe-del-1
# book_page: 21 / 169
# chapter_page: 21
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 17 ##counselbot (private): Smartcontract"Representation agreement" is an ISO standardrepresentation agreement between a client and asolicitor for purposes of litigation in the UK.##autocounsel (private) (file transfer)##Received "representation agreement faq uk 2.3.22JAN22" from autocounsel.Trepan: /join #EST.chatterTrepan: /private Junta It's a deal##Transferring key-signed smartcontract"Representation agreement" to Junta. Receiptconfirmed.Trepan: /quit Gotta go, thanks!##Trepan has left channel #EST.chatter "Gotta go,thanks!"
5.Once the messy business of negotiating EU healthcare forforeign nationals had been sorted out with the EMTs and theCasualty Intake triage, once they’d both been digested and shatout by a dozen diagnostic devices from X-rays to MRIs, oncethe harried house officers had impersonally prodded them andpresented them both with hardcopy FAQs for their variousinjuries (second-degree burns, mild shock for Art; pelvicdislocation, minor kidney bruising, broken femur, whiplash,concussion and mandible trauma for Linda), they foundthemselves in adjacent beds in the recovery room, whichbustled as though it, too, were working on GMT-5, busy as a9PM restaurant on a Saturday night.Art had an IV taped to the inside of his left arm, dripping salineand tranqs, making him logy and challenging his circadians.Still, he was the more mobile of the two, as Linda wasswaddled in smartcasts that both immobilized her andmassaged her, all the while osmosing transdermalantiinflammatories and painkillers.
He tottered the two steps tothe chair at her bedside and shook her hand again.“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like hell,” hesaid.She smiled. Her jaw made an audible pop. “Get a picture, willyou? It’ll be good in court.”He chuckled.Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 18 “No, seriously. Get a picture.”So he took out his comm and snapped a couple pix, includingone with nightvision filters on to compensate for the dimmedrecovery room lighting. “You’re a cool customer, you knowthat?” he said, as he tucked his camera away.“Not so cool. This is all a coping strategy. I’m pretty shook up,you want to know the truth. I could have died.”“What were you doing on the street at three AM anyway?”“I was upset, so I took a walk, thought I’d get something to eator a beer or something.”“You haven’t been here long, huh?”She laughed, and it turned into a groan. “What the hell iswrong with the English, anyway? The sun sets and the cityrolls up its streets. It’s not like they’ve got this great traditionof staying home and surfing cable or anything.”“They’re all snug in their beds, farting away their lentil roasts.”“That’s it! You can’t get a steak here to save your life.
Madcows, all of ’em. If I see one more gray soy sausage, I’m goingto kill the waitress and eat her.”“You just need to get hooked up,” he said. “Once we’re out ofhere, I’ll take you out for a genuine blood pudding, roast beefand oily chips. I know a place.” “I’m drooling. Can I borrow your phone again? Uh, I thinkyou’re going to have to dial for me.”“That’s OK. Give me the number.”She did, and he cradled his comm to her head. He was closeenough to her that he could hear the tinny, distinctive ringingof a namerican circuit at the other end. He heard her shallowbreathing, heard her jaw creak. He smelled her shampoo, afree-polymer new-car smell, smelled a hint of her sweat. Acord stood out on her neck, merging in an elegant vee with hercollarbone, an arrow pointing at the swell of her breast underher paper gown.“Toby, it’s Linda.”A munchkin voice chittered down the line.“Shut up, OK. Shut up. Shut. I’m in the hospital.” Morechipmunk.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 1-01-eastern-standard-tribe-del-1
# chapter_title: 01_eastern-standard-tribe-del-1
# book_page: 22 / 169
# chapter_page: 22
# language: en
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 18 “No, seriously. Get a picture.”So he took out his comm and snapped a couple pix, includingone with nightvision filters on to compensate for the dimmedrecovery room lighting. “You’re a cool customer, you knowthat?” he said, as he tucked his camera away.“Not so cool. This is all a coping strategy. I’m pretty shook up,you want to know the truth. I could have died.”“What were you doing on the street at three AM anyway?”“I was upset, so I took a walk, thought I’d get something to eator a beer or something.”“You haven’t been here long, huh?”She laughed, and it turned into a groan. “What the hell iswrong with the English, anyway? The sun sets and the cityrolls up its streets. It’s not like they’ve got this great traditionof staying home and surfing cable or anything.”“They’re all snug in their beds, farting away their lentil roasts.”“That’s it! You can’t get a steak here to save your life.
Madcows, all of ’em. If I see one more gray soy sausage, I’m goingto kill the waitress and eat her.”“You just need to get hooked up,” he said. “Once we’re out ofhere, I’ll take you out for a genuine blood pudding, roast beefand oily chips. I know a place.” “I’m drooling. Can I borrow your phone again? Uh, I thinkyou’re going to have to dial for me.”“That’s OK. Give me the number.”She did, and he cradled his comm to her head. He was closeenough to her that he could hear the tinny, distinctive ringingof a namerican circuit at the other end. He heard her shallowbreathing, heard her jaw creak. He smelled her shampoo, afree-polymer new-car smell, smelled a hint of her sweat. Acord stood out on her neck, merging in an elegant vee with hercollarbone, an arrow pointing at the swell of her breast underher paper gown.“Toby, it’s Linda.”A munchkin voice chittered down the line.“Shut up, OK. Shut up. Shut. I’m in the hospital.” Morechipmunk.“Got hit by a car. I’ll be OK. No. Shut up. I’ll befine. I’ll send you the FAQs. I just wanted to say. . .” Sheheaved a sigh, closed her eyes. “You know what I wanted tosay. Sorry, all right? Sorry it came to this. You’ll be OK. I’ll beOK. I just didn’t want to leave you hanging.” She soundedgroggy, but there was a sob there, too. “I can’t talk long. I’mon a shitload of dope. Yes, it’s good dope. I’ll call you later. Idon’t know when I’m coming back, but we’ll sort it out there,all right? OK. Shut up. OK. You too.”She looked up at Art. “My boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend. Not surewho’s leaving who at this point. Thanks.” She closed her eyes.
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 19 Her eyelids were mauve, a tracery of pink veins. She snoredsoftly.Art set an alarm that would wake him up in time to meet hislawyer, folded up his comm and crawled back into bed. Hiscircadians swelled and crashed against the sides of his skull,and before he knew it, he was out. 6.Hospitals operate around the clock, but they still have theirown circadians. The noontime staff were still overworked andharried but chipper and efficient, too, without the raccoon-eyedjitters of the night before. Art and Linda were efficiently fed,watered and evacuated, then left to their own devices, blinkingin the weak English sunlight that streamed through thewindows.“The lawyers’ve worked it out, I think,” Art said.“Good. Good news.” She was dopamine-heavy, her wordslizard-slow.
Art figured her temper was drugged senseless, andit gave him the courage to ask her the question that’d been onhis mind since they’d met.“Can I ask you something? It may be offensive.”“G’head. I may be offended.”“Do you do. . .this. . .a lot? I mean, the insurance thing?”She snorted, then moaned. “It’s the Los Angeles Lottery, dude.I haven’t done it before, but I was starting to feel a little leftout, to tell the truth.”“I thought screenplays were the LA Lotto.”“Naw. A good lotto is one you can win.”
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 1-01-eastern-standard-tribe-del-1
# chapter_title: 01_eastern-standard-tribe-del-1
# book_page: 23 / 169
# chapter_page: 23
# language: en
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“Got hit by a car. I’ll be OK. No. Shut up. I’ll befine. I’ll send you the FAQs. I just wanted to say. . .” Sheheaved a sigh, closed her eyes. “You know what I wanted tosay. Sorry, all right? Sorry it came to this. You’ll be OK. I’ll beOK. I just didn’t want to leave you hanging.” She soundedgroggy, but there was a sob there, too. “I can’t talk long. I’mon a shitload of dope. Yes, it’s good dope. I’ll call you later. Idon’t know when I’m coming back, but we’ll sort it out there,all right? OK. Shut up. OK. You too.”She looked up at Art. “My boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend. Not surewho’s leaving who at this point. Thanks.” She closed her eyes.
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 19 Her eyelids were mauve, a tracery of pink veins. She snoredsoftly.Art set an alarm that would wake him up in time to meet hislawyer, folded up his comm and crawled back into bed. Hiscircadians swelled and crashed against the sides of his skull,and before he knew it, he was out. 6.Hospitals operate around the clock, but they still have theirown circadians. The noontime staff were still overworked andharried but chipper and efficient, too, without the raccoon-eyedjitters of the night before. Art and Linda were efficiently fed,watered and evacuated, then left to their own devices, blinkingin the weak English sunlight that streamed through thewindows.“The lawyers’ve worked it out, I think,” Art said.“Good. Good news.” She was dopamine-heavy, her wordslizard-slow.
Art figured her temper was drugged senseless, andit gave him the courage to ask her the question that’d been onhis mind since they’d met.“Can I ask you something? It may be offensive.”“G’head. I may be offended.”“Do you do. . .this. . .a lot? I mean, the insurance thing?”She snorted, then moaned. “It’s the Los Angeles Lottery, dude.I haven’t done it before, but I was starting to feel a little leftout, to tell the truth.”“I thought screenplays were the LA Lotto.”“Naw. A good lotto is one you can win.”Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 20 She favored him with half a smile and he saw that she had alopsided, left-hand dimple.“You’re from LA, then?”“Got it in one. Orange County. I’m a third-generation failedactor. Grandpa once had a line in a Hitchcock film. Mom wasthe ditzy neighbor on a three-episode Fox sitcom in the 90s.I’m still waiting for my moment in the sun. You live here?”“For now. Since September. I’m from Toronto.”“Canadia! Goddamn snowbacks. What are you doing inLondon?”His comm rang, giving him a moment to gather his cover story.“Hello?”“Art! It’s Fede!”
Federico was another provocateur in GMT.He wasn’t exactly Art’s superior—the tribes didn’t work likethat—but he had seniority.“Fede—can I call you back?”“Look, I heard about your accident, and I wouldn’t have called,but it’s urgent.”Art groaned and rolled his eyes in Linda’s direction to let herknow that he, too, was exasperated by the call, then retreated tothe other side of his bed and hunched over. “What is it?”“We’ve been sniffed. I’m four-fifths positive.”Art groaned again. Fede lived in perennial terror of beingfound out and exposed as an ESTribesman, fired, deported,humiliated. He was always at least three-fifths positive, and theextra fifth was hardly an anomaly. “What’s up now?”“It’s the VP of HR at Virgin/Deutsche Telekom. He’s calledme in for a meeting this afternoon. Wants to go over the corehours recommendation.” Fede was a McKinsey consultantoffline, producing inflammatory recommendation packages forFortune 100 companies.
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# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 20 She favored him with half a smile and he saw that she had alopsided, left-hand dimple.“You’re from LA, then?”“Got it in one. Orange County. I’m a third-generation failedactor. Grandpa once had a line in a Hitchcock film. Mom wasthe ditzy neighbor on a three-episode Fox sitcom in the 90s.I’m still waiting for my moment in the sun. You live here?”“For now. Since September. I’m from Toronto.”“Canadia! Goddamn snowbacks. What are you doing inLondon?”His comm rang, giving him a moment to gather his cover story.“Hello?”“Art! It’s Fede!”
Federico was another provocateur in GMT.He wasn’t exactly Art’s superior—the tribes didn’t work likethat—but he had seniority.“Fede—can I call you back?”“Look, I heard about your accident, and I wouldn’t have called,but it’s urgent.”Art groaned and rolled his eyes in Linda’s direction to let herknow that he, too, was exasperated by the call, then retreated tothe other side of his bed and hunched over. “What is it?”“We’ve been sniffed. I’m four-fifths positive.”Art groaned again. Fede lived in perennial terror of beingfound out and exposed as an ESTribesman, fired, deported,humiliated. He was always at least three-fifths positive, and theextra fifth was hardly an anomaly. “What’s up now?”“It’s the VP of HR at Virgin/Deutsche Telekom. He’s calledme in for a meeting this afternoon. Wants to go over the corehours recommendation.” Fede was a McKinsey consultantoffline, producing inflammatory recommendation packages forFortune 100 companies.He was working the lazy-Euro angle,pushing for extra daycare, time off for sick relatives andspouses. The last policy binder he’d dumped on V/DT hadcontained enough obscure leave-granting clauses that anemployee who was sufficiently lawyer-minded couldconceivably claim 450 days of paid leave a year. Now he waspushing for the abolishment of “core hours,” CorporateEurospeak for the time after lunch but before afternoon napswhen everyone showed up at the office, so that they could getsome face-time. Enough of this, and GMT would be thelaughingstock of the world, and so caught up in internecinestruggles that the clear superiority of the stress-feeding ESTethos would sweep them away.
That was the theory, anyway.Of course, there were rival Tribalists in every singlemanagement consulting firm in the world working against us.Management consultants have always worked on old-boys’networks, after all—it was a very short step from interningyour frat buddy to interning your Tribesman.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 1-01-eastern-standard-tribe-del-1
# chapter_title: 01_eastern-standard-tribe-del-1
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He was working the lazy-Euro angle,pushing for extra daycare, time off for sick relatives andspouses. The last policy binder he’d dumped on V/DT hadcontained enough obscure leave-granting clauses that anemployee who was sufficiently lawyer-minded couldconceivably claim 450 days of paid leave a year. Now he waspushing for the abolishment of “core hours,” CorporateEurospeak for the time after lunch but before afternoon napswhen everyone showed up at the office, so that they could getsome face-time. Enough of this, and GMT would be thelaughingstock of the world, and so caught up in internecinestruggles that the clear superiority of the stress-feeding ESTethos would sweep them away.
That was the theory, anyway.Of course, there were rival Tribalists in every singlemanagement consulting firm in the world working against us.Management consultants have always worked on old-boys’networks, after all—it was a very short step from interningyour frat buddy to interning your Tribesman.02_eastern-standard-tribe-del-2
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 21 “That’s it? A meeting? Jesus, it’s just a meeting. He probablywants you to reassure him before he presents to the CEO, isall.”“No, I’m sure that’s not it. He’s got us sniffed—both of us.He’s been going through the product-design stuff, too, which istotally outside of his bailiwick. I tried to call him yesterday andhis voicemail rolled over to a boardroom in O’Malley House.”O’Malley House was the usability lab, a nice old row ofconnected Victorian townhouses just off Piccadilly. It waswhere Art consulted out of. Also, two-hundred-odd usabilityspecialists, product designers, experience engineers, cog-psychcranks and other tinkerers with the mind. They were thehairface hackers of Art’s generation, unmanageable creativedarlings—no surprise that the VP of HR would have cause tospend a little face-time with someone there.
Try telling Fedethat, though.“All right, Fede, what do you want me to do?”“Just—Just be careful. Sanitize your storage. I’m pushing anew personal key to you now, too. Here, I’ll read you thefingerprint.” The key would be an unimaginably long string ofcrypto-gibberish, and just to make sure that it wasn’tintercepted and changed en route, Fede wanted to read him aslightly less long mathematical fingerprint hashed out of it.Once it arrived, Art was supposed to generate a fingerprintfrom Fede’s new key and compare it to the one that Fedewanted him to jot down. Art closed his eyes and reclined. “All right, I’ve got a pen,” hesaid, though he had no such thing.Fede read him the long, long string of digits and characters andhe repeated them back, pretending to be noting them down.Paranoid bastard.“OK, I got it. I’ll get you a new key later today, all right?”“Do it quick, man.”“Whatever, Fede. Back off, OK?”“Sorry, sorry.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 21 “That’s it? A meeting? Jesus, it’s just a meeting. He probablywants you to reassure him before he presents to the CEO, isall.”“No, I’m sure that’s not it. He’s got us sniffed—both of us.He’s been going through the product-design stuff, too, which istotally outside of his bailiwick. I tried to call him yesterday andhis voicemail rolled over to a boardroom in O’Malley House.”O’Malley House was the usability lab, a nice old row ofconnected Victorian townhouses just off Piccadilly. It waswhere Art consulted out of. Also, two-hundred-odd usabilityspecialists, product designers, experience engineers, cog-psychcranks and other tinkerers with the mind. They were thehairface hackers of Art’s generation, unmanageable creativedarlings—no surprise that the VP of HR would have cause tospend a little face-time with someone there.
Try telling Fedethat, though.“All right, Fede, what do you want me to do?”“Just—Just be careful. Sanitize your storage. I’m pushing anew personal key to you now, too. Here, I’ll read you thefingerprint.” The key would be an unimaginably long string ofcrypto-gibberish, and just to make sure that it wasn’tintercepted and changed en route, Fede wanted to read him aslightly less long mathematical fingerprint hashed out of it.Once it arrived, Art was supposed to generate a fingerprintfrom Fede’s new key and compare it to the one that Fedewanted him to jot down. Art closed his eyes and reclined. “All right, I’ve got a pen,” hesaid, though he had no such thing.Fede read him the long, long string of digits and characters andhe repeated them back, pretending to be noting them down.Paranoid bastard.“OK, I got it. I’ll get you a new key later today, all right?”“Do it quick, man.”“Whatever, Fede. Back off, OK?”“Sorry, sorry.Oh, and feel better, all right?”“Bye, Fede.”“What was that?” Linda had her neck craned around to watchhim.He slipped into his cover story with a conscious effort. “I’m auser-experience consultant. My coworkers are all paranoidabout a deadline.”She rolled her eyes. “Not another one. God. Look, we go outfor dinner, don’t say a word about the kerb design or the waiteror the menu or the presentation, OK? OK? I’m serious.”Art solemnly crossed his heart. “Who else do you know in thebiz?”
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 22 “My ex. He wouldn’t or couldn’t shut up about how mucheverything sucked. He was right, but so what? I wanted toenjoy it, suckitude and all.”“OK, I promise. We’re going out for dinner, then?”“The minute I can walk, you’re taking me out for as much fleshand entrails as I can eat.”“It’s a deal.”And then they both slept again. 7.Met cute, huh? Linda was short and curvy, dark eyes andpursed lips and an hourglass figure that she thought made herlook topheavy and big-assed, but I thought she was fabulousand soft and bouncy. She tasted like pepper, and her hairsmelled of the abstruse polymers that kept it hanging in abrusque bob that brushed her firm, long jawline.I’m getting a sunburn, and the pebbles on the roof are digginginto my ass.
I don’t know if I’m going to push the pencil or not,but if I do, it’s going to be somewhere more comfortable thanthis roof.Except that the roof door, which I had wedged open before Isnuck away from my attendants and slunk up the firecode-mandated stairwell, is locked. The small cairn of pebbles that Icreated in front of it has been strewn apart. It is locked tight.And me without my comm. Ah, me. I take an inventory of myperson: a pencil, a hospital gown, a pair of boxer shorts and ahead full of bad cess. I am 450’ above the summery, muggy,verdant Massachusetts countryside. It is very hot, and I amturning the color of the Barbie aisle at FAO Schwartz, a kind oflabial pink that is both painful and perversely cheerful.I’ve spent my life going in the back door and coming out theside door. That’s the way it is now.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 2-02-eastern-standard-tribe-del-2
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Oh, and feel better, all right?”“Bye, Fede.”“What was that?” Linda had her neck craned around to watchhim.He slipped into his cover story with a conscious effort. “I’m auser-experience consultant. My coworkers are all paranoidabout a deadline.”She rolled her eyes. “Not another one. God. Look, we go outfor dinner, don’t say a word about the kerb design or the waiteror the menu or the presentation, OK? OK? I’m serious.”Art solemnly crossed his heart. “Who else do you know in thebiz?”
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 22 “My ex. He wouldn’t or couldn’t shut up about how mucheverything sucked. He was right, but so what? I wanted toenjoy it, suckitude and all.”“OK, I promise. We’re going out for dinner, then?”“The minute I can walk, you’re taking me out for as much fleshand entrails as I can eat.”“It’s a deal.”And then they both slept again. 7.Met cute, huh? Linda was short and curvy, dark eyes andpursed lips and an hourglass figure that she thought made herlook topheavy and big-assed, but I thought she was fabulousand soft and bouncy. She tasted like pepper, and her hairsmelled of the abstruse polymers that kept it hanging in abrusque bob that brushed her firm, long jawline.I’m getting a sunburn, and the pebbles on the roof are digginginto my ass.
I don’t know if I’m going to push the pencil or not,but if I do, it’s going to be somewhere more comfortable thanthis roof.Except that the roof door, which I had wedged open before Isnuck away from my attendants and slunk up the firecode-mandated stairwell, is locked. The small cairn of pebbles that Icreated in front of it has been strewn apart. It is locked tight.And me without my comm. Ah, me. I take an inventory of myperson: a pencil, a hospital gown, a pair of boxer shorts and ahead full of bad cess. I am 450’ above the summery, muggy,verdant Massachusetts countryside. It is very hot, and I amturning the color of the Barbie aisle at FAO Schwartz, a kind oflabial pink that is both painful and perversely cheerful.I’ve spent my life going in the back door and coming out theside door. That’s the way it is now.When it only takes twoyears for your job to morph into something that would havebeen unimaginable twenty-four months before, it’s not reallypractical to go in through the front door. Not really practical to
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 23 get the degree, the certification, the appropriate experience. Imean, even if you went back to university, the major you’dneed by the time you graduated would be in a subject thathadn’t been invented when you enrolled. So I’m good at backdoors and side doors. It’s what the Tribe does forme—provides me with entries into places where I technicallydon’t belong. And thank God for them, anyway. Without theTribes, no one would be qualified to do anything worth doing.Going out the side door has backfired on me today, though.Oh. Shit. I peer over the building’s edge, down into the parkinglot. The cars are thinly spread, the weather too fine for anyoneout there in the real world to be visiting with their crazyrelatives. Half a dozen beaters are parked down there, methane-breathers that the ESTalists call fartmobiles. I’d been drivingsomething much the same on that fateful Leap Forward day inLondon.
I left something out of my inventory: pebbles. Theroof is littered, covered with a layer of gray, round riverstones,about the size of wasabi chickpeas. No one down there is goingto notice me all the way up here. Not without that I give them asign. A cracked windshield or two ought to do it.I gather a small pile of rocks by the roof’s edge and carefullytake aim. I have to be cautious. Careful. A pebble droppedfrom this height—I remember the stories about the pennydropped from the top of the CN Tower that sunk six inches intothe concrete below.I select a small piece of gravel and carefully aim for thewindshield of a little blue Sony Veddic and it’s bombs away. I can only follow the stone’s progress for a few seconds beforemy eyes can no longer disambiguate it from the surroundingcountryside. What little I do see of its trajectory isdisheartening, though: the wind whips it away on an almosthorizontal parabola, off towards Boston.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 2-02-eastern-standard-tribe-del-2
# chapter_title: 02_eastern-standard-tribe-del-2
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When it only takes twoyears for your job to morph into something that would havebeen unimaginable twenty-four months before, it’s not reallypractical to go in through the front door. Not really practical to
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 23 get the degree, the certification, the appropriate experience. Imean, even if you went back to university, the major you’dneed by the time you graduated would be in a subject thathadn’t been invented when you enrolled. So I’m good at backdoors and side doors. It’s what the Tribe does forme—provides me with entries into places where I technicallydon’t belong. And thank God for them, anyway. Without theTribes, no one would be qualified to do anything worth doing.Going out the side door has backfired on me today, though.Oh. Shit. I peer over the building’s edge, down into the parkinglot. The cars are thinly spread, the weather too fine for anyoneout there in the real world to be visiting with their crazyrelatives. Half a dozen beaters are parked down there, methane-breathers that the ESTalists call fartmobiles. I’d been drivingsomething much the same on that fateful Leap Forward day inLondon.
I left something out of my inventory: pebbles. Theroof is littered, covered with a layer of gray, round riverstones,about the size of wasabi chickpeas. No one down there is goingto notice me all the way up here. Not without that I give them asign. A cracked windshield or two ought to do it.I gather a small pile of rocks by the roof’s edge and carefullytake aim. I have to be cautious. Careful. A pebble droppedfrom this height—I remember the stories about the pennydropped from the top of the CN Tower that sunk six inches intothe concrete below.I select a small piece of gravel and carefully aim for thewindshield of a little blue Sony Veddic and it’s bombs away. I can only follow the stone’s progress for a few seconds beforemy eyes can no longer disambiguate it from the surroundingcountryside. What little I do see of its trajectory isdisheartening, though: the wind whips it away on an almosthorizontal parabola, off towards Boston.Forgetting all aboutNewton, I try lobbing and then hurling the gravel downward,but it gets taken away, off to neverneverland, and thewindscreens remain whole.I go off to prospect for bigger rocks.You know the sort of horror movie where the suspense buildsand builds and builds, partially collapsed at regular intervals bysomething jumping out and yelling “Boo!” whereupon theheroes have to flee, deeper into danger, and the tension risesand rises? You know how sometimes the director just doesn’tknow when to quit, and the bogeymen keep jumping out andyelling boo, the wobbly bridges keep on collapsing, the smallarms fire keeps blowing out more windows in the office tower?It’s not like the tension goes away—it just get boring. Boringtension. You know that the climax is coming soon, that anyminute now Our Hero will face down the archvillain and eitherkick his ass or have his ass kicked, the whole world riding onthe outcome.
You know that it will be satisfying, with muchexplosions and partial nudity. You know that afterward, OurHero will retire to the space-bar and chill out and collect kissesfrom the love interest and that we’ll all have a moment to getour adrenals back under control before the hand pops out of thegrave and we all give a nervous jump and start eagerlyanticipating the sequel.
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# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
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Forgetting all aboutNewton, I try lobbing and then hurling the gravel downward,but it gets taken away, off to neverneverland, and thewindscreens remain whole.I go off to prospect for bigger rocks.You know the sort of horror movie where the suspense buildsand builds and builds, partially collapsed at regular intervals bysomething jumping out and yelling “Boo!” whereupon theheroes have to flee, deeper into danger, and the tension risesand rises? You know how sometimes the director just doesn’tknow when to quit, and the bogeymen keep jumping out andyelling boo, the wobbly bridges keep on collapsing, the smallarms fire keeps blowing out more windows in the office tower?It’s not like the tension goes away—it just get boring. Boringtension. You know that the climax is coming soon, that anyminute now Our Hero will face down the archvillain and eitherkick his ass or have his ass kicked, the whole world riding onthe outcome.
You know that it will be satisfying, with muchexplosions and partial nudity. You know that afterward, OurHero will retire to the space-bar and chill out and collect kissesfrom the love interest and that we’ll all have a moment to getour adrenals back under control before the hand pops out of thegrave and we all give a nervous jump and start eagerlyanticipating the sequel.Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 24 You just wish it would happen already. You just wish that thelittle climaces could be taken as read, that the director wouldtrust the audience to know that Our Hero really does wadethrough an entire ocean of shit en route to the final showdown.I’m bored with being excited. I’ve been betrayed, shot at,institutionalized and stranded on the roof of a nuthouse, and Ijust want the fucking climax to come by and happen to me, sothat I can know: smart or happy.I’ve found a half-brick that was being used to hold down the tarpaper around an exhaust-chimney. I should’ve used that to holdthe door open, but it’s way the hell the other side of the roof,and I’d been really pleased with my little pebbly doorstop.Besides, I’m starting to suspect that the doorjamb didn’t fail,that it was sabotaged by some malevolently playful goon fromthe sanatorium. An object lesson or something.I heft the brick.
I release the brick. It falls, and falls, and falls,and hits the little blue fartmobile square on the trunk, punchinga hole through the cheap aluminum lid.And the fartmobile explodes. First there is a geyser of blueflame as the tank’s puncture wound jets a stream of ignitedassoline skyward, and then it blows back into the tank andboom, the fartmobile is in one billion shards, rising like aparachute in an updraft. I can feel the heat on my bare, sun-tender skin, even from this distance.Explosions. Partial nudity. Somehow, though, I know that thisisn’t the climax. 8.Linda didn’t like to argue—fight: yes, argue: no. That wasgoing to be a problem, Art knew, but when you’re falling inlove, you’re able to rationalize all kinds of things.The yobs who cornered them on the way out of a bloodysupper of contraband, antisocial animal flesh were young, largeand bristling with testosterone.
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 24 You just wish it would happen already. You just wish that thelittle climaces could be taken as read, that the director wouldtrust the audience to know that Our Hero really does wadethrough an entire ocean of shit en route to the final showdown.I’m bored with being excited. I’ve been betrayed, shot at,institutionalized and stranded on the roof of a nuthouse, and Ijust want the fucking climax to come by and happen to me, sothat I can know: smart or happy.I’ve found a half-brick that was being used to hold down the tarpaper around an exhaust-chimney. I should’ve used that to holdthe door open, but it’s way the hell the other side of the roof,and I’d been really pleased with my little pebbly doorstop.Besides, I’m starting to suspect that the doorjamb didn’t fail,that it was sabotaged by some malevolently playful goon fromthe sanatorium. An object lesson or something.I heft the brick.
I release the brick. It falls, and falls, and falls,and hits the little blue fartmobile square on the trunk, punchinga hole through the cheap aluminum lid.And the fartmobile explodes. First there is a geyser of blueflame as the tank’s puncture wound jets a stream of ignitedassoline skyward, and then it blows back into the tank andboom, the fartmobile is in one billion shards, rising like aparachute in an updraft. I can feel the heat on my bare, sun-tender skin, even from this distance.Explosions. Partial nudity. Somehow, though, I know that thisisn’t the climax. 8.Linda didn’t like to argue—fight: yes, argue: no. That wasgoing to be a problem, Art knew, but when you’re falling inlove, you’re able to rationalize all kinds of things.The yobs who cornered them on the way out of a bloodysupper of contraband, antisocial animal flesh were young, largeand bristling with testosterone.They wore killsport armor withstrategic transparent panels that revealed their steroid-curdledmuscles, visible through the likewise transparent insets they’dhad grafted in place of the skin that covered their abs andquads. There were three of them, grinning and flexing, andthey boxed in Art and Linda in the tiny, shuttered entrance of aBoots Pharmacy.“Evening, sir, evening, miss,” one said.“Hey,” Art muttered and looked over the yob’s shoulder, tryingto spot a secam or a cop. Neither was in sight.“I wonder if we could beg a favor of you?” another said.“Sure,” Art said.“You’re American, aren’t you?” the third said.“Canadian, actually.”
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 25 “Marvelous. Bloody marvelous. I hear that Canada’s a lovelyplace. How are you enjoying England?”“I live here, actually. I like it a lot.”“Glad to hear that, sir. And you, Miss?”Linda was wide-eyed, halfway behind Art. “It’s fine.”“Good to hear,” the first one said, grinning even more broadly.“Now, as to that favor. My friends and I, we’ve got a problem.We’ve grown bored of our wallets. They are dull anduninteresting.”“And empty,” the third one interjected, with a little, stonedgiggle.“Oh yes, and empty. We thought, well, perhaps you visitorsfrom abroad would find them suitable souvenirs of England.We thought perhaps you’d like to trade, like?”Art smiled in spite of himself. He hadn’t been mugged inLondon, but he’d heard of this.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
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They wore killsport armor withstrategic transparent panels that revealed their steroid-curdledmuscles, visible through the likewise transparent insets they’dhad grafted in place of the skin that covered their abs andquads. There were three of them, grinning and flexing, andthey boxed in Art and Linda in the tiny, shuttered entrance of aBoots Pharmacy.“Evening, sir, evening, miss,” one said.“Hey,” Art muttered and looked over the yob’s shoulder, tryingto spot a secam or a cop. Neither was in sight.“I wonder if we could beg a favor of you?” another said.“Sure,” Art said.“You’re American, aren’t you?” the third said.“Canadian, actually.”
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 25 “Marvelous. Bloody marvelous. I hear that Canada’s a lovelyplace. How are you enjoying England?”“I live here, actually. I like it a lot.”“Glad to hear that, sir. And you, Miss?”Linda was wide-eyed, halfway behind Art. “It’s fine.”“Good to hear,” the first one said, grinning even more broadly.“Now, as to that favor. My friends and I, we’ve got a problem.We’ve grown bored of our wallets. They are dull anduninteresting.”“And empty,” the third one interjected, with a little, stonedgiggle.“Oh yes, and empty. We thought, well, perhaps you visitorsfrom abroad would find them suitable souvenirs of England.We thought perhaps you’d like to trade, like?”Art smiled in spite of himself. He hadn’t been mugged inLondon, but he’d heard of this.Ever since a pair of Manchestertoughs had been acquitted based on the claim that their robberyand menacing of a Pakistani couple had been a simple cross-cultural misunderstanding, crafty British yobs had been takingoff increasingly baroque scores from tourists.Art felt the familiar buzz that meant he was about to get into anargument, and before he knew it, he was talking: “Do youreally think that’d hold up in court? I think that even the dimmest judge would be able to tell that the idea of a Canadianbeing mistaken about trading two wallets full of cash for threeempty ones was in no way an error in cross-culturalcommunication. Really now. If you’re going to mug us—”“Mug you, sir? Dear oh dear, who’s mugging you?” the firstone said.“Well, in that case, you won’t mind if we say no, right?”“Well, it would be rather rude,” the first said.
“After all, we’reoffering you a souvenir in the spirit of transatlantic solidarity.Genuine English leather, mine is. Belonged to mygrandfather.”“Let me see it,” Art said.“Beg pardon?”“I want to see it. If we’re going to trade, I should be able toexamine the goods first, right?”“All right, sir, all right, here you are.”The wallet was tattered and leather, and it was indeed made inEngland, as the frayed tag sewn into the billfold attested. Artturned it over in his hands, then, still smiling, emptied the cardslot and started paging through the ID. “Lester?”Lester swore under his breath. “Les, actually. Hand those over,please—they don’t come with the wallet.”
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
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Ever since a pair of Manchestertoughs had been acquitted based on the claim that their robberyand menacing of a Pakistani couple had been a simple cross-cultural misunderstanding, crafty British yobs had been takingoff increasingly baroque scores from tourists.Art felt the familiar buzz that meant he was about to get into anargument, and before he knew it, he was talking: “Do youreally think that’d hold up in court? I think that even the dimmest judge would be able to tell that the idea of a Canadianbeing mistaken about trading two wallets full of cash for threeempty ones was in no way an error in cross-culturalcommunication. Really now. If you’re going to mug us—”“Mug you, sir? Dear oh dear, who’s mugging you?” the firstone said.“Well, in that case, you won’t mind if we say no, right?”“Well, it would be rather rude,” the first said.
“After all, we’reoffering you a souvenir in the spirit of transatlantic solidarity.Genuine English leather, mine is. Belonged to mygrandfather.”“Let me see it,” Art said.“Beg pardon?”“I want to see it. If we’re going to trade, I should be able toexamine the goods first, right?”“All right, sir, all right, here you are.”The wallet was tattered and leather, and it was indeed made inEngland, as the frayed tag sewn into the billfold attested. Artturned it over in his hands, then, still smiling, emptied the cardslot and started paging through the ID. “Lester?”Lester swore under his breath. “Les, actually. Hand those over,please—they don’t come with the wallet.”Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 26 “They don’t? But surely a real British wallet is hardly completewithout real British identification. Maybe I could keep theNHS card, something to show around to Americans. Theythink socialized medicine is a fairy tale, you know.”“I really must insist, sir.”“Fuck it, Les,” the second one said, reaching into his pocket.“This is stupid. Get the money, and let’s push off.”“It’s not that easy any more, is it?” the third one said.“Fellow’s got your name, Les. ’Sbad.”“Well, yes, of course I do,” Art said. “But so what? You threeare hardly nondescript. You think it’d be hard to pick yourfaces out of a rogues gallery? Oh, and wait a minute! Isn’t thisa trade? What happened to the spirit of transatlanticsolidarity?”“Right,” Les said. “Don’t matter if you’ve got my name, ’coswe’re all friends, right, sir?”“Right!” Art said.
He put the tattered wallet in his alreadybulging jacket pocket, making a great show of tamping it downso it wouldn’t come loose. Once his hand was free, he extendedit. “Art Berry. Late of Toronto. Pleased to meetcha!”Les shook his hand. “I’m Les. These are my friends, Tony andTom.” “Fuck!” Tom, the second one, said. “Les, you stupid cunt! Nowthey got our names, too!” The hand he’d put in his pocket cameout, holding a tazer that sparked and hummed. “Gotta get rid of’em now.”Art smiled, and reached very slowly into his pocket. He pulledout his comm, dislodging Les’s wallet so that it fell to thestreet. Les, Tom and Tony stared at the glowing comm in hishand. “Could you repeat that, Tom? I don’t think the 999operator heard you clearly.”Tom stared dumbfounded at the comm, watching it as though itwere a snake. The numbers “999” were clearly visible on itsdisplay, along with the position data that pinpointed its locationto the meter.
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# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 26 “They don’t? But surely a real British wallet is hardly completewithout real British identification. Maybe I could keep theNHS card, something to show around to Americans. Theythink socialized medicine is a fairy tale, you know.”“I really must insist, sir.”“Fuck it, Les,” the second one said, reaching into his pocket.“This is stupid. Get the money, and let’s push off.”“It’s not that easy any more, is it?” the third one said.“Fellow’s got your name, Les. ’Sbad.”“Well, yes, of course I do,” Art said. “But so what? You threeare hardly nondescript. You think it’d be hard to pick yourfaces out of a rogues gallery? Oh, and wait a minute! Isn’t thisa trade? What happened to the spirit of transatlanticsolidarity?”“Right,” Les said. “Don’t matter if you’ve got my name, ’coswe’re all friends, right, sir?”“Right!” Art said.
He put the tattered wallet in his alreadybulging jacket pocket, making a great show of tamping it downso it wouldn’t come loose. Once his hand was free, he extendedit. “Art Berry. Late of Toronto. Pleased to meetcha!”Les shook his hand. “I’m Les. These are my friends, Tony andTom.” “Fuck!” Tom, the second one, said. “Les, you stupid cunt! Nowthey got our names, too!” The hand he’d put in his pocket cameout, holding a tazer that sparked and hummed. “Gotta get rid of’em now.”Art smiled, and reached very slowly into his pocket. He pulledout his comm, dislodging Les’s wallet so that it fell to thestreet. Les, Tom and Tony stared at the glowing comm in hishand. “Could you repeat that, Tom? I don’t think the 999operator heard you clearly.”Tom stared dumbfounded at the comm, watching it as though itwere a snake. The numbers “999” were clearly visible on itsdisplay, along with the position data that pinpointed its locationto the meter.Les turned abruptly and began walking brisklytowards the tube station. In a moment, Tony followed, leavingTom alone, the tazer still hissing and spitting. His facecontorted with frustrated anger, and he feinted with the tazer,barking a laugh when Art and Linda cringed back, then he tookoff at a good run after his mates.Art clamped the comm to his head. “They’ve gone away,” heannounced, prideful. “Did you get that exchange? There werethree of them and they’ve gone away.”From the comm came a tight, efficient voice, a maleemergency operator. The speech was accented, and it took amoment to place it. Then Art remembered that the overnightemergency call-centers had been outsourced by the Englishgovernment to low-cost cube-farms in Manila. “Yes, Mr.Berry.” His comm had already transmitted his name,
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 27 immigration status and location, creating a degree ofcustomization more typical of fast-food delivery thangovernmental bureaucracies. That was bad, Art thought,professionally. GMT polezeidom was meant to be a solid wallof oatmeal-thick bureaucracy, courtesy of some crafty,anonymous PDTalist. “Please, stay at your current location.The police will be on the scene shortly. Very well done, sir.”Art turned to Linda, triumphant, ready for the traditional,postrhetorical accolades that witnesses of his verbal acrobaticswere wont to dole out, and found her in an attitude of abjectterror.
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Les turned abruptly and began walking brisklytowards the tube station. In a moment, Tony followed, leavingTom alone, the tazer still hissing and spitting. His facecontorted with frustrated anger, and he feinted with the tazer,barking a laugh when Art and Linda cringed back, then he tookoff at a good run after his mates.Art clamped the comm to his head. “They’ve gone away,” heannounced, prideful. “Did you get that exchange? There werethree of them and they’ve gone away.”From the comm came a tight, efficient voice, a maleemergency operator. The speech was accented, and it took amoment to place it. Then Art remembered that the overnightemergency call-centers had been outsourced by the Englishgovernment to low-cost cube-farms in Manila. “Yes, Mr.Berry.” His comm had already transmitted his name,
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 27 immigration status and location, creating a degree ofcustomization more typical of fast-food delivery thangovernmental bureaucracies. That was bad, Art thought,professionally. GMT polezeidom was meant to be a solid wallof oatmeal-thick bureaucracy, courtesy of some crafty,anonymous PDTalist. “Please, stay at your current location.The police will be on the scene shortly. Very well done, sir.”Art turned to Linda, triumphant, ready for the traditional,postrhetorical accolades that witnesses of his verbal acrobaticswere wont to dole out, and found her in an attitude of abjectterror.Her eyes were crazily wide, the whites visible aroundthe irises—something he’d read about but never seen firsthand.She was breathing shallowly and had gone ashen.Though they were not an actual couple yet, Art tried to gatherher into his arms for some manly comforting, but she was stiffin his embrace, and after a moment, planted her palms on hischest and pushed him back firmly, even aggressively.“Are you all right?” he asked. He was adrenalized, flushed.“What if they’d decided to kill us?” she said, spittle flying fromher lips.“Oh, they weren’t going to hurt us,” he said. “No guts at all.”“Goddammit, you didn’t know that! Where do you get offplaying around with my safety? Why the hell didn’t you justhand over your wallet, call the cops and be done with it?Macho fucking horseshit!” The triumph was fading, fast replaced by anger. “What’swrong with you? Do you always have to snatch defeat from thejaws of victory?
I just beat off those three assholes withoutraising a hand, and all you want to do is criticize? Christ, OK,next time we can hand over our wallets. Maybe they’ll want alittle rape, too—should I go along with that? You just tell mewhat the rules are, and I’ll be sure and obey them.”“You fucking pig! Where the fuck do you get off raising yourvoice to me? And don’t you ever joke about rape. It’s not evenslightly funny, you arrogant fucking prick.”Art’s triumph deflated. “Jesus,” he said, “Jesus, Linda, I’msorry. I didn’t realize how scared you must have been—”“You don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve been muggeda dozen times. I hand over my wallet, cancel my cards, go tomy insurer. No one’s ever hurt me. I wasn’t the least bit scareduntil you opened up your big goddamned mouth.”“Sorry, sorry. Sorry about the rape crack. I was just trying tomake a point.
I didn’t know—” He wanted to say, I didn’tknow you’d been raped, but thought better of it—“it wasso...personal for you—”“Oh, Christ. Just because I don’t want to joke about rape, youthink I’m some kind of victim, that I’ve been raped”—Artgrimaced—“well, I haven’t, shithead. But it’s not somethingyou should be using as a goddamned example in one of yourstupid points. Rape is serious.”
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Her eyes were crazily wide, the whites visible aroundthe irises—something he’d read about but never seen firsthand.She was breathing shallowly and had gone ashen.Though they were not an actual couple yet, Art tried to gatherher into his arms for some manly comforting, but she was stiffin his embrace, and after a moment, planted her palms on hischest and pushed him back firmly, even aggressively.“Are you all right?” he asked. He was adrenalized, flushed.“What if they’d decided to kill us?” she said, spittle flying fromher lips.“Oh, they weren’t going to hurt us,” he said. “No guts at all.”“Goddammit, you didn’t know that! Where do you get offplaying around with my safety? Why the hell didn’t you justhand over your wallet, call the cops and be done with it?Macho fucking horseshit!” The triumph was fading, fast replaced by anger. “What’swrong with you? Do you always have to snatch defeat from thejaws of victory?
I just beat off those three assholes withoutraising a hand, and all you want to do is criticize? Christ, OK,next time we can hand over our wallets. Maybe they’ll want alittle rape, too—should I go along with that? You just tell mewhat the rules are, and I’ll be sure and obey them.”“You fucking pig! Where the fuck do you get off raising yourvoice to me? And don’t you ever joke about rape. It’s not evenslightly funny, you arrogant fucking prick.”Art’s triumph deflated. “Jesus,” he said, “Jesus, Linda, I’msorry. I didn’t realize how scared you must have been—”“You don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve been muggeda dozen times. I hand over my wallet, cancel my cards, go tomy insurer. No one’s ever hurt me. I wasn’t the least bit scareduntil you opened up your big goddamned mouth.”“Sorry, sorry. Sorry about the rape crack. I was just trying tomake a point.
I didn’t know—” He wanted to say, I didn’tknow you’d been raped, but thought better of it—“it wasso...personal for you—”“Oh, Christ. Just because I don’t want to joke about rape, youthink I’m some kind of victim, that I’ve been raped”—Artgrimaced—“well, I haven’t, shithead. But it’s not somethingyou should be using as a goddamned example in one of yourstupid points. Rape is serious.”Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 28 The cops arrived then, two of them on scooters, looking likemeter maids. Art and Linda glared at each other for a moment,then forced smiles at the cops, who had dismounted and shedtheir helmets. They were young men, in their twenties, and toArt, they looked like kids playing dress up.“Evening sir, miss,” one said. “I’m PC McGivens and this isPC DeMoss. You called emergency services?” McGivens hadhis comm out and it was pointed at them, slurping in theiridentity on police override.“Yes,” Art said. “But it’s OK now. They took off. One of themleft his wallet behind.” He bent and picked it up and made tohand it to PC DeMoss, who was closer. The cop ignored it.“Please sir, put that down. We’ll gather the evidence.”Art lowered it to the ground, felt himself blushing. His handswere shaking now, whether from embarrassment, triumph orhurt he couldn’t say.
He held up his now-empty palms in agesture of surrender.“Step over here, please, sir,” PC McGivens said, and led himoff a short ways, while PC Blaylock closed on Linda.“Now, sir,” McGivens said, in a businesslike way, “please tellme exactly what happened.”So Art did, tastefully omitting the meat-parlor where theevening’s festivities had begun. He started to get into it, to evangelize his fast-thinking bravery with the phone. McGivensobliged him with a little grin.“Very good. Now, again, please, sir?”“I’m sorry?” Art said.“Can you repeat it, please? Procedure.”“Why?”“Can’t really say, sir. It’s procedure.”Art thought about arguing, but managed to control the impulse.The man was a cop, he was a foreigner—albeit a thoroughlydocumented one—and what would it cost?
He’d probably leftsomething out anyway.He retold the story from the top, speaking slowly and clearly.PC McGivens aimed his comm Artwards, and tapped out theoccasional note as Art spoke.“Thank you sir. Now, once more, please?”Art blew out an exasperated sigh. His feet hurt, and his bladderwas swollen with drink. “You’re joking.”“No sir, I’m afraid not. Procedure.”“But it’s stupid! The guys who tried to mug us are long gone,I’ve given you their descriptions, you have their
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 28 The cops arrived then, two of them on scooters, looking likemeter maids. Art and Linda glared at each other for a moment,then forced smiles at the cops, who had dismounted and shedtheir helmets. They were young men, in their twenties, and toArt, they looked like kids playing dress up.“Evening sir, miss,” one said. “I’m PC McGivens and this isPC DeMoss. You called emergency services?” McGivens hadhis comm out and it was pointed at them, slurping in theiridentity on police override.“Yes,” Art said. “But it’s OK now. They took off. One of themleft his wallet behind.” He bent and picked it up and made tohand it to PC DeMoss, who was closer. The cop ignored it.“Please sir, put that down. We’ll gather the evidence.”Art lowered it to the ground, felt himself blushing. His handswere shaking now, whether from embarrassment, triumph orhurt he couldn’t say.
He held up his now-empty palms in agesture of surrender.“Step over here, please, sir,” PC McGivens said, and led himoff a short ways, while PC Blaylock closed on Linda.“Now, sir,” McGivens said, in a businesslike way, “please tellme exactly what happened.”So Art did, tastefully omitting the meat-parlor where theevening’s festivities had begun. He started to get into it, to evangelize his fast-thinking bravery with the phone. McGivensobliged him with a little grin.“Very good. Now, again, please, sir?”“I’m sorry?” Art said.“Can you repeat it, please? Procedure.”“Why?”“Can’t really say, sir. It’s procedure.”Art thought about arguing, but managed to control the impulse.The man was a cop, he was a foreigner—albeit a thoroughlydocumented one—and what would it cost?
He’d probably leftsomething out anyway.He retold the story from the top, speaking slowly and clearly.PC McGivens aimed his comm Artwards, and tapped out theoccasional note as Art spoke.“Thank you sir. Now, once more, please?”Art blew out an exasperated sigh. His feet hurt, and his bladderwas swollen with drink. “You’re joking.”“No sir, I’m afraid not. Procedure.”“But it’s stupid! The guys who tried to mug us are long gone,I’ve given you their descriptions, you have theirCory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 29 identification—” But they didn’t, not yet. The wallet still laywhere Art had dropped it.PC McGivens shook his head slowly, as though marveling atthe previously unsuspected inanity of his daily round. “All verytrue, sir, but it’s procedure. Worked out by some clever ladusing statistics. All this, it increases our success rate.’Sproven.”Here it was. Some busy tribalist provocateur, some compatriotof Fede, had stirred the oats into Her Majesty’s RoyalConstabulary. Art snuck a look at Linda, who was no doubtbeing subjected to the same procedure by PC DeMoss. She’dlost her rigid, angry posture, and wasseemingly—amazingly—enjoying herself, chatting up theconstable like an old pal.“How many more times have we got to do this, officer?”“This is the last time you’ll have to repeat it to me.”Art’s professional instincts perked up at the weasel words inthe sentence. “To you?
Who else do I need to go over thiswith?”The officer shook his head, caught out. “Well, you’ll have torepeat it three times to PC DeMoss, once he’s done with yourfriend, sir. Procedure.” “How about this,” Art says, “how about I record this laststatement to you with my comm, and then I can play it backthree times for PC DeMoss?”“Oh, I’m sure that won’t do, sir. Not really the spirit of thething, is it?”“And what is the spirit of the thing? Humiliation? Boredom?An exercise in raw power?”PC McGivens lost his faint smile. “I really couldn’t say, sir.Now, again if you please?”“What if I don’t please? I haven’t been assaulted. I haven’tbeen robbed. It’s none of my business. What if I walk awayright now?”“Not really allowed, sir. It’s expected that everyone inEngland—HM’s subjects and her guests—will assist the policewith their inquiries. Required, actually.”Reminded of his precarious immigration status, Art lost hisattitude.
“Once more for you, three more times for yourpartner, and we’re done, right? I want to get home.”“We’ll see, sir.”Art recited the facts a third time, and they waited while Lindafinished her third recounting.
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 29 identification—” But they didn’t, not yet. The wallet still laywhere Art had dropped it.PC McGivens shook his head slowly, as though marveling atthe previously unsuspected inanity of his daily round. “All verytrue, sir, but it’s procedure. Worked out by some clever ladusing statistics. All this, it increases our success rate.’Sproven.”Here it was. Some busy tribalist provocateur, some compatriotof Fede, had stirred the oats into Her Majesty’s RoyalConstabulary. Art snuck a look at Linda, who was no doubtbeing subjected to the same procedure by PC DeMoss. She’dlost her rigid, angry posture, and wasseemingly—amazingly—enjoying herself, chatting up theconstable like an old pal.“How many more times have we got to do this, officer?”“This is the last time you’ll have to repeat it to me.”Art’s professional instincts perked up at the weasel words inthe sentence. “To you?
Who else do I need to go over thiswith?”The officer shook his head, caught out. “Well, you’ll have torepeat it three times to PC DeMoss, once he’s done with yourfriend, sir. Procedure.” “How about this,” Art says, “how about I record this laststatement to you with my comm, and then I can play it backthree times for PC DeMoss?”“Oh, I’m sure that won’t do, sir. Not really the spirit of thething, is it?”“And what is the spirit of the thing? Humiliation? Boredom?An exercise in raw power?”PC McGivens lost his faint smile. “I really couldn’t say, sir.Now, again if you please?”“What if I don’t please? I haven’t been assaulted. I haven’tbeen robbed. It’s none of my business. What if I walk awayright now?”“Not really allowed, sir. It’s expected that everyone inEngland—HM’s subjects and her guests—will assist the policewith their inquiries. Required, actually.”Reminded of his precarious immigration status, Art lost hisattitude.
“Once more for you, three more times for yourpartner, and we’re done, right? I want to get home.”“We’ll see, sir.”Art recited the facts a third time, and they waited while Lindafinished her third recounting.Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 30 He switched over to PC DeMoss, who pointed his commexpectantly. “Is all this just to make people reluctant to call thecops? I mean, this whole procedure seems like a hell of adisincentive.”“Just the way we do things, sir,” PC DeMoss said withoutrancor. “Now, let’s have it, if you please?”From a few yards away, Linda laughed at something PCMcGivens said, which just escalated Art’s frustration. He spatout the description three times fast. “Now, I need to find atoilet. Are we done yet?”“‘Fraid not, sir. Going to have to come by the Station House tolook through some photos. There’s a toilet there.”“It can’t wait that long, officer.”PC DeMoss gave him a reproachful look.“I’m sorry, all right?” Art said. “I lack the foresight to emptymy bladder before being accosted in the street. That being said,can we arrive at some kind of solution?”
In his head, Art wasalready writing an angry letter to the Times, dripping withsarcasm.“Just a moment, sir,” PC DeMoss said. He conferred brieflywith his partner, leaving Art to stare ruefully at their backs andavoid Linda’s gaze. When he finally met it, she gave him asunny smile. It seemed that she—at least—wasn’t angry anymore. “Come this way, please, sir,” PC DeMoss said, striking off forthe High Street. “There’s a pub ’round the corner where youcan use the facilities.”
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 30 He switched over to PC DeMoss, who pointed his commexpectantly. “Is all this just to make people reluctant to call thecops? I mean, this whole procedure seems like a hell of adisincentive.”“Just the way we do things, sir,” PC DeMoss said withoutrancor. “Now, let’s have it, if you please?”From a few yards away, Linda laughed at something PCMcGivens said, which just escalated Art’s frustration. He spatout the description three times fast. “Now, I need to find atoilet. Are we done yet?”“‘Fraid not, sir. Going to have to come by the Station House tolook through some photos. There’s a toilet there.”“It can’t wait that long, officer.”PC DeMoss gave him a reproachful look.“I’m sorry, all right?” Art said. “I lack the foresight to emptymy bladder before being accosted in the street. That being said,can we arrive at some kind of solution?”
In his head, Art wasalready writing an angry letter to the Times, dripping withsarcasm.“Just a moment, sir,” PC DeMoss said. He conferred brieflywith his partner, leaving Art to stare ruefully at their backs andavoid Linda’s gaze. When he finally met it, she gave him asunny smile. It seemed that she—at least—wasn’t angry anymore. “Come this way, please, sir,” PC DeMoss said, striking off forthe High Street. “There’s a pub ’round the corner where youcan use the facilities.”Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 31 9.It was nearly dawn before they finally made their way out ofthe police station and back into the street. After identifying Lesfrom an online rogues’ gallery, Art had spent the next six hourssitting on a hard bench, chording desultorily on his thigh, doingsome housekeeping.This business of being an agent-provocateur was complicatedin the extreme, though it had sounded like a good idea when hewas living in San Francisco and hating every inch of the city,from the alleged pizza to the fucking! drivers!—in New York,the theory went, drivers used their horns by way of shouting“Ole!” as in, “Ole! You changed lanes!” “Ole! You cut meoff!” “Ole! You’re driving on the sidewalk!” while in SanFrancisco, a honking horn meant, “I wish you were dead. Havea nice day. Dude.”And the body language was all screwed up out west. Artbelieved that your entire unconscious affect was determined byyour upbringing.
You learned how to stand, how to hold yourface in repose, how to gesture, from the adults around youwhile you were growing up. The Pacific Standard Tribe alwaysseemed a little bovine to him, their facial muscles longconditioned to relax into a kind of spacey, gullible senescence.Beauty, too. Your local definition of attractive and ugly wasconditioned by the people around you at puberty. There was aPacific “look” that was indefinably off. Hard to say what itwas, just that when he went out to a bar or got stuck on a crowded train, the girls just didn’t seem all that attractive tohim.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 2-02-eastern-standard-tribe-del-2
# chapter_title: 02_eastern-standard-tribe-del-2
# book_page: 39 / 169
# chapter_page: 14
# language: en
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 31 9.It was nearly dawn before they finally made their way out ofthe police station and back into the street. After identifying Lesfrom an online rogues’ gallery, Art had spent the next six hourssitting on a hard bench, chording desultorily on his thigh, doingsome housekeeping.This business of being an agent-provocateur was complicatedin the extreme, though it had sounded like a good idea when hewas living in San Francisco and hating every inch of the city,from the alleged pizza to the fucking! drivers!—in New York,the theory went, drivers used their horns by way of shouting“Ole!” as in, “Ole! You changed lanes!” “Ole! You cut meoff!” “Ole! You’re driving on the sidewalk!” while in SanFrancisco, a honking horn meant, “I wish you were dead. Havea nice day. Dude.”And the body language was all screwed up out west. Artbelieved that your entire unconscious affect was determined byyour upbringing.
You learned how to stand, how to hold yourface in repose, how to gesture, from the adults around youwhile you were growing up. The Pacific Standard Tribe alwaysseemed a little bovine to him, their facial muscles longconditioned to relax into a kind of spacey, gullible senescence.Beauty, too. Your local definition of attractive and ugly wasconditioned by the people around you at puberty. There was aPacific “look” that was indefinably off. Hard to say what itwas, just that when he went out to a bar or got stuck on a crowded train, the girls just didn’t seem all that attractive tohim.Objectively, he could recognize their prettiness, but itdidn’t stir him the way the girls cruising the Chelsea AntiquesMarket or lounging around Harvard Square could.He’d always felt at a slight angle to reality in California,something that was reinforced by his continuous efforts in theTribe, from chatting and gaming until the sun rose, dragginghis caffeine-deficient ass around to his clients in a kind of fogbefore going home, catching a nap and hopping back online at3 or 4 when the high-octane NYC early risers were practicingwork-avoidance and clattering around with their comms.Gradually, he penetrated deeper into the Tribe, getting invitesinto private channels, intimate environments where he foundhimself spilling the most private details of his life.
The Tribestuck together, finding work for each other, offering advice,and it was only a matter of time before someone offered him agig.That was Fede, who practically invented Tribal agent-provocateurs. He’d been working for McKinsey, systematicallyundermining their GMT-based clients with plausibly terribleadvice, creating Achilles’ heels that their East-coastcompetitors could exploit. The entire European trust-architecture for relay networks had been ceded byVirgin/Deutsche Telekom to a scrappy band of AT&T Labsrefugees whose New Jersey headquarters hosted all the cellularreputation data that Euros’ comms consulted when they wererouting their calls. The Jersey clients had funneled a nice chunkof the proceeds to Fede’s account in the form of rigged
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 2-02-eastern-standard-tribe-del-2
# chapter_title: 02_eastern-standard-tribe-del-2
# book_page: 40 / 169
# chapter_page: 15
# language: en
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Objectively, he could recognize their prettiness, but itdidn’t stir him the way the girls cruising the Chelsea AntiquesMarket or lounging around Harvard Square could.He’d always felt at a slight angle to reality in California,something that was reinforced by his continuous efforts in theTribe, from chatting and gaming until the sun rose, dragginghis caffeine-deficient ass around to his clients in a kind of fogbefore going home, catching a nap and hopping back online at3 or 4 when the high-octane NYC early risers were practicingwork-avoidance and clattering around with their comms.Gradually, he penetrated deeper into the Tribe, getting invitesinto private channels, intimate environments where he foundhimself spilling the most private details of his life.
The Tribestuck together, finding work for each other, offering advice,and it was only a matter of time before someone offered him agig.That was Fede, who practically invented Tribal agent-provocateurs. He’d been working for McKinsey, systematicallyundermining their GMT-based clients with plausibly terribleadvice, creating Achilles’ heels that their East-coastcompetitors could exploit. The entire European trust-architecture for relay networks had been ceded byVirgin/Deutsche Telekom to a scrappy band of AT&T Labsrefugees whose New Jersey headquarters hosted all the cellularreputation data that Euros’ comms consulted when they wererouting their calls. The Jersey clients had funneled a nice chunkof the proceeds to Fede’s account in the form of riggedCory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 32 winnings from an offshore casino that the Tribe used to launderits money.Now V/DT was striking back, angling for a governmentcontract in Massachusetts, a fat bit of pork for managingpayments to rightsholders whose media was assessed at theMassPike’s tollbooths. Rights-societies were a fabulousopportunity to skim and launder and spindle money in plenty,and Virgin’s massive repertoire combined with DeutscheTelekom’s Teutonic attention to detail was a toughcombination to beat. Needless to say, the Route 128-basedTribalists who had the existing contract needed an edge, andwould pay handsomely for it.London nights seemed like a step up from San Franciscomornings to Art—instead of getting up at 4AM to get NYC, hecould sleep in and chat them up through the night.
The Eurosensibility, with its many nap-breaks, statutory holidays andextended vacations seemed ideally suited to a double agent’slife.But Art hadn’t counted on the Tribalists’ hands-on approach tohis work. They obsessively grepped his daily feed ofspreadsheets, whiteboard-output, memos and conversationreports for any of ten thousand hot keywords, querying him fordeeper detail on trivial, half-remembered bullshit sessions withthe V/DT’s user experience engineers. His comm buzzed andblipped at all hours, and his payoff was dependent on hisprompt response. They were running him ragged. Four hours in the police station gave Art ample opportunity tocatch up on the backlog of finicky queries.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 2-02-eastern-standard-tribe-del-2
# chapter_title: 02_eastern-standard-tribe-del-2
# book_page: 41 / 169
# chapter_page: 16
# language: en
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 32 winnings from an offshore casino that the Tribe used to launderits money.Now V/DT was striking back, angling for a governmentcontract in Massachusetts, a fat bit of pork for managingpayments to rightsholders whose media was assessed at theMassPike’s tollbooths. Rights-societies were a fabulousopportunity to skim and launder and spindle money in plenty,and Virgin’s massive repertoire combined with DeutscheTelekom’s Teutonic attention to detail was a toughcombination to beat. Needless to say, the Route 128-basedTribalists who had the existing contract needed an edge, andwould pay handsomely for it.London nights seemed like a step up from San Franciscomornings to Art—instead of getting up at 4AM to get NYC, hecould sleep in and chat them up through the night.
The Eurosensibility, with its many nap-breaks, statutory holidays andextended vacations seemed ideally suited to a double agent’slife.But Art hadn’t counted on the Tribalists’ hands-on approach tohis work. They obsessively grepped his daily feed ofspreadsheets, whiteboard-output, memos and conversationreports for any of ten thousand hot keywords, querying him fordeeper detail on trivial, half-remembered bullshit sessions withthe V/DT’s user experience engineers. His comm buzzed andblipped at all hours, and his payoff was dependent on hisprompt response. They were running him ragged. Four hours in the police station gave Art ample opportunity tocatch up on the backlog of finicky queries.Since the accident,he’d been distracted and tardy, and had begun to invent hisresponses, since it all seemed so trivial to him anyway.Fede had sent him about a thousand nagging notes remindinghim to generate a new key and phone with the fingerprint.Christ. Fede had been with McKinsey for most of his adult life,and he was superparanoid about being exposed and disgracedin their ranks. Art’s experience with the other McKinseypeople around the office suggested that the notion of any ofthose overpaid buzzword-slingers sniffing their traffic wasabout as likely as a lightning strike. Heaving a dramatic sighfor his own benefit, he began the lengthy process of generatingenough randomness to seed the key, mashing the keyboard,whispering nonsense syllables, and pointing the comm’scamera lens at arbitrary corners of the police station.
After tenminutes of crypto-Tourette’s, the comm announced that he’dbeen sufficiently random and prompted him for a passphrase.Jesus. What a pain in the ass. He struggled to recall all thewords to the theme song from a CBC sitcom he’d watched as akid, and then his comm went into a full-on churn as itlaboriously re-ciphered all of his stored files with the new key,leaving Art to login while he waited.Trepan: Afternoon!Colonelonic: Hey, Trepan. How's it going?Trepan: Foul. I'm stuck at a copshop in Londonwith my thumb up my ass. I got mugged.
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 33 Colonelonic: Yikes! You OK?Ballgravy: Shit!Trepan: Oh, I'm fine — just bored. They didn'thurt me. I commed 999 while they were runningtheir game and showed it to them when they gotready to do the deed, so they took off.##Colonelonic laughsBallgravy: Britain==ass. Lon-dong.Colonelonic: Sweet!Trepan: Thanks. Now if the cops would only finishthe paperwork...Colonelonic: What are you doing in London, anyway?Ballgravy: Ass ass assColonelonic: Shut up, BgravyBallgravy: Blow meTrepan: What's wrong with you, Ballgravy? We'rehaving a grown-up conversation hereBallgravy: Just don't like Brits.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 2-02-eastern-standard-tribe-del-2
# chapter_title: 02_eastern-standard-tribe-del-2
# book_page: 42 / 169
# chapter_page: 17
# language: en
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Since the accident,he’d been distracted and tardy, and had begun to invent hisresponses, since it all seemed so trivial to him anyway.Fede had sent him about a thousand nagging notes remindinghim to generate a new key and phone with the fingerprint.Christ. Fede had been with McKinsey for most of his adult life,and he was superparanoid about being exposed and disgracedin their ranks. Art’s experience with the other McKinseypeople around the office suggested that the notion of any ofthose overpaid buzzword-slingers sniffing their traffic wasabout as likely as a lightning strike. Heaving a dramatic sighfor his own benefit, he began the lengthy process of generatingenough randomness to seed the key, mashing the keyboard,whispering nonsense syllables, and pointing the comm’scamera lens at arbitrary corners of the police station.
After tenminutes of crypto-Tourette’s, the comm announced that he’dbeen sufficiently random and prompted him for a passphrase.Jesus. What a pain in the ass. He struggled to recall all thewords to the theme song from a CBC sitcom he’d watched as akid, and then his comm went into a full-on churn as itlaboriously re-ciphered all of his stored files with the new key,leaving Art to login while he waited.Trepan: Afternoon!Colonelonic: Hey, Trepan. How's it going?Trepan: Foul. I'm stuck at a copshop in Londonwith my thumb up my ass. I got mugged.
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 33 Colonelonic: Yikes! You OK?Ballgravy: Shit!Trepan: Oh, I'm fine -- just bored. They didn'thurt me. I commed 999 while they were runningtheir game and showed it to them when they gotready to do the deed, so they took off.##Colonelonic laughsBallgravy: Britain==ass. Lon-dong.Colonelonic: Sweet!Trepan: Thanks. Now if the cops would only finishthe paperwork...Colonelonic: What are you doing in London, anyway?Ballgravy: Ass ass assColonelonic: Shut up, BgravyBallgravy: Blow meTrepan: What's wrong with you, Ballgravy? We'rehaving a grown-up conversation hereBallgravy: Just don't like Brits.Trepan: What, all of them?Ballgravy: Whatever — all the ones I've met havebeen tight-ass pricks##Colonelonic: (private) He's just a troll, ignorehim/private Colonelonic: Watch thisTrepan: How many?Ballgravy: How many what?Trepan: Have you met?Ballgravy: EnoughTrepan: > 100?Ballgravy: NoTrepan: > 50?Ballgravy: NoTrepan: > 10?Ballgravy: Around 10Trepan: Where are you from?
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 34 Ballgravy: QueensTrepan: Well, you're not going to believe this,but you're the tenth person from Queens I've met — and you're all morons who pick fights withstrangers in chat-roomsColonelonic: Queens==assTrepan: Ass ass assBallgravy: Fuck you both##Ballgravy has left channel #EST.chatterColonelonic: Nicely doneColonelonic: He's been boring me stupid for thepast hour, following me from channel to channelColonelonic: What are you doing in London, anyway?Trepan: Like I said, waiting for the copsColonelonic: But why are you there in the firstplaceTrepan: /private Colonelonic It's a work thing.For EST.##Colonelonic: (private) No shit? Trepan: /private Colonelonic Yeah. Can't reallysay much more, you understand##Colonelonic: (private) Cool! Any more jobs? Onemore day at Merril-Lynch and I'm gonna killsomeoneTrepan: /private Colonelonic Sorry, no.
There mustbe some perks though.##Colonelonic: (private) I can pick fights withstrangers in chat rooms! Also, I get to play withLexus-Nexus all I wantTrepan: /private Colonelonic That's pretty rad,anyway##Ballgravy has joined channel #EST.chatterBallgravy: HomosTrepan: Oh Christ, are you back again, Queens?Colonelonic: I've gotta go anywayTrepan: See ya##Colonelonic has left channel #EST.chatter##Trepan has left channel #EST.chatter
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 2-02-eastern-standard-tribe-del-2
# chapter_title: 02_eastern-standard-tribe-del-2
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# chapter_page: 18
# language: en
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Trepan: What, all of them?Ballgravy: Whatever -- all the ones I've met havebeen tight-ass pricks##Colonelonic: (private) He's just a troll, ignorehim/private Colonelonic: Watch thisTrepan: How many?Ballgravy: How many what?Trepan: Have you met?Ballgravy: EnoughTrepan: > 100?Ballgravy: NoTrepan: > 50?Ballgravy: NoTrepan: > 10?Ballgravy: Around 10Trepan: Where are you from?
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 34 Ballgravy: QueensTrepan: Well, you're not going to believe this,but you're the tenth person from Queens I've met -- and you're all morons who pick fights withstrangers in chat-roomsColonelonic: Queens==assTrepan: Ass ass assBallgravy: Fuck you both##Ballgravy has left channel #EST.chatterColonelonic: Nicely doneColonelonic: He's been boring me stupid for thepast hour, following me from channel to channelColonelonic: What are you doing in London, anyway?Trepan: Like I said, waiting for the copsColonelonic: But why are you there in the firstplaceTrepan: /private Colonelonic It's a work thing.For EST.##Colonelonic: (private) No shit? Trepan: /private Colonelonic Yeah. Can't reallysay much more, you understand##Colonelonic: (private) Cool! Any more jobs? Onemore day at Merril-Lynch and I'm gonna killsomeoneTrepan: /private Colonelonic Sorry, no.
There mustbe some perks though.##Colonelonic: (private) I can pick fights withstrangers in chat rooms! Also, I get to play withLexus-Nexus all I wantTrepan: /private Colonelonic That's pretty rad,anyway##Ballgravy has joined channel #EST.chatterBallgravy: HomosTrepan: Oh Christ, are you back again, Queens?Colonelonic: I've gotta go anywayTrepan: See ya##Colonelonic has left channel #EST.chatter##Trepan has left channel #EST.chatterCory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 35 Art stood up and blinked. He approached the desk sergeant andasked if he thought it would be much longer. The sergeantfiddled with a comm for a moment, then said, “Oh, we’re quitedone with you sir, thank you.” Art repressed a vituperativeresponse, counted three, then thanked the cop.He commed Linda.“What’s up?”“They say we’re free to go. I think they’ve been just keeping ushere for shits and giggles. Can you believe that?”“Whatever—I’ve been having a nice chat with ConstableMcGivens. Constable, is it all right if we go now?”There was some distant, English rumbling, then Linda giggled.“All right, then. Thank you so much, officer!“Art? I’ll meet you at the front doors, all right?”“That’s great,” Art said. He stretched. His ass was numb, hishead throbbed, and he wanted to strangle Linda.She emerged into the dawn blinking and grinning, andsurprised him with a long, full-body hug.
“Sorry I was sosnappish before,” she said. “I was just scared. The cops say thatyou were quite brave. Thank you.”Art’s adrenals dry-fired as he tried to work up a good angryhead of steam, then he gave up. “It’s all right.” “Let’s go get some breakfast, OK?”
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 36 10.The parking-lot is aswarm with people, fire engines andambulances. There’s a siren going off somewhere down in thebowels of the sanatorium, and still I can’t get anyone to lookup at the goddamned roof.I’ve tried hollering myself hoarse into the updrafts from thecheery blaze, but the wind’s against me, my shouts rising uppast my ears. I’ve tried dropping more pebbles, but the windswhip them away, and I’ve learned my lesson about half-bricks.Weirdly, I’m not worried about getting into trouble. I’vealready been involuntarily committed by the Tribe’s enemies,the massed and devious forces of the Pacific Daylight Tribeand the Greenwich Mean Tribe. I am officially NotResponsible. Confused and Prone to Wandering. Coo-Coo forCoco-Puffs.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 2-02-eastern-standard-tribe-del-2
# chapter_title: 02_eastern-standard-tribe-del-2
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# chapter_page: 19
# language: en
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 35 Art stood up and blinked. He approached the desk sergeant andasked if he thought it would be much longer. The sergeantfiddled with a comm for a moment, then said, “Oh, we’re quitedone with you sir, thank you.” Art repressed a vituperativeresponse, counted three, then thanked the cop.He commed Linda.“What’s up?”“They say we’re free to go. I think they’ve been just keeping ushere for shits and giggles. Can you believe that?”“Whatever—I’ve been having a nice chat with ConstableMcGivens. Constable, is it all right if we go now?”There was some distant, English rumbling, then Linda giggled.“All right, then. Thank you so much, officer!“Art? I’ll meet you at the front doors, all right?”“That’s great,” Art said. He stretched. His ass was numb, hishead throbbed, and he wanted to strangle Linda.She emerged into the dawn blinking and grinning, andsurprised him with a long, full-body hug.
“Sorry I was sosnappish before,” she said. “I was just scared. The cops say thatyou were quite brave. Thank you.”Art’s adrenals dry-fired as he tried to work up a good angryhead of steam, then he gave up. “It’s all right.” “Let’s go get some breakfast, OK?”
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 36 10.The parking-lot is aswarm with people, fire engines andambulances. There’s a siren going off somewhere down in thebowels of the sanatorium, and still I can’t get anyone to lookup at the goddamned roof.I’ve tried hollering myself hoarse into the updrafts from thecheery blaze, but the wind’s against me, my shouts rising uppast my ears. I’ve tried dropping more pebbles, but the windswhip them away, and I’ve learned my lesson about half-bricks.Weirdly, I’m not worried about getting into trouble. I’vealready been involuntarily committed by the Tribe’s enemies,the massed and devious forces of the Pacific Daylight Tribeand the Greenwich Mean Tribe. I am officially NotResponsible. Confused and Prone to Wandering. Coo-Coo forCoco-Puffs.It’s not like I hurt anyone, just decremented thenumber of roadworthy fartmobiles by one.I got up this morning at four, awakened by the tiniest soundfrom the ward corridors, a wheel from a pharmaceuticals traymaybe. Three weeks on medically prescribed sleepytime drugshave barely scratched the surface of the damage wrought byyears of circadian abuse. I’d been having a fragile shadow of adream, the ghost of a REM cycle, and it was the old dream, thedream of the doctor’s office and the older kids who couldmanage the trick of making a picture into reality. I went from that state to total wakefulness in an instant, andknew to a certainty that I wouldn’t be sleeping again any timesoon. I paced my small room, smelled the cheerful flowers mycousins brought last week when they visited from Toronto,watched the horizon for signs of a breaking dawn.
I wishedfutilely for my comm and a nice private channel where I couldsling some bullshit and have some slung in my direction, justconnect with another human being at a nice, safe remove.They chide me for arguing on the ward, call it belligerence andtry to sidetrack me with questions about my motivations, atactic rating barely above ad hominems in my book. No one totalk to—the other patients get violent or nod off, depending ontheir medication levels, and the staff just patronize me.Four AM and I’m going nuts, hamsters in my mind spinningtheir wheels at a thousand RPM, chittering away. I snort—if Iwasn’t crazy to begin with, I’m sure getting there.The hamsters won’t stop arguing with each other over all theterrible errors of judgment I’ve made to get here. Trusting theTribe, trusting strangers. Argue, argue, argue.
God, if onlysomeone else were around, I could argue the definition ofsanity, I could argue the ethics of involuntary committal, Icould argue the food. But my head is full of argument andthere’s nowhere to spill it and soon enough I’ll be talkingaloud, arguing with the air like the schizoids on the ward whomuttergrumbleshout through the day and through the night.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 2-02-eastern-standard-tribe-del-2
# chapter_title: 02_eastern-standard-tribe-del-2
# book_page: 45 / 169
# chapter_page: 20
# language: en
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It’s not like I hurt anyone, just decremented thenumber of roadworthy fartmobiles by one.I got up this morning at four, awakened by the tiniest soundfrom the ward corridors, a wheel from a pharmaceuticals traymaybe. Three weeks on medically prescribed sleepytime drugshave barely scratched the surface of the damage wrought byyears of circadian abuse. I’d been having a fragile shadow of adream, the ghost of a REM cycle, and it was the old dream, thedream of the doctor’s office and the older kids who couldmanage the trick of making a picture into reality. I went from that state to total wakefulness in an instant, andknew to a certainty that I wouldn’t be sleeping again any timesoon. I paced my small room, smelled the cheerful flowers mycousins brought last week when they visited from Toronto,watched the horizon for signs of a breaking dawn.
I wishedfutilely for my comm and a nice private channel where I couldsling some bullshit and have some slung in my direction, justconnect with another human being at a nice, safe remove.They chide me for arguing on the ward, call it belligerence andtry to sidetrack me with questions about my motivations, atactic rating barely above ad hominems in my book. No one totalk to—the other patients get violent or nod off, depending ontheir medication levels, and the staff just patronize me.Four AM and I’m going nuts, hamsters in my mind spinningtheir wheels at a thousand RPM, chittering away. I snort—if Iwasn’t crazy to begin with, I’m sure getting there.The hamsters won’t stop arguing with each other over all theterrible errors of judgment I’ve made to get here. Trusting theTribe, trusting strangers. Argue, argue, argue.
God, if onlysomeone else were around, I could argue the definition ofsanity, I could argue the ethics of involuntary committal, Icould argue the food. But my head is full of argument andthere’s nowhere to spill it and soon enough I’ll be talkingaloud, arguing with the air like the schizoids on the ward whomuttergrumbleshout through the day and through the night.Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 37 Why didn’t I just leave London when I could, come home,move in with Gran, get a regular job? Why didn’t I swear offthe whole business of secrecy and provocation?I was too smart for my own good. I could always argue myselfinto doing the sexy, futuristic thing instead of being a nice,mundane, nonaffiliated individual. Too smart to settle down,take a job and watch TV after work, spend two weeks a year atthe cottage and go online to find movie listings. Too smart istoo restless and no happiness, ever, without that it’s chased byobsessive maundering moping about what comes next.Smart or happy?The hamsters have hopped off their wheels and are gnawing atthe blood-brain barrier, trying to get out of my skull.
This is agood sanatorium, but still, the toilets are communal on myfloor, which means that I’ve got an unlocked door that lights upat the nurses’ station down the corridor when I open the door,and goes berserk if I don’t reopen it again within the mandatedfifteen-minute maximum potty-break. I figured out how todefeat the system the first day, but it was a theoretical hack,and now it’s time to put it into practice.I step out the door and the lintel goes pink, deepens toward red.Once it’s red, whoopwhoopwhoop. I pad down to the lav, stepinside, wait, step out again. I go back to my room—the lintel isorange now—and open it, move my torso across the longelectric eye, then pull it back and let the door swing closed.The lintel is white, and that means that the room thinks I’m inside, but I’m outside. You put your torso in, you take yourtorso out, you do the hokey-pokey and you shake it all about.In the corridor.
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# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 2-02-eastern-standard-tribe-del-2
# chapter_title: 02_eastern-standard-tribe-del-2
# book_page: 46 / 169
# chapter_page: 21
# language: en
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 37 Why didn’t I just leave London when I could, come home,move in with Gran, get a regular job? Why didn’t I swear offthe whole business of secrecy and provocation?I was too smart for my own good. I could always argue myselfinto doing the sexy, futuristic thing instead of being a nice,mundane, nonaffiliated individual. Too smart to settle down,take a job and watch TV after work, spend two weeks a year atthe cottage and go online to find movie listings. Too smart istoo restless and no happiness, ever, without that it’s chased byobsessive maundering moping about what comes next.Smart or happy?The hamsters have hopped off their wheels and are gnawing atthe blood-brain barrier, trying to get out of my skull.
This is agood sanatorium, but still, the toilets are communal on myfloor, which means that I’ve got an unlocked door that lights upat the nurses’ station down the corridor when I open the door,and goes berserk if I don’t reopen it again within the mandatedfifteen-minute maximum potty-break. I figured out how todefeat the system the first day, but it was a theoretical hack,and now it’s time to put it into practice.I step out the door and the lintel goes pink, deepens toward red.Once it’s red, whoopwhoopwhoop. I pad down to the lav, stepinside, wait, step out again. I go back to my room—the lintel isorange now—and open it, move my torso across the longelectric eye, then pull it back and let the door swing closed.The lintel is white, and that means that the room thinks I’m inside, but I’m outside. You put your torso in, you take yourtorso out, you do the hokey-pokey and you shake it all about.In the corridor.I pad away from the nurses’ station, past theclosed doors and through the muffled, narcotized groans andsnores and farts that are the twilight symphony of night on theward. I duck past an intersection, head for the elevator doors,then remember the tattletale I’m wearing on my ankle, whichwill go spectacularly berserk if I try to leave by that exit. Also,I’m in my underwear. I can’t just walk nonchalantly into thelobby.The ward is making wakeful sounds, and I’m sure I hear thesoft tread of a white-soled shoe coming round the bend. Idouble my pace, begin to jog at random—the hamsters, theytell me I’m acting with all the forethought of a crazy person,and why not just report for extra meds instead of all thismishegas?There’s definitely someone coming down a nearby corridor.The tread of sneakers, the squeak of a wheel.
I’ve seen whatthey do to the wanderers: a nice chemical straightjacket, acocktail of pills that’ll quiet the hamsters down for days. Timeto get gone.There’s an EXIT sign glowing over a door at the far end of thecorridor. I pant towards it, find it propped open and the alarmsystem disabled by means of a strip of surgical tape. Steppingthrough into the emergency stairwell, I see an ashtrayfashioned from a wadded up bit of tinfoil, heaped withbutts—evidence of late-night smoke breaks by someone on the
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 38 ward staff. Massachusetts’s harsh antismoking regs are the bestfriend an escaping loony ever had.The stairwell is gray and industrial and refreshingly hard-edgedafter three padded weeks on the ward. Down, down is the exitand freedom. Find clothes somewhere and out I go into Boston.From below, then: the huffing, laborious breathing of somegoddamned overweight, middle-aged doc climbing the stairsfor his health. I peer down the well and see his gleaming pate,his white knuckles on the railing, two, maybe three flightsdown.Up! Up to the roof. I’m on the twentieth floor, which meansthat I’ve got twenty-five more to go, two flights per, fifty intotal, gotta move. Up! I stop two or three times and pant andwheeze and make it ten stories and collapse.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 2-02-eastern-standard-tribe-del-2
# chapter_title: 02_eastern-standard-tribe-del-2
# book_page: 47 / 169
# chapter_page: 22
# language: en
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I pad away from the nurses’ station, past theclosed doors and through the muffled, narcotized groans andsnores and farts that are the twilight symphony of night on theward. I duck past an intersection, head for the elevator doors,then remember the tattletale I’m wearing on my ankle, whichwill go spectacularly berserk if I try to leave by that exit. Also,I’m in my underwear. I can’t just walk nonchalantly into thelobby.The ward is making wakeful sounds, and I’m sure I hear thesoft tread of a white-soled shoe coming round the bend. Idouble my pace, begin to jog at random—the hamsters, theytell me I’m acting with all the forethought of a crazy person,and why not just report for extra meds instead of all thismishegas?There’s definitely someone coming down a nearby corridor.The tread of sneakers, the squeak of a wheel.
I’ve seen whatthey do to the wanderers: a nice chemical straightjacket, acocktail of pills that’ll quiet the hamsters down for days. Timeto get gone.There’s an EXIT sign glowing over a door at the far end of thecorridor. I pant towards it, find it propped open and the alarmsystem disabled by means of a strip of surgical tape. Steppingthrough into the emergency stairwell, I see an ashtrayfashioned from a wadded up bit of tinfoil, heaped withbutts—evidence of late-night smoke breaks by someone on the
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 38 ward staff. Massachusetts’s harsh antismoking regs are the bestfriend an escaping loony ever had.The stairwell is gray and industrial and refreshingly hard-edgedafter three padded weeks on the ward. Down, down is the exitand freedom. Find clothes somewhere and out I go into Boston.From below, then: the huffing, laborious breathing of somegoddamned overweight, middle-aged doc climbing the stairsfor his health. I peer down the well and see his gleaming pate,his white knuckles on the railing, two, maybe three flightsdown.Up! Up to the roof. I’m on the twentieth floor, which meansthat I’ve got twenty-five more to go, two flights per, fifty intotal, gotta move. Up! I stop two or three times and pant andwheeze and make it ten stories and collapse.I’m sweatingfreely—no air-conditioning in the stairwell, nor is thereanything to mop up the sweat rolling down my body, filling thecrack of my ass, coursing down my legs. I press my face to thecool painted cinderblock walls, one cheek and then the other,and continue on.When I finally open the door that leads out onto the pebbledroof, the dawn cool is balm. Fingers of light are hauling thesunrise up over the horizon. I step onto the roof and feel thepebbles dig into the soft soles of my feet, cool as the bottom ofthe riverbed whence they’d been dredged. The door starts toswing shut heavily behind me, and I whirl and catch it just intime, getting my fingers mashed against the jamb for my trouble. I haul it back open again against its pneumatic closuremechanism.Using the side of my foot as a bulldozer, I scrape up a cairn ofpebbles as high as the door’s bottom edge, twice as high.
I fallinto the rhythm of the work, making the cairn higher and wideruntil I can’t close the door no matter how I push against it. Thelast thing I want is to get stuck on the goddamn roof.There’s detritus mixed in with the pebbles: cigarette butts,burnt out matches, a condom wrapper and a bright yellowEberhard pencil with a point as sharp as a spear, the eraser aspink and softly resilient as a nipple.I pick up the pencil and twiddle it between forefinger andthumb, tap a nervous rattle against the roof’s edge as I danglemy feet over the bottomless plummet until the sun is high andwarm on my skin.The hamsters get going again once the sun is high and the carsstart pulling into the parking lot below, rattling and chitteringand whispering, yes o yes, put the pencil in your nose,wouldn’t you rather be happy than smart?
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 2-02-eastern-standard-tribe-del-2
# chapter_title: 02_eastern-standard-tribe-del-2
# book_page: 48 / 169
# chapter_page: 23
# language: en
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I’m sweatingfreely—no air-conditioning in the stairwell, nor is thereanything to mop up the sweat rolling down my body, filling thecrack of my ass, coursing down my legs. I press my face to thecool painted cinderblock walls, one cheek and then the other,and continue on.When I finally open the door that leads out onto the pebbledroof, the dawn cool is balm. Fingers of light are hauling thesunrise up over the horizon. I step onto the roof and feel thepebbles dig into the soft soles of my feet, cool as the bottom ofthe riverbed whence they’d been dredged. The door starts toswing shut heavily behind me, and I whirl and catch it just intime, getting my fingers mashed against the jamb for my trouble. I haul it back open again against its pneumatic closuremechanism.Using the side of my foot as a bulldozer, I scrape up a cairn ofpebbles as high as the door’s bottom edge, twice as high.
I fallinto the rhythm of the work, making the cairn higher and wideruntil I can’t close the door no matter how I push against it. Thelast thing I want is to get stuck on the goddamn roof.There’s detritus mixed in with the pebbles: cigarette butts,burnt out matches, a condom wrapper and a bright yellowEberhard pencil with a point as sharp as a spear, the eraser aspink and softly resilient as a nipple.I pick up the pencil and twiddle it between forefinger andthumb, tap a nervous rattle against the roof’s edge as I danglemy feet over the bottomless plummet until the sun is high andwarm on my skin.The hamsters get going again once the sun is high and the carsstart pulling into the parking lot below, rattling and chitteringand whispering, yes o yes, put the pencil in your nose,wouldn’t you rather be happy than smart?Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 39 11.Art and Linda in Linda’s miniscule joke of a flat. She’s twomonths into a six-month house-swap with some friends offriends who have a fourth-storey walkup in Kensington with apartial (i.e. fictional) view of the park. The lights are on timersand you need to race them to her flat’s door, otherwise there’sno way you’ll fit the archaic key into the battered keyhole—thewindows in the stairwell are so grimed as to provide more of asuggestion of light than light itself.Art’s ass aches and he paces the flat’s three wee rooms anddrinks hormone-enhanced high-energy liquid breakfast fromthe half-fridge in the efficiency kitchen.
Linda’s taken dibs onthe first shower, which is fine by Art, who can’t get the hang ofthe goddamned-English-plumbing, which delivers an energy-efficient, eat-your-vegetables-and-save-the-planet trickle ofscalding water.Art has switched off his comm, his frazzled nerves no longercapable of coping with its perennial and demanding beepingand buzzing. This is very nearly unthinkable but necessary, herationalizes, given the extraordinary events of the past twenty-four hours. And Fede can go fuck himself, for that matter, thatparanoid asshole, and then he can fuck the clients in Jersey andthe whole of V/DT while he’s at it.The energy bev is kicking in and making his heart race and hispulse throb in his throat and he’s so unbearably hyperkineticthat he turns the coffee table on its end in the galley kitchen and clears a space in the living room that’s barely big enoughto spin around in, and starts to work through a slow, slow set ofTai Chi, so slow that he barely moves at all, except that insidehe can feel the moving, can feel the muscles’ every flex andgroan as they wind up release, move and swing and slide.Single whip slides into crane opens wings and he needs tocrouch down low, lower than his woolen slacks will let him,and they’re grimy and gross anyway, so he undoes his belt andkicks them off.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 2-02-eastern-standard-tribe-del-2
# chapter_title: 02_eastern-standard-tribe-del-2
# book_page: 49 / 169
# chapter_page: 24
# language: en
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 39 11.Art and Linda in Linda’s miniscule joke of a flat. She’s twomonths into a six-month house-swap with some friends offriends who have a fourth-storey walkup in Kensington with apartial (i.e. fictional) view of the park. The lights are on timersand you need to race them to her flat’s door, otherwise there’sno way you’ll fit the archaic key into the battered keyhole—thewindows in the stairwell are so grimed as to provide more of asuggestion of light than light itself.Art’s ass aches and he paces the flat’s three wee rooms anddrinks hormone-enhanced high-energy liquid breakfast fromthe half-fridge in the efficiency kitchen.
Linda’s taken dibs onthe first shower, which is fine by Art, who can’t get the hang ofthe goddamned-English-plumbing, which delivers an energy-efficient, eat-your-vegetables-and-save-the-planet trickle ofscalding water.Art has switched off his comm, his frazzled nerves no longercapable of coping with its perennial and demanding beepingand buzzing. This is very nearly unthinkable but necessary, herationalizes, given the extraordinary events of the past twenty-four hours. And Fede can go fuck himself, for that matter, thatparanoid asshole, and then he can fuck the clients in Jersey andthe whole of V/DT while he’s at it.The energy bev is kicking in and making his heart race and hispulse throb in his throat and he’s so unbearably hyperkineticthat he turns the coffee table on its end in the galley kitchen and clears a space in the living room that’s barely big enoughto spin around in, and starts to work through a slow, slow set ofTai Chi, so slow that he barely moves at all, except that insidehe can feel the moving, can feel the muscles’ every flex andgroan as they wind up release, move and swing and slide.Single whip slides into crane opens wings and he needs tocrouch down low, lower than his woolen slacks will let him,and they’re grimy and gross anyway, so he undoes his belt andkicks them off.Down low as white crane opens wings andbrush knee, punch, apparent closure, then low again, creakinglyachingly low into wave hands like clouds, until his spine andhis coccyx crackle and give, springing open, fascia open ribsopen smooth breath rising and falling with his diaphragmsmooth mind smooth and sweat cool in the mat of his hair.He moves through the set and does not notice Linda until heunwinds into a slow, ponderous lotus kick, closes again,breathes a moment and looks around slowly, grinning like aholy fool.She’s in a tartan housecoat with a threadbare towel wrappedaround her hair, water beading on her bony ankles and long,skinny feet. “Art! Goddamn, Art! What the hell was that?”“Tai chi,” he says, drawing a deep breath in through hisnostrils, feeling each rib expand in turn, exhaling through hismouth. “I do it to unwind.”
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 2-02-eastern-standard-tribe-del-2
# chapter_title: 02_eastern-standard-tribe-del-2
# book_page: 50 / 169
# chapter_page: 25
# language: en
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Down low as white crane opens wings andbrush knee, punch, apparent closure, then low again, creakinglyachingly low into wave hands like clouds, until his spine andhis coccyx crackle and give, springing open, fascia open ribsopen smooth breath rising and falling with his diaphragmsmooth mind smooth and sweat cool in the mat of his hair.He moves through the set and does not notice Linda until heunwinds into a slow, ponderous lotus kick, closes again,breathes a moment and looks around slowly, grinning like aholy fool.She’s in a tartan housecoat with a threadbare towel wrappedaround her hair, water beading on her bony ankles and long,skinny feet. “Art! Goddamn, Art! What the hell was that?”“Tai chi,” he says, drawing a deep breath in through hisnostrils, feeling each rib expand in turn, exhaling through hismouth. “I do it to unwind.”03_eastern-standard-tribe-del-3
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 40 “It was beautiful! Art! Art. Art. That was, I mean, wow.Inspiring. Something. You’re going to show me how to do that,Art. Right? You’re gonna.”“I could try,” Art says. “I’m not really qualified to teach it—Istopped going to class ten years ago.”“Shut, shut up, Art. You can teach that, damn, you can teachthat, I know you can. That was, wow.” She rushes forward andtakes his hands. She squeezes and looks into his eyes. Shesqueezes again and tugs his hands towards her hips, reeling hischest towards her breasts tilting her chin up and angling thatlong jawline that’s so long as to be almost horsey, but it isn’t,it’s strong and clean.
Art smells shampoo and sandalwood talcand his skin puckers in a crinkle that’s so sudden and massivethat it’s almost audible.They’ve been together continuously for the past five days,almost without interruption and he’s already conditioned to hersmell and her body language and the subtle signals of herface’s many mobile bits and pieces. She is afire, he is afire,their bodies are talking to each other in some secret languageof shifting centers of gravity and unconscious pheromones, andhis face tilts down towards her, slowly with all the time in theworld. Lowers and lowers, week-old whiskers actually ticklingthe tip of her nose, his lips parting now, and her breathmoistens them, beads them with liquid condensed out of hervapor.His top lip touches her bottom lip.
He could leave it at that andbe happy, the touch is so satisfying, and he is contented there for a long moment, then moves to engage his lower lip,moving, tilting.His comm rings.His comm, which he has switched off, rings.Shit.“Hello!” he says, he shouts.“Arthur?” says a voice that is old and hurt and melancholy. HisGran’s voice. His Gran, who can override his ringer, switch onhis comm at a distance because Art is a good grandson whowas raised almost entirely by his saintly and frail (anddepressive and melodramatic and obsessive) grandmother, andof course his comm is set to pass her calls. Not because he is asuck, but because he is loyal and sensitive and he loves hisGran.“Gran, hi!
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 3-03-eastern-standard-tribe-del-3
# chapter_title: 03_eastern-standard-tribe-del-3
# book_page: 51 / 169
# chapter_page: 1
# language: en
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 40 “It was beautiful! Art! Art. Art. That was, I mean, wow.Inspiring. Something. You’re going to show me how to do that,Art. Right? You’re gonna.”“I could try,” Art says. “I’m not really qualified to teach it—Istopped going to class ten years ago.”“Shut, shut up, Art. You can teach that, damn, you can teachthat, I know you can. That was, wow.” She rushes forward andtakes his hands. She squeezes and looks into his eyes. Shesqueezes again and tugs his hands towards her hips, reeling hischest towards her breasts tilting her chin up and angling thatlong jawline that’s so long as to be almost horsey, but it isn’t,it’s strong and clean.
Art smells shampoo and sandalwood talcand his skin puckers in a crinkle that’s so sudden and massivethat it’s almost audible.They’ve been together continuously for the past five days,almost without interruption and he’s already conditioned to hersmell and her body language and the subtle signals of herface’s many mobile bits and pieces. She is afire, he is afire,their bodies are talking to each other in some secret languageof shifting centers of gravity and unconscious pheromones, andhis face tilts down towards her, slowly with all the time in theworld. Lowers and lowers, week-old whiskers actually ticklingthe tip of her nose, his lips parting now, and her breathmoistens them, beads them with liquid condensed out of hervapor.His top lip touches her bottom lip.
He could leave it at that andbe happy, the touch is so satisfying, and he is contented there for a long moment, then moves to engage his lower lip,moving, tilting.His comm rings.His comm, which he has switched off, rings.Shit.“Hello!” he says, he shouts.“Arthur?” says a voice that is old and hurt and melancholy. HisGran’s voice. His Gran, who can override his ringer, switch onhis comm at a distance because Art is a good grandson whowas raised almost entirely by his saintly and frail (anddepressive and melodramatic and obsessive) grandmother, andof course his comm is set to pass her calls. Not because he is asuck, but because he is loyal and sensitive and he loves hisGran.“Gran, hi!Sorry, I was just in the middle of something, sorry.”He checks his comm, which tells him that it’s only six in themorning in Toronto, noon in London, and that the date is April8, and that today is the day that he should have known hisgrandmother would call.“You forgot,” she says, no accusation, just a weary anddisappointed sadness. He has indeed forgotten.“No, Gran, I didn’t forget.”
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 41 But he did. It is the eighth of April, 2022, which means that itis twenty-one years to the day since his mother died. And hehas forgotten.“It’s all right. You’re busy, I understand. Tell me, Art, how areyou? When will you visit Toronto?”“I’m fine, Gran. I’m sorry I haven’t called, I’ve been sick.”Shit. Wrong lie.“You’re sick? What’s wrong?”“It’s nothing. I—I put my back out. Working too hard. Stress.It’s nothing, Gran.”He chances to look up at Linda, who is standing where he lefther when he dived reflexively for his comm, staringdisbelievingly at him. Her robe is open to her navel, and hesees the three curls of pubic hair above the knot in its belt thatcurl towards her groin, sees the hourglass made by the edges ofher breasts that are visible in the vee of the robe, sees the edgeof one areole, the left one.
He is in a tee shirt and bare feet andboxers, crouching over his trousers, talking to his Gran, and helocks eyes with Linda and shakes his head apologetically, thensettles down to sit cross-legged, hunched over an erection hedidn’t know he had, resolves to look at her while he talks.“Stress! Always stress. You should take some vacation time.Are you seeing someone? A chiropractor?” He’s entangled in the lie. “Yes. I have an appointmenttomorrow.”“How will you get there? Don’t take the subway. Take a taxi.And give me the doctor’s name, I’ll look him up.”“I’ll take a cab, it’ll be fine, he’s the only one my travelinsurance covers.”“The only one? Art! What kind of insurance do you have? I’llcall them, I’ll find you a chiropractor. Betty Melville, she hasfamily in London, they’ll know someone.”God. “It’s fine, Gran. How are you?”A sigh. “How am I? On this day, how am I?”“How is your health? Are you keeping busy?”“My health is fine.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 3-03-eastern-standard-tribe-del-3
# chapter_title: 03_eastern-standard-tribe-del-3
# book_page: 52 / 169
# chapter_page: 2
# language: en
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Sorry, I was just in the middle of something, sorry.”He checks his comm, which tells him that it’s only six in themorning in Toronto, noon in London, and that the date is April8, and that today is the day that he should have known hisgrandmother would call.“You forgot,” she says, no accusation, just a weary anddisappointed sadness. He has indeed forgotten.“No, Gran, I didn’t forget.”
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 41 But he did. It is the eighth of April, 2022, which means that itis twenty-one years to the day since his mother died. And hehas forgotten.“It’s all right. You’re busy, I understand. Tell me, Art, how areyou? When will you visit Toronto?”“I’m fine, Gran. I’m sorry I haven’t called, I’ve been sick.”Shit. Wrong lie.“You’re sick? What’s wrong?”“It’s nothing. I—I put my back out. Working too hard. Stress.It’s nothing, Gran.”He chances to look up at Linda, who is standing where he lefther when he dived reflexively for his comm, staringdisbelievingly at him. Her robe is open to her navel, and hesees the three curls of pubic hair above the knot in its belt thatcurl towards her groin, sees the hourglass made by the edges ofher breasts that are visible in the vee of the robe, sees the edgeof one areole, the left one.
He is in a tee shirt and bare feet andboxers, crouching over his trousers, talking to his Gran, and helocks eyes with Linda and shakes his head apologetically, thensettles down to sit cross-legged, hunched over an erection hedidn’t know he had, resolves to look at her while he talks.“Stress! Always stress. You should take some vacation time.Are you seeing someone? A chiropractor?” He’s entangled in the lie. “Yes. I have an appointmenttomorrow.”“How will you get there? Don’t take the subway. Take a taxi.And give me the doctor’s name, I’ll look him up.”“I’ll take a cab, it’ll be fine, he’s the only one my travelinsurance covers.”“The only one? Art! What kind of insurance do you have? I’llcall them, I’ll find you a chiropractor. Betty Melville, she hasfamily in London, they’ll know someone.”God. “It’s fine, Gran. How are you?”A sigh. “How am I? On this day, how am I?”“How is your health? Are you keeping busy?”“My health is fine.I keep busy. Father Ferlenghetti came todinner last night at the house. I made a nice roast, and I’ll havesandwiches today.”“That’s good.”“I’m thinking of your mother, you know.”“I know.”“Do you think of her, Art? You were so young when she went,but you remember her, don’t you?”
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 42 “I do, Gran.” He remembers her, albeit dimly. He was barelynine when she died.“Of course—of course you remember your mother. It’s aterrible thing for a mother to live longer than her daughter.”His Gran says this every year. Art still hasn’t figured out howto respond to it. Time for another stab at it. “I’m glad you’restill here, Gran.”Wrong thing. Gran is sobbing now. Art drops his eyes fromLinda’s and looks at the crazy weft and woof of the faded oldOriental rug. “Oh, Gran,” he says. “I’m sorry.”In truth, Art has mourned and buried his mother. He was raisedjust fine by his Gran, and when he remembers his mother, he ismore sad about not being sad than sad about her.“I’m an old lady, you know that. You’ll remember me when Igo, won’t you Art?”This, too, is a ritual question that Art can’t answer well enoughno matter how he practices. “Of course, Gran.
But you’ll bearound for a good while yet!”“When are you coming back to Toronto?” He’d ducked thequestion before, but Gran’s a master of circling back andupping the ante. Now that we’ve established my imminentdemise... “Soon as I can, Gran. Maybe when I finish this contract.September, maybe.”“You’ll stay here? I can take the sofa. When do you thinkyou’ll arrive? My friends all want to see you again. Youremember Mrs. Tomkins? You used to play with her daughterAlice. Alice is single, you know. She has a good job,too—working at an insurance company. Maybe she can get youa better health plan.”“I don’t know, Gran. I’ll try to come back after I finish mycontract, but I can’t tell what’ll be happening then. I’ll let youknow, OK?”“Oh, Art. Please come back soon—I miss you.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 3-03-eastern-standard-tribe-del-3
# chapter_title: 03_eastern-standard-tribe-del-3
# book_page: 53 / 169
# chapter_page: 3
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
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I keep busy. Father Ferlenghetti came todinner last night at the house. I made a nice roast, and I’ll havesandwiches today.”“That’s good.”“I’m thinking of your mother, you know.”“I know.”“Do you think of her, Art? You were so young when she went,but you remember her, don’t you?”
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 42 “I do, Gran.” He remembers her, albeit dimly. He was barelynine when she died.“Of course—of course you remember your mother. It’s aterrible thing for a mother to live longer than her daughter.”His Gran says this every year. Art still hasn’t figured out howto respond to it. Time for another stab at it. “I’m glad you’restill here, Gran.”Wrong thing. Gran is sobbing now. Art drops his eyes fromLinda’s and looks at the crazy weft and woof of the faded oldOriental rug. “Oh, Gran,” he says. “I’m sorry.”In truth, Art has mourned and buried his mother. He was raisedjust fine by his Gran, and when he remembers his mother, he ismore sad about not being sad than sad about her.“I’m an old lady, you know that. You’ll remember me when Igo, won’t you Art?”This, too, is a ritual question that Art can’t answer well enoughno matter how he practices. “Of course, Gran.
But you’ll bearound for a good while yet!”“When are you coming back to Toronto?” He’d ducked thequestion before, but Gran’s a master of circling back andupping the ante. Now that we’ve established my imminentdemise... “Soon as I can, Gran. Maybe when I finish this contract.September, maybe.”“You’ll stay here? I can take the sofa. When do you thinkyou’ll arrive? My friends all want to see you again. Youremember Mrs. Tomkins? You used to play with her daughterAlice. Alice is single, you know. She has a good job,too—working at an insurance company. Maybe she can get youa better health plan.”“I don’t know, Gran. I’ll try to come back after I finish mycontract, but I can’t tell what’ll be happening then. I’ll let youknow, OK?”“Oh, Art. Please come back soon—I miss you.I’m going tovisit your mother’s grave today and put some flowers on it.They keep it very nice at Mount Pleasant, and the trees are justblooming now.”“I’ll come back as soon as I can, Gran. I love you.”“I love you too, Arthur.”“Bye, Gran.”“I’ll call you once I speak to Betty about the chiropractor, allright?”“All right, Gran.” He is going to have to go to the chiropractornow, even though his back feels as good as it has in years. HisGran will be checking up on it.
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 43 “Bye, Arthur. I love you.”“Bye, Gran.”“Bye.”He shakes his head and holsters the comm back in his pants,then rocks back and lies down on the rug, facing the ceiling,eyes closed. A moment later, the hem of Linda’s robe brusheshis arm and she lies down next to him, takes his hand.“Everything OK?”“It’s just my Gran.” And he tells her about this date’ssignificance.“How did she die?”“It was stupid. She slipped in the tub and cracked her skull onthe tap. I was off at a friend’s place for the weekend and no onefound her for two days. She lived for a week on life support,and they pulled the plug. No brain activity. They wouldn’t letme into the hospital room after the first day. My Granpractically moved in, though. She raised me after that. I thinkthat if she hadn’t had to take care of me, she would have justgiven up, you know?
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 3-03-eastern-standard-tribe-del-3
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I’m going tovisit your mother’s grave today and put some flowers on it.They keep it very nice at Mount Pleasant, and the trees are justblooming now.”“I’ll come back as soon as I can, Gran. I love you.”“I love you too, Arthur.”“Bye, Gran.”“I’ll call you once I speak to Betty about the chiropractor, allright?”“All right, Gran.” He is going to have to go to the chiropractornow, even though his back feels as good as it has in years. HisGran will be checking up on it.
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 43 “Bye, Arthur. I love you.”“Bye, Gran.”“Bye.”He shakes his head and holsters the comm back in his pants,then rocks back and lies down on the rug, facing the ceiling,eyes closed. A moment later, the hem of Linda’s robe brusheshis arm and she lies down next to him, takes his hand.“Everything OK?”“It’s just my Gran.” And he tells her about this date’ssignificance.“How did she die?”“It was stupid. She slipped in the tub and cracked her skull onthe tap. I was off at a friend’s place for the weekend and no onefound her for two days. She lived for a week on life support,and they pulled the plug. No brain activity. They wouldn’t letme into the hospital room after the first day. My Granpractically moved in, though. She raised me after that. I thinkthat if she hadn’t had to take care of me, she would have justgiven up, you know?She’s pretty lonely back home alone.”“What about your dad?”“You know, there used to be a big mystery about that. Granand Mom, they were always tragic and secretive when I asked them about him. I had lots of stories to explain his absence: ranoff with another woman, thrown in jail for running guns,murdered in a bar fight. I used to be a bit of a celeb atschool—lots of kids didn’t have dads around, but they all knewwhere their fathers were. We could always kill an afternoonmaking up his who and where and why. Even the teachers gotinto it, getting all apologetic when we had to do a genealogyproject. I found out the truth, finally, when I was nineteen. Justlooked it up online. It never occurred to me that my momwould be that secretive about something that was so easy tofind out, so I never bothered.”“So, what happened to him?”“Oh, you know. He and mom split when I was a kid.
He movedback in with his folks in a little town in the Thousand Islands,near Ottawa. Four or five years later, he got a job planting treesfor a summer up north, and he drowned swimming in a lakeduring a party. By the time I found out about him, his folkswere dead, too.”“Did you tell your friends about him, once you found out?”“Oh, by then I’d lost touch with most of them. Afterelementary school, we moved across town, to a condo mygrandmother retired into on the lakeshore, out in the suburbs.In high school, I didn’t really chum around much, so therewasn’t anyone to talk to. I did tell my Gran though, asked herwhy it was such a big secret, and she said it wasn’t, she saidshe’d told me years before, but she hadn’t. I think that she andMom just decided to wait until I was older before telling me,
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 3-03-eastern-standard-tribe-del-3
# chapter_title: 03_eastern-standard-tribe-del-3
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She’s pretty lonely back home alone.”“What about your dad?”“You know, there used to be a big mystery about that. Granand Mom, they were always tragic and secretive when I asked them about him. I had lots of stories to explain his absence: ranoff with another woman, thrown in jail for running guns,murdered in a bar fight. I used to be a bit of a celeb atschool—lots of kids didn’t have dads around, but they all knewwhere their fathers were. We could always kill an afternoonmaking up his who and where and why. Even the teachers gotinto it, getting all apologetic when we had to do a genealogyproject. I found out the truth, finally, when I was nineteen. Justlooked it up online. It never occurred to me that my momwould be that secretive about something that was so easy tofind out, so I never bothered.”“So, what happened to him?”“Oh, you know. He and mom split when I was a kid.
He movedback in with his folks in a little town in the Thousand Islands,near Ottawa. Four or five years later, he got a job planting treesfor a summer up north, and he drowned swimming in a lakeduring a party. By the time I found out about him, his folkswere dead, too.”“Did you tell your friends about him, once you found out?”“Oh, by then I’d lost touch with most of them. Afterelementary school, we moved across town, to a condo mygrandmother retired into on the lakeshore, out in the suburbs.In high school, I didn’t really chum around much, so therewasn’t anyone to talk to. I did tell my Gran though, asked herwhy it was such a big secret, and she said it wasn’t, she saidshe’d told me years before, but she hadn’t. I think that she andMom just decided to wait until I was older before telling me,Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 44 and then after my mom died, she just forgot that she hadn’t toldme. We got into a big fight over that.”“That’s a weird story, dude. So, do you think of yourself as anorphan?”Art rolls over on his side, face inches from hers, and snorts alaugh. “God, that’s so—Dickensian. No one ever asked me thatbefore. I don’t think so. You can’t really be an adult and be anorphan—you’re just someone with dead parents. And I didn’tfind out about my dad until I was older, so I always figured thathe was alive and well somewhere. What about your folks?”Linda rolls over on her side, too, her robe slipping off herlower breast. Art is aroused by it, but not crazilyso—somewhere in telling his story, he’s figured out that sex isa foregone conclusion, and now they’re just getting throughsome nice foreplay.
He smiles down at her nipple, which isbrown as a bar of Belgian chocolate, aureole the size of a roundof individual cheese and nipple itself a surprisingly chunkysquare of crinkled flesh. She follows his eyes and smiles athim, then puts his hand over her breast, covers it with hers.“I told you about my mom, right? Wanted to act—whodoesn’t? But she was too conscious of the cliche to mope aboutit. She got some little parts—nothing fab, then went on to workat a Sony dealership. Ten years later, she bought a franchise.Dad and second-wife run a retreat in West Hollywood forsexually dysfunctional couples. No sibs. Happy childhood.Happy adolescence. Largely unsatisfying adulthood, to date.” “Wow, you sound like you’ve practiced that.”She tweaks his nose, then drapes her arm across his chest. “Gotme.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 3-03-eastern-standard-tribe-del-3
# chapter_title: 03_eastern-standard-tribe-del-3
# book_page: 56 / 169
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# language: en
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 44 and then after my mom died, she just forgot that she hadn’t toldme. We got into a big fight over that.”“That’s a weird story, dude. So, do you think of yourself as anorphan?”Art rolls over on his side, face inches from hers, and snorts alaugh. “God, that’s so—Dickensian. No one ever asked me thatbefore. I don’t think so. You can’t really be an adult and be anorphan—you’re just someone with dead parents. And I didn’tfind out about my dad until I was older, so I always figured thathe was alive and well somewhere. What about your folks?”Linda rolls over on her side, too, her robe slipping off herlower breast. Art is aroused by it, but not crazilyso—somewhere in telling his story, he’s figured out that sex isa foregone conclusion, and now they’re just getting throughsome nice foreplay.
He smiles down at her nipple, which isbrown as a bar of Belgian chocolate, aureole the size of a roundof individual cheese and nipple itself a surprisingly chunkysquare of crinkled flesh. She follows his eyes and smiles athim, then puts his hand over her breast, covers it with hers.“I told you about my mom, right? Wanted to act—whodoesn’t? But she was too conscious of the cliche to mope aboutit. She got some little parts—nothing fab, then went on to workat a Sony dealership. Ten years later, she bought a franchise.Dad and second-wife run a retreat in West Hollywood forsexually dysfunctional couples. No sibs. Happy childhood.Happy adolescence. Largely unsatisfying adulthood, to date.” “Wow, you sound like you’ve practiced that.”She tweaks his nose, then drapes her arm across his chest. “Gotme.Always writing my autobiography in my head—gotta havea snappy opener when I’m cornered by the stalkerazzi.”He laces his fingers in hers, moves close enough to smell hertoothpaste-sweet breath. “Tell me something unrehearsed aboutgrowing up.”“That’s a stupid request.” Her tone is snappish, and her fingersstiffen in his.“Why?”“It just is! Don’t try to get under my skin, OK? My childhoodwas fine.”“Look, I don’t want to piss you off. I’m just trying to get toknow you. Because... you know... I like you. A lot. And I try toget to know the people I like.”She smiles her lopsided dimple. “Sorry, I just don’t like peoplewho try to mess with my head. My problem, not yours. OK,something unrehearsed.” She closes her eyes and treats him tothe smooth pinkness of her eyelids, and keeps them closed asshe speaks. “I once stole a Veddic Series 7 off my mom’s lot,when I was fifteen.
It had all the girly safety features, includinga tracker and a panic button, but I didn’t think my mom wouldmiss it. I just wanted to take it out for a drive. It’s LA, right?No wheels, no life. So I get as far as Venice Beach, and I’m
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 45 cruising the Boardwalk—this was just after it went topless, so Iwas swinging in the breeze—and suddenly the engine dies,right in the middle of this clump of out-of-towners, frat kidsfrom Kansas or something. Mom had called in a dealeroverride and Sony shut down the engine by radio.”“Wow, what did you do?”“Well, I put my shirt back on. Then I popped the hood andpoked randomly at the engine, pulling out the user-servicablesand reseating them. The thing was newer than new, right? Howcould it be broken already? The fratboys all gathered aroundand gave me advice, and I played up all bitchy, you know,‘I’ve been fixing these things since I was ten, get lost,’whatever. They loved it. I was all spunky. A couple of themwere pretty cute even, and the attention was great. I feltsafe—lots of people hanging around, they weren’t going to tryanything funny.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 3-03-eastern-standard-tribe-del-3
# chapter_title: 03_eastern-standard-tribe-del-3
# book_page: 57 / 169
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# language: en
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Always writing my autobiography in my head—gotta havea snappy opener when I’m cornered by the stalkerazzi.”He laces his fingers in hers, moves close enough to smell hertoothpaste-sweet breath. “Tell me something unrehearsed aboutgrowing up.”“That’s a stupid request.” Her tone is snappish, and her fingersstiffen in his.“Why?”“It just is! Don’t try to get under my skin, OK? My childhoodwas fine.”“Look, I don’t want to piss you off. I’m just trying to get toknow you. Because... you know... I like you. A lot. And I try toget to know the people I like.”She smiles her lopsided dimple. “Sorry, I just don’t like peoplewho try to mess with my head. My problem, not yours. OK,something unrehearsed.” She closes her eyes and treats him tothe smooth pinkness of her eyelids, and keeps them closed asshe speaks. “I once stole a Veddic Series 7 off my mom’s lot,when I was fifteen.
It had all the girly safety features, includinga tracker and a panic button, but I didn’t think my mom wouldmiss it. I just wanted to take it out for a drive. It’s LA, right?No wheels, no life. So I get as far as Venice Beach, and I’m
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 45 cruising the Boardwalk—this was just after it went topless, so Iwas swinging in the breeze—and suddenly the engine dies,right in the middle of this clump of out-of-towners, frat kidsfrom Kansas or something. Mom had called in a dealeroverride and Sony shut down the engine by radio.”“Wow, what did you do?”“Well, I put my shirt back on. Then I popped the hood andpoked randomly at the engine, pulling out the user-servicablesand reseating them. The thing was newer than new, right? Howcould it be broken already? The fratboys all gathered aroundand gave me advice, and I played up all bitchy, you know,‘I’ve been fixing these things since I was ten, get lost,’whatever. They loved it. I was all spunky. A couple of themwere pretty cute even, and the attention was great. I feltsafe—lots of people hanging around, they weren’t going to tryanything funny.Only I was starting to freak out about thecar—it was really dead. I’d reseated everything, self-testedevery component, double-checked the fuel. Nothing nothingnothing! I was going to have to call a tow and my mom wasgoing to kill me.“So I’m trying not to let it get to me, trying to keep it all cool,but I’m not doing a great job. The frat guys are all standing tooclose and they smell like beer, and I’m not trying to be perkyanymore, just want them to stay! away! but they won’t backoff. I’m trying not to cry.“And then the cops showed up. Not real cops, but Sony’sVehicle Recovery Squad. All dressed up in Vaio gear, stylish as a Pepsi ad, packing lots of semilethals and silvery aeorosolshut-up-and-be-still juice, ready to nab the bad, bad perp whoboosted this lovely Veddic Series 7 from Mom’s lot. Part of thefranchise package, that kind of response.
It took me a second tofigure it out—Mom didn’t know it was me who had the car, soshe’d called in a theft and bam, I was about to get arrested. Thefrat rats tried to run away, which is a bad idea, you just don’tever run from cops—stupid, stupid, stupid. They ended uprolling around on the ground, screaming and trying to pull theirfaces off. It took, like a second. I threw my hands in the air.‘Don’t shoot!’ They gassed me anyway.“So then I was rolling around on the ground, feeling like mysinuses were trying to explode out of my face. Feeling like myeyeballs were melting. Feeling like my lungs were all shriveledup into raisins. I couldn’t scream, I couldn’t even breathe. Bythe time I could even roll over and open my eyes, they had mecuffed: ankles and wrists in zapstraps that were so tight, theyfelt like piano wire. I was a cool fifteen year old, but not thatcool.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 3-03-eastern-standard-tribe-del-3
# chapter_title: 03_eastern-standard-tribe-del-3
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Only I was starting to freak out about thecar—it was really dead. I’d reseated everything, self-testedevery component, double-checked the fuel. Nothing nothingnothing! I was going to have to call a tow and my mom wasgoing to kill me.“So I’m trying not to let it get to me, trying to keep it all cool,but I’m not doing a great job. The frat guys are all standing tooclose and they smell like beer, and I’m not trying to be perkyanymore, just want them to stay! away! but they won’t backoff. I’m trying not to cry.“And then the cops showed up. Not real cops, but Sony’sVehicle Recovery Squad. All dressed up in Vaio gear, stylish as a Pepsi ad, packing lots of semilethals and silvery aeorosolshut-up-and-be-still juice, ready to nab the bad, bad perp whoboosted this lovely Veddic Series 7 from Mom’s lot. Part of thefranchise package, that kind of response.
It took me a second tofigure it out—Mom didn’t know it was me who had the car, soshe’d called in a theft and bam, I was about to get arrested. Thefrat rats tried to run away, which is a bad idea, you just don’tever run from cops—stupid, stupid, stupid. They ended uprolling around on the ground, screaming and trying to pull theirfaces off. It took, like a second. I threw my hands in the air.‘Don’t shoot!’ They gassed me anyway.“So then I was rolling around on the ground, feeling like mysinuses were trying to explode out of my face. Feeling like myeyeballs were melting. Feeling like my lungs were all shriveledup into raisins. I couldn’t scream, I couldn’t even breathe. Bythe time I could even roll over and open my eyes, they had mecuffed: ankles and wrists in zapstraps that were so tight, theyfelt like piano wire. I was a cool fifteen year old, but not thatcool.I started up the waterworks, boohoohoo, couldn’t shut itdown, couldn’t even get angry. I just wanted to die. The Sonycops had seen it all before, so they put a tarp down on theVeddic’s backseat upholstery, threw me in it, then rolled it intotheir recovery truck and drove me to the police station.“I puked on the tarp twice before they got me there, and almostdid it a third time on the way to booking. It got up my sinusesand down my throat, too. I couldn’t stop gagging, couldn’t stopcrying, but by now I was getting pissed. I’d been raised on thewhole Sony message: ‘A Car for the Rest of Us,’ gone withMom to their Empowerment Seminars, wore the little tee shirts
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 46 and the temporary tats and chatted up the tire-kickers about theSony Family while Mom was busy. This wasn’t the SonyFamily I knew.“I was tied up on the floor beside the desk sergeant’s counter,and a Sony cop was filling in my paperwork, and so I spat outthe crud from my mouth, stopped sniveling, hawked back myspit and put on my best voice. ‘This isn’t necessary, sir,’ I said.‘I’m not a thief. My mother owns the dealership. It was wrongto take the car, but I’m sure she didn’t intend for this tohappen. Certainly, I don’t need to be tied up in here. Please,take off the restraints—they’re cutting off my circulation.’ TheSony cop flipped up his goofy little facemask and squinted atme, then shook his head and went back to his paperwork.“‘Look,’ I said. ‘Look! I’m not a criminal. This is amisunderstanding. If you check my ID and call my mother, wecan work this all out. Look!’
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 3-03-eastern-standard-tribe-del-3
# chapter_title: 03_eastern-standard-tribe-del-3
# book_page: 59 / 169
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I started up the waterworks, boohoohoo, couldn’t shut itdown, couldn’t even get angry. I just wanted to die. The Sonycops had seen it all before, so they put a tarp down on theVeddic’s backseat upholstery, threw me in it, then rolled it intotheir recovery truck and drove me to the police station.“I puked on the tarp twice before they got me there, and almostdid it a third time on the way to booking. It got up my sinusesand down my throat, too. I couldn’t stop gagging, couldn’t stopcrying, but by now I was getting pissed. I’d been raised on thewhole Sony message: ‘A Car for the Rest of Us,’ gone withMom to their Empowerment Seminars, wore the little tee shirts
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 46 and the temporary tats and chatted up the tire-kickers about theSony Family while Mom was busy. This wasn’t the SonyFamily I knew.“I was tied up on the floor beside the desk sergeant’s counter,and a Sony cop was filling in my paperwork, and so I spat outthe crud from my mouth, stopped sniveling, hawked back myspit and put on my best voice. ‘This isn’t necessary, sir,’ I said.‘I’m not a thief. My mother owns the dealership. It was wrongto take the car, but I’m sure she didn’t intend for this tohappen. Certainly, I don’t need to be tied up in here. Please,take off the restraints—they’re cutting off my circulation.’ TheSony cop flipped up his goofy little facemask and squinted atme, then shook his head and went back to his paperwork.“‘Look,’ I said. ‘Look! I’m not a criminal. This is amisunderstanding. If you check my ID and call my mother, wecan work this all out. Look!’I read his name off his epaulettes.‘Look! Officer Langtree! Just let me up and we’ll sort this outlike adults. Come on, I don’t blame you—I’m glad!—you wereright to take me in. This is my mom’s merchandise; it’s goodthat you went after the thief and recovered the car. But nowyou know the truth, it’s my mother’s car, and if you just let meup, I’m sure we can work this out. Please, Officer Langtree.My wallet’s in my back pocket. Just get it out and check my IDbefore you do this.’“But he just went on filling in the paperwork. ‘Why? Whywon’t you just take a second to check? Why not?’ “He turned around again, looked at me for a long time, and Iwas sure he was going to check, that it was all going to be fine,but then he said, ‘Look, I’ve had about as much of your bullshitas I’m going to take, little girl. Shut your hole or I’ll gag you. Ijust want to get out of here and back to my job, all right?’“‘What?’
I said, and it sounded like a shriek to me. ‘What didyou say to me? What the hell did you say to me? Didn’t youhear what I said? That’s my mother’s car—she owns the lot Itook it off of. Do you honestly think she wants you to do this?This is the stupidest goddamned thing—’“‘That’s it,’ he said, and took a little silver micropore hood offhis belt, the kind that you cinch up under the chin so the personinside can’t talk? I started squirming away then, pleading withhim, and I finally caught the desk sergeant’s eye. ‘He can’t dothis! Please! Don’t let him do this! I’m in a policestation—why are you letting him do this?’“And the cop smiled and said, ‘You’re absolutely right, littlegirl. That’s enough of that.’ The Sony cop didn’t pay anyattention. He grabbed my head and stuffed it into the hood andtried to get the chin strap in place.
I shook my head as best as Icould, and then the hood was being taken off my head again,and the Sony cop looked like he wanted to nail the other cop,but he didn’t. The desk sergeant bent down and cut my straps,then helped me to my feet.“‘You’re not going to give me any trouble, are you?’ he said,as he led me around to a nice, ergo office chair.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 3-03-eastern-standard-tribe-del-3
# chapter_title: 03_eastern-standard-tribe-del-3
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# language: en
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I read his name off his epaulettes.‘Look! Officer Langtree! Just let me up and we’ll sort this outlike adults. Come on, I don’t blame you—I’m glad!—you wereright to take me in. This is my mom’s merchandise; it’s goodthat you went after the thief and recovered the car. But nowyou know the truth, it’s my mother’s car, and if you just let meup, I’m sure we can work this out. Please, Officer Langtree.My wallet’s in my back pocket. Just get it out and check my IDbefore you do this.’“But he just went on filling in the paperwork. ‘Why? Whywon’t you just take a second to check? Why not?’ “He turned around again, looked at me for a long time, and Iwas sure he was going to check, that it was all going to be fine,but then he said, ‘Look, I’ve had about as much of your bullshitas I’m going to take, little girl. Shut your hole or I’ll gag you. Ijust want to get out of here and back to my job, all right?’“‘What?’
I said, and it sounded like a shriek to me. ‘What didyou say to me? What the hell did you say to me? Didn’t youhear what I said? That’s my mother’s car—she owns the lot Itook it off of. Do you honestly think she wants you to do this?This is the stupidest goddamned thing—’“‘That’s it,’ he said, and took a little silver micropore hood offhis belt, the kind that you cinch up under the chin so the personinside can’t talk? I started squirming away then, pleading withhim, and I finally caught the desk sergeant’s eye. ‘He can’t dothis! Please! Don’t let him do this! I’m in a policestation—why are you letting him do this?’“And the cop smiled and said, ‘You’re absolutely right, littlegirl. That’s enough of that.’ The Sony cop didn’t pay anyattention. He grabbed my head and stuffed it into the hood andtried to get the chin strap in place.
I shook my head as best as Icould, and then the hood was being taken off my head again,and the Sony cop looked like he wanted to nail the other cop,but he didn’t. The desk sergeant bent down and cut my straps,then helped me to my feet.“‘You’re not going to give me any trouble, are you?’ he said,as he led me around to a nice, ergo office chair.Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 47 “‘No sir!’“‘You just sit there, then, and I’ll be with you in a moment.’“I sat down and rubbed my wrists and ankles. My left anklewas oozing blood from where it had been rubbed raw. Icouldn’t believe that the Sony Family could inflict suchindignities on my cute little person. I was so goddamn self-righteous, and I know I was smirking as the desk sergeantchewed out the Sony cop, taking down his badge number andso on so that I’d have it.“I thanked the cop profusely, and I kept on thanking him as hebooked me and printed me and took my mug shots. I wasjoking and maybe even flirting a little. I was a cute fifteen-year-old and I knew it. After the nastiness with the Sony cops,being processed into the criminal justice system seemed mildand inoffensive. It didn’t really occur to me that I was beingarrested until my good pal the cop asked me to turn out mypockets before he put me in the cell.“‘Wait!’
I said. ‘Sergeant Lorenzi, wait! You don’t have to putme in a cell, do you, Sergeant Lorenzi? Sergeant Lorenzi! Idon’t need to go into a cell! Let me call my mom, she’ll comedown and drop the charges, and I can wait here. I’ll help out. Ican get coffee. Sergeant Lorenzi!’“For a second, it looked like he was going to go through withit. Then he relented and I spent the next couple hours fetchingand filing and even running out for coffee—that’s how muchhe trusted me—while we waited for Mom to show up. I was actually feeling pretty good about it by the time she arrived. Ofcourse, that didn’t last too long.“She came through the door like Yosemite Sam, frothing at thechops and howling for my blood. She wanted to press charges,see me locked up to teach me a lesson. She didn’t care how theSony cops had gassed and trussed me—as far as she wasconcerned, I’d betrayed her and nothing was going to make itright.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 3-03-eastern-standard-tribe-del-3
# chapter_title: 03_eastern-standard-tribe-del-3
# book_page: 61 / 169
# chapter_page: 11
# language: en
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 47 “‘No sir!’“‘You just sit there, then, and I’ll be with you in a moment.’“I sat down and rubbed my wrists and ankles. My left anklewas oozing blood from where it had been rubbed raw. Icouldn’t believe that the Sony Family could inflict suchindignities on my cute little person. I was so goddamn self-righteous, and I know I was smirking as the desk sergeantchewed out the Sony cop, taking down his badge number andso on so that I’d have it.“I thanked the cop profusely, and I kept on thanking him as hebooked me and printed me and took my mug shots. I wasjoking and maybe even flirting a little. I was a cute fifteen-year-old and I knew it. After the nastiness with the Sony cops,being processed into the criminal justice system seemed mildand inoffensive. It didn’t really occur to me that I was beingarrested until my good pal the cop asked me to turn out mypockets before he put me in the cell.“‘Wait!’
I said. ‘Sergeant Lorenzi, wait! You don’t have to putme in a cell, do you, Sergeant Lorenzi? Sergeant Lorenzi! Idon’t need to go into a cell! Let me call my mom, she’ll comedown and drop the charges, and I can wait here. I’ll help out. Ican get coffee. Sergeant Lorenzi!’“For a second, it looked like he was going to go through withit. Then he relented and I spent the next couple hours fetchingand filing and even running out for coffee—that’s how muchhe trusted me—while we waited for Mom to show up. I was actually feeling pretty good about it by the time she arrived. Ofcourse, that didn’t last too long.“She came through the door like Yosemite Sam, frothing at thechops and howling for my blood. She wanted to press charges,see me locked up to teach me a lesson. She didn’t care how theSony cops had gassed and trussed me—as far as she wasconcerned, I’d betrayed her and nothing was going to make itright.She kept howling for the sergeant to give her the papersto sign, she wanted to swear out a complaint, and he just let herrun out of steam, his face perfectly expressionless until she wasdone.“‘All right then, Mrs. Walchuk, all right. You swear out thecomplaint, and we’ll hold her overnight until her bail hearing.We only got the one holding cell, though, you understand. Nojuvenile facility. Rough crowd. A couple of biowar enthusiastsin there right now, caught ’em trying to thrax a bus terminal; agirl who killed her pimp and nailed his privates to the door ofhis hotel room before she took off; a couple of hard old drunks.No telling what else will come in today. We take away theirknives and boots and purses, but those girls like to mess upfresh young things, scar them with the bars or their nails. Wecan’t watch them all the time.’
He was leaning right across thedesk at my mom, cold and still, and then he nudged my footwith his foot and I knew that he was yanking her chain.“‘Is that what you want, then, ma’am?’
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 48 “Mom looked like she wanted to tell him yes, go ahead, call hisbluff, but he was too good at it. She broke. ‘No, it’s not,’ shesaid. ‘I’ll take her home and deal with her there.’“‘That’s fundamentally sound,’ he said. ‘And Linda, you giveme a call if you want to file a complaint against Sony. We havesecam footage of the Boardwalk and the Station House if youneed it, and I have that guy’s badge ID, too.’“Mom looked alarmed, and I held out my raw, bruisey wrists toher. ‘They gassed me before they took me in.’“‘Did you run? You never run from the cops, Linda, youshould have known better—’“I didn’t run. I put my arms in the air and they gassed me andtied me up and took me in.’“‘That can’t be, Linda. You must have done something—’Mom always was ready to believe that I deserved whatevertrouble I got into. She was the only one who didn’t care howcute I was.“‘No mom. I put my hands in the air.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 3-03-eastern-standard-tribe-del-3
# chapter_title: 03_eastern-standard-tribe-del-3
# book_page: 62 / 169
# chapter_page: 12
# language: en
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She kept howling for the sergeant to give her the papersto sign, she wanted to swear out a complaint, and he just let herrun out of steam, his face perfectly expressionless until she wasdone.“‘All right then, Mrs. Walchuk, all right. You swear out thecomplaint, and we’ll hold her overnight until her bail hearing.We only got the one holding cell, though, you understand. Nojuvenile facility. Rough crowd. A couple of biowar enthusiastsin there right now, caught ’em trying to thrax a bus terminal; agirl who killed her pimp and nailed his privates to the door ofhis hotel room before she took off; a couple of hard old drunks.No telling what else will come in today. We take away theirknives and boots and purses, but those girls like to mess upfresh young things, scar them with the bars or their nails. Wecan’t watch them all the time.’
He was leaning right across thedesk at my mom, cold and still, and then he nudged my footwith his foot and I knew that he was yanking her chain.“‘Is that what you want, then, ma’am?’
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 48 “Mom looked like she wanted to tell him yes, go ahead, call hisbluff, but he was too good at it. She broke. ‘No, it’s not,’ shesaid. ‘I’ll take her home and deal with her there.’“‘That’s fundamentally sound,’ he said. ‘And Linda, you giveme a call if you want to file a complaint against Sony. We havesecam footage of the Boardwalk and the Station House if youneed it, and I have that guy’s badge ID, too.’“Mom looked alarmed, and I held out my raw, bruisey wrists toher. ‘They gassed me before they took me in.’“‘Did you run? You never run from the cops, Linda, youshould have known better—’“I didn’t run. I put my arms in the air and they gassed me andtied me up and took me in.’“‘That can’t be, Linda. You must have done something—’Mom always was ready to believe that I deserved whatevertrouble I got into. She was the only one who didn’t care howcute I was.“‘No mom. I put my hands in the air.I surrendered. They gotme anyway. They didn’t care. It’ll be on the tape. I’ll get itfrom sergeant Lorenzi when I file my complaint.’“‘You’ll do no such thing. You stole a car, you endangeredlives, and now you want to go sniveling to the authoritiesbecause Sony played a little rough when they brought you in? You committed a criminal act, Linda. You got treated like acriminal.’“I wanted to smack her. I knew that this was really about notembarrassing her in front of the Sony Family, the nosy chatteryladies with the other franchises that Mom competed against forwhuffie and bragging rights. But I’d learned something aboutdrawing flies with honey that afternoon.
The Sergeant couldhave made things very hard on me, but by giving him a littlesugar, I turned it into an almost fun afternoon.“Mom took me home and screamed herself raw, and I played itall very contrite, then walked over to the minimall so that Icould buy some saline solution for my eyes, which were still asred as stoplights. We never spoke of it again, and on mysixteenth birthday, Mom gave me the keys to a Veddic Series8, and the first thing I did was download new firmware for theantitheft transponder that killed it. Two months later, it wasstolen. I haven’t driven a Sony since.”Linda smiles and then purses her lips. “Unrehearsed enough?”Art shakes his head. “Wow. What a story.”“Do you want to kiss me now?” Linda says, conversationally.“I believe I do,” Art says, and he does.Linda pulls the back of his head to hers with one arm, and withthe other, she half-shrugs out of her robe.
Art pulls his shirt upto his armpits, feels the scorching softness of her chest on his,
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 3-03-eastern-standard-tribe-del-3
# chapter_title: 03_eastern-standard-tribe-del-3
# book_page: 63 / 169
# chapter_page: 13
# language: en
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I surrendered. They gotme anyway. They didn’t care. It’ll be on the tape. I’ll get itfrom sergeant Lorenzi when I file my complaint.’“‘You’ll do no such thing. You stole a car, you endangeredlives, and now you want to go sniveling to the authoritiesbecause Sony played a little rough when they brought you in? You committed a criminal act, Linda. You got treated like acriminal.’“I wanted to smack her. I knew that this was really about notembarrassing her in front of the Sony Family, the nosy chatteryladies with the other franchises that Mom competed against forwhuffie and bragging rights. But I’d learned something aboutdrawing flies with honey that afternoon.
The Sergeant couldhave made things very hard on me, but by giving him a littlesugar, I turned it into an almost fun afternoon.“Mom took me home and screamed herself raw, and I played itall very contrite, then walked over to the minimall so that Icould buy some saline solution for my eyes, which were still asred as stoplights. We never spoke of it again, and on mysixteenth birthday, Mom gave me the keys to a Veddic Series8, and the first thing I did was download new firmware for theantitheft transponder that killed it. Two months later, it wasstolen. I haven’t driven a Sony since.”Linda smiles and then purses her lips. “Unrehearsed enough?”Art shakes his head. “Wow. What a story.”“Do you want to kiss me now?” Linda says, conversationally.“I believe I do,” Art says, and he does.Linda pulls the back of his head to hers with one arm, and withthe other, she half-shrugs out of her robe.
Art pulls his shirt upto his armpits, feels the scorching softness of her chest on his,Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 49 and groans. His erection grinds into her mons through hisJockey shorts, and he groans again as she sucks his tongue intoher mouth and masticates it just shy of hard enough to hurt.She breaks off and reaches down for the waistband of hisJockeys and his whole body arches in anticipation.Then his comm rings.Again.“Fuck!” Art says, just as Linda says, “Shit!” and they bothsnort a laugh. Linda pulls his hand to her nipple again and Artshivers, sighs, and reaches for his comm, which won’t stopringing.“It’s me,” Fede says.“Jesus, Fede. What is it?”“What is it? Art, you haven’t been to the office for more thanfour hours in a week. It’s going on noon, and you still aren’there.” Fede’s voice is hot and unreasoning.Art feels his own temper rise in response. Where the hell didFede get off, anyway? “So fucking what, Fede? I don’t actuallywork for you, you know. I’ve been taking care of stuff offsite.”“Oh, sure.
Art, if you get in trouble, I’ll get in trouble, and youknow exactly what I mean.” “I’m not in trouble, Fede. I’m taking the day off—why don’tyou call me tomorrow?”“What the hell does that mean? You can’t just ‘take the dayoff.’ I wrote the goddamned procedure. You have to fill in theform and get it signed by your supervisor. It needs to bedocumented. Are you trying to undermine me?”“You are so goddamned paranoid, Federico. I got mugged lastnight, all right? I’ve been in a police station for the pasteighteen hours straight. I am going to take a shower and I amgoing to take a nap and I am going to get a massage, and I amnot going into the office and I am not going to fill in any forms.This is not about you.”Fede pauses for a moment, and Art senses him marshalling hisbad temper for another salvo. “I don’t give a shit, Art. If you’renot coming into the office, you tell me, you hear?
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 3-03-eastern-standard-tribe-del-3
# chapter_title: 03_eastern-standard-tribe-del-3
# book_page: 64 / 169
# chapter_page: 14
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 49 and groans. His erection grinds into her mons through hisJockey shorts, and he groans again as she sucks his tongue intoher mouth and masticates it just shy of hard enough to hurt.She breaks off and reaches down for the waistband of hisJockeys and his whole body arches in anticipation.Then his comm rings.Again.“Fuck!” Art says, just as Linda says, “Shit!” and they bothsnort a laugh. Linda pulls his hand to her nipple again and Artshivers, sighs, and reaches for his comm, which won’t stopringing.“It’s me,” Fede says.“Jesus, Fede. What is it?”“What is it? Art, you haven’t been to the office for more thanfour hours in a week. It’s going on noon, and you still aren’there.” Fede’s voice is hot and unreasoning.Art feels his own temper rise in response. Where the hell didFede get off, anyway? “So fucking what, Fede? I don’t actuallywork for you, you know. I’ve been taking care of stuff offsite.”“Oh, sure.
Art, if you get in trouble, I’ll get in trouble, and youknow exactly what I mean.” “I’m not in trouble, Fede. I’m taking the day off—why don’tyou call me tomorrow?”“What the hell does that mean? You can’t just ‘take the dayoff.’ I wrote the goddamned procedure. You have to fill in theform and get it signed by your supervisor. It needs to bedocumented. Are you trying to undermine me?”“You are so goddamned paranoid, Federico. I got mugged lastnight, all right? I’ve been in a police station for the pasteighteen hours straight. I am going to take a shower and I amgoing to take a nap and I am going to get a massage, and I amnot going into the office and I am not going to fill in any forms.This is not about you.”Fede pauses for a moment, and Art senses him marshalling hisbad temper for another salvo. “I don’t give a shit, Art. If you’renot coming into the office, you tell me, you hear?The VP ofHR is going berserk, and I know exactly what it’s about. He ison to us, you hear me? Every day that you’re away and I’mcovering for your ass, he gets more and more certain. If youkeep this shit up, we’re both dead.”“Hey, fuck you, Fede.” Art is surprised to hear the wordscoming out of his mouth, but once they’re out, he decides to gowith them. “You can indulge your paranoid fantasies to yourheart’s content, but don’t drag me into them. I got mugged lastnight. I had a near-fatal car crash a week ago. If the VP of HRwants to find out why I haven’t been in the office, he can sendme an email and I’ll tell him exactly what’s going on, and if hedoesn’t like it, he can toss my goddamned salad. But I don’t
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 50 report to you. If you want to have a discussion, you call me andact like a human goddamned being. Tomorrow. Good-bye,Fede.” Art rings the comm off and snarls at it, then switches itoff, switches off the emergency override, and briefly considerstossing it out the goddamned window onto the precious Englishpaving stones below. Instead, he hurls it into the soft cushionsof the sofa.He turns back to Linda and makes a conscious effort to wipethe snarl off his face. He ratchets a smile onto his lips. “Sorry,sorry. Last time, I swear.” He crawls over to her on all fours.She’s pulled her robe tight around her, and he slides a fingerunder the collar and slides it aside and darts in for a kiss on thehollow of her collarbone. She shies away and drops her cheekto her shoulder, shielding the affected area.“I’m not—” she starts. “The moment’s passed, OK? Why don’twe just cuddle, OK?”
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 3-03-eastern-standard-tribe-del-3
# chapter_title: 03_eastern-standard-tribe-del-3
# book_page: 65 / 169
# chapter_page: 15
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
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The VP ofHR is going berserk, and I know exactly what it’s about. He ison to us, you hear me? Every day that you’re away and I’mcovering for your ass, he gets more and more certain. If youkeep this shit up, we’re both dead.”“Hey, fuck you, Fede.” Art is surprised to hear the wordscoming out of his mouth, but once they’re out, he decides to gowith them. “You can indulge your paranoid fantasies to yourheart’s content, but don’t drag me into them. I got mugged lastnight. I had a near-fatal car crash a week ago. If the VP of HRwants to find out why I haven’t been in the office, he can sendme an email and I’ll tell him exactly what’s going on, and if hedoesn’t like it, he can toss my goddamned salad. But I don’t
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 50 report to you. If you want to have a discussion, you call me andact like a human goddamned being. Tomorrow. Good-bye,Fede.” Art rings the comm off and snarls at it, then switches itoff, switches off the emergency override, and briefly considerstossing it out the goddamned window onto the precious Englishpaving stones below. Instead, he hurls it into the soft cushionsof the sofa.He turns back to Linda and makes a conscious effort to wipethe snarl off his face. He ratchets a smile onto his lips. “Sorry,sorry. Last time, I swear.” He crawls over to her on all fours.She’s pulled her robe tight around her, and he slides a fingerunder the collar and slides it aside and darts in for a kiss on thehollow of her collarbone. She shies away and drops her cheekto her shoulder, shielding the affected area.“I’m not—” she starts. “The moment’s passed, OK? Why don’twe just cuddle, OK?”12.Art was at his desk at O’Malley House the next day when Fedeknocked on his door. Fede was bearing a small translucent gift-bag made of some cunning combination of rough handmadepaper and slick polymer. Art looked up from his comm andwaved at the door.Fede came in and put the parcel on Art’s desk. Art lookedaskance at Fede, and Fede just waved at the bag with a go-ahead gesture. Art felt for the catch that would open the bagwithout tearing the materials, couldn’t find it immediately, andreflexively fired up his comm and started to make notes onhow a revised version of the bag could provide visual cuesshowing how to open it. Fede caught him at it and they tradedgrins.Art probed the bag’s orifice a while longer, then happenedupon the release. The bag sighed apart, falling in three petals,and revealed its payload: a small, leather-worked box with asimple brass catch. Art flipped the catch and eased the boxopen.
Inside, in a fitted foam cavity, was a gray lump of stone.“It’s an axe-head,” Fede said. “It’s 200,000 years old.”Art lifted it out of the box carefully and turned it about,admiring the clean tool marks from its shaping. It had heft andbrutal simplicity, and a thin spot where a handle must havebeen lashed once upon a time. Art ran his fingertips over thesmooth tool marks, over the tapered business end, where the
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 51 stone had been painstakingly flaked into an edge. It wasperfect.Now that he was holding it, it was so obviously an axe, soclearly an axe. It needed no instruction. It explained itself. I aman axe. Hit things with me. Art couldn’t think of a single meansby which it could be improved.“Fede,” he said, “Fede, this is incredible—”“I figured we needed to bury the hatchet, huh?”“God, that’s awful. Here’s a tip: When you give a gift like this,just leave humor out of it, OK? You don’t have the knack.” Artslapped him on the shoulder to show him he was kidding, andreverently returned the axe to its cavity. “That is really one hellof a gift, Fede. Thank you.”Fede stuck his hand out.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 3-03-eastern-standard-tribe-del-3
# chapter_title: 03_eastern-standard-tribe-del-3
# book_page: 66 / 169
# chapter_page: 16
# language: en
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12.Art was at his desk at O’Malley House the next day when Fedeknocked on his door. Fede was bearing a small translucent gift-bag made of some cunning combination of rough handmadepaper and slick polymer. Art looked up from his comm andwaved at the door.Fede came in and put the parcel on Art’s desk. Art lookedaskance at Fede, and Fede just waved at the bag with a go-ahead gesture. Art felt for the catch that would open the bagwithout tearing the materials, couldn’t find it immediately, andreflexively fired up his comm and started to make notes onhow a revised version of the bag could provide visual cuesshowing how to open it. Fede caught him at it and they tradedgrins.Art probed the bag’s orifice a while longer, then happenedupon the release. The bag sighed apart, falling in three petals,and revealed its payload: a small, leather-worked box with asimple brass catch. Art flipped the catch and eased the boxopen.
Inside, in a fitted foam cavity, was a gray lump of stone.“It’s an axe-head,” Fede said. “It’s 200,000 years old.”Art lifted it out of the box carefully and turned it about,admiring the clean tool marks from its shaping. It had heft andbrutal simplicity, and a thin spot where a handle must havebeen lashed once upon a time. Art ran his fingertips over thesmooth tool marks, over the tapered business end, where the
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 51 stone had been painstakingly flaked into an edge. It wasperfect.Now that he was holding it, it was so obviously an axe, soclearly an axe. It needed no instruction. It explained itself. I aman axe. Hit things with me. Art couldn’t think of a single meansby which it could be improved.“Fede,” he said, “Fede, this is incredible—”“I figured we needed to bury the hatchet, huh?”“God, that’s awful. Here’s a tip: When you give a gift like this,just leave humor out of it, OK? You don’t have the knack.” Artslapped him on the shoulder to show him he was kidding, andreverently returned the axe to its cavity. “That is really one hellof a gift, Fede. Thank you.”Fede stuck his hand out.Art shook it, and some of the week’stension melted away.“Now, you’re going to buy me lunch,” Fede said.“Deal.”They toddled off to Piccadilly and grabbed seats at the counterof a South Indian place for a businessmen’s lunch of thali andthick mango lassi, which coated their tongues in alkalinesweetness that put out the flames from the spiced veggies. Bothmen were sweating by the time they ordered their second roundof lassi and Art had his hands on his belly, amazed as ever that something as insubstantial as the little platter’s complement ofveggies and naan could fill him as efficiently as it had.“What are you working on now?” Fede asked, suppressing acurry-whiffing belch.“Same shit,” Art said. “There are a million ways to make theservice work. The rights-societies want lots of accounting andlots of pay-per-use. MassPike hates that.
It’s a pain in the ass tomanage, and the clickthrough licenses and warnings they wantto slap on are heinous. People are going to crash their carsfucking around with the ‘I Agree’ buttons. Not to mention theywant to require a firmware check on every stereo system thatgets a song, make sure that this week’s copy-protection isinstalled. So I’m coopering up all these user studies withweasels from the legal departments at the studios, where theyjust slaver all over this stuff, talking about how warm it allmakes them feel to make sure that they’re compensating artistsand how grateful they are for the reminders to keep theirsoftware up to date and shit. I’m modeling a system that has aclickthrough every time you cue up a new song, too. It’s goingto be perfect: the rights-societies are going to love it, and I’vehandpicked the peer review group at V/DT, stacked it up withtotal assholes who love manuals and following rules.
It’s goingto sail through approval.”Fede grunted. “You don’t think it’ll be too obvious?”Art laughed. “There is no such thing as too obvious in thiscontext, man. These guys, they hate the end user, and for yearsthey’ve been getting away with it because all their users are
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# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 3-03-eastern-standard-tribe-del-3
# chapter_title: 03_eastern-standard-tribe-del-3
# book_page: 67 / 169
# chapter_page: 17
# language: en
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Art shook it, and some of the week’stension melted away.“Now, you’re going to buy me lunch,” Fede said.“Deal.”They toddled off to Piccadilly and grabbed seats at the counterof a South Indian place for a businessmen’s lunch of thali andthick mango lassi, which coated their tongues in alkalinesweetness that put out the flames from the spiced veggies. Bothmen were sweating by the time they ordered their second roundof lassi and Art had his hands on his belly, amazed as ever that something as insubstantial as the little platter’s complement ofveggies and naan could fill him as efficiently as it had.“What are you working on now?” Fede asked, suppressing acurry-whiffing belch.“Same shit,” Art said. “There are a million ways to make theservice work. The rights-societies want lots of accounting andlots of pay-per-use. MassPike hates that.
It’s a pain in the ass tomanage, and the clickthrough licenses and warnings they wantto slap on are heinous. People are going to crash their carsfucking around with the ‘I Agree’ buttons. Not to mention theywant to require a firmware check on every stereo system thatgets a song, make sure that this week’s copy-protection isinstalled. So I’m coopering up all these user studies withweasels from the legal departments at the studios, where theyjust slaver all over this stuff, talking about how warm it allmakes them feel to make sure that they’re compensating artistsand how grateful they are for the reminders to keep theirsoftware up to date and shit. I’m modeling a system that has aclickthrough every time you cue up a new song, too. It’s goingto be perfect: the rights-societies are going to love it, and I’vehandpicked the peer review group at V/DT, stacked it up withtotal assholes who love manuals and following rules.
It’s goingto sail through approval.”Fede grunted. “You don’t think it’ll be too obvious?”Art laughed. “There is no such thing as too obvious in thiscontext, man. These guys, they hate the end user, and for yearsthey’ve been getting away with it because all their users areCory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 52 already used to being treated like shit at the post office and thetube station. I mean, these people grew up with coin-operatedstoves, for chrissakes! They pay television tax! Feed ’em shitand they’ll ask you for second helpings. Beg you for ’em! Sono, I don’t think it’ll be too obvious. They’ll mock up thewhole system and march right into MassPike with it, grinninglike idiots. Don’t worry about a thing.”“OK, OK. I get it. I won’t worry.”Art signalled the counterman for their bill. The countermanwaved distractedly in the manner of a harried restaurateurdealing with his regulars, and said something in Korean to thebusgirl, who along with the Vietnamese chef and theCongolese sous chef, lent the joint a transworld sensibility thatmade it a favorite among the painfully global darlings ofO’Malley House.
The bus-girl found a pad and started tottingup numbers, then keyed them into a Point-of-Sale terminal,which juiced Art’s comm with an accounting for their lunch.This business with hand-noting everything before entering itinto the PoS had driven Art to distraction when he’d firstencountered it. He’d assumed that the terminal’s UI was suchthat a computer-illiterate busgirl couldn’t reliably key in thedata without having it in front of her, and for months he’d citedit in net-bullshit sessions as more evidence of the pervasiveuser-hostility that characterized the whole damned GMT.He’d finally tried out his rant on the counterman, one foreignerto another, just a little Briton-bashing session between tworefugees from the Colonial Jackboot.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 3-03-eastern-standard-tribe-del-3
# chapter_title: 03_eastern-standard-tribe-del-3
# book_page: 68 / 169
# chapter_page: 18
# language: en
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 52 already used to being treated like shit at the post office and thetube station. I mean, these people grew up with coin-operatedstoves, for chrissakes! They pay television tax! Feed ’em shitand they’ll ask you for second helpings. Beg you for ’em! Sono, I don’t think it’ll be too obvious. They’ll mock up thewhole system and march right into MassPike with it, grinninglike idiots. Don’t worry about a thing.”“OK, OK. I get it. I won’t worry.”Art signalled the counterman for their bill. The countermanwaved distractedly in the manner of a harried restaurateurdealing with his regulars, and said something in Korean to thebusgirl, who along with the Vietnamese chef and theCongolese sous chef, lent the joint a transworld sensibility thatmade it a favorite among the painfully global darlings ofO’Malley House.
The bus-girl found a pad and started tottingup numbers, then keyed them into a Point-of-Sale terminal,which juiced Art’s comm with an accounting for their lunch.This business with hand-noting everything before entering itinto the PoS had driven Art to distraction when he’d firstencountered it. He’d assumed that the terminal’s UI was suchthat a computer-illiterate busgirl couldn’t reliably key in thedata without having it in front of her, and for months he’d citedit in net-bullshit sessions as more evidence of the pervasiveuser-hostility that characterized the whole damned GMT.He’d finally tried out his rant on the counterman, one foreignerto another, just a little Briton-bashing session between tworefugees from the Colonial Jackboot.To his everlastingsurprise, the counterman had vigorously defended the system, saying that he liked the PoS data-entry system just fine, but thatthe stack of torn-off paper stubs from the busgirl’s receipt bookwas a good visualization tool, letting him eyeball the customervolume from hour to hour by checking the spike beside the till,and the rubberbanded stacks of yellowing paper lining hiscellar’s shelves gave him a wonderfully physical evidence ofthe growing success of his little eatery. There was a lessonthere, Art knew, though he’d yet to codify it. User mythologywas tricky that way.Every time Art scribbled a tip into his comm and squirted itback at the PoS, he considered this little puzzle, eyesunfocusing for a moment while his vision turned inwards. Ashis eyes snapped back into focus, he noticed the young ladsitting on the long leg of the ell formed by the counter.
He hadbully short hair and broad shoulders, and a sneer that didn’tquite disappear as he shoveled up the dhal with hisbiodegradable bamboo disposable spork.He knew that guy from somewhere. The guy caught himstaring and they locked eyes for a moment, and in that instantArt knew who the guy was. It was Tom, whom he had last seenstabbing at him with a tazer clutched in one shaking fist, facetwisted in fury. Tom wasn’t wearing his killsport armor, justnondescript athletic wear, and he wasn’t with Lester and Tony,but it was him. Art watched Tom cock his head to jog hismemory, and then saw Tom recognize him. Uh-oh.“We have to go. Now,” he said to Fede, standing and walkingaway quickly, hand going to his comm. He stopped short ofdialing 999, though—he wasn’t up for another police-station
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 3-03-eastern-standard-tribe-del-3
# chapter_title: 03_eastern-standard-tribe-del-3
# book_page: 69 / 169
# chapter_page: 19
# language: en
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To his everlastingsurprise, the counterman had vigorously defended the system, saying that he liked the PoS data-entry system just fine, but thatthe stack of torn-off paper stubs from the busgirl’s receipt bookwas a good visualization tool, letting him eyeball the customervolume from hour to hour by checking the spike beside the till,and the rubberbanded stacks of yellowing paper lining hiscellar’s shelves gave him a wonderfully physical evidence ofthe growing success of his little eatery. There was a lessonthere, Art knew, though he’d yet to codify it. User mythologywas tricky that way.Every time Art scribbled a tip into his comm and squirted itback at the PoS, he considered this little puzzle, eyesunfocusing for a moment while his vision turned inwards. Ashis eyes snapped back into focus, he noticed the young ladsitting on the long leg of the ell formed by the counter.
He hadbully short hair and broad shoulders, and a sneer that didn’tquite disappear as he shoveled up the dhal with hisbiodegradable bamboo disposable spork.He knew that guy from somewhere. The guy caught himstaring and they locked eyes for a moment, and in that instantArt knew who the guy was. It was Tom, whom he had last seenstabbing at him with a tazer clutched in one shaking fist, facetwisted in fury. Tom wasn’t wearing his killsport armor, justnondescript athletic wear, and he wasn’t with Lester and Tony,but it was him. Art watched Tom cock his head to jog hismemory, and then saw Tom recognize him. Uh-oh.“We have to go. Now,” he said to Fede, standing and walkingaway quickly, hand going to his comm. He stopped short ofdialing 999, though—he wasn’t up for another police-stationCory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 53 all-nighter. He got halfway up Piccadilly before looking overhis shoulder, and he saw Fede shouldering his way through thelunchtime crowd, looking pissed. A few paces behind himcame Tom, face contorted in a sadistic snarl.Art did a little two-step of indecision, moving towards Fede,then away from him. He met Tom’s eyes again, and Tom’sferocious, bared teeth spurred him on. He turned abruptly intothe tube station, waved his comm at a turnstile and dove intothe thick of the crowd heading down the stairs to the Elephantand Castle platform. His comm rang.“What is wrong with you, man?” Fede said.“One of the guys who mugged me,” he hissed. “He was sittingright across from us. He’s a couple steps behind you. I’m in thetube station. I’ll ride a stop and catch a cab back to the office.”“He’s behind me? Where?”Art’s comm lit up with a grainy feed from Fede’s comm.
Itjiggled as Fede hustled through the crowd.“Jesus, Fede, stop! Don’t go to the goddamned tubestation—he’ll follow you here.”“Where do you want me to go? I got to go back to the office.”“Don’t go there either. Get a cab and circle the block a coupletimes. Don’t lead him back.” “This is stupid. Why don’t I just call the cops?”“Don’t bother. They won’t do shit. I’ve been through thisalready. I just want to lose that guy and not have him find meagain later.”“Christ.”Art squeaked as Tom filled his screen, then passed by,swinging his head from side to side with saurian rage.“What?” Fede said.“That was him. He just walked past you. He must not knowyou’re with me. Go back to the office, I’ll meet you there.”“That dipshit? Art, he’s all of five feet tall!”“He’s a fucking psycho, Fede. Don’t screw around with him orhe’ll give you a Tesla enema.”Fede winced. “I hate tazers.”“The train is pulling in.
I’ll talk to you later.”“OK, OK.”Art formed up in queue with the rest of the passengers andshuffled through the gas chromatograph, tensing up a little as itsniffed his personal space for black powder residue. Once onboard, he tore a sani-wipe from the roll in the ceiling, ignoring
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 3-03-eastern-standard-tribe-del-3
# chapter_title: 03_eastern-standard-tribe-del-3
# book_page: 70 / 169
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 53 all-nighter. He got halfway up Piccadilly before looking overhis shoulder, and he saw Fede shouldering his way through thelunchtime crowd, looking pissed. A few paces behind himcame Tom, face contorted in a sadistic snarl.Art did a little two-step of indecision, moving towards Fede,then away from him. He met Tom’s eyes again, and Tom’sferocious, bared teeth spurred him on. He turned abruptly intothe tube station, waved his comm at a turnstile and dove intothe thick of the crowd heading down the stairs to the Elephantand Castle platform. His comm rang.“What is wrong with you, man?” Fede said.“One of the guys who mugged me,” he hissed. “He was sittingright across from us. He’s a couple steps behind you. I’m in thetube station. I’ll ride a stop and catch a cab back to the office.”“He’s behind me? Where?”Art’s comm lit up with a grainy feed from Fede’s comm.
Itjiggled as Fede hustled through the crowd.“Jesus, Fede, stop! Don’t go to the goddamned tubestation—he’ll follow you here.”“Where do you want me to go? I got to go back to the office.”“Don’t go there either. Get a cab and circle the block a coupletimes. Don’t lead him back.” “This is stupid. Why don’t I just call the cops?”“Don’t bother. They won’t do shit. I’ve been through thisalready. I just want to lose that guy and not have him find meagain later.”“Christ.”Art squeaked as Tom filled his screen, then passed by,swinging his head from side to side with saurian rage.“What?” Fede said.“That was him. He just walked past you. He must not knowyou’re with me. Go back to the office, I’ll meet you there.”“That dipshit? Art, he’s all of five feet tall!”“He’s a fucking psycho, Fede. Don’t screw around with him orhe’ll give you a Tesla enema.”Fede winced. “I hate tazers.”“The train is pulling in.
I’ll talk to you later.”“OK, OK.”Art formed up in queue with the rest of the passengers andshuffled through the gas chromatograph, tensing up a little as itsniffed his personal space for black powder residue. Once onboard, he tore a sani-wipe from the roll in the ceiling, ignoringCory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 54 the V/DT ad on it, and grabbed the stainless steel rail with it,stamping on the drifts of sani-wipe mulch on the train’s floor.He made a conscious effort to control his breathing, willed hisheart to stop pounding. He was still juiced with adrenaline, andhis mind raced. He needed to do something constructive withhis time, but his mind kept wandering. Finally, he gave in andlet it wander.Something about the counterman, about his slips of paper,about the MassPike. It was knocking around in his brain and hejust couldn’t figure out how to bring it to the fore. Thecounterman kept his slips in the basement so that he could sitamong them and see how his business had grown, every slip aperson served, a ring on the till, money in the bank. Drivers onthe MassPike who used traffic jams to download music fromnearby cars and then paid to license the songs. Only theydidn’t.
They circumvented the payment system in droves,running bootleg operations out of their cars that put poor oldNapster to shame for sheer volume. Some people drove inpromiscuous mode, collecting every song in every car on theturnpike, cruising the tunnels that riddled Boston like mobilepirate radio stations, dumping their collections to other driverswhen it came time to quit the turnpike and settle up for theirmusic at the toll booth.It was these war-drivers that MassPike was really worriedabout. Admittedly, they actually made the system go. Youraverage fartmobile driver had all of ten songs in his queue, andthe short-range, broadband connection you had on MassPikemeant that if you were stuck in a jam of these cars, your selection would be severely limited. The war-drivers, though,were mobile jukeboxes. The highway patrol had actually seizedcars with over 300,000 tracks on their drives.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 3-03-eastern-standard-tribe-del-3
# chapter_title: 03_eastern-standard-tribe-del-3
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# chapter_page: 21
# language: en
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 54 the V/DT ad on it, and grabbed the stainless steel rail with it,stamping on the drifts of sani-wipe mulch on the train’s floor.He made a conscious effort to control his breathing, willed hisheart to stop pounding. He was still juiced with adrenaline, andhis mind raced. He needed to do something constructive withhis time, but his mind kept wandering. Finally, he gave in andlet it wander.Something about the counterman, about his slips of paper,about the MassPike. It was knocking around in his brain and hejust couldn’t figure out how to bring it to the fore. Thecounterman kept his slips in the basement so that he could sitamong them and see how his business had grown, every slip aperson served, a ring on the till, money in the bank. Drivers onthe MassPike who used traffic jams to download music fromnearby cars and then paid to license the songs. Only theydidn’t.
They circumvented the payment system in droves,running bootleg operations out of their cars that put poor oldNapster to shame for sheer volume. Some people drove inpromiscuous mode, collecting every song in every car on theturnpike, cruising the tunnels that riddled Boston like mobilepirate radio stations, dumping their collections to other driverswhen it came time to quit the turnpike and settle up for theirmusic at the toll booth.It was these war-drivers that MassPike was really worriedabout. Admittedly, they actually made the system go. Youraverage fartmobile driver had all of ten songs in his queue, andthe short-range, broadband connection you had on MassPikemeant that if you were stuck in a jam of these cars, your selection would be severely limited. The war-drivers, though,were mobile jukeboxes. The highway patrol had actually seizedcars with over 300,000 tracks on their drives.Without these fatcaches on the highway, MassPike would have to spend afortune on essentially replicating the system with their ownmobile libraries.The war-drivers were the collective memory of the MassPike’smusic-listeners.Ooh, there was a tasty idea. The collective memory ofMassPike. Like Dark Ages scholars, memorizing entire texts topreserve them against the depredations of barbarism, passingtheir collections carefully from car to car. He’d investigated thehighway patrol reports on these guys, and there were hintsthere, shadowy clues of an organized subculture, one with ahierarchy, where newbies tricked out their storage withlibraries of novel and rare tuneage in a bid to convince theestablished elite that they were worthy of joining the collectivememory.Thinking of war-drivers as a collective memory was likestaring at an optical illusion and seeing the vase emerge fromthe two faces.
Art’s entire perception of the problem involuteditself in his mind. He heard panting and realized it was him; hewas hyperventilating.If these guys were the collective memory of the MassPike, thatmeant that they were performing a service, reducingMassPike’s costs significantly. That meant that they weretastemakers, injecting fresh music into the static world of
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 55 Boston drivers. Mmmm. Trace that. Find out how influentialthey were. Someone would know—the MassPike had stats onhow songs migrated from car to car. Even without investigatingit, Art just knew that these guys were offsetting millions ofdollars in marketing.So. So. So. So, feed that culture. War-drivers needed to bedevoted to make it into the subculture. They had to spend fouror five hours a day cruising the freeways to accumulate andpropagate their collections. They couldn’t leave the MassPikeuntil they found someone to hand their collections off to.What if MassPike rewarded these guys? What if MassPikecharged nothing for people with more than, say 50,000 tunes intheir cache? Art whipped out his comm and his keyboard andstarted making notes, snatching at the silver rail with hiskeyboard hand every time the train jerked and threatened totopple him.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 3-03-eastern-standard-tribe-del-3
# chapter_title: 03_eastern-standard-tribe-del-3
# book_page: 72 / 169
# chapter_page: 22
# language: en
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Without these fatcaches on the highway, MassPike would have to spend afortune on essentially replicating the system with their ownmobile libraries.The war-drivers were the collective memory of the MassPike’smusic-listeners.Ooh, there was a tasty idea. The collective memory ofMassPike. Like Dark Ages scholars, memorizing entire texts topreserve them against the depredations of barbarism, passingtheir collections carefully from car to car. He’d investigated thehighway patrol reports on these guys, and there were hintsthere, shadowy clues of an organized subculture, one with ahierarchy, where newbies tricked out their storage withlibraries of novel and rare tuneage in a bid to convince theestablished elite that they were worthy of joining the collectivememory.Thinking of war-drivers as a collective memory was likestaring at an optical illusion and seeing the vase emerge fromthe two faces.
Art’s entire perception of the problem involuteditself in his mind. He heard panting and realized it was him; hewas hyperventilating.If these guys were the collective memory of the MassPike, thatmeant that they were performing a service, reducingMassPike’s costs significantly. That meant that they weretastemakers, injecting fresh music into the static world of
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 55 Boston drivers. Mmmm. Trace that. Find out how influentialthey were. Someone would know—the MassPike had stats onhow songs migrated from car to car. Even without investigatingit, Art just knew that these guys were offsetting millions ofdollars in marketing.So. So. So. So, feed that culture. War-drivers needed to bedevoted to make it into the subculture. They had to spend fouror five hours a day cruising the freeways to accumulate andpropagate their collections. They couldn’t leave the MassPikeuntil they found someone to hand their collections off to.What if MassPike rewarded these guys? What if MassPikecharged nothing for people with more than, say 50,000 tunes intheir cache? Art whipped out his comm and his keyboard andstarted making notes, snatching at the silver rail with hiskeyboard hand every time the train jerked and threatened totopple him.That’s how the tube cops found him, once the trainreached Elephant and Castle and they did their rounds, politelybut firmly rousting him. 13.I am already in as much trouble as I can be, I think. I have leftmy room, hit and detonated some poor cafeteria hash-slinger’sfartmobile, and certainly damned some hapless secret smokerto employee Hades for his security lapses. When I get downfrom here, I will be bound up in a chemical straightjacket. I’llbe one of the ward-corner droolers, propped up in a wheelchairin front of the video, tended twice daily for diaper changes,feeding and re-medication.That is the worst they can do, and I’m in for it. This leaves measking two questions:1. Why am I so damned eager to be rescued from my rooftopaerie? I am sunburned and sad, but I am more free than I havebeen in weeks.2. Why am I so reluctant to take further action in the service ofgetting someone up onto the roof?
I could topple a ventilatorchimney by moving the cinderblocks that hold its apron downand giving it the shoulder. I could dump rattling handfuls ofgravel down its maw and wake the psychotics below.I could, but I won’t. Maybe I don’t want to go back just yet.They cooked it up between them. The Jersey customers, Fede,and Linda. I should have known better.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 3-03-eastern-standard-tribe-del-3
# chapter_title: 03_eastern-standard-tribe-del-3
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# chapter_page: 23
# language: en
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That’s how the tube cops found him, once the trainreached Elephant and Castle and they did their rounds, politelybut firmly rousting him. 13.I am already in as much trouble as I can be, I think. I have leftmy room, hit and detonated some poor cafeteria hash-slinger’sfartmobile, and certainly damned some hapless secret smokerto employee Hades for his security lapses. When I get downfrom here, I will be bound up in a chemical straightjacket. I’llbe one of the ward-corner droolers, propped up in a wheelchairin front of the video, tended twice daily for diaper changes,feeding and re-medication.That is the worst they can do, and I’m in for it. This leaves measking two questions:1. Why am I so damned eager to be rescued from my rooftopaerie? I am sunburned and sad, but I am more free than I havebeen in weeks.2. Why am I so reluctant to take further action in the service ofgetting someone up onto the roof?
I could topple a ventilatorchimney by moving the cinderblocks that hold its apron downand giving it the shoulder. I could dump rattling handfuls ofgravel down its maw and wake the psychotics below.I could, but I won’t. Maybe I don’t want to go back just yet.They cooked it up between them. The Jersey customers, Fede,and Linda. I should have known better.04_eastern-standard-tribe-del-4
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 56 When I landed at Logan, I was full of beans, ready to designand implement my war-driving scheme for the Jerseycustomers and advance the glorious cause of the EasternStandard Tribe. I gleefully hopped up and down the coast,chilling in Manhattan for a day or two, hanging out with Granin Toronto.That Linda followed me out made it all even better. We rentedcars and drove them from city to city, dropping them off at thecity limits and switching to top-grade EST public transit, eatingtop-grade EST pizza, heads turning to follow the impeccablydressed, buff couples that strolled the pedestrian-friendlystreets arm in arm. We sat on stoops in Brooklyn with oldladies who talked softly in the gloaming of the pollution-tingedsunsets while their grandchildren chased each other down thestreet.
We joined a pickup game of street-hockey in Boston,yelling “Car!” and clearing the net every time a fartmobileturned into the cul-de-sac.We played like kids. I got commed during working hours andmy evenings were blissfully devoid of buzzes, beeps and alerts.It surprised the hell out of me when I discovered Fede’streachery and Linda’s complicity and found myself flyingcattle class to London to kick Fede’s ass. What an idiot I am.I have never won an argument with Fede. I thought I had thattime, of course, but I should have known better. I was hardlyback in Boston for a day before the men with the white coatscame to take me away. They showed up at the Novotel, soothing and grim, and openedmy room’s keycard reader with a mental-hygiene override.There were four of them, wiry and fast with the no-nonsensemanner of men who have been unexpectedly hammered byoutwardly calm psychopaths.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 4-04-eastern-standard-tribe-del-4
# chapter_title: 04_eastern-standard-tribe-del-4
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# chapter_page: 1
# language: en
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 56 When I landed at Logan, I was full of beans, ready to designand implement my war-driving scheme for the Jerseycustomers and advance the glorious cause of the EasternStandard Tribe. I gleefully hopped up and down the coast,chilling in Manhattan for a day or two, hanging out with Granin Toronto.That Linda followed me out made it all even better. We rentedcars and drove them from city to city, dropping them off at thecity limits and switching to top-grade EST public transit, eatingtop-grade EST pizza, heads turning to follow the impeccablydressed, buff couples that strolled the pedestrian-friendlystreets arm in arm. We sat on stoops in Brooklyn with oldladies who talked softly in the gloaming of the pollution-tingedsunsets while their grandchildren chased each other down thestreet.
We joined a pickup game of street-hockey in Boston,yelling “Car!” and clearing the net every time a fartmobileturned into the cul-de-sac.We played like kids. I got commed during working hours andmy evenings were blissfully devoid of buzzes, beeps and alerts.It surprised the hell out of me when I discovered Fede’streachery and Linda’s complicity and found myself flyingcattle class to London to kick Fede’s ass. What an idiot I am.I have never won an argument with Fede. I thought I had thattime, of course, but I should have known better. I was hardlyback in Boston for a day before the men with the white coatscame to take me away. They showed up at the Novotel, soothing and grim, and openedmy room’s keycard reader with a mental-hygiene override.There were four of them, wiry and fast with the no-nonsensemanner of men who have been unexpectedly hammered byoutwardly calm psychopaths.That I was harmlessly having arare cigarette on the balcony, dripping from the shower, madeno impression on them. They dropped their faceplates, movedquickly to the balcony and boxed me in.One of them recited a Miranda-esque litany that ended with“Do you understand.” It wasn’t really a question, but Ianswered anyway. “No! No I don’t! Who the hell are you, andwhat are you doing in my fucking hotel room?”In my heart, though, I knew. I’d lived enough of my life on thehallucinatory edge of sleepdep to have anticipated this momentduring a thousand freakouts. I was being led away to thesanatorium, because someone, somewhere, had figured outabout the scurrying hamsters in my brain. About time.As soon as I said the f-word, the guns came out. I tried to relax.I knew intuitively that this could either be a routine andimpersonal affair, or a screaming, kicking, biting nightmare.
Iknew that arriving at the intake in a calm frame of mind wouldmake the difference between a chemical straightjacket and asleeping pill.The guns were nonlethals, and varied: two kinds of nastyaerosol, a dart-gun, and a tazer. The tazer captured myattention, whipping horizontal lightning in the spring breeze.The Tesla enema, they called it in London. Supposedly club-
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 57 kids used them recreationally, but everyone I knew who’d beenhit with one described the experience as fundamentally anduniquely horrible.I slowly raised my hands. “I would like to pack a bag, and Iwould like to see documentary evidence of your authority. MayI?” I kept my voice as calm as I could, but it cracked on “MayI?”The reader of the litany nodded slowly. “You tell us what youwant packed and we’ll pack it. Once that’s done, I’ll show youthe committal document, all right?”“Thank you,” I said.They drove me through the Route 128 traffic in the sealed andpadded compartment in the back of their van. I was strapped inat the waist, and strapped over my shoulders with a paddedharness that reminded me of a rollercoaster restraint.
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# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 4-04-eastern-standard-tribe-del-4
# chapter_title: 04_eastern-standard-tribe-del-4
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# language: en
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That I was harmlessly having arare cigarette on the balcony, dripping from the shower, madeno impression on them. They dropped their faceplates, movedquickly to the balcony and boxed me in.One of them recited a Miranda-esque litany that ended with“Do you understand.” It wasn’t really a question, but Ianswered anyway. “No! No I don’t! Who the hell are you, andwhat are you doing in my fucking hotel room?”In my heart, though, I knew. I’d lived enough of my life on thehallucinatory edge of sleepdep to have anticipated this momentduring a thousand freakouts. I was being led away to thesanatorium, because someone, somewhere, had figured outabout the scurrying hamsters in my brain. About time.As soon as I said the f-word, the guns came out. I tried to relax.I knew intuitively that this could either be a routine andimpersonal affair, or a screaming, kicking, biting nightmare.
Iknew that arriving at the intake in a calm frame of mind wouldmake the difference between a chemical straightjacket and asleeping pill.The guns were nonlethals, and varied: two kinds of nastyaerosol, a dart-gun, and a tazer. The tazer captured myattention, whipping horizontal lightning in the spring breeze.The Tesla enema, they called it in London. Supposedly club-
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 57 kids used them recreationally, but everyone I knew who’d beenhit with one described the experience as fundamentally anduniquely horrible.I slowly raised my hands. “I would like to pack a bag, and Iwould like to see documentary evidence of your authority. MayI?” I kept my voice as calm as I could, but it cracked on “MayI?”The reader of the litany nodded slowly. “You tell us what youwant packed and we’ll pack it. Once that’s done, I’ll show youthe committal document, all right?”“Thank you,” I said.They drove me through the Route 128 traffic in the sealed andpadded compartment in the back of their van. I was strapped inat the waist, and strapped over my shoulders with a paddedharness that reminded me of a rollercoaster restraint.We madeslow progress, jerking and changing lanes at regular intervals.The traffic signature of 128 was unmistakable.The intake doctor wanded me for contraband, drew fluids frommy various parts, and made light chitchat with me along theway. It was the last time I saw him. Before I knew it, a beefyorderly had me by the arm and was leading me to my room. Hehad a thick Eastern European accent, and he ran down thehouse rules for me in battered English. I tried to devote myattention to it, to forget the slack-eyed ward denizens I’dpassed on my way in. I succeeded enough to understand the relationship of my legcuff, the door frame and the elevators.The orderly fished in his smock and produced a hypo.“For sleepink,” he said.Panic, suppressed since my arrival, welled up and burst over.“Wait!” I said. “What about my things?
I had a bag with me.”“Talk to doctor in morning,” he said, gesturing with the hypo,fitting it with a needle-and-dosage cartridge and popping thesterile wrap off with a thumbswitch. “Now, for sleepink.” Headvanced on me.I’d been telling myself that this was a chance to rest, to relaxand gather my wits. Soon enough, I’d sort things out with thedoctors and I’d be on my way. I’d argue my way out of it. Buthere came Boris Badinoff with his magic needle, and all reasonfled. I scrambled back over the bed and pressed against thewindow.“It’s barely three,” I said, guessing at the time in the absence ofmy comm. “I’m not tired. I’ll go to sleep when I am.”“For sleepink,” he repeated, in a more soothing tone.“No, that’s all right. I’m tired enough. Long night last night.I’ll just lie down and nap now, all right? No need for needles,OK?”He grabbed my wrist. I tried to tug it out of his grasp, to squirmaway.
There’s a lot of good, old-fashioned dirty fighting in Tai
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 4-04-eastern-standard-tribe-del-4
# chapter_title: 04_eastern-standard-tribe-del-4
# book_page: 76 / 169
# chapter_page: 3
# language: en
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We madeslow progress, jerking and changing lanes at regular intervals.The traffic signature of 128 was unmistakable.The intake doctor wanded me for contraband, drew fluids frommy various parts, and made light chitchat with me along theway. It was the last time I saw him. Before I knew it, a beefyorderly had me by the arm and was leading me to my room. Hehad a thick Eastern European accent, and he ran down thehouse rules for me in battered English. I tried to devote myattention to it, to forget the slack-eyed ward denizens I’dpassed on my way in. I succeeded enough to understand the relationship of my legcuff, the door frame and the elevators.The orderly fished in his smock and produced a hypo.“For sleepink,” he said.Panic, suppressed since my arrival, welled up and burst over.“Wait!” I said. “What about my things?
I had a bag with me.”“Talk to doctor in morning,” he said, gesturing with the hypo,fitting it with a needle-and-dosage cartridge and popping thesterile wrap off with a thumbswitch. “Now, for sleepink.” Headvanced on me.I’d been telling myself that this was a chance to rest, to relaxand gather my wits. Soon enough, I’d sort things out with thedoctors and I’d be on my way. I’d argue my way out of it. Buthere came Boris Badinoff with his magic needle, and all reasonfled. I scrambled back over the bed and pressed against thewindow.“It’s barely three,” I said, guessing at the time in the absence ofmy comm. “I’m not tired. I’ll go to sleep when I am.”“For sleepink,” he repeated, in a more soothing tone.“No, that’s all right. I’m tired enough. Long night last night.I’ll just lie down and nap now, all right? No need for needles,OK?”He grabbed my wrist. I tried to tug it out of his grasp, to squirmaway.
There’s a lot of good, old-fashioned dirty fighting in TaiCory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 58 Chi—eye-gouging, groin punches, hold-breaks and come-alongs—and they all fled me. I thrashed like a fish on a line ashe ran the hypo over the crook of my elbow until the vein-sensing LED glowed white. He jabbed down with it and I felt aprick. For a second, I thought that it hadn’t taken effect—I’vedone enough chemical sleep in my years with the Tribe thatI’ve developed quite a tolerance for most varieties—but then Ifelt that unmistakable heaviness in my eyelids, the melatonincrash that signalled the onslaught of merciless rest. I collapsedinto bed.I spent the next day in a drugged stupor. I’ve become quiteaccustomed to functioning in a stupor over the years, but thiswas different. No caffeine, for starters. They fed me and I had ameeting with a nice doctor who ran it down for me. I was herefor observation pending a competency hearing in a week.
I hadseven days to prove that I wasn’t a danger to myself or others,and if I could, the judge would let me go.“It’s like I’m a drug addict, huh?” I said to the doctor, who wasused to non sequiturs.“Sure, sure it is.” He shifted in the hard chair opposite my bed,getting ready to go.“No, really, I’m not just running my mouth. It’s like this: Idon’t think I have a problem here. I think that my way ofconducting my life is perfectly harmless. Like a speedfreakwho thinks that she’s just having a great time, beingultraproductive and coming out ahead of the game. But herfriends, they’re convinced she’s destroying herself—they see the danger she’s putting herself in, they see her healthdeteriorating. So they put her into rehab, kicking andscreaming, where she stays until she figures it out.“So, it’s like I’m addicted to being nuts. I have a nonrationalview of the world around me. An inaccurate view.
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# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 4-04-eastern-standard-tribe-del-4
# chapter_title: 04_eastern-standard-tribe-del-4
# book_page: 77 / 169
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 58 Chi—eye-gouging, groin punches, hold-breaks and come-alongs—and they all fled me. I thrashed like a fish on a line ashe ran the hypo over the crook of my elbow until the vein-sensing LED glowed white. He jabbed down with it and I felt aprick. For a second, I thought that it hadn’t taken effect—I’vedone enough chemical sleep in my years with the Tribe thatI’ve developed quite a tolerance for most varieties—but then Ifelt that unmistakable heaviness in my eyelids, the melatonincrash that signalled the onslaught of merciless rest. I collapsedinto bed.I spent the next day in a drugged stupor. I’ve become quiteaccustomed to functioning in a stupor over the years, but thiswas different. No caffeine, for starters. They fed me and I had ameeting with a nice doctor who ran it down for me. I was herefor observation pending a competency hearing in a week.
I hadseven days to prove that I wasn’t a danger to myself or others,and if I could, the judge would let me go.“It’s like I’m a drug addict, huh?” I said to the doctor, who wasused to non sequiturs.“Sure, sure it is.” He shifted in the hard chair opposite my bed,getting ready to go.“No, really, I’m not just running my mouth. It’s like this: Idon’t think I have a problem here. I think that my way ofconducting my life is perfectly harmless. Like a speedfreakwho thinks that she’s just having a great time, beingultraproductive and coming out ahead of the game. But herfriends, they’re convinced she’s destroying herself—they see the danger she’s putting herself in, they see her healthdeteriorating. So they put her into rehab, kicking andscreaming, where she stays until she figures it out.“So, it’s like I’m addicted to being nuts. I have a nonrationalview of the world around me. An inaccurate view.You aremeant to be the objective observer, to make such notes as arenecessary to determine if I’m seeing things properly, orthrough a haze of nutziness. For as long as I go on taking mydrug—shooting up my craziness—you keep me here. Once Istop, once I accept the objective truth of reality, you let me go.What then? Do I become a recovering nutcase? Do I have tostand ever-vigilant against the siren song of craziness?”The doctor ran his hands through his long hair and bounced hisknee up and down. “You could put it that way, I guess.”“So tell me, what’s the next step? What is my optimumstrategy for providing compelling evidence of my repudiationof my worldview?”“Well, that’s where the analogy breaks down. This isn’t aboutanything demonstrable. There’s no one thing we look for inmaking our diagnosis. It’s a collection of things, a protocol forevaluating you. It doesn’t happen overnight, either.
You werecommitted on the basis of evidence that you had made threatsto your coworkers due to a belief that they were seeking toharm you.”“Interesting. Can we try a little thought experiment, Doctor?Say that your coworkers really were seeking to harm you—this
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 59 is not without historical precedent, right? They’re seeking tosabotage you because you’ve discovered some terribletreachery on their part, and they want to hush you up. So theyprovoke a reaction from you and use it as the basis for aninvoluntary committal. How would you, as a medicalprofessional, distinguish that scenario from one in which thepatient is genuinely paranoid and delusional?”The doctor looked away. “It’s in the protocol—we find itthere.”“I see,” I said, moving in for the kill. “I see. Where would I getmore information on the protocol? I’d like to research it beforemy hearing.”“I’m sorry,” the doctor said, “we don’t provide access tomedical texts to our patients.”“Why not? How can I defend myself against a charge if I’m notmade aware of the means by which my defense is judged?
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# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 4-04-eastern-standard-tribe-del-4
# chapter_title: 04_eastern-standard-tribe-del-4
# book_page: 78 / 169
# chapter_page: 5
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You aremeant to be the objective observer, to make such notes as arenecessary to determine if I’m seeing things properly, orthrough a haze of nutziness. For as long as I go on taking mydrug—shooting up my craziness—you keep me here. Once Istop, once I accept the objective truth of reality, you let me go.What then? Do I become a recovering nutcase? Do I have tostand ever-vigilant against the siren song of craziness?”The doctor ran his hands through his long hair and bounced hisknee up and down. “You could put it that way, I guess.”“So tell me, what’s the next step? What is my optimumstrategy for providing compelling evidence of my repudiationof my worldview?”“Well, that’s where the analogy breaks down. This isn’t aboutanything demonstrable. There’s no one thing we look for inmaking our diagnosis. It’s a collection of things, a protocol forevaluating you. It doesn’t happen overnight, either.
You werecommitted on the basis of evidence that you had made threatsto your coworkers due to a belief that they were seeking toharm you.”“Interesting. Can we try a little thought experiment, Doctor?Say that your coworkers really were seeking to harm you—this
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 59 is not without historical precedent, right? They’re seeking tosabotage you because you’ve discovered some terribletreachery on their part, and they want to hush you up. So theyprovoke a reaction from you and use it as the basis for aninvoluntary committal. How would you, as a medicalprofessional, distinguish that scenario from one in which thepatient is genuinely paranoid and delusional?”The doctor looked away. “It’s in the protocol—we find itthere.”“I see,” I said, moving in for the kill. “I see. Where would I getmore information on the protocol? I’d like to research it beforemy hearing.”“I’m sorry,” the doctor said, “we don’t provide access tomedical texts to our patients.”“Why not? How can I defend myself against a charge if I’m notmade aware of the means by which my defense is judged?Thathardly seems fair.”The doctor stood and smoothed his coat, turned his badge’slanyard so that his picture faced outwards. “Art, you’re nothere to defend yourself. You’re here so that we can take a lookat you and understand what’s going on. If you have been setup, we’ll discover it—”“What’s the ratio of real paranoids to people who’ve been setup, in your experience?” “I don’t keep stats on that sort of thing—”“How many paranoids have been released because they werevindicated?”“I’d have to go through my case histories—”“Is it more than ten?”“No, I wouldn’t think so—”“More than five?”“Art, I don’t think—”“Have any paranoids ever been vindicated? Is this observationperiod anything more than a formality en route to committal?Come on, Doctor, just let me know where I stand.”“Art, we’re on your side here. If you want to make this easy onyourself, then you should understand that.
The nurse will be inwith your lunch and your meds in a few minutes, then you’ll beallowed out on the ward. I’ll speak to you there more, if youwant.”“Doctor, it’s a simple question: Has anyone ever been admittedto this facility because it was believed he had paranoiddelusions, and later released because he was indeed the centerof a plot?”
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 60 “Art, it’s not appropriate for me to discuss other patients’histories—”“Don’t you publish case studies? Don’t those containconfidential information disguised with pseudonyms?”“That’s not the point—”“What is the point? It seems to me that my optimal strategyhere is to repudiate my belief that Fede and Linda are plottingagainst me—even if I still believe this to be true, even if it istrue—and profess a belief that they are my good and concernedfriends. In other words, if they are indeed plotting against me, Imust profess to a delusional belief that they aren’t, in order toprove that I am not delusional.”“I read Catch-22 too, Art. That’s not what this is about, butyour attitude isn’t going to help you any here.” The doctorscribbled on his comm briefly, tapped at some menus. I leanedacross and stared at the screen.“That looks like a prescription, Doctor.”“It is. I’m giving you a mild sedative.
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# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 4-04-eastern-standard-tribe-del-4
# chapter_title: 04_eastern-standard-tribe-del-4
# book_page: 79 / 169
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Thathardly seems fair.”The doctor stood and smoothed his coat, turned his badge’slanyard so that his picture faced outwards. “Art, you’re nothere to defend yourself. You’re here so that we can take a lookat you and understand what’s going on. If you have been setup, we’ll discover it—”“What’s the ratio of real paranoids to people who’ve been setup, in your experience?” “I don’t keep stats on that sort of thing—”“How many paranoids have been released because they werevindicated?”“I’d have to go through my case histories—”“Is it more than ten?”“No, I wouldn’t think so—”“More than five?”“Art, I don’t think—”“Have any paranoids ever been vindicated? Is this observationperiod anything more than a formality en route to committal?Come on, Doctor, just let me know where I stand.”“Art, we’re on your side here. If you want to make this easy onyourself, then you should understand that.
The nurse will be inwith your lunch and your meds in a few minutes, then you’ll beallowed out on the ward. I’ll speak to you there more, if youwant.”“Doctor, it’s a simple question: Has anyone ever been admittedto this facility because it was believed he had paranoiddelusions, and later released because he was indeed the centerof a plot?”
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 60 “Art, it’s not appropriate for me to discuss other patients’histories—”“Don’t you publish case studies? Don’t those containconfidential information disguised with pseudonyms?”“That’s not the point—”“What is the point? It seems to me that my optimal strategyhere is to repudiate my belief that Fede and Linda are plottingagainst me—even if I still believe this to be true, even if it istrue—and profess a belief that they are my good and concernedfriends. In other words, if they are indeed plotting against me, Imust profess to a delusional belief that they aren’t, in order toprove that I am not delusional.”“I read Catch-22 too, Art. That’s not what this is about, butyour attitude isn’t going to help you any here.” The doctorscribbled on his comm briefly, tapped at some menus. I leanedacross and stared at the screen.“That looks like a prescription, Doctor.”“It is. I’m giving you a mild sedative.We can’t help you untilyou’re calmer and ready to listen.”“I’m perfectly calm. I just disagree with you. I am the sort ofperson who learns through debate. Medication won’t stop that.”“We’ll see,” the doctor said, and left, before I could muster ariposte. I was finally allowed onto the ward, dressed in what the nursescalled “day clothes”—the civilian duds that I’d packed beforeleaving the hotel, which an orderly retrieved for me from alocked closet in my room. The clustered nuts were watchingslackjaw TV, or staring out the windows, or rocking in place,fidgeting and muttering. I found myself a seat next to a birdywoman whose long oily hair was parted down the middle,leaving a furrow in her scalp lined with twin rows of dandruff.She was young, maybe twenty-five, and seemed the leaststuporous of the lot.“Hello,” I said to her.She smiled shyly, then pitched forward and vomited copiouslyand noisily between her knees.
I shrank back and struggled tokeep my face neutral. A nurse hastened to her side and droppeda plastic bucket in the stream of puke, which was still gushingout of her mouth, her thin chest heaving.“Here, Sarah, in here,” the nurse said, with an air of irritation.“Can I help?” I said, ridiculously.She looked sharply at me. “Art, isn’t it? Why aren’t you inGroup? It’s after one!”“Group?” I asked.“Group. In that corner, there.” She gestured at a collection ofsagging sofas underneath one of the ward’s grilled-in windows.“You’re late, and they’ve started without you.”
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# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 4-04-eastern-standard-tribe-del-4
# chapter_title: 04_eastern-standard-tribe-del-4
# book_page: 80 / 169
# chapter_page: 7
# language: en
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We can’t help you untilyou’re calmer and ready to listen.”“I’m perfectly calm. I just disagree with you. I am the sort ofperson who learns through debate. Medication won’t stop that.”“We’ll see,” the doctor said, and left, before I could muster ariposte. I was finally allowed onto the ward, dressed in what the nursescalled “day clothes”—the civilian duds that I’d packed beforeleaving the hotel, which an orderly retrieved for me from alocked closet in my room. The clustered nuts were watchingslackjaw TV, or staring out the windows, or rocking in place,fidgeting and muttering. I found myself a seat next to a birdywoman whose long oily hair was parted down the middle,leaving a furrow in her scalp lined with twin rows of dandruff.She was young, maybe twenty-five, and seemed the leaststuporous of the lot.“Hello,” I said to her.She smiled shyly, then pitched forward and vomited copiouslyand noisily between her knees.
I shrank back and struggled tokeep my face neutral. A nurse hastened to her side and droppeda plastic bucket in the stream of puke, which was still gushingout of her mouth, her thin chest heaving.“Here, Sarah, in here,” the nurse said, with an air of irritation.“Can I help?” I said, ridiculously.She looked sharply at me. “Art, isn’t it? Why aren’t you inGroup? It’s after one!”“Group?” I asked.“Group. In that corner, there.” She gestured at a collection ofsagging sofas underneath one of the ward’s grilled-in windows.“You’re late, and they’ve started without you.”Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 61 There were four other people there, two women and a youngboy, and a doctor in mufti, identifiable by his shoes—notslippers—and his staff of office, the almighty badge-on-a-lanyard.Throbbing with dread, I moved away from the still-heaving girlto the sofa cluster and stood at its edge. The group turned tolook at me. The doctor cleared his throat. “Group, this is Art.Glad you made it, Art. You’re a little late, but we’re justgetting started here, so that’s OK. This is Lucy, Fatima, andManuel. Why don’t you have a seat?” His voice wasprofessionally smooth and stultifying.I sank into a bright orange sofa that exhaled a cloud of dustmotes that danced in the sun streaming through the windows. Italso exhaled a breath of trapped ancient farts, barf-smell, andantiseptic, the parfum de asylum that gradually numbed mynose to all other scents on the ward.
I folded my hands in mylap and tried to look attentive.“All right, Art. Everyone in the group is pretty new here, soyou don’t have to worry about not knowing what’s what. Thereare no right or wrong things. The only rules are that you can’tinterrupt anyone, and if you want to criticize, you have tocriticize the idea, and not the person who said it. All right?”“Sure,” I said. “Sure. Let’s get started.”“Well, aren’t you eager?” the doctor said warmly. “OK.Manuel was just telling us about his friends.” “They’re not my friends,” Manuel said angrily. “They’re thereason I’m here. I hate them.”“Go on,” the doctor said.“I already told you, yesterday! Tony and Musafir, they’retrying to get rid of me. I make them look bad, so they want toget rid of me.”“Why do you think you make them look bad?”“Because I’m better than them—I’m smarter, I dress better, Iget better grades, I score more goals.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 4-04-eastern-standard-tribe-del-4
# chapter_title: 04_eastern-standard-tribe-del-4
# book_page: 81 / 169
# chapter_page: 8
# language: en
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 61 There were four other people there, two women and a youngboy, and a doctor in mufti, identifiable by his shoes—notslippers—and his staff of office, the almighty badge-on-a-lanyard.Throbbing with dread, I moved away from the still-heaving girlto the sofa cluster and stood at its edge. The group turned tolook at me. The doctor cleared his throat. “Group, this is Art.Glad you made it, Art. You’re a little late, but we’re justgetting started here, so that’s OK. This is Lucy, Fatima, andManuel. Why don’t you have a seat?” His voice wasprofessionally smooth and stultifying.I sank into a bright orange sofa that exhaled a cloud of dustmotes that danced in the sun streaming through the windows. Italso exhaled a breath of trapped ancient farts, barf-smell, andantiseptic, the parfum de asylum that gradually numbed mynose to all other scents on the ward.
I folded my hands in mylap and tried to look attentive.“All right, Art. Everyone in the group is pretty new here, soyou don’t have to worry about not knowing what’s what. Thereare no right or wrong things. The only rules are that you can’tinterrupt anyone, and if you want to criticize, you have tocriticize the idea, and not the person who said it. All right?”“Sure,” I said. “Sure. Let’s get started.”“Well, aren’t you eager?” the doctor said warmly. “OK.Manuel was just telling us about his friends.” “They’re not my friends,” Manuel said angrily. “They’re thereason I’m here. I hate them.”“Go on,” the doctor said.“I already told you, yesterday! Tony and Musafir, they’retrying to get rid of me. I make them look bad, so they want toget rid of me.”“Why do you think you make them look bad?”“Because I’m better than them—I’m smarter, I dress better, Iget better grades, I score more goals.The girls like me better.They hate me for it.”“Oh yeah, you’re the cat’s ass, pookie,” Lucy said. She wasabout fifteen, voluminously fat, and her full lips twisted in anelaborate sneer as she spoke.“Lucy,” the doctor said patiently, favoring her with apatronizing smile. “That’s not cool, OK? Criticize the idea, notthe person, and only when it’s your turn, OK?”Lucy rolled her eyes with the eloquence of teenagedom.“All right, Manuel, thank you. Group, do you have any positivesuggestions for Manuel?”Stony silence.
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 62 “OK! Manuel, some of us are good at some things, and some ofus are good at others. Your friends don’t hate you, and I’m surethat if you think about it, you’ll know that you don’t hate them.Didn’t they come visit you last weekend? Successful peopleare well liked, and you’re no exception. We’ll come back tothis tomorrow—why don’t you spend the time until thenthinking of three examples of how your friends showed youthat they liked you, and you can tell us about it tomorrow?”Manuel stared out the window.“OK! Now, Art, welcome again. Tell us why you’re here.”“I’m in for observation. There’s a competency hearing at theend of the week.”Linda snorted and Fatima giggled.The doctor ignored them. “But tell us why you think you endedup here.”“You want the whole story?”“Whatever parts you think are important.”“It’s a Tribal thing.”“I see,” the doctor said.“It’s like this,” I said.
“It used to be that the way you choseyour friends was by finding the most like-minded people you could out of the pool of people who lived near to you. If youwere lucky, you lived near a bunch of people you could getalong with. This was a lot more likely in the olden days, backbefore, you know, printing and radio and such. Chances werethat you’d grow up so immersed in the local doctrine thatyou’d never even think to question it. If you were a genius or apsycho, you might come up with a whole new way of thinking,and if you could pull it off, you’d either gather up a bunch ofpeople who liked your new idea or you’d go somewhere else,like America, where you could set up a little colony of peoplewho agreed with you.
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# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 4-04-eastern-standard-tribe-del-4
# chapter_title: 04_eastern-standard-tribe-del-4
# book_page: 82 / 169
# chapter_page: 9
# language: en
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The girls like me better.They hate me for it.”“Oh yeah, you’re the cat’s ass, pookie,” Lucy said. She wasabout fifteen, voluminously fat, and her full lips twisted in anelaborate sneer as she spoke.“Lucy,” the doctor said patiently, favoring her with apatronizing smile. “That’s not cool, OK? Criticize the idea, notthe person, and only when it’s your turn, OK?”Lucy rolled her eyes with the eloquence of teenagedom.“All right, Manuel, thank you. Group, do you have any positivesuggestions for Manuel?”Stony silence.
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 62 “OK! Manuel, some of us are good at some things, and some ofus are good at others. Your friends don’t hate you, and I’m surethat if you think about it, you’ll know that you don’t hate them.Didn’t they come visit you last weekend? Successful peopleare well liked, and you’re no exception. We’ll come back tothis tomorrow—why don’t you spend the time until thenthinking of three examples of how your friends showed youthat they liked you, and you can tell us about it tomorrow?”Manuel stared out the window.“OK! Now, Art, welcome again. Tell us why you’re here.”“I’m in for observation. There’s a competency hearing at theend of the week.”Linda snorted and Fatima giggled.The doctor ignored them. “But tell us why you think you endedup here.”“You want the whole story?”“Whatever parts you think are important.”“It’s a Tribal thing.”“I see,” the doctor said.“It’s like this,” I said.
“It used to be that the way you choseyour friends was by finding the most like-minded people you could out of the pool of people who lived near to you. If youwere lucky, you lived near a bunch of people you could getalong with. This was a lot more likely in the olden days, backbefore, you know, printing and radio and such. Chances werethat you’d grow up so immersed in the local doctrine thatyou’d never even think to question it. If you were a genius or apsycho, you might come up with a whole new way of thinking,and if you could pull it off, you’d either gather up a bunch ofpeople who liked your new idea or you’d go somewhere else,like America, where you could set up a little colony of peoplewho agreed with you.Most of the time, though, people whodidn’t get along with their neighbors just moped around untilthey died.”“Very interesting,” the doctor said, interrupting smoothly, “butyou were going to tell us how you ended up here.”“Yeah,” Lucy said, “this isn’t a history lesson, it’s Group. Getto the point.”“I’m getting there,” I said. “It just takes some background ifyou’re going to understand it. Now, once ideas could travelmore freely, the chances of you finding out about a group ofpeople somewhere else that you might get along withincreased. Like when my dad was growing up, if you were gayand from a big city, chances were that you could figure outwhere other gay people hung out and go and—” I waved myhands, “be gay, right? But if you were from a small town, youmight not even know that there was such a thing as beinggay—you might think it was just a perversion. But as timewent by, the gay people in the big cities started making a
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 63 bigger and bigger deal out of being gay, and since all theinformation that the small towns consumed came from bigcities, that information leaked into the small towns and moregay people moved to the big cities, built little gay zones wheregay was normal.“So back when the New World was forming and sorting out itsborders and territories, information was flowing pretty well.You had telegraphs, you had the Pony Express, you hadthousands of little newspapers that got carried around onrailroads and streetcars and steamers, and it wasn’t long beforeeveryone knew what kind of person went where, even back inEurope and Asia. People immigrated here and picked wherethey wanted to live based on what sort of people they wanted tobe with, which ideas they liked best. A lot of it was religious,but that was just on the surface—underneath it all wasaesthetics.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 4-04-eastern-standard-tribe-del-4
# chapter_title: 04_eastern-standard-tribe-del-4
# book_page: 83 / 169
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# language: en
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Most of the time, though, people whodidn’t get along with their neighbors just moped around untilthey died.”“Very interesting,” the doctor said, interrupting smoothly, “butyou were going to tell us how you ended up here.”“Yeah,” Lucy said, “this isn’t a history lesson, it’s Group. Getto the point.”“I’m getting there,” I said. “It just takes some background ifyou’re going to understand it. Now, once ideas could travelmore freely, the chances of you finding out about a group ofpeople somewhere else that you might get along withincreased. Like when my dad was growing up, if you were gayand from a big city, chances were that you could figure outwhere other gay people hung out and go and—” I waved myhands, “be gay, right? But if you were from a small town, youmight not even know that there was such a thing as beinggay—you might think it was just a perversion. But as timewent by, the gay people in the big cities started making a
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 63 bigger and bigger deal out of being gay, and since all theinformation that the small towns consumed came from bigcities, that information leaked into the small towns and moregay people moved to the big cities, built little gay zones wheregay was normal.“So back when the New World was forming and sorting out itsborders and territories, information was flowing pretty well.You had telegraphs, you had the Pony Express, you hadthousands of little newspapers that got carried around onrailroads and streetcars and steamers, and it wasn’t long beforeeveryone knew what kind of person went where, even back inEurope and Asia. People immigrated here and picked wherethey wanted to live based on what sort of people they wanted tobe with, which ideas they liked best. A lot of it was religious,but that was just on the surface—underneath it all wasaesthetics.You wanted to go somewhere where the girls werepretty in the way you understood prettiness, where the foodsmelled like food and not garbage, where shops sold goods youcould recognize. Lots of other factors were at play, too, ofcourse—jobs and Jim Crow laws and whatnot, but the tug offinding people like you is like gravity. Lots of things workagainst gravity, but gravity always wins in the end—in the end,everything collapses. In the end, everyone ends up with thepeople that are most like them that they can find.”I was warming to my subject now, in that flow state that greatathletes get into when they just know where to swing their bat,where to plant their foot. I knew that I was working up a greatrant. “Fast-forward to the age of email. Slowly but surely, we beginto mediate almost all of our communication over networks.Why walk down the hallway to ask a coworker a question,when you can just send email?
You don’t need to interruptthem, and you can keep going on your own projects, and if youforget the answer, you can just open the message again andlook at the response. There’re all kinds of ways to interact withour friends over the network: we can play hallucinogenicgames, chat, send pictures, code, music, funny articles, metricfuckloads of porn... The interaction is high-quality! Sure, yougain three pounds every year you spend behind the desk insteadof walking down the hall to ask your buddy where he wants togo for lunch, but that’s a small price to pay.“So you’re a fish out of water. You live in Arizona, but you’resixteen years old and all your neighbors are eighty-five, andyou get ten billion channels of media on your desktop. All thegood stuff—everything that tickles you—comes out of someclique of hyperurban club-kids in South Philly. They’re makingcool art, music, clothes.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 4-04-eastern-standard-tribe-del-4
# chapter_title: 04_eastern-standard-tribe-del-4
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# language: en
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You wanted to go somewhere where the girls werepretty in the way you understood prettiness, where the foodsmelled like food and not garbage, where shops sold goods youcould recognize. Lots of other factors were at play, too, ofcourse—jobs and Jim Crow laws and whatnot, but the tug offinding people like you is like gravity. Lots of things workagainst gravity, but gravity always wins in the end—in the end,everything collapses. In the end, everyone ends up with thepeople that are most like them that they can find.”I was warming to my subject now, in that flow state that greatathletes get into when they just know where to swing their bat,where to plant their foot. I knew that I was working up a greatrant. “Fast-forward to the age of email. Slowly but surely, we beginto mediate almost all of our communication over networks.Why walk down the hallway to ask a coworker a question,when you can just send email?
You don’t need to interruptthem, and you can keep going on your own projects, and if youforget the answer, you can just open the message again andlook at the response. There’re all kinds of ways to interact withour friends over the network: we can play hallucinogenicgames, chat, send pictures, code, music, funny articles, metricfuckloads of porn... The interaction is high-quality! Sure, yougain three pounds every year you spend behind the desk insteadof walking down the hall to ask your buddy where he wants togo for lunch, but that’s a small price to pay.“So you’re a fish out of water. You live in Arizona, but you’resixteen years old and all your neighbors are eighty-five, andyou get ten billion channels of media on your desktop. All thegood stuff—everything that tickles you—comes out of someclique of hyperurban club-kids in South Philly. They’re makingcool art, music, clothes.You read their mailing lists and youcan tell that they’re exactly the kind of people who’d reallyappreciate you for who you are. In the old days, you’d packyour bags and hitchhike across the country and move to yourcommunity. But you’re sixteen, and that’s a pretty scary step.“Why move? These kids live online. At lunch, before school,and all night, they’re comming in, talking trash, sending aroundphotos, chatting. Online, you can be a peer. You can hop intothese discussions, play the games, chord with one hand whilechatting up some hottie a couple thousand miles away.
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 64 “Only you can’t. You can’t, because they chat at seven AMwhile they’re getting ready for school. They chat at five PM,while they’re working on their homework. Their late nights endat three AM. But those are their local times, not yours. If youget up at seven, they’re already at school, ’cause it’s ten there.“So you start to f with your sleep schedule. You get up at fourAM so you can chat with your friends. You go to bed at nine,’cause that’s when they go to bed. Used to be that it was stockbrokers and journos and factory workers who did that kind ofthing, but now it’s anyone who doesn’t fit in. The geniuses andlunatics to whom the local doctrine tastes wrong. They choosetheir peers based on similarity, not geography, and they keepthemselves awake at the same time as them.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 4-04-eastern-standard-tribe-del-4
# chapter_title: 04_eastern-standard-tribe-del-4
# book_page: 85 / 169
# chapter_page: 12
# language: en
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You read their mailing lists and youcan tell that they’re exactly the kind of people who’d reallyappreciate you for who you are. In the old days, you’d packyour bags and hitchhike across the country and move to yourcommunity. But you’re sixteen, and that’s a pretty scary step.“Why move? These kids live online. At lunch, before school,and all night, they’re comming in, talking trash, sending aroundphotos, chatting. Online, you can be a peer. You can hop intothese discussions, play the games, chord with one hand whilechatting up some hottie a couple thousand miles away.
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 64 “Only you can’t. You can’t, because they chat at seven AMwhile they’re getting ready for school. They chat at five PM,while they’re working on their homework. Their late nights endat three AM. But those are their local times, not yours. If youget up at seven, they’re already at school, ’cause it’s ten there.“So you start to f with your sleep schedule. You get up at fourAM so you can chat with your friends. You go to bed at nine,’cause that’s when they go to bed. Used to be that it was stockbrokers and journos and factory workers who did that kind ofthing, but now it’s anyone who doesn’t fit in. The geniuses andlunatics to whom the local doctrine tastes wrong. They choosetheir peers based on similarity, not geography, and they keepthemselves awake at the same time as them.But you need tomake some nod to localness, too—gotta be at work witheveryone else, gotta get to the bank when it’s open, gotta buyyour groceries. You end up hardly sleeping at all, you end upsneaking naps in the middle of the day, or after dinner, tryingto reconcile biological imperatives with cultural ones. Needlessto say, that alienates you even further from the folks at home,and drives you more and more into the arms of your onlinepeers of choice.“So you get the Tribes. People all over the world who arereally secret agents for some other time zone, some other wayof looking at the world, some other zeitgeist. Unlike othertribes, you can change allegiance by doing nothing more thatresetting your alarm clock. Like any tribe, they are primarilyloyal to each other, and anyone outside of the tribe is onlymostly human. That may sound extreme, but this is what itcomes down to. “Tribes are agendas. Aesthetics. Ethos. Traditions.
Ways ofgetting things done. They’re competitive. They may not all bebased on time-zones. There are knitting Tribes and vampirefan-fiction Tribes and Christian rock tribes, but they’ve alwaysexisted. Mostly, these tribes are little more than a sub-culture.It takes time-zones to amplify the cultural fissioning of fan-fiction or knitting into a full-blown conspiracy. Their interestsare commercial, industrial, cultural, culinary. A Tribesman willpatronize a fellow Tribesman’s restaurant, or give him amanufacturing contract, or hire his taxi. Not because ofxenophobia, but because of homophilia: I know that myTribesman’s taxi will conduct its way through traffic in a waythat I’m comfortable with, whether I’m in San Francisco,Boston, London or Calcutta.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 4-04-eastern-standard-tribe-del-4
# chapter_title: 04_eastern-standard-tribe-del-4
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# chapter_page: 13
# language: en
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But you need tomake some nod to localness, too—gotta be at work witheveryone else, gotta get to the bank when it’s open, gotta buyyour groceries. You end up hardly sleeping at all, you end upsneaking naps in the middle of the day, or after dinner, tryingto reconcile biological imperatives with cultural ones. Needlessto say, that alienates you even further from the folks at home,and drives you more and more into the arms of your onlinepeers of choice.“So you get the Tribes. People all over the world who arereally secret agents for some other time zone, some other wayof looking at the world, some other zeitgeist. Unlike othertribes, you can change allegiance by doing nothing more thatresetting your alarm clock. Like any tribe, they are primarilyloyal to each other, and anyone outside of the tribe is onlymostly human. That may sound extreme, but this is what itcomes down to. “Tribes are agendas. Aesthetics. Ethos. Traditions.
Ways ofgetting things done. They’re competitive. They may not all bebased on time-zones. There are knitting Tribes and vampirefan-fiction Tribes and Christian rock tribes, but they’ve alwaysexisted. Mostly, these tribes are little more than a sub-culture.It takes time-zones to amplify the cultural fissioning of fan-fiction or knitting into a full-blown conspiracy. Their interestsare commercial, industrial, cultural, culinary. A Tribesman willpatronize a fellow Tribesman’s restaurant, or give him amanufacturing contract, or hire his taxi. Not because ofxenophobia, but because of homophilia: I know that myTribesman’s taxi will conduct its way through traffic in a waythat I’m comfortable with, whether I’m in San Francisco,Boston, London or Calcutta.I know that the food will bepalatable in a Tribal restaurant, that a book by a Tribalist willbe a good read, that a gross of widgets will be manufactured tothe exacting standards of my Tribe.“Like I said, though, unless you’re at ground zero, in theTribe’s native time zone, your sleep sched is just raped. Youlive on sleepdep and chat and secret agentry until it’s secondnature. You’re cranky and subrational most of the time. Closeyour eyes on the freeway and dreams paint themselves on theback of your lids, demanding their time, almost as heavy asgravity, almost as remorseless. There’s a lot of flaming andsplitting and vitriol in the Tribes. They’re more fractured than apotsherd. Tribal anthropologists have built up incrediblehistories of the fissioning of the Tribes since they were firstrecognized—most of ’em are online; you can look ’em up.
Westab each other in the back routinely and with no moreprovocation than a sleepdep hallucination.
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 65 “Which is how I got here. I’m a member of the EasternStandard Tribe. We’re centered around New York, but we’reramified up and down the coast, Boston and Toronto andPhilly, a bunch of Montreal Anglos and some wannabes inupstate New York, around Buffalo and Schenectady. I wasdoing Tribal work in London, serving the Eastern StandardAgenda, working with a couple of Tribesmen, well, oneTribesman and my girlfriend, who I thought was unaffiliated.Turns out, though, that they’re both double agents. They soldout to the Pacific Daylight Tribe, lameass phonies out in LA,slick Silicon Valley bizdev sharks, pseudo hipsters in SanFranscarcity. Once I threatened to expose them, they set me up,had me thrown in here.”I looked around proudly, having just completed a real fun littleexcursion through a topic near and dear to my heart.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 4-04-eastern-standard-tribe-del-4
# chapter_title: 04_eastern-standard-tribe-del-4
# book_page: 87 / 169
# chapter_page: 14
# language: en
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I know that the food will bepalatable in a Tribal restaurant, that a book by a Tribalist willbe a good read, that a gross of widgets will be manufactured tothe exacting standards of my Tribe.“Like I said, though, unless you’re at ground zero, in theTribe’s native time zone, your sleep sched is just raped. Youlive on sleepdep and chat and secret agentry until it’s secondnature. You’re cranky and subrational most of the time. Closeyour eyes on the freeway and dreams paint themselves on theback of your lids, demanding their time, almost as heavy asgravity, almost as remorseless. There’s a lot of flaming andsplitting and vitriol in the Tribes. They’re more fractured than apotsherd. Tribal anthropologists have built up incrediblehistories of the fissioning of the Tribes since they were firstrecognized—most of ’em are online; you can look ’em up.
Westab each other in the back routinely and with no moreprovocation than a sleepdep hallucination.
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 65 “Which is how I got here. I’m a member of the EasternStandard Tribe. We’re centered around New York, but we’reramified up and down the coast, Boston and Toronto andPhilly, a bunch of Montreal Anglos and some wannabes inupstate New York, around Buffalo and Schenectady. I wasdoing Tribal work in London, serving the Eastern StandardAgenda, working with a couple of Tribesmen, well, oneTribesman and my girlfriend, who I thought was unaffiliated.Turns out, though, that they’re both double agents. They soldout to the Pacific Daylight Tribe, lameass phonies out in LA,slick Silicon Valley bizdev sharks, pseudo hipsters in SanFranscarcity. Once I threatened to expose them, they set me up,had me thrown in here.”I looked around proudly, having just completed a real fun littleexcursion through a topic near and dear to my heart.MountRushmore looked back at me, stony and bovine anduncomprehending.“Baby,” Lucy said, rolling her eyes again, “you need some newmeds.”“Could be,” I said. “But this is for real. Is there a comm on theward? We can look it up together.”“Oh, that’all prove it, all right. Nothing but truth online.”“I didn’t say that. There’re peer-reviewed articles about theTribes. It was a lead story on the CBC’s social science site lastyear.” “Uh huh, sure. Right next to the sasquatch videos.”“I’m talking about the CBC, Lucy. Let’s go look it up.”Lucy mimed taking an invisible comm out of her cleavage andprodding at it with an invisible stylus. She settled an invisiblepair of spectacles on her nose and nodded sagely. “Oh yeah,sure, really interesting stuff.”I realized that I was arguing with a crazy person and turned tothe doctor. “You must have read about the Tribes, right?”The doctor acted as if he hadn’t heard me. “That’s justfascinating, Art.
Thank you for sharing that. Now, here’s aquestion I’d like you to think about, and maybe you can tell usthe answer tomorrow: What are the ways that yourfriends—the ones you say betrayed you—used to show youhow much they respected you and liked you? Think hard aboutthis. I think you’ll be surprised by the conclusions you cometo.”“What’s that supposed to mean?”“Just what I said, Art. Think hard about how you and yourfriends interacted and you’ll see that they really like you.”“Did you hear what I just said? Have you heard of the Tribes?”“Sure, sure. But this isn’t about the Tribes, Art. This is aboutyou and—” he consulted his comm, “Fede and Linda. Theycare about you a great deal and they’re terribly worried about
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 4-04-eastern-standard-tribe-del-4
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# book_page: 88 / 169
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# language: en
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MountRushmore looked back at me, stony and bovine anduncomprehending.“Baby,” Lucy said, rolling her eyes again, “you need some newmeds.”“Could be,” I said. “But this is for real. Is there a comm on theward? We can look it up together.”“Oh, that’all prove it, all right. Nothing but truth online.”“I didn’t say that. There’re peer-reviewed articles about theTribes. It was a lead story on the CBC’s social science site lastyear.” “Uh huh, sure. Right next to the sasquatch videos.”“I’m talking about the CBC, Lucy. Let’s go look it up.”Lucy mimed taking an invisible comm out of her cleavage andprodding at it with an invisible stylus. She settled an invisiblepair of spectacles on her nose and nodded sagely. “Oh yeah,sure, really interesting stuff.”I realized that I was arguing with a crazy person and turned tothe doctor. “You must have read about the Tribes, right?”The doctor acted as if he hadn’t heard me. “That’s justfascinating, Art.
Thank you for sharing that. Now, here’s aquestion I’d like you to think about, and maybe you can tell usthe answer tomorrow: What are the ways that yourfriends—the ones you say betrayed you—used to show youhow much they respected you and liked you? Think hard aboutthis. I think you’ll be surprised by the conclusions you cometo.”“What’s that supposed to mean?”“Just what I said, Art. Think hard about how you and yourfriends interacted and you’ll see that they really like you.”“Did you hear what I just said? Have you heard of the Tribes?”“Sure, sure. But this isn’t about the Tribes, Art. This is aboutyou and—” he consulted his comm, “Fede and Linda. Theycare about you a great deal and they’re terribly worried aboutCory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 66 you. You just think about it. Now,” he said, recrossing his legs,“Fatima, you told us yesterday about your mother and I askedyou to think about how she feels. Can you tell the group whatyou found out?”But Fatima was off in med-land, eyes glazed and mouthhanging slack. Manuel nudged her with his toe, then, when shefailed to stir, aimed a kick at her shin. The doctor held a handout and grabbed Manuel’s slippered toe. “That’s all right, let’smove on to Lucy.”I tuned out as Lucy began an elaborate and well-worn rantabout her eating habits, prodded on by the doctor. Theenormity of the situation was coming home to me. I couldn’twin. If I averred that Fede and Linda were my booncompanions, I’d still be found incompetent—after all, whatcompetent person threatens his boon companions?
If I stuck tomy story, I’d be found incompetent, and medicated besides,like poor little Fatima, zombified by the psychoactive cocktail.Either way, I was stuck.Stuck on the roof now, and it’s getting very uncomfortableindeed. Stuck because I am officially incompetent and doomedand damned to indefinite rest on the ward. Stuck because everypassing moment here is additional time for the hamsters to runtheir courses in my mind, piling regret on worry.Stuck because as soon as I am discovered, I will be stupified bythe meds, administered by stern and loving and thoroughlydisappointed doctors. I still haven’t managed to remember anyof their names. They are interchangeable, well shod and endowed with badges on lanyards and soothing and implacableand entirely unappreciative of my rhetorical skills.Stuck.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 4-04-eastern-standard-tribe-del-4
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# language: en
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 66 you. You just think about it. Now,” he said, recrossing his legs,“Fatima, you told us yesterday about your mother and I askedyou to think about how she feels. Can you tell the group whatyou found out?”But Fatima was off in med-land, eyes glazed and mouthhanging slack. Manuel nudged her with his toe, then, when shefailed to stir, aimed a kick at her shin. The doctor held a handout and grabbed Manuel’s slippered toe. “That’s all right, let’smove on to Lucy.”I tuned out as Lucy began an elaborate and well-worn rantabout her eating habits, prodded on by the doctor. Theenormity of the situation was coming home to me. I couldn’twin. If I averred that Fede and Linda were my booncompanions, I’d still be found incompetent—after all, whatcompetent person threatens his boon companions?
If I stuck tomy story, I’d be found incompetent, and medicated besides,like poor little Fatima, zombified by the psychoactive cocktail.Either way, I was stuck.Stuck on the roof now, and it’s getting very uncomfortableindeed. Stuck because I am officially incompetent and doomedand damned to indefinite rest on the ward. Stuck because everypassing moment here is additional time for the hamsters to runtheir courses in my mind, piling regret on worry.Stuck because as soon as I am discovered, I will be stupified bythe meds, administered by stern and loving and thoroughlydisappointed doctors. I still haven’t managed to remember anyof their names. They are interchangeable, well shod and endowed with badges on lanyards and soothing and implacableand entirely unappreciative of my rhetorical skills.Stuck.The sheet-metal chimneys stand tall around the roof,unevenly distributed according to some inscrutable logic thatcould only be understood with the assistance of as-builtdrawings, blueprints, mechanical and structural engineeringdiagrams. Surely though, they are optimized to wick hot air outof the giant brick pile’s guts and exhaust it.I move to the one nearest the stairwell. It is tarred in place, itsapron lined with a double-row of cinderblocks that have poolsof brackish water and cobwebs gathered in their holes. I stickmy hand in the first and drag it off the apron. I repeat it.Now the chimney is standing on its own, in the middle of anonsensical cinderblock-henge. My hands are dripping withmuck and grotendousness. I wipe them off on the pea graveland then dry them on my boxer shorts, then hug the chimneyand lean forward. It gives, slowly, slightly, and springs back. Igive it a harder push, really give it my weight, but it won’tbudge.
Belatedly, I realize that I’m standing on its apron, tryingto lift myself along with the chimney.I take a step back and lean way forward, try again. It’sawkward, but I’m making progress, bent like an ell, pushingwith my legs and lower back. I feel something pop around mysacrum, know that I’ll regret this deeply when my back kacksout completely, but it’ll be all for naught if I don’t keep! on!pushing!
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 4-04-eastern-standard-tribe-del-4
# chapter_title: 04_eastern-standard-tribe-del-4
# book_page: 90 / 169
# chapter_page: 17
# language: en
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The sheet-metal chimneys stand tall around the roof,unevenly distributed according to some inscrutable logic thatcould only be understood with the assistance of as-builtdrawings, blueprints, mechanical and structural engineeringdiagrams. Surely though, they are optimized to wick hot air outof the giant brick pile’s guts and exhaust it.I move to the one nearest the stairwell. It is tarred in place, itsapron lined with a double-row of cinderblocks that have poolsof brackish water and cobwebs gathered in their holes. I stickmy hand in the first and drag it off the apron. I repeat it.Now the chimney is standing on its own, in the middle of anonsensical cinderblock-henge. My hands are dripping withmuck and grotendousness. I wipe them off on the pea graveland then dry them on my boxer shorts, then hug the chimneyand lean forward. It gives, slowly, slightly, and springs back. Igive it a harder push, really give it my weight, but it won’tbudge.
Belatedly, I realize that I’m standing on its apron, tryingto lift myself along with the chimney.I take a step back and lean way forward, try again. It’sawkward, but I’m making progress, bent like an ell, pushingwith my legs and lower back. I feel something pop around mysacrum, know that I’ll regret this deeply when my back kacksout completely, but it’ll be all for naught if I don’t keep! on!pushing!Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 67 Then, suddenly, the chimney gives, its apron swinging up andhitting me in the knees so that I topple forward with it,smashing my chin on its hood. For a moment, I lie down atopit, like a stupefied lover, awestruck by my own inanity. Thesmell of blood rouses me. I tentatively reach my hand to mychin and feel the ragged edge of a cut there, opened from thetip and along my jawbone almost to my ear. The cut is toofresh to hurt, but it’s bleeding freely and I know it’ll sting likea bastard soon enough. I go to my knees and scream, thenscream again as I rend open my chin further.My knees and shins are grooved with deep, parallel cuts,gritted with gravel and grime. Standing hurts so much that I goback to my knees, holler again at the pain in my legs as I grindmore gravel into my cuts, and again as I tear my face opensome more.
I end up fetal on my side, sticky with blood andweeping softly with an exquisite self-pity that is more than thecuts and bruises, more than the betrayal, more than theforeknowledge of punishment. I am weeping for myself, andmy identity, and my smarts over happiness and the thought thatI would indeed choose happiness over smarts any day.Too damned smart for my own good. 14.“I just don’t get it,” Fede said.Art tried to keep the exasperation out of his voice. “It’ssimple,” he said. “It’s like a car radio with a fast-forwardbutton. You drive around on the MassPike, and your carautomatically peers with nearby vehicles. It grabs the currentsong on someone else’s stereo and streamloads it. You listen toit. If you don’t hit the fast-forward button, the car startsgrabbing everything it can from the peer, all the music on thestereo, and cues it up for continued play.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 4-04-eastern-standard-tribe-del-4
# chapter_title: 04_eastern-standard-tribe-del-4
# book_page: 91 / 169
# chapter_page: 18
# language: en
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 67 Then, suddenly, the chimney gives, its apron swinging up andhitting me in the knees so that I topple forward with it,smashing my chin on its hood. For a moment, I lie down atopit, like a stupefied lover, awestruck by my own inanity. Thesmell of blood rouses me. I tentatively reach my hand to mychin and feel the ragged edge of a cut there, opened from thetip and along my jawbone almost to my ear. The cut is toofresh to hurt, but it’s bleeding freely and I know it’ll sting likea bastard soon enough. I go to my knees and scream, thenscream again as I rend open my chin further.My knees and shins are grooved with deep, parallel cuts,gritted with gravel and grime. Standing hurts so much that I goback to my knees, holler again at the pain in my legs as I grindmore gravel into my cuts, and again as I tear my face opensome more.
I end up fetal on my side, sticky with blood andweeping softly with an exquisite self-pity that is more than thecuts and bruises, more than the betrayal, more than theforeknowledge of punishment. I am weeping for myself, andmy identity, and my smarts over happiness and the thought thatI would indeed choose happiness over smarts any day.Too damned smart for my own good. 14.“I just don’t get it,” Fede said.Art tried to keep the exasperation out of his voice. “It’ssimple,” he said. “It’s like a car radio with a fast-forwardbutton. You drive around on the MassPike, and your carautomatically peers with nearby vehicles. It grabs the currentsong on someone else’s stereo and streamloads it. You listen toit. If you don’t hit the fast-forward button, the car startsgrabbing everything it can from the peer, all the music on thestereo, and cues it up for continued play.Once that pool isexhausted, it queries your peer for a list of its peers—the carsthat it’s getting its music from—and sees if any of them are inrange, and downloads from them. So, it’s like you’re exploringa taste-network, doing an automated, guided search throughtraffic for the car whose owner has collected the music youmost want to listen to.”“But I hate your music—I don’t want to listen to the stuff onyour radio.”“Fine. That’s what the fast-forward button is for. It skips toanother car and starts streamloading off of its drive.” Fedestarted to say something, and Art held up his hand. “And if youexhaust all the available cars, the system recycles, but asks itspeers for files collected from other sources. You might hate thesongs I downloaded from Al, but the songs I got from Bennieare right up your alley.
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 68 “The war-drivers backstop the whole system. They’ve got thebiggest collections on the freeway, and they’re the ones mostlikely to build carefully thought-out playlists. They’ve gotentire genres—the whole history of the blues, say, from steelcylinders on—on their drives. So we encourage them. Whenyou go through a paypoint—a toll booth—we debit you for thestuff that you didn’t fast-forward, the stuff you listened to andkept. Unless, that is, you’ve got more than, say, 10,000 songsonboard. Then you go free. It’s counterintuitive, I know, butjust look at the numbers.”“OK, OK. A radio with a fast-forward button. I think I get it.”“But?”“But who’s going to want to use this? It’s unpredictable.You’ve got no guarantee you’ll get the songs you want tohear.”Art smiled. “Exactly!”Fede gave him a go-on wave.“Don’t you see? That’s the crack-cocaine part! It’s the thrill ofthe chase!
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 4-04-eastern-standard-tribe-del-4
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Once that pool isexhausted, it queries your peer for a list of its peers—the carsthat it’s getting its music from—and sees if any of them are inrange, and downloads from them. So, it’s like you’re exploringa taste-network, doing an automated, guided search throughtraffic for the car whose owner has collected the music youmost want to listen to.”“But I hate your music—I don’t want to listen to the stuff onyour radio.”“Fine. That’s what the fast-forward button is for. It skips toanother car and starts streamloading off of its drive.” Fedestarted to say something, and Art held up his hand. “And if youexhaust all the available cars, the system recycles, but asks itspeers for files collected from other sources. You might hate thesongs I downloaded from Al, but the songs I got from Bennieare right up your alley.
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 68 “The war-drivers backstop the whole system. They’ve got thebiggest collections on the freeway, and they’re the ones mostlikely to build carefully thought-out playlists. They’ve gotentire genres—the whole history of the blues, say, from steelcylinders on—on their drives. So we encourage them. Whenyou go through a paypoint—a toll booth—we debit you for thestuff that you didn’t fast-forward, the stuff you listened to andkept. Unless, that is, you’ve got more than, say, 10,000 songsonboard. Then you go free. It’s counterintuitive, I know, butjust look at the numbers.”“OK, OK. A radio with a fast-forward button. I think I get it.”“But?”“But who’s going to want to use this? It’s unpredictable.You’ve got no guarantee you’ll get the songs you want tohear.”Art smiled. “Exactly!”Fede gave him a go-on wave.“Don’t you see? That’s the crack-cocaine part! It’s the thrill ofthe chase!Nobody gets excited about beating traffic on a backroad that’s always empty. But get on the M-5 after a hard dayat work and drive it at 100 km/h for two hours without oncetouching your brakes and it’s like God’s reached down andparted the Red Seas for you. You get a sense ofaccomplishment! Most of the time, your car stereo’s gonnaplay the same junk you’ve always heard, just background sound, but sometimes, ah! Sometimes you’ll hit a sweet spotand get the best tunes you’ve ever heard. If you put a rat in acage with a lever that doesn’t give food pellets, he’ll push itonce or twice and give up. Set the lever to always deliver foodpellets and he’ll push it when he gets hungry. Set it tosometimes deliver food pellets and he’ll bang on it until hepasses out!”“Heh,” Fede said. “Good rant.”“And?”“And it’s cool.” Fede looked off into the middle distance awhile. “Radio with a fast-forward button. That’s great, actually.Amazing. Stupendous!”
He snatched the axe-head from its boxon Art’s desk and did a little war dance around the room,whooping. Art followed the dance from his ergonomic chair,swiveling around as the interface tchotchkes that branchedfrom its undersides chittered to keep his various bones andmuscles firmly supported.His office was more like a three-fifths-scale model of a properoffice, in Lilliputian London style, so the war dance was lessimpressive than it might have been with more room to expressitself. “You like it, then,” Art said, once Fede had run out ofsteam.“I do, I do, I do!”“Great.”
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 4-04-eastern-standard-tribe-del-4
# chapter_title: 04_eastern-standard-tribe-del-4
# book_page: 93 / 169
# chapter_page: 20
# language: en
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Nobody gets excited about beating traffic on a backroad that’s always empty. But get on the M-5 after a hard dayat work and drive it at 100 km/h for two hours without oncetouching your brakes and it’s like God’s reached down andparted the Red Seas for you. You get a sense ofaccomplishment! Most of the time, your car stereo’s gonnaplay the same junk you’ve always heard, just background sound, but sometimes, ah! Sometimes you’ll hit a sweet spotand get the best tunes you’ve ever heard. If you put a rat in acage with a lever that doesn’t give food pellets, he’ll push itonce or twice and give up. Set the lever to always deliver foodpellets and he’ll push it when he gets hungry. Set it tosometimes deliver food pellets and he’ll bang on it until hepasses out!”“Heh,” Fede said. “Good rant.”“And?”“And it’s cool.” Fede looked off into the middle distance awhile. “Radio with a fast-forward button. That’s great, actually.Amazing. Stupendous!”
He snatched the axe-head from its boxon Art’s desk and did a little war dance around the room,whooping. Art followed the dance from his ergonomic chair,swiveling around as the interface tchotchkes that branchedfrom its undersides chittered to keep his various bones andmuscles firmly supported.His office was more like a three-fifths-scale model of a properoffice, in Lilliputian London style, so the war dance was lessimpressive than it might have been with more room to expressitself. “You like it, then,” Art said, once Fede had run out ofsteam.“I do, I do, I do!”“Great.”Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 69 “Great.”“So.”“Yes?”“So what do we do with it? Should I write up a formal proposaland send it to Jersey? How much detail? Sketches? Codefragments? Want me to mock up the interface and the networkmodel?”Fede cocked an eyebrow at him. “What are you talking about?”“Well, we give this to Jersey, they submit the proposal, theywalk away with the contract, right? That’s our job, right?”“No, Art, that’s not our job. Our job is to see to it that V/DTsubmits a bad proposal, not that Jersey submits a good one.This is big. We roll this together and it’s bigger than MassPike.We can run this across every goddamned toll road in the world!Jersey’s not paying for this—not yet, anyway—and someoneshould.”“You want to sell this to them?”“Well, I want to sell this. Who to sell it to is another matter.”Art waved his hands confusedly. “You’re joking, right?”Fede crouched down beside Art and looked into his eyes.
“No,Art, I am serious as a funeral here. This is big, and it’s not in the scope of work that we signed up for. You and me, we canscore big on this, but not by handing it over to those shitheadsin Jersey and begging for a bonus.”“What are you talking about? Who else would pay for this?”“You have to ask? V/DT for starters. Anyone working on a bidfor MassPike, or TollPass, or FastPass, or EuroPass.”“But we can’t sell this to just anyone, Fede!”“Why not?”“Jesus. Why not? Because of the Tribes.”Fede quirked him half a smile. “Sure, the Tribes.”“What does that mean?”“Art, you know that stuff is four-fifths’ horseshit, right? It’sjust a game. When it comes down to your personal welfare,you can’t depend on time zones. This is more job than calling,you know.”Art squirmed and flushed. “Lots of us take this stuff seriously,Fede. It’s not just a mind-game. Doesn’t loyalty mean anythingto you?”Fede laughed nastily. “Loyalty!
If you’re doing all of this outof loyalty, then why are you drawing a paycheck? Look, I’drather that this go to Jersey. They’re basically decent sorts, and
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 4-04-eastern-standard-tribe-del-4
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 69 “Great.”“So.”“Yes?”“So what do we do with it? Should I write up a formal proposaland send it to Jersey? How much detail? Sketches? Codefragments? Want me to mock up the interface and the networkmodel?”Fede cocked an eyebrow at him. “What are you talking about?”“Well, we give this to Jersey, they submit the proposal, theywalk away with the contract, right? That’s our job, right?”“No, Art, that’s not our job. Our job is to see to it that V/DTsubmits a bad proposal, not that Jersey submits a good one.This is big. We roll this together and it’s bigger than MassPike.We can run this across every goddamned toll road in the world!Jersey’s not paying for this—not yet, anyway—and someoneshould.”“You want to sell this to them?”“Well, I want to sell this. Who to sell it to is another matter.”Art waved his hands confusedly. “You’re joking, right?”Fede crouched down beside Art and looked into his eyes.
“No,Art, I am serious as a funeral here. This is big, and it’s not in the scope of work that we signed up for. You and me, we canscore big on this, but not by handing it over to those shitheadsin Jersey and begging for a bonus.”“What are you talking about? Who else would pay for this?”“You have to ask? V/DT for starters. Anyone working on a bidfor MassPike, or TollPass, or FastPass, or EuroPass.”“But we can’t sell this to just anyone, Fede!”“Why not?”“Jesus. Why not? Because of the Tribes.”Fede quirked him half a smile. “Sure, the Tribes.”“What does that mean?”“Art, you know that stuff is four-fifths’ horseshit, right? It’sjust a game. When it comes down to your personal welfare,you can’t depend on time zones. This is more job than calling,you know.”Art squirmed and flushed. “Lots of us take this stuff seriously,Fede. It’s not just a mind-game. Doesn’t loyalty mean anythingto you?”Fede laughed nastily. “Loyalty!
If you’re doing all of this outof loyalty, then why are you drawing a paycheck? Look, I’drather that this go to Jersey. They’re basically decent sorts, andCory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 70 I’ve drawn a lot of pay from them over the years, but theyhaven’t paid for this. They wouldn’t give us a free ride, so whyshould we give them one? All I’m saying is, we can offer thisto Jersey, of course, but they have to bid for it in a competitivemarketplace. I don’t want to gouge them, just collect a fairmarket price for our goods.”“You’re saying you don’t feel any fundamental loyalty toanything, Fede?”“That’s what I’m saying.”“And you’re saying that I’m a sucker for putting loyalty aheadof personal gain—after all, no one else is, right?”“Exactly.”“Then how did this idea become ‘ours,’ Fede? I came up withit.”Fede lost his nasty smile. “There’s loyalty and then there’sloyalty.”“Uh-huh.”“No, really. You and I are a team. I rely on you and you rely onme. We’re loyal to something concrete—each other. TheEastern Standard Tribe is an abstraction.
It’s a whole bunch ofpeople, and neither of us like most of ’em. It’s useful andpleasant, but you can’t put your trust in institutions—otherwiseyou get Nazism.” “And patriotism.”“Blind patriotism.”“So there’s no other kind? Just jingoism? You’re either loyal toyour immediate circle of friends or you’re a deluded dupe?”“No, that’s not what I’m saying.”“So where does informed loyalty leave off and jingoism begin?You come on all patronizing when I talk about being loyal tothe Tribe, and you’re certainly not loyal to V/DT, nor are youloyal to Jersey. What greater purpose are you loyal to?”“Well, humanity, for starters.”“Really. What’s that when it’s at home?”“Huh?”“How do you express loyalty to something as big and abstractas ‘humanity’?”“Well, that comes down to morals, right? Not doing things thatpoison the world. Paying taxes. Change to panhandlers.Supporting charities.”
Fede drummed his fingers on his thighs.“Not murdering or raping, you know. Being a good person. Amoral person.”“OK, that’s a good code of conduct. I’m all for not murderingand raping, and not just because it’s wrong, but because a
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 4-04-eastern-standard-tribe-del-4
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 70 I’ve drawn a lot of pay from them over the years, but theyhaven’t paid for this. They wouldn’t give us a free ride, so whyshould we give them one? All I’m saying is, we can offer thisto Jersey, of course, but they have to bid for it in a competitivemarketplace. I don’t want to gouge them, just collect a fairmarket price for our goods.”“You’re saying you don’t feel any fundamental loyalty toanything, Fede?”“That’s what I’m saying.”“And you’re saying that I’m a sucker for putting loyalty aheadof personal gain—after all, no one else is, right?”“Exactly.”“Then how did this idea become ‘ours,’ Fede? I came up withit.”Fede lost his nasty smile. “There’s loyalty and then there’sloyalty.”“Uh-huh.”“No, really. You and I are a team. I rely on you and you rely onme. We’re loyal to something concrete—each other. TheEastern Standard Tribe is an abstraction.
It’s a whole bunch ofpeople, and neither of us like most of ’em. It’s useful andpleasant, but you can’t put your trust in institutions—otherwiseyou get Nazism.” “And patriotism.”“Blind patriotism.”“So there’s no other kind? Just jingoism? You’re either loyal toyour immediate circle of friends or you’re a deluded dupe?”“No, that’s not what I’m saying.”“So where does informed loyalty leave off and jingoism begin?You come on all patronizing when I talk about being loyal tothe Tribe, and you’re certainly not loyal to V/DT, nor are youloyal to Jersey. What greater purpose are you loyal to?”“Well, humanity, for starters.”“Really. What’s that when it’s at home?”“Huh?”“How do you express loyalty to something as big and abstractas ‘humanity’?”“Well, that comes down to morals, right? Not doing things thatpoison the world. Paying taxes. Change to panhandlers.Supporting charities.”
Fede drummed his fingers on his thighs.“Not murdering or raping, you know. Being a good person. Amoral person.”“OK, that’s a good code of conduct. I’m all for not murderingand raping, and not just because it’s wrong, but because aCory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 71 world where the social norms include murdering and raping isa bad one for me to live in.”“Exactly.”“That’s the purpose of morals and loyalty, right? To createsocial norms that produce a world you want to live in.”“Right! And that’s why personal loyalty is important.”Art smiled. Trap baited and sprung. “OK. So institutionalloyalty—loyalty to a Tribe or a nation—that’s not an importantsocial norm. As far as you’re concerned, we could abandon allpretense of institutional loyalty.” Art dropped his voice. “Youcould go to work for the Jersey boys, sabotagingVirgin/Deutsche Telekom, just because they’re willing to payyou to do it. Nothing to do with Tribal loyalty, just a job.”Fede looked uncomfortable, sensing the impending rhetoricalheadlock. He nodded cautiously.“Which means that the Jersey boys have no reason to be loyalto you. It’s just a job.
So if there were an opportunity for themto gain some personal advantage by selling you out, turningyou into a patsy for them, well, they should just go ahead anddo it, right?”“Uh—”“Don’t worry, it’s a rhetorical question. Jersey boys sell youout. You take their fall, they benefit. If there was no institutional loyalty, that’s where you’d end up, right? That’sthe social norm you want.”“No, of course it isn’t.”“No, of course not. You want a social norm where individualscan be disloyal to the collective, but not vice versa.”“Yes—”“Yes, but loyalty is bidirectional. There’s no basis on whichyou may expect loyalty from an institution unless you’re loyalto it.”“I suppose.”“You know it. I know it. Institutional loyalty is every bit asmuch about informed self-interest as personal loyalty is. TheTribe takes care of me, I take care of the Tribe.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 4-04-eastern-standard-tribe-del-4
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 71 world where the social norms include murdering and raping isa bad one for me to live in.”“Exactly.”“That’s the purpose of morals and loyalty, right? To createsocial norms that produce a world you want to live in.”“Right! And that’s why personal loyalty is important.”Art smiled. Trap baited and sprung. “OK. So institutionalloyalty—loyalty to a Tribe or a nation—that’s not an importantsocial norm. As far as you’re concerned, we could abandon allpretense of institutional loyalty.” Art dropped his voice. “Youcould go to work for the Jersey boys, sabotagingVirgin/Deutsche Telekom, just because they’re willing to payyou to do it. Nothing to do with Tribal loyalty, just a job.”Fede looked uncomfortable, sensing the impending rhetoricalheadlock. He nodded cautiously.“Which means that the Jersey boys have no reason to be loyalto you. It’s just a job.
So if there were an opportunity for themto gain some personal advantage by selling you out, turningyou into a patsy for them, well, they should just go ahead anddo it, right?”“Uh—”“Don’t worry, it’s a rhetorical question. Jersey boys sell youout. You take their fall, they benefit. If there was no institutional loyalty, that’s where you’d end up, right? That’sthe social norm you want.”“No, of course it isn’t.”“No, of course not. You want a social norm where individualscan be disloyal to the collective, but not vice versa.”“Yes—”“Yes, but loyalty is bidirectional. There’s no basis on whichyou may expect loyalty from an institution unless you’re loyalto it.”“I suppose.”“You know it. I know it. Institutional loyalty is every bit asmuch about informed self-interest as personal loyalty is. TheTribe takes care of me, I take care of the Tribe.We’ll negotiatea separate payment from Jersey for this—after all, this isoutside of the scope of work that we’re being paid for—andwe’ll split the money, down the middle. We’ll work in aresidual income with Jersey, too, because, as you say, this isbigger than MassPike. It’s a genuinely good idea, and there’senough to go around. All right?”“Are you asking me or telling me?”“I’m asking you. This will require both of our cooperation. I’mgoing to need to manufacture an excuse to go stateside toexplain this to them and supervise the prototyping. You’re
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 4-04-eastern-standard-tribe-del-4
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We’ll negotiatea separate payment from Jersey for this—after all, this isoutside of the scope of work that we’re being paid for—andwe’ll split the money, down the middle. We’ll work in aresidual income with Jersey, too, because, as you say, this isbigger than MassPike. It’s a genuinely good idea, and there’senough to go around. All right?”“Are you asking me or telling me?”“I’m asking you. This will require both of our cooperation. I’mgoing to need to manufacture an excuse to go stateside toexplain this to them and supervise the prototyping. You’re05_eastern-standard-tribe-del-5
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 72 going to have to hold down the fort here at V/DT and makesure that I’m clear to do my thing. If you want to go and sellthis idea elsewhere, well, that’s going to require mycooperation, or at least my silence—if I turn this over to V/DT,they’ll pop you for industrial espionage. So we need eachother.”Art stood and looked down at Fede, who was a good tencentimeters shorter than he, looked down at Fede’s sweatyupper lip and creased brow. “We’re a good team, Fede. I don’twant to toss away an opportunity, but I also don’t want toexploit it at the expense of my own morals. Can you agree towork with me on this, and trust me to do the right thing?”Fede looked up. “Yes,” he said. On later reflection, Art thoughtthat the yes came too quickly, but then, he was just relieved tohear it. “Of course. Of course. Yes. Let’s do it.”“That’s just fine,” Art said.
“Let’s get to work, then.”They fell into their traditional division of labor then, Artworking on a variety of user-experience plans, dividing eachinto subplans, then devising protocols for user testing to seewhat would work in the field; Fede working on logistics fromplane tickets to personal days to budget and critical-path charts.They worked side by side, but still used the collaboration toolsthat Art had grown up with, designed to allow remote,pseudonymous parties to fit their separate work componentsinto the same structure, resolving schedule and planningcollisions where it could and throwing exceptions where itcouldn’t. They worked beside each other and each hardly knew the other was there, and that, Art thought, when he thought ofit, when the receptionist commed him to tell him that“Linderrr”—freakin’ teabags—was there for him, that was thedefining characteristic of a Tribalist.
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# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 72 going to have to hold down the fort here at V/DT and makesure that I’m clear to do my thing. If you want to go and sellthis idea elsewhere, well, that’s going to require mycooperation, or at least my silence—if I turn this over to V/DT,they’ll pop you for industrial espionage. So we need eachother.”Art stood and looked down at Fede, who was a good tencentimeters shorter than he, looked down at Fede’s sweatyupper lip and creased brow. “We’re a good team, Fede. I don’twant to toss away an opportunity, but I also don’t want toexploit it at the expense of my own morals. Can you agree towork with me on this, and trust me to do the right thing?”Fede looked up. “Yes,” he said. On later reflection, Art thoughtthat the yes came too quickly, but then, he was just relieved tohear it. “Of course. Of course. Yes. Let’s do it.”“That’s just fine,” Art said.
“Let’s get to work, then.”They fell into their traditional division of labor then, Artworking on a variety of user-experience plans, dividing eachinto subplans, then devising protocols for user testing to seewhat would work in the field; Fede working on logistics fromplane tickets to personal days to budget and critical-path charts.They worked side by side, but still used the collaboration toolsthat Art had grown up with, designed to allow remote,pseudonymous parties to fit their separate work componentsinto the same structure, resolving schedule and planningcollisions where it could and throwing exceptions where itcouldn’t. They worked beside each other and each hardly knew the other was there, and that, Art thought, when he thought ofit, when the receptionist commed him to tell him that“Linderrr”—freakin’ teabags—was there for him, that was thedefining characteristic of a Tribalist.A norm, a modusoperandi, a way of being that did not distinguish betweencommunication face-to-face and communication at a distance.“Linderrr?” Fede said, cocking an eyebrow.“I hit her with my car,” Art said.“Ah,” Fede said. “Smooth.”Art waved a hand impatiently at him and went out to thereception area to fetch her. The receptionist had precious littlepatience for entertaining personal visitors, and Linda, in trackpants and a baggy sweater, was clearly not a professionalcontact. The receptionist glared at him as he commed into thelobby and extended his hand to Linda, who took it, put it on hershoulder, grabbed his ass, crushed their pelvises together andjammed her tongue in his ear. “I missed you,” she slurped, thebuzz of her voice making him writhe. “I’m not wearing anyknickers,” she continued, loud enough that he was sure that thereceptionist heard. He felt the blush creeping over his face andneck and ears.The receptionist.
Dammit, why was he thinking about thereceptionist? “Linda,” he said, pulling away. Introduce her, hethought. Introduce them, and that’ll make it less sociallyawkward. The English can’t abide social awkwardness. “Linda,
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 73 meet—” and he trailed off, realizing he didn’t actually knowthe receptionist’s name.The receptionist glared at him from under a cap of shiningcandy-apple red hair, narrowing her eyes, which were paintedin high style with Kubrick action-figure faces.“My name is Tonaishah,” she hissed. Or maybe it was TanyaIseah, or Taneesha. He still didn’t know her goddamned name.“And this is Linda,” he said, weakly. “We’re going outtonight.”“And won’t you have a dirty great time, then?” Tonaishah said.“I’m sure we will,” he said.“Yes,” Tonaishah said.Art commed the door and missed the handle, then snagged itand grabbed Linda’s hand and yanked her through.“I’m a little randy,” she said, directly into his ear. “Sorry.” Shegiggled.“Someone you have to meet,” he said, reaching down torearrange his pants to hide his boner.“Ooh, right here in your office?” Linda said, covering his handwith hers.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 5-05-eastern-standard-tribe-del-5
# chapter_title: 05_eastern-standard-tribe-del-5
# book_page: 99 / 169
# chapter_page: 2
# language: en
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A norm, a modusoperandi, a way of being that did not distinguish betweencommunication face-to-face and communication at a distance.“Linderrr?” Fede said, cocking an eyebrow.“I hit her with my car,” Art said.“Ah,” Fede said. “Smooth.”Art waved a hand impatiently at him and went out to thereception area to fetch her. The receptionist had precious littlepatience for entertaining personal visitors, and Linda, in trackpants and a baggy sweater, was clearly not a professionalcontact. The receptionist glared at him as he commed into thelobby and extended his hand to Linda, who took it, put it on hershoulder, grabbed his ass, crushed their pelvises together andjammed her tongue in his ear. “I missed you,” she slurped, thebuzz of her voice making him writhe. “I’m not wearing anyknickers,” she continued, loud enough that he was sure that thereceptionist heard. He felt the blush creeping over his face andneck and ears.The receptionist.
Dammit, why was he thinking about thereceptionist? “Linda,” he said, pulling away. Introduce her, hethought. Introduce them, and that’ll make it less sociallyawkward. The English can’t abide social awkwardness. “Linda,
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 73 meet—” and he trailed off, realizing he didn’t actually knowthe receptionist’s name.The receptionist glared at him from under a cap of shiningcandy-apple red hair, narrowing her eyes, which were paintedin high style with Kubrick action-figure faces.“My name is Tonaishah,” she hissed. Or maybe it was TanyaIseah, or Taneesha. He still didn’t know her goddamned name.“And this is Linda,” he said, weakly. “We’re going outtonight.”“And won’t you have a dirty great time, then?” Tonaishah said.“I’m sure we will,” he said.“Yes,” Tonaishah said.Art commed the door and missed the handle, then snagged itand grabbed Linda’s hand and yanked her through.“I’m a little randy,” she said, directly into his ear. “Sorry.” Shegiggled.“Someone you have to meet,” he said, reaching down torearrange his pants to hide his boner.“Ooh, right here in your office?” Linda said, covering his handwith hers.“Someone with two eyes,” he said, moving her hand to his hip.“Ahh,” she said. “What a disappointment.”“I’m serious. I want you to meet my friend Fede. I think youtwo will really hit it off.”“Wait,” Linda said. “Isn’t this a major step? Meeting thefriends? Are we getting that serious already?”“Oh, I think we’re ready for it,” Art said, draping an armaround her shoulders and resting his fingertips on the upperswell of her breast.She ducked out from under his arm and stopped in her tracks.“Well, I don’t. Don’t I get a say in this?”“What?” Art said.“Whether it’s time for me to meet your friends or not.Shouldn’t I have a say?”“Linda, I just wanted to introduce you to a coworker before wewent out. He’s in my office—I gotta grab my jacket there,anyway.”“Wait, is he a friend or a coworker?”“He’s a friend I work with. Come on, what’s the big deal?”
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 74 “Well, first you spring this on me, then you change your storyand tell me he’s a coworker, now he’s a friend again. I don’twant to be put on display for your pals. If we’re going to meetyour friends, I’ll dress for it, put on some makeup. This isn’tfair.”“Linda,” Art said, placating.“No,” she said. “Screw it. I’m not here to meet your friends. Icame all the way across town to meet you at your officebecause you wanted to head back to your place after work, andyou play headgames with me like this?”“All right,” Art said. “I’ll show you back out to the lobby andyou can wait with Tonaishah while I get my jacket.”“Don’t take that tone with me,” she said.“What tone?” Art said. “Jesus Christ! You can’t wait in thehall, it’s against policy. You don’t have a badge, so you have tobe with me or in the lobby. I don’t give a shit if you meet Fedeor not.”“I won’t tell you again, Art,” she said.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 5-05-eastern-standard-tribe-del-5
# chapter_title: 05_eastern-standard-tribe-del-5
# book_page: 100 / 169
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“Someone with two eyes,” he said, moving her hand to his hip.“Ahh,” she said. “What a disappointment.”“I’m serious. I want you to meet my friend Fede. I think youtwo will really hit it off.”“Wait,” Linda said. “Isn’t this a major step? Meeting thefriends? Are we getting that serious already?”“Oh, I think we’re ready for it,” Art said, draping an armaround her shoulders and resting his fingertips on the upperswell of her breast.She ducked out from under his arm and stopped in her tracks.“Well, I don’t. Don’t I get a say in this?”“What?” Art said.“Whether it’s time for me to meet your friends or not.Shouldn’t I have a say?”“Linda, I just wanted to introduce you to a coworker before wewent out. He’s in my office—I gotta grab my jacket there,anyway.”“Wait, is he a friend or a coworker?”“He’s a friend I work with. Come on, what’s the big deal?”
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 74 “Well, first you spring this on me, then you change your storyand tell me he’s a coworker, now he’s a friend again. I don’twant to be put on display for your pals. If we’re going to meetyour friends, I’ll dress for it, put on some makeup. This isn’tfair.”“Linda,” Art said, placating.“No,” she said. “Screw it. I’m not here to meet your friends. Icame all the way across town to meet you at your officebecause you wanted to head back to your place after work, andyou play headgames with me like this?”“All right,” Art said. “I’ll show you back out to the lobby andyou can wait with Tonaishah while I get my jacket.”“Don’t take that tone with me,” she said.“What tone?” Art said. “Jesus Christ! You can’t wait in thehall, it’s against policy. You don’t have a badge, so you have tobe with me or in the lobby. I don’t give a shit if you meet Fedeor not.”“I won’t tell you again, Art,” she said.“Moderate your tone. Iwon’t be shouted at.”Art tried to rewind the conversation and figure out how theycame to this pass, but he couldn’t. Was Linda really acting thisnuts? Or was he just reading her wrong or pushing her buttonsor something? “Let’s start over,” he said, grabbing both of her hands in his. “Ineed to get my jacket from my office. You can come with me ifyou want to, and meet my friend Fede. Otherwise you can waitin the lobby, I won’t be a minute.”“Let’s go meet Fede,” she said. “I hope he wasn’t expectinganything special, I’m not really dressed for it.”He stifled a snotty remark. After all that, she was going to goand meet Fede? So what the hell were they arguing about? Onthe other hand, he’d gotten his way, hadn’t he?
He led her bythe hand to his office, and beyond every doorway they passedwas a V/DT Experience Designer pretending not to peek atthem as they walked by, having heard every word through thetricky acoustics of O’Malley House.“Fede,” he said, stiffly, “This is Linda. Linda, this is Fede.”Fede stood and treated Linda to his big, suave grin. Fede mightbe short and he might have paranoid delusions, but he was trimand well groomed, with the sort of finicky moustache thatlooked like a rotting caterpillar if you didn’t trim it everymorning. He liked to work out, and had a tight waist and a gutyou could bounce a quarter off of, and liked to wear tight shirtsthat showed off his overall fitness, made him stand out amongthe spongy mouse-potatoes of the corporate world.
Art hadnever given it much thought, but now, standing with Fede andLinda in his tiny office, breathing in Fede’s Lilac Vegetal andLinda’s new-car-smell shampoo, he felt paunchy and sloppy.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 5-05-eastern-standard-tribe-del-5
# chapter_title: 05_eastern-standard-tribe-del-5
# book_page: 101 / 169
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# language: en
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“Moderate your tone. Iwon’t be shouted at.”Art tried to rewind the conversation and figure out how theycame to this pass, but he couldn’t. Was Linda really acting thisnuts? Or was he just reading her wrong or pushing her buttonsor something? “Let’s start over,” he said, grabbing both of her hands in his. “Ineed to get my jacket from my office. You can come with me ifyou want to, and meet my friend Fede. Otherwise you can waitin the lobby, I won’t be a minute.”“Let’s go meet Fede,” she said. “I hope he wasn’t expectinganything special, I’m not really dressed for it.”He stifled a snotty remark. After all that, she was going to goand meet Fede? So what the hell were they arguing about? Onthe other hand, he’d gotten his way, hadn’t he?
He led her bythe hand to his office, and beyond every doorway they passedwas a V/DT Experience Designer pretending not to peek atthem as they walked by, having heard every word through thetricky acoustics of O’Malley House.“Fede,” he said, stiffly, “This is Linda. Linda, this is Fede.”Fede stood and treated Linda to his big, suave grin. Fede mightbe short and he might have paranoid delusions, but he was trimand well groomed, with the sort of finicky moustache thatlooked like a rotting caterpillar if you didn’t trim it everymorning. He liked to work out, and had a tight waist and a gutyou could bounce a quarter off of, and liked to wear tight shirtsthat showed off his overall fitness, made him stand out amongthe spongy mouse-potatoes of the corporate world.
Art hadnever given it much thought, but now, standing with Fede andLinda in his tiny office, breathing in Fede’s Lilac Vegetal andLinda’s new-car-smell shampoo, he felt paunchy and sloppy.Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 75 “Ah,” Fede said, taking her hand. “The one you hit with yourcar. It’s a pleasure. You seem to be recovering nicely, too.”Linda smiled and gave him a peck on the cheek, a few strandsof her bobbed hair sticking to his moustache like cobwebs asshe pulled away.“It was just a love tap,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”“Fede’s from New York,” Art said. “We colonials like to sticktogether around the office. And Linda’s from Los Angeles.”“Aren’t there any, you know, British people in London?” Lindasaid, wrinkling her nose.“There’s Tonaishah,” Art said weakly.“Who?” Fede said.“The receptionist,” Linda said. “Not a very nice person.”“With the eyes?” Fede said, wriggling his fingers around histemples to indicate elaborate eye makeup.“That’s her,” Linda said.“Nasty piece of work,” Fede said. “Never trusted her.”“You’re not another UE person, are you?”
Linda said, sizingFede up and giving Art a playful elbow in the ribs. “Who, me? Nah. I’m a management consultant. I work inChelsea mostly, but when I come slumming in Piccadilly, I liketo comandeer Art’s office. He’s not bad, for a UE-geek.”“Not bad at all,” Linda said, slipping an arm around Art’swaist, wrapping her fingers around the waistband of histrousers. “Did you need to grab your jacket, honey?”Art’s jacket was hanging on the back of his office door, and toget at it, he had to crush himself against Linda and maneuverthe door shut. He felt her breasts soft on his chest, felt herbreath tickle his ear, and forgot all about their argument in thecorridor.“All right,” Art said, hooking his jacket over his shoulder witha finger, feeling flushed and fluttery. “OK, let’s go.”“Lovely to have met you, Fede,” Linda said, taking his hand.“And likewise,” Fede said.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 5-05-eastern-standard-tribe-del-5
# chapter_title: 05_eastern-standard-tribe-del-5
# book_page: 102 / 169
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 75 “Ah,” Fede said, taking her hand. “The one you hit with yourcar. It’s a pleasure. You seem to be recovering nicely, too.”Linda smiled and gave him a peck on the cheek, a few strandsof her bobbed hair sticking to his moustache like cobwebs asshe pulled away.“It was just a love tap,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”“Fede’s from New York,” Art said. “We colonials like to sticktogether around the office. And Linda’s from Los Angeles.”“Aren’t there any, you know, British people in London?” Lindasaid, wrinkling her nose.“There’s Tonaishah,” Art said weakly.“Who?” Fede said.“The receptionist,” Linda said. “Not a very nice person.”“With the eyes?” Fede said, wriggling his fingers around histemples to indicate elaborate eye makeup.“That’s her,” Linda said.“Nasty piece of work,” Fede said. “Never trusted her.”“You’re not another UE person, are you?”
Linda said, sizingFede up and giving Art a playful elbow in the ribs. “Who, me? Nah. I’m a management consultant. I work inChelsea mostly, but when I come slumming in Piccadilly, I liketo comandeer Art’s office. He’s not bad, for a UE-geek.”“Not bad at all,” Linda said, slipping an arm around Art’swaist, wrapping her fingers around the waistband of histrousers. “Did you need to grab your jacket, honey?”Art’s jacket was hanging on the back of his office door, and toget at it, he had to crush himself against Linda and maneuverthe door shut. He felt her breasts soft on his chest, felt herbreath tickle his ear, and forgot all about their argument in thecorridor.“All right,” Art said, hooking his jacket over his shoulder witha finger, feeling flushed and fluttery. “OK, let’s go.”“Lovely to have met you, Fede,” Linda said, taking his hand.“And likewise,” Fede said.Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 76 15.Vigorous sex ensued.16.Art rolled out of bed at dark o’clock in the morning, awakenedby circadians and endorphins and bladder. He staggered to thetoilet in the familiar gloom of his shabby little rooms, did hisbusiness, marveled at the tenderness of his privates, fumbledfor the flush mechanism—“British” and “Plumbing” being twocompletely opposite notions—and staggered back to bed. Thescreen of his comm, nestled on the end table, washed the roomin liquid-crystal light. He’d tugged the sheets off of Lindawhen he got up, and there she was, chest rising and fallingsoftly, body rumpled and sprawled after their gymnastics. Ithad been transcendent and messy, and the sheets were coarsewith dried fluids.He knelt on the bed and fussed with the covers some, trying foran equitable—if not chivalrously so—division of blankets.
Hebent forward to kiss at a bite-mark he’d left on her shoulder.His back went “pop.”Somewhere down in the lumbar, somewhere just above histailbone, a deep and unforgiving pop, ominous as the cockingof a revolver. He put his hand there and it felt OK, so hecautiously lay back. Three-quarters of the way down, his entirelower back seized up, needles of fire raced down his legs andthrough his groin, and he collapsed.He barked with pain, an inhuman sound he hadn’t known hecould make, and the rapid emptying of his lungs deepened the
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 5-05-eastern-standard-tribe-del-5
# chapter_title: 05_eastern-standard-tribe-del-5
# book_page: 103 / 169
# chapter_page: 6
# language: en
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 76 15.Vigorous sex ensued.16.Art rolled out of bed at dark o’clock in the morning, awakenedby circadians and endorphins and bladder. He staggered to thetoilet in the familiar gloom of his shabby little rooms, did hisbusiness, marveled at the tenderness of his privates, fumbledfor the flush mechanism—“British” and “Plumbing” being twocompletely opposite notions—and staggered back to bed. Thescreen of his comm, nestled on the end table, washed the roomin liquid-crystal light. He’d tugged the sheets off of Lindawhen he got up, and there she was, chest rising and fallingsoftly, body rumpled and sprawled after their gymnastics. Ithad been transcendent and messy, and the sheets were coarsewith dried fluids.He knelt on the bed and fussed with the covers some, trying foran equitable—if not chivalrously so—division of blankets.
Hebent forward to kiss at a bite-mark he’d left on her shoulder.His back went “pop.”Somewhere down in the lumbar, somewhere just above histailbone, a deep and unforgiving pop, ominous as the cockingof a revolver. He put his hand there and it felt OK, so hecautiously lay back. Three-quarters of the way down, his entirelower back seized up, needles of fire raced down his legs andthrough his groin, and he collapsed.He barked with pain, an inhuman sound he hadn’t known hecould make, and the rapid emptying of his lungs deepened theCory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 77 spasm, and he mewled. Linda opened a groggy eye and put herhand on his shoulder. “What is it, hon?”He tried to straighten out, to find a position in which thehorrible, relentless pain returned whence it came. Each motionwas agony. Finally, the pain subsided, and he found himselfpretzelled, knees up, body twisted to the left, head twisted tothe right. He did not dare budge from this posture, terrified thatthe pain would return.“It’s my back,” he gasped.“Whah? Your back?”“I—I put it out. Haven’t done it in years. I need an icepack,OK? There’re some headache pills in the medicine cabinet.Three of those.”“Seriously?”“Look, I’d get ’em myself, but I can’t even sit up, much lesswalk. I gotta ice this down now before it gets too inflamed.”“How did it happen?”“It just happens. Tai Chi helps.
Please, I need ice.”Half an hour later, he had gingerly arranged himself with hisknees up and his hips straight, and he was breathing deeply,willing the spasms to unclench. “Thanks,” he said. “What now? Should I call a doctor?”“He’d just give me painkillers and tell me to lose some weight.I’ll probably be like this for a week. Shit. Fede’s going to killme. I was supposed to go to Boston next Friday, too.”“Boston? What for? For how long?”Art bunched the sheets in his fists. He hadn’t meant to tell herabout Boston yet—he and Fede hadn’t worked out his coverstory. “Meetings,” he said. “Two or three days. I was going totake some personal time and go see my family, too.Goddamnit. Pass me my comm, OK?”“You’re going to work now?”“I’m just going to send Fede a message and send out for somemuscle-relaxants. There’s a twenty-four-hour chemist’s atPaddington Station that delivers.”“I’ll do it, you lie flat.”And so it began.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 5-05-eastern-standard-tribe-del-5
# chapter_title: 05_eastern-standard-tribe-del-5
# book_page: 104 / 169
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# language: en
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 77 spasm, and he mewled. Linda opened a groggy eye and put herhand on his shoulder. “What is it, hon?”He tried to straighten out, to find a position in which thehorrible, relentless pain returned whence it came. Each motionwas agony. Finally, the pain subsided, and he found himselfpretzelled, knees up, body twisted to the left, head twisted tothe right. He did not dare budge from this posture, terrified thatthe pain would return.“It’s my back,” he gasped.“Whah? Your back?”“I—I put it out. Haven’t done it in years. I need an icepack,OK? There’re some headache pills in the medicine cabinet.Three of those.”“Seriously?”“Look, I’d get ’em myself, but I can’t even sit up, much lesswalk. I gotta ice this down now before it gets too inflamed.”“How did it happen?”“It just happens. Tai Chi helps.
Please, I need ice.”Half an hour later, he had gingerly arranged himself with hisknees up and his hips straight, and he was breathing deeply,willing the spasms to unclench. “Thanks,” he said. “What now? Should I call a doctor?”“He’d just give me painkillers and tell me to lose some weight.I’ll probably be like this for a week. Shit. Fede’s going to killme. I was supposed to go to Boston next Friday, too.”“Boston? What for? For how long?”Art bunched the sheets in his fists. He hadn’t meant to tell herabout Boston yet—he and Fede hadn’t worked out his coverstory. “Meetings,” he said. “Two or three days. I was going totake some personal time and go see my family, too.Goddamnit. Pass me my comm, OK?”“You’re going to work now?”“I’m just going to send Fede a message and send out for somemuscle-relaxants. There’s a twenty-four-hour chemist’s atPaddington Station that delivers.”“I’ll do it, you lie flat.”And so it began.Bad enough to be helpless, weak as a kittenand immobile, but to be at the whim of someone else, to haveto provide sufficient excuse for every use of his comm, everycrawl across the flat... Christ. “Just give me my comm, please.I can do it faster than I can explain how to do it.”In thirty-six hours, he was ready to tear the throat out ofanyone who tried to communicate with him. He’d haranguedLinda out of the flat and crawled to the kitchen floor,
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 78 painstakingly assembling a nest of pillows and sofa cushions,close to the icemaker and the painkillers and toilet. Hislandlady, an unfriendly Chinese lady who had apparently beenwealthy beyond words in Hong Kong and clearly resented herreduced station, agreed to sign for the supply drops he commedto various retailers around London.He was giving himself a serious crick in his neck and shoulderfrom working supine, comm held over his head. The painkillersweighted his arms and churned his guts, and at least twice anhour, he’d grog his way into a better position, forgetting thetenderness in his back, and bark afresh as his nerves shriekedand sizzled.Two days later and he was almost unrecognizable, a gamey,unshaven lump in the tiny kitchen, his nest gray with sweat andstiff with spilled take-away curry. He suspected that he wasovermedicating, forgetting whether he’d taken his tablets andtaking more.
In one of his more lucid moments, he realized thatthere was a feedback cycle at play here—the more pills hetook, the less equipped he was to judge whether he’d taken hispills, so the more pills he took. His mind meandered through asolution to this, a timer-equipped pillcase that reset when youtook the lid off and chimed if you took the lid off again beforethe set interval had elapsed. He reached for his comm to makesome notes, found it wedged under one of his hocks, greasywith sweat, batteries dead. He hadn’t let his comm run down ina decade, at least.His landlady let Linda in on the fourth day, as he was sleepingfitfully with a pillow over his face to shut out the light from the window.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 5-05-eastern-standard-tribe-del-5
# chapter_title: 05_eastern-standard-tribe-del-5
# book_page: 105 / 169
# chapter_page: 8
# language: en
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Bad enough to be helpless, weak as a kittenand immobile, but to be at the whim of someone else, to haveto provide sufficient excuse for every use of his comm, everycrawl across the flat... Christ. “Just give me my comm, please.I can do it faster than I can explain how to do it.”In thirty-six hours, he was ready to tear the throat out ofanyone who tried to communicate with him. He’d haranguedLinda out of the flat and crawled to the kitchen floor,
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 78 painstakingly assembling a nest of pillows and sofa cushions,close to the icemaker and the painkillers and toilet. Hislandlady, an unfriendly Chinese lady who had apparently beenwealthy beyond words in Hong Kong and clearly resented herreduced station, agreed to sign for the supply drops he commedto various retailers around London.He was giving himself a serious crick in his neck and shoulderfrom working supine, comm held over his head. The painkillersweighted his arms and churned his guts, and at least twice anhour, he’d grog his way into a better position, forgetting thetenderness in his back, and bark afresh as his nerves shriekedand sizzled.Two days later and he was almost unrecognizable, a gamey,unshaven lump in the tiny kitchen, his nest gray with sweat andstiff with spilled take-away curry. He suspected that he wasovermedicating, forgetting whether he’d taken his tablets andtaking more.
In one of his more lucid moments, he realized thatthere was a feedback cycle at play here—the more pills hetook, the less equipped he was to judge whether he’d taken hispills, so the more pills he took. His mind meandered through asolution to this, a timer-equipped pillcase that reset when youtook the lid off and chimed if you took the lid off again beforethe set interval had elapsed. He reached for his comm to makesome notes, found it wedged under one of his hocks, greasywith sweat, batteries dead. He hadn’t let his comm run down ina decade, at least.His landlady let Linda in on the fourth day, as he was sleepingfitfully with a pillow over his face to shut out the light from the window.He’d tried to draw the curtains a day—twodays?—before, but had given up when he tried to pull himselfupright on the sill only to collapse in a fresh gout of writhing.Linda crouched by his head and stroked his greasy hair softlyuntil he flipped the pillow off his face with a movement of hisneck. He squinted up at her, impossibly fresh and put togetherand incongruous in his world of reduced circumstances.“Art. Art. Art. Art! You’re a mess, Art! Jesus. Why aren’t youin bed?”“Too far,” he mumbled.“What would your grandmother say? Dear-oh-dearie. Comeon, let’s get you up and into bed, and then I’m going to have adoctor and a massage therapist sent in. You need a nice, hotbath, too. It’ll be good for you and hygienic besides.”“No tub,” he said petulantly.“I know, I know. Don’t worry about it.
I’ll sort it out.”And she did, easing him to his feet and helping him into bed.She took his house keys and disappeared for some unknowabletime, then reappeared with fresh linen in store wrappers, whichshe lay on the bed carefully, making tight hospital corners androlling him over, nurse-style, to do the other side. He heard herclattering in the kitchen, running the faucets, moving furniture.He reminded himself to ask her to drop his comm in itscharger, then forgot.
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 79 “Come on, time to get up again,” she said, gently peeling thesheets back.“It’s OK,” he said, waving weakly at her.“Yes, it is. Let’s get up.” She took his ankles and graduallyturned him on the bed so that his feet were on the floor, thengrabbed him by his stinking armpits and helped him to his feet.He stumbled with her into his crowded living room, dimlyaware of the furniture stacked on itself around him. She lefthim hanging on the door lintel and then began removing hisclothes. She actually used a scissors to cut away his stained teeshirt and boxer shorts. “All right,” she said, “into the tub.”“No tub,” he said.“Look down, Art,” she said.He did. An inflatable wading pool sat in the middle of hisliving room, flanked by an upended coffee table and his sofa,standing on its ear. The pool was full of steaming, cloudywater. “There’s a bunch of eucalyptus oil and Epsom salts inthere.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 5-05-eastern-standard-tribe-del-5
# chapter_title: 05_eastern-standard-tribe-del-5
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He’d tried to draw the curtains a day—twodays?—before, but had given up when he tried to pull himselfupright on the sill only to collapse in a fresh gout of writhing.Linda crouched by his head and stroked his greasy hair softlyuntil he flipped the pillow off his face with a movement of hisneck. He squinted up at her, impossibly fresh and put togetherand incongruous in his world of reduced circumstances.“Art. Art. Art. Art! You’re a mess, Art! Jesus. Why aren’t youin bed?”“Too far,” he mumbled.“What would your grandmother say? Dear-oh-dearie. Comeon, let’s get you up and into bed, and then I’m going to have adoctor and a massage therapist sent in. You need a nice, hotbath, too. It’ll be good for you and hygienic besides.”“No tub,” he said petulantly.“I know, I know. Don’t worry about it.
I’ll sort it out.”And she did, easing him to his feet and helping him into bed.She took his house keys and disappeared for some unknowabletime, then reappeared with fresh linen in store wrappers, whichshe lay on the bed carefully, making tight hospital corners androlling him over, nurse-style, to do the other side. He heard herclattering in the kitchen, running the faucets, moving furniture.He reminded himself to ask her to drop his comm in itscharger, then forgot.
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 79 “Come on, time to get up again,” she said, gently peeling thesheets back.“It’s OK,” he said, waving weakly at her.“Yes, it is. Let’s get up.” She took his ankles and graduallyturned him on the bed so that his feet were on the floor, thengrabbed him by his stinking armpits and helped him to his feet.He stumbled with her into his crowded living room, dimlyaware of the furniture stacked on itself around him. She lefthim hanging on the door lintel and then began removing hisclothes. She actually used a scissors to cut away his stained teeshirt and boxer shorts. “All right,” she said, “into the tub.”“No tub,” he said.“Look down, Art,” she said.He did. An inflatable wading pool sat in the middle of hisliving room, flanked by an upended coffee table and his sofa,standing on its ear. The pool was full of steaming, cloudywater. “There’s a bunch of eucalyptus oil and Epsom salts inthere.You’re gonna love it.”That night, Art actually tottered into the kitchen and gothimself a glass of water, one hand pressed on his lower back.The cool air of the apartment fanned the mentholated linimenton his back and puckered goose pimples all over his body.After days of leaden limbs, he felt light and clean, his sensessinging as though he was emerging from a fever. He drank thewater, and retrieved his comm from its cradle. He propped several pillows up on his headboard and fired uphis comm. Immediately, it began to buzz and hum and chatterand blink, throwing up alerts about urgent messages, pages andcalls pending. The lightness he’d felt fled him, and he beganthe rotten business of triaging his in-box.One strong impression emerged almost immediately: Fedewanted him in Boston.The Jersey clients were interested in the teasers that Fede hadforwarded to them.
The Jersey clients were obsessed with theteasers that Fede had forwarded to them. The Jersey clientswere howling for more after the teasers that Fede hadforwarded to them. Fede had negotiated some big bucks onapproval if only Art would go and talk to the Jersey clients.The Jersey clients had arranged a meeting with some of theMassPike decision-makers for the following week, and nowthey were panicking because they didn’t have anything exceptthe teasers Fede had forwarded to them.You should really try to go to Boston, Art. We need you inBoston, Art. You have to go to Boston, Art. Art, go to Boston.Boston, Art. Boston.Linda rolled over in bed and peered up at him. “You’re notworking again, are you?”“Shhh,” Art said. “It’s less stressful if I get stuff done than if Ilet it pile up.”“Then why is your forehead all wrinkled up?”
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 5-05-eastern-standard-tribe-del-5
# chapter_title: 05_eastern-standard-tribe-del-5
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You’re gonna love it.”That night, Art actually tottered into the kitchen and gothimself a glass of water, one hand pressed on his lower back.The cool air of the apartment fanned the mentholated linimenton his back and puckered goose pimples all over his body.After days of leaden limbs, he felt light and clean, his sensessinging as though he was emerging from a fever. He drank thewater, and retrieved his comm from its cradle. He propped several pillows up on his headboard and fired uphis comm. Immediately, it began to buzz and hum and chatterand blink, throwing up alerts about urgent messages, pages andcalls pending. The lightness he’d felt fled him, and he beganthe rotten business of triaging his in-box.One strong impression emerged almost immediately: Fedewanted him in Boston.The Jersey clients were interested in the teasers that Fede hadforwarded to them.
The Jersey clients were obsessed with theteasers that Fede had forwarded to them. The Jersey clientswere howling for more after the teasers that Fede hadforwarded to them. Fede had negotiated some big bucks onapproval if only Art would go and talk to the Jersey clients.The Jersey clients had arranged a meeting with some of theMassPike decision-makers for the following week, and nowthey were panicking because they didn’t have anything exceptthe teasers Fede had forwarded to them.You should really try to go to Boston, Art. We need you inBoston, Art. You have to go to Boston, Art. Art, go to Boston.Boston, Art. Boston.Linda rolled over in bed and peered up at him. “You’re notworking again, are you?”“Shhh,” Art said. “It’s less stressful if I get stuff done than if Ilet it pile up.”“Then why is your forehead all wrinkled up?”Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 80 “I have to go to Boston,” he said. “Day after tomorrow, Ithink.”“Jesus, are you insane? Trying to cripple yourself?”“I can recover in a hotel room just as well as I can recoverhere. It’s just rest from here on in, anyway. And a hotel willprobably have a tub.”“I can’t believe I’m hearing this. You’re not going to recoverin Boston. You’ll be at meetings and stuff. Christ!”“I’ve got to do this,” Art said. “I just need to figure out how.I’ll go business class, take along a lumbar pillow, and spendevery moment that I’m not in a meeting in a tub or getting amassage. I could use a change of scenery about now, anyway.”“You’re a goddamned idiot, you know that?”Art knew it.
He also knew that here was an opportunity to getback to EST, to make a good impression on the Jersey clients,to make his name in the Tribe and to make a bundle of cash.His back be damned, he was sick of lying around anyway.“I’ve got to go, Linda.”“It’s your life,” she said, and tossed aside the covers. “But Idon’t have to sit around watching you ruin it.” She disappearedinto the hallway, then reemerged, dressed and with her coat on.“I’m out of here.”“Linda,” Art said. “No,” she said. “Shut up. Why the fuck should I care if youdon’t, huh? I’m going. See you around.”“Come on, let’s talk about this.”East-Coast pizza. Flat Boston twangs. The coeds rushingthrough Harvard Square and oh, maybe a side trip to NewYork, maybe another up to Toronto and a roti at one of thehalal Guyanese places on Queen Street.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 5-05-eastern-standard-tribe-del-5
# chapter_title: 05_eastern-standard-tribe-del-5
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 80 “I have to go to Boston,” he said. “Day after tomorrow, Ithink.”“Jesus, are you insane? Trying to cripple yourself?”“I can recover in a hotel room just as well as I can recoverhere. It’s just rest from here on in, anyway. And a hotel willprobably have a tub.”“I can’t believe I’m hearing this. You’re not going to recoverin Boston. You’ll be at meetings and stuff. Christ!”“I’ve got to do this,” Art said. “I just need to figure out how.I’ll go business class, take along a lumbar pillow, and spendevery moment that I’m not in a meeting in a tub or getting amassage. I could use a change of scenery about now, anyway.”“You’re a goddamned idiot, you know that?”Art knew it.
He also knew that here was an opportunity to getback to EST, to make a good impression on the Jersey clients,to make his name in the Tribe and to make a bundle of cash.His back be damned, he was sick of lying around anyway.“I’ve got to go, Linda.”“It’s your life,” she said, and tossed aside the covers. “But Idon’t have to sit around watching you ruin it.” She disappearedinto the hallway, then reemerged, dressed and with her coat on.“I’m out of here.”“Linda,” Art said. “No,” she said. “Shut up. Why the fuck should I care if youdon’t, huh? I’m going. See you around.”“Come on, let’s talk about this.”East-Coast pizza. Flat Boston twangs. The coeds rushingthrough Harvard Square and oh, maybe a side trip to NewYork, maybe another up to Toronto and a roti at one of thehalal Guyanese places on Queen Street.He levered himselfpainfully out of bed and hobbled to the living room, whereLinda was arguing with a taxi dispatcher over her comm, tryingto get them to send out a cab at two in the morning.“Come on,” Art said. “Hang that up. Let’s talk about this.”She shot him a dirty look and turned her back, kept on rantingdown the comm at the dispatcher.“Linda, don’t do this. Come on.”“I am on the phone!” she said to him, covering the mouthpiece.“Shut the fuck up, will you?” She uncovered the mouthpiece.“Hello? Hello?” The dispatcher had hung up. She snapped thecomm shut and slammed it into her purse. She whirled to faceArt, snorting angry breaths through her nostrils. Her face wassuch a mask of rage that Art recoiled, and his back twinged. Heclasped at it and carefully lowered himself onto the sofa.“Don’t do this, OK?” he said. “I need support, not haranguing.”
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 81 “What’s there to say? Your mind’s already made up. You’regoing to go off and be a fucking idiot and cripple yourself. Goahead, you don’t need my permission.”“Sit down, please, Linda, and talk to me. Let me explain myplan and my reasons, OK? Then I’ll listen to you. Maybe wecan sort this out and actually, you know, come to understandeach other’s point of view.”“Fine,” she said, and slammed herself into the sofa. Artbounced and he seized his back reflexively, waiting for thepain, but beyond a low-grade throbbing, he was OK.“I have a very large opportunity in Boston right now. One thatcould really change my life. Money, sure, but prestige andprofile, too. A dream of an opportunity. I need to attend one ortwo meetings, and then I can take a couple days off. I’ll getFede to OK a first-class flight—we get chits we can use toupgrade to Virgin Upper; they’ve got hot tubs and massagetherapists now.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 5-05-eastern-standard-tribe-del-5
# chapter_title: 05_eastern-standard-tribe-del-5
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He levered himselfpainfully out of bed and hobbled to the living room, whereLinda was arguing with a taxi dispatcher over her comm, tryingto get them to send out a cab at two in the morning.“Come on,” Art said. “Hang that up. Let’s talk about this.”She shot him a dirty look and turned her back, kept on rantingdown the comm at the dispatcher.“Linda, don’t do this. Come on.”“I am on the phone!” she said to him, covering the mouthpiece.“Shut the fuck up, will you?” She uncovered the mouthpiece.“Hello? Hello?” The dispatcher had hung up. She snapped thecomm shut and slammed it into her purse. She whirled to faceArt, snorting angry breaths through her nostrils. Her face wassuch a mask of rage that Art recoiled, and his back twinged. Heclasped at it and carefully lowered himself onto the sofa.“Don’t do this, OK?” he said. “I need support, not haranguing.”
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 81 “What’s there to say? Your mind’s already made up. You’regoing to go off and be a fucking idiot and cripple yourself. Goahead, you don’t need my permission.”“Sit down, please, Linda, and talk to me. Let me explain myplan and my reasons, OK? Then I’ll listen to you. Maybe wecan sort this out and actually, you know, come to understandeach other’s point of view.”“Fine,” she said, and slammed herself into the sofa. Artbounced and he seized his back reflexively, waiting for thepain, but beyond a low-grade throbbing, he was OK.“I have a very large opportunity in Boston right now. One thatcould really change my life. Money, sure, but prestige andprofile, too. A dream of an opportunity. I need to attend one ortwo meetings, and then I can take a couple days off. I’ll getFede to OK a first-class flight—we get chits we can use toupgrade to Virgin Upper; they’ve got hot tubs and massagetherapists now.I’ll check into a spa—they’ve got a bunch onRoute 128—and get a massage every morning and have aphysiotherapist up to the room every night. I can’t afford thatstuff here, but Fede’ll spring for it if I go to Boston, let meexpense it. I’ll be a good lad, I promise.”“I still think you’re being an idiot. Why can’t Fede go?”“Because it’s my deal.”“Why can’t whoever you’re meeting with come here?” “That’s complicated.”“Bullshit. I thought you wanted to talk about this?”“I do. I just can’t talk about that part.”“Why not? Are you afraid I’ll blab? Christ, Art. Give me somecredit. Who the hell would I blab to, anyway?”“Look, Linda, the deal itself is confidential—a secret. Asecret’s only a secret if you don’t tell it to anyone, all right? SoI’m not going to tell you. It’s not relevant to the discussion,anyway.”“Art. Art. Art.
Art, you make it all sound so reasonable, andyou can dress it up with whatever words you want, but at theend of the day, we both know you’re full of shit on this.There’s no way that doing this is better for you than stayinghere in bed. If Fede’s the problem, let me talk to him.”“Jesus, no!”“Why not?”“It’s not appropriate, Linda. This is a work-related issue. Itwouldn’t be professional. OK, I’ll concede that flying andgoing to meeting is more stressful than not flying and not goingto meetings, but let’s take it as a given that I really need to goto Boston. Can’t we agree on that, and then discuss the waysthat we can mitigate the risks associated with the trip?”
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 5-05-eastern-standard-tribe-del-5
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I’ll check into a spa—they’ve got a bunch onRoute 128—and get a massage every morning and have aphysiotherapist up to the room every night. I can’t afford thatstuff here, but Fede’ll spring for it if I go to Boston, let meexpense it. I’ll be a good lad, I promise.”“I still think you’re being an idiot. Why can’t Fede go?”“Because it’s my deal.”“Why can’t whoever you’re meeting with come here?” “That’s complicated.”“Bullshit. I thought you wanted to talk about this?”“I do. I just can’t talk about that part.”“Why not? Are you afraid I’ll blab? Christ, Art. Give me somecredit. Who the hell would I blab to, anyway?”“Look, Linda, the deal itself is confidential—a secret. Asecret’s only a secret if you don’t tell it to anyone, all right? SoI’m not going to tell you. It’s not relevant to the discussion,anyway.”“Art. Art. Art.
Art, you make it all sound so reasonable, andyou can dress it up with whatever words you want, but at theend of the day, we both know you’re full of shit on this.There’s no way that doing this is better for you than stayinghere in bed. If Fede’s the problem, let me talk to him.”“Jesus, no!”“Why not?”“It’s not appropriate, Linda. This is a work-related issue. Itwouldn’t be professional. OK, I’ll concede that flying andgoing to meeting is more stressful than not flying and not goingto meetings, but let’s take it as a given that I really need to goto Boston. Can’t we agree on that, and then discuss the waysthat we can mitigate the risks associated with the trip?”Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 82 “Jesus, you’re an idiot,” she said, but she seemed to be on theverge of smiling.“But I’m your idiot, right?” Art said, hopefully.“Sure, sure you are.” She did smile then, and cuddle up to himon the sofa. “They don’t have fucking hot tubs in VirginUpper, do they?”“Yeah,” Art said, kissing her earlobe. “They really do.” 17.Once the blood coursing from my shins slows and clots, I takean opportunity to inspect the damage more closely. The cutsare relatively shallow, certainly less serious than they were inmy runamuck imagination, which had vivid slashes of whitebone visible through the divided skin. I cautiously pick out thelarger grit and gravel and turn my attention spinewards.I have done a number on my back, that much is certain.
My oldfriends, the sacroiliac joints, feel as tight as drumheads, andthey creak ominously when I shift to a sitting position with myback propped up on the chimney’s upended butt, the aluminumskirting cool as a kiss on my skin. They’re only just starting totwinge, a hint of the agonies to come.My jaw, though, is pretty bad. My whole face feels swollen,and if I open my mouth the blood starts anew.You know, on sober reflection, I believe that coming up to theroof was a really bad idea.I use the chimney to lever myself upright again, and circle it tosee exactly what kind of damage I’ve done. There’s a neatcircular hole in the roof where the chimney used to be, gustingwarm air into my face as I peer into its depths. The hole is themouth of a piece of shiny metal conduit about thecircumference of a basketball hoop. When I put my head intoit, I hear the white noise of a fan, somewhere below in thebuilding’s attic.
I toss some gravel down the conduit and listen
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 82 “Jesus, you’re an idiot,” she said, but she seemed to be on theverge of smiling.“But I’m your idiot, right?” Art said, hopefully.“Sure, sure you are.” She did smile then, and cuddle up to himon the sofa. “They don’t have fucking hot tubs in VirginUpper, do they?”“Yeah,” Art said, kissing her earlobe. “They really do.” 17.Once the blood coursing from my shins slows and clots, I takean opportunity to inspect the damage more closely. The cutsare relatively shallow, certainly less serious than they were inmy runamuck imagination, which had vivid slashes of whitebone visible through the divided skin. I cautiously pick out thelarger grit and gravel and turn my attention spinewards.I have done a number on my back, that much is certain.
My oldfriends, the sacroiliac joints, feel as tight as drumheads, andthey creak ominously when I shift to a sitting position with myback propped up on the chimney’s upended butt, the aluminumskirting cool as a kiss on my skin. They’re only just starting totwinge, a hint of the agonies to come.My jaw, though, is pretty bad. My whole face feels swollen,and if I open my mouth the blood starts anew.You know, on sober reflection, I believe that coming up to theroof was a really bad idea.I use the chimney to lever myself upright again, and circle it tosee exactly what kind of damage I’ve done. There’s a neatcircular hole in the roof where the chimney used to be, gustingwarm air into my face as I peer into its depths. The hole is themouth of a piece of shiny metal conduit about thecircumference of a basketball hoop. When I put my head intoit, I hear the white noise of a fan, somewhere below in thebuilding’s attic.
I toss some gravel down the conduit and listenCory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 83 to the report as it pings off the fan blades down below. That’s agood, loud sound, and one that is certain to echo through thebuilding.I rain gravel down the exhaust tube by the handful, getting intoa mindless, shuffling rhythm, wearing the sides of my handsraw and red as I scrape the pebbles up into handy piles. Soon Iam shuffling afield of the fallen chimney, one hand on mylumbar, crouched over like a chimp, knees splayed in an effortto shift stress away from my grooved calves.I’m really beating the shit out of that poor fan, I can tell. Theshooting-gallery rattle of the gravel ricocheting off the bladesis dulling now, sometimes followed by secondary rattles as thepebbles bounce back into the blades. Not sure what I’ll do ifthe fan gives out before someone notices me up here.It’s not an issue, as it turns out. The heavy fire door beyond thechimney swings open abruptly.
A hospital maintenance gal incoveralls, roly-poly and draped with tool belts and bandoliers.She’s red-faced from the trek up the stairs, and it gives her theaspect of a fairy tale baker or candy-seller. She reinforces thisimpression by putting her plump hands to her enormous bosomand gasping when she catches sight of me.It comes to me that I am quite a fucking sight. Bloody,sunburnt, wild-eyed, with my simian hunch and my scabby jawset at a crazy angle to my face and reality both. Not to mentionmy near nudity, which I’m semipositive is not her idea of lightentertainment. “Hey,” I say. “I, uh, I got stuck on the roof. Thedoor shut.” Talking reopens the wound on my jaw and I feel more blood trickling down my neck. “Unfortunately, I only getone chance to make a first impression, huh? I’m not, you know,really crazy, I was just a little bored and so I went exploringand got stuck and tried to get someone’s attention, had a coupleaccidents...
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 5-05-eastern-standard-tribe-del-5
# chapter_title: 05_eastern-standard-tribe-del-5
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# chapter_page: 15
# language: en
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 83 to the report as it pings off the fan blades down below. That’s agood, loud sound, and one that is certain to echo through thebuilding.I rain gravel down the exhaust tube by the handful, getting intoa mindless, shuffling rhythm, wearing the sides of my handsraw and red as I scrape the pebbles up into handy piles. Soon Iam shuffling afield of the fallen chimney, one hand on mylumbar, crouched over like a chimp, knees splayed in an effortto shift stress away from my grooved calves.I’m really beating the shit out of that poor fan, I can tell. Theshooting-gallery rattle of the gravel ricocheting off the bladesis dulling now, sometimes followed by secondary rattles as thepebbles bounce back into the blades. Not sure what I’ll do ifthe fan gives out before someone notices me up here.It’s not an issue, as it turns out. The heavy fire door beyond thechimney swings open abruptly.
A hospital maintenance gal incoveralls, roly-poly and draped with tool belts and bandoliers.She’s red-faced from the trek up the stairs, and it gives her theaspect of a fairy tale baker or candy-seller. She reinforces thisimpression by putting her plump hands to her enormous bosomand gasping when she catches sight of me.It comes to me that I am quite a fucking sight. Bloody,sunburnt, wild-eyed, with my simian hunch and my scabby jawset at a crazy angle to my face and reality both. Not to mentionmy near nudity, which I’m semipositive is not her idea of lightentertainment. “Hey,” I say. “I, uh, I got stuck on the roof. Thedoor shut.” Talking reopens the wound on my jaw and I feel more blood trickling down my neck. “Unfortunately, I only getone chance to make a first impression, huh? I’m not, you know,really crazy, I was just a little bored and so I went exploringand got stuck and tried to get someone’s attention, had a coupleaccidents...It’s a long story. Hey! My name’s Art. What’syours?”“Oh my Lord!” she said, and her hand jumps to the hammer inits bandolier holster on her round tummy. She claws at itfrantically.“Please,” I say, holding my hands in front of me. “Please. I’mhurt is all. I came up here to get some fresh air and the doorswung shut behind me. I tripped when I knocked over thechimney to get someone’s attention. I’m not dangerous. Please.Just help me get back down to the twentieth floor—I think Imight need a stretcher crew, my back is pretty bad.”“It’s Caitlin,” she says.“I beg your pardon?”“My name is Caitlin,” she says.“Hi, Caitlin,” I said. I extend my hand, but she doesn’t movethe ten yards she would have to cross in order to take it. I thinkabout moving towards her, but think better of it.“You’re not up here to jump, are you?”“Jump? Christ, no! Just stuck is all. Just stuck.”
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 84 Linda’s goddamned boyfriend was into all this flaky Getting toYes shit, subliminal means of establishing rapport and so on.Linda and I once spent an afternoon at the Children’s Carouseluptown in Manhattan, making fun of all his newage theories.The one that stood out in my mind as funniest was synchingyour breathing—“What you resist persists, so you need to turnresistance into assistance,” Linda recounted. You matchbreathing with your subject for fifteen breaths and theyunconsciously become receptive to your suggestions. I have asuspicion that Caitlin might bolt, duck back through the doorand pound down the stairs on her chubby little legs and leaveme stranded.So I try it, match my breath to her heaving bosom. She’s stillpanting from her trek up the stairs and fifteen breaths go by ina quick pause. The silence stretches, and I try to rememberwhat I’m supposed to do next. Lead the subject, that’s it.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 5-05-eastern-standard-tribe-del-5
# chapter_title: 05_eastern-standard-tribe-del-5
# book_page: 113 / 169
# chapter_page: 16
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
It’s a long story. Hey! My name’s Art. What’syours?”“Oh my Lord!” she said, and her hand jumps to the hammer inits bandolier holster on her round tummy. She claws at itfrantically.“Please,” I say, holding my hands in front of me. “Please. I’mhurt is all. I came up here to get some fresh air and the doorswung shut behind me. I tripped when I knocked over thechimney to get someone’s attention. I’m not dangerous. Please.Just help me get back down to the twentieth floor—I think Imight need a stretcher crew, my back is pretty bad.”“It’s Caitlin,” she says.“I beg your pardon?”“My name is Caitlin,” she says.“Hi, Caitlin,” I said. I extend my hand, but she doesn’t movethe ten yards she would have to cross in order to take it. I thinkabout moving towards her, but think better of it.“You’re not up here to jump, are you?”“Jump? Christ, no! Just stuck is all. Just stuck.”
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 84 Linda’s goddamned boyfriend was into all this flaky Getting toYes shit, subliminal means of establishing rapport and so on.Linda and I once spent an afternoon at the Children’s Carouseluptown in Manhattan, making fun of all his newage theories.The one that stood out in my mind as funniest was synchingyour breathing—“What you resist persists, so you need to turnresistance into assistance,” Linda recounted. You matchbreathing with your subject for fifteen breaths and theyunconsciously become receptive to your suggestions. I have asuspicion that Caitlin might bolt, duck back through the doorand pound down the stairs on her chubby little legs and leaveme stranded.So I try it, match my breath to her heaving bosom. She’s stillpanting from her trek up the stairs and fifteen breaths go by ina quick pause. The silence stretches, and I try to rememberwhat I’m supposed to do next. Lead the subject, that’s it.I slowmy breathing down gradually and, amazingly, her breath slowsdown along with mine, until we’re both breathing great, slowbreaths. It works—it’s flaky and goofy California shit, but itworks.“Caitlin,” I say calmly, making it part of an exhalation.“Yes,” she says, still wary.“Have you got a comm?”“I do, yes.” “Can you please call downstairs and ask them to send up astretcher crew? I’ve hurt my back and I won’t be able to handlethe stairs.”“I can do that, yes.”“Thank you, Caitlin.”It feels like cheating. I didn’t have to browbeat her or punctureher bad reasoning—all it took was a little rapport, a littleputting myself in her shoes. I can’t believe it worked, butCaitlin flips a ruggedized comm off her hip and speaks into itin a calm, efficient manner.“Thank you, Caitlin,” I say again. I start to ease myself to asitting position, and my back gives way, so that I crash to therooftop, mewling, hands clutched to my spasming lumbar.
Andthen Caitlin’s at my side, pushing my hands away from myback, strong thumbs digging into the spasming muscles aroundmy iliac crests, soothing and smoothing them out, tracing thelines of fire back to the nodes of the joints, patiently kneadingthe spasms out until the pain recedes to a soft throbbing.“My old man used to get that,” she said. “All us kids had totake turns working it out for him.” I’m on my back, staring upover her curves and rolls and into her earnest, freckled face.“Oh, God, that feels good,” I say.“That’s what the old man used to say. You’re too young tohave a bad back.”
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 5-05-eastern-standard-tribe-del-5
# chapter_title: 05_eastern-standard-tribe-del-5
# book_page: 114 / 169
# chapter_page: 17
# language: en
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I slowmy breathing down gradually and, amazingly, her breath slowsdown along with mine, until we’re both breathing great, slowbreaths. It works—it’s flaky and goofy California shit, but itworks.“Caitlin,” I say calmly, making it part of an exhalation.“Yes,” she says, still wary.“Have you got a comm?”“I do, yes.” “Can you please call downstairs and ask them to send up astretcher crew? I’ve hurt my back and I won’t be able to handlethe stairs.”“I can do that, yes.”“Thank you, Caitlin.”It feels like cheating. I didn’t have to browbeat her or punctureher bad reasoning—all it took was a little rapport, a littleputting myself in her shoes. I can’t believe it worked, butCaitlin flips a ruggedized comm off her hip and speaks into itin a calm, efficient manner.“Thank you, Caitlin,” I say again. I start to ease myself to asitting position, and my back gives way, so that I crash to therooftop, mewling, hands clutched to my spasming lumbar.
Andthen Caitlin’s at my side, pushing my hands away from myback, strong thumbs digging into the spasming muscles aroundmy iliac crests, soothing and smoothing them out, tracing thelines of fire back to the nodes of the joints, patiently kneadingthe spasms out until the pain recedes to a soft throbbing.“My old man used to get that,” she said. “All us kids had totake turns working it out for him.” I’m on my back, staring upover her curves and rolls and into her earnest, freckled face.“Oh, God, that feels good,” I say.“That’s what the old man used to say. You’re too young tohave a bad back.”Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 85 “I have to agree,” I say.“All right, I’m going to prop your knees up and lay your headdown. I need to have a look at that ventilator.”I grimace. “I’m afraid I did a real number on it,” I say. “Sorryabout that.”She waves a chubby pish-tosh at me with her freckled hand andwalks over to the chimney, leaving me staring at the sky, kneesbent, waiting for the stretcher crew.When they arrive, Caitlin watches as they strap me onto theboard, tying me tighter than is strictly necessary for my safety,and I realize that I’m not being tied down, I’m being tied up.“Thanks, Caitlin,” I say.“You’re welcome, Art.”“Good luck with the ventilator—sorry again.”“That’s all right, kid. It’s my job, after all.” 18.Virgin Upper’s hot tubs were more theoretically soothing thanactually so. They had rather high walls and a rather low waterlevel, both for modesty’s sake and to prevent spills.
Art passedthrough the miniature sauna/shower and into the tub after hismassage, somewhere over Newfoundland, and just as the planehit turbulence, buffeting him with chlorinated water that stunghis eyes and got up his nose and soaked the magazine onoffshore investing that he’d found in the back of his seatpocket.He landed at JFK still smelling of chlorine and sandalwoodmassage oil and the cantaloupe-scented lotion in the fancytoilets. Tension melted away from him as he meandered to theshuttle stop. The air had an indefinable character ofhomeliness, or maybe it was the sunlight.
Amateur Tribalanthropologists were always thrashing about light amongthemselves, arguing about the sun’s character varying fromlatitude to latitude, filtered through this city’s pollutionsignature or that.The light or the air, the latitude or the smog, it felt like home.The women walked with a reassuring, confident clack clackclack of heel on hard tile; the men talked louder than wasnecessary to one another or to their comms. The people were ariot of ethnicities and their speech was a riotous babel ofaccents, idioms and languages. Aggressive pretzel vendors viedwith aggressive panhandlers to shake down the people waitingon the shuttle bus. Art bought a stale, sterno-reeking pretzel
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 5-05-eastern-standard-tribe-del-5
# chapter_title: 05_eastern-standard-tribe-del-5
# book_page: 115 / 169
# chapter_page: 18
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 85 “I have to agree,” I say.“All right, I’m going to prop your knees up and lay your headdown. I need to have a look at that ventilator.”I grimace. “I’m afraid I did a real number on it,” I say. “Sorryabout that.”She waves a chubby pish-tosh at me with her freckled hand andwalks over to the chimney, leaving me staring at the sky, kneesbent, waiting for the stretcher crew.When they arrive, Caitlin watches as they strap me onto theboard, tying me tighter than is strictly necessary for my safety,and I realize that I’m not being tied down, I’m being tied up.“Thanks, Caitlin,” I say.“You’re welcome, Art.”“Good luck with the ventilator—sorry again.”“That’s all right, kid. It’s my job, after all.” 18.Virgin Upper’s hot tubs were more theoretically soothing thanactually so. They had rather high walls and a rather low waterlevel, both for modesty’s sake and to prevent spills.
Art passedthrough the miniature sauna/shower and into the tub after hismassage, somewhere over Newfoundland, and just as the planehit turbulence, buffeting him with chlorinated water that stunghis eyes and got up his nose and soaked the magazine onoffshore investing that he’d found in the back of his seatpocket.He landed at JFK still smelling of chlorine and sandalwoodmassage oil and the cantaloupe-scented lotion in the fancytoilets. Tension melted away from him as he meandered to theshuttle stop. The air had an indefinable character ofhomeliness, or maybe it was the sunlight.
Amateur Tribalanthropologists were always thrashing about light amongthemselves, arguing about the sun’s character varying fromlatitude to latitude, filtered through this city’s pollutionsignature or that.The light or the air, the latitude or the smog, it felt like home.The women walked with a reassuring, confident clack clackclack of heel on hard tile; the men talked louder than wasnecessary to one another or to their comms. The people were ariot of ethnicities and their speech was a riotous babel ofaccents, idioms and languages. Aggressive pretzel vendors viedwith aggressive panhandlers to shake down the people waitingon the shuttle bus. Art bought a stale, sterno-reeking pretzelCory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 86 that was crusted with inedible volumes of yellowing salt andsquirted a couple bucks at a panhandler who had been pesteringhim in thick Jamaican patois but thanked him in adenoidalBrooklynese.By the time he boarded his connection to Logan he wasjoggling his knees uncontrollably in his seat, his delight barelycontained. He got an undrinkable can of watery Budweiser andpropped it up on his tray table alongside his inedible pretzeland arranged them in a kind of symbolic tableau of all thingsESTian.He commed Fede from the guts of the tunnels thathoneycombed Boston, realizing with a thrill as Fede picked upthat it was two in the morning in London, at the nominalGMT+0, while here at GMT-5—at the default, plus-zero timezone of his life, livelihood and lifestyle—it was only 9PM.“Fede!” Art said into the comm.“Hey, Art!”
Fede said, with a false air of chipperness that Artrecognized from any number of middle-of-the-night calls.There was a cheap Malaysian comm that he’d once boughtbecause of its hyped up de-hibernate feature—its ability to gofrom its deepest power-saving sleepmode to full waking glorywithout the customary thirty seconds of drive-churninghousekeeping as it reestablished its network connection,verified its file system and memory, and pinged its buddy-listfor state and presence info. This Malaysian comm, theCrackler, had the uncanny ability to go into suspended animation indefinitely, and yet throw your workspace back onits display in a hot instant.When Art actually laid hands on it, after it meandered its wayacross the world by slow boat, corrupt GMT+8 Posts andTelegraphs authorities, over-engineered courier services andRevenue Canada’s Customs agents, he was enchanted by thisfeature.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 5-05-eastern-standard-tribe-del-5
# chapter_title: 05_eastern-standard-tribe-del-5
# book_page: 116 / 169
# chapter_page: 19
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 86 that was crusted with inedible volumes of yellowing salt andsquirted a couple bucks at a panhandler who had been pesteringhim in thick Jamaican patois but thanked him in adenoidalBrooklynese.By the time he boarded his connection to Logan he wasjoggling his knees uncontrollably in his seat, his delight barelycontained. He got an undrinkable can of watery Budweiser andpropped it up on his tray table alongside his inedible pretzeland arranged them in a kind of symbolic tableau of all thingsESTian.He commed Fede from the guts of the tunnels thathoneycombed Boston, realizing with a thrill as Fede picked upthat it was two in the morning in London, at the nominalGMT+0, while here at GMT-5—at the default, plus-zero timezone of his life, livelihood and lifestyle—it was only 9PM.“Fede!” Art said into the comm.“Hey, Art!”
Fede said, with a false air of chipperness that Artrecognized from any number of middle-of-the-night calls.There was a cheap Malaysian comm that he’d once boughtbecause of its hyped up de-hibernate feature—its ability to gofrom its deepest power-saving sleepmode to full waking glorywithout the customary thirty seconds of drive-churninghousekeeping as it reestablished its network connection,verified its file system and memory, and pinged its buddy-listfor state and presence info. This Malaysian comm, theCrackler, had the uncanny ability to go into suspended animation indefinitely, and yet throw your workspace back onits display in a hot instant.When Art actually laid hands on it, after it meandered its wayacross the world by slow boat, corrupt GMT+8 Posts andTelegraphs authorities, over-engineered courier services andRevenue Canada’s Customs agents, he was enchanted by thisfeature.He could put the device into deep sleep, close it up,and pop its cover open and poof! there were his windows. Ittook him three days and an interesting crash to notice that eventhough he was seeing his workspace, he wasn’t able to interactwith it for thirty seconds. The auspicious crash revealed thepresence of a screenshot of his pre-hibernation workspace onthe drive, and he realized that the machine was tricking him,displaying the screenshot—the illusion of wakefulness—whenhe woke it up, relying on the illusion to endure while itperformed its housekeeping tasks in the background. A littlestopwatch work proved that this chicanery actually added threeseconds to the overall wake-time, and taught him his firstimportant user-experience lesson: perception of functionalitytrumps the actual function.And here was Fede, throwing up a verbal screenshot ofwakefulness while he churned in the background,housekeeping himself into real alertness.
“Fede, I’m here, I’min Boston!”“Good Art, good. How was the trip?”“Wonderful. Virgin Upper was fantastic—dancing girls,midget wrestling, hash brownies...”
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 87 “Good, very good.”“And now I’m driving around under Boston through a land-yacht regatta. The boats are mambo, but I think that bananapatch the hotel soon.”“Glad to hear it.” Art heard water running dimly, realized thatFede was taking a leak.“Meeting with the Jersey boys tomorrow. We’re having brunchat a strip club.”“OK, OK, very funny,” Fede said. “I’m awake. What’s up?”“Nothing. I just wanted to check in with you and let you knowI arrived safe and sound. How’re things in London?”“Your girlfriend called me.”“Linda?”“You got another girlfriend?”“What did she want?”“She wanted to chew me out for sending you overseas withyour ‘crippling back injury.’ She told me she’d hold meresponsible if you got into trouble over there.”“God, Fede, I’m sorry. I didn’t put her up to it or anything—” “Don’t worry about it. I’m glad that there’s someone out therewho cares about you.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 5-05-eastern-standard-tribe-del-5
# chapter_title: 05_eastern-standard-tribe-del-5
# book_page: 117 / 169
# chapter_page: 20
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
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# render_mode: prose
He could put the device into deep sleep, close it up,and pop its cover open and poof! there were his windows. Ittook him three days and an interesting crash to notice that eventhough he was seeing his workspace, he wasn’t able to interactwith it for thirty seconds. The auspicious crash revealed thepresence of a screenshot of his pre-hibernation workspace onthe drive, and he realized that the machine was tricking him,displaying the screenshot—the illusion of wakefulness—whenhe woke it up, relying on the illusion to endure while itperformed its housekeeping tasks in the background. A littlestopwatch work proved that this chicanery actually added threeseconds to the overall wake-time, and taught him his firstimportant user-experience lesson: perception of functionalitytrumps the actual function.And here was Fede, throwing up a verbal screenshot ofwakefulness while he churned in the background,housekeeping himself into real alertness.
“Fede, I’m here, I’min Boston!”“Good Art, good. How was the trip?”“Wonderful. Virgin Upper was fantastic—dancing girls,midget wrestling, hash brownies...”
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 87 “Good, very good.”“And now I’m driving around under Boston through a land-yacht regatta. The boats are mambo, but I think that bananapatch the hotel soon.”“Glad to hear it.” Art heard water running dimly, realized thatFede was taking a leak.“Meeting with the Jersey boys tomorrow. We’re having brunchat a strip club.”“OK, OK, very funny,” Fede said. “I’m awake. What’s up?”“Nothing. I just wanted to check in with you and let you knowI arrived safe and sound. How’re things in London?”“Your girlfriend called me.”“Linda?”“You got another girlfriend?”“What did she want?”“She wanted to chew me out for sending you overseas withyour ‘crippling back injury.’ She told me she’d hold meresponsible if you got into trouble over there.”“God, Fede, I’m sorry. I didn’t put her up to it or anything—” “Don’t worry about it. I’m glad that there’s someone out therewho cares about you.We’re getting together for dinnertonight.”“Fede, you know, I think Linda’s terrific, but she’s a little, youknow, volatile.”“Art, everyone in O’Malley House knows just how volatile sheis. ‘I won’t tell you again, Art. Moderate your tone. I won’t beshouted at.’”“Christ, you heard that, too?”“Don’t worry about it. She’s cool and I like her and I can standto be shouted at a little. When did you say you were meetingwith Perceptronics?”The word shocked him. They never mentioned the name of theJersey clients. It started as a game, but soon became woveninto Fede’s paranoid procedures.Now they had reached the endgame. Within a matter of weeks,they’d be turning in their resignations to V/DT and taking thefinal flight across the Atlantic and back to GMT-5,provocateurs no longer.“Tomorrow afternoon. We’re starting late to give me time toget a full night’s sleep.” The last conference call withPerceptronics had gone fantastically.
His normalhandlers—sour men with nasty minds who glommed ontoirrelevancies in V/DT’s strategy and teased at them until they
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 88 conjured up shadowy and shrewd conspiracies where noneexisted—weren’t on that call. Instead, he’d spent a rollickingfour hours on the line with the sharp and snarky productdesigners and engineers, bouncing ideas back and forth atspeed. Even over the phone, the homey voices and points ofview felt indefinably comfortable and familiar. They’d beendelighted to start late in the day for his benefit, and had offeredto work late and follow up with a visit to a bar where he couldget a burger the size of a baby’s head. “We’re meeting atPerceptronics’ branch office in Acton tomorrow and the dayafter, then going into MassPike. The Perceptronics guys soundreally excited.” Just saying the name of the company was athrill.“That’s really excellent, Art. Go easy, though—”“Oh, don’t worry about me.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 5-05-eastern-standard-tribe-del-5
# chapter_title: 05_eastern-standard-tribe-del-5
# book_page: 118 / 169
# chapter_page: 21
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
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# render_mode: prose
We’re getting together for dinnertonight.”“Fede, you know, I think Linda’s terrific, but she’s a little, youknow, volatile.”“Art, everyone in O’Malley House knows just how volatile sheis. ‘I won’t tell you again, Art. Moderate your tone. I won’t beshouted at.’”“Christ, you heard that, too?”“Don’t worry about it. She’s cool and I like her and I can standto be shouted at a little. When did you say you were meetingwith Perceptronics?”The word shocked him. They never mentioned the name of theJersey clients. It started as a game, but soon became woveninto Fede’s paranoid procedures.Now they had reached the endgame. Within a matter of weeks,they’d be turning in their resignations to V/DT and taking thefinal flight across the Atlantic and back to GMT-5,provocateurs no longer.“Tomorrow afternoon. We’re starting late to give me time toget a full night’s sleep.” The last conference call withPerceptronics had gone fantastically.
His normalhandlers—sour men with nasty minds who glommed ontoirrelevancies in V/DT’s strategy and teased at them until they
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 88 conjured up shadowy and shrewd conspiracies where noneexisted—weren’t on that call. Instead, he’d spent a rollickingfour hours on the line with the sharp and snarky productdesigners and engineers, bouncing ideas back and forth atspeed. Even over the phone, the homey voices and points ofview felt indefinably comfortable and familiar. They’d beendelighted to start late in the day for his benefit, and had offeredto work late and follow up with a visit to a bar where he couldget a burger the size of a baby’s head. “We’re meeting atPerceptronics’ branch office in Acton tomorrow and the dayafter, then going into MassPike. The Perceptronics guys soundreally excited.” Just saying the name of the company was athrill.“That’s really excellent, Art. Go easy, though—”“Oh, don’t worry about me.My back’s feeling miles better.”And it was, loose and supple the way it did after a goodworkout.“That’s good, but it’s not what I meant. We’re still closing thisdeal, still dickering over price. I need another day, maybe, tosettle it. So go easy tomorrow. Give me a little leverage, OK?”“I don’t get it. I thought we had a deal.”“Nothing’s final till it’s vinyl, you know that. They’re balkingat the royalty clause”—Fede was proposing to sellPerceptronics an exclusive license on the business-modelpatent he’d filed for using Art’s notes in exchange for jobs, alump-sum payment and a royalty on every sub-license that Perceptronics sold to the world’s toll roads—“and we’rerenegotiating. They’re just playing hardball, is all. Anotherday, tops, and I’ll have it sorted.”“I’m confused. What do you want me to do?”“Just, you know, stall them. Get there late. Play up your jetlag.Leave early. Don’t get anything, you know, done.
Use yourimagination.”“Is there a deal or isn’t there, Fede?”“There’s a deal, there’s a deal. I’ll do my thing, you’ll do yourthing, and we’ll both be rich and living in New York beforeyou know it. Do you understand?”“Not really.”“OK, that’ll have to be good enough for now. Jesus, Art, I’mdoing my best here, all right?”“Say hi to Linda for me, OK?”“Don’t be pissed at me, Art.”“I’m not pissed. I’ll stall them. You do your thing. I’ll take iteasy, rest up my back.”“All right. Have a great time, OK?”“I will, Fede.”
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 5-05-eastern-standard-tribe-del-5
# chapter_title: 05_eastern-standard-tribe-del-5
# book_page: 119 / 169
# chapter_page: 22
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
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# render_mode: prose
My back’s feeling miles better.”And it was, loose and supple the way it did after a goodworkout.“That’s good, but it’s not what I meant. We’re still closing thisdeal, still dickering over price. I need another day, maybe, tosettle it. So go easy tomorrow. Give me a little leverage, OK?”“I don’t get it. I thought we had a deal.”“Nothing’s final till it’s vinyl, you know that. They’re balkingat the royalty clause”—Fede was proposing to sellPerceptronics an exclusive license on the business-modelpatent he’d filed for using Art’s notes in exchange for jobs, alump-sum payment and a royalty on every sub-license that Perceptronics sold to the world’s toll roads—“and we’rerenegotiating. They’re just playing hardball, is all. Anotherday, tops, and I’ll have it sorted.”“I’m confused. What do you want me to do?”“Just, you know, stall them. Get there late. Play up your jetlag.Leave early. Don’t get anything, you know, done.
Use yourimagination.”“Is there a deal or isn’t there, Fede?”“There’s a deal, there’s a deal. I’ll do my thing, you’ll do yourthing, and we’ll both be rich and living in New York beforeyou know it. Do you understand?”“Not really.”“OK, that’ll have to be good enough for now. Jesus, Art, I’mdoing my best here, all right?”“Say hi to Linda for me, OK?”“Don’t be pissed at me, Art.”“I’m not pissed. I’ll stall them. You do your thing. I’ll take iteasy, rest up my back.”“All right. Have a great time, OK?”“I will, Fede.”Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 89 Art rang off, feeling exhausted and aggravated. He followedthe tunnel signs to the nearest up-ramp, wanting to get into thesunlight and architecture and warm himself with both. Aminiscule BMW Flea blatted its horn at him when he changedlanes. Had he cut the car off? He was still looking the wrongway, still anticipating oncoming traffic on the right. He raised ahand in an apologetic wave.It wasn’t enough for the Flea’s driver. The car ran right up tohis bumper, then zipped into the adjacent lane, accelerated andcut him off, nearly causing a wreck. As it was, Art had toswerve into the parking lane on Mass Ave—how did he get toMass Ave? God, he was lost already—to avoid him. The Fleabacked off and switched lanes again, then pulled up alongsideof him. The driver rolled down his window.“How the fuck do you like it, jackoff? Don’t ever fucking cutme off!”
He was a middle aged white guy in a suit, driving acar that was worth a year’s wages to Art, purple-faced and pop-eyed.Art felt something give way inside, and then he was shoutingback. “When I want your opinion, I’ll squeeze your fuckinghead, you sack of shit! As it is, I can barely contain my rage atthe thought that a scumbag like you is consuming air that therest of us could be breathing! Now, roll up your goddamnedwindow and drive your fucking bourge-mobile before I smashyour fucking head in!”He shut his mouth, alarmed. What the hell was he saying? Howdid he end up standing here, outside of his car, shouting at the other driver, stalking towards the Flea with his hands balledinto fists? Why was he picking a fight with this goddamnedpsycho, anyway? A year in peaceful, pistol-free London hadeased his normal road-rage defense systems.
Now they cameup full, and he wondered if the road-rager he’d just snapped atwould haul out a Second-Amendment Special and cap him.But the other driver looked as shocked as Art felt. He rolled uphis window and sped off, turning wildly at the nextcorner—Brookline, Art saw. Art got back into his rental, pulledoff to the curb and asked his comm to generate an optimalroute to his hotel, and drove in numb silence the rest of theway.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 5-05-eastern-standard-tribe-del-5
# chapter_title: 05_eastern-standard-tribe-del-5
# book_page: 120 / 169
# chapter_page: 23
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 89 Art rang off, feeling exhausted and aggravated. He followedthe tunnel signs to the nearest up-ramp, wanting to get into thesunlight and architecture and warm himself with both. Aminiscule BMW Flea blatted its horn at him when he changedlanes. Had he cut the car off? He was still looking the wrongway, still anticipating oncoming traffic on the right. He raised ahand in an apologetic wave.It wasn’t enough for the Flea’s driver. The car ran right up tohis bumper, then zipped into the adjacent lane, accelerated andcut him off, nearly causing a wreck. As it was, Art had toswerve into the parking lane on Mass Ave—how did he get toMass Ave? God, he was lost already—to avoid him. The Fleabacked off and switched lanes again, then pulled up alongsideof him. The driver rolled down his window.“How the fuck do you like it, jackoff? Don’t ever fucking cutme off!”
He was a middle aged white guy in a suit, driving acar that was worth a year’s wages to Art, purple-faced and pop-eyed.Art felt something give way inside, and then he was shoutingback. “When I want your opinion, I’ll squeeze your fuckinghead, you sack of shit! As it is, I can barely contain my rage atthe thought that a scumbag like you is consuming air that therest of us could be breathing! Now, roll up your goddamnedwindow and drive your fucking bourge-mobile before I smashyour fucking head in!”He shut his mouth, alarmed. What the hell was he saying? Howdid he end up standing here, outside of his car, shouting at the other driver, stalking towards the Flea with his hands balledinto fists? Why was he picking a fight with this goddamnedpsycho, anyway? A year in peaceful, pistol-free London hadeased his normal road-rage defense systems.
Now they cameup full, and he wondered if the road-rager he’d just snapped atwould haul out a Second-Amendment Special and cap him.But the other driver looked as shocked as Art felt. He rolled uphis window and sped off, turning wildly at the nextcorner—Brookline, Art saw. Art got back into his rental, pulledoff to the curb and asked his comm to generate an optimalroute to his hotel, and drove in numb silence the rest of theway.Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 90 19.They let me call Gran on my second day here. Of course, Lindahad already called her and briefed her on my supposed mentalbreakdown. I had no doubt that she’d managed to fakehysterical anxiety well enough to convince Gran that I’d lost itcompletely; Gran was already four-fifths certain that I wasnuts.“Hi, Gran,” I said.“Arthur! My God, how are you?”“I’m fine, Gran. It’s a big mistake is all.”“A mistake? Your lady friend called me and told me whatyou’d done in London. Arthur, you need help.”“What did Linda say?”“She said that you threatened to kill a coworker. She said youthreatened to kill her. That you had a knife. Oh, Arthur, I’m soworried—”“It’s not true, Gran. She’s lying to you.”“She told me you’d say that.”“Of course she did. She and Fede—a guy I worked with inLondon—they’re trying to get rid of me. They had me locked up.
I had a business deal with Fede, we were selling one of myideas to a company in New Jersey. Linda talked him intoselling to some people she knows in LA instead, and theyconspired to cut me out of the deal. When I caught them at it,they got me sent away. Let me guess, she told you I was goingto say this, too, right?”“Arthur, I know—”“You know that I’m a good guy. You raised me. I’m not nuts,OK? They just wanted to get me out of the way while they didtheir deal. A week or two and I’ll be out again, but it will betoo late. Do you believe that you know me better than somegirl I met a month ago?”“Of course I do, Arthur. But why would the hospital take youaway if—”“If I wasn’t crazy? I’m in here for observation—they want tofind out if I’m crazy. If they’re not sure, then you can’t be sure,right?”“All right. Oh, I’ve been sick with worry.”“I’m sorry, Gran.
I need to get through this week and I’ll befree and clear and I’ll come back to Toronto.”“I’m going to come down there to see you. Linda told mevisitors weren’t allowed, is that true?”
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 5-05-eastern-standard-tribe-del-5
# chapter_title: 05_eastern-standard-tribe-del-5
# book_page: 121 / 169
# chapter_page: 24
# language: en
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 90 19.They let me call Gran on my second day here. Of course, Lindahad already called her and briefed her on my supposed mentalbreakdown. I had no doubt that she’d managed to fakehysterical anxiety well enough to convince Gran that I’d lost itcompletely; Gran was already four-fifths certain that I wasnuts.“Hi, Gran,” I said.“Arthur! My God, how are you?”“I’m fine, Gran. It’s a big mistake is all.”“A mistake? Your lady friend called me and told me whatyou’d done in London. Arthur, you need help.”“What did Linda say?”“She said that you threatened to kill a coworker. She said youthreatened to kill her. That you had a knife. Oh, Arthur, I’m soworried—”“It’s not true, Gran. She’s lying to you.”“She told me you’d say that.”“Of course she did. She and Fede—a guy I worked with inLondon—they’re trying to get rid of me. They had me locked up.
I had a business deal with Fede, we were selling one of myideas to a company in New Jersey. Linda talked him intoselling to some people she knows in LA instead, and theyconspired to cut me out of the deal. When I caught them at it,they got me sent away. Let me guess, she told you I was goingto say this, too, right?”“Arthur, I know—”“You know that I’m a good guy. You raised me. I’m not nuts,OK? They just wanted to get me out of the way while they didtheir deal. A week or two and I’ll be out again, but it will betoo late. Do you believe that you know me better than somegirl I met a month ago?”“Of course I do, Arthur. But why would the hospital take youaway if—”“If I wasn’t crazy? I’m in here for observation—they want tofind out if I’m crazy. If they’re not sure, then you can’t be sure,right?”“All right. Oh, I’ve been sick with worry.”“I’m sorry, Gran.
I need to get through this week and I’ll befree and clear and I’ll come back to Toronto.”“I’m going to come down there to see you. Linda told mevisitors weren’t allowed, is that true?”06_eastern-standard-tribe-del-6
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 91 “No, it’s not true.” I thought about Gran seeing me in the wardamidst the pukers and the screamers and the droolers and thefondlers and flinched away from the phone. “But if you’regoing to come down, come for the hearing at the end of theweek. There’s nothing you can do here now.”“Even if I can’t help, I just want to come and see you. It was sonice when you were here.”“I know, I know. I’ll be coming back soon, don’t worry.”If only Gran could see me now, on the infirmary examinationtable, in four-point restraint. Good thing she can’t.A doctor looms over me. “How are you feeling, Art?”“I’ve had better days,” I say, with what I hope is stark sanityand humor. Aren’t crazy people incapable of humor? “I wentfor a walk and the door swung shut behind me.”“Well, they’ll do that,” the doctor says. “My name is Szandor,”he says, and shakes my hand in its restraint.“A pleasure to meet you,” I say.
“You’re a doctor doctor,aren’t you?”“An MD? Yup. There’re a couple of us around the place.”“But you’re not a shrink of any description?”“Nope. How’d you guess?” “Bedside manner. You didn’t patronize me.”Dr. Szandor tries to suppress a grin, then gives up. “We all doour bit,” he says. “How’d you get up on the roof withoutsetting off your room alarm, anyway?”“If I tell you how I did it, I won’t be able to repeat the trick,” Isay jokingly. He’s swabbing down my shins now withsomething that stings and cools at the same time. From time totime, he takes tweezers in hand and plucks loose some gravelor grit and plinks it into a steel tray on a rolling table by hisside. He’s so gentle, I hardly feel it.“What, you never heard of doctor-patient confidentiality?”“Is that thing still around?”“Oh sure! We had a mandatory workshop on it yesterdayafternoon.
Those are always a lot of fun.”“So, you’re saying that you’ve got professional expertise in thekeeping of secrets, huh? I suppose I could spill it for you,then.” And I do, explaining my little hack for tricking the doorinto thinking that I’d left and returned to the room.“Huh—now that you explain it, it’s pretty obvious.”“That’s my job—figuring out the obvious way of doingsomething.”
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 6-06-eastern-standard-tribe-del-6
# chapter_title: 06_eastern-standard-tribe-del-6
# book_page: 122 / 169
# chapter_page: 1
# language: en
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 91 “No, it’s not true.” I thought about Gran seeing me in the wardamidst the pukers and the screamers and the droolers and thefondlers and flinched away from the phone. “But if you’regoing to come down, come for the hearing at the end of theweek. There’s nothing you can do here now.”“Even if I can’t help, I just want to come and see you. It was sonice when you were here.”“I know, I know. I’ll be coming back soon, don’t worry.”If only Gran could see me now, on the infirmary examinationtable, in four-point restraint. Good thing she can’t.A doctor looms over me. “How are you feeling, Art?”“I’ve had better days,” I say, with what I hope is stark sanityand humor. Aren’t crazy people incapable of humor? “I wentfor a walk and the door swung shut behind me.”“Well, they’ll do that,” the doctor says. “My name is Szandor,”he says, and shakes my hand in its restraint.“A pleasure to meet you,” I say.
“You’re a doctor doctor,aren’t you?”“An MD? Yup. There’re a couple of us around the place.”“But you’re not a shrink of any description?”“Nope. How’d you guess?” “Bedside manner. You didn’t patronize me.”Dr. Szandor tries to suppress a grin, then gives up. “We all doour bit,” he says. “How’d you get up on the roof withoutsetting off your room alarm, anyway?”“If I tell you how I did it, I won’t be able to repeat the trick,” Isay jokingly. He’s swabbing down my shins now withsomething that stings and cools at the same time. From time totime, he takes tweezers in hand and plucks loose some gravelor grit and plinks it into a steel tray on a rolling table by hisside. He’s so gentle, I hardly feel it.“What, you never heard of doctor-patient confidentiality?”“Is that thing still around?”“Oh sure! We had a mandatory workshop on it yesterdayafternoon.
Those are always a lot of fun.”“So, you’re saying that you’ve got professional expertise in thekeeping of secrets, huh? I suppose I could spill it for you,then.” And I do, explaining my little hack for tricking the doorinto thinking that I’d left and returned to the room.“Huh—now that you explain it, it’s pretty obvious.”“That’s my job—figuring out the obvious way of doingsomething.”Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 92 And we fall to talking about my job with V/DT, and thediscussion branches into the theory and practice of UE, onlyslowing a little when he picks the crud out of the scrape downmy jaw and tugs through a couple of quick stitches. It occurs tome that he’s just keeping me distracted, using a highly evolvedskill for placating psychopaths through small talk so that theydon’t thrash while he’s knitting their bodies back together.I decide that I don’t care. I get to natter on about a subject thatI’m nearly autistically fixated on, and I do it in a context whereI know that I’m sane and smart and charming and occasionallymind-blowing.“...and the whole thing pays for itself through EZPass, wherewe collect the payments for the music downloaded whileyou’re on the road.”
As I finish my spiel, I realize I’ve beenkeeping him distracted, standing there with the tweezers in onehand and a swab in the other.“Wow!” he said. “So, when’s this all going to happen?”“You’d use it, huh?”“Hell, yeah! I’ve got a good twenty, thirty thousand on my carright now! You’re saying I could plunder anyone else’s stereoat will, for free, and keep it, while I’m stuck in traffic, andbecause I’m a—what’d you call it, a super-peer?—a super-peer, it’s all free and legal? Damn!”“Well, it may be a while before you see it on the East Coast.It’ll probably roll out in LA first, then San Francisco, Seattle...” “What? Why?”“It’s a long story,” I say. “And it ends with me on the roof of agoddamned nuthouse on Route 128 doing a one-man tribute tothe Three Stooges.”
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 6-06-eastern-standard-tribe-del-6
# chapter_title: 06_eastern-standard-tribe-del-6
# book_page: 123 / 169
# chapter_page: 2
# language: en
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 92 And we fall to talking about my job with V/DT, and thediscussion branches into the theory and practice of UE, onlyslowing a little when he picks the crud out of the scrape downmy jaw and tugs through a couple of quick stitches. It occurs tome that he’s just keeping me distracted, using a highly evolvedskill for placating psychopaths through small talk so that theydon’t thrash while he’s knitting their bodies back together.I decide that I don’t care. I get to natter on about a subject thatI’m nearly autistically fixated on, and I do it in a context whereI know that I’m sane and smart and charming and occasionallymind-blowing.“...and the whole thing pays for itself through EZPass, wherewe collect the payments for the music downloaded whileyou’re on the road.”
As I finish my spiel, I realize I’ve beenkeeping him distracted, standing there with the tweezers in onehand and a swab in the other.“Wow!” he said. “So, when’s this all going to happen?”“You’d use it, huh?”“Hell, yeah! I’ve got a good twenty, thirty thousand on my carright now! You’re saying I could plunder anyone else’s stereoat will, for free, and keep it, while I’m stuck in traffic, andbecause I’m a—what’d you call it, a super-peer?—a super-peer, it’s all free and legal? Damn!”“Well, it may be a while before you see it on the East Coast.It’ll probably roll out in LA first, then San Francisco, Seattle...” “What? Why?”“It’s a long story,” I say. “And it ends with me on the roof of agoddamned nuthouse on Route 128 doing a one-man tribute tothe Three Stooges.”Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 93 20.Three days later, Art finally realized that something big andugly was in the offing. Fede had repeatedly talked him out ofgoing to Perceptronics’s offices, offering increasingly flimsyexcuses and distracting him by calling the hotel’s front deskand sending up surprise massage therapists to interrupt Art ashe stewed in his juices, throbbing with resentment at havingbeen flown thousands of klicks while injured in order to checkinto a faceless hotel on a faceless stretch of highway and insertthis thumb into his asshole and wait for Fede—who was still infucking London!—to sort out the mess so that he could presenthimself at the Perceptronics Acton offices and get their guysprepped for the ever-receding meeting with MassPike.“Jesus, Federico, what the fuck am I doing here?”“I know, Art, I know.”
Art had taken to calling Fede at theextreme ends of circadian compatibility, three AM and elevenPM and then noon on Fede’s clock, as a subtle means ofmaking the experience just as unpleasant for Fede as it was forArt. “I screwed up,” Fede yawned. “I screwed up and nowwe’re both paying the price. You handled your end beautifullyand I dropped mine. And I intend to make it up to you.”“I don’t want more massages, Fede. I want to get this shit doneand I want to come home and see my girlfriend.”Fede tittered over the phone. “What’s so funny?”“Nothing much,” Fede said. “Just sit tight there for a coupleminutes, OK? Call me back once it happens and tell me whatyou wanna do, all right?”“Once what happens?”“You’ll know.”It was Linda, of course. Knocking on Art’s hotel room doorminutes later, throwing her arms—and then her legs—aroundhim, and banging him stupid, half on and half off the hotelroom bed.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 6-06-eastern-standard-tribe-del-6
# chapter_title: 06_eastern-standard-tribe-del-6
# book_page: 124 / 169
# chapter_page: 3
# language: en
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 93 20.Three days later, Art finally realized that something big andugly was in the offing. Fede had repeatedly talked him out ofgoing to Perceptronics’s offices, offering increasingly flimsyexcuses and distracting him by calling the hotel’s front deskand sending up surprise massage therapists to interrupt Art ashe stewed in his juices, throbbing with resentment at havingbeen flown thousands of klicks while injured in order to checkinto a faceless hotel on a faceless stretch of highway and insertthis thumb into his asshole and wait for Fede—who was still infucking London!—to sort out the mess so that he could presenthimself at the Perceptronics Acton offices and get their guysprepped for the ever-receding meeting with MassPike.“Jesus, Federico, what the fuck am I doing here?”“I know, Art, I know.”
Art had taken to calling Fede at theextreme ends of circadian compatibility, three AM and elevenPM and then noon on Fede’s clock, as a subtle means ofmaking the experience just as unpleasant for Fede as it was forArt. “I screwed up,” Fede yawned. “I screwed up and nowwe’re both paying the price. You handled your end beautifullyand I dropped mine. And I intend to make it up to you.”“I don’t want more massages, Fede. I want to get this shit doneand I want to come home and see my girlfriend.”Fede tittered over the phone. “What’s so funny?”“Nothing much,” Fede said. “Just sit tight there for a coupleminutes, OK? Call me back once it happens and tell me whatyou wanna do, all right?”“Once what happens?”“You’ll know.”It was Linda, of course. Knocking on Art’s hotel room doorminutes later, throwing her arms—and then her legs—aroundhim, and banging him stupid, half on and half off the hotelroom bed.Riding him and then being ridden in turns, slurpingand wet and energetic until they both lay sprawled on the hotelroom’s very nice Persian rugs, dehydrated and panting and Artcommed Fede, and Fede told him it could take a couple weeksto sort things out, and why didn’t he and Linda rent a car anddo some sight-seeing on the East Coast?That’s exactly what they did. Starting in Boston, where theycruised Cambridge, watching the cute nerdyboys andgeekygirls wander the streets, having heated technical debates,lugging half-finished works of technology and art through thesopping summertime, a riot of townie accents and highbrowengineerspeak.Then a week in New York, where they walked until theythought their feet would give out entirely, necks cricked at apermanent, upward-staring angle to gawp at the topless towersof Manhattan. The sound the sound the sound of Manhattan
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 94 rang in their ears, a gray and deep rumble of cars and footfallsand subways and steampipes and sirens and music andconversation and ring tones and hucksters and schizophrenicranters, a veritable Las Vegas of cacophony, and it made Lindauncomfortable, she who was raised in the white noisesusurrations of LA’s freeway forests, but it made Art feelwonderful. He kept his comm switched off, though theunderfoot rumble of the subway had him reaching for it ahundred times a day, convinced that he’d left it on in vibe-alertmode.They took a milk-run train to Toronto, chuffing through sleepyupstate New York towns, past lakes and rolling countryside infull summer glory.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 6-06-eastern-standard-tribe-del-6
# chapter_title: 06_eastern-standard-tribe-del-6
# book_page: 125 / 169
# chapter_page: 4
# language: en
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Riding him and then being ridden in turns, slurpingand wet and energetic until they both lay sprawled on the hotelroom’s very nice Persian rugs, dehydrated and panting and Artcommed Fede, and Fede told him it could take a couple weeksto sort things out, and why didn’t he and Linda rent a car anddo some sight-seeing on the East Coast?That’s exactly what they did. Starting in Boston, where theycruised Cambridge, watching the cute nerdyboys andgeekygirls wander the streets, having heated technical debates,lugging half-finished works of technology and art through thesopping summertime, a riot of townie accents and highbrowengineerspeak.Then a week in New York, where they walked until theythought their feet would give out entirely, necks cricked at apermanent, upward-staring angle to gawp at the topless towersof Manhattan. The sound the sound the sound of Manhattan
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 94 rang in their ears, a gray and deep rumble of cars and footfallsand subways and steampipes and sirens and music andconversation and ring tones and hucksters and schizophrenicranters, a veritable Las Vegas of cacophony, and it made Lindauncomfortable, she who was raised in the white noisesusurrations of LA’s freeway forests, but it made Art feelwonderful. He kept his comm switched off, though theunderfoot rumble of the subway had him reaching for it ahundred times a day, convinced that he’d left it on in vibe-alertmode.They took a milk-run train to Toronto, chuffing through sleepyupstate New York towns, past lakes and rolling countryside infull summer glory.Art and Linda drank ginger beer in theobservation car, spiking it with rum from a flask that Lindacarried in a garter that she wore for the express purpose ofbeing able to reach naughtily up her little sundress and producea bottle of body-temperature liquor in a nickel-plated vesselwhose shiny sides were dulled by the soft oil of her thigh.Canada Customs and Immigration separated them at theborder, sending Art for a full inspection—a privilege of being aCanadian citizen and hence perennially under suspicion ofsmuggling goods from the tax havens of the US into thecountry—and leaving Linda in their little Pullman cabin.When Art popped free of the bureaucracy, his life thoroughlypeered into, he found Linda standing on the platform, leaningagainst a pillar, back arched, one foot flat against the bricks,corresponding dimpled knee exposed to the restless winds ofthe trainyard.
From Art’s point of view, she was a gleaming vision skewered on a beam of late day sunlight that made herhair gleam like licorice. Her long and lazy jaw caught and lostthe sun as she talked animatedly down her comm, and Art wasstruck with a sudden need to sneak up behind her and run histongue down the line that began with the knob of her mandibleunder her ear and ran down to the tiny half-dimple in her chin,to skate it on the soft pouch of flesh under her chin, to end witha tasting of her soft lips.Thought became deed.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 6-06-eastern-standard-tribe-del-6
# chapter_title: 06_eastern-standard-tribe-del-6
# book_page: 126 / 169
# chapter_page: 5
# language: en
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Art and Linda drank ginger beer in theobservation car, spiking it with rum from a flask that Lindacarried in a garter that she wore for the express purpose ofbeing able to reach naughtily up her little sundress and producea bottle of body-temperature liquor in a nickel-plated vesselwhose shiny sides were dulled by the soft oil of her thigh.Canada Customs and Immigration separated them at theborder, sending Art for a full inspection—a privilege of being aCanadian citizen and hence perennially under suspicion ofsmuggling goods from the tax havens of the US into thecountry—and leaving Linda in their little Pullman cabin.When Art popped free of the bureaucracy, his life thoroughlypeered into, he found Linda standing on the platform, leaningagainst a pillar, back arched, one foot flat against the bricks,corresponding dimpled knee exposed to the restless winds ofthe trainyard.
From Art’s point of view, she was a gleaming vision skewered on a beam of late day sunlight that made herhair gleam like licorice. Her long and lazy jaw caught and lostthe sun as she talked animatedly down her comm, and Art wasstruck with a sudden need to sneak up behind her and run histongue down the line that began with the knob of her mandibleunder her ear and ran down to the tiny half-dimple in her chin,to skate it on the soft pouch of flesh under her chin, to end witha tasting of her soft lips.Thought became deed.He crept up on her, smelling her new-car hair products on the breeze that wafted back from her, andwas about to begin his tonguing when she barked, “Fuck off!Stop calling me!” and closed her comm and stormed offtrainwards, leaving Art standing on the opposite side of thepillar with a thoroughly wilted romantic urge.More carefully, he followed her into the train, back to theirlittle cabin, and reached for the palm-pad to open the doorwhen he heard her agitated comm voice. “No, goddamnit, no.Not yet. Keep calling me and not ever, do you understand?”Art opened the door. Linda was composed and neat and sweetin her plush seat, shoulders back, smile winning. “Hey honey,did the bad Customs man finally let you go?”“He did! That sounded like a doozy of a phone conversation,though. What’s wrong?”“You don’t want to know,” she said.
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 95 “All right,” Art said, sitting down opposite her, knee-to-knee,bending forward to plant a kiss on the top of her exposed thigh.“I don’t.”“Good.”He continued to kiss his way up her thigh. “Only...”“Yes?”“I think I probably do. Curiosity is one of my worst failings ofcharacter.”“Really?”“Quite so,” he said. He’d slid her sundress right up to thewaistband of her cotton drawers, and now he worried one ofthe pubic hairs that poked out from the elastic with his teeth.She shrieked and pushed him away. “Someone will see!” shesaid. “This is a border crossing, not a bordello!”He sat back, but inserted a finger in the elastic before Lindastraightened out her dress, so that his fingertip rested in thecrease at the top of her groin.“You are naughty,” she said.“And curious,” Art agreed, giving his fingertip a playfulwiggle. “I give up. That was my fucking ex,” she said.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 6-06-eastern-standard-tribe-del-6
# chapter_title: 06_eastern-standard-tribe-del-6
# book_page: 127 / 169
# chapter_page: 6
# language: en
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He crept up on her, smelling her new-car hair products on the breeze that wafted back from her, andwas about to begin his tonguing when she barked, “Fuck off!Stop calling me!” and closed her comm and stormed offtrainwards, leaving Art standing on the opposite side of thepillar with a thoroughly wilted romantic urge.More carefully, he followed her into the train, back to theirlittle cabin, and reached for the palm-pad to open the doorwhen he heard her agitated comm voice. “No, goddamnit, no.Not yet. Keep calling me and not ever, do you understand?”Art opened the door. Linda was composed and neat and sweetin her plush seat, shoulders back, smile winning. “Hey honey,did the bad Customs man finally let you go?”“He did! That sounded like a doozy of a phone conversation,though. What’s wrong?”“You don’t want to know,” she said.
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 95 “All right,” Art said, sitting down opposite her, knee-to-knee,bending forward to plant a kiss on the top of her exposed thigh.“I don’t.”“Good.”He continued to kiss his way up her thigh. “Only...”“Yes?”“I think I probably do. Curiosity is one of my worst failings ofcharacter.”“Really?”“Quite so,” he said. He’d slid her sundress right up to thewaistband of her cotton drawers, and now he worried one ofthe pubic hairs that poked out from the elastic with his teeth.She shrieked and pushed him away. “Someone will see!” shesaid. “This is a border crossing, not a bordello!”He sat back, but inserted a finger in the elastic before Lindastraightened out her dress, so that his fingertip rested in thecrease at the top of her groin.“You are naughty,” she said.“And curious,” Art agreed, giving his fingertip a playfulwiggle. “I give up. That was my fucking ex,” she said.“That is how Iwill refer to him henceforth. ‘My fucking ex.’ My fucking,pain-in-the-ass, touchy-feely ex. My fucking ex, who wants tohave the Talk, even though it’s been months and months. He’sfigured out that I’m stateside from my calling times, and he’soffering to come out to meet me and really Work Things Out,Once And For All.”“Oh, my,” Art said.“That boy’s got too much LA in him for his own good. There’sno problem that can’t be resolved through sufficient dialog.”“We never really talked about him,” Art said.“Nope, we sure didn’t.”“Did you want to talk about him now, Linda?”“‘Did you want to talk about him now, Linda?’ Why yes, Art, Iwould. How perceptive of you.” She pushed his hand away andcrossed her arms and legs simultaneously.“Wait, I’m confused,” Art said. “Does that mean you want totalk about him, or that you don’t?”“Fine, we’ll talk about him. What do you want to know aboutmy fucking ex?”
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 96 Art resisted a terrible urge to fan her fires, to return the vitriolthat dripped from her voice. “Look, you don’t want to talkabout him, we won’t talk about him,” he managed.“No, let’s talk about my fucking ex, by all means.” Sheadopted a singsong tone and started ticking off points on herfingers. “His name is Toby, he’s half-Japanese, half-white.He’s about your height. Your dick is bigger, but he’s better inbed. He’s a user-experience designer at Lucas-SGI, in StudioCity. He never fucking shuts up about what’s wrong with thisor that. We dated for two years, lived together for one year, andbroke up just before you and I met. I broke it off with him: Hewas making me goddamned crazy and he wanted me to comeback from London and live with him. I wanted to stay out theyear in England and go back to my own apartment and possiblya different boyfriend, and he made me choose, so I chose.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 6-06-eastern-standard-tribe-del-6
# chapter_title: 06_eastern-standard-tribe-del-6
# book_page: 128 / 169
# chapter_page: 7
# language: en
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“That is how Iwill refer to him henceforth. ‘My fucking ex.’ My fucking,pain-in-the-ass, touchy-feely ex. My fucking ex, who wants tohave the Talk, even though it’s been months and months. He’sfigured out that I’m stateside from my calling times, and he’soffering to come out to meet me and really Work Things Out,Once And For All.”“Oh, my,” Art said.“That boy’s got too much LA in him for his own good. There’sno problem that can’t be resolved through sufficient dialog.”“We never really talked about him,” Art said.“Nope, we sure didn’t.”“Did you want to talk about him now, Linda?”“‘Did you want to talk about him now, Linda?’ Why yes, Art, Iwould. How perceptive of you.” She pushed his hand away andcrossed her arms and legs simultaneously.“Wait, I’m confused,” Art said. “Does that mean you want totalk about him, or that you don’t?”“Fine, we’ll talk about him. What do you want to know aboutmy fucking ex?”
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 96 Art resisted a terrible urge to fan her fires, to return the vitriolthat dripped from her voice. “Look, you don’t want to talkabout him, we won’t talk about him,” he managed.“No, let’s talk about my fucking ex, by all means.” Sheadopted a singsong tone and started ticking off points on herfingers. “His name is Toby, he’s half-Japanese, half-white.He’s about your height. Your dick is bigger, but he’s better inbed. He’s a user-experience designer at Lucas-SGI, in StudioCity. He never fucking shuts up about what’s wrong with thisor that. We dated for two years, lived together for one year, andbroke up just before you and I met. I broke it off with him: Hewas making me goddamned crazy and he wanted me to comeback from London and live with him. I wanted to stay out theyear in England and go back to my own apartment and possiblya different boyfriend, and he made me choose, so I chose.Isthat enough of a briefing for you, Arthur?”“That was fine,” Art said. Linda’s face had gone rabid purple,madly pinched, spittle flecking off of her lips as she spat outthe words. “Thank you.”She took his hands and kissed the knuckles of his thumbs.“Look, I don’t like to talk about it—it’s painful. I’m sorry he’sruining our holiday. I just won’t take his calls anymore, howabout that?”“I don’t care, Linda, Honestly, I don’t give a rat’s ass if youwant to chat with your ex. I just saw how upset you were and Ithought it might help if you could talk it over with me.” “I know, baby, I know. But I just need to work some things outall on my own. Maybe I will take a quick trip out west and talkthings over with him. You could come if you want—there aresome wicked bars in West Hollywood.”“That’s OK,” Art said, whipsawed by Linda’sincomprehensible mood shifts. “But if you need to go, go.
I’vegot plenty of old pals to hang out with in Toronto.”“You’re so understanding,” she cooed. “Tell me about yourgrandmother again—you’re sure she’ll like me?”“She’ll love you. She loves anything that’s female, ofchildbearing years, and in my company. She has great andunrealistic hopes of great-grandchildren.”“Cluck.”“Cluck?”“Just practicing my brood-hen.”
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 97 21.Doc Szandor’s a good egg. He’s keeping the shrinks at bay,spending more time with me than is strictly necessary. I hopehe isn’t neglecting his patients, but it’s been so long since I hada normal conversation, I just can’t bear to give it up. Besides, Iget the impression that Szandor’s in a similar pit of badconversation with psychopaths and psychotherapists and isrelieved to have a bit of a natter with someone who isn’t eitherhaving hallucinations or attempting to prevent them in others.“How the hell do you become a user-experience guy?”“Sheer orneriness,” I say, grinning. “I was just in the rightplace at the right time. I had a pal in New York who wasworking for a biotech company that had made this artificialerectile tissue.”“Erectile tissue?”“Yeah. Synthetic turtle penis. Small and pliable and capable ofgoing large and rigid very quickly.”“Sounds delightful.”“Oh, it was actually pretty cool.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 6-06-eastern-standard-tribe-del-6
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Isthat enough of a briefing for you, Arthur?”“That was fine,” Art said. Linda’s face had gone rabid purple,madly pinched, spittle flecking off of her lips as she spat outthe words. “Thank you.”She took his hands and kissed the knuckles of his thumbs.“Look, I don’t like to talk about it—it’s painful. I’m sorry he’sruining our holiday. I just won’t take his calls anymore, howabout that?”“I don’t care, Linda, Honestly, I don’t give a rat’s ass if youwant to chat with your ex. I just saw how upset you were and Ithought it might help if you could talk it over with me.” “I know, baby, I know. But I just need to work some things outall on my own. Maybe I will take a quick trip out west and talkthings over with him. You could come if you want—there aresome wicked bars in West Hollywood.”“That’s OK,” Art said, whipsawed by Linda’sincomprehensible mood shifts. “But if you need to go, go.
I’vegot plenty of old pals to hang out with in Toronto.”“You’re so understanding,” she cooed. “Tell me about yourgrandmother again—you’re sure she’ll like me?”“She’ll love you. She loves anything that’s female, ofchildbearing years, and in my company. She has great andunrealistic hopes of great-grandchildren.”“Cluck.”“Cluck?”“Just practicing my brood-hen.”
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 97 21.Doc Szandor’s a good egg. He’s keeping the shrinks at bay,spending more time with me than is strictly necessary. I hopehe isn’t neglecting his patients, but it’s been so long since I hada normal conversation, I just can’t bear to give it up. Besides, Iget the impression that Szandor’s in a similar pit of badconversation with psychopaths and psychotherapists and isrelieved to have a bit of a natter with someone who isn’t eitherhaving hallucinations or attempting to prevent them in others.“How the hell do you become a user-experience guy?”“Sheer orneriness,” I say, grinning. “I was just in the rightplace at the right time. I had a pal in New York who wasworking for a biotech company that had made this artificialerectile tissue.”“Erectile tissue?”“Yeah. Synthetic turtle penis. Small and pliable and capable ofgoing large and rigid very quickly.”“Sounds delightful.”“Oh, it was actually pretty cool.You know the joke about thecircumcisionist’s wallet made from foreskins?”“Sure, I heard it premed—he rubs it and it becomes a suitcase,right?” “That’s the one. So these guys were thinking about makingdrawbridges, temporary shelters, that kind of thing out of it.They even had a cute name for it: ‘Ardorite.’”“Ho ho ho.”“Yeah. So they weren’t shipping a whole lot of product, to putit mildly. Then I spent a couple of weeks in Manhattanhousesitting for my friend while he was visiting his folks inWisconsin for Thanksgiving. He had a ton of this stuff lyingaround his apartment, and I would come back after walking thesoles off my shoes and sit in front of the tube playing with it. Itook some of it down to Madison Square Park and played withit there.
I liked to hang out there because it was always full ofthese very cute Icelandic au pairs and their tots, and I was arespectable enough young man with about 200 words ofIcelandic I’d learned from a friend’s mom in high school andthey thought I was adorable and I thought they were blondgoddesses. I’d gotten to be friends with one named Marta, oh,Marta. Bookmark Marta, Szandor, and I’ll come back to heronce we’re better acquainted.“Anyway, Marta was in charge of Machinery and Avarice, thespoiled monsterkinder of a couple of BBD&O senior managerswho’d vaulted from art school to VPdom in one year whenmost of the gray eminences got power-thraxed. Machinery wasthree and liked to bang things against other things arythmicallywhile hollering atonally. Avarice was five, not toilet trained,and prone to tripping. I’d get Marta novelty coffee from theStinkbucks on Twenty-third and we’d drink it together while
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 6-06-eastern-standard-tribe-del-6
# chapter_title: 06_eastern-standard-tribe-del-6
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You know the joke about thecircumcisionist’s wallet made from foreskins?”“Sure, I heard it premed—he rubs it and it becomes a suitcase,right?” “That’s the one. So these guys were thinking about makingdrawbridges, temporary shelters, that kind of thing out of it.They even had a cute name for it: ‘Ardorite.’”“Ho ho ho.”“Yeah. So they weren’t shipping a whole lot of product, to putit mildly. Then I spent a couple of weeks in Manhattanhousesitting for my friend while he was visiting his folks inWisconsin for Thanksgiving. He had a ton of this stuff lyingaround his apartment, and I would come back after walking thesoles off my shoes and sit in front of the tube playing with it. Itook some of it down to Madison Square Park and played withit there.
I liked to hang out there because it was always full ofthese very cute Icelandic au pairs and their tots, and I was arespectable enough young man with about 200 words ofIcelandic I’d learned from a friend’s mom in high school andthey thought I was adorable and I thought they were blondgoddesses. I’d gotten to be friends with one named Marta, oh,Marta. Bookmark Marta, Szandor, and I’ll come back to heronce we’re better acquainted.“Anyway, Marta was in charge of Machinery and Avarice, thespoiled monsterkinder of a couple of BBD&O senior managerswho’d vaulted from art school to VPdom in one year whenmost of the gray eminences got power-thraxed. Machinery wasthree and liked to bang things against other things arythmicallywhile hollering atonally. Avarice was five, not toilet trained,and prone to tripping. I’d get Marta novelty coffee from theStinkbucks on Twenty-third and we’d drink it together whileCory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 98 Machinery and Avarice engaged in terrible, life-threateningplay with the other kids in the park.“I showed Marta what I had, though I was tactful enough not tocall it synthetic turtle penis, because while Marta was earthy,she wasn’t that earthy and, truth be told, it got me kinda hot towatch her long, pale blue fingers fondling the soft tissue, thentriggering the circuit that hardened it.“Then Machinery comes over and snatches the thing awayfrom Marta and starts pounding on Avarice, taking unholy gleein the way the stuff alternately softened and stiffened as hesqueezed it. Avarice wrestled it away from him and tore off fora knot of kids and by the time I got there they were all crowdedaround her, spellbound.
I caught a cab back to my buddy’sapartment and grabbed all the Ardorite I could lay hands onand brought it back to the park and spent the next couple hoursrunning an impromptu focus group, watching the kids and theirbombshell nannies play with it. By the time that Marta touchedmy hand with her long cool fingers and told me it was time forher to get the kids home for their nap, I had twenty-five toyideas, about eight different ways to use the stuff for clothingfasteners, and a couple of miscellaneous utility uses, like aportable crib.“So I ran it down for my pal that afternoon over the phone, andhe commed his boss and I ended up eating Thanksgiving dinnerat his boss’s house in Westchester.” “Weren’t you worried he’d rip off your ideas and not pay youanything for them?” Szandor’s spellbound by the story,unconsciously unrolling and re-rolling an Ace bandage.“Didn’t even cross my mind.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
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# chapter_title: 06_eastern-standard-tribe-del-6
# book_page: 131 / 169
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# language: en
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 98 Machinery and Avarice engaged in terrible, life-threateningplay with the other kids in the park.“I showed Marta what I had, though I was tactful enough not tocall it synthetic turtle penis, because while Marta was earthy,she wasn’t that earthy and, truth be told, it got me kinda hot towatch her long, pale blue fingers fondling the soft tissue, thentriggering the circuit that hardened it.“Then Machinery comes over and snatches the thing awayfrom Marta and starts pounding on Avarice, taking unholy gleein the way the stuff alternately softened and stiffened as hesqueezed it. Avarice wrestled it away from him and tore off fora knot of kids and by the time I got there they were all crowdedaround her, spellbound.
I caught a cab back to my buddy’sapartment and grabbed all the Ardorite I could lay hands onand brought it back to the park and spent the next couple hoursrunning an impromptu focus group, watching the kids and theirbombshell nannies play with it. By the time that Marta touchedmy hand with her long cool fingers and told me it was time forher to get the kids home for their nap, I had twenty-five toyideas, about eight different ways to use the stuff for clothingfasteners, and a couple of miscellaneous utility uses, like aportable crib.“So I ran it down for my pal that afternoon over the phone, andhe commed his boss and I ended up eating Thanksgiving dinnerat his boss’s house in Westchester.” “Weren’t you worried he’d rip off your ideas and not pay youanything for them?” Szandor’s spellbound by the story,unconsciously unrolling and re-rolling an Ace bandage.“Didn’t even cross my mind.Of course, he tried to do just that,but it wasn’t any good—they were engineers; they had no ideahow normal human beings interact with their environments.The stuff wasn’t self-revealing—they added a million coolfeatures and a manual an inch thick. After prototyping for sixmonths, they called me in and offered me a two-percent royaltyon any products I designed for them.”“That musta been worth a fortune,” says Szandor.“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? Actually, they folded beforethey shipped anything. Blew through all their capital on R&D,didn’t have anything left to productize their tech with. But mybuddy did get another gig with a company that was working onnew kitchen stuff made from one-way osmotic materials and heshowed them the stuff I’d done with the Ardorite and all of asudden I had a no-fooling career.”“Damn, that’s cool.”“You betcha. It’s all about being an advocate for the user.
Iobserve what users do and how they do it, figure out whatthey’re trying to do, and then boss the engineers around,getting them to remove the barriers they’ve erected becauseengineers are all basically high-functioning autistics who haveno idea how normal people do stuff.”
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 99 The doctor chuckles. “Look,” he says, producing a nicotinepacifier, one of those fake cigs that gives you the oral fix andthe chemical fix and the habit fix without the noxious smoke,“it’s not my area of specialty, but you seem like a basicallysane individual, modulo your rooftop adventures. Certainly,you’re not like most of the people we’ve got here. What areyou doing here?”Doctor Szandor is young, younger even than me, I realize.Maybe twenty-six. I can see some fancy tattoo-work pokingout of the collar of his shirt, see some telltale remnant of afashionable haircut in his grown-out shag. He’s got to be theyoungest staff member I’ve met here, and he’s got afundamentally different affect from the zombies in the labcoats who maintain the zombies in the felt slippers.So I tell him my story, the highlights, anyway.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 6-06-eastern-standard-tribe-del-6
# chapter_title: 06_eastern-standard-tribe-del-6
# book_page: 132 / 169
# chapter_page: 11
# language: en
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Of course, he tried to do just that,but it wasn’t any good—they were engineers; they had no ideahow normal human beings interact with their environments.The stuff wasn’t self-revealing—they added a million coolfeatures and a manual an inch thick. After prototyping for sixmonths, they called me in and offered me a two-percent royaltyon any products I designed for them.”“That musta been worth a fortune,” says Szandor.“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? Actually, they folded beforethey shipped anything. Blew through all their capital on R&D,didn’t have anything left to productize their tech with. But mybuddy did get another gig with a company that was working onnew kitchen stuff made from one-way osmotic materials and heshowed them the stuff I’d done with the Ardorite and all of asudden I had a no-fooling career.”“Damn, that’s cool.”“You betcha. It’s all about being an advocate for the user.
Iobserve what users do and how they do it, figure out whatthey’re trying to do, and then boss the engineers around,getting them to remove the barriers they’ve erected becauseengineers are all basically high-functioning autistics who haveno idea how normal people do stuff.”
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 99 The doctor chuckles. “Look,” he says, producing a nicotinepacifier, one of those fake cigs that gives you the oral fix andthe chemical fix and the habit fix without the noxious smoke,“it’s not my area of specialty, but you seem like a basicallysane individual, modulo your rooftop adventures. Certainly,you’re not like most of the people we’ve got here. What areyou doing here?”Doctor Szandor is young, younger even than me, I realize.Maybe twenty-six. I can see some fancy tattoo-work pokingout of the collar of his shirt, see some telltale remnant of afashionable haircut in his grown-out shag. He’s got to be theyoungest staff member I’ve met here, and he’s got afundamentally different affect from the zombies in the labcoats who maintain the zombies in the felt slippers.So I tell him my story, the highlights, anyway.The more I tellhim about Linda and Fede, the dumber my own actions soundto me.“Why the hell did you stick with this Linda anyway?” Szandorsays, sucking on his pacifier.“The usual reasons, I guess,” I say, squirming.“Lemme tell you something,” he says. He’s got his feet up onthe table now, hands laced behind his neck. “It’s the smartestthing my dad ever said to me, just as my high-school girl andme were breaking up before I went away to med school. Shewas nice enough, but, you know, unstable. I’d gotten to the point where I ducked and ran for cover every time shedisagreed with me, ready for her to lose her shit.“So my dad took me aside, put his arm around me, and said,’Szandor, you know I like that girlfriend of yours, but she iscrazy. Not a little crazy, really crazy. Maybe she won’t becrazy forever, but if she gets better, it won’t be because of you.Trust me, I know this. You can’t fuck a crazy girl sane, son.’”I can’t help smiling.
“Truer words,” I say. “But harsh.”“Harsh is relative,” he says. “Contrast it with, say, gettingsomeone committed on trumped-up evidence.”It dawns on me that Doc Szandor believes me. “It dawns on methat you believe me.”He gnaws fitfully at his pacifier. “Well, why not? You’re notany crazier than I am, that much is clear to me. You have neatideas. Your story’s plausible enough.”I get excited. “Is this your professional opinion?”“Sorry, no. I am not a mental health professional, so I don’thave professional opinions on your mental health. It is,however, my amateur opinion.”“Oh, well.”“So where are you at now, vis-a-vis the hospital?”
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
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The more I tellhim about Linda and Fede, the dumber my own actions soundto me.“Why the hell did you stick with this Linda anyway?” Szandorsays, sucking on his pacifier.“The usual reasons, I guess,” I say, squirming.“Lemme tell you something,” he says. He’s got his feet up onthe table now, hands laced behind his neck. “It’s the smartestthing my dad ever said to me, just as my high-school girl andme were breaking up before I went away to med school. Shewas nice enough, but, you know, unstable. I’d gotten to the point where I ducked and ran for cover every time shedisagreed with me, ready for her to lose her shit.“So my dad took me aside, put his arm around me, and said,’Szandor, you know I like that girlfriend of yours, but she iscrazy. Not a little crazy, really crazy. Maybe she won’t becrazy forever, but if she gets better, it won’t be because of you.Trust me, I know this. You can’t fuck a crazy girl sane, son.’”I can’t help smiling.
“Truer words,” I say. “But harsh.”“Harsh is relative,” he says. “Contrast it with, say, gettingsomeone committed on trumped-up evidence.”It dawns on me that Doc Szandor believes me. “It dawns on methat you believe me.”He gnaws fitfully at his pacifier. “Well, why not? You’re notany crazier than I am, that much is clear to me. You have neatideas. Your story’s plausible enough.”I get excited. “Is this your professional opinion?”“Sorry, no. I am not a mental health professional, so I don’thave professional opinions on your mental health. It is,however, my amateur opinion.”“Oh, well.”“So where are you at now, vis-a-vis the hospital?”Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 100 “Well, they don’t tell me much, but as near as I can make out, Iam stuck here semipermanently. The court found meincompetent and ordered me held until I was. I can’t getanyone to explain what competency consists of, or how Iachieve it—when I try, I get accused of being ‘difficult.’ Ofcourse, escaping onto the roof is a little beyond difficult. I havea feeling I’m going to be in pretty deep shit. Do they knowabout the car?”“The car?”“In the parking lot. The one that blew up.”Doc Szandor laughs hard enough that his pacifier shoots acrossthe room and lands in a hazmat bucket. “You son of abitch—that was you?”“Yeah,” I say, and drum my feet against the tin cupboardsunder the examination table.“That was my fucking car!”“Oh, Christ, I’m sorry,” I say. “God.”“No no no,” he says, fishing in his pocket and unwrapping afresh pacifier. “It’s OK. Insurance. I’m getting a bike. Vroom,vroom!
What a coincidence, though,” he says.Coincidence. He’s making disgusting hamster-cage noises,grinding away at his pacifier. “Szandor, do you sometimes sneak out onto the landing to have a cigarette? Use a bit oftinfoil for your ashtray? Prop the door open behind you?”“Why do you ask?”“‘Cause that’s how I got out onto the roof.”“Oh, shit,” he says.“It’s our secret,” I say. “I can tell them I don’t know how I gotout. I’m incompetent, remember?”“You’re a good egg, Art,” he says. “How the hell are we goingto get you out of here?”“Hey what?”“No, really. There’s no good reason for you to be here, right?You’re occupying valuable bed space.”“Well, I appreciate the sentiment, but I have a feeling that assoon as you turn me loose, I’m gonna be doped up to the titsfor a good long while.”He grimaces. “Right, right. They like their meds. Are yourparents alive?”“What? No, they’re both dead.”“Aha. Died suddenly?”
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 100 “Well, they don’t tell me much, but as near as I can make out, Iam stuck here semipermanently. The court found meincompetent and ordered me held until I was. I can’t getanyone to explain what competency consists of, or how Iachieve it—when I try, I get accused of being ‘difficult.’ Ofcourse, escaping onto the roof is a little beyond difficult. I havea feeling I’m going to be in pretty deep shit. Do they knowabout the car?”“The car?”“In the parking lot. The one that blew up.”Doc Szandor laughs hard enough that his pacifier shoots acrossthe room and lands in a hazmat bucket. “You son of abitch—that was you?”“Yeah,” I say, and drum my feet against the tin cupboardsunder the examination table.“That was my fucking car!”“Oh, Christ, I’m sorry,” I say. “God.”“No no no,” he says, fishing in his pocket and unwrapping afresh pacifier. “It’s OK. Insurance. I’m getting a bike. Vroom,vroom!
What a coincidence, though,” he says.Coincidence. He’s making disgusting hamster-cage noises,grinding away at his pacifier. “Szandor, do you sometimes sneak out onto the landing to have a cigarette? Use a bit oftinfoil for your ashtray? Prop the door open behind you?”“Why do you ask?”“‘Cause that’s how I got out onto the roof.”“Oh, shit,” he says.“It’s our secret,” I say. “I can tell them I don’t know how I gotout. I’m incompetent, remember?”“You’re a good egg, Art,” he says. “How the hell are we goingto get you out of here?”“Hey what?”“No, really. There’s no good reason for you to be here, right?You’re occupying valuable bed space.”“Well, I appreciate the sentiment, but I have a feeling that assoon as you turn me loose, I’m gonna be doped up to the titsfor a good long while.”He grimaces. “Right, right. They like their meds. Are yourparents alive?”“What? No, they’re both dead.”“Aha. Died suddenly?”Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 101 “Yeah. Dad drowned, Mom fell—”“Ah ah ah! Shhh. Mom died suddenly. She was taking Haldolwhen it happened, a low antianxiety dose, right?”“Huh?”“Probably she was. Probably she had a terrible druginteraction. Sudden Death Syndrome. It’s hereditary. And yousay she fell? Seizure. We’ll sign you up for a PET scan, that’lltake at least a month to set up. You could be an epileptic andnot even know it. Shaking the radioisotopes loose for the scanfrom the AEC, woah, that’s a week’s worth of paperwork rightthere! No Thorazine for you young man, not until we’reabsolutely sure it won’t kill you dead where you stand. Thehospital counsel gave us all a very stern lecture on this verysubject not a month ago. I’ll just make some notes in yourmedical history.” He picked up his comm and scribbled.“Never woulda thought of that,” I say. “I’m impressed.”“It’s something I’ve been playing with for a while now.
I thinkthat psychiatric care is a good thing, of course, but it could bebetter implemented. Taking away prescription pads would be agood start.”“Or you could keep public stats on which doctors hadprescribed how much of what and how often. Put ’em on achart in the ward where the patients’ families could see ’em.” “That’s nasty!” he says. “I love it. We’re supposed to beaccountable, right? What else?”“Give the patients a good reason to wear their trackingbracelets: redesign them so they gather stats on mobility andvitals and track them against your meds and other therapies.Create a dating service that automatically links patients whorespond similarly to therapies so they can compare notes. Ooh,by comparing with location data from other trackers, you couldget stats on which therapies make people more sociable, just bycounting the frequency with which patients stop and spendtime in proximity to other patients.
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 101 “Yeah. Dad drowned, Mom fell—”“Ah ah ah! Shhh. Mom died suddenly. She was taking Haldolwhen it happened, a low antianxiety dose, right?”“Huh?”“Probably she was. Probably she had a terrible druginteraction. Sudden Death Syndrome. It’s hereditary. And yousay she fell? Seizure. We’ll sign you up for a PET scan, that’lltake at least a month to set up. You could be an epileptic andnot even know it. Shaking the radioisotopes loose for the scanfrom the AEC, woah, that’s a week’s worth of paperwork rightthere! No Thorazine for you young man, not until we’reabsolutely sure it won’t kill you dead where you stand. Thehospital counsel gave us all a very stern lecture on this verysubject not a month ago. I’ll just make some notes in yourmedical history.” He picked up his comm and scribbled.“Never woulda thought of that,” I say. “I’m impressed.”“It’s something I’ve been playing with for a while now.
I thinkthat psychiatric care is a good thing, of course, but it could bebetter implemented. Taking away prescription pads would be agood start.”“Or you could keep public stats on which doctors hadprescribed how much of what and how often. Put ’em on achart in the ward where the patients’ families could see ’em.” “That’s nasty!” he says. “I love it. We’re supposed to beaccountable, right? What else?”“Give the patients a good reason to wear their trackingbracelets: redesign them so they gather stats on mobility andvitals and track them against your meds and other therapies.Create a dating service that automatically links patients whorespond similarly to therapies so they can compare notes. Ooh,by comparing with location data from other trackers, you couldget stats on which therapies make people more sociable, just bycounting the frequency with which patients stop and spendtime in proximity to other patients.It’d give you empirical datawith which you track your own progress.”“This is great stuff. Damn! How do you do that?”I feel a familiar swelling of pride. I like it when peopleunderstand how good I am at my job. Working at V/DT washard on my ego: after all, my job there was to do a perfectlyrotten job, to design the worst user experiences that plausibilitywould allow. God, did I really do that for two wholegoddamned years?“It’s my job,” I say, and give a modest shrug.“What do you charge for work like that?”“Why, are you in the market?”“Who knows? Maybe after I figure out how to spring you, wecan go into biz together, redesigning nuthatches.”
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 102 22.Linda’s first meeting with Art’s Gran went off without a hitch.Gran met them at Union Station with an obsolete red cap whowas as ancient as she was, a vestige of a more genteel era oftrain travel and bulky luggage. Just seeing him made Art’sbrain whir with plans for conveyor systems, luggage escalators,cart dispensers. They barely had enough luggage between thetwo of them to make it worth the old man’s time, but hedutifully marked their bags with a stub of chalk and hauledthem onto his cart, then trundled off to the service elevators.Gran gave Art a long and teary hug. She was less frail thanshe’d been in his memory, taller and sturdier.
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It’d give you empirical datawith which you track your own progress.”“This is great stuff. Damn! How do you do that?”I feel a familiar swelling of pride. I like it when peopleunderstand how good I am at my job. Working at V/DT washard on my ego: after all, my job there was to do a perfectlyrotten job, to design the worst user experiences that plausibilitywould allow. God, did I really do that for two wholegoddamned years?“It’s my job,” I say, and give a modest shrug.“What do you charge for work like that?”“Why, are you in the market?”“Who knows? Maybe after I figure out how to spring you, wecan go into biz together, redesigning nuthatches.”
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 102 22.Linda’s first meeting with Art’s Gran went off without a hitch.Gran met them at Union Station with an obsolete red cap whowas as ancient as she was, a vestige of a more genteel era oftrain travel and bulky luggage. Just seeing him made Art’sbrain whir with plans for conveyor systems, luggage escalators,cart dispensers. They barely had enough luggage between thetwo of them to make it worth the old man’s time, but hedutifully marked their bags with a stub of chalk and hauledthem onto his cart, then trundled off to the service elevators.Gran gave Art a long and teary hug. She was less frail thanshe’d been in his memory, taller and sturdier.The smell of herpowder and the familiar acoustics of Union Station’s cavernousplatform whirled him back to his childhood in Toronto, to thehomey time before he’d gotten on the circadian merry-go-round.“Gran, this is Linda,” he said.“Oh, it’s so nice to meet you,” Gran said, taking Linda’s handsin hers. “Call me Julie.”Linda smiled a great, pretty, toothy smile. “Julie, Art’s told meall about you. I just know we’ll be great friends.”“I’m sure we will. Are you hungry? Did they feed you on thetrain? You must be exhausted after such a long trip. Whichwould you rather do first, eat or rest?” “Well, I’m up for seeing the town,” Linda said. “Yourgrandson’s been yawning his head off since Buffalo, though.”She put her arm around his waist and squeezed his tummy.“What a fantastic couple you make,” Gran said. “You didn’ttell me she was so pretty, Arthur!”“Here it comes,” Art said.
“She’s going to ask about great-grandchildren.”“Don’t be silly,” Gran said, cuffing him gently upside the head.“You’re always exaggerating.”“Well I think it’s a splendid idea,” Linda said. “Shall we havetwo? Three? Four?”“Make it ten,” Art said, kissing her cheek.“Oh, I couldn’t have ten,” Linda said. “But five is a nicecompromise. Five it will be. We’ll name the first one Julie ifit’s a girl, or Julius if it’s a boy.”“Oh, we are going to get along,” Gran said, and led them up tothe curb, where the red cap had loaded their bags into a cab.They ate dinner at Lindy’s on Yonge Street, right in the middleof the sleaze strip. The steakhouse had been there for the betterpart of a century, and its cracked red-vinyl booths and thick ribeyes smothered in horseradish and HP Sauce were just as Arthad remembered. Riding up Yonge Street, the city lights hadseemed charming and understated; even the porn marquees felt
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The smell of herpowder and the familiar acoustics of Union Station’s cavernousplatform whirled him back to his childhood in Toronto, to thehomey time before he’d gotten on the circadian merry-go-round.“Gran, this is Linda,” he said.“Oh, it’s so nice to meet you,” Gran said, taking Linda’s handsin hers. “Call me Julie.”Linda smiled a great, pretty, toothy smile. “Julie, Art’s told meall about you. I just know we’ll be great friends.”“I’m sure we will. Are you hungry? Did they feed you on thetrain? You must be exhausted after such a long trip. Whichwould you rather do first, eat or rest?” “Well, I’m up for seeing the town,” Linda said. “Yourgrandson’s been yawning his head off since Buffalo, though.”She put her arm around his waist and squeezed his tummy.“What a fantastic couple you make,” Gran said. “You didn’ttell me she was so pretty, Arthur!”“Here it comes,” Art said.
“She’s going to ask about great-grandchildren.”“Don’t be silly,” Gran said, cuffing him gently upside the head.“You’re always exaggerating.”“Well I think it’s a splendid idea,” Linda said. “Shall we havetwo? Three? Four?”“Make it ten,” Art said, kissing her cheek.“Oh, I couldn’t have ten,” Linda said. “But five is a nicecompromise. Five it will be. We’ll name the first one Julie ifit’s a girl, or Julius if it’s a boy.”“Oh, we are going to get along,” Gran said, and led them up tothe curb, where the red cap had loaded their bags into a cab.They ate dinner at Lindy’s on Yonge Street, right in the middleof the sleaze strip. The steakhouse had been there for the betterpart of a century, and its cracked red-vinyl booths and thick ribeyes smothered in horseradish and HP Sauce were just as Arthad remembered. Riding up Yonge Street, the city lights hadseemed charming and understated; even the porn marquees feltCory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 103 restrained after a week in New York. Art ate a steak as big ashis head and fell into a postprandial torpor whence he emergedonly briefly to essay a satisfied belch. Meanwhile, Gran andLinda nattered away like old friends, making plans for theweek: the zoo, the island, a day trip to Niagara Falls, a ride upthe CN Tower, all the touristy stuff that Art had last done inelementary school.By the time Art lay down in his bed, belly tight withundigested steak, he was feeling wonderful and at peace withthe world. Linda climbed in beside him, wrestled away a pillowand some covers, and snuggled up to him.“That went well,” Art said. “I’m really glad you two hit it off.”“Me too, honey,” Linda said, kissing his shoulder through histee shirt.
He’d been able to get his head around the idea ofsharing a bed with his girlfriend under his grandmother’s roof,but doing so nude seemed somehow wrong.“We’re going to have a great week,” he said. “I wish it wouldnever end.”“Yeah,” she said, and began to snore into his neck.The next morning, Art woke stiff and serene. He stretched outon the bed, dimly noted Linda’s absence, and padded to thebathroom to relieve his bladder. He thought about crawlingback into bed, was on the verge of doing so, when he heard thefamiliar, nervewracking harangue of Linda arguing down hercomm. He opened the door to his old bedroom and there she was, stark naked and beautiful in the morning sun, comm inhand, eyes focused in the middle distance, shouting.“No, goddamnit, no! Not here. Jesus, are you a moron?
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 103 restrained after a week in New York. Art ate a steak as big ashis head and fell into a postprandial torpor whence he emergedonly briefly to essay a satisfied belch. Meanwhile, Gran andLinda nattered away like old friends, making plans for theweek: the zoo, the island, a day trip to Niagara Falls, a ride upthe CN Tower, all the touristy stuff that Art had last done inelementary school.By the time Art lay down in his bed, belly tight withundigested steak, he was feeling wonderful and at peace withthe world. Linda climbed in beside him, wrestled away a pillowand some covers, and snuggled up to him.“That went well,” Art said. “I’m really glad you two hit it off.”“Me too, honey,” Linda said, kissing his shoulder through histee shirt.
He’d been able to get his head around the idea ofsharing a bed with his girlfriend under his grandmother’s roof,but doing so nude seemed somehow wrong.“We’re going to have a great week,” he said. “I wish it wouldnever end.”“Yeah,” she said, and began to snore into his neck.The next morning, Art woke stiff and serene. He stretched outon the bed, dimly noted Linda’s absence, and padded to thebathroom to relieve his bladder. He thought about crawlingback into bed, was on the verge of doing so, when he heard thefamiliar, nervewracking harangue of Linda arguing down hercomm. He opened the door to his old bedroom and there she was, stark naked and beautiful in the morning sun, comm inhand, eyes focused in the middle distance, shouting.“No, goddamnit, no! Not here. Jesus, are you a moron?I saidno!”Art reached out to touch her back, noticed that it wastrembling, visibly tense and rigid, and pulled his hand back.Instead, he quietly set about fishing in his small bag for achange of clothes.“This is not a good time. I’m at Art’s grandmother’s place, allright? I’ll talk to you later.” She threw her comm at the bed andwhirled around.“Everything all right?” Art said timidly.“No, goddamnit, no it isn’t.”Art pulled on his pants and kept his eyes on her comm, whichwas dented and scratched from a hundred thousand angry hangups. He hated it when she got like this, radiating anger andspoiling for a fight.“I’m going to have to go, I think,” she said.“Go?”“To California. That was my fucking ex again. I need to go andsort things out with him.”
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 104 “Your ex knows who I am?”She looked blank.“You told him you were at my grandmother’s place. He knowswho I am?”“Yeah,” she said. “He does. I told him, so he’d get off myback.”“And you have to go to California?”“Today. I have to go to California today.”“Jesus, today? We just got here!”“Look, you’ve got lots of catching up to do with your Gran andyour friends here. You won’t even miss me. I’ll go for a coupledays and then come back.”“If you gotta go,” he said.“I gotta go.”He explained things as best as he could to Gran while Lindarepacked her backpack, and then saw Linda off in a taxi. Shewas already savaging her comm, booking a ticket to LA. Hecalled Fede from the condo’s driveway.“Hey, Art! How’s Toronto?” “How’d you know I was in Toronto?” Art said, but he knew, heknew then, though he couldn’t explain how he knew, he knewthat Linda and Fede had been talking.
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I saidno!”Art reached out to touch her back, noticed that it wastrembling, visibly tense and rigid, and pulled his hand back.Instead, he quietly set about fishing in his small bag for achange of clothes.“This is not a good time. I’m at Art’s grandmother’s place, allright? I’ll talk to you later.” She threw her comm at the bed andwhirled around.“Everything all right?” Art said timidly.“No, goddamnit, no it isn’t.”Art pulled on his pants and kept his eyes on her comm, whichwas dented and scratched from a hundred thousand angry hangups. He hated it when she got like this, radiating anger andspoiling for a fight.“I’m going to have to go, I think,” she said.“Go?”“To California. That was my fucking ex again. I need to go andsort things out with him.”
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 104 “Your ex knows who I am?”She looked blank.“You told him you were at my grandmother’s place. He knowswho I am?”“Yeah,” she said. “He does. I told him, so he’d get off myback.”“And you have to go to California?”“Today. I have to go to California today.”“Jesus, today? We just got here!”“Look, you’ve got lots of catching up to do with your Gran andyour friends here. You won’t even miss me. I’ll go for a coupledays and then come back.”“If you gotta go,” he said.“I gotta go.”He explained things as best as he could to Gran while Lindarepacked her backpack, and then saw Linda off in a taxi. Shewas already savaging her comm, booking a ticket to LA. Hecalled Fede from the condo’s driveway.“Hey, Art! How’s Toronto?” “How’d you know I was in Toronto?” Art said, but he knew, heknew then, though he couldn’t explain how he knew, he knewthat Linda and Fede had been talking.He knew that Linda hadbeen talking to Fede that morning, and not her fucking ex(God, he was thinking of the poor schmuck that way already,“fucking ex”). Christ, it was five in the morning on the WestCoast. It couldn’t be the ex. He just knew.“Lucky guess,” Fede said breezily. “How is it?”“Oh, terrific. Great to see the old hometown and all. How’rethings with Perceptronics? When should I plan on being backin Boston?”“Oh, it’s going all right, but slow. Hurry up and wait, right?Look, don’t worry about it, just relax there, I’ll call you whenthe deal’s ready and you’ll go back to Boston and we’ll sort itout and it’ll all be fantastic and don’t worry, really, all right?”“Fine, Fede.” Art wasn’t listening any more. Fede had goneinto bullshit mode, and all Art was thinking of was why Lindawould talk to Fede and then book a flight to LA. “How’rethings in London?” he said automatically.“Fine, fine,” Fede said, just as automatically.
“Not the samewithout you, of course.”“Of course,” Art said. “Well, bye then.”“Bye,” Fede said.
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 105 Art felt an unsuspected cunning stirring within him. Hecommed Linda, in her cab. “Hey, dude,” he said.“Hey,” she said, sounding harassed.“Look, I just spoke to my Gran and she’s really upset you hadto go. She really liked you.”“Well, I liked her, too.”“Great. Here’s the thing,” he said, and drew in a breath. “Granmade you a sweater. She made me one, too. She’s a knitter.She wanted me to send it along after you. It looks pretty good.So, if you give me your ex’s address, I can FedEx it there andyou can get it.”There was a lengthy pause. “Why don’t I just pick it up when Isee you again?” Linda said, finally.Gotcha, Art thought. “Well, I know that’d be the sensiblething, but my Gran, I dunno, she really wants me to do this.It’d make her so happy.”“I dunno—my ex might cut it up or something.”“Oh, I’m sure he wouldn’t do that.
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He knew that Linda hadbeen talking to Fede that morning, and not her fucking ex(God, he was thinking of the poor schmuck that way already,“fucking ex”). Christ, it was five in the morning on the WestCoast. It couldn’t be the ex. He just knew.“Lucky guess,” Fede said breezily. “How is it?”“Oh, terrific. Great to see the old hometown and all. How’rethings with Perceptronics? When should I plan on being backin Boston?”“Oh, it’s going all right, but slow. Hurry up and wait, right?Look, don’t worry about it, just relax there, I’ll call you whenthe deal’s ready and you’ll go back to Boston and we’ll sort itout and it’ll all be fantastic and don’t worry, really, all right?”“Fine, Fede.” Art wasn’t listening any more. Fede had goneinto bullshit mode, and all Art was thinking of was why Lindawould talk to Fede and then book a flight to LA. “How’rethings in London?” he said automatically.“Fine, fine,” Fede said, just as automatically.
“Not the samewithout you, of course.”“Of course,” Art said. “Well, bye then.”“Bye,” Fede said.
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 105 Art felt an unsuspected cunning stirring within him. Hecommed Linda, in her cab. “Hey, dude,” he said.“Hey,” she said, sounding harassed.“Look, I just spoke to my Gran and she’s really upset you hadto go. She really liked you.”“Well, I liked her, too.”“Great. Here’s the thing,” he said, and drew in a breath. “Granmade you a sweater. She made me one, too. She’s a knitter.She wanted me to send it along after you. It looks pretty good.So, if you give me your ex’s address, I can FedEx it there andyou can get it.”There was a lengthy pause. “Why don’t I just pick it up when Isee you again?” Linda said, finally.Gotcha, Art thought. “Well, I know that’d be the sensiblething, but my Gran, I dunno, she really wants me to do this.It’d make her so happy.”“I dunno—my ex might cut it up or something.”“Oh, I’m sure he wouldn’t do that.I could just schedule thedelivery for after you arrive, that way you can sign for it. Whatdo you think?”“I really don’t think—” “Come on, Linda, I know it’s nuts, but it’s my Gran. She reallylikes you.”Linda sighed. “Let me comm you the address, OK?”“Thanks, Linda,” Art said, watching the address in Van Nuysscroll onto his comm’s screen. “Thanks a bunch. Have a greattrip—don’t let your ex get you down.”Now, armed with Linda’s fucking ex’s name, Art went towork. He told Gran he had some administrative chores to catchup on for an hour or two, promised to have supper with her andFather Ferlenghetti that night, and went out onto the condo’ssundeck with his keyboard velcroed to his thigh.Trepan: Hey!Colonelonic: Trepan! Hey, what's up? I hear you'reback on the East Coast!Trepan: True enough. Back in Toronto. How's thingswith you?Colonelonic: Same as ever.
Trying to quit thedayjob.Trepan: /private Colonelonic Are you still workingat Merril-Lynch?## Colonelonic (private): Yeah.
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 106 Trepan: /private Colonelonic Still got access toLexus-Nexus?## Colonelonic (private): Sure — but they're onour asses about abusing the accounts. Every searchis logged and has to be accounted for.Trepan: /private Colonelonic Can you get mebackground on just one guy?## Colonelonic (private): Who is he? Why?Trepan: /private Colonelonic It's stupid. I thinkthat someone I know is about to go into biz withhim, and I don't trust him. I'm probably justbeing paranoid, but...## Colonelonic (private): I don't know, man. Is itreally important?Trepan: /private Colonelonic Oh, crap, look. It'smy girlfriend. I think she's screwing this guy. Ijust wanna get an idea of who he is, what he does,you know.## Colonelonic (private): Heh. That sucks. OK —check back in a couple hours. There's a guy acrossthe hall who never logs out of his box when hegoes to lunch. I'll sneak in there and look it upon his machine.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
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I could just schedule thedelivery for after you arrive, that way you can sign for it. Whatdo you think?”“I really don’t think—” “Come on, Linda, I know it’s nuts, but it’s my Gran. She reallylikes you.”Linda sighed. “Let me comm you the address, OK?”“Thanks, Linda,” Art said, watching the address in Van Nuysscroll onto his comm’s screen. “Thanks a bunch. Have a greattrip—don’t let your ex get you down.”Now, armed with Linda’s fucking ex’s name, Art went towork. He told Gran he had some administrative chores to catchup on for an hour or two, promised to have supper with her andFather Ferlenghetti that night, and went out onto the condo’ssundeck with his keyboard velcroed to his thigh.Trepan: Hey!Colonelonic: Trepan! Hey, what's up? I hear you'reback on the East Coast!Trepan: True enough. Back in Toronto. How's thingswith you?Colonelonic: Same as ever.
Trying to quit thedayjob.Trepan: /private Colonelonic Are you still workingat Merril-Lynch?## Colonelonic (private): Yeah.
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 106 Trepan: /private Colonelonic Still got access toLexus-Nexus?## Colonelonic (private): Sure -- but they're onour asses about abusing the accounts. Every searchis logged and has to be accounted for.Trepan: /private Colonelonic Can you get mebackground on just one guy?## Colonelonic (private): Who is he? Why?Trepan: /private Colonelonic It's stupid. I thinkthat someone I know is about to go into biz withhim, and I don't trust him. I'm probably justbeing paranoid, but...## Colonelonic (private): I don't know, man. Is itreally important?Trepan: /private Colonelonic Oh, crap, look. It'smy girlfriend. I think she's screwing this guy. Ijust wanna get an idea of who he is, what he does,you know.## Colonelonic (private): Heh. That sucks. OK --check back in a couple hours. There's a guy acrossthe hall who never logs out of his box when hegoes to lunch. I'll sneak in there and look it upon his machine.Trepan: /private Colonelonic Kick ass. Thanks.##Transferring addressbook entry "Toby Ginsburg"to Colonelonic. Receipt confirmed.Trepan: /private Colonelonic Thanks again!## Colonelonic (private): Check in with me later — I'll have something for you then.Art logged off, flushed with triumph. Whatever Fede and Lindawere cooking up, he’d get wise to it and then he’d nail ’em.What the hell was it, though?
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 107 23.My cousins visited me a week after I arrived at the nuthouse.I’d never been very close to them, and certainly ourrelationship had hardly blossomed during the week I spent inToronto, trying to track down Linda and Fede’s plot.I have two cousins. They’re my father’s sister’s kids, and Ididn’t even meet them until I was about twenty and trackingdown my family history. They’re Ottawa Valley kids, raised ongovernment-town pork, aging hippie muesli, and country-stylecorn pone. It’s a weird mix, and we’ve never had aconversation that I would consider a success. Ever met aviolent, aggressive hippie with an intimate knowledge ofwhose genitals one must masticate in order to get a buildingpermit or to make a pot bust vanish? It ain’t pretty.Cousin the first is Audie.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
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Trepan: /private Colonelonic Kick ass. Thanks.##Transferring addressbook entry "Toby Ginsburg"to Colonelonic. Receipt confirmed.Trepan: /private Colonelonic Thanks again!## Colonelonic (private): Check in with me later -- I'll have something for you then.Art logged off, flushed with triumph. Whatever Fede and Lindawere cooking up, he’d get wise to it and then he’d nail ’em.What the hell was it, though?
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 107 23.My cousins visited me a week after I arrived at the nuthouse.I’d never been very close to them, and certainly ourrelationship had hardly blossomed during the week I spent inToronto, trying to track down Linda and Fede’s plot.I have two cousins. They’re my father’s sister’s kids, and Ididn’t even meet them until I was about twenty and trackingdown my family history. They’re Ottawa Valley kids, raised ongovernment-town pork, aging hippie muesli, and country-stylecorn pone. It’s a weird mix, and we’ve never had aconversation that I would consider a success. Ever met aviolent, aggressive hippie with an intimate knowledge ofwhose genitals one must masticate in order to get a buildingpermit or to make a pot bust vanish? It ain’t pretty.Cousin the first is Audie.She’s a year older than me, and she’sthe smart one on that side of the family, the one who ended upat Queen’s University for a BS in Electrical Engineering and anMA in Poli Sci, and even so finished up back in Ottawa,freelancing advice to clueless MPs dealing with Taiwanese andSierra Leonese OEM importers. Audie’s married to a nice fellawhose name I can never remember and they’re gonna have kidsin five years; it’s on a timetable that she actually showed meonce when I went out there on biz and stopped in to see her atthe office.Cousin the second is Alphie—three years younger than me,raised in the shadow of his overachieving sister, he was the capo of Ottawa Valley script kiddies, a low-rent hacker whodownloaded other people’s code for defeating copyright use-control systems and made a little biz for himself bootlegginggames, porn, music and video, until the WIPO bots found himthrough traffic analysis and busted his ass, bankrupting himand landing him in the clink for sixty days.Audie and Alfie are blond and ruddy and a little heavyset, allcharacteristics they got from their father’s side, so add that tothe fact that I grew up without being aware of their existenceand you’ll understand the absence of any real fellow-feeling forthem.
I don’t dislike them, but I have so little in common withthem that it’s like hanging out with time travelers from theleast-interesting historical era imaginable.But they came to Boston and looked me up in the nuthatch.They found me sitting on the sofa in the ward, post-Group,arms and ankles crossed, dozing in a shaft of sunlight. It wasmy habitual napping spot, and I found that a nap betweenGroup and dinner was a good way to sharpen my appetite andanasthetize my taste buds, which made the mealtime slopbearable.Audie shook my shoulder gently. I assumed at first that shewas one of the inmates trying to get me involved in a game ofMartian narco-checkers, so I brushed her hand away.“They’ve probably got him all doped up,” Audie said. Thevoice was familiar and unplaceable and so I cracked my eyelid,
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
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She’s a year older than me, and she’sthe smart one on that side of the family, the one who ended upat Queen’s University for a BS in Electrical Engineering and anMA in Poli Sci, and even so finished up back in Ottawa,freelancing advice to clueless MPs dealing with Taiwanese andSierra Leonese OEM importers. Audie’s married to a nice fellawhose name I can never remember and they’re gonna have kidsin five years; it’s on a timetable that she actually showed meonce when I went out there on biz and stopped in to see her atthe office.Cousin the second is Alphie—three years younger than me,raised in the shadow of his overachieving sister, he was the capo of Ottawa Valley script kiddies, a low-rent hacker whodownloaded other people’s code for defeating copyright use-control systems and made a little biz for himself bootlegginggames, porn, music and video, until the WIPO bots found himthrough traffic analysis and busted his ass, bankrupting himand landing him in the clink for sixty days.Audie and Alfie are blond and ruddy and a little heavyset, allcharacteristics they got from their father’s side, so add that tothe fact that I grew up without being aware of their existenceand you’ll understand the absence of any real fellow-feeling forthem.
I don’t dislike them, but I have so little in common withthem that it’s like hanging out with time travelers from theleast-interesting historical era imaginable.But they came to Boston and looked me up in the nuthatch.They found me sitting on the sofa in the ward, post-Group,arms and ankles crossed, dozing in a shaft of sunlight. It wasmy habitual napping spot, and I found that a nap betweenGroup and dinner was a good way to sharpen my appetite andanasthetize my taste buds, which made the mealtime slopbearable.Audie shook my shoulder gently. I assumed at first that shewas one of the inmates trying to get me involved in a game ofMartian narco-checkers, so I brushed her hand away.“They’ve probably got him all doped up,” Audie said. Thevoice was familiar and unplaceable and so I cracked my eyelid,Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 108 squinting up at her silhouette in the afternoon sun. “There heis,” she said. “Come on, up and at ’em, tiger.”I sat up abruptly and scrubbed at my eyes. “Audie?” I asked.“Yup. And Alphie.” Alphie’s pink face hove into view.“Hi, Art,” he mumbled.“Jesus,” I said, getting to my feet. Audie put out a superfluoussteadying hand. “Wow.”“Surprised?” Audie said.“Yeah!” I said. Audie thrust a bouquet of flowers into myarms. “What are you doing here?”“Oh, your grandmother told me you were here. I was comingdown to Boston for work anyway, so I flew in a day early so Icould drop in. Alphie came down with me—he’s my assistantnow.”I almost said something about convicted felons working forgovernment contractors, but I held onto my tongue.Consequently, an awkward silence blossomed.“Well,” Audie said, at last. “Well! Let’s have a look at you,then.”
She actually took a lap around me, looking me up anddown, making little noises. “You look all right, Art. Maybe alittle skinny, even. Alphie’s got a box of cookies for you.”Alphie stepped forward and produced the box, a family pack of President’s Choice Ridiculous Chocoholic Extra Chewies, aCanadian store brand I’d been raised on. Within seconds ofseeing them, my mouth was sloshing with saliva.“It’s good to see you, Audie, Alphie.” I managed to say itwithout spitting, an impressive feat, given the amount of salivaI was contending with. “Thanks for the care package.”We stared at each other blankly.“So, Art,” Alphie said, “So! How do you like it here?”“Well, Alphie,” I said. “I can’t say as I do, really. As far as Ican tell, I’m sane as I’ve ever been. It’s just a bunch ofunfortunate coincidences and bad judgment that got me here.” Irefrain from mentioning Alphie’s propensity for lapses injudgment.“Wow,” Alphie said. “That’s a bummer.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 108 squinting up at her silhouette in the afternoon sun. “There heis,” she said. “Come on, up and at ’em, tiger.”I sat up abruptly and scrubbed at my eyes. “Audie?” I asked.“Yup. And Alphie.” Alphie’s pink face hove into view.“Hi, Art,” he mumbled.“Jesus,” I said, getting to my feet. Audie put out a superfluoussteadying hand. “Wow.”“Surprised?” Audie said.“Yeah!” I said. Audie thrust a bouquet of flowers into myarms. “What are you doing here?”“Oh, your grandmother told me you were here. I was comingdown to Boston for work anyway, so I flew in a day early so Icould drop in. Alphie came down with me—he’s my assistantnow.”I almost said something about convicted felons working forgovernment contractors, but I held onto my tongue.Consequently, an awkward silence blossomed.“Well,” Audie said, at last. “Well! Let’s have a look at you,then.”
She actually took a lap around me, looking me up anddown, making little noises. “You look all right, Art. Maybe alittle skinny, even. Alphie’s got a box of cookies for you.”Alphie stepped forward and produced the box, a family pack of President’s Choice Ridiculous Chocoholic Extra Chewies, aCanadian store brand I’d been raised on. Within seconds ofseeing them, my mouth was sloshing with saliva.“It’s good to see you, Audie, Alphie.” I managed to say itwithout spitting, an impressive feat, given the amount of salivaI was contending with. “Thanks for the care package.”We stared at each other blankly.“So, Art,” Alphie said, “So! How do you like it here?”“Well, Alphie,” I said. “I can’t say as I do, really. As far as Ican tell, I’m sane as I’ve ever been. It’s just a bunch ofunfortunate coincidences and bad judgment that got me here.” Irefrain from mentioning Alphie’s propensity for lapses injudgment.“Wow,” Alphie said. “That’s a bummer.We should dosomething, you know, Audie?”“Not really my area of expertise,” Audie said in clipped tones.“I would if I could, you know that, right Art? We’re family,after all.”“Oh, sure,” I say magnanimously. But now that I’m looking atthem, my cousins who got into a thousand times more troublethan I ever did, driving drunk, pirating software, growingnaughty smokables in the backyard, and got away from itunscathed, I feel a stirring of desperate hope. “Only...”
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 109 “Only what?” Alphie said.“Only, maybe, Audie, do you think you could, that is, if you’vegot the time, do you think you could have a little look aroundand see if any of your contacts could maybe set me up with adecent lawyer who might be able to get my case reheard? Or ashrink, for that matter? Something? ’Cause frankly it doesn’treally seem like they’re going to let me go, ever. Ever.”Audie squirmed and glared at her brother. “I don’t really knowanyone that fits the bill,” she said at last.“Well, not firsthand, sure, why would you? You wouldn’t.” Ithought that I was starting to babble, but I couldn’t helpmyself. “You wouldn’t. But maybe there’s someone thatsomeone you know knows who can do something about it? Imean, it can’t hurt to ask around, can it?”“I suppose it can’t,” she said.“Wow,” I said, “that would just be fantastic, you know.
Thanksin advance, Audie, really, I mean it, just for trying, I can’tthank you enough. This place, well, it really sucks.”There it was, hanging out, my desperate and pathetic plea forhelp. Really, there was nowhere to go but down from there.Still, the silence stretched and snapped and I said, “Hey,speaking of, can I offer you guys a tour of the ward? I mean,it’s not much, but it’s home.” So I showed them: the droolers and the fondlers and the pukersand my horrible little room and the scarred ping-pong table andthe sticky decks of cards and the meshed-in TV. Alphieactually seemed to dig it, in a kind of horrified way. He startedcomparing it to the new Kingston Pen, where he’d done his six-month bit.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
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We should dosomething, you know, Audie?”“Not really my area of expertise,” Audie said in clipped tones.“I would if I could, you know that, right Art? We’re family,after all.”“Oh, sure,” I say magnanimously. But now that I’m looking atthem, my cousins who got into a thousand times more troublethan I ever did, driving drunk, pirating software, growingnaughty smokables in the backyard, and got away from itunscathed, I feel a stirring of desperate hope. “Only...”
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 109 “Only what?” Alphie said.“Only, maybe, Audie, do you think you could, that is, if you’vegot the time, do you think you could have a little look aroundand see if any of your contacts could maybe set me up with adecent lawyer who might be able to get my case reheard? Or ashrink, for that matter? Something? ’Cause frankly it doesn’treally seem like they’re going to let me go, ever. Ever.”Audie squirmed and glared at her brother. “I don’t really knowanyone that fits the bill,” she said at last.“Well, not firsthand, sure, why would you? You wouldn’t.” Ithought that I was starting to babble, but I couldn’t helpmyself. “You wouldn’t. But maybe there’s someone thatsomeone you know knows who can do something about it? Imean, it can’t hurt to ask around, can it?”“I suppose it can’t,” she said.“Wow,” I said, “that would just be fantastic, you know.
Thanksin advance, Audie, really, I mean it, just for trying, I can’tthank you enough. This place, well, it really sucks.”There it was, hanging out, my desperate and pathetic plea forhelp. Really, there was nowhere to go but down from there.Still, the silence stretched and snapped and I said, “Hey,speaking of, can I offer you guys a tour of the ward? I mean,it’s not much, but it’s home.” So I showed them: the droolers and the fondlers and the pukersand my horrible little room and the scarred ping-pong table andthe sticky decks of cards and the meshed-in TV. Alphieactually seemed to dig it, in a kind of horrified way. He startedcomparing it to the new Kingston Pen, where he’d done his six-month bit.After seeing the first puker, Audie went quiet andthin-lipped, leaving nothing but Alphie’s enthusiastic gurglingas counterpoint to my tour.“Art,” Audie said finally, desperately, “do you think they’d letus take you out for a cup of coffee or a walk around thegrounds?”I asked. The nurse looked at a comm for a while, then shookher head.“Nope,” I reported. “They need a day’s notice of off-wardsupervised excursions.”“Well, too bad,” Audie said. I understood her strategyimmediately. “Too bad. Nothing for it, then. Guess we shouldget back to our hotel.” I planted a dry kiss on her cheek, shookAlphie’s sweaty hand, and they were gone. I skipped supperthat night and ate cookies until I couldn’t eat another bite ofrich chocolate.#“Got a comm?” I ask Doc Szandor, casually.“What for?”
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
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After seeing the first puker, Audie went quiet andthin-lipped, leaving nothing but Alphie’s enthusiastic gurglingas counterpoint to my tour.“Art,” Audie said finally, desperately, “do you think they’d letus take you out for a cup of coffee or a walk around thegrounds?”I asked. The nurse looked at a comm for a while, then shookher head.“Nope,” I reported. “They need a day’s notice of off-wardsupervised excursions.”“Well, too bad,” Audie said. I understood her strategyimmediately. “Too bad. Nothing for it, then. Guess we shouldget back to our hotel.” I planted a dry kiss on her cheek, shookAlphie’s sweaty hand, and they were gone. I skipped supperthat night and ate cookies until I couldn’t eat another bite ofrich chocolate.#“Got a comm?” I ask Doc Szandor, casually.“What for?”07_eastern-standard-tribe-del-7
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 110 “Wanna get some of this down. The ideas for the hospital.Before I go back out on the ward.” And it is what I want to do,mostly. But the temptation to just log on and do my thing—oh!“Sure,” he says, checking his watch. “I can probably stall themfor a couple hours more. Feel free to make a call or whatever,too.”Doc Szandor’s a good egg. 24.Father Ferlenghetti showed up at Art’s Gran’s at 7PM, just asthe sun began to set over the lake, and Art and he sharedlemonade on Gran’s sunporch and watched as the waves onLake Ontario turned harshly golden.“So, Arthur, tell me, what are you doing with your life?” theFather said. He had grown exquisitely aged, almost translucent,since Art had seen him last. In his dog collar and old-fashionedaviator’s shades, he looked like a waxworks figure.Art had forgotten all about the Father’s visit until Gran steppedout of her superheated kitchen to remind him.
He’d hastilyshowered and changed into fresh slacks and a mostly clean teeshirt, and had agreed to entertain the priest while his Granfinished cooking supper. Now, he wished he’d signed up to dothe cooking.“I’m working in London,” he said. “The same work as ever,but for an English firm.”“That’s what your grandmother tells me. But is it making youhappy? Is it what you plan to do with the rest of your life?”“I guess so,” Art said. “Sure.”“You don’t sound so sure,” Father Ferlenghetti said.
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 110 “Wanna get some of this down. The ideas for the hospital.Before I go back out on the ward.” And it is what I want to do,mostly. But the temptation to just log on and do my thing—oh!“Sure,” he says, checking his watch. “I can probably stall themfor a couple hours more. Feel free to make a call or whatever,too.”Doc Szandor’s a good egg. 24.Father Ferlenghetti showed up at Art’s Gran’s at 7PM, just asthe sun began to set over the lake, and Art and he sharedlemonade on Gran’s sunporch and watched as the waves onLake Ontario turned harshly golden.“So, Arthur, tell me, what are you doing with your life?” theFather said. He had grown exquisitely aged, almost translucent,since Art had seen him last. In his dog collar and old-fashionedaviator’s shades, he looked like a waxworks figure.Art had forgotten all about the Father’s visit until Gran steppedout of her superheated kitchen to remind him.
He’d hastilyshowered and changed into fresh slacks and a mostly clean teeshirt, and had agreed to entertain the priest while his Granfinished cooking supper. Now, he wished he’d signed up to dothe cooking.“I’m working in London,” he said. “The same work as ever,but for an English firm.”“That’s what your grandmother tells me. But is it making youhappy? Is it what you plan to do with the rest of your life?”“I guess so,” Art said. “Sure.”“You don’t sound so sure,” Father Ferlenghetti said.Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 111 “Well, the work part’s excellent. The politics are pretty ugly,though, to tell the truth.”“Ah. Well, we can’t avoid politics, can we?”“No, I guess we can’t.”“Art, I’ve always known that you were a very smart youngman, but being smart isn’t the same as being happy. If you’revery lucky, you’ll get to be my age and you’ll look back onyour life and be glad you lived it.”Gran called him in for dinner before he could think of a reply.He settled down at the table and Gran handed him a pen.“What’s this for?” he asked.“Sign the tablecloth,” she said. “Write a little something andsign it and date it, nice and clear, please.”“Sign the tablecloth?”“Yes. I’ve just started a fresh one. I have everyone sign mytablecloth and then I embroider the signatures in, so I have arecord of everyone who’s been here for supper.
They’ll make anice heirloom for your children—I’ll show you the old onesafter we eat.”“What should I write?”“It’s up to you.” While Gran and the Father looked on, Art uncapped the felt-tippen and thought and thought, his mind blank. Finally, he wrote,“For my Gran. No matter where I am, I know you’re thinkingof me.” He signed it with a flourish.“Lovely. Let’s eat now.”Art meant to log in and see if Colonelonic had dredged up anyintel on Linda’s ex, but he found himself trapped on thesunporch with Gran and the Father and a small stack of linentablecloths hairy with embroidered wishes. He traced theirbraille with his fingertips, recognizing the names of hischildhood. Gran and the Father talked late into the night, andthe next thing Art knew, Gran was shaking him awake.
He wasdraped in a tablecloth that he’d pulled over himself like ablanket, and she folded it and put it away while he ungummedhis eyes and staggered off to bed.Audie called him early the next morning, waking him up.“Hey, Art! It’s your cousin!”“Audie?”“You don’t have any other female cousins, so yes, that’s agood guess. Your Gran told me you were in Canada for achange.”“Yup, I am. Just for a little holiday.”
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 111 “Well, the work part’s excellent. The politics are pretty ugly,though, to tell the truth.”“Ah. Well, we can’t avoid politics, can we?”“No, I guess we can’t.”“Art, I’ve always known that you were a very smart youngman, but being smart isn’t the same as being happy. If you’revery lucky, you’ll get to be my age and you’ll look back onyour life and be glad you lived it.”Gran called him in for dinner before he could think of a reply.He settled down at the table and Gran handed him a pen.“What’s this for?” he asked.“Sign the tablecloth,” she said. “Write a little something andsign it and date it, nice and clear, please.”“Sign the tablecloth?”“Yes. I’ve just started a fresh one. I have everyone sign mytablecloth and then I embroider the signatures in, so I have arecord of everyone who’s been here for supper.
They’ll make anice heirloom for your children—I’ll show you the old onesafter we eat.”“What should I write?”“It’s up to you.” While Gran and the Father looked on, Art uncapped the felt-tippen and thought and thought, his mind blank. Finally, he wrote,“For my Gran. No matter where I am, I know you’re thinkingof me.” He signed it with a flourish.“Lovely. Let’s eat now.”Art meant to log in and see if Colonelonic had dredged up anyintel on Linda’s ex, but he found himself trapped on thesunporch with Gran and the Father and a small stack of linentablecloths hairy with embroidered wishes. He traced theirbraille with his fingertips, recognizing the names of hischildhood. Gran and the Father talked late into the night, andthe next thing Art knew, Gran was shaking him awake.
He wasdraped in a tablecloth that he’d pulled over himself like ablanket, and she folded it and put it away while he ungummedhis eyes and staggered off to bed.Audie called him early the next morning, waking him up.“Hey, Art! It’s your cousin!”“Audie?”“You don’t have any other female cousins, so yes, that’s agood guess. Your Gran told me you were in Canada for achange.”“Yup, I am. Just for a little holiday.”Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 112 “Well, it’s been long enough. What do you do in Londonagain?”“I’m a consultant for Virgin/Deutsche Telekom.” He has thispart of the conversation every time he speaks with Audie.Somehow, the particulars of his job just couldn’t seem to stickin her mind.“What kind of consultant?”“User experience. I help design their interactive stuff. How’sOttawa?”“They pay you for that, huh? Well, nice work if you can get it.”Art believed that Audie was being sincere in her amazement athis niche in the working world, and not sneering at all. Still, hehad to keep himself from saying something snide about thelack of tangible good resulting from keeping MPs up to date onthe poleconomy of semiconductor production in PacRimsweatshops.“They sure do. How’s Ottawa?”“Amazing. And why London? Can’t you find work at home?”“Yeah, I suppose I could. This just seemed like a good job atthe time. How’s Ottawa?“Seemed, huh?
You going to be moving back, then? Quitting?” “Not anytime soon. How’s Ottawa?”“Ottawa? It’s beautiful this time of year. Alphie and Enoch andI were going to go to the trailer for the weekend, in Calabogie.You could drive up and meet us. Swim, hike. We’ve built asweatlodge near the dock; you and Alphie could bake uptogether.”“Wow,” Art said, wishing he had Audie’s gift for changing thesubject. “Sounds great. But. Well, you know. Gotta catch upwith friends here in Toronto. It’s been a while, you know.Well.” The image of sharing a smoke-filled dome withAlphie’s naked, cross-legged, sweat-slimed paunch had seareditself across his waking mind.“No? Geez. Too bad. I’d really hoped that we could reconnect,you and me and Alphie. We really should spend some moretime together, keep connected, you know?”“Well,” Art said. “Sure. Yes.”
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 7-07-eastern-standard-tribe-del-7
# chapter_title: 07_eastern-standard-tribe-del-7
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# language: en
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 112 “Well, it’s been long enough. What do you do in Londonagain?”“I’m a consultant for Virgin/Deutsche Telekom.” He has thispart of the conversation every time he speaks with Audie.Somehow, the particulars of his job just couldn’t seem to stickin her mind.“What kind of consultant?”“User experience. I help design their interactive stuff. How’sOttawa?”“They pay you for that, huh? Well, nice work if you can get it.”Art believed that Audie was being sincere in her amazement athis niche in the working world, and not sneering at all. Still, hehad to keep himself from saying something snide about thelack of tangible good resulting from keeping MPs up to date onthe poleconomy of semiconductor production in PacRimsweatshops.“They sure do. How’s Ottawa?”“Amazing. And why London? Can’t you find work at home?”“Yeah, I suppose I could. This just seemed like a good job atthe time. How’s Ottawa?“Seemed, huh?
You going to be moving back, then? Quitting?” “Not anytime soon. How’s Ottawa?”“Ottawa? It’s beautiful this time of year. Alphie and Enoch andI were going to go to the trailer for the weekend, in Calabogie.You could drive up and meet us. Swim, hike. We’ve built asweatlodge near the dock; you and Alphie could bake uptogether.”“Wow,” Art said, wishing he had Audie’s gift for changing thesubject. “Sounds great. But. Well, you know. Gotta catch upwith friends here in Toronto. It’s been a while, you know.Well.” The image of sharing a smoke-filled dome withAlphie’s naked, cross-legged, sweat-slimed paunch had seareditself across his waking mind.“No? Geez. Too bad. I’d really hoped that we could reconnect,you and me and Alphie. We really should spend some moretime together, keep connected, you know?”“Well,” Art said. “Sure. Yes.”Relations or no, Audie andAlphie were basically strangers to him, and it was beyond himwhy Audie thought they should be spending time together, butthere it was. Reconnect, keep connected. Hippies. “We should.Next time I’m in Canada, for sure, we’ll get together, I’ll cometo Ottawa. Maybe Christmas. Skating on the canal, OK?”“Very good,” Audie said. “I’ll pencil you in for Christmasweek. Here, I’ll send you the wish lists for Alphie and Enochand me, so you’ll know what to get.”
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 113 Xmas wishlists in July. Organized hippies! What planet did hiscousins grow up on, anyway?“Thanks, Audie. I’ll put together a wishlist and pass it along toyou soon, OK?” His bladder nagged at him. “I gotta run now,all right?”“Great. Listen, Art, it’s been, well, great to talk to you again. Itreally makes me feel whole to connect with you. Don’t be astranger, all right?”“Yeah, OK! Nice to talk to you, too. Bye!”“Safe travels and wishes fulfilled,” Audie said.“You too!” 25.Now I’ve got a comm, I hardly know what to do with it. CallGran? Call Audie? Call Fede? Login to an EST chat and seewho’s up to what?How about the Jersey clients?There’s an idea.
Give them everything, all the notes I built forFede and his damned patent application, sign over theexclusive rights to the patent for one dollar and servicesrendered (i.e., getting me a decent lawyer and springing mefrom this damned hole).My last lawyer was a dickhead. He met me at the courtroomfifteen minutes before the hearing, in a private room whosefixtures had the sticky filthiness of a bus-station toilet. “Art,yes, hello, I’m Allan Mendelson, your attorney. How are you?He was well over 6’6”, but weighed no more than 120 lbs andhunched over his skinny ribs while he talked, dry-washing hishands. His suit looked like the kind of thing you’d see on aPiccadilly Station homeless person, clean enough and well-enough fitting, but with an indefinable air of cheapness andfalsehood.“Well, not so good,” I said. “They upped my meds thismorning, so I’m pretty logy. Can’t concentrate. They said itwas to keep me calm while I was transported.
Dirty trick,huh?”
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 7-07-eastern-standard-tribe-del-7
# chapter_title: 07_eastern-standard-tribe-del-7
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Relations or no, Audie andAlphie were basically strangers to him, and it was beyond himwhy Audie thought they should be spending time together, butthere it was. Reconnect, keep connected. Hippies. “We should.Next time I’m in Canada, for sure, we’ll get together, I’ll cometo Ottawa. Maybe Christmas. Skating on the canal, OK?”“Very good,” Audie said. “I’ll pencil you in for Christmasweek. Here, I’ll send you the wish lists for Alphie and Enochand me, so you’ll know what to get.”
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 113 Xmas wishlists in July. Organized hippies! What planet did hiscousins grow up on, anyway?“Thanks, Audie. I’ll put together a wishlist and pass it along toyou soon, OK?” His bladder nagged at him. “I gotta run now,all right?”“Great. Listen, Art, it’s been, well, great to talk to you again. Itreally makes me feel whole to connect with you. Don’t be astranger, all right?”“Yeah, OK! Nice to talk to you, too. Bye!”“Safe travels and wishes fulfilled,” Audie said.“You too!” 25.Now I’ve got a comm, I hardly know what to do with it. CallGran? Call Audie? Call Fede? Login to an EST chat and seewho’s up to what?How about the Jersey clients?There’s an idea.
Give them everything, all the notes I built forFede and his damned patent application, sign over theexclusive rights to the patent for one dollar and servicesrendered (i.e., getting me a decent lawyer and springing mefrom this damned hole).My last lawyer was a dickhead. He met me at the courtroomfifteen minutes before the hearing, in a private room whosefixtures had the sticky filthiness of a bus-station toilet. “Art,yes, hello, I’m Allan Mendelson, your attorney. How are you?He was well over 6’6”, but weighed no more than 120 lbs andhunched over his skinny ribs while he talked, dry-washing hishands. His suit looked like the kind of thing you’d see on aPiccadilly Station homeless person, clean enough and well-enough fitting, but with an indefinable air of cheapness andfalsehood.“Well, not so good,” I said. “They upped my meds thismorning, so I’m pretty logy. Can’t concentrate. They said itwas to keep me calm while I was transported.
Dirty trick,huh?”Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 114 “What?” he’d been browsing through his comm, tappingthrough what I assumed was my file. “No, no. It’s perfectlystandard. This isn’t a trial, it’s a hearing. We’re all on the sameside, here.” He tapped some more. “Your side.”“Good,” Art said. “My grandmother came down, and she wantsto testify on my behalf.”“Oooh,” the fixer said, shaking his head. “No, not a great idea.She’s not a mental health professional, is she?”“No,” I said. “But she’s known me all my life. She knows I’mnot a danger to myself or others.”“Sorry, that’s not appropriate. We all love our families, but thecourt wants to hear from people who have qualified opinionson this subject. Your doctors will speak, of course.”“Do I get to speak?”“If you really want to. That’s not a very good idea, either,though, I’m afraid. If the judge wants to hear from you, she’lladdress you.
Otherwise, your best bet is to sit still, nofidgeting, look as sane and calm as you can.”I felt like I had bricks dangling from my limbs and one stuck inmy brain. The new meds painted the world with translucentwhitewash, stuffed cotton in my ears and made my tonguethick. Slowly, my brain absorbed all of this. “You mean that my Gran can’t talk, I can’t talk, and all thecourt hears is the doctors?”“Don’t be difficult, Art. This is a hearing to determine yourcompetency. A group of talented mental health professionalshave observed you for the past week and they’ve come to someconclusions based on those observations. If everyone whocame before the court for a competency hearing brought out abunch of irrelevant witnesses and made long speeches, thecourt calendar would be backlogged for decades. Then otherpeople who were in for observation wouldn’t be able to gettheir hearings. It wouldn’t work for anyone. You see that,right?”“Not really.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 7-07-eastern-standard-tribe-del-7
# chapter_title: 07_eastern-standard-tribe-del-7
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 114 “What?” he’d been browsing through his comm, tappingthrough what I assumed was my file. “No, no. It’s perfectlystandard. This isn’t a trial, it’s a hearing. We’re all on the sameside, here.” He tapped some more. “Your side.”“Good,” Art said. “My grandmother came down, and she wantsto testify on my behalf.”“Oooh,” the fixer said, shaking his head. “No, not a great idea.She’s not a mental health professional, is she?”“No,” I said. “But she’s known me all my life. She knows I’mnot a danger to myself or others.”“Sorry, that’s not appropriate. We all love our families, but thecourt wants to hear from people who have qualified opinionson this subject. Your doctors will speak, of course.”“Do I get to speak?”“If you really want to. That’s not a very good idea, either,though, I’m afraid. If the judge wants to hear from you, she’lladdress you.
Otherwise, your best bet is to sit still, nofidgeting, look as sane and calm as you can.”I felt like I had bricks dangling from my limbs and one stuck inmy brain. The new meds painted the world with translucentwhitewash, stuffed cotton in my ears and made my tonguethick. Slowly, my brain absorbed all of this. “You mean that my Gran can’t talk, I can’t talk, and all thecourt hears is the doctors?”“Don’t be difficult, Art. This is a hearing to determine yourcompetency. A group of talented mental health professionalshave observed you for the past week and they’ve come to someconclusions based on those observations. If everyone whocame before the court for a competency hearing brought out abunch of irrelevant witnesses and made long speeches, thecourt calendar would be backlogged for decades. Then otherpeople who were in for observation wouldn’t be able to gettheir hearings. It wouldn’t work for anyone. You see that,right?”“Not really.I really think it would be better if I got to testify onmy behalf. I have that right, don’t I?”He sighed and looked very put-upon. “If you insist, I’ll call youto speak. But as your lawyer, it’s my professional opinion thatyou should not do this.”“I really would prefer to.”He snapped his comm shut. “I’ll meet you in the courtroom,then. The bailiff will take you in.”“Can you tell my Gran where I am? She’s waiting in the court,I think.”“Sorry. I have other cases to cope with—I can’t really playmessenger, I’m afraid.”
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 115 When he left the little office, I felt as though I’d been switchedoff. The drugs weighted my eyelids and soothed my panic andoutrage. Later, I’d be livid, but right then I could barely keepfrom folding my arms on the grimy table and resting my headon them.The hearing went so fast I barely even noticed it. I sat with mylawyer and the doctors stood up and entered their reports intoevidence—I don’t think they read them aloud, even, justsquirted them at the court reporter. My Gran sat behind me, ona chair that was separated from the court proper by a banister.She had her hand on my shoulder the whole time, and it feltlike an anvil there to my dopey muscles.“All right, Art,” my jackass lawyer said, giving me a prod.“Here’s your turn. Stand up and keep it brief.”I struggled to my feet.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 7-07-eastern-standard-tribe-del-7
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I really think it would be better if I got to testify onmy behalf. I have that right, don’t I?”He sighed and looked very put-upon. “If you insist, I’ll call youto speak. But as your lawyer, it’s my professional opinion thatyou should not do this.”“I really would prefer to.”He snapped his comm shut. “I’ll meet you in the courtroom,then. The bailiff will take you in.”“Can you tell my Gran where I am? She’s waiting in the court,I think.”“Sorry. I have other cases to cope with—I can’t really playmessenger, I’m afraid.”
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 115 When he left the little office, I felt as though I’d been switchedoff. The drugs weighted my eyelids and soothed my panic andoutrage. Later, I’d be livid, but right then I could barely keepfrom folding my arms on the grimy table and resting my headon them.The hearing went so fast I barely even noticed it. I sat with mylawyer and the doctors stood up and entered their reports intoevidence—I don’t think they read them aloud, even, justsquirted them at the court reporter. My Gran sat behind me, ona chair that was separated from the court proper by a banister.She had her hand on my shoulder the whole time, and it feltlike an anvil there to my dopey muscles.“All right, Art,” my jackass lawyer said, giving me a prod.“Here’s your turn. Stand up and keep it brief.”I struggled to my feet.The judge was an Asian woman aboutmy age, a small round head set atop a shapeless robe andperched on a high seat behind a high bench.“Your Honor,” I said. I didn’t know what to say next. All mywonderful rhetoric had fled me. The judge looked at mebriefly, then went back to tapping her comm. Maybe she wasplaying solitaire or looking at porn. “I asked to have a momentto address the Court. My lawyer suggested that I not do this,but I insisted.“Here’s the thing. There’s no way for me to win here. There’s along story about how I got here. Basically, I had adisagreement with some of my coworkers who were doing something that I thought was immoral. They decided that itwould be best for their plans if I was out of the way for a littlewhile, so that I couldn’t screw them up, so they coopered thisup, told the London police that I’d gone nuts.“So I ended up in an institution here for observation, on thegrounds that I was dangerously paranoid.
When the people atthe institution asked me about it, I told them what hadhappened. Because I was claiming that the people who had melocked up were conspiring to make me look paranoid, thedoctors decided that I was paranoid. But tell me, how could Idemonstrate my non-paranoia? I mean, as far as I can tell, thesecond I was put away for observation, I was guaranteed to befound wanting. Nothing I could have said or done would havemade a difference.”The judge looked up from her comm and gave me anotheronce-over. I was wearing my best day clothes, which were mybasic London shabby chic white shirt and gray wool slacks andnarrow blue tie. It looked natty enough in the UK, but I knewthat in the US it made me look like an overaged door-to-doorMormon. The judge kept looking at me. Call to action, Ithought. End your speeches with a call to action.
It was anotherbit of goofy West Coast Vulcan Mind Control, courtesy ofLinda’s fucking ex.“So here’s what I wanted to do. I wanted to stand up here andlet you know what had happened to me and ask you for advice.If we assume for the moment that I’m not crazy, how should Idemonstrate that here in the court?”
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 7-07-eastern-standard-tribe-del-7
# chapter_title: 07_eastern-standard-tribe-del-7
# book_page: 153 / 169
# chapter_page: 7
# language: en
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The judge was an Asian woman aboutmy age, a small round head set atop a shapeless robe andperched on a high seat behind a high bench.“Your Honor,” I said. I didn’t know what to say next. All mywonderful rhetoric had fled me. The judge looked at mebriefly, then went back to tapping her comm. Maybe she wasplaying solitaire or looking at porn. “I asked to have a momentto address the Court. My lawyer suggested that I not do this,but I insisted.“Here’s the thing. There’s no way for me to win here. There’s along story about how I got here. Basically, I had adisagreement with some of my coworkers who were doing something that I thought was immoral. They decided that itwould be best for their plans if I was out of the way for a littlewhile, so that I couldn’t screw them up, so they coopered thisup, told the London police that I’d gone nuts.“So I ended up in an institution here for observation, on thegrounds that I was dangerously paranoid.
When the people atthe institution asked me about it, I told them what hadhappened. Because I was claiming that the people who had melocked up were conspiring to make me look paranoid, thedoctors decided that I was paranoid. But tell me, how could Idemonstrate my non-paranoia? I mean, as far as I can tell, thesecond I was put away for observation, I was guaranteed to befound wanting. Nothing I could have said or done would havemade a difference.”The judge looked up from her comm and gave me anotheronce-over. I was wearing my best day clothes, which were mybasic London shabby chic white shirt and gray wool slacks andnarrow blue tie. It looked natty enough in the UK, but I knewthat in the US it made me look like an overaged door-to-doorMormon. The judge kept looking at me. Call to action, Ithought. End your speeches with a call to action.
It was anotherbit of goofy West Coast Vulcan Mind Control, courtesy ofLinda’s fucking ex.“So here’s what I wanted to do. I wanted to stand up here andlet you know what had happened to me and ask you for advice.If we assume for the moment that I’m not crazy, how should Idemonstrate that here in the court?”Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 116 The judge rolled her head from shoulder to shoulder, makingglossy black waterfalls of her hair. The whole hearing is veryfuzzy for me, but that hair! Who ever heard of a civil servantwith good hair?“Mr. Berry,” she said, “I’m afraid I don’t have much to tellyou. It’s my responsibility to listen to qualified testimony andmake a ruling. You haven’t presented any qualified testimonyto support your position. In the absence of such testimony, myonly option is to remand you into the custody of theDepartment of Mental Health until such time as a group ofqualified professionals see fit to release you.” I expected her tobang a gavel, but instead she just scritched at her comm andsquirted the order at the court reporter and I was led away.I didn’t even have a chance to talk to Gran. 26.##Received address book entry "Toby Ginsburg" fromColonelonic.## Colonelonic (private): This guy's up tosomething.
Flew to Boston twice this week. Put adown payment on a house in Orange County. Bighouse. Big down payment. A car, too: vintage T-bird convertible. A gas burner! Bought CO2 creditsfor an entire year to go with it.Trepan: /private Colonelonic Huh. Who's he workingfor?## Colonelonic (private): Himself. He Federallyincorporated last week, something called "TunePay,Inc." He's the Chairman, but he's only a minorityshareholder. The rest of the common shares areheld by a dummy corporation in London. Couldn'tget any details on that without using a forensicaccounting package, and that'd get me fired rightquick.Trepan: /private Colonelonic It's OK. I get thepicture. I owe you one, all right?## Colonelonic (private): sweat.value==0 Are yougoing to tell me what this is all about someday?Not some bullshit about your girlfriend?
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 7-07-eastern-standard-tribe-del-7
# chapter_title: 07_eastern-standard-tribe-del-7
# book_page: 154 / 169
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 116 The judge rolled her head from shoulder to shoulder, makingglossy black waterfalls of her hair. The whole hearing is veryfuzzy for me, but that hair! Who ever heard of a civil servantwith good hair?“Mr. Berry,” she said, “I’m afraid I don’t have much to tellyou. It’s my responsibility to listen to qualified testimony andmake a ruling. You haven’t presented any qualified testimonyto support your position. In the absence of such testimony, myonly option is to remand you into the custody of theDepartment of Mental Health until such time as a group ofqualified professionals see fit to release you.” I expected her tobang a gavel, but instead she just scritched at her comm andsquirted the order at the court reporter and I was led away.I didn’t even have a chance to talk to Gran. 26.##Received address book entry "Toby Ginsburg" fromColonelonic.## Colonelonic (private): This guy's up tosomething.
Flew to Boston twice this week. Put adown payment on a house in Orange County. _Big_house. _Big_ down payment. A car, too: vintage T-bird convertible. A gas burner! Bought CO2 creditsfor an entire year to go with it.Trepan: /private Colonelonic Huh. Who's he workingfor?## Colonelonic (private): Himself. He Federallyincorporated last week, something called "TunePay,Inc." He's the Chairman, but he's only a minorityshareholder. The rest of the common shares areheld by a dummy corporation in London. Couldn'tget any details on that without using a forensicaccounting package, and that'd get me fired rightquick.Trepan: /private Colonelonic It's OK. I get thepicture. I owe you one, all right?## Colonelonic (private): sweat.value==0 Are yougoing to tell me what this is all about someday?Not some bullshit about your girlfriend?Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 117 Trepan: /private Colonelonic Heh. That part wastrue, actually. I'll tell you the rest, maybe,someday. Not today, though. I gotta go to London.Art’s vision throbbed with his pulse as he jammed his clothesback into his backpack with one hand while he booked a ticketto London on his comm with the other. Sweat beaded on hisforehead as he ordered the taxi while scribbling a note to Granon the smart-surface of her fridge.He was verging on berserk by the time he hit airport security.The guard played the ultrasound flashlight over him and lookedhim up and down with his goggles, then had him walk throughthe chromatograph twice. Art tried to breathe calmly, but itwasn’t happening.
He’d take two deep breaths, think abouthow he was yup, calming down, pretty good, especially sincehe was going to London to confront Fede about the fact that hisfriend had screwed him stabbed him in the back using hisgirlfriend to distract him and meanwhile she was in LosAngeles sleeping with her fucking ex who was going to stealhis idea and sell it as his own that fucking prick boning his girlright then almost certainly laughing about poor old Art,dumbfuck stuck in Toronto with his thumb up his ass, oh Fedewas going to pay, that’s right, he was—and then he’d behuffing down his nose, hyperventilating, really losing his shitright there.The security guard finally asked him if he needed a doctor.“No,” Art said. “That’s fine. I’m just upset. A friend of minedied suddenly and I’m flying to London for the funeral.”
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 7-07-eastern-standard-tribe-del-7
# chapter_title: 07_eastern-standard-tribe-del-7
# book_page: 155 / 169
# chapter_page: 9
# language: en
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 117 Trepan: /private Colonelonic Heh. That part wastrue, actually. I'll tell you the rest, maybe,someday. Not today, though. I gotta go to London.Art’s vision throbbed with his pulse as he jammed his clothesback into his backpack with one hand while he booked a ticketto London on his comm with the other. Sweat beaded on hisforehead as he ordered the taxi while scribbling a note to Granon the smart-surface of her fridge.He was verging on berserk by the time he hit airport security.The guard played the ultrasound flashlight over him and lookedhim up and down with his goggles, then had him walk throughthe chromatograph twice. Art tried to breathe calmly, but itwasn’t happening.
He’d take two deep breaths, think abouthow he was yup, calming down, pretty good, especially sincehe was going to London to confront Fede about the fact that hisfriend had screwed him stabbed him in the back using hisgirlfriend to distract him and meanwhile she was in LosAngeles sleeping with her fucking ex who was going to stealhis idea and sell it as his own that fucking prick boning his girlright then almost certainly laughing about poor old Art,dumbfuck stuck in Toronto with his thumb up his ass, oh Fedewas going to pay, that’s right, he was—and then he’d behuffing down his nose, hyperventilating, really losing his shitright there.The security guard finally asked him if he needed a doctor.“No,” Art said. “That’s fine. I’m just upset. A friend of minedied suddenly and I’m flying to London for the funeral.”The guard seemed satisfied with this explanation and let him pass,finally.He fought the urge to get plastered on the flight and vibrated inhis seat instead, jiggling his leg until his seatmate—an elderlybusinessman who’d spent the flight thus far wrinkling his browat a series of spreadsheets on his comm—actually put a handon Art’s knee and said, “Switch off the motor, son. You’regonna burn it out if you idle it that high all the way toGatwick.”Art nearly leapt out of his seat when the flight attendantwheeled up the duty-free cart, bristling with novelty beakers offantastically old whiskey shaped like jigging Scotchmen anddrunken leprechauns swinging from lampposts.By the time he hit UK customs he was supersonic, ready tohammer an entire packet of Player’s filterless into his face andlight them with a blowtorch.
It wasn’t even 0600h GMT, andthe Sikh working the booth looked three-quarters asleep underhis turban, but he woke right up when Art stepped past the redline and slapped both palms on the counter and used them as alever to support him as he pogoed in place.“Your business in England, sir?”“I work for Virgin/Deutsche Telekom. Let me beam you myvisa.” His hands were shaking so badly he dropped his commto the hard floor with an ominous clatter. He snatched it up andrubbed at the fresh dent in the cover, then flipped it open andstabbed at it with a filthy fingernail.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 7-07-eastern-standard-tribe-del-7
# chapter_title: 07_eastern-standard-tribe-del-7
# book_page: 156 / 169
# chapter_page: 10
# language: en
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The guard seemed satisfied with this explanation and let him pass,finally.He fought the urge to get plastered on the flight and vibrated inhis seat instead, jiggling his leg until his seatmate—an elderlybusinessman who’d spent the flight thus far wrinkling his browat a series of spreadsheets on his comm—actually put a handon Art’s knee and said, “Switch off the motor, son. You’regonna burn it out if you idle it that high all the way toGatwick.”Art nearly leapt out of his seat when the flight attendantwheeled up the duty-free cart, bristling with novelty beakers offantastically old whiskey shaped like jigging Scotchmen anddrunken leprechauns swinging from lampposts.By the time he hit UK customs he was supersonic, ready tohammer an entire packet of Player’s filterless into his face andlight them with a blowtorch.
It wasn’t even 0600h GMT, andthe Sikh working the booth looked three-quarters asleep underhis turban, but he woke right up when Art stepped past the redline and slapped both palms on the counter and used them as alever to support him as he pogoed in place.“Your business in England, sir?”“I work for Virgin/Deutsche Telekom. Let me beam you myvisa.” His hands were shaking so badly he dropped his commto the hard floor with an ominous clatter. He snatched it up andrubbed at the fresh dent in the cover, then flipped it open andstabbed at it with a filthy fingernail.Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 118 “Thank you, sir. Door number two, please.”Art took one step towards the baggage carousel when thewords registered. Customs search! Godfuckingdammit! Hejittered in the private interview room until another Customsofficer showed up, overrode his comm and read in his ID andcredentials, then stared at them for a long moment.“Are you quite all right, sir?”“Just a little wound up,” Art said, trying desperately to soundnormal. He thought about telling the dead friend story again,but unlike a lowly airport security drone, the Customs man hadthe ability and inclination to actually verify it. “Too muchcoffee on the plane. Need to have a slash like you wouldn’tbelieve.”The Customs man grimaced slightly, then chewed a corner ofhis little moustache. “Everything else is all right, though?”“Everything’s fine. Back from a business trip to the States andCanada, all jetlagged. You know.
Can you believe the bastardsactually expect me at the office today?” This might work. Pissand moan about the office until he gets bored and lets him go.“I mean, you work your guts out, fly halfway around the worldand do it some more, get strapped into a torture seat—youthink Virgin springs for business-class tickets for itsemployees? Hell no!—for six hours, then they want you at thegoddamned office.” “Virgin?” the Customs man said, eyebrows going up. “But youflew in on BA, sir.”Shit. Of course he hadn’t booked a Virgin flight. That’s whatFede’d be expecting him to do, he’d be watching for Art to usehis employee discount and hop a flight back. “Yes, can youbelieve it?” Art thought furiously. “They called me backsuddenly, wouldn’t even let me wait around for one of theirown damned planes. One minute I’m eating breakfast, the nextI’m in a taxi heading for the airport. I forgot half of my damnedunderwear in the hotel room!
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 7-07-eastern-standard-tribe-del-7
# chapter_title: 07_eastern-standard-tribe-del-7
# book_page: 157 / 169
# chapter_page: 11
# language: en
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 118 “Thank you, sir. Door number two, please.”Art took one step towards the baggage carousel when thewords registered. Customs search! Godfuckingdammit! Hejittered in the private interview room until another Customsofficer showed up, overrode his comm and read in his ID andcredentials, then stared at them for a long moment.“Are you quite all right, sir?”“Just a little wound up,” Art said, trying desperately to soundnormal. He thought about telling the dead friend story again,but unlike a lowly airport security drone, the Customs man hadthe ability and inclination to actually verify it. “Too muchcoffee on the plane. Need to have a slash like you wouldn’tbelieve.”The Customs man grimaced slightly, then chewed a corner ofhis little moustache. “Everything else is all right, though?”“Everything’s fine. Back from a business trip to the States andCanada, all jetlagged. You know.
Can you believe the bastardsactually expect me at the office today?” This might work. Pissand moan about the office until he gets bored and lets him go.“I mean, you work your guts out, fly halfway around the worldand do it some more, get strapped into a torture seat—youthink Virgin springs for business-class tickets for itsemployees? Hell no!—for six hours, then they want you at thegoddamned office.” “Virgin?” the Customs man said, eyebrows going up. “But youflew in on BA, sir.”Shit. Of course he hadn’t booked a Virgin flight. That’s whatFede’d be expecting him to do, he’d be watching for Art to usehis employee discount and hop a flight back. “Yes, can youbelieve it?” Art thought furiously. “They called me backsuddenly, wouldn’t even let me wait around for one of theirown damned planes. One minute I’m eating breakfast, the nextI’m in a taxi heading for the airport. I forgot half of my damnedunderwear in the hotel room!You’d think they could cope withone little problem without crawling up my cock, wouldn’tyou?”“Sir, please, calm down.” The Customs man looked alarmedand Art realized that he’d begun to pace.“Sorry, sorry. It just sucks. Bad job. Time to quit, I think.”“I should think so,” the Customs man said. “Welcome toEngland.”Traffic was early-morning light and the cabbie drove like amadman. Art kept flinching away from the oncoming traffic,already unaccustomed to driving on the wrong side of the road.England seemed filthy and gray and shabby to him now, tinylittle cars with tiny, anal-retentive drivers filled with self-loathing, vegetarian meat-substitutes and bad dentistry. In hisrooms in Camden Town, Art took a hasty and vengeful censusof his stupid belongings, sagging rental furniture and bad artprints hanging askew (not any more, not after he smashed them
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 119 to the floor). Bad English clothes (toss ’em onto the floor,looking for one thing he’d be caught dead wearing in NYC,and guess what, not a single thing). Stupid keepsakes from theCamden market, funny novelty lighters, retro rave flyerspreserved in glassine envelopes.He was about to overturn his ugly little pressboard coffee tablewhen he realized that there was something on it.A small, leather-worked box with a simple brass catch. Inside,the axe-head. Two hundred thousand years old. Heavy with theweight of the ages. He hefted it in his hand. It felt ancient andlethal. He dropped it into his jacket pocket, instantly deformingthe jacket into a stroke-y left-hanging slant. He kicked thecoffee table over.Time to go see Fede. 27.I have wished for a comm a hundred thousand times an hoursince they stuck me in this shithole, and now that I have one, Idon’t know who to call. Not smart.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 7-07-eastern-standard-tribe-del-7
# chapter_title: 07_eastern-standard-tribe-del-7
# book_page: 158 / 169
# chapter_page: 12
# language: en
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You’d think they could cope withone little problem without crawling up my cock, wouldn’tyou?”“Sir, please, calm down.” The Customs man looked alarmedand Art realized that he’d begun to pace.“Sorry, sorry. It just sucks. Bad job. Time to quit, I think.”“I should think so,” the Customs man said. “Welcome toEngland.”Traffic was early-morning light and the cabbie drove like amadman. Art kept flinching away from the oncoming traffic,already unaccustomed to driving on the wrong side of the road.England seemed filthy and gray and shabby to him now, tinylittle cars with tiny, anal-retentive drivers filled with self-loathing, vegetarian meat-substitutes and bad dentistry. In hisrooms in Camden Town, Art took a hasty and vengeful censusof his stupid belongings, sagging rental furniture and bad artprints hanging askew (not any more, not after he smashed them
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 119 to the floor). Bad English clothes (toss ’em onto the floor,looking for one thing he’d be caught dead wearing in NYC,and guess what, not a single thing). Stupid keepsakes from theCamden market, funny novelty lighters, retro rave flyerspreserved in glassine envelopes.He was about to overturn his ugly little pressboard coffee tablewhen he realized that there was something on it.A small, leather-worked box with a simple brass catch. Inside,the axe-head. Two hundred thousand years old. Heavy with theweight of the ages. He hefted it in his hand. It felt ancient andlethal. He dropped it into his jacket pocket, instantly deformingthe jacket into a stroke-y left-hanging slant. He kicked thecoffee table over.Time to go see Fede. 27.I have wished for a comm a hundred thousand times an hoursince they stuck me in this shithole, and now that I have one, Idon’t know who to call. Not smart.Not happy.I run my fingers over the keypad, think about all the stupid,terrible decisions that I made on the way to this place in mylife. I feel like I could burst into tears, like I could tear the hairout of my head, like I could pound my fists bloody on the floor.My fingers, splayed over the keypad, tap out the old nervousrhythms of the phone numbers I’ve know all my life, my firsthouse, my Mom’s comm, Gran’s place.Gran. I tap out her number and hit the commit button. I put thephone to my head.“Gran?”“Arthur?”“Oh, Gran!”“Arthur, I’m so worried about you. I spoke to your cousinsyesterday, they tell me you’re not doing so good there.”“No, no I’m not.” The stitches in my jaw throb in counterpointwith my back.
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 120 “I tried to explain it all to Father Ferlenghetti, but I didn’t havethe details right. He said it didn’t make any sense.”“It doesn’t. They don’t care. They’ve just put me here.”“He said that they should have let you put your own experts upwhen you had your hearing.”“Well, of course they should have.”“No, he said that they had to, that it was the law inMassachusetts. He used to live there, you know.”“I didn’t know.”“Oh yes, he had a congregation in Newton. That was before hemoved to Toronto. He seemed very sure of it.”“Why was he living in Newton?”“Oh, he moved there after university. He’s a Harvard man, youknow.”“I think you’ve got that wrong. Harvard doesn’t have a divinityschool.”“No, this was after divinity school. He was doing a psychiatrydegree at Harvard.”Oh, my. “Oh, my.”“What is it, Arthur?”“Do you have Father Ferlenghetti’s number, Gran?”
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 7-07-eastern-standard-tribe-del-7
# chapter_title: 07_eastern-standard-tribe-del-7
# book_page: 159 / 169
# chapter_page: 13
# language: en
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Not happy.I run my fingers over the keypad, think about all the stupid,terrible decisions that I made on the way to this place in mylife. I feel like I could burst into tears, like I could tear the hairout of my head, like I could pound my fists bloody on the floor.My fingers, splayed over the keypad, tap out the old nervousrhythms of the phone numbers I’ve know all my life, my firsthouse, my Mom’s comm, Gran’s place.Gran. I tap out her number and hit the commit button. I put thephone to my head.“Gran?”“Arthur?”“Oh, Gran!”“Arthur, I’m so worried about you. I spoke to your cousinsyesterday, they tell me you’re not doing so good there.”“No, no I’m not.” The stitches in my jaw throb in counterpointwith my back.
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 120 “I tried to explain it all to Father Ferlenghetti, but I didn’t havethe details right. He said it didn’t make any sense.”“It doesn’t. They don’t care. They’ve just put me here.”“He said that they should have let you put your own experts upwhen you had your hearing.”“Well, of course they should have.”“No, he said that they had to, that it was the law inMassachusetts. He used to live there, you know.”“I didn’t know.”“Oh yes, he had a congregation in Newton. That was before hemoved to Toronto. He seemed very sure of it.”“Why was he living in Newton?”“Oh, he moved there after university. He’s a Harvard man, youknow.”“I think you’ve got that wrong. Harvard doesn’t have a divinityschool.”“No, this was after divinity school. He was doing a psychiatrydegree at Harvard.”Oh, my. “Oh, my.”“What is it, Arthur?”“Do you have Father Ferlenghetti’s number, Gran?”Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 121 28.Tonaishah’s Kubrick-figure facepaint distorted into wildgrimaces when Art banged into O’Malley House, raccoon-eyedwith sleepdep, airline crud crusted at the corners of his lips,whole person quivering with righteous smitefulness. Hecommed the door savagely and yanked it so hard that the gas-lift snapped with a popping sound like a metal ruler beingwhacked on a desk. The door caromed back into his heel andnearly sent him sprawling, but he converted its momentum intoa jog through the halls to his miniature office—the last threetimes he’d spoken to Fede, the bastard had been working out ofhis office—stealing his papers, no doubt, though that hadn’toccurred to Art until his plane was somewhere over Ireland.Fede was halfway out of Art’s chair when Art bounded into theoffice. Fede’s face was gratifyingly pale, his eyes thoroughlywide and scared.
Art didn’t bother to slow down, just slammedinto Fede, bashing foreheads with him. Art smelled a puff ofhis own travel sweat and Fede’s spicy Lilac Vegetal, saw bloodwelling from Fede’s eyebrow.“Hi, pal!” he said, kicking the door shut with a crash thatresounded through the paper-thin walls.“Art! Jesus fucking Christ, what the hell is wrong with you?”Fede backed away to the far corner of the office, sending Art’schair over backwards, wheels spinning, ergonomic adjustmentknobs and rods sticking up in the air like the legs of anoverturned beetle. “TunePay, Inc.?” Art said, booting the chair into Fede’s shins.“Is that the best fucking name you could come up with? Or didToby and Linda cook it up?”Fede held his hands out, palms first. “What are you talkingabout, buddy? What’s wrong with you?”Art shook his head slowly. “Come on, Fede, it’s time to stopblowing smoke up my cock.”“I honestly have no idea—”“Bullshit!”
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 7-07-eastern-standard-tribe-del-7
# chapter_title: 07_eastern-standard-tribe-del-7
# book_page: 160 / 169
# chapter_page: 14
# language: en
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 121 28.Tonaishah’s Kubrick-figure facepaint distorted into wildgrimaces when Art banged into O’Malley House, raccoon-eyedwith sleepdep, airline crud crusted at the corners of his lips,whole person quivering with righteous smitefulness. Hecommed the door savagely and yanked it so hard that the gas-lift snapped with a popping sound like a metal ruler beingwhacked on a desk. The door caromed back into his heel andnearly sent him sprawling, but he converted its momentum intoa jog through the halls to his miniature office—the last threetimes he’d spoken to Fede, the bastard had been working out ofhis office—stealing his papers, no doubt, though that hadn’toccurred to Art until his plane was somewhere over Ireland.Fede was halfway out of Art’s chair when Art bounded into theoffice. Fede’s face was gratifyingly pale, his eyes thoroughlywide and scared.
Art didn’t bother to slow down, just slammedinto Fede, bashing foreheads with him. Art smelled a puff ofhis own travel sweat and Fede’s spicy Lilac Vegetal, saw bloodwelling from Fede’s eyebrow.“Hi, pal!” he said, kicking the door shut with a crash thatresounded through the paper-thin walls.“Art! Jesus fucking Christ, what the hell is wrong with you?”Fede backed away to the far corner of the office, sending Art’schair over backwards, wheels spinning, ergonomic adjustmentknobs and rods sticking up in the air like the legs of anoverturned beetle. “TunePay, Inc.?” Art said, booting the chair into Fede’s shins.“Is that the best fucking name you could come up with? Or didToby and Linda cook it up?”Fede held his hands out, palms first. “What are you talkingabout, buddy? What’s wrong with you?”Art shook his head slowly. “Come on, Fede, it’s time to stopblowing smoke up my cock.”“I honestly have no idea—”“Bullshit!”Art bellowed, closing up with Fede, getting closeenough to see the flecks of spittle flying off his lips spatterFede’s face. “I’ve had enough bullshit, Fede!”Abruptly, Fede lurched forward, sweeping Art’s feet out fromunderneath him and landing on Art’s chest seconds after Artslammed to the scratched and splintered hardwood floor. Hepinned Art’s arms under his knees, then leaned forward andcrushed Art’s windpipe with his forearm, bearing down.“You dumb sack of shit,” he hissed. “We were going to cut youin, after it was done. We knew you wouldn’t go for it, but wewere still going to cut you in—you think that was your littlewhore’s idea? No, it was mine! I stuck up for you! But notanymore, you hear? Not anymore. You’re through. Jesus, Igave you this fucking job! I set up the deal in Cali. Fuck-offheaps of money! I’m through with you, now. You’re done.
I’mratting you out to V/DT, and I’m flying to California tonight.Enjoy your deportation hearing, you dumb Canuck boy-scout.”
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 122 Art’s vision had contracted to a fuzzy black vignette withFede’s florid face in the center of it. He gasped convulsively,fighting for air. He felt his bladder go, and hot urine streamdown his groin and over his thighs.An instant later, Fede sprang back from him, face twisted indisgust, hands brushing at his urine-stained pants. “Damn it,”he said, as Art rolled onto his side and retched. Art got up onall fours, then lurched erect. As he did, the axe head in hispocket swung wildly and knocked against the glass pane besidehis office’s door, spiderwebbing it with cracks.Moving with dreamlike slowness, Art reached into his pocket,clasped the axe head, turned it in his hand so that the edge waspointing outwards. He lifted it out of his pocket and held hishand behind his back.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 7-07-eastern-standard-tribe-del-7
# chapter_title: 07_eastern-standard-tribe-del-7
# book_page: 161 / 169
# chapter_page: 15
# language: en
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Art bellowed, closing up with Fede, getting closeenough to see the flecks of spittle flying off his lips spatterFede’s face. “I’ve had enough bullshit, Fede!”Abruptly, Fede lurched forward, sweeping Art’s feet out fromunderneath him and landing on Art’s chest seconds after Artslammed to the scratched and splintered hardwood floor. Hepinned Art’s arms under his knees, then leaned forward andcrushed Art’s windpipe with his forearm, bearing down.“You dumb sack of shit,” he hissed. “We were going to cut youin, after it was done. We knew you wouldn’t go for it, but wewere still going to cut you in—you think that was your littlewhore’s idea? No, it was mine! I stuck up for you! But notanymore, you hear? Not anymore. You’re through. Jesus, Igave you this fucking job! I set up the deal in Cali. Fuck-offheaps of money! I’m through with you, now. You’re done.
I’mratting you out to V/DT, and I’m flying to California tonight.Enjoy your deportation hearing, you dumb Canuck boy-scout.”
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 122 Art’s vision had contracted to a fuzzy black vignette withFede’s florid face in the center of it. He gasped convulsively,fighting for air. He felt his bladder go, and hot urine streamdown his groin and over his thighs.An instant later, Fede sprang back from him, face twisted indisgust, hands brushing at his urine-stained pants. “Damn it,”he said, as Art rolled onto his side and retched. Art got up onall fours, then lurched erect. As he did, the axe head in hispocket swung wildly and knocked against the glass pane besidehis office’s door, spiderwebbing it with cracks.Moving with dreamlike slowness, Art reached into his pocket,clasped the axe head, turned it in his hand so that the edge waspointing outwards. He lifted it out of his pocket and held hishand behind his back.He staggered to Fede, who was glaringat him, daring him to do something, his chest heaving.Art windmilled his arm over his head and brought the axe headdown solidly on Fede’s head. It hit with an impact that jarredhis arm to the shoulder, and he dropped the axe head to thefloor, where it fell with a thud, crusted with blood and hair forthe first time in 200,000 years.Fede crumpled back into the office’s wall, slid down it into asitting position. His eyes were open and staring. Bloodstreamed over his face.Art looked at Fede in horrified fascination. He noticed thatFede was breathing shallowly, almost panting, and realized dimly that this meant he wasn’t a murderer. He turned and fledthe office, nearly bowling Tonaishah over in the corridor.“Call an ambulance,” he said, then shoved her aside and fledO’Malley House and disappeared into the Piccadilly lunchtimecrowd.
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 123 29.I am: sprung.Father Ferlenghetti hasn’t been licensed to practice psychiatryin Massachusetts for forty years, but the court gave himstanding. The judge actually winked at me when he took thestand, and stopped scritching on her comm as the priest said alot of fantastically embarrassing things about my generalfitness for human consumption.The sanitarium sent a single junior doc to my hearing, a kid soyoung I’d mistaken him for a hospital driver when he climbedinto the van with me and gunned the engine. But no, he was adoctor who’d apparently been briefed on my case, though notvery well.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 7-07-eastern-standard-tribe-del-7
# chapter_title: 07_eastern-standard-tribe-del-7
# book_page: 162 / 169
# chapter_page: 16
# language: en
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He staggered to Fede, who was glaringat him, daring him to do something, his chest heaving.Art windmilled his arm over his head and brought the axe headdown solidly on Fede’s head. It hit with an impact that jarredhis arm to the shoulder, and he dropped the axe head to thefloor, where it fell with a thud, crusted with blood and hair forthe first time in 200,000 years.Fede crumpled back into the office’s wall, slid down it into asitting position. His eyes were open and staring. Bloodstreamed over his face.Art looked at Fede in horrified fascination. He noticed thatFede was breathing shallowly, almost panting, and realized dimly that this meant he wasn’t a murderer. He turned and fledthe office, nearly bowling Tonaishah over in the corridor.“Call an ambulance,” he said, then shoved her aside and fledO’Malley House and disappeared into the Piccadilly lunchtimecrowd.
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 123 29.I am: sprung.Father Ferlenghetti hasn’t been licensed to practice psychiatryin Massachusetts for forty years, but the court gave himstanding. The judge actually winked at me when he took thestand, and stopped scritching on her comm as the priest said alot of fantastically embarrassing things about my generalfitness for human consumption.The sanitarium sent a single junior doc to my hearing, a kid soyoung I’d mistaken him for a hospital driver when he climbedinto the van with me and gunned the engine. But no, he was adoctor who’d apparently been briefed on my case, though notvery well.When the judge asked him if he had any opinions onFather Ferlenghetti’s testimony, he fumbled with his commwhile the Father stared at him through eyebrows thick enoughto hide a hamster in, then finally stammered a few verbatimnotes from my intake interview, blushed, and sat down.“Thank you,” the judge said, shaking her head as she said it.Gran, seated beside me, put one hand on my knee and one handon the knee of Doc Szandor’s brother-in-law, a hotshotHarvard Law post-doc whom we’d retained as corporatecounsel for a new Limited Liability Corporation. We’d signedthe articles of incorporation the day before, after Group. It wasthe last thing Doc Szandor did before resigning his post at thesanitarium to take up the position of Chief Medical Officer atHumanCare, LLC, a corporation with no assets, no employees, and a sheaf of shitkicking ideas for redesigning mentalhospitals using off-the-shelf tech and a little bit of UE mojo.
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 124 30.Art was most of the way to the Tube when he ran into Lester.Literally.Lester must have seen him coming, because he stepped rightinto Art’s path from out of the crowd. Art ploughed into him,bounced off of his dented armor, and would have fallen overhad Lester not caught his arm and steadied him.“Art, isn’t it? How you doin’, mate?”Art gaped at him. He was thinner than he’d been when he triedto shake Art and Linda down in the doorway of the Boots,grimier and more desperate. His tone was just as bemused asever, though. “Jesus Christ, Lester, not now, I’m in a hurry.You’ll have to rob me later, all right?”Lester chuckled wryly. “Still a clever bastard. You look likeyou’re having some hard times, my old son. Maybe that you’renot even worth robbing, eh?”“Right. I’m skint. Sorry. Nice running into you, now I must begoing.”
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 7-07-eastern-standard-tribe-del-7
# chapter_title: 07_eastern-standard-tribe-del-7
# book_page: 163 / 169
# chapter_page: 17
# language: en
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When the judge asked him if he had any opinions onFather Ferlenghetti’s testimony, he fumbled with his commwhile the Father stared at him through eyebrows thick enoughto hide a hamster in, then finally stammered a few verbatimnotes from my intake interview, blushed, and sat down.“Thank you,” the judge said, shaking her head as she said it.Gran, seated beside me, put one hand on my knee and one handon the knee of Doc Szandor’s brother-in-law, a hotshotHarvard Law post-doc whom we’d retained as corporatecounsel for a new Limited Liability Corporation. We’d signedthe articles of incorporation the day before, after Group. It wasthe last thing Doc Szandor did before resigning his post at thesanitarium to take up the position of Chief Medical Officer atHumanCare, LLC, a corporation with no assets, no employees, and a sheaf of shitkicking ideas for redesigning mentalhospitals using off-the-shelf tech and a little bit of UE mojo.
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 124 30.Art was most of the way to the Tube when he ran into Lester.Literally.Lester must have seen him coming, because he stepped rightinto Art’s path from out of the crowd. Art ploughed into him,bounced off of his dented armor, and would have fallen overhad Lester not caught his arm and steadied him.“Art, isn’t it? How you doin’, mate?”Art gaped at him. He was thinner than he’d been when he triedto shake Art and Linda down in the doorway of the Boots,grimier and more desperate. His tone was just as bemused asever, though. “Jesus Christ, Lester, not now, I’m in a hurry.You’ll have to rob me later, all right?”Lester chuckled wryly. “Still a clever bastard. You look likeyou’re having some hard times, my old son. Maybe that you’renot even worth robbing, eh?”“Right. I’m skint. Sorry. Nice running into you, now I must begoing.”He tried to pull away, but Lester’s fingers dug into hisbiceps, emphatically, painfully.“Hear you ran into Tom, led him a merry chase. You know, Ispent a whole week in the nick on account of you.” Art jerked his arm again, without effect. “You tried to rob me,Les. You knew the job was dangerous when you took it, allright? Now let me go—I’ve got a train to catch.”“Holidays? How sweet. Thought you were broke, though?”A motorized scooter pulled up in the kerb lane beside them. Itwas piloted by a smart young policewoman with a silly foamhelmet and outsized pads on her knees and elbows. She lookedlike the kid with the safety-obsessed mom who inflictscriminally dorky fashions on her daughter, making her theneighborhood laughingstock.“Everything all right, gentlemen?”Lester’s eyes closed, and he sighed a put-upon sigh that washalfway to a groan.“Oh, yes, officer,” Art said.
“Peter and I were just makingsome plans to see our auntie for supper tonight.”Lester opened his eyes, then the corners of his mouthincremented upwards. “Yeah,” he said. “‘Sright. CousinAlphonse is here all the way from Canada and Auntie’s mad tocook him a proper English meal.”The policewoman sized them up, then shook her head. “Sir,begging your pardon, but I must tell you that we have clubs inLondon where a gentleman such as yourself can find a youngcompanion, legally. We thoroughly discourage making such
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 7-07-eastern-standard-tribe-del-7
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# language: en
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He tried to pull away, but Lester’s fingers dug into hisbiceps, emphatically, painfully.“Hear you ran into Tom, led him a merry chase. You know, Ispent a whole week in the nick on account of you.” Art jerked his arm again, without effect. “You tried to rob me,Les. You knew the job was dangerous when you took it, allright? Now let me go—I’ve got a train to catch.”“Holidays? How sweet. Thought you were broke, though?”A motorized scooter pulled up in the kerb lane beside them. Itwas piloted by a smart young policewoman with a silly foamhelmet and outsized pads on her knees and elbows. She lookedlike the kid with the safety-obsessed mom who inflictscriminally dorky fashions on her daughter, making her theneighborhood laughingstock.“Everything all right, gentlemen?”Lester’s eyes closed, and he sighed a put-upon sigh that washalfway to a groan.“Oh, yes, officer,” Art said.
“Peter and I were just makingsome plans to see our auntie for supper tonight.”Lester opened his eyes, then the corners of his mouthincremented upwards. “Yeah,” he said. “‘Sright. CousinAlphonse is here all the way from Canada and Auntie’s mad tocook him a proper English meal.”The policewoman sized them up, then shook her head. “Sir,begging your pardon, but I must tell you that we have clubs inLondon where a gentleman such as yourself can find a youngcompanion, legally. We thoroughly discourage making suchCory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 125 arrangements on the High Street. Just a word to the wise, allright?”Art blushed to his eartips. “Thank you, Officer,” he said with aweak smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”The constable gave Lester a hard look, then revved her scooterand pulled into traffic, her arm slicing the air in a sharp turnsignal.“Well,” Lester said, once she was on the roundabout,“Alphonse, seems like you’ve got reason to avoid the law, too.”“Can’t we just call it even? I did you a favor with the law, youleave me be?”“Oh, I don’t know. P’raps I should put in a call to our friendPC McGivens. He already thinks you’re a dreadful tosser—ifyou’ve reason to avoid the law, McGivens’d be bad newsindeed. And the police pay very well for the right information.I’m a little financially embarrassed, me, just at this moment.”“All right,” Art said. “Fine.
How about this: I will pay you 800Euros, which I will withdraw from an InstaBank once I’ve gotmy ticket for the Chunnel train to Calais in hand and am readyto get onto the platform. I’ve got all of fifteen quid in mypocket right now. Take my wallet and you’ll have cabfarehome. Accompany me to the train and you’ll get a month’srent, which is more than the police’ll give you.” “Oh, you’re a villain, you are. What is it that the police willwant to talk to you about, then? I wouldn’t want to be aidingand abetting a real criminal—could mean trouble.”“I beat the piss out of my coworker, Lester. Now, can we go?There’s a plane in Paris I’m hoping to catch.”
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 126 31.I have a brand-new translucent Sony Veddic, a series 12. Ibought it on credit—not mine, mine’s sunk; six months ofliving on plastic and kiting balance-payments with new cardswhile getting the patents filed on the eight new gizmos thatconstitute HumanCare’s sole asset has blackened my goodname with the credit bureaus.I bought it with the company credit card. The company creditcard. Our local Baby Amex rep dropped it off himself afterDoc Szandor faxed over the signed contract from the Bureau ofHealth. Half a million bucks for a proof-of-concept install atthe very same Route 128 nuthatch where I’d been “treated.”
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 7-07-eastern-standard-tribe-del-7
# chapter_title: 07_eastern-standard-tribe-del-7
# book_page: 165 / 169
# chapter_page: 19
# language: en
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 125 arrangements on the High Street. Just a word to the wise, allright?”Art blushed to his eartips. “Thank you, Officer,” he said with aweak smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”The constable gave Lester a hard look, then revved her scooterand pulled into traffic, her arm slicing the air in a sharp turnsignal.“Well,” Lester said, once she was on the roundabout,“Alphonse, seems like you’ve got reason to avoid the law, too.”“Can’t we just call it even? I did you a favor with the law, youleave me be?”“Oh, I don’t know. P’raps I should put in a call to our friendPC McGivens. He already thinks you’re a dreadful tosser—ifyou’ve reason to avoid the law, McGivens’d be bad newsindeed. And the police pay very well for the right information.I’m a little financially embarrassed, me, just at this moment.”“All right,” Art said. “Fine.
How about this: I will pay you 800Euros, which I will withdraw from an InstaBank once I’ve gotmy ticket for the Chunnel train to Calais in hand and am readyto get onto the platform. I’ve got all of fifteen quid in mypocket right now. Take my wallet and you’ll have cabfarehome. Accompany me to the train and you’ll get a month’srent, which is more than the police’ll give you.” “Oh, you’re a villain, you are. What is it that the police willwant to talk to you about, then? I wouldn’t want to be aidingand abetting a real criminal—could mean trouble.”“I beat the piss out of my coworker, Lester. Now, can we go?There’s a plane in Paris I’m hoping to catch.”
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 126 31.I have a brand-new translucent Sony Veddic, a series 12. Ibought it on credit—not mine, mine’s sunk; six months ofliving on plastic and kiting balance-payments with new cardswhile getting the patents filed on the eight new gizmos thatconstitute HumanCare’s sole asset has blackened my goodname with the credit bureaus.I bought it with the company credit card. The company creditcard. Our local Baby Amex rep dropped it off himself afterDoc Szandor faxed over the signed contract from the Bureau ofHealth. Half a million bucks for a proof-of-concept install atthe very same Route 128 nuthatch where I’d been “treated.”Ifthat works, we’ll be rolling out a dozen more installs over thenext year: smart doors, public drug-prescription stats, locatorbracelets that let “clients”—I’ve been learning the nuthousejargon, and have forcibly removed “patient” from myvocabulary—discover other clients with similar treatmentregimens on the ward, bells and whistles galore.I am cruising the MassPike with HumanCare’s first-everemployee, who is, in turn, holding onto HumanCare’s first-everpaycheck. Caitlin’s husband has been very patient over the pastsix months as she worked days fixing the ailing machinery atthe sanitarium and nights prototyping my designs. He’s beenlikewise patient with my presence on his sagging living-roomsofa, where I’ve had my nightly ten-hour repose faithfullysince my release. Caitlin and I have actually seen precious littleof each other considering that I’ve been living under her roof.
(Doc Szandor’s Cambridge apartment is hardly bigger than myroom at the hospital, and between his snoring and the hardfloor, I didn’t even last a whole night there.) We’vecommunicated mostly by notes commed to her fridge andprototypes left atop my suitcase of day-clothes and sharp-edgedtoiletries at the foot of my makeshift bed when she staggered infrom her workbench while I snored away the nights. Come tothink of it, I haven’t really seen much of Doc Szandor,either—he’s been holed up in his rooms, chatting away on theEST channels.I am well rested. I am happy. My back is loose and my Chi isflowing. I am driving my few belongings to a lovely two-bedroom—one to sleep in, one to work in—flat overlookingHarvard Square, where the pretty co-eds and their shaggyboyfriends tease one another in the technical argot of a dozenabstruse disciplines.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 7-07-eastern-standard-tribe-del-7
# chapter_title: 07_eastern-standard-tribe-del-7
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# language: en
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Ifthat works, we’ll be rolling out a dozen more installs over thenext year: smart doors, public drug-prescription stats, locatorbracelets that let “clients”—I’ve been learning the nuthousejargon, and have forcibly removed “patient” from myvocabulary—discover other clients with similar treatmentregimens on the ward, bells and whistles galore.I am cruising the MassPike with HumanCare’s first-everemployee, who is, in turn, holding onto HumanCare’s first-everpaycheck. Caitlin’s husband has been very patient over the pastsix months as she worked days fixing the ailing machinery atthe sanitarium and nights prototyping my designs. He’s beenlikewise patient with my presence on his sagging living-roomsofa, where I’ve had my nightly ten-hour repose faithfullysince my release. Caitlin and I have actually seen precious littleof each other considering that I’ve been living under her roof.
(Doc Szandor’s Cambridge apartment is hardly bigger than myroom at the hospital, and between his snoring and the hardfloor, I didn’t even last a whole night there.) We’vecommunicated mostly by notes commed to her fridge andprototypes left atop my suitcase of day-clothes and sharp-edgedtoiletries at the foot of my makeshift bed when she staggered infrom her workbench while I snored away the nights. Come tothink of it, I haven’t really seen much of Doc Szandor,either—he’s been holed up in his rooms, chatting away on theEST channels.I am well rested. I am happy. My back is loose and my Chi isflowing. I am driving my few belongings to a lovely two-bedroom—one to sleep in, one to work in—flat overlookingHarvard Square, where the pretty co-eds and their shaggyboyfriends tease one another in the technical argot of a dozenabstruse disciplines.I’m looking forward to picking up a basicphysics, law, medicine and business vocabulary just by sittingin my window with my comm, tapping away at new designs.We drive up to a toll plaza and I crank the yielding, human-centric steering wheel toward the EZPass lane. The dealerinstalled the transponder and gave me a brochure explainingthe Sony Family’s approach to maximum driving convenience.But as I approach the toll gate, it stays steadfastly down.The Veddic’s HUD flashes an instruction to pull over to thebooth. A bored attendant leans out of the toll booth and squirtshis comm at me, and the HUD comes to life with an animatedcommercial for the new, improved TunePay service, now underdirect MassPike management.
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 127 The TunePay scandal’s been hot news for weeks now. Bribery,corruption, patent disputes—I’d been gratified to discover thatmy name had been removed from the patent applications,sparing me the nightly hounding Fede and Linda and herfucking ex had been subjected to on my comm as the legal nettightened around them.I end up laughing so hard that Caitlin gets out of the car andwalks around to my side, opens the door, and pulls me bodilyto the passenger side. She serenely ignores the blaring of thehorns from the aggravated, psychotic Boston drivers stacked upbehind us, walks back to the driver’s side and takes the wheel.“Thanks,” I tell her, and lay a hand on her pudgy, freckled arm.“You belong in a loony bin, you know that?” she says,punching me in the thigh harder than is strictly necessary.“Oh, I know,” I say, and dial up some music on the car stereo.
# book_id: global-pdf-0394b2458fa4443ab97cd252edb16e9a
# book_title: Eastern Standard Tribe
# chapter_id: 7-07-eastern-standard-tribe-del-7
# chapter_title: 07_eastern-standard-tribe-del-7
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# chapter_page: 21
# language: en
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I’m looking forward to picking up a basicphysics, law, medicine and business vocabulary just by sittingin my window with my comm, tapping away at new designs.We drive up to a toll plaza and I crank the yielding, human-centric steering wheel toward the EZPass lane. The dealerinstalled the transponder and gave me a brochure explainingthe Sony Family’s approach to maximum driving convenience.But as I approach the toll gate, it stays steadfastly down.The Veddic’s HUD flashes an instruction to pull over to thebooth. A bored attendant leans out of the toll booth and squirtshis comm at me, and the HUD comes to life with an animatedcommercial for the new, improved TunePay service, now underdirect MassPike management.
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 127 The TunePay scandal’s been hot news for weeks now. Bribery,corruption, patent disputes—I’d been gratified to discover thatmy name had been removed from the patent applications,sparing me the nightly hounding Fede and Linda and herfucking ex had been subjected to on my comm as the legal nettightened around them.I end up laughing so hard that Caitlin gets out of the car andwalks around to my side, opens the door, and pulls me bodilyto the passenger side. She serenely ignores the blaring of thehorns from the aggravated, psychotic Boston drivers stacked upbehind us, walks back to the driver’s side and takes the wheel.“Thanks,” I tell her, and lay a hand on her pudgy, freckled arm.“You belong in a loony bin, you know that?” she says,punching me in the thigh harder than is strictly necessary.“Oh, I know,” I say, and dial up some music on the car stereo.AcknowledgementsThis novel was workshopped by the Cecil Street Irregulars, theNovelettes and the Gibraltar Point gang, and received excellentfeedback from the first readers on the est-preview list(especially Pat York). Likewise, I’m indebted to all the peoplewho read and commented on this book along the way.Thanks go to my editor, Patrick Nielsen Hayden, for readingthis so quickly—minutes after I finished it! Likewise to myagent, Don Maass, thank you.Thanks to Irene Gallo and Shelley Eshkar for knocking two outof the park with their cover-designs for my books.Thanks to my co-editors at Boing Boing and all thecollaborators I’ve written with, who’ve made me a betterwriter.Thanks, I suppose, to the villains in my life, who inspired meto write this book rather than do something ugly that I’d regret.Thanks to Paul Boutin for commissioning the Wired article ofthe same name.Thanks to the readers and bloggers and Tribespeople whocared enough to check out my first book and liked it enough tocheck out this one.
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 128 Thanks to Creative Commons for the licenses that give me thefreedom to say “Some Rights Reserved.”BioCory Doctorow [ doctorow@craphound.com ] is the author ofDown and Out in the Magic Kingdom[http://craphound.com/down ], A Place So Foreign and EightMore [http://craphound.com/place ], and The Complete Idiot’sGuide to Publishing Science Fiction[http://craphound.com/nonfic/cigpsf.html ] (with KarlSchroeder). He was raised in Toronto and lives in SanFrancisco, where he works for the Electronic FrontierFoundation [http://www.eff.org/ ], a civil liberties group. He’sa journalist, editorialist and blogger. Boing Boing[http://boingboing.net/] , the weblog he co-edits, is the mostlinked-to blog on the Net, according to Technorati[http://technorati.com/ ]. He won the John W. Campbell Awardfor Best New Writer at the 2000 Hugos. You can download thisbook for free from craphound.com/est.
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AcknowledgementsThis novel was workshopped by the Cecil Street Irregulars, theNovelettes and the Gibraltar Point gang, and received excellentfeedback from the first readers on the est-preview list(especially Pat York). Likewise, I’m indebted to all the peoplewho read and commented on this book along the way.Thanks go to my editor, Patrick Nielsen Hayden, for readingthis so quickly—minutes after I finished it! Likewise to myagent, Don Maass, thank you.Thanks to Irene Gallo and Shelley Eshkar for knocking two outof the park with their cover-designs for my books.Thanks to my co-editors at Boing Boing and all thecollaborators I’ve written with, who’ve made me a betterwriter.Thanks, I suppose, to the villains in my life, who inspired meto write this book rather than do something ugly that I’d regret.Thanks to Paul Boutin for commissioning the Wired article ofthe same name.Thanks to the readers and bloggers and Tribespeople whocared enough to check out my first book and liked it enough tocheck out this one.
Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 128 Thanks to Creative Commons for the licenses that give me thefreedom to say “Some Rights Reserved.”BioCory Doctorow [ doctorow@craphound.com ] is the author ofDown and Out in the Magic Kingdom[http://craphound.com/down ], A Place So Foreign and EightMore [http://craphound.com/place ], and The Complete Idiot’sGuide to Publishing Science Fiction[http://craphound.com/nonfic/cigpsf.html ] (with KarlSchroeder). He was raised in Toronto and lives in SanFrancisco, where he works for the Electronic FrontierFoundation [http://www.eff.org/ ], a civil liberties group. He’sa journalist, editorialist and blogger. Boing Boing[http://boingboing.net/] , the weblog he co-edits, is the mostlinked-to blog on the Net, according to Technorati[http://technorati.com/ ]. He won the John W. Campbell Awardfor Best New Writer at the 2000 Hugos. You can download thisbook for free from craphound.com/est.Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 129 Machine-readable metadata:<rdf:RDF xmlns="http://web.resource.org/cc/" xmlns:dc="http://purl.org/dc/elements/1.1/" xmlns:rdf="http://www.w3.org/1999/02/22-rdf-syntax-ns#"><Work rdf:about="http://craphound.com/est"> <dc:title>Eastern Standard Tribe</dc:title> <dc:date>2004-2-9</dc:date> <dc:description>A novel by Cory Doctorow</dc:description> <dc:creator><Agent> <dc:title>Cory Doctorow</dc:title> </Agent></dc:creator> <dc:rights><Agent> <dc:title>Cory Doctorow</dc:title> </Agent></dc:rights> <dc:type rdf:resource="http://purl.org/dc/dcmitype/Text" /><license rdf:resource="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd-nc/1.0"/></Work><License rdf:about="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd-nc/1.0"> <requires rdf:resource="http://web.resource.org/cc/Attribution" /> <permits rdf:resource="http://web.resource.org/cc/Reproduction" /> <permits rdf:resource="http://web.resource.org/cc/Distribution" /> <prohibits rdf:resource="http://web.resource.org/cc/CommercialUse" /> <requires rdf:resource="http://web.resource.org/cc/Notice" /></License></rdf:RDF> eof
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Cory DoctorowEastern Standard Tribe 129 Machine-readable metadata:<rdf:RDF xmlns="http://web.resource.org/cc/" xmlns:dc="http://purl.org/dc/elements/1.1/" xmlns:rdf="http://www.w3.org/1999/02/22-rdf-syntax-ns#"><Work rdf:about="http://craphound.com/est"> <dc:title>Eastern Standard Tribe</dc:title> <dc:date>2004-2-9</dc:date> <dc:description>A novel by Cory Doctorow</dc:description> <dc:creator><Agent> <dc:title>Cory Doctorow</dc:title> </Agent></dc:creator> <dc:rights><Agent> <dc:title>Cory Doctorow</dc:title> </Agent></dc:rights> <dc:type rdf:resource="http://purl.org/dc/dcmitype/Text" /><license rdf:resource="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd-nc/1.0"/></Work><License rdf:about="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd-nc/1.0"> <requires rdf:resource="http://web.resource.org/cc/Attribution" /> <permits rdf:resource="http://web.resource.org/cc/Reproduction" /> <permits rdf:resource="http://web.resource.org/cc/Distribution" /> <prohibits rdf:resource="http://web.resource.org/cc/CommercialUse" /> <requires rdf:resource="http://web.resource.org/cc/Notice" /></License></rdf:RDF> eof
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