Mama Brain

Pennybags screeched through the slums, nearly uprooting a fire hydrant on the corner of Baltic and Mediterranean. While the neighborhood showed no more true signs of life than a Monopoly board, its otherwise perfectly-shaped green houses showed the marks of crayons and cats' teeth.

Then just as the streets were straightening, static abruptly took over the radio broadcast. And then the air was suddenly filled with an announcer’s voice speaking Commie. (“Jane... Jane... Jane...,” it uttered sotto voce.) —Pennybags’ moustache turned brown with fright. “Is this your devilry, young man? I’ll have you know we don’t tolerate subversion!”—“I don’t understand any more than you!”

Then came music from Moscow, followed by English and French speech. (“The recording was made at the Moscow Theatre of Musical Miniatures.”) Pennybags punched the radio’s facade in frustration, nearly running over a metal dog in his distraction.

At this the radio broadcast abandoned all pretensions of coming from the radio, and suffocated the air. “YOUR ATTENTION PLEASE. AT THE RECOMMENDATION OF THE INTERNATIONAL
TIME BUREAU, COMMENCING AT TWENTY-THREE HOURS, FIFTY-NINE MINUTES, SIXTY SECONDS UTC, AN EXTRA SECOND WILL BE INSERTED INTO THE NBS TIME SCALE. THIS ADJUSTMENT IS REQUIRED TO MAINTAIN INTERNATIONALLY COORDINATED UNIVERSAL TIME AS BROADCAST FROM THESE STATIONS, IN CLOSE AGREEMENT WITH UT1, OR ASTRONOMICAL TIME.”

Pennybags was shaking. —“Thank Providence that we’ve reached The Store!” he shouted, gesturing with a pale finger at a boutique by the roadside, which looked like a drawing in bold simple colors and 3-D lines thick as the outlines of Superman’s thighs. He slammed on the brakes and exited the car, dragging Joe with him. He draw in his breath and screeched, straining to outshout the broadcast (“WA6ODB....with...a question!”):

“Do you know how many time zones there will be in the Soviet Union? Eleven. Eleven! One, two, three—one, two, three—eleven!! And, uh—do you know how many time zones there will be in the Soviet Union? And about power, do you know—we have so much power now, young man—do you know how many time zones there’ll be in the Soviet Union?!” he raved. Sensing a break, Joe answered:

“Eleven.”

“One, two three, one two three—”

“Eleven.”

Pennybags continued raving inconsequentially; suddenly curious, Joe poked him. His finger passed right through. Emboldened, though feeling a bit gross for doing so, he leaned over and smelled Pennybag’s armpit, having correctly judged that Pennybags would take no notice. He smelled nothing. A lick? No taste either.

“The Soviet Union’ll be the whole half side of the world!” Pennybags continued. Upon this statement, his features began transforming into those of a typical 80’s AM radio talk show caller.

“...Yeah?”

“They, uh, when you talk about fightin’, we’re a country that, uh, we’re a firm believer on pride, and it’s called help thy neighbor, do not kill, do not, you know, steal, cheat, lie from everybody,” the now thoroughly-redneck Pennybags continued. As this sentence drew to an end, his voice began breaking up, and so did his image.

“That's why we have to have computers, because man, nobody’s perfect. You know.” This was the last Joe heard or saw of Pennybags—for the moment—before his whole bi-sensual being faded into static.

Joe—who still less jaded than one might expect, old chap—gawked for long minutes.

He was only broken out of it by the arrival of Mama Brain. Her afro told more in a glance than Pennybags had said of consequence in the last hour.

 “Follow quickly, brother! We can’t jam Pennybags forever.”