NEAL STEPHENSON

73

Men. “You know, give me a hand. You’re my boyfriend,” she says, speaking very simply and plainly. “If I get popped, you’re supposed to come around and help bust me out.” Isn’t everyone supposed to know this stuff? Don’t parents teach their kids anything anymore?

“Well, uh, where are you?”

“Buy ‘n’ Fly number 501,762.”

“I’m on my way to Bernie with a super-ultra.”

As in San Bernardino. Asin super-ultra-high-priority delivery. As in, you’re out of luck.

“Okay, thanks for nothing.”

“Surfing safety,” Y.T. says, in the traditional sarcastic sign off.

“Keep breathing,” Roadkill says. The roaring noise snaps off.

What a jerk. Next date, he’s really going to have to groveL But in the meantime, there’s one other person who owes her one. The only problem is that he might be a spaz. But it’s worth a try.

“Hello?” he says into his personal phone. He’s breathing hard and a couple of sirens are dueling in the background.

“Him Protagonist?”

“Yeah, who’s this?”

“Y.T. Where are you?”

“In the parking lot of a Safeway on Oahu,” he says. And he’s telling the truth; in the background she can hear the shopping carts performing their clashy, anal copulations.

“I’m kind of busy now, Whitey-but what can I do for you?”

“It’s YT., ” she says, “and you can help bust me out of The Clink.” She gives him the details.

‘SHow long ago did he put you there?”

“Ten minutes.”

“Okay, the three-ring binder for Clink franchises states that the manager is supposed to check on the detainee half an hour after admission.”

“How do you know this stuff?” she says accusingly.

“Use your imagination. As soon as the manager pulls his halfhour check, wait for another five minutes, and then make your move. I’ll try to give you a hand. Okay?”

“cot it.”

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