Volume 2: Leering Larry's Lament

Leering Larry’s Lament
Scott Thurlow

Leering Larry had established himself in the early days of the then still-forming market.  In the initial chaos of the city crumbling, and civilization generally collapsing, the need for its remaining denizens to hastily assemble a sort of haphazard collection of goods and available services that would allow the remainder of the non-Turned population to survive, and eventually stabilize, became quickly apparent.  Larry was lucky, and though he would have preferred that be his nickname instead of the one he currently went by, he had to acknowledge the fact that, all things being the same, he’d take the name with the unseen (and unspoken) luck instead of vice versa.

It wasn't that he particularly leered, or did so in an alarming manner, it was just that his face seemed perpetually set in that peculiar pose.  Larry liked to suppose it came from the years of living alone in his small, dim apartment, his only company the ancient television set that he kept working and refused to replace with any of the fancy new flat-like-a-painting ones.  He thought it was an expression of extreme concentration, formed from years of working with delicate electronic and mechanical devices, but public relations being what they were contrived to be, everyone else seemed to agree that he was leering.  So Larry accepted it, and Leering it was for him.

It was through a combination of his luck, and the conditions of his old apartment and lifestyle that he was able to survive the initial onslaught of destabilization with most of his meager worldly possessions intact and before the city was turned into a sort of fortress state.  Living alone also had the side effect that his apartment was stocked with a large supply of canned and dry goods, as Larry had never had much of a reason to go out for dining.  It was just as well to him to consume a can of beans while tinkering with whatever little project he was currently in the midst of.  Thus when the need for such provisions arose in the wake of destruction, Larry was able to obtain a quantity of other items in trade that would both allow him to continue his hobby, while keeping others fed with preserved peaches and other assortments of fruit.

The market that had become his new home was situated in roughly the center of the city proper, a few blocks from the city council’s meeting hall.  It was of particular interest to keep running smoothly and with some semblance of order, to both the residents and their provincial government.  The market was not only a hub of shelter, safety, and commerce, but found itself becoming almost a metaphor for humanity’s struggle against the Turned, the last bastion of normalcy, a symbol for its remains.  For Larry, it was the best job he had ever had, and had to admit to himself he was living, in some ways, better than before everything that happened.  In either time however, he always found himself encountering a wide variety of characters in his line of work.

He recalled the instance of the rifle he had sold to a scowling young man, who seemed almost relieved to part with his sundry bits of technology.  Larry had explained, or at least tried to (it seemed to Larry that he was more talking at this fellow than to him really) how he had meticulously managed to maintain the gun after he had recovered it from just inside a broken window of a sporting goods store.  The man seemed rather uninterested, so Larry reluctantly let the topic drop and contented himself with the trove of iPods and handheld video systems he had received for it.  Still, he couldn't help wanting to name the fellow the Scowling Scout, or some such, but he dared not actually voice this, for fear of retribution in the form of said scout deciding to test his rifle then and there on Larry himself.

With the scowling man’s trades and some other compatible spare electronic bits he had in his possession, Larry was able to manufacture a working, albeit extremely limited range radio; radios being in short supply, this was an invention that was invaluable to the population, particularly the patrols.  The local residents seemed to respect him slightly more after they had discovered his talent for such mechanisms, yet it did not dissuade them in the least from propagating his resented label of Leering.  Nevertheless Larry had arrived in the formative days of the market as it was cobbled together by some of the more enterprising residents along with the newly-formed city council’s outlines on the need for a reformed economy in the wake of collapse.

Ostensibly, the market was run on goodwill and fair trade, regulated where possible and resources could be spared.  But goodwill and fairness being traits not fully present in all survivors, there were exceptions.  Invariably there would emerge some unscrupulous providers of goods and services.  The prostitutes were the most obvious, but there were various vendors who were willing to procure other unseemly wares or services.  Larry didn't like having to work next to some such characters, and it didn't help that the girls, whom Larry never said a word to, were all convinced he was specifically leering at them.  But he supposed it was yet again another aspect of life he’d have to live within the current state of affairs for the immediate future.

Larry busied himself with finding ways to patch other patrons’ dying electronics and, once word spread to the council of his talents, he was actually asked to work piecemeal on some projects their engineers were concocting.  They only brought him sections of each work in progress at a time, as they did not wish for him or anyone else to figure out what they were building until it they were satisfied it worked, and Larry suspected, so they could retain whatever control they had over the surviving population.  Larry often tried to guess what greater item he was looking at, as a game he played with himself, but even his arcane knowledge was largely unable to unlock the mysteries of the council’s projects until it was already moot.  They must've recruited some top notch, fancy dandy engineers to their side.  Of those left who survived, Larry supposed.  He knew they had some sort of generator to supply reliable electricity to the ‘city hall’ section of town, and other places as they saw fit.  Larry was content that they allowed him the knowledge they did, and the chance to keep up his trade undisturbed.

Blinking himself out of his reverie, Larry watched more shopkeepers hurriedly arriving or waking up and making their beds in their makeshift stalls before setting out their own signs and goods.  The morning crowd crept in to peruse the usuals, and Larry quickened himself to put out the newest repaired gadgets and anything he felt was ready for a sale or trade, as he set up to take in the dealings of the awakening day.  The market promptly settled into its normal early bustle as he continued to separate out the finished, halfway-done and sorely-need work parts to all his latest tinkering projects.  He placed each bit as it fit into his own labeling process.  It was a system that had served him better than any other he had ever been forced to learn, been told about by some younger “mechanic” or seen in a commercial somewhere.  One good thing about all this, he thought, no more commercials.  The only ones left now were the handmade and painted, sometimes even living signs in the market showcasing the variety of wares and services.  Larry’s own humble stall actually boasted an elaborately well-made and decorated sign proclaiming him, Larry--Work done on all items electronic and nothing he can’t fix. Fair deals. Trades welcome.  Adorning it were trinkets and knick knacks of leftover projects, anything electronically gaudy but mechanically useless to promote his own little niche, and so that there was no confusion with less honest work.  It was a matter of pride for him, a day’s work for a fair sum.  There seemed to be more of a chance of getting that nowadays after the big mess, than in the normalcy before it, and Larry liked that.

The sign itself had been made by a friendly patron of his, a bartender named Kelly who claimed she was once an aspiring art student before the coming of the Turned.  She wanted to do it for free but Larry had his principles and insisted on a fair trade, so he fixed up her stereo, which was actually quite a soothing side project in itself.  Kelly herself proposed a pint at her bar, and Larry, finally after much prodding, reluctantly agreed to come by for a beer one night after he had closed down his stall.  So he had, but by the end of the night, regretted it.  Kelly was chatty enough throughout, but was mostly busy serving mug after mug to the Watch members muttering quietly amongst themselves, a man who looked like he might have been an accountant or failing banker in former times, and an assortment of other rough cut characters who smirked openly at him.  Larry was sure they were aware of his leering nature and reputation, and couldn’t help the feeling the entire night he was thought of as a one of those perverts, trying to subvert a younger girl, when actually he was most uncomfortable in that place.  He was massively relieved when he decided he’d had enough and politely excused himself for the night.  That was Larry’s first and last visit to Kelly’s.

He usually kept a list of items he was interested in or needed to complete certain works in progress and other ideas he had in his efforts to rebuild the small electronic comforts that were his life and livelihood now and probably forever until he rested in his grave.  He decided he didn't like the way his thoughts were going, but then again, he was probably better off than a good deal of people, even some in the city itself.  That cheered him up a little.  He was even more cheered by the fact that a prospective customer looked to be now quickly closing in on his stall to inspect his day’s array.

“Morning, sir,” Larry offered in greeting as the man came to a halt in front him.  He always tried to keep up a work-manly appearance and manner at all times when it came to possible business, even in spite of, sometimes perhaps due to the opinions that others may or not have heard and thought about him, or be forming of him upon meeting in person.

Without even a polite introduction the man began, “You. Larry.”  The way the words came out sounded less to Larry like he was being asked than told as rote fact.  Larry was unsure if this was an auspicious sign or not, but he was determined to keep up to his work ethic.  He thought he might've recognized this gentleman, but couldn't be absolutely sure at the moment.  That being the case, Larry felt it best to do a proper pitch, if this was anyone potentially important, powerful, or influential, or was going to buy anything at all.

“Yes sir, that’s me.  Just like it says there on the sign.”  Larry always made it a point to mention his sign.  “What can I do for ya’ this fine day?”  He kept his tone as positive and even as possible, in another effort to encourage good business, and general goodwill, in light of the Turned and the subsequent state of affairs they all were now in.  The man grunted noncommittally and continued on without acknowledgement of having heard Larry about his prized sign.

“Listen, you. Larry. I need a radio. Best one you have. Working. Reliable. And batteries. Enough to keep it going. For a while.”

At least this man seemed to know very well what he wanted.  Larry thought that was a sign of a good business deal about to be transacted.  He continued his “sales speech” to the man, “Sure, of course, I got all that right here, one second sir, coming up.”  He bustled around to assemble the radio and two packages of batteries.  He was getting slightly excited at the anticipation of a solid deal, which sometimes came upon him no matter how calm he outwardly appeared to be.  His best radio was actually quite sturdy and had survived much, and he was, as he was in all his best work, inordinately proud of it.  But business must be its nature, so he laid out the items in front of the man.  As he was doing so, Larry took another moment to assess the short spoken, rough man and to see if he could yet place him anywhere familiar.  Sooner than he thought, Larry found himself braving a question of the man, his curiosity and anticipation to strike the day’s first deal (and one that was shaping up to be lucrative based on the items requested) oddly getting the better of his normally good judgment and reserved nature.

“Excuse me sir, but, is it possible I know you from somewhere?”  Larry was hoping that perhaps this extended friendliness would contribute to the quality of the bargain.

“Council.”  That was the only word Larry needed to hear that made him instantly drop his amiable eagerness and put up a quiet guard.  He stared at the man in stunned silence for a second.

“Was told you know the deal.  I’ll take what I've asked for.  You’ll get your payment later.”  Larry did know the deal, indeed.  The man’s revelation told Larry his earlier suspicions were right: he did know this man, in a way.  He was a councilman, or at least one of their close agents.  The council was not in the business of asking for friendly favors when they wanted something from you.  Larry thought he had been bold enough for this morning and a number of others to come, especially considering whom he might be dealing with, so he simply nodded at the dour councilman and quickly handed over the supplies.  He also reminded himself to, in the future, take more care of whom he might be dealing with as promising customers, proper business attitude or not.  As the man snatched the bag containing the radio, Larry nervously watched until he had skulked away out view of the market.

With the whole ordeal over, Larry now found himself left with one less, best radio and a number of usable batteries.  He was glad that no one else seemed to be approaching his stall just then.  Dealing with them, the council, those in power in these troubled times, never left Larry with a pleasant after-taste and he couldn't help but feel altogether uneasy after the entire exchange.  The council claimed they always paid their debts, at least, in time, and so they had when Larry had been “asked” before.  Plus they also claimed to be working for the city, and so far it hadn't completely collapsed into ruin.  Armed with this new outlook, he reminded himself too that at least now the council theoretically owed him, Larry, in some way.  As he considered this facet of the situation, he had to admit he felt that tiny tinge of excitement like when striking a deal surging back up.  Larry’s luck looked to be holding up. He set about busily rearranging his stall and congratulated himself on making what he finally realized, was the very first trade of the day.