Exit Velocity (eBook)

A Novel

Barbara Gregorich (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2024 | 1. Auflage
376 Seiten
Bookbaby (Verlag)
979-8-3509-2466-4 (ISBN)

Infos

Fast-paced action and conflict, friendship and family, a touch of humor, and an even greater touch of the extraordinary - a parrot from another planet. A parrot on a Duty-to-the-Universe mission. Exit Velocity is a thought-provoking novel set in the heart of Bridgeport, Chicago's historic South Side working class area. There Rowan Pickett is desperate for a job. Rowan's world has gone to hell, her sister murdered in a high school shooting, her mother leaving, and Rowan sitting home and mourning. But Rowan is determined to survive, and getting a job is the first step in that direction. In seeking the job, she unwittingly sends a signal to Deeply, the parrot. This simple action results in injury to Rowan's sworn enemy, neofascist Zeb Snoddy. In a series of twists and turns it raises the suspicions of podcaster Jake Terranova, who jumps to the conclusion that Rowan and the parrot are a political assassination team. When Rowan does get a job, thanks to the help of long-time friend and political leader Titus Longshaw, she starts to rebuild her life while working at Package Nova, a global shipping firm. But Rowan has some surprises in store, not all of them good. In this fast-paced, realistic, and heartening story of a woman fighting back against violence, Rowan's enemies meet resistance they never expected, and working class struggle is brought to life in exciting and powerful ways.

Barbara Gregorich intended to write 'Exit Velocity' back in the 1960s but got swept up in the staggering social-justice events of the times: the war in Vietnam, Black Liberation, and the struggle for Equality for Women. By the time the sixties settled, Gregorich was teaching college English courses. From there, she went on to become a typesetter, then a postal letter carrier, a writer-producer of educational filmstrips, and, finally, a novelist. 'She's on First' was published in 1987. From the time she was eleven years old, she wanted to be either a writer or a professional baseball player. Or, perhaps, both. The major leagues were closed to women - but that didn't mean Gregorich couldn't write about women playing hardball. After her novel came the highly acclaimed nonfiction work, 'Women at Play: The Story of Women in Baseball.' ???????For her research and writings on women in baseball, Barbara Gregorich received the 2024 SABR Dorothy Seymour Mills Lifetime Achievement Award. And then, finally, the road of writing and the road of social justice converged. In 2021 she published 'The F Words', a YA novel about teen rights and 'Exit Velocity' in 2024.

Textauszug

2 Rowan

From the El it’s four blocks to our house. I still think our house. Say it, too. But I have this deep, gloomy feeling that it’s my house now. Mom said she would be back . . . but there’s no evidence this will happen.

I can see MaryEllen sitting on her porch, watching me walk down the street. She used to babysit Clari and me when she was in high school and we were in grade school. MaryEllen was so good to Mom and me after Clari died, bringing us food, inviting us over for meals, checking on us like a good neighbor. And she’s been good to me since Mom left.

“Hey, Els.” I give her a wave and stop, but I don’t turn onto her sidewalk.

“Hi, Rowan. Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Well, not exactly. Somebody dumped a garbage can on me at the rally,” I say, not wanting to explain the true story. Which sounds bizarre. “I gotta go shower, cause I stink.”

“Well, come by after your shower if you like. We can sit here and talk.”

“Thanks. Maybe I will.”

I push open the gate and enter the house by the side door, close it behind me, strip, and drop everything into the mud tray. Then I get a trash bag from the kitchen, stuff everything except my shoes into it, seal it tight, and leave it by the door, to take outside after my shower.

My new clothes didn’t last long. And I can’t afford to buy another set. I’ve gone through pretty much all the money Mom left me to live on. I should have looked for work months ago, I know I should have. Instead, I just sat around the house doing nothing. Titus and Genevieve would drop by to see how I was doing. Encourage me to get out, mix with other people.

Keisha, too. She’d drop by on different days. I think the three of them scheduled their visits so that I saw one of them every other day. I smile now, thinking about it. A couple of times Keisha even brought her portable sewing machine, set it up, and sewed while she talked to me. “You are in competition with this machine, Rowan,” she’d say. “It has my attention. See if you can win me away.”

It did make me grin, sort of. But I was content to just sit and watch her sew and say pretty much nothing. That’s changed. It changed yesterday when I bought the now-trashed clothes. It changed this morning when I tried to find Titus and see if he could help me find a job. I’m ready to be part of the world again.

Opening the door to the basement I toss my shoes down the stairs. I can wash them in the utility sink later. With lots of soap. Maybe bleach, too. Then I walk into the bathroom, turn on the shower, wait until it gets hot, and step into it.

I used to come in here to cry almost every night for a month or more. I’d turn the shower on, step inside, and let the moans and tears mingle with the water. I think Mom probably did the same.

Our soap — my soap, I mean — is whatever’s cheapest. But I splurge a little on the shampoo, choosing something natural with a nice scent. Rosemary. Sometimes lavender.

The hot water feels good everywhere. Except on my butt, which stings like hell. Probably covered with abrasions. Who dumped that garbage can on me, and why?

When I’m done with the soap I use the shampoo on my body, just so its good smell will take away the memory of the garbage and dog shit.

Stepping out of the shower I towel my hair and myself and walk into our bedroom. My bedroom, that I used to share with Clari. I grab a pair of shorts and pull them on, then a black tee. Clari’s clothes are still hanging there, on her side of the closet.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. The blue feather is still in my hair, looking good. Clari’s feathers lasted almost two months before she changed them. “Feathers are mostly keratin,” she’d tell me, “just like our hair.”

After Clari died I cut my hair short. Not in mourning, or at least I didn’t think so. It was because I couldn’t be bothered to care for long hair. I study myself again in the mirror.

I liked the long hair better.

Maybe I should let it grow.

***

When I walk into the living room, I stop in my tracks.

A bird is sitting on the piano. Staring at me.

I glance around quickly, then spot the open window. Okay, that’s how it got in. I’ve been keeping the windows open, and some of them are missing screens. Which I can’t afford to replace.

The bird is big. Huge. I eyeball the distance from the top of its head to the tip of its tail. At least the length of a yardstick. Even if the tail’s a foot long, that makes the bird at least two feet tall. I feel like maybe that extinct giant parrot scientists discovered in New Zealand has come back after . . . after, what was it? twenty million years? Why it would return, I don’t know.

The parrot looks really strong.

It’s colorful. Brilliant.

I don’t know anybody in the neighborhood who has a parrot.

I realize the bird has been staring right at me the whole time.

This is . . .

This is . . . . No.

It can’t be.

But it is. It’s the same bird I saw flying overhead at the demonstration.

It can’t be.

That was a couple of hours ago. Five miles north of here.

But it is. Same colors: green and turquoise body, red and yellow tail.

What’s going on here?

The bird — I swear! — rolls one of its eyes. Moves its weight from one foot to the other, then back to the first. Like it’s waiting for me to do something.

Okay.

“Hey,” I say softly, so I don’t frighten it. “I’ve seen you before.”

Okay, this sounds crazy. The bird nods its head. Once. Twice. Shifts its weight from foot to foot again. Its feet are large. Dark gray. With four toes. I guess they’re toes. Two long ones point forward, two shorter ones point backward.

Those toes are probably scratching the hell out of the piano top.

“You’re a beautiful bird,” I tell it. “Where are you from?”

The bird spreads its wings wide. They’re spectacular. The tips of the wings point upward.

The sky. Is it telling me it came from the sky?

Well, Duh.

And why am I talking to a bird?

I guess because I haven’t had anyone else to talk to since Mom left. That was like five months ago.

Slowly, carefully, I move toward the bird. I don’t want to scare it. It might fly off the piano and into a wall or something and hurt itself. Or shit on the furniture.

But the parrot doesn’t look like it scares easily. It watches me approach. I get so close I can reach out and touch it. But I don’t.

We stand there staring at each other for a minute, maybe two.

I cave, losing the standoff. “I’m hungry,” I tell the bird, “and there’s food in the refrigerator. So I’m going to back up and walk into the kitchen.”

The bird watches me as I do this. I get to the kitchen, turn, and enter.

The bird flies over my head and settles itself on top of the hutch that holds the dishes.

“Crackers,” it says.

I laugh, startling myself . . . realizing I haven’t laughed in a long time.

“Coming right up,” I tell the bird as I rummage in a cabinet. I find a plastic container that’s labeled WW Crackers in Mom’s writing. She believes in keeping a neat pantry.

I open the container, select a cracker, and hold it out to the bird.

It turns its head sideways. I realize it needs to do that to see the cracker. The bird has an eye on each side of its head, so it can’t look at things straight ahead, it has to peer at them with one eye or the other. But no matter which eye it uses, all it’s seeing is a cracker. Sort of like people who look at the Republicans with one eye, the Democrats with the other. What they’re seeing is the same thing: a party that supports the capitalist class and all its means of oppression.

The bird lifts one talon and takes the cracker from me.

Carefully. Precisely. Delicately, even.

In two bites the cracker is history. The bird looks at me.

“Right,” I say. “Why don’t we move to the table and dine like civilized, uh, creatures.”

The bird nods, then kind of swoop-hops from the hutch down to the table.

Like, right on the table top.

Okay.

I mean, I thought it might perch on the back of a chair or something. But okay.

I place the container of crackers on the table and watch as the bird looks inside with that funny sideways head motion and then selects a second cracker.

Me, I move to the refrigerator and wonder what’s left. I vow to go grocery shopping tomorrow morning, which...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 4.6.2024
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Krimi / Thriller / Horror
• ISBN-13: 979-8-3509-2466-4 / 9798350924664