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The Textile Planet

Sue Lange

Chapter One

Immediately following Marla Gershe’s nonexistent coffee break at three in the afternoon, a policeman

shot her through the mid-section with one of those newfangled xanthan guns. That simple act changed her

life forever. Actually, her life had been changing slowly over the previous few months, but everything

came to a head starting at 5:15 a.m. the day she was shot. Let’s take a look.

5:15 a.m.

“Mama! Where’s Sa…” Marla Gershe barged through the aluminum doors leading to the looming floor,

stopping abruptly to stare at the far wall where ten names on the in-board lit up red confirming the

obvious: Mama had only half a staff. The flimsy doors behind Gershe waffled in the silence. She looked

over at the short woman wearing optical enhancers on her nose.

“Where are your weavers?” Marla called, jerking her head toward the nearly empty room. Five in the

morning and she was already annoyed.

Mama, whose name nobody knew, was referred to by her position as head weaver. She stood with the

lint screen from the third shift’s leavings in one hand and a shop vac suction in the other. Her loom,

hooked directly up to the Anthusian CIA (Central Intelligence Agent—some would describe it as a

mainframe), was the largest and most complicated machine in the room. The cast iron affair, proudly as

wide as a shed, held a conglomeration of wooden warp frame, plastic computer components, weft

attachment, high-speed shuttle, and numerous LED readout panels. There was a little coffee cup holder

next to her, set at waist height, on her right.

Mama looked over her specs at Marla. Five in the morning and she was already annoyed.

“Parker shifted ‘em over to O’Halloran,” she said, apparently bored with the ineptitude of upper

management. “Supposed to be some big do there today. The president’s over for a visit, or something.”

She switched on the pump ending the conversation without so much as an editorial “naturally,” or “as

usual,” or “of course.”

The day’s ten weavers, by now arriving at their respective stations (which, being only the size of a cow’s

trough, were puny compared to Mama’s), mimicked her actions down the line, turning on their vacuum

pumps and cleaning out the third shift’s lint leavings. The dust in the room had only recently settled from

the previous shift’s activities. It swirled up in the ritualized onset of the first shift, filling the air with the

familiar smell of dust, must, and rust that made Marla Gershe think of an Okie panhandle — the likes of

which she had never in her life experienced so how the hell would she even know.

“That’s great!” Marla said, kicking Mama’s unit. “God forbid they’d slack us off in comp.” Then raising

her voice over the noise of the vacuuming, she said to no one in particular, “Where’s Saddle? Where’s

today’s designs?”

“Here Marla,” a voice called from behind her.

Marla spun around and saw the waifish owner of the cutest black bobbed haircut any employee of BAC

Enterprises ever had the nerve to sport.

Saddle rushed up breathlessly, pink plastic barrettes perched on top of her head to hold back her

overgrown bangs. She wore a fluffy pink sweater — undersized—with a ribbon trimming the neckline.

“You late today?” Marla asked.

“No,” Saddle replied, handing Marla a sheaf of papers. The top one had a turquoise patch of fabric

glued onto it. “I noticed you weren’t in your office so I ran out to find you. We’ve got an awful day

ahead of us, I think.”

Marla grabbed the papers and began sifting through. “No shit,” she said. “There’s a full show here with

only half a staff. Where’s that fucking Parker?”

“I don’t know, but they gave us a couple of zingers too.”

“Great!” Marla headed back through the aluminum double doors and out into the noiseless hallway. “Get

me Parker’s access number.”

“Here, Marla, here.” Saddle scrambled after her, holding out her personal pink buzzer with its

accompanying bubblegum mixed with lipstick odor.

Marla stopped abruptly and grabbed the yakker, pushing “send.” She grimaced at the yakker’s

fragrance and waited as the line played its annoying double beep. Finally, the receiver clicked on.

“Parker?” Marla jumped in. “Did you know…”

“Grant Parker is unable to receive at the moment. Please buzz back or press ‘call back’ to have him

return your buzz when appropriate.”

“Fuckin’ hell!” Marla blurted out in obvious exasperation, hitting the end button. “Where’s Torpid at on

this thing?” She pointed with her finger at the hologram screen, randomly searching for the phone book.

“He’s in there,” Saddle answered, stepping over to see if she could help. “Press T.”

Marla fiddled with the colored lights, alternately selecting some sequence and then placing the earpiece

next to her head. At one point, the object screeched so loudly, the lift down the hall summoned itself to

the loom floor, thinking it had heard a call of some sort. “Floor please,” it asked after its gates opened

and it had been sitting there for about ten seconds without anyone ordering a floor.

Frustrated, Marla tossed the yakker to Saddle and made her way down to the lift, thinking she might as

well take advantage of it since it was already here. “You need to get that thing fixed or something.

Where’s mine, by the way?”

Saddle caught the unit mid-air and hit “clear” and then punched up the point list. Two seconds later, she

was running after Marla holding the crescent box in front of her. “Here’s the line, Marla,” she called.

She handed the yakker over while Marla stuck one foot on the lift’s pad to keep it from leaving.

“Yeah, hi, Gershe here,” Marla said into the yakker. “Listen, Parker took half my staff for something

over at O’Halloran and I’ve got a full show. I gotta get some weavers. I need half a dozen, or the zingers

those asshole third shift designers put on my scroll gotta disappear.”

“We need the zingers, Marla,” Torpid answered like a father who’s gone over this a thousand times

before but junior just isn’t getting the fact that taking out the trash is his special place in the world. When

he gets his own house and pays his own taxes, then he can make up the rules, but until then, Dad’s in

charge.

“The line is flagging,” Torpid continued. “You know this. Just settle down. I’ll see if I can borrow some

people from Ted. He’s not going to like it; it’s the second time this month you’re asking favors.”

“I’m asking favors? Who put all this together? Those freeze heads on the night shift are strung out on

Dolly pills and I’m asking favors? Parker took my — hold on.”

She placed her finger over the mouthpiece and hollered over to Saddle who had been faithfully hanging

around. “Go back and tell Mama to clean out all the machines before she starts. We may be getting more

people, and even if we don’t, if one of the looms craps the bed, another one will be ready immediately.

The fabric is going to be late this morning anyway.”

Saddle turned to go back through the looming doors.

“And send up a double for me, black,” Marla called to her. “I’ll be in the office.”

“Okay.”

“And one for yourself and Mama, and the whole crew in there.”

“One?”

“Don’t be smart. I’m too pissed off. Put it on Parker’s tab.”

The lift had started nagging her about holding it by now so she stepped onto the platform, flicking her

hand over the little window for her floor — 410.

“Well, well, you sound like you’re handling things there, Gershe,” Torpid said through the yakker. “Fine

job.”

“Fine job, my ass. This is the third time this week some shit like this has happened and it’s…”

“…only Wednesday. Yeah, I know. What you gonna do? Ever since Campbell…”

“…went plastic, yeah I know, we have to quick-march to keep our prices down. It’s bullshit. Keep ‘em

up high. Natural fabrics…”

“…are worth more… Yeah I know. Is there some way we can not have this conversation some

morning? Listen, you’re doing your job, you’ll pull through. Get a double, take some Tums. See you…”

“…after the show. Yeah, I know.” She clicked the yakker off, stashed it in her back pocket, and ran out

as the lift stopped on her floor. She was in her office by the time the elevator said, “Four hundred and

ten.”

Leaning against the edge of her work organizer, she shuffled through the sheets with the day’s show

designs. Papers from previous shows lay strewn about the floor, on the two high chairs, on the standing

light box, on her organizer hovering in the middle of the room, on the storage units. In short, pieces of

Marla Gershe’s life — a gigantic puzzle, perhaps never to be assembled — covered every horizontal

surface of her office. The daily designs that made up each do, the threads and fabrics to show the designs

off, the themes of the moments, the desired effects, the colors, the swirls, the sweat and tears, and most

important, the money to be made by this line of BAC’s textile enterprises, were all there in a convoluted

mess. If someone put the last year’s collection of bits and pieces of fiber lying here and everywhere in

order, not only would Marla Gershe have a clear picture of what she had been doing for 52 weeks of her

life, but she’d easily be able to find the controls to Agnes — the CIA mentioned earlier — that were

installed somewhere on her hovering organizer.

Alas, that would not be happening any time soon. She stood, leaning and flipping through the current

orders, searching for the zingers Saddle mentioned.

“Knobby double knit — one bolt,” she mumbled to herself. “Reversible mohair — one bolt. Japanese

hand weave…what the fuck?”

Six more pages of cotton/linen type mixes and then the zingers: a pink taffeta with some sort of metallic

cross-grain shellacked in, and a new stretch knit she’d never heard of. According to the sheet, the thread

to work with it hadn’t even been invented yet. The sample patch wasn’t even there. Even the

“freezeheads” couldn’t put it together.

She reached for the yakker and pushed “last.” The tone double beeped an interminable amount of time.

Finally, it rang clear.

“I can’t do this,” she jumped in before Torpid answered. “I need…”

“Dread Torpid is not available at the moment. Please buzz…”

“God dammit!” she shrieked, throwing the crescent-shaped yakker (some people called their personal

communicators bananas) at the wall in disgust. Its gelphan coating cushioned the blow when it hit the wall

and simultaneously attached it there, just as it was designed to do.

“Fuck!” she said, sinking into her high seat and dropping her head into her hands.

“I’m sorry?” the walls to her office were confused as to what she wanted.

Marla sat at her desk littered with yesterday’s and last week’s and last month’s programs, sample

sheets, and patch pieces. She shoved it all onto the floor and sat with her eyes crammed into the palms of

her hands. She would’ve cried if she’d had the time for it. She would’ve quit if her short-circuiting brain

could have thought about it. All she could do was run through options in her head and try to remember

how to run a loom.

Finally, after about five seconds of respite, she lifted her head and answered the walls.

“I need the list of hand weavers brought up. Click message each one — local please, no email — and

see who can come in today. Forward any replies from anybody to me immediately.”

“Even Doran?”

“Oh Christ! No, not him. Anybody but him. Don’t even call Doran.”

“How are you going to get a message if your yakker’s stuck to the wall?”

“Just call please. And that’s Saddle’s phone anyway.”

“Where’s yours?”

“I don’t know, why don’t you tell me?”

“I don’t know. Where did you leave it?”

“Oh Gad! How the hell should I know, you bleeping idiot.”

“Don’t get nasty just because I’m not ambulatory. It’s in your wastebasket at home, where you threw it

last night.”

“Fine. Have them call Saddle’s phone when you send out the messages.” Marla began thumbing the

inviso pad installed on the upper right corner of her organizer, signing her print onto each piece of paper.

“Agnes!”

“Yes.”

“Is Saddle’s still working?” Marla asked sheepishly.

“What is a Saddles?”

“Saddle’s phone.”

“Yes.”

Just then, Saddle herself bounced through the door on a wave of company coffeearoma—raunchy, rich,

and double caffeine. She set one of the steaming cups on Marla’s organizer.

“Mama’s pissed,” she said. “Said she doesn’t have time to clean two machines when she’s got a full

show.”

“Is she doing it anyway?” Marla asked.

“Of course.”

“Well then, what do you care?”

“I’m just sayin’…hey! What’s my banana doing on the wall?”

Sue Lange - The Textile Planet.pdf

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