It Could Happen Here - CZM Book Club: The Lost Roads by Sim Kern

Episode Date: November 12, 2023

In this episode of the Cool Zone Media Book Club, Margaret reads "The Lost Roads," a utopian story about a world without cars by author Sim Kern, to Shereen.See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

You should probably keep your lights on for Nocturnal Tales from the Shadowbride. Join me, Danny Trejo, and step into the flames of fright. An anthology podcast of modern-day horror stories inspired by the most terrifying legends and lore of Latin America. Listen to Nocturnal on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. I found out I was related to the guy that I was dating.

I don't feel emotions correctly. I collect my roommate's toenails and fingernails. Those were some callers from my call-in podcast, Therapy Gecko. It's a show where I take phone calls from anonymous strangers

as a fake gecko therapist and try to learn a little bit about their lives. I know that's a weird concept, but I promise it's very interesting. Check it out for yourself by searching for Therapy Gecko on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Sniffy's Cruising Confessions will broaden minds and help you pursue your true goals. You can listen to Sniffy's Cruising Confessions, sponsored by Gilead, now on the iHeartRadio app or wherever you get your podcasts. New episodes every Thursday. Cool Zone Media.

Book club, book club, book club. That's how we start the show. It's the Cool Zone Media Book Club. That's how we start the show. It's the Cool Zone Media Book Club. I'm your host, Margaret Kiljoy. My guest today, since the whole format is that I read stories to someone from Cool Zone Media, is Shereen. Hi, Shereen. Hi, Margaret. Thanks for having me. Yeah.

Well, it's the Cool Zone Media Book Club. Every Sunday, I read you different stories. Stories that have to do with the themes of Cool Zone Media. And specifically, it could happen here. I don't know why I'm saying it's spooky. It's not. The world is spooky. I don't know. That's true.

This story, though. This is a, like, this is a posi story. Ooh, I love that for myself and for you and for us and for all of you listening. That's right. Today, we're reading a story by, it could happen here, alumni guest, Sim Kern, who I believe you interviewed. Yeah, they're awesome awesome i really respect their work and i'm excited to be read one of their stories yeah they it's always very weird to be a fiction writer and then like also be known for this completely unrelated thing you know like i don't

know to put words into sim's mouth you know like like Sim is right now doing a lot of really amazing content on TikTok and Instagram about Jewish anti-Zionism. And on It Could Happen Here also. But it's just like, but they also write really amazing stories. And so we're going to read you one. I'm going to read you one. And Shereen is the stand-in for you the listener that is i this story is called the lost roads the years of debate and organizing planning and preparation had spanned my entire life but at long last the body politic had reached a decision. Demolition day had arrived,

and I stood on the front lines. The old world would be gouged and shoveled away, ushering in a dazzling future. Children would reclaim the freedom of play, beasts of the wild would roam once more, and we would liberate the earth from Hurtari's straitjacket. I never felt more proud in my neon yellow coveralls and matching hardhat emblazoned with the badge of the body politic. My weapons for the battle ahead rested heavy across my shoulder. Pickaxe and shovel. Simple tools for a simple job.

We were cleaners, not as venerated as the drivers of the mighty diggers who forged ahead, or the pavers with their specialized skills. Certainly, we weren't as envied as the planters who would follow in our wake. Our work was hard and tedious, but essential to the operation ahead, and I had volunteered for it. Today, on every continent on Earth, teams of workers like mine would embark on a multi-year mission. Destroy the roads. All of them. My squad was stationed in the Buffalo Bayou Settler Reservation in the city formerly known as Houston, Texas, on a two-lane residential road, Calcutt Street, the 1800 block. It was a sweltering morning, hotter than it had any right to be in early March.

We had a long way yet to go in cooling the climate, but that morning, I didn't mind the heat, because I knew what a start we were making. Calcutt dead-ended at a maglev line, and from time to time, the whoosh of a passing train sent a blast of welcome wind escaping from its prairie-covered tunnel. Miri, our squad leader, gave a short speech that was more instructional than inspirational. Then the digger hummed to life. Its ten-foot wheels began to turn. The vicious blades of its snout sliced into cracked asphalt like a hot knife through butter, and the huge sheets of shattered road lifted,

twisting towards the sky and clattering down the beast's neck into the bin on its back. The roar of it was tremendous, and I was glad for the noise-canceling buds stuck into my ears. We watched it trundle ahead of us for half an hour until Miri gave the signal that it was safe for us to begin our work. The digger only pulled up 80 to 85 percent of the road. The bits scattered behind were left for our shovels. We bent to the work, scooped some asphalt, then tossed it into the drone carts that followed behind us, loyal puppies. Scoop, toss, scoop, toss. If the digger had missed a large chunk of road, we pulled out the pickaxes or Miri's jackhammer.

My earbuds played upbeat music and I timed my shoveling to the rhythm. There was such joy in scraping the earth clean of rubble. We'd cleared a 20-foot stretch of asphalt when I felt a hand on my shoulder. miri shouted over the noise of the digger that it had been a half hour time for the b squad to swap in i'd rather keep going i called back i'm not even tired rest miri commanded warmly it'll be a long day and a longer year ahead i don't want my cleaners getting injured on their first day of the job. She was right, of course. I rested with the A squad on a moss yard beneath a shady elm. The family who lived there came out of their house to greet us, bearing lemonade and homemade cookies. My first taste of the unexpected perks of working on the mission. A long-haired child of seven or eight with

freckled golden brown skin showed me a tray of seedlings in an egg carton. You're cleaners, right? The child asked, clearly unimpressed by us. I nodded. Do you know when the planters will be coming? First the pavers have to do their work, I said. I know, I know, the kid replied, laying paths to the maglev station and the bike trails. They rolled their work, I said. I know, I know, the kid replied, laying paths to the maglev station and the bike trails. They rolled their eyes. But when the planters come, do you think they'll want to use these? Well, that depends, I said, pointing to the seedlings. Are they native to this region? Of course, the child cried. I got Castelia endovicia, Xenothera spiciosa, and these are Lupinus texianus. Prairie fire primrose and blue bonnets, I confirmed. How beautiful they'll look together.

Yes, I think there's a very good chance the planters will want to use them. The smile that lit the kid's face was luminous enough to melt any lingering soreness in my muscles. As they drifted away to tend to their seedlings, one of their parents, sitting a short ways away, leaned towards me. I think you just made their month. As we swapped names and pronouns, the kid's mom never took her eyes off the digger.

Don't worry, I said. We won't let the kids anywhere near the job site. She looked at me for the first time. What? No, it's not that. It's just, well, all of it. She laughed apologetically. What will we do without ambulances or fire trucks? Opal has epilepsy, you know.

What if they have a bad fall? There'll be triage cars and water tankers running on the Maglev lines, and you're right near the station. Emergency services should arrive faster by Maglev than they ever did by road. They say that, but everything's changing so fast everywhere, all at once. What if they're wrong? Look, all your life, you've been living with one-ton bullets speeding past your house,

50 feet from your front door. Cars have been the biggest killers of kids for a century. Won't it be safer to have that gone? I suppose, she said, still twisting the hem of her skirt. Her fear served as a reminder that the quorum had only been reached by a slim margin. Millions of people still opposed our mission. But I couldn't stay and convince her, because Miri was waving us back

over to start another shift. By noon, we'd cleared the block and a squad of pavers emerged from the Maglev station with a fleet of drones in tow. I would have spent so much time watching them work over the next year that I could have joined their ranks by the end of it. First, they'd survey the land with sweeping lasers. Then they'd stake out the course of their paths. Some communities wanted large paved areas in the middle of the block for games or festivals. Still, the footprint of paved spaces was always a tiny fraction of the asphalt roads we destroyed. And of course, the paths weren't for cars, only people. Walking, skating, biking, wheeling. Unlike sidewalks of old, meeting at sharp right angles, the pavers dealt only in curves. From above, their completed paths looked organic, like branching veins. Each block one leaf,

each neighborhood a branch, each city a sprawling tree where once there'd been a grid. The paving material they poured was a bright green composite, made city a sprawling tree where once there'd been a grid. The paving material they poured was a bright green composite, made from a century's worth of discarded plastic. When dried, it had a slight bounce to it, delightful to walk on, but hard and smooth enough for wheels. And it was porous, so that every precious drop of precipitation soaked through to the soil below. At first, I envied the respect afforded the pavers. Engineers all dressed in their smart blue coveralls, they commanded so much respect from the folks of the neighborhood. But they were officious to us, perpetually frustrated that we

weren't moving fast enough. They snipped at each other too, with none of the intense camaraderie that banded together us cleaners. So even if some magic wish could have made me an engineer, forget it, I'd rather be a cleaner. But the planters, oh, I did envy them. I didn't often get to see them work, not unless I took a stroll during one of my breaks back to a street we'd cleaned weeks before. Botanists, mycologists, briologists, and edifologists, and of course, the native land historians they deferred to. In bright green worksuits, they descend on a street after the pavers had poured fresh paths. It was the planter's

job to restore the ruined soil, trapped by asphalt for a century. Our work took hours, the pavers work took days, but the planters task would take months or even years, where the soil was saturated with heavy metals. They used all kinds of composts, fertilizers, and minerals, but their most ingenious allies were living things, microbes that devoured microplastics and mushrooms that leached pollution from the earth. At Superfund sites, where the land was especially toxic, they displaced residents and worked for months in hazmat gear to heal the poisoned earth. Finally, the planters would escort drone carts bursting with greenery from the Maglev station. They'd plant the fruit trees that would feed the neighborhood, the shade trees that would cool their homes. The trees would take decades to mature, but one day, this endless

orchard would crisscross the continent, everywhere there'd once only been pavement. The promise of that bountiful future had captivated the hearts of most everyone on earth. Most, but not all. Because you know whose hearts it didn't capture shereen please tell me the people who sponsor this podcast who are cold and heartless wait no wait that's the opposite we love them we love yeah they're great where are the people who we would oppose all of this if it disrupted the capitalism that provides these goods and services to you? We're totally not just like almost everyone else involved in capitalism at every level,

cynically engaging with it in order to survive. Welcome. I'm Danny Thrill. Won't you join me at the fire and dare enter? Nocturnum, Tales from the Shadows, presented by iHeart and Sonora. An anthology of modern-day horror stories inspired by the legends of Latin America. From ghastly encounters with shapeshifters, to bone-chilling brushes with supernatural creatures. I know you. Take a trip and experience the horrors that have haunted Latin America since the beginning of time.

Listen to Nocturnal Tales from the Shadows as part of my Cultura podcast network, available on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. unvarnished and at times unhinged look at the underbelly of tech from an industry veteran with nothing to lose. This season I'm going to be joined by everyone from Nobel winning economists to leading journalists in the field and I'll be digging into why the products you love keep getting worse and naming and shaming those responsible. Don't get me wrong though, I love technology. I just hate the people in charge and want them to get back to building things that actually do things to help real people. I swear to God things can change if we're loud enough. So join me every week to understand what's happening in the tech industry and what could be done to make things better. Listen to Better Offline on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, wherever else you get your podcasts. Check out betteroffline.com.

On Thanksgiving Day 1999, a five-year-old boy floated alone in the ocean. He had lost his mother trying to reach Florida from Cuba. He looked like a little angel. I mean, he looked so fresh. And his name, Elian Gonzalez, will make headlines everywhere. Elian Gonzalez. Elian Gonzalez. Elian. Elian.

Elian Gonzalez. Elian Gonzalez. Elian. Elian. Elian. Elian Gonzalez. At the heart of the story is a young boy and the question of who he belongs with. His father in Cuba. Mr. Gonzalez wanted to go home and he wanted to take his son with him. Or his relatives in Miami. Imagine that your mother died trying to get you to freedom. At the heart of it all is still this painful family separation. Something that as a Cuban, I know all too well.

Listen to Chess Peace, the Elian Gonzalez story, as part of the My Cultura podcast network, available on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. And we're back. We ran into our first protester around two o'clock that day, during the last hour of my shift. Cleaning was my first job after college, and I'd never worked such a heavy day of labor. By mid-afternoon, my muscles were screaming, and I was never worked such a heavy day of labor. By mid-afternoon, my muscles were screaming and I was looking forward to a long soak in the solar spring at the bathhouse. Suddenly, the digger fell silent and it ground to a halt. The driver leaned out of his cab,

hollering at someone up ahead. Cautiously, Miri led us around the side of the machine. Cautiously, Miri led us around the side of the machine. There, inches from the digger's snout, sat an old-fashioned, gasoline-powered pickup truck. There were signs painted all over the truck. Cars are freedom. Save the roads. Resist the Stone Age. Part of me had to admire the guy's courage. The digger could have churned through that vehicle with ease, but the driver sat inside the cab, arms folded.

Miri approached the cab and motioned for the driver to roll down the window. She introduced herself and he gave his name, Bruce Wellborn. She used his first name a lot after that, explaining that we had to get back to work, Bruce. Give us a break, Bruce. And if he didn't like it, he could take it up with the body politic. At first, Bruce seemed uncertain, darting glances at us nervously. But the longer he talked to Miri, the angrier he got, until his pale skin flushed red. He got louder and louder, until he was shouting,

Cars rights! at the top of his lungs, right in her face. I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen a grown person totally given over to rage like that. My legs felt shaky, and my heart was racing, as if he'd been yelling at me. Miri turned to walk back to us, and Bruce rolled up his window. I envied him the cool AC that must be blowing inside. The sun was blaring down on all our heads by then, the hottest part of the day. Bruce grabbed an ice cold can from the cooler in the back seat. The cab was packed with food supplies and extra gas tanks. In this heat, he might outlast us in his stockpiled truck. I couldn't understand him. 40,000 people got killed in car wrecks every year, in our country alone.

We would free our air of the smog that gave so many little kids asthma. We'd replace millions of miles of heat-trapping asphalt with carbon-absorbing orchards, restore parking lots to native prairies, and free the concrete-walled bayous to ramble along rocky shores. Who would want to stand or park in the way of all that? We need to move him, Miri said to us. She turned and shouted. This is your last chance to drive away, Bruce. We're going to continue our work with or without your cooperation. Bruce locked his doors and revved his engine in answer.

My blood ran icy with fear of the thought of going anywhere near that truck. What if he tries to run us over, I asked, hoping the others wouldn't think me a coward. Should we call a violence response team? I don't think that's necessary, Mary frowned. It's not like he has a gun. If he did, I think he would have shown it by now. He's not violent, just annoying. As if on cue, Bruce cracked his window and shouted, Try coming near this truck and see what happens. Okay, that sounded like a threat, Irmine said, shooting me a look.

I was glad to have an ally. And it may not be a gun, but a truck is a deadly weapon, Sage agreed. Fine, Miri sighed, then walking away from the huddle. I'll call the VRT. But a few moments later, she was back. No good, she shook her head. They've got hundreds of reports of protesters like Bruce here, all over the city, some of them in big groups. The dispatcher couldn't even promise they could get to us by the end of the week. Fuck, I whispered. I had assumed Bruce was a lone extremist, but if there were hundreds of blockades in our reservation alone, how many people were protesting across the watershed, the continent, the world? Could there be enough anti-mission sentiment to force the

body politic back to the debate chambers? That could mean years of delays. I echoed Miri's words from earlier. We have to move him. Ideas, Miri said. Couldn't the digger just go up on the grass there and drive around him, Ernie asked? But then he'll be behind us, I pointed out. What if he turns around and runs us over? Miri nodded. I want that truck disabled, turns around and runs us over. Miri nodded. I want that truck disabled, but nothing that'll hurt him or us. I wasn't much help in the discussion that followed, as I didn't know much about cars. Someone said they'd heard you could disable a car by blocking the tailpipe with a potato. Miri said that was an urban legend. Once the pressure built up, the potato would shoot out. Someone else suggested slashing the tires, but a bunch of people rolled their eyes and spoke over each other,

pointing out that a car with slashed tires could still accelerate to deadly speed in seconds. We could block him in, Sage suggested, drive another digger over here and park it right on his ass so he can't move. Miri wagged a finger in his direction. That could work. But then what? How do we take the truck out of commission?

Force open the hood. We could slice the latch with a reciprocating saw, Irmine said. Then slash the ignition, Miri snapped her fingers. After that, we just pick up the truck and move it. You think we can lift it, I asked. With another squad we could, Sage said. Miri pressed a finger to her ear, calling someone on her earbuds. Ten seconds later, two nearby cleaning squads strolled up to our location alongside a rumbling digger. Bruce shouted,

I won't be moved. You can run me over. I'll die for my freedoms. But his voice wavered as he watched the second digger pull up on his tail. I'll disable the truck, Miri said. I don't want to risk any of y'all getting hurt. She grabbed the electric saw from our toolbox and clambered over the road-smashing blades of our digger. Bruce revved his engine threateningly,

but with a digger's blades an inch from both bumpers. He wasn't going anywhere. Miri sliced open Bruce's hood, then sawed something inside that made the engine fall silent. It's going to get hot in there, Bruce, Miri called. Dangerous hot. You want to come out now? Bruce cursed her. We spread out on both sides of the truck then, and I got a handhold under the chassis near the driver's back wheel. On Miri's signal, we heaved up, with all of us lifting together, and the truck felt about as heavy as a big box of books. We shuffled toward the side of the road and set it down gently. So gently, it gave me this funny, peaceful feeling, like we were carrying a sleeping toddler to bed. Then Miri called, back to work. The digger from the north pulled away, and I started in on my last shift.

From time to time, I spared a glance at Bruce. After a few minutes, he cracked the door to the cab. It must have been over 100 degrees in there. For a while, he shouted slogans at us, but his voice soon grew hoarse. Sage had streamed our whole encounter with Bruce from her lenses, and the vid went viral. Within a few hours, other squads around the city, then the watershed, then the continent, started using the Miri maneuver to deal with protest cars. Until that horrible day, March 27th.

After a few weeks, the cars' rights protests were losing steam. Most of the protesters had given up or run out of cars to protest in. But the most fanatical among them grew desperate. On the last Friday in March, some brought guns in their trucks, the kind of illegal, powerful guns that people hoarded by the millions at the start of the century. Of course, we'd known there were still many of them out there, AR-15s that had been hidden from the smelters. To this day, I can't

walk past the statue of fallen cleaners downtown without sitting on a bench a while and fighting back tears. I had good friends who were killed that day. I feel so guilty and disoriented when I think about how it was just random, just a dice roll, that their squads got shot up and mine didn't, that I'm only alive because Bruce wasn't one of the violent ones. After I finished up that first shift, Bruce bowed to the inevitable and finally climbed down from his truck. He grabbed only the cooler out of the back of the cab, abandoning the rest of his supplies and the vehicle itself for a sanitation team to deal with. I wound up walking back to the Maglev station next to him, surprised by how small he seemed with his feet on the ground.

Head hung low, he dragged that cooler over the scraped clean earth. You know what that cooler could have been filled with, Shireen? Gold. Gold coins. It could have been filled with gold coins. Like, perennial sponsor of the show, Reagan Gold Coins. Do we still get those, do you think? I don't know, I just think it's funny.

Yeah, me too. And if you too want a cooler full of gold, you just listen to these ads. And if you don't want to hear ads, subscribe to Cooler Zone Media, because then you get all this stuff without ads. You just get our weird ad breaks, and then immediately it's my voice going. Welcome. I'm Danny Thrill. Won't you join me at the fire and dare enter?

Nocturnum, Tales from the Shadows, presented by iHeart and Sonora. An anthology of modern-day horror stories inspired by the legends of Latin America. From ghastly encounters with shapeshifters to bone-chilling brushes with supernatural creatures. I know you. Take a trip and experience the horrors that have haunted Latin America since the beginning of time. Listen to Nocturnal Tales from the Shadows as part of my Cultura podcast network, available on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. and at times unhinged look at the underbelly of tech from an industry veteran with nothing to lose.

This season, I'm going to be joined by everyone from Nobel-winning economists to leading journalists in the field. And I'll be digging into why the products you love keep getting worse and naming and shaming those responsible. Don't get me wrong, though. I love technology. I just hate the people in charge

and want them to get back to building things that actually do things to help real people. I swear to God, things can change if we're loud enough. So join me every week to understand what's happening in the tech industry and what could be done to make things better. Listen to Better Offline on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, wherever else you get your podcasts. Check out betteroffline.com. On Thanksgiving Day, 1999, a five-year-old boy floated alone in the ocean. He had lost his mother trying to reach Florida from Cuba. He looked like a little angel. I mean, he looked so fresh.

And his name, Elian Gonzalez, will make headlines everywhere. Elian Gonzalez. Elian. Elian. Elian. Elian. Elian Gonzalez. Elian. Elian. Elian. Elian. Elian. Elian Gonzalez. At the heart of the story is a young boy and the question of who he belongs with.

His father in Cuba. Mr. Gonzalez wanted to go home and he wanted to take his son with him. Or his relatives in Miami. Imagine that your mother died trying to get you to freedom. At the heart of it all is still this painful family separation. Something that as a Cuban, I know all too well. Listen to Chess Peace, the Elian Gonzalez story, as part of the My Cultura podcast network, available on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.

And we're back. Needless to say, I found it unsettling 10 years later when my Edel developed a fixation with cars. All they wanted from the library were books about cars. All the holo games they played were car racers. At nearly 10, I thought Edel was getting a little too old to play with toys, but they begged me for a toy car. Specifically, they wanted a toy car from the Lawndale Orchard Swap. These cars had working lights and horns and battery-powered engines. All the neighborhood kids had one, except Edel. I held out for months, weathering Edel's tearful requests.

Finally, one morning, Sam and I were sitting on the front porch, drinking coffee and watching the neighborhood kids playing beneath the citrus grove. Edel had gotten a hold of a neighbor kid's car and was zooming it around like an airplane. Sam must have caught me frowning. You know, the more you forbid them, the more fascinating you make them. And what if toy machine guns came in fashion, huh? Would you tell me to get Edel one of those too? That's different, you know it. Sam shook her head

at me. Watch how they play with them. Edel was making engine roaring noises and charged at a group of younger kids playing with dolls. The little ones shrieked delightedly and scattered. It's how we used to play with dinosaurs, isn't it? Dinosaurs are extinct. There's no harm in glorifying them, I said. But there are real people still trying to bring back cars. Just a handful of extremists.

Don't you see? Cars are dinosaurs to this generation. Ancient beasts, extinct monsters. It's natural for the kids to be fascinated. It doesn't mean Edel's gonna grow up to be a Cars Rights wacko. My heart pounded with anger. Not at Sam, but at the memory of Bruce's face. I'll be damned before I get a kid of mine a toy car, I said.

I don't know about damned, Sam sighed, but you're on track to destroy your relationship with your kid. The truth of that took my breath away. While I'd been patting myself on the back for stubbornness, a wall had sprung up between me and Edel. Hugs and tickle fights and morning prairie walks had vanished, replaced by sullen looks and slammed doors. The next Sunday morning, Edel and I boarded a maglev, the Lawndale Orchard. Most of the swap meet was set up in the block's paved square, produce stalls, artisan goods, and homemade medicinals. The toy maker wasn't there, but a shop was easy to spot, and Edel took off running for it. Unlike most folks who planted natives or grew food in every patch of sun, the toy maker kept a short lawn of monoculture Bermuda grass, decorated with hundreds of scrap metal and plastic toys. There were pinwheels, whirly gigs, and a menagerie of mechanical animals that croaked,

roared, hopped, and slithered after the delighted kids swarming the yard. A paved path led up to a darkened garage, gaping like an open mouth. That, too, a relic. Most folks had converted their garages into living spaces long ago. The scene reminded me of the fable of Hansel and Gretel. Except instead of luring kids in with candy, this guy used tacky little robots. Inside the garage, a ceiling fan stirred the dust motes above the tables crowded with hundreds of toy vehicles. A toy maker sat at the cluttered work

bench at the back, a fringe of white hair bent to his work, soldering a circuit board at a table piled of scrap metal. Edel ran their hand lovingly over the candy-colored cars, popping up tiny hoods to inspect battery-powered engines. Names half-remembered from my childhood came back to me. Beetle, Thunderbird, Mustang. Extinct species now. We'd traded them back for flesh-and flesh and blood animals and good riddance. Oh, this one!

Edel reverently picked up a black truck with flames painted down the sides and monster truck tires. It was the kind of truck that would have had a sabotaged exhaust system back in the day, spewing toxic clouds of black smoke on purpose. Rolling coal, they used to call it. But I bit back my sneer, remembering Sam's caution. The more you forbid them, the more fascinating you make them. I approached the toy maker and back. We're looking to swap for this, I said, placing the truck on the table. I opened my bag, displaying dozens of ripe loquats and a quart of wild rice stored in a jar I'd blown and fired myself at the glassworks.

Is this enough? Sure, he said, not even glancing up. Leave it over there. He gestured to a table piled high with all manner of food and homemade goods. Can you tell me the make and model of this truck? Edel asked. The man grinned and looked up. That, my dear, is a 2000 Ford F-150 Supercab XLT. Edel repeated the name in a reverent whisper. I had to fight the urge to grab Edel by the hand and drag them out of there.

The toy maker glanced at me for the first time and narrowed his eyes. You've been here before, he said. No, I began, but something about the guy snagged in my memory. He was familiar, but for a few moments I couldn't place those watery blue eyes. I might never have figured it out, but neighbor hadn't tucked inside just then, shouting. Just made some Laquat smoothies, Bruce. Want one? Bruce. Suddenly I saw it. His face ten years younger, wearing a black goatee instead of a graying beard. Thanks, I'm alright, the toymaker said. Got too many myself already. Indeed, the table was heaped with baskets of the in-season laquats. My heart started pounding, my blood heating like fire. Bruce? Are you by any chance Bruce Wellborn? He shot me at a curious smile. Now you have the advantage of me. How do we know each other?

Demolition day, I said, my voice shaking with anger. "'I was a cleaner.' Bruce's face went slack, then paled. "'No swap,' he said. Edel let out a cry like a hurt animal. Fighting back the urge to punch the guy, I turned to leave instead. "'No,' Bruce said. "'I mean take the truck. No swap, no charge. "'You can have any car you want, child of a cleaner. I took his meaning maliciously, thinking that because I'd been a cleaner,

he was more eager than ever to corrupt my kid with his vehicular idols. Let's go, I grabbed Edel's hand. It was a mistake coming here. Edel slipped out of my grip and clutched the truck to their chest. Tuta, please! it was my mistake the old toy maker said softly my life was so small back then and my truck a big part of it i couldn't see couldn't begin to imagine this world you've made he swept his hands towards the garage opening the kids squealing with delight at the toys clattering in his yard, the bustling swap meet in the paved square, and beyond, a herd of wild horses grazing atop the prairie-covered

maglev tunnel. I was lonely and angry, and I was wrong. I met his gaze, still searching for some trick. You expect me to believe that you make all this, but you're not a car's rights person anymore? Not since the day they shot those poor cleaners. I've had nothing to do with them since then. He set down the soldering iron gently. Sure, I still love cars, but they're just toys now, aren't they? Toys and relics in a museum. Tuta, Edel swung my hand.

Please, can I have the truck? Their eyes were wide and pleading, brimming with tears, and again I heard Sam's voice in my head. I don't know about damned, but you're on track to destroy a relationship with your kid. I dropped a bag of food on Bruce's swap table, whether he wanted it or not, and Edel squealed and danced out of the garage, cradling the monster truck like a baby. As we walked back to the maglev station, I started feeling embarrassed for my anger.

Sternly, I told myself that it was the least that Bruce deserved for having stood in the way of the mission. He'd thrown in with those murderous cars rights people, even if he hadn't pulled a gun's trigger. I hoped it'd be the last time I ever saw him. But a few months later, it was Edel's birthday, and all they wanted was to pick out another car, a friend for their monster truck. So he visited Bruce again, and this time Edel came prepared, peppering him with questions about internal combustion engines, until he unearthed a stack of old magazines for them to take home. Edel looked like they'd been handed a treasure map

and spent weeks rereading the things, gingerly turning the yellowed paper on the floor of their room. Then they asked Sam to teach them to bake so that they'd be able to make their own goodies to swap for more cars. After a year, Edel had accumulated more of Bruce's toy vehicles

than any other kid in the neighborhood. A few times, at Sam's encouragement, I tried to talk to Edel about why I didn't like cars. I wanted to explain what being a cleaner had meant to me, how vicious a world full of cars had been, and how I grieved for my friends who'd been murdered by cars rights protesters. But every time I tried to get the words out, I'd wind up stammering and tearing up. Edel would pat my cheek, looking a little bored. They'd say, I know, Tuta, I know,

in a voice so sweet it broke my heart, and then they'd turn back to the city of cars they'd lovingly set up on the forest floor. I hoped the fascination would pass as Edel grew, but their interest only shifted. When they were 12 years old, I found Edel crying in the midst of what looked like an explosion, a zillion pieces of monster trucks scattered around them. They'd taken the thing apart, drawing careful diagrams at each step,

but now they couldn't figure out how to put it back together. Together, we collected all the tiny circuit boards and screws in a pouch and visited Bruce at the next swap meet. That day, he took Edel on as an apprentice. Other kids went to dance classes or played instruments or sports, but my Edel became a toy maker. Every Sunday, I'd read a book in that dusty garage while Bruce taught Edel to solder circuit boards and install tiny headlights.

He was always patient and soft-spoken, but I never let them alone together. I remembered his rage from all those years ago, and I never quite trusted that he'd changed. It was Edel's idea, at 16, to petition the local council for the historical restoration project. To my dismay, the project was approved. Edel started riding maglev trains all over the country, scouring scrap metal yards for a tailpipe or a passenger side door. They'd haul their findings onto the maglev, zipping all the way back to the Lawndale station, where an ancient Ford truck was gradually taking shape in Bruce's yard. When the truck was completed, all the adjoining neighborhoods came out to marvel at

it. Hundreds of people. The wheels were blocked, so it would never drive anywhere or hurt anyone. Still, kids loved climbing up in the cab, honking the horn and flicking the turning indicators. The local news stations even interviewed Bruce and Edel. Watching my kid passionately explain their hard work on the 7pm news, something inside me melted. I let go of the resentment I'd been carrying all those years, and my heart swelled with an uncomplicated pride for my brilliant kid. Edel soon left home to study mechanical engineering and took a job improving the efficiency of maglev lines. They zipped all over the continent for work,

rarely stopping home for a visit. Their absence never stopped feeling like someone had carved a hole in my chest. Sundays, in particular, felt howlingly empty, and one day I stepped off the maglev at Lawndale Orchard out of an old habit. My feet took me to Bruce's garage. He looked pleasantly surprised, offered me coffee,

and we sat and watched kids play with his latest creations. I filled him in on the latest news from Edel, and our talk drifted to the olden days. I was surprised to find that there was joy in remembering that long-gone world with someone else. We named little things now extinct, like waiting at a crosswalk, or the smell of gasoline, or the sound of passing cars in the rain. When I got the call from Bruce's estate manager, Edel was working on an urgent job on the European continent and wouldn't be able to return for at least a month.

Sam offered to come with me, but she'd only met Bruce once or twice, so I preferred to go alone. Long after his eyesight went, and his hands started shaking, and he could no longer make toys, I continued to visit with Bruce most Sundays. He had no biological family, but he was often invited into the homes of neighbors, many of whom had grown up playing with his creations. So I was surprised to get the call from his estate manager to learn that I was the person entrusted with his last request. I'd just had knee surgery, an old injury from my year as a cleaner, so I rode a motorized wheelchair onto the maglev.

The appointment with the estate manager didn't take long. Leaving his office, I cradled an impossibly small wooden box on my lap. Disembarking at Calcott, I found the block transformed beyond recognition. Mature pecan trees shaded a forest floor were once I'd shoveled up a road. The path I drove down skirted a restored stream bed,

emptying into a pond choked with lilies. Beyond, the path disappeared into a bluestream prairie where a herd of buffalo grazed among clouds of dragonflies. For 200 years, while this place was named Houston, no buffalo had ever visited the shores of Buffalo Bayou. Now the herds returned every year from the Great Plains up north to winter along our mild coast, enriching our soils and our souls with their powerful presence.

I loved the annual festival we threw to celebrate their approach, the children running atop the grassy maglev tunnels waving streamers as the first dust clouds appeared on the horizon. I parked my chair in the last stretch of shade beside the pond, in no rush. As dusk came on, a succession of animals visited the stream,

rabbits, ducks, a herd of deer, even a fox and her kits. There were two herds of human children moving through the area as well, an older group and a younger one. They'd disappear in and out of their homes once single-family houses now converted into multi-generational villas with their quilt-like additions, each successive room built with different recycled materials. The children laughed and called to

one another, climbing and jumping from trees. Adults tended to use the paths rather than venturing through the thick carpet of undergrowth. Sometimes one would stop and ask me if I was lost or needed help. I thanked them, waving off their slightly condescending concern. A firefly flickered in the gloom, and then ten minutes later, thousands. The children re-emerged from their homes, catching the insects in jars and playing ghosts in the graveyard. Finally, adults appeared in doorways, calling the children to sleep. The moon emerged from the treetops, gilding everything in silver,

and still I sat there, unable to bring myself to complete my task. At last, a deep voice asking, Who? Who are you? drew my eyes up to a break in the canopy, where a live oak had been struck by lightning. Its lower branches were lush with leaves, but above, a blackened trunk scraped the sky. A large shadow perched there,

two tufted ears silhouetted against the indigo sky. A great horned owl. I peered through the dark, judging the distance back to the maglev station. Was this the right place? The owl seemed to be a good omen. Close enough. I took a deep breath and opened the box, not sure what to expect. It was a relief to see a dry, crumbly substance.

Just soil. Fifty years ago, Bruce had parked a truck here on an asphalt street because he wanted to stop us from tearing up the roads. Now, fulfilling his last wish, I scattered the compost that had once been his body at the base of the lightning-struck tree. The next rain would dissolve Bruce's matter into the soil, where his minerals would be absorbed by the trees, grass roots, fungus, and worms. Cycling through the food chain, he'd feed insects, amphibians, owls, and squirrels.

Blackberry vine twined through the undergrowth, and I hoped Bruce's molecules would find their way there. When those berries ripened in midsummer, the kids of the neighborhood would be the first to devour them, and in that way, Bruce might get a second childhood or dozens of them. These would be childhoods freer and happier than ours had been, buckled as we were into back seats, our play trapped between strips of sidewalk. These kids would grow up with their toes sunk in stream beds, befriending jackrabbits and wild horses, feeding off the fruits of the land, and growing in the loving embrace of a multi-species family.

Their lives stretched ahead, not a paved road to Armageddon, but a winding path beside the clear stream. Where the path disappeared behind a copse of blooming dogwoods, the future remained a mystery, but whatever lay beyond, these children could trust it would be beautiful and free and bursting with life. The end. Wow. That was such a beautiful way to build a world

for some reason. I really enjoyed that. It was really nice. Yeah, I'm really struck by the the grace of it the earnestness of it the like the attempt to understand even as you're like painting like ah this damn angry guy just yelling you know like it's the most like okay it's like the most prison abolitionist thing i've ever read

it's the most like let's make each other better thing and it also like even has like the protagonist also getting needlessly angry right and like i don't know you're right it's No, you're right. It's, um, every character is, is whole and complicated and has, and is afforded grace. And I think I, I don't know. It's human. Yeah. It's a very human story. I really liked that.

Thanks. Yeah. I, um, I made Ian have to go back and cut it out. Cause I cut pieces out. Cause I started crying while I was reading it which is like really not what I expected you know but it's like

I mean this is like there's almost like some of it's like so earnest that I'm almost like oh I don't know it's like pretty earnest and then I'm like that's because this is just kind of what I want like even if it's like a little bit like it's very utopian. It's very like, oh, it'll work out.

Right. But it's like. Yeah. We need stories that remind us that things can get better. You know? Yeah. It's not like a future where everyone is like apocalyptic and struggling and whatever. It's a future that we can make better.

Yeah. Yeah. Well. Yeah yeah well i'm gonna read the bio the bio sim kern sim kern is the usa today best-selling author of the free people's village an indie next pick their debut horror novella depart depart has an exclamation mark at the end was selected for the honor list of the 2020 Otherwise Award, and their short story collection, Real Sugar is Hard to Find, was hailed in a starred review by Publishers Weekly as a searing, urgent, but still achingly tender work that will wow any reader of speculative fiction. As a journalist, they report on petrochemical polluters and drag space billionaires. sim spent 10 years

teaching english to middle and high schoolers in houston texas before shifting to writing full-time find them all over the internet but especially on tiktok at sim kern which is s-i-m-k-e-r-n and also find them on it could happen here like a couple weeks ago possibly more i don't know i really liked them i'm trying to convince you all to have them on more i mean i want i would love to have them on more i told them after we were done i was i was like this is not the end yeah you're gonna have to come back yeah uh they're so knowledgeable and i don't know you can tell i feel like with someone's writing style like the maybe earnestness is the word I'm thinking of because you kept saying it but like that's what I mean like you know what I mean like the the writing of a person really indicates a deeper

level of them does that make sense am I making sense it's been a long day yeah no you can 12 p.m it like it reflects something about you know obviously like people write in styles that are not like you know you can't tell everything about an author based on just like what they write or whatever but you can you could tell something and like you can tell like on the details they focus on and what they choose to describe about a person yeah seems awesome and they will definitely be on it could happen here more but the first episode they were on came out a couple weeks ago about anti-zionism so i would recommend that if you want to listen yeah all right well that's gonna do it for

book club cool zone media book club catch us next sunday when we read you more stories of the arcane and positive and sometimes not positive and all kinds of things. That's the official tagline. I got it approved by corporate. See y'all soon. It Could Happen Here is a production of Cool Zone Media. For more podcasts from Cool Zone

Media, visit our website, coolzonemedia.com or check us out on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you listen to podcasts. You can find sources for It Could Happen Here, updated monthly, at coolzonemedia.com. Thanks for listening. You should probably keep your lights on for Nocturnal Tales from the Shadowbride. Join me, Danny Trejo, and step into the flames of right. An anthology podcast of modern day horror stories inspired by the most terrifying legends andords of Latin America. Listen to Nocturnal on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.

I found out I was related to the guy that I was dating. I don't feel emotions correctly. I collect my roommate's toenails and fingernails. Those were some callers from my call-in podcast, Therapy Gecko. It's a show where I take phone calls from anonymous strangers as a fake gecko therapist and try to learn a little bit about their lives.

I know that's a weird concept, but I promise it's very interesting. Check it out for yourself by searching for Therapy Gecko on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Curious about queer sexuality, cruising wherever you get your true goals. You can listen to Sniffy's Cruising Confessions, sponsored by Gilead, now on the iHeartRadio app

or wherever you get your podcasts. New episodes every Thursday.