Alan craned his neck to
see a pair of bearded neohippies in rasta hats.
"Are you Kurt?" one asked.
"Yeah, dude, I'm Kurt."
"Marcel told us that we could make some money here? We're trying to
raise bus fare to Burning Man? We could really use the work?"
"Not today, but maybe tomorrow," Kurt said. "Come by around lunchtime."
"You sure you can't use us today?"
"Not today," Kurt said. "I'm busy today."
"All right," the other said, and they slouched away.
"Word of mouth," Kurt said, with a jingling shrug. "Kids just turn up,
looking for work with the trash."
"You think they'll come back tomorrow?" Alan was pretty good at
evaluating kids and they hadn't looked very reliable.
"Those two? Fifty-fifty chance. Tell you what, though: there's always
enough kids and enough junk to go around."
"But you need to make arrangements to get your access points mounted and
powered. You've got to sort it out with people who own stores and
houses."
"You want to knock on doors?" Kurt said.
"I think I would," Alan said. "I suspect it's a possibility. We can
start with the shopkeepers, though."
"I haven't had much luck with merchants," Kurt said, shrugging his
shoulders. His chains jingled and a whiff of armpit wafted across the
claustrophobic hollow. "Capitalist pigs."
"I can't imagine why," Alan said.
#
"Wales Avenue, huh?" Kurt said.
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