13. The Rooftop Revolution of Selly Avilés #2
There’s a pause, and then, with a pleasant blip, a thumbs-up emoji appears.
SellyDA: I still have four other dogs to finish with.
This time the reply is almost instant: Bring them. And take Singe, too. He could use some culture.
The secret of Omar Solomon’s world-changing literature is that no one saw it coming.
His first book, Tumult’s Flight, was short on story, long on charm.
Basically, a dragon—the titular Tumult—learns to fly and then soars over different cities all over the world, spreading joy everywhere she goes.
It got rejected a bunch of times by editors who said it needed more conflict!
More story! And then sold hundreds of millions of copies globally and sparked a revolution that toppled not one but several empires.
No one in power saw it coming, because why would they?
What’s more innocuous than a happy dragon flying around the world making people happy?
Dragon kites appeared in the skies, hundreds of them.
They blotted out the sun. First it was New York, then LA.
Social media did its thing, and within days, demonstrations erupted in Mogadishu, Havana, Bogotá, Glasgow, Gaza City, each one raising the thousands of flying flags of Tumult.
More broke out; they became encampments, barricades, paradises.
Microeconomies popped up between them; tactics were shared.
Underground networks rose, ferrying organizers to safety during crackdowns.
A whole new era of global solidarity seemed to have been ushered into existence almost overnight.
Months later, several regimes had fallen with minimal casualties, especially considering the scale of change in play.
Whatever other analysis there was to be had (plenty, trust me, and, unfortunately, I’ve read most of it)—one thing could be agreed upon across the board: the world that existed before the Dragon Revolution was done, dust, a mere memory, and the only thing that could be said about whatever had been created in its wake is that it was wide open, up for grabs.
And maybe, all these years later, it still is.
There’ve been signs of the old way creeping back in: totalitarianism and hyper-capitalism have started seeping into daily conversations, small city-states banding together to ruin their neighbors’ economies.
The Harborside Museum of Children’s Literature, or Hmchul, as we regulars call it (okay, just me; I call it that) was built as a fun-filled tribute to the power of literature to change the world.
It wasn’t just Omar Solomon’s dragon, of course.
A whole renaissance of kids book writers rose up to add to the wave of change sweeping the globe.
The museum juts up into the sky from the edge of Pier 7.
Massive red letters announce its name from the rooftop, and a massive fiberglass replica of Tumult crawls over the word Children’s, gazing at the cityscape with those fierce and fiery eyes.
Obviously, I have a membership. I’m a children’s book writer, or I will be one day—what do you expect?
And, hopefully, one day starts tonight. But the point is, I’ve been here more times than I can count, starting from when I was a teeny tiny and my mamá would wheel me around and do her best to read the plaques in her faltering English, pointing out life-size dancing holograms and plaster sculptures of beloved characters from the books I’d force her to get from the library over and over and over.
But it’s an entirely different experience at night.
The squeals of dozens of kiddos usually fill the wide-open lobby.
Now I can hear the hush of the ventilation system, the gentle tapping of twenty paws around me on the linoleum, the whipping ocean wind outside.
A middle-aged white man meets me at the desk; he’s wearing a tux and regards me with the concern of someone who genuinely hopes he’s not about to have to call the police.
I can already see this entire favor sliding straight to hell on the furrows of this man’s ample brow.
“I’m afraid the museum is closed for a private event,” he explains, going a little above and beyond to perform the afraid part.
“No, I know,” I start. “It’s just—”
“Additionally, sadly, we do not allow pets on the property, unless, of course, they are of the service variety.”
Takes all I got in me not to clap back with some snark about having five service dogs.
I don’t though. I remember that I am here as a representative of someone else, someone I’d rather not embarrass, and so I just smile through my clenched jaw and tilt my head to the side.
When all else fails, name-drop, I guess, although I don’t see why he would believe me.
“I’m here on behalf of Omar Solomon,” I say as authoritatively as possible.
And then, feeling utterly ridiculous, “And he told me to bring the dogs.”
Well, it shut him up. The man is trying to figure out what to do with this dubious information when a woman—also white, well-dressed, and middle-aged (also elaborately concerned)—appears from the doorway behind the front desk and whispers hurriedly with her counterpart.
“Ah,” the man says, turning back to me. “You must be Selly. Right this way.”
I’m whisked off to an elevator, through some too-bright, “staff only” hallways, then some dimmer ones, and finally deposited along with Singe, Memo, Tchatchky, Bustelo, and Togo into an elegant green room.
Napping peacefully on a velvet couch is the famed author and illustrator Barnabas Hodge.
A dear friend indeed. I should’ve known Omar Solomon’s buddy list would include one of the most beloved storytellers of all time.
Barnabas Hodge is one of those guys who’s gonna have the pope at his funeral.
He’s been old as shit as long as I’ve been alive; gotta be in his eighties, probably going on immortal at this point.
He was a little on the sidelines during the Dragon Revolution, from what I understand, but did his part in a quiet, understated way.
Barnabas Hodge is drooling a little and snoring a lot.
He’s wearing a plaid tan suit that perfectly complements his tan skin.
He’s almost perfectly round, and bald as the day he was born.
The nervous museum guy vanishes as soon as I walk into the room, so it’s just me and this ancient slumbering icon and the dogs, who immediately approach to sniff his crotch.
“Memo! Tchatchky! Singe!” I whisper-yell just loud enough to wake the poor old man up.
“Ah,” he mutters, wiping his lips and blinking around. “Is it time already?”
“Ah, I don’t think so,” I say. “Sorry to wake you.”
“Oh, dogs!” He immediately starts giving scratches behind ears and becomes the only human to have ever existed or mattered to five adoring pairs of eyes. “What a way to awaken!” Then he realizes I’m just standing there, and glances up. “And a child. How nice!”
I’m twenty-six.
“I wonder when this cursed thing will begin, then?” he muses idly. “It’s probably getting late. Do they let dogs in museums now?”
“Ah, no, sir. Not exactly. I’m here because Omar Solomon asked me to give you a hand.”
Barnabas Hodge sits up very straight, adjusts his glasses, and blinks at me. “I’m sorry, did you say…” He turns suddenly inward. He knows what I said. What it means to him, that’s another story. “So it’s time, then, is it?”
I raise my eyebrows. “Hmm? Time for what? My understanding was that you might need a hand making a hasty exit from an awkward shindig.”
Barnabas Hodge lets out a wry chuckle. Then he shakes his head, running a hand over his shiny brown head. “Oh, Omar… you wily dog.”
I’m puzzling through all this when the furrowed brow guy pops his furrowed brow back in and announces, “It’s time.”
Barnabas Hodge and I walk out onto the roof, accompanied, of course, by my erstwhile, ever-sniffing entourage: Singe, Memo, Tchatchky, Bustelo, and Togo. They’re behaving themselves extremely well given the circumstances. Togo hasn’t peed on anyone yet, which is itself a small miracle.
Chairs have been set up, and tall, contained flames do their damndest to hold off the frigid night winds.
It’s a losing fight, of course. This Boston cold is relentless; it gets in your bones and won’t leave.
Especially this high up. All around us, the city sparkles, and the lights dance into the abysmal darkness of the bay.
Someone escorts Barnabas Hodge and me and the dogs to some seats on a small platform with fake flowers and a podium.
Clearly there’s been some mistake, and I tell the nearest guy in a tux who looks like he knows what he’s doing.
“No, no, this is quite right,” he assures me a little too gently. “Please.”
Once we’ve settled in and I get the dogs to calm down and sit quietly (thank you, bacon treats!), I text Omar Solomon a slew of question marks.
Then I squint out into the audience. No offense to anyone out there of the Caucasian persuasion, but all these old people look the same to me, even the young ones.
Each has paid a fortune and a half to be here and another on their outfits, which all look the same.
They’re all very pleased with themselves, and even more so, I gather from sideways glances and coy smiles, because Barnabas and I are here, too.
Just past them, the big red letters light up the night and Tumult glares out at the city. She’s fricken huge, this close up—larger than life. The wind rattles her slightly, and I have to remind myself it’s just fiberglass and paint.
OMAR SOLOMON: I take it that means everything is going as planned?