The following is an excerpt from the diary of Betty “Brooklyn”
Charles.
February 18, 1937
Dear Diary,
I think I must be one of the few folks who weren’t upset when Texas
seceded and all the other states broke up. Living in Minnesota
wasn’t exactly my idea of a good time. Sure, the cow-tipping was
fine, and I got to fly the family plane on weekends, but let’s be
honest here: It was hell.
If I hear one more guy say, “What’s a nice girl like you doing
flying with pirates like these?” I think I’ll puke. Those idiots
have no idea who I am. They see blonde hair and a girlish figure,
and they think I must be the sweet, girl-next-door type. If only
they knew. I’ve been a pirate since grade school when I stole
Debbie Mitchell’s ruler. She had two. I wanted one. Thing is, I was
always quick enough to not get caught, or smart enough to blame it
on somebody else.
When the U.S. fell apart, along with all its laws, I celebrated. I
believe we all secretly wished that the world would return to a
time of chaos and every-man-for-himself. I know I did. You can only
look at so many corn fields before you start to lose your mind, and
go to only so many county fairs before you’re bored out of your
skull.
What truly amazes me is that some people still believe nothing has
changed. They fool themselves with their business lunches and their
boardroom games. They’re forgetting that the stakes have changed.
What they earn so legitimately is easy pickings for folks like me
and mine—pirates who can just walk up and ask for it with a smile
and the right kind of threat, or slip it into our pockets when no
one is looking.
Easy targets? They’re the suckers I like the least, actually.
They’re no challenge. They’re like big-eyed cows standing in a
field of green, chewing their cud on a comforting, repetitive
schedule. Those of us with imagination just walk up and give them a
shove. They don’t even see it coming, and over they go. Boom. Moo.
Stupid cows. I confess: it makes me laugh, but it’s not the most
fun I’ve ever had.
No, the targets I like best are the ones who fight back. When
America blew apart at the seams, it was like a firecracker being
tossed into a hornet’s nest. The meanest, nastiest bastards came
out with their stingers ready and an unbelievable buzz on. They
were the smart ones, the ones who knew there was profit to be had
in others’ tragedies. The Stock Market Crash of ’29 didn’t so much
devastate these folks as inspire them.
Nobody trusts anybody anymore, and that’s probably wise. Old
McDonald had a farm. E-I-E-I-O. And on that farm he had a militia.
E-I-E-I-O. With a boom-boom here, and a boom-boom there, here a
boom, there a boom, everywhere a boom-boom; Old McDonald kept all
his neighbors at bay and dreamed of taking them over some day. And
I’m okay with that. Because the more they fight among themselves,
the less attention they pay to whose hands are in their
pockets.
I guess I did learn one good thing during my horrible farm-girl
existence. I’d be hopeless today if I hadn’t learned how to fly. I
owe Uncle for that. Nobody ever goes anywhere anymore except by
plane or zeppelin. Isolationists destroyed the interstate roads.
There’s no money in being a highwayman in a place with no highways.
The traffic was lifted into the skies, and that’s where I
belong.
Hell, I never would have met Nathan if I wasn’t flying him back and
forth between New York and D.C. If I’d never met him, I’d still be
up there, catering to fat cats with too much money and not enough
generosity. Sure, they offered plenty to have a pretty blonde on
their arms at dinner or in their beds. I wasn’t interested. I’m not
the kind of girl to grovel for what I want. I take what I want.
Nathan understood that. He understands me, because we’re just
alike, he and I. We’re pirates. Nobody ever becomes a pirate.
You’re born that way.
In a world where everyone’s a criminal, there’s no shame in
stealing.
