"I can't help thinking that we've gone about this the wrong way," said Anna, handing back the folder. Sarah pouted at her.
"Well, it's a bit late now. Why didn't you say something sooner?"
"Because your enthusiasm is contagious, and I didn't want to put you off. Honestly, Sarah, this is the first time in ages you've gone near the bull, never mind grabbed it by the horns. I'm impressed."
"And I'm misguided, apparently."
"No, it's not that simple."
"It never is." She sighed, flicking through the pages. "So tell me, preferably in an uncomplicated way, what can we do to fix this?"
Anna sipped her cappuccino, thinking for a moment.
"Your business plan is fine. That's not it."
Corinne tapped Donal's hand, making him jump.
"What?"
"You were doing it again. Eavesdropping."
He jerked his head in the direction of Anna and Sarah.
"They're fascinating. I'm more and more convinced that life is like a series of taster menus at a restaurant desperately hoping for a Michelin star, but never quite getting one."
"Or," said Corinne, "We've been on the road for too long, and your world view is becoming jaded by too much ambiguous contact with mundanity. Finish your coffee. We need to get moving."
Back in the car, Donal was warming to his theme.
"You're probably right, but I refuse to get cynical. That's the trouble with working at our level, you start to rank everything and everyone on scales that are so rigid you can miss the subtle distinctions. I never appreciated the phrase human interest until I noticed how those stories stuck out in the news schedules. People need structure, those patterns, even us. Even if we are just PVs."
"What the Hell are PVs?"
"When I was at uni, one of my Cultural Anthropology professors came up with a new term for especially insightful but detached observers. Totally different context, but I think it applies. Peripheral Visionaries. PVs."
Corinne groaned.
"Was this the same guy who used to hang out with bikers, and had that mad sideline dealing with Wiccan shit?"
"It was more than just participant observation with the bikers, and there was a whole conspiracy deal with the Nine Sabbats that..."
Donal blushed, wondering if he should've just taken her critique on the chin.
"I can lend you his book if you like. It's completely free of...Wiccan shit."
"I'll pass, but thanks." She paused, and decided to throw him a bone anyway. "What's it called?"
"The Patchwork Mandala."
"Uh-huh."
"Apparently, the new edition has a chapter on Mexican peyote gangs."
"Really? I must Google the fuck out of it at my earliest opportunity."
He glanced at her, mostly relieved to see her smiling at him.
"Glad I've cheered you up."
"You haven't failed yet. I just wish this old crate had GPS."
To be continued.
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