“Name?”
“Russel Foloi.”
“Arriving in Seattle or leaving Seattle?”
“No, I’m not a Homeless.”
“Then why are you here?” From behind her desk, the short bureaucrat craned her neck to get a better look at the scrawny young man who called himself Russel Foloi, who dressed in a tight sweater vest and a driver’s cap. She narrowed her eyes. Of course he wasn’t a Homeless. You could tell by how he dressed. No wilderness skills whatsoever.
Russel sighed softly to himself.
“I’m looking for someone. I heard he was in the city and I’m trying to track him down.”
“Who?”
“His name is Dr. Carlos Del Rio.”
“And he’s a Homeless?”
“Yes.”
“What’s your business with him?” The woman’s squint narrowed even further, to the point that Russel could hardly see her pupils. Russel fought the urge to roll his own eyes. Homeless bounties weren’t even a real thing. Nobody actually used the Homeless lifestyle to escape the law, and Homeless communities were too tightly knit for malintent interlopers to successfully use as hideouts. Everything else was nothing more than conspiracy and paranoia, largely stemming from baseless fears that eco-cities like Seattle which actively invited Homeless were undermining traditional sedentary values. It was not reassuring to see this level of suspicion coming from someone working at a Homeless Bureau waystation.
“Professional collaboration,” Russel answered, focusing on keeping his tone steady. It was stuffy in the office. Quiet. Suffocating. “He’s working on research that could be instrumental to my work. At least, that’s the rumor.”
The woman behind the desk eyed him a little longer, and finally typed the name into her computer.
“He registered his arrival in the city four days ago at the Puget Sound station.”
“Has he checked in at any outposts since then?”
“No.”
Russel’s brow furrowed as he chewed the information. It wasn’t a lot to go on.
“Have you tried following his social media accounts?” The short woman asked.
Now she was just being snide. Of course he had tried that. Russel again fought the urge to roll his eyes, and instead nodded politely. The woman, drunk on her gatekeeping power, reclined in her seat, pondering the issue for a moment with all the importance of an Athenian Stoic postulating at the Lyceum.
“I suppose there’s nothing to do but start at the nearest forest tower and ask if any of the residents have seen him. If they talk to a townie like you at all.”
Russel let the door close somewhat forcefully behind him as he left, relishing ever so slightly in the modest thud it made as it slammed shut under its own weight.
He closed his eyes and took a breath, absorbing the soundscape that enveloped him as he stepped back into the open air of the city. The clanging of bells, the endless chatter of people, the honking and sirens and whistles and whirring. The momentum of the city, its energy, pounding against his eardrums.
He exhaled slowly. Even in an eco-city like Seattle, the sounds remained. And they held all the answers.
Ambient urban traffic. 60-80 decibels.
“First time in Columbia Forest Tower?”
“It’s just been a while,” Russel replied, panting as he wiped water from the corners of his mouth and raised his water bottle in acknowledgment of the stranger’s voice. Leaning against the moss-covered pillar for support, he looked up. The man casually approaching him must have been 30 years his senior, and yet he smiled as he bounced along the trail, a lean and sinewy frame bearing the evidence of practiced muscles.
“You’re not a Homeless,” the man grinned, slyly glancing at Russel’s boots and their lack of scratches, scuffs, or dust. “Just getting into tower hiking? We’ve got a club, if you’re interested. Jack Hache, club president, at your service.”
“No, nothing like that,” Russel waved off the offer, taking another swig from his water bottle. Jack Hache, club president, tilted his head.
“Not many day hikers come to this forest tower. It’s rated deep green, minimal maintenance. This tower has some great views, but it can also be tough for newbies. Mostly club hikers and Homeless around here. If you’re just starting out, can I recommend one of the more maintained and less steep towers in the Central District?”
“I’m looking for someone. A Homeless,” Russel answered, fidgeting with his backpack and tiring of the intrusion.
Jack’s face lit up. “Well then, how about a guide? I know this forest like the back of my hand, and I’m known to most of the Homeless camps alright. With all due modesty, I’m about the best you could get for this hike.”
Russel opened his mouth to politely refuse, then paused and closed it. It could take him days to search this entire vertical forest, and the man he was seeking might have moved on by then. Plus, he wasn’t likely to be welcomed into a Homeless camp on his own, but with a club-member guide it might be possible. He sighed, and extended his hand.
Jack took the outstretched hand, shaking it eagerly, and the deal was sealed. Without a moment’s hesitation, he strode off, babbling about all the forest towers he had hiked and his favorite spots in each for high-quality naps.
As they hiked, climbing the sloping floors of the tower, Russel took in the forest around him. Unruly colonnades of thick tree trunks filled the tall spaces between floor and ceiling, underbrush covering one side and canopy on the other on each level of this living edifice. Sunlight and air filtered through the open walls and exposed patios beyond. The first forest towers, built back when Seattle had just begun its green restructuring, were made from existing parking garages. The goal was to create space for community gardens and to combat carbon emissions through the natural oxygen-renewing processes of photosynthesis. That architectural and ideological heritage remained evident even in more modern forest towers like this, open-walled skyscrapers overflowing with verdant growth.
Of course, forest towers with a deep green rating weren’t quite like the ones Russel knew. In his neighborhood, the forest tower trails were well maintained for day hikers and tourists traversing paths of manicured shrubs and little streams. Community gardens covered the patios, windows to the city beyond where the natural and artificial fused together. Here, however, the path was barely visible under fallen leaves and exposed roots and the exterior patios were obscured from view by quivering curtains of vines. The city seemed so distant as to be miles away. The soft chirping of birds and rustling of rodents in the underbrush seemed thunderous against the dampened muffle of electric cars and solar generators and all of city life that Russel knew waited outside these walls.
“So, this Dr. Del Rio, you work together?”
Jack’s voice shook Russel’s attention back to the present. “No, not quite. He’s a sound engineer, just passing through Seattle. I just need to speak with him about his research.”
“Must be important, to go through all this trouble.”
Russel just nodded in affirmation and Jack, evidently catching onto Russel’s reserved disposition, did not press the issue further.
They had gotten a late start to the day, a consequence of Russel’s inexperience, and so had to stop to make camp in a small corner meadow after only a half-dozen levels of hiking.
“There’s a pretty sizeable Homeless camp five levels up,” Jack, reclined on the ground around a modest fire, said over a plate of rehydrated rations spiced with some herbs he had picked himself along their hike,. “Good place to start looking for your friend.”
Russel nodded and groaned as he extracted his aching feet from newly scuffed boots still resisting the metamorphosis of being broken in. He tossed the boots near his sleeping bag and tenderly walked over to the fire, laptop under one arm.
“Mind if I ask what you do?” Jack nodded at the instrument as Russel settled onto the ground and started typing.
“I work in museums,” Russel answered, a little quietly. “I study cities.”
That night, while Jack snored contentedly amidst the bramble and the branches of the structurally contained ecosystem, Russel was restless. He tossed, and he turned. It was quiet in the forest. With soft steps, he crept from their campsite across the little meadow and slipped through the vines and branches onto the patio. He exhaled slowly as the night air washed over him, bringing with it the sounds of horns and vendors and denizens occupying the less-foresty parts of the urban landscape below.
Coffee grinder. 78 decibels.
“Del Rio? Yes, I did see him here,” the woman scratched at her chin. Russel felt the twitch of eager anticipation in his chest. “He passed through a few days ago.”
The twitch imploded into a hollow dread. A few days? What were the chances that he was still here?
“Any idea where he went?” Jack asked. The woman thought it over.
“I haven’t seen him come through this way again, so there’s a good chance he hiked up to the upper levels and has been camping out up there. But there’s another ramp on the other side of this level, so he could have gone down that way as well. There’s a camp near there; I’d ask them. Just be warned that they aren’t the friendliest of camps in this forest.”
Russel sensed a distinct air of rivalry in her voice as she said it, puffing her chest slightly in the confidence of her camp’s superior hospitality. As if to prove the point, she smiled broadly at the pair.
“But why don’t you stay and have breakfast before you go? You must have been up early!”
Russel started to shake his head in polite refusal, but Jack stepped in front of him.
“We’d be honored,” he said, matching her grin. As she turned to lead them into her camp, Jack whispered in Russel’s ear: “Never turn down an offer like that; you don’t want to be this deep in the forest and insult the only hosts you’ve got.”
Although he had lived his entire life in Seattle, Russel had never been to a Homeless camp before. Most settled citizens hadn’t. He’d seen them on the streets, coming and going, sometimes selling vegetables they grew in the tower gardens or hawking their handmade artisanal wares in pop-up markets. But then they vanished into the forest towers or moved on to another town. The Homeless tended to prefer isolation, and entrance into a camp was generally on a basis of invitation only.
The sounds of early morning banter and the bustling of a small crew preparing for the day ahead welcomed them as they passed through a few rows of tents, each bearing an array of lovingly stitched patches as badges of honor, a meritorious collection attesting to the devotion of the stitcher to this lifestyle.
Several large cables ran between the tents, connecting their generators to the tower’s solar panels. A fire was going, and music played from a speaker. The mobile router blinked in time with it. Someone had erected three long tables, at which several people were already at work. Some wove threads of natural fibers or perfected various handicrafts; most, like Russel, worked from their laptops.
“You’re welcome to charge any of your devices if you need, and we have spare bandwidth if you want to do some work. I’m Joanna, by the way.”
Joanna led them to the longest of the tables and then scurried off. Russel watched her go, the flannel shirt tied around her waist dancing rhythmically towards a large tent from which emitted the smell of flapjacks. She had to be roughly his age, but her cheeks were full and her muscles lean. She had lived this lifestyle for some time. Russel shook his head a little as he pulled out his laptop. Jack was already busy chatting up a Homeless from Vancouver who was working his way south.
“Do you work in technology?” Joanna reappeared with three cups of coffee, giving one to Russel, one to Jack, and clutching the third tightly against herself.
“No, um, just checking some things. I’m in museum work.”
“That’s neat!” She leaned over his shoulder and he felt his ears go red. “I’m a programmer, myself, originally from Atlanta, but here by way of San Francisco. Power grid stuff, mostly. Data analysis, coding, I do all of it. I’ve got a side gig with a crafts vendor website too. What kind of museum work do you do?”
“Science, history, culture,” Russel lowered the screen a little and turned to face Joanna, still smiling earnestly. “Basically everything related to cities. I’m working on an exhibit about the history and transformation of Seattle’s urban landscape.”
“Interesting,” Joanna sat down next to him. Although it was a cool morning, Russel was suddenly starting to feel warm. “So you’ll know all about these places!” She gestured to the forest around them. “Tell me, is it true that Seattle built the first forest towers?”
Russel nodded, gulping as Joanna scooted even closer. “Yep, yeah. Had to be somewhere with no shortage of water, back when they were figuring out how to integrate forests into the city. Seattle managed it as part of a full green restructuring, solar panels, wind and tidal turbines to power the grid, limited emissions, forest towers, all that.”
“Well I’m glad I came here!” Joanna leaned back and clapped her hands. She turned on the bench and stretched her back against the table, gazing into the forest. “What a place to be, huh?”
“Am I interrupting?”
Russel jumped at the sound of Jack’s voice in his ear. Jack laughed merrily, slapping the table.
“We should get moving,” he said, still chuckling. “If you want to check that other camp it will add some time onto our route.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Russel nodded as he stood. Each level was the size of a city block, and in a dense forest like this it would be possible to walk right past a campsite without noticing. They’d have to comb a lot of ground.
“Hey, why don’t I come with you?” Joanna popped out of her seat. “I can help you look, and I wouldn’t mind stretching my legs.”
“We don’t want to inconvenience you,” Russel muttered. “I’m sure you have a lot of work to do.”
“I’ve put in extra hours since I got here a few weeks ago, so I’m flexible. Just let me grab my pack!”
With that, Joanna bounced off towards her tent. Jack leaned in towards Russel and winked.
Standard human conversation. 60 decibels.
“You know, I’m actually a third-generation Homeless,” Joanna bragged as they walked.
“Really?” Jack said, eyebrows raised. “Your family must have joined the movement pretty early on.”
“My grandmother was among the very first,” Joanna nodded proudly. She looked over at Russel. “You should find this interesting, museum-guy. She used to tell me stories about how it all began. Know anything about that?”
“Yeah, some,” Russel nodded. “I’ve studied it. But the focus of my work was always more about the history of the green restructuring, not the Homeless movement.”
It was clearly the thing Joanna wanted to hear, and she lit up at the challenge.
“Think they’re different topics? Not the way my grandmother explained it! She always told me that long ago, before the restructuring, homelessness wasn’t a choice for a lot of people, but a result of poverty and urban neglect,” Joanna launched into her sermon with all the enthusiasm of a fire-and-brimstone preacher. “The homeless were people that society forgot, let fall off the grid. Then came the eco-city movement. When we started focusing on the health of the entire city, its people, its place in the environment, everything changed. Cities fixed their infrastructure, provided better community and mental health services, all that. City officials thought homelessness would disappear with the reduction of poverty. Instead, a lot of people saw the potential for freedom and it became a lifestyle, a choice. One defined by self-sufficiency, nomadism, a rejection of material possession, and the simple joy of wanderlust. And you know what? The Homeless leave almost no carbon footprint, contribute little to nothing to pollution or excess or waste. So, you see, our movement is inseparable from the green infrastructure revolution! The government had to accept it as a legitimate part of the new eco-society, remove barriers to employment and services like having a permanent address. Nobody is forced into this lifestyle. We choose it. I was raised Homeless, then registered Homeless myself as soon as I was legally old enough and haven’t ever wanted anything else. The city is a forest, and we are its keepers!”
“Hear, hear,” Jack cheered, saluting the proud Homeless woman leading their way through the brush.
Struggling to keep up with the two veteran hikers, Russel barely found the spare energy to nod along and wondered at Joanna’s lungs’ capacity to support such a trek and such fiery preaching simultaneously.
Jack and Joanna talked like this for some time, swapping hiking stories and comparing notes on natural and artificial forests across the continent. Russel listened with mild interest, but also with a sense of distance. The nearly evangelical passion in Joanna’s voice was inescapable, but he still never understood why someone would choose the nomadic life of a Homeless.
Eventually, they worked their way through the forest and found the ramp on the other side of the level. Joanna and Jack set to locating the Homeless camp in the area, and Russel tagged along, trying not to get lost in the thicket. Finally, peeking out from the underbrush, weathered canvas came into view.
“Greetings!” Jack raised a hand as they approached, and several heads popped out from tents.
One of them, belonging to a somewhat surly looking individual, came to meet them. “Hache, is that you? Haven’t seen you around here for a while. Joanna,” the man nodded.
“Gibbs,” she nodded curtly back. The man now identified as Gibbs tipped his head towards Russel.
“Who’s the townie?”
“Russel Foloi, sedentary museum guy from Seattle,” Jack answered quickly, evidently providing all the relevant credentials. “We’re looking for a Dr. Carlos Del Rio. Has he come through here?”
“You need a doctor?” Gibbs scratched the back of his neck. “We’ve got a physician here.”
“Not that type of doctor. He’s a — what was it?” Jack turned to Russel.
“Sound engineer. Specialist in acoustics and sound energy,” Russel stepped forward.
“What’s a museum guy need a sound engineer for?” Gibbs scoffed.
“Dr. Del Rio’s working on something I need,” Russel mumbled, sensing in the brief moment of silence that followed that information was the cost of admission into Gibbs’ camp. “A formula that would dramatically increase the productivity of useable energy absorbed from sound. Something that could make harvesting sound energy a practical part of the city’s infrastructure.”
Gibbs nodded, eyebrows furrowed, and then jerked his head in the direction of the fire.
“I’ve been on a hike for the last few days, but maybe someone in camp has seen him.”
“Is that true?” Joanna whispered in Russel’s ear as they approached the camp. “About the formula?”
Russel nodded. That was the rumor, anyway.
“Any of you guys seen a Dr. Carlos Del Rio pass through here?” Gibbs addressed the band of transients.
Some of them looked up from their work and some who shook their heads while fingers kept clacking at the laptop keyboards. Other voices started to rustle through the small crowd like a breeze through a meadow of dandelions.
“Who wants to know?” A voice came from somewhere.
“This kid,” Gibbs jerked a thumb towards Russel. “Museum guy.”
“Is that Joanna? Couldn’t resist my charms, eh sweetheart?”
“Shove it, Trevor. Your tent doesn’t have a single patch on it.”
“What’s a museum guy need with the sound engineer?”
“Traded a townie for it. Nice and cozy inside.”
“I thought you said it was a doctor.”
“We’ve already got a doctor.”
“Trevor, I swear you keep it up and this boot is going somewhere cozy.”
“Not that kind of doctor.”
“I haven’t been to a museum in ages.”
“I’m sorry,” Russel tried to cut in, “did someone say something about an engineer? Do you know Dr. Del Rio?”
“No.”
“He wasn’t asking you.”
“Yes.”
Heads turned as someone stood, a woman with long, grey hair.
“He was here?” Jack asked. The woman nodded. Jack followed up. “Do you know which ramp he took?”
“Up,” the woman said before returning to her seat. “Heading all the way to the top.”
“You haven’t missed him,” Jack smiled, turning to Russel. “He’s still here.”
Russel sighed in relief.
“So why does the museum kid need a sound engineer?” Gibbs stood with his arms crossed, still observing their conversation.
Jack raised an eyebrow at Russel and nodded.
“I’m creating an exhibit on the city’s urban landscape,” Russel answered finally. “As a way to try and save it, or part of it. My exhibit is about the sounds of the city, the urban soundscape. The mayor is proposing a measure that includes extreme noise reduction as part of the next phase of restructuring, but Dr. Del Rio’s formula, if it’s real, would provide an alternative; harnessing the city’s sounds as a form of salvaged energy.”
“How interesting,” Joanna pulled at her chin as she considered the idea. “I’m no expert but it seems reasonable. There are sounds everywhere in the city, so why not use that energy?”
“The problem,” Russel sighed, “has always been efficiency. The sound from a train passing by creates about a hundredth of a watt per square meter while sunlight generates roughly 680 watts in that same space. So it’s never been that efficient, but Dr. Del Rio’s formula is supposed to compound the useable energy in vibrational and acoustic energy, channeling all the sounds from sources throughout the city into a single grid. It’ll never replace solar or tidal as our main sources of power, but it can substantially supplement the power grid. And I think it’s enough to prove that the sounds of the city should be preserved, not eliminated. That’s what my exhibit is about, sounds as an essential part of the city’s lived heritage and texture.”
Jack’s eyebrows popped up and Joanna nodded along, smiling. Gibbs just scoffed.
“What would a townie know about the texture of the city?”
Heavy Breathing. >50 decibels.
“Gibbs is like that with everyone, don’t worry,” Joanna patted Russel on the shoulder as they climbed the ramp in pursuit of Dr. Del Rio and the uppermost levels of the forest tower.
Russel nodded his head, and yet, there was something about the taunt that he could not shake. What did Gibbs mean?
The hike was strenuous, most of it being spent moving from ramp to ramp, climbing ever upwards. Russel’s muscles strained, his feet burned, his joints ached. And yet, with every step he felt renewed, a piece of his soul fulfilled from traversing the forests and meadows within the moss-covered concrete frame of the tower. Streams trickled along the edges of each level, sometimes pooling in ponds large enough to host frogs and small fish. A waterfall thundered between a hole cut through five consecutive levels. Breezes wafted through the branches, occasionally carrying the ambient wayward sound of traffic into the forest and Russel would turn, gazing wistfully through the vines and imagining the city beyond. An ecosystem of sound. The fabric of the city woven through frequencies of energy.
Still, Gibbs’ words remained in the corners of Russel’s mind.
Finally, after what felt to Russel’s body to be an eternity spent atoning for a sedentary existence in the purgatory of perpetual exercise, the trio crested a ramp and saw above blue skies, unusually clear for Seattle at this time of year.
“We made it!” Jack smiled, basking in the sunlight.
“I haven’t been up this far in years,” Joanna held her hands over her head.
“Yep, good for us,” Russel panted, doubled over and chest heaving. Jack clapped him on the shoulder as he straightened and slipped something into his hand.
“What’s this?” Russel asked between breaths.
“Club patch,” Jack winked. “You’ve summited your first dark green forest tower. That automatically qualifies you for membership.”
Feeling a hint of red in his ears and a surprising swell of emotion in his chest, Russel mumbled his thanks.
In the more open top level of the tower, it did not take them long to find the Homeless camp and Jack again acted as herald for the incoming party.
“Congratulations on reaching this far!” A woman rose to greet them. “We see very few people who are not Homeless up here. Please, take a seat and help yourself to some refreshments after your hike.”
“Thank you,” Russel accepted a drink and a scoop of granola and nuts. “I’m here looking for a Dr. Carlos Del Rio. Do you know him?”
“Am I in trouble?”
Russel turned at the voice and a man emerged from his tent, a warm smile visible between the round glasses and thick beard.
“Dr. Del Rio,” Russel held out an anxious hand, “I’ve come a long way to see you. Can we talk?”
Profound Introspection. Incalculable.
Russel stood on the roof of the tower, overlooking the city stretched out around him, the lights from the buildings and cars twinkling in perfect concert with the stars in the black sky overhead. Even this far up, he could hear the honking and rumbling and vitality of the soundscape.
“I do hope my formula can help you convince the city not to restrict all the noise,” Dr. Del Rio said, hands in his pockets as he stood next to Russel. “Even if it isn’t finished yet.”
“It’s enough to prove that sound can be harnessed as a viable resource,” Russel nodded. “And that should be enough to protect it as a vital part of the city’s infrastructure. And heritage.”
He thought for a moment longer.
“And texture.”
There was a moment of silence.
“You know,” Dr. Del Rio spoke softly, “sound is transient.”
Russel looked over at the renowned engineer who stood quietly gazing over the city, and raised one eyebrow.
“Think about it. It originates in one place, but never stops traveling until all its energy is spent. The soundscape that defines the city is composed of frequencies in motion.
“That’s the irony of the urban landscape, don’t you think?” Dr. Del Rio continued. “We look at the city and we think of it as the ultimate symbol of civilized sedentism. The place where the ancients first settled, built something permanent and immobile. But movement has always been part of the urban environment, hubs of restless activity, defined by movement through them and within them. Cities are stasis and bustle, all at once. And the homeless have always been part of that, always in motion, as much a part of the urban landscape as the sounds, the noises. Cities were always an ideal environment for nomads.”
He paused, and looked directly at Russel. Russel chewed his thoughts for a moment.
“In my line of work, we often speak of the fabric of the city,” Russel replied slowly, deliberately. “But I suppose fabric itself is only born from yarn in motion. The pull, the push, the tension, the movement. Yarn in stasis remains in the spool. The texture is an artifact of the action of weaving.”
“I studied sound for years, but I never truly grasped the soundscape until I became it, became motion within the city, of the city, became a Homeless. And that’s when I started working on my formula.” Dr. Del Rio slowly exhaled, eyes closed, listening to the sounds below.
Russel nodded, his mind whirring, his heart beating. He looked over his shoulder at the campsite. Jack had inducted him into a society of mobility. Joanna promised to stay in Seattle until his exhibit was done, and hinted that he would be welcome to join her when she moved on to the next city.
Russel’s eyes wandered back out over the ledge, seeing in the grid of motion below a great loom, the weft of humanity interwoven with the warp of pulsating energy. The darkness, the lights. The solid permanence, the unceasing movement. The meandering Homeless, the sedentary townies. And weaving them all together, unifying them at the edge the fabric, were the sounds.