No Boundaries Magazine Issue 8 (2051) by risecollaborative

BOUNDARIES A rise collaborative publication

ISSUE 8

FREE fall 2051

#Buffalo2051 #NOBOUNDARIES5 |

| 45

Adam Weekley, Concept Rendering, 2023; 10" x 10"

Evolve. Revolve. Never be the same. Camp Everything: Past Futures Opening June 7, 2051 in the fourth floor Hover Gallery Travel back 30 years to a pivotal time when Adam Weekley, Torn Space Theater, and a group of Western New York artists helped us make sense of the moment as so many artists have throughout history. Inspired by an imaginative bear, they created a deeper understanding of diversity, identity, 2

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and justice that sparked a cultural revolution.

#Buffalo2051

WELCOME TO BUFFALO, 2051! The Pan American Exposition is returning to Buffalo, 150 years after the original. Once again, its host city is a robust, leading society in America. From sustainable infrastructure, finally implemented, to clean waterways, Buffalo also celebrates its equity and diversity and opportunity. Its people still have some flaws, but that makes for some great stories in the pages ahead. We didn’t build this world alone. Meticulous reports about how Buffalo could reach its fullest potential were provided, way back in 2021, by organizations already doing the work to make it happen, including GObike Buffalo, Buffalo Niagara Waterkeeper, Jericho Road Community Health Center, Dr. Daniel Hess, Professor and Chairperson, Department of Urban and Regional Planning, University at Buffalo, Providence Farm Collective, Dr. Elizabeth K. Thomas, Assistant Professor, Department of Geology, University at Buffalo, Restore our Community Coalition, Open Buffalo and many more organizations and individuals. You can read their full reports on what Buffalo could become and the road to get there:

Meet some of these visionaries in our video magazine:

WHO MADE THIS MAGAZINE? Rise Collaborative! Founded in 2014, Kevin Heffernan, Drew Brown and Bridget Schaefer added a newspaper to our production in 2016 that evolved into this magazine. Our team has grown and changed since then, and Issue 8: Buffalo 2051 was put together by our authors, and the following team:

KEVIN HEFFERNAN

Katie Smith

Chase Kalandia

Renée Helda

Lindsay Neilson

Editor In Chief

Managing Editor

Sales, Video

Illustrator

Layout Designer

All Comments/Inquiries: hey@risecollaborative.com @risecollaborative

No Boundaries ISSUE 8

@risecollab

Rise Collaborative

#Buffalo2051

INSIDE

ISSUE 8 8 “Quanta”

by David E. Feaman 18 “Ride Together,

Win Together”

by Kevin Heffernan 28 “Broken Rituals”

by Lauren Zazzara

38 “Green Halogen”

by LaGuan Rodgers 47 “GRONK’D”

by Jillian Benedict 56 “Death at

Pan Am”

by Francesca Bond

WHO MADE THIS MAGAZINE POSSIBLE?

SEIZE YOUR FUTURE

Every single ad you’ll see here came from a locally-owned business or locally-run non profit in Western New York. They took a look at their budgets while they climbed out of COVID and decided this magazine’s readers were worth their hardearned money.

On top of that support, it was the massive commitment made by West Side Promise Neighborhood to our vision that allowed us to push go on this entire production. See their featurette after you read our stories.

#1 RANKED PRIVATE UNIVERSITY IN WNY* 50+ MAJORS IN HEALTHCARE, ARTS, SCIENCES AND EDUCATION 10:1 STUDENT-TO-FACULTY RATIO

APPLY ONLINE TODAY. | DYC.EDU

6 | to the No 2021 Boundaries ISSUE *According U.S. News and8World Report

#Buffalo2051

Quanta

here was only one thing Cadence wanted to do that drizzly September day and thinking about it kept her up the night before so Quanta auto-cured her. It was a very unlush thing to have happened because she woke up late and was so shaken she had to selfcure before breakfast or Quanta would have auto-cured her again. Her brain reeled through yoga and when the class ended and the holographic instructor faded from her living room she didn’t feel refreshed at all. It was six o’clock before she knew it and the drizzle became a downpour. Cadence now had to venture out into a storm to be trapped in the cold and wet with thousands of persons at the Expo, squeezed in like a jar of olives. Just the thought of it nearly made her hyperventilate but she quickly self-cured. Then she was lush again. Kinda. All the good-thought-thinking threw her out of whack so she had to sprint down the street to make the CrossTown, her invisi-brella parting the falling rain like a force field. She could see it just ahead. Its bell sounded, its doors hissed closed, and its stupid serene voice announced its departure. It was gone before her sneakers hit the platform.

She waited a solid ten minutes with the damp chilly wind blowing in her face before the next CrossTown cruised in. The beginnings of thunder rumbled far off and the only sign of the setting sun was the slate gray smudge of cloud cover to the west. Cadence found a seat, by a window, facing the persons who stood in the aisle, smiling, glancing at each other from time to time with a placid nod. The doors hissed closed and the CrossTown glided off. Her cell-watch told her it was a quarter to seven and the Zero G display would begin at seven on the dot. She’d also received dozens of HMs. After scrolling through them she came to Jacket’s and an awful feeling settled into the pit of her stomach. He lectured her responsi-bullshit after telling her that she’d used up all of her self-cure days one of which was today. She strongly disfavored Jacket and her position at uEat facing the lunch-packages as they slid down the chutes but what else was there? In a perfect world she’d be working for iXperience as a think-tech coming up

By David E. Feaman

Illustrated by Renée Helda

No Boundaries ISSUE 8

#Buffalo2051

where she grew up, playing with Clancy, her Rottweiler mix. At first, she’d been afraid of him with his giant teeth. He would stalk her, pretend to pounce on her, but it was all just an act. When he bowled her over, licking her face and dancing her in circles, she’d laugh and cry with delight. The lights of the CrossTown blinked on, the air hissed from the hydraulic cables, and they were again speeding along, towards downtown. Cadence looked around at the placid looking persons as they chuckled, smiling to one another. No one spoke for the rest of the ride. Outside, the rain grew heavier but the crowd didn’t seem bothered—the invisi-brellas dissolved the downpour into a thin mist several feet over their heads. Lightning flashed out on the water beyond the Outer Harbor’s exhibition grounds. The sky was now blackhole black. As she wriggled her way through the mass, the wind surged up around them, took hold of nearby reusage receptacles and sent them flying. The surprise warranted a volley of Quantas who assured the persons that the weather was not the enemy and that the rain would be good for the vertical urban gardens.

with great ideas for new stuff. She could have been the one to imaginate ZeroG instead of turning lunch packages so that they’re facing the customers. But iXperience was at the Expo and wherever iXperience was Russ Derling was and all it took, Cadence figured, was to ask him for a job . . . The CrossTown lights suddenly flickered off, it slowed to a stop, then it died. A little needle spiked through Cadence’s chest. She glanced around. Did she sense a hint of panic in the air? Why would she?! This was the CrossTown, the most reliable mass transportation system in all of New York state. They (whoever the “they” were) would have it up and running in -

soprano Quanta voices filled the CrossTown but seemed to create a stir instead of the intended serenity. A flash of lightning and a rolling clap of thunder. The smell of electricity hung in the air. Many persons shrieked. More Quantas joined the chorus. Through the darkness Cadence could see the silhouetted shapes of the passengers bobbing their heads as they looked from one to another, running worried hands through their hair. There was murmuring and panting and “Anxiety levels are dangerously.” “Can’t self-cure your stress levels yourself.”

“It is important to breathe, person.”

“For your own health and well-being, person, I will now.”

Someone’s anxiety from within the throng of passengers had triggered Quanta.

“Now auto-cure.”

“-Your anxiety is acceptable given the circumstances, person, but we must remember.” “Too shall pass.” Others had now alerted Quanta and a chorus of soothing

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The CrossTown filled with the hiss of synaptic-hormonaladjustments. Cadence had no clue how many persons had been auto-cured but there was significantly less movement and silence fell over everyone. Wary of being auto-cured herself, Cadence closed her eyes to self-cure, even as lightning flared up again and thunder burst around her so near it shook the railcar. She imagined being a kid again in the house

Cadence managed her way past the holo-cade display where two young persons were dance-fighting cartoon ice cream cones, and the AI exhibit where an ordinary looking person dug her fingers into the left side of her head and pulled her face in half revealing flashy micro-computer-stuff. Those exhibits were super lush, of course, but Cadence didn’t really pop until she saw the ZeroG exhibit some twenty or so yards ahead. She began elbowing her way through the persons loitering, gnawing on KarrotStix and drinking NectR from compostable jugs, until she reached the main stage. Hanging over it, suspended from steel rafters twenty feet up and lit by spotlights from the corners of the stage, a banner read:

PAN AMERICAN EXPOSITION 2051 BUFFALO, LEADING THE FUTURE! Below that, projected from the edge of the stage, was a shiny curtain with the iXperience logo. She didn’t have to wait too long before hearing Quanta’s gentle voice resonate from the stage. “Long ago there were wars, racism, wealth-oppression, casual wonton brutality.” The projection changed, the logo disappeared, and was replaced by news footage and body-cam feeds of mass violence. The persons around Cadence stirred, murmured. “There was social upheaval, authoritarian police forces fought to uphold the status quo,

which, unfortunately, was built on and thriving off of white supremacy. In those days fear and hatred governed our political and societal decisions. We were killing each other for no better reason than our own emotional reactions. Luckily for us, Russ Derling, founder and CEO of iXperience, knew that in order to cure us of our emotions we needed to simply disrupt and augment their chemistry at the synaptic level. “That’s where I come in. You may know me, I certainly know you, I’m Quanta, your own personal mental health guide. (A movie flashed over the projection of a person’s hot pink cell-watch) iXperience designed me to monitor your body’s emotional reactions through the sensors in your cell-watch and to use those very same sensors to deliver the electric stimulation needed to augment those reactions (the cell-watch-wearer became see-through except for the central nervous system, throbbing as the yellow lightning graphics pulsed into it from the sensors). Thanks to Russ Derling, violence is obsolete. But, hey, you hear enough of me every day, let’s hear from the genius himself.” The audience roared with applause as Russ Derling materialized on the projection. He raised his hands in salutation, his ShockSuit undulating in pastel colors. Everyone went quiet. “Welcome everyone to the Expo. You know, I started iXperience a decade ago with a single goal in mind, creating an easier, more peaceful future. Our first phase was WorkrB, the nano-AI-technology that powers almost everything around you, from mass transportation to the invisi-brellas that are keeping you dry right now. WorkrB made the cell-watches you all wear possible and brought Quanta to life to literally peacen you. But that was so 2049!” Derling’s projection smiled wryly as the audience hooted and laughed. When they’d gone quiet again he spoke. “Now, though, the time’s are changing but some aspects of our lives aren’t. There’s still one big menace to our ‘easy life’. Let me ask you this, where would you go if you could fly? No, I don’t mean buying a ticket on an airliner, I mean if you could really fly?” A space simulation sprang to life behind him. There was the impression that Derling was soaring through the universe, asteroids, pinpoints of light and cosmic gas-clouds rushed by him. The audience stood enrapt, still as statues. “Since the Big Bang, gravity’s been the glue that holds everything together. Planets are caught in the gravities of stars, their solar systems bound to galactic gravities, and on and on. And what about you?” #Buffalo2051

Projected Derling flew into a giant blue orb, the Earth, and alighted in downtown Buffalo. The streets buzzed with persons. The CrossTown floated by effortlessly. “Gravity holds sway over everything around you. Walking, running, sitting, even sleeping, gravity makes your life hard. I’m going to fix that.” The view behind Derling changed, he seemed to be walking through a very sophisticated laboratory where dozens of persons, clad in white bodysuits and donning reflective helmets, fiddled and tinkered with the micro-computer-stuff of an enormous copper machine. Cadence thought the whole scene resembled a bunch of albino carpenter ants trying to abscond with a huge uniced donut. “This is where ZeroG was born . . .” He swept his hand towards the machine. “You might think that harnessing and manipulating the very gravitons that have forever kept us on Earth would be a cinch, right?” Scattered laughter. “Well, think again.” A white flash came from behind Derling. As the glare ebbed, the copper machine lay twisted and crumpled—then the scientists were gone. Dozens of others, silver-clad persons, were running with hoses and tools flickering with blue lights. Cadence watched on in horror. Quantas sparked to life from within the crowd, reminding each terrified person to breathe, everything was absolutely fine. “Yes, this really happened. My critics blast me for it, say this is something I want to hide but they’re wrong. What happened at the Perch Mountain site was terrible but it was part of something bigger. iXperience learned from the deaths of those persons and it would be wrong of us to discontinue our research. Because of their sacrifice we’ve developed a better, safer ZeroG. But instead of just standing here telling you about it, why don’t I show you.” When he finished speaking Derling vanished and the curtains dematerialized like a rising mist. There on the stage, lit up from the lights as brightly as if it were day, was a sleeker, shinier version of the machine roughly the size of a reusage dumpster. To the side of it a band was set up. Three young persons with mood-hair that fluctuated blue, purple, and green awaited their cue as Derling reappeared, brightening on stage as though from a dimmer switch. There was a long, deep hum like a giant om-ing after yoga, then a tremendous sucking feeling nearly knocked Cadence off her feet. Everyone reeled. There was murmuring and laughter. Cadence felt a deep pressure rise up in her chest. The power pulling against her was part of the show, she told herself, that was all.

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Projected Derling’s ShockSuit flushed yellow with excitement. There was electricity in the air. A low-level throb ran through the harbor, and the persons around her, it pulsed through her muscles and bones. Cadence was nearly swooning, the pressure in her chest mounting, when Derling spoke again. “You can feel it, can’t you? ZeroG is gearing up! I could get into the weeds, talk about how we tapped into the same energy fields that allow us to use electricity anywhere we want, but I think you’d rather see the ZeroG Field in action!” The crowd whooped, cheered, and clapped. The weirdness in her chest began to spike and her heart beat so fast she thought she’d pass out. Quanta piped up but Cadence couldn’t hear anything but the roaring crowd. Derling thrust out his arms and yelled, “Without further ado, I present to you Human Agency... and ZeroG!” Human Agency launched into their hit single Beyond Us. The blast of sound was staggering. The jamming on guitar strings, the beating of a drum set, their feet left the stage, their purple, green strobing hair floated over their heads, in a matter of seconds they were levitating six feet above the stage. Derling’s ShockSuit had gone strawberry red. Wherever the real Russ Derling was, he was watching this and he was lush. The crowd screamed with pleasure. Cadence felt as though her body was filled with downed power lines. Something was very wrong, she just knew it. The music beat through her. A sea of bodies waved against her in every direction. She wanted to leave. Had to leave. Now. “I’m concerned about your increased heart rate and blood pressure, person… Perhaps you should take a minute to self-cure. Prolonged stress can be deadly and - “ “SHUT UP, QUANTA!” She shouted, trying to ferret through the gyrating crowd, but her words were lost in the ambient sea of noise. “If you can’t self-cure, person, I will have to auto-cure for your own safety.” “NO, QUANTA!” She shouted, struck still, nearly in tears. “NO! I DON’T WANT THAT! SOMETHING’S - “

#Buffalo2051

Then the hiss, the warmth flowing through her veins, the mellow shades of happiness that followed. Suddenly the music wasn’t so bad. It was pretty lush, the band floating over the stage, she could almost see the dashing colors of the music and of her own excitement. It was absolutely lush.

“Self-cure.”

And when a flash of white light issued from the donut machine on stage, well, that was lush too. The music stopped and the band hung in the silliest way, their arms flapping, their eyes big like pie plates, their faces had gone white like marshmallows. Their screaming was funny and strange and Cadence thought this was the best concert she’d ever been to. A woman shrieked in a way that made Cadence think of a meadow bird’s call and that made her smile. When the air shifted it felt like the roaring winds that washed over her when she was a kid and rode the Maid of the Mist into Niagara Falls. It was her grandfather that took her that day, she remembered his face, his eyes glowing, he was laughing, his arms spread out unafraid. She was terrified, though, but he told her it was okay, it couldn’t hurt her because that’s the way people made it, so the falls were harmless. Placated, she raised her arms in the air too and the excitement was bliss.

“Auto-cure.

“I’m concerned about your.” “Blood pressure and. “Can be fatal if left.” All around her Quanta sprang to life with her soulful soprano lilting over the persons as they screamed, pushing, and shoving. This was a dance, though, between friends. Lush. Projected Derling cried out, his ShockSuit pulsing red, and shiny persons with mirror helmets scurried from the corners of the stage with long hoses and silver wands with blue fire sparking from the ends. It was funny to see these alien persons clustering around the donut machine onstage. Cadence laughed. Derling made a gesture with his index and middle fingers and the curtains blinked into place, the iXperience logo firmly set in the center. The band could still be seen hovering over it, some twenty feet in the air. They weren’t screaming anymore. They smiled as their instruments dangled in the sky around them and seemed to bob in drifting ocean waves. “You should take a minute to . . .”

“To self-cure or I.” “Have to auto-cure.”

Derling was shouting soundlessly in a way that reminded Cadence of a mime trying to get the attention of passersby in a bustling subway, arms stretched out and body rigid. There was another flash of light, this one even brighter than the last, and with it a force that was like being bearhugged by God. The persons went still, their frenetic dance sloughing off, as the long slow hiss rose up like a million espresso machines shooting off steam all at once. The flash had undone the projected curtains and the donut machine was twisted into itself and the funny metal persons were wadded up on it, spraying out a mist of red confetti. The persons around Cadence oohed and aahed, whooped in surprise as God’s bear-hug became tighter, pulling them closer and closer to stage. Above them, the band and their instruments were yanked down, onto the knotted machine, balled up, and more puffs of red confetti only this time the mist was caught in mid-air and sucked back into the gnarl of undulating fleshy metaly stuff. Cadence gaped, smiled so wide her face hurt. She threw up her arms and felt the pull around her, inside her, this was better than riding a roller coaster, better than sky-diving, better than sex even. The steel rafters instantly crumpled and folded into the growing mass. Before it did though, the banner detached, dangled in the air, and for a second Cadence could read the BUFFALO, LEADING THE FUTURE! before that too was caught and sucked down. Screams of ecstasy leapt from the persons around her, as one by one, their arms wagging over their heads, the audience was yanked onstage. They were wadded into the growing mass that was now snatching up the spotlights, the seagulls that struggled against it, the planks of the harbor. There was a permanent red mist hovering over the ball of spinning mass, now floating in the air as though it had its own invisi-brella that was deflecting a crimson rain.

Horrible pain . . . And suddenly she wasn’t laughing anymore. This wasn’t lush. What she saw was the world around her, all the persons, the reuse receptacles, the bicycles, the CrossTown, the buildings brick by brick being crushed into this point of mass that was now spinning tighter and tighter, smaller and smaller, and she began to scream, to scream— “It seems your stress has spiked to dangerous levels, person. I will have to increase your auto-cure dosage to satisfy these new levels of stress.” The long slow hiss. The warmth of pure joy rushed through her veins. The exquisite pain melted away and Cadence smiled, her eyes sleepy and her back arched into the pull of God’s wonderful bear-hug. Quanta became the soundtrack laid over the movie of the persons around her pulled faster and faster into the ball of mass. The hissing became the sound effect of the swirling eddies of water as Lake Erie was sucked into the ball. The only sounds of panic were from the seagulls. Everything else was lush. Very lush. “Picture verdant expanses of spring meadows . . .” “Not necessary, Quanta.” Cadence sighed. “This is a happy place.”

She laughed as she slid towards the stage. She felt everything inside of her compressing and there was pain.

“Self-cure.”

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#Buffalo2051

From Idea to Exit It's 2051 and you're walking home from your 10th successful exhibition opening. You think back on how you got to where you are today and smile when you think about your first meeting with Arts Services Inc thirty years ago. You were just a struggling artist before you met them. They saw your potential and gave you your first project grant - an SCR Community Arts award for $5,000. After the success of that project, they helped you apply for larger grants as your fiscal sponsor and then provided bookkeeping services when you started your own non-profit. The last time you worked with them was years ago, when you were the keynote speaker at their Creative Professionals Exchange conference.

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Ride Together. Win Together. By Kevin Heffernan Illustrated by Renée Helda “This should hold,” said Hla. “That’s what Donnie at the shop told me before that guy Baw stole his last donut.” She pushed Mike’s bike toward him. “Try it out. Go as fast as you can down West and wait until the last second to hit your brakes before your right turn on York. If it can do that, it can handle the turn at the silos.” Hla was sixteen years old, but spoke like she was 30. Cool and determined, she kept her dark hair tied up in a loose bun, save for a stubborn strand she’d always been blowing out of her face rather than touch it with her chain-greased hands. Her jeans were her primary rag for that grease, but her vintage green Phoebe Bridgers 2024 tour T-shirt was spotless. At fifteen, Mike was navigating his way through a changing voice. He had outgrown his jeans in a matter of months, so he rolled them up, preferring to look like an avid urban biker rather than a kid with flood pants on. He climbed onto his bike,and clipped his shoe into his pedal. The chipped paint on its frame was green. The front wheel’s rim was silver, the back was black, and his handlebars were just installed by Hla—a set he had found at GObike’s scrap shop in Riverside. “Feels good . . .fingers crossed! Meet at my house at 6 tomorrow morning?” “Yep. Oh wait! Our team stickers finally arrived!” Hla knelt down and neatly placed a sticker across Mike’s crossbar. A three-finger salute. “For my bike too? I know that symbol is important to your family…” “You’re basically family, Mike.” Mike blushed before he tore down the driveway and down the street. 30 years prior, in February, there was a military coup on the other side of the world in Myanmar. Immediately, civilians hit the streets in protest, wanting to preserve the very fragile democracy they had been building for only ten years. Hla’s grandparents, Ceta and Ohma, were in the streets that 18

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day with thousands of others. They stood silently arm-inarm, with the three finger salute held high. After a coup in Thailand in 2014, protesting civilians had adopted the symbol from the Hunger Games franchise, and it quickly spread across the region to Myanmar and beyond and stood for solidarity and resistance. they told Hla’s mother Maia before leaving the house that day. The military junta wanted to send a message to anyone who would stand against them, and opened fire on the crowd that February. Ceta and Ohma were killed. Her mother Maia, only 15 at the time, was smuggled out of the country by her remaining family to distant relatives in the US, part of a growing community in the west side of Buffalo.

“We stand up to bullies, no matter how strong,”

As she wiped off her hands, Hla stared at a giant map of the city she had pinned to the plywood wall in the garage behind her house. Along the water and through the center of the city, there was a bold red line meandering along streets, rail lines, parks, and the FlyRide route that hovered over the Niagara River. There were meticulously placed post-its at nearly every turn. Some marked the speeds you could expect to hit, 28mph along Humboldt Parkway, 34mph on the FlyRide, 8mph up the hill on Ring Road. Others marked the terrain. “Sandy” for the turns through Tifft. “Lego” where new bike paths and roads had been constructed from recycled plastic; dozens of colors from shredded bottle caps, toothbrushes, and packaging blurred into hypnotizing patterns the faster you rode. To the left of the map, written on the wall in Sharpie, was a countdown from 34 days. 33 days ago, the Speed Riders Classic that would be in Buffalo for the Pan Am Exposition announced that they’d host an under 18 amateur race with a $5,000 prize. Hla called Mike immediately and they pooled what little money they had to register together. After all their preparations, they had the route memorized. The race was tomorrow. To the right of the map was a white sheet of paper with two highlight streaks on it. Three darts were stuck through it. #Buffalo2051

Last fall, Hla pulled her bike into the 8th lane of racks outside of Lafayette International High School because she was so late. Buses took everyone to school in January and February, and those able to walk or bike or skateboard did so for the rest of the year. A few yards to her left, Mike slammed his brakes before one of the last spots. He liked to arrive late and leave early so no one would see his bike which clearly belonged to his sister prior. He was too tall for it and hunched over his knees that bent out sideways to avoid the handlebar. The brakes were loose and he couldn’t fully stop before colliding with his classmate Erin’s bike as she stood beside it. “What the hell, Mike!?” Erin shrieked. “Do you know how much this bike cost? You should have to park your sister’s clunker across the street in that guy’s garden where no one has to look at it.” She swung her backpack full of books onto her back and smashed Mike’s front reflector right off his handlebars. “Oops.” She, along with the two other members of her trio, Idris and his twin Isaac, laughed and left their bikes behind, each with two neon yellow pieces of tape on their frame. Hla watched Mike take a deep breath with his head hung low. He looked more tired than upset. “Screw those guys, Mike. I’m glad you bumped that precious ride her dad bought her. It’s like her third brand new bike since we started high school.” Mike looked up and cracked a smile.

or race each other on the Delaware Park elevated track, trying to match the speeds they saw the pro’s on TV hitting. Every few weeks, they’d cross paths with Erin, Idris, and Isaac—“The Blades” as they called themselves. Their insignia on all their bikes was supposed to be some nod to being lightning fast riders, but really just flaunted how they had more money than God and always had the newest, fastest bikes.

The morning of the race had arrived and Hla was up at 5AM, eating steamed pork buns and chugging water. She added a three-finger salute sticker to the back of her helmet and hit the road.

In May, along the Lake Erie trail in Lackawanna, Mike and Hla were approaching The Blades crew from behind and tried to pass on the left. Seeing them coming, The Blades split to three wide to block the entire path.

About 300 riders were participating and there were only a few stretches where the path opened wide and there was ample room to pass. Mike and Hla were there early to be able to start at the front of the pack.

“Can we get by, guys?”

Crowded into the opening shoot, they never saw The Blades before the shot went off, which gave them a little anxiety, knowing they could come up behind them at any moment.

“Oh sorry, sure.” They all slowed down and opened a couple tiny gaps between them. Mike and Hla tried to squeeze between and then the gaps closed again. The three sped up, and then slowed down. Hla got furious and tried to speed up just as Erin slowed down again. Hla had to swerve and went off the trail and toward the ledge. She lost control and flew right into the water, bike and all. The water was still only 50 degrees and the shock to her system quelled her rage long enough to grab her bike before it sank. Mike pulled it out before Hla swam to a nearby ladder. The Blades were long gone. Later that summer, at registration for the Speed Riders Classic, Mike and Hla looked around at everyone else registering, seeing some friends from school and from the shop.

“Listen,” said Hla. “I’ve been looking for a new seat. Thing’s just not right. You wanna head over to the scrap shop with me after school? They have enough pieces there you could build an entirely new bike for yourself—make it your own, ya know?”

“Look who got the algae off her bike,” quipped Erin from behind them.

“YES. Oh my god. I hate this thing. Makes me crave snowy days so I don’t have to ride it.”

“Yeah if you win, will your parents accept the award, like they do everything else for you, too?”

“Haha nooo it’s still September! I’ll see you here at 2:15.”

“Shut up Mike. Don’t let your bike fall apart on the first mile.”

Mike and Hla piled up hundreds of miles in the coming months. They’d ride to the top of abandoned parking ramps just for the view, ride along the frozen water ‘til midnight with two pairs of gloves and winter coats on,

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“Oh our odds of winning just went way up,” Isaac chimed in.

Smiling as they had walked away, Hla elbowed Mike, “Nice one.”

Mike was pacing his front porch when she arrived and he immediately clipped into his bike and they tore down to Canalside for the 7AM start.

“We ride together, we win together,” Hla said as she and Mike bumped fists. The shot rang out to cheers from the crowd of thousands that had gathered, teams began backtracking up Franklin Street in order to turn and begin the massive opening climb up the Skyway. The 190 had been torn out in 2040, but the Skyway remained because the train bringing everyone into the city from Lackawanna and Hamburg raced back and forth on the elevated platform seven days a week. Thinking of saving energy, but maintaining a lead, Mike and Hla coached each other up the hill. The wind picked up as they got closer to the top and they began the drafting exercise they had trained for, alternating who would break the wind and allow the other to conserve energy. Finally they turned left and began the steep descent to the Outer Harbor. Surrounding the route, tents and stages and temporary buildings were wrapping their construction in anticipation of the world’s arrival for the Pan American Exposition the following week. Halfway down the slope, there they were, The Blades, with those speed helmets on that make you look like an alien, cutting wind resistance in half and speeding them right down the hill. Idris flashed a middle finger at Hla while passing and

laughing. Hla shot a I don’t even care look at Mike as they stuck to their plan. At the bottom of the hill, all the teams made a hard left to pass right back over the Ship Canal to Ganson Street where another hard climb began. In the 2020’s, Silo City was reinvented once again as a living space, with bike and walking paths through its gardens, but also along its rooftops, connecting each behemoth structure. Thew-Thew-Thew-Thew was the sound of flying by the front gardens of the penthouse apartments perched atop the silos at their high speed. The turn they had trained for was coming; as the silos bent, so did the path. It widened to accommodate a casual ride, but these racers would have to slow down. Not Mike and Hla. They hugged the interior, trusted the modifications to their bikes and waited until the last second to brake and then accelerated into their right turn, passing about 30 riders, including The Blades as they began their descent. Back over the Buffalo River and through Tifft Nature Preserve, they were ready for the sand on the path and knew just where to slow down and speed up. Their first hard speed test was coming at South Park. Riders had to complete a full loop of the flat path, and while their bikes were light, Mike and Hla were a technical team and didn’t have an advantage in an open speedway. They conserved energy and waited for the turns they knew coming up. As they hit the halfway point on South Park, The Blades and a few other teams got out ahead once again. This time, there were no middle fingers, only focused determination. They either didn’t see Mike and Hla, or they were starting to take them seriously. Riders sped out of the park at the Botanical Gardens and raced up McKinley Parkway. The spectators lining the street gave everyone a huge boost of energy. Mike and Hla held their pace, alternating leads, and hydrating as they came up to Bailey Ave. The city’s officials wasted no opportunity to flex Buffalo’s muscles for the world’s eyes, and in preparation for the route, they built a special track that ran right through the Central Terminal—the one marked LEGO on Hla’s map. Over its tracks and through its grand hallway, a band played as bikers raced right through the building and down Padarewski to Fillmore. There were crowds outside of the subway stations along Humboldt at MLK Jr. Park, at Ferry, and at Main Street.

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There was a two-lane path for buses on the west side of the tree-lined parkway, and the east side was a 20-foot-wide track for bikes. As Mike and Hla crossed Main, they were entering their home turf. They’d hit the elevated track at Delaware Park a hundred times, and that’s where they tallied their top speeds the year before. Riders needed to complete a full lap and two thirds before shooting out of the park onto the Scajaquada Creek Nature Path. Mike took the lead as they flew down the initial hill off Parkside. Hla was close behind as they got into their rhythm. As some bikers fatigued and fell into the spell that is letting the downhill do the work for you, Mike and Hla got into their top gear and flew ahead. Hearts pounding, their legs felt just right, riding in perfect unison. With each rider they passed, they felt a burst of energy to go get the next one. The Blades were coming back into sight, but as they hit the hill they entered on, they slipped out of grasp once again. The Blades’ superior bikes were paying off and they exerted less energy than Mike and Hla to get up that damn hill. Spent after the climb, Mike and Hla used their second downhill as a quick chance to suck down some energy gels and tuck their wrappers into their pouch. The Buffalo Zoo quadrupled in size in 2035 and turned into a sanctuary only for endangered species. Bikers on the path could ride right over it. Hla looked down and locked eyes with a bear that had been poking at a stream with its cubs. She thought of her family and their journey, her grandparents’ words to her mother. She looked at Mike who was tucking his water bottle away and said, “Let’s get ‘em.” Without another word, they were locked in, focused and gaining speed. Statues of David and Abraham Lincoln looked on as they slipped right through the middle of Hoyt Lake. Buffalo State College students who had just arrived for the semester lined the promenade outside their dorms to cheer on the bikers right across the creek.

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Erin, Idris and Isaac were thrilled to have the attention of some college kids. They sat up on their bikes and started waving and pumping their fists, pointing to yellow streaks insignia on their shoulders. It was when a few different heads across the creek turned and started cheering louder for those behind them did Erin see Mike and Hla approaching. She signaled her team to pull their favorite move, blocking the path entirely and controlling the pace, getting Mike and Hla to waste their energy swerving. Hla tried to remain cool, riding with water on her left once again, she didn’t want to go for another swim, but she didn’t want to lose all this incredible momentum either. She made her move, faking right and veering left, hoping to break up the pack for Mike to pass too. Idris knew the move was coming and mirrored it. It forced Hla off the path again. This time, she was able to skid to halt before hitting the water’s edge, but heard the worst sound imaginable, a fast PISHEW from her front tire, letting her know it had flatted out. “Later Loser!” yelled Erin as they approached the hill to enter the FlyRide into the home stretch. Hla was devastated as she hopped off her bike to look at her wheel. Almost immediately, Mike was beside her, holding his front wheel in his hand. “Swap these out and GO! Now!” “What? We have to ride together!” “This is riding together. You’re using my wheel! We’re so close and you can still get them. Go down Niagara to cut them off.” He pushed a stunned Hla out of the way, turned her bike over, and had his wheel locked into hers in about 12 seconds. “Now go!! I’ll fix the flat and see you at the finish.”

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With a last look into his eyes, she agreed, clipped in and pedaled with a surge of adrenaline unlike anything she had had all day. If she took the same route as The Blades, she’d only get blocked again and never get past them. Making a hard left onto Niagara Street, she wasn’t in violation, but did have to deal with the city’s riders who weren’t racing that day. DING. DING. “Sorry! Sorry!” she warned the unsuspecting Saturday morning cyclists as she flew by each one. Through the trees and between buildings, she could not yet see the other team on the FlyRide over the river. She crouched lower, pedaled harder and faster in high gear. Delavan. Lafayette. Auburn. No site of them in the gaps. She knew she was riding faster than she had all day, and kept at it. Just as Niagara became Busti, she spotted them, shooting right under the Peace Bridge, chatting with each other and smiling widely. She veered right and took the old path near West Side Rowing Club and put herself just behind them, about 30 yards to the left. The FlyRide dropped off at Ralph C. Wilson Centennial Park. Hla had to beat them to Porter before they all grabbed the tunnel to the Erie Basin Marina’s observation deck. She turned onto Porter with about two seconds separating her and The Blades, and as she made a left onto the bike path that hugged the shoreline, she heard Erin say “How the hell?”. Smiling ear-to-ear, Hla plunged into the tunnel. Made of glass, it allowed its riders to look up at the passing boats through 30 feet of water. She heard Erin screaming at Idris and Isaac to “MOVE IT!” and as she emerged along Erie Street, she realized there was no one ahead of her because of the cheers of the crowd. Two seconds later, it roared louder as The Blades emerged in hot pursuit.

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Her lungs were on fire, vision blurry, her heart was pounding in her throat, and her legs right on the verge of cramping in full. As she approached the USS Little Rock, there was her mother, standing out in the street aside from the crowd. Not cheering with the others, she simply raised her right hand high in the air, and gave Hla a three-finger salute.

With the last bit of energy she could muster, Hla leaned down, switched to high gear, and never looked back as she crossed the finish line to the roar of the crowd. Moments later, Mike crossed the finish line himself and found Hla. He gave her a frantic look wondering how she had done. Hla dropped her bike, threw both arms in the air and screamed and she ran for him. They both jumped up and down in a circle as the crowd converged around them.

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Broken Rituals By Lauren Zazzara

Illustrated by Renée Helda

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louching into my desk chair, I feel the bitter rush of black iced coffee sloshing through my veins as I rub the accumulated mucus from the inner corners of my eyes—my morning ritual. As the September sun streams its creamy light through the window, I tap open the Queen City Today news app to peruse our current live stream. Miranda looks predictably gorgeous this morning as she covers a story about Bills pre-season. Viewers, meanwhile, are predictably horny in the comments, the majority of which are focused more on her chiseled physique than that of the Bills’ newly recovered quarterback, who has finally been cleared to play after an offseason spent recovering from the ACL tear he suffered during Super Bowl LXXXII. It’s not surprising that management has secured Miranda’s feed to load first; despite the fact that pre-season is far from breaking news, it’s no secret she’s one of the only reasons why our subscriber list is currently longer than Buffalo Now’s. I scroll to the next feed, the one I manage, which for the past month has featured solely Pan Am Exposition 2051 content. However, for the past few days it has simply streamed an endless loop of the same pre-event feature story coverage that most of our viewers stopped watching days ago. But new content is soon to come—a calendar notification pops up to remind me that “Rachel Interview” is scheduled for noon. The Exposition is in two days, and each beat of my heart I feel is a second counting down to this dreaded interview, the most high-profile of them all—which I know my assigning editor only delegated to me because she thought I’d be excited about it. My steadily increasing despondency has them convinced that I’ve been assigned “too much fluff,” and that this impending interview with Rachel Potter, CEO of Farm2Table, “Western New York’s most delectably convenient food-shopping experience”—who will be giving a

major presentation at the Exposition—is sure to snap me out of it. Because, truthfully, Queen City Today would be lost without me, their only journalist with any sort of experience now that they can only afford reporters fresh out of j-school. It’s already 10AM. Drinking coffee on an empty stomach never does me any favors, but the anxiety-induced nausea this morning makes it impossible for me to swallow anything more solid than a banana, so I mash one up with a fork and eat it like a teething infant. Being a reporter has been nothing like I’d once imagined. Most of our “high-profile” interviewees demand to approve all materials before we go live—and the immorality of it quite literally makes me sick. Yet still I cling to my “Senior Reporter” title as if to a bad relationship. It’s hard to tear away from a nearly lifelong dream. The summer I turned seven—in 2020—my older sister attended several Black Lives Matter protests. After one particularly chaotic altercation, she returned home trembling uncontrollably from the aftershocks of a Taser still rippling through her nerves. Deemed by my parents too young to actually participate, I clung to the news, and I was confused to see the accounts of national media channels differing so vastly from the stories my sister told. The videos she showed me of rubber bullets tearing gaping wounds into the unprotected bodies of protestors, clouds of teargas choking crowds in the midst of a global pandemic, snipers aiming rifles from the tops of buildings at those armed with nothing more than signs and megaphones. That was the summer I was convinced that I was going to become a journalist, one who would tell the real, truthful stories. Of course, it was the naiveté of adolescence that convinced me that somehow I could tackle a corrupt national media system funded by some of the largest and most powerful corporations in the world.

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As I’m brushing residual banana pulp from my teeth, I see a text from my editor pop up on my smudged smart mirror: “Good luck today! You’ll be great. The most important thing is to remember what Rachel means to Queen City. Haha no pressure! :)” Before Farm2Table became a household name, each of Buffalo’s neighborhoods had a locally owned community garden where residents could purchase fresh produce. But since opening their first farm in some of the city’s empty green space about five years ago, Farm2Table has single handedly taken out every other local garden in the area, buying them out or forcing them to close down entirely. Their strategy was to consistently undercut prices by underpaying their growers, ensuring every other local farm couldn’t compete—and then gradually raising prices once they had effectively formed a monopoly. The 100-percent increase in price for a bag of apples over the years has ensured that I don’t follow that old “apple a day keeps the doctor away” adage. But it’s not just their prices—shopping at a Farm2Table garden is, admittedly, convenient. Beyond produce, they offer free-range meats, bakery items, fresh dairy, etc. They’ve revolutionized online grocery shopping—customers can request every specific detail of what they want, from “avocados due to ripen in 48 hours” to “70% white meat rotisserie chicken.” With their “photo-synthesis” service, you can simply send in a photo of your grocery list and their shoppers do the rest, delivering it to your doorstep at whatever day and time you select. I’m even guilty of regularly using their “expand your palette” option, where they send you the ingredients for surprise, custom Farm2Table recipes. And as much as I’m loath to admit it, each one I’ve tried has been delicious. Brief bubbles of controversy over Farm2Table employee rights, price gouging, and monopolizing the local grocery industry have been swiftly popped by publicity surrounding Rachel’s countless volunteer and donation initiatives. And, she has Queen City Today wrapped around her finger. Rachel pays big bucks for us to have a cooking stream on the app utilizing exclusively Farm2Table products. The conversion rates from it are insane, and it is, essentially, the only reason why we are still in business—and she knows it. Naturally, Queen City Today is starving for exclusive coverage of Rachel in advance of the Pan Am, where she has promised to present the latest in farm technology:

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a chemical-free method of expanding the lifespan of produce to a minimum of two months. She has made it clear that she intends to take her interview—and her hefty advertising budget—over to Buffalo Now if she detects even an inkling that the interview is turning sour. I’m meeting Rachel at her loft office downtown, located in one of the largest mixed-use buildings in the area, which also harvests wind and solar power and filters rainwater thanks to some of her generous donations. By the time I’m dressed and ready to leave, the metro is due at my stop any minute. Suddenly, I see a text appear on my smart door from a number outside of my contacts, but the universal caller ID labels the messenger as a Robert Walker. “I have a really important story about Rachel Potter that I need to share. Please, let me know if you can take the time to talk to me.” Messages like this aren’t uncommon. Many of them are from people who simply want their fifteen minutes of fame, and most of the time, their stories aren’t necessarily newsworthy—the majority turn out to be petty grievances, acts of revenge, triple dog dares, birthday shout-outs. Therefore, I ignore it and continue on my way. I run down to meet the bus, which, per usual, is on time down to the minute. Sixteen minutes later, I’m at Rachel’s door. “Come on in,” Rachel says hurriedly as she opens her office door to me. “Go ahead and make yourself comfortable while I finish getting ready.” She’s standing in front of a mirror, pinning back a few tendrils of hair, checking to make sure her lipstick hasn’t smudged outside the lines. “Thank you for taking the time to meet with me today,” I say quietly as I make my way into a chair, placing my bag on my knees to disguise my trembling legs. I set my phone into its tripod and check to ensure both of us are in frame and the lighting is suitable. Then I turn on my transcription app, which will translate everything we say in real time and transfer it to a document to be reviewed later. “I’m really pressed for time, so I’m sorry that we will have to make this as quick as possible,” Rachel says as she sits down at her desk and smooths out her dress. “I had an urgent meeting come up and I have to leave in about 20 minutes.

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But I’m sure I can get you whatever you need before then.” “Great, we can get started right away then,” I say and glance down at my notepad, take a deep breath, and press record. “Hi Buffalo. This is Erin with Queen City Today, and I’m here with Rachel Potter, CEO of Farm2Table, Western New York’s most delectably convenient food-shopping experience. Rachel will be presenting her company’s brand-new food preservation technology at the Pan Am Exposition this weekend. Thanks for joining us, Rachel.” “Glad to be here,” Rachel responds with a serenely confident smile that is strangely endearing, a slight gap between her front teeth serving as a reminder—perhaps purposeful— that she is indeed, human. “Yes, I will be introducing this exciting new technology this weekend, and we will be working with our various locations to implement it on all of our produce in the coming weeks. Ultimately, it’s going to help our consumers save money. We’ve all been there when we’ve bought a box of greens with the intention of eating a salad every day for a week, and then, well, life gets in the way. Now, all of our produce will stay fresh for at least two months, so you never have to waste perfectly good food.” “That sounds like a win-win for everyone, Rachel,” I say, willfully swallowing back down the vomit rising up my throat. “It’s just like you, too, looking out for the best interests of your consumers. Tell us, how do you think this new technology you’re presenting will revolutionize the grocery industry?” “Well, it’s a patented technology, so of course we are planning to start expanding our locations regionally and nationally so that we can provide this service to as many consumers as possible. We think that it will ultimately encourage more people to purchase fresh produce, because they won’t have to worry about wasting money if they can’t eat it all at once. So, we’re looking forward to seeing the environmental, economic, and health benefits, starting with our community and eventually spreading across the country.” After a few more minutes of back and forth, Rachel says to camera, “Well, unfortunately I have to leave you all now, as I’m off to an important meeting with the Lake Erie Conservation Consortium. But I’m looking forward to speaking with you all this weekend at the Pan Am Exposition. Be sure to be at the West Side Stage at 1:30PM on Saturday.” She

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turns back to me. “Thank you, Erin, and everyone at Queen City Today, for having me today. We’re looking forward to enjoying the fruits of our labor with our city’s shoppers.” With that I stop recording and let out a deep breath. “Thanks again, Erin,” Rachel says as she begins packing up her bag.” And we’re still good on our agreement, right? Just send the edited video and article to me before you post it and I’ll get back to you quickly.” “Sure thing. Enjoy the Consortium meeting.” “The what?” She looks at me confusedly. “Oh! Yes. I have to head out now, but we’ll be in touch later.” Of course, I’m aware that she isn’t heading to a Consortium meeting, but all I can care about is hiwgh-tailing it out of her office and back into the safety of home where I can eat from the pint of ice cream I’d bought to console myself from the onslaught of deep self-loathing I’d correctly predicted would hit me. As I’m walking down the stairs back to the bus stop, I find another text on my phone from the same unknown number: “If Farm2Table moves forward with their plans, it will ruin me. Please meet with me. I promise I won’t take more than 15 minutes of your time.” Strangely, something about the urgency of this message tugs at me. “I can call you in 30 minutes if you’re free,” I reluctantly responded as I took my seat on the bus. I’m back home with just enough time for a few gulps of ice cream before I set everything up for an off-air recording. The content may not end up being usable at all, but I hope for the best. A soft, timid, yet low-pitched voice responds after a singular ring. “Thank you so much for calling me, Erin. I watch you on Queen City Today all the time and I need to talk to you before you publish anything about Rachel Potter.” “Of course,” I responded carefully. “It’s not a guarantee that anything we discuss here will be published. But I can’t say I wasn’t intrigued by your messages.”

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“I’m glad—I thought a true journalistic mind like yours wouldn’t be able to resist a story like this! But really, my livelihood is on the line, so I have nothing to lose at this point.” “Well, go ahead when you’re ready.” “I originally owned Farm 54 out on the East Side. I’d been running it for years, and it was popular, too. I knew every person in that community by name, and they knew me. I had regulars who came by each day after work to pick up fresh groceries for dinner. I considered them friends more than anything. But when Farm2Table came along . . . well, I tried to hold out as long as I could, but as you know, it started taking all of the business. At one point Rachel offered to buy me out, but I just couldn’t do it. My customers would think I was a sell-out. So, I closed. But then I realized I desperately needed some money.” His voice has a pleading edge to it, as if he is desperate for someone to validate his decision. In an attempt to remain neutral, I respond, “So what did you do?” “Well, I have a pretty scientific background. Studied chemistry in college and all that. And I had had this compound in the works for a while that could extend the lifespan of produce, and I reluctantly made a deal with Rachel that I would sell it to her monthly. We worked up a contract and everything. But of course, it was meaningless to her. She eventually broke every agreement we had. She had her team figure out how to make the compound and just started producing it herself. She even patented it.” He sighs. “I can’t believe I let myself trust her.” “She’s not worried that you could take her to court?” “Of course not! She can afford the best lawyers in town, while an attorney fee would bleed me dry, and she knows it. But I have all of the evidence to prove that it’s mine. I saved everything—my notes, experiments, everything. I can send it all to you so you can see for yourself. Rachel’s just banking on nobody believing my word over hers.” “She is a pretty trusted name around here,” I empathize.

“That’s an understatement! And without that money, I’m done. I don’t know what I’m going to do. My family is on the verge of eviction. But if you share this story and we can just get the right people to care, they can pressure her to pay me out. I don’t know if anyone—even you—will believe me, but like I said, I have all the evidence to prove it. Please, will you think about sharing this before Pan Am? After the performance, she gives there, it’s pretty much a guarantee that my story won’t get anywhere.” I see a text come in from my editor: “We decided it would be best to have the legal and PR team handle all the editing, just to be safe. Please send the raw materials when you can.” At this point, I’m at a loss for words and feel a desperate need to exit the call immediately. Too many thoughts are going through my head, and any more information Robert can provide will only make my paralysis worse. “Well, thank you for talking to me Robert. Send me what you have. I’ll let you know what we decide.” And I immediately hung up. For many years, I’d managed to hold onto the belief that my mission, my destiny in life, was to tell those untold stories—until I realized how easy it is to say yes, or no, when it’s just easier than saying no, or yes. I had my morning rituals, my afternoon dissociations, my evening nightcaps to numb the vague feelings of guilt as I covered story after story that either didn’t matter or didn’t tell the whole truth, because at the end of the day, I needed the paycheck. But suddenly, that same sense of righteous, determined passion that had flooded my entire being at seven years old begins to pulse through my veins, as if I am being brought back to life. I sort through the materials that Robert has already airdropped into my files—and the sheer breadth of evidence of his research and experimentation is mind-boggling. My mind is boggled just enough that I grab my phone and begin a livestream to our entire audience, before I have time to think about it twice. “Farm2Table, or Farm2Fraud? We’ve got an exclusive story coming up for you.”

EVERYTHING YOU WANT TO KNOW ABOUT

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Young Professionals for Olmsted Parks (YPOP) A professional development program for individuals who are passionate for their Olmsted Parks, nonprofit management, fundraising, networking and making a difference in their community!

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Program Overview

• Recommended age range: 25 to 40 years old • Entry fee: $250 (helps cover program cost)

• Feb 2022 – Oct 2022 • One (1) mandatory event per month • Engage in group and individual fundraising • Stay involved post-program as a YPOP Alumni

Highlights • • • •

Kickoff Party • Olmsted 101: History & Fun! Volunteer in your parks • Coffee with the Councilmembers Career Development Panel • Full System Park Tour Olmsted Board Meet & Greets ... and more!

Apply by November 5, 2021 www.bfloparks.org/ypop For any questions regarding YPOP, contact Sarah Larkin: Sarah@bfloparks.org | (716) 838-1249, ext. 18.

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Green Halogen M

y mother and sister-in-law have no idea what my twin brother Luther Jr. is up to. He knows I’m on the fence about the Roosevelt RX-4. It’s not to say it won’t work, but there’s some wrinkles. It’s dangerous territory, I feel, yet I said yes when he asked me to attend the press conference at the Buffalo Niagara Convention Center. Ma didn’t think it would be a good idea for me to be up on stage with him. “He’s the sharper speaker, sugar,” she said, but I knew it had everything to do with my burns. Luther is a UB and Johns Hopkins grad, and did residencies in places like D.C. and Ann Arbor. I was almost finished at Northwestern when he met Mariah in Tanzania while both were helping out in the Peace Corps. It just so happens, she’s from Auburn, the town where President William McKinley’s assassinator got the electric chair. These days, the prisons are big on rehabilitating folks, like really sending them back out into the world with a fighting chance if there’s any fight left in them. I found a few quotes on love and put them on a crumpled piece of paper an hour before their wedding, yet I never got to speak. Our dad Big Luther, as people called him, got a hold of the mic and it turned into this long drunken prediction about the Bills going on a repeat as Super Bowl champs back in ’35. He was right on that. At age 60, Dad died from cirrhosis. Mom cared for him as best she could during the last months in the old house on Florence Avenue—maybe it was her way of forgiving him for the time he smashed the bathroom mirror with a frozen chicken, or peed on her marigolds or when those mechanic hands almost choked the life from her. “Dr. Kaufman, do you remember?” a deep voice rings out. At this point, I can hear the dull humming of the podium microphones. I’m scanning the wide conference room as if I can identify anything harmful and offer protection. If it’s anything like mine, Luther’s breathing is purposefully rhythmic and craving something sweet. My mother made

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the trip from Arizona and is sitting on my right. Since my dad passed on four years ago, she settled in Sun City. A woman who is up there has to consider her joints and spirits—her reasoning for getting a one-way plane ticket and not looking back. She said she wouldn’t have missed this for anything in the world though, except for the chance to meet the late great Alex Trebek. It was her idea for Luther and I to wear matching grey suits with knit mint green ties. “Maybe he’s kind of tired up there, Ms. Candace?” Luther’s wife Mariah whispers to my mother. “Or very drunk,” my fifteen year old nephew Odin chimes in, bent over, both hands rubbing his eyes, halfway off the seat. Nothing. Just one man’s stare into a sea of suit coats and flashing lights. “Do you remember what inspired you to dedicate your career to trauma rehabilitation,” Terry Condotta of The Buffalo News rises and sets a skinny laptop behind him. He looks around the conference hall. “Please share, Doctor.” Luther narrows his hazel green eyes and smirks. We share our mother’s eyes, and when they meet, he blows out a gust of air that brushes his microphone, and then he begins.

“Leon Czolgosz did not kill McKinley 150 years ago, people,” Luther blurts out, shaking his fist and stiff pointer finger. Odin sighs. Mariah is just relieved he’s present. “The president died because of his doctors, specifically them poking at his wounds. They couldn’t get out of the way.” Condotta, rather unimpressed with my brother’s social studies folklore, speaks for the crowd of attendees gathered inside. “Forgive me, but what does that have to do with your research, Dr. Kaufman? I’m struggling to find a connection.” “In two weeks, our city will celebrate another rebirth as they did the first time when the Pan Am Exposition put a blinding spotlight on us,” Luther says. “Oh my God,” mumbles Odin. “Is there food here?” “Listen to your, daddy,” my mother leans across me in Odin’s direction, waving her hand at him half serious, half playful. “Two years ago, when I heard the fantastic announcement of another expo, I knew it would be the perfect arena to reveal something to the world on such a grand stage and I wouldn’t have it come to light at any other place than our hometown—a place I consider to be the greatest town in the entire country. I mean, I would know, I’ve been to quite a few.” Luther says the last part with a wink.

By LaGuan Rodgers Illustrated by Renée Helda

Mariah looks at me. Just let him go, I think to myself. “Mr. Kaufman,” a new voice finds its way over the wave of bodies and sleek electronics. A female reporter, slight in frame with a climbing tone, stands up. “Alicia Karlson of Buffalo Spree Magazine, here. Are we at liberty to get some sort of inkling?” “I’m no showman but . . .” Luther says, his smile curling at both ends of his mouth. “All that I will say is our minds can be gardens.” “At what is shaping up to be a carnival-like atmosphere, the world could use some clinical magic,” Karlson says, waving her pen around in tight circles like a makeshift wand. “No magic involved here, ma’am,” Luther shifts his weight to the other side, he’s in his comfort zone now. “I can say this without fear or doubt: for the past five years, I’ve tested people of all backgrounds and stories—you name it.I believe this with every atom: it begins with our memories! Oh, and by the way, thank you Mom for some great ones.” He blows a kiss towards Mom. She plucks it out of the air and brings it to her chest as if she’s gathering blackberries from a leaning bush. Mariah has let one foot come out of the blue sandal tucked under her seat. She leans in and whispers to me, “He sounds like a ringmaster with a microscope.”

#Buffalo2051

Mayor Helen Maung, who hasn’t uttered a word since the introduction, looks at some other local officials and correspondents, then nods pleasantly at Luther. “If we can take anything from this time together, it’s that you sure know how to drum up curiosity. We hope your diligence and efforts advance society in some way, exemplifying Buffalo’s gritty spirit.” “Mayor Maung if I may?” my brother asks as diplomatically as he can. The Mayor nods. “Years ago I couldn’t have imagined the city’s poverty levels are what they are currently: wealth is more evenly distributed, crime much lower than days past. Our neighborhoods are breathing rainbows, dare I say safe, healthy and harmonious. Heck, some nights we forget to lock all our doors while we snooze! The drugs my brother Donovan and I could’ve found readily available on choice corners and at trap houses as kids are virtually gone now. My father Luther Bryce Kaufman Sr. used to recall days when Buffalo, New York was an afterthought to the rest of the country, a collection of underdog rants seemingly trapped under the confines of a thick snow globe. Yet look at us now. No longer laughing stocks, our teams are multi-year champions. In 1901, people traveled here to see the biggest concentration of electricity at one time. When I present my Roosevelt-RX4 machine, its beam will illuminate science!” Without the slightest salutation, Luther makes his way towards the exit, and we follow. Early the next morning, we’re sitting in a booth eating donuts at Paula’s. It’s our Saturday thing—he, Odin and I. I rode my refurbished ten-speed over to their larger than necessary house and we caught the bustling Rapid Transit to the location inside Buffalo Central Terminal. These Kaufman Commissions, as they’ve been dubbed, are seemingly 5 percent bonding, 92 percent research, and what’s leftover is seldom quantified. “Do you remember when there were only two locations to get these sons of bitches?” Luther asks me. “Yeah, one on Sheridan, the other in West Seneca,” I say, breaking my red velvet ring and plopping a chunk into milk.

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“There was one on Main way out.” The doctor peeks into the half-open box, and pulls out a cheesecake cruller. “But Dad never took us there.”

we’d come back to those late afternoons when he’d pull into our crumbling driveway just to take us for a ride with no real destination other than to feel the wind at our foreheads.

The left side of my face and neck have feeling this morning, so I scratch just for the sake of sensation. Odin doesn’t even stare at me like he used to when he was younger.

“How’s the powdered loganberry one, son?” Luther wants to know.

Luther and I were 12 on that spring Saturday when it happened. Soon as the weather broke, we hit the driveway to test out these skateboards we’d jotted atop our previous Christmas lists. Neither one of us could hold up any length of time without kissing the asphalt, but it gave us something to do. Dad had come home early from the car shop for what he called quality family time, and he was supposed to take us somewhere that was a surprise: mom wouldn’t tell us where. “You fools better eat before we go anywhere,” he said earlier, with that gruff in his throat we’d heard before. The whiskey bottle hit the linoleum and shattered, then I ran inside. There he was with a steak knife pointed at Mom’s stomach, right at the belt line, his other hand pinned her up against the wall across from the stove. I knocked the knife to the floor, and more surprised than anything, my father went for me. He pushed me and I slipped over the broken shards, headed for the stovetop and its frying pan of hot grease. I just remember how my hand hit the thick black handle before the liquid splashed on to me. Luther offered no help in the tussle and only came out of our bedroom once he heard my screams. My mother didn’t want to raise us alone, so everyone stuck to the same story when protective services showed up on the scene days later, which was me riding a skateboard through the kitchen during a dinner prep gone wrong. A few grafts and visits to plastic surgeons and it never was brought up much after. I remember that doctor’s look when he saw my burns—that look someone gives when they know a thing won’t ever be the same, and all they can do is talk calmly. When our father’s lips weren’t wrapped around a liquor bottle and his fists were quiet, he was frosting on the tallest cake. There were some good times like the family board game nights on Fridays, The Festival of Lights treks to the falls during winter breaks. When we wanted to hate him,

“You’re attempting to take people’s stories from them, strip them of what’s whole,” I say. “Is that what you want?”

“It’s alright,” Odin shrugs, exaggerating the chewing motion. I stop dunking and pick up my milk to chug some.

“No, I’m attempting to make people feel whole again.”

“What happens when a cow drinks her own milk?” Luther asks us. His eyes are big as plums with anticipation.

I shake my head. “Will you please?” Luther begins, yet stops. Odin is coming back to the table.

“Wait . . . what?” Odin responds, lost in powder.

Before we leave, I take an assorted baker’s dozen to go so I can put them on the front counter at the bike shop for afternoon pick-ups. Po Baw, this Burmese guy, who stabbed his father and did ten years, facilitates the refugee community garden next to me. He makes it a point to come inside at closing time every Saturday to take a donut and reminds me the shop was once my father’s mechanic garage. Luther’s intense testing began with him shortly after I quit my engineering gig.

“It goes in one end and out the udder!” The boy finds no joy in Luther making a milking motion. He grimaces in disgust and leaves for the restroom. I wait until the coast is clear. “Are you really going to go through with this at the expo?” I raise a brow, and he knows where I’m going. “Umm, yeah . . . my machine…I mean, our machine will erase people’s bad memories, like all the bad shit that ever happened in someone’s life is all gone, wiped out, completely.” “Besides Baw, who has even used the thing?” I say, pissed off, trying to lower my voice. “It’s a lot to risk.” Mom told us some toy called a View Master was a wave back in the 80’s, and she’d given me the one she’d kept in the attic from her childhood. “You’ll find some use for it,” she said, pulling it from her bag the day I drove her to the airport. When Luther began tinkering inside people’s heads, he requested we work together and we patterned the invention to resemble it. I provided spare metal pieces, small motors and wire controls for his RX-4, nothing more. “Are these to scale?” was his usual question. “In the name of Allentown, tell me why you gave up mechanical engineering?” he’d say.

On the way back, Luther and I split a glazed twist. Odin laughed the day we told him that when we were his age, the train used to only travel down Main Street, and not the length of the whole street at that. Nowadays, the people have got on board against emissions, so folks who ride bikes like me, or walk, don’t stick out. “Tell me what memories come to you, bro,” Luther says, pointing to my half. “It’s a damn donut,” I say. “Sugar, cholesterol, a couple less years. I don’t know.” He offers nothing, just another blank stare into the blurred sheets of colored walls whizzing by in frames within the train’s smooth motion. We got back to his house. Mom is on the porch swing, an iced tea can and bottle of turmeric capsules next to her on the short end table. She wants us to sit and swallow up the early September sun with her. Luther puts his arm over her shoulder and hands her a plain ring donut. No one gives me a major stink about grabbing my ten-speed and getting to work. “Later, right?” the doctor asks me.

#Buffalo2051

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#Buffalo2051

“It’s not my scene,” I yell.

“I’ll be there,” is all I say. A brake cable set replacement and crank arm adjustment were the last bike jobs before closing. It’s been a whole afternoon, yet no sign of Baw, and I’m close to throwing out the last donut. Then Luther walks in, carrying a white velour pouch. I turn my back to him and face the side window. Outside, I can see the metal posts the refugees and college volunteers used to keep their tomatoes and bell peppers upright—the sun’s diamonds hitting each piece on their colorful surfaces. My eyes close to the sound of kids playing a game that I can’t figure out on the other side of the street. The games are usually noise to me, but today it sounds like music. “I need you up there with me,” he begins. “You can’t alter what happens in this world,” I say. “You have a case study, sure. What gives you certainty?” “Baw’s readings and own account show no recollections of childhood pain or when he─”

“Ok then, what is your scene?” He’s right up into my chest now. “This? This shithole of metal, gears and how come’s? You gave up a blossoming career to retreat here to fix fucking bikes in a place where God only knows why.” “A goddamn coward, why didn’t you help me?” I explode grabbing a fistful of his shirt. His breath still carries the crusted sugar from this morning. “What do you mean? We’re a team.” “I tried to hold him off, and you went into a room and hid like some fox.” He knows where I’m taking it. “It was so long ago,” Luther says. He isn’t trying to undo my grip. “It’s today. Even when it feels like yesterday, it’s today.” “I block it out, or I try to,” he says. I still haven’t let go of him, yet. For the first time that I can remember, there are tears crowding his eyes and coming down. “If you want me to say fear took over, I’m guessing that’s right. I know I’m on to something. Let me help now. It’s not too late.”

Finally, I let him go. Again, he tells me how he wants us both on the stage to reveal the magic—the back stories, charts and detectors that will authenticate the mission. Like some keeper letting a snake from its sack, the doctor loosens the drawstring of the pouch and handles the metal. He flips on the side power button, and almost immediately this green light floods the floor, darkening our sneakers. For whatever reason, I can’t help but stare at the halogen beam. It’s green like rolling hills of undisturbed grass, greener than emeralds hardening in Alaskan snow. I’m trying not to blink. I inch up even closer. It’s as green as fresh mint with an aroma that tumbles around the nostrils and signals an endless summer. Green like my eyes, Luther’s and Ma’s. At last, I’m made to blink before I extend my hand to touch it. I put the machine up to my eyes. “Take a deep breath,” my twin says. Then everything becomes a cool black.

“That scene is all yours in a few weeks.” “Come on, man,” he pleads.

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#Buffalo2051

GRONK’D

By Jillian Benedict Illustrated by Renée Helda

“Come celebrate with the third - I don’t know - maybe fourth best city I’ve ever been in and the team I’ve beaten too many times to count.” may 2051

Sigh. Whoever let that man near a microphone should be banished forever. But here we are, another day, another nightmare for the PR team behind Buffalo Bills owner, Rob Gronkowski. I turned off WGR, the only station left on AM radio these days, trying not to let his idiocy ruin this day. Because we’ve been waiting to celebrate our Bills since they brought home their fifth Lombardi Trophy this past February. And despite that ass-clown being the owner, I still bleed red, white and blue. It wasn’t always like this. Things were going great for the once abysmal Bills. Our parents often talked about “the draught like no other” and how we finally took the league by storm. Our first Super Bowl win in 2023 was “luck” as many “reported.” Our second in 2024 was supposedly even luckier. But now? Now everyone’s on the bandwagon. I guess I mean everyone except for our joker of an owner. You see, not much has changed from Gronk. He’s still a teenage boy at his first frat party most days.

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Like Donald Trump’s push to purchase the Bills decades ago, we all laughed (albeit a bit nervously) as Gronk threw his hat into the ring to take over ownership. Yet, here we are, two years and 1,039,794,754 stupid comments later, still listening to his BS.

major sports championship in decades. What began as a great idea from star player Kelsey Araujo did exactly what you would expect from Buffalo, snowballed into something incredible. Along each of the green parkways that replaced our urban highways, a tree is planted for each player on a championship team. As the Bills and Sabres started to win consistently in the coming years, our once blue-collar city turned green. I parked my bike outside Hamburg West Metro Station and just caught the train. Fifteen minutes later, I joined the thousands gathered outside the East Ferry Street Station, lining both sides of Humboldt Parkway and found my friends. As the fire trucks pull up with the team, we’re excited to see Aaron Jones, Jr., our league-leading wide receiver, step out in front of us. He seems just as excited as we are—taking pictures, giving out hugs and fist bumps. Local officials, including Mayor Helen Maung, stop at every player, shaking hands and unveiling the tree’s plaque commemorating the player and the date. Even after seeing this done a dozen or more times between the Bills, Sabres and FC Buffalo, it still brings a tear to my eye. That tear of happiness is soon replaced by the feeling of embarrassment and anger.

I tune him out. Something us fans have learned to do. Because this day is about the players and the city of Buffalo.

The players gather on stage to receive their championship rings from the commissioner. As the ring is about to be revealed, trash blows in.

Today is about a tradition that started 29 years ago when the FC Buffalo Women’s Soccer team brought Buffalo its first

Our fearless leader, Mr. Gronkowski, is back at it. He drunkenly walks on stage and grabs the microphone.

WHERE ALL COMMUNITIES ARE WELCOME #Buffalo2051

“Just so you know, the ring you get today will never compare to the ones I have. And just know I still have more than all of you. You are lucky you have me to help you get something decent.” If you could hear eye rolls, it would’ve been a deafening thunder.

The rage I feel inside is nothing compared to the look on our players’ faces. Although, as fans, we feel the red-hot heat of hatred of our owner, thus far, the players have remained professional and diplomatic. That was about to end today. Just as you could feel the excitement throughout the city, so too could you feel the resentment. It’s gone on too long. What should’ve been a day of celebration for our city—the city of Buffalo—the city that raised the Gronkowskis—was just too much. This celebration was now turning into a mutiny. And I was here for it. It started with a quick comment from our star safety, “I’m done with this f&*#$ing guy,” and traveled with nods of solidarity up and down the rows of players. Now there was a new energy. A new excitement. A new goal to achieve. And that was to get this M-Fer out of Buffalo

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September 2051

august 2051 It’s the dawning of a new day. It’s been three months since the city decided we were done with Gronk. Three long months of preparing to be on the world stage. And boy, were we ready to make our presence be known. At, sigh, The House of Gronk, (because what else would you expect an owner of a team he thinks he’s better than to do? Buy the stadium naming rights along with buying the team. His reasoning? “I owned you every time I stepped on this field to play, so now I’ve just made it official.”) each of us passed a knowing glance to each other on the train. This is it. An underground movement was in the final stages of going public. The players, staff, trainers and group of volunteers behind the mutiny met in the field house. Yes, right under the nose of our astute owner. Maybe if he hadn’t killed so many brain cells… The lawyers were ready with paperwork. Financial support was secured. The plans were finalized with an offer all too good for someone like Gronk to turn down. After all, critical thinking was never his strong point. Now, we wait until the opening ceremony of the Pan Am Expo. I don’t think anyone in the city slept that night. Well, maybe Gronk. But he was passed out.

The sun was shining, the water was glistening, and the Outer Harbor was littered with boats, people and dignitaries. There was so much to see and so much to do. The evening ceremony was about to begin. I found my place in the crowd, nervously looking around. You could tell Buffalo residents apart from the many visitors because of the excited yet nervous look in their eyes.

“I suck? I suck?! What the hell do you know? You guys are trash,” he quipped back. “You’re a has-been!” yelled someone from the group. And just like we knew he would, Gronk was taking the bait. “I can still beat the sh*t out of you and all your friends,” Gronk yelled, as camera crews hustled to find the censor button.

The President of the United States took the stage after an introduction from Mayor Maung. After her speech, it was our time to shine. The Mayor stepped up to the microphone again to bring up our dearest Bills owner.

Bingo. There it was. We didn’t even have to try.

With cameras rolling, Gronk stepped off his yacht that had moored behind the main stage, with someone following closely behind.

“You have nothing I want,” yelled Gronk. “Go back to your trailer.”

“This is such a massive event, I had to bring my best buddy. You guys remember him, right?” Lo and behold. The devil himself is here. Stepping into the light. Tom f&#%ing Brady.

“You wanna bet?” Yelled a man named Cam, a normally nice, decent guy who had honed his acting skills for this very moment.

Just then, Cam held up a pair of keys. “I have a 2021 Porsche that I’m willing to bet you.” He’s all about the material things. And even though he can afford his own Porsche, Gronk’s manhood was at stake. “OK, buddy, what’s your bet?”

Of course, Tom looks just as one would expect from someone who sold his soul to the devil back in 2001. A very “Death Becomes Her” vibe. He smirks and does that laugh that sounds like practiced it in the mirror.

Someoneelseyellsfromthecrowd,“Ibetyoucan’tbeathimata40.”

The two of them take the stage like they are going on the Arsenio Hall Show, whooping it up. Gronk fist pumping and catcalling at anyone he could see. He may have believed the Expo was just for him.

“Put your money where your mouth is!” Yells another “seed” in the crowd.

He stepped up to the microphone and welcomed guests to “his” city. Before he even got through his first sentence, he was interrupted. “Boo! Boo!” Chanted a group of people from the crowd. “You suck, Gronk!” This was it. The wheels were in motion.

“Him? That guy right there? You think he can beat me at a 40? Like that’s even fair. I will destroy him.”

“Money? You got it, pal.” Gronk takes off his button-down shirt to reveal a t-shirt with the sleeves already ripped off. Like he was waiting for someone to challenge him to an arm wrestle. The crowd is loud. And rowdy. Those in on the plan are going bananas and their adrenaline is contagious. Soon, visitors and locals alike are in a frenzy. Gronk thinks we’re celebrating him. He always does. He thinks we’re all here to watch him destroy Cam. But little

#Buffalo2051

does Gronk know that Cam is really a plant. A former Olympian dressed in baggy clothes to hide his physique. “I bet you $100,000 that I will destroy you,” Gronk says into the mic before dramatically dropping it, looking around for cheers. Ugh. Not what we were going for. We have to step it up. Time for Plan B. I see Brett pushing his way to get in front. Come on, Brett! We need you! He’s finally close enough to plant the idea, “Bet him the Bills, Gronk! You’re the man!” The crowd roars as the stakes suddenly rise astronomically. We’ve got him. You can see it in his eyes. Like he’s some kind of genius who just thought of this “brilliant” idea on his own. He tells his brethren to grab the mic again. The crowd is so

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loud. This is it. Gronk grabs the mic out of one of his minion’s hands. “Hang on, hang on. What do I get when I win? Just a car?” The crowd silences. I think I may throw up. “Brady’s approval!” someone yells out. Gronk stands up straight with a twinkle in his eye and turns to his best pal, Tom. “Do you think I can take this guy?”

Hook. Line. Sinker.

It feels weird, but now we’re really cheering for Gronk. “You’ve got this!” and “It’s not even close!” ring out. Brady winks at him. Maybe it was too much tequila. But it was all Gronk needed. “I know I can beat your ass. And I’m so sure, I will—in front of the world—bet you the Bills.”

#Buffalo2051

Gronk flexed hard into every camera pointing at him. Visitors gasped. His team of minions sprang into action, trying to talk him out of it.

I couldn’t see the finish line where I was standing. I could only see what was projected on the big screens around the event. And I still couldn’t tell what happened.

Thankfully Gronk didn’t realize how prepared the city was to host a 40-meter race. The seas of people parted almost instantly. A large tape measure was brought out to mark the distance. A member of the security team brought up a starting pistol.

A silence hung over the Outer Harbor, even as tens of thousands of people remained.

Dignitaries and Expo goers stood there, mouths agape. The President looked around nervously, smiling, but wondering what the hell was happening. Buffalonians, Bills players in the crowd and fans of the game prayed. Cam and Gronk took their spots in the middle of the Expo. With all eyes on him, Gronk ate it up. His confidence was frightening, to be honest. Cam was cool and calm. Probably the only one there who was. Our mutiny movement’s lawyer came up to reiterate the terms of the bet. Gronk gave an energetic “Hell yes” when asked if he was sure he wanted to do this. Our lawyer “just happened” to have a blank piece of paper with him where he hastily wrote down the details. Gronk signed. Cam signed. Brady signed as a witness. You could hear a collective gasp from the crowd as the runners lined up. “Runners take your mark. Get set.” A single pistol shot rang out. And off Gronk and Cam went.

Finally, like they were in the boxing ring, a security guard walked over, grabbed one of Cam’s hands and one of Gronk’s and raised Cam’s. “The new owner of the Buffalo Bills, ladies and gentlemen!” He shouted. The crowd lost its mind. Gronk lost his mind, too. Shouting for the unofficial official to look again, Gronk realized the deal was sealed as he watched the replay on the big screen. He had lost by an entire stride. Cameras flashed. Strangers hugged. And minions forced Gronk and TB12 out of the public’s view. The night had just begun, but the celebration lasted just as long as it did for our Super Bowl wins. Finally, the bone-head was out. And our team of financial sponsors, led by Cam, was in. Gronk got hustled. The Bills took the stage. The lawyers got the paperwork. And the partying went on. There’s a rumor that on very calm nights, you can still hear Gronk’s sobs coming from the windows of his boat, echoing across the shores of Lake Erie.

It was the longest 40-meter race I have ever seen. Yet it was over in seconds.

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#Buffalo2051

THIRTY YEARS of Ethical Craft Cannabis in Buffalo

As the hemp industry expands across New York, Bison partners with Western New York hemp farmers to provide CBD products made with locally produced hemp extract.

4/30/21

During the COVID-19 pandemic, New York State becomes the 15th state in the U.S. to legalize adult-use cannabis.

2/13/22

The Buffalo Bills bring home their first Vince Lombardi Trophy by defeating the Tampa Bay Buccaneers 42-0 in Super Bowl LVI. Tom Brady retires in defeat.

4/20/22

Bison Botanics welcomes their first cannabis customers into its small-batch, vertically integrated facility on Military Road.

2/5/23

The Buffalo Bills win a second Lombardi Trophy, defeating the Green Bay Packers 42-0 in Super Bowl LVII!

3/5/25

Bison Botanics becomes an entirely sustainable cannabis company, with a ZERO carbon footprint.

1/21/27

Bison wins its fourth FLWR CITY Harvest Cup for their in-house cannabis genetics.

6/21/35

The Buffalo Sabres win their first Stanley Cup by defeating the Carolina Hurricanes 4-2 in game 4!

12/1/48

9/18/19

And all of your favorite local brands are still here!

12/1/18

IT’S 2051...

Bison Botanics establishes itself as a craft cannabinoid company by providing the WNY community with quality CBD products.

Bison Botanics celebrates its 30th anniversary as a small-batch cannabis company!

CRAFT CANNABIS

EST. 2018

1100 MILITARY ROAD @BISONBOTANICS

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#Buffalo2051 Rise-QuarterPage-090121.indd 1

9/10/21 1:26 PM

Death at Pan Am By Francesca Bond Illustrated by Renée Helda Inventor Luca Griswold was feeling nervous. On a late morning in early September 2051, he paced inside of his green-and-white striped circus tent at the return of the Pan American Exposition on the Lake Erie shoreline, surrounded by his life’s work, which were several pieces of technology each no larger than a crab apple. It was his first time in twelve years being back home in Buffalo and he had been anxiously anticipating, maybe dreading, his presentation for months. It was basically the high school reunion he never planned on attending. But as he was preparing to reveal his latest technological achievement later in the day, his mind was elsewhere, for there was a more important reason he was back in Buffalo. Shifting his eyes all around the dim backstage, he wondered: Where was Florence Cameron? Three miles away, Silas Washington was stepping out of her rainforest shower. She took a late shower that morning, since her wife Charlene was taking their daughter to the Pan Am. While Charlene often had time to herself designing clothing for her brand, Silas was normally taking care of their daughter, Liberty. So while she was at home alone, she caught up on local magazines and gave her cropped black hair a trim. Then it was time for yoga in their rooftop garden, where she could enjoy the late summer sunshine under a cool canopy of palm leaves the size of parasols. She was having a great day. It would last another twenty minutes or so, at which point she decided to check in once more on her detective brother-in-law Florence, who had been worrying her recently. But what else was new? Meanwhile, Charlene Cameron was thinking about her mom, Rachel. As she appraised the vendors and patrons around her at the Pan Am, Charlene felt as though she was looking through her mother’s eyes; “Ooo, I love that,” her mother would have cooed while making her way over to the slow fashion booths. “Exactly!” Rachel would have cried when she noticed that the silent rides were powered by solar. Twenty-four different streetcar and metro lines were bringing people from all around the city,suburbs,country, and world together in Buffalo’s Outer Harbor. It was her mother’s dream. And she knew her mother would have cried seeing Liberty, her granddaughter, clutching to Charlene in the same way Charlene used to cling onto her. Partners-in-good, that’s what her dad always used to say. Then Charlene started thinking about him too. 56

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“I want to see the butterflies,” five year old Liberty reminded her mother for the third time. “When is Uncle Flo going to get here?” “I know. He’s pretty late,” said Charlene. She checked her younger brother’s location on her watch, but it was still on incognito mode, where it had been since yesterday evening. She started to feel a bit queasy, because Florence rarely went off the radar like that, although it had been happening more lately. The two usually had nothing to hide from each other. She recorded a brief message to send to him, the third she had sent since last night. This was the same brother who used to collapse into tears when Charlene picked him up late from high school and who never failed to remind her of the rail schedule even though they have both had it memorized for two decades. It’s no secret where Liberty gets it from, Charlene thought, before guiding her young daughter to see some butterflies. *** When Charlene spotted Silas in the conservatory, the pit in her stomach became unbearable. Silas wasn’t supposed to be at the exposition today. It was her self-care day. But she must have been feeling the same instinct about Florence. “Charlie, have you seen Flo? He’s not answering my notes. I don’t feel good about this. You know he’s been acting weird lately and I can’t help feeling like he’s been up to something,” breathed Silas into Charlene’s ear so Liberty couldn’t hear; Liberty’s eyes started to swell anyway. They couldn’t hide anything from that girl. “Where’s Uncle Flo?” Liberty demanded. Sweeping Liberty into her arms, Silas grabbed Charlene and together the family bolted out of the conservatory and into a chaotic crowd. They had never seen the Outer Harbor so packed. It was a celebration of how far the city had come, and how far society had come, really, since its darker days of unchecked capitalism, ruinous conservatism and environmental devastation. It was a celebration Charlene wanted her parents to see. They worked so hard for this. “Snap out of it, Charlie,” she repeated to herself. Her little brother was nowhere to be found and all she could think about was her parents. She looked at Liberty and wanted to shrink down to her size. Silas could handle it. Charlene didn’t know if she could. They ran up to the satellite police booth and saw Jayden Price, the neighborhood police officer in charge of the Outer Harbor. Silas told Price they couldn’t find Florence and that he never hid his location from them, so this was all really weird. They urged him for his help. #Buffalo2051

They stood in the police station staring out at Lake Erie and the festivities, their laughing neighbors and smiling tourists, while Price reached out to Florence’s colleagues at the Buffalo Police Department. Florence and Price had been friends ever since training to join the department together and Jayden knew well about Florence’s tendency to take his detective work so seriously that he could find himself in trouble. “It’ll be okay,” Silas told her family, but her face betrayed her real thoughts. Silas was beginning to see that she and Charlie had been too wrapped up in their own worlds to pay much attention to Florence lately, while Flo slipped in and out at odd hours and stopped giving them a nightly run-down on all of the drama he saw in the city’s detective bureau. He had been retreating—Silas didn’t know why—and knowing why seemed very important right about now. *** Back at his tent, Luca was going over the day’s schedule. “Florence Cameron should have shown up around 10 a.m., but he’ll be here soon. My first performance is at 1 p.m. I have to knock that out of the park. That’ll show them all that I’m not a nobody… still, I’m cutting it pretty close,” Luca murmured to himself as he tinkered with his appearance in a mirror. He looked as unassuming as ever, like someone no one would usually notice, for better and worse. God, he hadn’t seen Florence in the flesh in ages, he thought. They had been the best of friends, until they suddenly weren’t. Popular Florence had been the only real friend of much-less popular Luca when they were children. But after the fire, nobody, not even Florence, wanted to be anywhere near Luca. Luca had been forced, really, to find connection somewhere else. Or at least, that’s how he looked at it. If no one decent wanted to be around him, well, there would always be indecent people, no matter how far society progresses. He had fallen in with the wrong sort years ago, after his parents hijacked the lives of him and his siblings by moving the family to a rural village halfway across the world one winter. His parents couldn’t stay in Buffalo much longer after the Cameron fire, not with all of the whispers, stares, and investigations.

parents. They had never been warm and fuzzy, but moving from Buffalo changed them; they were angrier, hollow— hushed meetings and revenge consumed their lives. They didn’t spend any time enjoying the money they clung to. His brother was the one who told him when his parents finally disappeared completely. None of his siblings apparently knew where they went, but they all seemed to believe they were still alive. It was then that Luca began wondering what, exactly, his parents had been a part of—and what, exactly, killed the Camerons? Flashbacks of happier times between him and Florence started to pop into his memory, but he quickly shut them out. That was a long time ago, he thought, a whole lifetime ago. Then his face hardened as a new train of thought entered his mind: Florence turned on him when he needed him most, just like everyone else. When Luca heard through the grapevine that Florence was working on an investigation into the Gottman family for felony money hoarding, he thought it might be time to return to Buffalo, after all. He had been hearing rumors—a remark from a sister here, an off-putting social post from an old friend there—that the organization his parents were a part of was growing more powerful. He couldn’t be sure, but he thinks he even heard the name Cameron mentioned once. Despite, or maybe because of, their messy history, he felt Florence at least deserved a warning. Plus, it was Florence who reached out first. Luca heard hesitant footsteps approaching and grinned as he messed with his tie one more time. “Florence, nice to see you,” Luca said and started to spin around. But the pistol suddenly aimed between Luca’s eyes obscured Florence’s face. He closed one eye to peer at Florence and saw him holding a finger to his lips. *** It felt to Charlene like they had been waiting inside of the police barracks for hours, but her watch told her it had been only forty-five minutes. She needed to get some air. She was about to step out of the station when Officer Price received a message. “Florence,” said Price.

Luca found a group of what he had no choice but to call friends in the village. They were the children of other rich people in hiding. Luca learned his parents were a part of some secret political organization with other one-percenters, but his parents never told him anything about it. When he went off to college, he barely visited his 58

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In a matter of seconds, Price wordlessly shepherded Charlene, Silas, Liberty and a couple of officers out of the station. Charlene found herself rushing after Price, snaking through crowds, oblivious to the music and fanfare around her.

The sprint ended at inventor Luca Griswold’s circus tent. Price and the other officers entered first, attempting to keep Charlene and her family outside, but there wasn’t much that could stand between her and her brother. Charlene followed Price into the tent while Silas stayed outside with Liberty. She entered the auditorium and found Florence, unmistakable with his curly red hair, sprawled across a couple of wooden fold-up chairs with blood all over his chest. She knew instantly that he was gone. Part of Charlene already died thirteen years ago when her parents perished in their family home during an arson fire. Charlene, then seventeen years old, and Florence, who was fourteen, had been out swimming at the time. Every day after school, Charlie and Flo met up with a bunch of neighborhood kids to swim in the Scajaquada Creek. That tradition saved their lives. Their parents, Rachel and Josiah Cameron, were affectionately called Buffalo’s “dream team.” They were a pair of detectives who were privately passionate about the city’s just transition towards social equity and environmental stability. After the city passed a controversial wealth cap, the Camerons took on many of the cases investigating wealth distribution. They were in the middle of exposing several prominent Buffalo families for hoarding wealth past the mandated incremental distribution periods when a newspaper article headlined “Camerons Hope to Build Utopian Future” ran, hinting at their imminent triumphs. The following day, beloved Rachel and Josiah were burned and choked to death inside of their Ellicott Street home. Police caught the low people on the totem pole that carried out the arson, but never convicted the persons who sent the orders, though there were rumors. Charlene had also found a small unidentifiable gold coin in the rubble stamped with a drawing of a cornucopia, which she held onto, believing it to be some sort of important clue. Charlene always suspected their murders had something to do with the wealth cap investigations. After the fire, Charlene dedicated herself to raising Florence and carrying on her parents’ legacy. She used their inheritance to rebuild their family home on the same site as their old one, but she bought more land and built a shelter, too. Charlene and Florence, and then eventually Silas, and then eventually Liberty, lived on the top floor, while Charlene ran a temporary housing shelter to help people get back on their feet and a small fashion brand repurposing used textiles. Her therapist believed she would rather keep herself busy than spend any time alone with her brain and her grief. Charlene’s eyes glazed over whenever her therapist told her this. Florence, however, threw himself into investigating his parents’ murders. While other teenagers and twenty-

somethings partied,played soccer ,swam, skied, and dated Florence worked his way up into becoming one of the city’s youngest lead detectives at age twenty-three. He was well respected by his peers and known for his dogged determination to find the truth. He distracted himself with retro television shows, mostly House Hunters, in his free time. Both siblings worried each other. Charlene had been especially worried about Florence over the past year or so. He was more withdrawn. He spent less time with Liberty. He holed up in his office and kept the door locked when he wasn’t around. It had been even worse lately. Why didn’t she say anything? She started to cry. *** Just a few feet away from Florence’s dead body lay a bloody but alive Luca Griswold receiving medical attention from one of the officers. “There was a gun in between them,” Price told Charlene quietly. Charlene remembered Florence hadn’t spoken to Luca since the fire, mostly because he suspected Luca’s parents of being behind the arson. Florence retreated from most of his friends then, but especially his friend who reminded him so painfully of the death of his parents. The Griswold parents had disappeared by the time investigators knocked on their door after discovering they were two of the people the Camerons had been investigating for bucking the wealth cap. Nobody had seen them in the twelve years since, but there were rumors they joined an extremist group carrying out revenge attacks on behalf of the one-percenters who lost their treasure troves of assets when municipalities and states across the country opted to institute wealth caps and higher taxes on the rich. There had also been rumors that some of the Griswold children joined their parents in the extremist group, though the Griswold children that returned to Buffalo swore they hadn’t heard from their parents in years. She wondered if a Griswold had taken another person from her as she felt an urge to rip the officer off of Luca and have her revenge. “Charlene, I didn’t kill Florence,” said Luca, grimacing through the pain from the bullet wound in his arm. “He asked me for help. I was helping him. Someone was after us.” “What was it he asked you to do?” asked Charlene in a cold, defeated voice.

#Buffalo2051

“Well…” Luca hesitated and looked at the police officers. He straightened himself up. “He wanted some tech help. He had this idea in his head that the scooter guy, Robert Gottman, was hoarding money—millions of it. He said the guy was fudging numbers left and right for all kinds of things on all of his municipal contracts for personal scooters . . . and in his taxes, so the government would never find out how much money he really had. “Gottman wasn’t vocal about his views on the wealth cap because he wanted all of those scooter contracts, but you better believe he opposed it,” Luca added. “He had always been close to my parents.” Officer Price was combing Luca for more information when he heard the noise. He spun around - they all did - and saw a figure in dark clothing and a bucket hat racing out of the tent. “That’s them!” shouted Luca. The suspect dashed out of the tent and into the crowd, but not before Price got a good look at them in the sunlight. He darted after them and held onto the mental snapshot of a long navy jacket, dark bucket hat and tucked hair. What color was it again? He didn’t have a face to go on and anyone can ditch clothes. No, he would have to run faster. The Pan Am visitors were entirely and blissfully unaware of anything sinister going on that afternoon. Politely dividing to let Price run through the crowd, many guests didn’t give the sight of a police officer sprinting through a festival much thought. Crime had been decreasing for years thanks to equalizing social programs and the redistribution of wealth. Police played many roles in a community. For all they knew, the officer was playing a game of tag. The Pan Am and its rides, games, performances, and exhibitions roared on. Price spotted the figure again running down a dirt path into the woods when he decided to gamble. He split off behind a kale chip vendor to a shortcut he knew met up with the path. Sprinting so fast he couldn’t breathe and eating early September bugs in the air, Price met up with the path and collided with a person. It was the figure. Staring straight at Price, the figure popped a small pill and collapsed to the ground. Price pinned him down and realized he was now staring into a lifeless face. *** Before his death, Florence had been working on a big case about people who had been disobeying the city’s wealth cap. 60

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He had documented every part of his private investigation into the Gottmans. The city was working on seizing many of the Gottmans’ assets—items everyone wondered how they could afford and several houses in remote places. Other prominent families were implicated in Florence’s findings, too, though it was clear his investigation was far from over. Police were never able to identify Florence’s killer. The conclusion was that he was a young assassin who had been working for the extremist group that counted the Griswold parents and Gottmans as its members. He had a tiny tattoo on his wrist of the same symbol that had been found on a coin at the Cameron house after the fire—a cornucopia. In ancient mythology the cornucopia symbolized abundance, nourishment, and prosperity Charlene learned. She gave a sardonic laugh when she discovered that it was the extremist group’s symbol of choice. “Abundance for one and nothing for all,” she thought. Florence had been onto the group, too, before his death. That was where Luca came in. Florence’s papers and journals on the group were senseless to everyone else, but Luca was able to shed light on them with inside information he hadn’t realized he even had collected over the years. The investigation gave Luca a new purpose. The torch of the Cameron legacy was passed on to him. He started to look over his shoulder more often. About six months later, Charlene was looking through Florence’s bookshelf while holding his favorite Build-A-Bear from when he was a child. She started seeing a therapist again, who told her that she should try to remember her brother instead of blocking him out because of the pain. She was trying, but boy, was there pain. Charlene pulled out a battered copy of Dr. Seuss’s The Lorax, one of the few books to survive their parent’s fire. She became emotional while remembering how much that book meant to her brother, who carried it around in his backpack for the rest of high school, and who used to leave secret notes for Charlene in it so that his babysitter wouldn’t read them. A note fell to the ground, just like the old days, as she opened it up. The note read: “Charlie, I’m not sure what will happen to me, but I have to pursue a new lead on mom and dad’s deaths and no one can know. I think Luca Griswold will be able to lead me to them, for better or worse. This group is more omnipresent than we thought. The war is far from over. Be careful who you trust. Love you, my partner-in-good.”

#Buffalo2051

Madeline Little

Theresa Totaro

Former Say Yes Scholar, Current Employee

Former Client, Compass House

Hutch Tech ‘16, SUNY Fredonia ’20 (Journalism) Say Yes Community School Navigator at PS 80, Highgate Heights

Vice President, Executive Board, Compass House Administrator, Suburban Behavioral Health

Photo by Bridget Schaefer

No Boundaries ISSUE 8

At Say Yes Buffalo, our mission is to remove barriers

Every year, hundreds of Buffalo youth come to Compass

to educational attainment and economic mobility

House with nothing more than the clothes on their backs.

for ALL students attending Buffalo public and

For nearly five decades, our Emergency Shelter, Resource

charter schools. By providing tuition scholarships to

Center, Safe Place Program and Rapid Re-Housing Program

postsecondary institutions, we are building a bridge

have provided runaway and homeless youth aged 12-24

to opportunity. By offering a growing number of

with a safe shelter and resources to better their lives. We

supports, from birth through grade 12, we will bring

recognize our roles as youth advocates and strive to create

a growing number of young people to the threshold

positive relationships between youth and their families

of that door.

when possible.

By 2051, we will accept no less than a Buffalo that

Our ability to work alongside our clients in a non-

reflects this investment, which can be objectively

authoritarian and non-judgmental manner has empowered

WSPN supports partners like these by matching

measured by vastly reduced childhood poverty

thousands of local youth to grow into stable, independent,

opportunities and resources to advance

rates and gaps in educational attainment between

and productive members of the community. In the future,

neighborhood priorities and benefit children

ZIP codes, as well as equitable opportunity access

we will continue to care for our community, passionately

and their families on Buffalo’s west side.

for all residents. We aim to be the envy of the nation,

partner with the youth we serve, and ultimately assist our

a community where every child born feels lucky to

clients in creating a new direction for a better life.

call Buffalo home.

#Buffalo2051

Chef Kap Thang

Teresa

Owner, Thang’s Family Japanese Ramen

Age 13, Grade 9

West Side Bazaar – 25 Grant Street

6th Year Violin, Buffalo String Works

Photo by Brendan Bannon

Photo by Bridget Schaefer

Originally from the Chin state in Burma, Kap Thang fled

of whom are people of color. By supporting English

Buffalo String Works strives to ignite personal and

when he was 21 years of age to Malaysia. He lived there

Language Learner students to succeed in school

community leadership through accessible and youth-

for over 10 years, working various jobs, including as a chef

and empowering entrepreneurs with microloans and

centered music education. Whether we’re working with

at his restaurant, Thang’s Family Japanese Bistro. In 2009,

business support programming, WEDI creates a more

a 5-year-old violinist or a 15-year-old cellist, we know

he came to Buffalo where he began working in food prep

equitable region. Right now, we’re planning to quintuple

that our young musicians are poised to lead us forward.

at Lexington Coop for the next 8 years. His restaurant

the size of our small business incubator, the West Side

Playing an instrument teaches musical skills that will

opened at the Bazaar in 2017. He is married, the father of

Bazaar (WSB). By fall of 2022 we’ll be on Niagara Street

carry our youth far but even beyond that, music education

three boys, and a proud Kenmore homeowner.

with more shops, restaurants (and seating), professional

imparts skills that will extend into our students’ academic

services, classrooms, and event spaces.

classrooms, their homes, their future offices, and their

WEDI’s vision is that all residents of Western New York can

future board rooms.

succeed and thrive in a culturally inclusive community. We

We’re looking for volunteers and mentors to help us

work to strengthen communities through a continuum of

make Buffalo a prosperous, equitable, multi-cultural city

Our program is offered completely free to all families

educational and financial resources, removing systemic

of the future. Go to WEDIBuffalo.org to get involved or

and we currently serve 100 youth from Buffalo’s refugee,

barriers to economic equality for all of us. Our focus

find out more about the WSB expansion.

immigrant, and historically marginalized communities.

areas of Education and Economic Development tackle

Our dream is to unite all of Buffalo’s neighborhoods by

inequality that affects underserved residents, many

empowered young musicians. To learn more, visit us at buffalostringworks.org.

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#Buffalo2051

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吀栀攀䈀攀攀爀䬀攀攀瀀⸀挀漀洀 66

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#Buffalo2051

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