The meeting was called to order. A bunch of misfits huddled under a swaying, moth-bothered bulb in a basement, somewhere in Newark.
Darren, de facto chair, coughed into his fist and assessed the Crew. Bingo, Swervy, Steve, Other Steve, Sheila, Eric, Dong-Dong. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.
“Right,” said Darren. “We need to get organised. Have you all got yours?”
Unopened cans of lager were produced from backpacks, tan leather shoulder bags and hoodie pockets and placed on the table.
“Does it matter what can we use?” asked Swervy.
“Don’t think so,” said Darren. “Something else for us to find out, I guess. Ready?”
The Crew nodded solemnly.
“3, 2, 1, go!” said Darren and the eight members pinged their ring-pulls simultaneously. A resonating 432Khz rang out through the basement, bouncing off the dust particles in the air, the boxes of garden ornaments and the plastic medical skeleton hanging in the corner. But nothing happened. The Crew shifted eyes nervously between them.
“This is ridiculous,” opined Sheila, standing. “I’m leaving, I have places to be.”
“SIT.” bellowed Darren, shocking the group. “You silly old cow, we’re going to sit here and ping these ring pulls until the muppets show up.”
Sheila gingerly rejoined the Crew. In her tan leather bag with floral embroidery, the recorder whirred quietly.