Life is a Beautiful Thing (4-Book Box Set)

by Harmon Cooper

  I start to laugh and feel something twist in my stomach. My vision flips momentarily and Yeshi’s body warps. I shake my head. What the hell was that? My vision stabilizes and everything seems as though it’s back to normal.

  “Just curious,” she says.

  “So what are you actually thinking about?”

  “I’m thinking about you and how handsome you look in all white.”

  “Really?” I take another inhalation and put the mask back in my lap. “I don’t believe it. You’re trained to … ”

  “Please don’t tell me how I’m trained to be,” she says, “No one likes that – human or Humandroid. What if I say humans are trained to go to college, get a good job, get married and save for retirement? What if I say humans are trained to use intoxicants until they can’t take anymore just so they can ‘have fun’ or forget something? But doesn’t saying it like that feel somewhat bland? Somewhat harsh? Somewhat trite? Doesn’t it just trivialize your existence? I’m not programmed to do anything – aside from sex! Okay, sure, I’m programmed to do that, or at least I was programmed to do that. Here’s my point: I genuinely think you’re an interesting man. If you haven’t noticed – which you should have by now considering your position – we Humandroids have the capability of empathy and curiosity.”

  I sigh because I know – Humandroid escorts are especially complimentary. They must be in order to flatter their clients. They’re curious only as much as it allows them to remain inquisitive. They will ask you about your day, about a certain topic, or about things happening in your life. They’re purposefully submissive. Most of their human clients are smart enough to know that this is what they’re programmed or trained to do. This knowledge doesn’t stop people from purchasing their services. Most of us know the limitations of the things we buy but we buy them anyway. We’re a habit driven species.

  “I see … ” I circle my finger around one of the polypropylene eye lenses as I think of what to say next. “All right, I have a question for you then: do Humandroids such as yourself actually like sexual contact? I mean, from what I’ve read and heard from my clients, they don’t. I guess I’m asking – do you feel anything? I’m assuming no … ”

  “Sometimes I do,” Yeshi says. “But not in the way you think. I guess, to me, it’s just interesting.”

  “What is?”

  “Human intercourse. It’s interesting to take part in, interesting to watch. Many humans are so strict in their day-to-day life that sex becomes about the only playground they allow themselves to enjoy. Humans grow up so quickly. It’s funny seeing these uptight businessmen suddenly let loose when it comes to sex. It’s strange seeing what little twisted fantasies lay dormant in their mind. So I enjoy that part of it. I guess the therapeutic part of it. I’m not foolish enough to believe that I’m programmed to enjoy it. I also understand that I, myself, am one of their abnormal little fantasies. I am capitalism, I am sex. It doesn’t take long to see what drives this world and every world there has ever been.”

  “Why do you like me?” I ask, not quite sure of what she meant by her last statement. Out of the corner of my eye, I see two men dressed in black lurking in the shadows near the bar. The pollutes make Yeshi’s form sway as if I were looking at her underwater.

  “Why do I like you, huh? Do you think I like you?”

  “You act like you do.” I say.

  “I think you’re fun.” She plays with her earring again. It’s amazing how Humandroids pick up little human nuances. When they’re fresh from the factory, they’re sent through all sorts of training or ‘adapting modules’ as they are called. With the newer models, the time they spend in these modules has slowly decreased. As they age into society – regardless if they are an older or a newer model – they become more and more human-like. They begin to replicate small human gesticulations such as toying with something endlessly, they begin to talk like humans, to walk more like humans – they begin to evolve. Darwinian machine learning. They start using slang, they dress differently and many try to pass themselves off as actual humans.

  “This is the second time you’ve hung out with me. How do you know that I’m fun?” I ask.

  It is starting to feel like we were on a date. I’m not on a date with a ladyboy Humandroid, I remind myself. She’s an escort, and I’m paying her to be here. Or at least I think I am, or at least I figure I will be at some point. Why does it feel like a date then? Why does it feel like we are flirting?

  “I suppose you’re right, I don’t know if you’re fun or not. Maybe you’re as much of a stiff as your co-worker Tyro seems to be. Maybe you have a wife and kids, maybe you aren’t even a black man.” Yeshi shrugs, knowing all too well that these statements are baseless.

  “No wife, no kids, not like Tyro, definitely black. Okay … ” I think for a moment. What the hell am I supposed to ask her? I reach for the pollution mask and take another long drag.

  Maybe I should ask her about her hobbies? She said something about yoga. Does she have a favorite pose? When did she start doing yoga? Maybe I should ask about her Humandroid flat. Is it nice? No, I quickly remind myself, I already know how dismal and brightly lit those places are. Damn. I can’t ask her about her family, I can’t ask her about her job (I don’t want to know the details of that), I can’t ask her about her childhood. There has to be something…

  “So?” she asks.

  The words fumble out of my mouth, “Do you have a favorite movie?”

  Definitely a date. Definitely.

  TWENTY-SIX∞

  “Is that her?” I say to myself, looking from Yeshi to the woman sitting beneath the famous Royce painting.

  Everything had become slushy and my center of gravity had long since given up hopes of stability. My mind has deliquesced. It was as if I were standing on the deck of a ship, leaning forward and looking over the railing at the frothy butterscotch waves below. I was lightheaded and weakened by the pollute intoxication.

  I knew the feeling of LoathHunAyaTop, and deduced that it was the Ukrainian shit that Yeshi had given me that was making me feel so nauseous. I look at the woman sitting in the corner again, trying to get a steady image of her. Was it her?

  “Is that who?” Yeshi asks. She quickly blinks her butterfly eyelashes.

  “The woman ... I think she was the one I wanted to switch bodies with the other night … the same night that I met you. Nelly.”

  “You asked me about switching bodies too.”

  “Did I? That must have been before … ” I look from the woman to Yeshi.

  “Yes, it was before you knew I was a Humandroid. Don’t be worried or ashamed about it.” She blows me a kiss. “We can’t help what we are, can we?” The way she asks this seems slightly sorrowful, as if saying this reminded her of what she really was.

  “I … I guess not.”

  She asks, “Do you like body-switching?”

  “It’s always an interesting time; it’s always interesting to see what someone else’s body feels like.”

  I glance to the lone pillar in the center of the bar. The pillar has a square base made of cubed limestone. An elaborate golden intaglio ran in a diagonal pattern up the pillar. I stare at it for a moment, watching the engravings swell and quiver. “About a month ago, I switch bodies with a British woman, but that was just for a couple of hours.”

  “It’s such a strange concept,” she says. “Your personality and behavioral patterns are stripped from your body and transferred to another human. Everything is transferred from life chip to life chip.”

  “It’s actually the result of a computer virus.”

  “The death part is strange to me too,” she says.

  “Human death or switched-bodied human death?”

  “Switch-bodied human death. Bodies are so valuable. I don’t understand why humans would risk giving their bodies to someone else, knowing that the person could very well die in their body. Which would kill their body–”

  “–but not kill them specifically,”
I finish her sentence. “That’s why it’s illegal. It’s dangerous and risky and that’s why humans like it. We flock to anything that is exhilarating. Space tourism, skydiving, rock climbing, heroin, spelunking, deep sea diving, body-switching. That’s why we do these things, to push ourselves to the limit. To feel the fear, to experience the pain, to gain the bragging rights, to prove to ourselves … ” I thought for a moment. “To prove to ourselves that we are human, and that we are capable of doing something that others aren’t capable of doing. We do everything we do to separate ourselves from the pack.”

  “To separate yourselves from one flock just to become part of another. Now you’re in the group of people who do those crazy things. It seems humans do as much as they can to stand out, only to fit into a crowd that is trying to stand out. Fuck it, it’s not my job to understand humans, it’s my job to … ” Yeshi smiles slightly.

  I look over her shoulder at the woman under the painting. I still can’t make out her face, but I can tell by a slight bulge that she is pregnant. Could it really be Nelly? All this time … Okay, only one week but still – could it be Nelly? I reach instinctively to my body-switcher necklace. I always wear my guitar pick necklace. Maybe I could switch bodies tonight.

  I want to get out of the chair but I suddenly feel glued to the seat. What is this stuff that Yeshi gave me anyway? What the hell are these Ukrainians using anyway? I take the pollution mask out of my lap and strap it on. Another swig of LoathHunAyaTop settles my nerves. Hopefully, it will clear away this Eastern European shit.

  TWENTY-SEVEN∞

  I’m going over there, I decide, after waiting five more minutes for the pollute haze to die down. The woman across the room is alone for now, but there are two glasses at the table, which means someone must be coming to meet her. My window of opportunity is slowly shutting, as all windows of opportunity inevitably do.

  “I need to use the restroom,” I inform Yeshi.

  “You can go check on your friend,” she says. “I don’t mind. Invite her over here if you’d like.”

  “How did you … ?”

  “You keep looking over there. Human behavior isn’t very hard to decipher.”

  “Listen, I just need to check … it would be crazy if it were really her. I mean, how many people live in this city now?”

  “Thirty-two million,” Yeshi answers, “not including illegal immigrants.”

  “Exactly!”

  I stand slowly, using my arms like cranes to lift me off the table. The fat waitress gives me a funny look as I stand from the bar stool. I close my eyes and the iNet login screen flicks on. I open my eyes and take a step towards the woman. It takes me all of five minutes just to get to the lone pillar in the middle of the room. I place my hand on the pillar and catch my balance. I look around nervously, hoping no one sees my pathetic descent towards the other side of the room. The bar is pretty much empty besides a few people by its large tinted window and two men in black suits at the bar.

  I slide near the pregnant woman and smile faintly. I try and straighten my shirt, as if a quick brush from my hand will really do anything. I’m almost certain now that it’s Nelly. The hair, the bridge of her nose, her clothing style, the way she looks so serious but at the same time so naïve.

  I stand near the chair in front of her, hovering like an obtuse vulture. It’s as if I’ve now lost the ability to think. A choon I recognize plays on the stereo system. It sounds tropical, sounds like someone put it together after a long day of piña colada pollutes, thin bikinis and sand between their toes.

  “Can I help you?” the woman sitting at the table asks.

  “Nelly,” I say, putting my hand on the ridge of the chair in front of her. “Nelly, is that you?”

  “Who are you?” She brushes the hair out of her face and squints.

  “POLLUTION CLUB 512, we met there, you were supposed to go with me,” I say.

  “Was I?” she starts to laugh. I notice how delicate her skin is and how thin her wrists are. She’s like a living mannequin.

  I rub my left eye with my palm. “I think so … ” I say, not sure of how to answer her.

  “Ah! I remember you now,” Nelly says. “You were the guy who wanted to switch bodies with me … ”

  “That’s me,” I say. “My name is Meme.” I sit down in the empty chair. “Nice Leia buns by the way.”

  “I know, aren’t they retro?”

  “Definitely.”

  “I wanted to go for something retro tonight.” She’s sitting with an oversized Michael Kors bag in her lap. Her face keeps contorting, growing larger and wider with each movement of her jaw. Each time she blinks, a sparkle of glitter radiates off her eyelashes. Damn her applesweet nictating. Damn these Ukrainian pollutes. I place my hands along edge of the table to stabilize myself.

  “So you still into it?”

  “Into what?” I ask.

  “Switching.”

  “Hell yes I am. Are you?” I try to steady my breath. I instinctively place my hand across my chest, across my guitar pick necklace. “Wait, how have you been? I sent you a message on GoogleFace…”

  “Oh sorry about that. I’ve been busy … ”

  “Is your name Meme?” a voice asks from behind me. I place the accent I’ve just heard as Australian, or some type of British accent I’m unfamiliar with.

  The two men wearing black suits. One of them has a neck like a bulldog; the other has a neck like a bulldog’s mother. They look like they were raised on a strict diet of corn, steak, action films and whole milk.

  “I’m not sure,” I say. It’s my typical answer when asked of my identity by a complete stranger.

  “It’s him Gyatson,” the man on the right says. “Not very hard to pick him out in the crowd here. Cameras have been disabled,” he says, looking at his watch. “Let’s get this over with.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, looking up at the man. “Racism, huh? I thought we were supposed to be over this shit by now.”

  “Fuck you, mate,” the man named Gyatson says. Before I can react, he uses my neck to slam my head against the table. The pain stings and bursts through my body.

  The collision is so sudden that I pop right back up into my normal seated position. I briefly see Nelly fumbling in her purse for something. No one in the bar seems to notice or care that the man has just accosted me. The metallic taste of blood enters my mouth. I try to stand, but I’m quickly tossed to the ground by the second man.

  I look up, watching in slow-mo as Gyatson pulls a revolver from beneath his coat.

  A revolver? What the hell is he doing with that? I try and lift myself up but fail miserably. What century are we in? I’m more fascinated than frightened by the weapon. The last time I saw an actual revolver was in a history museum.

  The ground tilts. I see blood drip from my mouth onto the lacewood floor. I hear people screaming, but am too disoriented to do anything. I look up and see Nelly towering over me. There’s some type of mask covering her face. Suddenly, she’s spraying a strange liquid at the men. I hear their bodies fall to the ground all around me. The revolver hits the floor and fires a single shot.

  TWENTY-EIGHT∞

  I awake screaming in an aeros.

  I’m lying on the floorboard, coughing up blood. My nostrils are on fire. Tiny glistening specks of light seep out from the corners of my eyes. My mouth is dry. Violent grindsmash oozes from the speakers.

  A man and a woman are screaming simultaneously. They yell: I’m still, I’m still an animal! I’m still, I’m still an animal! I’m still, I’m still an animal! The bass keeps cutting off right before the next drop is supposed to hit. A cringable sound. It hurts my ears to describe the sound.

  I’m confused and delirious. Vertiginous. It feels like my brain is bleeding. My lungs are fighting to suck in air. I’m wheezing and the cuffs of my white jacket are stained in crimson. I cough again.

  “Meme, just hold on … ”

  “Yeshi! What? Where!?” I yell over
the music.

  “At the bar. You talked to Nelly. Some guys came. I don’t know who they were, but they may be related to Sauria at ExEx. That’s what I think, anyway. Nelly maced the fuck out of them. Everyone in the bar fell except the Humandroid bartender, myself and Nelly. She turned and walked out. I recorded everything if you want to watch it.”

  “Sauria did this? My eyes … ” I sob. “Am I going blind?”

  “No. It’s the mist she sprayed. I’ve seen it used before. It’s a tear gas mixed with a soporific chemical called Tenofizzle 661. The burning is from the tear gas. You’ll be fine, all your vitals are normal.”

  “Yeshi?” I ask. I look up at her and make out a blur clothed in white. The tears burn as they streak down my face.

  She laughs. “Yes, Meme, it’s me. Taking care of you again!”

  “You’re wonderful … ” I say, coughing more blood onto the floor of the cab.

  “Watch it with the blood back there!” the driver shouts.

  Yeshi presses a button on the door and the divider between the front and back seat starts to rise. “Any idea who those guys were? They were wearing chip-maskers.”

  “No idea. Didn’t one of them have a revolver?” I could have sworn I heard a gun go off. The ringing in my right ear confirmed this.

  “Yeah, the bullet ricocheted off the floor and broke the window. It’s amazing it didn’t hit anyone. Haven’t seen someone get shot before,” she says in a curious voice.

  “Where are we going?”

  “I’m taking you to my friend’s place. The chemicals inside your body are in the process of mixing as we speak. You’re about to be in a very bad place … ”

  “Who are you taking me to?”

  “My guru.”

  TWENTY-NINE∞

  A short Indian man with a wispy white beard and bright orange garb sits with his legs crossed in front of me. The swarthy color of his skin makes the bright orange clothing seem that much brighter. He’s yawning, drinking a cup of tea. There’s a string of beads around his right wrist and an even larger string with beads the size of cherries across his chest. They stretch from his shoulder to his waist, looping like a rubber band around his body. He makes a clucking sound with his mouth as he looks up at me.