by Jeffrey Ford
At the back of the huge building, Slackwell found an empty loading platform. Lifting the case onto it, he then scrabbled up himself. The tall, sliding aluminum gate directly in front of him was shut tight, but off to the far left and far right of the platform were doors that gave access to the building. He chose the left, walked over to try the knob and found he had chosen correctly. The door swung open, and he felt something in his solar plexus, either a muffled gasp of excitement or a jab of indigestion.
He entered, and following a short hallway, soon came in view of a freight elevator. Glancing around to make sure that he was alone, he pressed the button on the elevator and waited for the door to open. He knew better than to gloat in his victory, but he could not help a brief smile. The door slid back and he stepped into the wide, shiny box. “Which floor?” he wondered aloud, staring at the row of buttons. Out of the thirty possibilities, he chose number eleven. The door closed. He leaned back against the metal wall as the car lurched into its ascent. Sweat rolled down across his face from under his hat brim, his heart pounded, his hands shook from need of a drink, and his foot throbbed.
It was a quick decision, but he felt as if he might keel over if he didn’t soothe his nerves. When the elevator reached somewhere between the fifth and sixth floors, Slackwell hit the STOP button. Reaching into his shirt pocket, he pulled out a joint. His hands shook violently and he had a difficult time working the lighter. Eventually, he got the thing lit and took five short tokes on it. The car quickly filled with smoke. Before he stubbed out the weed and started the elevator again, he could already feel his tension level beginning to drop.
Slackwell’s mind swirled like the clouds that exited the elevator with him on the eleventh floor. For a few brief moments, as he made his way through a series of doors to find the hallway that held the residents’ apartments, he entertained the possibility of filling at least twenty orders.
At the very first door he knocked on, a pleasant-looking older man answered. Slackwell took a deep breath in order to launch into his spiel, but found the dope he’d smoked had robbed him of words. Instead, he started laughing.
The man at the door smiled, and said, “Can I help you?”
“I’m selling something,” said Slackwell.
“Shall I guess what it is?”
“Organic computing.”
The customer’s look changed slightly but he continued to smile. “I see,” said the man. “Brains in a jar? I’ve heard of it.”
“More than that,” said Slackwell. “Much more.”
“Let’s see it do its thing,” said the man. He stepped aside and let the salesman in.
The apartment was spacious and perfectly clean. A large window offered a view of the city. The man was obviously learned, because there were two huge bookcases filled with weighty volumes. Beautiful old paintings depicting religious scenes hung on the walls. It was clear to Slackwell from his training that this would be the type of customer who might balk at the usual bullying tactics. A smooth and reasoned delivery was called for in this situation, and he was high enough at the moment to believe he was the man for the job.
They sat, each in a comfortable armchair, at a small marble coffee table on which Slackwell rested his case. As he went through the operation of removing the unit, he laid down a spiel as smooth as a frozen lake. Having read the scene and taken in the surroundings—the customer’s cardigan, loafers, and designer button-down shirt the same color as his socks—he tried to punctuate his message with as many erudite words as he was capable of.
“You see, sir … what is your name again?” he asked.
“Catterly,” said the man.
“You see Mr. Catterly, there is no need for a man of your obvious intelligence to forbear the rigitudes of laboring under the present inadequate computing systems that now run the devices of your apartment and give you access to the Internet. There are bothersome buttons to be pushed, dials to be set, and the response time of all of this outdated equipment is regrettable, to say the least. Here is a system that will actually think for you. It will swiftly learn what it is you want, and one simple voice command from you is all it takes to make any changes.”
Slackwell opened the hinged panel and took out the 256–B. “Feast your eyes on this unit,” he said.
“A human brain,” said the man. He peered in at it through the glass and his smile disappeared.
“Awe inspiring, isn’t it?” asked Slackwell. “And best of all, it can be brought to consciousness if you require company as well as computing acumen.”
Mr. Catterly shook his head and softly whistled.
“Granted, it takes a little getting used to.”
Slackwell watched as his customer slowly stood. For a moment, he thought he was about to be shown the door.
“I’ll be right back,” said Catterly. “Make yourself comfortable.” He left the living room by way of a hall leading off to the left.
“Going to find the old checkbook,” Slackwell whispered, and for the first time that day his foot stopped hurting. He quickly got the unit up and running, using the battery setting that made it portable.
“You aren’t from Lindrethool, are you?” Catterly called from down the hall.
“No,” Slackwell replied.
A few minutes passed and then he heard the man’s voice from just the other side of the living room. “Then you wouldn’t know who I am.”
Slackwell looked up from his task, and saw the old man transformed, wearing green and white robes laced with gold. He had on a tall pointed hat the shape of a closed tulip and carried in his hand a pole with a curved end.
“Oh, Christ,” said Slackwell at the sight of him, knowing instantly he was in trouble.
“Not quite. I’m Bishop Catterly of Lindrethool,” said the man and his once calm smile turned ugly as his face reddened and trembled. “Blasphemy,” he yelled, and lunged across the room, bringing the shepherd’s crook up over his head.
Slackwell roused himself from paralysis at the last moment and stood arched over so that his body covered the unit. That pole came down across his spine with a whack, and it was all he could do to support himself with his knuckles on the tabletop. He staggered into a standing position, the pain bringing tears to his eyes and radiating down to his heels.
The bishop was raising his weapon for another strike. “Release this soul,” he said. But Slackwell had been sorely abused enough for one day. As he reached out and grabbed the crook with his left hand, he brought his right fist around and punched Catterly square in the jaw. The old man’s high hat fell off. He took two steps backward and then just stood there, dazed. His bottom lip was split and blood trickled down across his chin.
Slackwell quickly packed the unit up. When Catterly moved again it wasn’t to take another swing at the merchandise. Instead, he fell to his knees, dropped the crook and folded his hands in prayer. A long low burp issued from his open mouth and then he began weeping.
“You damn kook,” said Slackwell, putting on his derby. He made for the door and escaped into the hallway.
3
Slackwell sat in a booth at the back of an establishment called The Bog. He sipped a beer, an appetizer for the main course of bourbon that would come later back at his hotel room. He lit a cigarette off the candle in the middle of the table and watched from the corner of his eye as some young professionals at the bar pointed at his hat and laughed. He’d have taken it off, but every time he moved any part of his body, his back screamed with pain. There wasn’t much more he could manage other than drinking and smoking. Earlier, as he limped quickly away from the Thornwood Arms, grunting with each step, his heart racing, mind spinning with fear of Catterly calling the police or sending out his religious minions, a palpable sense of doom eddied about his head like a personal, portable storm cloud. Somewhere between his second and third beer the urgency of that terror had fizzled into a blank apathy.
He drank and wondered why he had always had jobs with stupid hats. Then Merk showed up a
nd took the seat across from him. The older man was outright smiling, which was unusual, and his gray eyes had somehow lightened to blue.
“Okay, how many?” asked Slackwell.
Merk held up four fingers and laughed. “Signed orders for four and an almost certain fifth with a promise of full payment in cash when I return tomorrow. How’d you do?”
“Let’s see,” said Slackwell, taking a drag of his cigarette, “a woman smashed my toe with a hammer and Bishop Catterly of Lindrethool whacked me on the back with his holy stick. Other than that, it was a lousy day.”
“The Bishop of Lindrethool?” asked Merk as he held one finger up to the waitress to order a beer.
“He wanted to release the soul of the floater.”
“Slack, Slack, Slack,” said Merk, “there is no Bishop Catterly of Lindrethool.”
“What do you mean?” asked Slackwell.
“I know,” said Merk, and reached into his shirt and pulled out a religious medallion he wore on a chain. “The only bishop in this county is in Morgan City, and his name’s not Catterly. The guy must have been deranged.”
“Good,” said Slackwell, “because I clocked him.”
Merk shook his head. “Is the unit all right?”
Slackwell nodded. “If you’re religious how can you peddle brain? I thought there was a flap about that in the church.”
Merk downed the beer that arrived in one long drink. He held his finger up to the waitress again and then lit a cigarette. “Because,” he said, “between Heaven and Hell there is this place called reality. Reality might as well be Hell if you don’t have cash. Granted, it’s a grim business, but I’m good at it.”
“Why is that?” asked Slackwell.
“Because,” said Merk, “I understand the human brain. It’s a double-edged sword. An evolutionary development that gives you the wherewithal to know that life is basically a shit pastry one is obliged to eat slowly, and the ability to disguise that fact with beautiful delusions.”
“Where do God and the cash come in?” asked Slackwell.
“The cash is the pastry part. God, he just likes to watch us eat. The more we eat the more he loves us. You can’t live without love.”
“Well,” said Slackwell, wincing and grunting as he hoisted himself out of the booth, “I’ve lost my appetite.” He took some bills out of his wallet and dropped them on the table. With a small moan, he lifted his case off the bench. “Coffee tomorrow?”
“On me,” said his colleague. “Float easy, Slack.”
Outside, the wind was blowing hard and tiny black tornados of soot caught scraps of litter up in their gyres for a moment, promising flight, and then dropped them. The streets of Lindrethool were nearly empty and the place seemed to Slackwell like a ghost town he had recently visited in a nightmare. He stopped at a liquor store for a bottle, at a deli for a sandwich, and then crept back to his hotel, aware of nothing but the weight of the case in his hand.
Once back at the room, he had a couple of drinks and took a hot bath. Sitting at the scarred table, surveying the night scene of Lindrethool again, he smoked the other half of the joint he had started in the freight elevator of the Thornwood Arms. In no time the emptiness of his mind began to fill with memories. Before he could stop himself, he started thinking about his wife and how he had not been home for years. He wondered, after all of the grimy cities he’d been through, if Ella was still waiting for him to return a success. For a brief moment, he entertained the thought of calling her, but then pulled himself together.
“Get with it, Slackwell,” he said to his reflection in the window. “Go down that path and you’ll have the belt around your own neck quicker than you can say ‘Johnny.’” He stood up slowly, the pain in his back now deadened by the drink and dope. Weaving around the room, he searched desperately for something to do. There was the television, but just the thought of what it might offer depressed him. He turned away from the sight of the remote and his gaze landed on the case.
He went back to the table and popped the hinges on the black carrier. Lifting out the 256–B, he set it on the table and flipped the switch to the battery setting. There was a nearly inaudible hum and the luminescent particles in the liquid beneath the glass began to glow, meaning the brain was open for business. Then he sat down, poured himself a drink, and lit a cigarette. At least three minutes passed with him touching the tip of his finger to the button that would rouse the brain into consciousness. The force holding him back was comprised of Merk’s warning and the basic rule that the company didn’t want the sales force screwing with the equipment if a sale wasn’t involved. These were strong deterrents but not as strong as the loss he was now feeling for a life gone down the chute. He pressed the button.
Static came from the speaker.
“Hello?” whispered Slackwell.
There was silence.
“Hello?” he said, this time a little louder.
“Yes,” came a voice, “I’m here. What can I do for you?”
Slackwell leaned quickly back away from the unit.
“How are you today?” it asked.
He wanted to answer but he was stunned by the fact that the voice was female.
“I’ve been asleep for a long time,” she said. “Are you there?”
“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t expect you to be a woman.”
There was laughter. “Most men are confounded by the discovery of the female brain,” she said.
“Can you do that again?” he asked.
“What?” she asked.
“Laugh,” he said.
She did for real and asked, “Why?”
“I’m your salesman,” he told her. “I’m trying to place you with a good family.”
“You make me sound like an unwanted puppy,” she said.
“No,” he said. “You understand, it’s business, nothing personal.”
“Are your clients present?” she asked.
“No,” he said.
“I thought that was against the rules.”
“It is,” he said. “I wanted to talk to someone.”
“Are you lonely?”
“Very,” he said.
“My sensors detect that you have been drinking. Are you drunk?”
“Very,” he said.
“What do you want to talk about?” she asked.
“Anything but the job,” he said.
“Agreed. Tell me about your day.”
He told her everything: coffee at the diner with Merk, the woman with the hammer, the bishop, The Bog. The recounting took an hour and he filled in all the details, trying as often as possible to accentuate his own feckless absurdity in order to hear her laugh.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Slackwell,” he said.
“Your mother named you Slackwell?”
“My first name is Arnold. Call me Arnie,” he said.
“I’m Melody,” she said.
“Your voice is like a melody,” said Slackwell, surprising even himself.
“Is that the bourbon talking?” she asked.
“If the bourbon talked, I probably wouldn’t have turned you on,” he said.
“Do you like being a salesman?”
“It’s a job, a routine. The other day I was thinking of it as a trap. I don’t know what real freedom is.”
“I know about traps,” she said.
“Tell me,” said Slackwell, pouring another drink.
“When I sleep, when you turn me off, I dream. In my dreams, I have my body again. I never realized how beautiful I was when I was whole. I breathe in the air and it’s cool and electric with life. I see trees and the clouds in the sky, the faces of people I loved, and they are all wonderfully complex and mysterious. I take my children to the ocean and we swim in the waves. We eat lemon meringue pie on a blanket on the sand and the ocean breeze blows around us, the sun beats down. But always, I reach some limit, like running into an invisible wall and I begin to disintegrate. My atoms begin to d
isperse, and I try to hold myself together but I can’t. The hands that clutch at my disappearing head vanish themselves and eventually the world goes dark. The darkness is claustrophobic and so exquisitely boring.”
“Kids?” asked Slackwell.
She told him about her children—two girls. It was just her and her girls. Her husband had left them. It was for the best because he had lost his job and eventually became so depressed by his own uselessness, he took to drinking. Then came the anger. She raised her girls as best she could, working in a waitress job she hated. She had gone to school for anthropology and gotten a degree. Her dream had been to travel to exotic lands and meet those near-extinct groups of people who still tried to live in nature. One night, at closing time, the restaurant she worked at was robbed. The gunmen shot all the employees. She was still alive when they found her and rushed her to the hospital.
“Luckily,” she said, “I had signed the papers only six months earlier to sell my brain to Thinktank in case anything happened. I figured it was a long shot, but if something happened, I wanted to leave my daughters something. Insurance was too expensive.”
Slackwell shook his head. “How can you stand it?” he asked.
“How can you?” she asked.
“Touché,” he whispered and finished off his glass.
They made a pact never to speak again of those things in the past that brought sorrow or of the crystal globes that bounded each of their lives. Instead, they just made small talk about places, and people, and events, like friendly neighbors meeting on the street, like old friends. This discussion carried on for hours, punctuated with laughter and the sound of bourbon pouring, the click of the cigarette lighter. Some time just before the sun showed itself red from between the tall buildings of Lindrethool, Slackwell and Melody said goodnight. Before turning her off, he promised to see her again tomorrow. Then he lurched over to his bed and literally fell into a dreamless sleep.
4
When the alarm clock went off at seven, he pulled the plug out of the wall and fell immediately back to sleep. Waking a little after noon, he got out of bed like a somnambulist and proceeded through his usual routine. It was in the shower that he finally came fully awake. He was amazed at how minor his hangover was: a slightly dry mouth, a vague headache, but no nausea or dizziness. His back no longer hurt that badly and his foot, though it was swollen and the color of an overripe banana, was capable of bearing his full weight. All at once, the memory of his having opened the case came to him, and he smiled. “Melody,” he said.