Grey

by Jon Armstrong

  I glanced at Joelene, who pursed her mouth as if to say that she knew how awful it was. After we ate dinner, one of Elle's favorite bands was to play, and we were to dance. I stared at the word. This was the worst, and yet, the next thing was unacceptable. During the dance, we were supposed to kiss, and the date was to end with one of my hands slipping between her legs.

  Tossing the screen at the floor, I said, "That's disgusting!"

  She retrieved the screen and sat for a moment. "I'll go back and say we can't do it from the kiss on. Your father's not going to like it."

  I felt like laughing and crying at the same time. "I don't want to do any of it! Can't we go back to mkg? Do I have to forget Nora?"

  "No," she said, gently, "of course not."

  "I'm going to see her!" I whispered. Joelene looked confused, if curious, so I told her about the visual purple invitation to the SunEcho in my suit.

  Taking a small, powered magnifying glass from a pocket, she stood and checked the jacket. "Interesting," she said. Since she did not have a grey eye, I didn't know what she was seeing. Once she had snapped the glass into its case, she said, "I applaud your courage and initiative." Her smile slowly faded, and she asked, "But how were you planning to get to the SunEcho?"

  "By car?" I asked, fearing it wasn't the right answer.

  "Our new driver is surely not going anywhere but straight to the promo-date wrap-party in Kobehaba where we are to meet with your father." An alarm sounded on one of her screens, she glanced toward it, then said, "I'm afraid getting to your meeting will not be easy, nor without substantial risks."

  "Please?" I asked. "I have to see her and tell her that this thing with Ribo-Kool is nothing . . . that it doesn't mean anything to me. I have to tell her."

  After nodding, as if she'd had an idea, she said, "I'll look into our options."

  "Thank you!" I said. "I have to see her."

  As she sat before her screens, she said, "Your father is on channel five thousand." She pushed a button and the monitor before me came on.

  I recognized the garish nautical set of the interview show Celebrity Research Yacht. Across from the red-haired host, Milo Holly, who was dressed in his whites and captain's hat, sat Father in a green paisley jacket with large holes cut so that his black-painted nipples showed through like cartoon eyes. On his head he wore what looked like a rubber tire tread of a hat, and from both ears hung miniature crystal chandeliers. Usually his costumes were copies of his latest favorite Ültra band.

  "It's all about love," said Father, the chandeliers jingled like wind chimes when he moved. "We make a product we love for clients we love. We do it to help all the families we love. It's in everything RiverGroup does. Love is our basic thing."

  "It's all hate," I complained, with a roll of my eyes.

  "But with the RiverGroup security stuff in everything, shouldn't we be worried about freeboots jumping out all over the place?" Milo Holly laughed as though it was supposed to be a joke, but he looked anxious.

  "No!" said Father, smiling as though it were absurd. "Nothing to worry about. Everything's right back to our normal super-secure and super-protected . . . you know . . . normal." He smiled again. Harder. "Really. Everything's perfect."

  "Maybe not perfect," said Milo. "I mean Michael was shot. The merger-marriage between you guys and mkg was cancelled. And your stock is sinking fast."

  "RiverGroup has had a rough couple of days, but we're stronger than ever."

  Milo eyed the camera, coyly. "And I saw a report that you got an implausibly big pimple on your ass!"

  "Oh yeah," said Father playing along, as the audience howled. "Mount Fuji! Snow-capped and everything!" As the laugher died away, Father said, "Back to the freeboot shit for a second . . . remember kids, bad shits come along. But the lesson is even if RiverGroup—the code bastards of system security—can be hit, just think how much worse it would have been if you'd been using the flimsy crap mkg sells!"

  Milo smiled stiffly. "It was implausibly tragic," he said, as if afraid to insult a potential sponsor.

  "It was much worse that that! It was Fifty Layers of Bitch." Father leaned forward and popped Milo's shoulder with a friendly punch. "That's my new favorite song."

  "We could tell," said Milo, rubbing his arm. "But you're right, that band, Sister Revölver's Tongüe, is completely implausible!" To the camera, he said, "Hey everybody, let's see a clip of their newest Ültra epic."

  Three men, dressed like Father and wielding chrome guitars, tore down a city street, smashing car windshields, storefronts, women with strollers. One began singing and screeching as though he were being cut in half. A chrome guitar hit him in the face. Then the three men were bashing each other until they were covered with blood.

  "That's so Ültra you have to puke over the poop deck!" gushed Milo. "Or poop over the puke deck! But, wow! Implausible. I love the Tongüe!" After he had caught his breath, he shrugged and added, "Too bad they're all busted up and in comas now."

  Father's head was still bouncing to the rhythm. "When I was a kid," he said, apropos of nothing, "I used to whack off and keep my semen in a jar in the fridge."

  I let my head fall back. Did he have to say bizarre and disgusting things like that to the world? Didn't he care what they thought?

  "Wait, Mom!" shouted Milo as he whipped off his captain's hat. "Don't drink that! That's not the coconut milk!"

  The audience roared.

  Father, who seemed taken aback, as if he'd had other plans for his story, said, "Yeah . . . coconut milk . . . funny! Anyway," he flicked a hand at one of his chandeliers, "I'm here to plug our new promotion date. Tonight, eight o'clock, my son will be going out with Elle of Ribo-Kool. She's the hot granddaughter of Konrad Kez, that dead quadrillionaire. And she's blazing."

  "I'll be watching," said Milo. "She's the one who sat on that camera yesterday at a press conference. Talk about a debutante ball!"

  "And," continued Father, as the audience whooped and hollered, "our big, new product show will be the day after tomorrow. By then, I expect Michael and Elle will be fucking like a couple of dirty, rabid skunks, if you know what I mean!"

  "Oh, yeah!" said Milo, as he stood and did a few hip thrusts, "I think I know what you mean!" Next he shook hands with Father, and read a list of some of the top channels covering the date.

  "That's enough of that!" I said.

  "I agree," said Joelene. "But let's see what the buzz is like."

  "Do we have to?"

  "It's background," she said, as she switched the channel to a show called Intellectuals and Soup. Two women and two men dressed as if they were at a mad tea party sat around a gold-leaf rococo table before steaming bowls.

  A chubby woman, with warm brown eyes, covered in a mass of pink soap bubbles and a wide, crimson-feathered hat, said, "I feel for Nora. Her story is the modern tragedy. But I can't believe Michael is so fickle and shallow to be interested in Elle Kez."

  "Indeed," said a man wearing an azure bowtie with the wingspan of a goose and a matching striped morning jacket, "I'd not heard of Elle Kez before, but she is simply dreadful. She can't act, sing, or keep on her God-awful clothes for more than three minutes." Grainy, obviously stolen pictures of her nude body flashed on screen. "She has none of the blood or breeding of Michael Rivers or any real members of the families. Granddaughter of the wealthy and admired, if dead, Konrad Kez or not, I say she's a degenerate prostitute with a dripping nose. And as for the firm she represents, Ribo-Kool is an absolute nothing from somewhere in the dregs of America-3. I can't find any references to them before a week ago. How RiverGroup could be planning to merge with them is completely beyond understanding."

  "So," said Pink Hat, lifting a spoonful of shellfish bisque, "you think it's another of the ever-increasingly sad and bizarre schemes from his father, Hiro Rivers?

  "I do," said Bow Tie.

  "My problem is," continued Pink Hat, "if Michael doesn't stand up against his father this time, I'm afraid I'm going to be quite disap
pointed. He is only nineteen, but it's time he asserted himself." She stuck the spoon in her mouth. "Mmm!" she said. "So creamy and divine! The salty shark semen is succulent, but it doesn't overpower the denatured rhubarb leaves either!"

  "What is this?" I asked Joelene. "Who are they?"

  "They're better spoken than most channel talents," she said.

  A bearded man in a brown beret spoke slowly, as if each of his words were bubbling up from the center of the Earth. "If RiverGroup can't protect Michael, no merger of any sort will help them win back customers. I am switching away from RiverGroup products. I believe the death knell has rung."

  "If Ribo-Kool," said Bow Tie, "has a real solution, which I greatly doubt, it might stave off a complete collapse." He tasted a dab of his soup and said, "Oh! Such an incredible, rich yet pungent mouth-feel! Like swallowing used velvet panties."

  I asked Joelene, "Do you know Ribo-Kool?"

  "No," she said. "It was quite a surprise. Your father . . . and others . . . are difficult to predict."

  "I feel for poor Michael," said another woman. She wore what looked like an iron bra and an intricately carved glass bowl over her head. "I was so sure he would finally lose his virginity with Nora. And I was so looking forward to it, I'm embarrassed to admit it." She laughed and fogged the glass in front of her face.

  Bow Tie dabbed the corners of his mouth with a matching striped napkin and turned toward the glass bowl woman. "Must we always," he said, with a chuckle that made the wings of his bow tie quiver, "lower ourselves with this sensational tripe?"

  "I would love to lower myself!" said Pink Hat, angrily, as a creamy drip undulated down her three chins. "I understand that Michael has got a beautiful penis, as proud, strong, and pure as a wild Arabian!"

  "Indeed," said Iron Bra from behind her fogged glass, "I have studied his dancing outfits from the rages, and he's definitely bombastic down there."

  I covered my face in embarrassment. They had to be talking about some other Michael Rivers. Maybe the real Michael Rivers—someone who I didn't even want to know. "Please," I said, "I can't watch this!"

  "Just one more," said Joelene, as she turned the channel. Now two blondes stood nose-deep in a field of purple, violet, orange, and canary-colored sunflowers. "Another backgrounder," explained my advisor. "A Petunia Tune channel."

  "Elle Kez," said one, in an airy singsong voice as though she were reading poetry, "is the luckiest girl in the whole, big, wide world!"

  "I gabbed with her all this morning," gushed the other. "She's in the capital city of Petunialand right in the petunia center of everything." Holding her hands above her head, she did an awkward pirouette. "She's going to be marrying the bestest of the best family blood, and they'll have dozens of babies! I just know it!"

  "What about her fashions for the date?" asked the first.

  "You're going to 'gasm when you see it! She's been working with her staff day and night."

  I laughed, and asked, "Who are they?"

  She snapped off the screen. "Yes, it's all dreadful, but the point is, tens of thousands of channels are going on and on." She massaged the bridge of her nose. "Elle is getting a lot of attention."

  The news did not surprise me, but it did confirm my fears. Leaning forward, I touched the cool fabric of Mr. Cedar's suit jacket and hoped that Nora would see the hidden message. It was the only positive in this unfurling disaster.

  Father's face flashed on the screen before me, and I jumped back.

  "That's what you're going to wear?" he asked, making a sour face. "I thought you were going to get an actual color." To Joelene, he said, "Didn't we discuss blood red and chartreuse, or was I on slub drugs?"

  "The silhouette is new," said Joelene, her voice congenial.

  "He tears her skin from her face!" he sang, stretching his mouth wide as though impersonating a bullfrog.

  Once he had finished, I said, "This whisper of footsteps . . . "

  For just a second he stared blankly, then he pretended to be happy. "Thank you! Wow! More Pure Hog, right?" After a snort of a laugh, he said, "The world is actually in color. Like the sun is orange. The sky is blue." He inhaled and then bellowed, "And snot is green!"

  "The soul," I said, "is colorless."

  "The soul?" He looked off camera. "Like he knows the soul!" After fluttering a hand in the air as if to dispel what I had said, he continued, "Anyway, thanks to me and my magnificent acting skills on that stupid Celebrity Research show our stock is up fifteen points. And I'm calling to say that we need every up-tick we can get. So, I was thinking, when Elle's girly band plays, I want some old Michael Rivers dance moves! Let's see you—"

  "No!" I interrupted. "I don't do that."

  "Sheeeit!" he said, throwing up his hands. "Do you understand the pressure here? This afternoon we had to sell off the last of the RiverGroup real estate at shit prices just to finance this stupid promo-date. We don't own enough land to build an outhouse anymore. We're borrowing against everything we've got left. If this show doesn't work, we're in fuck-water up to our eyeballs. So, we have to pull out the stops!"

  "I don't dance," I told him.

  He rubbed his face hard. "You need an immediate brain transplant! You really do!" He turned as if complaining to Ken. "Stupid, fucking, wimpy-fashion, colorless, hairless ball-sack, teenage bullshit!" With that the screen went blank.

  "He's a monster," I said to Joelene. "I hate him!"

  The screen turned back on. "I heard that!" snarled Father. "I'm sitting right here, you dumb slubber butt!"

  "Intense feelings are good," said Joelene, before I could react. "They play quite well in the media."

  Father froze for a second, as if he had not been expecting that. "Good then. Let's see some intensity tonight. If he won't dance, we've got to have more than the boring crap from the dates with the grey-snot girl. I know," he said, his eyes glowing, "rub some dick vomit on her spoon so we can watch her eat it!"

  The screen went black again. I tried to kick it, but missed and smacked my shin on a metal support bar. Momentarily, the pain obscured my revulsion and fury.

  Six

  I had been to the top of the three-hundred-story MonoBeat Tower before. Joelene and I had toured with channel reporters when it first opened. They showed us all the amenities, the mud and diamond lobby, the hay and crystal elevators, the light-emitting oleds that covered the surface and beamed advertisements, slogans, and channel shows on all sides. They also made a big deal about how the interior walls were made of a new kind of hard liquid that could be reconfigured in milliseconds. I was asked to touch some button that opened a wall as if it were a camera iris. They asked me what I thought and I tried to sound positive and interested. My attendance had been required as RiverGroup had a partnership with the company that built it, but honestly, the only appealing part of our visit was the meal at the restaurant on top, SpecificMotor 505.

  Not only had my clothes-iron-scorched acorn salad and steamed elephant steak been sumptuous, but the décor had a definite Pure H flair. The dining room floor was black, toxic osmium tetroxide. The walls were tiled with human baby teeth, and the room was lit with a glass enclosure of glowing-orange molten lava behind.

  Once Joelene and I had exited my car, we took the elevator to the three-hundredth floor and we were ushered to a green room. On the screens were a dozen channel feeds. One show was interviewing the SpecificMotor 505 chef. Another channel discussed the restaurant's design. Many were speculating on Elle's fashions for the evening. Another discussed and dissected the stolen nude photos of her. Still another reviewed RiverGroup's stock collapse, products, and chances for recovery.

  I stood before it all for several minutes and felt discouraged.

  Joelene turned them off and then handed me several screens. "I've written up some conversation notes for you. Elle is quite loquacious, so you probably don't have to say much but memorize this. And," she said, handing me another, "this is a list of the bands she likes and might mention. Below that are the chann
el shows she watches. And I included a run-down of the fashion magazines she reads. Mostly it's Petunia Tune, but she also likes CuteKill, Ball Description, and Puffy Fluffer."

  "Those are terrible!"

  "Regardless," she said, "look over the info. I'll see if I can work out a way for us to get to the SunEcho."

  "Do you think we can?"