Three Days in April

by Edward Ashton

  Not surprising considering that we’re basically different species, but finding a dress style that Elise and I can agree on is proving to be a challenge. Her taste runs to wispy pastels that barely cover her privates, while I tend to prefer either sportswear, or dresses with enough fabric to cover up the fact that my shoulders are twice as wide as my hips.

  Grace actually suggested that we do the entire ceremony nude. Elise wasn’t going for that, but obviously I’m getting no help from her end.

  The only quarter I’m getting any support from, in fact, is the boy—­which is ironic, because in every other way, he’s kind of an asshat. His name is Tariq. He’s a performance artist. He claims to be one-­hundred-­percent natural—­he’s even turned Elise into a vegan, for God’s sake—­but I’ve seen him do some crazy stuff, and I’ve always assumed he actually has some pretty serious mods. Most times his whole “Mysterious Messenger from the Spirit World” bullshit makes me want to put my fist through his sunken chest, but he’s pushing for the wedding to look like something out of the eighteenth century, with everyone wearing corsets and wrapped up in fifty yards of crinoline. So, in this case I’m counting him as an ally.

  I give myself a last turn, run my hands back through my hair, and then shut off the water. I step out of the shower, take one of the towels from the rack on the door and wrap it around my hair, and rub myself down with the other.

  “House,” I say as I walk into the bedroom. “Look up Anders Jensen.”

  My house avatar pops up on the bedroom screen. She’s made herself over to look like me today. Creepy.

  “Location?”

  “Baltimore.”

  “Four matches.”

  I’m out of underwear. I’m out of bras. I pull on a pair of bike shorts and a compression shirt. Close enough.

  “Limit age range, twenty-­five to thirty.”

  “No matches.”

  Bastard.

  “Limit age range thirty to thirty-­five.”

  “No matches.”

  Okay. That’s disturbing.

  “Limit age range thirty-­five to forty.”

  “One match.”

  “Visuals?”

  A half dozen stills pop up on the screen. Looks like most of them are from security cameras. It’s definitely him. He’s at least thirty-­six years old. That makes him the oldest Engineered I’ve ever met, and probably one of the oldest in North America. Looking at him, I honestly wouldn’t have thought he was over 25. He’s not a Pretty, exactly, but I’m guessing now that his cutter probably gave him more than a little mouse juice.

  “Residence?”

  That gets me a visual of a beat-­up townhouse, labeled 317 West Twenty-­eighth. Apparently Anders hasn’t been using his genetic superiority for financial gain. That’s only a half mile or so from here, but the neighborhood deteriorates pretty quickly in between, and I’m guessing the upgrades in my bathroom are worth more than his house.

  So, what is Dimitri’s issue with this guy? The more I think about it, the less I believe that he’s jealous. Dimitri and I have never been physical, and he’s never given me any reason to think that he wants to change that. I don’t bring a ton of guys home, but there have been a few over that last ­couple of years, and Dimitri has never raised a peep about any of them.

  “House. Direct contact, Dimitri.”

  It patches straight to the bear.

  “Hello, Terry,” it says. “Dimitri would love to speak with you, but unfortunately he is occupied. Can I help?”

  “Disconnect.”

  I need to go for a walk.

  It’s gotten steadily hotter and muggier as the day has worn on, and by the time I get to Anders’ house, I’m wondering why I bothered with a shower. Honestly, it’s probably only about eighty, but I don’t do well with heat. I can feel the sweat trickling out from my hairline, beading over my eyes, and dripping down my cheeks like tears.

  The visuals on my wallscreen didn’t do this place justice. There are cracks in the concrete steps, cracks in the foundation, shutters on some of the windows and not on others. The paint has come off the siding in patches, and the power strips on the roof look like they’re starting to peel up. I’d fault Anders, but the rest of the block actually looks worse, and I’m guessing that if he put any effort to fixing this place up, he’d just make himself a target for a home invasion.

  I bump the door with my phone. Nothing happens. I try again. After the third time, it dawns on me that this door isn’t reading my phone because it has no electronics. It’s seriously just a big piece of wood on hinges. I give it a ­couple of whacks with the palm of my hand, wait five seconds, and give it a ­couple more. I’m about to try again when the door opens a crack, and I see a sliver of face and one eye peering out around a chain lock.

  “We have a bell, you know. Are you with Dimitri?”

  “No,” I say. “I am not with Dimitri. You’re not Anders. Is he in there?”

  The door closes, and I hear the rattle of the chain lock being unlatched. The door swings halfway open, and not-­Anders pokes his head out and looks around. He’s a weedy-­looking guy, skinny and pale, with a patchy little beard and blond dreads. He relaxes when he sees that I’m alone, steps back, and opens the door the rest of the way.

  “Anders is sleeping,” he says. “Apparently, he was up all night having sex with a prostitute. Wanna come in and wait for him to wake up?”

  “Sure,” I say, and extend my hand. “I’m Terry. You know—­the prostitute.”

  He takes my hand, mock bows, and brushes my knuckles with his lips.

  “Charmed,” he says. “Please do come in.”

  I step past him, and he closes the door behind me. The interior is dim and cool, and much nicer than the street view would suggest. The foyer opens into a good-­sized living room, with a short hallway to the kitchen. They’ve got a decent, unpatched leatherette sofa, and a ­couple of gaming recliners facing what looks like a recent vintage wallscreen. I drop into one of the recliners, pop the footrest and lean back.

  “Make yourself comfortable,” he says. “I’m Gary, by the way. Are you really the prostitute?”

  I shrug.

  “Apparently so.”

  He grins.

  “Neat. That must’ve looked like a Great Dane humping a Chihuahua. Can I get you anything?”

  “Some cold water? It’s hot as a monkey’s ass out there.”

  He gives me a quizzical look.

  “Are monkey’s asses really hot? Is that a thing?”

  “It’s an expression.”

  “No,” he says. “I’m pretty sure it’s not.”

  I scowl. Despite its many shortcomings, the brow ridge is excellent for scowling.

  “It is now,” I say. “Water?”

  “Right,” he says. “Coming up.”

  He backs out of the room, and shortly I hear running water, and the rattle of ice in a glass.

  “House,” I say. “Vids. Sports. Lacrosse.”

  “Sorry,” it says, in Gary’s voice. “You are not authorized.”

  I scowl again, but it apparently doesn’t have the same effect on Gary’s avatar.

  “Not authorized?” I ask. “To turn on vids?”

  “You’re not authorized for jack in this house, sister.”

  A sassy avatar. Great. Gary comes back with a glass in each hand.

  “So,” I say. “You lock out your entertainment?”

  “I use the system for work.” He hands me my drink and flops onto the sofa. “I keep everything locked.”

  “Kinda paranoid?”

  “Not really.” He takes a long drink, and I can actually see his pupils dilate. I’m pretty sure his is not water. “You’d be surprised how easy it is to hack from one function to another once you get basic access to a house system. One minute you’re watch
ing lacrosse, and the next you’re emptying my bank account, and replacing my avatars with goats or naked old ladies or something.”

  “Huh.” I drain my water in one pull, hold up the glass and rattle the cubes. Gary stares at me blankly. I rattle them again. He raises one eyebrow. I smile. He rolls his eyes, climbs back to his feet, takes my glass and heads back into the kitchen.

  “You know,” I say. “If you were less paranoid and more sociable, poor Anders might not have to resort to banging prostitutes.”

  “Not true,” he says as he comes back with my water. “Anders is ugly. He will always have to resort to banging prostitutes.”

  He sits back down and takes another long drink.

  “You’re not really a prostitute, are you?”

  I smile.

  “You’re gonna feel pretty bad if I am, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” he says. “I am.”

  “I’m not.”

  “And Anders didn’t really bang you, did he?”

  “No,” I say. “He did not.”

  He grins again.

  “Good. If I found out that Anders was getting laid for free, I’d have to rethink my entire worldview.”

  I take a drink, and wipe the cold glass across my forehead. I’m cooling down now, sweat drying on my face and arms. I’m not entirely sure what to make of Gary. I’d like to know what kind of work he does that requires the level of security he’s apparently put in place here, but given that he won’t even let me watch lacrosse on his wallscreen, I’m guessing he’s not going to tell me.

  I wonder what Dimitri would think of this setup.

  “So,” Gary says after a long, awkward silence. “Who are you really?”

  I finish my water and wipe the last of the sweat from my face with my sleeve.

  “I’m really the girl Anders spent the night with,” I say. “We met at the Green Goose last night. I’m pretty sure he tried to drink me under the table. It didn’t work out for him.”

  Gary nods.

  “Got it. As big as he is, you’d think he’d be able to hold his liquor.”

  I smile.

  “But you’d be wrong.”

  “Right,” he says. “So, what happened? You carried him home slung over your shoulder?”

  “No,” I say. “He was still walking when we got back to my apartment. I actually thought I might get lucky, until he fell over my coffee table and couldn’t get back up.”

  He shakes his head.

  “I don’t think you’re using the word ‘lucky’ correctly.”

  I laugh.

  “I think you’re wrong. Have you seen him naked?”

  He finishes his drink.

  “This conversation is making me uncomfortable. Can we talk about something else?”

  “Sure,” I say. “Let’s talk about why two apparently well-­educated and possibly employable young men are living next door to a crack house.”

  “No,” Gary says. “That also makes me uncomfortable. Let’s talk about why you’re here. Did Anders steal your wallet or something? Because he does that, you know. You should probably stay away from him.”

  “Huh,” I say. “You’re the second person who’s told me that today.”

  He looks genuinely surprised.

  “Really? Who was the first?”

  “My friend Dimitri. He said Anders was going to be in trouble soon, and that I should stay out of it.”

  Gary leans back. His eyes narrow, and he folds his arms across his chest.

  “Oh, I got it now. Dimitri’s your boyfriend? Is that what he was so wound up about this morning?”

  “No,” I say. “Dimitri is not my boyfriend. He’s just someone I know.”

  “And he told you Anders is big, big trouble.”

  “He did.”

  Gary raises one eyebrow.

  “Anders, the broke former Eagle Scout who has never had so much as a parking ticket. Mostly because he’s never owned a car, but still.”

  “Broke, huh?”

  “Totally. Seeming like less of a catch now?”

  “Lots of nice stuff here.”

  “I didn’t say I was broke.”

  I take another look around. His gear is actually better than I’d thought. The recliners are real leather, and on closer inspection, so is the sofa. The floor looks to be some kind of hardwood under the raggedy throw rugs, and the climate control is first rate.

  “So what did you say you do for a living?”

  He shrugs.

  “You know. Stuff. Data entry and whatnot.”

  “Right. And you let Anders live here because . . .”

  “He pays rent. Most of the time, anyway. And sometimes he helps out with . . . stuff.”

  “Data entry and whatnot.”

  “Right.”

  Another long silence follows. Finally, Gary says “House. Vids. General. SpaceLab.”

  The wallscreen comes alive. I’ve never heard of SpaceLab, but apparently it’s an animation that takes place on an orbital platform. The characters all seem to be either drunk or mentally defective, which right from the jump doesn’t make a ton of sense. I’ve met a few actual orbital jocks, and you really couldn’t imagine a more sober and un-­defective bunch.

  Gary starts snickering about thirty seconds in, so I guess it’s supposed to be a comedy, but I’m having a hard time figuring out the joke. On top of that, the animation is terrible. The characters’ faces have a rubbery look to them that’s just off enough to make you realize they’re not real ­people, which in a weird way is more disturbing than if they were completely stylized. I tolerate about five minutes, then close my eyes and say “Is this really the best we can do?”

  “Pause,” he says. He looks profoundly hurt. “Don’t tell me you’re not a fan of SpaceLab?”

  I turn to look at him.

  “I’ve never seen this before, but based on the last five minutes, yeah, I think I can say with some confidence that I am not a fan of SpaceLab.”

  “How can you not appreciate SpaceLab?” He leans forward and chops the air with one hand. “SpaceLab is classic social satire. It reflects modern society back to us through a funhouse mirror, and forces us to confront the absurdities in our everyday lives.”

  I shake my head.

  “First, I’m pretty sure you just repeated back something that you read on somebody’s vid-­critic feed. Second, I just watched the science officer of a space station get into a feces-­flinging fight with his captain, whose brain had apparently been switched with a chimpanzee’s. Which parts of my everyday life is this reflecting back at me?”

  “Well . . . it’s not meant to be taken literally. It’s a metaphor.”

  “A metaphor?”

  “Or a simile. Maybe it’s a simile? Which one has ‘like’ in it?”

  “That’s a simile.”

  “Then it’s definitely a metaphor.”

  “You don’t look like an idiot,” I say after a long pause, “but you are one, aren’t you?”

  He slumps, and his voice drops an octave.

  “Yes.”

  I sigh and run my fingers back through my hair.

  “Fine. Satirize the crap out of me. Play.”

  “Gary?” says the House.

  He perks up immediately.

  “Yeah, play.”

  So I sit through the last seven minutes of the episode. It does not get noticeably better. We learn that the captain switched bodies with the chimp in order to negotiate with a band of space-­faring monkeys who were threatening to destroy the station. He eventually returns from his mission and restores order by swapping back into his own body and placing the chimp under arrest for mutiny and insurrection. The chimp elects to act as his own lawyer. He is convicted and condemned to be ejected into the icy vacuum of space. The senten
ce is carried out in a slightly amusing sendup of Billy Budd. Seeing their fellow primate being chucked out of the airlock, the space monkeys blow up the station. Fade to theme music.

  I sit in silence for a moment, while Gary looks at me expectantly.

  “Well?” he says finally. “Pretty great, right?”

  I’m not sure what to say to that.

  “Was that the last episode?”

  He looks at me like I’ve just grown an extra head.

  “What? No. No, why would you think that? SpaceLab has been running since I was in high school. This is actually one of the older episodes.”

  “Didn’t they just blow up the space station? That’s a tough one to recover from, isn’t it?”

  He smiles.

  “Oh, that? No, they do that every episode.”

  I stare at him. He just keeps smiling.

  “Space monkeys blow up the station every episode?”

  “Well, no,” he says. “It’s not always space monkeys. Sometimes it’s terrorists or aliens or God. Usually it’s one of the crew, though.”

  “Uh-­huh. Tell me again what that was satirizing?”

  “Well, this episode was a parody of a nineteenth-­century novel called Billy Budd.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “Only the last ninety seconds of that mess we just watched have any relationship whatsoever to Billy Budd.”

  The arms are crossed again, and now he’s the one scowling. It’s a lot less impressive on his flat little face, but still. Time to backtrack.

  “Look,” I say. “Maybe SpaceLab is an acquired taste. You said yourself that you’ve been watching this since you were in school. This was my first time. I might appreciate it better after I have a little more exposure.”

  That perks him up again.

  “So you want to watch another clip?”

  “Baby steps, Gary. Baby steps.”

  “Right,” he says. “Sorry.”

  There’s another long pause. Gary starts fidgeting, and I realize that if I don’t say something soon, I’m liable to wind up watching something even more asinine than SpaceLab.