Pump

by Gary Denne

  Much like the rest of Manhattan, Maddox had left many of the residential districts untouched from their glory days back in the 1990s, in particular, those neighborhoods set aside for the working population. While the paying residents of a Maddox-run Manhattan resided in the Upper East and West Sides, entrants were confined to Lower Manhattan and an after-dark curfew ensured they did not mix with the world’s elite. Whilst a paying resident could venture relatively anywhere on the island without restriction, for entrants, district boundaries were strictly enforced. And breaking these boundaries most certainly had consequences. But rarely would an entrant seek to inflame their MET chip into triggering a boundary alarm, jeopardizing their resident status in this utopia from the outside world. No, an entrant breaking a district boundary was almost unheard of. Some places were simply out of bounds.

  Following the steps down to the sidewalk from his apartment building’s raised entrance, Sean looked up to the skies, wondering when they were going to burst. A storm had been threatening for the last few hours. Maybe it would pass over. The weather pattern was like that these days. On the sidewalk, he found himself immediately in the thick of his new Lower West Side neighborhood. He gazed around as he walked, admiring the old, solid-built brownstones on both sides of the street, full of history.

  As much as Maddox had done for the island, investing trillions of dollars into preserving it as it once was, like any corporation, Maddox refused to spend money where it did not need to, and so whilst Sean’s new neighborhood had the character and charm from years gone by—the Brownstones, the fire escapes, the basement establishments—it had quickly become an aging, dirty, grunge-ridden district of the city known as the Underworld, the largest entrant-dominated district in the city and most common spot for new arrivals.

  Spanning a massive area of Lower Manhattan, the Underworld also held the honor of being the premier entertainment district of the city, night or day. It was the district one would go if they wanted to party and seek pleasures or wares out of the ordinary. In an interesting twist on the human psyche, a run down, seedy district with sleaze at every turn had high demand on the island from paying residents, although most would never admit that openly. But underneath the surface, the rich had a taste for the sleaziest of pleasures and desires. Perhaps humans didn’t want perfection in every aspect of their lives. Maybe man would always need a place like the Underworld to visit and explore his wildest fantasies and pleasures now and then.

  When paying residents left their safe havens on the Upper Sides, they would often venture to the Underworld in search of one pleasure or another. Whatever the pleasure or poison, it could be found in the darkened alleyways and basement clubs. It was a place of opportunity for many, as entrepreneurial entrants filled a number of services that Maddox tolerated at the discreet insistence of their wealthiest tenants. The supply of homemade narcotics, medicines, alcohol, bootleg entertainment and adult services were all among the most common of menu items. And whilst one may imagine there being resentment towards the wealthy in these modern times, for Manhattan, none existed. The entrants knew full well their lifestyle was afforded to them because of paying residents, so any friction or bad blood between the two classes would not be good for anyone. In fact, some of the island’s wealthiest residents would be often welcomed with open arms into the Underworld, dancing their asses off, getting high on Bliss, and patronizing one of the hundreds of clubs, bars and gambling joints. Which, of course, were all a distant second to the Underworld’s most well-known industry: Sex.

  As one might imagine, with a large population of wealthy, ambitious, and powerful men on the island, regardless of their marital status, there was a healthy appetite for all kinds of adult services, which the Underworld was more than willing to supply. Again, Maddox was fully aware of the kinds of establishments in the district. There was no need for adult businesses to hide in plain sight or discreetly operate as erotic massage parlors. No. In the Underworld, sex was out in the open. And business was booming. Gone were the country’s prude values of decades ago. In their place, was an openness that would be any gentleman’s dream. Sex clubs and strip joints lined almost every street of the Underworld’s main center, offering all manner of adult services, from the garden-variety to the erotically kinky and bizarre. Lottery winners were often more than happy to earn a living as a provider of pleasure in the Underworld district, a job that often brought with it the potential for extra revenue streams such as client tips, fringe benefits or city experiences that would usually be reserved for residents-only. Many gorgeous and stunningly beautiful women worked in the Underworld, offering a range of experiences to residents, depending on the type of club. Whilst demand for the ‘girlfriend experience’ was by far the most popular of services, the scale went upwards in varying degrees, and headed toward the kinkier sides of sexual exploration, such as a wealthy resident living out his or her deepest desires and fantasies without judgment or persecution. And no, the Underworld was not just a place for the wealthiest of men. Women would often visit the Underworld to satisfy their own desires, and there was a large selection of clubs that catered to female clients, offering up a large menu of tailored fantasies and experiences that some of the richest female residents of Manhattan would crave from time to time. The clubs had seen it all before. Never would the Underworld be shocked or surprised by residents’ desires and cravings, especially in this chaotic and stressful world. If a client wanted a pierced, tattooed and leather-bound dominatrix to punish him for his good fortunes, there would always be a long list he could choose from. Whatever it was that a resident desired, the Underworld made damn sure it catered for it. For everyone knew that as long as the Underworld district existed in the city, sex was always going to be the number one draw card.

  Sean headed along the sidewalk, alongside a sea of people starting to venture out to celebrate the night. One of the first things he had noticed since arriving to the city was its quietness. Even as he strolled among the crowds, he had never expected it to be so peaceful and calm. Gone were the days of traffic, buses, helicopters, garbage trucks, honking taxicabs and noises of industry. Automobiles as a means of transportation were not only prohibitive for many, it was simply not necessary in a city with an efficient and convenient mass transit system as the subway. Apart for wealthy residents and a small group of enthusiasts in the entrant population that maintained vintage vehicles and motorbikes, the largest motor pool of vehicles on the island belonged to Maddox, the most ubiquitous being the Volkswagen Type 2 vans that slowly chugged around the city with deliveries and services for residents, or the black Lincoln Continentals that MADDSEC exclusively utilized. However, at any given time there would rarely be more than one or two vehicles on city streets and thus never the volume to make any real impact on ruining the peace and quiet of the place.

  Sean was enjoying his new neighborhood. It was too soon to call home, but as he continued strolling down the sidewalk, he had a good feeling about the place. Old Victorian lampposts flickered from an inconsistent power source as they did their best to light up the streets. Sights and sounds rushed his senses. Street vendors were selling their wares from carts parked on the edge of the sidewalk. He glanced at a large variety of goods as he walked by, with sellers eager to entice him to their selection of items. They reached out with their hands, waving and gesturing to get him to stop and browse.

  “Hey man, what do you need? I got it all, right here. No need to go anywhere else, my brutha!” one of the young vendors told him.

  Sean cast his eyes over the young boy’s cart, looking at a whole range of items, minus the bright and colorful packaging and marketing from yesteryear. He was fascinated. He hadn’t seen some of these things in years. It was a novelty and a half just to look at them and smile; reminiscing like an adult looking at all the different types of candy he grew up eating.

  “I got food, drinks, old movies, herbs and medicines,” the vendor pitched to Sean. “You want some memories? I got them, too. Photographs, mag
azines, all in full color. Just how the world use to be. Real-life movies and pictures; rainforests, snow, beaches, sunshine, underwater lagoons, sailing, animals. Whatever you’re looking for, man. Whatever you’re looking for...”

  Sean smiled at the boy’s persistence. He was amazed that this was a world that now treasured what was pre-collapse memorabilia. Residents, in particular, were widely known as eager collectors of pre-collapse items; postage stamps, food wrappers, old magazines, newspapers. Anything that reminded man of the way life once was. Interestingly, but not surprisingly, these types of items were of great comfort to people. They were the physical items that would connect people to their lives, pre-collapse. Items that would take them back to the best of times and allow them to reminisce fondly. Throughout the city, pre-collapse memorabilia was known as a great source of food for the soul and highly sought after.

  Sean walked a little further down the sidewalk. Fruit stalls displayed a wide range of homegrown fruits—oranges, bananas, apples, mangoes, pineapples, melons, grapes—all arranged and displayed by colors to be the most appealing to a passerby. As much as Sean thought about sinking his teeth into a juicy mango, up ahead, he spotted something even harder for him to resist; an old-fashioned hotdog stand. He wanted to pinch himself to see if he was actually dreaming.

  A hotdog stand!

  It was as though he was an archeologist, having finally discovered the lost treasure he had sought and dedicated his entire life to. Or a little kid, who had just received the very present he had asked Santa Claus to bring all year.

  Sean walked towards the hotdog cart with a smile on his face. He couldn’t believe it. He was in Manhattan. Manhattan, of all places. And he had just come across a hotdog stand. He hadn’t had a proper American hotdog since … well, he couldn’t remember. His face was lit up like a kid.

  “What would you like?” asked the hotdog vendor, an old rugged man who looked like he’d been standing in that single spot for years without a break.

  “One hotdog, please,” Sean said.

  The man began to serve up the order.

  “Oh, wait,” Sean said. “How much are they?”

  “Plain hotdog ... $23. The works is $7 extra.”

  Sean reached into his pocket and took out a wad of crinkled up, old US-dollar bills. He flipped through them, checking he had enough.

  “Just the plain, thanks,” he said, the smile still on his face in anticipation.

  He placed the notes on the counter as the old guy handed him a plain hotdog in a bun. Sean moved to the side of the cart and loaded up a huge blob of ketchup into the hotdog then immediately sunk his teeth into the bun. He savored it like it was his final meal before walking the green mile of a Southern prison to fry in an electric chair.

  It was so good.

  He grabbed a couple of napkins and wiped the ketchup away from his mouth. He was in heaven. This city ... he just couldn’t wait to explore it further. He took off again, among the crowds of people wandering the streets and browsing the dozens of carts of goods and services. He walked by several stunningly beautiful and scantily clad women scattered amongst the crowds, lingering at the entrance of their basement clubs and entertainment establishments. They smiled seductively at him as he passed each of them by, perhaps partly because they were envious of him devouring a succulent hotdog, but more so because they were sex workers, smiling and playing nice to potential clients.

  “Hey, baby, would you like to come downstairs? We’ve got a great night planned tonight,” each of the women would offer him as he passed by, or a variation thereof. But Sean just smiled and walked on by. He was too busy eating his hotdog to get distracted by anything else in the moment.

  Having reached a strip of clubs, restaurants, bars and cafes just around the corner from his new neighborhood, he was surprised to see around him that they were already packed to capacity, full of people soaking up the ambient outdoor nightlife. As he passed by each club, he could hear different mixes of music pulsate from each door, allowing him a short listen. The East Village had character unlike any other place he’d seen. A beautiful quaintness. An inviting, peaceful feeling. In fact, much of the local strip showed little sign of being in the heart of the world’s largest city. Instead, it felt like a close-knit community. What struck him immediately, even there in the dark of night, was how the streets gave off an energy all of their own, much like the people themselves. No one was in a rush, distracted by a technological device, or tuned out from the world with headphones in their ears. There were no obtrusive billboards or park-bench advertisements assaulting people with bright colors or flashing lights. The commercialization that had choked the streets of the world’s cities years ago was no more. It was left to rot and blister in the harsh sun, day in, day out. Not now that consumerism and the marketing of goods was rarely required. Residents and entrants alike simply desired modern living and quality of life. Enjoyment of the simple things. Food, shelter, clothes and sex; these were the things people wanted. Not designer handbags. Not three-story luxury yachts. And he could see this abundantly clear in the images around him and the happy faces of both entrants and residents alike. Through establishment windows, Sean watched as crowds drank, ate and laughed the night away, smiles on faces as big as the moon through the storm clouds above. Compared to the empty shells of cities he’d passed through across the heartland, this could well have been another planet for all he knew.

  Making his way through the masses, Sean stopped for a moment and checked the scribbled paper in his hand: Benny, Red Planet. Above him, looking up to the row of balconies, he saw revelers partying, raising their drinks in the air and cheering down to friends and acquaintances below. Their shouts of drunken happiness were as though they were recognizing familiar faces, spotting a long lost relative or a favorite star walking the Hollywood red. But in fact, they were just happy to be there. Happy to see anyone.

  At the end of the street, Sean saw a club on the opposite corner, bigger than any other place that sat on the block. Its huge neon sign slowly flashed in seductive oranges and reds with the words, RED PLANET. A Mars-like neon globe pulsated with molten-lava styled inside it, seemingly simmering away.

  Crossing the street, Sean came to the domed entrance. Two security guards built like army tanks stood firm at the club’s doors but apart from a brief glimpse, didn’t attempt to interact with him as he walked in. Security was an interesting story to tell on this new island of Manhattan. Much like a gated community, because both residents and entrants alike were subject to the stringent and thorough application process put in place by Maddox, very few souls in Manhattan would dare to commit criminal acts or behavior that would risk removal. Maddox had a long-standing policy of maintaining free will among residents and condoning almost anything that did not disrupt the peace and lifestyle of the island—especially within the boundaries of the Underworld—but in no way, shape or form would any type of conflict or violence be tolerated. Maddox treated violent crime as the most serious of acts on the island and came down both swiftly and harshly on any soul who dared to think they were above the Maddox code of conduct.

  As Sean walked through to the inner core of the Red Planet, he was met with a large multi-level club and thumping music from an old, but solid sound system. Stairs led down below street level to a large underground lounge, decorated with an assortment of odd furniture that had no consistency unlike the glamorous and slick clubs of old. No, the Red Planet was a hodgepodge mix n’ match assortment of furnishings and decorations, acquired from all corners of the globe, before globalization died away and most trade halted. Spacious booths ran around the club’s perimeter, but again were a patchwork of slapped together furniture and homemade fabrics. Couches were scattered throughout, with a dance floor close to a large bar at the back. No trendy ambient lighting existed, but rather simple kerosene lamps scattered throughout, giving off a very village beach-hut feel. The place looked as though it had seen some wild nights, and in the light of day, was one of those club
s that would most definitely show its age.

  Sean panned around, standing just inside the entrance. The noise was tremendous. Every inch of floor space was covered with people drinking, talking, mingling and letting their hair down. Blaring from the sound system above, rock music tried to compete, but was coming in second best.

  He took a moment, checking out random faces with interest, to see if he recognized anyone but knowing full well he couldn’t possibly. There he stood, alone in the club. He knew no one, and was just another face in the crowd. He noticed men and women alike; young, old, short, tall, pink hair, black hair, white skin, brown skin, and some strikingly beautiful people among them. Catching his attention were dozens of beautiful women on the dance floor, many wearing as little as torn jean-shorts and tied-up shirts, showing just enough skin to tease a man and run the imagination wild.

  Pulling himself away from the dance floor eye-candy, he turned his attention to the bar. Men and women were serving, busy as hell, trying their best to keep up with drink orders. Each one of them moved with precision, grabbing and pouring bottles like it was an art form, flinging them back and forth to one another, giving the crowds a choice between admiring their pouring skills or staring out through the row of windows to the city streets behind the bar as they waited. Two interesting observations to make was that no money was being exchanged; this was an open bar, and the absence, yet again, of any commercialization from previous decades. There were no sculptured bottles of alcohol with fancy labels trying to entice a potential drinker. Bartenders poured from nondescript brown bottles, as though the bar had time traveled back to the days of the Wild West, where it was hand-labeled whiskey from a bottle, poured by the shot.