Prime Meridian

by Silvia Moreno-Garcia

  “It mustn’t be easy,” he said. He looked like he was sorry for her. It irritated Amelia.

  “Haven’t you heard? The problem with our generation is we don’t have enough life goals,” Amelia replied tersely. “No real challenges.”

  “My assistant said they are capping Class B applications.”

  “Is it a virtual assistant? I say ‘she’ because it turns out men like to interact with female avatars,” Amelia told him. She thought about the French maid hologram bending over to show her underwear, but surely he could afford real people. He was on Friendrr. Maybe in the mornings, a chick came to play dictation with him, wearing glasses and holding a clipboard.

  “No.”

  “Do you want me to keep talking to you, or do you want me to be quiet? You need to give me parameters of interaction,” she said.

  “Please don’t talk like that.”

  “You clicked on an app and ordered me like you order Chinese takeout, so don’t be offended if I ask if you’d like chopsticks.”

  He stared at her and she gave him a faint smile, but it wasn’t real. It was the cheap, placid imitation she ironed and took out for clients.

  “I’m fine with silence. I just want to have a few drinks. I don’t like drinking alone,” he said coolly.

  She finished her wine. He refilled the glass. They moved away from the window, sat on different ends of the couch. They drank and she watched him, Elías in profile. She might have taken out her cell phone and played a game, but she wanted him to be uncomfortable, to ask her to look away. He did not and eventually, Amelia relaxed her body and took off her shoes, staring at the ceiling, instead. The wine had a hint of citrus. It went to her head quickly. She did not drink too often these days, not when she was paying, and when she did, it was the cheap, watered stuff.

  She enjoyed the feeling that came with the alcohol, the indifference as she lay on his couch and threw her head back. She thought of Mars, the Mars in Lucía’s movie, tinted in black-and-white, and she shielded her eyes with the back of her hand. She drank more. Time had slowed down in the silence of the room.

  Finally, the cell phone beeped and she rose, pressing the heel of her hand against her forehead.

  “Well,” she said, standing in front of him and showing him the phone, “it’s over.”

  “I can add an extra hour,” he said. “Let me find my phone.”

  He looked panicked as he patted his shirt. He accidentally knocked over the glass of wine, which had been resting on the arm of the couch. The wine splattered over the expensive rug. Amelia chuckled, his distress delighting her. But then he looked hurt and she felt somewhat bad, for a heartbeat.

  Amelia sat on his lap, straddling him, her hands resting on his shoulders.

  “What’s so terrible about being alone?” she asked.

  She was being deliberately cruel, teasing him. She disliked it when she sank to such depths, but Amelia was angry, with a quiet sort of anger. She might hurt him now and it would please her.

  Elías did not move. He had flailed like a fish out of water a few seconds before as he attempted to find his phone, but now he was perfectly still, staring at her.

  “I hate it and you know it.”

  “Can’t you hire someone to scare the monster who lives under the bed?”

  “Amelia,” he said, sadly.

  She chuckled. “Aren’t we pathetic?” she whispered.

  When he tried to kiss her, she wouldn’t let him. An arbitrary line but one she had to trace. Fucking was fine. Amelia hadn’t fucked in forever. She couldn’t bring people to her shared room and the guys she stumbled into were in as much of a fix as she was. She didn’t want anyone, anyway. It was a struggle to exchange semi-polite words, to pretend she was interested in what came out of a stranger’s mouth. Oh, yes, that’s great how you’re going to take a coding boot camp and you’ll have a job in six weeks or less, except no one is hiring, you idiot. Or, That’s interesting that you are working as a pimp on the side, but no thanks, buddy, I’m not joining your troupe or whatever the hell it’s called these days.

  Who cared what she said to Elías? What she did with him? Who cared at this point? She drew her line and he drew his, which seemed to be the ridiculous notion that they should fuck on the bed. Perhaps he objected to the soiling of the couch.

  By the time Amelia zipped up her jeans and started pulling on her shoes, it was too late to take the bus. She had to call a car. She fiddled with the cell phone.

  “Will you give me your number?” Elías asked. “I don’t want to keep using this Friendrr thing to find you.”

  “I should tell you to make me an offer,” she replied.

  He looked at her, offended, but then his gaze softened. She feared perhaps he might bark an amount after all. The thought that he might take her seriously, or that she had said it in anything but mockery, made Amelia reach for her purse. She found a stray piece of paper and scribbled the number.

  “Bye,” she told him and headed downstairs.

  Mars, Scene 2

  INT. MARS BASE — NIGHT

  SPACE EXPLORER sits next to the bed where THE HERO lies. He is injured. His ship crashed near her father’s lab. He dragged himself from the wreckage. She cleans and bandages his wounds. SPACE EXPLORER is not truly a space explorer. The script has been rewritten and she is now ROMANTIC INTEREST, but for the sake of expediency, we will continue to call her SPACE EXPLORER. THE HERO shall remain THE HERO.

  SPACE EXPLORER tenderly speaks to THE HERO. This is love at first sight, for both of them. THE HERO tells SPACE EXPLORER how he’s come to warn and protect the outpost from a marauding band of SPACE PIRATES. But SPACE EXPLORER’s father thinks something else may be afoot. He is a dedicated scientist working on a top secret project and fears THE HERO may be a spy from an evil nation sent to steal his work.

  Despite only knowing THE HERO for five minutes, SPACE EXPLORER defends the stranger. Later, during an interlude inside the ‘futuristic’ outpost, which is a building shaped like an egg, THE HERO kisses SPACE EXPLORER.

  Cue swelling music with plenty of violins. Fade to modest black.

  5

  The Zócalo was being transformed into a cheesy winter won-derland, complete with an ice skating rink. The city’s mayor trotted the rink out each year to please the crowds: free skating, fake snow falling from the sky, a giant Coca-Cola-sponsored tree in the background. It wasn’t bread-and-circuses, anymore. Now it was icicles and festive music.

  This spectacle meant a lot of people wanting to make a buck were ready for action. Teenagers in ratty “snowman” costumes offering to pose for a photo, peddlers selling soda pop to people waiting in line, and thieves eager to steal purses.

  Pili was also downtown. Like anyone their age, Pili had no permanent job, cycling between gigs. Working at the marijuana grow-op, checking ATMs in small businesses to make sure no one was skimming them, selling spare computer parts Christmas season this year found her servicing the machines at a virtual reality arcade.

  “They’re probably going to shut them down in a few months,” Pili said. “All that talk about virtual reality dissociation.”

  “Is that a real thing?” Amelia asked.

  “Fuck if I know. But the Mayor needs to score points with the old farts, and if he can’t combat prostitution and crime, this is the next best thing. Virtual reality addiction.”

  “It seems like it would be a lot of trouble to shut everyone down. There’s a lot of arcades.”

  “It’ll just go underground. Fuck it. It’s slow today, ain’t it? We should have gone to the Sanborns.”

  They were eating at the Bhagavad, which wasn’t a restaurant proper but a weird joint run by a bunch of deluded eco-activists, open only at odd and irregular hours. You paid what you wanted and sat next to walls plastered with flyers warning people against the dangers of vat-meat. Amelia didn’t care about veganism, Indian spirituality, or the fight against capitalist oppressors, but she did care about spending as little as possibl
e on her meals. Not that there weren’t affordable tacos near the subway, but like everyone joked, long gone were the days when they were at least made with dog. Nowadays, rat was the most likely source of protein. She did not fancy swallowing bubonic plague wrapped in a tortilla.

  Unfortunately, the bohemian candor and community spirit of Bhagavad meant the service was terrible. They had spent half an hour waiting for the rice dish of the day, which would inevitably taste like shit watered in piss, but must have some kind of nutritional content, since it kept many a sorry ass like Amelia going.

  “Do you have to be back by a certain time?” Amelia asked.

  “Kind of.”

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. I’ll grab a protein shake if it gets too late,” Pili said, dismissing any issues with a wave of her hand.

  Pili was always cool. Nothing ever seemed to faze her, whether it was the cops suddenly appearing and chasing away street vendors while she was trying to hawk computer parts, or the sight of a bloated, dead dog in the middle of the road blocking her path. Perhaps such self-confidence came from a secret, inner well, but Amelia suspected Pili’s tremendous height had something to do it. Pili was strong, as well. She wore sleeveless shirts, which showed off her arms and her tattoos, and she smiled a lot.

  “All right. But if it gets too late, just say the word.”

  “Nah, don’t worry. Hey, you still need that money?”

  “No, I had a gig,” Amelia said, thinking of the two times she’d seen Elías.

  “Friendrr, hu? Look, you can make a lot more at the blood clinic. The only requirement is that you have to be 27 or younger, no diseases, no addicts.”

  Amelia knew it was easy. That was what scared her. She was inching toward 27 and after that, what could she sell? What could she do when she wasn’t even fit to be a blood bag? She didn’t want to get hooked on that kind of money, but there didn’t seem to be anything else beckoning her.

  Giovanni Schiaparelli peered into his telescope and he thought he saw canals on Mars. Lowell imagined alien civilizations: “Framed in the blue of space, there floats before the observer’s gaze a seeming miniature of his own Earth, yet changed by translation to the sky.”

  Mars, Amelia’s Mars. Always Mars, in every stolen and quiet moment, as she folded a napkin and refolded it.

  “You’ve got that face again, Amelia.”

  “What face?” Her fingers stilled on the napkin.

  “Like you don’t care I’m here.”

  “Of course I care.”

  “If you need the money, just ask. I can lend you the stuff. I know you’ll pay me back.”

  “It’s not the money.”

  Well, it wasn’t only the money. Not that she was doing fine in terms of cash flow. It was Elías and she couldn’t discuss him with Pili. It was Mars and there was no point in discussing that with anybody.

  “I’m throwing a party Friday. You should come. It’ll do you good,” Pili suggested.

  “I have to go to an art gallery. I’m trying to meet someone there about a gig,” Amelia said.

  “What time is that?”

  “Eight.”

  “We’ll be up late. Just stop by after your meeting.”

  “I don’t know,” Amelia said. She turned her head, staring at a neon pink flyer stuck on the wall that showed several politicians drawn in the shape of pigs, wearing ties and jackets. They were eating slops.

  ***

  It was hard to believe that this metropolis, when viewed from Presidente Masaryk, was the place where Amelia lived, scrubbed clean, with a Ferrari dealership and luxurious shops. The city attempted to eliminate the grimy fingerprints that clung to the rest of the urban landscape. Private security kept a tight watch on beggars and indigents. There were trees here — not plastic ones, either. Real bits of greenery, while elsewhere a sea of ce-ment swallowed the soul.

  She had ventured down Masaryk often when she was with Elías. His interest in photography led them there to inspect the art galleries that perched themselves near the wide avenue. The place where Anastasia had her opening was a new gallery. Amelia had never visited it with her ex-boyfriend.

  She wore the nice gray dress, which had caused her so many headaches. It was classic, elegant and it paired perfectly with one of the few pairs of heels she owned. She’d slicked her hair back into a ponytail, put on eyeshadow, which she didn’t bother with most mornings.

  The theme of the exhibit was indeed, obviously, crassly “meat.” There were hunks of beef hanging from the ceiling, cube-shaped meat that gently palpitated. Alive. Vat-meat, coerced into this shape. The head of a bull atop a pillar stared at Amelia. It smelled. Coppery, intense, the smell. It made Amelia wrinkle her nose. The other guests did not seem to mind the stench, long, glass flutes in their hands, laughter on their lips.

  Amelia saw Anastasia Brito surrounded by a wide circle of admirers. She waited, trying to slip to her side, and found herself squeezed next to three people who were having an animated discussion about fish.

  “Soon, the only thing left to eat is going to be jellyfish. It’s the one animal thriving in the ocean,” a man with a great, bald pate said.

  “The indigenous people in — fuck it, I don’t know where, some shit place in Asia — they are launching some sort of lawsuit,” replied a young man.

  “It’s really sad,” said a woman with cherry-red lips. “But what is anyone supposed to do about it?”

  The young man stopped a waiter, grabbing a shrimp and popping it in his mouth. Amelia traced a vector toward Anastasia and correctly inserted herself at her elbow, catching her attention.

  “Hi, Anastasia, it’s good to see you again. This is all very interesting.”

  Anastasia smiled at Amelia, but Amelia could tell she did not remember her, that for a few seconds, she simply threw her a canned, indifferent smile before her eyes focused on her and the smile turned into an O of surprise

  “Amelia. Why… it’s been ages. What are you doing here?” she asked, and she looked like she’d discovered gum stuck under her shoe.

  “Fernanda told me about the show and I decided to give it a look,” Amelia said. She’d assumed Fernanda would mention she would be showing up, that something would have been indicated. She should not have expected such attention to detail.

  “Well,” Anastasia said. She said nothing else. The canned smile returned, brighter than before, but Anastasia’s eyes scanned the room, as if she were looking for someone, anyone, to pull her out of this unwanted reunion.

  Amelia dug in. She’d made the trip to the stupid gallery, after all. Marta was always chiding her about her lack of initiative. So, Amelia smiled back and tried to move the conversation in the required direction.

  “Fernanda said you are putting together something new. Something about plants. She thought I might be able to help you with it.”

  “How?” Anastasia asked.

  “I do have the studies in botany and I’ve gotten good at hacking genes. Here’s my card,” Amelia said, handing Anastasia the little plastic square with her contact information. She’d spent money getting this new card, money she didn’t have, so she wouldn’t hand out a number scribbled on a crumpled napkin. Anastasia held it with the tips of her fingers. Her nails were painted a molten gold. The tips of her eyelashes had been inked in gold to match the nails.

  “No offense, Amelia, but what do you know about art?”

  “A few things. Elías and I spent a lot of time around galleries and museums.”

  “That’s great, but wasn’t that such a long time ago?” she asked, and her words carried a hint of disgust.

  The smile once more. The silence. Amelia remembered all the times Miguel had told her success was all about acquiring a positive attitude. She dearly wished to dial him and tell him he was an idiot. Instead, she bade Anastasia a quick goodbye and went in search of a car.

  6

  Pili lived in a rough area. It wasn’t La Joya or Barrio Norte, but Santa María la Ribera kept
getting more fucked-up each year. There were benefits to this, mainly that when Pili threw a party — even if the whole floor joined in, blasting music from each apartment — the neighbors upstairs couldn’t do shit about it. If they called the cops, the cops were liable to show up, have a couple of beers, dance a cumbia, and depart.

  Pili threw parties often and Amelia declined any invitations just as often. She had internalized her mother’s directives: Study, work hard, don’t drink, no boys. It was difficult to shake those manacles off. Whenever she did, Amelia felt guilty. But she didn’t want to think about her conversation with Anastasia at the gallery — the fucking humiliation of it — and the music at Pili’s apartment eviscerated coherent thoughts.

  Amelia pushed into Pili’s place, trying to find her friend amongst the dancers and the people resting on the couch, chatting, drinking, smoking. Finally, she spotted Pili in a corner, laughing her generous laughter.

  “Amelia!” Pili said. “You came after all. And you look like a secretary or some shit like that.”

  Amelia glanced down at her clothes, knowing she was overdressed. “Yeah. No time to change.”

  “Look, we’ve got a ton of booze. Have a drink. Tito! Tito, she needs a drink!”

  Amelia accepted the drink with a nod of the head. The booze was strong. It had a sour taste. With some luck, it had been fabricated in Pili’s dirty bathtub. If not, it was liable to have come from somewhere much worse. But it wouldn’t be hazardous. Pili didn’t allow additives in her home.

  She watched the partygoers flirting, chatting, dancing. Amelia wondered why some people found it easy to be happy, like an automatic switch had been turned on in them the moment they were born, while she watched in silence, at a distance, unmoved by the merriment. Amelia’s cup was efficiently refilled through the night. Although she neither danced nor spoke much, she leaned back on a couch and listened to the beat of the music, the booze turning her limbs liquid.