Undead L.A. 2

by Sagliani, Devan

  The first time September 21st happened, Jeremy hadn't been interested in going anywhere. He'd gotten up and checked the papers for his daily dose of celebrity culture. Since he was no longer obligated to have an opinion on the subject, he'd only briefly kept up with the news story about the celebrity quarterback murdering a porn star in his hotel room. He knew the verdict was supposed to be announced the day before, but with all the commotion and rioting he'd missed it. He could remember thinking that if the guy had managed to wriggle out of the guilty verdict he would probably be back playing before a crowd of cheering fans in a very short time, just like Michael Vick.

  The NFL had become a sad, scandal ridden sport full of gang bangers, wife beaters, and child abusers. He laughed at the thought that so many people got upset over whether a gay man would play in the sport, or when Kansas City Chiefs safety, Husain Abdullah, intercepted a ball and ran to a touchdown and thanked Allah instead of Jesus, and the whole world lost their minds.

  What was a simple act of religious gratitude in comparison to watching the grainy footage of running back Ray Rice knocking out his then-fiancé with a strong left hook, and dragging her unconscious body out of an elevator, at the Revel Casino Hotel in Atlantic City? Or the fact that Roger Goodell, the goddamn Commissioner of the National Football League himself, knew all about it months in advance of the scandal breaking and did his best to cover it up? What did we have more to fear from as a society?

  The idea that our children might grow up with gay sports role models, or that they might instead come to idolize former New England Patriots tight end, Aaron Hernandez, whose highlight reel included being accused of double homicide in the cold blooded execution of one of his own friends, and joining a street gang in prison while awaiting trial?

  He'd been surprised to see that all the papers were from the day before, September 20th. Why would Jess have gone though the trouble of providing him with identical copies from the previous days news cycle? And why hadn't she left a note, or waited for him to get up? It didn't make sense, but it didn't set off any alarms. He'd become accustomed to strange things happening. It was part of life in Hollyweird. He'd taken his time eating breakfast, then spent an hour under the jets of hot water steaming in the shower. He figured it would just be a matter of time before things calmed down again. Whatever was going on out there wouldn't last. It never did. Los Angeles had survived riots twice before.

  When nothing seemed to have changed by afternoon he'd decided to tour the city and see for himself just what was causing his world to come apart at the seams. He strolled to his garage, a building ten times larger than the one he grew up in, that held his collection of over five hundred cars and bikes, and slid behind the wheel of his Shelby Cobra 289 Roadster. There was a picture on the passenger seat of Steve McQueen with the car's designer, Carroll Shelby, looking at the car, but Jeremy knew the ‘King of Cool' had never actually owned a Cobra. That didn't stop Jeremy from snatching up one of the few remaining versions the actor had been photographed with the first chance he got, or trying to replicate the hundred dollar bill challenge with any of his celebrity friends brave enough to give ‘grabbing the cash off the dashboard before the Cobra hit 100 mph’ a try. No one ever beat him. The 289 Cobra could do 0-100-0 in 15 seconds flat. It was, according to Motor Trend's Senior Features Editor, Jonny Lieberman, the fastest and coolest muscle car of all time. And if there was one thing Jeremy knew from years of reading Motor Trend, it was that Jonny never got it wrong.

  He'd gotten to the end of his driveway before waking up in his bed. The clock again read 8:05 AM. September 21st. The second time around, he didn't bother with searching the house for his missing assistant or checking his cellphone for service. He'd jumped into his fire engine red Aston Martin, still wearing silk pajamas, floored it out of his long driveway, whirring past so fast that his well manicured hedges became a soft blur as he shot out of the front gates and onto the empty street like a champagne cork unexpectedly going off in the middle of a wedding toast. The last thing he could recall was the sting of the air as it whipped his face, tears streaming unbidden from the corners of his eyes. He'd awoken once more from a deep, peaceful sleep to find he was back in his frigid mansion, temperature set to sixty-eight, his hologram clock informing him it was 8:05 AM. September 21st. Again.

  Today was going to be different. Today he was getting a personal visit from the president—the President of the United States. He'd left several voice mails the night of the new L.A. riots before the phone lines went down, but never heard back. He was surprised that it had taken the president this long to respond to him, even with the crisis, since Jeremy had not only donated over a million to his re-election campaign, but also hosted fundraisers with his rich Hollywood friends, made appearances at rallies on his behalf, and even headlined a surprise performance for the troops in Afghanistan in a last ditch attempt to sway members of the armed services to vote for a Democrat.

  But how did he contact me? Jeremy wondered. He picked up his cell phone and tried it again. It was fully charged, but there was no signal. He dialed numbers, but nothing happened. He called me last night. The phone rang and he said he was coming in the morning. He thanked me for my patience.

  At least he thought he'd gotten a call. He couldn't remember precisely when it had come in or what else he had said. When he tried to pull the memory to the front of his mind it became elusive, sliding away into a dull and unfocused image, as if a window being deluged by a persistent patter of spring rain were suddenly shielding it.

  Jeremy stumbled out of his bedroom, down the long hall filled with images of himself and celebrities he'd met over the years, and on into the kitchen. His toes felt like they were sliding over the air-conditioned hardwood floors as he padded along. He'd kept his house at a crisp sixty-eight degrees year round since taking residence in the Hills. As in mornings before, he saw that a fresh pot of coffee along with selections of pastries were laid out, but Jess was nowhere in sight. He poured himself a cup of Kona blend, stirred in a tablespoon of raw agave, and savored the steaming aroma before taking his first sip, allowing his senses to fully experience the beverage. Better coffee was just one of the things Jess had brought to the table.

  He clicked on the old wooden radio he'd installed on the counter just in time to hear a rush of Rachmaninoff giving off a death rattle before sinking into Chopin's Nocturnes. He meandered over to the kitchen table, passing the fresh row of papers set out from the previous day, his hand running over the Los Angeles Times and down past Bill Murray's face on the cover of People magazine, then stopping to grab the most recent edition of Motor Trend. He fell into the hard metal chair, the air whirring out of him in a thump, his trembling hands still clutching his prize.

  The radio gently hissed out soft piano notes that wafted down from the kitchen counter, drifting over cornflower blue tile and down to his heavy legs, curling around his boney ankles like stale barroom smoke. He stared at it, suddenly recognizing how out of place it looked. It was the same old wooden box that had sat in the living room of his childhood, the one his mother had brought home from a church sale, the one he had spent some of the few happy moments in front of with her listening to jazz and American Bandstand. She may have run out on him, but before she did she instilled a love of music in his soul. That radio reminded him of everything he once loved about her. Just looking at it he could almost sense her in the room.

  That's not possible, he realized, a cold feeling of dread bleeding into him. That radio was left behind when I moved to Florida. I never saw it again. It can't possibly just be sitting on my kitchen counter.

  He heard the sound of the helicopter in the distance before he caught sight of it. One moment he was sitting in his kitchen staring out the window at the tall buildings of downtown Los Angeles as they blazed like oversized candles, thick plumes of dark smoke spiraling up like demons escaping the bowels of hell and smudging the piercingly impossible blue of the sky, and the next he was standing in his backyard, near the ten
nis courts, dressed and watching the president's helicopter land in the vacant lot next door. It was rumored that Rod Stewart had owned the space once. The new owners, reportedly Persians, had torn down the palatial mansion within the first month, dragging it away in pieces. The land had stood empty since then; a vacant brown lot of perfect earth awaiting its next transformation.

  How did I go from my kitchen and my silk pajamas to being ready for a game of basketball? Jeremy felt dizzy thinking about it. He tried to focus on any detail of how he had arrived with his feet wrapped in tight sports socks and heavy sneakers, hundreds of feet from where he last had been, but the more he grabbed for the recollection he knew ought to be there the more it seemed to slip through his fingers like a handful of smoke.

  He thought of the line from some old band he used to listen to back when he was in Florida, back when the world was a much simpler place. This is all a dream we dreamed one afternoon long ago...

  I must be losing my mind, he realized, stifling back a small chuckle that rose up from his chest like an unexpected drunken belch. And since when does the President of the United States come to my house in a helicopter?

  It wasn't unusual for the Commander in Chief to take to the air to cut down time lost to traffic jams, the ones he inevitably made worse, but in all the times it had happened in the past the president had never taken to the skies to drop in on a residential address before, not even one as exclusive as the community Jeremy lived in.

  Usually he just gives the city a last minute notice before ass-raping their daily commute, so he can attend fundraisers thrown by people like me at twenty-thousand dollars a plate, Jeremy thought, the hint of a smile still clinging to his lips like moist residue from his previous erection. It's a wonder he didn't lose the whole State in the last election, given his fondness for plaguing us all with system wide, soul sucking gridlock.

  The side of the flying transport unfolded into a set of stairs and the president came bounding down with the alacrity of a professional ball player half his age. Two tall men in dark suits and ties, with shades and earpieces, scurried after him, flanking the insouciant leader of the free world as he strode confidently in Jeremy's direction. The first thing Jeremy noticed was that the president, a generally dapper dresser who wore custom tailored suits by Hartmarx—a 121-year-old Chicago based company, as well as the largest suit maker in the United States—was dressed instead in plain, old, no-name gym clothes. Despite the lack of designer labels they seemed to fit him perfectly, as if the fabric had been intended for him alone and not mass-produced.

  Probably just one more perk of being President of the United States of America.

  “You ready for a game of one-on-one, old-timer?” The president put on an affectionate smile like he was visiting a dear old friend he'd known since childhood. Jeremy looked down to see that he was now holding a bright orange basketball in his hands. He didn't remember having it before.

  “You'll have to forgive me,” Jeremy said, shaking his head and trying to clear his thoughts. “I haven't been myself lately.” He bounced the ball over to the president who took it in both hands, his head shaking slightly with a friendly smile.

  “Actually that's my fault, not yours,” the president casually said. “It's part of the reason I've come to talk to you.”

  “What the hell does that even mean?” Jeremy's head felt like it was swimming from the words the man across from him had just spoken. “Please don't tell me we're having some kind of toxic airborne attack, or some other sort of nasty shit your people whipped up in one of their labs.”

  The president tucked the ball under his right arm and held up his left hand. His eyes darted down humbly towards the court as he moved to the top of the key; his voice calm and patient.

  “No, no, Jeremy,” he said, lifting the ball up over his head and aiming for the basket, his body rocking gently back and forth as he prepared to take his shot.

  It reminded Jeremy of a stick of wheat swaying in a warm autumn afternoon breeze. He felt his mind start to wander again, like it would during a fever, landscapes shifting with the interior images. He thought for a moment of a comical old scarecrow with a straw hat, ink-black crows sitting on the flannel wrapped arms, unabashedly cackling to one another, proud and unafraid. The straw stuffed burlap bag serving as a head was smeared with a child's playful rendition of a toothy grin and painfully cheery, bugged-out eyes. The thought of those eyes made him nauseous in the pit of his stomach, like a knife being twisted through him, as the howling of the birds turns into a mindless roar and they tear the helpless straw man apart with terrible brutality, savagely ripping with their dark beaks full of hay and fabric until nothing remains.

  A loud crack, as if someone had snapped together two wet fingers right next to his ear, brought him back to the court. The president was still effortlessly rocking back and forth. His eyes were locked on Jeremy now, instead of on the basket.

  “Pay attention,” he said. “I don't want you to miss this.”

  The president turned back to the basket and let the ball soar. It careened in a perfectly symmetrical arc, bending in an improbable geometry, before loosely slipping through the rim without touching it, the pleasant swish of the lower net the only contact the ball had made. Jeremy was so surprised that he almost expected the ball to simply stop before touching the pavement, but it struck with a resounding thud and bounced up, heading his way of its own accord. The president, a naturally competitive man, turned and pointed to Jeremy.

  “Ha! Beat that.”

  The ball reached Jeremy's feet. He leaned over and picked it up, turning it over several times in his hands.

  “How did you do that?”

  “By now I'm sure you've realized things in your world are behaving abnormally,” the president said, striding casually towards him as if he were addressing the nation. His secret service detail trailed close by, remaining just out of the action. “Some examples of this include waking up over and over on the same exact day, or being unable to leave your neighborhood. I've come to tell you the truth about things, but I'm going to need you to keep an open mind. Do you think you can do that, Jeremy?”

  “I'm holding up pretty well,” Jeremy offered, shaking his head and raising his hands. “I thought I might be losing my mind for a minute there. Actually, to be completely fucking honest, Mr. President, I am still not one-hundred-percent ready to rule that option out. Pardon my French.”

  The president snorted. “Of course you're not,” he emphasized. “It's perfectly natural for you to react that way, isn't it? I mean, the human race would never have survived without the ability to compartmentalize information, to disassociate, to let go of reality every now and then, even to completely repress certain unpleasant things you can't face.”

  “Enough with the big pitch, Larry,” Jeremy sighed, feeling tired of being buttered up with slick talk. “What's the truth? Level with me, man. I can handle it. I've handled more than you can imagine in my life.”

  The president gave him a knowing smile, his eyes twinkling as he studied Jeremy's face.

  “Okay, you're right. I'm ready to level with you. The truth is that you're living in a simulation. Usually it is flawless and you don't see any contradictions, but we've been experiencing some technical issues recently. We're working to root them out and restore things back to normal soon.”

  “Right,” Jeremy scoffed. “Let me guess? You appreciate my patience and I should please continue to hold.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So what you're telling me is that I'm in the Matrix? Please don't tell me I'm supposed to be the Keanu Reeves in this version. I'm way too old, sir, and too slow to be 'The One,' by pretty much any standards.”

  “It's not quite the same,” Larry explained. “But it's an interesting metaphor. I believe the plot of that movie revolved around humans creating artificial intelligence that then turned on them, forcing them into total servitude and distracting their minds while their bodies were turned into fuel for the ma
chines.”

  “That's the Cliff's Notes version,” Jeremy mocked.

  “In our version of events, you are a highly compressed holographic digital file capable of independent interaction. There's no body to speak of, no decomposing organic matter, nothing but tightly bundled data reacting to stimulus, governed by a unique code, kind of like a signature, responsive and capable of memory, but without corruption or signal loss.”

  “Wait a minute,” Jeremy demanded, letting the ball drop out of his hands. “Are you saying I'm like a program in a computer? Like I'm some kind of software?”

  “That's the Cliff's Notes version, I suppose,” the president shot back, the twinkle returning to his eye.

  “That's fucking nuts,” Jeremy shouted, turning away from him. “I'm pretty open minded, but that shit just doesn't add up. How would that even be possible?”

  “I knew it would probably be a difficult concept for you to wrap your head around,” Larry exhaled. “I just thought it was worth a shot. Tell me which part you have difficulty with and we'll see if we can work through this.”

  “How about all of it? I mean, I remember my childhood. I remember being an awkward and pimply teen. I remember my first beer and the girl I lost my virginity to and the first time I was arrested. I lived each and every one of those experiences.”

  “No question about it,” the president agreed. “But don't stop there. Don't sell yourself short. You lived a full and rather successful life. You were beloved by people all over the world. You brought joy and happiness to others. You were generally fair and well liked for it, despite your obvious inability to keep it in your pants around pretty young girls. You were what they called a real American icon in many ways. It's what made you stand out.”

  “What do you mean I was? Why do you keep talking about me in past tense as if I'm dead? Is that it? Are you telling me that I'm dead?”

  It felt like a cold bucket of water was dumped over his head at the thought. It would explain a lot, like why he was unable to move forward in life. His world had ended and he was in purgatory. The city was hell, that's why it was on fire. Heaven was the bright blue sky being blacked out by the plumes and a rain of brown and gray ash.