Primary Termination

by Vincent Zandri

  I down my glass of wine, as does Tony. He grabs both glasses by the stems, along with the bottle and stands. Holding out his free hand for me, he helps me up off the blanket. Without his having to ask, I know precisely where he’s leading me.

  “What about the leftover food?” I ask.

  “Our gift to the squirrels,” he says. “It’s the least we can do for our collapsing, overpopulated climate.”

  We head into his bedroom. He sets the wine and glasses on the nightstand and then together, we fall onto his bed. It’s not like it happens in one of those romance novels where we slowly remove each piece and parcel of clothing. Instead it’s a race to see who can get naked first. Initially, we start undressing one another, but when that turns out to be an exercise in futility, we just remove our own clothing. I actually make an effort for him to see my new black underwear, but I’m not entirely sure he cares all that much. For Tony, it doesn’t seem to matter much what the present is wrapped with. He just wants to get at the present.

  Our mouths connect so hard we’re lucky we don’t break our front teeth. For certain, I feel like I’ve split my bottom lip, but there’s no blood. Tony runs his hands through my hair while I lie on my back and wrap my hands around his shapely ass. We’re both breathing so hard we can barely speak. But there ain’t a whole lot to talk about while he slides into me and fills me in every possible wonderful way. It’s been a while, and it hurts a little at first, but I don’t really care as he slowly moves his hips.

  “Don’t stop,” I tell him. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

  His pace quickens with each stroke. Already, I can feel myself coming to that special place and judging by how excited he is, I know he’s there, too. His face tells the entire story. It’s tight and the artery in his neck is throbbing while a vein on his forehead is pulsing, his wide eyes never blinking but staring into my own. I don’t think it takes even a full minute before the two of us release. I can’t help but scream, until I bite his shoulder. Not hard enough to break the skin, but it’s hard enough to make him utter, “Ouch.”

  We then break out in laughter and roll onto our backs.

  “Was it good for you, too, Tony Smart?” I ask.

  “Never better, Tanya Even Smarter than Me,” he says, in between breaths. He laughs some more. “So much for foreplay.”

  “We’re middle-aged,” I say. “Who’s got time for foreplay?” Then, “Jacquie, you don’t have to answer that.”

  “Everest dot com offers an array of sexual enhancement products designed to arouse both sexes especially during foreplay. Does this answer your question satisfactorily?”

  Okay, now Tony is curled on his side. He’s laughing so hard he might pull a muscle. In terms of AI, Jacquie is as smart as they come, but boy oh boy can she interject some weird shit at the most awkward of times. Taking hold of Tony’s hand, I turn to him, kiss him gently on the mouth.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I still love you, too.”

  We sit in bed under the white sheet, our backs pressed against the headboard, and drink our red wine until it’s gone. Then we start on another bottle. We laugh and we hold hands and then we make love two more times, not like we’re forty somethings but seventeen all over again. After a while, I tell Tony I gotta pee. Slipping out of bed, I’m so dizzy from the wine I need to press my hand against the wall or else risk falling on my face. Of course, that just makes us laugh all the more.

  I manage to pee without slipping off the toilet, and when I come back in, I throw myself on the bed.

  “I’m suddenly starving, Tony Smart,” I say. “I need something really good to eat.”

  “You hardly ate your lunch,” he says. “I’m not surprised. And you know me, I’m always hungry, lady.”

  “So, what shall we do about our hunger pains? You’re the date master.”

  “Is that what I am?” he says. He drinks some more wine, sets the glass down on the bed table. “I am a drittle lunk.”

  I burst out laughing.

  “A drittle lunk? That makes two of us.”

  “We can use the self-drive mode in my Jeep,” he says. “That’s not a problem. So, where you wanna go? Everest Mickey Ds? Or maybe Indian takeout at the Garden-Fresh Market?”

  “Screw that,” I say, sitting up and gathering up my clothing. “I have a much better idea.”

  Across from the bed is Tony’s writing desk. It’s actually not a desk at all, but a rectangular kitchen table that’s covered in all sorts of manuscript pages, a wireless printer, and of course, his laptop. Mounted to the wall above the table is a corkboard that’s got mementoes pinned to it. There’s a black and white photo of Paris and the Eiffel Tower, another of Tony standing outside the Taj Mahal, and yet another of him standing in front of a white 4X4 truck in what appears to be the West African bush country. I’ve been following Tony’s adventures throughout the years and not only is he a prolific writer, he’s a prodigious traveler and adventurer. No wonder he had trouble settling down with a wife and daughter no matter how much he loves them.

  “Mind if I borrow a pen and paper?” I say.

  “Knock yourself out,” he says. “Su casa . . . Or did I already say that?”

  Stepping into my underwear, I find a pen on his desk and pull a blank sheet of paper from out of his copier. I write something simple onto the paper and hand it to him. His eyes go wide with surprise, but not in a bad way.

  “You really think we should?” he asks. “But it’s dangerous.”

  Raising my thumb over my shoulder at the cork board and the many photos of his travels, I take a step toward him, position my mouth beside his ear.

  “Is Mr. Adventure really afraid of taking a little chance on a snack?” I whisper. “I mean, you’ll travel to the ends of the world in order to research a novel, but you can’t drive me a couple of miles to feast on one of the best munchie experiences of your life?”

  He bites down on his bottom lip and nods. There’s an energy and life in his brown eyes that I haven’t noticed until now.

  “You know what,” he says, ripping the bedsheet off, and slipping on his eyeglasses. “You are absolutely right, Tanya. Where the hell are my cojones, these days?”

  He slips out of bed and does this kind of confused three-sixty spinning on his heels thing, searching for his clothes. Of course, they are scattered all over the floor. He finds his boxers, tries to slip into them while standing, but he can barely get one leg in, much less the second one, without falling back on the bed. We’re both laughing so hard, Jacquie must think we’re out of our minds.

  “I gotta say, Tan,” Tony says, through a snort. “I haven’t had this much fun in a hell of a long time. Why the hell did we ever break up again?”

  “You tell me,” I say, throwing my brown dress over my shoulders. “You ditched me, remember?”

  He squints his eyes, furrows his brow, like he’s opening up a slightly sticky memory drawer in his brain.

  “Oh yeah,” he says. “College. You were headed all the way out to California. I guess I must have not wanted to be in a long-distance relationship or something like that. My big ass mistake.” Then, smiling again. “The important thing is I have you back now, Tan.”

  I can tell he really means it, and don’t I just love his ass for it. Jesus, what’s happening to me? I’m drunk. I’ve just had the best sex of my life, not once but three times (the only sex I’ve had in a couple years, I should point out), I no longer have to worry about money or a job, and for the first time in a very long, long time, I’m happy as hell. Could all this be really happening? Or am I somehow dreaming it?

  Maybe I should pinch myself. But then, if I do that, it’s possible I’ll wake up in my bed in my parent’s house, and Tony will not have come back into my life again. Better to stick to the dream, let it take me where it will.

  Managing to get himself dressed without falling back on the bed again, Tony takes one last drink from his wine glass.

  “Ready?” he says. “Let’s grab somethi
ng delicious.”

  Spotting the note I wrote just a few minutes ago, I grab it up, fold it and quickly stuff it into the back pocket on Tony’s jeans while he’s walking away from me into the vestibule. That way no one can see. Especially Jacquie. Because the words I wrote on it are not necessarily ones she’s going to like. The words are, Gus’s Hotdog Shack.

  Tony has always been into his Jeeps, and if I recall from the various articles I’ve read about him over the years, he collects them. Old, vintage Jeeps mostly. But the one he’s presently got parked in the lot is a newer model. Relatively speaking, that is. Maybe a 2020 or 2021. We pile in, him behind the wheel and me in the shotgun seat along with my leather bag. The soft top is already off, so we are totally exposed to the beautiful late August summer day.

  Engaging a couple of buttons on the dash set beside the GPS screen, Tony then says, “Start up. Full automatic. GPS, please take us to Gus’s Hotdog Shack in Watervliet.”

  “Gus’s Hotdog Shack,” repeats the GPS. “Your destination is two point three miles away and will take approximately eleven minutes to arrive taking into account congested traffic conditions on State Route Seven-Eighty-Seven. Or would you prefer an alternative route?”

  “Please select the fastest route.”

  “Fastest route selected.”

  Crossing his thick arms over his black t-shirted chest, Tony exchanges his eyeglasses for a pair of Ray-Ban aviator sunglasses. They match mine perfectly. Only difference is, I assume his are prescription. With his jeans and cowboy boots on, I swear we’ve gone back in time to 2005 and we’re heading to Gus’s like we always did on weekends when we got the munchies. Maybe time has shifted somehow.

  The Jeep auto drive backs us out of the parking spot, then pulls forward and out of the lot. We follow a route out of the apartment complex and down a hill toward the highway which, it turns out, is congested with all sorts of cars driven by people coming back from summer vacation. The going is a little slow, but it feels great to have the sun shining on my face, the wind blowing in my hair, and Tony holding my hand tightly. I never thought this day would come. In fact, I put it out of my mind the best I could, thinking that this day was an absolute impossibility.

  “This is sooo illegal, Tan,” he says, after a time. “You know that don’t you? Jacquie said so herself just a few hours ago.”

  “You mean illegal in terms of the Everest Corporation,” I say. “But they ain’t the boss of me.”

  “You don’t think so, huh?”

  In my mind, I see Jacquie. Or, what I imagine a physical Jacquie to actually look like. I see a woman of maybe my own age, on the shorter side, with shoulder length red hair, a round face, blue eyes, and big boobs. I’m not really sure why I’ve fabricated that image of Jacquie in my mind, but there you have it. Maybe it has something to do with my fifth-grade teacher whose name was Jacque but was pronounced like Jacquie. She was a short, fiery red head with brilliant blue eyes who demanded discipline, but who was also good natured at the same time. Unlike the Everest Jacquie however, my fifth grade Jacque had a nice laugh.

  “Hey, Tony Smart,” I say, “I’m pretty sure we’re out of Jacquie’s jurisdiction at this point. And as far as I can tell, we’re not being monitored by any kind of satellite.”

  “Yeah, not yet anyway,” he says, his arms still crossed over his chest while the Jeep drives itself. “But trust me, lady, it’s coming. Sooner than you think.”

  “Now, that is some scary shit when you think about. Worse than Orwell’s 1984, worse than anything Philip K. Dick predicted in his sci fi novels. It’s complete control, Tony, and that’s what’s got me worried.”

  He turns to me, squeezes my hand even harder.

  “I’m too drunk to be worried right now,” he says. “Drunk on wine and drunk on Tanya Teal.”

  I feel a wave of warmth run up and down my body, from my toes to the top of my head and back down again.

  “Me too, babe,” I say. “And I am bloody starving.”

  “Let’s eat,” he says, as the Jeep pulls off the highway and onto a quiet road in the village of Watervliet that will lead us directly to Gus’s Hotdog Shack.

  It’s not hard to believe that Gus is still manning the hotdog shack. The original Gus, that is. Gus Truman. The shack is exactly the way I remember it. Just a tin roofed shack nestled between two abandoned multi-story commercial buildings in the mostly vacant village business district. Actually, the lot is so small it’s more like an alley than a piece of land. But you can smell the overwhelming meaty goodness coming from the place while riding in the Jeep. The fact that we don’t have a roof doesn’t hurt either, I guess.

  The first thing that strikes me is the absence of a long line of hungry people waiting to be fed. When Tony and I were kids, the line of famished souls would stretch halfway down the block, every day, all day. At night it got worse as people came for dinner. On weekend days and nights, fuhgeddaboudit. Gus would keep the joint open until one or two in the morning so inebriated young people afflicted with the munchies could feast on hotdogs with the works, or sausage and peppers, or bratwurst, or maybe kielbasa cooked in beer, or hamburgers and cheeseburgers, or even barbequed chicken, brisket, and ribs.

  “You have arrived at our destination,” the GPS system announces. “Would you like me to park for you?”

  “Yes,” Tony says, authoritatively. “Against the curb if that’s possible and please watch the tires. They cost me a month’s royalties.”

  “Does the GPS ever respond to orders that have nothing to do with driving and directions?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

  “No,” Tony says, finally unfolding his arms. “But it feels good to say it, anyway.”

  The computer parks the Jeep perfectly, which isn’t much of a challenge considering the closest vehicle is maybe one-hundred feet away. We get out. Wrapping my bag strap around my shoulder, we head to the order window. A tall, solidly built man is cooking some sausage and peppers on one grille, while grilling foot long hot dogs on the other. At present, he’s got his back to us. He’s wearing white pants and a white t-shirt under a long, meat-stained apron, plus a white cap on his head that says Gus’s Hotdog Shack in thick red letters. The aroma is to die for. Whoever is on the fence about being a vegetarian should visit Gus’s. Never again will there be a question about becoming a full-fledged carnivore.

  “Hey, Gus,” Tony says. “Is that you?”

  The man is startled. He turns slowly, as though we’ve come not to order food, but to rob the joint. A thin gray beard covers his long, coffee and milk-colored face and tired eyes peer at us from across the old wood floor. Finally, recognition kicks in, and he smiles.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” he says, setting down the long metal spatula and cleaning his hands with his apron. “If it ain’t Tony and Tanya. I thought you kids moved away long ago.”

  “We did move away, for a while, Gus,” Tony says.

  “And we’re not kids anymore,” I say. “But thank you.”

  Gus approaches the window, sets both his hands flat onto a sill that contains a napkin holder along with a ketchup and mustard dispensers. Although he’s smiling, I detect a sadness in him. No, that’s not right. More like a profound sadness.

  “Gus,” I say. “What’s happened? Where’s all the people?”

  I might be a little drunk still, but he does something that takes me more than a little by surprise. He sticks his head out the order window, looks one way and then the other, as if he’s looking out for spies. Maybe he is.

  Pulling his head back inside, he says, “Not many people come to the window anymore,” he says. “Not since the Everest takeover.”

  “Takeover,” I say, not without a confused grin. “What do you mean takeover, Gus?”

  “You talking about the Primary Membership Program, Gus?” Tony adds.

  “If that’s what you call it,” he says. He hesitates. “Listen, I get caught taking real dollars, the Everest police are on me like flies on rotting meat. They
don’t even want me serving people who attempt to pay with credits since I don’t want to have nothing to do with them. No association whatsoever. No vender account. No associate account.”

  “You aren’t a part of the Everest system yet?” Tony asks. “How’s that working out for you?”

  “Hey, Mr. Tony,” Gus says, “some of us proud independents. Some of us holding out for as long as we can. And when we can’t hold out no more, maybe we take to the hills, start over somewhere else. Somewhere free, you know what I mean?”

  “So, you don’t have Jacquie hooked up inside the shop?”

  “Run the place by generator now,” Gus says, not without a sly smile. “Off the grid.”

  A funny feeling fills my stomach. Suddenly, I’m not as hungry as I was before. I’m not nearly as drunk or nearly as happy either.

  “But Everest is the only show in town now, Gus,” I say, feeling stupid as soon as I say it. “There’s Drake, but that’s just a search engine.”

  He nods, slowly, contemplatively.

  “That’s the problem, Miss Tanya. When something that big, that powerful, that controlling takes over, it can only mean one thing for people like you and me.”

  “What’s that, Gus?” Tony says, his face having turned a distinct shade of pale.

  “Slavery,” Gus says. “Take it from a man whose extended family has got an intimate history with slavery. We ain’t ever goin’ back there, you hear me, Mr. Tony? Never.”

  Gus tells us to go around back. That’s where people usually pick up their food now after texting him their orders on a secure line. He tells us that no Primary Program members purchase his food anymore for fear of reprisal, and the few non-members who still buy from him have no choice but to pay with Everest credits, even though he doesn’t belong to the corporation. He still takes dollars, he insists with a sly smile. He’s one of the last private business’s left in the area to do so far as he knows, and that it’s a matter of principle for him. But he also says that once Everest gets crushed by what he calls, “The Resistance,” the dollar will once again “reign supreme,” and that’s a quote, which is why he claims to be hoarding as many of them as he can.