Connect

by Julian Gough

  ‘Hey! You! Hey! Speak English?’

  Naomi turns, to see a heavy, sweating white man looming up behind her.

  ‘You, yeah,’ he says. ‘Look, if you don’t want that cab . . .’

  She gets in, and slams the door in his face.

  20

  The figures on the meter start off higher than she’d expected, and rise faster than she can believe. A voice in her head – her mother’s voice – says, you can’t afford this. Her shoulders and back spasm.

  A little screen, with retro graphics. Designed to look like an old-fashioned mechanical meter. Geared wheels, stamped with numbers, slowly turning. Like a slot machine that can only take, never give. She stares at them, trying to make them turn slower, to drag them to a halt. The traffic is so slow. Her mind is racing ahead of the taxi, trying to beat red lights, avoid roadworks, construction, what’s with all the roadworks . . .

  Oh, they’re building new apartments, all the way along the old railroad tracks. Putting in pipes, cables . . . She stares, as the taxi crawls. Block after block of blank first floors. No windows. Why . . . oh, of course, the new coastal regulations, floodproofing . . . She shivers and imagines the waters over her head.

  The fake leather smell emitted by the seats is overwhelmed by the fake lemon smell of disinfectant.

  ‘They updated the Free Flow system this morning,’ says the cab driver, eventually. ‘Had some teething problems. So they’re running traffic at half speed.’

  Naomi says nothing.

  ‘This update, it was supposed to fix all the problems with the crosstown traffic.’ He shakes his head. ‘Made it worse. A real poke in the eye for the mayor.’

  Naomi closes her eyes. You can’t afford this. And then, Just get to the hotel.

  After a while, the driver tries again. New tack. ‘I used to live on Staten Island.’

  She opens her eyes. Looks at the cab driver. A middle-aged white guy, must be six feet six, his knees practically touching the steering wheel, like a clown in a clown car.

  Must be terrible for his back. All day, twisted like a pretzel. Wrong job. Poor guy. OK, he wants to talk, let him talk. ‘Mmmm?’

  ‘Real shame, what’s happened there. Me, I moved to Queens a long time back, after the first of the big storms. You remember Sandy, right?’

  ‘Mmmm.’

  ‘That woman, had her two kids pulled out of her arms by the water? Neighbour of mine.’

  It wasn’t an image she particularly wanted in her head. The black water roaring, the night so dark, the streetlamps out, and your child shrieking as the great wave dragged him from your exhausted arms, a shriek so high-pitched you could hardly hear it, getting further and further off, away down the boiling street, and under, and gone . . .

  ‘I think I need to rest,’ she says, closing her eyes again.

  ‘Huh.’ He stops talking.

  But the dark, the quiet, is not restful. Colt’s slow heartbeat against her wrist no longer calms her; her heart is beating twice as fast as his. She opens her eyes and glances again at the meter. It’s too high, it’s rising too fast. Oh God, she won’t have enough money to make it through the conference.

  ‘Let me out,’ she hears herself saying.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Let me out.’

  ‘Lady, we’re nowhere near the hotel yet, this is still Brooklyn . . .’

  ‘Let me out here!’

  He says nothing. Pulls in.

  She avoids his eyes by staring at the colossal figure on the retro screen.

  She could use her e-purse, but she’s carrying cash: why not go along with the retro fantasy. Justify her ridiculous decision to bring all these banknotes.

  Digging into her purse, then a pocket, another pocket, for her scattered bills. He sighs, glances out the window, frowns, glances at the time, frowns, and she feels more ridiculous, not less.

  The thought, I don’t have enough money, goes around and around in her head. Apologizing to the driver; accusing herself.

  The pocket that finally brings her up to the fare contains a bunch of obsolete old single dollar bills that she’d found in a drawer, packing. Reckless, she gives him all of them. They’re almost enough to make a proper tip. He doesn’t smile, but he stops scowling. It’ll do. This is New York City, you have to tip or they kill you, she thinks as she climbs out. Sort of joking.

  Sort of joking.

  He drives off, and it’s only then she looks around.

  Uh oh.

  Something bad has happened to this neighbourhood. Recently. There are scorch marks on the road, on the pavement. Where cars were burned out? Two, three, young black men appear in an open doorway and stare at her. They look worried. Like she can only bring them trouble.

  She looks away, starts walking. Drags her case. The wonky wheel squeaks. When she glances up again, they’re not staring at her, but at something behind her. They duck back inside, and close the door.

  Something dark swoops low over her head, from behind, blows her hair all over the place, and she flinches.

  A drone. Compact. Powerful. It’s about the size of a very large dog, with military-grade rotors. She freezes.

  It spins to face her, identify her, and as it does so, it extends a dark metal snout, and sniffs her. She feels a strong breeze pull past her, and hears the whoosh of air vanishing into thousands of tiny holes on the snout’s curved black surface.

  The drone moves back up to about fifteen feet above the pavement, its downdraught blowing garbage all over the street, and she shields her eyes from the dust.

  It drifts a little further down the street. Past one dingy grey apartment building. Another. Then it turns to face a building painted a bright, incongruous pink; extends its snout. Sniffs at a cracked window on the second floor. Nothing happens for a moment, as the drone communicates with someone, somewhere. Then it emits a focused sonic blast, like a crack of thunder, that disintegrates the window; it accelerates at a shocking speed through the swirling cloud of glass particles, and disappears inside the apartment, howling.

  Drug bust, she thinks, oh wow. Wow. Or terrorism . . .

  She’s seen SWAT drones do this on the news, but it feels as weird as a dream, to have it happen above her head. The falling glass dances on the pavement in front of her, around her. Her shoes and the wheels of her case crunch through the shards as she breaks into a run.

  When she gets to a quieter block – no people, no drones – she stops running, chest heaving. She looks around. The block is quiet because every building has been boarded up, taped off.

  Must have been evacuated, for decontamination after a bio attack . . . No, not a place she wants to linger. All right. She stretches, and shakes her stiff arms. Grasps the handle of the case again, and sets off at a slower, more manageable trot.

  She stops when she sees flowers in planters on the fire escapes. Leans against a railing till she can catch her breath.

  I’m saving money. And I’m not underground. It’s OK.

  She sets off again, walking now. Finally makes it over the bridge, into lovely, safe Manhattan . . . She frowns, guilty at her own sense of relief. Oh Manhattan, she thinks. Sterilized by money. All the criminals in suits . . .

  The crowds thicken as she gets closer to her destination. After a while, pulling the case, avoiding the people, becomes a kind of meditation. Just make it to the hotel, like a mantra now, no edge of panic.

  By the time she makes it into the shade under the canopy of the Marriott Marquis Hotel, she’s a little light headed, from exertion, from adrenalin comedown, from hunger. With her eyes still adjusting to the gloom under the canopy, she bumps into a young black guy wearing a tight black T-shirt and jeans. She opens her mouth, and says without thinking, ‘Oh, you’re so black I didn’t see you.’

  He turns, and ignites full sleeves of digital skin. Tiger patterns of fluorescent orange shudder across the dark blue-black of his arms. ‘That’s OK,’ he says, camp, relaxed. Naomi stares, hypnotized, at his glowing, rippling fore
arms, her heart pounding again. ‘You’re so female I didn’t see you.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—’

  He raises an eyebrow, turns back, and enters the revolving door of the hotel, and his e-skin fades to match his skin tone, and they are just arms again.

  Oh, he’s an employee, she thinks, unsure if that makes it better or worse. No e-skin on the premises.

  She follows him through the huge revolving doors, with the bad wheel on her case still ticking, squeaking, into a space that feels bigger than the world outside.

  She looks around.

  The man with the tiger arms is gone. OK.

  She looks up, up, till her neck cricks, at the hanging gardens of the twenty-storey atrium. She can’t quite believe nobody is jumping from up there. That people aren’t queuing up to jump.

  She closes her eyes. A room with a bed. A door you can lock. Almost there.

  A sudden loud sound, very close. As she opens her eyes, she sees, for an instant, someone explode on the marble floor beside the reception desk.

  Oh God, did they really . . .

  But it’s just suitcases, sliding off a luggage trolley. A matching set of four red cases, slamming one after another into the marble, sliding across the floor.

  A strap on the trolley has snapped, she can see a frayed end dangling.

  A bellhop – tall, thin, African; maybe Maasai or Tutsi – laughs hysterically, still holding the other end of the strap. Attached to nothing.

  She unfreezes. Takes the last few steps to the reception wall.

  Automatic check-in is out of service. A metal wall-panel has been removed, and a gaunt Latin American woman in maintenance overalls stares gloomily into the guts of the system, while at her feet her diagnostic unit runs tests. There’s a hot, burnt plastic smell that makes Naomi’s nose wrinkle. The woman sighs, and leans against the wall.

  Naomi looks further along the reception wall. Behind the old counter, a couple of employees are checking everyone in manually. Naomi joins the queue.

  There’s a happy young couple ahead of her. She does her breathing while she waits. But why is that man even pushing a luggage trolley? She looks around, until she sees the sleek, flat, hotel robot trolleys, self-parked in a neat stack in a corner, like an abstract sculpture. Oh. Out of service. Whole system must have crashed.

  Staff load cases onto manual trolleys, and whistle as they wheel them to the elevators. It gives the hotel lobby the air of an old movie.

  At the desk, the young man is kind. She’s not sure why she was so worried about this. She’ll be lying down soon, in a bed. She might sleep. She goes onto automatic pilot, and just nods yes to the receptionist while she worries about her paper instead. Worries about talking in public. Worries about socializing afterwards. Will people still expect her to split the bill in an expensive restaurant, if she’s only had a starter and tap water . . .

  The receptionist is saying something for the second time.

  ‘Mmm. Oh, sorry . . . what . . .’

  ‘For some reason, that payment hasn’t cleared.’

  She looks at the receptionist properly for the first time. A young guy, pale as a cave mushroom, with green eyes, wide shoulders. He is smiling. Handsome, yes. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, and he really does sound sorry, ‘there seems to be some kind of problem with your e-purse. The deposit isn’t coming through. Do you have some other form of . . . ah . . .’

  Numb, she fumbles around till she finds the old-fashioned plastic credit card she keeps for emergencies. I don’t have enough money.

  They perform the ritual.

  Naomi holds her breath.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ And he is; and that makes it worse. ‘Have you another card?’

  She blinks at the memory of the store assistant cutting up her other card in front of her in Target, in December. She had walked away, her back straight, everyone looking at her. Left all of Colt’s Christmas presents piled up at the register. Sat in the parking lot for half an hour, crying, before she could see straight enough to drive home.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t have another card.’

  It must have more room on it. Why would it be refused? Her limit was twelve thousand two hundred. Her balance was eleven thousand four hundred. ‘I’m . . . the conference is putting me up here.’

  ‘Uh huh. Which conference?’

  ‘StemCellCon. They’re paying for the room, and . . . I’m not going to use the phone, or touch the minibar.’

  The receptionist is still smiling. ‘I’m sure you won’t,’ he says.

  ‘I don’t even drink.’

  ‘I totally understand. But the regulations require guests to put down a five hundred dollar deposit, in case of any accidents. I’m afraid I’m not authorized to waive that.’ She can see he isn’t trying to make it hard for her, and that makes it worse. ‘We can take cash. There’s an ATM over there.’ He points to a corner of the lobby.

  Five hundred dollars. She remembers when it used to be half that. Of course, she also remembers when it used to be considerably more. Deflation, inflation, revaluation . . .

  ‘Thank you,’ she says.

  Did Colt raid her e-purse and credit card?

  She walks slowly to the ancient ATM. Her legs feel cold and stiff. She counts her remaining cash as she walks. $250. At the machine, no, she doesn’t want to know her balance. She puts in the credit card, proves her identity (eyes, skin), and asks for five hundred dollars. It declines politely and returns her card.

  She asks for three hundred.

  It declines.

  She asks for two hundred.

  It gives her a hundred, and wishes her a good day.

  She walks back to the receptionist, though she doesn’t want to walk back to the receptionist. The problem is, she doesn’t want to fall to the ground weeping, either, or run out of the hotel into the traffic, or . . .

  She could take the lift to the twenty-fourth floor, and throw herself off the balcony, and explode across the black marble in front of the receptionist, splashing his desk, and then he would understand, and sympathize. Sympathize . . .

  But would they even let her in the lift, if she’s not a guest? Would she need to be booked in, to make it function?

  The receptionist is looking at her, politely, his head tilted a little to one side.

  She says, ‘I only have three hundred and fifty dollars, and I need it, some of it, to eat, while I’m here. If you . . .’

  He tilts his head to the other side, still looking at her politely. Naomi feels like she is pushing a rock up a hill with her tongue. She wants to stop talking. She wants to lie down. But there is nowhere to lie down. Cold marble. ‘If you could . . .’ No, she can’t make it to the end of the sentence.

  Back up, try another sentence. Like trying another road, that time she’d tried to take Colt to Lake Walker, and they’d got hung up on a rock, and had to go back; tried another road and got stuck in mud; backed up; tried another, and it got dark and they’d never got to the lake.

  ‘Could I ring the conference?’ she says. ‘Maybe they . . .’

  But this road is no good either, because she doesn’t want to ring the conference. She imagines explaining this mess, her life, down a phoneline, to some unseen figure as large and impersonal and distant as the moon.

  Naomi notices something in her peripheral vision, further down the curve of the reception counter.

  A woman, staring at her.

  Naomi looks back at the woman, in order to not have to look at the receptionist’s polite, resigned face.

  The woman looks away, with a swing of her rich, dark, glossy hair.

  Just a guest, checking in quite normally, chatting with the other receptionist. At the woman’s feet are three tiny bug-eyed dogs. They huddle together, shivering in the air conditioning, and stare back at Naomi.

  Naomi looks back at the receptionist.

  The receptionist lowers his voice a little.

  ‘Look,’ he says. ‘I have to have a dep
osit. Regulations.’

  Naomi just stands there, as he slowly goes out of focus. Her right arm begins to bend at the elbow, rise; but she orders it back down, stiff, by her side. She doesn’t want to wipe her eyes, that would only draw attention to them. He may not have seen them. They haven’t spilled over yet.

  ‘What I can do is . . .’ and he pauses, as though he is checking with himself, arguing with himself, persuading himself, before he commits; ‘I can lock the minibar, disable the phone, I mean you don’t need the phone, nobody ever uses it, and you give me a two hundred dollar deposit. Can you . . . will that leave you with enough? I mean, you’ll get it back when you check out, so you can use it for your ride to the airport, or . . .’

  ‘Yes,’ she says. Now her eyes fill and spill, as she hands the receptionist two hundred. A warm drop hits the back of her hand, and splashes the back of the note, his hand. He doesn’t flinch. ‘Sorry, I’m so sorry. Thank you. Thank you.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ he says. ‘It’s OK.’ He looks around, as though he were embarrassed, but why should he be embarrassed.

  The check-in system’s still down, so the receptionist writes her a paper receipt, and tells her the room number. He sets the door to unlock for her, smiles, says something, but Naomi has stopped listening. She says thank you one last time; bows, absurdly, like her father, why did she do that, nobody does that.

  She takes a step towards the elevator. Just get to the room. Don’t cry. In the distance, a new bellhop starts moving towards her, like a cheetah who’s noticed an antelope drifting free of the herd.

  It’s the man with the tiger arms, covered now by his tight red jacket.

  He’s closing fast. He grins.

  She reaches automatically, protectively, for her purse, but there’s no need to look, she knows. A hundred-dollar bill, and a fifty. No small bills. Got to last till Monday. Oh dear God, she can’t afford to tip. The noise in her head gets louder, as she adds up all the meals, and the taxi back to the airport; no, she will get the A-train, it will be OK, she can do it, it doesn’t have to be a taxi; and there will be buffets at some of the events at the conference, and finally she gets the total to come in under a hundred and fifty dollars.