by Anthony Puyo
She continues. “My father is Henry Matson.”
I didn’t say anything. I was in total shock, but my body was too tired to show it. “Really?” I reply.
“Yes. Does this bother you?”
“I don’t know.” The words kind of snuck out rather weakly. But it was true, I didn’t know. It’s too late to think anymore. The love she gave me was ready to put me to bed in a great sleep.
I kiss the top of her head and knock out unknowingly.
2
I woke up five hours later. Dead late for work and with a headache. She was gone. All that was next to me was the wrinkles in the sheets. In some ways, it feels like it was all a dream. A fantasy that I played out several times in my lonely moments of night’s past.
I put my glasses on, get up quickly, stubbing my toe against the leg of the bed as I head for the shower.
“Fuck!” Still naked, I limp the rest of the way toes curled up.
I make my way to my office, seeing everyone from last night at their cubicles working. I get a teeth showing grins from Rob and Dave as I pass by.
“He shoots, he scores!” snickers one of the two clowns. I try my best to ignore it.
“I’d better get paid today.” Another one says. Shit, this is no laughing matter. If complaints already hit Michael Scarp’s desk, I could be in deep doo-doo.
I open the door to my office, moving swiftly, as if this behavior will actually cut down the four-hour makeup I need to accomplish payroll. I hang my trench coat and scarf and get to my leather chair. About to turn on my computer screen, I see a note:
Hey! Glad you finally made it in, sleepy head. Don’t worry about
catch up. It’s done already. I put my number in your
contacts. Call me later.
Out of sheer curiosity, I turn my computer on and go straight to the payroll program.
“You don’t have my password, so how did you get in?” I whisper.
I sit back, opening my hand like an explosion. “I’m impressed.” I say.
Sure enough, everyone got paid. I take an hour to go over the accuracy. Everything is perfect.
“Brain Chip, huh?”
Since yesterday’s work is complete, and today didn’t offer much more than the standard work hour calculations for yesterday’s hourly employees, I decide to check my private emails on my phone. The message from Leonard pops up again. Stupid me, my extraordinary night with Myra had me forget about the urgent news he had. I figure this is a great time to visit my friends at PAC and get updated.
I walk down the sidewalk of the busy grey city, relishing in last night's affairs. About every twenty feet there’s a man or woman sleeping up against the brick of businesses. It’s a daily reminder of the state we’re in this country and most of the world.
A little boy with dirt on his cheeks, clothes raggedy—torn—stops in front of me.
“Hey mister, do you have any food or money I could have?”
I bend down reaching in my front pocket. “Sure, kid, what’s your name?”
He rubs his dirty little hands together. I notice his left one is deformed, only three fingers reside on it. “My name is Koz, I’m seven.”
I hand him a twenty-dollar bill, trying to not let him see my heart break for him. There’s no point in giving him any less hope than he already has. I’m sure it’s not much.
“Here you go, Koz. Get yourself something nutritious, ok?”
I walk a little further. The greyness is bright in the middle of the clouds above where the sun is hiding. I push the tint button on my glasses.
I turn my head to the busy streets. The ground cars zoom by and the drones fly overhead. My phone rings, gathering my attention. When I pull it from my pocket I’m pleasantly surprised to see Myra’s face on the screen. I push receive.
“Where are you? Rob and Dave said they haven’t seen you since earlier.”
I stop near a newspaper stand. “Well, somehow I found my work magically completed,” I smile, “so I thought I’d leave early and catch up with some old friends.”
“Oh. Okay then.”
“Did you need something.”
“I was just hoping to grab a bite with you for lunch, but that’s okay. Maybe next time.” She says.
“We can still do that. I can see my friends tonight. They didn’t know I was coming anyway.”
“You sure?” she replies.
I tap the options on my phone's screen to give her the location to where I’m at.
“Wow! You’re near Central Park.”
“Yeah, was going to drink my hot beverage there. Gaze at the fit people run by. Maybe it will motivate me to work on my own bod.”
She giggles. “I’ll be there in fifteen. Hotdog in the park sounds nice.”
I didn’t know are date in the park would lead to two weeks of inseparability. We laughed at the park. Shared childhood stories. Hers were much better than mine. She grew up wealthy, with many close relatives around her. She went to chartered schools that were clean, advanced with computer technology, where she went on field trips twice a month. I went to a public school in Jersey where drugs were plenty, fights were regular, and most of the teachers smoked during their breaks.
Her favorite time of the year was winter. She loved activities involving snow; skating, skiing, etc. My favorite time is also winter. But mainly for the warm clothes and hot drinks. I also get more reading done during that time.
We went out every day. Dinners, drinks with Rob and Dave, sometimes just us two alone. We went dancing at an elegant restaurant where the entertainment was violins and sambas and drums. Her red hair moved all over her face. Her smile lit the room. She twirled, staring at me with her blue eyes, calling me with a bend of her fingers. I followed, though reluctant because of never doing these types of things. She had that effect on me. No matter how embarrassed, I found myself gravitate to the beat of her drum. I did things with her that I never pictured myself doing.
While dancing, she made the place that was generally dull come alive. The elders there got up and danced themselves, smiling, snapping fingers to the beat. A group of children, no more than nine in age, came forward and wanted to dance with us because of her electricity. She gladly obliged. The onlookers hooted and clapped, making for a wonderful and lively evening.
Then there were our nights. Blissfully wonderful alone time. We made love at her place, my place, on the bed, in the kitchen, from behind, her on top, against the wall. Her hips moved well on my thin body. And when we were done she always hummed her nursery rhyme as she put on one of my shirts. I enjoyed both. The sound was soothing, and the scent she left behind lasted for a few days.
Our talks were deep. I managed, though it killed me, to not tell her about my other life. For the most part we didn’t talk much about the technology that gripped the world. It was something that we respected our differences on.
Every other day I would get random messages from Jake and Leonard telling me they needed to see me. Sometimes Myra would see me stare at the screen. She never asked me who it was. I felt bad for not being able to tell her of my friends, and felt just the same that I didn’t answer them. Here I was living the opportune life while my group and friends were in the shit hole of Jersey handling the message to the world. What could I say to them? That I was enjoying myself too much with Myra—that I had no time for them. They wouldn’t understand. This is the first time I felt this way for anyone. It was the first time someone cared for me—wanted me the way Myra did. Some nights when she left, I would sit at the edge of my king, shirtless, pant less, like a drug addict seeing his ecstasy walk out the door. I wanted her every day, every night, and my feelings grew more for her with every passing day.
Today is Friday. Three days away from Matson’s big announcement. Stuck in my love fest with Myra, I hadn’t found the time to find out what’s this curious announcement is all about. Like a dweeb, I haven’t even found the time to see what PAC has uncovered. I almost feel like a traitor that I hadn’
t done much as of late. I shouldn't be this way. I need to do the right thing and stop being so selfish. I need to go down to Jersey and meet with Jake and Leonard. They said they had some info that concerned Matson and Congress. That’s important. Very important. With today being light I think I will leave at noon and that will be it. Afterwards I could meet up with Myra.
3
It’s 9:43 a.m. I’ve been here just over an hour and I’m itching to leave. Unlike last time, I completed the payroll early. I think right now is as good as any to make an exit. I put my coat and scarf on and open my door. I nearly buckle at the knees when I see Phil Balock. He’s the guy who’s job I’m not totally sure of. He stands there, hands layered under his blue suit covered belly. His stiff face and grey eyes give me the chills.
“Whoa—hey?!” I blurt.
“Hello, Mr. Mendez,” he says in a serious, low wind, jagged voice. Somehow it fits him perfect, nearly giving away his age. I’d say early fifties. His short, dark with grey hair made him appear even more reserved.
“Hello. How are you?” I straighten my glasses.
“Are you heading somewhere off the premises?”
Is this guy fucking clairvoyant? I’m not sure how he knows this. “Why would you say that?” I blurt, feeling my eyes a bit sunken.
He grins, slowly looking me over. “Do you normally walk around the office in your coat and scarf?”
“Oh. Yes.” I gaze at my arms, “I was going out for lunch and a coffee, maybe?”
“Really?” He casually slides his hands in his pants pockets. “But didn’t you just arrive less than two hours ago?”
This guy sounds like a detective from the old films grandma used to watch. Very intimidating, too.
“I didn’t have great luck finding a cab this morning. Excuse me, but have we met?” If you’ve been watching me, you could at least introduce yourself.
“I’m sorry. The name is Phil Balock. I’m security detail hired by an outside agency that’s doing business with Matson.”
“Hm. Okay.” I say, trying to loosen up.
“I’ll cut to the chase, Mr. Mendez. I’ve been going through all the employee files, specifically those who are a level four and above employee here at Matson. When I got to yours, Mr. Mendez, I noticed a few items that were—um—interesting. If you don’t mind I would like for you to follow me to a more private office and adhere to some basic questions on behalf of Matson’s security protocol?”
What the hell is going on here? He says he’s hired by an outside agency, yet Matson just authorized a large payment to him. And I don’t like the fact that he has gone through my file. He doesn’t have the right! Okay, maybe I’m getting angrier than I need to be. The truth is, I’m more frightened of what this weirdo knows about me, if anything. It’s apparent something about me brought him to my door. Some sort of suspicion. But I have a few suspicions of my own about him, and that bothers me. I can feel the heat igniting in my cells. I need to calm myself before things get worse. Escaping this situation would be best.
“I do mind. Can this wait till later—or tomorrow?” I respond, feeling the tingling of anxiety underneath my skin. “I have to go.”
I try to walk around him, figuring my forwardness will delay this unexpected interrogation.
Phil moves to the side, purposely standing in my way. I try the other side. He does it again, leaning into my ear.
“I wouldn’t try that again,” he whispers in his rough voice that vibrates the wax in my ears. “It’s suspiciously odd. And I get really nervous when I generate a suspicion.”
I don’t like where this is going. I feel like a criminal here. I sit on one side of a table in a faceless room, Phil on the other. It’s possible it could just be my paranoia, but I’m starting to assume he had everything removed in here to make sure his subjects, me being one of them, could feel vulnerable to the environment. If there were something to hide, maybe it will come out easier because there is nothing else to focus on but the interrogator himself.
But I’m still not certain why I’m here. As far as I know, I’ve been clean in covering my tracks. However, my mind is searching through everything, like someone desperate to find their wallet when they realize they don’t have it and it’s time to pay the restaurant bill. In my eight years here could I have done a slip up somewhere and this Philip character found it? Something far in the past, perhaps?
Phil goes through a manila folder placed in front of him. As his fingers slice through the different sheets of paper, he makes grunts and small gasps similar to a person in a deep sleep having night terrors. He then closes it and moves it away like it’s a finished meal. He peers at me with those beady grey eyes of his.
“Mr. Mendez, I got an easy question for you. How do you feel about Matson Cybertech?”
I turn in my seat, hoping it doesn’t seem like a squirm to him. “It's a good company to work for.” I reply with several nods. “I've been here for eight years and I don't plan on going anywhere else, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Hmm . . .” He scoots back in his chair with loose limbs, relaxing with his hands behind his head. “Your file says you come from a military family. Mother, father, both serving in the Great War. I bet you’re proud of them.”
“Of course.”
“It also says here you were raised by your grandmother . . . True?”
Fucking background checks. I nod as I reply. “Yes”.
He smirks. “This is not so bad, is it?”
Interrogations always start out easy. A tactic used to calm the person. To make vitals settle, this way when the real hard questions come, a person will change in posture, demeanor, and give signals to what they’re lying about. So here it comes. The question was the cue. let’s see what he really wants to know.
He moves back close to his desk—back straight; a sign of authority. “There was one thing I found in here,” he points down to the file, “I wouldn’t call it suspicious, since there is no wrong doing on your behalf, but it does seem out of place. It says you don't have a chip implant. I didn't know if that was some sort of mistake. I thought I’d ask if you could clarify this for me. Is it true, Mr. Mendez, that you don't have a chip implant?”
The question puts fear in me coming from a guy like Phil. He’s obviously astute enough for Matson to pay him a huge salary. And he’s made it known he knows things about me. Is he making a connection I should be worried about?
“It’s true. I don’t have one.”
“Could you tell me why?”
“It’s just my choice. I don't see the need in having one. And it wasn’t a requirement when I got the job.” I massage the back of my head and cross my legs. I wonder if he notices my discomfort. “Is this all-of-a-sudden a problem, Phil?”
“It's not so much a problem—for now. It’s more—how should I say . . . concerning?
“There have been some information leaks in the past, and now with the new Thin Chip out and some other surprise things coming up, I’ve been hired to be more thorough in the process of employee’s backgrounds. When I came across this fact in your file, it got me wondering, because that is what I do. I wonder—then speculate—then act on my hunches. Could you enlighten me on why someone would choose to work for a company that manufactures and installs implants, yet does not have one himself? I mean, it’s free for the employees here. Gets put in—right on site.”
I draw a blank. Looking like a deer in the headlights, I’m sure.
Phil continues. “It’s rare for a dedicated employee to work for a company and not believe in its products. Do you believe in Matson’s products?”
Though I’ve come up empty a few times already, lying has become almost second nature to me. Though, I try to be careful and not let my lies become me. It’s something I try and only do out of necessity. Sometimes I wonder how much of what I’m pretending to be is the only reason I have friends here. Even Myra, if she knew who I was totally, would she still be interested in me?
“I don’
t have an opinion on Matson’s products in that way, Phil. I know they are the leading edge in bio enhancements, and people seem to love them. I think that’s all that’s required of me. Is it not?”
He shrugs his face and shoulders.
“You do know, people like you are becoming rarer and rarer these days?”
“Yes, I’ve heard that. Too often, to be honest.”
Phil reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a slim grey box with the Matson symbol of a square with two rings forming an ‘X’ around a ‘M’ on it. He quietly opens it, pulling out a chip the size of a pinky nail and as thin as a piece of paper. “Do you know what this is, Jason? Do you mind if I call you Jason?”
Suddenly the white nakedness of the room gets icy. It feels like I’m a child entering a medical room for the dreaded school shots. Everything from the lighting to the hardness of the white tile intensifies in its own attributes.
I nod to his request to call me by my first name. “It looks like a brain chip—just smaller and much thinner.”
“Good. You know your product. This is the new Thin Chip. A marvel of technology,” he examines it with new eyes, proud in nature. “What if I told you in order to keep your job you need to have one of these attached to your brain?”
“I’d say you’re crazy. It’s unconstitutional to require something like that.” I sit back, appearing relaxed, hiding how I truly feel, which is a bit pissed off.
“For now you’re right. The unconstitutional part. But Matson has told me this will be your fate . . . today.”
“What are you saying?!”
His eyes tighten as they blaze into mine. “You are to get this chip, or you are to be escorted from this facility—for good.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Phil stands and moves by the door. He knocks twice and someone opens it. Someone I can’t see. As Phil looks through the crack, he’s handed a paper.
“Thank you.” He says, then steps back to his chair. He sits and slides the paper to me.