Keeping Luna

by Todd Michael Haggerty

  “America, I believe.” Gabriel’s lips were plenty loose as well, and his speech was starting to get sloppy, just managing to find that sweet spot before it goes from endearing to abhorrent and pathetic.

  “Yes indeed. Our fading greatness… The problem, as I see it, was that we had so much. Too much. Things were put into our hands, amazing things that we had neither understanding of nor full appreciation for. Technology that is now used only in the military, and to varying degrees in our municipal network, was everywhere. In the hands of every man and woman, and often their smallest children.

  “Now it is true that every citizen today has his or her own tablet. For reading the news. For reading books and watching movies. But the parameters have been drastically reduced.

  “In those days, however, every telephone was an amazing array of possibilities, capable of communicating with satellites, and connected to one another through a vast network we called the internet. And though we used it endlessly, it seemed as though hardly a soul knew how it worked. This same network has long since been restricted, confined, and is used only by those who have need for it. Now it is just called the Frame.”

  Gabriel bobbed his head up and down a bit to indicate that he was still following along, and then yet again he found the glass was at his lips.

  “Sounds fantastic, right? All this technology? All this access?

  “It wasn’t.

  “No one was ever truly WITH anybody else. Sure, you could pack thirty bodies onto a bus, but they would all just stare down into their hands. They would spend all day interacting on what we called “social networks”, which was truly the greatest misnomer any sinister mind could have come up with.

  “There was nothing social about them. They stole everybody from the very moments they lived in. They were a platform for misinformation, propaganda, and pure distraction. A place to find and share the unfounded statistics and wholly imagined accounts to support one’s preconceived opinions, and to revel in the company of those who shared the same misconceptions, borne of their collective wilful ignorance.

  “A place where people could share photos they had taken of themselves, and share the details of their breakfast with four-hundred-and-seventy-five of those they called

  ‘friends.’ ‘This morning I ate two fried eggs and then made a poop baby. Here’s a photo.’”

  Gabriel chortled at this last part, nearly forcing whiskey up his nose. But the rampant disgust in Lamar’s voice was unmistakable, even here in the retelling, some eighty years after the fact.

  “Have you ever read Sigmund Freud, Gabriel? I happen to know we still keep it on the shelves.”

  “Yes, I have. A long time ago.”

  “Well, it couldn’t be that long ago. Twenty-five years old. You don’t know how long time gets.”

  Normally these patronizing tones would find their way under Gabriel’s skin. But right now, here in this ancient office, all leather and wood, and listening to this ancient man, all leather and bone, he found it oddly comforting. Of course, the drink helped too.

  “Mr. Freud wrote a book entitled ‘Civilization and its Discontents.’ Did you read that one?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “In this book, perhaps you will recall more clearly than I, he mentions mankind’s drive towards becoming godlike, and his subsequent dissatisfaction in doing so. Well, that was us. We had so many wonderful tools and capabilities, and they just kept us miserable. Disconnected.”

  Gabriel tilted his head back and looked up at the ceiling for a moment before returning his eyes to Lamar. “I believe that quote you’re looking for is: ‘Man has, as it were, become a kind of prosthetic God. When he puts on all his auxiliary organs he is truly magnificent; but those organs have not grown on to him and they still give him much trouble at times.’”

  “You remembered all that from a book you say you read a long time ago? And drunk, at that?! I may have been correct in choosing you after all.”

  Gabriel grinned, and his eyes were close enough to shut that the crescents they formed looked like two smaller copies of this same wide grin.

  “The rest of this story will have to wait for our next session, Gabriel, for you are in no condition to hear it, and I am in no rush to tell it. You will, of course, be staying in one of my guest rooms. If you were to be seen like this you’d be on a boat and out to sea by daybreak. Instead, I want you to close your eyes.”

  Gabriel’s eyes were already closed.

  He heard shifting sounds and knew that the old man had risen from his seat, and then he heard strings. Serene, calm violins and violas were fading into the room and filling it. “I know this one,” he muttered. “Bach. Suite number three in D major. Air…”

  Lamar answered him softly, “Very good, lad. Now shut up. And if you listen with the right ears, you will hear it. Life… sad and beautiful life. Struggle. Accomplishment. Failure. Loss. Everything. And you will hear what this world is missing.”

  Lamar now came back over to his seat from the stereo controls and sank into it once more. He allowed his own eyelids to drop and left behind this cluttered office until the song had reached it final, perfect note. Then his eyes opened once more and focused on the young man sitting opposite him. It was plain to see that Gabriel had crossed the threshold at some point during those three minutes and fifty-three seconds, and slept now peacefully, half-submerged in the dark-tanned leather.

  Lamar looked down at the watch on his wrist. Half past six. He sighed a small, amused chuckle, his eyes once more on his slumbering young companion.

  “Lightweight.”

  Chapter Four

  Although he knew the address, and although his feet were having no real trouble in taking him there, Owen couldn’t help feeling more and more lost the closer he got to his destination.

  He knew that he was approaching Claire’s building, and that he would be arriving about five minutes before she had asked him to be there. He knew that her tone had not been anxious on the telephone. There had been the usual bland pleasantries and shallow inquiries that could be expected of any conversation here in the Capital. Why then did his stomach twist so?

  Perhaps it was the invitation itself.

  She had asked him to stop by. That’s the way she put it.

  Stop by. What the hell does that mean? Does she have plans for us to go somewhere again? Hell, I hope not. That last time was excruciating.

  A week prior, three days after their introduction at the Coupling Program facility, she had invited him out to dinner at what was supposed to have been a very nice restaurant. Truly, the food was decent. And he didn’t feel that his food credits had been misspent, although at the rate he was going his red meat allowance would run out three months before being reloaded at the end of the calendar year. Chicken was sure to follow, and then fish, and Owen loosely calculated that he would end up with nothing but vegetarian meals for the last forty days before December finally flowed into January.

  He shuddered at the thought of chickpea patties and salads.

  No, the food had not been the problem last week. They were. They had tried talking, and, as it turned out, neither of them was any good at it. Shifting from topic to topic, hoping that something would save them from silence. They came close a few times, whenever they brushed across subjects of physical activity.

  Talk of climbing, lifting, running, and boxing all brought a brief glimmer to the space between them, but talking of these things isn’t the same as doing them. There wasn’t much to hold on to when they tried, and their momentary excitement would inevitably fade once more into silence.

  If one good thing had come of the meal, it was that neither of them was in any danger of dehydration by the end of it. Their water glasses had been the one constant distraction available to them, keeping their hands busy when their mouths failed the task. And the service staff had done an excellent job of keeping them topped off between the courses, which were an eternity in between and disappeared too quickly.

  Fo
llowing the meal, neither Owen nor Claire had proposed that they do anything together to fill the remaining hours of the evening. No walk out to the waterfront, despite the thin wisps of clouds that hovered over the horizon and promised to keep the sunset company. For the setting sun is nothing without a few clouds to illuminate, to absorb its warmth and its radiance.

  Each had just gone their separate way, left feeling that perhaps they were to be a part of the unsuccessful four percent that Marius had alluded to on the day they met. The prospect of their perceived mismatch was easily bearable on its own, but the thought of failing at this assignment, the thought of failing at anything at all, was horrifying for both of them.

  Owen’s feet continued to kick their way down the lane.

  It’s funny, he thought. No, not funny, really. Stupid. Laughable. Pathetic. You could slap nothing but a knife into my palm and send me in on the first ground wave after tactical does their bit. Sure, why not? Drop me into a gnashing herd of unfriendlies. Bruise me. Cut me...

  He laughed out loud without realizing it, which bought him a few curious glances from a handful of passers by.

  But send me to meet this woman? Tell us to talk, to take our time and get to know each other? THAT is truly terrifying!

  Left. Right. Left, Right, Left. He marched on towards her apartment.

  Well, it’s too early for dinner. That’s a good sign, isn’t it? Owen tried to be optimistic, but the thought of a late lunch was still looming. Two more streets, then left.

  And then we’ll just get this over with, whatever it is.

  Just before making this left turn, Owen looked down the street that remained before him. It ran for one more block before forcing a left turn, and beyond that was a neatly manicured strip of park area that offered a view of the water that surrounded this small peninsula.

  Nice area, I suppose. Wonder if she has much of a view.

  After rounding the corner he immediately laid eyes on her building, 6034. It was the second residential high-rise on his right, and the same light blue as all the others. The same architecture. The same heat-absorbent tiles up and down its sides. The same flowerbeds at its feet.

  The crews that put these things up could take a bumpy plot of grass and weeds and turn it into twelve stories within a few months. Every step of the construction process was streamlined, every move efficient. It was just as if they were having a thousandth go at putting together a child’s puzzle, and indeed the most experienced laborers on these teams had assembled this exact building well over two hundred times.

  Owen’s feet kept moving, despite his desire for them to halt, reverse, dance in place, anything but proceed. And then his thumb was defiantly out in front of him, aiming for the small electronic panel next to the door, taunting him as it scrolled through the names in the register before finding Claire Venezia and pressing the call button. Five seconds passed and then the video screen activated, framing her from her head to just beneath her toned white shoulders.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “Hi. Are you coming down or should I…”

  The latch snapped open and the door began to swing out.

  “Number 912,” she said, and then the screen went black again.

  He walked into the elevator, pressed the button for the ninth floor, and checked himself in the mirror opposite the sliding metal doors. He was wearing the same clothes he’d had on when they first met, with the addition of a dark brown zip-up sweatshirt to combat the wind. The doors slid open and he found his way to room 912. He knocked, but his eyes caught on the door across the hall, which stood wide open. He could see straight into the main living space, where two men stood, surrounded by white cardboard boxes. They took note of him, but did not say anything or even nod hello.

  Claire’s door pulled open and there she stood, wearing the same style of summer dress as before, although this time in a light orange. “Come in. Please.”

  “New neighbor?” Owen asked, referring to the flat with the two men in it.

  “Movers. It’s an R’n’R, i think. She was a nice lady, whenever we talked. Worked where I work, actually, but over in the data analysis department. Hope she’s being sent somewhere nice. Somewhere warm, maybe.”

  “Sure… reassigned…” his voice was trailing away from him, and his eyes made their way past her and stared vacantly out the window. “Relocated,” he finished slowly.

  The view was immense from this room, or would have been had the weather been more agreeable. Below the windows were the tops of the trees in the waterfront park across the street, a mess of leaves and branches being tossed about. And beyond these the saltwater churned restlessly, blown into whitecaps by the day’s powerful winds. The sky hung low and grey and imposing above the sea. Owen took in none of these things.

  “Hi. Right here.“ Claire intercepted his gaze. “You ok?

  “Hi. Yeah. I’m fine.”

  “So….” she began, “I have a plan, a course of action. That’s what we need. Action. I’m not alone in thinking that our dinner out was a disaster, am I?”

  Owen smiled enough to let her know that he agreed.

  She sat down on one of the chairs at the dining table and motioned for him to do the same. He complied, taking the seat across from her.

  “The truth is I’m not very good with people,” she confessed. “I never have been. I’m good with computers. I’m good in the kitchen. I’m good at climbing. Problem solving on an individual level is where I excel. Fixing a malfunctioning server, finding ingredients that work together, planning a climbing route and executing it…

  “I never did well on group assignments. It feels like my own head is together, everything is organized and I know what needs doing, but the second I start trying to coordinate with someone else it’s just…”

  “Chaos,” Owen finished her sentence for her.

  “Chaos. That’s it exactly. Chaos.”

  “I know the feeling. Do you remember your primary split back in school? When you were tested and told the things you were good at and the things you weren’t? Told the things you could and couldn’t be?”

  “Of course. I was eight, but the memory is fresh. They split me onto the technical track. Science and mathematics. I remember it felt like a part of the world was being closed off from me. And then came the secondary split when I was fourteen, and it was determined that I would enter the field of computer programming science. I don’t think I spoke a word to anyone for two weeks after that. I was crushed. My world just kept shrinking.”

  Owen swept his hand over the smooth top of his head and stared through the wall for a few seconds before he began speaking. His eyes shifted downward and fixed themselves on the floor, stuck in a far away moment.

  “We never had a secondary split. Not really. Eight years old, like you said, except the entire world I knew was closed off from me… or me from it. Everything after that was the military. Conditioning, training, drill, tactical exercises, survival skills. ‘Yes, sir!’ and ‘No, sir!’ They saw fit to put some of us on the officer track, but really our world remained the same either way. And then, after a bit over ten years, they put us on a boat and sent us off to somewhere awful… to put us to work.”

  He shifted his gaze onto Claire.

  “There… there we found chaos all around us. Physical, tangible chaos. We were dropped right into it. And we marched right through it, but there was always order amongst us, within our ranks. Hierarchy. We took that with us wherever we went. ‘The chain of command,’ we called it, although ‘the chain of subordination’ would have been more accurate. Just follow orders. Follow your orders and everything will go as planned. Follow your orders for long enough, and maybe you’ll live long enough to give a few of your own.

  “And here… now… everything is backwards. There are buildings and streets, and none of them have been blown to shit. And not only is there grass on the ground, but it’s kept trimmed. Flowerbeds. Parks. Restaurants. Grocery stores. Everything around me is so organized, but
when it comes to the people… chaos. I don’t know how to talk. I don’t know what to say.

  “In the service, you can look at a man’s clothes and know if you are to be subordinate or dominant in any given situation. Here, everybody is wearing the same fucking shirt and the same fucking pants and the same fucking smile. I’m lost. My whole day is spent avoiding conversations.”

  “You’re doing fine right now.”

  “I’m just talking about me. Just me, fucking me. I wouldn’t call it a conversation so much as a projection of my own self-involvement. Self-pity.”

  Claire laughed brightly. “But that’s what people do! They just talk about themselves! Sometimes I wish I could be more like that Marius idiot at the Program and just talk, talk, talk all day long. But it’s fake. It’s filler. I prefer having nothing to say to saying a lot of nothing.”

  Owen smiled and Claire continued, pleased that things were going so well for the time being.

  “And those ‘fucking smiles’ that you see everyone wearing? Those are fake too. Those disappear the second they get home. I don’t think anyone is as happy as they pretend to be. It would be too exhausting, I imagine.”

  The silence found them now, as Claire’s final thought hung echoing in the air, sad and true and without any possibility of retraction.

  After a few moments, Owen’s mouth opened. “I think I’m broken.” The words fell out of him. He stumbled to recover them, hurrying more words out of his mouth in the hope that they might rescue those already escaped. “I mean, it’s not many of us that get sent back to the civilian pop. Most can’t cope. I’m not really sure I can. I keep feeling like they’ve made a mistake sending me here.”

  “Well, if you’re broken, I’m broken too. I’m not sure how much sense it made for the Program to pair us up like this, two people who don’t know how to talk.” She giggled, and couldn’t remember the last time she had done so. It all seemed so silly. “But they don’t choose everyone for coupling. It’s supposed to be an honor, isn’t it? One you can’t refuse?”