With and Without Class

by David Fleming

  She loomed over the TV-tray, her face all crimson and Grandpa pulled it toward himself in jest. “But, it’s mine. It’s all I have to remember my time in…” He smiled, “Outer space.”

  “Give it over.” She jabbed her finger. “Stop feed’n ’em lies.”

  “All right,” Grandpa’s clenched hands folded both ends of the bill together, “Here goes.” He raised his hands and unfolded the bill to her.

  I swung round to look at the bill and Bethany screamed. The edge of something pulled my sight in. I heard thunder, my vision ringed with a bright swirling flash.

  “MY EYES!” Bethany staggered, toppling the Lego tower onto itself like a crumpled drinking straw. “I’m blind. I’m—I can’t.” She tottered onto her butt, hands reaching out at nothing.

  The next I remember, I was crying near Grandpa’s easy chair with my back pressed into the ridge between the laundry closet and the molding. Aunt Becky and my father helped Bethany up, restraining her flailing.

  “I’ll kill you! I can’t. Ruined her. Ruined. I—”

  Grandpa laughed heartily, bouncing, eyes feasting. “Won’t let me taste that Irish.” He snatched up his empty glass with the air of a toast, and swirled the ice cubes, then lifted his legs to click his floppy, loose heels together, “Taste that Fiver!” floppy shoes clicking, “Taste it!”

  They helped Bethany into the kitchen as her head darted about to find a place to send her accusations. As it turned out, the blindness only lasted a few hours. It was later rumored that, prior to that day, Bethany had fallen victim to the Magic-Fiver some seventeen times in a row, annually, like a schoolgirl bitterly entrapped by her own impetuousness into recess games of bulls-eye punching or hand-slap and that this alone was the root cause of their feud.

  Electric Comedian

  The night wasn’t warm though it bordered on spring weather and yet Larry was the only one on the bustling sidewalk wearing a jacket. The pleasant features of his mid-thirties face cringed as he slid his hand over his stomach with the crowbar’s hook covertly dangling from a small slit cut in his coat’s lining.

  He had spotted the crowbar that morning in the trunk of his car and laughed weakly and pulled it from beneath his dirty clothes, his sleeping bag and his empty bottles of Jim Beam. The crowbar reminded him of things pried apart—pried away from him. He had known at that very instant that he would go back to the nightclub, one last time.

  Above him, a yellow awning loomed atop a thin façade of old mortar and black cinderblocks and the neon name Chuckles glowed red with its cursive ‘S’ sputtering against the dark night.

  “Larry? Uh… Mr. Hepton?”

  Larry stopped halfway up the steps to turn and consider the middle-aged man in the grey sport coat and leather wingtips.

  “Remember me? Sorry. Wow!” the man grinned, “Imagine this. I’m on my way to meet associates for drinks. I’m Steve Clemmons.” The man waited for a reaction. “Steve Clemmons? You joined us for dinner last March.”

  Larry winced.

  “Not sure if you got the letter,” the man said. “I appreciate the things you said to our daughter about following her passions. All those special schools… Somehow meeting you made her turn the corner. She says she wants to be just like you.”

  “I’ve always known how to say what people need to hear.” Larry looked over the man’s shoulder before continuing up the steps.

  “Larry? Mr. Hepton?”

  Inside, Larry made his way to the bar with its dusty mirrors and whiskey bottles. The roars of the seated crowd overpowered the jazz piano and bass guitar. The place was packed with extra swivel chairs cramming aisleways while the audience sat entranced, buzzing and bursting with laughter as tears welled in their eyes.

  Their stares fixed to the motionless rubber man on stage. It poised before them with open palms as if preparing to hug the whole audience. Its holographic face seemed to look at him no matter where he was, cycling expression changes and making high-pitched sounds like bats screeching.

  The rubber body was cheap and silly: blue jeans painted-on, a pot belly at the bottom of a painted white t-shirt and a pole projecting from its back was welded to a plate which mounted it like a giant action figure.

  Larry pressed his finger inside his ear against his sonic filter. Close to the stage, a radiant blonde sat hunched at a table. The stage light lit-up her face while her tears glistened.

  Larry leaned over and slapped his hand on the bar.

  “Larry?” The bartender dried a beer glass. “Didn’t expect to see you.”

  “You closing up?” Larry asked.

  “Yah, getting things ready for the next shift. Things have been dull here since we put that thing in. These ear plugs piss me off and tips have gone way down. People only drink between shows.”

  Larry adjusted his crowbar and scanned the crowd. Vic sat to the left of the blonde and the two held hands beneath their table.

  “Some kind of lover’s embrace?” Larry asked.

  Vic wore a silk polo and a gold neck chain with the stage light glistening arcs in his thick neck that flickered as he laughed while his sparse gray hair rustled from the ceiling fan’s breeze.

  The bartender leaned on the bar, “Fair is fair.”

  “She always knew what she meant to me.”

  “Vic’s a good guy, Larry. He’s done a lot with this place.” The bartender walked toward the taps in the back corner.

  “I came to give her back the ring. It’s her ring. Even if she doesn’t want me.” He rubbed his face. “I’ll take a Scotch and water. A double.”

  The bartender stopped. “I’ll make it a single, Larry.” He moved slowly, loading a tumbler with ice. “Vic says it’s on the house. Then leave.”

  “I’m not drunk. I thought love didn’t exist. Now I know it does and I don’t have it.”

  “Of course.”

  A short man with glasses sat next to Larry. He swigged from his green imported beer. “You work for the club?” he asked.

  Larry watched the blonde as he drank.

  “Excuse me; do you work for the club?” the short man turned and leaned in, extending his hand, “Name’s Jackson.”

  Larry lowered his glass from his lips. He closed his eyes. “I don’t work here.” He grabbed the hand and shook it.

  “I noticed you’re wearing sonic filters, like me. Most people just enjoy the show. These things are hilarious.”

  “You a salesman?”

  Jackson grinned. “Yep. Gave myself away; didn’t I? I’m watching this unit to make sure everything goes smoothly. We don’t usually have problems but sometimes it needs tweaking. We just installed this baby a couple months ago.”

  “I know.” Larry took a drink.

  “So, you’re a regular?”

  “I was almost part owner.”

  “Oh, I see. So you might have some interest in our technology.”

  Larry scrutinized several in the crowd then stared at Vic’s glazed eyes and gaping mouth, “I could walk up there through them and they’d never notice. I could do what I wanted. But if I was right in front of their faces? Would they see me?”

  “What? Well… of course. It’s not hypnosis. It’s laughter. Pure laughter.” Jackson clenched his bottle, tipping it in an exaggerated swig. “When I first started selling these things it scared people, but it’s simple. People think humor is mysterious. It’s like starting a car. Cause and effect. Once scientists figured out the brain, they learned they could set up the things we see and hear to manipulate us, subconsciously. That’s not how I say it to clients. I say ‘stimulate’ instead of ‘manipulate’—sounds better.”

  “They discovered fundamentals of humor,” Jackson continued. “The main two is logic and emotion. But it’s the interplay between the two that makes things funny. The expressions of the holographic faces create a small emotional response—”

  “I don’t care,” Larry threw back the rest of his Scotch, “Leave me alone.”

&
nbsp; Jackson’s eyes flashed.

  The bartender stepped closer to Jackson. “But why does it matter about the faces?”

  “Um…” Jackson seemed to glance over Larry before addressing the bartender. “The high noises provide a logic that the brain understands at some level deep down. The logic of the noise contrasts the emotional response of the faces. And that’s the other part of it—the surprise. The contrast makes it funny.” The man took a drink and turned on his stool to the crowd. “Bet you can’t guess the last part.”

  “What’s it matter? It works—don’t it?” the bartender asked.

  His eyes grew, “It’s people. Humanity. We save a ton compared to our competitors with that cheap body. And it’s just as funny as theirs. They don’t get it. It’s the symbol of the human form that matters. But why not a rock or a rabbit? Those things are only funny when they remind us of ourselves. Anthropomorphism is the essence of humor—”

  Larry smacked his glass on the bar. “You think you can put humor in some test tube. You don’t know one thing about life.”

  Jackson hunched and furrowed his brow. “Oh…” he turned away from them.

  “Hey Larry,” the bartender called.

  Larry looked up at him.

  “My shifts up. You’re done with your drink. Go home Larry. You don’t look good.”

  Larry turned his back to him.

  The bartender folded tips into his pocket and pulled his key from the register, “Not my problem,” he mumbled.

  Jackson stood, “Booze is gone. Guess I’m gone too.”

  The bartender turned off the lights within the bar and Larry watched them leave while the club patrons laughed and sweat rolled down Vic’s cheeks.

  He walked the narrow aisle, nudging patrons in their swivel chairs as he passed, bobbing their entranced heads as he lifted the bar from his jacket, clenching it in both hands.

  He got between their table and the stage, bouncing the crowbar in his free hand. “Hi Vic.”

  They stared over his shoulder at the rubber man.

  “I’m here.” Larry jarred the table, tipping their heads, “Can you see me Vic! I came to give my girl back her ring. To see if she’ll have me again. But it looks like to get your attention, I’m gonna have to show the two of you something. For entertainment!”

  Their laughter continued with their hands squeezing beneath the table.

  He turned to leer over his shoulder at the rubber man. “How’s it get them so zonked? Is it still laughter with them turned all zombie-like?”

  Vic’s eyes darted as if reading something.

  Larry turned back to the stage. Burned into the rubber man’s chest in red letters was the name ‘Larry’. He lowered the bar, “What?” He regarded the rubber man and its changing faces. “It’s me? My face…” His brow furrowed. “They used my faces. They recorded the faces… that I made. But that’s not me?” He turned back to the blonde next to Vic. “Why won’t you pay attention to me? I’m here! Right here.”

  He jumped to the stage, swinging the bar through the holographic projection of his face as it sneered condescendingly at him then grinned with brimming passion. He toppled his rubber doppelganger.

  The crowd roared; their chairs squeaked.

  His crowbar ripped into the rubber chest with sparks and pops, with brown and white rubber sizzling, sending bubbling trails along its torso. The unit’s pitch lowered as its cries slowed.

  The crowd’s laughter peppered with groans. “What’s going on?”a short brunette woman in back yelled.

  He swung the bar again and again until the holographic head flickered and then disappeared.

  Chairs rolled and creaked. A heavy man dropped a glass to the floor with a crack.

  Larry winced at the ground then looked up to smirk. “It’s alright…” He sneered. “I’m a professional. I’m—I’m a comedian. I’ve got new material.” The crowbar clanked to the floor. “I won’t fail you… not again.”

  “What the hell! Larry?” Vic stood, toppling martini glasses.

  The blonde backed up to stand, “Larry?”

  Larry looked to her, “I came to give you the ring back, baby.” He turned to the audience. “Do you ever… Has anyone here ever heard those ads for—for engagement rings? There’s some old man—sounding wise—giving advice.” He looked at the crowd’s bored faces. “Ahh—never mind! You want a different funny. You want insane, cocaine funny.”

  “Larry,” The blonde said, leaning forward, “You don’t understand…”

  He staggered to his right, eyeing the crowd. “No wait… That’s okay. Okay. I have others. When people—when people look at you and you think they care what’s happening…”

  Three men in black shirts ran down the aisleway.

  “No wait, wait—it gets better… Listen.”

  They rushed Larry, holding his arms.

  “Hey,” Larry said, “It’s a show. This is their show.”

  The blonde turned to Vic, “Don’t let them— He doesn’t know…” Her eyes pleaded. “Vic!”

  Vic grinned at her.

  “Vic!” Larry shouted. “Vic, I came here to give her back the ring, Vic. Let’s let her decide.”

  Vic and Larry’s eyes met.

  “Let him go a sec,” Vic said.

  Larry moved to the edge of the stage, got down on one knee and presented the opened black box and the two carat princess cut, shimmering in stage light. “I want you back. I need you. We were good.”

  “Larry,” she said, shaking her head. “You don’t understand. Things are different. I’m not in the same place.”

  “No, I understand,” Larry said, standing up. He took the ring from the box. “I understand. You won’t take it if it’s from me.” He looked at the toppled unit on the floor and stooped down and bent up one of its rubber arms and outstretched its fingers. “You’ll only accept what comes from Mr. Electric. Fine.” He jammed the ring onto an outstretched rubber finger.

  “No, Larry,” she said. “You don’t understand.” She looked to the glistening ring on the unit’s finger. “Please!”

  “Come on, buddy,” a bouncer said, grasping his arm. “I said, ‘let’s go!’”

  Forked veins surfaced beneath Larry’s neck. “VIC!” His shoes screeched across hardwood floor, “You’re wrong, Vic. You don’t know people. YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT IT MEANS TO LAUGH—TO LOVE!”

  A hand grasped his chin, “COME ON!”

  “They loved me,” Larry’s wet eyes stabbed, “THEY CAN’T LOVE THAT THING!” A hand clenched his white collar as his face flashed crimson.

  Vic motioned for the blonde to sit. “It doesn’t matter about the unit. Business is great. I can afford Larrys in all my clubs.”

  Larry’s collar tore from a clenched hand. His legs strained as he gasped, making a long sound like a car’s engine trying to turn over.

  Vic grasped the blonde’s knee, comfortably.

  She looked to the floor, then back up to the glistening gem on the unit’s hand. “Larry, what did I tell you,” Vic showed his teeth, “Never lose your sense of humor.”

  Fast Amnesia

  Alex found himself seated in a crowded train cabin despite the fact that he was dreaming in his own bed and his alarm should have gone off fifteen minutes prior. He wasn’t sure if this was the weekend or if he’d be late to work again. He also wondered how far they were from the next train stop, wherever that was. A few seats ahead, a man in an antiquated waistcoat stood and approached him with his clothes pulsing with an orange iridescence. The man’s frazzled beard and stoic face resembled Dostoyevsky, “You sir…” his face froze as if a glitchy machine, “Alex Stevens… you’re a,”—he froze—“man… that appreciates an indispensable product when you see one.”

  The woman next to him turned, her v-neck blouse also pulsing. It was his boss—biting her lip incessantly, like she always did—hiding behind those vintage reading-glasses of
hers, “Judging by your recent purchase of… How To Write Suspense Like the Pros, you are a… writer—”

  “You need Fast Amnesia,” the Russian cut in. “It temporarily dims targeted memories.”

  “Why would you want to forget things?” his boss asked. “There are hundreds of uses for Fast Amnesia, but—”

  “You’ll need it to read your fiction objectively and be your own editor,” Dostoyevsky blurted with all the passion of the iconoclast putting the last period on his Notes from Underground.

  “Be your own editor!” she agreed.

  “Who better to objectively edit your work?” Dostoyevsky pressed, leaning toward him.

  “It’s the next evolution in literature. If you don’t buy, you can’t compete!”

  “Not approved by the Neural Interface Administration,” he warned. “May complicate neurological conditions and skew personality matrices, not for children below sixteen.”

  “Get yours this morning at your nearest urban market,” she suggested.

  “Specifics of our conversation will become unclear,” he suggested.

  “He’s right,” she agreed. “Unclear.”

  “You’ll remember the main point but our words will be forgotten… sorry,” Dostoyevsky apologized. “Good-Bye.”

  Alex exited the train into a bowl of soup, floating over beef broth on an enormous chunk of steak. Two naked women—a redhead and a blonde—floated on huge noodles, paddling with oars toward him. They beamed in unison, “Alex Stevens.” The redhead began, “Ever wonder why you wake up with the urge to buy things you don’t really need?”

  “Do you have headaches in the morning and concentration problems?” the blonde asked.

  “If so, YOU”—the redhead’s face glitched—“Alex Stevens, are having your mind invaded. That’s no joke.”

  “No joke!” the blonde agreed.

  “Your mind is like your property,” the redhead continued. “Like a glove, like a shoe. There’s only one way to protect your property: Spam Helmet Forty-Four. Forty-Four blocks Crazy Waves and Electro-Jabbers.”