The Phone Company

by David Jacob Knight

  “JJ,” Mrs. Keeler said, holding up her Tether. “What does this look like to you?”

  “A Rorschach,” he said. He’d seen them all the time on the internet.

  “Hmm,” Mrs. Keeler said, “yes, well, it’s actually a coronal scan of the brain. It’s just stylized as an inkblot. Does the pattern remind you of anything, JJ?”

  He studied it. JJ thought he saw a frowning cat’s face in the ink, but then shook his head. “No. Not really.”

  Mrs. Keeler nodded. “It’s the symmetry that makes inkblots resemble different things: a butterfly, a face. It’s symmetry that gives form and meaning. But take that away . . .” She flicked to the next inkblot, which was only half a brain. “What does it look like now?”

  “Like someone spilled ink.”

  Mrs. Keeler’s green eyes twinkled as she sat forward. “Exactly. It looks like an accident. That’s because it takes action, JJ. Intent. That’s what gives things meaning.”

  With her finger, Mrs. Keeler grabbed one corner of the image onscreen and folded it, then unfolded it so the inkblot left a mirrored impression of itself. “This one’s a horizontal slice of the brain, but still a brain, still symmetrical. So, JJ, now what do you see?”

  He squinted at it. “A face?”

  “Is that a question?”

  The impression of eyes, nose, and mouth bled in and out of focus, as if JJ’s eyes, or perhaps the Tether itself, were playing tricks on him.

  “I don’t know,” he said, sitting back, trying not to look at it too hard. It was making him seasick.

  Mrs. Keeler showed him more, a whole series of inkblot brains. With each blot, the impression of a face became sharper, clearer. At first it looked like the same face, until more and more unique features surfaced in the ink and JJ realized it had been a new face every time.

  He began to recognize them. And something very bad had happened to each one.

  “What do you see?” Mrs. Keeler kept asking, stroking her finger across the Tether’s oily glass.

  Each time, each blot, JJ told her “nothing,” he didn’t see anything at all, because he didn’t know whether this was real or a product of his diseased mind.

  And what would that say about him, really? About his imagination.

  Finally, when JJ had reduced his answer to nothing more than a shake of his head, Mrs. Keeler sighed.

  “There is no wrong answer, JJ. Whatever the first thing is that pops into your mind.”

  “I don’t know,” he said. He swallowed thick, metallic spit, feeling sick to his stomach, sicker than the first time he’d looked at Meg’s Grumpier Cat update. “What do you think it is?” he asked, hoping Mrs. Keeler’s answer would prove that the faces were all in his mind.

  She tilted the phone so she could see the blot. “I see brains,” she said. JJ flinched at the word. “I always see brains. I can’t see them for anything more than what they are.”

  He frowned. He couldn’t tell what that meant. Did she see the pattern, or just the stylized brain scans? Did she see what he saw, the deeper image, the faces he faced almost every day on the bus, in the cafeteria, in the boys’ room and in class? The teachers. The students. Mini Mark and the Dick. Did she see Meg Disney and Mrs. Keeler herself, and all those faces in the cafeteria that had laughed? Mr. Beach from Computer Science. JJ’s dad. What did she see?

  All of their eyes were open and staring but not aware, fish eyes, mouths drawn. On each and every one of them, a spray of ink shot out the back of their heads, ending in an ink splatter.

  Why, how, when, and by whom?

  JJ didn’t know.

  He didn’t care.

  “Can we just—”

  “There’s one more,” Mrs. Keeler said, flicking to the last image in the Rorschach test, another asymmetrical one. It looked like half a face. “Fold it,” she said.

  Trying not to tremble, JJ reached out with his fingertip. When he wouldn’t follow through, Mrs. Keeler took his finger and pulled it to the screen. Her cold, moisturized hand moved his finger, but just for a second before he finished the rest by himself. JJ folded the image in half, then let it unfold.

  Mrs. Keeler’s earwig blinked, the same green as her eyes. “And now, JJ? What do you see?”

  Though finally symmetrical, this last blot exhibited some asymmetry. JJ’s head, symmetrical as a head should be, spurted ink out to the left. And on the other side, the blot depicted JJ’s hand. Holding a gun.

  CHAPTER 19

  “Hey, Bill,” JJ said from the adjacent booth as Cathy poured Bill’s morning coffee. “When that kid killed all those people. You know, at HMS? Were you the one who, um, shot him?”

  Upholstery creaked beneath Steve. “JJ.”

  Bill picked up his coffee. “Thanks, Cath.”

  “Why would you even ask that?”

  JJ shrugged.

  “I was the first one on the scene,” Bill said, “yes.”

  “Why’d he, uh, how’d he do it?”

  “Uh . . .”

  “That’s enough,” Steve said. He turned back to Bill. “Sorry.”

  “No problem.”

  But Steve could see the lines around Bill’s mouth, the bags under his eyes, and Bill kept fidgeting with the breast pocket of his uniform, where something crinkled inside.

  Cathy started walking away without taking Steve’s order.

  “Oh, hey, Cath. Can I get a bagel?”

  “Oop—sorry, hon, you got to order through your Tether.”

  “Really? What if I don’t have one?”

  “Sorry, hon.”

  Steve watched her disappear into the back. “What’s up with her? They firing her, too?”

  “Nope,” Bill said, “they cut her hours back.” He held up his Tether, where, onscreen, the diner menu appeared. Bill, just one minute ago, had ordered and paid for his bacon and eggs, all with a few taps onscreen.

  “You mean they outsourced their cashier to The Phone Company,” Steve said, “that’s what you’re saying.”

  “Basically.”

  “You know, I expect that from a chain like O’Donald’s.”

  “Heard about that. Sorry.”

  Steve shrugged. “So on that app, who do you think gets the tip?”

  “You know what? I didn’t think about that—crap.” Bill checked his phone.

  Steve didn’t know why he bothered. Any gratuity got dumped straight into licensing that app, he was sure of it. The diner had probably shaved off some of Cathy’s paycheck into it, too.

  Just one more reason to hate the people who’d ruined what was practically a family tradition.

  “You know what,” Steve said, “I can’t even teach my students anymore, their Tether does that.”

  Bill nodded but flicked at his screen.

  “You should’ve seen some of these online courses, you wouldn’t believe it. They’re all automated.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Automated emails if students aren’t turning in their work. Multiple choice tests that grade themselves. And the essay exams, they’re jokes.”

  “Sounds like it.”

  “Yeah. They basically grade by whether or not the computer can prove, you know, from, like, comparing it to samples online, that the paper isn’t plagiarized. That’s it. No human assessment of any kind. No real interaction.”

  “It’s not no real interaction,” Sarah said from the other booth. “We can chat with each other at any time. You can find your friends anywhere, basically.”

  “Yeah,” Cathy said, setting down Bill’s plate, joining the conversation as if she’d always been a part of it. “It’s like everything these days has a Follow.”

  Steve rolled his eyes at Bill, who was still pretending to pay attention. “Great. So while our kids are supposed to be studying, taking their fully automated quizzes—”

  “Heh.”

  “—they’re chatting with their friends online, probably sharing answers.”

  “Pretty much,” Bill said. He picked at his eggs.<
br />
  “Are you roaming yet?” Cathy asked. It took Steve a second to realize she was talking to him.

  “Huh? Oh, yeah. Since yesterday. I saw it pop up.”

  “The little yellow sign?”

  “Yep.”

  “Well, hon, you can sign up under me if you want.”

  “Oh, thanks, Cath.”

  “I’m trying to break The Provider’s Top Twelve.”

  “Yeah? Cool, you win a kewpie doll for that?”

  Steve had expected her to laugh. Cathy had always told him she grew up in the mountains at a higher elevation, which made her lungs work extra hard, which made her ribcage grow bigger than normal, so she’d always had a bigger heart. She usually proved her theory with her deep belly laugh. Steve had been hugged by Cathy before, so he believed her.

  Today, though, she didn’t laugh. She gave Steve a pursed look, kind of stressed, kind of pissed off. Without another word, she disappeared into the back.

  “I think she’s mad at me,” Steve said, turning to Bill. But Bill was no better than the kids this morning, his nose buried in his phone.

  “Heartburn?” Steve said, knowing the real reason Bill hadn’t finished a breakfast since Tuesday.

  “Huh? Oh.” Bill must’ve seen him eying the bacon, because he set his Tether down and took a bite.

  “Bar tonight?” Steve asked after Bill had a chance to chew.

  “On a Thursday?”

  “Just for a drink. Er, couple drinks,” Steve said.

  Bill swallowed the bacon as if the pieces were sharp. For a guy who found any joke about alcohol funny, Bill sure wasn’t laughing.

  “I’m not looking to get smashed,” Steve said. “Just hammered.”

  “Uh. Yeah, we’ll see.”

  Steve shut up and let Bill disappear into his phone. Everyone needed a distraction from time to time. Steve could appreciate that. For example, he really did need to go get smashed. And hammered. Then maybe shitfaced following that.

  Cathy brought out the kids’ plates next. Sarah and JJ were so absorbed in their Tethers their meals steamed, ignored.

  Stomach grumbling, but only partially from hunger, Steve looked out at PCo’s data center, the brick fortress where all the town founders used to rest in peace.

  Which reminded him, what had they done with all those bodies?

  * * *

  JJ texted.

  Sarah glanced at him across the diner booth. He didn’t look up, his eyes, as always, hidden by his hat.

  She thought for a second, thumbs crouched and ready to pounce. She smiled to herself once she finally thought of a comeback.

  JJ shot back. He was quicker than she was, could text quicker.

  Sarah stretched her wrists back and forth, staring at the screen where she’d laid it on the table before her. She took another glance at her brother. she started to type. But she deleted it. She didn’t really want to talk about that, not really. And, honestly, would he tell her the truth?

  she typed instead,

  Sarah had left the word “dick” lowercased, wondering whether her brother was smart enough to read it both ways. He was pretty stupid.

  JJ grinned at her from his corner of the booth. She tried not to let the flush go to her face, tried not to let her thumbs race as she opened up Follow.

  she texted back when she found out he was right.

 

  she texted, a habit Sarah had adopted a long time ago, back when JJ would tell on her any chance he got.

  JJ said.

  WTF, Sarah thought, glad she could still think it at least. She tried to change her profile, but JJ was right. It wouldn’t let her.

  When Sarah had first set up her account, years ago, her dad made her leave a lot of the personal information blank. He’d kind of scared her into it with stories about chat room predators and Craigslist killers.

  She’d hated him for it at the time, but after what had happened, after that sick bastard at HMS had used those kids’ social profiles to build his list, and especially now, now that she was in high school and everyone had their nose in everything you did, Sarah secretly thanked her dad for being a control freak. With the update, though, all that security changed.

  All of Sarah’s personal data had been auto-filled. Her address, her mobile number, her top ten movies. Which sucked because one of those was actually The Little Mermaid.

  It got worse.

  Follow now listed her GPA, her exact location via GPS coordinates, and, more embarrassingly, her weight and percentage of body fat. Now not only did everyone know her pants size and that she had the theatrical tastes of a pre-adolescent girl, everybody knew this as well: her brother had been her first kiss.

  It didn’t tell the story, though, the piece of shit. When younger, Sarah and JJ had played truth or dare with the older Anderson boy, Sam, who Sarah liked. When Sam asked her the question, she thought she’d say dare and he’d say, “Kiss me.” Instead, Sam, not yet interested in girls, had said, “Kiss your brother. And it’s got to be on the mouth.”

  Sarah’s dreamboat, being older and seemingly wielding some authority, had shamed her into following the rules. And that was one of the first things she’d learned about boys: They were jerks.

  Her Tether dinged, a notification from NV Me. It dinged again and again, vibrating wildly. Feeling like she might dry heave, Sarah opened the app only to see her popularity, not falling as she’d feared, but rising.

  She couldn’t believe it. With each ding, a golden <100 Pts!> appeared from a puff of smoke and rose up on little flapping wings, followed by an explanation of her earnings.

 

 

 

  Instantly the program generated memes of her and posted them on every friend’s page, tagging her. Brother Kisser, the Demotivational Poster. Brother Kisser frenching Grumpy Cat. Frenching Grumpier Cat, too, Comic Sans Lips.

  People were talking about her, then. That was why she was earning points. Somehow, in some perverse alternate universe, people were making her more popular by stabbing her in the back.

  they typed.

 

  And things much worse. Yet Sarah’s rank slid up and up. It was like they said, no publicity is bad publicity.

  Somehow, Anastasia had climbed the ranks, as well. She had beaten Erica Tracy as In fact, she was number one. Sarah slid up behind her, right into the second slot.

  Next to Anastasia’s name, Sarah noticed a button in the shape of a downward-pointing arrow. She punched it, attempting to downvote Anastasia Disney. After all, Sarah had read about it online: apparently, the votes were anonymous, and this was her first real stab at the top.

  * * *

  Out the diner window, Bill saw the Martian’s moving van pulling out of the data center.

  “Holy shit,” he said, legs scrambling out from under the table. He flicked eggs everywhere and Steve shrank back, trying not to get hit. “Sorry. I gotta . . .” Bill jammed down his hat and took off, boots clomping toward the door.

  “Goodbye,” Steve said behind him.

  Bill’s breath steamed in the cold morning air. “Hey, Aaron, I’m going to follow up on something, all right?”

  “Okay, Bill, but don’t forget: you wanted me to remind you there’s still the report to finish for Pam’s insurance company.”

  “Yeah, I know. Thanks. I’ll check in afterward.”

  “All right, Bill.”

  He peeled out of the lot.

  T
he diner sat on the outskirts of Cracked Rock, positioned to catch people on the way in and on the way out—just like Harcum’s graveyard. Marvin’s van had been heading into town.

  Bill sped that way, shooting a look down each road and up every driveway, skimming each and every parking lot.

  The church, he thought.

  Mountain View sat way on the other side of Burnt Valley.

  So did the PCo store.

  That’s where, Bill thought, pushing the speed limit down Main Street. He flicked on his lights and blew through the stoplight they’d installed for O’Donald’s.

  The speed limit after that was posted forty-five. It was basically woods till the church. Bill pushed eighty.

  “Crap!” he said, coming around a corner.

  School bus ahead. Flashing red stop sign, kids running across the road.

  Bill honked.

  Startled, one of the smaller boys dropped his backpack—right into a mud puddle. The kid, crying and dripping dirty water all down his pants, grabbed the pack and hurried onto the bus. The bus driver retracted the stop sign and pulled into a gravel turnout.

  Bill waved as he sped past, keeping an eye out for any kids on the shoulder or playing in the road around their driveways.

  At the church, he pulled into the lot and circled around so he could see the rear of the building. No van. No cars in the lot at all, actually, not this early. Nothing moving through the cemetery, either, at least not that he could see.

  Bill zipped across the street to the PCo store, the old car lot, which was still papered over and closed for remodeling. The work crew wasn’t even there yet, lights all off.

  He picked at the junior deputy star stuck to the back of his Tether. He go home, or . . .?

  It was worth a shot.

  Bill sped over to the junkyard.

  Marvin’s CLOSED sign hung off the old rotting oak, but Bill drove in anyway. His search warrant had been declined, but so what? That didn’t mean he couldn’t pay a visit.

  Or worse, he thought with a grin. Because there it was. The moving van. Parked right there in the lot with its back door wide open.

  Bill hopped out, glancing around the dump. Nothing moving but the weeds. A quick peek into the van told him that the Martian wasn’t anywhere nearby.