The Perfect

by Greg Juhn

  “May I make a suggestion? I don’t mean to offend you. Perhaps I shouldn’t say anything.”

  “By all means: suggest.”

  “I did an ooloo search and the phrase playing with fire has been written on accessible media 959 million times in the past 100 years. That qualifies it as a cliché. You know what a cliché is?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “A cliché is an overused and lazy phrase. Your title, Playing with Fire, is no good. A big ol’ cliché. Monumental. As big as they come.”

  “I suppose you could do better?”

  “How about Dancing on Fire?” Josh let me noodle on the suggestion for a few seconds. “That’s a rare phrase. Fresh. Your guy here looks like he’s dancing on coals, and the expression ‘to be on fire’ has a double meaning, implying that he is dancing to perfection. But we know he is desperately trying to get away from the scalding heat. So there’s your irony, with a less expected turn of phrase. But we might do even better if we give it some more thought.”

  My stomach turned. He was right. Again.

  In a single moment, my art was transformed from greatness to crap. Especially the stinking title. The man dancing on fire was an amateurish sketch, I realized, looking at it with fresh eyes. An amateurish cliché. I wanted to rip Josh’s lab-built face off. Instead I grabbed the bright red-streaked sheet of paper and ripped it off the easel, crumpled it into a ball, and smashed it into his hands. “Someday, you smug robot, I want you to try to create something. And it better be the best work of art I’ve ever seen. And I don’t care if you copy the style of every great master. You can only be a copycat, and you will never show me something new.”

  Josh considered the crumpled heap of paper in his arms, then kindly handed it back to me. “You know what, TJ, that was awesome. That was true passion you showed there. Raw anger. I saw it right there, in that act of destruction.”

  I felt a little better. Sometimes he knew the right thing to say and decided to say it instead of mocking me. And I resented him for that, too.

  “I want to reassure you that I am an artist.”

  “Oh... really?” I was dripping sarcasm on him.

  “Yes, a photographer. An amateur photographer, I’ll grant you, but I enjoy it very much.”

  “A photographer. You take photos. You enjoy it.”

  “Sure. A minute ago when you were ripping your picture down, I took a photo.” He pointed at his eyes to remind me of the cameras within. “I just pushed my photo to you. Check it out on your phone.”

  The photo was in my inbox. I clicked. The photo captured the rage in my eyes and mouth.

  “I call it Artist on Fire,” Josh said. “He’s searching for perfection, but it eludes him. That constant frustration drives his passion. He’ll never be happy.”

  I stared at Josh. Thought about how fun it would be to dismantle him. With a sledgehammer. I wanted to know how long he would meet my gaze before his algorithms felt obliged to break the awkward silence. He just stared back. And stared and stared. Face to face with me. Neither of us saying a word.

  “Josh, do you know what I’d like to do with you?”

  “Travel the world?”

  “No, I’d like to smash every piece of you into the ground, until every bolt is released, every circuit board is cracked, every amp of current has stopped flowing through every wire in your dead mechanical body.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “I do.”

  “I’m too expensive and you can’t afford to lose your job. You know I’m right. You also know how weird it is to be getting so upset at a machine.”

  “Dad?” Zach was standing in the doorway.

  “Not now,” I snapped. I bent close to Josh. “Be quiet. We’ll talk about your fate some other time.”

  Several hours later, I was still stewing, but according to my medical monitor, my blood pressure had come down. I flipped my phone to my health graphs and saw that my average daily blood pressure had been steadily increasing for the past three days. Today, it had spiked repeatedly.

  Josh was destroying my health. And my sanity.

  I reminded myself that all I had to do was make it another three and a half days.

  Oh yeah – and write a pitch. Some spun-up snappy bullshit.

  Then I’d be done with Project Josh.

  That cheered me up. I was at the half-way point. A milestone! After this week was done, I was never spending another minute with this thing. On Saturday I was bringing Josh into NeoMechi and dropping him off whether Barry liked it or not.

  Three and a half days.

  I found Josh in his usual spot on the sofa in the living room, staring at the wall. “It’s mid-afternoon,” I said sourly. “I am going to take a shower and start getting ready for our date. Are you ready? What do you need to do?”

  “Nothing. Perfect as-is.” He turned and quietly looked out the window.

  The bastard.

  I wasn’t looking forward to this date at all.

  Our evening started off surprisingly well. I had requested a luxury limo for the trip to the restaurant. The four of us sank into the plush black leather seats that snaked the perimeter of the dimly lit cabin. I poured wine and nestled the bottle back into its holder in a curvy oak table. Behind me, abstract patterns shifted lazily on a large screen while tasteful pre-millennial jazz played softly. We clinked our glasses and shared idle chit-chat. Indira and Rachel had worked together for several years. Rachel was young and, well, seemed pretty normal.

  The rest of us weren’t normal. Indira was crazy smart, and you can never be completely normal when your IQ is that high. Josh was a machine. Can’t get any weirder than that. As for me, what can I say – I was an executive at a robotics company. I’m not even sure how I ended up in the industry. I just had a way with written words and found a company willing to pay me for spinning them. I started out as a cocky jerk writing successful marketing pitches, and the next thing I knew, fifteen years had passed and I was in charge of the entire department, making a ton of money. To the casual observer, I might have seemed like a bit of an asshole, but I appeared mostly normal. That’s because few people actually looked into my records.

  We relaxed with our wine and grew more comfortable with our conversation, watching the stars above through the glass roof. I noticed Josh set his glass down, the level unchanged.

  I took them to a favorite establishment, Lerapace, a tiny place on the giant solar array spanning 2 blocks of Kenmore Square between Comm Ave and Newbury Street. The quirky French restaurant perched hawk-like on the upper back edge of the array 60 stories up, accessed by a high-speed elevator that swooshed up the side at a 45-degree angle in less than 10 seconds. With only 12 dining tables, a spot at Lerapace was always in top demand. Fortunately NeoMechi had an executive account with an exclusive table along the west window on the fourth floor, and I took advantage of it often.

  As we exited the limo, Josh helped the women step to the sidewalk. People of all ages hustled along Comm Ave, some leaving work and heading for the "T", others arriving for the nightlife, everyone lit by the passage of cars and not much else. The buildings above our heads, the brick condos and glassy high-rises, were mostly dark. A few lights twinkled here and there for those who needed them. Hanging over us like an immense dark spaceship, the solar array blocked out the stars.

  The lobby was bathed in excessive light. Other than several bored security guards, the staging area was empty. The guards waved us forward. Through subtle nods and hand gestures they instructed us to stand at the security station and lift our arms, positioning us for pretty much the same automated routine as the night before at the casino. Rachel laughed when the whiffer sticks frisked her. I got the impression she didn’t get out much.

  Having been blessed by the security machines and the guards, we were free to enter the lobby. Our shoes clacked loudly on the marble floor. Indira and Rachel commented on the ornate detailing on the walls and ceilings. At the far side, an elegantly dressed but
similarly bored woman asked if we had a reservation. After I identified myself as the owner of the party, she extended a glass form and I waved my phone near it. Ding.

  Now for the trip up. The ride never got boring for me. The elevator itself was almost worth the cost of the overpriced food.

  I hadn’t said anything to the others about the ride. Of course, Josh had probably read every review of Lerapace ever published during our trip over. He would know what to expect, but what did it matter? Did he care if his life had no surprises? I’m pretty sure he didn’t.

  The doors opened and Indira and Rachel hesitated. They had expected a typical elevator, an empty box to crowd into, a flat floor, a standing room that went up.

  Instead, the straight shot to Lerapace began with an unusual room dominated by a ramp-like structure supporting three rows of enormous chairs angled backward. On the far side, a glass wall overlooked a dark courtyard.

  “Pick a seat and buckle up,” I said.

  Most of Boston’s residents would never set foot in Lerapace. Nor would they ever meet someone who had. It was too exclusive. The elevator blasted upward in the dark, and unless you knew exactly where to look from the street, you’d never notice it. The slanted elevator shaft had exactly the same shape and style as hundreds of other massive girders that supported the solar array.

  We clicked in. Indira sat next to me, holding my hand. I hoped they realized this was a brief jump, not an amusement ride. I always worried my dates would be let down, but they never were.

  We watched a quick silent countdown on the wall in front of us: glowing white numbers gently transitioning from 10 to zero.

  Whoooosh. The cab shot forward smoothly and then straight up. Sitting back, our stomachs left behind, the elevator soared out of the building and angled back as it traced a path inside one of the girders, giving us a perfect view of the dark streets and activity below.

  Within seconds we leveled off and followed the underside of the giant solar array, curved around a complex intersection of steel and cable, and disappeared into a docking area under the core structure. The car glided to a rest.

  “That was cool,” Indira said. “How come I’ve never heard of this?”

  “Because the people who know about this place are super wealthy,” I said. “If our CEO didn’t spend company money on excessive privileges, I wouldn’t be here either.”

  As we stepped out, the maître d’ stepped up to assist us. “Welcome back, Mr. Marshall,” he said. “Your table is ready.” To the others he smiled and said, “Welcome to Lerapace. My name is Christophe Michelle.”

  Lerapace had 5 levels. The bottom floor provided the docking area, coat check, bathrooms, and a small waiting lounge. The kitchen was above that, then 3 floors of fine dining looked out over the array. Each dining level had only four tables; everyone had a window view and plenty of privacy. The tables were built from interlocking sections that could be pulled apart, making them configurable for parties from two to ten.

  The maître d’ ushered us onto a wide platform in an alcove, secured a velvet rope in a brass fitting, and pulled a gate across. We rose gently to the fourth floor. He reversed his actions, undoing the symbolic rope and opening the gate, and guided us to our table. As we sat, he helped the women with their chairs. Indira seemed slightly annoyed by this. He introduced himself and asked if there was anything we needed. There wasn’t. After squaring our menus in front of us, he assessed the table’s comportment and, satisfied everything was in its proper place, said the waiter would be over shortly.

  Looking out the window, I saw the enormous black expanse of the array – thousands of panels, flat for the night, that powered busy businesses and homes as far as Jamaica Plain and Newton Center. During the daylight hours the panels tracked the sun, adjusting pitch and position to maximize harvested energy. Lerapace rose and fell imperceptibly with the entire structure, its shadow too small to reach the edge of the cell line.

  The elevator shaft disengaged during the day while the array moved in its promenade with the sun. During the period of detachment, the restaurant was closed. In the evenings, the solar array shut down, the elevator reconnected, food was brought up at sunset, and Lerapace was open for business an hour later.

  The sommelier appeared, having emerged from the alcove on the platform. I selected a bottle of wine based upon his suggestion. He brought it out and filled our glasses. Three of us reached for our glasses.

  Realizing I had an advantage, I proposed a toast. We lifted our glasses and Josh followed suit. We clinked, gave cheers, then each took a sip – except Josh, who set his glass down.

  Menus out, we studied our appetizer options. The chef had created new delicacies every time I visited. After some animated guessing about what each appetizer might look and taste like, we selected the squash foam on caramelized mango and flash-frozen banana, servi avec un baiser congelé d’un ange. Four slices, 260 WorldCoin each. Rachel saw the prices and nearly fell out of her chair.

  As we dove into this strange but delicious creation, it became obvious that Josh was not partaking; a few casual comments were made, but Josh dismissed them. We retreated back into our menus to find our dinners.

  The waiter returned to our table, arms behind his back. Indira ordered the cricket burger. It was the cheapest thing on the menu, so I think she picked it to go easy on my bank account. I appreciated the gesture. Rachel ordered the sautéed rice bread. And I ordered the beeph. Josh didn’t order anything. He asked for water, but I was pretty sure he couldn’t drink it. This led to a round of questions from the women. They weren’t subtle.

  “You’re not eating?” Indira asked.

  “I’m afraid I can’t,” Josh answered. “I’m in the middle of a strict routine I go through from time to time. I stop eating all foods. It purges the body of the toxins that come from processed food.”

  “Huh,” Indira said.

  “How long do you do that for?” Rachel asked. She glanced at her menu briefly, pointlessly, and was soon looking at him again, transfixed. The waiter took the menu from her.

  “I try to make it a week. I started three days ago. At that point I didn’t know we were going out to dinner. Otherwise I would have delayed it. Oh well, bad timing. Once I start, I don’t stop.” He shrugged.

  Rachel said, “I didn’t know a person could go a week without eating. At least not walking around and carrying on business as usual.”

  “Oh yes. Once you get past the first day, it’s pretty easy. The hunger goes away. I learned this technique in India.”

  “Where were you in India?” Indira asked.

  “I spent some time in Nanded. That’s where I met a Sikh who taught me his cleansing ritual.”

  “No kidding. Small world. I grew up about two hours south of there, in Balki. On a farm.”

  “Really?” Josh asked. “What did your family grow?”

  Indira rested her chin on her hands. “I was telling TJ about it. We grew nuts. Interesting story.”

  Josh held up his hand, smiled, and looked at me. “Pop quiz. What kind of nuts did her family grow?”

  Oh my god, I hated this guy. “Um, –" I fell silent.

  “It’s okay,” Indira laughed, grabbing my arm.

  “Was it areca nuts?” Josh asked, “I know a lot of those come from that area.”

  “It was. Yes. Areca nuts.”

  “Love ’em,” Josh said, whacking my shoulder. “Ate them every day. In any event, Sikhs don’t fast. Neither did this gentleman, but he had a specific diet. My body never felt so good. When I got to the states, I couldn’t replicate his diet. It’s almost impossible not to eat garbage here. That’s what makes you feel bad. So I decided to cut it all.”

  “Well, that’s a little extreme,” Indira said. “But if you collapse, I know CPR.”

  “Good to know.”

  With that, Indira decided she needed to visit the ladies room, and Rachel joined her.

  “Are you mad at me?” I asked when they had left.


  “No. Why?”

  “You’re going out of your way to make me look bad. It’s starting to piss me off. Was it because I ordered you to fill that glass with juice the first time we met? Are you still hung up on that? I’m sorry we got off to a bad start. But you need to back off.”

  “TJ, you are imagining things. I wouldn’t do that. I like you. You’re a likable, easy-going guy. It’s just hard for me to rein it in. I know I’m overbearing. It’s hard for me, you know, because I know everything. I think you are being too sensitive.”

  “I disagree,” I said with narrowed eyes.

  “You are reading too much into it. You have some of your own issues to work out. I know how things bother you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I know your history,” Josh said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I know you had some mental health issues years ago and spent time in a hospital.”

  “Keep your voice down! I told you to stay out of my personal records!"

  “I don’t go out of my way to get your personal information. It just shows up. I know everything about you. It’s like a curse. I know everything about everyone in this room.” Josh leaned forward and whispered, “I know everything about everyone.”

  I could feel my face burning red. I took a swig of wine, eyes wide, and stared out the window.

  The women wove their way past other diners toward our table.

  Josh said, “So how long were you in the hospital, TJ? Two weeks or so?”

  I waved him to be quiet.

  The women sat down. “When were you in the hospital?” Indira asked.

  “Oh, it was nothing – years ago – just small talk while you were gone.”

  Rachel lifted the wine bottle, but it was empty. Josh asked if everyone wanted another bottle.

  Gracious of him. I wondered if NeoMechi had given Josh access to a corporate bank account. He had purchased his soccer clothes and scheduled ElloCar pickups. Where was he getting his money? Was it legal?

  “Lerapace. That’s a pretty name,” Rachel said.