Happy birthday.
Figured it was time to blow out my candles, New York–style.
Greatest city on Earth. Once upon a time.
She squirms a little in the booth.
I think I might take you up on that extra room after all. If the offer’s still open.
Of course.
I watch her dirty face. I’ll let her have the hot shower, at least.
And the door locks, you said?
Of course.
Well, then so should we get going?
You’re not lying to me are you?
She smiles. A glimmer of trust.
No, I’m not. I’m eighteen. Freshly minted grown-up.
I leave a fat tip on the tabletop. Some kind of penance, I guess.
She shifts again, restless.
Damn, I just can’t get comfortable. And it’s so hot in here. Are you hot?
She slides out of the booth. I sit still.
She stands. Empties out her hoodie pockets. Lays an underfed coin purse on the table, looking skinny. Next to that, a five-inch bowie knife in a stained leather sheath.
Parting gift from my father. Don’t worry. I know how to use it. But I won’t.
I sit still.
Girl alone in the big city. You understand.
She slips the knife in her boot. Unzips her hoodie. Flaps it back like a cape.
God, that’s better. Sorry, I get these flashes.
Hands on hips. Leans back.
Baby bump.
8.
The way it happened was, it started as business software. Some kind of fancy teleconferencing gimmick. Clunky helmets, silly goggles, but once you plug in, it was pretty amazing. 3D around a table. Avatars that look surprisingly like you. Pick a tie, any color. Your choice. Dreams really do come true.
That was maybe ten years back.
And if we’ve learned anything in this once-proud world, it’s that once someone figures out how to do something as miraculous as that, it’s only a matter of time before someone else soups it up so you can use it to suck a horse’s cock. In pretend land.
Or run a brothel. Or be a holy Roman emperor.
In pretend land.
Soon people were running around, half-centaur, or space-alien furry, or Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, or what have you. Fucking Chewbacca.
Literally fucking Chewbacca.
Then they got rid of the helmets and goggles and made the whole thing about a thousand times more convincing and all you had to do was get in a bed. But beds are expensive. From basic model to deluxe silver bullet. The basic ones are just tricked-out cots, but the top end are like shiny half-coffins, personal escape pods, with a bunch of touch screens to guide you into the dream, sensors to put you under. Full immersive experience.
As real as real.
That’s the pitch.
As for the specs, I can’t tell you. I’m not an IT type. And I’ve only been in a bed a few times.
Not the deluxe kind either.
Anyway, they figure out that this is clearly where the money is. But the bandwidth required is huge. So they build another network, call it the limnosphere, everything shifts, and they leave the boring old Internet for the rest of us. Internet goes to seed, of course, but the rich don’t care, because the rich are now lost in the limnosphere. It’s like the Internet but better, much better, because it’s an Internet you can live inside. Or the rich can. The costs are astronomical, of course, but then again, that’s why they call them the rich.
After that, the math is pretty easy. Thirteen hours in first class from New York to Tokyo, or slip into a bed and hold your meeting in minutes, with you at the head of the board table, glowing like a gladiator pumped up on steroids and Cialis. Drop twenty thousand on diminishing returns at the plastic surgeon, mending the same old curtains, or spend it on a month-pass to the limnosphere, sashaying down Park Avenue like Marilyn Monroe’s prettier sister. With a leopard’s tail.
In pretend land.
Still, it was just part of life for the first while. An addictive, maddening, seductive, destructive part of life, but part of life. They called it limning, or tapping in, or going off-body, or whatever, and most people dipped in and out. For the first while.
But after the second attacks and the dirty bomb? Then the rich just up and disappeared. White flight, except they didn’t go anywhere. They just drew the curtains and retired to their beds full-time. Hire a nurse to check your vitals, sign up for the weekly feed-bags, station armed guards to watch the gates, and goodnight moon. Goodnight stars. Goodnight world.
That was maybe five years ago.
My point being, usually how this works is I get a name, find an address, let myself in quietly, and introduce myself politely to an old man’s atrophied body in a coffin that’s already half-assembled. Even if the old man is only thirty. Feed-bags will keep you alive, but they won’t help you keep your youthful glow. Or your hair. When you start limning full-time and go on permanent bed-rest, you pretty much leave your body behind.
So you lie there, half-mummified and lightly drooling. And unfortunately for you, someone back here in the nuts-and-bolts world has decided they can’t let that grudge slide after all. And they found my number. And I found you.
Quick slit with the box-cutter and it’s all over.
Except maybe not. Not in the dream.
There is a theory, unprovable I guess, that when you die, there’s a last little burst of neural activity. The brain’s last helpless, hopeless little sigh. Normally, this would be your blown kiss to a cruel world as you exit, stage left.
Yes, I did a play in high school. Mitch in Streetcar, if you must know. Would have made a better Stanley.
But if you’re in the limnosphere, in the dream, at that last moment, this little burst of brain activity loops. Your final seconds skip forever like a record. Even after they unplug the mummy and cart it to the furnaces. You remain as a data burp, hiccupping, some tiny line of code still in the dream.
And you don’t know this. That’s the theory. You’re just stuck in that last moment, an eternal right fucking now, endlessly repeating for however long the batteries of this planet hold their juice.
No one knows if it’s true, of course, because how would you test it? They say they have programmers combing the code for these little hiccups, but most of their resources are on other things. Like developing newer, better, more tactilely realistic horse cocks.
But it’s true enough that some people try to game it. After awhile they’re not happy enough with just the dream. They pick a program, their ultimate fantasy. Movie star. Fuck your neighbor. Crowd roar when you take the podium on Inauguration Day. Or sight the podium in your rifle-scope. I don’t know. That one fantasy you can never say out loud to anyone. The one moment you would happily live in forever.
They time it out to the second. Hire someone to stand by. Lean in. Make sure the lids are fluttering. Clock hits zero. Put you down.
Sounds weird, I know. But then again, people used to hang themselves while jerking off.
Funny thing is, most people choose real-life memories. Your husband turns around in the airport, back from the war, and it’s really him. Your miracle mother comes out of her coma. You cut class and the bedroom door swings open and your high-school crush finally drops her dress. What people want is to live in that heart-swell of I can’t believe this is happening, over and over again.
Black-market agencies sell this service. Split-second timing. Our watchers are the industry’s best. Results guaranteed.
If they fail, who’s going to tattle? You’re lost in a loop somewhere, your needle bobbing on the inner edge of the record, at the far shore of a vast ocean of black.
So you better hope they loop the right moment.
Because if they miss, that person standing over you, watching you fall into the dream, if they miss, even by a moment, half a moment, or just a breath, then you’re stuck, and your husband never turns around and you never know if he made it, or your mother st
ays sunk in her coma with you anchored bedside worrying, or you stare at that bedroom door forever, knob trembling, wondering what’s about to come in.
I choose not to believe it. Seems too convenient, and besides, if I buy that, then I might believe I’m not ending someone. I’m just pausing them, maybe in the happiest moment they’ve ever had.
That seems cheap. It’s a cop-out. So I think of it the other way.
Most of them have already given up on this world, the nuts-and-bolts world. This party’s over and they’ve moved on to the after-party. They’ve left their bodies behind.
I’m just sweeping up.
In any case, that is what I am used to. All jobs don’t go like that, obviously. But you’d be surprised how much overlap there is between people with the money and desire to disappear into pretend extravagance forever, and people who want those people dead.
What I am not used to is eighteen-year-old runaways carrying bowie knives and babies.
But that’s fine.
Because she’s pregnant.
So our business here is done.
I kill men. I kill women because I don’t discriminate. I don’t kill children because that’s a different kind of psycho.
And while I’ll admit I’ve never tested this particular scenario in practice, I think it’s safe to say that pregnant teenagers fall under the category of a different kind of psycho.
Harrow I can handle. Sometimes circumstances change. My policy in this regard is actually pretty simple. I give back the money. What you do then is your business. As for me and the girl?
Our paths uncross.
In the meantime, though, what I can do is offer her that hot shower after all. And a bed. And bus fare. And maybe waffles for breakfast.
Back here in the nuts-and-bolts world, we can’t all be holy Roman emperors. But we do enjoy a waffle now and then.
Like I said, I live in Hoboken. Jersey boy. Like Sinatra. I wasn’t making that up.
And I did play Mitch. Would have made a better Stanley. Hated learning lines though. Hated crowds. Hated acting, basically. Enjoyed kissing the girl who played Stella though. One day as a stand-in.
And my dad was a garbageman. An actual garbageman, I mean. So after high school I followed him into that line of work.
And I married the girl who played Stella.
My Stella.
Better than any encore.
PATH trains to Jersey shut down years ago, half the underground tunnels collapsed. No one commutes from Jersey to Manhattan anymore.
So I own a boat.
Just a rowboat with an outboard. Lock it up with a heavy chain at a west-side pier. I give Persephone a handkerchief to tie over her mouth like an outlaw. I do likewise. This time of year, you don’t want to be drinking the Hudson. Not even spray.
Any time of year, for that matter.
Then I yank the cord and we cross state lines.
Behind us:
American Century, with a CLOSED sign. Which is weird, because it’s 24 hours.
Counterman sighs, expecting a hold-up, knows the protocols, starts scooping out bills from the tray.
Southern gentleman asks in a Southern accent about a young pregnant girl, possibly with a man.
Counterman shrugs.
Waitress is more helpful.
I seen them.
That’s what a big tip gets you these days.
Heard something about Hoboken. Sinatra. Girl didn’t even know who he was.
Says it in a tone of what’s this world coming to, am I right?
Southern gentleman nods.
Much obliged.
She smiles back.
Smile distended in the convex of the aviators. Clownish.
Also distended: Her blood, her brains, on the back wall, like a thrown pie.
Turns the long revolver on the counterman. Like a diviner’s rod, seeking water.
Finds blood.
9.
The apartment is palatial, just because everyone cleared out. After Times Square, finance types were the first to evacuate. Packed up their pinstripes and skedaddled. For them, Times Square was like a roach bomb, sent them scurrying, either to full-time bed-rest or safer cities or both. Most even left the furniture behind.
Their hasty exit, my real-estate opportunity. For a few months there, after Times Square, when no one thought anyone would stay, you change the locks on a place, it’s basically yours. Mayor declared a tenant amnesty, a homesteader’s free-for-all. Disputes got settled with fistfights, not leases, and the cops were otherwise occupied. It settled down eventually. Turned out there was plenty to go around.
Come reelection time, the mayor clamped down. Ran on a platform of rebuilding and rebirth. Stood on a dais and declared the city shovel ready. I think he was right, but not in the way he meant.
I probably could have moved to Park Avenue if I’d wanted to, but it felt like the right time to retreat across the river. Always preferred this side, in any case. Even if it means you need to own a boat.
And there’s no more Wall Street, not in New York. There’s still the actual street, in the city, that you can walk on, but that financial part? Moved elsewhere. London, Beijing, Seoul. For awhile, they tried swapping stocks in the limnosphere, set up a virtual exchange, but there were too many distractions, too much money to be made indulging other vices. So they set up a separate network and do all that money-swapping somewhere overseas. All the bankers and brokers relocated. Good riddance. And thanks for the divan.
Okay, divan is a word I had to look up. A visiting lady-friend said it to me once. Said she admired it.
My hand-me-down divan.
Persephone is admiring my divan. Stretched out, leaning back on it, more obviously pregnant. White wifebeater under the unzipped hoodie, revealing a sliver of belly. I’d guess maybe five months. Like I’m a doctor now.
I give the tour.
Room back there. Lock on the door, as promised. Bathroom’s there. Clean towels etcetera. I sleep out here.
Thanks.
Hugs the guest pillow to her chest. Asks an obvious question.
Why are you being so nice to me?
It was a sad day when people started to ask that routinely, don’t you think?
She laughs.
I don’t really remember when they didn’t.
You have a change of clothes?
She shakes her head. Unzips the rainbow knapsack with the decal of My Little Pony. I half-expect a tinier pony to come out.
Instead, a bottle and diaper inside.
You won’t need those for awhile.
I know. I just like having them with me. Remind me why I’m doing this, you know?
Makes sense.
The knapsack was mine when I was a little girl. Always made me feel safe. I hope to pass it on, if she’s a girl.
Looks a little worse for wear.
Yeah, well. I couldn’t find the part of Central Park with the Laundromat.
She smiles.
You’re not from some youth hostel, are you?
Me? No. I am from Hoboken though.
Are you going to hurt me?
No.
Were you going to hurt me?
This one’s tougher. I say no. Because I would have tried to make it painless. Still a lie, I know.
Well, thank you. For your help. I haven’t met too many people here who would help me.
Not a problem.
You listen to music?
No.
What do you listen to?
I hold up a hand. Moment of silence.
The city quiet.
I listen to that.
Lot of people tapped in here, huh?
Yeah. Not most. But a lot.
I guess I should be getting to bed.
Yell if you need something. I’m a light sleeper.
She looks me over. Then asks.
How old are you anyway? I told you. It’s only fair.
Me? I’m you, plus fifteen years.
She
winces. Laughs again.
God, I hope not.
Morning. Making waffles.
I mix batter, then head down to the street corner. Pick up takeout coffees, bagels, and the Post. Three comforts that outlived the apocalypse. Daily News went under and the Times long since disappeared into the limnosphere. Now it’s just a ticker running through rich people’s dreams.
But God bless the Post. They still publish. On paper.
I get back, she’s up and dressed. Left her a sweatshirt, which on her grew into a dress.
Sorry about the fit. All my clothes are garbageman clothes.
It’s clean. It’s great.
You sleep okay?
Yeah. About three weeks’ worth.
She giggles.
What?
You have a waffle iron.
Yes I do.
You don’t really strike me as a waffle-iron kind of guy.
Best way I’ve found yet for making waffles.
Can’t argue with that.
It was a gift. From my wife.
Eyebrow arches like a cornered cat.
Really. And where’s she?
Deceased.
I’m sorry.
Cat relaxes. But slowly.
I slide a waffle on her plate.
So what’s next?
I’m not sure. I’ve thought about Canada.
Last I heard, border’s closed.
Yeah. I heard that too.
Plates cleared, coffee drained, waffles eaten.
Me doing dishes.
What can I say? I don’t mind. I have a dishwasher too. Never used.
I like to clean up my own mess, as a rule.
She wanders over to the fridge while I’m not paying attention.
Stainless steel. Sub-Zero. A remnant from the Wall Street types.
You got any ice cream?
She glances over.
So sue me. I’m pregnant.
Opens the freezer.
Inside, a single Ziploc baggie. Inside the Ziploc, a butcher-paper-wrapped package, about the size of a brick.
Cat arches again, but playful.
What’s this? Your secret stash?
I step over right-quick.
That? No.
Shovel Ready: A Novel Page 4