by Ray Verola
But as he hadn’t talked to hardly anyone since the day of his termination from RW, human contact would be welcome. Plus, Roz was not only a former loyal co-worker but an almost-friend who’d always been supportive. Taylor made his decision. He opened the door and greeted her. She looked great in black slacks and a loosely fitted tan blouse. Her hair had gotten longer than he remembered and was swept back from her face.
Immediately, however, he realized welcoming her into the apartment was a mistake. He noticed her smile change into what appeared to be a look of worry. Not what he wanted.
He manufactured a grin as best he could, pointed to the living room couch, and said, “Please come in. Great to see you again. Can I get you something to drink?” He couldn’t help but detect a slight slurring of the words coming out of his mouth.
“I’m good,” she replied.
He sat on the other end of the couch and could feel the heat in his ears and on the back of his neck. He laughed in a manner that seemed to him as weirdly apologetic. “Because I don’t have a job, I’ve decided to go casual during the day, as you can see. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”
She glanced at her wrist computer. “Well . . . oh, no . . . I’ve lost track of time. I’ve got to meet my mother at the mall in less than ten minutes. But I was in the area, right near where I knew you lived, and thought I’d stop by to see how you’re doing. Can’t stay long.” She looked around the apartment. Clothes were piled high in two corners of the living room floor, and the dining room table had numerous dirty dishes, cups, and empty fast-food containers scattered about. She lowered her gaze to his shaking hands. “Are you okay?” she asked.
“I’m fine,” he lied, clasping his hands together to stop the shaking. “Don’t let my appearance fool you. You caught me at a bad time. Tomorrow is clean-up day. In less than twenty-four hours, this place will be neater than the Supreme Leader’s palace.”
Roz smiled in a way Taylor took to be forced. “I’m sure it will be,” she said. “But as I was getting ready to knock on your door, I thought about checking the time but didn’t . . . didn’t realize how late I was running—to meet my mother, as I mentioned. I should get going. Especially since this is a bad time for you.” She stood.
Taylor looked down to the floor and mumbled, “I’m so sorry you can’t stay. You just got here.” He laughed nervously. “Maybe we can have lunch or go for coffee sometime soon.”
“Now that we’re both not working and have a lot of time on our hands, that would be great. Some other time, sure.” Roz moved to the door.
“Say hi to your mom for me. Even though I’ve never met her. Did enjoy talking to her on the communication devices back at work, though. Strange as it seems, I do miss the old grind at RW. But not the horrible Sophia, of course.” He thought he sounded silly.
“Will tell my mom you asked for her. You’re sure you’re okay?”
“Outside of being unemployed and missing my Jennifer, I couldn’t be better.”
As she got to the door, Roz wheeled around and faced him. A hint of tears welled in her eyes. “Where is the Taylor who was trying to find himself? The Taylor of integrity? The smart Taylor of principle who questioned what was wrong and sought to make it better? I don’t see him.”
Taylor gulped. “I guess he’s hiding out somewhere in this bag of bones.”
“He needs to be found,” she said sternly. “And soon.”
He shrugged.
As Roz opened the door, she said, “If there’s anything I can do, don’t hesitate to call.” And she was gone.
After she’d closed the door, he returned to his seat on the couch and put his head in his hands. He wanted to start crying like a kid who’d found out that summer vacation from school and the Founders Day holiday had been cancelled.
Instead, he rose from his seat and surveyed the living room mess. “She’s right,” he said in a strong voice only he could hear.
23
Watch yourself. Watch yourself. Watch yourself.
Taylor’s eyes snapped opened in the dark. It took several seconds before he realized he was in his own bed. He sat up and stared at the telescreen. Did he hear a voice saying “Watch yourself” or not? This was the third or fourth time this night he’d awakened from a short period of sleep thinking he’d heard those words over and over, in sets of three, coming from the telescreen. The voice sounded familiar, but obviously altered by a voice changer. Taylor, however, was very good at recognizing voices, even if altered. It seemed to be the same-sounding voice he’d heard on his office answering machine shortly before being fired.
He broke his telescreen gaze, ran his hands across a sweat-covered face, and still wasn’t sure if he’d been dreaming or if the words were real. He heard a wheeze from deep in his chest. Perhaps his asthma was making an unwelcome comeback. The thought that the ease or discomfort in his breathing tracked with the stress level in his life at any given time was now, by itself, its own additional stressor. Obviously, things weren’t going well at present.
The digital clock on the end table next to the bed displayed 2:25 in large red numbers. He definitely recalled the numbers being 2:15 before falling asleep a short time previously. That’s the way his nighttime in bed had been going since being fired from RobotWorld: long periods of tossing and turning while awake, with brief bursts of jittery sleep interrupted by the same two words from the telescreen he was sure were real. But seconds after awakening, he wasn’t at all certain.
Taylor leaned back, and his head hit the pillow. He looked over at the clock that showed 2:30 in red numbers. Next to the clock was an all-too-familiar white box with Serenity printed in black across the top with a blue cloud under it. He remembered the night when Jennifer had opened the drawer of the same end table and removed a box of Serenity. A surprise, she’d called it. Some surprise. More like the beginning of a nightmare. “It’s all good,” she’d exclaimed, parroting the Serenity advertisement slogan. Had she winked at him and smiled her irresistible smile? He couldn’t remember. He laughed at the absurdity his life had become. Serenity had brought him nothing but bad—and the glorious time with Jennifer seemed like ten years ago.
Taylor’s smile faded. There was no doubt, no amount of rationalization to be manufactured that could skirt the fact that he was now a full-blown Serenity addict. He reached for the box, opened it, and popped a pill. It dissolved quickly on his tongue. His head started to spin, and his body tingled from head to toe, but he still couldn’t fall asleep.
He’d never felt so alone. He reached out to the only one who could possibly respond to him now. George. Taylor mentally called his name, then he spoke it softly. No answer. I guess even George has abandoned me. Can’t say I blame him.
The clock showed 2:40. He closed his eyes and wondered how long it would take for sleep to come—and how long it would take until he heard the words that would wake him. Watch yourself. Watch yourself. Watch yourself. The next time it happened, would he be able to determine whether the words were real or a figment of his Serenity-addled mind?
24
A little over two months after his firing from RobotWorld, Taylor packed all that remained of his belongings into a large suitcase. This was to be his last day in his beloved luxury apartment. No big deal, he was repeating in his head. To facilitate the move, he’d given most of his clothes to a charitable homeless organization and returned or sold other items, such as the large super-definition telescreens, for which he could no longer make the monthly payments. The sale of all the possessions he could sell provided some welcome extra cash.
His Serenity-caused lethargy and the cessation of the money stream from his RW job had taken their toll. There was no way he could continue to afford living in this apartment. It was a good thing the place had come furnished because he didn’t have to be concerned with moving furniture. Wherever his next long-term stop was to be, he’d be traveling light. Beca
use he also couldn’t keep up the payments on his leased PTV, he’d returned it. Taylor would have to rely on the Metrorail and walking to get around. No big deal. Somehow, he was having a hard time convincing himself. The plan was to use the small amount of his remaining money on a monthly rate at a local hotel. He figured he had enough cash to pay for two to three months, maybe four or five if he budgeted wisely. Then he realized that a good part of the money he had left would have to go to the purchase of Serenity and Calm. Even though these drugs were not expensive, perhaps he was in a more precarious situation than he’d previously thought.
Just as he’d finished putting the items he’d take with him into the suitcase and sorting out the items he’d dispose of by tossing them into one of several plastic trash bags, his communication device buzzed. When he saw the caller identifier show the name of his sister, he hesitated a full ten seconds before inserting the earpiece.
“Listen,” Tracey said, “this call never happened. I know we’ve had our differences, but you still are my brother. Don’t ask how I know what I’m going to tell you. Let’s say I might have overheard something at work. Anyway, you might be in trouble. Like big trouble. Maybe from the government. Maybe from RobotWorld. Or maybe from both. There’s some kind of connection between the two, as you’ve no doubt figured out. What are they going to do? I have no idea. Maybe monitoring, maybe worse, maybe nothing. I don’t know what you did. But apparently, you’ve pissed off some big-time people in a big way. Sophia chief among them. Be careful. I’ve got to end this call now. Tracing and all that. Watch yourself.” Click.
His body went numb. She said, “Watch yourself.” But the voice I’ve heard—or thought I’ve heard—at night is definitely not Tracey’s. I think I’d be able to recognize her voice if altered through a computerized voice changer.
Even in his Serenity-poisoned brain, he was able to piece together the scenario that what he did by breaking into the Information Room on his last full day at RobotWorld, the company’s close ties to the government, and the government’s inclination to make people who actively oppose their program vanish into thin air, could line him up for disappearance. Tracey and he had their differences over the years as she’d stated, but she wouldn’t lie about something as serious as this. Although he couldn’t be sure, he pretty much concluded that he wasn’t hallucinating about the messages from the telescreen that had been waking him from his minutes-long periods of fitful sleep at night. They were threats meant to break his spirit. Whoever was behind the messages had almost succeeded.
A change of plans on the fly was warranted now. Flexibility had always been one of his strong points. Clearly, the cheap hotel was no longer a good idea. The government’s technology would be able to find him with no trouble. It was almost impossible these days to create a false identity, and face/eye scanning was extraordinarily difficult to beat when the government wanted to locate someone. Leaving the Northeast Sector, even if there were livable sections beyond its boundaries, was not an option. With current travel restrictions, he’d never get past the border. Going on the run within Capital City was the best move. But with little money, running could be problematic. He took several long, deep breaths to ease the congestion in his chest. The best place for him to lay low now was in the growing downtown homeless population. As it was late spring, the weather had turned for the better. It won’t be so bad, he thought, trying to convince himself of yet another move he wouldn’t have dreamed he’d be making as recently as a month ago. He’d be homeless for a short time. Then he’d kick his Serenity habit and get busy on building a new career. He continued to work hard mentally to convince himself of the viability of his new plan.
An hour after Tracey’s phone call, Taylor stood at the doorway and set down his suitcase. He took a slow, final look around the apartment. Just as he sensed a watery burning in his eyes, he picked up the suitcase and opened the door. As he left his apartment for the last time, he was consumed with a feeling of profound loss and failure. He felt a lump in his throat and an emptiness in his heart. But he suppressed the urge to cry and said to himself, I’ll be okay. I’ll get it together. Then he shuffled to the elevator and pressed the down button without looking back.
As he exited the lobby for the last time, the piped-in background music he’d considered so inappropriate for a luxury apartment complex was playing “Livin’,” his favorite song. He hit the street with the line Only a fool feels sorry for himself ringing in his ears, thinking he was the biggest fool on the planet.
***
Since his RW firing, Taylor’s black hair had grown long, falling halfway to his shoulders; he also had a week’s worth of beard. So he was sure he’d fit right in with the homeless.
Taylor, with suitcase in hand, exited the Metrorail in downtown Capital City. He was jarred by the thought that he didn’t know how to “do homeless.” He’d have to make up a plan on the fly. The first step would be to find a “spot” where he could at least spend the night. Taylor realized that wherever he ended up would most likely be the first of many spots, now that he’d made the decision to be on the run for a while. He needed to be a moving target. No sense in helping the government, or whoever was after him, find him. He wandered the overcrowded streets for blocks seeking a place to at least spend the night.
In the late afternoon, he passed a table with a young, smiling woman with long blonde hair in 1960s hippie-type clothes standing behind it. For some reason, the sixties retro look of over a century ago was immensely popular among some young people. Taylor was intrigued by the woman because she reminded him of Jennifer. She wore wire-rimmed glasses, tight blue jeans, and pink canvas sneakers. The front of her flowery T-shirt displayed cursive writing in a purple pastel color that read Make Love, Not War. A sign on a corner of the table showed the logo of the homeless organization to which he’d donated some of his clothes. Below the logo, Freebies—Help Yourself was handwritten in blocky black letters. When he approached the table and noticed several old shirts he’d donated, Taylor stepped back and looked away. It was best to keep on moving.
Close to sunset, Taylor settled on as secluded a place as he could find, under a bridge in an area of town known as Buzzard’s Point or simply the Point.
The men and few women around him seemed spaced-out, friendly, and quiet. He attributed their demeanor to being under the influence of Serenity. Taylor could tell the hold the drug had on these people—and he had to admit it had a hold on him too. He gave himself credit—one of the few times he’d done so in the last month—for acknowledging that Serenity, in addition to his decision this morning to go on the run, was a big reason why he’d be camping out under this bridge at Buzzard’s Point tonight.
His spot was a block away from a Serenity dispensary. It was the same one he’d visited several weeks earlier when he wanted to see how the lowest of the low lived. Now he was among them. The premonition he’d had back then had come true. Lucky for me, Serenity is not expensive. Yeah, some luck. The government probably works to keep Serenity dirt cheap to keep the population under control. He felt a dull pain of sad resignation in his abdomen as he acknowledged he’d be a regular visitor to the nearby dispensary. At least for the time being.
25
On his second day under the bridge, on an unseasonably cool and foggy morning, Taylor was awakened by a vaguely familiar, gravelly voice.
“You’re back, young man. I thought I told you this was a place you didn’t want to be.”
Taylor sat up on a worn canvas bedroll, purchased the day before from one of his new neighbors, and shook his head to kick his brain into wake-up mode. The dew on the cement sidewalk around him glittered like tiny diamonds in the early morning sun. He rubbed his eyes and shivered in the cold. He recognized the person standing over him. It was the old man with the well-lined, weather-beaten face who’d spooked him on his earlier trip to the downtown area. The old man wore the same outfit—dirty white pants, faded white sneakers, and a
gray shawl—he’d worn when he first met Taylor. The man displayed a smile that, for some reason, Taylor now found gentle and almost soothing, as opposed to unnerving when he’d first seen his visitor. The man’s bright-blue eyes suggested high intelligence and made him seem younger than his age, which again Taylor estimated to be late sixties to early seventies.
“Last time I saw you I thought you looked to be too smart to end up here,” the old man said.
Taylor ran a hand over his eyes and replied, “I guess I’m not as smart as you thought.” He grinned. “And how did an obviously bright guy like you get here?”
“I’ll bet my story is similar to yours. Although, unlike you, I’ve managed to stay away from Serenity.”
“You’re very perceptive.”
“It doesn’t take much perception to spot a Serenity addict.”
Taylor stood and moved to a ledge where he sat. “I’ll admit to a growing habit. But wouldn’t call myself an addict yet.”
The old man gazed up at the gray sky. “Whatever you say.”