“Hohohoa.” The man from the darkness behind the bar laughed, in a gentler tone than David had heard before. “They let you out early from that old hellhole? Or did they cut your shifts?” David’s pupils finally focused, and he saw a gruff gentleman smiling kindly at him. He had a bald head and a thick white beard. Taking in David’s blue-lettered arm, which glowed softly, the old man put down the tall glass he was rubbing with a small green-and-white washcloth and leaned two thick, hairy, exposed arms onto the bar top. The shiny wood gleamed from polishing. “You look lost, son. Never been in here before, I imagine. You’re from the other side of town, by the look of your brand.” He beckoned the visitor. “Sit and talk.”
“I thirst,” David blurted out. “And then I’ll be on my way back to my world and out of this dump.”
The old man paused. “I know someone else who thirsted.” He fingered an ornament hung from his neck that looked like a sword. But the gentleman didn’t continue that line of thought. Instead he said, “Sit and talk. It’s what human beings do.”
David choked on his next word and shut up. How did this man know he worked with human beings in Lave Labs? Shaking his head, looking around, David whispered, “You know about them too?” David decided to tread carefully here.
The bartender, hunching his knotted shoulders to reach under the bar, didn’t seem to think his statement was odd and continued, “Not sure if they teach y’all how to talk to other human beings. From your side of the tracks.” The old man pointed at David’s blue arm.
Trying to cover up his whispered comment and act normally, David responded, “Human-doings, you mean? Human beings only exist in Storyworld.”
“Tell me, what is on your mind, son?”
A direct personal question. “Rude.” David stammered his correction of the old man’s verbal misstep. Not knowing how to respond to the direct personal question, because he was used to dialogue that involved career goals or self-improvement strategies. He shifted awkwardly, the seat creaking, as he watched the older man pull up a stool on the other side of the bar, pushing aside the towel and glasses.
“This is how this works, son: you tell me what is on your mind. Something caused you to walk in here out of your normal daily schedule. You share something, and then I share something, and that is how it works. It’s what a normal human was created to do: relate.”
“Oh, well, I don’t ‘share.’ Giving away freedoms to strangers and jobless is unheard of, if that is what you are asking. I also am not trained to ‘relate’; I communicate.”
Smiling empathetically, the man showed teeth with yellow patches that contrasted starkly with the whiteness of his facial hair. The whiskers of his beard shifted merrily as he hummed some forgotten tune. “I don’t need any money from you, son. Especially not freedoms. I have my freedom.”
“What do you do, and how do you stay busy?” David asked. “It is so quiet in here. You should be doing something. Not washing cups—machines wash cups. Not human-doings. That is beneath us.”
“Oh, son, no task is beneath human beings. Cleaning cups gives me moments of silence. Opportunities to listen to people such as yourself.”
“Freak,” David murmured.
“Know what that is? Silence is a gift. Silence is the place where I find peace. Peace. Stillness. Silence is that moment when I am still and when I feel the least alone and least disquieted. It is in these moments of stillness that I am able to be most truly myself. Content with myself.” The man paused. He was not rushing his words or preaching. He was speaking from the heart. “There is never a need to fill silence with busyness for the sake of busyness. My job is to be here for those I serve. Yes, a machine could serve drinks, and machines do serve drinks in other places, but I make this place a home.”
“Home units are for slaves and prisoners.” David tsked.
“Homes are for families.”
“Families are for fools.”
“Sometimes a family fool can make mistakes.” A look of regret whisked over the bartender’s face. “But families are the glue of society.”
“OK, let’s agree to fight later,” David compromised professionally.
“Hmm. I create this home for those who need a brief respite from a brutal world. It is much needed these days.” The bartender rubbed his thick, calloused fingers along the polished oaken surface with the tenderness of familiarity.
Feeling like he had stepped in over his head into a deeply personal space, perhaps even sacred, and out of his normal area of expertise, David awkwardly attempted to change the subject. “So, essentially you have a thriving business here?” He stressed “Thrive” and “Ssential” because they were the Majors that provided the drink cafés and energy fill-up stations around the city. “You are actually not jobless? Are you a business owner?”
“An independent proprietor.”
“I didn’t know that was legal until I ran into a dog-freak man. How many of you creeps are independent proprietors and wear unbranded, ugly clothing?”
“Waldor is amazing! Should be swinging by later to let this old man get some puppy time.”
“His puppies are not cute or cuddly.” A twing in his arm reminded him of the dog teeth. He shivered. Do you contract with Thrive or Ssential?”
“I make enough to keep myself open without patronage. And that’s enough for me.”
“That is an unhealthy goal. You need a growth mind-set.”
“Do I? But let’s talk about you. The one rule of this bar is that each patron must tell me something about what’s in their heart and not just on their to-do list. So what brought you in here today? I bet it was a matter of the heart.”
“It was a disillusionment of the mind, healed by an intense workie, a crazy hag chasing me, that brought me wandering here,”
“That hag is my neighbor. Usually quite friendly.”
“Looked rabid,” David countered. “To-do lists are very important, by the way. Seriously, we live and die by our to-do lists.”
“We will die with a full to-do list. That is the reality of our condition. And the biggest secret of all is that it’s OK.” The man rotated his fingers, beckoning David to answer the initial question more fully. A matter of the heart and mind. He was like a lighthouse, which does not reach out and force a boat in any direction but instead waits and offers light patiently for those who can see it.
David did begin to speak, awkwardly and stumbling over his words at first but building confidence as his elder gently prodded him. David spilled out most of his story surrounding PPRE. The man urged him to share his understanding of the situation and not just a glossary of statistics.
It felt good to have someone listen. How odd. Another old man just listening. Hopefully this man wouldn’t clamp an illegal armband onto him. Surprisingly, the way Irish listened allowed David to begin feeling something that was new to him: acceptance. He couldn’t identify it or recognize it for what it was, but this acceptance filled a small portion of his inner need like a dry well sucking up the tiny splattering drops of a sporadic summer shower.
And then out of nowhere, a fire burst on a stove top. Some oily, unregistered, and unlawful greasy food caught on fire.
“Yikes!” The man leaped to action and doused the stove top with a bucket of water that sat on the side of a rusty sink. The puff of smoke billowed, rose up to the ceiling, and spread out. The gray cloud slithered fluidly into a fire safety device, which set the ceiling water hoses spouting in every direction. The man swam his hairy arms through the raining air to an override button. The water and steam settled, and the white hair started laughing at the hilarity of the situation.
Sitting there on his stool, shocked and wet, David saw nothing funny about damaged property. There was nothing humorous about being soaking and uncomfortable. At Nnect there would be a board trial to clear or convict those responsible for destroying company property. This old man thought it was funny.
Seeing the look of horror on the Nnectonian’s face, the jolly proprietor sta
ted, “It’s just stuff.”
“Just stuff?” The callousness of this man’s immature philosophy made David want to vomit.
“Obviously,” the man continued. “It can always be replaced and fresh paint added to the floor.” The man laughed again. He looked at the two of them in their wet shirts and pulled out two new shirts, white shirts that had the word irish written in simple green letters, a faded green leaf under the letters. He held one out to David.
“Ew, illegal, and I can’t be seen in that atrocity.” His face wrinkled. “That shade of green is specifically trademarked by Thrive; it doesn’t say ‘Thrive’ anywhere on the shirt. If QC found me in that, I would be liable for a freedom fine, possibly a steep one at that.”
“Stop being ridiculous.”
“I won’t be seen in bum outfits. The shame. If my work acquaintances saw me in that, I would be the laughingstock of the floor. Not happening.”
The man waved the shirt in front of him anyway. “Put on something dry, son. No one owns a color.”
“I differ to beg.”
“That’s not how that’s said. You can burn the shirt when you get home. Just don’t let it be said that Paddy left a man in a wet outfit to catch a cold after hosing him down at his establishment. It’s bad luck and worse hospitality. My old mammy would come back from dancing jigs in heaven to spank my sorry buttocks.”
David considered, looking at the shirt and thinking about a hefty fine. David never broke the law. That was a rule of his. The law was what kept him happy. But the old man was persistent, and his wet shirt was uncomfortable. “OK, but I’ll change out of it before I leave your bar. Happy?” The old man smiled, and David slipped out of his cold, soggy shirt.
“Happy pappy.”
That was when they both saw it. The platinum CEO armband. It gleamed bluish in the room’s lighting. David had forgotten to hide it when he changed.
“Don’t break the rules, do you, Nnectonian? Now you have a story to tell me, son. Who are you, and what is that? That looks like a CEO key band.”
“OK, well.” David was caught.
“The truth, my boy.”
And so David began to spill out the tale. Something about the man made him trust him. “It’s not mine,” he started. “Nnect will sell me to Orns if they find this. I don’t know how to get it off. I am not sure if I should bring it in to QC or Nnect or hide it and figure out how to get it off.”
“Who did you say gave that to you?” The man’s white beard reminded David of the old man who’d given him the armband. Irish smiled and asked again.
“An old man on a train. Taller, with no beard, but old like you. He smiled like you. I thought he was kind. He was a Self-Purchased. He had no brand. He even helped me write a letter. I do not know how to write.” David paused. “Then he betrayed me to a horrible fate and cursed me with this death mark.”
“Hmm. Not too many of us left who smile.”
“He was playing hide-and-seek with the officers. Just like you. I mean by not following regulations. Similar to how you break the law.” David pointed at the shirts and the damaged floors. The alcohol in the drink was getting to David; he started talking even more openly.
Something clicked. “You met Jacob,” the bartender declared with certainty.
David looked at his arm and at the man on the other side of the bar. His anger boiled up, and without thinking, he dove across the bar and wrapped two strong hands around Irish’s neck. “Damn you, old man. Tell your friend to get it off me.”
“Urg.” A whine escaped the chocking throat.
“Now! It is a blemish on my career. It will ruin everything. I’ll be found guilty of impersonating a CEO, or worse.” David’s blue brand fed him with stimulus and energy. He shook with anger.
“Gahhh,” the old man gurgled, turning pale and blue.
“Speak, you useless old person!”
“I can’t,” the man gasped as David loosened his grip, realizing what he was doing.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have ever touched you.” David’s guilt flared up as he realized he had lain hands with harmful intent on another human-doing. “Idiot Twenty-Three—he’ll call QC on me for violating your personage.” David accused himself.
“It’s OK, son. Drink this.” The man was not angry. “Jacob used to come and drink here with me.”
“Friends?”
“Common situation. We handle it differently.”
“How so?”
“It’s complicated, but it’s been a while. I don’t have much contact with him anymore. We have mutual friends, and our kids…” The proprietor stopped in midsentence. “Back to that armband, Jacob usually has a purpose.” He put a napkin, disposable and cheap looking, on the bar and filled a cup with frothing brown liquid.”
“Jacob cursed me,” David whined.
When David was settled, the man tapped the armband and said, “Or maybe you could figure out its purpose. And use it. Maybe there is a purpose for your life bigger than what you currently seek. Maybe it’s a sign. Maybe it’s a good gift that you don’t know the purpose of yet.”
David crossed that idea right out of his head. That was treason of sorts. “I’m not sure what’s the safest way.” He paused and swallowed a gulp of this beer stuff. He usually avoided it for obvious performance and health reasons.
“Son, big questions are important to have and to ask.”
“Not sure about that, but I’ll do what is right. I just needed time to think away from Selfie.”
“Ah. Finding yourself avoiding a selfie and mirrors recently?
“As you can see, there’re a lot of things on my mind. It’s been taxing on me. And that’s why I’ve been wandering around and trying to see what makes sense.”
David sat and chatted with the old man for the next two hours. It turned out that the man’s name was Eric Paddy—not Irish, as the sign dishonestly suggested. His son and daughter had been part of the original wave of Ssential employees. Eric had never supported the Majors but could not leave his children and so had joined them in the migration to Xchange during the Brand Wars. Sadly, Eric’s son had passed away prematurely during a factory disaster ten years ago. Eric avoided the subject of his daughter—some disagreement perhaps. Now Eric ran this little pub and encouraged the downtrodden who staggered in after a day of hardship or a life of meaninglessness. It seemed that Eric Paddy adopted his patrons. His fatherly advice and manner put David at ease.
The time flew by, and David only realized how late it was when employees started to fill the place, playing darts and pool. The downtrodden drank and chatted like old friends. As Eric started to engage the others in his friendly, cheerful manner, David observed a humor and peace about him. Something kept him happy in a world that was not of his choosing.
David paid for his last drink and promised to return at another time. “If there’s time between work and self-care. Don’t miss puppy time!” Smiling, the old man cheerfully waved to his newest patron.
David changed back into his Nnect shirt in a bathroom stall that oozed grime and was cracked at the seams. Then he headed back to work after the bizarre time.
The garbage bin hag screamed at him. “Suitie sweetie.”
A pack of dogs howled. The sound echoed between the buildings. David hurried to be off the street before the dog whisperer and his animals arrived.
It was late afternoon by the time David made it back to the Nnect campus and the Lave Labs building. He was refreshed and renewed. He still had questions, but he reminded himself there were answers just around the hallway corner. He was about to discover them. Oh yes, he would find answers.
Questions were important, but some types of questions gave David the chills and a brand guilt trip. Paddy asked a lot of questions like that. Paddy had said several times that big questions were important to have and to ask. Big questions felt wrong to David unless they were in the correct context. Gayle would have liked Eric Paddy from Irish.
Work could benefit from ques
tions too. Questions. He had questions for the slaves. He could ask them “big questions.” Time to get something out of these slaves and discover something amazing for Nnect.
Chapter 23
Episode 9: Destiny Calls
A thud on the door woke Phel. He stumbled across the oak-floored bedchamber to his belt and sword, strapping them on as he tugged on the stiff iron handle. “I am coming,” he croaked as the thud repeated, its urgent pounding increasing the pace of his heartbeat. He glanced out the window to see the sun poking over the ocean waves and cliffs. It was earlier than usual to be summoned. It had been a late night of work.
“Jillian requests you in the main room.” The warrior at the door gave Phel a worried look; his eyes shifted uneasily.
“Why are you up so early, Jaspen?” he asked the surly warrior, who had a blotchy neck birthmark in the shape of Laquid Lake and frizzy coal-black hair. Jaspen shuffled his feet, opened his mouth as if to speak, and instead clamped his jaw shut and beat his retreat down the stairwell of the manor. Phel knew that Jaspen didn’t approve of his sleeping in the manor house some nights when Jillian allowed it. Despite that point of tension, Jaspen and Phel had found some commonality during the training sessions.
“A messenger from Lord Meldz,” Jaspen called behind him.
“Damn. I hope it is not more trouble.” Phel hurried his step. He tripped over a boot that he struggled to pull on as he moved down the stairs after the warrior. He fell hard, landing awkwardly on Jaspen, who was not able to escape in time, and the two tumbled with grunts into the main hallway.
“Oaf,” Jaspen gasped. “Basta…”
Phel and Jaspen stood, embarrassed. Phel clasped one boot in his hand; the other was on his foot. Jillian glared at the two of them. Her partner in crime, Felina, prowled like a cat with dark, stormy intent at the back of the room; she was unusually quiet. She didn’t mutter a single sarcastic remark about Phel’s acrobatic misstep. Odd.
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