Authors: Nicholas Lamar Soutter
Feeling
rejuvenated, I dried them, the warmth retained. But I let the water run. I
listened to the sound of it hitting the bowl, running down the drain, like the
sound of fall leaves rustling in the wind.
I don’t care that the water is running.
This is life,
replied a lifetime of conditioning. It doesn’t matter if you like it or not, it
simply is the way things are. Competition is the only constant. Stars compete
for fuel, plants for sunlight, and people for power. Beyond that there’s no
significance. It just is. Now turn the water off and get yourself together.
I don’t care that the water is running.
I examined
myself in the mirror. My face was weathered and bitter from years of endless
conflict—with enemies, colleagues, neighbors, friends and my wife—with everyone
I had ever met.
We aren’t going to lose to socialism, to
guilt or compassion. We’ve already lost. We’ve defeated ourselves, wearing
ourselves to the nub. We aren’t workers; we’re fuel—fuel for a large machine
that wants nothing more than to consume us for the lowest possible cost. I’ve
been dying for a very, very long time, and I’m sick of it.
My conditioning
spoke again, as the voice of reason. It said that life is the process of dying.
What you’re looking for, it said, is hope. Hope that there’s more. Simon had
hope once, but when he stared into the human soul and saw nothing but the abyss
of our own nature staring back at him, he couldn’t take it. You’re stronger
than he was. Just hold out, success is just around the corner. Somebody will
see all the hard work you’ve put in, someone will notice that you’re special.
That’s the promise of capitalism… just work.
I looked at my
face: my eyes, nose and forehead. In my weekly baths I had never given my face
much attention. So I washed it: behind and inside my ears, under the apple of
my neck, and around my eyes. I hit every crevice, every wrinkle, and washed
myself clean.
I lathered my
face and ran the razor under the water. I hadn’t given myself a proper shave in
a while either. I went slowly, running the blade once, then twice, over the
stubble, under the ears, below the chin, and across my cheeks. I looked at
myself again, cleaner than I had ever been.
Competition exists in facets of life, but
that doesn’t make it the sum of life. You can see the world through
rose-colored glasses, but that does not make the world rouge, even if you live
a lifetime that way. Violence is the only possible conclusion to capitalism.
I wasn’t a
capitalist. I was a murderer. We were all murderers.
I grabbed a
towel and dried my face. Then I left the bathroom and watched Bea for a few
minutes. Not till the commercial did she notice me.
“There you are.
Are you feeling better? Do you think maybe you used a bit too much water?”
I could see
her—as clearly as Linus saw me. I was shocked that, as obvious as she was, I
hadn’t noticed her before.
“So, which
corporation is it?”
“Which
corporation is what?” she asked.
“Which
corporation are you leaving Ackerman Brothers for?”
Beatrice turned
white and looked at me in abject horror.
“Darling, where
did you hear something like that from?”
“Nobody. Where
are you going?”
“We both know
you wouldn’t think that on your own if someone hadn’t suggested it to you.
Today was one of your ‘Linus’ days, wasn’t it? Does he think that I’m leaving?”
“I don’t know
what he thinks,” I said. “It’s what I think.”
“Honey, what’s
this really about? You didn’t like your magazine, is that it?”
“No.”
“Is it the
dailies? You saw I was in there, didn’t you? I can explain—”
“I don’t care
about the dailies.”
“Then why are you
making a big deal about this?”
“You blame
everyone for everything. If anything goes wrong in your life, you find someone
to blame for it. But you’ve been losing rank for six months, and you haven’t
said a word. You’ve never complained, you’ve just taken it.”
“I didn’t want
to trouble you…”
“You’re screwing
up on purpose, letting your rank fall. You’re going to rank down till you drop
into Epsilon grade, and then you’ll buy out your contract and go somewhere
else.”
She looked at me
gravely. “Charles,” she said, “that would be illegal. I’m offended that you
would even suggest....”
My whole life I
wanted to have Linus’ insight into the world. He was a sorcerer, a warrior monk
and a commander of whole armies of colleagues, taking whatever he wanted.
Beatrice was as transparent to me as a child who, with the strongest of
convictions and certainties, blames a broken cookie jar on her imaginary
friend. But I wasn’t a wizard, anymore than Linus.
I raised my hand
to interrupt her. “You don’t need to answer. In fact, if you’re going to keep
lying, I prefer you don’t. I was just curious.”
“Charles, I’ve
tried to be patient, but if you accuse me one more time,” she said, “I will
never forgive you. Someone is trying to turn you against me. Now, who said
this?”
“I’m not going
to turn you in,” I said. “I’m not going to blackmail you. Really. I don’t think
I even care. I shouldn’t have asked; it’s really none of my business.”
Satisfaction lit
her eyes. “My god, you really do love me, don’t you? You would suspect
something like that, and yet you wouldn’t.... You really aren’t going to try to
use this, are you?”
I was done
profiting from the suffering of others.
“Oh my god,
Charles, do you know how long I’ve waited for this moment? You’re finally a
part of this relationship. You’re willing to see what I’m trying to do. Oh, I’m
so glad you’re on board. Ackerman has
never
acknowledged my gifts or what I can bring to the company. You know that. It’s
painfully clear.”
She had been
planning this move for a while.
“Studio One made
an offer: Producer. They’ll buy me out at eighty percent if I can get down to
an Epsilon grade and make up the difference in escrow.”
I had to
struggle to keep myself from laughing. They were absolutely the flash in the
pan that Linus said they were. And besides, in the eight years I had known
Beatrice, I had never once found her to be entertaining.
“They only have
five channels right now—but that just means more room to expand. They really
see what I’m talking about; they know I can get their programming up to date.
They’ve lost a lot of executives to defections and relocations, so they’ll
start me as a Gamma. It’s a great opportunity.”
Her life was
over. It would end in a series of events determined even before they unfolded,
like a mate in chess that’s inevitable twelve moves away. I could read the
necessary and inexorable steps yet to come.
Studio One’s
stocks were on fire and they were flush with money. But instead of saving it
for the inevitable correction, they were spending it wildly. And the people who
were most in a position to see disaster ahead—the executives—were all bailing
out. When the company tanked, those who had stayed behind would blame the
failure on the new blood. They weren’t hiring a producer, they were hiring a
scapegoat.
“They’ll wipe you
out.”
“Who do you
think you are?” she squawked. “You know, I thought you’d be happy for me.
Jealousy is a very unattractive quality. They’ve already given us an apartment;
I’d think you’d be grateful.”
“I’m not going,”
I said.
Bea looked at
me. “Is this because I didn’t tell you? I had to keep this a secret; they
wouldn’t let me tell anyone. Besides, I didn’t want you to worry. I was
thinking of
you
.”
“I’m not going.”
“Don’t be angry
with me. I wanted to tell you.”
“I’m not going.”
“You know,” she said,
“you shouldn’t make decisions when you’re angry. Right? Why don’t you sleep on
it?”
“I’m not angry,”
I said. “I will not go. Not now, not ever.”
“We’ll talk
about this when you’re feeling more reasonable,” she said.
“I’m not going.”
“You’re just
feeling like you’ll be less of a man because I’ll be a Gamma and you won’t.
You’re afraid that I’m going to think you’re worthless. But you’re my husband.
What makes you have such a low opinion of me that you think I’d treat you like
that? I’m a highly ethical colleague, you know that.”
“You’re right to
leave, Bea. You’ve wanted this for a long time. Do what’s best for you. But I’m
not coming, and we’ll both be happier for it.”
“Oh, bless your
heart,” Beatrice said. “You think you’re protecting me? You’re too sweet. I
want you to come. You don’t need to act brave. You’re so cute when you’re like
this.”
“You’re not
listening.”
She folded her
arms. “Okay, now you’re just being silly. Look, I was going to go by the place
after the show. Come with me and check it out.”
“No.”
“How far do you
want to take this, Charles? I’m perfectly happy to play games if you are. I can
call your bluff. You think I should go? Is that what you want?” she raged.
“Yes. That’s
what I want.”
She grabbed her
coat. “I know you’re just trying to be helpful, but we need to talk about your
methods. I’ll send a crew tomorrow to pick up my stuff. When you’re ready to
talk, give me a call.”
She was
Beatrice, the same as the day we had met. Our marriage should never have
happened, and we had each been looking for the door for a while now. It just
took this long for one of us to find it.
She left the
apartment, which suddenly felt very quiet. I turned off the television. For the
time being, my world didn’t have to be anything more than those four corners. I
didn’t want to drink, but I couldn’t think of anything else to do. I wasn’t
going to watch television. I didn’t want to log in to or browse CentNet. I
certainly didn’t want to go to bed, since that only brought the next day at
Ackerman that much closer. So I went into my bedroom, sat on my bed and cried.
By one A.M I
still hadn’t gotten off to sleep. I lay in bed, feeling more alive than I had
in—well since I could remember. Sleeping, a practical necessity, wasn’t going
to happen.
I went to the
toilet and flushed my remaining pills.
I never
understood the world, or how people could feel so comfortable in it. Not until
I had heard of Sarah Aisling did it even cross my mind that the problem might
not be me.
Following up on
her status would have been suspicious, and they probably wouldn’t even have
told me anything anyway. But with any luck her colleagues might know if she was
all right. Heck with any luck, they might even be like her.
I sat down at my
terminal and began browsing the social services directory. I found all kinds of
adverts for every interest possible. Pleasuring services ran about fifty caps
an hour. Abuse services (yelling, whipping and beating—all at the hands of an
experienced professional) ran about eighty caps. To think that Beatrice had
been doing it for free for almost a decade.
I wondered if I
owed her back pay.
I finally found
a friendship catalogue. The Ackerman-affiliated agencies were listed first. The
ads were large and colorful, designed not only to attract the eye, but also to
maximize download times and fees. The Karitzu ads came next. Finally I came
upon the free trade section. Those ads were all plain and simple (to protect
colleagues from excessive download costs).
Down near the
bottom I found what I was looking for—a small yellow and black ad for the
friendship agency where Sarah Aisling had worked. They didn’t list a phone
number, just an online order form. I requested a friend, to be delivered
immediately. My ledger bleated, and the transaction was complete. A friend
named “Katherine Wolfe” was on her way.
I began cleaning
up the apartment—picking up the popcorn and potato chips, cleaning the dishes.
It was a silly exercise; I had rented her, she’d be my friend no matter what the
place looked like. I was in the process of moving the couch when she arrived.
I opened the
door to find a tall, broad-shouldered woman standing in the pouring rain.
“Hi. Did you
order a friend?” she asked.
Her hair was a
long, fox red, and fell to just below her shoulders. Its sheen reminded me of a
fresh cherry. Her face was warm, but most striking about her was that her eyes
were each a different color—one was green, like fresh-cut grass, and the other
was a light acorn.
“Yes,” I said,
ushering her in. “Are you my friend?”
“Yeah. My name
is Katherine. You can call me Kate.”
“I’m sorry about
the rain,” I said. “If I had any idea, I would have rented on some other day.
Did you take the train?”
“No, a friend
dropped me off.”
“A friend?”
She turned to a
car idling under a lamp in the parking lot. An Arab woman with curly black hair
sat in the driver’s seat. Kate waved her off, and the woman waved back before
driving away.
“Oh… a
colleague. Well, still, you had to stand out there. I’m sorry.”
“No, don’t be silly.”
I offered her a
drink while I finished straightening up.
“Any cola would
be fine,” she said.
When she spoke,
I found that I was staring directly at her eyes. The uniqueness drew me in and
made her presence commanding. I didn’t want to seem to be ogling, so I picked
just one eye, the hazelnut, and looked at it when we spoke. Her voice was soft
and gentle, and she seemed to have no awareness of the sway her eyes had over
me.
“Whisky shots?”
She glanced
suspiciously. “Aren’t you the big spender this evening?”
I laughed with a
boyish giggle. “Please, have some,” I said, turning on the overhead light.