Future Musings - Part 4

Kael

                        I lay on me bed with a browser window open. I run my fingers across the holographic screen and stop at a message from Lynn.

            “Hey! Sorry I haven’t been online much. I’ve been busy with work and family stuff, so I haven’t had much time to play. I know the guild is broken up, maybe we can find a new group to play with. I’ll be online more to talk to you again in like three days. ”

            She sent that February 24^th, 2022 at 1:00 am. I scroll down a little more.

            “Hey, it’s cool. I haven’t been playing much either. Hope to see you soon.” – Me, February 24^th, 2022 at 1:04 am.

            “Hey. Work’s been a little stressful. I got some drawings out on my spare time though. I hope you are doing okay.” – Me, February 28^th, 2022 3:54 am.

            “How are you?” – Me,  March 7^th, 2022 1:00 pm.

            “I am in the woods.” – Me, March 24^th, 2022 9:24 pm.

            “Found this video I thought you might like *link*.” – Me, April 21^st, 2022 6:52 pm.

            The line bar is blinking. I want to type something, but there are some things one should just give up on. I met her online, played with her for hours. Savored every moment, but it probably meant more to me than to her. I’ve told her things only my close friends know, like how I am a virgin.  I told her things I haven’t told my closest friends, like what I did when I disappeared for a week. Maybe it helped that she’s far away. I wish she’d talk to me again. If it wasn’t for the radio silence, I might have figured she was into me, even if it was logistically impossible. Maybe this wasn’t enough for her, so it’s better to not have it at all. I wish she’d just have said that though. Or maybe, she knows I am too into her. She’s a “swinger” after all. Maybe it’s cause I’ve never slept with a girl.

            I close the window. The clock says 4:34 A.M. I have work in less than five hours, but I am wide awake. It will be a whole day of working on storyboards for the upcoming film. I get up, sit on my desk, pull a pencil from my bag, open the sketchbook on the desk, and I draw a line. It becomes a chin, then an ear. It is joined by eyes; wet glistening eyes looking out into a blank page. Strait hair, that is parted a little to the right, it covers some of thee face. Hiding the ear that never materialized. It could be deaf or missing an ear, but no one can see under the hair, it’s two-dimensional. Nothing more than what you see. The gray clay eraser comes down; the pencil touches the page, new eyes, fierce and angry eyes. It has become a he, a he sitting on a cliff side with its head up looking into the sunset with fierce burning eyes. The touch of a felt tip gives his eyes a tired look, his clothes become a deep blue and dirtied and dusted and worn. The cliff side becomes covered in grass. The sky slowly transforms into a purple and orange splendor. I put my signature on the bottom. It’s not done yet though. It’s time to sleep.

           

            My roommates, Rina and Mark, are sitting on the couch. Rina holds the blue mug with two hands and takes a sip. She closes her eyes as the stress just vanishes from her face.

            Mark is showing me a video someone edited to make it seem like the President slapped a reporter. I laugh. He looks up at me.

            “So how’s things since we’ve been gone? Whatever happened to what’s her name? The girl from the coffee shop. Margie I think?”

            “Yeah Margie. Well I’d been hanging out with her a lot since last week. Then we were eating at the diner, right. Randomly she just says, ‘You’re a nice, guy, but you know I am never going to sleep with you right?”

            “What did you say to prompt that?”

            “I don’t know. I have no idea. We were just talking.”

            “What’d you say?”

            “I asked what brought that up. She just said ‘I thought you should know’ and left it at that. Tried to make the rest of that lunch less awkward.”

            “Then what? You still hanging out with her?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Why?”

            “Cause I’d be an asshole if I didn’t.”

            Rina finally says something, “So you’re hanging out with her now, because if you didn’t it would seem like you stopped hanging out with her because she said she wouldn’t sleep with you. And that would make you seem like an asshole.”

            I reply, “Yeah.”

            “But you’re mad that she said she won’t sleep with you?”

            “I was a little shocked when she said it, and her saying that prospect is off the table is somewhat upsetting, but not enough that I would stop hanging out with her.

            Mark says, “Maybe she’ll change her mind?”

            I say, “Yeah maybe.”

            Rina says, “She’s not into you, you’ve been hanging out for a week. She probably won’t change her mind. You do this to yourself every. Single. Time.”

            I say, “What? Get friendzoned?”

            “No, get sad about a girl not liking you. You say you’re okay now, but it’ll be a week before you get bitter about it. And it will eat you up inside. I hate seeing you like that. You can’t blame yourself and you can’t blame her. Also, the friendzone is bullshit. It doesn’t exist.”

            “I disagree, but what’s your point?”

            She takes a sip of her tea.

            “It doesn’t exist. You have this expectation of a girl to sleep with you, and when she tells you she just wants to be friends, you are some how put through some unbearable hell. Until you either stop talking to them, or you decide to put them in your jar of ‘girls I wish I could fuck’ and might fuck eventually. Okay maybe that’s not all true for you, but that’s what it’s felt like the last couple of months. I know for a fact that you are a nice good human being, but you don’t have any respect for any of those girls. You expect that if you shower them in kindness that they’ll eventually be too soaked and have to get naked and crawl into you arms. And when they don’t you come to us and complain about how ‘Emma is a bitch’, or ‘Jennifer is using me’, or ‘I can’t believe Quinn is going out with that douche bag now’.”

            “So what? I don’t deserve to be happy? I don’t deserve to have someone? I mean I figure I at least get the right to complain to my friends.”

            “You’re not entitled to have someone. You have no right to expect someone to like you for the sole reason of being nice to them. You can’t resent a girl for not liking you. You haven’t found anyone who wants to be intimate with you, and that’s not your fault, at least I don’t think so, but that’s not the girls’ fault either. It’s not their fault that you haven’t gotten laid yet. People like what they like, sometimes they know what that is sometimes they don’t. An example of that is I have no idea why I like this bone head next to me.”

            Mark says, “I resent that statement.”

            Rina says, “Girls are people too. Don’t stop being a nice person, but girls aren’t ‘machines you drop kindness tokens into until sex falls out’.”

            “Pulling analogies from the internet, how original.”

            “Do you get what I am saying?”

            “Yes, you’re right. I am actually a raging dishonest piece of shit.”

            Mark says, “Hey man she didn’t say that.

            I say, “I am saying that. I am fake. I should stop being dishonest and get out with it. I’ll tell every cute girl I meet from here on out that I plan to fuck’em at some point. ‘Hi, my name is Kael, I’d like to treat you out to dinner and give you a vigorous fuck, though I probably won’t last long cause I’ve never had any practice.’ And to hell with you two. Sure you can tell me how I should act like, cause you too are so happy, right? I can’t even complain about this shit to my friends, like are you serious? I don’t need you to judge me.”

            “Hey man, she’s just trying to help.”

            “Fuck your help!”

            Rina gets up. From down the hall way says, “I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.”

            “Like what? Pissed off. Or maybe this is just how I am. I am just a pissed off son of a bitch pretending to be a nice guy.”

            “Dude.”

            “Oh shut the fuck up, and go fuck your girlfriend.”

            I go into my room and lock the door. I feel like shit. I snapped for no reason. Well, no I snapped cause she’s right. It’s never fair when I get mad at all the girls in the world, because I feel like I deserve someone. I haven’t found someone. I feel like crap. I don’t see enough people. I don’t put myself out enough. And yet I complain. There was a part of me that wanted to find romance, and I figured was enough of a prince charming I’d get it. I kept hoping to find some princesses. I found them, but they don’t want me. So I am going to quash that feeling. Finding love is too much to expect. It’s too much to force. Just getting laid isn’t impossible though. It’s not what I want, but it might be what I need.

            And then I can hear Rina moaning. I didn’t think he’d take my advice literally. We’ve been living here for a year and I never mention the fact that I can hear when they have sex. I am horny though. I turn on music to drown them out and open a window. I open Lynn’s profile. Lynn has a new status from eight minutes ago, the first in months.

            “Play with fire and you’ll get burned,” – Lynn with Eli Borges and Orin Amaral.

            I send her a message, “Hey, how are you? Can I call?”

            She sends a message back, “Hey, sorry I didn’t get back to you. I am out at a club right now, wouldn’t really be able to hear you. I’ll get a hold of you soon though. Okay?”

            “Sure.”           

            Fuck Brazil. Fuck Brazilians. Okay, no that’s racist.  Fuck it. Love and sex might go together, but I need to get one of those things crossed off the list already. Waiting for it to happen at the same time is too much. I get up. I grab my blazer. Unlock the door. Out the door. Out of the apartment. Down the stairs. It’s dark out. Three blocks over, cause we don’t have parking in the building. Touch the handle, the door open. I sit in the driver’s seat. I take a breath. Touch the wheel, engine on, lights on. I look out the window, pull out and drive down Litzinger Street. I am not a bad person, but I can’t help but feel the same about girls. I know it is not anyone persons fault, but it is easier to blame someone.

            I stop in front of a hotel. I have passed by and stopped by this hotel at least once a week since a friend told me this is where he goes when he is looking for a good time. I always thought of him a scumbag. I will find love I would think. I will have a girlfriend I would say to myself. I would sit here and just look at the front door. Today will be different. I probably will not feel any better, but I am going to do this. I get out of the car. I tap the handle twice, it locks and turns off. I walk out across the street. The doorman gives me a nod. I am in Jeans and a T-Shirt and this blazer. I ask him,

            “Is this where The Black Ice is?”

            “Yes, it’s on the second floor. Take one of the elevators in the back of the lobby. The bar will be on the right when you get out.”

            “Thanks.”

            He nods again. I go down the hallway. Up the elevator. To the right, through the doors. I hear piano music, its Nobuo Uematsu circa 2001. There are a few people, more than I expected on a Tuesday night. Guy with a moustache with two chicks at a booth. Blond guy with glasses talking to a girl in the back. A bunch of suits on a table, laughing at something. I take a seat at the bar. The bar tender is beardy guy with horn rim glasses. He’s making an Old Fashioned for a redheaded bombshell in a black dress. He walks up to me.

            “What can I get for you?”

            “A rum and coke please.”

            “Sure thing.”

            He fixes it up and hands it to me. A little window opens and asks me if I approve of this charge. “Yes”. I take sip. A brunette in a white dress sits a stool away from me. I put my drink down, I am afraid I’ll spill some if I hold on to it. Her lips are smoldering red.

            She opens her mouth, “Hey Dave, can I get a Ellis without the olives.”

            “Coming right up.”

            She looks at me. Her eyes are blue, and they have little black stars inside, pretty sure that’s surgical. The bartender comes back with her drink. She looks me up and down.

            “My name’s Every.”

            “That’s an interesting name. I am Kael.”

            “What do you do Kael?”

            “I am a coordinator at Livid Entertainment. What do you do?” I take drink. I feel hot.

            “I do freelance work here and there.”

           

            37^th floor of the hotel. Every touches door 3712 and it unlocks. She walks in. Turns around and looks at me. She gestures to come in. As I step forward a little window pops up, and asks me if I approve of this charge. I pause. I take a breath. “Yes”. I step through the door. She’s sitting on the bed. I am shaking a little. I sit next to her.

            I say, “This is my first time.”

            She tilts her head, “With a call girl?”

            “With anyone.”

            She bites her lip. Then says, “Well, I hope I can make it special for you then.”

            I don’t say anything.

             “Pretend for a moment that I met you three weeks ago. Pretend that you met me at the park. You were jogging and bumped into me. I fell over and you apologize. Then we talk a little and you asked me out. Pretend that after work, all we did was think about each other. Pretend that our first kiss was during a moonlight picnic by the old drive-in theatre. Pretend that we love the same things. That we just had a great dinner. That we are right for each other.”

            She leans in closer to me. I can feel her breathe. She continues

“Pretend for a moment, that I love you.”

            I am naked. In the dark. Every is looking at me. I ask her.

            “Is that your real name?”

            “Yes, my father named all of his kids interestingly. Is Kael short for something?”

            “Mikael.”

            “You have me the whole night you know. Unless you want me to leave.”

            “No stay. Please.”

            I sit there. I run my hand across her face. She’s beautiful.

            I pause for a second. It feels awkward, but I say, “You don’t have to answer this question if you don’t want to. What was your first time like?”

            “A lot like the story I said earlier.

            “Really?”

            “Yeah his name was Alvin. I really loved him.”

            “What happened?”

            “People forget the love they have sometimes, they get complacent. If you ever get a girl and find a good strong love, don’t forget it. Don’t let it go.”

            “I haven’t had much luck in that department, but there’s probably different things I could do to change that.”

            “You’re kind of cute, and I’ve slept scum bags, and you don’t seem to be one. I hope I did you a good one for your first.”

            “You were great. It was fun.”

            “We could have more fun.” She bites her lip.

            “Yeah I’d like that.”

            I needed to do that. I know I am not a better person, but I’ll try to be. Maybe that’s not why Lynn stopped talking to me, but I’ve crossed it off my list. Maybe Lynn isn’t something I should keep pressing. I’ll just ask her. Honestly. I just want to make sure that next time is not pretend.

Future Musings - Part 3

Alix and Qrisa

            I am typing up an email about next week’s schedule. The keys click as I type. I love the feeling of pushing my fingers rapidly on the plastic. I can feel what I am writing more than when I trying to “think” the letters on to a page with my Synapse. I hit send and exhale. Done, nothing menial left to do. I sit and watch the clock on my visual display hit 8:00 pm. Once again, I am the last one to leave. Been the only one here for the last 3 hours. I am salaried, so there is no extra pay for sitting here and finishing all the little things. There is always a reason to stick around though, and today there is nothing to go home to. I walk through the empty cubicles and walk down the dark hallway. I push the elevator button, it glows blue. I straighten my tie and straighten my ring. I walk in, hit ground level. My wife, Qrisa, is on the other side of the country right now, the East Coast. Dinner alone is never too bad, and it’s not like we sleep in the same bed anyway. The doors open, the security guard is smiling at me.

            “Good evening Mr. Yang.”

            “Evening Jim.”

            I take off the office regulated Synapse from my right ear; the Rizor Tech corporate user interface fades. For the first time in 12 hours I am seeing the world with my own eyes. No foreign electrical signals running into my brain to see the unreal. No constant feed into a network. Just me unplugged, for a short while. I hand the device over to the guard. He pushes a button and I walk through the security gate. It is still light out. My car pulls up to the front of the office driveway. The door slides open and I take a seat on the passenger side.

            I tell the car, “Take me home.”

            I close my eyes. Being in a moving car always relaxes me. Even my grumbling stomach cannot disturb this peace. If Qrisa were home, I would have called her or messaged her that I am on my way. We might eat out, or she might have tried to cook something since it is Tuesday. I hate cooking when it is not my turn. My mom and dad said marry a Chinese girl; she will cook for you. Qrisa’s parents told her to marry a Chinese man; he would take care of you. In each case, they were half right. We would talk about our day, only half listening to the other. Six years we’ve been together. I know her more, but I still feel like I do not know her.

            The car goes up the apartment elevator, right to the back door.  The city looks beautiful. The sun is setting and the hustle of cars moves with precision through the city. I walk into the house and start taking off my tie, then my button-up shirt, my shoes, socks, and pants. I toss them in the laundry chute. I guess I do not really want to eat a whole meal right now, maybe just a snack. I open the fridge and take out an “apple and cheese” chicken sausage. I heat it up and pour myself a rum and Coke. She never cares about what I do. The good, the bad, the annoying, it is not important to her. We married each other to be married. We married each other so that our parents would live to see their children married off, so they could be happy. The sausage is done, I plate it. I grab my Synapse from the counter and put it on. The empty living room lights up as the Synapse loads my user interface into my mind. I open a window for CNN and start gnawing on the sausage.

            We met each other in college during a “Tsunami Relief” service trip to Baja. Drink and substance and problems let people open up about things better left unsaid. We talked about expectations and family. We talked about solving problems. We thought we could solve each other’s problems. We were friends. We did not love each other then. I still do not think she loves me. I was not sure if I loved her either. Thought I know now that I do. Or that it has happened in the last month.

             Three weeks ago, I watched her paint a portrait of the Lexi Green who got murdered four months ago. She paints everyday; usually bright things, sometimes pensive things, abstract things like time or fear. Though on that day Qrisa had sadness in her. The darkness surrounding her faded in that moment, she lit up the room with each stroke on the canvas. I have watched her paint before, but never before did I see her wear her emotions so honestly. I am never dishonest, but I can’t say I have ever been that real. Even when I play the violin, the most honest I can get is the strongest emotion I have at the time. I wish I knew why it dug into her so deep to pull out this passion. The sadness was a reflection, so clearly her own resonating with this tragedy in a way that all the other horrible crap that goes on everyday could not reach her. Though the moment was honest, I have no inclination as to where it came from. No story she has said to clear it up. No friend who this might be about. Nothing.

            The girl in the portrait was killed by her father. He lost his job and killed his wife, his daughter, and himself. Qrisa’s brush dipped into the deep blue, the paint dripped across the canvas like the tears she never let anyone see. She took the reds of the flesh furiously stroking, yet precise. When she finished, it was as if the whole room had come to peace with itself. She got up, t-shirt stained with paint, in black panties, and sat next to me, and leaned into me and curled up. I put my arm around her. Sharing that moment, and being needed like that was more intimate and meaningful than any of the sex we had in the last six years. I guess the difference is in needing someone to get off on, and needing someone. We just stayed together in silence for what seemed liked forever.

            Qrisa and I had a real talk the day after that. We talked about how we were living, where we were going, why we were still married. I asked her if she was happy. She said she wasn’t sad. She said she wanted to see a friend in New York; she would be gone about two weeks. We both know that is code for one of her lovers.  We are not supposed to get jealous. We are friends with the benefits of marriage. We are not supposed to be mutually exclusive. We do not own each other. She came up with the terms, and I agreed. She has never expressed cared about who I sleep with or who I spend my time with. So I should continue to respect our terms and what she wants to do. We were not supposed to get upset, since this was a marriage of convenience. I was upset though. I am upset. I got a glimpse of something beautiful, and I wanted more. I want it all for myself. I want to talk about the things I have not talked about. I want to tell her how when I was on hike when I was nine, I watched Elliot Warwick get his legs crushed by a boulder and slowly bleed out and die. I want to tell her about how terrifying it was to be around my grandfather when he was losing his mind. I want to tell her about the time my mother left me at the mall when I was four. I am pretty sure that was on purpose.

            So I am sitting here. I open a window to the Streams. The collective flow of minds across the net ready to be tethered to and explored live. So that in a moment, for a moment, you could be in someone else’s shoes. In their mind, in their body, doing what they do, seeing what they see, feeling all of their feelings. They call it “diving” when you synch up with a Stream. It feels different from “dipping” into a previously recorded experience, or a Pool. Millions of Streams are up. Millions more people are synching up to live life vicariously. Kael’s Stream is up, I have been following his life for the last two months. Even the most mundane of moments in a Stream are invigorating. There is a comfort in being out of your head. I dive in.

 

            Kael’s still streaming, but I leave. It is too easy to lose time. It has been three hours. I need to clean up. I put my dishes in the wash. I lie down in my bed. I remember the last time Qrisa and I had sex. We came back from company party. It had been a real date. We got drunk, we danced, and we played the lovely couple for the crowed. She was undressing. I put my arms around her from behind. I kissed the back of her neck. She turned around and put her hands on my bare chest and looked me in the eye. I was not sure what I saw in those eyes. She kissed me and probably out of convenience we made love. I made her breakfast, eggs Florentine. She thanked me. Things were normal again. Any show she had put up was gone. We were two people living with each other, married on paper. Possibly friends that got sick of each other.

            I have to know what she is doing. Written words are faster than spoken, and less intrusive. So I message her.

            “I am missing you right now.”

            She writes back, “Oh really?”

            “Stream for me please.”

            “Hmm.”

            “Qrisa, I just want to be with you for a little bit.”

            “Okay. Just for a little bit.”

            I am waiting. I was half expecting her to say something else. To say no. An invitation to join Qrisa’s private Stream. “Yes”.

Qrisa

            I look out a 43^rd floor window of Elizabeth Harvey’s apartment. I cannot tell the city lights from the stars above. A clear city sky is something I could not imagine when we were kids. I should not be able to tell you are with me, but knowing that we are here at the same time makes this different. I can say I am glad you sent me a message when you did. I smile. There is so much that has changed, so many miracles humanity has made happen. We have all the energy. We can clean up our messes. We have even played God. We can go beyond empathizing with people. However, there are things we still cannot fix. I walk away from the window. Wrap my robe a little tighter. I walk into a room. There is a crib, the walls are painted with flowers. In the crib is a baby. Her name is Marigold. Eliza and Theo’s five month old.  Eliza my college roommate, you remember right? I put my hand lightly on little Marigold’s forehead. This is life. One of the most complicated, yet so simple things. I can see her breathing. A tear wets my toe.

            I run my hands across my face. Cough. I sit on the floor, the crib towers over me. About two months ago I went to see the doctor. He said I could not bear children. I did not know what I had lost. I did not care. When I read about Lexi Green, something snapped. She was just a girl. Another of the tragedies we cannot stop even with all the miracles we have at our disposal. I felt the weight of regret. I feel stupid. I wish I could just have told you about it. Not that we had planned to have kids or anything. Just the fact that I cannot... I am not sure. This is how you get to know. When I feel like I am in a room alone, and I barely know you are here. I came up here, cause I wanted to talk to someone. So I called Eliza. I wanted to just run away for a little.

            I get up. I get a drink of water. It helped, but I want to go home now. I have not told any other people. I will never tell Mom, or Dad. Life is not bad, maybe I am spoiled. My arms can barely move. I am going to sleep. 

            The stream fades. I write, “Sleep well. Waiting for you to come home. Love you.”

            It’s cold. She cannot have children. I wish I could fix that. She is right. For all the world problems that have been resolved people’s problems have not gone away. If she wanted, she could still have a child of her blood, but it’d be born from a tube, cultured in a lab somewhere. An android baby. That was somewhere in here thoughts, but in a far away place. That was not the point. We cannot have children.  We cannot have little people who learn and love and turn into real people. It reminds me of the trip to Baja.

            We were at the Church giving out food.  We watched all the refugees line up, homeless ragged, and hungry. When we finished, I remember she asked me to buy her cigarettes. I did as she asked and walked to the corner liquor store and bought her a pack of reds. I remember putting the cig on her lips and lighting it while I told her to suck through the filter. She’d never smoked before that. I watched her cough and fail to get the smoke into her lungs. We sat on the porch of the shack we were all staring at. I wanted to be a cook back then, but my dad convinced me to go into computer science. She wanted to be a painter. She ended up doing economics. Neither of us got to do what we wanted. I did not think we married for love, but because it was easy and we understood the suffering of expectation. Sometimes I think when we are around other people life easier. We know how to act. I used to know myself, but I’ve been less and less me as time has gone on. I felt empty. Maybe I was jealous when I saw her painting, she might have been sad, but it was more emotion than I can remember having in a while. Or maybe, she is bringing back something in me. Or making something new. She needs me. That feels good. I know her sadness now. Or a little of it. It makes me feel like I know myself a little more just from this. I want to make her happy.

            I get a message from her, “Night. Love you, too.”

            They are just words, but I want to believe they mean something. We are both lost, but if we know each other more and more then we can navigate the world a little better.  I do not know what it would be like to live without her anymore.

Future Musings - Part 2

Urchin

            I look at the clock. It’s 3:16 P.M. Robbie is late. The little bell on the door rattles. I look and see the security guard, Jeremy, nod to a shaggy hipster with a big headphones wearing girl behind him. He walks slowly and his eyes are dark from what I can only imagine as a lack of sleep. The girl stares off into the distance. She’s squinting like everything’s just a little bit too sharp and bright, probably spends too much time inside.  She has the volume turned up, like she wants everyone to hear her theme song while she walks around.  I turn to the guy. I put on that 87% customer satisfaction smile and ask him, “How can I help you today, Lukas?”

            “Yo Urchin,” his lips look dry. “I am here for my,” he sniffs. “Weekly pick up. Where’s Robbie at?”

            “Not sure, but I’ve been waiting here for like half an hour. Let me get you sorted, man. Be right back.”

            My name is Irvin, but almost everyone’s called me Urchin since I was a kid. It’s because I used to eat off the floor, my mom says. I open the door to the back and grab two empty bottles and a paper bag. I open the barrel of Levi’s Homeopathic Sleeping pills next to the Tylenol-6. I put 14 little black capsules in the orange, see-through, childproof (except not really) bottle. Then I do the same with Levi’s Daily Vitamins. The capsules are the kind of off white that t-shirts get after you wash them a few times. A black pill, a white pill, and a glass of water, this is what dreams are made of, or at least the hallucinogenic and highly illegal kind of dreams. They call it Dream Dust; we call it our golden goose. Highly addictive, prone to abuse, and not something the pharmaceutical companies can sell, so they would rather no one sell it. This was dad’s clever way of hiding the drugs; split it in half. Mom says he picked black and white cause it was supposed to show the symbolic balance of yin and yang or some shit like that. I put the little plastic bottles in the discreet paper bag. I say to Lukas, “Here you go, man.”

            “Dude. Thanks.”

            He hands me the $120 cash, which I then put in little drop box safe under the register. He starts to walk out. I tell him, “You have a good day now, and be careful.”

            “Always. Man.”

            The little doorbell rings twice, a guy that looks like a cross between Mick Jagger and Jared from those old Subway commercials walks in. Mother’s boyfriend’s son from his dead wife, my three years older than me not-brother, Robert. 

            “Robbie, what the fuck?”

            “Yeah sorry, Urch. We got a little held up.”

            “It’s been more than half an hour. Wait, we?”

            “Yeah. Peter and my dad are in the back, we need the loading doors open.”

            “Take the front, I’ll get the back door.”

            I go to the back and take off my I-work-here coat. I go through the second door into the loading room, also full of barrels. I pull my chain full of keys out my pocket, stick it into the slot and push the green button. The two garage doors slowly click-clack open. Handsome half – brother, first born son of Levi, Peter doesn’t even say hi. He looks worn and lacking in sleep. Standing like a moron is Morbid, mother’s beardy and obese boyfriend, dad’s old colleague, supplier of the raw goods that Mom turns into Dream Dust. I help unload the smaller of the cases and barrels.  I never see them much, Robbie, Morbid, and Peter. Haven’t gotten to see Mom and Jake much either, they are always at the lab brewing. The business keeps us from ever being at home at the same time. It means not having to put up with Morbid and Robbie, but it’d be nice to see Mom more. I only ever see the nine other residents of my home, whose names I am okay with forgetting from time to time.

            Peter asks, “You want a ride back?”

            “Yeah, that’d be great thanks,” I say. “Let me just grab my stuff.”

            No one returns Morbid’s wave good-bye.

            I go to the backroom and grab my backpack. I take a deep breath. Dad’s been dead for four years; he died in the middle of my third year of six years at put-pills-in-bottles school. I wanted to be just like him, a medicine man. I was supposed to take over the family business. I just never imagined I would be part of it without him at this point. So here I am. Doing what I know how to do, with people in the same boat. Just living. It’s easier to remember him here, working in this room. I used to think all the pills and syrups and powders and vapors were there to keep people alive. Before he died my dad said, “Staying alive isn’t too hard, not suffering while you do it is the hard part.”  I am not suffering, but just living doesn’t make me feel alive.

            Maybe that’s why he became the Sandman, aka the King of Dreams, aka the real Morpheus. He could have done any number of things to make it big, but he decided to make drugs that he shouldn’t have been selling. I walk out to the front to say good-bye. Robbie is talking to Tod Lindman. Tod reminds me of the gum you stick under a desk and forget about, only to touch it later by accident. Robbie pushes me aside, off to get a little baggie just like the one I made for Lukas. I nod at Tod. Then wave to the guard.

            I say, “See you Monday Jeremy.”     

            He says, “See ya kid.”

            Jeremy works for the Sanella Family. We make the drugs, we sell the drugs, and they make sure the right people aren’t paying attention to us. They take a small cut, and no one is going to stop us, or care about stopping us at least. I head back to Peter’s truck. As we drive away I look at the big sign on the top of the corner shop of the mini mall, “Levi’s Pharmacy.” Dad started the business with his first wife (Ollie); they had four children (my half-siblings). My mother (Julia) is the second wife. They only had two kids, my sister Isha (who is up in NYU right now studying fine art) and me.  After Dad died, Mom started going out with Morbid. Together they had three kids (my half-siblings part two).  Morbid had four children from his dead wife (my four not-siblings).  That makes 15 of us. To many damn people in one house. A house my father built. A house built on dreams.

            Peter drops me off a block away from the house, pulling a truck out of a cul-de-sac is a pain. I wave good-bye.

            “Thanks.”

            “No problem kid.”

            The supposed waste disposal truck of XS-U191, commercially known as Sorelium, goes off into the distance. My Synapse says I got a message. It’s from my sister Isha, “Are you free? Can I call?”

            I call her up.

            “Hey, what’s up?”

            “Hey Urchin. Whatcha doin?”

            “Walking home. I just finished my shift and helped unload some stuff. Work’s been pretty boring. What are you up to?”

            “My exhibit went up tonight.”

            “Oh yeah? That’s great, you’ve been working hard on that for a while. Did they put up the picture of the dragon being decapitated? I like that one.”

            “Yeah. I asked the curator to make sure that one got in. I have a whole little section in the museum to myself. I hope I find some buyers. But I am just glad to be done. How’s everything else?”

            “Same old. House is still full of bums. Business is always busy. Still haven’t seen mom. You should call her, she’d like that.”

            “You should call her too.”

            “Yeah probably.”

            “I am excited for you guys to come see me in 3 months.”

            “Yeah it’ll be nice to see New York, or even just get out of here for three days. And we get to see you walk up on stage and get your diploma and everything. Then you can go do something you like doing. Don’t ever stop painting okay? Unless you really don’t want to.”

            She laughs. “I can’t imagine I’d stop any time soon. You know you don’t have to stay in the business.”

            “I don’t know how to do anything else, just working at another pharmacy would be even more boring. And it’s easy money.”

            “That money paid for school, and money is nice, but once you have it you should do something with it.”

            “You can’t do anything with it, if making it takes up all your time.”

            “Then take a break. A real break. Not just a three day visit three months from now.”

            “Maybe, we wouldn’t have anyone else to take my shifts though. ”

            “Well, find a replacement. I don’t know. You always tell me to go do what I want, but you sit there at home like you have some chip on your shoulder.”

            “It’s dads legacy. I don’t want to just leave it.”

            “You can’t just hid under his shadow forever. Go learn to do something else you love. Then make your own legacy.”

            I say nothing.

            “Well, I gotta go. I’ll call again soon.”

            “Bye.”

            Click.

            I could do something different. That requires effort. I just want it to come to me. I want it to be easy. I am using my old man’s death like a crutch, but I don’t care.

            I open the door to the house. The kiddies are in the living room watching what I think might be Spongebob. I can see a fat lump on the couch covered in blankets, that I can only assume is Robbie’s bum-ass twin, Lisa. I nudge her with my foot.

            “Hey dingus, you’re supposed to be watching the kids.”

            A silent “fuck you” slips from under the blankets where the kids can’t see it before returning from where it came.

            “Jeanie, you guys eat yet?”

            “Yeah, Irene made some Easy-Mac.”

            The three little demons, I mean children, make noises that seem to be in agreement. It seems as though the television seems to create a sort of energy field that prevents them from forming coherent sentences.

            “Where’s Irene now?”

            Jeanie rolls her eyes. “Out with friends, I think.”

            Irene is that social 17 year old out on Friday, I was never that kid. Jeanie’s the only one of Morbid’s lot that I have any hope for. She thinks she wants to be a singer. She’s just twelve though, still lots of change to come. She’s just like her sister Irene was when I first met her, excited about life and blissfully ignorant. I would hope she turns out more like Isha and works hard at what she wants. Unlike the rest of us, doing things cause it’s easy.

            “Okay, I am going to sleep. Since, you know, I’ve been working all day.”

            I got to the kitchen. I make a sandwich out of turkey cold cuts  (we are out of cheese) and pour myself a glass of water.

            I head up to my room. Pull out my chain of keys and open the door. Lock it from the inside. The click of the bolt sanctifies the space. I sit down on my bed. I pull the crust off the bread. Take a bite. Drink a little, and swallow. I put it down on my nightstand. I am not really that hungry. I open the little drawer. There sits a half empty bottle of Sorelium. Medical miracle to the middle class, motivator and life extender. It’s not just focus in a bottle; it’s the will to move forward. It’s what kept me going after Dad died. Better than Nicotine, better than Adderall, better than cocaine. Keeps you working for hours, no boredom, just auto-pilot. The only negative side effect is missing out on the moments, but that’s the point. It’s how Mom and Morbid and Peter and Jake and Robbie and I do what we do. Dad was always dubious of the stuff. He never let Isha and me touch the stuff while he was alive. I couldn’t help it though. It works; it does all that it promises and more. Dad could never bring himself to hate Sorelium though. His Dream Dust, his legacy, was made of the process waste in the making of Sorelium. Dream Dust is made by the unwanted byproduct of middle-class desire to forget how to struggle.

            I have two bottles next to the Expodrol. One full of black pills, and one full of white ones. I’ve never tried what I’ve been selling. I always looked down on the trashy dreamers. My father’s greatest work, the power to change reality and perception. The antithesis of the mind numbing autopilot I take everyday to keep making money. Taking Dream Dust is supposed to be the opposite of easy, the opposite of shutting down. I am tired of blunting it all. I want to feel. Today, I want to start giving a fuck. I don’t know if taking Dream Dust will fix that, but at least this borders on trying. I tack pill out of each bottle and hold them in my hand. A little black pill, a little white pill, and a swig of water.

           

            Gracie Choi kisses me on the cheek. She smells like cotton candy. Her hair is blue like cotton candy too. I want to know her sweetness. She’s 17, and not dead, because she didn’t fuck the whole basketball team and make a video of it, so her father didn’t kill her, probably because he didn’t lose his job too.             I hold her hand and walk her over to the table. I prepared grilled lobster in papaya reduction sauce and garlic infused fillet mignon topped with mushrooms cooked medium rare. And white wine, because Gracie said she likes white wines. I caress her face. Run my thumb over her shining pink lips. I say, “I never want this to end.”

            She smiles. “It doesn’t have to.”

            We eat. We talk about the world and the sum of our 17 years of living thus far. We talk about going to the same college. We talk about books. We talk about movie.

            We go to the same college. We get rich doing nothing. We watch movies. We make movies. We don’t need anyone else.

            I spend forever with her, getting to understand her in everyway possible. Making up for all the fucks I never got out of three days of holding hands. Three days in a dream that never happened. Forever here is real. 

            Isha and I are looking out into the Grand Canyon, I am 14 and she’s 11. Mom and Dad are taking stupid family photos. I smile for the camera.

            Dad says, “Alright lets go! Still have to see the rest of the states.”

            Isha says, “That’s so many.”

            I say, “Yeah that’s going to take forever.”

            He says, “We have all the time in the world.”

            We go and we travel and we eat everything. Mom never gets fat, and Dad doesn’t get a heart attack. Isha doesn’t have to spend two years seeing a psychiatrist. We travel the world. I am 14 for every birthday. Dad makes a pill that makes everyone live forever.

            Isha paints a mural. It’s huge. She mixes colors. It looks so real. I walk in and stroll through a forest. I swim through a coral reef. I ride on a dragon’s back. I float into space and drift. I connect the stars with my fingers. Constellations come to life. Isha and I play with the stars. The universe is our playground. I can do everything. 

           

            Billy Morita tells me I look like a fucking retard. I manage to snap back that I am not the one that rides short bus in the morning. I tell him I am pretty sure his crippled sister wouldn’t appreciate him using that word. I don’t miss catching the punch he throws at me. I smack him on the face with my tiny knuckles. He’s the one with a bloody lip.

            I am in a garden. I am planting flowers. I am not on Sorelium any more. I actually really want to work. It feels good. I am not on Dream Dust, either. I live my dream. I grow my own food. I cook my vegetables. I am self sustaining. I am like a tree. I am a tree. I am happy.

            My mouth is really dry. I am really tired. I can feel the cracks and sting on my lips when I lick them. I reach for the glass of water on the nightstand. I knock it over. The carpet is wet. I manage to save some of it from spilling all the way. The Sun is up. The smell of slightly turkey meat hits my nose. I shouldn’t have made that sandwich, it looks bad now, in a few hours it’ll start to smell. I am hungry.

            There’s a knock on the door.

            “It’s me.”

            It’s Irene.  I unbolt and unlock the door. Her hair is a mess. She’s got some glitter on her face. She smells like 151. I step back and sit on my bed. She closes the door behind her and bolts it.

            She says, “I got a huge paper to write for Monday.”

            She walks over to me. She sits on my lap. She plays with my hair. Our lips meet. Her tongue probes my mouth. She starts to pull off her shirt. I break our kiss. I stop her. This is another thing that is too easy. I’ve been shitting where I eat. No more.

            “I am not in the mood right now.”

            She looks surprised. I take the opportunity to reach into the nightstand drawer and pull out the bottle of Expodrol. I hand it to her. She takes it. She looks me in the eye.

            “You know I don’t just come to see you cause I need your drugs.”

            “I know.” I kiss her on the forehead. “I just need to rest right now.”

            She bits her lip. Gets up and walk out. I lock and bolt the door. The living nightmare is full of suffering. She’ll get addicted. She’s allowed to want it to be easy. I don’t want that anymore. I need to go find a replacement. I need to find something fulfilling. I need to do a little more soul searching. So I’ll do a little dreaming. A little white pill, a little black pill, and a half full glass of water, so I can wake up.