Wednesday, November 12, 2008

Literature: Homesteader 2

Brandon’s car zipped along through the transparent tubes and swerved fearlessly from one tube to the next, whisking by opposing cars with only inches to spare. The minute volume of the commotion was what he found so unnerving. He remembered sentimentally the riding of the freeways with his father. His father had told him something about “the freedom of the open road” before the last of the freeways in Los Angeles was shut down for good. For good. Brandon decided to close the blinds.

“Will you be resting this evening Senior Calabasa?” his auto-chauff asked. “I could activate the noise cancellation.”

“No thank you Mrs. Buttersworth. In fact, I would like some music please.”

“Of course, Senior Calabasa.”

Brandon insisted on having his Auto-chauff, Mrs. Buttersworth, refer to him as “Mr. Pumpkin” as a constant reminder of the artificiality of their exchanges. In fact, he had named his auto-vac, auto-chef, and auto-groom Vigilante Justice, Goat Molester, and Mr. Ection respectively. In keeping himself to himself so much, he worried about building too strong a relationship with any of his auto-nomes.

He jostled lightly and closed his eyes as the outstanding sound system placed him in the center row of the Milan Opera House. He could almost feel the tenor’s vibrato reverberating off of the mahogany handrails. Puccini’s La Boheme. His favorite. He imagined himself in an ancient tuxedo, accompanied by a buxom woman with smiling, imperfect teeth. She glances at him lovingly and squeezes his arm excitedly as Act 1 draws to a close.

“We have arrived in your car port Senior Calabasa.”

“Thank you Mrs. Buttersworth,” replied Brandon. “Tomorrow I will have you replaced with a microwave full of dirty diapers.”

“Ho Hoo. Good one, you scoundrel.”

As Brandon strode through the breezeway and into the parlor, the lights warmed gently, and the fake fireplace began to crackle. Brandon loosened his tie and glanced at the TV wall.

“Mr. Ection,” Brandon called softly.

“Yes, Sir?”

“I want to view my soc-credits.”

The screen instantly flashed a chart that showed his soc-credit reserve by month. The bright blue screen reflected off his face as he poured himself a bourbon from the parlor bar. 9,008,285 soc-credits. Not nearly enough. If he bought a two-month vacation at the cabin he would almost be back where he started. Two months isn’t even close to enough time for what I have in mind, he thought. He took a sip a flopped back into the billowing sofa. His drink hand extended a accusatory finger and poked his soft belly.

“Show me news,” he mumbled.

“And that’s it from here Marlene, A gala event to mark a monumental moment in our city’s history.”

“Thanks, Gill. When we come back we’ll tell you who’s hot in crown-top and who will be joining the injured-reserve. Stay Tuned.”

The screen showed a lagoon-like pool surrounded with soft, white, plastic pebbles. Purple light streaks through the misty air. A naked man playfully chases a laughing woman. The perspective swoops away and they disappear into the fog. Splashes. In front of the misty pool reclines another couple. The woman contentedly pops a yellow into her mouth.

“An oasis of pleasure. The time of your life. You deserve it…”

Brandon clicked off the TV and pulled the vacation magazine out of his briefcase. Leaning back on the bolsters he wondered if he could hit the ceiling with his glass without standing up.

Sunday, November 2, 2008

Literature: Homesteader 1

Out. That’s what Brandon Mercer wanted. He gazed longingly at the photo in the back of the vacation magazine as he sat in the glass-domed coffee shop on the fifth floor. He sighed pitifully and glanced to the TV screen. They were showing a sport, crowntop, that he didn’t understand. It was kind of a mix between king-of-the-mountain, football, and capture-the-flag. Three of the grey team were unceremoniously knocking two of the greens down to the lower level. For a while he had been keeping track of the standings if for nothing else than a chance to relate to his contemporaries. It had worked, sort of, but he had lost interest.
He had never found that thing that he was looking for among the shining towers of the corporate village or the sprawling bubble-shaped houses packed with convenience. He himself had a Spanish-style villa with a personal theater and a restaurant quality kitchen, not that he could find any decent ingredients any more. The safety of ultra-pasteurization had washed away the subtleties of his favorite flavors. He usually ordered out.
The magazine was open to the last page, where only the least-expensive, poorly designed, cramped ads would be found. Truly rustic retreats had fallen out of vogue long ago, competing with fantasy camps, ultra-sports, med-spas, and the like. In one corner was the image that intrigued him. A dilapidated cabin sat a-top a gently sloping hill bending towards a steel-grey river. Behind and above the cabin stood towering pines and small, knotted birches. What would it be like? Could he pay the caretaker to turn off the surveillance devices or even remove them? The expense, he thought, would only prolong his captivity in the Grant Corporation.
Oh no. Murray. Murray stood with his tray only twenty feet away. It was obvious to Brandon that Murray had seen him and wanted Brandon to notice that Murray clearly hadn’t seen him, and now Murray looked for a reason not to join him. Murray looked past Brandon and then saw a seat near the screen which he moved towards eagerly. Thank God. Everyone in Brandon’s department congenially avoided him now. He was roundly regarded as a harmless dullard. Everyone had attempted friendliness with Brandon but his disinterest was eventually reciprocated.
Through the dome and the rain he could almost see the tube to the valley that he would travel after work. Just as he always had.