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.