The city was bloated, gushing muddy rain water and garbage from every gutter on every corner. Streets exhaled, belching steam through iron gills as the worst storm in recent memory crawled over San Francisco’s pock-marked surface, ushering in the biting chill of winter. Through gray mist the city appeared oppressive and claustrophobic, compacted on itself - a glowing jewel of diffused light and vapor, brilliant against the velvet backing of night. Dennis felt the mist against his face as he watched the searchlight cut through the thick October sky from the 28th level Sky Bay courtyard.
A bitter-salty cocktail of rain water and sweat flushed his tongue and reminded him he was awake. Time weighed on his eye lids, blanketing his big black pupils in the comfort of unconsciousness. He could not sleep, not now. Running his fingers through his hair and shaking loose the water, he turned toward the elevator. Around him trees whipped and waned in the dark. He waited under the light of a single lamp crowning the elevator door as each ascending floor’s chime danced through the raindrops and out into the night. The doors parted and a morbidly pleasant female voice beckoned him in:
Welcome to San Francisco’s Sky Bay Towers, please select your destination.
Level 4, Tower 1.
The lift’s high frequency hum surrounded him as he closed his eyes and relaxed into a corner. It was too bright. Too damn bright. The feeling was going - he clenched and released his fists unconsciously. His whole body was clammy underneath his button down and trench coat. He felt the elevator slowing in his stomach.
Even at 2:30am Level 4 was all a-clatter. Crowds of businessmen and scientists and janitors and tourists criss-crossed the sun-drenched streets, flocking in and out of faux building fronts that sparkled with perverted sterility. The sky over their heads was perfect blue. Dennis balled his fists in his coat pocket and weaved through schools of men and women who jumped aside and scoffed as he passed. His shoes squeaked across the marble sidewalks as he lumbered up the street toward a tiny VR club at the corner of 3rd & F St. called Colors. He knew a guy there named Franco that was always willing to help him out in a time of need.
The entrance to the club was marked only by a series of multi-colored squares spray-painted an otherwise unremarkable brick wall. He placed his shaking palm down upon a pastel pink square and then passed through the wall as if it were nothing more than air. He stumbled down a long, white walled corridor lined with luxurious black and gold rugs laid end-to-end. Extravagant chandeliers flickered light in all directions. The air smelled of cigar smoke with a faint powdery chase. His footsteps echoed in his ears – he could never get used to it. The tap of his heel on concrete filled his head. He knew none of it was real, that the subtle pressure cracks that squiggled across the ceiling, the intricate pattern work threaded through the carpeting, the clumsy brush strokes on the surface of each canvas were nothing more than lines of data in a hard-drive somewhere, but it still tricked him. He didn’t enjoy being so easily fooled.
The hallway opened into a much larger space with floor-to-ceiling views of some foreign cityscape he didn’t recognize. Budapest, maybe. Definitely eastern European. The buildings had a soiled radiance to them in the orange glow of sunset. All brown stone and dark wood, the city was stacked on top of itself in every possible direction. Inside, the pristine monochrome décor offered stark contrast. Simulated luxury harmonizing with imitated history.
He saw Franco from across the room, polishing a glass behind a black leather bar with 5 empty chrome stools. His sandy skin popped against the black vest and white button-down. The faint rumble of conversation trailed him as he crossed the checkered tiles toward the far corner of the room, though no one else was in sight. He suspected this too was replicated. As he approached the bar his vision began to go. First the corners of his eyes were spotted black, then white, then yellow, then red, then black again.
“Hey there, my man,” Franco said, looking up from the bar, “you OK?”
Dennis stood still for a moment with his fingers pinching his temples.
“Yea…yea, I’m alright."
“Holy shit! Dennis? I can barely recognize you, my friend. Been a long time.”
“Certainly has. I’ve been…uh…you know, I’ve been swamped. How’ve you been, Franco?” he said, steadying himself on the corner of a stool.
“Shiiiit, my friend, business has been good, as you can see.”
“You and I both know this place is probably a dump underneath all of this. Gimmie a Jack n’ Coke. Easy on th—
“Ya, I know, easy on the Coke. Look different, but you never change.”
“Don’t you start with me too…”
“Hey there, my man,” Franco said, looking up from the bar, “you OK?”
Dennis stood still for a moment with his fingers pinching his temples.
“Yea…yea, I’m alright."
“Holy shit! Dennis? I can barely recognize you, my friend. Been a long time.”
“Certainly has. I’ve been…uh…you know, I’ve been swamped. How’ve you been, Franco?” he said, steadying himself on the corner of a stool.
“Shiiiit, my friend, business has been good, as you can see.”
“You and I both know this place is probably a dump underneath all of this. Gimmie a Jack n’ Coke. Easy on th—
“Ya, I know, easy on the Coke. Look different, but you never change.”
“Don’t you start with me too…”
Franco’s hands moved faster than Dennis’ eyes could follow. He tossed a high-ball glass gracefully from one hand to the other, filled it with ice and Jack Daniels, topping it off with a spritz of Coke from a spray nozzle and a wedge of lime. Through his spotted vision Dennis reached for the glass, knocking and tipping it onto his hand. A drop of the tonic streamed down his forearm into his sleeve as he cussed under his breath and wrung his hands out violently.
“Somebody is in not so good mood tonight, eh? Wha’s wrong?”
“I didn’t come here for a head shrink, Franco.”
“Ah, but you did come here for something, yes?”
Dennis swirled the ice around in his drink absentmindedly with the little red straw before taking a prolonged swig.
“Yea, I did come for something.”
“Listen, man, that shit is no good for you—”
“You got some or not?”
“You are my friend for long time, I don’t like to see you like this. You’re smart guy, why you do this to yourself? Maybe you take a break, yea? Get some rest?”
“God dammit, Franco, would you quit fuckin’ with me here. Either sell me something or I’ll go down the street to Raul, alright? I’m not in the mood for this shit right now.”
“Ok, Ok. Finish your drink, I’ll be right back. You want any food?”
“Nah, I’m fine.”
He wasn’t. He had to shove his left hand under his thigh to keep it from trembling. His vision was still spotty. He glanced up at the TV behind the bar. Soccer. He hated soccer. Bunch of guys in shorts running back and forth like chickens with their heads cut off. Never understood the appeal. He stared at the grass and his vision became green. Next thing he knew Franco was sitting in the stool next to him with a hand planted firmly on his shoulder.
“You sure you Ok, my friend? You look like hell.”
He shook the green out of his eyes and looked Franco in the face with pupils like hockey pucks. He held his gaze for an uncomfortably long time before Franco broke off. A devilish smile curved Dennis’ lips.
“How much do I owe you?” he asked, digging in his coat pocket.
Franco’s jagged features pulsated gently between the yellow spots.
“Seventy-five for one bag, same as always.”
There was reluctance in his voice, but Dennis didn’t hear it. The roar of rabid soccer fans swelled in his ears like fingernails on a chalkboard as the guys in black and red shorts scored a goal. The extended scream of the announcer turned his vision red. He peeled Franco’s hand from his shoulder, placed four damp twenties in his palm and closed it.
“I hope you know this is highway robbery,” he said as he pushed the baggie of little red hearts into his pants pocket.
“Don’t like the cost, don’t do the drug, my friend.”
“Maybe someday, Franco. But you’ve got such a nice place here I wouldn’t want to fuck with your bottom line. How would you afford all these wonderful things without guys like me?”
Franco placed his callous hand in Dennis’ and squeezed hard for longer than was comfortable for either of them.
“Take care of yourself, Denny. You are a good man, this is no life for you.”
Dennis’ apartment was on the Level 25 of Tower 1, a cramped one-bedroom with a view of a tiny corner of the downtown skyline that usually remained obscured behind drawn drapes, though not tonight. He put his head to the glass and peered down to the base of the tower. The cold against his forehead sent sensations straight through his skull into his brain and he became suddenly aware of how hot he was. He loosened his collar and then scrunched his nose and cheeks against the glass letting the frost cool his fever.
Cars and buses zig-zagged across the glowing grid of streets far below him. The rain made every light explode, blooming like fuzzy little suns in the night. He turned his head and placed his ear to the window, listening to the muffled patter of rain striking the building. At one time he might have found beauty in the arbitrary rhythms of nature, but in his current state it felt just as hallow and frivolous as everything else did. He continued to listen until he completely lost track of time.
Next thing Dennis knew, he was face down on the sofa and sweating. He peeled his cheek from the leather and looked around the empty room. The rain outside was still looking like chain mail against the dark sky. It took him a few moments to realize that his ear was ringing. He sat up and wiped the sweat from his face with both hands. What the fuck time is it? It was another moment before he figured out that the tickle in his inner ear was a phone call and not a side effect of the comedown. He lifted his sleeve to check the dial on his wrist.
4:38am – Incoming: Charles Alexander.
He fumbled for the answer button as he made his way to the kitchen.
“Morning, Charles,” he said, clearing his throat, “that time again?”
He let the faucet run for a few seconds before splashing handfuls of warm water on his face to wash away the sweat. Charles’ voice was buzzing in his head, but he wasn’t paying close attention. He flicked the water off his hands and reached for a towel. The smell of detergent filled his nostrils as he dragged the cloth over his face. It reminded him of Michelle. Most things did.
“Ok, Cancun, yea, that’s fine with me,” he replied. “What time?”
The kitchen counter was cluttered with used cups, plates caked with dried old food, cereal bowls ringed with curdled milk, empty boxes and plastic wrap. He searched the cupboards for a clean glass until finally he tilted his head under the faucet and let the water fill his mouth.
“Alright, Cancun in twenty minutes, I’ll see you there,” he choked as he wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
He pulled aside the drapes, squeezed into the cramped closet he called an office and crouched down in front of the monitor. The only light in the 4' x 5' box came from the glow of the screen and the countless specks of red, orange and green LEDs that floated in the darkness up and down the walls around him. He found the splitter under a cluster of wires, punched the button three times and a live video feed flickered in front of him. The image was a blotch of deep crimson fuzziness with black around the edges. In the bottom right corner the words 'Power Save Mode' cycled across the screen.
He tapped a box in the upper corner and it expanded to fill the screen. The feed showed a dim bedroom interior. He squinted his eyes and could barely make out the curve of a body beneath the blankets. Everything in the room was still. He thought about waking up with his face in the leather couch as he stared absentmindedly at the screen. He couldn't remember what he'd done last night. For a few moments he tried piecing it together in his mind, but eventually his thoughts wandered and he decided that it was probably best not to remember anyway. He tapped over to the data flow window and gave the numbers a quick skim. Everything looked normal.
As soon as the data was loaded to his handheld, he shoved it in his jacket pocket and was out the door. His coat felt slushy, like he'd been caught in a rain storm. He guessed he must have gone out last night. He tried not to think about it too much. The base of his cranium throbbed like someone had left a rock in there, but he kept a little bottle of Advil in his coat for just such an occasion. He didn't mind the headaches, they were an inevitability of the comedown, it was the sweat that got him. The first time he popped Lucys he woke up dry as a church town, his eyes red and irritated, his mouth like he'd been chewing sandpaper. He remembered hating the feeling. For days after he could barely eat his tastebuds had been rubbed so raw. But lately, he'd been getting cold sweats nearly every night. Whether it was hot or cold, day or night, whether he slept naked or clothed, in his bed or on the floor - it was all the same. He'd wake up feeling like he'd been sneezed out of some drippy, oversized nose. He wasn't sure which was worse.
He took a cab from the corner outside Sky-Bay down 3rd Street to Market. The drive only took about five minutes, but he dozed off nonetheless. When the driver shook him awake, he saw that the entire intersection was at a standstill.
"What's all this shit?" he garbled as he dug in his pocket for a credit card.
"Fleet week," the driver responded in a thick accent.
"Shit."
Dennis swiped the card in front of the sensor and pulled himself out of the back seat.
He started to say: "Thanks, buddy," but the driver screeched off before he could even finish turning around. Under a fluffy gray sky he walked the remaining three blocks in a daze and arrived at 6th and Market only a few minutes late. He stepped into Cancun where Charles was already waiting at a booth in the corner. The air inside the hole-in-the-wall taqueria was thick with the smoke of burnt oil and all the walls dripped with yellow grime. As Dennis approached the table, Charles lowered a burrito from his face and wiped his mouth with a napkin.
"Hit that traffic?" he asked with a smile.
"Nah, not really. I walked most of the way here."
"You want anything to eat? My buddy Manuel will take care of you."
Charles was half perched in his seat, half standing, trying to get the attention of a cook behind the prep station. A slimy slop of oily cheese, sour cream and greasy carne dripped out the side of his burrito, staining his skin orange.
"No, no, I'm alright," Dennis reassured him, "it's too early for that garbage anyway."
"Garbage?" Charles chuckled, "My friend, this is the best burrito in the city. Nothing better after a long night."
He suppressed the sick feeling in his stomach and forced a smile.
"There isn't a taqueria in San Francisco that isn't the best burrito in town to somebody. I've got my own pick."
"Suit yourself," Charles said as he continued to stuff his face, "you're missin' out though."
There were times when Dennis couldn't look at Charles Alexander without the image of a squirming little piglet coming to mind. He wasn't fat, per say, but he carried around a good deal more than he needed and there was something about his mannerisms that was unmistakably swine-like. Perhaps it was his stubby little fingers or the slight upturn of his nose, he was never sure exactly. But at that moment, with the foil-wrapped tube of slop in his grips, that look of greedy, devious satisfaction in his eyes, the smell of stale sweat wafting off his skin - it took all the composure he had not to vomit at the sheer disgust he felt for the man.
"So what's the news?" Dennis asked.
"Nothin' much," he spat through a mouthful of rice, "been noticing a bit of a tick, probably an easy fix, but it's reading a little off."
"Oh yea?"
"Been bothering me for awhile now, but I've never been able to pinpoint it. I'm starting to think it's in the eyes though."
"How do you mean?"
Charles put down the burrito and wiped the grease from the corner of his mouth.
"You know how when you think about something...sometimes it takes a second for it to come to you and while you're trying to remember you do something - some people roll their eyes back in their head like they're literally looking into their brain for the answer, I knew this one guy who'd always crack his left thumb knuckle - you know what I'm talking about?"
"Sure."
"Well, it doesn't do that. It doesn't do anything, know what I mean? It's just a kinda blank, glazed over look."
"Hmm..."
"Maybe there's nothing you can do, but it just doesn't look right. Somethin' to think about at least. It's the kind of thing you don't necessarily notice in the lab because it's so damn controlled, but in these field tests, it's really reading."
"Thanks, I'll keep it in mind."
"Just kinda jumps right out and slaps you in the face, know what I mean? And I know you want it to be perfect, right? I don't know how long 'til you guys are planning to go to market with this, but to me - as a complete laymen, of course...just the fuckin' janitor, basically - but to me it really feels like we're in the home stretch here! Just a few bugs fixed here and there, right?"
Dennis' stomach was starting to bubble. The cramping pain was too much to ignore, but he couldn't bring himself to eat. His mouth still retained a bit of that sandpaper feeling, which always made it hard to choke anything down after a night of popping, so he just concentrated on ignoring the sensation.
"Anything else?" he asked.
"Nah, not really," Charles choked, "ev'rything else is in the service notes. Pretty standard. You?"
"No, nothing this time," he said before thinking, then corrected, "wait...wait, there was one thing."
He was having a hard time focusing and his internal clock was telling him it was high time for a pick-me-up. There was a feeling inside him of utter annoyance at the fact that he'd neglected to do a line before leaving the house. There was really no logical explanation as to why he'd forgotten - he always did it. Most of the time he couldn't even get out of bed without a bump and then another on his way out the door to carry him over until lunch. It was such a part of his morning routine that to forget something that fundamental felt like forgetting to lock the front door or turn off the oven. It gnawed at him.
"I brought along a new compass module to replace that other piece of shit finally," he said, wrenching the component from the depths of his coat.
He passed the little black plastic, electro-static resistant sleeve across the tabletop to Charles, who made no motion to receive it.
"That should keep her on track, or at least more aware of her location."
"Good, good," Charles replied, "I'm getting a little sick of trying to follow it around with that old model. It's like a chicken with it's head cut off sometimes, I swear."
"Yea, well...this should help with that. It's installed with new mapping software, so she'll be able to move around more intuitively. When we finally activate her network uplink, it'll be able to receive automatic updates, but for now I'm sure it'll suffice."
"No complaints here."
"I guess that's everything," Dennis said, already halfway out of his seat. "I'll give you a call if there's anything else. Otherwise, Friday?"
"Friday it is."
"Oh," Dennis fumbled, rubbing his eyes, "and that, uh...other thing...how are we on that?"
"No worries, my friend. Won't be a problem anymore."
They both shot quick glances around them like spies in some old cold war-era flick.
"Good," he paused. "Thanks for taking care of that."
"Well, we're in this shit together, right?" Charles smiled.
"Right."
Charles stood up and extended his hand to Dennis. There was no way to avoid it, so he shook it and spent the first two minutes of the walk back down Market Street obsessively wringing out his palm against the fabric on the inside of his jacket pockets. No matter what he did, he couldn't get the oily feeling off.