From: dmr@roadkill.Stanford.EDU (Daniel M. Rosenberg)
Subject: [ Untitled ], segment two, blob 1
Date: 2 Feb 92 07:38:18 GMT
Lines: 133



[ This is more or less the continuation of an earler thread, which I
  won't bother summarizing, as this plot line is not yet parallel to
  the first one. Comments not only appreciated and welcome, but demanded
  of you as a responsible net-citizen to dmr@roadkill.Stanford.EDU. ]


"It's 5am on Radio 5, N S F E Baltimore. Good morning, good evening, blah
blah blah, fuck the traffic report on this snowy, shitty Thursday bright
winter's pre-morning, and get on with the music; on oldie for ya here,
it's the Straightjacket Fits doing 'Skin to Wear.' T'hell with you all,
request line's 280-487-NSFE, request@nsfe.com.

"And it seems so clear
 You darken the doorway
 I cut down your morning
 I put you right out of
 Your misery."

Allen was typically grumpy after a 12 hour shift, which had been
preceded by a minor but irritating traffic accident on the way in,
a fight with his girlfriend, the trying phone call with his mother,
and the winter weather. From August to April, the Chesapeake Bay waters
gathered in concert with the heavens to cast a bronze-gray shell over the
city. All day and all night, all over the visible spectrum.

He liked his work at the station. Most of the market had gone over to
automation, but a few stations still paid out the miniscule salaries needed
to maintain biological on-air talent. They let him pop the carts containing
commercials and station id's all by himself. Allen thoroughly enjoyed
the feeling of craft he got from manipulating the long-obsolete equipment.
It was a small, dusky corner of the world that was more or less under his
control.

"Down to the flight
 Straight bare
 Got my skin to wear.

"Ah yes, nothing quite like early 90's depressoid Kiwi acoustic pop. As a
matter of fact, I do believe we'll make a festival of it until I get a call
from one of you loyal listener-droids who can explain to me why, in
this election year, everyone's favorite incumbent has made no *visible*,
I say again, *visible* efforts to cling to the helm for another four
bracing years of North American hegemony. 280-ITS-NSFE, please."

Allen was 27. Or 28, maybe. "Why keep track," he stated, whenever
someone asked. He clung to bottom of the relic that was the middle
class. Never married. He lived in a studio in the former outskirts of
Baltimore, above a greengrocer. His girlfriend Mara was a plumber, with
strong arms and broad shoulders that came in handy during their lovemaking
in the late afternoon. Mom lived in an "independent home," not wealthy
enough to avoid growing old, not quite graceful enough to hold her son
blameless for the fact.

"Ah, you are on the air, Anne Arundel Heights."
"Yah."
"Ah, the question was, 'Where's the President hiding his campaign?'"
"Uh, yah. Well, uh, wasn't he -- on the V last night, talking about,
 the, the, 'broad brightness'?"
"Ah, that'd be incorrect, caller. That catchy phrase was from an Ono-Sendai
 ad -- 'The Broad, Bright Promise of the Future.' Refers to new
 cyber-decks for the virtual cowboys among you -- the lonely-hero-
 heroically-struggling-for-bundles-of-credit-doing-corporate-espionage
 and all other such masturbation. While you kids scratch your heads --
 don't give up now -- you'll receive more Fits as your well-deserved
 punishment, though *I* for one do like them."

A call came through on the studio line. The display spelled out Mara's home
phone number. She knew it was nearing the end of his shift. Allen
inhaled, patted his chest with both hands, and took the call.

"Mornin' hon."
"Hey there, fool. Listen, I'm --"
"-- sorry. Me too. We're both dumbfucks."
"Speak for yourself."
"Sorry, of course. Will you meet me for breakfast?"
"Allen, I --"
"-- What?"
Mara paused. Though the 'phone wasn't video-equipped, Allen could have
sworn she was biting her lip. "Allen, I have to leave early for work today."
"Well, sweetness, maybe I'll catch you this afternoon?"
"Maybe."
"Love you."
Another pause. "Bye."

That was somewhat foreboding. Allen chuckled unhappily to himself,
and made a little play with his two hands as sparring puppets -- no
clear winner.

He held the edges of the disk, deftly adjusting it until the rainbow
light hit his eyes in the darkened studio. The cart ended, and as it
did so he dialed up the next song and started it in one well-practiced
motion.

The first light of morning glinted off of the bay, and Karen, the next
jock, could already be heard stumbling and bumping into furniture in
the adjacent room. She poked her head into the control room.

"Mighty tart this mornin', sailor!" Karen talked mostly in chummy chortles.
"Yah, you too would kill me for pack of cigarettes."
"Allen, you know I don't smoke!"
"Nevertheless."
"Oh, you're just a cute boy."
"Yank me, babe." He pushed up a slider. "And that will be all for you
 from your loyal DJ Dorkwad this morning, friends. Karen's in the
 house --"
"-- Boyz! --"
"-- and is sure to provide your stumbling brains with sufficient neural
 stimulation so that you may drag your haggard corpses through the
 stuttering daylight."
"Ah, thank you Allen. We will now unchain you from your seat and send
 you on your daytime errands; let's warm up the morning with
 Cat Rapes Dog, here on Radio 5. This is NSFE, Baltimore."

Allen pecked his smiling, freckled coworker on the cheek and handrailed down
the stairs. He pushed out the steel-framed door, and sped down the
urine-fragranced hallway that served as the foyer for an ever-shifting
array of businesses that inhabited the buildings on the block.


[ Remember: comments, etc. ]

* Straightjacket Fits lyrics from the album "Melt,"
  (C) 1990 Flying Nun Records

Text Copyright (C) 1992 Daniel M. Rosenberg. All rights reserved
except free, unmodified redistribution.

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From organpipe.uug.arizona.edu!amethyst!noao!rutgers!cs.utexas.edu!uunet!stanford.edu!Csli!roadkill!dmr Tue Feb  4 08:42:34 MST 1992
Article: 455 of alt.cyberpunk.chatsubo
Path: organpipe.uug.arizona.edu!amethyst!noao!rutgers!cs.utexas.edu!uunet!stanford.edu!Csli!roadkill!dmr
From: dmr@roadkill.Stanford.EDU (Daniel M. Rosenberg)
Newsgroups: alt.cyberpunk.chatsubo
Subject: [ Untitled, segment 2, blob 2 ]
Message-ID: <1992Feb4.055827.370@Csli.Stanford.EDU>
Date: 4 Feb 92 05:58:27 GMT
Sender: news@Csli.Stanford.EDU (CSLI News Service)
Organization: The Very Large Software Company of America
Lines: 166



[ Segment 2, glob 2 ]

"Morning, Mr Homeless Person!" Allen clicked his palate at a sweet-looking,
Santa Claus-aged streetdweller.
"Morning, Mr Fucking Prickhead."

Allen continued jauntily down the early morning street. Spring must've been
on the way; mist wafted above the surface of the sidewalk in the
warming sun. He popped in an automat, happily playing out his morning
ritual despite recent foreboding developments with Mara and
the prospect of dealing with the BAMA Propelled Vehicle goons about
his automotive mishap of the evening before.

The usual hot chocolate croissant -- though not really chocolate, nor
was it exactly croissant-like -- was delicious. Allen could sense
each quantum of flavor as he popped steaming, moist bits of delectable
breakfast into his maw.

"I'm eating experientially! I've been searching for *this* *particular*
*croissant* for as long as I can remember!" Allen's nose began to run
a bit. He wiped on his sleeve. So what? Who was going to prevent
him from wiping his nose on his sleeve? The several other customers of
the employee-less store concentrated grimly on their meals.

Finishing, he walked back out onto the street, and turned the corner,
key card dangling from it's chain. Toyota, Honda, Kia, Kia, Kia,
Hyundai, Kia. Wait. Toyota, TOYOTA, Honda KiaKiaKia HyundaiKia.
Wait, wait. Toyota Toyota HondaKiaKiaKia Hyundai. Kia. Wrong block?

Not the wrong block. He never parked anywhere else. His car was gone.

"Ha ha!" A woman getting into the second car stared at him for a moment.

"Ha ha! My car!" She opened the passenger-side door, dove in, and locked
up, glowering from inside.

Allen spun on his heel, and headed back toward the center of the city.
He reviewed the events of the past 12 hours. Girlfriend. Mom, again.
Accident with car. No more car. He felt the looming presence of freedom.

			*	*	*

The BAMA Propelled Vehicles Bureau office in Baltimore was staffed by
people who were quite obviously insanse. Allen loved the place, if only
because it made for great stories for friends and listeners alike.

Most interactions with the government did not involve actually going
to some office somewhere and dealing with biological clerks. You
could do taxes, moving violations, internal visas and such all over the
'phone or through the net.

Vehicles was different. Legend was some government administrator didn't
get along with some other government administrator and had Vehicles request
for updated equipment denied over and over again, for the past two
Ten Year Plans.

Allen strode through the door. Surprisingly, hardly anyone else was there
except two clerks standing at their positions idly with "Next Position
Please" signs in front of them, and three other clerks tip-tapping
at about 5 wpm in ancient, filthy terminals. Allen went over to
the third one, where no one else was waiting, and chirped, "Good morning!"

The clerk, a young, dour-looking woman, wearing an impossibly large,
incredibly fuzzy purple sweater did nothing but continue
to stare at her terminal, tapping a single key at regular, one second
intervals. Her bulbous nose went up with each finger movement, and
down again with each key press.

Allen peered over the counter. She was pressing the spacebar. Nothing
on the screen was moving. At the bottom, a little picture of man
with a wrench stood next to a red X.

"Sir."
"Yes?"
"Wait."
"Yes, ma'am."

She resumed punching the spacebar. Allen waited. She stopped punching
the spacebar, but didn't look up him. A minute passed. Allen spied
a candy machine in the corner of the bare room, and walked purposefully
over it. He swiped his card through, and selected a rather vintage looking
Japanese candy bar. The corkscrew mechanism groaned, and at the end of
its cycle, the chrome coil slid against a now obvious well-worn groove
across the surface of the bar. Allen cocked his head, imitating a confused
dog. He considered kicking the shit out of the machine, but instead
strode back to the counter, taking enormous, exaggerated strides on the
way there.

"Hi again."
"Computer's down," the purple sweater said.
"Press SysReq."
"Can't. It's down."
"Really. Try it. It's what I do for a living," he lied. But it was
pretty obvious. They'd had these things in school.
"Sir, I'm sorry; it's down."

Allen reached across the counter, and was sorry as soon as she did so.
He saw the clerk's face wrench, in slow motion, into the very picture
of animal rage. All her teeth were showing, and she was letting out
a throaty cry of violent wrath. Both her hands moved to intercept
Allen's wrist.

The other clerks rotated their heads in the direction of the noise, doing
so in seemingly discrete, mechanical movements. It was too late for
Allen to stop, and when the clerk clamped down on Allen's arm, she
only pushed his hand further onto the keyboard.

The little man and his wrench disappeared. A text logo of the letters PVB
appeared, which seemed to surprise the clerk; she jerked her head back.
Allen drew his hands back over the counter. The clerk's eyes grew into
slits as she tried to interpret the screen.

"You probably broke it."

A vivid picture flew through Allen's head. He was jumping up and down
on the clerk's face, and then using her as a battering ram to get into
the candy machine.

"Damn it." Her tone was mean, and she spit her words.
"Please, try it."
"I think it's broken."
"It looks like it's working."
"*I* think it's broken."
Allen drew up over the counter conspiratorially to her.

"Listen, you sliming, stinking, worthless functionary. I assure you that if you
would only *try* your goddamn terminal -- which you obviously have no idea
how to use, given your painfully evident lack of even the most subnormal
reasoning and perceptive abilities -- it *will* work," Allen spoke in
a mock-comforting tone. Then, more threatening, "And I assure
you that if you do not try, you will find yourself locked out of your bank
account, and your records will be further modified to show that you
owe large sums of money to many, many faceless, uncaring multinational
corporations, all of whom employ very effective, quite rude collection
agencies. All quite untraceable." She pressed the spacebar.
He swiped his driver's license through the card reader on the counter.

"You drive a Nissan Sunny, transponder tag 5CGJH 1770?"
"Yah."
"We have it."
"Thought as much. 'Cause it was in an accident?"
"Parked illegally."
"You never towed it in the past ten years I've parked on the same street."
"Street cleaning zone."
"You never clean the streets."
"We don't clean the streets. Sanitation cleans the streets."
"Nevertheless."
"Release it."
"Can't."
"No, really."
"Can't. Can't."
"Ah. Well, thanks for your help. I'll take care of your credit card bills
this month for your troubles." He was lying.
"You're beautiful, pindick." she snarled ungratefully.
"Marry me, tripe-face," he gaily shot back.

[ Comments, please -- dmr@roadkill.Stanford.EDU ]



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