From: KTFD@MARISTB.MARIST.EDU (Brazil, Brian C)
Subject: Life Stories: Tasha
Date: Tue Mar 21 00:22:37 MET 1995

                          A Story of Life: Tasha

        Tasha had never been one of the pretty girls.  While all the other
girls wore pretty dresses on Easter morning, she wore black jeans.  To her
first school dance, she wore a pretty pink dress.  And her classmates, in
their jeans, called her a slut.  But she went home alone.
        She cried in her room for hours, surrounded by pink and blue and
black.  All of it a spinning cyclone of pain.  She was in her room while
her classmates got drunk.  She was in her room when her classmates shot up.
She was in her room when her roommates got laid.  She was in her room when
her classmates died.  Throughout the downward spiral, she only cried.
        Some safety and solace could be found in her room.  She spent hours
a day there, crying away her pains and aggravations.  She never grew up,
never saw the world, yet she took a long, long trip inside her soul.
        A lifelong biosculpt and plastic surgery, a small fortune invested,
only deepened her pain.  No longer was she ugly, she was ugly and fake, a
liar to her own self.  Nothing she did seemed to make her pretty, so she
kept on trying.  Spent her entire inheritance on surgery and, even still,
when she walked down the street, everybody stared.  And she cried.  Out
of money and no work, she cried on the streets, tears dripping on
concrete wet from the flood.  As she sat in the gutter, mud-splattered
and poor.  As she laid in the gutter, plastic surgery whore.
        Prostitution.  It got her money, didn't it?  And she finally got
attention.  Men said she was beautiful, spread out to the world.  For
the first time men said they loved her.  But in the morning, all that
was left was three shillings and the cold New York streets.  She could
afford food and was saving up a little.  She had seen the signs, the
signs of the new world, the better world, the good life, Chiba City.
It was a Utopia of glittering buildings and shining faces. And for
only a few hundred drachma, she could fly there.  She could fly to
Utopia.
        But those savings could fund a trip to the corner better.  To
her friend in red who sold Fantasy.  A few pills and she was surrounded
with yellow and brown and orange and white and red and purple, a
cyclone of beauty.
                               * * *
        Friday night, out of money, on the street, coming down off a
Fantasy high.  Unbelievable pain and looking for a score.  Looking for
another hit of Fantasy.  Another lonely night on the cold streets, but
another hit of Fantasy.
        When the first young man came near, she took herself through
the usual motions.  Keeping her head down, she spread her legs and
whispered, in as raspy a voice as she could gather, "Looking for an
easy score tonight, big boy?"  Without hesitation, the man stopped.
"Yes!" she thought to herself, "An easy hit of Fantasy!"  He paused,
as if he were hesitant.  "Shit!" she though, "He's too much of a
fucking weenie to go for it."
        He placed his thumb and forefinger on her chin, lifting
her gaze from the street underfoot.  When their eyes met, he
whispered back, "Maybe."  He dropped her chin and walked away into
the evening fog.  She watched, angrily, as he walked away from her
perch.  Maybe snagging a customer this evening would be more difficult
than she had expected.  "Are you going to come along with me, girl, or
am I going to have to bloody carry you?"  His voice, gruff but sincere,
billowed from the shadowy city streets.  Tasha lept to her feet and
ran to catch up.
        When she reached him, still in mid-stride, as if he had
somewhere to go, he slid something into her hand: a piece of paper.
She looked at it, all green and crisp, with its funny fives in each
corner and some sort of portrait in the middle.  She had never seen
a real US bill before.  She knew it was what they used before the
war, but they were so rare now.  "For your trouble," he said, not even
looking over at her.  She smiled and tucked it into her bustier.
        "Well, thank you sir.  So, where do you want to fuck?"
        He stopped dead in his tracks and looked over at her.  "I
don't."
        "Then why did you just give me money?  It only costs you
three shillings to have me all night.  Take me all the times you like."
        "I paid you for your time.  I might be wasting a lot of it
tonight, so I thought I'd pay up in advance."  Moments of awkward
silence followed and the man began walking again.  Tasha followed,
watching the way he walked with great awe.  She had never seen anyone
on the street walking like that.  It seemed he was actually going
somewhere, like his steps had purpose.  No one on the street was
going anywhere.  Tasha knew that.  Once on the street, you were there
for good.  There was no escape.  There was nowhere to go.  Why would
anyone was with purpose if there was nowhere to go.  It perplexed her.
Where was he going?  "So, I don't believe I caught your name."
        "What?"
        "Your name, my dear, what is your name?"
        "Tasha.  My name is Tasha.  Why?"
        "No reason ma'am.  I was just wondering what your name might
be."
        "Who...  Who are you?"
        "Good God, where are my manners?  Robert A. Warner," he
extended his hand, "But people call me Rick.  Don't bother asking
why."  He gave a shy grin.  Tasha timidly placed her hand in his.
Seizing her hand in a firm grip he pulled it to him.  And kissed
the back of it.  "Relax, Tasha.  You aren't afraid of me, are ya'?
Don't be.  It is not what is on the exterior that you should fear.
I will not hurt you."
        "Where...  Where are we going?"  Her voice was nothing but a
squeal now.  In the silence that followed, she came to fear that she
had hit a sensitive nerve.
        "We're going away from this place."  He looked up into a sky
full of holographic advertisements.  "Chiba City," he pointed up at
the ad.  "We're going to Chiba."
        "But that's a hundred drachma each way; per person."
        "Only if you buy a ticket, my dear."
        Footstep after footstep carried them for miles.  For some
reason Tasha felt safe.  She knew she should never trust a john
that bought her anything or paid her too much or paid in advance,
but for some reason, she felt safe with this man they called Rick.
She felt she could trust him.  The city limits vanished behind them.
In the distance, she could see hints of the suburbs she used to call
home.  Behind her were glittering towers of silver.  She never saw
the city from the outside.  It looked just like the pictures of
Chiba City.  But she knew Chiba was better.  The ads said so.
Besides, Rick would be there, so she would be safe.  Or so she
thought.
                           * * *
        Tasha awoke, strapped to a strange chair.  "Fuck!" she
thought, "Never trust a john who pays in advance!"  She tried to
pretend she was asleep.  Maybe when he was done, he would let her
go free.  "Just let him fuck you in whatever weird way he wants to,"
she thought, "Then he'll let you go."  She shifted slightly and
pretended she was asleep still.
        "Tasha," he whispered, "You awake?"  She didn't dare
respond.  "Eh, guess not.  Wish I could sleep that well on a plane."
Her body vibrated when Rick spoke.  She could not fight the
temptation to open her eyes any longer and when she did so, found
herself still strapped into the chair.  What she had failed to notice
before was her lead leaning against Rick's chest.
        "Rick?  Why are you taking me to Chiba City?"
        "If you don't want to go, we can arrange for your return."
        "No, I mean, why are you taking me?  In case you haven't
noticed, I'm a whore."
        He brushed blonde hair away from her eyes.  "No.  You are
more than a three-shilling tart.  I can see something else in there,
through your eyes."
        Tasha noticed, through the airplane window, that it was
morning.  It was morning and he was still there.  She fell back to
sleep, still leaning against him.
                              * * *
        From the airport, Chiba was a beautiful sight.  Glittering
towers surrounded by agile aircars.  The rising sun crested over its
golden streets.  But as they walked, those streets of gold took a
dark turn.  There were gutters here, too.  And dark alleys.  And
three-shilling whores.  And Rick walked here, too, like he was going
somewhere, Tasha right as his side.  "Rick," she asked, timidly,
"Where are we going?"
        "Home," he replied, a twinkle in his eye, "We're going home."
Tasha envisioned his home, probably in the shining skyscrapers
looming above.
        Rick turned sharply right, into a dark alley.  "Must be a
entrance," she thought.  But he passed all the doors, sliding,
instead, between a brick wall and a dumpster. Not a bit of sunlight
penetrated this urban cave.  Running through a pocket, Rick struck
a match on the ground.  The matchlight illuminate the eerie cave with
an evil glow.  Tasha was sure this was hell.
        The match lit a propane lantern, blanketing the room in a
soft light.  The two found themselves surrounded by glass pottery and
dusty old tapestries.  It was like nothing Tasha had ever seen.  A
crystal chandelier hung from the unseen ceiling.  Under it sat a real
wooden table with a white lace tablecloth draped over it.  She stood
in place, amazed, afraid that if she moved she might wake up from
this dream.  But she was not dreaming.  This was all real... Maybe
too real.
        Rick placed two plates of pasta on the table and began
pouring wine.  Tasha had not eaten real food or drunk wine since her
inheritance ran out.  She almost forgot what it was like.  A tear
streaked down her face and the world faded into shades of pink and
blue and black.  It was there, at dinner with her demon-lover, that
she noticed she had never changed.  Nothing she had ever known had
changed a bit, though she tried to convince herself otherwise.  She
was still a naive little girl in a pink dress and black jeans.  She
still felt that pain.  She could always cover up that pain and try to
hide it, but it never did go away.  She tried to hide her face under
biosculpt, but it was still there.
        "Why do you treat me this way, Rick?  Why are you here?  Why
am I here, drinking your wine and eating your food in your beautiful
home?  You only knew me as a three-shilling slut from New York.  How
could I be anything more?"
        "Your eyes."
        "What!?"
        "Your eyes are real.  Not much else on you is, is it?  Lots of
nose jobs and facelifts and implants, but your eyes are real."
        "So."
        "They show me a beautiful person...  Faces lie.  people lie.
Eyes do not.  Eyes, real eyes, show who a person is.  Who they are
inside."
        "Then who the hell am I?  Inside, I mean?"
        "You're a little girl who never fit in.  You were beautiful,
but could never admit it.  You wasted your life away."
        "How the hell do you--"
        "It's my story, too, afraid of myself.  Afraid."
                              * * *
        Another morning came and she woke up in his bed, alone.  Rick
the collector.  Rick who brought her to this beautiful place half a
world away.  Rick, who loved her last night, had left.
        Filled with disappointment, Tasha crawled out from under the
warm silk sheets.  Stumbling through the lamplit cave, she met with
the aroma of fresh eggs frying.  Rick was there, cooking her
breakfast.  He smiled at the sight of her and she smiled back.
        It would be a lie to say they did not live happily ever after.

                         Acknowledgments
                         ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
        Many thanks to Jenny for showing me what true beauty is.
Jenny supplied much of the emotional model of Tasha, though she
doesn't know it, so this "life story" is dedicated to her.  She
showed me that while she is physically beautiful, her true beauty
lies in the darkness of her soul, a darkness I have seen all too
clearly.
        Thanks to Alan for the idea of "Rick"'s cave and apologies
to Philip K. Dick and the makers of "Blade Runner", if Rick's dive
seemed to resemble J.R. Sebastian's dwelling at all (it hit me after
writing it that it seems to resemble his house, but this was not
expected).
        Apologies and thanks to William Gibson and Bruce Sterling
(apologies if "Rick" seems to resemble Mick Radley; thanks for being
the driving force behind all my work).
        Thanks to Trent Reznor, whose music somehow sparked the idea
for this story.  Somehow you were an inspiration here, I just don't
know how :).
        And, finally, thanks to you for reading, accepting, and
supporting my work (or at least for reading it).