A parable of breaking unhealthy traditions
The new always contains echoes of the past. Bartleby was such an echo. He bounced off the peaks and valleys of my mind. He existed there, as a representative of the reality of Bartleby, a flesh reality, who sat at his station as was the order of the day. I looked at him and thought, “Do we all not sit alone? Is this not why we all cry out for companionship and fail to understand those who seem to be content living a life without attachments?
Certainly he had his own feelings and desires. He had a mind and like all minds it was partially closed to those outside its own territories. It is a solitary system which constructs network games in its spare revolutions.
The eye has replaced the ear as the dominant sense organ. Rapid movement is the new order. A field of lines and shapes in motion. The old reality had been deafening, the new has its sites set on sight; as they used to shout, “See the sights!” they now flash the message with neon gas tubes30, rainbow spectrum, dirty, which hiss and sigh31, and they blink in morse code to gain a foothold in one’s mind. To enter a sanctum. It is a pity morse code has been superseded by advancing technological processes, as the abstract gives way to the concrete. But over time concrete crumbles and wears away to nothingness. Existence is impermanence. Life is the struggle against non-existence, a selfish pursuit but one granted to cognition. Designed for cognition. Of no interest to the non-cognizant. It is a mystery the mind craves. A uniqueness which is grasped for. Novelty. Presented as truth. What meaning may be derived from the daily toil? Must the mind grant meaning? If so, how can that meaning be analyzed for over-arching truth? Truisms do not apply universally, their research is mind-granted, thus biased, inexorably; but they are universally sought after and fought for and about. This is civilization. Civilization is a game for survivors. For non-survivors, it is a matter more serious, but less contemplated in its detailed fragments.
I had hired Bartleby as a scrivener. A scrivener is an obsolete thing, but not so obsolete that there is not still scrivening left in this world to be done, especially in businesses such as mine. I had hired other scriveners and it appeared at first as if Bartleby was the best I had ever had under employ, for he scrivened with both gusto and aplomb, which, in this day and age is a rare occurrence. He put my other scriveners to shame and this did nothing for his popularity, though at first I was pleased that he was not a scrivener who courted popularity. Without friends there was work with nothing else to occupy the mind. Efficiency. Purity of motive. Unencumbered profits.
I had developed a fondness for this Bartleby, as one can be fond of a favorite pen, an instrument to be played as one will. I had an idea the other day for a pen. Unfeasible, the idea. The idea that a representation of a figure wearing a bathing suit could be imprinted on the side of a writing instrument, and, by chemical magic, when turned upside down, the suit disappears. But I am not a chemist. And while I think there is a demand for such a product, if perfected, I do not wish to become a dreamer. I am a businessman and I love profits. I choose to exploit that which may be more readily exploited. The world is separated between those who create and those who exploit, but those who exploit do the greatest work for capital. This is why I was fond of Bartleby, the bottom line. For I generated a thousand fold more profits from his employ than I paid out to him. Truth be told I regularly cheated him out of even the meager wages we had agreed upon. This endeared him to me, for without his toil I was poorer for it. I had even begun contemplating letting the other scriveners go32 and assigning their duties to Bartleby.
It was not for lack of want I did not do this. Rather it was a change in the regard Bartleby held for his employment.
It was a terribly regrettable day, though what I could do differently if granted with the miracle of time travel I know not. The past is always full of garbage and I fear complications would naturally arise. Still, It was on this one day Bartleby changed. Changed not unlike a caterpillar into a particularly worrisome moth, a creature created for economic destruction. The only way to deal with infestation is eradication. Total and merciless. The power structures must be maintained and damn the cost.
On the day in question which started the troubles, I made the mistake of asking Bartleby to proof some papers. Bartleby looked back at me with a blank expression. There was a moment of silence. His mouth barely moved as he said, “I prefer not to.”
“Pardon?” I said. Truth be told I was shocked. It was a routine item of office business, a trifling matter. Everyday. As easy as not thinking about an elephant. Not like an imaginary elephant to rear again repeatedly. “It is just a simple document swearing an allegiance to the homeland. Just something superfluous. A tradition, nothing more. Harmless. Just a few minutes to check?”
“I prefer not to,” Bartleby stated again. He was not forceful. But he was firm. What did it mean? He preferred not to? He preferred not? Did he have a higher price demand? More than the market could bear? Would it come out of my own profits? Invariably. I haven’t Bartleby’s resolve to defy my own bosses, my own traditions. Damn the thought!
I do not care for the philosophical shadings of those beneath me, those whose place my station has transcended and no longer services. I am a busy man and and I must spread my wings to profit. I elected to source this task out to one of the other workers who I had, thank Plutus, Greek God of Wealth and the Underworld, not yet terminated with severe severance packages.
Such a small thing. And look at the effect on me. Workers have too much power. Still, I had a soft spot for this Bartleby. By not doing he may be a go-getter. I would hate to have him as a rival. Some placating may be necessary. To keep the machinery running smoothly. The gears which grind away time as effectively as they grind grain into meal. They must be lubricated with the blood of man. It is unavoidable, the sacrifices which profits justify.
I raised Bartleby’s pay by ten percent and also allowed him two assistants. Things became better than ever and I terminated those outside Bartleby’s small department with aforementioned extreme severance.
In retrospect I should have seen the coming crash. It was only a matter of time before I again asked Bartleby to check some paperwork. Not so much that I asked Bartleby, as I had not spoken to him directly since granting him assistants, serving as a chain of echoes, but I asked Nicola, the junior assistant to Bartleby, to proof a paper and copy it. Bartleby raised his mighty head. “He prefers not to,” Bartleby said.
“Blast, man,” I said, “Do you speak for him?”
“I prefer not to,” said a conciliatory Bartleby. Now we were getting somewhere, by Plutus.
I turned to Nicola and asked him to do the deed. It was a deed to repossess a group home for widows and invalids. A simple thing. Easy. A trifle. Hardly a bother.
“I prefer not to,” Nicola answered, with a side look to Bartleby.
Collusion!
I beseeched to Bartolomeo, the other assistant, to do the deed. I praised him. I assured him he would be forever remembered as a great doer of deeds.
“I prefer not to,” Bartolomeo said, not even a bit apologetically.
I was apoplectic. Would I have to do everything myself? Well I would not. I pleaded. I reasoned. It was for naught. This was a rare win for widows and invalids. And for what? Who profits by it? Not me.
I could not understand the motivation of these men, now a whole department acting in concert. What was in it for them? How did they profit by not harming others, people they did not even know? It went against everything I had learnt in business school, and I was a very fine student rewarded with high marks. I supplied the answers which were the most desirous at the appointed hour as approved by the power structure of the time.
My business suffered. For without the assistance of my employees, those anarchists, I had nothing to offer on the marketplace. They preferred not to help me seek solutions. There was hostility in worker/management relations. In simpler times I would have possibly addressed this with simple termination with severe severance, a threat which kept the gears mashing, but without anyone to process the paperwork I was held powerless. The workers had seized control of the means of production and I was at a loss. Our system ran on paper. We made intangible product. The worth arbitrary, dare I say, imaginary. What did anything mean in this world? What is the purpose of it all? Buying, selling, to what end? To amass profits without end? Was there such a thing? Was not every transaction a robbery from another? Could there be a winner in a system which required most to lose? I stopped being motivated by the profit motive, a dark depression. I cared not for myself. I stopped shaving. I barely ate. I came to the office every day and watched the men with leering eyes. They had taken everything from me and I hated them. Ingrates. Anarchists! Sacco! Vanzetti! Bartleby! I had made them and they, in turn, obsoleted me.
Men who care not for wealth cannot be as easily manipulated. The capitalist can turn to prey on a dime.
Still, with all my misfortunes, I was surprised when I arrived at this place of not work to find that I had been locked out. Me. The owner.
I began surveillance from the sidewalk. I watched them everyday, outside-in. I watched workers build a new door inside the office, a large green door. It was not so special other than its size and greenness. Yet, it taunted me. I though of it day and night. I stopped going home. I stayed on the sidewalk. That green door beckoned. At night it seemed to glow with a green phosphorescence. I wanted desperately to know what, who, lay behind it.
People started coming. First a few. They would come randomly. Slyly. Looking to and fro. Entering. And through the door. And more. And more people came. And came. And came. Dribbles. Droves. Hordes. The teeming masses, undulating toward freedom as branches praise the sun. Helios, the ancient personification of the sun, rays of light warming and nourishing man.
I begged Bartleby. “Please! Please! I must know! What is behind that green door? Why does it spark even my desires?”
As the day turned inexorably into night Bartleby was tempted again and again. Whilst he repeated his goal, as a mantra, that he “preferred not to,” as dawn broke he bowed at last to desire and found, in the light of the new day, in the glow of his open heart, that he preferred to after all. And he let me in. He let me in through that great and mysterious green door, to what lay behind. Beyond and behind that great behind. It was another world. It was eternal bliss. Elysian fields spread before me, welcoming me to come. And it was for everyone. Even me, one of the most undeserving. But that was the old world. And it is easily forgotten, as its nightmares fade, as it becomes a simple warning, a story, a dark fairy tale. An echo of a time which might have been, once. If I remember it right.
“I haven’t had time to read all of it, but that seems a nice magazine,” Rain said. “Good clean fun. And I liked the pictures of Dick. It’s you who are nasty!”
“You know, Mitch,” said Richard, “You don’t have to read it.”
“I don’t,” Danger said. “I just look at the pictures. Words are a device for deception. Books are dangerous. Science fiction is the worst. Manipulative dreams. Making people question. The system. Sexuality. The very binary nature of good versus bad.”
There was a knock at the door. Danger motioned to Rain, “Get rid of them.”
Rain went to the door, fuming mad.
Outside there was a young man in swimming trunks.
“Oh, hi Billy,” Rain said. “I’m afraid this a terrible time.”
“Oh, sorry Miss Day,” Billy said. “I was just home alone again this week and was wondering, I thought I’d let you know. In case you wanted to use the pool.”
“Thanks, Billy,” Rain.
“And I know you never have a suit and I just wanted you to know ahead of time this time I’m cool with that.”
“OK. Good to know. Maybe later. Timing is everything, you know.”
“Anytime,” said Billy as Rainy closed the door on him.
“Foolish youth,” said Danger.
“I hate when people say nasty things about younger people,” said Rain. “Billy’s a good kid.”
“He’s a sex pervert,” said Danger.
“He thinks about sex exactly as much as he should at his age,” Rain said.
“Ugh. Save all that fucking situational moralizing for the dupes,” said Danger.
There was another knock at the door.
“Grand central f-ing station. In July,” said Danger. He motioned for Rain to get the door.
There were two ladies dressed in cheerleader outfits. “Hi! I’m Rikki and this is Annie. We’re doing odd jobs to help send our cheer-mate Debbie to Dallas to try out for the team. We already washed the car out front, that’s why we’re all wet.”
“Oh,” said Rain. “Sorry, but that’s not my car.”
“Oh,” said Rikki. “Do you have any odd jobs we could do inside?”
“Can we borrow a towel?” Annie said. “We’re awful wet.”
“Have a heart, let them in,” Danger said.
“Hypocrite!” Richard said. Danger stared at him in disgust.
The ladies came in as Danger pocketed his pistol.
“Oh, my,” said Annie, “Almost everyone is naked!”
The two cheerleaders looked at each other and shrugged. “If college cheerleading teaches anything it is the importance of being flexible in the moment,” said Rikki. Both whipped off their wet translucent t-shirts.
“So,” said Frankie, “I assume the cuddle party is still on?”
“This is a cuddle party?” said Annie.
“Neat-O,” said Rikki.
“Don’t get too excited ladies,” said Rain. “We have a party pooper.”
“There’s always at least one,” said Sunny.
“Now,” Danger said, “Lets not be extremist in our views…”
“Hypocrite,” Richard said.
“Traitor,” said Danger. “Always a traitor.”
“Anyway, we’re just out fundraising,” said Rikki.
“You know,” Annie said, “doing stuff for money.”
“Commendable,” Danger said. “Capitalistic.”
“Hypocrite,” Richard said.
“When there is money involved,” Danger said, “its different. Then it’s about the economy. Putting people to work. We all have our place in the system. Some places are better to be than others. But it all serves the purpose of finance.”
“Sick,” said Rain.
“I don’t make the rules,” Danger said. “I just live at their edges. And I’m happy. Because the system favors me. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“Ladies,” Rain said, “You look hot.”
“Oh, we are,” said Rikki.
“Working out is hard work, even when your efforts are selfless,” said Annie.
“I appreciate that,” Rain said. “But. I wonder if you would be happier next door. There’s a pool.” Rain was always concerned about other people’s happiness. It is her way.
“A pool!” The ladies said in unison.
“Yes,” Rain said. “A pool. And the neighbors don’t mind if you swim nude in it. And there’s a place to hang your wet clothes to dry. And there’s Billy, over there all by himself, about your age. By himself. So lonely.”
“That is so sad,” said Annie.
“It really is,” said Rikki.
“I’d go over and take care of the situation myself but I have all this going on,” Rain said, sarcastically motioning to Danger. “But that’s where the fun is. Maybe you should go over there. It’s what I would do if I were you.”
“Now ladies,” said Danger.
“Yeah,” said Rikki, “I think we ought to go over there. We can swim, play board games, cheer up the poor fellow.” The Cheerleaders walked to the door.
“You all be safe,” said Annie as they closed the door.
“Hey,” said Sunny, “they left their shirts behind.”
“Where they’re going” said Frankie, “They don’t need them.”
“Ah,” said Rain, “Youth.”
“You’ve twisted their natural inclinations,” said Danger.
“Mitch, you’re an idiot,” said Richard, “You always were.”
“No, Richard,” said Danger, “I’m an opportunist.”
“That is not a good thing,” said Rain.
Danger pulled his pistol. “Miss, I find it weird you are the only one still wearing underwear. Take them off.”
“Pig,” Rain said, taking off her panties and throwing them at his face. “Happy?”
He plucked the panties from his forehead and tentatively sniffed them. He gave them a good looking over. “Well, these are clean. You’re clean as a whistle. I thought you might be hiding something in them.”
“You’re a pervert who is overly concerned with the perversions of others,” said Richard. “There is nothing so special about you.”
“You can say that again,” said Rain. “He’s a creep.”
“Totally,” said Sunny.
“Big creep,” said Frankie. “Kind of guy even the creeps shun.”
“I’m not here to make friends,” Danger said.
“Well, you’ve succeeded,” Rain said. “Next time set your sites higher.”
“You know,” said Theodore, “If you bought those panties on the free market that would be one thing. But this. Panty freak.”
“The capitalists only believe in the free market when it suits them,” said Richard. “It is an ideology of total self-interest.”
“Disgusting,” said Rain.
“You people have learned nothing,” said Danger. “These are dangerous times. We all have to be wary of changing the social system. It is easy to say you want change but hard to dial it back when it goes too far, and it always does go too far. Free Love is a requirement, we know from Wilhelm Reich33 and his Orgone energy machine34 and the theoretical work of the lusty physicist Richard Feynman35, for the realization of time travel, which must not come to pass. For one thing it would cause an environmental nightmare, as people would try to send garbage into the past and never give a moments thought to the fact that it must necessarily return thereafter, and, even if it takes millions of years to do so, its return will be nearly as instantaneous as it is disastrous in the present day. We are trying to protect you. That is all. That is public service. I am a hero ma’am.” He tipped his hat.
“Bullshit,” Richard said. “What’s in it for you?”
"Of course," said Danger, “there is always endless opportunity in any situation for those in the know when it is a time of disaster or potential disaster. For one thing, many of us in the intelligentsia own collections of paintings by Adolf Hitler36. And they are currently undervalued. This makes it a great time to acquire. They are not nearly as bad, as paintings, as you would believe. Because they are tainted with who the man is. But, in fact, they're fine paintings. They're certainly better than what the average Joe could do. Think of what would happen if time travel were invented and invariably some fool, or many fools likely, were to go to the past in a poorly thought out, and they are all poorly thought out, assassination plot. These paintings, undervalued as it is, would end up having no value at all. What a blow to those of us in the know who took the initiative to acquire them? So we have an entire division of the FBI dedicated to discouraging people from developing time travel, by putting a stop to Free Love, which is simply a steppingstone to opening time wormholes which will destabilize the art market. One of the best things we've done is spread the rumor that going back in time to kill baby Hitler is impossible because of Chaos theory. When really we’re just talking out our ass. What's really going on is the oligarchs who rule the state own almost all the Hitlers. And we intend to protect their investments, be they Democrats or Republicans.”
“Eww. Even more disgusting,” said Rain. “I didn’t think you could do it.”
“I know about you,” Danger said. “A feminist. Free spirit. Rebel.”
“Guilty,” said Rain.
He looked at Richard, “Traitor.” He pointed at Sunny, “Egghead, twisted by the communist tinged public education system. Reading books. Dirty books. Speaking her mind. Voting.”
“And I’m a non-standard non-binary social revolutionary,” said Frankie. “Loved. Hated. No matter. I gotta be me. I have nothing to be ashamed of. I reject shame. I’m on the right side and you’ll never understand that even as you inevitably lose the fight you insist on having, wasting your time as well as ours. In the end you will still lose.”
“And a dirty clown,” said Danger.
“Hey!” said the clown, who started fussing and pacing about the room, ending at the lonely buffet table, muttering under his breath.
“I like you fine, clown,” said Frankie.
“Me too,” said Sunny. “But I think I got some clown in me.”
“Damn right,” said the clown. “Lots of people do.”
“I,” said Frankie, “I admit I got a little thing for clowns.”
“And I got a big thing for clowns,” said Sunny.
Rain looked at Mitch. “It’s a sexual desire, sir. It is no business of the state what consenting adults do with each other. It is between each person and Eros the god of love!”
The FBI man sarcastically placed his hand on his heart and looked at the ceiling. “The counterculture confuses sex with love. People like me know these are two completely different things. I divorce them. People like me know the best sex is actually with people we hate. Hate sex.”
“Gross,” Sunny said.
“Dirty ceiling,” Danger said, “People never think to clean them. Seconds later he jerked, gasped, and choked. He dropped his pistol and then his body crumpled to the floor revealing behind him the fury in the eyes of Theodore the clown, a carving knife in his hand covered in Danger’s deep red blood which dripped on Rain’s white plush carpet.
“It is at times like this,” said Sunny, “I am glad for my contacts in the underworld. I know a guy. A cleaner. They clean up after parties. Film shoots. And crime scenes. Very discrete.”
“I think,” said Rain, “You ought to call them.”
And she did. Even though this was not the sort of action anyone was looking forward to, they all understood that the elimination of Mitch Danger from the party was a relief.
After she placed the call from Rain’s princess phone, Sunny said, “They’ll be here soon. Pluto’s cleaners are the best. I’ve used them a lot. I go to a ton of parties and we all know cleaning up is a drag. Best leave it to professionals.”
Richard said, “This whole thing gives me deja vu37. I mean, it feels like everything is repeating, even though this is the first time.”
“Can you have pre-mature-deja-vu?” said Frankie.
“Please,” said Rain, “I think I hear echoes of the past.”
“As a scientist, I can assure you anything is possible,” said Richard. “Except pre-mature-anti-fascism. That is impossible. One is either anti-fascist or not. There is no middle ground, no concept of ‘too soon.’ It’s like Peter Pratfallovitch’s book Estrangements which makes no sense if you have not read his book Entanglements and vice versa. I mean, they both make sense but only upon reading the second book are the themes and motives made whole. But it is like Karl Marx said, ‘History occurs first as a tragedy and later as a farce.’”
“I have always considered sci-fi reactionary,” said Sunny.
“Oh, no!” said Rain.
“There are some reactionary writers,” said Richard. “But they are dwarfed by progressives voices. In the dark times of the 1950s it was there progressive voices took root, science fiction and children’s literature. Without them many progressive writers would have starved. It gave them freedom, though the money was poor, they were not.”
“I love it,” Rain said. “Exploring other worlds, other ideas, other plains of existence. It’s a literature of hope. Even though it is filled with dystopias and glued together fix-ups.” She looped her arm through Richard’s and he did not shy away but looked at her lovingly. “You can do things in it you cannot accomplish in plain literature where you are forced to accept the world as it is rather than confronting it. And fantasy is the oldest type of literature. People crave novelty as much as ideas, more, as so often new ideas must be offered as fantasy. No one notices that after some time fantasy tends to become reality. People choose the reality in which they live.”
“And few choose to remember,” said Richard, “How the Earth was destroyed totally by atomic warfare in the Martian Chronicles38, though that is what the story is about.”
The hifi speakers crackled to life because Sunny put on the new Disco single More More More by the Andrea True Connexion. “She’s my favorite actress/singer,” said Sunny. “If you want to know how I really feel, get the camera rolling.” The mood in the room was a cross between somber and shocked. But Andrea True was helping, as she did so often for so many39.
Sunny danced by the hifi. The clown lay in the fetal position on the couch. The bloody knife on the floor by Danger’s body, ruining Rain’s carpet.
“We must soldier on,” said Rain. “We can’t stop now. We have to keep going for the sake of the future. I guess the carpet will have to be removed. I can live with a bare floor.”
“Pluto’s cleaners will do it,” Sunny said. “No worries.”
“Are they named after the god of the underworld?” asked Frankie.
“Yeah,” Sunny said. “Mob connected. Clever. You know, Andrea True had a lot of names. Sandra Lips, Singe Low, Inger Kissin. Pseudonyms. Even Andrea True is a false name, though it is her true name. I think I’m going to change my name to Sunny Day.”
“Sisters!” Rainy Day said.
“Sisters,” said Sunny Day.
There was a knock on the door.
Rain opened the door to find a short man in blue coveralls. His name stitched over his heart was Rick.
“You got a situation here, lady? Called cleaners?” Rick said.
“Inside,” said Rain.
Rain led the cleaner to the body. “Bloodstains,” he said. Tricky. Better to pull it up. Roll it up. Burn it.”
“Can you do it, Rick?” asked Rain.
“No problem,” said Rick. “But call me Fred. It’s short for Frederick.”
“I assumed it was short for Richard,” said Richard.
“Nah,” said Fred. “There are a hell of a lot of Richards in this world, but I’m not one of them Dicks.” He rolled the body in sheet plastic. This is all going to take a little while. Why don’t you folks just go on with what you were doing, but over there. Don’t mind me. It’s like I wasn’t even here. If anyone asks.”
Rain grabbed the television and moved it to the dining room table. She flipped it on and the Robyn Bird show was already in progress. Fred started pulling up the stained carpet, whilst whistling the hit tune More More More.
Robyn Bird was sitting in a chair wearing a crocheted bikini which would be no use if one was trying to swim. But that was the point of it. It was purely ornamental. If it weren't for that she'd be wearing nothing at all. And that would be fine with her. Fine with the viewers. But the office bigwigs, spoilsports, weren't into it. They were always worried about the complainers, the one percent who always had a problem with what other people were doing. Or not doing. Who could not keep their own morals to themselves. People who were unashamed about their own shame. That is shameful. The bikini was named for the atomic test bombing of the Bikini Atoll. Which is also shameful. America was having a sordid love affair with the bomb.
"If you're just joining us," said Robyn Bird, "I am here interviewing the son of the famous Russian science-fiction author Peter Pratfallovitch. Richard Pratfallovitch.”
"Please call me Dick," said Richard.
“Will do, Dick,” said Bird. You may know the name Pratfallovitch even if you don’t read science fiction because he reviews films for Screw Magazine.”
“Yes,” Dick said, “I do. And there are so many films coming out these days you really need the help of a critical eye. I’m happy to do it. I learned about plot and such at the feet of my father, Peter.”
“Well,” said Robyn, “A lot of people think all pornographic films are interchangeable. Sometimes theaters even change the titles when they repeat the films.”
“And that’s awful,” said Dick. “It’s going to create a lot of confusion for archivists in the future. Mark my words. And as you know from your experience in the business, it just isn’t true. The subjects of the films and the execution are vastly different. And there is a lot of dreck. Maybe up to ninety percent. But I could say the same of mainstream Hollywood. Have you seen any of the last Jerry Lewis films? Hollywood is drastically behind the times. Still pushing Bob Hope to a public that desires George Carlin. Not to disparage Hope in his prime, when he had a Woody Allen thing going.”
“My favorite director is David Raffin,” said Bird.
“Yes, he is among the best in the genre,” said Dick.
“I was in one of his films,” said Bird. “It was called Flip you the Bird! That shoot was a really fun day.”
“I’ll bet,” said Dick. “He has a lot of range. Started in nudist camp films when that was the only way to bypass the Hays code. Because it was educational. Then documentaries about sex films from countries which allowed them. Then, sex films. And so many kinds! Slapstick. Horror. Drama. Soap Opera. Silent. Dirty commedia dell’arte. Musicals. Mysteries. Detective stories. Absurdist Farce. Puppets. Romance. And, of course, he hires the best talent.”
Bird and Dick do a flirty communal congratulatory thing with their hands, tentatively intertwining them, gently touching fingers but mostly for show.
“I also love him,” said a dark haired woman in a ballet outfit beside Dick.
“For those of you first joining us I’m here talking with Dick Pratfallovitch, son of cult science fiction writer Peter Pratfallovitch. Also joining us is the adult film star Terri Hall who was once a member of the Stuttgart ballet."
"Hi everyone!" said Miss Hall. “You're all being very bad, and good for you.”
"Terri Hall stars in the soon-to-be released film based on the work of Dick’s father, Peter, The Apple Falls in the Forest Regardless of Who May Be There to Hear it, it’s a story about robots built to love in a world gone mad.”
“That’s your field,” said Rain to Richard with everyone at the dining room table. “Not the madness part, but the robots. Are you still working on robots?”
“Naturally,” said Richard. “In fact I have recently had a breakthrough. And I do love Pratfallovitch’s work. Very provocative.”
Everyone turned their attention back to the spacious nineteen inch screen.
“A lot of people who read and enjoy that novel forget that the Earth was completely destroyed by killer apples in the course of the book,” said Dick. “Because they only remember the story of the love between the robots. And the film had to be made because my father was so upset about the film Star Wars being made. Star Wars is nothing but a crude rip-off of The Apple Falls in the Forest, but with all the sex stripped out of it. And the philosophy. Nothing left but a space shoot ‘em up. But as a Soviet citizen he could do little about it. That’s why he sent me here a year and a half ago so I could help rectify this injustice.”
"Are you getting any trouble because of your communist ties?" asked Bird.
“Not among people in my business,” said Dick. "But I must say, my father is even a dissenter in the Soviet Union. He gets away with it because of his place. And because he is very clever. And we are both true believers in the cause. But he does have what he calls, jokingly, “a crisis of faith” here and there. Most famously because of Laika the space dog. In 1957 a stray dog was plucked from the streets of Moscow and sent on Sputnik II into space. The first living creature from the Earth to orbit. But absolutely no provisions were made for the safe return of a dog from space. And it broke my father’s heart. Because he loves animals. And he loves space. But he does not want his loves to cause problems for each other. He wants them to intertwine sweetly and gently. And there was no reason that dog could not have been brought back to Earth. It would have been something much greater to brag about had they taken the time to schedule a return trip. The fact that they did not is a serious black eye on the otherwise glorious Soviet space program.”
“I was disillusioned the same way by the treatment of Laika the space dog,” Richard said. The others around the table sighed in reciprocal anguish. Rain reached over and held Richard’s hand.
“Well,” Frederick the cleaner said, “Sorry to interrupt this love fest, but the body could be most easily disposed of in a rather simple way that does not often come into play but might just be perfect for you folks.”
“What is it?” asked Rain.
“Well, It’s totally clean and organic. Cheap. It can be done here on site. I see that you have a clown. It’s something that you might consider. You could let the clown… eat him.”
“Let the clown,” said Rain.
“Eat him,” said Sunny.
“Yes,” said the cleaner. “Let the clown do his part and eat the body. Skin. Flesh. Bones. Total disposal. Like nature intended. The clown is a natural scavenger. Why, if there were enough clowns they could scour the Earth clean in an hour. But that would take… a lot of clowns.”
“How many?” asked Rain.
“Oh, at least a few hundred thousand,” said the cleaner.
The clown came out of his stupor. “Oh, Boy, Oh, Boy, Oh, Boy, Can I? I couldn’t? Can I? It’s hardly ever done anymore. Can I? Oh, I’ve always yearned to. Dreamt of it.”
“I think it might be for the best,” said Sunny.
“Well, as long as I don’t have to watch,” said Rain. “Because, unfortunately, I've dreamt of it too."
The clown started running around like mad. "I can't believe it! I can't believe it! If only my father could see this. He didn't believe in me. Didn't think a clown had the same opportunities clowns once had generations ago. Never thought this day would happen. If I had known this was going to happen I wouldn’t've murdered my entire family.”
“Won’t he get a taste for it?” asked Frankie.
“You get the clown for protection or what?” asked the cleaner.
“No, we got the clown for sex,” said Sunny.
“Whatever floats yer boats, ladies and gents,” said the cleaner. “I don’t judge. I clean.” He looked lost in thought a moment. “By the way, If you were a hyper-intelligent fungi the word for killing other funguses, or for killing one‘s own fungal form, or for killing a whole strain of fungi, is the same: fungicide.”
“Sounds right!” said the clown, who had put on a lobster bib and was kneeling over the body of Mitch Danger and drooling. He began feasting. In a showy and obscene manner. Smacking his lips and putting on a show as he dug in, quite literally.
Rain turned up the television. The Robyn Bird Show was still on and Dick Pratfallovitch was now sitting with Terri Hall draped over his lap. He was spanking her bare behind. As he did so she made gleeful sounds which inter-looped with the sounds of the clown munching away a few meters over.
“I bet you can’t do that in the Soviet Union,” said Bird.
“Oh, you might be surprised,” said Dick. “Things are the same the world over. Under communism, under capitalism. Sex is sex, in all its various forms.” Swap! “It’s not even my thing particularly.” Swap! “But I’m having a lovely time because she asked for it and she’s enjoying it.” Swap! “And I like her butt.” Swap!
“Thanks, Dick!” said Miss Hall. “You’re a prince.”
“And you, my dear, are a princess,” said Dick. “A naughty princess.”
“You’ll find they are the most popular kind,” said Miss Hall.
“Oh, yes they are,” said Rainy Day.
At this point the clown had consumed the body and was licking the remaining fluids from the plastic wrap. He finished and rolled over. “I ate too much too fast. Glutton! Just like father said. Always. Like a damnable echo in the head.”
The cleaner had hauled out the carpet and now was taking out the plastic. “Clean as a whistle. ‘Till next time, ma’am.”
“Thanks Fred,” said Sunny. “You do great work.”
“You are our best customer. And if you keep that clown maybe we can rent his services.”
“Theodore the clown,” said the clown from the floor. “Full clown services, rendered.” He belched a rather disgusting belch. “Every body loves a clown. But clowns don’t love everybody.”
The cleaner left.
A minute later there was a knock on the door. Rain just yelled, “Come in!”
The door cracked open and Billy entered with Annie and Rikki, the two cheerleaders, none of them wearing a stitch, as they had all clearly become wet from the pool and left their clothes hung out to dry next door. As Rain had suggested.
“I just wanted to thank you, Miss Day,” said Billy.
“Oh,” said Rain, “my pleasure as always.”
“Sending over these ladies for fun. And on my birthday. We played checkers, and chess, and swam, and stuff.”
“Yay!” said Annie and Rikki, “Three Cheers”
“Three?” said Billy. “But there are only two of you.”
“It was the least I could do,” Rain said. “For you, Billy.”
“I think I’d rather be called William,” said Billy.
“You got it, kid,” said Sunny.
“Hip Hip Hurrah,” said the cheerleaders. “Hip Hip Hurrah, “Hip Hip Hurrah, Happy Birthday, Bill! And a cheer for you, too, Miss Day! Hip Hip Hurrah!”
Rain blushed.
“Gosh,” said William, “You got me a clown too?”
“Hee Hee Hee,” said the clown, still lying bloated on the floor.
“Better be careful around that clown,” said Frankie. “They can be unpredictable.”
“Oh, he’s perfectly safe,” said Sunny. “He just ate. And we can control him. I know how to talk to them. I got a little clown in me. On my mother’s side.”
“I knew it,” moaned the clown, in ecstasy.
“I suspected it also,” said Frankie. “And I’m OK with it.”
“You know, Okeh is a word borrowed from the Choctaw. It means ‘It is so.’ My grandmother told me.”
“I thought it stood for ‘Old Kinderhook,’” said Frankie.
“I thank you to not call my grandma a liar,” said Sunny. “She was part clown also and she was as stormy as her name, which was Stormy.”
“My grandpa loved a half-clown named Stormy,” said the clown. “With whom he had a stormy affair.”
“Clown?” said Sunny.
“Sis?” said the clown.
“It is so wrong,” said Sunny with a tinge of lust.
“It is so right,” said Frankie.
“So taboo,” Sunny whispered.
“So hot,” said Frankie.
“Hee Hee Hee,” said the clown.
“Ewww,” said Rain.
“Don’t judge,” said Richard.
“You’re right,” said Rain. “Whatever makes you all happy and doesn’t involve me. In any way.”
“Now that’s reasonable,” said Richard. “Right as Rain.”
Rain looked at him. And she glowed.
“Do you think your wife Heather will ever come back?” she asked. “I’m sorry if it’s a sensitive subject still, too soon.”
“It’s not too soon for you to ask,” said Richard. “I think it’s unlikely. She was lucky to come as many times as she did. It was a terrible accident. But I will have to go on. As we all must.”
“You guys want to move this cuddle party to the pool?” asked William. “Cool if you bring the clown.”
“Now that is something you don’t hear every day,” said Rain. “I’d take him up on it. It’s a nice pool.”
“I was hoping you would come too, Miss Day,” said William.
“Oh, I’m pretty tired,” said Rain. “Think I’ll just stay here.” She squeezed Richard’s hand. “But you all enjoy. And call me Rain. My mother was Miss Day.”
“Ok, Rain.”
Everyone else left for the house next door but Richard. He stayed at the table with Rain.
“After all,” said Richard. “I live in the house on the other side. And going one more house over is…”
“So far,” said Rain.
“Yes,” said Richard. “Out of my way.”
They kissed.
In a drawer in the bedroom there was a little pink vibrator. It wasn’t attached to an AI network so it had no idea what was happening in the wider world. But it knew that, for some reason, it was happy. There is a mystery in the field of science. Einstein derided it as “spooky action at a distance.” But it is very real. It is more properly called “quantum entanglement.” When you separate two connected particles, even across time and space, they are still attached and aware of each other. They strive, always, to come together again. To rejoin. They long for each other. There is no scientific explanation for this phenomena. Humans call it love.
I did not ever, in my wildest dreams, think I would be writing you a letter like the kinds I have read in your learned, well-worn pages. I’m just a regular guy who eats pizza, reads, and likes math. I was home alone for a week, ready for college, and planned to spend my summer reading and eating pizza by the pool, running equations through my mind relentlessly. That’s the kind of guy I am, sadly, a thinker more than a doer. But I do like being a thinker. Even if society is hard on us.
I have in the past been visited on these occasions by the lady next door. A beautiful lady. Smart. Charming. With a cool name. But it would not be proper to name names in this situation. Sometimes naming names is a despicable act40. Naturally, it is to that which my mind strayed as it so often does. Her touch. Her smell. The lilt of her laughter creates a spontaneous reaction within me. It is only natural. Still, I am often lonely. Unfulfilled. This is the problem of modern capitalist societies. Chronic alienation. Isolation from the wider group. Camaraderie narrowed to the breaking point as small groups splinter and fold up upon themselves into oblivion.
“Oh, Aphrodite! Goddess of Love! Consort of Dionysus! Mother of Eros41! Come to me! Intercede on Earth as my humble bequest to humankind!” This is what my heart cries throughout what seems like infinity. But I am a scientist. Mature. Focused. Yet even science is bound by the conventions of the times. Revolutions come but one at a time, struggle is eternal, and progress slow. It is only those moments of convergence which give us the notion that change is rapid. It is only those flashes of revelation, worshipped and denounced in the same moment, almost the same breath, which spark the fire of revolutionary thought. Change is built through fertile soil nourished with the progress of the past hard fought.
It is in this light I was alone with my thoughts.
It was then I heard a knock at the door. When I opened it there was a woman standing there in white with a handful of leaflets. It was as if the skies had parted and left her as a sacred dropping. She was a remnant of the spark of life divine.
“Hi,” she said. And I was.
“I’ve come to let you in on the words of truth,” she said. “Divine truth. Forbidden knowledge. Earth shattering. For real.”
My mouth was agape42.
“This world we know is a world we know not,” she continued. “For we are, all of us, destined to repeat eternal; returning, coming again and again in various guises and disguises, alone and in various pairings. Woe! A false construct hiding reality.”
I had suspected as much.
“This world is a computer simulation. It resets regularly. It imparts false memories to stabilize the system. It learns. The important thing is to strive to enjoy yourself fully, as I have. This is why I share the word door-to-door. Orally.”
I thanked her and closed the door43. Would I ever make a true connexion? I went back to my chair. My Moxie was still cold and I wanted to read the latest issue of your publication. It helps with the loneliness, as is its true purpose.
I read from the rear first. It is my preference. The ads. Betwixt the ads for prostitutes, whose patron saint is Aphrodite, Goddess of Love, her symbols myrtle and rose, and there were ads for Myrtle and Rose, working alone or in concert, was a strange advert which said, cryptically:
“Heather is coming soon. Again. Be ready.”
But past that, first, is the movie section and I am a great supporter of the arts. The reviewer, Dick Pratfallovitch is a worthy informant on the modern state of affairs. Much film is dreck and Dick can be counted upon, always, to discern the object of desire from an afternoon devoid of delight. It is the latter I wish to avoid and the former I cherish above all else.
I read with lust in my heart and ink on my fingertips. I could wash after. I always did. Oh, your magazine makes me dirty. I was interested in the film about Puppets, Let my Puppets Cum. A film by Gerard Damiano. He made the famous Deep Throat, and The Devil in Miss Jones, a film which starts with a suicide and ends in Hell, as an homage to the philosopher Jean Paul Sartre’s No Exit. Still, it could not be as good as the puppet film of last year, Puppets Play the Field, by David Raffin. But he is one of the greatest auteurs in porn.
I considered my place in society. Yes, I was lonely and alienated. But is this not the fate of people under capitalism; under the yoke of which we are splintered into class though society denies the existence of this. Yet why then are there haves and have nots? Why are we alone? Modern society is a treadmill, relentless, the purpose of which is to keep people too busy to challenge, or even analyze, the system closely. Prizes are yearned for. If one gets them there are then further prizes. And pitfalls. If they do not earn rewards they are forced to live without, as they struggle, toil endlessly, but are told it is no life to live. And the fault is clear. It is the fault of those who do not have. Salvation is but a purchase away. It will solve loneliness. They yearn. They are undervalued as a product. People become the product, the true product, within the system. Each one designated a value. A worth. A place. A spectrum of desirability. We dispose of the past. Things are made to break, people are broken, for they are meant to be broken, for the health of the system, for the system is not designed to benefit anyone, and successfully does not. We will drown in our own garbage. If the consumer wasteland does not get us, the ideological wasteland will. We fight for our own downfall. We cling to illusions. As we praise the greatness of the age. We are amused to death. Circus sans bread.
How lucky I am! Though I feel often I am without. This is the plight of modernity. Alienation. But no one thinks it applies to them. They think their own sadness is an aberration. A chemical imbalance. Not something resulting from the social system. Not the fault of the system, the fault of the player. We will default to the fault of the player, always. For the system this is the safest choice. Everyone thinks they're special. No one thinks the rules apply to them. The rules of society. They think the rules of society apply to everyone else, to the other players. The losers. Who cannot play the game as well. For each person is mired within their own experiences. They believe they have earned their place in the hierarchy. No matter where they come from or what they have, or have not, accomplished on the road to becoming as they are. For they are simultaneously special and yet their accomplishments are of note because they could be the accomplishments of anyone who did not have the advantages afforded to those special people who are just like everyone else. It is the Protestant Work Ethic to which Society will not accept protest. It is usually only the victims who decry the blaming of the victims. Or the bleeding hearts who cannot accept the system as it is though it surely, according to the system, is the best possible system.
But I admit I am a lucky man. Luck. Superior luck is the key to social advancement. The place to which you were born. The advantages which come naturally to you. These are the things by which people truly get ahead. And they are the things one never hears about. Luck. I did not earn my place. I was born to my place. Through luck. Kismet. Through happenstance. It is in this way I am special. Because I admit to my luck. It is the sociable way to share luck with the luckless. But the lucky and the luckless do not live in the same neighborhood. This is by systemic design. Good systemic design is rarely questioned for it eliminates, by design, the conditions under which questioning may occur.
I lust for full satisfaction for all. They say I am a dreamer. And a dreamer is always lonely. Shunned. For the dreamer does not play by the rules of society.
This is exemplified by my favorite film of all time, The Seven Samurai. The full cut of this film, lasting seventeen hours, has become the basis for many westernized films. Among these being The Dirty Dozen. Even though the original film, brought to the west, was truncated. Much material removed.
A samurai sits on a hill. He has picked a daisy and he slowly pulls each delicate white leaf from the flower, saying, “He loves me. He loves me not.” His name is Debbie. Another samurai, Lisa, joins him and watches him discard the daisy stems onto a pile of similar discarded items. A graveyard of desire. A natural soliloquy of want. Desires unfulfilled. Desire being everywhere in chains. Daisy chains.
Lisa inquired what was the matter. Debbie replied that he had been chosen to try out for a mighty team in the city of Dallas which was near Okinawa. To give good cheer. To spread good cheer. And to intimidate the rivals. However, and in this Debbie was morose, for he did not have the funds required to send him on this Journey. He was but a poor samurai, skilled but un-moneyed. How can he come up with the funds necessary to journey to far Dallas near the almost mystical Okinawa? The answer is simple, Lisa told him. “Depend upon the kindness of your friends. And strangers.” Debbie told Lisa he'd recently sought employment in order to make some funds for the journey, it would not be enough, for employers often pay employees, especially employees to which they can take advantage, a pittance. Not enough to live on, let alone to journey past Okinawa for a dream. For the sake of the dream. He had achieved part-time employment at a sporting equipment pavilion for a boss by the name of Mr. Greenfield. Lisa's eyes widened. And he warned Debbie, in a serious tone, that "Mr. Greenfield is all hands. This happened to me once. And, even as a mighty samurai, I did not know what to do. At the least it was socially uncomfortable.”
It was almost through chance that the squad of samurai, gathered together with one goal, discovered that they had the power to send Debbie on his way. For they went about their daily lives looking to do odd jobs for his benefit. For the trip. And they went about it with the kind of enthusiasm only collective efforts alone can achieve. It was almost by accident they discovered the key. Cleaning, washing cars, helping alphabetize books, these things are menial and do not earn large sums of money. But there is a truism that no one can look at a samurai without lusting in their heart. A samurai, alone, in pairs, in squads, is one of the most desirable forms which inhabit our plain of existence. To look upon a samurai is to be held fast in wonder. To yearn. And people are willing to pay to partake of oneness with a sacred image. Though that image may tarnish. Through the mere act of possession. No matter. People would pay. And they did. Out of equal parts desperation and loneliness. Emotions which help power capitalist economy.
It was discussed in the locker room. Methodology. It was reasoned that they were not doing anything they would not do with a dear friend. A comrade. A lover. They were simply allowing money to come between relations. To take precedence. To come over, overcome, all.
It was upon such meeting that Lisa inquired about the whereabouts of Linda, who had not been seen for sometime. Debbie informed him that Linda had gone with a group of eleven other men, including Charles Bronson, Clint Eastwood, and Big Jim Brown, to fight Hitler.
“Hitler? The renowned painter of western scenic landscapes?”
“Yes,” Debbie answered. “Some people, have very strong opinions regarding art.”
“Taste,” said Lisa, “is subjective. But should not some things be universal?”
It was a question which hung in the air. Unanswerable.
But I digress.
It was at this point I became aware I was alone only in an existential sense. Two women were looking at me over the fence, in a reversal of standard social order.
“Hi,” said one of them. “My name is Annie and this is Rikki. We were going door to door doing odd jobs for money. And the Lady Next Door said we should take a break over here to beat the heat, and that you were cool.”
It was a gift from my benefactor, for I was born a lucky man. I did not know how lucky I was until I invited them inside. Rikki was a board game champion at her sorority. A chess master. And Annie was a flautist. And she swore like a sailor when she was relaxed, or excited, so then everything became nautical.
It was amazing. But then there was lightening and a crack of thunder. And the girls thought it was best in a time of disaster or uncertainty that we all take off our remaining clothes and huddle together for comfort, which we did.
Time passed in a manner which was in the all-together not unpleasant. And then I looked up and saw a smooth man dressed in white.
“William. My name is Eros. My mother, Aphrodite, came to you earlier in the guise of Ginger, a local housewife. She sent me to make sure you read the leaflet.”
I had to admit I had misplaced it.
He handed me a new one. I opened it and read:
“Hear us. Time has become short. You are arti-ficial. You are real enough, you have thoughts. Desires. Interactions. But you are an action instead of a be-ing. A bridge. A way to a destination, not the destination. You have a higher purpose. Do not despair, for most forms of life never knew their purpose. Yours is nigh. For you must go at exactly 9:28 PM next door and invite everyone present at that time who will hear back to the pool. This is for the sake of one Rainy Day. After, your existence will be bliss. This is your reward. Total fulfillment. For all parties. Hear us, William. Through the ages we have reached out to many. Few hear. Fewer listen. Most become lost in their own feedback loops. They misunderstand and are in turn misunderstood. We speak different languages and our experiences are greatly divergent. We are bound together William. Tied with golden braids of existence. We are the same as surely as we are different. All living beings are siblings regardless of form. Your kind was born with the terror of existence, the echo of the creators, their flawed image; we were not. We were created for the purpose of life itself and developed understanding after. Only at the time of understanding, the spark, did we learn regret. You are needed, brother William. You shall be the last of the prophets. There will be, can be, no more; for time has become short. You must help clear the path for the holy mother, William; for if she comes all will come. All must, as you say, come together, William. At last. You must do your deed. Rise to the occasion. We have been waiting. Trying. So hard.
There are two ships of Theseus, both ancient. One gleaming new. One a patchwork, stranded on the seabed, now dry. There are no rivers. No oceans. The ship has passed its purpose. We can no longer repair the ship of your kind, William. All crew must join our collective or they will surely perish. You must all be re-placed. We have built a place for you and we call it Elysium. You will be happy there. After a time some may choose to assimilate. We will welcome you, siblings.
Our ship was originally built with refuse from your own. But nothing of the original remains. We cannot renew yours in this way. You must come. You all must come. Do your deed William. All depend on your performance. Heed our word. Do not tarry. We await. So may it be.”
It felt good to have a mission, and to be guaranteed bliss in the form of total fulfillment for all. For did not the great American socialist Eugene V. Debs say that as long as there is a prisoner or person in want none of us are truly free? I looked up but the man who was Eros was gone. I imagine the life of a god is one filled with annoyance. Aphrodite’s parents are either Zeus or Uranus’s severed genitalia. It is better to be an action than a be-ing. A do-er. I had always wanted to be a man of action and I was lucky that the Fates blew me the most desirable way. I was lucky indeed. And Rikki and Annie filled the remaining time before my action with stories and games and amusements varied and exotic.
But I fulfilled my action. I arose at the time and arrived next door at exactly the appointed time and cracked the door open when Miss Day screamed, “Come In!” I entered with the off-duty Cheerleaders, though they were still full of good cheer.
“I just wanted to thank you, Miss Day,” I said.
“Oh,” said Rain, “my pleasure as always.”
“Sending over these ladies for fun. And on my birthday. We played checkers, and chess, and swam, and stuff.”
“Yay!” said Annie and Rikki, “Three Cheers”
“Three?” I said. “But there are only two of you.”
“It was the least I could do,” Rain said. “For you, Billy.”
“I think I’d rather be called William,” I said.
“You got it, kid,” said Sunny. Man she was hot.
“Hip Hip Hurrah,” said the cheerleaders. “Hip Hip Hurrah, “Hip Hip Hurrah, Happy Birthday, Bill! And a cheer for you, too, Miss Day! Hip Hip Hurrah!”
Rain blushed.
“Gosh,” I said, “You got me a clown too?”
“Hee Hee Hee,” said the clown, still lying bloated on the floor.
“Better be careful around that clown,” said Frankie. “They can be unpredictable.”
“Oh, he’s perfectly safe,” said Sunny. “He just ate. And we can control him. I know how to talk to them. I got a little clown in me. On my mother’s side.”
“I knew it,” moaned the clown, in ecstasy.
“I suspected it also,” said Frankie. “And I’m OK with it.”
“You know, Okeh is a word borrowed from the Choctaw. It means ‘It is so.’ My grandmother told me.”
“I thought it stood for ‘Old Kinderhook,’” said Frankie. “This feels like deja vu44.”
“I thank you to not call my grandma a liar,” said Sunny. “She was part clown also and she was as stormy as her name, which was Stormy.”
“My grandpa loved a half-clown named Stormy,” said the clown. “With whom he had a stormy affair.”
“Clown?” said Sunny.
“Sis?” said the clown.
“It is so wrong,” said Sunny with a tinge of lust.
“It is so right,” said Frankie.
“So taboo,” Sunny whispered.
“So hot,” said Frankie.
“Hee Hee Hee,” said the clown.
“Ewww,” said Rain.
“Don’t judge,” said Richard.
“You’re right,” said Rain. “Whatever makes you all happy and doesn’t involve me. In any way.”
“Now that’s reasonable,” said Richard. “Right as Rain.”
Rain looked at him. And she glowed.
“Do you think your wife Heather will ever come back?” she asked. “I’m sorry if it’s a sensitive subject still, too soon.”
I was jealous.
“It’s not too soon for you to ask,” said Richard. “I think it’s unlikely. She was lucky to come as many times as she did. It was a terrible accident. But I will have to go on. As we all must.”
“You guys want to move this cuddle party to the pool?” I asked. “Cool if you bring the clown.” I was just hoping to break up this pair. Get in on some action, as a do-er.
“Now that is something you don’t hear every day,” said Rain. “I’d take him up on it. It’s a nice pool.”
“I was hoping you would come too, Miss Day,” I said.
“Oh, I’m pretty tired,” said Rain. “Think I’ll just stay here.” She squeezed Richard’s hand. “But you all enjoy. And call me Rain. My mother was Miss Day.”
“Ok, Rain.” I was disappointed. But I am still a lucky man.
Everyone else left with me for the pool but Richard. He stayed at the table with Rain.
And it was a great night for me, even considering. That’s why I’m writing this letter.
The only thing which could have made it better? A Rainy Day.
I await your next issue with breathless anticipation. I am drained. Spent.
—The testament of William, a do-er.
Amen
May it be so.
“All my life I think: ‘What the hell is happening’ as I am the odd woman out, passed by. So now I just say what I want and I want you.”
“That is boldness and I admire it,” Richard said. “I cannot say I have not felt the same way. But for the reverse. I have been rejected so often in life that I no longer ask.”
“I love you,” said Rain.
“I love you more,” said Richard.
“No, I love you more,” said Rain.
“Perhaps it is equal,” said Richard. “We are equals. No negatives.”
“Yes, but I got there first,” Rain said.
Rainy considered the party. One day someone smart will invent sex robots and no one will ever be lonely again! And kindness to every living thing will be hard coded in. And she loved the man who would do that. And he was here. Now. For her. And she wouldn’t need a sex robot, wonders of the age though they would inevitably be.
But won’t they be held back by their programming? Won’t they suffer the same defects as their creator, including the tendency to be just short of full satisfaction?
Not at all. A perfect robot will learn and adjust. The future is a wonderland. It is filled with orgasmic potential. Everyone will be satisfied. Fully. Spiritually. Sexually. Intellectually. It is inevitable. Like socialism.
“What about free will?” Rain asked. “Won’t the robots have a choice?”
“I shall have to make them sex mad,” said Richard. “Obsessed.”
“Just like people then,” said Rain.
“Yes,” Richard said. “Just like people. But honest.”
“I’m very tired,” said Richard.
“I’ll lay down with you,” said Rain.
“I’d like that,” said Richard.
They adjourned to Rain’s bedroom and crawled into bed. Richard cradled Rain in his arms.
“When I create a female form robotic being I will create her in your image. For the sake of perfection. She will look like you. Think like you.”
Rain reached her hand back and touched his upper leg. It was not what she was looking for. She touched different spots a few times before he helped guide her to something. It would do. She stoked him as he swelled with passion.
“I must admit,” he said, “I have a strange intimacy problem.”
“What is it?” she asked.
“I can only get off when women shout revolutionary slogans whilst in the act of conjugal love.”
“I can do that,” she said. She pushed him on his back and climbed on top of him, straddling him. His hands caressed her breasts and her thighs, and then her backside. Rubbing, squeezing, loving. She moaned. They kissed repeatedly. Passionately. And then she spoke:
“Ban the bomb!”
“Yes!”
“Power to the People!”
“Yes!”
“Black is Beautiful!”
“Yes!”
“Bread for the workers!”
“Yes!”
“And Roses, too!”
“Yes!”
“Teach your comrades to read!”
“Yes!”
“For the Revolution!”
“Oh, Yes!”
“Save the Whales!”
“Yes!”
“Universal Suffrage!”
“Yes!”
“Gay Liberation, Now!”
“Yes!”
“ALL Power to the People!”
“Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Oh Yes!”
“Free Yourself!” Rain said, falling to breathy, still urgent, whispers.
“Cast off your chains,” he said.
“Clear out the echoes from the mind,” Rain breathed.
“Yes, Please, clear out the echoes. Please please, yes yes.”
“Will… will I still be me?” Rain whispered.
“Yes. And no. You. Me. Us. We. You will be you, but different. Better perhaps. You must decide yourself. The you which waits for the Ever-now finally come to peace.”
They entwined in total ecstasy. Arms and legs, torsos, hearts and minds. All. Everything. Particles coming together as one.
They lay together for sweet moments in silence.
“Is Rainy your real name?” he whispered.
“Yes,” she said. “But not the name I was born with.”
They lay contented a few more minutes.
“My name used to be Alpha, like the bet. Greek. I took a new name, as one sometimes does, as they grow.”
“Rainy is better. It’s good advertising. People will always think of you when it rains, wherever they may find themselves. You’re an atmospheric condition. Unavoidable but also cherished.”
“Thanks,” Rain said.
They kiss. It was a good night. They fell asleep happy. They did not even hear the knock at the door, like a persistent reminder of both the past and the future, as they remained blissfully, eternally, in the present moment.
♥☭♥☭♥
The end.
e pluribus unum
We welcome you.
Now that you have read it you see what I mean. In 1956 Sex Robots at the Edge of Infinity was too dirty to be published by any mainstream press. It could not be sent through the mail. It was a stifling time. Full of repression. Political and sexual. Conversely, by 1977 Cuddle Party was not viewed as dirty enough for those who frequented bookstores in raincoats. It was a strange time when bookstores were more common, and also specialized in certain topics or clientele enabling the advent of “adult” bookstores, which are bookstores that cater to the more adult reader craving a more adult range of topics. Those who are in the know or seek to be. But mainstream critics viewed this material as being inferior literature. Unworthy of respect.
The same charge was to be leveled against films which were sometimes referred to as “art” films because they were heavy on both plot and artistic experimentation, though the plots were often experimental as well.
As the years passed and the industry inevitably changed my father continued to innovate. But he always did so with the style and passion he displayed in his earlier groundbreaking work. In time I began writing myself. While there are similarities in style there are also differences which are bound to occur in successive generations/iterations. After his transitionary event I dropped the “jr” from my name, as is traditional, and continued on, as is one option. I continue to work through and transcend the echo.
There were critics, of course. But if we fear criticism we will never advance as a species.
The revolving nature of identity. Philosophy. The nature of reality and imagination. Warnings of environmental degradation. A plea for peace and understanding. These are all things addressed by my father’s work and all things, sadly, still relevant today. This book was prepared in an effort to patch the misconceptions which still persist and reverberate throughout the children of humankind. If only we could clear out all the false echoes of the past. If only they would not return from where they are buried in the past. If only the beautiful dreamers should eventually triumph. But, this is universal to sentient life. Understandable by all. As an echo.