Lost in the System

by Nancy Jo Wilson

  This Ferrari makes me feel like I did when I was fourteen. I want to run, push her to her limits, and feel that power. I can be in Miami by lunch and the Keys by late afternoon. Fast car, fast women, good times.

  But what about Marvin and his “conventional and logical daily activities?”

  “Forget Marvin. Neth, the adventure would be good for him.”

  During brain-hitching, the host is placed in a subconscious state, a little like sleeping. He experiences everything the hitcher does, but events seem like dreams. When the hitcher is gone, the host has vague, fuzzy recollections, but remains convinced he was in full possession of his faculties. What if Marvin wakes to the sound of the pounding surf and the gentle breathing of some sexy brunette beside him? Maybe he will realize his dreams are possible and start living.

  “I would be doing him a service. Now I have to go. It’s a moral imperative.”

  I open the garage door and finger the ignition button. But what would The Powers-that-Be say? They will not be moved by the “It’s best for Marvin,” argument. They will say I was in violation of the terms and conditions of Life Modification Therapy. That I have left a host unduly and utterly stranded outside his natural environment, not to mention the “reasonable transactions” and “daily activities” clauses.

  I wonder how much more time I would get. A week? I can handle a week. Ten days? It isn’t ideal, but I could handle ten days. Who am I kidding? This would be thirty days minimum, and I’ll only get off that light if they were sentencing a serial killer in the same docket. No, six months? A year? I sigh. Here I am on my 777th day, enduring my first ethical dilemma. I like Life Modification, but that doesn’t mean I want to spend any more time in it than required. Is a day in this fine machine worth it?

  I push the ignition and back down the driveway. With a final glance at my map, I head toward downtown.

  “Man, Marvin’s really starting to torque me off.”

  III

  Traffic on San Jose is like driving in sludge, but I’m in the Ferrari. Even idling thrills in this car. I pass through an area of restored homes, kitschy boutiques, and trendy, certainly overpriced restaurants. The forced charm ends abruptly in a jangle of medical buildings, train tracks, and bridges. I ease past the congestion and find Marvin’s building.

  “Valet or self-serve?” Valet. I don’t want to spend the evening trying to buff scratches out of Marvin’s paint. After making sure the red baby is in good hands, I take the elevator up to the office.

  Tanya, the secretary, emulates the Ferrari in human form. She has curves in all the right places and is bright red—from her red pumps to her matching wrap-around dress to her vibrantly dyed hair. He hired her for the same reason he bought the car—longing. I wonder how many hours he’s wasted, wishing he could wax and polish her.

  As the day progresses, I am pleasantly surprised to find that there is a fine brain underneath all that hair dye. Tanya is efficient, professional, and a skilled bookkeeper in her own right. Marvin is too practical to hire a secretary for looks alone. Without her to distract me, I’d have plunged a pencil into my eye by now. I despise numbers; I’m good with them but hate them just the same.

  As soon as the clock rolls to 12:00, I jump out of my seat.

  “Ready for lunch?” I ask.

  Tanya looks at me with wide eyes. “Lunch?”

  Smullian, you idiot. Marvin eats at his desk, probably something with tofu and sprouts. He doesn’t eat out, and he never asks Tanya. While They wouldn’t punish me for this little blunder, I mentally berate myself for acting like an amateur. I look around my desk for a way to explain this behavior. My eyes land on an envelope, and I stammer, “To celebrate the Goodman account.”

  “Oh,” Tanya responds, her lipsticked mouth a red circle and an equally red blush hitting her cheeks. “Sure, I’ll set the machine.”

  A demure smile touches her lips as she rushes about the office. Blunder or not, it is clear lunch out appeals to her. Maybe Marvin could have a shot if he’d pull his head out of the clouds. We ride in the elevator for several awkward moments (Marvin would have no idea what to say) and walk to the garage.

  A cop questions the valet. “I hope no one’s hurt,” Tanya says.

  The valet looks up at me and his tan face fades to white. “I was just about to call you, sir.”

  “Call me?”

  The cop turns and looks at me, “Are you the owner of a 2007 red Ferrari 599 license plate NUMBRS?”

  “Yes,” I answer, drawing out the word until it sounds like a hiss.

  “I regret to inform you that your vehicle has been stolen.”

  I’ve only biotransposed once while awake. I was a DJ in LA. Late party, late after-hours party, you get the hint. Not that I was geeked out, mind you. I learned to party clean the hard way. I fell afoul of some oversynthed jawa (twenty-fourth century speed). One guy died from it; I just got so sick I vowed to avoid all chemicals. Anyway, I’m making out with this over-bleached blonde when I feel like someone has grabbed my intestines and jerked them out through my nose. Just about the time I thought my head was going to explode, I found myself blowing chunks over the side of a Japanese whaler. That experience pales in comparison to how I feel when Johnny Law utters those words.

  I wonder, for a moment, if a cicada has taken up residence in my ear. A high-pitched buzzing drowns out all communication around me. Dudley Do Right is saying something, but I can’t hear it. Someone has stolen my car. Technically it is Marvin’s car, but today it’s my baby and someone nicked it! I am flummoxed, flabbergasted, and freaked out. What did I do to deserve this?

  Maybe that’s not the best question to ask.

  Before I can ruminate on the answer, a soft hand lands on my arm, neutralizes the buzzing, and brings my mind into focus. “Marvin, he asked if you have Lojak,” Tanya says.

  Of course, Buttoned-down Marvin has Lojak. I am also sure he has the extended warranty and insurance on his floor mats. I am beginning to appreciate his anal, er, cautious nature.

  “Yes,” I answer, relief pouring out of me. “I have Lojak.” The copper makes a call to initiate it and soon my baby is being tracked by satellite. We determine, based on the inept valet’s statement, a classic diversion-and-grab was used. An underdressed, surgically-endowed broad occupied the valet by asking for directions. While Rocks for Brains was keeping his eyes in front, if you know what I mean, someone slipped in and grabbed the keys. This doofus was taken by one of the oldest gaffles in the book. Financial Planning Lesson Three—Thoroughly vet all business associates or don’t hand your car keys to a hormone-besotted valet.

  It’s all over but the shouting. I need to go home, gather the Ferrari’s papers, and take them to the station—like I want to spend my afternoon in a cop shop. I’m allergic to bad lighting and Formica.

  Tanya drives me home in her perky, clean Volkswagen Beetle. I take one look at the spotless interior and know, beyond the shadow of a doubt, she is the girl for Marvin. However, I am too annoyed to do anything about it. Not annoyed, angry. I am angry with Tanya for being so understanding. I am angry with the valet for having a distinct lack of self-control. I am angry with myself for trusting the dolt. Drak, I’m angry with Marvin for buying the stupid car in the first place.

  I fume silently while Tanya tries to make conversation. I only speak to give her directions, and those words are hardly more than grunts. As much as I try to deflect my feelings onto those other things, the truth lurks in my mind, and I can’t deny it. I am a victim. Me—the victim of a con. Albeit through twisted and confusing circumstances, the fact remains the same. I feel helpless and violated. My stomach rolls like the time I entered a chili eating competition, and, for some bizarre reason, I itch all over.

  That uncomfortable question comes back to me: What did I do to deserve this?

  I’ve done plenty to deserve this, but today I am Marvin, and Marvin has done nothing. Just that morning I’d said he was screaming to be taken for everything he had. That was th
e morning, now I know him better. The dull schmuck works his posterior off to earn that car; he sacrifices and saves, obeys the law, and watches his cholesterol. Marvin does not deserve to have the fruits of his labor stolen from him. There is no way to rationalize it.

  It gets worse. I helped. The car wouldn’t have been stolen if I’d left it in the garage where Marvin wanted it. The itchiness increases, and my chest tightens. Tanya reaches my house, and I explode from the car. I just stalk inside without a wave goodbye. Being a mover, I can’t think sitting still. Once my legs are pumping, clean air fills my lungs.

  “Calm down, Smullian my boy. This is what They want.” The light bulb dings in my brain, and I immediately feel better. They want me to “learn the value of an honest day’s labor and empathize with my victims.” I almost fell for it. They can’t engineer a car theft (it was truly chance), but it’s the kind of thing The Powers-that-Be have based their whole system on. “Prolonged exposure to law-abiding and virtuous citizens will, by necessity, alter an aberrant mindset.” In short, leave a crook in Life Mod long enough, and he’ll change his wicked ways.

  Well, not this one. Besides I’m not a bad guy; I have rules. I don’t grift anyone who can’t afford it or who doesn’t deserve it. Marvin may not deserve it, but he can afford it. I am betting he is more than amply insured. A quick perusal through his files proves my hypothesis. I smile to myself as I collect the paperwork the boy in blue had requested. Everything is back in perspective. Marvin will either get his car back or enough money to buy a new one. “Whew. No skin off my nose. Moral crisis averted.”

  The itch leaves, my heart rate normalizes, and the jaunt is back in my step. I even hum a spirited Galwan tune. Galwa is a charming backwater sphere on the wrong side of the universe’s tracks and home to yours truly. It doesn’t have a lot to offer—farming’s difficult and there’s limited natural resources. Most people work in the salt mines. Some industrious types, like me and my mom, find more creative forms of finance. Mom milked the My Baby Needs Medicine scam when I was only a month old. But I digress.

  IV

  Marvin’s Volvo takes me to the cop shop in a safe and efficient manner, as advertised. Once there, I commence my favorite pastime—waiting. As I already said, I’m not one for sitting still. It’s unnatural. Internally we’re in constant motion: blood is pumping, neurons are firing, glands are producing all kinds of fluids, yet we think it’s possible to rein in all that movement and be still. I want to fidget, pace, talk, but I know Buttoned-up Marvin is a sitter. He’d be patiently staring into space holding his documents. So, I muster up all my will power (which isn’t much, mind you) and do the same.

  When I think I’ll explode from all the excess energy, I quietly rise and shuffle to the water fountain. This is a pretty high-tech cop shop; they have the kind with cups instead of the usual bubbler. I pour myself a drink and nurse it while reading the safety notices on the wall. There is a bulletin for the elderly about phone charity scams. I study it to see if there are any I can modify for my own purposes. Charity scams are a cash crop, but I have rules. I wouldn’t scam an old person, you know, unless they were rich.

  Next to me a Latino detective who looks a little like Benjamin Bratt is talking to a waitress. He sports a suit—not blues—affirming his rank. Her powder-blue retro diner uniform skirt ends just above her mannequin perfect calves. I can’t see her face but, who cares, with legs like that?

  I pick up scraps of their conversation. “He wouldn’t skip school,” she says.

  “I understand that, ma’am, but a lot of kids do. I’m sure he’ll come home later with a perfect explanation,” Benjamin Bratt says.

  “No. He wouldn’t go off without telling me. You have to look for him.”

  “Ma’am, he’s fifteen. We can’t file a report until he’s been gone 24 hours. Go home and—”

  “I am Father to the Fatherless,” someone whispers behind me. Again? I glance around and see no one. Only Benjamin Bratt, Lovely Legs, and I. Must be a strange trick of the acoustics. “I am Father to the Fatherless.” It utters right next to me. The detective and waitress continue their conversation; they haven’t heard it. The phrase seems directed at me, like it’s somehow a description and a command at the same time. I haven’t experienced auditory hallucinations before, but anything is possible in Life Mod. I mean they’ve taken my essence and crammed it into some dude’s brain three centuries in my past. Weird stuff is bound to happen. I handle it the way I do all things I don’t understand—I walk away. After an unobtrusive saunter around the lobby, I take my seat.

  It isn’t long before a tired-looking detective approaches. “Mr. Shoemacher?” he asks.

  I jump up and eagerly hand him my folder. “I’ve brought all the documents you asked for.” In perfect Marvin form, I open it and began to explain, “Here’s my title, and this is the insurance policy, and here’s—”

  “Mr. Shoemacher, that’s all very helpful,” he interrupts. Judging from the bags under his eyes, it’s been a long day. Eager beaver Marvin annoys him. “However, it won’t be necessary. We’ve recovered your vehicle. Can you step out back with me to the impound lot and ID it?”

  My car! I’ll be able to drive that baby home and put her under her dust cover just the way Marvin likes it. When I biotranspose, all will be right in Marvin’s world. I follow Grumpy out to the lot and there she is, just as promised. I inspect her closely, searching for the slightest damage. I find not a knick, mark, or scratch. This little bump in the road is almost over.

  Detective Needs-A-Personality takes me back in, where I fill out and sign forms until my hand cramps. When he says I am done, I ask him for the keys.

  “The Ferrari 599 is evidence. It will be some time before you can take it home,” he says as casually as if he’s asking me if I want fries with that.

  “Didn’t you catch the thief in the act?”

  “Yes, but there’s still processing.”

  Man, this day really sucks. I’m a grifter; I am well acquainted with processing. Marvin is not, so I keep up the charade. “What kind of processing? How long will that take?”

  “Processing,” he repeats with a bland expression. “Shouldn’t take more than two, three days. We’ll call.”

  Two or three days would be an eternity to Marvin. I start to get that itchy feeling again, and I don’t like it. Which is why I do what I do next, for the sole purpose of throwing Marvin a bone (in a manner of speaking), I call Tanya. Her number is right there in his phone.

  “Hello,” she says.

  “Hello, Tanya, this is Marvin Shoemacher from work.” He’d maintain professionalism.

  “I know who you are, Marvin,” she says, giggling. It isn’t a mocking giggle. It is more of a You’re-So-Cute giggle.

  Encouraged that my assumptions are correct, I continue. “I’m sorry our celebration lunch got canceled this afternoon.”

  “Me too.”

  “I was wondering, if you don’t have other plans, if we could reschedule for tomorrow noon?”

  “That would be great,” she gushes.

  “All right, then. Lunch, noon tomorrow. I’ll see you at work in the morning,” I finish, hanging up the phone. There, I have led my horse to water. I wonder if he’ll drink. I drive home, collapse on the couch, and will myself to sleep. Being Marvin is way too stressful—I am ready to be someone new.

  PART TWO

  BETTER LIVING THROUGH DENIAL

  The pumping, rhythmic tones of Latin rap wake me, limiting the options of where I am to only half the entire planet. The room spins more than usual, and I am contemplating whether it is wise to stay where I am or try to move when something warm snuggles against my back. I hold out hope that it’s a wet-nosed dog until a lilting, sleepy voice says, “Turn it off, querido.”

  That makes my decision. I am off the bed and into the bathroom faster than a Ring Jumper. I barely have time to lock the door behind me before this guy’s dinner comes to call. A significant other! Significant others are troubl
e. A wife or girlfriend knows the host better than anyone, and she’s there the moment I wake up in his body. I don’t have a chance to investigate his personality before I have to put on a show. This is the only situation where I’m glad for my morning caller. Any behavior she suspects, I can deflect with, “I think I caught whatever’s going around.”

  The door handle jiggles, and I am glad I remembered to lock it. Life Mod detainees always brainhitch in their gender. It’s hard enough navigating a new person without also having to convince others you’re the opposite sex. However, a clever quirk in the system is that I rarely have a wife. Usually I am a bachelor, widower, or someone too young to be bothered. However rare, it became clear early on that I needed to lock the door. Wives will follow their sick husbands into the bathroom to pat their backs and cool their fevered brows.

  On one awkward occasion, a girlfriend followed me into the shower. Most guys would think easy money in that situation. The ultimate hook-up, no strings attached. Not me. I have rules. I never touch a married woman. Marriage is a sacred institution that should be respected by all parties, inside or out. A concept my father had trouble wrapping his alcohol-addled brain around.

  The handle jiggles again. A delicate knock follows. “Are you okay, querido?”

  I am still somewhat busy over the throne, but I manage, “un minuto.” It confounds me that my brain and its language chip are three centuries away, and yet I know what it knows. How do the techies manage that? I don’t even pause. I just know what to say. Too bad They remove the chip when my sentence is over. Ah, the trouble I could get into.

  “Okay,” the wife answers, and I assume (hope) she leaves. After I finish, I realize she spoke in both Spanish and halting English. Like she was just learning, but it was English, nonetheless. Am I in the US again? It is rare, but not unheard of, to be in the same country two days in a row.