Lost in the System

by Nancy Jo Wilson

  Finally, my world normalizes, so I’m free to snatch it up. There isn’t a caller; it’s an alarm. This fact would have dawned on me, if my head wasn’t spinning faster than Cornifu. Of course, the touch screen won’t read my fingertip, so the thing keeps mocking me while I’m pressing the disable button over and over. It won’t shut up, so I chuck it at the wall. It’s bad tradecraft, but I don’t care. Blessed silence fills the room. I try to relish the calm, but my eyes are already noticing things.

  One glance around the room tells me this guy is a new divorcee. It isn’t decorated at all. Blank, white walls stare at me. The windows have the blinds they came with—no curtains. He bought the prefab headboard from someplace like Target or Ikea. No bedspread, just a fleece blanket that could be bought at any box store.

  Why divorcee? Bachelors equip their pads one of two ways. “Late-frat-boy” style—dirty clothes piled on the floor, neon beer signs on the wall, personal reading material on the bedside table. “I’m-sensitive-and-tasteful” style—professionally coordinated (either by a designer or the best friend’s wife) color scheme, modern art on the wall, classics on the bookshelf. Widowers, on the other hand, have a more lived-in look because they want to keep everything as the wife left it, and there are pictures of the family everywhere. Neutrality dominates this guy’s place. It screams, “My wife got everything and all I have left are my clothes.” So, newly divorced.

  Speaking of clothes, my guy sleeps in a white t-shirt and briefs. Okay, Average Joe. I run my hand over a slightly curved belly, confirming that thought. If American, my boy definitely enjoys chili-cheese fries and a beer on occasion.

  I lift my left hand, noticing an indentation and faint tan line. There was a ring not long ago. I grin and literally pat myself on the back. You are the best, Smullian my boy… My thoughts trail off and my stomach knots again as I remember David’s newly-divorced, pudgy English teacher from the day before. No, it can’t be. I plunge my hands into his hair to confirm my suspicions. Average Joe’s hair feels about six weeks past due for a haircut.

  “No,” I shout, jumping out of bed. I pace the length of the room and back again. “This isn’t fair. I was a cop, blast it. Isn’t that worth something? Haven’t I earned a simple job like garbage man or plumber?” I look at the ceiling because it seems the most logical place to direct my attention and shout, “Hey, are you listening? I don’t deserve this.”

  I know They or whoever can’t hear me, and I don’t care. I had to say it out loud. Lydia’s line from the dream comes back to me. “It’s your job whether you like it or not.”

  “Well, I don’t like it, and I’m not going to play your twisted game!” I clench my fists and kick at a blanket on the floor. It blossoms up and floats back down with a whisper. I don’t even get the satisfaction of a loud thunk. I’m not even sure what I’m madder about: finding myself once again in Jacksonville, Florida, or having to teach high school.

  The seeming randomness of the last two days now has meaning. Everything leads back to David. It isn’t a coincidence, and it sure as drak isn’t a system glitch. Of all the people I’d talked to yesterday: cops, waiters, gas station attendants, and so on, I wake up inside the one man who had more than a professional concern for that little twerp. What makes the schmuck so important?

  “I am the Father to the Fatherless,” echoes around me. I’m hearing voices again. Fabulous.

  “I don’t care who you are. No one tells me what to do,” I bark into the empty room. Silence responds. “Is that statement supposed to be some kind of answer to my question? Is David important because he’s an orphan? Yeah well, I was an orphan and there were no disembodied voices hijacking felons to protect me when I was young. Where was this almighty Father when I needed one? Nowhere. I had to scratch and claw my way to survival. David isn’t better than me; why should he get a break?”

  Frustration rears its head when the stupid phone wouldn’t quit ringing. Nah, I’m way past that emotion. I am livid. “This is going too far. It’s coercion. No—blackmail. What kind of person uses another’s tragedy for their own ends? I’ve conned a lot of people, but I’ve never done that. You hear me? I have rules.”

  Without thinking, I slam my fist into the bathroom door. White-hot pain burns up my arm and chases away all my thoughts and feelings. Blank space dwells between my ears, only throbbing exists. Clear thought returns. Okay, I am drastically overreacting, but, in my defense, wooziness from that drakked biotransposition still lingers, and that dream frayed my nerve endings. I have a right to be angry. Someone is jerking me around, but it doesn’t constitute violence. Thinking about it makes me even madder because normally I’m a very laid-back guy, and someone knows all my buttons. “I’ll show you. I’ll stay home.”

  When the pain abates, I gingerly close my hand into a loose fist. Crackles of pain gallop up my arm, but I can move my fingers. Not broken, good. I glance down and see raw knuckles and drizzles of blood dripping over Average Joe’s mitt. Plausible excuses for the wound spring into my head. When you’ve been on the grift since before you could walk, some things, like damage control, happen by reflex.

  I am enraged and, possibly, bowling with only eight pins, but I need to act in my own best interests. Staying home to spite this person or persons will only get me more time in Life Mod. “Hey. I won’t be staying home today, but not because you want me to be this teacher. I have only 221 days left of my 1000-day nut, and I am not going to let some lunatic on an ego trip trick me into making it longer.”

  Besides, there is the con. There is always the con. Teaching won’t be an issue. I talk a mile a minute, and I know a lot about a lot of things. I learned early the secret to hooking a mark was finding a common point of interest. So, I read anything I can get my hands on and consume a lot of media. Things haven’t changed just because I am in the clink. I may be in a new century, but I am still on the grift. Without breaking any laws, I con people every day. The money is just a side-benefit; the performance gives me the real thrill. I will be Average Joe Teacher, busted hand or not, and no one will notice. And I will do it without lifting a finger for David Hawthorne.

  However, I’d rather be lion taming in some Ukrainian circus than herding adolescents all day. Are whips against school policy? This host confirms that The Powers-That-Be at Life Mod aren’t involved. Not only are there laws in both the present and the future prohibiting felons from teaching, the book has a rule about it. “The candidate’s exposure to minors will be limited in order to preserve society’s ability to direct the path of its future citizens.” In other words, they want to keep us hoodlums from corrupting impressionable young minds. I’ve never been in a host that has prolonged contact with the under-eighteen set. I look forward to the challenge.

  I tuck my anger into a quiet corner of my brain and get back to work. First, I must take care of the hand. Losing control like that is bad form, and I am still unhappy with myself for doing it. But no need to dwell on such things. A quick search of Average Joe’s bathroom doesn’t turn up any first aid supplies, not that I expected any. Women think to stock up on band-aids and triple antibiotic ointment; guys don’t think of those items until they’re needed. Then they usually improvise with duct tape and a kitchen towel. I rinse off the wounds, which rank as little more than scratches, and wrap a washcloth around my knuckles. I’ll buy some gauze and tape on the way to work. It seems like pharmacies are Jacksonville’s main industry. I’ll find one within thirty seconds of the apartment.

  The lack of wound care items emphasizes the bathroom’s emptiness. Most of Average Joe’s toiletries dwell in a Dopp kit. Only his toothbrush and toothpaste are stored in the medicine cabinet. It would make sense if he’d just moved in, but the tan line on his ring finger has mostly faded. I’d say he removed his ring somewhere between six weeks and two months ago—plenty of time to get settled into his new pad. He could have stayed with a buddy for part of the time, but I have a hunch that isn’t the case.

  I opt out of showering and head to
the closet. I know what clothes I’ll find. I saw Teacher Boy yesterday. As expected, the closet holds jeans and casual slacks. He possesses an assortment of colored tees and cotton shirts. He even owns sweater vests. Can’t get more teachery than a sweater vest. I’m dying to wear one, but Florida only has two seasons: February and summer. It is late September; so, I opt out on the sweater vest.

  After dressing, I retrieve the cell phone from the floor where I’d flung it. A nod to the manufacturers—it exhibits no noticeable damage. The phone doesn’t have the graphic of a half-eaten piece of fruit, either. Teacher guy cares enough about his technology to eschew the mainstream. I bet I’ll find role-playing games on his computer.

  The top of his dresser sports nothing but spare change. I snatch it up and put it in my pocket. From his waistline, I can tell Teacher Boy likes to hit the vending machines at school. I don’t have his first name, but I do know his last name from the interview yesterday. Mr. Burns. I am more interested in confirming my hunch about him being here for a while than tracking down this guy’s moniker. The name doesn’t present a challenge. I’ll learn it as soon as I find a wallet.

  I have some extra time because I know the school’s location. I’ve become more familiar with Jacksonville than I’d ever dreamed possible over the last couple of days. There won’t be time wasted hunting up maps and worrying about getting lost this morning.

  I scan the bedroom again. Except for the shelf the phone was on, the bookcase headboard is crammed with books. They aren’t in any particular order; they look like he’s just thrown them up there willy-nilly. The bedroom is unpacked, but certainly not “settled into.” If he’d moved in recently, empty boxes would be cluttering up the place—maybe not in the bedroom, but somewhere in the pad. My senses, honed by experience, tell me I won’t find any.

  I step out into the living room. One chair, one TV, and one bookcase, also crammed with books. A gaming console is at the ready on the floor. I power it up and eject the disk. As I thought, it is a role-playing game. Sometimes it hurts to be this good.

  The dining room isn’t a dining room. He’s set up a cheap desk and converted the space to an office. There are stacks of folders, presumably papers waiting to be graded, along the wall and a cork board with a large calendar. It holds teachery info like assignment due dates and holidays. I turn on the computer and step into the kitchen while I wait for it to boot up.

  Most of the cabinets are empty. One holds paper plates and plastic utensils. His fridge has beer, Coke, and creamer. The freezer is stuffed with pizzas and frozen dinners. Next to the coffee maker is a single cooking pot. My assumptions have more than enough circumstantial evidence. Average Joe has been here awhile. The place is arranged to meet his needs. It is unpacked, in a manner of speaking, and there isn’t an empty box in sight. There is only one explanation—deep down Mr. Burns was holding out for reconciliation with Mrs. Burns. He hasn’t settled in because he still hopes to move back home. I guess no one has told him that when a woman serves you with divorce papers, she’s not playing hard to get.

  The only contradiction to this is the ring, or lack thereof. He probably took it off so he wouldn’t look needy. I am sure it is tucked into a safe corner of one of his dresser drawers. I am also willing to bet that he didn’t lose everything in the divorce. He gave it all to her. Amendment to Financial Planning Lesson One—Don’t make decisions based on emotion, or don’t hand all your money over to the skirt who’s ditching you. What a sap.

  Thinking of Mrs. Burns brings Lydia to mind. I wonder how she faired the night. Did my rebuff on the phone make everything worse? I remember how the crying had distorted her beautiful face yesterday and head for the phone. I need to fix it. I need to tell her everything will be okay. The receiver is in my hand before I override the compulsion to call and see how she is doing. Maybe Mr. Burns isn’t such a sap. Some dames are dangerous.

  There is nothing in the kitchen that could be described as breakfast. Salisbury steak washed down with creamer is not going to work for me. I step back into the “office” to check the computer and hunt for Burnsey’s wallet. As predicted, there are short-cuts to notable RPGs on the computer desktop. There was also a folder titled “lesson plans.” Perfect. I click it open and scroll through the file names until I find one with today’s date. I print it out and give it quick read through. They are studying The Merchant of Venice.

  “But love is blind, and lovers cannot see the pretty follies that themselves commit,” I quote out loud and add, “That one’s for you, Burnsey.” I’ve been memorizing the bard since I was a teen. Even in the twenty-fourth century, a well-placed quote from Shakespeare could trick a mark into thinking you’re respectable and trustworthy. As if the ill-intentioned can’t enjoy the classics. Dickens will get you far, too, in most circles. Of course, The Merchant also holds Financial Planning Lesson Number Five—“All that glisters is not gold,” or if it sounds too good to be true, it probably is.

  I not only read Shakespeare for the job, but also because I love it. The plays, especially the comedies, are ripe with cons and deceptions. Heck, a con artist saves the day in The Merchant, or that’s how I interpret it. Teaching is going to be a breeze.

  Burnsey’s billfold is next to the keyboard. I snap it up and flip it open. The driver’s license picture is obscured by its leather frame, so I wrestle the card out to get a better look. Average Joe Teacher’s real name is Keith. Keith Burns—a perfectly normal American name. How average. His picture resembles a mug shot, but whose doesn’t? As I am shoving it back into place, I notice a photograph peeking out from the slot. I tug it out.

  Bingo! I had concrete proof about Burnsey’s romantic delusions. The shot is of a much younger and thinner Keith. He is all smiles and dressed in a tux. His arm is draped around a radiant brunette dressed in a white gown. What divorced guy keeps his wedding photo hidden behind his driver’s license? Only a schmuck hoping to get back with his wife. It is kind of sweet, in a pathetic way. I feel sorry for him. His marriage obviously mattered to him. I wonder what went wrong. People always assume it’s the guy who messes things up, but I’ve known plenty of heartless women. I have a feeling that was the case here.

  I glance down and realize the wallet has been sitting on an open Bible. My eyes slide over the glossy page and I find, to my dismay, Psalm 68 is listed at the top. Did he plant this here? He? Where did that come from? It feels right, though. I’ve acquired sufficient evidence to eliminate The Powers-That-Be at Life Mod as being in charge of the chaos of the last few days. Today’s situation does more than break the rules. It destroys them. Not to mention, the push to Christianity. Separation of church state rises to a whole, new oppressive level in my time. It can’t be a glitch either. The code monkeys who observe the endless algorithms driving the system would have caught this by now. I’m thinking one guy because he keeps saying, “I am the Father to the Fatherless.” It’s some smart, tech savvy, exceedingly annoying guy who fancies himself the protector of all orphans. Textbook delusional narcissism.

  There are only two ways he could have planted this Bible here. One, he walked in and did it, but that would mean he was in this century. If he were in this time, he wouldn’t have access to the tech necessary to override Life Mod. I don’t even know if Life Mod has that kind of tech. He could have used time travel, but that is highly unreliable and dangerous. There is no way he could pinpoint a date, time, and place this exact. Besides, what could possibly be so important about David to compel such a risk?

  The other logical possibility is that he brain-hitched Burnsey and set up the book. However, brain-hitching is a tightly regulated industry (remember Jack the Ripper was a hitcher) and has sharp penalties for unauthorized travel.

  Perhaps there’s not a logical explanation, and I’m okay with that. In my time, we have tech that so far surpasses twenty-first century imagination it would seem like magic to my hosts. We have mapped more of the universe than people in this century could ever conceive of existing. What has all that
knowledge taught us? That we don’t know as much as we think we do. Truly, anything is possible.

  Let’s forget “how” for a moment. Why? Is he out to get me? Is this some revenge-fueled plot? I’m the best, which means I know not to pull long cons. Big jobs breed retribution, not my small fry stuff. Besides, I doubt there’s some cosmic Keyser Soze bending time to settle a score with little ol’ me. It’s more logical he’s concerned with David. But what could possibly be so important about the twerp to justify such risks.

  I may not understand how this father guy is working, but I’m sure there is some angle. I just don’t see it yet. One thing is for sure. I’m not playing his game. I slam the Bible shut, quoting Antonio from Merchant, “The devil can cite scripture for his purpose.”

  Nose to the grindstone, Smullian my boy. I grab up the briefcase sitting by the front door and head out. Keith’s keys tell me he has a Nissan. I sigh, remembering Marvin’s Ferrari. My fingers ache for the smooth leather interior. I wonder if Marv’s gotten it back from the cops yet. Poor guy. I bet he was in agony yesterday knowing that his baby was in the hands of strangers. An odd sensation grips my insides, kind of like someone is tightening a belt. Is that what guilt feels like?

  Can’t be. I have nothing to feel guilty about. When someone buys a car like that, they should expect it’ll get stolen. Just because Marvin never drove his Ferrari, and it happened to get nabbed when I took it out, doesn’t make it my fault.

  Or does it?

  I shake my head and force my thoughts back to Keith’s car. The chances of him having a Z, or even better a GT-R, are slim. Even if he could afford one on a teacher’s salary, he gave the heartbreaker everything of substance. No, all I could expect was some mid-size four-door with more than a few thousand miles on it. What a day I am going to have: lame car, lame job, and trapped in the same lame city. I do my best Eeyore imitation, slumping my shoulders, and saying “Oh, well.”