Do Not Go Quietly

by Jason Sizemore

  Two minutes later, big man came out the VM with a gold-front grin and a halo to match. He apologized to me, then to the folks in line, then asked where Sammy went, so he could apologize to him, too.

  “It’s all gold,” I told him. “Don’t even worry about it. Take care of yourself.”

  “Peace, Mr. Moderator,” he said, then got a stray cart off the street and went shopping.

  Damn. I wish Sammy had been there to see it. Me, I’m used to this. But I wanted him to see for himself that the VM is legit. So maybe, potentially, he might find that ounce of strength to step inside the booth. To let it all out.

  Now I’m back in the Thunderbird, riding through the city in silence to the last stop of this late shift. In my periphery, I see Sammy, leg still bouncing, hands don’t know what to do with themselves. I wondered if he was back on something. But I called the hospital after he called me, and they found no substances in his system. I believe them. This is a different Sammy with a different type of narcotic. It runs deeper than any illicit drug, and it runs tragically in the family. And it scares me more than anything.

  This is pure anger.

  “Listen, Sammy, you’re my brother, man, and I know you got a lot going on right now, but you can’t just …” I didn’t think through this impromptu speech. “I can’t have you—”

  “It’s your fault, bro,” he says, looking away from me. “You dragged me out.”

  “This is my life, Sammy. Not just my life, but my livelihood, you know? For Liz, the girls. I’m working hard. I mean, with these blackouts, we got food going bad every day, contaminated water, and I can’t afford to be—”

  “A deadbeat?”

  “I never said that. You putting words in my mouth.”

  Sammy laughs, which comes out like a staccato hiss. “You know this all fake, right?”

  “What is?”

  “Everything. This quote-unquote life you talking about. With these venting machines. ‘Step in the booth and we’ll make your problems disappear!’” he says like some carnival barker, but that’s not our slogan. “And these mood halos, spinning all black when you’re mad. What type of racist shit is that?” he says like people haven’t made that joke a million times. “I mean, even this self-driving car you got. It’s just funny to me, hearing you talk about ‘your life,’ but you don’t control a goddamn thing.”

  “So what? I’m supposed to be like you? Making signs? Marching through the streets with the herd? That’s real control right there, huh?”

  Sammy stares out the window as we pass purple-haloed girls playing hologram hopscotch. “The real world’s a fucked-up place. I’m out on the front lines, trying to unfuck it up.”

  I laugh. “You know what’s funny to me? What’s funny to me is how you babble on about hating ‘the White Man’ and, yet and still, spend all your days tryna convince them you matter.”

  “That’s not what I’m doing.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, what I’m doing is I’m lifting us up. That’s what I’m doing.”

  “That right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Tell me this, then,” he says, turning to face me. “What good is ‘lifting us up,’ if they keep breaking us down?”

  He turns away like that was some sort of verbal fatality. But I let it go. My baby brother has his perspective, misguided as it may be. But once we get to this last VM, I’m gonna work like hell to help him broaden it.

  “Where is everybody?” Sammy asks, leaning forward, looking around.

  The auto glides to a stop, announces that we’ve reached our destination on 90th Avenue. The booth is straight ahead. A lone, solar-powered box, casting dim light on this blacked-out street, dotted with displaced people. Homeless people. Halo-less people. People who, if you ask me, have the most to vent about. Nobody stands in line.

  “Yeah, this one doesn’t get much traffic,” I tell him. “Costs too much.”

  “Thought it was a free program.”

  “It is, but you need to register online, get an RFID tag and halo, and you know—”

  “Bureaucratic bullshit.”

  Sammy watches them and I wonder if he sees himself, or a shadow of himself. Or maybe that’s what I want him to see—like his past struggles validate me, the choices I’ve made. Is that why I felt that twinge of satisfaction when I heard he was in trouble? I buried it deep, deep down, that feeling. The hidden pleasure I got from his pain. Do I hate myself so much that I need my own to suffer for me to feel good? What kind of man secretly wishes the worst on his brother?

  “If nobody uses the machine,” he says, snatching me from my shameful train of thought, “why do you need to sweep or whatever?”

  “Checking for damage, vandalism, hidden mics. You never know.” I open the door, step halfway out. “Listen, Sammy, I was wrong to drag you last time. But I do think the VM could help you deal with your …” I can’t think of the right word and I wave my hands, as if I’m trying to catch it floating in the space between us,. “… hostility.”

  Sammy scoffs. “I don’t have any hostility.”

  “You said you’re a changed man, right? Told me being out in the world helped you deal with your demons and understand yourself and stop lying to yourself. That’s what you told me.”

  Sammy looks down at his leg, plays with the brace. “You right.”

  I’m right? Just like that? I was ready to go full-on lecture mode, too. But he’s already stepping out and coming around the auto to join me. As we’re walking up to the VM, I don’t say a word, fearing he might renege.

  Even though the booth is empty, these streets are full of life: primal screams of raw passion erupt from behind barred windows; growls drip from chained-up Rottweilers; generators grumble; bass lines thump; the shopping carts here don’t rattle so much, too heavy, loaded with all kinds of bags.

  Sammy keeps looking behind him. “It’s safe out here with these blackouts?”

  “We’re good. They all know me.” I wave at my guys on the corner, shooting dice.

  “Mod squad!” they holler back like always, raising their fists.

  At the booth, I hold out my hand like an usher for Sammy to enter. He already thinks I’m a carnival barker, so I say: “Step right up, don’t be shy.” Trying to keep the mood light.

  “Listen, bro,” he says, and I swear he’s about to back out. “I’ll do this. But under one condition. You have to do something for me.”

  “Name it.”

  “I’ll tell you after,” he says and, against my better judgment, I don’t ask more questions. I’m too focused on the mission at hand. Too caught up in saving my baby brother from himself. “Alright, so how this work?”

  The venting machine is pretty straightforward, I explain to Sammy. You step inside, close the soundproof door, then you let it all out, whatever your grievance is: you can rant about how much you hate your low-paying job; how you can’t stand your freeloading family; how all your friends are fake; men are pigs, women are evil, everybody lies; go off on your cheating spouse, who had the audacity to blame you for the affair; blame God; blame your abusive parents; blast your bad-ass kids for forcing you to give up your dreams; curse the crooked government; say fuck the police; yell, scream, and holler till your face fills with blood. Let it all out. You got two minutes.

  Then, when you’re finished venting, press the red button and a special light will flash four times, which triggers a flood of oxytocin in your brain.

  “And you’ll feel a hundred-times better,” I reassure him.

  Sammy stares into the booth. He’s no longer that grown man with a beard and passport and real-life experience, but more like a scared boy about to go on his first haunted-house ride.

  “What if I don’t … want to ‘feel better?’” Sammy says.

  Again, I keep my mouth shut, not wanting to say anything that might push him away. Violent howls of sex sounds spill into the streets like multiple exorcisms.

  “What if …” Sammy stares at the ground, crack
ing his knuckles. “This … this hostility, as you call it. I need it … and if I let it go, I’m afraid I might …”

  “Lose your will to fight?” I put a hand on his shoulder. “Man, trust me, that won’t happen. If anything, you’ll fight smarter ’cause you’ll be able to think clearer.”

  “If I lose my edge …” He traces a line in the sidewalk with his boot. I’ve never seen him so vulnerable. “I might mess around and kill myself.”

  Where did that come from? Is he for real? I never thought Sammy to be the type. He always seemed so sure of himself, so sturdy in his beliefs. And to be honest, I was jealous of that, ever since we were kids, his innate passion for life. I’m about to ask him if he has a plan to kill himself, which I was taught in our mental health response training helps distinguish between those with harmful intentions and those with compulsive thoughts.

  But before I get a word out, he says: “I don’t have one of those, um, RFID thingies.”

  “I got you.” I hold my mod badge to the scanner, then enter my pin. The VM dings. “That’s all you.”

  Sammy takes a deep breath, steps into the booth, and shuts the soundproof door.

  Two minutes later, Sammy steps out. Even with no halo to broadcast his emotional state, I can tell he feels better. Still, I want to hear it from him.

  “How was that?”

  Sammy moves his head from side to side, as if to say it was “so-so,” but his lips pressed tight, holding back a smile, reveal the truth. I don’t know what he talked about in there. It’s bad “ventiquette” to ask. But I know it worked. Now, maybe he’ll move back home, register, and make this a daily thing.

  “Your turn,” he says.

  “Oh, I don’t need to go.” I point to my halo. “It’s all gold, baby.”

  “Not that,” Sammy says. “Our agreement. You gotta do something for me now.”

  “Right. Let me just do my sweep, then we can skedaddle.”

  I step in the booth, case in hand. With my wand, I scan for cameras or microphones. Nothing. Then I detach the panel with the FlyBack reverse arrow logo under the red button, connect my computer to the black box inside and delete the data so it can’t be compromised.

  “So what’s the plan, Sam?” I ask him once I’m done. “The Coliseum?”

  “Area A,” Sammy says. “I wanna see Area A.”

  That’s the higher-end part of town. I never go there. Never have a real reason to. But that’s where Sammy wants to go, so we’re headed toward the hills. On the way, I consider bringing up the subject of suicidal thoughts. But don’t want to kill the vibe. For the first time since I picked him up, my baby brother looks relaxed. So I let it go. And we ride in peace.

  “You have arrived,” the Thunderbird announces.

  I forgot how nice it is in Area A, with these fancy restaurants and clean sidewalks and houses with down payments higher than my salary. But the electricity is down here, too. We’re all just feeling our way through the dark.

  As the car parks itself, I look over at Sammy. “You hungry?”

  Sammy doesn’t respond, his eyes fixed on the College Avenue venting machine, where a gang of white guys stand in line, halos spinning amber.

  “I lied to you,” Sammy says finally.

  “What about?”

  “When I called you up to see if you could scoop me from the airport.” Sammy rubs his beard, and my heart starts racing for some reason. “I told you I just got out the hospital.”

  “You told me you got jumped at a club for messing with some married broad.”

  “I did say that.” His eyes still outside, still narrow. “How come they get to use the VM?”

  I look at the users in line. “White boys can’t be mad?”

  Sammy scoffs. “They not mad. These white boys shook as fuck. That doomsday clock’s ticking on their recessive gene-having asses. They see us coming, they’re freaking the hell out.”

  “You’re freaking me the hell out.”

  Sammy looks down at his knee brace. “I was at a rally,” he begins, “marching, you know, like I been doing the past couple years. Not causing trouble, just marching. Peacefully. For empowerment, justice, all that. And one of the organizers, she saw me out there, feeling my energy and asked me to say a few words. I didn’t know what to say, so I freestyled. And the crowd was all hyped, showing me love and I felt this …” He moves his hands like the wheels on the bus going round and round. “This current flowing through me. Bro, let me tell you, I never felt more alive than right then.”

  “I don’t understand what you lied about.”

  “So after, I’m walking back to Katrina’s spot—the biologist I was staying with—and I’m, you know, still on this high from the rally. Not really minding my surroundings, so the screams don’t register for me, not fast enough. Out of nowhere, this car comes racing up the sidewalk behind me, slams right into me.”

  “What the fuck, are you serious?! Why didn’t you tell me?”

  But he doesn’t have to answer. I know Sammy. He was too ashamed. Sammy looks out the window again, at the VM line. A yellow glow from my halo tints the side of his stoic face. My hands shake, my throat tightens, and I’m terrified of why my baby brother wanted to come here, of all places. What’s about to go down?

  “You were right,” he says, opening the door. “What you said. About the VM.”

  “Where you going? What are you doing?”

  “I am thinking clearer.”

  He gets out. I get out to grab him before he goes too far.

  “Bro, let go of me,” he says.

  “What are you about to do?”

  “I just wanna have a conversation.”

  “Of the nonverbal variety?”

  Sammy laughs, lifting his hands in surrender. “Verbal, man, all verbal.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m positive,” he says. “I’m tryna start a dialogue, not a fight.”

  He’s telling the truth. I know Sammy. So I let go of his arm.

  But right when I do, a van with the FlyBack logo pulls up to the VM. A man steps out, holds up a mod badge. Sammy and I both freeze, watching the scene play out. Each Area has its own moderator, and I remember meeting some of them in our training sessions. Never actually ran into one of us in the field, though, doing what I do.

  “What’s he doing?” Sammy asks.

  The man carries only a tablet to what looks like a breaker box attached to the VM and I’m not breathing, but I’m watching as he opens the box, presses a few buttons.

  And the lights come on.

  “The hell?” Sammy says, spinning around. “Thought you said the tech wasn’t ready.”

  I had heard whispers off and on, rumblings from some folks that other Areas had power. Figured that was just frustration talking, that it was nothing more than tired church gossip. Because whenever I called FlyBack to get a timetable, I was told it wasn’t ready yet. Not for another year or two, at least. I was told these types of rollouts take time, that nothing happens overnight. “Bear with us,” I was told.

  “Bro, how come you don’t have one of those tablets?”

  Standing on this unbelievably bright street, I’m thinking of home: my baby girl, Justine, crawling in darkness, crying nonstop; and Gracie, my two-year-old, cocooned in blankets, throwing up from a stomach bug that won’t die; and Liz! God, how many times did she ask me: “When will we have power?” Every night after my shift, she asked me that. And what did I say? “These things take time. Nothing happens overnight.” That’s what I told her! And I see her now, trying to calm Justine and comfort Gracie, pumping milk, dumping milk, breaking dishes in the messy kitchen, in the cold, in the dark, as she gets rid of all that good food gone bad.

  “Bro, now you’re freaking me the hell out. Say something.”

  But I don’t know what to say. I only know I need to take action. I start charging over to the VM. Sammy grabs me before I go too far.

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute,” he says. “I can’t have
you flipping out.”

  I try to pull away but Sammy steps in front of me, holding my shoulders.

  “You’re out of control, look at you. Your halo’s gone black!” Sammy says. “Listen, bro, think about your family. Think about your future.”

  I’m looking at my baby brother’s scarred face. But I don’t really see him. I can’t remember the last time I felt this much rage. But here it is, a fire in the pit of my stomach, boiling my insides to the point I can’t tell if it’s vapor or smoke coming out my mouth when I tell Sammy: “I am.”

  Then I deactivate my halo. Turn around. Race back to the auto. Lock the doors before Sammy gets in. Switch the car to manual mode.

  And I gun it.

  Straight ahead.

  Faster than I’ve gone in forever.

  Gripping the wheel so hard. Losing circulation in my hands. Bright lights turn blurry. And I don’t see Sammy fall to his knees in the rearview. And I don’t hear the screams. I don’t hear a damn thing—not even sthe ound of the Thunderbird, my dream car, crashing into the College Avenue venting machine.

  Blackout.

  Everything Is Closed Today

  by Sarah Pinsker

  Mae didn’t see the news until after she got home. She’d managed to get a seat on the rush-hour bus, which was always nice, but it had been crowded enough that she’d had to sit with her bag on her knees, and someone else’s bag more or less on her knees, too, which wasn’t that woman’s fault, but which hadn’t given her any room to browse her phone. There’d been a murmur at one point, more people talking to each other than usual, but she hadn’t caught the gist.

  She’d looked out her window and people-watched, dog-watched, city-watched. A teenage boy kept up with the bus on his skateboard for a minute, pushing mongo, his front foot pushing and his back foot on the board. Terrible habit. She wasn’t surprised when he hit a sidewalk crack and his board shot out in front of him.