Shades

by Eric Dallaire

  “Hello, Mrs. Hsu, I’ll take the ‘I'm Sorry’ premium package of your best flowers.”

  “Uh oh, in trouble again?” she admonished with a shaking finger. “Another dozen lilies and roses in two weeks? You need to pull your life together, Jonah. I have a good card for you.”

  Mrs. Hsu disappeared behind her counter and reemerged with a bouquet of flowers and a large brush. “You would be more handsome if you got a haircut,” she scolded. Without asking permission, she brushed me with rough strokes, fussing over my appearance like my adopted mother. “Such beautiful brown hair, but when it’s so tangled it hides your blond roots, and covers your blue eyes!” With renewed vigor, she groomed me, picking off lint, straightening my clothes, and wiping off dirt. “There, now you are at least presentable.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Hsu. What would I do without you?”

  “Without me, you’d be a flea-bitten mess in the doghouse,” she sighed. “Try not to come back for a month!” she yelled as I hurried out of the store.

  * * *

  As I hurried through bursts of rain, my progress halted in front of a gawking crowd on the corner of Varick Street. Following their skyward points and astonished expressions, I saw a fast-moving blur falling from the Federal building. The victim’s plummeting reflection against the polished steel and glass of the bank building made it look like several people falling. Jumping back to the sidewalk, I tried to move out of the way before the body impacted with the cement. Despite my efforts, a huge splash of muddy water drenched my freshly bought flowers when the body slammed into the ground.

  My eyes blinked to focus, and I scanned the scene for details. The victim wore a light blue utility outfit issued to New York city workers. Nearby shattered remnants of maintenance equipment confirmed that he fell while cleaning a window. The crowd pulled back when the body writhed and started to rise. Several people sighed in relief.

  “Oh, thank god, it’s just a shade,” said a young bystander.

  “Maybe the safety harness was old and broke?” another man guessed.

  Though the fall would have liquefied a normal human, the shade suffered only broken bones and a crooked gait. Not all shades would have fared that well, especially ones near the end of their afterdeath timer. Perhaps he benefitted from a newer serum formula. He limped near me on his way to the skyscraper’s entrance. As he passed me to climb twenty-seven stories and return to work, my eyes noticed that the twisted harness looked brand new. Alternate possibilities for his accident flitted through my mind. Maybe the suspension platform broke underneath him? As he disappeared into the high-rise, my attention returned to my drenched, muddied flowers. With a lowered head, I walked back into the flower shop and endured another scolding from Mrs. Hsu.

  “You’re back ALREADY? This is a new record. You really stepped into it this time.” I had no idea how right she would be.

  * * *

  I sprinted home with a fear, a rational and understandable worry given my very strange week, that a dangerous calamity could befall me at any moment. I made sure to obey all crossing signal signs, and looked up to the sky for falling dead shades every block. My mind focused on the simple goal to navigate a few more blocks to reach my apartment, apologize and make up with my girlfriend, and sleep away this long day. After passing a row of renovated brownstone apartments, the familiar smell of Coney Island dogs simmering with their sweet onions wafted to my nose. Roger, a New York institution known for his delicious food and generosity to the homeless, flipped a pair of sausages and nodded at me. He saw my bundle of flowers, smirked, and dressed up two fully loaded dogs.

  “Two with the works for Vanessa. Any for you, Jonah?” Roger asked. His black hair pulled back in a hairnet. Steam from his cart billowed around his hawkish thin face.

  “Yes, make it four, Roger,” I replied. He slid open his steam cover, plucked two more cooked wieners with his shiny metal tongs, nimbly flipped them into the air, and caught them with two bread buns, smiling like a Yankee fan catching a foul ball in the venerable park. Most of the other street vendors had long switched to more mobile hover vans equipped with food replicators. Roger kept the old nostalgia alive. With a few taps of my wrist-com, money transferred to pay for the food.

  He leaned to me and handed the warm paper-wrapped hotdogs, his usually jovial craggy face now creasing with worry. “Jonah, I’ve got a favor to ask. When ya get a chance, talk to Vanessa for me? It’s my Uncle Morty. He's--he's got the cancer. Doesn’t got too much longer to go, ya know? He owes--not too much, but more than hot dogs and franks can pay off, know what I mean? Every time I think I'm close to paying the debts, penalties pile up. Your lady, she's a blessing. She's our only hope -- but her vid-phone's always busy. Maybe you could put a good word in, for old time’s sake?”

  I took the dogs and shook Roger's hand firmly. “I'll talk to her for you, Roger, don't worry.” Roger wiped his tearing eyes as another customer stepped up for an order. Seeing him get emotional stoked the embers of guilt that I had almost let extinguish from my earlier job. These days there were pretty much two kinds of people: those who couldn't give a shit about their afterdeath debts, and those that got scared as hell when the time came. When I first started collecting, it was simple and clear as day to me -- you owed, you came back from the dead to pay. I bought into the government's official motto: “We pay our debts, now and forever.” Since then, every time I completed a job and saw how it affected the families involved, the worse I felt about myself.

  CHAPTER 5

  Pro Bono, Ad Mortem

  “Nochen toit vert men choshev.”

  Translation: “After death one becomes important.”

  - Jewish proverb

  At my approach, the rusted security panel of my apartment building flickered to life with a sickly green glow. With practiced ease, my fingers punched 1-0-1-0-1-0, my birthday date reversed, while it scanned the fingertips for confirmation.

  “Welcome back, Jonah,” said a deep voice as the door swung open. Mr. Chauncey Sanders, the self-appointed doorman, waved to me from his favorite leather chair. Like usual, he watched the evening news on the lobby's aging holo-monitor. Despite his older age, his dark skin showed few wrinkles and his body looked trim. He never needed the walking cane resting across his lap, but he kept it close in case an unsavory trespasser slipped by his gate. He flashed a wide smile through his trimmed white mustache, like usual. However, the one hundred or more spectral holo-projected people all crowding the lobby? Not usual. The motley collection of ghostly people all stood in a line winding around the paisley-covered walls.

  Walking by the v-cast generator, I noticed the clear tank bubbling with its viscous gray proto-matter. The machine’s digital display reported that the crowd of casting visitors stretched the capacity of the unit’s resources.

  **VIRTUAL CASTING GENERATOR: MARK-2. **

  ** GOZEN CORPORATION. Patent No. 4,033,332. **

  ** Proto-Matter: 99.9979% of 100% in use.**

  Using a standard head-mounted device, people v-casted from the privacy of their homes to other locations using a projector. How they looked at the other end depended on the quality and mark of the local v-cast generator. Like most public networks, my apartment’s generator possessed enough fidelity to make a passable looking human figure with photonic light. Mark-2 units and above merged excited light with malleable proto-matter. This combination granted v-casters enough substantiality that another person could feel their semi-tangible forms. In the eyes of the law, these v-casting visitors represented real people with rights to conduct business remotely. Most cities offered the use of basic mark-1, maybe mark-2 units free to the public. Only the military and a handful of corporations utilized the most realistic mark-6 v-cast generator technologies.

  “They've been here all day, these bloody ghosts,” Mr. Sanders said, pointing to the projected people. “There's more of 'em too, the line goes down to the basement. All waiting for her.” He wagged a gnarled stubby finger at
me. “Your girl...” he warned with a look of sadness. “She's working too hard, Jonah. The girl needs some rest. Maybe take her for a walk and to a nice dinner?”

  “Yes, Mr. Sanders, I'll see what I can do,” I answered back with a smile.

  As one of the city's few lawyers specializing in 'Afterdeath Debt Reconciliation and Remediation', the recent demand for her services skyrocketed. Although she had many clients, almost all of them needed help from debt collection, which also meant they lacked money. Bless her big heart, she carried on a one-person crusade to help them maintain their dignity in this life and the next. Generous to a fault, she started getting a reputation for letting clients pay what they could. Many of her wealthier lawyer colleagues criticized her for her lack of business acumen, offering her jobs in more lucrative legal disciplines like off-world tech patents. However, her generosity and idealism was one of the many things I had fallen in love with and still loved about her.

  Even during Vanessa’s peak, she never had more than ten visitors. It made me wonder what might have caused an uptick in collections by the government. Maybe a new late penalty? I made a mental note to ask Vanessa about that later.

  Winding through the crowds of v-casters, I tried my best not to walk through them. Most citizens observed modern etiquette and considered virtual visitors as ambassadors of the real person. A dwindling minority considered these ghosts to be phantasms, no better than high-polygon video-game avatars. I regarded other v-casters as I would want my own projected form to be treated, which is to say, with respect.

  All of the v-casters projected their true elderly forms. Many knocked on death’s door and rang the doorbell for good measure. Creating a different v-cast body than your true form required recent knowledge of technical upgrades that older users generally ignored. They gripped canes, sat in wheelchairs, and stood crooked but patient in their line. Their collective whimpers and soft prayers breathed an uncomfortable pall throughout the lobby. Death was coming for them, and soon their debts would be due.

  Slinking across the room to avoid their attention, I reached the elevators just as an apparition noticed me.

  “I'm casting from a cafe, this isn't cheap, please hurry,” begged an older man with a Russian accent.

  “Please sir, I've been waiting for hours!” cried an elderly Cuban woman while following me. I rushed into the elevator, beyond the range of the lobby's v-projector, causing her form to jitter and tear apart. The door started to close and in an act of desperation she thrust her arm to reach for me.

  “I’m sorry,” I mouthed. Her translucent form disintegrated, cut off from the excited photons and proto-matter transmitted by the v-cast projector, leaving only sparkling motes to drift and extinguish. Even today, I mused, there were still places with poor signal. With a groan, the elevator lurched up to the sixth floor and opened its doors to an empty hallway. Walking to my apartment, I sighed in relief that no v-casters haunted here. With a touch, the door recognized my fingerprints and unlocked itself.

  Inside, the room displayed blatant signs of neglect. Strewn over counter-tops and table surfaces lingered the remains of half-eaten take-out boxes from the last breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Sandwiched between a stack of coffee cups and meal plates, Vanessa looked frazzled. Tufts of her curly auburn hair stuck out in unruly directions. Evidence of sleep deprivation etched lines of exhaustion around her hazel eyes. Despite her exhaustion, she still looked beautiful. She worked at our dining room table, her long legs stretching under its narrow width. Pictures of clients appeared on the flat glass next to information about their cases. Piles of appeals paper work cluttered the table's left corner, creating a small tower of bureaucracy. On the right corner, a digital window showed real-time chats of desperate people trying to log in to speak with her. Hundreds of clients battled for her attention, their faces flickering in and out of the screen, the electronic equivalent of pushing and shoving in a long line. I set her flowers down, and closed the door.

  “Hi, honey, you are a gorgeous sight for sore eyes,” I said. After walking across the room, I leaned down to kiss her. She pulled back and returned a brief peck of a kiss. The touch of her soft lips and the faint hint of cherry from yesterday’s lipstick cleansed the palette of my senses, dulled by my long road trip to the swamp.

  In that moment, the feeling of regret heightened, and it struck me how much I had missed her, tinged with a moment of longing when she pulled away too soon. “Is our apartment haunted or do you have enough cases for one hundred lawyers?”

  Vanessa let out a long sigh. “You do one pro bono case and word gets out. I won’t be able to talk to half of those poor people.” Then her expression of amusement soured, like she recalled a bitter thought. “You know, I’m still mad at you.” Her narrowed eyes launched daggers into my heart before returning to her work.

  “I-I brought you a peace offering,” I stammered, holding Roger’s hot dogs and the strawberry chocolates like a tribute to appease an angry queen. She took the food, unwrapping the shiny metallic paper that warmed the hot dogs.

  “I should keep yelling at you for collecting those poor people,” she admonished while chewing. “But I have too many meetings today.” Her face softened, her angry resolve weakened by the onion-mustard-and-pork-byproduct rapture in her mouth. “We can talk later. And thank you for the hot dogs.”

  “Of course. I’ll get us some wine.” I counted my blessings. Vanessa still felt anger towards me, but at least I had a chance to make things right.

  Hurrying to the repli-pantry, I spoke my request for two bowls of popcorn and two glasses of wine, a white for Vanessa and a red for myself. The food dispenser hummed to life, opening its wooden cabinet veneer to expose the coils and tubes of the machine’s interior. Days before, I had added real popcorn kernels to the supply rack. I preferred the authentic smell of cooked corn and hot oil rather than the replication paste that left a funny aftertaste with quick-prepped popcorn. Within seconds, a delivery alcove opened to serve a perfect batch of popcorn. Since I had forgotten to restock the wine rack, the replicator improvised. It fetched the green and red grapes we had in the larders, and applied a rapid fermentation process to craft our favorite alcoholic beverages. Only a sommelier or someone with a refined palate for wines could tell the difference between a naturally aged corked wine and my replicated beverage. I was not burdened with such refinements, or many other refinements, for that matter. Having slaved in the kitchen for all of two minutes for our working dinner, I delivered the popcorn and wine to Vanessa with an exaggerated flourish and a bow.

  She looked at me with a half-grin cracking on her perfect lips that burned away any gloom that darkened my day. Before her expression bloomed into a full smile, she caught herself, as if her brain reminded her heart of my frustrating missteps.

  “Thanks, Jonah,” she whispered, returning her attention to the table. She passed her hand over a blinking console to accept an incoming v-cast request from a hospital in upstate New York. I heard the signature hum of our v-cast projector thrum to life.

  “Sorry you had to wait so long, Mr. Liebowitz,” she said to her materializing guest.

  “Thank you, Ms. Wright,” responded the client. To discern more about the illusory visitor, I employed my observational talents, a handy skill I had sharpened, since my collection jobs often required classic deductive work. After reading many of the old classic Conan Doyle books, I aspired to be a modern-day Sherlock Holmes, without the brilliance, talent, or cocaine addiction of the famed detective.

  I studied the v-cast form of the man standing before Vanessa. He looked middle-aged, short of stature, and his black and gray hair looked well-groomed. My eye noticed that he stood far too still, not moving his legs or arms. This indicated that he might be confined to a wheelchair and unaccustomed to a virtual form. In a v-cast, those with enough programming talent and imagination learned to project any semi-tangible form they desired within the technical limits and proto-matter reserves of the local v-cast p
rojectors.

  “Tell me again, Mr. Liebowitz, how I can help you?” Vanessa asked.

  “Please call me Saul.” The man spoke in an even, almost robotic tone. The odd, uneven cadence of his voice led me to believe he relied on an assistive medical technology for his voice. “My doctors have kept me in a medically-induced coma for years, but a recent stroke has worsened my condition. I am speaking to you through an experimental v-cast rig designed by my cousin that lets me communicate while unconscious. My medical care has been world class, but the cost has been exorbitant. All my fortunes are exhausted. When I die in a week, I will be reaped by the IRS.”

  “You have my sympathies, Saul,” Vanessa said with sincere empathy. She reached out a hand instinctively to comfort the man, but he was unable to reciprocate. “Given your time remaining, I will do everything I can, but with my caseload and limited...”

  “You would have some help,” Saul interjected. “Please let me introduce Ambassador Ephraim Shoval from the Israeli embassy and my cousin Eli Solomon.”

  Two more holographic forms shimmered next to Mr. Liebowitz. Ambassador Shoval formed first, as a tall man dressed in a gray suit and white tie with large silver glasses. Eli materialized next, appearing as a shorter, balding man in a brown suit. He looked remorseful when his gaze turned to Saul.

  “Shalom, Ms. Wright, it is our pleasure,” Ambassador Shoval said with a slight bow. “On behalf of the people of Israel, let me start by saying that we appreciate your help in this matter. I believe we have an interesting point of appeal to discuss for Saul’s defense.”

  “And what is that?” asked Vanessa. I saw a glimmer of hope twinkle in her eyes. As the conversation continued, I took a few steps back toward the hallway, but continued listening.