The Pedestal

by Daniel Wimberley

  I can’t wait to get home and curl up in my own bed, on the pillow I’ve spent years deforming to the curvature of my head. I can’t wait to look out my own window at a view that is—while virtually featureless—blessedly familiar and perfectly void of the gaudy lighting and tacky architecture for which Las Vegas is both loved and hated the world over.

  More than anything else, though, I can’t wait to see Adrian. That kiss with Mitzy has awakened a lustful beast in me that I can’t wait to unleash.

  Dawn eventually crawls from a drunken coma and, peeking grudgingly over the window sill, finds me already showered and repacking my overnight bag. I feel my NanoPrint shiver an alert of my early checkout to the nexus. When I step outside, a tram is already waiting for me, prepared to cater to my every unpredictable whim. For all my complaining about the nexus, moments like this help me appreciate just how convenient it can be. I’m too tired to be chasing down a ride.

  I’m home by noon. I rummage through the fridge and throw together a sandwich, watch a little of the news. I have contact requests from Keith, Stewart and Adrian that I’ve ignored out of habit, but I give them my attention now. I delete Keith’s in midsentence—it’s clear from his tone that he knows exactly where I’ve been, and that I’m not at all under the weather—but who cares? Stewart’s left me a hearty grumbling about the evils of Sin City—admonishing that the house always wins—and Adrian says she misses me and can’t wait to see me.

  I know Adrian’s probably at work, and I’m guessing Stewart’s taking his midday nap because—well, that’s what old people do, right? Nevertheless, I can’t stop yawning, so I hit the sack for a nice, long nap of my own.

  I awake to a knocking on my door. I’m hoping for Adrian but settle for Uncle Stewart as he trudges in out of an ugly drizzle.

  “Wilson, you scared me half to death,” he snips. I shut the door and, though he puts up a vigilant fight, manage to steer Stewart into the kitchen. I load two mugs with Folgers tablets, fill them with water, and set them aside to steep on the counter.

  “Don’t you read your updates?” I parrot with a sarcastic frown.

  “Very funny. As a matter of fact, I did. And I took a junky tram over here to talk some sense into you”—unlike me, Stewart prefers the air-cushioned comfort of a shuttle over the Spartan utility of the common tram. I guess they’re a little hard to come by after five o’clock—“but you were already gone.” His mouth stretches thin and his milky eyes glisten. “When your planner said you were in Vegas last night, I nearly had a stroke.”

  Scrap. “Sorry, Stew. I should’ve called.”

  He nods, but his face remains taut, a mask of concern that prods my guilty heart. “What’re you doing, Wil? This isn’t like you—skipping out on work to gamble, not telling anyone where you’re going or when you’ll be back.” He pauses to shake his head, which is possibly his greatest weapon in any argument, and then adds, “I’m worried about you.”

  I want to point out that I wasn’t in Vegas to gamble, but I have a hunch that he already knows this; his body may have seen better days, but his mind and his well-earned intuition are still razor sharp. I’m thinking that where I’ve been isn’t as much of an issue as my going there without first giving him the opportunity to talk me out of it. He really does seem worried, though. Yet as terrible as I feel about that, I’m just as annoyed by the kid treatment.

  “Stew, don’t blow this out of proportion. I just needed a day to get my head on straight. Everyone needs to blow off some steam once in a while.”

  “That’s all this is?”

  I hate lying to anyone, especially to Stewart. But, as I’ve intimated before, I prefer not to fuel his overt need to protect me from the elements of daily life. So I make a rare exception—well, I guess it’s becoming less rare—and hope that I can pull it off.

  “Of course. What else would it be?” I chuckle, throwing in a don’t be silly wave for good measure. I sip my coffee, which is steaming hot and perfectly doctored with cream, no-calorie sweetener, and just a hint of cinnamon. Dang, it’s good. Remember all that stuff I said earlier about wishing we still cooked from scratch? Yeah, disregard that nonsense. You just can’t beat a good cup of no-prep coffee.

  Stew is staring at me hard, mulling over my performance—which is one of my best, in my opinion—like a critic who’s teetering on the fence. I lean back against my kitchen counter and wait for the verdict. A moment later, he sighs, shoulders visibly drooping as if a great weight has just been lifted away. He takes a loud slurp from his coffee—a rarity, by the way; I more than half-expected him to ignore his mug, or perhaps even pour it out, in his usual display of tea-loyalty—and finally rewards me with a smile.

  “I was afraid that—” he begins to confess, but cuts himself off with a dismissive wave and a sheepish grin. “Well, I guess it doesn’t matter. As long as you’re okay.”

  “I’m good, Stew. Really.” He nods his grudging acceptance and, as we exchange a truce smile, I’m suddenly aware of how glad I am to see him—and of my rumbling stomach, which hasn’t quite forgiven my poor stewardship over the past twenty-four hours. “How about I whip up some dinner?” I tempt, happy to change the subject. “You hungry?”

  Stew gives me a toothy smile and rubs his diminutive potbelly, and I know we’re back on familiar ground. “Does a bear poop in the parking lot?”

  I nearly cross my eyes over that one. “I don’t even know what that’s supposed to mean, Stew. But I think I’m gonna have to ask you to leave my kitchen.”

  “Oh, get over it. It wasn’t that bad—just a little before your time.”

  “Seriously, Stew. That was just nasty. You’re spoiling history.”

  I have breakfast with Adrian the next morning. Her silken hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail, demonstrating the effortless beauty that has every girl in the bistro scowling contemptuously, and every guy gawking at me with envy. Well, they’re mostly staring at Adrian, but occasionally they glance at me, too, wondering—just as I often wonder—how such an incongruous matchup is even possible.

  I tell her about my trip yesterday, minus a few details, naturally. I know what you’re thinking, and you’re right: lying is becoming just a little too easy for me. In my defense, what possible good can the truth do in a situation like this? Besides, it’s more of a lie by omission, which isn’t technically in the same category, is it? I tell her about the unexpected authenticity of Mitzy’s backstory, and Adrian is appropriately surprised. She sips coffee and nibbles at a piece of toast with jam, stroking the back of my hand with a primly manicured fingernail.

  Sheer bliss.

  “You in any trouble with your boss?” she asks, pushing Mitzy to the back of my mind.

  I shake my head no, but I really don’t know yet where things stand. I guess I’ll find out soon enough. If it’ll help offset my recent binge of dishonesty, I suppose I can admit that I’m not looking forward to a confrontation with Keith. I’m not really worried per se, just dreading it like I dread waiting in line for a haircut.

  “So, was she pretty?” Adrian’s right eyebrow is peaked in warning. My gaze is drawn to a tiny scar at its outer edge, where she had three stitches when she was a kid. It’s sexy, just like everything else about her.

  “Good Lord, no. Pretty is not a word that should ever be used to describe anything about Keisha—er, Keith.” I feel the contents of my stomach churn as my mind conjures images of Keith plucking his disgusting eyebrows, applying makeup before a heart-shaped mirror. “Jeez, that ruined me. I may never eat again.”

  Adrian giggles. “I meant the girl, dork. Mitzy.”

  Oh. “Next to you, my dear, pretty shrivels into dust.”

  “Oh, it better.”

  Dr. Seymore calls just as I’m headed out the door for lunch. I take his call and my Viseon wall alights with his gawky likeness.

  “Any luck on locating Arthur’s next of kin?” he inquires. There’s a stain on his lapel that looks suspiciously like mustard.

&nbs
p; “None. I’m not finished trying, though.” He nods, but the expression on his face isn’t encouraging. “Everything okay, Doc?”

  He smiles. Now that I’ve had some time to grieve a little, I’ve lost my animosity toward him. I’m starting to view him less as an incompetent practitioner, and more of an eccentric one. “Thing is, Mr. Abby, we’re pretty well out of time on this thing.”

  My jaw clenches, and though I know exactly what he’s getting at, I feel compelled to ask anyway. “What the heck does that mean?”

  Dr. Seymore gulps and some of the blood appears to drain from his face. “I’m sorry,” he says plaintively. “You have to know that, Mr. Abby.” I suppose I do, but it’s not what I want to hear. Since I haven’t replied, he forges ahead. “But since no living will has been located, and no family members have stepped forward, the hospital is required to honor state protocols.” He pauses and swallows visibly again. “Arthur will be turned over to the city later this morning. More than likely, he’ll be recycled by the end of the day.”

  Although I’ve been expecting this all along, it hits me like a wrecking ball. I’m too stupefied—to horrified, really—to speak. This city that I thought I knew and loved is preparing to shrug off the remains of my best friend—an icon in this town—like an old ratty coat. I imagine his ashes smoldering in a back-alley garbage can.

  “Really, Mr. Abby, I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I know how much he meant to you, and if I had any say in this at all, I’d—”

  “It’s fine,” I cut in. Of course, it isn’t—not by a long shot. How can this be happening?

  I disconnect and turn to leave, but I’m not hungry anymore. With a grave sigh, I return to my desk and begin making calls. After ten minutes of bouncing from office to office, I finally reach a cordial woman who explains that the city has already scheduled a pauper’s wake for Arthur this afternoon—and as Dr. Seymore has already warned me, this process can only be overridden by the formal instructions of a family member.

  I’ve got to do something.

  I head toward the server room and snatch a set of earplugs off a hook by the door. Ryan’s at lunch, but Tim’s poking around as usual on an array of terminal keyboards.

  “Hey, Wil. What’s scrappenin?”

  “Tell me you have something on Arthur’s implant.”

  “Nah, man. My guess is we may never figure that mess out.”

  I tell him about Arthur, and he’s appropriately disgruntled. Then I bring him up to speed on Mitzy and my cross-data contamination theory; he’s intrigued and immediately begins to call up her profile in the nexus. He’s smiling like a giddy schoolgirl, sifting through her purchase history—lo mein noodles from a street vendor, a scented candle from a perfume shop, underwear from Victoria’s Secret, et cetera—with the gusto of a tried-and-true stalker. Suddenly, his demeanor shifts, smile fading, eyes narrowing.

  “What is it?” I want to know, trying to wipe the fantasy of Victoria’s Secret from my mind—how I can even think about that girl with Adrian in my life is a mystery.

  “There’s an anomaly here, see?” Tim directs my attention to the screen with a bony finger. All I see is a meaningless data grid, and I tell him so. “Right here, Wil. Look at this—see the profile ID for her NanoPrint? Now look at the profile ID tied to her credits and her proximity sensors!” With the aid of his finger, I do. They don’t match.

  “I don’t get it,” I confess with a tired shrug. “That’s not supposed to happen, right?”

  “Exactly. The only way it could happen is for someone to manually alter the database.”

  “Okay, well that’s a start, isn’t it?”

  Tim gives me a poignant frown. “The thing is, other than Ryan, the only person who’s ever had direct access to the database—at least in our patch of the circuit—is Arthur.”

  Whoa. The room feels as though it’s a giant tilt-o-whirl. “Hold on, are you saying Arthur did this? Why would he do that? It doesn’t make any sense.” Only, even as the words pass my lips, I realize that it does—well, sort of. Suddenly Arthur’s split from Mitzy seems to take on a new light. Arthur was never the emotional sort—I sometimes wonder if he believed outward displays of emotion to be signs of weakness—therefore he never so much as cracked a frown when Mitzy left him. I feel as though a small piece in a giant puzzle has quietly merged with another, yet the overall picture remains obscured.

  Tim shrugs, as if to say, Stranger than fiction, right?

  “Listen, Tim. I need to ask you something—and it’s important that you tell me the absolute truth.” I need to know just how deeply Arthur was immersed in this little extortion racket, and I’m rapidly running out of leads. “Was Arthur involved in anything, you know—unethical—or anything?”

  “Jeez, Wil. You’re asking me? He was your best friend.”

  “I know, I know. It probably sounds weird, me even bringing it up. But have there been any—I don’t know—rumors or anything? You know, things that maybe people talk about but would never mention with me around for fear of it making it back to Arthur?”

  Tim pales, and I know I’ve hit paydirt. “C’mon,” I prod. “I really need to know.”

  “Well, there’s sort of been a rumor going around that he’s been getting a little, uh, action on the side.”

  I blink. Just like that, there it is—right out in the open, where it’s much harder to deny. “How long?” I manage to squeak out.

  “I don’t really know when it started. Right before he got divorced, I guess. We all kind of figured it was a contributing factor and all—I mean, nobody cheats on a woman like Mitzy, you know?”

  Uh—say what? “Wait a second, are you saying Arthur was having an affair?”

  Based on Tim’s expression, I surmise that I’ve just reached a level of dimwittedness previously reserved for the truly extraordinary. Mom would be so proud. “Hi, I’m Earth. Have we met?” he says. “What the heck have we been talking about, man?” He shakes his head and then pauses to appraise me, suddenly worried. “You sure you’re okay?”

  “Yeah, sorry. Just misunderstood you, that’s all. So has anyone actually ever seen the other woman?”

  “I’m thinking Rupert—you know him, right? Works on the first floor?—seems like he’s the one that got all the bugs scuttling. Think he saw them kissing once when he was running some lines behind the building or something.”

  “Did he say what she looked like?”

  “I don’t know, man.” I give him an incredulous glare, to which he replies: “C’mon, we’re talking two years ago. At least.”

  “Yeah, okay.” My vision pulses slightly, warning that my lunch break is now half-over. “Thanks, Tim. I appreciate your help.” I’m about to leave when I realize the burden of populating Arthur’s impromptu ceremony has fallen on my shoulders. “I guess Arthur’s wake is this afternoon,” I explain. “Any chance you can make it?”

  Tim gives me the deer-in-headlights look. “Oh. Uh, I should probably stay here. Gotta leave a man on deck, right?”

  I smile flatly at this pragmatic and perfectly reasonable excuse. But inside, my heart aches because I know most of the guys around this place will find equally reasonable excuses to bow out.

  “Yeah, I guess,” I agree with as little disappointment as I can manage. “I’ll see you later, Tim.”

  Though I’ve been given no reason to believe it will do any good, I have nevertheless decided to ensnare Dr. Seymore for a final plea before the cogs of progress irreversibly spring into motion. As it turns out, I’m wasting my time: Arthur’s body has already been transferred to a nearby recycling facility. Not a funeral home, where he might actually get an ounce of the respect he deserves, but a wretched compost plant—a meat grinder for human souls. Apparently, this was in motion before I even left the racks. I learn this halfway to the hospital, my fingers wringing each other into nervous taffy. If I was alone in this tram, I’d scream at the top of my lungs.

  I just can’t seem to catch a break.

&n
bsp; Upon redirecting my tram, my NanoPrint bursts a notification to the nexus. I wish I could rip it right out of my body. A few stops down the road, and suddenly I have the tram completely to myself. The availability beacon changes from green to red, yet I hardly notice. By now, the compulsion to scream has passed, but it’s still nice to be alone with my grief. Oddly, traffic seems to part before me, clearing a distinct path through Chicago’s bustling arteries like death itself. It might be my imagination, I suppose. Much of today has felt a little like this, though I haven’t realized it until this very moment—like I’m passing between the clockworks of time, the minutes rasping away faster than I can experience them. Like I’m allowed to watch and to disapprove, to throw fits and wail like an angry toddler if I choose to. But I’m prohibited to participate, to interfere. To influence the course of fate.

  Then, as I glance out my window at the pedestrians outside, noting their curious, sympathetic expressions, I realize what’s happened. I don’t know what triggered it—the implication of my destination? A rogue thought? Some hidden functionality in my daygrid? I can’t even imagine. One way or the other, though, thanks to the nexus, my tram has become a funeral procession of one.

  I’m not even sure how to feel about this. Normally, I’d be angry. Indignant, at the very least. Rather, I’m embarrassed—and maybe a little grateful, too.

  I’ve never been to a human disposal plant before, though I have an image in my mind of what one should be like: cold and dismal, tightly clad in concrete, streaked gray by the perpetual duress of rain and sadness. Inside: pale linoleum, drably painted cinderblock, tarnished fixtures, industrial steel everywhere. When I step inside the real thing, I discover that my preconceptions couldn’t have been more inaccurate. This place is plush and tastefully nouveau, from the serene garden in the foyer right down to the warm, inviting carpet.