Grey

by Jon Armstrong

  She took a breath. "Sneaking out of the MonoBeat, with all the security designed to seal us in, is quite problematic."

  While she returned to her work at her screens, I looked over the dialogue, but it was all just silly references to Elle's awful fashion magazines. Mostly, I worried that Joelene wouldn't find a way to get to the SunEcho and Nora.

  Soon, my makeup and hair artist, Petra, arrived. She was in her fifties, with bright red hair, wide, luminous sapphire eyes, a tiny blip of a nose, and pouting burgandy lips. As she lay out her tools she said, "I will do his hair, but under protest. This isn't the sort of thing he should be doing." Petra glared at Joelene.

  "I agree," she said, "but we have no choice."

  Petra stared coolly at me. "You poor boy. I have been so proud of you." Her lips trembled. "I remember when you danced. You were so good. I watched you all the time. And I remember when the whole world was glued to the channels when you suffered so." With one of her long black fingernails, she collected a tiny droplet from her left eye. "Unlike so many who were sorry that you didn't dance again, I loved your transformation. You were becoming a man—your own man." After shaking her head, her voice got quiet, "But this is a step backward. And it's heartbreaking. You and Nora looked so perfect together."

  I said, "Thank you."

  Petra picked up her glowing isotope shears. "And I don't believe that breach for a moment. That freeboot thing is crazy. It makes no sense!" She waved the blades in my face and I could smell their heat. "There has never been a breach of RiverGroup before, and it happens now? Someone was behind it. Believe me, someone was responsible!"

  "Who do you think?" I asked, pulling back from her glowing scissors.

  "It has to be the other families. They're jealous of you and RiverGroup."

  "The report established that it was freeboot retaliation," said my advisor. "But we thank you for your opinion."

  "I'm not allowed to speak my mind?" asked my hairdresser. "Is that what you mean? Are you censoring me? Is that what you're doing?"

  "I didn't say that or mean to imply that."

  Petra turned to me. "This whole thing makes me sick! Now your father has you sniffing the foul and over-exposed rump of this polka-dog! I didn't know Konrad Kez had grandchildren. I have never heard of Elle before, and I wasn't happy when I did."

  "We are not exactly pleased either," said Joelene, "but we are trying to cope. Could we please . . . " She mimed cutting scissors, but Petra didn't get the hint.

  "I should have gone after your father when I was young," she said, turning to me again. "I could have seduced him, when I had my full powers." She shook her abundant chest at me—it sloshed back and forth like warm gelatin. "I would have grabbed him by the ears, and gotten his attention. You know what Hiro Bruce's problem is?" asked Petra. "He's so fixed on success, he has managed to screw it up completely. Someone needs to throw him over their knee and make that ass of his glow in the dark."

  "I agree with you, Petra," I said. "I agree with you completely."

  Her face bloomed. "Thank you, sweet Michael! You're a darling." With that, she worked my hair in record time, applied a tanning solution to my face, did my eyes with a natural shade, and colored my lips. Once she was finished, she kissed me on the cheek, and told me she adored me.

  My dresser, Stefano, helped me with my clothes, as he had done my whole life. His eyes were dark and small, his hands were as dry and rough as cigars, and he always called me Master Rivers. As I stood before the iMirrors, he sewed on my underwear, put socks on my feet; then helped me into my pants. On top, he put on an undershirt, then a gen-cotton shirt with an attached collar. Once he had gotten it tucked in and secured, he held out the jacket, and I slipped it on.

  Mr. Cedar's suit looked even better now. And it didn't appear as downtrodden as I had originally thought. There was a power inside of it, as if instead of my body, it cloaked some sort of potent machine. Once Stefano had knotted my tie, he said, "You look excellent, Master Rivers." Once he had gone, Joelene looked me over.

  "It's one of his best," she said. Then she got down on the tiles, and scratched at the floor. I watched dumbfounded. It was like she was imitating a cat. She found a trapdoor a foot square and lifted the lid.

  I asked, "What are you doing?"

  Sticking her hands inside, I heard what sounded like typing. "This building is all about liquid crystal," she said, pointing her chin toward the back of the room. The light green wall popped as if it were an enormous soap bubble—exactly as I had seen demonstrated when we toured the MonoBeat on opening day.

  Behind the wall was a utility space filled with pipes, machines, and bundles of wires. In the center was a tube four feet wide with a giant toilet-bowl-shaped opening and a cut-off valve above.

  "Is something wrong?" I asked, afraid a freeboot was trying to sneak up on us.

  "No." I heard her type again. The wall was restored like a closing camera shutter.

  A second later, we heard a knock on the door. "We're ready for Mr. Rivers."

  My knees felt jittery as I walked down the entrance platform toward the table in the spotlight at the center of the restaurant. It wasn't because of the spectators in the stands, or the billions of viewers on the channels, or the sad prospect of this ridiculous promotion date, it was that I feared I wouldn't see Nora because it was too difficult. Joelene had opened the wall behind the green room, but only found pipes, tubes, and wires, not a way out. I hated to imagine that Nora would see the message on the suit, go to the SunEcho, but that I would have no way of joining her.

  A deep and booming voice said, "And here he is, girls . . . the greatest dancer the world has ever known, nineteen-year-old Michael Rivers of RiverGroup, looking very handsome in a sexy and scorching black suit!"

  It's not black, I thought to myself. It's charcoal.

  A waiter, in a military-cut navy jacket, pulled back my chair. Once I sat, he scooted me toward the carved, bituminous coal table. A moment later, a woman in a three-piece, coffee-colored bikini, took a bottle of Frix's Krill Kola Thirst Crusher from a golden tray and placed it before me with efficient moves. When I picked it up, a blast of music played and the girl did a dance and sang, "The renewable kola, with the outlaw taste! Yeah, Frix!" She smiled a toothy grin, and then dashed off.

  Then I sat there before fifty channel cameras, holding the bottle and feeling like a performing seal in a circus. For a second, I considered throwing it down and leaving. The problem was, Father would probably take me back to the Loop and toss me over, and I could see the body of the dead bellybutton prostitute and the black flies that had crawled over her.

  So, careful not to obscure the smiling monkey logo with an ill-placed thumb, I took a tiny sip. The stuff was salty and fishy, but not too terrible that I couldn't eke out a simulacrum of pleasure.

  "He likes it," said the house voice. "Who wouldn't, with the taste and power of krill? And now, look who's joining him! It's the sexy and scintillating Elle Kez, of Ribo-Kool, granddaughter of that powerhouse of a capitalist, Konrad Kez!" After a fun-filled and faked laugh, the voice added, "Don't they look blistering?"

  I saw her shoes first. They were furry pink pumps with tiny silky flowers around the sole. Her white socks had smiling pink cat faces. Her skirt was a ruffled and partly shredded carnation and plum polka-dot thing that looked like it might have belonged to a run-over flamenco dancer.

  So far, it was basic Petunia Tune stuff, but when I looked up, I was taken aback. First of all, while her tailored grey jacket was clearly a nod to Pure H, the silhouette, material, and notions were all wrong. It looked more like concrete than a warm or lush fabric, and it was so pinched in the middle, I doubted she could breathe. Stranger yet, around her wasp waist, on a metal belt, ran a flock of tiny motorized hens that chased a red rooster. They orbited her every ten seconds, and while I guessed this was some reference to my fame, and maybe her and others' pursuit of me, I had no idea why it was there.

  Beneath the jacket, she didn't wear a b
louse. Instead, her chest was covered with pink fur that matched her pumps. On her neck the fur gradually disappeared, and from there up, she had been made-up like a cat, complete with a triangular black nose, white whiskers, and a few freckle-spots. Orange eye shadow over-emphasized her blue eyes.

  On top of her head sat a massive, curly, golden wig with the texture of sea foam, three feet high and five across, shaped like an enormous bloated banana. Coming from the top were two three-foot-tall, pink rabbit ears. Between the ears were three small dioramas. One was the black, Pantheon-shaped PartyHaus. Another was a curve of Loop road with what was probably supposed to be my blue and orange car. Beside that were two naked dolls locked in an oral-genital embrace.

  Once she saw that I had taken her in, she turned around, and from somewhere in the folds of the back of her skirt hung a wide, quilted beaver tail, the size of a swollen tennis racket. When she had spun all the way around, she began to sing to me in an off-key falsetto. "My heart is a daffodil! Oh, daffodil affection . . . daffodil affliction. Quivering daffodil of my love!" She then laughed and asked, "You know that? It's so petunia. Don't you think? It's by The Pipsqueak Beaver-boys. I just love them. You like my tail?"

  "Your tail . . . " I repeated, unable to conjure anything positive. "Um . . . well . . . it's . . . um . . . "

  "My heart is a daffodil!" she sang again louder and farther from key, as if she didn't know what else to do. "Daffodil affection! Daffodil affliction!"

  "Hi!" I said, standing, hoping to make her stop singing. "Hello! How do you do? Yes, I saw your tail!" I made myself smile. "Please, sit down."

  "Okay!" she said, relieved. "I know I sang that already!" She grit her teeth as if she felt bad. "Sorry! I guess I'm a little nervous."

  From the left shoulder a teeny puff of green smoke caught my eye. Could it be her clothes had caught fire? I was saved! Our date would have to be cancelled! I was about to mention it, but then, a smoky red dot came from her other shoulder. Then more rose into the air. Her jacket was making smoky polka dots! After all the other atrocities of her costume, I don't know why that one—which actually struck me as half-clever—discouraged me most of all.

  Two assistants of hers, with the same makeup, dressed in tight and shocking-pink jumpsuits, ran in, plucked the miniature hens and cock from her belt, then supported her wig and ears as she eased herself into her chair. A hulky man in blue short-shorts placed a can of Frix's Cinnamon Monkey Thirst Bomb beside her elbow. Elle didn't notice.

  "You probably thought I was just a Petunia Tune girl, but really, I'm so much more. I'm into Ball Description, and I'm really into CuteKill and a bunch of other of the bestest magazines." She struck a pose, with one hand on her wig and another highlighting her cat face. "So I wanted to show everyone how mature I am. And I know Pure H, too!"

  "Yes," I said. "I see. So, it's . . . um . . . good to meet you."

  "Thank you!" she said, batting her eyelashes. "I don't have to tell you, but you're every girl's dream. I mean, everyone I know wants to keep you in her petunia dungeon!" As she laughed, she leaned forward, but then craned her neck backward to keep her wig and ears from tipping. "Listen," she whispered, "if this thing falls get out of the way."

  As I gazed up at the mountain of hair, I pictured it tipping over and flattening me like something from a cartoon.

  "Awe!" she cooed. "Your smile is so cute!" After a squeaky giggle, she said, "Let me tell you all about myself because I am so fascinating. Okay first, I had my big coming-out party yesterday. It was the biggest and bestest party ever. I had so many cute bands; I could have died. I even had The Pipsqueak Beaver-boys!" A second later she frowned. "You listen to them, don't you?"

  "Pig Squeak Believer Boys," I confirmed. "Sorry, I'm not familiar with them."

  "No!" she laughed, as if I had made a joke, "The Pipsqueak Beaver-boys! They're those adorable guys who dress like beavers, and . . . you know . . . have their little buns hanging out." She giggled in falsetto. "They're so hot and precious! I can't wait for them to sing tonight. They're music is the bestest ever. They played at my party and it was the bestest ever. You had to see it on the channels!"

  "I must have missed it."

  "Well," she pouted, "I'm into whatever you're into." She leaned forward an inch, so that her jacket revealed more of her furry cleavage. "You like hair?"

  Glancing down at my hands, I felt like I was the one exposed, and it reminded me of the feeling I had when I woke from my heart attack and found myself before thousands of fans screaming to know if I had a catheter, bed sores, or brain damage.

  "Oh, I'm sorry! Please, don't worry!" she said, seemingly distraught. "It comes off with a solution. I can be hairless if you like that. Or I could eat anything you want. I've eaten all sorts of weird things for boys who like that."

  The cooling fans in my jacket came on, as I felt embarrassed for both of us. "No," I mumbled, " . . . um . . . no, thank you."

  As if panicked, her eyes darted toward her assistants off camera. When she focused on me, she said, "So, my family's company—Ribo-Kool—is just the best ever! I know the critics are down on us, but the critics are stinky anus stupids! When we get together, we're going to show those critics, aren't we?"

  The flirting was over, I presumed. Now we were supposed to suggest that our family companies merge. "Yes," I said, following along because that seemed the easiest thing to do, "our families could work together."

  "That's a pink petunia idea!" she gushed. "I'm so excited! And I think RiverGroup is just the bestest ever. I mean, you guys were number one, once. Right?" After clearing her throat, she sat up, and said, "I just have to thank all my bestest of fashion friends." She began naming all her designers, stylists, sewers, shoppers, trainers, dieticians, cooks, and doctors.

  Finally, the waiter saved me from hearing who breastfed her. She ordered Frix Corporation dried marine turtle parts stuffed in moon-dried raisins—a polka-dot dish. I requested the Frix Corporation satellite lamb roasted over butternut, redwood, and the seamed silk stockings of one hundred depressed housewives.

  After the waiter left, the house voice said, "Stay tuned for the hot and naughty conclusion to this historic date between the two most powerful companies in the security system market, RiverGroup and Ribo-Kool."

  "And we're clear," said the director, the same one making Father's documentary. He had long silvery hair and wide, feverish eyes. He must have known how fast he talked for he reiterated everything. "Guys," he began, "you're beautiful. Beautiful. But help me out here, okay? Help me out! Please, stay on the script! You remember the script? We're flirting. Flirting! We're in love. We're loving and fun."

  Elle's two pink assistants, like a pit crew, ran to her side, fixed her hair, repositioned her ears, and repainted her nose. As they worked she complained to the director, "I thought I was totally petunia!"

  "Oh, you're beautiful," he said. "Beautiful! Don't forget the script. Stay on the script. That's all I was saying. All right, honey?"

  "I was speaking from my heart. My heart is a daffodil!" she tried to sing.

  Joelene put her hand on my shoulder and whispered, "You look wounded." She sounded more amused than upset.

  "I feel like I punctured a lung."

  "Try to have fun," was her only advice.

  "Remember the script!" shouted the director. "Let's clear. Clear everyone!" Joelene left, and after they applied another puff of the pink foundation to her forehead, Elle's people ran off. "Aaaaand . . . we're back!"

  "I met that Nora at a fashion convention," said Elle, without missing a beat. "She didn't look at me, and she was just so full of herself. I'm not against her, but everyone on the channels was talking about how dull and ugly she is. What I don't get is her natural hair! Hello? She looks like a nasty slub girl." Although she tried to smile prettily, as if to temper what she'd said, I saw a droplet of undiluted malice in her eyes. "Everyone on the channels has been gushing gallons of nectar about me. And I wouldn't be surprised if I get twenty times her measly r
atings."

  That was definitely not on the itinerary, and until that point, I had tried to imagine that at some level, she was much like myself—a soft creature forced into a hard role. But once she had insulted Nora, I couldn't pretend to sympathize or even care. And as she continued on how to improve RiverGroup, I closed my right eye for several beats, and as if I were killing her, or at least neutralizing her style, bleached the pink from her face, the purple from her cat nose, and the gold from her wig.

  Our meal was served, and at least the food was wonderful. My satellite lamb was perfectly roasted, savory, beautifully plated, and I could taste a hint of sensual despair.

  Once the dishes were cleared, the pa said, "And now, let's watch these two love-dogs dance while the super fabulous Pipsqueak Beaver-boys sing their number one hit, Palpitations 4 U, My Kitty-Cake Pussy-Willow Girl."

  Six men in furry brown outfits, with huge buckteeth, quilted tails, and their aforementioned backsides exposed, took turns singing to us. Each had a shtick. One cried. Another beat his chest adamantly. The short one played with his hair. The last massaged his buttocks as a cook might knead dough. Their accompanying music was nothing more than an ocean of syrupy strings and an unflinching beat that sounded more like dynamite than a drum.