by Elvia Wilk
“You have weird knees,” said one of the PornPals.
How could they see her knees? She was wearing wide-leg pants. She looked back and realized her leg was wrenched at an odd angle. It started to hurt.
She limped upstairs and pushed her way through bodies to the bathroom. Leaned into the mirror, eyes focusing on pores and unplucked eyebrows. Couldn’t figure out if she looked young or old. Rising anxiety about appearance. Why did they have mirrors in here at all? Clubbing didn’t used to be like this, you didn’t have to look at your pores in the mirror and you didn’t have to talk so much.
You will get old, she said to herself, possibly out loud. This face will not always be your face. You’ll have to change your habits at some point. Clubbing, drugs. Then again, Eva hadn’t changed any of her habits. She’d never grown up. But she had Botox.
A round of girls huddled into the bathroom. Anja had met at least two of them several times but they’d never spoken more than blanks together, blank phrases meaning nothing, signifying nothing except that they knew each other, like Mad Libs for social acquaintance. Anja shook her head. What was the point? Are you having a good night. What did you do earlier. Where are you going later. Blank blank blank.
“Anja! We’re doing face scrubs!” said one of the girls, holding out a white bottle from O’Reilly. A face scrub was not going to be enough to counteract what this place was doing to their pores. But scrub they would. Girls. Women. Weeeeemen.
The longer she spent looking for Louis, trudging through sedimentary layers of cigarette butts and across organic slime trails, the more unsure she became about whether this night was going well. She took a break in her search and ordered a beer, absently peeling the label off and feeling conspicuously alone. Some tall guy standing next to her asked what her star sign was, and she made him guess, and he guessed wrong, and they talked about the iconography of the signs, how odd it was that every sign was a living being except for Libra, the inanimate scales. “I’m a Scorpio,” he revealed, and she took off.
After an unknown expanse of time had crashed into itself—she remembered dancing—Louis found her near the exit. She thrust her peeled Becks at him.
“No, thanks.”
“Where’ve you been?”
“Outside with Prinz and the girls.”
“I was looking for you.”
“No, I don’t want any more to drink. Just leave it here.”
“I couldn’t find you for so long.”
“I didn’t see you either.”
“I hate beer.”
“Should we get going?”
He took her by her hand, which was wadded up into a ball, and they walked out into the cold morning. Prinz, Sara, and Sascha were squatting outside on the curb, where they’d all four been presumably waiting for ages while Anja wandered around alone inside. A huddle of homeless people was packed in sleeping bags on the sidewalk a few meters away.
Sara was in full Mahatma meltdown; Sascha was in charge of consoling her. Anja hugged everyone and told Sara she’d text her later, which she wouldn’t. Louis waved down a cab and called over his shoulder toward the three on the curb: “The light of morning breaks upon our sorrows!” Sascha laughed, too loud. Sara waved sorrowfully, wiping her nose.
The taxi left them at the foot of the mountain. The driver apologized for not being able to drive any farther, his wheels couldn’t handle the incline. Anja heard herself shouting at him, saying taxis had made it up before—so aggressive, why?—but Louis said it was fine, they could walk, then paid and tipped. So American, Anja thought as she stepped out of the car. She nearly bumped into a man with his arm deep in a trash can, the same can where she’d deposited some plastic packaging that morning. Louis reached into his pocket and tipped the trash-searcher too.
As they climbed, Louis pointed straight up to the sky, where they could see the moon fading in the daylight, a jet weaving through a cloud of clouds around it. Louis clasped her hand again, squeezed, and she stood for a moment with her head back, mouth gaping. Suddenly her perspective swung around, as if she were looking sideways at the cloud above her, as if on the same level, eye-to-eye. She squinted. Was the cloud denser on the left edge? Was it too heavy on the left side? A three-legged cloud? She should take more time to really look at the clouds from now on, she thought, before recognizing it as a sentimental, drugged thought that would seem stupid in the morning. At least self-awareness was on its way back.
The door to the house opened easily, and it was surprisingly cool, even chilly inside. “I told you they’d work out the temperature situation soon,” Louis said, “you don’t need to worry so much.” Pulling her by the waist, biting her neck.
She woke up at the foot of the bed, partly clothed and parched. Louis looked up at her from the yoga mat, placing the tablet facedown on the floor.
“You alive? Want some tea?”
6
“THE LAWYER SAYS EVERYTHING LOOKS FINE WITH THE CONTRACT,” said Anja.
“Famous last words. You should get that on your tombstone,” said Laura.
“Ha.”
“So you’re going to take the job?” asked Dam.
“The lawyer said the contract is legit, technically speaking. But what the job entails is still pretty vague.”
“Okay, so what does it entail, vaguely?” said Laura, fingers drumming on the table.
“I can’t tell you, even vaguely. You were right, there’s an NDA tacked on at the end. Another standard form, automatically generated, and electronically signed by a bunch of people I’ve never heard of.”
There was a groan. This came from Eric, a twenty-two-year-old blond Dam had found in some crevice of the internet. “How can you even sell your soul to big pharma like that?”
Dam smiled at him and petted him on the head. “Sweetheart, we can’t all be as pure of heart as you.”
The four of them were sitting in the darkest corner of the faux-Kneipe around the corner from Laura and Dam’s place. Anja could still remember when the faux-Kneipe had been a real Kneipe, run by a sad old couple still running on DDR time. One of their regular clientele, a pensioner often seen howling on the street corner, had passed out in a snowdrift on the Kneipe’s front step one night and died, frozen or alcohol-poisoned or both. A week later the bar had closed for good and the place was immediately bought up by some energetic young French guys. Experimental video screenings on Fridays, imported IPA. Fifty years of smoke etched from the walls, which were then immediately re-aged with a gray wash of paint. Anja’s back was rubbing up against a spindly, dried-up palm tree starved for rays in the corner.
“Anyone else want a beer?” said Eric, standing abruptly.
“Yes, please,” said Anja. “I need it to dull the shame of working for the Man.”
“Get four, please, honey,” said Dam.
When Eric was at the bar Laura leaned in and whisper-yelled, “You have to get rid of him, Dam. He’s the worst one yet.”
“Oh, relax. He’s harmless.”
Dam was trying harder than usual. His lips were glossed with glitter. The dragon tattoo on his neck had been scrubbed off and replaced with some kind of tribal mark, and he’d shaved a thin strap of beard around his chin. His tight shirt said CHOLO in big bubble letters.
“Whatever.” Laura redirected to Anja: “Can you at least say how much you’re going to be making? Or how long the contract is for?”
“I don’t really remember what I’m allowed to tell you. But basically I’m making a shit ton of money for a year, and then they can get rid of me if I don’t meet some criteria I don’t understand.”
Dam clapped. “Good for you, girl. That sounds better than any job I’ve ever had.”
“Honestly,” Laura said, “I’ve never really understood what goes on at RANDI in the first place. Is it really ‘big pharma’?”
“No, not at all. We don’t make stuff with use value. I mean, Finster does, but not at RANDI.”
“I don’t get the distinction.”
“We do Research About Nature, Indefinitely.” Anja smiled helplessly. “What’s to get?”
“Why would they tack on ‘indefinite’ at the end?” asked Dam, stroking his chin strap. “It makes the whole thing weird. Like why would you need to specify that? Why would it be ‘definite’ in the first place?”
“They needed the ‘I’ on the end, that’s why,” Laura snapped. “They can’t just call themselves RAND.”
“Why not?”
“Really, brother?” said Laura.
“All right, all right,” said Anja. “Officially, the ‘I’ is because there’s supposed to be no definite goal to the research. It’s research for the sake of discovery, science as the means to its own end, which is the means to a better end for humanity.”
“A better end for humanity?” Dam cocked his head.
“A better end goal. Haven’t you ever googled it?”
Laura dutifully pulled out her phone and started padding in the letters.
“So you’ve never understood the point of what you do there,” said Dam.
“There is no point, per se.” She glanced over at the next table, where two women had started shouting at each other. They looked like a couple arguing. “We’re just exploring new concepts without finite applications. It’s like a think tank that isn’t influenced by academia or the market.”
She couldn’t help glancing over at the other table again. The yelling had stopped. One woman was sobbing and the other was gulping a pint of beer.
“But in practice,” said Laura, “you probably have some inkling of the commercial applications of your research. Or milllllitary?” She raised her eyebrows.
“You sound just as suspicious as Dam is about the weather,” Anja said. “There’s no conspiracy. The only reason that I can’t tell you about my specific project is that I’m guarded by a wall of NDAs.”
One of the women at the other table scooted her chair back with a screech. Anja watched the woman peripherally as she picked up her coat and hurried out.
“Which just makes it seem infinitely more suspicious,” said Dam, titillated by the prospect of a new conspiracy.
Laura had found the website and was scanning and scrolling. “Ahem,” she said. She put on an authoritative voice. “RANDI is nothing more and nothing less than a place to tackle our world’s greatest challenges by resolutely not tackling them. We have hand-picked the best and most cutting-edge thinkers across scientific disciplines in order to finally resolve humanity’s most profound questions about nature, not through products and solutions but through speculative speculations on the future. After half a decade of collaboration with external consultants in the field of knowledge management, we at Finster have discovered that the key to advancing scientific research in the laboratory context is not to try to advance science but to try to advance creativity.”
Laura paused to catch her breath.
“See, the internet can answer all your questions,” said Anja.
“You’ve been on the cutting edge this whole time, and we didn’t even know it!” said Dam.
Laura cleared her throat and continued in a more assertive, TED-talk voice. “But you must be wondering: what do we mean by ‘indefinite’?” She glanced up at Anja, who nodded. “To us, indefinite means the kind of research without an end goal besides knowledge itself. Indefinite means a new way of doing research to produce maximum knowledge-based nonresults at an unprecedented pace.”
Laura laughed harshly, waved away Anja’s protest against her continuing, then returned to her phone. “In all seriousness, we do have some ideas about where to begin, from biome conservation to reduction of fossil fuels to medical advancements, but the direction of the research at RANDI arises organically through collabo . . . oollop . . . peration?” She squinted. “Is that a typo? Collaboroop . . .”
“No,” said Anja. “That’s the portmanteau some consultants came up with. No one knows how to say it.”
“Lord.” Laura went on, speeding through to the end. “RANDI busts down stale and dangerous barriers between old and new, between research and praxis, between science as a means to an end and science as a means to its own end that can ultimately help us all reach a better end. At this crucial moment in history, nature is our most precious resource, and we want our relationship with nature to be a long-lasting one—dare we say . . . indefinite.”
“I can’t even,” said Dam, laughing. “The jargon! That’s just like how my ex used to talk. The consultant.”
“Your paraphrase from before was remarkably accurate,” said Laura to Anja.
“I am legitimately shocked that you guys have never looked this up before. I’ve been working there for years.”
“You’re blind to the faults of the ones you love,” said Dam.
Eric approached the table unsteadily with three beers triangled between his hands. “I only had enough cash for three. They don’t take credit cards here, still.”
“They’re trying to stay authentic,” said Laura.
“That’s pathetic,” said Eric, sloshing beer on his khakis as he scooted the glasses onto the table.
“You’re from a younger generation, you wouldn’t get it.” Laura grabbed one of the beers.
“Aren’t you like, twenty-eight?” Eric spat back.
“Generations turn over fast these days. You young kids and all your new technology.”
“It’s true,” said Dam. “They’re way ahead of us. Eric was just telling me about this new app that I’ve never even heard of.” He beamed at Eric.
“Well?” said Laura.
“I signed an NDA,” said Eric. He glared at Dam but without any real vitriol.
Laura slammed her glass on the table, spilling more beer. “Are we allowed to talk about anything tonight?”
“Come on, you can tell them,” said Dam.
Eric was obviously going to tell them, he just wanted to be egged on a bit first. He pouted for a requisite moment and then said, “It’s just a little microtrading app for intangible capital.”
Laura sighed loudly. “Treat us like we’re your grandparents.”
“How am I supposed to know how much you know?” He sighed, loudly. “You know what trading is, right? Like the stock market?” Seeing the look on Laura’s face, Anja laughed. “Fine, so this is a trading system for nonmonetizable things, like your personal network of connections. Basically social capital as opposed to financial capital. Do you follow?”
They were all silent. “Maybe give an example?” said Anja, finally.
“Okay. Say you have a hookup to rent a cheap apartment because of someone you know, a friend in the building. You haven’t paid for anything, there’s no money involved yet, you just have the connection. So that’s your capital. Not the apartment, the connection.”
Dam cut in enthusiastically: “So you can trade your social connection for something else you want, right, babe?”
Eric waved Dam off. “I’m getting there. So you have the apartment hookup, but you decide you don’t want it after all. Maybe you’re leaving the city, I don’t know. But there is something else you really want. Something else you can’t exactly pay for.”
“Like a plus one to get into a club,” said Dam. “Right?”
“I’m getting there. Plus ones are big. So are letters of recommendation. Or, say you need proof of employment to get a visa, someone has to write you a letter who trusts you to not actually hit them up for employment after you get your visa. So you can buy a letter now, with your social capital.”
“Hold on,” said Laura. “Who decides how much these things are worth? Is there a point system or something?”
“That’s the proprietary part of the app. The algorithm.” Eric was visibly pleased to use these words. “It has a special rating system based on social media and news aggregators. Things change in relation to each other all the time. So one day, a plus one might be worth as much as being second in line for an apartment in a shitty neighborhood, then the next day it could be worthle
ss if the club gets lame or if the neighborhood gets cool or any number of things.”
Laura raised a finger in the air. “Aren’t people speculating on the value then? Some kind of secondary market?”
He frowned. “They’re trying to discourage that.”
Anja did a quick inventory of her life’s intangible worth. Plus ones—check, through Prinz via Louis. Knowledge of events and gossip—check, through Sara/Sascha via Louis. Real estate—check, through Howard. Employment—check, through Louis, Howard. She was secure, until she considered how vastly her connection points would be reduced were Louis and Howard not a part of her chain of connections.
“It seems like, maybe, it would just make relationships into commodities,” said Anja, looking at her hands, suspecting she was repeating something she’d heard elsewhere.
“Yet again!” said Eric. “I will say this yet again! There is no money involved!”
“No, she’s right,” said Laura. “Whether or not there’s actual money changing hands, the system is turning relationships into calculations. It might be called ‘trading’ to sound more like a swap meet or a flea market, but it’s really just buying and selling without cash.”
“But . . .” Anja opened and closed her mouth.
“Go ahead,” said Laura.
“I don’t know, maybe this is wrong, but it’s also a way to give rich people a way to buy social capital. Like if you don’t have any friends in Berlin but you have a lot of money to bribe your way into getting an apartment, now you can trade that thing you paid for to get something that you aren’t able to pay for.”
Eric was silent for a long moment, gathering his resources, digging around for bits of argumentation he’d picked up at some party or other. “If rich people get a few plus ones, so what?” He shrugged. “The point is that great people can leverage their cultural value to survive.” Then he seemed to hit on what he was supposed to say here: “Think about it. What if all you needed to survive was community?”
