The Code of Happiness

by David J. Margolis

  The Code of Happiness

  Published by David J. Margolis

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2015 David J. Margolis

  Smashwords Edition License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The Code of Happiness

  A black heart-shaped box lies on pristine fir floors, the red ribbon of love uncut. Jamie stares through the window, mind removed from the present. He's almost stellar in a pair of acid-washed jeans and open linen shirt, then he breathes, the tightness against his belly. He undoes the top button. Pop. There it goes. Much like his life. The end of his twenties. Waiting for change.

  His nostrils flare. Incense snaking through the air again. Always the incense. He watches evening light flicker across the ‘designer Zen’ apartment while Lisa sits cross-legged on white rippled sheets waving a burning lavender stick to catch his attention. She's not expecting it though, but more predictably she watches him open the window. Rain splatters against his skin. It's worth getting wet, worth it to escape this. Lisa pulls on a thin black sweater, her Latina eyes demanding a response.

  Words finally escape Jamie's lips.

  “I'm not after the ordinary.”

  Lisa processes as Jamie adds, “And nor are you.”

  An incoming call rings and, as is customary, neither pay attention to it.

  “And this is what I am to you? The ordinary?”

  Jamie averts her dark eyes but has to look one last time before he shrugs, “Works both ways.”

  In Lisa's face there's tacit agreement and to neatly underline the point the call rings off.

  He sits alone on the bed listening to Lisa shower. The sound is soothing. Better to listen than partake. He turns on the flat screen. A late night chat show and some whacko blathering about personal transformation. Jamie stares into oblivion as the show changes subject to the new economy. It produces an inner smile, the two things that don't apply to him. Lisa's voice on automatic breaks through, “The garbage can is full.”

  Outside by the dumpster he catches sight of a man turning a corner as if he were watching him. The city's littered with snoops and trawlers of trash. The urge to give chase and pin back the man pulsates. He thinks better of it, unaware it might be growing maturity that's checked him, and throws the garbage into the gray container. The machine crunches and compresses the waste to a mere fraction of its original size. It fulfills the aspiration of the corporation's logo written on the side, We have too much to recycle. On his return to the apartment he watches Lisa fix her face with precision. She notices his watchful eye. He's curious, superior and, as her features disappear, more digitized than real but all he has to say is the dumpster divers are back. Lisa mimics his earlier shrug, her face now resembling a porcelain doll. The facade strikes a chord with Jamie. It's impenetrable. That is until it flickers. Lisa is a holographic image, and she's replaced by descending words:

  Your Free Trial is Over

  Thank You for Playing

  Did You Score as a Boyfriend?

  Click to Find Out

  Another failed attempt. Jamie clicks a button and the message changes.

  Working to Bring Happiness to You

  XXLI – the unpronounceable corporation

  The words vaporize. The bedroom changes. Less designer. More gray. More prison than Zen, although Jamie often is unable to discern the difference.

  *****

  A stream of men and women who've eradicated their facial features flow down sidewalks below the city's concrete and glass towers; it's a world of black and gray. They communicate at hyper speed through Nano devices embedded into their hands and heads. Their ability to stay connected overrides the monotony of the environment. It's connectivity that keeps them alive, proven for years now. One bestseller professor after another in their ninety-second spots concluded content is irrelevant as long as action is taken to connect with one another. And so life flows. Jamie, still in acid wash, wanders with them. It's no matter he stands out because he's ignored, and the anonymity feels a dream, and not knowing if he's awake or asleep is an accent of pleasure.

  Sirens ring out followed by two loud booms. In unison people look to the skies gauging the pollution. It's still within them to make judgment calls. The result though is the same, as clear masks big enough to cover their mouths and nostrils are attached allowing beta-oxygen into their bodies. Jamie naturally is without a mask, forgotten at home.

  Jamie presses his face to a glass window. He doesn't know why he does this, perhaps it's the coolness of touch or an unknown need to grab attention. On the other side are postings for minimum wage jobs, his specialty of software technician reduced to the extent a chimp could do it—and they probably would if they were cheaper to care for than functional human beings. Jamie raises his gaze to be greeted by bright blue eyes. They beckon him to enter but such direct eye contact intimidates. He retreats down the street and heads across to the older part of town to a coffee shop filled with fellow twenty-something’s and the once-hopeful wiling away their hours.

  Eyes are upon him once more. The time anxious wanting his spot at the bar. He refreshes the metro, a wafer thin electronic newssheet. The main headline and picture about the disappearance of five people remains the same but the side stories of far-flung wars and talking dogs update. None of it sticks. Those blue eyes have made an imprint that can't be deleted. His imagination processes them as glowing larger than their eye sockets, a mystery begging him to return. A shrill ring outside disrupts his flow. Jamie glances to see people pulling off their masks; it’s safe to breathe again. He looks at his empty coffee mug and wonders how much longer he can justify sitting there.

  Back on the street he nabs a flyer without acknowledging the woman handing it to him. He should. Her smile morphs to daggers, and if he were paying attention at all, he would notice he's the only person to receive one. The waifish character clad in black vanishes into the throng unseen. The flyer has the same effect on Jamie as it fleets through his mind. It's a free preview for a movie no one's heard about. Fit for waste he chooses to scrunch the flyer into his pocket when faced with a garbage can.

  The blue eyes are talking. “I didn't think you wanted a job.”

  “It's what everyone wants, right?”

  She offers him a variety of candies from colored bowls on her desk. “My happy pills,” she says. Jamie feels half a smile. He hands over a card and she swipes it granting her access to details of his life. The data fills her screen. “I see you have seven years of experience. They only want two. I'd say you're over qualified.”

  “I need to pay the rent.”

  “Understood.”

  “What's it for?”

  “They're secretive on the details.”

  Jamie knows what's coming.

  “It's the unpronounceable corporation. I see they bought the last company you worked for.”

  “And fired ninety percent of the staff.”

  The blue eyes detect resentment. It's time for her to make a judgment call, put her knowledge to use, why she earns the bucks. Proceed or find another candidate. She finds compassion fo
r the troubled man before her. “It won't count against you,” she says, “it's only been six months since you left.”

  “Fired.”

  “Doesn't say that on here.”

  Jamie's drawn to her eyes ever more. She gives him a moment, a chance to say no thanks, then clicks a button. “Okay. Request for interview sent.” Jamie feels the efficacy, the lack of choice clamp on his soul, knowing it's not what he wants to do but clueless as to any true calling. A void lies ahead and it bites at him. Does one thing lead to another or to the same? He gestures to the candies, “What is your favorite?”

  “Strawberry,” she says. She takes one, making sure Jamie sees the ring on her left hand.

  At home he plays Demon Keeper on the holograph set. He changes roles between Cavalier, a heroic swordsman and Gustav, a yellow demon who wants to be human. To switch it up he recodes Cavalier to become a tougher opponent. Dodging super swords, catfish bombs, and missiles Jamie's still able to reach the cave of inner sanctum with ease. Recoding again, his true challenge is to beat himself. He reboots and in a lightning move severs the head of his opponent. Food is a can of tomato gruyere soup, amusement is self-mockery. He talks to the severed head, Wanta join me Thursday at the Bristol? It's free... No? Not even when it's free, huh?

  *****

  The grubby Bristol reeks of old porn movie theatre. A handful of people are dotted around the plush red velvet seats. Jamie finds the perfect spot equidistant from everyone else, and sitting down releases a plume of dust into the rafters. It's a hole. Who would come here? His thoughts have moved from suspicion to judgment in rapid time. A guy shuffles past and plonks himself down next to him. The plan of waiting until the last minute for the ideal seat is undone. Jamie can't get over it, the whole frikkin’ theatre and the douche chooses this spot. He sees enough from the corner of his eye to determine the douche is white frizzy hair munching popcorn. Looks like the whacko from the late night talk show—hard to tell without staring. The douche, picking up on Jamie's annoyance, moves a few seats down.

  Life reaches a new nadir. The movie resembles a bad wildlife documentary from fifty years before. It's as if the zebras are bad CGI renditions. Jamie covers his eyes and swears. He looks around. No wonder it's just the lonely and bored. He picks himself up, his shadow flaring across the screen. No one cares. He's shoulder-first through the sticky doors to the foyer and is met by the sound of an unattended popcorn machine cracking kernels into life.

  He pushes the door to the outside world but it holds firm. He tries the next one down. Same thing. All the doors are locked. He fails to see a reflection in the glass but feels a tap on the shoulder.

  “Not your cup of tea?”

  Jamie turns to see the woman who gave him the flyer.

  “Po,” she says.

  He's still a sentence behind, “Is it anyone's?” His tone is unwise, but Jamie continues lost in a mist of red. “Can you let me out?”

  Po's about to spit razor blades. No, she doesn't want to let him out. However, she's answerable to another authority and unlocks a bolt as their eyes remain fixed on each other. She smirks and fake chews gum as she tackles a second lock, and a third without even looking. Jamie's about to move through.

  “Na ah.”

  Yet another lock. Po wrestles with it. Jamie can't tell if she's kidding or not. Either way it's long enough for the guy with the white frizzy hair to lurk behind them and spook Jamie.

  “And what is your cup of tea?” he asks.

  The white frizzy hair extends his hand. Jamie recognizes him; it is the whacko from the chat show. “I'm Ray.”

  Jamie doesn't introduce himself, it's obvious they know who he is—and he'd thought he'd kept his cyber life to a minimum.

  There's a kindness in Ray's eyes, his presence disarming old school personable, his face weathered from the journey life. He hands Jamie a card. It's an offer of one free dental clean, no appointment necessary. Jamie's confused.

  “Dentists?”

  “Compliments of the sponsors. They're the only one's with enough money to support the arts.”

  “Oh, that's what it was.”

  “If you looked at teeth all day, you'd want to be involved in something creative.”

  “I'd want it to be good.”

  “It was free,” growls Po. She unlocks the last bolt. “And now you are.”

  “Excuse me.” Jamie brushes past her; he's all pinpricks and needles. Po's withering theatrical glare lets Ray know where she stands on the subject of this man.

  Jamie wanders, nowhere to go. A public newscast beams off one of the glass towers. Next for those with a subscription is the truth about the JFK assassination, the mystery to be revealed once and for all. The screen fades to black. XXLI subscribers only.

  *****

  Palm trees soar to the skylight of a tall glass atrium filled with shimmering gray metal sculptures. Jamie, in his scuffed shoes, passes workers whose fashion and postures are cutting edge. He's self-conscious trying not to care. He walks into an XXLI visitor information booth and is given directions to human resources. A machine spits out a card allowing him temporary access to Level 5, and a green line lights up on the floor. He follows it to the elevators. When the doors open on Level 5, the green line is there again to guide, this time to a cold sterile room determined to redefine minimalist. There's a single row of one hundred empty chairs against a wall. It's more an art project than a welcome place to sit. His standing induces a hidden female voice to request he take a seat. The voice, crisp and formal, announces that when he hears a gong he must take the first door to the right, sit in the third row from the front, and in the third desk nearest to him. The voice with deadpan cheek adds that hopefully it's easy—three and three. He has five minutes to sit.

  Jamie doesn't know what to do with his five minutes. There's nothing to engage with but his mind and that seems vacuous. He feels the tension. He doesn't want to be there. He questions himself, wonders who the face is behind the voice. Why would anyone want that job? He knows the cameras are so well hidden it's pointless trying to look for them, but he does. They won't intimidate him, he thinks, fuckers, I'll just get this job and shut up, head down, pay the rent, maybe find a girl— hopefully it's not all men—it would be nice to have a conversation with a real person, not these fake identicals. He reminds himself there are always real people behind the facade, then he forgets. He thinks of Ray and Po. If only he had a smoke. He glances at his watch. It's stopped. He bets it's XXLI mischief. The gong sounds before he can continue the mental diatribe.

  The examination room is made of ten rows of ten chairs with curved thin touch screens. Like a well-trained dog Jamie sits in the designated seat. The screen begins a countdown and on zero he begins. He identifies shapes and words, associations and perceptions. It's easy. Math is a cinch. It's all pointless in a way. His mind concludes they're testing creative potential but not imagination. He drifts as he answers the questions. How do you test imagination and who declares if we're imaginative, and why after all these years of human imagination do we dress in black and gray and work in glass towers in jobs with the illusion of flattened hierarchy. His thoughts are disrupted by a knock at the door. A woman pokes her pale face into the room; she's of the apple crisp voice. “We've made a mistake,” she says, “it's the wrong test. Please follow me.”

  “You're shitting me.”

  She wasn't meant to hear that.

  Jamie trails Grace, her twenty-seven-year-old posture perfect in a black suit. Chitchat is not her cup of tea. She leads him to a smaller test room, one row of ten chairs. Jamie's sarcasm is about to get the better of him but he holds it in. There's no eye contact from Grace as she tells him to sit anywhere he wants. This time Jamie can't help a weak smile.

  An hour later they're opposite each other in her office. She raises her hand to stop him from speaking, “A moment please.”

  “The agency...”

  “Thank you.”

  She seems so cool of heart. Unforgettable r
eally. Must be the job, a daily line of applicants despite the rows of empty chairs. Jamie's judgment has kicked in. She's more lost than he is but doesn't know it. The conversation worsens.

  “Very interesting Jamie. Surprising.”

  “Can you tell me more?”

  “You didn't qualify.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Well it seems you're highly perceptive—nothing wrong with that—except…”

  “Except?”

  “We're looking for more of a judge. Someone who can make quick and clear decisions.”

  “What's the job?”

  “No point if you're not qualified.”

  “Who says?”

  “The test.”

  Jamie draws close, “The agency said I'm over fucking qualified.”

  Grace gives him a snotty look and pegs him for a cynic. How on earth did this man make it past pre-selection and what a waste of her time.

  “Agencies.” She rolls her eyes, “We keep your test scores on record.”

  “Can I see them?”

  “Should something more appropriate come up—like tea boy—we could call you back. Do you want me to keep it?”

  Jamie snarls, but Grace, still offended, continues, “I can erase it?” she taunts. “Keep it? Yes?” She clicks a button. “Oh no. Erased.”