The Water Thief

by Nicholas Lamar Soutter

  The four walls made a cell—there was no better way to describe it. The gray paint, not retouched through four tenants, was cracking and chipping off. I placed my palm on the wall and rubbed, feeling the plaster break off and crumble under my hand. I turned on the water, splashed it on my face and rinsed out my mouth.

  I heated up the water a bit, then washed the drywall dust from my hands—letting them lay there—bathing in the warmth and letting it circulate over the rest of my body.

  Feeling rejuvenated, I dried them, the warmth retained. But I let the water run. I listened to the sound of it hitting the bowl, running down the drain, like the sound of fall leaves rustling in the wind.

  I don’t care that the water is running.

  This is life, replied a lifetime of conditioning. It doesn’t matter if you like it or not, it simply is the way things are. Competition is the only constant. Stars compete for fuel, plants for sunlight, and people for power. Beyond that there’s no significance. It just is. Now turn the water off and get yourself together.

  I don’t care that the water is running.

  I examined myself in the mirror. My face was weathered and bitter from years of endless conflict—with enemies, colleagues, neighbors, friends and my wife—with everyone I had ever met.

  We aren’t going to lose to socialism, to guilt or compassion. We’ve already lost. We’ve defeated ourselves, wearing ourselves to the nub. We aren’t workers; we’re fuel—fuel for a large machine that wants nothing more than to consume us for the lowest possible cost. I’ve been dying for a very, very long time, and I’m sick of it.

  My conditioning spoke again, as the voice of reason. It said that life is the process of dying. What you’re looking for, it said, is hope. Hope that there’s more. Simon had hope once, but when he stared into the human soul and saw nothing but the abyss of our own nature staring back at him, he couldn’t take it. You’re stronger than he was. Just hold out, success is just around the corner. Somebody will see all the hard work you’ve put in, someone will notice that you’re special. That’s the promise of capitalism… just work.

  I looked at my face: my eyes, nose and forehead. In my weekly baths I had never given my face much attention. So I washed it: behind and inside my ears, under the apple of my neck, and around my eyes. I hit every crevice, every wrinkle, and washed myself clean.

  I lathered my face and ran the razor under the water. I hadn’t given myself a proper shave in a while either. I went slowly, running the blade once, then twice, over the stubble, under the ears, below the chin, and across my cheeks. I looked at myself again, cleaner than I had ever been.

  Competition exists in facets of life, but that doesn’t make it the sum of life. You can see the world through rose-colored glasses, but that does not make the world rouge, even if you live a lifetime that way. Violence is the only possible conclusion to capitalism.

  I wasn’t a capitalist. I was a murderer. We were all murderers.

  I grabbed a towel and dried my face. Then I left the bathroom and watched Bea for a few minutes. Not till the commercial did she notice me.

  “There you are. Are you feeling better? Do you think maybe you used a bit too much water?”

  I could see her—as clearly as Linus saw me. I was shocked that, as obvious as she was, I hadn’t noticed her before.

  “So, which corporation is it?”

  “Which corporation is what?” she asked.

  “Which corporation are you leaving Ackerman Brothers for?”

  Beatrice turned white and looked at me in abject horror.

  “Darling, where did you hear something like that from?”

  “Nobody. Where are you going?”

  “We both know you wouldn’t think that on your own if someone hadn’t suggested it to you. Today was one of your ‘Linus’ days, wasn’t it? Does he think that I’m leaving?”

  “I don’t know what he thinks,” I said. “It’s what I think.”

  “Honey, what’s this really about? You didn’t like your magazine, is that it?”

  “No.”

  “Is it the dailies? You saw I was in there, didn’t you? I can explain—”

  “I don’t care about the dailies.”

  “Then why are you making a big deal about this?”

  “You blame everyone for everything. If anything goes wrong in your life, you find someone to blame for it. But you’ve been losing rank for six months, and you haven’t said a word. You’ve never complained, you’ve just taken it.”

  “I didn’t want to trouble you…”

  “You’re screwing up on purpose, letting your rank fall. You’re going to rank down till you drop into Epsilon grade, and then you’ll buy out your contract and go somewhere else.”

  She looked at me gravely. “Charles,” she said, “that would be illegal. I’m offended that you would even suggest....”

  My whole life I wanted to have Linus’ insight into the world. He was a sorcerer, a warrior monk and a commander of whole armies of colleagues, taking whatever he wanted. Beatrice was as transparent to me as a child who, with the strongest of convictions and certainties, blames a broken cookie jar on her imaginary friend. But I wasn’t a wizard, anymore than Linus.

  I raised my hand to interrupt her. “You don’t need to answer. In fact, if you’re going to keep lying, I prefer you don’t. I was just curious.”

  “Charles, I’ve tried to be patient, but if you accuse me one more time,” she said, “I will never forgive you. Someone is trying to turn you against me. Now, who said this?”

  “I’m not going to turn you in,” I said. “I’m not going to blackmail you. Really. I don’t think I even care. I shouldn’t have asked; it’s really none of my business.”

  Satisfaction lit her eyes. “My god, you really do love me, don’t you? You would suspect something like that, and yet you wouldn’t.... You really aren’t going to try to use this, are you?”

  I was done profiting from the suffering of others.

  “Oh my god, Charles, do you know how long I’ve waited for this moment? You’re finally a part of this relationship. You’re willing to see what I’m trying to do. Oh, I’m so glad you’re on board. Ackerman has never acknowledged my gifts or what I can bring to the company. You know that. It’s painfully clear.”

  She had been planning this move for a while.

  “Studio One made an offer: Producer. They’ll buy me out at eighty percent if I can get down to an Epsilon grade and make up the difference in escrow.”

  I had to struggle to keep myself from laughing. They were absolutely the flash in the pan that Linus said they were. And besides, in the eight years I had known Beatrice, I had never once found her to be entertaining.

  “They only have five channels right now—but that just means more room to expand. They really see what I’m talking about; they know I can get their programming up to date. They’ve lost a lot of executives to defections and relocations, so they’ll start me as a Gamma. It’s a great opportunity.”

  Her life was over. It would end in a series of events determined even before they unfolded, like a mate in chess that’s inevitable twelve moves away. I could read the necessary and inexorable steps yet to come.

  Studio One’s stocks were on fire and they were flush with money. But instead of saving it for the inevitable correction, they were spending it wildly. And the people who were most in a position to see disaster ahead—the executives—were all bailing out. When the company tanked, those who had stayed behind would blame the failure on the new blood. They weren’t hiring a producer, they were hiring a scapegoat.

  “They’ll wipe you out.”

  “Who do you think you are?” she squawked. “You know, I thought you’d be happy for me. Jealousy is a very unattractive quality. They’ve already given us an apartment; I’d think you’d be grateful.”

  “I’m not going,” I said.

  Bea looked at me. “Is this because I didn’t tell you? I had to keep this a secret; they wouldn’t let
me tell anyone. Besides, I didn’t want you to worry. I was thinking of you.”

  “I’m not going.”

  “Don’t be angry with me. I wanted to tell you.”

  “I’m not going.”

  “You know,” she said, “you shouldn’t make decisions when you’re angry. Right? Why don’t you sleep on it?”

  “I’m not angry,” I said. “I will not go. Not now, not ever.”

  “We’ll talk about this when you’re feeling more reasonable,” she said.

  “I’m not going.”

  “You’re just feeling like you’ll be less of a man because I’ll be a Gamma and you won’t. You’re afraid that I’m going to think you’re worthless. But you’re my husband. What makes you have such a low opinion of me that you think I’d treat you like that? I’m a highly ethical colleague, you know that.”

  “You’re right to leave, Bea. You’ve wanted this for a long time. Do what’s best for you. But I’m not coming, and we’ll both be happier for it.”

  “Oh, bless your heart,” Beatrice said. “You think you’re protecting me? You’re too sweet. I want you to come. You don’t need to act brave. You’re so cute when you’re like this.”

  “You’re not listening.”

  She folded her arms. “Okay, now you’re just being silly. Look, I was going to go by the place after the show. Come with me and check it out.”

  “No.”

  “How far do you want to take this, Charles? I’m perfectly happy to play games if you are. I can call your bluff. You think I should go? Is that what you want?” she raged.

  “Yes. That’s what I want.”

  She grabbed her coat. “I know you’re just trying to be helpful, but we need to talk about your methods. I’ll send a crew tomorrow to pick up my stuff. When you’re ready to talk, give me a call.”

  She was Beatrice, the same as the day we had met. Our marriage should never have happened, and we had each been looking for the door for a while now. It just took this long for one of us to find it.

  She left the apartment, which suddenly felt very quiet. I turned off the television. For the time being, my world didn’t have to be anything more than those four corners. I didn’t want to drink, but I couldn’t think of anything else to do. I wasn’t going to watch television. I didn’t want to log in to or browse CentNet. I certainly didn’t want to go to bed, since that only brought the next day at Ackerman that much closer. So I went into my bedroom, sat on my bed and cried.

  Chapter 6

  By one A.M I still hadn’t gotten off to sleep. I lay in bed, feeling more alive than I had in—well since I could remember. Sleeping, a practical necessity, wasn’t going to happen.

  I went to the toilet and flushed my remaining pills.

  I never understood the world, or how people could feel so comfortable in it. Not until I had heard of Sarah Aisling did it even cross my mind that the problem might not be me.

  Following up on her status would have been suspicious, and they probably wouldn’t even have told me anything anyway. But with any luck her colleagues might know if she was all right. Heck with any luck, they might even be like her.

  I sat down at my terminal and began browsing the social services directory. I found all kinds of adverts for every interest possible. Pleasuring services ran about fifty caps an hour. Abuse services (yelling, whipping and beating—all at the hands of an experienced professional) ran about eighty caps. To think that Beatrice had been doing it for free for almost a decade.

  I wondered if I owed her back pay.

  I finally found a friendship catalogue. The Ackerman-affiliated agencies were listed first. The ads were large and colorful, designed not only to attract the eye, but also to maximize download times and fees. The Karitzu ads came next. Finally I came upon the free trade section. Those ads were all plain and simple (to protect colleagues from excessive download costs).

  Down near the bottom I found what I was looking for—a small yellow and black ad for the friendship agency where Sarah Aisling had worked. They didn’t list a phone number, just an online order form. I requested a friend, to be delivered immediately. My ledger bleated, and the transaction was complete. A friend named “Katherine Wolfe” was on her way.

  I began cleaning up the apartment—picking up the popcorn and potato chips, cleaning the dishes. It was a silly exercise; I had rented her, she’d be my friend no matter what the place looked like. I was in the process of moving the couch when she arrived.

  I opened the door to find a tall, broad-shouldered woman standing in the pouring rain.

  “Hi. Did you order a friend?” she asked.

  Her hair was a long, fox red, and fell to just below her shoulders. Its sheen reminded me of a fresh cherry. Her face was warm, but most striking about her was that her eyes were each a different color—one was green, like fresh-cut grass, and the other was a light acorn.

  “Yes,” I said, ushering her in. “Are you my friend?”

  “Yeah. My name is Katherine. You can call me Kate.”

  “I’m sorry about the rain,” I said. “If I had any idea, I would have rented on some other day. Did you take the train?”

  “No, a friend dropped me off.”

  “A friend?”

  She turned to a car idling under a lamp in the parking lot. An Arab woman with curly black hair sat in the driver’s seat. Kate waved her off, and the woman waved back before driving away.

  “Oh… a colleague. Well, still, you had to stand out there. I’m sorry.”

  “No, don’t be silly.”

  I offered her a drink while I finished straightening up.

  “Any cola would be fine,” she said.

  When she spoke, I found that I was staring directly at her eyes. The uniqueness drew me in and made her presence commanding. I didn’t want to seem to be ogling, so I picked just one eye, the hazelnut, and looked at it when we spoke. Her voice was soft and gentle, and she seemed to have no awareness of the sway her eyes had over me.

  “Whisky shots?”

  She glanced suspiciously. “Aren’t you the big spender this evening?”

  I laughed with a boyish giggle. “Please, have some,” I said, turning on the overhead light.

  “You know I’m not an escort, right? That’s another service.”

  “Oh, no, no! That’s not it at all! I’m celebrating. I’ll bet you get a lot of that, don’t you? People hiring friends to try to get pleasuring services on the cheap.”

  “I would imagine. So what’s the occasion?

  “Well, hiring a friend is an occasion all on its own, don’t you think?”

  “Sure.”

  “What do you mean,” I asked, “‘I would imagine?’”

  “Huh?”

  “I asked if people try to get pleasuring services on the cheap, and you said you’d imagine.”

  Kate gave a disappointed look. “Well, I’m... this is my first day working as a friend.”

  “Really?” I said. So we toasted providence. “Why the change in careers?”

  “Oh, no, I’ve still got my old job. It’s just—well, one of the agency’s colleagues ran into a spot of trouble….”

  Sarah Aisling. This was the closest I had ever been to someone I had reported, the first time I saw Aisling as a person. Those kids, with the broken soccer ball, whom I reported for slander. They had friends, family, parents who enjoyed watching their games. The difference between a name on a report and a person standing in front of you is the difference between seeing a sketch of two lovers, and the act of making love.

  God help me, I had been reporting real people and somehow never knew it.

  “... so I’m filling in.”

  I nodded. “My name is Thatcher, by the way.”

  “Thatcher? The invoice said your name is Charles.”

  “Charles? Oh my god, yes, that’s my first name. I guess… well, in the corporation you go by the last name until you get to know someone.”

  “I like Charlie,” she said.
<
br />   “Charlie? My mother called me Charlie. My sister too.”

  “I like it.”

  “Thank you. A bit informal, though, don’t you think?”

  “Well, in LowSec we almost always go by first name. You hired a friend, so I thought... But whatever you prefer, Thatch—”

  “No,” I interrupted. “No, I think I do prefer Charlie.”

  We sat there quietly for a few moments, me with my first friend, and her with her first client.

  “You have a sister?”

  I nodded. “She’s a sheet metal worker for a small corp on the west coast somewhere. At least she was. Mother worked there too. My dad died when I was seven. He was in a work camp for a while, and then went into accounting. Anyways…”

  I remembered a small shack we lived in before I was sold to Ackerman, just two years after my father died. I remembered the smell of old, soft wood, and the way you could look out through the cracks in the boards, and how the whole house creaked, even in breezes so small that you could only feel them by the hairs on your arm. The wood was weathered gray, the same as the gallows. I wondered why I had never remembered that before.

  My mother was a metal stamper, I remembered clearly now. Every year or two she’d come home with one fewer fingers on her hand. After losing three and the tip of a fourth, they put her on polishing—she took a cut in pay and I was sold to make up the difference.

  “Filling in?” I said, changing the subject.

  “It’s just for a week. I’m keeping my regular job.”

  “Two paychecks must be nice.”

  “Oh, I wish. I’m not getting paid for this.”

  I coughed up a swig of whisky on that. She apologized profusely for the shock. “She’s a friend, Charlie. I’m filling in for a friend while she deals with her problems.”

  “You sublet her?”

  “No,” laughed Kate. “A compeer. You know, a friend in the archaic sense.”

  “Oh my god, really? What good is one of those?”

  She shrugged. “Commercially? None, I suppose. But I offered to help out, we all did.”

  “That’s not your job.”

  She shook her head. “It’s nobody’s job. That’s why we did it.”