by Moxie Mezcal
I stammered, "I probably should go find Columbine."
She turned to look at me, and I read in her face that she had all but completely forgotten I was there.
"Oh yeah, right. Have a good time tonight, D."
I walked away, filled simultaneously with the urges to break into a dance, rip out my own hair, and dump a bucket of ice down the front of my pants.
---
The warehouse had been converted into a kind of futuristic art gallery teeming with pretentious cognoscenti, faux-bo street punks, yuppies playing like they still have souls, hyper-affected eccentrics, and vapid beautiful people dying to be seen.
Large black curtains had been hung to to create a labyrinthine system of walls. The entire layout seemed designed to intentionally frustrate a guest's sense of direction. The floor was packed with art installations that incorporated elements of video, audio, live performance, and technological props.
One was a giant wall of LED-lights projecting random words and phrases. As I walked closer to it, I realized that the messages it displayed were actually snippets of conversations going on around it. The place must be wired with hidden microphones, I guessed, that fed into a computer with a speech-to-text converter. I looked around and saw several mics scattered about the space. I also found an alarming number of surveillance cameras like the one at the front door.
Another installation allowed people to stand in front of video cameras and see themselves displayed on monitors. Each monitor was labeled with a different disease: Jaundice, Shingles, Psoriasis, Proteus Syndrome, Harlequin Ichthyosis. The images on the monitors were digitally manipulated to show what the subjects would look like with their respective afflictions.
At another, a jazz-fusion quintet performed, consisting of piano, tenor sax, trumpet, drums, and a DJ. They changed the mood, tempo, and style of their playing based on the people who walked by. If a couple passed while holding hands, the sax would blow a romantic theme. If a group of teenagers ran by, the drummer would cut loose into a short, frantic solo.
Behind them, three graffiti artists stood on a scaffolding, spray painting a mural influenced by the mood of the music. They sprayed slow, relaxed lines in blues and greens during mellow grooves. When the improvisation sped up or took on irregular syncopation, they switched to orange, red, and yellow hues, waving their arms frantically and haphazardly as they painted in large, bold strokes.
One installation was just a line of six stationary bicycles being ridden by guests wearing metal helmets, earphones, and big clunky video goggles. Seriously.
Another consisted of a row of large wooden confessionals that looked like they'd been ripped straight out of an old gothic cathedral. Inside, guests could kneel down and anonymously confess their deepest secrets into an old-fashioned metal microphone, which, according to the informational placard, fed into high-powered transmitters that broadcasted out to the wilds of space.
I finally came to a stop in front of an installation where two people stood on a platform in front of a row of touch screens, each displaying thumbnails of various video clips. The two operators mixed the images together into a montage, which was projected onto a large screen hanging over them. A nearby speaker stack was blasting Of Montreal's "Id Engager" to provide them inspiration. I whistled at the operator on the left. She looked up at me and smiled. It was Columbine.
She hopped down from the platform, giving someone else the chance to take over. "Hey, I was worried you weren't gonna show."
"Yeah, well, fashionably late and all that."
She hugged me, which caught me a little off-guard. She was dressed a little more traditionally tonight, wearing a pink Care Bears tank top with a black pleated skirt. rainbow-striped tights, and red zebra-print boots. Jenny was right about her – definitely not my type, but cute all the same.
"Is Dylan Maxwell here?" I asked.
"I haven't seen him yet, but don't worry, he'll be here. In the meantime, I have some people to introduce you to."
She hooked her arm around mine and dragged me away to a small chill-out area with plush couches and a stainless steel coffee table, where we joined the goth couple who I had let past me at the door.
"D, this is Ilona and Aldous. Guys, this is the friend I was telling you about earlier," Columbine said by way of introduction.
Ilona was Asian but had dyed her hair platinum blonde, almost translucent. I pegged her to be in her late-forties, probably just out of high school when The Cure first hit the scene, and her face was caked with dark, gothic makeup, and she wore a latex corset and a pair of tight pleather pants. Aldous looked as much as ten years her junior. He was black with a goatee and tight, carefully styled dreadlocks. He wore a long-tailed black velvet coat, a kilt, and colored contacts that gave him pink albino eyes.
"Col mentioned me earlier?" I said while we settled onto one of the couches.
"Yes," Ilona said. "we were looking at one of the art pieces, which was about prostitution. We started talking about the type of man who would visit a prostitute."
Aldous jumped in. "We were speculating whether some men actually need to feel such an overt monetary control over a woman in order to get off. And then Columbine told us the story about how you met."
"Did she? And what exactly did she tell you?" I cast an inquisitive look at Columbine, but she was purposely avoiding my gaze and clearly trying not to laugh. Which I decided didn't bode well for what I was about to hear.
Ilona chimed in helpfully, "About how you two met in a bar and talked to each other for a good half-hour before she realized that you thought she was a hooker. And then about how she played along, just to see what the experience was like,"
"She told you all that?" I kept my eyes on Columbine, who ventured a peek at me out of the corner of her eye while casually moving her hand to hide her irrepressible grin.
"Do you mind if we ask you a few questions about your prostitution habit?" Aldous asked eagerly.
I looked from him to Ilona and finally over to Columbine, who eyed me expectantly. "Of course he doesn't mind," she blurted out from under her hand.
"Feel free," I answered with a shrug, deciding it might be good for a laugh.
"How often do you visit prostitutes, say within a given month?" asked Ilona.
"Anywhere from three times to a dozen, it depends."
"What's the most you've ever paid for sex?" chimed in Aldous.
"Once I spent 10,000€ for a night with three Parisian hookers."
"What's the filthiest sex act you've ever paid for?" Ilona again, this time leaning in more closely.
I cast a sideways glance at her. "A bearded vicar. Look it up. It's vile."
Columbine snorted loudly, then quickly followed with a series of coughs, trying to play it off.
"You know," Aldous said conspiratorially, "Ilona sometimes like to play out prostitution fantasies with me. She dresses up, goes out late at night, walks around the bad part of town for a while, and then I drive up in the car and pretend like I don't know her. We've sometimes talked about letting her play it out for real."
Ilona jumped in, "I want to know what it feels like to be paid for having sex with a man for whom I have absolutely no physical attraction or emotional feelings. I wonder if it would feel dirty or liberating... or perhaps both."
The two of them looked at me expectantly, as if I was supposed to be saying something now. Then the light bulb went on in my head, and I realized what they were getting at.
I turned to check on Columbine, whose eyes were as big as half-dollar coins and was primed to explode into laughter at any second.
Then I turned back to look Aldous square in the eyes, and then over to Ilona. "Absolutely." I handed one of my business cards to Aldous. "Give me a call sometime. That's my cell number on the bottom."
"Janine!" Columbine cried out abruptly as she leaped up from the couch and waved her arms frantically at a woman about twenty yards away. She grabbed me by the arm and yanked me up, exhibiting a surprising strength
for her petite stature.
"Excuse us, we have to say hello to someone," she said quickly through gritted teeth, running the syllables together as if the whole sentence were just one long word, barely able to hold back the torrent of laughter bubbling up from her gut. I held my hand up to the side of my face to mime a phone call with my thumb and pinkie as she dragged me away.
"So what was that all about?" I asked Columbine while she hurried me across the room.
"They're just some old friends I wanted to mess with. You were perfect, by the way. I nearly peed myself."
The woman Columbine had been waving at was a middle-aged college professor-type. The two women hugged each other, and then Columbine launched into introductions.
"You know, it's funny that you two should meet here because Janine's son Tim just started Seminary school, while D just moved back here from Massachusetts after leaving Seminary."
"That is funny," I agreed and nodded my head, curious where she was headed.
Columbine turned to Janine and added, by way of explanation, "D got kicked out when he told them about his decision to move forward with gender reassignment surgery."
Janine looked to me with surprise in her eyes. I just nodded my head in confirmation. "I guess they frown on that sort of thing."
---
Things continued on like this as we circulated through the party and Columbine introduced me to everyone she knew, which seemed like half of all the guests there. I spent the next ninety minutes posing as an award-winning playwright, a drug smuggler, her husband, a CIA "operative" (which I'm pretty sure was implied to mean assassin), and a descendant of deposed Russian aristocracy – depending on what the conversation happened to turn to.
"Everyone lies as these things to make themselves seem more interesting," Columbine said by way of rationalization. "I at least make the effort to come up with good lies."
I have to admit I did enjoy it, in a weird way. I had become impervious to surprise, deftly connecting with whatever curve ball she lobbed my way. Which is why I was all the more taken aback when I heard her introduce me as:
"This is my friend, D. He's a reporter."
I turned to see who she was talking to and instantly recognized him. Dylan Maxwell stood casually with his feet apart and hands buried in his pockets, teeth bared in a huge Cheshire Cat grin. A few errant strands of his chin-length jet black hair hung down in front of his pale blue eyes, giving him a rakish charm. Tall and lithe, he cut a striking figure in his black silk vest and matching tie over a blood red shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his mid-forearm, black slacks, and a pair of red Chucks. The tennies, while clashing with the rest of his outfit, were a kind of signature for him, and he was never without them – or at least that's what it said in all his press materials.
"Pleased to meet you, D. My name's Max," he said, extending his hand.
"I know who you are, Mr. Maxwell," I replied as we shook. He had a surprisingly strong grip that belied his slight build.
"Please, I really do insist you call me Max."
I wasn't usually one to lose my composure around the rich or famous, but when our hands clasped I felt an undeniable electricity emanating from his skin. The loose, laid-back, and brazenly arrogant way he carried himself made him come across as more like a rock star than a corporate exec, as countless others had observed before.
He continued, "That's an interesting name you have."
"It's short for Dedalus, but try going through elementary school introducing yourself as that," I explained.
"I see. Were your parents mythology buffs?"
I shook my head. "My dad had a hard-on for Joyce."
"Ah, of course," he said, tilting his head back. "I should have guessed from your sister's middle name, Jennifer Bloom." I was a little surprised by the mention of my sister, but I reasoned that it made sense for them to know of each other.
Max lifted his hand and casually pointed his index finger at me – not accusingly, but in the easy-going manner of someone accustomed to using his hands while speaking. "I read your article."
I couldn't help but crack a proud smile. "What did you think?"
"Loved it. I laughed so hard that I started crying." He replied with a good-natured smile. "I think it might have been above some people's heads though. I've heard that you've caused a bit of an uproar. But that's the true artist's burden, I suppose, to be unappreciated and misunderstood."
I wasn't sure if he was toying with me or if genuinely thought my article was supposed to be funny, but I decided to take advantage of the topic. "Well a lot of people don't believe your company actually confirmed that the e-mails I cited were real."
"Well, some people have just been around long enough to know you can't believe everything you read in the paper," he answered in a way that was dismissive without seeming like it was, very polite and personal. He gave me a wink, then turned away, clearly feeling he was done with the conversation.
I realized I was going to have to do something stupid to keep his attention. "You know, while we're on the subject, I recently read something funny in the paper myself," I blurted out. "It was a story in yesterday's Morning-Star that said a dead woman was found on the side of Highway 77."
Max stopped in his tracks – casually, not abruptly, keeping his posture relaxed and unconcerned. "I must have missed that one," he said, the practiced evenness of his voice not betraying anything. "What was funny about it?"
"Well, they kept saying she was found in a ditch, but there wasn't anything about how you found her three days earlier in the cabin of your private jet," I ventured in an increasingly adversarial tone. "You'd think that would be the kinda of detail a good reporter would mention."
Max paused, allowing time for that Cheshire Cat grin to creep slowly back into his face. "But that's assuming there are any good reporters left at the Morning Star." He broke out into laughter and slapped his hand against my back like we were old friends. In spite of myself, I cracked a smile. I wasn't sure if I wanted to take this guy out for a beer or punch him in his smug, pretty-boy face.
"Let's get out of here, and I'll show you where the real party is." Max turned to Columbine and continued, "How does that sound, Col? Are you ready to go backstage?"
* * *
7. No One Wants to Toil in Obscurity
Dylan Maxwell (Max to his friends) was the president/CEO/founder/whatever of Abrasax, one of the most successful dot-coms in the world and therefore one of the valley's largest employers and bona fide tax revenue cash-cow. This in turn made him one of the most powerful and influential people in the city. An active political fundraiser, patron of the arts, and venture capitalist – if you wanted to get anything done in this town, at some point you'd find yourself on hands and knees kissing those old red Chuck Taylors.
But all that was really just incidental – the thing that truly defined Max was his rock star mystique. Young, good-looking, charismatic, unconventional, and not afraid to say exactly what's on his mind, he had built up a strange cult of personality around himself that was as much about style as it was about the substance of Abrasax's business.
Anyone who ever wrote about the company said the same thing – Max ruled Abrasax with an iron fist. He personally oversaw everything from user interface and QA to design aesthetic and marketing campaigns. Employees evoked his name in debates like parish priests citing chapter and verse. The question wasn't good-or-bad, right-or-wrong – it was what will Max think?
As we got to know each other, he explained the situation to me like this: "It's not that dissent isn't tolerated. It just simply doesn't exist."
He gave me an example. "Say I pull some new concept out of my ass at the weekly executive meeting, some gem like 'user behavioral metrics' or 'achieving psychosocial harmonization' or whatever nonsense springs to mind. By the end of the day, you'll hear that same phrase echoing the halls throughout the entire campus. Everyone will be parroting it from the lowest mail room intern to the CFO's mistress."
B
ut Max's professional life was only one part of the intricate personal mythology that had built up around him. The tales of excess and debauchery in his personal life were legendary. Max fucked the most beautiful people, ate at the most expensive restaurants, thoroughly trashed the most exclusive hotel rooms, and puked up the most exquisite liquors – all within conspicuous range of the camera's lens. He was like Keith Moon reincarnated with Bill Gates' bankroll in the age of TMZ. Tabloids and local bloggers ate his shtick up, further propagating and embellishing the myth.
Even his back story morphed and evolved to service the myth. The canonical version went like this:
Dylan Maxwell was a native of the city born into a solidly upper middle class family. His mother was an orthodontist, his father an accomplished composer who experimented with electronic music and had scored a few moderately successful films. He showed an interest in computers from an early age, encouraged by his father who was himself quite the technophile and always had the latest equipment for his son to tinker with. By the time Max entered high school he already had a lucrative part-time business designing web sites and software applications for local companies. He quickly expanded this gig to include security consulting by hacking into the sites of several major banks and government agencies, then telling them about it and offering to help them fix the vulnerabilities.
At the age of 16, Max passed the equivalency exam and dropped out of high school. This allowed him to devote himself to his computer work full time. He tried taking a few college courses but lost interest in them quickly. By the time he turned 18, he had turned down multiple offers for jobs and scholarships and instead decided to travel abroad. This was where the official record got hazy.
There were a number of outlandish stories of his two years overseas; talk to a dozen different people who profess to know, truly know Dylan Maxwell, and you'll get a dozen different accounts, each more preposterous than the last. From what I could deduce reading between the lines, he first spent half a year backpacking through Europe, then spent the rest of the time in southeast Asia where he studied for some indeterminate period in a Tibetan monastery.
