by Travis Borne
“Well, is he in?” Jodi asked, as Jon closed the door with a slow click.
“He said he’d catch up with us. But—”
“What, Jon?”
“He doesn’t look well, Jodi. He looks—”
“Is he sick?”
“He looks like death,” Jon replied sadly. “I think he has been working constantly for several months now. And when I say constantly, I mean—” Unable to finish his sentence, he took in a breath and slowly blew it out, puffing his cheeks.
“Well, hope he makes it. Maybe he’ll be okay if he can peel himself away for a while.”
“Hope so, Jodi.” He looked at the door again. “I hope so.”
At 4:44 p.m. Rab awoke, a mere twenty-one minutes after Jon’s visit. He felt revamped and refreshed, but after getting a look at himself in the mirror decided to set the wake timer for another three hours. He folded his phone after setting it, then fell back onto the Insta.
Delta.
The extra sleep left him feeling a little groggy, but not in a bad way. He thought of Saturday mornings when he used to sleep in. Then cartoons. He remembered Radar sniffing his face. And his mom—stop it, Rab, don’t let it go there. He repulsed the bad thoughts, sending them back into the darkness.
Good thoughts, it’s going to be a good night, just what I need. Jon is right. He felt disoriented, but well, as though some wires had been plucked and reconnected correctly. But he knew he was messed up, hellaciously overworked. He’d had dreams early on but forgot them all, and the rest, it must have been pure delta, reparative, just what he needed. It’d been months since he’d gotten more than even thirty minutes of continuous sleep.
He prepared for the night, dressing in a casual set of duds: a long-sleeved black-as-night button shirt and pair of unworn forest-green cargo shorts. He buttoned the shirt higher than usual, shaved, then splashed on a tad of Alpine Rush perfume. Not too bad, he thought, noticing the bags under his eyes had deflated. He turned his face in the mirror. A little extra sleep does magic. He felt better, quite a bit better than he’d felt in a long while.
Then it called him.
Creaking, the door opened a little and he peered into the lab. His empty chair. It was quiet inside except for the faint hum of the machines, all still processing at peak. Like a blanket, the hum was ten layers of comfort, and upon him fell tremendous guilt for leaving. It tugged at his shirt and pants; he could see it pulling him—and he opened the door a little wider.
Stay, you have to finish this. Don’t you dare fucking leave! Don’t even think about it. You motherfu—
“Fuck it,” he said and slammed the door. The voices were silenced instantly. It had been so long, too long. He pulled his jet-black hair back, catching the bangs with a red bandanna and walked decisively with power in his steps, then pulled down his dark sunglasses and stomped the spiral stairs to the roof.
Red, his pilot, was waiting in the heli-jet atop the bar. Rab climbed up. He felt like a new man and jumped into the passenger seat.
“Cut your beard off, Red! Hardly recognized you!”
“Thanks, Rab! Lost a bet with Maggie,” Red replied loudly, over the sound of the engine revving up. “Still heading to Tijuana?”
“Yes sir. Let’s do it!”
26. Club Subterranean
He slid the bandanna off and stepped inside as the long bangs of his jet-black hair fell forward. He was a vampire, especially under the black lights. Leaving on his dark shades, Rab descended into the cave. Club Subterranean, second block on the Tijuana strip. The filth on the muddy-brown rock walls, measles of gum, and vomit stains were cloaked by gratifying darkness. And the presence of partygoers whipped the air into a perfume stew. Old-school techno jams, shouts and orgasmic screams, animated the dead hole. Reverberating bass from the six aging eighteen-inch woofers housed at the base of the stage droned within the walls of the tunnel, louder and more pounding as he continued deeper. He could feel the old carpet through his shoes as if it was talking to him. With a nostalgic grin he slyly exited the entrance shaft and pocketed his shades, then unbuttoned the top button of his shirt and tugged upward on his collar. His eye bags were gone and he felt at ease. Listo, ahhh... He stood there for a moment, taking it in, remembering.
It was early yet but the cavern was filling, smiles were the cheapest thing on the planet, and flashing lights and punching vibes stirred the soup of flesh and euphoria. Two Asian girls thought they commanded the stage, apparently too young to hold the few beers they’d sucked, already acting crazy and fondling each other. Below, a few prurient college fellows excitedly cheered them on.
He navigated deeper into the tiered hollows, beneath the private overlooks, passing through laser beams and fog as if it was a war zone, around the dance-floor’s edge, and then ascended the far side to the top. Surrounded by a good deal of glass wall, the secondary bar area was a quieter place to talk, where conversations could be had without blowing a lung.
He took a stance at the bar. Rab scanned for Jon or anyone else he might identify from, the old days. He recognized one waiter yet guessed it had been too long to try and reconcile any past adventures—although the memories were flowing. Damn, this is nice, he thought, really, really feeling it. Jon was damn right. A minute later a hand touched his shoulder from behind; it was Jon.
“Rab. Really glad you made it, man,” Jon said and handed him a beer. Vibes killed them both in the best way possible and they stood shoulder to shoulder. They were the same height but had Mars-Earth disparate styles. Jon wore like-new blue jeans topped with an extra-wide dark leather belt. Unveiled by his open tan-leather jacket was a grey wide-neck shirt, thickly textured with vertical grooves; it coalesced well onto his fit shape. His mega-thick hair probably won a barbershop challenge. It was short on the sides, evenly brown and tall at the top, accented by a face of quintessential stubble.
He ought to travel the world, Rab thought, looking him up and down from the corner of his eye; as a model, or an actor, rather than coding from nine to five. Noticing how classically good Jon looked when he tried, he remembered how they both always had exceptional luck with the women.
Jon had better luck with his looks alone, but Rab effortlessly domineered with his unique cool. It was obvious Jon had a balanced life and got around to exercise, something Rab’s schedule as of late, indeed lacked: nearing the end of the project, pushing it, the last sliver of balance was nearing limbo in a bottomless pit; it was an all-out dash for the finish line.
“Looking good, Jon,” Rab said, “and yes, I gotta say, as nasty as this place is—” Reluctant to solidify any favorable words to the end of his sentence, he looked around at the swelling crowd. With a stoned-like smile he nodded in appreciation of the present moment.
“True,” Jon replied, “but we sure had some good times in this old hole, didn’t we?”
“So, anyone from the old crew still venture down here?”
“Well, Matt surely doesn’t come anymore—” They both turned to see the Asian girls get hauled away by bouncers; lipstick was smeared from foreheads to breasts and they were reaching for each other like babies. “—His wife has him on 24-hour lockdown, a jealous one she turned out to be. Funny huh, considering she met him here and you and I both know—” They both nodded once with a grin. “—And Alan, that crazy acid-tripping daredevil, long story there. Ended up breaking his neck, but he’s finally walking again. He received a set of implants—courtesy of our rivals. But you know, times change, people move on.”
“Right about that, they sure do,” Rab said, catching Jon’s inference about the projects they’d abandoned. “Jon, you know we would’ve outrun them with the coding for those neural implants, and you know I had to cancel. This project we’re working on—it’s going to…” He shook his head side to side. “Well, we’ll talk more about that later.”
“I had almost a year in that project, Rab—just to toss it all the sudden…”
Rab didn’t respond. His gaze found three beauties dancing
in a circle; the skinny one facing his direction looked up at him.
“But you’re right,” Jon continued after a long pause and a swig. “This is the big one. Hey, I’m hanging with a few friends over there.” He aimed his beer to a booth near the end of the huge glass partition overlooking most of the club and the dance floor below.
Jodi waved, surprising Rab by her presence. Two others, Rab didn’t recognize, were sitting at the table, having some drinks. The man in the red plaid flannel sitting outside the booth on a chair—Rab pictured him with a blue ox and an ax, then put fingers into his brain and flicked the vision away.
“And Rab, Jodi’s with me. We’ve been dating for a while now, and, I think—well, I really like her.”
“That’s great, Jon,” Rab said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Cheers.” He held up his beer for a congratulatory toast. They tapped their bottles and took a drink.
“Come on, let’s head over.”
“Hi, Rab,” Jodi said with cave-illuminating enthusiasm.
“Jodi, hey. Nice to see you here, and together with my best friend. He’s a good man. In fact, if everyone was like him no one would ever lose their cell again. He returns at least one per night when we hit the clubs together.”
“Aha, I see…” She tilted her head, sending a smile up to Jon who just rolled his eyes. The word was out and her white Idaho skin couldn’t hide even the smallest degree of blushing. But she was happy Rab had made it, yet couldn’t help but feel it was a bit awkward: her boss, finally outside, knowing he had to sneak around to make it happen, a multi-millionaire in a raunchy Tijuana club. Cool, she thought. And she couldn’t put a finger on it but he did bring an unearthly cool to the table. He was relaxed and chill, and although he looked thinner compared to when he’d first hired her, it was a pretty damn good change in comparison to his usual self: the ghost in the lab, the coding madman who never slept.
“Rab, Jerry.” Jon introduced the Goliath with a motion of his beer. “We met about—what was it, six months ago, Jerry? Jerry owns the adult store.” Rab’s expression manifested an aha moment. Jerry stood halfway up—if he’d stood up any more his head would’ve hit a stalactite—and he reached to shake. Rab realized his tucked-in shirt wasn’t actually flannel material, more seemly and lustrous. Must have been the lighting, he thought, but it sure fit his initial thought: Paul Bunyan. Jerry was clean shaven with curly brown hair managed as well as curly hair could be managed. His jaw looked like it could take a punch from a locomotive. And his muscle was naturally dispersed as if he really was a lumberjack, or someone who had experienced every type of hard labor known to man then said: Bring it on, that’s all you got? To say the man was immense would be an understatement. Tight faded jeans wrapped his tree-trunk legs and the lumberjack likely owned the largest dark-brown leather boots one could special order.
“The man himself. A pleasure and nice to finally meet ya,” Jerry said, with a smile and a heavy southern accent. “Heard a lot of good things about you.” They shook. Rab was flabbergasted at the size of his mitts.
“Ah—right, you own Titan’s Pleasurables down the street. Thanks for the great stuff, man. And that harness, damn.” Rab nearly whispered his last sentence. But all heard. Jodi spit out a half swig of beer mid swallow.
“Right there. Dauntless,” Jon declared, lifting his beer then placing an arm around him. “Told you guys, he’s cool. My bro.”
“You’re one of my best customers,” Jerry said. “I thank you, sir.”
Rab thought it odd because he’d only ordered a few items for the girls Jon had brought up. He figured it was just friendly chat, and replied, “No sirs here. Just call me Rab.” And Jerry acknowledged by tipping his beer, then replanted himself into the planet. His metal chair buckled and disappeared from sight. “Dauntless, Jon? Blunt maybe, so I’ve been told. I like to skip nonsense, speak straightforward and to the point. But as you know, my mouth has gotten me into trouble a few times.”
“Has it ever,” Jon joked. “And Rab, this is Leti, we just met. She doesn’t speak English very well.”
Leti had long, wavy black hair, tinted orange near the tips, perfectly redrawn eyebrows, and a tight red dress that forced her small breasts upward, enhancing her compressed, hourglass figure. Her legs sported crisscrossing black straps that disappeared into the pleasure zone. To Rab she looked typical, molten hot like many of the smokin’ girls he’d met in the clubs down south: they’d desperately waited all week for the weekend, there was no past or present, and nothing else mattered except getting every detail perfect. She had her manicured, petite hand on Jerry’s right tree trunk. Rab’s thoughts wandered. He couldn’t help but guess: her original brows might just look better, many times the case. What if they grew in and made two sets? Bah, humans. But he reveled in his madness and in his mind let her clothes disappear.
“Hola, mucho gusto.” She arched her back, leaning forward, exposing the cut, smiling big, and looked him square in the eyes.
A pro, feeding the instincts of those in her presence. Rab shook her hand with a worthy glance—not a man in the world would neglect that view—then scooted into the booth after Jon snuggled next to Jodi. He got a feeling about Leti: she wanted him to take her hand and kiss it, then her lips, then drag her across the table, then escort her into the bathroom, then home. He mentally shook his head to clear the wandering imagery.
“So, how’d you get so fucking big?” Rab asked, as he looked up, trying to see the head atop the tower sitting only ten inches away. They all laughed, including Jerry himself. Jodi nearly burped up beer. And the conversation began with a friendly open vibe; apparent from the start, they were in good company. Then, holding up a bucket of beers, a waiter gestured from across the bar; Jerry sprung like a dehydrated horse and motioned him over.
“Hola, Jon,” the waiter greeted, noticing him right off the bat. Jon returned the greeting with a wave. It was the same old: a bucket of green—probably watered down—bottled beers, but there were also a couple of clear ones. Rab recognized the short waiter instantly.
“Julian!” Rab said. And the waiter recognized him as well, eyes wide, leaning back to get a better look.
“Raahb eres tu! Paso mucho tiempo! Donde andabas? Como estas, compa?” Rab stood up and they man-hugged briefly. The waiter was wearing tall shoes but still very short; Rab had to hunch.
“Been good. Bien, Julian. Y tu?” Rab replied.
“Yo he visto a Jon unas veces, y supe que ivas a regressar. Pues quieren algo ustedes?”
“Si Julian. Let’s go with cinco shots de whiskey, cinco slammers para las mujeres, and cinco de tequila. Anything else, guys, Leti?” All were fine at the moment with what he was ordering and declined to add anything.
“Es todo, Gracias, Julian,” Rab replied. He knew Julian would hook him up; he’d always been good to him. And Julian headed jovially toward the bar; this time Rab hooked him up, with a huge tip.
Everyone grabbed a beer from the metal pail except Leti; Jerry handed her one of the clear bottles, attempting to read the label as he did so.
“Here’s the, Mod—elo. A model for a model,” he said. They laughed hearing him struggle to read the Spanish label, and attempt a joke with it. “Ah, forget it.” He laughed at himself too.
“Hablas español?” Leti asked Rab. Her eyes had widened upon hearing him speak Spanish.
“Muy poquito,” Rab replied, showing closely pinched fingers, and she took an innocent sip. Rab grinned. He knew how it worked. By night’s end sips would be chugs and inhibitions would take a hike. Their eyes met again and a tease of a smile escaped her shiny luscious bright-red lips. One bucket turned to two, two to four. Jerry vaporized the beer.
Rab caught himself staring across the table at Leti. Really, he wasn’t attracted to her, at least not on an intellectual level. He didn’t want to be, yet felt her sensuous presence prime his instincts. He was smart enough, and lucid enough, to see himself objectively: it was the draw, magnified by his current state of imb
alance, fault of a ludicrous schedule; like the primitive survival instincts of a bear, reactivating after a long winter of hibernation.
“So, Rab,” Jerry said. “I gotta say it—since you like it blunt. Jon says you’re some kind of genius. Read about ya in the news too.” Rab turned to Jon with a sort of pissed-off look, although he wasn’t. Jon shrugged.
“How’d you come up with some of that stuff anyway?” Jerry continued, his alcohol barely kicking in. “Like the InstaRest. Genius, man. I have one actually. And the software for the phones, too. They say you’re some kind of prodigy. I read an article a few weeks ago that called you a freak of nature.”
“I don’t follow that shit, Jerry. None of it,” Rab said; with tamed impatience his eyebrows angled. Quickly he shrugged it off, returning to a relaxed state of pre-intoxication. “I don’t even watch TV. I simply work and do what I like to do. They can exaggerate whatever they want, true or false, baiting people for the next hot story. An utter waste of time if you ask me.” He looked around at the club as the talk went quiet following his reply. But Jerry wholeheartedly and obviously agreed with Rab and took a big swig. The stage was nearly full now, mostly women; a few dudes were making fools of themselves on the side steps.
The buzz massaged his head, a feeling he’d almost forgot. Two beers and a whiskey shot later, Rab felt composed, back on planet Earth; with a deaf ear to news gossip and small-minded chatter, he felt like spilling some serious guts. Jerry was a bit of a blurter but he could relate, and he couldn’t seem to help it; he liked the guy. And in that moment, looking at the gigantic man, he decided something—something for later. And then, he spilled it…
