With and Without Class

by David Fleming

  “During dreamtime your brain is defenseless,” the blonde explained, arching her back and wiggling for no discernable reason. “The interruption of dreams upsets brain electrochemistry, causing paranoia.”

  “Judging from our records and your recent purchases of,” the redhead glitched, “various alcoholic refreshment, you may have already purchased Spam Helmet Forty-Four and… got drunk. Forgot to put it on. If this is true, always wear Forty-Four at night. If your helmet is broken or our records are incorrect, buy Forty-Four.”

  “Buy Forty-Four!” the blonde exclaimed.

  “And vote April Texas for Barcelle Pyramid Sheriff!” the redhead demanded. “Approved by the NIA. May complicate neurological conditions.”

  “Certain parts of our conversation will be hazy,” the redhead explained.

  “She’s right,” the blonde agreed. “Hazy.”

  “You’ll recall the message but what we said will be forgotten.”

  They both bounced their bodies up and down on their wet noodles in the greasy beef broth and said in unison, “Later Skater!”

  He opened his eyes and sat up in bed. His alarm read 11:30 and his disconnected mental state warned of an impending hangover. He peered over the bed at his Spam Helmet with his deep voice croaking, “Why?” Why couldn’t he remember to wear it? Being drunk was no excuse. “They spammed me.” He reached back, rubbing the vertical scar on the back of his head.

  The disks were implanted at age fifteen into the Superior sagittal sinus. Spamming dreams was illegal but the temptation for small companies was great and satellite networks could relay signals to anyone sleeping without a filtering helmet.

  Alex walked from his bed to the bathroom, pulling off his boxer shorts as his slit eyes found the console of his shower gateway. He selected ‘Quick Clean,’ passed through and turned the bathroom faucet on, washing grime out of his ears. His eyes remained on the mirror as he turned to remove grime streaks from his back. He leaned on the sink, wondering what thoughts were his. One thing was certain: April Texas was the best Sheriff Barcelle Pyramid had ever had. Without her, the Pyramid would surely fall into the ocean. Or would it? Who was April Texas?

  Regardless, it seemed without her the Gaia environmentalists would find a way to switch off the anti gravity, sending the Pyramid plummeting into the dead Pacific and hurricanes. They’d kill everyone, thinking the Earth could heal and spawn something better than man.

  Gaia environmentalists… ? Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to buy another Spam Helmet. If he had two, he’d be less likely to forget. They’d definitely spammed him with something called something Amnesia. Brainwashing or no, it was useful. His love for the beauty of his written words was the only thing stopping him from publication. He hated his unshakable arrogance. His father had been arrogant, his grandfather also. But if he could forget he was the author of what he critiqued… Maybe it was fate he forgot to wear his helmet. There probably wasn’t anyone more qualified to edit his novella, Surprise Ending, than him.

  *

  The elevator pulled Alex into the base of his dwelling and he walked up a spiral staircase to the second floor. A train whizzed just above his ceiling, streaking diagonally along its curvy transport tube. Alex thought, Lenny, polarize the shell by twenty percent.

  Polarization enabled, twenty percent, Lenny telepathed into Alex’s head.

  The forest green wall faded into translucence, revealing trains shooting through their intertwined transparent tubes. If he was going to hear them, he might as well see them also.

  Alex enjoyed his Egg at first before three of the seven noise cancellation speakers broke, ushering in the whiz of the trains. Eggs were expensive and remote but the view and stylish interior seemed perfect for a writer.

  He had recently learned the futility of trying to bring a girl back after a night of drinking and dancing at Club Discothèque. It was a laborious walk and climb around the tubes to the entrance of his egg. “Where are you taking me?” Marlene, with the nice backside had said.

  “To my Egg.”

  “Your what? There’s no dwelling up here. Something’s not right.” She turned and walked away.

  “Hey,” Alex staggered, catching himself, “Haven’t you heard of Eggs. They’re spacious. They’re quiet. Be smart, go Egg! Live like royalty in your vast…”

  He’d need a girl to trust him before he could get one to come back. He’d need a girlfriend. First trust, then sex. He might need to be famous too; he wasn’t sure what it would take.

  Alex set the plastic bag on his kitchenette counter, looking at it before drawing out Fast Amnesia. The plastic box worked in conjunction with his quarter. This was what he needed. He’d be famous. The feeling of purpose had always welled from the center of his being; it was fate.

  Alex didn’t think he could trust the sellers at the market. They had tried to confuse him and he apologized to customers for taking so long.

  It might be better, however, to wait until it could be registered. It needed NIA approval. The whole process could take years. He held it in his hands and looked at the lightning bolt red lettering of ‘Fast Amnesia.’

  Lenny, bring me the bubble, AA6, Alex thought.

  Dispatched, Lenny telepathed.

  Alex looked around. “Bubble AA6.” He waited. “BUBBLE AA6!” A white sphere flew toward him, hovering above and out of his reach. The sphere vibrated and gyrated as he eyed it. It darted toward and back. “Hey!”

  It bounced and rattled.

  “Return.” Alex glared, walking backward. He turned and it flew toward him as he ran around a corner into his kitchenette. “Return!” He looked and cursed, “DAMNIT!” The sphere bounced off his head as he arched his back, catching himself on the countertop before it ricocheted off a cabinet to the floor. He rubbed his head and winced at it resting quietly before separating its hemispheres and retrieving the devices inside.

  Fast Corp. had made safe products in the past. He had used these two recently with no side effects. They looked identical to Fast Amnesia, only differing in the red lightning lettering of ‘Fast Anesthetics’ and ‘Fast Singer’s Voice.’

  Alex wrote on a Post-It note:

  Alex,

  Recognize your own handwriting, Stupid. You wrote this novella, Surprise Ending, then used Fast Amnesia to forget you wrote it. It’s the only way to know if you’re any good. Read it, edit it, now!

  Alex pulled the Post-It from the pad and grabbed Fast Amnesia, walking to the yolk room. His feet sunk as they crossed onto the stretchy, indigo shag. He paced to a random spot, falling back into an oversized chair-shaped mound forming from the shag. His feet rose to rest on a growing coffee table as the indigo fibers retracted beneath the darkening surface.

  Alex, Lenny telepathed, want a neck massage?

  Lenny, no thanks. Bring me the bubble, Surprise Ending. Alex raised his forearm across his forehead but the sphere appeared quietly, this time.

  He removed the seventy-four-page manuscript and stuck the Post-It to the title page.

  Lenny, perform a scan. Find start date and time of the computer file, Surprise Ending.

  Alex folded the title page into a triangle, bringing the Post-It into prominent view. He positioned the manuscript on the table, close to him, then held Fast Amnesia behind his head. Removing the protective casing from a corner revealed a speaker and a microphone. “Fast Amnesia, are you paying attention?”

  It buzzed in his hand, “Fast Amnesia here, with OODLES of fantastic possibilities for your explore—new capabilities surely in store. The first thing you’ll want to do is—”

  “Shut-up,” Alex said.

  “OK boss.”

  “Fast Amnesia set reference to current year. Delete temporary, May 10th, 3:30 AM through May 21st, 4:15 PM.”

  “You said, delete—”

  “Do it,” Alex demanded. Fast Amnesia buzzed and he felt as if he was sweating inside of a thick blanket and he counted the throbbing in his brain before he momentarily misplaced
his understanding of the concept of numbers and multiplication while still realizing the purpose of the table and the paper.

  He leaned forward, setting Fast Amnesia in his lap. It seemed like it had worked. He hadn’t expected the throbbing. It must have worked. He couldn’t sit there all day. He needed to start writing something. Something longer. Maybe a novella. Something blatantly good that no editor could question. Something with a surprise ending! Alex leaned toward the Post-It and the triangle-shaped paper.

  He’d never written fiction that long. He glanced over some paragraphs. It tried to be exciting but it was cliché, forced. It lacked his insight, his smoothness. But the note was in his handwriting. He had purchased Fast Amnesia today. Fast Amnesia helped people forget things. He didn’t remember writing this novella. But the note was in his handwriting. He must have written it.

  Alex set the manuscript on the table and stood.

  Outside the translucent wall, a train snaked through its twisting tube.

  He paced. Something wasn’t right. He was a great writer. He was going to be rich and famous and have a dwelling on the lower edge of the pyramid so he could see the swirling Pacific and the mainland. He was going to vacation at California Island and attend expeditions to the Smog Ruins.

  The familiarity of the story bothered him. At the end, the hero said, “Here’s seeing your face one last time, Carry.” Who did this guy think he was—some Twentieth Century movie hero? Alex walked to the table, snatched the manuscript and turned to page seventy-two.

  It wasn’t exactly the same. However, main elements corresponded: the wartime setting, the idea of destiny, two men in love with the same woman and the woman leaving the hero on an airplane.

  He stormed to a bronze statue of a couple embracing, pulling it from its float zone and weighing it in his hand. Too heavy. He darted to a pair of athletic shoes on the shag and flung a shoe, “IT’S CASABLANCA!” The shoe bounced off the translucent-green wall.

  Disabled, Noise Cancellation Unit Seven, Lenny telepathed.

  “What?” The whizzing of trains increased. “How?”

  He grabbed his manuscript off the table, tearing it into pieces, cramming it down the garbage disposal. He rushed to snatch-up Fast Amnesia. He could erase the memory of ever writing it.

  “Fast Amnesia, delete permanent, May 10th, 3:30 AM through present.”

  “Uh… boss, did you say—”

  “Yes.”

  “Delete permanent, eleven full days?”

  “Yes, do it.”

  “OK, boss. Fast Amnesia here… oodles…”—it buzzed in monotones, overlaid with static: “Error 305… Please return to OEM indicated by…”

  Alex felt cold. Something within his skull tugged his eyes inward, attacking the small things like Uncle Stanley’s gruff voice, the blistering sunburn, blue cake frosting and kissing those feminine lips—the Pacific breeze, the rapture of his first time. Years of experience. Memories slipped as he shivered.

  “Input registry code to reset,” Fast Amnesia requested of him.

  His shoulders and knees shook as his stomach muscles cramped and he dropped to his knees.

  “Input registry code.”

  Fast Amnesia fell from his hand with the fire burning and ricocheting inside his skull. He rubbed his hands across his sweaty forehead as the intruder reached deeper, making his surroundings confusing, foreign. Alex felt younger—like some punk thirteen-year-old kid. “Fast Amnesia… STOP!” He collapsed.

  *

  “Alex Stevens?” a tall man called from the entryway. “Alex, in accordance with Bio Information Act Thirty-Seven we’re entering your premise. Your implant quarter has sent a distress message indicating your health is in jeopardy.”

  A medic and a nurse followed behind the tall man into his Egg and they noticed the torn manuscript pages around the rim of his running, garbage disposal. Bubbles which had been stuffed hastily with ink-scribbled manuscript pages, had been smashed all over his kitchenette’s floor and snow-angel indentations had been left all over the indigo shag of his yolk room. Alex lay on the shag, between snow angels.

  “Are you guys from Warner Bros?” Alex asked.

  The tall man leaned over him, “Can you tell me where you are?”

  Alex blinked. “My new story—it’s still on the hard drive.”

  A bored female nurse switched on her pad and accessed Alex’s quarter. “He used Fast Amnesia. The technology’s shoddy. But his vitals are good.”

  A short medic turned off the garbage disposal, “Fast Corp. even knows it can’t erase what a person wants to forget most. That type of memory is buried too deep. I’ve seen this type of thing happening more and more. The brain rebels against Fast Amnesia’s attack and it just makes whatever that person was trying to block-out worse.”

  “Alex?” the tall man kneeled, touching his shoulder. “Can you hear me?”

  Alex grinned. “Did you say you were from Warner Bros?”

  “Warner Bros?” the female nurse asked. “What’s that?”

  Alex tried to get up on his shoulders but he was dizzy. “…a film studio.”

  “A film studio?” she asked. “What’s that?”

  The medic picked up a crushed bubble and picked a manuscript out from the rounded shards. “It looks like he wrote a bunch of stuff, then he crossed out his titles.” He bent forward to read. “He crossed out his title on this one and wrote: ‘The Time Machine…arrives thirty years later’.” He fished out another manuscript. “Moby Dick… with planes.” “Pride and Prejudice… with cockroaches.” “These words don’t make sense in this order. Do you think it could be schizophrenia? Word salad or something?”

  “I finished it.” Alex’s face cringed. “Someday… it’ll be a classic. I’m a writer.”

  “I can’t believe this,” the tall man looked down. “Kid, nobody reads. Everything’s been written.” He looked to the woman, “What’s this kid do?”

  “Listed as: Weld Robot Monitor.”

  He squeezed his shoulder, “Kid, listen to me. A welder’s a good trade.” He leaned in closer, “It’s a good trade; you don’t have to be anything more than that!”

  “Did you say you were the… Warner Brothers?”

  “He’s delirious,” the medic said. “I’m preparing a sedative.”

  “I wrote it. It’s mine.” Alex seemed to admire an invisible beauty floating behind the man, “I call it—I call it… Casablanca!”

  Daughter Thieves

  Their black coupe hovered inches above the ancient highway. Verch pierced through traffic as slim cars, sailing through currents of air, stretched and flashed back into the past. Their car buzzed on, burning fuel. He jerked the handle-wheel to cross lanes alongside a snake truck. The amber bellies of truck platforms flickered, bouncing cargos of nested drums.

  Murphy reclined in the passenger seat.

  Laura felt his glare through the rearview mirror, crawling over her legs and her skirt. She sunk back into the leather cushions and glanced out at the sky, so lavender and huge and then the teal windows of high-rises began peeking over the edge of the highway’s concrete side barrier. She parted her hair out from in front of her face and closed her eyes, resting against the window.

  “It looks like an electric razor?” Murphy squeezed the rubber handle, projecting red crosshairs on the dashboard. “It’s not working.”

  Verch took it from him and punched a few buttons. “Here.” He handed it back. “I’m User One—you’re User Two. It didn’t recognize your face so it couldn’t track your pupils.”

  Murphy held the pistol and the crosshairs obeyed his eye movements, dancing over the dashboard and the windshield. “Everywhere I look,” he exclaimed. “Damn!”

  “Careful, that thing could incinerate this car.” Verch pulled the wheel left.

  Streetlight glared off a truck’s airfoil, reflecting onto Verch’s platinum watch while Murphy’s chain tattoos on his wrists seemed to blend into the r
osebush embroidery of his faded t-shirt.

  “Hey, why do you think she ran away?” Murphy asked.

  Laura caught Verch’s glance through the rearview.

  “Remember when we found her at the train station?” Verch asked. “I got her to smile when I asked if she’d ever had champagne. I saw her chipped tooth and her swollen lip. Her dad hit her—so she left. It doesn’t matter. That can be fixed. She’s got class—innocence. I’ll get double the usual credit from Jason’s connect guy.”

  “You can’t know all that from a tooth.”

  “How about it honey,” Verch said. “Your daddy smack you around a little?”

  “Yes.” She turned to the window. They hadn’t just mentioned the champagne at the station. They said she looked hungry and that they were going to a party in LA with live music and food. They said she was beautiful.

  She didn’t care. She was dizzy. Everything was more and more like a dream. Wherever she was going, she hoped there would be food. Then she could think straight. Then she could figure out what she did wrong and how to set things right with her father.

  “Hey, Verch.” Murphy turned to gaze at Laura. “Do you think we could take some time for—for, you know—ourselves, before we get to LA?”

  “We’re just making a delivery. No complications.”

  “What I’m saying is—”

  “Murphy, no offense, but I can’t talk to you when you’re not high. Take yourself a hit, Murphy.”

  Murphy pulled the pressure gun out of his bag, “How is this gonna help you talk to me?”

  “Take a hit,” Verch said, “Take a hit Murphy.”

  “Fine,” he rolled his shirtsleeve up to his shoulder and injected himself, “Ah! Damn. It burns… I’m punchin’ through in flames.”

  Verch grinned and slapped him on his shoulder, “But you’re taller than your dreams, right?” He laughed and threw his head back. The car shivered from speed as he switched lanes and ripped open his shirt. “Give me the pressure gun.”

  “What? You can’t drive on this stuff.”