All I had to do was push a button to start the engine of my classic Ford Pony. High-performance, super-charged, advanced nitro-acceleration hydrogen engine. A sleek, bright red muscle-vehicle coupe to make the average person gawk and the mouths of the genuine hovercar enthusiast and collector hang open.
I had found the shell in a junkyard over fifteen years ago, when I was in middle school and it took me a few years to build and restore it, spare part by spare part. I had been upgrading it ever since. No one believed that I found and built such an expensive muscle hovercar from scratch, but it was true, and I drove it every day. It was considered a true classic and got me solid offers to part with it almost every week, but you don’t sell a classic Ford Pony; it’s a purchase for life—like a legacy house. My Pony had been featured (without my permission) in so many hovercar magazines that I lost count.
I coasted out of the alleyway without revving the engine. I wanted no more than a purr out of it. If “they” were coming for me, I had to make my getaway quietly. That’s what I did. Not even turning on my car lights, I flew out of the alley, waited for my chance, and drove into the empty sky-lane. I’d stay under the monorail line bridge, as long as I could, to avoid Run-Time’s taxis. Big Brother government had nothing on Run-Time’s civilian surveillance of cabbies throughout the city. They were better than any drone army.
I thought to myself that the refrigerator at home was empty, so I might as well do some grocery shopping. Yes, I had the upcoming Great first dinner with Dot’s folks, which probably was the other contributing factor to my post-birthday blues.
At the time, I had no idea that an operator, named Easy Chair Charlie, who had sold me my semi-illegal, nitro-accelerator for my Pony years ago, got himself killed the night before.
Chapter 7
The Good Kosher Man
I FELT NAKED PARKING my vehicle outside on the regular street without any kind of security. I used a guy from Run-Time’s service, named Flash, so often, some people felt he came with the vehicle. But if I wanted to hide out, then that was the price. And “hide” was a laughable word to use with a bright red hovercar in a city where everyone’s vehicle was gray, black, some shade of blue, or, to be daring, silver. I draped my Pony with the car cover in the trunk and locked it to the car. At least no one would see its shiny red paint from afar.
This was Woodstock Falls, and I gave the street—Graffiti Alley—one more glance in both directions. Despite its name, there wasn’t, and never was, a speck of graffiti anywhere, ever. Woodstock Falls was a safe, working-class, multiethnic, but mostly Jewish, neighborhood. Like similar working-class neighborhoods, residents and business owners fiercely kept the trash—human and otherwise—away. The reason why was simple—the residents didn’t just work here; they lived here. The bottom half of the monolith skyscrapers were the businesses and all above to the top was residential. No hovercar, taxis, or bullet train needed for them. Transportation for them was a simple stroll down the hallway to the elevator capsule.
Graffiti Alley may have had no graffiti, but it should have. It was secluded and dark, and though it was a main street, had the feel of an out-of-the-way back alley, where bad things were supposed to happen. There was never a lot of traffic, and the foot traffic was always sparse. I wondered how the businesses were able to stay afloat financially.
I wondered that about every business, except one. Good Kosher.
The only reason to go to Graffiti Alley was The Good Kosher Market. After all these years, I couldn’t tell you the name of any other business on the street. Good Kosher took up the entire length of the street, and that’s saying a lot, since streets were ginormous in Metropolis. Food came in three categories—processed (practically everything sold on the market), organic (supposedly the “healthier” alternative”), and natural—or, as I would say, “straight from the dirt.” I never shopped anywhere else. I didn’t eat processed and felt the whole “organic” thing was nothing but a scam (by the unholy coupling of government and megacorps) to overcharge people for food. I only ate natural food and Mr. Watts and his five sons had been serving nothing else for more than a century. It was like many generational businesses. I was a devoted customer and member of its select clientele for the last twelve.
Graffiti Alley may have been practically empty, but inside, Good Kosher was packed. I always felt people were teleported into the store by Scotty’s grandson, because my words when entering were always, “Where did all these people come from?”
Inside, it looked like an underground football stadium with neon rows of product. People zipped around on hovercarts of all sizes. In traditional markets, the products came to you. Here, you got your own stuff. Other than the hovercarts, there really wasn’t any machination of any kind, which was rare for any modern store. But it was a “natural” market, so the presence of robots might clash with the store’s image. The sons, however, wore mech-gloves with store inventory displays on the wrist area, and the hand section was telescopic to pull down things from the top shelves, without ever having to get a ladder. The gloves probably had a million other uses, like a Swiss-army knife.
I grabbed a small hovercart near the entrance, sat in the small single seat, and began my spree. The other thing that made the store so popular was precisely because nothing ever changed—fruits and vegetables were on aisle 20, juices and milk products on aisle 15, teas and coffees on aisle 16, meats on 5 and 6, etc. No one needed to ask where anything was, because everyone already knew. Good Kosher was not into anything gimmicky or faddish. Mr. Watts would say, “Nothing gets on my shelves that hasn’t been in the general market and people have been eating for at least a thousand years.” Funny, but true.
“I’m glad to see you continue to eat good food, young man,” he said to me as I leaned on the main counter, opposite him. “More young people need to embrace that. The human body is a machine, and it always needs the best power to be put into it. I’m glad to see your hovercar enthusiasm has shown you the way to live a long life. Good fuel, car lasts forever. Good foods, human body lasts a little less than that.”
I nodded. “My favorite power station for my Pony. Good Kosher for me.”
“I see a question on your tongue. Mr. Cruz.”
Mr. Watts knew me too well. “Is it customary to get a future mother-in-law something? Like flowers?” I asked.
When you were a fixture of a neighborhood for so long, own such a popular business for so long, employ the same workers and cater to the same clientele, it didn’t take long for everyone to feel like you truly were family. Every family had a sage—the wise, ol’ uncle or wise, ol’ grandmother. Mr. Watts was our sage. You did your shopping first, one of his five sons rung up the order at the cash register, and then you spent however long chatting it up with the Good Kosher Man himself.
I didn’t know how old Mr. Watts was, but he had to be in his late fifties at least, but there was nothing old about him. He had a full beard and mustache with the hair graying at the temple and the edges of his beard. Like his sons, the uniform was a khaki jumpsuit with a fully-equipped utility belt, beaded strings around the neck, and a pointed Chinese bamboo hat to protect from the constant exposure of the artificial daylight ceiling lamps, which all its indoor natural plant life depended. The skin techs at Eye Candy, where Dot worked, would be proud. He probably had the rare hats shipped directly from the Southeast Asia territories, back when they were affordable. No rice paddies here, but Good Kosher had its own interior gardens in the back and off-limits to customers, growing a wide variety of roses, tulips, and other flowers. Watts and sons would go back into that room, with its steady rain mist falling, and handpick bouquets for customers. Good Kosher was a secret flower shop too, and no one had better—if you wanted real ones and not synthetic “garbage” that everyone else sold that could survive a nuclear blast.
“Mothers-in-law don’t get flowers, even if you like them. And even if they did, they surely wouldn’t qualify bei
ng a future one. The future doesn’t exist—there is only the present.”
“Are you sure?” I asked, as one of his sons finished ringing up my order and I handed him my cash card. “It’s very important I get on their good side.”
Mr. Watts made a laughing sound. “They? So it’s both the mother and father in-law. I don’t envy you. First dinner?”
“Yeah.”
“Dress nice and arrive before the arrival time. That’s all you can do. Don’t talk unless asked a question, even from the girlfriend. Just look cool.”
I laughed. “I always look cool.”
“Yes, you’re a natural. But remember, they’ll be watching you like a hawk.”
“I’ll be as nervous as spaceman flying through a meteor shower. Well, as long as there are no best practices for a thing like this.”
“Be yourself,” Mr. Watts said. “Don’t think about. You think about it, and you’ll get nervous. Think about something else.”
“Like?”
Mr. Watts stopped and gave me a smirk. “Something appropriate.”
I returned the smirk.
“Think about the next modifications to that inappropriately red hovercar of yours.”
“Inappropriate?”
“I still say that vehicle is a police magnet.”
“I never speed.”
He shot me a look.
“On residential streets,” I added.
Mr. Watts smiled. “What time is your date with the parents-in-law?”
I took out my vest pocket watch and looked at the digital display. He could hear me sigh.
“As I suspected. You’ve been stalling for time. You’re not going to be dressed well and ahead of time if you’re standing here in my store. Exit, stage right, immediately, Mr. Cruz. Assistance with your bags to your vehicle is complimentary.”
He gestured, and two of his sons were standing next to me, grinning.
“But, but I don’t want to go,” I said.
Chapter 8
The Wans
SOMETIMES GOVERNMENT passed a law that so radically changed the societal landscape that no one could remember what it was like before it. The landmark Jarvis Laws created, what was now called, Legacy Housing and did more to make the world we lived in than anything even the Founders did. It democratized the power of home ownership for everybody—like the modern mobile phone altered communication and media forever. Once a mortgage was paid off, it could be passed on to family and descendants forever. The politics and legal battles became which descendants would get it next, but the ancient real estate market disappeared with the dinosaurs and Dodo birds. Housing for the rich, poor, and everyone in-between was essentially free. But nothing ever turned out to be as it was intended in this world.
Elysian Heights was definitely “booshy”—the wealthy, bourgeoisie, upper-class of the down-here. The mega-apartment complexes, triple and quadruple the size of a football stadium, were two hundred-story plus into the sky. Each tower was like its own country, with its own dictatorial semi-autonomous residential government, its own paramilitary security force, and its own pleasure world. The only other place people coveted more was Up-Top.
This is the world my girlfriend, China Doll, came from. However, she worked in the Bohemian zone and was at home with working-class regulars, like me. Few knew she was born and raised in Elysian Heights, and fewer would believe it.
The rain was stinging, which I considered an omen of this “special” day. Visibility was bad, and I drove my Pony up to the main checkpoint entrance to the towers. A six-foot-five, musclebound guard walked to my driver’s window to take my ID card, while a second one watched me from the guard shack—but it was no “shack.” The guard found my name on his clipboard display and handed back my ID card. The massive metal gate began to lower and I watched the signal post off to the side. When it changed from red to green, I drove forward.
The interior streets were huge and empty. They were nothing more than the space between these mega complexes—no people, hovervehicles, or even plant life existed. All life that mattered was in the towers. I drove slowly, never going over the speed limit, and then flew into the open visitor garage for the China Towers. You would never see a sidewalk johnny here.
I felt like a man marching to his execution, as I took the parking elevator capsules up. When buildings are made this massive, elevators are designed more like autonomous, computer-controlled rocket ships. There’s no other way to get up and down fast enough; cables would inevitably snap, no matter how well made. Imagine the sorry, sad-sack “pioneers” in the old days, being aboard an old-style elevator with cables unraveling and breaking when you’re coming down from the 180th floor. Would you scream yourself to death before your elevator car crashed to become one with Terra Firma? I realized that thinking about elevator deaths was probably not the wisest activity while standing on an elevator now passing the 130th floor.
As I shuffled down the hallways that were better suited for vehicle traffic, because they were so wide, I took out my pocket watch. I was 31 minutes early. Now, if that didn’t set me on the right foot with girlfriend and future parents-in-law, then nothing would. I stood at the door and looked at the door knocker in the center and then at the door bell on the side. This must be a psychological test; I was certain of it. Pick the wrong one, and I would be forever tainted in their eyes.
I lifted the door knocker and struck the door twice and rang the doorbell—at the same time!
The door swung open, and there was Dot. I looked at her and she looked at me. She was dressed in a modern blue and white kimono-style dress. I wore my same tan outfit as always, with a white shirt and dark vest, but wore a matching blue and white tie that Dot had bought me and told me to wear, and now I knew why. I guess she figured her parents would say, “Aww, how cute. They even match when they dress.” As if it were that easy to win over the parents-in-law.
I could see she was at war within her own head, whether to be mad at me for hiding or glad that I showed up early.
“Oh, no, was it a lunch date with the parents and I’m late? I mixed it up then. I thought it was a dinner date and came early to impress you.”
She held back a smile, then it appeared, then it turned to a frown. “You are so skating on thin ice, right now. I’ll decide your fate after your performance tonight.”
“As long as the three of you don’t gang up on me. You know how fragile I am around my birthday.”
“I don’t want to hear it. I had an all-points bulletin out on you. Run-Time, and even Phishy and that sidewalk sally psycho in your building looking for you.”
“Dot! Who dat!” A voice rang out in broken English from within the residence.
“Ma!” Dot yelled back, startling me, followed by a string of Chinese.
She pulled me inside and closed the door. It was my first time inside the Wan residence, and my head was already scanning around.
“Shoes at the door and off with the hat,” she said and then continued speaking in Chinese to her parents.
I pulled off the slip-on boots and bent down to set them neatly against the wall near the door. My body seemed to sink an inch into the thick, white carpet. Dot was barefoot, her toenails painted black with a sparkling faux-diamond in the center of each toe. I noticed it was the same with her fingernails. How do women do that?
I hated to take off my hat. It either stayed on or it stayed off. I was not into switching back-and-forth. “I’ll just keep it with me,” I said to her, holding it in my left hand.
“Just don’t set it on the dinner table.”
“I’ll throw it on this nice, fluffy carpet of yours.”
“Let’s meet my Ma and Dad.”
Everything about the place was palatial—the hallway, the living room, and kitchen.
Dot was actually the spitting image of her father, only female. Mr. Wan was dressed in an almost glowing white shirt, with what looked to be various animals embroidered around the collar an
d the sleeves. Mrs. Wan was in black pants, but was wearing a beautiful electric blue top. She was shorter than Dot, with shoulder length hair.
I noticed immediately that they were smiling before they looked at me and were not smiling now as they watched me.
“These are my parents.”
The only Chinese I knew, courtesy of my vehicle computer, was how to say “hello.” I did so, twice—“NÃn hÇŽo”—but, no response from the parents.
“My parents don’t speak English, but they are very happy to meet you,” Dot said.
That was a nice trick. She was translating for them when they weren’t even talking. My girlfriend was in the wrong industry. Surely, telepathic translation could be a lucrative occupation.
“Oh, it’s okay,” I said. “My parents don’t speak much English either.” A lie.
This was going to be a long night, I thought, as I smiled again at them. They were completely emotionless, watching me.
“Cruz, you’ll sit here.” Dot took me by the hand and seated me in one of the ivory chairs at a fairly large square dining table.
She left me alone and returned to the kitchen with her parents. I reflexively jumped in my seat as an explosion of non-English yelling erupted from the kitchen. Now, I was glad I didn’t speak Chinese. It sounded like the parents were letting her have it, but she was dishing it back at them. I’ve heard some pretty vicious shouting matches, including in my own Puerto Rican family, but as it continued, there were times I sincerely wondered if a call to the police might be warranted. It was brutal, and then it stopped.
Dot appeared, smiling, with a set of dishes, and her parents appeared, not smiling, with more dishes of food.
“My parents are so excited that we all finally get to meet,” Dot said.
I sat quietly and smiled.
The Wans set the dishes on the table. Plates were passed around as they took their seats and then the utensils.
Liquid Cool Page 5
