"Welcome to the Chuckles Cantina! The coat check is over there, and I will find you a table while you're taking care of that. Smoking or Non?" The hostess giggled, for some reason Jack couldn't quite fathom. Perhaps it was required.
"Non-smoking, please." Jack smoked on occasion, but the man he was looking for didn't smoke, so non-smoking made more sense. After shucking off all of his cold-weather gear, he was led deeper into the restaurant.
Jack did not pay much attention to the menu, he ordered a cheeseburger. These days, of course, it wasn't really a cheeseburger, but it looked similar and almost tasted the same, and it wasn't like better restaurants had better stuff, they just cooked it differently.
"Been working here long?" He was working on the waitress, priming her, really.
"Yeah, it's a good job. Good hours, decent pay when you folks tip like you're supposed to. No real grab-asses to worry about like my last gig."
"Don't fret about the tip, I've got one for the pool and maybe a little extra just for you."
"You do, huh? That's awfully pleasant of you." Suspicion crept into her eyes.
"Don't worry, it's just a question or two. I'm trying to track down a friend of mine."
"A friend, huh? Seems to me a friend would have told you where he went. But go ahead, what's your friend look like?"
"It would have been two days ago, around eighteen-hundred. He's about a hundred-sixty cents tall, weighs maybe sixty keys or so. Green eyes, dark hair. I have an sketch of him if you want me to show you."
"Your friend, would he have been alone?"
"I'm not entirely sure, actually. He lives around here, and I know he made it as far as the Mouth on his way home from work. Sometimes he stops off for food, sometimes not."
"Show me the sketch, it was a kind of busy night."
Jack took out his notebook and flipped back a few pages. He was a pretty fair artist, and had drawn this picture with the help of the person who had hired him. He saw recognition in the eyes of the waitress.
"Yeah, I remember your friend and his associates. Not much in the way of tippers, I'd say."
Associates? Jack slid a twenty across the table. "Remember anything else?"
"Well, the other guys, they had tattoos, matching ones. Some kind of bird on their forearms."
This was probably the worst thing she could have said to Jack. "Some kind of bird? Would you say it could have been a raven? Black bird, mean-looking?"
"Yeah, that's it. Big mean looking black bird."
"One last question, were the tattoos on the guys' left arms or right?"
"Umm, right, I think. One of them signed the check, and I think he was right handed."
"Thanks a lot. You might have just saved my friend's life."
Jack's quarry, it seems, was involved with Followers. This was going to get tricky.
NEXT
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Pretty: Avocation
As long as Jack was awake, he decided, he might as well get some work done. He wasn't sure of the time; like many people since the coming of the Cold, he did not own a clock of any sort anymore, it was just not worth it. If he was awake, as far as he was concerned, he could work on his cases. He did not have all that many cases, but the ones he had he took seriously. They represented people who desperately needed help from someone, anyone. People who could not go through the usual channels to get help, they were too shady for the authorities to help and not shady enough to get help from the underworld.
He did not have the same kind of resources that the authorities or the gangs might have had, but it was surprising how much progress you could make toward helping people just by walking around, paying attention, and asking the right people the right questions. The Infomancers, of course, had a much easier time with it all, they could find out what you had for breakfast, or when was the last time you took a leak, all without leaving their plush, warm estates. Then again, they had to make a lot of sacrifices to be able to do that, so they deserved it, or at least they said that they deserved the luxury.
Jack bundled up as best as he could before stepping out into the cold, dark city. One reason he could afford his rent was that his building was somewhat far from the Tubes, so he got a lot more outdoor time than he really wanted. At least that way he knew anyone who showed up at his office really needed the help.
The entrance to the Tube was surrounded by a ring of commuter condominiums and their attendant commercial zone. Jack pulled out a notebook and checked his list. He had already been to four of the eateries near the Tube, there were two left. Without the notebook, it would be hard to remember which ones he had been to and which he had not. His memory was not what it used to be, and these restaurants were all the same, perky waitstaff and tchochkes, meant to reassure those eating there that their experience would be exactly the same as it would have been at any other restaurant near any other Tube.
Next
He did not have the same kind of resources that the authorities or the gangs might have had, but it was surprising how much progress you could make toward helping people just by walking around, paying attention, and asking the right people the right questions. The Infomancers, of course, had a much easier time with it all, they could find out what you had for breakfast, or when was the last time you took a leak, all without leaving their plush, warm estates. Then again, they had to make a lot of sacrifices to be able to do that, so they deserved it, or at least they said that they deserved the luxury.
Jack bundled up as best as he could before stepping out into the cold, dark city. One reason he could afford his rent was that his building was somewhat far from the Tubes, so he got a lot more outdoor time than he really wanted. At least that way he knew anyone who showed up at his office really needed the help.
The entrance to the Tube was surrounded by a ring of commuter condominiums and their attendant commercial zone. Jack pulled out a notebook and checked his list. He had already been to four of the eateries near the Tube, there were two left. Without the notebook, it would be hard to remember which ones he had been to and which he had not. His memory was not what it used to be, and these restaurants were all the same, perky waitstaff and tchochkes, meant to reassure those eating there that their experience would be exactly the same as it would have been at any other restaurant near any other Tube.
Next
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
Pretty: Anamnesis
Instead of a window, there was a band of tiles running around the room, at about chest height. The tiles had been painted in a way that led to a series of intricate, overlapping patterns. Leah would stare at the tiles, slowly shifting her focus so one set of squares would leap into the foreground, then another, then tighten in on a single tile, and release out to a pattern of diamonds or triangles or even larger hexagons. She could do that for hours, which was just as well, since she didn't have much else to do. At least the room was warm.
The room lacked not only a window, but a door as well. Whenever she had to leave, the Doctor would fetch her. She never went out on her own, until now she had never even thought about leaving, but something about the way the Doctor looked at her during their last session made Leah want to work out how she could get out on her own. Next time, she promised herself, next time she would pay enough attention to her comings and goings so she could re-create the doorway that must be there in order for her go to her sessions. She would try very hard to remember.
Next
The room lacked not only a window, but a door as well. Whenever she had to leave, the Doctor would fetch her. She never went out on her own, until now she had never even thought about leaving, but something about the way the Doctor looked at her during their last session made Leah want to work out how she could get out on her own. Next time, she promised herself, next time she would pay enough attention to her comings and goings so she could re-create the doorway that must be there in order for her go to her sessions. She would try very hard to remember.
Next
Thursday, July 06, 2006
Pretty: Groggy
Jack woke up because a red light was shining in his eyes. Sitting up blearily, he took stock of his surroundings. He was in his office, sitting behind his desk. He had fallen asleep earlier, face down on his desk. He probably had a crease from where his cheek had laid on a pen.
It took Jack a minute or so to remember the red light, but there it was. He looked at it again. The red light on his desk meant that he either had a package or a visitor down at the front door. Jack poked the little light on his desk, extinguishing it, and stood. He walked over to the sink and mirror that took up one corner of his office. Washed his face, combed back his hair, rinsed the yuck out of his mouth. Sometimes it felt like he needed to shave the fuzz off of his tongue.
Down the rickety stairs two flights to the lobby. The front door, of course, was thick, opaque, and heavily insulated, but long ago someone had installed a peep-hole in it. The building management decided not to fix it, probably because it was useful, given the building's clientele, to be able to see who was outside before opening the door. Jack didn't bother with looking; he undid the latches and bars that held the door shut, and swung it wide open, admitting a blast of cold air.
Nobody was there anymore, but there was a small brown package on the doorstep, clearly labeled with his name. He took the package and went inside. As soon as the door was again closed and dogged, the building started to warm back up. Management might not be diligent about keeping the place looking good, but they kept the heaters running.
At one point in his life, Jack would have subjected such a suspicious and unexpected package to a thorough scrutiny before opening it. He had made enough enemies to warrant it and enough money to afford all the latest in explosive and incendiary detection. Not anymore. Nevertheless, Jack delicately opened the package, trying to keep his face from what he imagined would be the direct blast if someone had finally tracked him down and decided he had not yet suffered enough.
The package was empty.
Next
It took Jack a minute or so to remember the red light, but there it was. He looked at it again. The red light on his desk meant that he either had a package or a visitor down at the front door. Jack poked the little light on his desk, extinguishing it, and stood. He walked over to the sink and mirror that took up one corner of his office. Washed his face, combed back his hair, rinsed the yuck out of his mouth. Sometimes it felt like he needed to shave the fuzz off of his tongue.
Down the rickety stairs two flights to the lobby. The front door, of course, was thick, opaque, and heavily insulated, but long ago someone had installed a peep-hole in it. The building management decided not to fix it, probably because it was useful, given the building's clientele, to be able to see who was outside before opening the door. Jack didn't bother with looking; he undid the latches and bars that held the door shut, and swung it wide open, admitting a blast of cold air.
Nobody was there anymore, but there was a small brown package on the doorstep, clearly labeled with his name. He took the package and went inside. As soon as the door was again closed and dogged, the building started to warm back up. Management might not be diligent about keeping the place looking good, but they kept the heaters running.
At one point in his life, Jack would have subjected such a suspicious and unexpected package to a thorough scrutiny before opening it. He had made enough enemies to warrant it and enough money to afford all the latest in explosive and incendiary detection. Not anymore. Nevertheless, Jack delicately opened the package, trying to keep his face from what he imagined would be the direct blast if someone had finally tracked him down and decided he had not yet suffered enough.
The package was empty.
Next
Monday, July 03, 2006
Guidelines
Just in case you didn't notice, I put a link in the sidebar over there that goes to a web page that lists all the pretty entries in story order, and each entry has a link to the next one. That might come in handy if you find yourself trying to read a few entries in a row, since they go from the bottom to the top. Maybe if I could figure out how to make the page upside down. Hmm.
Pretty: Fringe
Leah sighed. "Can I see your pen for just a second?"
The doctor made another note. "No, I need it right now. Maybe later, after you've told me about your shawl. What color was it, and did it have a fringe?"
"The shawl was yellow. It had a row of tassels around the bottom, each approximately one inch long, and all of the tassels were light brown. The whole thing was pastel-shaded, not bright at all, and as I said, it was not my color, but I was cold."
The Doctor-who-wouldn't-share-his-pen made another note. "Okay, today I'm going to skip the rest of the dream." For an instant, his eyes changed. Normally, even though they had a somewhat antagonistic relationship with respect to her dreams, Leah liked the Doctor. He had a kind of secret smile that he did not let touch his lips, but his eyes would show it. But now, the Doctor's eyes showed no hint of a smile; they were dead and hard, and they reached out and took hold of Leah's perceptual focus. She could not look away from his eyes. "Today I want to ask you one question, and then I will let you look at my pen. Today, my question is: Where did you go last night?"
Next
The doctor made another note. "No, I need it right now. Maybe later, after you've told me about your shawl. What color was it, and did it have a fringe?"
"The shawl was yellow. It had a row of tassels around the bottom, each approximately one inch long, and all of the tassels were light brown. The whole thing was pastel-shaded, not bright at all, and as I said, it was not my color, but I was cold."
The Doctor-who-wouldn't-share-his-pen made another note. "Okay, today I'm going to skip the rest of the dream." For an instant, his eyes changed. Normally, even though they had a somewhat antagonistic relationship with respect to her dreams, Leah liked the Doctor. He had a kind of secret smile that he did not let touch his lips, but his eyes would show it. But now, the Doctor's eyes showed no hint of a smile; they were dead and hard, and they reached out and took hold of Leah's perceptual focus. She could not look away from his eyes. "Today I want to ask you one question, and then I will let you look at my pen. Today, my question is: Where did you go last night?"
Next
Sunday, July 02, 2006
Pretty: Dream
"At any rate", the Doctor-with-a-penchant-for-stealing-pens continued, "we were talking about your dreams. You were going to tell me what you dreamed about last night."
Leah had always had vivid dreams. In fact, it was not until after she reached puberty that she was told that there was a line between waking and sleep, and the things that happened in dreams were not actually real things, but fancies made by the random firings of neurons at rest. She never truly believed that.
"I dreamed that I was in a palace. No, not exactly a palace, but a large place. Hallways twenty feet wide, marble flooring. Paintings on the walls, ceilings recessed so far that you have to squint to see them, and frescoed to look like the sky. I look up, and feel like I might fall into the ceiling, indoor spaces shouldn't be that large. It is very cold, my breath condensing in front of me. I shiver and pull my shawl around me."
The Doctor interrupts, "A shawl?"
"Yes, a shawl. It is made of a thin fabric, not much help at all, actually. Perhaps a thin wool? Maybe linen. I'm not entirely sure, but I do know that it is yellow. Not my color, but my arms are goosebumpy, so I pull it tighter around me, kind of hug myself for warmth."
"Did the shawl have a fringe?" This was the kind of trick they liked to play. They ask you for extraneous details, seeing if you can remember them, or perhaps if you change your story upon repeated tellings. Leah didn't understand what motivated the Doctor to ask her these questions, she could never tell what he would be interested in. Why did he focus in on the shawl, but not ask about the paintings in her dream? Those paintings were fascinating; she could have spent hours staring at them if she weren't so cold.
Next
Leah had always had vivid dreams. In fact, it was not until after she reached puberty that she was told that there was a line between waking and sleep, and the things that happened in dreams were not actually real things, but fancies made by the random firings of neurons at rest. She never truly believed that.
"I dreamed that I was in a palace. No, not exactly a palace, but a large place. Hallways twenty feet wide, marble flooring. Paintings on the walls, ceilings recessed so far that you have to squint to see them, and frescoed to look like the sky. I look up, and feel like I might fall into the ceiling, indoor spaces shouldn't be that large. It is very cold, my breath condensing in front of me. I shiver and pull my shawl around me."
The Doctor interrupts, "A shawl?"
"Yes, a shawl. It is made of a thin fabric, not much help at all, actually. Perhaps a thin wool? Maybe linen. I'm not entirely sure, but I do know that it is yellow. Not my color, but my arms are goosebumpy, so I pull it tighter around me, kind of hug myself for warmth."
"Did the shawl have a fringe?" This was the kind of trick they liked to play. They ask you for extraneous details, seeing if you can remember them, or perhaps if you change your story upon repeated tellings. Leah didn't understand what motivated the Doctor to ask her these questions, she could never tell what he would be interested in. Why did he focus in on the shawl, but not ask about the paintings in her dream? Those paintings were fascinating; she could have spent hours staring at them if she weren't so cold.
Next
Friday, June 30, 2006
Pretty: Names
Click. Click. Click-click. The Doctor had one of those cheap retractable ballpoint pens that usually have some kind of advertisement printed on the side. Maybe he stole it from a store clerk, or after signing for delivery. Pens like that want to be stolen, so they can spread their message around. At any rate, he was somewhat fidgety. Her eyes narrowed as she looked at the pen. One click would toggle the pen into writing mode, and another click would toggle it off. It would have to be a fairly simple mechanism that made it work, otherwise people would worry more when someone walked off with their five-dollar, hand machined pen. Definitely a spring in there, the ball point was retracting up into the pen body, defying gravity. She had a few ideas about how the pen might work, but just by looking, there was no way to tell for sure. Perhaps if she could get it away, take it apart.
"Leah."
The Doctor was talking to her. That was what everyone called her, Leah. She did not really think of it as her name, but it made interactions easier, giving people a word with indexicality, to have something people can wrap their mind around. Much easier that way than thinking or saying, "That woman, with shoulder-length red hair and a heart-shaped, freckle-dusted face, who seems to always become hyper-focused on the smallest details", and so on.
"Leah, are you here now?"
"Yes, yes. I am here, sitting right in front of you. Can you see me? Perhaps you could loan me your pen while you make other observations as regards my existence?"
"It just seemed as if, your physical self notwithstanding, it seemed as if your mind was miles away." He made a brief note on his clipboard. Probably something like, Subject exhibits a sense of humor grounded in sarcasm and literal interpretations. Notes like that never have names, just numbers at the top of the page that get tied to other numbers in an arcane filing system. The observation protocol explicitly requires the observed to be referred to as "Subject". Something to do with privacy, but Leah thought it could be an indication that the problem she had with names was more widespread than a unique little feature of her own mind.
Next
"Leah."
The Doctor was talking to her. That was what everyone called her, Leah. She did not really think of it as her name, but it made interactions easier, giving people a word with indexicality, to have something people can wrap their mind around. Much easier that way than thinking or saying, "That woman, with shoulder-length red hair and a heart-shaped, freckle-dusted face, who seems to always become hyper-focused on the smallest details", and so on.
"Leah, are you here now?"
"Yes, yes. I am here, sitting right in front of you. Can you see me? Perhaps you could loan me your pen while you make other observations as regards my existence?"
"It just seemed as if, your physical self notwithstanding, it seemed as if your mind was miles away." He made a brief note on his clipboard. Probably something like, Subject exhibits a sense of humor grounded in sarcasm and literal interpretations. Notes like that never have names, just numbers at the top of the page that get tied to other numbers in an arcane filing system. The observation protocol explicitly requires the observed to be referred to as "Subject". Something to do with privacy, but Leah thought it could be an indication that the problem she had with names was more widespread than a unique little feature of her own mind.
Next
Pacing
Things change. Times change. This place has become stagnant. It has become stagnant in part because I have found new and exciting outlets for my creativity. So, time for a new thing.
I'm embarrassed to say, but I have been trying to write a book. I think trying might be an overstatement. Anyway, from here on up, I'm going to try and serialize stuff from the storyline I'm working on. It could be that it sucks. It is likely that I will have to change things. But it will be fun.
The working title for the book is "Pretty". So, future posts will be something like "Pretty: Word". I'm going to keep the word theme going as long as I can. Posts without the "Pretty" tag will be normal posts that don't fit in the story (for the time being at least). The posts are also going to be roughly chronological, but it is actually hard to write a book in one sequence beginning to end, so there might be chronological jumping issues. Hold on!
I'm embarrassed to say, but I have been trying to write a book. I think trying might be an overstatement. Anyway, from here on up, I'm going to try and serialize stuff from the storyline I'm working on. It could be that it sucks. It is likely that I will have to change things. But it will be fun.
The working title for the book is "Pretty". So, future posts will be something like "Pretty: Word". I'm going to keep the word theme going as long as I can. Posts without the "Pretty" tag will be normal posts that don't fit in the story (for the time being at least). The posts are also going to be roughly chronological, but it is actually hard to write a book in one sequence beginning to end, so there might be chronological jumping issues. Hold on!
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Limbo
We're sorry, all of our customer service representatives are busy right now. Your call is important to us. Enjoy our music while you continue to hold.
Yes ma'am, enjoying your music indeed.
Yes ma'am, enjoying your music indeed.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
