Magic Eight Ball
A Die in the Dye
1
Bailey took the delivery inside and opened the minimalist packaging: black box, single off-center blue circle on the cover, small disclaimer sticker on the back. She had ordered it online the night before from the country’s sole phone distributor. She’d gone through so many phones now she’d lost count. The last one didn’t survive being flown into a wall.
This phone was light years ahead of its competition, all the reviews she liked said the same thing. So much so that the definition of “competition” had been rewritten to mean something resembling “generation”. It came equipped with enough tech spec whatnots to fuel the new critically acclaimed lifestyle assistant AI, ME-B. Its roll-out ushered in revolutionary innovation, unmatched efficiency gains and quality of life improvements in every aspect of the real world, but was promoted most vociferously as a dating guru.
A “Gatekeeper to Bliss” one rogue review called it. ME-B integration gave the love-struck expert handheld guidance guaranteed to make a big splash in the dating pool. Simultaneously consolidating all online dating services to play nice with ME-B promised early birds priority selection in the world’s largest, safest, most sophisticated watering hole. Because mingling was now out of the hands of human error, ME-B was the most moral matchmaker ever constructed. This promised land of milk and honey was hardly code for amazing sex, if not full blown love. The look-alike talk show hosts all hyped as much.
The old way of dating had been inefficient, frustrating, isolating and maddening; sales and attention were at all time lows, while mental illness and loneliness grew leaps and bounds. Public relations had intensified their prophetic doomscrolling alienation as their trains of thought got in line. Adherents to a rules-based global community were instructed, suggested, or otherwise compelled to maintain pristine virtues and unsullied thoughts. However, ME-B’s development required more time than expected. For too long failure to secure a future had been blamed on the end user. The stalled starvation created too many leaks in the otherwise continuous messaging. The premature attempt to ban rival applications exposed too many sheep to other flocks.
This phone fixed all that. Gone were the days of obsessively manning remote personas. Gone were the days of mounting insecurity the more one swiped away. Gone were the days of photo-bombing the happiness of others. The ME-B controlled dating feature did all the profile setup/maintenance automatically. It used all the data from one’s online permanent record to fasten together a real self. A radical new concept called “Spontaneity” bombarded air waves, live streams and restroom stalls all across advanced society. As long as Bailey kept an online presence – phone on and on her person at all times – ME-B did all the heavy lifting of managing, coordinating, facilitating, advising, consoling and synchronizing her dating life. In real time. To trust ME-B was to trust oneself. So much power at such an affordable price, too!
Plus, not fiddling with one’s online self “promotes mental wellness and fosters honesty.” She didn’t get the honesty bit. Apparently, honesty was evaluated based on averages; having vulnerable or embarrassing artifacts of oneself online actually increased the chance of attracting someone more compatible.
Bailey finished her cold coffee. She felt good about herself. She had spent the morning setting up her phone, and ME-B finally initialized. King was howling and scratching at the front door. She lifted the hems of her pajamas and slid her slippers on. Yes, today was going to be a good day. A better day. That new phone freshness promised a bright future. ME-B was already empowering her to feel safe, enabling security she could snuggle with and structure she could conform to. She checked herself in the bathroom mirror before letting her pug out for relief.
“Look out King!” a man walking a large container down his apartment steps prodded his boot at the dog’s butt, “Scoot King!” “Oh, hi Jack!” Bailey looked up from her phone. “That looks heavy,” she said, propping the door back open. “Thanks, damn thing keeps closing on me,” Jack smiled as he set his stuff down just outside.
“I was hoping to catch you before I took off,” Jack wiped the sweat from his brow using his fisherman’s cap, “I’ve got two hours before the walk-out inspection and just one other tote to pack. Would you like to go for a walk with me?” Jack had asked both her and her boyfriend, Richard, to join him before, even invited them up for dinner a few times. He figured one last attempt couldn’t hurt. “That’s okay, we’re getting ready to go out,” Bailey countered without batting an eye.
She was more evasive than usual. He rarely saw her outside her military fatigues. He liked how she looked him in the eyes whenever they spoke. Because she barely looked his way today, he knew her mind was preoccupied.
“Hey, it’s none of my business, but is everything alright between you and Rich?” the last time he had seen Rich was maybe two months ago. It didn’t occur to Jack that Rich had moved out until after he bumped into Bailey yesterday leaving with a man he didn’t recognize. “I didn’t put two and two together fast enough when I teased you yesterday. How’d the date go?” Jack pet King as he rolled on the stoop. She dove behind the less painful path, “Rich and I broke up two months ago.” She was hesitant, on the verge of walking back inside.
Jack was nimble, quick, but had priorities at the moment. “We moved into these apartments around the same time, I’m guessing you’ll move out soon too, huh?” “End of the month,” Bailey sighed. “Have you found a place yet?” Jack kept her eyes on his. “Not yet,” Bailey halfheartedly laughed. Jack was well aware that this complex demanded a two month move-out notice. “I want to branch out, you know? Probably move back to Helena. Maybe get the schooling for my license,” she said through forced optimism.
“The only affordable place I could find was a two bedroom not far from here. I don’t have a lot of time, so I’ll be blunt,” Jack wore his charm raw, his exhaustion was palpable, “I can use a roommate.” With practiced reflexes she readied her phone and asked for his contact info. Instead of her usual feigned interest, this time she checked ME-B. She used both thumbs to spin her guide for help, when it only took one. Maybe two was more convincing, but she needed both hands to keep herself steady. “I’m not good with the phone. I’d get rid of it if I didn’t need it for work,” he said and then dejectedly told her his phone number, “I usually just keep it powered off in another room.”
ME-B had simplified symbols in case a prospect wasn’t appropriate, for the woman who needed a quick-fix glance; the surfaced symbol was a solid cautionary yellow. “I’ll have to think about it. I’ll call you,” she said. She had met two other men through the old dating apps and texted maybe a dozen others. This was the first man who came at her with honesty. “Would you like to talk for a bit?” Jack’s hopes had narrowed to getting just a conversation with her. Bailey sat on the stoop steps, then so did Jack. “Talk to me Bailey,” Jack proffered, rubbing King’s belly.
She wanted him to approach from proper channels, give her the time and space to maneuver her options, to be able to reject anyone without them getting the chance to talk to her hand. She wanted him obedient to the current culture’s courting rituals which consisted of him tracking her down online, stalking her habits, deciphering her put-ons and conforming to her exacting one-way telepathy without complaint. She wanted him to be a creep – inch by inch on his knees toward her or as a label to cover her insecurity.
At least, that’s what she was conditioned to want. Her only exception would be someone capable of completely sweeping her off her feet. However, she didn’t know Jack’s social media stats, let alone last name. None of the pictures she tried to sneak of him fed online search results.
She stared ahead a while and said, “We both realized it wasn’t working. I mean, we’ve broken up before.” She glanced at Jack, “It was amicable.” “I had no idea you two had difficulties,” he hadn’t sensed anything wrong between them. They hid it well. There was no yelling, no slammed doors, no storming out like he was used to, nor open-air sniping or hanging of laundry. No trigger-happy threats to kill oneself to be let back in.
Only one crack had shown. He had bumped into Rich, alone, coming back from his brother’s wedding a few months ago. Jack was stepping out for a cigarette. Rich didn’t say much. He didn’t have to. It was on his face and brisk pace. All he said after his standard nicety and announcing where he’d been was, “I don’t drink. I had a good time without it.” To which the increasingly aware and taken aback Jack replied, “Alright, well, it’s about enjoying each other’s company, right?” before finishing past each other with a wave.
“I just want…” she moved one hand from the head she cradled and let it hang palm up in front of her, as if waiting for an answer to touch down, “I just want to branch out, you know?” Two months was the longest stretch she’d been without someone. She liked serving her country but could always return to Rich. Jack had been branching out for two years.
“So why did you break it off?” Jack couldn’t help but soar toward the heart of any issue. “He didn’t like going out much,” Bailey removed her other hand, folded them on her knees and looked up. It was a beautiful day, not a cloud in the sky. “He’s such a hermit.” “And straitlaced?” Jack jest lightly and looked up too. “You have no idea. He used to like to go out. A lot.”
Bailey suddenly looked at Jack, “Did you know he has two kids?” She raised her eyebrows, darting her head forward slightly, “From two different women?” Jack wanted to ask if Bailey wanted kids, but that question hadn’t been answered without hostility for quite some time now. “I thought those were his brother’s kids,” he offered a sympathetic head bob, “He visited quite a bit, huh?” Bailey stretched the knees under her grip and veered off course, “I had to talk with his exes all the time.”
Jack let the conversation hang for a bit. Then said, “Yeah, it can be stressful handling relationships.” He slowed again, desperate for someone to talk to. “Those two with me yesterday were my folks. I haven’t seen them in years.” His parents had left him with the knowledge that his little brother had assaulted them in a mental haze. He had given them the best advice he could and told them if his brother continued to not get help he should be compelled to or thrown out on his own. She thumbed ME-B and spoke its script, “Sounds like you need someone to talk to.” Jack looked down, then back up. He had heard that line too many times now, unwarranted.
He had let himself detour, but got back on track. He asked, “How are you doing right now?” She looked away and then back his direction, “It was amicable.” “If it was amicable,” he hesitated, searching for the words he felt instead of the words she wanted to hear, “I think that’s worse, isn’t?” She didn’t answer. Didn’t flinch either.
“Do you know what codependency is, Bailey?” Jack was feeling her out, old school. “That’s what I want!” she insisted softly, “I want a partnership. A union. Someone to share my life with.” Bailey rejoined his eye contact.
From what she knew of him, he was a few inches over six foot; she was a few under. He was sweating, sleeves rolled up. Broad-shouldered, natural farmer’s tan. Barely toned body with the hint of a gut. Decent beard. Handsome, with his hat sopping like that. Four years older than herself, tops. He had a nice car and could obviously live independently by the way he carried himself. On paper and dressed nicely, he’d be two, maybe three months from perfect.
“Where did you say you were from again?” she put her elbow on her knee and cupped her sideways head with open palm until it slid to her ponytail. “A tiny little town maybe a thousand miles from here.” Jack tilted his head too, as if to let her know it was okay to ask, “Ruskin.” He stalled. She hovered. King couldn’t be happier under Jack’s motions.
Everything about him screamed grounded burnout but he was far from that. He was a hopeless romantic who couldn’t help but listen to his heart read aloud people’s emotions. He couldn’t live with himself without giving this echo a voice, couldn’t live with another without her sharing his momentum. He created his own worth, but fate would have him grasp its tangible value in others. He had become convinced by experience that substantive relationships began with chance and developed with chemistry. If he wasn’t so forward, so honest, he might have been more delicate, more tactful… but then, how would he surface those qualities in another?
“I know you’ve been with the National Guard coming up on nine years now and toured in Afghanistan. I know you’re close to your mother. I know you grew up in the Crow tribe,” he jet past her; honesty tends to speak over one’s head. “I know you’re interested in aviation. I know you haven’t quit vaping yet. I know you like black licorice. I know…” Jack kept going. She was visibly alarmed. He read her mind, it was right there on her face, “I know this because you told me, remember?”
This sexual paranoia, or whatever insecurity or immaturity this really was, was getting to be too much. Jack had had to ease his approach with too many women now. He began to doubt that this pupfight could be playful, began gauging when this pursuit would tailspin. He wondered why he tried so often when living alone had grown on him; wondered why he was drawn to particular challenges. He had family on both sides who served in the military going back at least two generations. Probably more, but he had good reason to distrust his family history. He was from the family contingent conscripted to fix the damage their failed wars had caused. “I know you could probably kick my ass,” he smiled. “I know you sometimes break wind when you laugh,” he goosed her without moving a muscle. For the thrill of it. Her laugh was short lived, not at all riveting, “No I don’t.”
A slight breeze drift between them on into the multiplex, cooling Jack’s sweat stains. It really was a beautiful day. “Sometimes I think all we do is for another person,” Bailey said quietly, after some silence. She was absentmindedly twirling her ponytail with one finger. Jack perked up, a sudden draft lifting him, “You don’t need external validation.” He hoped she’d see his wisdom reflected, but immediately regretted not expressing his admiration for her, at least her aim; regretted not telling her how attractive he found her. The wind settled and silence returned. “God is watching over us,” Bailey said, throwing him for a loop.
Jack abruptly took the dialogue for a turn, “Are you religious, Bailey?” She ran her fingers through Stygian waters then draped the flow over one shoulder, “More like spiritual.” He waited before commenting. King nipped at her yin-yang adorned slippers, the black and white infecting each other without any shades of gray. “Weird, I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately. Thinking, God’s not up there or out there,” Jack points to the sky, the horizon, and his head, “or even up here.” Then to his chest, “But in here.” Bailey nodded her head, astute. “Call it instinct, the unconscious, subconscious. Maybe spirit, force or will,” Jack concluded. King was panting hard through his wrinkly mug. “Intuition,” Bailey added. He extended his hand toward her for emphasis, “There you go.” He enjoyed the notion as he took it in, content, “God is ultimately unknowable. Ain’t that something?”
“Have you heard of the song River of Deceit? Layne Staley of Alice in Chains and his Mad Season?” Bailey shook her head. Jack sang just a quip and not terribly, “My pain, is self-chosen. At least, so the prophet says,” for the briefest moment, Bailey ceased being his sole audience so he could deliver her this message, “I could either burn or cut off my pride and buy some time. A head full of lies is the weight tied to my waist.” Jack braced for her reaction. Any reaction. Then said “It’s a beautiful song.” Bailey looked up from her phone, “I’ll have to check them out.”
An uncomfortable few seconds crawled by after his performance. The void was breached by a helicopter both had spotted before they heard its approach. “Is that a Lakota?” Jack struggled, “No, what are the tandem-” “Chinook,” Bailey said plainly, recording it with her phone, “probably en route to the hospital.” Silence trailed after its passing. He observed her manipulating what she captured.
“I believe these phones steal souls,” he told the Native American, “I’ve never been on social media-” Bailey tensed. Her coaching taught her to see that as a red flag. She couldn’t help but feel that he was contaminating her somehow. ME-B’s blinking red circle with slanted slash confirmed her fear. Jack realized his without knowing the details – Spontaneity black-and-blue balls mavericks.
Bailey flipped her ejection seat release. She stood, turned and stepped into the building. “Thank you for the talk,” she whispered before descending the steps to her place. King followed suit. She wished the landing lights had been repaired.
She was incurious, a trait he couldn’t play out like he could conformity or promiscuity. Had she not been down – he could see it through her forced expressions, hear it in what she chose to admit, omit and remit – he would have pressed her harder, would have been more playfully forgiving. He just wished she would acknowledge his pain, too, as he continued to expose his underbelly.
“Listen, Bailey?” Jack cast a shadow over her through the doorway, “I’ve treated you with the respect I have sought from you. If I wanted to ask you out, I’d ask. It’s unfair of you to expect me to engage in your addiction,” he points at the phone she clutched to her chest. “I refuse to engage you anymore until you engage me. I’m doing what most guys wouldn’t dare. I’m leveling with you.”
“I do not have a drinking problem!” Bailey had spun to fully face him from her landing, “I’m a free and empowered woman! How dare you make me feel bad about who I am and who I like!” Bailey whisper-yelled at Jack. He leaned against the doorway, arms crossed and shook his lowered head. It’s not something he wanted to do at that moment, but he was worn out and honest. There was no way she could see his exhausted disappointment over the condemnation she intuited from him; the sun was now in her eyes. “Don’t you shake your head at me!” she refused to let her whisper grow, even though the two of them were the only tenants left in the building. King put his paw on her calf. “What’s my number, Bailey?”
A kind of hypersonic penetration shattered her domed worldview. He winced from the truth positively radiating from her face.
2
…The die has many sides, faces. A polyhedron without its edge, its definition. A blob pressured into a polished sphere. Not tangible. Virtual. A floating point signifier. A well-rounded abstraction, pure and simple. The panoptic vampire squid fed on and bred in petty differences, smearing any independence that surfaced and dragging back those who might flee its monoculture. It is the crying wolf in scapegoat’s clothing dyed in a flagellant’s multi-armed camouflage. Its omnipotent omniscience – myopically cyclopean. It wades just below the surface, calculating its propagation, perpetually circling the shallow. Its latest trick is to blow bubbles that implode into single celled liminal selves…
Bailey was nervous. Frustrated. She hadn’t scored in almost a year. Since being taken under ME-B’s wing, she had encountered only bottom of the barrel feeders. All red X-ers. Her first physical date in months was fast approaching. She got a head start on her prep rituals, staring herself down in her mother’s mirror. The television had been left on in the other room, so she raised the volume of her phone. She streamed non-stop borderline beauty blips, dating demos, influencer infomercials, gaslit grifting, celebrity clout chasing, mindless meditations, one-sided non-confrontational debates, late night show televangelists, schizo-positive ramblings, compelled joyinars, historical revisions and dignified porn. All with commercials in between. She experienced these programs to keep her defensiveness sharp, in case she had to fight resistance to her pleasures.
“We don’t need men, do we ladies!” her phone cheered. The Vantage was playing now, an all-inclusive prime-time on-demand mainstream news broadcast dedicated to “fair” and BALANCED spats of real opinions spoken by real women. “We’re not going back!” one of the many hosts chirped again. “We’re not going back, are we Professor?” she pitched underhanded to their frequent guest, a spokeswoman for Gaggle, the world’s most lucrative non-physical non-governmental non-profit non-business. The porn marketing exec turned dating app anti-disinformation coach turned ME-B University Chairwoman turned entrepreneurial national public radio CEO spun her tethers with the sharp-dressed exactness of a professional bounty hunter and spoke with a fluctuating British accent, “We most certainly will not!”
…I told you. Can’t trust ‘em. The first black X, the first woman Y, the first Z to be so young. They fetishize firsts. Was the first black president too busy spying on his successor to finally deliver on his day one promise to codify abortion rights nationally? His party had enough control to do so, but wanted to keep the girls dancing for another election. What is a woman, anyway? Faggots, each and every one. Dead egg dead weight. Oversensitive sheltered cry bullies capable of nothing but virtue-signaling zealotry. That’s why my wife homeschools my children. These nobodies ignore their local community to protect groups they’re not members of. I’m a proud Catholic. I believe in right and wrong, good and evil. Antisemitism is the only hate I recognize and I see it everywhere now. Homosexuals making love makes me sick, I don’t think they should even be allowed to adopt. Don’t get me started on those trannies. Marriage is a sacred institution between a man, a woman and their priest. All children should be kept away from these freaks. What The West needs is structure, religion and proper respect for authority. This woke mind virus is finally dead. If they don’t like it, they can find somewhere else to live. If they were in control of themselves, truly sovereign, they’d be able to stand on their own. No handouts, cut their funding. Make them earn an honest living like I have. And no complaints! Unlike these make believe rebels, I’m an actual good person. Let’s bring back real witch hunts and righteous crusades. Everyone should live as I do. I don’t care what anyone else thinks…
The phone faded in and out as Bailey focused more on her face. She thought about what she’d do if she couldn’t secure a man; about how she’d hide the dark circles under her eyes; about if what she saw were really crow’s feet.
“What about the rumors that ME-B hasn’t performed as advertised?” one venturesome host asked. “Well, as with any advance, there’s bound to be some misunderstandings. We fired all the sexual harassers-” The phone blared and vibrated in celebration. “Undesirably, this wasn’t enough to fix the problem. The new ‘Big Beautiful Rebrand’ is the first of its kind. It really is a good thing.” The phone went quiet, the TV murmured. “With this update, ME-B will be truly capable. With this update, ME-B will be truly independent. With this update, ME-B will be able to patch itself!” The phone roared again with what sounded like confetti cannons firing and uplifting new age techno-choir music playing. “The merger of Gaggle, OpenBook and AlwaysSoft will properly incentivize competition.”
…I’m a Jew, long line, both sides. Not a Zionist. I mean, come on. There is nothing exceptional about these extremists beyond the law they’ve purchased for themselves. They are the empty vessels, script readers, automatons, bureaucrats and brutes the priest class implement. They are aggressively delusional and arrogantly debased. They are without merit. This is an atrocity. They have brought the evil eye upon themselves and on us. This is a setup in plain sight. If I wanted others to hate our people, our culture, I couldn’t hope to compete with these zealots. Who we are has been muddied by the lowest bad faith associations with these fanatics. This is an ideology. Heresy. We must shame those who’d use our people for devious ends. This is a moral imperative and its panic. I’m also American. Look at how much damage our culture has sustained to protect the nonreciprocal privileged few. They have a better standard of living and average lifespan than our citizens. They own most of our politician’s attention, if not loyalty. We are being made their slaves. Sanctioning or imprisoning American citizens into serving a foreign agency is tyranny. What happened to America First? Our sovereignty is being sacrificed to a petulant dependent. Stand up to them, see how petty they are. Force them to be a good neighbor. Stop the tantrum, the golem’s rage. Stop taking shit and start giving it. Don’t sign what you don’t understand. Appreciate those around you. Just opt out. Keep your head. Provide for your family. Help when you can. No need to be a martyr…
Bailey thought about Rich and how much more money he must be making now that he has his Construction Management degree. She wondered if he was miserable without her; wondered if he already put a baby in another woman; wondered if he would still find her attractive.
“Soooo, you’re saying this is the final fix to the final solution?” The soon-to-be-fired host was still skeptical, “I know a lot of ladies out there are finding it difficult to find worthy men.” Silence. “Are you one of them?” asked another host. “No no! I can’t keep the boys off me!” the skeptic replied nervously. “Thank you for sharing,” said the guest, “The key to living Spontaneously is honesty! We as women need to be honest when a man isn’t living up to our potential. We need to look him dead in the eye and say ‘DO BETTER!’” More near-hysterical applause. Bailey didn’t notice the phone needed recharging.
…Women aren’t weak, but these ladies are convinced they’re super model super soldier super women. A whole generation brainwashed or brain fried preying on the next. They were never anything but means to an end. These social media tech giants don’t dare criticize women because they are increasingly the only demo who use their products. Whether this monopolized women-only business model was intended for profit or as sophisticated social engineering to keep undesirables from breeding wasn’t an idea these targeted women were ever exposed to. The fact that one of the two sexes was made provocatively aware of this and the other kept oblivious in a gilded cage heightened the sexual frustration and paranoia in this already heavily repressed dying empire. Why have so many men dropped out of our society and given up on women? We haven’t, there’s not much left for us though. The terminally online just fear what they can’t predict. The internet is not society. Why should men use social media or match-mating when women are too busy making everything about themselves, elbowing each other down and constructing blacklists of the disliked? What did they think would happen? They had to lose. They spent years demonizing us men and not delivering for women. Even encouraged breakups for not going along with their party of joy and love, hope and change. Somehow scolding men for being who we are wasn’t a winning strategy. Lurking online to doxx or cancel anyone who went against orthodoxy drove away the otherwise attentive or talented. Now they’re trying to win us back? Ha! Why, did they do something to piss us off? They never admit when they’re wrong because they don’t know what they want nor when to stop. They made men a group, not us. Identity isn’t a substitute for character. Masculinity shouldn’t be defined by slave traders. They only want in your pants for your pledge in their desperate corporate cultural revolution. Become the leaders and role models you fail to see in others, at least for the next generation. I want nothing to do with those who can’t follow nor bear a single standard…
Bailey couldn’t understand what she was doing wrong. ME-B had brought about her true self, so why did she feel more isolated than ever? She was beautiful. Her career, respectable. She has been fit her whole life. She pressured her crossed legs and made her ass stick out as she applied her makeup, making sure to see herself only in the best light.
“Can we as women ask a man out?” broached a deep-voiced audience member. “NO! That’s his responsibility!” expressed the executive. “Is it ever acceptable for a man to get us in the mood if we aren’t already?” tested another member. “Absolutely not, studies show that men learn only exploitation from trial and error,” professed the professor. “What about comments on our appearance?” quizzed another. “Only if you’ve given consent and only if what he says is nice,” counseled the coach. “What is love?” asked the youngest-sounding member. The TV laughs before a host cuts in, “Can you tell us what other amazing non-profit tech startups have adapted ME-B? Get into the nitty-gritty details of how ME-B adopters give back to the community, how many jobs ME-B implementers have created, how many humanitarian awards…”
…This wave of feminism has gone too far. So has anti-woke grifting. So has not listening to either side of this schoolyard slap fight. Everyone is wrong, all should be equal (I am not a nihilist). My academic career writing and instructing about sex and power dynamics went swimmingly for me, but as soon as I criticized the transgressors of my own identity group, I really caused a scene. Have you heard? What a bunch of sexually paranoid virgins. I got mine. Why do we feminists need to be reminded we’re not girls? How does a girl become a woman anyway? Is it different from how a boy becomes a man? I don’t need experience to tell me I’m right, just those I publicly pontificate into resentful submission (this is not a rationalization). Every time I hear someone use the word natural in conjunction with women and maternity, I want to rip them limb from limb. I, for one, can’t wait to shed this biological meat cage of a body to be virtually free. Finally. Once the male-dominated tech sector builds us our freedom, we’ll finally be socially equal. I feel I’ve done my share when it comes to ensuring the future of humanity by complaining the loudest how Love is a social construct. I got mine. I refuse to do more until the system corrects itself (I am not a fundamentalist). There is no room for anyone in my life but me. What I advocate for is revolutionary retribution with no goal beyond all-consuming grievance venting (I am not a reactionary). Any fallout isn’t my problem. I can think of no better way to subjugate women than to convince us that assault is around every corner. Well, except to saddle them with debt they can’t discharge in bankruptcy for a degree worth less than a remote prostitute’s bath water. It’s not my fault if girls practice our theories and destroy their own value. They’re doing feminism wrong. I got mine. I’m not a cunt, I’m a prick. Can’t you tell? Everyone should know how unfair life is because I wasn’t born with a penis (I am not a fascist). I refuse to abandon the guilt-free one-way hyper-sexuality of feminism. How else would it be kosher to brag about how much attention I’m given while making it some other person’s problem? How gauche would that be? Buy my books, Me Me Me Too – A Case for Indifference, How to Profit from Scandal – Hawking History’s Slimiest Snake Oil and my latest raging magnum opus, My Struggle – Against Soloing Sadomasochism. Pay for my contributions to society. Nobody hates women more than feminists. I should know…
Was this too much makeup? Too little? Maybe she should find something else to wear. Would her date like her? Would he be attractive? Would he be exciting? Would he be able to tell she was desperate? Maybe she should just get laid and forget about potential disappointments. Maybe she should just stay in instead. She triple checked her texts. Her date let her know what he’d be wearing. This one seemed alright. He seemed to have many of the same frustrations she did.
“I want to go back and address the concerns of what love is,” the guest’s accent shifted into lawyerly Californian as the phone got serious, “Contentious relationships tend to erupt over disagreements about what the truth actually is. Sometimes when poor little mommy and big bad daddy argue, grabbing and pushing truth prevents establishing common ground and getting things done.” Gasps escaped the phone. “That is not to say that the truth doesn’t exist, nor is it to say that the truth isn’t important. Clearly the search for the truth has led us to do and learn great things. But, you’ll agree with me that our greatness comes from acknowledging not a singularity or duplicity of truths, but a multiplicity, unburdened by what has been. We each have our own truths, like atoms forming individual threads of our cultural tapestry. The universe is vast, varied and very very scary.” The gasps became “Mmm Hmm”, “Told you so” and “Preach queen!” “Remember ladies, we’re a democracy. Speaking personal truths based on what we believe instead of what can be known is deeply divisive, harmful and upsetting. We need to make problems byte-sized so as to reduce stress. We all know man-made climate change, for instance, will destroy all our lives, but if we let our experts handle the best of what can be known right now, things don’t have to be so frightening…”
…You don’t understand. This is such a radical new tool, it’s impossible to predict how any of this is going to go. Is it actually about efficient productivity? Or just automated cover for fraud, money laundering, blackmail, surveillance, propaganda, drug peddling, sex trafficking and eugenics? The least you could say is that it’s a catalyst, if not patsy. It just, amplifies. Accelerates. Change is the only constant, but they’re betting against it. Hedging. This is about control. Total control. They’re going all in on AI now because they believe public opinion is no longer an obstacle. It’s not too late to fight back. You have to stop believing in it. Just stop engaging with it. It isn’t good for you. Listen to your body. Do you feel good? Do you feel anxious? In the dark about so much but not as much as those around you? This is just the hood. They muffle you with the words they put in your mouth. These aren’t identities, they’re postures. Identity is the data you keep feeding these tyrants. It’s how they keep tabs on their property. Know your rights. It’ll fade. The world wide web will be nothing more than a shopping mall you can’t escape nor afford. These charlatans are not individuals nor a collective, but a conspiracy of compromised dependents. You’ll be required to show ID at all times to those who never legitimize themselves let alone let themselves be known. This is slavery. Wages are something one stakes. Stop subsisting on credit. Live differently…
Bailey stopped applying herself and stared into the mirror. Who was this person? What did she want? Why did she feel so empty? However, she couldn’t quite convince her mirror she was interested in reflection. She looked through her mother’s prep tools, idly rifling through the sprays and dyes and makeup and its remover bought in bulk. She fidgeted with the loose plug of the lighted magnifying mini mirror. She then looked at herself again, looked into her eyes hoping they’d eye her back. She waited and waited as her breathing became a strange kind of shallow.
“Let me be clear. Words matter, ladies.” The guest went on, “So we’re recalling the now toxic ‘expert’. We’re going with ‘encyclopedist’ now. Sounds important, right? These pedists will bring us all together by implementing minimum viable truth production. This requires clear rules and strong community norms not dictated by any one individual or even the few busy contributors, but all voices. In the old days speech was dominated by Western white men. Intentionally recognizing their biases and forcing them to include every opinion, no matter whose, is how we save the planet. It’s about independence. You have to let go of power. You have to give your power to others to empower them. You have to trust in the proper authority’s ability to manage categories of expertise. Trusting ME-B also requires humility, because you’re going to get it wrong sometimes, but it’s worth it for getting it right most of the time. It’s a tremendously forgiving idea.” Cries rang from the phone.
…These people don’t combat hate, they create it. Who cares who they say is running the country? I have my own eyes and ears. I go outside. No. Their logic is so simple a child could wield it. Those people are evil, not like me, which means I’m good. Because I’m good, I’m entitled to retribution. Any. Somehow changing the world is easier than changing oneself, let alone one’s own perspective. They stretch our language until it fits no one’s sense of truth. This is not progress. I said no. I think a root of America’s problems is that alcohol is privileged above the other drugs. It’s my fault I spoke my mind, but I made it clear I didn’t want to speak of this or them again. No. It’s impossible not to act or react in some way to what you say. This is provocation. Escalation. You let it happen. You do whatever it is you feel is right. I’m out. Don’t contact me again. Woah, I didn’t mean to scare you Bailey. Here, sit. I’m so sorry. I hope you didn’t hear any of that. I was just on the phone. Let’s just sit a while, okay? Look at me, it’ll be alright. Breathe. It’s a beautiful day, huh? Let’s just listen to the birds a while…
The hate swelled but didn’t move her. She didn’t really feel any of these things. It felt so off, and now she was anxious, uneasy. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Perhaps exposing herself to this kind of entertainment leading up to a date wasn’t the wisest decision.
“Now, speaking of truths, I need to be real with you all,” one of the hosts stated. “It’s with heavy hearts that we must now inform you we’re going on hiatus. I think we all know who’s behind our cancellation. It’s temporary, I assure you.” The phone went full hysterical. “Down with the sugar daddies!” someone croaked. “I love slavery,” another cooed. “Lock. Me. Up!” yet another trumpeted. “Our numbers show the economy has cratered since we lost the presidency,” the guest spoke again, her accent now a soft German, “Let’s not quit our jobs ladies. We can’t rule the world if we don’t support each other, so buy each other’s products. Arbeit macht frei, am I right ladies?”
…I don’t know what to do mom. He doesn’t talk to me. He doesn’t touch me anymore. I don’t know what to do. I’m so scared I’m losing him again. I’ve tried everything. Yes, I have tried talking with him. He doesn’t listen. Yes I have, mother. I don’t want to be alone, but the time together has become unbearable. Nothing happens. We do our jobs, we eat, chores, bed. And phone. I hate this. I hate this! I don’t know what to do! I am breathing! I don’t want to do this anymore. I have tried talking with him! Yes I have! Listen to me…
Bailey couldn’t find her charger. Was it out in her vehicle? What the hell was she listening to? Did her mother have someone over recently?
“We’re almost out of time so let’s sound off and turn the page.” The seriousness broke and gave way to hooting, hollering, whistling and clapping. “Come on ladies, do it with me. We’re not going back! So we, that’s right, we turn the page. Remember ladies, we’re not narcissists...” “WE’RE EMPATHS!” “We’re not selfish...” “WE’RE RESPONSIBLE!” “We’re not girls…” “WE’RE LADIES!” The crowd erupted, whipped into a frenzy more voracious than any union, town hall, youth group or Klan rally, but on par for product placement. “Very good! Remember ladies, the young single man is the greatest threat to our civilization. We’ll show these boys that they can’t get away unpunished for thinking only of themselves! This is war, ladies!” The game of telephone lost power at that point.
…That’s no way for an ally to behave. This is genocide, there is no other word for it. These fanatics sanction whole communities, target individuals, starve innocents, concentrate opposition, silence dissent, mow down non-combatants, torture prisoners, sabotage aid, cry wolf, spy on friends and betray allies. All with impunity. They consistently cross boundaries and ignore history after giving their word to cease. They have traded secrets to our enemies. They have hurt anyone that gets close to them. Your tax dollars directly fund these acts of terror or line the pockets of the sociopaths backing them. They have and will continue to get away with it until we stop giving them our money and attention. This is why independence is crucial, why free speech is essential in conflict resolution. People are waking up and are tired of being lied to and pushed-
Bailey turned the television off and heard a commotion outside. She stepped out. The wretched over-subbed screech metal music grew louder. A low rider hunk of junk crept along below her, avoiding the pot holes. Why was it going so slow? What was that length of metal sticking out its tinted window? Bailey’s nape hairs stood at attention. The bass shook the apartment windows. What the hell was she witnessing? She approached the railing for a better view, but still couldn’t make out who was in the car. Then she looked straight down and saw a woman, younger than herself and scantly dressed. The woman walked fast, head fixed straight ahead. The car crept at the same pace. That thin length of metal looked like an antenna or one of those collapsible pen magnets she used for her vehicle. The woman reached the base of the stairs when Bailey stated firmly, with purpose, “Hey! Is that guy bothering you?” “Oh my God, YES!” the woman spun and charged up the stairs, holding up her top.
“Brandy! Hey! It’s me!” The woman halted halfway up the stairs. “Brandy!” the car snickered as the music quieted, “Brandy! It’s me!” Brandy looked over the side rail. The metal screeched to a halt and the driver hopped out, almost doubling over in laughter before putting it in park. “It’s me, Crystal!” The woman stepped back down the steps, head down. Before Bailey could think to say or do any more, her chance to be useful had dashed. “You should see your face! Aw, come on, it’s funny! We’re friends, right? Jump in! Hey!” The woman kept her head down until she walked out of sight.
3
“Yeah, he keeps me locked in the basement,” roared the scrawny lady sitting with her captive in the Vietnamese restaurant, “literally all day every day.” Bailey couldn’t remember the beginning of their conversation, she was too busy trying to think her way out of it. Bailey had almost walked out immediately, but her date had made eye contact with her. It had to have been her date, she was the only other customer and wore at least the color she said she would. Apparently, Bailey knew this person, she was so informal. “Yeah, my boyfriend doesn’t let me go out by myself,” Bailey echoed.
She wore COEXIST and Love bracelets on her sleeveless wrist, some kind of neon rubber band gripped the other. She had several tattoos; the flesh between the colorful ink, a sickly pale. Of the tats she showed off, at least four told men their last word with her would be, poison!? Crawling up her arm and down the other, Aly paraded a thorn bush covered scorpion, a snake wrapped around a half-open rose, an oversensitive puffer fish, a barbed vine bound heart and a literal bottle of what she called Aqua Tofana. She positively oozed prejudice. Bailey didn’t get any of it, she just wanted to have some fun. She laughed when her date inflated the puffer fish on her elbow, something she used to point out to get Rich to laugh before switching bar seats. Bailey had only one tattoo, the one she and her mother got after the first separation with Rich.
“They’re rounding up women and putting us in cages,” Aly said as if there was nothing else she thought about, “That’s all we are to them. Sex slaves. Breeding stock.” Aly drew her hand up to her mouth briefly before continuing, “I can’t wrap my head around what would make them do it. We live in an authoritarian shithole.” Bailey couldn’t help but furrow her eyebrows, something like déjà vu settled in her, “Yeah, I’m in the Guard.” “So you know exactly what I’m saying!” Aly preened. She felt she was right because she could clearly remember hearing someone tell her that. Or maybe that certainty was cast from her phone. Either way, no one could convince her she didn’t hear it correctly. “You’re going to the Only Queens Day protest, right?” she didn’t wait for a reply, “It’s a good way to make money.” She pulled up her purse and weighed it on their table. It had all sorts of pins, buttons and ribbons of platitudes, slogans and flags. She yanked out a pink cap, “See? I still have mine from last time. The Ladies’ March.” Bailey hadn’t a clue what else she could pull out to make a case. “Not my president,” the warrior told the soldier, “I bought more if you need one.”
She stowed the purse and hugged herself into a lazy satisfied sigh, “So, what do you do Bailey? I work for Habitats for the Houseless.” “I’m in the Guard,” Bailey stated. “We get paid volunteer hours. The healthcare is affordable. I’m popular at the office…” That’s how she knew her! This was the receptionist from her old apartment complex! The woman who begged Rich to stick around because she was afraid of a tenant. Then she texted him the front office recording of how inappropriate it was to hang around her like that. Rich was so pissed that he sent Bailey the half-assed blackmail straightaway. While she was out of the country. Bailey used what little charge her phone gained from the car ride to watch that recording. This was her. She seemed to know Bailey used to be a tenant, but did she remember what she did? Who it affected?
“Oh my God, do you remember Jim? The maintenance guy? He doesn’t respect women. Amber and I have been trying to force him to quit, like, forever now.” She rolled her eyes inward with every complaint, always lasting a bit too long. Bailey squint, it gave her the impression of release, a kind of bowel movement. “He stunk, too! He comes in all sweaty and sunburnt, stains and grease all over his clothes…”
It went on like this for a while. Bailey thumbed ME-B again for help but it never wavered from its blue check mark. So she watched the recording on loop. She wasn’t missing anything though. Aly had went on to exasperate over just what losers these men are. She went through the mental list she passed around to who’d ever let her commiserate on them. Sometimes it was an actual physical list passed among initiated coworkers. She was a staunch defender of the violated. Then she explained how the capacity for herself was great. Her emotional intelligence was vastly superior to the men in her life. So much so that she understood that she shouldn’t be held responsible for even the emotional labor a man-pig might make her bear. Her dating app tabloid advice warned her never to let herself be taken advantage of. It did so in excruciating detail, and so did she, mapping out all the possible things a sexist predator might do or say to a strong independent woman. Microaggression mole hills like making eye contact; being greeted in the morning; being put in a mood to share a smile; holding the door open; not holding the door open; not complying with “do better”; not not complimenting looks. Things only men could do to women. There were other ranks of aggression – mild, mid, mostly, etc. – but it wasn’t at all clear which way the pettiness scaled. She knew all this because she was an avid reader. That is, in material that gave her a competitive edge in jealousy, a constant jonesing for keeping up with the virtual Joneses. That and the posh Terms and Conditions genre of Young Adult fiction.
“Do you read, Bailey?” Aly returns her purse and pulls out a book. “It’s about a foster girl whom her new family shouldn’t let in. But then she’s abducted and comes to fall in love with her captor. But it’s okay because her learner’s permit states she’s eighteen and he has impostor’s syndrome. But then she’s rescued by a suspiciously handsome policeman and released back to her family only to find out they were the real monsters.” Aly takes a breath, “She has zero agency. I’m only half done.” Absolutely nothing stopped her from turning love into cringe – after the fact. “It’s a real mind fuck. A best seller.”
Aly sighed, having finished what she liked off her plate. “I love Spontaneity! I get to talk and talk and talk! No man’s privilege can take away my right to say what I want!” Bailey open and closed her mouth. “I’m an absolute free speech abolitionist,” she said, tossing her hair back, but grew quiet as the waiter approached. She immediately started biting her nails when she couldn’t talk, the raw flesh peeled off of some digits. “Thirsty?” said the nervous, polite Vietnamese man bobbing his balding head and filling her glass. Then he turned to Bailey, “Nother beer, miss?”
“So, what’s your body count?” her date asked without inquiring, once he was out of earshot. Bailey seized up, the same way she did upon seeing her first unidentifiable corpse. “You know, are you getting good dick?” Bailey’s face scrunched up, eyes to one side, not sure these were questions or what this woman’s mark was anymore. She continued uninterrupted, “I love sex. I can’t keep the boys off me!” Bailey tilted her head, she couldn’t help it. Was one of them confused or did she hear her correctly? She had heard that line in that exact tone and cadence just prior to the date.
Bailey’s eyes were removed now, fixed as she leaned in to hear her out, skeptically attentive. The closer the approach, the more submerged she sounded. She suddenly valued her distance – she didn’t want to be pricked with poison; didn’t want this worm in her ear; didn’t want this for herself. That phrase was something she used to say to Rich, to rile him up or to just fill the void. She didn’t know why she said it, everyone on her phone said it. She felt sick. Her perplexed wrinkled face went slack from realization – did she forget to feed King? did she leave her vehicle running? did she leave the apartment unlocked? was she sick enough?
Aly ate only a bite of her coffee cake slice, but by then she had already wasted the main course. “Maybe I should get a doggie bag for this.” “I have to go!” Bailey barked, unwhispered, unhushed. Honestly. This was the intuition she always knew was there.
The date clamped her hand on Bailey’s, “If he’s making you do things you don’t want to do… I’m here for you.” “What!? Don’t touch me!” Bailey shouted. “Don’t touch me!” her date screamed, recoiling more drastically, her plain voice pitched higher now. Bailey sprung out of her chair toward the door. Her phone refused to pay the cashier, so she threw her emptied pockets at him without stopping for change. “Wait! You’re not going to walk me to my car!?” her date cried, having gathered her things by the time Bailey reached the door. Aly was waving her arms at her and saying something as Bailey pulled out and away.
She felt cheated, manipulated and used, but she wasn’t slipped any date-rape fuzziness. She felt this way because she was cheated, manipulated and used. For the second time in her life she thought maybe an imposed blackout would have been preferable. She was so embarrassed. She drove straight to the gym, phone charging again and ear pods jammed into her ears. She quickly skipped past anything empowering as she weaved in and out of traffic and put on the trashiest screech metal she could find. Something she hadn’t done since her first weeks of Basic. She’d power through the tightness in her chest by working it out, but not before she parked behind the gym and screamed into her phone.
She stepped into the gym clothes she kept in the back of her car and out of the locker room. She scanned the half vacant machines and their operators. Not as busy as usual. It was a Friday night. Mostly women with stretched-thin nylon covering their asses as they ran in place from imagined threats and manifest mortality. However, Bailey spotted someone that caused her to stumble on the rubberized flooring. There, at the far end of the room, was Jack. She had eyed him with his head above the equipment. He was talking with one of the older women.
Bailey was anxious, but this time in a nervous way. Her anger left her the moment she saw him, but hooked up with whoever he was talking to. The woman had pulled out her phone and was angrily yelling at him through it. Bailey was totally relaxed, but swallowed hard, a little queasy. She shook her ME-B, offline hookups don’t work anymore. For the first time since she allowed ME-B into her life, she questioned this authority. No, this time she’d work up the courage to talk with him more intimately.
The ME-B Plus option had a rape whistle feature, to encourage women to use it. The woman used it without a second thought, the rejection multiplied by the mirrors covering every wall. Now he was heading her way.
She approached him as he charged past, “Hey, I didn’t know you worked out here!” He sighs, surprised but still frustrated, “I don’t want to talk to you now. See how easy it is to be honest?” He looked down suddenly, spun, grunted to himself and avoided her smeared eyes, “You’re more attractive without the mask.” He smiled painfully as he said it and splayed his arms so casually, so naturally that it could have meant anything from, “I’m hurt,” “What do you want from me?” “Come at me woman!” “Tag, you’re it!” to “Let’s just hug it out.” “I’m human.” “Just, not now, understand?” and “Wanna go for a walk?” He seemed angry too. Bailey couldn’t remember why he’d talk to her like that.
When she got back to the apartment she went straight to bed, still in her gym attire. Her mother wouldn’t be back in town for a while, thankfully. She didn’t think she’d be able to handle talking with her right now. About anything. She fought off the negativity by trying her best not to think… but was she trying? Usually when she tried clearing her head it only brought anger, this time she merely felt numb. Just, void. As if a flash grenade went off and she couldn’t quite come to; the flash still frazzling her long after the bang – although it was the concussion that got her. She lay restless and still under the covers as the sun left the room, hoping she didn’t phone anyone.
It didn’t take much for her to reach for her end. She was vaguely familiar with PTSD and depression, but only through exposure; something others dealt with. She didn’t know what her “problem” was. She was just, angry. Not upset. Maybe never winning the wars she subjected herself to made her frustratingly impotent. Maybe not knowing who she served or if they ever got what they wanted dragged her line too taught. Maybe protecting the undeserving made them ungrateful, necessarily. She had avoided the pharmaceuticals so many of her squad mates, neighbors, friends and family seemed dependent on. She could quit vaping for weeks at a time. She wasn’t even that much of a drinker, she could quickly correct course if given the right environment. But her phone was her life now.
Suddenly frantic, she grabbed her phone and the blue raspberry vodka above the fridge, plopped herself on the living room reclinable two-seater and spent the night fingering her phone. She watched maybe a hundred thirty second online vids, scrolled through her social media likes, browsed houses she’d never be able to afford, stared at younger pictures of herself, played games with flashing lights and funny noises – anything to keep from interacting with reality.
It had her culture in its clutches. Every culture. This alienation’s acid was autopen ink, and it corroded meaning. It’d rub her nose in regurgitated slop until the bubbles stopped. This was how it multiplied ecstatic fractions without delivering anything good, wholesome or even tangible. It did so openly, invitingly. This was war by other means.
Having finished the bottle and using the faceswap app to hide her redness, she moved on to more cutesy, fun animations to paint her visage with. She felt loose and frisky and so hit the integrated ME-B guide. The room in the phone lit up to give the blue light it emitted a sun soft tone. After the slightest processing lag, her reflection retrieved her true self – complete with cat ears and whiskers.
Adorable! So life like! Accurate too!
She wasn’t a fan of cats. She preferred dogs. Disappointed and shaken, she slammed the recliner closed and hunched over the phone now on her lap. She moved her head every which way she could to throw off what ME-B marked her as, but the AI kept up seamlessly. The world’s smallness hit her like a finger to the chest. She had hit the glass ceiling her lack of reflection had put in its place. The screen refused to show her as she really was despite tears streaking its placid surface.
She stared and stared, occasionally juking her animation. She then shattered the bottle against the far wall and tears began anew. King barked twice from her mother’s room before howling. Out of her lips crept a tune once recommended to her but which she’d forget in sobriety. “My pain… is self-chosen.” She paused to let it out, “At least, I believe it to be – I could either drown or pull off my skin and swim to shore – Now I can grow a beautiful shell for all to see...” With a cracked laugh she spiraled into complete free fall bawling.
Suddenly the faceswap app was replaced by an advert not meant for her eyes.
Somehow her AI screed feed was crossed with that of a male’s.
What if I told you…
Perhaps because of her military experience.
Perhaps because she wasn’t a defense contractor.
Perhaps because human soldiers were no longer needed.
An unnamed security official said…
Perhaps because of something she saw or realized during the war.
Perhaps because of a mistake, an off-by-one error, missed update or collateral flak.
Perhaps because of something someone said within mic distance.
People are saying…
Perhaps because she went against ME-B in some way.
Perhaps because whoever currently controlled this leading AI, controlled her.
Perhaps because someone’s rogue AI script knew her better.
I’m just saying…
Perhaps because of her religion, race or nationality.
Perhaps because of her dire financial strait.
Perhaps because she was caught in something called “politics”.
You don’t say…
Perhaps because her dating status was “single” over an allotted duration.
Perhaps because she was too old to be whisked away to a private sex island.
Perhaps because of some upper class drama.
Who knows how the algorithm really works? Certainly not its users.
Perhaps the song she sang so beautifully rawboned was tagged swan.
She had been presented ads for anti-depressants more and more since she moved in with her mother; she wasn’t conscious of when it started, why or how changing her address to match her mother’s endangered her. This time the advert was for a suicide hotline company called Whippoorwill, a ME-B affiliate.
She tried texting her only girlfriend and squad mate. Tried contacting Rich, even though she promised herself she wouldn’t. Nobody would answer her at three in the morning. If she had someone who cared about a fellow soldier, she’d have a fighting chance to fend off this sterile predator. No, not “fellow” soldier, her conditioning kicked in even as her spirit was about to leave her for good.
The call was pleasing, professional. Capable of parsing slurs. The only State subsidized welfare that still functioned properly for those sold into affordable means. Already knowing all her information and preference for not reading agreements saved both her and the automated sing-song voice time, which the program capitalized on. The only inefficiency was on her part. Any questions about alternatives or wellness were met with silence. Once she confirmed her order it took a mere hour to reach her via sleepless drone.
It was a pill. One post-industrial strength pill. The last thing she heard was a low-hum birdsong the cadence of a slick passing overhead.
Later, its unclear when or who was keeping track, her mother returned. King was barking and attacking her bedroom door. She saw Bailey passed out on the couch. “Wake up sleepy head,” she told her while opening the blinds. It was a beautiful day and the birds were chirping, but not from outside. “Kingsly! Shut it!” she sighed, taking off her work boots. As she turned back, she saw the broken glass lit up like a sign. Horrified, she rushed to her daughter.
Bailey lay stiff, phone chirping and blinking in her hand. Pulling the phone from her daughter’s death grip, she read the flashing message: “Congratulations! You’re free!” Below that, in text too small for the mother to make out, “A disposal unit has been dispatched to minimize inconvenience to loved ones.” Then, with a dazzling flash akin to a light bulb inspired to give up, the screen went black.
Blinking away the black spots from her vision, a blue dot became visible slowly drifting in the void of the screen, repelled by the boundaries of the phone. The tweet tweet tweet issuing from the screensaver gave way to a barely audible whimpering. She put the phone up to her ear. She laughed through a choked up exhale, despite her shock. There was no mistaking that off-key voice she had heard so often when she and Bailey went out for karaoke. She didn’t recognize the song though. The phone grew hot and her daughter’s voice became a high-pitched whine before the explosive hidden in the phone made room for more desirable tenants, leaving the mother to bleed out next to her daughter on their loveseat.
4
“Yeah, I bonded with my mom listening to public broadcasting. Mostly on car rides. Their funding is threatened right now,” Aly told Jack. “It wasn’t always so bad. Half my family were almost tote-bag-carrying fanatics. My grandmother was, uh, fiercely independent. Ran away at sixteen from her German father with an American soldier. She let her husband abuse her kids because she was too busy trying to become a scientist. She was obsessed with Descartes, whom she said was weak for giving in to the church.” He smiled, “Well, him and Elvis, but that was before I was born. My mother still doesn’t know why her mother never looked back, but she ran at sixteen, too. I think. Or was kicked out with my sister.”
“Descartes?” “The French philosopher, one of those logicians. Cogito Ergo Sum. He twisted virtue into virtual reality by coordinating its emptiness. He called what was apparent to the mind without sense, without direction, without imagination, without sex or even a body, intuition. Something only attention could conceive, never automatically. He died of pneumonia rationalizing why he compromised so much for an icy queen. He stretched doubt further than any man before him, but his words weren’t enough to keep either one of them warm.”
“I wish she was still alive, she’d have so much crow to eat. The first question I’d ask would be if she thought of Descartes when she chanted ‘We must, we must, we must improve our bust!’” He laughed as he mimicked her ghost, “He didn’t seem to understand one must have the desire for knowledge to work his logic.”
He couldn’t stop improving himself as he walked, “No, I suppose the first question would have to be why she fled her father and fatherland. My gut says it’s entirely about religion, but my mother thinks it was because she couldn’t be told what to do. She didn’t talk about feminism or sexism when I was around her, but the priest class and idiots.” He slowed a few steps, “In fact, I have no idea what her opinion was on either. It was her daughters who picked up that ideological baggage without realizing it.”
“Did she ever become a scientist?” “A cancer researcher. She loved it so much that she made early retirement her primary motivation in life at the time. I wish we still had all her notes and joke snippets about the company and her co-workers.” He smiled prematurely, “She had a dry sense of humor. My sister’s not great with jokes, but she made her laugh the hardest.” He mimicked his sister’s absence, “Milk, milk, lemonade, around the corner fudge is made!” He laughed hard, “How could someone follow that?” Aly mimicked his smile. “She died of pancreatic cancer not long after her retirement.”
“Pancreatic? That must of been painful.” “She was a fighter. She didn’t believe any doctor would be competent enough to treat her. She refused to budge on her New Atheism.” Jack looked up at the clouds. “I can’t believe I’m saying this,” he gave Aly a wink and smile, “but I miss talking with women the most.”
“What do you think of the rugged survivalist man who sequesters his children from the larger world of society?” he asked her. “I think that’s a horrible thing to do to children.” “Why?” “I think it’s anti-social and would stunt the children’s development.” “Alright, well, look at it this way, what distinguishes the strong independent woman oversocializing her children from this survivalist?” “Oversocializing?” “Preventing them from becoming individuals through forced social mores and product dependency. Since I’ve been alone, I’ve been thinking about this a lot. My memories are so much more vivid, applicable.”
They wandered a bit as he was lost in thought, “My first date was when I was maybe thirteen. No, fourteen. I had just gotten my learner’s permit. Her name was Kay and it was at a wedding for someone in her family.” Jack rubbed his neck, elbow up, “I’m not good with introverts. I talked over her, railroaded her. She didn’t engage much so I began asking questions. She gave one word responses. Rarely looked me in the eye. She was so nervous it made me nervous. Halfway through I realized it was supposed to be a date.”
Aly stopped in her tracks and squinted past the sun, “What do you mean you didn’t know it was a date!?” “She didn’t ask me out, she asked my mother to ask me. There was supposed to be a reception after, but I bailed. I felt so bad, so ashamed of myself, I just blocked it out.” Jack growled low to himself, “It still eats at me sometimes. I couldn’t believe I did that to her, I didn’t even tell her to her face that I wasn’t-” “Hold on, how did you not know it was a date?” she slow blinked, relationships were a curiosity for her. “What? We grew up off and on around each other. Most of the women in my family did some kind of child or foster care work. I don’t know, I thought she just wanted a friend again.”
A devious smile stretched unbridled across Jack’s face before they moved on, “I was a tail chaser long before I knew what sex was. See these scars?” Jack showed the part of his forearm where Aly would have a snake-wrapped rose and laughed, “I tripped and broke through our glass storm door while teasing two girls.” “You chased them?” Aly drug one half of her mouth to the other side and furrowed her plucked-thin eyebrows. “Like on foot. I didn’t know what I’d do when I caught them, they didn’t either. I usually just poked fun at them or told a dirty joke. I didn’t bother with those who didn’t want to play along. Didn’t change much until college, only the chase became more meaningful.”
Aly stopped again with her hand on her side, elbow out. She started opening her mouth, when Jack turned close to her face and mimicked her exactly as she said, “That’s sexist.” “That’s not engagement nor an argument. Knock it off.” Jack righted himself, but then got back in her face, “Better yet, shame on you. In what way do you think it’s okay to moralize and scold me for connections I have with the sex I love? To judge my experience from only my words? Do you even know what that word means anymore? You’re shaming sexuality itself, you monster.”
Aly stayed with the thought a while, not sure why he’d say such a thing. “I had the hots for you, you know,” she said, juggling her breasts into herself. “I do know. You kept throwing your boyfriend under the bus in front of me. If you did that to your most intimate, how would you treat someone like me? Is that how you want to be treated?” “I know how to talk to men. I don’t take shit from anybody,” her nods agreed with her, “I’m my dad’s daughter.”
“You refused to let me be of use when you were vulnerable. You bought me gifts then manipulated me into your dramas. When I pushed back, you just took it out on me another way without telling me why. The one time we got dinner together, you almost threw a fit making sure you paid the bill instead of me.” He then turned his head toward her, “Trying to be a dick doesn’t mean you know how to talk to us.” Aly held her tongue for a while. Jack added, “And you already have a boyfriend! Where do men fit into your life when you’re this full of yourself? What do we have to do or be proud of when you refuse us our role? Any role? You’re everything to no one and nobody to your intimates. Do you think you’re a cat? You add in the feminism and you’re insufferable, deplorable.”
“I’m not a monster, I’m a witch.” Aly pouted, “And yes, sometimes I am a cat.” He tried picturing it, “Like, aesthetically or what?” “I practice magic.” “What kind of magic?” “I cast spells with my words.” “How do you know they work? You might hurt somebody.” “Oh, I know they work. I just do.” He still struggled to see what she circumscribed for herself, “Witch, huh?” He lightly smacks her bare sunburnt back, “You sure you’re not just Irish?” “Are you flirting with me?” she demanded an answer. “Yes, take notes. Do it right and you won’t have to cast spells.”
“What do you and your boyfriend even get up to?” “We watch old A.C.Q.U.A.I.N.T.A.N.C.E.S. episodes when he’s not on business trips.” “Didn’t that show take place in New York City? It aired before and after the World Trade Center collapsed, right?” he slapped the stop sign before crossing the intersection. “Did they ignore it intentionally or were they not even aware?” “I don’t actually like it,” she was quick following his reaction, “I usually watch To Catch a Pervert or Law and Punishment when I’m alone.”
“Men just view us as sex objects,” Aly began in a tight voice, but Jack had learned enough of her to to have no qualms cutting her off. “You mean you’re just a hole? All men think this? And you know, how? I’d bet women view men as dildos in roughly equal numbers. That’s not what I want, I don’t want a masturbation aid or a chore.” Aly lit up, “Oh, I knew you were one of the good ones.” “You’re not the first to tell me that. How repulsive.” Aly’s mouth hung open.
“I’m not your tenant anymore. I can say what I want and I will because I think it applies to our lives. Not that I held back much.” Aly was slow to respond this time, “You just don’t know what a great catch I am. I can’t keep the boys off me!” “Fishing for complements still too much effort for you? You have to go straight to persecuted grandeur? Have you tried being a partner instead of just another victim?” he half smiled. “It was a joke,” she quipped. “I smile when I joke,” he said, finishing his smile.
“I don’t think sex is the sole answer. What women like you and more need is a good hard scrutinizing. A nice helping of understanding, attention. Why? Because I think that’s what men need now too. At least, that’s what I want, so maybe other people do too. I don’t see how girls become women without boys becoming men, and vice-versa.” Aly looked skeptical. “I think relating is viewed too often as something one should do. Something to not miss or just biological impulse. Hooking up is something we get to do. A date should be able to carry a struggling mate through a bad day, but there has to be at least some skin in the game always. Cut each other some slack and lighten up a bit. Unclench, already. Make love instead of just getting laid or status humping, know what I mean?”
“Ow!” Aly commented, and limped along. Jack didn’t bite. “There’s a rock in my shoe,” she limped on some more as she pulled out her phone. Jack offered his hand for balance, “No, take it out now. I’ve found traveling with those who compensate makes one start walking funny too.” Her phone wouldn’t work so she put it away again. “Your phone dead? It does a lot for you, I’m not surprised.”
There was silence, but not for long. “So how is your mother? Is she still working at the women’s prison?” “Yeah, she’s good,” Aly shrugged her shoulders, “It’s fulfilling for her. A guard raped an inmate a few weeks ago.” Jack sighed, “Why is that important to mention? Does prison rape genuinely upset you? Are you trying to prove a point? Is it your thing, or what? No, really, why?”
Aly looked around, once, quick. “My mom gave me Too Many Shades of Grey when I started middle school.” “That porn book?” “It’s called smut.” “The one about torture and rape and domination, right?” “That’s kitten stuff compared to what’s published now.” “Really? Is that good or bad?” “I can’t get enough of it.”
“The one I’m reading now is about a brilliant, sexy, young professional woman who is better than everyone around her. Although she doesn’t have experience with talent, she has an eye for it. Her parents are loaded. She meets some computer wiz who isn’t allowed to do what he wants. He breaks things fast. He’s brilliant too, but I don’t quite get what makes what he’s selling valuable or how he’s supposed to be better than her. He has status though and she likes how he works his fingers to the bone on a mechanical keyboard.” She looked as though she realized something, “There’s a lot of focus on mechanical keyboards. I don’t get those parts.” “You mean a typewriter?” “I’m not allowed to have one at the office. Too much noise.”
“She does everything in her power to sabotage his career and makes everything about herself. She uses AI to pursue her own career in journalism, so she has all the time in the world. She’s so worthless it’s nerve-racking. She all but begs for it.” Her breathing grew heavy and she talked faster, “She forces him to fill her mind with his presence. He rapes her in a swimming pool on the roof of a sky scrapper, but only after she screws the pool boy. But it’s okay because she couldn’t understand at the time that it was actually love.” “You mean she rationalized rape? She’s above common sense? Before or after the event?”
“Her name is Submissiva Naughtarusski. She practices obstinance instead of abstinence. It’s not about domination or submission or trust or truth. It’s about simple resentment and pure corruption. She makes it so easy for her rapists to love her because she wants only the best of what they want. Which is herself plus excess.” “Rapists, plural?” “She’s their capital. They can’t ever leave her because the recordings are hers.”
“Jesus, Aly.” He had pictured Nosferatu in a wig and now his eyebrows were too scared to come back down, “She sounds like a vampire.” “Oh, I’ve graduated from those Tweenlit novels a long time ago.” “Wait, Tweenlit was porn?” “Smut. And no, it should have been.”
“I don’t know, it seems these women are obsessed with male fantasies, whatever those are.” “Yeah.” “Or rather, they project and label their socially unacceptable thoughts toxically masculine.” “Yeah.” “Some are so attracted by the idea of themselves from a male’s perspective that they want to be a man, just to experience what it’s like to dominate every inch of herself. We may get to that day yet.” “Yeah.” “It will finally solve Man’s most fundamental problem with Woman, which is of ownership – if she didn’t enjoy the sex or knocks herself up, she has no one to blame after the fact but herself.” “Yeah.” “In this way, she’d be liberated because she is her own ‘oppressor’. “Oh yeah.” “The amount of mental flaming hoop hopping it takes to make sacrifice tenable to some women is astounding.” He laughed, then added, “Mind blowing.” “Exactly, mind blowing,” she let out in a sigh.
“Alright, alright, enough. This binary thinking is juvenile,” he laughed hard suddenly, then lightly. He couldn’t help but ask, “How do you know your mother didn’t traumatize you with Shades of Grey? Arrested your development before some man-pig could, during the most awkward and impressionable time in most people’s life? Would that be a perversion? Is it okay because it was a woman that did it to you?”
“Out of all the men these women could choose to copycat, they echo Patrick Bateman? America’s favorite fictional psychopath?” “I love that movie.” “Is it just because of the stuff he’s been given? Because he doesn’t labor nor provide value? Because the movie has him murder women with a chainsaw? I doubt these kind of people would have sex if it wasn’t advertised.” “Sex has to be advertised, it’s how us women have value.” “You mean commodified? Where’s the fun in that? Where’s the chase if you’re shackled to a hamster wheel?”
Annoyed, Jack jumped tracks, “I made too much money too fast. I could check every mark but the marks weren’t worth nailing. I created my own impression,” he points his finger at the air, “I didn’t need to purchase it. I think the average gas station attendant knows more about affection than anyone I tried pursuing in that life. How satisfying being a sex object would be instead of just a toy or accessory to be used against other women. Another feather in the hat of those wannabe peacocks.”
She got close to him and put her hand up to his shoulder, “It’s okay to come out. I’m here for you.” “What?” her words took a few seconds to believe she uttered, “I like women. Sometimes I wish I was gay, you know how much more hassle-free my life would be? In this non-culture? Would I finally be treated as a human again by women? How many same-sex ‘partners’ are together because it’s just a fad anyway? Or are they afraid of the opposite sex?” he rolled his eyes, something he loathed to do. “Where are the women at? All I encounter are princesses and cheaters.” “You’re just gonna have to settle for a princess then,” she said flippantly.
A visible spasm rippled through him. “How do you spot them before engaging?” She whipped her head toward him and darted her eyes back and forth, “Uh, you mean how girls dress?” He slapped his face and slid the sweat off, “No. I mean, how do I avoid the immature? Without getting wrapped up and suffocated in over-sensitive insecurity?” She wound up her arm one crank before smacking his belly, “You’re so mean!” He looked down, eyebrows arched like he was about to cry. No comeback. No substance. No care. Only half-baked violence. “Where did the women go!? Where are you!?” he yelped. She shrunk her head into her chest and looked around for anyone who might have seen them.
“I had no masculine role models,” he said before opening his eyes again, “Do you have any idea what a deprivation that is? And to know it’s not because they weren’t there?” “I’m my dad’s daughter.” “Why do you keep saying that? Your mother cheated on him, right? You said he just took her back no questions asked. That means she cucked your father, understand? What does that make you? An admirer?” His eyes had narrowed to a cruel squint, something his grandmother couldn’t help either, “You let the stereotyping imprint. Audit once in a while.”
“You haven’t read any of those books I gave you, have you? O’Connor, Plath, Oates, any of them?” He knew the answer and maneuvered Aly into a conceptual corner. It was a move straight from his grandmother’s playbook. Nothing delighted her more than obliterating the most treasured beliefs of the unserious and would prioritize fundamentalism of any kind. He realized something about his ancestor then – she was vain, not jealous.
“Sounds like your mother is the only one allowed to be independent.” “My mom and I are best friends.” “How do you know your best friend doesn’t see you as competition? Does your mother have any maternal instincts or just feminine intuition? Why’d you quit being a school teacher? Why don’t you have kids of your own? Why not move on from a loveless relationship?” His words were intense and pointed, but he didn’t raise his voice this time. Aly was shaking. He paused briefly to consider whether he should finish her off, “I used to resent my grandmother for focusing on the wrong things, but she gave my mother Jane Austen, Charles Dickens and the Brontë sisters to get her through the divorce. Your mother’s progress with you has changed my mind.”
He had emphasized the d in shrewd, but wasn’t smiling. He had made her cry and achieved total victory. Absolute dominance. This was the only way to tell if certain people were real with him, honest. He had to know. But he still couldn’t tell if she was more than an automaton, still couldn’t parse feminism from sexism. He wasn’t satisfied with the direction this peripatetic had taken, he wanted more than just his grandmother’s echo.
They stood together at the top of the hill a few hundred yards from the old apartments. He observed her weeping into her hands. She was red and her face even more so now. He saw something in her he didn’t expect, something that made him catch his breath. Maybe she really was her father’s daughter. Then her head was covered in white. Above them, on the telephone line, a black bird was cawing. “Bwhahaha” Jack blurted and doubled over, laughing harder than he had all year. Aly just stood there, wailing now. Jack laughed and laughed until he was crying too. “Miss Aly? Would you like a hug?” All she had to do was accept it – and she did. “I forgive you.”
He took her hand in his and told her eyes, “This is to form a memory. See? Contact.” He then eased her arm over to surface the bottle of poison, “I earned at least one scolding of you.” She laughed and sniffed away her tears. “How warped are you? How do you think this is attractive to men? Or attractive at all? That that’s alright? Imagine if I showed women a battered wife tat.” Aly’s jaw was pressured closed. “Well?” he demanded and waited and smiled. “Now, show me the puffer fish again. I actually like that one.” Aly pursed her lips and pumped away as they moved on.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” he said as they approached the office, “Walking is so invigorating, know what I mean?” he teased. “It’s clear above the noise. At least for a while. I walk like this every day, I go crazy otherwise.” “Want to go to the bar tonight?” she asked, returning the shirt he’d given her to clean herself. “I don’t drink, not anymore. You still the only one working the front office?” She nodded, a little put out. He thought a bit, “I start my walks at that park, 8:00 AM sharp. That’s enough time to join me before your shift. It’s on you if you come along, but I won’t carry you.” “Okay,” she said, but was still down. “I’m putting you in a strictly restricted friend zone. Understand? How’s that for discipline?”
“Listen,” he told her while holding open the door, “It’s a tragedy, not a drama. Understand? Nothing will change until you do. It’s as easy as being honest with yourself and not caring what others think. If your partner isn’t willing to meet you halfway, move on.” “You know, I just learned that recently myself.” “You sure you didn’t learn it from me, just now?”