Third Chapter - A Supranational World
As Emily drives across New Mexico,
the speed limit plus five (she thinks subconscious even as she sees the scenery
rush by a little too fast), the sky seems a perfect blue, not even the faintest
wither of a cloud, and then she sees her car’s thermometer clamber past 100 and
she brushes a bit of sweat from her brow. Down to Roswell to meet a guy just so
she can bring him home to her parents. Sure, she has business there too, but
isn’t that what Skype is for? The movements of the road begin to become subconscious,
as the asphalt stretches out straight and infinite, and all the other traffic
seems to vanish. She keeps catching the speedometer drifting upwards, turns up
the music, Cecil Taylor’s “Unit Structures,” an album she has compared on
numerous occasions to falling in love - she wants to understand it, but can’t,
and knows she should like it, but just can’t force her brain around its most
basic processes.
Her Land Rover fits this earth, a
symbol of absolute colonial control over the patches of ground that can only
ever truly belong to shifting sands and pure blue sky, and yet the great
colonialists claim still to own here above all else. A car built to make its
driver feel as though, out here, even out here, especially out here, nothing
can touch them.
Between Lincoln County and Roswell
there is not but earth and monuments to what came before, entire towns
demarcated on GPS now nothing more than an abandoned building or two lay next
to a half-fallen post box, Kochia growing up and swallowing last symbols of
civilization back unto the earth. A few semis use the empty roads as easy
shipping routes, but most of the time even they keep a distance away from this
land of decay, and all is silent but for the cry of crickets, Desert Sage
rustling in the breeze.
Then a great rumbling screams across
this barren earth, starting low, the level of a nightclub base line, a sound
you feel while still you know not if it’s real, before, with the grace of the
doppler effect, it rises upwards to a screeching treble, and when again it’s
gone there the asphalt already near-boiled under New Mexico sun lays now even
hotter.
He went with the car instead of the
bike - he wanted to make a good impression, afterall. In some prior life the
thing had been a 1970 Dodge Challenger R/T, but it is useless to focus on one
so long dead, a name attributed to an idea, a time in automotive design that,
while Emile held it in certain respect, so too did he find it outdated. Power
steering and power braking, a brand new acceleration system, roll cage (just in
case), new engine, blower, he even lost the ridiculous radio antenna off the
front, replaced instead with satellite. Inwards so too modernized, a full GPS
system, side and rear facing cameras connected to a full HD monitor. He was, he
figured, ready for the end of days.
We all think we’re ready right up until days end and we realize just how
dependent we were on the basic cycles, even out here where day and night are
dictated by sun and moon rather than the gravitational overpower of 9-5.
Emile arrives in the parking lot of
the cheap burger joint Emily suggested meeting at a full fifteen minutes early,
and, rather than going inside, he sets in his car (the old bench seats long
replaced with buckets), questioning whether he still has time to give this up,
just go back to his fortress in the desert, and never speak to his family
again, for he knows at heart that if he goes home alone once more, a part of
his mother may just die, and a part of his father might never again grant him
the faintest modicum of respect.
The car’s clock (one of the few
parts still analoge against a digital age) ticks away the seconds, and yet he
doesn’t move
Emily, on the other hand, pulls up
exactly on time, immediately leaves her vehicle, locking it behind her, then
stands stock still, facing the restaurant, a dull breeze blowing behind her,
the lone tumbleweed amongst garbage a casual fuck-you. She considers why she’s
here, maybe at this diner, maybe in this state, in this life, on this earth,
existing still at all, what’s the point? Creating an empire then using it
simply to satisfy her parents, when does it end? So she turns on the heel of
one of her bespoke cowboy boots, flight in mind, when fate makes its last
little push to shove its separated soul back together, and Emile, courage
finally in hand, moves towards the door as Emily moves away, and the two almost
collide, before, fate, again weighing in, seeming this time to making an honest
effort to avoid a true romantic comedy deus-ex, stops Emile dead in his tracks,
leaving the two an inch to spare of humiliation, and both thinking about some
moment in a high school hallway, rushing to class, books flung every which way
and muttered apologies and protracted attempts to avoid the slightest eye
contact.
“Holy shit.” Emily reacts first.
“Sorry.”
“Hey, no worries, you didn’t
actually walk into me.”
“Yeah.”
“Uh... are you?”
“Emily?”
“Emily?”
“Emile?”
“Shit.”
“Yeah.”
“Uh...” Emile glances about, rubs
his arm nervously. “Should we, maybe, go inside?”
“Sure, yeah.”
Up to the counter they step,
slightly out of sync with each other, maybe intentionally, or maybe
subconscious. Then, once more, at the counter, fate takes hold and, the
restaurant empty, all hands on deck, their orders are taken simultaneously, and,
just out of ear contact with each other, they accidentally order the same dish,
an observation that, when it emerges casually from the mouth of one of the
counter staff, is a point of mutual contrition and, it is agreed upon quickly,
equal embarrassment. The order is not unusual, in fact, if the question was
posed to the staff, they might suggest that a green chilli cheeseburger is
their most popular item. Paired with diet Coke, even, is quite common. Where
the situation became unusual was in the specificity of the differences, Emile’s
insistence on extra pickles, Emily’s insistence on none, Emile’s choice of
mustard, Emily’s of ketchup. These choices, slight in the Grand Scheme of
Things, act as a quiet symbol of connectivity on some level of genetic sandwich
design (if your dad likes onions on his burgers, will you?), and, maybe, just
maybe, the soul (if the you of a past life liked onions on their burgers, will
you?).
But sandwiches and the soul are two
very different things.
“So.” Emile starts then stops again.
“I don’t really know what we’re
supposed to talk about here.”
“The site had a primer...”
“I know. I, well, I was supposed
to... my secretary... uh... do you know who I am?”
“You own a company. A big one.”
“Yeah. A big one. Uh...
Apostates.com is one of our... products.”
“Oh.”
“It was one of my personal projects,
actually. My parents...” She makes a noise half laugh and half cough.
“I get you.”
“Yeah, I suppose you would.”
“So what, you drove all the way down
to Roswell to meet a match? The site seems to be doing well, I would have
thought you could have done fine up in Albuquerque.”
“Eh, you’d think so.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, well, hell, I wrote the
fucking algorithm. You’d think I’d be doing great. But truth be told, you’re
the first real match the system has made for me.”
“Probably says more about our folks
than it does about us.”
“Yeah.” They pause, bite into their
burgers, and, it is noticed by the janitor mopping silently in the corner, that
the motions of their jaws match each other perfectly. Emile breaks the silence.
“Maybe we should talk about our
parents?”
“Yeah, that would be a good starting point.”
“Yeah, that would be a good starting point.”
“So, I mean, I’ve got to say, I’m a
little confused... you’ve got to be worth a hell of a lot of money, you’re
really successful, but you still need some website to get your parents to leave
you alone?”
“Yeah, well, I never quite was what
they wanted.”
“What did they want?”
“An artistic type. One who actually
made a little money, sure, but, well, my mom is a successful painter, my dad
writes movies. Coming from that, I think you can kind of figure I’m a failure
in their eyes. I’m single, with no sign of that changing. I don’t really give a
shit about much beyond my company.”
“And why is that?”
“Heh, it’s not easy to explain. I just, I’ve always had this desire to build something, something great that will stand the test of time. And more than just another web whatever point O company, instead, something to challenge the way we live and think. A company more powerful than a nation, with the right... the right ideology.”
“Heh, it’s not easy to explain. I just, I’ve always had this desire to build something, something great that will stand the test of time. And more than just another web whatever point O company, instead, something to challenge the way we live and think. A company more powerful than a nation, with the right... the right ideology.”
“I looked you up. You own mines,
pharmaceuticals, arms manufacturers, hell, even a PMC or two.”
“Necessary evils, in my mind, at
least. Especially if they are held in the right hands. Turn on the news, see
what governments have managed to do, a world where we always work ourselves to
death for money that’s meaningless. So I thought, maybe we rebuild ground up,
create a supranational world, where we all are given the opportunity to live
the lives we want.” He casts her a rather questioning glance. “Oh Jesus Christ,
now I sound like a fucking James Bond villain.” She stares out the window
listlessly, but he smiles at her.
“C’mon now. I live in the middle of
the desert alone in a house I designed myself driving home made cars and
motorbikes, drinking and writing, hanging out with alcoholics and
schizophrenics, wishing death on the world. I’m half Cormac McCarthy sub-plot,
half late-period Fitzgerald. We all have our cliches.”
“Ha, well, I think most people would
rank Bond Villain a little lower on the social ladder than modern hermit.”
“Most people don’t know shit. Bond’s
a sociopathic womanizer. The villains always aspire to something more than
violence. Except, you know, the shitty Pierce Brosnan era ones.”
“You strike me as a Roger Moore
fan.”
“Oh yeah, got me there.” Each of the
words he lets drip with sarcasm.
They both start laughing, and the staff, they all glance at the two,
confused, slightly, the man looking climbed just now from under a rock, living
amongst the rattlesnakes and the Desert Mallow and the Sand Verbena and the
coyotes and carrion, and she climbed out of the back of a world that doesn’t
seem to exist down in Roswell any more, just aliens, wealthy farmers, and a
whole collection of American refuse.
“So what about you, Emile... what’re
your parent's’ problem with you?”
“They wanted someone who’d get a
good job, probably a great job, make a ton of money, settle down somewhere
hospitable and connected, be the sort that they could tell the three friends
they have left between the two of them what a fucking success I am. They wanted
me to get a nice wife who works another sensible, well paying job, have a
couple of kids to fucking hate. But, really, the wife and kids were always
secondary to the money.”
“Sounds like we’d do well to switch
parents.”
“If only, right?”
“If only if only.”
“What do you hope to get out of this
then, Emily? Someone to post pictures with on Facebook so your parents leave
you the fuck alone? Like, what’s the next step, I mean.”
“Honestly? I need someone to bring
to Christmas next year. Every year it’s the same fucking conversation. ‘Emily
honey, you’re getting older, you need to meet someone while you’re still young
and pretty.’ Fuck that shit.” In this moment, Emily looks about as pretty as
the tailless old tom cat that sometimes follows Diablo in his dealings, her
fists bunched in quiet anger, the muscles of her face pinched, and yet her
eyes, they betray tragedy, death more closely pursuing every second of every
day, just need to keep the right edge the curve...
“Yeah, don’t disagree with you on
that. We love our families because we’re told to love our families, and because
they paid for us to live whatever shitty lives we lead now, but does that
justify years of emotional manipulation and abuse? I mean... shit... I don’t
want to write my own tragedies onto you, but...”
“No, you’re right. And yet still we
seek their approval.”
“Meeting strangers in wind blown
cafes in the middle of Nowhere New Mexico in the name of finally making them
happy.” He pauses. “So I have to kind of ask... I don’t know. I don’t know if
this is something I’m supposed to ask on this fucking thing, but whatever,
flying blind here... Why did you give up on actually finding someone?”
“It’s not worth it. It’s not worth
the constant fight that, in the end, I’m always going to lose. I have what I
want, what I need. My company, my empire. My Great Creation. I built it all
from nothing, and it’s going to change the world. And it won’t get angry at me
when I work late. It doesn’t need me to ditch out on an important meeting to
pick it up from school. It won’t just fucking leave me. It doesn’t care that
what makes me happy is what I’m expected to just care about as long as it keeps
it going. I’m in love, sure, but it’s something deeper... Jesus... now I sound
like the Fitzgerald character.”
“We all have our moments.”
“So what about you, why’d you give
up?”
“Anxiety. Depression, paranoia, a
whole laundry list.”
“You seem alright to me.”
“Sure. We can talk, talk forever,
but that doesn’t mean I could ever love you like I’m supposed to. It would kill
me. I fall for my waitress every time I go into town for a slice of pie, and
that’s enough to start me downing bottles of whiskey, putting my fist through
walls, screaming at nothing. I can’t fucking do it. I tried so hard for so
long, and it was killing me. I did finally actually fall in love, eventually,
but it didn’t make me happy, the opposite, actually. The closer we got, the
more I felt the need to just run, run forever until I fell off the edge of the
earth. I, uh, well this girl and me, we finally had sex. I don’t know if I
should get into this, but, well, I had a panic attack. For a week afterwards, I
didn’t leave my room, just sat in the dark. It took months before I could even
talk to other people again. Over the course of the whole episode, I managed to
lose thirty pounds, drop out of college, and almost kill myself. And then I
thought back to what my life was like before me and this girl ever got
together, and I realized, well, it wasn’t Disney Channel happy, but it would
do. I was content as long as I was on my own, living the life I wanted, writing
the things I found beautiful. So that was that.”
“And then you moved to the middle of
nowhere in Lincoln County.”
“Yeah. Being around people too much
makes me lonely, reminds me of what I’ll never have. Jealous. Out in the
desert, all you have to be jealous of are the fucking Jackals, for their lives
of perfect nothing.”
“But that still leaves your
parents.”
“Yup.”
“I get it. So you’re a writer then,
that pays the bills?”
“Hah, well that’s the funny thing. I
am a writer, and a damn good one at that. Thing is though, damn good writers
don’t make enough to buy and fix up a 70’ Challenger R/T. I write erotica on
the side. I’m one of the most successful writers of male-perspective erotica in
the world. Different name, of course. I wonder what my readers would think if
they knew I’ve only had sex once.”
“I guess you must study the subject
pretty hard then.”
“Pornography is one of my favorite
hobbies.”
“I have no idea how you’re still
single.”
“Fucking hilarious.”
“So what do you think?”
“About?”
“Is this going to work?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether, in my parents’ company,
you can pretend to be the person everyone on earth seems to think you are, as
opposed to the one sitting across from me now.” She greets him with a smile wry
and tired and a little bit broken.
“Make comments as elegantly writerly
as that and my parents will dig you. Just keep your mouth shut about the
erotica.”
“Isn’t it funny?”
“What?”
“I feel in a way like we’re somehow
different parts of the same complete person, what should’ve been one become
instead as two. Born complete, we could have done something great. As is,
however, we can barely function, reliant instead upon the will of machines to
bring us unto the image our parents wish to bestow upon us.”
“Jesus.”
“What?”
“You talk like you write.” He smiles
briefly.
“Once in awhile. Mostly I just
alienate people. Or piss em’ off.”
“Yeah, I can see that.”
“Where do do we go from here then?
Do I just show up at one of your family dinners?”
“You could, but I run a social media
empire. It might raise some eyebrows. We need a picture from one of our “dates”
to overshare with the universe.”
“Sure.”
The two lean in close together, and
Emily puts her arm around Emile’s shoulder, and at this he startles slightly,
and she thinks to say something to this, but finds her mind run suddenly blank
of words. In this first settling of connection as flesh touches most briefly
flesh, if this tale were as many (most) that beset themselves upon us, the two
might now feel the first lingerings of love, some suggestions at stirrings in
the nether regions, fluttering of the heart, a slight sweat on the brow.
But this is not one of those tales.
There is a feeling at this touch, beyond the discomfort, but it is not love,
rather something else, that perhaps of two twins separated by an eternity found
each other for a first time and hopefully for an only time (never need again
separate), and this touch symbolizing a settling of electrons back into their
natural state, a formation of a perfect covalent bond, from where once was only
the mighty flashing fluttering of oblivion and chaos.
As the shutter on the phone camera
slams down, and light is dispensed invisibly inwards onto the lens, and the
image that once was now is, this time replicated in pixel form for all time,
behind the two, on the busy street, a homeless man wanders into traffic, and
cars swerve to avoid him, drivers lean on horns, but hear he does not, and
above him he waves a sign proclaiming that the end, it’s really fucking nigh,
and he may be right in this (is right in this), and as the traffic surges
around him, as water rushing up about a rock in a river, somewhere in southern
India, a child coughs heavily, and, when she takes her hand away, sights blood,
and she begins to cry and her father cries too, and they know that what comes
now knocking at the door is the Angel of Death but what they don’t yet know is
that those who ride with him are the other three horsemen, dragging the
apocalypse behind them, and, meanwhile, in a small bar in Athens, a handsome
young man sips languorously of Ouzo and speaks of organizing together and doing
something about the fucking filth coming to infect Old Europe, and in a few
years the same man will be giving the same lecture, now to hundreds of
thousands as, all around him and his listeners, the economy of Old Europe runs
its course down the bowl, past the closet bend, through the city sewer
system, into a filtration plant, then, finally, is dumped summarily into the
sea, and by this point, not even the Great American Leviathan will be able to
shelter itself from the horsemen, now legion, and two people, that initial
moment guaranteed eternal by the shutter, will live together in a house on the
edge of a desert, watching the last lights of civilization flicker out, as yet
the stars persevere above, and remaining from that moment in the little diner
in Roswell, they have still the one last Thing left to any of the last remnants
of humanity, and the covalent bond of their touch still remains, even as the
young man who once liked to drink Ouzo rots in the streets of Athens from a
bullet issued forth from his own gun, blood of his countrymen spilled around
him, despite all his hatred to the contrary, and as the moon rises over the
desert in ten thousand years, a ray of silver light will cast out, through the
long shattered windows of the home, over a concrete countertop, past a long
rusted faucet, before running headlong into a faded, tattered photograph stuck
to a decayed refrigerator, and from that photograph onto the moon will gaze
Emily and Emile, friendship struck in the moment in the diner now eternal,
against all time.
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