I am spending the rest of my money right now, today. To be honest, I prefer pizza, but no, I’m going to get a steak, and I mean a monster steak with martinis and appetizers and two desserts down at the Dingo. But first I’m going to pay back Joey, even though he’s going down there tomorrow with the rest of us, to get in line for the Free Ride. I need to pay him tonight, while it still means something. Before they start cutting checks. Jesus, how long have I been standing here? I can’t believe it, I won’t be broke tomorrow. Tomorrow the wait is over and I’m home free.
They have these floating chandeliers down there at the Dingo. You can see them all the way from the Needle, huge knots of glowing kelp-like autosquirmers glifting [sic] the vaulted glass curves of the Dingo dome. Those chandeliers are famous things, actually, the largest holograms on this oil slick coast. Holograms always feel cheap to me, something you want but won’t or can’t pay for. These monsters, however, are in a class of their own. Only places like the Dingo can afford this level of fake. And now, in a sense, so can I.
I probably should buy some new clothes from the free pile, grab a little fashion upgrade. I deserve it. I just don’t spend money on clothes if I can help it. Or haircuts. Sometimes I starve a little. I save as much money as I can get away with, anything that doesn’t support all our different portable devices. Every one of us is through Viceroy and if anybody’s account gets delinquent, it's all shut down. There are days I can't even ride the bus, or sometimes I’m so broke I can’t even lock my apartment. That no longer matters. What matters to me is that the Dingo is money and I’m going to pay for it all, just me and myself under laser seaweed, reading a physical newspaper and laughing myself silly. I'm happy as I will ever be, starting at this moment.
Whatever you want to say about him, whatever you think about what's right and wrong in the world, Richie Rich is creating a lot of happiness out of thin air. Like magic. It is magic. This one guy, this one beautiful rich, rich, rich man, has succeeded in cutting through the bullshit and doing something decent for the people of planet earth. Well, for the national economy at least. For me, at the very least. This may as well be a gift from god. And I promise I won’t fuck it up. Jesus, I could start skipping right now.
I had been planning on paying Joey back for a couple of weeks now, ever since it became obvious that Richie Rich was really going through with this after all, litigation notwithstanding. But I just haven’t been able to get around to Joey’s. Too many things were in the way, you know, like I still had to go to work, as stipulated in the Free Ride Agreement, and there were all those community meetings at the YMCA, “in anticipation of a favorable ruling” the ULCC lawyers said. And then there were all the parties we’ve been throwing at the lake, like every other night, wasting ammo like there’s no tomorrow and clearing keg after keg, celebrating ourselves and how lucky we are.
I pick up the pace, shifting all my newspapers from under one arm to the other because the right one’s going to sleep now. I’m heading up to Blanchtown, along Regrade Ridge. To think of all the time I wasted there on at the corner of Bellchard and Blanch, playing hacky sack and smoking meth when we couldn’t get anything stronger. Misguided youth. Most those guys never even took the Standard. They would all get jobs with the Port right out of the box or move to China like everyone else. But now, those of us who stayed behind are finally going to get a piece of the pie.
Well, most of us are. There’s always people who fall through cracks. I had a friend we all called Testing. Not a winner but he got by just fine, neural implant and a library card even though he was functionally illiterate. And then poof, he came down with asyndrome, and now he is living out in Mo[bile]! City 3. I caught a glimpse of his profile on Mo’ Futur the other day. Deep yellow grin peeking out through bird nest beard. It’s kind of sad that he doesn’t qualify for the Free Ride. Folks like Testing are left behind by design.
Richie Rich has an online form that calculates whether or not you qualify. All you need to do is just put in your federal ID, answer some yes or no questions, take the Online Oath, and the page does the rest. Of course, everything is biometrically confirmed at the disbursal site. There are some other rules that don’t apply to me, or at least I don’t think they do. If it turns out I overlooked something and get disqualified, I’ll probably kill myself. Either way, I need to go spend all my money before I run out of time.
No wait— can I really afford the Dingo if I want to pay Joey back? I should check my balance on my wallet, let’s see… $13,370, pending charges notwithstanding, so I bet it’s more like $12,000, so yes, I can just barely do Joey and the Dingo and still have enough left over to blow on something stupid. Or maybe I’ll buy flowers for mom. Yeah, that will look great. Armloads of carnations and newspapers. I'm downloading other newspapers as well but I’ve bought every physical daily I have come across, something for my descendants if I ever have any. I’ll be buying print all week, but starting tomorrow, it's someone else's money. I’ve got seven under my arm, all with basically the same headline—‘Injunction Lifted’. I wonder if these papers will be worth money someday. Wouldn’t that be rich? Ha, oh man, I am on a roll.
I'm now at the corner of Bellchard and Blanch. It's seriously fucked up, even moreso than when I was a kid. I'm talking open air cigarette markets, the day squats, the Cancun Coolio franchises with burnout salad bars. The old animal mart caught fire and wiped out half of the block and they still haven't hauled away the mess. A quarter of the people on the street are visibly charcoaled and swollen with Hepatitis P, socks or rags sticking out of their mouths to sop up the drool. The ‘risk zones’ and cameras, the K-9 pop-ups, a neighborhood with caged dogs and response times under a minute. I hustle past a handful of convenience carts and mom-and-pop computer swaps, and it looks like the last of the space-age box condos got bulldozed for dereliction. I guess city council never made good on it's promise to "turn things around". I take a shortcut through the lumpy irregular meadow of chewed up foundation and rebar stumps, my head held high.
Free Ride registration occurs just a few blocks away, and I can already see all the major networks encampments from here. They’re packing it in, too, lining up station by station, an orderly series of oversized white Techloradone shelters and RVs. Stun cops have already cordoned off the last few blocks with a large blinking ‘NO’ sign, forcing the foot traffic and day drifters to snake through the media village.
It doesn’t look like open harassment, but I’m still not very comfortable walking through all that commotion, considering how stoned I am and how much I hate crowds. The alternative is to loop back to the Needle and that is unacceptable. I stop at the corner of Fifth and Jobs, breathing heavy and watching the mob pulse toward a jumbotron beaming a single stark 3 word slogan:
YOU ARE HERE
Cops have pitched their own camp, long black detention buses circled like a pioneer wagon party. Richie Rich really has really put the police through their paces with all this. I’ve seen patrol trikes circling the stadium since Tuesday. Rumors they’ve even been arresting people for “proximity breach” earlier than the official start tomorrow morning. Of course, that doesn’t stop people from trying. I wonder who’s paying for them anyway, the cops. Richie Rich can’t possibly be paying for all the cops, that’s not his style. The city must be paying for it. I hitch up my collar and march along with the flow of pedestrians.
Jesus, look at them all. Like they’re pooling into eventual riot. Well, I suppose they are, actually, or something close. Everybody knows it’s going to be unmanageable down there tomorrow, not to mention all the protests and counter protests. The unwisdom of crowds. My breath catches uncomfortably. I wish I still smoked cigarettes, but at $500 a pack I may as well get an implant. I pop some gum (of which I currently have 10 different varieties in my pockets, another splurge). I suck in my gut. I follow the throng with my head down.
Channel 5’s camera tank is parked in the middle of the street. Man, it’s peak entertainment to watch that thing get tossed around. What happens is, the tank creeps into the sea of people who faithfully surge around it like a school of piranha. The steadycam in the tank has no problem dealing with being flipped, the articulated neck giving that signature Channel 5 “roll camera” footage. It’s crazy to witness in person but, honestly, it’s even better on video.
I pass channel 5 and the grade starts to level off a bit. The crowd starts to get a little denser, all brisk walking, people jostling, bumping me, reflexively sizing me up if they even register my presence. The din is amazing. The majority are talking on their devices or into cameras or just yelling into the air for someone who may or may not be listening or even able to hear them. I’m getting little snippets here and there as I wade through:
“…Lisa, I don’t care. Look, if you have to choose, go to the governor thing ‘cause it’s good copy, but I think you can do both…”
“…seriously unusual for both sides to be up in arms like this. Even the Salvation Army, seriously…”
“Yes, I know…. yes, I know, but they’re bound to lose funding over this, and they’re not going to just come out and say that. Just you wait, they’re going to frame it like some sort of misguided or inappropriate…"
“…has not quelled nationwide appeals for intervention. For Channel 7, this is Tina Smothers reporting, back to you Tom…”
“…well ask, damnit! What, are we just supposed to park the fucking thing on Fourth? No, we need the space, we were told that we would get the space, and it’s your job to…”
Now that I think of it, nobody seems to be talking to anyone who is physically present. The two in front of me with matching photographer’s vests and branded ball caps are walking side by side in lock step, heads down, yapping away and I honestly don’t think they know the other one is there. Just as I have this thought, they briefly collide as they cross in front of each other, one veering into the Channel 50 van with a comic thud as the other pirouettes and is seamlessly carried along by the flow of bodies.
The terrain turns steeper at the regrade, pitching down towards what’s already being referred to as Ground Zero. Throngs of people are busy hooking up cables or stacking cases of bottled water or yelling at someone that they can’t see. Here’s two bigshots making a big scene out of bickering in public. A mustachioed man with acne scars and a top bun woman in a pleated power dress. I think the woman is an anchor on a national program. The man’s got some piece of equipment that almost looks like a weapon and as I pass closer, I try to make out what it is.
Yes, he’s definitely fiddling with some weird gun looking thing while breathlessly carrying on the argument. I think he might be trying to load it, he’s bent awkwardly at the hip as he gropes at the contraption. I try to steer my body away from the pair but I’m hemmed in by the foot traffic. A chrome cylinder slips from his grasp and begins a rapid tumble down the slope.
Now it’s escalating, she’s trying to grab the device from him and he’s struggling back. Top-bun’s shouting becomes so loud it’s intelligible, but turns out to be nothing more than repetitions on the theme of “Goddamn it, Tony, goddamn it, Tony, GODDAMN IT TONY!!!” ramping up her pitch each time she says his name.
Then the device goes off into the ground with a deep pop and completely envelops them in a swirling cloud of pink smoke. I break into a jog and instinctively pull the neckline of my t-shirt up over my mouth. Two cops already in gas masks come running in, knocking me off balance as they elbow past me. I stagger and catch hold of somebody’s jacket to keep from falling. The newspapers fan out and away from under my arm in a neat arc. I push off the rando and cut through the crosscurrent into a corner market. The sound of confused swearing is swallowed by the panicked shouts of “Tear gas!” as I pull the glass door shut. The sounds of the street are all but snuffed out as the door settles into its seal.
I’m holding the crash bar with both hands, pulling taught against… Who, exactly? My heart is pounding. There’s an overhead speaker somewhere playing the news. I loosen my grip, abruptly self-conscious, palms clammy against the bar. And then I notice the owner’s glare in the reflection in the glass. I don’t feel like going to Joey’s as much anymore. I don’t want to see people, I’m too wound up. He’ll understand. Maybe I’ll see him in line tomorrow. I need to spend more money faster.
I know. Maybe I’ll buy some snacks, maybe chips and salsa or freezeless ice cream. That’s the spirit! Take it with me into the Dingo. Check my groceries with the old maître d' along with my coat. I sure need a coat. I let go of the door and turn around as casually as I can muster. The store’s stocked, at least. Ball caps. Corn puffs. The usual shit. They’ve got to have at least one suit in my size. I smile dumbly at the owner who returns a curt nod.
”Where’s the single use aisle?”
”You’re standing in it.”
Oh my god, so I am. And there’s my suit! Say what you like about fast fashion, but the quality on these babies keeps improving, I just don’t know how they do it. Maybe I should go for a nautical theme, or maybe fish skin. You know, to complement the Dingo’s vibe. I would totally order fish, too, if I didn’t have my heart set on steak. That suit on the right is nautical enough, I guess. Closer to star ship captain but it’ll fit. I hope it’s the scented kind.
I look up and note that the TV above the counter is muted. The voice from the speaker, wherever it is, sounds not very network, more like government or C suite. I unfasten the suit bag from the electromagnets as the voice gets somberer, “Ladies and gentlemen, not since the previous administration have these most bedrock, the most essential conceits of our society been challenged in such a short sighted and non-consensual…”
Along the counter, I see all the physical media splayed out in a low wall between me and the owner. Variation of the same meme on the cover, the infamous golden throne and him sitting there, signing the “Magic Trust” with that maniac grin of his beaming straight into the cameras. Headlines, on the other hand, are conspicuously different than the papers I bought earlier, the ones I just dropped before I ran in here. “Quadrillion Dollar Man Gets His Way”, “Green Light for Free Ride”, “Dawn Of The FCFS Welfare State”. This is really happening. I choke back a burst of giggling, eyeing the owner sheepishly.
I feel like this is live filibuster because, whoever this stuffed shirt is, they’re just getting started. Trotting out the Great Hack Dump. That time when some hacker, anonymous to this day, increased the balance on everyone's bank accounts to exactly one billion dollars. Technically they still haven’t sorted it out. It never did anything for me, though, didn’t make a difference that made a difference that lasted. I may have gone to the Dingo back then, too. I guess that’s my stock reaction to opportunity. I still ended up on the hook for the bill. Things were simpler back then.
On the aisle is a caddy with a bunch of arrows pointing to disposable sunglasses. I’m gonna get a gross of sunglasses. That’s a dozen boxes of a dozen sunglasses. Why not. Yes. I’ll have to ask but they’ll probably have several gross in the back, and if they don’t, I don’t actually care. I get a little light headed. I walk down the aisle and pass a stock ticker kiosk, one of the ones that look kinda like a fire hydrant. I check my portfolio just for kicks. Pretty much flatline. I check the globals. Nothing going on, no orange alert, not even yellow alert. That’s weird, I would have thought that Wall Street would be hysterical. But no, we get “markets calm, forecast unclear.” Ominous but boring. I open my wallet and sync up my portfolio, looking back and forth between the kiosk and the wallet, feeling that familiar twinge of low grade envy and suspicion, the sense that I’m missing out on all the action that matters. I bet a lot of big bets are paying off right around now. I let the sync fully play out, staring at the nachos hologram for a couple of minutes before closing my wallet and approaching the counter.
Magazines and daily papers wrap around the plate glass booth island. The owner’s head is cradled in both hands, attention directed at a muted television while the radio continues muttering in the background. On the TV, they’re showing a closeup of Tony’s tear gas discharge, in slo motion. I shake my head a bit. Is that what just happened to me? Sure enough. It’s them, right outside. Two network stooges fighting in slo-mo, and then the gun goes off and I see myself pull my shirt up and jog. I look like a crook. I look involved somehow. Maybe I should stay in the store for a while longer.
I rush to a narrow slit of a side window behind the blackjack machine to take stock of what’s going on outside. Everything seems as before, swarming people and flashing lights. Busy, but transient. Everyone is headed somewhere else. I plug my wallet into blackjack, and start in with the dollar bets. I’m surprised there are so few customers, actually. I have the whole place to myself, now that I think of it. I could probably rob it if I really wanted to. I’d have to buy the gun first and then “pull it”, it’s almost cliché. We all know the plate glass can take it but he’d just roll over anyway, take the tort insurance payouts. Probably come out ahead. I feel bad for the guy. Business owners don’t qualify for the Free Ride. He’ll probably still be earning more than me, but not by much. And at least I won’t have to put up with being robbed.
The front door pulls open and street noises bust into the store, making me jump. Oh god, is it the cops? Did I fuck this up after all? I didn’t do anything! This is so unfair! I shrink down behind the blackjack machine and peek. Oh good, not cops after all. Relax. It’s just a normal person in a hoodie. Purchasing a gun. I think I’ve been holding my breath this whole time. Pointing the gun at the plate glass. Oh, come on. I look up and see I’m steadily winning at blackjack. I exhale, click “smart bet” and step out from behind the machine.
“You don’t need to do this, man.”
Hoodie maybe doesn’t hear me because they’re busy robbing the owner. I can still stop this, I don’t want to be implicated in a crime today. Not now, I’m too close. Everybody is essentially reasonable, I just need to spell it out. I raise my voice.
“Free Ride’s got this all sorted out.”
Without turning, Hoodie matches my volume in response.
“I don’t care. Fuck Richie Rich.”
Good, I don’t care if he cares, I just need to keep up the conversation.
“You don’t need to do this.”
“I would rather do this than Free Ride.”
This is not the time for debating merits and risks. I change tack.
”Can you do me a favor?”
Hoodie straightens up, takes a step back. The owner looks on, gives me a tiny wave, and points up to plastic signage reading “Destruction of property is a CRIME.” I press my case.
“Just please please please don’t rob this store today. If you do this, I’m going to get arrested for nothing and the Free Ride is off the table for me.”
My eyebrow is quivering. This is embarrassing. I probably look like I’m going to cry. Gotta get it together. Hoodie is now facing me full on, gun extended.
“I need this. Please.”
Hoodie frowns, then releases an exasperated sigh, gun drooping but not dropped.
“You’re not going to get arrested.”
”There’s a chance, you know there’s a chance. There’s always a chance.”
I fold my hands in a kind of pleading gesture. The gun sinks further as Hoodie’s brow furrows.
”Please. I’ll transfer a thousand bucks to you, right now. Look, I’ll give you all my money. Last time I checked I was winning at blackjack. You can have that too. Rob me instead. I won’t report you, I’ve got too much to lose.”
”…”
”Please.”
”…”
”Come on. Please. I’m begging you.”
“Whatever, fine. I needed a new gun anyway.”
The owner nods appreciatively, then turns back towards the muted TV. Hoodie puts the pistol in a back pocket and walks towards the door. Before I can check myself, I blurt out after Hoodie.
”Hey, you know there’s nothing wrong with accepting a gift when it’s offered. I mean, when you think about it, where do you think Richie Rich got all that money in the first place? That’s right. It was you and me. I’m just making myself whole again! Wait, don’t you want all my money?!”
The response, if there is one, is drowned out by the ongoing clamor of street noises as the door seals closed, thick glass flickering with the pulsing reflections of the situation lights.