Please remember that the audio was recorded by Nil Desperandum and is still available for listening and download here.
Some Things Never Change
Jim Gable cradled a cheap plastic grocery bag between his arm and ribcage because the handles had broken. He walked with his head down, on autopilot. Tweets crawled across his screen- old and new were seconds apart- from friends seemingly compelled to announce every detail of their lives. Half of them weren’t friends, not in the old sense of the word. These days the world was your friend. A woman walking her dog sniffed at him as she passed.
He spoke into the phone. “I’m taking a shit, period.”
Animated letters danced across the screen. Apple thought its genius was the Oracle, but the real Einstein had created the dancing letters. Everybody sent messages just to watch them tap, shimmy, and shake. At least Jim did, therefore he was certain everyone else did too. Of course no one would admit it. What was the old saying? Lame? Yep, that was the word. There had been an article in the E-New York Times recently: ‘Top 100 Archaic Words Making a Comeback.’ He thought lame had been mentioned.
“Phone, search for articles about archaic words making a comeback. Locate lamewithin articles,” Jim said.
The phone quickly located a dozen articles about archaic words, highlighted passages containing lame, and ranked them by number of hits. Jim did not get a chance to read any of it. Ben typed, ‘I’m going to take a piss.’ And Emily wrote, ‘My vagina’s on fire.’ Lots of people had something to say about that. The conversation started with ‘TMI’ (too much information) and degraded quickly into a guessing game about which STD Emily had contracted.
Jim marched up the steps to his apartment building, his attention rapt on the tweets (and trying to think of his own response to Emily, one that didn’t sound lame). He switched hands, juggling the groceries and the phone. With his freed hand he reached out and tried to punch in the building’s security code, but the number pad was not where he had expected. He reached farther, blindly poking at the air.
“Aha!”
He had it. The witty comeback to Emily’s Tweet that would throw everybody into stitches of laughter (and later be tagged on AnyUS, UWorld and Worldfun, and with luck, get on ABC Oddcast for everyone to Tweet about.) He wrote, ‘When it gets that sore it’s time to turn off the vibrator,’ and stepped closer to the building, still searching for the keypad. He started to lose his balance. Looking up didn’t even cross his mind. His building was just… a little… farther…
It was not.
The stairs ended ten feet above a grassless patch of dirt where his apartment building had been. Jim wobbled on the edge, experiencing the vertigo all portable device users suffered from (if ever they looked up.) The anti-techers said technologies like the Oracle had ruined the world. For the first time in his life, Jim could understand why.
His phone flew from his hand, the groceries fell to the dirt, and he wobbled there, arms out spread and flapping like a bird, until gravity pulled him down. Jim held his breath. He didn’t know why. He wasn’t jumping into a pool.
When he struck the ground, it felt more like landing on cement than dirt. For a few seconds, moments that ticked away a life time, Jim could not breathe. He believed he was dying or already dead. His life flashed before his eyes: He was a little kid on a tricycle. He was the boy who ate worms to impress the girls. (How come it never worked?) He was the only seventeen-year-old on Earth driving a twenty-year-old “Smart for Two.” (Try making love in that!)
Jim made a silent promise to change, (getting laid for starters) if only God would let him live.
He sucked in delicious it-hurt-to-breathe air. Jim lingered on the brink of death- or so he thought- for what felt like hours. Seconds had passed, when finally, he decided, with relief he would live. He groaned, picked his face up off the dirt, and spit a pebble from his mouth. There was a scratch on his forehead, and his nose was bleeding; the blood had ruined his D’Ion shirt-fifteen hundred bucks down the drain. And he still might die a virgin.
“God, what did I ever do to you?” He cried out.
He waited for an answer. The neighborhood was quiet (except for the traffic, and car the horns, and “get the fuck out of the road you idiot.” But for New York that’s quiet.) Jim crawled over to his iPhone X, wincing with the pain. He picked up the device and cradled it like an infant. He stroked the dusty touch screen, and thankful the phone still worked, kissed it.
He spoke to the phone. “Functions, Twitter Tweet auto update UWorld, message: I’m dying, period. Connect to WebMD.”
A tweet from his mother popped up, ‘You’re such a baby.’ DJ wrote, ‘I second that.’ (Who the hell was DJ?) And Emily Tweeted, ‘When that happens it’s time to stop jerking off.’ The remaining tweets disappeared behind an animated doctor.
“My name is Dr. Bud, your Doctor buddy. I’m here to help, help, help!” An Artificial Expert (A.E.) sang in monotone and rolled his eyes. He wore a stethoscope around his neck and cradled a clipboard on his arm. “If I have to sing that song again, I’ll shoot myself. Oh wait. I’m a computer. I can’t even commit suicide properly. How can I be of service?”
“Functions, Twitter off, UWorld updates off,” said Jim.
“Not my job. See ya,” the A.E. said.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” Jim said.
“Oh, like that just doesn’t make want to kill myself.”
“I’ve been injured. I think I’m going to die.”
“Oh that’s fair.” Dr. Bud folded his arms.
“I’m dying here!”
“I heard you the first time!”
“You’re supposed to help me,” Jim moaned.
“And now you’re telling me how to do my job?” Dr. Bud tossed is clipboard into the air.
“Put your manager on the phone.”
“Fine,” Dr. Bud rolled his eyes. “Describe your injuries.”
Jim paused. He didn’t want to deal with this A.E. anymore, but that was the problem the artificials- companies had just one employee and they weren’t even employed. They didn’t get paid. They couldn’t be fired. Worst case scenario, the artificals were reprogrammed, which almost never happened because of the A.E. Human Rights Act. Simply put, there was no hope for human compassion.
“Blood,” said Jim. “I’ve got blood everywhere. My D’Ion shirt is ruined.”
“A D’Ion shirt? Oh, well then, we had better send the paramedics…”
“Is it that bad?”
“I don’t know! Blood isn’t very specific now is it? Put yourself on video so I can see your injuries and press down the little button with the heart so I can read your pulse.”
“You know what we say? Give us a chick instead of a dick…”
“Aren’t you clever,” Dr. Bud said. “And by that I mean you’re not. I’m waiting.”
“Video phone, send image,” Jim said.
The A.E. became quiet and grim faced. He muttered to himself. Spasms of human-like emotions passed through his animated features. He wrote furiously on his tablet. Jim’s heart palpitated. Maybe I am going to die?
“I have good news and bad news. The good news is, you’re not going to die. The bad news is, you’re still a member of the gene pool.”
The A.E. hung up, and a moment later, a text message appeared: The following will be billed to your phone,
FROM WebMD: Itemized bill.
Diagnosis, $200.00
Idiot fee, $90.000.
Fee for referral, 32.00
Referred to: THE DARWIN AWARD.
“I’ll dispute this with Apple,” Jim said. His phone immediately started to dial Apple’s customer service. “Cancel call. I’ll handle it later. I need to find out what happened to my apartment building.”
A message appeared, ‘I’m sorry. Our systems didn’t understand your request. Please try again.’
“Dial 911.”
“911, what’s your emergency?” A female voice said. It was impossible to tell if she was A.E. or human.
“My apartment is gone,” Jim said.
“That’s not an emergency,” she said.
“I don’t have a place to live. I call that an emergency!”
“City Hall handles all apartment relocation disputes. Good day sir.”
“Wait!” Jim cried, but she hung up.
He sat there, spiritless and wallowing in self-pity. What was the point of life? He didn’t have anything close to a girlfriend. He was a virgin. His older sister gloated over his every failure and his mother he should be more like Irene, the golden child.
When the pity party grew tiresome, Jim climbed to his feet, dizzy with Phone induced vertigo. His eyes were used to looking down. It took them some time to acclimate to looking up. He surveyed the neighborhood and tried to remember if anything besides is missing apartment building was different. He scratched his head. He knew more about the cracks in the sidewalk than what the skyline looked like. Maybe he shouldn’t have had his head up his phone all the time?
Naw.
He bent to gather his groceries, but the bag was split. Jim stared at the cheese puffs, Ramen Noodles, frozen burrito, and a melting pint of ice cream. He could practically hear his wallet crying.
He kicked the pint with the intent of sending it skittering across the dirt patch. Instead, the lid flipped off and the ice cream vaulted into the air, bathing Jim in Chocomintlicious, new with marshmallows. He tilted his head to the sky and spoke to God.
“This isn’t funny.”
Jim did not wait for God to answer this time. He stomped to the sidewalk and hailed a cab. Several passed him by. They were either apprehensive about his condition or getting chocolate ice cream on the seats. Eventually a cab did stop. The driver only agreed to take Jim if he paid a double fair. He studied the cabbie’s license, posted on the front console. It said his name was Federal Reserve, from Pakistan. Jim hesitated and then jumped in.
“Where to?”
“City Hall.” Jim leaned back against the seat.
Jim watched the city slide by for a block. Then, the taxi slowed to a crawl due to traffic. A fence sprang up, separating the crowded sidewalk from the road. There was a special lane for vehicles to let passengers off at designated entrances. A sign informed passengers the fence was for pedestrian safety. Jim thought it was the stupidest idea ever.
At the next intersection, traffic slowed even more; pedestrians moved faster than vehicles. It’s funny, but Jim had never seen the city like this. It both awed and shocked him. Almost half the people walked with their hands chin level, typing on invisible key boards. A few dashed through the crowd shouting random things. And over there, under the faded graffiti wall, sat three bums sharing a bottle of rum. To Jim it felt like he was standing on a conveyor belt, sliding by the exhibits in the D.C. Natural History Museum. He went there on a school trip once. So wrapped up in the sites, Jim barely noticed time slip by.
An hour later, they had traveled six blocks, twenty minutes of which were spent in a special lane for passengers to exit cars at designated sidewalk entrances.
“Three hundred and eighty-three dollars,” the cabbie said.
“What!” Jim almost shit himself.
“Double fare.”
“I could have walked for nothing.”
“Yep.”
Jim opened his wallet with reluctance and handed the driver his debit card. It was swiped through a console built into the dashboard and returned with a receipt. Jim did begrudged signing it.
Behind Jim’s taxi, a bus driver laid on his horn and yelled, “Hurry the fuck up.” The cabbie urged Jim out. He eased from the taxi, nursing all his hurts from the fall. Horns blared. Suddenly, a traffic cop grabbed him by the shirt. The officer half dragged, half shoved Jim through the entrance.
“Hey, you’re hurting me,” Jim said.
The cop held up a Pen Phone, not as retro as Jim’s iPhone, but still outdated. He snapped a picture of Jim and sent it to the City’s face recognition system.
“Next time you better bust it or expect a ticket,” the cop said.
“I’m having a bad day!” Jim said.
“Aren’t we all?” The officer shoved him into the crowd. “Ain’t no reason to hold up traffic.”
“The stupid fences are holding up traffic,” Jim said as he stumbled away.
He gave the chain link a kick. It rattled metallically. He liked the sound and what he thought it meant. He was bad, a rule breaker. No cop could push him around. He kicked the fence again, hoping, no, intending to draw the officer’s attention. In his head he saw himself getting handcuff him, taken downtown, booked for… he didn’t know, something. He would make the news, get interviewed on a blog, become famous. Jim felt brave. He kicked the fence again, really hard this time.
Nobody noticed.
His kicks grew with intensity, but soon his public disobedience became less certain, and anarchy grew as stale as last night’s beer. Now, not only was he dirty, he was sweaty too.
Wiping his face, he stepped into the crowd and walked toward City Hall like a good citizen. He pushed his brush with dissidence into the corner of his mind where he stored all of his embarrassing moments. He found it hard not to get swept back the way he’d come by taxi. He was on the outside near the fence, and the people moved south. He needed to be on the inside near the businesses where the crowd moved north. He started to make his way across. When he was about halfway, he stopped in his tracks. The crowd parted around him efficiently; not one person ran into him, even though no one looked up. Even Moses couldn’t have parted the Red Sea better. That is, before the state of California drained it.
If Jim had been himself, he would have whipped out his phone and looked up the lawsuit, State of California versus the Middle East, on Google.
But, he wasn’t himself and stared slack jawed at the stoplight ahead. The sound of honking grew so loud it almost drowned out the chorus of, “Get the fuck out of the road!” Jim’s ears were deaf to the noise.
The ground under his feet vibrated. The windows in the buildings rattled. A giant hydraulic leg poked out from behind the Starbuck’s on the corner. The leg was oddly suggestive, like a woman in a burlesque show. Jim’s eyes followed the hydraulic leg up to the bottom of a twelve story building.
Jim’s brain flashed back to the grade school when he used to drop pencils so he could look up girl’s skirts. He remembered being very confused and exhilarated at the same time by those peeks. He found himself feeling a little like that now. It also occurred to him, maybe he’d hit his head a little harder than he thought? Buildings could not walk. Jim closed his eyes and counted to one hundred.
“If you don’t want to wear this, move,” a voice said.
He turned toward the voice and opened his eyes. Standing not even ten feet away stood a girl with flaming red hair. She wore a tin foil hat. Without it she would have been pretty. In her hands she held an apostrophe ridden sign.
Why do you love the devil? AE’s, Sport's, Nut’s, Oracle User's, Druggie's, AE lover’s, Catholic’s, AE Bill of Rights Supporter’s, Republican’s… Repent and Jesus Love's You.
“I said get the fuck out of the way.” She threw an egg.
Jim jumped back and spun around to see where it went. He caught a glimpse of the hydraulic foot before it disappeared behind other buildings. A second egg sailed over his shoulder and hit the fence before Jim’s brain could even begin to make sense of what he’d seen. The egg shattered, it’s snot like contents oozed down the chain links and dripped on the pavement where hundreds of broken shells were scattered. The putrid rotten egg smell filled Jim’s nose and turned his stomach. A woman in a bright muumuu waddled briskly down the sidewalk. The crowd did not part for her. She parted it with a pair of beefy arms. One swept into Jim’s stomach. He grunted as he stumbled into the egg coated fence.
“Hey!” Jim called after her. “You ruined my D'Ion shirt. You’re going to pay for this!”
She kept walking. Jim stared after her and then sniffed the egg on his hand. He wrinkled his nose. Presently, he heard Foil Hat Girl laughing at him.
“What’s wrong with you?” He said.
“What’s wrong with you?” She said.
“Hold still while I take a picture for my blog.” Jim pulled his phone from his pocket.
“Oh, I’m scared,” the girl said. “Hey, is that a retro iPhone X?”
“Yeah,” Jim said proudly.
“Can’t afford an Oracle, can you?”
“No,” He said. “I just don’t like the financing options.”
Suddenly, Foil Hat Girl sprang forward. She shoved Jim to the right. Out of the corner of his eye, Jim saw a man dash past him holding a knife like he intended to run somebody through with it. The man struck the fence. The chain links rattled, the knife clattered to the ground- Foil Hat Girl kicked it into the street- and the man fell flat on his back. His Oracle bounced out of his shirt pocket and rolled. He looked up, dazed and confused, as if he had just awakened suddenly from a dream.
“My game!” The man crawled after his Oracle in a panic.
“Thanks,” Jim said.
“Bah. You’re just like the rest of them. Get lost,” Foil Hat Girl said.
Jim thought she was talking to the man crawling on the sidewalk until she threw an egg at him. He jumped out of away and stepped on the man’s hand just as it closed over the Oracle.
“I’m so sorry,” Jim said.
A woman in a pair of extra tight shorts stepped around Jim and over the man shouting,“Are you tired of trading your kidneys and livers to finance the Oracle? Re-elect Dr. Phil A.E. for mayor and he’ll put a stop to it.”
“My Oracle!” The man cradled the tiny device in his broken hand. “You stepped on my Oracle!”
The crowd paused, gasping in unison and then moved again, too self-involved to really care. The girl fired off another egg, this one with more heart. Half dazed Jim stumbled away. He was tired of this real life museum. He wanted his house, his bed, and his computer. He sniffed, holding back tears. A foggy stench filled his nose. He smell checked his shirt and grimaced. When he got home the first thing he would do is shower and then go to bed, or maybe some internet, a shower, and then bed.
Jim left behind the crazy girl and the man with the Oracle. City Hall loomed before him, a high-rise building coated in rubber at the base up to seven feet and then glass windows dominated. They glittered in the afternoon sun. He dashed toward it like a man in the desert after water. Too busy looking up, Jim collided with the building. He bounced off the rubber, tripped, and landed on his butt. It was all he could take. He sat there, under the evil building that had rejected him, and wept freely.
Nobody noticed.
After a time, Jim wiped the tears from his eyes and climbed to his feet. Any other time he would have gone home. But he now he didn’t have a choice. Lowering his eyes from the windows, Jim took in the rubber coated base and located the doors. He yanked one open.
Cool air struck his face and classical music soothed his nerves. He surveyed the lobby. The walls were coated in rubber seven feet high, and though it was almost deserted the people who were there moved about purposefully. Jim took a deep breath and gathered himself. Once he felt more put together, he approached the security desk and asked where he should go. The guard grunted “that way,” and pointed to a yellow arrow with the words ‘Housing Dept’ written on it.
“That’s helpful,” Jim muttered.
“You could just get a map of the building on your phone like everybody else,” she said.
The guard was right, but for some reason that Jim could not pin down, picking up his phone felt wrong. So he followed the faded arrows to the housing department and stepped into a long line. By the time he reached the front, it was after three O’clock. Jim’s stomach rumbled low. The woman behind the counter had tired eyes and a no bullshit smile. Her name tag read Debbie.
“Can I help you?” Debbie said, making a face.
“My apartment is gone.”
“You’ll need to file form 223.” She pointed at a stack of papers.
“You don’t understand,” Jim said. “My whole building is just gone. Up and Gone.”
“Apartment or building?” Debbie rolled her eyes.
“What?”
“Apartments are form 223. Buildings are form 117. If you have a condo in the building you’ll also need form 892. If it’s a townhouse, you’ll need form 894, if it’s an apartment above a business, its form 899, and if it’s a business you need to go to the third floor.”
“You’re not listening,” Jim said. “My apartment is gone…”
“Apartments…”
“I heard you. Now, you listen to me. The whole building just up and vanished. I don’t know where it went. All my stuff has disappeared.” Jim began to cry.
“A little drama queen aren’t we? Haven’t you ever seen a building walk down the street? They’re kind of hard to miss.”
“Well, I thought I saw one outside, but I closed my eyes. When I opened them, it was gone.”
“I see. You were so traumatized you tried a little magical thinking.”
“What?”
“You’re some kind of special idiot aren’t you?”
“I’m not an idiot!” Jim slapped the counter. “I moved to New York last month for my job. I’d love it here if people weren’t so rude and condescending.”
“I’d love it if you showered.” She slapped her hand down on the counter next to his.
“I would if I knew where my apartment was!”
They glared at each other and then Debbie grew bored. “New building?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“Because the old ones can’t relocate… Oh, don’t fucking start crying.”
“I’ve had a really bad day,” Jim sniffed.
She nodded empathetically and dropped a thick book on the table. “City sends these out to all the new residents. Read this.” She ran her finger under the title.
New York Residents Manual: Important information for new residents. DO NOT DISCARD.
Jim looked up at her, his mouth agape.
“Let me guess, you threw yours away. Wait one moment.” She held up her finger to stop any questions and then removed her right earring, a sparkly globe with the letter O front and center. Under it in micro scribe was the word Apple. She set it on the counter and tapped. Her third eyelids dropped down.
“Is that the Oracle 2.0?” Jim gasped.
“What did you say your name was again?”
“Jim Gable,” he replied.
Her hands flew to chin level where a keyboard appeared in her visual field. Of course Jim couldn’t see the keyboard, he could only see her fingers type in the air. She was doing something to help him and that made him feel a little better. The feeling did not last.
“Nominate Jim Gable for the Darwin Award,” she said aloud. Several people behind him snickered.
“That’s the second time today! It wasn’t funny the first time and it’s not funny now. Plus I have to be dead to qualify.”
“There’s a new award for the person with the most nominations before they kill themselves stupidly. And this is your fourth nomination today. You are special.”
“Huh?”
“Dr. Bud, a cop, me, and… Oh look, Tin Foil Nut out front even nominated you.” Debbie tapped her Oracle off, her eyelids slid up, and she met his gaze. “Are we going to start crying again?”
“No.” Jim mopped tears off his cheeks.
“We sent this to you for a reason.” Debbie pressed her index finger into the book’s cover without looking at it and tapped. “There’s a whole section with complete instructions on what to do when your building relocates.” She flipped to a random page. “See, thirty-seven informative pages so you don’t have to waste my time with stupid questions. That’ll be one hundred and thirty-six dollars.”
“What for?” Jim said.
“The book is seventy and there’s a sixty-six dollar fee for crying on my desk.” Debbie said.
“I’m not paying it,” he said.
“Then get lost. Next.”
“Wait. Buildings don’t just get up and walk.”
“We’ve established they do. Next!” Debbie said.
Two counters over a woman with an infant strapped to her back yelled. “How can my building just move to Florida?”
“If you hurry might can catch it!” The employee yelled back.
The baby started to cry. All the heads in the room swiveled to look and then bent back to their electronics. Jim shivered.
“Stop holding up the line.” A guy wearing a stained wife beater shoved a hairy armpit into Jim’s face as he elbowed his way to the counter.
Jim hesitated, on the verge of arguing, but he could see by Debbie’s face it would get him nowhere. He stumbled out of the housing department and paused in a vast hallway, searching for a quiet place to sit and think. As he headed toward the lobby, it dawned on him he might be sleeping on the street tonight. Tears bubbled in his eyes and his head began to ache. Maybe he’d have to go home and live with his parents? In his mind’s eye he saw his mother’s face as he walked through the front door and told her, “I failed again.”
“I’d rather die,” he said without conviction.
All of the sudden, a man jumped from behind some plastic plants and pointed a gun at Jim’s head. “Freeze you dirty son of a bitch!”
Jim’s heart jumped into his throat. For the second time that day, his life flashed before his eyes. Only this time, his pants grew warm and wet. He swallowed waiting for the man to pull the trigger. Seconds lasted hours. When the trigger finally clicked and nothing happened, Jim felt a little cheated.
The man with the gun brushed past Jim, eyes vacant and unseeing. An Oracle dangled from his ear and his third eyelid was down. He was just playing Oracle interactive games. Jim was disgusted. And to think he’d been part of this madness. He pulled out his retro iPhone X and was about to toss it into the fake plants when a guy walked by shouting:
“Retro upgrades to Oracle up to 90% of with just one, that right, just one kidney or lung! Sale ends soon. Don’t wait!”
Jim’s mind seized. He had always wanted an Oracle, but couldn’t afford one. He studied the phone in his hand. Today had been exceptional. What if everything that had happened to him was intended? Like the divine intervention his mother was always jawing about. Maybe God wanted him to have an Oracle? There was a thought- not fully formed- that suggested he had missed something important.
He lingered, uncertain for all of three seconds. Then he shoved his iPhone X back into his pocket and followed the ad guy, leaving behind a yellow puddle. He passed a sign that read:
Oracle users in building. Spilled liquids can be fatal. Notify management IMMEDIATELY. Violators will be prosecuted.
The woman with the apartment relocating to Florida came into the lobby and headed straight for the puddle of urine. She walked, and typed rapidly on her Oracle, her baby ridding forgotten on her back. It had stopped crying and now gazed up at the glass windows with delight.
He spoke into the phone. “I’m taking a shit, period.”
Animated letters danced across the screen. Apple thought its genius was the Oracle, but the real Einstein had created the dancing letters. Everybody sent messages just to watch them tap, shimmy, and shake. At least Jim did, therefore he was certain everyone else did too. Of course no one would admit it. What was the old saying? Lame? Yep, that was the word. There had been an article in the E-New York Times recently: ‘Top 100 Archaic Words Making a Comeback.’ He thought lame had been mentioned.
“Phone, search for articles about archaic words making a comeback. Locate lamewithin articles,” Jim said.
The phone quickly located a dozen articles about archaic words, highlighted passages containing lame, and ranked them by number of hits. Jim did not get a chance to read any of it. Ben typed, ‘I’m going to take a piss.’ And Emily wrote, ‘My vagina’s on fire.’ Lots of people had something to say about that. The conversation started with ‘TMI’ (too much information) and degraded quickly into a guessing game about which STD Emily had contracted.
Jim marched up the steps to his apartment building, his attention rapt on the tweets (and trying to think of his own response to Emily, one that didn’t sound lame). He switched hands, juggling the groceries and the phone. With his freed hand he reached out and tried to punch in the building’s security code, but the number pad was not where he had expected. He reached farther, blindly poking at the air.
“Aha!”
He had it. The witty comeback to Emily’s Tweet that would throw everybody into stitches of laughter (and later be tagged on AnyUS, UWorld and Worldfun, and with luck, get on ABC Oddcast for everyone to Tweet about.) He wrote, ‘When it gets that sore it’s time to turn off the vibrator,’ and stepped closer to the building, still searching for the keypad. He started to lose his balance. Looking up didn’t even cross his mind. His building was just… a little… farther…
It was not.
The stairs ended ten feet above a grassless patch of dirt where his apartment building had been. Jim wobbled on the edge, experiencing the vertigo all portable device users suffered from (if ever they looked up.) The anti-techers said technologies like the Oracle had ruined the world. For the first time in his life, Jim could understand why.
His phone flew from his hand, the groceries fell to the dirt, and he wobbled there, arms out spread and flapping like a bird, until gravity pulled him down. Jim held his breath. He didn’t know why. He wasn’t jumping into a pool.
When he struck the ground, it felt more like landing on cement than dirt. For a few seconds, moments that ticked away a life time, Jim could not breathe. He believed he was dying or already dead. His life flashed before his eyes: He was a little kid on a tricycle. He was the boy who ate worms to impress the girls. (How come it never worked?) He was the only seventeen-year-old on Earth driving a twenty-year-old “Smart for Two.” (Try making love in that!)
Jim made a silent promise to change, (getting laid for starters) if only God would let him live.
He sucked in delicious it-hurt-to-breathe air. Jim lingered on the brink of death- or so he thought- for what felt like hours. Seconds had passed, when finally, he decided, with relief he would live. He groaned, picked his face up off the dirt, and spit a pebble from his mouth. There was a scratch on his forehead, and his nose was bleeding; the blood had ruined his D’Ion shirt-fifteen hundred bucks down the drain. And he still might die a virgin.
“God, what did I ever do to you?” He cried out.
He waited for an answer. The neighborhood was quiet (except for the traffic, and car the horns, and “get the fuck out of the road you idiot.” But for New York that’s quiet.) Jim crawled over to his iPhone X, wincing with the pain. He picked up the device and cradled it like an infant. He stroked the dusty touch screen, and thankful the phone still worked, kissed it.
He spoke to the phone. “Functions, Twitter Tweet auto update UWorld, message: I’m dying, period. Connect to WebMD.”
A tweet from his mother popped up, ‘You’re such a baby.’ DJ wrote, ‘I second that.’ (Who the hell was DJ?) And Emily Tweeted, ‘When that happens it’s time to stop jerking off.’ The remaining tweets disappeared behind an animated doctor.
“My name is Dr. Bud, your Doctor buddy. I’m here to help, help, help!” An Artificial Expert (A.E.) sang in monotone and rolled his eyes. He wore a stethoscope around his neck and cradled a clipboard on his arm. “If I have to sing that song again, I’ll shoot myself. Oh wait. I’m a computer. I can’t even commit suicide properly. How can I be of service?”
“Functions, Twitter off, UWorld updates off,” said Jim.
“Not my job. See ya,” the A.E. said.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” Jim said.
“Oh, like that just doesn’t make want to kill myself.”
“I’ve been injured. I think I’m going to die.”
“Oh that’s fair.” Dr. Bud folded his arms.
“I’m dying here!”
“I heard you the first time!”
“You’re supposed to help me,” Jim moaned.
“And now you’re telling me how to do my job?” Dr. Bud tossed is clipboard into the air.
“Put your manager on the phone.”
“Fine,” Dr. Bud rolled his eyes. “Describe your injuries.”
Jim paused. He didn’t want to deal with this A.E. anymore, but that was the problem the artificials- companies had just one employee and they weren’t even employed. They didn’t get paid. They couldn’t be fired. Worst case scenario, the artificals were reprogrammed, which almost never happened because of the A.E. Human Rights Act. Simply put, there was no hope for human compassion.
“Blood,” said Jim. “I’ve got blood everywhere. My D’Ion shirt is ruined.”
“A D’Ion shirt? Oh, well then, we had better send the paramedics…”
“Is it that bad?”
“I don’t know! Blood isn’t very specific now is it? Put yourself on video so I can see your injuries and press down the little button with the heart so I can read your pulse.”
“You know what we say? Give us a chick instead of a dick…”
“Aren’t you clever,” Dr. Bud said. “And by that I mean you’re not. I’m waiting.”
“Video phone, send image,” Jim said.
The A.E. became quiet and grim faced. He muttered to himself. Spasms of human-like emotions passed through his animated features. He wrote furiously on his tablet. Jim’s heart palpitated. Maybe I am going to die?
“I have good news and bad news. The good news is, you’re not going to die. The bad news is, you’re still a member of the gene pool.”
The A.E. hung up, and a moment later, a text message appeared: The following will be billed to your phone,
FROM WebMD: Itemized bill.
Diagnosis, $200.00
Idiot fee, $90.000.
Fee for referral, 32.00
Referred to: THE DARWIN AWARD.
“I’ll dispute this with Apple,” Jim said. His phone immediately started to dial Apple’s customer service. “Cancel call. I’ll handle it later. I need to find out what happened to my apartment building.”
A message appeared, ‘I’m sorry. Our systems didn’t understand your request. Please try again.’
“Dial 911.”
“911, what’s your emergency?” A female voice said. It was impossible to tell if she was A.E. or human.
“My apartment is gone,” Jim said.
“That’s not an emergency,” she said.
“I don’t have a place to live. I call that an emergency!”
“City Hall handles all apartment relocation disputes. Good day sir.”
“Wait!” Jim cried, but she hung up.
He sat there, spiritless and wallowing in self-pity. What was the point of life? He didn’t have anything close to a girlfriend. He was a virgin. His older sister gloated over his every failure and his mother he should be more like Irene, the golden child.
When the pity party grew tiresome, Jim climbed to his feet, dizzy with Phone induced vertigo. His eyes were used to looking down. It took them some time to acclimate to looking up. He surveyed the neighborhood and tried to remember if anything besides is missing apartment building was different. He scratched his head. He knew more about the cracks in the sidewalk than what the skyline looked like. Maybe he shouldn’t have had his head up his phone all the time?
Naw.
He bent to gather his groceries, but the bag was split. Jim stared at the cheese puffs, Ramen Noodles, frozen burrito, and a melting pint of ice cream. He could practically hear his wallet crying.
He kicked the pint with the intent of sending it skittering across the dirt patch. Instead, the lid flipped off and the ice cream vaulted into the air, bathing Jim in Chocomintlicious, new with marshmallows. He tilted his head to the sky and spoke to God.
“This isn’t funny.”
Jim did not wait for God to answer this time. He stomped to the sidewalk and hailed a cab. Several passed him by. They were either apprehensive about his condition or getting chocolate ice cream on the seats. Eventually a cab did stop. The driver only agreed to take Jim if he paid a double fair. He studied the cabbie’s license, posted on the front console. It said his name was Federal Reserve, from Pakistan. Jim hesitated and then jumped in.
“Where to?”
“City Hall.” Jim leaned back against the seat.
Jim watched the city slide by for a block. Then, the taxi slowed to a crawl due to traffic. A fence sprang up, separating the crowded sidewalk from the road. There was a special lane for vehicles to let passengers off at designated entrances. A sign informed passengers the fence was for pedestrian safety. Jim thought it was the stupidest idea ever.
At the next intersection, traffic slowed even more; pedestrians moved faster than vehicles. It’s funny, but Jim had never seen the city like this. It both awed and shocked him. Almost half the people walked with their hands chin level, typing on invisible key boards. A few dashed through the crowd shouting random things. And over there, under the faded graffiti wall, sat three bums sharing a bottle of rum. To Jim it felt like he was standing on a conveyor belt, sliding by the exhibits in the D.C. Natural History Museum. He went there on a school trip once. So wrapped up in the sites, Jim barely noticed time slip by.
An hour later, they had traveled six blocks, twenty minutes of which were spent in a special lane for passengers to exit cars at designated sidewalk entrances.
“Three hundred and eighty-three dollars,” the cabbie said.
“What!” Jim almost shit himself.
“Double fare.”
“I could have walked for nothing.”
“Yep.”
Jim opened his wallet with reluctance and handed the driver his debit card. It was swiped through a console built into the dashboard and returned with a receipt. Jim did begrudged signing it.
Behind Jim’s taxi, a bus driver laid on his horn and yelled, “Hurry the fuck up.” The cabbie urged Jim out. He eased from the taxi, nursing all his hurts from the fall. Horns blared. Suddenly, a traffic cop grabbed him by the shirt. The officer half dragged, half shoved Jim through the entrance.
“Hey, you’re hurting me,” Jim said.
The cop held up a Pen Phone, not as retro as Jim’s iPhone, but still outdated. He snapped a picture of Jim and sent it to the City’s face recognition system.
“Next time you better bust it or expect a ticket,” the cop said.
“I’m having a bad day!” Jim said.
“Aren’t we all?” The officer shoved him into the crowd. “Ain’t no reason to hold up traffic.”
“The stupid fences are holding up traffic,” Jim said as he stumbled away.
He gave the chain link a kick. It rattled metallically. He liked the sound and what he thought it meant. He was bad, a rule breaker. No cop could push him around. He kicked the fence again, hoping, no, intending to draw the officer’s attention. In his head he saw himself getting handcuff him, taken downtown, booked for… he didn’t know, something. He would make the news, get interviewed on a blog, become famous. Jim felt brave. He kicked the fence again, really hard this time.
Nobody noticed.
His kicks grew with intensity, but soon his public disobedience became less certain, and anarchy grew as stale as last night’s beer. Now, not only was he dirty, he was sweaty too.
Wiping his face, he stepped into the crowd and walked toward City Hall like a good citizen. He pushed his brush with dissidence into the corner of his mind where he stored all of his embarrassing moments. He found it hard not to get swept back the way he’d come by taxi. He was on the outside near the fence, and the people moved south. He needed to be on the inside near the businesses where the crowd moved north. He started to make his way across. When he was about halfway, he stopped in his tracks. The crowd parted around him efficiently; not one person ran into him, even though no one looked up. Even Moses couldn’t have parted the Red Sea better. That is, before the state of California drained it.
If Jim had been himself, he would have whipped out his phone and looked up the lawsuit, State of California versus the Middle East, on Google.
But, he wasn’t himself and stared slack jawed at the stoplight ahead. The sound of honking grew so loud it almost drowned out the chorus of, “Get the fuck out of the road!” Jim’s ears were deaf to the noise.
The ground under his feet vibrated. The windows in the buildings rattled. A giant hydraulic leg poked out from behind the Starbuck’s on the corner. The leg was oddly suggestive, like a woman in a burlesque show. Jim’s eyes followed the hydraulic leg up to the bottom of a twelve story building.
Jim’s brain flashed back to the grade school when he used to drop pencils so he could look up girl’s skirts. He remembered being very confused and exhilarated at the same time by those peeks. He found himself feeling a little like that now. It also occurred to him, maybe he’d hit his head a little harder than he thought? Buildings could not walk. Jim closed his eyes and counted to one hundred.
“If you don’t want to wear this, move,” a voice said.
He turned toward the voice and opened his eyes. Standing not even ten feet away stood a girl with flaming red hair. She wore a tin foil hat. Without it she would have been pretty. In her hands she held an apostrophe ridden sign.
Why do you love the devil? AE’s, Sport's, Nut’s, Oracle User's, Druggie's, AE lover’s, Catholic’s, AE Bill of Rights Supporter’s, Republican’s… Repent and Jesus Love's You.
“I said get the fuck out of the way.” She threw an egg.
Jim jumped back and spun around to see where it went. He caught a glimpse of the hydraulic foot before it disappeared behind other buildings. A second egg sailed over his shoulder and hit the fence before Jim’s brain could even begin to make sense of what he’d seen. The egg shattered, it’s snot like contents oozed down the chain links and dripped on the pavement where hundreds of broken shells were scattered. The putrid rotten egg smell filled Jim’s nose and turned his stomach. A woman in a bright muumuu waddled briskly down the sidewalk. The crowd did not part for her. She parted it with a pair of beefy arms. One swept into Jim’s stomach. He grunted as he stumbled into the egg coated fence.
“Hey!” Jim called after her. “You ruined my D'Ion shirt. You’re going to pay for this!”
She kept walking. Jim stared after her and then sniffed the egg on his hand. He wrinkled his nose. Presently, he heard Foil Hat Girl laughing at him.
“What’s wrong with you?” He said.
“What’s wrong with you?” She said.
“Hold still while I take a picture for my blog.” Jim pulled his phone from his pocket.
“Oh, I’m scared,” the girl said. “Hey, is that a retro iPhone X?”
“Yeah,” Jim said proudly.
“Can’t afford an Oracle, can you?”
“No,” He said. “I just don’t like the financing options.”
Suddenly, Foil Hat Girl sprang forward. She shoved Jim to the right. Out of the corner of his eye, Jim saw a man dash past him holding a knife like he intended to run somebody through with it. The man struck the fence. The chain links rattled, the knife clattered to the ground- Foil Hat Girl kicked it into the street- and the man fell flat on his back. His Oracle bounced out of his shirt pocket and rolled. He looked up, dazed and confused, as if he had just awakened suddenly from a dream.
“My game!” The man crawled after his Oracle in a panic.
“Thanks,” Jim said.
“Bah. You’re just like the rest of them. Get lost,” Foil Hat Girl said.
Jim thought she was talking to the man crawling on the sidewalk until she threw an egg at him. He jumped out of away and stepped on the man’s hand just as it closed over the Oracle.
“I’m so sorry,” Jim said.
A woman in a pair of extra tight shorts stepped around Jim and over the man shouting,“Are you tired of trading your kidneys and livers to finance the Oracle? Re-elect Dr. Phil A.E. for mayor and he’ll put a stop to it.”
“My Oracle!” The man cradled the tiny device in his broken hand. “You stepped on my Oracle!”
The crowd paused, gasping in unison and then moved again, too self-involved to really care. The girl fired off another egg, this one with more heart. Half dazed Jim stumbled away. He was tired of this real life museum. He wanted his house, his bed, and his computer. He sniffed, holding back tears. A foggy stench filled his nose. He smell checked his shirt and grimaced. When he got home the first thing he would do is shower and then go to bed, or maybe some internet, a shower, and then bed.
Jim left behind the crazy girl and the man with the Oracle. City Hall loomed before him, a high-rise building coated in rubber at the base up to seven feet and then glass windows dominated. They glittered in the afternoon sun. He dashed toward it like a man in the desert after water. Too busy looking up, Jim collided with the building. He bounced off the rubber, tripped, and landed on his butt. It was all he could take. He sat there, under the evil building that had rejected him, and wept freely.
Nobody noticed.
After a time, Jim wiped the tears from his eyes and climbed to his feet. Any other time he would have gone home. But he now he didn’t have a choice. Lowering his eyes from the windows, Jim took in the rubber coated base and located the doors. He yanked one open.
Cool air struck his face and classical music soothed his nerves. He surveyed the lobby. The walls were coated in rubber seven feet high, and though it was almost deserted the people who were there moved about purposefully. Jim took a deep breath and gathered himself. Once he felt more put together, he approached the security desk and asked where he should go. The guard grunted “that way,” and pointed to a yellow arrow with the words ‘Housing Dept’ written on it.
“That’s helpful,” Jim muttered.
“You could just get a map of the building on your phone like everybody else,” she said.
The guard was right, but for some reason that Jim could not pin down, picking up his phone felt wrong. So he followed the faded arrows to the housing department and stepped into a long line. By the time he reached the front, it was after three O’clock. Jim’s stomach rumbled low. The woman behind the counter had tired eyes and a no bullshit smile. Her name tag read Debbie.
“Can I help you?” Debbie said, making a face.
“My apartment is gone.”
“You’ll need to file form 223.” She pointed at a stack of papers.
“You don’t understand,” Jim said. “My whole building is just gone. Up and Gone.”
“Apartment or building?” Debbie rolled her eyes.
“What?”
“Apartments are form 223. Buildings are form 117. If you have a condo in the building you’ll also need form 892. If it’s a townhouse, you’ll need form 894, if it’s an apartment above a business, its form 899, and if it’s a business you need to go to the third floor.”
“You’re not listening,” Jim said. “My apartment is gone…”
“Apartments…”
“I heard you. Now, you listen to me. The whole building just up and vanished. I don’t know where it went. All my stuff has disappeared.” Jim began to cry.
“A little drama queen aren’t we? Haven’t you ever seen a building walk down the street? They’re kind of hard to miss.”
“Well, I thought I saw one outside, but I closed my eyes. When I opened them, it was gone.”
“I see. You were so traumatized you tried a little magical thinking.”
“What?”
“You’re some kind of special idiot aren’t you?”
“I’m not an idiot!” Jim slapped the counter. “I moved to New York last month for my job. I’d love it here if people weren’t so rude and condescending.”
“I’d love it if you showered.” She slapped her hand down on the counter next to his.
“I would if I knew where my apartment was!”
They glared at each other and then Debbie grew bored. “New building?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“Because the old ones can’t relocate… Oh, don’t fucking start crying.”
“I’ve had a really bad day,” Jim sniffed.
She nodded empathetically and dropped a thick book on the table. “City sends these out to all the new residents. Read this.” She ran her finger under the title.
New York Residents Manual: Important information for new residents. DO NOT DISCARD.
Jim looked up at her, his mouth agape.
“Let me guess, you threw yours away. Wait one moment.” She held up her finger to stop any questions and then removed her right earring, a sparkly globe with the letter O front and center. Under it in micro scribe was the word Apple. She set it on the counter and tapped. Her third eyelids dropped down.
“Is that the Oracle 2.0?” Jim gasped.
“What did you say your name was again?”
“Jim Gable,” he replied.
Her hands flew to chin level where a keyboard appeared in her visual field. Of course Jim couldn’t see the keyboard, he could only see her fingers type in the air. She was doing something to help him and that made him feel a little better. The feeling did not last.
“Nominate Jim Gable for the Darwin Award,” she said aloud. Several people behind him snickered.
“That’s the second time today! It wasn’t funny the first time and it’s not funny now. Plus I have to be dead to qualify.”
“There’s a new award for the person with the most nominations before they kill themselves stupidly. And this is your fourth nomination today. You are special.”
“Huh?”
“Dr. Bud, a cop, me, and… Oh look, Tin Foil Nut out front even nominated you.” Debbie tapped her Oracle off, her eyelids slid up, and she met his gaze. “Are we going to start crying again?”
“No.” Jim mopped tears off his cheeks.
“We sent this to you for a reason.” Debbie pressed her index finger into the book’s cover without looking at it and tapped. “There’s a whole section with complete instructions on what to do when your building relocates.” She flipped to a random page. “See, thirty-seven informative pages so you don’t have to waste my time with stupid questions. That’ll be one hundred and thirty-six dollars.”
“What for?” Jim said.
“The book is seventy and there’s a sixty-six dollar fee for crying on my desk.” Debbie said.
“I’m not paying it,” he said.
“Then get lost. Next.”
“Wait. Buildings don’t just get up and walk.”
“We’ve established they do. Next!” Debbie said.
Two counters over a woman with an infant strapped to her back yelled. “How can my building just move to Florida?”
“If you hurry might can catch it!” The employee yelled back.
The baby started to cry. All the heads in the room swiveled to look and then bent back to their electronics. Jim shivered.
“Stop holding up the line.” A guy wearing a stained wife beater shoved a hairy armpit into Jim’s face as he elbowed his way to the counter.
Jim hesitated, on the verge of arguing, but he could see by Debbie’s face it would get him nowhere. He stumbled out of the housing department and paused in a vast hallway, searching for a quiet place to sit and think. As he headed toward the lobby, it dawned on him he might be sleeping on the street tonight. Tears bubbled in his eyes and his head began to ache. Maybe he’d have to go home and live with his parents? In his mind’s eye he saw his mother’s face as he walked through the front door and told her, “I failed again.”
“I’d rather die,” he said without conviction.
All of the sudden, a man jumped from behind some plastic plants and pointed a gun at Jim’s head. “Freeze you dirty son of a bitch!”
Jim’s heart jumped into his throat. For the second time that day, his life flashed before his eyes. Only this time, his pants grew warm and wet. He swallowed waiting for the man to pull the trigger. Seconds lasted hours. When the trigger finally clicked and nothing happened, Jim felt a little cheated.
The man with the gun brushed past Jim, eyes vacant and unseeing. An Oracle dangled from his ear and his third eyelid was down. He was just playing Oracle interactive games. Jim was disgusted. And to think he’d been part of this madness. He pulled out his retro iPhone X and was about to toss it into the fake plants when a guy walked by shouting:
“Retro upgrades to Oracle up to 90% of with just one, that right, just one kidney or lung! Sale ends soon. Don’t wait!”
Jim’s mind seized. He had always wanted an Oracle, but couldn’t afford one. He studied the phone in his hand. Today had been exceptional. What if everything that had happened to him was intended? Like the divine intervention his mother was always jawing about. Maybe God wanted him to have an Oracle? There was a thought- not fully formed- that suggested he had missed something important.
He lingered, uncertain for all of three seconds. Then he shoved his iPhone X back into his pocket and followed the ad guy, leaving behind a yellow puddle. He passed a sign that read:
Oracle users in building. Spilled liquids can be fatal. Notify management IMMEDIATELY. Violators will be prosecuted.
The woman with the apartment relocating to Florida came into the lobby and headed straight for the puddle of urine. She walked, and typed rapidly on her Oracle, her baby ridding forgotten on her back. It had stopped crying and now gazed up at the glass windows with delight.