The morning sun shone weakly in Blanche Evelyn Cary's room.
It was only six, too early for her to rise, but she found
herself wide awake. The television set and radio were on,
the sound from the radio corresponding to the images on
the screen. Peculiar. It was an advertisment for a new breakfast
drink. That at least made some sort of sense. Being morning.
What caught her attention the most was the face of the
person in the ad. She had seen his face before, she was
sure, but could not place it. But so what. She earned her
keep on the strength of a face in tricolour. But something
else caught her attention; the length of the ad. It was
not the usual thirty or sixty seconds, but rather spanned
several minutes. It also went to great lengths to explain
the chemical composition of the drink, something that she
had never witnessed before. Evelyn worked in television
advertising, and considered herself to be someone who knew
a bit about the subject. This was an unusual commercial.
Who made it, what station is this? Mental notes of someone
who had noted as noteworthy...
Abrubtly, the picture faded. Odd, it swirled into a kelaidescope
wash. Equals not of this universe, meaning television. Her universe.
Watching. She watched screens for most of her working day, when
she wasn't cajoling the beautiful mannequins who were people too.
She liked them, mostly. They were like her. Slender, with a beauty
that most found catching or so those who built the edifices liked
to think. And who cared. They themselves liked it, and the rest
of the job was merely a matter of telling the masses that this was
the best thing to be and if "you" can't be it then enjoy vicariously
the lives of the new class of superstars who are it. She was it,
she knew, but distanced herself from the center of the star nonetheless,
prizing her own secret inner sense of integralness that nobody else
would ever catch but a glimpse of.
Six was not seven. She had at least an extra hour. Indulge
she thought. No competition for the water closet with her
housemate who lovingly ran interference and sounded tough
as need be with halfwits and suchlike who would call to
profess their infatuation or some such thing.
Evelyn bathed rather than showered. Why not? She lost herself
in thought. It was one of her favourite things, taking baths.
Long ones. Slow ones. She had some of her deepest conversations
with her brother while bathing in a tranquil northern lake.
They had so much in common with each other. Nous deux contre
monde they spoke, when together. Leaving to come west to
the city of his namesake had been difficult, but he had
pushed her at the moment of indecision. They wrote, sent
each other tapes and photographs, but the distance and time
were inexorably creating a mental distance. She would have
to remedy that. Compel him to visit if invitation proved
insufficent.
She stood up, examining herself full length. Looking conventionally
beautiful was something that Evelyn ultimately, had to work at.
She was a thin wisp of a girl, with a girlish figure. Evelyn smiled
to herself. What she did posess was a strikingly beautiful face,
with piercing blue eyes that had a habit of locking on to and seeing
into a person. Most found this trait disconcerting, while the occasional
person found it captivating. Her face was offset by rich chestnut
brown hair that became unkempt if left to its own devices.
Getting dressed, she noted that the extra time that the
morning had afforded had been generously spent. She hurried
to finish her dressing, and caught her bus with less than
no time to spare. Remarkably, the bus was running late,
convenient. She moved to the back of the bus and got a seat
facing the aisle, looking absently at the advertisments
posted above the windows. her eye caught a new one. It featured
a cryptic message from a company that she had never heard
of before:
Coming soon from G2S...A novel lifestyle
The ad showed a couple smiling. The face of the man could
only be the man in the juice with special chemical composition
or something ad. The woman's face, she realised, bore a
profound resemblance to her own. Evelyn did a double take.
`That's my face'.
She could not discount the existence of someone else who
resembled her so closely, but to find what was her face
together with the face from the TV ad, was just too much
for her in the morning on the bus bouncing in a way that
reminded her of mechanical horseback. She tried not looking
at the picture, but found the image irresistible. The couple
had presence. Beautiful people. She didn't mind that part.
Arriving at her stop, Evelyn disembarked with the resolution
to put the two curious events of her morning behind her.
Her resolve held remarkably well for most of her morning.
She had no trouble concentrating on her work, and by noon,
the earlier events were simply unusual experiences that
she assured herself, most people had from time to time.
At lunchtime, she found herself in a chichi restaurant,
across the table from Jag Devereaux, a rising star at Infinite
Idears, the advertising firm that both of them worked for.
Devereaux was a man who had never contemplated the meaning
of the word no, perhaps due to his limited resolving power
and general cardboardness. Luckily for him, his features
were handsome rugged and cold chiseled, offset by matt black
hair, and gray eyes. His mannerisms were superficially polished
but a bit macho aggressive. Jaguar found that the best approach
to dealing with people was to try charm first, and intimidation
second. A free lunch was all..., she reflected.
Evelyn was uncertain as to what Jag's interests and expectations
were towards her. This was their third luncheon date, and
she had tried her best to appear charming and interested.
She was cautious, however, since Jag was a senior person
at IŠI, someone who could both help and hinder her career.
She started at IŠI three years ago, having been awarded
her position straight from the stone brick edifice club.
She was from the `old coast', and she had attended a delightful
feminized version of the league of four universitats. The
offer to work with IŠI had been the realization of a dream
that she had, to live and work on the Pacific. Her work
with the company had been easy, but interesting at the same
time. She took some pride in having attained her present
position of production something or other not quite executive
but really that is only around the corner, but wanted more.
She was directly involved with the development of commercials,
mostly beauty products for young women like herself, and
had managed to bring a sense of her own style to each of
the projects that she had worked on. Her work had made her
close friends with many among the beauty elite. Evelyn felt
among her own kind in their midst, although she was not
prone to the somewhat excessive lifestyles of those who
could have `it' whenever they wanted.
The conversation at the table was decidedly one way. Jaguar's
love of talking, which made him a natural in their line
of work, was countered by Evelyn's disposition toward solitude
and silence. She was a natural listener. But the more Jaggie
talked, the more she found herself drifting back to the
strange, and she decided, wonderful experiences that she
had that morning. She found herself asking:
"Jaguar, have you heard of a company called G2S?"
When he responded to the contrary, she let the matter drop,
and ate the rest of her meal in silence. She found herself
gazing at Jag, thinking that she could easily find herself
in his he man arms, but wondered whether a man with such
a high ego-watt could ever share love with another person.
No, that was out of character. Not for, or with him; ultimately
he could drop dead like a stone in deep water. For herself.
Better the singular, even if it left her untouched at an
age that most would find incongruous.
Jag preened himself and wished he could do any number of
things right now, to caesar with the consequences. His innate
lack of imaginativeness saved the situation, and he fell
back on the traditional mode of social intercourse, and
thought about the underside of Evelyn's skirt. "Never fuck
an employee" some murky voice from the back of his mind
thundered. "who says, who says?" Jag's semi consciousness
rebutted. Evelyn looked bored.
"Time to end this lunch thing, Babs. Let's see, who did
I eat lunch with today? Hmm." Jag pondered for minutes on
end, then wrote some stodgy customer's name on the back
of the chit. "Shit, I almost forgot, puss, I've got this
weekend thing happening down in Electric Lay. Chance to
hobnob with the rich and truly fucked. Wanna come?"
Knowing the game, having tolerated Jag's insouicance in
the past, including his basic dishonesty, Evelyn found herself
faced with a sudden and growing sense of revulsion. Go away
with this boring ego ripper? "No, I can't Jaggie, I've made
plans for the weekend."
"Break 'em Babsie. We'll have fun like you never had fun
before."
Who wrote this guy's script?
"I'm sorry Jag, I really can't." I won't, she thought,
knowing full well, just how free her weekend actually was.
Perhaps solitude was better than the mixture of chaos and
stupidity that she saw, ever more clearly in Jaguar's eyes.
She turned away. "let's head back," she offered.
"Naww... why, its such a nice afternoon. Let's drive up
to Bodega and catch some fish." He whipped out his phone,
and calling the office, cancelled his afternoon. Evelyn
walked on, hopped a car. Leaving.
Later he leaned on her desk. Intimidation time, but she
knew his script. He had all the cases ready, throwing them
at her one by one. He had gotten her supervisor on the set
to witness. Evelyn caught her glance. Stern but reproving,
as if to say `let him excrete...'
Jag plagued on, dripping pustulous droplets of ill formed
facts. He was potentially a major threat depending on the
winds of the time blowing across the boardroom where she
was, mostly an unknown of potentially less value than a
viper like Jag who had changed his name solely for the advantage
offered in allowing him to explain the significance of the
power in his pocket to draw moisture from jaded female clients.
She reminded herself that it was not she who wrote the rule
book that they played by.
Still, she had friends. Jag would know that. `Measure the
value of the attack, Jaggie. Is it worth it?'
She held her tongue. She was saved by his nosebleed. He
was speeding away. She passed him a box of tissues as a
gesture of goodwill and was saved by her phone.
And was perplexed. A recorded message? How could a recorded
message get past the sentry that IŠI used to screen calls?
Not to mind. She faked conversation, getting heated, putting
on an act, while the phone commercial told her about the
virtues of taking public transit to work instead of a car.
Jag turned to leave. By coincidence the message wrapped
up as he walked out the door. The clincher was at the end...
"...public service datum from G2S, thank you."
She rose, closed the door which was something she never
did, her office being lifeless enough; windowless and devoid
of charm but better than the no door type since you could
close a door at times like these. She locked it and did
the only thing that she could think of offhand. She called
father.
"I think I'm being targetted." She related what had happened
to her. She froze as she heard her father's reaction to
what she believed to be the target's source.
"G2S. My God, are you certain?"
"Twice certain, Francis. What is the significance?"
"G2S... Let's see. More myth and conjecture than anything
else, but I'll tell you this. From what I've been told,
nobody has ever gotten a fix on them. It seems to be very
loosely structured with no chain of command. Rumor has it
that the company is massive, controls sectors of the economy
like a chess game with pieces of all the same colour and
shape. Oh.. Look, word of advice. If they are targetting
you, go along with it. Keep me posted, along the way, but
get in there if you can."
"How can I get in when I don't know what they are?"
"They want you. Let them lead you in."
And be led she allowed, following the paths of the moments
as they played. She did not seek the moment, but recognized
the unusual for what it doubtless was. An invitation.
A new icon on the screen of her Mac. A joker's face with
the cryptic scripted challenge underneath. `Ready?'
She clicked and spent the next twenty minutes filling box
after box with access codes. She entered random characters,
only to realize that there was no way to duplicate the key
sequence again later. Too late now, she thought. The systems
that she was activating had no meaning to her. But she noticed
that the speed of her machine had increased to don't blink
or you'll miss it, and her screen displayed resolution that
made it seem more like a viewport than a video display.
Her tele-video screen lit to blue-gray, the colour of her
eyes. A blocky script appeared, flickering, instructing
her to change the channel to 66. She looked for the remote.
No sign. There it was, on the floor. She had thrown it in
a fit of pique the other day.
"Sixty-Six..." she spoke, about to enter the sequence.
The screen changed, by her voice command. "Fair enough."
She was incredulous at some level off to the side of her
mind. She was taking things on faith at this point, and
starting to enjoy it.
She watched. It was like a movie with no plot with random
and scattered conversation. People doing things together
mostly. Throwing bricks into the air and catching them.
Bending over the hood of a car and falling into an empty
engine compartment. Strapping rockets to their backs and
zooming off into space. `One more up' the conversation coincided.
Some of the footage was old, judging by the cinematography
and film quality. Other segments were startlingly vivid.
Some were impossible.
Scenes from classic old movies in full colour. Outtakes,
shots of `Casablanca' from different angles than those that
made print with orange glow at the end of the cigarette.
Procession scenes from `Insignificance' shot surreptitiously.
Griffiths giving directions. Colour. 1917. She knew that
the film technology didn't exist then. It could be colorization
as high art. No, it was entirely modern, better than...
The cinematography was astonishing. But the sequences were
obviously authentic. `Suspend judgement,' her reason offered.
Reason in retreat.
If the powers that be at G2S sought to dazzle, they were
succeeding. "I'm impressed" she spoke to the room.
"Thank you" the ad-hoc narrator spoke, turning the mis-en-scene
to other matters: Environmental devastation. Time lapse
photography of forests being reduced to stumps with window
boxes showing data on toxicity levels in downstream watersheads.
Always the same general increase. Analogs of biodiversity
indices all reading a decline as ecological simplification
progressed in a variety of manners.
She knew all this. But that was beside the point. She was
astonished by the thoroughness of the documentation of facts,
the skillfulness in presentation.
Followed by: a short drama on valiant attempts to reseed
the ozone layer using superguns to deliver payloads to the
upper atmosphere. Forties style heroism. Dialogue to match.
The next series was a documentary on mountains forming,
eroding, becoming tectonic, growing again. The footage was
really amazing, assuming that it was real. But she could
think of only one technology that would allow for the generation
of these effects: Fractal topology. But fractals were primitive
compared to these constructions. It was possible that G2S
had developed new technologies and not shared them. The
very presence they evidenced at the moment, in her office,
indicated that this was entirely possible, and likely so.
Why?
"Why."
The video screen went blank. "Indeed" the commentary faded
into silence. She slowly became aware of her office presence
and found it immediately confining.
She told her assistant that she would be taking a few personal
days, that she did not feel well. Her supervisor greeted
the news sympathetically, mistaking the reason unspoken.
She spoke the ususal platitudes and Evelyn was grateful
for the courtesy she extended.
In truth, she could not be less worried about Jag. She
just knew that she was in no condition to work. Her experiences
of the day were beginning to cascade and the boundaries
between ordinary and unreality were becoming precarious.
`Best take this trip on my own.'
Unreality. Details observed and noted. Were things always
this way? She found herself bounding rather than walking.
She smiled at people, catching their eyes. They smiled back,
some ecstatically. Everything became timing and time seemed
to be at her command. The car she took home stood waiting,
the conductor, casually placing his hand over the fare box,
called to a passerby "seats going fast." Her seat waited.
She took in the scene. Everyone on the car was animated.
There was an atmosphere of revelry... She joined in silently,
smiling, feeling strangely excited. She took in details.
The adverts on the ceiling were all a novelty, for services
and products that were meaningless to her. One card showed
a farmer shaking hands with a suit. Others.... All bore
a striking similarity in style and intent. "Go with it."
She spoke half whispered. The conductor rang the bells.
A passenger shouted excitedly "Allright!"
©1994 (from Zero She Flies)
