Ryan Boudinot - Blueprints of the Afterlife

Watching people.

Watching people who might not even be people at all.

Rocco said, “Some guy called for you last night when you were out. I got his name and number.” He thumbed the Post-it note to Abby’s forehead.

Abby peeled it off. “I don’t know anyone named Dirk Bickle,” she said, “Pickle?”

“He said it was about a job. You want tea, right?”

“What kind of job?”

“Okay, let me tell you how the conversation went. Me: Hello? Guy on phone: Is Abby Fogg available? Me: No, may I ask who’s calling? Guy on phone: My name is Dirk Bickle. I’m calling with regard to a job opening. Me: Sure, let me get your number. Guy on phone: My number is, etc., etc. Thanks, good-bye.”

“You’re making Darjeeling, right?”

“I’m making the kind with the frog on the box.”

“I hate that kind.”

Gently mocking: “Who do you think you are, Ms. Fogg? Telling me what kind of tea to make?”

“I hate the frog tea.”

“That’s why I made the Darjeeling.” He set the cup before her. “I know your likes and dislikes better than you do.”

“Like that’s an accomplishment.”

“You hate olives, you dream in black and white. I’m the world’s most esteemed authority on Abby Fogg .”

“I know you, too.”

“You have no idea who I am.”

“Is this Rocco Petrone guy not a Bionet dork? Does he not obsess over cycling and artisanal lagers?”

“You could be describing anyone.”

“Does he not like it when I put my finger up his—”

“I really wanted coffee.”

“Aren’t you late for school?”

“It’s Thursday, right?”

“It’s Friday.”

“ Merde .”

Rocco stumbled through the condo slapping on clothing, quickly kissed Abby half on the lips and grabbed his bike helmet on the way out. Somehow this was the same dude who knew his way around the human brain like a motherfucker.

“You’re right,” Abby said when he was gone. “I have no idea who you are.”

Abby poked digits into a keypad. Dirk Bickle answered on the first ring. A dog’s bark echoed in the background. They arranged to meet on Granville Island later that morning.

She passed through the steeled angles of Vancouver, clouds of falafel smoke and deep-fried exhaust. Near the pier a couple bike cops knelt on the sidewalk getting a Bionet reading from a passed-out homeless guy. He’d soon find himself in a detox center downtown where he would get wrung out like a dishcloth, be given a vitamin-rich meal, and suffer through some boilerplate therapyish remonstrations delivered by a bored staffer. The next day he’d get dumped back onto the concrete grid where he’d hit up a dealer for a decryption code to illegally download painkillers. A newman nanny maneuvered a double-wide stroller around the prone addict. A billboard featured a man’s head, his hair all Einsteined-out, word-bubbling the message, “Holy Shit! Telepathy! For Real!” A seagull bashed its beak into some spilled popcorn. At the pier Abby hopped onto a water taxi and five minutes later stepped onto Granville Island, a maze of art galleries and fruit stands. Café Lumiere was at the end of a twisty walkway between a toy store and an herbalist. Abby ordered her usual and pulled a chair up next to a framed photograph of a smug-looking Georges Méliès.

An old man sat down across from her. Black jacket, white dress shirt, no tie, hair spiky white, tanned face drooping down at the corners a bit. He removed his sunglasses and placed them in his pocket. An old guy. Obviously a FUS survivor.

“Hi, Abby. I’m Dirk. Thanks for meeting me. This is one of your haunts?”

“My early-films club meets here.”

“Before my time, even. I read your paper on the restoration of Edison kinetoscopes. I won’t even attempt an intelligent comment. It went right over my head. I’m curious why you’re not working in Hollywood.”

“I’m staying in Vancouver until my boyfriend finishes grad school.”

“Rocco, is it? Guy I talked to? Studying to be a Bionet engineer?”

“Yes.”

“You want to know why I’ve contacted you. Here it is. I represent a client, another FUS survivor who lives in Victoria in this grand old hotel. Kylee Asparagus. She’s been holed up there for over a century and has accumulated a big old archive. Books, periodicals, digital content going back to the late twentieth century. A lot of it beyond repair.”

“You’d be surprised,” Abby said.

“Well, so right, that’s why I wanted to get in touch with you, Abby. The organization I represent has been interested in these archives for some time but Ms. Asparagus keeps turning down our offers for a full audit. Until last week, when a water pipe burst and destroyed a lot of her records. Her people cleaned it up as best they could but there are certain pieces of digital content in states that may or may not be salvageable. USB drives, DVDs, diskettes, videocassette tape. We need you to assess the damage, write a report, and take the steps necessary to save what can be saved.”

“I’m going to need a team. I know some people—”

Bickle shook his head. “You’re going to have to fly solo. Kylee Asparagus won’t have a team crawling over her property.”

“Why are you interested in these archives? How will I know what kinds of content to prioritize?”

“Before the FUS I worked for an organization called the Kirkpatrick Academy of Human Potential. We thought of ourselves as an incubator for geniuses. I was one of the scouts who travelled around the country looking for youngsters who fit our profile, who exhibited potential to become innovative business leaders, artists, scientists. In the early 1990s I identified a boy living outside Seattle named Nick Fedderly. I recruited him and he joined the academy. His best friend was this guy named Luke Piper. At some point Luke was interviewed and we have reason to believe there’s a copy of it in Ms. Asparagus’s archives.”

“You want me to find the interview while I’m sorting through the mess.”

“We’re prepared to pay off your student loans.”

“Why is this interview so important?”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“Who conducted the interview?”

“We honestly don’t know.”

“Who’s ‘we’?”

“I still represent Mr. Kirkpatrick.”

“What if I don’t find the interview?”

“We’ll pay you the same amount for trying. Oh, and by the way, their names are Steve and Winnie. He’s twenty-nine, she’s twenty-seven. He’s a consultant for a company that specializes in stealth-brand penetration. She’s a designer, as you’ve probably guessed from the kind of work she does on the computer. They’ve been together three years, moved in just before you and Rocco moved to the apartment across the street. She’s half-Japanese, half-Korean. He’s Russian, British, French, Spanish. They met at a professional event, a conference. They both love sushi and Cajun food. His favorite author is Peter Ng, hers is Yasutaka Tsutsui. At home they listen to late-twentieth-century jazz and world music. They typically make love about three times a week. She’s on a Bionet fertility plan. He’s color-blind, wears contact lenses to correct it. When they go to movies they prefer lighter comedies. They’re saving up for a trip to Italy. I can go on like this for a long time if you want.”

“You’ve been spying on me.”

“How is this information about your neighbours about you ?” Bickle said. “I understand people like you, Abby. I know what it means to desire another person’s life. Don’t be embarrassed. Your interests are why we approached you. I think you’ve got enough information to make a decision. Call me when you’ve thought it over.”