SL Huang - Up and Coming - Stories by the 2016 Campbell-Eligible Authors

“So it’s just as bad out there as it is up here?”

“It’s different. Not everyone is up for swimming six hours in the cold through one of the busiest waterways in the world. The Chinese respect tenacity. I met one in a bar once who told me that if we’d showed that kind of work ethic in the first place, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“Harsh.”

“Yup. But true.”

“Fuck that,” Jake said. “I worked my ass off and got screwed.”

Tom stood up and looked himself over, checking to make sure the synthfat was evenly and correctly applied. He was a greasy gray-yellow statuette. Perfect. He reached for his waterproof bag.

“We all did.” He dug around inside the bag and pulled out a little gun. “I need to tag you.”

“What?”

“It’s for my commission. They’ll scan the code when you negotiate your contract and I’ll get my cut.”

Tom checked the magazine of chips. There was white corrosion all over its edges. If he stuck it in the gun, it’d frizz out for sure. The guns were expensive and not easy to come by.

“Fuck. I’ll be right back. Gotta get more chips. Eat those noodles before they’re cold.”

Jake watched Tom rise and leave the stall. Flickering in the warm yellow light, under the grease, he could see alternating bands of rippled and smooth skin on Tom’s back, a birds-eye view of marbled scars.

A few stalls down the sand in the opposite direction from Alice sat Ari, an old Lubavitcher from Williamsburg who’d moved to the beach to retire back in the teens. Why he hadn’t moved to Inwood with the rest of the Hasids when the bridge started going up was unclear. Tom doubted his religiosity, as he’d seen him getting stoned with some of the other stall merchants and had definitely shared some of Alice’s squid noodles with him. But donning religious garb was a good way to avoid being robbed and must have helped him keep his identity so far from his missing friends and family.

Bearded, bald, and wearing his rekel (which he did regardless of the weather), Ari sat on a little stool atop a vaguely middle-eastern-looking rug he’d spread out over the sand. The plastic containers he used as shelving had their flaps open, presenting lots of trinkets and gadgets and things…sunscreen, cigarettes, amphetamines, water, swimsuits, fins, goggles, snorkels…like a degenerate triathlete’s beach shop.

Ari was no triathlete. Degenerate, maybe. His big belly swelled under his white collared shirt, his tzitzit fringing his lap.

“I need a chip magazine. The one I have is fucked. Corroded.”

“Second row,” he said, with a thick foreign accent despite having been born in Brooklyn, “on the right.”

Next to the aluminum squeeze tubes of energy goo, Tom found a cardboard box full of magazines. Used, mostly. He grabbed a new one and examined it. The label read “Proudly made in the U.S.A.”

Tom waved the magazine at Ari. “How much?”

“For you, forty-five.”

“Five a chip?” He opened his mouth wide, feigning shock. “Outrageous.”

“They’re not dropping many anymore. Most of the magazines are rotted away. I guess even their hiring is slowing down.”

It was true. In the last few months there’d been fewer and fewer ships out there. He’d had to turn more and more clients away to keep his track record up, which made tonight’s swim a little more depressing. But if he was going to keep his job, he had to do what had to be done.

“Fewer of you boys out there these days,” Ari went on. “Lots going up north, to Canada.”

“Right. Those libertarian candidates finally broke the labor laws there. Gonna be tough work. Much colder water, that far from the Gulf Stream.”

“Even the sea has been outsourced.”

“Bad omens, Ari. Put it on my tab.”

“Of course.” The old man smiled at him. “By the way, perhaps you could do me a little favor. My nephew, David, needs to find work.”

Ari had thousands of nephews. Tom’d placed a lot of them.

“What does he do?”

“He was a lawyer. Tax stuff. He just lost his job last week, but he has a baby on the way. Can you help him?”

“Can he swim?”

“He’s not exactly what you’d call ‘in shape,’ my David,” Ari said. “I thought maybe you might be able to ask around when you go out tonight and see if anyone needs someone of his abilities. Perhaps they could arrange a pickup.”

Nobody did pickups anymore. At least not the kind you’d want. Today’s pickup was very different.

“If he’s on Manhattan, I can’t get him out. It’s on him.”

“No. His mother was a goy. He wasn’t allowed to go with the family.”

One diaspora replaces another. Tom nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.”

He got back to his own stall as Jake finished his noodles. The container was empty, scraped clean. Even the overboard onion was gone.

“Hungry after all?”

“You weren’t kidding. These are amazing.”

He had left his gun on his stool. It looked a lot like a label maker: featureless grey plastic with a heavy handle to hold the magazine. He jammed the clip into the gun’s butt and pulled back the charging handle.

“Ready for your shot?”

“Does it hurt?”

“Only your pride.”

Tom pressed the gun against Jake’s shoulder and pulled the trigger. It emitted a little puff of air. Jake grunted.

“Welcome to the workforce,” he announced and tossed the can of synthfat over to Jake. “Get those clothes off. Time to grease up.”

Jake smiled. “Yessir.” He pulled his pants off, rolled them tightly, and stuffed them into his waterproof bag.

“Underwear, too,” Tom told him. “You don’t want your dick to freeze off.”

Jake started to turn around to strip, hesitated, then turned back and took off his briefs.

“Okay. Take a handful and slap it on. Work it in like sunblock. When you think you’ve finished, blow on it. If you feel anything other than just a light pressure, put some more Crisco on,” Tom said.

“Wait,” Jake said. “Like the stuff for cookies?”

“Nah. It’s some kind of synthetic fat,” Tom answered. “We just have a sense of humor. Haha. For all I know, it’s partially hydrogenated polar bear blubber, but the stuff works. Get greasy, kid.”

Jake opened the tin. “Jesus, it stinks. I thought that reek was just you.”

“You wish.”

While Jake starting greasing up, Tom stretched, working the kinks out of his back. His last job had been a week ago, and he was still sore. The client was a nightmare: a forty-five-year-old dumpy advertising executive who’d put his life savings up his nose. The man was desperate and offered him half his contract pay, five times the usual commission. It was clear weather but very windy, with big swells. From the moment they entered the water, the man complained. Eventually, he gave up completely and Tom had to drag him. That’s when the Labor Police caught up, darted them, and landed them on the boat.

His client was delirious, babbling about how he didn’t want to be here, and how did it come to this. After the anesthetic wore off, Tom made a deal with the patrol. He’d get them their trophy, just not today. He had too much money riding on this whale. Give him a week, and he’d give them their prize.

Patrols were easy to bribe that way.

It was too bad, though, because Tom’d taken a real dislike to the asshole. Jake, on the other hand, seemed like a pretty decent guy.

He opened up his bright yellow dry-bag, pulled out a pair of Speedos and a well-worn orange-covered book. He put on the swimsuit, rolled his clothes, and put them into the bag. Out on the sea, the lights from the ships were getting brighter and closer together. Closing in…edging…right up to the territorial waters.