Tim Maughan - Infinite Detail

Scott kisses him again. Coffee and mouthwash. He never wants it to stop.

It does, eventually.

“So?”

“So?”

Scott seems slightly shorter than the mental image he’s built from virt and social, slightly pinker. Less composed. Real.

“How did I do?”

Scott laughs, blushes again. “Flying colors.”

They make out on the bus from Newark to Times Square. Scott wanted to get an Uber or a Google, but Rush wouldn’t let him, partly on principle but mainly because it’s too expensive. The bus takes way too long, but neither of them cares.

They make out in the Port Authority Bus Terminal, under AR billboards that try to steal their attention from each other, so they take off their spex, which were bumping when they kissed anyway.

They make out on the Times Square subway platform while waiting for the Q, Rush freaked out by the cockroaches that scuttle around their feet but fascinated by the people walking by. Scott says that before you come to New York all you know of it are movie stereotypes, then when you get here you realize they’re all true. On the way into the station they’d had to hold hands as they passed through the turnstiles, Scott explaining it was so the city could see they’re together, and charge him for Rush’s fare. The idea made Rush uncomfortable, but holding his hand felt so right. He’s made a career out of telling everyone that cities know too much, but right then he didn’t care that this one knew they were together, or who it told.

They make out on the Q. It’s packed with rush-hour commuters, but Scott manages to move him over to the door so that when the train bursts out into daylight on the bridge he can see the view. As they skim across Chinatown’s graffiti-spattered rooftops and the towers rise behind them Rush can’t believe he is finally here. Nobody else on the train—even Scott after a while—seems to care, all lost in their tablets and spex, grasping a brief window of network access, gazing at their own private vistas. He notices Scott is wearing plastic gloves, must have slipped them on when he wasn’t looking, and sees a few other people on the train are, too. He asks Scott about them.

“Anti-bac nanofiber. They’re just to keep my hands clean down here. I won’t touch anything down here. It’s so fucking gross.”

“Really? Didn’t take you for a germophobe. Guess I’m learning something new about you every day.”

Scott laughs. “I’m not a germophobe. It’s just it’s gross down here. Filthy. You don’t know who has been touching what, where their hands have been before.”

“Still sounds paranoid to me.” He’s teasing him.

“Maybe, maybe I am being paranoid. But trust me, I touch my face way too much. Don’t want to transfer anything. You wouldn’t want me spoiling this perfect complexion, now, would you?”

They make out in the diner, where Rush nibbles at some fries while Scott forces him to download the NYC app. Rush really doesn’t want to, because it’s the literal fucking antithesis of everything he is and does, and Scott says, I know but it’ll make getting around and buying stuff easier, and Rush says, I know, and that’s the exact fucking problem, and then Scott asks him if this is their first fight. It’s not.

They make love in Scott’s bed, in the corner of his tiny but neat studio, which he pays too much rent for, because it’s tucked away on the third floor of one of those beautiful brownstones in Brooklyn that the female leads in rom-coms can somehow always afford to have all to themselves, on just their salary, despite the fact that they’re social-media marketers or virt designers or something else that involves working in an office. Nobody, Scott tells him, that works in an office can afford one of these whole buildings.

After they make love they hold each other, and Scott starts to cry. Rush panics.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

“Then why are you crying?”

“Why do you think? Just because. You’re here. You’re real.”

Later onthey head out to a party that Rush can’t be bothered with. He’s thirsty, still adjusting to the late-summer heat, so he picks up a can of Coke from the corner bodega, along with some cheap Peruvian beers for the party. Reluctantly he pays for it with the NYC app.

They walk. A few blocks later he drops the empty can in a recycling bin, which chimes gently at him. His spex make a kerrching sound.

“What was that?”

“Huh?”

“The bin?”

“‘Bin’? Oh, the trash! You just got your six cents.” Scott smiles.

“Six cents?”

“Your deposit for recycling the can. Buy something with the NYC app and then when you toss it in the recycling here or at home you get your deposit. It’s pretty neat.”

“It—what? How long has this been going on?”

“It’s pretty new, actually. Been running in some neighborhoods for a while but only got turned on in Brooklyn last week.”

“The city does this? They basically track every can of drink in the city?”

“I guess. They got some tiny chip in the cans now. I think the city did it in partnership with the drink companies. And Google.”

Rush is kind of stunned, in that resigned-stunned way only professional cynics can be. “So… let me get this straight. The city—and Coke and all these companies, and Google—know every time I buy a can of pop, and where from, and every time I toss it away, and where? They basically know every time I have a drink, and where I am? For which they pay me six cents?”

“I guess so, if you look at it that way.”

“That doesn’t bother you?”

“Not really, I think it’s kinda neat. It’s not just them, you can see all of it, too. The NYC app lets you sync it with your health app stats. It’s great for watching your calories, you know?”

“Jesus wept.”

“Plus last week, there was a story on Gothamist where they said the police had arrested this guy because they used the trash can data to prove he was lying about where he was the night this girl got attacked.”

“The police have access to it too? Of course they do. Perfect.”

“Jesus, Rush, you do worry. Too much.” Scott grabs his hand and pulls him along. “C’mon, we’ll be late.”

Every timeFrank pulls something out of this trash can it buzzes angrily at him, the same buzz the machines at Thrifty do when you put in the wrong can. It doesn’t make any sense, and it’s pissing him off.

It’s hot on Vanderbilt, and he can feel himself sweating under his beanie. He could do with a drink. A beer would be nice. But he’s broke, got no money because the machines at Thrifty are still on the fritz. Same with the ones down at Cash 4 Cans on Linden. They’re all fucked. For three days now. Al came back to Thrifty, tried giving them all some bullshit excuse that nobody understands about how the machines are changing, how it was all changing from this to that, and with the networks and everything, and how things are smart now, and how now you could only get shit redeemed if you bought it yourself. Which doesn’t make any sense to Frank, and is pissing him off.

His cart is overfilled, more bags than he’s ever shifted at once. At least 160 bucks in there. It’s getting hard to push around, tricky to see where he’s going. Not that he minds, but others seem to get pissed with him easily when they’re standing in his way.

He’s just pulling a plastic Sprite bottle out of the buzzing can when who should show up but Max, pushing an empty cart. Empty!

“Hey, Max, your cart is empty!”

“Yeah, man, just emptied it.” Max looks happy. “Gonna go eat, man, get some food, ya hear me?”