Kirk Jones - Aetherchrist

“I’m fine. Just a small fever. I’m on a detox diet. It’s normal.” He downs the rest of his water. “You going to do it?”

“I might.”

“Think about it like this. If it is her and she goes for it, you can finally iron out that tent in your pants. If it isn’t her, close your eyes, grab her thighs and pretend.”

When I get back to my room, I log into Jim’s account, or one of his accounts. He has no unread messages, no photos, and no information. The account was created last night. He made it for me. I figure I should get his five bucks worth out of this. While the page is loading, I close my window. A moth rests on the screen. It has been motionless since I got here. I was pretty sure it was dead. I close the window behind it. It sees its own reflection and it flutters wildly, realizing for the first time it is trapped.

On the page, Jim has one woman in his queue. It’s Lana, presumably. So, I go to write her a message:

Lana:

I know this might seem odd, but I’ve been in love with you since we first met…

The confessional approach isn’t going to work. I think I’m in love with this woman, but I can’t acknowledge that now.

I draft and re-draft my letter. Tonight, the Internet is a womb. My thoughts are a mass of tangled DNA waiting to be woven into something meaningful, ejaculate spewing across T2 wiring. The veil of the black type on white backdrop is infected with emotion, so I wrap myself in a semi-porous frame of feigned apathy. I have to pretend I want nothing more than sex, when all I want is for someone to validate me. But every time I open my mouth or stroke the keys, I find I’m stuck inside myself. Finally, some intimation of my desire comes across the screen.

Ms40-34-40:

If you’re interested, I’ll be waiting at the Dance Hole around 8 p.m. three nights from now (Friday). I’ll wear dark blue jeans and a grey dress shirt. You don’t have to confront me unless you’re interested. I’ll sit at the far end of the bar toward the road.

Best,

Big’un69

Big’un69? What a tacky fucking name. Thanks, Jim. She’ll either be expecting a four-hundred-pound farm hand or John Holmes.

I guess I’m no worse off than I was before I started.

You ever have one of those days where things are already wearing you down before you get out of bed, and then everything after that point is shot to hell? It’s been one of those days so far. I woke up to Jim leaving the parking lot an hour early. I ran to the window and tried to wave him down. I know he saw me. Bastard.

To make matters worse, housekeeping didn’t replace my single-use coffee packet from yesterday, and they took the tea. I guess that’s what I get for not leaving a tip.

So now I’m walking down the hill toward Harbor Road with no caffeine in my veins and sweat starting to accumulate on the underarms of my shirt. I’m lagging, knowing already that nobody’s going to buy my shit on this road. Knowing I should have had this road off my quota Monday. Knowing I should have had Jim take me to the far end of the road on my first day so I wouldn’t have to walk a mile to the last house on the street.

Before I even hit pavement, Wayne’s calling to me from his front porch. This is another reason I should have scratched this road the first day. The products we sell are garbage. It’s sad to say, but the only way to be successful is to strike like lightning. Hit fast and never hit the same place twice. Without a vehicle, I’m up shit creek.

“Hey there. Reynold, right?”

Customer’s always right . “Yeah. Wayne?”

He nods. “You mind taking a look at something for me?”

I jog lightly toward his driveway, feign concern. The fucking sharpener is busted. I can feel it. I remind myself to remain calm, to breathe slowly. I’m just the middleman. Good cop to the bad cop corporation. “Problem with the sharpener?”

“She’s working fine.” He overturns a mug on the counter and heads for his coffee pot. “You look like you could use a cup.”

“I’m all right, thanks.”

“Housekeeping shorted you today, didn’t they?”

“They’re that predictable, eh?”

“I think it’s better if you take a look for yourself.” He takes me through the darkened hallway into the living room and points to the television.

I set my briefcase down next to Wayne’s wife, and there I am on the television, setting my briefcase down.

Wayne starts going through the channels. Channel 2: me, two days ago, selling Wayne the sharpener. Channel 3: I’m walking down a corridor of old black-and-white televisions at the garage sale next door. Channel 4: I’m waking up and looking out the window, watching Jim speed away. Channel 5: I’m staring back at myself in real time. Channel 6: static.

I look at Wayne, trying to brush off chills that remind me it’s time to consider waxing the hair cropping up on my shoulders. Then I chastise myself for being vain when I’m housed in some microcosm of A Brave New World . “The whole town is under surveillance?”

“You’re the only one showing up on my TV. I thought you might know something.”

I point to the television. “May I take a look?”

“Sure.”

“Turn it back a channel.”

Wayne dials down and steps away from the television. There we are again. I try to gauge the position of the camera by walking toward the television and away from it again. I look for signs of the screen coming into focus or blurring as I move. The image is crisp the entire time.

I crouch down and walk toward the television set with my finger extended. I play hot and cold with the camera until my finger is resting on the television monitor, dead center. I hold my finger there and turn the television off. “There’s a camera in your TV,” I say. “Must be like a two-way mirror effect or something. Where’d you get it?”

“Next door.”

So, the fucker next door is a voyeur. He’s got the general vicinity rigged. That’s why all of those fucking TVs are on in his garage. He’s watching everybody.

“Have you tried all the channels?”

“Yeah. Only the first few are working.”

I start thinking maybe they’re just mind-fucking me, that maybe Wayne is in on it too. I try to remain calm. “Might be time to get a new TV.”

“You think we should call the police?”

“Naw. I’d watch what you do in front of that TV, though.”

He slaps his wife on the leg. “You hear that, Lori?” He laughs, baring his yellowed teeth. “Don’t let ’em catch you moving or anything.”

His wife stares ahead, eyes unflinching.

I pick up my briefcase and head out for the front door. “I better get back to work.”

“I’ll holler if anything changes,” he tells me.

As I walk next door to Bill’s, I start thinking that maybe being recorded is just some part of a benign neighborhood watch program. Boredom and collective paranoia can do some interesting things to people. But why would they show me I’m on camera? Just to keep me in line? And what exactly qualifies as “in line” in this neighborhood? If they’ve gone to such great lengths to wire the entire fucking town, they might have some pretty rigid convictions.

Snow flits across the television screens as I enter Bill’s garage. I walk up to one and wait for it to flicker. As soon as it does, I start turning the dial. There’s definitely something being transmitted, but it’s all black on my end. Like he said, what they don’t want you to see, you don’t see.

Bill walks out from behind the counter. “Back so soon?”

I continue eyeing the televisions, trying to find one that won’t be too heavy to carry back to the motel. “I’d like to pick up one of these if I could.”