David Wallace - Broom of the System

Candy laughed and drew on her cigarette, made an oval in the air and speared it. “I sense a sudden shift in the conversation. Well I just saw my big chance, is all. At a company party three days ago. Was it three? When you were in the Heights? I used Clint mercilessly to get to the executive side of the room. The violet dress came through. It got Nick, over hors d‘oeuvres. The dress did it. He was helpless. The dress was awesome.”

“You’re awesome, is who’s awesome.”

“Vidi, vici, veni, is all I can say,” said Candy. “Which is what you could say, too, with a really spectacular specimen, if you wanted. I’d think about it.”

“Rick and I are supposed to be in love, you forget,” Lenore said quietly, back at her wrist.

“What would Vlad the Impaler have to say to that, I wonder,” said Candy. She put out her cigarette in the middle of Yang.

“What a bitch,” Peter Abbott said, emerging stiffly from beneath the console.

“I beg your pardon?” said Candy.

“I’m gonna have some words for those tunnel drips when they get back, is all I can say,” said Peter. He bent and with a grunt dragged an enormous box of exotic tools and cables and wires out from under the white counter. Began arranging items on the box’s shelves.

“I hardly even dare to hope that you just fixed our lines,” said Lenore. The console began to beep the minute Peter plugged it back in; Candy took the call.

Peter was hooking some things onto his belt. “What I’ve done here is to take the first step in Interactive Cable’s plan to restore service and get you some satisfaction.”

“He didn’t fix anything,” Candy shot over. “He just attached something weird and deeply Freudian to the underside of the console, so they can do a tunnel-test or something. In case you’re in any doubt about the phones, I just talked to a Bambi’s Den of Discipline customer wanting to know about inflatable dolls.”

“Inflatable dolls?”

“The first step in a really expensive but ingenious plan Mr. Sludgeman came up with,” Peter Abbott was continuing, bent over his box on the counter. “We’re gonna do tunnel-tests. We’re gonna test your tunnel like nobody’s business.”

“Big whiff,” said Candy Mandible.

“Hey, lady, it is a big whiff,” Peter said. “A really big and nasty whiff, if you’re the one that’s gotta do it. Try to imagine having to test a whole nervous system by trying to stick all sorts of shit in the nerves.”

“You are really the master of the yummy image,” said Lenore.

“Just tell your supervisor, that hen lady, so I don’t have to tell her, ‘cause she scares the stuffing right out of this guy,” said Peter Abbott, jingling his belt nervously, “that what we’re doin’ is hooking all the consoles that utilize lines in your tunnel, the one under this building, hooking all the consoles into this network of testing cable, this cable that we’re gonna feed into the tunnel, to test it. If it’s one of the consoles that’s infecting all the others, we’re gonna know. If it’s something in the tunnel infecting all you guys, we’ll know. We’re gonna like feel the tunnel’s pulse.”

“Feel the pulse of a nerve?”

“Testing’s gonna hopefully start in a few days,” Peter said, picking up the last of his things and hooking them onto his belt. Lenore bent and saw a brightly colored spaghetti of new wires leading down from the base of the console to a plug in the cubicle’s floor. The wires pulsed with a strange sort of violet light.

“That stuff looks really hard to put in,” she said to Peter.

Peter turned and stared into her eyes. Lenore looked back innocently. Peter sighed. “Yeah, it’s a bitch. The tests can’t start till I get all you guys hooked into the test circuit. It’s a son of a bitch. I can only work so fast, and it’s just me, and I’m only gettin’ scale for it.”

“Well, we certainly don’t want to keep you,” Candy said without looking up, handling a request for a wheel of Stilton.

“I’ll see ya. I gotta go insert the exact same stuff over at Bambi’s Den of Discipline now,” Peter said, moving toward the door of the cubicle. “You take it easy.”

“Happy inserting,” said Candy. The jingle of Peter’s belt receded.

“Peter, goodbye!” called Judith Prietht, sitting up a bit to get her head over the top of the cubicle. Peter was gone. The shadow in the huge lobby had almost seemed to move toward him to take him, Lenore saw.

“I’m going to talk to Rick about getting some smaller windows in this lobby,” she said to Candy. “This shadow stuff is starting to really give me the creeps. I don’t like the way the shadow is handling people’s exits.”

“You know who you have to talk to about the Building.” Candy smiled, winked at Lenore, gestured at the flowered wreath on the wastebasket. “The big fromage. El Grandé Yango.”

“Not even potentially funny. Humor not even possible in that.”

Candy laughed and bent to the console.

/b/

“So is all clear, here?”

“No problem I can see, R.V.”

“Can’t possibly take more than two or three months.”

“Less, if we haul ass.”

“If this is ready for distribution by Thanksgiving we’re supposedly in line for a mammoth bonus.”

“Kick-ass.”

“So then, no questions?”

“None I can see, except maybe who that skeleton guy is, out front.”

“Who?”

“That skeleton guy, out front, in the sidewalk, under that mesh?”

“Oh. Well that’s Moses Cleaveland, Andrew.”

“Who?”

“General Moses Cleaveland, the founder of the city of Cleveland.”

“The founder of the city?”

“Yes.”

“With a ‘Reserved Parking’ sign sticking out of his eye?”

“What shall we say? Shall we say that reserved parking respects no man?”

“Say whatever you want. Just seems a tinch disrespectful, is all.”

“Fits with the whole concept, then.” “….”

/c/

8 September

Vance.

Is there any skin, any substance at all, softer than the cheek of a young child as it yields under a late-afternoon caress at the swimming pool? When the child is caped in a towel, thin calves emerging whitely and trailing away into feet with their temporary stains. The skin is so soft, all defenses, all color washed away, white as shell, loose, lips bright red tinged with blue, trembling; the child shivers, in the summer, at the pool, as the sun hints at becoming only implicit, and the hard-haired mothers stare without pity. And the trembling skin is almost translucent, new.

The pool gives birth to clean new red-eyed children, trembling in cotton capes, and then the slightest wetting of any part of the renewed white skin sends up into space a rebirth of the fragrance of rebirth, a clean that survives until the next bath. The new children are to kiss. And the red sun lowers to melt into the blue bath of clean chlorine, and the red-eyed children are lifted out and leave themselves in prints on the paved deck, shrinking. And suntan oil yields to the sterile scent of a new start, at the end of the day, always a new start. And, as with every newness, ears that pain, and eyes that sting and water.

“Lenore, where are you?” Fieldbinder wrote in his journal, a Batman notebook lifted from the toychest of his absent son. “Evelyn, where are you? Bring my Plain Dealer when you come. ”

I’ve had a look at the little bastard who apparently has Lenore’s picture in his wallet. He is in the Stonecipheco staff directory sent me by the phenomenally thorough Mr. Rummage. This Obstat person, this person who went to high school with Lenore, and whose father was a force behind our absurd Desert and is now in Washington aspiring to some greater sillinesses; this young Obstat who is himself an improbable force behind this whole increasingly troubling Corfu-food project. I’ve had a look at him, here in the directory, and I feel ever so much better. Looks to be almost as short as I, and thin, eminently breakable, with watery colorless hair retreating from a head positively dominated and defined by the shape of the skull underneath. The skin stretched tight over that skull. A skull that seems to me perhaps even to threaten to burst through and end the whole charade. Yecch.