Children of the New World: Stories (16 page)

“I can order some.”

“Here, take these,” the boss said and blinked. Douglas saw two attachments for Alertin arrive in his inbox. “Use one now; the other one’s if you feel like you need it later. We can’t have you dozing off with a shipment like that.”

Douglas downloaded one of the Alertins. It was like a strong cup of coffee to his synapses. “Thanks,” he said.

“Hey, only the best for the best,” the boss said and winked. Checking his fucking eyemail while he talks to me, Douglas thought. “Have a good trip,” the boss said. “And don’t look at too many asses while you’re out there.”

*   *   *

WHY WAS IT
that no matter how advanced technology got, air travel still remained in the Space Age? Douglas pondered this question as he stood on yet another line taking off his shoes and unbuttoning his shirt. Ahead of him, a woman in a white brassiere stood in a small cubicle getting scanned for electronic data. Douglas put his clothes on the conveyer belt and walked bare-chested into the booth.

His direct flight had been canceled, and he’d been bumped to a partner airline that had a flight to Denver with connections through Philly, Minneapolis, and Chicago. Unfortunately the first leg to Philly was delayed, forcing him to miss his flight in Minneapolis and catch a commuter to Chicago. The sun was setting when Douglas finally boarded the Chicago flight to Denver. Though the company had booked business class, his standby status bumped him back to economy. He eyemailed Phillip Monto to say he was delayed.
No problem,
the eyemail came back,
Grab a bite on the plane and we’ll make it after-dinner cocktails instead.

Innernet activity was prohibited on all flights and so Douglas, bored, looked out his window. Along the tarmac, men in white jumpsuits waved white neon sticks at incoming planes. Douglas placed his foot on the briefcase beneath his seat and yawned. No good trying to fall asleep now. He leaned forward and took the airline magazine from the seat pocket.
VIVA LAS VEGAS!
was written across the front, underneath which a showgirl in white peacock feathers danced. Douglas skimmed the articles. There were the exotic fish of Afghanistan, the wild nightlife of Baghdad, the lively markets of Lebanon. To have a job transporting souls to those countries—now
there
was the courier job to have. Better yet was securing an upper management job engineering the transmission of souls into crystals. That meant knowing how to scan souls for undesirable elements, download pro-government sentiment, and replace unwanted memories with product loyalty. You needed an incarnation of training to secure a job like that. All the same, perhaps that was the way to go. Douglas’s fingers paused mid-turn. A photo on the
VIVA LAS VEGAS!
page made his abdomen grow cold.

Between the white lights of Las Vegas’s unfinished Tower of Babel Casino stood the world famous Luxor. The white pyramid rose like a phantom memory. A thought flashed across Douglas’s mind like an instant blink.
You’ve forgotten what you came to do.
Douglas had a sudden feeling of despair, and the accompanying awful sensation of an unreachable memory. For God’s sake, flip the page. But he couldn’t, and as he looked at the pyramid rising from the neon-lit metropolis, a thick coil of heat unraveled in his belly. He put his hands against his abdomen to calm the feeling, but as his palms touched his stomach, a memory flashed clear as a high-definition image. He was standing on the ridge of a temple. Far below, a skinny white man stood yelling through a bullhorn.
We’ve Got You Surrounded!
The woman grabbed his hand. “Remember me,” she said.

Douglas pulled his hands away from his belly as though they’d been burned. For the love of God, what was going on? Something was very wrong with him. He needed to log back on and take a couple Percodextrins and a Metabutronol, but that wouldn’t be possible until they landed. A drink then, he thought. Indeed. A drink, and some food, and then, if they were showing a movie, he’d pay the money and keep himself entertained for the rest of the flight. The plane was rolling down the runway, picking up speed. The tip of the plane tilted up, a perfect diagonal against the earth, as precise as the ridge of a pyramid. His finger was still holding the page open, the Luxor staring back at him. Outside, the sun blazed white, its belly submerged in the clouds like a God and, though he knew he shouldn’t, Douglas stared at the sun as if in deep meditation.

*   *   *

THE HUMMER WAS
waiting for Douglas at the rental place. The Apex attendant downloaded the keys into Douglas’s system and Douglas set the coordinates for Colfax. As the Hummer navigated Denver’s ribbon of highway, Douglas relaxed in his seat. The Percodextrin and Metabutronol had helped him feel calmer and, after taking the second Alertin, Douglas felt like himself again. The billboards along the freeway blinked white against the night sky.
KEEBLER FROZIE MOCHA TREATS—SIMPLY FANT
ASS
TIC!
a sign broadcast, beneath which a woman’s ass pushed suggestively toward the passing car.

When the Hummer parallel parked on Colfax, Douglas sent an instant blink to Phillip Monto. He made sure the briefcase was hidden beneath the seat, then got out of his car and activated the security alarm. Halfway down the block, the neon lights of two buttocks flashed into the night. Beneath the sign was a skinny white man in a suit. The man raised his hand into the air. “Hey there!” Monto’s words echoed across the concrete. Douglas’s belly went cold. The man was waving a bullhorn.
Hey there! We’ve got you surrounded!
The pale neon lights of the buttocks made Monto’s features appear distorted and grotesque, his grinning teeth gleaming.

“You made it, chief!” Monto said, lowering his hand, which held a smoldering cigarette. He pulled his other hand from his pocket and shook Douglas’s. “Flight go all right?”

Douglas released Monto’s grip and wiped his brow. “Besides five-hour delays, bad food, and being an overall pain in the ass, not bad.”

Monto blinked a couple times. “Oh yeah, yeah. Well, what can you expect? Air travel: complete hell. Well, listen, I hope I’m not being presumptuous here, but I heard you were an ass man.”

“Who isn’t?” Douglas said.

“Dalai Lama, that’s fucking who! Bunch of bullshit is what I say; I bet he’s in his cave right now wishing he had some ass!” He gave Douglas another skeletal grin.

“Probably got all the Buddhist ass he needs,” Douglas said.

“Even so, the guy’s missing out.” Monto gestured with his cigarette toward the doors of Rocky Mounds. “Best Live-Ass club in Denver. They got all types in there. White, African, Asian. Come on, let’s get you a drink.” And though Douglas had the urge to retreat to the vault of his Hummer, he followed Monto through the doors.

The dim lights of the club cast shadows on the men sitting at the tables. Waitresses flittered through the room like ghosts, their short white skirts pulled up high to reveal a glimpse of their buttocks. Monto took a table near the stage. “What can I get you?” he asked.

“Mojito, if they’ve got it. Otherwise I’ll take—”

“Hey, you’re in the best club in Denver, they’ve got it.”

“Here, let me send you some credits.” Douglas pulled up his accounts page.

“Don’t even try,” Monto winked. “I’m blocking any credit downloads from you tonight. Soul Co.’s treating. Couriers have to enjoy some benefits.”

Douglas sat back in his chair. Lit by stage lights, three women, one African, one white, one Asian, bounced their asses in time with a DJ playing drum and bass. Over the music, the words
Ass, Ass, Ass
pounded. The asses were thick, rich, and voluptuous, like silky mountains of—and there it was again, an infuriating unreachable tingle between his legs. Douglas’s belly began to spasm. He instinctively placed his hands on his stomach to calm himself. As his palms touched his abdomen a vision flashed in his mind. He was in bed with the woman; she was kissing his face, his neck, his lips; a candle flickered against the wall; the shadow of a moth flittered against the flame, circling and circling before catching fire.

“What did I tell you? Not bad, huh?” Monto said as the waitress brought their drinks.

“What?” Douglas asked. His body was covered in a thin film of sweat. He removed his hands from his belly. “Oh yeah. That white ass is top notch.”

“I’m an Asian guy myself. Man, just look at those pillows. Yeah, baby! Make that ass clap!” He lifted his glass toward Douglas. “Hey, here’s to Soul Co.!”

“To Soul Co.,” Douglas responded, and the men clinked.

“So, you’ve got some pretty heavy luggage with you?”

“Fifty-seven souls.”

Monto let out a whistle. “Damn. You
must
be good. Boss said to me, you take this guy out, show him a good time—he works for the big guy. So, I had it all set up for us tonight, wine and dine on the budget. On the budget! Shame your flight was delayed, they’ve got a great steakhouse out here. Porterhouse rounds big as that African ass up there. Soft as it, too! Hey, Soul Co. knows how to make it happen. Right? Right!” Monto took a sip of his drink. “But tell me something, you ever seen any Buddhist ass?”

“Wouldn’t want to.”

“Nah, me neither, but you have to wonder what those asses look like.”

Douglas took a sip of his drink. He turned his eyes to the stage. The girls had their hands on their knees and were thrusting their asses toward him. Douglas’s stomach convulsed. He needed to get some cold water on his face.

“Where’s the bathroom?”

“Right side of the bar.” Monto nodded his bony chin toward the back of the club.

Douglas’s legs felt hollow as he rose. He navigated through the murky light, waitresses flittering past like spirits, the music throbbing in his temples. He slammed against the bathroom door and entered the white-tiled glow of the men’s room.

He chose a urinal, unzipped his pants, and pulled out his penis. It hung limply as a thin stream trickled from its tip. His belly was beginning to feel better, and he let out a breath of relief and looked up. There, among the scribbled graffiti, was a crude drawing of a pyramid with an eye at its center. Douglas’s belly went cold. He put his hand against the wall to keep himself from falling over.
In God We Trust.
The memory jangled through his mind.

That’ll be three-twenty five, due back next Saturday.

They’d rented a movie. She’d suggested a comedy, and he’d put the pyramids down one after another on the counter beneath the fluorescents. The light of the awning as they exited the store had lit her face so beautifully, and the color of the awning had been … not white … but … Blockbuster. That was her name! She was Blockbuster! It’d been cold. There was snow falling. There was a couch. He’d paid with pyramids, and they’d never finished the movie. She’d pressed against him and said, “I’m sleepy.” And the moth had flown into the candle as she held the pyramid to the light.

But, no, that was all wrong. It wasn’t after a video. The video rental had happened in a previous incarnation. She’d held a dollar bill in the light of the candle so he could look at it, their daughter asleep in the adjacent room, and she’d said, “This is to help you remember.”

“What is it?”

“We used these in our last lifetime. When you infiltrate Soul Co. they’re going to remove your memories of the revolution. You have to work on recalling your past incarnations like we’ve been doing. Remember this pyramid,” she said. “The resistance will paint this symbol everywhere to help you remember. We’ll build the temple for the arrival of the Dalai Lama. If they destroy us before we finish, it’s up to you to find us again.”

“I’ll remember,” he’d promised. “It might take incarnations, but I’ll work my way in. I’ll destroy Soul Co. from the top down.” But his voice had been shaking, as though he could hear the tanks that would soon be rolling toward them. Then the moth flew into the candle, shocking them both, and it rose like some ancient Sun God, flames shooting from its wings as it kicked its legs into empty air. She rolled atop him and kissed him. No, she took him by the hand and they ran down the temple steps, sand beneath his feet. “We haven’t made it this time!” Pushing further, his hands around her naked body, her hands on his stomach, his hands around another stone, scooping up mortar, sun blazing hot, sweating, lay down the stone, slide the mortar, push it down, holding on to her as she placed both hands against his chest and rocked against him, push, slide, rise, push, slide, rise, right hand holding troth, scooping mortar, brick down, push, slide, rise, push, slide, rise, candle bursting into brilliant light against her belly, flame shooting through the crown of her head, down through her heart, down though her abdomen, and into him in a flash of white light.

And now, penis drained, Douglas realized in horror that his limp appendage, lifeless for incarnations, was beginning to rise. It moved like a serpent charmed by the pulsing in his pelvis, and stretched its neck toward the toilet mint of the urinal, ready to devour it.
Ass, Ass, Ass.
The music pounded as the door to the men’s room slammed open.

“God! I just love those asses!” a man in jeans and a white T-shirt said as he sidled up next to Douglas. Douglas looked down at his penis. It was still stretching toward the porcelain. Sweat dripping down his neck, he stuffed his penis into his pants and zipped his fly. “Ain’t those the best asses in the Rockies?” the man yelled.

“I don’t know,” Douglas said, stumbling toward the door.

He careened into the club. The women were on the stage, putting their hands on their knees, pushing their asses toward him. Phillip Monto, in his thin white suit, turned to face him. As he did, the lights hit his face, and Monto’s skull opened into a wide grin.
This is Sergeant Monto, we’ve got you surrounded!

“Thought you got lost!” Monto said.

Douglas looked down at himself. His pants were still bulging abnormally. He put his hand in his pocket and held his penis against his leg. “I think I’m going to call it a night,” he said. “I’m bushed.”