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Blythe. Sue.
What would they think?

After all, after everything, he was just a coward who resorted to suicide.

His hand broke the surface, he felt it, blessed air against wet skin, just as the water filled his lungs.

*****

Voices. Violent coughing.

Ramone clutched his chest and rolled to his side, spewing lake water onto the ground. A crowd surrounded him. He blushed and sat up, fighting against arms that held him down. Arms covered in old, blurred tattoos. 

“What happened?” he asked. The old man with the dirty blue cap kneeled next to him.

“You’re lucky I can swim. And that I know CPR, son. You were almost dead, that’s what. Can’t believe you tried to go through with it.” He shook his head, removed the hat, scratched his balding head and replaced the hat.

“I didn’t mean to. I was swimming for the surface, but I underestimated the distance,” he explained quietly, his voice hoarse.

“Did someone call that ambulance?” the old man shouted to the crowd around them. Some had begun to wander off after seeing that Ramone was alright.

“No, really, I’m ok. No ambulances,” he said, moving to his knees. His feet were bare and the beach was more gravel than sand. He winced as the rocks dug into his skin.

“You should get checked out, son, just to be careful,” the old man said.

“It’s ok, honestly. I’d rather not make a scene. Well,” he blushed again, glancing awkwardly at the people who remained nearby, concerned looks on their faces, whispering to each other as they stared at Ramone. The girl with the baby in a carrier on her chest was there. She smiled politely at him as she held onto her son’s hand tightly. Her lips moved quietly, as though she were explaining what happened to the boy. “More of a scene,” Ramone finished.

The old man barked a laugh and rose to his feet. “Whatever. The help you need is probably more in the psychiatric arena, if you know what I mean.” He winked at Ramone.

“Yes, of course.” Ramone stood and tried to brush the dirt off his pants.

“Listen, next time you want to off yourself, take a seat next to me. Fishing. It’s better than suicide,” he winked again, glancing over his shoulder. He moved toward his fishing chair, bent down and retrieved the cigar from his open tackle box. “Cigars are good too,” he waved it in Ramone’s face, then shoved it between his lips and relit the end.

Ramone paused then turned away from the old man. “I’m ok, thank you for your concern,” he said loudly to the stragglers. “You can get on with your business now. Have a good day.” He gave them a fake smile as they began to part, looking at him with faces full of doubt. Still, they moved on, some returning to feeding the ducks, others to their picnics further up the beach where it turned to grass.

“Don’t like being the center of attention?” the old man said around his cigar, puffing a few times. “I get it. I’m the same way, but usually I don’t make a scene to begin with.”

Ramone nodded, running his hands through his hair. There was sand in it and he tried to brush it away. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. At least—” he said with a sigh. “At least not like this.” He felt the explanation welling up inside. Opening his mouth to give it, the old man raised his hand.

“Ah ah ah. No thank you. I don’t get paid enough to listen to your problems, son. I got enough of my own.”

Ramone snapped his mouth shut. His cheeks went hot despite being chilled to the bone with his wet clothes. They clung to his skin coldly.

“That said, you’re more than welcome to stick around. There’s a good chance the trout will come back, after that scare you gave them. I got an extra chair in my truck.”

“Thanks,” Ramone said, lowering his eyes, embarrassed that he nearly confessed his woes.

When the old man returned with the chair, Ramone again tried to dust the sand off his trousers before sitting down.

“Don’t worry about it,” the old man said, noticing Ramone’s efforts. “It’s a beach chair. Supposed to get sandy.”

Ramone lowered himself into the chair, grunting involuntarily. His chest still hurt where the old man had given him compressions.

“Sorry I got no blanket. I haven’t needed one lately, but as soon as October’s here, I’ll have one. Maybe you can come back then and try to drown yourself, I can save you again and offer you a blanket.” He laughed gruffly.

Ramone laughed in spite of himself. “Really, it was an accident. I was tempting fate. Didn’t know she’d answer.”

The old man chuckled. “You could just take them off. I mean your shirt and pants. I’ve seen others sun-bathing in their underclothes. Makes no sense to my old-fashioned sensibilities, but I guess that’s the way things are these days.” He grunted at that idea and shook his head in disapproval. He’d been preparing his line and lure, and now he released the lure, winding it up to cast into the lake. He stood and did so, then settled back into his chair as he reeled the line in slightly.

“I’d rather not strip, thanks. Might blind you.”

The old man laughed loudly—a hoarse scraping sound at the back of his throat that made Ramone want to clear his throat. “Is that so? I’ve seen plenty of pale bodies, son.”

“This is one you won’t be seeing.”

“That’s just as well, I’ve seen too many naked men for my taste. I was in the Navy,” he said, leaning toward Ramone and pointing at his hat with his free hand. He was remarkably good at talking around the cigar, which he puffed as he paused. “They were all just as crazy as you, too. Sometimes one of them would threaten to jump into the sea off the carrier. Did a lot of talking down in those days.” His eyes narrowed as he studied Ramone intently. After a few seconds, Ramone shifted beneath his scrutiny, Ramone’s skin beginning to itch as the wet clothes dried. “Can’t tell for sure, but I think you’re actually sane, despite trying to kill yourself. Or maybe that’s what makes you sane, considering how mad the world has gotten.”

“Thanks,” Ramone said, trying to change the subject. The old man turned back to his rod and made some adjustments.

“For what?” he asked, absently.

“For saving my life. And this,” Ramone answered quietly.

“No problem.”

*****

All she did was cry these days. About Stewart and the empty sex that punched a fraying hole right through her, and now about Ramone.

“Damn you, Ramone. Don’t go in the stupid lake. Don’t be such a baby,” she commanded him, holding her slate at arm’s length.

The day was too hot. The sunbathers vanished as the sun turned vicious, passing its apex and cooking the air above the quad like a sauna. Sweat trickled down Marci’s scalp, into her eyebrows and down her neck.

Gathering up her blanket and bag, she threw the blanket over her shoulder and retreated to the tree-lined sidewalks, heading to her apartment. As she walked, she kept an eye on Ramone as he conversed with the fisherman. “Thank God for him,” she thought, and found herself praying to some deity she didn’t know. It was all she had. Distance prevented her from being helpful. If only she could go to him, make him see reason, make him understand that he was good, that he loved his wife, that he loved Blythe, that life was a mess, and these were all things worth living for.

As she thought it, she watched in helpless dismay as Ramone waded into the lake and sank. “What? No, no, no, that’s not supposed to happen,” she hissed pleadingly at her slate. There was nothing for a while as her view hovered around the surface of the water where he disappeared. Her heart stopped. The water became still as the ripples subsided. Tiny bubbles exploded in a froth where he sank.

Suddenly, the water rocked in dirty, dark waves as the old fisherman swam out and plunged in where Ramone had gone. Marci held her breath. Seconds stretched into years as she waited. With a loud gasp the fisherman surfaced, holding Ramone around the neck, pulling him back to shore.

Minutes passed before Marci realized she was standing still on the sidewalk, feet rooted to the ground, her slate poised before her face, tears streaming down her cheeks, hands shaking. She looked up and noticed she was still on campus, beneath the towering, old sycamores. Students passed around her, some calling nasty things to her about blocking the way, others staring into their own slates, tuned out of the world just like her as they moved in erratic paths.

Marci began walking again, slowly, her eyes riveted to her slate as the fisherman breathed into Ramone and compressed his chest. It seemed familiar to the fisherman and he said nothing as he worked. A setting camera panned the beach from a bird’s eye view, showing passersby gathering into a crowd around the two as the old man fought to restore life to the awkward man Marci felt so connected to.

Ramone gasped and Marci sighed, relief flooding through her. “Thank you, thank you,” she muttered to the old fisherman, so grateful to the stranger.

She lowered her slate, listening to the audio to follow along as she broke into a quick stride toward her apartment. It would take her thirty minutes to walk there if she stayed focused. Ramone would live. That was all that mattered now.

She arrived in her apartment, dropped her bag and blanket in the doorway—her roommates could go around the pile for all she cared. It was too hot—despite it being September—to make order of the mess. Falling into the worn couch, Marci focused on her slate where Ramone stared at the lake from a chair beside the old fisherman, who continued to fish and talk quietly with Ramone. Without being overly aware of it, Marci knew that she’d made a decision and it was time to act on it. In another window, half the size of Ramone’s video feed, she began searching for information on him. Finding him would be easy, convincing him she wasn’t psychotic—well, she was willing to try.

*****

“You’re sunburned, Ramone, where’ve you been? The beach?” Sue touched his forehead and smiled as he stepped quietly into the kitchen. Her hand was cool against his burning skin.

Closing his eyes he smiled gently. She took her hand away, and caressed his cheek before turning back to the kitchen counter. “You could say that. I met an old fisherman who told me the secrets of life, and then he taught me how to fish. Can you believe I’ve gone my whole life without ever fishing?” He blinked rapidly, noting that he didn’t divulge the information about nearly drowning. He didn’t want to. It was . . . embarrassing. And, luckily, when he arrived home, Sue was out, so he showered and cleaned up before she got there. The only evidence of what happened earlier was the sand-covered clothes in the hamper. He’d take care of them later. 

Sue laughed and put the finishing touches on their salads. Ramone carried the plates to the table while she fetched the dressing from the fridge. “So you’re going to be a fisherman now?”

Ramone shrugged as he sat down. “Why not?”

“You can’t have too many hobbies now, I guess.”

“At least, some are more beneficial than others. It might be good to be out in nature from time to time.” He stared at the salad; his stomach growled, but not for food. Anxiety.

Sue took her seat and began sifting her fork through the red-edged lettuce. Ramone watched her, searching for his own hunger, eager to get beyond the sense of doom filling him. He soon realized that Sue wasn’t eating either. She put down her fork and looked up at him. “You okay?”

“I may have gotten too much sun,” he answered, stabbing his fork into a flake of lettuce, a beet, a wedge of tomato. 

“I have a thing for work tonight at the art center. A reception for the opening of one of our new exhibits. I thought you could come with me, but if you’re not feeling well—”

He shook his head and shoved the food into his mouth. “No, I can’t go. Not feeling well enough to go.” He spoke around the food, forcing himself to chew and swallow. While she was out he could throw those clothes into the wash. He felt a pang in his stomach. Sneaking around. Hiding so much. When had it gotten so out of control? 

His wife stared at the table. “I’ll be home around ten. It’s a dinner, but I thought we’d eat something light like these salads before going—you know, in case all they have is prime rib and steak,” she said with a self-conscious laugh. It was how they always did things: have an escape plan. Know where the exits are. Have your own transportation lined up. Eat something before you attended a catered party. 

Ramone smiled, looking into her eyes—dark eyelashes framing light gray. His gaze hung upon hers. He started suddenly, noticing something different about her tonight. She’d never been crazy about makeup, but there was a smear of dark blue eye shadow on her eyelids and a black outline beneath her lashes. “Radiant,” he whispered, his heart leaping as he recalled the unfamiliar, expensive earrings from another night earlier in the week.

She took his hand across the table. “Thank you, honey,” she said, her voice faltering slightly, her eyes darting away uncomfortably.

Chapter 6

Ghosteye couldn’t have asked for a better twist in the story.

In the fashion of the programs, a bot had alerted him of a new strand—a girl in the Northeast who was so wrapped up in Ramone’s feed that she was convinced she loved him. Not only that, she’d decided to go find him.

It was rich. It was delectable. He’d have to be an incompetent artist to not appreciate the possibilities with it. On one screen, he’d begun monitoring her feed to figure out a way to manipulate it to achieve the most powerful climax. He could just see his audience sighing themselves to death, their knees melting, their shoulders slouching into their stomachs in exhaustion, women fanning their faces, men . . . well, he doubted men watched these feeds.

Paying partial attention to Marci, the college girl, Ghosteye continued to apply filters to Ramone’s feed. His mind worked on the frustrating bigger questions—when to add a related feeds link, when to let
her
know,
he
was aware of her? He remained cognizant of her onscreen, at her apartment packing a carry-on, arranging travel, arguing with her roommate, while he continued to puzzle about what to do as he edited.

It was such a matter of style and taste, and of finding the right balance. These were the questions that made what he did an art, and not simply a science or a function of a computer program. The bots were competent enough to work without Ghosteye’s influence—for example, he could let the bot manage for a few hours at a time with no one the wiser the Editor wasn’t a human Editor. When Ramone slept, Ghosteye slept—that was his life: adapting to the subject.

Careful,
he thought, feeling his mind reaching for Beth as he thought about the rigors of maintaining an adaptive schedule.
Come back, don’t go there, stay focused.

Bethany. Beth. Six months of love and she’d gone—a butterfly that could not be netted and pinned down in a case of glass. For her, it was being trapped in his apartment with its lies and mechanisms for spying.
Spying,
he spat the word in his mind. “It’s not spying, Beth,” he’d defended after she found out what he was. “It’s an art.
My
art.”

“I just thought you were a geek, Gale,” she said, using his real name, flipping her unnaturally black hair that appeared glossy beneath the studio track lights. The warm bulbs reflected on her nose stud. Usually he hated when people called him Gale, but in her mouth, it sounded heroic and masculine. “A geek in love with neat technology, not a serial killer type spying on people, claiming that the way you dissect them and their lives is an
art
.”

“It
is
an art,” he said aloud, fighting with the memory. In the studio, the sound of his voice was sucked into the soundproof material lining the ceiling and sections of the walls. “Just shut up,” he growled. He had to do that, occasionally, to drown out Beth’s voice lingering in his head, troubling him.

Soon, thoughts of her receded and his mind returned to his work. Ramone was home with his wife, eating dinner. The salad being pushed around disinterestedly on his plate made Ghosteye’s stomach growl. Glancing at the time, he calculated that he could go an hour or two more without needing to eat a real dinner. Still, he grabbed a soda out of the mini fridge behind his chair, cracked it open and took a long gulp before putting it on a coaster on the wooden panel of the console. Then, with one hand, he fed himself Fritos, ignoring the crumbs collecting like snowflakes on his black T-shirt while continuing to edit with the other hand.

Inevitably Marci would discover she had been noticed when he began weaving her in, and that would change her behavior. But once she was on her way to see Ramone, her course would be determined. At that point she’d either chicken out or barge into his life shouting declarations of love. She was young. That sort of impulsive behavior wasn’t out of the question.

Some things even surprised Ghosteye, despite his position above it all—towering over his subjects like a god on Olympus, knowing their secrets, knowing everything they did, and therefore, everything they thought. Tonight, something was brewing. 

*****

“Where are you going?” Stewart asked, spooning another bite of cereal into his mouth as he leaned against the counter in the kitchen. A drop of milk dribbled down his chin. He caught it and licked his thumb clean. Marci pressed her lips together and shook her head in disgust at his piggish behavior. His handsome face and gorgeous body were lies.

“None of your business.”

He smiled. “Still mad at me?”

“Go to hell.”

“Whoa, Marci. Come on. We’re friends,” he said, his eyes narrowing as he paused in shoveling the cereal into his frowning mouth.

“Oh. Pardon me. Friends don’t treat each other like shit. I apologize, Stewart.” That seemed to satisfy him, though he apparently didn’t grasp the cutting remark she’d directed at him. Maybe he just didn’t want to fight. Marci didn’t want to either, but a good rainstorm could clear the dust and shadows from the apartment.

“Don’t you have a mid-term coming up soon?”

“Yeah, so?”

He eyed the luggage at her feet. “So . . . Looks like you’re headed out of town?”

“I’m sure I’ll be back in time.”

“And you’re ready for it?” He drank the remaining milk from the bowl and put the dish in the sink behind him.

“So suddenly you care about my welfare?”

“Come on, Marci. We had an understanding. You wanted it too. I didn’t trick you into something, so don’t try to make me feel like a dick.”

“I somehow doubt I have to do that, Stewart.”

“We’ve been friends forever, Mars. The chemistry’s been there all that time as well,” he said, using her nickname to make his point.

“You’re selfish, Stewart. I never saw that before.”

His eyes changed, but his face turned stiff. As though he’d been slapped. “Who’s selfish, Marci? The girl who wanted to do something crazy to get on a feed and be a star, or the guy she used to get there?”

Before Marci could say anything, he went down the hall to his room, leaving her staring at the handle on her suitcase. He paused at the door, “Don’t expect him to welcome you with open arms, Marci. He doesn’t even know you. He’ll hurt you worse than you think.”

“I don’t—” she began, but he’d already shut the door. Wheeling her carry-on suitcase behind her, she stormed out of the apartment.

It wasn’t like she was going in the hopes that Ramone would fall in love with her—at first sight, anyway. Most of the feeds she’d gotten sucked into in the past starred vapid, self-interested people who were used to the experiences of betrayal for the sake of the fame that came with the feeds. These same people obtained sponsorships, and with the money pouring in, were able to alter their appearances—become more beautiful but increasingly less real. So far as Marci knew, Ramone was one of the exceptions.

She kept her slate running on the cab ride to the airport, and using the feed service provided by the airline, she continued her connection to Ramone. He was real. Maybe that was the source of his quick rise to popularity. So far as Marci could tell, he’d kept his own hair, his own nose, his own teeth; the wrinkles accenting his eyes were proof that he’d never had injections to smooth them over, and while he was broad-shouldered and lean, his body was nothing spectacular.

Sipping a white wine in first class, Marci rested her chin on her hand and let her heart continue to swell around Ramone. She reflected on the exorbitant amount of the last minute ticket and wondered how long she had before her parents noticed the charge. Ramone was worth it. And besides, forgiveness had always been easier to secure than permission. 

“There’s something more,” she whispered to herself as the jet engines roared outside the tiny window near her face and through the seat to her bones. There was something else that made Ramone special. Why had the Editors found him? It was like they had intentionally zeroed in on him and turned him into a sensation—as though . . . as though they wanted to interfere with him.

You sound like a conspiracy theorist,
she told herself, stifling a guffaw.
You’re family has money and political power, there’s no reason to buy into half-baked ideas about corporate powers conspiring to oppress the masses.
She’d learned enough even with her spotty seminar attendance of late to know that it was only the poor and what was left of the middle class who concocted impossible visions of a ruling, wealthy elite.

Another drink and the serious reflections vanished. She glanced at the feed staring at her from the back of the seat in front of her. Ramone was locked in his office, the lights low, watching a feed. Marci leaned forward, almost spilling her drink. What was happening?

Marci immediately recognized Sue on Ramone’s slate as he watched her. Oh Ramone, she thought, sensing where things were headed, drawing on her deep knowledge of human behavior—gleaned from no where other than the Epic Romances and Steamy Affairs feeds. She watched him watching Sue, steeling herself for the eventual revelation.

Ramone was special. He wanted to be good. He loved Blythe, it was true, and Blythe wasn’t his wife. But the heart was mysterious. The feeds tried to mask things with music and effects. Tried to distract a person with stories of infidelity, near-suicidal activities, and general jack-assery. It wasn’t until Marci found Ramone that she began to understand the hunger in the eyes of the people on the feeds. It was brighter in some, but it was there in all their eyes as they moved through space, seeking some kind of equilibrium and happiness, responding to stimuli.

*****

Finding a feed on Epic Romances and Steamy Affairs with his wife in it was surprisingly easy.

Though Ramone tried to grasp the magnitude of the damage the nanocameras had done, the beast had swelled to proportions beyond his understanding. It was like trying to think about what he’d be thinking if he never existed. He wouldn’t be thinking about what he was thinking. He just wouldn’t exist. It wouldn’t hurt. There was no end to the thought, no solution that could satisfy him. The idea was alarming. Equally disturbing was the overwhelming nature of the system—the video feeds, the Editors, the nanocameras. It was too unwieldy to comprehend.

He watched Sue on his slate. Something began to spin in his gut. It began as a tiny marble and grew each passing second into a cold, jagged stone cutting through him.

“I’m spying on my
wife
,” he hissed, his head between his hands, pushing his face closer to the screen. “
My wife
.”

Ignoring the feeds, he’d also ignored the urges to check on Sue. It was part of their pact—to never watch the adult feeds, especially to never look for themselves, and so, to never look for Sue. To trust her. To know she trusted him.

But trust was gone. He couldn’t trust himself because of what he’d done with Blythe. It was the other half of the sinuous line that divided the ancient Taoist symbol. The symbol was split; the pieces separated and cracked down the middle. He was left with one half of a covenant. And that left him with nothing.

He hunched over the slate in his office with the door shut and locked, lights turned down, while the heavy weight of distrust, guilt, and fear ate its way through him. Again his consciousness seemed to be separate from his muscles and bones, watching Sue on his slate as though from over his own shoulder, outside his body, and yet he was rooted to the raw edges of the jagged hole in his belly.

It hurt more when Sue left the reception. With a man. He pulled Sue along by her hand and she followed, her eyes glittering. They crossed a cobbled plaza with fountains spraying from small dimples in the stone. Water rained down on them and they danced in it, twirling and laughing. Ramone didn’t know who the man was that was cuckolding him, though he looked like a prick. The kind of man who talked about the dialectic of sculpture in the twenty-first century while at the same time molding a beautiful form from clay like a cocky jerk. The kind of man Sue would love to talk to. Ramone imagined Sue entwined in his arms, her fingers playing with his hideous long hair—of course his hair was long—as he screwed her repeatedly. Of course he was impossibly virile. 

A groan formed in Ramone’s throat. He felt it vibrate in his neck. The ragged hole had swallowed him. Everything seemed cast in a hue of red.

Onscreen, the fountains stopped and the water disappeared into drains as they crossed the plaza. The man led her up a grassy hill shielded from the streetlights by weeping willows and sycamores.
Please leave him, Sue, please leave him.
Ramone leaned closer to his slate. His back began to ache. Painful minutes passed as the merciless scene unfolded. He could not tear his eyes away.

Ramone leapt from his chair and began to pace. “No, no, no, no, no.” He clawed at his temples and ripped his glasses from his face, throwing them to the rug. He dropped to his knees, hunched over, squeezing his eyes shut, trying to forget the image of Sue in someone else’s arms, vulnerable and willing.