kaolin fire presents :: writing :: fiction

"Waiting.0"

words

"How much time is spent wasted waiting for things to happen? Sitting at a bus stop, waiting for your bus to show up? Sitting at a train stop, waiting for the train? A plane? Your carpool ride? Standing in line waiting for tickets at a theatre? Be a part of the next generation of parallel processing!" The ad droned on. He'd heard it all before. He was waiting for the ad to end. He was waiting for the line to move. He was waiting for his turn with the unemployment therapist at the free clinic.

"Remember! Your spare time can be big bucks!"

He hated that tagline; really, he abhorred it. It went against all the things he'd been brought up to believe in, all the things he'd chosen to believe in, hook, line, and sinker. Money was not the be all, end all god. What good was it if you couldn't spend it? Share it with someone else? His face flushed red and veins bubbled out of his skin -- he was tense. Just a little tense. He could deal with it.

"Shh!" came a voice from behind him, and he realized he'd been squeaking, muttering under his breath like a pressure cooker trying to let off steam through a hole too small to accommodate, soon to explode. He took several deep breaths. "Sorry," he mumbled, dropping his head.

Anger was his enemy -- entwined around his soul like the serpent ouroborus around the world -- hook, line, and sinker, no escape.

"Shh!" He shook himself, confused for a moment. He had been quiet. Then he realized is was just another advertisement on the trid. The graphics danced around the room, tracking eye movements and appearing at the proper focal depth. He glazed his eyes out beyond the walls, and waited. The trid couldn't follow him there.

He amused himself with that thought -- maybe they could and he just couldn't see them. Maybe ... he turned around and focused past the secretary, deep past the door beyond, onto where he imagined the social service helper's desk would be. A shriek, a small one.

But that was all in his head. Just like the rest of his life, now. All in his head.

This line wasn't all in his head though. The line simply hadn't moved in an hour. He looked at his watch. Five minutes. Five minutes, an hour, no difference, right? He shook again, anger mounting, but clenched it tight within his jaw instead. He swallowed it. It left an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he glanced around for a restroom. He wasn't leaving the line. Just a little longer and it would move, right?

"Available at selected retail outlets near you!"

Just a little longer. He hoped.

"Waiting for the world to end? Wait no longer! For just ninety-nine ninety-five, you can have your own personal armageddon night after night! End of the world not enough for you? Our one on one counselors and licensed dream therapists can craft a personal death or afterlife for you. Void where prohibited, minors should have a parent or guardian's permission. Live through it with Live On!"

Live on, huh? Live in death. What was it with escaping from reality these days? Why did everyone have to run away? If it wasn't trading your existence for money it was trading your money for someone else's existence, or an existence that didn't really exist at all! It just wasn't right.

"Ahem." He hadn't heard that ad before. It immediately caught his attention, and he looked around the room. Then he recognized the voice. Somewhat. It was the same one the had shushed him before. He looked around the room more carefully and noticed that the line had indeed moved. He moved up with it, and looked at his watch. Seven minutes. It had been seven minutes, and one ... two? Maybe two people had moved. That left him with four other people in front of him. Just another half hour or so. Give or take. It wasn't a dauntingly long line, really. Just another half hour or so... He tried to convince himself of that. An hour and a bit for every seven minutes, he rationed, then it would only take another ... four sevens and a bit times an hour and a bit, call it four and a half hours. Subjectively.

Four and a half hours and he'd be raving mad, starving, have wet and shit himself and probably puked (as he thought about the anger still rumbling around in his empty stomach, playfully nipping little ulcers here and there), not to mention passed out. If he passed out, he'd lose his place in line.

He grumbled.

"Shh!" Again from behind him. He muttered another apology. His legs were sore from standing and he was indeed weak from hunger. Just call me gandhi -- he poked himself in the ribs. There was a significant amount of flesh before he contacted bone. He wasn't obese but he was definitely not wasting away. Yet. He smiled. He was doing an admirable job not thinking of his past.

An image of his wife popped into his head, a photograph from when they had begun dating -- one of those horrific glamour shots. It had indeed been an ugly picture but it had been her, and she was anything but ugly. He reached for his wallet to look at it, but realized with a start that the picture was no longer in his wallet. His wallet, his copy of that picture, had been stolen a couple of days ago when he was at the shelter. He pulled out his new makeshift wallet, and stared at it.

"Platform three, now boarding. No, wait! Oh jacque... Oh julie... Oh jacque... Oh my god, that's good coffee!"

The ad brought a smile to his face. Life was full of wrong turns. Some were just there and some were carefully fabricated. Carefully fabricated. He put away his wallet. The smile fell.

"Unfit to be a father, my ass!" he swore vehemently, and then paused. The entire room was looking for him -- his arms and legs collapsed subtly further inwards. His breather grew slower and shallower. He wobbled. The room was silent, except for the advertisements.

"Sparkling mineral water from the last wells on earth. Come try a drink on the wild side -- come try a drink of The End."

What was it with everyone's obsession with death? The end of the world? They'd worried about it when he was a child, when his parents were children... It was always death this, end of the world that, afterlife the other, or no afterlife still another. What about now? What about holding on to what you had, enjoying it? What was this need for endless fantasy? Why did everyone run away?

More anger. At least he wasn't hungry anymore -- the second jawfull of anger joined the first, and his stomach actually settled a little. It was like caffeine -- the first swig of coffee in the morning threw him off but chasing it with a second set him straight. He could do this. He would survive. He was chastising everyone for living in the future while he was doing just as bad if not worse by living in the past. He would cope. He would make a different future, somehow.

The line moved forward, and he checked his watch. Same old same old. She'd left him and taken his pride, his joy, and his pride and joy. It was bad enough that he had to support her -- his little girl he'd definitely support but he hated to support the conniving bitch his wife had become... but on top of that the economy had to take a downturn. Of course he'd not been one of the major ballplayers at work lately -- he was having troubles at home! He couldn't concentrate for anything! But money and sympathy rarely go together, and when trouble hits it's time to sit down for a long squall.

"Shop for anything and everything! Licit or ill, we've got it, you just have to find it! And the more you're willing to pay, the easier it is to find! Imagine that, a service where money works for you!" He coughed, startled. There had to be some serious money changing hands for an add that blatant to make it on the air. For that company to stay in business. Either that, or some serious bending of the standard definitions -- then again, he'd recently been made aware just how well a lawyer could bend anything, even time. Einstein had nothing on the relativity a lawyer could produce.

She'd started it. Things had been fine, as far as he knew. Then one day he took off to surprise her with flowers, playing hooky at work -- and he came home to find her in a pleasure sim, his daughter just in the other room, nine months old. His wife had slutted herself in ways he hadn't imagined (well, not true, but in ways he'd not taken seriously, desires he'd not let himself have), all virtually! And that wasn't the worst of it -- this virtual sim was apparently not as virtual as it first seemed. It was one of those sharing games ... "Two Feel", where live partners actually joined up (randomly or by selection) to engage in any sort of sexual activity. She was actually cheating on him with another person.

"We took you to tomorrow yesterday. Find out what we can do for you today!"

Okay, maybe things hadn't been so fine. It wasn't just another peachy day such that he decided things would be wonderful if he skipped out on work and brought her an eighty dollar bouqet of flowers. They'd had a fight. He couldn't remember what it was about, it was one of those fights where they argued about anything and everything they could get their hands on, both of them hurting and hoping to wound the other as best they could in the process. They'd been having a lot of those, since Stell was born. He'd figured it was just a hormonal thing. She'd get over it.

Maybe she would have. Maybe she would have gotten over it if she hadn't gone that route for dealing with her problems. Hell, maybe she would have gotten over it if he hadn't caught her. Maybe she would have weaned herself in time, and they would never have wound up where they were. Well, where he was. She was sitting pretty.

"Remember, your spare time can be big bucks!"

He hadn't hit her. He hadn't hurt her. He didn't touch her. He'd cried. He'd screamed. He'd cried some more. Then he'd walked off to a hotel and holed himself there for a couple of weeks. No way for her to get in touch with him except at work, no way for her to hurt him further ... he could screen his calls at work, ignore her messages, her pleading, her threats. He was almost a productive worker.

He siphoned his money out of their joint account and lived the life he thought he wanted. For just ninety nine ninety five a night, not only could he live his past all over again, he could make it better. And the dreams and aspirations he'd had... they'd had... he could live those as real without a care in the world. He just had to be with it enough to get to work in the morning and plod along through the day.

Then the lawyers and the layoff.

A deep, throaty, female voice. Aggravated. "Look, buster, would you just pay attention to the line? It's not moving that fast, I'll admit, but with someone with as much energy as you've got bouncing all over the place and muttering under your breath and that scream out of you earlier, the least you could do is put some of that energy towards watching the line. You're next, now, kay?"

He turned around, visibly shaken but holding control. "Oh, uh, thanks." He shuffled his feet, fidgeted, and turned back around.

From behind him, less sure of herself, the voice come, "Sure... sure thing." He could almost hear her thought, "poor sod".

Soon. They'd tell him his paperwork was in order, they'd give him a dole, he'd be able to clean up in some cheap motel and start looking for a new job. Maybe they'd even be able to point him to a new job.

A week. It had been a week since he'd managed to take a shower. All of his stuff was in storage, he'd spent all his money on fantasies, and then there was nothing left. He didn't have enough to pay child support. He didn't have anything left except his skills and his memories. He'd sworn he wouldn't wallow in his memories, had sworn to himself vociferously that he would wallow in his past futures. No more mental games. He was here for the here and now and whatever he could realistically work from that.

The secretary motioned him in to the other room. He opened the door, tracing his eyes over the letters as he let a bit of hope well over him, watching the door open as his arm swung it past him, backing into the room, afraid but hopeful. Closing the door extra gently, he faced his fate.

"Douglas Jenks?"

"Y-yes?"

"Please, have a seat." She motioned across the desk to a plush chair that had seen decades of use by too many millions of nervous, sweaty unemployed. All looking for help.

"Thank you." He sat.

"I'm afraid we can't help you." His heart stopped. His ears rang. His vision blurred. The anger rose from his stomach carrying bile with it.

"Well, we can't help you officially." Confusion steadied the bile.

"You might try a temp agency, they tend to do job placement once they are certain of your skills. Admittedly, they tend to milk you for everything you're worth for as long as they can get away with it, but that's probably your best bet."

"I... I need money now. I can't go to a job interview like this... Please, isn't there anything you can do? They didn't even give me severance."



"I'm sorry, that's the best I can do. I understand your point of view -- I read your plaint several times, and I sympathize... but as far as the government, these forms, are concerned: you were fired for incompetency. You don't get unemployment for something like that. Now from the sound of it, you've got a lot of free time on your hands. You should think about how you want to spend it ... or how you want to make some money off of it. I hear this parallel processing gig isn't so bad -- you can choose the level of conscious invasion, you can choose what sort of projects you're put to work on... and they give great discounts for Live On."

"Waiting, huh?"

"Excuse me?"

"I get to spend my life waiting."