17
Within the hour, the construction workers are gone.
The new neighbors stay huddled inside their condos.
Night falls.
I stand under the street light that hovers over the trailer office. Then I call the apartment that both Norman and Charlie share. I tell them about the cameras at the Condo Estate.
“Look it up,” I say. “The web address is how-to-make-your-dream-home-a-reality . . . dot com.”
I can hear Charlie typing in the background, then I hear them both laughing.
Norman says, “We can see you, dude.”
I flip them the middle finger. I unbuckle my pants to bare my ass for the camera.
I invite them to come smoke some weed with me at the lake. Twenty minutes later they roll into the construction site. They flash their headlights for a spy signal.
Norman Long and Charlie Moon climb up into the front seat of my monster truck. We waste no time, we go right to it, the weed smoking.
Charlie’s in a hyper mood because his electronica band has just signed to a major distribution label. Even after this success, I still think he has the face of a baby or an infantile angel. He puts his demo in the CD player without even asking. He’s the lead singer of a band called, The Nightly Report. His music has overtaken TekHead as the movie soundtrack to my time spent at the Clear Lake Condo Estate.
Norman starts laughing.
I ask, “What, man?”
“Every time I see you wearing that uniform, you look like a narc. I detect the presence of a strong marijuana odor.”
And Charlie laughs, too.
So I say, “Yeah, but your car looks like a shitbox. What now? What next?”
Pause. Inhale. Pause. Exhale.
“By the way,” Norman wants to know, “when are you gonna take a night off from this place? I mean, we barely hang out anymore.”
I say, “You don’t understand. I’m addicted to this place.”
“Don’t you get bored? I mean, how can you just sit here, every single night? Is this really the story of your life? You’re like a non-functioning part of society. Don’t you want something to happen? Doesn’t something need to happen?”
I say. “I have a stockpile of patience. Trust me, things happen. Unexplainable things happen.”
I want to admit the serial killer, Gary Lee Vickers, is here too. That he spices the place up. But I keep that secret to myself.
And Charlie says, “Working here every fucking night cannot be healthy, dude.”
I turn to my friends to ask the next question: “You guys ever hear of a man named Kingman?”
Charlie says, “Nah, dude. Smoke that.”
“Norm, what about you?”
And Norman Long says, “I can’t hear you. The speakers, too loud.”
“Dude, you’re just letting it burn. Smoke that.”
I lower the music volume, asking again about Kingman.
Norman is hesitant, saying, “I know an E.B. Kingman.”
I test him, saying, “Big English guy? Has a lot of money?”
“Tons of money, yeah, that’s him,” Norman says. “I never actually met him, but I guess I painted for him last summer. All my boss told me about Kingman was that he built over half of Painesville and Central Heights put together. That, and when my boss put a dent in his trunk, this guy, Kingman, bought him a brand new truck. That’s all I was told. That’s all I know.”
E.B. Kingman is a generous man, that’s the only clue to his character. I tell Norman and Charlie about the construction workers. Fuckers, I call them. Beer swilling bastards, I call them. I tell my friends how all the lights and appliances are computerized, voice activated, to which they marvel. Then we talk some more about the newly installed cameras.
I pass the blunt.
“You guys,” I start suddenly. “I need to tell you something, quick. This place is safe to talk unless they hid a microphone in my truck. But I think I’m being watched. I’ve become something I never wanted to be, something I despise. Entertainment for some shifty eyes. Being watched all the time. I feel like someone is trying to figure me out, study my behavior, identify with my character, while waiting for that all important mental breakdown. Watching, there might be a cheering section, a cult-like following. Watching, there might be a league of women who want to watch me burn. And, well, fellas, I don’t deserve that kind of attention.”
A number of times, Norman gives me a leery corner-of-the-eye-look.
I know the manner in which those eyes question me, so I say, “Had a feeling you would doubt what I’m claiming. But you haven’t been here each night like I have. You haven’t discovered the politics of this lakeside estate. Fact, eyes are on me. Fact.”
Charlie says, “Usually, I would just say you smoke way too much crack but—”
I make wild speculations, saying, “Maybe a bunch of rich guys got tired of watching scripted actors, so now I’ve become some kind of amusement to them. Maybe I’m being watched by scientists in white lab coats, I don’t know.”
Both Norman and Charlie say they have to go play video games, getting out of the truck, still skeptical of my story.
Before they can shut the truck door, I say, “Don’t forget the fact that most people who live here come from England for some reason, but work for the American government. Department of Defense, NSA, you name it, the FBI, the CIA. They all ride around with these official license plates, which indicates to me, the secret is out.”
They start walking to their getaway car. I follow them on foot.
Hollering behind them, I say, “You need to understand this in a temporal context. Temporal, meaning time.”
I start calling out the chapter titles that I wrote with blue marker on my forearm.
I yell out to them as they gain distance from me, “The new nanosecond culture. You hear me? Fellas? You hear me? This is it! The new nanosecond culture.”
They both turn their heads over their shoulders once, but keep walking.
I can’t resist the tech agenda that spills from my mouthpiece.
So I shout the rest of my forearm list. “Clocks that make us run. Time Zones. Dividing our time pie. Calendars and clout. Schedules and clocks. More clocks. Time schedules. Factory discipline. Programs and computers. The efficient society. Will you two just stop running away for nanosecond?”
They don’t stop, getting closer to their getaway car.
I use all my voice to scream out: “The politics of paradise, goddamn you both. Some timeless state that never shows up. The image of progress. The medical savior model. Trans-humanism. Big joke that is. Good luck forever replacing rusted parts. Oh, and then, our big vision of simulated worlds. All you’ll get is a deeper division between the upper class and lower class. Time pyramids and time ghettos. Hey, Charlie, which side are you on, the time ghetto? Hey, Norman, will you tell computers what to do, or will you get told what to do by the computers? It was all clockwork, but now it’s all information, but you don’t care. All you care for is industrial money when information has taken its place in value. You know how I know? You know how I know?”
By now Norman has unlocked his car door. Charlie waits to get in. I finally catch up, stand next the car window. Norman keys the ignition.
And I’m asking through the car glass, “You know how I know? I read a book about it. All this time here alone, I read a book. But the book went out of print. Because nobody cares. So I stole it from the library. If you can quit video games for day, I’ll let you borrow it. If you can quit leveling up your rank . . . ”
Abruptly, right then, Norman floors the gas pedal. My friends drive away.
I walk over to the trailer office. Inside, I stare at the blank lines on security sheet, stoned, wondering what to write, until finally I scribble, “I saw what you saw.” Then, on second thought, I cross it out with almost all my pen ink. I decide I don’t want to use the tone of an accuser, so I rip the paper into small pieces. Then I begin a fresh sheet.
I punch out at midnight. Once again, the heavy duty machines go without a guard. Once more, the building supplies are left for the taking. Another night. Another shift. Sense, it doesn’t make any. Purpose, there is none. I feel empty, drained.
My voice is now hoarse with a ranting ache.
I suspect this to be the last time I see Charlie Moon or Norman Long, friends since childhood, gone.
They abandoned me for becoming too weird with future fears.
Every time I call them now, they answer but they don’t talk. I just hear video game sounds in the background, the ping and the pong, the tally of digital coins, their fingers mashing controller buttons, before they hang up.