Johnston sat as always on the brown shag floor, propped beside his same old reddish desk. He had been fidgeting carefully for hours without realizing, shifting his weight to war against a stiffness that regrouped to take fresh segments of his back and neck like rot. Hovering somewhere between roughly two positions, he stared down at his brand new iun fixed in place and bright against the carpet.
So far, the iun had functioned solely as a sort of secret eye, allowing Johnston constant access to what was essentially a continuous high school reunion. Remembered faces, only ever happy, were spersed with snippets of most smug and cheery words. No one appeared to have aged.
There was something quite appealing about keeping real-time tabs on all the detestable idiots from each of his previous lives at once. Perhaps it was the controlled distance he enjoyed . . . a distance from which he could watch unseen and marvel coldly at the implied success enjoyed by every single one.
A red flashing was unprecedented.
A new message? A . . . request?
The sense that someone might have chosen to make an actual stab at connecting with him was quite surreal.
But Johnston did not dwell long on having maybe been reached out to. Another click, and pools of whatever chemicals could have served to trigger and feed excitement flashed quickly hard like clay and clogged their tubes. For up had popped the face of Scott, the initiator of the contact . . . perhaps the biggest idiot of them all.
Why would Scott want to…?
Johnston covertly sidewindered his way to his old work colleague’s iun page, huffing in dull impatience as boxes of advertisement graphics mimicked a pack of lax gypsies pausing mid-path to casually set up shop and block his way.
Passing seconds revealed but a few fresh pixels at a time.
Further clicks seemed not to matter in the least.
He watched.
…trapped…
He cranked himself back hard against the desk.
What first peered up successfully over the mutable commercial space was a counter tracking how many others’ pages Scott’s had already been connected with.
Johnston’s congealed elation stiffened further like a corpse.
A button marked “Latest” eventually gave way to lines of text.
Great news! I was jus waiting tables $ one of my customers told me he thought I should come work with him and run his CS dept! a 300% increase! Wow y’all! Good things can happen!
Glancing a little below the text, Johnston’s eyes quivered, sweeping in chaos to half-bathe in the glow of a sea of mostly female avatars, too many to count, and all at least as perfect as any costly, invasive rectangles might be made to look. Each bright, peppy face or likeness represented a response made that day to Scott’s stupid misspelled note.
Something bad happened. You might say a problem chose that moment to finish sweeping itself into being like a terrible fire that would or could now never fully be extinguished.
As was often his practice when accosted with news of another’s gain, Johnston let his mind stretch to construct a rigid network of tight, ordered comparisons. What if he were in Scott’s shoes, faced with the same opportunity?
“Hello sir, how might I best serve you today? [Insert appropriate quip for maximized compensation]”
But the inescapable, burning question would always be: Why? Why would anyone desire another to perform so wasteful a routine? How would the attention of whoever could afford to be distracted by such valueless luxuries possibly be worth so little?
But Johnston already knew he knew no “why” would make a difference. Not to him.
And in terms of value, probing the air for the sake of his own indignation felt irredeemably close to staring silent as either flashy interrupting slots or service songs-and-dances ran their course.
I’d just have to do it. For me, it would be for tips. For signatures. For checks, and trusts. For money, of course.
Having fought harder than anyone else now for stacks on stacks of bitter years, Johnston knew he had never truly won at selling himself in any given role. That was his reality. And it made no difference whether his impassible edginess was the result of futile time or just some fundamental un-likability.
He gritted his teeth, feeling the muscles in his jaw petrify as he re-centered himself in doubled-down, pure determination.
But again: Why? Money? How much could more of the same ever eventually be worth?
And even the best of his exceptional efforts seemed no match for the celebrated pretense of a Scott . . . an air shown and told in bold-faced lies which must be clear to all except those most obtuse, entitled creatures, the customers.
Johnston’s tired back pinioned him once more away from the desk.
No, but they do know that they are being lied to. They reward the liars in order to be . . . charmed.
Johnston’s gaze broke from the iun as his mind’s eye caught traces of rich, fat, withered goons, all decked out in spiffy cloaks and hats. The goons were guests who winked at gorgeous, young, and naked hosts from near enough to clutch, and smear, and sully, before beauty then with boundless grace would pocket compensation, smile wide, and pirouette away.
What right do they all—?
But the thought was killed and so far gone it swept only in form as through an iun’s uncolored mind to be sold exclusively amongst those who would never give a Johnston a single second look.
Memories flooded back, uninvited and unwelcome. He grew rattled all anew by the crazy, zany sounds of Scott and co. hidden away in their secret compartment while he, Johnston, painstakingly pushed to make systems run a little better every day. Then flashes of being blamed, laughed at, discarded, forgotten…
An old conversation reared its ugly head, as unpredictable and sick as sounds from all off-limits rooms. And the sacred cleanliness of reason doused disgusting flies that flittered up . . . so many coming at him at once and potentially carrying such dangerous diseases.
Johnston jerkily flicked on his TV to catch a man with a pockmarked face and cheap dress shirt who stuck like landed punches to both sides of the panning screen. The man was shouting, “Claim those promises! They are yours! My God shall supply all your need. Do you receive it? Say it with me: ‘I am above and not beneath…’”
There was more.
I don't know anything 