Publication History |
The truck swerved, barely missing my car, its driver mouthing obscenities.
"What a grotesque caricature of a human being."
"Newark is full of them," I agreed.
"How do you account for that?"
"What do you mean?"
We parked in our usual spot in front of Charles Pascal's 2-D theater, an
anachronism among the super-multiplex-aramas and their hordes of wanna-be-
hip teenagers, like the ones lined up at the new theater across the street. There
was no line for the 2-Ds. The marquee announced two films: "Replacement
Killers" and "Risky Business." We bought tickets for "Replacement Killers"
even though we’d seen it four weeks in a row because Tom Cruise made Cyril
question his sexuality. Inside, stale popcorn formed puffy mountains behind a
glass-paned booth and a carnivaleque sign. I got an extra large with artificial
butter that squirted sickly from the machine. I shoved a stack of napkins in my
pocket and added a soda to my order. The theater darkened as we entered and
found our customary seats. I waved to Steve Compen, a fixture at Pascal’s and
the only other patron. Cyril coolly ignored him, the residue of a partially
remembered argument.
"I mean, why have we become a nation of churlish savages?" Cyril asked, as
always picking up the thread of conversation exactly where we’d left it.
"You presume we have."
"Is there evidence to the contrary?"
I didn’t answer.
"I didn’t think so," Cyril said.
"Well, maybe your social mores are outdated. Maybe you can’t recognize the
pattern of politeness today."
"You presume there is such a pattern."
I hated when Cyril threw my words back in my face. I never knew whether he
was baiting me or just entertaining himself. The two were not mutually
exclusive: Cyril loved to argue. "There always is, but sometimes only an insider
can see it."
"I’m not an insider?" he asked.
"Well, if you can’t see it, you must not be."
Cyril mulled that over during the previews. I ate my popcorn and read the
movie's opening credits, waiting for him to speak. "It’s because we live in an
anonymous world," he finally said.
I took a sip of soda. It was already flat. "Anonymous?"
"Yes. Individuals don’t know individuals anymore. We go through life with a
small circle of friends, barely more acquaintances. Because we don’t know each
other, we can’t respect each other’s individuality. We don’t see friends or
potential friends; we see strangers, and strangers don’t have personality,
feeling, or experiences. They’re sub-human."
"You’re saying we’re rude because we no longer interact on a personal level?"
"You disagree?"
A wadded napkin hit the back of my head and Compen yelled, "Shut up,
morons! The movie’s starting!"
I threw the wad back, nailing Compen on the shoulder as he ducked. His
candies spilled in a waterfall, pelting us on the ankles as they bounced down the
angled floor. "I think there’s more to it."
Cyril sipped his soda.
The movie was predictable, not because it was uninspired, but because that was
the fifth time I’d seen it. I couldn’t wait until the theater got something else.
When the lights came up, we filed out. I said good-bye to Compen, then Cyril
and I headed over to the next stop in our weekly ritual, “The Choclat Bar.” We
waited outside for a table and I dreamt about sumptuous artificial desserts.
"We’re completely apathetic," Cyril continued, the movie only a hiatus from
his philosophical dialogue.
I stopped listening to read from the menu posted in the window. Scrawled in
red was “NEW! ‘Super Rich’ dark choclat, even MORE FLAVOR than REAL
chocolate!" Time to be bold, I decided.
"Aren’t you listening? What do you think of that?"
I went back to the last bit I’d heard. "You’re right. It’s easier to be obnoxious to
someone you don’t know."
"Exactly." I’d made Cyril’s day by agreeing with him.
We followed the waiter who beckoned us to a table. We ordered immediately.
"Take that kid at the theater for example."
"What kid?"
"My point precisely. The concessions kid. Did you even notice what he looked
like?"
I had an image, but only of popcorn and the sign. I remembered that he stood
behind the popcorn bin because a shadow passed over the kernels. I tried to
picture him filling my soda. "Striped shirt, right?"
"No, that was the sign. He was wearing a blue shirt. He had brown hair and eyes.
Looked like he was in high school."
The description didn’t sound familiar. "I remember now."
"You’re lying."
"Yeah." I suck as a liar. I looked over Cyril’s shoulder at our waiter, who’d
moved to the table behind us. "Well, how about you? What does our waiter
look like?"
Cyril caught himself just before he turned around. His faced screwed up in
concentration, then embarrassment. "I don’t know, I was talking."
Our choclat came. Cyril made a point of thanking the waiter. The super rich
wasn’t any better than the regular choclat, but it was good. After Cyril left a
more generous tip than the waiter deserved, we left to make our pick-up of
bodies for the Cabal. Tonight's list was short: one still in a dumpster near the
Passaic...
"What a grotesque caricature of a human being."
"Newark is full of them," I agreed.
"How do you account for that?"
"What do you mean?"
We parked in our usual spot in front of Charles Pascal's 2-D theater, an
anachronism among the super-multiplex-aramas and their hordes of wanna-be-
hip teenagers, like the ones lined up at the new theater across the street. There
was no line for the 2-Ds. The marquee announced two films: "Replacement
Killers" and "Risky Business." We bought tickets for "Replacement Killers"
even though we’d seen it four weeks in a row because Tom Cruise made Cyril
question his sexuality. Inside, stale popcorn formed puffy mountains behind a
glass-paned booth and a carnivaleque sign. I got an extra large with artificial
butter that squirted sickly from the machine. I shoved a stack of napkins in my
pocket and added a soda to my order. The theater darkened as we entered and
found our customary seats. I waved to Steve Compen, a fixture at Pascal’s and
the only other patron. Cyril coolly ignored him, the residue of a partially
remembered argument.
"I mean, why have we become a nation of churlish savages?" Cyril asked, as
always picking up the thread of conversation exactly where we’d left it.
"You presume we have."
"Is there evidence to the contrary?"
I didn’t answer.
"I didn’t think so," Cyril said.
"Well, maybe your social mores are outdated. Maybe you can’t recognize the
pattern of politeness today."
"You presume there is such a pattern."
I hated when Cyril threw my words back in my face. I never knew whether he
was baiting me or just entertaining himself. The two were not mutually
exclusive: Cyril loved to argue. "There always is, but sometimes only an insider
can see it."
"I’m not an insider?" he asked.
"Well, if you can’t see it, you must not be."
Cyril mulled that over during the previews. I ate my popcorn and read the
movie's opening credits, waiting for him to speak. "It’s because we live in an
anonymous world," he finally said.
I took a sip of soda. It was already flat. "Anonymous?"
"Yes. Individuals don’t know individuals anymore. We go through life with a
small circle of friends, barely more acquaintances. Because we don’t know each
other, we can’t respect each other’s individuality. We don’t see friends or
potential friends; we see strangers, and strangers don’t have personality,
feeling, or experiences. They’re sub-human."
"You’re saying we’re rude because we no longer interact on a personal level?"
"You disagree?"
A wadded napkin hit the back of my head and Compen yelled, "Shut up,
morons! The movie’s starting!"
I threw the wad back, nailing Compen on the shoulder as he ducked. His
candies spilled in a waterfall, pelting us on the ankles as they bounced down the
angled floor. "I think there’s more to it."
Cyril sipped his soda.
The movie was predictable, not because it was uninspired, but because that was
the fifth time I’d seen it. I couldn’t wait until the theater got something else.
When the lights came up, we filed out. I said good-bye to Compen, then Cyril
and I headed over to the next stop in our weekly ritual, “The Choclat Bar.” We
waited outside for a table and I dreamt about sumptuous artificial desserts.
"We’re completely apathetic," Cyril continued, the movie only a hiatus from
his philosophical dialogue.
I stopped listening to read from the menu posted in the window. Scrawled in
red was “NEW! ‘Super Rich’ dark choclat, even MORE FLAVOR than REAL
chocolate!" Time to be bold, I decided.
"Aren’t you listening? What do you think of that?"
I went back to the last bit I’d heard. "You’re right. It’s easier to be obnoxious to
someone you don’t know."
"Exactly." I’d made Cyril’s day by agreeing with him.
We followed the waiter who beckoned us to a table. We ordered immediately.
"Take that kid at the theater for example."
"What kid?"
"My point precisely. The concessions kid. Did you even notice what he looked
like?"
I had an image, but only of popcorn and the sign. I remembered that he stood
behind the popcorn bin because a shadow passed over the kernels. I tried to
picture him filling my soda. "Striped shirt, right?"
"No, that was the sign. He was wearing a blue shirt. He had brown hair and eyes.
Looked like he was in high school."
The description didn’t sound familiar. "I remember now."
"You’re lying."
"Yeah." I suck as a liar. I looked over Cyril’s shoulder at our waiter, who’d
moved to the table behind us. "Well, how about you? What does our waiter
look like?"
Cyril caught himself just before he turned around. His faced screwed up in
concentration, then embarrassment. "I don’t know, I was talking."
Our choclat came. Cyril made a point of thanking the waiter. The super rich
wasn’t any better than the regular choclat, but it was good. After Cyril left a
more generous tip than the waiter deserved, we left to make our pick-up of
bodies for the Cabal. Tonight's list was short: one still in a dumpster near the
Passaic...
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| Anonymous World By SC Bryce |
First Printing:
Chaos Theory: Tales Askew, #6, A.A.
Roberts, ed. (Jul. 2005), at
genspace.com/ctta.
Chaos Theory: Tales Askew, #6, A.A.
Roberts, ed. (Jul. 2005), at
genspace.com/ctta.
Second Printing:
Afterburn SF (Aug. 2006), at
www.AfterburnSF.com.
Afterburn SF (Aug. 2006), at
www.AfterburnSF.com.
 |
Readers' Comments |
"Very believable..." "Well-written..." "Excellent, excellent writing..." "Great job!" "I was so impressed..." "I liked the various off-beat witticisms..." "Very creepy..." "A well-told tale..." "Terrific!" "I thoroughly enjoyed reading it..." "Keep writing!" "A well-defined, well-described future world..." "Terrific imagination..." "Nice." "Original..." "Very believable..." |
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