“We had an argument.”
“Over what?”
“Over nothing.”
“Haven’t you learned there is no such thing as victory in an argument with a woman?”
“Too late,” I said. “See you later.”
I ate the tofu steak by myself. Despite my irritation with the situation, it tasted really good which lightened my mood.
III.
Back in the lobby, Rebecca was finishing her meal.
“Is the package ready?” I asked.
“It’ll be coming soon,” she said. “You can take a seat and I’ll let you know when it comes.”
I sat down and the seat was so hard, it hurt my butt after sitting about a minute. I stood up and put my helmet back on to watch some news. There was a special on serial killers that had never been caught in California; the Zodiac Killer, the Red Wig Snatcher, and the Yearly Killer. I got tired of the perpetual advertisements and took the helmet off, rubbing my scalp because it was itchy.
“You live in L.A. or you fly in?” I asked Rebecca.
“I fly in on the weekends.”
“From?”
“Shanghai,” she answered, then went back to reading a document on her holopad.
“How do you like L.A.?”
She simpered up at me. “I really hate chit-chat. So unless you have something important, let’s skip it.”
Her phone rang and she picked up. “He’s here.” She nodded several times. “No, nothing. I’m sure of it.” Shortly afterwards, she hung up. “Dr. Asahi’s on her way up.”
Dr. Asahi was an older Japanese woman who didn’t bother with a wig and wore square glasses which was a surprise as almost no one in Los Angeles wore glasses other than as a fashion accessory (everyone got their eyes lasered). She wore a leathery yellow overcoat that looked like it was assembled from snake scales and she was carrying a small capsule that was about the size of my thumbnail. Her nose curved inwards to form tiny nostrils that made her face seem almost noseless.
“I’m completely stumped how he got this,” she said. “I can understand why he sent you to pick it up directly. That’s all the data he asked for.” She turned to Rebecca. “Give him your card.”
Rebecca stared at Dr. Asahi with a glower of protest, but the doctor ignored her.
“Tell Larry to call me as soon as he gets this and if you have any questions about anything, feel free to contact Rebecca.” She left without a farewell greeting.
Rebecca handed me her card; Rebecca Lian, it read, Project Manager at AIOH. Her phone number was a series of sevens and twos that were comically easy to memorize. I wouldn’t have bothered to scan it in even if it had been hard and we both knew it was an empty gesture. I placed the card in my pocket and said, “Good luck. Maybe I’ll see you in Shanghai sometime.”
“Has anyone told you that you have a very strange-looking scalp?”
“Not in those words,” I replied.
Outside, it was raining again. At least I didn’t have to take a shuttle flight back where I’d be packed in with thousands of others, standing on the plane like we were in a train, hoping to grab a seat, holding onto the rail if there wasn’t one available. Rainy days were the worst as everyone’s clothes and shoes were wet. Traffic had become a quagmire and we were at a standstill on the freeway. The clouds vanished and the sun came up. Climatologists speculated the capricious weather swings in L.A. were just part of the mood swings the earth underwent after both poles melted. I knew the East Coast got it worse, though they adapted. New York was a sea city with underwater tours of the old ruins. Greenland was now a tropical resort.
I saw a naked man running by on the freeway. Followed by hundreds of others. The nude herd of men and women rushed through the freeway like a stampede of deer, pounding people’s stationary cars, hammering them with their hands. It was a stark contrast, these armored cars with armored drivers to the fully bare men and women running without any worries. I asked the driver, “What’s going on?”
“They call it the Free Run.”
“What are they running for?”
“I think freedom. But I’ve never been sure. Nice view though.”
The shriveled penises and the perky nipples hinted at how cold it still was outside. Perhaps they were tired of living in paranoid vigilance every day. Eventually, the mass moved on and the roads cleared up.
As we arrived at the airport, I knew the real reason I always came back was Linda Yu. She still lived in the city, and even if she hadn’t, the memory of her lingered here. She’d moved on, ironically, by staying put. I lived halfway across the world but was still stuck here. I examined Dr. Asahi’s capsule. It was tiny. Probably a data chip with some information related to sexual performance. I appreciated Larry’s attempt to arrange a date, but I much preferred to experience life through a camera lens, up on the screen, long after everything had played out, rewinding to watch over and over.
3. Acid Reflux
I.
I’d been dreaming about thirst almost every night. I’d get really thirsty, feel how dry my throat was, grab a cup and fill it with water. No matter how much I drank, the thirst was never quenched and I couldn’t swallow without feeling a desiccated lump. That lump was me trying to wet my throat in real life. Fantasy could not overcome the physical necessities of thirst which would make me in turn realize I was in a dream.
Gastroesophageal reflux had been the cause. I kept on coughing in the middle of the night, my throat feeling irritated. The doctor told me I shouldn’t eat before I slept and needed at least three hours between drinking water and sleeping. I was waking up in the middle of the night with a dry throat or, as in this case, a drive to the Beijing factory of Chao Toufa which was located on the outskirts of the capital city. I felt like I needed a whole day of sleep to recuperate.
Larry greeted me and burst out laughing as soon as he saw me. “Way to make an impression,” he said. I was about to hand him the package but he said, “Hold it for now.”
The factory was huge, taking up over thirty buildings. The campus had a lake, verdant knolls, and two big amphitheaters where various concerts took place. Larry’s father was an admirer of the philosophy of treating his employees well (“Heaven’s Mandate,” he called it) and had established a company culture that espoused, “Work Hard, Play Hard.” The buildings were divided by categories. One of the buildings only did eyelashes. Another, brows. Hair types were divvied; Chinese style, Brazilian, European, and custom hair. Machines did much of the hair preparation, sorting them to maintain direction and avoid tangling. The ventilating needles knotted the hair into the foundation material and also carried out the stylization. The machines still needed human supervision as we walked through and saw several huge mechanical arms with miniscule needle points at the end creating the wigs. Larry’s favorite area was the pubic hairs, especially as most of them had to be customized to individual orders with personalized scans. Larry liked to muse, “What I wouldn’t give to see a woman with natural—”
“Have you met Russ Lambert?” he asked in the present.
Russ was the rotund Manager of Operations who kept things running in Larry’s absence. He had the tattoos of Mandarin characters on his head and had shifty blue eyes that averted direct contact. He always seemed to be looking down at my belly.
“We’ve met. How are you doing, Nick?” he asked with a squeaky voice, sharpened by the rolls of fat under his chin. He had on a pastel-blue suit with a kilt underneath, long blooming jacket covering his back.
“Fine, thanks.”
“You just got back from Los Angeles?” Russ asked.