It’s his responsibility.
In the loosest possible sense of the word, of course.
Because Frank Bishop knows what responsibility means, he’s had plenty of it in his day, and doing this job? Getting LudeX consoles onto the shelves of a PalEx store in a suburban mall in upstate New York in time for a 9 A.M. onslaught by an army of pimply geeks? That barely qualifies.
But Frank is happy to have the job. There’s no question about that. At forty-eight, and in the current climate, he could just as easily have landed on the scrap heap. There are days when this certainly feels like the scrap heap, but most of the time he just gets on with it.
He has bills to pay.
It’s as simple as that, his life reduced to a monthly sequence of electronic bank transfers.
College fees, allowances, rent, utilities, car, food.
Fuck.
Close his eyes for a second and Frank can be right back before any of this got started, twenty-five, thirty years ago-a different world, and one in which this degree of a financial straitjacket was something he only ever associated with his parents, with that whole generation.
It wasn’t going to happen to him, though. Not a chance.
But then who paid for him to go to college? Exactly. And arrogant little prick that he was, he took every bit of it for granted, never once imagining, for example, that his old man might have had other things he could be doing besides working his ass off holding down two jobs he more or less hated.
One of which, ironically, was not unlike this one.
Frank exhales loudly, no one around to hear him, and reaches down for another carton.
He carries it into the stockroom and adds it to the pile by the main door.
Back then, as well, it was all about possibilities opening up-relationships, career moves, the world. Now it’s the opposite, possibilities are closing down all around him. The world? Forget about it. Career moves? He’s lucky to have this job, and there aren’t any others out there waiting for him. As for relationships, well… unless it’s paid for or virtual, that ship’s sailed.
Frank exhales again, even louder this time.
Is there anything less attractive than self-pity?
Not really, but at least he knows how to bitch-slap it back into place whenever it gets out of hand. Because the truth is he doesn’t really feel sorry for himself at all. He has two kids that he adores, and even though they’re both off at college now, he is completely and utterly defined by them. The world of twenty-five years ago, for all its breathless sense of expectation, of the open road ahead, didn’t have them in it. This one does, and that’s all that matters. This one, for all its oppressive sense of disappointment, of the economic jackboot in the face, is infinitely superior.
When he has carried in the last carton, Frank rips one open. This will be his first look at the new, long-awaited LudeX upgrade.
Like he gives a crap.
He takes a unit box out and turns it over. The sight of the Paloma Electronics logo, the powder blue stripe, sets off a tiny ripple of anxiety in his brain.
Paging Dr. Pavlov.
But what does he expect? This is a Paloma store, after all. The logo is everywhere. Damn thing is even sewn into the collar of his shirt.
It’s just that he associates it with…
He was going to say defeat, but that’d be overstating things.
He puts the unit down.
Wouldn’t it?
Maybe, whatever, yes, no.
Self-pity snapping at his heels again, Frank decides to hit the accelerator. He gets on with unpacking the units and stacking them on shelves. He makes coffee and takes a couple of Excedrin for his back.
Just before nine Lance and Greg show up.
They’re nice guys, friendly, reliable, and a lot more savvy about all the tech stuff here than he is, but at the same time there’s something about them that he doesn’t get. It’s a sort of dumb, uninquiring compliance, a lack of…
He doesn’t know, but when he was their age-
Yeah, yeah.
Walking across the main floor, Lance says, “Yo, Mr. B.”
Greg points at the LudeX display and says, “Alright, let’s do this.”
The launch of Paloma’s LudeX upgrade today is a big deal. But for the real action you’d have to go to their flagship store in Times Square. That’s where the hardcore gamers will have been standing in line all night, where the cash registers and card machines will be humming steadily all day, and where staff members will be under intense pressure to exceed sales quotas and push service extras.
Up here at Winterbrook Mall it’ll be a more sedate affair, and considerably shorter. Outside in the main gallery there isn’t a line exactly, though clusters of certain usual suspects are beginning to hover. When they open the doors at nine, there’ll be a rush to get in, followed by an intense flurry of activity, but by ten o’clock it’ll all be over-thanks to that jackass at corporate who saw fit to only send him a lousy fifty units on top of the pre-orders.
What kind of a sales strategy is that supposed to be?
Frank doesn’t care, though.
By midmorning he’s on autopilot, daydreaming again-about his previous life, about Lizzie and John, about… whatever really, that Asian woman who works at the Walgreens on the lower level, the four-cheese pizza at Mario’s, local cancer services even, not that he needs them or anything, but you never know.
Just after midday his attention is diverted by something he sees on TV-sees on multiple plasma screens lining the back wall of the store. It’s a Fox News report.
He stands staring at it, reading the crawl.
Happy to be distracted.
In Central Park, a jogger has been shot dead.
In cold blood.
What gives the story a little twist, though, Frank soon sees, an extra kick-what will allow perfect strangers to make eye contact with one another throughout the day and express disbelief, shock, or even a hint of schadenfreude-is that the victim has been identified as the CEO of a big investment bank down on Wall Street.
“Holy shit.”
Ellen Dorsey glances from the small TV screen behind the counter to the old guy sitting next to her. She shakes her head. The old guy nods in acknowledgment. Picking up his coffee cup, he says, “Too good for the bastard.”
Ellen makes a snorting sound. She then finishes her own coffee, pays, and leaves. Out on the street-Columbus at Ninety-third-she is conflicted. The plan had been to go home and get back to work, but now she’s thinking… crime scene. It’s only twenty-five blocks away and across the park, a short cab ride. By this time, of course-what is it, almost one-the whole area will be cordoned off and there won’t be anything to see, she knows that, but her instinct tells her this is going to be a big story, and nothing beats firsthand experience of a crime scene.
Besides, it’ll be in the bank. If necessary. For later.
I was there.
You can also pick up on stuff walking around, details, vibes.
But as she throws her arm out to stop a cab, Ellen remembers just how much work there is waiting for her at home, and how soon it’s due. A five-thousand-word profile of no-hoper GOP hopeful Ratt Atkinson. To be extracted from a mountain of notes, interviews, and archive material spread out all over her desk.
For Monday morning.
The cab pulls up. She hesitates, but gets in.
You always get in.
Anyway, Ratt Atkinson? That kills her every time she hears it, or has to write it, which today and tomorrow will be plenty.
The article is one of an informal series she’s doing for Parallax magazine on the degraded nature of the modern presidential bid. It started with a bang, that piece she wrote with Jimmy Gilroy a while back on the John Rundle fiasco. Since then she’s covered a couple of other crash-and-burn candidates… but really, at this stage, is the idea wearing a little thin?