Yet our connection runs much deeper than this. The very first time he messaged me on SingleMingle (initially, it was a bit of a debate whether or not to look past his screen name of FluidTransfer69 and try to get to know the man within), I felt that Brady had to be a Sagittarius. That’s how well we clicked. And lo and behold, when I told him my suspicion, he admitted that while his birth month technically made him a Scorpio (my astrological enemy), he was born prematurely. His true sign is indeed the keeper of my star-charted soul.
Tonight we wax intellectual for a bit before getting flirty.
FluidTransfer69: Do u think that when we die, we will be together forever, in a type of paradise? How old do u think ur dead eternal body will look? Probably younger than u actually are, right? A hot thirty? Supple 27?
As always, I open myself to him completely.
CargoBabe: Brady, I’ve thought about this a lot.
CargoBabe: I think, and I honestly believe this, Brady, that in the afterlife, everyone will be so extremely beautiful. Perhaps even more beautiful than it is possible to be on earth.
FluidTransfer69: If u were here right now, what would u suck first?
With Brady clearly turned on by the parallel between our love and eternity, we talk until our conversation culminates physically, at which point Brady writes,
FluidTransfer69: Got 2 kleen keys, bye!
We’ve been chatting back and forth for several weeks now, although it seems like years because the cultivation of Our Love has been so rapid. He tells me that his face is badly scarred from a fuselage accident, and that because of this he fears my disappointment and is reluctant to meet me in person. I constantly assure him his appearance doesn’t matter, but he hasn’t yet been able to summon up the courage. Brady’s back and buttocks, however, are a source of self-pride—additional photo stills, he promises, are coming my way.
It’s always hard to wake from dreams where the universe has instated a monarchy consisting of myself as Queen and Brady as King. In my dreams Brady closely resembles a cut, muscular Jesus.
I roll out of bed to find that the frozen waste extrication unit has broken and the waste has melted. I begin my day by mopping the thaw. Because my mop sponge is fiercely rectangular, it cannot get around the tighter edges of the file cabinet and I must reserve that job for Q-tips.
Yet it is a brighter afternoon when I sit down to find that amongst various junk email pyramid schemes there is also a message from Brady. I open it and see a forwarded news release.
Hey Babe,
You reading this in a towel? Check out the second story. Apes can do everything. Ha-ha!
The story, indeed impressive, involves an ape both calling for help and pumping his owner’s stomach with charcoal after watching her attempt suicide for the third time. He is a helper-ape, assigned by the state in the absence of family funds for a more human in-home caretaker. The woman is ninety-four and deathly afraid of primates.
Yet what truly catches my eye is the story just below it. Justice Freeze, a cryogenic contractor largely employed by the government’s penal system, is going belly-up and holding a large auction. Several criminals whose permacapsules are programmed to not unlock for centuries are up on the auction block.
I am interested in one in particular. Below the notorious big-font names that will no doubt go into the home foyers of heavy-rock musicians, there is a smaller one, barely visible, ending a long string of nobodies.
My mother, Debbie “The Destroyer” Harlow.
Mother led a life of crime. Her real screw-up, the one that landed her 450 years, involved a large Guatemalan daycare facility and a hidden boon of cocaine. Either her instinct or information was off. The footage was replayed over and over again on universal broadcast the October of my ninth year of life: Mother, discharging a machine gun clip into a row of cribs. In court she claimed the cribs were empty, but the Guatemalan police said otherwise, and this was yet another strike in a long string of transgressions.
She also killed my father. He was a good man, but too talkative.
As I stare at the monitor, an antsy feeling begins to overtake me. Finally, against my better judgment, I sigh and program my ship towards the auction city’s coordinates.
Upon arrival I’m given a numeric paddle. I find it eerie the way the prisoners’ capsules are intermixed with used and defunct science equipment. Each capsule has a large number with a minimum bid written across the icy window in grease pen.
Lucky for me, Mother’s starting bid is quite low. Freelance outer space cargo running is a hit-or-miss trade, and this year in particular has been quite difficult. In September I contracted an antibiotic-resistant strain of trichomoniasis from a toilet seat in Goron, a dome community where I dropped off a payload of refurbished filtration equipment. A few months later my fuel gauge malfunctioned and I was stalled out in the middle of nowhere for several weeks until another ship happened by. The subsequent weight-loss that occurred during this time of hardship followed by my celebratory feasting upon rescue resulted in a bad case of the gout. Luckily, this final blow was tempered with meeting Brady. My empty glass became half-full.
I’m no delicate rose, but looking at all the frozen criminals, I start to wonder if this is such a good idea. The capsules are especially frightening. They’re dimly lit and humming like vending machines.
All the high-end infamous criminals were frozen, bearing menacing expressions. I wonder if they made these poses intentionally, like a funny face for a driver’s license photo. When people are frozen alive it becomes pretty clear what their true personality is. Most of the white-collar criminals have pained expressions, anywhere from discomfort to agony. A few look almost peaceful; one woman in particular has an extreme glow about her. I check the paperwork and see she’s been frozen for multiple homicides.
When I finally reach Mother, I’m a little taken aback. The frozen years have not been good to her. Technically, one doesn’t age while frozen, but she has clearly been through a lot. Her expression is wincing and concentrated, as if she’d been paused while taking an ardent dump. She also has what appear to be freezer-burn patches decorating her cheeks and forehead. These are especially prominent along her scalp, and look as though an irritating home-perm solution was left on far too long. Does hair freeze? Her mashed up hair resembles a matted pompadour. Overall it doesn’t look like it’s going anywhere, but now and then I see a wisp quiver beneath the gust of the capsule’s internal fan.
The auction begins with the most expensive items, and I realize I’m in for a long day. I decide to check the mobile WordCall terminals to see if Brady is logged into the system. I’m quite nervous so I eat a few double-fudge squares and pray that he’s on—only his virtual presence could give me the strength to abstain from polishing off an additional 12-pak of Galaxy Bars.
As I see his screen name I sigh with relief, so hard that I fog up the screen and have to use my sweaty palm to remove condensation with more condensation. I marvel again at how quickly we were able to fall in love. It’s true—when I found “the one,” I just knew it.
FluidTransfer69: Hey, where u at? Missed our a.m. freak sesh.
Don’t get me wrong; Brady and I have discussed many profound topics, including capital punishment (he’s against), global warming, and slavery. But when it comes to the finer details of our personal lives, we just haven’t gotten there yet. Ours is an intense and steamy courtship with little room for conversation that doesn’t make at least minimal strides towards climax.