Pete Simon

Swoosh-Chabling! Magic chimes, the sound of a digital wizard casting his spell awoke Chinney from his dream: the doorbell to the front desk.

Undoubtedly, another saintly visitor had come to discard earthly goods upon him.

“Will you bleached assholes leave me alone?!” Chinney muttered, the taste of blood was fresh in his mouth. He spit hatefully on to the carpet, with a sudden disregard for the sanctity of his office. He sat upright and felt the familiar rushing sensation of his body realigning gravity, and he peered up at Mother.

“Mother, status.”

“Last process completed at 3:22PM: User profile for Rebecca Pellier. Awaiting instruction.”

Swoosh-Chabling! Another wave of the wizard’s wand as the saint signaled impatiently his arrival on earth.

Chinney bolted up.

“Mother, show and detail latest profile.”

Eight desk monitors blinked on, calibrated and displayed, with increasing clarity.

The first had a profile listing that looked like the back of a baseball card; this one was read aloud by Mother as Chinney gazed upon images of the fair Rebecca, shown in a rapid slide show on monitor 4; images retrieved mostly from information scraped from her Facebook pages.

Rebecca Pellier
Age: 39
Sex: F
Relationship Status: Single
Religion: Christian
Politics: N/A
Friends: 512
…

In the image, Rebecca looked through her webcam, her brown eyes registered warmly in the milky cathode light that adorned her; thick hairs swirled from her head like eddies of a black river; so black the cathodes could not describe: those made her divine. Her skin’s pixel-complexion was a beautiful RGB hue that skewed towards light purple (the monitor’s bias), but not without blemishes; zits and dips along her jaw line, puffs beneath two tired eyes, a small dollop of flab beneath her chin; those made her human.

Mother continued her readout…

More personal details available: 2610KB+
Networks: Triage Financial Group, Affinity College For Graduates
Bank: Citibank, Merril Lynch, UBS
Bank Access: 2 of 3
Accessible Net Worth: Three-

“Stop!”

Mother, winked her green eye and killed her audio thread.

“No, I don’t care about any of that. Mother, isn’t she beautiful? She is. She is gorgeous!”

Mother’s green eye flicked distrustful red.

Swoosh-Chabling! Again, the wizard wand cast impatiently his spell.

“FUCK OFF!” Chinney screamed across the cavernous office towards the staircase.

“Mother, catalog images,” he commanded, then he stuck his middle finger at the #4 button on an extracted phone dial pad to set the input focus on monitor 4. Inching his hand to the left, he touched his thumb over a trackball soldered to the side of the number pad, and began rolling through the compiled album.

The same lovely face flickered between photos of different contexts; appearing with friends, sipping the last drop from a Vente Starbucks cup, spreading her arms wide before the Eiffel tower, frolicking at the beach (bookmark these, Chinney noted), and lastly: looking longingly into the neon glow of a flat screen while her webcam looked on.

“She’s lonely,” Chinney sighed. He could read those eyes, the expression of beaten down expectations still held a glimmer of hope for a better life.

Chinney grasped a handful of graying, mouse brown hair and dropped his head onto the wooden flats of the desk top, beneath the indifferent stares of millions of cathode rays. His bloodied magazine nose flapped, his unshaven stubble picked the splinters of the frayed edge like an off-key music box as he tilted up to see again the hopeful eyes of his muse.

Chinney’s grip tightened, his thumb gouged at the trackball. Scalding shame fomented between his creased brow. His words were crushed down by the weight of cold rationalization. Undeterred at last, they escaped into the air.

“Mother, detail relationship status.”

“Rebecca Pellier, single as of April 24th, 2011 (Easter). Formerly married to David Brenard.” Mother explained.

David, Dave, what did you do to lose this woman?

Chinney thought of all the possible reasons for a woman to give up on a man, and there were many. Similarly, he thought of all the reasons a man might give up on woman, and there were few, and those didn’t make much sense to a reasonable mind or a committed heart; so Chinney decided it was safe to presume that Mr. Brenard possessed neither.

“Mother, identify David Brenard.”

In a moment, Monitor 4 lit up with a new picture: a low-resolution face of a bored looking, fit, clean, middle-aged man, so ordinary looking he might have been a television extra, yet the image registered as a vague, disconnected memory; something that may or may not have been. No matter, David was of depleting interest to Chinney, who was slumping back in the minivan car seat, exhaling slowly.

Swoosh-Chabling! Swoosh-CHABLING!! The charm sounded again, tiredly, and then again still, with renewed vigor.

Chinney rose with dazed solemnity, having found refuge in the story of Mrs Pellier, who appeared as though she had not the life once hoped for; a condition he could understand painfully well, living life on trash heap, underneath the feet of better beings, as every waxy Q-tip, lipsticked napkin, crumpled tissue, pealed back snack-wrapper, was dumped there, in piles, to remind him.

Rage Against The Machine, Live at the Grand Olympic Auditorium - Freedom - 3:00 to 3:25

Clickity clickity clickity whirrrrrrrr; the sounds of the hard disk being accessed under a high-charged reader head.

Chinney tilted his thick neck back against the sneeze-snot car seat head rest and felt the blood drain down his spine. With his dangling left arm he pawed around the side of the desk searching for the tip of an upright 2liter.

He was completely faint for lack of food, deliberately so, because of the crash diet he began four days ago. Now he was eating nothing but bananas and diet coke, and all the bananas were upstairs.

“Ughhhhh, Mother, I am so hungry.”

Mother’s ninth red eye winked with disapproval.

Far in the recesses of Chinney’s elaborate mind, a fomenting pressure was building. Chinney’s eyes sank in the sockets like depressed power buttons. Little sparks were prickling over his brain, causing strange visuals in his eyes. Pixelated shapes became objects, a triangle became a rectangle became a board. Then Chinney thought he could see the drawbridge of a castle lowering; that changed into a road, with cubes racing along it. Or were they cones? and was that a pyramid, not a castle? The red-blue-yellow-pink flashing forms danced with contextual abandon; nothing stayed the same except for the rhythm.

Suddenly a big white flair appeared at the fore of his vision and Chinney felt a sensation of wetness under his nose.

No.

“No!”

Chinney shot forward, his bleary eyes scanning desperately the expansive flats of his desk.

“Mother, where are the tissues?!”

Mother’s extra red eye winked again, as blood sputtered from Chinney’s nose, cascading down the corse hair of his upper lip, running thickly into and over his mouth like a cheap party wine.

“Shit!” Chinney mumbled wetly.

“Muhhvver, TISSUES!”

Mother’s one green eye flicked on angrily.

”Tissues are stored in the top right drawer. Last purchased on April 25th, 2011 from Walmart for $12.35”

Chinney cupped a club hand over his capsized nose as a sea of blood welled up and with the other hand yanked open the top right drawer as Mother suggested.

Nothing but cables.

While blood leaked through his clenched fingers and pattered down on his kakhis in marble sized drops, Chinney’s mind queried the items he kept in the basement where material equaled “fabric.”

Fabric:
Car seat.
Carpet.
Backpack.
Gym clothes.
Socks.

Forget it, I need all those things, he decided. Now he thought of paper…

Paper:
Reference Books
Porno Mags
…

“Mother, Magazines.” he said through his bloody muzzle.

”Magazines are kept beneath the chair,” she replied. “4 subscriptions total. Last issue recieved June 21st, 2011.”

Yes! Of course. Chinney rolled off the car seat and hit the floor with a round thud. Blood dripped from his mouth onto the carpet as his eyes strained like a nocturnal carnivore to see into the shadowy underworld.

All of his skin mags, ordered by best, descending; Chinney knocked the stack forward and grabbed the lowest magazine uncovered.

It was a year old Penthouse with a skanky blonde on the front, Chinney preferred redheads anyway. Even so, it broke his nose-bleed heart to spill blood over his girls, no matter where they were on his party list,

Uncupping his nose he let the blood splash onto the Table of Contents. He turned the page; Letters to the Editor. He wiped his hand, smearing a coat of deep red down the crass words of “readers”. He continued to turn pages, wipe his hand, and let blood from his nose until it was dripping smaller, then he tore out a page with a busty nude blonde in scanty pink panties and a white-transparent blouse she had pulled up, just above her nipples so that they stuck out like wall pegs. Chinney crumpled the page with heavy set regret. It was a good picture.

He sighed faintly and stuffed the page up his left nostril to stop it. The sharp angles of the crumpled page jut into the nostril walls so painfully that Chinney had tears.

He rolled on his back and let the tears run, feeling totally pathetic and humiliated by life.

“Mother, fuck my life.”

Mother winked a red eye in disapproval.

”Scan complete, data recovered. Ready for command,” she told him.

“Profile user,” he sighed.

Chinney closed his teary eyes, and his mind drifted back to darkness like a discarded magic eight ball prediction; there he allowed himself to dream of a better life, one in which he lived in a different town, near a university, where he would teach young, bright, beautiful students who respected him for his brilliant mind. He would earn enough to hire a private trainer to improve his shit health, lose 100lbs or so. He could publish Mother and become famous in academic circles. He would be welcome at parties, invited. People would see the amazing accomplishments of a misunderstood guy, who truly came from the trash heap of society. He would remake himself, redefine his entire persona, every aspect, every detail; and people wouldn’t remember who he was. He wouldn’t be known as the loser at the dump: the Garbage Man.

The “office” was a vast square basement of a demolished home, a plot of relative sanctity, engulfed in the spoiled banana peal, wet coffee ground, used chewing-gum, crumpled tissue dump grounds.

Chinney stomped down the splintered worm-eaten steps leading into the office, heaving the beige specimen, and weaved his way through a metal shelf maze which was layered with stacks of discarded CPUs; each humming at a near-whisper tone, feeding of chained power strips and networked by lemon colored Ethernet cables.

The room was lit by “Tire Swing” scented candles he salvaged in bulk from dumped boxes, placed in the bottom halves of cut Diet Coke 2liter bottles, and distributed throughout the shelves.

The shelf maze opened to a broad clearing in the far corner; here the power cords converged into an overstuffed circuit box, while the Ethernet cables continued up the wall, across the concrete crumb, iron beam ceiling, then descended down into the cobwebbed recesses behind the office desk like the sinewy branches of an elven vine tree.
 
The office desk was constructed from plywood from the center angle of a roomy corner, and built out with the fantastic whim of a fantasy tree house. Small, blocky monitors perched on each platform, hopelessly enmeshed in wiry growth.

There Chinney sat down on a juice box stained, goldfish crumbed, minivan car seat, with a half-drank Diet Coke 2liter stuffed in a sticky plastic cup holder, and he held the new unit; a mother bear nursing her bee-stung cub. He had tethered the box to a small cube screen perched on the edge of the desk and watched the BIOS readout.

Reading volumes:
CD-ROM Drive D - ok
Harddisk Drive C - …
-DISK FAILURE-
 
The system whelped out a flat A beep. Chinney sighed sympathetically.
 
“I bet you’ve never been defragged, not even once” he whispered with solace.
 
He pulled a thick wooden drawer from the desk, it was filled like a viper pit with screwdrivers. He reached in and rummaged about until the sharp head of a right-sized one made itself known.
 
Chinney took it and threaded the screw head on the brushed metal back of his dusty beige buddy. Then he fished from behind a thick stack of diet coke liters arranged at the foot of the desk, and retrieved a fresh air can.
 
With the metal case unfastened, a round plume of dust grew into the air like a nuclear mushroom. Chinney coughed and released a small fart of excitement which sounded like a cell phone vibration.

With the silicon guts of his specimen were exposed, he wasted no time locating the hard disk and extracting it gingerly like a pearl from a beige oyster.

He blew an affectionate healing breeze across the scuzzy pins, kicking up fat flakes of dust like leaves in the wind over a hill top.

“Hello there,” he giggled. Then he stiffened with a serious air and sat erect in the minivan seat, facing the centrifuge of his desktop system; eye to eye with Mother, who was hibernating.

“Lets examine this, Mother.”

He unknotted a free scuzzy cord from one of Mother’s Hydra port connectors. Mother clicked and whirred awake and an array of nine red LEDs flicked on like spider eyes.

…

“1st read attempt failed,” said a young, sterile, synthesized voice. “…Increasing voltage by 10%.”

“Careful now, Mother!” yelped Chinney.

The red LEDs blinked without concern.

A squat wooden shack sat atop a garbage mound under the sweaty yellow July sky. On Saturday, all the wealthy pricks parade their minivans through the Chinney’s dump to pitch their valuables into the rotten slimey decay, stooping for a moment down to Chinney’s level to shit on him from spotlessly clean assholes; to remind him of his place underneath their eyes, otherwise out of sight and mind. But under their radar also.

“Hi! Excuse me!” one faceless saint blared through pearly teeth. Chinney saw past those even row white rows into the total emptiness inside—hollowness, but not empty.

“Hello, yes, I’ve got some old computer stuff here. Should I put it with the appliances?” The hollow saint looked past Chinney, despite his enormous size. The only thing they hate more than being here is me, he thought grimly.

Chinney chomped down on a blackened banana and tossed it towards a tiny pail, then he flicked off his blocky beige CRT and spun around his pivot chair. He heaved himself up from the front desk, sigh hustled towards the door and approaching the customer in an attempt to make eye contact.

“No, don’t get up, it’s okay. I only want to know where to put electronic stuff,” the saint’s voice picked up as Chinney approached, and Chinney could feel magnetic force repelling him backwards, but he pressed on.

Now standing at the front office doorway, he was actually higher up than the saint who now swayed uneasily. Chinney was looking upon the inhuman figure trying to find his eyes.

“I need to take a look at it.”

Overpowered, the saint turned away.

“It’s just some old computer stuff.” he said in a weakened voice.

“Okay” said Chinney, “just leave it here. I’ll take care of it.”

“Are you sure?” asked the saint, still positioning himself in any angle that would evade Chinney’s eyes, as if attempting to be invisible.

“Yeah, I mean, usually there’s a fee for this,” Chinney continued. He looked down to the cinder block sized desktop laying flat int the dirt, he breathed slowly, patiently, and buried his excitement beneath his huge frame. The boxes were bursting at the screws full. Chinney wondered how the hollow arms of the saint could lift and carry them.

“I’ll pay the fee then.” the saint seethed, the sound was like wind sneaking through the cracks of a rickety home.

“it’s 5$ per component, so this will be 15$.” Chinny stated.

The saint made no audible sound but the magnetic fields around him buzzed with disdain and Cinney would have been repelled through his shack had he not weighed more than a cement mixer.

Chinney pushed back, “you’ve got 3 components, a CPU, a monitor, and a printer. Give me ten and I’ll take care of them,” he said with tint if affection.

The saint grinned through gritted teeth, “nice racket you have here.” then he pulled money from his back pocket and punched it at Chinney, who caught the bill as it fell crumpled from the unclenched fist.

Chinney found himself again trying to make eye contact with the inhuman, but the eyes were like buttons beneath a fold of cloth. The strange, shapeless face was without an angle from which to be seen.

And now the body was slipping like the shadow of a kite beneath a cloud, out of reach and sight, occluded by the sun.

Gone.

Chinney’s bear sized arms scooped up the discarded items from the moss brown mud. He hummed as he hustled back inside and headed down to the main “office”; he was electric with excitement.

Endeavor to have the kinds of ideas, to hold the kinds of beliefs, to tell the kinds of stories, to create the kinds of art; that cannot be outgrown.