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Independent Thought and Reason
She might have thought I was quite cute, leaning back there, against the bar, cigarette hanging out of my mouth, mostly for effect, partly because I'd thrown away the carton having offered it to an attractive patron attempting to get a drink nearby, rather cocky, I'll admit, and having her fail completely and utterly to realise that the tapping she felt on her shoulder was myself, offering her a cigarette, and now I didn't want to put it in my shirt pocket without its' carton, nor did I want to put it on the bar if I planned on ever putting it in my own or anyone's mouth ever after.
The fact that cigarettes had been banned a few years ago (or the lighting thereof, at any rate, in the interesting court decision) was probably enough a reason for her to be staring, regardless of my level of cuteness, or, which I preferred to think of it as, sexiness.
Earlier in the evening, when they had the blue lights up in the rather trendy bar, I was being scoped by a few Undercovers, easy enough to tell... I can't say exactly what it is, but there're certain square edges to them, and when you actually pass by them, or talk to them, you can definitely tell. So much so that Undercover name has become a bit of a joke, really, as they'd have to try desperately to be conspicuous than they are now. Security's been tight the last few days, after a few small riots in the downtown area, and generally everyone's been armed to some degree for four to six weeks now, somehow the time a prize you send away for purportedly was supposed to take not seeming so long when you're fingering a handgun in the pocket of your jacket, with no idea of the make or specs of the thing, just the knowledge that the trigger's a little wonky when you pull it the first time or two.
This isn't anything new, the cities have been like this for years, hell, between New York City kids and Los Angelinos you'd think they'd be getting a bit bored with the whole thing. In fact, they were, to some degree.
In New York I was one of the few still carrying a gun.
Most of the real players, the properly acclimated New Yorkers were wearing stun suits; these things that fit under your regular clothing and emitted the slightest of electric pulses constantly, which reacted to your body temperature as a means of gauging a possibly tense situation. It had become a bit of a fashion statement, wearing this stuff on the outside, since it was generally all black and thick enough (due to the bulletproofing plastics they had in it and the insulation to prevent people from electrocuting themselves) to keep the wearer warm enough, not that it ever gets too cold in New York City.
And despite a few accidental discharges in the packed undergournd of the nightclubs the suits were de rigeur amongst anyone wanting to seem hard and a small legend had grown about sexual exploits and tastes involving the suits that entertained a certain crowd. Yet another reason to try and avoid the suit, at least in my case, where I was just looking for people not to bother me too much, and where it helped if they didn't think you thought yourself a hard bastard, less likely to give you a hassle that way.
I have no idea what they're doing in LA these days, probably not the suits, it's too spread out for that, especially considering LA now stretches down almost to San Diego in its' urban sprawl, west almost completely and shockingly, when you do the ride, to Las Vegas, the barren miles along the way looking right at home to the tiredness LA had been showing the last time I'd been out there, for a face to face meeting with my boss, about nine years ago now; the Los Angeles-Las Vegas in-between home to Hell-on-Wheels, almost literally, every single building between the formerly two cities jacked up on wheels, some able to move, should the occasion arise, most as good as built upon a concrete foundation. That was one reason I never went out to LA anymore, it's a lot easier to tolerate the city when it's all so close up you can't see the mess. Out in Los Angeles there are far too many opportunities to see the mess from a distance, usually aiming high grade former military weapons at your car.
So I leaned against the bar, relatively free of the pinching feeling at my back where the suit inevitably pinched the skin against the belt, and she still stole a glance this way every once in a while. Which is nice, to be wanted, like that. All right, not wanted, but to raise someone's curiousity, in that way. Not in the "I'm going to see if I can't turn you into something resembling jelly" kind of way. (The best looks always do contain a bit of that, but you can cope with it in small doses, ones that don't actually turn you into physical jelly, but more mental/emotional jelly. Without the benefit of a gun or a similar weapon.)
Sure, she thought I was cute, but the fact that I can read her mind never really helps when you want to buy someone a drink. However, it does mean I don't have to wear one of those stupid suits for fear of her pulling the knife she's got tucked in her belt on me, whether she's just nervous or has some sort of plan to randomly injure really incredibly nice guys like myself this fine evening. I can't tell just yet.
disclaimer:
The preceding is a short short from William Murphy, back from a two year sabbatical from Sane Magazine, written some time ago, before he turned to novels, even before he turned his friendship with the Head Editor into a job at Sane Magazine.
It was written for the back page of a sci-fi magazine quite a few years ago and I'd intended to turn it into something longer, somewhere along the line, though it got pushed down, pushed away, cannibalized to a degree for Curious: a novel, and cannibalized to a greater degree for a novel I'd planned for after Sleep(s) on Chickens, for which I don't have a title, and if I did, or were to come up with one now I think my publisher would kill me for not getting on and just finishing Chickens already. I'd always imagined this one ("Independent...") to not so much be about a post-apocalyptic world, but to be about something even worse: a world in which that great apocalypse, the revolution, whatever it is you think we're waiting for, never came. Or did, but we all completely missed it. Anyway, it was written some time ago, and possibly isn't the most well thought through thing, but there you have it, it was an interesting idea or two about where I wanted to go at the time. I'm not really sure, it is just something I'd like to get back to at some point, think about some more, and see what happens. Which is one reason why I wanted to run it this week, when we were fishing about for story ideas. Hopefully, in the near future we'll get to see this one carried slightly further, finished, and shipped off to a publisher in a much timelier fashion than I've been so adept at doing thus far. Which would be a small miracle in itself, really. - WM.
You are not being watched.
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Yer Weekly Horoscopes. I like guacamole.