Madison Ellison stares at a text message flashing on the screen of her device. It
’
s important enough to divert some of her attention from him, but not enough to stop her from replying.
“
In a sense, you know what we are, the people such as me who assign made-up stories to real world events? In an indirect but very accurate way, we
’
re the historians of our time. Not necessarily the work we do, but the things that our work is a
response
to. Because if someone in my position creates an alternate or modified version of an event, it
’
s highly probable that there is a much more interesting and troubling reality behind the spin. Poison in the paint. Blood on the blueprints. Electoral deceptions.
Unravel that spin, backtrack through the diversionary press releases, the shiny happy viral e-mails, the pithy sound bites and paid advertorials, and you
’
ll get a jaw-dropping three-sixty view of how the twenty-first century truly works.
”
“
Other than the fact that I could not disagree more, I understand.
”
“
You
’
ll see.
”
“
Curators of alternate realities.
”
“
I
’
ll take it.
”
“
Okay, then,
”
Henry asks.
“
What
’
s the story behind the story of this place? What is it a response to?
”
“
This place? This has more made-up stories per square inch than any place on earth. Right now it
’
s quiet, but we
’
ve been formulating preemptive responses to a number of scenarios, for when it all, knock on wood, goes
kerplooey
.
”
“
You
’
re kidding, right?
”
Madison Ellison shakes her head.
“
We make a lot more money on triage than on preventive medicine.
”
“
Is this really the Jonas Brothers?
”
She nods.
“
Makes me think of home.
”
Henry wipes up the last bit of omelet with his toast and looks up at Madison Ellison.
“
Sounds like you could use a little break from your Galadonian adventure.
”
She laughs.
“
They make me think of home in a negative way. Reminds me of what I left. The truth is, there
’
s no place I
’
d rather be than right here.
”
~ * ~
On the short walk back to his place after breakfast, Henry stops and watches a mud-splattered Toyota Land Cruiser roll down the street and turn in to his driveway. A young, angry-looking Galadonian man is driving. Maya gets out of the passenger
’
s side. She opens the back door and takes a brown paper bag out of the rear seat and says something to the driver before closing the door.
Henry knows that he has no right to feel this way, but the presence of the man with Maya fills him with jealousy.
“
How are you feeling?
”
“
Much better. I
’
m assuming that strange Indian man at the call center wasn
’
t a dream?
”
Maya smiles.
“
Mahesh? He
’
s about as real as real gets.
”
“
What happened?
”
“
You passed out. Probably from the blow to the head. Exhaustion. Lack of sleep and food. Culture shock. Narcolepsy. Whatever it was, you were out. Here, I brought you some essentials.
”
He accepts the bag and bows from the waist.
“
Want to come inside for a cup of. . . whatever might be in this bag?
”
“
No. I
’
m going back to work. There
’
s no need for you to come in today. We
’
re still practicing the basics. There
’
s two more pills in the upstairs bathroom if you need them. You should rest.
”
He thinks about protesting but knows the last thing he needs right now is more pseudo-American role-playing with Mahesh and the gang at the call center.
“
Thanks,
”
he says.
“
It
’
s been a bit of a frenzy since I got here, much of which I brought on myself. And thanks for keeping an eye on me last night. Madison filled me in.
”
Maya says,
“
Not a problem,
”
and pivots to head back to the Land Cruiser.
He can
’
t help it:
“
Who
’
s your friend?
”
As soon as the words come out, he wishes he hadn
’
t said them.
She turns, no longer smiling.
“
He
’
s just that,
”
she says.
“
He
’
s my friend.
”
~ * ~
iVoid
Losing his marriage, his job, his home, his
mojo
, and, twice in the last week, his consciousness is one thing. But now Henry has apparently somehow lost his music—5449 songs in all, the entire contents of his meticulously
curated
iTunes library. It
’
s not in his library, not on his hard drive, and he can
’
t find his iPod, which holds only a fraction of it anyway. The thought of living here, or
anywhere, without his security blanket of life-stage-appropriate songs
paralyzes
him with dread.
He never would have told Maya that he was content to languish alone around a strange and barren house in a foreign land if he had known it would be without music.
Rebooting the machine and searching the hard drive doesn
’
t help. Nor does slowly banging his forehead against the kitchen tabletop. Calling
AppleCare
from Galado, for the time being, isn
’
t something he
’
s up for.
It
’
s not just the music. It
’
s the combinations of songs. Their precise order. The quirky titles he gives to each grouping. Painstakingly created for certain situations. Distinct responses to specific events. Similar, he thinks, to Madison Ellison
’
s definition of PR, except with music he is the solitary victim of his own spin.
Though it would cost thousands of dollars, it might somehow be possible to recall and repurchase a great many of the missing songs. But the mixes, the playlists, which reflect nothing less than
the syncopated rhythms of his soul, he could never come close to replicating.
Looking around the vacant home, dwelling on the silence, he thinks, Now I know how a junkie feels. Only a junkie, in theory, gets a little better every day that he goes without.
Without music, he realizes, what I really feel is alone.
Staring at the laptop screen, trying to will the songs back from the digital void, he sees an instant message clicking into his in-box. It
’
s Rachel. She did it, he thinks. She
’
s stolen my manhood and my soul and now she
’
s stolen my songs, with witchcraft.
—
Howz
Galado?
—Where
’
s my music, Rachel?
—
Pardon?
—You know what I
’
m talking about. Give me back my music
library.
—
OMG. It
’
s gone?
—Don
’
t play innocent, witch. Undo thy spell.
—There is no spell, Henry. How many times have I told you to
back up
your files? And lay off the witch stuff. I
’
m just having some fun.
—At my expense?
—To an extent, yes. Absolutely. Plus what
’
s so wrong with
believing
in something? What do you believe in, Henry?
—
—
That
’
s what I thought.
—Shambhala.
—
What?
—An unreachable utopia. I believe deeply in that, and nothing
else.
Unless of course someone
’
s casting spells on me.
—What
’
s a spell, Henry, except someone else
’
s version of a
prayer? A proactive wish.
—Last I checked, prayers were supposed to be for redemption,
forgiveness, love, and the helping of others. Not the condemning and punishing of souls. Not for revenge, thievery, and the emasculation of soon-to-be ex-husbands,
—
Oh, that. I was drunk. Sorry, but it made me feel good. I needed
a spiritual outlet.
—
Couldn
’
t we have simply joined a Unitarian church?
—It won
’
t happen again. I
’
m coming to terms with us. Past and
future tense
.
—How
’
s the house?
—Worth another 25% less than last time we spoke. You heard
about our bank, right?
—
No.
—
It no longer exists. Bought out by a brokerage firm that may or
may not be in existence by the end of the week. Our nest egg,
fittingly, is gone. So, I ask once more: how is Galado?
—
Maybe Galado, I am learning, is what I deserved. Hypocrites.
Criminals. Lunatics. And now—no music.
—
Maybe that
’
s a good thing.
—
—Henry?
—
Look, Rachel. I
’
m. . . It
’
s obvious that you deserved better. Not
at
first, maybe, because I wasn
’
t so bad for a while. . . but if you
want to make a case for later. . .
—
—We loved each other, right? Now, not so much. So we move on.
—Well, this is sort of why I
’
m writing.
—You met someone?
—Living with. Sort of.
—
Okay. Mr. Las Vegas?
—
Yeah.
—
How romantic. Did you work that into your pickup line—Hey,
my
husband
’
s having his balls snipped as we speak, at my
insistence, in fact. . .
wanna
have sex?
—
It wasn
’
t like that.
—