Louse (9 page)

“Did Poppy indicate it was necessary to take me all the way if I were awake?” I ask.

“He p-p-placed no c-c-conditions on my orders.”

“Would you mind stopping then?”

“It's only a sh-sh-short distance, Mr. Louse. I don't m-m-mind. And b-b-besides, you don't look very good.”

“But really, Mr. Slodsky…”

“Really,” he says, “it's n-n-no trouble, n-n-no trouble at all.”

Mr. Slodsky's eyes shut when he stutters. They stretch into narrow ovals as though his pupils have momentarily disappeared. When he opens them they turn into the back of his head in search of the proper consonant and the serenity to finish his sentence.

“Some n-n-new news has been reported since you've been asleep, M-M-Mr. Louse.”

“Is that so?” I say, feeling a little fuzzy about the old news. I try to recall what has happened, but all I can think of is Karl Arnstedt falling to his death.

We pass a number of tinted glass doors to the left of us. To the right is a wall lined with photographs of missiles and rocket ships lifting off launch platforms, flying into colorful halos.

“You're n-n-never interested in the news, are you?” Mr. Slodsky persists.

“That's not true, Mr. Slodsky,” I protest, feeling some blood rush to my face. “I listen and report what I know when asked.”

Mr. Slodsky clears his throat. “I imagine that is all we are expected t-t-to do.”

“Yes, Mr. Slodsky. I…”

“But don't you think it worthwhile—to pay closer attention?” he asks. “For your—benefit? For all of our—benefits?”

“What are you trying to say, Mr. Slodsky?”

“I'm not trying to ins-s-s-sinuate anything, Mr. Louse. This is s-s-s-simply a matter of conjecture, seeing that you're there and I'm here…s-s-s-since it's allowed to th-th-th-theorize about such personal m-m-matters.”

“I'll have you know, Mr. Slodsky, I can recite all that I hear on any given night with great accuracy
and
clarity of speech.”

“I don't d-d-d-doubt that, Mr. Louse,” he says, his voice quavering and his eyes blinking nervously. He looks into my upside-down eyes and then looks up toward the end of the corridor. “I don't d-d-d-doubt that, Mr. Louse,” he repeats. After a few steps, he looks down at me as though I have injured him.

I didn't mean to. I wasn't thinking of what I was saying. “Yes,” I say, contemplating what I just did.

“I just w-w-wonder about your w-w-willingness t-to d-do so. You s-s-s-simply seem unw-w-w-willing,” he pursues. Mr. Slodsky's tic freezes into what I see as an attempt at a placating smile.

“Yes, I can see that, Mr. Slodsky.”

“Yes, w-w-well, in any case, Mr. Louse,” Mr. Slodsky continues, not giving up. “Since you're th-there and I'm here, I don't im-m-magine you would mind if I told you what I know. Compare n-n-notes. That kind of thing.”

“Of course not,” I say. “It is my duty, after all.”

“I thought you might—see it as such,” he says excitedly, as though he has finally captured a willing participant to listen through his pauses.

I surrender a smile in the direction of Mr. Slodsky's cleft chin. “Go on, Mr. Slodsky. Please.”

“Well, it turns out that M-M-Ms. Berger…You know Ms. Berger?”

“I recall hearing talk of her.”

“V-v-very g-g-good. It turns out th-th-that…uhm, they discovered a host of notes in Ms. Berger's desk from M-M-Mr. M-M-Moorcraft.”

“The Head Engineer.”

“Precisely,” Mr. Slodsky punctuates. He tightens and then relaxes his face into a meditative mask. As he looks deeply into the back of his head for some calm, I begin to think of Mr. Moorcraft's threat. “M-M-Mr. Moorcraft,” Mr. Slodsky continues slowly, looking very serious now, “of course, denies any wrong doing. P-P-Pan Opticon is checking into his s-s-statements. But it is r-r-rumored that he has had connections with some of the others.”

“The others?” I question. “Which others?”

“The others!” Mr. Slodsky exclaims. “W-w-why M-M-Mr. Blank, for instance. Sh-sh-surely you've heard of M-M-Mr. Blank by now?”

“Yes, of course,” I say.

“Of c-c-course you have,” Mr. Slodsky says with his naked brow raised. The camera surveillance lights mounted on the ceiling streak past his head like a swarm of fire flies. “Yes, of course,” he
continues. “W-w-well, M-M-Mr. Louse, it has been reported that correspondence from M-M-Mr. Blank to the Head Engineer has b-b-been d-d-discovered in a trunk on the thirtieth floor. But this, for the record, Mr. Louse, is only rumor and not considered information yet.”

“I understand, Mr. Slodsky.”

“In-n-n-in any case, M-M-Mr. Louse,” he continues with the same awkward cadence, “Ms. B-B-Berger's detention has b-b-been made public. Mr. M-M-Moorcraft, M-M-Mr. Blank, and the others will be n-n-next, I think.”

“Others?”

“Th-th-the others, M-M-Mr. Louse. A-c-c-countants. L-l-launderers. C-c-conspirators. K-K-Kovax, Nestor, and Blurd, to name a few.”

“Yes, those,” I say.

“W-w-we must remain alert, Mr. Louse.”

“Yes, Mr. Slodsky. I agree.”

“There could be one hidden b-b-behind every door.”

“Yes, Mr. Slodsky.”

“Guilty by design.”

“Yes, guilty by design.”

“Y-y-yes.”

“Yes,” I say.

“Well, so m-m-much for the news, M-M-Mr. Louse.”

“So much for it, Mr. Slodsky.”

And with that, Mr. Slodsky stops walking. We have arrived at Lounge 18 SR-5.

“Thank you, Mr. Slodsky,” I say as I sit up.

“G-g-good fortune to you, Mr. Louse.”

“Good fortune to you, Mr. Slodsky.”

I step off the gurney, feeling dizzy and not sure of my legs. Mr. Slodsky does a U-turn and wheels away. I lean against the wall, wait for the wing to stop spinning, and step into the lounge.

The lights here are as dim as the hallway's and the air is warm. There are five leather easy chairs to the left of me and five doors with small green lights attached to the knobs to the right of me. I walk past all to the desk in the back.

“Welcome to Lounge Eighteen,” a slender woman behind the desk greets me with a smooth, hushed voice. She is dressed in a low-cut blouse. Her chest rises into two soft mounds of flesh. “Mister…?”

“Mr. Louse,” I say as I hand her my identification card.

“Yes, Mr. Louse,” she says, taking my ID and looking down at a roster. “You're expected.”

The woman smiles at me.

“You may take a seat.”

“Yes. Thank you,” I say. “Thank you very much.”

I turn around and walk over to the seats.

There is only one other man in the room. He is sitting in seat number two with his head resting on the palm of his hand. His eyes are closed and his shoes are untied. As I sit down, I look at the woman again and thankfully nod my head; she looks back at me and smiles. She then looks down at her paperwork.

I untie my shoes, nestle into the comfort of the leather chair, and close my eyes.

When I open them I realize that I have drifted off to sleep for a short moment and dreamed of performing a
quality of life assignment
.

The man beside me is still resting on his palm, but his eyes are open. He turns toward me slightly and I can see they are a rich brown. One pupil is somewhat lazy and drifts toward his nose.

The man nods his head and closes his eyes.

If only my mind were clearer, if I weren't so exhausted, I could have saved myself from fainting. If I were more acute I would have practiced a quality of life assignment. For Poppy wholeheartedly approves of my touching things up, cleaning and reordering, as long as my actions comply with his rules. Anything I can do that might improve his surroundings is considered tolerable behavior. He regularly updates the lists of acceptable activities. I could, for instance, have wiped down the holograms in the bathrooms with lint-free cloth. He approves of cleaning any form of grout or mortar with Q-tips. One swipe here, one swipe there. I am allowed to get on my hands and knees. I have been known to take on this task when I am in need of a break from standing. It is something like this that I could have been doing before I lost concentration and fainted on the job. If I had taken on a quality of life assignment I would have undoubtedly kept myself from dropping off the way I did. With a simple Q-tip, or for that matter, a toothpick, I could have avoided the entire ordeal. A toothpick! Even in the midst of movies, he will take enjoyment from watching me run a toothpick along the seam of two tiles. He likes it when I gather the dirt in its entirety, and place it in a small plastic tube so that he might see it. He marvels at it for a moment and then asks me to store it in a special chest in the supply closet.

Quality of life is a two way street
, Poppy has written. I didn't think about it in such terms earlier. I resorted to the measure of last resort—the needles. Needles, however, are hardly practical. Needles are considered to be very high risk, hardly a conservative panacea
for my condition. Needles should be used when boredom and exhaustion become interchangeable. They are used to induce pain. But pain alone will not result in alertness. Prescribed with needles is work, any form of quality of life assignment. With work, the pain stimulates an awakening in the heart that blossoms into a second wind—into true alertness. It isn't so much that I didn't have a feeling I should have been practicing quality of life. I felt it somewhere, sublimated. It was just too late. I didn't think of it. It probably could be argued that I am guilty for not being disciplined. Perhaps it can easily be concluded that I deserve whatever punishment awaits me. All I know is that in the future should I ever be as exhausted as I was tonight, I will never resort to needles alone. I will turn to any kind of work, anything within Poppy's reason to keep me moving to the end of my shift.

“You may go in now, Mr. Louse,” the woman behind the desk says, her voice soothing me.

I notice that the green light on door number five is shining.

“Thank you,” I say.

I get up from my chair and go to the door. I open it and close it behind me. Behind the door is a small white tiled room with a shower, an armoire, and a toilet. I open the armoire and place my shoes and socks at the bottom. I remove the remainder of my clothes and hang them up. I then go into the shower stall, turn on the water, and carefully scrub myself with a washcloth—my hands, my face, my underarms, and genitals. When I am done I throw the washcloth down an incineration chute beside the toilet and walk behind a red velvet curtain opposite the door I walked in from. Behind the curtain is another door which revolves. I spin through to the other side into pitch blackness.

The room is silent.

“Are you here?” I ask, as is customary.

“I'm on the mat below,” the voice of the woman whispers.

I crouch to my hands and knees. The floor is made of a thick rubber; the walls are padded; the air is damp, much warmer than the entry hall, and it is slightly scented with an infusion of lilac mist.

“Come,” the woman's voice says. “Come sit beside me.”

“I'm coming,” I whisper.

I gently reach my hand out. I crawl forward until I find her. I touch her side and momentarily hold onto a small fold of her flesh. She reaches up, grips my hand and guides me next to her.

“Will you hold me?” she asks.

“Of course,” I say.

“I like to be held for a while,” she says, her lips close to my ear.

“That's fine,” I say.

I lie down on my back and pull her close to me. She rests her head on my chest and her arm across my stomach. I then feel her thigh cross mine; her ankle brushes down the hair on my shin.

Her body is soft and lean, her skin smooth; her hair falls onto my cheek. I take hold of the arm on my stomach and guide it up to my ribs. I can feel the pulse of her body. It is slow and calm.

“That's nice,” she whispers as I stroke her back.

Sex
, Poppy has written into the contract,
is a necessary biological function to curtail unnecessary acts of aggression. Sex is to be enjoyed if for no other reason that one cannot curtail one's aggressiveness without the immediate gratification the sex act requires. Orgasm is a means to this end. Enjoyment is, therefore, a necessity and a must. However, this principle is only effective if the sex act is
enacted anonymously. If done with an intimate other, it can only lead to delusions of physically possessing one's partner, which can only result in petty jealousies brought on by an innate territorialism, which can only result in an act of aggression. The sex act, therefore, must remain purely sensory and unemotional
.

She gently pulls her arm from my stomach and tickles the inside of my thigh with her nails. With this motion of her hand, I become aroused. My erection lifts away from my body and slowly rises until it bumps against her elbow.

“Don't move,” she says.

She lifts her weight off me and disappears into the darkness.

The next thing I know I can feel her clutching my ankles and sweeping her hair over my toes. She lifts my legs and pulls my feet into her two small breasts, the nipples of which are hard and taut. She then pulls my feet down to the soft pouch of her belly. She parts my knees and crawls inside the V until she's far enough along to straddle my hips.

“How do you like it?” she asks.

“I like it just fine.”

I can feel the warmth of breath return to my ear, her torso on my stomach, her vagina near my penis.

It is my opinion
, Poppy has written,
that Darwin's theory regarding the survival of the fittest is suited not just in relationship to interspecies warfare battling for possession of the Earth, but for intraspecies warfare battling for possession of the Earth
.

She reaches her right hand through her legs and takes hold of my erection. She pulls it up by the base so she can use the head to part her labia. She moistens the tip with her wetness and draws it to the hard nub of her clitoris.