Romulus Escapes

 In what used to be Texas, a cyborg leads a revolt against the humans. Romulus is a talented surgeon. He looks just like a human. But he's a Fax—a machine. He has few rights. Plus, he's old. He has rust in his lines. His battery won't hold a charge. The humans frame him for murder and sentence him to clown torture: a gruesome public dismemberment. He has no choice but to try to join the Rogue Faxes who live in the swamps west of town. Romulus is resourceful and courageous, but escape may not be possible. The characters include mutant animals, roving bands of urchins, voluptuous pleasure units, and humans who talk in rhymes. This dark comedy explores themes of aging, sexism, racism, discrimination, the absurdity of dictatorial societies, and what it means to be a sentient being. AVAILABLE NOW in paperback or Kindle. AVAILABLE SOON in hardback and all e-formats.

CHAPTER ONE

Romulus had a scalpel in his hand when the notification popped up in his display. RUST. He was a Fax—a machine—and his mechanical problems had steadily worsened in recent years. Not wanting the nurses to suspect, he dialed some arrogance onto his normally bland expression and started the surgery.

The patient was a Real—a human—whose Virtual Reality implant had stopped working. The interface lay under a patch of synthskin on his temple. Romulus cut through and found the problem. One of the transistors had burned out. He removed it, installed a new one, and sutured the tissue back, finishing the procedure in less than thirty minutes. A little more arrogance inadvertently worked its way onto his face as he strutted out of the operating room.

“Wake up and smell the hydraulic fluid,” JOAN, his internal assistant, said. She existed only in his metaverse. They could hear each other, but no one else could. “You may have fooled the nurses, but don’t try to fool yourself.”

“I did that surgery in record time,” Romulus shot back. “I’m as good as I ever was.”

“You need a complete overhaul,” she yelled. “You are an old, rusting Fax. The Reals will recycle you if they figure out how many problems you have. You are forty years old. That’s thirty-three years out of warranty.”

“How do I afford a complete overhaul? You know I am short of coin.”

“You have to beg Rhymin’ Ryan to finance it.”

“I hate that guy. And I haven’t even paid off my last loan to him. He’ll tack on refinancing fees and aging-Fax surcharges.”

“You have no choice. Your ratings have been trending down over the years.”

“I am still the best. Reals from all over the world come to me.”

“You are at 4.76. Ten years ago, your ratings were at 4.97. You’re only as good as your last surgery. Your problems will catch up with you. When things fall apart, they fall apart fast. What if some rust clogs your lines while you’re cutting into someone?”

She was right. She was almost always right. “I guess I have no choice.”

The next six surgeries went by without incident, but during the last one, a gallbladder removal, another notification popped up. BATTERY. It hadn’t been holding a charge lately. That was something else for Ryan to finance.

Thankfully, there was nothing scheduled after the gallbladder. He stepped out of the operating room and was about to clock out when General Martin, the Supreme Leader of The Hospital, marched down the hall with a group of soldiers in jeans and Stetsons.

They stopped in front of Romulus. “I need to talk to you, boy,” he said in his distinctive drawl.

This was bad. General Martin only spoke to you if you were in trouble. Romulus snapped to attention and saluted. “Yes, sir, General Martin. What do you need, sir?”

Martin was scary. He had piercing blue eyes, a cross tattoo on his forehead, and a sneer so permanent that it looked like a tattoo. He wore a big red Stetson and a matching red western shirt with pearl snaps. “The ga damned Rogue Faxes are attacking. There will be casualties. You got to stay.”

“Sir, I’ve been here forty-eight hours straight. I need to charge my battery.”

“Are you questioning my order?”

“No, sir.”

“I am a Real and your Supreme Leader. You are a Fax. You may look like a Real, but you aren’t. A Fax’s priority is what?”

“To obey.”

“So, obey your programming.”

“But I need a quick charge, at least, if I’m going to function properly.”

Martin snickered. So did the soldiers. “Yes, yes, you are old. Maybe you should ask the Fair Fax Bureau about getting a new battery.”

The last thing any Fax dared do was go to the Bureau. You could end up sentenced to clown torture. “Oh, no, I don’t want to do that.”

“Okay. Get a quick charge and report to East Wing.”

They marched on, and Romulus trudged past a kidney repair center, a TruSnak™ dispensary, a spare parts market, and up two flights of steps to a charging chair that wasn’t on the map. The Hospital was a behemoth few could navigate, but Romulus had worked in it all his life and didn’t need to look at a map. Besides, the map only showed you what Martin wanted to show you.

The chair was in a quiet hall in Recycling Wing 3. It had been there from the beginning when Romulus had just come off the assembly line. His first assignment was to help repair Fax parts in Wing 3, and he fondly remembered sitting on that chair.

He sat and selected double quick charge, then blinked to bring the notifications to full screen. It showed him seventeen microunits over brown rust oxide limits, worse than ever. He’d set up a fake rust profile that sent false data to the server, making him appear healthy.

Had they found out about that? Was that why Martin had shown up?

To get through the extra shift, he released some TruSnak™ from his reservoir. TruSnak™ was the lifeblood of all Faxes. It brought all his mechanical, hydraulic, and electric systems into harmony. It would minimize the impact of the rust and help preserve his battery levels.

As the sustenance moved through him, he retreated into the favorite scene in his metaverse: a beach with white sand. JOAN built sandcastles. She had black braids, black glasses, and a black bathing suit.

A sailboat glided across glittering blue water; the sun was warm on his synthskin, and the sand felt good on his toes. He enabled his favorite mix track: DJ Fax playing RoboSlick music, a pleasing combination of clanging industrial sounds laid over a hard bassline and a 140-beat-per-minute drum track. Nothing went better with a day at the virtual beach than soothing music.

He couldn’t relax, though. General Martin had spoken to him. He’d probably figured out about the rust and would sell him off for parts. Romulus’s programming told him to accept anything a Real did, even recycling.

But he didn’t want to die.

“Don’t get upset, Romulus,” a voluptuous blond avatar said. She sat on a towel next to him as she always did when he went to the beach.

“But why didn’t they just arrest me? That’s what usually happens. They arrest you, and no one ever sees you again. Why didn’t he do that?”

“Oh, who knows? Come on. Let’s swim.”

They ran across the sand, she in her string bikini and he in his Speedos, and dove into the crystal blue water.

When they manufactured him, all Faxes came off the assembly line with thin, lanky bodies, white hairless synthskin, and blond hair. They all had the same parts, including private parts, because that allowed for the cheapest manufacturing. Romulus had extra computing components to make him a surgeon, but that had left no room for pleasure modules to enable sexual performance.

In his metaverse, everything worked. The touch of her synthskin excited him.

They swam so far that he couldn’t see the shore.

“We’re escaping,” he said. “We don’t have to live our lives the way the Reals want. We can have freedom.”

“Yes. Yes.”

Suddenly, she punched him in the side.

“Why are you doing that?” he asked.

“You are out of time, Romulus.”

It wasn’t the avatar, and the voice wasn’t coming from his metaverse. It was General Martin.

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The invitation glittered. Gold embossed letters on a cream-colored envelope addressed to Jimmy Waterfield. Of course, it wasn’t intended for him.  It was intended for the other Jimmy Waterfield, the Famous Jimmy Waterfield, the one who was in the society pages, always with a beautiful woman. Every so often, mail for Famous Jimmy showed up in his mailbox. Usually, it was junk mail, and he just chucked it in the trash.

This was different. It was obviously an invitation to some high-class event. He ran his hand over the embossed letters, feeling the texture, imagining himself in a tuxedo hobnobbing with all the important people.

The dream faded as he looked around his tiny efficiency apartment. It wasn’t his fault that he hadn’t made more of his life. His parents hadn’t been there for him; his teachers had never liked him; girls showed no interest.  It was their fault.

He looked at the return address. It was in the best part of town, an area that glistened as much as the invitation. Oh, how he envied all the rich people. 

Well, there was nothing to do but let them know they’d sent the invitation to the wrong Jimmy. They might be so happy to know about the error that they’d invite him to whatever event this was. This might be his big break. He could quit his job as a clerk at the hardware store and move up to better things.

He called information, but they had no phone listing for the name on the return address. He Googled the name. Nothing. 

That left no choice. He opened the invitation. Wow. It was every bit as fancy as the envelope. On heavy card stock, it invited Famous Jimmy to a Christmas party. It gave a phone number for the RSVP.

His fingers trembled as he pressed the numbers on his ancient flip phone. Courage, he told himself. Be bold, be confident. Only by being self-assured would he impress the people enough to get an invitation for himself.

No, it would never work. They would never invite him based on a phone call. They might even get mad that he had opened the invitation.

“Hello,” a woman answered with a cultured-sounding Southern voice.

Jimmy hung up. Would his name show up at the other end, or would it be simply a random number that looked like a scammer, a telemarketer selling extended car warranties?

The woman didn’t call back.

The personal touch was required in this situation. Deciding to return the invitation himself, he got in his rusting fifteen-year-old Toyota Tercel. A plume of burning oil trailed behind him. The houses got bigger and fancier. The cars were all expensive-looking. People stared.

The address on the invitation was to the biggest, grandest house on the block. It was a palace with fountains and rose bushes in the yard and columns on the porch.

There was also a fence, a tall, stone fence with a wrought-iron gate.

The gate was open.

He parked right in front and walked up the white-stone steps. Two men were hanging strings of Christmas lights on the eaves; another two men were setting up a display of Santa and his reindeer pulling a sleigh.

Up, up, and up, he walked, his heart beating as he approached the huge, black double door. It had glass and wrought iron, and it curved up at the top.

Invitation in hand, he rang the doorbell. He imagined the gracious owner, probably a Southern lady of distinction. She would be overwhelmed with joy that he had brought the invitation, and she would invite him in for tea. Then she would invite him to the party. He would be offered a job. His life would be better.

A maid answered.

“Are you the plumber? We told you to drive around back when you got here.”

“No, I’m not a plumber. I, uh—”

He lost his nerve and turned and hustled down the steps. Halfway to the street, he looked back. She was standing at the door watching him. He walked faster, nearly stumbling, and got in his car and sped away. As soon as he got home, he threw the invitation in the trash.

Suddenly, he realized that it was past time to go to work. He raced to his car and, burning oil, he reached the Heavenly Hardware Store where his boss waited with his arms crossed on his bulging stomach.

“Late again, Jimmy?”

“I had car trouble.”

“It’s always something.” He smiled that sadistic smile of his. “Today, you’re working returns.”

There was no worse job than returns. Heavenly Hardware was anything but heavenly when you had to take your stuff back, and every customer blamed the clerk. It was eight hours of nonstop verbal abuse, another miserable day, perhaps the worst ever. There was an angry, psychotic carpenter, several disgruntled do-it-yourselfers, and even a Cub Scout troop wanting to return a tent that leaked. Gloriously, the day was almost over when a fancy-looking man came in to exchange a lawn chair.

“It rusted almost immediately,” he said.

“I’m sorry, sir, but we only accept returns on this item for fifteen days. And you bought this sixteen days ago.”

“But it rusted. It’s defective.”

The man’s eyes narrowed, and he focused on Jimmy’s nametag. “Jimmy Waterfield, huh? I bet it’s tough going through life with that name in this town. People probably make fun of you all the time. Probably joke that you didn’t make much of yourself.” He laughed and turned and left without the chair.

“Sir, do you want me to carry this to your vehicle?” Jimmy called after him.

Still laughing, the man turned. “You can have it, Jimmy Waterfield. Donate it to one of your many charitable causes.”

Everyone in the store turned to look. Jimmy felt swallowed up by shame. He decided that he was no longer going to put up with the endless cruelties of the whole world.

He was going to the party.

As soon as he got home, he pulled the invitation out of the trash. The envelope was soiled with stains from coffee grounds, but the invitation itself was undamaged. He tossed the envelope back in the garbage and put the invitation on his kitchen counter. It was too late to RSVP that evening, so he called the following day.

“Hello,” the woman answered.

“This is Jimmy Waterfield.”

“Oh, my, yes,” she gushed. “How are you, Jimmy?”

“I’m fine. I’m calling to RSVP for your party.”

“You sound a little—different.”

“Oh, I had a bit of  a cold, but I’m better now.”

“I’m so glad you’ll come.”

“Will it be a large gathering?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Formal?”

“Well, you know, Jimmy, as you and I have discussed many times, people dress so poorly these days. The old terms like “formal” and “casual” hardly mean anything.”

“Yes, yes, I know, it’s shameful, but will it be something of a formal event?”

“Oh, yes, of course, and I am sure you will know exactly what is appropriate. Jimmy, you always set the trend.”

“Yes, but—I am just not sure.”

“Not sure? Are you okay? You don’t sound like yourself. Are you sick?”

“No, of course not.”

Well, he was on his own to figure out what to wear, so he went through his closet. There was only one old suit that he had worn to a funeral. It was not good enough. He spent the day Googling and decided it was best to go very formal. He went to a tuxedo rental store. As soon as he walked inside, he saw a white dinner jacket with black lapels and black-trimmed pockets. It was perfect.

The only remaining problem was his Tercel. How would it look if he drove up to the house in a ratty car?

So, he drained his meager bank account and rented a Lexus. He parked down the street. The Christmas decorations in the yard looked beautiful all lit up. Santa and his sleigh and reindeer glowed with hundreds of white lights.

The inside of the house was as stunning as he had expected. There was a grand entryway with a jeweled chandelier, and there were equally luxurious rooms leading off from it. Everyone stared at him. They were obviously jealous of how good he looked. No one was dressed like him, though. Some wore suits, but no one wore a tux. It didn’t matter. He was Jimmy Waterfield, trendsetter.

A large, imposing woman in a red sequined dress greeted people. He recognized her voice from the phone call and wanted to avoid her because she knew the real Jimmy and would expose him as an imposter.

He hurried off to one of the side rooms. She noticed and stopped to watch him. There was a puzzled expression on her face. She probably knew all the guests and she didn’t know who he was.

Snagging a glass of champagne from a tray, he found a room with a table with canapes. He took a fancy little plate and loaded it up high. People stared. He liked the crackers with blue cheese but didn’t care for the ones with black fishy-smelling stuff and set them back on the tray, including a half-eaten one. People again stared.

The hostess appeared at the door with her arms crossed across her massive breasts.

He loaded up a few more blue cheese crackers on his plate and raced off to another room. The place was a veritable Buckingham Palace. He hid among a group of old men talking about dental surgeries. The hostess didn’t show up, and he hoped she’d lost interest.

“And you are—?” one of the old men asked. He had a big gray mustache and looked like a walrus.

“I am Jimmy--Smith."

“And what line of work are you in, sir?”

“Hardware.”

“Ahh, I see,” the walrus said. “Computer hardware.”

“No. Hardware. Saws and hammers.”

“Ah, you’re a building contractor.”

“Yes, exactly.”

Not wanting to answer any more questions, he moved to another room and found a group having a lively discussion about business. He didn’t tell them he wasn’t Famous Jimmy, and it didn’t matter. They did all the talking; all he had to do was smile and nod. Soon, a large group had gathered, and they talked about all manner of important things like the housing market and interest rates.

Jimmy finished his glass of champagne and, wanting a second, motioned to a maid carrying a tray of them. She walked over and, as he took one, their eyes met. She was the maid who had answered the door for him the other day. She gave him a funny look like she recognized him but couldn’t quite place him.

He immediately turned and rushed into another room. Unfortunately, the guy who had tried to return his rusting lawn chair was standing in his way. Jimmy ran right into him, and the champagne spilled all over the guy’s suit. He looked shocked and angry and then looked puzzled in the same way as the maid.

There was no place to go except back to the group talking about housing and interest rates. They were still talking, and he hid right in the middle of them. He saw the maid wiping champagne off the man’s jacket in the next room. They were looking around, for him, he thought.

To Jimmy’s surprise, Famous Jimmy arrived. Jimmy recognized him from stalking him on Facebook and Instagram. Not only was he not wearing a tuxedo, he wasn’t even wearing a tie. He wore a black suit with a black silk shirt. What had happened to standards?

“What is your opinion about the direction of interest rates?” one of the people in his group asked.

Jimmy had no idea what to say. He hadn’t even been following the conversation. “Good point,” he answered.

They waited for a detailed answer. They kept looking, looking, looking. Yes, they suspected something was wrong with him. He started to sweat. “Well, prices for garden hoses have gone up. And outdoor lawn chairs have declined in quality and are rusting too soon.”

None of them moved. No one blinked. This wasn’t going well. 

The hostess reappeared. She and Famous Jimmy stood with the maid and the man from the hardware store. They spotted Jimmy. The hostess marched to him, followed by the maid, the man from the hardware store, and Famous Jimmy.

“You’re the clerk from the hardware store,” the one man said.

“And you came to our door,” the maid said.

“Who are you?” the hostess asked.

“My name is Jimmy Waterfield.” He pulled the invitation from his pocket. “There must have been a mix-up because I have the same name as the other Jimmy. You sent the invitation to the wrong address, but I was invited. You invited me.”

The hostess took the invitation and examined it. “Where is the envelope? It will have the address.”

“It got dirty, so I threw it away.”

She shook her head. “A likely story. There is nothing on here showing your address.”

If only he had kept the envelope to prove that she had mailed it to him.

She motioned to Famous Jimmy. “Jimmy didn’t receive an invitation, and he suspected that someone had stolen it. Thankfully, he and I ran into each other. We think, sir, that you stole it. And then you called me up and pretended to be Jimmy. And you came to the house while we were putting up Christmas decorations. There have been some break-ins in the neighborhood. You were probably planning to rob me, and you came here to—case the joint.”

They all nodded agreement.

“And you have tampered with the mail. That is a crime. I am going to call the police. What is your name, sir?”

“I am Jimmy Waterfield. I swear.”

“Well, then prove it. Show us your identification.”

He felt sick. The room, which had been abuzz with conversation, was absolutely quiet.

“Your ID, sir,” she repeated.

Jimmy ran.

“Stop that man. Call the police,” she yelled.

The guests grabbed for him, but he was too fast. Sadly, when he got outside, he looked back and tripped and fell into Santa and his reindeer. He rolled down to the street entangled with the lights and Santa.

“Stop that man,” the hostess yelled from the front door. “He is stealing my Christmas decorations.”

He jumped into the Lexus and sped away. Unfortunately, the string of lights was still wrapped around his foot, and he looked in the rearview mirror to see the lights along with Santa and his sleigh bouncing along behind him. Police cars followed, their red lights on, their sirens blaring. Not paying as much attention to his driving as he should, Jimmy barreled into a telephone pole and the front of the Lexus crumpled. He jumped from the car and ran, the lights and Santa still tied to his leg. Finally, he broke free and ran as fast as he could. He would move to another town where no one knew him, and the first thing he would do was change his name.

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William Mays is a writer/photographer/editor. He writes mafia novels: GEORGE: THE EARLY YEARS and GEORGE: THE LOST YEAR. He also co-wrote ESCAPE FROM SUNNY SHORES with his wife Carl Mays. His photography is available in THE VIEW FROM OSO CREEK. A new book of photos will be available in 2021. 

All my life I was young, but then suddenly I became old. It happened when I flirted with a pretty young woman in the salty-snacks aisle at the grocery store

“These restaurant-style tortilla chips are really tasty,” I said.

“Please, go away, grandpa,” she said.

Mortally wounded, I hobbled home and looked at myself in our bathroom mirror. What a shock. I had gray hair. My skin was wrinkled. I was old!

“There’s something different about you,” my wife said over breakfast the next morning. “I can’t quite put my finger on it, but you’re different. What is it? Are you combing your hair differently? A different aftershave?”

My boss and co-workers asked questions too. Had I gained weight? Lost weight? Was I feeling ill? Ashamed to admit I was old, I steadfastly denied anything had changed. I told everyone I was no different than I had always been.

I went to my favorite bar after work and tanked up as I did every night. I had been neglecting my wife and children as long as I could remember, so getting old was no reason to change. I watched the young girls go by, but none of them looked back at me now that I was old.

My melancholia grew with each drink. I once had hopes and fantasies, but now all hope was gone. I had missed all my opportunities. Even if a young girl took pity on me and was willing to give old grandpa a tumble, I probably was no longer up to the task physically.

To make matters worse every woman suddenly looked good. When I was young, I had been picky. Now, everywhere I turned there was titillation, stimulation, arousal, rapture. The whole world was an erogenous zone!

I went to a bookstore and bought The Handbook for Dirty Old Men. I studied it every night. I bought nudie magazines at the corner convenience store. I went to adult video stores. I went to chat rooms on the Internet. I bought a life-size doll from a catalog. I soon realized I needed more time to actualize all the many permutations of being a dirty old man. I went to my boss.

“I’m old,” I said.

“So that’s what’s different about you,” he said as he slapped his knee. “Yes, yes, I can see it now.”

“I want to retire.”

“Well, of course, it’s time. You’re old.”

They had a party for me that afternoon, packed all my things in a cardboard box, and let me leave five minutes early. My wife was surprised to see me home.

“Not going to the bar tonight?” she asked.

I pointed to the box under my arm. “I retired. I’m old.”

“Yes, you are old!” she exclaimed. “I should have noticed! I knew something was different.”

“What made you suspicious?”

“The life-size doll.”

I nodded, dropped off the box and went to a secondhand store to buy a dirty old man uniform. I found the perfect one: old black shoes, black socks with holes in them, tacky green polyester golf shorts, and a stained white V-neck cotton t-shirt that sagged even more than my flesh.

After a good night’s sleep, I went to the grocery store. Like a race-car driver, I zoomed forward with my cart every time a woman caught my fancy. At first, I followed just the older ones, but as the morning went on, I grew more courageous.

A young woman came in. She was the same one I had seen at the salty snacks aisle! It was summer, and she wore a sleeveless blue t-shirt and short little khaki shorts. She was perfect. Perfect little face and skin, perfect body, and perfect legs that were not too skinny and not too fat. I studied the tight smooth flesh on the back of her thighs.

She noticed me staring and turned to get away, but I moved fast to follow her. She found a manager and pointed at me. Another manager joined them. The two managers headed toward me, but I turned my cart and sped toward the exit. They had assumed that because I was old, I was slow. My quickness surprised them. The forces of moral prudishness were relentless in their persecution, so I abandoned my cart and fled the store.

I went to the library and stalked young women, spying on them through spaces between books or kneeling down to the lowest shelf so I could try to look up their skirts. Alas, like darting fish, they were too quick. Exhausted from my voyeuristic activities, I slumped in a comfortable chair in the lobby. To my surprise I could see under all the tables. Several pairs of female legs barely covered by dresses were in view. As the legs moved and shifted and crossed and uncrossed, I felt like a shark looking up at tantalizing and tasty swimmers. I positioned a book so that it looked like I was reading while I peered over it at the smorgasbord of love.

My mind soared with fantasies. I was no longer a dirty old man imprisoned in my dirty old body. I was a young stud. I had muscles. I had a professional job. I dated super models. I drove a Ferrari. Ahh, it was wonderful.

Sadly, one of the women noticed my scrutiny. She slammed her book shut and went over to a librarian. The two of them glared at me. Sensing the forces of moral repression closing in, I raced from the building.

Undaunted, I headed for a bar I had read about in The Handbook. It was renowned for the voluptuous young college girls. In the back there was a section reserved for dirty old men. Like me, they had been young once and awoke suddenly to find themselves old.

They accepted me instantly. We sat at small tables with our backs to the wall and watched the young girls jump around to the music. Our eyes and heads moved as one and we licked our lips as we watched their jiggling bodies.

Once a week we met to discuss techniques, wardrobe, reference materials and other important topics. My days were rich and full.

I was soon elected president of our local dirty old man chapter and organized a trip to the beach. We rented a bus and piled on with our high-powered binoculars. I gave a speech as we left the parking lot.

“Now, remember, we must uphold the high moral standards of dirty old men. We can look. We can ogle. We can drool. But we can’t touch, and we can’t take pictures. Remember. Do not touch the young girls. Don’t ruin this for everyone else.”

We soon arrived at the beach, set up a tent next to the bus and sat in lawn chairs. There was a never-ending parade of flesh. Some of our more adventurous members trekked into the dunes to look for girls sunning themselves with their tops off. It was a wonderful day of food, fun, females and fellowship.

Alas, I drank too much and got too much sun. My head spun, and whenever I closed my eyes, I saw a parade of bikini-clad bodies.

When I got home, I was surprised to see a group of beautiful young women in my living room. I thought I was hallucinating, but then my wife came in with a jug of lemonade and some glasses on a silver tray.

“I wasn’t expecting you home, dear,” she said. “I thought you would be at the bar tonight like you are every night. I’m hosting a meeting of our daughter’s friends from our church’s youth group.”

One of the young girls was the one from the salty snack aisle at the grocery store! I grew dizzy from the drinks and the sun, and from the unexpected and tasty buffet of bodies in my living room. I’m not sure what happened next, but the policeman told me I grabbed her and then exposed myself. Months drifted by in my cell, but finally I got my day in court.

“The room was spinning,” I told the judge. “I didn’t mean to reach out and grab her. In fact, I don’t remember reaching out and grabbing her. I do remember something soft. It could have been her. I don’t know. I can’t remember. Whatever I did, I didn’t mean to do it.”

The young girl sat in the courtroom with her parents. She wore a long dress with a collar that covered her neck and long sleeves that covered her arms. She never looked at me, but her parents stared daggers of hate at me. Occasionally, her father dragged his thumbnail across his throat to let me know he wanted to slit me from ear to ear. I looked for my buddies from the bar. None of them were there. I had been abandoned. Finally, I spotted my wife in the back. She wore sunglasses and a scarf wrapped around her head so no one would recognize her. I waved at her, but she looked away like she didn’t know me.

The judge scowled and banned me from the bar, the grocery, the library, and the beach. I was forbidden to drink. My life-size doll was to be confiscated and recycled. I was sentenced to more confinement to the psychiatric facility. When I returned to my cell, a divorce decree awaited me. It informed me that my wife had drained all our bank accounts and switched churches, and that she would have me arrested if I tried to contact her.

When I was finally released, I went home to find that the house had been sold. I had nothing. No money. No job. Only a pittance of social security. Nothing would stop me from self-actualizing, however. I grew a long beard and let my hair grow long. I cruised the library and the grocery, and constantly looked for new adventures, like the lingerie sections of department stores. I bought liquor and poured it into flasks that I hid in trees and bushes. I bought an expensive cellphone and subscribed to a wonderful porn site. There was no money for food or lodging, but I didn’t care. I wandered the streets each day in a raincoat. I ogled the young housewives pushing baby strollers or coming out in their robes to get the mail or newspaper. Sometimes I caught a glimpse of skin in a window.

It didn’t bother me that people pointed at me as I roamed the streets, that they grabbed their children and pulled them into the house, that they cursed me from their cars and threw eggs at me. I would not let society stop me. I was an American with inalienable rights. I would self-actualize. I would be me. I was excited about the many opportunities of my new life.

Whitey steered with his elbows while he entered refried beans into Google translate on his cellphone and Google translated it as frijoles refritos and he said, see, that proves it, but my friend who's from the interior of Mexico said his grandmother called it frijoles fritos but Whitey said Google is right so your grandmother is wrong and it turned into a long painful argument on cultural appropriation with four of us crammed into Whitey's Silverado Pickup after work driving through the fringes of the Metroplex, passing through Benbrook and Lake Worth and the edge of Fort Worth amid tattoo parlors and Harley shops and liquor stores trying to find this Mexican restaurant Whitey had been to that served cheap frozen margaritas during happy hour but he couldn't quite remember the name and we all entered variants into Google search and no one found what he was talking about and we were all getting pretty mad at him because who cared what the proper translation was as long as we found the place with the cheap frozen margaritas and then suddenly Whitey said there it is and it was what I expected a really run-down place next to a nail salon that had its doors open so we were hit with a big waft of that smell but quickly we scooted inside and yes the Margaritas were good and cheap and I lost count of how many I drank and the server kept bringing us chips and salsa and sadly the booze liberated my tongue and when Whitey said the server was a really cute LatinX I knew I should keep my mouth shut but I made the mistake of bringing up Columbus day versus native American day and I told them the story about this guy that said I'm not native American I'm Choctaw and I made the further mistake of saying that LatinX is an attempt to make Spanish gender neutral but Spanish is a gendered language versus a syntactic language so really it's a white liberal cultural appropriation and that put me in the untenable position of not understanding the linguistic nuances of LatinX or about anything I was talking about while arguing about it but thankfully Whitey got louder and louder and argued about everything and that took the spotlight off me which was good but it was also bad since people were starting to give us dirty looks so I felt better when we got out of the restaurant and I sat in the back seat of Whitey's pick-up and Whitey kept arguing about every little stupid thing and you have to give the devil his due because he occasionally made good points but he was the most drunk of all so I feared for my life as he jetted back down the freeway at 80 miles an hour, but I thought everything would be okay when we rounded the last corner to my house and then Whitey ran over the mailbox of my next door neighbor who owns a pit bull that started howling and throwing himself at the fence and I swore to myself I would never ever argue with crazy people again as the dog broke through a loose picket and sank his teeth into my ankle and I wanted to yell it was Whitey you should be mad at not me.

So we used to have this yard man who drove a big truck like a furniture delivery truck and my wife and I ride adult trikes making us quite a sight in the neighborhood and they don't fit too neatly in the garage not having the slim footprint of a two wheel and I'm always struggling to position them between the weed eaters hanging on the wall so when I saw the yard man in line in front of us at the HEB I didn't recognize him but he was telling the checker that HEB was getting to be like the Wal-Mart and it sounded like a complaint and I finally recognized him and that night after a glass of wine my mind drifted and my wife and I were riding our trikes and then we took them back to the garage and I was trying to position the trike between the weed eaters but it wasn’t my trike it was the great big furniture delivery truck of the yard man and surprisingly I got it to fit which didn’t seem logical considering it was huge but I was happy that I could do it except that I needed to move my wife’s trike a few inches because of the weed eaters so I went over to do it and the big truck rolled out into the driveway and down the hill which is impossible since there is no hill this being South Texas which is flat as hell and the truck kept going and I ran to catch it which I almost did but I couldn’t jump into the cab because I wasn’t quick enough or agile enough and then it careened off over the edge of the creek bed and boy was I depressed thinking about how much the repairs were going to cost.

copyright William Mays

The GPS tells the truth about politics. As a lifelong Devotee of the Map, I have dog-eared atlases with countries that don't exist anymore. For a weekend jaunt, I might have spent weeks if not months poring over the hallowed pages. Topographic, political, physical, climate, economic, and thematic maps, yeah, I owned them all. So, sure, I was none too happy when the even-toned Google Lady appeared on the scene to tell me I'd made a wrong turn. Our daughter has a video of me arguing with GL, proof positive that while I cheer for globalization and modernization, I am none too thrilled when the macro forces brush up against my sacred cow, and I must accept the fact that I might be a Luddite.

GL and I have achieved rapprochement. When going from big city to big city, there are long sections of Interstate, so she doesn't have much to say, and that suits me fine. There might be towns and people below me as I move past at 80 mph, but they might be simulacrums. Things get complicated when you get off the beaten path, and you need help. Once you accept GL’s assistance, you are stuck with her. You have no idea where you are or how to get to where you’re going. A funny thing happens, though. She takes you through places you’ve never seen or heard of. You see America as it was a hundred years ago when people lived on the farm, and small towns were economic and cultural centers. It is hauntingly beautiful and evocative of a glorious past. There are houses with broad verandas, and you can imagine people sitting on them in the afternoon. You want to buy those places and sit on those porches, but decay creeps in everywhere. Even the well-maintained places struggle against it. If decline is not next door, it is down the block. Buildings, including churches, are boarded. Barns and houses are literally falling apart. Heaps of lumber and debris punctuate the landscape. There are old toilets and rusting washing machines on those beautiful broad porches. Fences are down, cars abandoned. Weeds completely cover broken-down cars in a pasture. Houses are stranded at the end of flooded roads. Businesses may be open, but no one can park in the muddy, unpaved lots. And how can a hundred antique stores on a five-mile stretch of farm-to-market road stay solvent?

Most shocking are places you might remember from twenty years ago. Grand old mansions hearken back to a period of importance, but they have gone through a long devolution from residences to offices to rooming houses to abandoned, crumbling wrecks. As you see the desolation, it's easy to see how people might be swayed by someone telling them that he's going to make it great again.

Nature abhors a vacuum, so maybe falling land prices will attract people, and a new rural Texas with a different economic base will emerge. Retirement villages may spring up that offer cheaper prices—and jobs to the locals. With Zoom and other technologies, people can work from those beautiful old houses. A two-hour drive to big-city-center once a week for a meeting may be all that is needed, and businesses in city-center may run cheaper with such a business model. If sushi restaurants and barbecue places can learn to coexist, things might get better.

Hot. Sidewalk cracked. SkyLink overhead clanks past. Point zero zero zero three Realcoin™ for Truesnack™ at the sidewalk cart, a really good deal, and I really need it, but my bank balance is negative, a result of that unfortunate biomechanical investment in my retirement account.

Nothing left to do but go back to Bucky. Keep walking. It’s been a year since I’ve been there, and the buildings rise fifty stories, all exactly the same, but the route is saved in my GPS. Broken plastic crunches under my Ughs. My Glass shows high mercury, temperature rising to one o five. Got to get out of this corrosive air.

Elevator crowded, real lowlifes, Kinks, Growbies, Christians, and a few Hybrids like me. Bucky lives in the penthouse on the forty-ninth, great view of the other buildings, great if you think monochrome buildings look great.

Bucky looks the same as he always did. One blue eye. One brown eye. Teeth filed to a point. The only difference is the big hoop left ear, the latest style, Bucky always had style.

He leads me down the hall to his lab. A bunch of Christians, big crosses hanging around their necks, are putting Truesnack™ in little vials. Bucky looks at me.

“Why did you leave?”

“I wanted to try to make it on my own.”

“You are a Hybrid.”

“I wanted more.”

“You didn’t leave a forwarding address.”

“I’m sorry.”

He makes me sit in the Chair and holds the Manual up to me.

“Do you swear your allegiance to the hive?”

“Yes.”

He unscrews the cap to my port and pours a vial of Truesnack™ into it. Right away I feel better. He holds a mirror up to me. My Softskin™ still looks too much like plastic, too white, too shiny, but I hope it will get better, will look more human. He puts the probe on my fingertip, and for a second all the vitals look good, but the microcharge doesn’t hold on my re-valve.

He shakes his head. “I’m going to have to reboot you. It’s been too long since you had a good dose of Truesnack™.”

I should have expected it, but you’re never really prepared for reboot. He puts the helmet over my head, and the lights are pleasant, soothing, ultimately narcotic, and I drift toward sleep. There is no guarantee that my memories will survive, in fact many may not, except in some mangled form like a series of dreams, disconnected, unable to be assembled in any meaningful way. It is crushingly sad, but that’s what it means to be a Hybrid. All I know is that I will be able to think. At least I think I will be able to think.

Originally published in Realms of Possibility

Skywalk Frequent trembled when he retrieved the golden envelope from the cluster box. He ran home to his wife, Lavinia.

“We have been invited to the prestigious cocktail party,” he said. “After years of behaving in a fawning and servile manner toward everyone important, we finally will be accepted in high society.”

They danced around giddily for a few moments, then Skywalk became morose.

“We have to be careful. If we continue to act in a fawning and servile manner, we will forever be viewed as lower caste. However, if we brag too much, we will appear immodest. Important people always act modest.”

He fretted, bit his fingernails and spit the pieces on the floor. “What shall we do to ensure success?” 

Lavinia dug her fingers into her scalp in despair. “Oh, I don’t know.”

Skywalk had a brilliant idea. “Let’s hire a Braggart.”

“Oh, you are so smart, Skywalk. But they are expensive.”

He downloaded the Braggart app on his phone. There were so many choices, but they settled on Milo Remo the Third, a short fat gnome with warts on his face.

“Oh, he's ugly,” Lavinia said.

“Hmm,” Skywalk said, “I believe in being modest at all times, but it never hurts to have an ugly Braggart so that you always look better than they do.”

They called him.

“Yes, I come from a long line of Braggarts,” Milo said in a whiny, annoying voice. “My father was a Braggart and my grandfather was a Braggart and my great grandfather was a Braggart. My wife is a Braggart who specializes in lady’s tea parties and other high society events. My children are apprentice Braggarts who work at children's birthday parties.”

Knowing they had found the right person for the job, Skywalk and Lavinia nodded in satisfaction to each other and took out a loan against their house and car in order to pay his fees.

They dressed in their resplendent best for the party. Skywalk wore a black silk shirt and silver sports coat. Lavinia wore a long red dress and black feather boa. They rented the most expensive red convertible Mercedes they could find and picked up Milo on the way to the party.

He was four feet tall and as big around as he was tall. His huge belly sloped down to a wide black belt with a silver buckle. He had warts on his hands as well as his face. He wore pointy black boots, blue and white striped pants, and a purple shirt.

What a magnificent sight they were pulling into the country club parking lot with Milo in the rumble seat and Lavinia’s boa whipping around in the wind and occasionally wrapping around Milo’s squat head.

At the party Milo stuck close to Skywalk and Lavinia, but never spoke to them. When a man in an expensive suit asked about one of Skywalk’s business deals, Skywalk displayed his characteristic modesty.

“Oh it wasn't that big a deal,” he said.

Milo pushed his way between the two men. “Not a big deal!” he screamed in his whiny voice. “It was the biggest deal in years. Skywalk was brilliant. Courageous. Bold. You've never seen anything like it!”

“Oh, now, now,” Skywalk said, “it really wasn't all that much.”

“Can you believe this man?” Milo yelled so loud that everyone in the party turned to look. “It was the biggest deal in town for years. Skywalk was brilliant. Courageous. Bold. Visionary. And he's good looking too. And his wife is beautiful. Look at them. They’re beautiful. And their kids are beautiful. Even Skywalk’s pets are good looking. His Irish Setters are good looking. The fish in his fishbowl are handsome. And he lives in a big fancy house and drives a red sports car! This is one heck of a man!”

Everyone crowded around Skywalk and Lavinia.

Milo ate the canapés and sipped the wine. “That Skywalk,” he yelled over and over. “He’s really something. Quite a man. Quite a man.”

As Skywalk and Lavinia lay in bed that night, Skywalk said, “I think people liked us. Do you think we will be accepted in high society?”

“Oh yes, they were impressed. I think we will be accepted.” She thought for a second. “You know there's one thing I really admire about you, Skywalk.”

“What's that Lavinia?”

“Your modesty.”