Read Online Gifted by H. A. Swain - Free Book Online

says.
    â€œGood.” My father turns back to me. “And you. What are we waiting for? All your classmates, including Ms. Lovecraft here, have gotten their ASAs and started their careers. So chop chop. I don’t want a lazy moocher for a son much longer. It’s time we schedule yours.”
    I shake my head, tired of the same old argument. “Tell that to Mom,” I say, expecting him to blow a gasket.
    Instead he cuts his eyes to Esther then says, “Don’t you worry. We’ll take care of your mother.”
    I cross my arms and stare at him. “With you, Dad, there’s always a reason for me to worry.”

 
    VERSE TWO
    ZIMRI
    Every day in the warehouse is a Picker Symphony. Ticka. Ticka. Ticka. Ticka. Boom ba boom ba boom. With my HandHeld strapped to my palm and an earbud in place, laying down the backing tracks of bings and bonks like the hi-hat and the bass, hitting me between my shoulder blades and down deep below my belly button. It might not be a secret concert on a hidden stage, but when I find the music in this job, I can dance ten miles of aisles under one giant warehouse roof without losing my mind.
    I slide across the concrete floor, then stomp stomp stomp. Clap my hands above my head when the first item pops up on my HandHeld screen.
    Girls panties, three pack, size 6x
    Aisle 14Q
    Unit 24
    Bin AA
    The earbud chirps numbers in my ear. “Nineteen, eighteen, seventeen…” I improvise a line over the melody. “Countdown,” I sing. “Counting down now here we go!” And I’m off, basket in hand, running through the wide center aisle of sector Q. When I hit Row 14 a BING signals for me to turn—odd numbers on the right, evens on the left. I dash down for Unit 24 (25 units per row, so second to the last). Another BING, different tone, C natural? Right on time. Ten seconds to go. I find column A of Unit 25 (columns are in alphabetical order so I move far left) and reach up among the grid of bins (AA top left, AZ bottom right). And there they are. Girls panties, three pack, size 6X.
    I scan them with my HandHeld. Wait for the PING! A high F#. The sound of happiness. Forever the note of success. “I got you, babe,” I croon as I toss the panty pack in my basket along with the other items I’ve already gathered for some nameless, faceless Plute. Da blomp goes my HandHeld and I know the order is complete. I have a few seconds before the basket’s due to hit the conveyor belt so, since nobody’s around and I’m out of the sight line of the security cams, I press against the shelving unit and slip out the permanent market I keep in my pocket. I take one more quick peek over each shoulder to ensure that I’m alone, then I scrawl Nobody from Nowhere across the panty package, the tissue box, and the bag of six disposable umbrellas. With marker stowed, I skip to the end of the aisle and attach the basket to the conveyor and watch it travel up and up, where it will be carried overhead to the packing line and boxed up by human hands (Dorian’s perhaps? Will he see my secret message? Or will it go unnoticed as usual?). Then finally, within an hour of the order being placed, it will be plucked from the rooftop by a drone and flown off to a delivery chute somewhere in the City.
    Levon passes by. He presses his hand over his heart and mouths, Thank you. I nod then I high-five Merle—one of the few human forklift drivers left. He knew my dad. It’s a small miracle we haven’t been replaced by A.N.T.s yet, but we all know it’s only a matter of time before automated nanotechnology takes over and all ten thousand of us navigating these aisles will become obsolete. The others grumble about the inevitability of that day but I know it will set me free, which is probably why I’m the only one here dancing.
    And so … Ticka. Ticka. Ticka. Ticka. Boom ba boom ba boom. Countdown, here we go! Another order