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Authors: T. Warwick
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they had been alerted to a security threat. He slammed his foot on the accelerator and pulled ahead to the side. The guards shouted and threw their arms up in the air. If it had been a team of Chinese guards, there would have been no problem. One of the guards came running to the car. Harold got out and opened the trunk. He held up his ID card, and theguard saluted him. The guard made a show of looking at the trunk and nodded for him to proceed. Harold closed the trunk and got back in the car.
“Life is good, Cameron,” Harold said as they looked out at the lush green golf course that came into view after they passed a high gate with blue plastic panels. “You Americans used a sand course, but no good…” He grinned. “Now, this grass grows anywhere…and everywhere.”
“Look, Harold. I need to get to work.”
“Of course. No problem, boss. Very soon. Don’t worry,” he replied with noticeable sarcasm, forgetting again to emphasize his Rs.
They approached another guard station behind a long row of cars. Harold pressed the window button and displayed his laser-embossed SSOC ID card with a roll of his eyes, and they were waved through, past reengineered redwoods with peeling bark that had already sprouted to over fifty feet. A small flock of a half dozen Hawks was migrating to another guard station.
Cameron had never seen this part of the compound since, as a contractor, he was prohibited from entering without an invitation from someone who lived within its hallowed walls. Harold had certainly made it clear in all their previous dealings that he was not welcome. Once he had invited him to a square-dancing event sponsored by a Chinese country and western club, but it was during a weekend when he was in Bahrain. After passing a row of tennis courts, they continued on through generic American suburbia with blue-and-white street signs from the last decade before AR was introduced. Everything looked new. The black asphalt shone raw and moist in the sun, and the trees and dark-brown brick houses covered in ivy seemed to meld in suspended animation so well that he blinked and restarted his AR contacts.
The car came to a preprogrammed halt outside a house with blinking AR Christmas lights, which blurred momentarily just as his AR connection was reenacted without disturbance.
“I don’t know why this couldn’t have waited till the weekend.”
“Special party,” Harold answered. “Follow me,” he said abruptly as he got out of the car and continued up the stone path.
A bloated, burly man with blondish-gray hair and puffy slits for eyes answered the door. “Harold!” he exclaimed before looking at Cameron curiously. “Park the car in the garage,” he said as he held up his glasses and dialed through with a ring stylus that looked like an old gold wedding ring before it opened with a clumsy rattle. Harold thought he looked like he could besomeone’s grandfather—he was in his sixties and pudgy with hairy, muscular arms protruding from a maroon golf shirt.
“Meet you inside,” the man said as Harold followed him through the front door. Inside the house, the lights were dim, and the air was musty with undertones of cedar.
“Cameron,” Cameron said as he put out his hand.
“Aah! Don’t give me that dead-fish handshake,” the man said. “
That’s
an American handshake, right?” he said as he clutched Cameron’s hand firmly.
“Force of habit, I guess. I didn’t catch your name,” Cameron said.
“Elvis. My parents were big fans of the king.”
“Elvis, eh? Quite a name…quite a legacy.”
“He was able to use his potential…And he had potential to use.”
“I suppose we can’t all be stars. This place looks awfully domestic. You have a wife here, Elvis?”
“I did,” he replied as they sat down at a carved mahogany dining room table. “She’s back in the US now.”
“Oh yeah? You don’t sound American.”
“I am.”
“OK.”
“I was born in Croatia. My wife was already
“Life is good, Cameron,” Harold said as they looked out at the lush green golf course that came into view after they passed a high gate with blue plastic panels. “You Americans used a sand course, but no good…” He grinned. “Now, this grass grows anywhere…and everywhere.”
“Look, Harold. I need to get to work.”
“Of course. No problem, boss. Very soon. Don’t worry,” he replied with noticeable sarcasm, forgetting again to emphasize his Rs.
They approached another guard station behind a long row of cars. Harold pressed the window button and displayed his laser-embossed SSOC ID card with a roll of his eyes, and they were waved through, past reengineered redwoods with peeling bark that had already sprouted to over fifty feet. A small flock of a half dozen Hawks was migrating to another guard station.
Cameron had never seen this part of the compound since, as a contractor, he was prohibited from entering without an invitation from someone who lived within its hallowed walls. Harold had certainly made it clear in all their previous dealings that he was not welcome. Once he had invited him to a square-dancing event sponsored by a Chinese country and western club, but it was during a weekend when he was in Bahrain. After passing a row of tennis courts, they continued on through generic American suburbia with blue-and-white street signs from the last decade before AR was introduced. Everything looked new. The black asphalt shone raw and moist in the sun, and the trees and dark-brown brick houses covered in ivy seemed to meld in suspended animation so well that he blinked and restarted his AR contacts.
The car came to a preprogrammed halt outside a house with blinking AR Christmas lights, which blurred momentarily just as his AR connection was reenacted without disturbance.
“I don’t know why this couldn’t have waited till the weekend.”
“Special party,” Harold answered. “Follow me,” he said abruptly as he got out of the car and continued up the stone path.
A bloated, burly man with blondish-gray hair and puffy slits for eyes answered the door. “Harold!” he exclaimed before looking at Cameron curiously. “Park the car in the garage,” he said as he held up his glasses and dialed through with a ring stylus that looked like an old gold wedding ring before it opened with a clumsy rattle. Harold thought he looked like he could besomeone’s grandfather—he was in his sixties and pudgy with hairy, muscular arms protruding from a maroon golf shirt.
“Meet you inside,” the man said as Harold followed him through the front door. Inside the house, the lights were dim, and the air was musty with undertones of cedar.
“Cameron,” Cameron said as he put out his hand.
“Aah! Don’t give me that dead-fish handshake,” the man said. “
That’s
an American handshake, right?” he said as he clutched Cameron’s hand firmly.
“Force of habit, I guess. I didn’t catch your name,” Cameron said.
“Elvis. My parents were big fans of the king.”
“Elvis, eh? Quite a name…quite a legacy.”
“He was able to use his potential…And he had potential to use.”
“I suppose we can’t all be stars. This place looks awfully domestic. You have a wife here, Elvis?”
“I did,” he replied as they sat down at a carved mahogany dining room table. “She’s back in the US now.”
“Oh yeah? You don’t sound American.”
“I am.”
“OK.”
“I was born in Croatia. My wife was already
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