Read Online The Artificial Mirage by T. Warwick - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: T. Warwick
Ads: Link
nationalized in the US.”
“Sounds like the American dream.”
“Here, let’s have some rakia…actually it’s sid, but I like to pretend.” Harold looked warily at the clear glass carafe filled with herbs floating in the clear plastic pomegranate juice bottle.
“That’s a little lowbrow considering what I’ve got chilling at twenty-one degrees centigrade in the trunk,” Cameron said.
“I grow the herbs in my garden out back,” Elvis said as he poured out three small glasses. “My family is from an island called Hvar…lavender grows there, among other things. The sid preserves the herbs, and it takes on their flavor…a symbiotic relationship,” he said as he held the bottle up and examined the stalks and leaves.
“Who makes the sid anyway?” Cameron said.
“Saudis. But they’d never admit it.”
“That’s about the silliest thing I’ve ever heard…bunch of Saudis makin’ moonshine. What do they know about that?”
“Enough. It’s powerful stuff.”
“So you were here at the beginning of SSOC?”
“And it’s gotten worse with every year. I never planned to do this. For a time, I played in a jazz band. I went to Sweden during the war as a young man, and I played and took classes at the university there.”
“It must be nice here in this compound. Why aren’t you a contractor?”
“There was a slot available. They still have a few slots for Americans occasionally. And I never left. That’s my secret.”
“Look, I need to go to work, Elvis. Don’t
you
?” Cameron said without moving.
“I’m sorry to hear that. I work nights monitoring the pipeline. My shift just ended.” Elvis trailed off as he swirled his glass with its remnants of greenery. “Are they going to test you?”
“Eh, no. But that’s not the point. I should unload the champagne,” Cameron said.
“Ah, yes. Nothing’s too good for some people. But real men drink sid,” Elvis said as he raised his glass magnanimously in a toast.
Cameron looked at the bottle. “I don’t trust that shit. Give me Singaporean New Water any day. I can trust it—it’s been purified. Now you give me this shit—sid. I’m going to take a far-out guess and say it ain’t made with Evian. I don’t trust these desalination plants either. This ain’t New Water, and it damn sure ain’t from Singapore.” He flicked some imaginary lint off of his wrist.
“Drink this glass,” Harold said, pointing to the glass and tapping the table with his knuckles.
“One glass,” Cameron said.
“Cheers,” Elvis said.
“Cheers.” Cameron downed the glass and returned to the garage, where he proceeded to tear out upholstery and plastic pieces to reveal the bottles, still chilled by thin dry-ice tubes. He brought the bottles into the kitchen and put them in the refrigerator. Harold and Elvis were standing in the kitchen doing a toast with full glasses, and Cameron could see that they had halved the bottle.
“Come. Have another drink,” Elvis said as he waved his arm.
“It’s time for me to go,” Cameron said.
“You just got here,” Elvis said, bleary-eyed with a perplexed expression.
“Yup. And now it’s time for me to go.”
“I understand. As soon as I speak to the managers and vice-presidents, I will contact you.”
“Contact me?”
“Yes. They trust my discretion, and they always pay on delivery.”
“And you pay on delivery too, right?”
“There is just a minor cash-flow problem now.”
“Harold, where the fuck is my money? You paid me for your bottles. What about this guy?”
“Relax, Cameron. It is here.”
“Really, Harold? Where?”
“We can trust him. Why not?”
“
We
? I don’t recollect you payin’ for these cases, Harold.”
“No problem. Elvis is good man,” Harold said.
Cameron flipped Elvis over his shoulder and held him down with his left leg. “You want me to trust you with my medical bills? You stupid goddamn fuck!”
“You should trust Harold,” Elvis said with a gurgle.
“Sounds like the American dream.”
“Here, let’s have some rakia…actually it’s sid, but I like to pretend.” Harold looked warily at the clear glass carafe filled with herbs floating in the clear plastic pomegranate juice bottle.
“That’s a little lowbrow considering what I’ve got chilling at twenty-one degrees centigrade in the trunk,” Cameron said.
“I grow the herbs in my garden out back,” Elvis said as he poured out three small glasses. “My family is from an island called Hvar…lavender grows there, among other things. The sid preserves the herbs, and it takes on their flavor…a symbiotic relationship,” he said as he held the bottle up and examined the stalks and leaves.
“Who makes the sid anyway?” Cameron said.
“Saudis. But they’d never admit it.”
“That’s about the silliest thing I’ve ever heard…bunch of Saudis makin’ moonshine. What do they know about that?”
“Enough. It’s powerful stuff.”
“So you were here at the beginning of SSOC?”
“And it’s gotten worse with every year. I never planned to do this. For a time, I played in a jazz band. I went to Sweden during the war as a young man, and I played and took classes at the university there.”
“It must be nice here in this compound. Why aren’t you a contractor?”
“There was a slot available. They still have a few slots for Americans occasionally. And I never left. That’s my secret.”
“Look, I need to go to work, Elvis. Don’t
you
?” Cameron said without moving.
“I’m sorry to hear that. I work nights monitoring the pipeline. My shift just ended.” Elvis trailed off as he swirled his glass with its remnants of greenery. “Are they going to test you?”
“Eh, no. But that’s not the point. I should unload the champagne,” Cameron said.
“Ah, yes. Nothing’s too good for some people. But real men drink sid,” Elvis said as he raised his glass magnanimously in a toast.
Cameron looked at the bottle. “I don’t trust that shit. Give me Singaporean New Water any day. I can trust it—it’s been purified. Now you give me this shit—sid. I’m going to take a far-out guess and say it ain’t made with Evian. I don’t trust these desalination plants either. This ain’t New Water, and it damn sure ain’t from Singapore.” He flicked some imaginary lint off of his wrist.
“Drink this glass,” Harold said, pointing to the glass and tapping the table with his knuckles.
“One glass,” Cameron said.
“Cheers,” Elvis said.
“Cheers.” Cameron downed the glass and returned to the garage, where he proceeded to tear out upholstery and plastic pieces to reveal the bottles, still chilled by thin dry-ice tubes. He brought the bottles into the kitchen and put them in the refrigerator. Harold and Elvis were standing in the kitchen doing a toast with full glasses, and Cameron could see that they had halved the bottle.
“Come. Have another drink,” Elvis said as he waved his arm.
“It’s time for me to go,” Cameron said.
“You just got here,” Elvis said, bleary-eyed with a perplexed expression.
“Yup. And now it’s time for me to go.”
“I understand. As soon as I speak to the managers and vice-presidents, I will contact you.”
“Contact me?”
“Yes. They trust my discretion, and they always pay on delivery.”
“And you pay on delivery too, right?”
“There is just a minor cash-flow problem now.”
“Harold, where the fuck is my money? You paid me for your bottles. What about this guy?”
“Relax, Cameron. It is here.”
“Really, Harold? Where?”
“We can trust him. Why not?”
“
We
? I don’t recollect you payin’ for these cases, Harold.”
“No problem. Elvis is good man,” Harold said.
Cameron flipped Elvis over his shoulder and held him down with his left leg. “You want me to trust you with my medical bills? You stupid goddamn fuck!”
“You should trust Harold,” Elvis said with a gurgle.
Similar Books
