first dark green suit I crafted, and, indeed, when the fashion automaton came out into the studio wearing it that nervous day, my biggest buyer sat up, made a face and seemed about to protest. But a moment later, something changed in him, or more likely-I guessed-he understood that he too had evolved, and that his outside would now imitate, mirror, and amplify that.
My client had at last found the vector of his life and stepped into the role he had been raised for. While it might be argued that green was the wrong shade-it wasn't the color of his family company, it held no special history-maybe because it came to him without meaning, he was able to give it his own.
For me, of course, green had significance. But I hadn't chosen the greens of the fields and leaves I remembered-this green was dim, overcast. And as much as I liked the nebulous emeralds in my latest clothes, I wasn't quite sure if this new shade meant future or past, forward or withdrawal.
Focusing on the plasticott food box before me, I snapped open the top and removed the jewel-case-enclosed burger, the sculpted bear blaster drink cup pricked with five straws, and the gratis tray of fries, each individually wrapped and resting beside drops of several gourmet sauces. This was exactly the sort of chaff that Pheff lived on. Every other day I would find the disassembled boxes, cups, trays, and the scraps of peculiar, fashionable food in the office trash.
For a moment, I felt sorry for him. Although he was both talented and competent, I feared he lacked the sand and gravel needed for a life in fashion. His life, from what little I knew, was exactly like this meal: hyper-processed, sweet and smooth, but ultimately safe.
By now, my hands were no longer trembling and my heartbeat felt like it had finally slowed. But I just sat there staring forward the golden-orange of the drink cup seemed the color of the sun setting in the slubs.
I had been coming out of the corn syrup processing factory into the burnt orange of afternoon. Six feet ahead-in silhouette- stood a man. I didn't recognize him-I didn't even pay him any attention-but started toward the bus stop that would take me back to the house where I lived.
The man said, "Tane."
His voice wasn't the same-it had shrunk in depth and tenor- but it stopped me instantly. Gradually, as my eyes adjusted to the light, I saw his face. A dark bruise covered his right cheek. The left side of his mouth was covered with a bloody scab. Worse, his arms and what I could see of his neck through the tear of his B-shirt were covered with pinkish sores. I hadn't seen him for more than nine years. "Dad!"
"I found you." He sounded exhausted, and I got the feeling he had been searching for a long time.
"What happened?"
He shook his head slowly as if counting the abuses and tragedies.
"Were you in a fight?" I figured he had clashed with a group of
L. Segu men, but what really worried me was his rash. M-Bunny reps were always on the lookout. While some diseases could be cured with doses from the M-Bunny COM, if it were bad or unknown, the man would have to be recycled.
He looked me over and eked out a smile. "You're good."
"How'd you find me?" Before he answered-not that he seemed about to-I continued. "I never heard anything since you left that night. I was only at that house for another year before they moved me. I asked the reps and the man at the COM all the time, but no one heard anything."
He pulled himself straighter and looked me in the eyes. "I don't have much time." He scrunched his wrinkled mouth to one side as if in thought. "I'm dying."
My mouth was so dry, I couldn't swallow. I shook my head.
"I've got a day… I don't know… maybe two."
I forced a smile. "You're just hurt and… and… tired and probably hungry." As I tried to think of something more positive, my eyes lit on the sores that peeked out the neck of his shirt. It looked like his chest was covered.
"Go south to the slubs around Ros Begas."
"Ros
My client had at last found the vector of his life and stepped into the role he had been raised for. While it might be argued that green was the wrong shade-it wasn't the color of his family company, it held no special history-maybe because it came to him without meaning, he was able to give it his own.
For me, of course, green had significance. But I hadn't chosen the greens of the fields and leaves I remembered-this green was dim, overcast. And as much as I liked the nebulous emeralds in my latest clothes, I wasn't quite sure if this new shade meant future or past, forward or withdrawal.
Focusing on the plasticott food box before me, I snapped open the top and removed the jewel-case-enclosed burger, the sculpted bear blaster drink cup pricked with five straws, and the gratis tray of fries, each individually wrapped and resting beside drops of several gourmet sauces. This was exactly the sort of chaff that Pheff lived on. Every other day I would find the disassembled boxes, cups, trays, and the scraps of peculiar, fashionable food in the office trash.
For a moment, I felt sorry for him. Although he was both talented and competent, I feared he lacked the sand and gravel needed for a life in fashion. His life, from what little I knew, was exactly like this meal: hyper-processed, sweet and smooth, but ultimately safe.
By now, my hands were no longer trembling and my heartbeat felt like it had finally slowed. But I just sat there staring forward the golden-orange of the drink cup seemed the color of the sun setting in the slubs.
I had been coming out of the corn syrup processing factory into the burnt orange of afternoon. Six feet ahead-in silhouette- stood a man. I didn't recognize him-I didn't even pay him any attention-but started toward the bus stop that would take me back to the house where I lived.
The man said, "Tane."
His voice wasn't the same-it had shrunk in depth and tenor- but it stopped me instantly. Gradually, as my eyes adjusted to the light, I saw his face. A dark bruise covered his right cheek. The left side of his mouth was covered with a bloody scab. Worse, his arms and what I could see of his neck through the tear of his B-shirt were covered with pinkish sores. I hadn't seen him for more than nine years. "Dad!"
"I found you." He sounded exhausted, and I got the feeling he had been searching for a long time.
"What happened?"
He shook his head slowly as if counting the abuses and tragedies.
"Were you in a fight?" I figured he had clashed with a group of
L. Segu men, but what really worried me was his rash. M-Bunny reps were always on the lookout. While some diseases could be cured with doses from the M-Bunny COM, if it were bad or unknown, the man would have to be recycled.
He looked me over and eked out a smile. "You're good."
"How'd you find me?" Before he answered-not that he seemed about to-I continued. "I never heard anything since you left that night. I was only at that house for another year before they moved me. I asked the reps and the man at the COM all the time, but no one heard anything."
He pulled himself straighter and looked me in the eyes. "I don't have much time." He scrunched his wrinkled mouth to one side as if in thought. "I'm dying."
My mouth was so dry, I couldn't swallow. I shook my head.
"I've got a day… I don't know… maybe two."
I forced a smile. "You're just hurt and… and… tired and probably hungry." As I tried to think of something more positive, my eyes lit on the sores that peeked out the neck of his shirt. It looked like his chest was covered.
"Go south to the slubs around Ros Begas."
"Ros
Similar Books
