Jim Knipfel Unplugging Philco
Note: This is an excerpt from Jim Knipfel's new novel, Unplugging Philco, published by Simon & Schuster. Jim's previous books include Slackjaw and Quitting the Nairobi Trio.
There was a helidrone thumping in wide, slow circles high overhead. Apart from that, the neighborhood was silent.
Wally Philco pulled the front door closed behind him with a scrape and heavy click. It sounded final in the still morning air.
From the top of the brownstone stoop, he surveyed the sidewalk below. He knew he should've done this before stepping outside, but it was too late now. He was exposed. His eyes scanned the empty concrete to his right then his left. It seemed clear.
As he slowly began to descend the steps he saw them a full block away, silhouettes in the dim grainy light. Three of them were gathered at the corner, talking amongst themselves in voices far too low to hear at this distance. They were spread out across the sidewalk, making any easy passage difficult, if not impossible. Of course, trying to walk around or between them wasn't even an issue.
Wally dropped into a crouch, knees be damned, trying to hide behind the skeletal iron banister. It was useless. Hardly any cover at all. If they saw him, he was doomed. His only hope was that they were too preoccupied to notice.
The trick, he'd learned through painful experience, was to get across the street before they caught a whiff of him. If he could just get across the street, things should be okay.
Still crouching, briefcase in hand, he checked the road. There were no cars approaching from either direction. That was both a blessing and a curse. It meant he wouldn't have to do any risky dodging through hostile traffic (at a mildly battered and soft forty-three, he no longer dodged the way he used to), but it also meant he wouldn't be able to use the noise and moving cars for cover.
As furtively as possible, he checked the three of them again. Still chatting. If they began moving his way, he'd need a new plan, and quick. If only there was another pedestrian to draw their attention away from him — but there never was. Nobody else was out at this hour. It would be simple enough to change his own schedule, he sometimes thought, but he knew it would never happen.
He flexed his legs and his toes, checked the sidewalk directly below him again, then took a deep breath and willed himself into action.
As he scrambled down the stairs like a convulsive heron, Wally told himself for the thirtieth time in as many days that it was about time he picked himself up a new pair of shoes. This old pair he was wearing was simply not made for scrambling of any kind. Not with soles worn that smooth and thin.
Without pausing at the bottom to see if they'd caught sight of him, he dashed across the sidewalk staying as low as he could manage, and ducked between two parked cars. He was breathing heavy and sweating despite the cool breeze, but at least he had some decent cover here.
Holding onto the rear bumper of a cherry red Chrysler Xanax for support, he pushed himself up just enough to peer over the trunk and down the street.
They still hadn't seen him, too engrossed as they were in their little chat.
Probably exchanging diapering tips and murder stories, he thought. He checked the street again.
There was someone at the stoplight two blocks away. They were driving one of those Dodge Dipsomatic GX Mini-Forts, an enormous vehicle, almost a full lane and a half wide. It was little more than a street-modified tank, really, but they'd become quite popular lately.
Perfect, he thought. That would be his ticket across the street. Staying low between the parked cars, Wally shifted his body around to face the opposite curb, tensing himself to jump and run.
The light changed, and the Mini Fort began to rumble toward him slowly.
"Come on, come on..." he whispered. He wanted to check over his shoulder once more, but didn't dare, knowing it could throw him off. Timing was everything here.
The monstrous vehicle drew closer, as Wally prepared to dash behind it as it passed and across the street, letting the expansive bulk of the Mini Fort block their line of sight for a good eight or ten seconds at least.
Five...four... he counted down in his head.
"GOOD MORNING GOOD MORNING GOOD MORNING, GOOD CITIZENS!" The voice exploded in his ear.
Wally flinched hard and half stood. The driver of the approaching Mini Fort, thinking the jerkoff who'd just popped up from between the parked cars was going to dive under his wheels, leaned on his horn. He didn't need another one of those this week. The thunderous wail, like five foghorns being clubbed to death, ruptured the quiet morning. The heads of the three figures at the end of the block snapped around.
The Mini Fort screamed past him, horn still blaring, the driver yelling inaudibly. In a panic, and with that voice still bellowing in his ear, Wally bolted into the street. He normally would've aimed to dive between two more parked cars on the other side, but he knew it was too late for that. They were onto him — that much was a given — and he had to get out of there fast. Lumbering and heaving, his knees screaming, he aimed for the far corner. If he could get around the corner and up the street out of view before they caught up with him, he'd be safe. He might be safe, anyway—there were no promises in this business, He didn't dare look over his shoulder. He didn't want to know, and couldn't afford the break in concentration. Had to focus on that corner.
The voice was screaming in his ear:
"...GLORIOUS DAY HERE IN NEW YORK CITY, WITH AN EXPECT — "
With one hand in front of him, the other still clutching the flailing briefcase while trying to cover his ear, eyes wildly measuring the distance to the far curb, Wally began to giggle. It was a high-pitched, staccato giggle. A giggle of fear and panic — the kind he hadn't experienced since he was very young, and his father was chasing him down the hall and through the kitchen. He knew his father was getting closer, he knew there was no escape, and what had started as a simple game had quite suddenly become a terrifying hunt. He no longer wanted to be tickled.
This wasn't about tickling, though. It was no game at all — and nothing at all to giggle about.
His foot hit the far curb at an awkward angle and he stumbled briefly, arms swinging wide to either side, briefcase twisting his wrist, before regaining his footing. He continued running fast as he could a few more yards up the street, out of view.
Once he knew he was out of sight he slowed to a stop and leaned back against a pristine red brick wall. Mouth open wide, eyes shut, it took a few long and painful seconds before he was able to catch his breath. His chest burned and he could feel the blood pulsing in his temples and gums.
That other voice was screaming:
"...AMMA LEVELS AT A COMFORTABLE AND SAFE — "
Wally reached into his pocket finally and slid his fingertip across a smooth vinyl button on his Earwig GL-70 communitainment unit. The voice in his head was abruptly silenced.
He waited, fully conscious of the new silence ringing in his ears. His teeth ached and his fingertips itched. He tasted copper. It felt like he might have bitten his tongue. He took several deep and labored breaths while snatching quick glances back toward the corner to see if they were following him.
If they were, they were taking their own sweet time about it. That was a relief. He simply couldn't run anymore,
Two minutes later, as his heart rate returned to something approaching normal, and after mopping the sweat from his eyebrows and cheeks and chin, he glanced up the street toward the avenue to make sure there weren't more of them waiting up there (sometimes there were), then continued up the narrow, uneven sidewalk. It wasn't the quickest way to the subway, but this morning it was his only choice. He hated starting every day like this, but there was no way around it. It's the way things were.
"Stupid mothers," he muttered, before looking around nervously to make sure no one was within earshot.
Along the way, he kept an ear open for the squeak of unbalanced ATV wheels and the light clink of metal on metal approaching from behind. He also counted the ads on the sidewalk. He counted the ads every morning. It gave him something to focus on.
When he saw a new one, he paused and stared at the painted concrete.
It was for Flippy Bits Chips, a new algae snack Glaxxo International was putting out. The chartreuse letters of the name danced across the top of the ad. Beneath them, a bespectacled, apple cheeked boy was grinning almost maniacally as he demanded, "Hey ma, flip me some Flippy Bits!"
Wally smiled to himself. He'd have to remember that one.
The helidrone swooped low above the rooftops over Wally's head. As he watched, it arced to the north and out of sight. He forgot about the ad and continued on his way to the train.
Wally Philco pulled the front door closed behind him with a scrape and heavy click. It sounded final in the still morning air.
From the top of the brownstone stoop, he surveyed the sidewalk below. He knew he should've done this before stepping outside, but it was too late now. He was exposed. His eyes scanned the empty concrete to his right then his left. It seemed clear.
As he slowly began to descend the steps he saw them a full block away, silhouettes in the dim grainy light. Three of them were gathered at the corner, talking amongst themselves in voices far too low to hear at this distance. They were spread out across the sidewalk, making any easy passage difficult, if not impossible. Of course, trying to walk around or between them wasn't even an issue.
Wally dropped into a crouch, knees be damned, trying to hide behind the skeletal iron banister. It was useless. Hardly any cover at all. If they saw him, he was doomed. His only hope was that they were too preoccupied to notice.
The trick, he'd learned through painful experience, was to get across the street before they caught a whiff of him. If he could just get across the street, things should be okay.
Still crouching, briefcase in hand, he checked the road. There were no cars approaching from either direction. That was both a blessing and a curse. It meant he wouldn't have to do any risky dodging through hostile traffic (at a mildly battered and soft forty-three, he no longer dodged the way he used to), but it also meant he wouldn't be able to use the noise and moving cars for cover.
As furtively as possible, he checked the three of them again. Still chatting. If they began moving his way, he'd need a new plan, and quick. If only there was another pedestrian to draw their attention away from him — but there never was. Nobody else was out at this hour. It would be simple enough to change his own schedule, he sometimes thought, but he knew it would never happen.
He flexed his legs and his toes, checked the sidewalk directly below him again, then took a deep breath and willed himself into action.
As he scrambled down the stairs like a convulsive heron, Wally told himself for the thirtieth time in as many days that it was about time he picked himself up a new pair of shoes. This old pair he was wearing was simply not made for scrambling of any kind. Not with soles worn that smooth and thin.
Without pausing at the bottom to see if they'd caught sight of him, he dashed across the sidewalk staying as low as he could manage, and ducked between two parked cars. He was breathing heavy and sweating despite the cool breeze, but at least he had some decent cover here.
Holding onto the rear bumper of a cherry red Chrysler Xanax for support, he pushed himself up just enough to peer over the trunk and down the street.
They still hadn't seen him, too engrossed as they were in their little chat.
Probably exchanging diapering tips and murder stories, he thought. He checked the street again.
There was someone at the stoplight two blocks away. They were driving one of those Dodge Dipsomatic GX Mini-Forts, an enormous vehicle, almost a full lane and a half wide. It was little more than a street-modified tank, really, but they'd become quite popular lately.
Perfect, he thought. That would be his ticket across the street. Staying low between the parked cars, Wally shifted his body around to face the opposite curb, tensing himself to jump and run.
The light changed, and the Mini Fort began to rumble toward him slowly.
"Come on, come on..." he whispered. He wanted to check over his shoulder once more, but didn't dare, knowing it could throw him off. Timing was everything here.
The monstrous vehicle drew closer, as Wally prepared to dash behind it as it passed and across the street, letting the expansive bulk of the Mini Fort block their line of sight for a good eight or ten seconds at least.
Five...four... he counted down in his head.
"GOOD MORNING GOOD MORNING GOOD MORNING, GOOD CITIZENS!" The voice exploded in his ear.
Wally flinched hard and half stood. The driver of the approaching Mini Fort, thinking the jerkoff who'd just popped up from between the parked cars was going to dive under his wheels, leaned on his horn. He didn't need another one of those this week. The thunderous wail, like five foghorns being clubbed to death, ruptured the quiet morning. The heads of the three figures at the end of the block snapped around.
The Mini Fort screamed past him, horn still blaring, the driver yelling inaudibly. In a panic, and with that voice still bellowing in his ear, Wally bolted into the street. He normally would've aimed to dive between two more parked cars on the other side, but he knew it was too late for that. They were onto him — that much was a given — and he had to get out of there fast. Lumbering and heaving, his knees screaming, he aimed for the far corner. If he could get around the corner and up the street out of view before they caught up with him, he'd be safe. He might be safe, anyway—there were no promises in this business, He didn't dare look over his shoulder. He didn't want to know, and couldn't afford the break in concentration. Had to focus on that corner.
The voice was screaming in his ear:
"...GLORIOUS DAY HERE IN NEW YORK CITY, WITH AN EXPECT — "
With one hand in front of him, the other still clutching the flailing briefcase while trying to cover his ear, eyes wildly measuring the distance to the far curb, Wally began to giggle. It was a high-pitched, staccato giggle. A giggle of fear and panic — the kind he hadn't experienced since he was very young, and his father was chasing him down the hall and through the kitchen. He knew his father was getting closer, he knew there was no escape, and what had started as a simple game had quite suddenly become a terrifying hunt. He no longer wanted to be tickled.
This wasn't about tickling, though. It was no game at all — and nothing at all to giggle about.
His foot hit the far curb at an awkward angle and he stumbled briefly, arms swinging wide to either side, briefcase twisting his wrist, before regaining his footing. He continued running fast as he could a few more yards up the street, out of view.
Once he knew he was out of sight he slowed to a stop and leaned back against a pristine red brick wall. Mouth open wide, eyes shut, it took a few long and painful seconds before he was able to catch his breath. His chest burned and he could feel the blood pulsing in his temples and gums.
That other voice was screaming:
"...AMMA LEVELS AT A COMFORTABLE AND SAFE — "
Wally reached into his pocket finally and slid his fingertip across a smooth vinyl button on his Earwig GL-70 communitainment unit. The voice in his head was abruptly silenced.
He waited, fully conscious of the new silence ringing in his ears. His teeth ached and his fingertips itched. He tasted copper. It felt like he might have bitten his tongue. He took several deep and labored breaths while snatching quick glances back toward the corner to see if they were following him.
If they were, they were taking their own sweet time about it. That was a relief. He simply couldn't run anymore,
Two minutes later, as his heart rate returned to something approaching normal, and after mopping the sweat from his eyebrows and cheeks and chin, he glanced up the street toward the avenue to make sure there weren't more of them waiting up there (sometimes there were), then continued up the narrow, uneven sidewalk. It wasn't the quickest way to the subway, but this morning it was his only choice. He hated starting every day like this, but there was no way around it. It's the way things were.
"Stupid mothers," he muttered, before looking around nervously to make sure no one was within earshot.
Along the way, he kept an ear open for the squeak of unbalanced ATV wheels and the light clink of metal on metal approaching from behind. He also counted the ads on the sidewalk. He counted the ads every morning. It gave him something to focus on.
When he saw a new one, he paused and stared at the painted concrete.
It was for Flippy Bits Chips, a new algae snack Glaxxo International was putting out. The chartreuse letters of the name danced across the top of the ad. Beneath them, a bespectacled, apple cheeked boy was grinning almost maniacally as he demanded, "Hey ma, flip me some Flippy Bits!"
Wally smiled to himself. He'd have to remember that one.
The helidrone swooped low above the rooftops over Wally's head. As he watched, it arced to the north and out of sight. He forgot about the ad and continued on his way to the train.
*
There was a sharp but hopeful beep when he swiped his identification card over the reader. He tapped the five-digit code of his intended destination onto the screen, held his briefcase up to the electronic sniffer, and stood motionless as a thin red beam pulsed over his face. When he heard another pleasant beep, he pushed his way through the turnstile.
He descended the stairs to the platform, where a guard wearing camouflaged fatigues and clutching an automatic rifle was waiting. At the man's feet sat a quivering, muscular Rottweiler who stared at Wally with hopeless black eyes.
Wally flashed his card again, and moved toward an empty aluminum bench. There were a handful of citizens down there already, all of them pacing, gesturing, and talking to themselves. Most of them were staring at two-inch wide ovular minivid screens as they paced. He presumed that nearly all the screens were displaying live images of whatever happened to be directly in front of them — steel posts, benches, the gray tiled floor, other commuters. As time went on, more and more citizens were finding it impossible to interact with the world without an intervening vidscreen of some kind. It made things easier, somehow. More real.
Wally knew that within fifteen minutes the platform would be packed, so he liked to get there a little early. It gave him a chance to sit down and relax for a few minutes, which was always a relief after the morning chase.
Apart from the plasma adscreens buzzing and chirping at either end of the platform, it was quiet. Things were safe down here. The other citizens had their own concerns, and he knew they wouldn't bother him.
The back of his shirt was still damp, but he'd stopped sweating. He was breathing normally again. His knees were still sore and shaky, but to be honest, they were almost always sore and shaky these days.
Most people wouldn't — and didn't — give Wally Philco a second glance when they passed him on the street. Granted, most were deeply engrossed with whatever appeared on their minivids, but even if they saw him they likely wouldn't notice. He was just another citizen, nothing particularly unique or threatening about his appearance. Unremarkable tie, a jacket fraying slightly at the cuffs, permanent press slacks, black vinyl briefcase.
If anyone looked closely enough at his skin, they might have noticed the scars left behind after an unfortunate and unholy bout of late adolescent acne. But no one to date had ever asked to closely examine his skin. Every once in awhile he tried to grow a beard to cover the scars for his own sake, but it always came out thin and patchy, leaving him looking like he had the mange. The scars, he figured, were preferable.
All in all, he looked exactly as he was expected to look for a mid-level insurance company operative. It was as he preferred it. Nobody paid him any mind, and as a result, his crises remained minor and private, and his evenings were mostly undisturbed.
He heard a sound echoing from deep within the subway tunnel, but it seemed to be coming from the wrong direction. It stopped him for a moment. Then he recognized what it was.
He glanced to his left, down the tracks into the darkness, and saw the dim approaching lights. He could feel his stomach tighten, and he turned his eyes away and down.
The arriving train wasn't his, wasn't anyone's. A slow, grinding yellow work train crawled out of the darkness of the tunnel, loud as a low flying jet as it churned and squealed along the tracks. Instead of passenger cars, the engine was pulling a series of flatbeds. Some were empty, others carried wooden crates, still others were loaded with the hulks of rusting, filthy, and unrecognizable machines.
The work trains always made Wally uneasy, especially when he was more or less alone on the platform early in the morning. There was something inexorable about them, something powerful and menacing. The flat, arrhythmic clanging of the bell, the thick odor of coke dust and brimstone that always followed them like a comet's tail. No one ever seemed to be aboard. It was like they were dragging themselves deliberately and perpetually just beneath the surface world, pausing only now and then to pick up a few damned souls along the way.
We hurtle onward in the darkness, he thought, down a million roads. It was an old memory, a line that came to him every time one passed. He no longer remembered where he first heard it, or where it came from. Probably something he'd learned in school, but he couldn't be certain.
They moved so slowly, these trains, that every time one chugged past him, he felt the momentary urge to leap aboard one of the flatbeds himself, just to see where it would take him. He inevitably reconsidered, afraid he already knew the answer to that question.
Wally glanced up at the row of six monitors mounted above the platform. In three of them, he saw himself sitting on the bench, and could watch the train passing slowly behind him.
At that moment, the train let loose with a piercing blast from its horn, and Wally's shoulders nearly came together behind his ears. In the restricted and tiled space, the blast was amplified a dozen times louder and sharper than the Mini Fort's horn had been. He should've known it was coming — they always blew the horn when they trolled through the station. Usually when they were directly behind him, too.
His shoulders gradually relaxed as the echoes faded, and he saw by the brightening beam of light spreading along the opposite wall that his own train — at least the train he'd been waiting for — was on its way.
It was either a few minutes early or a few minutes late that morning. In either case, Wally was relieved. The platform hadn't become too crowded yet, and with luck, the train hadn't either.
He stood and approached the edge of the platform to wait. The other citizens were scattered evenly to either side of him, still talking to themselves, staring at their minivids, and shifting from foot to foot.
After the train hissed to a stop, the doors in front of Wally slid open silently, and from inside he heard dozens of voices, some louder than others, all speaking at once. He also caught the now-familiar scent of heavy perfume. They'd started doing that on the subways a few months earlier — perfuming the cars. The transit authority thought it would make for a more pleasant trip. There had been rumors that a coalition of citizens allergic to perfume (and virtually every other chemical known to man) had attempted to file a lawsuit to block the practice, but were quickly silenced and, as a group, "sent someplace where perfume wasn't an issue."
Wally stepped aboard and grabbed the empty seat to his immediate right.
Looking around, he saw that most of the plastic blue seats in that car remained empty. There were more than enough citizens to fill them, but they were opting instead to continue pacing up and down the aisle in a haphazard dance, talking to themselves and colliding with each other. No one seemed to be bothered.
Above all those voices was another, much louder than the rest. It was the same voice Wally had heard in his ear earlier that morning:
"—anic level remains a steady vermilion...Our top story this morning: pop sensation Ambien McCorkle, winner of last month's Digipod Roundup, announced plans for her world tour today, which includes stops in war-torn Paris, the north African provinces of Raimiland and Symbionia, and of course..."
He scanned the faces of the other passengers. Many of them he recognized from the regular morning commute, so they were okay. The ones he didn't recognize seemed okay, too. Every other passenger, upon stepping aboard, had paused and made a similar scan before resuming their pacing.
When the doors opened at the next stop, another familiar face stepped aboard. Without pausing to scan the crowd, he began weaving down the aisle, trying to avoid the other passengers. Wally knew his name because the man announced it every morning at the beginning of his spiel.
"Hello ladies an' gennelmen, my name is Smitty Winston," he began, trying to raise his voice above the din of the commuters and the broadcasts. "I'm homeless...an' I'm hungry. If you don't have it, I can understand that 'cause I don't have it...But if you could spare some change...a sandwich...piecea fruit...somethin' to drink...it would be greatly appreciated...Thank you."
It never changed. Every word, every beat, every intonation was exactly the same as it was every morning. Wally guessed that after spouting it hundreds of times a day over the years in crowded train after crowded train, Mr. Winston didn't even think about it anymore. Just opened his mouth and out it came. He'd almost become a strange source of comfort to Wally in the mornings. Something to count on. So long as Smitty was still making the rounds, all was right in the world.
A small security vid swiveled at either end of the car. Six different animated commercials were playing at once along the band of adscreens above the windows. There was a new one this morning, for Donkey Oaties, the breakfast cereal. There was also a public service announcement he'd never seen before. It featured a bear with the voice of Mortimer Snerd. The slogan (which the bear uttered shortly before devouring a presumably diabolical raccoon) was "Security is our biggest consumer item."
The news report continued, half buried under so many other voices. "...within years and not decades, as previously thought...Finally, movie star Herschel Palantine has once again apologized for the June fifth comments he made regarding the nation's economy, and asks that we all forgive him. The trial is still scheduled to begin next week...And those are our top stories at the moment. I'm Gag Peptide, wishing you all a glorious and productive day, reminding you to be Good Citizens. Be vigilant — LWIW!"
"LWIW," Wally whispered, then closed his eyes, letting all the voices and jingles and colorful images flow over him.
From Unplugging Philco © Jim Knipfel 2009, courtesy of Simon & Schuster.
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