FREEHAND 2173 (eBook)

1
ANOTHER FUCKING SUICIDE

It’s midnight when I finally get back to the Freehand hotel. My CO2 filter mask is cutting into my ears and my feet are cold and wet from the never-ending rain. Luckily, the Freehand’s air filters still work, so I can sit down at the bar, take off the heavy mask and have a drink. The bartender is handsome—in his early forties with salt and pepper white walls and a strong body. I wonder what he tastes like.

“What can I get ya?” he asks.

“Whisky?”

“Synth Rye okay?”

“Do I have a choice?”

He turns to the wall behind him which I imagine was once full of hundreds of bottles of booze; now there are only about 10.

“Not really,” he says, reaching for the rye. He takes a rag and a glass, wipes it clean, then pours it half full and sets it on the bar in front of me.

“I’m only supposed to fill it about two fingers,” he says gesturing to the glass. “But I figure at this point, what are we saving it for?”

I nod and take a big drink, the whisky warming my tongue. It tastes good. I finish the rest in one big gulp and push the glass back towards him.

“May I have another?”

“Sure thing…”

“Hey—what’s your name?”

He turns to me. “I’m Mike. How about you?” He pours another tall drink and slides it across the bar to me.

“Dorothy…Dorothy Holiday.”

He gestures towards the street. “You’re awfully brave to be out there so late.”

“Brave or stupid—” I take another big drink. “I had work.”

“Ah—work…yeah, that is stupid.”

I gesture to the bar. “You’re one to talk.”

He smiles and comes over closer to me, leans in.

“It’s funny, isn’t it? Some of us are still working like everything’s just fine. What do you suppose that’s about?”

I lean in closer to him and gesture as if I have a secret.

“I think we’re idiots,” I say.

“That we are—Dorothy, was it?”

“That’s right.”

He smiles, then hesitates for a moment as if contemplating what to say next.

“So what kind of work do you do that has you out so late?”

“I’m a reporter—International Public Media.”

He grabs a glass from behind the bar and drops a hydration tab into it and a teaspoon of soda, then watches as the chemical reaction fills the cup with water.

“You should drink this too.” He hands me the glass.

“Thanks.”

“So, what kind of stories do you cover for IPM?

“Science mostly—right now astrophysics. Something top secret so there’s not a lot of information coming my way. They’re still trying to save us.”

He chuckles. “Wouldn’t that be nice?”

“So what’s your story?” I take a sip of my whisky.

“Mine? Not much to tell really. Same as everyone, I suppose. Born into this shit world, choking on foul air and living this shit life for as long as I can for some unknown reason.”

“No drug-crazed, sex-fueled end of the world party for you then?” I say, gesturing to the street outside.

He smiles flirtatiously. “Don’t get me wrong, I’ve given that life a try, wasn’t for me. I’m more of a fighter, I guess. What about you?”

“Yeah, I guess I’m more of a fighter too. But the sex-crazed part isn’t always so bad.”

I gulp down the last of my whisky and look around. The lobby bar is empty except for us.

“So, Mike…what time do you get done here?”

He chuckles. “In about 30 minutes…”

I lean in again and lower my voice, the whisky starting to work its magic. “I have a room here. I mean, obviously I have a room here—but I was just wondering, maybe…maybe you’d like to come up and, um…talk some more?”

“Yeah…” he says with a wicked smile. “I would absolutely love to come up to your room…Dorothy, and uh ‘talk’ some more.”

My blood races at his reply, chills run up and down my spine and I smile seductively. “I’m in room 1007.”

He picks up his com and makes a note. “Room 1007. Got it.”

“I’m gonna head up, then,” I say. “I need to freshen up.”

“Sure thing, shall I charge this to your room?”

I hold my wrist out. “No, C-Coin’s fine.”

He scans the chip in my wrist and smiles again. “I’ll see you soon, then?”

I nod smiling. “That would be nice.”

When I get up to leave, the room is spinning. The high ceilings and dark wood of the lobby embrace me as I half-walk, half-stumble toward the elevators and push the call button. It’s freezing in the marble hallway and I’m shivering as I watch the analog hands of the ancient elevator tick off the floors. It’s moving more slowly than I thought possible. Suddenly, there’s a loud buzz and then a snap, and then everything goes dark. “What the fuck?” I say, waiting for the backup generators to kick on. I hate the dark, and now it, combined with my drunkenness, has me dizzy and disoriented. I vaguely remember a bench against the wall and stumble in its direction. Miscalculating, I reach it too soon—falling over it and knocking the bench into the wall and me onto the floor.

“I’m all right!” I say, but there is no one around to hear me. The lights kick back on, revealing a piece of marble tile has fallen from the wall, exposing a little hiding place, and on the floor next to it, is a leather notebook. “That’s weird,” I think to myself as sirens blare outside and police speeders fly down the dark street. Then the elevator chimes its arrival and the doors slide open. I hop up, grab the notebook and pinball my way onto the elevator just as the doors close. I hope the fucking power stays on. The 10 floors creep by slowly so I open the notebook to the first page and skim it quickly. Handwritten at the bottom is the date “1931” and a signature, “Albert Einstein.”

The elevator chimes and the doors slide open. I stumble down the long dark hallway to my room, unlock the door and put the notebook on the nightstand next to the bed. In the bathroom, I drop a hydration cube into the sink and undress. I dip a washcloth into the basin and rub the soap cube on it, then give myself a PTA bath (pussy, tits and ass) as my mother used to call it. This hotel is so old there’s still an actual shower in the bathroom even though most of us haven’t had running water for years. I stand there for a moment, imagining how marvelous it would be to take a hot shower, feel the water run over my skin, wash the filth away. I finish my PTA bath and stand there looking at myself in the mirror. I’m too thin now. Bones sticking out at my hips and my shoulders. I touch my breasts, barely a handful left. I check the time on my com and then crawl into bed naked. Mike should be here in 15 minutes.

I fall asleep and dream a wonderful dream where the skies are blue again. All around me the Earth’s alive and vibrant with the most beautiful greens and reds and purples. I can hear birds singing and children laughing and all of the people are healthy and happy. I wake up to a knock on the door. It must be Mike. I get up, pulling the blanket around me, and head to the door. I barely have it open before he is in my room and kissing me. He cups my chin in his hands and pushes me against the wall as the door closes. It feels so good to have his warm mouth on mine. He steps back, takes the blanket from my hands and lets it drop to floor.

“My god, you’re beautiful,” he says and then his lips are back on mine. His hands are on my bare flesh searching for my desire which he quickly finds, and then he picks me up in his strong arms and carries me to the bed. It doesn’t last long but it’s enough to make me forget everything else. The constant dialog in my mind is quiet as he works and I focus on the warmth of his chest pressing against mine, his strong hand on my thigh, pulling my leg up so he can get deeper. Him, deeper…my eyes open and close, open and close, open and close. When we’re done, he gets up and gets dressed, leaving me naked and spent. He grabs his com and then comes over to the bed, leans down and gives me a long, slow kiss.

“Nice to know you, Dorothy. Good luck…”

“Good luck, Mike.”

He lingers for a moment and then is gone as soon as he came, leaving me to fall asleep alone in my bed.

At four in the morning, I wake up crying. My head is thick from drink and no food and I roll over, noticing the notebook next to me on the end table. Still half-drunk, I pick it up and flip through its pages. They’re full of handwritten diagrams and formulas I don’t understand. Scribbled on the last page in handwriting that matches the first is a list of names:

Niels Bohr

Edgar Rice Burroughs

George Ellery Hale

Robert Van De Graaf

And then these words: “For D and T.”

Just then my com buzzes. It’s a video message from my friend, Wayne. “Hey, Dorothy.” His eyes are red and swollen. “I know you’re in LA and it’s the middle of the night there, but I’ve got more bad news.” He pauses and I notice he looks like he’s aged a decade since I last saw him. He takes a deep breath. “Jim’s dead—another fucking suicide. Megan found him in his apartment last night.” He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand and takes a swig off his flask. “I really wish I could say I was getting numb to it all, but it just never gets any easier, does it? This...