Chapter 29

Once Joselyn was sitting in her armchair and she saw me struggling to write an email because I kept getting a redline under what was supposed to be “permanently”.

“Do you want a way to fix that?”

“Yes.”

“Alright. Face me.” And we turned in our armchairs which were side by side and she looked into my eyes. I knew not to blink. I relaxed my eye muscles so they could dilate and accept the knowledge within the incantation she’s about to give like downloading an update.

“Repeat after me. E. A. E.”

“E. A. E.” I say back surprised by the level of confidence in my voice.

Then she says, “E. A. E. Per-man-nent-ly.” Nodding through each syllable.

“E. A. E. Per-man-nent-ly.”

“Now try it.”

And I typed it out correctly. Permanently. I was surprised I didn’t add a second “n” even though the spell used one. 

Even if we’re both in the cabin now, she’s preoccupied with something I’m not invited to do, and inviting myself was too shameful.

Now I feel I only know Joselyn through her unbound manuscripts, scrolls, and books. I have at least 3 on me at any given time. Currently, I’ve been reading about appendices of papyrus, with symbols and letters written on them in hand drawn grids, which would be balled up and eaten before bed to ward off the devil from your dreams. These things made me feel closer to her.

With Everhet being absent for such an extended period of time Joselyn and Morgen both agreed to hire Marcus back in a consultant capacity to keep the required amount board seats filled.

I was infuriated for Everhet.

It clouded my mind to where I didn’t know what my own intentions were. But I was purposely contrarian to all of their narrow-minded suggestions, probably out of some sense of loyalty that I was too prideful to drop. But it was very clear Marcus was working as Lugnut’s mouthpiece. And I was doing the same for Everhet.

When you grow up poor, no matter what changes happen in your life financially, it’s impossible to look at business decisions as just business.

He came in one time at an impromptu happy hour at Scarse, and started talking about how AI will help auto-assign a best fitting VCO channel for users. And I put both feet flat on the floor and say, “People can choose their own VCO.” Stunned by his lack of puritanism. The money must have changed him.

Lugnut says, “And how will they know it’s the right one?” All drunk and cocky.

I touch my hand to my chest and say, “They’ll know. They’ll feel it.”

Then he called me a name so explicit and unnecessary, that I wasn’t infuriated, but for what ever reason instinctively ignored it.

And he started laughing.

My face didn’t move.

But the emotional atrophy was melting. Even after all that’s happened, I have to remind myself that I am not the person I was a few years ago. And he has no idea who I am. Not what I’m capable of, but what I’m not accountable for—how expendable he is. I knew then if he ever said what he just said to my face again, I was going to destroy him. 

The subject changed. Lugnut started telling us the story about the cosmetic surgeon who drilled through his nose bridge to install the bolt in it. He kept saying “cosmic” instead of “cosmetic”. No one asked him, he just started telling this story.

He invoked a very specific mood with his presence. He’s the first person to bond with Everhet over suicidal porn, the kind that used to be played down in Rosetju. And secretly I hate him for it. Thoughts drift back to the first premiere I was invited to. 

Snuff videos are something Everhet knew of and used from time to time for effect in our early years for an installation. Not as the baseline. But I think it was Lugnut who really got him hooked by leading him deeper into the niche. I don’t have proof but…

But I’m just building a case against Lugnut at this point. All my muscles twitched like a shaky trigger finger when he spoke.

After the happy hour at Scarse, instead of going to the East Estate and doing nothing until I’m summoned, I stop by Rosetju and the whole company knows if I’m there I’m going to cover their tab. Someone I knew was gonna be there, no matter what time of day, it was lottery of acquaintances. Marcus always brought girls and guys around which was fun. And now we can talk about work. I know he’s my enemy, but he’s a pretty cool dude. 

I’m that old guy who tramps his old stomping grounds talking about the old days. Could this still be the same bar? It’s hard to imagine clandestine premiers of the most explicit visuals taking place here. The same floor plan, same red lights. But now there’s disco balls, fake plants with red light strands twined within them. And now I’m that old guy thinking about how these kids are never going to have to deal with the line for the men’s bathroom, as both the men’s and the women’s bathroom have been painted with the unisex symbol and written upon the doors was WC.

I was contemplating: while both bathrooms are unisex, there are still two of them, so won’t you still have to choose one? Instead of men’s or women’s you’ll have to choose between left or right. What’s the point? And in my head I hear Everhet’s voice It’s not choosing that’s the problem, it’s what the choice represents. It was as if we were talking to each other. Left or right is an easier decision because people don’t view one of them as less of a bathroom.

And I was like, “Oh.”

The mood’s been rather light because everyone feels bad for me, about Everhet, and I have to say I am loving it. Having a friend who is a successful addict gets you, I would argue, more empathy than the addict themselves. 

Marcus calls me over. He says, “So Lugnut tells me your wife lets you bounce around.” He does a light finger motion to Morgen who is sitting in the private lounge alone stirring her drink.

I just chewed the last of my gum in the bathroom. I dance with invisible maracas. I say, “Yeah. She’s cool with it.”

His jaw slacks to the left shoulder hyperbolically. He says, “Are you serious? You’re not doing that though, right?”

My face scrunches up like it’s trying to protect my brain from lies.

I say, “What?”

He keeps his lips closed but pushes his tongue to the roof of his mouth. He says, “Look.” He starts karate chopping every word, “You cannot seem to get this through your head. Did you sign a pre-nup?”

I shrug.

I say, “Nah.” I make my lips flat and wide like a frog and look up at the ceiling. I say, “It’ll be fine.”

I wait all day to have my first piece of gum and it feels so good.

But not as good as being enviable. Marcus stares at me while feeling for his heartbeat with mouth wide open. Then his eyes rolled back to white in an instant while his head swung back and forth as he got up and walked away from the table.

When you’re bathed in red light you can only look turned on or angry.

He scuttles across the dance floor to Lugnut and leans into his shoulder blade. Then he stands up and Lugnut does the same. I shuffle over to Morgen in a goofy dance walk, hoping she’ll get annoyed and go home so I can get hammered by myself.

I keep having these memories of my parents. Not huge life changing out-of-the-fuck moments but little anecdotes. Small ticks they had. When you lose somebody eventually their memory boils down to their rituals. Their abnormalities.

Mom would scratch her cat’s chest and ask it questions and talk to it like a human baby. Like, “Aren’t you just fuhwhoashuss? Are you justice da most fuhwhoashississt of dem awl?”

I scratch my own chest and ask myself the same question while. I’m clearing my throat. I say, “Are you okay?

Maybe I was my mom’s emotional heatsink so she didn’t kill my dad. I keep thinking about stuff like that.

Morgen leans away from me and smiles, “Are you okay?”

I decide to plop down next to her. Neck slinking over the back of the booth seat.

She puts her hand on my shoulder. And involuntarily I surge my shoulders upward. Her touch is so unfamiliar. For a time it was her distance but now, I don’t know. Maybe this time I’ll look into her eyes and see something. But I just look at her lips.

I need to stop chewing gum. I keep forgetting to quit. But it’s the only thing that takes my mind off being awake. When you have six spare hours to do whatever you want chewing gum will patch you from A to B no problem like a tongue in a wall socket.

ArtoVCOs have become the Cadillac of visual cult objects. Top shelf items for you to apply your meaning to. New names for everything. We just made all the Illegal VCOs its own category subscribers can choose from on PPL.

Sexual structures are corroding as we speak.

PPL is responsible for normalizing sexual expression around the globe. It wasn’t uncommon to announce a new relationship by uploading a visual signature (a.k.a. sex tape) the way people used to mail wedding announcements.

It was as Joselyn predicted. Today’s headline was about a school shooting where seven kids died. There’s security footage of it. With all the changes to the already ambiguous definition of what a VCO is, the ability to deny any kind of visual content on PPL would be against our bylaws which state very clearly our anti-discrimination policies. If you think it’s a VCO then we’re just going to have to believe you. Anything is allowed. There is no such thing as “too graphic”. And consent forms are no longer a thing since the idea of consent has been ruled by the courts as a “subjective practice”. At that point, we’ve been legally advised that whenever we get hassled that we raise our hands and say, “Hey, I just do what I’m told.”

We’re still trying to work out the kinks with the AI we use to rip and repost videos. It can’t distinguish between violence and sex; it seems to only register it all under passion. So now instead of a busty tanned female engorging on the downstairs of her best friend, the HD image is of a blonde male with a semi-automatic assault rifle storming through an empty cafeteria while he searches for the rest of his classmates titled BLONDE MILF PAWG GETS POUND BY STEP-SON WHEN DAD’S NOT HOME. 

We’ve come a long way from Kid’s Work.

I haven’t heard from Everhet in six weeks and I keep waiting to hear his name on the news. Last I saw him he was sickly looking, gray, the only thing on him that hadn’t aged was his hair. It feels like such a chore to go all the way to the West Estate and check on him though. Butler still hasn’t gotten back to me about if Everhet dead or not. That last I heard was that his location is confirmed, but his status is not. Once I get the thumbs up that he’s alive I’ll go see him. I don’t want to see him otherwise. 

Then I hear chimes. I know the ones I hear are digital but my mind patches me to the memory of that sheet chimes streaking the wind with shattering sounds in the woods. In the silence and solitude.

Of all the avenues money opens the one I want is into the forest. To be alone.

I lift my device to my face and it’s Joselyn saying we have another ritual at midnight and that I better not eat dinner. She wants me to be starving when it’s time to eat her ass.

I look up and for the first time I see Morgen’s face. And it’s so much more human than I realized.

There were folds on her forehead I never knew she had. Like she was forming the muscles on her forehead to execute an incantation that said says, “Let me guess, another ritual?”

And I’m hit with may be regret, I’m not sure. All I know is that this feeling may have meant something if it happened a few years ago. Without a single muscle in my face twitching I said “Yes.” 

Then she stood and walked out. And as she exited the front door of Rosetju, Marcus entered. 

He’s playing around with the pocket inside his jacket and pulls out a bottle of gum and raises his eyebrows. Nods to the bar top. I reluctantly stroll over to sit on the barstool next to him. And each of my dragging steps I wish I had asked Joselyn for a spell or an incantation where I felt like I had a choice to do what I’m about to do. 

Like I said, life has kind of just been happening to me lately. 

 

James Jacob Hatfield is a displaced engineer, a painter, and many other contradictions. His work has appeared in X-R-A-Y, Maudlin House, Vol. 1 Brooklyn, Barely South Review, Chaleur Magazine, Havik, and others. His ekphrasis poem “torrents of lahar, No. 36” was anthologized by the North Carolina Museum of Art. He is a Sterling Fellow and a Weymouth Fellow. He is the creator and curator of the Gemini Sessions Substack. He lives in Durham, NC.

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