READER'S CHOICE

You start off down the street to your left, resigned to the fact that you have to get to the office at some point.  You might as well head in that direction…

…but you can always stop in to see Gerald first.

You hang a right at the alley and slalom between taxis and bikes to the first bodega you see: the Lucky OneShoe 24 Non-Stop.  You’ve tried to get Gerry to explain the name to you, but he just mumbled something about horses or maybe it was in Hungarian and then tried to sell you a watch.

The door ring-buzzes as you open it- what an annoying sound to have to hear all day- and the bot at the register greets you hello.  Looks like a new Malcolm 4.7 model; apparently Gerry’s been upgrading.  You’ve never understood the point of the bodega bots.  Supposedly they cut down on crime, but there’s always still a guy nearby controlling them with a joystick, making sure he’s not being swindled out of any money or candy bars.  The human element is still fully active.  And if you’re really a badass, you don’t want what’s in the register anyway.  And you’ll know how to get to the source.  But the bots do have a built in alarm if anyone touches them, so you suppose there’s that.  Dissuade the local 12-year-olds.  It’s all about peace of mind, right?

You grab a Purple flavored Gatorade pack and sidle towards the back door labeled Employees Only.  You wave at the camera above the door, then pull out an old-fashioned credit card and a shark-shaped bottle opener.  You could wait for him to open the door, but then how would Gerry learn?

You throw the door open to see a sweaty fat man in a Hawaiian shirt messily shuffling papers in front of three black and white security screens and an army of monitors, radio equipment, keyboards, and recording devices.  And a joystick.

“Jeez, don’t you have an intern by now?”

Gerald swivels quickly around in his chair, a lightning flash of fear in his eyes, before a nervous smile takes over his features.  It only takes that instant for you to realize something is wrong. 

“You shouldn’t have that back here,” he says, motioning to the Gatorade.

“It’s not open.”

He’s leaning on those papers rather awkwardly, rather possessively, almost as if he’s trying to hide them behind his considerable mass.  The attempt just makes the fact that he’s trying to hide something stand out all the more.

“What’s happening?  It has been long time,” he says.

“I was hoping you could tell me.  Heard anything lately?”

“Only usual.  Not busy busy, right now.  Too cold.  Everybody’s laying under.”

“Laying low?”

“What you say.”

“How’s the new Mal-ware?  That’s a pretty fancy model.”

“It is working very pretty.  Just great.”

“Wasn’t it expensive?” 

“My aunt back home.  She died.  I got a little money.”

“So you put it back into the store.  How nice.”

“Yes.  Teach a man to fish…”

“Sure.”

You notice he has cheeto crumbs in his moustache.  And that he’s slowly reaching for the red button under his desk.

You leap forward and grab his forearms, pulling his chair away from the desk and rolling him crashing into the wall.  You elbow him in the nose for good measure, then flip through the merch lists and old invoices looking for what he was hiding.

Lists of numbers, it all looks the same to you, but there, towards the bottom, is a paper that’s more crumpled up than the rest.  You grab it and look to Gerry.  His nose is bleeding and he looks rather sad.  He’s dabbing pathetically at the blood with the corner of his dirty shirt.

“I am sorry,” he says.  “They said they would take the store.  They know I tell you things.”

“It’s okay,” you say.  “Is this it?”

“Yes.  From yesterday morning.”

He doesn’t look like he’s lying.  He just looks tired.  You’ve always liked Gerry overall.  If you don’t think about it too much.  Last year you found out that he doesn’t just listen to the suits and the streets, he listens to houses with little girls and to schoolyards and- You don’t want to think about it.  He’s always given you good information, and nobody knows as much as he does.  You’ve needed Gerry.

“They gonna come back?” you ask.

“No, do not worry.  No one will know you were here.  I will delete.”

“Thanks, Gerald.  That means a lot.  I’ll see you around.”

“Yes.”

You head back out into the market, stuffing the paper into your other pocket.  This was not the morning you were expecting.  You stop at the counter and pay for your Purple pack, looking up at the camera one last time.  He’ll delete it.  You trust him.

“Thank you for your business.  Please come again,” says the Malcolm 4.7.  And then in Gerry’s voice, “Do not let big door hit your big bottom on the way out.”

You smile.  The door ring-buzzes as you leave.

You’re itching to know what the hell is going on, but it’s fucking cold out and you’re in the middle of the street anyway.  You start heading for the subway, whether it’s advisable or not.

Your choice:

a. Subway straight to work (read on the way).  There are fewer people on the trains now.

b. Find somewhere secure around here to read.  Involves some improvising.

c. Subway somewhere else that you know is secure.  Face more of Larry’s wrath when you get in even later.

What do you do?

You wake up.  You didn’t sleep that well.  Your alarm went off at 7, but you hit the snooze eight times.  Waking up every 6 minutes created a strange and fuzzy world.  Everything kept repeating; it was like you had eight video game lives.  Maybe this time you’d keep the girl alive.  Okay, maybe this time.  You stagger into the bathroom, tripping on the cat, who squeals in surprise.  You’re still trying to figure out what’s real and whether there’s going to be a dead guy in your closet or not.  You check for the .45 in the mirrored cabinet and peek behind the shower curtain just in case.  The cat follows you into the bathroom anyway and says a proper hello by rubbing up against your calves.  You rub his head, pee, then go get him some food. 

You forget to put the half empty can of mush back in the fridge.  It will be dried out later.  Or maybe Hermann will just jump up on the counter and eat it.  He’s been getting fatter.  As you begin to make coffee, you flip on the news and see that another bomb went off in the city last night.  Damn amateurs.  You eat a banana as they warn you again about the dangers of phone implants by showing pictures of children whose eyes won’t focus straight.  You’re glad you don’t have any.  Little buggers.  You drink your espresso in two gulps.  Much better. 

You showered yesterday, you’ll be fine.  You get dressed, pulling on your favorite worn black motorcycle boots.  You can’t find good boots like these anymore.  Real leather.  You look in the mirror - yup, you’re a badass.  You look out the window to check the weather.  Grey and inscrutable.  You have a hunch and grab a bright red umbrella.  They’re watching you anyway, so what’s the point.  Might as well piss ‘em off a bit.  Locked and loaded, you’re ready to go.  You travel light.  No one could even tell you’re packing just by looking, let alone confirm it without getting real personal.

You clomp down the stairs, saying good morning to Mrs. Feldman on the 2nd floor landing.  She’s opened the door a crack to see what the ruckus is.   You wear the boots every day, but she just wants to make sure.  Doesn’t everybody.

You really don’t want to head into the office.  Larry will be extra pissed that you’re late.  Especially after yesterday.  You were already looking at one of his famous lectures and now he’ll be screaming, so you can expect extra spit.  Or maybe he’ll just throw a potted plant at your head and call it even.  Unlikely.  He loves his fucking garden too much.

You forgot to check your mail yesterday.  You open your box and see one large brown envelope.  No return address.  Odd.  You grab it, tuck it in your jacket, flip your sunglasses down off your head, and walk outside.

Your choice:

a. Left

b. Right

Which way do you go?