Robert Reed - 555.pdf - Robert Reed - widez2

555

Robert Reed

I AM A PLEASANT, PRETTY-faced soul, and a small soul, my quiet

voice rarely heard in the normal course of any day. I have been placed here

as a presence, as a reassuring feature within this exceptionally

complicated landscape, embracing a role not unlike that served by the

elegant mansions and sprawling country clubs, not to mention the great

golden tower where the lords of this world fight endless wars for

dominion. I am the symbol of loyalty. To my mistress, the great Claudia, I

am the quiet but fiercely devoted assistant. She gives me her order, and I

say, "Yes, ma'am." With a crisp nod and a cheery smile, I tell her,

"Immediately, ma'am." Typically her chores are small things easily

accomplished. Calls need to be made, documents signed. But my main

purpose--my guiding mission --is to sit behind my smallish desk, and with

my undiluted enthusiasm, I convince the other world that in the constant

mayhem of our world, Claudia can always count on little me.

I sit inside my little office. There is an apartment that is mine as well,

but mostly, I sit in the office tucked outside Claudia's much larger office.

When necessary, I can appear extremely busy. My fingers dance, causing

colors to change on one or more of the screens before me. I can lift a pen

and fill any yellow pad with elaborate symbols. If the telephone sings, I can

lift the receiver to my ear, nod with interest, and tell the silence on the

other end, "I will do that. Thank you, sir. Ma'am." But mostly, I just sit,

waiting my next opportunity to excel.

My office has a single window. From my chair, from the highest floor of

the very famous tower, a great slice of the City is easily visible. For me, it

is usually daytime. The City is beautiful and vast, and perfect, avenues laid

out with delicious precision, great buildings and little houses presenting

an image of teeming masses and relentless wealth. The world's most

beautiful structure is the Golden Tower, but I myself have never actually

seen it from below. Yet I cannot imagine any sight as impressive as the

one afforded me by this single window. When I am certain that Claudia

will not need me for the next long while, I rise from behind my desk and

press my pretty-enough face against the window, squinting and squinting,

observing details that are too small to be noticed in the normal course of

the day.

What I see of the City is a coarse approximation, naturally. When I look

carefully, as I do now, I can see how each house and vehicle and even the

people that are supposed to be souls are composed of nothing, more or

less, than a few dots of color arranged to imply familiar shapes.

The City is home to a few thousand named souls.

Give each speck a name and there would be millions of us.

By that logic, I am fortunate. Incredibly, undeservedly lucky. I have a

name: Joan. I have not one place to be, but two, and if you count the

parties and street scenes where I have appeared, then I have visited better

than a dozen places. I remember each one. Ages later, I can recall what I

said and to whom, and every good thing that I did for my mistress. "Joan,

you need to see to this. To that." Yes, of course, madam. This and that,

yes! "Take my glass, Joan." With my steadiest hand, I took it. "How do I

look? Splendid, as usual?" You always look splendid, and spectacular.

Madam. Ma'am. Claudia Pontificate!

At this moment, my mistress is embroiled in a major social event.

Where she is, it is night. The incongruity doesn't bother me. Time is

extremely important in this world, but the habits of the Sun are not. I

stare across the day-lit City, watching those tiny specks and dashes of

color and motion, and not for the first time, I think it is wrong what they

say. Yes, we are a set of fuzzy instructions and algorithms, shaped light

and inspired daydreams. But from what I understand, the other world is

much the same: Everything is built from dots just a little bit smaller than

these flecks of color. In their own right, the mythical atoms are still quite

simple. Simple, and built of even simpler objects. In that other world, light

also has shape, and souls dream, and in countless more ways, both worlds

are very much the same--two realms relentlessly simple when seen up

close, and at a distance, vast and complex beyond all comprehension.

Joan is a daydreamy girl, I think to myself.

I begin to smile, turning away from the window. A man is sitting across

from my desk, waiting for me. I didn't hear him enter my office. Was I

that distracted? In an instant, I sprint through the catalog of City faces,

finding no man with his face. But perhaps he is a woman who has

undergone some kind of sexual rearrangement. It happens from time to

time, according to the demands of some little subplot. But no, his face is

very much a man's face, and his voice is new to

me--testosterone-roughened and oddly sloppy.

"Hello, Joan," he rumbles.

I have no lines. So of course, I say nothing.

And he laughs knowingly, gesturing at my empty chair. "Go on, sit," he

suggests. "You're fine. I just want to speak with you for a little moment."

I settle on my chair.

"Ask," he says. "Who am I?"

"I don't know," I admit.

"Mitchell Hanson," he says. "I'm the Head Writer for the City."

I don't know what to say.

He keeps laughing, something striking him as being extraordinarily

funny. "Have you ever met a writer before?"

"No," I confess.

"What do you know about us?"

I am a small soul, and polite. "Not very much," I allow.

He nods. "Claudia speaks about us. Doesn't she?"

On occasion, yes. Sometimes when neither of us is needed and she finds

herself standing in my office, waiting to be whisked away to her next

important scene, she talks to me, telling me her thoughts.

"What does she say about us?"

Claudia often meets with the writers. They come as projections,

discussing current plots as well as events that may or may not come to

pass.

"I don't think you are," I mutter.

"What? I'm not a writer?" Mitchell laughs and leans forward in his seat.

"Why do you say that, Joan?"

"You are neither fat nor ugly," I reply.

"Thank you."

"But your face is a little crooked, I guess. And that dark material under

you chin--"

"It's a three-day beard," he explains. Which explains nothing.

I just nod and smile, and return to my waiting.

"I'm the Head Writer," he repeats, "and I'm a considerable fan of yours.

Did you know that, Joan?"

"A fan?"

"One of many. In my world, millions of people are interested in you."

That is not an impressive number. The other world holds billions of

people, each with a name, and almost everyone watches Claudia and the

City. But I want to be polite, nodding as I tell him, "Thank you."

"You're very pretty," he maintains.

"But I don't have a desirable body," I argue. "My breasts are small, and

my nose is too large."

Claudia has a wonderful body. I have seen it on occasion, usually when I

am told to walk into her office unannounced. My personality is

heterosexual but even I feel a longing when I stare at those firm creations

that ride before her imaginary heart. As with everything about Claudia, I

am smaller. Lesser. Yes, I am the same kind of creature, but always lost in

her considerable shadow.

"You have a marvelous body," Mitchell tells me. "Don't sell yourself

short."

But I do an excellent job of self-appraisal. Politely, I tell him, "I'll try not

to. I really will."

"You've had lovers, haven't you?"

The Head Writer should know that I have. Three men stand in my past.

But only one had any name, and he stayed for only a few weeks, leaving me

for the black sleep that comes when you have served your purpose and get

filed away.

"Not three men," Mitchell corrects. "Look again."

The Writer has placed a memory in my soul.

"Look carefully," he advises with a wink and a delighted grin.

I straighten my back and grow cold.

"Remember the other day, Joan? When you came into this office

through that door, and you thought you heard a mysterious noise in

Claudia's office--?"

"Yes."

"And you found her with who?"

"My lover."

"Sonny Cotton," he says. "The great, secret love of your life."

I shiver and sob.

"What was Sonny doing?"

I cannot say it. But I can't stop seeing it, even with my eyes pressed

shut.

"And where is he now, Joan? The love of your life...?"

"With Claudia."

"Is he?"

"Clinging to her arm," I mutter, imagining the two of them happily

snuggling at that extravagant little dinner party.

"Sonny loves Claudia now," says the writer.

I nod, in misery.

"He doesn't think about you anymore. Not even in passing."

I shiver and sob.

"But you can win him back again, Joan. If you really want him, that is."

"I do!" I blurt.

"In thirteen seconds," Mitchell tells me, "Claudia will walk through that

door. And you will pull the little pistol from your purse--the same pistol

Claudia gave you as a Christmas gift last year--and you will shoot her

once, with a devastator bullet, directly between her big beautiful tits."

"They are ugly and fat, and sloppy, and you should count your blessings

that you don't have to meet with the little bastards."

I always count my blessings.

Claudia was walking from my office door to my window and back again.

Pacing, it is called--one of many behaviors in which I have little ability.

She looked furious, and not in the merely dramatic fashion demanded by

dialogue and plot. She nearly shivered as she strode past my desk for the

umpteenth time, her deep powerful voice nearly cracking as she repeated

the words, "Little bastards."

This was ages ago. This was last week, nearly. But in that other world, a

week is not long, which makes the event recent and timely, and perhaps

important.

"Do you know what the little bastards want to do?"

I shook my head. "No, ma'am."

"What they're talking about doing--?"

"What, madam?"

Robert Reed - 555.pdf

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