Tag: fiction

Digitized Smells

I have my telemedicine video call today. It has an element incorporated that I knew nothing about: digitized smell.

Apparently, recent software improvements has been added to many video-conferencing systems. These improvements capture local air, digitize it, send it through the net to the other end, and then reproduces the smell. This is being done in conjunction with telemedicine calls because studies show that patients develop greater confidence and feel calmer when they experience ‘hospital smells’. That mélange of odors isn’t by accident. It’s actually a carefully contrived blend created by psychologists and marketing specialists over decades of study. It is the smell which makes people feel safer, more secure, and soothed.

Trippy, right? All this time, I thought the smells were an accidental by-product.

The second aspect of the technology is that it allows the healthcare practitioners to smell you. That aids them in their assessment about your state of health.

I can see that. Makes total sense. It’s also fake news. Yes, fiction. Made it all up. Yep, I lied.

2

Mom’s Call

I’d just been saying to my wife, “Getting hold of Mom is so hard.”

“Why?” She was peering over her glasses, typing on her computer. She’s always doing that – or reading or bathing (much time is spent in the bathtub reading) – so I’m not bothered by bothering her.

“She doesn’t text, or answer emails. I don’t think she checks her email every day or even every other day. She says she’s going to call back, but she doesn’t. She leaves a number but she doesn’t answer it. It doesn’t even go to her email.” I shook my head, dismayed by the recitation. Mom lives a continent away. Visiting her is a challenge. It’s rural on both ends. Rural meaning, no airports within an hour. Rural, meaning the flights to the nearest airport means travel days that begin and end in darkness on either end.

I’d just been saying/thinking these things when the phone rang. Suspicious of telemarketers – they’re focused on car warranties right now (meanwhile, I’m receiving solicitations about being cremated or getting my hearing tested in the mail) – I checked the number. “Mom’s number,” I said, answering the phone.

Hello was exchanged and I began my opening remarks. “How are you? I’ve been calling since you last called but I don’t get any answer.”

“Your father is dead.”

“Really?” Suspicions reared up. “You told me that three times before.”

“Twice. The other time was him.”

“No, he told you that he committed suicide.”

“It was a note.”

“Still, you called me and told me Dad was dead.”

“I thought he was.”

“That he’d killed himself.”

“I thought he had.”

I left the office to wander the house, a nervous habit I had when talking with Mom. “Even though there wasn’t a body.”

“I thought he was being thoughtful and had gone off and killed himself in the woods. He’s really dead this time.”

“Is there a body this time?”

“Yes.”

“I think I need third-party verification.”

“Your sister is here.”

“Which one?”

“Debby.”

“Debby? Really?”

“Yes, she came up to see us. She and the boys drove up. The got here last Thursday. She’s staying in the spare room. Her boys are staying with Jean. I think Jean got the better deal.”

“Probably.”

“Do you want to talk to her? She’ll tell you that your Dad is dead.”

I stopped at the living room back window. A blue jay was screeching in the back yard. Our black cat watched from atop a sunny knoll. “No, I don’t trust Debby any more than you.”

“I understand.”

I changed hands and thought. “What about my other sisters?”

“They’re not here.”

“Have you told them?”

“Yes. Jean is at work. She’s coming over when she gets off, after she picks up the boys. The boys are going to school from home. Rooming.”

“Zooming.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Is anyone there with them?”

“Yes, of course, Dibo.”

“Is he sober?”

“He says he is. Jean doesn’t have any alcohol in the house any longer. Dibo drank it all. She won’t let him buy more.”

“Where there’s a credit card, there’s a way.” I was quoting Mom from her previous calls.

“She took his credit cards away from him.”

“What about Jan?”

“I don’t think Dibo is drinking any more. He quit smoking, too, except for medical marijuana. He lost a lot of weight but now he’s gained most of it back.”

“Did you tell Jan?”

Mom hesitated. “No, I didn’t tell Jan.”

“Why not?”

“She has other things that she’s dealing with.”

“What?”

“Well, she got into an argument over a parking space. Apparently, some words were exchanged. Anyway, some people filmed it with their phones. Now they’re calling her Karen and she’s in jail for assault with a shopping cart.”

I sighed, trying to think of a response. I heard water running on the other end. Talking followed. “What’s going on?”

The talking continued. So did the water sounds. “Mom? Hello, Mom? It’s me, your son. You’re on the phone. Hello?”

Changing hands, I walked the house, listening and thinking.

Mom finally said, “Your father’s up. I need to make him dinner. I’ll call you later, okay? I love you, bye.”

She hung up before I replied. Pressing the phone’s off button, I walked back into the office where my wife continued typing.

“Was that your Mom?”

“Yes.”

“How is everything?”

“Dad is still alive. Debby is visiting, Dibo is straight, and Jan is in jail.”

“Same as last time.”

“Yep.” I sat in my office chair and swiveled it to the front window. A heavy sigh rolled up out of my chest. “Some day she’ll accept that Dad divorced her and the others don’t exist.” I always said that. It never happened. I just went along with it all.

“Phone calls will be a lot shorter.”

I stared out the front window, wistfully watching a man and woman walking a dog. They seemed so normal. But so did Mom. “Yes, they will.”

0

Car In A Dream

He awoke with a fast start. Pulse still hammering, heart palpitating in his chest, he kept still, eyes wide open, focused on the dark night around him, waiting for his eyesight to catch up.

Common sounds asserted themselves: others snoring throughout the house, including the dog on the floor and his wife beside him in the bed. Wind was kicking around something loose on the house, reminding him that he’d need to hunt the object down before it broke free. Something to do when daylight arrived, after the other winter chores were completed, something to complete while the sun shone and he paced himself until spring.

Sleep was not coming back soon. Lightly he unfurled the heavy blankets and quilts, untangled himself from his wife’s grasp, and slipped free. An icy floor met his soles. Shivers jumped through his body. Eyes finding form in the darkness, he eased out of the bedroom, past the old dog, and out into the kitchen.

A tabby was settled on the kitchen counter, watching him with still eyes. Drifting to the window, he peered out past the curtains and glass while he scratched the cat. It purred happy in response. He’d dreamed of cars again. The car in this dream had been from about 1980, although he thought he was living in 2021 when he dreamed it. Just speculation about that, as those dates felt elusive. He knew the car, though, green and low, was not like anything seen in this century. Cars were still to be invented. He shook his head at that. Cars were still to be invented, but seemed so real… If the car was from 1980, that was still one hundred twenty years away. Scratching his face, he prepared to return to bed.

He awoke with a fast start. Gaping at his familiar bedroom, he settled onto his side with a long sigh. He’d dreamed again that he was living on a farm in eighteen sixty. Breaking free of his wife and the cats huddling against him, he slipped out of bed and moved through the house. Night lights embedded in the walls helped guide him as he made his way to the garage and flipped on its lights. His BMW M1 reflected the scene in its gleaming green surfaces, including himself, staring at the car. For a moment, he saw himself as another person, the old farmer? And then another — the man from 2021?

Shutting the garage lights off, he returned to the house. Cats had followed him and now demanded food, attention, or both. Touching his wrist, he woke his Backhand. “Show me today’s dreams,” he said, amending, “from the last two hours.” The dreams paraded by until the green car arrived. “Freeze.” He drank it in. “Enlarge the driver’s face. Clarify and sharpen.” He squinted as it grew in size, trying to decide if it was him, the man from 1860, or the guy from 2021.

Were they — he — all the same?

He closed the dream. Either something — worlds — were coming together, or something — the divide between worlds? — was coming apart. Maybe something else, like his sanity, was coming apart. Padding down the hall, ambivalence slowed him. He wasn’t certain he wanted to return to bed, wasn’t certain if he wanted to return to sleep. For to sleep meant to dream, and he was becoming worried about where his dreams might next take him.

2

The Finds (2)

“Shit! Shit!” Scratched, exhausted, and dehydrated, Bruce fell to his knees and stared. There was no air yacht. There was nothing but an empty field of lightly waving weeds. “Shit.”

Trotting ahead, Jasper the dog paused to look back at him. Bruce let himself sink to his knees. That whole climb up, he’d been going through ideas about what an air yacht looked like. Between those ideas, he’d rested, questioning if there wasn’t a better way to get up the damn hill, and entertained ideas about the couple and their demise. Seemed weirder as he thought about it. As weird, the dog didn’t seem to care. The dog, in fact, appeared to have the best grasp of events.

Now, up here at almost dusk, knees quaking, back aching, stomach rumbling, Bruce wanted to spew. Stupid of him. Stupid. Jerking weeds out, he tossed them aside in anger. “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.” So erudite. His teachers and parents would be proud. Maneuvering to sit, he pulled out his water. The dog was still watching him, like he was waiting. “What?” Bruce called. “What?” Now he’d have a dog following him. Getting food and water for himself was enough struggle without adding a canine mouth to feed. Fuck. He should have never gotten involved. Should’ve just kept walking. That would teach him to be humane to another. Never again, no, never again.

Standing, he remembered the fob, peered around, and dug it out of his pocket. Nothing special, just one of those made for keyless entry to cars. Light gold, it had three buttons, none marked. What the hell, he decided, pressing the top button.

A series of short tones sang through the air, then the side of a vehicle appeared. Vehicle? Forty, fifty feet long…yeah, “A yacht,” he scoffed. “What the hell?” Gawking as Jasper trotted toward it, Bruce stumbled forward. The thing was tall, like three stories (levels?). Lights were on. It had a porch running most of its length. Steps led up onto the porch, where there was an open door. Jasper was just going through that.

“What the hell.” Suspicious, Bruce put a hand on the old man’s gun and exercised a slow three sixty of the area. No others were around. It was cooling as the sun turned red and drooped toward the horizon, less like it was done and more like it was giving up. Yeah, what the hell.

Pulling the gun out (may as well, in case he needs it) (and hoping he didn’t shoot himself — he really wasn’t comfortable with guns), he sucked in a few deep breaths and strode for the vehicle’s door.

0

The Finds

The sight ahead drew Bruce out of his inner world and back to reality. It could be an ambush.

Damn it. It’d been a good day (part of a good week) till now. Decent weather (upper sixties, and the wind and rain had passed), and no smoke.

Copping a squat, he considered the pile ahead. It resembled a human in clothes. He’d been walking down here to avoid humans. Zombies and survivors…neither were usually good company. He wasn’t much as ambush prey. Did have a gun (two, actually), some rounds, food (mostly energy bars, nuts, and dried fruit), a little water. Not substantial quantities.

Ravine walls thick with grasses, bushes, and brambles rose on two sides. Yeah, perfect place to take the easily beguiled.

The pile wasn’t moving.

Sighing, he put away the trail mix he’d been munching to free his hands, pulled the handgun out, and cursed. He was off the roads and highways because he was non-confrontational, didn’t have many rounds, and wasn’t a great marksman. He also wasn’t a good Samaritan. Heaving heavy sighs, he shifted his backpack and crept forward.

The pile didn’t move. A wind decided to add mischief to the leaves and bushes. He hoped to hell it was the wind, and not someone getting ready to get him.

Yeah, the pile was a human, female in jeans with a torn light blue shirt and jacket, non-zombie, but probably not alive. Blonde. White. Brown eyes were staring, and all that blood. Maybe forty or fifty years old, or somewhere in that zone. Not dead long. No animals had visited. Only touching her could tell him more.

He gazed up. She’d probably fallen from above. Pushed? Why would anyone be up there? What was up there?

With slow awareness, he realized something was not far from him. Pulse shifting to a faster speed, he turned and stood.

Dog.

The animal (a lab? — he didn’t know these things) regarded him, tail down. It looked decently healthy and had a collar and tags. No pack was around, although that didn’t stop his guts from nervously squalling.

“Nice puppy.” His voice caught on a rasp. Been how long since he’d last spoken?

The dog flicked the tail once or twice and turned away, but kept looking back.

Follow? Really?

Bruce tapped his foot in his head, debating choices, uncomfortable with where the dog might lead him. The dog seemed patient, insistent, and intelligent.

“Okay, Lassie.” He walked after the dog. “Lead on.” He’d shoot the dog first if it led him to a trap. Well, that would depend, wouldn’t it?

The dog disappeared past some trees. Bruce took his time following. Rounding the trunks, he hunkered down and peeked around them like a child playing a game.

A man was on the ground. The dog was beside him, looking back at Bruce.

Man, woman, and dog, Bruce thought, putting things together. No ambush. He moved forward.

The man moved. A gun was in his hand but he didn’t raise it. A noise between sigh and grunt, word and pain, oozed free of him.

Bruce approached. “Hello.”

The man opened and closed his eyes, then opened and closed his mouth, adam’s apple jerking. A canteen was at hand. Bruce approached it, saw it open, and picked it up. It sloshed. Bending, he wet the man’s lips. “Hey. Hey.” He didn’t know what else to say.

From the pale, wan face, thin silver hair, and sunken cheeks, Bruce guessed him seventy something. The clothes told of some wealth (as did that watch).

The man responded to the water. Bruce trickled a little into the man’s mouth. “Thank you,” the man said. He closed his eyes. They snapped back open. “My wife. Carrie. She…”

“Blonde white woman, about forty to fifty, wearing jeans?” Like there could be anyone else. “I think I found her.”

The man’s expression shifted through hope to understanding. “Okay. Okay.” Tears threaded out of his eyes and down the sides of his face. “This is the way. I fell. Down the side. She was trying.” Eyes closing, he shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.”

Bruce wondered. Where could he take him? What could he do? “Where are you hurt?” Could he get help? “What…” He swallowed. “What can I do?”

“Nothing.” The man smiled. “No use. Back. Legs. Insides. I’m a mass of hurt. Oh, well, it was good until now. Can you…”

“What?”

The man marshalled himself. “Bring her here? That possible?”

Bruce shuddered inside. He should just walk the fuck away. He should have never come over. He breathed out. “Okay. Okay. Sure.”

Hating the decision and himself for what he was doing, he tucked his gun into his pants took off his backpack. Retracing the way, he found the woman again. First, well, check. Yes, dead.

Trembles rolled through him. He hated touching the dead. Yeah, it didn’t make sense, but that’s how he was.

Realizations caught. She was still a little warm and pliant. Jesus, she could not have been dead long. He wondered what’d killed her. There was a lot of blood.

Bile rose. He didn’t want to get blood on himself.

Really? How fucking pathetic was he? He didn’t want to just drag her, either. That seemed just…wrong.

After sucking in three breaths, he squared himself, bent, and picked her up. She was so light, he almost sagged in amazement. Poor person, to die out here like this. That was the world but it didn’t make things any better.

He carried her back with no problem. The dog greeted him.

“That’s Jasper,” the man said. “Thank you for doing this. Now. Put her. Here. Beside me. Please.” As Bruce did, the man smiled. “Thank you. Thank you.”

Tears were storming down his face. “Okay, two other things, but I’ll reward you,” the man said.

Bruce knew what was coming. “Wait. What’s your name? I’m Bruce.”

“Bruce, I am Jerome. Thank you again, for what you’ve done. Now, if you can do more…”

Bruce knew what was coming. “I don’t know.” He glanced at Jasper. “Won’t your dog object?”

“Oh, I talked to Jasper while you were away getting Carrie. He understands it, probably better than us. Just aim at the chest, you know? I don’t know if I can be saved or not, but I figure, a world without Carrie isn’t where I want to be, not the way it’s turned to shit.” His voice was thinning. Jerome coughed, then pursed his lips for several seconds. “You can have my air yacht in return.”

“Your what?”

“Up the top of the hill. It’s yours. Take it. Live, survive.”

“Okay.” What the the hell was an air yacht?

“And if you can, well, find my children. Son and daughter. They don’t speak with me. Didn’t care for Carrie. Were angry, which made me angry. In hindsight, which is all that’s left, it’s stupid of me and them. We all thought there was more time, but here we are.”

Jerome cleared his throat. “I’m asking a lot. The list just keeps growing. Kill me. Take care of Jasper. Find my son and daughter, Gerald and Jeanine. Their locations are in the yacht’s computer. That’ll give you guidance. It’s up to you, but I’d like it if you can find them, tell them what happened to me and Carrie, so they know.” He settled his gaze on Bruce. “I know I put a lot on you. You can promise anything, of course, and then do whatever you want. I understand that. The air yacht’s loaded with food and drink. It’s comfortable and secure.”

“I never heard of an air yacht. How will I fly it?”

“Oh, it flies itself. It’s at the top of this bluff. I think you can get up there. Fob is in my pocket. Opens all the doors, and turns everything on. It’s yours, Bruce. Just finish the job here, and take care of Jasper, please. He’s a good dog.”

Shadows were claiming the ravine by the time Bruce complied with Jerome’s request. Afterward, the dog went to the man, sniffing him and licking his face for a bit before turning away and joining Bruce. The dog’s humanity impressed Bruce.

He took the fob, along with Jerome’s watch and gun, all with regret. Then, speaking to himself as much as the dog, he squared himself and looked up. “How the hell are we supposed to get up there?”

Jasper responded like he knew. Heading for a path, he paused, looking back and waiting for Bruce to follow. Bruce tucked Jerome’s gun into his pack and swung it up onto his shoulders. Another long look was granted to the dead man and his spouse. He considered burying them.

He’d already buried so many, he was weary of it. Did that change anything? No, but he had nothing to dig with. “I’m sorry, Jerome. I really am.”

Life sucked enormously, yet it seemed like his was looking up. “Lead on, Jasper,” he said, then began following the dog up the side.

0

Steelers Deodorant

Someone brought me some Pittsburgh Steelers deodorant. They know I’m a fan. They thought it was funny.

Coming in a black and gold container, it’s called “Steel Curtain”. Likenesses of Joe Greene, Troy Polamalu, James Harrison, and Ben Roethlisberger share the label.

I like it. The little paper that came with the box said it was formulated “through a variety of hands-on experiences” with the team. They were thorough, talking about “capturing the essence of watching film with Ben Roethlisberger in the quarterbacks room,” “the gritty combinations of linemen working out and running during OTAs,” and “the musky scent of proud men celebrating victory in the locker room,” among other aspects.

Yes, I catch some of that in its smell. It’s earthy, slightly woody to me, with a tincture of soggy, muddy grass and complex undertones of sweaty clothing, a spit of coppery blood, and the sharper, almost ethereal tang of victory. When I roll it on after my shower, my confidence vaults to higher levels. I’m ready to spring a hundred yard run. Passers-by are in danger of being tackled. The cats get wild-eyed as I sprint around the house, stiff-arming imaginary defenders, spiking the ball in the end zone, and loosing unbridled celebratory shouts.

My wife, on the other hand, raised her eyebrows at me. “What’s that smell?”

“What smell?”

Setting down her laptop, she’s glancing around. “Did something die in here?” She wrinkles up her face. “Did a cat shit in the corner?”

I sniff with indignation. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

* NOTE: This is not a real product, that I know of. I’m kind of surprised. I figured someone would’ve been all having unique deodorants, or maybe colognes for all professional teams in the U.S. Maybe they do exist. If they do, I’m sure I would’ve seen commercials or adverts. I could google it, but I’m a writer and prone to lazy fantasizing, not working.

2

One Human

My name is not Max, the cat said. 

The humans didn’t hear him, as he expected.  They didn’t speak mindspeak, twittering like, well, frustrated birds or herds of exasperated animals.

Across the room, the other cat looked at him and asked, What is your name, again?

Horatio, Horatio answered again although he knew the other was teasing him.

The other’s cat name was Cicero but the people who cared for him called him Wally.

What difference does it make?  Cicero asked.

You tell me, Wally, Horatio replied.

Glowering at him, Cicero jumped up with a mew and ran off.

That is the problem, Horatio thought.  It wasn’t that Max was a moniker encumbered with staid and unimaginative connotations and expectations and ladened with boredom, it was that humans refused to learn.  Their blind misunderstanding of the world and how it operates was growing.  If they didn’t change their course of thinking, they would move away from the ability to learn.

It wasn’t always so.  He’d last lived with Bob until Bob had decided to accept Death’s invitation and move on to the next plain.  Bob had understood mindspeak with some rudimentary ability.  Humans had misunderstood his skill’s significance.  They called him a cat whisperer.  He laughed at that, knowing that he heard other animals besides cats and sometimes understood pieces of what the trees said.  He knew his mindspeak’s skills and limitations but he was trying.  Most humans never tried until Death spoke to them with mindspeak.  They heard her well enough, but that was partly because Death and her tribe of speakers were wonderfully talented and persistent.

It vexed Horatio and the rest that humans couldn’t hear more of them, couldn’t grasp what the winds said and the trees’ answered.  Tthe oceans and seas talked and all the humans did was breath in the air without understanding the words, dismissing the waves when they broke and roared with frustration.  They looked up at the sun and moon without hearing what they said.  They dismissed the rivers, creeks and streams’ discussions, hearing only their travel.  The birds, oldest, most patient and intelligent, always attempted to communicate with the humans via mindspeak, then sang and chattered at them when the humans failed responding.  Humans often answered with condescending comments like, “What a lovely song,” then, knowing they had the human’s attention, would address them with mindspeak again, only to be ignored.

The birds were patient.  That’s why they were the world’s teachers and much more philosophical about it than he, Horatio.  Indeed, Horatio knew, he was more passionate about forcing humans into using mindspeak because he saw how disconnected they were becoming from the world’s conversations.  The birds saw it, too, but told Horatio, It is their own failing and if they don’t change and learn, they’ll become like the dinosaurs and volcanos.

Very true, Horatio knew.  Most animals didn’t care.  They were resigned to the humans never understanding and fell back on the Old Words, barking, meowing, mooing and howling. Horatio tried avoiding doing so.

“Max,” Brian called again.  “Where are you, buddy?  It’s time for your pill.”

Indeed, Horatio thought.  Brian was well-meaning but Horatio longed to make him understand that this pill did naught for his health and was actually interfering with the healing process.  But he’d come to Brian after Bob moved on because sometimes, in the night, he heard Brian whispering mindspeak and sometimes, when Horatio said something in mindspeak to Brian, Brian looked at him and said, “What is it, buddy?  Why are you looking at me like that?” No, no, Horatio replied.  Use your mindspeak and answer me.

Brian never did but Horatio held out hope.

Talk to him, Horatio, Bob said from his other life plain.  Don’t give up.  I knew mindspeak as a child but then unlearned it before I learned it again.  I never would have learned it if Devenus had not taken the time to teach me.  Brian is just like me.  Talk to him, Horatio.  Help Brian understand.

You’re right, Bob, Horatio answered, accepting that Bob was absolutely right.  If the humans were to learn at all, it would be one human at a time.  I’m in here, Brian, Horatio said in mindspeak.  I’m in your office in your chair.

He heard Brian’s thumping heavy walk come down the hall.  Brian’s head popped around the door jamb.  He looked right at Horatio in the chair by the desk.  “There are you, Max,” Brian said with a broad smile.

Clearly Brian had heard him without knowing.  Sighing, Horatio stood and stretched.  Yes, Brian had promise.  If he was going to develop further, though, Horatio would need to work with him.  He’d need to build a rapport and use the birds’ patience.

Yes, here I am, he said, jumping down and walking to Brian, adding, “Meow,” knowing it pleasured Brian.  Give me the pill even though I know it’s useless.  I will take it without a fight, to make you happy.  Then I will teach you.

Let your lessons begin.

3

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