Monday | Lunchtime |
My injuries make me feel kinda drunk all the time, just what I always wanted. I have some cargo pants layered over my jeans and a giant stretched out sweatshirt I found in a pile behind the Salvation Army, like I'm the Hulk just turned human, but when I was in the Safeway, people didn't even bother to look at me funny. I'm invisible.
Stupid people. I couldn't afford wine anyway. I walked out with a thing of boloney and 77 cents to my name.
As soon as I got outside, I tore the package open and started eating. My stomach shrinks the longer I barely eat. I have to fill it as often as I can, so I stopped when half the meat was gone. I was still hungry, but I had to stuff the rest in my pocket for later, because it's bad to eat nothing for too long.
I found where I parked the cart I traded my company car for, where I keep my new drum kit.
Afternoon |
The five gallon buckets I turn over to make my ghetto drum set are the same kind I once used to make my bathroom buckets in the storage space.
The park I picked to play in is only a few blocks from the office where I spent all those hours trying to understand the system, where I learned that the system doesn't have any eyes in the park. I'm off the grid.
This was always an option, but my cardboard sign doesn't say "Why lie? It's for beer."
THE COMPUTER PROGRAMS AND
BASS PLAYERS ARE TAKING OVER
HELP AN ESCAPED HUMAN STAY FREE
That sums it up pretty well.
I should keep playing, make more money for dinner. I took a break to write, but even after the rest of the baloney, I'm still pretty fucking hungry.
With the sticks in my hands, I feel like my real self again, but my arms are killing me after playing less than an hour. I need to remember to stretch first. I thought it was the hospital making me weak, but this pain is inside my own body and goes with me everywhere. I switched places with Ricky, gave him my key to the company apartment, so I can't even get back in there. Besides, if the cameras catch me sleeping this off, Harry's gonna force me to work for him again. I won't let him take me back, just to give the system something to watch so it can learn how humans think, so it can take control of more stuff. The money I earn playing drums on the street has to keep me going. Let's see what I've got in the cup.
1 dollar and 83 cents, not even enough for more boloney. This is-- fuck everything.
Some guy in a suit and dark glasses was here earlier watching me, but Harry doesn't need guys like that, and the guy didn't put anything in the cup.
Guys shuffle by in shirts that cost more than enough to feed me for a month, but they don't drop change, don't even stop to hear the music. Those are the same kind of guys who filled the neighboring offices when I was in dispatch. They're still up there, moving imaginary money back and forth, looking down on me from every window of all these tall buildings.
I know how they live. I've been on the 21st floor, but I got free, and they're still slaves.
I regret I'm the only one from the company who made it out. I think about the people I left behind. The programmers really aren't that bad. For their own reasons, they do what they're told. I guess that's their choice, but they don't know Harry. All it takes is one asshole in charge, telling them to do the wrong things, to ruin everything.
Now that I found a way away from that, I could go back and show them they don't have to listen.
When I think about it, Harry's always been a dick, back to when he wouldn't share his weed the first time I met him. Casimir didn't change him, not like that time in the band changed me, not like hearing us play changed the Dude. The only thing that kept him from taking over in the old days was Casimir. Then there was the Dude keeping him in check. Now there's not even the weed to hold back his warped aggression.
There are too many people like Harry who don't give a fuck about anybody else. The world is fucked because those are the only guys who are gonna do whatever it takes to control the lives of other people. The worst thing is, I helped Harry take over the programs and the programmers. I thought he was my friend, but I can't respect myself with friends like that.
And he's still out there building that fucking system. What's he changing about it to get to "the market" he was talking about? What's the system designed to be for? I still have no idea why the Dude came up with it in the first place -- what its purpose used to be -- so I can't even guess what can Harry do with it now.
Maybe he was talking about the stock market. He might send the system to infiltrate there, but it wouldn't work for stealing money. Whatever other networks it gets into, whatever cameras the system figures out how to look through, it'll still just be programs knowing what's going on around them.
Who would need that? Computers to replace night watchmen? The cops are definitely gonna want this tech. So will the FBI and all those other agencies. They'll have a bidding war. The military could stick it on robots, and we'd all be fucked. No, the really scary thing is if it's another company like ours, run by a dick who does whatever he wants to whoever gets in his way and nobody even knows about it.
I have to go back and stop the system before that happens, but I don't have to wander in blind. I have Roger's number in my phone. He can help me sort things out. He was a driver, and he worked with HANS for a while, the same as me. I bet he knows a bunch about what's going on with the system, the company and the programmers.
"Hi, Oscar." It didn't sound like Roger was happy to hear my voice. That was a bad sign.
"What's going on over there?"
"Everything is different. Someone called Harry took over, and he's watching everyone through the computers. Creepy, right?"
We all monitored people from dispatch, but somehow this was different. "Yeah, he is."
"I'm still driving, but I'm the last one. Harry asked me to stick around until you came back."
"I'm coming back now." I felt bad. "Will you get fired because of me?"
"I'll resign. I don't mind so much since the company started treating people like livestock." He kept talking, pain creeping into his voice. "My life is my own. I won't be processed, pushed around, indexed or filed. I'm a free man."
I thought it was bad before. "I like your attitude, Roger. Good luck out there."
"I've already got something lined up, actually." He sighed. "It's a serious job, back in finance. I think I'll have a better attitude about the stress this time. Driving these past three years has helped clear my head. Good luck to you too."
Finance. So that's where he came from. That explains why he dresses better than most of the guys up in those offices.
