Promethean: Chapter 4
Disinterment
Follow these links to read: Front Matter & Ch. 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7,
The front desk gave their condolences, and when they repeated his name, he knew his destiny was to live as one unchained. He had been existing for inane employment, buying lavish junk to fill space, saving for a future that was not his. He wanted to sell it all and venture inward, by-and-by discovering that thing he had not witnessed anyone find: themselves. For everyone he had ever known was moved by invisible strings threaded through their unconscious, spooled out and woven into an inhuman omniscience. But of those long dead, who dared to master that inner, swimming, all-consuming something, whose stories were hushed and spoken softly to him in childhood, such individuals were legends. Women and men bound by a leftmost edge whose leaves were turned eternally by hands that withered until arthritic, then in a last grasp passed to the next generation as if told “be not like me but them therein, those who’ve lived.” Among these, he wished to be known; greats who braved grave consequences for shirking society’s standards to hold their own risking being thrown to the sharks as a sinner or as a saint be throned. He would drown at his own helm if needed; better to die with saltwater in his throat than breathe sanitized machine exhaust circulated as a sanative. First, he knew, this current, manipulated, and vile version of himself must die, and should his true self die too, so be it; better that than be among the dead, assigned a ponderous purpose.
Thus began his sale of secondhand stuff, bidding his shell so long. Furniture and gadgets departed as masses came and carried off parts and pieces of a dying man. Scavengers surviving the wasteland, stumbling on an oasis of materials to be known by; hi-tech hermits hiding in another’s junk. Upgrades, growth, identity, as they saw it. Bit by bit and box by box, dispersed all he knew himself to be, unmolding a misshapen, ugly, fragile thing. A form adopted by oozing between contraptions, table ends, and televisions, coffee makers and chairs, silk sheets and throw pillows, shoes, clothes, and dresser drawers; things he had been told to be. Confinement in a casket of chattels.
His space was empty by the end of the day; a lifeless cavity—all it ever was—the reason he was always filling it with stuff. Laden with credits from selling possessions, not wanting to leave a trace of himself, he went to the bank to empty his accounts. He had never made such a withdrawal. Never had a reason to, most everything was provided. But shopping afforded a unique experience: that of finding something new; a primal drive collared by the gathering of credits and hunting of novelties. Common purchases were made with an identifying smile and an immediate reduction in funds. Some markets accepted only hand-to-hand transfers, another kind of captured primal experience. These places he had never been, ruling them off limits; a personal restriction because he was always seeking a more esteemed ribbon, and though they were lawful, being a patron inhibited his chances of promotion.
At the counter, counting credits, the teller asked if he was buying the newest innovation. But she gave a wink, indicating she knew where the sum would soon be heading: the casinos and brothels. She slid the stack of cash to him and said, “Have fun.” It was a fair sum for the single safety officer, but he was not swimming in dough. For that matter, none of his estate was swimming in anything; it had been outlawed for a century for being too risky and a waste. The closest he had ever come was when Weaver’s showed a matinee of Poseidon, which made him feel like a fish-god for a day.
“You’re assuming where it’ll be spent,” he said to the bank teller, “but this cannot buy what I’m after because money cheapens needs… whatever those might be.”
Tilting her head bemused, she said, “Well, sir, you’ve been a great customer, so if in the future you need another loan or advisor, we would be glad to have you back, even if this total withdrawal has demoted your ribbon status. Plenty of men and women go off on little outings,” she paused and grinned, “and when they get back, the responsible ones like you make up lost time fast. Until we meet again.”
He nodded and waved, knowing she meant the lenders had already made heaps from his shoulders. He was a reliable beast of burden who could carry a load with interest, but in that strain, he learned their game, becoming a prudent mule who saved and put away. The door closed, and he thought how amusing is the animal who plans for their grave. Becoming a sumpter once more, tightening his pack’s straps, he estimated the newfangled currency’s weight, and, thinking it was light, concluded the load was a sign of the times and state.
Chapter 5