A Good Day's Work
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| Synchrorealities, Inc |
The hovercab descended to the curb just long enough for Jereth to step out, then dashed away, the driver proud of his speed and accuracy. Jereth adjusted his pink mohair sweater – he'd been told to dress 'business formal', and this was his best outfit – and looked up at the building that housed today's appointment.
He looked up…and up. Synchrorealities, Inc, covered a lot of celestial territory – the Air Corps considered the campus a no-fly zone. Jereth craned his neck to appreciate the headquarters in all its retrogothic glory. He'd passed it many a time, but today, he was invited in. All the way to the 42nd floor. He shouldered his conservative tartan rucksack – he'd bought it especially for the occasion, to seem more businesslike – and headed for the entrance. The brass-bound revolving door moved with satisfying slowness and a slight whoosh of its rubber gaskets. Take your time, it said. Enjoy the experience. It won't last long enough. Jereth entered the vaulted mezzanine, paused for a moment to gawk (he couldn't help it, he was a sucker for stone arches), then hurried through the wrought-iron gates with their quote about the stars being new, and presented his invitation to the uniformed chauffeur at the special lift that went all the way up. The chauffeur studied the gilt-edged pasteboard, favoured Jereth with a superior smile, and took a large brass key from his kangaroo pocket. He turned it in the panel, pulled the gated door shut, and away it sped, upwards, towards the sky, a metal merkabah containing a hopeful newcomer and his dreams.
When the lift opened again, Jereth was greeted by the man himself: Ottokar Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum, looking dignified in his khaki shorts and safari vest bearing the logo of Synchrorealities – two hands drawing one another. He smiled broadly as he shook Jereth's unresisting hand.
'Jereth Cheloweth, I presume? So glad you could come. Step this way. I imagine you would like to have a look at our view before you begin work?' Jereth gulped – not only because a look out these windows was exactly what he'd been wanting ever since, say, he was old enough to want anything besides a bottle of milk, but also because he was overwhelmed by being in the presence of true greatness. Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum was a household name. Graciously acknowledging Jereth's awkward nod, the director took him on a tour of the office, which was surprisingly quiet, with only a few workers, and led him from window to window, allowing Jereth to gaze his fill at the skyscraper view of the city in which he had pent most of his life, now made small and unfamiliar beneath the mist. When an eagle soared past at eye level, Jereth started, and then blushed, but the director laughed. 'I never get used to that, either,' he admitted in a friendly way. When the tour was over, and Jereth had recovered his breath, Dr Weisheit vom Frelichtmuseum led him into an inner office, where a bright-eyed young man in company uniform offered him a cup of excellent Jav-o-Moque. He accepted with an inner thrill of unwonted privilege.
Dr Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum made himself comfortable in the e-z-chair opposite Jereth. When they had both sipped and appreciated their Jav-o-Moques, pouring the obligatory libations into the enameled saucer that was placed on the floor beside the kafftable for the purpose, the director eased himself back into his chair, gesturing for Jereth to do the same. Jereth, however, sat upright at first, rummaging hastily through his rucksack.
'I've brought some sketches for you,' he stammered. 'They may not be up to the high-type standard you're used to, but…'
Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum made a demurring gesture. That gesture alone is worth millions, thought Jereth. He must practice before a mirror. The director smiled. 'Rough sketches are our favourites,' he explained. 'They are so much closer to the original thought than a more polished version – closer to the original yitzirach, don't you know. Thank you for bringing them.' With another priceless gesture of graciousness, he took Jereth's sketches, the product of many sleepless nights, and, barely glancing at them, handed them to his assistant, who promptly vanished through a side door. He leaned back again, clasping folded hands over crossed knees. 'Now, Jereth,' he smiled encouragingly. 'I am ready to listen. Begin at the beginning, please.'
Thus emboldened, Jereth finally allowed himself to sink back into the really very beautiful e-z-chair, and gave himself just a few seconds to appreciate the softness of its angora damask cushions. The secret to weaving these cushions was a closely-guarded treasure of the Catawba Tribe of Sawdie Daisy, Tennetucky, he knew. Obviously, Synchrorealities, Inc, supported only the best of native craftsmanship. But the director must be waiting. Jereth took a deep breath, and began his recital.
I was born on the North Side of the city, in Gheniville. It wasn't like it is now, all gentrified. It was sort of a slum, full of Walesians, like me, and Germanoslavs. Most of our dads worked in the mills, rolling synthosteel, and our moms stayed at home. The first memory I have was when the little boy next door – about two years old, like me – set fire to the grass with a sparkler on the 4th of Juneteenth. You know, I don't remember thinking in words back then. I just had this picture in my head, you know, of what might happen, and I ran and told my mother...in my memory, the grass looked brown, and the trees, not really brown, maybe sort of sepia, but the fire…the fire was bright yellow, you know, I think that's when I first noticed colour…
Dr Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum nodded intently as Jereth went on, from his early childhood memories, the train that used to come by the house at 3 a.m., and how he got out of bed and opened the door to watch and listen better, and how it scared his dad…on to first grade, the pretty little girl who sat next to him the first day, how her name was Barbara and he thought that was a cool name to spell, b-a-r-b-a-r-a, a pleasing pattern…on through sports and movies and stray thoughts and first loves and firsts of all kinds…and lasts…last kisses, last times to see loved ones before they died, last glimpse of the vintage airplane he'd flown in before the hurricane broke it in half, last view of the skyscraper in Nueva Amsterdami before it pancaked flat in an apocalyptic cloud…on and on, memory upon memory, big and small…the director nodding and the intercom open on the kafftable…
Somewhere during the recital, there was lunch. Jereth was almost too excited to eat, but the delicate flavor of the sandwich – the best ham-and-cheese sandwich he had ever tasted – distracted him for a few minutes. The pickle, even in a city known for its fine pickles, was a revelation. After this meal and a few swallows of Cohola, Jereth plunged in again – describing work, play, love, loss…his listener seemed rapt, although Jereth thought, he must have something more important to do.
Hours later, Jereth was finished. When he came up for air, it was as if he were seeing the room – and Dr Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum – for the first time. The light had shifted. It was afternoon. Dr Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum clapped his hands in satisfaction, and the assistant came from the other room, carrying the most unusual book Jereth had ever seen. The director smiled.
'Jereth, that was splendid,' he said warmly. 'Let's see what we have, shall we?' He held out the book. Jereth took it.
It was made of heavy black cloth, stiff and ridged, with a red sort of oilcloth sewn around the edges – to protect the pages, Jereth thought. The book, about the size of his laptop screen, bulged. On the cover was the title, Jereth Cheloweth, Memories. Inside, each page was a collage of photos, sketches from Jereth's sketchbook, realia such as train tickets and ID cards (Where did they get them? Jereth wondered), all stapled to the ridged cloth. The images on each page were arranged intuitively rather than consecutively. One page, for example, held pictures of girls and women from Jereth's recital. Barbara was there, a six-year-old with a gap- toothed grin and a pageboy cut, alongside a glamorous vamp Jereth barely remembered from his road trip in Romania…Jereth turned over the pages, amazed, and rediscovered his own story.
Dr Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum pointed out pages that particularly pleased him. 'I love this one,' he said of the double travel page with its stamped passport, tickets, and photo collage. 'It speaks to the need in all of us to find common ground amid new experiences. You've done well here.' They sat for an hour, going over the book. Jereth felt a glow of satisfaction. These people chose me, he thought. And they're experts. They knew what they were doing.
At last they were done. Dr Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum walked Jereth to the lift and shook his hand. 'I want to thank you,' he said simply and sincerely. 'Your work has been vital to our enterprise. Here at Synchrorealities, Inc, we appreciate good quality.' He chuckled at a private joke. 'The cheque is not in the mail. The million postcreds have already been credited to your account. You may withdraw any funds you need immediately.'
The chauffeur was holding the lift door, but Jereth hesitated at the threshold, unwilling to leave. 'Er, Dr Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum? I really enjoyed this.'
Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum nodded genially. 'I know. And you wish you could work with us some more.' He sighed. 'I'm sorry. You really have helped us a lot. But it's one day to a contractor, I'm afraid.' He smiled gently. 'Look at it this way,' he suggested. 'You never have to work again.' He clasped Jereth's hand one last time. 'You have done a good day's work. Good- bye.'
Standing outside the towering building, Jereth looked up at it once again, nostalgic already for his one great experience with it. I have to remember it all, he thought. I have to tell Marika all about it. She'll be thrilled.
The man with the million-dollar memory turned on his heel and went to hail a hovercab back to Gheniville.
I said the ghost of Philip K Dick haunted my dreams. I didn't say he had the last word.
That man never let his heroes have a good time. Or get paid.
I may not be PK Dick. But I'm nicer than that.
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