by Stanley Lieber
"Do you put on your data gloves before or after you piss in the morning?"
There was a reason SL didn’t attend these meetings. Hadn’t, since he’d arrived. He’d been warned in advance.
"Both," he interjected. Of course, he’d take them off to piss. Unlike these cretins, he guessed.
He stood up to leave.
No paper today. Something about a general strike. Apparently only observed by the press.
Otherwise, exactly the same. Tea, eggs, stretch, walk, linger, watch, walk, stretch, sit. His rhythm barely broken by the absence of printed nothingness. Maybe he should save his money.
Welcoming faces down at the VFW. He shot some pool, asked the old men questions about California. They were generous with their stories. One of them had been to the Mission District before they got rid of the bars. A place with comic books varnished to the men’s room walls.
None of them used anymore.
SL had never served so he didn’t have much to contribute in return. He’d mention his father and they’d nod. It was usually good for a couple of drinks.
By Christmas time this place would be full of kids trying to climb onto Santa’s lap, but today it was just a bunch of guys trying not to mention the Internet.
What had really happened back in 1993? By early October the war had kicked off in earnest, but no one seemed to realize it yet. At first the change was gradual, then accelerated smoothly until even before the reboot, continuity was arcing, spiraling gregariously out of control. New voices, new talent. No longer the staid, predictable march from trope to cliché to signature recurring boredom. This was all new. Here was the final dissolution of reading comprehension— e pluribus nullus—ad infinitum.
For SL’s part, he was glad the paper was back in print. It gave him something to do with his hands.
VETERANS OF FOREIGN WIDE AREA NETWORKS
SL stared at the tarnished plaque while the other guys took their shots. He guessed this was an example of their oft remarked upon humor. He missed the jokes they were making in real time while he was busy standing slack-jawed. Someone had just mentioned "Bay Area rents," and the place fell silent as a pre-war visor.
SL edged his way out of the room and made for the front door.
This wasn’t his fight.
Back at the hotel, SL fidgeted nervously, unsure if he should break into his emergency supply of disposables. He’d been doing so well these past weeks. Not even checking his stocks. Here he was contemplating an entire evening drowning his many sorrows in everything he’d been missing during the interim. Like nothing at all had changed.
Well, it hadn’t.