The Brummagem Clan Ablated by Fred Ollinger	Biography and Bibliography Table of Contents part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4
part 3 of 4

Beverly spent the whole day thinking about Joe. She pulled his picture off his company website and pasted it on top of every client’s face. It must have improved her performance because the tips she got were much bigger than usual.

After a hard day’s work, she planned on staying in and spending her extra money at online clothing stores, but when she got home, Anida was waiting for her.

She had changed out of her business suit into a fluorescent green halter top with matching shorts. Her face was covered with a bright orange beauty mask. Her feet were soaking in a pan. Next to the pan was the box of detox salts.

Looking at Anida always made Beverly feel inadequate. Everything about her was perfect. Beverly hadn’t seen a single flaw marring her roommate’s coffee-colored skin. She was on the thin side, but she didn’t look anorexic; she was filled out where guys cared the most. Her beauty didn’t make her stuck up. She was nonchalant about her looks while in public. At home she spent a lot of time taking care of herself, but she was always quick to share her beauty secrets with Beverly.

Today, by the look of her face, Beverly was sure she wasn’t waiting to swap make-up tips. Anida’s thin eyebrows were wrinkled and pointed down. She sat poised on the edge of the couch as if she were going to jump up and attack any second. The whole ugly morning came back to Beverly.

“Hi, Anida,” said Beverly with a smile that she hoped didn’t look too forced, “I guess you met Joe. I think he might be the one.”

“Joe,” said Anida as if it were a curse word.

“Sorry about the towel. I have to do laundry tonight.”

“Sit down, we have to talk.”

Beverly remained standing.

“First of all, dear, this isn’t just about the towel. I was late for work. I could lose my job.”

Beverly knew that wasn’t true. Anida had never been late even once in her life. Still she said, “I know. I’m sorry. But Joe?”

“But Joe,” Anida mimicked in a high-pitched voice. “But Joe nothing. That skinny white boy dripped water all over the place. He’s really classy. I tripped and hit my bad knee on the toilet.”

“I said I was sorry! What do you want me to do? Why can’t you be happy for me? I’m always having to kiss your ass. I’m always happy for you when you get a guy. Now be happy for me this once.”

“Don’t change the subject. Your so-called happiness ruined my day, and it can ruin my career.”

“You’re just mad that Laurence didn’t work out! I’m sick of having to tiptoe around you because of your pride. OK, you’re better looking than me. But now I have a decent guy. The least you can do is be happy for me.”

Beverly started walking toward her room. Once she got there, she could spend the rest of the night in peace. She’d call up her other friends and talk about Joe. Later, maybe she could IM Joe and get him to go out for a drink after work. She’d stay up for him no matter how late he got off work.

She was almost inside her bedroom, when Anida said, “That was real low about Laurence, you know. Real cold. I guess that’s what you’d expect from someone who doesn’t even talk to her own family. At least my real family talks to me. What’s it like talking to a simulation? Like talking to yourself? What do you do at a family reunion? Look at yourself in the mirror and masturbate?”

Beverly dashed in her room and slammed the door, locking it behind her. She took her holo-phone out of her purse and set it on her night stand. Then she crawled into bed.

Using her right hand, she pressed MENU on the phone. A point of light came out of the phone, centered itself in front of her, then expanded until it was the size of a restaurant menu. She used the arrows on the phone to scroll through her contact list. She wondered whether to call her mother or father first.

Outside her bedroom, she heard the crash of pots and pans. Whenever Anida got angry, she did power cooking.

Beverly highlighted the Youngstown Correctional Facility then pressed CALL. The menu disappeared to be replaced by the words PLEASE HOLD in big letters. In the corner of her eye, Beverly watched the time overlaid by her implant. The minute column changed twice before a bored looking operator replaced the HOLD sign. The woman wore old-school eye shadow, and her curly hair was dyed orange-brown.

“Yes,” said the operator stretching the “e” sound in such a way as to suggest that Beverly’s call was taking her away from much more important tasks.

“Ms. Junson, please,” said Beverly.

“First name,” asked the operator as if Beverly had insulted her by her oversight.

“Connie.”

“There’s no record of that name on the inmate records.”

“Connie Pizarro?” tried Beverly. Perhaps her mother took the name of her favorite lover.

“One moment.”

The operator disappeared. In her place was an image of glowing green smoke. Turbulence disrupted the smoke column in time to the song, “Bad Boyz.”

“Bad boyz, whatcha gonna do when they come fo’ you?” The song went on all the way to the end. Then it started up from the beginning again.

Before the song could get to the end again, an image of her mother appeared in the middle of the smoke puff. The smoke dissipated. Her mother wore an orange prison jumpsuit. Her pockmarked cheeks puffed out, and hung loosely. Her hair was curled to hide the fact that most of it was gone. Her face was a light pink. When she talked she didn’t quite look at Beverly. Her left eye drifted to the side a bit.

“Mother!”

“Baby, why did you take so long to call?”

“Mother, I-”

“I’ve been here for quite a while. Sometimes Stan comes, but your brother... You and your brother just don’t seem to care.”

Stan was her lover. Stan Pizarro.

“I care.”

“You don’t care!” Beverly’s mother’s mascara started to run down her eyes in dark rivulets. The dark took a long path around her cheeks then both paths met beneath her chin. “Nobody cares about me. I don’t need anyone anyway.”

“I care.”

“Come and visit then I’ll know if you care.”

“I can’t make it to Youngstown. I don’t have the money right now.”

“Slutting around, I bet. That’s all you do.”

“I don’t.”

“I don’t care about you anyway. I don’t care about anyone. What I really want is to die.” Her voice got low and harsh. “Death. I can sleep then.”

A hand came into the visual field behind mother’s head. From the brown sleeve, Beverly could tell the hand belonged to a prison official. She could hear the voice off camera saying, “Connie, that’s enough.” The hand patted mother on the back.

Her mother was still ranting when the camera cut away from her. “I can do it. I have the stuff in my cell. Then you’ll be sorry. You’ll all be sorry.”

The face of a prison official appeared. He began to give Beverly a lecture. She pretended to pay attention even though she didn’t listen. She had heard they could send someone over to your house if you upset a prisoner. Finally, it was over and the prison official abruptly hung up.

Beverly smelled bacon fat coming from the kitchen. When Anida cooked, she always made good stuff. She could eat as much bacon, burgers, cheese steak, and french fries as she wanted, and she never showed it. Beverly tried to hold her breath to avoid gaining weight from the fumes. Maybe when she had filled up on good food, Anida would leave her something. A few bites wouldn’t hurt.

She wished her mother could cook like Anida. Anida said that her mother had taught her and her sisters how to cook. All the women in her family would get together and talk. When Beverly was young, her mother chattered on holo with strange men while Beverly got hungrier and hungrier. Eventually her mother would give her re-warmed sim-meat with a cold spot in the center. She’d choke down the whole thing including the cold spot, but she’d still go to bed hungry. Perhaps her life would have been better if, like her brother, she had lived with her father when she was growing up.

She brought up the menu on her holo-phone and dialed her father.

The phone picked up automatically at the other end. He was airbrushing a paint by numbers picture of dogs playing poker. When her friends found out that her father worked with real paint they got excited for some reason. To her it was something that he always had done. It wasn’t like he painted anything original. Just kits.

After a moment, the stream of pink that had been filling in a dog’s ear stopped, and her father turned to look at her. Seeing her, he touched the bald spot on his head. In one motion he put on his hat; in another, he pulled off his respirator mask.

“One minute,” he said, “let me get some fans going.”

He turned his back to her a second time. When he got back on screen, the collar of his flannel shirt as well as the hairs of his goatee flapped back and forth.

“What took you so long to call?”

“How are you?”

“Fine. I asked you why you haven’t called? What took so long?”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Uh huh.” His eyes were gazing off camera. “Your brother just left. He stayed with us for an entire week. When are you coming?”

“Like I said, I’m busy.”

There was a woman’s voice in the background. Beverly’s father seemed to be listening to her. When she finished talking, he turned back to the screen.

“We have to talk about the car.”

“OK.”

“Those damages from that accident could hurt your step-mother’s credit.”

“The accident was years ago.”

“Your brother visited last week.”

“OK.”

“When are you coming over?”

“As soon as I can.”

“What are you doing?”

“I made this,” she held up the knitting of Mario.”Remember him?”

“Uh huh.”

“We used to play together.”

“Where are you working?”

He never stayed on topic. Still, in conversation, she knew she had to follow his lead. “I have a computer job to hold me over until I sell.”

“Your brother is in medical school. You should go.”

“OK, but I really like to work on my art.”

“Do that on the side. Get a real job before you’re too old.”

“You’re doing art right now.”

Her father pointed the paint gun at her as if he was going to shoot her through the phone. “I do this on the side. During the rest of the week, I have a job I hate. Doing what you like is not a job. It’s a waste of time. You’re supposed to hate your real job. When are you going to grow up?”

“Anida doesn’t hate her job. She’s a fragrance consultant. They send her around the world to test all the latest virtual scent technology.”

“I don’t know why you waste your time fooling around with these artists.”

“Anida’s not an artist!”

But her father was still talking or rather yelling now, he had worked himself up. His face had turned a beet color that Beverly knew extended to his bald head, though a hat covered it.

She looked at him for a second then she hit DISCONNECT. He tried calling back, but she blocked all his calls again.

Then she hit speed dial.

Mother and father answered at once. They were her mother and father in all senses of the word. Beverly deserved to have good parents just like everyone else.

Hovering above her bed, her parents smiled at her. Far from being a simulation, they were the most real people she knew. Real people listened to one another. They supported each other giving freely of themselves.

“We were just waiting for you to call,” said her mother.

“We were thinking of calling you, but we didn’t want to bother you,” said her father.

“You never bother me,” said Beverly.

“What are you up to?” asked her father.

“You wouldn’t be interested.”

Both parents laughed softly. Her father said, “You can tell us anything. Whatever you are doing interests us.”

Beverly reached for her knitting.

* * *

Proceed to part 4...

Copyright © 2008 by Fred Ollinger