Benford, Gregory - Brink

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2024-11-23 0 0 100.07KB 13 页 5.9玖币

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Brink

by Gregory Benford

Lenin is working night shift, but not for extra pay. He's a salaried supervisor and can't get

overtime. Mostly he needs something to do.

The restlessness won't go away. He ducks a personnel issue and slips into his eighth floor office.

His thirtieth birthday is coming up soon and it's riding at the back of his mind. At least, he thinks

that's what's bothering him. He turns out the lights so he can watch the silvery sprawl of Greater

L.A. stretching into the distance like some kind of electrical cancer.

He has been thinking about the Revolution a lot lately and somehow this neon consumer gumbo

going on forever is at the heart of his terror, but he does not quite know why. So he presses his

balding forehead against the cold windowpane and looks at the endless twinkling glitter in the

cool spring night. Abstractly he wonders if this bland mall splendor will stand eternally. And on

what foundation? Time and a half for overtime? Even he doesn't believe it, even if the workers

under him are benefiting from the boom in business that seems like it will go on forever.

Babes in Blandland, he thinks, but it's easier to come up with a quick put-down than to frame an

idea, and he knows it.

The cleaning lady comes in. A little early, she explains, because her son is sick and she has to get

home. Stooped, weary, her Latina face manages a creased smile. Lenin feels a red rage at the very

sight of her sad, suffering eyes. He gives her a twenty.

The infinite city still looms outside. He picks up the phone and calls his ex, but she has blocked

his number. It has been two years since the divorce but he still harbors some dusty hope that it

could all work out right after all. Months ago she had told him to move on. But to what?

· · · · ·

Washington is on his way home when his damn cell phone rings. He reaches to answer, stops.

Probably it's a headhunter trying to interest him in coming aboard some hot new company. Word

has already spread that he turned around his present firm, HighUpTech, big time. It's going on the

AMEX next week with a net value over one-fifty mil when the starting gun goes off. Not bad for

just two years of ruthless trimming, innovative product design, and some poker-faced cunning.

Does he want to do that number again? He lets the phone ring.

He leaves the 405 for the run uphill into Palos Verdes and stops for a light. A woman standing on

the center divider is selling flowers. Her gaudy spring blossoms are well arranged. He hands her a

twenty and waves off the change. She is in the usual dingy uniform of jeans and a rough man's

shirt and smiles at him, her hair an oily tangle. He wonders how many wrong turns she had to

make to get this far down.

When he gets home his wife loves the flowers. Her obvious surprise reminds him that he's been

distracted a lot lately, not paying attention to the personal basics. She hands him a chilled

Esplanade glass filled with his favorite Sauvignon Blanc. He prefers that now to a Chardonnay.

Starting to feel the acid in the stomach, maybe a sign of age? But he's only 31. He throws some

honey-roasted almonds into his mouth and goes out onto the deck to take in the diamond-

sprinkled avenues pointing away toward the Hollywood Hills.

Somehow he no longer finds this view impressive. Great wealth, but where's it going?

His wife comes out to him, slips an arm around his waist, and he says something suddenly about

how big the city is and what the hell it's all about. He has surprised himself and before he can

figure out what he meant she kisses him meaningfully and he thinks about bed. Bucks in the day,

bed at night, maybe catch some basketball in between the two on the digital cable. He tries to

think if there's anything else, maybe something that starts with a B.

· · · · ·

Goldman arrives early to meet the Trotsky guy. She likes the place. It's a homey clapboard coffee

place on the beach but the coffee's strictly chain knockoff product. At least it's cheaper than the

spotless places the chain usually throws up, and here you can read the newspapers as long as you

like without ordering another drink. She has a bagel anyway with her mocha supreme grande and

has to count out the pennies left at the bottom of her jeans pockets to get the change together.

That's it, she's flat busted again.

And Trotsky doesn't show up on time. She finishes the Newspap on the table's screen and sips the

mocha with extra cinnamon on top, a real perversion, while outside the sunny dusk turns to a

crystal night in Venice. A rollerblader comes in, a wiry woman in cutoffs despite the chill. Long

hair, kinda dirty-blonde in the way she likes.

The woman gives her a glance and there's a little something going on right away. Goldman has

been trying to go straight for a while to see what it's like. Not Father Knows Best or anything, but

to get the flavor back in her mouth, was the way she thought of it.

The woman sits at the next table and they do some eye stuff. That gets Goldman's pulse up, like

always, but then Trotsky comes lumbering through the door and looks around with his jerky head

movements and darting eyes, like an eagle on the hunt. That gets to her even more, something

electrically predatory. Women don't have that pointed energy.

He comes over to her table and plunks his bony body down. Right off he starts talking about

some news stuff, not even saying hello. The owner stands glowering by the cash register, a black

guy who makes a point about every customer having to order something. Trotsky catches the

look and makes a show of ignoring it, keeps right on talking. The black guy puts on his apron,

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