Bob’s New Job

by Russell Mitchell, 5/13/2006

Bob didn’t mind his job. There wasn’t a whole lot you could get as a category 2 revivificant, after three hundred years of cryo, anyway, so the fact that this was a real job, however menial, provided him the satisfaction of knowing that at least he wasn’t in semi-punitive “welfare” like those poor cat-3 bastards.

The fact that the work as non-technical was a given. A 21st-century engineer equated to a particularly dim 24th-century general-purpose AI, afterall. But, he could help people, and that was good for something.

“Hi, I’m Phil. I’ve had a great life, lots of kids, and lived in a lunar cis-hab, so you know that outside of some aluminum silicates, there ain’t nothing in me that wasn’t meant to be. My poetry is just inside the collagen bundles, and although I’ve chosen to be configured as a lampshade, extensive hours with jojoba oil leave me plenty capable of assuming other forms. I am an excellent babysitter for children in need of backpacks.”

“Hey there, I’m Nina. I’m a hot little piece of scapula looking for a long-term partner. I’m cute, I wear well, and I’m pre-sculpted for buttons and lanyards. Let me help you tie one on, okay, sweetie?”

And on days like today, his job just became a no-brainer anyway. Being by nature old-fashioned, he glanced around the shop. As luck would have it, there was a nice little girl who’d had her full-body sentience checkup before mostly being eaten by the products of her little brother’s malfunctioning “monster creation kit.”

“Hi, this is Patrice. I like ponies and rocket shows, and my favorite endorphocreme flavor is nannybooboo.”

Yep, seventeen inches of Patrice would do the trick just fine. Good spin’s work, and his bosses would be able to put them on the “family friendly” rack, too,

Bob popped a retro-coffee spray, and stepped out to grab some breakfast across the station at the Spinside Slam. He had a whole cart full of bougainvilleas he wasn’t sure what to do with, but for now, lost lives and lost loves would have to wait — nothing helped Bob do a good day’s work like a hearty breakfast before kicking butt and taking names at New You, Franchise, seventeen billion served daily.

Shine-O

by Russell Mitchell, 11/1/2003

Shine-O wasn’t laughing.

I had known something was wrong as soon as I saw his bald-ass milk chocolate head sitting on his box and scraping at a tin, knocking out the polish into a rag. Couldn’t say what it was until I got close enough to see. Shine-O wasn’t laughin’.

Y’see, Shine-O always laughed. End of every goddamned sentence. Kind of like it was his way of saying it didn’t matter what kind of white bread dumbass yuppie you was, Shine-O knew something you didn’t, and wasn’t about to throw pearls in front of swine by sharing it with you.

Everybody got some way of telling the Man to put a sock in it. Some guys get all formal on you, some pretend they don’t see you, you got the secretary with the robot voice, and the janitor who just keeps his nose pointed right at the floor.

But y’see, Shine-O wasn’t no wage-slave. Shine-O shined shoes, and when you shine shoes, appearance is everything. A waiter, well, he ca smile right into the face of some customer being a dumbass, and he’ll get his tip. But you shine shoes, you gotta get repeat biznez, and that means making the man not only feel like he’s special, but that you are, too, cuz there’s a lot o’ guys out there shining shoes.

Shine-O laughed, and damned if you weren’t smiling at nothing and nodding your head and laughing just like he was. Joke was on you, cuz there wasn’t a damn thing to laugh at. And Shine-O didn’t wait for you, either. He’d come to every floor of every building in the whole damn downtown, two, three times a week. Shine-O’d let you make it up to him on Friday. Shine-O’d let you pay once a month with a twenty, twenty-five, thirty, whatever you wanted. You be just as choosy as you want.

Shine-O just kept on laughing. Well he might, too, cuz Shine-O knew everywheres and everyone, and man, you do the math. I’ll wrap my balls in duct tape an’ pop ‘em with a hammer if Shine-O wasn’t pulling down twenty – thirty an hour under the table, in nothin’ but bills.

Stoop-shouldered smiling no-tooth son of a bitch was probably on welfare too, just to be official, and maybe with a pension on the side, looking at some of the tattoos on his arm, done way back before they figured out how to do a good black tattoo ink.

Shine-O laughed his ass off.

But he wasn’t smiling. Not even close.

“Whassup, David? You look like shit.”

He did, too, If they made a Milky Way bar with raspberry filling, that’s what Shine-O’s head looked like. All these little cuts fucking everywhere.

Shine-O didn’t even bother lookin’ up, just kept taking that li’l putty knife and scrapin’ polish out his tins.

“David, what the hell are you doing?”

Shine-O just looked up and me and said, “I’m gonna burn the fuckas, das wa I’m doing.”

“Yoo’re gonna burn the Greyhound station? It’s 3 in the goddamned morning. Even the bums are outta here. Hell, man, you couldn’t get a windshield cleaned down here to save your ass.” It was true, too. It’s a little-known fact that the Dallas Greyhound station, normally the area’s “who’s who of mental illness,” gets rousted at 2 am every Saturday night, and they all hung out under I-35 across from Steritt.

“I told you man, I’m goin’ burn the fuckas.”

“Who, man? The guys that messed up your head?”

“Nah, man, that was the windah.”

“You… why the fuck would you jump through a window?”

He looked up at me then, eyes all big, and said, “They got red eyes. Red. Not pink, not day-glo like in the movies.. Red, man, like you took a drop of blood and put it on either side of their face.”

“Don’t tell me it’s vampire season, man, they don’t bloom until spring.”

“Hey fuck you! Vampires my ass, take this shit off some cracker mothafuckah.”

“Sorry, man, but you been down wind. Somebody fuck you up? I got heat in the truck, we can go take care of business.”

“They got knives.”

“I got heat, what the fuck do I care about some fucker with a shiv?”

Shine-O looked at me, and I swear to God his jaw was gonna pop right off his face. “They got knives. Cord-wrapped around glass, metal, scissors, shit. You don’t know shit, white boy.”

“Alright. You wait right here. I’ll be right back, and we’ll cap these sons of bitches.” Shine-O nodded, and then held up his hand, cocked his head like he was listening to something, and looked down behind me at the storm drain.

And that’s when I heard the squeaking.

Poem

by Russell Mitchell, 5/14/2005 

“Once upon a time there was a man named Stew.”
“Oh, come on, we’re going to be late.”
“Who did not know just what to do.”
“Will you please just get in the car?”
“He searched miles and miles for something blue.”
“Okay, let’s hope our reservations are still good.”
“Eventually an old woman loaned Stew some shoes.”
“No, the reservation is for four, at eight.”
“He bought a hat that didn’t fit him, because it was new.”
“I can’t believe you didn’t set a reservation.”
“Folks thought he was dumb, it is true.”
“Why are you doing that, and where are your folks, and –”
“So he thought he would kneel and then offer this to you.”