The search for speed.
Today was a very strange and frightening day. The coke is finally wearing off so I should be able to sleep, but I doubt I will because I'm basically really anxious for tomorrow to come soon. The future awaits, but dawn is so far away.This morning started out like a lot of mornings. It was cold and my bones were pretty stiff from sleeping out again. But I was in an excellent mood as I roasted up some more pelican, that greatest of all water fowl. After eating I went back over the hill and turned the digicam around for some quality coke which I usually like to cut with heroin you know, to take some of the edge off but today I wanted edge to match my mood and anyway I still had plenty of green so I figured I could shunt some excess edge that way if I had to.
The surf had come up some since yesterday, but by the time I'd got back the wind had turned light onshore putting a slight chop to the water though not too bad. I went out and had a terrible session, not like yesterday at all. Yes, the waves had more juice, but anything over head high was closing out and the high tide was bouncing backwash off the steep shore making for a less than perfect surf. I scored only one gull, and felt totally robbed given my situation. I mean, the morning had been thoroughly unremarkable and disappointing for someone who'd just scored a pelican aerial.
Ok, I hadn't exactly landed the aerial, but I figured I was due better than this, a sentiment that was strongly reinforced by the pure coke running through my veins. At least, that's how I figure it now that the coke is wearing off.Anyway, I had gone in to sit and sulk for a while, try to come up with something good to do and still wondering about a brain fix, when I notice the envi-chemo heading straight my way. I was in a pretty foul mood so I just gave him the stink eye as he came.Most people when I stare at them that way will change directions or at least look away, but this dude held his ground. I had to give him credit for that. He came right up to me like he knew me (which I guess he did) and said,
"I didn't see you on Tuesday, Junk. I had resin and glass for you like we agreed."This totally threw me off, here I was ready for a confrontation and he's still playing the game. Well, I figured great, I'll play along."You still got it?" I asked. I didn't even try to hide the edge in my voice.He wasn't too pleased about that, but fuck'im, I figured. If he's still playing along, then let's play it right, I didn't have to tell him shit, after all. Supply and demand, dude. So anyway, I guess he'd studied economics or something because he bought it. I still hadn't figured out what lie I'd tell him, I didn't really know exactly what he wanted."It's in my trunk, you can have it when we finish our little talk about who's been polluting our beaches." Yeah right, and the check's in the mail (like they used to say).
"Let's see it."
Anyway, we get to his car and he opens the trunk, and as the lid comes up I see 4 gallon cans and a bunch of glass. I was stoked! I wanted it now, and I was tired of this asshole envi-chemo, so I figured what I'd do. I'd take action.
I pounded him on the back of the head with my fist, figuring I'd knock him out or something. I guess it only works in the movies, it dazed him but clearly it didn't knock him unconscious. So extra measures were called for. I drove my elbow into his spine, then pushed as hard as I could, and by repeatedly smashing the trunk down on him I managed to force him in and close the trunk. The maneuver was not executed with a lot of grace, but it worked and nobody had seen it.I wasn't really sure what to do next. The resin and glass were still in the trunk and that's what I really wanted. I checked the car but found nothing good. The car was registered to "Peter Clarke", and the bank still had the lien. Bank of Chapels. Dude was a Chapeller! Well, my envi-chemo-Chapeller bud was making a racket banging on the trunk and screaming to be let out. I figured I had to get rid of him and the car, so I threw my stick in and drove it to my secret spot. No one would hear him there, and I'd have some time to figure out what to do next.First thing I did was call Junk. I didn't want to tell him about the envi-chemo, but I had to talk to someone smart.
"Dude, up for a surf?" A standard opening between me and Junk.I really hadn't meant to tell him. I guess JoJo is right, I can't think too far ahead when I'm amping."Can't make it Brah, rolling out alpha on Friday. The Corpse wants it bioware ya know." A standard reply from Junk.
"Got time to talk?"
"Yeah, wazzup."
"Dude, why them envi-chemo-Chapellers all bent about surfers?"
"The envi-chemo is a Chapeller?"
"Uh, yea, I saw his car today, it had one of those fish things on the trunk."It didn't, but it was a good lie and a quick recovery I thought."'rat, you're crazy brah. You really don't know what's up between surfers and Chapellers?"I was stunned. No coastal access? That had to be bullshit."Nah, brah. Tell me."
"Well dude, the thing with Chapellers is all their fundage is in real estate. They own half the coast. They were here first you know, just took it then, from the natives, you know. But as non-Chapeller dudes came the Chapellers had to buy the stuff. They got a bunch when all those military bases closed in the 90's. So for years and years the Chapellers have been sitting on this incredible fortune of primo real estate. Problem is, they can't develop it and they can't sell it because of surfers."
"How's that dude?" I couldn't figure how surfers could possibly matter to Chapellers, let alone stop them from developing their land.
"Well, back in the 90's, when the bases all got closed, surfers pushed to get public access to all that coastline. They succeeded, but had to show envi-credits for it. That's when the Chapellers got envi-laws passed to outlaw surfing. It didn't really work of course, it didn't stop surfing, but it drove surfers underground, and a lot of respectable, and powerful, surfers had to give it up. I think what the Chapellers are trying to do now is show that surfers are damaging the coastal ecology and get the state to give up public coastal access."
"Dude, my break has always been a public beach. It was never no army base."I didn't really care for Junk's choice of words, but I got the picture. Then I got an idea,"That's true 'rat, but the Chapellers own all the land around it. I guess it's devalued, though, with public access and the less than desirable surfing element visiting."
"You still hack, brah?"He hung up. I hadn't even told him my idea, but Junk is smart, he had it all figured out."Not on the phone, dude. Don't ever talk about that on the phone. I'll see you after work."
Junk's the only person I've showed my secret spot to. He knew to find me there. He showed up after work, it was dark. He'd brought his neuro-jack and other assorted items used to crack someone's head. That's what we were going to do, crack the envi-chemo's head, read his Chapeller-net passes, and then go wreak havoc on the Chapeller nets. At least something like that. Of course the dude's head would be soup after, but not wasted as far as I was concerned. The cerebral cortex would still be functional, and I'd take it to Johnny's and get his bud to use it for my brain fix. Such a perfect plan.
I had the envi-chemo bound, gagged, and tied to a tree. I'd stuck a big Valium patch on him, so he was pretty quiet while Junk set up his gear and got to work. It didn't take Junk long to crack the envi-chemo, but it was a few hours before he got into the Chapeller nets. Not because the passes were bad, but because he had to do a lot of weird stuff to cover our tracks, you know, like set up a fake corporation with a non-existent take-off site, then hop around some and I don't know what else. Anyway, he finally got in, transferred some fundage, erased all the reports that our envi-chemo had been writing, and got out.
Junk unplugged his neuro-jacks, turned and smiled.
"You're rich, brah, you and Jo can buy a house now."That's when I let it out."Dude, I need a brain fix. Johnny says he knows a guy will do it for me cheap, I supply the brain."It came out fast and needy, not the way I'd planned. More like a junkie pleading for a fix than a well considered statement of my situation.Junk didn't say anything, just looked at me, kind of disappointed. He seemed tired, like the whole deal had been quite a strain. Without saying a word he walked over to his car and pulled out what I thought was a a really old neuro-jack, the kind you wear like a helmet, Johnny would give you half a bag at best for one. He put the neuro-jack over the envi-chemo's head, first plugging in some leads behind his ears. Then, turning to me and pointing to the helmet, he said,
"That's a portable de-capping neuro-stator. It'll sever the subject's head above the spinal cord, and maintain the neural matter to full functionality for 24 hours without a recharge. The powerpack can be recharged indefinitely, but the system has not been tested for greater than 24 hour stasis. It's still in development which is why it looks like an old neuro-jack but it's worth a small fortune in itself. I snuck this one out of the lab, suspecting you might want to use it, but I'll need it back. The envi-chemo is still alive, when you're ready to use it just hit 'b' on the keyboard, you won't need to do more than that. In fact, I would suggest unplugging the keyboard after, just in case."This didn't sound at all like the Junk I knew. I guess that's how he talks at the Corpse or something. Very technical. Anyway, from his shirt pocket he pulled out a wooden stick that was sharpened to a point, and with almost a smirk (more like the Junk I was used to) said,"Dude, this is a pencil," and he handed it to me. "You can keep it."Then he busily gathered up his gear, loaded it into his car and from behind the wheel, like nothing had happened, left me with this parting shot,"Give me a call this weekend, if you're still up for a surf."I didn't think too much about that last comment, as usual. I cut another fat line. I was rich, I could afford all the coke I wanted now. Amped out of my head, I went over to the slumped body, and booted up the neuro-stator. With a whine and a thud, body and head were separated clean as a whistle. I don't know how, but there was no blood, no messy dangling pieces or anything, this really was high tech stuff. I was feeling great. I then took the pencil, and with the kind of laugh I save for gulls I stuck it through the envi-chemo's heart."Take that you envi-chemo-Chapeller bastard! If you don't surf here, don't live here, hahahahaha!"I thought it was easily the cleverest line I'd ever come up with. Too bad there was no one around to share my good humor.Wasting no time I drove the body back to the beach, strapped it to my stick, doused the whole thing in gasoline, lit it on fire, and floated it out to sea. A human sacrifice for good waves. What could be better?
As I was driving back it hit me, what Junk meant by "still" up for a surf. For this brief instant I was thinking with a clarity I hadn't had in years. Something he'd said once about a guy at work.
"Dude can't surf anymore, he used to be real good but that's all gone away now. Sacrificed it all to get the job with the Corpse."Not a lot of surfers get brain fixes, none can afford it. A few sports figures do, but only after retiring, and virtually disappearing from public. I'd never asked Junk for details, but now it was clear. I'd never taken more than a user's interest in the brain, enough to know how Flash could make your reaction time lightening, and how too many fixes could burn out your extrapyramidal system and leave you in a wheel chair. That's why I'd always stayed away from the stuff, not that I'd ever had any real need for it. But the principle had to be the same:They could graft a new cerebral cortex, but it would slow down your extrapyramidal system. Maybe you didn't end up in a wheel chair but you'd definitely lose all muscle tone and maybe even have trouble with stuff as basic as walking. I could get my brain fix, but I'd never surf again.Kind of in sympathy with this revelation, I started crashing. The crash was hard, real hard. I hadn't eaten anything since this morning and the coke had been pure. I got back to my secret spot, nervous and edgy and needing another fix. Everything was there like I'd left it.I was thinking of Junk, and of JoJo, and Johnny, and why I really needed a brain fix as I cut another line. It just didn't sound like such a great plan anymore.I guess that's when I decided I'd rather surf than be smart. I'd rather be blissfully ignorant than painfully aware. I'd rather buy a house, live with JoJo, maybe even marry and everything else, than get fat, old but rich with a job at the Corpse, never to surf again. Maybe Jo is right, all I need to do is quit using. After all, I'm rich now, not like working for the Corpse of course, but I don't need to score gull to eat.I held back, trying to reason why I needed a brain fix. Because I'm dumb? Because I can't reason things out? Or because I'm amped all the time and don't stop to think, like booting up the neuro-stator without realizing maybe a brain fix wasn't what I needed.
I can still surf, and she can still work at the fed, and maybe the fed would hire me too? Sure, it isn't the Corpse, and it would restrict my surfing, but at least I could try it for a while.
Writing and all photographs by Leonardo Dagum,
dagum@sgi.com.
Copyright (C) November 5th, 1993. All rights reserved.