Nera and Jonah (4)
Jonah leaned back in his chair. It was, after all, what the chairs had been designed for.
There were many reasons that the Pizzatarium was not the most popular restaurant in the city; why it was always a reliable choice; why, even on Valentine's Day, you could always find a seat here. First and foremost of these reasons was that the chairs were stupid terrible. The semi-famous restaurant Twitter-blogger Tony "Five Words About Food" Carthage had actually swung through town on his way to some kind of cabbage and kale convention, and, with his usual terseness, had described the Pizzatariaum thusly:
pretty good pizza awful chairs
…which, Jonah had to admit, pretty much summed it up, if you ignored the AWESOME HARD ROCK LASER LIGHT SHOWS on Wednesdays and Fridays. (Carthage had visited on a Thursday, based on the timestamp on his review. His loss, Jonah thought.) In the interest of authenticity, and of allowing the patrons to view the aforementioned heavy metal light shows on the dilapidated projection dome above, the chairs were able to be reclined, and would do automatically so at the slightest provocation -- a breath, a heartbeat, the tidal jiggling of sodium and potassium ions inside the nerves of one's brain. It was easiest to just surrender to the chairs' terrible machine whims, which meant that for the most part, meals at the Pizzatarium were eaten in a recumbent position.
Jonah sighed slightly as the springs on the old reclaimed Voiss Planetarium seat settled into the position they felt most at home. He adjusted a pair of goggles over his eyes, skooched his trackball to a comfortable angle and began working. The Pizzatarium had a suspiciously fast wireless uplink which was largely useless to most customers who were confined to traditional table-placed laptops (please see "chairs" above), but two Christmases ago, Jonah had asked for and received a sturdy set of Sony video goggles for the purpose of surfing the Web at this specific restaurant, and he had never regretted the request.
He was about ten feet from his goal in Google Maps when the back of his chair was kicked, probably by Wade.
Jonah lifted his goggles. "Hi, Wade," he said.
"And that's when I said," said Wade, gesturing in an accusatory fashion, "I said, look, man, it's my navel. I'm gonna fuckin' do what I want with it."
"Wade," said Jonah, evenly, "have you been inhaling things again?"
Wade nodded, making perfect eye contact. "Yes," he said.
"Inhaling what?"
Wade scratched his chest. "Dunno," he said.
"Have you forgotten what you've inhaling because of the neuropsychological effects of what you've been inhaling, or did you go into the inhalation experience not knowing?"
"Both?" hazarded Wade.
"That's… not strictly possible, in a linguistic sense," said Jonah. "Either you knew at one point, or--"
"Hey, can I fill your water?" Without waiting for a response, Wade leaned over the table and carefully refilled Jonah's glass from his large acrylic food-service pitcher.
"Thanks," said Jonah.
"You better fuckin' tip me for that," said Wade.
"I will," said Jonah.
"Fifty cents a fill." said Wade, fussing with his nametag. "Or else I hock in it next time."
"Don't worry."
"Hey, you're the proofreader guy!" Wade continued, apparently recognizing precisely to whom he was talking for the first time. "Did you do your magic yet?"
"Um, yeah," said Jonah, waffling a bit. "There are lots of things that I really like about your story so far. You're a really good writer, Wade. And some of the questions I have may be resolved by the time I finish it."
"Yeah," said Wade. "There's gonna be some fuckin' shockers at the end. Pull the tablecloth right out."
"It's just… you have these creatures in it. The six-legged hermaphroditic alien cat people."
"Christ," muttered Wade. "They're not aliens. They're genetically engineered."
"Right, sorry," said Jonah. "It was aliens last time."
"Last story, it was aliens," agreed Wade.
"Right," said Jonah. "And the one before that it was, um, some sort of worldwide Virtual Reality environment. Where everybody appeared as six-legged hermaphroditic alien cat people."
"What's your point?" said Wade, a bit confrontationally.
"Okay, let me say again, you're a really good writer, Wade. It's just that… have you ever thought about writing something that wasn't about six-legged hermaphroditic alien cat people?"
"That's why I wrote this last one," said Wade. "'Cuz they're genetically engineered."
"My point is, it doesn't matter whether they're aliens or not," said Jonah. "It's always something with the cat people."
"What the fuck is wrong with cat people?"
"Nothing!" protested Jonah, sweating a little, beginning to fantasize that maybe the Pizzatarium would fire Wade some day and return his dining experience to one of relative tranquility. "It's just that… they're not real, Wade. It's what I keep telling Nera. There's just so much interesting out there that actually happened. Let me show you something." Jonah dropped the goggles over his eyes and performed a few precise, surgical clicks on his trackball. Then he removed the goggles and handed them to Wade.
"Here," he said. "Look. This is an article about the Dust Bowl. A big flat area of Oklahoma and New Mexico and such. Poor farming techniques here in the early part of the twentieth century combined with catastrophic drought conditions turned the whole place into a desert of blown dust. Peoples' whole livelihoods were being devoured by driven, lifeless soil even as the entire economy of the United States was augering into the ground as a result of the Great Depression."
"Huh," said Wade, gazing slack-jawed into the projection lenses.
"Can you imagine what that must have been like? What must it have been like to be alive then, feeling this perfect storm of obliteration and collapse gathering around you? This happened, Wade. Can you feel it?"
"I actually kinda can," said Wade.
"Good," said Jonah.
"I think I even actually got a story idea," said Wade.
"Excellent," said Jonah, leaning back again in his chair (not entirely by choice, but it had the desired conversational effect). "That's great, Wade. I think we all should write ourselves out of our safety zones now and again. I'm not saying you have to write a biography or anything. Just consider fiction that has a grounding in something real. Like the Great Depression, or the alien crash at Roswell."
"Yeah," said Wade. "It's just daunting, y'know?"
"It can be," said Jonah. "Tell you what, though, if you ever get your Dust Bowl story off the ground, I'll be happy to proofread it for you."
"Thanks, man!" said Wade. He sunk down to the chair nearest Jonah, which instantly collapsed backward; Wade was unfazed. He pulled a pair of cheap plastic sunglasses out of his uniform pocket, handed the goggles back to Jonah, and slipped his shades back on. "So are you, like, researching your own Dust Bowl story, or what's up with that?"
"Nah," said Jonah. "Nera's on vacation with her family. She's up at some resort hotel in Vermont. I'm Googlestalking her."
Wade frowned. "How's that working out forya?"
Jonah sighed and dropped the goggles back over his eyes. "Frustrating," he said. "I can see the hotel from the street, and it's nice to be able to picture what she sees every night before she heads inside. But no matter how many times I zoom in, I can't go through the doors into the lobby."
"Well, yeah," said Wade. "It's just, like a street view to help you find the place. Not a in-hotel thing."
"I know," said Jonah. "That's why it's frustrating. So I've been walking the Google cam around the block instead, checking out the neighborhood, stuff like that. Looking for the nearest coffee shop. Treading the virtual pavement."
"So where is the nearest coffee shop?"
"Dunno," said Jonah. "Never found one. I got dispirited after a while and now I'm just walking around the block again."
"Huh," said Wade.
"I think maybe this is what a ghost feels like," said Jonah, gazing up into the digital frames of his display goggles. "Wandering. Being able to zoom in right to the doors but never being able to go inside."
"Okay, now you're freaking me out," said Wade.
"Sorry," said Jonah.
There was a pause.
"You're really hot for her," said Wade.
"The term is 'in love', Wade."
"Okay," said Wade. "You're really in love for her."
In the depths of his goggles and yet right before his eyes, the little white hand-shaped cursor brushed feebly, uselessly, against the front doors of Nera's hotel.
"She's my friend," said Jonah.
There were many reasons that the Pizzatarium was not the most popular restaurant in the city; why it was always a reliable choice; why, even on Valentine's Day, you could always find a seat here. First and foremost of these reasons was that the chairs were stupid terrible. The semi-famous restaurant Twitter-blogger Tony "Five Words About Food" Carthage had actually swung through town on his way to some kind of cabbage and kale convention, and, with his usual terseness, had described the Pizzatariaum thusly:
pretty good pizza awful chairs
…which, Jonah had to admit, pretty much summed it up, if you ignored the AWESOME HARD ROCK LASER LIGHT SHOWS on Wednesdays and Fridays. (Carthage had visited on a Thursday, based on the timestamp on his review. His loss, Jonah thought.) In the interest of authenticity, and of allowing the patrons to view the aforementioned heavy metal light shows on the dilapidated projection dome above, the chairs were able to be reclined, and would do automatically so at the slightest provocation -- a breath, a heartbeat, the tidal jiggling of sodium and potassium ions inside the nerves of one's brain. It was easiest to just surrender to the chairs' terrible machine whims, which meant that for the most part, meals at the Pizzatarium were eaten in a recumbent position.
Jonah sighed slightly as the springs on the old reclaimed Voiss Planetarium seat settled into the position they felt most at home. He adjusted a pair of goggles over his eyes, skooched his trackball to a comfortable angle and began working. The Pizzatarium had a suspiciously fast wireless uplink which was largely useless to most customers who were confined to traditional table-placed laptops (please see "chairs" above), but two Christmases ago, Jonah had asked for and received a sturdy set of Sony video goggles for the purpose of surfing the Web at this specific restaurant, and he had never regretted the request.
He was about ten feet from his goal in Google Maps when the back of his chair was kicked, probably by Wade.
Jonah lifted his goggles. "Hi, Wade," he said.
"And that's when I said," said Wade, gesturing in an accusatory fashion, "I said, look, man, it's my navel. I'm gonna fuckin' do what I want with it."
"Wade," said Jonah, evenly, "have you been inhaling things again?"
Wade nodded, making perfect eye contact. "Yes," he said.
"Inhaling what?"
Wade scratched his chest. "Dunno," he said.
"Have you forgotten what you've inhaling because of the neuropsychological effects of what you've been inhaling, or did you go into the inhalation experience not knowing?"
"Both?" hazarded Wade.
"That's… not strictly possible, in a linguistic sense," said Jonah. "Either you knew at one point, or--"
"Hey, can I fill your water?" Without waiting for a response, Wade leaned over the table and carefully refilled Jonah's glass from his large acrylic food-service pitcher.
"Thanks," said Jonah.
"You better fuckin' tip me for that," said Wade.
"I will," said Jonah.
"Fifty cents a fill." said Wade, fussing with his nametag. "Or else I hock in it next time."
"Don't worry."
"Hey, you're the proofreader guy!" Wade continued, apparently recognizing precisely to whom he was talking for the first time. "Did you do your magic yet?"
"Um, yeah," said Jonah, waffling a bit. "There are lots of things that I really like about your story so far. You're a really good writer, Wade. And some of the questions I have may be resolved by the time I finish it."
"Yeah," said Wade. "There's gonna be some fuckin' shockers at the end. Pull the tablecloth right out."
"It's just… you have these creatures in it. The six-legged hermaphroditic alien cat people."
"Christ," muttered Wade. "They're not aliens. They're genetically engineered."
"Right, sorry," said Jonah. "It was aliens last time."
"Last story, it was aliens," agreed Wade.
"Right," said Jonah. "And the one before that it was, um, some sort of worldwide Virtual Reality environment. Where everybody appeared as six-legged hermaphroditic alien cat people."
"What's your point?" said Wade, a bit confrontationally.
"Okay, let me say again, you're a really good writer, Wade. It's just that… have you ever thought about writing something that wasn't about six-legged hermaphroditic alien cat people?"
"That's why I wrote this last one," said Wade. "'Cuz they're genetically engineered."
"My point is, it doesn't matter whether they're aliens or not," said Jonah. "It's always something with the cat people."
"What the fuck is wrong with cat people?"
"Nothing!" protested Jonah, sweating a little, beginning to fantasize that maybe the Pizzatarium would fire Wade some day and return his dining experience to one of relative tranquility. "It's just that… they're not real, Wade. It's what I keep telling Nera. There's just so much interesting out there that actually happened. Let me show you something." Jonah dropped the goggles over his eyes and performed a few precise, surgical clicks on his trackball. Then he removed the goggles and handed them to Wade.
"Here," he said. "Look. This is an article about the Dust Bowl. A big flat area of Oklahoma and New Mexico and such. Poor farming techniques here in the early part of the twentieth century combined with catastrophic drought conditions turned the whole place into a desert of blown dust. Peoples' whole livelihoods were being devoured by driven, lifeless soil even as the entire economy of the United States was augering into the ground as a result of the Great Depression."
"Huh," said Wade, gazing slack-jawed into the projection lenses.
"Can you imagine what that must have been like? What must it have been like to be alive then, feeling this perfect storm of obliteration and collapse gathering around you? This happened, Wade. Can you feel it?"
"I actually kinda can," said Wade.
"Good," said Jonah.
"I think I even actually got a story idea," said Wade.
"Excellent," said Jonah, leaning back again in his chair (not entirely by choice, but it had the desired conversational effect). "That's great, Wade. I think we all should write ourselves out of our safety zones now and again. I'm not saying you have to write a biography or anything. Just consider fiction that has a grounding in something real. Like the Great Depression, or the alien crash at Roswell."
"Yeah," said Wade. "It's just daunting, y'know?"
"It can be," said Jonah. "Tell you what, though, if you ever get your Dust Bowl story off the ground, I'll be happy to proofread it for you."
"Thanks, man!" said Wade. He sunk down to the chair nearest Jonah, which instantly collapsed backward; Wade was unfazed. He pulled a pair of cheap plastic sunglasses out of his uniform pocket, handed the goggles back to Jonah, and slipped his shades back on. "So are you, like, researching your own Dust Bowl story, or what's up with that?"
"Nah," said Jonah. "Nera's on vacation with her family. She's up at some resort hotel in Vermont. I'm Googlestalking her."
Wade frowned. "How's that working out forya?"
Jonah sighed and dropped the goggles back over his eyes. "Frustrating," he said. "I can see the hotel from the street, and it's nice to be able to picture what she sees every night before she heads inside. But no matter how many times I zoom in, I can't go through the doors into the lobby."
"Well, yeah," said Wade. "It's just, like a street view to help you find the place. Not a in-hotel thing."
"I know," said Jonah. "That's why it's frustrating. So I've been walking the Google cam around the block instead, checking out the neighborhood, stuff like that. Looking for the nearest coffee shop. Treading the virtual pavement."
"So where is the nearest coffee shop?"
"Dunno," said Jonah. "Never found one. I got dispirited after a while and now I'm just walking around the block again."
"Huh," said Wade.
"I think maybe this is what a ghost feels like," said Jonah, gazing up into the digital frames of his display goggles. "Wandering. Being able to zoom in right to the doors but never being able to go inside."
"Okay, now you're freaking me out," said Wade.
"Sorry," said Jonah.
There was a pause.
"You're really hot for her," said Wade.
"The term is 'in love', Wade."
"Okay," said Wade. "You're really in love for her."
In the depths of his goggles and yet right before his eyes, the little white hand-shaped cursor brushed feebly, uselessly, against the front doors of Nera's hotel.
"She's my friend," said Jonah.