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Dry Frugal With Death Rays

Wilson, Alex

Published: 2008

Type(s): Short Fiction, Science Fiction

Source: http://futurismic.com

About Wilson:

Alex Wilson is a writer and actor in Carrboro, NC. His fiction, comics,

and poetry have appeared/will appear in Asimov’s, The Rambler, Shim-

mer, The Florida Review, Weird Tales, and elsewhere. He runs the online

audiobook project Telltale Weekly.

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"Futurismic is a free science fiction webzine specialising in the fact and

fiction of the near future - the ever-shifting line where today becomes to-

morrow. We publish original short stories by up-and-coming science fic-

tion writers, as well as providing a blog that watches for science fictional

news stories, and non-fiction columns on subjects as diverse as literary

criticism, transhumanism and the philosophy of design. Come and ima-

gine tomorrow, today."

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The ergonomic cubicle gel came up to Sal’s chin. Five hours of immer-

sion had left the pads of his fingers wrinkled and slimy. He couldn’t

wipe his eyes without making it worse. It was the most important morn-

ing of his life, and he was stuck in his cubicle corral with a computer that

insisted he wasn’t.

“And you’ve looked, right?” Tech support asked, clearly siding with

the computer on this one. “At the latch? You’ve tried turning around and

looking to see whether it’s open or closed?”

“Yes,” Sal said. “I’ve looked.” He tried emphasizing the urgency with

his arms. In training videos, they iterated how body language carried

over into the voice, even though Sal found sloshing around in gel more

distracting than helpful on client calls.

A relaxed safety harness–running just taught enough from the stuck

ceiling latch to chafe Sal’s armpits–prevented drowning no matter how

long he was stuck there or how often he needed to rest his head on the

viscous surface of the gel. So he was in no immediate danger, although

everybody’s cheerful agreement on this last point was enough to give

him pause.

“Have you tried to go through it?”

“Go through the glass?” Sal said.

“Sure, sure. Like a bird. Maybe someone’s just cleaned the latch, and

it’s hard to tell whether it’s open or closed.”

“Ah. I can see how that’d be helpful if the computer said it

was closed and I was convinced it was open, even though the opposite is

true. Thank you.”

“Sure, sure. Anything else we can help you with?”

So Sal spent the morning banging on the insides of the ceiling glass,

when he should have been trying to sell lavender-lined smokestack pipe

to factories. Or–and this was just one of those crazy ideas that hemmed

him out of the promotion pool–he should have been at the hospital with

his wife Bethany, delivering their brand new daughter on this, most im-

portant of mornings.

He tried to get his fellow salespeople on the phone to help. But when

the lines chirped low to indicate an internal call, even Sal would like as

not assume it was a manager and let it drop to voicemail. The import-

ance of seeming busy was second only to sales numbers at Lavender Yes,

LLC.

What shouldn’t have been so important was who eventually freed Sal

from his cubicle. It was Geneboy, on his way to the cafeteria at exactly

noon. Geneboy, with his perfectly dry hair and clothes even after soak-

ing for four hours in his own flavor of gel. Geneboy, the managerial fa-

vorite not only because he sold the most lavender pipe and never

answered internal calls, but also because once, two years ago, he con-

vinced some Indiana town to pass an ordinance requiring all commercial

factories to be outfitted with Lavendar Yes product. The townspeople

were mellower, thanks to the calming, unprovable effect of lavender-

scented smog! Crime rate was down in ways that were impossible to

measure! Sure, sure! All was wonderful in that progressive, one-factory

community, thanks to their annoyingly arid Geneboy.

But that was all fine. It meant nothing to Sal, who still had that ap-

pointment to welcome his daughter into the world. He swallowed his

pride (along with a bitter drop of the clear gel), pulled himself up by his

harness, and pressed his face against the cubicle glass. He pointed to the

exterior latch for Geneboy’s benefit.

Geneboy’s eyes flashed across Sal’s, but the drier man did not stop to

help his colleague at this time. No, he walked right past the latch, prac-

tically stepping on Sal’s face in deliberate aloofness. On the big white-

board at the hall’s end, he marked four sales under his column for the

first half of the day. Then, and only then, he returned to Sal’s cubicle. His

smile was shiny and recessed behind that chiseled chin.

“Was that you phoning?” Geneboy said. He kicked open the latch

without bending down. “Man, I figured it was you. Thought you wanted

to talk about movies or some other stupid thing.”

The mold of cubicle gel jiggled as Sal pulled himself up, out, and into

the hallway. He grabbed his towel from the rack. He ran his fingers

through wet hair that stuck leech-like to his skull.

“When have I ever wanted to talk anything with you?” Sal said. Con-

versations with Geneboy were less often initiated by Sal than they were

thrust upon him.

“Well,” Geneboy said, “you’re always going on about something,

Paul.”

“It’s Sal.”

“What’s this now?”

Sal slouched his neck forward. He was ten centimeters shorter than

Geneboy, but slouching made him feel like he at least had a choice in the

Alex Wilson - Dry Frugal With Death Rays.pdf

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