Planned Obsolescence - Part 1

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Bay 11 was down again, and by the time someone thought to call him, the company had lost fifteen bale's worth of production. Not that the operators cared, their bonus for the month was already shot. A few had started turning dials on the factory's cybernetics and injecting hormones into its blood supply – a homeopathic approach to an exact science. By the time the lead operator returned from break and decided to call Marco out, it was too late to save the day's production goal.

Marco ran a hand through his hair, reminding himself that yelling at Servelan, the cryptovet tech, would do no good. “No, the reason it's doing that is because your summoning circle's ley lines are in parallel with the servo cables,” Marco said.

“Well, they have to run that way, or they won't latch up to the syphon,” Servelan said, folding his arms.

“No, they could have gone over there,” Marco said pointing several meters to the outer wall. That's where they were last week.”

“They're a bitch to maintain over there.”

“Yeah, I know because every year, some green cryptomancer re-writes the ley lines over during new moon, then shrug when the induced noise raises hell with the feedback cables.”

“Marco, I keep telling you we don't raise scrubbies from hell," Servelan said, referring to the symbiotes used to keep the factory's toxins from leeching into the final product.

“Figure of speech, Servelan. The bottom line is that the cybernetics won't run right until we get those ley lines feeds put back the way they were.”

“The 'mancers won't like it.”

“They get paid to be on call just like I do. Get them over here.”

There was grousing and grumping when the artificers and cryptomancers made it to the floor. They always dragged their feet when having to work bay 11 with its surly operators, anachronistic machines, and the fossilized engineer that made things damned inconvenient for them. Marco didn't care.

He was one of the few people left that understood the machines fused into the living factory, he was in fact part of the last graduating class before the university's engineering department closed. At the same time, the factory had an accident requiring a pulmonary system overhaul for Bay 11 and the accountants had decided to install a cybernetics suite rather than take the old beast down for a year of grafting and recovery. He thought himself lucky to have landed a real job when his classmates either went to work for museums or put their degrees on the shelf to pursue other careers. Some just raised kids or took to lamenting in the local coffee houses with unemployed philosophy majors. Twenty years later, another twenty short of retirement, he wondered what had happened to them all.

After the ley lines were reset, Marco spent the next two hours re-tuning the servo drives: tight enough to follow the factory's vegetable-brain commands, but loose enough not to overreact to the psychic interference brought on by lunar cycles, Jupiter's orbit, or the solstices. He shouted down to the lead operator, who started the production organ back up. The motors whined to life, shafts turned, and soon the humming of production resumed. His mind felt fried, but he held a glow in his heart. Tuning servos was something only a handful of people in the world could do, and he did it well.

On his way out, he saw Yolanda standing in bay's main orifice. It wasn't often the boss left her office to come to the production organs, unless she was navigating a shortcut between meeting rooms.

“Got a minute?” she said.

Sutton Street Sundays

By Bettyann Moore

It’s the eggshells in Carla’s life that annoy her the most. You know, the jagged little pieces that somehow fall into an otherwise tolerable world, the ones that grate between your teeth when you bite into them. Mr. Dobroczewski’s proposal that September morning was just such an eggshell, one that jangled her nerves more than anything had since Rick had left.

It was almost as if it had been planned for her to be walking down Sutton Street that Saturday morning, a street she hadn’t entered since “The Retreat,” as she liked to call Rick’s leaving. But because of a series of exasperating wrong numbers that finally made her take the phone off the hook, Carla had gotten a late start for the college library where she and Millie were going to cram for a biology final. Her usual detour around Sutton Street would have made the impatient Millie cranky for the rest of the day and impossible to study with.

The feelings that overcame Carla as she penetrated the forbidden territory were an odd mixture of nostalgia and pain. She strode purposefully by the little shops and homes that she and Rick had passed countless times before.

There was Mrs. Santini, as usual yelling at one of her many children. Carla remember how she and Rick had tried to count the brood on several occasions and had come up with a different number each time. And here was Mr. Stanislaski, just opening his thrift shop. Oh, the many hours they had spent wheeling and dealing with the keen old man over things like the wicker love seat that went so perfectly in front of their tiny fireplace; and that ugly tapestry that Carla hated, but Rick just had to have for the big empty spot on the wall behind their bed. The tapestry was gone now and Carla had somehow never found a suitable replacement for it, despite the year’s worth of time that had crawled by.

When she came upon Mr. Dobroczewski’s Bake Shop, Carla started to cross the street, afraid of the memories there. As she stepped from the curb, however, Mr. Dough, as he liked to be called, came rushing out of the door looking aggravated until he spied Carla standing on the sidewalk.

His grip on her hand belied his 70-odd years as he greeted her and pulled her toward the bakery. Her mind reeled with the aromas that poured from the shop, propelled by what Rick had called “Mr. Dough’s Nose Fan,” the one aimed out of the window telegraphing the shop’s message better than any neon sign ever could.

“Please, please,” Mr. Dough begged Carla. “You must do me a big favor. You wouldn’t let an old man down now, would you?”

“What is it? What can I help you with, Mr. Dough?” Carla asked, worried by his urgent tone.

“It’s Muriel!” he replied. “That good-for-nothing Muriel! She went and run off with some grease monkey from New Jersey and I don’t have no help in the store. That girl, I knew she wouldn’t last long, always casting her eyes about, looking at anything in pants!”

That “girl,” Carla knew, was 45 if she were a day and had worked for Mr. Dough for 20 years.

“But what can I do about that, Mr. Dobroczewski?” Carla asked, afraid of his answer.

“You come work for me, that’s what! You know the business, you and that fella of yours been here enough. It’ll just be the weekends, mind you, a little pin money. You come to work tomorrow, Sunday, it’s my biggest day, you know.”

How well she knew. Sundays had been the days she and Rick, on the hottest and the most frigid mornings, had walked down Sutton Street to buy the Sunday paper at the newsstand and then would wait in line at the bakery to buy their usual half-dozen sweet rolls. Mr. Dough didn’t believe in the “take a number” system and Muriel, patient Muriel, wouldn’t hurry the customers, customers like Mrs. Ferlinghetti who always took forever to make up her mind, but who would always go home with two loaves of French bread and six cream puffs.

They didn’t mind the wait. She and Rick loved to watch the people who were drawn in either by the Nose Fan or habit. They would giggle at the old man whom everybody knew had more money than a Rockefeller, but who would purchase his day-old bread with money wrapped in two layers of tin foil and a layer of plastic wrap. Or their hearts would go out to the Santini kids who came in with scraped knees and tattered clothes, waiting for someone to drop a dime so they could snatch it up, even before it hit the floor. On days when no one “accidentally” dropped a few coins, Mr. Dough would make a big show over how he had burned a dozen doughnuts and couldn’t sell them. Would the Santini kids please take them off his hands? Away they would race with the prized confections that, as far as Carla could tell, weren’t burned in the slightest.

Those lazy Sundays when she and Rick would take the newspaper and the rolls up to their bed, filling the sheets with newsprint and crumbs. Then they would make love, the papers hastily thrown aside, bits of icing and dough clinging to their warm bodies.

And that particular Sunday, when the stroll to the bakery had been more like a jog, Rick hurrying before her. He had already put on his business suit – his new promotion carried great responsibility and opportunity, but only if he put in the time, even on Sundays. Carla had tried to be understanding. She hadn’t cried until Rick in his damnable hurry in line at the bakery, had yelled at Mrs. Ferlinghetti to pick out her French bread and cream puffs already! And then, as if the sight of the Santini kids had somehow made his new wealth feel dirty – he’d offered them the money to buy their doughnuts.

Everyone had stopped their chatter as the kids, pride drained from their faces, backed out of the shop and ran empty-handed toward home. Carla’s shame was in the fact that Rick showed no shame at all. Before the week was out, it was over between them.

Carla had spent the year picking the eggshells out of her life and now here was Mr. Dobroczewski cracking another egg into her finally-smooth batter. All right, she could use the money. Damn him, how did he know? He looked so lost, how could she turn him down? She said yes and hurried off to study with Millie. Afterward, she returned to the bakery and learned how to run the cash register and all the little things connected to the job and promised to return the next day, bright and early.

She almost backed out of the agreement as she stepped from her apartment building and smelled Indian Summer in the air, the time she and Rick had enjoyed the most. Mr. Dough’s pleading eyes came to her mind and she headed for Sutton Street, wishing the day were over.

It was strange from the beginning. Mrs. Santini was nowhere to be heard and her kids weren’t running through the alleys or bouncing balls off the stoop. The leaves from the few trees on the block fluttered across the deserted street as Carla walked slowly toward the bakery. As usual, the fan was blowing its good air out onto the sidewalk and the big window was steamy from a morning of baking. And, as usual, as Carla opened the door, she saw Muriel behind the counter.

“Muriel! What are you doing here?” Carla cried.

“Just wait your turn, please,” Muriel hushed her as she wrapped Mrs. Ferlinghetti’s bread.

It seemed as if the whole neighborhood was there: Mr. Stanislaski, the Santini kids, even Mrs. Santini herself. It was impossible for Carla to reach the kitchen to confront Mr. Dough.

“Who’s next?” Muriel called out.

“I’ll have six of those sweet rolls,” a painfully familiar voice replied.

All eyes turned to Carla, who saw no one but Rick standing just five feet in front of her. The crowd parted and Carla strode boldly to the counter and stood beside him as Muriel bagged the rolls and then handed them to her.

“But, I ...”

He was looking into her eyes then and saying, “I thought we’d stop and get the newspaper on the way to, uh, your apartment, if you don’t mind. I have to check the classifieds for a new job – I quit the last one, you know. You were right, selling out meant more than that: it meant selling my soul.”

Carla hesitated – there were a lot of things to discuss – but let him take her arm and guide her through the quiet, smiling crowd and out the door, into the street they loved.

Gifts of the Storyteller

I thought I liked Cliff, but maybe it was time to reconsider. I consider myself an optimist when it comes to relationships, but there's a fine line between putting up with a little nonsense and becoming a doormat.

The storyteller, dressed in a scarlet bodice and heavy patchwork skirt, smiled and brushed her long hair aside. I couldn't really follow her story, something about a kid in Ireland who helps a spirit living in the well behind his cottage. I might have been able to make sense of it all but the woman kept pausing after every line, either for dramatic effect or because she was making it up as she went along. I couldn't tell. Cliff, who was going by the name Thaddius today, stared at her with rapt attention though his long fingers twisted his tunic's lacing in tighter and tighter curls.

But spirit, tell me more of this world you speak of. I ... would know more.

Throw a Nickel on the Drum

By Bettyann Moore

Audrey yawned and stretched luxuriously under the covers. One of her cats gave a feline grunt and resettled itself on its mistress’s feet. Audrey winced a bit and then smiled, bringing her hand to her right thigh. She pressed her fingers a little harder than necessary into the bruise she knew was there. She smiled again, tracing its curious curved shape with a finger.

I really rocked it, she thought, remembering the night before. Best. Gig. Ever.

Feeling a slight twinge on her left thigh, she slid her left hand along her flank, finding tenderness there as well. She broke into a full-fledged grin.

“Definitely the best,” she said aloud, sighing.

The tell-tale clicking of claws on the worn hardwood floors pulled her out of her reverie.

“Up, Cooper,” she said, and her poodle mix dog leapt into the bed, burying his nose in Audrey’s armpit.

“What a good boy,” she said. “Did my boy have fun last night, too?” The dog wriggled closer, his tail thumping happily against her bruised thigh.

At the end of every gig, Audrey brought Cooper into the bar to meet her fans. Heather, the bar owner, never seemed to mind. Maybe next year she’d ask if he could stay for a set and hear her play. He’d watched her practice before, but had never seen her with the rest of the band.

Dwayne poured himself another cup of coffee and thanked the universe that he’d given up drinking years before. Tina, his wife, was grateful, too, and didn’t mind the little bit of weed he smoked between sets.

I’ll let her sleep a little longer, Dwayne thought. She’s not used to those late nights any more. The band would be on the road for the rest of the Memorial Day weekend and though Tina seldom accompanied him to his gigs any longer – 30 years was long enough, she said – she always went with him to his annual Friday-before-Memorial Day gig at Heather’s Bar. Last night was not much different than the last 15 he’d done there. Cuckoo, the drummer, had played 12 of those 15 and Brian, the bass player, had done ten of those Friday shows. Only Dwayne himself – and Audrey – had done them all.

And while Tina hated to see “Audrey’s annual embarrassment” as she called it, at the end of the night she would hug him tight and whisper in his ear: “You’re a good man, Dwayne Cooper.” They both knew the tips would have been larger if he didn’t let Richard, the horrible sax player, and other wannabes sit in with the blues band’s third and last sets. Dwayne included Audrey and her tambourine in that lot, though he would never classify her as a wannabe. Audrey was a special case.

It was Saturday and wash day for Audrey, despite the holiday weekend. She had nowhere to go and nothing else to do. She sorted the darks from the lights, lovingly adding the black t-shirt with its look-alike Harley logo emblazoned in faded silver across the chest. She only wore it – and her black leggings and knee-length jean skirt – once a year, but she’d been wearing them for 15 years now. They were looking a little worse for the wear. In fact, she’d had to do a little repair work on the neck of the shirt that morning after she’d pulled it over her head and discovered that a thread had been caught on her necklace.

She placed the three items, plus her once-a-year black bra and panties set, in their own washing machine at the LaundroMax and set it to “delicate.”

Dwayne and his band mates seldom drove to a gig together, but since they’d be playing each night of the holiday weekend, they loaded their gear into Cuckoo’s van and headed to their Saturday gig – a new blues bar at a tony resort in northern Wisconsin. Once on the highway, Friday night’s post-mortem began.

“Nice sets last night, boys,” Dwayne said. The “boys,” including Dwayne, were in their early- to mid-60s.

“I came in too early after the guitar solo in ‘She Gets It’,” Brian said.

“That’s cool,” Dwayne replied, turning in his seat to look back at his old friend.

“Hell,” Cuckoo said, rolling his eyes in the rear view mirror, “it’s no wonder with Lady Luck sittin’ in. That woman couldn’t find a beat if her life depended on it. Totally rhythm deaf.”

Dwayne took a long pull from his bottle of Mountain Dew. Here we go again, he thought, the annual harangue.

“No shit,” Brian said, leaning forward between the front seats, “at least the audience was clapping in time. With Sister Mary Sunshine shakin’ her thang right next to me, I had to look out into the bar to get back in the groove.”

Cuckoo guffawed, while Dwayne looked out at the flat expanses of farmland that rolled by. He didn’t want to get into it again.

“Hell, I know we’re white boys playing the blues,” Brian added, “but that chick has zero soul and zip in the looks department. No freakin’ librarian has had enough demons in her life to play the blues.”

Dwayne cut his eyes at the bassist, but said nothing.

“Don’t forget zero titties and bootie,” Cuckoo said, snorting. “It’s a crime against nature and music for a tambourine player not to have a nice bootie – not that she’s actually ‘playing’.”

Dwayne knew they were trying to get a rise out of him. Back in the day, they would have been successful. He went on staring out at the scenery.

After the laundry was dried, folded and put away, Audrey indulged in her Saturday treat: a cup of tea, half a sandwich and a bowl of soup at the neighborhood Internet cafe. She paid an extra dollar for the privilege of using one of the cafe’s outdated, but functional, laptops.

Her hands shook as she logged into the Dwayne Cooper Band’s Facebook fan page. Maybe someone had posted pictures of last night’s gig. Maybe she’d be in some of them.

Ah, she thought, I’m in luck! Someone – Tina Cooper, in fact – had already posted pictures from the show. She’d taken a lot of them. Audrey’s excitement grew as she clicked through the photos, knowing that if she did appear in them, it wouldn’t be until near the end.

She was getting closer. There was that old guy with the saxophone. She’d eased herself up on the bandstand shortly after he sat in for the second song of the third set. And – oh, happy days! – there she was! Part of her left side was cut off, but she had her tambourine in her right hand then anyway. I look a little stiff, she thought, but I was nervous at first.

Audrey clicked to the next photo, then several more before she saw herself again. It was taken during the last set, she knew, because Dwayne was playing that boxy-looking guitar he always brought out then.

“Oh, my word!” she said aloud, causing a few heads in the cafe to turn. A thrill went up her spine. Why, she looked positively disheveled! The black shirt had slid down her left shoulder and the whole world could see the skinny strap of her black bra. There was a wisp of hair over one eye. She was even smiling.

She glanced at the comments section and felt a momentary let-down.

“Whose the stiff bored?” someone named BouncingBetty had written. Audrey slumped a bit in her chair, then brightened.

“It’s ‘who’s’ – not whose – and it’s spelled B-O-A-R-D,” she said quietly, rolling her eyes. A few pictures later, she came to the end without seeing herself again, so she logged off.

It had been an amazing night.

The band slowly unloaded the van in the alley behind the Blues & Brews Club. They were early, but Dwayne liked it that way. In the early days, though, he seldom arrived at a venue in time; quite a few times he never showed up at all.

“I’d like a nickle for every gig we’ve played in a joint called ‘Blues & Brews’,” Brian said as he held the door for the others. There was nothing to carrying his bass and his band mates never let anyone else touch their instruments, Dwayne especially. He treated his various Fenders like bottles of fine wine. Brian had heard rumors that the guitars had been in a pawn shop 20 years ago, but Dwayne never talked about it.

A big guy, Brian also guarded the van while the others were inside, probably unnecessary at a fancy resort in Northern Wisconsin, but you never knew. He flicked a half-smoked cigarette down the alley as Dwayne and Cuckoo came out for the last time; Cuckoo just had to move the van out of the middle of the alley and then it was time to practice the new tune Dwayne had written the week before. Out of the corner of his eye, Brian saw a figure lurch out of the shadows toward the smoldering butt.

“Even here,” Brian muttered, nodding toward the man. Dwayne took in the tattered clothing, the mismatched shoes, the piss-stained pants and the scruffy beard. He shuddered, then looked away.

“Maybe especially here,” he muttered. With morbid curiosity, Cuckoo and Brian watched the man’s drunken progress.

“Jesus, it’s not even three in the afternoon and the old guy can’t see straight,” Cuckoo said none too softly.

The man paid them no attention as he tried to hone in on his prize, stooping down several times, nearly capsizing, then finally snaring the butt. The look of satisfaction on his face was quickly wiped away when he tripped on his own feet and went sprawling onto the gritty alley, where he lay, dazed.

“Gimme the keys,” Dwayne demanded, snatching them from Cuckoo’s hand. “I’ll move the van and you guys work on the new tune.” His voice brooked no argument; the drummer and bassist shuffled back into the bar.

Casting a glance down the alley where the drunk was struggling to come to his feet with little success,
Dwayne stood stock still, raised his eyes to the sky and swore. He unlocked the van, reached in under the driver’s side seat where Brian stashed his smokes and pulled out a nearly-full carton of Marlboros. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills from the previous night’s tip jar and shoved them into the carton. Then he went to help the man to his feet.

Before she went to bed that night, Audrey ironed her uniform as she always did before her Sunday service. She would be working the corner of Prospect and Racine streets, where she’d had some success in the past. Dwayne Cooper could be counted as her greatest success. She took special care with the pleats in her polyester skirt while recalling how she’d found him sprawled in the gutter, lying in his own vomit, a broken bottle of MD 20-20 still clutched in his hand. It was unprofessional of her, but she’d abandoned and completely forgotten about her tambourine and collection kettle as she knelt beside him, doing nothing more than holding his hand until he came to.

After that, it was his work, not hers, that took him figuratively and literally out of that gutter – though Dwayne insisted it was all her doing. The embarrassment of riches he bestowed on her – the new tambourine and her life’s dream realized – humbled her. But she wouldn’t give them up for the world.