Yard Sale of Thoughts

A trip to the drugstore to pick up the latest popables means a score of censors. My face will likely get a lift, the effects sure to wear off in under an hour, but hell, there’s not much in life that doesn’t come with some sort of time limit. 

City Commission

I may return without eyebrows or with a new logo imprinted on the front of my chin. There’s not many advertisements I won’t wear these days for a little coinage. Still, I slip on my laser safety glasses so no one can steal my iris imprints. It’s the only piece of protective equipment I own and the only thing that will identify me 100% should I ever be caught off the grid. Once I’m out from behind the firewall of my apartment it’s like navigating a security system set up to protect one of the world’s greatest treasures. I gotta decide how many horns I’m willing to blow to get what I’m after.

 The streets below belong to the capitalists now. What can a company learn from a body scan, a digital urinalysis, a bone mass index? Who the hell knows, and who the hell cares. There’s no way to keep your medical secrets from the feed when you’re making new databases with each step.

“Torch! Hey! Over here.” I’ve likely set off my first alarm by simply leaving my armchair. A trenched man with a proto-helmet jogs in my direct.

“Well, well, well. My long lost tenant. I was wondering when you’d come out of the broom closet.” His chuckles don’t cover up the fact that he’s out of breath from a quick job across the street. “Speaking of livable spaces, when do you think I’m gonna see my next rent Venmo?”

“You know. You are just the man I was looking for,” I pat my landlord’s ample shoulder. Any other sort of embrace would only mean more attention from the familial censors looking to track human attachment.

Larz holds a finger to his broad chin. A censor catches it midair, and pulses there. “I predict you’re going to tell me how you’ve got the whole kit and caboodle coming to you with the next couple of hours?”

“You must have heard. I’ve got all my gear out on rent and when I get it back in, I’ll be able to pay two, maybe even three months in advance.”

He contemplates this. If he evicts me he’ll have to file paperwork. Likely the place won’t turn quickly as most people prefer living in more than a 200 square foot roundabout. I let him stew in it for a  bit. I’ve got no choice but to make it to the drugstore before sunrise. Without the candy to settle my brain, I can’t concentrate for more than a couple of minutes. 

“Well, you do have good net” He’s talking about all the shit in my apartment he might inherit should I be unable to cough up the payments. “I’m going to give you ’til next week. The start of next week, that is. Just cause I know you got it in you.”

The backs of Larz’s hands flash a flushable wipe advertisement. It’s a lucky spot to be in, I think, having such wide surfaces for display. Sure catches a lot of corneas. Higher audience, higher payment. 

“You won’t be disappointed, I can tell you that.” I blink onto his ad as I speak. That’s the sort of ego-massaging that has to be done these days. Playing the game of clicking and liking, and making fake small talk. There’s so little left of a person below the surface. I cling to my sanity and wait for him to get over the need to vent about the rising air’lution, the rising virtual real estate taxes, and the rising sea level.

He fails to mention my rising blood pressure, but if I say something, it may trigger more toilet talk. When he turns, I take off. I’m running down the street dodging lasers and the regulars that clog the street corner.

I’ll need to trip more censors to make it to the drugstore and back without going broke. I know it, and I can’t help but wonder if I make it back to my chair, to the endless lines of ones and zeros, if there’ll be anything left in me to give. 

©2024 | K.F. Hartless

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Cover Image: People view an installation of projections and lights called “Dark Spectrum,” located in old tram tunnels, as part of the annual Vivid Sydney festival in Sydney, Australia, on May 24, 2024. David Gray / AFP / Getty