+J.M.J.+
Conversations with a Mecha Named Joe
By "Matrix Refugee"
Author's note:
For a while, I've wanted to write this chapter describing, at some detail—though not enough to up the rating!—the famous "party that's lasted five years" that gets mentioned from time to time in the series involving Cecie Martin. And so, in time for the New Year and its wild parties…here it is, when it was only in the beginning of its second or third year. Oh, and regarding Cecie's black fedora, which gets a mention here: I just got the twin of it as a Christmas present, so this chapter is sponsored in part by Stacy Adams hats.
Disclaimer:
See Chapter I. I don't own the song lyrics that decided to become the epigram to this chapter, which belong to the 1960s group Three Dog Night (I listen to the local "Golden Oldies" station as I write my fics, which is why they get so heavily influenced by old music!), or to whoever wrote it.
Chapter VII: Non-Stop Party Crashers
"This is the craziest party there could ever be
Don't turn on the lights, I don't want to see…
"I seen so many things I ain't never seen before
Don't know what it is. I don't wanna see no more!"
--Three Dog Night, "Mama Told Me Not to Come"
I'd lived long enough in Rouge City that I'd accumulated plenty of stories inspired by the City and its inhabitants and visitors to fill a book. My boss at the firm I work for told me that her uncle, a book publisher, might be interested in seeing it. He'd be in Rouge for a week the following week, since he had been invited to a party up on the 15th floor of the Ritz-Carlton Hotel in the city.
Now, before I go on to tell about my adventure on the 15th floor, I'd better give you the background on the party that's been in progress now for two years, otherwise this will look like any other wild Rouge City party.
About a year before I came to live in Rouge City, some wealthy leisure class goon who owns a huge chunk of stock in Cybertronics and a couple other Mecha corporations decided it might be cool to throw a party in one of the hotels here in town and see how long it could last before his money ran out. Well, to give you an idea of how wealthy this goon—Dickie Boswell—is, the party is still going on two years later, and shows no sign of stopping. Getting invited there is considered something of an honor. I don't know how many famous people have been seen going up there. Some folks get invited back on a more or less regular basis, to the point that they treat it almost as a vacation of sorts.
Oddly enough, the city itself is subsidizing the party since it has helped generate an incredible amount of revenue. The planning board even waived the necessary event license usually required. Rouge itself generates about as much revenue as the GNP of a small country; I don't know anything about economics, but that makes me wonder why East Pennsylvania and New Jersey were stupid enough to pass on having Rouge within their borders. Sometimes I have visions of there being a civil war fought over who gets the City and its revenues.
But I digress…The party has since taken over most of the rooms on the 15th floor; they hire about twenty male and twenty female Mechas at a time, rotating them each week, so that there's always a different pack there. Some models had even had their trials at "the Party". Joe has had a couple "tours of duty", to use a military phrase, six months apart, and according to Vautrin, he was due for another.
"So that's where he goes when he disappears for a week at a time," I said over my tea, as I talked with Vautrin.
"Oh, you noticed," he said, insinuating.
"I just like to keep track of my friends' whereabouts."
I'd have no way to get into the party to meet my boss's uncle, since it was impossible to get in unless one was invited. And getting an invitation was one thing Vautrin couldn't fix for me.
"You probably have the best way to get into that wingding, better than an invitation," Vautrin said when I explained the situation.
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"Don't be an airhead: I mean Joe."
I could have slapped myself upside my own head. Of course! "You mean just sneak in on Joe's coattails?"
"Just what I mean," Vautrin said.
How nitwitted could I be? If there was anyone I could crash the party with, that someone was Joe. He'd be perfectly compliant about it. I'd just have to give him the fair warning.
I met up with Joe the next day, in front of "Tails". As is usually the case, he was pretending to ignore the place, but out of the corner of my eye, I caught him mimicking the dance moves of "Rodolfo", the hologram guy on the marquee.
Joe turned to me with a flare of his coattails and paused, poised, looking at me as if to say, "You-didn't-see-me-do-that". I smiled at him.
"Hey, Joe, whaddya know," I said. "I hear you got a date at Boswell's party."
"Alas for those who, like you, are accustomed to partaking in the pleasure of my company as part of their regular activity," he said.
"Yeah, I need to talk to you about that," I said. "When are you going in?"
"The thirtieth of January, no later than 9 a.m.," he said. "Approximately three days, one hour, fifteen minutes and nine seconds from now."
"Mm, that way I know how much longer I have to enjoy your company," I said. "Actually, I need to get into that party."
He cocked his head. "Have you been invited to this gathering? I did not think you preferred such festivities…Or are you collecting new ideas for new tales of the city? I thought you already had enough with which to fill a book."
"I have, and there's a guy who's a publisher who's been invited to that party. My boss told him about it my book and he's interested. So I'm going up to meet him at that party…and that's where you come in."
"What then can I do to aid you?" he asked, his shapely eyebrows rising slightly.
"Just let me go in with you, smooth things over if need be."
"And I may have to smooth the way for you, perhaps even protect you should the more aggressive company take a dislike to your presence." He paused. "Or, should they take too much of a liking to you."
"I hope you won't have to," I said. "So, I guess I should meet up with you on Demi-Mondaine Avenue about, what, ten of nine?"
"That will give us plenty of time to arrive there on time," he said.
I took his hands in mine and squeezed them gently. "Thanks, Joe. You're a dear."
"Anything to help a damsel in need," he said, caressing the palms of my hands with his thumbs and giving me that five hundred watt smile that melted my insides.
I couldn't decide how to dress for the engagement: Dress conservative and I was likely to be suspect. Dress like the rest of the crowd and I'd blend in too well.
I decided to go half-clubby, half conservative: a black simuleather blouse and a long black skirt with a slit up to the knee.
My satchel under my arm with the first three chapters in it, I met Joe in the small plaza before the Ritz-Carlton at ten of nine exactly. He smiled to me and offered me his arm. I gladly took it and swept in with him through the sliding glass doors which opened to our approach.
Because Joe was Mecha, he wasn't allowed on the elevator, which I found a little harsh and rather unusual for Rouge City, where I've seen some Mechas treated better than some Orgas. So we climbed the fifteen flights of stairs. Good thing I'm a walker or I might not have stood it. But Joe kept pace with me, better than some Orga men have done by me.
As we ascended the last staircase, two men came down, both carrying large, oddly shaped things. As they got closer, I realized they were carrying something in two pieces. Joe stepped out of their way, ahead of me as they passed us by. I realized one of the men was a Mecha serving man, carrying the nearly naked lower half of an ancient female lover Mecha, while the other man, a well-dressed Orga—presumably the hotel manager—carried the top half of the same Mecha, her head lolling over his shoulder. I glanced at Joe; he kept his eyes on me, taking little notice of what went by.
Already, noise filtered down to us, music, laughter, yelps, a crash of dishes breaking. Joe paused on the landing at the top of the stairs and turned to me.
"Once we get inside the room, we shall doubtlessly be obliged to part," he said. "Should you have any words of farewell, you would do well to say them now."
I must still have been thinking about the demolished Mecha that had been carried past. Sure, it was an old model that had doubtlessly seen better days, but who knew what could happen to Joe?
"I just want to thank you for doing this, getting me in here, and, well, if someone had told me when I started the first of my two years of college that when I finished school I'd move to a pleasure city that two states are too embarrassed to have in their jurisdiction, that my best friend there would be a drop-dead gorgeous male lover Mecha who would help me collect material for my first book, and that I'd get it published by crashing a party attended by a publisher, and said party had been going on for longer than my friend the Mecha had been around, and I would get into said party by sneaking on said Mecha's coat tail—well, in short, I'd have said the person who told me all this needed to have their head checked."
His face kept its usual sweet smolder; I figured I'd gone way over his processors, but I could have been wrong. "I think this is the part where you kiss me goodbye," I said. He moved in, aiming for my lips. "On the cheek," I added.
"In that case, let the last two years of your education not be in vain," he said. He had been listening, darn it. Never underestimate Mecha intelligence!
He kissed my cheek lingeringly. I returned the kiss, hugging him around his shoulders. He started to nuzzle my neck, so I drew back and stepped behind him.
He rapped on the door of Room 15-01.
The door opened and a disheveled man in his late forties stepped out, clad in a dark blue silk dressing gown slung around his shoulders like a prizefighter's. He looked up at Joe with bleary eyes. Then a foolish grin spread across his face.
"Hey, Joe, whaddya know?" he said, flinging the door wide open. He slung his arm about Joe's shoulder, buddy-fashion and led him into the room. I followed them in. "Hey, ladies, look who's back: Joe the charmer."
I stepped into a dim-lit room, curtains drawn, no light except for a few electric candles and some colored Christmas tree lights hanging from a ceiling light. Some kind of trashy techno music by a group called Airplane Dregs echoed from the next room. Then it suddenly switched to "That's the Way I Like It" from waaay back in the 1970s. A group of people in the front room—Orgas and Mechas—were actually dancing to it.
A small male serving Mecha came up and took Joe's jacket, then tried to help me take off my topcoat and fedora, but I hung onto them. "I'm just visiting," I explained.
"This, Mr. Boswell, is our star local writer, Miss Cecilia Martin. She has, if I am correct, an appointment with Mr. Weston Dellingham, the publisher," Joe explained, his arm protectingly around my back. "Cecie, let me introduce to you Mr. Dickie Boswell, master of the longest party ever to run continuously in Rouge City."
"So you write? Y' ever write about this town?" Boswell asked me.
"As a matter of fact, I have," I said. "The book I'm showing to Mr. Dellingham was inspired by this town."
"Wow, betcha could write a follow-up 'bout this party," Boswell said, grinning.
"Maybe I will," I said, to be polite. My eyes had adjusted to the light—or lack thereof—and I made out shapes on the couches against the walls: various couples in various pairings engaged in a variety of activities.
"Lessee, last I knew, Dellingham was in the Jacuzzi, but I think I can fish him out," Boswell said. He beckoned to me. "Follow me. You too, Joe: there's a girl who needs yah."
"I gather there must be," Joe said, innocently.
We wove through the mob of dancers and stepped through a door connecting with the next room. The leaf of the door had been taken off and replaced with a colored beaded portiere. The air hung thick with heavy perfume, liquor fumes, and that odd borax-sewage tang of stringer.
The next room was probably the music room: a slim line MP3 jukebox stood in one corner, with a heavy-set kid punching buttons on it. People kept yelling titles out to him; he changed the tunes as fast as they sang them out.
Next room was clearly the bar. I tripped on a passed-out girl my own age, clad in fishnet stockings and a silver halter top and precious little else. Some guy nearly vomited on my shoes. A few drunken voices yelled out greetings to Joe: "Hey, lookit hooze back!" "Look what the cat drug in!" "Wow, it's the walking streak of virtual hormones himself."
"Pardon my tardiness, but I must first guide a damsel through the jungle of celebration," Joe replied, his hand on my arm.
"Aaawwww!" a collective groan arose.
Next room seemed solid with couples coupling. That's all I care to say about that. Joe practically had to lift me overs the piles and tangles of people on the floor.
"How many people are here?" I asked Boswell.
"This is a thin crowd: there's only seventy-five people here, not including Mechas," he said.
I did not want to imagine a heavy crowd.
At length, we reached the anteroom to the bath with the Jacuzzi; it was a regular hotel room, but it had been transformed into a kind of changing room/massage parlor.
A skinny kid—fully clothed in a crumpled gray suit, thank God!—who looked oddly like Joe even in the half-light stood outside the bathroom door, jotting something on a small datascriber.
"Hey, if you take one more picture of that Jacuzzi, I am going to throw your damn camera into the water, so help me!" the skinny kid shouted into the open bathroom door. The plastic media pass on a lanyard about his neck marked him as a reporter.
"Try finding a space to throw to throw it in, Sweitz," a man's gravelly voice retorted from inside the bathroom.
An insignificant man in a baggy trenchcoat with a Homburg squashed down on his head stepped out of the bathroom, armed with a digital camera.
"Hot damn, that's the most people I've ever seen in one Jacuzzi at once," the short guy said, removing the memory card from the camera, sticking it into a case that hung from his shoulder and slotting another one into the camera.
"What, are they playing sardines?" the skinny kid asked.
"Their version of it," the short guy replied, with a shark-like grin that exposed his uneven teeth. He eyed me up and down appraisingly, but I pretended he wasn't there.
"Is Dellingham in there?" Boswell asked.
"Not any more," said a deep voice.
A tall, angular man in his sixties stepped out adjusting a dark green bathrobe about himself. Boswell quickly introduced me to Mr. Weston Dellingham.
"Would you mind if we stepped out into the hallway?" Dellingham asked me.
"No, by all means," I said. I turned to say a quick goodbye to Joe, but he was just going out on the arm of a small, otherwise sensible-looking girl with red hair, clad in a flaming red babydoll that looked incongruous on her, as if she wasn't accustomed to dressing like that.
Boswell found a key to the door to the hallway—Dellingham didn't want to me to have to run the same gauntlet of the seven deadly sins again. We stepped out into the hallway.
Dellingham shut the door and leaned one shoulder against it, breathing a sigh of relief.
"Pardon my appearance, I nearly forgot I was supposed to meet you today," he said.
I shrugged gracefully. "I've seen things just as bad in this town. And this might make part of an interesting story I could write."
"You could make a whole novel out of it. And don't forget the two batbrains from the newspaper. The reporter's not such a bad kid, but that midget with the camera, yecchhh!!!"
"My sentiments exactly," I said, reaching into my satchel and taking out the red rope envelope containing the hard copy of the first three chapters and the disk containing the whole book.
He scanned over a few paragraphs, his bushy eyebrows rising. "How long have you lived in Rouge City?"
"Almost two years, or as a friend of mine would put it: one year, seven months, three weeks, four days, nine hours, and whatever amount of minutes and seconds."
He grinned teasingly. "You sure you aren't a Mecha in disguise?"
"I'm positive that I'm Orga, but sometimes I feel as if I can relate to them better than I can to my own kind."
"I won't argue that," he said. He brandished the pages. "Just this little bit has made me want to take a break from the nonsense in there.
"Were you and I and the Mechas the only sober ones in there or what?"
"My thoughts exactly, though I'm nursing a tiny bit of a hangover. I came just to be polite to the host, but I dunno." He shook his head.
"In that case, I won't keep you from reading those chapters," I said.
"Thanks for bringing them: gives me an excuse to get away from what I went to just to get away from it all," he said, smiling half humorlessly, half humorously.
I went home by myself. I didn't hear from Dellingham—or Joe—for a week, but I got a message from Dellingham requesting hard copy of the rest of the book.
The very same day, I spotted Joe again, no worse for the wear, his usual sassy self.
More to come…
Literary Easter Egg:
I swiped the nonstop party from William Gibson's Virtual Light, but it somehow crossbred itself with the party that had been going on for four generations in Chapter 19 of Douglas Adams's Life, the Universe and Everything.