Savoy
Courtney Takats Some people, they claim they can still remember the good old days, but people have been claiming that probably as long as there have been days. As for me, I can’t believe there were ever good days, not when there was fresh blood in the alley this morning and no one asking questions. It got worse when nost hit the street. Got even worse when nost chic became a thing. Started, like many disasters, with a novel idea: “what if you could experience virtual reality at its purest, literally live any decade without the associated grime?” But they underestimated the addictive quality of getting to exist in a video game and it, like all good markets, twisted around itself. Demand spiked, prices hiked, a new market emerged. From my window I can see the city skyline scraping against the clouds and the people below bustling like ants working for a faceless queen. This city has a pulse, and its palpitating heart is in need of a sacrifice. I flip on the light switch, but the juice is out again and everything’s still as dark as this city. Figures. Every building in a ten mile radius is teeming with filth and decay, just a side effect of being on the bum. I tip back the last of my whiskey - breakfast of champions, I used to joke, before it became habit - and grab my jacket. Wasn’t always like this, Mac. Used to be respectable. But the same thing happened that always happened. A woman and the promise of cabbage. But now I have no woman and I’m making peanuts. The door of the apartment is that new metal alloy, cheaply made, easily knocked on through. The walls are also that batty metal, but draped over them is wallpaper as flaky as my old pals. Never cared for fluorescents. I squint walking through the hall. Crouching against the wall, curling into himself, that old Jack from apartment 4B. The usual 90’s bopper - frosted tips, denim jacket, signature squinty pout. Looks like he’s looking to get junked up. Needle in hand, that clear gel oozing inside. The usual story: a hot shot nosty with no idea how nanobots work but more than willing to pump himself through if it means catching that break. Trembling ceased once the vein is pricked, looking around pie-eyed, making the world his own. “What’s the damage, mac?” I say. “How are you?” he says. “Gotta dust. Itching to get tight. You know,” I
say. He says nothing in response. “So long, soldier,” I say. My shoes echo rhythm through the hallway, dampen once they hit the sidewalk. This wasn’t the world I would have chosen to live in. But I’ve heard that from many a nos junkie and the sentence has lost meaning. I pass some of the usual clients on the street: uptown teens with flowers woven through their hair and clothes of hemp; downtown men with greased back hair and leather jackets; hyper-cool mods with sharp italian suits; the assorted bunch who can’t make up their mind of when they want to be, who exist as a compilation of all the best bits of ever. All of them, so put together and functioning, but I’ve seen them at their damnedest twitching with desire for that hour of absence, for nost. A flapper with a flask attached to her inner thigh calls me over as I walk by. Don’t remember this dame’s name, never bothered to learn any of them. Just pretend to be their pal ‘til I get my pay, then let them slip back into anonymity. “What’s the score?” I say. No point in niceties, not these days. “I’m out,” she says. Voice like tendrils of smoke. Like I’m expected to have the goods on hand at all times. I tell her, sweetheart, I’m on my way to get more. I tell her be patient and Rick’ll fix all. Rick’s not my real name, but in a business like this it serves to reinvent yourself. Safer for everyone involved. I don’t listen to what she says in response. It doesn’t matter. They all end up saying the same things anyway, after a while. The wind tunnels are strong today and I have to hold my hat on my head so it doesn’t blow off into the murky streets. She’s a good girl, that flapper. Think I’ve gotten drinks with her once or twice, chinned a bit, never partied though. She stayed stuck in the 20’s and I know when’s best to move in. Besides, not much interest in sex anymore. The problem with grown-up designer babies is that being beautiful stopped being special. No one thought we’d get used to perfection. That’s the problem these days. No one thinks. There are cracks in the sidewalk and it’s harder to focus on the world around me. Funny, but with sharper eyes it’s so much harder to see all. Or something like that. It’s so cold outside. The world seems
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