r you cumming over here?
Stevia smiled to herself and looked in her mirror, taking a strand of her hair and smelling it for freshness. Finding the scent hard to detect over all the lavender and sandalwood and shrunken heads, she shrugged and voted against showering.
STEVIA:
On my way in 20. Hold your horse.
AUGGIE:
Attached – One Item:
(Veiny Dick Pic)
It’s in my hand right now waiting for you to ride it, beautiful.
Stevia sighed. She wasn’t into “sexting” at all but it had long ago become part of the way of things, and she had to play along in order to “act her age” – which, thanks to her anti-aging potion, anyone could not have guessed was above 30. Keeping with the technological times was Stevia’s least favorite part of staying young forever, as it was certainly the most difficult. Or, it had been for a while back in the early 2000s, when technology was evolving on a seemingly endless upward cliff. But then Fuckwad had taken office and it had plateaued for a while, giving her a much-needed breather.
Anyway, Auggie was a weirdo and certainly not boyfriend material, but she found comfort in that detachment, not wishing him to call or text in order to feel OK. And the sex was good enough to carry on for a while, even though he smelled like patchouli, which reminded her of some bad times a long time ago.
Stevia threw on a sweater and a scarf for the bike ride over to his place. She poured homeopathic dry food and fresh water into the cats’ bowls and was off.
When she pulled up to Auggie’s pad, she locked her beach cruiser to a street sign and heard noises that determined he was inside his party bus. The party bus was known as The Zebra, a name that explained itself with its exterior paint job. Regardless of how much of an eyesore it was, Auggie claimed it was usually booked every night of the weekend and most nights of the week, as The Zebra was notorious for its transcendence of common law; any behavior was OK with Auggie as long as you weren’t a Republican and always respected women.
Auggie poked his frizzy-ponytailed head out of an open window and grinned at her. Despite his general unkemptness, he did have a terrific set of teeth. And would probably make a pretty cool shrunken head, Stevia had thought on several occasions.
“Hey, babe. Wanna take a spin in my extra stretch party bus?”
Stevia dismissed him with a little hand gesture.
“Been there, done that.”
Auggie raised his eyebrows. “Alright, alright. I like a woman who makes me work to impress her.”
Stevia rolled her eyes and walked up to the sliding door of The Zebra, breathing in the familiar scent combination of air freshener, weed, and good old unsettling patchouli.
“Coming aboard?”
“I was thinking we could sit in the garden.” Stevia didn’t feel like permeating her hair with the scent of The Zebra. She had a session the next day with Dan Blacker, the handsome producer who paid her well.
“Good idea. Almost done with this cleanup. Meet me back there. Front door’s open, grab anything you like from the fridge.”
Stevia made her way up the chipped steps into the house, which had been on the Venice Canals for so long it had become part plant itself. Vines wrapped around windows to the point where they couldn’t close anymore. Cracks in the kitchen wall emitted sprouts of ivy that snaked along the indents between tiles. Everything was a faded kind of colorful, which appealed to Stevia for short amounts in a nostalgic sort of way. She would never live there herself. Too many critters, too many signs of decay. And don’t even get her started on the bathroom. Unbeknownst to Auggie, sometimes if Stevia had to go, she would sneak into the construction site across the alley just to pull a crouching tiger.
She helped herself to some water after re-washing a glass from the cabinet. Auggie’s old, blind dog Rusty ambled into the room, tail wagging, and she let him smell her hand.
“Hi, sweetie,” she murmured. She always pitied the copper-coated animal, but Rusty never actually seemed sad about his condition. She thought his blindness was perhaps a blessing that kept him from being aware of the squalor he lived in.
Once outside, Stevia brushed off a cushioned chair, double-checking with her phone flashlight to make sure there were no spiders. Auggie’s side yard was more like a tropical forest between houses. Auggie had haphazardly strung some solar lights around a few of the plants which lit the foliage with a dim, pleasant glow. Stevia loved it out there, even though it was as unkempt as the rest of the place.
“Goddamn, you look good out there,” Auggie said from the doorway, startling her. He was barefoot and wearing a Hawaiian shirt with tan cargo shorts.
“I feel good in this jungle.”
“Shit, babe. You’re always welcome.” He popped a can of beer and sat in his chair, a dilapidated hammock-stool that creaked annoyingly every time he shifted like it was going to cave under the weight of his stocky frame. “Did you hear about the upcoming visit from President TBD 3000? ‘The Interviews Tour of 2029?’ What a load of crap. That POS model is already gearing up for a re-election.”
“You think everything’s a load of crap.”
“It usually is.”
“Well, I think it seems at least like a more humane model of President than we’ve had for the last twelve years.”
“Tell me, how is there such a thing as a ‘humane robot?’ They’ll never have anything alive about them. How the hell did we end up letting robots make our decisions for us? How humane – or inhumane – is that? Our futures determined by algorithms and programmers… How did they trick us into this fuckery?”
“Please, Grandpa,” she said, dutifully playing the part of Cooler Younger Woman when she was probably nearly 20 years his senior and couldn’t have agreed with him more. “Machines have been the future for decades, now. Get over it. It’s just the way it is.”
“You know I think you’re gorgeous and super smart and charming as hell, but your passivity is a drag.”
“Then quit trying to argue with me about politics.”
“No. I’m not giving up on you. Just like I’m not giving up on the future of this country. Since robots have taken command, some things have improved. I’ll give ‘em that. But considering we were at rock bottom at the end of the reign of Fuckwad, broke and angry and on the verge of nuclear war, there wasn’t much elsewhere to go! And this whole ‘bringing back the American Dream’ tour mission statement has got to be a massive disguise for something else, something sinister and dark and ugly. They’re secretly tracking something through these interviews. Just the fact that it’s illegal for anyone to disclose anything about the experience tells you everything you need to know right there.”
“Pssht. Even stupid reality shows make the cast and crew sign non-disclosure agreements,” Stevia said flippantly. “There are plenty of non-conspiracy situations that call for secrecy. They probably just don’t want people going in with any expectations.”
“They’re definitely digging,” Auggie said. “And I want
