fragmented. Not even robots. It seems like they’re just collecting data just like the Census, seeing where the public opinion and general status quo is at.”
“Don’t even get me started on the goddamn Census.”
“You’re impossible,” Stevia said with a sigh.
“No, I’m skeptical. Which is healthy, I might add.”
“It’s exhausting. And boring.”
“Would it help if we started in the bedroom before having these discussions?” Auggie grinned at her, selected one of her feet, removed her boot, and began to massage her foot with a touch that Stevia was annoyed to find she crumbled to.
She closed her eyes.
“It would probably take the edge off, yes.”
“Well then, by all means, let me have a re-do,” he said, and kissed her toes. He stood abruptly and swooped her into his arms. Stevia shrieked in a pleased sort of way. Auggie did make her feel petite and young in ways she hadn’t in a long time. She rested her head on his shoulder as he carried her into his bedroom.
Auggie barely let her do anything in the bedroom but be a receptor and she gladly submitted to that. He may not have been the best looking or smelling guy she’d been with, but he made up for that and then some in generosity. She would lie there and let herself become an instrument of pleasure, occasionally even humming melodies along to her orgasms, which he seemed to love and caused him to further extend his giving nature.
Afterwards, they lay like broken toys on the bedspread, panting and tangled in each other.
“So, you’re saying you wouldn’t participate in the interviews if you happened to be selected?” She was sort of curious now. He was right. Sex first did take the edge off his extremism.
“Haha, I knew it! Why didn’t I think of this sex-first thing before? Hell no, I wouldn’t do an interview. I’d never do anything to unknowingly become entangled in the giant overt conspiracy to turn us all into obedient cyborg slaves to the robots. I bet they’ve got some way to stick a microchip in you or something once you’re there.”
“I think ‘overt conspiracy’ is an oxymoron. And you think everything is a conspiracy.”
“You’re goddamn right about that. Everything is a conspiracy.”
“What about me?” she asked playfully.
“You?”
“Yeah, am I a conspiracy?”
“Of course you are.”
She laughed uneasily. “What?!?”
“You’re a beautiful woman. Everyone knows that beautiful women are a conspiracy. They’re practically the biggest conspiracy of all. ”
He is smart, Stevia thought.
Out loud she said, “That’s so dumb.”
Auggie Breakmirrors::
The rooster alarm went off each morning at 8AM. Auggie had a very specific routine, even though the slapdash environment he awoke in would not suggest that he was a routine kind of guy. He’d stretch in bed, listening to the birds of the canals outside his perpetually-cracked window. He’d play with himself a little, just for a minute or two, using his erection as his first cup of coffee. He’d never follow through, though, because that was wasting his energy when he needed it most. He’d finish himself off later at siesta time or right before he went to sleep, if there wasn’t a female companion over.
Auggie never left himself hanging.
Then, he’d get out of bed and get a pot of real coffee going. Fresh ground beans in a French press with a dash of cinnamon and cayenne. French vanilla creamer. He knew he knew how to make damn good coffee. None of that pop-a-plastic-sealed-thimble-in-a-machine-made convenience crap. One woman he’d dated for a while actually admitted that his coffee was the reason she’d stay the night instead of heading home after sex. And that was OK with Auggie because then he’d get to collect on the most-excellent morning sex. It was a win for both of them.
Stevia didn’t drink coffee, so his talents in that department went to waste on her and she never stayed the night.
He’d pour his first glorious cup into his army-issued thermos and grab the old chewed-up leash from the counter. Alerted by the jingle, Rusty would begin wagging his tail and panting because he’d know it was time for his favorite part of the day: The morning walk.
Auggie had moved to Venice when the world had seemed too bleak for anything else. He’d never taken pharmaceutical drugs, they were definitely a conspiracy. This was it: Venice was his Prozac. It seemed the sun shined on Venice in a different way than anywhere else he’d been, and Auggie had been an army brat, and then in the army, so he’d sure as hell been around. Venice boosted his mood like nothing besides sex with a beautiful woman, the one conspiracy he would never deny himself the pleasure of falling victim to, time and time again. The sunshine was playful and positive as it poured over the canals, fun and free-spirited as it filtered through the canopy of the overgrown walk street trees, and beautifying and bright as it bounced off of the incredible array of succulents that accented the modern landscaping.
Then there was the beach, the endless fireworks of colorful graffiti everywhere, and the parade of characters with their custom transportation inventions: Goofy guy on a tripped-out hoverboard, check. Dude on a long board with a pitbull between his legs, tongue flapping in the wind, check. The creepy 8-ft unicycle clown, shudder, check. The woman on roller skates in a hot pink mini skirt blowing bubbles, smile, check. Skaters of all ages taking risk after risk in the skate bowl, continually wrecking themselves but getting right back up, brushing off the hurt, throwing a cloak of whatever-dom over their collisions, check.
Auggie loved the leathered, weathered vendors on the boardwalk selling their oddball art: Cut-up soda can airplanes with spinning propellers, ornately painted skulls, psychedelic paintings on knotted slabs of wood, bits of rocks wrapped in wire on cords… It all somehow seemed sellable to them, and therefore, it did seem to sell.
The fishermen at the pier were the ultimate favorite, though—in particular, a Filipino man named John, who would always let Auggie sample a piece of his catch that he’d BBQ right there at the end of the pier on his own little portable grill. John would palm Rusty scraps as well, rasping, “Poor blind bastard,” as he’d scratch behind the dog’s ears. Auggie knew the fish were probably contaminated with a million terrible things, but also felt it was important to eat local, in small amounts. Like ingesting a little bit of poison so that eventually you become immune to it.
They were all vital to Auggie’s mental stability, though they didn’t know it—as was his local business of operating the ultimate party bus, The Zebra. He’d been doing it for eight years now, and it never ceased to amaze him how it continued to provide for his lifestyle. Auggie remembered thinking of the plan way back when he’d first gotten his drivers license – all people want is a safe place to party and a designated driver. It was so simple and yet it had actually worked. The Zebra kept him feeling cool and forced him to be social when he felt like a hermit most of the time.
Perhaps that was what Auggie loved about Venice the most: Even a weirdo, misfit hermit like himself could feel included in the community. Auggie would purposefully
