12.19.06
My night, cyberpunk style
Analog Johnny contracted me for a cleanup job on his antiquated network at SoBen. He got that moniker from his adoration of old school ‘acting’. In this day of instant digital perfection he was a throwback to previous centuries by insisting that art was created by artists, not technicians, and whenever he came into contact with anything more complicated than an integrated circuit, his negative bio-feedback energy would cause even the most simple electronic device to snarl in a feedback loop. That’s where I come in.
I rented ten minutes of phone charge time at a Koreatown stall devoted to print media and a brisk underground trade of swapping credit for paper currency. The wizened face behind 20 millimeters of bulletproof lexan bowing slightly as I made my purchases and wandered through the nighttime crowd of tourists undaunted by the chill of the Manhattan winter. The pub was empty, except for Craig the bouncer, all 150 kilos poured into a black suit that seemed to absorb all visible light. He greets me with a smile, scanning me from face to hands, looking for weapons, old habits die hard - learned on the streets of the Bronx. Mychal, the Slavic bartender, greets me with a nod, pouring shots of vodka analog, boosted with taurine; energetic customers buy more booze, hence better tips. He nods in the direction of the office, up a flight of stairs. Analog Johnny is busy giving orders to the bar girls, young enhanced nubiles from the ‘burbs, sporting multiple piercings and surgical modifications. His glance tells me to hang back while I look at the bank of Sony monitors, showing every angle of the club, overhead ancient ducts pump filtered air that smells like booze, sweat and long chain molecules of perfume. Meeting over, he points to the box in the corner, and I plug in and get to work, the waitresses giggle and bring me pints of British lager as I spend then next couple of hours ridding his systems of viruses downloaded by the same girls, lost in the cybernetic shuffle…
Side note: My good friend Heather introduced me to the Fruitcake Lady. We all need a grandmother figure like this, old enough to tell us like it is, to give advice unfettered by bullshit. Her passing is a loss, as we need more undistilled truth like this woman lays out…
