The WiFi Life
District headquarters in Denver is always shutting down. Mike Coleridge got a basically unprecedented deal on the land they built it on, but the snow gets so thick come February that the lines go down and the servers balk at the traffic. They choke on the error messages and flash tiny LED death rattles.
Someone has to fix that kind of stuff.
I yawn in position beside the other stiff-suits; Sherpas in loafers are the only ones taking the 9:17 from LAX to Denver on a Tuesday morning, ready to carry laptops and briefcases, the occasional paperback, to heights that shame the Himalayas. Many of them will do it in their sleep.
I think more intensely about shaving. The countdown to boarding eases by in no time. I board late, sitting near the front, carefully stowing and unfurling satchels and jackets. My seatmate runs even later, but he files in before long. There's a wool cap on his head and one of those four button black jackets, but he has the uniform: dress shoes and slacks. Even a tie.
He has straight teeth and rosy cheeks, but his eyes are glassy and vague. He doesn't have the charisma for sales, and none of the managerial swagger. Looked like a tech. Like me.
He smiles, but his eye contact barely glances off me, and he's into his seat and book before I can nod. I eye my coffee and take satisfaction out of knowing I won't need it. This guy isn't going to mutter so much as a phrase between now and touchdown. A nice caffeine sidearm is a good thing to tote around in case there's someone you actually want to talk to.
Once the ritual seatbelt check is underway an older stewardess approaches me. She smiles at rosy cheeks and grabs at my attention with a meaningless hand gesture.
“Sir, I'm sorry to bother you.” She's the senior attendant. You can tell because she's not doing any of the shit jobs right now. “Were you aware you were sitting in a courtesy aisle? Your neighbor is a special needs passenger.”
This is new, so I just kind of stare. Old habits. Don't move until you know what's going on. The guy doesn't look retarded or anything. Just kind of... nonplussed.
Her liquid plastic smile starts to seep off her face just a bit. Just before it can plunge headlong and away, she throws it back on to the potter's wheel, spinning up a helpful explanation.
“Mr. Davenport is a transmitting device,” she says, as if it makes sense. “He's going to have to turn off for the duration of the flight. We ask only that you be so kind as to activate his arrival beacon upon landing.” This she says while pointing to a button on his wristwatch.
I nod.
“I need you to verbally confirm that you are willing to assist Mr. Davenport, or the flight crew will be forced to find you a new seat.”
“Um. Yes,” I manage.
The smile spins up to a consistency so solid as to appear legitimate, and she turns on a practiced three inch heel.
Despite the strange interruption—and what must have been an intrusive invasion of his privacy—Mr. Davenport still barely looks at me. I try talking to him now:
“Transmitting device?”
His head turns slowly, and he shakes something off, as if I startled him. “I'm sorry. Were you talking to me?”
“Yeah, there's... uh... no one else here,” I say, and stare into these big brown eyes he has.
“Sorry, I was distracted. I'm telecommuting.” Rosy cheeks Davenport doesn't even has a book in his hand. I fidget in my seat.
“Flying from LA to Denver is more like a for-real commute for me.”
“Yeah, I'm sorry,” The sorrow looks genuine. A real flash of empathy and a half-formed memory of something awful crosses his features. “I remember how much that sucked for me”
I laugh. “Yeah.” Sarcasm is a vice, I know, but there are worse guilty pleasures. “I totally remember how much it sucked.”
Now he suddenly starts, “Oh crap. You're not sending a drone, too, are you?”
“Mr Davenport,” I say, trying to be gentle, “whatever you're talking about, I'm in the dark. You're slinging me a bunch of nonsense.”
“Oh,” he begins. He gets that look like someone just told you the number you dialed was wrong, long after you started talking about that new rash you got. “Oh, I'm sorry. I meant it literally. Telecommuting. This is a robot.”
“Mania suits you,” I say, hoping for a better reaction than I get.
“No, really. About a year ago I had this body commissioned. Now I get to stay home and pilot this thing from job to job while I watch daytime television.”
“I think I should've told the stewardess 'No'.”
“Everyone says that,” he says. “Listen, the captain's about to start talking. Nice to meet you. I have to get turned off.”
“You're serious aren't you?”
He reaches down to his ankle, pulling his foot up onto the seat. “Completely.”
“How expensive was it?” I'm curious at this point. Because, if he's joking, he's really jerking my chain. This sounds too good to be true, on top of sounding impossible.
“Oh, not that bad.” He rolls up his pantleg and reveals a thick, black, rubber ring with a display on it. “Here,” he says, casually flipping me a business card.
“Thanks,” is all I can muster.
“No, thank to you for helping me out.” He flips the switch on the band, places his foot on the ground and looks at me again. “It's against FAA regulation for me to broadcast back to myself while the plane's in the air.”
This is actually happening, I keep repeating to myself. Somehow it won't stick.
“But that's part of the fun,” he says. His smile is radiant for a robot. “Two more hours of Court TV, here I come. Have a good one.”
And with that he goes numb. Eyes closed, utterly still. I glance over the card and stow it. As we roll up into the clouds, once I'm good and sure he's serious about the whole thing, I poke him a few times.
Satisfied, I get some rest myself.
Someone has to fix that kind of stuff.
I yawn in position beside the other stiff-suits; Sherpas in loafers are the only ones taking the 9:17 from LAX to Denver on a Tuesday morning, ready to carry laptops and briefcases, the occasional paperback, to heights that shame the Himalayas. Many of them will do it in their sleep.
I think more intensely about shaving. The countdown to boarding eases by in no time. I board late, sitting near the front, carefully stowing and unfurling satchels and jackets. My seatmate runs even later, but he files in before long. There's a wool cap on his head and one of those four button black jackets, but he has the uniform: dress shoes and slacks. Even a tie.
He has straight teeth and rosy cheeks, but his eyes are glassy and vague. He doesn't have the charisma for sales, and none of the managerial swagger. Looked like a tech. Like me.
He smiles, but his eye contact barely glances off me, and he's into his seat and book before I can nod. I eye my coffee and take satisfaction out of knowing I won't need it. This guy isn't going to mutter so much as a phrase between now and touchdown. A nice caffeine sidearm is a good thing to tote around in case there's someone you actually want to talk to.
Once the ritual seatbelt check is underway an older stewardess approaches me. She smiles at rosy cheeks and grabs at my attention with a meaningless hand gesture.
“Sir, I'm sorry to bother you.” She's the senior attendant. You can tell because she's not doing any of the shit jobs right now. “Were you aware you were sitting in a courtesy aisle? Your neighbor is a special needs passenger.”
This is new, so I just kind of stare. Old habits. Don't move until you know what's going on. The guy doesn't look retarded or anything. Just kind of... nonplussed.
Her liquid plastic smile starts to seep off her face just a bit. Just before it can plunge headlong and away, she throws it back on to the potter's wheel, spinning up a helpful explanation.
“Mr. Davenport is a transmitting device,” she says, as if it makes sense. “He's going to have to turn off for the duration of the flight. We ask only that you be so kind as to activate his arrival beacon upon landing.” This she says while pointing to a button on his wristwatch.
I nod.
“I need you to verbally confirm that you are willing to assist Mr. Davenport, or the flight crew will be forced to find you a new seat.”
“Um. Yes,” I manage.
The smile spins up to a consistency so solid as to appear legitimate, and she turns on a practiced three inch heel.
Despite the strange interruption—and what must have been an intrusive invasion of his privacy—Mr. Davenport still barely looks at me. I try talking to him now:
“Transmitting device?”
His head turns slowly, and he shakes something off, as if I startled him. “I'm sorry. Were you talking to me?”
“Yeah, there's... uh... no one else here,” I say, and stare into these big brown eyes he has.
“Sorry, I was distracted. I'm telecommuting.” Rosy cheeks Davenport doesn't even has a book in his hand. I fidget in my seat.
“Flying from LA to Denver is more like a for-real commute for me.”
“Yeah, I'm sorry,” The sorrow looks genuine. A real flash of empathy and a half-formed memory of something awful crosses his features. “I remember how much that sucked for me”
I laugh. “Yeah.” Sarcasm is a vice, I know, but there are worse guilty pleasures. “I totally remember how much it sucked.”
Now he suddenly starts, “Oh crap. You're not sending a drone, too, are you?”
“Mr Davenport,” I say, trying to be gentle, “whatever you're talking about, I'm in the dark. You're slinging me a bunch of nonsense.”
“Oh,” he begins. He gets that look like someone just told you the number you dialed was wrong, long after you started talking about that new rash you got. “Oh, I'm sorry. I meant it literally. Telecommuting. This is a robot.”
“Mania suits you,” I say, hoping for a better reaction than I get.
“No, really. About a year ago I had this body commissioned. Now I get to stay home and pilot this thing from job to job while I watch daytime television.”
“I think I should've told the stewardess 'No'.”
“Everyone says that,” he says. “Listen, the captain's about to start talking. Nice to meet you. I have to get turned off.”
“You're serious aren't you?”
He reaches down to his ankle, pulling his foot up onto the seat. “Completely.”
“How expensive was it?” I'm curious at this point. Because, if he's joking, he's really jerking my chain. This sounds too good to be true, on top of sounding impossible.
“Oh, not that bad.” He rolls up his pantleg and reveals a thick, black, rubber ring with a display on it. “Here,” he says, casually flipping me a business card.
“Thanks,” is all I can muster.
“No, thank to you for helping me out.” He flips the switch on the band, places his foot on the ground and looks at me again. “It's against FAA regulation for me to broadcast back to myself while the plane's in the air.”
This is actually happening, I keep repeating to myself. Somehow it won't stick.
“But that's part of the fun,” he says. His smile is radiant for a robot. “Two more hours of Court TV, here I come. Have a good one.”
And with that he goes numb. Eyes closed, utterly still. I glance over the card and stow it. As we roll up into the clouds, once I'm good and sure he's serious about the whole thing, I poke him a few times.
Satisfied, I get some rest myself.
posted by Maximillian @ 9:18 PM
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