After a few weeks of tracking people down and asking them random obtuse questions, Jones was finally able to get the address and contact information for Valhalla. It was, just as Mr. Ellison had said, right down the street from the diner where Jones and Marie would have their lunch on an almost daily basis. The pair made their trek down there on a Wednesday night, seeing a small play put on by three or four people quickly changing costumes in between scenes. The play itself was called “Going Through Motions”, and was set in a fulfillment center. At the end of the play, the fulfillment center collapsed, and a dull applause followed the deaths of these few characters the audience had spent the last few hours getting to know.

I feel as though I must clarify now that the fulfillment center that Jones called their work was not the only one to have gone structurally belly-up within the past decade. Large protests came about after the first couple, sparking outrage amongst the board members of the much more successful company. The act of protesting has died down as the public had become desensitized to the news of a fulfillment center collapsed, especially after the much more successful company began to shift the blame to the independent contractors which built the centers.

Marie could feel the life drain out of Jones during the last fifteen minutes or so of the play. There was a silence among the audience members that could cut through melted butter. Only the occasional shifting of boots or jackets accompanied the anguished cries of the performers, being trapped in by a make believe forest fire.

After the play ended, Marie turned to Jones. “Are you okay?” She asked.

“Never been better.” Jones said, lighting up a cigarette. The pair made their way to the lobby to meet the cast and crew and the owner of Valhalla, one Mrs. Wilma Kyle, who stood tall and spindly like a praying mantis with multiple spots of skin covered in intricate tattoos. It would be revealed later in conversation that “Going Through Motions” was a play written by a friend of Mrs. Kyle’s, and that this was only its second production in the whole world. Jones struck up this conversation with Mrs. Kyle, as Jones is known to do, and it wasn’t long before they asked about the availability of performances.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

At this point, Marie took an embarrassed step outside, hitting her vaporizer and waiting for the news from Jones. She had secretly hoped that there were no such slots available for a performer like her, that she could just fade into obscurity and die happily with her cheap, plastic keyboard. These hopes were crushed when Jones and Mrs. Kyle came out of the theater with delighted smiles. Mrs. Kyle waited until everyone had gone home for the night and then wheeled out an upright piano, the same brand that Marie played in the system, and asked her to play something. She played a C chord and then went into “Mellow My Mind” by Neil Young. Mrs. Kyle said nothing, there was another silence throughout the room, though it was only the three of them there and no one dared adjust their boots or coats.

“Could you play for two hours?” Mrs. Kyle finally said, lighting up a cigarette of her own. “Not of that song, mind you. Just play something, anything for two hours.”

“Yes, I think I could do that.” Marie said.

“Very good.” Mrs. Kyle stood up and began to usher the pair out. “I don’t have anything running on Friday night, so we can have you play then. One last question before you go.” Marie nodded. “Do you think you can pull a crowd? A local crowd, I mean.”

“I don’t see why not.” Marie said with just a splash of insincerity.

“Alright. See you Friday.” Mrs. Kyle said, locking the front doors behind the pair. Jones’ face turned from one of excitement to one of extreme regret as he noted Marie’s posture. She looked like a mannequin being held up by a pole up the rear. She kept her arms straight and picked at the beddings of her fingernails, tossing them into the gutter outside Valhalla.

“Are you okay?” Jones foolishly asked. “I’m sorry, I just thought an audition wouldn’t hurt.” Marie took a long, deep breath.

“I’m fine. It’s better to die in the present right?”