PROXIMA CITY
FRIDAY, 7:32 P.M.
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There was an old pop song that said,
Proxima, city of the night brightness. City of the night screams.
Proxima, city of joys. A city of nightmares.
Like any metropolis, the cultural identity of Proxima City could be summed up in its architecture: small houses, tall buildings, unattainable skyscrapers. One construction after the other. Beasts with glass skins, concrete muscles, and steel skeletons, that drew a kind of food pyramid where each building stalked the small link in front and endured the harassment of the largest from behind.
Several corporations that dominated international trade had their head offices there, and their managers, like monarchs of different kingdoms that shared the same territory, were never satisfied diners who enlarged their bellies with the feast of success. It was a cocktail of the best of the world’s cosmopolitan cities and the worst of the ghetto slums. A version of heaven and hell where excesses were the main dish of yuppies, media politicians, showbiz stars, and any other character that stood out among its eight million inhabitants.
And among them was Adam White, someone who, as he had once said to an old flame, “I’m lucky enough to taste worldly pleasures. I prefer to keep stress out of my diet, though.”
To which the girl replied, “You talk weird.”
That Friday, September 21, driving his car, a blue compact, model 08.09, the latest from the Tor company, Adam stopped by Trevor to—in Trevor’s own words—continue to satisfy that inner teenager.
With happy eyes, Adam greeted his friend, who had abandoned his formal clothes for something simpler. Or at least he’d tried.
“I’m warning you, if the evening ends late, you won’t make it to your golf game on time.”
Trevor touched the collar of his polo shirt.
“I bought it today, especially for tonight. And it’s better than I can say for that bland white T-shirt you’re wearing.”
“Hey, hey, that matches my last name! And I’m not criticizing you. That you don’t wear a suit and tie is already quite a breakthrough.”
According to Adam, Trevor Homam’s dress code was an accurate depiction of his personality: too clean and conservative, so polite that made one feel uneasy.
No one could be as perfect as he appeared to be. Trevor had to have a significant dark side hidden under several layers of courtesy, ready to be uncovered after a bout of madness. That day wasn’t here yet, though, and as time passed, Adam thought it might never come. Perhaps Trevor’s unwavering good manners had been fortified by the harsh upbringing he had received from his father and the equally strict religious doctrine of his mother.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
Trevor found two holo-magazine cards on the dashboard of the car. He guessed what they were, and by giving them a slight touch, he confirmed his suspicion. Both copies of Loud projected their covers in a miniature version, lighting up the cabin with their holographic colors. A half-naked Adam in all his former glory, and the title, ‘The Best Models of the Decade.’
“Those will be the souvenirs for the girls,” Adam said.
“You do know how to sell yourself, right?”
“You can ask my boss,” Adam joked and continued his way in search of the other part of his entourage.
Both girls were in their thirties, blonde and sophisticated, covered in jewelry and somewhat scantily dressed; too thin for their own good, though.
“Mint and Strawberry,” Trevor called them, watching them approach the car. “Are those their real names? You must be kidding.”
“No. And they have a brother called Kiwi. Their parents were in a naturist cult.”
“Where do you get these people?”
“Pieces of my past life,” Adam laughed. “And now, show some respect, mister! The Mint and Strawberry sisters were the hottest supermodels on the catwalk for an entire month, ten years ago.”
After a brief tour of the city’s waterfront, Adam took them to a fabulous restaurant by the sea, and as he handed over the car keys to be parked for him, the topic of conversation with his secretary Rita that morning returned to him and smiled: Even though most restaurants had youngsters for valet service, this place in particular, used a Cyclops android, and he was dressed in black tie. The black bow accentuated the silver shine on his head and the bright red of his eye. It was a C14-R8, a model prior to the current ones; Adam knew it by the shape of the eye. The C14’s circular visor was smaller than that of the newer D02-R8s.
“They’re cute, aren’t they?” Strawberry said and kissed the android on the cold cheek.
“As handsome as me!” Adam said, forcing a smile. He looked at the identification on the small badge pinned to the lapel of the android’s suit and gave him a small pat on the shoulder. “Alright, Atsu,” he called him, “take good care of my car.”
Atsu’s red eye flickered once, confirming the order.
Dinner went pleasantly, although if it hadn’t been for Trevor’s presence, the moment would have had almost nothing to contribute to that compendium of dinners with friends Adam had under his belt. To him, everything would have been part of a nightly routine, except for Trevor, and what happened after he paid the bill.
As he stood up from the table, a tingling sensation traveled from Adam’s head to his feet, like the dizziness one experiences when standing up quickly after squatting, so intense that it almost caused his body to collapse. The sensation lasted about two or three seconds, though it was strong enough to force him back into the chair.
“You okay?” Trevor asked, and from the look on his face, Adam knew that his brief mishap hadn’t gone unnoticed, either by his friend or by the two girls.
“Yeah, yeah. I must have gotten up too quickly; that’s all,” he said. He took a deep breath and got back to his feet smoothly.
“And you haven’t tried those margaritas,” Strawberry commented.
“Hey—” Trevor grabbed his shoulder. “If you’re not feeling well, you’d better go home.”
Adam giggled.
“Nice try, man,” he told him. “But tonight, you won’t run from me. Now, come on, B-Crush awaits us!”