Strolling down the long spiral hallway leading to Mr. Cedar’s showroom had always been a cleansing and meditative retreat. Usually, I spent an hour or two meandering down the polished glass path, stopping along the way to push the buttons on the wooden booths and observe motorized fabric strength or abrasion tests, or to study mannequins dressed with his latest designs, treasures from his design past, or selections from his burgeoning historical collection.
That day, however, I did not walk as the doctors had advised me to let my leg heal. So, I rode atop an annoyingly bright green frog scooter—a single steady-wheel chair and handlebars—that the medical staff had given me. Motoring straight to the sugar maple and hammered palladium doors, I arrived in one minute flat.
His assistant, Pheff, in a charcoal suit, textured white shirt, and a cream tie, said, “Welcome, Mr. Rivers. He’s expecting you.” Usually I met with my tailor in his gallery, where currently a dozen black robot mannequins, each impeccably dressed in his latest creations, mimed the actions of daily life—drinking coffee, strolling through indoor parks, and posing for cameras, but this time, Pheff led me to a black door in back. After entering a long code into a lock, he released several bolts and pulled it back slowly.
I had not been in Mr. Cedar’s design studio before and felt honored. The air had the tangy aroma of new fabric and starch. Down the center were a dozen wide, flat worktables piled with bundles of material, projects in various stages, boxes of notions, and all manner of tools. Along the interior wall, I saw sewing machines, de-weavers, and other muscular-looking equipment, some with large knobs, lit dials, and levers. The exterior wall was some sort of a translucent material from floor to ceiling and through it was a view of a hundred buildings. In the hazy morning sun, the closest tower was indigo, the rest of the edifices faded to sapphire in the distance.
“Michael,” he said, as he stood and stepped toward me, “good to see you.”
Mr. Cedar was ten years older, an inch shorter, but sturdier. His hair, which stood up in front, was black, but lately, from different angles and in various I’d seen flecks of grey. He was one of those men whose looks often go unnoticed. He was not stunningly handsome, and still had a faint scar down the middle of his face, but once the eye found the details beyond the basic color, texture, and silhouette, it could appreciate both his graceful features and the complexity of his steel eyes.
Today he wore what I assumed were his work clothes—an unconstructed charcoal jacket and matching pants, a soft-looking, off-white shirt, and a silvery ascot.
“Your suit design saved my life,” I told him. “Thank you.”
From the center of his chin grew a single black hair three inches long. He twirled it between his index and thumb a few times. “You exaggerate.”
Next, he gave me a tour of the studio, showed me his de-weaving equipment, the design systems, water looms, and demonstrated a new sonic, double-lock sewing machine.
“Impressive,” I said.
“We’re quite modest.” He then escorted me toward his screens and sat. “I understand that you have another publicity date.”
“I do,” I said, instantly depressed. She’s a Petunia Tune girl.” As I mentioned the magazine, I saw him wince. “I don’t like it either, but I don’t have a choice.” All morning I had tried to call Nora, tried to see her on the channels, tried to send messages, but everything was blocked by RiverGroup code. The same notice kept coming up: You are disallowed from this communication, Michael. And your father has been informed. After I had tried several dozen times, Father and the gold visor satin had come. Gold Visor picked me up by one ankle and we got as far as the garage, when I promised I wouldn’t try to send Nora a message again. The satin summarily dropped me onto the floor, and I bruised my head.
Sitting up, I realized that I had slipped into a daydream and not finished my thought to my tailor. With a futile shrug, I added, “All I would like to do is share a single cream-coffee with Nora.” I exhaled a shaky breath and tried to gather myself.
Twisting his beard hair a few more times, Mr. Cedar spun around, picked a brush from a jar, and began working. I watched the sable flip and dash over the glowing surface, and then glanced up at the overhead display where the drawing appeared.
On a terracotta oval, the figure assumed a pose like the models in Pure H. The left leg was forward, the foot, straight. The head was turned far to the left so that the face was in profile. The left arm rest on the hip, the right hung straight. As he worked, he added a tiny dot of red between the thumb and the index, as if a drop of her blood remained. While the suit was lean and elegant like always, it was boxier and darker. The lapels were higher. The white shirt looked stiff like paper, and the patterned ash tie gave an iridescent glow.
“There,” he said, and touched a button labeled CUT AND SEW.
“It’s superb!” I said, not actually sure that I loved it. The truth was it looked stiff and awkward, but I felt I didn’t want to complain until I saw it in three dimensions. “What is the fiber content?”
He swiveled on his chair and pointed toward the back of the room. “Here we are.”
Assistant Pheff came with a dark charcoal suit draped over his arm. “Fresh from the Fuji-Merrow cut-and-sew automaton,” he said, handing it to Mr. Cedar.
My tailor checked the seams, the lining, and the buttons. “Excellent. Bring Mr. Rivers’ form,” he instructed. Pheff did so, and Mr. Cedar dressed it.
In fabric and in three dimensions, I saw just how different the suit was. While all his previous garments had radiated an uplifting elegance, this one was heavy, anxious, and hard. The fabric had a ghostly metallic sheen and reminded me more of armor than the usual soft, satellite wools. To emphasize that harder feel, the buttons were cut roughly from slate, the collar hugged the neck as if the wearer were cold or frightened, and the shoulders slumped as if carrying a burden. With a sad laugh of recognition, I said, “Now I understand.”
Mr. Cedar nodded as if that was what he had expected to hear. In a low drawer, he rooted through a dozen large brushes, scissors, rulers, tape measures, and spools of thread. “Ah!” he said, as he pulled out what looked like a green glass rod with a small orb at one end.
Stepping before the suit, he studied it as an artist might gaze at a canvas and then began drawing on the right shoulder with the rod. I flinched, fearing that he was going to color my suit green, but soon saw that the glass rod made no mark. I had no idea what he was doing. Glancing at Pheff, he seemed as baffled as I. So, the two of us waited for him to finish and explain.
But when he finished, he stepped back, gazed for a moment, and then told Pheff, “Turn off the lights. Close the blinds, and switch off all the screens.”
The three of us were swallowed in darkness. Holding tightly onto the scooter handlebars so I felt like I wasn’t drifting in space, I waited for my tailor to speak, or turn on a light, or do something. I heard nothing, but my own breathing.
Once my eyes adjusted to the tiny hint of light that came around the door, I could see my tailor standing absolutely still before the suit. While I couldn’t fathom what this was about, I knew he had a reason and resolved to wait patiently.
Every few minutes Pheff cleared his throat, shifted his weight, or crossed or uncrossed his arms. Mr. Cedar was perfectly still. His arms hung at his sides. I couldn’t see if his eyes were open, but guessed they were closed. He was meditating or making a silent offering of some sort. Maybe he always did this when he finished a suit.
I closed my eyes and tried to think of nothing, but images of Father screaming and dancing, and the abrasive hues from the color therapy screen, kept invading my consciousness like pollution. The more I tried to push them away, the more elastic they became. Finally, I imagined Nora’s gloved hands, the texture of the material, the precise cut of the fabric, and the way it stretched over her knuckles. Gradually, the storm receded.
My body jerked, as if I was falling asleep, and I opened my eyes. The room was still black, and I feared I had dozed off for a few minutes. But there… on the right shoulder of the suit was a ghostly glowing grey circle six inches wide. It was like a large round, clockwise brushstroke, exactly like the logo of the SunEcho coffee shop.
Mr. Cedar said, “Lights.”
I clenched my eyes. Before I had a chance to ask what I’d seen, he told Pheff to turn them off again, and we were plunged back into darkness. The eerie logo was gone.
“Back on,” he said. As the lights returned, he turned toward me. “Bright light bleaches visual purple in the eye.”
“I thought I saw the SunEcho logo for a moment.”
“You did,” he said, “but I painted it on with a dye almost out of human perception.” He took the jacket from the form and put it on a Chanel-Royce hanger. “You wanted to meet Nora for a cream coffee,” he continued. “My idea is that she’ll see the logo and go to meet you. But we want the message to be seen only by her, if possible.”
“Right,” I agreed. “My communication has been cut off.”
“So,” he said, “only those few people with a grey eye will have the ability to see it. Of that group, only those who have a muted décor, such that they would be watching your date in relative dim, will have enough visual purple in their grey eye to perceive it. And from that very small group, only those who are familiar with the logo of the Pure H coffee shop will comprehend.”
As a cold shiver worked its way up my spine, I said, “You mean… her.”
Later that afternoon, Joelene and I were traveling across the Pacificum Floating Bridge on our way to the city of Kong. While Joelene worked on her screen, I began to worry that Nora wouldn’t see the message. What if the rods in her grey eye weren’t working for some unfathomable reason? Or what if her father came in and switched on a bright light? Or what if she didn’t watch the promotion date at all? She could be mad at me. Maybe she would hate me for going out with Elle, even though she had to know that I was being coerced.
“The itinerary for the date has just been finalized,” said Joelene. With a sigh, she added, “I tried my best.” Bringing over a screen, she sat beside me.
I looked over the date itinerary. We were to eat at a restaurant at the top of the MonoBeat Tower. That was good. I made my appearance first and drank one of the sponsor’s beverages. That wasn’t too bad—Nora and I had had sponsors. Elle then sampled another of the beverages. Then we described how delicious and refreshing they were. That was crass, but tolerable. For the next ten minutes she and I were to flirt. I stopped reading for a moment and felt a kind of dread that I hadn’t before. Maybe I was in denial, but I had assumed we would just meet and talk. Reading ahead, I saw that we were to gaze in each other’s eyes and pledge to get our parents to work together as an expression of our newfound love.
I glanced at Joelene, who pursed her mouth as if to say that she knew how awful it was. After we ate dinner, one of Elle’s favorite bands was to play, and we were to dance. I stared at the word. This was the worst, and yet, the next thing was unacceptable. During the dance, we were supposed to kiss, and the date was to end with one of my hands slipping between her legs.
Tossing the screen at the floor, I said, “That’s disgusting!”
She retrieved the screen and sat for a moment. “I’ll go back and say we can’t do it from the kiss on. Your father’s not going to like it.”
I felt like laughing and crying at the same time. “I don’t want to do any of it! Can’t we go back to MKG? Do I have to forget Nora?”
“No,” she said, gently, “of course not.”
“I’m going to see her!” I whispered. Joelene looked confused, if curious, so I told her about the visual purple invitation to the SunEcho in my suit.
Taking a small, powered magnifying glass from a pocket, she stood and checked the jacket. “Interesting,” she said. Since she did not have a grey eye, I didn’t know what she was seeing. Once she had snapped the glass into its case, she said, “I applaud your courage and initiative.” Her smile slowly faded, and she asked, “But how were you planning to get to the SunEcho?”
I asked, fearing it wasn’t the right answer.
“Our new driver is surely not going anywhere but straight to the promo-date wrap-party in Kobehaba where we are to meet with your father.” An alarm sounded on one of her screens, she glanced toward it, said, “I’m afraid getting to your meeting will not be easy, nor without substantial risks.”
“Please?” I asked. “I have to see her and tell her that this thing with Ribo-Kool is nothing… that it doesn’t mean anything to me. I have to tell her.”
After nodding, as if she’d had an idea, she said, “I’ll look into our options.”
“Thank you!” I said. “I have to see her.”
As she sat before her screens, she said, “Your father is on channel five thousand.” She pushed a button and the monitor before me came on.
I recognized the garish nautical set of the interview show Celebrity Research Yacht. Across from the red-haired host, Milo Holly, who was dressed in his whites and captain’s hat, sat Father in a green paisley jacket with large holes cut so that his black-painted nipples showed through like cartoon eyes. On his head he wore what looked like a rubber tire tread of a hat, and from both ears hung miniature crystal chandeliers. Usually his costumes were copies of his latest favorite Ültra band.
“It’s all about love,” said Father, the chandeliers jingled like wind chimes when he moved. “We make a product we love for clients we love. We do it to help all the families we love. It’s in everything RiverGroup does. Love is our basic thing.”
“It’s all hate,” I complained, with a roll of my eyes.
“But with the RiverGroup security stuff in everything, shouldn’t we be worried about freeboots jumping out all over the place?” Milo Holly laughed as though it was supposed to be a joke, but he looked anxious.
“No!” said Father, smiling as though it were absurd. Everything’s right back to our normal super-secure and super-protected… you know… normal.” He smiled again. Everything’s perfect.”
“Maybe not perfect,” said Milo. “I mean Michael was shot. The merger-marriage between you guys and MKG was cancelled. And your stock is sinking fast.”
“RiverGroup has had a rough couple of days, but we’re stronger than ever.”
Milo eyed the camera, coyly. “And I saw a report that you got an implausibly big pimple on your ass!”
“Oh yeah,” said Father playing along, as the audience howled. As the laugher died away, Father said, “Back to shit for a second… remember kids, bad shits come along. But the lesson is even if RiverGroup—the code bastards of system security—can be hit, just think how much worse it would have been if you’d been using the flimsy crap MKG sells!”
Milo smiled stiffly. “It was implausibly tragic,” he said, as if afraid to insult a potential sponsor.
“It was much worse that that! It was Fifty Layers of Bitch.” Father leaned forward and popped Milo’s shoulder with a friendly punch. “That’s my new favorite song.”
“We could tell,” said Milo, rubbing his arm. “But you’re right, that band, Sister Revölver’s Tongüe, is completely implausible!” To the camera, he said, “Hey everybody, let’s see a clip of their newest Ültra epic.”
Three men, dressed like Father and wielding chrome guitars, tore down a city street, smashing car windshields, storefronts, with strollers. One began singing and screeching as though he were being cut in half. A chrome guitar hit him in the face. Then the three men were bashing each other until they were covered with blood.
“That’s so Ültra you have to puke over the poop deck!” gushed Milo. “Or poop over the puke deck! But, wow! I love the Tongüe!” After he had caught his breath, he shrugged and added, “Too bad they’re all busted up and in comas now.”
Father’s head was still bouncing to the rhythm. “When I was a kid,” he said, apropos of nothing, “I used to whack off and keep my semen in a jar in the fridge.”
I let my head fall back. Did he have to say bizarre and disgusting things like that to the world? Didn’t he care what they thought?
“Wait, Mom!” shouted Milo as he whipped off his captain’s hat. “Don’t drink that! That’s not the coconut milk!”
The audience roared.
Father, who seemed taken aback, as if he’d had other plans for his story, said, “Yeah… coconut milk… funny! Anyway,” he flicked a hand at one of his chandeliers, “I’m here to plug our new promotion date. Tonight, eight o’clock, my son will be going out with Elle of Ribo-Kool. She’s the hot granddaughter of Konrad Kez, that dead quadrillionaire. And she’s blazing.”
“I’ll be watching,” said Milo. “She’s the one who sat on that camera yesterday at a press conference. Talk about a debutante ball!”
“And,” continued Father, as the audience whooped and hollered, “ big, new product show will be the day after tomorrow. By then, I expect Michael and Elle will be fucking like a couple of dirty, rabid skunks, if you know what I mean!”
“Oh, yeah!” said Milo, as he stood and did a few hip thrusts, “I think I know what you mean!” Next he shook hands with Father, and read a list of some of the top channels covering the date.
“That’s enough of that!” I said.
“I agree,” said Joelene. “But let’s see what the buzz is like.”
“Do we have to?”
“ background,” she said, as she switched the channel to a show called Intellectuals and Soup. Two women and two men dressed as if they were at a mad tea party sat around a gold-leaf rococo table before steaming bowls.
A chubby woman, with warm brown eyes, covered in a mass of pink soap bubbles and a wide, crimson-feathered hat, said, “I feel for Nora. Her story is the modern tragedy. But I can’t believe Michael is so fickle and shallow to be interested in Elle Kez.”
“Indeed,” said a man wearing an azure bowtie with the wingspan of a goose and a matching striped morning jacket, “I’d not heard of Elle Kez before, but she is simply dreadful. She can’t act, sing, or keep on her God-awful clothes for more than three minutes.” Grainy, obviously stolen pictures of her nude body flashed on screen. “She has none of the blood or breeding of Michael Rivers or any real members of the families. Granddaughter of the wealthy and admired, if dead, Konrad Kez or not, I say she’s a degenerate prostitute with a dripping nose. And as for the firm she represents, Ribo-Kool is an absolute nothing from somewhere in the dregs of America-3. I can’t find any references to them before a week ago. How RiverGroup could be planning to merge with them is completely beyond understanding.”
“So,” said Pink Hat, lifting a spoonful of shellfish bisque, “you think it’s another of the ever-increasingly sad and bizarre schemes from his father, Hiro Rivers?
“I do,” said Bow Tie.
“My problem is,” continued Pink Hat, “if Michael doesn’t stand up against his father this , I’m afraid I’m going to be quite disappointed. He is only nineteen, but it’s time he asserted himself.” She stuck the spoon in her mouth. “Mmm!” she said. The salty shark semen is succulent, but it doesn’t overpower the denatured rhubarb leaves either!”
“What is this?” I asked Joelene. “Who are they?”
“They’re better spoken than most channel talents,” she said.
A bearded man in a brown beret spoke slowly, as if each of his words were bubbling up from the center of the Earth. “If RiverGroup can’t protect Michael, no merger of any sort will help them win back customers. I am switching away from RiverGroup products. I believe the death knell has rung.”
“If Ribo-Kool,” said Bow Tie, “has a real solution, which I greatly doubt, it might stave off a complete collapse.” He tasted a dab of his soup and said, “Oh! Such an incredible, rich yet pungent mouth-feel! Like swallowing used velvet panties.”
I asked Joelene, “Do you know Ribo-Kool?”
“No,” she said. “It was quite a surprise. Your father… and others… are difficult to predict.”
“I feel for poor Michael,” said another woman. She wore what looked like an iron bra and an intricately carved glass bowl over her head. “I was so sure he would finally lose his virginity with Nora. And I was so looking forward to I’m embarrassed to admit it.” She laughed and fogged the glass in front of her face.
Bow Tie dabbed the corners of his mouth with a matching striped napkin and turned toward the glass bowl woman.
“I would love to lower myself!” said Pink Hat, angrily, as a creamy drip undulated down her three chins. “I understand that Michael has got a beautiful penis, as proud, strong, and pure as a wild Arabian!”
“Indeed,” said Iron Bra from behind her fogged glass, “I have studied his dancing outfits from the rages, and he’s definitely bombastic down there.”
I covered my face in embarrassment. They had to be talking about some other Michael Rivers. Maybe the real Michael Rivers—someone who I didn’t even to know. “Please,” I said, “I can’t watch this!”
“Just one more,” said Joelene, as she turned the channel. Now two blondes stood nose-deep in a field of purple, violet, orange, and canary-colored sunflowers. “Another backgrounder,” explained my advisor.
“Elle Kez,” said one, in an airy singsong voice as though she were reading poetry, “is the luckiest girl in the whole, big, wide world!”
“I gabbed with her all this morning,” the other. “She’s in the capital city of Petunialand right in the petunia center of everything.” Holding her hands above her head, she did an awkward pirouette. “She’s going to be marrying of the best family blood, and they’ll have dozens of babies! I just know it!”
“What about her fashions for the date?” asked the
“You’re going to ’gasm when you see it! She’s been working with her staff day and night.”
I laughed, and asked, “Who are they?”
She snapped off the screen. “Yes, it’s all dreadful, but the point is, tens of thousands of channels are going on and on.” She massaged the bridge of her nose. “Elle is getting a lot of attention.”
The news did not surprise me, but it did confirm my fears. Leaning forward, I touched the cool fabric of Mr. Cedar’s suit jacket and hoped that Nora would see the hidden message. It was the only positive in this unfurling disaster.
Father’s face flashed on the screen before me, and I jumped back.
“That’s what you’re going to wear?” he asked, making a sour face. “I thought you were going to get an actual color.” To Joelene, he said, “Didn’t we discuss blood red and chartreuse, or was I on slub drugs?”
“The silhouette is new,” said Joelene, her voice congenial.
“He tears her skin from her face!” he sang, stretching his mouth wide as though impersonating a bullfrog.
Once he had finished, I said, “This whisper of footsteps…”
For just a second he stared blankly, he pretended to be happy. “Thank you! Wow! More Pure Hog, right?” After a snort of a laugh, he said, “The world is actually in color. Like the sun is orange. The sky is blue.” He inhaled and then bellowed, “And snot is green!”
“The soul,” I said, “is colorless.”
He looked off camera. After fluttering a hand in the air as if to dispel what I had said, he continued, “Anyway, thanks to me and my magnificent acting skills on that stupid Celebrity Research show our stock is up fifteen points. And I’m calling to say that we need every up-tick we can get. So, I was thinking, when Elle’s girly band plays, I want some old Michael Rivers dance moves! Let’s see you—”
“No!” I interrupted. “I don’t do that.”
“Sheeeit!” he said, throwing up his hands. “Do you understand the pressure here? This afternoon we had to sell off the last of the RiverGroup real estate at shit prices just to finance this stupid promo-date. We don’t own enough land to build an outhouse anymore. We’re borrowing against everything we’ve got left. If this show doesn’t work, we’re in fuck-water up to our eyeballs. So, we have to pull out the stops!”
“I don’t dance,” I told him.
He rubbed his face hard. “You need an immediate brain transplant! You really do!” He turned as if complaining to Ken. With that the screen went blank.
“He’s a monster,” I said to Joelene. “I hate him!”
The screen turned back on. “I heard that!” snarled Father. “I’m sitting right here, you dumb slubber butt!”
“Intense feelings are good,” said Joelene, before I could react. “They play quite well in the media.”
Father froze for a second, as if he had not been expecting that. “Good then. Let’s see some intensity tonight. If he won’t dance, we’ve got to have more than the boring crap from the dates with the grey-snot girl. I know,” he said, his eyes glowing, “rub some dick vomit on her spoon so we can watch her eat it!”
The screen went black again. I tried to kick it, but missed and smacked my shin on a metal support bar. Momentarily, the pain obscured my revulsion and fury.