“Come on, Stace.” Kiki was yanking her by the wrist. “And don’t give me that, but I feel guilty, bullshit.” Yanking her by the wrist, marching her across the parking lot, their white sashes flapping in the wind, heels click-clack-click-clacking up to the entrance where the neon letters glowed against the night sky.
JOY RIDE.
Kiki was opening the door, pushing her into the lobby. “You want me to give the speech? Fine, I’ll give the speech. It’s your last hoo-rah, your last shebang, your last night as a single woman.” Kiki was trotting to the front desk where a thread of smoke trickled from an incense burner. Sage, was it? “And besides. You know damn well Brock is gonna.”
Was he? Was Brock gonna shimmy into the new and improved pareX 4000 full bodysuit with integrated headset for a virtual screw session with one or four or fourteen of his former girlfriends/lovers/beer-goggle oopses the night before he said I do for all eternity, for the rest of their lives, ‘till death do them part?
Forever was a long time…
And Kiki had a point. Technically, it wouldn’t be cheating, not for her, not for said hypothetical partner. (Joey?) Once more with whoever. (Joey????!!!) With whoever might happen to be on her list. (Joey!!!!!!!!!!!) You know, for old times’ sake.
God, what a concept. This really was the future, wasn’t it?
Ohh but what if…
What if he declined?
Stop. Don’t do that. Don’t be doubty. And remember? There’d been that “update to terms.” Front-page since, what—last month at least—for all the controversy.
She’d glanced at the headline. Swiped right past, all, Whatever, N/A, seeing how Kiki, that Bitch of Honor had promised (pinky promised! crossed her heart, hoped to die, stick a needle in her eye!) she would not—repeat, would not hijack the limousine Brock had so kindly rented them for a night of cocktails sipped through penis straws.
Now look at them. Her against the counter, picking hairspray off a curl. Kiki, that Backstabber of Honor dinging the bell next to the Ring for Service sign.
Where was she going with this? Ah yes—that Kiki had betrayed her vow was not the point. The point was that presently, thanks to the “update to terms,” that thing that Joey had done to her in the past—where he wouldn’t answer her calls or respond to her texts—the kids, they had a name for that now…Shadowing? Spiriting? Ghosting. Right. Ghosting. Ha.
The point was, with this new update, Joey (should she hypothetically choose to proceed with this debauchery) couldn’t ghost her. Not like that.
Kiki tickling the ringer. Ding, ding, ding.
God, what a concept. This really was the future, wasn’t it?
Ten years ago it would have been some guy (Joey) drunk dialing, asking point-blank to fuck, once more, for old times’ sake before his old lady tied him down.
Tempting.
Their first time, they’d been what, nineteen? Pre-pareX 4000. Pre-saggy tits. (Semi-saggy, thank you very much!) Ha.
Fresh outta high school, and there he was, pulling her from the passenger seat of his Silverado onto his lap (God, was that thing thick!), the steering wheel pressing into her back…
Ding. Ding.
Where was she going with this? Ah right—Joey had called her all breathless, like, “Once more, for old times’ sake?” And tempting as it had been, she’d sat herself down, the phone wedged between her cheek and neck, and told him, “Sorry, I have a boyfriend.”
God, had it felt good to say that! After that decade-long run of what were they, non-boyfriends? Like, how many blowjobs did a girl have to give to get an official relationship status?
Ding…
And thank god those didn’t count towards her list. No, this was the future, where advanced technology had rules.
Rules like, it had to have been more than just kissing; you had to have like, made it to home base, and that list of hers was much, much smaller. Not like Brock with his, “I stopped counting after a hundred.” Ha.
Where was she going with this? Ah yes—that she had declined Joey’s invite because she'd been Brock’s girlfriend at the time wasn’t the point. The point was that thanks to the update, Joey couldn’t like, decline her back.
Jesus, Stace, was that the point?
Ding…
Brock had gotten down on one knee (okay, actually he’d hidden the ring inside a Flamin’ Onion, but hey, it’s the thought that counts, right?).
Ding…
Said those magic words (okay, maybe, “Let’s do this” wasn’t the most romantic proposal, but hey, a proposal is a proposal, right?) in front of the entire Humdingerz staff (!!?).
Ding…
And yet here she was. Dinging this Ring for Service bell in the lobby of Joey Ride—ahem—Joy Ride, reminiscing about The Weekend of the Camping Trip, a.k.a. The Weekend of DIY Bleach Was a Mistake.
Oh god, that weekend…. He’d grabbed her by the waist, plopped her on the back of his motorcycle (Always rode that thing too fast. No helmet!), and threaded her arms beneath his.
He’d pretended not to notice that her long raven hair had become baby-duck-whitish-yellow, strands snapped like uncooked spaghetti to chin-length (yikes!).
He’d pretended not to notice her at-home bleach botch while steam from the shower dewed up the windows, while he stood behind her, parting her legs with his, leaning her forward until her palms pressed against the wet tiles.
He’d pretended not to notice all weekend, fucked her eight times a day (while his mom! and his dad! and his sister! and his grandma! melted s’mores on the campfire outside!).
Where was she going with this? Ah right—that all good camping trips must come to an end was not the point.
The point was that it was Brock with whom tomorrow at six-thirty sharp (not the time she’d wanted, but marriage is a compromise, right?) she’d be tying the knot, and yet—
Ding! Ding! Ding!
Oh, and what about The Party….
Of course, she hadn’t known he’d had a girlfriend at the time, how could she know, it wasn’t like they ever said any actual words to each other, it’d just always been all
Eyes lock.
Heads nod.
Here’s a futon.
Oh god, oh god, oh god!
Oh, god, what if he was different now? Well of course he was different, but what if she could like tell that he didn’t want to?
No, she couldn’t start with him—if, (with a capital I!) she chose to go through with this at all.
She’d have to you know, build up her confidence with someone lesser than Joey. But not too lesser, not gross. Not the guy with the gauges and the funky cartilage stink. Forgot his stupid earrings on the nightstand, then called and called and called and called, all, “I need my earrings back.” Sorry. Because that had also been The Night of the Half-Waxed Crotch. (Lesson learned! Not for DIY! Ha.)
Ding! Ding—there, finally. Guy with nametag. Lars. Jesus, Lars, about time. No, sorry to keep you waiting, just, “System’s running a little slow today.”
Lars with the fingerprint scanner. Lars with the tablet. Kiki with the tablet and Bride-to-Be’s index finger unlocking the tablet.
Kiki with, “Damn girl, look at you! Choices, choices. I guess it’s true what they say about it’s the quiet ones…”
On the main menu,
26 - L
2 - D
4 - P
Sad, really.
A deep breath, then Detailed List.
Sort by Date.
Eyes automatically to the bottom, to the beginning, to her first. Wishing, hoping in some twisted way for a P or D or P next to He Whose Name Shall Never Be Spoken Even to This Day’s (HWNSNBSETTD) name.
HWNSNBSETTD, who would send emails like, Call me at exactly 4:57, and then at exactly 4:57, “This is HWNSNBSETTD, leave a message.” And the next day, Call at exactly 3:32, and at 3:32, voicemail. Breadcrumbs to nowhere, for what, six years?
HWNSNBSETTD, whose mom had once popped up in the same checkout line and whoosh—hiyo! Uterus here. Guess what? Here’s a super plus plus period, right here, right now in these unsuspecting pants! Whose mom hadn’t even recognized her, not by face, not by name. Just smiled and cocked her head, “Who are you again?”
HWNSNBSETTD, who sometimes still haunted her dreams to make sure she never forgot him, not completely.
HWNSNBSETTDs name was marked L. Fine then, alive and well, now she knew. Call it a blessing in disguise or whatever. No, the last thing she needed was to leave Brock waiting at the altar.
Up a few names, her finger on Joey. She’d known he’d be there, with the P. Then it’s Kiki bouncing next to her going, “Joey?” Kiki jumping, “Omigod, you wanna do Joey?”
Don’t jump. Do. Not. Jump or bounce or—don’t even move. Be all nonchalant, like, forgot contacts, have to squint to see. “Is he really on there? Seriously? His wife, she didn’t take care of things with the director?”
Kiki shakes her head, shrugs. “Heard the service was really nice too. Maybe she couldn’t come up with the cash. Maybe she was all like, Fuck that cheater! Hahaha!”
At The Party, a.k.a. The Night of the Futon, Owner of said futon opens the door to said futon room, and Joey, pauses mid-thrust (don’t stop!) and goes, “Shut the fucking door!”
Owner of said futon shuts door.
Owner of said futon tells his girlfriend, who works with Joey’s girlfriend, who tells Joey’s girlfriend. (Oops!)
Twisting the ring on her left hand. “What if it’s weird? What if he doesn’t want to?”
Kiki’s eyebrows dancing, “He has to.”
Sigh.
Kiki’s fist to her shoulder. “Stacy! Jesus, really? Wasn’t he like a sex addict? This is like fucking heaven for him. And look at you.”
White bodycon midi.
Red stilettos.
Bride-to-Be sash.
Stop! Freeze! Wedding tomorrow! Hellooooooo??!!
Click-clacking toward the exit. “Nah. It’s not right. Let’s go.”
Kiki reaching into her purse. “I thought you’d say that…”
On Kiki’s cell, Martell, Brock’s Best Man—ahem, their best man, who tomorrow, will walk with Kiki before Sam (assistant manager at Humdingerz) and What’s-Her-Name (head waitress?). Followed by Brock’s college roommate and Brock’s college roommate’s girlfriend. Followed by Coco (Wow! A dog in a wedding! How trendy! Where the hell is that thing gonna pee?).
Kiki, “She’s having reservations.”
Martell winking, “I got you.”
And the camera flips to show what Martell (and oh, there’s Sam and The Roommate, and Coco??!) can see.
Brock.
Brock in a room.
Brock in a room in a chair.
Leaning back, leaning wayyyyy back with his legs spread, pelvis thrusting the air.
Kiki holding the phone out of reach. Martell winking before the screen goes black.
“What the fuck, Kiki!? Brock is virtual-fucking someone? He’s actually doing it?”
Kiki with a nudge. “Lighten up Stace. It’s his bachelor party, your bachelorette party. It’s like the new tradition or whatever. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Wait—and everyone is…watching?”
Kiki shrugging. “You know how guys are.”
Ring off. Game on. ‘Sup, Lars.
Kiki following, “Yesssssss…”
Brick wall. “You are not watching.”
Kiki smoothing her Team Bride sash, cozying up on the couch in the lobby.
Then it’s:
User Agreement.
Blah, blah, blah.
Initial here.
Initial there.
Do you consent for the session to be viewed by others?
NO.
Do you consent for the session to be fully private (no outside interruptions) for the full duration (ten minutes)?
YES.
Fine Print.
Blah, blah.
Signature.
Alsdfjk
Printed Name.
Stacy Morrow.
#
No windows. No cameras. Good.
Goosebumps. Excited? Nervous? Cold. (Has to be, maybe?)
Dress around ankles.
pareX 4000 full bodysuit with integrated headset on.
Inside the visor, Please select a participant.
Joey.
Joey Joey Joey!
Oh god…
Thank you for your selection. Verifying status…
……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
Pending Status confirmed with {Dignity Funeral Services}. Debt in repayment. This transaction to deduct {two hundred ninety-six dollars and thirty cents}. Remaining balance {eleven thousand nine dollars and fifty-eight cents}.
Please select a memory.
Oh, the little icons!—cute. Hmm. Truck. Parking Garage? (Oh yeah… Ouch! Ha.) Hot Tub. Motorcycle. Futon. Shower.
Motorcycle.
Oh god, oh god!!!
Thank you for your selection. Medium Working…
……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
An engine revving, kerput-put-puttering…
Ooh, a mist!—Kiki, that little slut, out in the lobby splurging on upgrades—probably upped to the twenty-minute session too—that little bitch (love you, Kiki!).
Joey’s silhouette.
Straddling his Super Chief. No shirt, no pants, no nothin’. Body like a porn star. God, he almost was, wasn’t he?
Already breathing heavy, “Stace? Is that you?”
Steps out of the shadow and—
Lights out—Op! Where’d we go? Adjust headset…there we are and—
Wrong. Oh god! Wrong!
Where’s the red button? “Attendant? Excuse me? Mister Lars?”
Joey, with his waffle-cone chin. Single scoop of Rocky Road where his nose would go and asphalt sprinkles burrowed into his flapping cheek, maggots sliming in and out as he dismounts the twisted mangle. “Stacy, baby?”
Joey, with his outstretched arms, shreds of skin hanging like grated cheese as he staggers closer, “Stacy, is that you?”
Joey, with his mincemeat ballsack—wait, was that his dick? “Once more, for old times’ sake? Before the old man ties you down?”
“End session! End session! Abort! Abort! Oh god! Kiki! Kikiiiiiiiiiii—”
#
A blood-pressure cuff. A beeping monitor. A whiteboard.
Room # {203}
Nurse: {Heidi}
Today I feel… {Smiley face} {Straight-line face} {Frown face}
Kiki curled up on the sleeper chair with a phone against her ear. “No, she doesn’t want any visitors right now, especially not you. This is your fucking fault, Brock, I hope you know that. Oh, I know what you were thinking…No, she just keeps moaning in her sleep, Pay his debt, over and over. Yeah, well it’s the least you could do, seeing how Cancun is eighty-sixed…Duh, it’s the future, like, who doesn’t take credit card? I don’t know Brock, I told you, there was a glitch, a malfuckingfunction—bound to happen when you’re literally like, fucking dead people…No, she didn’t want me to come with, fucking sickos. No, you’re sick. Haha. Hey—does Humdingerz still have that soup-sandwich special for lunch? I’m fucking starving.”
First read comments with the qualifier that I'm daft in mind: The narrative arc of this story is very digestible, but here's a few things that might help with added clarity (which I've mostly picked up from Chuck):
1. There are times when it's not super clear if the narrator is talking about Joey or Brock. I can infer, but attribution or just using the name would make it easier to comprehend. Remember, don't make the reader think! And dumb it down in places for the not-too-bright readers (e.g., me).
2. L, D, and P stood for, I presume, Living, Deceased, and Pending (?). To me, I'd just spell it out. Instead of making the reader decipher it, let them realize, Oh, you can virtually simulate fucking dead people! Holy shit! The idea is what creates the intrigue, not the ambiguity. Also, knowing exactly what her options are, the astute reader (sometimes me) might infer she's going to pick a dead person, which might lead to disaster, which means they better keep reading to find out.
3. The significance of HWNSNBSETTD was a bit confusing to me. At first I thought it was Joey, but then it's clear it's not, but then I was like, Okay, then who is this person? Unless I missed something obvious (likely), then this seems like a place to downsize.
4. In the paragraph starting "On Kiki’s cell, Martell, Brock’s Best Man—their best man..." there's way too many names. Easy to critique this after seeing Chuck pound on it, but it's definitely true. While reading I was like, there's no way I'm going to try to keep track of these people. Better to use descriptors like Brock's best man, Brock's weed-smoking buddy, Brock's boss, my work frenemy, or whatever.
Related to this, if you've queried a novel or written a novel synopsis, or are planning to, you'll see that you're not supposed to name more than three characters, because otherwise it's too much to keep track of. In my WIP novel synopsis (which I'm editing now), I name four characters only: protagonist, co-antagonists, and mystery character. In the query letter I only name three.
5. Everything Wil said is spot on. The setup is great, but maybe too long, and the payoff is rushed. Give me 1,500 words of set-up, then 500-1,000 words of sheer terror to close the story out. That would be incredible. Also, if you make it clear the simulation went horribly awry, you might be able to do away with the last paragraph entirely. You'll have "earned" the ending.
To be clear: this story is really, really interesting. It sounds like a lot of critiquing, but some simple changes would flow through the entire story with monster impact. Hoping you modify and re-post. Super good stuff.
Cool direction with Chuck’s funeral home debt prompt. But you end Stace’ session too soon! Does the future technology stimulate odor? Is there an unwelcome sound, like his skin flapping in the wind or a foot dragging on asphalt? And most importantly - touch? His torn lips, his shredded fingers, his missing crotch? Likewise, her increasing heartbeat, tensing of muscles, eyes drying from opening wide in shock, etc... Could you escalate the ending to show Joey embracing her?
Consider having Stace piece together a bit of what’s happening before Joey touches her... or you could insert an explanation through the clever computer text intrusion like, ------processing----- account in escrow (or appropriate legal term)-------processing------ session locked until debt paid in full-------- that way, you wouldnt need to explain so much of whats happening the with closing conversation between brock and kiki. And to amp up the horror, Lars could tell Kiki the session is locked until Joey’s debt is paid but Kiki isnt informed that Joey is a corpse... so she’s hearing screams and banging but assumes its wild sex and is telling brock you better pay before Stace changes her mind about the wedding, its forty minutes and she sounds like she’s having the time of her life
Imo, this is really strong. I like the parenthesis thoughts. And all the “Joey” slips of tongue phrases. Ha! Characters feel authentic.