Halfway There
(Chapter 2: The Big God Network)

Suddenly conscious of your surroundings, you travel swiftly along a ribbon of asphalt laid upon an ancient salt flat. Nothing but sand dunes and mesquite bushes in the distance. You instinctively think of your nav, but can’t consult her here. Not appropriate. You wish to Gaia that this vehicle had Leary endorphin-simulation pulses to ease your aching head, because you spent the previous evening downing cheap Shochu in a V-Bar on Pico waiting for Takeshi to manifest from Bali. He never showed up.

Highway 395 flies under the car and you keep a keen eye out for coyotes and tumbleweeds. Dust devils spiral down the Mojave in the direction of Red Rock. In the rear-view mirror, the lava fields draw away into the distance, and a small metallic blur hovers like an angry hornet on your tail. Who would that be? A borax czar from Death Valley? An emissary from White Mountain? As it approaches, you identify it as a Samsung-Maserati ZX. The radar in the dash clocks it at 180kph. Coming up fast, shimmering in the heat waves. Are they after you?

Ahead is a one-room stucco box with its back to the steep red slope of an ancient cinder-cone volcano. The outside of the little hutch is spray-painted with musical instruments and nubile girls sitting in cocktail glasses. You roll off the highway onto the cracked asphalt lot in front of Halfway There, and park opposite a sorry looking portable outhouse with faded grey siding and an aluminum roof.

Stepping out of the car, you feel a blast of desert heat. You crouch and place your palms on the hot asphalt, enjoying the sensation until it becomes uncomfortable. Beside your right hand, sunlight reflects from a glassy piece of black obsidian. You pick it up and rub your thumb along its smooth face. It feels just right, a nice touch. Remembering your would-be pursuer, you take a long look at the road, empty for miles in either direction. Whoever or whatever was behind you either took a side road or opted out of this set entirely.

You swing the bar doors open and enter, eyes adjusting to a gloomy darkness. Red vinyl upholstery glows softly and a vintage laserdisc karaoke jukebox gleams in the corner. The sawdust-covered floor creaks as you cross it and the place smells of stale beer and peanut shells. A worn, rangy man with a black eye patch and a jack o’ lantern smile stands behind a long oak bar. You decide you’d rather not see him laugh.

Maybe tonight Takeshi will manifest. Normally you would be looking forward to a long chat with your old friend and business associate. But you are dreading the bad news you’ll have to lay on him. The company accountant is making disturbing comments about the bottom line. If only you were losing yourself at one of Arwin’s happenings. You need a stiff drink or at least the thought of one. You take a seat at the bar.

“Good afternoon,” you say.

“What’ll you have?” replies the bartender.

“I was contemplating a caipirinha.”

“Can I suggest a samsara? That’s a shot of Cuervo with a Sapporo chaser. A real wheel-turner.”

“Lay it on me.”

“You look awfully familiar,” he says, pouring the tequila.

“Well, I’m visiting today as me.”

“That’s ballsy of you.” He caps the bottle. “You’re Hans, the host of Train Migraines, that religious show about nutty cults.”

“It’s Franz Sampaio and Transmigrations. We cover world religions and Net sects.”

“I know. Just kidding. Y’all netcast out of Pacifica.”

“You are correct, sir. Do you charge in Reagans?”

“Euros. We’re owned by an Italian group.”

“It all ends up with the Bank eventually,” says Franz, recalling how telecom and financial powerhouses had joined forces to create the colossus, born in an era of deregulation. “They know everything you beg, borrow, browse and buy. The Bank’s an info monster.”

“Don’t I know it.” The bartender shakes his head. “Got the goods on us all.”

The doors creak open. That would be the ZX driver, a silhouette against the bright sunlight. She steps forward, an attractive olive-skinned woman. She is wrapped in black leather from head to foot and has spiky blonde hair that suggests the many dimensions of string theory.

“You’ve got another visitor,” you say.

The bartender glances down the bar, then back at you.

“I don’t see anyone.”

You look again. She’s gone.

“Better give me a double samsara.” You know you can’t drink it here in the Net, but you want to look at it anyway. It’s going to be a long vigil.
 

excerpt from The Big God Network
© J.C. McGowan 2007