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Title: ACROSS TOWN
Author: Annette Hakiel
Language: en
Topics: Tax the rich, eco punk, fiction, science fiction,

Annette Hakiel

ACROSS TOWN

Disclaimer: this is a work of near-future fiction: Amanda Hersche, and

Jim may not even exist in name, are based purely on the imagination; the

Triborough elevated subway in NYC still doesn’t exist (although proposed

by Hochul); nor does rain powered lights under umbrellas; however,

edible water packets, absurdly, do.

Across town, in a quiet fifth floor apartment, a comedy of errors is

about to occur, and what’s more, a murder.

By the time the small collection of unsuspecting guests had all arrived

at the Hershe’s rent-controlled, LEED certified sustainable apartment

tower, it was much closer to seven pm than six. Some were confused,

mostly because of the cancellation of the changes in the USA to what was

known as daylight savings time. Too, there was a climate change fueled

superstorm that brought winds and rain to the city, that had caused some

to be delayed, not to mention the protesters blocking the highways,

those that cut through some underserved communities, and that they used

to get there. So while some were late, they were only just so, and all

showed up, as they were not the kind to be illegally and forcibly

detained and arrested for protest, nor the type to be in subways or in

poor city basement apartments that were flooded, those poor inhabitants

lost, their phones too wet too work, or they themselves possibly lost

forever and drowned, and never to return to this waking life again. And

so all were alive and present here, dressed to the nines, in bookcore

wear, at the Hershe’s, and what’s more considered themselves not totally

unconscious or -conscientious, and most certainly woke. Some took

subways or available electronic cabs and ebuses that were working, some

through the new triborough line, and none, as it would be too taboo to

not to even mention them, the non-unionized fossil fooled (!) car app

rides, especially those that offer free water that doses the car riders,

so that they may be horribly raped — (!) — and none of course by

themselves in such a vehicle they would themselves own, for who would

dare own one of those contraptions! And a Tesla, even at that! All that

premium public space just for parking! It should be given to the people!

To eat, and walk, and bike, and skate. Outrageous! they all clamored.

And so having all at last arrived — having hung up their moist upcycled

sweater mittens, ala Bernie, their hats, some hanging up their

photovoltaic fabric outerwear, others upcycled ocean plastic puffer

coats, others still their coats of natural dyes and composed of algae,

and having had their umbrellas, some with rain-drip-powered lights

beneath, ripped from their hands by Amanda Hershe, their indefatigable

hostess, and brought to their personal bathroom to dry where Jim’s green

urinal wall took up the left side, his urine recycled by the plants —

all 17 of the guests are now being gently invited to get settled in by

proceeding into the well-lit warm-toned LED bulb infused spacious living

area. It is a living area where the spread of hors d’oeuvres – hors

d’oeuvres that Amanda assures lovingly aren’t “at all poisonous” – wait

for them upon the Art Nouveau Mahogany side table that Amanda and her

husband, Jim, picked up at a “darling little shop” around the corner,

where they oft enjoy “going antiquing,” because, as Amanda says,“there’s

just so much consumerism these days, don’t ya think? Old is new again.”

As the small collection of friends, family, and acquaintances, not all

having met and many in unfamiliar surroundings, move hesitantly toward

bright, airy living room, smooth jazz playing on the Alexa in the

background, little do they know that they are victims of not only

altogether too-familiar yet unpredictable inclement weather, but also a

clever web of lies the Hershe’s wield. The side table they are being led

to is neither Art Nouveau nor Mahogany like they are being led to

believe, but a fake; and Jim’s supposed enthusiasm for the side table is

a lie, as without Amanda’s knowing, Jim secretly abhors antiquing — not

to mention the cutting down of old growth forests. Amanda has been aware

for some time of the table’s less-than-genuine nature, as she discovered

this fact one day while attempting the Tiger position in the living room

with Bill, her secret lover, and Jim’s old college roommate (and who is

a guest at tonight’s party) having tumbled during an over-enthusiastic

Tantric thrust, spilling over onto it and breaking one of its

under-paneling, revealing its true particle board and mahogany-laminate

nature, and both she, Amanda, and her lover, Bill, have had to hide this

knowledge furtively ever since. She has kept this, and the affair, and

all ensuing infidelities, from Jim – who, at the time, and for the last

month was supposed to have been away on a business trip (bringing

flushless sustainable toilets to refugees from Africa currently in

Greece, a salve for those horrible “flying toilets”) but was meanwhile

banging Amanda’s sister, Tammy (also at the party) – so as to spare his

feelings for the most part, as she is still under the impression that he

not only enjoys antiques, but also, her company (when in fact, Jim

abhors it). But, what’s more, Amanda realizes, as she now goes on

describing the humorous antics of the day she and Jim tried to drag the

side table home to the uproarious laughter of the crowd, she is so

unable to come up with an excuse for how she could have discovered the

table’s less-that-reputable nature without feeling the tremendous guilt

that its easily-fractured, but wood-glued bottom (a symbol, she feels,

for their sham marriage) was her fault, that she over-compensates for it

by expressing at every possible turn and occasion such as this, how they

came to owning it, and how very much she and Jim enjoy it, this table

they got from the darling antique shop around the corner, everything so

available to them in this present day 15 Minute City, and from which,

please, you may serve yourself presently, these hors d’oeuvres which

won't hurt you on the side table, with small edible and pop-able

biodegradable bioplastic pouches of filtered water to the left, if

you’ve thirst, so don’t feel at all shy.

As the small mass of people edge toward the dubious-looking ‘gourmet’

food, groping for small tea saucers and washable cloth napkins, most

going for the mango and cucumber bruchetta with mint-herb aioli, some

for mushroom caps, organic and foraged of course by people more in tune

with nature — except for short walks in the nearby park — than they,

they begin to chat, and Amanda begins the difficult task of making sure

there is something for everyone, that everyone knows each other’s name,

doing her rounds as hostess, not lingering in any one conversation, but

making sure everyone feels at ease and that everyone is pleased. It may

be an impossible, if not near impossible, task. Of the nineteen people

here presently, eight are female, two are artists, one is a young

security guard attempting a second trial at his officer exam, one is a

dentist, another a medical student, three or four are related, two are

from out-of-town, two are vegetarian, five vegan, two are stock traders,

one is Jewish, six are entrenched in a hot and heavy extramarital

affair, at least one is gay, one is lactose intolerant, another isn’t

lactose intolerant but is pretending to be, one is on heroin, one works

in insurance, one other is on some other unknown psychedelic drug, one

is currently being audited by the IRS, two are being blackmailed at

work, two are currently unemployed, and one, unbeknownst, is about to

meet his maker. It is a diverse group, but hopefully, as Amanda does

hope, the diversity will bring with it that spark of interest in

discussion, that will make the evening a most memorable night.

Thinking she has thought of everything, she overhears a guest ask for a

light, as several members of this party occasionally smoke pot, only one

or two habitually do, and none can seem to find a light. She is about to

go into the kitchen to obtain some extra matches so that she may bring

them to the group by the window next to the mini-grand piano.

And that’s when it will happen. Everyone will have gotten their plate,

ate a bit of food, and found a conversation, and it will happen. It will

last just thirty seconds, thirty seconds in which ruinous fortunes,

transgressions, and the truth will turn round and about. For in a brief

moment, the lights will go off, and in that sudden darkness, someone

will cop a feel of a breast that is not entirely theirs, one will a take

the opportunity to adjust her slip, an ass will get slapped, so will a

face, some will pull another’s hair, one will pick their tooth, two will

pick their noses, a pocket will also be picked, several people will wipe

the dark makeup that may have shaken off accumulated beneath their

heavily-mascaraed eyes, four will scream, some will just sigh and give

themselves that itch they’ve been dying for since they’ve entered, one

will the steal the last crepe, there will be a near-incestuous

seduction, accusations of infidelity, theft, madness, and crying. But

before any of this transpires, in those first two or three seconds the

two hosts and the seventeen invited people at this party are faced with

the sudden darkness, all nineteen will take on the position that all

bodies are naturally predisposed to take on when faced with sudden

darkness at a cocktail party in severe climate induced extreme weather:

they will take a small step forward, their mouth frozen in mid-sentence,

then, instinctively, the free arm will move slightly forward and up, to

about the shoulder-height, its palm facing outward, two finger up and

rest relaxed, and stare vacantly into the sudden blind blankness before

them, and think, quietly, to themselves, with climate induced anxiety,

this maybe it, I’m done for, I’m next. At last climate change has killed

me, for “how will I charge my phone?” Of the nineteen people who

immediately do this seven will do so and resemble a god giving a

blessing, the other eleven will do so and resemble only a fool waving

hello in the dark. For one poor soul, that position is taken solely so

that they resemble most a victim attempting to stop the next thrust of

the knife that could sink deeper into their chest, because, indeed, such

is the case for their poor lot in life.

The one person who does not take on that position, the most natural

position with the hand in front of the body that is nearly impossible

not to take on when at a cocktail party and faced with sudden darkness,

is, quite obviously, not only the one who turned off the light switch —

as there was no power outages anymore, huge power lines called

“extension cords” ran from north and west of the city upstate, providing

cheap and equitable sustainable battery backed energy, and the state had

buried the power lines, so no adverse wind could effect them — but she,

that person, is also the murderer, and did not RSVP.