Chapter 15

The screen was alive with a collage of images from The Godard.  “No, Goddamn it, A-2!  Just the last ten seconds,” bellowed Quill.  He stood up from his table and took his gaze from the wall screen to the giant ball-like looking computer housed in a four-foot square glass cube.  Cradled in a suspension of air, the round computer radiated a rainbow of color as a rapid exchange of images orbited in multiple directions from the 32 panels of pictures, twenty of hexagon shapes and 12 of them pentagons.

In a strident, but softly controlled female voice rivaling the arresting tone of Whoopi Goldberg, “You are hyper today, Mr. Quill.”

“I don’t need your opinion right now, A-2.  Just the last ten seconds.”

“Right you are.  There.”

Quill turned back toward the screen and reviewed the last ten seconds of feed.

Hector’s expression suddenly became stoic.  “It’s just a performance piece, Tito.  Remember that.”

“Yeah.  I know.  Just dramatizing feelings, right?”

“Just feelings,” repeated Hector.  “They’re only feelings.”

“Yes, but there are feelings, and there are… feelings,” mumbled Quill as he turned back to A-2 and stretched his seventy-five-year-old body.  “You know, A-2, I don’t feel much older now as back in ‘71.”

A-2’s colors changed.  “You’re referring to park memory again.  Why?”

“You know very well why.  Feelings.  You’re the only one that knows about that night.”

“You should let me erase that memory, you know,” said A-2.

Quill sat down in front of the glass enclosure and leaned forward on his knees, dropping his head. 

“You needn’t ever repeat it again, Mr. Quill.”

Quill, his head still down, said, “And I don’t need you to tell me how to think and what to do.”

“As you wish, Mr. Quill.”

“Yes.  As I wish.  Pull it up, please.”

“’71, I presume.”

“That night, just before the riot started.”  Quill waited, but A-2 didn’t respond.  “A-2?”

“Yes, Mr. Quill.”

“The riot.  Just before it started, please.”

“If you insist.  I don’t think…”

“A-2?  You exist to think privately by yourself.  You gather… you organize… and you think by yourself for the future… not now, or the past.  Nineteen-seventy-one.  That’s my past, not yours.  Thank you.”

From behind him, Quill heard the shouts and chanting coming from the wall screen.  “Hey, hey LBJ, how many kids have you killed today?”  “On, two, three, four!  We don’t want your fucking war!”  “Hell no, we won’t go.”

He turned and fixed on the images of Central Park showing the lit-up New York skyline in the background, framing a line of police on horseback standing at the alert.  Quill stepped up closer to the screen as he heard his once much younger voice, hurtling words over the bullhorn, challenging Simon and Garfunkel on the stage of a Concert in the Park. 

“And if we pull the troops out, what then?  South Vietnam dominated by the North?  More communism?  More dictatorship?  More hell?” 

Suddenly the screen shows the crowd turning their attention from Simon and Garfunkel to Quill, standing with a bullhorn atop a Good Humor ice cream truck on the edge of The Meadows.  “What are we about?  We’re just going to leave that country to succumb?”

First, there is just a crushed Coke can finding its way through the air.  Then a bottle.  Quill jumps off the roof of the truck, his long hair trailing behind.  He hits the ground, rolls over, stands up to see the police on horseback trying to negotiate the tide of young people defending their conflicting ideological stances with fists, bottles and anything else they can throw.

Quill’s small group of neutral college students—who up till now were just a few intellectuals honestly asking Simon and Garfunkel to consider the ramifications of a pull out that would leave the South vulnerable to the North once again—were suddenly scattering as the outer fringes of the audience began a near riot.

Quill finds himself on the ground with other demonstrators, all covering their heads, as horse-hoofs pound the lawn all around them.  In the distance from the stage, Simon is heard asking for calm, but his words are swallowed up in the shouting.

Quill hears a woman’s voice cry out, then the sound of hooves stomping something other than grass.  He opens his eyes to see a woman lying dead on the ground, her boyfriend holding his face, blood streams between his fingers, and then he too falls.  Quill ducks his head once again beneath his arms and hugs the grass.

A-2 terminates the memory and the screen goes dark.  Quill swings around.  “A-2, what the hell are you…”

“I seem to have a problem, Mr. Quill.  Give me a moment.”

Quill glares at the hovering ball of images as colors change and a new batch of images swirl in orbit.  “Why is it every time I want to visit this memory…?”

“I’ve found it, Mr. Quill.  I’m afraid there is some momentary corruption.  I’m on it.”

Quill turned and walked slowly to the door.  “You’re always on it, A-2.  Always on it.”  He opened the door and stepped out onto the desert floor, turned, and walked the short distance to the bridge spanning the crater separating the compound from his other building—his home.

***

“Shower, please,” said Quill as he stepped into the glass enclosure.  The showerhead immediately came alive with tepid water.  A female voice emanated from the wall asking, “Relaxing today, Mr. Quill, or are we looking for a wake-up call?”

“Somewhere in between, please.”

He stood under the showerhead and let the water cascade off his head and shoulders.  “Cynthia, you’ve been with me for how long now?”

“Oh, it’s been three years, Mr. Quill.”

Quill picked up the clear disc of soap and started to lather up.  “Have you enjoyed your employment?”

“Yes, Mr. Quill.  Very much.”

“Mmm,” said Quill as he nodded.  “Am I a good boss?  I mean, you have a hectic schedule.  Do I treat you right?”

“You made me perfect, Mr. Quill.  However you treat me, I know how to enjoy it.”

“I know.  Thank you.  But… being perfect and all, do you think I could improve?”

“How’s that temperature, Mr. Quill?”

“Fine.  Tough question, is it?”

“Not tough, but without a perfect answer.”

“How so?”

“Well, Mr. Quill…”

Quill, having finished his rinse, said, “Sorry to interrupt, but I’m finished now, Cynthia.”

The water stopped and as Quill stepped out of the shower, a drawer beside the shower automatically opened, sending a warm towel out on a platform.  “Thank you.  Continue, Cynthia.  From the walls, her voice continued.  “Do I think you could improve?  There is always room for improvement until you are perfect.  You taught me that, remember?”

“Yes.”  Quill dried himself, stepped to the mirror and leaned on the counter, staring at his face.  “But, am I still where you want me?  Am I still the perfect imperfection as you labeled me so long ago?”

“Mr. Quill, it’s not where I want you, it’s where you want yourself.  Will you be changing into indoor or outdoor wear this evening?”

Quill pushed back the locks covering his receding hairline as he stepped away from the mirror and stepped toward the bedroom.  “Outdoor, please.  And I’m feeling rather red tonight.”

“Boxer or briefs?”

“Red, but boxer.  Don’t want to overdue it.”  He laughed.  “Can’t afford to excite myself too much at this age, you know Cynthia.”

“There’s always the VR if you do.”

“Yes.  Always the VR to make it all perfect.”

“I believe you said that’s how you designed it.”

“Yes.  You’re right.  You remember everything.  What good is perpetual life if you can’t have perpetual pleasure?  Isn’t that how I said it once?”

“It’s how your mission statement reads for all of us.”

“Yes.  For all of you.”

Quill opened his bedroom closet door, a translucent panel of what appeared like Mother of Pearl.  The back wall of the closet portrayed a calm lagoon somewhere in the South Seas.  From the left side, an extended metallic arm presented a pair of red boxer shorts.  From the right came a white t-shirt and blue jeans.  The floor turned a square over, revealing a pair of casual shoes and socks.  

“Is there anything else for now, Mr. Quill?”

“That will do, Cynthia.  You may go now.”

“Thank you, Mr. Quill.”

“Enjoy your evening.  I’m sure you and A-2 never run out of adventures, yes?

“Yes, Mr. Quill.  He is never without a surprise.”

“Don’t I know it.”

“Pardon?”

“Enjoy, Cynthia. Enjoy.”

Quill picked up the shorts and pulled them on, then took his other clothes to the bed.  As he started to dress, the voice of A-2 came through the walls.  “Mr. Quill, Cynthia says you seem down.  Anything I can do to help?”

Quill shook his head as he pulled on his trousers.  “You know how she is, A-2.”

“Yes.  Well, you did design her that way.”

“I know.  The imperfect perfect.  She means well.”

“Yes, but you don’t want to ask too many questions of her.”

“Yes.  That’s the perfect reaction to her.  Thank you. Now, give her a good night of pleasure, yes?”

“I don’t know any better, do I?”

“No, A-2.  You are the perfect machine.”

“Sounds like I’ve overstayed my visit.”

“Probably, A-2.”  He slipped the t-shirt over his head, and once again, pushed back his hair.

The deep voice continued.  “I have some catching up to do, anyway.  Just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Thank you.  I’m fine.”

“Good.  Well, a bit later, perhaps.”

Quill nodded to himself.  “Yes.  Later.”

He stepped to the sliding glass doors, which opened automatically, and he stepped out onto the deck.  He gazed up at the sky, just beginning to experience the magic hour of light, and touching his receding hairline once again, strode off into the gathering darkness.