Humming
~ 7,000 words
Written 2024
“New delivery added to queue. Time to complete: Naught hours, twelve minutes. Optimized route calculated.”
I’ve barely gotten open the door to the truck and already Dana is yelling at me. Her voice scratches against my ears, poorly filtered through the worn-down speakers. I used to be able to tune her out—it’s not like I needed to know where she was taking me—but three months ago the programmers came out with a patch that keeps her voice at 80 decibels. She shouts at me again.
“New delivery added to queue. Second in line. Time to complete: Naught hours, thirty-one minutes. Optimized route calculated.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, slamming the truck’s door behind me. I named her Rusty after the corrosion around her bumper. I would’ve named her Trusty Rusty, but seven months in she’s already set me back a few thousand dollars in new brake lines and chip upgrades. Now, something in the door rattles as the lock clicks. Great. At this rate, I’m never getting my deposit back.
I tap on Rusty’s touchscreen, avoiding the small section of the upper left-hand corner where the glass shattered. That section is no longer usable, which isn’t a big deal, but it does mean that I’m stuck with the headlights on 24/7. Rusty’s cost me two new batteries, too, but anything’s cheaper than a new screen. You’d think a piece of plastic wouldn’t cost more than a few pennies, but what did we know?
Rusty rumbles to life, shaking off standby mode with a puff of smoke out of her tailpipe. I can smell it coming in through the window, which raises itself to shut me in. Wind resistance reduces efficiency by 20% at 55 miles per hour.
“New delivery added to queue. Third in line. Time to complete: Naught hours, twelve minutes. Optimized route calculated.”
That would be the shipment to Anders Bros. Every Wednesday, like clockwork. Rusty prompts me to enter my worker code. Well, Dana tells Rusty to prompt me. I tap the numbers in. 73235-669.
“Welcome, Max Tyler,” Dana says. I roll my eyes. She already knew I was here; she’s the one who let me into Rusty in the first place.
“Welcome, Max Tyler,” Dana repeats.
“Thanks,” I sigh, watching the windshield populate with my workday and biometrics.
“Audio CAPTCHA passed. Please enable seatbelt. Please enable seatbelt. Please enable seatbelt. Please enable seatbelt.”
My seatbelt clicks and Dana stops yelling. Maybe tomorrow I’ll play a game with her. I call it ‘How quickly can I get the belt on?’ and my record is ‘Plea—.’ I bet I can carve off the A if I lift the latch a little bit so that the buckle slides in easier. I let out my breath, letting my stomach sink down where I’d pushed it out. It means the belt is about one and a half inches looser than optimized, but it’s hellishly uncomfortable if it digs into my pelvis too much. I’d rather some bruises in a car accident than feel like I constantly have to pee.
“Vehicle moving. Passenger mode activated.” Dana’s voice modulates then, going from the stiff, canned phrases she uses to log me in to her natural, conversational mode. “Three drop-offs thus far, Max. Any questions?”
“None,” I say. It’s my voice that’s stiff now. Dana ignores me. She’s still yelling.
“We’re approaching the turnstile,” Dana says. “Your access card is in your left-hand pocket.”
“Yeah, I know,” I mutter, lowly enough that I don’t think she can hear me. I fish the card out. I would’ve thought by now that we’d all have RFID tags attached to the trucks, but I guess it’s more profitable to get runners to cough up money to replace a card.
“I don’t mean to upset you,” Dana says. I roll my eyes.
“I don’t mean to upset you,” Dana repeats.
Rusty pulls up to the turnstile. Her window rolls down four inches, leaving me just enough room to thrust my hand out of the window and scan my access card. The arm raises. I pull my hand back inside. The window rolls back up.
“Can I get some music?” I ask, shoving my card back into my pocket. Rusty rolls us out of the parking lot and onto the connecting road. It’s a dark enough morning that her headlights glow against the pavement. “What’s the weather supposed to be?”
“We’re predicted to reach a high of eighty-one degrees today. It’s currently seventy-three and cloudy,” Dana says. “What music would you like? I’ve curated a playlist of songs to regulate your histamine levels. You are currently twelve percent below optimization.”
“How about you just put on some rock?” I ask. “Real rock, not that shit you make up.”
“Alright,” Dana says. She starts playing some song I pray came from a person. I can’t recognize it, but that might just be because it’s too quiet. I lean forward slightly, trying to hear it over the rumble of Rusty’s engine. The programmers keep all entertainment at 45 decibels. They claim it’s to ‘prevent distraction.’ Really, it’s to prevent fun.
Still, I hum along as Rusty reaches the first four-way. There’s another truck pulled up to my left, depositing its runner back at the parking lot. I have to squint to see them through the slight tint of our windshields—optimized to reduce sun glare—but I think it might be Andrew. We used to run the same schedule, but five months ago he switched to overnights. Well, I think he switched. Dana might’ve told him to. It might not be Andrew. I wave anyway. If he sees me, he chooses not to wave back.
Rusty makes the turn without stopping, rounding the old infrastructure of a now-defunct stoplight. I realize that the song changed over. It was too quiet for me to properly notice. Dana interrupts it anyway.
“Would you like to hear a joke? I crafted one that will raise—New delivery added to queue. Fourth in line. Time to complete: Naught hours, eighteen minutes. Previous route recalculated.—your dopamine levels.”
“Quit the psychobabble,” I bite. “Bring the music back.”
“Alright,” Dana yells. She’s pissed, even though she’s a computer.
I strain to listen to the music as Rusty drives me out to Warehouse Row. I’m pretty sure it’s a program, not an actual guitar. Better than nothing, I suppose.
There are thirty different shipping centers here, so I’m not surprised to see three other trucks parked at different loading bays. Rusty pulls into Bay 7 exactly twelve minutes after we left the parking lot.
Dana cuts the music. I suppose it’s for the best. It’s not really music, is it? Just binary code. “All parcels in Shipment One to seventh floor,” she yells. “Expected delivery time: Naught hours, eight minutes.”
Jesus, eight minutes? I unclip my seatbelt. Rusty’s door has already unlocked. I hop out of her, jogging around to the back. Her doors are already unlocked there too, letting me step up into her. Shipment One is always the front left side, right behind my seat. It’s only two boxes, which is good, but they’re both size large. I lift one up, dropping it onto the truck’s floor. The second one gets stacked on top. I shift them both toward the doors, climb out of Rusty, and heave them into my arms. Fuck, the top one is heavy.
I walk toward Bay 7’s loading door, ignoring how the cardboard digs into the joints of my fingers. It’s a swing door, thankfully, and right inside are elevators. I use my knee to hit the up arrow. I’ve been here before. Tom works here.
The elevator arrives and I use my knee again to hit the ‘7’ button. The door slides shut and the elevator starts to climb.
“Floor two. Floor three. Floor four. Floor five. Floor six. Floor seven.”
“Three minutes to return,” Dana says, piping up from the parcel scanner clipped to my belt. At least she’s quieter; corporate hasn’t taken the volume dial from us yet.
The elevator doors open and I hustle down the hallway. Tom’s standing by a desk, using a box cutter to rip open cardboard shipments.
“Hey, Tom, got a LEXLO shipment,” I yell, getting his attention.
“Pallet C,” Tom says. I walk over to the shipping pallet, setting down the boxes. I scan their barcodes before I jog over to him.
“Need a sig,” I say, holding the scanner out.
“Busy day, huh?” Tom asks, scratching his name on the keypad with his finger. His hands are covered in thin white scars from getting scratched up doing manual labor. He’s probably about my age. I shouldn’t complain about my back pain so much.
“Two minutes to return,” Dana says.
“Ah,” Tom says, nodding. “Well, good luck.”
“Thanks,” I say. I jog back down the hallway, jamming the button for the elevator again. It tells me that I’m going down floor by floor, opening back up at the ground level.
“One minute to return,” Dana says.
I jog back to Rusty, slamming her back doors closed. I slide into my seat, shut the door, and clip my seatbelt back on.
“Proceeding to delivery two,” Dana yells, back on full volume over Rusty’s speakers. She reads my biometrics, telling me that I just burned sixty-one calories and my heart rate is 167 beats per minute. Rusty pulls out of Bay 7, displaying a thirty-one-minute route to the second drop-off.
“Bring the music back,” I say. Back in the car I can feel the exertion. I grip my hands around nothing, trying to stretch them out. I’ve seen other runners with braces around their hands, stabilizing their wrists and cushioning their fingers. I should look into those. I tilt my head to the side, cracking my neck. I twist as far as I can in my seat, cracking my spine. It’s not much, but it’s more mobility than I would’ve gotten with my seatbelt fully tightened. I heard a rumor that Dana’s next upgrade will have ‘advanced biometric scanning,’ whatever that means, but I’m worried she’ll find out my waist is thinner than I’ve been telling Rusty it is. Well, it was only a matter of time before she caught on. I scrub my hand over my face. There’s a pimple forming on my left cheek.
“Dana, add face wash to my grocery shipment,” I say.
“Alright,” Dana yells.
I try to see myself in Rusty’s window reflection. Since my run shifts got moved up to six a.m. start times, I’ve gotten lazy in the mornings and haven’t looked at myself for very long in the mirror. I can’t see much in the reflection—Christ, I’d kill to have rearview mirrors again—but I think I need a haircut. I run my hands over my head. I definitely need a haircut.
“Dana, add getting a haircut to my to-do list,” I say.
“Do you want me to book you an appointment with your previous barber?” Dana asks.
“No,” I say. I shudder, thinking about that appointment. The guy had been plugged in the entire time, clearly having some conversation that had nothing to do with me. The cut was alright, but I kept worrying he would chop my ear off with how distracted he was.
“Alright,” Dana yells.
I scratch my chin, straining to hear the music Dana’s playing. Right when I’m starting to hum along, she interrupts it to tell me a fifth delivery has been added to my queue.
#
Rusty pulls back into the LEXLO parking lot five minutes after seven p.m. I scan my access pass again, letting Rusty pull back into a dock. Her touchscreen turns green as she starts to charge.
“Re-enter worker code to conclude workday,” Dana says. I type my numbers back in and the door unlocks. “Air quality index update: Unsafe for sensitive groups,” Dana adds. “Mask recommended.”
I sigh, digging an N-95 out of my pocket. I strap it to my face, right over the spot on my cheek where the pimple is forming. Wildfires up in Ontario have made the smoke worse here for weeks; it’s probably all the pollution that’s breaking me out in the first place.
I get out of Rusty then, shutting her door behind me. LEXLO’s parking lot is massive, absolutely the kind of place you’d get lost in, so I have Dana make a note that Rusty’s in 14-MA. I start the jog over to the bus stop. The parking lot used to be the size of a normal lot, the kind of lot you’d see in old photographs of grocery stores and Walgreens drugstores, but since its running network has expanded, so too has its parking lot. Dana once told me it’s now the size of six football fields put together. I’m inclined to believe her.
I’ve worked up a sweat by the time I reach the bus stop. The long walk felt good; my day is broken up into long chunks of sitting and short chunks of heavy lifting. I’m getting varicose veins in my legs. Dana tells me they’re about thirty years premature.
I scan my wireless, watching $5.50 float away from my bank account for one-way fare. I’m not the only person at the bus stop: there’s a middle-aged woman, Maria, who I always see on my shifts. I know she has two kids; sometimes I hear her talking to them quietly, trying not to disturb the other riders. I know one of the kids is failing math. I wonder if she’s put them in an artificial tutoring program. Can she even afford that?
“Your brain is experiencing greater than normal activity,” Dana says, piping up in the earbud I stuck into my head. “Penny for your thoughts?” She’s not yelling anymore. We’re both off the clock.
“Not now,” I mutter. I look around at the other people waiting for the bus. We’re all wearing the same LEXLO polos, identifiable by the orange trimming and the massive LEXLO logo on the back. It’s supposed to be some type of atom. I think it looks like a hard-boiled egg.
There’s a man even older than Maria. I think his name is Brayden. I can tell he’s slipping in his numbers just from the set of his face. It won’t be long before management cans him. I can’t say he doesn’t have it coming: don’t make your numbers, move along. Still, I don’t know what they want him to do. It’s not like he can climb the stairs when he walks with a limp. He’d probably still make a good sorter if his eyes haven’t gone bad. Someone needs to babysit the machines, after all.
There’s a new runner waiting at the bus, too. Well, I think he’s new. I’m assuming he’s new. He might be as old as me and just have swapped schedules. Still, he looks to be on the younger side. Maybe twenty, twenty-one years old. This might be a part-time gig for him if he’s paying for day school. I hope that’s what’s happening. If he’s training up in something useful—fire, military, plumbing, something like that—then he can get out of the rat race before it ever bites him in the ass. I sigh, thinking about all of the work still ahead of me.
“Dana, check my grades,” I whisper. It barely matters how quietly I speak; she’s in my ear and in the fibers of the bus terminal and in the security cameras that monitor it. She is the security cameras.
“You’re currently averaging a seventy-six,” Dana says. I tap the volume button on my wireless. Not everyone at the bus stop needs to hear this.
“And how much do I need for credit?”
“An eighty-five. If you score a 100 on the final exam, you’ll end the course with an eighty-nine. That’s assuming no other assignments are turned in late.”
I bristle, thinking about the time the loading machines put the wrong shipment into Rusty. It wasn’t my fault we had to detour two hours back to the fulfillment center to make the delivery. It certainly wasn’t worth overtime, and I didn’t even get that. ‘Within the margin of acceptable daily error,’ I was told. Never my errors, though. God fucking forbid I take thirty extra seconds to retie my shoelaces.
The bus pulls up before I can stew more on the state of my homework. I saw a video online that said it’s all about how we frame our mindsets. I’m not forced to get another degree. I have the opportunity.
I board the bus, taking a seat up by the front. The back is nothing but loud snores and louder advertisements. If you sit by the front, the squeal of the brakes drowns some of it out.
“Message from Carmen Cipriani: Yo, dude, you off yet? I’m logged in.” I grit my teeth. Dana never gets the tone of his voice right. “Would you like to reply?”
“Yeah,” I mutter. Behind me, the bus’s speaker starts blaring an advertisement for hamburgers. You’d think it’d wind up in my message, but Dana’s the one in charge of them both. She can sort herself out. “On the bus now. Home in probably sixty, but I have to study tonight. Sorry, man. Send.”
“It’s sent,” Dana says. “Would you like me to help you study tonight?”
“Please,” I say. “Flashcards. Parts functions.”
“Alright,” Dana says. “I’ve compiled sixty flashcards based on your recent assignments. Would you like me to present them randomly or based on your previous performance?”
“Past performance,” I mutter. “You know what? Hit me with a few now.”
“Alright,” Dana says. “What does alar cartilage do?” I can hear the vocabulary word clearly in the middle of it.
“Supports the nose,” I mutter. The bus pulls up to the first stop. No one gets off. I don’t even know why it bothers stopping here; it’s not like any of the runners could afford an apartment here. Maybe its chip is old and can’t be reactively trained.
“What does the apneustic center do?”
“Controls the depth of expiration.”
“Incorrect,” Dana says. “We’ll check that one later. What about the bronchus?”
“Allows air in and out,” I mutter.
“Good.” Dana quizzes me some more, checking my understanding of different parts of the respiratory system. I can almost find irony in it; she’s asking me how to keep my lungs healthy while the sky outside is orange from the wildfires up in Canada.
Fifty-eight minutes after the bus left the parking lot stop it pulls into mine. I notice that the glass on the top of the rain shelter is still shattered. I ask Dana to put in another work order. I’m pretty sure she’s the same thing that processes them. I think she’s throwing them in the trash.
I nod to the remaining people on the bus. Maria gets off with me, but she’s talking to her kids. I wonder what model they’re running at home; can Dana not quiz the kid on their multiplication tables?
I breathe shallowly walking back to my apartment. Even with my mask on, I’m afraid that the smoke is getting through. God knows my windows don’t seal the best and god only wonders what kind of shit I’m breathing in at night. Best to savor my oxygen while I’ve got it.
I walk past the row of dimly lit apartments before getting to my own building. I stomp up the steps, feeling the ache in my calves after a thirteen-hour day. The Anders Bros. elevator was down and I had to lug their ninety pounds of gear up seven flights of stairs. I’ll be feeling it tomorrow, too. Thank god I’m only working a seven-hour day.
My apartment is on the third floor. Usually, I like being up and away from the street. Tonight, I passively consider sleeping on my balled-up polo in my apartment’s foyer, rather than taking on all the stairs. I make it up though, scanning my wireless to unlock the door. Dana hops off my earbuds, waking up my apartment and adjusting it to my evening settings. The coffee pot starts brewing, the lights in the living room and kitchen come on, and the oven preheats. I kick my shoes off, stacking my legs in a four-shape so that I can rub my calf. Christ, that’s going to be sore.
I pad over to the refrigerator, taking out a frozen pizza and peeling off the plastic. I set it in the oven, barely hot, and tell Dana to set a forty-minute timer.
“Put some music on, too,” I say, peeling off my polo. I drop my clothes in the bedroom hamper. Dana’s already started the shower and I duck in under the stream while it’s still hot. I scrub soap into my cheeks, careful of the pimple I’ve probably made worse and letting the hot water soothe my back for a few minutes. I’m far from the only runner with back pain, but it hurts all the same.
Dana plays the same rock songs she played in the car. I can still barely hear them over the creaking pipes and running water. I crank the water off when it starts to run cold, toweling off before walking back to the bedroom. I throw on sweatpants and an old tee shirt, checking on the pizza. Still a little bit to go before the cheese is fully melted. I tap my desktop, waking it up. A few notifications pop up in the corner: Carmen is playing Battlerock with a few of our other gaming friends. I have an anatomy quiz on Friday. I click on the quiz.
“Dana, predict the quiz and test me on Thursday,” I say, getting up to grab the pizza out of the oven. When I shut the door Dana shuts the oven off. I roll a pizza cutter through the pie.
“You got it, Max,” Dana says. “Would you like to hear about some nutritious recipes that take less than twenty minutes? I’ve prepared a few for you.”
“Fuck no,” I say, shoving a slice of pizza in my mouth. It’s hot enough to burn the roof and my tongue. Given that lunch was cold snacks shoved in on the road, I’ll take what I can get.
“Would you like me to play you a movie? There are three new releases I think would interest you.”
“Are they real movies or did you just make them up for me?” I ask, sinking into my couch, dinner in hand.
“They’re user-curated films,” Dana says. I roll my eyes.
“Just leave me alone. I’m eating.”
Dana goes quiet. The living room lights even dim a few watts. I look out my window at the apartment complex across the street. Everything here is supposed to be fully let, with waiting lists, but half of the windows I can see are dark.
#
That night, I dream of summer camp. I wasn’t a summer camp kid, but when I was ten, my parents sent me to a week-long music camp. I begged to go; I’d seen the flyers at the YMCA and thought attending would turn me into a rock star. It didn’t, but it did teach me the absolute basics of playing the guitar. I walked away from that week with three chords under my belt. I practiced them every night.
I’m back there now, bigger this time. Someone’s squeezed my thirty-one-year-old body into a twin-size bunk. My hands are too big for the guitar I’m holding. I look up and see my bunkmate, a glasses-wearing kid named Evan, sleeping soundly. I don’t want to wake him.
I’m outside now. I don’t remember walking outside. I don’t remember picking up a bigger guitar, but this one fits me nicely. Maybe it’s bigger. Maybe I’m now smaller. The strings bite my fingertips when I press them down. It’s nothing like the ache in my legs. I try to strum a simple chord, but my fingers slip. I try again. This time, the guitar plays. It’s just one chord, all I remember, but I play it again. I play it again. I play it again and again until it worms its way into my heart and I begin to sing. The sun rises over the campsite and with it I rise too.
#
Dana sounds my morning alarm. I peel my eyes open, unstick my face from my pillowcase, and roll out of bed. I grab a polo from my closet, one of the seven identical ones I own, pulling it over my head. In the bathroom I brush my teeth and rub deodorant under my arms. I don’t bother turning the light on; I can tell from the pressure inside my cheek that my pimple is getting worse. Staring at it won’t make me feel any better.
“Today you have work from 7 a.m. until 2 p.m.,” Dana says, modulating through my wristwatch. “At two forty-five you have an interview with the Detroit Medical Institute Office of Admissions. At four-thirty you have a tutoring appointment. You are free from three forty-five until four-thirty. I recommend indoor exercise, conversing with family or a close friend, or reading a book. Would you like me to download some samples for you?”
“How about 1984?” I gripe, spitting out toothpaste.
“Okay,” Dana says. The systems were never the best at sarcasm. Something for the programmers to work on still.
“Cancel that,” I say, wiping my mouth on my hand towel. “When’s the bus coming?”
“The bus should arrive in seven minutes,” Dana says. I nod, even though I know she can’t see me and doesn’t care. I throw on the rest of my clothes and jam a bagel in my mouth as I walk downstairs.
“AQI?” I ask. Sarcasm might not be these things’ strength, but thank god they can understand the language of everything-bagel-muffling.
“Moderate,” Dana says. I forgo the mask then, though it wouldn’t have been the first time I’d strapped one on over my breakfast. I step outside, standing under the street light while I wait for the bus to arrive. One minute.
Something tickles the inside of my ear. It’s like a hum, low and high all at the same time. I press on my earbud, which quiets things down, but when I release my finger it starts back up.
“Stop program,” I say, wondering if Dana’s updating herself.
“No programs are actively running,” Dana says. I frown, taking the earbud out of my ear. It better not be going bad; these things cost an arm and a leg and I’m out of limbs. The sound gets louder when I take the earbud out, though. I think it’s coming from the apartment building across the street. It sounds a bit like a screech, like an elevator wire that’s grating against the shaft, but the building isn’t nice enough for an elevator. The front door of the building is propped open and there’s a moving truck parked outside. Some poor sap is about to get acquainted with a creature called a cockroach.
Whatever the sound is, I don’t have time to recognize it. The bus pulls up to the curb, sinks down on its wheels, and cranks the door open. Did you know that if you get rid of the driver’s seat, you can cram two more people in?
I’m deposited back at LEXLO at 6:50 a.m. Dana told everyone on the bus that there was an ‘unexpected delay.’ These days, that could mean anything. Car accident, even though they’re not supposed to be able to hit each other. Dead deer. A jumper, god forbid. Maybe just a stray balloon in front of a sensor. I jog over to Rusty, tapping on her screen and entering my worker code. I click my seatbelt on and try to drown Dana out while she reads out the queue of deliveries. There can’t be that many, not on a short shift, especially since the first one is an hour away. I tap out with my access card, sneaking my wireless out of my pocket as I slide my card back in. I’ve barely unlocked it by the time Rusty’s interior lights all flash red. Dana screams over the speaker.
“Attention alert: Eye movements not detected. Employees are required to keep eyes open and focused during the duration of travel.”
I sigh, flicking my eyes up to the ceiling before settling them on the road straight ahead. I can barely remember a steering wheel under my hands, but I’m lucky enough to be on the tail end of required driving instruction. My high school history teacher took us all out to the parking lots and showed us how to ease a car around the light posts. I enjoyed the mechanics, but staring out the window at the same plane of asphalt wasn’t particularly interesting. Now, I’m supposed to ‘keep watch’ for any road obstructions or rogue vehicles, even though I couldn’t do a damn thing if I saw one.
#
My shoulders ache by the time I arrive back home. I don’t have proof, but I think the scheduling system is punishing me for working a short day. All of my deliveries were in excess of 100 pounds. I rip my polo off. It lands on top of its twin in the mountain of laundry terraforming my bedroom floor. I yank on a button-down, sliding into my chair. One minute before my interview. I clear my throat, log into the video portal, and pray the admissions committee won’t be able to see how sweaty I am.
A man pops up on the other side of the screen. Like me, he’s wearing a button-down, though he had the time to put on a tie and suit jacket. I’m underdressed. Shit. Still, he smiles at me.
“Hello,” he says. “Max Tyler?”
“That’s me, hello,” I say, raising my hand in a little wave.
“Excellent. Well, as you would’ve seen in our email, we have a very competitive applicant pool for retraining, but your medical school performance impressed us. Can you tell me a bit more about why you’re interested in retraining?”
“Of course,” I say, squaring my shoulders. “It’s unfortunate timing, really. In my third year of residency I was phased out. I’m sure you know that all of the hospitals in the Great Lakes region switched from radiologists to artificial intelligence, and unfortunately, that means I’ve got three years of redundant experience. I loved medicine, though, and retraining into a new specialty would allow me to continue that career path.”
“What are you currently doing, if I may ask?”
“I’m a delivery runner at LEXLO,” I say. “It’s not as fulfilling as patient care, but it helps with the student loan payments.”
“I see,” the officer says. “Well, like I said, we’re very competitive. I noticed you’re currently enrolled in some refresher courses; how are you performing in those?”
I blush. “Currently, it’s just one course, what with my work schedule,” I say. “I’m…fine. I recognize my scores are currently below the threshold I’d like for them to be, but I’m also working between 65 and 75 hours per week doing non-medical work. I am sure that, in a medical environment, my scores would return to the levels they reached during medical school.”
The officer frowns. I panic. He already had access to my grades, no? He sighs. “Max—”
“Message from Carmen Cipriani: Battlerock tournament tonight at eight. Show up, motherfucker, or I’m driving up from Arizona to hunt your ass.”
I cringe. Dana’s loud, loud enough to be heard by the officer, and Carmen’s profane enough to tank this whole thing for me. “I’m so sorry,” I say. My heart throbs in my chest. “That was incredibly unprofessional. I’m sorry, I forgot to silence notifications. Just a moment. Dana, do not disturb.”
“Alright,” Dana and the officer say. I blink, looking at him. He fritzes on the screen, pixels jumping apart and coming back together. I swallow.
“Are you a human being?” I ask.
“I am a representative of the Office of Admissions,” the officer says. “I am a human depiction.”
I sit back in my seat. He’s Dana. It’s all Dana. It’s already been decided whether or not I get in. I unbutton my sleeves, rolling them up. The guy’s not even real, so who cares if I’m getting comfortable?
“Assessment run: candidate likelihood of admission,” I say, overriding the system’s conversational mode. It’s not as neat of a party trick as it sounds; it’s just meteorology for everyday life. No chance to change the weather, just a heads-up of what’s already coming.
“30% likelihood of admission,” the officer says. “Candidate scores below optimum threshold. Outside of desired medical backgrounds: radiology, eleventh preferred. Chance of success in retraining program: 60%.”
“That’s more than half,” I grumble, folding my arms over my chest. I sigh. “End assessment.”
The officer smiles again. Now I can see it: his teeth are too straight and white. Unlike me, his skin is perfect. “Do you have any additional questions about our program?” He asks.
“No,” I say. I grit my teeth. “I know that you’re a computer, so you see my heart rate and brain activity and they’re just ones and zeroes to you. I’ll tell you this: those add up to a smart, passionate person. I am a good doctor. I can be a good doctor. I hope somewhere there’s a person reading this who’ll give me a chance, but I’m not holding my breath.”
The officer glitches again. “Than—thank you for—interest in our program, Mr. Tyler,” he says. “The Office of Admissions will be in contact shortly.”
The interview ends. I’m immediately presented with an email—my decision letter, determined from infinite probabilities and not a single ounce of empathy. I don’t even look at it. It came too quickly for a human to have intervened. I shut my desktop off again. I’m about to bring Dana back online when I hear the noise again. Squealing, just like before. What the hell is that? If it’s rats in the walls, we’re all screwed. It better not be rats in the walls.
I walk over to the window, putting my ear up against the drywall. The sound is louder, but it’s not coming from inside. It’s outside, definitely, from the apartments across the street. I’d chalked it up this morning to moving sounds, but when I got off the bus, the truck was gone.
I crack open the window, just enough to let the sound in. I wait for Dana to yell at me about smoke exposure, but she’s still in standby.
I squat down, looking through the gap in the window. Across the street the window is open too, thrown open wide, careless of the air and the neighbors and the groaning bus unloading passengers. Sat just inside is someone playing a cello. I can just see the edge of the instrument from where they’re sitting and their hand moving the bow. It thrums out loud and clear, pattering across the street to my window.
It’s not elegantly played. It’s barely decently played. Still, in spite of my aching legs, I stay squatted by the windowsill, listening to my neighbor play. I can tell they’re trying for a melody, but they aren’t quite fast enough to make the transitions. Then, they reach the end of their sheet music page (paper? Is that a piece of paper?) and stop playing. I feel an urge to call out to them. To tell them to continue, please, keep practicing. Instead, the smog tickles my throat and I hack. My neighbor must hear it. I can see him now, getting up, looking out of his own window. He sees me, straightens up, and shuts it. I push my own window down, coughing again.
“Dana, back online,” I say, going to the kitchen to get a glass of water.
“Hello, Max,” she says. “Are you alright?”
“Fine,” I say, downing half of the glass in one gulp. “Cello music. Play some.”
“Alright,” Dana says. The music starts, filtered through the speakers around my apartment. It’s perfect. Moving, even.
“Not this,” I say. “Real cello music. Played by a human being.”
“I do not have access to organic instrumentals,” Dana says. “I assure you, the cello music I am currently playing is of professional quality.”
“I don’t want professional, I want real,” I say. “Human music, please.”
“I do not have access to organic instrumentals,” Dana repeats.
“Well, how do you get access?”
“You can upgrade your package at any time. I can—”
I cut her off, groaning. I used a plastic cup for my water and I throw it against the door. My shoulder twinges. My legs hurt. I’m working twelve hours tomorrow. The music is playing. It’s too perfect.
#
Awake again. If I dreamt, I don’t remember it. I’m still tired; I stayed up too late with Carmen, reluctant to step away from the joy of sitting down to my computer and playing a game. I should’ve been studying; there are other medical schools in other cities, but it’s pricey to move and I’m barely scraping by. Oh, well. If I bomb my quiz, I bomb it.
I pull myself out of bed, rushing through my morning routine. I rifle through my drawers, looking for a scrap of paper and a pen. In the end, I rip out a corner of a page from an old textbook, scrawling a note on it. I hustle downstairs and across the street, mask firmly in place over my nose and mouth. I don’t know what sailors said about orange skies, but it couldn’t have been good. Maybe they didn’t say anything—too hard to find a rhyme.
My new neighbor, the cellist, is named G. Rainer. I know it’s him from the crisp edges of his mailbox nameplate; everyone else’s has discolored or frayed at the edges. I slide my note inside. Please play again. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard real music. Max, from 3A across the street.
I get on the bus. Maria’s behind me, probably heading out to LEXLO to work the same grueling hours. Surprisingly, she’s not talking to her kids. We sit down next to one another.
“I’m Max,” I say, looking straight ahead. In my periphery, I can see Maria twitch. She looks over at me.
“I know,” she says. “I’m Maria.”
“I know.” I swallow. “I think I should start bringing a book for this. Only time we aren’t forced to look at the road.”
Maria laughs. “It’s ridiculous, right?” She says. “Next they’ll police my daydreaming.”
“Daydreaming?” I ask. I look over at her. “Any good ones? I’m looking for new material.”
“Nothing special,” Maria says. “Lately, I’ve been thinking about hiking with my boys.”
“Hiking? Colorado?”
“Switzerland,” Maria says, smiling. “Nothing but trees and sky. We can’t afford international connectivity, and who knows? Maybe unplugging would do us a bit of good.”
I smile back, nodding. “This is the opposite of that,” I say, “but I’ve got a subscription for advanced individual tutoring. I’m not going to need it anymore, or at least not for a while, and I overhear you trying to teach your son math. If you need it, I can transfer it to you.”
It takes Maria a few seconds to respond. “Thank you,” she says eventually, patting my shoulder. I think it’s been five whole months since I’ve last been hugged.
#
I get off the bus. Rusty broke down for two hours today, abandoning me on the side of I-75. Other cars, half of them LEXLO vehicles, sped by while I sat on Rusty’s hood and waited for a pickup. I caught a few sympathetic glances from the other runners, but until the tow truck came, I was left to sit and wait. For a few minutes I actually enjoyed myself. The worst of the smoke had blown over thanks to a steady wind. It crept down the back of my collar and, because I was so far outside of the city center, it didn’t carry all of the industrial fumes with it. It also drowned out Dana, who yelled about a Compromised vehicle, exit and wait for roadside assistance the whole damn time. The sun came out for a few minutes.
Still, it put me behind enough that I’m home at eleven. Good thing I didn’t get into medical school; I don’t have enough time to complete my quiz. All that hoopla about apneustic centers for nothing.
I climb the stairs, jogging up them when I see there’s a note stuck to my front door. It’s on an index card (they still make those?) and the penmanship proves G. Rainer still writes semi-frequently.
Max, I will. — Geo, Apt. 3C.
I’m too tired to move quickly, but I still find my way into the living room faster than usual. I turn the light on. Across the street, Geo’s is dark. I’m just about to turn my light off, to grab a shower and get some dinner and try to get some sleep, when a lamp clicks on across the street. Geo’s the one who lit it. He’s pulled the cello and chair closer to the window, too. His music stand is erected next to it. I hold my hand up and wave.
He waves back, opening his window. I walk over to mine, opening it too.
“Late night?” He calls. The wind carries his voice.
“Yeah,” I say. We look at each other for a moment. “Thank you,” I add. He shrugs, sitting down behind his instrument.
“I’m not very good,” he warns, picking up his bow. I sit down on the floor, watching his hands position above the strings.
Geo starts to play. The notes float across the street, inexpert and lovely all the same. I watch as his hands sweep across the cello, adjusting as he gives the song shape. It’s Ode to Joy, I realize. I’ve heard it before. I’ve heard it before, better, and I could ask Dana to play a version in which no note is even slightly out of tune, no measure coming slightly too late. Instead, with the moon high above and smoke filtering softly in, with my aching legs and shoulders and back cramped where I lean against the wall, with an early-morning alarm and another day of work ahead of me, Ode to Joy sweeps into my living room imprecise and immaculate. Geo’s hands keep adjusting with each new note. His head ducks down, reading the music from its pages. His hands steady the instrument. His body moves through the music, bones and muscle and neurons and pure spirit. I lean my head against the window and listen, truly listen, as he plays.