chosenjuanwrites

[chosenjuanwrites]

Zeroes and Ones

He feels her before he ever sees her. The delicate incision in his mind, the scalpel of a practiced surgeon. He can sense her in his head, how the programs delve deep into the dark corners, attempting to take anything not nailed to the ground. He can see his bank account information pulled to the forefront and he begins to grin. Firewall after firewall, security verification after security verification, it all comes tumbling down. Until all those zeros in his bank account are brought to bear under the eyes of tonight’s stranger.

Her disappointment is almost tangible. All those zeros are alone. They lack the valuing grace of someone different from themselves. He can see her now. She has amber eyes that twinkle with secret mischief, but even the smug aura that she emanated could not hide her second hand embarrassment. He walks away from the bar, drink in hand, equipped with a knowing smile. She returns it. They share a secret together now, valued in the zeros and ones of their lives.

“If you wanted a drink,” said the man as the ice in his cup bounced. “You could have just asked.”

The woman moves her dark red hair aside, her head slowly shaking. “You don’t have a single cent to your name. I’m surprised you even have a drink in your hand.”

The man’s grin grows wider. It's boyish, reserved for teachers and sheriffs alike. “I have good credit.”

“Really? I doubt that.”

He points to his head. “You’ve already been in here. Check for yourself.”

Her amber eyes begin a subtle glow. The pathways have been made now. No more tangling with cheap security parameters as passwords fit like puzzle pieces into the man’s accounts. She sees a section titled Barney’s Bar and sees a humble ten dollar debt within his account. Intrigue begins to set in her. This man is a bum, that’s what the numbers say and numbers are far more truthful than anyone she’s ever met. Yet the man walked with a certain kind of confidence that spoke of some inner richness. There was wealth in him, somewhere.

She gave him her award winning smile, reserved for politicians who had just the right amount of alcohol in them. “Buy me a drink then.”

“Aw come on. I deserve a please at least. Don’t you think so?”

“Please,” she said, the word powdered with sugar.

They sat on wooden stools, a terrible fashion choice amongst the peeling chrome that seemed to cover the entire bar. The woman ordered a rum and coke; the man continued to sip on his scotch. As the ashy taste settled on his tongue and slow rock music reached its crescendo, he looked at her and said, “Is this your usual line of work?”

“I see it as more of a hobby.”

“Hmm. A bit strange though isn’t it?”

“Not as strange as being broke.”

The man chuckled. “Being poor ain’t a crime. Some people even see it as saintly. Can’t say the same about your hobby.”

‘Mmm.” She shrugged as she played with the umbrella in her drink. “This city has stolen more from me than I’ll get in a thousand lifetimes. It owes me more than just a drink.”

“What’s your name?”

She looks into his dull gray eyes. “You really think I’ll tell you that? Next you’ll ask for my birthday.”

“How old are you?”

“You’re not very smart,” she said as she sipped her coke. “I guess I should have figured that part out. But if you must know, I’m a 90 year old Russian witch and my name is Alina. Praise the red army and nice to meet you.”

Her words dripped sarcasm.

“Huh. You don’t look a day past 40.”

She almost chokes on her drink. “A charmer! With skills like that, you should be some corpo in a sky tower.”

“Not a life for old Jeffery, thank you very much. I knew a pencil pusher once. Jumped off the forty fourth floor on main one day when his software got punctured like paper and he got black listed by Yamato. Don’t blame him. He wasn’t cut out for a job outside boring office meetings that could be emails.”

“And you are?”

Jeff smiled at her and for the first time Alina saw in him a different man. The kind that played between the black and red of chance. Who in any moment would find himself eaten by the gods of probability. She looked at his worn down hoodie. Maybe Lady Luck had denounced him already. But he didn’t care, that was obvious now. As she saw him drink the scotch, she saw a man who lost it all and was willing to pick up the pieces again. It scared her. How could anyone survive the annihilation of those magic numbers, sanctified by the steel churches that ruled the world with fists of green and gold?

“I suppose I am,” he said as if saying the sky was blue.

It continued like that for months. Each and every day they met at the same time. They talked about it all together, the horrendous bar music becoming the anthem of childhood dreams and missed opportunities. He learned about how she was supposed to be a dancer, the classy kind with a tutu and a cultured audience. She learned how he was a construction grunt working on high rise buildings that would outlive him ten times over. On an especially drunk night they talked about the insecurities that crept like shadows in the crevices of their mind.

He learned about how her dancing dream was shattered with the gavel of motherly expectations. How when she said she didn’t want to dance anymore, her mother had gone berserk with an ax. The whole experience cost her an arm and it took months working as a waitress at a sketchy bar to buy the robotic one that held her drink.

She learned construction was as harrowing on the mind as it was on the body. When Jeff helped construct those steel towers, he was reminded of a stability he would never have. His foundation was not metal and concrete, it was ramen dinners and freezing showers. But he was lucky. When he couldn’t pay his landlord, the old man died of a stroke. When his electric bill was due, a corporate takeover postponed bills for two months. There was even a time when a ceiling collapsed on him, killing his friend Pedro, but leaving him intact and caked with sawdust.

They grew together, the way two trees tend to intertwine their roots over time. The highlights of their days became the two hours where they spoke to each other over shit music and even shittier drinks. Alina at any time could have searched him up, her artificial eyes were more than just for show after all, but she couldn’t do it. The mystery around this man, peeled back one story at a time, was more human than any police or government report could ever be. At times she would check his bank account, wondering if the zeros had finally gained a friend. Mostly out of curiosity than malice.

They never seemed to. Until a cold Friday evening.

The zeros were introduced to a single digit. A single 1.

Alina had never seen so much money in her life. She could take it all away of course. A couple clicks, not even. A single one could do it if she activated her automated worm program. She paced back and forth in her apartment, eyeing the clock get closer and closer to her bar time with Jeff. And she realized something that confused her, sending her spiraling into self reflection. 

She was happy for him.

Alina sat on the stool that might as well have her name on it. She arrived five minutes earlier than usual. She was running over the things she would say in her mind from the congratulations to the what nows. Time continued onward and with it doubt began to seep into the cracks of her psyche, drumming up expensive airplane trips and beaches far away from her. Ten minutes became twenty and twenty became forty. The rum and coke had never tasted worse.

The answer was obvious. He had run away with the money. It was the reasonable thing to do. But somewhere, past the calculations that had guided her through countless successful heists, she felt that could not be true. It was not right. It was not him. She could take the money now if she really wanted to, but as she looked at those zeros and ones, she realized something. Money like that comes with dangerous zeroes, the kind in gun barrels wielded by those who want the money more than you. She got up from her chair and knew what she had to do.

Alina went to Jeff's apartment complex, something only known to her in myth. It was the background of many of his stories, usually where through ingenuity he got free cable or managed to hack into a VR headset he found in the trash. Here in the rain that dripped down her small nose, it felt less like a home and more a dreary temple. She walked inside, through the hallways and through the sounds of people arguing or having sex behind the walls. She knew the number in her mind. It was 287 and that number was far more important in that moment than all the money in the world.

She found it, the magic number plastered on the door. She heard noises behind it. At first she thought Jeff must have invited friends over, celebration with bros and too much alcohol. She began to feel jealous and stupid, the wet clothes sticking to her skin a reminder of her foolishness. Until the noise behind the door got louder and became a scream. The sound was new and unique to her, but unmistakably Jeff.

Adrenaline began to course through her, agitating her prosthetic arm with phantom pains. There was no time for what was real or wasn’t. She knew that now and with that realization, she kicked down the door in one swift movement. The door revealed a bloodied Jeff surrounded by eight men in yokai masks that smiled at her with plastic grins. Adrenaline mixed with anger into an explosive cocktail that spurred her into motion.

Like a gunslinger of old she pulled out her pistol and shot two of the men through the heart, courtesy of her spite and onboard aiming system. She barrel rolled under a metal table and knocked it down as the remaining goons retaliated with sub machine gun fire. The bullets missed her and ricocheted into knock off china cups and plates, the pieces falling onto her red hair. With a single blink of her eyes, she activated her pistol’s camera sequence.

She gained a third eye, no meditation on a mountain required. Suddenly she could see where the men were through the laser sight on her pistol and aimed accordingly. Three men died, fatal shots to the brain from the barely see able pistol behind the table. The remaining three concentrated their fire and shot the pistol out of her hand. It slid to Jefferey's left side, where he could only hopelessly watch the thread of this battle begin to unravel.

Alina cursed under her breath.

“I had to cook so many shitty pancakes for this.”

She touched her prosthetic arm and activated her unlock protocol. The arm became lifeless and with a hard tug that made stars appear in her eyes, she ripped it off. A mess of blood and wires fell onto the ground beside her. She then pressed the secret button on the lower arm and three numbers appeared on its UI. Zero. Zero. Five. She threw it over the table, all the way to the remaining three men. They began to laugh.

“The woman threw her arm!” one said with a giggle.

The other picked it up. “Hahaha! Maybe I’ll use it to jack-”

Their lives ended with the explosion, turning them into a fine red pile of guts and bone. The blast sent Jeffery and his chair to the side, spurring a scream from his mouth as glass scraped his cheek. Alina sprinted towards him, purse thrown to the wayside and tears streaming down her honey colored eyes. She immediately began to untie him from the chair and Jefferey gladly embraced the safety of her bosom.

“What happened?” she asked. “You didn’t show up to the bar and I got worried and I thought you left and-”

Jeff grinned, the act letting out a concoction of blood and drool out of his mouth. “I won big. Too big. Too many times. They thought I was cheating. I wasn’t. Never do.” He shrugged and winced in pain. “I won fair and square. I left while I was still ahead and they didn’t like that. They kept pestering me to play one more time, to see how far my luck could go. I said no. They sent those guys after me. I was going to go to the bar and tell you I finally had some cash. I was thinking we could go to Mexico. Eat that Tex Mex stuff you’re always on about. Maybe a pina colada on the beach. Something fruity for sure. Then this happened.”

She held him tighter.

“Hey there!” he said. “A lot of things hurt right now. Let’s not waste it all on medical bills.”

“Shut up. Just, shut up.”

Mexico had never seen an uglier year. Constant rain and dreary clouds.

But as they held each other in bed, they wouldn’t have it any other way.