A-Void

has to be an explanation for all of this.”
I head outside to collect Cleveland, return to the car, and head for the Santa Monica Pier as the morning sun climbs higher.
Long eastward rows of military vehicles line both sides of Wilshire Boulevard as we head toward Ocean Avenue. I maneuver past barricades, crashed cars, and debris from looted stores. The National Guard’s headquarters, inside the Drive-Thru Botox Shop neighboring the Center for the Boredom Society, looks empty.
I park the Honda-Toyota-Chrysler on the Pier in front of the Hippodrome Carousel. While Cleveland leaps at the gulls perched at the foot of the building’s decaying domes, I peer inside and imagine Jasmine and Isabella swinging through the brass poles, chasing me past fairytale horses and their parading chariots. Only dust remains.
Across from Pacific Amusement Park, wrinkling pink and green balloons limp around the stroller to which they’re appendaged. The ticket counters resemble hollow tree trunk cavities, and beyond them, the unmusical midway rots from seagull filth.
At the pier’s end, the submerged beams of the lower fishing plank are woolly with algae. I scan the bay. An empty fishing boat with bird excrement down its sides floats out on the water. No cargo planes ascend from or descend into LAX beyond the smokestacks at Manhattan Beach.
My eyes ache. We return to the car. Cleveland slumps in the backseat. I am out of pills but maybe I can fall asleep for just a few minutes.
I jerk up. Cleveland is barking. Something is walking on the roof. It’s getting louder, closer. I start the engine. The noise stops and, through the windshield, I see a large pelican take flight. I watch it fly steadily over the pier.
I catch my breath. “It’s okay, Cleve. It’s okay.” I remember that I dreamt of walking through streets checking people’s wrists for pulses.
A sunray lands on my face as the sun begins its descent into the gaping Pacific, leaving behind a mango sky. I must have slept for hours. We exit the car into a cool breeze. Threads of neon lights rejuvenate the Playland Arcade and the yellow gondolas and red spokes of the Ferris wheel. Still no planes.
Heading away from the pier, at the bluff separating Palisades Park from the bay, I weave through the hordes of green and gray refugee tents, blankets, hampers, coolers, barbecues, pots and pans, and plastic beach balls. A perimeter fence with a handwritten “We Remember Idaho” sign sections off a playground with an orange swing set.
I lean past the bluff’s scrappy edge, overlooking what used to be the Pacific Coast Highway before the oceans rose. Waves crash underneath, burying the highway deeper.
I cup my hands around my mouth again. “Hello?”
I return home to develop a plan.
Cleveland paces as I transfer from the kitchen counter the stack of mixed Portuguese dishes Jasmine had purchased at The Modern Antiquarian years ago. I lower them into one of the remaining boxes and study the top one with my fingers, feeling as though she had implanted a piece of her soul into each of them once she had decided to bring them home.
I command my Nucleus v312.7 to power up on the counter; the workstation illuminates across the white marble. A portal grows to accept my Organelle v463.2 as I detach it from my forearm.
I draw a keyboard with my fingers, press the Synctegrate icon, and all the appliances in the house turn on to consolidate information.
“Billy, I cannot log on, but since yesterday you have 5,643 software updates that need your attention. Would you like to update now? It will take only a few minutes.”
“No.”
“Your settings are three days old. Would you like to correct these now?”
“No.”
“I recommend you change your password for 322 out of your 758 accounts. Make sure to choose a unique and strong password for each account.”
“I don’t want to. Stop.”
“Would you like to sync your eight calendars?”
“No.”
“You did not update your status for your family and friends yesterday. No one knows what you are doing. Would you like to draft a post? I could post it when I am able to log on.”
“No.”
“People will forget about you, Billy.”
“Don’t update.”
“Your family and friends posted 10,342 updates last week.”
“I don’t care.”
“Okay. You have 100,047 unread messages. Would you like me to read these now?”
“I said, ‘No.’”
“Update v547.6 is available for me. Would you like to update now? It will take only a few minutes.”
“No, no, no.”
“Warning, Billy. You are outdated. You are outdated.”
“Stop talking.”
“Sorry, I don’t understand. What roles shall I keep performing?”
Watchmaker
Clockmaker
Cartographer
Lens maker
Videographer
Photographer
Framer
Artist
Accountant
Mathematician
Telephone operator
Receptionist
Greeting card retailer
Postage handler
Pet
Personal assistant
Scheduler
Event planner
Disc jockey
Wait staff
Dining host
Furniture maker
Newspaper deliverer
Weatherperson
Librarian
Book seller
Editor
Publisher
Cinema staff
Movie critic
Casino dealer
Travel agent
Tour guide
Translator
Personal trainer
Yoga instructor
Nutritionist
Cooking instructor
Pharmacist
Museum curator
Tutor
Art instructor
Music teacher
Record producer
Printer
Interior designer
Office manager
Business manager
Graphic designer
Bank teller
Stockbroker
Realtor
Store clerk
Fortune-teller
Financial adviser
Architect
Babysitter
Friend
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“Sleep! Just fucking sleep!”
“Okay, Billy, you have made a choice.”
I manually turn on the television for some answers but it just shows static. I walk into our master bath, where my own presence in the mirror paralyzes me. Am I in some kind of a trance? Am I in a wormhole of some kind? I turn on the faucet until the water turns hot, cup the water in my palms, and splash my face. As I grip the edges of the counter, droplets flow down my arms.
In the kitchen, I drink a glass of cold water, which hurts my empty stomach. Nauseous, I quickly cook eggs in one of the multi-microwave’s ten pods. I tighten my grip on the handle, remembering the humid scent of eggs Jasmine fried with potatoes on hazy mornings during our simpler life.
I see her teaching me again how to cook. The sweet skin of her exposed neck drew me to her constantly. Isabella points to classic Tom & Jerry cartoons and we giggle together.
What the hell am I supposed to do?
Cleveland crumbles to the floor and closes his opal eyes. Through the kitchen window, I see Federico and Salvador’s house. I remember Federico calling me from his car as we both drove home, eager to check our mailboxes for Expatriate