The Egg Code (26 page)

XVI

Promises Kept

The Fall Campaign

1998

Reluctantly, Simon Tree-Mould accepted the adoration of his peers. The line wound along the edge of the classroom, thirty or more students aged eleven and up, all clutching pictures, notebooks, things to sign. Mrs. Oates stood nearby, gloating over the boy. Simon despised his teacher; she was a parasite, another contemptible leech. Only his mother understood. She’d been with him from the beginning. Simon imagined his memoirs, published fifty years hence, the dedication on the front page:
To Mom
. He would devote an entire chapter to his mother’s passing, describing it in somber, wounded tones. Chapter 49: The Death of My Mother. A short chapter, more like an interlude, printed in italics. He would hire a professional to write it for him—the best of the best.
An Actor’s Life
by Simon Tree-Mould (with Glorya Foxx).

Living Arrangements In-Store Promotion: Version #1
(16 × 20 color glossy, P.O.P., cash stand, vestibule)
The boy sits with his legs crossed, his silk shirt parted at the waist.
His expression is knowing and mischievous, a “let’s play” look.
Merchandise pictured: San Rafael Overstuffed Loveseat, $650;
SleepyTyme Slippers, $13; Ortega Glassware, $28 set;
Gordon Knit Wrap, $85; Hunny Bee Rag Rug, $16;
Wrought Iron Fireplace Tools, $48; Toy, $8.
Copy: “It’s a cold night and I’m all alone.
If you were here with me, we could get extra cumfy
on my new overstuffed loveseat from Living Arrangements.
It even folds out to make a bed! Wink wink!”
Tag: “Living Arrangements: Sexy Stuff”

“Can you make it say, ‘To my best friend, Antonio Fava, good luck at tennis camp’?”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

Surrounded by students, Simon felt rather like a teacher himself, brought in to explain the vagaries of adult life. For his part, he hadn’t been to school for two weeks. Skipped the midterms, the Civil War, the intro to algebra, the fetal-pig dissection, the field trip to the VFW shrine in Sparta. Students greeted his return with the same reckless enthusiasm that anticipates a tornado drill or a visiting puppeteer.
Simon’s back.
Things will be different today.

“Simon? How did it feel to have your picture taken? And then see yourself on TV ’n’ stuff?”

“Huh? Oh, no talking. I’ve got a sore throat.”

The kids all stood stiff-backed and silent as they waited to approach Simon’s desk. Fascinated, they watched as their former classmate signed autographs, took calls on the celly, posed like a
Teen Beat
heartthrob for a professional photographer. The students could no longer think of him as their classmate. He’d entered a realm far beyond their comprehension, where his movements were charged with celebrity. As they reached the desk, their senses seemed to sharpen, and a strange air filled their lungs—recycled air, alive with the glow of other people, adults in boardrooms, making big decisions, putting things on TV.

Touching his throat, Simon passed a note to one of the producers; in seconds, a glass of water appeared. His right hand hurt; over the course of the day, his autograph had degenerated into mere scribble: two dashes and a cross. He’d signed well over two hundred photos—for teachers, for students, for friends of the faculty. It was getting kind of stale. Resting his hand, he crossed his legs and patted his face with a hankie. The students groaned; they’d grown intolerant of these frequent delays. Simon smiled and leaned back in his chair. He liked this—the fact that when he stopped, so did everything else. Slowly, he made a fist. The kids waited. Nothing happened for a while.

Living Arrangements In-Store Promotion: Version #2
(18 × 18 rafter board, main aisle, secondary sight line)
The boy leans over a tall, citrus-colored drink,
his tongue touching the tip of a curly plastic straw.
His eyes communicate a message of naughty impropriety.
Merchandise pictured: Viva Las Vegas! Curly Straw, $2.25;
Barclay Counter Table, $175; Ortega Barware, $28 set;
The Beautiful Blue Danube Curaçao Drink Mix, $12;
Lip Gloss, $3.50.
Copy: “Looking for some action? Mmmm, me too.
How ’bout we blow this clambake?
I know a place where you can feel my mussel.”
Tag: “Living Arrangements: Bar None”

The Living Arrangements in Vega was a bustling place—skirts swirling, high heels clacking on the newly waxed floor. Rude motorists sat in the parking lot, waiting for a spot to open up. The asphalt smelled of car exhaust and hot brake fluid. Steve Mould stared across the lot and chuckled to himself. He felt giddy, set apart from the world’s problems. A dustpan, filled with butts and candy paper refuse, leaned against his hip. Standing in front of the store, he imagined the profit tally creeping toward ten thousand. A good day. If only they could all be like this.

The manager of the Tuxedo Emporium stepped outside and snapped a dusty cummerbund, holding one end, whipping it hard. “You ain’t thinking of putting the rest of us out of business, eh, Steve?”

“Golly, Ben, no way!” Steve met the other man in front of a leather goods shop. It was hard to tell, just by watching them, who was kidding and who wasn’t.

“You guys really need to move into a bigger place.” Ben skirted the folds of the cummerbund with his pinky. “My morning gal just had to park all the way back at the Denny’s on the southbound.”

Steve scratched his beard:
That’s your problem, schmuck-o.
“Oh, now, Ben, we’re just having a bit of a rush, that’s all.” He looked over at the Tuxedo Emporium, the window display filled with bow ties and faggycolored vests. “It’ll be prom time before you know it,” he said, walking away.

“Prom time?” the man shouted across the lot. “Six months, Steve! We’ll be dead before spring!”

Great
, Steve thought as he entered the vestibule;
we could use the
extra floor space
. That was the way it was with these strip malls. The turnover was incredible. The building itself, the super-structure as a whole, never changed, but the sub-divisions fought constantly, each vying for supremacy as the War for the Floor extended past the Christmas rush and on into the clearance season. The battle was inevitably a stalemate, but like all stalemates, it demanded a steady involvement. Passing the cash wrap, he considered the possibilities for future expansion. An aisle banner blew and shook over his head. Each sign showed another vision of Simon Tree-Mould, the object of Crane City’s sudden affections. A steady procession of high hairdos crowded the gift table, reaching for merchandise as they gazed up at Simon’s moony black eyes, his young body, smooth and seminaked. Some of the pictures made Steve feel uncomfortable, but as his own sales had increased nearly two hundred percent, he supposed the best thing to do was just shut up and get over it.

Living Arrangements In-Store Promotion: Version #3
(30 × 30 window watchers, front face, side aisle)
The boy leans over a rack of weights, a towel draped around his neck.
His expression conveys a sort of randy exertion.
Merchandise pictured: Sweatin’ Water Bottle, $8.50;
Secrets of the Orient Dressing Screen, $225;
Soft Summer Nites Bath Towels, $60 set; Candy Cane,
free with purchase.
Copy: “There’s nothing like a day at the gym to get the blood pumping!
I bet I could lift you! Wanna try?
Here—you get on top.”
Tag: “Living Arrangements: Sporty Styles”

“Mister Manager, you got company out back.” Tal-Ahnka, the head cashier, sauntered over from the registers and straightened a stack of marble ashtrays with her hip. “A Mister . . . Pee?”

Steve dropped his broom. “Mister Pee?”

“Yeah.” Trying not to smile, she added, “As in . . . peepee!”

“Cam Pee is in my office?” Racing to the window, he noticed the limo double-parked at the curb, the driver reading a paper. “No!” he whispered and hurried back.

Tal-Ahnka nodded. “Little Chinaman?”

Panicked, he halted in mid-stride, one knee bent, ready to run. “Cam Pee is in my office!”

“Damn, baby! You need to calm down.” Returning to her register, she watched her boss scurry across the store and disappear behind a column of wicker baskets.

Past the stockroom, he tripped over a pile of untagged art prints and fell into a giant sofa bag—twelve feet tall—filled with packing foam. His knees churned the bag as he tried to stand. He felt himself losing his balance, and soon he was down again, flailing, legs spread.

Jim Carroll stooped over and picked him up by the elbows. “Jesus, Steve, get with it! Cam’s half-tanked on gin already.”

Dazed, Steve followed Jim into a cramped office, where Cam Pee was sitting behind the desk, removing cards from a fat Rolodex and putting them back out of order. Cam was a strange little guy—had his own odd little habits. He always dressed formally—wore a three-piece suit regardless of the weather, kept his bangs long in the front, drank like a son of a bitch but only the best and most impressive gins and vodkas, Stoli and Tanqueray. It was hard to have any real feelings for the man.

“Ohhh . . . Steve!” Cam’s giant bifocals distorted his expression into something tiny and demented. Reading from a stack of file cards, he peered through his thick lenses and squinted at the words. Having encountered Cam Pee’s file cards in the past, Steve smiled and waited, expecting the worst. “I was just . . . masturbating . . . to photographs of . . . your family members! HA!”

Laugh, thought Steve . . . damnit,
laugh
!

“Heee . . . that’s great, Mr. Pee. That’s sure great.”

Cam flapped the cards, and a few spilled into his lap. “These are funny!”

“Heeh. They sure are. They’re sure humorous.”

The CEO pulled a rag out of his vest pocket and wiped his eyes. “You, Steve . . . you do good work!”

“Thank you. Thank you very much, Mr. Pee.”

“Your son . . . make lots of money for us! This . . . is good!”

“Thank you.”

“We rip competition . . . to death!”

“Whoa, boy, I’d like that.”

Cam lowered his voice. “Steve.
Steven.
You need . . . big responsibility!”

“I’d love . . . I’d love a big responsibility.”

“I want you to run . . . all store!”

“All stores?”

Jim leaned in. “Cam means in the district. We want to move you up to the DO. That means Vega, NCC, Hedgemont, Downriver, then over to the Cincinnati area and up to Detroit once every other week, plus your normal activities here. It’s a big haul, but, you know, you’ve been here for a while, and—”

“Oh, wow. Jeez.” Steve seized Jim’s hand and shook it twice.

“It’s not the kind of thing you say no to.”

“Oh, heck no! No way!”

“Good, we knew you’d be pleased.”

“Wow! I’m just . . . I’m . . . wow.”

“Yeah.”

“Multiple wows.”

“You’re going to want to hire a first-level assistant to cover for the extra time.”

“Oh, yeah, absolutely, I’m on that. Wow . . . well, I mean who was involved in this? I’d like to thank—”

“Oh, don’t worry about it. No one expects to be thanked. It’s just part of . . . how we do things.”

Steve reached across the desk and shook the CEO’s hand, adding a little bow at the end. “Mr. Pee—thank you. Thank you very much.”

“Good work, good work. I tell you—benefits!”

“The benefits?”

Jim sighed, dialing a cell phone. “Cam wants to tell you about the benefits of the new position.”

“Oh, well, sure, shoot. Heck yeah.”

Cam raised one hand and counted off on his fingers. “You have . . . more money!”

“Okay, well, more money’s always good.”

“And . . . every five year . . . ahhhhh . . .”

“Every five years . . . ?”

“You get . . . b . . . b . . . box!”

“Every five years you get a box . . . ?”

“No box!”

“Every five years you
don’t
get a box.”

“Every five year! No box!”

“Well, that sure sounds . . . real good.”

Pleased, Cam leaned back in his chair. “You like new job!”

“Oh, absolutely! I love it! I can’t even say—”

“No say. I know. You like it—with mustard on top!”

“Heh-heh. That’s about right.”

Retrieving the stack of file cards, Cam selected an appropriate remark and stared at the tiny script—smiling now, reading it to himself. He whispered it once, then said: “Now I
fuck
you . . . and your skankyass bitch!”

Steve swallowed; something warm, like a damp cloth, passed over his face. The feeling was so sudden and intense that the next few moments made no sense to him. He blacked out; when he woke up, he was on the floor, the other two men looking at him, concerned.

“Steve? What’s up, pal? You okay?”

Jim Carroll removed his hand from Steve’s shoulder and backed away. From behind the desk, Cam Pee offered his hanky, arm extended, legs bent in a half-squat. Steve looked around, felt the wall, felt the floor, his ass on the ground. He dabbed the roof of his mouth with his tongue. “Oh . . . I’m . . . yeah, sure!” Recovering somewhat: “You bet! I’m . . . I’m just so happy!”

Skeletons!

Gray Hollows made the trip up to Big Dipper Township in just under forty minutes. Near the outskirts, a dumpy red hatchback ran over a steel rake and blew a tire; the rubber husk sailed over two lanes of traffic, its shadow crossing the hood of Gray’s car. Preoccupied, he kept moving north, prodding an old cavity with the tip of his tongue. This was how he stayed calm, by nursing on his own decay.

The road into Big Dipper Township was long and straight, channeled through a windbreak of evergreens. A strange object danced above the blacktop, its shape liquid, tossed by the wind. Gray slowed to the curb and looked over his shoulder. It was a skeleton, part of an old Halloween costume—cheap plastic, the skull lolling in mindless agreement as a necklace of silver tape held the mask in place. The wind pushed the suit west toward the highway, and Gray imagined it drifting all winter long, skirting the dead cornfields, a tall marker, stiff and black on the horizon.

Past the county line, he spotted the lake through a gap in the woods. He slowed at a narrow opening—trees leaning, making a tunnel—and turned into it. The tires spewed bits of smashed bark that mixed and whirled out of the wheel wells. Gray winced; his neck and shoulders ached from all the stress he’d been through, putting this Living Arrangements campaign together. The single-lane driveway curved down a hill, then stopped a few yards away from Olden’s clapboard shack. He cut the ignition and stepped out of the car. Dragging his feet, he moved across the lawn and entered the house. Olden was taking a nap; at the sound of footsteps, he looked up from his pillow, and the two men exchanged a few mumbled words. Gray searched for a light switch, then gave up, sat down and told his story.

“This is insane,” he concluded. “There’s nothing I can do to offend these people. Everything’s acceptable.”

Olden sat on the edge of the bed, pulling on a pair of gym socks. “Americans are like that,” he said. “It’s a constant tug-of-war. On the one hand, we’re a puritan nation. On the other, everyone’s horny as fuck. So who knows?”

“There’s nothing! I have the most dreadful ideas—each time, T. Kenneth West gives me a raise. Three thousand dollars for a day’s work. I mean, this is awful. I’m getting
rich
!”

“You’re really trying, though. I admire that.”

“This Living Arrangements thing . . . I thought, This is it, this will do it, they’ll can me like
that
. You don’t mess with kids, I know that much. Kids and the Gestapo.”

“What about the Gestapo?”

Gray laughed without pleasure. “Oh, just this thing I almost wrote last month. I had the Gestapo working at a brake shop downtown. Storm troopers rotating tires, stiff-arming the customers. Our efficient service, right? HA HA!”

Olden stood and ran his fingers through his long hair. “Gestapo. Okay. That’s potentially offensive.”

“Right, but instead I did this furniture store gig, and now it’s too late. The world is
shit
. I’m already getting crap in the mail from American Express—free fucking platinum card or whatever it was . . . and yesterday I bought a
washing machine
.”

“Spiffy.”

“I don’t want a washing machine, Olden! I don’t want a raise, I don’t want a car, I don’t want a gold watch, I don’t want a wife, I don’t want any of it! I’m tired of the whole scene. I hate the people involved. I’m tired of women coming on to me just because I’m gainfully employed.”

“How do you know that’s why they’re coming on to you?”

“Why else? It’s the only interesting thing about me!”

Olden took a sweater from the closet and drew it over his head. A cartoon sea lion skied across his chest, leaning downhill.

“So you want to get out. Then quit.”

Gray sat quietly for a moment. His reasons all seemed flippant— dumb versions of the same thing. “I don’t want to quit. Where’s the romance in that? Besides, if I quit, my father will have a conniption fit. Son of a bitch bastard fucking son of a bitch.”

Olden stepped into a pair of sweatpants. “So you’ll just have to try something else. It ought to be easy. Bring some drugs to work.”

“No, that’s nothing. Everybody brings drugs to work. Our GDs chop lines on the straight-edge downstairs. As long as it’s in-house, no one cares. Public relations is another thing. I’ve got to fuck up. Hard.”

Olden nodded; starting wide, he slowly brought his hands together. “I think you’re going about this the wrong way.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, look. You’re in advertising. It’s
already
offensive. That’s what people expect. No one’s thinking, ‘Wow, those people sure have a lot of integrity.’ If you really want to piss ’em off, you need to preempt their cynicism. Don’t attack the mainstream, attack the underground. Here, I’ll show you.”

Olden leaned over his desk and showed Gray the computer screen. Blocks of information spooled in tight columns as the program executed a smooth routine—shapes drifting, evolving, everything timed to fire in sequence. Near the top of the page, an egg revolved, then cracked apart. A boy emerged from the broken shell and sat cross-legged, his eyes radiating a kind of all-knowledge, vaguely Oriental. Gray looked at the boy, then at his lap, the dark floor between his feet. His tongue seemed to expand inside his mouth. “What the hell’s that?” he asked.

“That, sir, is the Egg Code, and it’s been out for, oh, I guess about a month now. I just sent some more shit to the server.”

Gray swallowed; a solid shape passed from his throat to his stomach. All at once, the world seemed microscopic—one boy, one Web site, one furniture store. Still floating over the crushed eggshell, Simon Tree-Mould crept out of his squat and assumed a coquettish pose. Little faggit. Fuck him.

Olden crossed his arms, proud of himself. “I’ve been getting about three thousand hits a day. That’s worldwide, but it’s still pretty good for an educational site.”

Gray squinted at the text and read aloud, “
In 1816, when the former
emperor declared his allegiance to a band of proto-socialists . . .
” He laughed and swiped at the monitor. “Educational, right. Sounds sincere.”

“It isn’t. But at least it’s subtle. I mean, look at it!” Olden scrolled down the screen. “This is just the first installment. One click takes you there. All the major commercial sites now have links to my Web page: Amazon,
The Washington Post
—”

“They let you do that?”

“No, but I did it anyway. I even hacked fucking eBay.”

Gray looked back at the screen, then shook his head and laughed. “I don’t know, man. Aren’t you worried about the feds?”

“No. I never got along with those assholes anyway. It’s not like they’re not making enough money. If a few million people get nervous and decide to cancel their online accounts, that’s not
my
problem. That’s just good common sense. That’s the system policing itself.”

Dark shapes crept across the monitor, hot foxtrails of gore-red wonderglo. Gray suddenly felt very sleepy. He could feel the dimensions of his brain, the split between hemispheres where lightning frayed and spindle-backed neurons tossed chemicals over the gap. He blinked and rubbed his face. He saw himself no longer working at Enthusiasms, Inc. The old life, resumed. The priceless, long-forgotten luxury of writing every day, fifty hours a week—just like a regular job, but a job that other people respected and regarded as real work. “Gimme the address to this thing,” he said.

Surprised, Olden rooted through the trash, found a scrap and wrote down the URL. “There you go,” he said, laughing at his friend’s stunned expression.

Gray took the note without looking. “Yeah, thanks, I . . .” The words ran out; he felt different, holding the address. “I’ve got a long drive back. Better head out.”

Olden lifted a finger, then ducked behind the desk. “Stay for a few drinks,” he said, coming up with a crumpled paper bag, something round and fat inside. “I found this bottle on the street. Fuckin’ Benedictine. Brand-new. Never opened.”

“Ooh, gift from the gods.” Gray smiled, aware of something phony in his voice. “No, I . . . I gotta get back.” He pointed at the door. “The construction. They’re making you go slow now. But this weekend. Next weekend. This weekend or next.”

Olden uncapped the bottle and took a swig. He frowned, disgusted; a spurt of brown syrup dribbled over his chin. “Okay,” he said, gagging and laughing as he set the bottle down. “Watch out for possums.”

They walked outside and shook hands. Alone again, Olden wondered about his friend’s strange reaction. It wasn’t the bogus information, he knew, that caused Gray to leave in such a panic. It was the boy, the pictures of the boy. Some things in this world were still unacceptable. Using a child as a sex object was one thing; but using a child as a
subversive
object was something else. It ascribed to minors an intelligence most adults lacked in themselves. Now
that’s
offensive, he thought, delighted at the way things were turning out.