The Egg Code (44 page)
XXVI
Survivors
Thank You
Now that’s not something you see every day. Must take a half hour, forty-five minutes just to get to the hospital. No thank you, brother. When I go, I go ...
Whoo, those socks sure stink! Somethin’ foul . . .
People live too long anyway. I’ve got nothing left to prove. My mother knows I done good. That there’s money in the bank, when you start talking about computers and the Internet and such. A few weeks of work on that typeface, boy, and
ding?
I even said to the man,
You want to
buy the copyright from me, that’s fine, because I’m on a fixed income and
I could use the extra money
. No one ever went to hell making an honest dollar. That’s what they call, “Good gettin’ when you can get it . . .”
I need to call that woman from the registry tomorrow. They keep getting the name wrong. It’s C-A-N-D-A-C-E. Three times, I told ’em. That’s the most important part . . .
I ain’t kiddin’ about them socks . . .
That’s all for my mother, boy, because my mother gave me everything I have, and I didn’t do nothing, I was too busy looking after myself, and selfishness is what makes a man old and lonely and nothing to show for himself at my age . . .
At least I did one thing right.
Candace Mason.
All those women, back in Pittsburgh. Building bombs, trying to keep it together. They’re all dead now. Thank God I got a way to remember . . .
Best pull the blinds, here. No one want to see
my
naked body . . .
That siren’s stuck on the hill. Whoever it is, he’s a goner. When I go, they won’t even need the ambulance, ’cause I’m just gonna be
dead
. Might as well take me away in an ice cream truck. I mean it! No great tragedy in dying anyway . . .
Now who’s that good-looking guy in the mirror? Heh. I look like a pile of garbage . . .
Ssssss, that’s cold. Should’ve warmed up by now.
Oh, I see what I did . . .
Mmmmm . . .
Get rid of some of this
stank
. . .
Try to go to bed early tonight. Six o’clock. The six o’clock special. Winding down the track. Clickety-clack, clickety-clack. Ain’t never coming back . . .
John Steinbeck Was
a Friend of Mine
Across the water, Gray Hollows was gazing at the tower in the middle of the lake. It looked the same as it had a year ago, when he’d first visited his frmargin-top: 2em;iend in the country. Now he’d come—not for Olden’s sake, of course, but for his own. The tower had been calling out to him for weeks, sending messages. There was a machine inside the tower, just as there was a machine inside his head. But Gray’s machine was different; Gray’s machine was ungovernable, a complicated tangle of axons and data-processing centers, all signals programmed to fire at once.
This
was high technology: Gray’s brain, not the Gloria 21169.
In a flash, then, it came to him: the lake was not a lake, but a pool of blood, and the tower was not a tower, but a snapped vocal cord, stretched taut to the sky.
Charged with this new energy, he turned from the lake and walked back to his car. The drive into Crane City was quick, and he guzzled cold coffee the whole way, riding on recycled energy. By the time he pulled into the lot behind his apartment, his eyes were throbbing with a weird blue light. Running upstairs, he burst into his unit and heaved his electric typewriter onto the kitchen table, plugging the cord into the wall. Great writers never used computers, and Gray wanted to be a great writer.
The typewriter spat and zizzed as the ribbon cartridge slid along a beam. Reaching for the phone, he dialed long distance and waited for three and a half rings. His mother picked up; in the background, he could hear a loud banging, metal against metal.
“Mom?” His hands shook as he spoke; nervous, he typed a mess of nonsense letters, then tore out the page and started over.
“Gray, your father’s outside . . .”
“That’s okay Mom, just tell him—”
“Herbert!” Her voice faded. He pictured the room, the stretch of the cord. Bath slippers, a robe.
Sure, save the sports section.
Coffee on the counter.
Ow! Whaddaya doin’?
“Tell him, I lost my job.”
“You did? Oh, he won’t be happy to hear—”
“Tell him I’m going to write that book, the one I started when I was a kid.”
“I don’t know what he’s—”
Reaching under the table, he lifted a fresh stack of typing paper and broke the seal. “Remember that book, Mom?”
“He’s been out there with a hammer for the past—”
“I’m gonna do it. I just wanted you to know. I’m getting started right now.”
“Well, you certainly are adventurous!”
He took a new sheet from the stack and guided it through the roller. “HA HA! I
am
, Mom! I’m gonna put it all down. The whole story. I’m going to tell as much as I can.”
The banging stopped. Through the connection, Gray heard angry footsteps slapping against linoleum. His father’s voice:
God-damnit!
He could see his mother standing with her finger in her ear, trying to hear over the racket. “Well, write a good one,” she said, brighter now. Her voice drifted in and out of range. “Make it as good as
Of Mice and Men
. That’s my favorite.”
Gray smiled. He loved his mother, her easy tastes. This was his responsibility. To write
someone’s
favorite book. To make it as good as
Of
Mice and Men
. For his mother’s sake. He would do his best. “I like it too, Mom. It’s very tightly written.”
Shuffle shuffle.
“. . . okay . . . here comes your father . . .”
The Rules
Welcome to the home page for the Gloria Corporation of Ann Arbor, Michigan. We’re glad you could stop by. We’ve had a lot of exciting new developments over the past few months. Feel free to look around, and remember, if you have any questions, we’re just an e-mail away.
For a complete listing of related Fuck You!!!!
Okay, folks, haven’t got much time. We’ve had a lot of exciting new developments, too, and the next few months promise to be just as thrilling, if you like watching a former superpower collapse under the weight of its own hubris. So here’s some advice—
THE EGG CODE’S TOP TEN RULES FOR NOT BEING A PEASANT
Do not put too much credence in the words of rock stars,
sports players, fashion models and professional celebrities.
Do not have contempt for people who are more successful
than you are. Learn from them instead.
Do not believe in UFOs. UFOs do not exist.
Do not allow yourself to become overly suspicious of the federal government. In doing so, you are shunting personal
responsibility for your own bad decisions.
Do not buy too many useless products. Look around your
room. There are many useless things here. Why did you
buy them?
Do not support the toy industry. Do not allow your children
to play video games.
Get two sources for everything.
Do not watch too much television, and stay away from the
Internet.
Do not believe in the afterlife. It doesn’t get any better than
this.
Idealize no one. A hero is not a person, it is a way of life.
(Oh, and I forgot . . . )
Read.
There, that’s it. Gotta run now—eight o’clock bed check. Back to
our regular program.
Mike Heppner
The Egg Code
Mike Heppner grew up in Grosse Pointe, Michigan, received an MFA from Columbia University, and now lives in Providence, Rhode Island.
FIRST VINTAGE CONTEMPORARIES EDITION, NOVEMBER 2003
Copyright © 2002 by Mike Heppner
Vintage is a registered trademark and Vintage Contemporaries and
colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.
The Library of Congress has cataloged the Knopf edition as follows:
Heppner, Mike.
The egg code: a novel / Mike Heppner —1st ed.
p. cm.
1. Computer networks—Fiction. 2. Computer users—Fiction.
3. Middle West—Fiction. 4. Internet—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3608.E58 E35 2002
813’.6—dc21
2002019022
eISBN: 978-0-307-42850-9
v3.0