Somewhere he got shoulders.

At 15 he's taken on a man's frame almost overnight.

Time is a river....

I remember well, because I'm pretty sure it was yesterday. Packing him in a snowsuit, then a wagon and heading to the library to search for new Handy Mandy books.

We had him when I was 40.

After six years of failing on a monthly basis.

It was like belonging to the worst fruit of the month club.

Every 30 days you looked at the box with a combination of hope and dread.

Every month the fruit would be turned and spoiled.

It got so I couldn't bear the pain on her face.

72 months later it happened. I got a phone call from Vegas where she was at a conference. Joy literally poured out of the phone. She has not had a bad day since.

I stood there looking at the phone. And brace yourself for a moment of personal honesty . I have always been the pull it out of your ass, make it up as you go along guy. Which has a certain swashbuckling appeal at twenty, sad at forty, at sixty people are wondering how you set the kitchen on fire while trying to fix the toaster

using aluminum foil and a clothes pin.

Due to scheduling and horror stories about daycare I end up being primary care giver. She goes back to work after six months and as the door closes I look at him and he looks at me and we share a thought.

I will fuck this up.

A living monument to ingrained insecurities , self destructive behaviors and egocentric world views am I. Be candid I wouldn't leave a cat in my care.

He's a easy baby, you can sit him down and hand him a book and he'll sit there quietly and look at it. Not much crying, sleeps 12 hours at a shot.

The extraordinary becomes the common day, working my way through a list of a thousand books to be read to him by age four. He seems to dig it...

Still I feel like a fraud , playing a part, fooling everyone and no one.

Until...One day, we are at the beach, big rollers coming in after a storm. He's tugging at me, fearless as two year olds are, to go deeper.

"Easy buddy, we got to be careful." I say.

He looks up, his face open, not a care in the world. "It's OK dad, I'm with you."

With that, all my doubts and apprehensions fell away.

I was a dad.

I watch the STOU like theater , and the great and terrible tangelo is nothing if not entertaining. He is completely untethered from fact or precedent,endowed with a hamster's like fearlessness of heights, willing to stroll off any rhetorical tabletop on a whim.

I remember the dude previous, and the near hysteria that is usually reserved for some multimillionaire,court impact induced brain trauma aficionados kneeling during a anthem that no one can sing without a annotated song sheet.

I remember with great vividness how he used to flaunt his use of complete sentences and linear thought process while on occasion sporting a tan suit.

As I sat down to do my taxes , I had given up on the middle class tax returns promised at the midterms (mayhap waylaid by the multitude of Mad Max styled caravans streaming toward our borders) After finishing my toil and rechecking my cyphering it became evident my tax burden had increased by a factor of four over last year. I had read the day before how off shore tax haven abuse has become so absurd that one five-story office building in the Cayman Islands is now the ‘home’ to more than 18,000 corporations. How tax haven abuse has become so absurd that one five-story office building in the Cayman Islands is now the ‘home’ to more than 18,000 corporations. Corporations clearing billions in pure profit without paying a farthing in tax.

And not a sound, not a word of protest found on the lips of the red capped minions. All is still, as a deep azure lake in deepest summer.

Now far be it from me to question Fat Nixon's decision to grant a two trillion tax cut to the international multicorps and third generation trust fund parasites.

It just warms my heart that I can do more than my part to finance this grand venture...

The takeout containers were scattered all over the table top I was working my way through the third samosa when I noticed she hadn't touched hers. "What I asked?" Brushing rice from my goatee. "Somni-451 is great takeout curry."

"You see any cows or pigs in HK?" She sneered. "That shit is all "At" meat."

"At meat?" I asked wiping up some sauce with a folded over piece of Naan bread.

"Cat, rat...At meat."

" That is racist on a myriad of levels."

"Doesn't make it any less true." She assured while digging through her soiled blazer finally producing a vanilla SoyBoy bar. She carefully tore it open and began to eat it in tiny, measured bites.

"I'll stick with Ats." I said. "Those things taste like earwax."

She shrugged noncommittally.

A soft chime sounded, I grabbed the Bullpup and moved over quickly and tapped the security screen at the door. Just within the frame I could see a slim hand lay a small box wrapped in paper in front of the door. Withdrawing, I could see the bottom of a sleeve tattoo poking out of the cuff of a sharkskin suit. A Chinese dragon a swirl around a brightly inked sea of cartoon Koi. Shutting down security and throwing the deadbolts I retrieve the package and rearm the system in one smooth movement.

"A bomb ?" She asks as I set it down on the table after moving the takeout containers aside.

"If only it was that easy." I say looking at it, it's wrapped in that clever Japanese way with no tape , just folded, which I know after opening it I could never recreate. Once unwrapped , I remove a compact console and a collapsible interface tiara.

"A squid." She breaths with something like horror.

" Manageable." I say.

The warehouse reeked of ginger which it had stored for years,all the way back to British rule. I watched Daphne (her given name) work herself into her third righteous fury in the last hour.

The warehouse was located deep into the Kowloon’s walled city, the default bug out destination programmed into the drone.

She was wearing a coolie jacket and a pair of drawstring pants that I had switched her unconscious form into after removing her soiled garments shortly after arrival (outrage 1).

To decouple her from the cut spinal jack I had to shave a two inch border to access the port on the back of her head (outrage 2).

I explained that we were locked down for the immediate future until both HKs finest and Ideogram Corporate security calmed the fuck down (outrage 3).

Standing up she announced that she was “Otta here!”

I carefully laid the cutdown Bullpup combat enforcer on the chipped formica tabletop in front of me. The four, fat custom loads glimmered wetly in the stark fluorescent lighting.

“Sunshine.” I said. “The data in your head is in high demand by not just me but a certain well established criminal organization. Now, If they don’t receive it post haste they will joyfully kill both you and me. If you attempt to leave I will kill you by shooting you center of mass. Which following,I’ll remove you head , below the coupler, pack it in ice and deliver it to aforementioned criminal organization. Thus removing the middle man with same desired result. Capish?”

Manageble...

#cyberpunk

I got a Dunkin card for Christmas, and after watching the Prince of the eight dollar grande, mocha , coconut milk, no foam latte, declare his candidacy to save this great country by the sheer power of his Starbuckyness. I felt the need, nay the duty to get a tall DD ice coffee.

It's 50', in February , in New England. Which has the feel of the two headed calf or other harbinger of doom and causes the locals to peer about suspiciously, feeling comfortable enough to remove their Mad Bombers but nevertheless keeping them within easy reach in the front pocket of their salt stained North Face.

The Dunkin is kitty corner from the harbor and the thought of kicking back on a bench , in the sun, watching the ferry come and go smacks of the term simple pleasures I heard so much about. I cut behind the shop that repairs lobster traps maneuvering around huge piles of gayly colored nylon line when I'm honestly surprised for the first time in months.

Frank from the T-Mobile store, in his short sleeve white button up dress shirt , pleated khakis and Frank name tag is knelt over a small fire made from copies of the local free press.

Next to him is a yellow styrofoam supermarket chicken container with one leg, thigh cut. It's mate Frank is holding by the drumstick over the fire in a manner which would lead one to believe he is cooking it.

"What's up Frank?" I ask genuinely interested in something for the first time in a long time.

Frank's looks up, he's got one of those faces that are old and young at the same time. He could be anywhere from 20-50 and the bowl cut and confederate cosplay wire-rim glasses don't help. "Morning." He says cheerfully.

"Whatcha doing Frank?" I ask hunkering down next to him.

"Living off the land." He says taking the blatantly under cooked chicken and tearing of a big chunk, the blood streaming down his chin causes me to wince.

"Think that's a good idea Frank?"

"Sure do." He says putting the partly masticated poultry back over the small sputtering fire. "You know what isn't? Just had a kid my son went to school with. Now he's working in Portland as a CNA. Came in to by a new phone which was eight hundred and change. It did nothing that his last phone didn't do, maybe faster...maybe. Had to have it though, spread it out over three cards, maxed out two, with interest by the time he pays it off a 800.00 phone will run him around five grand. That make any sense to you?"

I had to admit it didn't.

"The wife is spending money we don't have on fuckin scrap booking, my 23 year old son appears to be getting a degree in something called Overwatch. You give me a valid reason to go back in that corporate glory hole and sell shit nobody needs I'll shut down this BBQ and turn to."

I got nothing, I hand him my ice coffee, stand up and leave doing my best not to throw my phone in the ocean...

#commentary

Her deadweight makes it awkward muscling her up the steep stair/ladder that leads to the roof. She was or is pretty, the dried vomit and actual foam dribbling from her mouth has played havoc with her lipstick and foundation. I wince as her head bangs off a steel riser, it doesn't appear to bother her much.

She was the most expensive part of the run. I was in deep with the Triads and the Vig alone was enough to get my ticket punched if this went sideways.

It all seemed so doable under the clean, sensible fluorescents of the Vancouver retro automat. She sat in front of a ridiculously priced goat cheese and sundried tomato panini that came wrapped in authentically reproduced 1950 era cling wrap.

"So we just walk in and walk out?" asked through exquisitely outlined lips making no effort to tone down her incredulity.

"We're on the itinerary for a simple baffle upgrade. I'm tech support, you're systems upgrade. You dip in, its level two ice , you bypass, pull the file and walking on sunshine in the parking lot ten minutes later. Easy, peasey , Japanesey."

She furrowed a otherwise flawless brow and settled her suspiciously violet eyes on me. "Ignoring that otherwise racist and overtly offensive statement, where is the team actually scheduled?"

"In the downtown Marriot under two long release propofol patches. They'll wake up tomorrow afternoon, dehydrated with headaches but otherwise none worse for the where."

I can see the scenarios play out across her face, but I already know the outcome. I was given the line on her by the Triads who have been exploiting human weakness for thousands of years. They've watched her for a long time, like Zen fucking spiders waiting for her two ripen and when they gave me her name she was heavy ready to be plucked.

"I'll do it." She said.

No surprise there...

It was all cakewalk until she tripped a intrusion protocol pulling out. This lead to me cutting the cable and doing the run and gun to the roof. While dragging fifty kilos of now none disposable talent, along behind me, hoping beyond hope that the file was intact in her expensively quaffed head.

The rooftop was windswept and slick with a cool evening rain. HongKong was spread out below, glittering diamond like in a cacophony of reds and golds. I could just make a Airbus banking at a severe angle out of the airport we deplaned from ninety minutes earlier.

Laying her against a ventilation hood I fused my last frag and tossed it down the roof hatch. I hit the tab summoning the emerg/recall drone and wrestled her into a harness as I felt through the soles of my feet the explosion below. As I buckled my harness I could here the thin whine of the retrieval drone overhead. I picked her up in a parody of a lovers embrace as two smart tethers snaked down and sought out and secured to the d-rings mounted on the back of the harnesses.

The drone's blades rose in pitch as we lifted from the roof and faded into the misty darkness.

Manageable....

#cyberpunk

My wife finishes her coffee looking out the back window toward the ocean. We actually can't see the ocean or the spectacular stretch of route one Maine coastline, but it's out there.

We're close, about a quarter mile, in the fall when the leaves are off you can see a sliver of gray water, from the second floor, out of the corner, of one window. In fits of fancy she's been know to refer to our domicile as foliage dependent, ocean view.

The morning light is kind to her. I have know her now for almost thirty years, since she was 23. Looking at her now is like seeing her then, but through a thin sheet of ice, the sharp edges are blurred and softened but the beauty remains.

We aren't a good match on paper, given a choice at any given situation she will unerringly choose the altruistic option. The best for all involved. I on the other hand will initially choose, always, regardless of the question, dope and strippers.

My growth curb has been needless to say...steep.

We live in a bucolic seaside community that we really can't afford to live in. In third world countries, the destitute flock to the sea, because...there's food floating around in it. But in countries like the US, it's the rich that are lulled to sleep with the song of the sea coming through their inert gas filled, polarized ,triple pane, floor to ceiling windows.

She's a literary specialist, she diagnoses and then formulates lesson plans and strategies for children who can't or have trouble reading.

Now at this day and age it sounds like carving quills from whalebone for calligraphy. But a significant portion of the population can't read at grade level.

She's been doing this for longer then I've known her. And it's been a fistfight every year for budgets and funding because "fuck poor people"who this historically effects.

There has been a sea-change in the last ten years. All those tow headed, straight toothed scions from all that multi generational money in all those seaside manors are dumb as bags of hammers. The online, social media, Instagram technology diet that they are raised on are putting them out of reach of their most expensive tutors.

Putting them on parity with their less fortunate brethren, those hailing from and smelling of double wide , fry daddied domiciles with hands calloused from pulling lobster traps or stacking cords of wood to season.

The moneyed gentry find themselves in a quandary, they wholeheartedly support and champion the small, rare earth saturated phones screens whose cruel blue light washes the humanity from their children's faces but save 's them from the ball shriveling , to be avoided at all costs, personnel contact from their self involved, self destructive, self loathing prodigy.

This, though my lovely wife would never admit has been a windfall. Well to do children, too stupid too be granted admission, even under the weight of the considerable legacy, are causing funding to flood into her program.

If this allows her to tuck some kid whose mom is pulling double shifts at the local Wallymart in the wake. Who is standing there with a dog eared copy of LOTR looking hopefully at her. I think she is probably cool with it...how dope and strippers of her...

#commentary

Corporate Rapids were jamming the stairwells, unable to get a clear shot due to their sheer numbers. They were turtle like in top end battle rattle and carried state of the art caseless Tac rifles that were near useless in the tight quarters. I dialed the fuse for .5 meters and stretched my arm out and dropped the frag grenade. It had a brittle cellulose casing with binary explosive that read on their scanners as harmless organic. It seemed to drop for an age before detonating. The accompanying fireball singed my eyebrows even six flights up.

My high end dipper lay curled on the landing, a meter of cable from the spinal feed was still locked on her c2 jack from where I hacked her free when the whole shitshow went sideways. She keened softly with only the whites of her eyes showing, the front of her classic tailored Stella McCartney stained with fresh vomit as she cycled through grand mal seizures...

Manageable...I thought...

#cyberpunk

I watched today as a woman left her car. Her phone held at eye level and small child by the hand in tow. Taking two steps into traffic a oncoming Toyota swerved around her ,the bumper clipped with a audible tink the buttons on her long cranberry Burberry trench.

The child maybe three, looked up with larges eyes as the driver laid on the horn. The woman yelled a obscenity and gave the child a hard yank to get him moving.

I can't help feeling that the child's life had almost changed for the better.

#commentary