Unable

by Matthew Van Deventer

Gawddamit . . . No I don’t want to upload my profile.

Are you sure? Maybe you’ll sit with someone you don’t like.

Dammit woman! No!

Please choose your seat.

D-26 looks fine. Middle of the plane . . . A window seat . . . I can stare out, think about jumping.

C-26 doesn’t want to sit next to someone without a profile uploaded.

Are you fucking kidding me?

It was cold. Abe only had one cup of coffee and a smoke for breakfast. It was raining. It felt like it was coming through the doors. Flying made him jittery. Especially when rushed. Especially when it was raining. Especially before his preflight Bloody Mary and whiskey shot. Especially before 9am. And now, this dumb b-

Please choose a seat.

A-30!

B-30 doesn’t want to sit with someone without a profile uploaded.

Ahhh!

He lit a cigarette under his jacket.

Just pick one for me dammit!

Please repeat your choice, Sir.

I said pick one for me. Pick a damn seat on this airplane for me!

Please pick a seat, Sir.

I don’t give a shit if I’m sitting next to a rotting corpse. I’ll snuggle up with it and ask it to tell me some comforting stories about dying. Pick . . . me. . . a . . . seat . . .

Please pick a seat or upload your profile . . . waiting, Sir.

I just want a seat . . . any seat. . . please.

Abe waited silently except for his panting. He was tired and even more so after fighting with this bimbo box, and couldn’t believe the trouble he was coming into.

D-26 is available for seating, Sir.

Really? My gawd. Fine. Fine whatever I’ll take… I can’t believe this.

I’m printing your boarding pass now, Sir.

Holy hell. I can’t believe this you dumb b-

You are all set. Thank you and have a wonderful flight.

Abe kicked the kiosk and gave the finger to the voice. He rubbed the bottom of his bruised fists.

Have a great day, Sir . . . Have a great day, Sir . . . Have a great day, Sir . . . have a-He stepped off the mat.

Sir, you can’t smoke that here.

Abe took a deep drag, blew it into the metal face standing behind him now, ashed on his shoulder, and threw it to the ground where he stepped on it.

I know.

The metal roller lightened its stance, exchanged its bat for a vacuum and sucked the butt up. Abe gave him the finger too and scuffled to the security line. This was the worst part probably. First the lines. Then there was the security.

I.D. and boarding pass, Sir.

She examined it. She scanned it and a surprised look came over her face.

You don’t have a profile uploaded, Sir?

My gawd. No, I don’t have one at all.

He turned around to the line.

I don’t have a profile uploaded! Nor do I have a profile! There! How’s that?!

It echoed off the marble. Murmurs from the grave met it and showered down on him. Sir, if you want I can upload it right now and It’ll save you lots of time getting through security.

Abe went two inches from her face. Hit his E-nic? cig.

I don’t have one to upload.

Oh my. I see. Well. She looked confused by his I.D . . . and boarding pass.

She leaned back a little.

A brute dressed in officer garb walked up to the girl. He was sporting a riot mask, plastic shield, hand gun on his left hip and semi-automatic rifle on his right, and an ejection gun over his left breast. He towered over ole 5’5’’ Abe by about a foot and a half.

Come with me, Sir.

Right. Right. Let’s get this over with.

Just go and stand over there, Sir.

The guard pointed to a group of similar brutes standing around smacking their gum looking bored. Some weird machine stood quietly, almost dusty, to their right.

Just wait over there Mr. . . . Mr. Remington.

One of the brutes took his pass and I.D. into a glass room to the brute boss. Brute boss, startled by the news, stopped his work and eyed Abe across the room. The security lines were back to normal. Passengers were smoothly running through the queue: I.D., Passport, Profile look-up, full body and luggage X-ray, scanned with wands by a bot, injected, sent smiling. Careless.

Brute boss strutted out. Strutted like power. Puffed like a jock. He pressed something on his hip and metal encased his body save for his face.

How we doing, Mr. Remington?

Fine. Can we get this over with?

Sure. Cooperate and it will go just fine.

Can I smoke? Abe had already lit up.

No.

Just let me be.

We already did once.

What?

Upstairs.

I put that out. Let’s go.

Where are you heading today Mr. Remington?

Denver, CO.

Why?

Family.

What about family?

What? What do you-I’m visiting family.

Where are they staying?

They live in the city. . . Colfax and Washington . . . I’ll be staying with them.

Why didn’t you upload your profile?

You morons . . . the lot of you. Does anybody listen around here?

He hit his smoke hard. Flames in the cherry burst out. Brute boss got tense at these accusations and tightened up a bit. He started to get gruff and rough with Abe, but let it pass. There was no need. Ever since False Alarm Port Lockdown a few years back, he had been told to keep tempers down . . . no matter the verbal abuse. He didn’t like it, being told to act more robotic, emotionless, but it meant his job.

The brutes behind the boss put their hands on their weapons. Abe shook his head in annoyed disappointment. He didn’t say anything. He enjoyed his smoke.

Mr. Remington!

I don’t have a profile.

Brute Boss’s eyes grew big. He tightened his armor and reassured his sidearm. The other brutes kept their hands over their weapons. They were ready for anything.

I don’t want to.

You don’t want to?

No.

Why?

It’s a long painful story involving personal liberty. You morons wouldn’t understand.

Abe’s mumbling this under his breath half hoping the brutes would hear it.

What was that?

Er, uh, it’s good you’re taking your stand. Abe said, whatever it means. It seemed to make the Brute Boss relax a bit.

Sir, why don’t you have a profile? Are you a terrorist?

Ha! No. I am not a terrorist.

Then why? Why don’t you have a profile?

Dammit. I can’t tell them. Then I’ll never get on this plane. It’s too long. It’s too complicated. It’s too dangerous of a story. They just can’t know. I’ve got to get on this plane though. If I don’t give them something, I’m turning around and going careless. Brute Boss pulled out his sidearm. The other brutes followed. Abe was looking at his feet on the ground.

Mr. Remington! Please answer the question!

Silence.

Mr. Remington! If you do not answer, I will not hesitate to shoot.

Abe kept to staring at the floor. He focused on a tarnished spot where he’d move it around with his eyes by alternating their blinks. There was a slight comfort of knowing it could all end here. He could die in silence. He could die in peaceful resistance. He would be okay with that. It was a finger flick away.

Answer the question, Sir, I do not want to pull this trigger.

Abe smiled a little. He shook his head. Looked up. Into the gun barrel. Cocked his head slightly to look at Brute Boss. He started his lie.

I don’t know how to. I live in the mountains, upstate with no commline in sight and this is my first time traveling since the Profile Alleviation Act of 2015. I just don’t know how to. I’m so embarrassed to admit.

What don’t you ask for help?

The brutes were still tense. They were still holding their guns to Abe. He played the old man card.

I’m old. I don’t know anyone up there or even nearby to help. I have no friends. I have no family to visit me. I don’t have the money for professional help either.

Are you a terrorist Abe Remington?

No. I am no terrorist. Merely an old man useless in the waves of technology. . . I need to catch my flight.

Soon. You have time. Lower you weapons.

The hall was massive, made of black and white marble reflecting the outside light, or what was left. Those days were dim, overcast, full of drizzle. Artificial sunlight sprinkled down on Abe from the mineral wells above; Vitamin D and true happiness were in low supply. The room was silenced over this scene. The sky grew a shade darker.

Any more questions? Huh? I’ve got to get to the bar. . . quick.

Step this way. Place your suitcase on the conveyer belt.

The machine turned on. Dust shook off. Light smoke plumed upwards. What a rustic piece of machinery it was. Abe’s bag moved down, through the plastic flaps into a metal box. On the outside, a brute looked confused and dazzled at the screen connected to the box. He pushed a button that sent the suitcase in and out of it. Savages.

Okay, Sir. Step into the cube.

Abe did. It turned on. A rapturous wind shrieked around him leaving Abe gasping for breath. It nearly lifted him off the ground. It went on about five minutes to eternity . . . about four minutes longer than the other lines. He felt his skin was peeling back.

Okay that’s enough, said Brute Boss.

Abe stepped through searching for unpressurized air stumbling and fumbling and grasping his chest.

My gawd man! It gets worse and worse.

The other lines were watching him.

What is this? Now you’re going to rummage through my belongings?

It’s just protocol, Sir. Protocol for-

I know . . . for people like me.

That’s right.

Aw c’mon. You have to dump it all over the place.

We must be thorough.

They’re just clothes. You don’t have to touch them like that. They’re not toxic.

I’ve never seen clothes like this.

I’ll bet. They’re not contagious.

It looks like it. Blech.

Well I’m glad you’re wearing those damn gloves.

Me too.

At least you won’t get your grimy paws on my things.

He’s all good, Sir.

Okay, said Brute Boss.

Could you at least put my things back in the suitcase?

Okay, Sir. Step this way, said Brute Boss.

Brute Boss and the others stood a good distance away from Abe. They were far enough to be protected from an explosion. Brute Boss stood in his office made of glass.

Take your clothes off, Mr. Remington, said a brute.

Excuse me?

Stop packing and remove your clothing Mr. Remington.

Remove my-

Your clothes! Off! Said Brute Boss.

They all held their weapons.

Fine.

He stripped. Slowly. He took his pants off. He folded them and placed them on a table nearby. He took his shirt off. He folded it and placed it on top of his pants. Abe did this for every article of clothing he took off. He would slowly take it off, feeling the cloth on his skin. He would fold it nicely and neatly and place it on top of the previous article. Slowly. Carefully. Pridefully. He stripped down to his underwear and stood at attention.

Abe turned to Brute Boss, who nodded solemnly. Abe slowly removed his underwear. He folded it. He placed it next to his socks. Abe went back to standing at attention. Cold. Naked. Old. Unashamed.

The others in the lines passed through and watched Abe sadly, embarrassed for him and glad not to know him. Frowned-faces. Injection. Happy-faces. Careless.

While a bot slowly ran a wand over Abe’s naked body waiting for clicks and beeps, Abe stood straight, straight like a board. He was at attention. The bot found nothing.

Abe turned his head then his body and faced Brute Boss. He stared at him straight in the eyes, naked. Brute Boss stood up behind the glass and told Abe he could put his clothes on. Abe stayed standing, never breaking his stare at the brute.

Have you ever done something for you country, Corporal? Have you ever really fought for something you were proud of? Did you ever die for your country, Corporal?

He didn’t say anything. His bottom lip quivered a little. He stared back at Abe. No one else in the terminal said anything either. Brute Boss shifted his eyes.

Corporal! Anything? You ever do anything to make your country proud? The old country?

Nothing? Dismissed, Corporal!

Abe broke attention. Room silence. Abe silent. He put his clothes back on. He put them back on just as slowly and methodically as he had taken them off. He folded his other clothes slowly and placed them neatly in his suitcase. Others were still watching. Still embarrassed. The marble reverberated Abe’s suitcase latch and he walked out. A bot tried to inject Abe.

No! I don’t want any of that shit. Get that away from me, he yelled, shuffling quickly off to his terminal. He ripped out an iPhone from his pocket. It was a savage and primitive tool, but one he knew and understood. He typed a note to himself:

RENT A CAR YOU DOLT

I/YOU WON’T REGRET IT

NO MORE AIRPLANES

REMEMBER? YOU/I WON’T

REMEMBER ANYWAYS. . . JUST DO IT.

A brute pulled out his side arm. Aimed. Fired. Abe felt a sting in the back of his neck.

Injected.

Careless.
Matthew Van Deventer is pumped to be properly published for the first time. He likes riding the bike, weird adventures, and hopes to become a real live writer one day through it all. Check out his cross country bike trip at www.welikethebike.com and visit him in Denver, CO until he whisks off somewhere else. He appreciates you reading his story.