Everyone In Silico | Page 8

time," JK opened the door and left.
"Later," Nicky said and shut the door. It wasn't until she was coming back from the living room with the empty mugs that she noticed the bike, still hanging from the coat hook.
Doug flicked through the numbers again, his long fingers jerking spastically. Nope. No way to do it. He sighed and leaned his head against the palm of his hand, placing it there like a crystal ball on a silk pillow.
And although it wasn't giving him any answers, Doug's head was somewhat crystal-ball-like: the bald top of his head gleamed softly, ringed by a well-kept monk's fringe. His long face suited his current depressed state: thin-lipped misery accompanied by a thin moustache.
Doug stood up, stretched, and gazed out his window. Through a tiny square patch - about one foot by one foot - he could see the mountains. Just the tips, but that was enough. He had no idea how the patch had peeled off, nor why it remained unfixed. He had considered telling someone, but it wasn't like his bosses made money off of the billboards that covered the outside of the buildings. That was the building owner's lookout.
It was a bit creepy, however, that prime ad space would be left to waste. It was the clearest indication Doug had had that things were really changing, of the emigration, or whatever the pundits were calling it these days. He really should have known that, of course, but Doug had felt his concern for such matters diminish steadily over the years, a leak he felt incapable of fixing.
He looked at his watch. Quarter to 12. Shit. He sat back down in his chair. Tapped the armrests, looked at his patch of sky. Stared at the finance sheet floating before him in his cubespace. Oh, fuck it. It's close enough.
He got up, waving off the spreadsheet, and elbowed his way into his black greatcoat. He headed out the door, checking his watch to see if he had enough for Pilar's. Damn. Not enough for a decent meal and a tip.
Striding past people in the hallway, he hid his disappointment.
Fuck how I hate the day before payday - "Hi Gloria."
"Early lunches for the execs."
Nosy - "Well. We don't get to chit-chat on the phone all day, so we need a proper break."
"Ha ha."
What am I doing, sparring with the secretary -
"Doug! How goes it ol' chum."
"Maintaining, Mike, you know how I do." No! Don't get on the elevator ah shit- "...So where you off to?"
"Pilar's. Can't get enough of that kelp pi?ata stuff. You?"
It's paella, moron. "Oh, McDonald's."
"McDonald's?"
Don't act like you've never heard of it, you fat bastard - "Sure. I force myself once a week at least. Keeps my ear to the ground."
"Hmm."
"It's all the same food, I mean - Pilar's a McEatery." God, that was desperate.
"True, true. Well, watch those McNuggets, ha ha."
"Ha! Never touch 'em." Can these doors open any slower? "Well, take care."
As the elevator whisked Mike away to the underground mall, Doug fished around in his pocket for a handkerchief. He pushed through the (barely) revolving doors into a fairly nice day, but Doug had his polka-dotted hanky firmly pressed to his mouth as he headed towards the golden arches.
He caught a flash of his mountains between two massive buildings and almost knocked into an old man carrying a rather wet-looking garbage bag. "Fug you," he said through swollen lips, and Doug nodded his agreement, getting away from the cloud of stench as quickly as possible.
The McDonald's sign loomed above, inaccurately stating 99 Billion Served. It had been frozen there for as long as Doug had been alive, and he had actually written an essay on it for a class in corporate history. "Obviously, there was the practical consideration of the costs involved in adding new slots for higher numbers," he had written with the self-assurance native to cocky teens. "And there was also the zeitgeist of the '90s and '00s to consider - a last-gasp reaction against the unlimited growth model. So McDonald's upper echelons sat tight, knowing that their point had already been made - that everybody loves their delicious flame-broiled burgers."
Standing in line, the greasy smell reminded him that they weren't flame-broiled at all. He had lost marks for that, although he had gotten top marks for analysis - that's what mattered, since he was sure (even then) that his future lay in coolhunting.
Doug thumbed a burger and fries, having to press the worn fries icon twice before it registered. He pressed his watch against the payplate, held it there. It dinged its approval, and the relief Doug felt at this was quickly followed by self-loathing. Worried about the cost of lunch at Mickey Dee's...
The tray slid toward him. He picked it up and headed to an