Chapter 6

The Protection Game

The newly straightened and relaxed hair, the focus of much money and time earlier in the day at the salon, fell awkwardly over all the clothes I tried on that day. As I stood before the mirror I thought, No – I was wrong. A change, I definitely need a change. It has to go. Most women of my ethnicity had a love-hate relationship with their dense hair.

Chuckling softly and shaking my head, I could not believe how the camisole enhanced and lifted my already weighty breasts to comic proportions. I looked like a pure work of the male imagination, painted on a fuselage for some wartime bombardier to gawk at as he loaded his payload.

A sales representative from the female-only erotica shop, an attractive one who had been unusually orbiting, came up to me. Her eyebrows were raised.

“Well, that will get his attention, eh?”

“Hopefully he wont get injured when he falls over. Seriously though, how this can look so delicate and hold them up is amazing. ” Brushing my hands over my form, we made eye contact. A blush must have been apparent, even in my dark skin.

“Yes … it’s a new fiber … I dunno what they call it. ”

I lifted my breasts and let them fall, testing the holding strength. “Probably a newer form of carbon fiber - Teh-Sun nanotubes they call them, I believe. ”

“Huh? Uh, I … dunno. Well - you look amazing in it, especially the thong. ” The looks she gave my very exposed body made me tingle. I was surprised. Normally, I would not even be in a store like that, much less prancing around nearly nude, allowing myself arousal by some stranger, a woman no less. Noticing my enormous wedding ring with distinct obviousness, she said, “Are you a model, Mrs. … ?”

I laughed. For a moment, uncharacteristically, I considered flirting more with her. Thrilling in a way, regardless of my lack of any real interest. “ … McCloud. Thanks for the compliment, but no. ”

Looking into the mirror, I had an expression of false demure and saw for a moment my mother’s face. The peeling paint, musky and olid air, and incessant yelling of my ramshackle home from childhood seemed immediately to surround me, as my memories made horrible associations. My mother was drunk in the living room. The TV was blearing. A slimy suitor, or to a child’s mind - ‘intruder’, pawing at her, saying what they all may have said, “You look like a model. ”

Seeing the change, the rep touched my shoulder. “Are you alright? Did I?”

“No, no – its nothing … really. ” Flashing a smile, I walked to a nearby chair. “I will not be taking ‘this,’” indicating what I wore, “but if you can ring the rest up that would be great. ”

Sorry to see the mood shift away, she said flatly, “No problem - right away Mrs. McCloud. ”

…

Strolling along the avenue in the shopping district, there was a festive nature that permeated the air, from the slowness of people’s stride to the relaxed smiles that seemingly danced from one face to another along my route. It was a fairly regular route, imbedded in a fairly regular bimonthly routine. First, from the garment and fashion streets in the southernmost areas of the city, then a quick cab jaunt midtown to the cinema for an interlude, and then to the artisan zones for a light lunch in a intimate street-side café, before the rest of the day was meandered away in bookstores.

These were the moments, out of all that was part or possible in my privileged world, that I was the most thankful for. It was the only time freedom was actually felt, even though it was apparently my free will that constructed my life, coupled of course by the ambition to rise, conceived in the womb of childhood neglect and abuse. Needless to say, a lot of work went in to that palpable freedom stroll, where months of a salaryman’s wages could be devoured in mere hours, especially if the release of a season’s new designs was imminent.

Kieran never once complained on the megatonnage of the closet. He simply avoided the marital and psychological dangers of ever stepping inside. I always appeared on his arm with a discussion-worthy ensemble, he would always match, never to think about such things – so that was that. Somehow, in the faux modest circles we inhabited, politics and governmental science for me, popular psychiatry and popular media for him, we never were criticized openly. In fact, there was hardly a ripple in our world.

However, its easy to enjoy the flight when you are high in the air above the world, dismissively on autopilot, drinks in hand in a comfortable chair. For Kieran, he needed simply to wait on a line and check his bags. My case would be analogous to reaching the sailing sky in my own craft, built from the refuse of an island garbage dump, to which I was deposited naked, tool-less, and a concussion from psychological baggage thrown on top of me.

Having all of my spoils of war with the garment district shipped back to the house, I was left distinctly without baggage after my movie this particular day. I would welcome the weight of books to my hand, however, as this was somehow uniquely satisfying, a trial to be undergone for knowledge. Most of my colleagues apparently carried their library around in their reading computers. I always found a book, its paper pages, the binding, the heft, and the unalterable type, as some form of hallowed object in some kind of high ritual, where the infusion of ideas is given almost religious meaning. Either that, or I secretly wanted to be seen reading complex books, an exhibitionist whose feelings of inadequacy were born not out of sexual repression, but of constant assumptions of intellect.

Working at the neutral computer, anything could be on the screen. That man in the park could be either reading a philosophical treatise, sorting his underage gay bondage porn collection, or chatting with the mayor, possibly all three. I must admit, especially with my satisfying but dry work, and predictable days within marriage, I welcomed these days to flirt with possibility. For some reason, they were generally the only interactions I ever had.

This day, as I browsed the aisles of my favorite bookstore, specializing in pabulum for the true bibliomaniacal scientist, the books I carried did not intimidate, as usually was the case, especially with shy nerds or confounded jocks. Rather, it served as a possible entry point of conversation, for another with the best of both worlds in their corner. After the third pass down the tight isles, the quintessential tall, dark, and handsome specimen decided to speak. The talisman I wore a mere challenge.

His eyes were gentile, yet magnetic. His voice – ripe with emotion. His smile … now don’t faint, I thought.

“You must be in great shape. ” He pointed to the load, barely managed at this point, under my arm.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re uh … light bedtime reading there. ” He gestured around. “This place is a ghost-town as usual. I could take those … leave them at the cashier desk for you. They won’t notice. I know how it gets when you get ‘involved’ in … just looking. ”

I smiled back and handed him my books. “I’ll take you up on your offer … thanks. I’m actually approaching muscle fatigue … feel like I’m back in school … didn’t want to break my momentum. I know something good’s on the way. ”

In a distinctly male way, he balanced them in the palm of his hand. Actually, a nice show of strength. I thought about his arms as he spoke. “I know what you mean … let’s see … ‘Bioinformatics Research Collected Papers YR 110. g: Computational Modeling of Genetic and Biochemical Networks in Disease’ … and … ‘BTB Worldlab, The Complete Series : Initiation and Progression of Astrocytomas’ … and … ‘Death of Earth: The New Ecology of the Human’ … ok … little depressing, but certainly interesting. ”

“Well? Let’s see your tea leaves. ” I tilted the books in his other hand. “’Totality Fiber Optics: Complete Integration Lighting in Building’ and ‘Architectural Physics Innovations IV, Façade Shifting Integration and the Subterranean Revolution. ’”

“Ok, fortune teller, what do you see? What’s in my destiny?”

Half closing my eyes, I touched my forehead. “ Hmm, the spirits are unclear. I see … the future, only the vision is hopelessly blocked by building contractors. ”

He chuckled. “Funny … and accurate I would think. ”

“What about me? Any predictions?” Wow, I’m really enjoying this.

“Me? Foresight is certainly not one of my gifts. I’m the kind that stumbles blindly through life, though I hope we humans do have a future … at the very least to enjoy all the sustainable architecture I labor - selflessly I might add - to bring about. ”

Smiling, I waived away his words, and in the tight aisle, almost touched him. “Oh, I’m not at all a pessimist. Don’t take this ‘Death of Earth’ thing the wrong way. We have to understand the worst to insure the best. ”

“True, true. So, how do you fight the good fight, may I ask? Teaching … ?”

“No, I am a director for the Science Ministry, Life Sciences obviously. ”

“Oh? Strange … I was not aware that there was actual beauty of that caliber in government. ” Cheesy as his words were, I ate them up and probably blushed. Second time today, I thought.

Waiving my hand again I said, “Stop . . . and by ‘stop’, I mean ‘go on’. Seriously though, I have been thinking about architecture quite a bit recently. ”

“Do tell. ”

“This may sound strange, but I often have the feeling that my house is speaking to me. I mean … it has actual presence. I mean, other then the computer systems, voice activated things and whatnot. I’ve always admired good architecture, with its ability to dimensionalize art – surround you - you know? But lately, I don’t know, I just appreciate it so much more. Of course, I suppose, that’s easy when you live in a Murikami. ”

“Murikami? You are … something else. Talk about serendipity. ” He looked deep into my eyes, then had to break it. “I’m Vio Lancaster. ” Another deep scouting mission with his eyes. “Anyway, I’ve been collaborating with Murikami for years, on the Colony Convention Center and now … well, I’m in town to work on the Murikami Project … Muria the underground complex. ”

“I heard about that. It’s not too far from my home in Oakwood. Quite a big project, that Muria – and controversial. ” Shaking his hand, I said, “My name is Naiya McCloud. ”

“A pleasure to be sure … would you like to get a coffee after … well afterwards? I know a great spot not to far from here. ”

“I would love to, but I have to decline. But here …” What are you doing? You never know … best to keep your options open. “… take my card. Maybe another time. I come into the city several times a month. ”

“I look forward to it,” Vio said as he likewise handed me a card.

…

After we parted, sure that he was no longer around, I lingered in the shop and searched for many books on architecture. Suddenly obsessed, I lost all the hours, until the store finally asked me if I ‘would be kind enough to leave’ so they could close.

This new drive was not for the reasons I had initially thought, as I spent those hours combing the stacks. I thought that it was Vio that I wanted to know more about. But viewing his work led me strangely astray. I realized that all the books had a common factor – and it was not him.

In a cab, on the ride back to the parking garage, I eventually ignored Vio’s designs in the books I had purchased and found myself drawn to the designs of Murikami, forms which so intimately resembled ones from my home. They were in every tome I had selected. There was a universal otherness, mystery, about them

I was certainly attracted to Vio, drawn as I was always to powerful men, the instinct to find that ultimate provider was always the strongest one in me. However, to my surprise, it was not Vio himself I was interested in.

Strangely, to my fatigued mind, jostling around in the back seat, dreaming out the window, he seemed merely the acolyte for something higher, something that was winding its way to the surface of me. Vio unwittingly spurred on my already burgeoning feelings, as if my ‘faith’ in architecture was elevated by his service, his mere presence.

As I traced my finger around the lines in the illustrations of a particularly large volume, all I wanted was to return to the house. My mind played with all sorts of notions. Maybe Kieran was just a stepping stone. Not to another man, what are men, but the house. Could it alone provide for me? Not if Kieran won it in the divorce … what the hell are you going on about, anyway? I did not know and banished the silly musings. I was like some little girl overly involved with her dollhouse, working the permutations of happiness possible through like a laboratory exercise.

Exhausted when I arrived at the garage, I look onward to my drive with dread. Of course, there was one phrase that held me aloft, the simple words that would deactivate the security system and signal my arrival to home, and to my bed - our bed.