The Audric Experiment

Pierre stopped walking and sighed. “I feel like I’m gonna keep sinking. Until I’m at the bottom of the pool.” Pierre looked around, then put his head down. “You think I should go to this address. Meet with the Gamblers?”

  “Dude. You don’t even know if it is Gamblers. Can’t hurt to check it out.”

  Pierre felt the nerves in his belly take flight. “I swore I’d never be a Gambler. I can’t be a Gambler.”

  “But you’re not Pure Pierre anymore either. And you can’t just sit at the bottom of the pool. You gotta fight. Even if you’re sinking, you gotta fight. Come on, I’ll tell you about my squirrel dreams. It’ll cheer you up.”

  John Edgar Toll had been the mayor in Brighton for the past three years, and at this election time he was considered by most to be a solid candidate. Toll was lenient on Gamblers and thought they should be considered for jobs equitably that they were qualified for. Vote for Toll signs were posted around the city and on people’s lawns. Edmond speaking of Toll this morning, and politics in general, seemed strange to Pierre at first.

  “Getting near voting age,” Edmond said. So that was what sparked his interest. He brought a spoon of oatmeal to his lips.

  “Yeah. How ‘bout that,” Pierre responded, sitting down with his father.

  Their dog, Bailey, a sheepdog, strutted into the kitchen, and pressed the number five on the game. That number five had displayed at his eye level. It rewarded him with a morsel of food and his acceptor gave him a boost. His eyes smiled.

  “He’s got it,” Edmond said. “He seems happy. What about you? How are you doing?”

  Barnaby Brown named Audric after his dog of the same name. Pierre thought about this as he stared at Bailey. Then he shrugged. “What do you think of Gamblers?”

  “Gamblers?” Edmond chewed his food. “I think they’re no different from you and me. We’re all Gamblers. In one way or another. Why?”

  Pierre met his father’s concerned gaze. “I’m just wondering. I hate Gamblers.”

  “Yeah. I thought you felt that way. A couple centuries or so ago they had something called Prohibition, making alcohol illegal. So many people drank that they had to change the law. I think in some ways, we’re learning the lesson over again. Someday soon, mark my words, squirrelling Gamblers money is going to be legal. Like ending Prohibition there will be consequences. But we’ll learn to live with it.”

  Pierre told his father about the Nietzsche quote and the Gambler’s five-dot die.

  Edmond finished his bowl and looked at Pierre. His brown eyes searching. “I say go check it out. I doubt they tried to kill you. They don’t generally. There’s too much at stake for them. As soon as you have any idea what to make of it, you tell me, and we’ll report it to Audric.”

  Pierre nodded. “All right.”

  ****

  Christmas Bells Lane was in the suburbs. When school ended in the early afternoon Pierre got in his Sun Pod and programmed it to drive him there. When he pulled up to the home his guess was that it was formerly a frat house back in the days when college was popular. Now, only the very privileged who wanted to make six figures in their twenties went to college. Pierre sat there, his eyes combing the numerous Vote for Toll signs on the front lawn and the numerous Sun Pods in the driveway.

  Judging by the number of Vote for Toll signs, Pierre thought this had to be campaign

  headquarters or something close. He put his shoulders back and ruffed his hair. He looked at his reflection in the window, his eyes looking gold, and his expression serious. Then he walked toward the front door. For a moment, he wondered if he could pass as a sane person knocking on the door with a story as crazy as the one he had. Hopefully, he wouldn’t have to explain himself. He raised his hand to knock and the door opened. A man with oddly greasy hair, wearing a smile, a black cloth vest and a red tie stood there. He extended his hand. “How you doin’, Pierre. Welcome. My names Henry Alexander. I’m John Edgar Toll’s Campaign Manager. Come in. Come in.”

  Pierre walked into the room. People were talking on phones, fast paced, oblivious to his entrance. There were numerous desks, papers disheveled, and Vote for Toll signs on the walls. Pierre heard someone say, “Who’s the pretty boy?”

  Then he saw a woman in the corner look up at him. “That’s Pure Pierre,” she said.

  “Can’t fly after all, huh Pierre?” Someone said.

  Pierre felt his face grow red with anger. Did they try to kill him?

  “Don’t let them get to you,” Henry said. “We’re all glad you’re here.” As if sensing Pierre’s anger, he added, “We don’t know what happened. Come this way. Let’s talk.”

  Pierre felt his anger dissipate a bit. They walked into an office, more disheveled papers, and a man sat to the right of the desk. He had a big grey mustache, and sharp eyes. He stared at Pierre, his face betraying nothing, still as a sculpture. He wore a Harley Davidson Motorcycle leather jacket.

  “Sorry about the Gamblers insignia,” Henry said. “That was Devin here.”

  “Good guy, that Friedrich Nietzsche,” the man named Devin in the motorcycle jacket said.

  “Looks just like him too,” Henry said.

  “You pushed me out the window,” Pierre said, his eyes stone-like.

  “When we read that article, Pierre, that was the first we heard of you,” Henry said.

  “So you’re a Gambler,” Pierre said to Devin as he sat down, a focused intrigue on his face. As he looked at Devin, he felt that feeling of Déjà vu he felt with David Thindrel.

  “Don’t pull your punches,” Devin said. “Ain’t nothing wrong with being a Gambler. Without choice, we’d be dead.”

  “We always keep a Gambler or two around,” Henry said. “They can vote after all.”

  “I got a 140 IQ,” Devin said. “What’re you packing? 12th grade reading level?”

  “I’ve got a 40/40,” Pierre said, tight-lipped. “That means I’ve gotten a perfect score in every class I’ve ever taken.”

  “And that’s not lost on us, Pierre,” Henry said, finally taking a seat. “That’s why we need you.”

  “I don’t mean to hit below the belt,” Devin said, the corners of his mouth lifting. “But that name, Pure Pierre. Exactly how far below the belt does that extend?”

  Pierre wasn’t a virgin. He could have his pick. One girl had track marks on her legs and Pierre decided against having sex with her. But he’d done it twice before. Pierre thought of telling them he wasn’t Pure Pierre anymore. But he wanted to see where this was going. “I’ve got no trouble. Can’t say the same for overweight Gamblers that look like Friedrich Nietzsche,” Pierre said.

  “Why’d you jump then?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “You mean to tell me someone took you to the thirteenth floor and pushed you?”

  “Something like that?”

  “We saw the article,” Henry said. “No shocks. Wow. After we saw that we got word from Toll to get you on our team. Devin here said he’d find you and bring you here. Sort of an unorthodox method of doing so but you’re not thinking of defecting on us are you? Going to the Gamblers side of things?”

  “No.”

  “You remember your idea for a solar powered radio in Entrepreneurial Etiquette last year?”

  Pierre nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Audric’s keeping an eye on you. It wasn’t a coincidence. They stole the idea.”

  “It wasn’t a groundbreaking idea,” Pierre said. “Just took some common sense.”

  “Audric doesn’t like copying ideas from the twenty first century. Trying to distinguish

  themselves, I guess. You might be the one to change that. Pierre,” Henry leaned forward. “What do you think of Edgar Toll?”

  “I think he needs a haircut, and a new wardrobe.”

  Devin and Henry both gave a laugh, exchanging a glance from one another. “So can we count you on our te
am is what we’re getting at,” Henry said.

  “What do you want me to do?” Pierre asked.

  “You ever hear of John Travolta?” Henry leaned back in his chair.

  Pierre shook his head.

  “He was an actor in the twentieth century. Starred in a movie called Grease. Movie musical from the 1970’s.”

  “No.”

  “This is our product. We call it Grease. It makes your hair look slick. Your friend Brian uses it. It’s big in America.”

  “You know my friend Brian?”

  “Toll briefed us on your life. It’s very important to him that we have you on our team.” He handed a bottle shaped like a monolith to Pierre. It said Grease on it; the tag line was

  “Live Like Travolta in the Nineteen Seventies.”

  “Well, what is proprietary about it? I mean can one of the big three manufacturers sell it without copyright infringement?”

  “Our formula is totally original. And it is manufactured by Little Amore.”

  Little Amore was one of the big three companies, along with Generation Gold and Walden Now.

  “Since the fall you’re famous. I don’t know if you realize that. We just want some quotes for the press release. You can say you checked your hair after the fall and it was perfect. You say you use the product, we’ll make sure you smooth sail through life from now on. Then in a month or so you endorse Toll. You’ll be a big name in Brighton.”

  “I don’t really use hair care products.”

  “In the article it said you were a weak swimmer. We think if you say it’s waterproof you’ll nail our target buyers,” Devin said.

  Something was bothering Pierre about this. He had no idea who pushed him out the window and why. Now he was being exalted as if everything was fine. Someone had tried to kill him. Everything wasn’t fine.

  Pierre nodded, swallowed, and said, “Let me think about it.”

  “Here’s my card,” Henry said. “Take a week or so. Think it over. Then give me a call. We won’t be here much longer, but I’ll keep my ears open for your call. Sound good?” He stood up and extended his hand.

  “Sure,” Pierre said. “I’ll be in touch.”

  ****

  As Pierre drove away in his Sun Pod, he had tears of anger in his eyes. His life had been a fairy tale of successes. He was Pure Pierre – a winner. But he didn’t feel like a winner. This was finally a test of who he was as a young man – a legitimate test. Making him into something like what Henry had in mind without addressing the underlying problem of who tried to kill him was like fencing on a bridge made of grass. He needed to be in control again the way he used to be.

  He decided not to call Henry. He decided to do some field work. He’d call Little Amore and find out about Henry and ask to speak to whoever commissioned him to hire Pierre. He looked in the rear view mirror. There was a purple Sun Pod that had turned the corner when he left the white house and it had been on his tail for all four streets so far. He turned onto Maybelles Lane and it turned with him. There was a coffee shop called Gamblers and Guns – an independent retailer. He decided to stop there and see if the Purple Sun Pod did too.

  Pierre rarely drank coffee as it made him jittery, but he thought a cup now would push him out of his funk. The Purple Sun Pod pulled into a parking space. The windows were black and no one got out. He walked into the coffee shop. Guns were attached to the walls. Guns, be them for Gamblers or Audric, could only fire shots that were authorized. If an unauthorized shot was fired the gun exploded taking the life or limb of the owner. It was this way Audric kept Gamblers close to harmless.

  This was definitely a Gambler’s shop. Immediately, Pierre noticed the motorcycle gang in back, the vintage clothing on teenagers, and the floors seemed like they were cleaned infrequently. Pierre walked over to the coffee bar.

  “Let me get a Macchiato,” Pierre said.

  The vendor was an old woman in white with a halo around her head. “You gonna take a seat?”

  “Um, no,” Pierre said. “I’ll take it with me.” Pierre took a look around again at the foursome of Gamblers sitting in the corner whispering and glancing at him continuously. As the woman prepared the milk, one of the Gamblers walked towards him. The man wore a leather jacket and had a shaved head. He sidled up to Pierre and Pierre looked at him unafraid.

  “You gonna pay for that with Gamblers money?” The man said.

  “No.”

  “We only accept Gamblers money.”

  “Oh Craig. Leave him alone,” Claire, the woman preparing the coffee, said.

  “I believe you know my son.”

  “Who’s your son?”

  “James Rabb.”

  Pierre decided not to ruffle feathers. “Yeah,” he said amiably. “I didn’t know he was a

  Gambler. I helped him with his project last year.”

  “You sure did.” Craig stared at him then not saying anything.

  Pierre put a little smile on his face to show he wasn’t intimidated. “You’re friends look like they are getting lonely over there.”

  “There’s enough Gamblers to go around. Not enough snot nosed punks.” The last part had an angry edge to it.

  “Sorry. I got lost sometime around ‘punks.’ I believe Audric Compliant need not apply.”

  Craig leaned in closer. “You think you’re better than us? Compliant trash.”

  Pierre wasn’t intimidated. “I was just wondering if there’s enough Gamblers money to pay for you to have a shave or if we all have to suffer for it.”

  “Watch it, there, Pierre,” the woman said, as she put a lid on the coffee. “Eyes to the wall. See the video camera? This coffee bar is going to be bought by Little Amore. They are watching how we conduct things.”

  Pierre had no intention of backing off. “I guess that means I’ll have to check with the local dumpster divers for your whereabouts.”

  The woman put the coffee on the counter. Craig took the lid off and began pouring coffee onto Pierre’s hand. Pierre pulled back sharply, suddenly enraged.

  “You tried to kill yourself, young un,” Craig said. “We don’t abide your kind in our establishment.”

  The patrons who were watching began talking, as Pierre turned to the exit. Then he heard a girl’s voice.

  She was walking towards them, wearing a leather jacket with tassels, and a halter top underneath. She wore a beaded necklace, and her brown hair was done up in a ponytail, strands coming down around her face, and delicate brown eyes. She was about Pierre’s age.

  The girl said, “If he tried to kill himself why did he jump out a window where a tree could break his fall.”

  “Who’s this?” Craig said.

  Pierre watched carefully waiting to see where this was going. The girl was dressed like a Gambler but as Pierre well knew many girls and boys his age dressed like Gamblers as a fashion statement. She began wiping the coffee off his hand with a napkin. “My name’s Dot. And we were just leaving. Come on, Pierre. They hate you. He’s a suicidalist,” she said urgently.

  A suicidalist was the name for a Gambler that would fire a shot just to kill himself and someone else. A moment after Dot said it, Craig withdrew a gun and Pierre kicked him as hard as he could away from him. Craig pulled the trigger and blew his arm off. Blood and flesh shot in all directions and Pierre stared in horror at the man’s shoulder where it was now a bloody stump.

  The man’s friends in the corner all stood up.

  “Go,” the girl named Dot said. “I’ll take care of it.”

  Pierre ran for the door and got into his Sun Pod speeding off, his nervous system shaken.

  That night, the girl in his dreams had a face. She was the girl from the coffee shop: Dot. When Pierre awoke, he lay in bed thinking about the dream and the fact that she had most likely saved his life. The coffee shop had been in a different school district and that was why he’d never
seen her before. As Pierre ate breakfast, he began to realize he couldn’t get her out of his head.

  He didn’t think there’d be anything in the paper about what had happened at Gamblers and Guns, but there was. The report said that the incident had been reported to Audric by Little Amore. Pierre wasn’t named in the article as they saw no reason to name him. But more importantly, no one had spoken to him about what had happened yet. This was unorthodox and if he got through the next few days without hearing from Audric it meant they didn’t care if he knew something was up.

  The next few days went by uneventful. After a brief while, Pierre began to hope someone would say something. Then, finally, his father did. Edmond said he got a call from Mr. Bradley the previous day. They were seated at breakfast, Pierre, Edmond, and his mother, Cloud. Mr. Bradley taught swimming, but according to Edmond, Mr. Bradley was secretly a harmonizer. Harmonizers were those chosen by Audric to keep the peace between the Audric Compliant and the Gamblers. They generally had no loyalty to one side or another.

  “You want to tell us what happened?” Edmond asked.

  “Guy blew his arm off,” Pierre said, looking down at his oatmeal.

  “You go check out the Gamblers insignia in the book you found?”

  “Yeah. It was a closed down building.” Pierre took a bite of oatmeal, not looking up.

  “Well, Mr. Bradley is going to hold a class about it. He wants to smooth it over. Wanted

  me to ask you if you’d come speak.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Not much choice in the matter, Pierre. It’s a serious crime what that man did. It makes

  the Gamblers look bad to everyone. People have feelings about it.”

  “Not my problem.”

  “Pierre,” Cloud said. “What’s wrong?”

  Pierre looked up at his parents. “Nothing wrong. Just don’t know what to think. Anymore.”

  “I know it was difficult having no shocks,” Cloud said. “But you didn’t need to try to kill

  yourself.”

  Pierre looked at her stunned.

  “The dreams helped me. They made me become a lover of real joy and life. I wouldn’t

  be who I am today without the shocks.”

  Pierre thought of arguing that he didn’t try to kill himself, but decided against it. “It wasn’t a closed down building. John Edgar Toll wants me to work for him. It was a campaign outpost. I spoke to his campaign manager.”