Include a Car Chase
Over the past two and next few weeks, I (Jenny Trevino, IVAN Library’s Librarian) have been/will be posting a series of short stories I wrote for my former employer’s Writing Club. The first week, I posted a story in which I had the idea of making Andrew Carnegie answer for his sins. In the remaining stories, I was trying to imagine ways in which the concept of a library might evolve in a future that has moved on from even the non-traditional services that are currently being presented as constituting a library’s post-print portfolio.
The prompt for this story was “Include a car chase.” It imagines a library that still offers current-age services such as reference assistance and electronic resources, but has also developed services out of its core value of privacy. For my own amusement, the library’s staffing model was inspired by-- but not wholly lifted from-- my time as a waitress at The Colorado, once among Houston’s top five topless bars (now a Chinese restaurant).
Include a Car Chase
Carlos peered through the peephole at the courier in the hall. He had a clipboard and an Amazon box, and he would have looked completely normal, had Carlos been expecting a delivery.
He was not expecting any packages. There were two reasons for this: first, home delivery required credit, and his had been partitioned following his arrest. His code would only scan at the WIC center, now. Second, he did not need anything-- and would not for almost a year. He had expected to be arrested as soon as he filed the story, and had laid in enough supplies to ride out the backlash.
Eventually, the courier gave up and walked away.
An hour later, a missionary knocked, followed by a utility tech, then the building superintendent.
He would have to run, after all-- leaving behind his shimmering hoard of instant noodles and toilet paper, which not incidentally represented almost a full year’s worth of discretionary credits. He was broke-- and even worse, his privacy license would expire at midnight.
They had let him waste three months-- and all of his savings-- believing he could survive by hiding in his unit. Now here they were, poking him, at the very last minute.
They expect me to do something desperate-- get spooked and run right out the front door and into their arms, he thought.
Good. He hadn’t gained access to HiCorp’s internal documents by not having connections at the highest level. That he had connections “upstairs” was literally true as well as figuratively.
In this age of surveillance, safety was habitually assumed, and the prizing of convenience had trumped security long ago. The wall panel in his bedroom simply popped off its frame and into his hand. He disconnected and then quickly reconnected the power to the residents with whom he had established arrangements, then grabbed two meat hooks and climbed into the two feet of utility space between his unit and the neighbor to his rear. This neighbor was not an ally, so he fitted the hooks into the material-saving cutouts that ran up and down each wall stud, and shimmied his way to the fourth level up.
The Lopez family were gathered in an anxious circle when he emerged into their bedroom. He reassured them as briefly as he could, then quickly changed into a tuxedo, wheeling a cello case out the door as Mr. Lopez summoned the pod service.
He entered the concert hall through the loading dock. An solitary clerk glanced up at him, then went back to work. Carlos pushed the cello case backstage, then extracted its contents-- a backpack and a disposable shopping bag. From the bag he extracted the polo and khakis of a typical white-collar freelancer. He changed quickly, added an ostentatious wrist terminal and the wraparound mirror shades that would scream “coder,” then slung the backpack casually over one shoulder, stuffing a red nylon vest into an easily-accessible front pocket.
The concert hall was located next door to a library branch. He used a skywalk to cross over, then walked down to the lobby, entering from the side-- largely invisible to the swarming red- and blue-vested librarians clustered at the main entrance-- and slipping undetected into the Blackout queue.
Blackouts was busy today, but not slammed-- and oddly silent compared to the rest of the lobby, which echoed with the librarians’ hawking cries as they shouted over one another’s heads, flinging their qualifications at each patron that entered, each hoping to snag an inbound customer before they reached the rows of desks on the upper levels, where the librarians who had arrived the earliest this morning worked for wages-- instead of tips.
The etiquette of the Blackout line discouraged eye contact or talking. Most of those waiting were undocumented, needing Blackout only co they could accept cash wages. Others were citizens who need to provide untraceable services, while the remainder were mostly the customers and employers of the first two types. Today there were also two Sovereign Citizens, who used Blackout every day, on principle. These complied with expected etiquette as concerned the others waiting in line, but smirked openly at passers-by, whom they saw as sheep.
Carlos studiously avoided the Sovereign Citizens. The next part of his plan required him to recruit just such a person, while posing as a sympathetic librarian (hence the red vest.) A librarian could live under Blackout if they wanted, as they were issued an permanent code at certification, and could switch it out with their identification as often as they chose. If he was recognized from the queue, he would be exposed.
When Carlos reached the counter, the clerk confirmed his privacy license, then handed over a numbered key. He found the locker, unstrapped and stored his personal wristband, then inserted the key into the token machine. He selected the largest-sized token and then hung the key around his neck, tucking it under his shirt. He dropped the token into a final machine and waited while it dispensed his blackout band.
His Blackout carried a credit balance of twenty thousand. A cash machine stood alongside the wristband printer, but Carlos passed it by. Sovereign Citizens claimed quite lofty personal morals, but they did not tend to be very employable. They might not rob him, but they would definitely work him, as they were quite vulnerable to pyramid schemes and always selling up to some quota of bottles of vitamins moved per quarter.
A small corridor lined with cubicles and lockers-- provided for those who might need to change clothes or store personal items-- led to a back exit. Carlos walked briskly toward the door, and out onto the street.
The presence of Blackout was some comfort, but he still felt vulnerable and exposed. He forced himself to walk casually around to the front entrance. As soon as he was back inside, a swarm of librarians descended. He smiled at the first blue vest to pause for breath.
“College admissions?”
“Absolutely, sir, please follow me.”
He followed the vest up to the 400s level, allowed him to call up a local University catalog, then tipped him generously and sent him on his way. Within the catalog, Carlos identified an appropriate course and section, then set off toward the campus.
The studio building was wide open. He found the office and scanned his wristband, giving the section number to the receptionist. She handed him a model’s badge and showed him where to return it, then sent him on his way.
“His” section didn’t start for 30 more minutes. The room was empty and he slipped inside, heading for the screened-off area behind which the models undressed. All he needed to do was put on his vest and swap out his glasses and watch. He hung a small bottle of hand sanitizer off his backpack, then put it back on using both shoulder straps, firmly tightened. He examined the badge, but could detect no security features. It seemed to be exactly what it looked like: a laminated piece of laser-printed card stock. He dropped it on the hallway floor as he left the building.
All he needed now was a Sovereign Citizen who owned a car. He hoped this would be easy to come by. Cars were less common since they had been re-classified as weapons, but weapons licenses were quite prevalent among the SCs. He was even willing to purchase the car himself. All he knew was that it needed to happen fast-- the border was six hours away and he needed to be across it when his privacy ran out.
