Splitsville

by Stephen James

“So, do you ever feel like your head is pulsing?”

I do my best to ignore Tony and try to focus on the work in front of me. The shoe heap is looking downright unruly from afternoon league play, and they’ll need to be cleaned before the Saturday night rush.

“If you walked through a metal detector, would it beep?”

Tony leans back in his chair behind the cashier’s desk, stretches out his skinny legs on the countertop, and flips his tawny brown hair away from his retro oversized frames. He doesn’t offer to help with the shoes. Why would he? Ambition is a trait lacking in most seventeen-year-olds.

I organize the shoes into their correct pairings and remove the laces.

“Benny, bro, quick tip. Grab the spray and call it a day. Don’t bother with the laces.”

“Yeah, but Mr. Brenkenmeyer told me the protocol is to remove the laces and open the shoe as wide as possible before disinfecting. And it’s Ben. Not Benny.”

“Whatever man. Don’t blow a fuse. Might mess with your programming.”

I reach for the back of my head. A habit I realize I need to drop. Beneath thinning hair, I run a finger along the ridges of the scar.

Tony kicks his feet off the counter and slides over to me. “So, tell me. What did you do? Was it fraud? Bank robbery?”

He moves in a little closer. The audacity of this little shit. I mean, kid. He’s just a kid. Go back to the laces.

“Wait, I got it.” Tony lowers his voice to a whisper. “Sexual assault.”

Enough! I slam a pair of shoes on the counter and turn to meet his gaze. I want to smack him across his acne-free, defined jawline. That would teach the little puke some respect. Then I feel it. Like a slow chemical drip running down my spine. The indignation. The wanting of hitting fades like cloud vapor. He’s just a kid. How could I let myself get so angry? He’s just curious. Tell him. The truth will set you free.

“Look, a while back, I hurt someone. It cost me everything. My wife. My little boy. My freedom. But I paid for it - am still paying for it. I’m doing my best to start over. Now, why don’t you give me a hand with these?”

Tony chuckles and slides back over to the cashier. “That thing in your head makes you sound like a Droid. Maybe figure out how to upload a little more personality.”

I shrug it off. What does Tony know? How did he figure out I did time? Never mind. Forget about it. Get back to work. Remove the laces and spray the shoes. Repeat. It isn’t so bad. There are worse things I could do and worse places I could be. I think about Eddy. He’ll be six in a couple of weeks. Not so old that he can’t forgive. There’s still time for us. Time for me to make things right.

The frosted glass doors next to the cashier open. A young couple walks in with their son. Tony, scrolling his phone for bikini girls, ignores them. I put down the shoes and move over to the cashier. “Welcome to Splitsville Lanes,” I say. “How can I help you?”

*

After work, I take the number two bus back to Ocean Wood, which sounds glamorous but is just a subsidized apartment complex looking over an empty asphalt sea of parking for an Amazon distribution warehouse. I heard the parking lot used to be full until AIDroids replaced three-quarters of the workers. The apartment is temporary until I can get something with at least a second bedroom, so Eddy can stay the night.

I change into a pair of joggers and tee shirt and step into the CervauPod for my required check-in with Amy. Once I settle onto the scanning pad at the base of the pod, I input a code into the vid-screen. After a few seconds, Amy appears. She looks a little tired.

“Evening, Ben. Let’s get to it, shall we? Parole compliance check for the third day of October, 2037. Time is 20:30. Do you acknowledge?”

“Acknowledge.”

“Please remain still while I start the neural scan.”

The interior lights of the pod glow tangerine before a melodic series of beeps chime to let me know the scan is complete.

“Hmm, looks like a hostility spike was recorded at 15:33 this afternoon, but then the BCD (Behavioral-Cervau-Device) provided the necessary regulation balance. Do you acknowledge?”

“Acknowledge, but let me explain.”

“Ben, you know there are no questions until after I complete my assessment. Do you acknowledge?”

“But -”

“Just a reminder, and by order of the State, that failure to acknowledge will result in termination of the Program at which point you will be re-incarcerated. Do you acknowledge?”

“Acknowledge.”

“Glad to hear it. Now let’s see what else we have here. It looks like your acetylcholine and dopamine levels became elevated above prescribed tolerance levels at 02:47 this morning. Are you dreaming about your family again?”

“Yes, and I was hoping to talk to you about that. I’ve been out for three months. Is there any way you could help me contact them? Or maybe let me know where they are?”

“Ben, you know, as your PPS (Post-Prison-Sponsor), my primary function is to assess operations of your BCD and make adjustments as required to optimize your neural chemical balance. I’m not here to facilitate a reunion with your wife and child. Can you describe the nature of your dreams?”

“Is that necessary?”

“You do not question the assessment. Your only job is to answer my questions. Do you acknowledge?”

“Okay, acknowledge.”

“Describe your dreams, please.”

“It’s always the same. I see the man I beat. His mangled nose. His shattered teeth. Sometimes I think I can smell a mix of blood and sweat. It’s like metal. No matter what I do, I can’t control myself. I’m seething. There’s no fight left in the man. He’s down and out for the count, but it doesn’t stop me from battering him again and again. I pummel his face until it feels like leather. But it’s also like I’m punching air. Like he’s not really there. Then he disappears, and when I look up, I see my wife and son. They’re scared. Scared of me. Eddy won’t stop crying. The more he cries, the more I can feel the anger build up. He’s screeching, and then - I wake up.”

Amy doesn’t respond. She appears to be checking over some figures next to my scan results. The vid-screen is too small for me to make heads or tails of it. After a prolonged silence she says, “Ben, I would like to increase dopamine receptor blocking by six percent. It should help you sleep better. Do you acknowledge?”

“Acknowledge.”

“Is there anything you wish to state before concluding this check-in?”

“Tony, the kid at work, he knows I’m an ex-con. He knows about the Program. You told me when you arranged the job placement, it would be discreet. Do you know how fast word will spread now? How am I supposed to make a fresh start?”

“Ben, this was always bound to occur. The Program is gaining national recognition for innovations in prison reform. Think of it as an opportunity. Thanks to you and the other ‘volunteers’ throughout the State, the data we are collecting will help transform prisoner rehabilitation across the planet. You are part of a scientific revolution. Now take it easy. You’re a free man. Watch some pro wrestling. Eat a hot dog. Live!”

“But what about my family?”

“This concludes the parole compliance check for the third day of October, 2037. Do you acknowledge?”

“Fine. Yes. Acknowledge.”

*

It’s Sunday. Despite the adjustments Amy made to my BCD, I still dreamed of my wife and Eddy. As terrible as the dreams are, they’re the only sliver of existence where I can see Eddy again. I make some freeze-dried coffee and spend the morning searching the web for them. Of course, I find nothing. Since I’m on parole, the State has limited my access. The State provided digi-pad lets me look at sites for food recipes, sports, weather, entertainment stream channels, State news, and porn. Still, it does not stop me every morning from scouring the State news site for any mention, connection, or clue to finding my family. I know it’s a long shot, but for now, it’s the only shot I have.

There’s a knock at my door. I open it, but only slightly. I don’t want to explain the giant metallic egg-shaped pod that takes up half of the living room.

“Hey, you busy? My sink is acting up again. Could you come help me?”

It’s Lauren, my neighbor from across the hall. Like most people living at Ocean Wood, she’s had a rough go. Most people you see around the complex wouldn’t bother to breathe in your direction, but Lauren is an ‘open book’ as she likes to say. The first time I met her in the hallway, she told me all about her struggles with drugs. Her multiple rehab stints. How her parents wrote her off for dead. She’s a tiny little thing and is missing a few teeth; I try to avoid staring at the gaps. The streets should have swallowed her whole, but she somehow survived and is turning her life around.

The layout of Lauren’s place is identical to mine, except for the giant metallic egg. The State news is blaring from her vid-wall.

“Can I make you a cup of coffee? I just put the water in the kettle. That’s when the sink started its drippity-drip.”

“I just had one, but I could always go for another. Thanks!”

Lauren scoops some grinds into the coffee machine while I check the sink. I can see the problem right away. Loose faucet handle. “Where’s your wrench again?”

“Just under the sink. God, you’re such a gem.”

I smile, but don’t acknowledge. Lauren turns her attention back to the vid-wall.

“Christ, can you believe what this country is coming to? This is where our tax dollars go? Putting criminals back on the street.”

I finish up with the sink and watch the State Governor on the vid-wall proclaim that Phase One of the BCD Program is on track to be a tremendous success. A real paradigm shifter, he says. Overpopulated prisons will soon become a relic of the past, as our killers, rapists, and pedophiles can start making meaningful contributions to society.

I wonder if the Governor knows about me. I wonder how working at Splitsville is making meaningful contributions to society.

“What a joke,” says Lauren. “It’s bad enough that Droids took half the jobs. Now we gotta compete with these chip-head convicts for the scraps they won’t even get AI to do.” Lauren turns off the vid-wall and passes me a cup of coffee. I see flashes of broken teeth and blood on my fists. I almost don’t hear her when she says, “Thanks for fixing the sink, hon. God, you know, you are a sweetheart.”

We sit and drink our coffees and I ask her if she’s ever wanted to hurt somebody. “I tell you,” she says, “I spent some time in jail. There were some real crazy daisies in there. A few who did some particularly nasty stuff to me. If I saw any of them out on the street, reprogrammed or not, I don’t think I would hesitate taking a bat to their knees. Why are you asking?”

“Just wondering,” I say before taking another sip.

*

It’s Friday night glow bowl, and spotty, pockmarked teenagers fill the place. They order refillable coffees and bags of potato chips while they toss black-lit lime green and fluorescent purple bowling balls down the lanes. They feed credits to the jukebox and play Mary Jane’s Last Dance on repeat. I’m six hours into my shift and I’ve already had to fix pinsetters on lanes eight, ten, and fourteen, scrub all the toilets (twice!), troubleshoot scoring machine malfunctions on lanes two and six, and in between all that, help with the food orders, because Doris, who usually works concessions, decided she just ‘couldn’t deal’ tonight.

When Mr. Brekenmeyer comes over and says he needs me to handle another situation in the men’s room, I think I’m about to pop. My head is buzzing. It feels like the back of my neck is being poked by thousands of microscopic needles. I decide to take a coffee and sneak outside for a quick breather. I instantly regret it when I see Tony and a group of his friends walk up.

“Benny! I was hoping you’d be working tonight. I’ve been telling my boys what an exemplary worker you are, you know, despite the heinous crime you committed. But I suppose we have that little chip in your head to thank for that.” His friends cackle and look at me like I’m a monkey in a cage. “Seriously guys, you can say anything to this Droid and he won’t budge an inch. Try it.”

Tony’s friends hit me with a barrage of insults. They pile them on like rocks. Then one of them throws a rock, and the coffee spills from my hand down the side of my pants, which causes the group to erupt with laughter. The chemical drip from the BCD turns into a gushing waterfall, and I suddenly feel ill. I put my hands on my knees. I think I’m going to vomit. I swear I can hear Eddy screaming at me.

Tony walks over, bends down low, and asks me, “You know, one thing I don’t understand. Why did you lie to me about what you did? I mean, I guess if I were you, I wouldn’t want to say it either.”

“What are you talking about? I told you. There was a man. I hurt him. Beat him senseless.”

“Benny, my uncle is a State detective. I’ve told him about you. He knew who you were. You didn’t beat anyone, but you killed your wife and kid.”

“What did you say?”

“You’re a sicko. Now why don’t you go back inside and set me and my boys up with a lane.”

No, no, no. He’s lying. Why is he doing this? He’s just a kid. Just some little shit kid. The buzzing in my head turns sharp, and then the next thing I know is I’ve got Tony pinned to the ground. My fists are like hammers, pounding his skinny little body. I deck him in the face over and over until I’ve snapped his glasses in half. His friends don’t know what to do. They just stand there, mouths agape. My arms give out. I look down at Tony’s spongy face. It’s like a pile of red mush. Then I hear it again. Eddy screaming. I pull myself up and run.

*

I lock the door to my apartment and step inside the CervauPod. I fumble inputting the right code into the vid-screen. Amy appears on the curvature of the screen. I can see in her eyes she knows something is wrong.

“Ben, thank god! What’s happening? I received a remote alarm your BCD is malfunctioning. Remain still while I perform a neural scan. Do you acknowledge?”

“I want to know where my family is right now. Where is Eddy?” Another flash before my eyes. It’s Eddy. He’s trying to run away from me.

“Reminder that failure to acknowledge will - ”

“I’m not acknowledging anything until you tell me where he is.” I see my wife. She’s holding Eddy, trying to protect him.

“Ben, listen to me. It’s complicated. Give me access to your BCD, and then I’ll tell you everything.”

“No, no, no. You’re lying!” I rip Eddy away from my wife’s arms and throw him against a wall. His head cracks. I fall to my knees. “Did I - did I kill them?”

“Yes, you did. You have an unfortunate combination of intermittent explosive and borderline personality disorder. You’ve struggled with it for most of your adult life. You were off your meds and you did something terrible. But you showed so much regret, so much guilt. You wanted to be better. It made you the ideal candidate for the Program. The BCD doesn’t just help regulate behavior. We used it to plant false memories. To help you cope. And it was working. It was working so well. We’ll fix you Ben, I promise. State police are already on their way to bring you in. We’ll make you right as rain again.”

I smash the vid-screen with my fist. Amy blurs and disappears. I walk over to the sink and scrub the blood off my hands. I won’t let them take me back. I knock on Lauren’s door and ask to borrow her tools. “Wouldn’t you know it? My sink is acting up now,” I tell her. She asks me if I want to come over for coffee tomorrow morning. I see a flash of my hands around my wife’s neck. “Not tomorrow,” I say. “Got an early shift down at Splitsville. Maybe next time.”

Back at my place, I put the toolbox on the counter and open it up. I decide the Phillips-head should work best. I make a real mess of it, but I eventually get it out. It’s such a little thing. No larger than my thumbnail. I toss the BCD aside and then something happens. The memories come flooding back. All of them. All at once. Eddy sitting on the floor, playing with his cars. He was so little. He didn’t mean any harm when he crashed them into the wall. He didn’t know any better.

I should have known better, but I couldn’t stop myself. I feel all of it. The weight of his little body as I tossed it aside. The last breaths from my wife’s lips as I blamed her for making me do it. It’s too much, all at once. The memories are choking me. I can’t breathe. Thankfully, it doesn’t last long. A kind sense of relief softly passes through me, knowing at least I won’t hurt anyone ever again, before everything turns to black.