“Who told you this?”
“Berky.”
The doll’s smile now seemed smug and triumphant. “So, now it’s okay to talk about Berky?”
Nadia drifted into song again: “Lord, if the blues overtake me; I’m gonna rock on away from here...”
CHAPTER 3
FUTURE CONTRAPUNTAL
What exactly happened depends on who you ask. When the possibilities intertwine like a hundred people having sex with a herd of goats, we call it a “barblefarb.”
—Canduka Cantor
Berky stepped into the lobby of the Crowley-Burgess Hotel on East Bay Street, a few blocks from the bar where he’d left Popkins and Sundar. He refused to give the doorperson his duffel bag, holding it close to his body as if it contained precious jewels.
“I’m looking for a conference on empowering men,” he said.
The diminutive doorperson, wearing an immaculate gray outfit with gold trim, forearm patches for tech interfaces, and a cap that said, “CBH,” frowned at Berky’s red polo shirt with its suspicious red stain. She eyed the bag with equal suspicion but decided that, with ten minutes to go on her shift, this was not the time to challenge a customer, even if he looked like a ditz. She tapped her sleeve, and the display patch came alive. She scrolled through the event schedule. “Sorry. There are no such conferences.”
“It’s supposed to be on the lower level.”
“Hmm. There’s a place we sometimes let not-for-profits use on a not-to-interfere basis. If that’s the case, you’ll have to go up before you go down. Take the escalator to the mezzanine, then go past the Grand Arcadia Ballroom. You’ll see a service elevator. Take it down to the basement on the River Street level. At the far end of the hall is a place we call the Swamp Room. Maybe that’s what you’re searching for.” She stretched her lips into a fake smile, ending the engagement.
Berky rode the escalator, walked the palatial corridor, and found a video wall near the ballroom pitching Human Endowment Rights (HER). The blurb intrigued him. He bypassed the event registration desk, wedged himself into the middle of a badged group of well-dressed women, and entered the event.
Marcy Darcy, a 5-foot-2-inch African American beauty dressed in a sequined white jumpsuit, like some magical fairy queen, walked to the podium as if ascending to a throne. The crowd honored her with applause, cheers, and a few wolf whistles.
Marcy, Marcy, Marcy, they chanted.
Her spotlit face glowed like an alien black sun, magnified to immense proportions in a full-color, high-resolution hologram floating above her position.
Marcy bowed, then raised her arms to acknowledge her fans. The majority were older women who acted like adoring teenagers at a rock concert. She smiled confidently, waited for the din to subside, then spoke to her subjects about hopes and fears and promises. Her voice boomed from speakers in the ceiling, walls, and floor.
“The future is bright,” she said, pausing for effect. “We are transforming the human race into peace-loving beings who respect all creatures, all lands, and our fragile environment. These changes are due—in part—to genetic science. There’s a blossoming of equality for all. Can you feel it?”
The crowd cheered. Marcy raised her hands to quiet them down. In the back of the room, she heard a cry of “Bullshit!”
Heads turned toward the voice.
Marcy saw a large bald white man in a red polo shirt being escorted out of the hall. “I guess he doesn’t feel it,” she said coolly. “To my guys in the back: please help that confused man get in touch with his feelings.”
The crowd erupted in laughter.
Marcy took control. “Archaic thinking and habits still dominate some non-believers. But we know better, don’t we?”
The holographic display hovering above the stage zoomed to show the dimples in her cheeks, magnifying them like twin space warps. People screamed and stomped.
“I need your help. With your generous support, our non-profit organization will continue to ethically guide governments and commercial companies to make the right choices for the future.”
Her fans stood in elation.
Three brawny women shoved Berky away from the ballroom entrance while a small crowd gathered to witness the brouhaha. He played tug-of-war with one of the female bouncers, trying to retrieve his duffel bag, finally hitting her with his leather document case until she let go. Things got ugly quickly.
The tallest bouncer, matching Berky’s height and dressed in a black suit and red power tie, flexed rope-like tendons in a neck that moored a butch-cut head to a powerful body. “You need to leave by the service elevator, or we’ll call the police,” she said.
Someone in the crowd yelled, “Slap him down,” initiating a four-person chant: Slap him down. Slap him down. Slap him down ...
Berky turned toward the throng. “You’re all idiots.”
The tall woman stepped between Berky and a group of five chanters, folding her arms. Her smaller partner, who had attempted to take away his duffel bag, pressed the down button on the elevator. The doors opened, and the three bouncers shoved him in.
“Fucking assholes,” Berky said, under his breath.
As the doors closed, he gave the women a one-fingered salute. “Fuck you.”
He rode the elevator to the basement level. It wasn’t difficult finding the Swamp Room. No fancy digital signage, just a metal plate suspended on a chain from a hook in the wall. The cryptic title, hand-written in Magic Marker, read: Hereditary Investments for Men (HIM).
In a cramped, windowless conference room with peeling paint and erratic ceiling lights, Canduka Cantor, 55 years old, frowned as a new arrival interrupted pre-meeting small talk. With snorting and loud “Excuse me’s,” the large young man with a stained red polo shirt and gleaming cue-ball-shaped head teetered under the burden of a large green duffel bag. He squeezed his way toward the remaining seat, bumping the trash can near the door and stumbling over a backpack crammed with equipment cables for the projection system. The man stood for a moment on the opposite end of the table from Cantor, staring, seemingly oblivious to the thirteen other seated men. Finally, the man eased his bag to the floor, sat down, and thundered, “Nice view.”