Lower CoSMOS: Of Further Use

There are days when it takes the body to disresemble itself…

…from identification without technology or outside influences aiding in searching for the proper name, address, phone, number, blood type, etc. But who cares in situations like these? Army needed quick cash. Around here, employers fired blood sacks left and right for any reason after the protests started for a new collective agreement with the government. Army thought he was next, and contingencies needed to be made to keep his run-down, electrically deficient apartment. The door opened to his place. A little light came from the hall, slicing into the bleak room where Army sat on the floor, his back to the foot of his couch. His pupils dilated.

            “Dude, no light yet?” Chauncy said as he lumbered his way in, swaying from side to side, his long blond hair slapped from his right to left, skimming his leather pants. He sat on the couch near Army, whose butt numbed hours ago from staying in the same position.

            “I got this, bro. Remember that old saying? I got this. Or you got this, or. We got this?” Army waved a bandaged wrist in front of Chauncy’s face.

            “Dude. Did you try?” said Chauncey, “It’s not that bad, Arm. Not a bad arm, you know. We got this. I got a gig.” Army pivoted his head to a grinning Chauncey. He nodded a few times, waiting for Army to catch on.

            “Totally,” said Chauncey.

            “We will both be homeless,” Army said.

            “Well shit, bro, who isn’t now? But were we always? Some people have never had a place of their own.”

            Army scooted his body along the hardwood floor, his jeans warming and transferring the heat to his skin. He stretched out his right foot, pointed it straight, and shut the door.

            “Dude. I thought about that ahead of time. Now I have to stand up and open it again. We need the light.”

            “For what, so I can see your words when you tell me?”

            Chauncey paused and thought it over.

            “You have your phone. I just don’t want anyone looking in here. You know how they are,” said Army.

            “Bro. All we have to do, because I live here too, I will help you, is deliver a dead dude. But he died like…” Chauncey leaned forward on the couch, his leather jacket getting in the way of his arm reaching into his back pocket for his phone.

            “I think I cracked it this time,” Chauncey said.

            “See, I told you.”

            Chauncey double-checked the screen on his phone, “No, bro. It’s ok. Anyway, he died like three hours ago.”

            “Dead?”

            “It’s a ton of cash, bro. We could live here at least another week, maybe two,” Chauncey said though his confidence did not transfer to a worried and indolent Army.

            “You drive, bro.”

            He did. Army took his time. He kept the car at a steady pace with others behind him at spots in the dark city where honking at slow traffic was a tradition.

            “Go, bro.”

            “No, tell me first, and then I will see if this is good,” Army said. Chauncey kept his eyes on the streets, trying to recognize the neighborhood.

            “This is the wrong way,” he said.

            “Well, you need to tell me,” Army said.

            “Head north to the hospital. It’s kind of cool; I have a password and everything.” Chauncey said.

            “North? To Hollywood?”

            “We pick him up in the back. They have him waiting.”

            Army turned on his hazard lights, peered around the city for any pedestrians or people in their proximity, and pulled over to the side.

            “Get out,” Army said.

            “Dude. It’s what you wanted,” said Chauncey, “I am telling you two more weeks at home, sweet home. It will be worth it.”

            Army kept blinking his eyes as if he had something irritating them. His lower set of teeth expanded, and his mouth gaped open. He wanted the words to come out, but a tear ran down, hitting his jeans. Chauncey frustrated Army for the last time of the many last chances that he gave his friend.

            “It might be a permanent thing, but I mean, from what they said, this is a natural causes death. So they can’t just go around offing any actor they want to,” said Chauncey.

            “Off? Like killing? We are killing people?”

            “He’s dead, bro.”

            “What actor?”

            “You know Danny Blake?” Army stared ahead; several cars passed them. He watched them go by, ensuring they continued without noticing their vehicle. Then, finally, he shut off the engine.

            “He does that oatmeal…Well, if I would have known sooner commercial,” Army said, making his best Danny Blake impression.

            “I am bad at explaining this, bro. We get him in here and take him to a studio. That is it. That’s all, and we are done. Seriously. Come on.”

*****

            They sat eighty-year-old Danny up in a chair. A light hung overhead, and a small crew set the remaining lights up around him.

            “Good. Good. Very natural still. They did not miss anything on his face,” the Director said.

            “When are we going?” Army whispered and stood away from Danny. Chauncey followed but stayed shoulder-to-shoulder with his roommate.

            “You know you are both in the way now, hurry,” said the Director, “Get his clothes off and change him.”

            “Dude, did you hear that?” Army whispered again. Chauncey raised his hands as if waiting for someone to tell him he was under arrest.

            “Us?” Chauncey said.

            “Yes, strip him down. I promise you he will not put up a fight as he did in some of his movies, so don’t be a scaredy cat.” Some of the crew laughed.

            “What the hell is the crew here for?

            “Didn’t you hear them? To laugh at you. It is a great job,” the Director said. Some of them forced out a chuckle.

            “No, Dude. Let’s go.”

            “It’s enough for two weeks, Arm. Two weeks. Home sweet home,” Chauncey said.

            “This is so wrong,” Army said.

            “What does that mean anyway?” Chauncey said.

            “Nevermind,” said Army. Both of them moved toward Danny.

            “After that, you wash him.”

            Army furrowed his brow, “Didn’t they do that?”

            “Ah, you are right,” the Director.

            Chauncey tilted his head to the floor to stare at the drain pitched in the middle of the room.

            “So. That’s why they have the drain, bro,” he said.

*****

            Daniel Fulton Blake, star of stage, screen, commercials, television, internet ads, and hologram gift card spokesman, had one more thing to sell. The crew set a round table in front of him, draped with old linen. A bottle of gold ‘Soul flush’ vodka stood beside his arm, holding onto a glass of alcohol. Both body delivery men hung back behind the crew as they continued to set up the camera for the first shot. Danny had on a gold silk suit, and his hair was remade for the occasion, slicked back and as stationary as the ground under him.

            “He looks so real,” said Chauncey, “Does it count if we force an autograph?”

            “Action,” said the Director.

            Everyone quieted for a minute though it seemed longer.

            “Cut!”

            “I don’t get it,” Army whispered to Chauncey.

            “CGI-AI,” a crew member told him, picking up some of Army’s words.

*****

            Army trailed behind Chauncey, who was eager to leave the studio lot. Security had their eyes locked on them, fingering their weapons and side arms as they passed. Army glanced at them and raised his arm for a quick wave. They parked in the lot a few more paces from their 2017 Lincoln continental. Chauncey rubbed his teeth with his index finger, fishing for remnants of food that was not there. The nervous habit caused bleeding gums. He checked his digit.

            “Do you realize what we did?” Army said.

            “Got to eat and live a few more weeks, bro.”

            Chauncey stopped at the car. He put his hand out to Army, who rounded him to see his face.

            “I’ll drive. I need to,” Chauncey said.

            “You know, don’t you?”

            “Bro, I think so,” Chauncey said.

            “Do you think they announced his death? Did you see it on the news or the web yet?” said Army.

            “They told me, so I believe them,” Chauncey said.

            “No. No. Think about it. How many actors have they done this to? They are shooting a commercial, but didn’t you see them change the set and bring the other actors in?”

            “Yeah, bro. I was there.”

            “How many are dead now, but no one knows we’ve been watching dead people this entire time. They are probably mapping him entirely right now. I mean. Who wouldn’t?” said Army.

            “Can we blaze out?”

            Army gave him the keys, and Chauncey opened the door to get in. Army entered the passenger side. His eyes stayed with Chauncey, who attempted to start the car.

            “How did you know about this?” Army said.

            “A friend, bro. We needed the money. What does it matter?”

            “This has got to be some illegal shit we are doing,” said Army.

            “I don’t know, man. I would think. I mean. If I were an old dude like him, living in my feces sometimes and peeing myself while eating baby food because I can’t chew, it would be nice to know people cared.”

            “No, they don’t care about him,” said Army.

            “Yeah, but at least he is still of some use, you know, bro?” Chauncey said.

            “If you put it that way, isn’t doesn’t sound quite as horrible,” Army said.

            “Just wait until you see how they find lottery winners,” Chauney said.

By H.J. Trotter