Brave New Worlds

French fries. French fries from the den of the evil clown, where they don't even pretend to use potatoes anymore. I hate those french fries, so golden and crispy on the outside, so moist and fluffy on the inside—

No no no no no, I do not want them.

I manage to get past the first shadow the clown casts on my route with relative calm, but by the second the itching is more intense and all I can imagine are french fries. Disgusting, nasty, tasty, delicious french fries.

This is not the way to walk into a job interview.

The site of my two o'clock appointment looms in the office tower ahead. right behind a third opportunity to relieve the craving. I keep moving, trying not to think about how well the diabetes-inducing corn syrupy sweet ketchup complements the blood pressure-raising salty savor of the fries.

I make a full circuit through the revolving doors of the office building before going back toward the object of my involuntary, chemically-enhanced desire.

The food odors pounce immediately and I can almost feel the molecules sticking to my clothes. Even if I turn around now I'll smell like fast food.

'Let's get this over with,' I say unnecessarily to the credit scanner, staring it down until it greenlights my ability to pay for food I don't really want. None of the automat compartments contain fries, which is unusual, so I punch hard at a picture of french fries on the order panel. The dents in the panel tell me I'm not the only customer who feels antagonistic about buying food here.

It shouldn't take more than a minute or two for the fries to appear in a compartment, so when they don't I start pounding on the automat.

'Hey, hurry it up!' I yell, scratching furiously at the bump on my forehead.

The back door of the empty fry compartment slides open. An eye stares out at me.

'What?'

'Fries. I need fries. '

'We're out of fries,' the voice behind the automat says.

'How can you be out of fries? You've got Shooters out there making people crave the damned things!'

'That's why we're out. '

'Doesn't the head office coordinate this stuff?'

The eye blinks twice and the door slides shut.

It's 1:47, enough time to go back to the second place if I hurry. But I don't hurry. I pace in the street, muttering to myself like a lunatic. It's almost five minutes before I quit trying to control the craving and dash back the way I came.

I give the next credit scanner an especially dirty look, then yank open the one compartment with fries. I stop only to pump blobs of ketchup from the dispenser. On my way out I pass an old man scratching his arm as he raves through an open compartment, 'How can you be out of fish sandwiches?!'

'Try the one on third and Pine,' I say around a mouthful of fries.

CraveTech's offices are both plush and haphazard, the combined result of a record-breaking IPO and the latest design fad: early dot-com retro. I arrive sweaty, greasy, nauseated, and thoroughly pissed off. I smile at the receptionist anyway, a fashionably sulky blonde boy seated in a vintage Aeron chair behind a desk made out of two sawhorses topped with an old door and a crystal vase.

'Alex Monroe. I have a two o'clock with Mr. Avery. '

'Two o'clock?' he says pointedly. It's 2:02. 'Have a seat. Something to drink while you're waiting?'

'Water please. ' I'll probably retain every ounce. Damn salty french fries. There are pills that reduce bloating, of course — they sell them out of the same automat — but I wouldn't hand over any more of my money.

I've just taken my first sip when a young man pops out of the office. He looks like a typical startup manager: handsome, well-dressed, and almost certainly in over his head.

'Ms. Monroe, welcome!' He bounds up to me, hand extended. During the handshake he nods toward my forehead. 'Ah, I see you use our products!' He laughs heartily at his own joke. I laugh back. I want this job.

'It's a wonderful time to be in chemical advertising, Ms. Monroe,' he says, shepherding me into his office. I notice he has a proper desk. 'We have some exciting deals in the works. Exciting, exciting deals. '

'Really?' I say, distracted by the fry-lump in my stomach.

'Oh, yes. Now that the Supreme Court has reversed most of those class action suits, Shooters don't have to be stealthy. We've had to discontinue the tobacco lines for the time being, but otherwise it's open season on consumers. '

I make another effort to join in his laughter, and reaching toward the bump on my head add, 'It certainly is effective. '

'Indeed. ' He smiles like he loaded the dart himself. 'So,' he says, picking up my resume,'I see your background is in print. '

'Yes, but I've done some work in fragrance influence, and I'm very interested in chemical advertising's potential. '

'Well, it is a growing field, plenty of room for trailblazers, especially with campaigns as impressive as these. ' He sets my resume aside. 'And of course we still have quite a lot of synergy with print. ' He pulls an inch-long Crave dart out of a drawer and drops it on the desk between us. I resist the urge to cringe at the sight of the wretched thing.

'What do you see?' he asks.

I want to say a menace, but instead I tap the delivery barrel and give the context- appropriate answer. 'Unused ad space. '

Suddenly he's a schoolmaster who has finally found a bright pupil in a classroom full of dunces.

'Exactly, Ms. Monroe. Exactly. No square millimeter wasted, that's what I say. ' He leans across the table and whispers conspiratorially, 'We're looking at co-branding an AOL-Time-Warner-Starbucks Lattepalooza Crave with a Forever Fitness session discount. '

'Wow. '

'Yes. Coupons on the darts. How does that grab you?'

'Coupons. '

'Tiny coupons, like the ones on swizzle sticks. Can't you just see it? You get Stuck, so you want the product, but you're also concerned about your weight. The coupon helps. The coupon tells you the provider cares about your concerns. It tells you they understand. ' He leans back in his chair, my cue to speak.

'Interesting. But I'd go log-in rebate rather than immediate discount. Same message, same coverage, easier on the bottom line. '

He leans forward again. 'I like the way you think, Ms. Monroe. '

I hate meeting at Sandra's house — her cats are constantly trying to climb up on my lap, I suspect because they know I'm allergic to them. But Sandra is my best friend from college, and also my cell leader, so I usually end up here at least once a week.

'Whoa, right in the forehead,' she says when she opens the door.

'Yeah, and that's an ugly one on your neck. '

'That's a hickey. '

'Oh, uh, sorry. Or congratulations, I guess. '

'Eh,' she shrugs, heading to the kitchen.

I follow. 'Um, aren't you a little old to be getting those?'

'Maybe, but Liam's not too old to be giving them. ' Sandra has a taste for idealistic young revolutionaries.

She starts to make herbal tea, and I know enough not to ask for coffee instead.

We take the tea to the lumpy, cat-hair covered futon in the living room. 'How'd the interview go?'

'Shaky start. Getting Stuck really threw me off. But I did manage to laugh at his jokes, and, sad to say, I'm more or less qualified. '

'You do speak their language. ' Sandra likes to remind me that I've only recently stopped being part of the problem. 'So where do things stand?' she asks.

'He said he only had one more interview, and he'd call to let me know by the end of the week. '

'Did you pick up anything while you were there?'

'Not much about the next formulas. AOL-Time-Warner-Starbucks is definitely in now, but that's old news.