“Yeah, but . . .” The doctor trailed off. “You’re literally the poster child for the implant. Your face is on our billboards. Won’t you be out of a job if you do that? Maybe you should think about it.”
David tried to control his mounting frustration. “It’s my head. Haven’t you turned them off for other people?”
“Only for medical reasons. If someone develops a tumor or seizures or that kind of thing. Look, I’m going to call in the counselor . . .”
“I don’t need a counselor, for fuck’s sake. I need my head to be quiet. Why can’t anyone ever understand that?”
He didn’t see her press a panic button, but she must have, because there was a knock on the door and then a burly white male nurse stepped into the room without waiting for a response. When the door opened, David caught a glimpse of a security guard standing in the hallway. He knew what it looked like: he was a tall, fit ex-soldier, yelling at a much smaller woman.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell. I just don’t understand why I can’t have my Pilot turned off if I want it turned off. It’s obviously possible, since you said you do it for people who medically need it removed.”
The nurse nodded like he understood. “It’s something we can do, but we usually encourage people to talk to a counselor first, to make sure you actually want to do this, since you spent all that money to have one put in. And to decide whether you want it turned off, or removed entirely, which we discourage because of the risks of scar tissue and brain damage . . . In either case, you’d need to schedule an appointment.”
“That’s ridiculous. I made this appointment. I’m here.”
“You made this appointment as a consultation, not a procedure.”
“Fine. I’m leaving.” He wasn’t getting anywhere. They had no reason to placate him; he had to deal with them if he wanted this done, and they obviously weren’t going to let him do anything while they thought he was threatening them. The security guard followed him out.
Fine, so what was next? He had tasted quiet; he was done with loud. He pulled out his phone and used the app to cycle his Pilot down. It was supposed to slow the rate at which the Pilot fired, like downshifting a car, but as usual, it had no effect.
• • •
A few days later, Milo messaged David to meet at a club near his apartment. It was a tacky suburban tiki bar franchise, tropical vibe thousands of miles displaced from the tropics.
“What do you think?” Milo asked.
“It’s a bar?”
“I’m working here. Weekends. Bouncer, when the DJ’s spinning.”
“Seriously? Congrats.”
“Thanks. It’s not much compared to you, Poster Boy.”
“I’m happy to recommend you anytime you want.”
“They won’t have me.”
“Of course they will. You might not be pretty enough for posters, but you can still do the presentations. And you like yours more than I like mine.”
“A, fuck you, and B, fuck you and your fucking noise.”
That was how it always went. David never knew if it was his term for the thing he was feeling that was off. Like nobody was speaking the same language as he was. At least Milo didn’t humor him.
He remembered the other night, and Alyssa, who had said that her sister thought David was a good influence. Thinking about her made him remember the quiet he’d felt on the balcony that night. “Hey, Milo? I don’t suppose you’d give me Karina’s sister’s number?”
Milo eyed him suspiciously.
“Not to hook up with her, I swear. My intentions are pure. I want to follow up on something we talked about at the party.”
“Let me ask Karina if she’s okay with that. I’m already in trouble with her over this job. She says I can do better.”
David didn’t want to push, so he dropped it. Later that night, Milo sent the number, along with a note saying he loved David, he trusted him, and if he did anything to hurt Alyssa, Milo would be contractually obligated to hunt him down and kill him. David agreed to the terms.
The harder part would be asking his question without sounding too eager, without implying interest he didn’t have, or interest he kind of had, but was secondary to his primary question. Life was complicated. He still wasn’t exactly sure how to phrase the greeting so he didn’t come off badly, like he was trying to use her, the exact thing Milo was warning him off doing. Hi, this is David from the party? Or Hi, this is Milo’s friend David? Remember that guy you got high with the other night? He didn’t send any of them.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
DAVID
David Geller-Bradley, please dial extension 1412.
David grabbed his report on prisons and Pilots off the printer and headed back to his desk, thumbing through the pages as he walked. Really, he should have armed himself with this information before the health fair the week before; he resolved to do better about that in the future. If he was presenting at a place with specific needs, it was important to research them in advance.
There was an e-mail for his supervisor stuck to the bottom of his report. Nina printed and filed all her e-mails. David thought it was odd and wasteful, not to mention she was constantly forgetting to grab them off the printer, so that they’d all gotten used to making extra deliveries. He knocked on her open door and handed it to her.
David Geller-Bradley, please dial extension 1412.
She pointed at the phone quizzically.
“On my way back to my desk,” he said. “I’ll get it there.”
He’d heard them the first time, of course he had. They hadn’t given him two seconds to reply. He didn’t know which department 1412 was in. There were so many departments. The funny thing was that everyone knew him, the poster boy, but he didn’t know everyone. Need a speaker at an event? Call David. Need
