Meeting the Master

When she opened her doe eyes and stared innocently into my buckeyes I fell instantly in love.  She was easily the most beautiful young woman I had ever seen.  Simultaneous with this feeling came the idea that I knew her from somewhere; she seemed instantaneously familiar.  Licking her full, parched lips it became evident she intended to speak.  I held my breath in anticipation, anxious to hear the dulcimer tones of her voice.

"Fuck," she said, "I was afraid this day would come."

Her gaze rose to examine the Mark4 visor on my head then shifted quickly to the badge on my chest, the books-on-a-shelf icon of a BookForce marshal.

I said, "What's your name?"

"Felicia Monk," she said.  "And yours?"

"Lee," I said.  "Lee Rowe."

"Lee Rowe?  You have the same name as the guy who wrote Utomepia, the dystopic novel recently made into a hit movie."

"Not only do I share the same name, I'm the same guy."

"You're kidding?" she said.  "What are you doing here?  Why are you a BookForce marshal?"

"It's a long story."

"Well, if you're not in a huge hurry to take me in, I've got time to listen to a good story.  In fact, I was hoping to get back to see my father before being incarcerated.  His village is about an hour from here--as the crow flies."

When I set her feet on the ground and helped her stand upright, I said, "Are you hurt?"

Pausing to mentally examine her physical wellbeing, she said, "I don't think so.  Everything seems to be in the right place."

"I'll say."

"What do you mean?" she said, smiling--a magnetic smile that altered the direction of the north/south needle in the compass of my heart.

"Nothing."

"Do we have time to visit my father?"

"Yes," I said, knowing full well that I was committing myself to the life of a fugitive once again.

I trailed her through a forest of pine trees, up a rocky escarpment encrusted with escargot-like fossils, underneath a rock arch that resembled the North American gesture for "OK," and finally into a tiny village of huts that were vaguely reminiscent of the domiciles of the Yanomami Indians of the Amazon rainforest.  Beyond the village, on a deforested hill, sat a grass hut significantly larger than the others and made even more conspicuous by the enormous white satellite dish sitting next to it.

As we entered through the glass-bead curtain we saw, sitting on a mat at the rear of the living room, a man of about my age with flowing white hair and beard whose white robe could only have been fashioned of the finest linen fabric.  He appeared to be meditating, his eyes crossed slightly as they stared at the tip of his bony nose, his hands positioned on his lap in the Dhyana Mudra.  In the process of following his breath  he seemed completely oblivious to our presence.

Felicia led me back into the kitchen, and I watched as she pecked a command onto the InstaMeal typepad.  "Are you hungry?" she said.

"I could eat."

"I'm having green corn tamales.  Same for you?"

"Yes."

"Something to drink?  Numeade?"

I nodded my approval.

We had just finished eating and were about eight ounces deep into our pints of Numeade when her father entered the space.

When I stood for the introduction, Felicia said, "This is my father, Zen."

He snapped his fingers and pointed at me with his right hand.  "Lee Rowe," he said.  "I saw you not long ago on the 'Show-n-Tell Show.'"

We shook hands.

"Transgressed, did you?" he said.  "Got a little too big for your britches just as your thirty-days-of-fame came to an end?"

"Something like that."

"Been there done that," he said, turning to the InstaDrink for a Numeade.  He got another for me and Felicia, too.

I was feeling no pain by the time we retired to the living room to chat.  Felicia sat near to me on the luxurious white leather couch, and her presence was driving me to distraction.  I couldn't tell if the occasional bump of her knee against mine was intentional or not, but I kept looking forward to it.

Zen said, "You've had a taste of fame, and now you're not sure what to make of it.  You can work through the system to change the system, except the system never changes.  You'll be in the BookForce for most of the rest of your life.  You'll get a desk job eventually, and you might even experience a renewed yet oh-so-brief period of interest in your seminal work, but that's it."

He stopped to take a long pull on his Numeade, wiping his lips afterward on the sleeve of his robe.

"Or," he said, "you can do what I do:  self-publish and sell your stuff on eBlackMarket.glo.  It's easy.  You give your first book away for free.  That develops a following.  You charge almost nothing for your next few efforts, and you offer an occasional free giveaway to cement your fan base.  Once you've found your niche you begin charging the big bucks.  That's the way I succeeded with the Mime Mysteries."

"The Mime Mysteries?  You're I. Box?"

"One and the same."

By the time I finished my second drink I was wiped.

It must have been obvious because Zen said, "Look--we can talk about this tomorrow.  Felicia will show you to the guesthut."

She took me out the back door, along a flagstone walk lined with solar-powered path lights, and into the guesthut, which was twice the size of the other homes in the village.

Once inside, she said, "I hope you don't mind, but I have to take a quick shower.  I need to get the stench of fugitive sweat off of me."

"I don't mind."

Why she wasn't showering at her father's home I couldn't say, but the image of her disrobing in the bathroom wasn't at all offputting.  And when she emerged fifteen minutes later wearing a small towel wrapped around her wet head and a larger towel wrapped around her body I could feel my blood pressure rising.

She said, "I'm staying here tonight."

"Won't your father mind?"

"He'll be with Indira.  They've been an item ever since my mother left us."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"You wouldn't be sorry if you ever met her."

"Do you know where she is?"

"Yes.  She works at the Paso del Norte Agententiary."

That's all Felicia had to say, and immediately I understood why she seemed so familiar to me.  Not only had I met her mother before, but I had had intimate cuddle relations with her.