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The Encounter with Synthetic Steven (Short Story)
The Encounter with Synthetic Steven
A woman's niche is in the kitchen. At least that's what my husband Robert tells me, but he doesn't know that I'm here today. The sun whips my back and my choice of footwear goes flip-flop. My bikini is the one he picked out for me on my birthday--red and green with a white seam. Little black kids spit an aimless trail of watermelon seeds as they scramble toward their destination (and where are their parents?). Seagulls scavenge morsels of food like Tampa bay homeless people.
At this moment, part of my mind thinks about my absentmindedness, for how could this blond have forgotten her own sunglasses? But at least now, because of my squinting eyes, I can almost fit in with all these Asian tourists walking around here with fanny packs. Though a fanny pack would surely draw attention to my legs; they haven't seen the sun for a while and it shows. These bare legs of mine walk toward the first attraction that comes up. With this one, the thrill-seeker picks up a yellow tube and rides it down a squiggle of a water ride. This definitely looks more exciting than mopping the kitchen floor or re-arranging the spice bottles.
After 45 minutes of a staircase pilgrimage, I am much relieved that there actually exists a final floor to this attraction. The lardy woman before me with her Tweety bird leg tattoo and black boyfriend were beginning to make me feel uncomfortable. Finally, I arrive just one white trash human away from a fun, watery doom!
The lifeguard, wearing his whistle like a gold medal, sits droopy on his beach chair and commands, "go," as the water foams and shuffles. He looks middle eastern. So this must be a job he does for fun; his primal one being, running his dad's convenient store.
My anticipation grows greater than that one monday when the new vacuum cleaner package came in. My turn is now! But then I hear a collective whining from the queue of bodies behind me: A latino girl in a You Want Dis shirt exclaims, "watch where yous going essay!" A white fraternity drunkard exclaims, "You come back here! I'll kill you! I don't give a fuck!" And the rest of the humans murmur amongst themselves.
The perpetrator charges in, bumps his tube against everyone, but doesn't look at them. Oh no. He is determined. His gaunt figure and tight, black attire make him a black goose among white chickens.
As soon as he approaches, the lifeguard jumps out from the chair and stands in front of the water slide with his hands out as if in position to await one of his people's strapped bomb ignitions. He then exclaims, "and where do you think you are going?!"
But the lifeguard seems to be nonexistent to this perpetrator. With his red eye shadow and motionless face, the gaunt man puts his tube aside and freezes five inches away from him, repositions his head to stare him down, readjusts his hands to cup his hips, and proclaims, "you're in the way." And upon ending this proclamation, his eyebrow raises up and remains there as if expecting the brown man to just shoo away and resume to whatever ordinary thing he has to do. But seeing that the man is stubborn, the perpetrator proceeds to drastic measures.
His eyes open wide and emit a foggy substance.
In reaction, the lifeguard voices, "wh-what the hell?!" And soon after, his tank top and swimming trunks loosen. He starts shrinking! And the more he shrinks, the higher pitch his panicked voice becomes until he is eventually no bigger than a beetle, hiding under clothes.
The gaunt man, seeing that the lifeguard is no longer a problem, goes on to his original goal: to ride the slide. He regains the tube but then realizes he is not in a tube-sliding kind of mood, so he decides to go tube-less. He then suddenly opens his jaw and punctures his fangs into the tube, then tosses the flattening entity aside carelessly. He places his two-inch platform boots into the jetting water and folds his long legs down. The water seems to get meaner as he places himself within it as if the ride itself knew who it was dealing with. He raises his arms in a fist-clenching gesture and is on his way.
As he drains on into the abyss of the ride, a song emits from inside which sounds to be a song by Funker Vogt.
After this whole experience, my whole anticipation for the actual ride deteriorates. My goal now is to simply meet this guy! Regressing toward the exit I go. The gross guys in line sneak a view of my jiggling breasts.
At the ride's exit area, a flock situates around the ride's exit-pool as if the wavering motion alone mesmerizes. This goes on for about a minute, until a sudden burst shoots out from under the water, spraying a potent storm some twenty yards towards civilians--a infant, a team member, a Jew grandmother in a wheelchair.
The gaunt man appears in mid-air and floats for three seconds until his boots find a place to tread on.
Excited, I run up to him and tap his shoulder (and it is dry for some reason). I compliment him on his boots in hopes of kick starting a conversation, and then I ask for his name.
He then replies, "I am Synthetic Steven. If I don't know you already in person, don't bother."
