High Concept

A media satire about reality.

by Martin Schecter

....

The only person around was another typist in the neighboring cubicle. A woman with long red nails and knit halter-top under a red jacket. Trying to get away with being as sexy as she could, given the repressive, pharmaceutical environment. That was a good sign. He looked over top the partition and asked her for a clue.

"Yeah?" she replied, not interrupting or slowing down her 75-words-per-minute in the least.

"So. Um. I'm new. Can you tell me something about this place?"

"What 'cha want to know?" she said as she typed. He stared at her from over the partition. She was young, sexy, funky...but still looked vaguely familiar, like someone he might know from campus.

"I don't know," he said. "Like-what is it they do here?"

"Bio-Micro-PCS-Pharmaco delivery systems," she said. When he gave no response, she explained: "microscopic biochips programmed via satellite transmissions to deliver designer drugs."

"They can do that?"

"Sure," she said, sounding like they were talking about a new kind of radial tire. "Don't you read Scientific American?"

No, he didn't, as a matter of fact. But this was New York. He wasn't about to admit to his intellectual inadequacy now.

"I work for Dr. Kreuger, by the way," the woman offered. "He's the Senior Vice-Manager."

"My boss is the Assistant Vice-Manager." He held out his hand, but she didn't stop to take it. "I guess that means he reports to your boss." Wally went back to the keyboard and tried to keep up his typing speed while he kept up the conversation.

"So I guess that means you'll have to stand behind me in the employee lunch line."

He didn't reply, just typed.

She quickly looked around the partition and winked at him. "Don't worry, honey. It's just a joke."

"Oh. Oh yeah. I get it."

"My name's Clarissa," she said cheerily, with a smile.

"Wally."

"Wally, huh. Like Wally Zoom?"

"Yeah. That's it exactly." He was distracted for a moment-trying to figure out why his computer was trying to get his attention with some kind of sci-fi lizard on wheels that motored around on his desktop, urging him with a little sign flashing various homilies about not wasting time and getting back to work. Wally had the feeling that the longer he dallied, the more forceful the little computerized nudges would become.

Clarissa went on chatting. "Oh yeah. Exactly. I know what you mean. You even look a little bit like him."

"Like who?"

"Never mind." She hit Save/F10, Print F7, opened a new pack of gum, collected the output from the printer, proofread, stapled, tossed it in the OUT bin, then pulled out the next second transcription pad. She was back to typing in less than thirty seconds.

He peered back around the partition. "Jesus, you're good."

"I should be, honey. I've had enough practice. Don't worry-stay in this town a few months, you'll be just as good as me." Clack, clack, clack went her keyboard, like an elaborate molecular model falling into place.

"How'd you know I just moved here?"

"I can tell. It's not that hard." He shook his head.

"I tell you, I've had the weirdest experiences since I've come to New York."

"Do tell." She snapped her gum.

"It's like-my life could possibly be becoming a major interactive media event. I'm living in a room the size of a kitchen cupboard with only an out-of-syndication animated cartoon for company. I have no money, no future, and I thought I was coming here to be famous." God, just answer one simple letter....

"That's New York, darling."

"I'm completely serious."

"So's this city, Wally."