Night on Disco Mountain
God, I’m late. I’m always late.
Drycleaning. I wish. It’s laundry.
Gotta look good. Gotta get out of these low rent gigs. Gotta get paid.
Bills. Bills. Bills. Got bills. Always bills. And Inflation. So much. So little. So blah. Costs go up. Money go ‘gone’. I drive my shitbox. It’s just trash. All trash. It’s. Just. Bull…
“Watch where you’re going buddy!”
Out of control.
Gotta look good. Gotta optimize. Gotta collect. Work clothes make me look like a donkey. Gotta eat my oats.
Pullover. Full stop. Get dressed.
How about a polo shirt? No, that screams Terminix. A bowtie… Too College Republican. Tie? No. I look like a stripper. Lose the tie. Wait. Loosen it. Go for a measured Rat Pack. Yeah.
“Me and Dino will meet you down by the infinity pool.”
Crank it up. Big sunglasses. Bigger. The biggest. The best! America.
Get changed in your car. Cause that’s life. Visualize. Be who you want to be.
Alimony. Fuck alimony.
“Grinding. Huh. Hustling. Huh. Busting. Huh.”
I’m an old man. How did I get so fucking old? Bad hips. Bad breaks.
“Touchdown baby. Glory. Glory. Glory. Hallelujah.”
Balls. It’s another dirtbag motel. Like the second one today. I know them all. The bottom. The dregs. At least this one planted some flowers.
“Peonies?”
Pe. Oh, Nies. That’s a weird word. Disability Motel. That’s mine. Claimed it. Coined it. Disability Motel™. Shut up. Smarten up. You’re a professional, Dude. Banish those negative nellies. Visions board that shit. Manifest.
“Manifest.”
“Manifest.”
“Touchdown.”
Oh yeah.
Got my rolling suitcase. Betsy. We go places together–Betsy and I. Got the concrete fieldstone steps. Got the classic motel feel. CLUNK. CLUNK. Pain in the ass my old mule.
Metal bars. Theft prevention. The Super 8 Industrial Complex. Disability Palace™. That’s better. That’s a bumper sticker.
“Ugh, I’m stuck on the stairs.”
Fuck you. What happened to the ADA?
“People havin’ needs or somethin’!”
Knock. Knock. Remember the pitch. Keep it tight. You need this. Manifest. Visualize. Smile. Touchdown.
Door unlocks. A remote.
“It’s open,” she says.
I push it open.
Moment of truth. These rooms can be so sad. The smells I’ve… experienced.
This one’s okay. Not too much fast food. No diapers. That I can see… She lets the light in. She’s got plants. A real green thumb. Is that art? Did she paint that? No bad smells.
“Thank Christ,” I mumble.
Whoops.
She’s in the corner in her motorized wheelchair. Her Herr DX13. The Cadillac of Chairs. The Jazzy 900 ES is for punks! These ones got the tiny spider feet. Better for mobility. And nightmares.
I’m sweating. I gotta do more reps. Later.
She’s wearing sweats. Lululemon. That’s aspirational. She’s got the brain implants. Her energy… Confident. Analytical maybe? Yeah, but cool. Corporate, but cool.
I hold out my hand. “I’m Ryder. I was sent by the agency,” I say.
“I know. I’m waiting,” she says.
I was expecting the old Hawkins’ voice.
“I’m sorry, I’m late,” I stammer.
She’s kind of sexy. But fierce. Boss lady.
“You look like a stripper,” she says.
“I’m supposed to be a nurse,” I say
What was she like before the accident? Kinder? Gentler?
“Like a Reno nurse?” She says.
“I like your space,” I say.
Establish trust. Remember that Client Forward seminar. Build a connection.
“I’m rolling calls in an hour. If you’re late, you’re costing me money,” she says.
Right. Money. Right. Inflation. Right. Poverty. Right. Despair. That old crushing feeling.
Go straight for the pitch. Get the money.
“You got the Medicare Schedule F QR Code?” I ask.
“On my ipad,” she says.
She holds her screen tight.
“Let me run through the options…” I say.
“I want Option C. With the aftercare supplement. Your manager said that it was…” Damn. She did their homework. OK. Be cool. You’re already at yes.
“Don’t you want to know the copay?” I ask.
“I know your name. And I don’t care,” she says.
I can see on her paperwork that her name is Jessica.
“Today, I want you to call me Raven,” she says.
Her Herr DX13 moves towards me. Its tiny spider legs pitter patter. Through the blankets, I catch a glimpse of what’s left of her human legs.
A gripper thrusts her ipad towards me. I scan the QR code with my phone. The words of the immortal Shep Gordon ring true: “Always remember. To never forget. To always get paid.”
My phone beeps.
“A copy of the receipt has been sent to your inbox. Please fill out a brief customer survey at the end of our Remote Session. It would help with my ranking,” I say.
“Can we begin?” She says.
I click open Betsy. Get my shit. Wires plus the console. I always feel like I’m selling cosmetics out of tupperware. Leggings. Supplements. Body jackin’. Whatevs. Pound that beat.
“As an extrasensory tech, I need to quickly go over our safety protocols…” I say.
“I thought you would be a woman,” She says.
That takes the wind out of me. I pull out several bundles of cables to regain focus.
“5, 6, 7, 8… I know you asked for a woman. But Melodie called in sick…” I reply.
“You were available…” She says.
I lay out the cables on the bed.
She looks upset. “…I’ve never had a man before,” she says.
“9, 10, 11… First time for everything,” I reply.
EKG tabs are out. Conductive gel. She chews on her lip. What’s she thinking about?
“What’s it like to have a penis?” She asks.
“12, 13, 14…” Shit, I lost count. “I don’t know… Flappy?” I reply.
“Like hetero-normative cis male privilege?” She says.
“Maybe. Sure. I guess… What?” I say.
“Like what’s normal?” She says.
I clean my hands with disinfectant.
“Like it’s a piece of skin on my body. I pee out of it. It gets hard when I get horny. I try not to get it smacked when I play sports,” I say.
I apply the conductive paste.
“What’s it like to have a vagina?” I ask.
“It’s warm… was… I’ve had trouble since the accident,” she says.
I peel the EKG tabs.
“And you just want to feel…”
“Normal… Maybe a little bit horny.”
I apply the tabs to her temple…
“Sure, doesn’t everyone?” I reply.
“I feel like a Mothertruckin’ Apache Attack Helicopter,” she says.
…And wire the tabs in.
“Can you feel anything below your neck?” I ask.
“Sometimes my big toe feels like it’s just floating out there on itchy island,” she says.
I calibrate.
“Can you feel the pulses in your arms? Legs? Chest? And your neck?” I ask.
She nods. Good. We’re calibrated.
“What’s our safety word?” I ask.
“An absolute death machine…” she says.
I take off my jacket and tie.
“Don’t play dumb,” I say.
My input jacks are visible. I hook the blue cables up to them. I place a large metal syringe on the side table.
“Steven Malkmus,” she says.
I record the safeword. And give a thumbs up.
“Didn’t peg you for an indie rock fan?” I say.
“Sure, whatever,” she says.
“I like his Post-Pavement stuff,” I say.
We share a smile. I grab her hands. They’re freezing cold. “I’m holding your hands.”
“I know. I’m paralyzed. Not blind,” she says.
I squeeze them.
“Remember the rules. No weird shit. OK, not too much of it. I’m not a fan of food stuff. You break me. You buy me. No violence,” I say.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I give you my consent,” she says.
“You got the ice cold water in the fridge?” I ask.
“Yeah it’s in a bucket,” she says.
“Good, that’s our first failsafe. Splash me if the rig goes numb,” I say.
“That’s a weird name for your body,” she says.
“Second. There’s a syringe of paralytic on the side table in case we spazz out,” I say.
“Can’t say that word anymore,” she says.
“I’m sorry. Flailing so bad that I tear tissue and end up in the ER,” I say.
She locks eyes with me. Her voice is loud and clear.
“Are you taking the B train up to the DJ booth? Or are we just going to talk?” she says.
“I prefer to call it the wings,” I say.
“As in waiting in the…” she says.
I mumble a short prayer.
“Saint Giles keep us…”
“Honey, this ain’t Catholicism. It’s witchcraft.”
I wave my hands like an angel flaps its wings. Buh Bye. I strap on the headpiece.
“How’s your wifi?” I ask.
She nods to the terminal on top of the dresser.
“Ehhh,” she says.
I turn left. I turn right.
“Lag’s manageable,” I say.
You don’t want too much lag. That’ll make you puke. And I don’t feel like cleaning sheets. I crank my Woodsy Owl timer and place it on her side table.
“Timer’s on,” I say.
I gently place the goggles over her eyes. I tighten the strap.
“Ugh,” she says
“Blink,” I say.
She blinks.
“Good…. Here we go,” I say.
I lie down on the bed next to my console.
“3…2…1…”
I flip the switch. Push the button. Trigger the device.
Everything goes fisheyed.
Numbness. Hot and sweaty. I’m a slab of butter.
My limbs are echoes. I’m now sitting offstage left clutching my knees. Waiting. Minding my own business. Watching the outside world through a peephole.
I meditate. I picture myself as a boat on a river. Assume the Lotus position. I breathe in. I breathe out. She’s now in control.
I can feel his fingertips.
I stare down at his toes. I wiggle them. For forever… Like they’re my toes.
I turn, and look over at my body. Those goggles look stupid on me. I wave a hand in front of my unmoving face. Is that what I look like? God, I look so angry.
I stand up.
Holy Shit, I’m standing.
I rub my feet on the carpet.
Oh. Oh. Ohhhhh. It feels like… electricity.
My shoulders. Oooooh. He’s been working out.
Check this out.
“Boom. Boom. Boom.”
I can flex!
Oh man… woman… Man! I can jump! I can spin!
Got a bit of a paunch. Too many burritos, dude.
[I can hear you.]
“Shut up, this is me time… But seriously eat more fruit,” I say.
[Fuck you, are you my dietician?]
“Fuck me? Fuck you!” I reply.
Oh shit… I have a dick! …It’s kind of okay.
[Thanks…]
Fwappity. Fwap. Fwap.
“Fwaaaappy!” I shout.
[‘Was that your Pacino?’]
Holy shit, it’s a helicopter!
“Hen-garde Villain! Hwah! Hwah! Hwah!” I say.
[Please stop that.]
“My name is Inigo Montoya!”
[What did I say about violence?]
Ahhh, ahhh, ahhh I have a cramp in my foot….
“A cramp… That’s amazing!” I say, “Gonna put on some lipstick!”
Mmmmm, mmmmm my lips, oooh my lips. My lovely little lips.
[Fergie, please]
“Smaaaaacking,” I say.
[Please.]
Talking with my belly button….
“Smaaaaaahkin’,” I say.
[I’ve had weirder.]
“Oh, have you now?”
[Oh come on. Stay out of the kitchen!]
“Mmmm food. Fuck yeah food,” I sing.
Nom, nom, nom. Gonna toast a bagel.
“Get some Yo-gurt. Gonna. Get some. Go-gurt,” I sing.
Put some seeeeeds in there.
[Look, I get it.]
“Add some fruuuuuit,” I dance.
[You don’t have to shame me.]
“Yummmm,” I say.
And spill it all over my fingers.
[Please don’t.]
“Oh. My. God. That feels amazing.”
Kahhh-chhhhhing! Bagel’s ready.
“Ow. Hot. Hot. Hot,” I say
Mmmmmm… Hot.
[Rule number two.]
I’m blowing on my fingers.
Wait.
[That feeling… I taste metal. Something’s wrong.]
“Fffffffffffff…”
[Wait.]
Fingers feel cold. Fingers feel hot….
“I’m going to toast another bagel.”
[“There’s an issue with proprio… I need a couple minutes to run diagnostics,” I say.]
Our body twists.
[Our body stops moving. And she joins me up in the DJ booth. In the wings.]
[“Two secs,” I tell her.]
I go back down to the dance floor.
My eyes twitch. A fasciculation. That’s not good.
I hear a guitar one-two in my head. A swirling fuzz. I know those chords. In. Out. Like leaves in a gust of wind. Is that a drum?
I feel lightheaded.
I stagger…
I black out.
#
#
#
{We’re lying on the edge of a bed. We feel new.}
{We’re running our fingers on the old shag carpet. Good, their fingers work.}
{We can feel every hair on their arm. We’re touching their scalp.}
{Why does he keep it so short? It doesn’t do him any favors.}
{We’d grow it down to our waist.}
#
#
#
“Ouf…” I say.
Bad hand cramp.
[I’m back. I’m way off in the wings. Who’s handling the rig?]
[“Raven… why are we standing?”]
“You tell me. I thought you were calibrating?”
[I don’t know. There was interference.]
What’s up with the cramps?
[It’s a football injury. Aging sucks.]
Your right foot?
[I don’t know.]
#
#
#
[I feel heavy. I have to sit down.]
#
#
#
“How heavy?” I ask.
{Like we’re made out of concrete…}
[Shit.]
“What do you mean shit?”
[Get up. Check your wifi.]
“What? Why?”
[We got a Tony.]
“A what?”
[A Tony Mannero. A teenage body hacker.]
“I’m up. I’m up.”
[Have you received any suspicious emails?]
“I got a weird one from a funeral home. But my aunt wasn’t…”
[Cutthe WiFi. Now.]
“I can’t move.”
[Shit.]
Ryder. I’m offstage right.
[Shit, shit, shit. He’s here.]
#
#
#
{“We’re Beelzebub…”}
Fuck you, Tony!
{“We’re Satan.”}
[Let go of my limbs Tony.]
{“We’re going to lick the walls now.”}
[Stop licking the walls Tony.]
{“Mmmmmm taste the lead!”}
[Raven, do you have any enemies?]
Like?
[I don’t know. Friends, lovers, postal workers?]
Maybe? Probably.
{“We’re gonna lick the toilet!”}
Definitely a teen.
{“Fuck you old lady! Your breath smells like shit”}
[He’s trying to rattle us. We need to take back control.]
{“Your body! My choice!”}
“You suck Tony.”
[Metallica as your fight song. Like I haven’t heard that before.]
{“You know that guitar’s fire.”}
Shouldn’t your generation get its own anthem?
{“Whatever.”}
[Left leg forward.]
“I don’t wanna lick the…”
[Help me Raven. Grab the dresser.]
Right leg forward.
[Left handddd….. Andddd… Punch knee.]
“Ugghhhh.”
{Got your hand old man!}
{“Gonna strangle you!”}
Gackkkkaackkkk.
Now what?
[Distract him. ]
“Listen Tony, let’s talk about your trauma…”
{“Trauma is what we’re going to do to you in the bathroom.”}
{Left thrust.}
[Pull the table light…]
{“Ow…”}
[They really do make those unbreakable.]
{“Gonna trip you bitch.”}
“Owww!”
[Fuck, my knees.]
“Ryder!”
[Get the rig to the fridge.]
I drag the right side… You drag the left.
[Grab the ice bucket…]
{“Gonna stick my fingers in your eyes…”}
“Ahhhhhhhh!”
[Crap…] We spilled it.
“Change up.”
Bite your fingers Tony.
{“Owwwwww!”}
You like that Haptic feedback?
{“Choke you bitch!”}
Throw our body to the ground.
Ow.
“Not so much fun now you Gen Z parasite!”
[I’m weezing.]
{“You’re in bad shape, old man.”}
[Raven, my feedback loop is messed up. I gotta reboot.]
I stare back at my broken body wearing those stupid goggles.
“Ryder, swim over to itchy island” I say.
My eyes snap open. He’s in my body.
I can feel her DX13. I’m a passenger. The tiny spider legs lift her broken body up and carry me over to the muscle relaxant. I grab the needle…
My body is throwing stuff at me.
{“Okay, Okay, Okay… Okay!!!”}
I make Jessica stab myself in the leg. The plunger injects the drug.
My body collapses.
We laugh.
“My cardio ain’t what it used to be,” Jessica says.
{“You think this is funny?”}
Yes. It’s hilarious.
“Now, we’re all paralyzed,” I say.
Jessica can’t stop laughing.
{“I’m going to slap that hyena out of you.”}
Tony tries to slap Jessica.
But I catch his hand with the metal gripper.
{Ow.}
He tries to break free. I squeeze harder.
{We yelp.}
“You’re pathetic. Where’s your mother?”
{You are bitch.}
Nope. Not this body.
“Tony, seriously, can you just go?” Jessica’s body speaks.
{Good luck with your gimp leg Old Man.}
Why do this? Is your life so sad that you have to possess someone else’s?
{“Maybe, I just like hurting myself.”}
Why strangers Tony?
{I don’t know… I’m bored…}
It sucks to be online all the time doesn’t it?
#
#
{I just live all the time in my head…}
We get it Tony, we’re…
“We’relistening,” our body mumbles.
“Siri play Ramp of Death,” I say.
{My mom works all the time…}
Jessica’s eyes blink.
“And there’s no time to breathe,” goes the song.
{“This is chill. For millennial muzik.”}
Har Har.
“The Jicks are underrated.”
[Raven, my feedback’s restored. I think I can get the right leg working.]
Truce Tony?
We drag ourselves up the wall. We sway.
{“That feels nice.”}
We shimmy against the wallpaper.
{“Put on More Than a Woman.”}
Didn’t take you for a Bee Gees fan Tony.
{We like what we like.}
Even with the bad connection, I feel my big toe wiggle across the room.
Tap, tap, tap.
[“Louder.”]
Tap, Tap, tap.
“Feel it…”
We drag ourselves across the wall.
“This is the only way that we should fly…” The Bee Gees sing.
We try to bounce. It’s more of a lurch.
“We can take forever just a minute at a time…”
We’re flopping. We’re losing control of the rig.
“More than a woman! More than a woman to me!” goes the chorus.
We’re bouncing across the old wallpaper.
Our shoulders are flopping. We’re tearing muscles.
The Owl timer goes off. “Hoo Hoo.” Time’s up.
{Wait! “What?”}
[I take control of my arms.]
“Bye Tony.”
Our body slaps the WiFi receiver and severs the connection.
#
I’m slumped in a heap. I blink.
Her gripper pulls off the stupid goggles.
We both regain focus, and stare at each other across the room.
“Well, that was nuts…” she says.
With her gripper she pours us two glasses of lemonade.
I remove my inputs. I struggle with my numb leg. My arms ache.
I click open Betsy, and pull out a form from corporate.
“Please fill out the customer satisfaction survey,” I say.
“No one ever fills those out,” she says.
“I know,” I say.
I collapse on the bed.
Jeremy is a writer whose work has been featured in print, TV and documentaries. He has won a Sloan Fellowship, the McGill Theater Prize and the Jubilee Prize. He is a graduate of McGill University and USC’s Peter Stark Producing program. For five years, Jeremy worked for Robert Downey Jr.’s production company as his head of research. As an independent producer, he was drawn to stories at the intersection of folk tales, high technology and human mortality. He was born and raised in Canada and now lives in NYC with his wife, their twin children and a calico cat.