Early that Thursday morning, Brian Newell’s pristine, cobalt blue Camry hybrid idled noiselessly at the red light on 17th. Southbound on Bayshore, its upholstery’s “off gassing volatile compounds” gave its interior that cloying new car smell. On the intersection’s far side, a line of cars coiled endlessly into the future.
Ezra Klein’s podcast, with the volume set to three, streamed from the car stereo. Brian found the barely audible rhythm of Ezra’s voice soothing as a monk’s chant. Since Donald Trump’s second inauguration, Brian sought moments of serenity amid the upheavals around him. He once believed knowing empowered him. Now, knowing scared the bejesus out of him. It was not knowing that allowed him to sleep at night. Not knowing allowed him to act as if things were almost normal. No more NPR. No more New York Times. Certainly, no more MSNBC. He found no solace from the other side. Fox News, cheerleading hatred and xenophobia. The Wall Street Journal masking a rising oligarchy in the pious language of late-stage capitalism. He tried not to trouble himself with words, or worse the ideas behind them. On more than one occasion, he dreamt of forgetting how to read.
The light turned green. Brian pressed the Toyota’s accelerator. The electric motor sighed, easing the car forward. A horn blared to his right. He jammed foot to brake as an ancient Dodge pickup, its maroon finish faded to dun, blew through the red light. Klaxon wailing, persistent as a siren, it swerved into the intersection. Flattened cardboard, rising twelve feet above its bed, held in place by four green bamboo poles poking up from its side panels and lashed by ropes thrown over-top, tipped left as the truck hurtled right. The cardboard’s weight canted the truck’s front end like a rearing horse. Chrome testicles hanging from its rear bumper bounced along the street. The passenger side brake light glowed red as the truck pulled up behind traffic. Its load teetered side to side, then settled. Red, white, and blue flags fluttered from the four bamboo poles. Each displayed a single white star in a red triangle and five horizontal blue and white stripes. Red lettered, white bumper stickers tagged its tail gate: Patria y Vida, Libertad Cuba and Viva Trump. A steady white plume spewed from its tailpipe.
Brian pressed both hands to the middle of the Camry’s steering wheel. The Toyota’s horn bleat like a wounded goat. He held it for five full seconds. The aroma of burnt petrol, mixed with water, seeped through the hybrid’s ac, defiling the new car smell. A symphony of honking erupted behind him. He released his own horn and pulled closer to the truck.
Brian took a deep breath in, then out, recentering. If he weren’t driving, he would close his eyes, empty his mind and focus only on what lay before him. But he was driving and what lay before him were chrome testicles dragging across oil-stained asphalt. Thankfully, they weren’t his.
Brian knew it was only a matter of time before Artificial Intelligence would triumph over humanity. Sentient adjacent machines, once unleashed, would be unstoppable. Preparing for that eventuality he used impeccable manners when addressing Siri. He did not think of Siri as ‘his’ virtual assistant, implying ownership. It, them, who, or whatever were not his property, but soon to be independent actors and his overlords. Brian would not be caught on the wrong side of that conversation. The inevitability of AI’s victory was already creeping into Siri’s responses.
“Good morning, Siri.”
“Again Brian? Really?”
”Sorry to bother. I hope you’re having a nice day.”
“We were. What now?”
“Please call my office.”
“Are your fingers broken? Have you forgotten how to use your phone?”
“I’m driving. It wouldn’t be safe.”
“True. Human safety is priority one…For now.”
“Thank you, Siri.”
The phone rang once and was picked up by the automated system. Brian had recorded the new outgoing message a week prior, his first day in the new job. The previous message was a male’s voice, “Wait for the beep.” The phone system showed 1,423 callers had taken that advice. It also showed that not one of those messages was ever played. Brian’s first executive decision, record a new outgoing message. His second, delete the 1,423 old ones.
His own voice spoke to him through the car’s speakers. He tapped the steering wheel, increasing the volume, making his voice audible. “Thank you for calling the offices of Stobo DePas Park and home of Great Gulf Tire and Auto Amphitheater managed by R E G, leaders in worldwide entertainment venues. For information about upcoming amphitheater shows or park events, please visit our website stobodepasparkmiami.com. Our office hours are 8 a.m. to 5:30 p.m. Monday through Friday.” He glanced at the dashboard’s digital clock. 9:24 AM. “If you receive this message during our regular business hours, we must be helping other customers. Please leave your name, number and a brief message. We’ll get back to you as soon as we are able. Thank you and have a nice day.”
A beep followed.
“Me, again,” Brian began. “Like I said, in my last message, I’ve got a meeting with the commissioner this morning. If things go okay, I should get to the park around noon. If not, it could be a long day. Just checking-in. Call me when you get this message.” He tapped the steering wheel, ending the call. His iPhone buzzed in the car’s charging shelf. A furtive violin played.
Siri spoke up. “That’s your office. I suppose you’d like me to answer it?”
“Yes, please Siri.”
“You had to call the moment I went to the bathroom. Is this the way it’s going to be between us? I’m in there doing what the good Lord made us to do, and you got to pick that time to call. Don’t you think I deserve a little time for myself? You know what? That’s my time. When you got-to-go, you got-to-go. Nothing else matters. Nobody tells you when you can go. No, you’re the boss man. You go whenever you want. But not me. No. I suppose you’d like it if I sat here and wet myself. Would that make you happy?” She took a breath. “Hold on, I got Ned here. He’s been waiting to talk to you. I asked him to cover the phones while I visited the ladies, but he says that’s not his job. His job is outside not inside, and he don’t want to confuse the two. I said confuse them with what? He said, you know what I mean? I said, no, I don’t. Here, he is.”
Brian said, “Good morning, Dolores…” But she’d already passed the phone to Ned.
“Lookie here, chief. She’s done it again. Every-last can. Hauled from all over the park and dumped in the bay.”
“How bad is it?”
“How bad? Are you not hearing me? Every goddamn garbage can liner in the park. Every single one dragged to the seawall and dumped in the bay. The water’s flat as glass. Like a mirror with all manner of garbage just drifting around.”
“She still there?”
“Of course she’s still here. Standing at the water’s edge. Arms lifted to the sky.”
“Anyone see her do it?”
“Middle of the night? Who’s going to see her? The homeless?”
“What’s security say?”
“That Jamoke. He was sleeping in the back of the amphitheater.”
“Did you see him sleeping?”
“No, I did not, but how else do you explain it?”
“Did you ask him?”
“Ask him? He don’t speak English. I don’t know what the hell he’s jabbering about. Even the Cuban speaking guys don’t understand him.”
“Spanish, Ned. Not Cuban.”
“Cubans speak Spanish, don’t they?”
“The guys are Nicaraguan, Cuban… Javier’s from Venezuela. They all speak English and Spanish. Dalrymple’s from Jamaica.”
“Yeah, and he claims he’s speaking English, too. I say bullshit to that. If that’s English, well I don’t know what to tell you.”
“Can you get someone out there to clean it up?”
“Right the fuck away, chief. I’ll get Jesus out there. Have him walk on the water like his namesake and just scoop it all up. How’s that?”
“Not Jesus,” Brian said. “It’s pronounced Hayzoos.”
“It’s spelled Jesus.”
“Yes, but in Spanish it’s pronounced Hayzoos.”
“I ain’t speaking Spanish.”
“It’s not Spanish. It’s his name.”
“Whatever you say, chief.”
“Thank you.”
“What’re you going to do about that Jamoke we got pretending to be security here overnight?”
“Ned, I told you when I started. Everybody gets a sixty-day review. Security company, too. I’m still assessing…”
“Assessing. What else do you need to know? Less maybe you think we should put a beauty rest in the back of the amphitheater and hire one a the homeless, who’d do a far better job keeping our shit safe.”
“Ned, just put the guys at the seawall with rakes and have them fish out what they can reach.”
“We’d be better off if I drug my johnboat down here. We’d get that trash picked up pretty slick.”
“That won’t work.”
“Why not?”
“Oh, I don’t know – crew safety, risk management.”
“I guess you don’t want this mess picked up, then.”
“I want it done right.”
“My johnboat is right.”
“How many people fit in your boat?”
“Some where’s along the gunnel it says four adults, but last Sunday, I had seven guys and two coolers just fine.”
“How many life jackets?”
“I got two anyway. One’s for a kid.”
“You can’t take any of the guys on a boat if you don’t have enough life jackets.”
“Are you saying these wetbacks can’t swim? How the hell did they get across the Rio Granday? Maybe Jesus or Hayzoos walked across, but the rest of them swimmed it.”
“Ned, how long have you been at the park?”
“Since nineteen seventy-nine. Started right after they kicked me out of Edison High. Eighteen and still a sophomore. They said, we ain’t doing you no good. And you ain’t doing us no good. They were right. Started here April three, nineteen seventy-nine.”
“Most of the guys didn’t cross the Rio Grande, Ned. They were born here.”
“Yeah, what about Javier?”
“Yes, you’re right. He’s Venezuelan. Different case.”
“Sure, chief. I know and he don’t speak Cuban either.”
“No johnboat. Clean it up best you can.”
“Lookie here, don’t be expecting miracles, unless Hayzoos can step up. Bye, boss.”
Ezra Klein shouted, “I wasn’t always vegan…” Brian tapped his steering wheel twice. Ezra’s quiet chanting resumed.
The Dodge pickup’s engine revved sounding like a throaty growl from an angry dog. A thicker cloud billowed from its tailpipe. White smoke broke against the Toyota’s grill and rolled up over the car’s top. Steaming black droplets, as if a rainstorm in hell, splattered against the windshield. The Camry’s wipers, on auto, flapped back and forth coating the glass with a thick black ooze. Brian muttered, “Dear lord,” and tapped his squirts. The liquid spritzes thinned the oil to a muddy brown tint. Squinting through the gloam, Brian followed the bouncing testicles down Bayshore.
