MONDAY: Wanted: Bios

BY JOHN BRADY

Copyright is held by the author.

“Everyone will read himself” — Italo Svevo

BONKERS ‘BONX’ Boyo tilted his head back as far as it would go. He gave the porcelain espresso cup, white as salt, a jiggle, hoping to rush the last thin stream of concentrated coffee past his lips and into his system. Sitting straight again, cup in hand, he glanced around to see if anyone was looking. No one was, and he quickly ran his tongue around the tiny cup’s interior until every last streak of espresso was gone. 

That’s how broke he was. So broke. So broke he was licking cups. Not even two coins to rub together for a few peppies much less a protein bar. Reduced to trying to just get enough caffeine in his system to ride out the hunger pangs for one more goddamn day.

A flash of acid yellow out in the crowded street caught his eye. He searched the passing human stream. It flashed again just at the edge of the street scene framed by the cafe’s grimy window. A dozen or so tips of a flamboyantly tall mohawk, lacquered stiff and dyed bright as a radioactive lemon bobbed up and down as the hair corona’s owner navigated the thick morning current.

Bonkers was out in the street as fast as he could be, pushing off the sidewalk banks and into the flow of people. He followed those golden flashes like a lure. Don’t rush this, he told himself. Make sure it’s Verbal Herbert. And if it is the chiseling cocksucker don’t — whatever you do — spook him. Who else could it be, though? That’s him for sure. So damn proud of that mohawk. Get close. Don’t blow this. Grab him and make him give you what he owes you. 

The morning crowd was denser and pushier than usual.

What did the scene look like? Imagine the streetscape staples as featured in Blade Runner (both versions) or Altered Carbon (just the first one) or any number of William Gibson short fictions. A narrow street in an overpopulated, warren-like urban quarter. On either side of the thoroughfare, tall curtains of buildings with facades in a hodgepodge of neo-modern, restoration and baroque-fantasia stylings hem in the crowd. A linguist standing nearby would hear a dizzying mix of languages, dialects, and neighbourhood and sub-neighbourhood patios.

Like the buildings which respect no period or architectural style, the people wear fashion from across the timeline, mixing punk leathers, bondage-adjacent vinyl separates, turn-of-the-century britches and work shirts with hyper-now fabrics cross-hatched with bio-sensors and other wearable tech. The stores and commercial outlets they frequent have on offer an anachronistic mix of futuristic and defiantly old-timey items.

To wit: clinics offering the latest germline engineering techniques crammed next to noodle stands where cooks of indeterminate age and ethnicity boil up their meals the old way and with the traditional kitchen implements. Exactly the same as that. But different. Same but different. Same enough to be recognizable, but different enough that the conjuring of this streetscape would not be seen as a reflection of any specific person’s experience of the scene without the permission provided by the purchase of a certified biography. That’s important in this world.

Taller than a few but shorter than most, Bonkers had to fight to keep his quarry in view. He’d push forward and then pause to rise up on his tiptoes or even jump up to get a glimpse through the mass of people. He had to hurry though. They were getting close to the end of the old quarter. Soon the streets would widen and it would be easy for Herbert to jump into an auto-cab or ride the streamlink, and he’d be gone. Bonkers put his head down and muscled his way through the current, ignoring the hisses of protests and elbows thrown his way. 

He caught up as the crowd thinned and just as Herb was turning the corner onto the main drag. 

“Herbert,” Bonkers said sharply and grabbed his arm as firmly as he could. He didn’t jerk away in fear like Bonkers expected. With a slow, deliberate tug, he pulled himself loose from Bonker’s grasp as he turned around to face his pursuer. 

“Hey, it’s Bonx. Howza been?”

“None of that, Herb. I don’t have time for that. You owe me 50. I need the money.”

“Fifty?” Verbal Herbert parried, frosting the number with incredulity. “Closer to five, I think, buddy.”

“Fuck you.” Bonkers would have hit him for lowballing him if he’d had it in him. “You know it’s 50. Fifty a story. That’s the rate. You know it.”

Herbert scratched the stubble on the side of his head. “Yeah, yeah. You’re right. It was more than five. Not 50, though. Not for one of your tales. Never know if the raw materials are authentic. Always a whiff of the artificial with you, Bonksy. More like 25.”

Bonkers did swing at him this time. It was a weak swing because he was feeling weak. Without needing much haste, Verbal Herbert swayed back and Bonker’s fist traversed emptiness. 

“Give me what you owe me,” Bonkers ended up wheezing. 

“Sorry, friend. I’m dry at the moment. Truly.”

“Got enough scratch to keep yourself stylish . . . maintain your hair . . . and all that,” Bonkers said, framing Herb with his hands.

He touched a hairdo ray. “Some things are more important than others.” Then Herbert pushed Bonkers away. Bonkers stumbled backwards, catching himself against the wall of the building. Herb moved on with long strides. Not running. He didn’t have to. Bonkers didn’t have another pursuit in him. He let himself slide down the wall, feeling faint. 

Stiffed by Verbal Herbert. Caffeine already worn off. Didn’t know what he’d do now. And here the day had started off so well. He’d woken up from such an excellent dream. The house was big. Old too. Like the ones that they said were still way out in the boondocks where the city’s dense wall of sprawl hadn’t yet reached. It wasn’t clear why he was in the house. That’s where the dream started with him in the house, looking around each room. It didn’t explain why. Then again what dream explains itself? Next he was in his childhood bedroom, although it wasn’t exactly his bedroom because it was still in the old mansion and this one had dark wood paneling and a fireplace which his room in the shabby stucco box of a house he had grown up in had never had.

The closet door was open and the dream made it clear he should look there. When he found the cardboard box, he couldn’t believe it at first. Stacks and stacks of biography cards. Beautiful silicon wafers featuring men and women. Kids. Hell, even some about beloved pets. Multiple generations of families. All kinds of wonderful details. Stellar career rises followed by just as dizzying falls from professional grace. Marriages, affairs, divorces. First crushes. Lost loves. Early deaths. Terminal illnesses. Miraculous recoveries. So much drama and trauma. Every walk of life. It was a vein he’d mine for the rest of his life. He ran his fingers gently along the stamps of authenticity, enjoying the tender ripples of raised ink. He savored the fine print of the warranties of quality. Why were these here? In an instant, the dream let him know he didn’t need to care. That was the dream’s gift of freedom. He grabbed the box, squeezing it under his arm and ran out of the house into the brilliant sunshine.

He’d woken up feeling sun-warmed and full of possibility, a feeling that had only started to fray when he was in the cafe later that morning and realized he only had enough for one shot of coffee. That was the first tear in the gossamer of good feelings. The one Herbie had just ripped right through. With a stomach so empty, it could barely growl, Bonkers worked himself up to standing and steered back into the quarter. 

***

Roger the Egg’s Bio Brokerage was empty which Bonkers was thankful for. He didn’t like to beg for favors in front of other people. 

Roger, short, rather round, and bald — the three traits that birthed his nickname — waved from behind a glass display case full of bio card packs. “Long time, no see, Bonxsy. Whatcha been up to? Lots of writing I hope. You always were so talented. At least I’ve always thought so. One of your biggest fans, I am.”

Smiling weakly, Bonkers acknowledged the compliment. Roger was good at that. Passing out praise. Probably because it didn’t cost him anything. Bonkers scanned the wall behind Roger, looking for his headshot. If you sold a story, especially to a national or global mag, that relied on a bio Roger supplied, Rog would put you on the wall. “Good for business,” he’d tell anyone who would ask. “Shows the bios I sell can — by the right hands — be turned into stories that sell. Straw into gold if you think about it.” Bonkers didn’t see himself up there. Maybe I missed it the first time, he thought. The hunger had blurred the edges of his vision. He looked again. Nope. He was missing. 

“Where’s my picture, Roger?”

Roger sighed and leaned on the counter with both hands. “Yeah, sorry buddy. I had to take you down. It’s been quite a while since you sold anything based on any of the raw materials I supplied. Years, I think, right?” He didn’t wait for Bonkers to protest. “I had to make room for the others.” Taking in Bonkers’ crestfallen look, he perked up, “But here you are, The Bonks, with a head full of ideas, I imagine, and looking for certified bios. And like always, you’ve made the right choice, coming to the best in the biz.” Saying this, Roger reached into the glass display cabinet and pulled out a box, “And today is your lucky day. I just got this box full of bangers in. No one else has seen them.” He clacked through the packs. “Full of drama and trauma. That’s what you writers look for, right? What you need.” When Bonkers didn’t react, he went on, accelerating his pitch. “These are all warrantied and guaranteed authentic. You know that’s my standard. Certified human. Docs all on file in the back. Nothing artificial. Nothing with silicon smarts went to work on these. One-hundred percent lived experience. Every biographical incident provided willingly. Docs to prove it like I said.” 

Bonkers clicked through the packs, looking at the people on the covers and scanning the list of vitals on the back. Roger was right. These were good. “How much?”

“Three hundred a pack.” And as if in anticipation of his customer’s balking, he continued, “a steal at that price, really. The quality is that good.”

Bonkers stopped browsing and was quiet for quite a while. “Roger,” he finally began, “you know me. You know I could do something with one of these.” He looked for assent in Roger’s eyes and thought he saw enough to go on with his pitch. “But I’m totally skint right now.”

“How much do you have?”

Bonkers fell silent again. 

“Well?” Roger prodded. 

“Nothing, Roger, I got nothing,” and without intending to, he started pleading, “Please, can you do me a solid? Just loan me a pack. You’re right. These are golden. I can make something out any one of these packs. And the first royalties will come straight to you. I promise. You know I’m good for it.”

Roger took the box and slid it back into the case. “Nothing for free, my friend.” 

“Seriously? My story put this hole on the map. You know that! I was the first photo on that wall.”

When Roger didn’t react, Bonkers hissed, “You’re a prick, Rog.”

Roger shrugged and then watched as Bonkers mustered enough energy to rattle the hinges as he stormed out. 

***

Was it true? Was Roger a prick? He didn’t think so. He had a business to run. That meant making choices. And when you made choices, one of the first choices you had to make was to be OK with not being able to make everyone happy. And more than that you had to choose to be OK with actively making people unhappy. Not always. But definitely sometimes. Not on purpose or just to be mean. The unhappiness of some people — like Bonkers just now — was simply a cost of doing business. In that sense, he most definitely wasn’t a prick. In fact, when he thought about it, he could be downright honourable.

And this business was not always honourable. Lots of shady bastards. Which wasn’t the plan when they passed the Your Self, Your Story Law (H.R. 48923: The Biographical Self-determination and Authenticity in Art, Literature, and Sundry Other Media Act). The intentions of all involved — lawmakers, biographical integrity advocates, neo new-luddites, retro neo-luddites, straightedge luddites, human sovereigntists, anti-roboticists, all natural intelligence supporters, human-AI-detente promoters, general do-gooders, conspiracy-theorists-who-are-part-of-every-movement, writers, and humanities majors — were good: give people control over the subject matter of their personal lives to keep it from being sucked up into the content mills churning out the AI generated slurry choking the culture like coal smoke had choked the lungs of early industrial Londoners.

But soon after the bill signing ceremony was over and the celebratory confetti had been swept up, the money men got involved like they always do. They understood that people are complex. As much as they might want to protect the text of their lives, people could — with the right finely-tuned inducements — also be convinced that it was worth profiting from their stories too. And what would you know, the money men would say by way of introducing themselves, here is a convenient way to do just that. When it came to examples of the parasitic class of biography profiteers, some would say that brokers like Roger were Exhibit A. But Roger wasn’t convinced.

He moved to the window contemplating his reflection in the shop’s glass as the ripples of passersby in the street passed through it. He wouldn’t take just any biographical data set. Take the high school and college kids who came in drunk or looking to get drunk and wanted to sell their first trip on peppies or their first cringe-inducing lay. He’d actively discourage them. Actively. Nope, I won’t take it, he’d tell them. (Although there was a market for them, he knew. Especially among men living in retirement homes in Florida for some reason.) You’re gonna want to tell that story later he’d counsel them, often adding an authoritative finger wag. To your kids as a cautionary tale for example. Or to your friends when you find yourself in a nostalgic sort of way. If you sell it now, you won’t be able to do that. Or only if you’re willing to rent it back or license it. And who knows how much that might cost you. So yeah, right there was a perfect example of how he had scruples.

Roger crossed his arms and, taking in his reflection, sighed. Maybe he should have cut Bonkers a break. The kid was all right. And he was right too. He had helped put Roger’s brokerage on the map with that story. Roger turned and headed to the back of the store where he kept all the headshots. It was the least he could do. 

***

Bonkers woke up with his cuff buzzing. For a moment, he didn’t know where he was before his hunger and the hard concrete helped him remember. Exhausted and embarrassed by his unsuccessful visit to Roger’s, he’d found an out of the way alley where the anti-vagrancy bots wouldn’t hassle him and passed out. He flicked his wrist to acknowledge the notification and stop the buzzing. If the preceding part of the day was any indication, it could only be bad news. Like jury duty. Or a long-forgotten lover informing him that he was a father.

He delayed looking for a moment more and even thought about trying to fall back asleep before, his mouth dry, he tapped the black screen and . . .  swore his heart skipped a beat. He snapped his wrist to clear the device and then tapped it again fully expecting to find it had just been a glitch. But no, there they were. Fifty sweet, sweet dollars. Royalties for clicks on a profile he’d done of a free jazz didgeridoo musician. When had it been? Two years ago already? Did a fan discover it and promote it on their feed and to a new group of readers? Bonkers wondered then quickly moved on to not caring because it didn’t matter as long as the fifty bills were real. And they were he knew because he checked again one more time to make really, really sure. He pushed himself to his feet, the excitement of his windfall making him forget the pit in his gut. Checking the time, he realized he could get to Roger’s before he closed if he hurried. 

***

“Well, look who’s back,” Roger announced. “Come back to apologize to this prick?”

Bonkers waved him off. “Some royalties just landed in my account — like I knew they would and told you they would — and I’ve come to get a good bio.”

“Congratulations, sport! I never doubted you,” Roger celebrated. He started to reach under the counter for the bio packs. “Want to look at these new ones again.”

“No, no. It wasn’t quite that much.”

“How much?” 

“Fifty. But I only want to spend forty. I’ve got to get something to eat. I haven’t eaten in,” and Bonkers paused to try and count. He gave up. “It’s been a long time.”

“Nothing for forty, my friend. I’ve got some surprise packs for fifty though, and look,” Roger gestured to the wall behind him, “I put your pic back up.”

“Can’t eat my picture,” Bonkers replied and then asked, “What’s a surprise pack again?”

“Well . . . it’s a bit of a gamble. It’s ten bios. You don’t know what’s in there and sometimes it’s just junk. You know, total normie lives that not even the best of the best could do anything with. But sometimes there’s a real gem in the pack. Something perfect for a story.”

“What are the odds of getting something good?” Bonkers asked. 

Roger pulled a pack from under the counter and appeared to scrutinize it. “Hmmm. Doesn’t say really. I don’t know. You know Charlene Specious, right?”

“Everyone knows Charlene. Her novel is everywhere.”   

“Uh huh,” Roger agreed. “I heard from one of my broker colleagues that she found the subject in a surprise pack. Took a gamble . . . and now look at her. Famous.”

Convinced, Bonkers tapped his cuff and flicked his finger at Roger. “OK, there’s fifty. Give me a surprise. A good one.” 

Roger started to hand him a pack and then pulled it back, “Remember, it’s not my fault if there’s nothing good in here. I don’t make these. They’re assembled elsewhere.”

“Jesus, don’t jinx it,” and Bonkers reached out and grabbed the pack from Roger’s hand. He muttered something and then broke the seal. 

The hum and whirr of the street slipped into the store to fill the silence as Bonkers scanned the cards. He went through the pack once and then started again, pausing now and again to study a card longer. “There’s nothing here,” he finally said very quietly. 

“Sorry about that,” Roger said as he busied himself behind the counter straightening packs of cards that were already quite straight. 

Just as quietly as before, Bonkers said, “I want my money back.” And when Roger didn’t seem to hear, he said it louder, trying not to plead like last time. “I want my money back.”

Roger did a few more things to tidy up, before saying, “No can do, buddy. All sales are final. You know that. Once the seals on those packs are broken, they can’t be repackaged. They’re as useless to me as they are to you.”

Bonkers leaned on the counter, and for a moment, Roger thought the kid was collecting himself to try something. 

Bonkers didn’t try anything. He shook his head slowly, his breath ragged and slow. “I’ve got to go,” he finally said. He turned and shuffled out of the store. 

“I’ll be seeing you,” Roger said cheerfully as Bonkers departed. 

***

A while later, Roger was closing up, tidying again what really didn’t need to be tidied. He felt vaguely unsettled. He wished Bonkers had gotten mad again instead of simply surrendering and leaving like he did. Sure all sales were final, but Roger could have done something for him. Maybe given him a discount code or something to make him feel better. And if Bonkers had yelled at him and cursed him out, it would be easier to justify not having done anything for him. Like why would he do the kid a favor if all he ever got from him was insults. Roger took a surprise pack and put it in his pocket. He locked up the store and headed out into the quarter. 

A few streets over, he saw Bonkers sitting with his back against a store’s front grate. He fingered the pack in his pocket and hurried over to the young man. “Hey Bonks,” he said as he got close, “I felt bad about what happened, so I’ve got another pack for you. On me. Maybe this one will be . . .” and his voice trailed off as Bonkers remained silent. “You sleeping, buddy?” and Roger nudged Bonkers with his foot. He didn’t stir. Bending down, he held the young man’s hand. Already getting cold. Roger glanced up and down the street. No curious onlookers. He pulled out his scanner and held it close to the kid’s cuff. With a practiced eye, he scanned through the biographical markers. A bit sad there at the end he thought. But people like sad things too. Somebody will be able to do something with this. He transferred the cuff’s contents and let Bonker’s hand fall. Then he headed home. 

***

Sci-fi fan since encountering Asimov’s Foundation Trilogy way back in the ‘70s, John Brady is based in Portland, Oregon. He is the author of Golden Palms, a noir about LA politics. It’s funny too. His fiction and non-fiction have appeared in various other outlets, including hyphen punk, Allium, Exposition Review, pioneertown, Drunk Monkeys, the Los Angeles Review, Pomona Valley Review, the Chronicle of Higher Education, Punk Planet, and on National Public Radio. His writing is available at johnbradywriter.com