this world will break your heart

Part 1: Garbage City - Chapter 2

Officially it's called Forsyth Towers but we call home Garbage City—one of those buildings that's easy to miss. From the outside, it could be a generic medical or dental establishment with lots of little offices crammed together and a lab in the basement.

Each of us has a room that's a little larger than my prison cube. Again, it is scientifically determined to be large enough so we won't go crazy. But this time, the dwelling isn't customized to your height. Instead, it's based on averages. So if you're a real shrimp, it's luxury. However, if you're a little on the tall size, you'll be laying down a lot. There are guys in here who haven't stood up to their full height for years. We call them vultures because of the way their heads jut out almost horizontally from their sloping shoulders.

On my floor, there's a common area, a kitchen, and a small hallway that you can only access single file. Whenever two people meet in that hallway, it's tense as fuck. Who's gonna give way? It's never really the person you think it will be because sometimes, us smaller people, we're trickier than you think. When someone breaks a rule, they get shipped up to another floor. There are over 100 floors in Garbage City.

Garbage City isn't really that bad. Before prison, I was used to sleeping anywhere: benches, floors, or even standing up. That's what happens when you move in with your boss, or partner in crime, or whatever instead of finishing high school. I liked Sonny and we always had a good time. He was fun to hang out with and always looking for someone to test out his new merchandise. Whenever he got a new upgrade, device, enhancement, or even vintage component, I would unlace my sleeves and tell him to plug me in. He used to laugh and would put a hand on my back and tell me a joke about me setting off metal detectors at airports. That was an old joke because there was no way I would ever afford to travel. Plus nobody used metal detectors anymore.

It's different here—all carefully controlled so they can monitor how much we add or subtract from ourselves. On the plus side, at least you know that nothing you purchase here will kill you—technically speaking. It may stop working but it won't be like when Seikatsukaizen Corp. was using Radon gas to lubricate the hinges on its prosthetic digits. On the minus, shit's expensive.

Once a week, the EXCON program extended sales force sets up a little stall in the common area. They spread out catalogs of implants and modifications and we pour over the new merchandise. We gather around the tables and imagine what it would be like to actually have enough credits to get something new. You figure that most of the people in Garbage City haven't had an upgrade since before they were found guilty of whatever terrible life choices sent them to this place. Maybe the EXCON deal they cut handed them a little hope. But the sales team is really all for show; to keep us hungry and motivated. Because we all work minimal credit jobs so it takes forever to save up for anything.

Once, Gus finally had enough credits to repair a blink receptor. It's weird because most people would have their blink receptors fixed in childhood. It's not a particularly expensive operation and it is actually considered a non-augmentative procedure. You can even file a petition for your hospital, or family doctor, to pay for that. I guess Gus' parents had better things to spend their credits on and left him with this creepy, half-closed, and flapping eyelid. No wonder he ended up in prison. Nobody wants to hang out with some flappy eye-lidded freak. When Gus got scanned that one Friday, we were extremely excited. He actually really deserved this implant as he was almost fifty and endured everyone referring to him as "the guy with the eye" since I moved to Garbage City. The other reason is that it gave the rest of us hope that—yes—you could slowly collect enough credits. You could save up and eat only packets of nutrinos for breakfast, lunch, and dinner until you have collected enough. Gus was the hero of Garbage City for the week before his surgery was scheduled. He was like a celebrity and he bragged that this eye would finally point in the right direction. He told all of us about his careful credit allocation. It had only taken him fifteen years to be able to afford this. Way to go, Gus. You scored an operation that most people don't even have to pay for. We celebrated his commitment to self-improvement.

So I guess it was a little strange when Gus got caught breaking a rule just two days before his big surgery was scheduled. He was shipped up three floors to the non-implant, permanent wing. No matter how many credits you had, there was no little lady with her big bag of EXCON merchandise. He would have to be sent back down to our floor before he could reapply and have access to implants.

That was a tough break and it really taught me not to bother. It wasn't worth it. Clearly, the game was a fix. If you stick to internal TV Channel switchers or embedded jewelry, you will be fine. Don't draw too much attention to yourself and keep your head down. And don't brag about your choices.

I ran into Gus in the elevator a month later. His credits were zapped, completely revoked for breaking the rules, and he had started saving up again. I guess I kind of admired him for sticking to it and finding another way to get that eye fixed. Until he couldn't take the waiting anymore and threw himself off Garbage City's roof. I heard he had his eye taped shut at his funeral because even then, he was still embarrassed by how he looked. They really got him, under his skin and deeper than any stupid implant.