- HIGH HIGH
- Tales of Suburban Cyberpunk
- By Stefan "Twoflower" Gagne

- Episode 1 : Garage For Sale, Slightly Used

     Day dawned in suburbia, creeping over the rows upon rows of
quaint homes.  A synthetic rooster crowed.  Authentic birds
chirped.  A few dozen lawnmowers rumbled to life, continuing to
fight the endless war against the growing grass.  Commuters
kissed their wives goodbye and motored into town.  Various cars
zipped here and there.  One of them smashed through a garage.

     Out of the above, all are normal except for the garage.  A
cloud of dust rose above one particular house, where a shiny red
Yttian Traffic Smasher had plowed directly through the garage,
entering via the (closed) automatic door and exiting via one of
the walls.  The Traffic Smasher, possibly the most durable object
in existence beyond a New York checker cab, was unscratched; it
was designed to deal with far worse than a few tons of brick and
aluminum impacting at ninety miles per hour.  The garage,
however, was not designed to handle being driven through except
in more traditional ways, and had decided to move out of the way
for the car to get through.

     The sole occupant of the garage, who had been busy trying to
shape six coffee cans in a way that suggested man's freedom under
an oppressive society, was buried under several meters of garden
hose and sixty pounds of knick knacks.  He wasn't dead by a long
shot, but had seen better days.

     The driver, having just registered that she had driven
through a solid structure six seconds previously, hopped out of
the convertible and peered into the dusty gloom of the garage. 
Seeing a bruised arm sticking awkwardly from the wreckage, she
quickly ran over and started sifting through the garage junk.

     The process of clearing away the rubble didn't take very
long; she had the muscles required to throw a Traffic Smasher
into third, which takes something more than an average human
could provide.  A pair of leather driving gloves the driver wore
helped protect her palms from the sheared aluminum siding. 

     Buried beneath the rubble she found a boy.  A normal looking
boy in a leather jacket with scruffy blond hair, extremely dazed
and extremely dusty.  His eyes rolled around independently for a
few moments.

     "Uggh," the boy groaned, rubbing his head.  "What happened?"

     "Sorry," she said, helping him to his feet.  "I took a wrong
turn and drove through your house."

     The boy looked around, surveying the damage for the first
time.  He turned around to scold the driver.

     He paused at first.  This was the first time he had ever
taken a good look at the maniac who had just done thousands of
credits of damage to his house... not an a-typical maniac, just
an ordinary looking girl.  Long black hair, tied into something
resembling a 'style'.  Still, a maniac is a maniac.

     "You just wrecked my garage?" he asked.

     "Well, see, I thought that the turn came after the third
house on this block at a 45' angle, but apparently I had my count
off by one and I turned into your lawn.  I also managed to wipe
out the mailbox and your concrete lawn ornaments."

     "YOU WRECKED MY GARAGE!" the boy exclaimed, the reality of
the situation sinking in.  "My only art studio and you totalled
it!"

     "Sorry," she repeated, in a tone miles away from the
previous one on the 'angry' meter.  "If it helps, I suffered some
loss too."

     "Loss equal to the destruction of your only escape from
daily school stress and usual day to day mayhem?"

     "Actually, more like a scratch on the fender," the girl
admitted, slightly embarrassed.

     "A scratch," the boy repeated.  "Yeah, gee, THAT'LL even it
up.  What's the name of your insurance company?"

     "I don't have insurance."

     "WHAT?"

     "Well, NORMALLY I don't get into accidents," the girl said,
crossing her arms.  She was beginning to tire of the boy's
ranting.  Anybody who already knew her knew better than to annoy
her.  This boy was about to learn that as well, but like all
humans, he couldn't see into the future and avoid it.

     "Then YOU pay for it!" the boy yelled.

     "I can't.  I just spent my last paycheck for my fall
semester at school."

     "Then I'll make you wash dishes or something, I want this
place repaired before school gets in.  You have no idea what it
means to m--"

     At this point the girl had had about enough of being yelled
at, and had grabbed the boy by his jacket, lifting him on his
toes.  The boy promptly shut up, following the native instinct of
all humans to clam up when an overpowering force shows itself.

     (This is an instinct that goes back to the good 'ol days
when humans were apes running around yelling at each other.  Folk
tales say that one of them got an idea, picked up a bone, and
engaged in the first ever recorded act of mugging.  Since then,
the race learned it had better stop yelling when it looks like
someone's got a bone, so to speak.  The rumor that a large black
obelisk had something to do with the situation is simply silly;
the obelisk was in fact yellow.)

     "I DON'T DO DISHES," the girl growled, without a bone but
very intimidating nonetheless.  "I will pay for this mess, don't
you worry.  We can talk about installment plans or whatever
later, I'm late for an appointment with my guidance counselor. 
Everything's fine.  THERE IS NO NEED TO YELL."

     "Err... okay," the boy agreed, hoping this strange person
would set him down now.  For some reason, he found himself
looking to see if she had a bone.  "I'll need your... phone
number?"

     The girl set him down, and started to step her way through
the ruins, back to the Traffic Smasher.  "Jody, 258-3165," she
tossed over her shoulder.

     "...3165.  Got it," the boy said, committing it to memory. 
"My name's Benton, by the way."

     "Charmed," Jody said, faking a bow before climbing into the
car.  The Smasher thundered to life, screaming through several
gearshifts before leaving the same way it had entered; through
the empty spaces in the garage walls.  Rubble crunched under the
tires.

     Benton watched as she rumbled her way down the suburban
causeways, waking up the neighbors as the car rolled along.  He
repeated the number a few times to himself, using a standard High
High numerical memorization method.  258-3165.  Jody.

     For some reason, he was looking forward to that call.

                              ---

     Benton quietly slipped out his front door the next day,
freshly groomed and ready for the business meeting.

     He had spent two hours preparing, making sure his usually
scruffy hair wasn't quite as scruffy.  It was an exercise doomed
from the start; his hair was naturally inclined to resemble a
mop.  Five minutes later he gave up and just concentrated on
improving the rest of his appearance, notably zits and wrinkles. 
He was pulling on his leather jacket and stepping out of the
front door when

     "BOO!" Mitch yelled, directly in his ear.  Benton jumped.

     "Gotcha," Mitch teased.  "Man, Benton, you need to cut back
on the coffee and scary movies, you're jumpier than ever this
morning."

     Mitch.  JUST who I didn't want to see this morning, Benton
thought.  Mitch, whose appearance is naturally charming and
smooth no matter how much work he puts in on it, stood back and
laughed.  Total opposites on the hygene-to-effort ratio, as well
as opposites on other important scales.  Modern science hadn't
been able to explain why the two were friends.

     "Can't talk now, Mitch.  Got an appointment," Benton stated
flatly.

     "Got a good concept," Mitch grinned, ignoring his friend. 
"One of the best ideas I've come up with.  MOOD BUILDING. 
Changes colors depending on the feelings of the workers inside."

     "Not today, Mitch," Benton said, pulling his ancient bicycle
out of the ruined garage.  Mitch stepped briskly along behind
him.

     "Come on, Benton, man, this is a CLASSIC gag.  Vintage
Benton 'n Mitch physical humor.  All we need is a gallon of psi-
chromatic paint, which I know you've got in your garage... or
what's left of it.  Say, what did happen?  Meteor strike?"

     The garage hadn't changed much since the previous day,
Benton noticed.  The fact that I've been avoiding the Herculean
task of fixing it hasn't helped...

     "Oh, someone drove through it yesterday," Benton said,
attempting to re-align the chain on his bike.  "That's where I'm
headed now, to discuss the damages.  The driver didn't have
insurance."

     "In this day and age?  I'm shocked!  Here, let me come with
you.  I'll put a few of the 'ol Mitch personality-reader gags on
him and get you a little extra in payment, eh?  My observational
powers to render your assailant to tears?"

     Being a psychology expert and an adolescent isn't a very
good combination.  Normal doctors use their understanding of body
language and voice tone to identify patient problems and help
correct them.  Mitch, on the other hand, used them to gain an
upper hand in negotiation, or keep himself from getting pounded
in a fight, or occasionally less moralistic goals.

     "Her, Mitch," Benton corrected.  "The driver was a girl."

     "All the better!  I haven't had a date in days!" Mitch said,
instantly brightening beyond bright.  "Here, I'll bike there with
you."

     "Mitch, man, trust me, stay out of this.  She's a bit psycho
if yesterday was any indication."

     "Extra money, a date, AND a patient for my budding
psychotherapy practice.  This is sounding better and better."

     "I gotta insist, Mitch, stay put.  Please?  Just stay here,
I'll be right back and then we'll do this... this... what was
it?"

     "Mood building gag."

     "Yes, the gag, we'll pull it once I get back.  Help yourself
to the soda, Mom just restocked," Benton said, squeaking his way
down the driveway and pedaling off.

     Mitch hmphed.  He rarely passed up the opportunity to ask
out a member of the opposite sex; he had a reputation as the
local teenage stud muffin to uphold!

     (Somewhat untrue.  Completely incorrect is more like it,
since Mitch rarely succeeded in picking up girls.  However,
Mitch's normally powerful personality detection skills couldn't
find his own ego, no matter how inflated, even if he sat on it. 
Then again, if people *could* understand their own psyches
perfectly, it would render the entire species insane.)

                              ---

     The meeting place was visible from three blocks around, the
huge neon sign standing out like a beacon over the gas stations
and minimarts.  Two yellow arcs, stuck on a red plastic base. 
Coincidentally, when translated into Ancient Yttian, the symbol
stood for 'Toast Spitball Prune'.

     Benton had picked this rather neutral location for the
payment discussion.  Just a basic fast food franchise, one of the
several dozen peppered throughout the light commercial districts
of the 'burbs.  However, he hadn't taken into account the
comparative speed of a kid on a cheap bike compared to a demonic
imported chrome monster with four wheels.  So, not surprisingly,
Jody was already there, waiting for him in the parking lot.

     "What kept?" she asked, arms crossed.

     "First the chain came off," Benton said, rolling/carrying
his antique transport up to the Traffic Smasher.  "Then the
handlebars unscrewed while I was riding.  Then the front wheel
came off.  Then--"

     "I get the point.  Why don't you just get a car?  You've got
the garage space for it now."

     "No license.  I keep failing the test.  Look, let's get
inside and start going over payments with some food.  I'm
starving."

     "Me too, actually."

                              ---

     One hour and several breakfast foodstuffs passed as the two
chatted inside the 'restaurant'.  The sun rose beyond the glass
window, continuing to beat down on the greasy wrappers and sporks
as they chatted.

     "So, you're enrolled in High High next semester," Benton
summarized, munching a sausage biscuit.

     "High High?" Jody asked, unfamiliar with the term.

     "The Oppenheimer School of Higher Order Thinking and Mental
Development," Benton corrected, adding a mock tone.  "High High's
what everybody calls it."

     "Drug problem?"

     "Not necessarily.  See, the school's really obsessed with
intelligence.  So they've got these warped mad-scientistesque
plots to make us all Einsteins... weird learning techniques,
memorization, tests, overwork, even smart drugs in the food
occasionally."

     "Urrgh," Jody winced.

     "Exactly.  Hey, don't look all sour, it works.  Supposedly
I've shot up in IQ since I've been there.  That why you're going
there this year?  Want to get smart?"

     "Computers," Jody said.  "I used to go to Rampart High, on
the other side of the burbs near the city.  The computer
department there sucked, and I heard High High had a great
program."

     "True.  We hack out more code by nine AM than most people do
all year.  I wouldn't know, though, I'm not in the computer
department.  I'm an artist."

     "High High has an art department?" Jody asked, confused.  "I
thought they were sciences and mathematics only..."

     "Kinda.  It's an experiment.  Just me and two other
students.  My teach is always panicky that they're going to cut
the department."
     "You know, at first I was worried about attending High High,
because everybody at Rampart thinks they're... well--"

     "Nerds?  Kooks?  Geeks?  Weirdos?  Spam for brains? 
Certifiably insane whack-a-doos with inflatable latex egos?"
Benton suggested, grinning proudly.

     "Odd," Jody finished.  "Plus everybody knows how they
vandalize and run amok during summer."

     Benton grinned.  "Hey, we try.  We're all social demons when
we can get the chance... it's gotta balance out.  Fall through
spring we're working every hour of the day on school work.  If
you don't get out during the summer and wreak a little havoc you
go insane."

     "Maybe I shouldn't have enrolled.  Doesn't sound very...
pleasant," Jody noted, staring into her orange juice.  Benton,
realizing he might have just scared her silly, quickly slipped
into reassuring tones.

     "Don't worry, you'll have enough fun.  It's not as bad as we
say it is, really.  Principal's a jerk and the work's hard, but
that's all.  We're not total workaholics.  Well, there's Mitch...
you know, the guy I mentioned earlier?"

     "The date-a-holic?" Jody asked.

     "Yeah.  He considers his work FUN, not... oh... DAMN."

     "What?" Jody asked.

     "Time!" Benton exclaimed, tapping his watch.  "Damn!  I
forgot, Mitch is still back at home waiting for me.  Look, I know
we never got around to discussing the damage payments, but we'll
have to reschedule.  Here's my number..."

     Benton pulled a number eight sketch pencil from a random
jacket pocket, and scribbled down his phone number on a nearby
napkin.  "Call here, we'll arrange another meeting.  I've gotta
run."

     "But--"

     "'Bye!" he waved, jogging backwards out of the restaurant,
waving.  Jody examined the napkin, finally pocketing it.

     Odd guy, Jody thought.  Cute, but odd.

     Through the window, she saw a bicycle wheel go rolling down
the parking lot, Benton chasing after it.  Sheesh, archaic
transportation!  She made up her mind, and stomped out the door.

     "Alright, pick up what's left of the bike and toss it in the
trunk," she said, walking over to open up the rear end of the
Traffic Smasher.

     "No, don't worry... it does this all the time.  I've got a
wrench of sorts--"

     "Put it in," Jody demanded.  Benton shrugged, and heaved the
rust monster into the trunk.  "I'm assuming your house is in the
same location it was last time?"

     "Yeah."

     "Okay, I can get you there in three minutes or less.  Buckle
up."

                              ---

     One minute later and they were screaming through the
backstreets of suburbia, at near twice the speed limit.  Benton
was busy being terrified; Jody was too busy driving to look
worried.  The houses whipped by in a meaningless, repetitive
blur.

     "SHOULDN'T YOU SLOW DOWN?!" Benton yelled, over the noise of
the engine.

     "WHAT?!  HANG ON A SEC!" Jody replied, fumbling under the
dash for a button.  Clicking it, the engine slipped down to a
quiet whisper, silenced from a begal tiger to a tabby kitten.

     "Eh?" Benton asked, peering through the windsheild of the
convertible, wondering if the engine had just exploded.

     "Normally, I like it louder," Jody said.  "But it's bad for
conversation.  Now, what were you saying?"

     "Shouldn't you slow down?" he repeated.

     "Why?" she asked, genuinely confused.

     "Speed limit?!  Traffic safety?  Me not wanting my brains
splattered all over the pavement?!  Any of THAT ring a bell?"
Benton asked, waving his arms frantically.

     "I don't get into accidents," she said, glaring at him.  "I
have every road, every intersection, every limit on velocity and
turning angle memorized.  Normal drivers are too chicken to drive
the way cars were *meant* to be driven.  It's perfectly safe, I
assure you."

     "What about yesterday?" he asked, narrowing his eyes.

     "One in a million fluke," she shrugged, raising her hands to
give an innocent shrug.
      Benton panicked, grabbing her upraised hands and sticking
them back on the wheel.  Four hands remained on the wheel for
awhile, as the car rolled along.

     "I know what I'm doing, Benton," she assured, pushing his
white knuckles away.  "And here we are."

     The Traffic Smasher screeched along the road, swinging
ninety degrees into the driveway, finally landing on all four
wheels and powering down.

     "There.  Now that wasn't so bad, was it?  Benton?  Yoo hoo?"

     "Ahh.  Yeah.  No prob.  Excuse me."

     Benton opened his door and flopped out, kissing the ground. 
Jody rolled her eyes.  "Get off the ground, nitwit.  So where's
this friend of yours?"

     "He's inside," Benton replied, pulling himself back to his
feet.  "Come on, follow me."

     Benton led her by the hand through his front door, past the
living room.  The living room didn't need much examination, for
those who are used to middle-income suburbanite homes; they're
identical inside and outside.  There were a few tastefully
covered chairs, a coffee table with thick books ('The Tractors of
Spain', '10001 Dinner Jokes' and so on), and at least one dish of
potporri.  The kitchen was also identical, with a stove and a
sink and a fridge.  Mitch was busy sucking down all the soda
Benton had stored there.

     "Mitch, greetings.  This is the person who ran through my
garage the other day," Benton said, introducing.  "Jody, Mitch. 
Mitch, Jody."

     "Charmed," Jody said.

     Mitch grinned evilly.  Then he grinned happily.  Then he
widened his eyes.  His jaw went slack.  He blinked once, then
went back to normal, a coy, charming grin.

     Now, if played back in slow motion, one would be able to see
all those reactions on his face before returning to the same
cool, together, collectively sane look.  However, at normal
speed, all they saw was a blink.  That's the problem with eyes,
they never catch the important details.

     "Jody you say?  Well, hello.  Pleased to meet you.  Excuse
me one second."

     Mitch promptly pushed past the pair and dove for a nearby
bathroom, closing the door behind him.

     "What's with him?" Jody asked.

     "Not sure.  He's not normally like this..." Benton noted,
looking at the closed bathroom door with interest.  Strange,
thought Benton.  Normally when Mitch sees a girl, the first thing
he does is spout some sort of romantic gobbledygook.  Not run for
the nearest exit...