The Typist

By Stuart Jaffe

Sitting down in one of the front booths so he could keep an eye on his car, he read over the table menu. Something light. Anything without synthetics. Although he would be surprised if anything natural existed in this place. Certainly not the two women sitting at the counter. He could spot a breast job with ease--occupational perk. With a gentle sigh, Sid pressed his finger down on the table next to the word salad but nothing happened. Pressing harder, he again touched the word.

"It's broke," a heavy man behind the counter called out. "What you want?"

"Salad," Sid quietly replied, squirming deeper into his chair, then jumping forward a bit--his wrap-around was brand new and he hardly wanted to think of what crap might be embedded in the booth.

The door chimed and Sid looked up expecting Jack. Just some kids. Two young boys in black wrap-arounds, one shaved bald, the other wore a derby. And a girl. She was nothing like Angela except for her hair. That was all Sid needed.

Thick, lush, grass green hair. All the way to the small of her back. Green eyebrows. Deep, black skin. Intoxicating smile. Breasts were perfect--not a flat board, not two dufflebags, just perfect hand-sized breasts. Areola in perfect roundness and proportion. Curving body--perfect. Not a stick, not overweight. Just a well-built woman. Even her pubic hair was green. Exotic. Erotic. She made the camera burn. When she talked with him, that luscious Anything you want, Baby, he would get jittery inside. He could not think straight. Supernet whore served seventy tricks a day, but when the camera was turned off, it was just him she talked too. Angela.

"Sid?" a thick voice called out.

Sid looked up to see Jack setting his massive body into the booth. Street people called him Sweaty, and Sid always noticed the moisture on his bald head. Jack would pat and dab at it all day but it never went away. His labored breathing and his deep-set eyes only enhanced the image that he would explode any minute.

"Hey, Jack. How's it?" Sid said, noticing that the girl who reminded him of Angela sat down on the opposite side of the diner. She giggled at something the bald kid said, and Sid knew she never would measure up to Angela.

"It's all fine," Jack smiled. "You look awful."

Sid ran his hand over his stubbled face and through his unwashed hair. "Last few weeks have been hard. No work and all."

"That might change."

"Good," Sid said, forcing his attention onto his boss. "So that's what this meeting is all about? Or is anything wrong?"

Jack pulled out a stained handkerchief and patted his forehead. "Nothing's wrong. In fact, I think I got a new gig for you. I mean I know I've got a new gig, but I just wanted to make sure it would be okay for you."

"You mean because of Angela?"

Looking down for a moment, Jack then faced Sid with a stern gaze. "You are the best typist Pornex's ever had. You're quick with dialogue and you handle the synth commands smoothly. I mean I bet there are still whackers out there that think Angela was real. But you know there was the problem."

"I've already explained that."

"I know you have. But camera insists you're lying. Now I'm not saying you are. I believe you. But I have camera on record saying you told her to leave the room, that you would set up the equipment yourself, and that when she came back in she found you on top of Angela. I mean what can I say to that?"

The man behind the counter shouted out, "Salad!" Sid waited a moment in silence as the salad rose from anng next to the booth. The lettuce was shriveled, the tomatoes were bruised, and there was no dressing of any kind. It took synthetics almost three times as long to go bad as the real thing. Sid stared at it and slid it to one side.

"And you know I don't care about that kind of thing," Jack continued. "Everyone's got their own thing. But Angela's sensitive equipment. What are we going to do if you go breaking all the synths? Get real women? You know as well as I that's a waste. Last thing Pornex wants is some drug-addict slut who barely makes it to work on time and can only turn ten or twenty tricks. Plus they got to be fed and looked after--"

"I know all that shit."

Jack spread his hands in a friendly gesture. "Then why all the anger? As long as the whackers don't know or care. You see my point. You understand. The company's got to protect its investment."

"Why have I never had a chance to go on record?"

"That's why I'm here, friend. Tell me your side."

Sid nodded rapidly, his mouth pulled in tightly. "Fine. I've worked for this company for almost ten years. I started out typing for fetish freaks. I dealt with sleazy synths designed for masochists. I had to work in shitty, hour motels, typing out what those whackers wanted. Twist your nipples. Put your finger inside. Hit yourself. Moan moan moan. I gave a voice to these commands. I gave a life to these women. Finally, after too long, and you know it was too long...friend, I should have been working with high-class whores like Angela after the first year...but I waited. Five years. Now some lowly camerabitch is saying I'm playing with your synths and you believe her right off. You don't inquire into it. You don't give me the benefit of the doubt. You fucking lay me off. You want to know what I was doing? I was fixing her wiring. Angela's left hand wasn't moving normal. It looked fake. You lose customers if they think they're jerking off to a synth. I got on top of her to fix her wiring."

Jack dabbed at his head once again. "I believe you. I've always been on your side on this. It wasn't my decision to lay you off. But I've got to ask you one more question."

"I sent the bitch out because she was annoying me, and I didn't want her asking a million stupid questions while I'm trying to fix Angela before the next trick dials up."

"Relax. That's what I always thought was the case. That's what I told the company. And, frankly friend, that's why I'm here."

Sid glanced past Jack--the girl and her friends were gone. Jack had already begun to explain how the higher-ups at Pornex wanted Sid to return to work, and Jack fought to get him a top position. He succeeded. They were asking Sid to be the typist for their newest model, Cherry Lee. She was entirely automated with over seven million working parts. "There's nothing she can't do," Jack said winking and wheezing simultaneously. The big deal, however, was that she had no wires connecting her to a computer terminal. All commands were given through the computer via a remote control link up. In the past, especially under the control of a novice typist, the wires would show up on camera and the whackers would want their money back. Sometimes, if the whacker were a lawyer or a judge, a misrepresentation lawsuit was attempted. Cherry Lee would change all that.

"And, Sid, let's face it," Jack pressed, "Angela's business has dropped since you've been gone. No one can make her pump and jump like you. Shit, even her voice sounds different."

"Yeah," Sid muttered.

Leaning in, Jack whispered, "The company wants you to run Cherry Lee because they know you can pull it off. Without wires--no whacker lawyer is ever going to tell the difference. We can advertise her as one hundred percent human and they'll be dialing in for decades. The profit margin is incredible, and I'm sure you'll get a good cut out of the whole thing."

Sid nodded. Jack left. Sid sat alone. Thoughts flooded. Swirls of memory and conjecture. Angela and Cherry Lee. One he knew extremely well. The other. The other awaited him. An hour. Jack had given him an hour to show up at the Carriageway Hotel. Pretty upscale dive for this type of work. Cherry Lee. Wait and see. Angela.

With a stiff movement, Sid pulled out his wallet and removed a photo of Angela. It was a publicity shot they often e-mailed to consistent clients but it really captured Angela. It made her almost human.

Silently, he stood and exited the building. Outside, the gray sky threatened to rain for the third time that day, while the general bustle of people created an unsettling rumble. Crossing the narrow street, Sid slid into his dark green car and began to power up. As another car waited overhead for his space, he quickly typed in the Carriageway Hotel's address and began to ascend.

The hotel rested two hundred and seventy stories straight above--Sid knew Jack had picked the diner for that very reason. A hissing sound let Sid know the car had begun pumping in oxygen to compensate the high altitude. The timer on the main console read ten minutes two seconds until arrival, so Sid leaned his head back and gazed out at the city.

The dark buildings. Drab. People and cars crowding every inch. Strange there is even a need for Pornex. All these people and still. Still. Still, people are cruel. Women are cruel. Diseases, rejection, money gone forever--why not be a whacker? At least it was pure. Sirens. A police car chasing a dented cycle. Stupid. Of course Pornex kept a lot of the whackers off the streets. That was good. And so what if they refuse to tell the difference between fantasy and reality. So what if Angela was more real to a whacker than his neighbor or the girl at work. It does no harm. Cherry Lee would break even more hearts than Angela if what Jack said was true. So what.

So what. Sure it's true. Angela was nothing but wires, Slicktex, horsehair, some paint, and one incredible microprocessor. True but not truth. Sid knew she was more with him. There were no women in his life. Don't need them. Angela provided. He guided her through her miserable business, and then, when the camera was off, they could talk. Not rough talk like with Jack. No swearing. Soft, gentle talk. Moonlight and rainbows. Dreams and fairytales. Whatever he needed. He looked awful, Jack had said. Of course. Without Angela it all fell apart.

The arrival signal rang three times and Sid took control of the car, piloting it smoothly up to the doorway. The car could easily have performed the maneuver, but Sid always preferred to dock manually. Sliding over to exit on the right side of the car, he locked the controls--never can be too safe.

The hotel lobby smelled of fresh paint, however, it clearly had not been painted in years. The walls and ceiling were chipped, revealing several layers of different management choice in color. Somebody probably sprayed the lobby with a fresh paint scent to fake out the extremely intoxicated--make the extra hundred on the room seem worth it. A young woman sat behind a small counter, several keycards stacked to one side. Two male prostitutes sat on a stained couch, one with his leg over the armrest, both laughing obnoxiously and talking loudly. Walking straight for the stairway, Sid ignored everyone around him. He climbed two stories and went to room 213--Jack said that the cameraman would be waiting. One sharp knock and the doord.

"You Sid?" a lanky man said through two cigarettes.

Sid nodded and pushed his way in. The small room matched the dilapidated décor of the lobby. To his right, a small computer console sat on a table with a stool to its side. Cable ran from the computer to a camera, positioned straight in front of the bed. And on the bed--Cherry Lee.

Sid froze. His heart pounding in his head. Try to breathe. Try to breathe. She was immaculate. Soft platinum white hair. Sparkling flecks of gold in her eyebrows. Lips a little fuller than normal. Eyes that would be incredibly seductive under Sid's control. Look in the mouth. The tongue was perfect. Smooth skin all over--almost human looking. Her breasts looked firm and soft at the same time. Slightly larger than normal. And her platinum white pubic hair was shaved to a perfect size. The whackers were going to pull it right off when they saw Cherry Lee.

And Sid wanted to touch her.

But she was a remote. She had no wires he could pretend to be examining. She had no connections he could use as an excuse to get up close, to feel her, to smell her. He could only stand there, staring at her, until camera cleared his throat, and Sid had to turn away, had to sit on his little stool, had to please the whackers.

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