Текст книги "Jericho Iteration"

Автор книги: Allen Steele

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Milling around the atrium was a large crowd of business types, clustered in conversation circles, standing in front of the bar or taking drinks from the robowaiters, idly watching the shuttle countdown on the videowall. There was a buffet table at one side of the room; the aroma of hors d’oeuvres was too tempting for someone who hadn’t eaten all day, so I excused myself from John to go get some free chow.

After wolfing down a plate of cocktail shrimp, fried mushrooms, and toasted ravioli, I was ready to start thinking like a professional journalist again. John was nowhere in sight; I eased myself into a vacant corner of the room and took a couple shots of the holograph, then began to scan the room through the Nikon’s telescopic lens under the pretense that I was grabbing a few candid shots. The nice thing about posing as a down-at-the-heels news photographer is that, under circumstances such as this, you fade right into the woodwork; no one pays much attention to the photog because no one wants to seem as if they’re posing for pictures.

At first sight, no one seemed particularly remarkable; you’ve seen one suit, you’ve seen ’em all. The only exception was another photographer across the room, a young lady in jeans and a sweater who looked just as seedy as I. She scowled at me before melting into the crowd. Professional rivalry; she was probably from the Post-Dispatch.I wondered if she could help me adjust my F-stops …

Enough of that. Like it or not, I was still married, even if Marianne had sent me to the darkroom. I continued to check out the atrium.

For a few moments I didn’t see anyone recognizable. Then I spotted Steve Estes. The most right-wing member of the City Council was standing in the center of the room, yukking it up with a couple of other guys who looked as if they were fellow alumni of Hitler Youth. The pompous prick was probably bragging about how he had managed to get ERA to roust a bunch of panhandlers out of the park the night before.

Estes was clearly maneuvering for a run against Elizabeth Boucher in next year’s mayoral election; every public statement he had made since the quake hinted that he was going to oppose “Liberal Lizzie” (to use his term) on a good ol’ Republican law-and-order platform. It would be an easy run; Liz had been caught off guard by the quake and everything that occurred afterward, and in the last few weeks she had been rarely seen or heard outside of City Hall. Rumor had it that she was suffering from a nervous breakdown, a drinking problem, or both, and her foes on the council, chief among them Big Steve, had been quick to capitalize on the rumors. If she ran for reelection, it would be as an unstable incumbent; if you believed Estes’ rants, you’d think Boucher had gone down to New Madrid and jumped up and down on the fault line to cause the quake herself.

Estes glanced in my direction; the grin on his face melted into a cold glare. I took the opportunity to snag his picture before he looked away again. If anything, the shot could be used for Bailey’s next editorial against Estes and his hard-line policies. Then I happened to notice a small group of people standing across the room.

Unlike nearly everyone else at the reception, they were inordinately quiet, seeming somewhat ill at ease even though all three wore the blue badges that I had already recognized as designating Tiptree employees. Their apparent nervousness caught my attention; they appeared to be in terse, quiet conversation, occasionally shutting up and glancing furtively over their shoulders when someone happened to pass by.

I zoomed in on one of them, a distinguished-looking guy in his mid-fifties, tall and rail-thin, with a trim gray Vandyke beard and a receding hairline. Although his back was turned toward me, it was apparent that the two other people were deferring to him. When he looked over his shoulder again, I snapped his picture, more out of impulse than anything else.

Then, in the next instant, he shuffled out of the way, for the first time clearly revealing the shorter person who had been standing opposite him …

A middle-aged black woman in a powder blue business suit and white blouse, not particularly distinguishable from anyone else in the crowd-except I recognized the shock of gray in her hair and the stern expression on her face.

No question about it. She was the very same lady I had encountered in the park last night.

Fumbling with the lens-control buttons, I zoomed in on the woman as much as the camera would allow. The Nikon’s varioptic lens did wonders; now it was as if I were standing three feet in front of her. I could clearly read what was printed on her name badge: BERYL HINCKLEY, Senior Research Associate.

As if she were telepathic, her eyes flitted in my direction when I snapped her picture. I lowered the camera and smiled at her.

She recognized me. Her face registered surprise, and for a moment I thought she was going to come over to speak to me.

“Ladies, gentlemen, if I could have your attention please … we’re about to get started here.”

The amplified voice came through hidden speakers near the ceiling. A young executive was standing at a podium below the videowall. The drone of conversation began to fade as everyone quieted down.

The exec smiled at them. “We’ve been told that the shuttle has come off its prelaunch countdown hold and will be lifting off in just a few minutes,” he went on, “but before that, I’d like to introduce someone who has a few remarks to share with you …”

I glanced across the room again, only to find that Beryl Hinckley had vanished from where I had last seen her. I looked around, trying to spot her again; I caught a brief glimpse of her back as she disappeared into the crowd, heading in the direction of a side exit. She had a true knack for making her escape.

“… Our chief executive officer, Cale McLaughlin. Mr. McLaughlin …?”

A smattering of applause, led by the exec, as he stepped away from the podium to make way for McLaughlin. Tiptree’s CEO was an older gentleman: tall, whip thin, and white haired, with wire-rimmed glasses and the focused look of a man who started his career as a lower-echelon salesman and clawed his way up to the top of the company.

Probably a pretty good golfer, too, but that didn’t mean I was more interested in him than any other corporate honcho I had seen before. I zoomed back in on the conversation circle, only to find that the two men who had been talking with the mystery lady had also faded into the background.

“I’ll keep things brief, because it’s hard to compete with a shuttle launch.” Some laughter from the audience, which had otherwise gone respectfully quiet. McLaughlin’s voice held a soft Texas accent, muted somewhat by the careful diction of a well-educated gentleman. “The Tiptree Corporation is pleased to have been part of the Sentinel program since the very beginning. Hundreds of people have been involved with this project over the last few years, and we believe that it is an important asset to the national security of the United States …”

Yeah, yeah, yeah. So was the B-2 bomber. I was too busy wondering why this Hinckley woman needed to take a powder every time she saw my face.

I was about to wade into the crowd in hopes of finding her again when a soft voice I had never expected, nor hoped, to hear again spoke from behind me.

“Mr. Rosen, I presume …”

I turned around to find, not unlike the devil himself, Paul Huygens standing at my shoulder.

Not much can surprise me, but in that moment I nearly dropped Jah’s expensive camera on the polished floor. If Amelia Earhart and Jimmy Hoffa had appeared to announce that they were married and were now living in a nudist colony on Tierra del Fuego and that Marie de Allegro was their love child, I couldn’t have been more shocked. I might even have made note of a certain family resemblance.

The only thing that Paul Huygens bore a resemblance to was something you might find when you pick up a rock and look underneath. He was a squat, greasy little toad of a guy, the sort of person who wears five-hundred-dollar Armani suits and still manages to look like a cheap hustler. Imagine the Emperor Nero as a lounge lizard and you’ve got the general idea.

“Why, hello, Paul,” I said quietly. I tried to disguise my disconcertment by coughing into my hand. “Long time, no see …”

Behind us, Cale McLaughlin continued his short, brief, bah-bah woof-woof about how wonderful Sentinel 1was to the future of all mankind. Huygens nodded slightly. “A couple of years at least,” he replied. As before, his voice was almost girlishly high pitched: a little startling, since one rather expected a deep-throated, froggy tenor. “Still up to your old tricks, I see.”

“Hmm? Oh, this …” I glanced down at the camera. “Sort of a new gig. I’m working for the Big Muddy Inquirernow. Switched over to photojournalism.”

“Uh-huh. I see.” He frowned and made a show of looking closely at my badge. “You must have changed your name, too … or does Craig Bailey write columns under your byline?”

I felt my face grow warm. He grinned at me. I had made a big lie and he had caught me in it. I made a sheepish, well-shucky-darn kind of shrug and changed the subject. “So … how’s everything in Massachusetts these days?”

Huygens looked me straight in the eye. “I wouldn’t know, Gerry,” he said. “I quit CybeServe and moved to St. Louis about six months ago.”

“Oh, really?”

“Oh, really.” He nodded his head. “I’m working for Tiptree now. Director of public relations.” The grin became a taut, humorless smile. “Remember what I told you? We’re from the same hometown.”

More surprises, and just a little less pleasant than the first one. Yeah, Huygens had told me that, two years ago when I had first spoken to him on the phone, back when he had held the same job for CybeServe Electronics in Framingham and I had been a staffer for an alternative paper in Boston. Back then, of course, I hadn’t known what sort of eel I was dealing with, or how he’d eventually try to destroy my career. Damn near succeeded, too.

“Well, well,” I said. “Like a bad penny …”

The smile disappeared altogether. Huygens cocked his head sideways as he peered closely at me. “Excuse me? I didn’t quite get that-”

“Never mind. Just a passing thought.” I coughed into my hand again. “So … what high school did you go to?”

It’s an old St. Louis line, akin to asking a New Englander about the weather, but Huygens didn’t bite. Over his shoulder, I spotted John halfway across the room, making his way through the crowd with a drink in his hand. Probably a ginger ale, which was unfortunate; I could have used a shot of straight whiskey right then. He caught my eye, gave me a one-finger high sign, and started toward us.

“Hmm.” Huygens’s thick lips pursed together. “Y’know, Gerry, to be quite honest, if I had wanted you to be here, I would have sent you an invitation-”

“Things were tight at the office,” I began. “Craig was sort of busy, so I-”

“Covered for him, right.” He pretended to rub a dust mote out of his left eye. I recognized the gesture; it was something he always did just before he asked you to bend over and drop your britches. “Well, I might have overlooked it, us being old acquaintances and all, but you see … well, I just received a complaint from one of our guests.”

“Oh?” John was still making his serpentine way through the mob; the cavalry was taking forever to get here. “From whom?”

“Steve Estes. He said …” He shrugged. “Well, you know these politicians. They don’t like to be photographed without prior permission. That’s what brought me over here in the first place.”

“Oh, no,” I said. “Of course not. After all, if just anyone was able to take their picture, they might actually be accountable to the public.”

Huygens nodded agreeably. “Well, yes, there’s that … but nonetheless, Mr. Estes is an invited guest and you’re not …”

I shrugged off-handedly. “Sure, I understand, but Steve shouldn’t worry about the shot I took of him. It probably won’t come out anyway.”

Huygens blessed me with a blank, mildly bewildered look. “After all,” I continued, “old Transylvanian legends claim that vampires can’t be photographed.”

Assholes are always the best straight men: they don’t have a good sense of humor. As his expression turned cold a few moments before John arrived at my side, I raised the camera to my face. “Let’s test that,” I said, focusing on Huygens’s wattled chin. “Say cheese …”

Applause from the audience as McLaughlin wrapped up his speech. It could have been an appreciation for my jab. Now it was Huygens’s turn to make like a boiled lobster.

The gag didn’t last long. The picture I took was of him reaching into his breast pocket to pull out his PT and tap in the codes that negated the electronic passwords embedded in our smartbadges. John walked right into the middle of the whole scene.

“Hey, Gerry,” he said. “Did you get something to eat?”

“The crow’s good,” I murmured as I lowered the camera. “Just ask my friend here.”

Huygens simply stared at me. A moment later, two plainclothes security guards materialized behind John and me; they must have been hovering nearby, waiting for Huygens’s signal. They were on us before I had a chance to compliment Huygens on his choice of catering service.

“Get ’em out of here,” Huygens said to the large gentlemen who had descended upon us. “See you around, Gerry.”

He didn’t even bother to look at me before he turned his back on us and waddled back into the crowd.

John looked confused as a pair of massive hands clamped onto his shoulders. “Excuse me, but is there a problem?”

“Yes, sir,” one of the mutts said. “You are.” No one at the reception noticed our sudden departure. They were too busy applauding the videowall as the Endeavour,spewing smoke and fire, rose from its launch pad into a perfect blue Floridian sky.

7

(Thursday, 12:05 P.M.)

Tiptree’s rent-a-goons escorted us out the front door, where they confiscated our smartbadges and pointed the way to the road. John and I didn’t say anything to each other until we reached his car and had driven out of the company parking lot. When we had passed through the front gate and were heading back down Clayton Road toward the highway, though, the first thing John wanted from me wasn’t an apology.

“Okay, what was that all about?” he asked. “I thought you were just talking to that guy.”

He wasn’t pissed off so much as he was bewildered. I felt a headache coming on, so I lowered my seat-back to a prone position and gently rubbed my eyes with my knuckles.

“He said it was because I had taken a picture of Steve Estes,” I said, “but he was just looking for an excuse. I could have complained about the catering and he would have tossed me out just the same.” I let out my breath. “He had no problem with you. You just happened to be with me, and that made you an accessory. Sorry, but that’s the way it is.”

“Hmm … well, don’t worry about it. What’s done is done.” He stopped to let a mini-cat rumble across the road in front of us; the machine was carrying a load of broken cinderblocks away from a collapsed convenience store. The flagman waved us on, and John stepped on the pedal again. “So you think he did that just to get rid of us? I don’t-”

“For the record,” I went on, “the jerk’s name is Paul Huygens.” I hesitated. “He used to work for CybeServe, maker of the fine line of CybeServe home VR products … specifically, the VidMaxx Dataroom. Ring any bells with you?” John’s face was blank for a moment, then Big Ben tolled the midnight hour. He cast a sharp look at me. “I’ll be darned,” he said slowly. “Is that the guy who got you canned at the Clarion?”

“One and the same, dude.” I gazed out the window at the ruins of a collapsed subdivision, remembering an unsigned note that had been faxed to me only a few years ago. “One and the same …”

Time for another history lesson. Today’s lecture is how Gerry Rosen, ace investigative reporter, once again tried to get a good story and, not incidentally, save a few lives, but instead ended up losing his job. Take notes; there will be a quiz on this at the end of the postmodern era.

Three years before, I was working as a staff writer for another weekly alternative newspaper, this one the Back Bay Clarion,a muckraking little rag published in Boston. I had been assigned by my editor to follow up on a number of complaints against a medium-size electronics company based in Framingham, a Boston suburb that has been the heart of the East Coast computer industry since the early eighties. As you may have guessed, this was CybeServe.

CybeServe was one of many corporations that had cashed in on the virtual-reality boom by manufacturing home VR systems for the consumer market. It had previously lost tons of money on the cheap-shit domestic robots it had attempted to sell through department stores, so its VidMaxx line of VR equipment had been one of the few products that were keeping the company afloat. All well and good, but the problem lay in their top-of-the-line product, the VidMaxx Dataroom 310.

The Dataroom 310 was much like its competitors: the unit could transform any vacant household room into a virtual-reality environment, transporting the customer into any world that could be interfaced by the CPU-the sort of thing for which Jah now wanted to write programs. Want to see exactly what the NASA probes on Mars are doing right now? Experience a role-playing game set in a medieval fantasy world? Go shopping in the Galleria Virtual? If you had all the right hardware and enough money to blow on on-line linkage with the various nets, the Dataroom 310 would take you there toot sweet.

However, unlike similar equipment marketed by Microsoft-Commodore or IBM, CybeServe’s VR equipment had some major flaws. First, there was no built-in interrupt timer; anyone who plugged into cyberspace could stay there indefinitely, or at least until hell froze over and you could build snowmen in Cairo. Also, because of various bugs in the CybeServe’s communications software sold with the hardware, anyone with a little knowledge could hack straight through the security lockouts installed by sysops to prevent users from accessing various commercial VR nets without ponying up a credit card number.

This type of bad engineering had made the CybeServe Butler 3000 the joke of the robotics industry; CybeServe tended to do things fast and cheap in order to cash in on a marketing trend. But most people were unaware of the subtle flaws with the Dataroom 310 when they bought it and had it installed in their homes. Their kids, though, soon discovered those glitches that allowed them practically unlimited time on whatever nets they were able to access, with or without authorization. Blowing three grand on phone bills to Madame Evelyn’s House of Love is enough to make anyone break out in a cold sweat.

That’s bad. What’s worse was that, according to the tips my paper had received from distraught and angry parents, several kids were losing themselves in cyberspace. They would rush home from school to lock themselves into the datarooms and, using various commands and passwords they had learned from their friends, jack into the VR worlds of their choice … and some of them, because of the lack of an interrupt toggle, wouldn’t come back home again. It became a form of avoidance behavior for children who didn’t like genuine reality, much as drugs, excessive TV viewing, or 1-900 phone services had been for previous generations. A few emotionally disturbed teenagers had even attempted suicide this way, trying to starve themselves to death while locked into an unreal world they refused to leave.

When I checked into it, I found that CybeServe was aware of the problem yet had done nothing to solve it. The corporation had a consulting psychologist on its payroll, whose only job was to jack into the system and talk kids out of virtual reality. The company offered generous “refunds” to their families if they kept their mouths shut about the accidents that had befallen Junior and Sis and didn’t file any lawsuits. Yet CybeServe had not recalled the Dataroom 310 to install timers nor made any effort to update the communications software to prevent hacking. Instead of fixing its mistakes, the company had concentrated solely on keeping potential buyers and the company’s competitors from learning about the product’s defects.

A few local families wanted to talk; so did a couple of their kids, particularly a thirteen-year-old boy from Newton who had spent six months in a New Hampshire psychiatric hospital after he had attempted to kill himself by locking himself in the household dataroom for nearly three days. They had tipped off the Clarion,and I was put onto the story.

CybeServe’s public relations director was Paul Huygens. He had started off by affably refuting the accusations during a long phone interview. He also offered to have a unit installed in my house-free of charge, of course, for “research purposes.” When I didn’t wag my tail and roll over, he circulated an in-house memo to all key company personnel, tacitly threatening job termination to anyone who didn’t hang up as soon as I called.

It could be said in Huygens’s defense that he had only been doing his job. That’s fair; I was doing mine. After several weeks of hangups, I managed to find a disgruntled former CybeServe R amp;D scientist with a guilty conscience who told me, in a not-for-attribution interview, about the fatal flaws in the Dataroom 310. That, along with all the real and circumstantial evidence, allowed me to write an exposé about the company. It was published in the Clarionafter nearly two months of grinding work, and within a couple of months after its publication, the Dataroom 310 was taken off the market and CybeServe was forced to deal with dozens of civil-court lawsuits regarding the product.

By then, I had lost my job. Almost as soon as the article was published, Huygens called Boston-area companies that had business with CybeServe, all of them electronics retailers that advertised in the Back Bay Clarion.These stores, in turn, swamped the Clarion’spublisher with threats that they would yank their ads from the paper unless an editorial retraction was published and I was fired.

Like most alternative weeklies, the Clarionwas a free paper, its existence dependent solely upon ad revenues. Most publishers-like Pearl, bless his rancid heart-have an iron rod thrust down their backs, knowing all too well that advertisers need the papers just as much as the papers need the advertisers and that editorial wimp-outs only invite further intimidation. Earlier that year, though, the Clarionhad been sold to a greedhead who was innocent of journalistic ethics and didn’t have the common sense not to let himself be cowed by hollow threats. This jellyfish, confronted with the notion that he might not be able to purchase a summer cottage on Martha’s Vineyard, knuckled under.

Two weeks after the publication of my CybeServe story, I was on my way to work when I stopped off at a Newbury Street deli to have coffee and read the Globe-Herald.This made me twenty minutes late for work. I had done it many times before with no previous complaints, but when I showed up at the office, my termination notice was already pinned to my door. The reason given was “chronic tardiness.”

I was cleaning out my desk and putting all my files in cartons when my printer began to hum. I looked around to see the handwritten fax as it dropped into the tray:

Never fuck with the gods.

The fax came unsigned, but when I double-checked the number at the top of the page against my Rolodex, I saw that it had originated from Huygens’s extension at CybeServe. His company was going down the tubes, but he was damned if he wasn’t going to take me with him.

And now here I was, in another place and another time, fucking with the gods again.

“Huygens wanted to get me out of there,” I said. “I don’t know what it is, but there’s something he doesn’t want me to know about. I screwed him up once … he doesn’t want that to happen again.”

John nodded his head. “Could be. Could be …”

“I spotted the woman I met last night,” I said as I cinched my seat upward again. John drove up the eastbound ramp to I-64, the car sliding into the dense midday traffic heading downtown. “Just before Huygens found me. She was across the room from us …”

“You did?” Tiernan looked mildly surprised; he passed a tandem-trailer rig that was chugging down the right lane and squeezed in behind a twenty-year-old BMW with Illinois tags and an expired gas-user decal. “What did she look like?”

“African-American, about five-six … um, sort of plump, about forty to forty-five. Some gray in her hair. It was her, all right.” I hesitated, then added, “I used the camera to zoom in on her badge.”

“Yeah?”

“Found out her position, too. Printed right on the badge.”

“No kidding …”

“No kidding.”

I fell silent. He waited for me to go on. “Well?”

I pointed at the shitbox ahead of us. Pale fumes billowed from its exhaust pipe. “Can you believe that they’re still allowing cars like that on the road? I mean, I thought they were supposed to be enforcing the phase-out laws, and here’s this clunker-”

“Gerry …”

“I think I’m going to do a column about this. I mean, I don’t mind much if someone like Chevy Dick’s got an antique in his garage and takes it out once every now and then, but when you see something like this in broad daylight … y’know, it’s just disgraceful …”

John sighed. “Okay, okay, knock it off. What do you want to know?”

I grinned. It was an old game between us dating back to our college journalism days: quid pro quo information trading. You tell me your secrets and I’ll tell you mine, tit for tat. Sometimes the game had been played for higher stakes than this: when he wanted to know the name of the cute brunette in my Econ 101 class, I traded it to him for the home phone number of the university chancellor. It worked out pretty well; I was able to call the chancellor on a Sunday afternoon while he was watching a football game to ask him embarrassing questions about next semester’s tuition hikes, and for this John received the name of his future wife.

“Ruby fulcrum,” I said. “What’s it mean?”

John sighed. “It’s a code phrase of some sort. To be honest, I don’t know much about it myself, except that it has something to do with the Sentinel program. This lady keeps mentioning it, though, so it must be important somehow.”

He suddenly snapped his fingers, then reached above the windshield to pull down the car’s flatscreen. “Let’s see if CNN has anything on the launch.”

“‘Don’t know’ doesn’t count …”

“Okay, okay.” Keeping one eye on traffic and one hand on the wheel, John switched the CTV to bring us CNN. “Ask me another one.”

“Why are you talking to this woman?” I asked. “What’s this story all about?”

John didn’t say anything for a moment. On the screen, the CNN anchor was reading a story about the deployment of Army troops on the Oregon border. Footage of rifle-toting soldiers tramping down the ramp of an Air Force transport jet, APCs and tanks rolling down highways between coniferous forests, antiwar demonstrators attempting to barricade military convoys …

“It has to do with a murder,” he said, carefully picking his words. “My source-and yeah, I think it’s the same lady, though I’ve never seen her-says that a Tiptree scientist was killed recently. Even though the police are still calling it random homicide, she claims it’s part of a conspiracy and has something to do with this Ruby Fulcrum business.”

The footage on the screen changed back to the CNN newsroom; a window in the right corner displayed the NASA logo. “Here we go,” John said as he turned up the volume.

“… launched a half-hour ago from Cape Canaveral, Florida,”the anchorwoman intoned as the screen switched to a shot of the shuttle Endeavourlifting off from its pad. “In its cargo bay are the final components of theSentinel 1 ABM satellite.”

Animated footage of the massive satellite, identical to the holographic image that had been displayed in the Tiptree atrium, replaced the live-action shot. “Linkup between the shuttle and the twenty-billion-dollar satellite is expected sometime tomorrow afternoon.”

“A murder?” I asked. “What’s this got to do with-”

“Forget it.” John reached up to switch off the CTV as he finally found room to pass the BMW. I caught a glimpse of the driver as we moved around the clunker: a redneck wearing a baseball cap, a cigar clamped between his teeth. “That’s all I’m giving you,” he continued, “and I shouldn’t have told you that much. Your turn.”

“Beryl Hinckley,” I said. “Her badge listed her as a research scientist. If you want, I’ll get Jah to print you a copy of her photo so you can recognize her when you meet her at Clancy’s tonight.”

John nodded. “I’d appreciate it.”

We fell silent for the next few miles as the suburbs thinned out and the towers of the uptown business district of Clayton hove into view. Clayton had come through the crisis pretty well: new office buildings, rich homes, not many indications that a 7.5 earthquake had socked this part of the city. Of course, much of the federal disaster relief funds had been channeled in this direction. The government had been fully aware of who was wealthy enough to be able to repay the loans, and everyone in St. Louis knew where the influential voters resided.

“Stay out of it,” John said after a while.

“Excuse me?”

“Stay out of it,” he repeated. “I know you’re looking for a good story, and I know you’re nervous about your job, but … just let me handle this one by myself, okay? If I need help, I’ll call you in and we can share the byline-”

“C’mon. You know that’s not what it’s about …”

He looked askance at me and my voice trailed off. It was a lie and John knew it. No, I wasn’t nervous; I was desperate. If I didn’t deliver something impressive PDQ, Pearl was going to find a new staff writer and I’d be back on the street. At best, I’d be some poor schmo freelancer, peddling video reviews to the Big Muddyfor nickel-and-dime checks while living in a homeless shelter.