The Pieces of My Self

34 - Remy's Shop

LILLIAN

The Nautical Fix, 14 June, Tuesday

Our vehicle pulled to a stop outside Remy's shop. It was close to the pier, where he moored his boat and launched fishing trips. The corrugated metal façade, painted green like moldy bread and covered with orange and black graffiti scrawls, held a single sign in fading gold paint: Nautical Fix.

I got out of the cab with Amara and stepped onto a street that smelled of ripe garbage. The driver, a young, muscular Black man dressed in the bright yellow of his company's brand, removed a canvas bag from the trunk and dragged it to the bottom of the steps. "That'll be thirty loumans," he said. "Plus tip."

Apparently, Debra hadn't prepaid, so I gave him one of my credit streams that still had value.

"Want me to wait? This ain't a great part of town, if you know what I mean. And it's real hot."

The heat shimmered above the sidewalks. It was mid-morning and there were only a few souls around. There were warehouses, a couple of tattoo parlors, and a Shaweez Shop, where people could plug into VR and drug drips and stay immersed until their credit ran dry.

Two doors down, an old white man in a tank top and shorts chomped flaccid lips against toothless gums. He leaned on a trash can, staring in, poking with his bare hands. On my other side, two young Caucasian boys chased a ball down an otherwise empty street. I guessed the temperature drove everyone else inside, like burrowing lizards.

"Thanks," I said to the driver. "Nothing I can't handle. I'll take a Sammy back."

I dragged the bag halfway up the steps and rang the buzzer. As the cab departed, Amara started whining, wanting to go home.

"We have to fix Fluffy. You don't want him to stay broken, do you?"

Her face was one big pout. "No. But can't we just leave him here? Somebody will come out and fix him."

"Who would that be? The fairies?"

I pressed the button again.

The white dude stopped rooting through the trash, turned and walked toward us, face somber and threatening, holding a broken bottle in one hand.

I banged on the entrance.

Finally, footsteps.

The old guy was fifteen feet from us, close enough to see the drool on his chin, when a boy, perhaps slightly older than Grady, opened the door. He wore a straw hat, a short-sleeved shirt, and bib overalls. Classic. What was missing was a thread of straw poking from his lips.

He looked at the old man and said, "Don't bother these people, Harold. Go away."

The man, now uncomfortably close, didn't move. He just smiled.

"Bonjour," the boy said.

"Hi. I'm Lillian, and this is my daughter Amara. Is Remy around?"

He gave a warning look at Harold, who was shaking the broken bottle like a rattle, then slow-eyed the bag near my feet.

"The junk in the bag is our AS. It used to be better organized. Can you help me with it?"

The boy nodded, took one end of the bag and wrestled it inside.

* * *

The interior of the Nautical Fix was at least twenty degrees cooler than the street, but a hotbed of activity, with the whine of motors, the sizzle of laser cutters, and the acrid smell of ozone.

Three young men and four women bustled around steel benches littered with drills, bio-replicators, electronic equipment, chip bins, and marine engines in various stages of repair.