Blind.Faith 2.0.50. Tomasz Tatum

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ end of the old wooden table. The temperature of the accompanying b@rleyPop was usually the deciding element in judging the quality of the overall dining experience.

      The far end of the table, directly behind the monitor, was piled high with odd bits of clippings, torn out magazine pages, envelopes or hardcopy mail addressed to “occupant” praising and purveying people, products and organizations which he didn’t like, want or need as well as what looked like endless reams of yellowing paper, most of which had eventually become inconsequential in nature because he seldom, if ever, bothered to read it anymore. Maybe he’d get around to it sooner or later, he would sometimes think to himself whenever it became necessary to shove the pile back or forth across the table.

      But he never seemed to get around to it. In this day and age, he reasoned, why bother? All the important stuff was being dispatched electronically anyhow.

      But despite this undisputable truth, Libertyville@Esperantia was nonetheless still light-years away from being a paperless society in this modern era. In fact, Ch.ase found the sheer amount of paper used for printing flyers and advertising brochures which he, and probably everyone else, considered to be superfluous was quite remarkable in light of the fact that he suspected that there was probably not a single tree around to even begin to manufacture quality paper from. Or, as he was rightfully convinced, because it was very unlikely that the Domain.State of Libertyville@Esperantia could or would afford itself the luxury of spending its scarce resources importing anything as inconsequential as paper for the purpose of random advertising, irrespective of whether any trees for pulp production were readily available or not.

      Perhaps recycling had been perfected to the degree of being a fine art, he occasionally pondered as he again pushed the pile this way or that. There was no other compellingly logical explanation that he could think of.

      And even though such essentially eco-friendly thoughts did cross his mind on more than just one occasion, this insight in no way ever increased his desire to either read his junk mail or at least ensure that it was recycled. Frankly, he wasn’t really convinced that reading this unsolicited material would in any way serve to minimize the waste of resources inherent in its production and distribution.

      To the immediate right of one of the windows in this second room was the tiny kitchenette area, consisting essentially of a small basin, a half-size solar powered chill.Box, a hyperwave oven and a fairly decrepit thermo.stove with four gas burners of varying sizes, probably dating back as far, he reckoned, as the dawning of modern industrial history. By virtue of its age, and thus through no real failing that could be attributed to the stove, this apparatus did actually look to be in a bit worse state than it perhaps truly was. Ch.ase, for his part, had declined offers by the building management to replace it and, later on, also resolved that there was no responsibility whatsoever on his part to clean it as he had never once put it to any use. The visible crust of grime with which the stovetop was caked–very likely petrified chili con carne or something disturbingly similar–was pretty much Neolithic in nature anyhow.

      Wedged in on one side of the tiny hallway between these two rooms and thus directly opposite the main entrance door to the flat, was a small cubicle containing the shower and a toilet, lit by an ungainly-looking pseudo-chandelier with a laser and LED light show function, installed by Ch.ase when he moved in, to assist in establishing the necessary mood and atmosphere requisite for a happy home. Aside from the hexagonal designer seat with its trendy fluorescent rim, the toilet was equipped with an electronic optical sensor flushing mechanism that unfortunately didn’t always function in exactly the way it was intended. If things were going well, it required only a few waves of the hand, for example, or a burst of lights on, lights off. On other occasions, though, it sometimes required vigorous voodoo chants, coaxing or physical abuse. Frustrated by either the sheer nonsense of the technology or his own ineptitude, Ch.ase tried religiously to avoid using this contraption, if this was at all possible, since the master bathroom–as the lease agreement referred to the cube in a slightly exaggerated description–possessed neither a window that could be opened nor any other adequate source of ventilation.

      As a consequence, the only time, generally speaking, it was used was when Ch.ase would grudgingly make his appearance in it after awakening in the morning and again before retiring to bed at night. Since Ch.ase understandably harbored a deep disdain toward this room and the facilities contained within it anyhow, and because he reasoned that it was therefore rarely ever put to real use, the level of care he voluntarily devoted to it during his sojourn in this homestead corresponded roughly to that which he accorded to the Neolithic crud encrusted on the gas stove in the adjoining room.

      It was no exaggeration to note that Ch.ase actually loathed everything about the master bathroom. And this was true despite the fact that he was actually light-years away from being of anything that even remotely approached aesthetic inclination. Nonetheless, what little appreciation for practical things he did possess led him to accept that his objective evaluation of the building’s architectural failings could not leave him entirely indifferent on this particular count. Ever since the waning of the 20th century, there existed in far too many corners of the developed worldmonde.Planet some tacitly acknowledged widespread stubborn persistence in designing and building flats and houses, if one could even call them such, with flat leaky roofs, squeaky floors, small garages and essentially airtight bathrooms and toilets.

      Architects were a complete mystery to him. Perhaps they either lived entirely different biological lives than he did or maybe they were chronically constipated, Ch.ase surmised. For him, there was no other feasible explanation. How could anyone deliberately build master bathrooms like his? He was always, without exception, disgusted by the pervasive stench that would linger in his flat whenever he was foolhardy or desperate enough to have to take a dump at home.

      In fact, it was because of this dire shortcoming, resulting from a conflict of interest in the biological-architectural realm, that he would more than just occasionally find himself spending more of his already scarce time at the office voluntarily–just to avoid this dilemma.

      As already mentioned, between the two rooms, opposite the entrance to the master bathroom, was the main entrance door that opened into the building’s stairwell. Ch.ase’s flat was located on the upper floor of this rather unobtrusive building, directly below the attic. Although the place beneath his was also rented out, he only very rarely ever met his neighbor, a baldish fellow who looked a bit like a potato or a turtle. He knew next to nothing about him other than the fact that he was employed in the construction business and that he apparently indulged very heavily in garlic and even more often in classical music–particularly Bach’s Brandenburg Concerts and Händel’s Water Musick, for which he apparently hedged an especially deep affinity, judging by the liberal amount of play he accorded it.

      Ch.ase shuddered for a moment at the thought of water. He absolutely hated the stuff if it was anywhere other than in a glass for drinking purposes. Ever since Fulton’s death, he hated and, deep within, even feared it.

      And Ch.ase sometimes wondered about another thing peculiar to his neighbor downstairs: the crashing of items such as glass or dishes could be heard coming fairly regularly from the apartment below. Although it did, of course, seem a bit odd to him, he had grown accustomed to this small idiosyncrasy with the passage of time. Perhaps the fellow had no dishwasher, Ch.ase reasoned, or, if that wasn’t the explanation, then maybe he was just plain clumsy.

      In any case, the extent of their few contacts seldom went beyond the largely unchivalrous gesture of placing each other’s heaps of junk mail at their respective door stoop in the event that the otherwise disused letter boxes were once again overflowing due to the incessant stream of advertising flyers, most of which simply urged him to buy cheap and buy now.

      Thus, the otherwise largely redundant mailboxes of Libertyville@Esperantia were not really any different than those of their counterparts in other so-called developed societies around the globe–or, for that matter, Ch.ase’s tabletop. Despite СКАЧАТЬ