Darryl was in such a hurry that morning that he nearly put on his wicking shirt backwards. He brushed his teeth vigorously, but didn't stop to comb and coif. He was just going to get
dirty
again, he thought grimly. Darryl normally didn't plan on sweating this early in the morning, but ever since his Subaru had broken down last week, he'd had to rely on his bicycle. He hadn't gotten used to the humid, musky smell, though, or the damp drag of sweaty clothes on skin. He'd always hated sweating: he made for the showers at a trot whenever he finished a bike ride or a CrossFit session.
Today, more than ever, he was thankful that his office had a changing room and showers. He had to look his absolute best, had to show he was professional enough to move in the big leagues. No more startup slobbery: if they impressed the investors today, Darryl would be across the river in a Pearl District penthouse by Christmas.
On his way to the kitchen, he paused to look himself over one more time anyways. He was ready: hair and beard trimmed to a stylish and hygienic couple of inches, trimly muscled body rocking purple biking gear. He frowned as he considered his glasses. The black plastic frames were a little Bush-era-hipster. He'd seen more and more wire-rims around lately. Maybe it was worth looking into a new pair.
He jogged on to the kitchen. As he ground his beans, Darryl checked the time again and again. His apartment block on Division was twenty minutes away from work by bike. He had over an hour before the investors were set to arrive. He'd arrive early, shower and change, have some time to groom, rehearse the presentation. Then it was only the speech itself, a short tour, and lunch. Maybe even a cocktail or two, if all went well. Darryl pressed his coffee confidently.
He hustled down to the storeroom with an hour still to spare, jazzed on that Kenyan and taking the steps two at a time. But after opening the door, he paused. The panier slipped from between his fingers.
The building was supposed to provide storage space for two bicycles per apartment. It was right there in the brochures, listed alongside the weekend yoga classes and pop-up mimosa bar. Sure, the management reserved the right to cancel amenities at any time. But they did
not
reserve the right to let all of those bikes get jacked. The storeroom's walls were entirely bare, and sliced fragments of Kryptonite locks littered its floor like cigarette butts in a strip-club parking lot. Darryl stared fixedly at his designated wall rack, as if expecting to see the specter of his Schwinn.
Roberta, the Urban Airship analyst from the second floor, was standing by the street exit, staring at her phone and tapping her nails irritably against the seafoam stucco. "Somebody left the door unlocked," she said, not looking up as she checked the status of her Uber. "Honestly, what are we even paying them for?"
Darryl squinted around the room in the hopes that a bike would materialize.
"Before you ask, yes, I already told management," Roberta said. "They've got security camera footage and they'll give it to the cops. Probably some methheads. Probably going to the chop shop. I don't imagine we'll get anything back unless they're real dipshits and put them up on Craigslist. Anyway. Gotta go. My ride's here."
"What time is it?" Darryl croaked, but she was already gone. He scrabbled in the panier for his phone, checked the time, checked the TriMet schedule. The next bus wasn't for half an hour. Robotically, he tore off his wicking top and bike shorts and pulled on his jeans.
It was twenty minutes by bike but an hour on foot, and Darryl had already squandered precious moments gaping in the storeroom. It was a scorcher, too. Portland's interminable winter rains were still a week or two away, and the September day felt like July. His armpits were damp after a few blocks, and the glass-and-concrete canyon of Division magnified and channeled the heat. Stumbling into the street to avoid the tourists standing in line at Salt & Straw, he began reciting his pitch in order to calm himself down.
"Entrtain," he said in between breaths, "gives the fans a voice in the media." He jogged past the clamor of the food carts. His flaring nostrils caught a whiff. He realized that he was suddenly, gnawingly, hungry, and that his coffee wasn't sitting well in an empty and anxious stomach.
"Our revolutionary algorithm – " he drew a deep breath, and his powerful chest opened – "will trawl social media – to generate a consensus – on every moment of a television show, video game, or movie." He turned at 20th and sliced through Ladd's Addition, kicking up clouds of fallen leaves. "Our data visualization experts – will turn – that information – into a detailed – report."
He dashed through the intersection at 12th and Hawthorne and plunged into the industrial district. There was a hydraulic shout as a bus stalled behind him.
"Our clients – will receive – detailed summaries – of consumer preference," he muttered, his muscles thrumming, "about each – development – plot point – twist – and turn."
A delivery truck stopped just short of hitting him as it pulled out of a loading dock.
"Entrtain – allows content – creators –"
He stumbled on the uneven sidewalk and nearly fell.
"To provide – the consumer –"
"Darryl? Is that you?"
"With exactly – what they want – "
"Darryl!"
"Full – content – democracy – "
"Sterile Darryl! Slow the fuck down!"
The pain was so abrupt and shocking that he vomited up his coffee. The taster's notes had all turned to acid, and it hurt. Lying on the sidewalk, torn palms pulsing like sandpapered stigmata, nose and throat burning, vision going in and out as his pulse pumped a deep house beat, Darryl spat and dribbled.
"Quit being such a pussy," someone said. "You were the one going too fast. Why were you in such a rush on a Saturday anyway? Too busy to say hi to an old friend?"
There was a jingling and snuffling in his ear. Something wet was slapping and flapping at him, licking and lapping all around his head.
"Aw, man, G. G.," someone else said. "If you're gonna eat that puke you better not, like, puke it back up again later, you hear me?"
The dog's tongue touched a scrape. Darryl rolled over, whimpering. He pushed away the curious snout as it returned, and very gingerly opened his eyes and sat up. Both pant legs were torn open and his knees skinned. His stylish shirt was covered in bile and sidewalk grime. His hands were the worst off. There was still blood flowing out of his palms. Casting about for his panier, he realized that it was still on his back, but its contents had been launched out when he fell. His phone had landed a whole three yards away. Couldn't have improved the crack in the screen any. At least his glasses were intact.
Next to him, the dog – a hairy black-and-white mutt strapped into some kind of harness – had returned to licking furiously at the splatter of coffee vomit. Darryl's nausea swelled again just seeing it, and he looked away, towards the two figures watching him.
"You gonna get up, Sterile Darryl? You don't seem like you're in such a hurry now."
"Do I know you?" he said, stupidly. He felt a cold breeze on his forehead and realized he must be bleeding there too. Half-heartedly, he wiped it with a sleeve. The shirt was already ruined.
"Oh, good, you're still an asshole," the woman said. Darryl's new friends were slouched comfortably against the chain-link fence that blocked off a tight, bushy alleyway between two warehouses. Wrapped in layers of rags, they were nearly indistinguishable at first glance –
Tusken Raiders
