Finer Things

I

The driver was right on time; it was Max who was early. A casual observer might’ve seen him there, standing in front of what must’ve been the strangest-looking building in the Basin, and they might’ve thought the damp rings of perspiration under his arms were merely a consequence of the late-summer humidity. They would’ve been wrong. In fact, Max was engaged in something of a fistfight with his sympathetic nervous system, the entirety of his willpower focused on fighting the urge to run back inside. But whether he liked it or not—and Max himself was still not sure of where he stood on the matter—the banquet was rapidly approaching.

As for the strangeness of the building (his home, though Max was still not used to thinking of it as such), well, he could blame Linwood for that. Bob Linwood was a prolapsed sphincter of a man who oversaw the Department of Middle Management at Max’s company. He was bald and plump with stick-like legs, giving the impression of a disagreeable lightbulb. And despite being perhaps the most vulgar person Max had ever met, he was a notorious stickler for procedure.

On Max’s first week on the job, he said: “Listen, Herrera, you walk in the room like that and our clients won’t buy from you. They can smell poor, you know. They’re allergic to it. You show up here again with that bargain bin bullshit, they might just drop dead. Go get yourself down to the FTs and have ’em teach you how to be a fucken grownup.”

So Max did just that, and the FTs—that is, the nice people in the Department of Finer Things—set him straight. Among other things, they gave him the contact of an unusual architecture firm that was making an unusual building that just so happened to be the height of fashion. Each floor, they told him, was completely custom, designed and decorated in the style of the tenant’s choosing, inside and out. By the time it was finished, the thing looked like a high-rise ransom note: the first floor resembled a Victorian mansion; the second was more of a southwestern adobe style; the third was a near-perfect replica of a Japanese pagoda, and so on. Max purchased the eighth floor and chose a simple, modern design, and it cost him more money than he’d ever expected to see in his life, much less spend.

Returning to the evening of the banquet: Max had been waiting for what must’ve been an eternity. Of course, by the time the car arrived, he’d only been outside for fifteen minutes at most, but prior to that, he’d sat in his condo, impatiently calculating and recalculating when he should shower and get himself ready. If he showered too soon, he’d be sweaty and disheveled. If he waited too long, he risked being late. It was a delicate balance, and he did not find it. As he slid into the car, the white leather seat made a mortifying squelching sound.

“Good evening,” he said with a wince.

The driver nodded and pulled away from the building.

“They gave you her address, right?” Max paused. “Of course they did.”

Knowing that the drivers were sworn to strict silence seldom dissuaded Max from making nervous attempts at conversation. The driver offered his characteristic nods in response.

Max settled back in his seat and looked out at the city. It was a gorgeous evening, really. The sky was a gentle blue, streaked by the vibrant pinks and purples of twilight. On any other night, he’d probably find himself on his building’s Storm landing, letting his legs dangle over the street, watching the sun lazily sink beneath the boundaries of the Basin. The picture was almost perfect, save for a ribbon of unnatural darkness draped across the horizon.

Max narrowed his eyes, uncertain of whether he was seeing things. But there was no mistaking it: between the buildings, in the small spaces where you can just about make out the ocean, he could see the sky’s ominous shadow.

“Looks like rain,” he said.

The driver responded in his way, and Max let out a hollow laugh.

“Yep, looks like rain tonight.”

II

Five days earlier, at about 10:30 in the morning, Max met a very beautiful woman at a very expensive coffee shop on Upper Royal. Under normal circumstances, Max would’ve been at work at that time. Under normal circumstances, Max, a non-coffee-drinker, would’ve had no reason to go to a coffee shop at all. But normal circumstances were not at play on that particular morning, and despite all evidence to the contrary, Max was precisely where he was supposed to be.

To be specific, Max had only just arrived at the office when Linwood appeared at his desk. All the interns were off completing their own assignments, he said, and no one had taken the leadership team’s coffee order. But upon arriving at the designated shop—Linwood was finicky about his coffee—Max could no longer claim to be upset, for there she was: the perfection his subconscious might’ve dreamt to life, right there at a table by the window.

He tried not to stare, but his efforts were in vain. He watched her pick at her cuticles, but not nervously, as he might be inclined to do. No, she appeared completely at ease, maybe even a little bored. And yet, she was undoubtedly preoccupied. She ignored her coffee, which steamed off to her side.

Her dark eyes wandered over and met his awe-struck gaze for only a split second before he pretended to scrutinize the menu. It goes without saying that he didn’t have the nerve to talk to her. Everything about her exuded class—probably an executive herself, he thought, if she could afford to buy coffee at such a place—and even dressed in his own Linwood-approved, perfectly-fitted suit (tailored, of course, by the FTs’ recommended man), he couldn’t shake the feeling that she would be able to see through it all. By the time he placed his order, he’d already made peace with the notion that he would never see her again.

And then she approached him.

“Isn’t there something you want to ask me?”

Unexpectedly, her tone was lacking in delicacy and grace, feeling rather like a club she was using to beat him over the head.

“Er, sorry, I didn’t mean to stare. Just thought you were someone I know.”

“Someone you know, or someone you’d like to know?”

He flinched in a way that he hoped wasn’t visible. He opened his mouth to respond, but all that came out was a horrid, nearly pre-pubescent cracking sound.

“You want to take me out, so go ahead and ask.”

“Um, could I maybe take you out sometime?”

She offered a slight nod, which allowed a lock of red hair to escape from her ponytail. She brushed it behind her ear. “Saturday at six. You can pick me up from here,” she said and handed him a little slip of paper. It was stark white with black text, and had all the characteristics of a business card, except that it appeared to be missing several key pieces of information. It simply read, in tiny, matter-of-fact typeface, an address.

Scanning the sequence of letters and numbers had a sobering effect on Max, and he looked up and blurted, “Wait, I can’t on Saturday. I have a work thing.”

She sighed as if the exchange had suddenly become very boring for her. “And?”

“Well, I can’t just blow it off. I don’t mean to brag, but it’s actually my first executive banquet.”

“So bring me.”

The idea hadn’t occurred to Max. Having a first date on such a crucial night did not initially appeal to him, but she seemed rather set on the idea. Perhaps she might find it attractive to see him mingling alongside some of the foremost professionals in his field. And worst case, they could at least have a laugh about Linwood and some of the other bizarre characters in his office. So against his better judgment, he found himself nodding in agreement.

“I guess I could do that… Uh, yeah, that should be fine.”

“Right then. Saturday. Six. Dress nice and don’t be late.”

“Yeah, of course. Hey, by the way, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Call me Chloe.” She moved to leave the shop. “See you soon, Max.”

“Hang on, how did you know my—”

“Order for Max,” the barista said.

“Ah. Right.”

He scooped up the leadership team’s drinks and pastries and made to wish Chloe goodbye, but when he turned, she’d already gone. He didn’t notice her coffee, which remained untouched on the table.

III

“Are you sure this is the right place?”

The driver said nothing and instead handed Max a piece of paper from his pocket. Max recognized it as Chloe’s card. In accordance with procedure, he had turned it in to the FTs right away, so they could pass it along to the driver. Thus, he hadn’t paid attention to her address until just then.

77 Colonial Ave
Sunken Island. TSZ.

He craned his neck to get a better look. While he hadn’t conjured a specific image in his mind of where Chloe might live, this certainly was not it. A far cry from his gaudy (if objectively fashionable) high-rise, Max was gazing at a squat, old structure. Its intricate facade gave the impression of something that must have once been beautiful; now, however, it lacked even the most basic retrofits necessary to weather the Storms, and as such its painted pink-and-white exterior was bulging and waterlogged, and thick waves of dark-colored mold crept up onto even the top-floor windows. The streets and sidewalks around the building were dotted with large pools of murky water, and the neighborhood, true to its name, appeared to have sunk partway into the sea. Were it not for the faint sounds of voices and music emanating from within, Max would’ve thought the building abandoned.

The front door swung open and Chloe stepped out. She gripped a small handful of her impeccable, deep-green ballgown, careful not to let it drag in the filth on the surfaces around her. For a moment, all the unsavory quirks of Sunken Island melted away, and Max could only gape at her from behind the window. But as she stood there, looking out at the conspicuously luxurious car parked in front of her building, it soon became apparent that she was waiting for him.

The standoff lasted a few seconds too long, but Max soon recalled his training with the FTs and practically leapt from the car.

“Good evening,” he said, hurrying to her side. “Really great to see you again.” He offered her an arm.

Gingerly, almost reluctantly, she accepted, and the two walked down the steps of her building. “Mhm.”

He glanced around, desperately seeking a target for his small talk. “I like your place, by the way.”

She scoffed.

“No, really. It’s got a lot of charm. I bet it used to be gorgeous before…” he trailed off, realizing with horror the scope of his own rudeness. “Uh, not that there’s anything wrong with living here now. Personally, I grew up in a TSZ myself, and—”

“We don’t actually have to talk,” she said, stopping a few feet in front of the car. “Okay?”

“Huh? Oh, right, sure, we can wait until the banquet. It’d probably be pretty awkward anyway, with the driver being all quiet.”

As he opened her door, he thought he heard a faint sigh, but he wasn’t quite sure. He shut it behind her and rushed around to let himself in, trying to avoid a creeping feeling of shame.

IV

Total Submersion Zone. TSZ. The letters blinked and reordered themselves in his mind as the car sped across the Sunken Island Bridge. If the sky was to be believed, it’d all be closing up soon. The Bridge, the side roads, and even the alleys would jam with traffic as everyone clambered to higher ground before the Storm came in. And those who didn’t… well, he imagined they’d do what they could to make it to dawn.

Max cast a glance at his companion, who appeared to be doing everything in her power not to notice. He knew his pity was unwelcome, but he couldn’t help but feel bad for her. He wasn’t lying, he really had grown up in his own TSZ, a bedroom community called Goose River, as the only son of a machine operator. But the Storms always hit the city harder. Goose only got submerged once or twice a year, so even his swanky new building, outfitted with all the latest Storm-proof tech and situated in the coveted Downtown Partial Submersion Zone, was quite the adjustment. In the parlance of his old Goose friends, Max was Suburb Poor, and that’s a completely different animal from City Poor. Except now that he’d started his fancy new job, Max was City Rich. Or at least City Doing Alright, All Things Considered.

But, Max often wondered, Had anything really changed? Sure, he got to wear fancy suits and live in the PSZ, but wasn’t he still the machinist’s son, perpetually out-of-place, chronically rough around the edges? The FTs certainly seemed to think so. He doubted that any of his colleagues needed quite as much refinement as he did. And yet, as his wonder darkened into worry, he found a strange comfort in this fact. Something would always be lost in refinement, he reasoned, and maybe the only thing more frightening than remaining as he was would be the act of changing for another.

After what seemed like no time at all, the car pulled onto Royal Avenue, and his eyes were forced to adjust to the barrage of neon piercing the dusk. Despite his nerves, seeing Upper Royal lit up always brought out the child within him, and he resisted the urge to push his nose against the glass to take a closer look. As the driver expertly maneuvered them through the colorful pulse of activity, Max felt as if he were at the center of a parade.

“Amazing,” he murmured to himself.

Predictably, neither the driver nor his date acknowledged him.

They were nearing the Bright Street intersection, and their destination was coming into view. While there was little more picturesque than an evening simply walking along Royal Avenue, the Commodore Benjamin Trier Hotel was undeniably the jewel of the Basin. Its palatial stone exterior was unusually spotless, as if the dirt and grime of city life was on an entirely different plane of existence. Even beneath and along the arches and columns that formed an ornate cage around the structure, one would be hard-pressed to identify a surface that was anything less than immaculate.

As a boy, on the rare occasion his father brought him into the city, and on the still rarer occasion that he would find himself in front of that magnificent building on Royal and Bright, Max would peer into the windows. He liked to imagine that someone would be looking back at him from the other side, someone powerful and important who might recognize a kinship with him. And as he grew older, he fantasized about staying in the Commodore himself, or perhaps meeting foreign dignitaries in one of its many banquet halls. However, on this particular evening, silhouetted against such a forbidding sky, the neoclassical behemoth elicited not ambitious fantasy, but rather a sense of anxious dread, as Max realized that the most important night of his professional life lay within the Commodore’s hungry maw.

V

If it weren’t for his company, Max would’ve hardly been able to tear himself from the grand, cavernous lobby. But Chloe’s impatience had only grown since entering the hotel, so he led her up the central stairway to the ballroom with as little gawking as he could muster. Fortunately for him, the ballroom proved to be just as breathtaking as the areas they had hurried through, and Max found that his attention was captured not by the oppressive gravity of the men who held his career in their hands, but rather by the garish beauty of the ballroom itself, which seemed to cradle him beneath the endless murals and chandeliers adorning its ceiling.

“Welcome, welcome.”

Max looked up to find Bob Linwood wearing a wry smirk and a black suit that was identical to his own, albeit more thoroughly filled-out by his generous gut.

“Evening, sir.” Max halfheartedly returned his greeting, still transfixed by the ballroom’s unique allure. He felt Chloe dig her fingernails into his arm. “Oh, sorry. This is my date, Chloe. Chloe, this is Mr. Linwood, my boss.”

She held out a hand and painted her face with a grin. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Linwood.”

He took her hand in his and brought it to his lips. “Mm, pleasure’s mine.”

The spell was broken. Max was now flooded with more familiar feelings of revulsion towards his boss. He turned to Chloe with an apologetic expression, but she ignored him, instead offering a girlish giggle.

Linwood then gave Max a playful (but not at all gentle) punch on the arm. “Wow, gotcherself a real charmer here. Better be careful with this one.” He let out a short burst of hyena laughter.

Again, Chloe giggled in response before turning to Max. “The bar’s in the back. I’ll take a gin and tonic, if you’d please.”

“Um…”

But they were already ignoring him. Linwood offered to show Chloe to her seat, to which she happily obliged, and the two turned to walk further into the ballroom. Max sighed and did as he was told.

He waded through the sea of smart-dressed people to get to the bar, which managed to be just as imposing as the rest of the room. Nestled in an alcove between two Grecian columns and under a marble archway, the bar was defined by a relentless, almost surreal verticality. Shelves of alchemical bottles stretched far higher than anyone could ever hope to reach.

Staring at the endless array of drink, Max became aware of an eerie sense of loneliness that had penetrated his skin. Though he could easily turn back and see the rest of the party unfolding behind him, the sounds of merriment had become muffled and distant, as if he’d gone somewhere else entirely. Max soon became fixated on the single stranger sitting at the end of the bar, a man whose company somehow served only to increase the fog of isolation that had settled over the space.

This stranger wore a boxy, ill-fitting brown suit. His red-and-yellow polka dot tie hung much too short on his midriff. What little hair he had left on his head was relegated to a wispy, overly-long horseshoe pattern around his scalp and a floppy mustache that clung to his upper lip like a leech. And the icy grip of his gaze suggested that he might be just as interested in Max as Max was in him.

“May I get you a drink, sir?” The sudden arrival of the bartender startled Max from his thoughts.

“Ah, yes. Two gin and tonics. Or is it gins and tonic? I don’t know, but two of those, please.”

“Very good. Do you have a preferred gin?”

“A nice one, I suppose. Surprise me.”

The bartender smiled and nodded. Then, he turned and climbed onto a rolling librarian ladder—where did that come from, Max wondered—in search of a bottle that must’ve been very high up. As the man climbed higher and higher, he called down, “And anything for you, sir?”

“Another old-fashioned.” Max found the stranger now standing at his side, much too close. “And make it just like the last one, will you? Haven’t had a drink like that in years.”

“Right away, sir,” the bartender said.

The stranger nodded, seemingly satisfied, and turned to Max. “I thought I smelled some fresh blood in the water.”

“Does that make you a shark, then?

For a moment, the stranger looked like he might laugh, but then his expression morphed into one of inscrutable melancholy. “No… just a fellow bleeder, I think.” He paused. “Or, if you’d prefer another animal metaphor, maybe the biggest bat in the belfry.”

Max offered a polite laugh, but the stranger did not reciprocate. Before he could decide what to say next, the bartender chimed in. “May I offer you any Extra?”

“Extra?” Max said. “No, I think just your regular portion will be fine for us, thanks.”

The bartender shot him a quizzical look before passing him his drinks and turning to the stranger. “And for you, sir?”

“Just like the last one,” he said. “So yeah, lots.”

The bartender nodded and produced a large decanter of black liquid from beneath the bar. Unlike the cocktails laid out before them, this substance was thick, tar-like, and upon opening the lid, the space was flooded with an indescribably foul odor. On instinct, Max looked away and raised a hand to cover his nose, for fear of losing the contents of his stomach. The bartender mixed a teaspoon of the stuff into the stranger’s drink. “Enjoy,” he said.

When Max turned back, the bartender had gone, the decanter had disappeared, and the stranger was left with a drink that looked curiously normal.

“What on Earth…” said Max.

The stranger took a sip and gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Don’t worry about that. It doesn’t matter yet.” He paused. “Everyone has a hard time at their first banquet. But it gets easier, in some ways.”

Max’s mind was full of a million questions, but he found himself lacking the conviction to ask anything more interesting than, “Who are you?”

The stranger offered a grimace that might’ve passed for a pained smile. A drop of liquor hung precariously from the end of his mustache. “I’d like to think I’m halfway between your new best friend and your fairy godmother.” He held out a card.

Roman Franco
Chairman, Department of Finer Things

“Are you—” Max’s eyes shot up to the hunched, unkempt man before him. “Is this some kind of joke? There’s no way you’re the head of the FTs.”

“Now, that’s not very nice. I’ll have you know my tux is in the wash.”

“That’s not… you just…”

“Relax, I’m pulling your leg.” His expression had settled back into its typical gloom. “Do you know what I do for a living?”

Max straightened his posture. “You optimize the lifestyles of our client-facing employees to ensure a positive image for our organization.”

“Oh, fuck off. I don’t want you to quote the goddamn mission statement. I want you to talk to me like a person.”

“Well… your department gave me some pretty extensive training on how to present myself. Plus, you set me up with the best clothes to buy, best place to live… I guess I’d say you’re like PR on steroids, right? Like a sort of hyper-focused brand management?”

“You’re on the right track,” said Franco, “but you’re still making it too complicated. What I do for a living is actually very simple. I’m in the business of refinement. I take raw materials—” he vaguely gestured in Max’s direction, “—and I polish them. PR, brand management… If anything, I’d say I’m more of a scientist, and a damn good one at that.”

He sighed. “Not that it’s something worth bragging about, but we don’t choose our talents. And anyway, I’m getting off track. I want you to look at my card for a second. Do you see a phone number, an email, any way to get in contact with me?”

Max glanced at the card and shook his head.

“Of course not. Because if my services are needed, I find you.” He sipped his drink. “Our meeting tonight wasn’t an accident, Max. Unfortunately, I’m on the clock.”

“I’m sorry, am I in some kind of trouble?”

“Hey, come on. I’m your fairy godmother, remember? Your new best friend.” Even as the sarcasm dripped off Franco’s words, his face remained a dismal enigma. “I’m supposed to make sure you’re able to successfully integrate into our little ecosystem. You know, let loose, have some nice, corporate-sanctioned fun. Now, let’s sit. The room’s a bit spinny for me.”

They each grabbed a barstool. Franco took a swig of his drink and let out a small burp under his breath.

“Let me tell you a story.”

VI

No one knows how the Commodore got his title. Most reckon it’s made up. If you look back through the records (and I have, by the way), there’s nothing to suggest that Benjamin Trier was any different from the other Europeans who came over around that time. But the truth is, no one knows much about the man. As far as our country is concerned, and as far as our story is concerned, he was born at the young age of twenty-six, when he stepped onto American soil for the first time.

So, it’s the early twentieth century, you’re a young immigrant from bumfuck Europe, you have no trade, no contacts, and only some modest capital from the motherland. What do you do? Well, seeing as how we’re having this chat in the ballroom of the Commodore Benjamin Trier Hotel, you can probably hazard a guess.

Now, this Trier was something of an oddity from the start, and not just because he went by a made-up title. You might not know, but back then, Upper Royal was a ghetto, more like Lower Royal now—a cheap place to house criminals and foreigners, keep them out of sight from the good, upstanding people of the Basin. For the time, property at the corner of Royal and Bright was dirt cheap. So, Trier puts his life savings in a boarding house in the worst part of town. But then, the neighborhood begins to change.

Practically overnight, the dingy tenements and the smelly open-air markets start to migrate down, and a nice little patch of paradise forms on Upper Royal. And more important, if we’re being honest, was the mass exodus of the people who lived in those tenements, who shopped in those marketplaces. All of them seemed to clear the way for our Commodore and his new hotel. Just as quickly, we start to see proper shops and restaurants, not to mention theaters and art galleries and, hell, even a handful of estates so large they had names. The good life, it seemed, had finally reached Upper Royal, for those who were elected to enjoy it, and by all accounts, the Commodore’s American Dream had come true.

Whenever he was asked how he’d done it, how he’d managed to breathe life into a hopeless ghetto, Trier became evasive. The Commodore, by all accounts more cliché than man, simply offered empty platitudes about the virtues of hard work. This, coupled with the fact that he was perennially unmarried, without child, and seemingly lacking in any personal connections whatsoever, had thus cemented his reputation as a true enigma. That is, until one fateful night.

A writer for the Gazette had come down to the hotel bar in a very effective disguise. Desperate for a scoop on the Basin’s most mysterious titan of industry, this writer got the Commodore drunk. And after what must’ve been hours of working on Trier, fattening him up for the kill, the writer finally asked him the big one: what is your secret? And this time, ignoring all the aphorisms he’d prepared, he instead cast a single worried look over his shoulder, and began to tell the truth.

Trier explained that when he first arrived in this country, unsure of how to make his fortune, he consulted the town witch. Now, this witch wasn’t particularly well-liked. She did excellent work, as far as witches went; she made her living speaking with spirits, contacting the great beyond to solve her clients’ petty, earthly problems. But her nerves were constantly frayed, for her blessing was also her curse, and she foresaw an apocalypse: a future of terrible Storms and a Basin rapidly filling to the brim. And no matter how effective her work as a medium may have been, her doomsday obsession had rendered her a pariah.

When the Commodore entered her shop, everything changed. In him, the witch saw a great hope, a man who had the drive to do the impossible. And in her, the Commodore saw a well of infinite magic, the ticket to securing his fortune in this new land. So, they made a deal. The witch would work all sorts of little miracles for the Commodore, bringing him success in business and all the wealth and power he could want. And in exchange, he would use his position to save the town from the grim future ahead of it.

Unfortunately, the witch had not yet learned that money is the natural enemy of magic, and for all her competence in divination, she was not a savvy businesswoman. See, the Commodore shook her hand with no intention of holding up his end of the bargain. He must’ve thought that her wish was pretty well unenforceable, and he might’ve been right. After all, their contract was verbal and based in the supernatural; even if she managed to take him to court, who would they believe, the prominent business owner, a paragon of the community, or the kooky witch waiting for the end of the world?

And so, with great confidence in himself and complete disregard for the witch’s vision, the Commodore was free to abuse her miracles as he saw fit, rebuilding the Basin with himself at the top.

Now, you may be wondering why he decided to spill his guts to the journalist at all. Was he really that susceptible to the writer’s probing? Had the witch worked some kind of magic on him to force him to come out with the truth? Was he simply consumed with guilt over his unethical behavior? Well, there’s no way to know. But we do know what happened next. The writer concluded two things from his conversation with the hotelier: the man was being honest, and he was completely insane.

The Gazette published Trier’s drunken ramblings soon after, but the article didn’t make too many waves. Most assumed that the writer had some kind of grudge, and wrote it off as libelous garbage. But somehow, that was the beginning of the end, I guess a sort of domino effect. The Commodore’s good luck vanished just as quickly as it had appeared, his empire crumbled, and precisely six years from the day of that interview, he died penniless and alone in the local booby hatch. And that was that.

VII

“So, what do you think?”

“I’m not sure what to think,” said Max. “It’s a thought-provoking story, for sure. And it’s amazing how the hotel survived it all, right? I mean, the Commodore Hotel is an institution.”

“Is that what you took from that story?” A splash of color rose to Franco’s cheeks. “You think it was all worth it, so he could build his fucking hotel?”

“That’s not—”

“What about those people in the Upper Royal ghetto, huh? What about them? Actually, no, forget about them. What about us?” Franco downed his drink, and Max noticed that his eyes had taken on a manic fury. “It’s the witch’s apocalypse out there and we’re sitting around getting drunk at work. But hey, at least we’re doing it in a fucking institution.”

Max kept his eyes downcast, his neck prickling with the sweat of fear and embarrassment.

Franco sighed, and he slumped back into his vaguely sad disposition. “You’re right, though. Totally and completely. And there’s no sense in getting all bent out of shape about our lot, either. Now, if you want your gilded coffin, you’d better get back to it. The girl is waiting.”

“Right, of course.” Max, so entranced by Franco’s strange manner of speaking, had all but forgotten about his date. He turned to leave in a hurry.

“Ah, hold on, I almost forgot,” said Franco, waving him back. “You’re not taking those drinks.”

“I’m sorry?”

He reached over and plucked the glasses from Max’s hands. “You bring a girl like that to a banquet, you’d better be giving her some Extra. Them’s the rules. And besides, they’re probably all watered down anyway.”

Before Max could reply, the bartender was there, as if he’d never left.

“We’ll take two more of these—er, what was it?”

“Gin and tonic, sir,” said the bartender

“Right. Two more of those, but add some Extra this time, will you?”

“Right away, sir.” He took the drinks from Franco’s outstretched hands, dumped them, and set to work.

“Only add the Extra to one of them, please,” Max called after the bartender. He then turned to Franco. “Alright, really, what is that stuff? I don’t mean to be rude, but when the bartender brought it out earlier—well, it looked disgusting.”

Franco pondered this, choosing his words carefully. “It is disgusting. You shouldn’t touch it with a hundred-foot pole, if you ask me. But Extra also happens to be the only thing that makes this circus worth attending.”

“And you really think Chloe’s gonna like it?”

“Max, are you under the impression that Chloe’s here for your winning personality? I hate to break it to you, but that shit’s the only reason she got out of bed today.”

“Now, hang on just a minute, Mr. Franco,” said Max. “I may not understand everything you’re saying, but I’m not so sure I like the way you’re talking about my date.”

“Your date?” He let out a venomous guffaw. “Read the card, guy. I’m about as far from client-facing as you can get.”

Max stared back with a look of utter bewilderment. “What? So?”

Franco shook his head, as if he were attempting to reason with a poorly-behaved child. “So, far as I’m concerned, there’s no need for me to kiss up to one of the working girls, even if she is Linwood’s favorite.”

Max was silent. The heft of Franco’s words was only just beginning to press onto his chest.

“Oh, uh, shit. No one told you.” He coughed and rubbed a hand over his bare head. “I told Linwood to sit you down, and now I have to be the asshole.”

Max felt his body wilting. “Are you saying that my date is a—”

“Female entertainment consultant. That’s the, uh, proper term.”

“Why?” Max said in a pained croak.

“Look, I honestly thought you knew. And it’s gotta be tough, finding out this way. But you’ve gotta understand, it’s standard procedure. All our research has shown that our associates are viewed more positively when they’re seen with, uh… I mean, we’ve got an agency we work with and everything…”

“Oh my God, and you said she was Linwood’s favorite…” Max buried his head in his hands.

“Your drinks, sir,” said the bartender. Max raised his bleary eyes to meet the bartender’s gaze, who then tapped the rim of one of the glasses and added, “This one’s for the lady.”

“Thanks a lot,” said Franco.

“Actually,” said Max, “I think I’ll take some Extra after all.”

The bartender offered his most winning customer-service smile. “You won’t be disappointed.”

Max watched as he pulled the decanter back up. Upon removing the lid, the bar was once again filled with that same haunting, putrid odor, but this time, Max forced himself to watch. The bartender produced a dropper and dipped it into that horrible black liquid, and as he drew it in, Max couldn’t help but think of a needle extracting blood from a vein.

With the precision of a chemist, the bartender released a single drop of the substance into Max’s drink, and the second it hit the surface, the black spot exploded into a million tiny branches. A monochromatic web formed inside his glass, with each line and shape twisting and rearranging itself at random. And then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the web vanished, and he was looking at a drink like any other.

“You really shouldn’t drink that stuff,” said Franco, who’d affected a flat monotone that implied no attempt to stop him.

Max raised his glass in Franco’s direction. “To our gilded coffins,” he said. And he drank.

VIII

The first thing to return to him, some time later, was his mind. Max became aware that he inhabited a pressing nothing, a void so complete as to feel distinct from any named color—an absence, in other words, instead of a blackness. And aware though he was of this new state, he found too a curious lack of thoughts or feelings on the matter.

Next came his hearing—slowly, at first. He felt the encroaching presence of sound, an indistinct clamor of voices. They were loud, nearly deafening, at times, yet somehow also muffled and incomprehensible, and they crashed onto him with relentless ferocity. Every so often, there was a break in the waves, and the voices would turn to a raucous laughter, but they’d reliably melt back into their usual din before long.

Then, his sight: hazy outlines of bodies began to dance into his vision. He made to squint, to see if he might identify their forms, but Max found that he had not yet reclaimed his body as his own. It was only then he discovered that his body appeared to be acting of its own volition. Among the uproar of voices, he felt a faint rumble in his larynx and the enthusiastic parting of his lips as his body contributed to the cacophony. Periodically, his head seemed to whip around and gaze upon other abstract human shapes. But it was increasingly clear that whatever Max’s body was doing, his consciousness was merely along for the ride.

Finally, the image fell into focus, and Max found himself sitting at a table in the Commodore’s ballroom. To his left was Chloe, radiant as ever, with her eyes wide, seemingly enthralled by whatever Max’s body happened to be saying. On her other side was Linwood, his mouth projecting copious amounts of spittle with each stupid laugh. Most of the other seats were populated by faceless suits, colleagues and executives whose names all blended together, but Franco sat directly across from him. In some peculiar way, he appeared both troubled and completely at ease, like a wolf and a sheep who’d swapped clothing.

Even as mind and body gradually became reacquainted, that strange nothing remained. Max took over the conscious labor of sight, speech, and hearing. His cognition reintegrated into his physical form. By all accounts, he should’ve been whole, and yet he wasn’t. He wondered if he might never regain his earlier fullness, but he found that he didn’t much care either way. He could talk and laugh and listen, and that was whole enough for him.

IX

Glasses had been emptied, plates had been cleared. A procession of wax-faced executives had begun their stumbling march towards the door, propped up by their impossibly gorgeous dates. The banquet was ending. Chloe gave Max a gentle nudge; he took the hint, and rose to his feet.

“Well, gentlemen,” he said, “it’s been a pleasure. But I think it’s about time for us to take off.”

As if on cue, their tablemates all stood and took turns offering their canned goodbyes to one another. All, that is, except Franco, who slunk back to the shadows without a word. Occupied as they were, no one noticed his exit.

Linwood took Max’s hand in his and pulled him in close. “Well done, Herrera. They all loved you.” Then, in a sly near-whisper: “Now for the spoils of war, eh?” He let out a conspiratorial laugh, which Max heartily returned.

The men parted, and Chloe took Max’s hand. “This way,” she said, leading him out of the ballroom and back the way they came in. They didn’t get far, though, before they were stopped by an employee of the hotel.

“Sorry,” he said. “Lobby’s closed. You’ll have to go up to the Storm landing. West side’s pretty busy, but the east side should be wide open.” He pointed them in the right direction.

After winding their way through some of the Commodore’s labyrinthine hallways and staircases, they reached the Storm landing, which, unsurprisingly, was just as beautiful as the rest of the hotel. Rather than being merely a practical-yet-unsophisticated port, as one might’ve come to expect from such fixtures, the Commodore’s Storm landing was a fully enclosed sitting area, complete with beautifully upholstered sofas and armchairs, all sat before a set of large glass pocket doors and insulated so perfectly as to shield the space from the awesome tempest raging just beyond. As promised, the landing was completely vacant, save for an attendant, who informed them that their car would be there momentarily.

The pair murmured their thanks. Stifling a yawn, Chloe stretched herself out over a chaise longue made of purple velvet, and Max drifted towards the doors. He squinted to try and see anything through the Storm, but the torrent of raindrops battering the glass turned the nighttime into a shimmery, uncertain darkness.

And then, a single light drifted into view—orange, soft, a gentle contrast to the cascading rains all around. Try as he might, Max could not make out any shapes attached to the light, yet it continued to drift lazily through the Storm, growing ever nearer as he stared. It eventually settled right outside the window, bobbing up and down, so close Max could reach out and touch it, were it not for the thick panes of glass separating them.

The landing attendant cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon, sir. But I must ask you to step aside so I may open the doors. Your car has arrived.”

X

Not long after they set off, the Storm mercifully began to loosen its grip on the Basin. What had once been a single unrelenting sheet of rain dwindled to more of a heavy drizzle, and the sound of the water alighting on the car’s tin awning had taken on a calming timbre. Max and Chloe, somewhat damp, sat huddled together on the car’s white vinyl bench. The driver, silent as ever, watched over them from the stern, gently gliding his oar through the murky, fetid canal.

Max poked his head over the side of the car. Even sunken beneath all the city’s waste, there was a romance to Upper Royal. The neon lights below the cloudy floodwaters twinkled up at him, as if he were staring into an alien sky. A quiet, beautiful tapestry of stars and planets and boutique coffee shops stretched out beneath them, and they floated on.

He found himself overtaken by a profound sense of optimism. Whether it was tomorrow or maybe the next day, the Basin would drain. All that water would find its way back into the sewers and the ocean. Insurance would be paid, damage repaired, buildings fortified. And life would persist, in Storms and in the moments of repose between them.

He looked up from the water to find they were passing a church. It was an old building, by the looks of it—not one he could recall ever having seen before. The bulk of it was hidden underwater, but the tower remained above the surface. He noticed some movement in the belfry. He strained his eyes to get a closer look.

Barely visible in the soft light of the car’s lantern, a woman sat on the edge of the church, her toes dangling into the filthy water below. She hummed an off-key tune, soft yet still audible through the sounds of the water. And though he couldn’t tell for certain, she seemed to be staring right back at him.

It was at that moment that Max was hit with a revelation. He knew exactly how the story was to end. The car would arrive at his apartment. He would invite Chloe inside, where the two would engage in mechanical, passionless intercourse until they’d tired themselves out. She, or someone like her, would accompany him to the next banquet, and he’d order them cocktails with lots of Extra so he could tell the right stories and laugh at the right jokes and everyone would love him.

The finality of the thought was terrifying in the abstract, but as his mind fixated on the possibility, he found that he felt nothing in particular. So Max floated through the dying city and dreamt of doing it all over again.

END