After a long night of drinking, Miguel Avila awoke to find his house floating down the street.
The storm that flooded the town and ripped the house from its foundations had been promoted on the radio all week with the breathless enthusiasm of a crosstown soccer match. The weatherman had said folks, for once in your life believe me.
Avila trusted weathermen implicitly—who else spent that kind of time thinking about the future?—and so spent his Saturday mired in preparation. He tacked plywood to the windows, then he dressed the trouble on the roof with a tarpaulin, which meant hoisting himself through the attic skylight with the blue canvas lashed to his belt. Tying the tarpaulin to his belt with fishing line, Avila caught sight of himself in a dusty attic mirror. He was dismayed by what he saw, at the change that had unfolded upon him over the course of his reclusion. His eyes were sunken treasures. His hair had grown wild, cactaceous. He’d put on weight. His skin, once as rich as caramel, had blanched to the color of pulque. Even his hands had seemed to lose their shape, to become something else. But he couldn’t spend the whole day criticising his features. He finished threading the line through the eyelets of the tarpaulin and knotted the thread to his belt. Strange, he thought, I look like a parachuter after landfall. How the earthbound parachuter must feel so graceless, suddenly bereft of flight.
Avila hoisted himself through the open skylight.
His childhood home was a dilapidated Victorian that topped one of the city’s seven hills. You could see out beyond the fortifying walls from the home’s shingled, slanted roof. It was early enough that the sun still shone brightly and the wind was yet calm. Avila made circles of his hands and stacked them against his right eye. Through his makeshift spyglass, he surveyed the landscape. His glass traced the winding road down the hill. Bright red and purple flags hung limp as pelts from juliette balconies. Weeping willows sat shiva around the lake. The morning’s only movements belonged to the mangy orange cats that darted from shadows in the narrow streets. The cats had claimed the city long before anybody could remember otherwise, and Avila wondered briefly how they would survive the flood, though he was sure they would.
When he could no longer bear not to, Avila trained his spyglass on the window of his lover, Lizmeth Perez. Her curtains were drawn, just as they’d been for the last hundred days. Was it still fair to think of Lizmeth as his lover? She had relayed neither word nor letter since the afternoon her husband, the colonel Javier Perez, had chanced upon them soaking in her bathtub.
Four hand-drawn watercolor cartoons from LA writer/artist Annah Feinberg.
About the artist:
Annah Feinberg wrote and directed short film “Gretch and Tim” and co-wrote the second season of web series “Roger, The Chicken”. She currently serves as script coordinator on I Love Dick, and has assisted on Arrested Development, Flaked, Damien, and Veep. Her plays, which include The Beautiful Beautiful Sea Next Door, Numismatics, and The Ivories, have been developed and produced by Ars Nova, Naked Angels, EBE Ensemble, The Blank, and Clubbed Thumb. She has served in artistic and literary capacities for New York and Chicago theater companies The Civilians, LCT3, MTC, Steppenwolf, Northlight, ICM, TimeLine and 13P. Annah has an MFA in Dramaturgy from Columbia University and a BFA in Theater Studies from the University of Illinois. She is a co-founder and member of LA-based playwright collective The Kilroys and makes cartoons @memyselvesand.
Two androids hold hands in the train station.
One is an approximation of a human female. The other is an approximation of a human male. They sit next to each other in an approximation of human fellowship, mixed with fatigue; her hand supports her head, a capital on its column, his leg rests barred across the other, perpendicular-like, as if to say, “I’m in no hurry.”
They hold hands and stroke each others wrists in an approximation of human love.
“Why’re we just sittin’ here, then?” the AHF asks him, her voice thin and edged.
Perhaps they are not sitting in an approximation of human fellowship, after all. Perhaps their approximation is more complex.
She slips out of his hand, shifts her weight away from his, a pantomime of close quarters human exasperation because it is 0300, an unreasonable time to bring your android girlfriend to the train station with no prior warning, no plan to speak of. She wears her favorite pink jumper over bare porcelain skinflesh, but it is much too bright in the muted tones of the new day. Everything else is gray and dull. So she covers herself with her arms, making an X over her torso, and leans very far forward, as if over a cliff.
What might look in place at the train station at this unreasonable hour?
Automatons ambulate along the long hallways and the rows of wooden pews that stretch across the station below a ceiling full of stars. These droids—not androids, mind you, droids, automatons, unthinking, unknowing, wearing scraps of sooty clothing that do not entirely cover their patinated skinflesh—they never stop moving, they never sit. They are clockwork, understand? No need to approximate anything. They belong here. They might belong anywhere.
The AHF’s new pink pinafore dress says, “I know how to care for things, keep them bright and beautiful!” She wants to scream, “Can’t you see my value? As it relates to yours? I’m wearing it around my shoulders at this very moment!”
But what is a moment to an android?
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