Noone in a million - novel

Leseprobe aus "Noone in a million" (Originalsprache englisch, Übersetzung auf deutsch folgt)

As I step back out on the street, a drone is crossing my path. It’s about to deliver a message for me from my mother, who lives in complete self-isolation in a cave in the Bavarian Alps as a part of her therapeutic fasting. The drone doesn’t hesitate to read her message to me out loud: “Error 404”. “That’s it? That’s the message?”, I ask. “No, bitch, I am obviously malfunctioning. If you could get me to the nearest hospital or maintenance station, that would be great”, the drone replies. “First of all, I have an appointment now, so I don’t have time. And secondly, you called me a bitch, so I’m not going to help you”, I say and prepare to turn around and leave. “B-b-but”, the drone says in a very deep voice, electric sparks emitting from its mouth. I sigh, once again on this godforsaken day. Of course I feel sorry for this piece of electronic scrap. I pick it out of the air and carry it to the nearest Repair Café. That’s a place where you can sit and have some coffee while watching any technical device, be it a drone, a refrigerator, or parts of yourself, being repaired.

I was already sitting there for a while, with my second whipped cream Frappuccino, interestedly watching a sentient trashcan, that keeps saying “ouch” whenever the repairman just touches it, being rebuilt, when I see a familiar face entering the café. I try to duck away behind my seat, out of reflex, I don’t want to talk to anyone right now. But she’s already seen me. It’s my good friend Ennui (pronounced Annie). She immediately comes over, yelling “Heyyy”, carrying an electric ukulele under her arm. Ennui is alright, I know her from high school and we still run into each other now and then because we live in the same city. She talks a lot, but isn’t as extreme as her sister Shrilaria. Shrillaria is a year younger than us and hence used to hang with us as well. She stayed 15 years old when Ennui and I graduated, but a while ago she had it revoked and gone back to normal aging. She must be in her early twenties by now. “Oh, hey Ennui, didn’t see you there”, I lie, “what are you doing here?”, pointing at the ukulele, which immediately makes an off-tune guitar sound. Ennui sits down at my table without being asked. “Oh, my girl here is out of tune, but that’s not why I’m here”, she replies, “I’m fetching my grandma who’s having her eyes lasered. How about you?”

“I brought a drone here that was supposed to deliver a message from my Mum, but it malfunctioned”

“Oh, is it type KX-560 alpha? Those are apparently known for pretending to have an error just to get attention and avoid working. It was on the news.”

A waiter/repairman in an authentic 50s-style waiter outfit interrupts us to take Ennui’s order. “I’m having a glacé apple latte, and I’m here to fetch my grandma, Betty Morse, from laser surgery”, she tells him. I hadn’t followed the news in a while, to be exact ever since the reporter and three crew members died while reporting live from Mariana Trench on the only news channel that’s available for low-income citizens, Scum News. The screen was pitch black (not because it’s dark down there, but because the light guy died first) and all you could hear was muffled sounds from these people suffocating. There was this sudden eerie and menacing atmosphere during normal newstime and it made me feel ill. It’s not that I can’t afford the Bourgeois Business Channel. I mean, maybe I can’t, because it’s blocked on my cheap TV set, but even if I could, I wouldn’t watch it. All they cover is golf and transatlantic business updates. But that does mean I’m not exactly up to date with what happens in this country

“Well, guess I’m gonna get this drone back, then”, I say. “Oh, wait,” Ennui stops me, “I’m having a release party tomorrow evening at the Shrewd and Lewd. Are you coming? I sent you an invitation via drone but... I guess that wasn’t so successful...” “Uhm, yeah, sure. See you Ennui” At this point, I’m not questioning why the party was deemed a “release” party or what it is that would be released. I just wonder if there isn’t any other restaurant/club/bar in this damned city.

I’m approaching desk 26, where “my” drone is meant to be taken care of. But it just sits there and drinks juice with a straw. After what Ennui told me, I’m not even surprised at this sight. “I know everything. We’re leaving”, I say. “We’re not”, the drone says, slurping audibly, “you’re not my boss”. “Fine. What about the message from my Mum, then? Can you retrieve it? Otherwise I’m not paying you.”

It starts playing the message from my Mum, and it says: “Do not trust this drone when it asks you for help. It only wants to hang out somewhere and get drunk.”