CHAPTER 5 – Three Wooden Crosses (2)

Eppie Fontaine, formerly Lana Zacanissian, seriously wondered if the absurd amount of flowers she received on the day of her discharge would net her negative [Causality].

They were gifts from the nurses, the doctors, Dr Jane Hughes, whom she now considered a good friend, and apparently, media folk who had received the news of her discharge from a LA Times reporter.

Naturally, being homeless, penniless, and parentless, she had nowhere to stow them, and so took her pictures for St Marten’s social media, then left the flowers with the staff to take home.

Before she met Eric downstairs, however, she made sure to visit each and every department and give her medical team big, bodacious hugs from the heart.

“I’ll visit!” Eppie promised, and that was no lie. As far as she could tell, St Martens could really use the financial help, and if one day, she could move enough capital to set up a Medical Trust for Director Harper, buy a wing or two, expand next door, add some updated, state of the art machines, or hire nationally renowned surgeons to take up residency, her [Karmic Balance] would shoot through the roof.

At the lobby entrance, she met Eric Lee, her chaperon and lawyer, who took off his Ray-Bans to stare at her with his mouth half-open.

Since she had no clothes of her own, Director Curon had sent over whatever Eric could scrounge from the costuming department at Sony Studios LA, with the express condition that it be “age-appropriate” informal wear.

As it was 2007 and the staffer was very responsible, she had ended up with…
Salmon-pink velour Juicy Couture hoodie and pants, with a pair of white Adidas pumps.

Her [Persona] didn’t show a sliver of skin, and yet… Eppie felt very self-conscious.
In 2032, the fashion lines spoke loudly for those with and those without. Neo-Prep, Faux-Ivy League, pastel retro-callback with a dash of K-pop was the trend that Lana oversaw, with J Press skivvies going for over $400 a pop. The alternative was Target and K-Mart, which received the designs two seasons later from sweatshops in Cambodia.

To herself, the Velour hoodie was a museum piece, and yet, in her present cultural zeitgeist, it was the shit.

Everyone in the lobby was staring at the pink-panther wonder in their midst, because it was easier to focus on the face of an angel than a figure that hinted at anorexia.

“Interesting choice. Why do I feel that we’ll be stopped and questioned at LAX…” Eric scratched his gelled hair, loosening a few rogue strands from the holding spray. “That’s all you had?”

“My choices were hot pink, lime green, or white with mid-riff,” Eppie replied, pulling her hoodie over her face. She was glad for that at least, because old soul or otherwise, the outfit was cringe. “Pick your poison.”

“Let’s go,” her chaperone directed her outside the double-glass doors, and Eppie smelled for the first time the unfiltered air of Los Angeles.

Clean, wonderful air.

“Whoa—” She had to stop and stare. “The hell, Eric, is that an EV? You’re driving an EV Pickup?”

She was looking at a legendary relic.

A Ford Electric Ranger EV in cobalt blue, a 90-horsepower beast that she had eyeballed because of the collectibility of a retro-Electric with only 400 vehicles remaining in all the world. When pushed to its limit, it could do a 0-50 in an eye-watering… 12 seconds.

“Yeah, well, were you expecting a Merc?” her lawyer laughed nervously. “Is it that strange? I did tell you I am from the old country. I am more of a fixer-upper guy when I am not in a suit.”

Before Eppie could correct Eric’s misunderstanding, he stashed her tiny sliver of a bug-out bag with its hospital-donated sanitary sets in the truck bed, then opened the door for her to enter. The interior was… explicitly 90s, with plastic trims, analogue dials, and large black knobs for air conditioning. There were no screens, no Apple CarPlay, and no trappings of late 2010s tech.

“We’re not taking a taxi?” She slid the seat belt over her, inhaling the nostalgic smell of an early-00s automobile. “Too expensive?”

“It’s not the price.” Eric winced as the Ranger EV hummed into life. “Let’s just say the yellow cabs have a reputation. The company’s footing the bill for your present excursion, so we’ll drive. Sony has assigned long-term parking at LAX since we keep a local fleet; this is Hollywood, after all.”

Eppie concurred. Her past self had enjoyed the wonder of Lyft and Uber for so long that she had completely forgotten the intergenerational trauma of taking a taxi to LAX.

It took the pair under a minute to hit the ponderous traffic that was Western Avenue and its gauntlet of gaudy neon and light boxes. In the daylight, the harsh light of the Californian sun left little to the imagination, making the viewer question if they had really come to the same place the night before.

For Eppie, the neon boulevard was nostalgia personified. The ever-present Thai massage parlours with the implied promise of happier endings, the salmon-and-grey WWII-era apartment blocks that had yet to see gentrification, and the ever-present security bars that made every shop front look like a prison canteen added to the seedy charm.

The only absence belonged to the yellow-tinged smog hanging over Hollywood.

“Is everyone driving EVs?” she asked quietly, because the roaring thrum of ten thousand gas vehicles stuck on the avenue simply did not exist.

“Only in California and the major cities,” Eric said with his eyes on the road. “That hospital stay really did a number on you, huh? Lots of folk still own gas cars, of course, but it’s more of a collectable, hobbyist thing. Sunday drives, nostalgia.”

Well, there goes my plans of buying cheap Tesla Stock. “So er… how’s the petrodollar?”

“Good?” Eric shot her a suspicious look. “You know about petrodollars?”

“Am I not supposed to know?” Eppie tilted her head, noting the innate cuteness she radiated through the side mirrors.

“No comment.” Eric changed lanes. “Petrol is still king. The rest of the world hasn’t caught on yet. Nor have we, to be honest. EV tech is still developing, so it’s just motorbikes and cars for now. We’re hoping that by starting the trend here, we’ll be head and shoulders above the Japanese, the Koreans and the Chinese. Did you know China is producing the world’s cheapest solar panels? The problem is that their battery tech is generations behind…”

Eric droned on. What the Canadian said possessed immense implications for the lithium, copper and nickel markets, meaning she could…

Her head throbbed.
No profiteering, Eppie reminded herself.
She was here on a global tour of atonement.

“[Potential]” she whispered to herself.

“Exchange for [Dasein]”

Her inventory of [Dasein] rose to 47. A week ago, buying a single point was only 10 [Causality]. She had since confirmed that the longer she lived, the more expensive her life became. It was a mechanism that made perfect sense, because how else would she be compelled to do as much good as humanely possible? This single mechanic was the Sword of Damocles held over her neck, erasing all possibility of complacency.

Her core question was whether there was a limit to the exponential growth, or if secondary mechanisms existed to “discount the cost” or contribute directly to [Dasein].

Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author’s consent. Report any sightings.

As always, the [System] wasn’t forthcoming.

Past the freeway, the palm-lined dreamscape of Hollywood gave way to the open space of Crenshaw. Their car sped up. Density gave way to sprawl, becoming Target, Motor Inns, KFCs, McDonald’s, sports bars and adverts for Disneyland.

The Ranger EV then slowed, snaking it down Slauson with the rhythm of a city designed for maximum rage.

“Oh, before we get sidetracked again,” Eric popped the glovebox. “Your passport, fresh Social Security Card, and most importantly, your Californian Entertainment Work Permit, and your New York Child Performer Permit. There’s also your Notarised Travel Consent. You keep the originals, I have a notarised copy of everything else.”

Inside the spacious cubby was also a mid-sized lady’s handbag.

“That’s from the Director.” Eric’s grin was infectious. “He told me to pick one up, so I asked my girlfriend what was appropriate to keep all your documentation in. I put in a requisition request with costumes, and they gave me that.”

“Mmm… Marc Jacobs,” Eppie played with the mid-sized tote. “Pebbled Italian leather.” She checked the interior label. “Wow, a Hillier Hobo. That takes me back.”

“You girls sure know everything when it comes to bags, haha…” Eric laughed nervously. “Expensive?”

“So-so,” Eppie shrugged. “But far too expensive for me. I don’t know if I…”

She waited for the [System] tax.

Incredibly, it remained silent. Did that mean it had already accounted for the Karma?

“… but I’ll accept the Director’s charity.”

Very carefully, she slid her Sony phone into the accessories slot, then carefully stowed her documents into the appropriate compartments. She wondered if Eric knew that in the future, the cheapest Togo Birkin cost $26,000 US Dollars, and that he should tread carefully around a girl who knew her bags.

She learned more about the details of their trip as the traffic jammed up around Randy’s Doughnuts.

As her chaperone, Eric was not allowed to leave her alone except for short-term privacy needs. They would travel together, fly together, exit the airport together, cab together, dine within sight of each other, and even stay in the same hotel, with Eric sleeping in an adjacent room. At Sony headquarters, Eric would follow her through her appointments with Director Curon, then reverse the entire process until they arrived at her school and signed her off with the dorm mother at LAPA.

When she asked Eric how he felt about all that, he said he had volunteered partly because he had all her documents and knew her best, and partly because a hefty bonus was in the works if everything went well. Besides, after all the work he’d done, if some hotshot intern misplaced a filing or was dumb enough to get them snagged at LAX, he would lose his mind, then his job.

“Let’s listen to some music,” Eric seemed to realise something. “I was so nervous I forgot, aha… check this out.”