(Read: ~11 minutes)
My next stop was the apartment building, of course. Sunny didn’t mind changing his plans, if he made any. He kept his schedule open to accommodate the whims of La Bohème and Connie, rolling with whatever the bosses threw at him. The reasons La Bohème chose Connie as her business partner were obvious after meeting her in person. Connie had vision too and her ambitions factored into their relationship, perhaps creating a source of friction gumming up the launch of BohoCoin. Definitely a question to ask La Bohème the following day. Until then, opening my mind would hopefully satisfy my interests in another way.
“Who’s going to be at the party?” I asked while settling into the car for the ride to the apartment building.
“The usual cast of characters assembled by Wildberry,” Sunny answered. “She’s Bohemia’s premier scene-maker, because she’s always making a scene.”
“Zing. So Wildberry’s public persona and her real personality diverge?”
“Yeah, a lot. In real life, she’s a hot mess, and a bitch,” he replied, which took me by surprise, causing a snort-laugh in response. He looked at me, smiled and shrugged.
“Does Wilderry hear what you say about her?”
“Yeah, sure. According to her, I’m useless. She commented how lucky I am that La Bohème likes me, otherwise I’d be canned by Connie,” he said nonchalantly.
“Seems you’re doing a decent job. What’s the problem?”
“Connie sees threats to her authority.”
“If you’ve got La Bohème on your side, you’re fine.”
“That’s the problem Connie has with me,” he responded with a shrug.
“You realize this is on the record.”
“Yeah, no worries.”
We drove for a couple blocks and Sunny pointed out various landmarks in the neighborhood. The sky turned gray with clouds as we passed an adult novelties shop called Bohemian Dreams, which aroused the most interesting rumor.
“People say Wildberry and La Bohème have a strong bond,” I said, hinting at rumors of a romantic relationship between them. In fact, despite all of her success, Wildberry still lived in the first-floor apartment below La Bohème, a perk she received from Connie after inking the first deal with the Dewberrys.
Before he answered, the sky opened up with a massive rainstorm from nowhere. Ignoring my question, he pointed out the strip mall and the apartment building. I peered through the windshield while rain fell in blinding sheets. A group of protestors ran across the street in front of us, holding their picket signs over their heads to stay dry while trying to reach cover under the strip mall’s awning.
The rain didn’t scatter them all. One protester stayed in place for the deluge. Driving past, I recognized the towering man from the weather lady’s interview. His hastily scribbled sign had turned limp and unreadable, smeared by the soaking rain. He waved the screed anyway and shouted about my soul. I got goosebumps, perhaps because of the creep, maybe from seeing Bohemia in person for the first time, or just a chill from the rainy weather.
Unprompted, Sunny offered his take on the protests. “The preservation and the morality of any group are connected. But, since preservation needs change, so does the need for any particular morality. The goal stays the same. Fill the needs of the community through control. The questions remain about who is in control and what’s demanded.”
“What does La Bohème demand?”
“Nothing,” Sunny replied while steering the car into the parking lot behind the apartment building. “Bohemia is liberating, knowing you’re already a perfect part of creation.”
“What a cop-out. Just a way people let themselves off the hook for their crap.”
“Maybe you’re right. It’s also letting themselves off the hook for what someone else did,” he answered. “Living without their fear, guilt, shame piled on top of our own insecurities,” Sunny commented, channeling his own inner Clem.
“All your metaphysical mumbo jumbo is fine for a cult, not a viable cryptocurrency,” I jeered while opening the door and stepping out of his car. Inhaling the energized air heating back up in the sunshine after the rain felt rejuvenating. When Sunny got out on the driver’s side, I told him, “It’s more clear now why La Bohème sent you, to keep your cool. I still have no idea why she asked me here in the first place.”
He shrugged and answered that we both had to wait and see.
As we walked towards the back entrance of the apartment building, a ridiculous pickup truck blocked the clear path to the door. The cab sat shoulder height above the ground atop massive tires, lifting its custom psychedelic paint job to glimmer in the sunshine.
Walking around the vehicle, annoyed, Sunny commented on the spectacle. “Wildberry’s stupid truck. Really, she’s a complete maniac behind the wheel,” he advised me. When we finally got to the back door, he turned the knob and cruised right into the back of the old apartment building.
“Leaving the door unlocked could be a safety issue with the protesters and weirdos who might get too close to La Bohème.”
“People come and go, no one seems to care,” he replied.
“Maybe because leaving them open hasn’t become an issue yet,” I smirked.
Sunny shrugged, then held up a finger like an antenna tuning in a faint sound from somewhere else in the building. “Shh. She’s here.”
“Who? La Bohème?”
“No, Wildberry,” he whispered while gesturing down the hallway toward an open door. “There’s the parlor, where everyone, uh, gathers.”
We took a couple of steps when a voice rang out from the room.
“Sunny? Do you have the reporter?”
He whispered, “Wildberry.” Then hollered back, “Yes! Here he is!” and pushed me into the communal room.
“Ahh, the snoop has arrived. And the reporter, too,” Wildberry observed, eliciting a laugh from everyone in the room. I glanced around, smiling and nodding a few times while scanning the faces looking back at me. My gaze settled back on Wildberry, who sat with her legs crossed on a red leather couch in the center of the room. She wore white socks stretched all the way above her knees, ending with black stripes, then the gap between her short schoolgirl skirt. The outline of pierced nipples through her sheer top caught my eye. Another woman lounged up against her, draped in a pink leopard print jacket and little else.
“Our guest wants to write a story about our beloved sibyl. What will your topic be? Make Mega-Church Money on A Cult’s Budget or maybe Top 5 Crypto Tips from A Modern Prophet,” Wildberry joked for the benefit of her assembled audience of a dozen people or so, plus the complete human skeleton wearing a black cowboy hat and pink feather boa.
“Haven’t figured out the angle yet,” I answered.
“If you use either of those, give proper credit. Until then, welcome to our reverie,” she said.
“Don’t you mean revelry?”
“Do I?” Wildberry answered with a question, then broke into a song. “Merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream.” She paused for a moment and stared and I felt exposed. “Of course, you would say life is but a scheme. So, I’ve already told this motley group to watch their words around you.”
Everyone in the room turned for my response to her warning. Being the center of attention proves counterproductive; my best work happens in the shadows. Wildberry’s spotlight left me stammering for a response. The audience in the room snickered.
“Hopefully, you’re better at writing than public speaking,” Wildberry said. “I’m excellent at both; and writing a children’s book right now.”
“Sounds cool,” I lied because of the urge for her to like me.
“It’s similar to Aesop and his fables, except mine’s called Wildberry’s Fallacies. I identify logical errors people make when they’re wrong. And my characters are talking instruments, not animals, or veggies.”
“People won’t like that,” I slipped up and told the truth.
Wildberry frowned and her expression scolded my indiscretion. “False consensus effect, also known as consensus bias,” she said.
My expression clearly indicated I had no idea what she meant, so she elaborated.
“You assume most people think and act the way you do. People will love talking tubas, oboes and bassoons, watch. Until then, I will acknowledge a fellow writer’s feedback. But, don’t forget what happened to Aesop.”
My blank expression prompted her to explain. “He visited the Oracle at Delphi as a guest. Turns out, he had a lot to say about the validity of their fortune telling practices. The priests running the place didn’t appreciate his opinions much, so they accused him of theft and threw him off a cliff.” She paused and looked around the room. “You’ll find a greater degree of hospitality in Bohemia. And if not, this building only has two stories. You’d probably survive the fall.”
Just then, a couple of people pushed into the parlor. I turned to look for Sunny, but he was gone. Wildberry noticed, and commented. “Never around when you need him; always in the way when you don’t. Though he delivered you today.”
“Delivered?”
She ignored my question and nudged the woman sitting next to her, who eyeballed my body head to toe, then gave Wildberry a look implying, yeah, sure. Wildberry smirked, then turned her attention back to me.
“You asked something?”
“Let’s start with why Sunny delivered me to you.”
“You’re persistent, so I’ll answer. I’m an awesome host, and you’re lucky we’re in the right mood. Well, you will be. You could have been stuck with Connie, or worse, Sunny.”
Her friend snickered and Wildberry giggled. “Now, for the cosmic ‘why,’ come sit between us and maybe you’ll find out.”
The two women spread apart, making just enough space on the couch to slide between them.
While sitting down, I noticed how nice their fragrances smelled and worried about my pits. Wildberry looked at me, her face inches from mine, and I lied again in order to get back on her good side.
“I think your truck is cool.”
“Complimenting a woman’s truck is a fine way to re-ingratiate oneself,” she answered. “You never can predict where she might park it.”
The comment elicited a laugh from the friend, who squeezed me while leaning into the conversation.
“Why do you still live in this apartment building? You’re definitely making enough cash for your own house. And your payout after BohoCoin launches, then you’ll finally have enough to move out of here.”
Wildberry scoffed. “I’ve never done a show, or a skit, or even a song about counting numbers. Learning to count is evil and unnecessary when some and enough work. There are cultures in the Amazon that prove it. So, when writing about my art, you must describe my muse, an epic partnership between Apollo and Dionysus,” she said.
“And what’s the lesson of the story?”
“To the victor goes the spoils, and then party.”
“So that’s why you live here with La Bohème to reap the rewards?”
“Oh, he’s cheeky!” the friend exclaimed in a sexy British accent.
Wildberry didn’t seem to mind being direct.
“La Bohème opens infinite possibilities for me,” Wildberry claimed. “I open other things for her.”
Then she extended one of her legs, slightly spreading her thighs, and pulled at the top of her sock.
“Over the years with her, I’ve deduced a certain Bohemian code, unofficially, just my observations,” Wildberry volunteered. “Do you want to hear it?” she asked.
I nodded, trying to keep my eyes on hers and avoid staring at her legs, and more. Her voice sounded calm and assuring as she delivered her bite-sized sermon. “We all get to choose what matters to us and cultivate a loving presence, even in this brutal world, so we may be loved. Live now how you’d live again.” The children’s entertainment icon smiled at her friend while she spoke to me. “In this case, you’re just in time to live for the first time.”
The friend reached across my chest and placed a sugar cube on the tip of Wildberry’s extended pink tongue. Flashing a sultry look, Wildberry slowly pulled the cube past her lips, into her mouth. The awkward pretender from high school resurfaced, though I’d tried to bury him for years. Always bound to fail when given the chance to hang out with the popular crowd and hot girls, he blurted out, “Are you doing acid?”
The friend laughed and called me cute. Wildberry smiled and put her hand on my knee, then whispered in my ear. “There are better ways to learn the meaning of life besides talking.” She finished her statement by leaning in and flicking my earlobe with her tongue.
“You make an enticing offer, but my wife wouldn’t approve.”
“No one needs approval in Bohemia. We don’t weaponize shame or guilt, merely express our free will,” Wildberry assured. “I choose to do what, when, with whomever, without fear.”
She nuzzled up against me, finding exposed skin to lick. The friend held another sugar cube with the small tongs in front of my nose.
“He’s a virgin,” Wildberry noted to her friend.
“Love being someone’s first,” the friend replied.
“Welcome to your fantasy,” Wildberry whispered in my ear.
Suddenly, I hear Clem laughing in the other. “Anyone with a robust and active conscience could never be fulfilled,” I imagine him telling me.
“Open up,” the friend instructed.
“Do it,” Wildberry encouraged, pushing the back of her hand against my groin while squeezing the inside of my thigh, prodding. “We are entangled; we’ve known each other before, and will again. We’re forever bound to come together in the present. Tonight, let us help you remember how we’re one.”
I stuck out my tongue.
And for some reason, I also closed my eyes and held my breath while the friend placed the sugar cube on my tongue. The dose sat there for a second before I finally pulled my tongue back inside my mouth, mumbling, “What now?”
“Let the sugar dissolve in your mouth and swish the sweetness around your tongue and lips. Swallow when you’re ready,” Wildberry instructed.
I did as told while the two women rubbed against me and swallowed hard a minute later. While the three of us made out on the couch in the parlor, a wave of euphoria swept through my mind and washed away my awareness.
Arlo Gust 