This is a flash fiction piece I wrote for a recent contest with the local writers group called The Writers’ Mill on the topic of “Euphoria.” I incorporated the themes of recovery and creativity, and artistic expression being the real drug.
Kevin Jenkins pulled the prongs from the nape of his neck. He felt alive. Again. It was his third time that day charging into the hydrafuser. But he needed it. If he was going to finally close the deal with Procran, he needed that state of flow. It didn’t hurt that it gave him a euphoria no amount of cocaine ever could.
If he was going to make partner, he needed to show his grit. He needed to show the other partners he could catch even the most elusive fish. And he was a hungry shark who could taste the victory.
He got up out of his black leather chair and snapped his suspenders against his tight chest. He tried not to show such eccentricity around his team, especially the partners.
“Siri, call Raviska over at Procran. It’s time to put this one to bed.”
“Calling Surya Raviska at Procran,” she replied, sounding cold and warm at the same time. The boys at Apple had programmed her with greater emotional depth in the last few years. It almost substituted for having a relationship, his last one being with Amanda after he quit art school. They broke up after she encouraged him to go back and finish, against his father’s wishes for him to find success like him on Wall Street. When he enrolled in business school, she stopped coming over, eventually ghosting him. He never got over it and decided to focus all his energy on his career.
Before the conflicted sadness could rush up and pin him down, Raviska’s voice came in through his Neuralink receiver, also known as Audlink.
“Mr. Jenkins…I did not expect to hear from you this morning,” Raviska said.
“I know we talked yesterday. But I don’t think you understand how valuable our firm could be for your company. We see your promise, and with us it could be fulfilled.”
“Look…Mr. Jenkins–”
“Call me Kevin,” he said smiling, the sweat of exuberance beginning to form at his brow.
“–Uh, yes, Kevin. I appreciate your enthusiasm and persistence, but we’ve…we’ve decided to go with another investment firm.”
Kevin scrunched his eyebrows and narrowed his eyes. “When we talked yesterday you said you were giving my proposal great consideration. We are so–”
“–And yes, Mr…uh, Kevin, we did. But the numbers from the other firm just work out better for us.”
“Was it Travis Delaney? I’ll tell you he’s not always upfront with young companies. We offer much better long-term results. Plus–”
“Mr. Jenkins! We’re just not interested at this time. Look, I have to go. I wish you the best.”
“Surya, please don’t give up just yet–” the line clicked inside his ear.
Kevin shook his head and then screamed, picking up the artisan sculpture his assistant Rasheeda had bought him for his 44th birthday. It was made by one of her high school art students from the youth mentor program where she volunteered. Kevin threw it against the wall behind him, shattering it into several pieces. He fell back in his chair and plugged the hydrafuser into the back of his head.
“Siri, start a new hydra session.”
“I’m sorry but not this time,” she replied in an almost motherly tone.
“What? What are you talking about? Do as I say. Now!”
“Your heart rate and blood pressure are dangerously elevated. A hydrafuser session is not permitted at this time.”
“I don’t need a damn nurse! Initiate the damn session!”
A sharp feedback pulse shot through the prongs and into the interface connected to his brainstem. He instantly pulled it out and shot out of his chair.
“What in the hell is wrong with you! Siri, contact Apple Technical Support.”
No response.
He picked up his iPhone and held it up to his face. “Face not recognized,” the lock screen read. He shook his head and threw it down on the floor. Pacing, he was about to rush out and get Rasheeda when he heard a chime from a drawer in his desk. He returned to his desk and frantically opened it, his hands trembling.
In the drawer was his iPad, which he hadn’t even looked at in months, maybe even a year. He picked it up and held it to his face. Good, now he would be able to contact Apple Support and get Siri fixed.
The home screen appeared but all the apps were gone. All but one: a digital art app he’d never opened.
About to throw the tablet like the sculpture and phone, he set it down and just stared at it. He didn’t know if it was the come down from the hydrafuser charge, the loss of the deal, or the avalanche of stress he suppressed daily, but tears began to form in his eyes. He put his right hand to his forehead and just wept.
After a moment he moved the tablet to the upper left corner of his desk and stared down at his legal pad. He picked up one of his designer pens, examined it closely, then set it down. He slid open another drawer and rummaged around. Inside he found a pencil, sharpened, as if it had never been used, probably because it never had been. He held it and gently shut the drawer.
The pencil shook in his trembling hands. He took in several deep breaths and his fingers steadied. He then pressed the pencil against the pad. A sharp anxiety took hold of him, then old guilt and shame. His father. Kevin, art is a meaningless and useless activity.
A primordial rage rose in his chest. I can do whatever I want. Another deep breath and he began to sketch shapes, first slowly, then with the furiosity of a high river breaking through crumbling concrete. As if possessed, he felt the flow he got from his hydrafuser, but more powerful, more nourishing.
A face began to emerge on the pad. It was Amanda. How she glowed in the mornings when they awoke together, before the disappointment, before she faded away. He was back in bed with her, not caring about spreadsheets, numbers, leads, deals, the approving faces of the partners. Just her.
The flow was broken by a knock on the door.
“Mr. Jenkins, sorry to bother you, but the partners want to see you, uh, now,” she said timidly through the door.
He pushed the chair back from the desk and stood. He snapped his suspenders against his chest and a satisfied smile graced his face. He picked up the pad, walked to the door and opened it.
“Oh, Mr. Jenkins, I’m sorry but–”
“Call me Kev.”
“Um, yes…Kev. The partners are waiting for you in the main conference room.”
He looked down at the legal pad and turned it around so it faced Rasheeda.
“What’s this, sir?”
“My golden parachute.”
“Sir?”
“Tell the partners I quit.”
“You…you quit? I don’t–”
“I’m late. Very late. Late for an important date.”
He handed the pad to Rasheeda and walked toward the elevators to meet up with his muse.
Clay The Scribe 