Bypass Gemini

Chapter 3

Lex stumbled up to the door of his apartment building. After putting the limo back in the livery garage he had decided do some celebrating. He’d cashed in his tip at the biggest casino in town, except for one chip. After the day he’d had, a little fun was in order. He’d left his tux on (if he was going to celebrate, he may as well do it in style) and hit the blackjack table. Lex was by no means a professional gambler, or even a talented amateur, but he could make his money last long enough to get his fill of complementary food and drinks. By the time he’d decided he’d had enough, his fifty thousand credit chip had turned into a pair of thousand credit chips, a belly full of shrimp cocktail, and about three rum and cokes too many. Following a return bike ride filled with the kind of slow caution only alcohol can inspire, he was at his door.

With the bike powered down on one shoulder, he fumbled for his slidepad and swiped it past the door panel. The only result was a disappointing beep. He tried a few more times with similar results before he was able to force aside enough of the haze of inebriation to notice the message on the screen to go along with the sad little noise. It was not good. It was SO not good, in fact, that he decided it must be wrong. He pulled up the building directory on the panel, slurred his landlady’s name, and a few minutes later was greeted by a less than charming voice.

“What the hell do you want?” came the voice of an aging and irritable woman.

The video on the screen was illuminated only by the light of her display, giving her face the grainy, washed out look that was so popular in the sort of videos that make the careers of porn stars and ruin the reputations of movie starlets. Picturing his landlady in such a performance nearly brought back some of the shrimp cocktail.

“Hi, Mrs. Dunne. There’s something wrong with the panel.”

“Do you know what time it is?!”

“Uh, no, actually,” he said, checking his pad. He grimaced. 11:10. “Sorry about that. Uh, about the panel though. It says I’m evicted.”

“That’s because you ARE evicted, Alexander.”

“Wh- What? But it’s like,” he sputtered, checking the date on his pad, “The eighteenth. Rent is only three days late!”

“This month’s rent is. I’m still waiting for the last three months!”

“I paid April! ... Mostly.”

“Get off my property, Alexander,” she said, reaching for the screen.

“Wait, wait, wait!” he said, quickly tapping through a few directories and shortcuts on the pad before pressing his thumb to it, dumping the contents of his bank account into hers, “There!”

She grumbled and brought up something on the side of her screen.

“You’re still half a month shy.”

“At least let me in to get changed!”

“Oh, no. You’ll go in, grab your stuff, and I’m out half a month’s rent. The door stays locked until we’re square. I’ll consider the crap in your apartment collateral.”

The transmission cut off, and any further attempts to reach her dumped directly to a video away message, one she’d recorded two months earlier when her cat was sick and she’d never bothered to update. Finally he gave up and flipped his bike on so he’d have a place to sit.

“Okay, Lex. You’re homeless, you’re drunk, you’re broke, and you’re wearing a tuxedo,” he assessed, “You’ve had better days.”

He considered his options, but the potent mixture of alcohol, sugar, and seafood was gumming up the works. Eventually, he settled on the same choice a thousand other drunk, lonely men had made before him.