VR Palace

VR Palace By J.M. Snyder Part I It’s the part of the city where you go to disappear. All that neon, the crowds, the music. By day the buildings seem to shrink from the sun, exposing trash-strewn alleys and cracked pavement, shattered glass in one-way streets that twist together into a maze you can’t hope to escape. Boarded over store fronts, tumbling bricks held up with graffiti, a few broken souls shuffling through the remnants of what used to be called downtown. The tram doesn’t even stop there anymore. But at night the shadows lengthen and the streets come alive. Bright lights push the darkness back, neon signs eclipse the stars, and when you get off work, you won’t admit even to yourself that’s where you’re headed. Down there, where you’re just another nameless face looking to get lost for a few hours. In the office parking lot, you toss your jacket into the back seat of the car, loosen your tie, roll up your sleeves, and smile at the secretary who calls out goodnight to you as she passes. You put on music, something hard and fast, turning it up loud until it pumps through your veins like blood and pounds in your temples. You try not to think while you drive. When garish lights streak over the hood of your car like oil over water and you have to slow down to avoid the kids from local gangs spilling out into the street, you slide into the first empty spot you see along the curb. The tie’s gone now, in the back seat with the jacket, and you don’t meet your own eyes when you glance in the rearview mirror to run a hand through your gelled hair, mussing it. It’s short enough that it stands beneath your fingers, dark spikes you like to think make you look as wild as the punks lining the store fronts. You pull on a pair of shades to hide your eyes, tug your shirt out of your pants, and tell yourself no one will recognize you. No one usually does. You ignore the guys that call out when you step from the car—they see the Beemer and think you’re fresh meat. Farther up the street, a couple girls notice you and start to advance, predators on the prowl. You think you can just pass by—if they can’t see your eyes, they won’t stop—but when one of them hikes up her skirt, exposing dusky flesh, you cross the street. You’re not here for anything they have to offer. Another block and you see the familiar sign. The V’s burned out, the R stutters, and most of the time it just reads Place, not Palace, because that first A has a tendency to wink when you walk by. Like now, it’s out, and you watch it from the corner of your eye as you open the door and enter the shop. It stays off. The guy behind the counter knows you. He says his name is Vito, and he calls you James because that’s the name you gave him. He’s with someone right now, a guy your own age who glares at you, daring you to say something. You don’t, not even to Vito when he nods your way; you just stand back from the window, hands shoved deep into your pockets, and wait. Five minutes, that’s it—then the other guy’s edging around you, heading down the stairs, and it’s your turn. “James!” Vito sounds like he hasn’t seen you in a month with the way he laughs as you step up to the counter. You force a tight smile, hand him your chit, and tell him you want your private room. He laughs again. “Aren’t they all private?” But he knows what you mean and gives you the room at the end of the hall, the one he saves for you three nights a week. He activates your chit, hands it back, and tells you to have a good time, as if you might not. You’re paying good money to be here. True, the VR Palace isn’t the classiest spot around, and it’s not even the most popular, but you’ve been coming here a while now so you know what to expect. The equipment’s par none, the service is discreet, and there’s never a long line. You don’t have to wait, you’re not rushed. At the back of the shop, stairs lead down to the basement where the rooms are. One bare bulb is all that lights the hall and it’s right at the foot of the steps. You knock into it every time you come down here, smack on the shoulder, even though you know it’s there. Shadows swing away and scurry down the hall to pool together at the end by your door. You’re alone in the corridor—you usually are. You stick your chit into the slot above the door knob and hear the lock release. As the door eases open, you feel the day fall away from you. The office, lunch meetings, conference calls and the network and everything is left outside, gone when the latch catches behind you. The room is sparsely furnished. One virtual reality unit, a light, a chair, that’s it. The chair’s covered in worn leather, and you’re sure Vito must’ve bought the contraption from a medical surplus auction as it’s the kind you find in dentist offices. The light’s a sconce set high up on the wall, shining a sepia bulb at the ceiling, so the room falls around you like a memory. The VR unit is still fairly new, the goggles gleaming in the low light, the gauntlets strapped to the arm rests and curled into permanent fists, the suit draped over one arm of the chair like a promise. Waiting. For you. You have this down to a science—kick off the shoes while pulling the shirt off over your head, shuck down the pants and briefs in one motion. There’s a condom in your wallet just for this occasion, and now that you’re naked, you’re hard enough to slip it on without having to stroke yourself. You step into the suit and zip up. It fits like a second skin, snug over your thighs and ass and c**k, smooth across your chest. Goggles next, propped on your forehead while you place your chit into the slot on the chair. Can’t forget that, it’s the reason you’re here—twenty-three gigs encoded on a strip of plastic when you plug it in and turn him on, a lover spun out in binary code. He doesn’t call you James but then again, he doesn’t really exist. The goggles come down, snug against your cheeks and forehead, and the world turns black. You fumble into the chair, hands finding the controls easily. A few adjustments and the seat stretches out, reclining back, ready for action. You slip your feet into the heavy boots latched to the foot of the chair, ease your hands into the gauntlets, and wiggle your fingers until you’re comfortable. A steady throb already pounds your crotch, a flame of anticipation you savor for a moment before you thumb on the control inside the gauntlet and disappear.