Chapter Text
The cheekbones of his sleeping face cuts a realisation through Joe’s acrid, multi-substance hangover — he should have checked the boy's ID before offering him the ride home.
But he shouldn’t have been in the club anyway, clearly having slipped passed the doorman with a fake driver’s licence and a winning smile — the same shit Joe pulled when he was seventeen and reckless and out for adventure.
Joe leaves the guy curled up in the goose feather comforter as he gets up with a stretch and heads towards the kitchen, arms held high and praising the sun. The smell of the prairie oyster makes him retch so he knocks it back with a pinch to the nose, the ice water chaser burning all the way down. He makes his way to the living room and flops without ceremony onto the couch, a pair of frozen teaspoons in hand to cover his eyes with.
Joe's weight sinks into the puff of cushions, every muscle leadened with bad decisions, every cell of his liver on damage control. This, perhaps, is Samsara. Or Karma. Possibly both.
Just as the first major throb of today's migraine sears its way into his consciousness, Joe hears the soft pad of hesitant footsteps echo through the hallway. Joe lifts a teaspoon to look at the trouble he’s gotten himself into.
The guy clasps his elbow with a tentative hand and fails to hide his hairless chest with a skinny arm. This puts to rest any hope in Joe’s mind that he was old enough to know what the fuck he was doing — the tacky yin-yang tattoo on his hip does nothing to help.
Joe makes to say what he needs to kick him out, but—
“Beautiful place you got here.” he tries, voice rough round the edges from last night. Joe agrees — it is a beautiful place.
“The Bodishiva on the nightstand especially.” the boy continues. “Looks original. Rare to see such a statue outside of museums in the West, least of all waking up to one staring down its nose at you.” he concludes with an awkward smirk that tumbles into not quite a laugh.
The silence that grows thicker between only seems to embolden the boy—he takes a step forward and holds out a daring hand, refusing to be ignored.
“I'm—”
“Your pants are in the kitchen.” Joe says and puts the teaspoon back over his tired eye.
The guy finally takes the hint and the front door slams shut, leaving in its wake a booming echo of thankful silence.
*
Even pure mountain air can go stale in the lungs, and Joe has been holding his breath for too long.
Summer break finishes all too quickly, and Joe’s home from the first of many school days that'll be just like the rest. When he musters up the energy he will pour himself a drink.
Routine itself seemed like an adventure once, like bouldering up towards an alpine summit in search of peace. But it’s only been two years and the itch he thought he’d soothed for good with the balm of a fixed timetable and a steady paycheck burns away at his skin.
There are rumours that Yahoo have indexed the entire internet. There are rumours that Yahoo have acquired another company. There are rumours that Yahoo will launch a messaging system so powerful it will disrupt email as we know it.
Joe never quite got a taste for smoking, but he keeps a carton of Marlboro Red in the same shoebox of post-it notes he could never find it in his heart to get rid of. His fingers itch to open the draw, to pick up the box, to shake out everything that ever was and could have been onto the hardwood floor...but then what? Cry? Laugh? Burn everything to the ground like he has before?
Typing searches into Yahoo, it turns out, is a lot like smoking—a dirty habit you can’t drop, no matter what you tell yourself. He searches for things he needs to know and things he doesn’t. Things that have no meaning to him and things that hurt to think about.
Just like every other night, Cameron Howe comes up with the same five news articles that he’s read dozens of times. He searches for himself and it’s the same. No news, nothing changing—nothing to report of the stagnant water that is his reputation.
He searches for Gordon and it hurts every time.
His eye catches the reflection in his monitor of the laughing buddha, who sits silently on his mantle piece.
*
The phone call was unexpected, the offer even more so.
“As I’m sure you’re aware Mr. MacMillan, the Karl Taylor Compton Lecture Series aims to provide the MIT community direct contact with the important ideas of our times and with people who have contributed much to modern thought. Unfortunately we’ve had a last minute cancellation and so would like to invite you to present a lecture on the Future of Search. The standard format is 80 minutes with a slide show, followed by 20 minutes of Q&A at your discretion. There is an open bar afterwards.”
Somewhere deep down Joe knows he is affronted, being called in from the sidelines as a last minute afterthought. His old self would have slammed the phone down, would have responded with more anger than Joe now would know what to do with. That’s the man they’re really asking to come.
That man doesn’t exist any more, but still — this is something different. Something new.
*
The late afternoon sun hangs low as Joe cruises through the Massachusetts countryside. Sunlight pours through the trees, their leaves lush and prismatic while the chill of fall nips at Joe’s ears through the Lotus’ rolled down windows.
It’s dusk by the time he rolls up outside the Kresge Auditorium, a mid-century stingray of concrete and copper. A man comes to greet him whose name Joe doesn’t quite catch, and he’s ushered into the auditorium.
You can adjust the microphone like this, the projector switches on here, do you need any water, let's just do a quick sound check.
This is your ten minute call, Mr. MacMillan.
Joe’s stomach lurches; it’s been a while.
The darkness of the room is hushed and reverent, the light of the projector dazzling him. Joe can not make out any faces in the shadows — who is watching, waiting to hang on his every word.
Deep breath.
“Let me start by asking you a question.”
*