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The Orb

by Antwan Crump

It began as a spark. 

A floating glimmer of pale white light that glittered, fizzled, and popped.

It was a coin-sized flicker that appeared at his birth and stalked him from that point on. Doctors had no answers. Scientists called it a fluke—a sleight-of-hand by the ‘less well off’, in an attempt to break free from poverty. His parents began to ignore the shimmering ghost. After some time, everyone did. The orb simply hovered around him. Glowing and growing. 

“Another six round inches,” Damon said. “You’re getting fat.” 

The orb bloomed and then receded to the size of a basketball. Bright then dim.

“Oh, come on.” He recoiled the tape measure. “Don’t be like that.”

“Damon!” His mother knocked with feverish strikes. “Breakfast!”

“I’m coming. I’m coming.”

“Wash up, first! Nasty.”

Even mundanity was a chore. Even at home. Every day. “Alright! Jeez…!”

His bedroom had a full-size mattress, a half-size desk, and a quarter-closet that fit ten hanging shirts, two pairs of pants, and black sneakers with holes in their soles. He plugged them with duct tape and loose scraps of cardboard. The room was trimmed with mold, diamond-patterned wallpaper, and old stills of hardened heroes—lingering legacies drifting through time with ill-perceived promise. It wasn’t much, but it was his. This was home. 

…for now, Damon thought. —it’s just for now.

“D.J.!”

“I’m getting dressed, damn it!” Damon scrubbed himself down with two moist towelettes—first pits, then crotch, then crack. “Sorry, Mom!” He’d brush his teeth later.

The morning shift awaited. 

He couldn’t waste the time.

***

Manos Reales specialized in crafting fast-food staples, ice cream, and dulled derivatives of global cuisine. The restaurant was famed for rejecting automation in favor of an “all-human” staff. People were cheaper. Customers liked to come in and pretend their orders were wrong. They’d mumble, swap receipts, lie and accuse, then record employee responses.

Meltdowns paid well—even better if someone got fired.

The recent trend was fueled by the Human Incompetence Movement. They wanted people out of the workplace. Lobby-funded activists were gaining steam and driving cultural conversations. Standard employment was considered a gimmick. The employed were called ‘undignified props’. That dignity sold for minimum wage—seven bucks and a quarter an hour before state and federal taxes. …they’re right, Damon thought. —it’s a dead end.

“There he is,” his father smiled. “Morning, junior.”

“Morning, pops,” Damon said. The orb bloomed. “What’s breakfast?”

“Sweet toast and clone eggs,” his father said, sipping black coffee. “Sit.”

Damon Senior was a relic from time. He was a long-desensitized contractor for the Department of Sanitation. His primary function was corpse pickup and disposal. People were dying by the bundle from various illnesses and deficiencies, a cost of toxic exposure. Citizens were urged to ‘curb their corpses’ as a means of managing the load. As such, Damon Senior got plenty of overtime at the cost of sleep. It made him moody, if not a touch judgmental.

“Big day today,” his father said, fingering an unseen screen. “Glentown Estates.”

“Uptown?” Damon put in his phone, a contact lens to the infinite. “Fancy.”

“Damn straight,” his father flicked the air. “We could use some help.”

“We’ve already tried that.” Two missed calls. Work. Ugh. “Can’t.”

“You could if you lock that thing up.”

The orb blossomed red. Then shrunk. 

“Dad…”

“Alright. Alright,” he sucked his teeth. Then to the orb. “Sorry.”

The orb returned to its pale white light and dimmed. Calmed. Quiet. Watching.

His father continued. “I can’t keep carrying you, son. Your mother and I finally got a little scratch for a cruise and can’t waste it all on your bullshit.” It wasn’t uncommon for an early-twenties college graduate to return home and lick their wounds. Seven out of ten. “You’re a real man now. Real men decide their fate or fall prey to it.”

“I’m aware,” Damon said.

“Fuck aware. Be awake.”

“I am.”

Despite the job and passable subsistence, student loan debt proved inescapable. His mother and father helped him foot the bill, which was enough to meet the minimum payments. That left them all on a spinning wheel of monthly dues that ever-accrued. He’d tried cashing in—using the orb as a circus act. It didn’t like that. The ball of light would fade and scream shrieks that only he could hear. That was a relief. Exploiting the orb felt wrong.

“I’m too awake,” Damon said, reading his voicemail. “I’m pure caffeine.”

“Good.” His mother swiveled in, wielding two plates. “Hope you’re hungry too.” Debra worked from home, selling feet and thigh pictures to strangers. Occasionally, she’d book a video show, and the family ate well that week. She found herself with the burden of ‘too much time’ after turning fifty-five. ‘Madam Payne’ had tentpole clients, but their kinks tallied out to some paid bills and infrequent luxuries. “Even got a little bacon.” Taxes and service fees ate the rest.

“Thanks, Mom.”

“You’re welcome, D.J.”

“Real bacon?” his father snapped. “‘Twenty-credit an ounce’ bacon?”

“Oh, hush, bigshot,” Debra said. “A little meat never hurt anyone.”

“Hmph…tell that to your—”

“Damon!”

They ate breakfast in silence, pinching the air and minding the infinite scroll. Damon finished his coffee, wiped his dishes clean, and left home after goodbyes. 

The orb followed.

***

Manos Reales was a pickup-only eating establishment. It was designed with domino-patterned floors, matching tiled walls, and a small reception area. A foot of glass stood between the customers and cashiers, due to harassment and constant crime. That was part of why they didn’t deliver. Too many mistakes. Too many accidents. Too much death. Too hard to hire.

The back of the restaurant was ten times larger than the lobby. It had a full chef’s kitchen with a walk-in cooler, five stainless steel double-ovens, and three thin cooks who’d sweat over them until midnight. Manos was drive-thru only from then until sunrise. Premade orders. No credit. No refunds. No end, Damon thought and walked in. …hell.

“You’re late,” his manager scowled.

“It’s not even eight.”

“I told you six.”

“I missed the call.”

“Then that’s a write-up.”

“Come on, Theo.” The orb flashed red. Then paled. “That’s two in a month.”

“Learn to answer your phone,” the freckled man said. “Cry to your mother.”

As a cashier, Damon had multiple duties, including stocking, filling, changing, sorting, and counting any number of things. The cooks got some leeway, so long as the ovens were on, but cashiers were judged by the clock. Every moment of rest, intended or not, was counted against them in spades. Manos wanted you busy, effective or not, and that meant ‘looking busy’ most days. That’s when the orb liked to speak to him. Muffled yet somehow coherent.

It’d bloom. A brilliant bright light that called to his soul like a psalm.

“I hear you,” Damon said. “Let’s just get through this.”

Manos opened its doors.

The new vision faded.

***

It was a field. Acres of farmland that bore fruit, vegetation, and livestock. A paradise. The sun poked through cotton clouds and shone golden light from the stars—blue skies. Green hills. Clean air. There was nothing like that where Damon lived. There were only police, suspects, smoke from the coast, and ubiquitous Thrash-branded tech. The multi-conglomerate oversaw Harlem’s demise along with the rest of the city. Capitalism. Technocracy.

—it could all be so simple, and yet…

“Help!” the woman’s voice cracked. “Please!” 

Damon had just gotten off work, a double shift to appease Theo’s ego. Manos was an hour’s walk from home, but he liked to take his time. To wander. To think. To dream. He took alleys and backways to avoid the foot traffic, bored officers, and filming droids. The orb flashed two shades of orange, leading Damon ahead. He followed with fists at the ready.

“Help,” she screamed, naked from the waist down. “Please!”

“Back the fuck off,” Damon shouted. “Now!”

“Fuck you.” The offender was calm, still unlatching his belt. Still gripping her hair. Still aiming his waist. “Go away.” Damon charged and missed. A gaffe. Shake it off. The perp pulled a gun. “Are you trying to die?” The voice was reptilian, a venomous growl. “I can arrange that, or you can wait your turn.” Camouflage clothes. Distortion mask. Tattoos. Scars. His gun aimed true. He’d shot it before.

“I said leave her alone.” Damon ground his teeth. The orb flashed red. Bright red. “Now.”

“Fuck are you gonna do, hero?” The perp cocked his head and smiled. “Spit it out bitch!”

“Don’t,” the frail woman cried. “Please just let him—”

The orb bloomed. A blinding blue light. It sparkled and popped with twinkling sparks that paraded its surface like lice. —glowing and growing... The offender relented. The woman ran. Damon crouched and covered his eyes as lights shined, shimmering streams in the night.

The dark alley was lit by dim, scattered bulbs and lightning-bright strikes from the orb. Thunderous and wondrous. Awesome and awful beams of serene that careened on the scene. Then they were gone. And it was quiet. It was dark. Damon covered his nose as his watering eyes followed wisping blue smoke to a smolder. The perp was a pile. A wet mound of marrow and flesh. Melted. Shit. Damon fled. 

The orb followed.

***

If you’d like to read the whole story, please consider purchasing “The Orb.”

Ebook available exclusively on Amazon Kindle.

Blog Photo Courtesy of Ella Wei

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