They left the library and it was smackbam like deja vu. Facing the Michigan Avenue bridge K dad and Dick O were acting all secret crazy.
Tate, having his skiptracing skills of photogenesis, saw the name of the dedication plaque, barnacle white. Still had it in him, job skilled.
Then felt stupid next to Lala, she saw the brainstreams, red and black because black was everything about Uncle Dicky O, shoes, tie, brain.
Slacks, dented chin, cap, future thoughts past. Socks, hopes, expectations. Bowel movements, expunging soul oil. Soil. She'd never tell Tate.
They knew so little of each other's past, how close he was to this Overtone man who could pass for Judas Iscariot Exaggerist, sylph hunter.
The brainstreams stoppedquick hatemasked. She knew K Tate was excited about something, he then explained how you found people. P. I. work.
Not like a Panopticon, it was all wits. Puzzle pieces, quite different than this thing with his freaking freaked-out relatives. Got a look.
Talking too loud. Dude flashed peace said tune in turn on turn your mind around, K Tate wanting to say, man, you don't know the half of it.
Not like 2010 where yo could SlipSlate your memory card and read the notes, add new ones, like having phantom index cards around you coned.
He knew what he'd have to do back nowwhen, no bicellcyles, no touchprints, same same nix nix DNA RNA least of all PbNA. Good luck hippies.
That's why everyone loved each other, the mad mods. They could leave a trail of bad credit and dead bodies, false identities, multiple wives.
Did Dick O have a wife? Did he strangle her and stuff her in a Samsonite tomb? Flipcoin: has he ever been with a woman at all? Ponderous.
They had walked aimlessly back southward, Lala enthralled by foghorn boatwaves below them, river dirty green but oh the scents, freshness.
He saw a tall building looking west, Allerton Hotel, Home of The Tip-Top-Tap (Joy Motel, Home of The Four Hour Nap?!?), real Chicago 1965.
The Palmolive Building, I wonder what that was. An ointment? Food? K Tate knew nothing of brands, just the branding of people. Find a skip.
While Lala was in the library, he checked what they called a phone book. Franklin and Wells, Apollo Sparks, private dick. He could get work.
Walk in, no ID, no questions asked, prove himself fast. Money to live on, cabbage in dick lingo, he and Lala go live at the Allerton, yeah.
Go to that Tip-Top-Tap and let her watch the brainstreams twenty stories down, check the Panopticon for K & O, let them wander & get bushed.
Walking west, holding hands, past elevated trains red and brown, three flat walk up, K Tate now employed. Faces oh so close: sunset bound.
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A twitter novel
The Boston Phoenix says: "Joy Motel is a microblogging book worth scrolling upward for."
Joy Motel is an unconventional sci-fi narrative that was written in real time in 140 character bursts on Twitter, the Internet's fastest-growing social networking platform.
It takes its freeform, disconnected style from the randomness of the Twitterstream itself.
This is a novel for the 21st century, captured in quick bytes by a 5-time Bram Stoker Award Finalist and a Gold Award winning adman, who are transcribing the 'brainstream' flowing inside the neural net of its lead character, Kindred.
He has unknowingly purchased an untested, corrupt brainstream from a black market uploader, which has become an uneraseable part of Kindred's persona as he grapples with an ever-shifting sense of reality, dreams that twist into nightmares, and unreliable perceptions of time and space.
At the center of his struggle, a psychiatrist he calls Psychdaddy is attempting to resolve Kindred's repressed childhood memories of the 1945 Trinity nuclear blast in New Mexico and decode his father's role in a radical collective of bomb-worshippers called the 12 Disciples.
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