A NEED TO KNOW

By: Justin Stanchfield

"Sorry." The man shrugged, his bright red vest bunching around narrow shoulders. "When did you buy it?"

"Last April."

"They should have told you they were phasing the battery packs out." The salesman scratched his longish nose. "I can give you the number of a custom shop that _might_ be able to build one, but..."

"But," Gaush finished the sentence for him, "it would cost more than a new one."

"Sorry." The man brightened, sensing a sale. "I've got the R-Elevens on sale today. Full satellite, internet and bio-net capable." He laid an even shinier handheld on the counter, a plastic wrapper protecting the virgin screen. "And, it's going to be blink controllable when the FCC approves the modems next month."

Gaush glanced at the price sticker, feeling more than a little sick. Janet was going to kill him. He checked his wristwatch, cold sweat rolling down his armpit. Five forty-seven. He had already missed the hourly update. "I'll take it." He placed his hand against the pay-plate, the bones in his fingers outlined as the laser slid under his palm. "Just make sure the batteries are good, okay?"

"Sure thing." The salesman slid a sheet of paper toward Gaush. "Need your signature and I'll start the background check."

"Background check?"

"Shouldn't take more than a couple hours and you'll be linked into full satellite coverage."

"Two hours?" Gaush felt unsteady, his heart pounding. He'd already missed an hour of coverage, the news he'd watched before leaving work long stale. The salesman smiled apologetically, scratching his nose while Gaush drug the paper toward himself and signed.

#

It was raining when Gaush climbed out of the subway. He thought about going home but decided it was too far, and slipped instead inside Grogan's Pub. He eased onto his usual stool, forcing himself not to check the PDA. It was too heartbreaking. A thick-waisted woman with shockingly blonde hair set a cold beer in front of him. "How are you tonight, Marko?"

"Lousy." He glanced up at the bigscreen behind the bar running the Jets-vs-Dolphins and Rams-vs-Mongols games, channel flipping between downs. He craned around to check the other screens spread around the noisy tavern. More sports. He turned back to the bartender. "You have any news?"

"Sure thing." She slid a flatscreen down the bar.

Gaush snatched the little viewer and spun it around, finger dancing on the selector keys. He frowned. "This is just CNN and FOX"

"Owner says it's too spendy subscribing to the full-coverage networks." She spread her hands. "Whatcha going to do, right?"

"Yeah," Gaush muttered, sinking onto an elbow. "Whatcha going to do." He drank his beer, ignored the football-soccer-baseball games, and surrendered to the milktoast newscast on the flatscreen. He barely noticed the thin man in the long black coat settle onto the stool beside him.

"Looks like you could use some good news."

Gaush straightened, startled by the stranger's feral smile. With a magician' s grace he pulled a flash-chip out of his sleeve pocket and laid it in Gaush 's palm. It was unlabeled, an obvious bootleg, still warm from the burner. "How much?"

"First one is free." The stranger's smile deepened. "Some good shit this hour, too. Congress is going to indite Philpson on bribery. Canada's post office is on strike. Japanese stocks are down." Gaush slid the flash-chip into his still silent PDA and was immediately rewarded with a smartly dressed reporter speaking camera right, the time stamp not ten minutes old. Gratefully, he lost himself in the broadcast.

Abruptly, it flashed off, the news barely scratched. "What the hell?"

The man in the coat shrugged. "I said the first one is free. The rest of the broadcast is twenty bucks." He held up a second chip, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger.

Gaush almost told him to go to hell. Instead, he pulled out his wallet and handed the man a twenty. The bill vanished with the same ease the chips had appeared. Gaush loaded it, finished his beer and, still watching his PDA, wandered into the night.

#

The house was dark when he got home, only the kitchen lights on. He shrugged out of his coat and slumped into his chair, automatically finding the remote. He switched the television on, annoyed that the kids had left it on the Jack Ass Network again. He quick-thumbed to Ameri-News. The screen flashed to blue. He tried again, switching to World-View. Still nothing. His hand shook as he checked the battery. The knots in his stomach twisted another turn.

"Janet?" he shouted. "Did you forget to pay the satellite bill?"

"No, dear. I canceled it." Gaush spun around.

His wife stood behind his chair, her arms crossed, surrounded by friends and family. His friends. His family, all wearing the same, sanctimonious smiles. His stomach crawled into his throat. "What is this?"

"It's an intervention, Mark." Janet took the remote from his hand. "You have a problem."

"What problem? So I like to be informed. Is that a crime?"

"No, Mark." His brother Bob stepped forward. "It's a sickness. You're a junkie."

"A junkie? Bullshit. I can walk away anytime I want."

"Really?" Bob raised an eyebrow. "If that's true, give me your PDA."

"Sure." He pulled the little devise from his pocket and held it out. He couldn't let go.

Janet helped him to his feet, her arm around his shoulder, guiding him toward the door. Hot tears rolled down his face, his breath coming in ragged gulps while Bob held the door open, cold rain blowing in. Janet patted his back, whispering as they walked. "It's all right, Mark. They have places for people like you. Everything's going to be all right, I promise."

"I'm so sorry," he hiccupped, sobbing deeper. "I'm so sorry."

Someone had pulled a car into the driveway, the passenger door open. Moving like a zombie, he crawled inside, his hand wrapped around the PDA, softly channel surfing as they drove away.

Copyright 2003.