The man parked his stolen Volkswagen and walked up to the house, white pebbles rolling from under his shoes at every step. Lake Michigan reflected the clouds like a rippled mirror and little waves retreated to the deep with a quiet whisper. Chicago was awakening in the distance in a dome of yellow smog.
The wooden house had a porch and two dusty benches. Its white planks had all been cracked and skewed by the humid air. The front steps were crooked and grassy. The man took out a set of keys from his coat pocket and tried them out one by one in the shiny new lock. After convincing himself that the lock had been changed he took a step back and kicked the door open almost knocking the old hinges off the frame. The man fixed his scruffy shirt collar and went in.
The hallway was dark and the air- stale. There were several wall paintings covered in plastic bags. The man stepped into the living-room, took out a small pistol out of his pocket and aimed for an old man with a trucker hat sitting in a rotating chair.
“Good morning, James”, said the old man without turning. “Couldn’t say I’ve been expecting you. Not this soon, at least.”
There were dozens of television screens piled up around them; cables of all sizes ran bundled together through the walls and the floor. The screens displayed instants of James’ life- on his way to work, in the subway, at the post office, fleeing something. The shots changed randomly but it seemed like the old man controlled them via the computer terminal in front of him.
“This was the only place you never thought I’d come, right?” said James.
“That’s right. How long has it been, James, since your brother drowned in these waters? Ten years?
James did not reply. His hands were trembling. The old man finally turned his chair and faced him:
“I want you to know we took great pains not to let you find out. My name is…
“I don’t care what your name is!” shouted James.
“All right”, the old man sighed. “You can call me the Producer for now.”
James went up to a screen on the ground, kicked it over and screamed:
“Who gave you right to do this to me?
“Ah, come on now, James! Your life was stuck when we came along. You’re thirty; you hate your job, no prospects, and no real friends. You’ve wasted it all!”
“And is that my crime?”
“On the contrary! Your complete lack of character made you unique to us. We needed someone for the American public to relate to. People want more realism.
The Producer took out a cigarette and lit it:
“You know, we spent two months taking shots of your humdrum life? It was to be a prologue to our story. Remember when you had an argument with that bus driver and you backed down even though you were right? Or when that stiff from marketing told your boss he had a part in your report and you said nothing? Amazing, real life scenes with no makeup or dialogue wit. We even recorded your Friday night of cognac and porn.
James was furious. He cocked the pistol and shrieked:
“It’s my frigging life, damn it! Get it, old man? My stinking, boring and inviolable life!”
“So”, the Producer gave out a grin. “You didn’t enjoy those expensive cars, the martinis, the outsmarting of criminals and the flirting with voluptuous women?”
“Not if I know it’s all been fixed.”
“But you didn’t know at that time, did you, James? You had no idea those were all actors sent to you, you didn’t think the crooked FBI agents we weaved into your story bled strawberry juice. Even when you had sex with Donna and you thought you were saving her from that car bomb, all you were doing was follow one of several script versions. But everything seemed real to you. We supplied you with the ultimate adventure…
“Donna”, growled James and spit on the floor. “God, she was the one to talk to me in that coffee shop. Me! With my potbelly and my bald spot. I’m really a fool to have missed the obvious."
The Producer put out his cigarette and uttered:
“Now, now. Don’t beat yourself too hard. There were hundreds of people working on logistics and everything. We set up scenes around you; we had to push you left or right all over Chicago with subconscious messages and suggestions from other characters. I guess that’s why you started having doubts right before we shot the conclusion.
“You should not have put a mike in my jacket.” James threw a black button on the terminal keyboard. “Why did you go through all that trouble in stead of just hiring some actor- the whole thing was scripted anyway?”
“Not all of it. The Armenians and the gun you bought from them an hour ago were completely real, and I would be lying if I said I was pleased to know that. You know the gun is real, you tried it out on a road sign before you came here.”
“So you were watching me the whole time?”
“Let me answer your question. You know why we went through all the trouble? Because of the consumer- that spoiled, constantly discontent homo sapiens who wants movies and Internet to help them feel- the consumer desires more and more real emotion, reactions and spontaneous dialogue. We turned you into a pillar of this nation, James Marquez. Your father was black so the minorities like you, you have a day job and you hate it. You keep asking yourself ‘where is it all going’. The millions like you need to believe that if they kept toiling for cash in stead of appreciating what really matters, one day adventure would break into their lives. In any other case the system would collapse. You are their hope."
“I am their delusion. Tell me, aren’t you afraid I might shoot you?”
The old man put another cigarette in his mouth and sat back in his chair with hands behind his neck.
“Even if you do you won’t change a thing. ‘You can’t stop progress’, kid! You and I, we’re just a product of what the viewer wants."
James put down his pistol trembling. After that he pressed the gun barrel against his chin and said:
“I am no product! I am a man with free will!
He squeezed the trigger and the pistol gave out a bang. He felt his jaw go numb but nothing followed. No bullet. He swayed from side to side from the shock and looked at the weapon in bewilderment. In the very next instant half a dozen men in uniform burst into the room with shock rods in their hands. Even though James shot at two of them on instinct he could not stop them. They brought him down and nailed him to the floor.
The old man stood in front of him.
“You’re probably wondering what happened, James. I’m afraid I had to lie to you- we knew about the Armenians. We spoke to your cousin about a month ago and he told us he had mentioned their illegal arms shop. They were warned to give you a gun with blanks.
“But that’s impossible! - shrieked James. “I tried it out. I saw the bullet holes with my own eyes!”
“Do not forget we have dozens of the best shrinks in the country working for us. We knew you’d come this way, because this was the only place in Chicago you’d never visited since the death of your brother and you’d figure out we had an HQ here. All we had to do was rig every road sign along your way and wait for you to shoot at one of them. Pyrotechnics, you see. And we had the resources and manpower to do it. And now, if you would be so kind, we’d like you to help us with the final episode."
“Never”- shouted James.
“You know how much money is on the line here, you jerk!”- burst out the Producer. “We’ve already finished shooting the other two seasons in Frisco and New York. We signed sponsor contracts. You know how hard it was to have you drink just the right kind of soda? We had to make Donna have sex with you and spill all other drinks down the drain. You will shoot the damn conclusion and act natural or else!”
“What if I just don’t?” snapped James.
“We have our ways of making you." - the Producer nodded to the men in uniform clutching on James’ coat- "With pain. Or drugs. Believe me- you better go along with it voluntarily.
“I’ll sue you!”
“Try it! We have the best lawyers. You can best hope to get us more publicity. Just accept what you are and it will all be over in a couple of days. You’ll turn into an overnight celebrity. You’ll be one of the most famous people in America.
“No! I refuse! I am no celebrity. I am James Marquez!”
“You”- the Producer smiled, took his trucker hat off and ran his fingers through his grey hair- You are Protagonist Zero Three.”
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