Riemann Zeta

The first rays of a sudden desert dawn shatter the crisp, chill air of the pervasive night. As the sun heats up the arid road, a lone vehicle pushes on in much haste.

The driver travels with nothing but a few articles of clothing in the trunk and with orders for the new job, in a new city—to start anew.

The driver wishes for something to listen to other than the hum of the overworked engine. That would be a godsend. Absently, the driver tries the radio and still gets nothing but static.

The vehicle’s computer system suddenly picks up a service station announcement and interrupts the mundane drone of the engine. “Stop and be refreshed at our station! Get coffee! Use the bathroom! Or just get out and stretch! This is the last station for the next three hundred miles, so you may wish to stop!”

The annoying musical accompaniment, sounding more like breaking glass than music, belies the truth of the announcement. Recognizing the accuracy of the distance, the driver slows down to stop.

Upon opening the door, the recorded voice that was used for the announcement declares, “Welcome to our store! Thank you for stopping here!”

Vision adjusting to the white fuzzy light in the store, the driver squints and focuses on the restroom, hesitating only to check out what the clerk is doing. The young man is barely into his early twenties; his hair is a blond mop of good length, and his clothing looks slept in. No more than a day, maybe two, notes the driver about the clothing, expertly judging the depth of the wrinkles and the number of food smears decorating the outfit. The clerk is making lines of cocaine on the glass part of the counter. Unimpressed, the driver continues on to the restrooms.

Opening the door to the restroom releases a vile stench that immediately stings the eyes and instantly makes anyone feel dirty. To call this a restroom would be a farce. Animals don’t even leave a mess like this. With breath held, the driver moves quickly, closing the door to get out of the shit hole and away from this horrible room.

Eyes stinging, the driver hears the clerk call out, “Are you okay?” Tossing the driver some wet wipes, the clerk continues without much concern, “Here, clean up with these.” Beyond the watery eyes, the driver notices that this young man is missing his left ring finger at its base.

“Sorry for the mess; the scrubbers aren’t working,” the clerk apologizes, as someone else behind the counter joins him.

A good six inches taller, this other male is a contradiction in style to the first clerk. The most notable thing about the new associate is his black hair, styled in a complicated and time-consuming way. Starting as short-trimmed hair at the point of his chin and moving up the left side of his face into his hairline, his hair then continues around the back and upper parts of his head and ends at the right upper area of the forehead. The other parts of his head are shaved clean, even his left eyebrow. This swirl of hair grows ever longer the closer it gets to his forehead. His clothing is similar to the other clerk’s, minus the creases and the stains.

Probably the first time he has ever worn them, the driver guesses. The driver makes a move to the refrigerator cases to get something cold to drink. On the way to the counter, the driver reads “Rick”—just Rick—on the first clerk’s shirt.

His second confirms this: “Rick, do you have something to hit this with?” He points to the nowhere-near-straight lines of cocaine on the glass.

Rick reaches into his shirt pocket, fumbles around trying to pull out a fake cash bill, and says, “Yeah, Jeff; hold on. I just roll this and we’ll hit it … heh, it’s my way of shirking it to the old order.”

The driver stands awaiting service and counts twelve lines of coke. Each one is about a foot long. Rick takes a line, and Jeff takes one, too. Only after indulging does Rick look up and ask as well as he can, “Is that all?”

“Would you like some?” asks Jeff.

Saying nothing, the driver pulls out an M.E. (monetary electronic) card and flashes a badge in response to the offer.

Rick asks nonchalantly, “You going in or coming out?”

Swiping the M.E. card and grabbing the drink with one fluid motion, the driver walks out.

“Must be going in,” Jeff says to no one in particular, but he assumes Rick is paying attention. Rick, already in an altered state, is only able to manage a nod.

The driver gets back into the vehicle and starts it. There is a “Thank You!” announcement in the same recorded voice as the vehicle leaves the service station, heading for a destination beyond the horizon.

I know every generation over time thinks how the new generation is full of losers or is wasting away the gift of youth. Like Jeff and Rick back there, getting messed up at work, ’cause it doesn’t matter what they do, working in the middle of nowhere. Just as I have no idea what it is like to be waiting for something else to do with my time. This new job has the possibility to be full of moments like that. Hopefully the lax laws of the City will not leave me bored—just looking into who has stolen the paperclips from the office. Ha-ha. Paperclips.

The driver notices the emptiness of the road and accelerates. Passing low scrub and slowly waking desert creatures, the driver feels the hum of the vehicle becoming hypnotic. Outside the window, wisps of what look like dancing veils spin and twirl as the vehicle flashes by. The sun is high by now, but the cold of night is not yet willing to let go of the earth.

Check into new job.

Check into apartment.

What will I do then? Still check into the new job and apartment—but setting up the closest node might not happen for a couple of days. That should be all right. The system should allow for a couple of days before I need to set it up. No more than a week.

After pressing on for some time, the vehicle notifies the driver of a radio station. Not too long after that, the city information guide comes on, asking, “Do you have a destination in mind?” The driver grabs the orders off the passenger seat and reads the name and address. The city guide then asks if the driver wishes for an autopilot or vocal and visual directions. The driver opts for the vocal and visual directions. The directions start when the driver reaches the City.

The City doesn’t start with the small houses and low towers of old. The City just starts. The first two towers that the driver passes are the smallest anywhere in the City, only eighty-three stories above ground. The shapes and colors of this city’s architecture are as varied as random spasms, from dark and brooding twisted knurls to expansive pastels and flamboyant neons. The variety is evidence of the City’s collective creative minds.

As the buildings start, so does the traffic.

Traffic seems to be a problem that spans space and time. Which also happen to be the cause of traffic: space and time. This thought rolls around the driver’s head while navigating in and out, up and down through the traffic.