Below the API (#4)
THURSDAY
Below the API is a short story published as part of the 2024 Summer of Protocols “Protocol Incepting Lore & Literacy” program. You can find an abstract for the project, as well as an index to each chapter on the project’s landing page.
THURSDAY
The green asphalt radiated heat, a kiln baking Marcie as she shook hands with her opponent. Her arms dripped sweat, but her hands were parched, black and cracked from the week’s toils. She returned to the bleachers outside the pickleball courts, defeated but not disappointed. Losing was fine, and so was the heat; she was relieved to be outside.
Not that getting there had been easy. Her ”passion,” as Navi referred to it, was ever-present. Her heart spiked with each order notification. Navi kept her informed on quotas and throughput metrics, even quality standards. Growing stacks of raw black clay loomed over her as she worked as if waiting in line. (Navi had begun buying in bulk as orders came in—market prices surged.) This was her break, and she was determined not to let it slip. But she also needed a break.
Marcie sat on the scorching metal bleachers, a hand towel providing a thin layer of protection from the heat. She scanned the courts. They were alive with pops and cheers, set against the vast Kansas fields behind. These were her people, enjoying the outdoors, craving connection to people, place, and past. So unlike those who spent their lives plugged in, curled in a fetal position, umbilical cord to the wide web, feeding on content.
I bet the Sumerians would have loved pickleball, Marcie thought.
“Ay’ Marcie! You win one yet?”
It was Barry, walking towards her, shouting from three courts down. She blushed and waved. He lifted his shirt to wipe the sweat from his face, and his gut waved back.
“Still learning, I’m afraid,” she replied when he reached her. “How about you?”
“Barely a point.” Barry swung his racquet bag down and took a swig of his water. His shirt was drenched as if he’d poured a water bottle on himself. “The old ones are sharks. They toy with me, back and forth, back and forth. I ran a marathon out there. Lester could have sat in a lawn chair.”
“Don’t feel bad. He’s out here every day.”
“Oh, don’t worry. My pride is fine—it’s just my ankles, elbow, knees, and back.”
“Maybe that’s their secret, then.” Marcie laughed as he threw his towel down and sat next to her. “As your body breaks down, you master the art of playing without moving. Like Zen Buddhism or something.”
“You’re onto something,” Scott replied. “How about you? Pardon my saying, but you look a little beat up yourself. You doing shifts as a mechanic now?”
“No, just a new project.” Marcie laughed and flexed her hands. She had tried to clean up, but the black oils had seeped deeper than a quick scrub would clear. “It’s a huge opportunity. But my hands aren’t happy about it.”
“Your hair, either.” Barry motioned at Marcie’s brown curls, and she ran her hand through them. They were gritty from clay dust. “Not that it makes a difference, I mean. You look great.”
“I came straight from work,” Marcie said, sliding over a bit. “It should level off soon.”
“Sorry, didn’t mean—” Barry smiled sheepishly. “What’s the big opportunity?”
“I’m throwing new pots, but not with my normal bases. I’m using black clay. It’s a pain to work with—stains like mad and makes the studio filthy. Beautiful when it’s done, though.”
“Black clay is, like, everything right now!”
“You’re familiar?”
“I’m huge into it. Been all over my feeds this week. You’ve seen the research, right?”
“No, I hadn’t heard anything about it before.”
“Oh man, black clay is amazing. Full of anticoagulants and photo-absorbers—lots of nutritional value if you make it right. It comes from fossilized fruit, you know. The authentic stuff, at least.”
“I hadn’t heard that.”
“I ordered some powder you can put in coffee. Boy, it gives me a great buzz. I read that some people snort it.”
“Woah, I haven’t —”
“Wait! Idea alert!” He set his hand on Marcie’s arm. “Are your pots for, like, sale?”
“Yeah, but there’s a backlog…”
“Sweet! What do I do?”
Normally, Marcie would have been thrilled by this smile; she had dreamed of having it pointed at her just like this. But not like this—not tied to another pot to add to her queue.
“Well, Navi manages the listings. I haven’t actually ordered one myself.” She hesitated. “Why don’t I just make you one?”
“Oh, no, wouldn’t dream of it. I’m an admirer, not a moocher. Is Navi your agent?” When Marcie nodded, Barry turned aside and double-tapped his tortoise-shell glasses. “Franklin, buy a pot from Marcie’s shop. A black clay one. Make it sound cool.” He turned back to her and smiled. “Easy. Can’t believe the timing!”
Brrrz. Marcie checked the order: Ancient Replica Pot (Black Clay, Persian style, Text: ‘Barry’).
“You didn’t need to do that,” Marcie said, forcing a smile. Inside, she felt elation and irritation. Another pot. Another firing. Another glazing. Another box. “But thanks.”
“Stoked for it!” Barry surveyed the waiting area and then grabbed his racquet. “Think Tracey’s ready to do combat. But hey, Marcie, I was also wondering. Since we both need some extra practice, would you want to play tomorrow—just us?”
She glanced at her watch, at Barry’s order details. This had been refreshing, but taking another night off tomorrow would be tight. She had to get sixty fulfilled by Monday, and while progress was starting to pick up now, she was finishing the first batch today. She tried to do the math, to compare it against her quotas, but it made her dizzy. It was so hot, so bright outside, so much like the kiln. Her mind was baking. She wobbled in her seat, and Barry touched her shoulder to steady her.
“Yo, no pressure! No pressure! I don’t need to beat him next week. We’ve got plenty of time, hotshot.”
“Sorry, Barry. It’s been a busy week. I’m finding my new rhythm.” She squinted at him through the sun. “Next week, for sure.”