Revocation

Ninety days ago I was Revoked. 

It was in a fast food place, at lunchtime. The com implant in my forearm made the universally dreaded "uh oh" noise and its whole face lit up and turned hard candy orange. Notification bells went off all around me.  Suddenly, everyone was checking their own comms to see the latest Revocation Announcement. ("Watch for Orange Near You!") In the next moment I had this under-the-microscope sensation as everyone identified me . . .and abruptly stopped acknowledging my existence. There I was, feeling the ties that bind coming undone, alone in the middle of a busy Universe.  I had been cast out. 

Then I remembered I had never liked other people very much anyway.

I'm Fannie Rhodes, Mother Pariah.

I'd been speaking to a baby-voiced woman at the counter. In the next heartbeat she was smiling brightly through me, like I'd never existed. I snatched back the tip I'd left, snarling as she tried to beat me to it.  A blank-faced teenage girl tried to move up in line by walking through me but I body checked her into the counter, thereby affirming my continued existence. Then the middle-aged guy mopping the floor began mopping my feet, soaking my shoes in dirty water to emphasize my invisibility. He had his head down to hide a tiny smile.

I'd gone commando that day, in a long, flowing skirt, and thought about squatting down to take a piss in the middle of Mr. Mop's floor--because,  really, I never learn. But even that wasn't enough.  So instead, I "stumbled" forward, knocking over Mr. Mop's great big bucket, sending a mini-tsunami of grey water over the fashionable shoes on a dozen pairs of feet. 

"And the horses you rode in on," I muttered, seemingly to myself. 

Every one of those wet-footed souls would now probably Downvote me with the Moderator's Office, if they hadn't already.

Oh, well.

I scuttled onward to the "Order Pickup" table and randomly grabbed two enormous bags of food that were probably intended for the Greater Phoenix Marching Band. 

"I'm taking these!" I yelled. But no one called the cops or said a word. 

My own sad little meal was in a small paper bag labelled "Fannie." It sat by itself in the corner, like the kid nobody wants to be seen with. Well, it was on its own. Not because I needed bigger bags of food, but because I had a principle to defend. I had no idea what the principle was, but after a drink or two it might come to me.

Having barked my shin on the bucket, I limped out the glass doors, past people who pointedly didn't see me or hear the squelching noise my shoes made and who made no comment about the vast amount of unnecessary food I was carrying. Sometimes it is not altogether bad to be ignored.

Social invisibility also turned out to be handy when I sat down on a bench and automatically went to check my messages. It was something the average podcaster probably does 40 times a day. This time it didn't work. The com howled "Revoked" over and over. Each "Revoked" was louder than the last. People walked past me seemingly inward and unaware.

Eventually, I pried off the faceplate of the com implant with a corkscrew from the bottom of my purse. Then I kept pulling wires until the damned thing shut up.

Blood was shed during this process. My language was loud and colorful. No one in the stream of people on the sidewalk seemed to notice. 

I tested the waters.

"Chips? Anybody want some potato chips?"  I swung back and forth, offering passersby bags of chips from my enormous lunchtime haul. This was met with scurrying and gasps.

It came to me that while some people were afraid, others were alone.  I was alone.

I sat on the bench, mulling things over, reviewing the path I'd taken to Revocation. It was less meandering than it originally seemed.

Years ago, I used to write porn. Got paid by the word or the page and it put chicken on the table. Times changed. I wrote how-to books--much less fun, but it paid and that was the point. Finally, I retired. But that got boring. So I started a podcast--after all, what would the world do without my opinions?

I read Revoked authors aloud, because they were juicy and ...why not? I read passages from my old bonking books, because they were out of print and I wanted them to live a little longer. My show had maybe a thousand subscribers,  few of them sober. Very few.

It made no difference. Soon, my past writings and current commentary were judged "objectifying and a general source of pain, real pain, to the community." Oh, and my refusal to so much as attempt an Apology made me "a predator-like presence for those feeling wounded."

Complaints, trolls, cancellation, I  got it all. My show was monetized without my permission, then promptly demonitized in a show of solidarity with my victims. 

Revocation being inevitable, I decided to put my long lost cherry on top of the mess by using my last podcast to read out names of the recently Revoked. 

After an hour I got to "Lowring." 

This done, I said a very firm goodbye to my children and moved into an old RV. Revocation is grounds for eviction everywhere nowadays, but an RV allowed me to keep a roof with me.

So here I was, on a bench decorated with food and the remains of my com implant. The com was still glowing a nasty orange in the late afternoon shadows, as was the base plate that remained buried in my arm. Not that it mattered. Anytime someone Revoked approached the Unrevoked screens lit up and vibrated. The blessed always knew when the Unclean were in their midst.

It took me an hour to reach my RV. Other pedestrians parted around me. A few cast me frightened looks. No one spoke to me.

But I kept offering bags of chips to everyone. 

"I think these are Sea Salt!" I cried out to one fleeing sales rep.

My RV was in the far reaches of what had once been a really fun shopping mall. Leaning against my door was Mr. Mop.  His secret smile had flowered into the full-blown grin of a man with evil in his heart.

I have no idea how he found me.

"Welcome to the other side, Fannie. You're gonna love life on the Dark Web. Follow me."

We live in the desert and the mountains,  in the cities and the small towns. We work off the clock, under the table, and out of sight. We play and speak and live as we wish.  

I am Mother Pariah now and I tell tales of the flesh and read the words and the names of those who have been silenced. 

And I hate potato chips.