Frozen Cherry
Avery Sam
Frozen Cherry
by Avery Sam
Table of Contents
Table of Contents
The Popsicle Palace
Lily Henderson
Welcome to the Future
Hungry
Just Sign Here
The Popsicle Palace
Tom stepped out onto the porch of his trailer and stood there for a moment, savoring the cool morning air. He then eased his tired body onto the rocking chair and lit a cigarette.
Tom’s birthday was tomorrow and he sighed as he took long drags from his cigarette. Another notch on the calendar, and yet it meant so little. He surely never imagined that he’d be a washed-up drunk, living in a rundown trailer in the middle of Arizona on his 50th birthday but here he was.
A bell tinkled and Tom looked up to see the neighbor kid Eric arrive with a flourish, spinning his bicycle in a half circle in front of the trailer.
“Morning, Mr. Johnson,” said Eric, spryly hopping from his bicycle to bound up the steps to the porch. “You heading off to the Popsicle Palace?”
“Morning, Eric. Yep, my shift starts here in a bit.”
“I’ve got some good news,” said Eric, a grin on his face. He dug into his dusty jeans and pulled out a thick envelope, handing it over.
Tom peered inside and let out a low whistle. “Wow, them Japanese fellers really liked my last batch of drawings, eh?”
“Yes sir, they did,” said Eric. “But I’ve got some bad news. That’s going to be the last of it.”
“What? Why?”
“Well, I got a long email from them,” said Eric. “I told you about email.”
“Yes, yes, like a real letter only you send it via computers ‘stead of the post.”
“Yep, that’s right,” said Eric, the smile returning to his face. “Well, as you know, I've been sending off your drawings to that company in Japan. They told me the fans were going apeshit for ‘em. Apparently comics are real big over there in Japan. They call ‘em manga over there though.”
“Call ‘em mango or peaches, don't matter to me none,” said Tom, stubbing out his cigarette. “But get to the point, son. If they love my doodles, what's the problem?”
“Right. The English they use is a little funny, you know. But from what I can understand of it, they're saying that there's some legal trouble. And so on account of that, they can't buy ‘em any more from you.”
“Legal trouble? What are you talking about?”
“Well sir,” said Eric, staring down at his feet. “It’s because of the underage thing.”
“What?”
“Well they love the comics, don't get me wrong, Mr. Johnson. It’s just that some court said that you can't, uh, show underage stuff anymore. They're saying it’s child pornography and they could get in big trouble for printing it.”
“Child pornography?” bellowed Tom. “That's ridiculous!”
“I know,” said Eric. “But they're saying that your Frozen Cherry series might now be considered child pornography. So they don't want to get in trouble. They said if maybe you can make her 18, it’d be okay and then they could buy more of ‘em from you.”
“What?” spluttered Tom. “Listen, the whole point is that she’s a young girl learning how to become a woman. There's more to that than just shooting lasers and catching criminals.”
“I know, I know, Mr. Johnson. But that's what they said. What can I do?”
“Well I think this is ridiculous! How can some drawings be child pornography, for god’s sake? If I was kidnapping little girls and forcing ‘em to do things while I took pitchers of ‘em, well hell, then I’d understand. But what I do is just drawing! I mean it’s ink on paper. Ain't nobody getting hurt.”
“I know,” said Eric. “And I liked ‘em too, honest. Gosh, you've got some real talent, Mr. Johnson.”
“If you use that kind of logic, well hell then Batman is a murderer, many folks as he's killed. Does printing a Batman comic make you guilty of homicide or what?”
“Mr. Johnson, I don't know what to tell you. All I can tell you is what the company in Japan told me. They just can't buy any more of your comics anymore.”
“Eh, it’s all right,” muttered Tom. “Whole world’s gone crazy, as near as I can tell. Every woman I know lost her virginity when she was underage. First woman I laid with was only 16, dammit. I guess it’s all right to do it, just s’long as you don't talk about it, eh?”
“Beats me. Oh hey, that reminds me,” said Eric, rushing over to his bicycle and digging in the satchel he had strapped to the handlebars. “I almost forgot! My mom took me into town yesterday and we stopped by the post office. The company sent over the last batch of your Frozen Cherry series for you. Here you go.”
“Slicker ‘n owl shit, eh? Wow, look at ‘em,” he said, idly perusing through the glossy books. The text looked like a bunch of cross hatches but Tom was always truly amazed to see how the Japanese transformed his simple black and white lines into vibrant pieces of art.
“All right, Mr. Johnson, I got to go or I'll be late for school. I'll see you later.”
“See you, Eric. Be good now, son,” said Tom.
Lily Henderson
Tom was sweating heavily in his overalls by the time he made it down the canyon road to the back gate of the Popsicle Palace. A small plaque on the front of the building identified it to the public by its official name, The Cactus Valley Cryogenic Preservation Facility No. 5, but everyone in the area referred to it as the Popsicle Palace.
Tom used his badge to open the door and stepped inside, grateful to be breathing the machine air. Inside, as always, it was quiet. Tom wasn’t quite sure what had happened to the company, whether it had gone out of business or was in some kind of legal limbo, but the facility was no longer accepting new clients. As such, only a skeleton crew of two caretakers was needed, Tom being one.
“Morning, George,” said Tom as he entered the control room.
“Morning,” said George, turning to face the older man. “Hey, are those more of your manga comics? Damn, old man, I can't believe you're still drawing that porno stuff!”
“That's enough out of you,” said Tom testily. “Anything I need to know about before you clock out?”
“Nah, quiet as always,” said George, hopping up from his chair. “The bridge is yours, number one.”
“Whatever,” muttered Tom, sitting down on the still-warm chair. The board in front of him showed all green lights, which is what he liked to see. Of course it almost always did. The tubes and canisters used to keep people’s bodies in the deep freeze were pretty simple devices. Some light maintenance once a month was pretty much all they needed. Occasionally something would go wrong, and then the procedure was to call headquarters in Phoenix, but that hadn't happened in over a year.
After filling out the daily logs, Tom eased his body out of the chair and walked down the hallway to the utility closet. He pulled out the long push broom and began his rounds, whistling a formless tune as he worked.
He liked to start in the main room just so he could get it over with as quickly as possible. Shelf after shelf held specially designed canisters filled with some kind of inert gas. Although they had no windows or viewing ports, Tom knew each canister held someone’s head. Actually a rich someone’s head, kept there frozen for eternity until supposedly technology and medical science would evolve to the point where future doctors could reattach their heads to a new body and give them a second chance at life.
Tom thought it was about the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard of, but still though, the shelves of frozen heads gave him the creeps. He’d once seen a cartoon on television, some silly thing about the future, where President Nixon’s head was attached to a robot body. The idea was fine for a cartoon but it was absurd to spend thousands of dollars to actually do it. Whatever, he thought to himself, rich people always did have more money than sense.
Slowly, Tom began to work his way through the rooms further down the main hallway. Each room held long horizontal capsules, an entire body kept frozen inside each one. Working all these years at the Popsicle Palace, Tom knew each one. “Morning, Mr. Gladstone,” he said as he passed the first one. Through the viewport he could see a glimpse of the wrinkled, weathered face inside. “Morning, Mr. Biddle. Morning Mrs. Biddle. Looking fine this morning.” All the bodies inside were of old folks, or senior citizens as the younger people preferred to call ‘em these days. Tom tipped his imaginary cap as he wove his broom around each one.
The smaller rooms at the end of the hall were reserved for individual families. Tom worked his broom through each one, pausing to momentarily peer through the misty viewport of each capsule. He swept and dusted, using a long rag to keep the capsules gleaming white. Somewhere, someone had paid a lot of money to store their dead patriarchs and matriarchs here and might want to come pay a surprise visit at any time. It was silly, thought Tom, as nobody ever did come. But still he enjoyed the work. It gave him time to think.
As always, he saved the smallest room for last. It was the only one that held a single individual. Tom eased open the door and turned on the light, smiling as the overhead fluorescents flickered into life. The small name plaque on the side read Lily Henderson but to Tom she would always be Cherry. Reverently, he wiped his dust cloth over the viewport and looked inside.
To him, she looked like an angel, her face serene in the swirling mist. She had long brunette hair that framed her elegant cheekbones, her nose small and perfectly shaped. Her tiny lips, slightly pursed, were the only source of color, a natural shade of red that made her look as if she was only sleeping instead of dead. The file on her said she had been frozen when she was just 14 years old, the victim of some rare disease that had cut her life too short.
Tom smiled and held up the cover of his latest comic book. “Look Cherry, do you see? They still love you over in Japan.”
Tom set down his broom and began to flip through the glossy pages. As was his usual custom, he read aloud the story to the girl in the capsule. It was silly, he knew, but she was his muse. Apparently he had legions of fans over there in Asia but only Tom knew that the frozen body of a long-dead rich girl was the one who had inspired him to finally put down the bottle and do something more with his life than push a broom. It was such a shame that he’d have to give it up now.
Tom rolled up the comic book and stuffed it into the back pocket of his work overalls. With a sigh, he picked up his broom and finished his duties. Regretfully, he turned off the lights and headed back to the control room. He never saw the panel on the cryogenic capsule begin to blink an urgent red.