SOMA | The Meme Dump
BIKE COURIER
You hit this guy? He’s a pedestrian! He has the right of way, you fascist!
Levon is conscious again. He crawls into the crowd on all fours.
Various dogs sniff him as he works his way through the maze of legs.
Levon escapes to a staircase leading down to the subway. He crawls under a web of caution tape and a faded sign marked
“Closed for Maintenance. Keep Out.”
Meanwhile the Cleaner, the Mover and Iso awkwardly attempt to flee the scene of the accident amid angry protest.
10. Interior. Lower Bay Subway Station.
Levon crawls onto the subway platform, bloodied and sluggish. He stands up slowly looking disorientated. He wanders along the empty subway platform, weaving perilously close to the edge. Levon begins to hum How to Disappear Completely by Radiohead. His meek voice echoes in empty tunnel.
LEVON
I'm not here
This isn't happening
I'm not here, I'm not here…
Levon climbs down onto the subway tracks and wanders into the darkness of the subway tunnel. His phone flashes over and over in the void until its signal is lost.
Levon wanders through the darkness of the subway tunnel. His damaged smartphone blinks on and off, lighting his path for seconds at a time. Thick streams of blood trace the contours of his face.
Ahead, Levon can see a light at the end of the tunnel. A wave of 68
SOMA | The Meme Dump
text messages are suddenly received.
Mobile user N.STIEB writes:
WHERE ARE YOU???
Mobile user N.STIEB writes:
WHERE ARE YOU???
Mobile user N.STIEB writes:
WHERE ARE YOU???
As Levon struggles to read, a commotion builds further back in the tunnel. Lights appear. Levon turns around, dimwitted. In a flash, he's overtaken by a dozen bike messengers, zipping down the tracks.
They have lights mounted on their handlebars and are using the old tunnel as a cycling corridor.
CYCLIST
Get off the tracks, sketchpad!
Levon follows the cyclists out of the subway tunnel. He walks towards a small warehouse bordering the rail corridor and enters it without knocking. The interior is sparsely decorated. The walls are stained black as if the place has been gutted by fire in the past and never repaired. Levon passes a desk near the front door. On it is a large pile of unopened mail, containers of spoiled takeout, and a big glass jar marked “Gratuity.” The jar is nearly empty. A few of the takeout containers have been knocked on the floor and torn apart by vermin. A handwritten note addressed to visitors is taped to the desk. It reads,
Working outdoors indefinitely: Please leave deliveries on the table. Tip yourself reasonably. Jeremy Windsor Buckets In the room, Levon sees a neatly made fourpost bed, and a couch piled with vinyl records and spools of audio cable. Near the back is a long workbench lined with tools for fixing electronics. Several broken 69
SOMA | The Meme Dump
amps lie mutilated on the ground, having been harvested for parts.
LEVON
Jeremy?
At back of the studio, a curtain of LED lights has been hung. The lights have been programed in such a way that, from afar, they shimmer like a wall of fire. Levon passes through the curtain of bulbs and exits the building. He stumbles outside into the harsh light of orange sunset and hears violin music looping over and over through an array of speakers.
The city’s active rail lines pass behind the warehouse. An unkempt mix of weeds, discarded rail ties and sumach bushes border the tracks. Field amplifiers and microphones of various size have been set up as if in preparation for a concert. Further in, a small dugout has been constructed. It has a thatched roof and resembles a WWII sniper’s nest.
LEVON
Jeremy?
Levon wades into the tall grass. He hears a metallic clatter and feels a shooting pain run through him, as if his ankle has been bitten by a crude, springloaded trap. Startled, Levon jumps sideways, only to land in a second hidden trap. Exhausted, Levon loses his balance and collapses consciousness.