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WHITE ON WHITE: a film noir — IN THE OFFING Eve Sussman
rufus corporation

IN THE OFFING

There was a number and then a dash. 
That meant he was still alive. 
One, nine, seven, eight, dash (1978 –)
Its true, he wasn’t dead yet.
But it felt prescient. The dash seemed to intimate something.
He tried not to think about it. He tried not to dissect why someone would have referred to him on the printed page as: not dead yet. 
He is the one supposed to be plotting.

The horizon is everywhere. An obstacle to plotting. Everything is in the offing.
He spoke in a whisper and had since the time he learned to speak. 

He thought of himself as adept. He could walk through a hall of mirrors without once looking at himself. He is annoyed that his name and birth year have appeared on a piece of paper.

Nothing is charming. Nothing in the city could be classified as describing that attractive quality. To the unknowing outsider there seems to be no magic. He finds this a disappointment and then a massive relief.

The logic-defying horizon is everywhere.
“how do you live in such a big place?” he was once asked.
“Well, ya can’t see it all at once.”

The place has numerical charms but that will take a while for him to comprehend. He moves into 3-66-12. A rented apartment off the main road, the only street with a name, up against every other combination of 3 numbers that delineates one’s location in the city.

3rd ‘mycroregion’, 66th building, 12th door
(an architect’s premonition of the digital age?)

The current empire and the last empire have met and become conjoined. One swallowed up by the other like a boa ingests a mouse. The erosion of one is described in its crumbling concrete and the gilding of the other. There is a run on mirrored glass and chrome…and .

The drunk Scot in the local expat bar asks, “so you pro or against?”
“They don’t call it late capitalism for nothin’”, he says.

In this place it’s still early, albeit born mature, senior even, as if a wily old goat had just seen the light of day through the labors of a young woman. It has the teething lust of a teenager, and the knowing gaze of a dirty old man. “What happened to late communism?”. It ate itself up from the inside out. Choked itself on brackish water.

Now that has become divisive – how to define the water. Is it a sea or a lake?
Politicians and geologists argue the point endlessly. One thing is for sure. It is saline.
Brackish, not potable. But it’s the only water around. Purified through splitting atoms.

There are prospectors, wildcatters and con men. The people he ends up trusting most are the con men. Clearly, the best and the brightest in the region…

“so you pro or against?”
“its like being against air” he says, he chuckles softly and moves away.
, a bunch of hooey” says the wildcatter.

He hires a local teenager as a driver.
a number plate keeps reappearing.
10–HN–205
He finds his must reset his watch often. 
How could it be that there are no longer 60 seconds to a minute?
It’s 23:17, 2016.