I Am A Good Reader

By M'Rone

"I Am A Good Reader" follows Park Beekman, a middle manager at The Lower Manhattan Sign Company. He is about to become the newest member of the resistance; he just doesn't know it yet. In fact, he doesn't know much of anything, other than what he reads—and he's not alone in that. Park is one of the millions of people with eye implants that control their thoughts and actions through the words they read. He doesn't know that either, but Lane does, and she's out of options.

As one of the leaders of the resistance, Lane has decided to strike the upcoming government rally without buy-in from her superiors, believing that it's now or never. She'll capture Park Beekman, destroy his implants, and send him back to work at the sign company. There, he'll have to execute a mission of sabotage, becoming a key player in the resistance's attempt to put an end to the nightmare of people believing everything they read.

Park must avoid being discovered and pretending to have implants proves far more difficult than he could have imagined, especially when he comes face-to-face with the president of the company, Max Nius. Max couldn't care less about signs or the people he has working for him. All he wants is a promotion out of his dead-end job, to a spot in The Boardroom—the upper echelon of the government. Max sees conspiracies against him everywhere, and eventually sets his sights on Park.

With time running out, Lane has been abandoned by her superiors, but it's too late to stop the plan she's set in motion. The rally is imminent, and Park is about to be exposed, because Max has set his own plan into motion: a deadly trap he hopes will frame his enemies and end the resistance before it ever gets off the ground.

This is a story of daring, liberation, and a race against the clock. Join Park and Lane as they stir the resistance while avoiding the possibility of being discovered. With time running out, Max sees conspiracies everywhere, and Lane must take plans into her own hands. Will Park and Lane get the resistance running before it can ever get off the ground? Find out in "I Am A Good Reader" and experience the revolution for yourself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 18, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667844619

Book preview

Chapter 1

Park Beekman exhaled a breath he didn’t remember holding in and trembled with euphoria as he finished reading the sentences on the screen, knowing each and every word to be true. His eyes slowly stopped whirring, the concentric red rings around his corneas coming to a standstill as the black screen that was inches from his face folded like butterfly wings mid-air and ascended into the ceiling with a hiss. A panel above him slid shut with a soft click and the lighting in his windowless office gently increased, revealing a filing cabinet, a plastic caladium, and an upright wooden coat rack near the door.

He pushed his chair out and stood without thinking; immediately regretted it and caught himself with both hands out on the desk. His feet were numbed, pricks of pressure racing up his legs, and he smiled through a frown at his foolishness. Oh. Of course, he said, realizing that he was a good reader.

The tingling passed. He steadied himself, satisfied that his feet were no longer asleep as his smile faded, leaving his lips apart. He grabbed his jacket and swung open his office door, flooding the small room with irritating fluorescent light. Park squinted as he walked down the 12th floor hallway of The Lower Manhattan Sign Company. His eyes followed the well-tread path in the worn carpet, and as he approached the elevator doors he could feel his gaze being pulled upward and then his chin tilted. A low-pitch buzzing emanated from the sign that glowed in soft pink neon above the elevator and he couldn’t prevent himself from reading it as his eyes began to whir.

You are a good reader. Smile.

The doors swooshed open and he stood there clenching his teeth, his lips parted, staring at the blank faces in the crowded elevator. He looked from blank face to blank face before clearing his throat. Oh. Smile, he said, as he stepped into the car.

Oh. Smile, said a woman, who then showed Park her teeth, her face otherwise emotionless.

The doors slid shut and the express elevator began to descend with a jolt that no one paid attention to. A monitor to the side of the doors ticked off the floor numbers in bright green, flashing the word ‘smile’ after each one. Park’s lips remained parted as he watched a streak of yellow light flash through the slit in the closed doors with every passing floor. The elevator slowed and came to a stop with a straining rumble. The monitor flashed the word ‘smile’ three times and the doors finally opened. The entire car of people smiled as they exited into the lobby of The Lower Manhattan Sign Company, their teeth held tight and lips spread wide.

The lobby was an expansive atrium walled by large glass panes that allowed morning sun to enrich the extensive greenery. Planters filled with tropical flowers in pink and orange and large fan-leafed green palms lined pathways from the elevator bank to the exit, surrounding the workers in row after row after row of flora.

Park passed under a towering blue bismark palm and locked eyes with a slender person in a tan jumpsuit working the soil with a trowel. They had a pronounced widow’s peak and a pointed nose and flashed a smile at Park that caught him off guard and caused him to look around for a sign that would tell him to smile too. As he turned his head, he felt his eyes whir as he saw a sign above the revolving doors at the exit.

You are a good reader. Smile.

His lips parted and relief came over him. Park looked back as he passed under the sign and saw the person wave the trowel at him before he was obscured by the crowd of workers leaving the office for the day.

As he pushed through the revolving door, the sudden change in temperature seized his chest and he coughed unexpectedly, not bothering to wipe the spittle from his lips. Park turned right, onto Water Street, in a forced march away from The Lower Manhattan Sign Company, shoulder-to-shoulder with other commuters, trudging along, ready to take their commands from the signs of the city. 

Oh. I am, said a man next to him. Park ignored him, knowing all too well what it sounded like when someone read their signs aloud.

As he approached John Street, he kept his chin up, the same as everyone else trying to reach home, and felt the sensation he was waiting for. His eyes began to whir as he read the sign.

Do you live on John Street? Smile.

Oh. I do, he said. His lips parted and he turned right, suddenly feeling good, knowing he would arrive home soon.

Park strode west on John Street, keeping his chin up, waiting for the words that would guide him through the evening. At Pearl Street, he stopped at the corner with everyone else who was trying to cross, their eyes all locked on the neon red stop sign strung on a thin wire; taut between the buildings. The sign flashed a message to smile and everyone that could see it showed their teeth as the light turned green.

Park began to step off the curb but felt a tug at his arm. He turned and a saw a woman with curly brown hair and freckles—standing in the light of the setting sun reflected off the windows of the skyscrapers in Lower Manhattan.

Smile, she said.

Oh. Smile, he said, his lips easing back together as he started to look for a sign that would tell him to smile.

In her left hand, she held a palm-sized metallic disc. She took one step backwards and motioned for him to follow her. Her left hand thrust out and Park heard a loud snap. He lowered his chin and looked at where her arm had been pointing to, but saw nothing as commuters swirled past him. She took another step back and turned away, walking towards Water Street. He began to follow, fighting against the flow of people. She stopped walking and thrust her arm down and out, pointing the metallic disc at the ground.

Snap.

Park followed the disc with his eyes and then looked at the spot on the sidewalk, but didn’t see anything of note. When he looked back at her, she was already crossing the street, gesturing him onward. He began to feel his chin raise.

Snap.

He dropped his chin down and his eyes searched the street for what she had been pointing at. The falling sun was reflecting off the buildings of Brooklyn across the river but were no match for the shadows of Lower Manhattan that stretched out from skyscrapers. She was picking up speed, now a half a block away, when Park saw her point to the ground again.

Snap.

He couldn’t help but look, searching for what she was pointing at, his chin down as he passed under another bank of signs and stepped onto the curb on the other side of Front Street, straining to keep sight of the woman in the orange glow of sundown. He began to slow down as he approached South Street and realized that there was no one else around. Park could feel the vibrations of the autonomous vehicles racing along the elevated highway above him as he stopped at the curb. He looked left and right and left again, but couldn’t see the woman anywhere.

Snap.

The sound echoed out from across South Street, somewhere on the esplanade. A figure shrouded in shadows under the highway waved a hand at him and he felt compelled to follow.

Snap.

She turned north and he lost track of her again as he crossed the street. The instant he stepped onto the esplanade of the Sea Port a sign popped up from the ground and slammed into place; the sound reverberated off the concrete. His eyes whirred and his back straightened and he couldn’t move a muscle as the dark blue neon crackled a foot away from his face.

Hello. You are lost. Smile.

His lips parted in a grimace and his teeth clamped down hard. He agreed and nodded his head up and down. He was lost, he thought, as the sign flashed words at him.

Return home. Drink Optometrist EmergenTea #3 tonight.

Report to The Optometrist tomorrow. Smile.

Park crossed back over South Street and walked west along John Street. He couldn’t remember how he had gotten so far from home, or why he was lost in the first place. Something tugged at his mind and he peered back into the shadows under the overpass, but was quickly overcome by an all-consuming desire to get home as soon as possible.

The woman peered back, watching him lumber away. When she could no longer see him, she continued north, staying tight in the shadows against the chain-link fence separating the esplanade and the river, until she reached the Brooklyn Bridge. There she paused, cautiously looked around, and slunk to the north side of the abutment. She ran her fingers along the cold craggy stone until she felt a sharp edge that had been chiseled into the base. She pressed it in and heard three clicks. A stone door slowly eased open; she shook her head affirmatively at the man on the other side, tossing him the metallic disc.

It worked.

The door shut with a click; drowned out by the water lapping the edge of Lower Manhattan in the violet hour.

Chapter 2

Oh. Good morning, said the receptionist, not bothering to look up at Park. Welcome to The Optometrist. What are you here for today? Are you having trouble reading? Please give me your palmsig on this panel here. She tapped her pointer finger on the peeling yellow paint of the scratched-up counter.

Oh. This panel here? he asked, his face twitching, his muscles in spasm from cheek to cheek. Sweat glistened on his forehead and he kept swallowing, his throat dry. He was having trouble focusing his eyes on any one point for very long ever since he woke up. As the words had commanded him to last night, Park had beelined for his apartment and made the EmergenTea #3 and immediately fell asleep. When he awoke, his eyes had been a blurry mess.

Oh. Are you blind? No one is blind. Please place your palm flat on the metal panel here, just like you do every visit. As soon as we verify your information, we’ll discuss your options for today’s visit. The panel, please?

Park struggled to put his palm in the correct spot, slapping the yellow counter twice before managing to land his palm on the panel’s hand outline. The panel hummed with small bursts of gentle vibration until finally it pinged. Park was about to say something but his eyes whirred, his lips parted into a grimace, and his teeth started to grind against each other. A jarring alarm sounded out from the panel.

The receptionist, startled, finally looked up at Park and saw he was sweating, shaking, and clutching an EmergenTea #3 label in his hand. On her desk was a green button with a tea leaf outline etched into it. She slammed it down as fast as she could and a small screen descended in front of her face with a hiss. Her eyes whirred.

Bad reader.

Move patient immediately to Level 4 Reintroduction Room.

Her head jerked. The screen went black and rose back into the ceiling. The receptionist swiveled in her chair, pulled open a drawer and pressed down a red button with an X etched on in. Metal doors behind her desk slid open and two tall men black-clad in combat gear silently marched out in unison. They each grabbed one of Park’s arms and dragged him back through the same doors and into an elevator that immediately began to descend.

His vision was deteriorating rapidly and the lift was dropping so fast that Park’s knees went weak. Oh. I’m sorry. My knees…, he said, muttering the words through a dry mouth, his tongue audibly slapping against his teeth.

The two men looked at each other but said nothing as they held Park up, his legs flailing, his shoes gently scraping the floor, a thhpt-thhpt-thhpt resounding in the elevator until the doors opened again with a ding. They threw him out onto a cold concrete floor, where he slid on his shoulder and flopped over onto his hands and knees. He stayed down as the doors closed behind him and a soft white light crackled to life above his head.

A nearby door creaked open and Park could hear high heels clacking towards him. He slowly got to his feet, coming face-to-face with a blonde woman in a white lab coat, and was able to make out a clipboard in her hand before focusing became too much of a strain and everything went blurry again.

Oh. Please, follow me, Mr. Beekman.

Oh. Park, he said, following the moving blurry object in slow steps.

Oh. No, this is The Optometrist. Maybe you can go to the park after. Please sit here in this seat. She slapped her hand down on the padded pleather twice.

Oh. No, Park is my name, he said, sitting uncomfortably, the wheels of the chair squeaking against the concrete floor.

Oh. Okay. My clipboard tells me you are having trouble reading. Is that what you are here for? Trouble reading?

Oh. A sign told me I need to visit The Optometrist.

Oh. Let us take a closer look at your eyes. Let me get my instructions first.

Oh. Instructions? I thought you were The Optometrist.

Oh. No. I am the emergency eye doctor, she said, as she turned towards a grey counter top and picked up a pair of black goggles.

Park watched as she placed them on. Her head jerked and as her lips parted, he thought she had the whitest teeth he had ever seen. She pulled the goggles down, leaving them hanging around her neck, and opened a drawer, pulling out a tiny penlight.

Oh. What is that for?

Oh. Mr. Beekman, haven’t you been to the eye doctor before?

Oh. Yes, but now that I am sitting here, I don’t think my eyes are damaged, he said to the white blob in front of him.

Oh. Well who is the eye doctor here? Me or you?

Oh. But you read the instructions. I could read the instructions.

Oh. Don’t you read instructions at work?

Oh. Yes, I read instructions every day at work, he said. I am a good reader.

Oh. Then why are you here? Now, let’s get started, she said, tersely. He felt his eyes whir as the light from the pen activated something within. The brightness of the pen increased and he recoiled. Please sit back and try not to blink. Very good, Mr. Beekman, you’re doing great. A few more seconds and we’ll be all done. Okay. Please blink now.

Park blinked, his lashes wet as tears slipped out of his eyes. She handed him a tissue and he wiped his face. When he looked at her, his vision was perfect.

She nodded at him. Oh. Very good. I want you to look at the wall and read the sentences that are about to scroll across. I want you to fill in the blanks as you go along. She spun his chair around and pulled a lever to recline the seat. Please begin reading…now.

Today is…October 19. My name is…Park Beekman. Today I came to the eye doctor because…I was having trouble reading. I work for…The Lower Manhattan Sign Company. I live in…Lower Manhattan. I love…to read.

The sentences stopped and the overhead lights turned off. Park sat up in the chair but she pushed him back down hard.

Mr. Beekman, please do not get up. We are almost finished. Please relax. I want you to look at the wall again. We need to help you forget that your eyes weren’t working. It will make you feel better. Please read the sentences on the wall aloud. You may begin.

SMILE. TODAY IS OCTOBER 19. MY NAME IS PARK BEEKMAN. TODAY I CAME TO THE OPTOMETRIST BECAUSE I WAS HAVING TROUBLE READING. I WORK FOR THE LOWER MANHATTAN SIGN COMPANY. I LIVE IN LOWER MANHATTAN. I LOVE TO READ. FORGET WHAT YOU THOUGHT WHEN YOUR EYES WEREN’T READING. FORGET WHAT YOU READ WHEN YOUR EYES WEREN’T READING. FORGET WHAT YOU SAW WHEN YOUR EYES WEREN’T READING. YOU ARE A GOOD READER. SMILE. SLEEP.

Oh. Please wake up now.

Park felt a hand on his shoulder, opened his eyes, and sat up, coming face-to-face with a blonde woman in a white lab coat, a clipboard in her hand.

Oh. Mr. Beekman?

Oh. Park, he said.

Oh. Do you know where you are?

Oh. I think…I don’t know, he said, feeling sharp pains in his head as he tried to remember.

Oh. This is The Optometrist’s office. I am the emergency eye doctor, she said, not bothering to look at him as she clipped her penlight to her lab coat. You were having trouble reading…do you remember why you were having trouble reading?

Oh. Yes. No. I remember that I went…somewhere, but I don’t remember…why, he said, before pain slammed his memory shut.

Oh. Good, she said with a smile. That is normal. You are at The Optometrist. You were having trouble reading. Please use The Optometrist setting on your lighting panel as soon as you arrive home and immediately drink The Optometrist’s Favorite. Please do not return to work for 5 days. Rest your eyes. You will be a Good Reader in no time. You can go now.

Oh. Thank you, said Park, relieved to be able to go home. Good reading to you.

Oh. Good reading to you, Mr. Beekman.

Chapter 3

The corner of Fulton and Gold Street in Lower Manhattan was crowded and Park stood on the curb, jostled by hurried people, shielding his eyes from the brightness of midday, the sunlight accelerating a headache he had felt creeping along since he walked out of The Optometrist’s office. His hand was opened flat at his brow as he kept his chin up, hoping that if he presented himself to the signs his eyes would stop aching, healed by the power of being a good reader, but he felt nothing and dropped his hand to his side allowing pangs of guilt to come over him. There were countless signs everywhere he looked but he was being punished. Until his eyes healed he would be useless to his office, to his city, to his country. He was a bad reader.

Halos began to form around anything he focused on and the terrible things his headache was whispering to him grew more and more perverse. He knew that this was only the beginning and that visits to The Optometrist’s office all ended the same way: the headache behind his eyes would tendril out and slowly infect other parts of his head until he was overcome by the pain. His eyesight would continue to blur and double vision would lead to dizziness that would lead to nausea that would lead to passing out on the street if he didn’t reach his apartment in time…and put on a sleeping mask.

Oh. I don’t…I don’t, said Park, mumbling aloud, wondering if he still owned a sleeping mask. He pouted as he turned south on Gold Street—the pain of trying to remember too much. The sunlight was overpowering him, and he tried to put his head horizontal to the ground, intermittently looking up for a store as he stumbled down the street, now overcome by a desperate need to find a sleeping mask.

Ahead of him at the corner of Gold and John was a market, with a wicker basket brimming with sleeping masks at the front door. He pulled a mask from the top of the pile, sending several spilling to the floor, and gave his palmsig as quickly as he could, not once looking at the clerk.

Oh. Thank you for shopping with us, the clerk said, showing Park her teeth. Good reading to you.

Park fled the store as the pain in his head teetered on the precipice of unbearable. He ripped open the flimsy plastic, letting it flutter to the spotless sidewalk, and began to break in the mask before he made it to the corner of John and Cliff Street.

He used his palmsig to open the street doors of his building, and the lighting inside dimmed in a radius around him as he shuffled through the lobby and to the elevator. Once inside his apartment, he pressed the orange Optometrist button next to the light switch and finally lifted his head up, cracking his neck as his eyes adjusted. Park kicked off his shoes and went to the tea maker in the kitchen. He pressed The Optometrist’s Favorite on the device and watched as steaming liquid gushed into a mug. The aroma filled his nostrils and with every breath his racing heart slowed and his headache weakened and the tension in his face relaxed. He brought the mug up to his lips and the steam from the tea reached his eyes and he felt them whir, and he smiled with a sense of relief. After a few moments, Park set the mug down without ever taking a sip.

He reached his bed, put his head on the pillow, and wrapped the sleeping mask across his face. Park yawned as he was pulled into the depth of the blackness, the blank canvas of the mask—the perfect setting for images to flash and fade, swirl and spin away, only to eventually settle on the face of a brunette, curled locks to her shoulders, freckles like war paint.

Snap.

She wore a white dress and stood on sandy rocks where terrible waves crashed around her, sea spray vanquishing the night and framing her against a roiling white background. She was crying. A brown-spotted seagull landed on her shoulder with a dead flower in its beak as the shadow of a majestic bridge arose over both.

Snap.

The woman looked into Park’s eyes and he shuddered as her tears ran down her cheeks. He began to cry with her, nodding, and as he reached out she slowly began to shake her head, the rocks and the bird and the water and the bridge all pulled away, streaking into the distance. He tried to run towards her but couldn’t move fast enough, his legs heavy and ankle-deep in sand. The world zoomed into the distance, leaving him in the nothingness of the ether, the darkness of the void.

A loud bang broke the black and he bolted up in bed. He pulled the sleeping mask off as another bang rattled his walls and a picture frame fell to the floor. Bang. It was coming from his front door. Angered at being awaken, Park shuffled towards the sound, the banging getting louder and louder.

I’m on my way…

Mr. Beekman, open the door! a man’s voice yelled in between the pounding.

Who is it? Park yelled back, and then grimaced. He put a hand to his temple as the headache returned. His vision was blurred and he saw two doors.

Open the door immediately, Mr. Beekman!

Park squinted through the peephole and saw nothing but darkness. He jerked his head back, startled by another loud bang, but grabbed instinctively onto the doorknob. He watched in horror as his hand slowly turned the knob and the door swung open and a low buzzing sound filled his ears.

In the doorway was a crackling dark blue neon sign flashing two words at him: Bad Reader. It flicked off as the brunette returned, pushing the sign away. Her white dress was wet at the bottom and stuck to her ankles, her feet covered in black sand. Tears dripped off her chin.

Snap.

Park, do you remember me? she asked, holding up a circular disc in her hand.

I… he said, fumbling with his thoughts.

Do you remember me?

Snap.

There…on South… he stuttered, looking over her shoulder, briefly wondering where the man and his authoritative voice went, where the seagull and the bridge went. He looked down and saw his feet covered in sand.

Yes, on South Street. Do you know where to find me?

Snap.

I…

She reached out her hand and placed it on his shoulder. Park, I need your help. Do you hear that? They are coming, Park!

A crescendo of heavy footsteps echoed in the hall. Park, we have to run!

Mr. Beekman! came a man’s voice from behind.

Park began to turn. No, Park look at me! she said.

Snap.

Park turned back to her and saw a blonde in a white lab coat, a clipboard in her hand. 

Park, do you want me to check your eyes? she asked, grabbing his crotch with one hand and pulling her ponytail out with the other, shaking her head back and forth as her blonde hair ran over him like vines, wrapping around his wrists and thighs, pulling him tight.

Mr. Beekman, do not move!

Park, don’t you want me to check your eyes, Park? I’ll read out loud to you. I’ll read all the signs out loud to you, she whispered, her lips brushing