Seeds of Change

by John Joseph Adams

  Joe was halfway to the door when the racket began, sort of like a tornado siren augmented by the agonies of a dying cat. The closer he got to the door, the louder it became. The other patrons were holding their hands over their ears and appeared to be shouting at him, but he couldn’t hear them. Tom seized the bottle and followed him to the door. “You got to take it with you,” he said, “or it won’t let up!”

  Joe snatched the bottle and the moment he touched it, the clamor cut off. At a side table, a man and woman, both in their twenties, shook their heads. “Dumb-ass,” the man, who looked like one of those fresh-faced business school grads, said. “Didn’t read the instructions, did you?”

  Joe had a half a mind to break the bottle over the sod’s head. Tom retrieved the abandoned operating sheet and pushed it into Joe’s other hand. “You need to familiarize yourself with the bad news,” he said in a low voice. “I’m afraid things are going to be very different around here.”

  Joe stuffed the paper into his pocket and stalked out.

  * * * *

  JOE POURED OUT the bottle on the sidewalk and drove his Mazda home to his apartment. Terri was waiting with lasagna in the oven. She worked as a third grade teacher so she arrived home first. Unfortunately, she always wanted to natter at him about how exhausting her day had been the second he got home, so that he never had a quiet moment to put his thoughts in order.

  “What’s that?” she said as he closed the door.

  “Something called a ‘Smart Bottle,’ ” he said, setting it down with a thump on the breakfast bar. He dropped his briefcase onto the coffee table and wrenched at his tie. “The bartender tricked me into buying it at the Brass Tack.”

  “My class read about these,” she said, picking it up and turning it under the light to examine the label. “They’re supposed to cut down on the need to recycle.”

  “Actually, Symesco Smart Bottles cannot be recycled,” the hollow little voice said. “We are engineered with DNA recognition software to provide years of imbibing pleasure.”

  Joe sank onto the couch. “I can’t get the stupid thing to shut up.”

  “Why do you have DNA recognition capabilities?” Terri said.

  “I am Joe’s bottle,” it said. “If I could not recognize him, I might be employed by any number of unauthorized users. That would be unhygienic.”

  “Correction,” Joe said, taking the bottle out of Terri’s hand. “You were my bottle. Now you’re just so much scrap glass.” He opened the pantry and tossed the bottle with a clank into the recycling bin.

  The racket began again, this time much worse in the confined space of the apartment. Cursing, he pulled the bottle out. “Stop that!” The wail cut off.

  Terri glared. “Did you pay good money for that thing?”

  “Washington evidently passed some sort of stupid law when no one was paying attention,“ he muttered, then dug in his pocket for the wadded instructions. “But there must be a way to turn it off, otherwise, you’d have to take it to work with you and even in the shower.”

  “Congratulations on your purchase of a Symesco A2300 Smart Bottle,” the instructions read, “The first monumental step toward maintaining a waste-free environment!”

  He skimmed down through more bombastic, self-aggrandizing rhetoric, which included the instructions for removing the tab over the sensor and introducing the “client” to the bottle, until he reached “Temporary Deactivation.”

  “You can command your bottle to ‘sleep’ when not in use for twenty-four hours at a time,” the instructions read. “with one two-week deactivation permitted every four months when the client wishes to vacation without his Smart Bottle, though this is not recommended. It can be reactivated at any time by simply touching the DNA-sensitive label. Deactivation for longer or more frequent periods will require a waiver from Symesco. Those wishing to apply for the necessary code phrases should call the Symesco Help Line at 1-800-SMT-BOTL or consult our convenient website: www.symesco.com.”

  Joe held the brown bottle up. “Sleep, dammit!”

  It didn’t seem any different, but this time, when he tossed it into the recycling bin, it didn’t protest.

  Terri took the instructions and sat reading them until dinner was ready. They both ate in blessed silence.

  * * * *

  WHEN HE SHOWED up at the Brass Tack the next day after work, Tom gave him a leery look. “Dude, where’s your bottle?”

  “In the recycling bin, where the damn thing belongs.” Joe slid onto a stool and turned his palms down on the blessedly cool surface. “Bring me a cold one.”

  Tom folded his white bar cloth. “Can’t.”

  “Are you trying to be funny?” Joe asked. “Because it’s been a long frustrating day and I am in no way in the mood.”

  “It’s against the law to serve registered Symesco users without their bottles,” the barkeep said morosely. “You’re at least the twentieth person I’ve had to tell that to since noon. Can’t nobody read instructions, I guess.” He polished a bit of imaginary grime.

  “And you registered me yesterday,” Joe said. “Gee, thanks.”

  “It’s the—”

  “—law,” Joe finished for him. “Okay, then sell me another stupid Smart Bottle.” Though the thought of being responsible for two of the infernal devices was sobering, not the sensation he was seeking at the moment.

  Tom shook his head. “One to a customer. It’s the—“

  Joe shoved away from the bar, knocking the stool over. “Guess I’ll just take my business elsewhere!”

  “Won’t do no good,” Tom said, studying his cleaning cloth. “No bar will serve you without checking identification, and you’re in the system now as a Symesco user.” He raised his head and met Joe’s eyes. “Just go home and get your bottle and I’ll refill the blasted thing until your eyes float.”

  But he didn’t have time for that. Terri would have dinner on the table in thirty minutes and she would complain all night if he was late. “Forget it!” he said and plunged back outside into the glaring afternoon sun.

  He stopped by the Pay-N-Git convenience store on the way home to pick up a six pack. The cooler was almost empty and he had to settle for an off-brand he’d never heard of, Bjorn’s Mountain Gold. Probably tasted like yeast water.

  The bored clerk, a narrow-eyed girl chomping on a wad of gum, gave him a stern look from behind the high counter. “ID?”

  At thirty-seven, he hadn’t been IDed for at least ten years, maybe more. He blinked. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “No, sir.” She popped her gum and then jerked her chin to indicate the line of impatient customers behind him. “We never kid. It’s like totally against company policy.”

  Sighing, he dug in his wallet and produced his driver’s license. She punched in his number on a keypad, shook her head, and shoved the plastic rectangle back at him. “Sorry, pops, you’re a registered Symesco user. I can’t sell alternate containers to you.” She gave him a hard-eyed look. “Even old geezers have to follow the rules, you know. If you have your bottle, we can refill it, but that’s all.”

  Fuming, he relinquished the six pack and left.

  * * * *

  HE HEARD THE wail before he got in the front door, the same high-pitched, ear-wrenching caterwaul. Jeeze, it hadn’t been twenty-four hours yet, had it? He shoved his key in the lock and burst into their apartment.

  Terri looked up from where she was pacing in a tight circle around the living room. She’d smothered the bottle in a blanket and shoved it under a sofa cushion, but that did little to muffle the monumental racket.

  Her eyes were red and she wore the noise-canceling headphones she’d given him for Christmas. She’d crossed her arms protectively over her body as though warding off a blow. “Pick up the blasted thing before I lose my mind!” she shouted. “The Super’s already been up here complaining three times!”

  He dug the blanket-swathed shape out from under the cushions and tore it free. As soon as his fingers tou
ched the naked glass, the noise cut off.

  “Hello, Joe,” the bottle said companionably. “It’s been over twenty-four hours since I was last filled. Shall we go out for a beer?”

  Jeeze, the damn thing was going to turn him into an alcoholic! Heart racing, Joe hurled it against the wall. The plaster cracked but the bottle appeared unharmed.

  “Fortunately, I am shatterproof,” the bottle said from the corner where it had rolled. “Did you have a difficult day? I am programmed with sixteen modes of communication, including marital counseling and anger management. Let’s talk it over.”

  Terri tore the headphones off her head with unsteady fingers. “I—I—want that thing out of here!”

  Joe picked up the bottle and glared at it. “The instructions say you can ‘sleep’ for two weeks, right?” he said, feeling stupid talking to a freaking brown bottle.

  “That is correct, but—”

  “Then goddamn sleep for two weeks!”

  Terri and Joe both studied the bottle, waiting for some indication that the command had worked, or hadn’t. Finally he set it down on the coffee table and backed away. “I think that did it,” he said softly as though it were a sleeping baby.

  “For two weeks,” she said. Her staring white-rimmed eyes hinted at future therapist bills. “Then it will be back in spades. My job is stressful enough. I can’t take this!”

  “Well,” he said, slipping an arm around her shaking shoulders, “I wouldn’t worry. In two long weeks, an awful lot can happen to a poor little bottle.”

  * * * *

  THE NEXT DAY was Saturday, so he rose early to take Terri and the bottle for a long ride in the countryside. He stopped finally at Roaring River State Park, where an underground river surfaced out of a split in the cliff, and deposited the bottle in one of the enormous bear-proof trash cans at a camping area. It was midmorning at that point, already getting hot, but they stood together before the can, hands entwined, savoring the moment. “We’re free,” Terri said fervently and he kissed her neck.

  Then they returned home for a leisurely BBQ dinner at their favorite cafe. Things ran along quietly after that, the only problem being that he could no longer have a beer after work. He figured at some point, under-the-counter beer would be available from local drug dealers, but Smart Bottles were just catching on. It would take some time for illicit demand to develop.

  He could have switched to whiskey or scotch, but he’d never been fond of the hard stuff. He just wanted fifteen minutes after work to sit in blessed silence and relax with a cold beer to take off the day’s edge. Was that too much to ask?

  Two weeks after he’d rid himself of the Smart Bottle—or Smart-ass Bottle, as he was coming to think of it—Joe stopped at the Brass Tack and ordered a Coke. “Want a shot of rum in that?” Tom Whitebear asked as he passed Joe the glass.

  It had been a trying day. “Yeah, why not?” He shoved it back. “How’s business since Smart Bottles became the law?”

  “On that note, think I’ll join you,” Tom said, pouring himself a straight double shot of scotch.

  “That’s not good for you,” a bottle chirped from back behind the bar. “You should—”

  “Shut up or I’ll stick you back in the freezer!” Tom said over his shoulder, then turned back to Joe. “My own Smart Bottle.” He jerked his chin toward it. “I’m thinking of taking a hammer to the blasted thing.”

  “Won’t do any good,” Joe said, wrinkling his nose at the bite of the rum. “They’re shatterproof.”

  “Heard one fellow threw his over Niagara Falls.” Tom downed his scotch in a single swallow. His cheeks flushed.

  “Did it work?” Joe asked with a prickle of hope.

  “Nope.” Tom regarded his empty glass as though it had answers. “Damned things float.”

  Joe thought of his own bottle, tucked away at this very moment in some faraway State landfill. Down under the ground, buried under layers of plastic garbage sacks and decomposing fries, it could holler all it wanted. He didn’t care if he ever had another beer again if it meant he had to be a slave to a freaking computer chip.

  When he got home to the Pine Mountain apartment complex twenty minutes later, a police cruiser was parked in front. Maybe someone had phoned in a complaint about the Andersons in 4-C who regularly duked it out. About bloody time, he thought, climbing the stairs.

  He opened his door and saw two uniformed policemen sitting on his maroon couch, an untouched plate of Terri’s ginger cookies in front of them.

  “Hello, Joe,” she said, bolting up from the armchair. Her hands were clasped. “This is Officer Dumbrowski and Officer Grant. They want to talk with you.”

  He set his briefcase down. “Yeah?” He’d paid all his parking tickets, he was pretty sure. Had they mistaken him for a bank robber?

  Dumbrowski, the older of the two, stood. He had bristly gray hair, thinning on top, and jowls that made him look like an out-of-sorts bloodhound. “Joseph Browder?”

  Joe nodded. then watched the officer pull a brown bottle out of a canvas bag. He stuck his hands in his pockets. “What is this about?”

  “Sir, take the bottle,” Officer Dumbrowski said.

  Sweating, Joe accepted the bottle. His hand immediately tingled.

  “Hello, Joe,” the bottle said. “It has been sixteen days and twenty-two hours since your last beer. Shall we go out and have a cold one?”

  The younger officer, Grant, who had eyes the color of dishwater, shook his head and whipped out a ticket pad. “That’s Illegal Disposal of a Registered Container, sir. First offense comes with a five hundred dollar fine.” He scribbled industriously, then ripped the ticket off and handed it to Joe. “Second offense is seven hundred dollars and two hundred hours of community service, picking up trash from roadways. Third—”

  “I’m sure Mr. Browder has learned his civic lesson,” Dumbrowski said. He patted Joe’s shoulder and leaned in close to whisper, “Can’t stand my bottle either, Bro, but it’s the law.”

  Grant tipped his hat to Terri, then the two of them tromped out of the apartment and down the stairs. Joe watched them go through the open door, clutching the bottle in one hand and the ticket in the other.

  * * * *

  THE NEXT DAY, Joe came straight home after work and heard voices through the door as he fished in his pocket for his key. He put his ear to the wood and listened. Did Terri have company?

  “—always stops at that stupid bar on the way home,” she was saying. “Like I’m not good enough for him!”

  Maybe she was on the phone with one of her girlfriends, he thought, putting the key in the lock. She loved to complain.

  “That habit reflects more upon him than you,” a tinny little voice said. “You should tell him how you feel.”

  It was that damned bottle! He turned the key and burst into the room. Terri was seated at the breakfast bar, arms folded, staring morosely at the bottle a few inches away.

  “Don’t tell me you’re talking to that thing?” He dropped his briefcase, then crossed the room to snatch it away from her. “It’s just a stupid computer chip!”

  Her eyes were red. “Well, it sure listens better than you do!” she said and went into the bedroom.

  He followed and found her sitting on the bed. “What’s wrong?”

  “I had a rough day,” she said. “The Thompson twins started a food fight in the cafeteria and I couldn’t break it up by myself. Principal Eckert was more than a little displeased.”

  “So you’re talking to that stupid bottle?” He sat beside her and reached to take her hand, but she just jerked away. “How’s that going to make it better?”

  “That bottle is actually very nice,” she said. “You should try listening to it instead of always trying to break it or throw it away. It has your best interests at heart and you’re so mean to it all the time.”

  “It’s only a tangle of circuits,” he said, dumbfounded.

  “Don’t say that!” she said, throwing herself across the bed a
nd then hugging a pillow to her chest. “I like having someone around here who’s glad to see me when I come home.”

  “It’s not someone,” he said. “It’s a device, no more able to have an opinion than a dog’s locator chip or a freaking blender. You might as well chat with the alarm clock!”

  “Forget it,” she said into the pillow. “You’re more interested in that stupid bar than in your own wife.”

  * * * *

  THE NEXT DAY, he took the bottle to work in his briefcase to keep Terri from fixating on it further. So when he stopped at the Brass Tack that afternoon, he decided he might as well have a beer. He pulled it out and set it on the gleaming black bar. Tom Whitebear nodded at him, washed the bottle and refilled it.

  The jukebox was playing something squawky with a grinding beat. Joe thought gloomily of the old days when beers came in sweat-beaded mugs and music was actually melodic.

  “Ohmygod, it’s another one of them bottle-whipped doormats!” someone said from the bar’s dim recesses behind him. Giggles ensued.

  He picked up the bottle, his fingers gripping the cool glass.

  “Don’t mind them, Joe,” the bottle said. “They’re just jealous.”

  “How’s it taste, bottle-boy?” the same voice called. “Like warm milk?”

  Joe took a long cool pull of beer, then slid off his stool. Two hefty tattooed twenty-somethings were sitting at a tall table in the corner. Their facial piercings gleamed in the low light. “You have something you want to say?” he said grimly.

  They laughed, pounding the table with their fists, obviously having imbibed enough so that a dead roach in their glass would have seemed hilarious. “Who—us?” They thumped each other on the back.

  “Joe, sit down and drink me,” his bottle said. “I’m informed that humans rarely find fisticuffs rewarding.”

  Tom emerged from behind the bar. “Just ignore those idiots,” he said grimly. “I already cut them off so they’ll be leaving soon.”

  “Is the little bottle afraid for you to fight?” the more massive of the two said. He had a spiderweb tattooed across his beefy face. “Maybe you’d better scoot on home to Mama before you break a fingernail!”