Houston, 2030: The Year Zero

by Mike McKay

  Chapter 18

  How do we call our new battle? ‘I Wanna Be A Scav’ The rubber boots story was a mere skirmish in the woods. The ‘Confederates’ commander repelled the ‘Union’ bayonet assault and would be triumphantly stomping her so-o-o soft mud with her anti-sissy bare feet. The ‘Union’ scouts under Mark's command declared defeat and decided to pull back, regroup, and write to their Commander-In-Chief nothing had happened. The main battle was still ahead.

  Before the Meltdown, like Santa with his lists of nice and naughty, Mary had the lists of ‘appropriate’ and ‘not appropriate.’ If you wanted to go out, the clothes must be appropriate: nearly-new and perfectly clean. A freshly washed and pressed T-shirt, but with a little irremovable stain, or with a tiny tear, was nice for home, but naughty otherwise, even for a gym.

  If the stain happened to be larger than the appropriate size the T-shirt had to go. Around the shopping malls, they had donation drop-off containers – clothes for underprivileged. Or you dropped the unwanted items in front of a Thrift Store. The middle-class repaired only expensive stuff: fur coats and such. Black FBI suits were considered expendables, not worth mending. After six or seven dry cleaning cycles, the poor thing became ‘not appropriate’ and would end up its illustrious career in a donation box.

  Strolling barefoot on the beach was nice. The same at the shopping mall would pin you to the naughty list. Colorful flip-flops were perfect for a shopping mall, but not appropriate for a restaurant dinner. A playground time ultimately called for a pair of Nikes. Even for visiting water parks two times per year, they had special ‘wet shoes.’ As anything else before the Meltdown: excessive and wasteful.

  With the appropriate and not appropriate lists, came an insurmountable problem of choice. Before the Meltdown, Mark had almost fifty shirts, forty or so neckties and ten belts. Plus the suspenders and ten pairs of shoes! Never could match them all together! Each time he selected a shirt and a necktie, Mary said, “Mark, darling, can't you see they don't match?” Mark would quietly agree and take another tie, just to discover this particular tie did not match Mary's tonight's dress. Mary had fifty pairs of evening shoes. Some of them had designation for a particular dress, and thus she pulled them out of the box once every two years.

  Back in 2017, China suffered major civil unrest, with riots hitting the streets of every major city. The Chinese government crushed opposition with tanks, after shutting down the Internet and mobile phone networks, – and reported ‘business as usual.’ The endless container ships with goods continued coming to the delivery points overseas, so the ‘minor human rights issues’ were immediately forgotten, even by the most inexorable human rights activists. But within a year, China got too involved in the regional wars all over South-East Asia, and the imports – ended.

  Their neighbors suddenly remembered they had sewing machines. First, the evening dresses were converted into every-day ones. Then, all the other bits of fabric: curtains, table-cloths, and so on, – became clothes. The ladies got better with their craft, and just ten years past the crisis, the garage production was not any worse than the Chinese and Bangladeshi imports. Mary's fancy evening shoes, one pair after another, went to a flea market. At the peak of the crisis, designer high-heels bartered for a second-hand military T-shirt or two pounds of pork: better than nothing.

  But the appropriate and not appropriate lists – remained! To go out, must change this – not appropriate – ex-military T-shirt with large holes to that – appropriate – ex-military T-shirt with small holes and patches. Mark struggled to grasp the logic Mary applied to those T-shirt holes! Apparently, the hole size had some significance, but one also should consider the hole position relative to the belly button, and if the hole looked round or elongated.

  Mary accepted that slum kids had to go in progressively worse clothes and more often than not – with no shoes. Perhaps, their poor parents could not afford the military second-hand. Even if they could, a set of clothes was intended to pass from one child to another, and serve for five or six full years. Yet, once a year Mary went to the school Parents' Association meeting and voted for the appropriate uniform: exclusive of unapproved holes and inclusive of mandatory tire sandals. Last year, her ‘appropriate uniform’ party was outvoted seven to eighty-nine.

  While their kids were young, they listened to Mom and Dad. Then, about four years ago, a revolution came! Mark often called it ‘our domestic version of the Civil War.’

  The Civil War was declared on a beautiful Spring day. Mark returned home from the Station with his service Glock in a concealed holster and thirty-four thousand dollars of his monthly salary in the pocket. Unlike the pre-Meltdown times, salaries were not transferred to bank accounts: no such banks existed anymore. The few remaining establishments in Houston, with Fort Knox security, performed other types of transactions, totally irrelevant to common public. Rampaging inflation made savings pointless. You got the money, and you spent all, as fast as possible. Mark was happy. Finally, David-senior had his bladder infection under control and no more antibiotics were needed, all the debts paid, and all the immediate necessities purchased. This time over, Mark could complete his promise and buy Samantha the new baseball hat and school sandals, – for three months, she had to go to school in bare feet. Back then, Mary somehow believed it was a cruel punishment.

  Mark found Mary with their two immediate cul-de-sac neighbors: Mrs. Kong from the left and Mrs. Levin from the right. The ladies sat at the back deck, engaged in their regular vegetable beds' planning session. An agricultural co-operation of sorts. Mrs. Kong was traditionally good at growing tomatoes, egg-plants, and paw-paws. Mary specialized in cucumbers and bell peppers. Mrs. Levin excelled at growing spices and marijuana, simultaneously becoming a renown local expert in blending roasted acorns and some other secret ingredients for coffee substitutes. Quite not appropriate, all three refined ladies were dressed in the husbands' shirts and old pants, and barefoot. But they just made ten walks to West Canal, carrying four gallons of water on each trip, so Mary mentally moved their working attire into the gray area between ‘nice’ and ‘naughty.’

  “Got the money, darling?” Mary inquired.

  Mark patted his front pocket. “Shall I call Samantha?”

  “Why are you even asking? For the hat, go to Bell's General Store. But first, check the cobbler's cart. Please make sure the size is not tight. And don't overpay. It's market, darling. Negotiate the price, OK?”

  Mark assured Mary he would negotiate (negotiating the price – he hated the most), stack his head into the house and yelled, “Samantha! Get yourself dressed. Now! We are going to get your new sandals!”

  Ninety seconds later, Samantha rolled downstairs, accompanied by Pamela, who also changed into the appropriate street clothes. The girls approached their Daddy from both sides and simultaneously kissed him in both cheeks. Mark suspected the girls wanted to ask for something special.

  “Daddy,” Samantha started, “I'm thinking. Those school tires. I don't want them anymore. They are so-o-o out of fashion.”

  “And what would you like instead?” Mark asked. Fashion! Now my daughter demands hand-painted wooden slippers. Or does she want the last pair of Mary's high-heel shoes? With the school uniform, made out of old camo? Ridiculous!

  “Tires are useless,” Samantha said. “Everybody in our class go barefoot.”

  Mary slapped the table. “I don't care about everybody! Going to school without sandals is not appropriate. Shut up and go get the school sandals, as I told you.”

  But Samantha did not want to shut up. “Mom! But you're not listening! I'm thinking: if we skip the tires… We can save money for something… practical.”

  “And what is ‘practical’ for you right now?” Mark asked.

  “Oh, if you don't mind, can I get kama'a-ole? They're not too expensive: five hundred dollars, max! We have a new shop near our school. A nice lady, she desig
ns anklets and kama'a-ole, and all such stuff. So cool! Please, Daddy, please, please…”

  “Kama-what? Never heard of such a thing,” Mary said.

  “I know,” Ruth Levin said. “Invented, I believe, in India, in five thousand BC. It's not that people forgotten this major civilization advance, but the youth fashion started in Houston only this year. The name has not settled yet: the kids can't make a choice between ‘ceylons,’ ‘payal,’ or ‘kama'a-ole.’ Both my daughters already have a pair. Hey, the craze is to the point I'm thinking getting a pair for myself!”

  Ruth Levin must know all these new fashion trends. The Levins were those post-Meltdown neo-hippie types. Unlike Mary, Ruth never insisted that her daughters were ‘appropriate,’ and probably had never used this word in such sense. As far as Mark remembered, the neighbor girls went unshod, and were allowed to roam the northern slums and play in the mud with the slum kids all they wanted. Which did not prevent them from growing well-behaved, reasonably well-educated, healthy, and very smart.

  Ruth looked around and realized that the older generation still had no idea what the hell those kama'a-ole were. “Oh, I guess I must explain. Kama'a-ole is a Hawaiian word for a pair of matching anklets, but with strings of beads running between the anklet and the second toe. Incredibly sexy! Imagine a pair of fancy evening sandals, but with no soles whatsoever.”

  “Huh! Do you mean: ‘barefoot sandals’? Nonsense!” Mrs. Kong said. In her family, they knew the meaning of ‘appropriate!’ “I presume those sandals may be fashionable and even sexy, but what is so darn practical about them?”

  “What do you understand in modern teenage fashion, my dear?” Mrs. Levin more stated than asked. “Kama'a-ole are very practical! For starters, they don't give you blisters. Unlike wooden jandals, they don't jump off your feet. In barefoot sandals, it's not only possible, but highly recommended – to splash through rain puddles. They're cool and awesome. Because of all the above, – they attract boys! No comparison with those ugly school tires, which repel the opposite sex. ‘So-o-o out of fashion’ is an understatement. The tires were no place near fashion – from the beginning. Besides, Sam is right: tires are useless in our wet, tropical climate.”

  “I always believed Houston climate was sub-tropical,” Mark finally found what to say.

  “You forgot the global warming, Mark!” Mrs. Levin dismissively waved her hand, “now we're as tropical as Hawaii. Nothing wrong with Hawaiian kama'a-ole in Houston.”

  Mark nodded. I guess, our younger generation just likes fashions from faraway lands. Before, the exotic destinations were for sale. If you wanted to see Hawaii, you got yourself a tour. Like the honeymoon trip of Mary and Mark: a business-class air ticket to Honolulu and a six-star hotel for four nights. Unforgettable, and the only pity it ended so quickly! Now Hawaii were still an American State, but no news came since the Pacific Fleet stopped operating from the islands. The younger generation had to invent the exotics right here, at home. Couldn't buy an air ticket to Hawaii, could you?

  Meanwhile, Ruth Levin asked Pamela: “How about you, Pam? Want a pair of kama'a-ole?”

  “Not really. But I thought, if Sammy getting her new sandals, I can go with Dad too and get myself a calflet!”

  “A calf-what?” Mark asked. Curiouser and curiouser, by the minute!

  “A calf-let, Dad!” nine-year-old Pamela had to explain the fundamentals to her ignorant Daddy, “it's like an ank-let, but you wear it under your knee. On the calf! That's why it's called ‘calf-let’!”

  At this point, Mary made an angry face and said, “No anklets, no calflets, no barefoot sandals, no – whatever! You, Pamela, will stay home. Samantha goes with Daddy now – for the new pair of the standard! School! Sandals! End of the story…”

  Mark saw tears in Pamela's eyes and decided to back-off a little. “OK, hence Pamela is dressed already, she can go with us to the market.”

  They ended up buying a pair of robust, ugly, and totally appropriate tire sandals for Samantha, but could not escape visiting the garage shop near the daughters' school. The barefoot sandals were indeed cute, but Mark had to agree with Mrs. Kong, – impractical. The ‘nice lady’ was about thirty-five, also a neo-hippie type, the same as the Levins. Mark disobeyed Mary's standing orders, and both his daughters received bead calflets. Thus, the ‘Union’ won the first battle, but with a hint of the future ‘Confederates’ victories.

  From that point onwards, the ‘Civil War’ progressed slowly. Barefoot, but resourceful and determined South against ironclad, but indecisive North. Initially, the ‘Union’ was represented by Mark and Mary, and the ‘Confederates’ – by Samantha and Pamela. William and little Patrick maintained strict neutrality, while foxy Michael joined either party for short-term political gains.

  Some battles were fought matter-of-factly and won by little blood. Like the battle of ‘No School Tires to The Market.’ Mary just smiled and let the girls do as they pleased. Samantha and Pamela hardly wore shoes to school, to go shod at the local market where all the other kids are barefoot – was totally unreasonable.

  Then, there were bloody battles, with many casualties, like the three-day Gettysburg of ‘Mom, The Home T-shirts Are Fine.’ Upon a bombardment, the ‘Confederates’ commenced a brave bayonet attack and firmly established their right to go out in their home-only T-shirts with any type, size, and relative position of the holes. But over the battlefield of ‘Mom, Can I Have A Tattoo?’ the victorious ‘Union’ flag was flying, whilst the ‘Confederates’ retreated in panic, dropping their muskets, leaving behind their cannons, and barely picking up the wounded.

  Unlike the actual Civil War, the overall battle score was going to the South. Patrick grew up and joined the ‘Confederates.’ His High Seas Fleet lost the main battle at ‘Every Boy Must Have a Knife,’ but maintained the naval blockade of ‘Dear Parents, I Just Like My Bandana, OK?’

  After his Dumpster ‘cruise’, even William was inclined to fight on the ‘Confederates’ side. In February, Mary hinted that doing the Loop with no shirt might not be entirely ‘appropriate.’ She believed the Salvation Way duties called for a full uniform, with the medal.

  “It's a new world, Mom,” William said. “Happiness equals what you have minus what you want. This means if you want nothing, you can be happy with anything. Forget your ‘appropriate’ and take it easy. Just-Adjust.”

  “Just-Adjust? Like our neighbors Levin? Stop repeating this nonsense!”

  But William smiled and assured Mary the red collection bucket on his neck matched perfectly with the collection of scars on his bare torso.

  Well, the ‘Union’ would lose eventually.

  Mark imagined how he might abandon the North and join the forces with the winning South. He would allow his daughters to wear mens shirts, not buttoned, but knotted at the tummy, as per the latest fashion, and let Samantha have her tattoo. Why not? After all, his daughter was already fourteen, and now she became an independent breadwinner for the family. Hey, Mark was even willing to pay for her tattoo! Safer to get it from a well-established tattoo parlor than from a spec'list at the 'Fill!

  Back to the upcoming ‘I Wanna Work The 'Fill’ battle, it was about two main points. They had the same heated conversation three years ago, when Mike decided to drop off.

  The first point, working at the 'Fill was unsafe and unhealthy. Granted, Mark did not like all these chemicals (what Fred called them – phenols?) in the air. He preferred his daughter to have a line of work where she would not need to breathe through a corrugated pipe in her mouth. On the positive side, Frederick Stolz was a good neighbor and a qualified chemical engineer. He understood the hazards of his little business, and did not try to hide them. What about any other job? It might appear cleaner and safer, and farther from the damn landfill, but was it really that safe? Take the dioxin Rodrigo mentioned few hours ago. One could not see, or smell, or feel it, until too late. Or asbestos
! Or radiation! Mark heard of munitions factories in the southern suburbs, where workers developed orange skin from trinitrotoluene: Sugar Land canary girls! No, considering all other options, Fred's gasoline plant was not a bad choice at all. Mark was OK with this himself, and he would convince Mary easily.

  The second point: if Samantha worked at the gasoline plant permanently, her school would have to go. Instead, she might use an hour a day to read what was interesting to her or needed for her job, the same as Mike and Arnold did. It would not necessary mean her overall education to be any worse than after a proper school, probably just the opposite! Nevertheless, it meant the absence of the graduation papers, and made a University degree – impossible. For sure, Mary would not like the idea. To be frank, Mark himself did not like the idea at all. No rational decision here!

  Back when Mark was in the high school, his parents constantly repeated: son, you must get a degree; only with University degrees people can make real careers. Admittedly, his Master of Science thesis landed Mark in the FBI. Now, after the Meltdown, job market changed. Landfill digging and farming were two most common occupations around this part of Houston. Some learned a trade and became mechanics, blacksmiths, tailors, or electronics repairman. Weapon factories in the northern suburbs paid well, but hired only young men, those who survived three mandatory years in the Army. None of these jobs needed a high-school diploma.

  The only occupation in which the University degree could be beneficial, was a medical practice. But beneficial did not mean compulsory. Now, plenty of medical practitioners worked with no degrees, and even without high school diplomas. Mark thought about all the effort William put into studying Math, Chemistry, and Biology through the high school. His son took special courses in Latin and Human Anatomy! And for what? Becoming an amputee beggar? Mark winced, as from a toothache, and it returned him to the reality.

  Oblivious to his guest's train of thoughts, the proud plant owner continued his technology show. By now, Frederick had half a page covered with formulas, and the reactor cross-section under them, with neat curved arrows showing temperature regimes. He looked at Mark's face, probably realized this hard science was too much for Mark's humanitarian education, and clapped the notebook shut. “Enough Chemical Engineering!”

  Mark politely nodded. “I see, Samantha is doing well.”

  “Oh, as my grandpa said: Sehr Gut! Can't be any better. Just her second day on the job, but already knows her way around our bombs. Sam's titration is way neater than Mike's or Arne's.” Frederick pointed to the row of assorted jerrycans at the base of reactor number five: “See? We drained almost fifty gallons! Sam's first batch!”

  “Sam's? As usual, you are too kind, Fred. Samantha is not a wizard, but a mere wizard's apprentice! I am pretty sure you conjured all this gas by yourself.”

  “Even the best wizard cannot do without a good apprentice. My workers are enthusiastic, and Denny is an excellent asset as a foreman. But for the technology, – need constant supervision. The other day, Sam comes to me and says: I'm so sorry, Mister Stolz, but I think they forgot the catalyst in the number five. So I ask Denny: have you added the catalyst? And he says: oh! Why the heck did you seal the bomb then? If not for Sam's sharp eyes, Denny would run a reactor cycle for next to nothing. This is her batch, no questions asked!”

  At this moment, Mark's phone rang. Mike told him that he and Arne had passed the medical and would be sent to the boot camp today. Frederick and Samantha could not leave the plant till much later in the afternoon, but unlike Mark they did not require an urgent wash either.

  “OK, Fred,” Mark said in a hurry, “I try to convince Mary. I mean, to let Samantha work here. Permanently.”

  “I will be more than pleased,” Frederick replied, “we all like Sam. And about her school – no worries at all. For hard science and engineering, here she will learn more than in her class…”

  Mark rushed with Jasmine to the landfill gates and used his FBI badge to let her back in without paying the customary five dollars to the guards. Then, Mark ran across the highway, obtained his bike (and a bewildered stare from the parking lot owner) and raced to the West Canal. Three hours later, he and Mary stood under rain in the little crowd of friends and relatives, waving goodbye to military motor-buses departing for San Antonio boot camps. The good part, Mary was so worried about Mike, she did not even mention Mark's ruined office clothes.