The Park: A Dystopian Short Story

by Amy DuBoff

  THE PARK

  by

  Amy DuBoff

  THE PARK

  Copyright © 2008 by Amy DuBoff

  All rights reserved. This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. No part of this eBook may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles, reviews or promotions.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  www.amyduboff.com

  THE PARK

  We stared intently at the sculpture before us, trying to grasp the meaning of its newest modification.

  “I think it’s beautiful,” Jane said after a time. She took a few steps to the side, cocking her head slightly. “Simple, but the overall design is striking.”

  Marcus went to stand next to her, scratching his head. “But what does it mean?”

  “It’s hard to say,” I said, joining my friends on the far side of the sculpture. “It certainly seems terminal . . . possibly a call for new leadership?” I examined the red cloth carefully arranged around the torso of the stone figure, the folds of the fabric held in place by thick coils of rope. Above, black cloth was draped over the head, hiding the features of the stone face beneath; a face I had long since forgotten. The effect was quite impressive.

  Jane nodded thoughtfully as she considered my assessment. “I agree, Justin. The black cloth over the face definitely possesses an air of finality.”

  “And red, of course,” I continued, “symbolizes the loss of life—well, power, anyway.”

  We smiled at each other, pleased with our interpretive abilities.

  “I think the entire Park is losing its edge,” Marcus declared as he walked towards the central exhibit in the plaza.

  My exuberance faded. “What do you mean?” I inquired as Jane and I moved to join Marcus by The Wall.

  “Well, just look at what’s written here,” he explained, gesturing at the giant concrete form rising above us. “The postings just don’t seem to have the same level of thought going into them as when the Park first opened.” He squinted in the early-afternoon sun, examining the painted words on the concrete surface. After a moment, he shook his head with apparent exasperation.

  I shrugged, a little bewildered by Marcus’ sudden attack on the state of the Park. “Well, the commentary on The Wall never has been as insightful as the sculpture modifications or the temporary installations,” I countered half-heartedly.

  “Nonetheless,” Marcus persisted, “The Wall is the true open forum in the Park. If no one has anything intelligent to say on it, then what does that mean for the other displays?”

  “Maybe the people who really have something to say are putting their efforts into the freestanding art. It’s easy for a brilliant line to be lost on The Wall,” Jane offered.

  “Even so,” Marcus continued, “there’s been a dramatic decrease in attendance over the last year. People are losing interest. And rightly so; there’s nothing new being said.”

  Jane glanced at me and nodded solemnly. “That’s true . . . Lately it seems like we’re the only ones coming here.” She paused. “It’d be awful if the Park eventually fell into complete disuse—it’s too valuable. You don’t think that would ever happen, do you?” Jane turned to me, her eyes searching mine.

  I put my hand on her shoulder reassuringly. “No, never. I attribute the low attendance to the blasted weather we’ve had. Besides, early spring never has been a prime viewing season.”

  Jane shook her head and moved away from me, folding her arms in front of herself. “I remember when the Park first opened, we’d have to wait half an hour in a crowd before you could get close enough to view one of the sculptures. Now, often enough, there aren’t even any new installations to see.”

  “I’m sure it’s just a temporary decline . . .” I began, not truly believing my own rationale. I looked over at Marcus, hoping for confirmation of my statement anyway, but he just shrugged and started walking towards the exit.

  Jane silently watched Marcus pass out of view. She took a deep breath, and looked once more around the empty plaza. “It’s just saddening to see it so empty,” she said quietly. “It’s like no one cares about voicing an opinion anymore.”

  “I know,” I said and put my arm around her gently, “but there’s nothing we can do about it right now. Come on. Let’s go get something to eat. You’ll feel much better after lunch.”

  I led Jane in the same direction down the paved path as Marcus had gone, towards the exit gate. Coming around the final bend in the path, I saw Marcus sitting on a bench across from a statue of the city’s mayor. Dark-rimmed glasses had been perched on the stone figure’s nose, and a burlap sack with dead leaves spilling out had been placed at its feet. Marcus looked pensive.

  “What’s on your mind?” I asked him as we approached, my arm still around Jane.

  He stared silently at the statue for a moment before looking up to meet my questioning gaze. “Perhaps it’s time we did something ourselves,” he replied slowly, an unfamiliar glint in his eyes. “Give people a reason to visit the Park again.”

  I let out a short laugh. “Oh, Marcus, you can’t be serious!”

  “We couldn’t . . .” Jane concurred, pulling closer to me.

  Marcus looked taken aback. “Why not? The Park is supposedly here for public use. We’re part of the public.”

  “Well yes, but there’s something to be said about the lifestyle of a Commentator—the sneaking around at night, dressed in dark clothes and whatnot. I just don’t see us being much good at it,” I explained, hoping Marcus would come to his senses.

  Instead of conceding, Marcus sighed and slumped back on the bench. “That just figures,” he said, shaking his head with disappointment.

  “What figures?”

  “That you gladly visit the Park; feel it is your civic duty to contemplate new installations. Yet, when it comes down to actually participating in the process of creating a piece of commentary, you want nothing to do with it.” Marcus sighed. “The Park is failing now because people aren’t taking an active enough role.”

  I felt a twinge of guilt, but quickly pushed aside the feeling. “Being an interpreter is an important role,” I said in my own defense. “There would be little point in anyone creating new commentary if no one went to see it.”

  “We do more than most people these days by just coming to the Park,” Jane added, “and do our best to interpret the works of commentary.”

  “It’s that skewed logic that has caused the recent decline of Park usage,” Marcus retorted. “Most people think civic work can be done—that change can be brought about—by just observing and interpreting. What’s lacking is the active participation from the first years of the Park.”

  “But come now, Marcus,” I pressed, “you don’t honestly believe that we should become Commentators?”

  He was silent a moment, examining the statue of the mayor. “Yes, I do.”

  I sighed loudly. Jane looked troubled.

  Marcus continued to sit on the bench, his eyes fixed on the statue of the mayor. “You can go,” he said after a minute of awkward silence. “I’ll catch up to you later.” It was kind of him to give us a way out, but I knew the offer was only out of courtesy.

  Jane looked up at me, her gaze silently inquiring if we should leave him alone. “Are you sure, Marcus?” I asked for her. “We’d love to have you join us.” It was only fair to giv
e him a chance to back out from his own proposition.

  Pulling his attention from the statue, Marcus examined our faces closely. “No, I think you need some time to talk, just the two of you. You know how to contact me when you’re ready to proceed.”

  His last statement confused me, but I didn’t want to prolong the conversation. I gently indicated to Jane to begin moving towards the exit of the Park. “All right, Marcus. We’ll talk to you later, then.”

  Jane and I made our way down the remaining stretch of path and passed beneath the arching wrought-iron sign marking the exit of Political Park. We merged with the foot traffic on the sidewalk outside the Park, receiving sidelong glances from the passersby—visitors to the Park were becoming a rare breed. I removed my arm from around Jane’s waist as we walked, grasping her hand as we traveled the short distance to our favorite diner down the street from the Park.

  I sat down opposite Jane at a table in the back corner of the establishment, and immediately leaned forward and spoke in a hushed voice, “What are we going to do about Marcus?”

  Jane sighed. “I don’t know, Justin. I’m not really sure there’s anything we can do.”

  I bit my lower lip. “Do you think he’ll go through with it?”

  After looking around the restaurant to check that no one was paying undue attention to us, Jane replied, “Marcus is not one to take this kind of decision lightly. He didn’t just bring it up on a whim. Regardless of what we say or do, I’m sure he’ll have an installation ready within the week.”

  I nodded. “I suppose we have little choice but to leave him to it, then.”

  Jane smiled weakly. “I suppose so.”

  We sat in silence for several minutes. Our unspoken thoughts were interrupted only when a server brought us our meals unsolicited; our presence as customers was well known. I only picked at my sandwich, absently observing the other patrons. Across from me, Jane slowly worked through half of her own sandwich, seemingly engrossed in deep thought. Suddenly, she set the remaining portion back on the plate and looked me levelly in the eye.

  “It’s hopeless, you know,” she stated.

  I stared back at her, feeling an expression of concern spread over my face. “What is, Jane?”

  “The entire purpose of the Park has been defeated now.”

  “But how?”

  She shook her head. “What good is it to only have a few people commenting? The Park only works when it expresses the different views in the community with the truly great artists taking an active, if anonymous, role. Recently, it seems that only a very narrow perspective has been presented in the Park, and much of the work has been amateurish. The first step to rebuilding the Park, though, is to broaden the range of commentary.”

  “Are you proposing we join Marcus to provide a wider view?” I hoped it was a ridiculous inquiry.

  Jane’s eyes searched my face. “That would be ideal, but I’m not sure we should.”

  “That’s right we shouldn’t! You’ve seen the news reports—a person’s life can be ruined if they’re identified as a Commentator.”

  Jane sighed deeply, dropping her gaze to the table. “I know, which is why we can’t get involved—not with the way things presently are. But it’s so unfair, don’t you think? It’s our civic duty to participate, but we can be shunned if we say the wrong thing. It seems like it couldn’t have always been that way . . .”

  I couldn’t help but laugh, shaking my head.

  Jane looked alarmed. “I don’t see what’s so funny.”

  “Just the supreme irony of your observation,” I replied, still smiling in spite of myself. “It would make a lovely bit of commentary in the Park.”

  Jane returned my smile ever so slightly. “Yes, it would at that.”

  —

  I thought much of Marcus during the ensuing week as I worked long hours doing dull office work. The job allowed me plenty of time to reflect, and I ultimately found myself worrying about what the weekend would bring when it came time for my weekly visit to the Park.

  On Saturday, as was our tradition, Jane and I took a walk through Political Park. For the first time, however, we were without Marcus. As we strolled through the weaving paths, we wholly expected to come across an installation that we could attribute to Marcus, but no new displays came to our attention. We thought nothing of it, though, for we had not yet come to the largest display area in the center of the Park. Since we had already seen all of the installations along the path, we turned our attention to the landscaped grounds; the trees and bushes were more leafed out than the week before, the flowers in full bloom.

  The tree-lined path eventually opened into the great central plaza of the Park, the final destination for a visitor. It had always been the most impressive space in the Park, with the three-sided Wall rising twenty feet above the elevated concrete dais in the center of the plaza, and numerous pedestals for temporary installations along the circumference of the space.

  My attention was immediately captured upon entering the plaza, for the front face of The Wall had been painted white, the written commentary of the last seven years completely obliterated. I was taken aback at first, as the newly painted Wall stood out in such stark contrast to the background of green trees. My reaction was primarily aesthetic, however, since I had never held the written commentary on The Wall in very high regard, so its loss meant little to me. I shrugged off the change to the Wall, rather agreeing with its apparent meaning, and returned my focus to the pleasant weather. I took a deep breath and smiled at Jane, feeling content in the warm spring air. “It’s a beautiful day,” I commented, half to myself.

  “Yes,” Jane replied absently, looking around the plaza. Her brow furrowed as her gaze passed over the white Wall.

  “I wouldn’t worry about The Wall,” I said, upon seeing her apparent concern. “It was really high time someone painted over those senseless ramblings.” I paused. “You don’t think that was Marcus’ work?”

  Jane frowned. “Perhaps, but I think he’d do more than that.” She began walking towards the far sides of The Wall. The Wall was situated such that one of the faces was squarely aligned with the entrance of the plaza, with the two other faces forming an acute angle towards the exit. I stood by the entrance as Jane made her circuit around The Wall, still frowning. “Only this front side of The Wall is painted. And there aren’t any new installations here. Strange.” She came to stand beside me.

  “Maybe he just got fed up and painted this one side of The Wall,” I offered.

  Jane shook her head. “No, I think he must have done something else. It’s been a week, giving him more than enough time to put together a more meaningful installation. He seemed quite adamant about bringing change to the Park.”

  I shrugged. “I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about.”

  Jane was silent for a moment, in thought. “I think we should vid him.”

  “Do you think that’s really necessary?”

  “Justin . . .” Jane gave me a stern look.

  “Fine,” I conceded, and pulled out my vidphone. I dialed in Marcus’ number and waited for the call to connect. In a few moments, the dark screen crystallized into Marcus’ face and I held out the vidphone in front of me. “Hi, Marcus,” I said, putting on an overly friendly smile. “Jane and I are down here at the Park, and it’s just not the same without you.”

  Marcus’ eyes narrowed slightly; it was hard to tell on the small screen if it was from confusion or impatience. “Well, I am there, in a sense,” he responded slowly.

  I looked over at Jane, then back at the screen. “Well . . .”

  Jane grabbed the vidphone from me before I had a chance to come up with an intelligent ending to my sentence. “Marcus, there’s nothing new here,” she said urgently to the vidphone. “I knew you would have done something by now.”

  Marcus was silent for a moment. “I was there Wednesday night—in the plaza. I put something on the east side . . .”

  Jane and I both looked over to t
he far side of the plaza, seeing only unoccupied pillars and open ground. “It’s not here,” I informed Marcus, who was looking somewhat pale.

  Jane looked at me, concern evident on her face. She handed the vidphone back to me and walked towards an empty pillar. I followed her, turning the vidphone around so Marcus could see the plaza. “I put it right there . . .” I heard him say, and I turned the vidphone to face me again.

  “I don’t doubt you,” I told him sincerely. “But how could it just disappear?”

  “It wouldn’t,” Marcus said over the vidphone.

  “It was taken away,” Jane finished for him.

  I glanced between the vidphone and Jane, not sure what to say. “Who would remove commentary from the Park?” I asked.

  “Apparently someone who didn’t like what it said,” Marcus stated, his voice cold.

  I focused my attention on the screen. “What did you say in your display, Marcus?”

  He didn’t respond at first. “Not over vid,” he said finally. “Both of you meet me at my apartment tonight, 11:30. Wear dark clothes.”

  I looked over at Jane, who nodded consent. I took a deep breath. “All right, Marcus. We’ll see you tonight.” I ended the transmission.

  “You realize he intends to take us out here tonight,” I said to Jane, though I knew she was well aware of Marcus’ plan.

  She stared at me evenly. “It’s the only thing there is to do,” she replied. “I’ve never heard of an installation being removed before—we have to find out who took it down.”

  “Are you sure it’s our place . . . to investigate something like that?”

  Jane’s smile was one of sadness. “If we don’t do it, who will?”

  She had me there. It was our job as interpreters to find out what this newest commentary had to say.

  —

  Jane and I arrived separately at Marcus’ apartment around 11:30, as we had agreed. Reluctantly, and only with Jane’s insistence, I hit the buzzer to alert Marcus that we were there. Almost immediately, we heard the inner door bolt release and the door swung open. Marcus silently beckoned us inside, checking the hallway behind us as we entered. When we were inside, he bolted the door again before leading us down the short entrance hallway into the living room.