Houston, 2030

by Mike McKay

  The domestic Civil War was declared on a beautiful spring day. Mark returned home from the Station with his service ‘Glock’ in the concealed holster and thirty-four thousand dollars of his monthly salary in his pocket. Unlike the pre-Meltdown times, the salaries were not transferred to bank accounts. Simply, there were no such banks anymore. The few remaining establishments in Houston, with the Fort Knox style security, were involved in other types of transactions, totally irrelevant to the common public. The rampaging inflation made saving anything pointless. You got the money, and you would spend all, as fast as it was practical. Mark was happy. Finally, his father-in-law, David-senior, got his bladder infection under control and no more antibiotics were needed, all the debts were paid, and all the immediate necessities purchased. This time over, Mark could complete his promise and buy Samantha the new baseball hat and the new sandals, – she got them stolen at the school about two and a half months previously, and had to go to school in bare feet (back then, Mark and 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. They were sitting around the table at the back deck and were engaged in their regular vegetable beds' planning session. It was an agricultural co-operation of sorts. Mrs. Kong was traditionally good at growing tomatoes, egg-plants, paw-paws and apples. Mary specialized in cucumbers, ball peppers, strawberries, and water-melons. Mrs. Levin excelled at growing potatoes, spices, tobacco, and marijuana. She was also a renown local expert in blending roasted acorns and some other secret ingredients for coffee substitutes. Quite ‘not appropriately,’ all three refined ladies were dressed in old husband's shirts and old pants, and barefoot. But each one of them just made ten walks to the West Canal, carrying four gallons of water on each trip, so Mary mentally moved the working attire into the gray area between the ‘nice’ and the ‘naughty.’

  “Got the money, darling?” Mary inquired.

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

  “Absolutely! For the hat, just go to Mister Bell's General Store. But first, go to the market and check that cobbler's cart I told you about the other day. And 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, stack his head into the house and yelled: “Samantha! Get yourself dressed. Now! We are going to the market to get your new sandals!”

  Few minutes later, Samantha was 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 am thinking. Those tire sandals. I don't need them anymore. They are so-o-o out of fashion.”

  “And what would you like instead?” Mark inquired. Now my daughter would ask for a pair of fancy slippers. Like those hand-painted wooden ‘jandals,’ which started becoming fashionable once again? Or she wanted to appropriate one pair of the few remaining Mary's evening dress shoes? But this would be totally ridiculous. The high-heel shoes, or the fancy hand-painted jandals, accompanied by a school uniform consisting of a second-hand khaki T-shirt and a pair of shorts, made from the second-hand military utility trousers?

  “I just don't need any sandals, Dad,” Samantha replied. “Many others in our class have no sandals at all. No problem.”

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

  But Samantha did not want to shut up. “Mom! But you are not listening! I am thinking: if we skip the tire sandals… We can save the money for something… useful.”

  “And what would be ‘useful’ for you right now?” Mark asked.

  “Oh, if you don't mind, can I get myself a pair of kama'a-ole instead? They are not too expensive. Five hundred bucks, max. There is one nice lady, not too far, near our school. She designs these beautiful anklets and kama'a-ole, and all such stuff. So cool! Please, Daddy, please, please…”

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

  “I know,” Ruth Levin said. “The idea is as old as this world. Invented, I believe, in India, something like in five thousand BC. It's not that people forgotten about this major civilization advance, but the real youth fashion started in Houston only last year. The name has not settled yet: the kids cannot make a choice between ‘ceylons,’ ‘payal,’ or ‘kama'a-ole.’ Our generation knows it simply as ‘barefoot sandals.’ Actually, Hawaiian word ‘kama'a-ole’ means exactly this: ‘no-shoe.’ As you may imagine, these ‘barefoot sandals’ are incredibly cute. Both my daughters already have a pair. Hey, it is to the point I am thinking getting a pair for myself!”

  Ruth Levin must know all these fashion trends, Mark thought. The Levins were those post-Meltdown neo-hippie types. Unlike Mark and Mary, Levins never insisted that their kids were ‘appropriate,’ and probably had never used this word in this sense. As far as Mark remembered, the Levins' kids went unkempt, unshod and were allowed to roam the northern slums and play in the mud all they wanted. Which did not prevent them from growing well-behaved, 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 like a pair of matching anklets, but with strings of beads running between the anklet and the second toe. Imagine a pair of fancy evening sandals, but with no sole whatsoever.”

  “Huh! So from above it looks like you are wearing sandals, but from below you are still – barefoot!” Mrs Kong said. In her family they knew the proper meaning of the word ‘appropriate!’ “I presume they may be fashionable and even cute, but what is so darn useful about them?”

  “What do you understand in the teenage fashion, my dear?” Mrs. Levin more stated than asked. “They are very useful. For starters, they don't give you any blisters. In ‘barefoot sandals’ it is not only possible, but even highly recommended – to splash through the rain puddles. They are cool and awesome. Because of all the above, – they attract boys! No comparison with those ugly school sandals which repel the opposite sex. Made from old tires! Ouch! ‘So-o-o out of fashion’ is an understatement. They were no place near the fashion from the very time they were invented. The tire sandals are definitely not useful, because they are so terrible in every aspect and simply not needed in our wet, tropical climate.”

  “I was always told the climate in Houston was sub-tropical,” Mark finally found what to reply.

  “You forgot the global warming, Mark!” Mrs. Levin waved her hand, “now we are as tropical as Hawaii. Thus, nothing can be possibly wrong with the Hawaiian kama'a-ole in Houston.”

  Mark nodded. I guess, our younger generation just likes the fashion from far-away lands, he thought. Before, the exotic destinations were for sale. If you wanted to see Hawaii, you would simply get yourself a tour. Like that short honeymoon trip of Mark and Mary: a business-class air ticket to Honolulu and a six-star hotel for four nights. It was unforgettable, and the only pity it was indeed short! Now Hawaii were still considered a part of the USA, but no news came from the islands since the Pacific Fleet stopped operating in the area. 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 turned to Pamela. “What about you, Pam?”

  “What about me, Missis Levin?”

  “I can guess you obviously want a pair of kama'a-ole sandals too.”

  “Not really. But I thought, if Sammy can ask Dad for the kama'a-ole, I can go with them too and get myself a cool 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 igno
rant 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 called the end of the discussion. “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.”

  On that day, they ended up buying a pair of robust, ugly and totally ‘appropriate’ tire sandals for Samantha, but could not escape visiting the garage of the ‘nice lady’ near the daughters' school. The ‘barefoot sandals’ were indeed cute, if not totally impractical. The ‘nice lady’ was about thirty five, and also the neo-hippie type, same as the Levins. Mark did not want to disobey Mary's standing orders completely, and instead of the desired ‘barefoot sandals’ both his daughters received cute bead ‘calflets.’ The first battle was won by the ‘Union,’ but with the hint of the further ‘Confederates’ victories.

  From that point onwards, the ‘Civil War’ progressed slowly. The barefoot, but resourceful and determined South against the iron-clad, but indecisive North. Originally the ‘Union’ was represented by Mark and Mary, and the ‘Confederates’ – by Samantha and Pamela. William and little Patrick maintained neutrality, while foxy Michael would join either party for a short-term political gain.

  Some battles were fought matter-of-factly and won by little blood. Like the battle of ‘We Are Not Wearing These Ugly School Sandals to The Market Anymore.’ Mary and Mark just smiled and let the girls go as they pleased. Samantha and Pamela were hardly wearing the school sandals to school; demanding they would put them on for going to the local market was totally unreasonable. Then, there were bloody battles, with many casualties, like the three-day Gettysburg of ‘Mom, We Do Not Need To Change The Home T-shirt If We Just Go To Buy Bread and Eggs.’ Upon the major canon fire from both sides, the ‘Confederates’ finally commenced a brave bayonet attack and firmly established their right to go out in ‘totally not appropriate’ home-only T-shirts with any type and size and relative position of the holes. But over the battlefield of ‘Mom, I Am Fourteen Already, Can I Have A Tattoo?’ the victorious ‘Union’ flag was flying proudly, whilst the ‘Confederates’ retreated in panic, dropping their muskets, leaving behind the cannons, and barely picking up the wounded.

  Unlike the actual Civil War, the overall battle score was going to the South. Patrick grew up a bit and joined the ‘Confederates,’ giving two perfectly-fought battles under his own overall command: the guerrilla attack of ‘Mom, It's OK To Go With No Shirt, All The Boys Do It,’ and the month-long naval blockade ‘Dear Parents, I Just Like This Bandanna, OK?’

  After his ‘cruise’ on the Dumpster, even William was inclined to fight on the ‘Confederates’ side. Last year, Mary hinted that doing the Loop without shirt might not be entirely ‘appropriate.’ She believed the Salvation Way collection must be performed in full uniform, and with the medal. William just smiled, recalled the results of the recent ‘Mom, It's OK To Go With No Shirt’ battle and assured Mary that the red collection bucket on the neck would match perfectly well with the collection of scars on his bare torso.

  And added: “why don't you drop your ‘appropriate’ thingy, Mom! Simplicity is bliss. Before the goddamn Army, everything was so bloody appropriate! Complicated! But on the Dumpster – they fixed my problem all-right. Amputated all the complexity, so to speak. Totally simplified my life.”

  “Simplified? Your life?” Mary snapped, “don't tell me you are freaking happy to live like this!”

  “What is happiness, Mom? Ris so told me, happiness is the difference between what you have and what you want. This means if you want nothing, you are happy with anything.”

  “Ris told you this? I did not know she was such a philosopher.”

  “I was surprised too. She calls this stuff Just-Adjust, or something like this. But really: all I really need, in order of priority: a kissing session with my wife, this pair of shorts, this red collection bucket, and a piece of bread at the end of the day. Anything else is irrelevant…”

  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 man's shirts, not buttoned, but knotted above the belly button level, as per the Fashion. Perhaps, for the peace treaty, Mark would buy the girls a nice present. Let say, the ‘barefoot sandals,’ if they liked them so much. Oh, and might be, he would pick up another pair of those ‘barefoot sandals’ for Mary. She needed to relax a little and finally forget her ‘appropriate’ and ‘not appropriate’ lists. And he would let Samantha have her tattoo done. Why not? After all, she was already fourteen, and now she became an independent bread-winner for the family. Hey, Mark was even willing to pay for the tattoo! Safer to get it from a well-established tattoo parlor than from a tattoo cart vendor at the 'Fill!

  Back to the upcoming ‘Oh Mom, I Want To Work At The 'Fill’ battle, it would be obviously around two main points, Mark thought. They had the same heated conversation three years ago, when Mike decided to drop off. The first point would be that working at the 'Fill was not safe and was not good for health. Granted, Mark did not like all these chemicals (what Fred called them – phenols?) in the air, and would prefer his daughter to have a line of work, where she would not need to breathe through a corrugated plastic 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 any other place of work would be? It might look cleaner and safer, and further away from the damn landfill, but would it be really that safe? Take the dioxin, Rodrigo mentioned few hours ago. One could not see, or smell, or feel it, until it was too late. Or asbestos! Or radiation! Or any other nasty product of the pre-Meltdown industrial society. 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.

  It would be more difficult to make a rational decision about Samantha's school. If Samantha worked at the synthetic gasoline plant permanently, the school would have to go. Even the evening classes. Instead, she would, perhaps, pick up an hour here and there to read what was interesting to her or what was needed for the job, same as Mike and Arnold did. It would not necessary mean her overall education level would be any lower than after the proper school, probably just the opposite! However, it meant the absence of the graduation papers, and the total impossibility of the University degree. For sure, Mary would not like the idea. Frankly, Mark himself did not like the idea much at all. Decisions, decisions!

  Back when Mark was in his high school, the parents constantly repeated: son, you must get a degree; only people with the University degree can make real careers. Admittedly, it was exactly his master's diploma that landed Mark in the FBI. Now, after the Meltdown, the job market situation was totally different. Farming and landfill digging were two most common occupations around this part of Houston. Alternatively, one could do water delivery. Get yourself a couple of buckets and a shoulder pole. All you would need was the basic arithmetic: ten walks to the Reservoir a day, ten bucks for each walk… At the very best, one learned some trade, such as a mechanic, a blacksmith, a tailor, a cobbler or an electronics repairman. None of these jobs even needed a high-school diploma. The only occupation in which the University degree would be beneficial, was the medical practice. But beneficial did not mean compulsory. Now, there were plenty of medical practitioners without degrees, and even without high school diplomas. Mark suddenly thought about all this effort William put into studying Math, Chemistry, Biology, and Physics through the high school years. His son even 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.
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  Oblivious to Mark's train of thoughts, Frederick continued the technology show. By now, he had half a page covered with Organic Chemistry formulas, and a cross-section of the reactor drawn under them, with neat curved arrows showing the temperature regimes. He looked at Mark's wincing face and probably realized this level of Chemistry was too much for Mark's humanitarian education. “Enough Chemistry!” he said clapping his notebook shut.

  Mark politely nodded, as if agreeing with Frederick. “I see, our Samantha is fitting in nicely.”