Rebels
Page 8
Chapter 8
When I arrive at school the next day, I am called into the office. As I enter, I see my father and mother are also there along with one of the school of ministers. A man in his thirties takes us to his desk, and we all sit down. “We received a call from the State officials saying that it’s time for John’s yearly checkup.”
“But John won’t be sixteen for seven more months, yet,” my mother said.
“I don’t know about that. All I know is that you or your husband must take John to the doctor’s today. The appointment is at eleven, but I would arrive early as you know how these things are.”
“I’ll take him, Martha,” my father offers. “I’m already missing work, I might as well.”
My mother nods with a concerned look on her face. We always try to stay well within compliance, since we do not want to draw any undue attention to ourselves.
“John is, of course, excused from school for the rest of the day,” the plump man said with a cat-like smile. My father nods and stands. My mother follows his example, and the three of us walk out of the school together.
“Go home, Martha, get some sleep. I’m still worried about you.” My mother nods and starts the two-mile walk home. Father and I, on the other hand, walk the two blocks to the bus station. I am wondering why I am being told to have my yearly medical checkup. This has never happened before and obviously with me helping to beat an elite team of the State’s, surely I am in tip-top shape. Maybe the State got word of our Steel team training yesterday. Maybe they are worried I am hurt and want me to be checked out. Maybe the whole squad has to go in for a checkup. Even though I feel fine, I don’t argue because there is no point.
We stand there under a dingy and gray Plexiglas structure. It is easier to see through cement than the old Plexiglas. What makes matters worse is, whether standing out in the hot sun or under this Plexiglass, it still feels like a baking oven! At times, I wonder if I will ever understand why such things happen. What is the point of my life? How can I be who I need to be if I can’t make my own way?
We stand there forty-five minutes before the bus finally comes, wheezing as it does. My father lets his watch be scanned twice, once for me and once for himself. All credits for everything are stored inside the watches. I know this will cost my father serious bus credits having to take me to the doctor’s unexpectedly, but I don’t have my own bus credits. The State has decided I have no real reason to travel. It intrigues me how the State decides who and what gets certain credits based on what they term a need. Everything is based on life value and what one can give to the State. The more I am valued by the State, the more special treatment I receive.
My dad tells of a time when everyone could choose where to go and where to stay without the State involving itself. But when the State came to power, that all ended. This happened because humanity had gone too long without direction or boundaries. We were labeled as a society of misfits, having gone so long without purpose, and needed to be governed or humanity would be destroyed. All this runs through my mind as we both enter the unmaintained bus. All the seats are worn and faded. Duct tape is apparently the only means used for repair but again, at least we didn’t have to walk in the blistering hot sun to this unexpected doctor’s appointment.
I look around at the other passengers. No one smiles and some appear scared, like this is going to be their last trip. It is unusually quiet. Even the bus driver seems unsettled as he stares at us. Why, I do not know. He writes something down on a notepad and then whispers something into what appears to be a very old walkie-talkie. I only hear, “The package is on its way.” What package is he referring to? I scan the bus and see nothing but other passengers. My father directs me to one of the available seats where we settle ourselves.
We travel past factories and other houses; everything looks old and rundown. Blight is what they used to call it when part of a city grew old with decay. Now everywhere, all of the city is blighted. Anything new or well kept sticks out like a sore thumb. I see old, rusted vehicles and abandoned buildings the State has condemned. Some of the signage can still be read: Bob’s Barber Shop, Beverly’s Dance School, and others that that are burned so badly that I can't. It appears a battle raged here at one point, by the looks of the scorched buildings. The area appears to be no more than a ghost town. As a child, you never really pay attention to these things since everywhere looks the same. But this time feels different. I can sense the tension coming from my father. Since we sat down, he has had his eyes closed. It looks like he is meditating. My dad never does this in public. I am concerned, wondering if he knows something I don’t. I want to ask but do not want to interrupt his prayer.
The doctor’s office is in one of the buildings with shiny glass and metal frame. It stands on the street like a jewel. Supposedly, we have one of the best facilities in the State. In fact, the State runs special projects there for the betterment of humanity, which my father laughs at each time he hears that. In fact, he always will say something like, “Yeah, more like for the betterment of who they want to help themselves,” or “To think the majority of the ill-informed believe this!” But he is very careful about what he says and to whom he says it to.
Nowadays, because of their desperation, people will tell on people like my father because the State knows there are still factions out there that are looking to revolt, and so they have started what they term Help Your Neighbor or Friend Program. This is when someone informs the State of potential individuals that are showing signs they do not believe in the State and need help or redirection. People who submit such intel are rewarded with State benefits others are not privy to. They generally are known as informants and become a valuable State asset. My dad refers to them as traitors and not to be trusted.
The bus stops just outside the shining building. We step off and the heat from the asphalt reaches up its sticky fingers to greet me. Before the door to the bus slams shut, I hear the bus driver whisper into the walkie-talkie, stating, “The package has been delivered.” What is he talking about, and why is he whispering such a coded message?
I look at my father to see if he has heard what the bus driver said, but my father says nothing; he marches forward to the glass monster. I have not seen my dad this serious about a doctor’s appointment before. He appears be on high alert, but why? This is supposed to be nothing more than a routine checkup. This is a waste of our time and credits, but no one dares to question the State. I don’t want to be one of those who disappear, never to be seen or heard of again.
Suddenly, I am uneasy, like I am five and I know I am going to get a shot. I know at this moment when I go into the doctor’s office, I will not like what I hear. Instinctively, I know my life is about to change. But how and more importantly, why?
We enter the lobby with its red carpet and approach the metal elevator. Inside it feels like a refrigerator compared to the blistering heat we felt outside. Why does this building get such nice treatment while the majority suffer so much? It feels like such a waste, especially with the large amount of open space that is not even used. My father pushes the button and the doors open. I remember being young, coming to the doctor’s and loving to push the buttons. The elevator seemed like such a fantastic machine. Now I wish it would not work and it would keep us from our destination. But it does work, and the bell dings signaling our arrival. We stride forward to room 205, Dr. Wilson’s office, and open the door.