So we toot up while jogging towards the Corkboard of Assignments, and when we get there everyone laughs at me and pelts me with their empty vials because according to the Corkboard my next Table Boy gig is a SafeOrgy.
Nobody likes a SafeOrgy. A SafeOrgy fills you with longing and repulses you at the same time. We supply a sexy room modeled after a posh nineteen-fifties hotel. We offer BodyCons, since even the rich aren’t above the sexually transmitted disease epidemic. They like to let it all hang out and express themselves without any worries, like in the old days. Today I walk in with my tray and seven shrink-wrapped Clients are rolling around on a heart-shaped bed with crooner music playing. We’re not supposed to linger, just set the cold cuts down and get the hell out. But unfortunately a gorgeous overenthusiastic Client ruptures her seal. Our Employee Handbook requires us to perform a quick decon on the spot. There’s a tank of soap mounted above the fireplace. She’s all worked up however and starts groping me. I try to resist but she’s strong. Nothing much really happens. She gets my earlobe in her mouth and starts sucking. That’s about it. It’s not unpleasant but I’m too scared to enjoy it. Finally I get her off me and manage to spray her from head to toe with soap. That cools her down. Maybe too much. As soon as she becomes aware that her boob is protruding from the shrink-wrap her cultural encoding gets the best of her and she starts looking down her nose at me.
“You reprobate Flawed animal!” she says, backpedaling and folding her arms over her chest. “This is going directly into the written summary portion of your Evaluation!”
Luckily the other members of her party are too soused to catch what she’s saying so I manage to get out without being lynched. I immediately go over to Administration to explain it all to Oberlin and Albert. This could be real trouble. They could claim I molested a paying Client. They could demote me even further, to Gravedigger or Septic Tank Tech.
But to my surprise Albert tousles my hair and gives me a cube of fried meat, a true facility rarity. The last time I had meat was four years ago, when a drunken Client singled me out for my subservient attitude. Talk about a feast. Talk about being blocked up for weeks afterwards.
“Never mind about her,” Albert says. “She’ll live. We’ve got something more important to discuss with you.”
“Respect,” Oberlin says. “That’s the quantity I hope to imbibe to you during the confab that is to follow this present preface I’m extolling. Because my feeling is strongly that a man has a right to know the whereabouts of, say, immediate family members, should their lifeplans take a strong hiatus. So congratulations! Don’t therefore think of it as losing an erstwhile sister, but rather as having her gain her dream of off-site cohabitation with someone richer than any of us, is my read on this.”
“What’s he talking about?” I ask Albert.
“Connie,” Albert says. “Corbett’s bought her out of Bounty Land.”
“Bought her out?” I say. “What does that mean?”
“Albert’s putting this thing in a non-romantic light,” Oberlin says. “Surely there’s love there.”
“Oh, there’s love there,” Albert says. “Considerable love.”
“And think if you will of the ranch to which he’ll take her!” Oberlin says. “A finer ranch none of us will ever see, much less have as a love nest of sorts.”
“When are they leaving?” I say. “Where are they going?”
“Six hours ago,” Oberlin says. “His spacious estate, you lovable boob! Taos, New Mexico! Affluent as all get-out. He’s got more livestock than you can shake a stick at, and from there runs his antiseptic-swab empire! Your lucky sibling! You don’t think she’ll be waited on hand and foot, and eat like a true nouveau riche or captain of industry? She’ll literally I feel be enmeshed in bonbons, not to mention a staff that loves her like one of their own and praises her personal attributes to the sky or what have you!”
“Are they getting married?” I say.
“Ho ho,” Oberlin says. “What sweet naïveté of existing law you manifest, chum! But they’re living together, and he’s paying all her expenses, including the release fee due our facility, which will allow us to make considerable renovations to the Castle Six edifice, which is crumbling, so don’t give me whining. This is a boon, for us and for you and for her.”
“As next of kin, you’ll need to sign this release,” Albert says. “A mere formality.”
“In her best interests,” Oberlin says.
“No biggie,” Albert says.
“If I don’t sign,” I say, “does he have to bring her back?”
“Haw,” Oberlin says. “No. I fake your John Hancock, then boot your sorry heinie over the wall whence you came in over, leaving you to free-associate with the hateful rabble for an untold future time period.”
“Just sign,” Albert says. “It’s a foregone conclusion. It’s what she wanted. Here. Read this.”
The letter’s in Connie’s hand. I can tell because all the i’s are dotted with smiley faces.
“Cole honey” the letter says, “can you believe all my hard work finally paid off? He says he loves me! A rich Normal and he loves ME! He says the other men in my past don’t matter, and that he wants to possess me totally forever. I’ll miss you, but I know in my heart we’ll meet again, hopefully at my place. A ranch! He said I could even have an economy car! Not to be haughty, but listen: Knuckle down and get something for yourself like I did. Don’t be a dopey space cadet like Dad!”
She’s signed it: “Love forever.”
What can I do? Nothing’s bringing her back. Maybe he really does love her. Maybe he’s freethinker enough to see past her Flaw. Stranger things have happened. She’s pretty and good-hearted and devoted and smart. Who wouldn’t love her?
Oberlin rolls his eyes. Albert purses his lips.
I sign.
Goodbye Connie.
I never considered Dad a dopey space cadet. He was a simple man whose only marketable skill was selling home water-filtration units via sincerity. Finally, when the Third Panic was in full swing and every water source in the county became suspect, he started giving the units away. Mom said she considered herself as compassionate as the next person, but given our household expenses and the scarcity of the filters, a price increase seemed more in order than a giveaway. Dad said she should try to understand that other people, even ignorant people, even poor people, loved their children every bit as much as she loved hers.
“Tell me something I don’t know,” she said. “The point is, I don’t love their kids as much as I love mine. And mine are fed with the money you make from those goddamned filters.”
Dad sat on the couch, looking wistful and kooky.
“It doesn’t matter now,” he said, staring out at the swing set, where Sparky as usual sat in the glider, his days numbered. “The old criteria such as cash will have no meaning within a few weeks. Good works are the ticket.”
“We need a gun,” Mom said. “For if someone tries to take the house.”
“The people who come to take the house,” Dad said, “will have more guns than you can imagine.”
And he was right. They had guns and riding crops and mortars. They had a sense of high moral purpose. They had the sanction of the provisional government and a portable sound system that blared “Homogeneity, Sweet Homogeneity” as they blockaded the home of any family with a Flawed member, meaning every family but the Quinces, who they blockaded for fraternizing with Flaweds, based on photographs they had of Mr. Quince teaching me to throw a knuckler. Soon the food ran out and DeAngelo ate our dog. Soon the militia wandered in without firing a shot and drove us into the night.
Mom led us on foot to Sid Pornoy’s Jovial Bowling, where for months she’d been stashing food and water in a locker. Dad followed meekly, making inane guesses at the windchill.
“We’re taking the Greyhound to Indiana,” Mom said. “It’s prosperous there. Flaweds are safe. Aunt Melanie wrote me.”
“Why wasn’t I consulted,” Dad mumbled.<
br />
Obviously nobody was bowling. A man with a billy club was pushing a man in a silk jacket away from the snack bar.
“No kielbasa, Joel,” the billy-club man said. “Not a link. No milk. Not a bun.”
“You’ve known me my whole life,” Joel said. “I’m your friend.”
“Not a Pepsi,” said the billy-club man. “Not a spoonful of relish. Not a sugar packet. The time has come for me to look out for me and mine.”
“I am you and yours,” Joel said. “We were school-friends. Remember the caroling parties? Remember when Oscar called Sister Nan a tub? Remember?”
“No,” the billy-club man said. “I mean really me and mine. I mean Bonnie and little Kyle and me. Period. Not you. Don’t touch my counter, Joel. Hit the road.”
Mom loaded up the supplies and strapped the pack to Dad’s back.
“Out of here,” she whispered. “Out of here quickly.”
In spite of the strife the stars were bright as crystal. A tailor squatted in his shopwindow with a machete and a Newsweek, waiting for looters. As we crossed the parking lot a van pulled up and the driver called Dad over.
“Keep walking,” Mom said. “Ignore him.”
“He’s a fellow human being,” Dad said. “Perhaps he needs our help.”
The driver was a laid-off boilermaker. He talked to Dad nostalgically about what a friendly city Syracuse had been in the old days. Then he pulled a .22 and forced us into the van. He made us empty our pack. He seemed excited by our cinnamon rolls. He called Mom ma’am and let her keep her personal-hygiene effects. He took our money and he took our food.
“I’m sorry for this,” he said. “I’m not a bad man. But my Leon. His little ribs are sticking way the hell out. You ever seen a starving kid?”
“Not yet,” Mom said dryly.
The boilermaker’s eyes teared up and the gun he was holding to Dad’s head shook.
“I can’t help it,” he said. “I got to do it. You was smart enough to put some food aside. Anybody that smart’ll be okay. Now get out. I got to go save my boy.”
We got out. The van pulled away. Mom went into hysterics. She bent over double and started snorting. Whenever Dad got near her she elbowed him in the gut and said his ineptitude had killed us all.
“How dare you say that?” Dad said. “How dare you lose faith in me at a time like this?”
“Lose faith?” Mom screamed. “I’ve had none for months. Look at your poor children. They’re as good as dead. Picture our babies in shrouds. Because of incompetence. Yours. Their father. Whom they’ve always looked up to.”
“Stop,” Dad said. “You can’t take those things back once you’ve said them.”
“Come on kids,” Mom said. “I’ll save you if this milquetoast won’t.”
And off we went.
“Goddamn it!” Dad screamed. “I’ve done my best!”
“Pitiful!” Mom screamed back.
Her words were lost in the wind. Hanging signs were blowing horizontal. Mom dragged us up University. Dad stood talking to himself in Sid’s lot.
“Look!” Mom screamed. “Look how he lets us leave!”
She stepped into the street and put out her thumb. A couple we would get to know well picked us up. These were the Winstons, also on their way west. It was perfect. They loved kids. They were glad to be of service. They had plenty of money. Winston was a banker who’d kept his ear to the tracks and split in the nick of time with a trunkful of other people’s money.
“Do you not have a father?” he asked.
“We do not,” Mom replied.
Just then Dad plastered himself across the windshield.
It was the beginning of a bad ride. Dad got in and Mom folded him up in her arms and they wept together. A day later the Winstons put us out in the middle of nowhere because Mom and Dad rejected the Winstons’ bright idea of a sexual foursome. I woke in the dead of night and heard Mr. Winston making the proposal.
“What I’m putting forth,” he said, “is that the four of us make some memories. Become fast friends and abandon starchy old mind-sets about monogamy. The world’s gone crazy. Let’s do the same.”
“The answer is no,” Dad said. “And I’m surprised I’m not punching you.”
“I’m afraid our hospitality is not being reciprocated, Mother,” Mr. Winston said.
“Some people don’t understand about reciprocity,” Mrs. Winston said.
“Then out now, you people,” Mr. Winston said, and hit the brakes. “End of the line.”
He too had a gun. Apparently in all the world only we didn’t.
So we got out.
“This is murder,” Dad yelled. “It’s freezing out here.”
“Blah, blah, blah,” said Mrs. Winston. “You had your chance. It would have been fun too, believe me.”
“Really fun,” said Mr. Winston. “Jeaninne’s a heckcat in the bunk department.”
We stood in the bitter wind and watched them pull away. As far as the eye could see was frozen marsh.
“Maybe we should have gone along with it,” Mom said.
“Bite your tongue,” Dad said. “There’ll be other rides.”
“Famous last words,” said Mom.
At midnight I wake to creaking floorboards in the dark bunkhouse. I hear the snores of my bunk bedmate, Phil Brent, an upbeat and effeminate swineherd ranked Class P, Visually Difficult to Bear, due to mottled tissue on his face and hands. He runs a workout program for other Class Ps and offers a miniseminar called Overcoming One’s Woes Via Hopeful Mental Imaging. He names and compliments his pigs and cries on slaughtering day. Once as I passed the Porcine Receptacle I heard him telling two sows fighting over a corncob the story of Job. Tonight he’s muttering optimistic slogans in his sleep and occasionally screaming out in abject terror.
I feel a tug on my toe and in the sudden candlelight see Doc Spanner himself, in our lowly bunkhouse for the first time ever. Spanner’s the facility doctor for Flaweds. Some people are put off by his drinking. Others are put off by his shoddy personal hygiene. I’m put off by his medical track record. Once when I found him soused in a ditch he admitted to being confused by the difference between hemorrhoids and piles. Still, he did a nice job with Connie’s tail infection.
“I can’t live with what I know,” he whispers. “Listen carefully: This Corbett’s a bad egg. When he tires of a woman he sells her to slave traders. It’s a pattern. There’ve been a number of cases. Oberlin told me. I had some deep talks with Connie at the clinic, and she struck me as a kind of a knockout and a nice girl. So I wanted you to know what she’s in for.”
“Can’t we get her back?” I say. “Can’t we just cancel the deal?”
“I expect you’d get some resistance to that from up-stairs,” he says. “Inasmuch as those turds have already spent the exit fee. My point is, someone working outside the system, exhibiting a little derring-do, motivated by strong emotions, might be able to effect a positive outcome. On the other hand, someone attempting to cross the Mississippi wearing a Flawed bracelet wouldn’t exactly be greeted with open arms, and might indeed be greeted with open shackles.”
He winces slightly at his wit, looks around, then pulls a key out of his pocket.
“My position has its little rewards,” he says. “Every Flawed bracelet in this facility is within my jurisdiction. In the case of chafing and so on I’m allowed to perform a temporary Removal and apply ointment. Mr. Big Shot, eh? For this I went to med school. At any rate, this is a service I’m prepared to offer you.”
I nod and hold out my wrist.
“Not so fast,” he says. “First I want you to go see Lucian Bentley in Hagstrom Grove. He’s recently taken sick days to visit his childhood home. He could give you an update on the state of the nation. The last thing I need is your death on my conscience. God knows I’ve got enough deaths on my conscience. Ha ha! So what do you say? Will you go see Lucian?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Super,” he says, then sighs hea
vily and disappears into the night.
Phil hangs his monstrous face down from above.
“I had such a dream,” he says. “I dreamed that Doc Spanner came in here sober and spoke to you as an equal. Is that wild or what? Heavens.”
“That’s wild,” I say.
At first light I take a few biscuits from my reserve and go over to Hagstrom Grove, where they send Employees who take things too much to heart and go nuts. The Grove is an untidy pen behind Administration with a dirt floor and a fifteen-foot chainlink. At mealtime they fling in sacks of black beans and let the mentally deficient slug it out. Consequently the fat loonies get fatter and the weak ones limp off to die under strips of cardboard.
I find Bentley behind a shed, wearing a filthy Hawaiian shirt and doing deep knee bends while grasping the fencing. I hold the biscuits in front of his face and he stands up.
“What do I have to do?” he says.
“Nothing,” I say. “They’re for you.”
“Are they poisoned?” he says.
“No,” I say.
“Eat one,” he says.
So I do.
“Probably the others are poisoned,” he says. “Eat a fraction of each.”
I eat a corner off each biscuit. He looks at the remainders suspiciously, then sniffs them.
“I’m not sure it’s worth it,” he says. “How I wish you’d never come. Perhaps you’ve left the poison off of just those corners.”
I begin to realize I’ll doubt whatever information he gives me.
“Lick the entire biscuit,” he says. “Then give them to me.”
So I lick each biscuit.
“Both sides,” he says.
I lick both sides of each biscuit. I give him the wet biscuits and he cracks them open and sniffs them. Then he puts them in his pocket.
“What do you want?” he says. “Now that you’ve failed to poison me to death.”
“Information,” I say. “About the outside.”
He glares and grips my wrist. He licks his lips and bats his eyes and tugs on his earlobes. He keeps looking behind him. The only thing back there is Mr. Cleary, the nutso tenor, who as usual is singing the national anthem while frantically adjusting his testicles.
CivilWarLand in Bad Decline Page 10
