No one had contacted me yet and I was adrift, left again to
my own devices and my own fairly agreeable company. They say we’re all
connected, that we’re all made from the same stuff, that we’re not islands of
protoplasm. I had trouble with that, as my natural state seemed to be isolation
and alienation. It felt good. It was only when I tried to leave this safety
that everything goes fucking crazy. As a private citizen I’m not going to hurt
anyone that isn’t a video game enemy.
The country
was going down the toilet. I’d been somewhat aware of this process, but my own
rise to power had obviously taken precedence. I’ve got mine, after all. Now I
finally took notice of the rot that seemed to be devouring everything. It’s
funny how easy that rot is to ignore when it’s always happening to someone
else. Nothing bad ever happens to me. I’ve even got an actual paying job and a
steady source of in-out.
Our great
nation, the only nation other than ancient Babylon ever created by the direct will of a
deity, was on the ropes. The credit status had been downgraded and no one had
any solutions. I’m pretty sure that guy who looks like he’s been embalmed who
sells bankruptcy advice doesn’t take on jobs this big. The president gave a
speech. “We’re still a great country. This downgrade doesn’t change that.”
Yeah. We’ll just change the meaning of words. Plusgood.
They
probably gave speeches like that in the final days of Rome. “Friends and citizens! We are still
Romans and we are still a mighty empire, even if that empire can now be
measured in square feet. Today we will battle a much larger army of
bloodthirsty barbarians, but we’ll somehow win because heaven likes us more.
Now let’s go die for our beloved child emperor.” QED.
There was
only one main point to take away from all of this. Harper was right. We were on
the cutting edge of the new economy. In a few years we might even diversify
into brigandage and the cutting edge sacking and burning technology. An
exciting time to be alive for a man willing to take the big risks to soar with
the eagles.
After
nearly a week, the doorbell signaled the beginning of Round Two in the big
fight to become heavyweight champion of the societal collapse division. There
was a fresh rush of panic and a profound difficulty in maintaining my usual
noble bearing. The call of history, the pen that would write the future was
calling and it was hard to maintain comforting numbness in the face of it. All
the joystick and moron box and meaningless sexual intercourse in the world was
powerless against the hand of fate knocking on the door, the bell tolling for
thee and all that other bullshit.
The visitor
was presumably the third man that had been delegated the less than desirable
task of performing scenes from the most fucked up Babysitter’s Club book ever
written. I’d offer a description worthy of such a cornerstone of the bold
future but the truth was this new honored guest at Casa Del Lotus Eater wasn’t
exceptional in any way and I forgot his face long before becoming accustomed to
it. As best as I can recall he was your typical generic white male
professional, the eternal middle manager who loves the local sports team, has a
mostly adequate marriage and maybe a skeleton or two like disliking the colored
people or being a serial rapist or the like. Nice to know that kidnapping rings
produce the same sort of midlevel drone that you find in every other cutting edge
field. Change and continuity, powerful forces at work.
The gist of
the message was I’d be working an evening shift, which was unusual in and of
itself because firstly I never worked an evening and secondly because I’d never
worked an actual shift. There would probably have been even more oddities to
his statements if they weren’t so brief and forgettable. I assured my partner
in crime that it would not be a problem rescheduling the usual late night
snacking and onanism to perform my contractually agreed upon tasks. With that,
he was gone.
Then time
jumped forward again. It was well after that duck-faced pervert finishes the
late show, probably the small hours of the morning. I was moving through the
streets of the suburban business district, weaving around buildings and through
alleys behind independently owned businesses. Everything lay dormant, the only
lights came from the street lamps. There was no traffic, car or otherwise. It
was easy to imagine that some bird plague or neutron bomb or call home from the
old man in the sky had taken all human life just recently. I was the Last Man,
somehow immune to a radiation bath or the finger of Jehovah. Even the corner
bars showed no activity. It had to be very late. I scaled a small fence and cut
behind a locksmith. In a moment of clarity I remembered that this particular
business had sponsored my little league team when I was ten. The logo was on
the back of our jerseys, complete with a little five pointed star symbolizing
law and order. After all, is there anything that says civilization more than a
lock? The triumph of private property, the ability to protect the fruits of my
labor, to own your efforts, meritocracy, everyone does what they’re best at.
That’s the world I want.
My body
seemed to know where it was going and I didn’t resist the pull of the
autopilot. When I was in junior high I had a combination lock that I opened by
feel. I completely forgot the numbers, my hand just knew what to do from muscle
memory. That’s how that nocturnal skulking felt. The mortal prison had its own
volition. My friend reason, what remained of him, was restricted to drifting
into the past, thinking about little league and lock companies and “no batter,
no batter” and you struck out again and his face will be like that forever and
on and on. Somewhere a dog was barking. It could have been miles away, the
night was that still. It did cause a momentary flash of panic. The last thing I
need was a battle against the soulless canines of the dead world.
I turned a
corner, passing under a globe that presented the continents in a manner that
wasn’t strictly accurate, geographically speaking. For one thing, the real
planet doesn’t have “Almost Ordinary Bar” written across parts of what might have
been central Asia a hundred million years ago.
Get with the times, man. Pangea is so last geologic age. Everyone is about
discrete individual continents now, none of this lame single land mass jive. We
be plate tectonicing.
Moving out
of the dim light generated by the bizarre globe I picked my way through the
inky blackness of the adjacent parking lot and then cut back into another
alley. “Almost there.” The thought came and went in a flash, accepted as fact
without any proof. The horse knows the way, just let it have its head and show
a little faith. I took one final hard right and found myself facing a battery
of dumpsters. This is it.
Being
careful not to play on or around the impressive disposal technology I skulked
into a dark corner. There it was. It was one of those brown grocery bags that
looked like it had been used repeatedly, possibly in an attempt to save our
world from the endless rapine of Mother Man. Paper, not plastic. Still moving
on instinct, I carefully unfolded the object of my night quest. The
expectations were quickly confirmed: it was filled to the brim with neatly banded
Federal Reserve run-off. This was the stuff dreams are built from, right here.
I tucked it under an arm like a new born inflation baby and prepared to melt back
into the shadows.
“Who the
fuck ar’ ya?” Oh no, I’ve been discovered! Possible ninja scenarios flashed
through my mind as an unidentified mass of carbon-based material wrapped in
filthy cloth staggered into my field of vision. Better kill him quick, before
my cover is further compromised. Maybe a face full of poison powder or a
throwing star to the forehead or the old staff-sword into the guts. Then I
remembered that none of these options were actually available. I didn’t even
have the old Saturday evening six to blast my way out of this.
“What you
got there?” For a second I made out a fat unshaven peasant face as the figure
passed through the halo of a nearby streetlight. Ok, it is a human being. We
can dismiss the theory of being attacked by intelligent gas blobs from Pluto.
Which wasn’t to say this individual didn’t have at least some gas blob
tendencies, but his origin was far less exotic. “You hearin’ me? What you got
dar?”
“It’s
nothing. I was just leaving.” It was the type of situation where popping some
Mentos would not have been inappropriate, but again I was shocking
under-equipped. This is what happens when you’re not allowed to be in the Boy
Scouts because your parents think they’ll have to drive your troop around and
they can’t afford the gas or whatever the weak excuse was. This. Right here. If
only my ten year old self could foresee this future problem and make the most
convincing argument possible. “You don’t want my human meat racket to fall
apart because I didn’t know the importance of proper preparation, do you?” Of
course you don’t.
And there I
was, in a fix. So close to successful and lucrative criminality, but so very
far away.
“You got a
bottle, don’t ya? Let me have a pull.” I noted the all-American beer belly
stretching a stained shirt displaying the corporate logo of a professional
sporting concern. There would be rich irony there, if it wasn’t such a common
bit of dissonance. Even standing near the latest advances in waste management
solutions I could still clearly discriminate the rich bouquet of sweat and
domestic beer emanating from the threat to successful bag-manning.
“Gimme the
fucking bottle!” Furry arms worthy of an out-of-shape bruin extended toward my
retirement found, the stained white meat of grease-coated hands seeming to glow
in the poor illumination. I tried to pull a move worthy of a Nice Fucking Life
running back by evading the rush with a quick spin move. It didn’t quite come
off and I collided with the lover of the grain and forsaker of the soap sending
both of us crashing to the filth encrusted pavement. How come all my crimes seem
to end up with short trips and bad landings? My inner ears were good last time
I checked. Maybe that undiagnosed Uncontrollable Falling Down Syndrome needs to
finally be addressed and deadened by taking colorful pills that cause impotence
and self-wetting. But hey, at least you’re not slapping skin with the ground so
often. There is, after all, a strong correlation between successful extortion
schemes and the ability to maintain verticality.
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The Foolchild Invention is available in e-book format at
Amazon.com and
Barnes & Noble. The paperback edition is coming soon.
