COME TO JESUS
I don’t know why I love these confessionals so much. I suppose it’s a guilty pleasure of mine. I savor the moment; an old woman has so few things to make her happy in life. Give me a good, weepy story about some girl who’s fallen into a life of sin any day, over the disgusting filth on TV. Only two things bring me any sort of joy. One, are these confessionals. The other, of course, is my church. My faith has given me a high standard that I believe others should follow. My church group knows they can always count on me for anything: from a bake sale to clothing drives. I never shirk my duties to help those poor souls not as blessed as I. It is my feeling that if more people had my church as a part of their life, there would be less suffering in this world. Personally, I feel, the money we raise would be better spent on something else. In fact, they should just give it to me. I deserve it, for all my hard work. Others, who will not be named, believe differently.
The thing that disturbs me most is that there aren’t any sorts of standards, on how good Christians should conduct themselves. For example: so many people just show up to church in hand me down clothes, now-a-days. It is very disrespectful to God. It didn’t use to be that way. When I was young, people always dressed up for church, and those who didn’t meet a set standard would be turned away. That is how it should be—but it’s not. The reason why is because no one, except for myself, and a few true believers, have any faith. Still, I humbly try to walk in the footsteps of our Lord, Jesus Christ, and everyone should do the same.
I look up from my magazine, right at the juicy part, and can’t believe what I see. One of them has just gotten on the bus. You know the type. And, worst of all, he had the shameless gall to sit in the front. In my day, those kinds of people knew their place. I say a silent prayer, asking the good Lord to keep me safe. The dirty man in the front hasn’t done anything yet, but I keep a close eye on him. It’s only a matter of time with their kind. One minute the world is sane and reasonable. The next minute, you get on a bus, and some madman decides he is going to kill himself, and everyone else on board, as a sacrifice to his heathen god. Truly this world is ruled over by the Devil and his minions.
“Excuse me,” I hear a voice next to me say. I nearly jump out of my seat. I look up, and see a nice looking, elderly gentleman standing next to me.
“May I sit here,” he asks kindly.
He is a little scruffy around the edges, and I don’t like his white fluffy beard—but at least he looks clean. For the moment, he makes me forget about the terrorist sitting in the front row. However, before I let the nice gentleman sit down, I decide to make sure he is not some maniac.
“That depends,” I answer, “are you a Christian?”
“I didn’t use to be,” the gentleman replies, “But I am, what is it that the young people call it? Oh, born again.”
I blush, and invite the gentleman to sit down.
“It’s so nice to have someone normal to talk to,” I say. “You know someone who knows the truth. I think most of the problems in our world...”
I give the Arab man a dirty look. I shudder as I see him still sitting there, but take comfort in the fact that he has not blown up the bus—yet.
“...Are because people have not accepted Jesus Christ in their hearts.”
“Oh I couldn’t agree with you more,” the elderly gentleman, replies, which cause my heart to beat a little faster.
“Forgive an old woman’s intrusion,” I begin, “but, may I ask, when did you first know that Christ is the true Lord and Savior?”
The elderly gentleman smiles at my question. “Ah,” he says nodding. “It took me a long time, as I remember,” he continues, and I am hanging on his every word. “I remember back in my youth. I was so headstrong, then. Then, a stranger came to our town…
+ + +
This used to be such a nice place to live. I’ll admit it had its share of problems, but at least it was a decent place to raise your kids. That all changed, the day when he came. Everyone hated him—though no one had the guts to say it to his face. You could just tell by one look at the guy that he was going to be trouble. I could tell it right from the start. Okay, I’ll admit I may have stretched the truth a bit. But, in defense, it was for the good of the community.
He was just one of those people: you know what the kind I mean. And while he may not have done anything yet, I felt it my duty to get rid of him, before anything did. Because, it’s always something with those kind of people, you know. I feel that a community has to keep up with appearances, and it just doesn’t reflect well if you have those types running around causing trouble.
I have to say I was glad when he was arrested. I was there, in the crowd, the day it happened. First thing I did, was spit in his face. But then the bastard had to go and ruin my fun.
“I’ll go,” he said to me. “But you will stay until I come again.”
Then, they took him away. The next day, they strung him up.
But, things were different after that. Like all the life had been drained out of me. My wife and my children seemed like strangers to me. I felt disconnected from the world around me. I began to drift, never resting in one place for very long. I lived a joyless existence. I was a wanderer with no place to call home.
I’ve been drifting along for a long time now.
What haunts me, even to this day is that I know all my suffering would end, if I could just say two words, but my heart won’t let me. There’s something deep down inside of me that just won’t let me do it: something that is still hanging on to all that hate.
Even when I saw him up on that cross, I just couldn’t bring myself to say:
“I’m sorry.”
+ + +
I glare at him in open-mouthed horror. The utter blasphemy of it. I’m so upset that I cannot speak. Then, compounding his sin, he turns to me, and with a foul mouth adds: “But as I said, I was young and foolish then, and now I know the truth.”
Overcome with rage, the Lord charges my voice. I'm finally able to challenge this heresy.
“How dare you. I will not let you speak such sacrilege again.”
“But it’s the truth. I assure you.”
“No,” I hiss. It’s lies. All of it. You know nothing of Christ.”
“I have walked many years in His footsteps, and I will walk many more until the Day of Judgment. That is my curse and my blessing.”
“I know you may not believe me, ma’am,” he continues, and I let him continue knowing that with every word he is only damning himself. “But, he is here with us, though, I fear you are too blind to see him.”
I shake my head. The poor, old fool is clearly out of his mind. The best thing for him would be to shake him out of delusions.
“All right then. Where is He?”
“There,” he says, and the idiot points to the young Arab sitting in the front row. I smile. The Lord has delivered him into my hands.
“Everyone knows that Jesus Christ is a white man. Just look at any famous painting depicting our Lord and Savior. If it weren’t true than how do you explain that?”
Of course he has no answer. Instead, he sadly shakes his head. Sorry, I suspect, that I have seen through his lies.
I move in for the kill.
“Don’t think I don’t know what you are up to,” I say, confronting him with the truth. “I know you are trying to distract me, so I won’t notice when your terrorist friend blows up the bus. But it won’t work. God is on my side.”
Then, he says something that only further fuels my rage further— igniting it to the boiling point.
“I see. I was mistaken. I thought you believed, but now I see you are like many I have met on my journey. You have no interest in following in His footsteps. You would rather wear His name like a shroud, so that you can appear in a good light. But your heart tells a different story. Good-bye, ma’am.”
To my disbelief, he cowardly exits off the bus. “There is still time,” I hear him call out. “Follow him, and yo
u will be saved.”
How dare he! How dare he question my faith! Where would my church be, without me? He’ll pay. God will judge him and find him guilty. God knows who His chosen are. Devils all! Am I the only sane woman left in this sinful world?
Soon we are at the next stop. The dirty Arab stands up, and makes his way to the exit. Good riddance, I think as he passes. I wish God would just wipe all his kind off the face of the earth. We'd be better off without them. Suddenly, I feel as though I'm being watched. I look to see the Arab man staring down at me. Has he somehow read my mind? No, wait, of course! I knew it! I panic. Thoughts of rape and murder flash in my mind. They have no respect for a person of my virtue. I want to look away, but despite myself, I'm drawn in. I look into his eyes. They are so tired and so sad, that I almost feel sorry for him. He closes his eyes, and lowers his head in shame. Then, he moves on. Well, if he thinks I’m going to forgive him, then he can just forget it. Giving an old woman a fright like that.
A shadow moves across the floor. No, it can’t be. I refuse to believe it. It’s some just some trick of the light. But it is hard to deny, that the shadow does look like a cross.
I wake with a start, just as the mayor concludes his speech.
It was just a dream.
Thank God, I tell myself. I thought that nightmare would never end. What pure nonsense, the whole thing was.
The bus pulls forward, and my mind begins to drift.
Perhaps I'm spending too much time in church. That must be it. I should cut back. All my hard work and I have nothing to show for it. I’m starting to think that the church is taking advantage of my generosity. Well, let’s see how they get along without me, then.
We pass a stop, and then another, and still another, without slowing down. There’s something wrong with the bus!
“God! Help us,” I cry out!
But God does not answer…
THE NOBODY MAN
No one knows that I’m still alive.
I look dead. I feel dead. And yet, I’m still alive.
But I’m trapped. I’m pinned under the sterling wheel, and worse I think I heard something snap when the bus turned over.
But I’m alive. I know it.
All the passengers are dead. I can see them staring at me in the mirror. Some are confused, and some are angry. They will be that way, forever. For the life of me, I cannot turn my head. I have tried several times, but I think my neck is broken. I’m being punished. But, it is not my fault. I just drive the bus.
Good God, I hope I don’t end up like my grandfather. I can still hear his voice…
+ + +
The machine was the real winner that day, and I lay in bed exhausted. For a decade now, the machine has been at my side. It breathes for me, it feeds me, and it keeps me alive. It does all of this without a single complaint, and I hate it more than any living thing. Had I been stronger, I might have kept on fighting, but I want to rest. A strange feeling to have, considering that all I do is sleep. My heart is failing me, and sleep does nothing for it. My heart would stop all together if it wasn’t for the machine. Despite all the painful tubes, stuck up my nose, and down my throat, one thing keeps me going. It is a vain hope of mine that one day the machine will break down, and I can finally die, and be free. But, the machine is stronger than I am. I can’t keep my eyes open any longer. Soon I will sleep again.
“Mr. Henry…”
I do not answer. The doctors and nurses hate it when I talk back.
“Wake up Mr. Henry…”
I weakly open my eyes, and cannot believe what I see. My prayers have been answered. The machine is gone.
“Are we feeling better today?”
I’m confused, and look to the young doctor for answers. His smile is wide, wide enough that it could swallow a man whole.
“Where is the machine,” I ask. And I’m shocked by the sound of my own voice. I can talk?
The doctor chuckles. “That old thing? We got rid of it. It was an outdated piece of junk. Now, we have something a whole lot better. Go on, look at your chest.”
Unsure, I slowly raise the sheet from my body…
“What have you done to me?” I cry
The doctor is unfazed by my shock. He simply continues to smile.
“Why, I have cured you.”
“By what right have you done this?”
The smile drops from his face, and now he seems confused.
“I’m your doctor,” he answers. “It is my duty to preserve the life of my patient through any means necessary. I really don’t understand why you’re so upset. If our positions were reversed, I know I would be grateful if I had a doctor who looked after my best interests.”
“But look at me,” I cry. “I’m a monster.”
For my chest is gone, and in its place are a mesh of tubes and wires. But my own frail arms and legs still hang loosely connected to the machine that is now a part of me.
“I have made you better. Can’t you see that?” The doctor asks.
I choke on my own laughter.
“I can’t see well, my eyes are failing me.”
“We can fix those too,” the doctor replies, as the smile reappears on his face.
“I would rather keep my own eyes and be blind.”
For a long time I do not speak.
“Make me whole again,” I plead.
He shakes his head. “I can not, in good conscience, do that. You would die.”
“Yes,” I say.
“Well it’s a good thing your son has power of attorney, and has given me permission to care for you as I see fit.”
A long silence passes between us, which the young doctor probably takes as senility on my part.
“Mr. Henry, can you breath?”
I do not answer.
“Can you speak? How is your heart doing?”
“I must confess,” I say, “I have not felt this good in years.”
“There, you see? “ The doctor gasps, seizing on the moment. “No harm done. In fact, I have a question for you, Mr. Henry. How would you like to walk again?”
I can’t believe it.
“That’s right Mr. Henry. I did say walk. It’s an experimental procedure, but I think you’ll be very impressed with the results.”
“What do I have to do?”
“Give me your arm,” the doctor says, with a wide smile.
I do as I am told. There is a brief sensation of familiar pain as the drug shoots up into my system. Soon, I will be reduced to nothing than an empty shell.
I wake up with a start. My arms and legs feel like lead weights. At first, I thought they were asleep, which shocked me, because it had been so long since I have felt any sort of sensation in them at all. I pulled the sheet away, and discovered that my frail arms and legs had been replaced with mechanical like devices that surged with power.
“And how are we today, Mr. Henry?” The doctor asks.
I’m not sure how to respond.
The doctor, seeing my condition, greets me with his youthful smile. It is a smile that terrifies me. It gave him the expression of a young child that just gotten away with something, and is now basking in the guilty pleasure of the crime.
“Well, go on. Stand up,” he says beckoning me.
At first, I thought it was some sort of trick. But my disbelief eventually gives way to simple faith. I rise, cautiously at first, then with greater confidence. I stand, and my new legs support me.
“You see, Mr. Henry.” The doctor replies. “We have your best interests at heart.”
“You will notice,” he adds, “that your lower torso has also been replaced. The new unit contains its own waste disposal system. No more embarrassing accidents.”
It was a little stab at my dignity, but overcome with a new sense of freedom, I let it slide. Seeing that his remark did not have its intended effect, the doctor frowns. What do I care? He had no power over me now.
“This is amazing,” I cry. I am overcome with
emotion, so much so that I nearly break down.
“I feel so alive, so strong. I haven’t felt this good in years. How can I ever thank you, doctor?”
The doctor smiles, which makes me somewhat uneasy. He avoids answering my question, and instead opens the door to my room.
“Feel free,” he says.
“You mean I can leave?”
“Of course. You’re not a prisoner.”
I leave, and the doctor is right, I’m free. I make my way down the narrow halls. Like a baby taking its first independent steps I carelessly bump into things; sometimes leaving impressions in the walls. Gradually, I learn to control my stride. I move on—despite the curious and awkward glances from nervous patients and nurses. At first I am unsure of where to go. Confined so long, in a lonely room, with nothing but a drawn curtain for company, my newfound freedom scares me. Then, I have a sudden desire to go outside and see the nighttime sky. I move closer to my goal. My new joints move with the hiss of heavy machinery. I can see my goal ahead; even with my fading eyesight. Just a little further now and out the door.
Before I can feel the fresh night air on my face, a sharp pain stabs at the left side of my head. Stale hospital air fills my nose. My vision goes, and I slump to the ground. Something is wrong, something is wrong, something is wrong…
“You’re lucky to be alive, Mr. Henry.”
The doctor stands over me. He is smiling.
“It was touch and go for a while there.”
“What happened?”
“You had a stroke Mr. Henry, but don’t worry, you're as good as new.”
“What have you done to me?” I ask in a hollow voice.
“We've made you better,” the doctor responds. “See for yourself.”
The doctor hands me a mirror. Reflecting back at me is a single glowing red eye.
“That’s not me,” I protest.
“Of course it is Mr. Henry.” The doctor answers with his familiar grin. “It is the new and improved you.”
“And just think, Mr. Henry,” he adds, “now you will live forever.”
“Is something the matter?” The doctor asks, the smile dropping from his face.
“I’m not sure,” I answer. I lift a metal hand to my computerized chest, and feel nothing… nothing at all.
+ + +
Someone bangs on the door. I hear muffled voices. I hear the scrapping of metal. I hear the door being forced open.
“Looks like they are no survivors…”
No, I’m alive. Please don’t leave me here. Please…
I call out, but my mouth does not move.
I don’t want to die. But, what if I am already dead, and this is how I have to spend eternity?
A single tear rolls down my check.
“Wait over here.”
Someone, who looks like a doctor, stands over me.
“You’re going to be okay. We’ll get you some help.”
Thank God, Thank God.
My savior quickly gives instructions to the rescue team, and stays with me until they return. A wide smile creeps across his face. It makes me uneasy.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Cotton.”
How did he know my name?
“Firedrake, Inc. takes care of its own. And while your body may be broken, the company will fix you up, good as new.”
I utter a silent prayer.
Begging that someone, with even a shred of mercy, will please just kill me.
LIFE IN THE CITY
You gave your life to the city…
A sacrifice you made, in spite of the fact that you were not born in the city. You came as an outsider, from a simple life—growing up on a small farm just outside of town. It was a dull and dreary existence that promised you no future, except more of the same. You always dreamed of a life full of distractions, of unpredictable adventures. When you were old enough, you escaped to the city—to a place where dreams come true.
Life in the city—everything was so different and new—it was like living in someone else’s imagination. But, even a dream can die when faced with cold hard reality.
First, there was a matter of suitable shelter. After weeks of searching, and living out of a hotel in the meantime, you find nothing that would be considered habitable. So, you compromise. You settle for a place that, in most circumstances should have been condemned, but is a mansion compared to surviving on the streets. It’s your basic roof over your head situation (even though half the roof is rotted away), where walls are held together more by luck than any sort of formal construction. You share this space with a family of cockroaches, who make their home in the toilet, sink, and bathtub, of your bathroom. They make you well-aware of your place in the pecking order. They were there first, and resent your intrusion. They make their annoyance well-known, and quickly eat you out of house and home. But, despite this, you pay the two thousand dollars a month for the privilege of having a roof over your head. And, you take a certain amount of pride in the fact that you have a place of your own.
Your pride is short-lived. You are informed by your landlord that you still owe first and last month’s rent. You would have thought a deposit was enough. Reluctantly, you hand over the amount from your dwindling savings. But, you apply yourself, working hard to find a trade that will give your financial woes a new lease on life. Employment, however, remains elusive. You begin to notice that everywhere you go, people are staring at you. At first, you think it’s just a slight case of paranoia. You suspect the paranoia is merely symptomatic of living in an unfamiliar place full of unfamiliar people: but there is twinge of doubt in your suspicion, and it is unsettling to say the least. The months pass, without hope, and you are crawling even further into debt. You are ready to give up. It’s obvious the city doesn’t want you here. You pawn your remaining possessions, and with the proceeds, buy a ticket home on the # 9 bus from Highcliff to Riverbottom.
At the last minute, you are granted a reprieve. Saved by a phone call with a company you’ve never heard of. They say they are different. Outsiders like yourself, who would love to have you as part of their ever-growing family. You agree whole-heartily to their offer. When you hang up the phone you are energized and full of life: a chance to prove your worth at last.
Hoping to make a good impression, you show up early to your interview. As it turns out, however, it really doesn’t matter how early you are because no one is there to meet you. Finally, after two hours, a woman shows up. She seems frightened and confused by your presence. For the longest time she stares at you, and you feel about as small as humanly possible. You shuffle your feet and squirm where you stand—all the while trying to avoid her stare. Finally, you stammered out who you are and what you’re doing here. The woman curses under her breath, then nods, and lets you in.
“Is that what you’re wearing?” she snaps, even before you sit down.
“I don’t understand,” you confess, and look down at your suit. The suit, while not flashy, is serviceable. There are no patches or stains to speak of.
“We like to keep up appearance here,” the woman answers reproachfully. You stare at her in disbelief; noticing her own suit. A two-piece, covered in coffee stains.
“Try to do better next time,” the woman replies, looking down at you. “I would send you home, but you’re late enough as it is.”
“Excuse me?” You protest.
The woman ignores you. Instead she begins to shuffle papers around on her desk. She does this for some time, to the point where you think you have been forgotten. That is until she suddenly announces: “So you want to work for us? Well, there are certain rules you should be aware of.”
“As I’m sure you are aware, the world is not a safe place, and our organization can protect you.” She continues, speaking in a flat, overly rehearsed, voice that suggests she has made this speech many times before.
“But, only if you are willing to accept our help. The best place to start is by helping yourself. Helping yourself, however, can o
ften be a difficult and confusing process. That is why we have taken the incentive and designed a schedule that will guide you on a clear path…”
You have zoned out the annoying, mechanical hum of her voice ages ago. That’s why it comes as a surprise when she drops a heavy book on your lap. The weight of the book almost crushes you, and your legs are shocked out of their sleep. You are now awake and alert. At first, you don’t know where you are, and it takes a moment for you to get your bearings. Your eyes meet the woman’s stare. She seems to want some kind of response from you, and is getting impatient. Finally, exhausted by your present ignorance, she snarls: “The bottom line here is that you must not do anything to embarrass the company. Image is everything.”
“I’m sorry,” you apologize nervously.
“To keep you safe,” the woman continues exactly where she left off, “your day has been mapped out for you. That way you will not be tempted to stray from the right path. There are many dangers in this world that only we can protect you from.”
And here she whispers intimately in your ear: “I feel it is my duty to warn you—there is a murderer loose in the city.”
“But as long as stick to the schedule,” she says in her normal, uncaring voice, “you will be fine. The company will protect you.”
Not very assured, you take a moment to glance through the heavy book still weighing down your legs. You focus in on the morning blocked out for you.
“5:35 AM—Dream of ways to improve your company performance.
“6:00 AM—Wake up, and get out of bed. (WARNING: DO NOT STAY IN BED. Staying in bed may result in further sleep. See Section B:2-1: “Waking up in the morning.”)
“6:05 AM—Shower, shave, other personal needs. (See Section V:7-5 “What constitutes as a personal need?”) Be sure to dress and put clothes on in the right order (see Fig 5:C-J). Wear a blue or black suit with a white shirt, blue or black pants, gray socks, and black shoes (not tennis shoes).
“6:10 AM—Prepare a well-balanced breakfast (see Fig 7: H-X) of cereal, milk, orange juice, and lightly buttered toast. (Breakfast information provided by an independent study. For further details see Appendix R).
“6:15 AM—Finish breakfast. Begin cleaning up (see Fig 9: A-pp)
“6:18 AM—Walk to front door.
“6:18:30 AM—Open door (If unable to open door by yourself, please call for assistant at our 24-hour hotline: 555-2424. For instruction on how to call our hotline see Section C:22-4 “Help—this is the first time I have had to exit my home.”)
“6:19 AM—Close door. Make sure it is locked. Walk to end of hall and enter an elevator (If elevator is non-functional, or your apartment building (i.e. home) has no elevator, then turn to Section Q: 1-2 and find instructions on the use of stairs. Follow all that apply.)
And the rest of schedule went on like that for 57,060 more pages.
You sigh, at the impossible task before you.
“It is company policy that you memorize the entire schedule. Until then, keep the schedule with you at all times. “
She looked up to see if you are paying attention, and, seeing your plight for the first time, the woman from personnel offers some assistant.
“Most of our new employees find adjusting to the schedule a little difficult at first, but in time it will become second nature to you.”
Then, all humanity drops from her face, and her expressions and movements again become robotic. Once more, with machine-like precision, she began to shuffle papers around on her desk. It was beautiful to watch her work, and yet horrifying. This is what you have to look forward to: day in, and day out.
Without looking up, or breaking her routine, the woman says to you: “Your employee number is 125340016.”
You snap out of your trace, and your first question is: “What?”
“Names are inefficient. Memorize it. Without your employee number, you don’t officially exist to the company. Sign your name here, please.”
From her stack, she hands you a piece of paper. You look down and hesitate for a moment. The woman sighs, looks up, and rolls her eyes in disgust.
“This just states that you have been informed, and agree to our various rules and regulations.”
Despite some personal reservations, you sign the document. The woman has resumed shuffling papers around her desk, and seems to have lost interest in you. Then without even bothering to look up, she directs you to do the following:
“Now go up to Human Resources—Mr. Chadwick will show you your new duties.”
You sit there for a moment unsure of what to do. The woman from personnel looks up from her stack of papers, and snarls: “Anything else?”
As you get up to leave, she shakes her head and turns away from you. When you are safely out the door, you hear the door slam shut and the lock turn. The woman begins drawing the blinds. You notice, out of the corner of your eye, the woman peaks out from time to time from behind the blinds to see if you are still there.
The search for Human Resources was a difficult one. When you ask various people about it, you are answered by shaking heads, quick glances away, and the return to nervous shuffling papers around desks. It is only after you retrace your steps several times that you are able to find what you’re looking for.
You find Human Resources to be a dank and cheerless place, where the light filters dimly through the ceiling—giving everything beneath it an unhealthy and sterile glow. You notice your fellow man packed, like rats, into a labyrinthine cage. They appear cautiously behind their cardboard walls, and when they notice you, they quickly disappear—scared like rabbits.
Into the labyrinth comes the guard. He is a large man who, in the fading light, is nothing more than a giant shadow.
“What’s matter?” The giant demands. “Did you get lost? No one comes here unless they get lost.”
You try to explain. The giant listens patiently, and then nods in understanding.
“So, you’re our latest victim, aye?” The giant asks, and reveals a frightening smile. “Well, let’s get a good look at you.”
Before you can put up any resistance, you are grabbed by the shoulders, and forced into a corner,
“Jesus, the light in here is terrible,” the giant cries.
He stares down at you, and after some time, comes to a conclusion.
“You aren’t much of anything, are you?” The giant asks. Then, before you can answer, he makes a pronouncement: “Yep you belong here.”
“It’s all right, it’s all right,” his reassuring voice booms. “He is one of us.”
Having passed an accepting judgment, the giant lets you go, and you breathe a sigh of relief.
“What’s your name?”
Letter perfect you recite the number the woman in personnel had earlier christened you with.
“Memorized it, did you?” The giant laughs.
You can’t believe how small you feel at that moment. The giant leads you to a tiny cell in the back of the office. You take notice of the haunted glances of your fellow creatures as you pass: who look at you with a mix of sympathy, understanding, and revulsion. In you, they see themselves, and they look away in shame.
“It is good you didn’t get lost,” the giant calls back to you. “There is a murderer loose in the city. It’s not safe to wander around by yourself.”
You come to rest at a desk that has been long abandoned. For some time the desk had been left to its own devices—measuring the layers of cobwebs on the desk would probably give you a good idea for how long.
“Now your actual job will only take an average of about ten minutes,” the giant announces. His voice startles you. You had thought you were all alone. Confused, you look up at the giant for guidance.
“You see,” he explains, “the boys upstairs don’t care if you do any real work. They are more interested in seeing an office that looks busy. They love to see people scurrying about. It makes the old boys feel proud, like they have actually accomplished something.”
“Welcome to Corporate America,” the giant answers with a laugh.
“A word of advice,” he continues jovially. “The best thing you can do is, get a stack of paper—blank or otherwise—it doesn’t matter, and shuffle them around your desk all day. It will make the time go slow, but at least you’ll look busy, and that is really what you are being paid for.”
The giant leaves you to your appointed task, and the rest of the day is spent shuffling paper needlessly around your desk.
You thought the day would never end. The night gives you a new lease on life. Carefree, you walk down the street, not mindful of the direction. Then, your mind begins working, cutting your freedom short. In hidden alleys— and, from darkened windows— you sense a thousand unseen eyes are watching your every move—carefully and cautiously. You are small in the paranoid glare. There is nowhere to turn; all directions are a maze of confusion. The road you had previously traveled is an unfamiliar one—as is the one ahead. The streets now fork and twist into an unrelenting nightmare. You are lost, there’s no denying it.
“Let the schedule guide you.” The voice can only belong to a guardian angel, who has come to aid you in your darkest hour. a voice comes to guide you in your darkest hour. You lift the heavy tome, open it, and consult its pages—miraculously hoping to find answers.
And you read:
“7:05 pm, lift folk to mouth. Place contents on fork into mouth. Chew until contents are ground into tiny pieces, then swallow. Repeat until entire dinner is consumed. WARNING: Do not swallow folk. Swallowing a folk or any other foreign objects, may cause choking (If you are choking now please see: Appendix 7:B-654.b7AhIzz1627pj`245=64352k%6937@ht---*35321. If someone you know, is choking see: Appendix 10:4-223453433+^489321~12. If a stranger is choking, see Section 43:E “Will I be in legal trouble if I help someone I don’t know?”
Subtitled: “Why you should never help someone you don’t know. The steps you need to take to avoid a personal lawsuit.”)
“Dear God,” you think, “I should be at home right now choking down dinner.”
You slump down into the waiting darkness, with no hope in sight of escape.
“What are you doing?”
You look up and see a policeman. He has sunken down to your level.
“Don’t you know that there is a murderer loose in the city?
You shake your head as the policeman seizes your arm, and helps you up to your feet. You are grateful for his help; however, the policeman begins to eye you strangely.
“Just a minute,” the policeman says.
To your astonishment he begins to sniff, the air around him then aims his nose straight at you. You recoil back.
“Something is not right here,” he announces.
Flashing his teeth, the policeman growls: “You’re not from the city, are you?”
“No sir,” you answer in a tiny voice.
“What a shame,” the policeman states matter-of-factly.
“It’s such a nice place to live,” he adds whimsically.
“Yes,” you agree, without missing a beat.
“Too bad you’re not from the city.”
He turns on you.
You step back.
He advances—posed to strike.
“Wait,” you protest. “There has been some mistake.”
“The city is incapable of making mistakes,” he answers beating the inside of his hand with a night stick.
“You know, outsiders like you make me sick. You’re vampires. You come here uninvited, leech onto whatever is good about the city, and bleed it dry. Now a murderer is loose in our city: an outsider like you. And he has to be an outsider, because the city does not breed monsters like that.”
“I’m sorry…”
“Yes you are, or you will be. “
In a heartbeat, you are struck down. When the blow hits the side of your head, there is a blinding flash—then darkness.
“Give it a rest, Kingsrow.”
“But I’m telling you—he’s the murderer.”
You wake up in a nightmare, and find yourself trapped into a box, shut in on all sides by rusted iron bars.
You sit up. Instinctively, you touch the back of your head and wince. A large beautiful lump is growing on the side of your head. You feel woozy.
“Take it easy. You are going to be okay.”
Through dizzy, blood-filled eyes, you make out the impression of two men standing outside your cell. They stand on opposite ends of each other. One, you recognize as the policeman from the street—the other, an elderly man, is unknown to you.
“We should just kill him now and get it over with. He deserves it. I’m telling you he’s the murderer. He even smells like a murderer.”
“Leave the poor guy alone, Kingsrow,” the old man barks at the snarling policeman. Then, turning to you, he kindly asks, “Is there anything you need, something we can get you to make you more comfortable?”
Your thoughts are muddled. You have no response.
“I can’t believe this,” the policeman screams at the old man. “You’re treating him like a human being…HE’S AN OUTSIDER! Do you know what that means?”
Ignoring the statement, the elderly man, in a comforting manner, says to you: “You just rest now. As soon as you talk to the lawyer, you can go home.”
“The fact that he needs a lawyer prove he’s guilty,” the policeman growls.
“Haven’t you done enough damage already, Kingsrow?”
The two men stare at each other, neither one giving an inch, until the policeman looks away.
“There is something different about you,” Kingsrow says under his breath. In a huff, the policeman storms out of the room.
The elderly man takes a deep breath, and sits down next to your cell.
“Listen,” the old man whispers in confidence, “I am an outsider like you. My advice to you is to learn how to play the game. The city is a dangerous place—it hates outsiders—and is suspicious of anyone who acts different. There is a murderer loose in the city so everyone’s on the edge. All I’m saying is watch your back.”
A sharp, mind-numbing pain burrows inside your head. You grab the side of your head to make the lump stop throbbing, but it does little good. Your eyes fill with blood. You feel hazy, then dull, and soon, completely lose all sense of yourself. You return, screaming, back to the non-living darkness.
A strange tapping disturbs your rest. Once again, you find yourself among the living.
“They’re calling for you...”
At first, you are afraid to answer, unsure of who, or what, is waiting on the other line.
And here, despite being alone in a dark cell with only the old guard for company, you can’t help feeling that you are being watched by an unseen presence. Even the phone, old and falling to pieces, taunts you—daring you to answer it.
You succumb. For better or worse, you answer the call.
“You have not been following the schedule.” It’s the woman from the personnel. How she found you is beyond your comprehension.
“Are you to embarrass the company, and in turn bring shame onto yourself?”
You have no answer to her accusation.
“The company only has your best interests at heart,” she pleads with you. “The schedule is there to keep you safe. It’s there to prevent you from doing something foolish and hurting yourself—thereby damage the reputation of the company. Remember, above all else, the company’s image must be maintained. We will not allow you to do anything to jeopardize our good name.”
“And, let us not forget,” she continues in her monotone, shrill voice. “There is still a murderer loose in the city. We are the only ones who can protect you.”
“Help me, please,” you cry. “I’m so confused. I’ve been arrested, beaten up, and no one will help me…”
You breakdown and confess: “I don’t know why this is happening to me. I’ve done no
thing wrong.”
A cold silence greets your desperate plea.
“The company will no longer protect you.”
You hear—then the phone goes dead.
You know, deep down in your heart, that nothing can be done. It’s over. You have no one to watch over you now.
Carfax is the name of the attorney you are sent to see the next morning. He greets you with a mixture of annoyance and formal indifference. You get the feeling that you are not welcome here, and you begin to wonder if the attorney has even noticed you at all.
Busily shuffling papers on his desk, he quietly ignores you.
“Um…excuse me,” you begin.
He looks up briefly, to acknowledge your presence.
“You are excused,” the attorney says, “except for the things you are not excused for.” He looks down again, and resumes shuffling papers. Without looking up he asks: “How will you be paying for this consultation?”
“I was told I need to talk to you,” you say trying to explain the situation. The attorney looks up and answers: “You may talk, except, of course, for the things you may not talk about.”
Looking down again at his papers, he adds: “Checks and money orders are accepted only with a major credit card and photo id.”
“I have had enough of this! Do you hear me?” You scream. Out of desperation? Out of confusion? Out of frustration? All seem to apply, but you scream for whatever the reason.
“What is the point to all of this?”
“Please,” you say falling back, “Just tell me.”
“The point,” the attorney answers, somewhat mystified, “Yes there was a point. I seem to have lost it among my papers…”
Then, leaning back in his chair, he looks at you and smirks: “Unless of course there was no point at all.”
Without skipping a beat, the lawyer returns to shuffling papers around his desk.
“We accept all major credit cards, but only with a cash deposit to cover the entire amount.”
You have had enough. Fed up, you storm out of his office. No one bars your exit.
But once outside you stop. You realize you have nowhere to go, and nowhere to turn.
“The city loves you. It loves all of its children.” Turning, you see a blind man, begging for change. You reach into your pocket and give him all you have.
“But, I’m not from the city,” you think.
A sharp pain in you back! Without even knowing it, you have just been murdered. You sprawl to your feet. Someone is laughing at you behind your back.
You crawl until you rest at the foot of the policeman Kingsrow.
“Help me please,” you beg of him.
“What am I,” he answers, “your babysitter?”
And that is the end of your life in the city.
THE MAYOR
“Well, of course we’re going to bail them out, Helen; they paid for the entire city council.”
“No, you just leave the details to me. These orders come direct from above, from Travis Errol himself. I’ll smooth everything out with the press…”
I hang up the phone and shake my head. God, I hate people. Soon, I’m walking down the steps from city hall. Halfway down, I trip, and almost break my neck. Just in time, I grab the corner of one of the sculptures that guards the entrance. The steps are worn out, particularly smooth, except for the cracks. I feel dizzy, so I sit down. It’s then I see that a chunk of the sculpture has come off in my hand.
“Well that horse can kiss its ass good-bye,” I say, throwing the piece away. I look out across my city, and see everything is falling apart. Old buildings teeter on collapse. Probably safer to sleep out in the street, I think. Of course, then you would have to worry about getting your throat cut. Not that the streets are any prize, either. Instead of being paved in gold, the streets are death traps littered with potholes that lie in wait for unsuspecting cars.
To top it all off, there is the smell. It’s stale smell that hangs in the air. It’s the smell of decay, and you breathe it in day in and day: until your insides rots.
The best thing for the city would be to level it and start all over from scratch. I’m so glad I live in the country. A public servant, after all, needs to keep up appearances. Image is everything.
“A city is a reflection a mayor’s character.”
It comes out of nowhere, and at first, I think it is just my imagination. I have an uneasy feeling that I am being watched by a set of eyes that once belonged to a friend of mine—long since dead. He peers out at me between the legs of the one of the sculptures. For a moment, we stare at each in silence. He beckons me close.
“Ulysses,” I begin to say.
“Is everything all right, sir?”
My driver breaks my concentration. I only look away for a moment, and when I turn back, the ghost is gone.
“Who are you talking to, sir?”
“Damn it, it’s none of your business. Just take me home.”
As we drive out of the city, the sun starts to set. My driver knows the route well, and we navigate past all the dangers the city has set for us to bar our exit. The city does not like people to leave. It is a greedy thing that clings to what it has, and will not let go. To the novice, the city is a roach motel. People check in, but they don’t check out. The privileged can afford a longer leash, but the city will always pull you back in. Only the ghosts are allowed to roam free.
On the way home, I am my usual introverted self. I hate all that mindless small talk. It would be different if people actually had something intelligent to say, but most people just jabber away like idiots. Heaven forbid they should ever stop talking—but I play along, like the good public servant. Image is everything.
“Look sir,” my driver says in her annoying, squeaky voice. “Isn’t the city so beauty at sunset? Almost like it’s on fire...”
I try to ignore her, but she just won’t give it a rest.
“Did you hear me, sir?”
“If only I had a fiddle,” I mumble.
“What was that, sir?”
“Nothing.”
+ + +
“Go away!” I scream. But the knocking continues regardless. I had hoped to spend a quiet evening at home, alone! You’d think with ten miles separating me from my nearest neighbor—people would get the hint that I don’t wish to be disturbed. But, it has been my experience that most people don’t get the hint—no matter what you do.
“Damn it!” I scream, as the knocking persists. Now, I’m mad. That door is a specialty made, not some piece of junk you pick up at the local hardware store. After the beating it’s just taken, the door will probably have to be re-sanded and finished. I guess, the city’s coffers will have to lose some more weight.
The knocking comes in a renewed assault, more persistent than before. I think about calling the police. Then, I come to my senses. The police won’t be doing me any favors, not for a long time, anyway. I’m at a loss to explain why they’re so mad. I mean, all I did was vote to cut their budget in half. Most of them will make the money back in bribes anyway, so what the hell are they complaining about?
“Troy let me in, please.”
I know that voice.”
“Ulysses?” I wonder.
“Yes Troy, it’s me. Hurry please they are after me, and I don’t have much time.”
I reach out to open the door, and then stop.
“No,” I say, “Why should I?”
There is a long silence.
“I have money,” I hear from the other side, “It’s not much, but all I have is yours.”
I give in, and open the door. I’m only human after all.
“Then come right in—you know you are always welcome, Ulysses.”
“Same old Troy…” Ulysses said, even before he sits down. “Never look a gift horse in the mouth.”
“And, same old Ulysses,” I reply in kind. “Though you look a bit more alive than the last time I saw you—you know, at your funeral. FBI closing in, were t
hey?”
“Never mind that,” he answers, taking a moment to cautiously spy out of the window. “That’s not important. I don’t have much time to waste. They could be here at any minute.”
“Oh please, Ulysses,” I laugh. “You’ve cried wolf so many times, why should I believe anything you say? It’s been that way since we were kids.”
He looks up, and with a proud smile, says: “I was good wasn’t I?”
I smile back, though my smile is fake. It is a politician’s smile, carefully crafted to put you at ease, because it’s easier to stab you in the back that way.
“So where have you been keeping yourself?” I ask. “In jail again?”
“Worse...I was in hell, Troy,” He answers with a conviction that surprises me.
“I’m sure it wasn’t as bad as all that,” I tell him, still smiling. “You mean a place that seemed like hell, of course.”
“No Troy, I mean the real hell.”
“Impossible,” I snap. “And, even if it were true, why would you, of all people, be in hell? I mean considering who your father is: the Great Reverend, himself.”
“That’s what I thought too,” Ulysses confesses, rubbing his hand together in a nervous gesture, “That is why I had to escape. I have come to warn you…”
“Why?” I ask sarcastically. “You have never done anyone any favors. So why start now?”
“Because it’s too late for me,” he snaps. “I have come to warn you to give up a selfish and greedy life, or what waits for you will be worse than you can imagine.”
“Bullshit,” I scoff.
“I’ll tell you a secret, Troy, it is a lesson I wish I had learned before I sold my soul: eternity will be what you make of it, and what kind of person you are will define how you spend it.”
“I can’t believe I’m even listening to you.” I cry. “This is clearly one of you scams, and I have no time for this shit. It’s an election year for Christ’s sakes.”
He frowns, lowered his head, and slump heavy in his chair. Have I found him out? It’s hard to say. With Ulysses you can never tell. Though I have to admit he does look to be in a sorry state.
I select a large bottle from the liquor cabinet, favoring quantity over quality. Though, I do make sure it is the cheapest booze before I offer my friend a glass.
“To raise your spirits,” I say, waving the glass in front of him.
He ignores it, and instead greedily snatches the bottle, nearly taking my hand with it.
I watch, in amazement, as he miraculously downs the entire contents of the bottle without taking a breath. Then, he asks for another and another after that. He repeats this experiment, with bottle after bottle, draining every drop.
“I can’t get drunk. Dear God, has that been taking away from me, too?”
“I have more somewhere,” I offer. He shakes his head.
“It won’t do me any good. It only adds to my suffering.”
He sighs, “Let me tell you what hell is really like.”
I nod. Why not let him indulge in fantasies for a little longer.
“Have you ever had one of those dreams where you are in school, but suddenly realize you’re naked? That’s what hell is like. It’s a place where everything you have done in your life is public knowledge. You’re completely exposed. No secret is safe. No shame is hidden. You spend every moment of your time in a classroom, and your classmates are all the people you’ve hurt in your life. You are the lesson of the day, and the teacher asks you question after question. Why did you do this? Why did you do that? And, every answer you give is met with an uproar of laughter from the class.”
My usually calm and collected friend starts to sob. I think it was then that I lost all respect for him.
“And worst of all, if you refuse to participate, or if you misbelieve, they make you stand in the corner.”
It is clear to me that my former friend is, of course, completely insane. Who else but a madman would believe such nonsense? I could place a call up to Bradbury. Then, the little men in white coats can come and take my friend away. But, do I really want the publicity?
“They’re here Troy.”
I nearly jump, as a knock comes from the door.
“Who is it?” I ask.
“Police, sir,” came the answer. “You called about an intruder.”
“It’s a trick, Troy…please, please don’t let them in.”
He clings to me. I rip myself free.
“Just a moment…”
I look at my friend. He stares back at me, hopefully. Something about his look makes me sick. He is not the man he used to be. I turn away, and open the door without hesitation.
“He’s right through here.”
“Don’t do this, Troy!” He screams. But, I am unsympathetic to his plight. He gives up without as much as a struggle. Something, I find disturbing. The Ulysses I knew, would have gone down fighting. Now, he looks beaten. He submits, to his fate, without as much as a whimper.
“You won’t hurt him, will you?” I ask, in a moment of concern that surprises me.
“Let me assure you, sir... he will be well taken care of.”
Good. Now I won’t have to feel guilty.
The police lead my friend away. For a brief moment, Ulysses is his calm and reserved self. He even shows some of the arrogance that he was so famous for back in the day. The moment passes, and he breaks down.
“No, I won’t go with you. I don’t have to. I am an important man.”
“Sure you are,” says the policeman humoring him. He gives me a knowing wink, and I laugh under my breath.
It’s a relief when Ulysses is finally taken outside. He cries all the way, but soon his sobs grow more distant, much to my relief.
One of the cops comes back to talk to me.
“It looks like someone is going to have to stand in the corner.”
I laugh, uneasy, at his comment. Something Ulysses said…but the officer interrupts my thoughts.
“He said to give you these, sir. He seemed quite insistent.”
The cop drops something in my hand.
“Well, good day, sir. Sorry about the intrusion.”
I say nothing. I just stare down at my hand.
“Sir,” the policeman remarks, “Be seeing you.”
I mumble some response, which satisfies the officer, and he exits.
I continue to stare at my hand. Unsure what to make of Ulysses’ parting gift: two bus tokens. How strange. I put the matter aside as unimportant. Something is bothering me, though. I never called the police.
+ + +
An old man is taking forever to get on the bus. I roll my eyes as I watch him struggle. Geez, I wish they’d just kill all the old people, already. It would solve so many problems.
“Get out of the way, old man,” I scream out in frustration.
I feel a little sorry for him, but I get over it. “Fuck the Jews. They don’t vote for us anyway.”
I don’t want to be here, but this is company business, and they own me fair and square.
Just as I step on the bus, one of those Arab guys you hear about on TV gets off. “Didn’t blow up the bus, I see,” I say as he passes. He ignores me.
Once onboard, I sigh.
“Let’s get this over with.”
“Is that on, dumb ass?” I ask the cameraman. The cameraman I’m saddled with is some pimply faced teenage who is about as smart as he looks. He is loyal, however, and that is all that counts as far as the company is concerned. Loyalty at a price you can afford, as the man says.
“That’s right, dumb ass, bring it in close. I want everyone to see this on the evening news.”
I take a deep breath, and quickly switch onto autopilot. “Let me assure you that Firedrake, Inc. will continue to provide only the highest quality of service. Traveling by bus is a safe method…”
I continue mouthing the words, but my thoughts are elsewhere.
Are you watching? I think. Is the company happy with
their little puppet? Christ, this speech is awful. But, the speech comes, word for word, straight from the company’s corporate office. They like to boast that not a single word is written before it is tested out with the public. After all, they don’t want to offend anybody. Image is everything.
But, I follow directions well. That’s why I got elected. In fact, I am proud to say I can follow directions better than anyone.
Mercifully, the speech comes to the end. My public humiliation is nearly over. Just a quick bus ride to the next stop and it will be done. I take a seat in the front row. I had hoped to get a seat by myself, but, of course, the bus is packed. The bus takes off even before I have the chance to sit down. Goddamn bus driver, I hope he lives a long, miserable life.
“Boy, the company spares no expense, do they?” I think as I notice the big gash in the seat, and the broken window stuffed with cardboard.
I take a seat next to the first reasonably normal person I see.
Jesus! What is that God-awful smell?
I am wise enough to keep my mouth shut now that the camera is rolling. Look at me. I’m the good public servant. I ride the bus just like the common folk, so vote for me, and you’ll get more of the same. Higher taxes and more corruption, and that’s a promise? My driver better be waiting for me when we get to the next stop. I don’t make any attempt at conversation with the man seated next to me. I just keep my eyes facing forward, and wait, impatiently, for the next stop. It can’t come soon enough. I’m ready to put this nightmare behind me, forever. God! What is that horrible smell? Like rotten eggs…
I can’t stand it any longer. I reach up, grab the cable above me, and pull with all my life. The smell is worse than ever.
“Let me off,” I scream. And, of course, my trusty cameraman is right there capturing all this on film.
“Hello, Troy.”
The person next to me turns and I see that Ulysses has reappeared.
“Did you get my gift,” he asks.
I let go of the cable…
The bus picks up speed, and we pass my stop.
PASSOVER
I awoke to a world not my own…
Life in the City Page 3