The Oblivion Society

by Marcus Alexander Hart

  When Grocery911.com came knocking on the door of Stillwater, Florida, Bobby Gray was there to answer.

  After being hired as the chief e-commerce guru of the local distribution “hospital,” Bobby soon found himself pulling down an annual paycheck with more trailing zeros than a securely wiped hard drive. He was making big bucks doing a job that he loved in an environment that offered all the free snack food that he could pilfer. On top of all that, he didn’t even have to wear a tie. It was the perfect job.

  Then came the memo.

  The memo came down all the way from the CEO, the twenty-two-year-old college dropout who had conceptualized the business while watching reruns of E/R and jonesing for munchies at four o’clock one fateful Thursday morning. In the memo, he called the Stillwater office a “financial burnout,” noting that it was the only Grocery911 distribution center in the country that was not turning a profit and suggesting that the local team “couldn’t sell a dime bag to Tommy Chong at Woodstock.”

  The executive board launched an extensive demographic research study in the Stillwater area, leading to the shocking discovery that the town contained more collapsible walkers than home computers at a ratio of almost ten to one. Further inquiry showed that eighty-seven percent of the local retirees harbored a fanatical devotion to the local grocery store, which was peculiar, given that ninety-eight percent found the salespeople there to be “inexplicably rude.” It didn’t take long before Stillwater’s Grocery911.com distribution center became a brick-and-mortar 404 error.

  The concept of “savings” was completely foreign to Bobby, and soon after the

  “hospital” had cut off his life support, he and his overpriced, bleeding-edge electronics were evicted from his cluttered beachside bungalow. With nowhere else to turn, he found himself at the door of his sister’s unfashionable inland apartment, begging for a place to crash until he could get another job.

  Vivian reluctantly agreed to the temporary arrangement.

  That was nine months ago.

  Bobby pushed the hockey-puck mouse across the table and clicked open his email.

  “Let’s see … spam, spam, crap, spam, crap, spam. Ah, here we go. I got an email from a guy I used to work with at 911. ‘Subject: FW: Y2K programmers.’ I’ll bet that’s a job lead right there. See, no need to get your panties all in a bunch.” Vivian looked up from her paper.

  “Can you do Y2K programming?”

  “Sure, how hard can it be,” Bobby said. “All you’ve got to do is look through a bunch of code and find a date.”

  “Ha!” Erik laughed. “You haven’t found a date since the junior prom.” Vivian rolled her eyes.

  “Oh, man, this isn’t about a job at all. It’s just a list of crappy Y2K jokes,” Bobby moaned. “Yeah, this is a hoot. Listen: ‘Microsoft announced today that the official release date for the new operating system Windows 2000 will be delayed until the second quarter of 1901. ‘”

  “Oh, that’s a burn! Bill Gates is gonna be feeling that one in the morning,” Erik mocked. “Hey, is that by any chance from the same loser who had that bumper sticker on his car that said ‘At Intel, quality is job .9999999998’?”

  “Yep,” Bobby said. “Same loser.”

  Erik leaned over to Vivian.

  “You see, a few years back, Intel had this defect in some of their chips that would cause rounding errors in their calculations, and so-”

  “Oh, hey, Erik,” Vivian interrupted. “I don’t want to sound like I don’t care, but

  … I’ve got a headache like you wouldn’t believe, and … well, I don’t care.” Erik slumped back into the couch and took a defeated swig from his bottle.

  “I wonder whatever happened to all of those defective computers,” he mused. “I hope they’re not being used for anything important.”

  Bobby put down his keyboard and turned back to the television with annoyance.

  “Who the hell cares, Erik? Could you please just pipe down and enjoy this amazing CG-enhanced big-screen adaptation of a substandard ‘60s sci-fi kiddie show that looked like it was shot in some guy’s garage?”

  Erik pointed an outraged finger and drew in a breath for a heated rebuttal, but he was cut short by a solemn voice on the television.

  “We interrupt our regularly scheduled programming to bring you a WGON News special report. Live from the Oval Office, an address by the president of the United States.”

  “Thank God, ” Erik said. “I’m glad somebody had the sense to cut off the movie before they got to the stupid space monkey.”

  Bobby raised an eyebrow.

  “They had a stupid space monkey on the TV show too, you know.”

  “Hey, they ditched the Bloop in the middle of the second season because they realized it was lame. Unlike this movie, which is completely oblivious to how much it sucks. ”

  “Well, excuse me for inviting you to live in the now,” Bobby grumbled.

  “‘The now’ is greatly overrated,” Erik sighed.

  The graphic of the presidential seal slid off the screen like a squeegee, wiping away swirls of patriotic graphics to reveal the commander in chief sitting at his desk in the Oval Office. He wore the sharp navy-blue suit and powerful red tie that were requisite for a serious televised address. Tonight, however, his face was not the flawless mask of Max Factor perfection that the American people demand of their leader and their sitcom stars. His tired-looking eyes expressed the kind of schoolyard guilt that comes not from breaking the rules, but from getting caught doing it.

  “Good evening, my fellow Americans. This afternoon, in this room, in this chair, I stand before you accused of engaging in inappropriate relations with a certain White House intern. In response to these allegations, I issue this solemn promise to the American people: I did not make contact with that woman with the intent to arouse or gratify her sexually. Legally speaking, I did not have sex with that woman.”

  “So, to recap the conclusions of our nation’s finest legal minds,” Bobby noted,

  “gaggin’ ain’t shaggin’.”

  “Turn it off,” Vivian groaned. “If I wanted to hear lame excuses for infidelity I’d get myself a boyfriend.”

  Erik picked up the remote control and clicked a button, but the TV failed to respond. He turned to Bobby with frustration.

  “Your remote control sucks.”

  “Nope,” Bobby said, “that remote is top of the line.”

  “Then why can’t I work it?”

  “Because you suck.”

  Erik sighed.

  “That being said,” the president continued, “indeed, I did have a relationship with that woman that may not have been entirely appropriate. In fact, some of my critics have gone so far as to call it inappropriate. I am sorry that these people feel this way, and I vow to attempt to refrain from engaging in this behavior in the future.”

  Bobby shook his head.

  “I’ll bet that intern is under the desk giving him oral sex right now.”

  “Cut it out,” Vivian snapped. “I got enough of that today from Sherri.”

  “Oral sex?!” Erik choked.

  Before Vivian could reply with her stock answer, the room was filled with a shrill, ululating battle call. It was the ring of Bobby’s princess phone. His Xena: Warrior Princess phone.

  The novelty appliance consisted of a plastic cliff face with a touch pad built into its side and the warrior princess herself standing heroically on its flattened top. A life-sized replica of Xena’s chakram throwing disc was embedded in the stone, with a coil of cable attaching it to the base. Vivian grabbed the chakram, revealing half of its circumference to be the receiver.

  “Hello? Oh, hey, Sherri. Speak of the devil, and she calls you. What? No, not tonight. After today I’m completely licked. Come on, you should know how bushed I am; you were there!”

  Erik put his hand over his mouth and threw a scandalized glare at Vivian. Vivian pointed at Erik, pointed to the door, and made a walking motion with her fingers.

/>   “This matter is between me, the two people I love most-my wife and our daughter-and our God,” the president continued. “I must put it right, and I am prepared to do whatever it takes to do so. Tonight my family and I will retire to our private retreat at Camp Bravo to begin the process of healing as a family.” With these words, the president’s eyes almost seemed to grin to themselves. He blinked, and the brief sparkle was extinguished. He made a conspicuous adjustment of his necktie and continued.

  “Together in this darkest twilight of our interpersonal lives, we will breach the walls of blame and meet one another between the tall trees of forgiveness and pity.”

  “Man, he gets caught committing adultery and all of the sudden he thinks he’s a Successory,” Erik quipped.

  He pushed the remote control across the couch to Bobby and spoke in a high, crackly screech.

  “Change it, Butt-head!”

  “Sherri, I’d love to help you celebrate your liberation,” Vivian moaned, “but nothing on Earth or in Heaven is keeping me from getting to bed early tonight. Why? Because I still have to get up and go to work in the morning!”

  “I am honored to lead the American people in this time of great peace and security,” the president said. “And I ask you to turn away from this spectacle and return the nation’s attention to the challenges and promises of the next millennium.”

  “So help me,” Bobby groaned, “if he says ‘Because as a nation, we’re gonna party like it’s nineteen ninety-nine …’”

  He flicked a button and replaced the image of the Oval Office with the digital cable system’s menu grid.

  “I’m hanging up now, Sherri,” Vivian said firmly. “I’m hanging up. I’ll see you at wor … uh … I’ll see you around.”

  Vivian hung up the phone and creaked back into her chair.

  “What was that all about?” Erik asked.

  “Sherri’s going downtown to drink her last paycheck tonight,” Vivian replied.

  “Hide your virgins.”

  She returned her sleepy gaze to the classifieds page and ran her finger down the runny columns.

  “Hey, this one actually sounds good,” she said. “‘Bluestone Books is hiring full-time staff. Flexible hours. Competitive salary. Must be well read and knowledgeable about literature.’ Hey, that’s got ‘me’ written all over it.” She pulled a length of knotted phone cable from behind the couch, grabbed Xena around her waist, and headed for the kitchen.

  “I’m going to call about this ad,” she said sternly. “Bobby, turn off the TV and get a job.”

  “You got it, chief!” Bobby chirped, grabbing his keyboard eagerly. As soon as Vivian had disappeared into the kitchen, Bobby dropped his keyboard and picked up the remote control. He whirled its clicking shuttle wheel with his thumb, sailing without pause through a deluge of channel previews.

  “Crap, crap, commercial, crap, infomercial, crap,” he rattled as the channels shuffled by. “Ah ha! Score!”

  The cable menu flicked away, leaving the screen filled with Mel Gibson in Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome.

  “Ah, nice,” Erik grinned. “This is much better than that sacrilegious remake bullshit. This is a classic. I used to know it all by heart, but I haven’t seen it in years.”

  “Bueno, dijiste una pelea limpia. ¿Qué propones?”

  “Como manda la ley.”

  “El Thunderdome.”

  Erik blinked.

  “Somehow it’s not exactly how I remember it.”

  Bobby agreed with a slight nod.

  “Spanish channel.”

  He took a long drink from his Fusion Fuel.

  “It’s still the best thing on.”

  “Dos hombres, mano a mano, sin jurado, sin apelar, sin escape. Entran dos pero sale uno.”

  “Haha! I got that!” Erik laughed. “‘Two men enter, one man leaves.’” Bobby chuckled.

  “I wonder how you say ‘Bust a deal and face the wheel.’”

  “Bartertown has the most awesome constitution,” Erik mused. “All of its laws are like bad song lyrics.”

  “Well, what do you expect when Tina Turner is your mayor?”

  Erik nodded.

  “She’s cool in this movie, but I never understood her nickname. I mean, ‘Master Blaster’ I can wrap my head around. It sounds bad-ass, like the old Amiga game. But

  ‘Aunty Entity’ I just don’t get. Is it supposed to be like ‘anti-entity,’ like she’s not an entity? Or that she’s opposed to entities? It’s meaningless. The writers could have written something better. I could have written something better.”

  “You think so?” Bobby challenged. “Okay, Harlan Ellison, if you were living in post-apocalypse Australia, what would your clever nickname be?”

  “Well, let’s see,” Erik thought. “It would have to be something that sounded tough, so that nobody would want to mess with me. Something like … Erik the Barbaric.”

  “Ha!” Bobby snorted. “You’re about as barbaric as Bob Saget.” Vivian returned from the kitchen with a gloomy expression hanging from her face. She set the phone down, picked her paper up, and came to rest again in the prickly grip of the wicker chair.

  “No luck?” Erik asked.

  “They said that I was under-qualified,” she frowned. “Apparently their definition of ‘knowledgeable about literature’ is ‘Can name the last ten books by Danielle Steel.’”

  She noticed the TV.

  “Are you two actually sitting here watching a movie that you’ve already seen a hundred times, in a language that you can’t even understand? I wouldn’t ordinarily make this kind of a demand, but seriously, you two, get a life. ”

  “Ooh, you better watch yourself,” Bobby said with mock fear. “You don’t want to enrage Erik the Barbaric! ”

  “Alright, smart guy,” Erik snapped. “If you’re so clever, what’s your post-apocalypse name?”

  “Okay, brace yourself for this,” Bobby grinned. “In the world of the post-nuclear holocaust … I would be known as … Atomic Bob! ”

  Erik shook his head.

  “That is so lame. Did you actually think of that, or did it come directly out of your ass?”

  Bobby smirked and turned to Vivian.

  “What about you, Viv?” he asked. “After society has collapsed and humanity has been wiped off the face of the planet, what would they call you?” Vivian rustled her paper with disinterest.

  “Grateful.”

  “That’s worse than Aunty Entity,” Erik muttered.

  “Oh, come on, you’re not even trying,” Bobby said. “You’ll never survive unless you come up with a name that’s scary enough to intimidate a horde of savage bikers. Think tough.”

  “Bobby, I’m busy!” Vivian roared, slamming down her paper. “I don’t want to play this game! In fact, you don’t want to play this game. You want to get off your lazy butt and find a job already!”

  She yanked a page of damp classifieds out of her paper and thrust it at Bobby.

  “Here, just find one that you like and call the number,” she growled. “Thrilling career opportunities await.”

  “Bah,” Bobby said, brushing her away. “You’re so twentieth century.” He picked up his keyboard and toggled off his Matrix -inspired screen saver.

  “How about this: If you can come up with an end-of-the-world nickname better than the ones we’ve come up with, I’ll get on an online job board right now and apply for as many jobs as you do, one to one. Deal?”

  Vivian rubbed her eyes with her palms and was silent for a long, surrendering moment.

  “Do you promise? ” she said coldly.

  “Cross my heart,” Bobby grinned.

  Vivian looked at the ceiling and sighed.

  “Okay, how about … Vivian Oblivion?”

  Bobby’s eyes grew wide. Then he squinted.

  “Not too shabby,” he conceded.

  “Not too shabby?!” Erik squeaked. “Oh, come on! ‘Vivian Oblivion’ kicks your sorry ass, Atomic Bob. ”

 
“Alright, alright. Fine.”

  Bobby clicked defeatedly through the online job listings.

  “Crap, crap, scam, crap. Okay, here we go. ‘Major technology firm seeks qualified candidate for chief executive officer. Minimum five years experience in a similar position.’ There. Consider me applied.”

  “That’s great,” Vivian said dryly. “I think perhaps you are not taking this seriously.”

  “That’s not true,” Bobby said. “If we don’t aim high, we’ll never know what we’re capable of achieving, right?”

  “Very inspiring,” Vivian muttered. “Would you mind aiming a little lower with your next application? You could try to aim for-oh, I don’t know-a job that you could actually get on this plane of reality.”

  She picked up her newspaper and tapped her finger on the page.

  “Like this one, for example. ‘Waffle House seeks graveyard shift waitress. Competitive wages. Uniform provided.’”

  “Wow, that sucks,” Bobby said.

  “Reality sucks,” Vivian snapped.

  She gathered up the phone and retreated to the kitchen.

  “Why do you always do that to her?” Erik asked.

  “Do what?”

  “You do everything you can to avoid getting a job, and you don’t show your sister any appreciation for what she’s done for you.”

  “Oh, jeez,” Bobby moaned. “When did you turn into our mom? Next you’ll be telling me not to sit so close to the TV and to finish my peas.” Erik took a sip of his drink and pointed his bottle at Bobby.

  “All I’m saying is I think this R2 unit has a bad motivator.”

  “Look, Erik, you’ve got it all wrong,” Bobby sighed. “It’s not that I’m lazy, or that I don’t appreciate Vivian letting me crash here, or whatever. It’s just that she’s so …