Etiquette for the End of the World

by Jeanne Martinet

  Somewhat cautiously, Stuart told Tess, “I just read something a couple of months ago about a new advancement in nano-biotechnology. Some scientists—I can’t remember where—have figured out how to make a new kind of complex microscopic biological machine by rewiring the DNA in yeast.”

  “There’s wiring in yeast?”

  “It’s complicated, never mind. But I go to D.C. every other week for meetings on my own project. Sometimes I overhear things … . I’m not saying I heard anything about insects and computers. It’s just that … well, I’d love to tell you it’s not at all possible, but frankly it doesn’t really sound that far afield from some of the things they are doing in the areas of nano-biotechnology and nano-genetics.”

  “Nano-genetics? Isn’t that something from Dr. Who?”

  Stuart ignored her; he was lost in his train of thought. “If that was to actually happen, if someone was insane enough to actually create microscopic live coleoptera, which ate up computer circuits … .” Tess leapt away from the water’s edge a few yards to avoid a rogue wave, but Stuart paid no notice as the surf sloshed up around his shins, soaking the end of his rolled-up pants. “Nothing would function—banks, airports, stores, power plants, satellites, prisons, TV and radio stations, trains … . I guess older cars would work, but they could not get gas, all the gas stations pumps are computerized. Man, all those ham radio operators would be some kind of smug.”

  Having gotten as far as the first condos in Dewey, they automatically turned around and headed back north. “Tess, if you are really convinced of this I think you have to try to tell someone: the FBI, CIA, the mayor’s office, someone.”

  Alarmed all over again, Tess asked if he would go with her to report the story. “They will believe you—you’re a scientist, you know people!”

  Stuart didn’t answer. In the silence, the crashing of the waves—waves they could not longer see clearly in the dark—seemed louder.

  “Stuart?” Tess prompted.

  “Well, I mean … I can’t do that.”

  “Why not? You just said …”

  “I know, I know, but … Tess, I’m sorry, with my job, they don’t like wild ideas out of nowhere. I can’t risk my reputation by going to someone with this. For one thing I’m about to get a promotion … .”

  “But, Stuart, you just said the science was possible, like, that it could actually work, this computer bug thing. So if you believe it, why can’t you—”

  “I said it might be possible, not that I believe it was happening. Really, we’re just letting our imaginations go. As you say, this is not Dr. Who, it’s reality. It’s still just the word of some librarian you met, who isn’t even there anymore, and a missing book. And your AWOL boyfriend.”

  “That’s what Ginny keeps saying.”

  At this, Stuart continued backpedaling. “There you go. It’s not likely anybody like this British dude would have any idea how to begin to make such a thing, even if he had the blueprints for it. It would be an impossible enough task for the country’s top scientists. I think you’ve been spending too much time around these WOOSH people. As far as this Peter guy goes, he sounds like an operator. I’m more worried about this person who you say slashed your coat. Did you go to the police? Do you still have the coat?”

  “No, you don’t understand—it was a tiny hole; it might not have even been him. Anyway that’s not the point. That’s minor compared to … .” She trailed off, and they walked along for a few minutes without speaking.

  “I’ll tell you what.” Stuart said, putting an arm around her shoulder. “I’ll try to see what I can find out in a general sense. I know someone who works at NIH, and she knows a lot of other government scientists.”

  But Tess knew her brother. He was a conformist all the way to his marrow and had spent his whole life shying away from anything remotely weird. She could not count on his help in this. Still, she was happy to be spending time with Stuart, to be talking with him again. Walking in the wet sand beside him with the salty air in her face, as she had done every summer for more than thirty years, she felt she could handle whatever came next.

  “Hey, how about a game of pinball for old time’s sake?” Tess said, taking his arm.

  ***

  CHAPTER 6

  Etiquette for Emergencies

  Rules of Conduct for When You Are Caught Red-Handed:

  Even people who were stringently law-abiding until December 2012 are going to find themselves on the wrong side of the authorities now, on occasion. Why? Because everyone is the authority now. Pick a can of beans from the wrong shelf, a daisy from the wrong field, or a berry from the wrong bush and you might find yourself in Big Trouble.

  But here’s the thing: Sometimes rules are made to be broken. Maybe it’s because they are dumb rules, or maybe it’s because you are helping someone by breaking them. Whatever the reason for it, you should always break rules with caution, style, and finesse.

  One of the biggest challenges we face is how to retain your good manners when confronted by an authority figure or person in power—someone who has accosted you in the process of doing something that is considered to be against the rules. In some cases, such as when you have commandeered food or clothing, you may have to acknowledge your wrongdoing, and in others, such as walking on what turns out to be a path under someone else’s jurisdiction, you may choose to claim ignorance. But in either case, it is essential that you maintain your composure and treat the person or persons in power with respect. If you feel you are in the right, you may be tempted to be haughty; certainly, haughtiness might be perfectly justified, and will probably make you feel really super-great for the few seconds you are doing it. But in a world where the social order is so much in flux, haughtiness is now a luxury you can’t afford. Haughtiness could get your head blown off. Here’s an easy way to remember to take CARE when caught:

  § C is for CLARIFYING what the confronting person thinks you have done wrong. You do this by asking polite questions, without making sudden movements of any kind.

  § A is for APOLOGIZING, not necessarily for what you have done, but for any inconvenience you may have inadvertently caused the confronter.

  § R is for REASONING: Appeal to the person’s intelligence (even if they do not look like they have any), and explain why you are doing what you are doing.

  § E is for ESCAPING: Far be it for me to tell you to knock someone over the head, but this may be required in some instances. However, remember to always be as neat and refined as you possibly can be during your getaway.

  The Elegance of Courage:

  I’m not going to lie to you (though I have always believed there is nothing wrong, under certain circumstances, with a little white lie). Fearful, strange things are going to be happening, and you will often be hard-pressed to decide on your course of action. But know this: If you try to live each day as a joyous adventure, you will never go to sleep remorseful. Wounded, maybe. Incarcerated, perhaps. Regretting events that have occurred, probably. But not remorseful.

  ***

  “Tess, you cannot do that. I forbid you to go!” Harriet said forcefully, slamming a bottle of pills on the dining room table for emphasis. “Especially not by yourself.”

  “I told you, Harriet,” said Tess, “Richie is going with me.”

  “Who, Richie—the gay bartender? Oh, brrrrilliant! So you’ll both get rubbed out. Did you ever think that’s what happened to Peter Barrett? That the NSA guys got him? It probably had nothing to do with WOOSH!”

  Tess looked at Harriet, half bemused, half hangdog. She should realize by now that she couldn’t tell Harriet certain things. Like the fact that she and Richie had made an appointment with a man at Homeland Security to tell them about the missing NSA documents, as well as the missing Peter Barrett.

  Margie emerged from the kitchen with a bowl of something that smelled wonderful. She had come over from where she was staying in Brooklyn to cook dinner for the three of them.

  “Okay, tell me: What is i
t that Tess can’t do?”

  Tess turned to Margie. “Was Harriet like this when you were living in New York?”

  “Of course,” said Margie serenely, dishing a spoonful of what looked like paella onto Harriet’s plate. “Why do you think I moved to Mexico?”

  “Hey!” snorted Harriet, “That is not at all funny, Marge Adams.” She stared disapprovingly at Margie, but it was a much milder response than Tess would have expected. Tess was in awe of Margie’s relationship with Harriet. Tess would never dare sass her like that. She’d fear the ensuing explosion too much. She always felt like Harriet could cause spontaneous combustion with a single look.

  “In fact, Tess,” said Harriet, a sudden gleam in her eye, “you should go back to Mexico. I’ll give you my house. I’ll phone Carlos and Ana. They’ll love it. Stay as long as you want. Swim in the pool. Go off to the ruins, anything. Just don’t get mixed up with the spooks, Tess!”

  Harriet, true bohemian that she was, equated the CIA and anyone of their ilk with Satan—that is, if she had believed in Satan. “You’re not safe going there! You must call me and let me know every fifteen minutes that you are okay.”

  “Can’t you just go to the police? The good old NYPD?” asked Margie.

  “She already did that!” said Harriet, exasperated.

  It was true. Tess had gone to her local police precinct, on 82 Street near Columbus, in kind of a flail when she got home from Rehoboth. She had just walked in, which in retrospect was probably a mistake. She could see they thought she was a loony the minute she had to explain that WOOSH stood for the World Organization for Omniscient Solstice Harbingers. Tess tried to tell a young cop the whole story about the missing library book and Alfred Hassenbach, but the woman just looked askance and said, “Lady, listen, we don’t handle overdue library books.”

  When she told Richie what had happened, he surprised the hell out of her by telling her his cousin had a friend who worked at Homeland Security in the New York office, and if she wanted, he would see if he could set up an appointment. He would even go with her.

  “Margie, this is wonderful paella,” said Tess. “How are you adjusting being back in the U.S.? I bet Park Slope looks a lot different since the last time you were there.” She was hoping to change the subject but it was no use.

  “I know!” announced Harriet. “You should buy one of those homing devices and pin it in your bra.”

  “Just what she needs to do,” said Margie, “walk into Homeland Security wearing a hidden device. In her bra, just for extra fun when they frisk her.”

  Harriet looked scared for a moment and then finally gave up.

  “Tess,” Margie frowned, “I’m so sorry WOOSH has put you in this mess. I feel responsible in a way. I don’t think they would have written Harriet that letter in the first place if it weren’t for the two of us having published that book together, and my being associated with the group. They are the sort of organization that likes those kinds of connections. Keeping it in the family, so to speak. Even though Will and I were already ex-members.”

  “Margie, don’t be silly. I should thank you. I’m writing and getting paid for it. If the world ends, at least I will have had a good last year.”

  “Not if you’re in Guantánamo Bay!” Harriet gasped, her inhaler in her mouth.

  ***

  The Homeland Security office (Division of Homeland Security and Emergency Services) was at 633 Third Avenue, between 41 and 40 streets. Tess had not been in Midtown at rush hour for a long time. It was an avalanche of hyped-up, shoulder-to-shoulder people, mostly flowing toward Grand Central, on their way home, and Tess and Richie were going against the tide.

  “My god, Tess,” said Richie when they finally got to the building, “I felt like I was following a dancer, the way you weaved through the crowds on the sidewalk.”

  Tess smiled. “It’s a combination of my tai chi class—which trains you to center your weight and walk like a cat—and years of negotiating the crowded boardwalk in Rehoboth.”

  The security check at Homeland Security was not as rigorous as Tess had expected. They snapped a photo of them both and checked their picture IDs and that was about it. Tess could only assume there were hidden video cameras and infrared gadgets.

  Tess’s ears popped on the way up to the thirty-second floor. The receptionist asked them to wait, and they sat down on a brown leather couch. Richie looked very out of place here. He looked so much stiffer and ill at ease than at the bar, and all at once it registered with Tess that he was wearing a suit. It was an ill-fitting tan corduroy suit; he must be dying of the heat in that thing. Suddenly she realized that she had no idea where he lived or for that matter anything else about him, other than he mixed a great drink and had a beau named Jason.

  “Richie, I’ve never asked you—what do you do besides bartending?”

  He looked startled. “It’s okay if you don’t want to tell me,” Tess added quickly.

  “No, that’s fine. I’m a furniture designer.”

  “Really? Cool!” said Tess. Was Richie blushing? “So where do you … who do you design for?” Tess said, reaching for a magazine on the coffee table. The magazines were disappointingly normal—Newsweek, Time, People. People?

  “Um … I don’t really design for anyone. I’m developing my own line. It’s really just—”

  Just then the receptionist called to them, “Mr. Arnell, Ms. Eliot—Mr. Whitman will see you now.” Mr. Arnell? Tess realized with a tiny shock that she hadn’t even known Richie’s last name until now.

  Mr. Whitman was tall and thin, with a harried expression on his face, and looked exactly like most of the middle-management types Tess had known at Samson-Gold. He was in a small windowless office. Hardly a James Bond setting, Tess thought.

  There were two straight-back chairs against the wall, where he invited them to sit.

  Tess began to tell her story, in what she hoped was a calm and reasonable tone, throwing in the occasional joke to try to show Mr. Whitman she was just as sane as he was. He did not say much, though he listened very closely when she told him about the NSA document, as it had been described to her by Betty Phoenix and Gregory Frankstein.

  “And this Mr. Gregory … Frankstein, have you been back to see him?” Mr. Whitman wanted to know.

  Tess looked nervously at Richie and he nodded encouragement.

  “We went down there yesterday to see if we could talk to him again, and … his houseboat didn’t seem to be there anymore.”

  “Ah. I see.” Mr. Whitman tapped a pen against his top lip, as if considering something.

  Then he tossed the pen down on the desk and put his hands back behind his head. “I have a very interesting job. Do you know why?”

  “Why?” Riche and Tess asked in unison.

  “I have New Yorkers come in all the time with these wild stories, and they are all doing research for the great American novel, or the great American screenplay, or the great American TV show. You guys have a tape machine on you?”

  “No, of course not,” Tess replied, rather indignantly, thinking about the homing device Harriet had wanted her to wear.

  “And what do you two do for a living?”

  Tess hesitated. But there was nothing to do but give it up. What was she going to do, lie to Homeland Security? “I’m a writer. But–”

  “Uh-huh. And you, Mr. Arnell?”

  “I’m a bartender.”

  “A writer and a bartender. Listen, I’ll help you out with your background material for whatever you are doing, okay? Even if this crazy story were true, there is nothing I or Homeland Security could do about it— especially with no documents. If this WOOSH group is involved, and its headquarters is in England, it would be a matter for the British authorities.”

  “Yes, but …” Tess faltered. “I mean, wouldn’t you … shouldn’t you try to talk to Alfred Hassenbach, since he obviously had, or has, this NSA document? Maybe if you pressured him you could get him to admit—”

  “Look,
we appreciate your taking the time to come in. Feel free to call me if there are any more developments.” He handed her his card and stood up, an irritatingly knowing smile on his face. “And good luck on your endeavor, whatever it is.” Then he actually winked!

  Tess and Richie stood up, and Richie went to the door. But Tess could not accept that this was the end of it. “Mr. Whitman, we’re talking about the end of life as we know it on the planet! If Homeland Security doesn’t care, then who does?” She hadn’t meant to get so riled up.

  Mr. Whitman opened the door, still smiling, but it was a fake smile now.

  “Okay, you two take care,” he said.

  Riche touched Tess on the shoulder. “Come on, Tess.”

  When they were once again out on the crowded sidewalk, Tess was too furious to speak. Without thinking too much about where they were going, Tess and Richie made their way over to Fifth Avenue and then up to Central Park. The cool early evening air, once they were in the park, began to lighten Tess’s mood a little.

  “Well, I must admit, I am disillusioned,” she said. “Here I expected to have a bright light shined in my eyes, or be grilled about my cult involvement, and the guy didn’t even seem to care! I guess I’m crazy.”

  “Maybe he was just pretending not to care—maybe we were being videotaped,” suggested Richie.

  “Or maybe it was because you are a friend of a friend, so we were not considered real—it wasn’t official.”

  They walked past the entrance to the zoo. “Richie, there’s a place I remember in the metal fence up here where you can sometimes see the polar bear in his tank.” She led him over to the spot and they both gazed through the bars. They could see the tank but no bear. Tess asked Richie to tell her more about his furniture making.

  “It’s hard for me to talk about, but sometime I will show you my designs,” he said in his laconic way.