Dyscountopia

  “Who?”

  “The Amazing Bobo.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Someone who knows how to get things done.” The Doctor brushed the gun aside and lifted the shower curtain door. “Now look -- I think I can convince him to help. But we’re gonna need some bananas.”

  ****

  A day in the life of Victor Wyzack, floor manager of Toyland, Alpha Quad, Grid 717 went something like this – every morning of the week, Monday through Friday, he sprang out of bed at exactly 6:30 a.m. He showered for four and one-half minutes, just long enough to scrub his armpits and nether regions vigorously with generous portions of soap, rinse, shampoo, then rinse again. He spent the next seven minutes brushing his teeth, combing his hair, and shaving. “Cleanliness is next to Godliness” was one of his many favorite clichés, and in his mind God, though elderly and dressed in old-fashioned white robes, was quite a dapper fellow in that His teeth sparkled, His breath was fresh, and He never had a hair out of place.

  Inside Victor’s closet there hung an array of long-sleeved, button-front, stiff collared shirts in all colors of the Omega-Mart spectrum from the deepest plum to the most brilliant violet. Each day, he matched one of these with a pair of pressed khaki pants (always the same spotless shade of khaki) and topped it all off with the Ollie the Omega-Mart Otter tie that he saw as his signature, a symbol of his commitment to the company that had given him so much.

  Victor made a large production of inspecting himself in the mirror at every possible angle, ensuring that he was put-together enough to earn the admiration of men and the secret lust of young, slim, pretty women age 18 to 24 (preferably Hispanic, as it had often occurred to him, for reasons unknown, that these were the most chaste of all races of women and therefore the most suited to wifery), but not so put-together as to be mistaken for a homosexual.

  Victor was staunch in his determination to not “look gay”, and in his belief that, while all God’s creatures were deserving of compassion, God would almost certainly damn all homosexuals to hell for eternity, which goes a long way in explaining his genuine fear of someday discovering that he, himself, had developed a sudden attraction to men. He assuaged these fears by repeatedly telling himself that that kind of thing didn’t happen that way, but in truth he had no idea how that kind of thing happened, and so routinely (some might say compulsively) tested himself by clandestinely glancing at other men’s groin areas and/or posterior regions to see if that did anything for him. He was proud to report that, so far, one hundred percent of the time it had not. But he always remained vigilant, lest the gay bug sneak up on him and take him from behind.

  Breakfast came next and was always cereal. Victor was particularly fond of sugary cereals, with tiny shaped marshmallows, and made it his duty to try any new brand that he found on the shelf, pedaled by whatever brash, over-caffeinated cartoon animal was currently appearing on Saturday morning TV. He ceaselessly compared and contrasted the different qualities of each product, feeling obliged to do so as an informed consumer, seemingly oblivious to the fact that many would see his affinity for cereal as, at best, juvenile, and, at worst, a little “gay”.

  Out the door by 7:00 a.m., after adding that one final necessary trapping to his accoutrements. The Omega-Mart vest, that same purple uniform worn by billions of loyal soldiers, but pinned to his pocket a unique badge of honor that set him apart, like a sergeant’s stripes, revealing his place in the world.

  “Victor Wyzack”, it declared. “Floor Manager. Toyland. Alpha.” And the unspoken subtext, “I’m not the most important person in the world, but I’m getting there.”

  He believed this as surely as he knew the sun would rise (a fact that he indeed had little proof for). His sole direction had been, and only would be, up and when he reached the top he would only ascend further, to the very gates of heaven, and Saint Peter would meet him with a handshake, and possibly a cigar, saying, “Good job, son. You made it.”

  This, of course, was nothing that Victor had ever put into words, but it always lingered in the back of his mind, driving him to succeed. He was special; just a little better than everyone else.

  And though he didn’t talk about them, these feelings manifested themselves in a thousand unmistakable ways, from the way he purposely seemed to only half pay attention to the words of those he deemed subordinate, to the occasional short motivational pep-talks he would give others on “being a team player” or “giving it your all”. And though it was important that he remained above the masses, it was also imperative that he occasionally descend to their level, to prove himself a “man of the people”.

  To this end, Victor chose to converse about two very manly subjects. These included 1) sports (other than soccer), which he deemed the manliest of all activities, and 2) sexual intercourse with women, a subject he knew almost nothing about.

  As a man with what he considered to be rather high moral standards, Victor had, as yet, been unable to find that perfect mate, or, in fact anyone at all to mate with, but he’d just received a certain message on his home computer from E-Lonely.com that promised to change all that. And as he made his way to work that morning, after finishing his usual routine, he couldn’t help but anticipate that night’s impending date and the bawdy water cooler talk that would ensue the following day, elevating him to hero status.

  “Of course she’ll like me,” Victor told himself. “What’s not to like? She’ll fall in love with me right away, and we’ll have a night of incredible passion, and then we’ll get married right away and God will forgive us, and we’ll have two kids and get a dog.”

  On the other hand, the thought had occurred to him, spurred by suspicions of his own social and sexual inadequacy, that she might not like him at all and might not marry him or even call him back.

  “Then to hell with her,” he thought. “She’s probably some kind of sexually frustrated communist feminist.” To which he added, “That frigid bitch.”

  In short, Victor was a complex creature, like all of God’s creatures, and like all of God’s creatures not so much at the mercy of God but at the mercy of his own shifting chemical imbalances, as well as a cold and indifferent universe.

  ****

  THE AMAZING BOBO

  PAN TROGLODYTE EXTRAORDINAIRE

  (DONATIONS EXCEPTED)

  Albert scratched his head. “Pan Troglo – what?” His eyes dropped to the small yurt just behind the sign, made of old tires draped in black plastic trash bags. A dilapidated children’s jungle gym sat just outside the yurt, slowly rusting away.

  “Troglodyte,” said the Doctor breezily. “It’s Greek for cave-dweller. Silly, really, since everyone knows they’re an arboreal species.”

  The blood drained from Albert’s face. “Species? What’s that supposed to mean? What species?”

  “Now wait a minute,” said the Doctor, holding up his hands. “Before you freak out, I think you should know that Bobo’s DNA is 99% identical to ours.”

  “What?”

  “And he’s got opposable thumbs, just like us.” Zayus wiggled his thumbs.

  Albert took a step back. “What the hell is in there, Doctor?”

  “What’s generally known as the Common Chimpanzee, but he’s very sensitive about it, so I suggest you use the more appropriate term, Robust Chimpanzee. Now, Albert -- .”

  “He’s a goddam chimp?”

  Doctor Zayus put a hurried finger to his lips. “Sssshhhhhhh. He’s not just a chimp, Zim. He’s a goddam prodigy.” The Doctor began to whisper. “You see, back in ’26, the government was doing all kinds of experiments with chimps and apes and orangutans; trying to breed them up to be super-smart killing machines. Gorilla soldiers I like to call them -- heh-heh, get it? Anyway, they abandoned the whole plan after Omega-Mart took over, and they let them go up here to do whatever they pleased. Bobo set up his own business, offering advice, doing odd jobs – that sort of thing – for the right price.” The Doctor jingled a small, spotty bunch of bananas in front of his fa
ce. “That’s where these babies come in.”

  Albert squinted back at him. “How do you know all this?”

  Zayus shrugged. “Bobo told me.”

  “It talks?”

  Doctor Zayus threw up his hands. “Fuck me, Zim. Of course it doesn’t talk! It uses sign language.”

  “How do you know sign language?” Albert asked.

  Zayus grinned at him. “The Amazing Bobo taught me.”

  Albert considered the sign once more. “Well, he can’t be that smart. He didn’t even spell ‘accepted’ the right way.”

  The Doctor thrust the bananas into Albert’s hand. “Jesus Christ, Zim. He’s a goddam chimp! Just give him the bananas.”

  Zayus spun around and stomped away toward the little yurt, leaving Albert no choice but to follow. Albert’s nostrils detected a nostalgic scent wafting from the door as he approached. It reminded him of his only trip to the zoo with his grandmother, when he was just 6 years old.

  The Doctor halted at the rubber door flap. “Bobo!” he shouted. “Bobo! You there?”

  A voice replied from somewhere inside. “Ooooo. Oooooo.”

  The Doctor lifted the flap and entered, leading a reluctant Albert by the wrist. As Albert’s eyes adjusted to the dim light he was able to make out the yurt’s simple furnishings – a small table, a grease-stained mattress, a weathered burgundy arm chair – and in the chair, a chimpanzee; the first chimpanzee that Albert had seen since he was six years old. He was sitting on his head with his feet in the air, reading a battered copy of TIME.

  “Ooooo. Oooooo. Aaaaaaaa. Aaaaaaaa,” he said in Chimpeeze, tossing aside the magazine and slipping down to the floor. He cleared the distance to Albert in a single bound, snatching the bananas out of his hand and smooshing one into his mouth before Albert could even flinch.

  Bobo looked up at him and grinned, stretching back his lips to reveal a set of crooked, banana-covered teeth. He grabbed Albert by his arm and shook it gratefully. The chimp was amazingly strong; he could have easily pulled off Albert’s arm if he wanted to.

  “Bobo, we need to get back down into Omega-Mart,” said the Doctor. “Do you know a way?”

  “Ooooomp.” Bobo shook his head and wrapped his arms around himself protectively.

  Doctor Zayus rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I know it’s scary, Bobo. That’s why you’re getting paid. Now, do you know the way or not?”

  Bobo waved his hands erratically in the air. The Doctor nodded his head. “Uh-huh.”

  “…..”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “…..”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “…..”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What does he say?” asked Albert.

  The Doctor looked up at him. “He says, thank you for the bananas.”

  “But what else does he say?”

  “He says he knows a way down through a drainage vent, into the sewer tunnels below the complex. From there he says you can access the sub-basements and make your way up to the main floor. He’s been that way before.”

  Albert looked down at the chimp curiously. “What was he doing down there?”

  The chimp pulled his lips back from his teeth and patted the top of his head. He held up an index finger and feigned peeling it with his other hand.

  The Doctor nodded. “Looking for bananas.”

  The chimp raised his arms menacingly and made a scary face.

  “He says the way is fraught with danger. Many monsters.”

  Albert snorted. “That’s ridiculous. There’s no such thing as monsters.”

  Bobo turned to Albert, held a closed fist to his nose, and extended his middle finger -- a sign that even Albert knew. The chimp gave him the raspberry, showering him with spittle, then knuckle-walked haughtily out of the yurt.

  Doctor Zayus glared at Albert. “Swell! Nice going, Zim. No such thing as monsters? This from a guy who’s been on the roof for all of an hour now?” The Doctor raised his voice. “Did you think it was just llamas and pigs and chimps they let go up here, Zim? Because it wasn’t. There’s lions and tigers up here, too, Zim. And bears, oh my! And God-knows-what other demon hell-spawn, sprung forth from government experiments and unchaperoned cross-breedings and unfiltered cosmic radiation leaking in through that worn out piece of cheese-cloth we used to call an ozone layer. You mix all those things together, Zim, and you know what you get? Do you?”

  Albert’s face turned crimson. He didn’t answer.

  “I’ll tell you what you get, Zim! Some pretty fucking disturbing shit! That’s what you get. Alligators the size of a Volvo and two-headed razor-toothed dino-rabbits. And other things – things you don’t even want to know about.”

  Zim opened his mouth dumbly, searching for the right words. “I-I didn’t know.”

  The Doctor pushed his index finger roughly into Albert’s sternum. “That’s because you’re not an expert on wild, carnivorous, genetically fucked-up rooftop superanimals, Zim. Bobo is. You don’t see Bobo telling you about your job; how to peddle grapefruit, or clean up vomit on Aisle 5, do you?”

  Albert shook his head.

  “Then don’t tell Bobo about his! Now I gotta go out there and smooth things over. Thanks a heap, Zim.”

  The Doctor shouldered past him and stormed out the door, leaving Albert to regroup in stunned silence. When Albert finally found the courage to exit the yurt, he discovered Dr. Zayus standing next to the jungle gym, pleading with the agitated primate as it brachiated back and forth from one end of the monkey bars to the other, skipping two at a time.

  “Come on, Bobo. He didn’t call you a liar. He’s just new around here, that’s all. And stupid. Very, very stupid. Tell him, Zim!”

  “Tell him what?”

  “Tell him that you’re stupid.”

  “Wha…?”

  “Tell him!”

  The chimp abruptly stopped his swinging and dangled from the bars by one long hairy arm. He fixed his eyes expectantly on Albert.

  “Fine,” said Albert. “I’m stupid. Happy?”

  The chimp blinked at him.

  The Doctor waved him on. “Tell him how stupid, Zim.”

  Albert shuffled his feet. “This is silly.”

  “Tell him, Albert. Or spend the rest of your life on the roof with me.”

  Albert sighed. “Very, very stupid. Okay?”

  The chimp dropped to the ground and wobbled awkwardly over to Albert, waving his hands wildly in the air to keep balanced. He tugged gently on Albert’s sleeve and beckoned him to follow. Albert looked to the Doctor for help.

  “Well don’t just stand there,” said the Doctor. “Follow the chimp, Zim.”

  ****

  Single file, they crossed the roof, passing the hours in sweltering silence. Bobo didn’t lead them in a straight line, Albert noticed, but in a long meandering zig-zag pattern that took full advantage of the shade created by Omega-Mart’s sporadically placed air ventilators. The huge, cube-shaped monstrosities moaned and rumbled as they sucked in oxygen for the citizens below, providing clean fresh air with the added comfort of never having to go outside.

  “Couldn’t we find a way in through one of those?” Albert asked, pointing.

  Bobo’s hand made a rapid slicing motion through the air.

  “Nope,” the Doctor translated. “He says you’re welcome to try, but the fan blades will chop you to pieces.”

  Albert moved closer to the Doctor and whispered in his ear. “Do you think he’s still mad at me?” The Doctor nodded solemnly.

  Albert fell silent again, trailing behind the disgruntled chimp and scanning the horizon. In every direction, the roof was exactly the same; boundless, like an infinite concrete skillet under a searing, relentless sun. Albert wore a wide floppy hat now to protect him from the rays, and a pair of cheap plastic sunglasses loaned to him by the Doctor. A thick layer of face cream covered his cheeks and neck like vanilla frosting -- after the completion of Omega-Mart’s roof, sunscreen manufacturers had quickly gone bankru
pt, but the Roofers had found the beauty product to be a passable substitute.

  “Is it always this hot on the roof?” Albert asked.

  “No,” the Doctor replied, shaking his head. “It gets really hot in the summer. You know, Zim, people used to waste a lot of time worrying about global warming, arguing what to do about it. And then Omega-Mart discovered the solution; just build a roof over the whole planet and turn up the AC. Simple.” The Doctor laughed. “If God would have thought of that, he could have finished the Earth in five days and got a nap in before Sunday.”

  Albert tried to ignore him. He’d never been a religious man, but joking about God always made him uncomfortable. It made him especially uneasy here, in this open place, where God seemed to be watching his every move.

  “Don’t worry,” said the Doctor, reading his mind. “He can’t hear us up here; and even if he could, where would he send us that was any warmer than this?”

  Night came finally, and the scorching sun was replaced by a cold, lonely moon. The travelers made camp on the leeward side of an enormous trash heap, out of the reach of the rising hot wind that blasted their faces like an enormous hairdryer.

  After a short meal of Vienna sausages roasted over a trash-fire, Albert fell asleep searching in vain for the man in the moon. When he was very, very young, camping with his father in the last of the remaining parks that had not yet been roofed, he had always looked for the man in the moon just before drifting off, and he had always found him. But that night Albert could not find him.

  He fell exhausted into a broken slumber, stirred by the low, sharp whispers of the Doctor over the crackle of a dying fire. It seemed to him that, in the shady recesses of his half-waking dream, a mute and hunch-backed figure stood listening just outside the glow of the flames.

  “…what you’re complaining about. You’ve worked for less, and shittier jobs, too….”

  “…doctor-patient confidentiality.…who says I’m not a real doctor…?”

  “… a planet full of squirrels or something….glad you find mental illness amusing….”