Dyscountopia

by Niccolo Grovinci

  “Oh, shit….”

  A long polished trail led away across the floor to the west. The Wax-O-Maton was nowhere to be found.

  ****

  High atop the shelves of Automotive, Sergeant Alexander stood erect and determined, peering through her police-issue 20x magnification rubber-finished waterproof monocular, like a sea captain scanning the horizon for enemy vessels. “Where the hell is he, Travis? I don’t see him.”

  Fipfipfipfipfipfipfipfipfipfipfip.

  Nursing a strained neck, Officer Travis grumbled something inaudible under his breath. He’d managed to recover his Uni-scooter, dented but functional, from the

  wreckage of the mangled lamps. It was parked at the bottom of the ladder now, next to the Sergeant’s own scooter.

  “What’d you say, Travis?” the Sergeant shouted irritably. “I can’t hear you over that damned machine. For Christ sake, call maintenance and tell them to shut down until we’ve got the perp in custody, will you?”

  “They won’t like it, Sarge,” Travis told her. “Only a half-hour until Alpha Quad-fipfipfipfip. And they-fipfipfipfip-to do, same as-fipfipfipfip.”

  “What?”

  “I said-fipfipfipfip-won’t like it!” Travis cried.

  “I don’t care what they like,” the Sergeant barked. “Tell ‘em to shut down or I’ll shut ‘em down.”

  Officer Travis dutifully dialed up Maintenance as Sergeant Alexander screamed into her headset. “Unit two, unit three, any activity?” Her headset crackled. Fipfipfipfip.

  “Goddammit,” shouted the Sergeant. “Repeat. All units, repeat!”

  Both replies crackled back to her, louder this time.

  “Negative.”

  “Negatory, Sarge.”

  Alexander was growing agitated. With only thirty minutes to go until the early morning crowd came rushing back into the Quad, she was coming very close to an embarrassing moment in her career.

  FipfipfipfipfipfipfipfipfipfipfipFIPFIPFIPFIPFIPFIPFIPFIP.

  “That sunuvabitch!” the Sergeant bellowed. “Get his tag number so I can find him later and kick his ass!”

  Officer Travis stared dumbly back at her. “Got – FIPFIPFIP - on the horn, Sarge. They say they don’t – FIPFIPFIP - in this - FIPFIPFIP.”

  “What?!?” she shouted, placing her ear next to Travis’ mouth.

  FIPFIPFIPFIPFIPFIPFIPFIP.

  “They don’t have any equipment operating in this sector!”

  FIPFIPFIPFIPFIPFIPFIPFIP. Screeeeeeeeeeep.

  There came a loud scraping of metal and two ominous crunching sounds from below. The aluminum ladder toppled to floor with a clatter.

  FIPFIPFIPFIPFIPFIPFIPFIP.

  Alexander looked down just in time to see a Z-Class 38C Turbo-matic Ride-able Wax-O-Maton rumbling off at a high rate of speed, leaving a shiny, polished trail of scooter parts in its path.

  She watched helplessly as the Wax-O-Maton disappeared behind a pyramid of white-wall tires, her fingers curling into tight fists at her sides.

  “I hate that guy,” she said.

  ****

  “Morale problems, you say? This is the first I’m hearing of it.” Barnaby Edd leaned back in his chair, holding the telephone receiver to his ear. “What’s it all about? Oh I see.”

  Susan entered Mr. Edd’s office and stood patiently across the desk from him. Mr. Edd nodded and held up a hand for her to wait.

  “Well, I don’t like working early on Sundays either, but we all have to give 118 percent, you know. Oh, you told them that already. I see – well, sounds like we need to do another workshop like we did last month. Yeah, the morale builder, remember; with the human pyramids, and all the people falling backward and catching each other – that was a gas. Yeah. Uh-huh. What? When? How ‘bout Sunday at six. Great! No, I can’t make it; I’m having brunch with some friends. Have fun without me. Back at ya, sport. Bye now.” Mr. Edd hung up the receiver and turned his attention to Susan, his face exploding into a smile so bright it could have split an atom. “What’s up, Suze?”

  “Albert Zim, sir.”

  “Who?”

  “The one we talked about before. Remember?”

  “Ahhh, yes. Albert. Is he here?”

  “No, sir. The LPT are still looking for him. He’s given them quite a chase.”

  Mr. Edd’s eyes brightened. “No kidding? They’d better hurry. Our customers will be out and rarin’ to go in, oh….” He looked down at his watch. “Twenty minutes.”

  “LPT is aware, sir. We have a Sergeant Alexander on line one for you. She wants to ask you some questions about Mr. Zim. Shall I tell her you’re busy?”

  “Oh, no,” said Mr. Edd, genuinely excited to participate in some real law enforcement. “Put her through.”

  “Yes, sir.” Susan turned sharply and strode out of the office. Three seconds later, the phone on Mr. Edd’s desk lit up.

  “Hello. Barnaby Edd. Yes, Sergeant, nice to hear from you. Yes, I’ve heard. I know – Albert was always very troubled, never much of team player, I’m afraid.” Mr. Edd listened. “Well, have you tried talking to his family? Yes – a wife and two kids I think, and maybe even some parents. Alright, then.” Mr. Edd paused. “Hey, wait a minute Sergeant. Are you going to beat Albert very badly when you find him? You are? Would you mind not hitting him on the head? I’d like to talk with him when you catch up to him. Yes. Yes. Right. Have a nice day.”

  Mr. Edd hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair with a smile. There was nothing in the world like being a Quad Manager. You never knew what was going to happen.

  ****

  The old man stood next to the plastic trash can in the dim light. He stared at the purple stripe on the wall and wondered what the other side of the world must look like. He’d built that wall – not all by himself, but he’d helped. Someone else must have painted the stripe.

  “Are you sure you haven’t seen your son anywhere, Mr. Zim? We found the stolen Wax-O-Maton less than 300 meters from here.”

  The old man turned to face the Sergeant, a youngish short haired woman with her feet planted firmly to the floor. She might have been carved from granite. Next to her and a little behind, a bored-looking gorilla-shaped officer stood messaging his neck with a meaty hand, silently reinforcing her questions.

  “The best thing you can do for him now is to help us locate him,” said the Sergeant. She was obviously very tense and trying not to show it. “For his own safety.”

  Mr. Zim took a long drink from an immense plastic bottle, swallowing a mouthful of bubbly pink liquid with a well-rehearsed sigh. “Aaaah. Have you tried Yumble-Snaps new Watermelon Mountain Blast, Sergeant? It’s like paddling through a river of watermelony goodness with your tongue! Cool, clean, refreshing.” Tick.

  “Quit stonewalling me, old man,” Alexander growled, and Mr. Zim thought he detected a hint of amusement on the face of the man behind her. The old man looked back to the Sergeant with that glassy eyed stare of confusion that only the elderly can effectively perform.

  “I saw him eight months ago,” he said. “Or maybe ten. Not a very good boy – doesn’t keep in touch often. And you know, with Multi-tronics new 3 cents-a-minute plan, there’s really no excuse not to call your parents every once in awhile.” Tick.

  “That’s it!” barked the Sergeant. She took a half step toward him, her finger tips brushing the handle of her plastic baton. Officer Travis placed a cautioning hand on her shoulder and she shrugged it off, settling back into a state of semi-contained rage.

  “We’ll find him, old man, and when we do, I’ll have both your asses in a sling!” The Sergeant turned and stormed away down the aisle.

  The gorilla-shaped man approached Mr. Zim unhurriedly and offered him a tiny slip of paper. “Here’s our number, sir. Call us as soon as he makes contact.”

  Mr. Zim took the paper and absently stuffed it into his shirt pocket. “Certainly, officer, but I have to tell you,” he lifted the lid of the garbage can and tossed away his half-full beverage. “He�
��s not going to contact me. I’m the last person that little bastard would come to for help.”

  Officer Travis nodded. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Zim.” He turned and went off in leisurely pursuit of his sergeant.

  Mr. Zim watched him disappear, wondering how in all this world full of interesting, talented, and unique people, his son had managed to attract the scrutiny of anyone as important as an LPT Sergeant. He might have been proud, had he allowed himself to indulge in the sentiment.

  “You can come out now, dumb-shit.”

  Albert lifted up the plastic lid and set it aside, extricating himself from the contents of the trash can. His head and shoulders were soaked with pink soda.

  “I’m sorry, Dad. I didn’t mean to get you in trouble. I --”

  The old man shook his head. “Save it, kid. It’s better if I don’t know any more than I already do. Just get out of here before they come back.”

  Albert considered his father. Staring back at that withered septuagenarian face, he saw the father he’d grown up with; a lone, sturdy oak, an ancient builder of the world, a giant among small men. His was the only man that Albert had ever wanted to be like. Albert felt an urge to grab his bony frame in his arms and squeeze. But he didn’t. He only walked away.

  “Son?”

  “Yes, Dad?”

  “Don’t forget to try Hungry Eddy’s Three Cheese Lasagna Crackers. They’re just like a little lasagna crunching up in your mouth.” Tick.

  Albert nodded. “I know, Dad. I already did. I love them.”

  And then he was gone.

  ****

  Albert followed the purple stripe home, making a mad dash down the row of purple doors, his bare feet flapping against the hard vinyl floor. One-two-three-four-five. He stopped at the fifth door and felt around in his coveralls for his key card; he’d left it in his other pants. Having long since tossed any measure of decorum out the window, Albert threw his shoulder against the door. It burst open with a sad little crack and Albert hurried inside, shutting the door quickly behind him.

  “Honey, I’m home!” he called out breathlessly.

  Clackety-clack. Clackety-clack.

  “Honey, it’s me!”

  Clackety-clack. Clackety-clack.

  “Honey?” Albert made his way slowly toward the back room. “Honey?”

  There was a sharp knock at the front door.

  Albert froze. A loud thunderclap rocked his eardrums. The door sprang off its hinges and clattered against the opposite wall.

  The Lifter Pacification Team poured into Albert’s apartment with Sergeant Alexander boldly in the lead. After a brief search of the premises, they discovered Albert cowering under the cushions of his futon, squeezing his eyes shut and mumbling to himself, “There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.”

  Rather than chance any more attempts at evasion, all seven members of the team fired their glue guns at once, covering Albert in a searing hot layer of ooze that stuck him firmly to the blue, flower-printed upholstery. After an efficient but unhurried beating in which the officers were careful not to damage Albert’s head, the futon was whisked up with the perpetrator still attached and carried out the door. Over all, the visit lasted only 37 seconds, and the only evidence of their ever being there was a door lying off its hinges and a bare spot on the carpet where the futon had been. What followed was a certain melancholy silence that could only be described as anti-climactic, peppered with the whispers of Mrs. Zim’s fingers on a keyboard.

  Clackety-clack. Clackety-clack.

  ****

  Albert awoke to the sound of swarming bees and the uncomfortable pricking of a tiny jackhammer against his skull. He tried to move his head but couldn’t, tried to move his arms but couldn’t. He was lying on his back. Fluorescent light flooded his vision, outlined by shadowy figures. Something was about to happen to him – maybe was already happening. Something bad.

  “Is your name Albert Zim?”

  “Are you aware that you’re trespassing on Omega-Mart property, Mr. Zim?”

  “Did you steal a Model 742 Duffy Little Big Man Dirt Bike, Mr. Zim?”

  “Do you know the difference between right and wrong, Mr. Zim?”

  “Yes”, said Albert.

  “Yes”, said Albert.

  “Yes”, said Albert.

  “I don’t think so,” said Albert.

  Each question was asked by a different voice, but they all seemed to come from the same mouth. The answers didn’t matter. The interrogation was only a formality.

  Albert tried to focus on the inquisitors. “Where am I?”

  Something dripped into his right eye and he knew that it was his own blood. Someone mopped his forehead with a towel. He squirmed.

  “Hold still, Mr. Zim. If you wiggle too much, it won’t look right. We’re almost finished.” The voice was cool, focused, detached, the voice of an artist working his craft.

  Albert swallowed. “Is it going to be ‘bike’ or ‘bicycle’?”

  “Don’t want to spoil it. Just wait and see.”

  Albert waited, mesmerized by the light and by the buzzing.

  “Alright, Mr. Zim. Take a look.” The buzzing stopped and was replaced by a soft whirring as the back of Albert’s chair elevated him to a sitting position. The light dimmed and he was able to see the men standing around him.

  There were four of them, in dark purple suits with dark purple ties and pale, blank faces, huddled together in a small white room. A fifth man, thin and young wearing a baggy white lab coat that hung from his bony shoulders, smiled at Albert as he freed his right wrist from the Velcro strap that bound it to the chair. He handed Albert a plastic mirror.

  Albert gently grasped the mirror and examined the young man’s handiwork. “The others were in bold print.”

  The artist beamed. “I’m experimenting with fonts. Do you like it?”

  Albert nodded. It was ghastly. “I guess I’m going back to the roof.”

  One of the men in the purple suits cleared his throat. “There’s just the little matter of the confession, Mr. Zim.” The man’s tone was as empty as his expression, suggesting that any and all means of extracting said confession might be possible.

  “Okay,” Albert replied softly. “I confess.”

  The purple man smiled, even as his colleagues remained expressionless. “Thank you, Mr. Zim. You wouldn’t believe how many ridiculous excuses we hear in our line of work. Frankly, we find it insulting. Why, we once had a dentist from F Quad who lifted a roll of toilet paper; not a whole package, just one roll – tore it right out of the plastic, do you believe that? Well, he said that the public restrooms were out of stock, but a close inspection of the stalls revealed that ….”

  His companions dealt him sideways glances, and the man’s monologue evaporated into silence. He cleared his throat again. “Yes, well, if you could just sign here….”

  Albert took the single piece of paper with his one free hand and placed it against his thigh, then accepted an offered pen. He examined the document.

  I, ALBERT ZIM, hereby fully and freely confess to the following crimes perpetrated against Omega-Mart property and/or personnel (circle all that apply):

  trespassing

  failure to produce a valid thumb-print

  assault on a Guardian

  resisting arrest

  damage to fruits and/or vegetables belonging to the Omega-Mart Corporation

  theft of a Model 742 Duffy Little Big Man Dirt Bike

  destruction of a Model 742 Duffy Little Big Man Dirt Bike

  assault on an LPT officer

  theft of a JetCo 715 Re-chargeable Uni-scooter

  destruction of a JetCo 715 Re-chargeable Uni-scooter

  theft of a Z-Class 38C Turbo-matic Ride-able Wax-O-Maton

  murder

  Signature: ________________________

  Date: ____________________________

  Some helpful soul had already circled each entry for Albert and penned in the day’s date
. All that remained was for Albert to sign.

  Albert squinted at the tiny print. “Murder?”

  “Right,” said the purple man. “The murder of Victor Wyzack, your colleague.”

  Albert shook his head. “I didn’t do that – the shuttle did.”

  The purple man looked perplexed. His companions grew visibly tense. “Well, it’s already been circled, Mr. Zim. There’s nothing we can do about it now. See?” He pointed to the entry in question. “Circled”.

  Albert reached out with a shaky hand, awkwardly trying to steady the paper against his leg with his elbow. He began to sign his name.

  The door burst open.

  The pen clattered to the floor.

  A small, angry young woman entered the room, striding purposefully toward Albert with astoundingly heavy footfalls. She wore a glue gun slung ominously over her shoulder, and her gray uniform bore the insignia of an LPT officer. Another LPT officer, a man-shaped glacier, entered behind her.

  “Welcome, Sergeant,” the purple man greeted her uncomfortably. “So glad you could join us. Mr. Zim was being most cooperative.”

  “Get out.”

  “But Sergeant, Mr. Zim was just about to sign the conf--.”

  “Get out.”

  The big officer glared down at the men around him, driving the order home.

  “Oh, I see,” the purple man stammered. He nodded to Albert. “Have a pleasant day, Mr. Zim.” He exited the room with his four doppelgangers in tow. The young tattooist shuffled out behind them, peering curiously over his shoulder.

  The Sergeant regarded Albert as if he was a cockroach, ready to be crushed under her boot heel. “You, too,” she ordered.

  This came to Albert as a huge relief. He was just wondering how to unstrap himself from the chair when it occurred to him, to his immense disappointment, that she wasn’t talking to him at all but to the big man behind her.