Dystopia

by Richard Christian Matheson

  Magurk once told me that the ". . . meretricious bacteria of the American dream" offended him. "The sordid dealings and thieveries."

  He meant the music business.

  Washington. Democrats. Republicans.

  Bad music. Bad leaders.

  A gravity without planet.

  In music, Whatever felt the no-talents, with vacuous product, had ruined things. The money-machine that co-opted art and used it like cheap gas, ran the show.

  Whatever came into mythic immensity, and were enthroned in a world filled with barrels of oil worth $19.00, sold for $46.00. With peace accords that had ghostly half-lives. With meanings devoid.

  I wonder if they knew the mountain was there. That the distance between what they valued, and what the world had become, took them before they even collided.

  It's a thought.

  But it doesn't change the fact that I miss them. That they should never have stopped mattering. That they were forgotten and replaced, entombed by the manic decay of a vain decade.

  This is the last note I received from Greg and Rikki. They were in Amsterdam, just before Christmas, working on the soundtrack for "Void of Course," a satiric film about an American president who suffers a nervous breakdown and no one notices.

  The note read:

  RC:

  We've thought about your suggestion of doing a book about the band. We're going to pass. Not even sure we want to do the long piece you envision in Rolling Stone. Bands shouldn't be novels. Or manifestos. Anyway, we're over. Just an oldies-but-goodies tape.

  Stomp says the seventies were just the sixties with worse hair. We say the seventies never even existed. We ought to know.

  You thought we were about ideas, a certain Escher perception, set to music. But it's just rock n' roll. Comes. Goes. Fades in the rearview. Just like everything else.

  We've been at this party long enough.

  How about you?

  always,

  Greg & Rikki

  The Dark Ones

  The pain hadn’t stopped for hours.

  It seared his shoulder, and moving was making it worse. He shuddered, barely able to go on.

  Only an hour ago.

  The family had been together, the children playing in their favorite hiding place. The two of them had watched so proudly. They were lucky. Children were rare these days. And after her first terror with the Dark Ones, having a family had seemed impossible.

  It was getting bad again.

  What did they use that made their spears hurt so much? He’d felt it splay the skin out when it buried itself in his back. It was like no pain he’d ever felt.

  She and the children had escaped. He wasn’t sure where, North, perhaps. Away from where the Dark Ones could try and murder them.

  He, too, was tired.

  But he had to keep moving.

  Night.

  His eyes ached. He couldn’t see far ahead.

  The Dark Ones might turn back. He knew they were frightened of the blackness. It could be his chance.

  He stopped to breathe for a moment, and the cooling air soothed inside.

  But seconds later, he screamed.

  The Dark Ones had shot again.

  The thing was twisting in his neck, and he shrieked for it to stop. He felt as if he were going to lose consciousness as it tore and burned inside.

  She and the children.

  He had to keep moving and see them once more. He loved them so. He had to get to them before the Dark Ones found him. Keep moving, he told himself.

  Keep moving.

  But the pain was spreading.

  He looked back and saw the Dark Ones coming closer, shouting with glee. He couldn’t breathe.

  I’m growing weaker, he realized.

  Slowing down.

  He began to cry. He didn’t want to die without seeing her and the children one last time. But the pain was getting worse.

  He pleaded for someone to help.

  Then, suddenly, he felt it: a rupturing explosion in his shoulder, and everything went black.

  A thin rain fell, as the laughing voices neared and circled slowly, looking at what they had done.

  The body had been ripped and shredded, and oily blood splashed everywhere, dyeing everything it touched.

  As they worked, joking among themselves, they didn't notice her watching.

  With the children there beside her, she saw them haul her mate upward, and began to weep. Then, moaning a cry of eternal loss, which rang to the depths, she and the children plunged their great bodies back into the bloody sea.

  As they fled, seeking the safety of the deeper waters, the echoes of their cries were answered by the haunted, faraway responses of the few who remained.

  The Mail-Order Man

  I thought with the weather being so pleasant and all, I'd take a moment and share some acquired wisdom.

  To start with, hello.

  I'm the Mail-Order man.

  How are you?

  Do you need my VISA number or mailing or billing address?

  That's one of my jokes.

  But onto the acquired wisdom; a discussion of passion, if you will. Mine. Yours.

  Mine? I love mail-order. The way some people love baseball or cats, or driving through France.

  It all begins with catalogs. I love them; wait all day for them to slip through my mail-slot, so I can pour through the latest batch, note items I'm likely to order, and observe my mind drifting into another world. Maybe a world of bare-footed people, in casual, beach khakis, smiling and waving to me. Or a winter world, filled with Yule types, in red vests, sipping eggnog and petting happy dogs, welcoming me into their toasty homes. They all seem very healthy and have extremely white teeth. Have you noticed that?

  But my life is not without contradiction. For one thing, while I love getting all the deliveries, I send most of it back after a quick look.

  Partially, it's my personal ironic statement. Let's face it, we all need one. That way you don't become everybody else. Otherwise, who would anyone be? See what I mean?

  But it's more than that. The way I see it, what we receive in life, on any level, changes us. And what we return changes us, again. Choice istransformational; a measure of personal reality. I think about these things while I'm ordering stuff.

  I love it when boxes and packages arrive, wrapped-up tight like new lives; professionally sealed and insulated. Not unlike the way people show-up in this world. There are repetitive patterns everywhere in the universe. It's simply a matter of looking closely.

  Something I forgot to mention: one reason I return stuff is that I don't really need anything. I know what you're thinking: more irony. Got me.

  I'll say this: the world of mail-order is rife with potential friendship, a perk generally overlooked. Consider the 800 operators who take orders. An intriguing layer of a complex bio-system.

  Though I would probably agree they do listen with trained warmth, I believe in the divine power of anomaly; intimacy occurs when least expected.

  I'll give you an example.

  I once had an operator from Eddie Bauer on the line with me for nearly an hour, as I strolled the catalog like a huge, foreign menu. She was very patient, with a mellifluous calm, and she made friendly chat, as if we were on a date. She made recommendations about fabrics I'd like, items that might shrink, belts that were especially popular. Great talk, start to finish.

  Tell you the truth, I never had friends that patient, attentive, helpful or well-informed. I dream about her sometimes. I sense she may think about me, too. We really bonded, especially on that candid analysis of Polartec, a miracle fabric with many superb characteristics we both admire.

  By now, you're probably wondering about returns.

  Well, I do admit a certain ambivalence; it does bother me to send things back, but it must be done to preserve the rightful order; to protect personal autonomy. I know I'll miss what leaves, but it has to go home sometime; accept its fate, as we all do.

  And b
y the way, on a practical note, most companies, if asked politely, will pay the postage and handling both ways. Much like God does. More on that later.

  Personal confession: I once kept an operator from The Sundance catalog on the line for twenty minutes, asking all kinds of questions about Robert Redford, and what kind of person he really was, and if he really used the blankets and deerskin slippers, and how the accommodations were at his Sundance retreat in Utah, and whether or not he felt he'd really captured the nuances of Gatsby.

  She was a zesty, outdoorsy sort, with an easy laugh, and I will share this with you: I think she knew more about Bob than she was saying, since I felt a person like her would appeal to him, and he might have taken her out for espresso at some point, to discuss the product line. I bet he does things like that. You can tell the kind of person he is by the earthy esthetics of his products. I notice these things.

  Personal confession #2: Maybe I'm shallow, but I never order from the Victoria Secret catalog. Not because the products are gender opposite to myself, but because I suspect the operators are plain types and I just can't reconcile the contrast between that and the tanned thoroughbreds, with wavy hair and perfect toes, who bend and prance in the catalog.

  Like I said, maybe I'm shallow. But that brunette. She really gets to me.

  Necessary contrast: Not to be negative, but some of my experiences have been less than positive. And not to pick on Norm Thompson, who may be a swell guy, and has a very catchy name, but I once got into it with one of his operators. You know the type. Befuddled yet impatient. That tight sigh when I would ask questions about whether their poplin shrunk and at what temperature. I don't exaggerate when saying queries about thread count annoyed him.

  It's possible the operator was a prisoner. Mail-order companies employ the incarcerated to take orders; saves overhead. So maybe I was taking time away from the tunnel he was digging with a stolen spoon. Maybe he only had a couple feet to go. And then I called to order cargo pants. That would bug anyone.

  Still, attitudes like that give mail-order a bad name, and I think somebody dropped the ball, though I'm not implying it was Norm himself, who may just be off in some lake, with big hip boots, and one of his logo shirts, hooking trout.

  Better fronts: I like to order from Willis and Geiger, because they are polite and very proud of their heritage as clothiers to safari-bound royals, and Hemingway types, in general. Their catalog is an unshaven Mecca of stoic merchandise: bush jackets, boots for crunching across the Serengeti and sneaking up on snoozing rhinos, tough pants made of steroidal fabrics. Major use of epaulets. Leathery models who squint, keep one boot propped on a muddy jeep as they study a map, or sip Kenya java. Bold, masculine use of adjectives in the body copy. They speak in the first person, as if directly to you. It makes you want to wear an eye-patch and have binoculars hanging around your neck.

  Personal Confession #3: I always get strangely aroused by The Sharper Image catalog. Its colors are glossy, bordering on erotic, and its cutting-edge product line seems almost illicit; as if brewed in CIA labs. Lie detectors for the office, personal air-conditioners for your neck; exotica and personal comfort in one catalog. The guy who runs it looks a bit hypnotized to me though. Evangelical pupils. Nutty grin. Too Steve Forbes. Spooky.

  Grim Realities: Well, I hate to even bring it up the DAMARK catalog. You've seen it . . . it's kind of the orphanage of all the companies; the sad, wholesale gulag, where formerly chic items that didn't sell end-up. Factory re-conditioned is the lowest fate; just not good enough, or well-made enough for some other buyer. The products are photographed clinically, unromantically; like dejected lovers forced into common prostitution, simply to survive.

  I'm getting depressed.

  Not that I can't handle stress. Given my passion, stress is a constant. Mail-order, taken to heart, is not for the casual person. It requires organization, discipline, diplomatic skills, postal awareness and patience. When ordering, there's circling products, making calls to the operators, asking astute questions, giving them my credit card number and delivery address, taking down the confirmation number. Any slip-up could result in trouble.

  But as alluded to earlier, the real challenge of being a Mail-Order man is in returning merchandise. It divides the serious mail-order practitioner from the dilettante, or merely curious.

  For dignified and speedy return, proper tools and equipment are crucial. I recommend the following: stick-on labels, large stamp roll, professional tape and applicator, boxes and insulated pouches of all sizes, ergonomically-designed scissors, various types of insulation, command of Federal Express and UPS rates and policy. One misstep with any of the above can undermine everything.

  Further, all receipts should be maintained in an extensive computer file for ease of turnaround. As in any sophisticated enterprise, order is key to mastery. One must fully comprehend item numbers, colors, fabrics, sizes, descriptions, prices, applicable taxes - depending on state shipped from, shipping costs, package weight and specified period for return. Trust me, it's a lot to keep track of, and can be a daunting prospect to those naive in mail-order's myriad ways. But always, professionalism and preparation are key in the assemblage of a highly efficient home reception/assessment/ return hub.

  Sometimes I get so thrilled by it all, even describing it makes my heart race. I feel like I'm falling in love with it, all over again.

  But here's the real secret people don't realize about mail-order: it's almost exactly like life itself. Here's what I mean: when you order something from a catalog, you don't know how it will actually be: how it will fit, how bright the colors will be, what the fabric will feel like, how heavy, shiny or well designed, how well it works, how easily it can be cleansed of life's impurities and set-backs. It's like human experience. Like your life, like mine, like everybody's. See the analogy?

  It gets better.

  When you phone-in an order, or fill-out the form, no matter what you're ordering it's like investing in the future; acknowledging that there is more to come; you are communing with fate, via participation in spiritual commerce. Some might call that prayer.

  But what I'm talking about is faith.

  Trusting that one's limited awareness of what can be is sufficient to believe in it.

  Commitment.

  Farmers grow crops without exact prediction of success. Women become pregnant under like conditions. Scientists wait for results. Fishermen head out to sea, without knowing if their catch may be big or small. It's all a gamble, an optimistic leap of faith. And we're all susceptible to bleak surprises. In life, some of us have Small futures, some Medium or Large, some Extra Large.

  And you never know the fit until the package arrives; until the truth reveals itself, you might say.

  Irony. I never get tired of it.

  Before we finish, let me clear up one thing: when you skim a catalog, I don't suggest it's the Bible; that would be excessive. But catalogs are rich with remarkable things; originality, invention, beauty. People and places God himself might enjoy.

  Final Confession: Sometimes, when I feel lonely or unloved, and can't sleep, I turn-on my bedside light and skim catalogs. I look at the happy people and don't feel as lonely anymore. Then, I call the 24 hour, 800 numbers indicated, and order something. Anything will do; keeping the higher channel open is what's important; maintaining flow, cosmic and otherwise. And soon, as with answered prayer, things start to arrive.

  And for a few days, when everything shows up, and fills my house with factory-fresh perfection, I can pretend I'm as good-looking, carefree and loved as people I could never be.

  God has a plan.

  He even calls part of it deliverance.

  Irony.

  Mugger

  Nov. 1997

  NEW YORK SHITTY (ha-ha)

  Dear Sally,

  Well luck's pickin' me up off my uglee ugli face.

  Eddie and me got some hot ones tonight but I think we're on the outs even so.

  Check out what happened:


  We're on 40th and Temple right? Street was dark and smelled like death-puke as usual and Eddie all-of-a-sudden sees this freako right? So he sticks the thing in yancks out the gooeys and the nutcase starts screemin'. We had the gooeys in our hands pulsin' and jumpin'. So we snipped the slimeys holdin' 'em in and stuck the gooeys in our freezo-bag.

  Then we held down this screemin' nutcase and Eddie sewed his two holes up real snug just weavin' weevin' the ol' needle through zip-zap just like that. Real neat lookin'.

  Then Eddie he says to me, "hey man were fuckin' outta here." And he tells me to pour some alcohol all over this guys face. So the guy tries to reach up to me from the siidewlk and I just kick him away and pour the stuff on him and the nutcase just screems and Eddie yells at him and tells him to shut the fuck up.

  So me and Eddie haul outta there and hit some old freakos a few more blocks up, right? Eddie gets their gooeys while I hold 'em down, and after we sew 'em and sauce 'em we go to the Creepo and he offers practicly nothin' for what we got in the pouch 'cuz the gooeys are too old. Have cat'rats, or some bulshit. Says half of it ain't any good after he tests it on the gizzmos and aren't we 2 dumb pricks for hittin' old freakos.

  So Eddie gets real hot and tells the guy we can sell it somewhere else and the Creepo just lafs and finally Eddie and me get in a big rguminnt rgummint fite and I say let's take what he's offerin' and Eddie says fuck what he's offerin'. Eddie grabs me and throws me against the Creepo's metal cage and some blood leeks out of my mowth and I get nutso and kick Eddie hard in the balls and he starts howlin' and I take the freezo pouch and hand it over to the Creepo and take the cash and split.

  Tell you one thing Sally me and Eddie run into each other, forgit it man. Bet he's pissed.

  So now I got me some dog dinner and I'm writin' to you to tell you how much I miss you and wanna mary you. I want you to hurri home and not make me crazy. I'm gonna get you outta that plase. We gotta be 2gethar. Hope they're not making you bloat-up all the time. It really pisses me off. This is bulshit.