The Birth of Dystopia

by A. Q. Moser

  Unexpectedly the home telephone rang.

  Sluggish I felt my way over the couch for the telephone and found the intercom button. “What?” I mumbled my word angrily.

  “Hello. Joel, is that you?” my mom answered. “I can’t hear you.”

  I wiped the remaining saliva built-up near my mouth line. “Yeah,” I said more clearly although the words what and yeah had the same lack of intensity.

  “Are you okay?” my mom asked, oozing sounds of concern with her deepen voice.

  I consciously rolled my eyes. “Tired, ma.”

  “Do you want us to come over?” my mom offered with great compassion.

  “I’ll be alright,” I delegated. “I’m just about to go to bed.”

  “Dear,” the worried voice gushed, “call us if you need anything. We’ll be right over to help you.”

  “I’ll be fine. I need some rest. Bye,” I replied as I proceeded to end the call before it could get started.

  Not even a second later, another telephone ring sounded.

  I reached for the telephone again. “Hello.”

  “Hello, may I speak with a Mister Joel Daniel Taw?” the unfamiliar voice asked cheerfully.

  “Speaking,” I answered cautiously.

  “My name is Jerry Fonal of the W.E.S., the Weekly Entertainment Show,” the voice explained, “and I was wondering if you were interested in appearing live on the Weekly Show. We’re willing to compensate all expenses including a stay in a luxurious hotel.”

  An intriguing proposition but the thought of further intrusion was alarming. “Sorry, I’m not interested,” I did not want to be known for being a witness to a hit-and-run trial.

  “We’re willing to pay you—” The voice faded as I hung up the telephone for wasting my time.

  Drawing out into the realm of frustrating, the telephone rang a third time.

  “Hello,” I answered suspiciously, not checking the caller ID.

  “Hi Joel.” It was Marie. “How are you?”

  “Good and you?” I replied the best I could—more responsive with every phone call.

  “I’m doing well.” Marie sighed inconspicuously. “I was wondering if you wanted to get together for dinner.”

  I did not know how to answer the pity question. “If you want to.”

  “I had the day off from work today. Can I return your cookbook and maybe have dinner tonight?” Marie begged.

  I had a sneaky suspicion that the ostensible plan for Marie was to know how the trial went. She was a good friend who lived in the same building two floors higher. She was always worried about me.

  “Sure.” I gave in despite wanting to be alone. Company was only good when it was needed. In this case, I needed the company of myself and even then it was getting crowded. “Bye.”

  “Great,” a cheery Marie replied. “See you soon.”

  After hanging up the phone I remained on the comfy couch. I just lay staring at the ceiling like I were watching the world pass me by. Groove upon groove of shoddy ceiling plaster had my attention. Some cracks ran deep through the irregular ceiling. Were they a result of water damage? Should I call the superintendent or just live with it?

  Louder it seemed the telephone rang again.

  “Hello, may I speak with Mister Joel Taw,” an intense voice called.

  “You have the wrong number.” I continued to express my lack of concern to this person. And then I slammed the telephone down.

  On and on again, reporters hounded me for my side of the story ever since witnessing the accident in April. I was stuck in a glass fishbowl visible for all to see. The law forbade me from leaking any information until after I testify. And now my testimony was deemed unreliable. So what more could I add that was not said already?

  For the fourth time, the telephone seemed possessed. I had no choice but to forcefully separate the ringer from its connection. Maybe there was little that one could do to hide from all this unwanted attention but at least I tried. No more telephone calls. No more anything.

  Like an annoying mosquito, a loud rapping came at the door. I was forced off the couch and opened the door.

  Marie barged in with two heavy grocery bags stringing her arms down in a monkey-like fashion. She moved her way to the kitchenette as if she were stuck behind a slow moving crowd. “I heard about the attack,” she blurted, fearing that I was harmed. “Are you alright?”

  I stared long and hard trying to comprehend why Marie had brought groceries. “Fine, I guess.” I shut the door but never left the proximity of the doorway.

  “You don’t look too good,” Marie proclaimed in a different tone of voice like we just met. She fixed her hair and wiped drips of sweat forming across her forehead.

  “I’m more tired than hurt.” I downplayed my courthouse drama for my exhaustion.

  “Are you sure?” Marie’s voice pitched in surprise. “The news reported a brawl in front of the courthouse while one of the trial witnesses tried to exit. It looked dreadful on the television. I knew it had to be you when I saw this.”

  “Security was more than adequate.” I simplified the situation, hoping Marie got the picture. “I simply want this whole mess with the trial over with as soon as possible.”

  “It was very frightening when I saw it.” With her left arm, Marie reached out and brushed my shoulder. “I’m glad that you weren’t hurt,” she asked, expecting to see bruises on me.

  Despite initially not wanting her to come over, Marie’s legitimate concern for my well-being left me with a feeling of guilt swirling within my chest. “Thank you for thinking of me. I broke my cell phone.” I had to give in.

  In high spirits as always, Marie smiled because I was being nice to her. She wanted to help me out as a true friend would.

  “We’ll get you a new cell phone. Changing subjects, I had some extra food at home,” Marie said. “I think some home cooking would do you some good. Maybe cooking could help you get your mind off the trial.” She reached into the first bag and pulled out two cans of tomato sauce, one green pepper, a package of pre-sliced white mushrooms and a small watermelon. In the second bag was a kilogram bag of mixed coloured penne, a can of concentrated watermelon juice, and a third can of tomato sauce.

  “Are you sure you have enough?” I sarcastically described Marie’s food delivery business.

  “You’re so funny.” From the third bag, Marie retrieved my cookbook. “Here’s your cookbook.” She wiped her forehead with one outstretched hand. “Thank you for lending it to me.”

  I shrugged my shoulders, as I never used the cookbook. “I never really use it. Do you want to keep it?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Marie smiled again and then returned the book to a plastic bag. “Thanks.” She then began ripping open the package for the mushrooms. “Can you please fill a pot of water for the pasta?” she graciously requested, pointing to the cupboard as if I had no notion of where I stashed my own pots.

  Fumbling in the cupboards, I retrieved a stainless steel pot. As I was filling it with water, Marie stole the water tap to wash the vegetables. I stood idly by and watched her relentless hustle to wash and dice the vegetables before I placed the pot to boil.

  “Can you please open the cans for the tomato sauce?” Marie ordered but in a polite way.

  Each of my actions was not done with the shear willingness that Marie was demonstrating towards me, but I did as I was told and that was all that mattered to her.

  “The sauce will take a while.” Marie scoped the diced vegetables and tossed them into a frying pan for sautéing. She wiped clean the water drips on the counter from the vegetables.

  “When are you returning to work?” Marie started her usual chitchat.

  “Monday, next week,” I replied on instinct. “The prosecutor told me before the trial began to take the whole week off. The good thing now is I can catch up on some sleep.”

  “That’s good.” Marie prepared the watermelon juice. “I took today off for you. I did not want you to worry about
dinner.” Her sacrifice showed how much she really cared.

  “Thank you, once again. I really appreciate it.” How many times should I thank Marie for her gratitude?

  “I was listening to the trial,” Marie brought up.

  I cringed. It was not that I had not expected it but it was the thing I had no inclination to discuss, let alone have it mentioned.

  “I thought you did very well given the circumstances,” Marie cheerfully acknowledged.

  This was what I needed to hear—words of encouragement. All of sudden my mood changed and I felt better.

  “Really?” I wanted to hear more.

  “You looked good even when the vultures of lawyers were trying to put you down. The attention-hogs were trying to shine in front of the camera. It’s all a popularity contest without any scruples for the truth.” Marie shook her head in shame. “You came out with a few scratches but your responses were firm and direct.”

  “Yeah I was.” The facial muscles must have been weak as it hurt when I smiled; it has been a long time coming.

  With my arms open, I reached out for Marie to hug her. She embraced me with her wet fingers spread out as if she had just finished putting nail polish on her fingernails.

  “Did you notice I got my hair done?” Marie displayed with elegance.

  I should have noticed Marie’s hair was shorter and less curly. “It looks really nice.”

  “The perm had damaged my hair so I decided for a normal cut. I also had my eyebrows professionally done.” Marie continued her full-fledged smile, typical for a model standing beside a new car model on display.

  I gave Marie the satisfaction of a good look over of her new headwork. “I’m sorry.” I turned away from her to face the couch.

  “What’s wrong Joel?” Marie’s arm ran up and down my back.

  I released a deep sigh through my nose. “Nothing.” I glanced down at my feet distracted by a hole in my left sock.

  “Are you sleeping okay?” Marie worried over.

  “Not really. Something is not right.” I had no idea how to address Marie’s question. It was always the insomnia excuse, an excuse that was growing thin, even on me.

  “You can tell me.” Marie gently dumped the penne in the boiling water and then lightly messaged my shoulders in hopes of inspiring me to convey my thoughts.

  “I just don’t feel right. It’s as if I live in some weird world where something is missing. You know that feeling like this is all life has to offer?” I turned around to face Marie.

  Marie nodded like she knew what I was talking about even though I had no idea. “Do you feel empty inside?”

  “I don’t know what I feel sometimes. It’s just that sometimes things don’t feel right and it’s like there’s nothing I can do about it because I don’t know what it is. And the worst part yet, things just keep on getting worse,” I complained, hoping Marie would understand somehow.

  “You need to stop thinking about the trial. Maybe you just need to get out and do something new and exciting?” Marie honestly suggested.

  “I don’t know.” I thought I was getting somewhere with Marie, but I was wrong.

  “Let’s go somewhere after dinner.” Marie cheerfully decided on my behalf.

  “I don’t deserve it,” I replied. There was no urge and no purpose to meet the world.

  At the risk of seeming cruel to someone who does not deserve it, I walked away from the conversation and sat down on the couch in the living room. The first thought to jump in my head was last night’s perplexing nightmare—a random scene about a terrifying chase of a guy in fatigues by an elderly man. This was enough to keep me awake at night. It just did not make any sense.

  “Relax and watch some TV. I’ll join you as soon as the sauce is ready,” Marie declared sympathetic to my cause.

  I agreed to the distraction offered from the television. “TV on, TV scan,” I commanded without the need for the remote control.

  Scanning through the channels, I caught brief images of what the channel was offering. A news channels was on its entertainment segment. A shopping channel had live footage of celebrities shopping for expensive clothes. There was a commercial on cheap suits for men.

  Marie came in with two plates of steaming pasta. “Dinner’s ready.” She placed one plate on my lap and squeezed in on the couch beside my feet and the armrest.

  I sampled the sautéed vegetables in the tomato sauce. “It’s very delicious.”

  “Is the pasta cooked right?” Marie asked with the conviction of trying too hard for a discontented fool.

  A quick taste test of the warm penne and I knew Marie had cooked it just right. I nodded and continued to eat. It was satisfying to fill one basic need that I had control over.

  “I’m sorry to say this but you look so out of it. How many hours of sleep did you get last night?” Marie rose in regret.

  “I get about three to four hours a night. It’s the same every time no matter what I do.” It was the same story I told Marie every time she asked me.

  “It’s so strange that none of your parents and relatives have this condition. Maybe you should take some medication.” Marie was referring to the sleeping pills.

  “No way.” I renounced the pills long ago. “It makes me sick to the stomach in the morning. I’d rather not sleep then puke in the morning. I wish I knew what was causing these recurring nightmares. I would pay anything to find out.”

  4

  “Did you want a glass of fresh watermelon juice?” Marie asked, as if trying to invoke a response from me.

  “Yes, please. The dinner was very filling.” I was satisfied and the juice would quench my thirst.

  Marie handed me a cup of pink juice. In a single gulp, I downed the fruit drink without spilling anything. “Aahhh, refreshing.”

  Pleased, Marie sat back down on the couch. “Do you mind if I try to find my TV show?”

  “Go ahead.” I was good to watch anything Marie wanted.

  Seeing the television remote control, Marie picked it up and switched to the Biography channel. This was her favourite channel because she has always wanted to meet a big name celebrity.

  The segment called Celebrity Undressed flashed an image of Mister Popular across the screen.

  “Oh.” Surprised, Marie looked my way as if checking with me if we can continue to watch this.

  “I don’t care.” I held strong and pretended it did not bother me.

  —Arthur Polar was born on a hot summer day of July seventeen in Los Angeles to proud parents Mark and Joyce Polar. An alcoholic father complicated his child years and at an early age he sought escape from the dysfunctional hardships through imagination. As an only child, he used his bed as a stage and performed in front of an audience of puppets and stuffed animals. He specifically focused on re-enacting movies he saw, playing each part line for line.

  As the physical abuse continued he decided at the age of twelve to take matters into his hands and run away from home.

  Living on the streets meant an impoverished life. His only means of support, and truly his first job, were small acting parts in film and stage. It was truly love at first sight.

  The difficult childhood and the lessons of poverty taught Arthur to embrace his acting destiny. He changed his name to Mister Popular as part of his acting transition. Driven to succeed at all costs, he had all his teeth pulled out and replaced with brighter and more appropriate flawless ceramic teeth.

  As a tall teen at six-foot-four, he stood out as the leading actor for the movie Tall Boys. Blockbuster sales of the romantic comedy had his name on everyone’s lips and his life would never be the same again. He was the living rendition of the pauper to prince story. The result was his electric profile that so many fans adore—.

  “That was a good movie,” Marie admitted. “He was born for that part.”

  “Never seen it,” I replied not impressed by Mister Popular’s early work and how he basked in the illusion of stardom.

  —In his personal
life, loose women abound, changing almost on a monthly basis. He was the hot new actor on the block and many ladies enjoyed his tall and proud demeanour. Living up to this giant status, Mister Popular employed only bodyguards no taller than five-six in stature.

  Mister Popular was plagued by self-induced scandals early in his acting career. Missing screen tests and delaying movie productions due to his over the top drug abuse. A man for change, he entered a drug treatment centre for celebrities under the advice of one of his bodyguards. Upon successful completion of the program, he had a new outlook on life.

  Mister Popular was not afraid to try the latest experimental genetic enhancements before its approval by the Federal Drug Administration. A regained youth and the charm of a prince made him a memorable persona that few people could dare to resist. Moviegoers flocked to his films and box office draws averaged well over three hundred million dollars per movie. His star was on the rise.

  His versatile acting skills had him acting in a variety of roles from action to drama. Critics alike gave him the credit he so rightfully deserved—his three golden Oscars could attest to this. Mister Popular drew on his past life experiences to deliver heartfelt moments on camera. He is quoted as saying, “people believe as they are told and hold true to what is frequently seen and felt.”

  Mister Popular was at the top of his acting career until the evening of April fifth while filming in Toronto. At a scandal crossroad, he arrested for causing a hit-and-run accident and fleeing the scene. This all-time high media attraction made other stories look like the girl next door—.

  “Please change, I don’t want to hear anything about the trial,” I pleaded, uncomfortable by the progression into the hit-and-run accident.

  Obliging, Marie switched the channel to a trashy TV/net talk show. It was those interactive shows where fans could follow it by social media and influence the show by communicating live with it. The format was very popular and Marie was hooked on it too.

  “I’ll let you find something else to watch. I’d better clean up.” Marie moved to the kitchenette.