The Birth of Dystopia

by A. Q. Moser

I nodded, the back door opened automatically.

  “Where to?” the unshaven driver asked before I got inside.

  I sat down and shut the door. “I want to grab some food from a drive-thru and then I need to be at Upper Toronto.”

  “What kind of food?” The unshaven driver cleared his throat. “Sorry for the rush, my shift is over and I need to get home for dinner.”

  “Whatever is on the way.” I was fine with any meal.

  The unshaven driver raised a finger and smiled. “No problem, sir.”

  The cab rolled down the driveway and manoeuvred within the evening traffic, weaving between the left and right lane to bypass the slower vehicles. He drove as a man on mission, not to bring me to where I want to go but to rush home, his home for an anticipated dinner.

  On the way, the unshaven driver noticed a drive-thru burger joint with an empty car line. As comfortable as taking strangers inside his cab, the driver spun the car across two oncoming lanes of traffic with the regard of a stunt driver and then scraping the bottom of the vehicle across the street ramp to the drive-thru. I watched fearlessly as if it was a movie and safety was surreal.

  The brakes squealed and my window edged next to a talk box. I rolled down the car window. The air smelled of fried grease and burning rubber.

  “May I take your order, please?” a voice cracked on the box intercom.

  I looked to the unshaven driver. “Did you want something?”

  The unshaven driver waved an open palm in the air. “No thanks. Dinner’s waiting for me at home.”

  I stared at the oversized photographs of the menu combinations. “One burger, hold the pickles.”

  “Any fries with that?” the voice broke through the intercom.

  I was hungry but not enough for side. “I’m fine with the burger, please.”

  “That’ll be four dollars and twenty cents. Pull up to the window,” the voice accepted under a routine protocol.

  The cab inched forward carefully driving around the bend to the window. A thin lady, geared with a mouthpiece for the intercom held out a brown paper bag and an open hand for cash.

  I claimed the bag and handed the worker a five-dollar bill. “Keep the change.”

  The worker smiled and retreated to the back. There was no line-up and so she was done.

  “All good?” the unshaven driver concluded.

  “Yeah. Upper Toronto, please.” I unwrapped the burger and chomped down on the warm meal.

  With a nod from the driver, we were on route. I would have made the seven o’clock appointment to Billy’s residence if not for Friday’s heavy traffic to the northern outskirts of Toronto. Now it felt like a rush but at least the road trip was satisfying with a full belly. The day fell fast as seven approached. The dark silhouettes of people and their vehicles danced rampantly about. Street by street, the journey to Billy’s mansion flew by.

  As the stone wall surrounding Upper Toronto came into view, I had the sensation I was visiting a fantasyland built on a medieval concept where knights and nobles lives were ideal and exciting. Meanwhile the peasants were excluded and forced into the mundane drudgery of life. Basically, Upper Toronto was a place far superior to any neighbourhood near my home.

  The security booth guarding the entrance to reclusive neighbourhood was closer than I thought. The taxi driver pulled in and stopped before the oversize stop sign.

  The gate guard stepped towards the taxi, his hands by his side as if checking for the baton and pistol. “Joel Taw?”

  “Yes,” I confirmed.

  The gate guard waved us through, recognizing me from this morning. Surprisingly, recognition had its benefits.

  We passed by the security booth and into another world where extensive driveways gave way to enormous mansions to house people’s egos.

  “Nice places here,” the unshaven driver admired.

  “Turn right on the Residence Royal Park. It’s the fifth street. Number twenty.” I was on a mission and cared little about the view.

  The mansions were less impressive and extravagant the second time around. The previous taxi driver had a keen sense when he so smartly explained that the richest people are not the people who chase money but those who chase freedom from it. He made an eloquent statement describing the main difference between the rich and the non-rich people.

  “Here’s fine,” I declared, eager to get out.

  The taxi came to a dead stop. “That’ll be forty-nine,” the unshaven driver requested.

  I swiped a Debit card across the electronic reader and watched as the charge was accepted. I even added a five-dollar tip for the quiet ride over. As I stepped out onto the street, the taxi driver signalled with a wave.

  Not seeing the vast, impaling gate from this morning, I had been mistakenly let out at the wrong mansion. I was staring at mansion number thirty with a similar barred gate but smaller in proportion to Billy’s. Even the mansion was particularly minuscule to Billy’s three-story Georgian mansion I glanced around and regretted not paying attention to where I was dropped off.

  By foot, I strolled to the correct destination. On route to Billy’s place, a slim, female figure paced around the gate I recognized. She held her keys in one hand and stared up and down the street in a vain attempt to appear lost. Was she a groupie trying to sneak in?

  When the slim lady noticed my approach, she bore a suspicious look on her face as if sensing something could be wrong; the kind that meant business if any harm fell her way. Then she turned away pretending my presence had bothered her.

  I proceeded to the side of the green, barred gate decorated with its elaborate frame extensions and reached for the intercom. Before I could do anything, the motion-detector videocom recognized me and unlocked the walkway gate door.

  “You know Billy Dangal?” A derogatory voice called out from behind as I reached for the gate door.

  I turned around to face the slim lady. “A little.” Divulging too much information could be dangerous for fear of harassment.

  “I’m supposed to meet with him tonight,” the slim lady defended, adjusting her thick-framed eyeglasses. “I wasn’t sure if this was the right house … or should I say mansion.” She deceitfully attempted some humour to win me over.

  “Sorry but I can’t let you in,” I commented, proceeding to close the gate behind me.

  The slim lady seemed flustered. “Is this his place? This is urgent. Please.”

  I shrugged my shoulders, trying hard not to give any direct answer—only an ambiguous one. The mere forwardness of the slim lady’s question was too much to handle and would be very annoying especially among fanatical groupies.

  During the little quarrel, the intercom beeped on. “Who are you?” Billy’s voice inquired.

  “Hi,” the slim lady responded in a hurried voice. “It’s May. You contacted me through e-mail. We also went to the same high school together.”

  My eyes widened. How dumb of me not to have made the connection. “I’m sorry, so sorry,” I immediately interrupted with an apology. “Unlock the gate door,” I requested from Billy. I extended my right hand through the gate door to greet May.

  May’s face clearly showed a discouraging look as she probably regarded me as a hired hand. She cared not to respond nor act.

  “I was the one who e-mailed you back. I’m Joel.” Why did May not recognize me?

  May extended her hand with her palm facing down as if I had to kiss it. “And you are?”

  May squinted her eyes using the thick-framed eyeglasses to examine my credibility. A look she bore well as giving off the professional intellectual look common to high-class society. She then shook her head unconsciously while dropping her chin. Her demeanour was cautious, as if I were playing her.

  While still holding May’s fingertips, the gate door unlocked. She promptly pulled her hand back and proceeded through while I held the gate open.

  “Sorry.” I felt bad for shutting the gate on May.

  May continued with her studious stare.
“How do you know about the e-mail?” she demanded suspiciously.

  “I typed the e-mail out using Billy’s account,” I acknowledged. “About the connection between the nightmare and his music video.”

  “He told you about the dream?” May’s stance changed immediately to confusion as one left to ponder what to believe and who to trust.

  “I had the same nightmare.” I walked ahead a few steps thinking matters were settled, only to realize that May had remained by the gate, holding it open.

  May was torn between fear and curiosity as to whether to even approach the mansion. I stopped and looked back. I waved at her to come over.

  “I don’t know about this. This could be a mistake. I need to go now. Ciao.” Frightened, May excused herself from going any further.

  My plea did little to ease the matter. “Please. Can I explain the situation?” I hastily replied while gesturing for May not to move. “There are four of us that had the exact same nightmare and probably additional common nightmares. Then Billy made a music video, the steamboat one but altered it a bit. You and another person contacted him through e-mail but he trashed your e-mails. I, on the other hand, went to his concert and confronted him about who made the video. After we had worked out a few minor difficulties, I convinced him to contact you and the other guy. But Billy didn’t want to reply to the e-mails because he thought you two were a bunch of wacks so I replied in his place.”

  “How did we all have the same dream?” May continued to survey her surroundings.

  “That’s what I was hoping you guys may be able to answer.” I paused to catch my breath. “Please don’t leave,” I pleaded, not knowing what else to say or do.

  Originally perked equally on both legs, May changed her stance and leaned on just one. It was as if half of her believed she made a mistake by coming while the other half was curious as to what was going on. Her eyes widen and she seemed to be giving in. Then she boldly let go of the gate and together we marched up the stretch of driveway without a word. I tried to walk slowly to match her cautious speed.

  By the front entrance Billy stood watch waiting for our arrival. “Joel.” He waved at us. “What took you so long?”

  “Hey Billy, just taking our time,” I shouted back.

  “Hello Billy,” May responded contently. “Nice to meet you again. It’s been a long time since high school.”

  We ascended the stairs of the massive front porch in tandem.

  “Please call me Coax.” Billy reached for May’s hand before she had a chance to say anything, and leaned in to kiss her on the cheek. “Come in,” he said kindly, bracing her left arm to guide her inside.

  I wanted to shake Billy’s hand but he seemed more preoccupied in escorting the new guest. As May passed through the front double doors, Billy stared several times over at her backside.

  In the brightness of the marble-white foyer, May’s fair hair dangled wildly over her leather jacket. She sported a black jean skirt that reached past her knees and tightly gripped her slim body.

  Billy watched on, satisfied by May’s acquaintance. “May I offer you a beverage?”

  With poise May slipped out of her hip-high red jacket to reveal a black blouse. Her leather jacket matched her red ankle boots while her nylon stockings coordinated with her blouse. She nodded graciously. “Do you have anything fruity?” she said, bubbling with excitement.

  Billy smirked and made his way to the convenient bar situated adjacent to the stairwell. His expertise with drinks was soon evident as bottles were simultaneously poured and placed back with the greatest of care. He returned with an alcoholic concoction in a wide-rimmed glass coated in a coloured sugar and handed it over to May.

  May sipped the red, resplendent cocktail and smiled ecstatically as if given expensive champagne. A few more sips followed before she became aware of her surroundings. “Your place is amazing,” she stated jawed-eyed, “and so spacious.”

  “Thanks. I get that a lot.” Billy simply brushed the comment off and headed straight down the long hall, motioning us to follow him.

  May followed, still amazed by her surroundings.

  With a pulsating dryness lining my mouth, I was thirsty. Complementing my rushed burger dinner, I grabbed a stock glass from the bar and clumsily made myself a rye and ginger. All the time vigilantly keeping an eye on their direction—down the hallway second or third door to the right.

  Losing sight of them, I followed their perceived path down a long corridor turning right at the second ajar door. Descending a set of steps to the basement, the flooring looked less expensive as a cheaper marble used but definitely more expansive than what I had at my apartment. The hint of red streaks throughout each marbled tile added a cheapness found in lower grade marble. Billy must have like marble, as it was everywhere.

  I stood on the last step only to see a vast number of corridors. Left, right and straight ahead, leading into multiple rooms. I was lost. Should I go back upstairs?

  “Where’s Joel?” Billy’s voice echoed, inquiring to my whereabouts.

  Moving left towards the voice, I joined up with Billy and May. I was surprised to see them waiting for me. It was satisfactory to be finally noticed.

  Following Billy, we moved down a corridor that seemed to shrink and get tighter with its myriads of music awards plastered on the walls. We passed a weight room harbouring over thirty exercise machines. Finally he stopped a few steps before an undecorated doorway, one with a wooden mainframe of about two feet thick.

  “Please go in,” Billy implored, waving us to go in.

  20

  Inside, a classical billiard table was centred in the room along with old patio chairs lining the walls. An old lime rug supported the billiard table. A single fluorescent lamp located over the table illuminated the billiard room. The light was strong enough to shed light on the various drink stains on the grassy felt of the billiard table yet left the rest of the room poorly lit. There was a miniscule side bar comprised mainly of a few bottles of rum, vodka, and carbonated colas.

  A stern man sat silently by the doorway with his arms crossed. Basically a rounded individual with a fuzzy beard drizzled with grey strands and long, unkept hair that covered his ears. My first impression was a scholarly type proficient in the areas of schooling.

  As May and I shuffled aside to the left, Billy stepped in with open arms.

  “This is Wolfgang T. Pauli. He’s from New York.” Billy started the introductions before I had time to find a seat. “He does … science. Mad science. He’s a professor of … somethink.” He described Wolfgang’s background with the assurance of a drunken vagabond giving directions.

  Wolfgang sat perplexed as if annoyed at Billy for forgetting an earlier conversation. “I’m an assistant professor in Microbiology at NYU. I flew in from New York. I use to live here as a child in the west end of Toronto, specifically York West.” He stood up adjusted his sagging pants awkwardly demonstrating his tall stature with a stomach that bulged out of his tweed jacket. He extended his right hand.

  After shaking hands with Wolfgang I made my way to a patio chair at the opposite end of the billiard table. Likewise May shook hands with Wolfgang and sat in a seat to my immediate left. I was proud she sat beside me. Maybe I was the only person in this room she could trust?

  “This is Joel.” Billy indicated in my direction with a drink in hand. “He found me at a concert I had in Toronto. And he works at …” He looked in my direction wanting me to fill in the blank.

  Any expectation of a charming introduction from Billy was just wrong. It was odd that he knew, or even asked, little about my background.

  May fidgeted in her chair anxiously waiting her turn.

  Billy seemed to recompose his sentence in mid-thought. “He’s the guy from the Mister Popular court case.”

  A dreadful lump crept into my throat. I was actually hurt by Billy’s association. My cheeks were burning up and then a wave of embarrassment pounded on me hard. It was hurtful to be regarded as the
guy from the court case. I hung my head down wishing I was at home away from all this.

  “Sorry, I don’t bother with that stuff,” Wolfgang remarked respectfully. “Pardon my ignorance but what exactly did you do in this case?”

  Surprised by the lack of interest, I felt redeemed. “Why are you not interested in this?” I questioned Wolfgang’s first statement since the trial was the trial of the century with a famous actor on trial.

  “No real reason, just no interest in publicity stunts.” Wolfgang smiled intelligently.

  “I remember you,” May said, cluing in.

  I looked to May. She was nodding that she understood. So I nodded back, not because I wanted to but because I felt that it was the only thing to do to ease the attention on me.

  “See, you’re famous,” Billy proclaimed, “and …” He paused abruptly, as if he were done talking.

  “My name is May,” May eagerly declared, rising to her feet—the kind of habit learned in school. “Sorry, I’m not used to being introduced last.” Her anxiousness was oozing from the sides of her mouth.

  No other comments were made from anyone about me. It was as if my fifteen minutes of fame were compressed into five. And May had distracted everyone. Good enough for me.

  “This is May.” Billy let out a giant smile almost brighter than the lighting in the billiard room.

  May waved. “Let me tell you all a little about myself. I’m a journalist for the Daily Toronto. No, I’m not a freelancer but a full timer, as in a salary.” With the same waving hand, she playfully stopped us from inquiring into her status at the news giant so she could regal her story. “I don’t do TV because the bright lights bother me. So I just write and investigate mainly underhanded corruption activity. I’m also a part-time photographer for some of my stories.” Pleased with her forwardness, she returned to her seat and crossed her legs.

  “Wow!” Billy mustered his word and attempted to applaud tapping his free hand against the glass he held in the other hand. “Just don’t write about me … unless it’s good.” He saluted May with the glass.