Houston, 2030

by Mike McKay

  “I remember you had another theory. Something about the government landing us slowly and softly.”

  “I admit, I was mistaken… I have another running theory now. Yeah! Very plausible. The government is landing America in the Year Zero hard. But not at once. One major city at a time. And they will use the disasters, natural, or man-made, to make this happen.”

  “Do you suggest they've started with Houston? Because of the Arthur?”

  “No. They started it in the Michigan, and the other states up-north, because of the Peak Oil. And quite a long time ago. Back around year 2000 or 2001!”

  “One of your du-jour conspiracy theories, Fred?”

  “No conspiracy, man, no conspiracy. Pure facts. Flint, Michigan. The birthplace of the General Motors. That was the first place, which started ‘landing’ into the Year Zero. The automotive industry pulled out, and the city of 120,000 was put on an autopilot. No external help! Then: Detroit. The same thing. And all these godforsaken places in the Rust Belt… Even the hurricane Katrina, if you remember. New Orleans was never fully re-built.”

  “So you are saying, this is the end? I mean: for Houston?”

  “Oh, no, I didn't say that.”

  “But: the Year Zero?”

  “The Year Zero, my friend, is not the end of the world. It's like in the math. For many-many years, people were convinced you couldn't extract a square root from a negative number. Then, the complex numbers were discovered, and suddenly you could. And not only the square root. Any fractional power of a negative number became possible.”

  “Fred, I vaguely remember the Complex numbers from the high school. But there is a little problem: they forgot to tell us what these Complex numbers were for, so I did not care. Now I recall nothing about them, besides the name.”

  “OK, there was still a problem: a zero could not be raised to a negative power. But then, we discovered how to deal with the singularities too. Dirac invented his Delta-function.”

  “Now I am completely lost. You, Fred, are talking to a humanitarian, who has not achieved even the basic degree of your Masonic techno-enlightenment. I studied the behavioral psychology in the Uni. The Complex numbers? Sure thing, the psychology is ‘Complex.’ But the ‘numbers?’ Na-ah!”

  “OK, Mark,” Frederick made another attempt. “The singularity is like a black hole, or a wormhole, like in our case. You pass through the hole, and there is a new universe on the other side. Stephen Hawking and his baby universes, remember?”

  “I am sorry, Fred, you totally lost me. I must admit, that book about the baby universes you gave me, I read it only to the page twelve.”

  “OK – never mind. You can ask your Billy later. He will explain you how the wormhole works. And the black hole too. What I want to say: the end of the world at the Year Zero is only our imagination. The end of the known world. I mean: the world, as our, the pre-Meltdown generation knows it. But the new world, on the other side of the Year Zero, is not too bad at all. Perhaps, even better.”

  “You were not such an optimist before, Fred.”

  “Probably not. I just thought… We will survive fine. At least as a biological species. In Flint and Detroit, they couldn't do it because they still had place to go. So, there was a cut-throat competition for the escape. The society broke apart. Finally, the strong were all gone to someplace better. Well, almost all. And the weak were left to die. But here in the South – it will not be like this.”

  “Why?”

  “No place to go, Mark. No place to go! You can't run away from the planet Earth, can you? So, the strong will sit here and help each other. And help the weak at the same time. For what I can see, Houston will survive. The cholera will be over. We are not in the Tenth Century and know a bit more about bacteria, right? As for the late shop robbers – hey, we will find the bustards and send them to cut some coal for everybody. And the life in our neighborhood, how did you call it: the West Canal Slum? Not a bad name, should suggest it to the neighbors… So the life in our brand-new WCS will be OK. Happiness is the difference between what you have and what you want. We just need to adjust what we want, that's all!”

  “Between what you have and what you want? I suspect I have heard this already,” Mark said, “Just-Adjust. Clarice, is it your propaganda?”

  Clarice smiled, “I am not the Guru of the Just-Adjust. Missis Levin and some others. The neo-hippies.”

  “Oh, you call Ruth Levin a Guru? For the Just-Adjust philosophy, our Jassy is mile ahead of any of our neighbors,” Stolz chucked, “Ruth spent two years trying to convince me that all I need in life is a pair of jeans, T-shirt and my sandals. And Jassy busted this theoretical nonsense in five minutes. The true neo-hippies, sorry, I mean: the true anti-sissies don’t disgrace themselves with useless sandals! Now if Elvira and the boys find me another T-shirt in our ruin, to have a spare, I will reach the Just-Adjust Nirvana in seconds.”

  “Ruin? Is your house destroyed too?”

  “Some part is still standing, let's put it that way.”

  “And how Elvira is taking it? I can’t believe she's after those neo-hippie teachings.”

  “You know, the hurricane helped her too. She started her just-adjusting, so to speak. And yesterday night she told me she finds the new just-adjusted lifestyle absolutely awesome. Juicy-sexy, she said.”

  “Juicy-sexy? It doesn't sound like her at all,” Mark could not imagine these words from the thin lips of always so reserved Elvira Stolz, M.A. and a former employee of the Houston former Museum of Fine Arts. A former employee of the former Houston former Museum of former Fine Arts, he made a mental correction.

  “I kid you not, we haven't had such a wonderful sex for ages!” Frederick whispered into Mark's ear. Then, he continued with normal voice, “She is going to open a public library, by the way. In whatever was left from our house and with all our books she managed to save during the floods. So if you want to come and borrow that Stephen Hawking again – you are more than welcome.”

  “OK, I will give it another try, Fred. Real promise,” he looked at Samantha.

  “After Arne had left, Elvira was suffering from the ‘empty nest syndrome.’ But now we have Jass, Millie, and Bertie. I have to admit, having two and a half times less of the house, but two and a half times more of the kids, gives Elvira and me a new perspective in life. All the old problems are suddenly irrelevant.” Fred smiled to Jasmine and Samantha, who finally squeezed between the bed and the partition and sat on the frame of the broken window.

  Martin was over there too, standing and measuring the angular size of the Moon with his thumb. The sunset just began, and the early stars appeared to accompany the first-quarter Moon through the night. In this part of the hospital ward the only source of light was the dim LED lantern on the night table between the beds.

  The sunsets are so beautiful now, Mark observed suddenly. Before the Meltdown, one could not see any real sunsets. Not in the gigawatt city of Houston, with the yellowish backdrop of the former air pollution and all these wasteful street lights. Definitive improvement here. Just-adjust what you want. Let's try it. OK, I want to see the beautiful sunset, with the young Moon and few stars. And here we go: the personal sunset for Mark Pendergrass, exactly as he wants. Happy?

  “So Jasmine and the boys moved in to live with you, Fred,” Mark asked, admiring his personal sunset.

  “Right,” Frederick said, “After the Arthur, we went to visit their little hut in the GRS. For three whole days, Jassy was trying to convince me it was OK, and they could move back in. But as you might suspect, I knew better. Alas, we found exactly what I had expected: a little pile of rubble. Then, I told the kids: don't invent any excuses, come live with us. Now, we have no proper house, but whatever remains is perfectly fine for six people.”

  There was another swish of multiple bare feet behind the partition, then the plastic film opened, and Mark saw the belated rest of the visiting party: Mary, William, Pamela and Patrick. Patrick immediately jumped on Mark to deliver a b
ear-hug, and Pamela followed.

  “Easy, Ricky! Pam! Remember, Daddy still has stitches on his arm,” Mary said, also delivering Mark a hug and a long kiss.

  Mark curiously observed if there would be any reaction from Mary's side to the new, top-fashion Samantha's outfit, with the knotted shirt and the exposed belly-button. To his surprise, no reaction followed. Either Samantha was smart enough to obtain the proper permit, or Mary would not get crazy about it anymore. And less than one week ago, Mary would go ballistic and call this ‘totally not appropriate,’ Mark smiled to himself. Amazing, what one little hurricane can do for the la haute couture progress!

  Mary had her old, ‘for home use only’ blouse and tattered skirt, and with the bottom of the skirt slightly smeared in mud. Positively not something what used to be called ‘appropriate.’ Mark was even more delighted Mary put on his presents: the necklace and the bracelet with the ‘real Swarovski’ crystals. He looked at her feet. Quite out of character, her beaten-up clogs, which used to be mandatory-appropriate for going out, and constantly made Mary complain of the blisters, were now replaced: with the totally inappropriate but very ‘useful’ black-and-golden ‘barefoot sandals!’ Would she too – find their new, post-Year Zero lifestyle juicy-sexy?

  Pamela seemingly enjoyed the post-hurricane fashion freedom too. She had on Patrick's T-shirt and one of Mary's old skirts. This particular skirt was made from their bedroom curtain, and Mary did not like it much, saying the colors were too saturated and the flowers – too large. But the bright colors and extra-large flowers were exactly what Pamela envisaged. The T-shirt, way too tight for her, cleverly exposed the belly-button, while the skirt strategically happened to be too large, and was supported at the waistline by a length of rope with uncountable fancy knots. The improvised Calypso costume was matched by her cute brown-and-green kama'a-ole and earrings made of green Lego blocks.

  “You look cool,” Mark observed, “your new style is wonderful, girls.”

  “I like it too,” Mary smiled, “now I feel like I'm twelve again. That was the last time I played pirates with my sister.”

  Patrick's pirate attire consisted of a pair of jeans, crudely converted to below-knee shorts and his favorite bandanna. And now he had a standard-issue Army knife hanging from the neck in a self-made plastic scabbard! Obviously, he had finally convinced his Mom that no self-respecting ten-year-old boy should be going out without a proper weapon.

  William was dressed identically to Patrick, except that his below-knee shorts were made of generously patched Army uniform trousers, and instead of the knife he had a donation bucket over his neck. Not the politically-correct official Salvation Way red plastic thing either. No, now it was the slum design: a proper, luxurious, no-nonsense, beggar bucket made of an old rusted half-gallon tin, with an inscription written on it with a black permanent marker: ‘Say YES to beggars. DONATE TO EVERYBODY*’. The asterisk pointed to the mockery of the Salvation Way posters' legalese, written near the bottom of the tin: ‘Any donor has a legal right to help this beggar to a latrine. If you have nothing to donate, your little help would be much appreciated too.’

  Mark chuckled. They were not clinging on their former upper middle-class status any longer. Whatever pretense of their pre-Meltdown lifestyle they had only five days ago – all was blown away by the hurricane and washed away by the flood. The sun evaporated the rest of Mary's ‘appropriate’ and ‘not appropriate’ dichotomy, and they became an equally-standard slum family from the equally-standard Houston slum: from the unkempt hear down to the permanently bare, 100% anti-sissy feet. Perhaps, it was much better this way.

  “You are late,” Clarice said, “I sent you the message ages ago.”

  “Oh, the usual,” Mary smiled, “getting Pam, Ricky and Billy together is like herding cats! For starters, we sent Ricky to fetch the e-mails. Good luck! Two hours! What did you do for two hours, Ricky?”

  “It's two miles one way, Mom.”

  “On the bike, twenty minutes each way. Half an hour, max.”

  “Well, I was a bit preoccupied,” Patrick said apologetically.

  “Preoccupied! OK, Ricky. Tell Daddy how exactly you were preoccupied!” Mary demanded.

  “There was Monica, from our class. Didn't see her for ages and ages!”

  Samantha and Pamela laughed, soon joined by Jasmine, Martin, Clarice, and William. Davy looked around and decided to join the laughter too.

  “For ages! Five days, if I count right!” Mary smiled too.

  “Honey, the life goes on. Patrick spent an hour chatting with a girlfriend, no big deal,” Mark said.

  “She is not a girlfriend, Dad. Just… a classmate, OK?”

  “OK, Ricky,” Pamela said. “Let's call her a classmate, whatever. For your info, Dad, Monica is the girl, who now, by pure chance, of course, is sitting next to Ricky on every lesson.”

  Upon this revelation, Patrick made Pamela a face, which caused yet another burst of laughter. It was so funny to observe how Patrick, who was demonstratively indifferent to girls just half a year ago, started turning into a young man.

  “Anyway,” Mary continued, “after Ricky was back, we had to find Billy. Now, it was Pam's turn to go to the market. And guess what? Another two hours!”

  “Let me guess,” Mark said, “a boyfriend? Sorry: a classmate? Not seen ‘for ages and ages’?”

  “Dad! I don't have no boyfriend!”

  “I don't mind no boyfriend no more. Not any more than your double and triple negatives. How are mine? Improving?”

  “No, Dad, honest. No boyfriend. I was waiting for Billy. He was finishing his rap lesson! With that ‘Quad’ at the market who has two different girlfriends every day.”

  “Finishing what?”

  “Jack-the-Rapper, Dad. He said, I have a potential,” William replied instead of Pamela.

  Probably not too far-fetched, Mark nodded. The keyboard teacher also said on few occasions that William had a potential. Well, for the keyboard, the ‘potential’ was all gone. Or became ‘purely theoretical,’ whatever. And the same for the medicine. But the sense of rhythm, it should stay with one forever, right? “Writing the stuff, or just singing?” Mark asked.

  “Both.”

  “Share it with us, then.”

  “It's not ready.”

  “Share the best part of it.”

  William wiped his damaged left eye with the arm stump and tried to reach the empty eye socket on the right. “OK. But it is not exactly rap. And please: don't laugh.”

  “We are listening.”

  “Promise?”

  “Real promise,” Mark looked at Samantha once more.

  “OK, OK, set ready for your laughter, conspirators. I know exactly what the real promise means between two of you! So it goes like this,” he lifted his face as if looking into the sunset behind the shattered window and started reading, punching the rhythm with his stump instead of a fist:

  “We will never fly back to the Moon,

  We forget about Popper and Kuhn,

  World of Bohr and Einstein,

  World of Tolkien's runes

  Now ending in slums,

  And is ending too soon…”

  He stopped and shook his head. “Na-ah, give me another week to polish the rest properly! Besides, Jack says it's geeky. Apparently, I am somehow missing the educational levels of the intended target audience.”

  Frederick chuckled, “does he himself know who the Popper and Kuhn are?”

  “Oh yeah! He said, before, when he had two arms and two legs, he also had two PhD degrees – from Stanford. In modern English literature and in History of Science! I told him that now – even better. He can call himself a Quad PhD!”

  “I will not laugh,” Mark said, “your poetry sounds very darn good. Continue working on your rap.”