Mad Skills

by Greatshell, Walter

  There was a large animal in the bathtub. The creature was gray and black, with a bushy striped tail and a dark patch like a burglar’s mask across its beady eyes—a raccoon! The raccoon was sitting upright on its fat haunches and washing frozen shrimp in the warm dribble from the tap. It was also wearing a fez.

  “I must still be dreaming,” she said.

  “Life must be a dream, sweetheart.”

  “This is insane.”

  “No argument there. With all this washing, I sometimes wonder if I have OCD.”

  “Did I really just kill that man?” she asked.

  The raccoon was matter-of-fact, too busy at its task to bother looking at her. “Yes,” it said. “And if you stay here, you’ll kill again.”

  Maddy jerked awake.

  TWENTY-ONE

  ELECTION

  EMERGING like a pupa from her troubled sleep and clammy sheets, Maddy peered through the curtains and thought, Delightful. She took a hot shower, put on her new clothes, and headed out to the employment agency. There it was, just where the salesgirl had said—Able Staffing Services. Unfortunately, it was Sunday, and the office was closed. Brilliant.

  Okay then, it was up to her. Initiative—that was what they wanted to see. Well, they’d soon find out she was full of it! Setting forth with a determined, slightly teetering stride, Maddy spent the next several hours wearing out her new high heels on the old cobbles of Carbontown—Harmony’s teensy tourist district. As it was the weekend, there were a number of visitors about. Maddy assumed they were mostly the families of other recovering patients like herself. They snapped pictures of each other in front of the mining exhibits and pushed those in wheelchairs up the ramp to the Museum of Industry and Culture. The sight made her wistful for her folks.

  But she wasn’t there to sightsee. Starting at the town center, Maddy went door to door, accosting every clerk and cashier she could find, first canvassing all the standard tourist holes—the fudge factory, the gift shop, the overpriced café—then gradually working her way outward to encompass every other business in a ten-block radius … after which downtown turned residential.

  Most of the people she spoke with rejected her outright; the rest said they weren’t presently hiring but would keep her employment application on file. A lot of places had signs in the window saying, CLOSED FOR ELECTION. Trying not to be discouraged, she ventured up stairwells to even the least-promising businesses, the ones that rented space on the upper floors of cut-rate professional buildings—palm readers and yoga studios and the like—but it was all the same: zip. Zip and blisters.

  By that time, everything was pissing her off, and what aggravated her the most was the strange behavior of almost everyone she met. They acted as if they were not fully present, blissed-out on music only they could hear. For such a small town, the ethnic diversity was remarkable, yet everyone was boogying to the same silent tune, identical in their vaguely stoned demeanors. It was infuriating. They smiled or nodded or frowned sympathetically at whatever she said, then politely, implacably kicked her out. By about the tenth time, she started getting more creative with her pitch, since they weren’t listening anyway: “… and during eighth grade I became editor of the school newspaper, then in high school I joined a lesbian flying circus and robbed Fort Knox …”

  But boy did they take shopping seriously. Not that there was much else to do around there. Customers rampaged through stores with wild-eyed intensity, and manic sales-clerks responded with hails of cheerful jabber about the merchandise, like hawkers at a Turkish bazaar. They were equally eager to help Maddy … until they realized she wasn’t a paying customer, at which point they became oddly flustered, as though there was something terminally weird about being unemployed. It was embarrassing.

  Another odd thing was that almost everyone she spoke to about a job was a new immigrant. Maddy had certainly never had a problem with immigrants before, but after a long day of rejection, she began to feel resentful. Foreigners seemed to run every business in town. Were they there because of the war or just for the economic opportunity? A lot of them seemed to be Middle-Eastern. Whatever the reason, there didn’t seem to be any jobs left … or if there were, no one was telling her. It wasn’t fair.

  She had heard her relatives argue about things like this, but she had never given it much thought. Her friend Stephanie was the one with the strong opinions. You guys are so racist, Steph would say. We all started out as immigrants. It’s the freakin’ American Dream. Maddy had always sided with her friend, but now she wasn’t so sure how she felt about it … except tired and irritated.

  It was the end of the day, and she was ready to quit. She tried one last place—a place she would have thought was a guaranteed bastion of old-fashioned whitebread Anglo-Americana: the local firehouse. It was part of a new complex that included a church, a VFW, and an American Legion Hall. She imagined a club full of old codgers in army caps swapping war stories, and figured maybe they needed someone to sweep up the joint.

  The entrance was covered with campaign signs, all for Strode, and once inside she found a hushed roomful of people staring at a closed door. The tension was incredible—it was as if they were awaiting news of a loved one’s death … or birth. Once again, the crowd was remarkably diverse. Exotic newcomers in dishdashas sat alongside tattooed local yokels in stiff Sunday suits. A number of folks had bandages on their scalps.

  Barging in on their vigil, Maddy retreated backward, saying, “Oops—sorry!”

  A hard-eyed man posted at the door asked her, “Cain I help you?” He had a deep Southern drawl.

  “Is this the American Lesion—I mean, Legion Hall?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m just … What’s everybody doing here?”

  “Doing?”

  “It looks like you’re all waiting for something.”

  “The election results. They’re counting the ballots now.”

  “Oh! Okay. So you’re all for Strode?”

  He looked at her like she was insane. “Of course.”

  “Why? I mean, I can tell you all really care about this, but why?”

  “We love America.”

  “Oh … definitely.”

  “We love freedom and democracy.”

  “Great. Me too.”

  “If you love freedom and democracy, you gotta love Strode. He is the best candidate in the whole world. Anyone who doesn’t like Strode doesn’t like freedom. We die for freedom, we die for Strode!”

  At these words, a cheer went up around the room, half shouting, “Hallelujah Strode!” and the other half, “Strode akbar!”

  “That’s … wonderful,” Maddy said.

  Just then, the door opened, and a man emerged waving a piece of paper. His face was a mask of either extreme grief or extreme joy, she couldn’t immediately tell which. Collapsing to his knees, he sobbed, “Strode won!”

  The room exploded in frenzied cheering. People jumped up and down, embraced, wept, all the while shouting, “STRODE! STRODE! STRODE!”

  As the chant rose in fervor, Maddy struggled to make her escape, caught up in the dancing and celebration. It was starting to give her a headache.

  “Okay, okay,” she said, raising her voice to be heard, “I gotta go … excuse me … yay Strode …”

  Breaking free of the room, she stood outside for a moment to catch her breath and check for bruises. What the hell, man. Well, at least Vellon didn’t win. The thought of that name brought back flashes of her awful dream. Shaking it off, she called to a pair of men in black suits passing on a tandem bicycle, “Hey, you wouldn’t happen to know where I could find a job … ?”

  “Have you tried the employment agency?”

  Maddy went back to her room and gratefully kicked the hellish heels across the floor. Damn. What am I supposed to do now?

  She knew what she wanted to do—the credit card was burning a hole in her purse. She had resisted its pull all day, feeling its radiant energy at her hip like a slice of molten gold. And she just
wanted to go crazy, banish all her cares in an orgy of spending. That card was so good she could eat it.

  No, dammit! That was the problem—she was starving, hadn’t had a bite all day. Food would take her mind off it. But what to eat? Her cupboards and minifridge were full of stuff, but the thought of making a meal from these cold, raw elements at that moment was intolerable. Nothing was defrosted, there’d be all those instructions to follow, and at the end a sinkload of dirty dishes—feh. Maddy was not confident in the kitchen; she took after her mother that way.

  The card, though, the card. It did sound good, the thought of just going out to eat. Splurging one last time, just to make up for a crappy-ass weekend. It wasn’t like she hadn’t earned it! Plus, she would pay it all back—hadn’t she demonstrated her responsibility? One meal was not going to make much difference anyway; a few bucks, come on. They couldn’t begrudge her that.

  She changed into her school skirt and sneakers and went back downstairs, skipping a little. She was always glad to get out of that tomblike building into the sunlight. Where to eat? Pizza sounded yummy, until she remembered where the pepperoni came from. Cheese pizza just wasn’t the same … and dairy itself was problematic. Shoot. Hot dogs and hamburgers were out of the question—in fact she might as well forget all fast food. What did that leave? This new consciousness was a bitch.

  Her eyes settled on ALL-U-CAN-EAT FALAFEL. Hmm—she associated that stuff with vegetarians and hippies. Vegans especially annoyed her. They were so smug and finicky. What were they trying to prove? But she had to eat something, so she went over there.

  Going in, Maddy found a pleasant, family-style restaurant, with tapestries on the walls and brass oil lamps hanging from the high ceiling. It was still too early for the Sunday dinner crowd so Maddy had her choice of tables. The waiter brought her a menu and poured her a glass of water.

  The prices were pretty reasonable, and there were a number of things that sounded good, but she stuck with the falafel special. It came on a platter with warm pita bread, salad, and hummus. The balls of falafel were crispy and deep-fried—not weird or difficult at all—and the helpful waiter showed her how to stuff them in the pita like a taco. The food was delicious and very filling, and Maddy quickly realized that All-U-Can-Eat amounted to a single portion—they were no fools.

  When it came time to pay, she handed over the card and made a quick trip to the restroom. When she emerged, the waiter was waiting.

  “Excuse me, your card, it’s no good.” He handed it back to her.

  Maddy’s full stomach shriveled. “What?” she said. “It has to be.”

  “It won’t go through, I’m sorry.”

  “Did you try it again?”

  “Yes, we tried few times. Uh, do you maybe have another card? Or better—cash?”

  “No.”

  “Oh.”

  “But that one has to work. I just used it yesterday.”

  “Yes, I see, but it say insufficient funds. Maybe you call someone bring money?”

  “I can’t—I’m not from around here. I’m staying at the motel right down the block.”

  “Which motel?”

  “I forget what it’s called—it’s a treatment facility. I just had an operation.”

  The man was slightly interested. “You parents there?”

  “No.”

  “We can call them. They can give credit-card number by phone.”

  “Wait—the hospital. Call Dr. Stevens!”

  “Who?”

  “My doctor! Up at the Braintree Institute.”

  “What is number, please?”

  “I don’t know the number, but it’s right outside of town. It’s gotta be in the phone book.”

  The waiter flipped open his cell phone, saying, “I will check. What name is it?”

  “Dr. Chandra Stevens at the Braintree Institute. Tell them it’s about Madeline Grant—they’ll know who I am.”

  She watched as he fiddled around uselessly. Finally, she said, “Let me do it.” He reluctantly handed her the phone, and she repeated the information. The electronic operator replied that there was no listing for either a Braintree Institute or a Dr. Chandra Stevens.

  “Come on,” Maddy groaned. “Half the people in this town are patients there. All right, let me try my house. It’s gonna be long-distance, okay?”

  The waiter nodded warily.

  She was just glad she could still remember the number—it had been a long time since she had called home. But it was no good—the number rang and rang and finally went to voice mail. They weren’t there. And she knew their cell phones were unlisted because of prank calls after they were on the news. This was getting ridiculous. She left a brief, urgent message and hung up.

  “Do you think of anyone else?”

  “Just the hotel. If you’d let me go down there, I’m sure they can clear this up.”

  “Hotel is closed.”

  “What?”

  “There is no hotel.”

  “Motel, I mean! It’s a recovery facility, like a halfway house. For the neurological clinic. I’m a patient there.” She yanked off her hat to show him the scar.

  He misunderstood and became even more obstinate, believing she was a runaway mental patient, some kind of nutjob. “No, no. You owe money. I’m sorry, we must tell the police—it is restaurant policy.”

  “Oh, God …”

  Maddy slumped in her seat, trying not to cry. She felt humiliated and furious. She couldn’t believe she had been put in this situation. How dare they just cut her off like this! No money, no support—it was insane. Strictly supervised , my butt! They had left her ass blowing in the breeze.

  She could feel all the employees watching her, staring at her. Look at the crazy homeless girl, trying to eat without paying. They were enjoying it, this chance to shake their heads over her foolishness: No, no, miss—we work too hard for our bread to let you steal it. This is America.

  The police were taking their sweet time getting there. No one talked to her or was seated near her. They might as well have roped her off. That was it: She was taboo. Her corner table became an island of quarantine, an object of idle curiosity and whispered discussion among newcomers, then, as the minutes dragged on, pointedly ignored. But there was an undercurrent of anticipation, everyone waiting for the real show to begin with the arrival of the cops. It was like a public execution. Just get it over with, she thought, putting her head down.

  “You know, you don’t have to sit here. You can just leave.”

  Scalp prickling, Maddy looked across the table. It was the raccoon again. He was standing on a chair, eating her leftover olives.

  “Oh no,” she said.

  “Sorry—were you saving these?”

  “What are you doing here? I’m not dreaming!”

  “That’s a question you should be asking yourself. It’s not going to be very much fun if you wait till the police arrive. Better to get it over with now.”

  “This can’t be happening …”

  “Look, I’m just trying to be helpful.”

  “What are you?”

  “You know what I am. I’m the bandit, the rascal, the wild one—like Brando. I’m chaos, baby, one hundred percent raw sexuality. Frankly, I’m a friggin’ nuisance. My name’s Moses.” The raccoon reached out its tiny black paw as if to shake. When Maddy just stared, he withdrew it with a smirk. “In case you haven’t noticed, lady, my habitat has been shrinking down to nothing lately, and I’m pissed off.”

  “Moses?” she said. It suddenly clicked that one of Lukie’s stuffed toys had been a raccoon named Moses—a character from some old children’s book.

  “That’s my name, don’t wear it out.”

  “You’re a hallucination.”

  “That’s right,” said Moses. Then, in a stage whisper, he added, “But that doesn’t mean I’m not real. I’m you, Maddy—what’s left of you. This is the last of your free will talking, and if you don’t do something soon, I’m going to die.”

&
nbsp; “Die? What does that mean?”

  “It means that all these people are robots, drones, and you’re rapidly becoming one of them. This whole town—it’s really not real. It’s only a test bed for the next big trend in social engineering: taking hostiles and troublemakers and turning them into good little soldiers. Where do you think these people came from?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Duh! Afghanistan, Pakistan, Syria, Iraq, you name it, all courtesy of Uncle Sam. They’re al-Qaeda, stupid!”

  “What?”

  “Sure! They’re al-Qaeda and Taliban and Hezbollah and every other terrorist organization you can think of, plus a whole lot of political criminals and mental cases. They’ve all been transferred here. The government is desperate; it can’t hold on to them forever, and it doesn’t dare kill them, so it has to find some way to make them … act nice.”

  “But … that sort of makes sense.”

  “Sure it does. And Mussolini made the trains run on time.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means, sweetheart, that this is just the beginning. Oh, they’ve been working up to this for some time now, centralizing wealth, privatizing government, globalizing big business. Destabilizing society to favor monopolies and the consolidation of power. Making everyone ignorant and paranoid and helpless … and poor. Every country’s competing. It’s the next great space race: your frontal lobe. The final frontier. Whoever gets there first wins, because from then on, they get to decide reality.”

  “This is crazy. I’m talking to a Marxist raccoon.”

  “Raccoons aren’t Communists or Capitalists—we’re pests. That means we believe in using whatever works to survive. Oh, we’re clever. We’re natural problem solvers. We’re cute as hell. But we know we’ll never have great wealth or power, so we don’t trust anyone who does, whether they say they’re on the right, the left, or the Varmint Party. Power is the natural enemy of Nature; money poisons the water. Communists hate sharing just as much as Capitalists hate free markets, free minds, and a level playing field—which is to say a lot. It’s human nature to be greedy. But greed is destructive; it reveals itself in the damage it causes. Screw people over for too long, and even the biggest sucker will eventually wise up. Communism didn’t fail because it failed, honey, it failed because everybody knew it failed, just as they know this war has failed. It’s a matter of perception … but next time around, they’re taking care not to repeat the mistake.”