2007-Eleven

by Frank Cammuso

  “I will,” Winston said. “I WILL.”

  O’Brien’s beeper sounded. The two men scurried to their workstations.

  That night, as Winston entered No. 4, his phone was ringing. Before he could answer it, three intruders leaped from the shadows and pressed the Yellow Pages to Winston’s mouth. His mind went blank.

  Later, all he would remember were the words “Have a nice day.”

  He awoke lashed to a chair. At a console sat O’Brien.

  “It was the Talk Police, Smith!” the programmer whimpered. “They reached out and touched me. They showed me … Reason Number 101.”

  “Dear God!” Winston said. He had heard of the more than eight hundred reasons not to leave AT&T. The mere thought of Reason 101 turned his bowels to water.

  “Answer one question, and we’ll release you!” O’Brien said. “With the other companies, how much do you save?”

  “That’s easy, O’Brien. I save up to twenty percent. It’s that sim—AHHH.”

  A painful busy signal shot through Winston’s body.

  “Let me repeat my question, sir! How much do you save?”

  “O’Brien, you know the answer! Up to twenty perce—AHHH!”

  “YOU SAVE PENNIES, SMITH! DO YOU HEAR? PENNIES! FOR PENNIES, YOU GIVE UP SERVICE, SMITH. IT’S JUST ANOTHER PART OF ‘THE I PLAN.’ YOU GIVE UP SERVICE—FOR PENNIES!”

  “But O’Brien, you said—AHHHH—”

  Months later, his resistance broken, Winston shouted the answer O’Brien sought and came to recite the slogans of TrueVoice:

  Clarity Is Peace.

  Interruptions Are Slavery.

  Caller ID Is Security.

  After his release, Winston never again listened to Murphy on his telescreen. He accepted without question all the coming technologies. He never went anywhere without his laptop. He had won the struggle over himself. He loved Ma Bell and Big Blue.

  Captain’s Log

  Star date 5973.4: A strange, ancient morality has invaded the Enterprise, turning my crew against me. I stand accused of sexual harassment, lewd behavior, and conduct unbecoming of an officer. No longer able to trust anyone, I have chosen to defend myself at the preliminary inquest that could decide my fate.…

  … And so, Mr. Scott, would you please tell the court exactly what Captain Kirk ordered you to do that night?

  Aye, laddie. The captain, he had me lock the transporter onto the green lady’s coordinates, and then—well—he told me to beam the clothes off of her.

  And, did you?

  Nay, laddie. I made up a story. I told him the dilithium crystals were cracked, and the ship, she just couldn’t take it.

  No further questions. Your honor, I move for the immediate court-martial of James T. Kirk on the grounds that his repeated acts of sexual misconduct violate time-honored Star Fleet codes.

  Sir, we’ve seen depositions from 134 female crew members and sixty-four alien species, all who swear they were propositioned by the captain. We learned how Kirk, using Romulan cloaking technology, made covert visits to the ladies’ changing room. We know that the captain asked Dr. McCoy to treat his sexually transmitted space spores, and we heard from the ship’s science officer, who characterized Kirk’s behavior as—I’m quoting now—“highly illogical.”

  Your honor, the media have had a field day over the forced resignation of Lieutenant Uhura, due to charges that she and the captain pushed their alternative lifestyles on alternative life-forms. I submit that Uhura is the victim. The perpetrator is James T. Kirk, a modern-day Bill Clinton who has roamed this galaxy with his own prime directive: to seduce every female being that happens to engage his warped drive. I demand a verdict of guilty!

  Thank you, Counselor Starr. Indeed, the evidence does seem overwhelming. Captain, have you anything to say?

  I do, your honor.…

  I am James T. Kirk, captain of the USS Enterprise! And I will not relinquish control of this ship! Scotty, Bones, Spock! Snap out of it! Remember last Thursday, when the Enterprise passed through that cloud of ionized estrogen particles? I was in my quarters with Yeoman Rand. I was straightening her uniform when I suddenly felt a backlash. I think that cloud was, in fact, a sentient being that has infiltrated our minds. This thing, whatever it is, turns men and women against each other!

  WE … MUST … FIGHT … THIS … THING!

  Your honor, are we so enslaved by this cloud that we have forgotten the traditions of military self-preservation? To kill this creature, we must do as officers have always done. We must close ranks! We must raise our shields!

  Because let me remind you, gentlemen …

  Nobody here is squeaky clean.

  Spock, don’t think I’m unaware of what you do during those mind melds. And Scotty, how many women have you invited down to engineering to examine your “antimatter pods”? Bones, didn’t you once have some trouble with Tribbles? And your honor, didn’t you divorce your first wife after finding out that, in fact, she was a shape-shifting man?

  I OBJECT, YOUR HONOR! Kirk is trying to coer—

  Pipe down, Starr! Objection overruled. The captain here has raised some interesting points.…

  Captains Log Supplemental: After long negotiations, I have accepted an honorable discharge, with full compensation and the sealing of all court records. I have begun work on my book and also plan to do some consulting for Star Fleet. Tomorrow, I set a course for my new five-year mission—on the pleasure planet, Raisa. Indeed, I plan to boldly go where no man has gone before.

  Doctor Dosomething

  If I could talk to the animals.

  —Doctor Dolittle, children’s classic, now out on video

  We have this time on the air to focus on how to

  be not just human animals but moral animals.

  —Doctor Laura, radio’s most popular therapist

  Hello, Simba, king of beasts, welcome to the Dr. Laura Dolittle Show. What’s on your mind?

  Doctor, it’s my son. First, he shaves his mane. Then he says he don’t wanna be king. Last night at the table, he tells me he won’t eat meat. Says it’s all wrong, says he won’t eat anything with a face. Now I hear he’s dating an antelope. We’re carnivores, for Pete’s sake! What the hell is it with these kids?

  It’s bad parenting, Simba. That’s the problem. Tell me, what quality time do you spend with your son?

  We used to do a lot of things together. When he was young, on weekends, we’d go in and eat a whole village. Now, he says that’s cruel. He’s even threatening to have himself declawed.

  Simba, how do you expect to control the jungle when you can’t even control your own child? When he first stepped out of line, did you discipline him? Like many of your generation, you’ve given your kid too much freedom. Now you’ve got to rein him in.

  Thanks, Laura. You’re right. When he gets home from the fur protest, he’s gonna get it.

  Hello, Buster Bulldog in Michigan. Speak.

  Hi, Laura. Lately, when my master’s out, I’ve been getting up on the couch. I know I’m not supposed to, but I just sort of do it. And I’m wondering, does that make me a bad dog?

  Why the couch, Buster?

  Oh, wow. It was always this way. Going up there, it’s—well—empowering.

  Are you on the couch now?

  No. Well … yeah.

  Did you ever read my book, Ten Things Dogs Do to Mess Up the Furniture?

  Yeah. Well, actually, no. I’m not good with books. I chew them.

  Does your master know about the couch?

  I think he suspects. I try not to shed or stain the upholstery, but there’s only so much you can do.

  Buster, how long have you been pulling these stunts to get attention?

  Look, Laura, this isn’t my fault. He forced me into this. He doesn’t care anymore. Ever since I got fixed, he doesn’t even want to pet me.

  Buster, I hear this all the time: “My master doesn’t understand me. I want something more. So it’s OK to go up on the couch; he’s the one
who left me alone. It’s OK to drink out of the toilet; he left the seat up. I’ve got me to think about—and by the way, what’s for supper?” It’s always the same. “Feed me, pet me, walk me.” Well, let me tell you: It’s time for you to grow up and learn some new tricks, Buster. It’s time for you to take responsibility—time for you to heel.

  You’re right, Laura. Thanks.

  One more thing: GET OFF THE COUCH, NOW! Hello, Guppie Goldfish from Newark, what’s on your mind?

  Oh, doctor … what should I do? I JUST ATE MY BABIES!

  Guppie, listen to me: This is bad. I don’t care if you couldn’t afford decent child care. For a mom, you are an absolute disgrace. I have said this a thousand times, but let me say it again: I am totally opposed to the eating of one’s young. It is a tragedy. It is immoral. It is fattening. And it has got to stop. Next caller. Marge, what’s up?

  Laura, I can’t take it anymore. My husband is a sloth!

  Patriot Games

  With a $350 million stadium, guaranteed luxury-seat revenues, and a $1 billion riverfront development, the city of Hartford, Connecticut, last year almost lured the National Football League’s New England Patriots to town. “We want to redefine Hartford’s place on the map,” Connecticut governor John Rowland said. “We want to be more than a mile marker between Boston and New York.”

  The deal eventually fell through. But what exactly did Hartford have in mind?

  Graceland, the Memphis-based home to the late Elvis Presley, will move to Hartford, Connecticut, beginning in 2002, officials announced today.

  Graceland executives, speaking from Hartford, stressed that Elvis will always call Memphis his home, but he is dead, and with old celebrities joining him every day he needed to “find a new place to dwell” to compete with larger-market shrines. The ownership had threatened to leave since April, after Tennessee voters rejected a proposed $400 million Hyatt Regency Heartbreak Hotel Convention Center.

  To get Graceland, Hartford agrees to build the seventy-thousand-seat mausoleum/theme park, “Graceworld,” which will be financed through the sale of luxury double-wides and a 5 percent surcharge on velvet portraits.

  “Elvis has left the state!” Connecticut governor John Rowland said. “Viva Hartford!”

  Grand Canyon officials today announced plans to move the popular U.S. park to Hartford, Connecticut, where it will coanchor a $30 billion downtown redevelopment, beginning in fiscal year 2003.

  Though anticipated, the news sent political and geological shock waves across the western states, crushing a last-ditch campaign to save the franchise. But after failing last May to renegotiate its two-million-year lease with Arizona, the canyon began shopping itself to larger media markets. Ever since, Arizona public officials have sought a suitable replacement, rumored to be Knott’s Berry Farm.

  The new seven-hundred-thousand-seat Grand Hartford Canyon will feature a retractable dome, artificial turf, IMAX theater, shopping mall, golf course, and Trump Palace Casino. The thirty-year agreement calls for Hartford to guarantee $200 million annually from canyon wall advertising.

  “The future looks grand!” Governor John Rowland said. “We want to be the biggest hole between Boston and Los Angeles!”

  Vatican officials confirmed today that the pope has signed a memorandum of intent to move his world headquarters to Hartford, Connecticut, after the current lease expires on December 25, 2004.

  The proposed Hartford Vatican will include a $900 million domed cathedral/parking garage and holy water park, capping the city’s two-thousand-year quest to capture a major religion. Last May, attempts to lure the Wailing Wall fell through, after Jerusalem voters approved construction of a six-million-seat prayer/retail/residential center called “HolyLand.”

  To lure the pope, the city and state will guarantee $270 million in annual donations, to be raised through corporate sponsorships, bake sales, bingo, and reinvigorated Friday fish fries.

  “Hartford has been blessed!” Governor John Rowland confessed. “We want to be the Greatest Story Ever Told!”

  · · ·

  Afterlife officials today said the Netherworld of Hell will move to Hartford, Connecticut, beginning in 2007.

  The announcement, which would leave Hell without a franchise for the first time in history, unleashed a chorus of anguished screams from its doomed minions, yet furnace ownership remained unrepentant. Faced with rampant overcrowding and the skyrocketing costs of tempting free-agent souls, underworld officials last April proposed construction of an eight-trillion-seat fiery pit, but the measure was cast out. A Satanic spokesman vowed to fill the void with a replacement, rumored to be Knott’s Berry Farm.

  To raise Hell, the city and state promised to build a $2 billion domed inferno, called Hellford, which will include a fiery theme park, lava pits with air-conditioned luxury boxes, Museum of the Damned Hall of Fame, and a Planet Hollywood. The project will be financed through the sale of Connecticut souls for the next three hundred years.

  “When people think of Hell, they’re going to think of Hartford!” Governor John Rowland said. “We must be in heaven!”

  Dressing for Oppress

  Next on CNN: In today’s troubled world of corporate downsizing and social uncertainty, the hottest trend in fashion is looking the loser! Elsa Klensch views a new collection for white males who are celebrating their sexual and political oppression!

  Hello from Utica! I’m Elsa Klensch with a special edition of Style! We’re here today to glimpse the latest designs from Mr. Benny, whose visionary theme, “Dress for Oppression,” promises to let our Caucasian cogs in the corporate carousel view themselves as they really are: the true victims!

  Joining me for this extraordinary event is my fashion cohost, my color man, Mr. John Madden.

  ELSA, THEY WERE TALKING ABOUT BENNY. THEY WERE SAYING HE’S GETTING OLD, THAT HE’S COLOR-BLIND, THAT THE HANDS CAN’T DO THE STITCHING ANYMORE. BUT I’VE BEEN GOING TO BENNY’S BIG-AND-TALL-MAN SHOP FOR YEARS, AND I CAN TELL YOU THIS GUY’S GOT A LOT OF CLOTHES LEFT IN HIM. AND IT’S GOOD TO SEE THE TIMES FINALLY CATCHING UP, BECAUSE WHEN THEY TALK ABOUT WHITE GUYS LOOKING DEPRESSED, BELIEVE ME, THEY TALK ABOUT BENNY.

  John, here’s our first model. It’s Cooter, taking a well-deserved break from the keyboard to stand in the rain and smoke a cigarette. He wears a phone book–yellow headset made by Tandy and, over his free ear, a matching Mongol No. 2 pencil. Cooter’s tan trousers ride a quarter inch above his white tube socks, ventilating the midcalf, and his tie reeks of birthday gift. The shirt pocket is logoed with a dollop of exploded-pen ink, and note the sleeves, John. They’re rolled up, for an accessory that screams, “Pity me”: Velcro-fastened, ergonomic wrist supports!

  I WAS TALKING TO COOTER BEFORE THE SHOW, ELSA, AND HE’S MODELING HURT. IT’S THAT CARPAL-TUNNEL THING THAT YOU GET IN YOUR HANDS. BUT COOTER’S THE TYPE OF MODEL WHO—JUST HIS PRESENCE OUT THERE HELPS THIS COLLECTION. CHECK OUT THE REPLAY: HE MAKES A HECK OF A STROLL … TAKES OUT HIS LIGHTER … DOESN’T LIGHT … DOESN’T LIGHT … DOESN’T LIGHT … BOOM! … LIGHTS! I MEAN, WHEN YOU SEE A GUY WEARING THOSE WRIST PADS, YOU KNOW THAT GUY IS OPPRESSED. AND YOU GOTTA HAND IT TO COOTER. HE’S POSING IN PAIN. HE’S NOT A HUNDRED PERCENT. A LOT OF GUYS WOULDN’T BE OUT THERE RIGHT NOW, BUT IN A BIG SHOW NO ONE WANTS COOTER IN THERE MORE THAN COOTER.

  Hold everything, John. Here comes Herb, mixing business with pleasure—and gin with tonic! He’s off to the golf course with his district manager and a prospective customer. Herb wears a supernova-purple fedora, traffic light–green pants, white golf shoes, and a tequila sunset–orange polo shirt that treats us to an inch of furry midriff. And by the way, John, do you know why Herb golfs with two pairs of pants?

  It’s in case he gets a hole in one!

  THIS GOLF GAME IS NINETY-FIVE PERCENT MENTAL, ELSA, SO YOU NEED MENTAL CLOTHES. THE KEY HERE IS THE COLORS, BECAUSE YOU DEFINITELY CAN SEE THESE GUYS COMING. YOU REALLY GOTTA LOOK HARD TO FIND COLORS LIKE THAT, AND BENNY HAS DONE A HECK OF A JOB HERE. I DON’T KNOW
WHERE HE GOT THESE COLORS. THERE MUST’VE BEEN A SALE SOMEPLACE. HE MUST’VE FOUND SOME HIGHWAY-SIGN PAINT DOWN IN HIS BASEMENT. I MEAN, THESE ARE THE KIND OF COLORS YOU WEAR FOR HUNTING, SO THE OTHER GUY DOESN’T SHOOT YOU. YOU WEAR THESE COLORS, AND PEOPLE WILL THINK YOU’RE OPPRESSED. I GUARANTEE YOU THAT.

  Stand back, John, and paint it black! Here comes Brian, our classic rocker, who plans to get some “satisfaction” at the Rolling Stones tribute show! Brian’s faux ponytail dangles into his tie-dyed T-shirt, and his torn jeans are kept in place by both a belt and suspenders. Sandals enclose his dark socks—one black, one navy—and Brian’s fanny pack holds the essentials: earplugs, binoculars, and “stash.” And that aroma creeping our way, John, is the new fragrance by Calvin Klein, Oppression, a ruddy mix of Desenex and Absorbine Jr.

  YOU KNOW BENNY’S INTO IT WHEN HE’S MIXING UP THE SMELLS. BUT THE KEY HERE, I THINK, IS THE BELT-SUSPENDERS COMBO. IN THIS LEAGUE, YOU GOTTA HAVE BACKUPS. I MEAN, WHAT IF THE SUSPENDERS GO? THEN YOUR PANTS WOULD BE DOWN AT YOUR ANKLES! CAN’T STRESS IT ENOUGH. YOU GOTTA HAVE BACKUPS.

  Look, John! Here’s Ted, kissing his wife goodbye, as he heads off for a grueling weekend business trip. His gray flannel suit with white shirt and power tie, coupled with his briefcase and black loafers, illustrate Ted’s “nose to the grindstone” approach to the job. Nevertheless, all work and no play makes Ted a dull boy. So with one strategic pull on the zipper (the suit reverses), here’s Teddy—in full-body leather bondage gear, with matching love-slave collar! John? John?

  And now for a change of pace. Here comes Ed, hiking merrily to his secret paramilitary convention! Whether you’re a soldier of fortune or an unfortunate soldier, this ensemble will have the fashion militia shouting, “A-ten-chun!” Ed’s traditional camouflage suit, courtesy of Benny’s Army-Navy Store, opens to reveal a black screaming-skull T-shirt. Atop his khaki bandanna rests a pair of low-light goggles, and slung over Ed’s shoulder is a fully loaded M-16. And, John, check out Benny’s ironic note here: jackboots!