Stan feels a small prickle at the back of his neck. That's his brother Ed could be talking about! Or maybe not Con specifically; but he's pretty sure that if Ed got a close-up look at Con, he'd file him under toxic scum. It's fine for Stan to use names like that, it's within the family, and it's not that he approves of whatever it is Con is probably doing, but. Is this the kind of rumour Con's been hearing? That Positron is hardcore repressive on the subject of sticky fingers? One strike and you're out?
He'd like to phone Conor, talk to him some more. See what he knows about this place really. But he can't do that without a phone. Wait and see, he tells himself. Give the place a chance.
--
Ed opens his arms like a TV preacher; his voice gets louder. Then it occurred to the planners of Positron, he says - and this was brilliant - that if prisons were scaled out and handled rationally, they could be win-win viable economic units. So many jobs could be spawned by them: construction jobs, maintenance jobs, cleaning jobs, guard jobs. Hospital jobs, uniform-sewing jobs, shoemaking jobs, jobs in agriculture, if there was a farm attached: an ever-flowing cornucopia of jobs. Medium-size towns with large penitentiaries could maintain themselves, and the people inside such towns could live in middle-class comfort. And if every citizen were either a guard or a prisoner, the result would be full employment: half would be prisoners, the other half would be engaged in the business of tending the prisoners in some way or other. Or tending those who tended them.
And since it was unrealistic to expect certified criminality from 50 percent of the population, the fair thing would be for everyone to take turns: one month in, one month out. Think of the savings, with every dwelling serving two sets of residents! It was time-share taken to its logical conclusion.
Hence the twin town of Consilience/Positron. Of which they are now all such an important part! Ed smiles, the welcoming, open, inclusive smile of a born salesman. It all makes sense!
Stan wants to ask about the profit margin, and about whether this thing is a private venture. It has to be. Someone's got the lucrative infrastructure and supply contracts, walls don't build themselves, and the security systems are top grade, from what he's been able to observe at the gateway. But he stops himself: this doesn't feel like the right moment to ask, because now a great big CONSILIENCE has come up on the screen:
CONSILIENCE = CONS + RESILIENCE. DO TIME NOW, BUY TIME FOR OUR FUTURE!
A MEANINGFUL LIFE
Stan has to admit that the PR team and the branders have done well; Ed obviously thinks so too. Positron Project had changed the name of the pre-existing prison, he tells them, because "The Upstate Correctional Institute" was dingy and boring. They'd come up with "Positron," which technically means the antimatter counterpart of the electron, but few out there would know that, would they? As a word, it just sounded very, well, positive. And positivity was what was needed to solve our current problems. Even the most cynical - says Ed - even the most jaundiced would have to admit that. Then they'd brought in some top designers to consult on an overall look and feel. The fifties was chosen for the visual and audio aspects, because that was the decade in which the most people had self-identified as being happy. Which is one of the goals here: maximum possible happiness. Who wouldn't tick that box?
When the new name and the new aesthetic were launched, Positron hit a popular nerve. Credible stratagem, said the online news bloggers. At last, a vision! Even the depressives among them said why not try it, since nothing else had worked. People were starved for hope, ready to swallow anything uplifting.
After they'd run the first TV ads, the number of online applications was overwhelming. And no wonder: there were so many advantages. Who wouldn't rather eat well three times a day, and have a shower with more than a cupful of water, and wear clean clothes and sleep in a comfortable bed devoid of bedbugs? Not to mention the inspiring sense of a shared purpose. Rather than festering in some deserted condo crawling with black mould or crouching in a stench-filled trailer where you'd spend the nights beating off dead-eyed teenagers armed with broken bottles and ready to murder you for a handful of cigarette butts, you'd have gainful employment, three wholesome meals a day, a lawn to tend, a hedge to trim, the assurance that you were contributing to the general good, and a toilet that flushed. In a word, or rather three words: A MEANINGFUL LIFE.
That was the last slogan on the last slide on the last PowerPoint. Something to take home with them, says Ed. Their new home, right here inside Consilience. And inside Positron, of course. Think of an egg, with a white and a yolk. (An egg came up onscreen, a knife cut it in half, lengthwise.) Consilience is the white, Positron is the yolk, and together they make the whole egg. The nest egg, says Ed, smiling. There's a final picture: a nest, with a golden egg shining within it.
--
Ed turns off the PowerPoint, puts on his reading glasses, consults a list. Practical matters: their new cellphones will be issued in the main hall. At the same time they'll receive their housing allocations. The details are explained more fully on the green sheets in their folders, but in brief, everyone in Consilience will live two lives: prisoners one month, guards or town functionaries the next. Everyone has been assigned an Alternate. One detached residential dwelling can therefore serve at least four people: in Month One, the houses will be occupied by the civilians, and then, in Month Two, by the prisoners of Month One, who will take on the civilian roles and move into the houses. And so it will go, month after month, turn and turn about. Think of the savings in the cost of living, Ed says with what is either a tic or a wink.
As for purchasing power, always a hot topic: each of them will be given an initial number of Posidollars, which can be exchanged for items they may wish to purchase at the Consilience shops or from the internal-network digital catalogue. The sum will be topped up automatically every payday. Objects purchased to individualize the living spaces may either be stored during prison time or shared with Alternates; in case of breakage, the Alternates will of course replace such items, using their own Posidollars. There is a maintenance staff that will take care of such things as plumbing and electrical issues. And leaks, Ed says. The roof kind, not the information kind, he adds with a smile. This is supposed to be a joke, Stan guesses.
He takes a quick look at the green sheet. Single people will live in two-bedroom condos, which they will share with another single person and their two Alternates. Detached houses are reserved for couples and families: good, he and Charmaine will get one of those. Teens have two schools - one inside the prison, one outside it. Young children stay with the mothers in the women's wing, equipped with supervised play schools, kindergartens, and toddler dance classes. It's really an ideal situation for young children, and so far the parental satisfaction index is very high.
Each dwelling unit has four lockers, one for each adult. Civilian clothes, which may be selected from the catalogue, are stored in these lockers during the months when their owners are doing a prisoner shift. The orange prisoner garb is kept at the Positron Prison, worn while in prison, and left there for cleaning.
The prison cells themselves have been upgraded, and though care has been taken to maintain the theme, considerable amenities have been added. It's not as if they're being asked to live in an old-fashioned sort of prison! The prison food, for instance, is at least three-star quality. He himself enjoys nothing more because it's amazing what care and a top attitude can add to simple and wholesome ingredients.
Ed consults his notes. Stan shifts from cheek to cheek: how long is this windbag going to go on? He's got the picture, and so far there's nothing to freak out about. He could use a coffee. Better, a beer. He wonders what they've been telling Charmaine, over in the ladies' workshops.
Right, another thing, says Ed. From time to time a film crew may arrive to shoot some footage of the ideal life they will all be leading, to be shown outside Consilience as a boost to the helpful work they are doing here. They themselves will be able to view those results too, on the closed-circuit Consili
ence network. Music and movies are available on the same network, although, to avoid overexcitement, there is no pornography or undue violence, and no rock or hip-hop. However, there is no limitation on string quartets, Bing Crosby, Doris Day, the Mills Brothers, or show tunes from vintage Hollywood musicals.
Fuck, thinks Stan. Granny junk. What about sports, will they be able to watch any games? He wonders if there's any way of picking up a signal from outside. What's bad about football? But maybe not try anything like that too soon.
A couple more things, says Ed. There's a sign-up list for preferred jobs, in prison and in town: they should number their three top choices, with ten being the most preferred. Those who've never driven a scooter should sign up on the yellow sheet; the scooter classes will begin on Tuesday. Scooters are colour-matched to lockers, and all individuals must take personal responsibility for their scooter while it is in their care.
He, Ed, is sure they will all make a great success of this revolutionary new venture. Good luck! He gives a wave of the hand, like Santa Claus, then leaves the room. The woman in the dark suit walks behind him. Maybe she's a bodyguard, Stan thinks. Powerful glutes.
When he gets to the list of jobs, Stan chooses Robotics first. After that, IT; and third, scooter repair. He figures he could do any one of them. Just so long as he doesn't end up in Kitchen Cleanup, he'll be fine.
--
That evening, he and Charmaine do their first shopping with their Posidollars, and share their first meal in their new abode. Charmaine can't get over it; she's so happy she's warbling. She wants to open all the closet doors, turn on all the appliances. She can hardly wait to see what sorts of jobs they'll be given, and she's signed herself up for scooter lessons. It will all be so terrific!
"Let's go to bed," says Stan. She's spinning out of control. He feels he needs a butterfly net to catch her, she's so hyper.
"I'm just too excited!" she says. As if, thinks Stan. He wishes he were the object of that excitement, and not the dishwasher, which she's now cooing over as if it's a kitten. He can't shake the feeling that this place is some sort of pyramid scheme, and that those who fail to understand that will be left empty-handed. But there's no obvious reason for this feeling of his. Maybe he's ungrateful by nature.
I'M STARVED FOR YOU
Stan's lost count of the exact time they've been inside the twin cities. You can get into a drifting mode. Has a year gone by already? More than a year. He's repaired scooters one month, dealt with egg-counting software in prison the next, then back to the scooters. Nothing he hasn't been able to handle.
He's listening to "Paper Doll" on his phone ear buds while rinsing out his coffee cup. Those flirty guys, he hums to himself. At first he hated the music in Consilience, but he's begun to find it oddly consoling. Doris Day is even kind of a turn-on.
Today is switchover day, when he and Charmaine both go into the prison. How does she pass the time away from him, inside the women's wing? "We knit a lot," she's told him. "In the off-hours. And there are the vegetable gardens, and the cooking - we take turns at those daily things. And the laundry, of course. And then at the hospital, my job as Chief Medications Administrator - it's a big responsibility! I'm never bored! The days just fly by!"
"Do you miss me?" Stan asked her a week ago. "When you're in there?"
"Of course I miss you. Don't be silly," she said, kissing him on the nose. But a nose kiss wasn't what he wanted. Do you hunger for me, do you burn for me? That's what he'd like to ask. But he doesn't dare ask that, because he's almost certain she would laugh.
It's not that they don't have sex. They certainly have more of it than they had in the car; but it's sex that Charmaine enacts, like yoga, with careful breath control. What he wants is sex that can't be helped. He wants helplessness. No no no, yes yes yes! That's what he wants. He's come to realize that, in recent months.
--
Down in the cellar, he opens the large green locker and stows away the clothes he's been wearing for summer: the shorts, the T-shirts, the jeans. He may not be using these for a while: by the time he gets back here next month, the hot weather may be over and he'll be into the fleece pullovers, though you never know with September. He won't have to do so much lawn maintenance then, which is a plus. Though the lawn will be a wreck. Some guys have no feeling for lawns, they take them for granted, they let them mat up and dry out and then the yellow ants get into them and it takes a lot of work to bring the grass back. If he were here all the time he could keep the lawn in peak condition.
Upstairs, clean towels are deployed in the bathroom, clean sheets are on the bed. Charmaine did that before she set off on her scooter for Positron. In the past couple of months he's been leaving the house after she does, so he does the final check: no bathtub ring, no orphaned sock, no ends of soap or wispy gatherings of shed hair on the floor. When they return on the first day of every second month, Stan and Charmaine are supposed to find the house pristine, spotless, hinting of lemon-scented cleaning products, and Charmaine likes to leave it that way. She says they should lead by example.
It certainly hasn't been spotless every time they've returned. As Charmaine has pointed out, there have been hairs, there have been toast crumbs, there have been smudges. More than that: three months ago Stan found a folded note; the corner was sticking out from under the refrigerator. It might originally have been attached with the silver fridge magnet in the shape of a duck, the same one Charmaine uses to post shopping reminders.
Despite the strict Consilience taboo against contact with Alternates, he read the note immediately. Though it was done on a printer, it was shockingly intimate:
Darling Max, I can hardly wait till next time. I'm starved for you! I need you so much. XXOO and you know what more - Jasmine.
There was a lipstick kiss: hot pink. No, darker: some kind of purple. Not violet, not mauve, not maroon. He riffled through his head, trying to recall the names of the colours on the paint chips and fabric swatches Charmaine spends so much time brooding over. He'd lifted the paper to his nose, breathed in: still a faint scent, like cherry bubble gum.
Charmaine has never worn a lipstick that colour. And she's never written him a note like that. He dropped it into the trash as if it was burning, but then fished it out and slid it back under the refrigerator: Jasmine shouldn't know that her note to Max had been intercepted. Also, it's possible Max looks under the fridge for such notes - it might be a kinky little game they play - and Max would be upset not to find it. "Did you get my note?" Jasmine would say to him as they lay stuck together. "What note?" Max would answer. "Omigod, one of them found it!" Jasmine would exclaim. Then she would laugh. It might even turn her on, the consciousness of a third pair of eyes having seen the imprint of her avid mouth.
Not that she needs turning on. Stan can't stop thinking about that: about Jasmine, about her mouth. It's bad enough here at the house, even with Charmaine breathing beside him, lightly or heavily depending on what they're doing, or rather on what he's doing - Charmaine has never been much of a joiner, more of a sidelines woman, cheering him on from a distance. But at Positron, in his narrow bed in the men's wing, that kiss floats in the darkness before his open eyes like four plush pillows, parted invitingly as if about to sigh or speak. He knows the colour of that mouth by now, he's tracked it down.
Fuchsia. It has a moist, luscious feel to it. Oh hurry, that mouth says. I need you, I need you now! I'm starved for you! But it's speaking to Stan, not to the guy whose clothes repose in the locker beside his own. Not to Max.
--
Max and Jasmine, those are their names - the names of the Alternates, the two others who occupy the house, walk through its routines, cater to its demands, act out its fantasies of normal life when he and Charmaine aren't there. He isn't supposed to know those names, or anything at all about their owners: that's Consilience protocol. But because of the note, he does know the names. And by now he knows - or deduces, or, more accurately, imagines - a lot of other things as well.
&
nbsp; Max's locker is the red one. Charmaine's locker is pink, Jasmine's is purple. In an hour or so - once Stan has left the house, once he's logged out - Max will walk in through the front door, open the red locker, take out his stored clothes, carry them upstairs, arrange them in the bedroom, on the shelves, in the closet: enough for a month's stay.
Then Jasmine will arrive. She won't bother with her locker, not at first. They'll throw themselves into each other's arms. No: Jasmine will throw herself into Max's arms, press herself against him, open her fuchsia mouth, tear off Max's clothes and her own, pull him down onto - what? The living room carpet? Or will they stumble upstairs, reeling with lust, and fall entwined onto the bed, so thoughtfully and neatly made up with newly ironed sheets by Charmaine before she left? Sheets with a border of birthday-party bluebirds tying pink ribbon bows. Nursery sheets, kiddie sheets: Charmaine's idea of cuteness. Those sheets don't seem right for Max and Jasmine, who would never choose such bland, pastel accessories for themselves. Black satin is more their style. Though, like all the basics in the place, the sheets came with the house.
Jasmine isn't a sheet ironer, nor does she make up the bed for Stan and Charmaine before she leaves: they find the mattress bare, and no towels set out in the bathroom either. But of course Jasmine is lax about such household details, thinks Stan, because all she really cares about is sex.
Stan rearranges Jasmine and Max in his head, this way and that, lace bra ripped asunder, legs in the air, hair wildly tangled, even though he has no idea what either of them looks like. Max's back is covered with scratch marks like a cat fancier's leather sofa.
What a slut, that Jasmine. Flaming hot in an instant, like an induction cooker. He can't stand it.
Maybe she's ugly. Ugly ugly ugly, he repeats like a charm, trying to exorcise her - her and her maddening bubble-gum lipstick smell and her musky voice, a voice he's never heard. But it doesn't work, because she's not ugly, she's beautiful. She's so beautiful she glows in the dark.
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