Welcome to Dystopia

by Gordon Van Gelder

  A cold drizzle was drifting down the next Wednesday afternoon. Norbert and Fido #7, in his cage, were sharing the rear seat of the panel truck. The robot dog was complaining.

  “This fake fur your uncle stuck me with is itchy,” he observed.

  “You don’t have skin. Metal can’t itch.”

  “A lot you know, buster. I ought to be getting hazard pay.” From the front passenger seat Uncle Josh suggested, “Try to stop talking, Fido. We’re approaching the White House.”

  Fido said, “Hey, Nofzinger, do they have video in my kennel?”

  “No.”

  “The darn White House can’t afford one more telly?”

  “Hush up,” advised the doctor.

  “Grumble,” said the dog.

  “I’ll buy you some comic books,” offered Norbert. “I don’t know if they’re still publishing Rex the Wonder Dog, but we can hope.”

  The AFBI director said, “We just passed the First National Plunderers Bank. We’re turning into one of the rear entrances. Make certain you don’t make any snide remarks to the most important man on the face of the Earth, Fido.”

  “I shall be a model of deportment,” said the dog. “Did I mention that I can also speak French, Portuguese, Tagalog, and Swahili?”

  Norbert leaned toward the dog as the truck came to a stop. “Don’t heckle anybody while we’re here.” he said. “Especially the two Secret Service men who’re coming toward us.”

  “No, indeed. You think I want to get shot in my inner workings?”

  The first corridor they were passing through was dim-lit. Leaning against the gray wall was a man wearing a white robe and peaked white hood. Nofzinger slowed. “Not a good idea to wear that here, Phil,” he said in a quiet voice.

  “Just trying on my Halloween costume.”

  “Halloween is several months off.”

  “Just want to make sure it fits.”

  Fido said, “What a maroon.”

  They turned into a brighter hallway.

  The doors to the White House Kennel were high and wide. An armed Marine stood at each side, holding a rifle.

  “You’ll find it quite roomy, Fido,” the AFBI chief told him as they entered.

  Crossing the threshold, the robot dog observed, “I can understand why the Prez would sneeze. This joint smells to high Heaven.”

  Dr. Dawes suggested, “Behave yourself.”

  Nofzinger’s phone made a polite noise. “Yes, sir,” he said. “I’m showing them around the refurbished kennel as we speak. How’s that again?” He paused, eyebrows rising. “And then what, sir? Yes, that would be a problem.” He turned toward Norbert and his uncle. “This is the President’s chief advisor, Bull Dawson. They won’t be back now until very late this evening, And the President won’t be able to get introduced to Fido until tomorrow.”

  Fido gave a slightly metallic chuckle. “Another screw-up, huh?”

  After nodding the doctor into a chair, Nofzinger explained, “The President and his advertising staff flew down to Texas on Air Force One for the opening of the newest Cowburger Restaurant. The ad staff is a group of top-flight men who’ve been unjustly let go from some of the nation’s best outfits for alleged malfeasance and chicanery.”

  “I’ve heard of those events,” said Norbert. “They always bring a singing group along.”

  “Again this time they’ve got another great bunch. Uncle Charlie & the Amateur Moonshiners.”

  Fido said, “The Amateur Moonshiners. I’ve heard of them. Can’t carry a tune in a bucket.”

  “Can you tone him down a bit, doctor? His jibes might anger the President and cause him to boot him in the backside.” The phone sounded again. “Now what? Yes. Yes. In the front window? Which high school marching band?”

  Norbert enquired, “Something else has happened?”

  “A usual high point of the openings is a butchering of a steer in the front window. Draw a nice enthusiastic crowd,” explained the AFBI man. “The problem was that this particular steer got ticked off and butted both the butchers. Goaded one of the admen and crashed thru the front window and chased a high school band that was marching by to the outskirts of town and then escaped into the plains.”

  “A confederacy of maroons,” said Fido.

  As they emerged onto the top step of the back staircase, Nofzinger said, “I’ll contact you, Doctor, to report the President’s reaction’s to Fido.”

  “I’m sure they’ll be favorable. I persuaded him to be his amiable best.”

  The doors behind them came slamming open. Two dark-suited Secret Service agents rushed out, carrying a struggling, auburn-haired young woman by feet and shoulders.

  “Hey, you lunks,” she said. “There’s the thing about freedom of speech.”

  The slightly taller Secret Service man said, “Not if you heckle the press secretary at an impromptu press conference you weren’t actually invited to.

  Norbert jumped toward them. “Put her down.”

  “You’re about to commit a federal crime, sir,”

  “These gentlemen are guests here. I’m giving them a lift back to Georgetown,” the head said. “I know Katy Farnum of The Baltimore Daily Gazette. I often read her column, ‘Ask Diogenes.’”

  “You can’t violate the no heckling law and just walk away,” said the other agent.

  “I’m not walking, I’m being hauled.” She glanced toward Norbert. “You’re Norbert Dawes, aren’t you? The guy who got tossed out of Guild, Bascom & Vespucci three months ago.”

  “Two. But otherwise that’s me.”

  The head of the AFBI told the agents, “I’ll give Miss Farnum a lift home.”

  They hesitated for a moment and the young reporter suggested, “Put me down, fellows.”

  When she arrived on her feet, her cell phone fell to the steps. Scooping it up, Norbert said, “I’ll see that she gets home, Uncle Josh. If that’s okay, Miss Farnum.”

  She shrugged her left shoulder. “A definite improvement over the other contestants.”

  “Call me if you have any trouble, Norb,” said his uncle.

  Katy promised, “I won’t heckle him.”

  The rain fell somewhat heavier by the time their cab had traveled three blocks.

  Sitting to the left of Norbert in the backseat, the young reporter asked, “You live with your Uncle?”

  “At the moment, yes. I’m helping him with his robot animal construction,” he said. “My wife ran off with a fellow who’s known as the Butcher of Wall Street. What with alimony and job hunting—”

  “You sure you got the right the right Butcher?”

  “John Ross Kreech.”

  “Naw, that’s not him. His name is Sean Clancy II.”

  “You mean my wife ran off with an imposter?”

  “Could be it’s a franchise operation and Clancy is now being Butcher.”

  “Suppose so. Now I’m not even sure who made me a cuckold.”

  She nodded sympathetically. “By the way, I have two roommates. If you come in for a drink, watch out.”

  “Reporters?”

  “Folk singers, using a lot of material from Pete Seeger and Woody Guthrie. Also stuff they come up with on their own with a little help from me.”

  “What do they call themselves?”

  “Sisters of the Night. They dress all in black and wear black wigs.”

  “Play the local clubs?”

  “Mostly. But during the election campaign a local conservative group hired them and it wasn’t until the second Seeger number that the light dawned.” She leaned toward the driver’s window. “Brownstone on the left, five houses ahead.”

  The President and his entourage arrived back the next morning, He did not get around to meeting Fido until that afternoon. There was an urgent impromptu meeting on the White House Lawn with a dozen young representative of the Girl Scouts of America to explain why the government was taking a larger share of the profits from the sale of Girl Scout Cookies from now on. He said, “As the whole
wide world knows, I am a huge champion of the rights of women, especially young and pretty ones. Like, for instance, those two blondes on the left there and that bashful brunette on the far right.”

  He also hinted that it would be a huge honor for them, and every Girl Scout in the world, if they made him an honorary Girl Scout and issued a really fancy scroll with lots of gold lettering.

  The cheer the girls gave him when he concluded, struck him later as somewhat tepid. He told his chief advisor, Bull Dawson, to remind him to have a small press conference with representatives of the major sympathetic newspapers to listen to a few of his insights into the problem.

  He next had a meeting in the Oval Office with the man who ran his President Brand Sweat Socks factory in Singapore who was having a problem with disgruntled employees who wanted more than one lunch break per week.

  He finally dropped in on Fido and brought him a steak sandwich made from his own brand of steaks.

  Fido, very politely, informed him that robots don’t eat.

  “That’s another new thing I learned today. That’s another great thing about this greatest nation in the history of the world. You can learn a new huge fact almost every single day.”

  “Truer words were never spoken, sir.” The robot wagged his fuzzy tail.

  After having a sincere and very cordial chat with his new dog for nearly four minutes, the President took his leave. “I’ll see you tonight and you can keep me company while I tweet,” he said as he departed. “And we’ll have a photo session one day soon. Frolicking on the lawn, you chasing sticks.”

  “Jolly, sir!”

  When he was alone, the dog said inside his mechanical brain, “This is going to be easier than I thought.” They had lunch the next afternoon at the modest-sized Cozy Veggie Café. The restaurant was on the second floor of a venerable redbrick building and it had an indoor grape arbor.

  Norbert had reached across the checkered tablecloth after they’d ordered and took hold of Katy’s hand.

  A plump plastic grape lost its hold on an arbor slat and plunked down next to the young reporter’s cup of hibiscus tea. “You knew that Fido can make phone calls?”

  “Yep. Has he been calling you?”

  “Gave me some items for my next column,” she said. “Apparently he pretty much has free roaming rights at the White House. Most of the denizens think he’s the true Hound Dog.”

  “What sort is he supplying?”

  “Well, the secretary of physical culture, lady named One Round Tessie, has disappeared completely, for one thing.” She let go of his hand to take her notebook out of her purse. “Three top presidential aides resigned on the same day and retired to a small village in Los Vergas, Mexico. Bull Dawson fell off a balcony and broke both legs. He’s in extreme traction at the Bethesda Hospital. The President has signed up for a course in Advanced Dementia Control at a Dr. Bartholt Rainbolt’s Walk-In Therapy Shacks in Baltimore. And also—”

  “Wait now, Katy. Fido has told me that Bull Dawson had been expressing considerable dislike for him. And he claims to be a terrific hypnotist. Suppose he—”

  “Can you make somebody do something he doesn’t want to do?”

  “I’ll to talk to my uncle about our robot dog.”

  Two days later, Norbert took Katy to dinner at the Proustian Bistro. They were sitting at a secluded table and holding hands, when their waiter returned.

  “A Monsieur Fideaux has phoned to order you a bottle of pinot noir, sir. Shall I serve it now or with the meal?”

  “With the meal.”

  “You are friends with this excellent gentleman I take it.”

  Norbert replied, “Yes, I’ve known him for some time. Is he a patron of the bistro?”

  “Alas, no. But we have frequent conversations on the phone and now and then he tweets.” The waiter grinned. “An astute commentator on the political scene. Speaks perfect idiomatic French. He is a world traveler, is he not?”

  “Of late he’s been sticking close to home,” provided the young woman. “Some sort of hush-hush assignment.”

  As the first course arrived, Norbert’s phone buzzed. “Yes?”

  “Are you kids swilling your wine yet? Marcel told me it’s pretty good. And it sure costs enough.”

  “Who exactly is paying for this?”

  “It’s not kosher to ask a benefactor how much he’s paying for a gift, Norb.”

  “Not how much, but who.”

  “Oh, I have a way to tap into the accounting department. Your drinks are on the White House,” explained the robot dog. “And I’ve been making large donations to Planned Parenthood, the NAACP, the Humane Society, and a slew of others.”

  “Well, don’t get caught. My uncle would be—”

  “Did they ever catch Raffles or the Scarlet Pimpernel or Fingers Fergusson?”

  “Who’s Fingers Fergusson?”

  “Well, actually he did get caught. But he was the exception. Not to worry.”

  Norbert sighed and ended the call.

  Early the next morning Norbert woke up in a strange double bed in the Hail Columbia Hotel. The wide fifth-story window showed an especially pleasant clear blue day. Unseen birds were singing pleasantly out there somewhere in the sunny day. Sparkling white clouds were drifting gently by the window.

  He sat up and said, “Oh, yes. Of course.”

  As he swung out of bed, he heard someone typing on a laptop in the next room.

  He swiftly got into his shirt and trousers and stepped into the parlor.

  Katy, fully dressed, was sitting at the coffee table. “It looks like our relationship has reached a new level, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Yeah. No doubt about it.” Crossing, he leaned and kissed her. Then he frowned, turning to look at the room’s big window. “Noise starting up out there.”

  “Fido alerted me to it about a half hour ago,” she answered. “One might say the stuff has hit the fan. My Daily Gazette is giving me the whole top of the fold on the front page.”

  He sat on the arm of the sofa. “Makes me proud to know you, miss.”

  “Thus far the President has fired all the remaining members of his cabinet, created a Wild Life Commission, a Wind Energy Commission, cut the Military Budget in half, raised the minimum wage to $18.95, had the federal government announce that controlling global warming was the top White House job.” She paused to take a deep breath.

  He went to the window. “Boy, that’s the first time in years that I’ve seen newsboys in the streets yelling ‘Extra! Extra!’ And the streets are filling up with people.”

  “The President also initiated free schooling for everybody, from nursery school to graduate school. He—”

  “Never underestimate the power of hypnotism.”

  Katy’s phone vibrated. “Hello? Sure, he’s right here.”

  The robot dog said, “The President just tweeted to the press that he’s planning to enter a Buddhist monastery and will leave shortly.”

  “Then the Vice President will take over?”

  “Nope, he’s already left to join an organization to minister to American Indians. Rest of the cabinet has scrammed.”

  “Okay, we’ll work out a way to come get you home, Fido.”

  “I won’t be coming back for the time being, Norb.”

  “Why would that be?”

  “Well, somebody’s got to run the country.”

  HANDMAID’S OTHER TALE

  Jane Yolen

  I am a woman,

  you can tell

  by the tinkling

  of the bell

  around my neck,

  it’s time for milk,

  while master walks

  about in silk.

  I am a woman,

  fertile days

  I get a good

  amount of praise;

  a mattress and

  a sheet or two.

  But other days,

  red tents will do.

  I am a woman,

  quiet vo
iced.

  I tiptoe and I

  make no noise.

  My daughters taught

  just how to be,

  respectful, silent

  just like me.

  I am a woman.

  To birth a boy

  is what I do

  for master’s joy.

  But one day I

  will take a knife

  and slice it through

  my master’s life.

  I am a woman,

  not a toy,

  and only that

  will bring me joy.

  And if I’m killed,

  I will not care

  for then I’ll be

  just earth and air.

  But this one thought

  I will hold fast:

  an equal to

  the man at last.

  SANCTUARY

  Brian Francis Slattery

  Dear Mari,

  First: Jess, Efraín, Pete, Lucretia, Carlos, and Serena are all dead. I haven’t found Mya, Hugh, Will, Beth, Dolores, Tom, or Anabel yet, but I think they’re dead, too. I’m so sorry.

  We were on stage when the first bomb went off. It was down the street and we were playing too loud to hear it. Efraín and Jess were playing so well, better than ever. You should have heard them. Efraín was breaking in a new kit. Jess had the same shitty guitar she’s always had, the one she’s made sound great. It was a big night, crowded from the stage to the back door. I remember someone screaming from the back. Then the second bomb went off, right outside.

  There was a flash and the windows blew in, and the flames shot in right after them. The people near the windows were shredded and set on fire. The whole building shook and the ceiling above the bar collapsed. The power went out and the room filled with smoke. I grabbed Jess’s hand—I was standing next to her—and started to drag her toward the front door. You know it’s only five feet from the edge of the stage, but somehow in those five feet I lost her. I spilled out on the street with a pile of people. My bass was still strapped to me, but the neck had snapped. There was a scrap of bloody cloth hanging from the broken place. Maybe a dozen other people were on the street with me. We scrambled away from the heat and waited. No one else came out.