Taylor and I met approximately two months ago. I had given a lecture on genome sequencing at the medical school. She sat in the front row, wearing a skirt, crossing and uncrossing her legs. More than once I lost my momentum and had to begin anew. Afterward, I spotted her drinking champagne at the reception. When I asked what she was celebrating, she joked that she was on the edge of a complete breakdown, then went on to tell me she was in the final week of her first year at medical school with just a single set of tests remaining that would determine her future. I didn’t take this for hyperbole. In today’s highly competitive world of medicine, only the top twenty-five percent of first year medical school students get to matriculate on to the second year.
Even though more money is being poured into healthcare than ever, less and less of it is used to train and pay doctors. Most of the treatment decisions these days are based on algorithms and A.I., which removes the need for more physicians. Instead, the government is spending its money on increasingly sophisticated new technologies, tests, and facilities, plus an army of low-skilled technicians.
Today there are one-hundred million senior citizens in the country, about twenty-five percent of the population. The number one fastest growing job in the economy, perhaps the only field whose numbers are increasing, is geriatric ass-wipers. All day long, that’s what these people are paid to do. They wipe asses, they spoon-feed adults who are as helpless as infants, they hand out pills and administer shots. Healthcare today isn’t slowing the aging process. No, what it’s doing is slowing the dying process.
Medical school students who fail to advance past the first year tend to find themselves either as ass-wipers, or as members of the ever-growing social class we affectionately refer to as The Absolved—folks, that is, lacking sufficient talent or skill to contribute to today’s high-tech workforce. Best of all, none of The Absolved ever have to work. Sure, they complain endlessly, and yet with no effort at all, they have everything they need: food, shelter, healthcare. That said—don’t get me wrong, I’m not ready for such liberation. I’m a steward of humanity, willing to suffer and work for the greater good. Of course it’s not all martyrdom. I’m very well compensated for my efforts. Compared to the majority of the population who are too old to work, too unskilled to work, or working as ass-wipers, I’m doing very well. Statistically, I’m in the top one percent of all earners.
I’ve digressed!
With nearly a half decade of tremendous effort and study behind her, Taylor had only one set of tests left to earn her way into the top twenty-five percent. And, my goodness was she close going into the exams—seventy-third percentile! The pressure on someone in that position is nearly incomprehensible to anyone who hasn’t gone through it themselves. Thank God I didn’t have it so bad. In my day, things were quite good, comparatively. There was a severe physician shortage, so if you had a pulse and could eke past the Board Exams, they’d give you a credential. You might end up practicing Family Medicine in Cheyenne, Wyoming, but at least you got to be a doctor.
After the reception, I encouraged Taylor to join me and some of the faculty for dinner. At first she was reluctant because she needed to study, but I was persistent and she relented. The company of doctors is something over the years I’ve grown entirely accustomed to. We’re certainly a self-congratulatory bunch. It’s all talk of who’s been where on what vacation, how much each has paid for their new home, and what private schools our brilliant children have been accepted to. Normally I’m as guilty of this line as anyone, perhaps even one of the worst offenders. But, on this night, in the company of Taylor, I had no interest in anything besides her.
When Dr. Hines regaled the table with a story of spending a fortune on a painting—by the expressionist Willem de Kooning—of a large-breasted, naked woman staring into oblivion, I noticed Taylor lose interest.
“Bad paintings,” she said in response to my concern, “please the masses only to the extent that they present a false and simple and hence reassuring view of the world.” It occurred to me then that I could be no Pygmalion lover to this young woman. She had me licked when it came to culture, and I couldn’t have been more impressed. “I’m so glad you’re not like the others,” she said. “They’re so dull, with their obsessions with money and status.”
I agreed. I’d never before heard such a compelling argument against success. Had she asked me that night to relinquish my position as a doctor and live with her in a cabin somewhere in the Sierra Nevadas, I’d have done so gladly.
I’m not sure how, but I won Taylor’s affections, evinced by her allowing me to rush her off to bed that very night. In the days that followed, every chance I could take, I absconded to her apartment. Perhaps because of our affair, Taylor had not studied enough to move up more than a single point in the rankings, leaving her spot in the second-year medical school class out of reach.
“I’m a big girl,” she says as she lays her glistening leg on the rim of the tub. “I can accept what’s coming.”
“But surely I’m somewhat to blame. I didn’t let you out of bed for a week after we met. You must let me help.”
As these foolish declarations tumble from my mouth, I can’t help but wonder why. It’s as if I’m suffering an out-of-body-experience. These can’t be my words. They’re only an invitation for trouble. Still, I sound so sincere and impassioned, my body is practically quivering with eagerness to make itself useful.
“I don’t want to trouble you anymore than I already have,” she says. “You’re taking such a risk just by being with me like this.”
“I can’t just stand by and watch this injustice transpire.”
“It’s too late, my fate is sealed.”
She repositions herself so we’re face-to-face, her straddling me.
“Let me think,” I say.
As I ponder why my mouth continues to speak against my better judgment, Taylor strokes my head and kisses my cheeks and lips. I remind myself, she’s a fling, I have a wife and child, I shouldn’t involve myself any further. But it’s no use, now, there’s nothing I want more than to lend a hand in the great success story of this girl. One so rarely gets to be the hero.
My first thought is to go to that dilettante who overpaid for the de Kooning travesty, Dr. Hines. And yet he offends me on so many levels. Like the majority of those whose aptitudes lie in the realm of technical work, Dr. Hines has no interesting thoughts or any real curiosity about politics, music, or art. Instead, he repeats the same boring tripe that millions of other mouths around the world are saying in unison. He reminds me of the nouveau rich Chinese who destroyed the art market in the Aughties—puppets of New York art dealers who suffered from a complete absence of sophistication or erudition. He pays exorbitant prices for what really amounts to lackluster work by third-rate artists, in hopes of increasing his own social status—perhaps, for instance, a chance at meeting the has-been actor Leonardo DiCaprio at a black-tie gala, or attending a runway show for the new North West collection. Or, at the very least, he buys art not because of his appreciation for the vision or skill of the artist, but because he speculates there’s a possible big payout down the road, if, that is, he’s successful in his shell game to bring a certain hack to prominence. A work by Jordan Cantwell is no different than an investment in a share of Hologram Plus or renting out apartments in Philadelphia—a cash cow! Sometimes, when I’m made to suffer through someone parroting the drivel that has become the zeitgeist, I wonder if I should disappear into the desert, silence surely being preferable not only to stupidity but to unanimity, as well.
In addition to moonlighting as an art collector, Dr. Hines is a fellow oncologist and the dean of the medical school. He and I, however, are nothing if not nemeses. The man may be a bottom-shelf aficionado, but he’s a first-rate sycophant. His preternatural ability to ingratiate himself to people in high positions beggars belief. This shameful yet highly profitable skillset is perhaps the greatest strength of men of weak character. It prevents them from being crushed by str
onger rivals. Without fail, the man has the ability to escape the most precarious positions utterly unscathed. He’s like one of those suckerfish who attach themselves to sharks in the ocean, growing fat on the morsels of food discarded by their hosts.
Just this morning, I was with Serena and Dr. Hines discussing the most efficient, cost-saving ways to deliver medical care. Serena has written an algorithm that quantifies the value of a human life. The work is truly groundbreaking, and there is already talk of a Nobel Prize in her future. This new Human Life Valuation Tool takes into consideration an incredible number of inputs, ranging from the obvious to the esoteric. The following is a just a small sampling of factors the tool uses to ascertain what a life is worth: number of friends, potential to affect change in the world, cholesterol level, arcane knowledge, degree of independence, political beliefs, athleticism, physical attractiveness, susceptibility to vice, fidelity, body fat percentage, favorite color, culinary skills, tidiness, shoe size, sexual proclivities, ability to manage one’s finances.
Dr. Hines is disgustingly worshipful of Serena’s work. On and on he goes about how she’s revolutionizing the industry. The exultation sounds lifted straight from the Ayn Rand guide-to-healthy-living. He has a number of catchy slogans that he shouts at the top of his lungs: “Dependence leads to suffering! Man’s first duty is himself! Reliance on the government has destroyed the once great people of this nation!”
“Dr. Hines,” I interjected, “aren’t you at all concerned about the possible implications of trying to reduce the essence of a person’s life down to a monetary value?”
“Tell me you’re not so silly as to be objecting on moral grounds.”
“From a purely humanistic view, it may be unethical to make medical decisions based on subjective criteria of how much a person’s life is worth.”
“Jesus Christ, Henri. It’s not he who accepts everything and anything from people who truly values the sanctity of human life. What you’re really saying is that you expect nothing of people, so nothing can disappoint you. A person who makes no distinction between the creators of symphonies and some fool who sings along to the radio is a person with no appreciation for humanity at all.”
“The trouble with someone like you is that you, without fail, accept the conclusions to which your groping leads you, as articles of faith.”
“Per usual, you’re obscuring what you want to say with clever language,” Dr. Hines said. “Could you elaborate?”
“If it’s handholding you need, I can oblige.” Dr. Hines held out his hand, palm up, with his typical smirk. “My concern is that you may be incapable of wrapping your mind around the complexities of this world. So, instead, you’ll do anything and everything to adjust the world to what your mind already believes to be true.”
“Here’s a fact that should interest you,” Dr. Hines countered. “Once the government passes into law Serena’s recommendations, nearly eighty percent of cancer treatment spending will be cut, equating to a $2.1 trillion in annual savings for the National Healthcare System.”
“And I suppose you’ll claim that such a system will be for the common good?” I said. “A sacrifice by the individual to help the masses!”
“And for you, Henri, it may mean an early retirement!”
Throughout all of this, Serena’s face remained completely impassive. Both Dr. Hines and I were desperate for her to choose a side. Instead, she dismissed us both, claiming that her Thai masseuse was due any minute, and she needed to burn sage first.
Now, here in the tub with Taylor, my desire for her mounting, I struggle to expunge my guilt for causing her to miss her medical school requirements. Going to Dr. Hines with Taylor’s situation would prove fruitless. Instead, I reason, perhaps an appeal to Serena will be best.
“I have a friend in a very high position,” I say. “If anyone can help, it must be her!”
“What sort of friend?”
“She’s the head of the entire hospital system.”
“I really don’t want to end up in The Absolved, Henri. It would be an awful life.”
“I wouldn’t let it happen to you.”
We kiss hard, and she takes my dick and rides me as if in a voodoo trance. By the time we’re done, there is more water on the floor than in the tub.
2
Before going home—before returning to domestic life, that is—I stop at my favorite bar, Anodyne. A man can’t simply throw himself into his household affairs. He must be emotionally prepared. A hasty homecoming could possibly result in disaster. He must, therefore, don the appropriate demeanor. I try to imagine the horror of it: me, walking through the door with a big, stupid grin, fresh-off a rendezvous with the exquisite Taylor. It would certainly raise suspicions, that’s for sure.
Anodyne is not a place people of my status tend to go. It’s a bar that in a different era would have been considered working-class. Now the clientele is mostly members of The Absolved. A random passerby would never know the bar existed—it has no sign. But those in the know will find Anodyne situated on the second-floor of a rundown building, that fifty years back housed a textile mill filled with Asian women sewing wedding gowns. Downstairs is an out-of-business Vietnamese Restaurant, closed by the Public Health Department after a customer found a microchip in his Banh Mi sandwich. The staircase to access the bar is far too steep for comfort, and is narrow and poorly lit. Many customers have taken a nasty tumble down those stairs after a few too many. The proprietor of the place, Tony—who, legend has it, no one has ever even seen—has a fetish for antique lamps, and they are scattered throughout the bar, providing this hideaway with an ambience of perfect gloom. There is a pool table in the corner, six stools at the bar, and two red vinyl booths along the wall. The most charming touch is the antique jukebox—stocked only with songs recorded by actual humans, nearly all from last century: outlaw country from the ’70s, punk from the ’80s, grunge from the ’90s.
Lydia, the bartender, has been something of a friend, confidante, and spiritual advisor to me ever since she rescued me from a bar-fight beat-down my first time here. Though she’s only five-foot-two and one-hundred-and-ten pounds with a tangle of dry, frizzy hair, she managed to fend off my attackers with only a broken pool stick and a surplus of street bravado.
“What should it be this time, roses or daisies?” I say after ordering a whiskey on ice.
“How bad is it?”
“About the usual amount of bad.”
“I’d want daisies, but I’m more Volkswagen than Mercedes. You should go with roses.”
I open my gram and say, “AmaDrone, deliver a dozen roses to Rachel within the hour. Place them in a vase and leave them on the kitchen table, with a note that says, ‘Late night at the hospital. Thinking of you. Love, H’.”
“How are things?” I ask Lydia.
She looks up from wiping the counter with a filthy rag, “We won our roller-derby match last night. City champs! Other than that, nothing too exciting. Tony keeps threatening to either sell the place or modernize. He says we can’t compete with the automated drink-maker joints.”
“He harms that jukebox, I’ll kill him.”
An old flat-screen television is mounted over the bar, squeezed between a neon beer sign and a taxidermized elk’s head with women’s underwear hanging off its antlers. It’s election season and the campaigns are in full-swing—twenty-four hours per day of propaganda. The question of how best to move forward as a country has never been so difficult to answer. The people are more divided than ever. The news is replaying a speech by President Martinez.
“Hey, turn up the volume, would you?” I ask. “I want to hear what Bienhecho had to say.”
Everyone calls Martinez “Bienhecho,” which is Spanish for “do-gooder.” Martinez was the son of two illegal immigrants from El Salvador, a Dreamer, who served as the primary wage-earner in his home during adolescence, making a steady income streaming his online videogame playing. This prowess earned him a scholarship to university, where he
became a civil rights activist, later serving one term as a congressman from California before being sworn in as our youngest president to date. When he came to power he was hailed as the New Messiah, the man who promised the people he’d help them regain a feeling of participation in the economy. So much for that! All of his efforts to jumpstart a public works program have ended in abject failure. Unfortunately, there’s just no way to make a human as productive as a robot. It’s almost hard to remember now, but there was a time when a person could make a decent living doing all sorts of different things: construction worker, fireman, dog groomer. But the list of occupations that earn a livable wage is shrinking all of the time.
In lieu of helping the common man regain some semblance of self-worth and fulfillment, Martinez has done the next best thing: he’s raised taxes on the wealthy a record six times in the first three years of his term. Free healthcare, free university, free everything has to be paid for by someone. On paper, I’m supposed to pay sixty-eight percent of my salary to federal income taxes, but, of course, I don’t, because that would be insane. I shelter as much as I can with fancy financial chicanery. God bless this new tax-avoidance software—the greatest gift technology has provided me—for keeping me in the black.
Only four years ago, Martinez possessed almost unnatural good looks—the body of an athlete, a coif of black, lustrous hair, the bone structure of a star, and an undeniably sincere look in his eyes that made the country fall in love with him. He even got people like me, whom he’s trying to bleed dry, to vote for him. The man won by a landslide. But to look at him now, you’d hardly recognize him. The stress of the job has taken its toll, not only on his emotional well-being, but on his body, too. His once svelte physique has been reduced to a husk with a paunchy belly and reedy arms and legs. The immaculate skin of his youth is now so pale and devoid of melanin that it displays the type of sunspots usually only found on people of Irish descent. His hair is thin and grey. And when he speaks, his voice is a gravelly rumble.
The Absolved Page 2