Food for thought

They’ve been saving money for a year now. It was either this or visiting grandma in the south. Since the banning of all airplanes, though, crossing the country has been a real nightmare. It would take them three whole days just to get there. The kids made it very clear they hated the trip last time. In the end taking everyone to a smuggled buffet is just easier.

Richard is reaching for his tie in a chest and thinking of the last time he attended a buffet. It was a few months before the prohibition, in a family restaurant a few blocks away from his college. He was very disappointed they created the law without consulting the population, but perhaps it was for the best. Many lives had already been taken by the starvation and since the establishment of the governmental ration everyone seemed slimmer and healthier. Not happier, no, for happiness only comes with a full belly, but definitely slimmer.

His face shows a mix of excitement and despair. Never before he has done something illegal in his life. His time in prison after graduation was due to his thought, not actions.

“Are you sure you want to do this,” he asks Melissa, his wife. She turns slowly at him from the bathroom. A red silk dress is hung on the back of her chair. “I mean, we don’t need to, you know?”

“What do you mean ‘we don’t need to’? It was your idea.” Melissa shrugs, turns back to the mirror and resumes putting on make-up. “You’re the one who’s been over the sky about it.”

“I know, I know. But it’s just — it’s risky, you know? We surely can’t afford the fine if they get us.”

Melissa lowers a brush with a thud and turns to Richard again.

“You told me it’s one hundred percent safe, Richard,” says she.

“No, no — it is,” he says defensively. “It is a hundred percent sound. My friend Tommy has it all figured out. It’s guaranteed. That’s why we’re paying all this money. It’s just, I don’t know.”

“Do you wanna back off now?”

“No, no. Of course no.”

“So relax, babe,” Melissa smiles. “It’s going to be alright. You said so yourself. And the kids will love it.”

The kids won’t even know what to do, Richard thinks. Facing the mirror while trying to knot his tie for the second time he calculates how long has it been since the law came into force. The boys probably never heard the expression “all you can eat”. When buffets were made illegal Junior was just a baby. Daniel hadn’t even been born. It’s been ten years now, maybe eleven. Too long a wait for a plate full of food. Those were the days. Those were the days.

Richard unties his tie again and speaks thoughtfully, his eyes fixed on his collar.

“What are we gonna tell them?”

“Who?”

“The boys. What are we supposed to say to them?”

“What boys?” Melissa isn’t paying attention.

“Our boys, Melissa. They have never heard of such a thing. I mean, not even schools are allowed to tell them the way things were. Their minds are going to blow up when they see a bow full of pasta.”

“It’s true,” she throws her thing in the drawer and begins to get dressed. “I suppose we could just explain the situation—?”

In listening that Richard feels the need to sit. Just explain the situation, he thinks. They’re kids, Melissa. They’re not even allowed to hear anything about those who perished. It’s a crime. How to explain to them a mere thing like a buffet has been prohibited worldwide without telling them what happened? What if they let it slip in a conversation with the curfew agents? Richard doesn’t want to go back in. He, who in a surge of some adventure decided it was a good idea to commit a felony and involve his whole family in it, has not thought it through. Just explain the situation.

“Yeah,” he says at last. “I guess we just have to come up with something.”

The following minutes are of complete silence between them. Richard settles with a clumsy half windsor and goes after his vest and jacket. Melissa feels unsure about her legs in that dress but wears it anyway. After getting fully dressed they wrap everything up in their room and head for the boys’. Junior and Daniel are on the floor playing roshambo.

“The thing we’re going to do now,” Richard says without introduction, “is completely illegal. Not only here, but anywhere else in the world.” Ignoring the ghostly stare from Melissa he sits down between the boys. “I think you’re old enough to know that now, so listen carefully. The most important thing here is that you guys never, ever, under any circumstance, talk about it outside this house. The only people who should— the only people who can know that you know about it are me and your mother. We might go to prison if anyone finds out.”

The seriousness in his voice and the eagerness of his movements attracts Melissa’s attention. Richard has never spoken like that since they met. He is the kind of guy who looks resigned at all times, never emitting a harsh opinion on any matter or getting angry at anything. Listening to his way of explaining to a pair of pre-adolescents how “several years of excessive and increasing inequity has provoked the undertaking of drastic measures by the UN” is just too strange. Decided not to encourage even further her husband’s outburst of passion Melissa calls everyone’s attention.

“I’m afraid we’re late, Richard,” she says rather tentatively.

“I don’t mind if you are 12 or 36,” Richard keeps saying while getting the boys up. “Since we’re doing this I need us all on the same page. This cannot going to be an illegal, erm, conduct just for the sake of it. I want to show you what life could have been. I want you to understand that a man shouldn’t be deprived of his vices or hobbies due to a governmental misconduct. It was not my fault that some people couldn’t handle their food. I used to enjoy eating, you know? Full plates of rice and potato. Stew. Beef, loads of beef. Ah! Now there’s only these tasteless rations and pills. Pills for everything.”

The night is going to be splendid, Richard thinks while being pushed ahead by Melissa. He has no recollection of the last time he went to bed with his belly full. If only he could explain why this is so important. The kids will never understand anyway, and Melissa, well, she won’t accept. Why, though? Life is so confusing right now. I just want to eat.

Unbreakable

When it started they all thought it would be a great advantage for the handicap mainly. It was, in a sense. I remember my grandpa got a new set of eyes and was able to see again. I mean, he was 115 already; he was one of the first ones. Before they picked him he’d lost his hopes. The only problem is that after that things kind of got out of control.

Do you remember, doc, the boy who received a liver while still in uterus? I think this was when it really started. It was just too much, you know? I mean, helping people is a nice thing to do, especially the old ones in need and everything. Like my grandpa: he understood what was going on and was grateful for all that. But then do that to an unborn child? They don’t even know what they are.

After the boy more and more babies were delivered already with bionic parts. That was crazy, doc. Be it an internal organ, limbs or even hair — I don’t understand, I really don’t understand. What’s the matter with being bald? We don’t see hairless people on the streets anymore. They’ve been fixed up before they were even born. There’s no differentiation; we’re all pretty much the same, except that some have more parts than others.

My father was one of the first “in uterus” cases, did you know that? He was born after my grandpa’s surgery, so they kinda offered him the privilege. They found out during a prenatal exam that my dad would eventually develop some kind of cancer in his stomach and then they replaced it with a bionic one. It’s a good thing, I guess. He’s 147 now, isn’t he? I mean, still healthy as a baby — he’s able to control the vitamins his body absorbs and whatnot. But is it fair? Everyone’s got one of this now. These things just make people lazier and lazier.

I still read books, doc. Did you know that in the past people would go on a diet? They had to. Not only for aesthetic reasons, no. Some people were actually allergic to things. I mean, as in they couldn’t drink milk or eat peanuts. Their organisms wouldn’t respond accordingly to some substances. How unthinkable is that? Took me a while to understand all that. Apparently it was a big thing in the 23rd century; they mention it on every book. There’s nothing about it nowadays, though. No studies, nothing. It’s like it never existed. 

The thing is: where do we want to get with all this? What do we still want to accomplish? People already live up to their 260s, and I wouldn’t be surprise if that chap from Okinawa made it to his 300s. I don’t even know why we die anymore! But what’s the point, doc? Why do we live like that? Our health is completely artificial, our bodies are manufactured by robots somewhere in the galaxy, even our happiness is somewhat invented. There’s dopamine in the cereal, for gods’ sake.

But I don’t want to live that way. I want real interaction with people, with the world. I want to learn things, not just order some new chip. We need to struggle, doc. This is the only way people build different things. This is the only way we develop. We’re still trapped in the 2700s, doc, don’t you see that? What have we achieved in the past few centuries? Nothing, absolutely nothing. Things have been exactly the same since Mars. Ever since we dealt with our last fear — what now?

Yes, I know this is the way the world is now, but don’t you think we’re exaggerating? I have my parts too — one of the lungs, some bones here in the right arm and my liver, but this only because they found out too late the gene that will lead me into alcoholism —, but how much is too much? Of course I am grateful for what they have done to me; it was preventive, even though I think I would enjoy breaking this arm at least once, you know? I’m not crazy, doc. This is human nature. We’re supposed to be weaker than the world around us. You see, even if I fall from an intercontinental hoover I wouldn’t break these bones. They’re indestructible. Trust me, I tried. Look at the scars. No, I didn’t want them removed.

And that’s what they want to do with my son, doc. They want to replace everything in him. If they go through with it he’s going to be 53 percent bionic, the first one to go beyond the limit. He’s going to be unbreakable. What is he going to be afraid of?

Mount Sullivan

It had been around for as long as everyone could remember. Books of history and geography alike had it mentioned in them. Wars had been fought upon and around it, with its various depressions and valleys working as natural trenches. It’s the Mount Sullivan I’m talking about. It even named our city. But then one day it simply woke up.

Aside the regular complications of a whole mountain suddenly arising from the ground of course there was a lot of distress among the population. An epidemic of heart attacks ensued on both old and susceptible young people (most of which of sturdy muscular complexion, who you’d think would be the most apt to fight the thing), and loads of people left with only their clothes on. Those who stayed were so appalled with the sighting of a moving creature who could pinch trees as they were mere pimples that all remained motionless. All residents were out on the streets just watching that ungracious being trying to find a more comfortable position probably to kill us all.

When a body of special military forces was finally assembled the thing had already seated on what looked like a lotus pose. It spoke our language.

“Thou shalt not fear,” it said solemnly. “I won’t be going about talking like yer aul’ fellas, I won’t. I know the way ye speak nowadays — I’ve been listening to it in my dream.”

Taken aback by the incredibly power of its voice — and also its accent of singular similarity to those of the adolescents who used to hang around the big “Sullivan City” sign, now a hanging earring on the mountain’s, well, ear — the army persisted on a defensive stand. Thinking about it now they were trembling from fear and the loudness of its voice, however the latter also affected everyone else and buildings within a five kilometer range.

“Sorry; I didn’t mean to cause any disturbance,” the thing now whispered, which still sounded like a rock and roll concert. “I know it seems a little bit odd, but I just want to be your friend. Well, I know exactly what some of you have been doing lately, don’t I?” Here it added a childish smile. “Right, Ralf? Stacey? It was right over my ear, guys.”

It took the population a little while to accept that our Mount Sullivan was now a living thing and another greater while to start to cope with the fact that he knew everything about everyone who’d ever been to the sign, ever, but once these things were settled and a more convenient way to communicate established Sullivan became part of the city’s landscape and culture. No one ever understood how he had learnt so many things having been asleep like forever nor what kind of creature he was, however his civilities towards the citizens and the airspace protection he provided proved enough to conquer everyone’s hearts. Sully was a friend of everyone’s and the guardian of the town, and with the precise advices of someone who sees everything from a privileged point of view he will eventually be proclaimed a saint.

That reminds me of the reason why I’m telling this story: not all abnormal creatures are bad for you. Some, of course, are — they climb skyscrapers, eat flying airplanes and talk about personal stuff in a business meeting —, but some definitely aren’t. You’ll only know for sure after its initial address to you. If it doesn’t know how to talk, which is commonly the case with outer space beings, you must always give it first the benefit of the doubt. You never know when you’re about to make a new, giant friend.

As for Sullivan, the city, it has since the occurred grown exponentially in both population and economy, despite many countries having ceased to trade with us because of the “menace to the standard-man self-esteem”. Sullivan, the man, an ex-mount, who has nothing to do with it, keeps going with his life, helping everyone, treating the ladies with the utmost respect and using his spare time for personal growth only, including activities like reading (some classics have been reprinted for him in a more convenient size) and taking care of the environment (replanting trees used in the paper industry and providing large quantities of natural fertilizer).

Long live Sullivan.

Lady of the night

Before I met Roberta (this is a fictional name; if I used her real one, Candy, you wouldn’t believe in this story) I had a much different opinion on the workers of the night. I thought them to be all very cynical, arrogant even, and that they only treated with respect and kindness those with money in their pockets. My brief encounter with Roberta on a summer evening, and our eventual intercourse later on, was sufficient to prove myself terribly wrong. I am grateful to her for that.

Roberta and I met for the first time in a rather unusual place for this kind of introduction. I was coming back home from a late shift and she was at the station reading “Madame Bovary” while the bus repeatedly failed to arrive.

“Oh, I’m used to it,” she said. “It’s always like that on Fridays. Who can blame them, right? It’s Friday.”

That sweet and stoical way of talking didn’t give me any clue on what I was about to learn. Instead it made me fight my own need to ride alone with my earphones on and engage in a conversation for a change. In my defense she had already closed her book and seemed interested in whatever I had to say.

“So,” I made sure to disappoint her. “Do you always take this bus?”

“Yes — yes, every time I go to work.”

Her constant smile, white but natural, wide but just enough, was captivating. It seemed like no matter what I had to say she wouldn’t be bothered. I wasn’t used to that. At the time it didn’t strike me it could be part of her job.

“This time of the day?” I asked.

“Well,” she replied. “One’s gotta do what one’s gotta do, right?”

Assuming from that she was a nurse the conversation went on just beautifully. She was always introducing new topics and making me feel comfortable; I just answered as plainly as I could trying not to look uncomfortable. I hadn’t had a chat with a stranger on a bus stop in years, probably since high school, so I had no idea of what would be polite to say and to what extent my touching her once we were inside the vehicle would be convenient. Her pushing me towards an empty seat when it arrived pretty much settled the matter and encouraged me to ask where I could find her later on for a cup of coffee.

“The Pinewood House,” she said promptly. “I’ll be there from now till six in the morning. You can come at any time and I’ll make some arrangements to be with you.”

I had no idea what the place was. By the name of it — and her profession — I assumed it was a retirement house. For that reason I decided to check in only later that night, to make sure the elderly would be already in bed and Roberta would be totally free.

When I searched the address on the internet nothing on the business came up. It must be new, I thought, that’s why I never heard of it. Or maybe this kind of place never got my attention before. In any case I put some cologne on and left to see my new friend. I could already picture her at the nursing room and shivered with the thought that she would want to introduce me to the other night-shifters. I have never been good with public appearances.

To my surprise when I got to the address I had in hands the place looked nothing like a resting house. It was surrounded by pubs and nightclubs, some of them of terrible taste, and its external decoration reminded me of Eric Clapton’s 461 Ocean Boulevard. The Pinewood House sign was minimalistic and dim-lighted, which led me to think it was closed and I would never see Roberta again. I checked again on my phone and there was no other business with the same name in the city. I felt miserable again, and looked around deciding where I would end up my night in. Alone.

But then out of the dark porch came a flashlight followed by a person wearing a police cap. It took me a few seconds to recognize her.

“I thought you were not coming anymore,” Roberta grinned. “Come on in; let me show you the place.”

She was not a nurse after all. The Pinewood House was a furniture store during the day, and my friend took care of it during the night. Roberta was the watchman, a night guard who reads Flaubert at the bus stop and talks to strangers in a pleasant way. I was really surprised.