Homebodies, A Dystopian Novel too near for Comfort

[I started to write this ages ago when global warming had just started to be considered. It is basically a first draft. There is a big chuck of plot missing--especially where the title takes on a double-meaning. I wrote the ending and then I guess my subconscious decided that I had finished writing it and turned on procrastination full tilt. Homebodies refers to permanent stay-at-home orders. Although the main protagonist has his problems, I hoped to show people adapting to a new reality as best they can.]

Homebodies By A. Jimenez

Chapter 1

Monday, August 10, 2020 [note: this is how far into the future I thought it would end up at]

     Pangs of desperation profuse my chest when I realize that my civil service would be over in a week and I would have to go back home to be with my wife Jenny, her father Dan, and his adored vixen and vexation to many, Myrna.  Civil draftees, after just days away from home, start to fervently desire their return to their niche—however humble.  Not me.  Not in these times.  Not for any kind of homespun goodness—some might say I, who signed up for these stints every few years, needed constant treatment for oikophobia.

Because of my Bio degree they had sent me to the new Antarctica, no longer the zero-life icebox that my father once said it was; in fact, it felt like you were 500 miles closer to the Equator but, luckily, with a much lower count of blood-sucking insects.  I loved being a civil servant on this playground of earthly delights; I hated the role I played in the perverse society that was home.

     Larsen, the ruddy seafarer and marine expert, knocked on the door to my cabin, “Yo, Ameridude, you want some budz?”

     “Of course,” I said, “who would pass up delectable Norwegian?”

     Larsen gave me his electro-bong and I took a long puff and held it as he lectured me, “Whadz you talking about, Ameribud?  You married goddess, Freya herself, and Freya calls to you.”

     I knew the gods and demigods, and people were friendlier if it looked like you had a cursory knowledge of any of their beliefs, past or present. “One Loki, as you know, is a handful; now, try to imagine the whole neighborhood possessed, with several living under your own roof!” Larsen let out a polite snicker and I continued, “Larz, C-spot, buddy, your home is at 10 degrees North.  Do you realize you are living in paradise compared to the rest of humanity?” Larsen bunched his lips in contemplation. “Anyway,” I added, “they’re going to try to tie me down this time.  I could just feel it.”

     “No more land of the free man. Heh, my friend? Tie your kangaroo down. Tie your wallaby too.”

     “Who is free, my good man?” Larsen had picked up on Australian culture from the many on board who considered Antarctica their neighbor to the south, a land even more down under. “By the way, what’s that song about?”

     “I don’t know what the Aussies mean but it sounds sexual—stop the kangaroo from . . .oh . . .doing,” I gave him time to translate, “what kangaroos do when they are not tied.  I think that is circular definition, no?  I must ask Sidney.” His English was decent and quite an accomplishment because online translators were so good that there was little motivation in learning a new language; besides, with travel being so restricted, where would you use your skills?

     Beloved and essential at a nobler time, rebellious individuals were now extra scarce, replaced by people whose obedience had become indistinguishable from instinct, no less so than a canine walking on his rear legs because that brings love and love brings chow and chow brings on a nice afternoon snooze.  Submissive behavior meant that the people would beat the odds of contracting one of the numerous afflictions that had doomed many of their friends and family.  When you obeyed the rules imposed by the bureaucrats, you would avoid the tropical diseases lurking in neighborhoods whose previous claims to exotic infection only involved the likes of Lyme disease or West Nile Virus.  Of course, the law mongers always knew how to write ever more complex code that seemed to take us more and more, like Zeno’s paradox, to the limits of a democracy.

     I handed him back his bong.  Genetic engineering had really scored big for the bushwhackers: the necessary genes had been put into several common house plants that now produced THC as a syrupy odorless drip collected the way you might collect maple syrup. “Thanks, Larz.  And thank you for the seeds.” Ever the cautious one, Larsen started his Customs admonition but I cut him off, “I know.  Put the seeds under my tongue.  Throw away the little bag and stay clear of the scent machines, answer questions in monosyllables and make sure to inhale deeply after each so as to recover the odor molecules.” Pot had enjoyed a few years of decriminalization but it was now banned again because it lowered your defenses against infection; no one, however, knew of anyone who, on account of illness, had ever regretted taking tokes.

     “Else it’s whack?” Said C-spot--the story goes that 3 months earlier he had a run-in with a Brazilian spotted centipede.  Those who were present at the card game said he felt something crawl up his leg and tried to crush it with his pants still on.  He missed the head, however, and the peed retaliated and punished Larsen for life—nightmarish cries heard on board ship were usually his.  His apparel was now so secure that a bug would have to get himself swallowed to find his way to Larsen’s genitals.

     “Yes Larsen, else it’s whack! Larsen, let’s go outside where the air’s not so chemical.” We walked outside onto the deck and gazed over the railing onto crystalline waters that were once solely the province of tropical isles.  I opened my lab coat to catch the polar air and let it breeze over me. Larsen did the same and as his coat flapped in the wind, the biohazard icon painted on it’s backside looked like a pirate ship’s flag.

     “Look, Mike, there is the giant seahorse. ”

     “There’s nothing but seaweed there, Larz.”

     “Look again.  Remember.  They have green color.” Larsen was right.  There they were in camouflaged against the algae.  It did not require Darwinian prowess to realize we have been seeing very strange varieties. Larsen combed his rather long blond hair with his fingers and then decided he needed to massage his scalp and ruffle his hair.  I couldn’t keep my hair long for brown lice were really nasty in Hudson.  “Mike.  It’s been a real pleasure to work with you.  I hope you can visit with me someday soon.  Start making plans now so that you can come to Norway.”

Larsen walked away, head low and arms crossed, never looking back.  Have you ever noticed how inappropriate thoughts surface when you least expect them?  Just then I wondered if his existence owed anything to his country’s eugenics program.  I stopped thinking about it when I realized I may have had the wrong Scandinavian country in mind; it could have been Sweden who, for a while, tampered with evolution’s database.  At the time, they knew not that plagues was stopped not because they took to burying people six feet under or because they wore grotesque masks but because a few individuals had an oddball mutation in their DNA that protected them.

I actually liked the fellow quite a bit.  He and I had been very close, sometimes sharing intimate photos of our spouses--his, more so than mine as my country still led the world in legalized Puritanism.  That acridity I practiced represented but one of my mental defenses employed in obnoxious New Jersey.  I knew I had to prepare myself mentally for life with the fruitcakes but instead, I looked out to sea in a meditative stare: there, huddled near the Sargasso was another sea horse.  As I watched, he was eaten by an orca that had come out of nowhere to munch the morsel.  The whale bit down on the sea horse and hundreds of babies came out of daddy sea horse’s mouth and scurried into the seaweed jungle.  The whale dove and swam lower for it would not navigate the plants—perhaps the eels trying to grab the tail fin dictated that.  As the ship sailed on, I saw the baby sea horses return from their hideout to feast on daddy scraps.

     My thoughts turned to Myrna and how I would have asked papa Witkowski for his daughter’s hand but he was never around; so, I ended up asking Myrna.  And she went through the list of her daughter’s positive points as if she were engaging in husbandry.  Little did Myrna know that the package had already been inspected and I, bereft of the female touch, thought it more than adequate to meet my needs.  Please don’t get me wrong, dear reader, I did not regret my marriage to Jenny; but I did deride my marriage to my in-laws.  Jenny was an only child and the Witkowskis would be damned if any stranger dared to live with their Jenny without a daily approval rating--mostly from Myrna.  Others might have had to contend with in-law intrusions over the occasional or even daily phone conversation, but my wife and I and my in-laws lived under the same roof.  Oh dastardly perturbations of the social order!  Jenny, for her part, had grown so accustomed to the control that she thought nothing of it and actually learned to rely on it; and, as a safety measure, she had her art and that cloistered her from the insanity whenever it became unbearable; later, she would collect dolls.  It took me years to discover the intricacies of this mother/daughter/father relationship.  It was a purdah of sorts with me against Jenny and her alter egos but, dear reader, I led a satisfied life: a year or two of marital bliss followed by palsy-palsy expeditions away from home lasting 3 months.  What the heck.  Let them play their games.  I could erase months of torturous obsequiousness every time I left to explore and document the world outside of Hudson.  However, the bureaucracy had its rules.  After the age of 45 nature expeditions were not permitted-our immune system, they said, was not robust enough.  Opportunistic diseases might hitch a ride on such a person.  I had two more expeditions left which I planned to take at 40 and at 45.

     I would soon celebrate or should I say I would bid farewell to the last 35 years of my life.  With it would go most of the joie de vivre for it was time to enter my quiet desperation stage where happy smiles are replaced by anxious frowns unless you could occupy yourself with a vice or two.  I realize that’s unfair because there are holy people who never seem irate or even sad.  Fine.  At both ends of the spectrum it was possible to live without despondency.  Unfortunately, I and a large number of my fellow men were not godly people, and we limited our vices out of necessity or pride.  Nonetheless, even our names underwent a life cycle: born Thomas, played as Tommy, worked as Tom, died Thomas.  Why all this maturity talk?  Christ said we must be child-like in order to be saved; luckily, this only pertained to wonder and not the other trappings.  Life, I think, is a single swing of the pendulum.  At one end of its swing, we are born and try every incantation that will accelerate the process so that we can enjoy the privileges of maturity.  Once we reach that goal, the struggle to slow the demon bob down begins inexorably.  Religious thoughts permeate the second half and we are led to consider the question of how belligerent the Hindus would become if they stopped believing in the supernatural or how prosaic the thoughts of Karl Marx would become if there were no pacifying opiate.

Anyway, survival is a funny thing. Hemingway said that those who die or quit early are always more beloved because no one has to see their, “long, dull, unrelenting . . .” struggle to accomplish something as they thought it should be done.  I had no intentions of earning that moniker for I have been cleansed and now boldly intend to confront that surreptitiously dominating bitch, Myrna.

“Mr. Preston.” I turned around only to find the captain’s voice coming from an intercom. “You’ll be taking our chopper back to Miami. From there, you will take the train back home. Be ready to depart at 1600.”

“What happened to quarantine?”

“You got me. Someone seems to have pulled . . .”

“Yea.  I think I know who.  Thanks, I’ll be ready.” I looked over the railing for a last look but my thoughts went into autopilot and started nagging me; I knew only the train would quiet them so I forged on.

Saying good-bye to Larsen was no problem as the man, always jovial, showed no sense of attachment to anyone or, to his credit, anything except pot.  It came as a surprise then when he gave me the name of an acquaintance of his who was very handy and could help me stay sane under any circumstance.  I took that to mean dope dealer but I was to discover a whole range of disparate services from the man they call, Purvey.  He slapped me on the back, said he was sorry I had to get back so soon and mentioned the great time we would have had playing cards and horsing around one last time while quarantined.  He then headed back to his room no doubt to listen to his beloved Buddhist chants.  I told him I would keep in touch.

Packing my belongings, I took extra care with the two meteorites that Larsen found within 250 km of the Pole and which he gave me in exchange for video cam recording of my wife and me when we have our first love-making post-expedition.  The cam was all set to go and already being used for Preston Personal Porn for the occasional lonely nights in Antarctica.  Jenny didn’t care to see me in naked poses and all I heard from her was, “Just sit there and enjoy the show,” but one time something made her say, “Make like a snake on designer drugs,” Not really knowing what I was supposed to do, I ended up producing a tongue flicking caricature that sent her into a violent laugh that ended in a sign off.

In my hand I held a meteorite that was once a part of a planet orbiting serenely around the Sun. One day the planet was cratered by a celestial object that caused innumerable pieces to be ejected into the void and, now, millions of years later those same, virtually unchanged pieces intersect earth’s orbit and rain down on us to be picked up by organic life forms that have the propensity for marveling at the celestial. Their magic I can only compare to the first time Jen and I were intimate and I acted like a slobbering hound poking my nose across her breasts, snagging a nostril on her erect nipples and running my cheeks around her curvy belly. I did not collect objects except for the spores and viruses we all inhale, the parasite eggs we all consume, and the worms and insects that we all host on our bodies.

I had some time after packing and went around saying farewell to other co-workers whom I would probably not see again because of the severe travel laws. Almost to a man, they all wished me the best of luck with my domestic situation--good old Larsen must have spread the word.

The helicopter came on schedule, I boarded it eagerly along with a Canadian fellow whom I had not seen much of on the ship but who was well known as our resident expert on emerging tropical diseases.  He had with him a specimen box plastered on all sides with that biohazard symbol that my adopted daughter Paula said reminded her of a crown of thorns with three pairs of spider fangs cocked and ready to strike.  I would have had my eye on that box for the entire trip but a ride on any kind of aircraft was a rare treat and, trying to ignore it, I sat up to take in the rest of the experience.

I spent about an hour of staring at blue-green water that an acid head might say looked like the animated serrations of a file; finally, the waves and the box got the best of me, “Whadyu have der, buddy?” I asked in my most friendly intonation.

“The usual bugs,” he replied as he turned to take in the view.  I must have had “non-specialist” written on my face but I persisted, “Oh?  I may have collected some of those for you.”

“Not these. These are marine from the Amundsen.”

“What’s it like on that side of Antarctica?”

“Not so different from where you were.”

“You know where I was stationed?”

“I’m sorry. I just assumed you were part of the large contingent east of the peninsula. Was that not your group? Harold Slattery, by the way.”

Extending my hand I said, “Preston, Mike, pleased to meet you . . . No. Actually I was working inland about 250 kilometers . . .”

“Gentlemen.  At this time, I’d like to ask you to fasten your seat belts, we anticipate a bit of turbulence lasting for about . . .oh . . . 5 minutes.” The pilot’s voice showed no signs of stress; how were they able to disguise their voice so well and how could they keep listening to the radio blasting Country?  I buckled up extra tight while Harold did the same.  Soon, we felt like we were passengers inside a beach ball wondering if the ball would suddenly burst and dump us in the ocean to be eaten alive by creatures that didn’t exist just 20 years ago.  Harold kept his specimen box on the floor and between his legs but during one jolt the box took on a life of its own and slid onto the aisle and started bouncing around.  Harold picked up the box’s shoulder strap and yanked on it; the box tilted, the lid popped open, and several vials were sent scurrying between the seats.

I offered my help but he said, “No. Stay put. It’s under control.” He collected the vials, counted them, and secured the box to the seat next to him.”

“Good thing they’re not Class IV biologicals.” Harold’s silence bothered me. “They’re not. Are they?”

“Class I,” he said.  That meant that no evidence existed that would classify the substance as a hazard--eyelash mites, that orange mold on my shower curtain, and those worms you find when you dig into the sand at a Jersey beach were Class I--this offered no assurances and he must have caught sight of my furrowed brow for he added, “Relax.  If they get upgraded, I’ll contact you.”

“I would appreciate that.” Harold took out his UniData pen and aimed it in my direction.  I did likewise.  Looking at my pen, I saw “Gov,SC,Valid” which meant that Harold was a Government Civil Service Employee and his ID was authentic.  Privacy was never an issue with the pen because only law enforcement could determine all the data associated with a numerical ID.  After the chaos subsided, Harold spent the rest of the trip dozing off, perspiring, from time to time whispering something into his Unipen.  Lacking the ability to focus only on the here and now, I spent my time rehearsing my encounters with Myrna and her clan.

Chapter Two

The stopover at Miami was uneventful; I was escorted to US Customs while Harold stayed behind talking to some men in pastel four-pocket shirts.  They boarded the helicopter as I got off.  I reminded myself to enter a journal entry just in case the authorities wanted to know what happened.

Customs was not as onerous as the last time I passed through.  A few standard questions were asked and I was off to the train.  I had forgotten to hide the pot seeds under my tongue and no one was the wiser.  I thought that maybe the bag had been enough to mask the odor of Cannibis but, really, that was hard to believe knowing what I know about today’s artificial noses.

I entered the decontamination cabin that all passengers are required to use before interstate travel.  My 5 minutes of microbe disinfection by UV light passed quickly as I watched two teenagers clowning around and acting as if they were showering in the violet light.  An ozone-generating machine hummed overhead.  As we exited, a voice ordered, “Please step up to a scanner.” When I entered my scanner, the voice continued, “Close your eyes, place your hands in front of you and stand still for 5 seconds.  We are commencing the laser scan of your feet, hands, and hair.” I felt good about this “final rinse,” but then I heard the voice say, “ATTENTION!  An anomaly has been detected in your right ear.  Please remain where you are.  An attendant will be with you shortly.” The government maven, to whom everything was wearisome, came out of her mini office and proceeded to look inside my ear. “Hold still.  How do you expect me to do my job?  Don’t tell me this is a first for you.” She squirted something cold in my ear and prodded with this slender instrument while watching a monitor that showed all the gruesome detail of my inner ear. “Got it.” She said as she withdrew something and placed it into a chamber that zapped it with gamma.  The voice returned as the attendant went back to her station. “Please proceed to your assigned cabin.  Thank you for your cooperation.”

Attempting repeatedly to colonize the human being, insects clearly demonstrated the tenacity and persistence of evolutionary forces; some succeeded by having shrunk to an invisible size (the eyelash mite); some by sequestering themselves at the nape of the neck (the louse).  Although “Adam had’em,” fleas do not particularly like our sparse hair as habitat but come on board for a quick bite anyway and return to the more comfortable canine abode.  The ear beetle was on its way to successful colonization when it developed an anesthetic that it sprayed to keep the ear from noticing new inhabitants.  The spray also shut down the ear’s production of earwax, as this was detrimental to the molds that were the beetle’s main food source.  Because of global warming millions of acres had suddenly become available to the human, insect, microbe and other masses yearning for a little extra elbowroom.  Why the ear beetle chose this limiting habitat is enigmatic.  Perhaps more puzzling is the serendipity of having created a substance that did two essential jobs.

Proceeding down the platform, I was looking for my assigned train car when someone called out, “Mr. Preston, you have been reassigned to another car.  I’ll be glad to show you the way, sir, if you’ll come with me.” Homeland security measures sometimes came in handy.  Here was a train employee who knew who I was without ever being introduced to me.  Our Id’s are read at checkpoints throughout public spaces and anyone with a “need-to-know” can obtain a person’s whereabouts in an instant assuming, of course, that people wore their Id’s, but who wouldn’t; non-ID’d travel was illegal for all—including government clandestine organizations.  I followed the man to my seat and recorded his ID saying, “That was for my journal entry and to commend you on the fine job you do here.” He thanked me no doubt knowing that it was easy to file a complaint or a commendation on any official, public or otherwise; and he told that my luggage was already in the overhead compartment.  I reached up and took out my Spectro Glasses and adjusted the lenses to block out room light.  I then pulled out my UniData pen and switched on Internet mode.  I switched to keyboard input and adjusted the myosensor bracelets on my arm.

After placing my arms in front of on a projected keyboard, I checked my e-mail.  Jenny had sent 3 messages; all of them said the same thing—turn on Hermes as soon as you begin your trip home.  I was in no hurry to Hermes my wife; instead, I checked the rest of my e-mail messages.  My adopted daughter, Paula had written that she could not wait to play Scramble® with me—I felt the same.  The next one was a surprise.  The girl next door, Susan, wrote that she could not wait to pick up where we left off.  I once determined that Susan qualified for all 49 synonyms in my thesaurus for “charming,” Stronger men would have been allured but affairs were not the casual things they were a generation back; they were tenuous liaisons often followed by an unpleasant upheaval for those “involved.” The rendezvous could never be secret unless the excursion was to your neighbor’s home, severely limiting your sphere of influence.  You could never suggest to your spouse that you wanted to live in an apartment building; this was tantamount to putting purple lipstick on your collar when your wife wore pink—an apartment complex had many more opportunities within easy reach and building parties were common.  Lucky was the man or woman who knew someone living at an apartment and could drop by to visit.

To be honest, I never thought Susan was interested in me.  She shared her home with a writer of Caribbean descent—I thought they shared everything except a marriage certificate.  About the only memorable interaction I had with her was the time she had shown me her Madame Alexander doll collection; a few had mold growing on the plastic bodies and she asked if there was anything she could do.  I suggested she try the old standby--bleach.  She tried it, said it worked fine and that was the end of it.  I do recall, however, that around that time there was quite a bit of shouting from Susan and her, let’s call him, housemate.  In addition, I remember that Jenny became irritated whenever I mentioned mold saying that mold never stopped any man.

I started up my Hermes and limited by buddy list to “wife.” After a few seconds passed:

[JP: Hello there civil servant man]

[MP: Hello Jen. Whadz up]

[JP: Nothing]

[MP: Why the big hurry to Hermes then.]

[JP: I just needed to know you were on the way home and that you were not delayed because of a tie-up somewhere.]

[MP: Things went smoothly. Too smoothly. The last time I did this it took two weeks. Now 3 days]

[JP: RU complaining]

[MP: Not if U agree to be my personal welcoming committee.]

[JP: You know it Mr. Pressssident. When do you get home?]

[MP: ETA at 10 AM tomorrow.]

[JP: You want anything special for breakfast? What does dudly want?]

[MP: Dudly will have the usual and I’ll have what he’s having.]

[JP: Your order is being cooked. Tell Dudley Lucretia waits.]

[MP: OK. Can you tell your mother to please wait a few days before making her rounds?]

[JP: Why do you have to spoil the mood every time?]

[MP: Think of how blessed the mood will be if she does stay away.]

[JP: Guess who pulled some strings to get you here earlier.]

[MP: I suspected that. How did she do it?]

[JP: She asked Al Jackowicz, Dad’s army buddy. They met up with him recently.]

I delayed a considerable amount of time before responding.

[JP: Mike? Are you still there?]

[MP: I’m here.]

[JP: What’s up. You couldn’t possibly be too upset with Mom being that Dudley and Lucretia will be re-united sooner than they expected. Can you?]

I went right for my crutch in anxious bliss.

[MP: No. I guess not.]

[JP: Fine then. I got to go prepare for your homecoming.]

[MP: Don’t do too much.]

[JP: Everything will be as you like it. Promise.]

[MP: OK then bye.]

[JP: Bye boopski.]

[Neputer: JP has logged out of the system.  Do you wish to save conversation?]

[MP: Yes. Save to Myrna folder.]

[Neputer: Done.]

I put away my Spectro Glasses, popped a sleeper and began counting the two-foot lizards coiled around hapless Floridian palms, their once majestic beauty now subverted by the grotesque embrace.

Chapter Three

We pulled into an eerily quiet Seboken at about 9:30 AM.  I started to meditate as I do during quiet moments when the onboard phone rang.  Picking it up I heard, “I . . .this is a message for Mike Preston.  Hi, there.  Al and Dad volunteered to pick you up in Al’s truck.  Look for two men in orange caps.  They should be right outside the gate.  That’s all.  See you soon.”

“  Hi Jen,” I mumbled to myself.  I was a little dejected that Jen wasn’t coming to pick me up in a taxicab but at least it wasn’t Myrna that was coming.  I gathered my stuff and proceeded to head towards the pickup area.  Up ahead there was a line of people waiting to get out; they couldn’t because the police were questioning a party of four who were trying to bring some blacklisted plants into the state—the odor arrays had detected sugar cane, grapefruit, and mangoes.  The Caribbean Islanders had to have their fresh produce.  Just like the next guy, I appreciated the flavor of plants grown on volcanic soil but fines from the Department of Biohazards and the wrath of neighbors who would forever be giving me dirty looks kept me from dealing in anything except government issue. Jen had begged me for some mangoes but I could only find the hutzpah to bring one mango seed embedded in an insulated bottle that was wrapped in three layers of plastic that were dipped in BioKote, a material that attracted and held onto almost every known organic substance including viral and bacterial proteins.  Smugglers made good use of biotechnology; BioKote was used to prevent odor molecules from escaping into the air where they could be detected—originally it was used to sequester contaminants.  As soon as I planted myself at the end of the line, I heard an attendant’s Proximity Identifier beep.  Soon, someone tapped me on the shoulder eliciting the startle reflex and the subsequent paranoia that I had something to hide and they were hot on my trail.  The attendant touched my arm in a maneuver often used by condescending people and said, “Mr. Preston, no need to get excited, if you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to your ride.”

Following her, I scanned the gate looking for orange caps; I saw them and also caught sight of Jen sitting in the personnel cab of a BioSweep vehicle.  Oh, good God, the Witkowskis’ friend was a ‘Sweep operator; these people had privilege beyond that of the police, they could melt steel with these machines whose warning siren was psychologically more powerful than a man yelling fire in a packed theater—it had the same scattering effect except that, with the biosweep, you risked being cooked by its antipathogen radiation.  The train official opened one of the gates and let me through saying “thank you for traveling the Ecotrain.  Please ride with us again.” Not if I had to pay for the trip out of my own pocket, I thought to myself—one coast-to-coast trip would use up 20% of the average man’s yearly salary of 25,000 Earthos.

“Hello Jen.  Dan.  And you must be Dan’s Army buddy.” The guy looked like he just got out of the service and could hold his own with any other chemically-modified macho man; Popeye’s Brutus and The Hulk might beat this guy up if they surprised him in his sleep.

“Al Jackowitcz, and you’ve been told a half-truth: I was in the army with your father-in-law.” We shook hands while eye-balling each other and flashing our best standard grin.

“How do you do? My father-in-law has always been truthful with me. Hasn’t he honey?”

“He’s always been truthful with everybody—I havn’t known daddy to lie. Right Daddy?”

“You bet sweetie. Honesty opens doors and heals wounds. Mike, Al wasn’t my army buddy but he did save my life once when we were fighting in Iraq.”

“Don’t get mushy on me, Dan. Hop on board, Mike, I’ll take your bags.”

Jen extended her hand to me as I climbed up to the 10 foot high cab.  Before I had a chance to offer a hand to my 60 year-old in-law, he was up next to me having reached all the right handles to pull himself up.  We were all shoulder-to-shoulder as Al started up the Biosweep, checked for positive air pressure, and put her in gear.  As he shifted, He rubbed shoulders with Jen as if he were a teenager who just discovered a way to get cheap thrills—I leaned forward to give everyone more room.

“So, son. Did you take a lot of pictures?” That was the second time he called me son. It was not that I didn’t relish the affection; rather, it always seemed to have a 10 kt connotation.

Jen said, “Daddy, Mike has been uploading video all along. I’ve got tons of stuff. Mom knows. I’ll show you when we get back.”

“You two are not in the porn business. Are you? There’s a lot of that going around these days.”

I searched for a way out, the two seconds of dreadful silence were finally stopped with, “No sleaze with Preston Video Corp.”

Al added, “Hey. It’s the way of the world now. If it’s with consent, I have no problem with anything people do. I hear that videos using plain janes, you know, slightly overweight and not so gorgeous ordinary people, are the rage right now. That’s not hard to understand considering how overweight everyone is.”

“It’s not natural, Al. If it were we might still be like those bonomo monkeys that spend all their time wondering where their next conjugation is coming from.”

“No, Dad.” I felt I couldn’t have said Dad more awkwardly but I pressed on, “The Bonobo’s receive invitations by the minute.” Jenny let out a snicker.

Dan countered with, “I forgot. The females also keep their motors running.”

“That’s right and, remember, when the engine rusts, even love pills won’t help.  Do I got that right, Dan, old buddy, old pal?”

Jen said, “An-y-way, enough of this silly talk. Wait till you see the welcome back party I have planned for you, Mr. Civil Servant.”

“It better not be anything extravagant.”

“Hey, if the litle lady wants to go all out for her husband, I think her efforts should be appreciated. I know I welcomed whatever my Mary used to do.” I was going to ignore him but he went on, “Yep, when she died along with our child, I knew biosweeping was the thing for me to do. I hear they don’t have any of these babies down there where you were. Why is that do you suppose?”

“The Biosweep isn’t all that necessary even up here.”

“I’ll tell you what. You tell the Fitzers that. Ask them if they want to sacrifice any more of their Grandchildren to the Pox-C because people like you want to eliminate biosweeping.”

“I didn’t say . . .”

“That’s right! This baby,” he tapped on his steering wheel, “will fry whatever the wind blows in. They don’t have a chance.” Al went into a kind of trance.

Jen tried to continue but I had to finish my thought, “As I was saying, you need dense populations of human carriers for the more lethal diseases and as for insect vectors, nothing can eradicate them and nothing should.” Al just drove on and Dan nudged me and gave me a sign that the conversation wasn’t worth pursuing. Jen leaned forward, entwined her arm around mine, and held my hand while I tried to hold onto the dashboard with my right—Al didn’t seem to care about the potholes or bumps on the disheveled road that cut through the meadowlands swamp on the way home.

“Toby’s is coming up,” said Dan.

“I see it,” said Al, then he added, “we’re stopping here to get something Dan ordered.” He stopped the Sweeper in the middle of the road and went in to our closest tavern that also happened to be a Sogg of some distinction because it had every amenity you could want; five floors of gambling, gaming, drinking, dancing, dining, and relaxation for the mind and body. Originally, Tobey’s was only one floor with no basement because, of course, you couldn’t have a basement where there was standing water 10 yards away.

“Do you get your liquor from Toby’s?” I asked.

“No, I still get my stuff from Liquor Warehouse, I believe they’re over on West Side Avenue.”

As I looked at the Sogg, I wondered what Toby Samuels could be dealing in now?  I suppose I’ll have to wait and question Jen, my adjunctive eyes and ears for all the household except when it came to our journalist, Paula, whom you could always trust to deliver God’s honest truth unadulterated by special interests; unless, of course, she was in one of her mischievous moods but even then she always felt compelled to enlighten and elucidate the befuddled.

As we waited, a car stopped in front of us no doubt weighing the risks of passing our road hog.  I was reminded of stories my mother told me about school buses that, early this century, stopped traffic whenever they picked up a student.  Now, of course, education was tailored for the homebodies and no one would even consider the inconvenience of attending classes taught by a live teacher. Ah!  Good old TechnoTeeche!  This program could impart any and all current human knowledge to all who cared to listen, and it did it in any language and in any person’s voice.  It was touted as Harvard for the masses and opiate for the eggheads.  There were farmers who could pass for airship pilots and pilots who could farm; construction workers could discuss surgical technique and surgeons could build. Toby received 35 certificates in computer programming but when something led him to the black market, he protected his activities with 10 certificates in law (each certificate meant you had passed a course in fundamental or specialized knowledge in a given field; degrees were not as much in demand but still held some degree of validity as a teaching credential).

“I think I’ll go in to say hello.” I nudged first toward Dan and then towards Jen who said, “why are you going in now. You‘ll only delay us in getting back. Why don’t you come back when you have more time to talk.”

“Al’s coming back now.” Al was carrying something wrapped in brown paper and placed it somewhere amongst the numerous compartments of the Biosweep.

“All aboard for the 14 hundred block between Meadowbreeze and Birdbush boulevard. Did you ever want to be a conductor?” asked Al while cocking his head in Dan’s direction. “It’s one of the few occupations you can’t do at home.”

“Not me. I always opted for train engineer—go, adjust speed, stop, repeated over and over with no other care in the world.”

“No wonder Myrna is always looking to get off the train.”

“Effen you. Pal.”

“Hey, remember you are still in debt.”

“Actually, Al. The trains are fully automated now. They are run entirely by Rail Traffic Control.”

“I think you’re wrong there Mr. Biologist man.”

“No. He’s right, Al. What you saw was a virtual projection of an operator strategically placed inside the control cabin so people think the trains are run by an onboard person.”

“And what happens, Dan, when people find out?’

“If you get close,you’ll see that there is a sign posted that has written on it: This train operated by so-and-so at Rail Traffic Control. That let’s them off the hook.”

“Yes,” Jen added, “and by the time people object, they will have seen that their fears were unfounded. This system was put in place about two years ago before you came up North. I’m surprised you didn’t know because this whole automation thing started in the South. Don’t worry, Al. The Biosweep and nuclear power plants will always be secure from complete automation.”

“You bet, My artiste friend, my union will see to it that you are protected by a real man. Isn’t that right there, Mr. Preston?”

“I would hope so, Mr. Jackowicz.” I hoped I had put just the right amount of emphasis on the first two syllables of his name, without it being too obvious, after all I had only just met the man.”

Chapter Four

The Biosweep had to settle for first gear as it climbed the steep hills of our neighborhood. Eddie and the other local dogs started barking as we pulled in front of our house and released cabin air pressure.  Mr. Rumsfeld from across the street peaked out from his window when he heard the dogs’ bark, and the Rodellis, our uphill neighbors, took time out from their agriculture and canning business to investigate.  Teresa Rodelli held up a jar of canned peaches when she saw me. “Put me down for a case,” I yelled.  She and Francesco beamed with delete; not that they had any difficulty getting rid of their backyard and rooftop crops—it was just that, in these fearful times, loyal customers were always appreciated especially those like me who were willing to overlook, in Rodelli’s Fresh Canned Produce, a few bite marks by nature’s little armored guys.  Most didn’t see the burrowing and chiseling done by these new denizens.  After I pointed them out to Francesco, he started giving me a discount even when I told him I believed in sharing the planet with other species and wouldn’t divulge what I thought was only a slight compromise in quality.

“Thanks for the ride, Al,” I said.

“No, thank you for the opportunity to get out of the house.” Dan had a genuine smile on his face but quickly erased it when he spotted Mr. Rumsfeld.

I waved to Rumsfeld and he stared back.  Jen noticed it and said, “come, let’s go inside.  I’ll tell you the latest with the cagey one.”

“Who? Your mother?”

“Did I hear my name get metioned? Hello Mike. Welcome back. We’ve all missed you.”

She heard me. I just know it. “Hello, Myrna. How are things?”

“Well, if the weather stays dry, I’ll be happy. Are you people coming in? Dan, did you get my order?”

“Right here, Tootems.” Dan went into the house followed by Jen.”

I went to get my luggage but Al urged me to go on in, saying, “I’ll bring your stuff up in a second after I finish running it through the sterilizer. Are you carrying any biologicals?“

“Just a mango seed for Jen.” I felt for my pot seeds in my shirt pocket.  They were still there.

“What’s she going to do with a mango seed? Use it as a prop in one of your video productions?”

“Would you like to preview the video?” Oh God!  Not the most appropriate thing to say.  Did he hear me?  I never met a military man who didn’t practice ribaldry when beyond feminine earshot—I thought it refreshing at times—but Mr. Jackowicz could eradicate things, men even, ad libitum and not answer to anyone.  A rumor once surfaced about a virus that was producing malignancies in dogs and cats in a certain town; it turned out that a Biosweep operator was aiming his machine at a city pound because he hated the way the dogs barked at him.

“Keep it,” admonished Al.

“Can I have my other stuff?”

“I am authorized by Code 203 of the DEPA1 act to eradicate any foreign lifeform found on or in vehicles or cargo. Now, I’ll let the seed slide but I’ll have to inspect the bags.”

“OK. I can’t argue with the law.”

“Damn right you can’t.”

As I turned to go inside, Mr. Rumsfeld lifted his hand slightly in what seemed like a salutation;  I nodded back, almost imperceptibly.

“What happended?” asked Jen when I reached the top of the stairs. “You look upset. Did Mom say anything to you?”

“No.  Does Al come here often?” I asked as I went into the bathroom.

“About once a week. They play cards Friday nights and occasionally go out to a restaurant together. Other than that . . . Hi Al. Just leave it there. Mike will get it. Thank you so very much for all your help.”

“No problem, Jenny.  See you around.”

“Bye now.” Jenny came into the bathroom and signaled me to keep quiet until Al descended the stairs.

Jen came up behind me while I flicked off the last drops of a concentrated stream.  She put her arms around me and spread her hands on my chest as she buried her face in my neck.  Lust had taken over.  Her hands descended as my right hand awkwardly tried to grab her.  She stroked slowly with her right hand as her left hand held my midsection.  Just then we heard someone come running up the stairs.

“Daddy-O.  Where are you?” asked Paula and I had just enough time to lock up horatio.  Paula rushed into the bathroom and hugged me tight.  She kept on hugging me tight and I blushed to think she was feeling the swelling that wouldn’t go flaccid.

“Alright.  Break it up, you two.  I saw him first.” Jen yanked my arm and I followed her into the living room with Paula pushing me from behind.  We sat down on the couch and life just then could not be better.

“How are things with you, dearest daughter?”

“Oh just fine. I nailed that immunology certificate. I am officially a jackie of all trades. Well, scientific trades, anyway. But have no fear, Daddy-O, I’ll never match your fine honed skills in micro.” She brought over the ottoman and lifted my legs onto it.

“Thank you kindly, baby.” Paula lied down with her head across my welcoming lap, her limber body somehow fit neatly into the available space.  Her clover honey hair was in disarray but Jen started parting her hair away from her face.  Musing that this behavior might be a throwback to the social grooming of primates, I entered into the social contract and also parted some stragglers from her face.  She smiled the way only youth could smile.

“Paula, tell Mike about Rumsfeld while I get him a beer.”

“Well, Al and Dan were outside, obtrusively breaking the one hour congregation rule.  The cops come.”

“Obtrusively?”

“That’s right, bud. Use it or lose it.”

Sighing, I said, “go on, missy.”

“I hate that term.  Rhymes with pissy.  And you know what pissy rhymes with?” She continued without waiting for a reply, “pussy.”

I put my hand over her mouth to give me time to enunciate what my subconscious had already come up with, “missy rhymes with messy, pissy, pussy.”

Paula pulled away my hand to say, “Oh you’re so gauche. Do you like that word. Grandma taught me that one.” She then put my hand back on her mouth—it felt so soft and virgin. Gauche horatio.

“Well, what do you think?” asked Jen returning with a clear glass mug of frothy and slushy beer.

“You haven’t given away my formula for slushy beer—have you?” It wasn’t really that much of a formula.  You merely took a bottle of beer and put it in the freezer until it got slushy but no sogg had ever offered it and I was hoping to strike a deal with Tobey.

“No.  Relax, no one knows.  What do you think of Rumsfeld?”

“I’d tell you if this one here ever got around to telling me.”

“Would it help if you removed your hand from her mouth?”

Paula took my hand off her mouth and placed it high on her chest, almost by her throat; it was just enough to augment horatio by another quantum—luckily, there was still no visible evidence.

“As I was saying, Cops come.  Ask questions and leave after they find out Al is a Biosweep operator.  Dad and Al come inside to fester over a few drinks; this led to a decision to confront Rumsfeld . . . “

“How’d they know it was . . .”

“Dan set up a motion detector and aimed it at Rumsfeld’s window.  Rumsfeld was always detected there minutes before the cops arrived.  And you know, no one looks out their street window except Rummy.”

“I like the old timer.”

“We all do,” said Jen, “but he should learn to talk to his neighbors when he’s got a problem—not rat on us.”

“I still don’t think you should condemn a man because he shows up at his window now and then.”

“Oh please Mike.  The whole house is in agreement on this.”

“Well what happened next?”

“Go on Paulita.” I noticed the Spanish suffix and knew right away that that chump from next door had wielded his influence on our humble abode.

“Yes, Paulita.  Please continue.”

“Paulita’s not as bad as Paula.  Paula is too much like the male version, you understand.  That’s why I also hate Roberta and Carla but Georgia and Stephanie are all right.”

I looked at Jen who then gave a hand signal and Paula continued, “Al knocks on the door and Rummy says, ‘come in, door’s open.’ Al opens the door and sees three Pit Bulls barring his entrance and eye balling him.  He yells out, ‘Can I talk to you a minute?’, no response, finally he hears, ‘What do you want?’ He tells Rummy that he wants a friendly neighborly talk and Rummy says he has nothing to say and that if he doesn’t go away, he’ll denounce him to the DEPA.  Well, Dan had all he could do to keep Al from exploding.  Meanwhile, Gideon, Susan, and the Rodellis had come out.

“Where, pray tell, was Myrna during all this?” Both Jen and Paula attacked me; one grabbed my neck; the other took hold of my arm and shook it. “What?  What?  What I’d say?”

“You spoiled the punch line budster.  Mom sneaked over to Rumsfeld’s right after the cops left and cleared things up.  Let’s go, Paulita, someplace where our storytelling is appreciated.  Enjoy your beer.  I’ll call you when breakfast is ready.”

“Wait.  I’ve got questions.  How did Myrna pull that off?”

“They knew each other in high school; he was starting his first year of teaching and Mom was a senior.” Jen’s voice strained to project as she disappeared down the stairs.”

Whispering, Paula added, “apparently, she made quite an impression on old Rummy!  Anyway . . . if there’s anything you need, just holler.  OK, Daddy-O?”

“OK, Paulita,” I said continuing her whisper.  She smiled and as she turned to head downstairs, the beauty of her buttocks was revealed by her sheer pants that undulated so effortlessly against the slightest contour.  I closed my eyes and tried to stop the impurity that coursed through my veins.  This 19 year-old whom I have known for 10 years deserved to practice her flirtations without consequence or condemnation especially because on-line sex signals still were nescient.  I drank my slush and tried to summon Jen with fantasies conjured by an overactive sexual love that was usually more thirsty than quenched.

I’ll now refer you to the writer of this story to show you what they’re doing downstairs.  I am not privy to what he tells you but I bet you Myrna and her myrmidons were striking up their strum und drang band arranging my next contretemps.  Oh ignominious harridan, how ineffable my scorn.

Mike is a little too strong on Myrna—don’t you think?  Let’s see what is going on downstairs as Mike dozes off on three of his chilled concoctions.

“Dan.  Someone’s at the side door.” Said Myna from the kitchen table which presently held a coterie consisting of Myrna, Dan, Al, Jen, and Paula.  Dan got up and saw that it was Gideon from next door.

Dan opened the door and told Gideon that he had to go back and get his ID because he and Al installed optional ID checkers on all the doors of the house.  Gideon left muttering his displeasure in Spanish as he headed back through the enclosed walkway that connected the Witkowski’s house with his own.  The ‘tunnel’ as it was called was built by Dan when he had been the owner of that house and after his daughter had married Mike, the guy next door who had been living alone since his parents succumbed to a horrid virus of those times. The Witkowski’s, however, in an cost saving maneuver, had sold their house to Gideon and moved in with their daughter; after all, they told Jen, Mike is away a lot and you shouldn’t be living alone in these times.

“Why didn’t you just use your ID to let him in Dad,” asked Jen.

“I forgot I guess.”

“And, tell me again, why did we install these things?”

Al spoke up this time. “I talked Dan and Myrna into getting the ID checkers.  What other system allows your plumber to come into your kitchen or bathroom anytime you specify and prevent the plumber from going into another part of the house while you are away from home?”

“How often would the plumber show up when no one’s home?  Aren’t we the homebody generation?”

“This is top of the line!” said Al proudly.

“Why didn’t we get units installed upstairs?” asked Jen.

Myrna fielded that one. “For two reasons.  One, they are not cheap and two, Eddie would set off the alarms.  By the way, Al, why doesn’t a dog’s ID work like ours.”

“A dog’s ID can be stolen and used gain entrance into someone’s house.  They are working on ID checkers that can determine species.  They’re expected next year.”

“Eddie’s always getting such a bad rap,” said Paula and Jen concurred.

“Why is he so hot and bothered over Mike?” asked Myrna as Al kept his attention focused on her.  Al and Myrna were the same age and Al thought that meant he had a distinct advantage over Dan who was 5 years older.  The advantage thing was true but Myrna was old school when it came to marriage and she would not abandon Dan outright for a man her age.

“Most dogs will walk on coals if they knew you were going to play with them afterwards.  They’ll defend people who provide them with food but the one they listen to is the playmate or the one they think will lead them on the virtual hunt,” said Paula, “and, Mike’s the man.”

“Is that him I hear yapping?  Myrna wanted to know but, just then, the side door flew open and in came Gideon holding a wiggling, stubby-tailed Eddie anxious to go somewhere fast.  Gideon put him down and he took off to go upstairs where he knew he would find the alpha dog.

“Susan said he came over last night sniffing along the baseboards of the tunnel.”

“Dan, check the mousetraps and maybe put out some poison,” said Myrna and added, “why do you suppose he didn’t set off the alarms.”

“I disabled them,” said Dan sheepishly.

“Why did you do that?” asked Myrna like the cop intent on getting an answer from you.

“I knew Jen would not be able to keep Eddie in her apartment.“

“And didn’t I tell you to install a gate at the top of the stairs?”

“Yes, Myrna, “ said Dan dejectedly, “I ordered the gate.  It hasn’t come in.”

“Well, you should have put up a barrier of some kind.”

“I got to get going,” said Al, “I’ll see you both Friday night at Tobey’s.”

Just as Al was about to leave, Gideon asked as politely as his assertive Latin temperament would allow, “Do you think, Al, that you could park the Biosweep across the street in that empty lot the next time you visit?”

“I’ll park wherever I have to park.  Take it up with Central.  Do you want their number?” He turned and walked away confident that his authority would not be questioned.

Gideon stood erect and expanded his chest but Myrna sensed the erumpent hostility and whispered to Gideon, “I’ll speak to him about it.  Don’t worry about a thing.”

Paula was quick to speak her mind saying that someone should edulcorate Al’s manners; that there was no reason why people in authority shouldn’t speak with civility to those who pay their salaries.  Dan defended his friend by saying that his position and these times demanded strength and a no nonsense attitude.  Jen said that they were among friends and that Al’s attitude should be tempered somewhat.

“Al is a nice guy when you get to know him.  When you are out there dealing with kooks all day long it is bound to carry over to how you treat your friends.”

“It goes deeper than that in this case,” said Dan.

“You know Dan if shit had wings . . .” Myrna started furiously wipe the countertop even though it was quite spotless.

“I guess I’ll go now,” said Gideon who felt embarrassed for Dan and quickly tried to edulcorate things. “What time is Mike’s welcome back party?”

“Come around seven,” answered Jen. “See you then, Gideon.”

“Later.”

After Gideon had left Jen questioned Dan. “Dad, what did you mean just then.”

Dan looked at Myrna for a sign of disapproval before answering, “Al hates the Spanish speaking.”

“Oh good God,” said Jen incredulously. “Why, Dad?”

“They make his job so much harder.  When he’s biosweeping, he constantly has to wait for them to head back in the house before sterilizing—they’re always outside, always having parties and barbecues, drumming on their congas, and blasting Latin Jazz.  Look at the Jimenez’ up the block. Navario boozes it up and starts dancing to the point of exhaustion.  Do you see anyone else carrying on outside in these times?” Public gatherings were to be eschewed but a man’s castle and land were still mostly his to do with as he saw fit, providing, of course, that innocent people were not harmed.

“If there were more Irish and Italians in this neighborhood Al would really have his hands full,” Paula shot her mouth off. “Those people are definitely not like the Germans with their single oompa loompa Octoberfest, or the English with their tea parties which could double as wakes—they’re so damned reserved.  The French—think French café—do they even gather together in groups of more than two when they are not revolting, that is?”

“You know Paula, the state never told us who your real parents were.  I think you are showing signs of having had Spanish parents,” said Myrna capriciously.

“Yes, I love a fiesta and if they had been of Caribbean descent, so much the better.  But don’t lump me in with those of Inca or Mayan ancestry--followers all. Oye, Mamacita, quieres bailar conmigo?”

“Jen, have you spoken to your daughter about what happens when a lady reaches that ebullient age when she must herald herself procurable to virile and servile men by exchanging looks, thoughts, and email addresses?”

Before Jen had a chance to answer, Paula warned everyone that she would debut her thong collection at the coming-out party.  Jen allayed her fears when she said to Myrna, “Mom, if an Internet personal ad was good enough for you and good enough for me, it should be just fine for Paula.”

“Thank you Mom.  Grandma, nice try.  See you at seven.  Do you need me to do anything before I go?”

“Yes, dear.  Will you marinate that meat that we picked up at Tobey’s.”

“Hey.  Real meat?  What a treat for Mike!” Paula took out the brown package of rare delicacy from the refrigerator and took it over to the counter.  It consisted of 4” cubes of laser-cut meat, the only kind sold.  Each cube contained 64 one inch cubes laser-butchered from different parts of the animal.  Guided tours of the process were popular: you saw a frozen carcass come down a conveyor belt and into the laser cutter where, 30 seconds later, you ended up with a pile of hundreds of frozen one inch cubes that were sent to a hopper to be mixed (to ensure randomness); finally, the cubes where reassembled into the standard 4 inch cube.  The alternative to cube meat was muscle grown from stem cells; even the animal rights activists ate of this meat which was touted as man-made.  The vegetarians, however, still took issue with this tissue as did the general population which found it unpalatable after a while—seems that the flavor was so standardized that the human tongue learned to taste every nuance in the meat and the disagreeable aspects would eventually disappoint the palate.  But they would continue to buy it and other manufactured food because the magnificent herds on the open fields had contracted mad cow, hoof and mouth, cowpox, and other diseases that made them taboo.  Cattle, like people, maintained a primarily indoor existence at feeding stations.

Plant agriculture had also suffered when genetic engineering went awry and DNA-altered plants started overproducing toxins meant to protect them from insects.  Part of the Rodellis’ success stemmed from their discovery of untainted seeds near Sicily’s Mt. Nebrodi .  They could have made millions but they didn’t know how to produce sterile plants and, as such, gave away their precious find to seed companies who had sent emissaries to make clandestine purchases of their produce.  This is what the Rodellis told everyone but all anyone really had to do was go through someone’s garbage.  Although Mrs. Rodelli complained bitterly of their misfortune, Mr. Rodelli viewed it as divine intervention; besides, thought Francesco Rodelli, if they continued to filter the air and maintain positive air pressure in their greenhouse, perhaps they will have a second chance to save the world with their God-sent natural crops.

Paula finished her chore and went upstairs to her room to play a virtual reality game.  Having been hanged twice in Salem1800, she opted for MiddleAges1500 where, as a lady in waiting, she was amassing quite a fortune tending to the needs of several famous and well-paying knights—any day now she would be able to build a Castillian castle and possibly befriend King Philip II before he developed his gout, of course.

Mike was still asleep with Eddie snuggled by his side when Jen came and sat down next to a softly growling Eddie who could only handle one alpha dog at a time and he usually chose Mike.  Jen looked around for a ball and found one tucked into the cushions of the sofa.  She threw it down the stairs and Eddie took off.  Before he had a chance to return, Jen closed the door to the living room and quietly locked it.

“Hi, big guy,” said Jen as she kneeled down between Mike’s outstretched legs. “Are you feeling up to some fun?” Mike’s furtive glance towards the door prompted Jen to say that the door was locked and that Paula was deep into her games—mike smiled and with eyes closed he made slight sensuous contortions with his body that said yes to Jen’s offer. “But first I have a little favor to ask.”

“What?” Mike said it with slight annoyance.

“Mom wants permission to build a tunnel between us and the Rodellis.  She and Dad want to start a little business on the side and it would sure be convenient if they had a tunnel.”

“Why don’t they just walk over?”

“There would be so much going back and forth that someone would be sure to complain.”

“What about Al?  Can’t he do something about the complainers?”

“Dad doesn’t want to impose on Al all that much.  Come on.  How about it?  Please?” Jen unzipped him and fished around.  When she found horatio, she pulled him out and stroked him while holding him within an inch or two of her mouth. “What do you say?”

“I guess it’s all right.” With that, Jen went right to work and constructed tunnels were the farthest thing from Mike’s mind but he did have to block out a persistent Eddie who kept scratching at the door probably with a ball in his mouth and as Mike pictured that, he was able to continue his concentration.

Chapter Five

[Reader, did you get any insight from the writer?  I didn’t think so.  These people dissimulate like crazy and can even fool the writer.  Stay with me.]

 Jen opened the door and Eddie flew in and started walking in circles occasionally bringing his nose to the floor as if tracking prey.  This was something that he invented to tell me that he wanted to play ‘flashlight’; actually, he just imitated what he did when we played the game but I thought it was quite intelligent of him to communicate with me that way.  Perhaps you are a dog owner.  If so, you may tell me wonders.  Hell, the other day I saw a video of a hound playing piano and singing along to his tune.  But, back to Eddie.  I went to the TV to look for the laser light that Eddie loved so. “Jen, where’s the laser light?”

“It’s in the kitchen junk drawer.”

“What’s it doing there?”

“Paula, I guess, put it there.” I retrieved the light and started playing with Edster Webster. “Get’em Eddie!” Eddie took off like a centipede that finally realized it had to get somewhere fast.  I played for about a minute when Eddie started his modification of the game: he would chase the spot of light but only if I feinted.  It was as if he needed the competition.  Of course, he was always miles ahead of me whenever I made the slightest move.  If I just stood there he would eventually chase the spot but only when he was good and ready.  We played for about 5 minutes and then he wanted to play tug of war; only this time the rope had wondered off.

“Jen, where’s Eddie’s rope?”

“It’s under the kitchen sink.”

“Babe, you know he’s afraid of moving inanimate objects like doors.” At first I thought he was mentally defective, then I thought, well, he must associate movement of grass, branches, doors with a life force (prey); but surely he must have learned by now that non-human creatures do not step out from doors.  There had my logic gone?  We were constantly beset by mammals every time they sprayed for mosquitoes and furry friends came in looking for organic foods--not that we had any but they had to look.

“I don’t know honey.  I just know that’s where I saw it last.” I retrieved the rope and played for a few more minutes.  Every few growls I would make Eddie fly through the air and then I would release the rope while announcing, “And the winner is . . . Edster Webster.” Eddie would delight in this and would play, if he could, until his jaw gave out.  Luckily, for me, he would always accept the fact that the games had ended—if I followed proper protocol.  I had to put away the toys and say something final like, “Good dog, now scram.” Dutifully, Eddie would venture off to see what game he could connive out of others.  The more I got to know Eddie’s habits the more I realized that an Irishman had bred this dog—tenacious party animal with a mean little flatulence to his credit and to my loathing.  Bigotry is so human; I just had to connect Eddie’s traits with the breeder.  But, the same Eddie-isms could be said of nearly everyone on the planet, except maybe . . .nuns?  Do nuns fart?  That might explain the tight habit fit around the face.

I gathered my change of clothes and proceeded to the bathroom which in our house was placed leading into the kitchen; there was something amiss about that arrangement that didn’t sit well with me but, unfortunately you have to go where the pipes are.  Jen was just finishing up.  When she got out of the shower, I kneeled and took a love bite from her hot damp goose-bumped buttocks.  She giggled.  Not the most sensual of reactions but then, I think it would elicit the same reaction in me.  I asked Jen about a black and blue mark on her leg. She answered, “You got me.  I’m always getting marks and never know how I got them.” She finished dressing and added, “Hurry up.  Dinner’s in one hour.” I turned on the water and set the temperature to a cool 85 degrees and just as I started to lather up, the water shuts off. “Jen!  Paula?”

“Yes, Dad the Wad?”

“The water shut off!”

“Oh.  The UV disinfectant light probably gave out.  I’ll go check.” I had started to shiver when the water came on and I raised the temperature to 90 degrees.  Paula came into the bathroom and asked, “Is everything all right?”

“Yes, thank you doll.”

“You’re very welcome.  The low light alarm came on last weak but we didn’t have a spare.”

“It’s unusual for Dan to let that slip by him.  Where did you get the bulb from?”

“I had to steal one from the Alvarez’s.” The Alvarez’s?  I wonder if they secured the blessings of marriage. “Will there be anything else Master?”

“No thanks, beautiful.” Paula had gorgeous skin both in tone and texture.  Her turgid lips and perfect dentition could be the idle talk of women.  There was a frosted glass door around our tub but I couldn’t help thinking that Paula was eyeing me—why else would she come into the bathroom instead of just talking through a slightly open door?  I put on as masculine a display as I could muster but after she left I felt like a moron and I had to rationalize all over again about how Lot had relations with his daughters—while inebriated but a man that wasted might as well make it with an inflatable.  I thought how incest must have been rampant right after the flood and around Eden.  I’ll not elaborate on my depravity for you don’t found a country on Puritanism and expert it to go away.  Every time a civilization changed basic beliefs, they evolved into a new entity hardly distinguishable from the original.  I’m convinced it was the Puritans who came up with our present laws concerning congregation.

Besides, I had a mind trick that kept me honest.  What helped to derail the lust train in me was to imagine the shortcomings of the woman of my desires; albeit few with Paula, I could successfully exaggerate her incessant talking and high-pitched voice so that she became unattractive—this, more than the fear of opprobrium preserved what probity I had.

I dressed and went downstairs feeling a little queasy.  As I entered the Witkowski’s living room, I heard a chorus of ‘welcome back Mike.’

“Thank you, one and all.  I’m happy to be back home with family and friends.  Oh, hello Susan, Gideon.  How are you doing?” Susan approached me to give me a kiss and Gideon told Susan to be careful because I had just come back from the front lines.  Susan kissed my cheek with a more prolonged squeeze to my arm.  I wanted to tell Gideon that the hostilities were more likely to occur here but I didn’t want to send out the first salvo that would certainly start the inevitable heated discussion.

I extended my hand to Gideon and said, “yea.  The war zone is holding steady.  Wish I could say the same about the chaotic weather down there.”

“We’ve been alternating between muggy and dry days with almost a daily downpour lasting a few minutes.  That’s been going on for months.  It never seams to settle into anything resembling an old-fashioned season.” said Susan wishfully.

“Well count your beatitudes, woman.  Would you prefer to be in Mr. Preston’s shoes?”

“Call me Mike, please, we’ve been neighbors for about a year now.  Have you finished your novel.  The last I heard it was nearing completion.”

“I’m on the third draft.  Jenny has offered some excellent creative suggestions.”

What?  Not Mrs. Preston?  I played along, “That’s the eye of an artist for you.  And what does Susie think of your novel?” I looked at Susan to see if my modification of her name caused her any angst—she just smiled.  Jen’s furtive glance at Gideon was amateurish.

“Susan is proofing my work and, of course, that means she can't see the big picture.”

“Oh, I can see the big picture all right.  I just don’t like science fiction.  Give me the here and now and talk about the black hole of human relationships.”

Dan, who had been sitting on an easy chair big enough for a grizzly, spoke up, “That’s what I like, a woman with snap.  I read, however, that Sci-fi serves the very useful purpose of showing those of us who would attempt to live forever, that the future, aside from its technology, is no different than what we have today.”

Gideon became animated and said, “Yes.  Yes.  That’s quite true but it’s not the intended purpose, of course.  No author starts out with that premise although that is what many do show.  To me, I’m creating a fantasy world for my readers to escape to.  I think that even with the most farfetched technological advances like cyborgs or virtual worlds of any kind, the human element can not be eliminated for who can conceive of a truly alien evolution for man?  I mean, whatever you come up with, it will always be tainted with our present beliefs.”

“For me, it’s just the gadgetry and the frontiers of science.”

“Not unexpected from a . . . what was your title?  Wait, Jen told me.  Assistant technician?”

“It’s Chief Chromatographer III to be exact.  It was Technician II on Antarctica.”

“I see,” said Gideon with a broad smile.  “What do I know, good fellow” What could one do with condescension when you were not on familiar terms with the transgressor?  I looked in Dan’s direction.

“Are you off kitchen detail today, Dan, er, Dad?”

“Why else would I be sitting here?  Mother had two helpers today and ordered me out of the kitchen.”

“Myrna’s not a stranger to spunkiness either.  Wouldn’t you say Dan?” ,asked Gideon.

“She may have written the book, my friend.”

No one would disturb the hornet’s nest so there was only polite snickering.  Through some 4th dimension however, the nest was disturbed and Myrna said, “All right all you rowdy people, let’s get seated.  Come.  Come.” As we went into the dining room, Myrna called out the protocol. “Dan, please defer your usual spot to the quest of honor.”

Dan motioned me to the head of the table and I said, “No.  No.  I wouldn’t think of it.” But Dan knew better and, ignoring me, sat down at his reassigned place.  After the seating was over, I sat uncomfortably at the head of the table flanked by Dan and Paula to my right and Jen to my left.  Myrna would sit at the other end with Gideon to her left and Susan to her right.  The table setting was as impeccable as that of a State dinner, complete with a bouquet of Witkowski garden flowers and Italian china, Chinese silverware, and moth-damaged but tastefully repaired linens.  I would have felt honored except that I knew Myrna lived for such gatherings and would put one together for an IRS auditor if given half the chance—luckily money had gone plastic and  greenback shenanigans were history but the G-man was still around.  I was being a bit ungrateful but the book of humans says that every gift comes hidden in a Trojan horse of tit for tat or scratch for scratch.  Even the God of organized religions doesn’t give gifts without attaching strings.  The Garden of Eden could only be enjoyed with proper restraint.  However, why wasn’t the tree of knowledge placed on the Moon and out-of-reach?  A few millenia in paradise might have really indoctrinated us well.  Was it because it would only postpone the fall of man?  No, because not having the tree of knowledge would not allow us to reach the Moon.  But the knowledge in question was about good and evil, not about jet propulsion.  Yes, but ultimately, good and evil, and action and reaction are nothing other than 1’s and 0’s in a digital world.  Was the world digital?  Perhaps, if you consider quantum levels that only exist as whole numbers with no intermediaries.  Salvation can not be attained unless you believe.  Well, suppose faith had been kicked out of you by someone?  What then?  Would you be doomed while those with old money died peaceful deaths in the lap of luxury and reached the kingdom with faith intact?  Come Sunday I would go to my online church, confess, and ask forgiveness but then, religiously, I would go to my priest’s chat room and keep him on his toes with my theological concerns.  Father Gilchrest worried about my ‘libertine inclinations’ and I had to remind myself he was using the ‘L’ word in its original sense.

“Today’s menu is Roast Pork Cube with Almondine sauce and 10X long-grained rice with striped rainbow beans and stewed tomatoes fresh from Rodelli’s,” said Jen and then, perplexingly, “Mom, weren’t the Rodellis invited?”

“We’ll have another get together just for them.  This one involves our neighbors to the . . .” Myrna held up a finger and pointed it to and fro like a metronome until Dan helped her out.

“West.” Chimed Dan.

“This is certainly one lovely setting and the food looks scrumptious.  You know, when you cook for yourself, you don’t mind what the food looks like but when someone cooks for you, you expect that the food will have a certain appetizing look to it and you, Myrna, you are a master at presentation.”

“Why, thank you, Gideon.” Then she said while looking at Susan, “Does Susan cook?”

Susan didn’t wait for Gideon to come to her defense and answered, “not half as well as you, Myrna, but he does enjoy my Gazpacho.”

“Oh.  That’s a cold soup.  Isn’t it?” asked Myrna and added as she rested her hand on Gideon’s arm, “A man needs warmer fare like a nice New England clam chowder.  I could give you the recipe.”

“That would be fine except that you can’t find healthy clams these days.”

“Speak to Al.  He can get you clams from Nova Scotia.”

“Mike said clams are . . .what was it you called them, Mike?”

“Detritivores.  They take over where bacteria and fungi leave off.  In other words, they eat the muck and mire at the bottom of the ocean.”

“Is that why they’re considered aphrodisiacs, Dad?”

“No.  I think it has something to do with the way they look, Aphrodite.” I replied curtly, hoping that would be the end it.

“Could you explain?” , asked Susan.

I saw all eyes look in my direction and blood started to gather on my face.  I took a deep breath but to no avail.  I went crimson and Gideon said, “I suggest, young lady, that you take a clam, open it up and meditate on it for a while.  I have no doubt that you will be quite enlightened.”

“Well said, Gideon, as usual.  Tell me, did your mother ever make this dish?  I was shooting for a Latin flavor.”

“Something very similar.  But I’ll tell you, you haven’t lived until you’ve tried that gut-busting fat-drenched pork from the old country.  That crispy skin alone was to die for.  Cube meat skin is tasty but what we used to get was thick with chewy and crispy parts—we got so much more out of it.” Oh what an oleoginous cavalier.

“I looked down on the skin that I had cast off to one side because I knew how infiltrated it could be.  Parasitic infiltration was not dangerous to humans because gamma irradiation at the meat plant took care of the beasties but the mind found it hard not to be repulsed by objects once they were half-eaten by others.  Of course, if you were accustomed to eating something without apparent ill effect, you might just continue the practice.  Were we not all aware of the government guidelines permitting so many rat turds and maggot chunks in our food?  Some would tell themselves that that pertained to someone else’s food and not being attuned to the evidence, they gobbled away like cows chewing the crud with insect-laden grass.  

Looking down at the skin, the government inspection stamp was visible, ‘U.S.’ There was something else but I couldn’t quite make it out.  I remembered that the stamp usually said ‘U.S. dept.  Agr.  Passed’ Or something like that and it was within a circle but this stamp just said . . . I looked again at the part that had bubbled from the heat.  It looked like an ‘N’ . . . no . . . wait, it was more like the letter ‘A.’ U.S.A.?  I looked again and that’s what it said and curiously, it was in three colors . . .thin skin . . .no circle . . .not the usual single color . . . purchased at Tobey’s.  The facts came together as a rapidly rising wave of nausea built up.  I grabbed the plate and stood up to head for the toilet.  Jen asked if there was something wrong but I couldn’t answer.  I puked on the plate halfway to the bathroom.  Once there, the rest ejected. Jen came to see what was wrong. “I was feeling a little queasy earlier.  I think I’m coming down with something.”

“You better head to quarantine, hon,” said Jen as she went back.  I took a few deep breaths and wiped myself clean.  I flushed the toilet and felt guilt that I didn’t bury it, that I flushed it like a dead goldfish.  Should I tell the others?  I headed back to the table.  Looking at the group munching away brought back the feeling and I looked up with lips pursed, breathing deeply.

“I told you he had come back from a war zone. ” Gideon said looking at Susan.

“You better head right for quarantine, mister,” said Myrna. “Now.  Go.” I looked at Dan who got up, took me by the arm and said he would walk me over to the isolation room in the basement.  At the foot of the stairs, I told him my suspicions.

“Maybe the government changed to a new kind of stamp.  Besides, Tobey knows what would happen to him—not only would Al and I burn down his business but the authorities would investigate.”

“I’m not saying he’s running his own meat-packing plant.  But somehow some poor slob got himself chopped up by those automated butchering machines and after that machine gets through with you who could identify you.  Look, let’s not tell anyone.  Just bring me a piece of bone, I can send it to an anthropologist who will tell us if it’s human.”

“Why don’t I just have Al run a DNA analysis—his biosweep has the equipment.”

“That probably will not work because the meat’s been cooked.  But you might scrape the marrow from out of the bone and try that.  That’s worth trying.  By the way, don’t worry about any diseases—cooking by Myrna is quite thorough.”

“I know but, meanwhile, she thinks you’re sick.  Are you gonna stay down here—at least overnight?”

“No.  Dan.  I know why I threw up and I’m going upstairs to . . .”

“I’m feeling sick myself,” Dan muttered and then said, “but wait if you go upstairs, it means we will have to spill the beans—no pun intended.”

“Ha Ha.  I said mockingly.  My God . . . to be eaten by your own kind.  Poor sap.  Little did he know when he put on that tattoo that his flesh would be consumed at a welcome back party.”

“Hold on there.  We’re not certain that . . .” Dan interrupted what he was saying and shuffled over to the toilet to spill his beans.

“I’m certain.  But what do we tell the others.” We both stood there a few moments with our heads bowed in thought.  Finally, it was Dan that came up with the solution.  I was to tell them that I had imagined seeing a tattoo, that the stamp was different because the meat came from South America and that the stamp did say U.S.A. but that it meant the meat had passed quality inspection for export to the United States.

We went upstairs and after we delivered our spiel, Gideon said, “Now don’t you feel stupid and one rib short of a rack.” And Myrna added as she was about to eat some more, “Thank you for keeping it to yourself so we all didn’t throw up.  But you know, I, for one, just lost my appetite.”

“Really, Mike,” said Jen, “what were you thinking?”

“Yo.  People.  Cut the man some slack.  I mean he just got back from 6 months of grueling, grubby, grimy work.”

“You left out grungy,” said Gideon to Paula and then said, “I thought the skin was a little thin.” This was followed by an uncomfortable moment of silence until Susan slapped Gideon on the arm and he added, “Just kidding, mes amis.  This will, however, certainly be juicy grist for my next novel about the hoodwinked in Hudson.” Another slap from Susan.

I stood there smiling and appearing feckless, taking it all in in magnanimous spirit made possible by being privy to the inside dope.

“Is anyone in the mood for some coffee?” , asked Dan.

“It’ll have to be instant,” said Myrna.

“What happened to the beans that were delivered last week?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“OK.  Instant anyone?”

Mostly everyone said yes for she never served coffee without some of the best close-your-eyes-and-chew-it-until-it’s-liquid apple Strudel or other great pastry.  I felt hypocritical every time I accepted some of her desserts but then I told myself that it was reparation for what I had to endure.  Sure, I know what you’re thinking, Myrna’s a little on the assertive side and I should just deal with it.  Well, I do—I stay away and use my wife as a mediator and this works well until my forbearance is exhausted; it is then that I sign up for my next civil service stint.  It worried me, though, that I was already thinking about it.

Dan went back to his comfy chair and assumed his customary posture where he sat on folded legs because his feet were always cold and he needed to incubate them.  Dan had been a foreman in a commercial laundry and did quite a bit of bending to pull out tablecloths and uniforms from the massive stainless steel drums that held the most vile smelling cloth that ever assaulted a man’s nose.  Mixed in with the sweat of industry were the blood-soaked aprons of butchers and the food-incrusted tablecloths of messy diners.  All of these substances were rotting from having been stored while awaiting pick-up.

“So, Dan.  I hear you’ll be putting your carpentry skills to good use soon,” I asked.  After he thought about it for a while Dan said, “Oh.  Yes.  The Rodelli canopy tunnel.”

“That’s going to be such a godsend,” said Susan. “To think I’ll be able to get fresh veggies in my housecoat, if I so desire, and not have to worry about insects crawling up my leg.  Although, I’ll miss chit chatting with Rummy as we used to do every time I went up to the Rodellis.  Thank you, Mike, for giving us the OK.”

“Oh, don’t mention it.  Besides, we also . . .benefit .” I realized too late that this half-wit remark could only diminish Susan’s gratitude and I, again, rued my political abilities.  Gideon looked at me as if he were interpreting some vibes I had sent his way, so I said, “Yes, neighbors who stick together, stay together.”

Susan smiled and said, “I’ll second that.”

Dan cleared his throat and added, “And so will I.”

Gideon was still looking at me with pursed lips when Myrna and Jen came in carrying coffee and apple pie.  Myrna gave Dan his cup and placed cups on the coffee table in front of Susan and Gideon.  Jen gave me my cup and followed that with a slice of pie then she knelt near  Gideon and cut a slice for him and then one for Susan.  I noticed she seemed to wait with baited breath for Gideon to make his pronouncement.

“Excellent.  Just as I expected.  Another wholesome dessert from . . .”

“I made it,” said Jen.

“Well then, kudos to you, pastry maven.”

“I thought you said you were buying it from Rodelli’s.” Inquired Dan as Jen and Myrna glanced at each other.

“That’s how much you listen, mister,” said Myrna. “What I said was that I was getting the recipe from Teresa.”

“Oh.  Next time be sure to get from her the nice kitchen smell that comes from baking an apple pie.”

I cracked up; somewhat louder than socially acceptable but I had to reward Dan’s comment at any cost.  I looked at Susan who, looking at me, brought her hand up to her mouth and kept it there until Myrna spoke, “The pie was baked yesterday while you went with Al to get material for the tunnel, smarty pants.”

I got up, leaving my coffee and pie mostly untouched. “If you all will excuse me, I think I’ll go upstairs to lie down.” I pointed to my stomach. “Thank you all for coming.” I was determined to take up the issue of the tunnel with Jen at my first opportunity.

“Feel better, Mike,” said Susan.

“You didn’t spot any mysterious writing on the pie, did you, Mike?” , asked Gideon eliciting copious laughter from Myrna, Jen, and Dan while Susan smiled politely.

“Always inspect the produce, folks.” I turned to walk away and added, “just kidding.” As I went up the stairs I heard continued laughter.

Paula, who was still cleaning up at the kitchen, spotted me and came out to ask how I liked the apple pie.

“The pie was tasty.  Who baked it?  Do you know?”

“They got it from Rodelli’s.  Wait till you try their pecan.  Are you going to bed?  Up for a game of scramble?”

“No.  Not tonight.  Maybe tomorrow night.  OK?”

“All righty on that, master.”

“Will you stop with that master stuff,” I said half-heartedly.

“STUFF the MASTER and STOP his WILL,” said Paula as if playing Scramble.

“All right.  Scramble brain.  I’ll have you a game or two.”

“Yes!  I’ll ask Susan if she wants to join us.  Be right up.”

I continued going up and I heard Eddie and his whiny cry complaining, no doubt, about the barrier that had been placed at the top of the stairs to keep him from setting off the Witkowski alarm.  If they would only listen to me and keep their doors closed, Eddie would be able to shoot down to the basement where I had my chromatography lab.  I just couldn’t find any way to make my in-laws believe that warm air rises and that they would always feel winter’s chill if they kept their doors open.  Jen kept saying that they needed to keep the doors open because their cat Scrawny liked to wander around at night.  I wondered why Scrawny wasn’t setting off the alarms—I had to take this up with Jen along with a few other items.

“That’s a good dog.  Jump.  Sit.  Give paw.  Other paw.  Good boy, now roll-over.  No.  Eddie, listen, roll-over.” Finally, I tapped on the floor and that got him to belly up.  I scratched his favorite spot between his rib cage and that contraption that nature calls a dog penis.  I thought that would satisfy him but insatiable Eddie went to get the rope.  We played for a minute and then he asked for flashlight and as I explained to him that I would only play flashlight once a day, he cocked his head attentively and then proceeded to ask for flashlight. “No more.  Scram.” Eddie followed me to our kitchen where I made myself a frothy one.

“Are those any good?” , asked Susan as I walked into the living room where she and Paula had begun to set up.”

“Here.  Have a sip.  If you like, I’ll have one done for you in 5 minutes.”

“Now that’s beer that I could enjoy!”

“I’ll make you one,” I said as Paula took some quick gulps.

“No.  Thanks, Mike.  I don’t think beer and apple pie mix very well.”

“Are you kidding?  Ask a German if there is anything that doesn’t go with a beer.”“Just the same.  I think I’ll pass this time.”

“How about some pecan Amoretto?”

“That sounds OK with me.”

“Coming right up.  Paula?”

“I’m not allowed any, Daddy-O.”

“Never mind that bull.  Would you care for some?”

“Sure.  Bring it on.” Navario, whose back yard borderd our own, once told me that he gave alcoholic drinks to all of his eight kids because that helped to eliminate peer pressure—they were already veterans when it came time for initiation rights among friends and would accept or decline and if they accepted, they would be familiar with the effects of alcohol and not over indulge. Navario also bought his boys BB guns for as he put it, “Without risking life and limb, a BB gun would teach you to respect arms.” I asked him if the same thing could be said for sex. “Sure,” he said, “with boys their mother smiles and gives a little tug on the pecker when she changes diapers and when the father changes a diaper, he says while making faces, ‘Fos! Que peste tiene en los huevos,’ that way, the kid learns that men are supposed to dislike male genitalia but could still enjoy bathroom humor.” I asked him about females and he said, “Well.  Things are different with girls.  The father compliments his daughter as much as possible but refrains from even the slightest innuendo.  That way, the girl learns that a man’s only role is to praise women and she’ll always know when the man is getting fresh because he would be doing something that the father never did.” All of his kids turned out to be responsible adults so I had no reason to doubt his wisdom.

I brought over the two drinks and both ladies drank with no signs of any future remorse.  I sat on the couch with Susan while Paula sat on the floor.  Scramble was played on it’s own keyboard, networked and with built-in display.  All players were given the same randomly selected letters and asked to pull letters to form a word.  After all players had selected their words, the process was repeated until each player had accummulated 5 words or less.  At this point you had a score but you now had to make sentences from the list of words.  One strategy was to quickly create your word so that you would have time to think of a sentence using the list of words that had already begun to accumulate on the screen.  Articles, pronouns, prepositions, and conjunctions were free.  A verb in it’s root form could have its tense altered.

These were my words: jail, tense, sterile, bug, scum.

These were Susan’s: fuchsia, both, ache, pot, nerve.

Paula created these: give, bottle, like, eyed, locket.

I created this sentence: The sterile scum bug was jailed because he eyed her locket of fuchsia.  This got me an extra 25 points because I completed it first.  My opponents had 15 seconds for one of them to complete a sentence.

Susan came up with: Both fuchsia and pot gave her the nerve to bottle both bugs in sterile jail but she ached as she eyed the locket she liked.  She beat me with only two words unused: tense, scum.  How would Paula do?  The fact that she was last meant that she had to use up all the words or forfeit the game.  She had an extra 15 seconds because she was last.

Paula wrote: Jail me like a tense scum bug that eyes a sterile locket of both fuchia and pot but give when I ache for a bottle of nerve.  All words used, 75 points, the winner.

Technically, Paula’s construct was a bit too poetic and could have been knocked down but we were all feeling fine and what‘s a little poetic license among friends?

We were on our 5th game with Paula ahead by 50 points and I trailing behind Susan by 30, when Jen showed up. “Susan.  Your husband is beckoning.  Dan brought out the Scotch for him and now he’s highly suggestible.”

“That’s terrible,” I said looking at Susan for support but it was Paula who answered first: “No it’s not.  Men have used liquor against us since the first grog.”

“I’m afraid she’s right, Mike,” said Susan. “See you all tomorrow. Hasta Manana.” As she started to go down the stairs, I caught a glance from her through the hallway mirror that reflected into the living room..

“Who won the game?”

“Who else?”

“Way to go, girl!” Paula stood erect with arms reaching upward in a victory stance.  Her torso complete with belly button ring was revealed quite worthy of Michaelangelo’s attention.  She gathered the two glasses and my empty bottle and headed towards the kitchen with the glasses held so that Jen would not see them.

“Are you ready for bed, Mister?  Come, let’s brush.”

“Yea.  I’m beat.” We headed towards the bathroom.  Closing the door, I came up from behind Jen and she said, “I thought you were beat.”

“I am.  I am beating with desire,” I said holding her waist, burying me face into her neck and feeling her buttocks press neatly and oh so sensually into horatio’s domicile.

“You just had some hours ago.”

“I know but you know what happens when you wear pink negligees.” I sank to my knees and reached into the gown to feel her pink panties, my hands spread out one in front of her belly and the other on her behind.

“Hello, People.  Others have to use the bathroom, you know.” It was Paula.

“We’re almost done,” answered Jen who proceeded to rinse out the toothpaste and then sit on the toilet.  I straddled her as she sat, placing my crotch near her mouth.

“Can I pee in peace.  Is that even a remote possibility with you?” I felt dejected, of course, and I understand how many would sympathize with my wife especially the females and Alan Aldas of the world but I think I can present a suitable defense.  I’ll not bore the casual reader but if you really want to see my side of it, contact me at MikePreston@Hombodies.com and refer to page 27.  I can’t guarantee that I’ll be around at the end of this novel to answer specific questions but I will make arrangements to email you with additional information.

Jen patted herself and got up with an, “Ohhh” and a shake of the head but it sounded friendly enough to me.  She flushed the toilet and headed out the door.

“Aren’t you going to wash your hands?” , I asked.

“Do you want me to count the times that you pee and walk out of the bathroom without washing because you think nobody’s noticing?  Besides, I didn’t get any on me.”

“Yea right!”

“Here.  Smell this,” she said, thrusting her hand in my face. “Does it meet with your approval?” She saw the look on my face and took off to the bedroom with me in pursuit.  Eddie went into action too and came to Jen’s defense by biting my pajamas and growling—when it came to stopping violence, he wasn’t partial; he would defend any underdog as long as he or she occasionally held alpha status; other times, he got just confused and went with whomever had long pants on.  I dragged him along until I was inside the bedroom and realized I had to sidetrack my wife’s little helper.  I took off my slipper and threw it into the hall for Eddie to chase; I closed the door behind me and jumped on the bed with Jen who was cowering under the sheets.

“Take that you vile wench.” I pinched her butt. “Now, let’s see just how clean you really are, bitchum.” I reached under the blankets but she was one step ahead of me.

“Here,” she said after taking a few swipes of her portal. “So you want to smell.  Do you?  I cowered underneath a pillow saying, “No.  No.  I regret my transactions.”

“You mean, your transgressions.  Don’t you?  Stupid man. Ahr-Aghr.  I am woman!”

Our phone rang. “Hi, Mom.  No.  Nothing’s going on.  Just a little horsing around . . . I know, Mom, I’m aware of the time.  Yes, Good-bye.” Jen laid down and looked at me and smirked in silence.

“Letting them move in was the worst mistake of our lives,” I said after lying there for a few seconds.  It was hard to improvise gaiety when your life was a high-wire balancing act over a crocodile infested lagoon.

“Come on, Mike.  You don’t really mean that.  Mom cooked for you today and Dad picked you up.  They do a lot around the house.  You know that.”

“I also know that I never asked them to do anything and your mom cooks because you can’t or refuse to.  I refuse to believe someone can’t cook.  It’s all a matter of following simple directions.  Do you know how much we would save if you cooked?” I waited for some response but she just laid there tight-lipped, innocent, waiting for the tide to change.  I had time to remember more, “What about Eddie’s stuff.  What gives your mother the right to come up here and rearrange things?  And who told them to cut my trip short?  Oh, what’s the fuckin use!”

I turned over on my side and Jen placed her body parallel to mine, reaching over, she found horatio and stroked.  He, damn mindless automaton, reacted in the only way he could, following the program that evolution had written so many eons back. “How about a little nightcap? Heh, horatio?”

“Humph,” I said weakly as I turned to her and she slid down. “Do you want me to do you,” I said, hoping that today would be the day she would agree to it.

“Uh.Uh,” she said millimeters away from the depositor of mankind that she kept on stroking as if afraid of cutting off its life support, “just enjoy it.” She once told me she wouldn’t let me do it because it was ‘dirty down there.’ But surely after a shower, I had argued; she just didn’t enjoy it she responded.  Well, I thought privately, perhaps Myrna had deprived her of the neonatal breast or had given her too much; either way, her proclivities were headstrong and I would never talk to that canoe driver.

Chapter Six

“Mike!  Mike!  Wake up.” I heard Jen’s voice but I had no desire to respond; sex and carbs from the previous night produced a state of stupor which could only be overcome with time.

“What is it?”

“Mrs. Rodelli came over this morning with her daughter Christine.  They think a sinus fly may have entered the poor kid’s nose.”

“There hasn’t been a case of Muscara Vulghern infestation in over 4 years.  What makes her think . . .” I closed my eyes, clutched my pillow, and tried to go back to sleep.

“Mike.  Wake up.  Mrs. Rodelli is downstairs.  She asked for you.  She doesn’t want to call the Health Department.  Mike.” She shook my shoulder.

“All right.  Calm yourself.” I slid out of bed and headed to the bathroom.  After a quick mouth rinse, I trudged downstairs where I saw little Christine clutching her mom in the hallway.  The air was thick with breakfast smells from the Witkowskis.  I asked our neighbors to go sit in the Witkowski’s living room but they followed me to the basement saying that Myrna had suggested they go with me in case I had to extricate the intruder.  Jen was at the basement computer.

My basement was divided into two sections: one section was mine and consisted of my office/library, a family exercise room, and my laboratory where I did chemical assays for pharmaceutical companies. There was a tendency to decentralize operations in order to minimize the spread of contagion.  My samples came to me directly from investigators and I disposed of them after I had analyzed them.  If any contamination was discovered, it would be contained in my basement instead of possibly spreading throughout a large industrial complex.

I took out that fiber optic camera that I used for instrument inspections, and I dunked it in Quickchlor.  I tried to look as if there was nothing to worry about.  Little Christine looked at me with great concern and asked, “Why is Mommy so afraid of flies?”

“Oh.  You know Mommies.  Now, lie down on Mommy’s lap with your face up and let me see if that meanie fly dropped any food crumbs into your nose.” As I peered into her fragile nose looking for a large clutch of eggs, my heart pounded and my hand trembled for the interminably long time that it took to inspect her sinuses—I didn’t see anything.  The fly that Teresa Rodelli had seen in the bathroom must have been our old friend, the common housefly, that double-dipped on your food but occasionally atoned for it with maggots that politely ate only rotting flesh. “Nope, nothing there.”

“Mr. Perstin, what would happen if you found crumbs?”

“We would just squirt some water in there and flush it out.” That wasn’t exactly right but I didn’t think the little girl would benefit from knowing all the details of a sinus fly extermination.

“Can I go now, she asked, happy that things were again all better in her world.”

“Mike,” said my wife with an urgency that served to forewarn me of an upcoming obstinacy, “why don’t you do the blood test on her to be sure?”

What color were the eye’s?” , I asked the mother.

“I don’t know.  A violet color perhaps.  Perhaps purple.”

“If you can be sure that they weren’t yellow, we’re in the clear and don’t have to subject Christine to a blood test.”

“Good God, I can’t swear but I don’t remember yellow anything on the fly.  I just got very nervous because it was a strange-looking fly.”

“Relax.  Mrs. Rodelli.  If they had been yellow, you would have definitely noticed.”

Jen was still alarmed, “Just last week I viewed a documentary on those horrible worms.  Mike, I would rather eat cockroaches the rest of my life than . . .”

“Jen.  My father was a victim.  Remember?”

“That’s why I think they could still be around. Oooh,” she shivered in reflex to that petrifying thought.

“I’ll check the Net to see if the nucleic acid sensors have recently picked up any strange readings in the area.  Meanwhile, Mrs. Rodelli, if I were you, I would relax.  I’ll check out her sinuses daily, if you’d like; but, I personally don’t think there is any need for concern.”

I didn’t bother to see the documentary.  My father’s death was still vivid in my mind 25 years after it happened.  At first, a vile discharge told you that the flesh-eating bacteria carried by the flies had started to multiply and were showing their thanks to the maggots by liquefying living flesh.  The rot is consumed by maggots that some nicknamed the Kimono Worm because of the obvious similarities to the Kimono Dragon which puts lethal bacteria in its saliva, bites the victim, and waits for death to ensue.  The fly’s bacterial helpers produce rot faster than the maggots can consume it.  Even as maggots reach maturity, the bacteria continue their work until they start rotting the meninges and begin their final feast.  My father just thought he had a bad sinus infection.  Abruptly, I said, “What happened to the fly?  Is it still flying around in your house.”

“I locked it in the bathroom and went to get my husband.  When we returned to the bathroom, the fly was nowhere to be found.”

I looked at Christine and noticed she had taken something out of her pocket. “What do you have there, young lady?”

“It’s Mista Fly.” I took a closer look

“Chrissey, where did you get that fly?  How long have you had that, young lady?”

“I picktid up from the floor.”

It certainly was a strange looking fly.  I took some tweezers and picked it up ever so gingerly that I ended up dropping it.  Before Eddie had a chance to abscond with it, Chrissy picked it up and handed it to me.  I advised her to go wash her hands and then said, “It’s a mutant, Mrs. Rodelli; it has stunted wings.  That’s why Chrissy was able to catch it.”

“But is it dangerous?” , asked Teresa Rodelli.

“It doesn’t seem to be a Kimono.  No yellow eyes.  Twice as big as a Kimono.  My guess is no but let me research it some more.  I don’t think you have anything to worry about.  That is, there’s no immediate danger.”

“Oh.  Thank God.” Said Mrs. Rodelli whose sentiments were echoed by Jen who then said, “Teresa, Mike and I will look into this and get back to you as soon as we know for sure what this thing is.  Maybe a blood test is called for. Until then, just try to remain calm.  Francesco must be very worried.”

“Yes.  I better get back home.  When I left him, he was still searching the rooms for flies.”

Jen escorted Mrs. Rodelli back upstairs and I logged onto the CDC for pictures of Muscara Vulghern.  I entered the search words and was alerted to new information by a blinking biohazard sign.  I switched to voice control. “Neputer.  What is latest information on Muscara Vulghern?” The response got my full attention: Today’s date was October 20. “Neputer.  Has there been a change in the biology of Muscara Vulghern?” “Neputer.  Show graphic data.” “Hi-res.  Damn it.” The screen displayed about 50 thumbnails and I selected those that did not appear to have yellow eyes. “Neputer.  Show numbers 40, 41, and 45.” There it was—number 40—chrissey’s fly.  I knew the girl wasn’t the carrier but this meant everyone in the neighborhood had to be examined.

I took a digital photo and uploaded it.  5 minutes later, I received a response: I placed the fly in a test tube, capped it, labelled it, and placed it in my specimen refrigerator.  I heard the Biosweep pull up in front of our house, and I ran upstairs.

“Why is the Biosweep here?” The question was directed to Jen and Myrna who were sitting in the kitchen.

“Mom called Al just to be on the safe side.”

“That wasn’t necessary.  Do you people know that I have all the necessary certifications to handle any bio-hazard emergency?“

“Two heads are better than one.  Mike.  Let’s see what Al says.” I proceeded to pour myself a cup of coffee.  Normally, that was not something I did at their apartment but it was my way of returning the intrusion.

Al came in looking like a cop complete with shiny badge, leather accessories, and the damn annoying radio that perpetrators found so ominous for it seemed to be a direct connect to God’s headquarters. “Who’s got the fly?  Let’s see it,” Al commanded.

“I have it.  Secure and waiting for the CDC.”

“My authority supercedes that of the CDC.  Now unless you want to be cited for unlawful possession of a biohazard . . .” Myrna interrupted him to whisper something and he headed downstairs to the basement.  I mumbled a few obscenities under my breath and followed Al down the stairs.  Jen, as usual, was sitting there quietly in Switzerland.  Al had gone straight to the refrigerator and took out the test tube.

“I think you’re exceeding your authority on this, Mr. Jackowicz.” He stood up, came to where I was standing, pushed me against the wall and while holding his billy club across my throat said, “You may do all the thinking you want but the next time you interfere with the execution of my duties, I’ll arrest you and slap you with endangering the lives of the people of North Hudson.”

I sat down seething as the true lord of the fly went upstairs.  I sent an e-mail to the CDC about how the specimen was confiscated by the Biosweep operator.  I knew the bureaucracies would not respond to controversial inquiries.  It was the nature of every government agency not to concern themselves with matters for which no standard response was available; hell, it was the nature or every organization.  I doubt that their manual addressed the matter of:

Specimen Collection Irregularities.

Jurisdictional Conflicts.

Biologist versus Biosweep Operator precedence

Looking out the window, I saw the always alarming almighty Al Jackowicz put the specimen in a refrigerated compartment of the Biosweep, lock it and come back in.  I went upstairs to make myself some breakfast.

“Hello, Daddee.  You look muy depressivo this morning.  Is everything all right?” Paula leaned against me and gave me a big fat one on the cheek.

“More mad than depressed.”

“Mad at whom or do I have to ask?”

“Eh! It’s not worth repeating.”

“What was all the commotion this morning?” I told her the story and she asked if it was safe to go tutor Chrissy as she did every afternoon.

“Hold off until we know for sure. There’s an expert from the CDC coming in this morning. Want some eggs?”

“Thanks but Grandma made me breakfast. Got to go now. Later.”

I cracked two eggs over the skillet being careful not to drop in any shells for these eggs came dipped in an orange-yellow disinfectant that was quite bitter.  I cut up some Virginia ham substitute and added that along with some onions and crushed garlic from Rodelli’s.  Jen came up as I started eating the engineered food and stood there waiting for an acknowledgment. “Well,” she said, “what’s eating you?”

“Do you want to know? For one, why was Al called?”

“You heard Al say that he had jurisdiction.”

“The CDC is over Al and everyone else.”

“Well, If that’s the case, let them duke it out. What do you care?”

“It’s part and parcel of how things are done here.”

“If it was that important to you, you should have . . . “

“What right has your mother to tell her high school sweetheart where I keep things?”

“Whoa, hold on there.  High school sweethearts?  Where did you get that idea?”

“If they’re not then they sure had me fooled.  Haven’t you seen the way they carry on?  Anyway, I don’t give a hoot about what they do.  I’m back barely a week and she is already in full swing.  And, why did you ask me for permission to build a tunnel when Dan and Al had already gone to get the necessary material?  Well?”

“The material was from condemned houses and, anyway, the Rodellis said they would take the material off their hands in the event the tunnel was not built.”

“Jen. I don’t want condemned material on this property—it’s too risky.”

“Al assures us it’s safe. After he biosweeps it, it’s perfectly fine. He says he uses it all over the place without incident.”

“What this means is that I’ll have to disinfect it myself after it goes up.  I don’t trust that asshole.  What about Eddie’s toys?  Who said she could come up here and rearrange things.”

“You know Eddie is high maintenance.  Just yesterday Mom found some rocks that he brought in from the back yard.  If she didn’t get rid of them, we’d have a quarry in here.”

When you have to deal with certain people repeatedly, you adopt a mode of thinking peculiar to the individual and yourself.  The mention of rocks and Myrna in one breath made me try to remember where I had placed the meteorites.  I remembered having put them on the bedroom dresser bureau when I was unpacking a few days ago; I looked but they weren’t there. “Do you remember where the rocks were that she threw out?”

“They were in the bedroom.” A sinking feeling came over me.

“Where are they now.”

“I don’t know. In the garbage, I suppose.” I ran downstairs to the Witkowski’s kitchen where the threesome were having their coffee.

“Those rocks you threw out were meteorites that I brought back from Antarctica.”

“Women are supposed to like hard objects like diamonds and . . . , “ she paused for effect and then continued, “muscles.  Most men I’ve known tend to appreciate the soft.  Anyway, big boys should eventually put away childish things.  No?  Or are we now rock hounds like Eddie?” They laughed in mutual support of Myrna’s funnies.

“Charming as usual, Myrna.  How about giving us some examples of soft things or is that asking too much?”

“Yea.  Your brain.” More token laughter and I had time to counter with, “well, a soft brain means no hardening of the arteries which we know is more prevalent in your generation, I’m sorry to say.”

“Speaking of brain damage, “ said Al as he glanced from Dan to Myrna, “did you hear where somebody beat up Toby accusing him of catering to satanic rituals? Toby says if he finds out who bad-mouthed him, he’ll order his contacts to mince’em and dump’em in the meadowlands.” As a teenager, I had worked at Toby’s for several summers and I knew that he was of palmary character.  I dismissed Al’s mendacity and went into my in-laws’ living room to await the CDC.  It was a stupid thing to say for Toby would be in jail if anyone had ratted.

Myrna’s parlor was strewn with Capo Di Monte glaze and Swavorski glass.  I coveted her leather furniture, but the purchase of thick doctor/lawyer hide never wavered far from the lowest rung of my priorities.  People who, like the Witkowskis, reached retirement age did not do so entirely by luck, although by the fates some were wealthier than others.  They all seemed to have a quiet assertiveness with just enough touch of belligerence; they had a contrariness that said, I made it this far, I must be right.  Who can argue with this logic?  As a younger generation you can vary the social custom just a little bit, changing morality, justice, politics and other measures of society, just enough to make life bearable; but the older you get, however, the more you compromise and are led to that conformity by society’s barrage of yardsticks, doors, locks, directing signs, and whipping sticks.

Sometimes bigger changes are called for: one great upheavel of our time was the elimination of our love affair with the automobile.  Wait!  I know you are reading this 50 years in the past and are still in love—that’s all right they found a way to make it painless.  You have no doubt noticed in this story that in your forseeable future there will be plague wars perpetrated by certain organisms of bantam weight DNA who, I quess were upset that we kept relegating them to a primitive, non-progressive status, and decided to show us how well they could find and gobble up the herds of humans neatly packaged for their culinary delight as churchgoers, concert goers, sports attendees, and office dwellers.  Your society began its transformation during the bio-terrorist attacks that you’ve already felt.  Apocalyptic doom scenarios began to be focused on the new respect we all shared for the lower life forms.  Man’s dominion over animals could only draw a hazy line of inclusion when you got to the insects and lower phyla.  I’m still here so you can infer that we found a path to survival though you may think it narrow and tortuous.  

Part of what we had to do to stop the spread of contagion was to replace 95% of what used to be personal automobile travel with cab service and trains.  These were the resulting effects: teenagers, who traditionally looked to the automobile as something which they could control, went to an amusement park where they drove a car around 10 miles of steeply banked roads and crazy hills—all safe and guaranteed to satisfy the automotive lust.  The richer set purchased the Translox, a seat that had Syn-Muscle lifts and moved in all directions, perfectly simulating automobiles, roller coasters, horses, planes, and the ever-popular rocket man rides.  Mail, groceries, furniture, and appliances were delivered by one of two Consolidated Delivery Co.  Trucks (long-distance and short haul for the city limits).  A typical trip to see a relative or a friend started on-line where you would log an itinerary: place of departure, time of departure, place of arrival.  When it came time to depart, you might have a cab waiting for you if you had specified your time of departure to the more expensive, nearest minute.  You would then be taken to your destination or to a train depot if that was more efficient (the choice belonged to the state).  If you had taken the train, you would have traveled inside a personal compartment whose walls had a dial-a-privacy knob which, when turned, would lighten or darken the walls and display, on the outside wall, passing scenery of your choice.  A typical train car would have random opaque rooms occupied by embracing couples or by the self-conscious, high-anxiety, or paranoid set; the other passengers, the social, nosey, or exhibitionist set would be scattered elsewhere in plain sight.  A cab would always be waiting for you at the other end of your journey.

A vehicle in the neighborhood was always noteworthy and invariably elicited much curiosity which is why my ears detected a car pulling up next to the Biosweep, and I got up to peek outside through Myrna’s gold and white curtains.  It was a blue government issue electric Cooper® complete with a large identifying placard placed on the dashboard which I could see said CDC.  From behind me I heard, “Mr. Michael Preston?” He asked as a formality because his proximity detector told him I was his man.

“Do you remember me, Mr. Preston? Harold Slattery, we met on the way back from Antarctica?”

“Of course. Hello, Harold. This isn’t about the helicopter ride. Is it?”

“No. Mr. Preston. It isn’t. I was sitting at my office when I was alerted by my autotracker program that you had filed an HIC-238. Because I had already entered you in my report, my supervisor assigned the case to me.”

“No doubt you’ve discovered that Mr. Jackowicz is in possession of the sample.”

“Yes, and, I don’t know if he told you but he was able to positively identify the DNA as that of Muscara Vulghern

“Did he have a legal right to commandeer this whole thing?”

“Mr. Preston, did you hear me? Your sample has been . . .”

“Yes, I heard you, but I had a positive ID from the images on the internet.”

“I see.  Mr. Jackowicz does have jurisdiction over us unless we advise him beforehand.  He already had the sample when we finally got through to him.  I apologize.”

“No. No need for that. Forget I mentioned anything. It was a minor issue. What do we do now?”

“Mr. Jackowicz has begun testing.  Would you mind coming over to the Biosweep’s lab so we can tally your FDC.” [Foreign DNA Content]

“Not at all.” We walked outside to the testing cabin of the Biosweep where Paula was seated; Al was about to catch the microbot sinuscope coming out of her nostril.

“There you go, young lady.  All done.  Next.” Harold offered to help Paula as she stepped down the other side of the vehicle.  She gave me a thumbs up as I entered the cabin and started to converse with Harold who was all smiles.  Al saw me tracking Paula and Harold and he told me to relax, that he’s known Harold for over a year and has never seen him stray.  Perhaps, but Al had never, would never, know how charming and mesmerizing Paula could be when she was fully expressing her allure gene.  Harold took out his Unidata pen to make sure it had registered their encounter.  They shook hands in a professional and friendly fashion and parted company.

As Al inserted the microbot in my nostril, Harold came over and started adjusting the lab instrumentation. This prompted a question from Al, “Doesn’t he get the same analysis as everyone else?”

“Mr. Preston here was in foreign ecosystems just days ago. We need to adjust the specificity so that it doesn’t pick up on everything Mr. Preston has been exposed to; otherwise, we will have to write up a report explaining each positive reading. I don’t know about you but I have more important things to do.”

“Gotcha.” What’s this?  A weak retort from Al?  As he inspected the autosampler, he tapped on a small platform to my left where I was supposed to lay my arm.  I did so and he placed the lancing device on my left ring finger and said “take sample” to the computer.  He pulled the device away after it beeped, and a drop of anesthetic/disinfectant/coagulant trickled off my finger.  I knew I had to take care of my own postoperative needs and rolled my finger so that the absorbent covering on the platform soaked up the drop. “What are you doing?  Now I have to replace the covering.  Can’t you see that’s what the paper napkins are for? “

Before I had a chance to respond, Harold said, “That covering needs to be replaced with each analysis.”

“Well, I tell you what, as soon as Central sends me enough supplies, I’ll start doing that.”

“Until then,” answered Harold, matter-of-factly, “You should run a UV wand over the area.”

“Gotcha,” and, looking at me, said, “Just one more minute.” Looking at the computer screen he said, “record image . . .right . . .left . . .exit probe.” Al caught the microbot and said, “You’re done.  You may go.“  I got up and looked at Harold who was entering information into the computer; he looked up and smiled.  I was going to ask him about the men that entered the helicopter back in Miami but decided against it as I did not want Al to be privy to my affairs— not if I could help it, that is.  He extended his hand, told me I had a lovely daughter and said he would contact Paula with the status of everything.  Oh, I asked him, how did you know Paula was our resident journalist.  He told me he didn’t know but that because Paula had a certificate in Immunology, he thought he would engage her professionally.  I didn’t like the sound of that and decided it was better to take off.  I felt a little down.  Here I was, fully trained in these matters and I was being relegated to victim status.  I was feeling quite out of the loop when Harold yelled out, “Oh.  Mr. Preston.  You’ll have a complete report by this time tomorrow.” I thanked him and continued back into the house.  I felt more stupid than ever because it seemed as if Harold was reading right through me. Paula was in the vestibule acting like she was looking for something but I knew she was checking out the new prospect for her kingdom prince.

“Nice guy. Isn’t he?”

“Who’s that?” , she asked in a poor attempt to conceal her feelings.

“Harold. The CDC guy. Al said the guy was married.”

“Are you dissappointed?”

“Very funny, Paulita,” I said and started to walk away.  Was I as disrespectful to my parents?  How would I know?  Their discipline did not extend to what I would someday realize were trivialities.

“I don’t know what uncle Al is talking about. My Unidata pen obtained his profile as I greeted him at door this morning and he is not married—never was.”

“You’re supposed to be the generation seeking answers, not the generation that has ALL the answers.” I rubbed her sassy short hair and proceeded inside where I passed the Witkowski’s living room and noted the room filled with everyone in our little neighborhood circle.  The Rodellis were seated at one end of the room somewhat by themselves; Teresa sat on an armchair with Chrissy on her lap and Rocco standing behind her.  I entered and shook Rocco’s hand, “How’s it going Mr. Rodelli.”

“I’m fine, Mike.  I hope you don’t mind having us over here while they disinfect our house.  I’m hoping they don’t damage our crops.” For some reason Rocco had forgotten that this was Dan and Myrna’s apartment, not mine.

“You can come here anytime,” I said looking at Jen to see if she had caught the faux pas.  She didn’t, so I continued, “They wont disinfect unless they find that one of you had Muscara larvae.”

“No?” , asked Teresa Rodelli.

“No.”

“Oh.” The Rodellis said in unison as Rocco continued, “What do you think are the chances . . .”

“Wait till Al comes in,” said Myrna, “he’s had much more experience with these things.”

Then I added, “The fly we found could have come from anywhere but it did not come from your house. We know that because by the time this mutant fly is hatched, the brain has already been affected. Now, if you were to tell me that Mr. Rodelli here has been giving away his breadfruit trees.”

They laughed and Myrna, nudging Dan, said, “Dan. You’ve been mumbling a lot lately and not only in your sleep!”

Jen laughed at her mother’s humor and then gave her father a kiss on the forehead as he said, “No fly could possibly make it past my nose hairs.”

“Or my ear hairs.  They’re like #0 steel wool,” added Rocco.  To which, Teresa said, “Wa you sayin?  You pull out you hair with my tweezers.  Now everything can come right in.” Everyone laughed embarrassing Rocco as he smiled sheepishly and plugged his ears with his fingers.  Chrissy pulled his hands away saying, “Papa, don’t worry, no fly is going to hurt you.”

“Remember!  We don’t ever pick up any bug,” said Rocco.

“Or anything that moves in the night or has fangs or hisses or snaps or . . .”

“Mike, you’re scaring her.  Why don’t you go upstairs and finish your breakfast?,” urged Jen and then went over to comfort Chrissy, “Just make sure you ask Mommy or Daddy if it’s all right.  OK?  Sweetie.” Chrissy nodded in agreement.

“Mike, do you think it’s safe to go back home?” , asked Rocco and I just knew who would be fielding that one.

“Wait here for Al to come in.  Would you like some coffee?,” said Myrna.  The Rodellis--even Chrissy--looked in my direction.

“In answer to your question, I think you can go back in but, unfortunately, Al Jackowicz has the final say.” Some awkward moments later, we heard a voice calling out to us from the vestibule that Myrna had filled with crown-of-thorn plants and various cacti and succulents, and that were being pollinated by Paula with a device Dan and I had invented and which the Rodellis where quite anxious to obtain (nature’s bees, birds, breezy winds and other conveyors of present day diseases had to be kept away from the booty.)

“He’s coming in now,” said the roving reporter from the rocking county of Hudson which, together with Bergen County, laid claim to one of the biggest headaches for the CDC and many other groups with their hands in the environmental pie—the 100 square miles of basic Jersey mosquito nursery.  It was one of three Jersey natural landmarks of any note, the other two were the Shore that everyone avoided because of the jellyfish that were able to survive being washed onto the beach and the worms that surfaced where they once lie deeply buried, and the third was the Jersey Pine barrens, home to creatures more hideous than the mythical Jersey Devil.  Do you suppose such things really exist but remain hidden because they know they look like scary creatures whereas bears venture out on account of their warm fuzzy appeal?  I know it sounds like I’ve been smoking weed but look at how quickly they jumped at the chance to kill hogzilla or how quickly they jumped at the chance of canning the giant squid.  It was hard to say but everyone eschewed the barrens about as much as they did the Meadowlands and its sundry bloodsuckers.

“Hello there. I just heard that the one and one half square mile Vitid meteor that you all have been hearing about, was nudged by the gravitational pull of Venus and . . .is expected to strike us sometime next month.” Gasps went up all around the room, Chrissy clawed her little hands into her father’s arm, and questions were sling shot at Al and at anyone with an ear. Al held out his hands as if to hold back the onslaught. He continued, “OK. Everyone just calm down. Look at Paula there. Would that young lady still be smiling if she really believed what I said? The truth is that the meteor is still on its merry way to the Sun.”

“What’s the point of scaring people like that?” , I asked.

“The point is that if they paid attention to the news alerts they would be better prepared for any emergency.  They would know that one town over, in JerseyTown, two cases of Kimono Fly infestation were discovered in immigration quarantine.”

“Well. What do we have you for then?” , asked Myrna to my surprise.

“Your safety is in my hands and it’s a responsibility I tend to with the upmost diligence.”

Everyone turned to look at Harold who had just poked his head through the door. “I’m afraid,” he said, “that your neighbor from across the street, Mr. Rumsfeld, has tested positive and will be sequestered.”

“is this another joke?” , asked Dan.

“No joke, I’m afraid.  He’s packing his suitcase now.” That made nearly everyone pensively sad and I was touched by the announcement too but I couldn’t help realizing that Rumsfeld’s house would be on the market soon and either the Witkowskis or Jen and I could move across the street and be in our own domain.  The house was a good solid red brick house made by old world Italian masons—our house could easily survive into the next millennium—not that I intended to live that long or that I would expect my descendants to still occupy it 900 years hence, but it was nice knowing that exterior maintenance would not occupy much of my free time.

“Oh. Glorioso Padre Divino,” said Teresa while crossing herself as adeptly as an international Ping-Pong champion.

Myrna tried to comfort, “If you’re worried about Rumsfeld, don’t.  He the healthiest old-timer I know and he’ll pull through.  Trust me, I’ve known the man since high school.  He’ll be back in no time.”

“He opted to move out of the country.  You wont see him again anytime soon,” disclaimed Harold.  As he headed out the door, he added, “By the way, everyone else tested negative.” The Rodellis hugged each other.

I said, “I thought Old Man Rummy would always be our neighbor but I guess it was too much to expect.”

“We feel bad for him but, you know, in 20 yers he never bought anything from us.”

I added that Mr. Rumsfeld, being quite wealthy from biotech investments, always imported his food from colder climates like Alaska or Siberia and avoided the local organics.  A  total recluse he was’t; he was, for example, a well-known philanthropist very involved in child welfare.

“Mom, he never had any children of his own, did he?” , asked Paula.

Myna chimed in for her daughter, “It was rumored he had children but lost them in a custody dispute. That was all before he moved into that house so I don’t know the details.”

Teresa Rodelli glanced outside and noticed that Al was coming out with Rumsfeld. “Look, they a taking him outaside.” Everyone except Dan went into the vestibule to bid Rumsfeld farewell or just to gawk.  He was dressed in a regulation white plastic suit and clear plastic hood connected to breathing tank.  He shooed Al and Harold away as they tried to help him down his front steps.  He crossed the street and stood in front of our house.  We all raised our hands in sad salute to a man who meant many different things to many people.  Rumsfeld raised his left hand and turned to look towards the Alvarez’ home.  They, like us, had stood in their front porch to see the old guy off.  Susan raised her hand and smiled bravely.  Rumsfeld raised his hand as a defiant general may have done and quickly entered the containment unit on the Biosweep.  Harold waved to us and pointed his finger at Paula as he got in his car and drove off.  Al went over to Rumsfeld house and posted something official on the door.  He came back to the sweep and took off with another victim from the trenches of Hudson, NJ.

Chapter Seven

Time Check

Wednesday, September 9, 2020

One month after the fly scare, Myrna received the first postcard from Rumsfeld reporting from a little fishing village in Greeenland called Godhavn.  He had cured his affliction and had settled down again but missed all the adventures at our house.  Paula asked Myrna what he meant by that and she said Rummy had spied on his neighbors ever since the government won the landmark ACLU v Uncle Sam case where the government contended that freedoms of hearing and seeing were to be protected as much as writing and speaking; if you could use modern communication to get out a message you can use the same marvels to augment your hearing and sight.  I objected that that gave impetus to a whole generation of voyeurs many of whom were encouraged by the government to keep their high tech electronic eyes and ears on suspicious neighbors.  Rumsfeld had to rely mostly on sight augmentation because all homes had conversation masking devices and anyone who listened in would hear unintelligible talk, but there was plenty to see because most people believed in letting in the sunshine on account of its disinfectant properties but window shades were in place whenever the weather people announced the start of a solar flare cycle because someone noticed that plagues like flu epidemics seemed to come with the ebb and flow of solar radiation.

Paula had pressed Myrna for more,”How was he able to get around the masking devices?”

“Well those devices were only put in 5 years ago. But besides that, money gets people whatever it is they need in life, and if Navarioo Rumsfeld wanted to hear what we were up to, I’m sure his loot would find a way. Although, for the life of me, I don’t why he considered us such a threat that he had to spy on us.”

When Paula told me this, I wondered if my private home videos of my sexscapades with Jen had found an audience in him. Even Paula was at voyeuristic risk for she would often digitize herself naked in poses that she uploaded into her virtual reality programs as her vixen avatars5, SabrinaTar—Jen feared the consequences of her role playing but I reassured her that it was all innocent enough; although, one day, when incest, made benign by proxy, took hold of my senses, I used my avatar to track down her virtual vixen—spending nearly $500 in the process. As much as I tried, however, I couldn’t get her to agree to a liason. I called her a slut, a lesbian, a gold-digger and all she said was that I tried too hard. I haven’t used my flagitious avatar since and have never told her that MaluukTar was me.

This talk helped to remind me of my exchange deal with Larsen now made very difficult because my meteorites were gone and I was finding it very hard to pay the piper. In a rare move, I decided to come clean and tell Larson that I didn’t have the video of revenant love but that perhaps I could pay my debt in some other way. I told my secretarial avatar to set up a chat with Larson. MaggieTar set one up for 8 PM and that meant Larson and I would be chatting at 2 AM. This gave me time to get Jen to consent to a little exibitionism just in case Larson still demanded payment. It was now about noon and I was almost finished with my lab work but this would not wait so I put the analyzer on standby and went upstairs to find Jen.

As I went by the Witkowskis’ apartment I noticed the doors were closed. Could it be that they had finally realized that cold air-conditioned air sinks and it would behoeve them to keep the doors closed? I opened the door into the kitchen and saw Al contact-glued to Myrna as she was preparing lunch at the kitchen counter.

“I’m sorry to intrude; I was looking for Jen. Have you seen her?” I said that as if I had not seen anything out of the ordinary.

“No, we havn’t,” said Al. “Have you checked with that Spanish fellow next door. I hear your wife is painting him in the buff.”

As I closed the door, I saw Dan through the Kitchen window—he was working on the Rodelli tunnel. I heard him call out. “Hey! Were’s my sandwich?” and I heard Myrna answer, “Al’s bringing it now.” I knew Dan was not allowed in the house covered in sawdust but did he know of the two sawhorses in the kitchen? I continued upstairs to find Jen in her art room.

“Whatcha painting?”

“Male form in repose feeding hummingbird.” Jen turned the easel so I could not see the painting.

“Where did you get the bird?”

“Which one?”

Come on, Mike, I said to myself, ‘You can handle it. Keep the green-eyed one in check.’

“The one that sucks,” I replied feeling smug.

“Oh the little bird one came from a Cuban postcard. The big one came from . . .” I was beside myself. I grabbed hold of the easel to swing it into view. The spatula tha Jen was holding in her hand scrapped across the canvas and removed a swatch of paint. “Now look what you’ve done! Here. Take a good look.”

It was a picture of a mendicant lying on a bench with his head on his knapsack and wearing a hat with cut flowers coming out of it. The hummingbird was sucking up nectar from a flower that could not be discerned because of the damage the spatula had done.

“Gee, Jen, the way you were keeping it from me aroused my curiosity.”

“What did you think it was.”

“Well, for a second, I thought you had painted a bird sucking cum from a guy’s dick.”

“You’re sick. You know that. Sick. Sick. Sick.”

I couldn’t tell her that I had pictured Gideon at a Roman orgy feeding grapes to a bird.

“You know, speaking of male subjects, my instructor said I needed to do more torsos. I was thinking I might ask Gideon to pose au naturel.”

“What’s wrong with me?”

“You don’t work out like Gideon. In other words, you don’t have the definition that artists crave.”

“And, I suppose you have the strokes that he craves.”

“What was that?”

“Look, go ahead. Do your thing but why don’t you work from pictures?” Jen walked over to me and kissed me as she fondled my genitals. “You’re not jealous, are you?” , she asked demurely.

“Fine. Do it. But I don’t know what kind of writer poses in the nude. I mean, I’ve never seen Hemingway in the nude, nor Fitzgerald or London. I don’t think even the gay ones would bare all.” She continued to feel me while smiling impishly. “Go ahead,” I said, “but I have to be in the next room. OK?”

“You wouldn’t mind. You really could handle that?”

“As long as I’m in the next room.”

“What do you think, Mike. We’re going to get it on while the paint dries? Forget it. If you’re not man enough to handle the situation, just say so and that will be the end of it.”

I was going to say I wasn’t “man enough” but I remembered Larson.

“I’ll tell you what. You can do Larson . . . what am I saying . . . Gideon, you can paint Gideon if you allow me to instaCam us while making love.”

“InstaCam to the whole net?”

“No. Just to my buddy from Antarctica.”

“And what is he going to do with it. Sell it?”

“It’s one of his fantasies. To do a threesome. So, he thought he could . . . you know . . .vicariously.”

“Ok. So long as he doesn’t sell it. And, we dim the lights. And, God help you if my mother finds out.”

“Ok. Deal.” I headed downstairs to finish my lab work.

My work was exacting at times but mostly vapid as all industrial work. However, if you daydreamed, there was no better work. There were quality controls built in and we all knew that when the brain had been programmed to do a routine chore it was best to let it do its work for too much interference from the conscious mind resulted in inefficiencies. Today, as I filled little bottles with samples my mind decided to go back to early sensual childhood.

Lust always had a hold on me that perhaps because of my religious upbringing, or lack thereof, I never really tried to overcome. My earliest recollections were not of motherly caresses or fatherly play but of things forbidden. Some would say I engaged in unbridled desire shrouded in deception and enveloped by depravity. But others wouldn’t say anything, knowing that if they wanted to they could also tell stories of some other ilk.

“Mike, I’m going shopping for groceries. Stay out of trouble while I’m gone. And get out of bed. Do something around the house—will you.”

“Don’t worry about a thing Mom. What do you want me to do?” Mom was already out of earshot but it didn’t matter. She would often tell me things and not expect any kind of reply. It was as if she were an officer shouting orders. No matter—her cooking was superb, she was mostly kind and saintly and I was kept quite comfortable. So what if she wouldn’t fork over a five spot for the Boy Scout dues or spare change for a candy bar. Luckily for me, Mom had no clearly defined accounting practices and I helped myself to the occasional allowance. As for the Boy Scouts, I heard it wasn’t all cool stuff like starting fires and canoeing. I had heard they had to obey orders and follow rules just like in the Army; what the hell, teachers bossed you around and now you were expected to blindly obey another adult just so that you can say you knew 20 different knots and could catch a rabbit with string and sticks? Oddly enough, I did envy the uniform and the medals and the comraderie.

I lay in bed a bit longer and, naturally, I soon felt that twinge that makes boys feel good about life. I wrestled slowly and sensually with my pillow but it provided only slight satisfaction. My mind wondered all over the place when it suddenly remembered that I had recently contemplated wearing apparel of a decidedly feminine bent. I popped out of bed with great excitement and went browsing through my mother’s drawers. Aha! Here’s something. I reached for the Lycra, spandex, nylon, tricot, rubber, or whatever it was, Speedee brand running shorts and, because my room lacked a door, I took it with me to where I could put it on in complete privacy—underneath the bed. I know what you’re thinking. Could I have picked a more cramped place? No, but my lust was great and could overpower any obstacle—besides, who would discover the deviant under the bed? I contorted like an escape artist and squirmed my way into the blue constrictor tights. Little turgid Horatio was ecstatic; although he seemed a bit uncomfortable as he lay squashed and, no doubt, suffocated by the flat crotch area tailored for the female. He may have felt uncomfortable but as I felt the smoothness of the material, it felt sexy and I closed my eyes and squirmed and thrust my pelvic muscles. Although confined and unable to venture out into the open, I fantasized about forbidden love and felt terrific for about half an hour.

“Mike,” I heard my mother call. “Are you home? Did you take any money from my purse?”

“When did she smarten up?” I asked myself as I lie there frozen next to the splendid dust sculptures that hid from the superficial cleaning. My mother was nothing if not eccentric and I knew that if I just waited this thing out, she would forget about her monetary crisis and forget that she had even called out my name. Ten minutes went by and she was soon out the door. I was alone again and quickly considered my options. I jumped into bed and made graceful swimming motions underneath the covers. For a while, I conjured up some more lustful thoughts—if you can call them that. At that age what could I possibly have imagined except something like this: “I’m doing it, dick, pussy, rub together, close, ram it in somewhere, rub, slap it against her crotch, stick nose there and suck in a good strong whiff.”

As my groins twitched in spastic reaction, I started to notice that the silky feeling of the contraption was being replaced by—darn it—the feel of sweat! Struggling to remove the contraption, my wet skin made it much more difficult. Jeez! Didn’t women sweat? They must not. If they did they wouldn’t wear this thing if their life depended on it. Finally, off it came and, relieved, I put on my cotton boxers and tiptoed back to my parent’s room to replace the article. I remember fanning it frantically to dry it lest my mother start to wonder. I made no more sojourns into women’s clothing other than the occasional doggie sniff. But this is not to say that the rest of my childhood was devoid of sexuality.

We lived in a town where yards were sacrificed because more housing needed to go up or because parking was needed or simply because the owner didn’t want to be bothered with grass. Ours was the latter. Our courtyard was ample but made of concrete—good for nothing but skate-boarding. Oh sure we could have played basketball or street hockey but our festive shouting always got us evicted out into the street where all we could do was ride our bicycles. We would go to the park where we rushed to get on the one swing that wasn’t occupied. If I beat my friend, he would stand by a small kid and eyeball the kid until terror set in and off went the kid in search of his mom. Following that most welcome activity, we would drink the warm park fountain water till our stomachs bulged, then, get on our bikes, and pedal until our mouths dried up and our stomachs grumbled and it was time for a meal or a trip to the ice cream vendor—the soft treat was great but how ungrateful of me to hate having to finally quench my thirst and rid my mouth of the sweet taste with a drink from the vendor’s water fountain.

This monotony forced us to tune into whatever variety came our way. This one particular year, Roberto was my buddy of the year—my friend du jour so to speak. I say that because our family was always on the move trying to find the better apartment and I, alas, never had time to develop lasting friendships. But, for that year at least, Roberto and I were like captain and first mate; we were like pilot and copilot; we were born out of the same foundry and tempered by the same forces. “Hi, Mike. Have you seen the new chicks?” he said.

“Nope. What about them?”

“Well, one of them’s a blond. Actually, I think they’re both blondes except one more than the other.”

“So what? Do any look like at all like Britania Sparrow or Susie Tango.”

“Ah . . .nope, but one is named Marilyn.” We both were suckers for pretty faces and it didn’t matter that Monroe had died half a century earlier.

Boy! Someone named Marilyn. She must exude the same sexuality. She must have the same smile.

“Her sister’s name is Carol.”

Not much interest there! Let’s see there’s Carol something-or-other, the singer. She’s a blond but no comparison to Marilyn. “When did they move in?”

“Just this morning. Where were you man?”

“I slept late. What apartment did they move into.”

“6d, over there next to Charlie Rombers’ unit.”

“I wonder if they knew they were moving next door to a roach motel. Oh look. Is that her?”

“No, that’s Carol. You know, Mike, you’re too much into your own world. Man, I didn’t even know you lived here until my Mom talked with your Mom and my Mom found out about you.”

For a split second, I wondered if my mother had divulged any secrets about me. Not my true secrets but those embarrassing trivia that mothers like to reveal about their children to perfect strangers. Like the time she told a neighbor that I didn’t like to take off my shirt because I was embarrassed over the size of my breasts. Good God, that still floods my face with crimson every time I think of it.

“Yeah. Yeah, what can I say?” Then, seeing Jennifer, I asked, “Hey. Want to play tag?”

“Can’t now. Maybe later.” With that her sister Marilyn stuck her face out the door and my heart rate nearly doubled. She was gorgeous and very definitely a Marilyn. She waved probably at Roberto but I seized the moment, smiled, and waved back. I thought she smiled back at me. Roberto and I skipped supper that day. We waited until 11 o’clock at night. Our conversations weren’t in the least subdued for we hoped that our voices would beckon the return of the chicks, as my father called girls that were up for dating.

Unfortunately, things never go according to plan. We sat there chewing gum, occasionally getting up to cup a firefly in our hands—luckily for these bugs, kids had a limited attention span and would not drastically affect their numbers when they squashed the hapless few and spread the glowing innards on an ice cream stick or a cinder block wall. Insects, except for the ladybug and butterfly were not lovable. Kids, early on, recognized the damage potential of the mosquito, the bee, and the wasp; the disgustingly unhealthy behavior of the roach, the ant, and the fly; and, the imagined terror of the dragonfly, centipede, and spider. To their pre-emptive strike list, the kids of today added viruses, bateria, mold, parasitic worms, and mutant insects like the beige flea that preferred a human host.

Do you remember reader how kids of your time could congregate, in reasonable numbers, wherever they wanted and, while doing so, encounter people exhibiting the full range of human behavior? Well it was at such a time that Mr. Pollitov opened the screen door to his home and asked Roberto and me if we wanted to come inside and see a movie. Why not, we asked ourselves; the mosquitoes were biting hard and Wolf’em the first video game had not yet taken off with kids. As youngsters, we didn’t judge Mr. Pollitov, whom we would later recollect was unshaven, pot-bellied, and with strands of hair held in place by his natural oils. We entered into what was his combined kitchen/parlor/dining room. He asked as to sit while he started up the video machine. He poured some popcorn into a bowl that he placed before us. Roberto and I each took one popped kernel, ate it, and didn’t touch the stuff again.

We watched some karate action film that we had already seen on television; after 20 minutes, Mr. Pollitov, noticing our discontent, said, “Do you want to see something really different?” Roberto and I looked at each other and shrugged—what else was there to do? Mr. Pollitov reached for a cassette stashed between some books and started playing it. I could direct that movie today with mute actors if I needed to. The opening shot was of a middle-aged woman, back to camera, washing dishes; she appeared quite the maternal type complete with lace apron; she was overweight but not rotund. Out of nowhere this man moseys in whom I took to be the husband but more than likely was a delivery man who felt that actions spoke louder than words. The man approaches her from behind, one hand takes her face and brings it back to where he can give her a kiss, the other hand fondles her breast. He then starts to unbutton her blouse and untie her apron. She turns, removes her blouse and we see her pendulous breasts as she kneels and unzippers the man’s trousers right there at the sink. She reaches in and pulls it out and puts it in her mouth. After that take, the woman bends over the kitchen table as the man lifts her dress and enters her from behind—conveniently, there were no panties. We were transfixed and enraptured and totally thankful for the good-natured neighbor that was fulfilling our need for the forbidden. The porno ended and Mr. Pollitov puts in another cassette smiling as we smiled back in appreciation—Roberto went for more popcorn but he saw me look at him askance and decided against it. Partly through that second video Roberto nudges me in the ribs and shifts his eyeballs towards our host. There he was, his member showing, erect, red, and with all manner of veins coursing around it. We kept our heads looking at the screen while our eyes looked sideways to see what he was up to.

After what seemed to be an eternity, I blurted, “Err, I think I hear my Mom calling us. Thanks for the movie. We’ll see you.” Roberto nearly knocked me down trying to be first out the door. I panicked thinking Mr. Pollitov would grab me and make me touch his penis but he must have known that our parents were close by for he closed the door behind us without saying a word.

To this day, I’ll never know how it was he had no fear of the law for in those days pedophiles were being tracked down without pity. If you had the misfortune of not having mainstream thoughts, you condemned yourself just like the Roman Christians, Spanish Jews, and Salem witches. Although never condoned, aberrations in human sexual conduct would eventually be seen as an unfortunate, presently uneeded, evolutionary variation. It took so long for us to recognize that people for the most part were not being possessed by satan, that they were a product of their environment and genes and not of themselves. They had a modicum of tenuous free will.

Roberto and I never spoke of that incident again. It was as if the navario of taboos had encapsulated it to be opened again for public inspection only by adults. I never kept in touch with Roberto so I can’t tell you how it affected him but as for me, it was just one more crossroad on the avenue of lust. As for Marilyn and Carol, we were playing show and tell inside a garage one day and as I lowered Marilyn’s panties, the garage door swung open and there was Marilyn’s younger brother yelling out, “Mom. Look at ‘Lyn and Carol naked!” Roberto and I scrambled and pulled the girls into the shade where we knew we couldn’t be seen. Such joy! Ended by a little miscreant! The girls were called home and for the rest of the summer there was nothing but unrequited lust; the girls had become homebodies ahead of their time; albeit for a different kind of evil influence.

Back at the lab, I finished up and waited for the company computer to tell me it had received all the data.  I locked up and was about to go upstairs for some dinner when Dan came calling. “Mike, I think you know Dan was pulling your leg this morning about Tobey.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Here’s the thing, Mike. If Al runs any test on the meat, he’ll have to make a full report including revealing where he got it. That means Tobey could lose his Sogg license if it turns out positive.”

“Why don’t you forget the whole thing. To be honest with you, I never considered that Tobey might be harmed in any way. Did he tell you where he got the meat?”

“He says the usual sources. He’s afraid to talk about it but he did say organized elements may be getting rid of their non gratas in their trademark creative fashion. Al says there was never any danger being that meat is allways irradiated. Is that true?”

“Yes. It’s true. That’s why they can vacuum-seal it in plastic and ship it without refrigeration. By the way, it was vacuum-sealed in plastic, wasn’t it?”

“Oh, yes. That it was. I make sure of it.”

“Of course, there’s the issue of who was killed and shouldn’t we report it to the authorities?”

“We have, haven’t we? Al knew about it and we left it up to him. Do you want any other authority?”

“That leaves us off the hook, Dan, but what is Al really going to do about it?”

“Mike, look, as much as we want to, we can’t control the world.”

“We let the world control us. Is that it, Dan?”

“Like Woody Allen said in one of his movies, ‘You couldn’t control life but you could control art and masturbation..’”

“So you mean to tell me that if you get the urge to beat the bishop, you can postpone it indefinitely?”

“I sure can. Willie’s not going to order me around.”

“You’re just not a lewd individual.”

“Are you?”

I didn’t want to appear loathsome to my father-in-law so I said, “What I meant to say . . .” He interrupted me with a laugh and a slap on the back.

“Speaking of such matters, when are we going to get a grandchild, son?”

“We’re working on it.”

“Good, and don’t worry about the incident. Al, Tobey, and I will find a way to make sure it doesn’t happen again. As for the rest of the family, we wont say a thing unless someone gets inquisitive; in that case, we tell them you were not yourself that night and you saw more than was actually there. Can I count on you?”

Some obnoxious people can ask innocent favors of you and you rebel against the very thought, but Dan, an Iraqi veteran, a polite man who believed in coexistence, deserved my support until such time that he might betray my trust. “Sure,” I responded and he looked me in the eye and again slapped my back saying he knew he could count on me. It was time to move on. “How’s the tunnel coming?”

“It’s on hold.”

“Oh?”

“Yea. Your buddy from up the hill is threatening to have us charged with violation of the congregation limit.”

“Navario?”

“Yea. Mr. flagrant violator himself.”

It never occurred to me that building a tunnel between building might not be allowed because it violated the 9 person rule. “He’s right, you know. There are 10 occupants connected by the tunnel, but why would he fight us on this?”

“Who knows. Envy maybe. Anyway, the tunnel’s on hold until we go to court or he backs down.”

“Maybe I’ll go pay him a visit. You know, talk things out.”

“Go ahead. Don’t let me stop you. Meanwhile, I think I’ll go upstairs and relax. Myrna’s pissed off about something again. She got that postcard from Rumsfeld and she was happy for a while. Then, Susan started getting e-mails from him and Myrna turns into a holy terror. I’ll see you later, Mike.” He turned and started upstairs. I searched in vain for something sympathetic to say but I knew that mortal men could not fathom let alone extricate themselves from Myrna’s clutches.

I had two hours left of mosquito-free daylight to make it over to Navario’s. I went out through the back door with Eddie in pursuit, jumping around like a kid at Christmas. Our yard was a bit on the wild side. We kept the grass trim, as per regulations, with a robot mower but our rose bushes had myriad spider webs that caught a respectable amount of flying insects. Of course, there was always a battle between me wanting to keep them in place and the rest of the household who wanted them removed—I showed them the insect carcasses and that brought them over to my camp until the unsightliness caused them to bring out the broom. Navario lived with eight others in a two-family house whose yard was next to ours. His mother was the Rumsfeld to the East as she kept a steady vigilance out of her kitchen window. I motioned to her that I wanted to speak to her son and in no time at all Navario had come out into his yard.

“Ola. Senor Preston. Como estas?”

“Muy bien, gracias. Y usted?”

“Yo aqui como siempre y su familia?”

I caught the ‘su familia’ part. “Muy bien, gracias. Y su familia?”

“Todos bien. What can I do for you sir?”

“Just came by to find out first hand what happened to make you so upset over the tunnel that we’re building.”

“You know, I totally believe in live and let live and I think you do too.”

“Of course, you know me.”

“My family and I are outdoor people. We moved up north because we couldn’t stand being couped up down there in the Tropics. Things were going fine until your father’s friend started fining us for obstructing pathogen control—an $80 fine. We have three fines so far this month and our only crime is not evacuating my own yard fast enough .”

“That sucks. Navario, I don’t even know if my father-in-law is aware of that.”

“He must know. We know they are the best of friends. We’ve seen them together at Tobey’s Sogg on many occasions.”

“That could be but this Al character doesn’t play with a full deck—if you know what I mean.”

“Well, I’ll tell you Mike, I’m going ahead with my law suit unless I get $240 to pay the fines.

“Look. They really want this tunnel so I think we can work something out. Meanwhile, can I ask you to hold off on any action until I talk to Dan?”

“Yes, sure. For you, I’ll do it.”

“Thanks, Navario. I’ll get back to you. Do you still have the same e-mail address?”

“Yes, but why don’t you come over, have a drink, maybe some empanadas.”

“Sounds good, maybe we could cab over to Tobey’s on some BYOF night; this way, you don’t have to exceed capacity.” We knew that Navario always had guests over but the ID sensors never went off even though they were tamper proof and that’s not a disparaging remark because everyone was always looking for a way to foil government electronics. “If we haven’t cleared this thing up in a few days, maybe we could get together at the Sogg to clear things up. By the way, my mother-in-law has reported some sweet herbal fragrances coming from your vicinity.” I overdid my grin.

“I think maybe she smelled something from my neighbor Ganesh. But whatever it is he’s having, I don’t think I’d mind having some.”

“Ever hear of Norweigen Homegrown?”

“Sure.”

I took a chance that we were on the same wavelength and said, “Would you like some?”

“You have some?”

“I got seeds, dude.” Navario’s jaw dropped like the trapdoor of the spider with the same name. “Just as soon as they sprout I’ll hook you up.”

“Is it true they grow no bigger than a foot?”

“That’s right. Just enough to keep the customer satisfied.”

“Any chance of buying some seeds off of you?”

“Just as soon as momma gives birth, I’ll give you the pick of the litter. No charge.”

“That’s real phat, dude.”

I shook hands with him and walked back to the house with Eddie asking to play basketball or rather, hockey with a debrided basketball. I picked up the ball, threw it up the hill and Eddie ran after it and guided it back down the hill towards me, all the while growling as if scolding the ball into submission—sometimes the ball was really smart and roll to fence; eddie, being afraid of the fence, for it made noise whenever he went near it, would stand back a respectable distance and growl. We played for several throws and then we went back inside. Dan was waiting for us.

“Any progress?”

“Did you know Al was ticketing Navario for OPC?”

“No. Al never said anything to me. He could have said something to Myrna but I told you how she’s been acting lately.”

“Navario wants $240 to pay for the fines and he’ll back off on the law suit.”

“I told Al you had to go easy with people up North. He worked in rural areas in Florida before coming up here and down there he did as he pleased. How much time do we have before he takes any definite action against us?”

“A couple of days at the most.”

“Thanks Mike. I’ll get back to you.”

Apparently, someone really wanted that tunnel built because that night word came from Paula that the ‘council’ had agreed to fix Navario’s tickets but that he had to install a biosweep early warning device and agree to pay any future violations. The official word came from Jen who said, “Tell your friend that we’ll find a way so that he doesn’t have to pay the summonses if he agrees not to proceed with the law suit, install a warning device device to let him know when the Biosweep is coming, and always abide by it’s signal. Oh and they want to know how he keeps his yard spider-free.”

“He’s got three geckos harnessed from nylon string hung from a boom that sticks out into the yard. He merely lets them out every few days to eat up all the baby spiders.”

“You knew all along and you didn’t tell us?”

“I didn’t know anyone was interested.”

“Why don’t we set up a system like that?”

“Eddie would harrass the lizards and, besides, spiders help with the fly population.”

“If you’re such a genius, why don’t you think of something to rid our yard of spiders.”

I had given up on Jen ever listening to anything I said; so it was that I just answered her next question as if nothing had preceeded it. “Well, dear, I’m trying. Lord knows, I’m trying.”

“That’s my boy. Give kiss.” She gave me a motherly one that I so hate and then added, “Are you still going through with the video?”

I looked at my watch: 7:30 PM. “I’ll let you know shortly after 8.” Jen gave me a sensual flick of the tongue and I wondered what else she might want in return; even though the ‘deal’ was already struck, Jen was being too cooperative and this told me there was something else on the burner.  I went to my computer to check on mail and wait to hear from Larsen.

Paula came in and sat with her butt leaning against my desk, crowding my elbow room. “I heard the local party animals are getting together. Am I invited or will it be stag?”

“I knew you had great journalistic skills but just how goood . . .”

Paula interrupted to say, “Grandpops and Al rummaged through Rumsfeld’s home after he left and one of things they found was a parabolic mike, Mike.”

“Where you there? Did Dan aim the mike at Navario and me?”

Paula hesitated as if considering the ramifications of her reply. “It was done more as a novelty than anything else, Daddy-O.” She gently stroked my ear lobes and pouted. “Are we all invited to the party?”

“Nobody said anything about a party, Paula.”

“I thought you were going to call me Paulita from now on.”

“As you wish, young lady. Paulita it shall be.”

“That’s better, and if you change your mind about having a party, I’d like to go and Susan I know would also like to come . . . as would Mom of course.”

“and Gideon of course and why not get everyone together. I’m sure the Rodelli’s havn’t been out in ages.”

Paula kissed me with those tender lips that were an extra treat when you were young—she pressed her lips against mine while humming, and she delayed the kiss long enough to awaken horatio. “Ok! Daddy-O. I’ll send out the invitations.”

“Wait a second. Come back here.”

Jen poked her head into the room and said, “I think a neighborhood Sogg party is a great idea, Mike.”

“I’m glad I thought of it,” I said. Actually, it was beginning to sound like fun.

[Neputer: Michael, would you like me to connect audio for your session with Mr. Larsen in 57 seconds?]

“Neputer, you never called me Michael before.”

[Neputer: Should I not use the term, Michael?]

“It’s all right. No audio. I’ll use myosensors. And, turn on video.”

[Neputer: Done, Michael.]

[Larsen: Ameridude Mike. Where’s my feed?]

[Mike: You didn’t receive it last night?]

[Larsen: I didn’t get anything.]

[Mike: Where are you?”]

[Larsen: I’m in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. I’m on my way home in a 10 man submersible. Mike, this thing is so phat. You know how airplanes fly higher to avoid storms? Well, we dive deeper to avoid the same storms. You wouldn’t believe the Sargasso habitat; there were krill everywhere, gastropods, octopi by the dozen, limpet’s on sea turtles, and sea spiders wherever you looked. It was quite an amazing site. Did you record your love making episode?]

[Mike: Yes but you know what I was thinking about the other day? I was thinking about how I would feel thirty years down the road looking at pornography of myself in younger days.]

[Larsen: I think I would commit suicide.]

[Mike: You would?]

[Larsen: Unless I was still sexually active. Then, I don’t think it would matter.]

[Mike: Well, don’t you have pictures of yourself as a child riding a tricycle? That doesn’t make you want to kill yourself.]

[Larsen: No, but there are tricycles for adults and if I really wanted to ride one, I could. On the other hand, If I’m old . . .]

[Mike: I’m getting old waiting for your philosophy.]

[Larsen: If I’m old . . . well, the truth of the matter is that I have no idea how I would think once I get old.]

[Mike: Yes, I see your point. One thing that bothers me even today is melancholy. I look at albums only with others. To look at them alone brings on some serious depression. With others present you could joke around about how ridiculous you looked in a certain haircut but when you’re alone you think about how you can never have those days again and you are reminded of times that might have been different if you knew then what you knew today.]

[Larsen: Yea, yea. Now let’s get back to business.]

[Mike: We’re going to try again tonight.]

[Larsen: If you do a good job, I’ll send you mine with two women—beautiful women I met in Belgium.]

[Mike: I’ll see what I can do. Where was your wife during all this?]

[Larsen: She left me. Took car, cats, and half the bank account. I’m glad though. No nasty divorce but I’ll miss Jolly Olly, Boris Goodenov, Owl Schmawl, and Wolfy. They were all from the same litter.]

[Mike: I don’t know that I’ll miss our dog Eddie. Lately, he can’t seem to get enough playtime and he knows I’m a pushover.]

[Larsen: Ya. Get cats next time.]

[Mike: Only if I can get a Dr. Evil type cat that plops where you put it and stays there until you’re through with the damn pussy.]

[Larsen: I think you better get busy. What else with you?]

[Mike: Nothing. I’m sorry about your divorce but life goes on and everything is for the better—Mike Panglossian 2020.]

[Larsen: What?]

[Mike: Nothing. You’ll have something to keep your mind off of . . .]

[Larsen: What? My divorce? I’m over it. It took me one month. I located the Belgium girls and I meet them again soon.]

[Mike: Cherish your freedom to still get around, dude.]

[Larsen: Ameridude, I told you . . .]

[Neputer: Connection down. Solar flare interference likely.]

The last time Larsen and I were chatting we were also interrupted during an expose of the latest government conspiracy. I now wondered if I should withold this from him in order to avoid the I-told-you-so’s. “Neputer. Tell Mr. Larsen to e-mail me when he gets around to it..”

[Neputer: Yes, Michael. I’ll see to it.]

I decided to go upstairs where I could heat up some sausages and bFrancescoli as per the Dr. Aiken f’bacon diet. If I had to alter my metabolism I would do it with food and not with gene modification or pharmaceuticals. Myrna has had her metabolism, estrogen, and eye color modified by gene therapy; that made her spunky, horny, and a brown contact lens wearer on account of her botched eye color that no one has seen other than Dan and Jen, and Myrna’s lawyers—my guess was that they were yellow and that was what I would dream, yellow Myrna eyes inspecting me like the eyes of a collector critical of the merchandise.

Thinking of Myrna always necessitated some mind-altering drugs and I was most partial to M.J. Before heading upstairs, I harvested some resinous goop from my hybrid plant and inspected for aphids because these would impart quite an unpleasant taste to the essence of weed.

Dan stopped me on the way up and said, “I hear everything is set for tomorrow night at Tobey’s. Navario is bringing his wife and brother-in-law. Myrna and I were wondering if you would like to come along in our cab.”

“Did Jen say what she was going to do?” I said anxiously.

“Jen and Paula said they wouldn’t mind.”

“OK, then,” I said and continued up.

Paula came out of her room and into the kitchen, saying, “Daddy-O. Guess whom I invited to the . . .what did grandma call it? . . .oh, yea, the shinding . . . guess?”

“Oh let me see . . . was it MaluukTar?” It was too late, I had to think as she asked.”

“MaluukTar? Hey! How do you know about her?”

“Her?” Paula just looked at me waiting for a logical answer from me.

“I, ah . . I forgot . . .let me see . . .Oh!  I was having problems with my computer and in deleting some files, I came across the name in a dialog with your avatar. SabrinAtar, is it?”

“That’s right.”

“MaluukTar sounds like a guy’s name.”

“Well if he is then he likes lesbians because I was in Lesboland when I met MaluukTar.”

“Ah, excuse me?”

“Just having fun. You know what that is? Don’t you?”

“Yea. Anyway, whom did you invite?” I said, feeling relieved that my slip up was behind me and wondering how the heck I ended up in Lesboland.”

“Your friend and confidant, Harold Slattery.”

“Oh. That’s nice. But I would hardly call him my confidant; after all, I barely know the guy.”

“Well that may be so but he speaks highly of you.” She turned to head back to her room. I put brewskie into the freezer.

A compliment from someone much younger never seemed to be as cherished as one from a senior or peer—the latter knew about all the trials and tribulations surrounding a man’s life and judged accomplishments beyond the immediately pertinent. So many more with mediocre performance would be Nobel Laureates if the committee fully understood their lives. It was not as if all humans were struggling to reach a goal and only one person succeeded; often, the prize is given to a man lucky enough to have had the right heredity that gave him a good brain with enough longevity, and lucky enough to have had the right environment that gave the brain opportunity and direction with enough longevity. Even the peace prize was suspect as it assumes that one person could possibly have a lasting impact on programmed behavior. Inwardly and using what many would consider reasonable guidelines, I considered myself a candidate for the peace prize. [Ladies and Gentlemen, the peace prize for this year goes to Mike Preston for having averted open hostilities between the Myrna and Navario clans of Hudson, NJ. Mr. Preston . . . Mr. Preston, sir, is it true you are not accepting this year’s Nobel peace prize? Why is that, you stupid dick!]

I pulled out my slushy beer and took it into the shower in preparation for a hot night but before I had any, I puffed on my 355 electro-jay. Eddie joined me by lying on the floor on top of my underwear. I could never figure out if he enjoyed the clothes, the humidity, or the fact that he was one of the few individuals in the house to be allowed entry in this section of the house while I was showering. When I stepped out of the shower, Eddie took a few licks of my leg. He was probably reminded of morning dew on a log.I wondered if he puzzled over why this phenomenon never happened to dogs. Eddie took off to sleep on Paula’s bed. I dried myself and put on my smoking jacket. Horatio was alive and anxiously awaiting work. I opened the door and Paula stood in my way, saying “All’s set for Tuesday. Thanks again.” She hugged me and horatio had all he could do to stop himself from poking his head through my apparel. I knelt slightly so that horatio would not crash into any part of her anatomy. I picked her up and swung her around. As I put her down, I quickly took hold of my jacket belt and began to tie it while smiling broadly and good-humoredly, saying, “You’re welcome, Paulita.” –I accentuated the Spanish of her name—and turned into the bedroom where Jenny was seated at a recliner reading—by lamplight—a manuscript whose authorship I could readily guess.

I was about to ask her why she was reading by lamplight when I spotted the satin sheets on our bed. “Oo La La. Satin sheets.” I said. Jen put her reading matter away and jumped beneath the covers. Pulling the sheets under her chin she put on her naughty girl act. I continued, “To whom fair maiden shall I thank for this / Fine cloth that speaks forbidden fruits of love? / And beckons forth horatio to play?”

“It matters not my lord, my cock, from whence it came / Just think how smooth your loins will glide upon these linens now / But do come quick for I yearn and ready is the night.”

“I dally not, my satin nymph. Your love bug strikes with iron hot!” I jumped into bed and pulled the sheets off. I had to look at her body for it so stimulated my desires. I sucked and bit gently into one of her nipples while fondling the other as she crossed her legs to squeeze the hell out of something inside her; but tonight was different, she took hold of my hair and pushed my head downward as she opened up for the first time in our marriage. I went at it with all the zeal and acumen of a professional but, after several minutes, Jen beckoned for me to resume “titties.” I did, and got her to the point where she wanted penetration but with me the sight of sexual activity provided an extra element and I knelt by her head so that she could do me while she kept her legs crossed. Occasionally, she would stop sucking as she squeezed my penis with all her might and quivered in ecstasy; then, she would resume sucking and I had all I could do to stop from climaxing. I continued fingering her nipples as she sucked. A few moments passed and she demanded penetration—she pulled me into her and, within seconds, I was by her side staring at the ceiling.

“Oh, shit!” I said.

“What is it?”

“I forgot to tape for Larson.

“I didn’t.” She pointed to the corner of the room where I saw the blinking LED.

“Thanks, honey babe, I owe you one.” Jen humphed and smirked as she went for the box of tissues.

I jumped over to my side of the bed—the side Jen didn’t want—and we both looked up at the ceiling.

“When are you starting your male torso study?” I asked while turning to my side.

“When Gideon finishes writing the chapter he’s on.” She gave me a little rub on my shoulders and turned over on her side. I looked out the window and saw the rustling of the September wind through the Oak tree and I wanted to let in that air but Jen insisted on following her dad’s advice that she should minimize direct exposure to the outside air. All my years of study could not validate any advice I might give if her parents had given her contrary suggestions. To be against the tide meant that I had to be prepared for some passive aggressive treatment down the line. Luckily for me, I learned early on to account for aberrant behavior on the part of my wife—I could trace it to something I had insisted on that was at odds with her wishes; to date, there had been no dire consequences and I never expected any for every smart woman knows how to appease her irate lover with the bare essentials: sex, food, psychological support, and amenities. Jen used sex like a GP used antibiotics and blood pressure pills. Edibles never came from her hand but she always knew who the cooks were. She supported me in my endeavors as long as there was no conflict of interest with her desires or those of her parents. The other stuff that makes a house a home were oddly enough taken care of by Myrna and Dan: the cleaning, laundering, home maintenance, recycling, grocery shopping and anything else that surfaced in our lives that I did not take care of within Witkowski-imposed deadlines. My in-law’s reward did not wait for them in heaven; rather, it took the form of perks like a much lower rent and creative accounting practices when it came to giving us the grocery bill; Also, I had bypassed their empty nest syndrome by accepting them as tenants—they kept an eye on and micromanaged their daughter’s affairs. For my part, I had studied Darwin’s theories and had come to the conclusion that any one who could adapt to a given environment was always more fit; so, outwardly and to any bystander it looked like I had adapted well. However, each injustice that I tallied, in my own mind, seemed to demand and take more and more of my good-naturedness.

Chapter Eight

Friday, September 11, 2020

Two days later

I awoke to messages at 7 PM.

[Neputer: Michael, today is the 19th aniversary of 9-11, On this date in 1786 a call was made to hold a constitutional convention for the United States. In 1847, Stephen Foster’s Susanna was first performed in Pennsylvania. In 1882, O. Henry (pen name of William Sydney Porter), U.S. short-story writer and novelist, born in Greensboro, North Carolina. In 1885 D(avid) H(erbert) Lawrence, English poet and novelist, author of the controversial Lady Chatterly’s Lover, born in Eastwood, Nottinghamshire, England. In 1998 A study published in Science suggests that protecting humans against infection by dangerous strains of the bacteria E. coli may be helped by changing the food cattle eat from grain to hay just prior to slaughter, thereby reducing the acid level in the intestinal tract of the cattle and decreasing the ability of the bacteria to withstand human stomach acid. Eddie’s birthday is tomorrow, Mr. Larson says . . . you need a lighting director but otherwise acceptable, There is a party at Tobey’s sogg tonight at 5 PM.]

[Neputer: Jennifer, your word for today is indefeasible: adjective meaning not capable of being annulled or voided or undone, your quote for today is: Only this is denied to God: the power to undo the past—Aristotle. You could speak of the past being indefeasible to God. You ordered canvas three weeks ago, it should have arrived by now.]

Jen was still asleep but I got up because whenever something loomed in the near future, I felt compelled to get ready for it as early as possible but hardly ever by more than 24 hours—the sogg party was 10 hours away. I dressed and decided that I would be unpatriotic and wear a shirt of natural cloth instead of Sam’s artificials threads. Going into the kitchen I passed Paula’s room and saw several outfits lying on her bed. I was relieved that Paula was getting an opportunity to socialize with a love interest. Paula made good use of every modern convenience but when it came to biology, there was no subsitute for a good strong whiff of the opposite sex. I hoped that Harold would not be a disappointment and even if they married and moved into their own place, I would be happy but, dear reader, I also wondered how I would feel if Paula had been my natural daughter instead of adopted. I always questioned my motivation because I knew our beliefs were often the product of forces outside our own centers of higher individualized thought—those centers of free will and logic that held promise of a greater good. I went to the kitchen for a Dr. Aichen Baken sausage and egg breakfast bar.

[Neputer: Michael, Paulita asks that you vote on which outfit you think she should wear to tonight’s gala. Paulita asks that you tell me whether you like Outfit A, Outfit B, or Outfit C.]

“OK.” I went over to pick an outfit while munching on my inverted pyramid breakfast bar. “Neputer.”

[Neputer: Yes, Michael.]

“Tell Paulita that I vote for C.”

[Neputer: Paulita would like to know why you chose ‘C’]

“Geez, I don’t know. Outfit A is black leather and too sexy for a first date—she’ll have him drooling and a drooling man never shows his other colors. Outfit B is yellow and black and brings to mind the biohazard sign—a definite no-no.”

[Neputer: Thank you, Michael.]

I walked over to our bedroom where Jen was still in bed but awake. “Care for some breakfast?’

“Are you making home fries?”

“Francesco sent over some native potatoes. I can’t have them but . . .”

“Oh you and your stupid diets. Ok, if you don’t mind making some, I would love some. Come here.”

“What?” I have to get going.”

Jen smiled and stroked horatio and said, “Did you like it last night?”

“Uh, huh.”

“There’s more where that came from. Today, I start on my new painting.”

“Did you get the canvass you needed?”

“Yes. Why?”

“The neputer thinks you never received it.” If I kept to everyday business, I might not dwell on the Gideon matter.

“Oh, no, I got my stuff. It’s just that Mom doesn’t scan the mail when it comes in.”

“Jen. I’m paying good money for those services.”

“I know hon. Mom’s just not that good with gadgets. I still have the package; I’ll scan it in.”

“Why doesn’t she just set our stuff aside and I’ll scan it in.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it.”

I went back into the kitchen and now, instead of a selfless act, the breakfast was a chore but, great cook that I was, I still made it with love. I popped a few potatoes into the autopeeler, a device which reminded me of rock polishing drums that rotated on their side; only this one polished the skin off of hard vegetables. It was peeled in 10 seconds and I used the ultraknife—my favorite utencil in kitchendom—to dice it into medallions. I remember how Myrna insisted that there be complete silence when she used her ultraknife; such was the absolute concentration she needed to use this knife that vibrated ultrasonically and cut through anything like a Jaxso 1000 cuts paper after having cut granite. Sharpness was, of course, the ultimate safety feature in a knife and everyone appreciated this except Myrna. I proceeded to cook the potatoes in our Photon oven and then added my secret ingredient: Cosmo’s Flavor Crystals for starches. I added a few of my Aiken f’Bacon strips and Jen’s favorite meal was ready. Paula was still on her oatmeal with soy milk diet and always insisted on preparing her own meals except when I made bunuelos. [Reader, if you’ve never tried these, you’re in for a real treat if you’re the type who likes greasy fries: Take two pounds of Malanga or Yautia, peel and grate, add an egg or two and some salt, fold until blended, and fry one tablespoon dollops in medium hot oil until golden brown. Crispy/crunchy on the outside with a great potatoey/nutty taste inside].

I put the meal back in the oven where it was much safer from any vermin contamination. My wife’s food sensor would usually tell her the most opportune time to arrive but today she jumped the gun a bit. She had the unmitigated gall to ask where her coffee was. When I said that I had not gotten around to it, Jen pouted and said, “I’ll make it.”

I started down the stairs and encountered Myrna dusting the stairs. “Hello, Myrna.”

“Good Morning. You know that dog of yours is marking his territory on the woodwork. He’s beginning to stink up the joint.”

“What do you want me to do about it”

“For starters, how about keeping him upstairs where he belongs.”

“Why do you think I spent my hard-earned money on a gate at the top of the stairs. I close that gate all the time. I can’t help it if . . . “

“Al says animal waste must not be allowed to accumulate. Because it attracks vermin.”

“I’m well aware . . . look ask Dan to put a spring on the gate so it closes automatically.”

“You’re the home owner. That’s why we pay rent.”

“Rent? Is that what you call paying less than 25% of the household expenses?”

Myrna leaned over to me and whispered, “You have our daughter, don’t you? She could have had her choice of dozens of fine professional men not shit and scum grinders.”

“I suppose, if you had a tumor in your gut, you would despise the surgeon because he handled your gut.”

“You don’t make any sense. Eh, what’s the use?” Said Myrna and walked away.

I continued down to the basement stairs suddenly aware of Dan’s power tools going off as he worked on the Rodelli tunnel. He must be confident that Navario would back away from his complaint. In the exercise room I saw Paula running a race through an urban environment. I spotted Harold’s virtual image running just slightly ahead of Paula. He was glancing back and talking to Paula about tonight’s party; that told me Harold was simultaneously running on his treadmill or else Paula had recorded an earlier run and was reliving the experience. I decided to let my inquisitiveness get the better of me. “Yo, Paulita. Say hello to Harold. Tell him I want to discuss something with him.”

“Come talk to him yourself. He’s really a nice guy you know,” said Paula tongue-in-cheek.

[Harold: Thank you, Paula. Hello Mike. Waz up?]

“If you’re coming to the party, I would like to ask you about employment opportunities at Hazard Control.”

[Harold: I’ll trade places with you. What do you say?]

“We can discuss that.”

“Daddy-O, You’re staying put, do you hear me?”

[Harold: I’ll bring some material tonight for you to read.]

“OK, thanks. I’ll see you there.”

“I’m done, Hardykins. See you tonight.”

[Harold: Me too. See you tonight. Later, Mike.]

“Later, Harold.”

“Neputer, please disconnect.”

[Neputer: You are disconnected.]

“Daddy-O, stand right where you are . . . ready?”

“Ready for what?” Paula shut down the treadmill and let herself be taken backwards into my arms. I daresay I took my time in bringing her warm, moist, toned, and terrifically supple body off the treadmill and onto the floor.

“Thanks. I have difficulty getting off sometimes,” she said with a smile and took off to the shower with tenderly bouncing buttocks.

“So do I. Sometimes,” I replied.

I continued into my lab where I proceeded to set up the plasma samples for analysis. I don’t think I ever did more than one or two fecal or urine runs in my life; mostly it was blood plasma and, when I ran anything different, it was really big news. I felt like the kid that dropped something one day and became known as “butterfingers” or the man who walked out of the men’s bathroom with toilet paper hanging out of his pants and was forever known as “incomplete” by some of his fellow office workers and “sticky butt” or “Mr. Cling” by others. In moments of heavy ribbing, I was known as “Tape” not only because, like the tapeworm, I had occasion to handle human waste but also because Jen, in explaining what I did for a living, said that I measured things in the body. Privately, I called Myrna “The flea” because she could bounce away from any scratch only to return incessantly. Dan was “beaver,” always preoccupied, and Jen was “Scylla” because of the stories she told me of how she dumped suitors that had attempted to create empty nests for the Witkowskis. Jen would always deny that I might have befallen the same fate but for the grace of God that made the Witkowskis my tenants.

From the lab I could hear Susan and Gideon fighting in the moments when Dan wasn’t sawing or hammering.

There was a pause in the conversation.

I wondered how Gideon was benefiting; unless, it was just a prurient interest as Susan said. I had to do something to prevent any shenanigans. I couldn’t stop the posing outright so I decided to ask Jen to stick to a schedule. I would speak to her tonight after the party. Just as I went back to work, I received a message from my boss asking when the results would be ready—it was so convenient dealing with one’s superiors via e-messages that revealed little of our emotions unless we wanted to express it in words. I, who, in person, could not lie to save my life (except to cops and then to no avail), found it easy to bend the truth so as to appease my manager who needed to busy himself with imagined battles and was not content unless he had information to digest. Yes, I told him, I ran into a little problem with the detector but I cleaned it according to protocol and now it’s working just fine; I should have results by the end of the day. Good work, Mike, he answered and went back to thinking I also went back to thinking—about the party.

“Hi, Mike. Can I come in.” It was Dan holding some device in his hands.

“Sure, come in.”

“I was wondering if you could do me a little favor and install this spring on your dog gate. I’d do it myself but I want to finish the tunnel so that I can get the building inspector’s approval before Navario has a chance to change his mind.”

“Change his mind?”

“Oh yea. Didn’t I tell you? Al and I went over there yesterday and talked it over. We convinced him how convenient a tunnel would be even for him being that his cousin lives next door. Of course, we offerred to pay the fine on his behalf and he was quite amenable to dropping the whole thing.”

“I see.”

“Listen, we all appreciate the time you took to go over there and open up the lines of communication, so to speak.”

“No problem. I’ll get to the gate by Monday.”

“Any chance you could do it sooner.”

“How about this weekend.”

“It’s not going to take long. You could do it this evening. Piece of cake.”

“I’ll see what I could do, Dan.”

“Thanks. Are you still going tonight?”

“Are you still taking us?”

“Actually, Mike, I told Jen but she obviously hasn’t gotten around to telling you. The Rodelli’s asked if they could go with us. We said yes but that means there is room for only one more and Paula volunteered to fill that seat. Do you want us to set up a another cab for you? I know how you like to call the shots so I didn’t get you a ride.”

“Yes but, Dan, if you recall, you offered us, a ride.”

“I did? I plumb forgot, I do apologize. Do you want me to . . .”

“No, don’t worry about it. You know things just work out the right way sometimes. I have been wanting to ask the Rodellis if I could use their small-engine p-chassis. This will give me an opportunity.”

“Good. I hope it works out for you,” said Dan as he headed back to control central.

I had a replica cabin or skin of a 1970 Triumph Spitfire sports car; the Rodellis had a p-chassis that normally powered their pick-up truck skin.  I didn’t waste any time in contacting Francesco Rodelli who told me that I could use his p-chassis if I kept it charged.  I agreed and, I rushed over to get it.  Francesco was there already taking the power train out of the garage.  He beckoned for me to come over and take the toggle.  I took control and walked it over to my garage at turtle speed for it would go no faster without a cabin attached.  I aligned it with my Spitfire and backed the p-chassis underneath it’s skin.  I then adjusted the chassis to fit and lowered it onto the chassis where they locked automatically.  The horn blew, “Volare, oh, oh./ Cantare, oh, oh, oh, oh,” and I knew electrical contact had been made.  This entire concept was made possible when the car makers abandoned the ugly wiring system of the past and adopted a single conductor that coursed through the chassis and cabin of a car conveying signals over the power cable that now also functioned like an Ethernet cable to turn on/off and adjust the various components of the automobile.  Homes also had similar systems; a video monitor could, if allowed to do so, take over room lights to adjust them for optimal viewing and it could increase noise reduction in the room when an actor was whispering.  Jen had been after me to purchase the new Armada Refrigerator that would scan food packages when you put them in and then kept weighing the food to tell you when you needed to order more.  That was just one of its fifty or more functions but I had lived quite confortably with my “icebox” for 5 years and saw no need to replace it—I couldn’t see myself buying more borscht just because the refrigerator’s computer told me it was time; perhaps, they had thought of adding a function to allow for one-time purchases but even so, I knew enough about technology to know that functions were tailored to the needs of some fictitious average man who was never similar enough to me or other family members for ultimate confort.

I decided to take her for a ride around the block As I pulled out into the street, Susan came out to admire my convertible. I asked her if she wanted a ride and she said yes when she found out I was just going around the block. “Hop in. Gideon is not the jealous type, is he?”

“No. Not really. Anyway, who cares. Besides, he’s with your wife making arrangements for their collaboration.” Susan then added, “Don’t worry, Mike. I know Jen and she’s a one-man woman all the way. Unlike me. Let’s go.” She poked at my love handles and I took off up the hill surprising several delivery men who hated our intrusion into their work day—they were lucky to have had a strong union that prevented the widespread adoption of automated delivery vehicles.

The Spitfire skin looked exactly like the original but I put it on a general purpose p-chassis and it handled more like an SUV than a sports car but the fun was still there; wind blowing, sun shining, music blasting, and a beautiful woman still full of mystery for I had not known her was at my side as we enjoyed a grand time together—it was amazing how a woman could so easily make you forget that you’re married. I wondered how easily women were turned on by men other than their husbands, but, before I could answer my question, Susan let out a scream, stuttered, and yelled “brown recluse.” She flicked it off her leg and in my direction. In trying to avoid the spider, I swerved and dented the railing on the front steps of a neighbor’s house.

“ Is everyone OK?” Asked the delivery men who came hoping to help the lady in distress.

Susan answered them saying we were all right and explained about the spider which I finally located and inspected for the hourglass design on it’s abdomen—there was none.

“Common house spider,” I declared while blowing the spider into the wind. Susan smiled and almost immediately jumped onto my lap as she pointed to another spider which was scurried off behind the dashboard.

“I have a Porsche cabin that I keep wrapped in the plastic bag that it came in. What I do is keep it inflated so that I can tell if the bag has been compromised.” One delivery man, on hearing this great idea put his arm around the man that had said it and both walked off to resume their work. They snickered amicably and I couldn’t have felt more nauseous.

Susan looked at me and said, “Do you mind if I walk back home?”

“I’ll save you against the beasts that would harm your fair skin . . . Ms. Alvarez.” I gave her time to reconsider and then, patting the seat, I said, “Come. Sit.”

“If you promise, I’ll go with you.”

“I’m sorry about this. I should have checked for crawlies.”

“Don’t be silly. This could have happended to anyone and even if you had checked, a spider could have gotten into the dashboard. Right?”

“I suppose.” I backed away noting the damage I had done to the fence. I looked at the house and noticed that the entrance door was sealed with a bright orange tag indicating that the house was unoccupied—this was done because the homeless were in the habit of squatting in homes and then telling the authorities that a friend had told them they could use that house while they were away; only they never really knew the owner. The tag basically said to them, the owner doesn’t want strangers in his home even if the owner never uses the house again. Some mendicants ignored the tag and quietly availed themselves of real estate as needed. What the tag said to me was that there was no hurry in repairing the fence.

Susan held on to my arm as we headed up our block and, to my surprise, kissed me on the cheek as she said, “That was exciting. We must do this again sometime. Is your car all right, by the way?”

“Memoplast,” I said referring to the best body Detroit had ever put out.

“I’ll see you tonight. Right?”

“I’ll be there. How are you getting there?”

“The Witkowskis got a mini-van. Gideon and I and the Rodellis are going together in the van. I think Paula is coming with us also.” Susan pouted after she gave me the passenger manifest.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. We’ll talk tonight. See you there.”

I pulled into our driveway. Francesco looked out from his living room window and asked if everything was all right by giving me a thumbs up and nodding his head up and down. I gave him the thumbs up. I guess at some point I would have to tell him I had gone into someone’s fence. I proceeded inside to finish my work.

[Neputer: Michael, Mr. Holbert want’s to know what the difficulty is with today’s run and why you haven’t responded to his inquiry.]

“Neputer, please inform Mr. Holbert that I had personal business to attend to and that I’ll send him a report as soon as I am able.”

Looking at the analyzer, I saw that it had stopped operating minutes after I had left to go get Francesco’s p-chassis. The log showed nothing decipherable so I just re-booted the machine and started her up again.

Jen came by and said, “How was the ride? Dad says he’ll go halfsies with you if you want to purchase your own.”

“He doesn’t have any cabins to use.”

“I guess he’ll get one.”

“Tell him I’ll think about it. Meanwhile, We might be a little late to the party. The analyzer shut down without reason and I have to finish the run and write a report to Holbert.”

“Great! You know, I’m not particularly fond of riding in that sports car of yours. Would you mind if I went with Mom and Dad?”

“You would be a little cramped in there, no?”

“No. Mom and Dad in the front. The Rodellis and Paula in the back and I could sit with the Alvarez’ in the middle seats. We’re only going 2 miles to Tobey’s.”

“Fine. Maybe I’ll bring Eddie to play with Abbey,” referring to Tobey’s female Pit Bull who for some reason I could not explain would always let Eddie be the alpha dog even though he was one third her size. It could be that only males were permitted alpha status. Oh, a dog’s life!

“Sure. Why don’t you do that.”

“I think I will. We’ll meet up at Tobey’s.” Jen turned to go upstairs; she had a peppy snap to her gait that gave me cause for concern so I started up my psycho-cybernetics routine where I imagined myself always having a partner who loved me in spite of my shortcomings and whom I was able to love because I acknowledged her uniqueness: a gem embedded in common stone that I could never polish into anything more beautiful than God’s original. My magnanimity in rehearsal saw Jen dancing and conversing with Gideon—I saw Susan in a similar role to mine and we were partnered in that sense.

It was 6 PM and I had almost completed my work; I was getting antsy and my scrotum had gathered itself into a hard walnut-like pouch as it usually did in high anxiety moments that came whenever I had a social engagement and I was running late. I might ask someone if this was unusual but I was afraid of the answer I might get so I just lived with it; no doubt it was a fight or flight reaction. The only drawback was that sometimes, in an effort to make haste, I would ask my hands to perform miracles of manual dexterity like those pyramid cup contestants that assemble and disassemble a dozen plastic cups into a triangular array in all of 1 and a half seconds; except that, with me, anything I did in haste invariably set me back. So, I had trained myself to deliberate on every action until my hands could catch up with my brain.

Finishing, I e-mailed the boss and went upstairs for a quick shower. Eddie was hanging around as if he expected to go somewhere with me. I dressed in casual clothes and sprayed them with insect repellant/disinfectant/cologne, and I rushed out to my toy with dog is pursuit. “Get in Eddie. If you want to go bye-bye, get in!” Eddie cowered and offered me his belly in submission. Dogs were wierd; he refused to go inside the car but, at the same time, he was telling me how he understood that I called the shots. I had to do the only thing possible with Eddie—I picked him up and put him in the passenger’s seat. Just then, I heard Susan calling me. “Excuse me Mr. Preston, sir. Would you be going to the sogg this evening?”

“I would and might you have missed your train?’

“I told them to go without me. They were rushing me. Do you have room for me and Eddie?”

“Sure. You can hold Edster and stop him from jumping out to chase the rodents along the road. Come on, let’s party.”

Susan took another 5 minutes to come out and I was beginning to think I had imagined the whole thing. When she came out she took my breath away with her white halter over tight-fitting black pants that were guaranteed to keep Gideon honest.

“Do you like?”

“Most certainly, and so will everyone else. Hop in.”

“I’m sorry about the spider.”

“My fault for not checking out the car. Rest assured, it’s not happening again; I’m ordering an ultrasonic device to keep the crawlies off.” Furtive glances at Susan told me she would have her hands full keeping people crawlies off of her; her long brown hair draped itself sensually over breasts that were larger than Jen’s but still within that inexplicable range that appealed to me.

I slowed down just as we got to railroad tracks and She said, “Do you think Jen is jealous that we’re together?”

“I wouldn’t say we’re exactly . . . together.”

“Why, Mr. Preston, what in heaven’s name do you mean?”

I would have blushed if anyone else had been in the car. I quickly said, “Never mind, that was out of wthat line.” Susan hugged Eddie and I thought I caught a hint of a smile as she turned to look at the tall grasses of the meadowlands that grew just beyond the railroad tracks. I picked up speed and I thought all three of us were feeling great about this evening—I know Eddie must have thought he had died and gone to an oderiferous heaven. After 5 minutes in the heart of the only natural landscape within 50 miles of home, we spotted the neon lights at Tobey’s Sogg. The north parking lot was full so I went to the south parking lot that no one liked to use because you had to walk around the building to get to the entrance. After pulling into a spot, I raised the roof of my convertible and I saw that Susan had her hand over her mouth saying her fillings hurt.

“See that tower over there? There are four of them generating ultrasound to keep the mosquitoes away. As soon as we go inside, the sensation will stop. Keep your teeth clenched.” Susan puckered her lips as she clenched her teeth. I held back the impulse to plant one, but then I noticed Eddie’s short hairs all over her pants and I began to wipe them off with my trusty Lintopik that I kept in the glove compartment. She thanked me as Eddie struggled to free himself out of her arms—it was Abbey barking from the fenced-in private lot at the back of the building.

“Susan, go on ahead. I’ll take Eddie over to play with Abbey.”

“Ok,” she said and hurried off.

Tobey’s dog stopped barking as soon as she saw that we were heading in her direction. I spoke to Eddie trying to calm him down so he wouldn’t pee on me with excitement but that wagging stump told me to hurry. I took him over by the fence and him in; they immediately sniffed each other to find out what was new or, perhaps, old. I turned to go inside. Passing by the corner of the building nearest the south lot, I noticed the usual small crowd of people from out of town waiting in the quaranteen room for clearance to enter the sogg. I walked past them and noticed them eyeballing me. This was natural and I returned the inspection. Turning past the second corner of the building and approaching the entrance, I noticed a long row of cabs on standby. Entering the building I was given a coupon for a new kind of beer called Sloggo. No sooner had I put away the coupon when an attendant came by and asked if I wanted to try a Sloggo. Sure, I told him. I noticed Susan at the head of the line and asked her if she wanted to try one. She replied that they were too cold for her and then asked me to join her at the head of the line saying to the others behind her, “He’s with me. We came in together. Just because he had to park his car shouldn’t mean he has to wait longer than those who get dropped off. Come, Mike.” I ordered a Sloggo and excused myself to the front of the line. Susan entered a “2” into the cashier’s panel and swiped her card.

“Hey, I was going to pay for that.”

“Don’t be silly. I earn a good living and you gave me ride. Now hush and drink your sohki.” Thanking Susan and saying how great the service was, I took my Sloggo. It was a commercialization of my slushy beer except that it tasted sweeter than regular beer—appealing to the ladies, no doubt.

“How are your fillings?”

“Oh! Back to normal. Look, over there. It’s the image makers. Shall we go say hello?”

“Yea. Why not?”

Jen and Gideon were seated in the lounge on one of Tobey’s wild couches which constantly changing shape and changing position to encourage better mingling—kind of like the forced socialization of little boys and girls by the kidergarten teacher or the mother running a birthday party. I could see Dan and Al watching sports on plush leather easy chairs complete with swing away tables and betting modules. Both were smoking smokeless cigars.

“Darling, you look marvelous and quite the harbinger of enchantment, a cynosure to share the stage with the talented Mrs. Preston.” He got up to kiss Susan and motioned for her to sit by him.

Silently, all three looked at me and I said, “What! Your mom is not smoking with the boys?” Susan put her hand to her mouth in suppression.

“You see what I mean?” said Jen to Gideon.

“See what? My lovely firefly of mirth and mayhem . . . for whom I toil amidst the gloom . . . so that her light may always shine . . . on vanquished mortal eyes bereft of candy.”

“Bravo, Mike. I didn’t know you wrote poetry,” said Susan with apparent sincerity.

I looked for a way to get out of a possible confrontation with Susan’s wordsmith and live-in lover but luckily Gideon himself came to my rescue when he said, “somebody’s been practicing iambic meter.”

Jen, who had a nasty habit of taking the wind out of life itself, added, “What is it you call your poetry?”

“Doggerel. Useful for inducing catnaps.” I said, mimicking one.

“And catalepsy,” added Jen.

“Send him to the Catacombs!” Added Gideon. The chuckling would have continued but the lights were suddenly turned up to an uncomfortable brightness and the background music was shut down. Out of the office door came a man with a sniffing device and started walking around the room telling everyone, “The Anthrax sensor went off. It’s probably one of our friends from Cumberland County.” A man wearing cowboy boots and shirt went over to the sniffing man and pointed to his boots. After they sniffed his boots for a few seconds, they stood talking in the middle of the room while people spread themselves to the perimeter like festive dancers giving the floor to a hot terpsichorean couple. They both walked off together to the decon room. The sound must have been shut off in the entire building because I saw Paula and Harold descending the stairs from the second story dance hall along with everyone else, but Myrna was nowhere in sight. When they reached the bottom of the stairs, they were stopped by security. I was about to walk over to Paula when I saw Harold flash his ID to security and shoot over to the decon room. Paula waved from across the room. I walked over to speak with Paula. She asked if I knew what happened.

“I don’t know,” I said, “except that the Anthrax sensor went off and a guy from South Jersey was taken to decon; why decon didn’t pick up Anthrax is anyone’s guess. Relax, girl, when I worked here, the alarms went off at least every hour; people stopped coming here until they improved the sensors. We usually found that they were false positives. Nothing of any consequence ever surfaced while I was here.”

“I guess you’re a numbers man, Daddah. Aren’t you concerned that outbreaks were stopped right here in Jersey as recently as three years ago? In Elizabeth, I believe.”

“Yea, I know. But there is no way anything can spread. And if it did . . .”

“I know. We’re vaccinated against the top 10.”

“And?”

“Passive immunity is available for the next 100. Look, it is because of my immunology certificate that I can worry as well as any layman. Maybe the world-at-large is a little safer but whole families and in-bred communities are still suffering.”

“If we could only find out how they arise in the first place we would all breathe a little easier..”

“You don’t think it’s global warming?”

“That’s more than likely a factor especially because of the extra insects. You know me, I’m not a conspiratorial theorist but there is nothing from stopping a terrorist organization from splicing genes to their heart’s content. If you could periodically start a plague here and there even a nation’s military would refrain from bivouacking troops. Keep in mind that we’ve had no major wars since the shock and awe war of your Grandpa.”

”I thought that’s because all the despots are afraid of us. Oh, there’s Harold.” Harold had a smile on his face as he came out of decon with Tobey and the cowboy.

“False positive,” he said as the music came back on and security opened the gates to the stairs.

“How was the cowboy involved?” asked Paula.

“Apparently, a few of his dairy cows had been infected a few months back and he felt he might have been carrying stuff on his booths.”

“Don’t they have soggs down there?” I asked.

“I haven’t figured out why Tobey’s is so popular. I mean, you can’t call yourself a sogg without the standard sogg entertainment—right?”

“I’ve been to several soggs in my life.”

“Harold, you only use that phrase if you’re past 50.”

“He tells me he’s old enough to fear the grim reaper.”

“Yes, I suppose that gives him instant access to middle age.“

“When you see the reaper strike indiscriminately as often as I have, you abandon the dogged joy of youth and start adjusting your perspective accordingly.”

“Well don’t spoil this young lady’s dogged joy.”

“I wouldn’t think of it.”

“I don’t care what degree of maturity you two think you have. I’ll have you know my avatar has a grand master ranking, and that you only attain after many years at the sacrificial grindstone.”

“Avatars,” said Harold, addressing me in feigned contempt of Paula’s comment. He then took Paula by the upper arm and seductively asked, “shall we continue our discussion on the dance floor?”

“OK. See you later,” she said to me and then, over her shoulders, “I want a dance from you later, mister.”

“You got it.” Remembering that love was narcotic at that age, I doubted the possibility; especially, since she decided to go with the black leather outfit that I had voted against. The heart throbbing apparel was, for Paula, icing on the cake as far as I was concerned. I walked back to where I was before the alarm went off and saw that Dan was back on his easy chair watching a football game—but Al was not in sight.

“Did you get the scoop?” I asked my group.

“Yes. Dad got an I.M. from Tobey.”

A sultry and perky voice was heard over the P.A. system saying, “We apologize for the false alarm. Please continue to enjoy the festivities and quality entertainment you find only at Tobey’s Sogg of Hudson, New Jersey. Remember, that our customer service department is always open to assist you. Thanks again. Will Mr. Mike Preston please stop by the office.” I looked around as if I hadn’t heard.

“That’s you, Hon,” said Jen.

“I know. But if I make a move right away, people will know I was the one being called to the office.”

Susan laughed, and Jen said, “That shows you in a nutshell how self-absorbed my husband can be,” she said to Susan and then to me, “Hurry up, I want to dance.”

It sounded a lot like Myrna talking and it touched a chord that rang ominous but I went on, “I value my privacy; even if you don’t.”

“Oh, look! A little kid just went into the office. Go. Now everyone will think he’s Mike Preston. Your identity is safe,” joked Jen.

“Good call, wife. I’m off to see Tobey,” I said, winking at Susan as I passed her. She touched my arm affectionately and I heard her ask Gideon to go dance with Jen. I continued to the office.

“Hello, Mikey. Forgive me. To me, you’ll always be Mikey. Please, have a seat, I have a couple of things to say.” I took a seat in one of Tobey’s lush red leather chairs; the furniture reminded me of that in the Witkowski’s living room. “Do you like the furniture? Want a couple of pieces?”

“No thanks Tobe. I’m OK.” I smirked waiting to hear what he had to say.

“Listen Mikey. First of all, did Dan speak to you about the pork?” I nodded. “Good. Then there’s nothing else for me to add to that. The main reason I called you in is to reward you for giving us that slushy beer idea.” Tobey waited for my reaction but I just shrugged my shoulders. “It’s rapidly becoming our best seller; especially during the summer but the fall is not far behind in sales. Anyway, first off, the evening for you and the rest of your entourage is on the house.” I thanked him politely and he smiled and looked like he was trying to judge me. After about 5 seconds he said, “Also, and more importantly for a young man in the prime of his life, I am giving you and your heirs a 5% stake, after taxes of course, in the yearly sale of Sloggo beer.”

“Thank you Tobe. That is mighty generous of you considering that I don’t hold a patent.”

“I know you don’t. Tobey enterprises now has the patent.” I felt as if someone had just robbed me; I felt a little cheated because no one at home ever suggested to me that I try and sell my invention. Sure, patents were still only for the rich and I could never afford the thousands of dollars our parasitic government decided it could charge it’s citizens for protection--protection which did the hapless citizen no good unless he himself sued in court. Nevertheless, I may have been in a better position to bargain with Tobey if I knew early on that he had an interest in slushy beer. He continued, “You aren’t mad that I beat you out of a patent, are you? You know, Mikey, it’s not always rosy in the business world. People think that a great idea is everything but smart ideas or not, businesses could easily go under. Just last week, my lawyer called saying we’re being sued because some woman saw a worm come out of her avocado salad—that’s the last time we serve avocado chunks; we’re switching to pureed avocado.”

“I’m not complaining. I am grateful to benefit . . . “

“All right then. Why don’t you go out there and give your wife the good news. And if you have any more ideas come see me and maybe we can develop it together.” I shook hands with Tobey and ventured back to the group which now consisted of Susan along with some admirers; the cowboy was there too. I hesitated and was going to go look for Jen when I heard Susan excuse herself and head in my direction.

“Jen and Gideon went to dance. What are you up for, Mike?”

“I thought I would request a Sloggo in celebration of my newfound wealth.”

“Oh.”

“Yea. I’m getting a walloping 5% of Sloggo sales as payment for my idea.”

“That’s not bad for just thinking of an idea—don’t you think.”

“Yea, I suppose but it would have been nice if I had been included in the loop instead of finding out that someone at home had volunteered my slushy formula to Tobey.”

“Oh, poor baby. Let’s try to forget about those meanies at home.” I held back a smile but Susan knew she had humbled me.

“Hello, Mike.”

“Hey Narvario. I was beginning to think you weren’t going to make it.”

“I had a hard time finding transportation.”

“You should have called me.”

“It was only at the last minute I found out my hog wouldn’t start.”

“I’m sorry. Navario, this is Mrs. Susan Alvarez, our next door neighbor. Susan, this is our guest of honor Navario Benitez from up the hill.”

“How do you do, Mrs. Alvarez. You don’t look Spanish.”

“My family is actually from Ireland. My present soul mate is Spanish.”

“I get along nice with Irish people. I think there’s a special thing between islanders like you and me.”

“What island are you from?”

“I’m Dominican.”

“Gideon always buys Brugal rum from the Dominican Republic. He says you can still taste the sugar cane without the sweetness.”

“I know what he’s talking about.”

“Speaking of beverages, Navario, all expenses are on the house today.”

“Oh, you didn’t have to do that. Your father-in-law and me already worked out an arrangement.”

“This is apart from that. It’s a gift from the owner of this place for a beer recipe we gave him.”

“That goes for my cousins too? I brought them along because my wife refuses to travel through the meadowlands when the mosquitoes are out.”

“Smart woman,” I said.

“Smart woman and lucky man. I get to party all night, free of charge, and not get any nagging.”

“Did your wife know that you had struck a deal already?”

“Sure. But I told her Dan insisted on a formal peace signing party. She doesn’t understand our customs yet so I can say anything and she’ll believe me.”

“You are bad, Mr. Benitez,” said Susan.

“We all are with enough motivation. How’s the action at the tables?” He asked Susan.

“We haven’t been up there yet.”

“I can’t wait to see if luck’s going to be a lady or a bitch.”

“Don’t let us stop you. We know what it’s like to crave things.”

“OK then, if you’ll excuse me I’ll go say hello to Dan before heading up to the tables. Mrs. Alvarez, it was a pleasure. Mike, see you around.”

I turned my attention to Susan who by now was looking more like my date than Gideon’s wife. I was going to ask her what cravings we had but, instead, I asked, “So, how long have you and Gideon been married?”

“What’s marriage these days? It’s more a convenience more for the state than anything else; a religious relic to encourage monogamy.”

“The question was . . .”

“Yes, we’re married but we both agreed to end it if either of us. . .” Susan looked at me and then with downcast eyes continued, “ if either of us met a ‘longtermer.’”

“If you’re so negative about marriage, why bother at all.”

“Well, come tax time we get the marriage bonus, as you know.”

“That’s right. I forgot how much I hath partaketh.”

“Uh, huh.”

I felt like kissing those lips that could exclaim things so sensually. “I heard they were thinking of repeling it.”

“Why?”

“It seems the think tanks believe that the gene pool should be more diversified in order to ward off the next big plague.”

“That’s ridiculous; don’t you think? I mean, most couples, married or otherwise, have one kid anyway. How much diversity do you expect from that?”

I was often surprised by how much peoples spoke as if they had degrees in your area of expertise; intruding into your own sphere of knowledge. It was then that I usually realized these were fundamental principles taught in high school but not fully grasped by laymen or even certificate holders.

“Besides. If people are not married that opens the way for the bolder men to sow their seeds all over the place—you’re allowing yourself to be cockled.”

“Now just one minute, Mrs. Alvarez.” I took hold of her upper arm hesitating to speak because I knew she was onto something—academically, anyway. I continued, “Aside from the repercussions, and strictly as a matter of diversity, does marriage help or hinder diversity?”

“It’s always better for the woman to fool around but don’t look at it like the woman is doing something wrong. Look at it from the point of view of survival of the fittest.”

“Go on.”

“By fooling around, a woman ensures two things. One, that she gets a fertile male and , two, that her children have the same skills in perpetuating the species for they are the progeny of cockolders. But, you know that. Why am I lecturing to a man with a degree in Biology.”

“Well, actually, although I can hold my own in such a discussion, I am not as well versed in genetics and evolution as I am in physiology. We can’t be experts in all things.”

“Well. Trust me. It’s true. Ask Paula; she and I have discussed this issue at length and she thinks along the same lines.”

“But what about marriage. Does it . . .”

“No effect unless they are true to their marriage vows. In that case, there is the risk that the couple might remain childless and non-diversified.”

I gave her a smile to acknowledge that I admired her biological acumen but she sounded defensive when she said, “You don’t have to agree with me but do give it some thought.”

In my inebriated state, I couldn’t tell why she appeared so serious when we were there to party. I decided I had to be a gentleman and ask her to dance, “Do you want to check out the dance floor?”

“Yes, let’s go.”

One of the barely legal waitresses approached me with a tray full of Sloggies and I took two. The girl named Tina took a swipe of my ID and spoke into her Unidata pen, “Two Slogs for Mr. Preston,” and stood there smiling and then I remembered and leanded over to her pen to say, “add 20 percent for Tina.”

“Thank you. Please ask for Tina if you need anything.”

“Here, Mrs. Alvarez.”

“Mike, If I asked you to drop the Mrs. thing would you be offended?”

“I wouldn’t if you wouldn’t.”

“Fine then. Let’s hurry. I hear our song playing.”

I liked the sound of that. Especially now that I saw how Susan enjoyed the biological.

The second floor of Tobey’s catered to the dance crowd. The floors were constructed of nanotubes and that allowed every floor to be free of columns. Because there were no columns, the floor could easily be subdivided to accommodate the more popular music genre of the night which tonight was ReggaeRockFusion. That’s where Paula and Harold were. Clockwise to them was the ballroom dancing section frequented by the seniors. Also represented tonight was a Western section—guess who was there—and, last, Zacco, the clown, was leading a gang of youngsters in a game of Find the beetle (before it squirted some fluid whose smell kids loved to hate. That’s where Christine was. Everyone else apparently had gone to the third floor adult gaming area or upstairs to the restaurant. If it was any other night, you might find me in the V-games but Susan commanded all my attention. I surmised that my wife had gone to play slots with her mother.

Susan and I danced a few numbers and she smiled quite a bit so I was thinking my dancing was impressing her until I remembered the day that similarly alcohol-induced movements had been the amusement du jour for the Witkowskis when some evil person digitized me and played it back one holiday season. The fourth number was a slow number that someone had snuck into ReggaeRockFusion and I was looking forward to dancing that one but Susan suggested that we go out into the glass-enclosed porch that surrounded the dance hall so that revelers might sit, look out into the darkness of the meadowlands and admire the Hudson lights twinkling in the distance like an enormous spaceship of supernatural size. I agreed and while I sat their guzzling another sloggo, Jen and Gideon strode by and sat down next to us. I would have considered it a coincidence but this circumnavigating porch only had one entrance/exit and, for panic control in the event of an emmergency, traffic was only permitted in one direction.

“Well it looks like you two have been working out all night,” said Jen as she took my sloggo. The guilt prevented me from feeling any jealousy; additionly, I played it cool. And I had to play it cool for my wife had accused me of jealousy on many occasions and the marriage counselor whom, I am sure she had bought, brainwashed me into believing that the green-eyed monster was hideous and worthy of destruction by Saint Michael.

“We danced a few numbers to the MarleyRockers then they played lounge music while the group took 15 and Susan was not up for a slow dance.”

“Oh, so you were harboring intentions of an intimate interlude with my wife—were you? Let’s go Jen and discuss things over dinner. Wife, will you and your buddy here join us?”

“I’m not hungry. I think I’ll hang around here. How about you, Mike?”

“I’ve gotten all my caloric requirements from these sloggos. I held up the glass that I took back from Jen.”

“Well then, adieu.”

“Later, pigmy gators,” said Susan referring to the recent newcomer to the Jersey Meadowlands—a reptile brought in to keep the rat population under control.

I put my arm around Susan and, looking up, I spotted Jen looking at me and sporting a stern countenance.. She picked up the purse that she had left next to me, excused herself again, and took off. Meanwhile, I had withdrawn my arm from around Susan’s shoulder and held my sloggo awkwardly with two hands. Susan watched Jen leave and then put her head on my shoulder. I closed my eyes and didn’t open them again for a long, long, time.

I woke up in familiar quarters: Tobey’s basement quarantine room complete with prison bars. Sitting in the room was Harold.

“My good man. How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine. Where is everyone?”

“Everyone is back home. It is now close to 24 hours since you last saw them.”

“What Happened?”

“Don’t know. We looked for every known titer and you had none. So either it’s something new or someone slipped you a couple of dozers. You have clearance to go home in half an hour. Do you want a ride home?”

“Is my car still out there?”

“It is. Did you know, however, that you could be arrested for driving a convertible?”

“They must have passed that one while I was down in Antarctica. I just have three miles to travel. What are the chances?”

“All right. Suit yourself but do raise the roof—wont you?”

“I’ll do that. Thanks for coming by.”

“Everyone is worried about you and, especially, Paula. Hurry home safely. I’ll see you back home. Do you want me to follow you home?”

“No. Don’t be silly. I’m OK.” Harold opened the barred door with his ID pen, closed it behind him and signed some paperwork at a desk.

Tobey came in shortly afterward. “Are you OK?”

“I’m fine.” I looked down at my arm.

“Sorry about that hematoma. The technician had the darndest time pulling blood from you.”

“Yea, deep veins and low blood pressure. Not a combination a vampire would like.”

“Sorry you had to be quaranteened this way. I could lose my license if I don’t lock the door. Of course, if I had known you were such good friends with Inspector Slattery, I would have made some allowances.”

“I know procedure, Tobey. What I don’t understand is how fast I got sick and lost consciousness.”

“Well, you’re OK now . . . for now. If it’s any consolation, this is nothing I’ve ever seen; it was as if someone had slipped Mikey a little Michael.” That was not exactly what I wanted to hear but then no one ever said Tobey had a good bedside manner. Interesting evolution that of doctor/patient relationships. First, doctors came to you and if they showed too much arrogance in your home they weren’t invited back so they developed this gentile bedside manner. Then, with a need to express their hautiness, they insisted that the patient come to them. Now, nobody comes to nobody but, instead, we have tele-medicine mediated by an internet connection. I wondered how their egos were affected playing god from a distance. Tobey wasn’t a doctor but owning a Sogg he had to be certified in infectious diseases.

“By the way, Mikey, we sold about 5 grand worth of Sloggo. That’s about 125 bucks for you just from yesterday’s sales.”

“I always knew it would take off. Thanks for marketing it.”

“My pleasure entirely, Mike”

“Tobey, who was it that passed the idea on to you?”

“Myrna—she said that you had invented this beer and that she didn’t think you would ever do anything with it. You were away at the time. I did a test run and knew it was going to be a winner.” Let’s see, 125 times 365. I spoke to my Unipen and it said 45,625 which seemed too good to be true—that amount of money would buy Jen and me a two week vacation in the Aleutians—then I remembered that no other day was as busy as Friday or Saturday and even less would be left after subsidizing government spending. Tobey added, “Think of the global rights.”

“Here’s a great big thumbs-up for Sloggos.”

“See you around Mikey. Oh, Susan asked me to tell you that she Took Eddie home,” said Tobey.

“Oh. OK. Thanks..” After my time was up the door opened automatically and I went outside into the damp and suffocating Meadowlands. I went to my car and noticed that the inside of the car was wet all over; obviously, it had rained last night. I got inside and tried to crank up the roof—dead—I tried to pull it up manually but it would not budge. Should I go back in and call my motoring association to have it towed or risk it and go home with the roof down. I was too bummed out so I opted for the latter. I started her up and inched my way out of the parking lot looking for smokies; there were none, so I took off traveling 55 in a 45 mph zone. As I turned the corner to go up 69th street, I heard the confounded siren. I pulled over. Passing on the other side of the road was a bus with several passengers giving me the naughty sign with their fingers. Some looked at me like I was this despicable monstrosity.

“How do you do officer?” I said offering him my ID.

He swiped my data and said, “Were you aware you were speeding and driving an illegal vehicle?” Why did they bother asking this question? It was as if they are taught to stick it to people with plenty of lubricant. They lead one to think that by offering them an explanation the ticket might not get written. I would prefer the way they did it in New York: a camera took your car’s picture and you received the summons the next day saying, “We caught you doing such and such. This is your fine.” Here, we had to go through this ridiculous formality that we knew would not get us anywhere.

“Just give me the ticket, officer.”

“Are you a wiseguy?”

“No, I’m not. I just know that there is no excuse for breaking the law, so why offer any explanations.”

“Wait here, Mr. Preston,” and then he headed back to his pastry shop. Five minutes later he was back.”

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to impound the vehicle and place you under arrest for violation of the state’s health laws.”

“What. Just because I traveled a distance of 1 mile in a convertible—which, incidentally, was left out in the rain and screwed up the mechanism?”

“You are being charged with failure to comply with motor vehicle laws aimed at minimizing biological threats. In addition, you are charged with violation of the quaranteen laws.”

“I was quaranteened for 18 hours. Tobey will tell you. Nothing was found. Inspector Slattery even signed my release papers.”

“The law stipulates that, after any quaranteen and for a period of 72 hours post release, travel is only permitted via state-certified biovans. Now, if you’ll please step outside the vehicle, I will cuff you and escort you to the police station.”

I stayed inside the car without budging an inch. I didn’t know the consequences but I was not going to make it easy on the cop. His discretionary powers would surely have permitted him to let me go home—a distance of 6 blocks. Either the Krunchy Creams were stale or his wife was being passive aggressive and not allowing cream crunches.

“Mr. Preston, have you heard what I just said?”

“I heard you.”

“You are to immediately step out of the vehicle or I will have to use force.”

One thing is to throw the book at someone who pulls a gun on a cop and shoots to kill but I thought we should be allowed to fight it out man to man like in the old days prior to that pussy, Jackass Edgar. Law enforcement produced men who found it easy to be tough; they had superior fire power, they had re-enforcements seconds away, and they had the law entirely on their side—they were a bunch of pussies as far as I was concerned, and any English Bobby was ten times these armed men.

“I’m coming out.”

He cuffed me and put me in his car. Immediately, the spiel started both on a display and through a speaker, “You have a right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law except if information you supply leads to the arrest of a person or persons engaged in terroristic acts against the people of the United States. You have a right to speak to an attorney before making a statement to the police. If you understand these rights please say ‘yes,’ or press the button in front of you.” This presented a dilemma to some people who couldn’t speak and who couldn’t press the button because their hands were cuffed—the police no doubt counted on human ingenuity. The Thoreau in me procrastinated.

“If you don’t respond, you will only make it more difficult for yourself.” I held back; he slammed on the brakes and turned to look at me. “What’s it going to be?” The accompanying stare was one of madmen or men with weapons of unitary destruction: revolvers, stun guns, and clubs. I leaned back and raised my foot to press the button. I felt defiant in doing this; later, I would feel stupid. The cop turned around and continued his drive confident in his power.

After the booking, DNA-printing, retinal scan, and digital fingerprinting, I was taken to my cell—one of six in the basement of the station. I was put in number 2 between two men who were conversing about the sad state of the country when men were jailed for being different from the government-dictated ideal citizen.

“Fight their wars, work for their pension funds, and shut-up unless you’re spoken to, pretty much what Gerry Spence said we were. Slaves of the state, “ said the man with a biohazard symbol tattoed to his neck. He was in his thirties.

“I don’t think he said we were slaves of the state,” said the other man who looked older but wore more youthful clothes.

I decided to join the camaraderie. “We are nothing but slaves of the state. I don’t care what Gerry Spense said. They have found a way to manipulate us and they will till death do us part. All on the pretense of socialization.”

“Names’s Bob,” said the older man, “and this here’s Jimmy.”

“How do you do. I’m Mike Preston. I was arrested for driving my convertible a distance of a mile or two. What crime have you committed?”

“Well, I put bodily fluids on a cop,” said Bob.

I couldn’t help but crack a smile.

“Yea. The bastard caught me walking home from a friend’s house and I guess his quota was low. I pleaded with him but he would have nothing to do with it. I got so riled up that I spit on him.”

“You know, pretty soon grandmothers will be able to get a job as a cop. The law is so afraid of the common man that cops are held up as gods. You know, if you join the police force, shouldn’t you expect strange behavior from people?” I started to feel some relief from my situation and I looked to my jailmates for some support.

Jimmy said, “That sucks. A man goes for a quickie ride and ends up in the slammer.”

“What are you here for, Jimmy?”

“They caught me with an illegal pet. I was keeping a rabbit in my apartment and some freakin dog in another apartment kept barking. Before you know it, the cops where knocking on everyone’s door.”

“Next time, run a filter that produces ozone. That will neutralize the odor.”

“There wont be a next time. I’m moving to Canada, the true land of the free.”

“Canada,” said Bob, “was once O.K. but today it’s overcrowded and it is looking to turn back the tide of illegal immigrants.”

“I’ll go via B.C. where the grass is greener.”

“What grass are you talking about, Jimmy?” I asked. Jimmy sat down and clammed up.

“Don’t mind him,” said Bob. “He is one of those recidivists; one of those forever scofflaw.”

“We all repeat our crimes because our crimes are nothing more than ingrained patterns of behavior. You know, it’s the same reason we go gambling; once in a blue moon we win a few bucks and the sucker goes back for more. Well, once in a while the crime pays and they keep going back for more. I’m sure if employers recongnized their talents and gave them a fair wage and gave them any days off they wanted to go to the races or to drink themselves into a stupor, then, everyone would be better off. But no, there’s always this refusal on the part of government to acknowledge our different stripes, our different feathers.”

Jimmy looked up in what I had hoped was an appreciation gesture while Bob said, “You’ve given these things a lot of thought; haven’t you?”

“I’m trained in Biology. I know what the genes can do.”

“What about the guy who rapes a girl?” Asked Jimmy. “Is that in the genes?”

“There is nothing you can think of that is not directed or encouraged by the genes. You can always imagine some reason why behavior such as rape would be needed.”

“That’s a little farfetched there mister. My little sister was raped. You think the guy should be let out of jail—if he is ever found, that is. It’s been a year and he hasn’t been found?”

I told him I was sorry and had decided to clam up but Jimmy said, “Go on. Tell Bob here why there is a rape gene”

“If you can imagine a circumstance where a bad gene could be helpful then you have got to suspect that maybe mother nature knows what she is doing?”

“I think you’ve lost your marbles, my friend.”

“Well, I can think . . .”

“No. No. you’re not thinking nothing!”

“Just hear me out.” Bob reached out for my collar and jambed by face against the bars saying, “I said I don’t want to hear any of your shit, asshole. You got that?” I nodded as best I could and he held on to me for a few seconds more and then released his hold. “Damn piece of shit. How could you like a rapist?”

“I never said I liked rapists. It’s just that mother nature is not aware of the repercussions of her actions unless children are not born or do not procreate.”

“You mean God doesn’t know the rapist is raping?” Asked Bob.

I thought about how I would answer this man.

“I asked you a question shithead.”

“Why don’t you go fuck yourself dimwit?” I had digressed and felt like an animal fending for himself in the wild except that I wasn’t sure that my instincts would enable me to survive.

Then I heard the sargeant’s voice and felt a modicum of relief. “Preston, Michael. You have some mighty powerful friends to get you released this quickly. Let’s go. Out of there. I see you fell against the bars. That’s why we provide a cot, Mr. Preston. If you get dizzy, you can fall on the cot instead of the bars.”

“Did you get flat feet by doing standup?” Jimmy laughed at that one while Bob just looked at me and would have spit if given half a chance. I took a chance that I might enlighten Bob a bit and I said, “There was a reason God put us here. But I doubt very much that it was so he could play a chess game with people as his pawns.”

“This guy thinks rapists should go free.” Bob was still livid and I guess he was hoping the sargeant would throw in some last minute correction but it was not to be.

“Shut up Stedman. Over there, Preston; through the double doors. Once I was past the doors, I heard the unmistakable sound of the Biosweep. Al Jackowicz was standing by the

Greenish flakes. Fleas with diarrhea. The little turds that are usually seen turn into dried up puddles of flea diarrhea. In an effort to control fleas, the CDC had created a montezuma’s revenge for the poor little fuck-ups—God, I hate fleas—some people don’t even feel them, but I can feel a flea when he’s thinking of biting me.

What about giving us the runs. You know that cocktail vaccine you get annually? Well, that includes the flea bacteria. That, by the way, is why your flea bites look like mosquitoe bites.

“Where’s your mother?” I asked Jen.

“You were right about Mom and Al. She told me all about how Al got the sensor to go off.”

“Excuse me. He can fix your dry rot and pluck spiders from your hair, but I’m the professional wordsmith here and

WORDCOUNT 43088, 42297,35.3

Someone accuses Mike of using his administrator priveleges to use security cameras in less than reputable fashion.

invizis, the only good thing about them was that once they create their camoflouge on a particular article, that’s were they stay for the remainder of their lives.

“Don your UV protector suit and irradiate the bedroom.”

I mean it was bad enough we had insects on our eyelashes

Chapter Last

Tuesday, April 15, 2025 (tentative)

I stepped onto the dock at Godhavn and looked around at a quaint seaport splashed with colors straight out of National Geographic.  The dock was foggy with a chill in the air but alive with fishermen preparing their ships.  I felt as if someone had infused me with a magic elixir that awakened all my senses.  My breathing was deep, and my sinews relaxed as I sat down on a mooring.  Gulls, terns, and pigeons came over to me and, approaching cautiously, started to peck at my shoes.  They seemed to be eating something.  I glanced down and saw them pulling these thin worms out of the lacing of my shoes.  After the adrenaline rush subsided, I removed my shoes and socks and shooed the birds away—I felt a need to quarantine myself and protect this pristine island from contamination.  I started to undress, unmindful of the cold, shaking each article of clothing and looking for parasites.  People began to stare and one man pointed to a sign that pointed to their beach.  I knelt down to take a closer look at the worms for they appeared lifeless.  I prodded one with a shell that was lying near.

“They are dead, Mr. Preston. While you were breathing through your respirator, I was releasing a disinfectant gas into the cabin,” said the pilot.

“Why not tell your passengers?”

“People get very anxious if they are told they’re sitting in a toxic environment. I’ve seen it time and time again. Beads of sweat. Heavy breathing. It’s much better to keep them in the dark.”

“Suppose I had taken off my mask?”

“If you recall, I had to help you remove your mask. It locks once it is on. Besides, people can breathe the gas for several minutes without ill effects.”

“I’m sorry to doubt you but please understand . . .”

“Please, say no more, Mr. Preston. It will take awhile for you to realize that the worries of the world you left behind are not found here. Relax, you will soon see what I mean.” Could he be right? When I was at my wit’s end and destitute, could I have made the right choice to come here?

“How many Americans are here?”

“You weren’t told?’

“Told what?”

“The entire island was purchased by an American tycoon about 10 years ago—a man by the name of Rumsfeld—for the express purpose of starting a Brisbane community with American emigres.”

My head turned to a sign that had registered in my subconscious but which wasn’t acknowledged until now.  It read: W.P. Rumsfeld Enterprises.  Could it be that Rumsfeld didn’t die like Myrna said.  Or was this his son’s inheritance?

“That’s right.  That’s his but so is half the places you might step foot on in this island paradise.  Good luck to you sir.  I believe that’s your transportation over there.” He took my shoes and tapped them against the mooring and said, “Here, good as new.  So long, Mr. Preston, and, remember, if you need a ride back to the States, you know where to call.” He laughed heartily and, I know he meant well but I just did not appreciate the humor.

I put on my shoes, shirt, and pants and headed towards the limousine where the driver was holding the door open for me. As I walked down the pier, men would stop their work, face me, and either saluted or welcomed me: “Nice to have you here, sir”; “Welcome, Mr. Preston”; and, “No Lokis here, sir, rest assured.”

I started to feel good, wholesome, with classic childlike great expectations although I struggled to make sense of how it was that so many people knew me by name. I approached the driver who had on the customary although ill-fitting black jacket with a flowered shirt of all things.

“Welcome to the island, sir,” said the driver in an odd husky voice and switching to a familiar higher pitch, added, “And can you tell me, now, Mr. Preston, how long do you expect to keep a girl waiting?” The driver took off her cap to reveal golden locks and took off her sunglasses to reveal green eyes that caused my eyes to well up in tears as they never have before.

“Susan.  Oh, my God, Susan.  How I never thought I’d see you again.” I hugged her with all my might. “Oh Susan.  Could any man receive a better welcome?  Oh, my love.” Susan wiped the tears from my eyes and I wiped hers.

“Do you want to come home with me?”

“Maybe,” I said all choked up again.

Susan stroked my rough beard and said, “Come, my love.” She took off her jacket and gave it and the cap back to the real driver who had come out of the front passenger’s side. “Thank you, Aldous.”

“You’re welcome Miss.”

We drove for thirty miles and all that time, I wouldn’t let her say a word for words I feared would detract from the intense love I was feeling.  Instead, I held her against me and this also caused fear in me that she might think I was possessing her, but I held her anyway and she too held me close and once in a while she would look up at me and we would kiss as tenderly as possible; then we would go back to holding each other in silence.