4906

 Citizen 4906 was discharged from the Hillary Rodham Clinton Memorial Re-education Camp on a rainy Wednesday morning. It seemed like it might be April, though he was not really certain. Time and other really heavy concepts were irreparably distorted after the prolonged reprogramming sessions. There was a vague shadow left upon his thoughts, something about time being a construct of a racist patriarchy. It didn't really matter if 4906 had fully accepted the truth of this, only that the thought was engaged at the mere mention of time. It didn't really matter at all, whether it was April or Wednesday, morning or afternoon. The only thing that really mattered was that he had been cleansed of all those harmful ideas acquired in those years suffering under the delusion of freedom.

4906 did not really fully understand everything that he had been taught in the camp, except for that most important lesson of all: one need not understand, only embrace the joy of not understanding. This was true freedom. The only objective truth was that truth was subjective. He was now freed of that burden of trying to find the truth; he needed only to accept any truth as given to him by those with understanding. Freed from thought, from decisions, from any responsibility.... why, he was more free now than at any other time in his life.

Freed from the camp he was then free to go wherever he was permitted to go. He did not have to go home because 4906 no longer had a home. With so many places forbidden it was not quite so taxing upon his limited decision making abilities to make a choice from the remaining options. 

For no other reason than it happened to be along his route, 4906 entered a public library. From the street the building was recognizable, linked to some dim memory of many years before. Long before the camps, the rebuilding period, the wars, to a soft, fuzzy place in his youth. Back to a time when he had a name. What was it? He could not recall.

The place was familiar, he was absolutely certain he had been here before! And yet, as he passed through it's doors he immediately became disoriented. He stood dumbfounded, sensing that he wanted to look for something, but could not think of what that something was. A shadow of intuition told him that whatever that something was it should be right there, at the entrance. But there was nothing there but stained carpet and the seizure inducing blink of a faulty, overhead light fixture.

He suffered a flash of childhood. Despite their best efforts they couldn't erase it all. He caught a fleeting glimpse of a kindly, older black lady who had been the librarian at his school, her soothing voice in his head. "Can I help you find something sweetheart?" She had those half lensed reading glasses worn on a chain around her neck. He could smell sandalwood.

"Excuse me....old man? Excuse me? You'll have to leave. You're not allowed here!"

4906 turned to the voice, not finding that dear old librarian; instead confronted by a much younger woman. At least he thought it was a woman. One can never be too certain. The female like figure before him with the bright green hair and a tapestry of tattoos had a crazed look in her eyes. Was it fear? She grew more shrill.

"If you don't leave I am calling security! Did you hear me? What, are you stupid?!"

Yes. It was definitely a woman. He did not want to argue, he simply turned and left. He couldn't have argued anyway. By the time he got down the sidewalk and back to the street he had completely forgotten why he had gone there in the first place.

Mrs. Simpson! That was her name! The sweet old woman with the beautiful, thick wool sweaters. He felt almost euphoric at discovering this nice place in his head. He felt like walking. He was already soaked from the rain so it no longer mattered.

He walked on westward, with no particular destination in mind. His eyes and ears witnessed the scenes on the streets as he passed, but his mind dwelt in a fuzzy ether as viewed through a rose tinted glass. Through a parade of abandoned strip malls, pumpless gas stations and mounds of uncollected refuse he forged ahead. He was checking out some books at the desk. Some Bradbury...that name was stuck in his head, though he could not say why. He felt Mrs. Simpson's hand on his in the exchange. Her fingers looked old, cold and bony, but her hand was warm like a Winter's day at your grandmother's house. He held on to this sensation for dear life until the vision faded in a static crackle.

The rain had dissipated to some degree, though the skies remained overcast. The air had the scent of Spring in it, but the skies were leaden with a promise of an eternal November. He crossed the road near what appeared to be a familiar intersection. One corner had a very modern looking building that dominated the entire block. Bold block red letters scrawled across the front: PHARMACY. In a last leap to reach the other side of the street he landed right in the middle of a large puddle, just short of the curb.

Despite this momentary humiliation 4906 soldiered on. There were only a few more feet to a bench with a shelter, a place where he might dry out a bit and perhaps summon more memories. He looked around again and now things did not appear quite as familiar. He had no idea how long or how far he had walked. With a look up and down the street he was left to ponder the curious absence of any traffic. He tried very hard to remember, but could not recall if he had seen anyone about at all since the library.

With no one else about he settled in upon the bench and began to remove his waterlogged shoes and socks. While draping his socks over the back of the bench he suddenly realized that this was a bus stop. There were no names declaring a transit service, nor were there any posted routes or schedules, yet attached to some remaining bit of his memory there was the unmistakable certainty that this was indeed a bus stop. Or at least it had been at one time.

While the reality surrounding him was grim and desolate he was again beset by a flash of memory. The sun was shining there in that rosy land of his youth. It was Autumn, a sea of brown, yellow, red flying past him in a trail of sparkling light. There was unabashed laughter and mirthful cries of delight from somewhere, a background noise, distant. He could smell turtle wax, feel the oily residue between his fingers. A shiny blue car with a girl in the passenger seat. Her face was obscured, but he could hear a female voice, "Come on! Get in..."

The visions again faded to darkness as two police vehicles roared up the street. A short time later he could hear gunfire in the distance. His socks were still dripping off the back of the bench. Sirens wailed and helicopters began to circle overhead in the direction the police had gone. After all that time in the camp 4906 had almost forgotten what peacetime sounded like. He wished for a warm sun to dry things out a little faster, but at least the rain had ended. He rearranged his shoes to capture what little breeze was moving and took his socks to wring more water out of them before placing them back on the bench.

A strange thought entered his head. He wondered why there were no children anywhere. Then he wondered what had happened to the children of those others in the camp. Surely at least some of those people had children, yet there were none in the camp and try as best he could, he could not remember any ever speaking of their children. This ultimately led to the question, "Do I have any children?". He did not have an answer. He just did not know. Another moment of joy. He could not believe that he would ever get accustomed to so much joy.

Then he thought more about the camp. He seemed to recall a good bit of it. There was the first day, arriving with a busload of other eager pupils. There was that enormous sign over the entry gate, TRUTH THROUGH JOY. That memory in particular triggered an unscratchable itch in his brain. There was something so familiar about this phrase, something he was certain he had heard somewhere before, yet he could not place it. He sensed that the answer to this was so close he should be able to touch it. It was as if a literal barrier had been placed in the way that he should not reach it.

The camp guards on the grounds seemed spiteful and vicious at first, but after about a week of psycho-pharma therapy he came to understand that they were actually helpful and authoritative. They were the nicest camp guards, really. And those clinicians! They were just wonderful. You could really feel how much they cared. The very best part of the entire camp experience was how the therapy team worked in tandem with the camp kitchen.

The first night he was there he went to bed hungry. There was no dinner served. The second night there was a bologna sandwich and stale chips. Not yet knowing any better he had complained. On the third night he went hungry again. On the fourth night it was bologna and chips again, and without comment, so it was for the fifth, sixth and seventh nights as well.

To begin his second week in the camp he was brought a magnificent filet at dinner, much to his surprise. He was almost hesitant to eat it, but noticing his uncertainty the staff encouraged him to please enjoy. They explained that paranoia was a frequent side effect of his pharma therapy. The meat was sizzling still and a pool of savory juices ran about the plate. He started cutting off small bites at first, but once he discovered how delicious it was he devoured the rest.

The next night at dinner he was brought a similar plate, but with an altogether different entree. The overall presentation was the same, but where there had been filet there was now a fat coil of shit. He was told, "Enjoy your filet!". He knew it wasn't filet. It was definitely a lump of shit. He wasn't certain if he should, but he began to feel understanding. He didn't have to eat it. All he had to do was say nothing and the worst consequence would be that he would go hungry.

The night after this he was again served a filet, one even better than the first. He took his time and savored this one. It was so good. For the following night he expected that things should follow the pattern and anticipated another serving of shit. Instead it was yet another superb filet. When he began to cut it he was met with cries of alarm from the staff, "No! Don't eat that! It's shit!"

He had to hesitate. Could they be right? It looked like filet. It certainly didn't smell like shit. He looked nervously about the room, waiting for something else to be said and then looked back to his plate. His brain was frozen for a full minute until he finally decided to go ahead and eat the filet, if for no other reason than to prove that it was. He was met instantly with jeers, "Oh, sick!" and "That's disgusting!". He just went on eating. It was definitely filet. He managed to down at least half of it until he could take the cries of revulsion no more and put his fork and knife down.

For the next four nights he was alternately served shit, filet, shit, filet. He fasted through the shit each time, with no reaction of any kind. He ate the filet each time, each time enduring a chorus of groans until abandoning the meal midway. Then on the fifth night something different happened.

On that fifth night his dinner was served by Lionel. Lionel was a very large orderly. Lionel was known to be especially helpful. He smiled with his big white teeth as he served a plate of shit. "Enjoy your filet", he said. 4906 stared at the coil of shit on the plate and then back to Lionel. He then just sat on his hands, expecting things to go as they had through every other serving of shit. A few minutes passed and Lionel did not go away. He smiled again, reached around to his back and pulled a 9mm pistol, cocked the weapon and pointed it at 4906's forehead. "I said.... enjoy... the filet."

That was an intense moment. 4906 really did not wish to enjoy the filet. Lionel was extremely insistent that he should. 4906 had witnessed one other pupil try and contend with Lionel and he had never seen that pupil again. There was a chance that the 9mm was unloaded. There was also a chance that it was loaded. He picked up his fork and knife and shifted in his seat, stealing another look to Lionel. Lionel had a rather pronounced bead of sweat hanging just above his left temple. He saw 4906 looking at the gun. Through gritted teeth Lionel hissed, "Schroedinger's cat ".

It became a moment of joy. He did not really understand what it meant, but he was able to surrender to the joy of not understanding. Slowly, while keeping his eyes fixed upon Lionel's gun, he dissected the plate of shit. He brought himself to eat every bite of it and at the end thanked Lionel for the lovely dinner.

For the remainder of his stay at the camp dinners proceeded without further incident. It could be counted upon that he would be served filet every dinner, except roughly every third dinner when the alternate coil of shit would be served. After a while he really could not tell the difference.

Off in the distance there were giant fireballs and black smoke rising to the sky. He could feel the ground tremble beneath his bare feet. He watched and waited for something more, but that was all. There were no more explosions, though billowing black clouds continued to rise above the horizon. 4906 had nothing better to do than observe this far off spectacle. He took his socks from the back of the bench again and took to pacing back and forth in front of the shelter, waving the socks about in the air as he went. He'd yet to come up with any ideas for his shoes.

Minutes and hours passed there. His socks had by then been reduced to merely damp. Several more police vehicles passed out on the street, traveling in either direction, and at one point a pair of helicopters buzzed very low overhead toward the earlier explosions. There had even begun to be a few people moving up and down the street now. They were mostly on foot, occasionally on bicycles. They seemed to avoid his side of the street. They moved by showing no interest in him or any reaction to the smoke filled skies in the distance. So it was that he finally determined that he should move on, his shoes and socks being no wetter now than they had been walking in the rain.

4906 continued westward from the shelter, now on the south side of the street by which he had come thus far. He could not remember why he had crossed the street now, there was only the thought of continuing west. He still didn't understand why. There was that wonder of joy again. The landscape remained mostly the same, a stream of dead or orphaned lots; a parade of neglect and decay. He concluded that it was a rather grey world now.

There was something waiting for him in the west. The burgeoning joy of not understanding why was nearly growing to more than he could bear. In front of an abandoned self-serve car wash the air crackled static around him until he was again immersed in that color world of his distant past. He was driving that car. The interior was black and smelled of oil. And cigarettes. He could see the girl's face now. Some part of him recognized her face, but no name came to mind. No other memory of the girl connected, he only knew that he did know her face.

The corporeal body of 4906 walked on, navigating the steps safely while his mind was consumed in a reverie. He was driving the car out of a parking lot. There were leaves all over the ground. The sun was shining brightly and then suddenly the car was plunged into a thick fog. On the other side of the fog he again found himself in the school library of his youth. He could smell sandalwood and he heard Mrs. Simpson's voice calling.

"Daniel? Daniel! You missed one of your books child!"

She knew his name! I am Daniel! In his dream world he turned back toward the library desk. He could see her, not more than thirty feet away. She was holding a book, waving to him as she called. As he walked toward her in his mind his physical being had also turned right, stepping out into the middle of the street. Twenty feet. Ten feet. Five feet. He could reach and touch her...

So engrossed in his vision he never heard the siren approaching. The ambulance braked, but too late. Screeching tires cried out and he was struck right as he was taking that book from Mrs. Simpson. The impact was enough to send him sailing back at least twenty yards before hitting the pavement with a thud.

Wracked in pain he landed on his back, looking up into the sky. He was still breathing, but felt like an elephant were on his chest. He could taste blood in his mouth. He was certain that he was going to die right there in that spot. He began to laugh, because joy be damned, he finally understood it all now. The purpose of re-education, the true purpose, was to help you understand how the world really works. Not for any benefit to yourself, just to let you know how things are. It is thus: A lot of life may give you filet, but there will always be shit on the menu. It is alright to notice the difference. It is not alright to mention it. While few may eat only filet, many may eat only shit. While you may not be one, you want not to be the other. It is therefore advisable to accept a certain amount of shit in order to enjoy the filet.

As he breathed his last he said only, "She knew my name...", and then died with a smile on his face.