Click here to return to Humdinger Literary E-zine... Click here to return Home...     Everyone is supposed to just sit back and take death when it’s their time. I guess most of them would be too medicated to make much of a fuss anyway.       Trash By Jonathan Berman   It was the that time of night when the insomniacs have gone to sleep, the early birds thinks it’s a bit too early, and I’m usually left as the only human still walking the streets. ‘Rists were out at all times, checking up on their records and checking you out—to make sure you were following prescription. Two psychs in their pristine white uniforms became visible in the shadows. I was hidden in a dumpster among scraps of wood and smashed bits from cheap radios. They had not yet seen me, but they were close. They could triangulate the source, but electronic sensors designed to replicate the olfactory sense were spotty at best. I was shocked that they were so close. But then, a dumpster is really the only hiding place in an otherwise empty alley, so they could narrow the search down a bit. I watched them wave their sensors around in the air, trying to get a better lock. “Looks like some low level stuff,” said one, “maybe R-44, or DZ-23.” They were both standing right next to the dumpster now. One was leaning his elbow on one rusted corner of it. “W2-13, actually.” I said, putting my hands in the air in what I hoped was a non-threatening fashion and standing up so as to be clearly visible. There was little point in continuing this farcical hiding further. They knew my location and had been toying with me. “You know what we have to do, don’t you?” asked the second of the two psychs, “You understand?” He used an artificially soft voice. Perhaps he meant it to be soothing, but it struck me as being condescending. “There is no need to patronize me. I may not be on any meds, but I’m not stupid.” “We’ll be the one’s to decide if you’re stupid. If you are we’ll just put you on some intelligence boosters and clear you right up.”             They led me to their car, though I’m not sure if it’s really leading if there’s a tranquilizer gun pointed at your back. When I was safely strapped into the back (literally strapped into a straitjacket embroidered into the fabric of the back seat), the first psych took the wheel and the second took shotgun, heading off in an unknown direction. Shotgun took a blood sample from my left middle finger, squeezing it to get enough for the machine. He dipped the small container of blood into its slot and read the printout the analyzer gave him. “You’re right, it is W2-13. That’s real top of the line masking agent. Where did you get it? Rehab can be short or long; if you help us, we can help you.” “You expect me to help you to incriminate myself?” “I don’t need any more help. I’ve got everything that I need right here.” He waved the printout back at me. “Nothing in your system but W2-13. Law prohibits the possession or use of any chemical agent designed to replicate the effects of med tracers. I hardly think convincing anyone that you’re off your meds will be a problem.” “What am I supposed to be on?” Shotgun pushed a few keys on an ancient Internet tablet that had been bouncing around on the dashboard. I recognized the logo of a popular DNA search engine. That gave them my identity and from there he when to a government prescription database and plugged my number in. Little blue letters appeared: NONE. “That’s impossible,” said Shotgun. “What?” asked Driver. “There’s no prescription that matches his ID.” “He’s never been evaluated. I saw that once, the poor fellow had been running for his entire life. The IQ tested off the charts. It was almost sad, seeing that brought down to tolerance levels. We could do with a few smarties.” “Its not that. It’s all in the records. He’s been to a different robot evaluator every week. That’s more than often than the legal requirement. He’s never been prescribed anything, not even for ADD. Everybody has ADD.” “I don’t want to have to deal with any extra paperwork for something unusual. Maybe we should refer the case.” “I concur.” Driver spun the wheel quickly, quickly making an illegal u-turn. “Dr. Ksrib?” “Yes, I think he would be best.” “You know,” I said, interrupting them, “you don’t technically have to take me to any doctor. I’m on everything listed in my prescription.” “Now, you know that’s impossible. First of all, this prescription is an obvious forgery. No one could be prescribed nothing. Secondly, you were breaking the law by using imitation dosage tracers. If we hadn’t come along just now, you might still be out there, as insane as ever. What do you show us? Gratitude for helping you?  No. You show us nothing but disrespect.” It was in my best interest to remain silent. They were recording me and that could be used against me in later analysis. They drove down curvy back streets and through an affluent suburb before coming to a stop in front of a glass-paneled building. It was desolate in a way I could not quite trace; out here in the land of tract housing, this structure had a sense of urban obscenity about it. People worked here. There are a few rules to dumpster diving. The first rule is to never dive in a compactor. You see, there are a few types of dumpsters. Most of them are safe, but compactors are designed to crush garbage into manageable bundles. Of course the compactor will rarely discriminate between human flesh and garbage. Another rule is that a diver should always try to appear nonchalant. If the owner of a dumpster comes along, you can always claim to be innocently looking for boxes. I wanted very much to appear nonchalant, but I knew that I looked as nervous as I felt. This is what I had been running from my whole life. They parked in a poorly lit parking garage in parking area blue-seven. I was taken to the elevator and pushed into it. “Floor two, room a302,” one of my captors called after me.             For a moment I thought it odd that I should be given such an absurdly easy opportunity for escape, but it wasn’t really an opportunity at all. My genetic identity was now filed. A photograph of me sat in a database somewhere, ready to be emailed to every cheap street psychologist in the country. The elevator doors closed with a soft, almost resigned ding. Into the compactor. Another thought struck me, but I tried to keep it out of my head. They didn’t want to visit this psychologist to whom I had been referenced any more than I did.             Decades old machinery managed to pull the elevator up to the second floor and reopen the door, this time replacing the dingy parking level with a similarly dingy corridor. This was a place that had been built during one of those occasional economic booms where people managed to convince themselves that the wealth would keep flowing forever and the spending money on a garish office building would help give their company the razor’s edge. Now the majority of the offices were rented out to cheap firms that hoped one day to have a flashy office building of their own.              I knocked on the door to room a302 and for a moment no one answered. Finally after nearly a full minute a slat, roughly a foot below eye level, slid back revealing a pair of blue bloodshot eyes. “Are you my patient?” asked the owner of the eyes, muffled from behind the door.  “Your behavior is having a deleterious effect on my estimation of your ability to help me maintain mental health.”             The door slid open sideways, apparently on casters rather than hinges. Before I could react, I was grabbed by the lapels and pulled forcefully into the office. It was decorated tastefully in pastels with a vaguely floral motif. “You like it?” asked the psychologist, noticing my admiration of the office. “I’m also an interior decorator.” “Colorful term for what you do.” To my surprise he chuckled. “Oh my, yes. Now, how can I fix you today?” “Apparently I’m not on any medication.” “Oh my. What’s on your prescription?” “Nothing.” “Really? That is unusual. You don’t have any mental illness at all?” “Not a one.” “How odd. You look perfectly normal. Well, there’s only one thing to do.” “What,” I asked, “is that?” “Kill you.”              I must admit that this threw me off for a moment. I know it’s not the appropriate thing to do. Everyone is supposed to just sit back and take death when it’s their time. I guess most of them would be too medicated to make much of a fuss anyway. “Pardon me?” “Well, you know. If you run around being naturally normal, then people will get jealous. Naturally then the powers that be have a problem: jealous people. It’s not fair to have some people running around jealous and not other people. The other people might get jealous. There would have to be research for an anti-jealousy drug. There would have to be testing. There would have to be production and distribution of the medication. That would cost billions for a worldwide release! It would just be far simpler to kill you. Then the only thing that has to be done is a dose of anti-grief meds to your family, if you have one, and we’re right as rain. It’s much cheaper.” “Wow. Well, I guess it is for the betterment of society that I die then.” “Yup. Now hop up on the examination table and we’ll have you dead in a jiffy.” I sat up on the padded azure examination table and lay back with my head crumpling the paper towel that had been spread over the table from a dispenser at the bottom. The psychologist went across the room to his desk and rummaged around in a bin of plastic twist-top vials. He finally pulled out one marked with a smiling Jolly Roger. He tossed it in the air and caught it again before twisting it open and pouring two pills into his cupped right hand. “Here ya go, bud.”             He pressed the capsules into my hand and crossed the room to the water cooler to fill a small paper cone with water. I looked at the small capsules and I looked out the window to the back of the building where there were dumpsters.     © Copyright, Jonathan Max Berman "Rufus"   Click here to read Jonathan's Brief and Bizarre Bio.   Click the box above to visit a strange new world, where Chris Goebel, editor of Humdinger Literary E-zine, shares tremendous mistakes, clumsiness, as well as—fortunately, useful writing tips, advice and links.