“You’re going to have to speak to answer my questions. It’s okay, understand? It’s okay to talk to me. Now… what’s your address and social security number, Mr. Hall?”
Amazing. Even when things are literally falling apart around you, the bureaucracy rolls on and on.
After verifying all of my information to the man’s satisfaction, another soldier pulled a large box from the back of a truck and dropped it into my arms. The thing felt as heavy as a small child and I was assured that there was enough inside to last a full week if we doled it out wisely; another officer would be around in the future to issue a new ration card and I, or someone else residing in my household, could come back next week at the same time and location to claim further supplies.
As I staggered along the streets, I began to feel eyes upon me. I could sense the other people looking at my box of food and necessities, could almost feel their desire to possess it like a beam of warmth penetrating my skull. Even though my back ached from carting this huge box around, I tried to rise to my full height, to puff my chest out in the hopes that it might be mistaken for muscle. Don’t get me wrong: I don’t think I could be considered in any way, shape, or form to be weak. A little out of shape maybe. Forty hours of pushing a mouse around every week for the last seven years will do that to a man. Your belly ends up getting a little rounder and you lose some of the tone that used to make your biceps as taut as piano wires. But out here on the streets, where violence could break out as easily as you might sneeze, every little advantage helped. So if there was any way I could make it seem like there might be an easier target then, by God, I was going to take it.
Still, I didn’t like being out in the open. I kept thinking that I heard someone’s footsteps running up behind me, imaging someone’s breath on the back of my neck, mistaking my own shadow for someone else’s. Every few seconds I stole a glance over my shoulder and felt a little of the tension in my shoulders release when I realized that the other people were still just standing on the sidewalk or were ducking into their own houses and apartments. So I continued walking. But within a few minutes I wondered: is that the echo of my own footsteps bouncing off the buildings? Or someone else’s? Someone trying to mirror my pace, to disguise the sound of their approach beneath my own little noises? And then the entire scene would replay itself like a bad loop film.
So that’s why I’m standing here now, glancing back and forth from the street ahead to the little alley to my left. The street has the advantage of being patrolled by police and soldiers; but there’s still no guarantee that I won’t be attacked. When the violence flares, the people taking part in it are like a packs of wild dogs. They pounce upon the victim with speed and cunning, their ferocity and the element of surprise helping to isolate their prey even further. I’ve seen this time and time again on news broadcasts and reality cop shows. One moment it’s just like any other day. Everything is quiet, life goes on as it always has. Next thing you know, a mob of people explode in a flurry of aggression, flailing with fists and feet and teeth and nails. If it’s not put down quickly, it grows like a force of nature… like a whirlwind that sucks people into its vortex… and suddenly the entire street is filled with screams and breaking glass and the blood begins to flow long before the first sirens ever start to respond.
But if I cut down the alley there’s less chance of being seen. Fewer people to covet my box of goodies. And, if I’m not mistaken, I can actually network through these alleys and probably cut a good ten minutes off the trip back home. So that settles it: the less time I’m out here in the streets the better.
The alley smells like rotten vegetables and is lined with overflowing dumpsters. It’s been close to a week and a half since I’ve seen a garbage truck in this town and trash is starting to pile up everywhere. When the dumpsters can’t hold any more litter, people just start piling the bags up around them. Stray dogs and rats come along, shred the thin plastic with their claws and teeth, strew refuse all over the place, and make a damn mess out of everything. On top of this, the bricks walls are covered with graffiti, loops and swirls of some cryptic alphabet that I can never hope to comprehend, and I start to wonder how I’ll explain the sour stench of urine wafting from my pants once I get home? Can I really tell Polly and Jane that I stood in line for so long that I pissed myself? That I reverted into nothing more than a small child who couldn’t control even the simplest of body functions?
In a word, this sucks. It feels like I’m the one being punished while the rest of the world just does whatever the hell they want, takes whatever the hell they want whenever the hell they want it. All my life I’ve tried to play by the rules. I graduated high school, got my college diploma and netted a cushy little office job. I met a nice girl, resisted the temptations of other — sometimes prettier — girls and would probably end up proposing to her within a year or so. I wore the right clothes, went to all the right hot spots, read the right books, and listened to the right music. And yet, somehow, life was still a constant struggle. There was never enough money to last from one paycheck to the next, the bills always required juggling, and every time it seemed like a little extra money had come my way some problem or another would rear its ugly head and require even more cash than what I had on hand. But I kept on with the charade so that my friends would never suspect how precariously I was balanced on the tightrope of finances. I kept on pretending everything was fine while those damn hooligans ran free through the cities, satisfying their hearts’ every desire, their every whim. I guarantee none of them smell like piss because they spent the better part of the day waiting in line for a friggin’ handout.
Listen to me. I sound like a spoiled child who can’t have that shiny, new toy. I need to get home, get some sleep. Or at least a nice hot cup of coffee if nothing else.
I round the corner and find myself in a new stretch of alley. Up ahead, there’s an old man and he seems to be struggling with his own box. It’s smaller than mine, probably only enough for one or two people, but his arms are so frail and his back so bent that I’m sure it feels twice as heavy to him.
Poor old guy. If the world is this confusing to me, how must it be for him?
He takes these tiny Geisha-girl steps and I wonder how long it’s taken him to make it this far? For every step he takes, I cover three times the distance. He’s now so close that I can see the liver spots on the back of his head, the wrinkles creasing his neck, and the way his pants seem to be slowly sliding down his hips as if his belt isn’t quite tight enough. I don’t know whether he’s deaf or trusting, but he never looks over his shoulder to see who’s coming up behind him. Not even when I clear my throat in an attempt to announce my presence.
But why am I feeling sorry for him? He’s had a long life, this old timer. I’m sure he’s seen his share of hardships, but he won’t have to suffer through the madness that’s gripped this country much longer. By the looks of him, he’s only got six months to a year of life left in him. Tops. He’ll probably die peacefully in his sleep while I stand in line for another fucking supply box, reeking of piss again. If, that is, there’s even still any supplies to go around. By then the whole world could have gone tits up. And I’m not being dramatic. I really think that’s a possibility. The violence grows worse with each passing week. The outbreaks happen more frequently, involve more people. And, as the militia members who brought down the helicopter yesterday prove, in some ways they’re getting more organized. Six months from now I might consider myself lucky to have a little box like his. I’ll be starving and suffering and he’ll be laying peacefully within his grave with not a care in the world.