You'll Like It Here (Everybody Does) (7 page)

“You'll like Fashion City,” he says. “Everybody does.” And he leaves us alone.

In the apartment we find nothing unusual except for a large-screen television set built into one wall of each room, even the bathrooms. Every room is clean, bland, and barely furnished, but I guess it'll do. There is beige linoleum in the kitchen and bathrooms, but the other floors are covered with sturdy carpet, as brown as coffee. The cabinets and Sheetrock are an almond color.

Mom and I take the master bedroom and bathroom. Gramps and David take the smaller two bedrooms with a bathroom between them, where there's a washer and dryer.

The kitchen is the nicest room, as it seems to have been recently renovated. There is plenty of counter and cabinet space, and a small table with four chairs, an electric stove, a microwave, a refrigerator, a dishwasher, and a double sink with garbage disposal.

The main room has two mushroom-colored couches, two matching overstuffed armchairs, a coffee table, and a couple of end tables. Leading off this room are sliding glass doors, through which we can see our small balcony. Together we go out there and stand for a time, looking at this strange city. So muted, so lackluster, so shadowy. And even though the people are of different ethnic backgrounds, somehow they all seem the same.

“We need to think about food for dinner and for breakfast tomorrow,” Mom says wearily, interrupting my thoughts. “Shall we go for groceries?”

David and I do not particularly want to go grocery shopping, but Mom and Gramps insist. They say we are needed to help carry the sacks back home, but I know in my heart they are nervous about leaving us alone in this new place. So we stash the backpack in Mom's and my closet, lock up our apartment, and leave again.

In the hallway we come across a woman about Mom's age who seems agitated. With knitted brow, she paces back and forth, mumbling to herself.

We watch her briefly before Mom says, “Can we help you?”

“Maybe you can, yes, maybe so,” she says. “You see, I don't know whether I should take the stairs or the elevator.”

And she looks at us hopefully, like we might have the answer for her.

“I know the stairs are the best exercise, but I'm going to be late for my dentist appointment,” she goes on nervously. It seems like she might burst into tears.

“You're going to be late anyway if you don't do one or the other,” Gramps says.

“Oh, you're right, you're right,” she says in great agitation. She begins to wring her hands together.

“Then take the elevator, dear,” Mom says gently.

“But the stairs are the best exercise,” the woman repeats. “What should I do? What
should
I do?”

“Then take the stairs,” Gramps suggests.

“But it takes longer to get down,” she says, then continues to pace and stew.

From a nearby stairwell, a very pretty girl emerges. No more than twelve or thirteen, she has a face like a flower; her hair is long, dark, and shiny, her eyes a rich brown. Seeing the pacing woman, the girl walks quickly to her.

“Come, Bonnie, what's the problem? I'll help you decide.”

Bonnie repeats her dilemma to the young girl.

“You must take the elevator,” the girl says firmly. “This one time it's all right. The Fathers would approve.”

At the same time she steers the woman toward the elevator. She pushes the Down button and stands whispering soothingly to Bonnie while they wait.

“Are you sure it's the right decision?” Bonnie says when the elevator arrives.

“I'm positive,” the young girl says, and guides Bonnie inside.

“Thank you, Jennifer, thank you!” Bonnie cries as the elevator closes behind her.

“Jennifer,” David whispers.

I glance at his face. Uh-oh. Is he smitten, or what?

Jennifer turns to us and smiles warmly, saying, “Bonnie lives in the apartment next to yours, number 605. She's a sweet lady and a good neighbor, but she's been rehabilitated so many times, she has no decision-making ability left. She has an advanced case of gross vacillation.”

“Gross vacillation?” Mom repeats.

“Yes, it's a common disorder here. It's similar to gross reiteration, also common.”

“And that means?”

“Just what it sounds like. A person with gross reiteration repeats the same words and phrases over and over. They get stuck and can't get loose.”

“Well, that one I get,” Gramps says. “I mean, I can see why.”

“And exactly what was Bonnie rehabilitated
for
?” Mom asks.

“One thing and another,” Jennifer says. “Mostly war protests. She had three brothers killed in the war.”

“What war?” Mom asks.

Jennifer shrugs. “One of the wars against the Fathers.”

Then she stretches out a hand to Mom and introduces herself. “I'm Jennifer Gilmore. I live upstairs with my dad and my brother, Colin.”

I wonder where her mom is, but don't ask. Mom starts introductions, but Jennifer interrupts.

“I know who you are,” she says. “Tom's told everybody about you.”

“It's very nice to meet you, Jennifer,” Mom is saying. “Do come visit with us when you get a chance, and bring your family.”

“Oh, I'd love that!” Jennifer says. “I'll ask Dad.”

David watches her as she turns and disappears into the stairwell, where apparently she was on her way down, or up.

“Gross vacillation?” Gramps mutters as we push the elevator button. “Gross reiteration?”

“They do like that word,
gross
, don't they?” I say.

“Jennifer is
not
gross,” David says to nobody in particular.

From Tom we get directions to the nearest grocery store, and find it's in easy walking distance. Sector B Groceries is a small store, very different from the supermarkets we're accustomed to, but larger than a convenience store. It's logically divided into fresh produce, dairy, frozen foods, and then everything else.

The frozen foods take up most of the store. There we find prepared meals of all kinds and sizes, ready to be nuked. Mom has a concerned look on her face. She doesn't like processed food.

“Too much salt and fat,” I've heard her say many times. “And too many preservatives. There's no telling what might be in a frozen dinner. You can't even pronounce the ingredients.”

But it seems we have no choice at the moment. After selecting our frozen meals and other necessities, vinegar among them, we go to the checkout. Our cashier is a dark-haired young woman whose name tag tells us she is Tammy. She calls out each item as she rings it up on her register. She pops her gum, just like Kitty.

Lining each side of the checkout lane are stacks and stacks of small blue boxes.
LOTUS
is written in white letters on the sides. But something else is missing. What could it be? Here are the candy bars and the batteries and film, but … Oh, right! No tabloid newspapers screaming about drunken celebrities and two-headed pigs. It's kinda nice not seeing them. But there are no magazines and
newspapers of
any
kind. Come to think of it, I haven't seen any at all in Fashion City.

“Anything else, dear?” Tammy says sweetly to Mom.

“Do you have a newspaper back there?” I jump in, thinking they might be on the floor in bundles behind the counter. I've known this to happen sometimes in busy stores when the help hasn't had time to rack them.

“A n-newspaper!” Tammy sputters. “I should say not! These kids today!” Then she shakes her head, seeming at a loss for further words.

Surprised by her reaction, I say, “What do you mean?”

“For your information, this is not a black-market store!” she spits out with disgust.

“What's a black-market store?” I ask, sincerely eager to know.

But Tammy refuses to answer me. She has pursed her lips and folded her arms across her chest in a holier-than-thou stance.

“If you please, miss,” Mom says, refereeing for me, “we have just arrived this day from the Western Province. We are rather uninformed.”

The cashier's expression and attitude change immediately. “Ohhhhh.” She says the word long and low, making a tall O with her lips. “From the Western Province?” She looks all of us up and down curiously. Then she takes the food rations from Gramps, hands the receipt and some change to Mom, and pats me on the head.

“That's okay, little girl,” she says as if I'm five instead of eleven. “How could you know that newspapers were banned after the insurrection?”

“What insurrection?” are the words about to spill out of me, but I catch them just in time, which is probably a good thing.

“Newspapers are a source of discontent,” Tammy informs us. “What a blessing for us that they were banned.”

“And who, might I ask, banned them?” Gramps says with a fake smile.

“The Fathers, of course!” Tammy answers Gramps's question with a great warm smile of her own. “Praise the Fathers!”

“Indeed, praise the Fathers!” Gramps agrees cynically, but Tammy doesn't get it.

“I know you'll like Fashion City,” Tammy says. “Everybody does.”

“So we've been told.” Gramps keeps up his charade.

We are turning to leave when Tammy calls out suddenly, “Oh, you forgot your Lotus! You're allowed four boxes, one for each of you.”

Tammy shoves the Lotus boxes into a plastic bag and hands it to David.

“How much?” Gramps says, digging for the food stamps in his shirt pocket.

“Absolutely free!” Tammy gushes. “A gift to the people from the Fathers.”

“Check the coins!” David says to Mom when we are out on the street. “See what's printed on them!”

“Good idea!” Mom says as she digs around in her jeans pocket for the coins Tammy gave her.

Eagerly we all crowd around Mom to see what's on the nickel, two dimes, and one quarter. All are stamped
FASHION CITY, PRAISE THE FATHERS
. No date, no country. So we are still in the dark.

“Blue, Mom, blue,” David says suddenly. He means that he has spotted a blue streak in Mom's hair.

Mom touches her bare head. “We can't apply the vinegar here.”

“Take Meggie's cap,” David says as he snatches it from my head. “She doesn't need it. Do you, Meg?” And he laughs like he thinks he's totally funny.

Back in our apartment we go to our rooms and rest, so
that it's well into evening when Gramps and Mom begin preparing our salad for dinner.

David and I sit down in the living room, where we discover that only a few channels are available to us on TV. We watch a brainless sitcom about a family with eight children whose parents work in a clothing factory. Just like in the sitcoms we've become accustomed to on our Earth, everybody is cute and witty and sharp. But talk about your Goody Two-shoes—these kids make me and David look like crooks. They never have to be told twice to do something, and they always say “Praise the Fathers” for every good thing that comes to them. More than once, David and I make like we're barfing.

“Do you think the kids here are like that?” I say to my brother.

“Jennifer doesn't seem that way,” he responds. Then, cupping a hand over his mouth, he whispers, “Perfection
sucks.
”

Mom hates that word. In fact, her face changes color when she hears it. And here's my geeky brother trying it on for size.

So I encourage him. “You go, David.”

By the time we finish dinner and clean up the kitchen, the evening light is gone. Now we are unusually quiet and thoughtful. I know my family is thinking of the old Fischer place, as I am, and what we might have been doing at this hour if we'd been lucky enough to stay there. We slump heavily on the living room furniture. Gramps picks up the remote control and clicks the TV on again.

“Maybe we can get some news,” he says.

A Lotus commercial is playing. The words are the same as the ones we saw on the billboards this morning, but set to music.

“I wonder what that stuff is,” Mom says.

“Some kind of tranquilizer, is my guess,” Gramps says. “I had the feeling that many of the people we saw today were
on
something.”

“No kidding?” David says. “That would explain their unmitigated joy.”

“
On
something, for real?” I say.

Mom goes into the kitchen and brings out a box of Lotus. She opens it up and pulls out two handfuls of blue pills, each one wrapped in hard clear plastic.

“No literature,” Mom says, looking inside the empty box. “Nothing to tell us what the ingredients are.”

“Remember the story of Ulysses?” Gramps says.

We nod. We read it together at the old Fischer place.

“Remember the land of the lotus eaters?”

“Vaguely,” Mom says. “Refresh our memory.”

“The people who lived there ate of the lotus plant and lost all ambition. After his crew tasted it, Ulysses had to force them back onto the ship because they had no desire to return home.”

Mom stuffs the pills back into the box. “We will not be swallowing any of these.”

A series of slogans begins rolling across the TV screen while the silky-smooth voice of a woman reads the words. Tranquil music plays softly in the background.