Perfect Flaw (3 page)

Right now I am happy and feel no guilt. I’ve worked hard for what I have, earned it all and done no wrong. I’m in our unit - two large rooms and our own bathroom! - on the ship. I’ve just drunk a warm, foamy cup of chettel - our allowance is three cups per week, raised from two last year, which is great. My man will be back from his shift in an hour, and we’ll eat real set-meat with vegetables, and fresh gorda-fruit bars with added zelba, all the way from Gef.

I am so glad to be away from Fellen’s Moon. I heard that there has been trouble there, terrorism, and fights breaking out. The Company will sort it out I’m sure, though they’re taking their time.

We’ll have two whole hours of leisure time tonight before lights out. Tomorrow my shift is only ten hours, and within six years I can expect promotion and an even better lifestyle. What more could I want? Yes, my life is rich in every way now, and I am happy. You can’t put a price on that.

SMILERS

BY CAROLYN M. CHANG

People suck. Life sucks. Work sucks. It’s a sucky world. Mays -- short for Maysing Volenda, which she thinks makes her sound like a circus act -- is a negaholic.

Mays ducks her head and slouches while walking home after another lousy day at work, hoping it makes her appear smaller, but only succeeds in making her look like she has no tits. Not that there was much to begin with. Still, it’s hard not to notice a two-meter-tall-black-clad woman amidst a crowd dressed in the popular colour palette of the season: pastels. Revolting, she thinks. Or baby-butt-barf-ugly, to be more precise.

Mays barrels through the 24-hour advertising holograms lining a major street in the shopping district, wishing she could inflict real pain to the animations. Some are ridiculous animals, talking and gesturing like people. Some are sexy figures dancing to trendy, pulsing music. Others scream your name at you to shock you into noticing them.

One is new. She slows down to take a gander at the hologram: a man that doesn’t seem to be associated with any of the cheesy shops selling no-brand electronics or gaudy, pastel-colored clothes. He’s dressed in soft white flowing robes, his serene face lined gently with age and wisdom. His hair and clothes ruffle in an unfelt breeze. Unlike the other holograms, he stands perfectly still. And he’s smiling.

She hears his soothing voice say, “Do you seek peace of mind? Do you seek serenity and freedom from your everyday woes? Come to the Garden. We will help you discover your inner sanctuary.”

“Shit,” Mays mumbles. “So they’ve finally planted their jeezu-freaking’ stakes in this dump of a town. Damn Smilers.”

When she passes the robed figure, he turns to her, palm extended and facing upward. “What about you, young woman in black? Wouldn’t you live each day filled with joy?”

She looks up at the shops, to see if someone is controlling the hologram remotely. Nothing. She trudges on.

“Ah…Such sadness. We could help you, lovely one,” he says, his voice oozing with kindness.

Mays pauses. She doesn’t recall anyone ever referring to her as ‘lovely’. She turns to look at him with a momentary look of softness. Then she sneers.

“Piss off.” She continues her way home.

***

Mays unlocks the door to her apartment situated next to a noisy beauty salon and rides the hydro-lift to her rooms painted in shades of grey. A high priority holo-mail awaits.

She places the small disc in the palm of her hand and watches the miniature holographic Smiler in pastel-colored robes recite its message: “…therefore, due to your consistent public show of negativity resulting in a potentially dangerous Positive Emotionality index, we have enrolled you in a local clinic. We are pleased to inform you that the Garden is ready to receive you tomorrow and --”

Mays pokes her finger through the hologram’s belly, making the image jitter, interrupting the voice stream. She giggles. She removes her finger to let the message run its course while she half listens.

“Little phony-faced-do-gooder-freakos,” she says to the tiny Smiler standing on her hand as it prepares to repeat the message. “I’m staying just the way I am and nobody’s going to tell me otherwise.”

It’s 2059 and Mays has moved to this small hick town to escape the insanity around Positive Emotionality -- PE for short -- which has overtaken the bigger cities like a plague. She’s sick of all the Smilers who continuously lick each other’s arses; the Smilers who claim their way of life make them so incredibly-dorkily-retardedly happy. All that lifestyle would do for Mays is make her feel like a hypocrite. Or worse…happy.

After shutting down the holo-mail Mays tosses it into the trash bin. She saunters to the kitchen and says, “I wonder how they found me.” Maybe someone complained about her. Was it her creepy, definitely-a-holo-penis manager at the Shaktomiso Art and Culture Center who hoped she would learn to ‘get along with the invited artists’? If it wasn’t for her being such an excellent art installation technician, she knows she would’ve been fired ages ago. Or maybe it was the owner of the beauty salon downstairs who greeted her the other day and Mays responded with: ‘Get back to your dimwit-chit-chatty-uglies.’ Or was it the man who asked her for directions and she answered, ‘Find someone who cares about this stink-ass-creep-infested-hole.’ She shrugs. Too many possibilities.

“Me, a ‘threat to society’? Hah! Screw you, Smilers.”

She grabs a low-cal-high-alc beer and slams herself down on the lounge bed.

“Stereo on.”

A saxophone fills the room with mellow tones.

“No, something with more energy.”

A pulsing rhythm with unintelligible female vocals in the background come on. She closes her eyes as the music and alcohol take over.

***

Empty beer cylinders tinkle as she stirs the following morning. She stumbles to the water closet and manages to flip open the hidden door before she retches pale yellow bile.

She reaches for the anti-bac-tartar-plaque spray while she peers reluctantly into a small grimy mirror. Greasy, black mud would be a good description of the colour of her hair, which is kept in a short, scraggly bob. She pushes her hair away to peer into bloodshot eyes, exposing delicate features and a nicely shaped mouth tinted deep pink. Her eyes are dark hazel -- a detail she often forgets. If only she took the time to care for her skin, maybe some of the blemishes would go away. But she doesn’t see the point.

“Fugly,” she mutters to her reflection. She shuts her eyes and grips her skull. “Oh…” She rummages in a small box cluttered with small containers brightly colored in alarm reds, neon pinks, and piercing blues. They look too damn cheerful.

Chimes ring. The front door comm. “Shit. Who could possibly be?” She staggers over and presses the touch pad. The security vid-panel lights up, the light stabbing her eyes, and she sees a pair of eager-looking male Smilers with glimmering, combed-back hair.

“Go away. Don’t want any P.E. holo-books.”

“Good morning, Ms. Volenda,” says the one with a huge mole on his cheek. “We’re from the Garden and it’s time to start feeling hap-py.”

“Go to hell, you freaky tooth-flashers!” She shuts down the comm.

Mays is about to spray painkiller into her mouth when she hears the hydro-lift whirring into action. A few seconds later, a knock on the door.

“Ms. Volenda? Would you please open the door? We’re here to help you.”

She stares dumbly at the entrance to her home. Then to her horror, there is a soft shuh sound. “They’ve opened the bloody door!”

Re-animated, Mays runs to the door and slams it shut only to have it jammed open by an intrusive Smiler shoe. Slowly and relentlessly, the door is forced open while Mays throws her weight against it. She jumps back as two muscular Smilers enter, both splitting open their lips to flash gleaming teeth.

“It’s so nice to meet you in person, Ms. Volenda,” says giant-mole-on-the-cheek. Grins are tattooed on both their faces.

Mays backs away, deeper into her apartment, towards the kitchen unit.

“Can we please do this the nice way? We want to help you turn your life around.”

She turns and runs to the magnetic strip holding her sharp paring knife but the Smilers grab her and gag her. She is dragged downstairs to their vehicle through a sealed walkway which is jammed against her ground floor entrance, making it impossible to escape. No one notices her struggle.

***

The two big Smilers wheel Mays, strapped to the chair at the wrists and ankles, into her temporary home. The Garden looks just like its name, lush and green with the perfume of flowers punching her in the nose. Enthusiastic Smilers hustle about, their white robes fluttering like phony angels’ wings.

The two Smilers escort her into an office where they remove her restraints. While she’s rubbing her wrists, Big-mole-Smiler pats her on the shoulder and then they are gone.

Mays sits facing another Smiler perched behind a big white desk that looks like it could swallow him up. He is skinny with a large hooked nose and black eyes that belong on a crow. She would like to throw dried corn kernels at his face.

“Do you understand why you are here, Ms. Volenda?” His voice sounds kissy-kissy.

“Yes, because you Smilers are a bunch of compulsive-obssessive-positive-feely-junkies.”

The Smiler shakes his head and puts on a small, knowing grin. He then launches a battery of tests.

“Fifty-five.
Tsk tsk tsk
,”
says the Smiler when they are done. “Believe it or not, I’ve seen worse P.E. levels than yours. I hope you realise you’re in for trouble if you don’t change your ways, Ms. Volenda. It’s all been documented. Severe health problems, most likely cancer, if not suicide.” When he gazes at her with a concerned look on his face, Mays wants to punch him in that beak of his.

Her P.E. Life Change Programme is drawn up, along with a target P.E. growth curve with fixed points in time where her progress is to be measured. She’s to start ASAP.

“What if I prefer to stay as I am?” asks Mays, the line between her brows deepening further.

“Ms. Volenda, that is simply unacceptable,” replies the Smiler as he leads her out of the room. “Come. I’ll take you to your first session. You’ll be happy before you know it.”

Mays follows numbly, her shoulders in their usual slumped position, her eyes focused one meter ahead on the floor in front of her.

***

Suzu’s rambling is like the irritating buzz of a mosquito. No, you can at least squash a mosquito dead. Partner chat sessions are now a daily part of Mays’ routine; a forced moment of bonding and sharing with a fellow Garden patient.

Mays looks bleary-eyed as she faces her partner’s limp, dirty blond hair and pasty face, propped on top of a pudgy body. They both wear the same Garden-issued tunic and pants in pale green. Ugh, pastels.

Suzu requires rehab for a different PE disorder -- her self-denigrating attitude. It also didn’t help that as a pharmacist she skimmed off many of her clients’ more interesting prescriptions for personal consumption.

“So, Suzu, tell me what happened after you stuffed your face with that whole cylinder of ice cream.” A robot couldn’t have spoken in a more monotone voice.

“Well, I looked down and couldn’t believe it was empty. I am such a pig.” Suzu bites her lip and looks down at her sausage-link fingers clasped in her lap. “You know what it’s like though, right? Where before you realise it, you’ve already done something bad?”

“Don’t know…”

“But what about how you say all those mean things? Like yesterday in the cafeteria when that guy bumped into you and you told him he was a ‘fatty-matty-fart-smeller.’ I think I heard people do that kind of thing when they’re afraid of having relationships. A kind of defense mechanism.”

Mays glares at Suzu for a moment before her eyes lose focus again.

Mays has just turned twenty, single and friendless. She does remember a guy from some umpteen years ago -- Lesil Greenfield. She was twelve. So was he. He dumped her as soon as he got a dog for his birthday. It’s better that way though, because inside she is nothing more than a pile of mush. But it’s not her fault, it’s her father’s. You see, her mother left them as soon as she was ripped from the womb and papa’s words are forever imprinted in her brain:
You were born to be a failure, Mays
.

“Well, that’s just what the Smilers say,” says Suzu. “I don’t mind it, Mays. Really I don’t.”

Mays looks at the clock. They’re everywhere, even in the toilets. Living to a schedule is a ‘way to fight depression’ according to Garden guidelines.

“Yikes, gotta go!” Mays stands up. “Time for one-on-one time with picture lady.”

“Okay. Same time tomorrow then? Hope you don’t mind being my partner. I really appreciate--“

Mays is already out the door.

***

The Smiler who does the picture exercises is on a mission. Out of all the Smilers who provide P.E. treatments for Mays, she is the most cheerful and optimistic -- the most P.E. of them all.

Mays gazes wearily at the holo-picture of the man and woman sitting on a park bench on a sunny day. It’s number 27. “Hmmm…I see two lovers who are in the middle of breaking up. He’s telling her that she was a lousy lay. She asks, what do you mean? He says she could’ve at least made some noise instead of acting like a slimy-slippy-rotty-fish. She says, well, at least she doesn’t have make-your-eyes-bleed body stink and --“

“Okay, Maysing. I get the idea.” The Smiler’s smile seems a little less smiley as she taps the holo-pad to send the picture away. “You know, your creativity never ceases to amaze me. Now if we could only channel it into a more P.E. direction.” The Smiler leans back in her chair and gives Mays an appraising look. “Let’s try something a bit radical to break this negative pattern of yours. What I’d like you to do is tell me one positive thing about one of these pictures. Anything, no matter how small. And you’re not going to leave this room until you do.”

“Is that right...”

“You heard me, Maysing.” The Smiler grins. “Here we go.” The Smiler taps the pad again and a holo-picture of a beagle puppy frolicking in a bed of flowers appears.

“That runt is about to get kicked by its master for taking a shit on the flowers and--”

“Next.” It’s a little girl and a woman holding hands.

“The woman is a serial killer and she’s going to take the girl home, hack her into small pieces, then braise her with chopped tomatoes and--“

“Next.”

It’s been two hours and they are at holo-picture number 147. Mays sags in her chair and the Smiler’s smile is but a whisper of what it was at the beginning of the session.

“Listen, Smiler-lady, I’m starving and dying of thirst. Can’t we continue this charade tomorrow?” Mays rests her head back on the chair.