Terms of Enlistment (2 page)

“I thought your mother was lying to me,” he says. “I didn’t think you’d pass. You and your books.”

“Yeah, maybe that had something to do with it,” I say. “They do need people with brains, too.”

“You’ll be pushing buttons somewhere. No way they’ll send you out to kill other people. You don’t have it in you.”

Why, because I never fought back when you used me as a punching bag?

His remark is the perfect excuse to hurl something back at him, but I realize that he’s trying to provoke me, and I don’t want to give him the satisfaction.

“We’ll see about that,” I say, and he flashes a faint smile. I look so much like him that it hurts. If I end up washing out, I’ll be back here in the PRC, and then I’ll end my life just like this someday, alone and afraid, confined to a few dozen square yards in the middle of a welfare city. PRC housing doesn’t stand empty for long when someone dies. They throw out your stuff, hose the place out with a chemical cleaner, reset the access code for the door, and hand the apartment over to a new welfare tenant the very same day.

“When are you shipping out?”

“Tomorrow evening,” I say. “I report to the processing station at eight.”

“Keep your nose clean. If you get arrested, they’ll fill your slot with someone on the waiting list.”

“Don’t worry about that,” I say. “When in doubt, I’ll just think of what you would do, and then do the opposite.”

Dad just rasps a chuckle. When we were still living under one roof, that kind of belligerence would have gotten me a beating, but the cancer has sapped the passion out of him.

“You’ve turned into a little shithead,” he says. “All full of yourself. I was just like that when I was your age, you know.”

“I’m nothing like you, Dad.
Nothing
like you.”

He watches, amused, as I turn to walk out of his apartment.

At the door, I turn around.

“Just go,” he says as I open my mouth to say good-bye. “I’ll see you again after you wash out.”

I look back at him, the man who contributed half of my genetic code. I tell myself that this is going to be the last time I see him--that I should say something that will make me feel like I have closure. Instead, I just turn around and walk away.

I step into the dingy hallway outside, and walk to the top of the staircase at the end. As I reach the stairs, I hear the door of my father’s apartment closing softly.

On the way home, I stop at the food station to pick up my weekly meals. They come in sealed, disposable trays, fourteen to a box. Every welfare recipient gets a box per week, twenty-eight thousand calories of Basic Nutritional Allowance.

The stuff in the BNA rations is made of processed protein, enhanced with nutrients and vitamins, and artificially flavored to make it palatable. They say it’s deliberately designed to taste merely tolerable because it discourages excessive consumption, but I think that no scientific process can make BNA rations a culinary delight. In the end, it still tastes like they used ground-up feet and assholes for the raw protein, which is probably not too far from the truth. One of my friends in school claimed that BNA rations are partially made of reconstituted human shit from the public water treatment plants, which is probably not too far from the truth, either. Public drinking water is recycled piss anyway, so it wouldn’t be much of a stretch to complete the circle.

The rain is still coming down steadily. At the tenement high rise next to ours, some guys are hanging out under the overhang by the entrance. They notice the box under my arm as I trot by, but none of them must like the idea of getting soaked to the bone for a few trays of badly flavored soy, because they all stay put.

As I walk up the stairs to the front door of our apartment building, I remember the gun on my hip.

There’s one more thing left to do this evening.

“How much ammo do you have for this thing?”

“Eight factory rounds and twenty-seven home-rolled,” I say.

Eddie opens the cylinder and spins it, something he has done three times already during our negotiation. It’s almost painful to see my gun in the hands of someone else. I know that I’ll never hold it again if the deal goes through.

“You’re tossing that in, of course,” he says.

“Of course. What am I going to do with the bullets without the gun?”

“Thirty-eight Specials are common on the street,” Eddie says. “You could sell the ammo to someone else.”

“I’m joining the service tomorrow. No time to go shopping around. Call it a package deal.”

“A package deal,” Eddie repeats. “Okay.”

He looks the gun over again and nods to himself.

“Two commissary vouchers and two ounces of Canada Dry. Last you for a week or more if you don’t run around and share.”

I shake my head.

“No go on the dope. If I test positive, they’ll kick me out. Four commissary vouchers.”

Eddie pinches his chin with thumb and forefinger in thought. I know he made up his mind on my offer the second it was on the table, but I let him go through the ritual anyway.

“Three vouchers, ten pills, regular meds, your pick of house stock.”

I pretend to think about it.

“Three vouchers, fifteen pills,” I say.

“
Deal
.”

Eddie holds out his hand. We shake on the transaction, and my revolver disappears underneath one of the many layers of Eddie’s clothing. We’re in a dirty alley between two residence towers. Eddie buys and sells almost anything of value--guns, drugs, vouchers for the food stores outside of the PRC, and fake ID cards that sometimes hold up to inspection.

“What kind of pills do you have?”

“Let’s see,” he says. “Pain killers, antibiotics, blood pressure stuff, uppers, a few downers.”

“How good are the pain killers?”

“Headaches and stuff, not ‘getting shot’ kind of pain.”

“Good enough,” I say. “Let me have those.”

Eddie reaches into his coat, gets out a tube of pills, and counts fifteen into my hand.

“These better be real,” I say as I tuck the pain meds into my pocket.

“Of course they are,” Eddie replies, mild offense in his voice. “I have a reputation, you know. People end up with fakes, they’ll never buy from me again.”

He reaches into one of his pockets again and presents three commissary vouchers with a flourish, like a winning hand of cards.

“Appreciate the business,” he says as I take the vouchers.

“I’ll see you around, Eddie,” I say, and know without a doubt that I won’t.

Mom looks up from her Network show when I walk back into the apartment.

“How was it?”

“Pointless,” I say.

I walk over to the living room table and drop the handful of pills onto it. Mom eyes the meds, and raises an eyebrow.

“Nothing illegal,” I say. “Just some pain meds. I figured you could use ‘em, with your toothaches.”

She leans forward and scoops up the pills.

“Where did you get those, Andrew?”

“I traded some stuff.”

I pull the commissary vouchers out of my pocket and place them on the table in front of Mom. She leans forward to inspect them, and claps her hands together in front of her mouth.

“Andrew
! How did you get those?”

“I traded some stuff, Mom,” I repeat.

She picks up the vouchers carefully, as if they are made of brittle paper. Each of those vouchers entitles the bearer to a hundred new dollars in goods at a food store outside of the PRC. The government issues vouchers every month, and they hand them out from the safety of a concrete booth near the Public Transit Station on a lottery basis.

“Use ‘em, or trade for something,” I say. “Just don’t let anyone cheat you out of those.”

“Don’t you worry about that,” Mom says as she stacks up the vouchers and slips them into a pocket. “It’s been a year and a half since we got a voucher. I’m dying for some bread and cheese.”

I was fully prepared to feed my mother some nonsense about the stuff I traded for those vouchers, but she’s so excited that she doesn’t bother to dig any further.

“Good night,” I say and walk over to the door of my room. Mom smiles at me, and turns her attention back to the plasma panel on the wall, where some inane Network show is running on low volume.

“Andrew?” she says as I am at the door. I turn around, and she smiles at me, the first one I’ve seen on her face in days.

“I’ll try and go over to the food store in the morning. Maybe we can have a decent lunch before you go.”

“That would be nice, Mom.”

I spend my final night in PRC Boston-7 reading the last fifty pages of Moby Dick. Tomorrow, I will have to leave the book reader behind. I’ve read the novel a dozen times or more, but I don’t want to leave it unfinished now, forever bookmarked at the spot where the Pequod slips beneath the waves.

On the second day, a sail drew near, nearer, and picked me up at last. It was the devious-cruising Rachel, that in her retracing search after her missing children, only found another orphan...

“Don’t do it”, the woman says.

I am an obvious target for the protesters that have gathered in front of the military processing station. I’m carrying a ratty travel bag, and I’ve saved the military the cost of a haircut by shaving the hair on my head down to an eighth of an inch.

“Excuse me?” I ask.

The woman has a kind face and long hair that is starting to go gray in places. There’s a whole gaggle of people protesting out in front of the station, holding up signs and chanting anti-military slogans. They stay well away from the doors of the station, where two soldiers in battle armor stand guard and check induction letters. The soldiers carry sidearms and electric crowd control sticks, and while they’re not dignifying the protest with so much as a glance, none of the protesters ever come within twenty feet of the yellow line that separates the public sidewalk from the processing station.

“Don’t do it,” she repeats. “They don’t care about you. They just want a warm body. You’ll die out there.”

“Everyone dies,” I say. That particular piece of wisdom sounds pompous even to my own ears. I’m twenty-one, she looks to be past sixty, and she probably knows much more about the subject of life and death than I do.

“Not at your age,” the woman says. “They’re going to dangle that carrot in front of you, and all you’ll get out of it is a flag-draped coffin. Don’t do it. Nothing’s worth your life.”

“I signed up already.”

“You know that you can back out at any time, right? You could walk away right now, and they couldn’t do anything about it.”

Right then, I know that she’s never been within ten miles of a welfare tenement. Walk away, and go back to that place?

“I don’t want to, ma’am. I made my choice.”

She looks at me with sad eyes, and I feel just a little bit of shame when she smiles at me.

“Think about it,” she says. “Don’t throw your life away for a bank account.”

She reaches out and gently puts her hand on my shoulder.

A heartbeat later, the elderly lady is on the ground, and the two soldiers from the entrance are kneeling on top of her. I never even saw them move away from their posts. She yells out in surprise and pain. Her comrades stop their chanting to shout in protest, but the soldiers don’t even acknowledge their presence.

“Physically interfering with access to an in-processing station is a Class D felony,” one of the soldiers says as he pulls out a set of flexible cuffs. They pry the woman off the dirty asphalt and haul her to her feet. One of them leads her inside, while the other soldier takes up position by the entrance again. The soldier leading the woman roughly by the arm is probably twice her mass in his bulky battle armor, and she looks very fragile next to him. She looks over her shoulder to flash that sad smile at me again, and I look away.

“The building is made of concrete and steel,” the sergeant says. “It’s extremely solid. You don’t need to hold it up with your shoulder.”

The guy next to me moves away from the wall against which he had been leaning, and gives the sergeant a smirk. She has already moved on, as if there is no point in wasting further time on the exchange.

We’re standing in line in a hallway at the reception building. There’s a folding table set up at the end of the hallway, and someone else is scanning the ID cards of the new recruits. The queue moves slowly. When I finally reach the head of the line, most of the evening is gone. I got here an hour before the eight o’clock deadline for reporting in, and now it’s close to ten.

The sergeant behind the folding table holds out his hand for my ID card and the induction letter, and I hand them over.

“
Grayson, Andrew
,” he says to the soldier next to him, who searches through an old-fashioned printout and then makes a check mark next to my name.