The Code of Happiness (2 page)

“
It was free,” growls Po. She
unlocks the last bolt. “And now you are.”

“Excuse me.” Jamie brushes past her; he's all
pinpricks and needles. Po's withering theatrical glare lets Ray
know where she stands on the subject of this man.

Jamie wanders, nowhere to go. A public newscast beams
off one of the glass towers. Next for those with a subscription is
the truth about the JFK assassination, the mystery to be revealed
once and for all. The screen fades to black.
XXLI subscribers
only
.

*****

Palm trees soar to the skylight of a tall glass
atrium filled with shimmering gray metal sculptures. Jamie, in his
scuffed shoes, passes workers whose fashion and postures are
cutting edge. He's self-conscious trying not to care. He walks into
an XXLI visitor information booth and is given directions to human
resources. A machine spits out a card allowing him temporary access
to Level 5, and a green line lights up on the floor. He follows it
to the elevators. When the doors open on Level 5, the green line is
there again to guide, this time to a cold sterile room determined
to redefine minimalist. There's a single row of one hundred empty
chairs against a wall. It's more an art project than a welcome
place to sit. His standing induces a hidden female voice to request
he take a seat. The voice, crisp and formal, announces that when he
hears a gong he must take the first door to the right, sit in the
third row from the front, and in the third desk nearest to him. The
voice with deadpan cheek adds that hopefully it's easy—three and
three. He has five minutes to sit.

Jamie doesn't know what to do with his five minutes.
There's nothing to engage with but his mind and that seems vacuous.
He feels the tension. He doesn't want to be there. He questions
himself, wonders who the face is behind the voice. Why would anyone
want that job? He knows the cameras are so well hidden it's
pointless trying to look for them, but he does. They won't
intimidate him, he thinks, fuckers, I'll just get this job and shut
up, head down, pay the rent, maybe find a girl— hopefully it's not
all men—it would be nice to have a conversation with a real person,
not these fake identicals. He reminds himself there are always real
people behind the facade, then he forgets. He thinks of Ray and Po.
If only he had a smoke. He glances at his watch. It's stopped. He
bets it's XXLI mischief. The gong sounds before he can continue the
mental diatribe.

The examination room is made of ten rows of ten
chairs with curved thin touch screens. Like a well-trained dog
Jamie sits in the designated seat. The screen begins a countdown
and on zero he begins. He identifies shapes and words, associations
and perceptions. It's easy. Math is a cinch. It's all pointless in
a way. His mind concludes they're testing creative potential but
not imagination. He drifts as he answers the questions. How do you
test imagination and who declares if we're imaginative, and why
after all these years of human imagination do we dress in black and
gray and work in glass towers in jobs with the illusion of
flattened hierarchy. His thoughts are disrupted by a knock at the
door. A woman pokes her pale face into the room; she's of the apple
crisp voice. “We've made a mistake,” she says, “it's the wrong
test. Please follow me.”

“You're shitting me.”

She wasn't meant to hear that.

Jamie trails Grace, her twenty-seven-year-old posture
perfect in a black suit. Chitchat is not her cup of tea. She leads
him to a smaller test room, one row of ten chairs. Jamie's sarcasm
is about to get the better of him but he holds it in. There's no
eye contact from Grace as she tells him to sit anywhere he wants.
This time Jamie can't help a weak smile.

An hour later they're opposite each other in her
office. She raises her hand to stop him from speaking, “A moment
please.”

“The agency...”

“Thank you.”

She seems so cool of heart. Unforgettable really.
Must be the job, a daily line of applicants despite the rows of
empty chairs. Jamie's judgment has kicked in. She's more lost than
he is but doesn't know it. The conversation worsens.

“Very interesting Jamie. Surprising.”

“Can you tell me more?”

“You didn't qualify.”

“Excuse me?”

“Well it seems you're highly perceptive—nothing wrong
with that—except…”

“Except?”

“We're looking for more of a judge. Someone who can
make quick and clear decisions.”

“What's the job?”

“No point if you're not qualified.”

“Who says?”

“The test.”

Jamie draws close, “The agency said I'm over fucking
qualified.”

Grace gives him a snotty look and pegs him for a
cynic. How on earth did this man make it past pre-selection and
what a waste of her time.

“Agencies.” She rolls her eyes, “We keep your test
scores on record.”

“Can I see them?”

“Should something more appropriate come up—like tea
boy—we could call you back. Do you want me to keep it?”

Jamie snarls, but Grace, still offended, continues,
“I can erase it?” she taunts. “Keep it? Yes?” She clicks a button.
“Oh no. Erased.”

“What's your name?”

“We just have numbers here.” Sarcasm Jamie doesn't
appreciate.

“No point, don't you think? We won't see each other
again.”

“I just want a job.”

Jamie's kicking himself. He's sweating it out on a
treadmill watching the rain float down. He doesn't want to be this
angry person, so easily triggered. The hot showers at the gym act
as a masseuse, he'd stay under them forever except they cut out
after two minutes. While changing, one of his crumbling shoe laces
snaps in his hand forcing him to tie a delicate knot that won't
hold. He walks past the cute featureless receptionist in
conversation, but she's alert enough to ask if he wants to renew
his membership. Jamie politely declines with his eyes. Strange he
thinks, his watch works again.

*****

A black door opens for Jamie. It matched the address
on the card for the free dental appointment. Located in a row of
low-rise concrete buildings dearth of people, it's the sort of
place you'd go to get depressed. A bell tinkles as he enters. It
looks like a dental clinic reception; a waiting area with old
magazines, dental hygiene advice on the walls, and a dinky bell to
ring for attention. He reaches toward it but is stopped by Po
calling out to him, a seemingly reprimanded Po on her best
behavior.

“You work here as well?”

“Go figure.”

These people must be desperate to get him. He'd heard
Amway had gone to extreme measures to recruit but then again
the
metro
always needed more banal column inches to
fill. Po pours him a glass of water she insists he drinks making
note of the curious point that
everyone gets thirsty
. Fear
flutters through Jamie’s heart. These could be the people behind
the disappearance of
the five
. He tells himself to be more
serious. It's just a teeth clean, after all, and he snaps out of it
in time to register Po handing him real paper forms. And as if
reading him again, she says, “We're not going to kidnap you.”

He stares at the forms. “Paper. Classic.”

“Bamboo. When you're done, come through. Pen's over
there,” and she sashays through a beat up red door. Jamie considers
the glass of water and puts it down, his instincts distrust, an
unease lurks beneath his skin, but he can't lay a finger on the
precise nature of his doubts. It's more than the dated off-white
walls and the lack of electronic signature. He turns his attention
to the forms. They blur after reading a few lines, the dentist
needing protection from the patient should anything go wrong. He
signs and initials in several places much like any insurance form
waiving his rights to claims.

Jamie moves through the red door where Po, waiting in
expectation, pinches the forms off him. She guides him to the
dentist's chair and helps him lie back, vulnerable, a tortoise on
its shell, belly exposed. Before he has a chance to settle she
brings him a glass of water with a wisp of a smile. Her reading of
him is a little more than uncanny. How does she know he refused to
drink the water? He wonders if he's misread her, denying himself
the chance to truly see her when they first met. He sees the back
of her head, her black hair in a bob as she checks the forms. She
has a sense of humor, he thinks. She's slender, cute, maybe too
skinny, but maybe not quite as irksome as she first appeared. For a
moment he sees her in a lighter shade. Perceptions change if you
allow them to. His throat is parched from the thinking so he gulps
down the water—another thing she was right about. It produces a
smile. He should tell her that, but his jaw seems tight. He rolls
it a little. Then it locks. The strangest dental freeze he thinks,
except, what if it's not? He bounces upward and, as he does so, Po
nonchalantly hits a button releasing automatic straps that whip
around him and slam him back into the chair. He wriggles in a
failed attempt to set himself free only succeeding in burning his
skin. Po presses another button, and in an instant the whole chair
disappears through the floor.

Ray, dressed in a white coat, is there to meet him.
He lets Jamie know he'll be able to talk in five minutes. From
Jamie's state Ray accepts it's been a botched operation so he steps
up, finds a pressure point on Jamie's neck, and lets him slip into
the unconscious.

Welcome to The Source Foundation
are the first
words Jamie hears upon awakening. The straps are still present and
now his throat stings.

“We are not here to harm you,” says Ray, “quite the
reverse. In fact you may be of great help.” Jamie strains to be
heard, wanting to be released.

“We will. But first—”

“Some tests,” chimes in Po.

“They're harmless, you can stay awake if you
want.”

Jamie looks across to Po who gathers a syringe. What
the fuck was he thinking coming here.

“Po.”

She puts down the syringe, her attempt at humor…

“
You'll like her once you get to
know her,” says Ray.

“Just don't like people getting to know me.”

“These are very important tests, Jamie. They will
decide more than your future,” says Ray as he continues to ignore
Jamie's garbled pleas to be freed. “I know this seems weird. It's
not normal for us to take... such... well... drastic measures, but
you will understand in time—and there's not much left of it.” The
straps grip like steel cables, sapping Jamie's strength. His only
release is yelling through his useless hoarse throat.

Ray and Po are content to watch his energy drain.
It's body not mind that relaxes, and Ray has no choice but to send
Jamie into a state of unconsciousness again. He injects him with a
sedative and belatedly acknowledges he should have done so in the
first place. It's not much of an apology, and Jamie drifts into
sleep.

He's not sure if it's the sound of large flies or his
eyes flipping open to blue light that alarms him, but Jamie
immediately chokes as he tries to speak. His mouth is stuffed and
gagged. Ray's there to provide guidance on the latest developments
much like a spokesperson for the government. He explains in an
increasingly authoritative voice the obvious. Jamie's being
scanned, there are electrodes all over his chest, his heart is
key—as Jamie will find out—and it's all harmless. Jamie zones out
Ray's voice as he concentrates on the room; machines suited to
1950's shock therapy and the acerbic Po watching monitors that at
least are an ode to the current century, although which decade is
debatable.

It's a dream, he thinks, the only explanation. If it
is he can wake up. Usually there's a key in his deep dreams to
manoeuvre from one state to the next. It's how he coped with the
nightmares when he was younger. He excelled at finding ways out as
long as he avoided being pulled through floorboards, the dream exit
that met death and haunted during waking hours. The current
situation required him to find the anomaly, the oddity that doesn't
belong, but there's an immediate problem; it’s all surreal, and his
heart races at this cognisance distorting the readings on the
monitor. Po looks worried but from Ray's reaction it could be
good—or it could be bad. Ray sides on the affirmative. Would Ray
fib to make Po feel better? That's it, thinks Jamie. Po being
worried! That's the anomaly. He attempts to force himself awake by
repeating
it's a dream
but finds the blue light ubiquitous.
There’s only one thing for it, change strategy, take control and
lucid dream. He reassures himself he has options and starts by
returning his breath to normal.

He can see now, yes, he can see more details of the
room; odd instruments, boxes, red high heels. Once again his eyes
flit upward and then over to the other side of the room where the
lime green paint long ago peeled from the walls. He prefers his
vision to rest on the cork ceiling where he can create a door to
open, or imagine an old country path to walk on, both legitimate
routes to wakefulness. But his conjuring tricks fail and the
ceiling remains what it is. Perhaps he must face the truth. This
so-called dream may in fact be real. Confronting this knowledge
pulls at his very being. It’s true after all. His life is so
worthless it's only fit for experimentation. There's simply one
thing left to do. Fall asleep.

*****

Jamie awakes in a single bed wrapped in a white
duvet. It's a different room, small, pod-like. The light is warm,
the walls and shiny furnishings white too. He feels restored and
strangely at ease and has no idea how long he'd been asleep. His
watch has been removed and his clothes have been washed and neatly
pressed. They wait for him at the edge of the bed. He can't
remember feeling this safe in a while, possibly since
childhood.