I went to the shaman today.
She was an old woman, an old rad. But she remembered the initial i65 riots. Back in the year the sanctuaries burned, breaking from the city forever.
I see the domed city from my front stoop. The infamous steel and aluminum alloy ribs stripe the orange skyline, hours before sunset and the following darkness. Everything has changed.
The shaman said that our population has leveled off since those days of madmen. Having reached middle age, and feeling little like living out the remaining thirty, I consulted the old woman. I’m not sorry, my mind is already dull.
Jupe stood mid way over the George Washington Bridge. The lush green of the Ailanthus trees waving their leaves over the banks of the Hudson River. A warm summer breeze blew up off the shimmering grey waters. He mopped his brow, it was time. Jupe turned form the thousands of span squatters and faced the jagged skyline of Manhattan. He’d evaded his smoggy home for over a month, living off the Palisades Wildlife Refuge.
Jupe sighed and pulled his tiny backpack tight. There would be little comfort back in the thick heat of the city but it really was time now.
Jupe was a philosophy professor by trade. Taught some of the very people who made life so humiliating or the older generation. But he had nothing to do with the decision to pollute the reservoirs with isotope65. That was and would remain the soul province of madmen.
Jupe ran a callused hand through his stiff grey hair. His clothes and body stank of living off the land, but that couldn’t be helped. He paused long enough to turn the valve on an old water main-only a rusty trickle, but he dunked his head under the dribble and pushed onward.
Celestina and Malcom joined the queue three miles outside of the Roosevelt Island Habitat. A small boy clad in tattered clothes ran among them.
“I spy an Elder! I spy i65!” shouted the boy.
Malcom clutched his wife closer. Celestina shivered but forced a smile. They had been marching for a day-things neglected, turned into the forever that would never be-nose filters changed, algae trough drained, at least the animals were free to live or die.
They were both born under the sign of Pieces, Celestina on March 10, and Malcom and March 12, both in the year 2049. that was ten years be for the reservoirs were polluted.
“We must stop for rest,” Malcom said, leading them from the line towards a nearby ghetto slum. They sat down on the remains of a rusty fire escape.
“We knew this time would come,” Celest began, “Only I never would have dreamed that it’d be so-”
“-final?” Malcom asked stroking his heavy beard.
“Yes, final. But we’ve spent our time well. Could’ve protested our lives away like the Lasters. Stretch our lives beyond reason-in the name of freedom! Hurumph,” Celest crossed her arms over her chest.
“Freedom fighters,” Malcom laughed, “They call themselves freedom fighters. Those dam Lasters were responsible for pissing off Mayor Godol’s regime. Remember Celest? You remember.”
Celest nodded and stretched to rub her sore toes.
“Almost meant the graves again. Like the legal rider they released when we were young. Not that stumped forty year olds for over a week. We’ve lived long and good,” Malcom said nodding his head.
Celest smiled, thought of the children she might’ve had. Recalled her solemn promise to Malcom, “Not a child will I bring into this world. That my love I do promise.” As was the custom, her Oath of Bareness was sown before a local Justice of the Peace. Celest wiped away a single tear before Malcom could see it.
“My only question is this? How will any one know when it will be safe again?” He shook his head an pushed his heavy body up from the stoop. With accuracy predicted within forty-eight hours there could be no wasted moments.
Life scolds the aged.
The old woman spoke of days past when sanctuary dwellings were little better than tenements. I can hardly believe my ears. We are self sufficient, almost entirely-shit pit generators, wind mills fed by the dome’s draft and solar cells on every roof top. I pause in thought to drop the rice paper box into the soup. The rice paper packaging wilts and dissolves as I stir my dinner. She claimed no one had released viable i65 into the water systems in a decade, but that has not stopped people from believing and dying.
I had complained of a dozen ailments, each one tied to the other in a convoluted train of personal pain. She placed a wrinkled old hand on my shoulder and told me I had but one and none.
Some Easys were blocking the old river path up ahead. Jupe stopped to consider his options. One could hope to pass through an Easy-occupied area but should expect interdiction-from what he’d heard, the Easys were very different indeed. Their brightly colored clothing stood out in the late afternoon sunshine. Tie-dyes worn loosely were their trademark. Only five Easys were clearly visible. It was already too late to hope for remaining unseen so, clutching his pack tighter, he continued down the foot path.
Jupe felt a warm hand touch the back of his neck. Within seconds the pixie derm, applied by the thin blonde woman took effect-
-Greens of plant life swung up and swooned before him. Fractured sunlight split by a thousand pieces of solid air. Golden visions of angelic Easys with long flowing beards, heavy breasted woman with red thatches and–
-Jupe woke to darkness and chanting. He peeled the tired pixie off his neck and sat up. He was naked, sitting on the fringe of well tamped ground. He could hear the Hudson River sloshing rhythmically against the shore. Burning plywood and fiberboard bit the air with a sharp smokiness. Jupe felt around him-nothing. Could he abandon his pack? Jupe crouched, tall grasses tickled his scrotum. Laughter. He turned his head. Nothing. Deep chanting. Nothing-movement. Grey outlines of people-Easys. Downhill. Jupe crept cautiously down the river back. He was consciously aware that he was being observed. Ignoring the prickling of goose bumps he pressed on until he could clearly see the band of Easys.
Several young men and women danced naked around a small fire. A couple of others sat cross-legged around the dancers; they chanted, their bodies swaying back and forth like the Ailanthus under river breeze. Marijuana smoke buffeted the air.
Jupe crawled closer, the sense that he was under surveillance didn’t go away. He tired to ignore the ominous feeling. It was probably a pixie cling. Then a terrible thought seized him-how long had he been out? With his time drawing near, even hours could upset his delicate time table. He had to get into the city before-
Jupe’s thoughts came to an abrupt end as an orgy ensued. He watched with his philosopher’s cap, fascinated by this modern tribalism. Soon he returned to the matter of his pack. He could make out the pack’s contents strewn around the dancer’s feet. He decided he’d get by without his blind credit cards-a couple began copulating over his copy of Nietzsche’s “The Birth of Tragedy”. His credit cards were wedged between the pages-oh Appolonia and Dionysus, forgive me. He crept carefully backwards.
Tie-dyed clothes were scattered in the bushes. He scooped up a pair of brilliantly colored baggy pants and a rough hemp smock, then quietly beat for the dark path. Malcom spread his fingers wide, stretching his arms high over his head. They had rejoined the slow-moving line of Elders. His head was filled with mixed emotions. He was happy to be going through this with Celestina but
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