Made in China Chapter 2

 

But the jokes have ceased since those days when a half a million men, maybe more (since it can always be more), died ball-less and ashamed. There is no good humor left in the world as there was when I was a little boy. I remember watching Charlie Chaplin and Buster Keaton movies because my parents taught me to have a reverence for the past when I surprised them by living to be five or six. They were funny movies. Abbot and Costello; The Little Rascals; The Three Stooges; I Love Lucy were all funny and I am thankful for the Good Samaritan who opened the old theater and played them for us for next to nothing. The stuff that people laugh at today makes me cringe. There is only a sadistic brand of humor when something extremely terrible happens when someone is doing everything that they can to prevent it from happening to them. Like building a damn that collapses, or trying to put up power lines and getting shocked to a crisp off the pole 100 yards in the air. Or when a school bus full of children is swept away in a tornado and whipped around and tossed a half-mile into the path of a tsunami ― something so utterly terrible people laugh because things have changed so dramatically from how they seemed in those old movies and in the old books I read from every generation before mine. They laugh because tears don’t come anymore naturally to human beings and their minds are warped. There is an official drought on tears but no lacking in depravity. 

The world is chaos. Anarchy and disorder are the best adjectives to describe the times and in this maddening society there seems to be no shock or trepidation, nothing worse could happen than that which has happened already. Besides for cancer balls and KITTY, there are tsunamis daily, tornados across the globe every hour (on average), earthquakes by the minute, incessant floods and cataclysmic volcanic eruptions (Yellowstone, twice since 2019), periodically altering the landscape of the world but not ending it, not smothering the world mercifully with an ash blanket, but playing with it like a feral cat plays with a little baby bunny (which people think is funny, too). I hear them laugh, cackle, really, some horrific sound from their throat that seems foreign to me rather than the jovial belly laughs of old, from those laughs in the dollar theater where I saw those old movies. I cannot believe that I am of this world. Though, if I ever express that feeling people think that I believe I am better than them. They think so anyway when I do not laugh at new animal extinctions, building collapses or plane crashes, or when another hole is discovered in the ozone layer and I weep. But I don’t laugh because I am better than them. I haven’t lost my sense of dignity in myself or in life or my sense of shame and empathy. I know who I am and I will not change my mind because I find myself suddenly living amongst hyenas.

It is like we are all renters in a slum apartment that is being remodeled for future tenants, but the panic of the millions dead in natural and unnatural disasters and in all the horrific events, has all but subsided and in the vacancy of feeling, black humor has filled it like an infection to an abscessed tooth. People have come to accept the pain and tragedy of everyday life. They’ve moved on. It is as though they have developed some natural dope to render themselves completely oblivious to it all.

“Ho hum,” they say.

I am determined to win Heathcliff Bernard’s dreadful Death Race, and with it, to win Ms. Zula Zane whether her sense of feminism approves or not. The race is called officially, Death Race 666 and it will stretch from New York to what used to be Los Angeles, to the Coliseum, on what was renamed Route 666 in the five or six years right after the shit hit the fan when Satanism became all the rage. People didn’t like Jesus or any of those other guys anymore. No one bothered to change it back when Satanism quickly lost its luster (and Bernard is a devout Satanist elected to the presidency at the height of Satanism). The course alone would be nearly impossible to survive, even without other drivers trying to kill you with their chopped and mutilated killing machines equipped with heavy weaponry, or the madmen who live like pirates murdering and plundering travelers all along the broken-up interstate for what little worth the travelers carry, or for the simple sadistic pleasure of killing actual people. The amount of tornados, violent storms, and earthquakes that take place from here to there is unimaginable. Hale the size of baseballs, lingering ash from Yellowstone which they say makes for at least two hundred miles of zero visibility, on and on, though all aspiring drivers have been assured that the route is relatively paved and drivable but the commercial says that the landscape changes daily, so no assurances…

But I believe in destiny. And I still believe in God, goddamnit.

I want to save Zula from certain death, from being raped violently by some brutal assholes, whisk her away to a remote cabin like a survivalist and live out our beautiful lives, however short they may be, in peace, the tranquility amongst birds and the aroma-therapy of fresh rain, wildflowers, ferns and wet sap from the pines of the Northeast, maybe France. I am not sure if she will find me attractive, or worthwhile, but that is the chance I am willing to take. She may be opposed to the fact that I am even trying to save her as that sort of chivalry died and has been dead for a very long time. Women want to save themselves and it is an insult for a man to save a woman these days. But, oh well. I don’t have to worry about anything because I have a secret weapon (other than a penis)…

When I was five years old in 2014 things were bad, not as bad as they would get but bad enough. Things hadn’t been well since the first time everyone thought the shit hit the fan in 2013 when the aliens came back collecting back rent. Things were so bad that dumpsters were outfitted with doors on them making it more difficult for regular-sized people to climb into them because businesses wanted their trash to be trash and didn’t want poor entrepreneurs to benefit from their waste. When things get bad people either become gluttonous hoarders or malicious wasters. So a bunch of dirty kids like me were out doing our best for our families whether we liked it or not. Our parents sent us to “raccoon” all the local dumpsters for anything useful like food, glass, and metal — anything that could be turned into something of use. Most of us were sent with a knife, dull with a sharp point that could stab someone threatening us or our “digs,” while not allowing us to cut ourselves. I had one with a fake ivory handle and proudly one night I etched my name in it. It was both sharp and pointy which told me that my parents trusted me. Knives also came in handy for fighting the giant rats which were a common enemy in the dark putrid depths of a miserable dumpster. The only time it was ever enjoyable was when it was bitterly cold out because the dumpsters were always so warm. We each had our own favorite spots and mine was a strip club called Naughty or Nice.  I thought the place had something to do with Santa Claus for a while but after I snuck in the back door and saw completely naked women, which nearly killed me in shame, I knew better…

 Anyway, on a warm night in July of 2014, a night of raccooning no different from any other, I came up out of the dumpster to see a gray haired man standing behind the club with a weird gun-like instrument in his hand. In front of him stood four beautiful strippers, at least they looked beautiful from where I was with my head poked out of the dumpster hole like a woodchuck. I stayed down, only my eyes up were out, but no one noticed me. A rat I had just killed bled out on the floor below me so I was anxious to get out in case he had friends but the scene was too interesting. The man introduced himself as Dr. Harry Jewom, or something like that, and said he was from the planet Oregonia. I held my breath in fear they would hear me. Oregonians were merciless I had heard.

“I am not going to hurt you,” he said to my surprise, “I only want to see if this new invention of mine works.” He sounded rather cheerful.

“Yeah,” one brassy girl snapped while the other three trembled, “well, what da hell is it?” It was apparent guns didn’t scare her. Nothing scared her. She had lost that frightened feeling.

“Be patient and I will explain,” Dr. Jewom said adjusting his gun.

“When we gettin’ our hundred bucks, Buster?”

No answer. I was scared stiff but I had to swallow. I was afraid they would hear but they didn’t. Dr. Jewom didn’t reply. He pointed the gun at the girls and a loud strange sound like a coin spinning to a rest on a table top, amplified a million times, rang out. The girls covered their ears and shrieked but I had to take it because I was pulling myself up to see. Then a large yellow light haloed them and they shook erratically. Then the sound stopped and the yellow light disappeared and they fell to the ground in unison and I could hear my pee dribbling on a paper bag beneath my feet. Dr. Jewom looked at the gun then looked at the girls, then the gun again, then back to the girls. “Park!” I remember him saying oddly. He shook the gun and then walked over and checked them saying something about his “love gun not working” because some part of it was “too strong” and I dove down next to the dead rat that stared at me with his cold lifeless eyes. As I lied there pretending to be as lifeless as the rat I heard the doctor’s feet come toward the dumpster, click, clock, click, clock — dress shoes, or maybe cowboy boots, I couldn’t remember what I saw but they got louder and closer. Then the hatch popped open and I looked up though I didn’t want to and all I could see was a street light shining down and Dr. Jewom’s hand and that laser gun he shot the women with. Then his hand opened like a claw and it dropped right next to me onto the dead rat. It glowed a little and was a beautiful little gadget. It pointed right at me for a few minutes and I didn’t move. I heard the doctor walk away and then I heard a loud swoosh which must have been his car or spaceship but I couldn’t see anything as I bravely poked my head out of the hole. When I was sure he was gone I climbed out with my rucksack of digs for my family strung across my back and the love gun carefully in my hand.

I plopped down onto the parking lot and when I turned around the four women Dr. Jewom had shot were standing up looking around confused. I could not avoid eye contact with them and they smiled oddly at me, blowing me kisses and saying things I had never hear a woman say before or since. “Get him girls!” one of the meek ones shouted. “We love you, you little…!” I couldn’t remember what they called me but it wasn’t appropriate whatever it was. I blushed as I ran but I ran and I ran never having been so frightened in all of my life. I thought at first they were zombies before I had time to put it together. “Please come back!” they shouted helplessly in the distance. Fortunately for me I was quick as a rabbit in my sneakers and they were falling all over the street in their heels yet they ran after me determinedly with bloody knees. When I got home I handed my parents my usual rucksack of junk which they dug through with great scrutiny and I took my love gun to my room vowing never to use it for a nefarious purpose…

And that is my secret weapon.

No one says I love you anymore because of a popular rumor that saying it is a curse. But I believe in love, and I don’t believe in the curse. I believe in “I love yous” and though I have no one to same them to, I hope someday that will change for me. The hope is what keeps me going. Today is what they used to call Valentine’s Day when lovers once bought their loved ones sweets and flowers and made romantic plans. It has been outlawed because of all the death and devastation and is now a day of remembrance for the day when the ordure hit the fan (though that day was actually February 17^th, no one seems to remember, or care enough to debate that if they do).

Zula has not heard of me, of course, because I am a nobody, a reluctant ex-soldier with no formal education beyond junior high. I was a cab driver, a mailman, and now all that I am is contestant 716 in Death Race 666, making the final preparations to my car for the trip to New York and the starting line, writing in my journal in the front seat during work breaks on that machine. I am an average looking guy, no better, but certainly no worse than anyone else. I haven’t let myself go as some people have. I keep my hair neat and short and brush and wash all vital parts. I do not like body odor so I have maintained a pretty good deodorant supply and an array of soaps. I am in good shape, have a good set of teeth, blue eyes and coincidentally, Zula and I are among the few people left in the world with attached earlobes! If that doesn’t make her flip her lid, I don’t know what will. If she doesn’t like me, I will simply shoot her with my love gun. Why not? I have good intentions. Sure, she will find me attractive. I hope that she does but I have confidence in the old gun if she doesn’t.  

Pages in and I realized I haven’t introduced myself!

I don’t have a legal name. I was born thirty years ago and I wasn’t named because the likelihood that I would be around roughly thirty years later to talk about it was very slim. Slim as in a hundred to one slim. And If I never had a name it wouldn’t be so terrible when I died. And if no one ever celebrated my birthday there wouldn’t be a date to miss me in case I was survived by someone. The world is all about making things easier on those who survive. Most people don’t have names and no one has birthday parties besides for the rich who can afford upscale bunkers, or who have a time share on one of the seven space stations, or the old people who are kept in retirement homes that manipulate time.

I did however make up a name for myself that I have gone by since I was five years old or so — Blatz Bowie. Blatz was my dad’s favorite beer, Bowie because I love David Bowie’s music. I was nearly Ziggy Stardust but I wanted to put some imagination in it and I didn’t want to be asked about the Spiders from Mars all the time, so… Nearly everyone has a made up name because no one wants to be a complete nobody or a “hey you.” My best friend is Robot Titanium. But even those given names often change them. It is more fun to pretend that you are someone you are not. Parents never recognize your unofficial name and will always call you boy or girl unless they really care then they may occasionally go along with your name. Regardless, you will not be buried; there are no cemeteries or ceremonies for the dead. “Why dwell?” they say.

Ho hum.

That is the noble thing to do ― go anonymously, but occasionally, there are a few people who insist on having funerals, or even worse, living wakes! People once had an insatiable desire to be pitied, the family of the dead even more so than the dead. Old people who have paid enough stay in those fortified bunker retirement homes believe the year is eternally 2011. They still live with the silly sentiment of wanting to bury their dead or be buried themselves. When a loved one dies they are doped up and a driver loads them in a car in the garage and they pretend to drive them to a funeral home where holograms are having a funeral. Only, they never leave the garage. They are drugged and pass out in the backseat and are taken back into the retirement bunker to a different room — a funeral room with hideous floral carpet which they never see any other time. I don’t know why they dupe old people or why old people would want to be duped. But they do confused, perhaps, on how best to honor their elders.

There are no birth certificates, driver’s licenses or credit cards issued by what is left of state and federal governments and credit agencies, although there are companies who sell pretend ones to people who have to hold on to the past and to have a few so their wallets aren’t empty. For the most part, all of those things went the way of the dodo. In the retirement homes, people are required to get a new driver’s license every five years, to pay co-pays for prescription drugs, membership dues to defunct national organizations; they get hammered on pretend credit card interest periodically; and they still have social security cards, birth certificates and all that horseshit, as they like it…

It’s all pretend. Even the flowers are scented fake flowers and signs hang all over the place screaming, “Do NOT touch the flowers!”

You see, no one knows they are fake unless they touch them.