Lines

He stared at the screen and saw nothing, Not because there was nothing on the screen but because he had been staring at the screen for the past 16 hours. He wasn’t finished, though. And he probably wouldn’t be finished for another 16 hours. Except it was due in 8. ‘Work smarter, not harder,’ flashed through his brain, a recommendation from a former boss who spoke in clichés. ‘Because when the going gets tough…’ He banged his head on the desk; it reverberated throughout the empty office. Well, not completely empty.

‘You okay in there?’ the IA asked disinterestedly.

‘Yep,’ he responded a little too gleefully. The IA decided it might be best to check on Bernard visually. Although brilliant, Bernard was a bit unstable.

He stuck his head into the office and noticed Bernard’s head on the desk; his left cheek lay flat against the faux cherry, and his eyes were wide open. He had heard the story of the first IA in charge of Bernard; the IA initially thought Bernard had died and moved in closer to see if he was breathing. When the IA noticed very shallow breaths, he tapped lightly on Bernard’s shoulder. At that slightest touch, Bernard grabbed the man’s arm, broke it, and then slammed the man into the ground, breaking his nose in the process.

‘Bernard, have you finished?’ The IA kept his distance.

‘Nope. I’ve got 16 hours of work to do in eight. How’s that for ridiculous?’

‘I’m certain you will do your best.’

‘I’m certain I will too.’ Bernard lifted his head and looked back at the screen.

To many, the imaginary lines he drew seemed arbitrary, cutting through countries and towns with neither rhyme nor reason. But the algorithm would save humanity, so he said. He had convinced countless scientists and world leaders of the plan’s efficacy. Though there was significant opposition, when it came time to make the decision the vote to proceed was nearly unanimous. The three dissenters threatened to take the plan public, but the world’s leaders had little stomach for trying to explain the plan – never mind defend it – to the world. They therefore completely discredited those dissenters and sent them hurtling to their deaths in an unfortunate accident blamed on terrorists.

Bernard had already requested one extension, but these world leaders were not people that should be kept waiting. Not to mention the world situation wasn’t getting any better. Class wars – the likes of which had not been seen in over a hundred years – erupted in rich and poor countries alike. The lower and lower middle classes declared war first on the rich and then on the upper middle class not because of the latter’s belongings but because of their food. Former maids ransacked their employers’ pantries. Illegal immigrants fought with wolves and coyotes for stray cattle.

Bernard dragged a line south from Minneapolis, down through St. Louis, and then around New Orleans. Half of most cities would survive, according to his plan. Others like New Orleans would disappear entirely. To be clear, the city itself would not disappear but the inhabitants would. They’d disintegrate at the push of a button.

The microchip hadn’t been Bernard’s idea. They had preceded his idea by more than a year. For safety’s sake, everyone in the world – as agreed in the Tehran Accord – would have a microchip inserted in order to ensure the knowledge of their whereabouts at all times. Of course, no one knew that the microchip carried a lethal toxin that could kill more quickly than a King Cobra. There were a few mishaps, i.e. the toxin was accidentally released, but the microchip certainly achieved close to a six sigma rating in terms of effectiveness. And the released toxin simulated a heart attack so well that very few doctors ever suspected anything. Those doctors that did either voluntarily or involuntarily did not speak.

Bernard dragged a line that surgically dissected Japan. Tokyo and Osaka were on the wrong side of the line. He included London but excluded Paris. Manhattan survived; the other four boroughs weren’t as lucky. Most of East Africa fell by the wayside. As did Cape Town. But Johannesburg stayed in tact. Little by little, Bernard carved the world into the haves and have-nots. What was more remarkable was that he did so objectively without any consideration for humanity. He simply wanted to test his hypothesis that he could efficiently and effectively reduce the surplus population in order to protect the dwindling food supply.

Approximately eight hours later, he completed his first draft. He washed his face and hands in the office restroom; he did not change his clothes. At approximately 9 a.m. he and the IA were in the Town Car on their way to the United Nations to change the course of world history.

With Hobos

The subway squealed to a halt; the doors slid open. With my luggage in tow, I entered the last car of the train and immediately detected the stench of the hobos. I glanced to the far end of the car and noticed 2 bums flanking the car. By the time I had made the decision to exit and sprint to another car, a familiar voice warned, ‘Stand clear of the closing doors.’ The doors slid shut unceremoniously.

I had the choice to try my luck at passing through the via de los vagabondos or to hold my breath and wait patiently. I adjusted my sports coat and sat on the blue plastic bench. To take my mind from the stench I extracted my Blackberry from my left jacket pocket and unlocked it with some quick thumb work. Although I had no service in the subway car, I noticed two emails that had arrived just minutes before I descended the stairs to the subway. The first was spam, some message detailing the benefits of Viagra. The second was an epistle from my boss explaining that an issue for which I was responsible had been escalated to none other than the president of the company. The last two words of the email were ‘Call immediately!’

One of the bums stirred and made a noise akin to coughing that seemed a mix of yodeling and choking. The other bum slipped off his ragged shoe and flung it at his counterpart, hitting him in the shoulder. Bum one emerged from his gray parka revealing a sanguine complexion beneath a scraggly silver beard. Our eyes met briefly; in his I saw no sign of recognition. But I vaguely remembered him. Or perhaps remembered is not the right word. He was familiar to me, a person I had encountered long ago. I couldn’t place him. Bum Two settled back under his Steelers jacket and pulled the hood over his head. His shoe remained in the middle of the car.

I brought my attention back to the Blackberry and reread the message more carefully. In the ramblings of my boss’s writing, I determined that the latest catalogue we had sent for our spring line excluded all clothing from our most lucrative designers. I cursed my uselessly antiquated boss under my breath. I had fought tooth and nail with her to ditch the catalogue and increase our presence on the web. And I had wanted to wait until I returned from this business trip to send out the catalogues. But no, she had to have her way and get the spring catalogues out the second week of February because that’s the way it had always been done. I felt my blood pressure rising.

We reached the first stop. I considered exiting the train and calling my boss, but I knew better than to attempt an intelligent conversation while fuming. I didn’t even consider trying to escape the hobo car until I heard ‘Stand clear of the closing doors’ at which point it was too late.

I locked the Blackberry keypad and put it into my pocket. I took a deep breath and inhaled the scent of ten year old moldy cheese. My eyes actually began to water. I reverted to mouth breathing and glanced down at the bums with disdain. To my surprise, Bum One was staring at me. It was a wooden stare from a defeated man. It would have been creepy had there not been melancholy in his eyes. I averted my eyes to one of the many posters contrasting the Knickerbockers of yesterday to the Knicks of today and regretted that my reading material was tucked in my suitcase.

Bum One began to cough again; he gasped and gurgled as if afflicted by the final stages of consumption. Bum Two awoke suddenly, stood, and yelled, ‘Find your own fuckin way home, shithead’ and stalked into the next car leaving me and Bum One – now just Bum – occupying the car.

The subway stopped again. My anger was subsiding, but I wasn’t quite ready for my boss. And I could always use the excuse that I was on the subway, primarily because I was. Meanwhile, a young Asian woman and an older white gentleman entered the car. They both sat down near me after spying Bum wrapped in his gray parka. When Bum commenced with his death rattle soon after departing the station, both Asian Lady and Old Guy decided to try their luck in the next car, leaving me and Bum together again.

I began to feel calmer, more willing and able to volley with my boss. I already had a plan brewing. I would call each of the designers who hadn’t been included in the catalogue and explain that we had planned for two catalogues. The first, I’d explain, was our more traditional catalogue meant for the old guard. The second, however, would be bold. Released closer to spring, these designers would break molds and set trends and fulfill whatever other clichés he could imagine. I began planning the party at an exclusive club with a private unmarked entrance. There will be hundreds of martinis and living statues displaying the clothing.

A few more stops passed as I contemplated the fabulous success I would extract from my boss’s incompetence.

In the midst of my daydream, Bum began anew. I tried to ignore the incessant cough, but something about the sound struck me at my core. I noticed that he had extracted the parka to reveal a black thermal shirt and disgustingly muddy jeans. Unlike his previous fits, Bum wasn’t letting up. I considered going to see if he was okay, but decided against it in case he was a nutjob with a knife. The train slowed to a stop, and the automated voice announced that because of train traffic ahead, we were being delayed.

I tried to return to my thoughts of designer victory, but Bum’s cacophony was not to be overcome. I glanced back over and saw him fall the short distance from the plastic blue bench to the sticky black floor of the car. I obeyed the instinct to stand but froze as soon as I had. I watched as Bum curled into a fetal position, trying desperately to regain his breath. He wasn’t succeeding. I wanted to help, but couldn’t find the courage to help.

Bum ceased for a moment. He craned his neck and stared into my eyes. In a low, gravelly voice he said, ‘I’m sorry Brian.’

I cocked my head like a confused dog. His death rattle commenced for the last time. It was not as loud this time, but it was final. The train moved ahead into the next station. I grabbed my luggage and stood in front of the doors. As soon as they opened, I exited and ran through the turn style and up the stairs. I took a deep breath and grabbed for my Blackberry.