Pillars of Distraction
Rob Gillham
Seratoxetine is supposed to promote deep, dreamless sleep. The incoherent yet vivid nightmares of last night are a bad sign, as is this excessive sweating. I check for other symptoms; my tongue is furry and I detect the onset of a familiar nausea.
My still-waking brain crawls towards an inevitable answer. My body is in withdrawal. That can only mean that my happypac failed to provide me with Seratoxetine last night.
As if provoked by the thought, something small and sharp jabs my abdomen. My first thought is that a bee has stung me, but that is impossible. It is the sensation of the happypac needle puncturing my stomach. My standard wake-up stimulant kicks in and I sit up, uncomfortably hot, pulling back damp sheets. I deliberately don’t look at the cartridge slot, I’m not ready to face what I’ll find there.
Two of the messages have ganged up on the third and obliterated it. The victors follow me, chirruping non-stop as I stomp to the shower. I should have paid the annual premium to have the messages turned off. I’m making a mental note to speak to the landlord about it later when I stub my toe on the shower door.
“Fuck!”
There’s a pause in the chattering while the messages try to decide if I’ve just addressed them. A moment later, the shrill barrage resumes, each telling me it did not understand my response. Did I, as the louder suspects, want to take advantage of its amazing once-in-a-lifetime offer?
The news stream turns itself on as I get in the shower. Some guy stands outside the White House, talking to camera. The scrolling feed says a relief package has been announced for American farmers following the crop failures. The measures include more loosening of the controls on the use of genetically modified seed and pesticides. No one mentions rising food prices, or what happened to the bees. I guess it’s twenty, or maybe thirty years too late to worry about that now.
A moment later, the newscaster is replaced by the image of a naked girl. One of the messages has hacked the feed. I’m about to turn it off when I recognize her. It’s Darja, my boss’s PA and pseudo-girlfriend. She has a PhD in Forensic Archaeology from some university in Belarus, and it mystifies me how she could choose to become contractually bound to a relationship with a man like Robin Krajicek – even for a visa.
Her likeness on the glass shower wall beckons to me, inviting me to auto-subscribe to her private channel. I guess being with Robin is driving her to desperation, I know it would do me, but even so this seems a pretty extreme alternative. I’ve always liked Darja’s looks, out of reach though she is, and briefly consider masturbating to her image, but my body refuses to respond to the idea. Not that kind of stimulant.
Before dressing, I’m awake enough to finally check my happypac’s cartridge. The small bottle in the slot for Sera is indeed empty. That was the last of this month’s pharmacy subscription.
The next is not due for another two weeks.
Tordo motions for me to join him. “Mister Mehrtens, it has been a while. How are you?”
“I need Sera,” I say. “Quickly.” I am sick to the pit of my stomach. My clothes, fresh on after my shower, are already drenched in sweat.
He frowns. Perhaps he’s offended by my lack of etiquette. We usually engage in small talk before getting down to business. It’s a ritual, maintaining the lie that we are nothing more than friendly acquaintances who just happen to perform the odd transaction in illicit pharmaceuticals.
Tordo casts a critical eye over my appearance. “Running a bit short, are we?”
“Completely out,” I say. “My subscription’s not due until the end of the month.”
“You’re not alone,” Tordo says. “Many are reporting the self-same set of circumstances. Anyone would think people were tampering with their pacs.”
“Listen, I don’t care about other people.” It comes out louder than I’d intended. I drop my voice. “What I care about right now is getting my hands on some Sera.”
Tordo doesn’t answer. On the TV screen behind him, the Speaker of the House of Representatives is calling for an investigation into contributions by the pharmaceutical company GospidLineker Global to President McClelland’s re-election campaign.
“Are you happy, Mister Mehrtens?” Tordo says eventually.
“What?”
“It’s a simple enough question. Funny how many people struggle to answer it.” Tordo leans back in his chair. “The ancient Greeks believed that happiness and misery were both dependent on the strength of one’s character. If you have character, went the argument, you can be happy under any circumstances.” He points two fingers at me, miming a pistol. “Right now, you’re a bit like Damocles, sitting on Dionysus’s throne. You can’t ever be happy because all you can think about is the big fucking sword that’s hanging over your head.”
We sit in silence while I pretend to give Tordo’s words careful consideration. The only sound is the murmur of the television, headlines about the refugee crisis in Florida, half of Miami underwater, angry mobs protesting the steepling cost of groceries, blockading supermarkets in New Jersey and half a dozen other states. The usual.
“So, can you?” I say. “Get me some Sera?”
“Nothing would give me greater pleasure, Mister Mehrtens,” Tordo says. “Unfortunately, the market is exceptionally bad at the moment. Generics have declined to a trickle, and brand names have been impossible to get hold of for months.”
“So what? Price has gone up, what is it? I don’t give a shit. Just get me some.”
He performs an exaggerated shrug, hands open. “There is no supply.”
I shake my head. “Then why are you even here?”
“Stability, Mister Mehrtens.” Tordo leans back and grins, baring both rows of teeth. “Persistence and reliability are the expression of my character. I have no product to sell, but,” and he gestures around himself, “my presence is a statement of intent. I let my customers know that, despite the current supply crisis, business hours are as ever, I stand ready to listen to their problems and lend a sympathetic ear.” Tordo spreads his hands. “All this will pass. In the meantime, the world still spins on its axis, the sun still rises in the east, and Tordo still parks his ass in the same seat in the Four Ways each day. Confidence, Mister Mehrtens, is a currency.”
The bottom of my stomach drops away. I’ve been sat here, holding it together through all of Tordo’s rambling for nothing. “Jesus, you’re no fucking use to me at all.”
Tordo’s amiable expression vanishes. He speaks softly and slowly: “Control yourself.”
As soon as Tordo’s affable mask slips, I realize, somewhere down the line, I’ve become far too comfortable dealing with someone who is essentially a gangster. His eyes are clear and unblinking, and I avert my gaze from his. “I’m sorry. I was out of line.”
The shark’s smile returns to Tordo’s face. “Nothing to apologize for, Mister Mehrtens.”
My hands are visibly shaking. But that might be the withdrawal, of course.
Exiting the Four Ways, I lean against a wall, sucking down air until my legs stop buckling. My only option now is to go to the office. Someone there must have a surplus of Sera. If I’m discreet, they might agree to share some with me.
“Hey, you look like you could use some help.” A dark-haired girl peers at me, thick eyebrows furrowed. She’s pretty in a quirky, no make-up, doesn’t-pluck kind of way. A kind-hearted girl who stops in the street to see if strangers are okay could be just what I need. In different circumstances, I might be tempted to ask for her number.
“I’m fine,” I croak.
“No, you ain’t.” She thrusts a flier at me. “Saint Philomena, Thirty-Second and Fifth.” No angel of mercy after all. I stuff the damn thing in my pocket and stumble away before she can harangue me further about whatever it is she’s pushing.
It’s two blocks from the Four Ways café to the subway. The walk takes me twice as long as usual. The interior of the first train to arrive is half-lit. That’s become the norm recently. When the doors open it’s clear the air-con isn’t working either, but I’m not exactly in the waiting mood.
As soon as I enter the carriage, a series of high-energy visuals blink into life. They’re all doozies, Gen 2.0, probably. I reluctantly concede a distant echo of professional admiration. The use of flashing imagery and movement is pretty sophisticated. It’s impossible to have one in your field of vision without your eyes being drawn to it.
My fellow passengers are doubtless being subjected to a similar barrage. Unlike me, they all display the stoic placidity of the recently medicated. I have a strategy for situations when you can’t block them out, though, a little insider knowledge. Just pick the least offensive ad and stare right at it. The others will generally figure out they lost and back down for a while.
My choice turns out to be a fund-raising appeal for Randy McClelland, but instead of being silenced, its rivals rise to the challenge. Each grows larger and louder, urging me to pay attention to it. I fumble out my earbuds, which just means a different array of ads between tracks, but at least each song is three and a half minutes of respite.
Then the music buzzes and cuts out. “I know you’ve supported me in the past, friend,” President McClelland says in his folksy drawl, unheard by anyone but me. “But becoming President was one thing. Winning re-election is gonna take a whole lot more cash.”
The damn ad I’m watching has hijacked my music service. Despite everything, I smile. You clever little bastard.
On the display McClelland turns to face me. “I reformed the healthcare industry, giving families access to the defensive medication they need.” He jabs an accusing finger. “Do you want my opponent in the White House, undoing all my achievements? Making your children vulnerable to online pornography and socialist climate change propaganda?”
Then McClelland’s image starts to pixelate as one of the other ads gets heavy with it. His voice distorts and bright, gaudy colors bleed through the frame, cheerful dance music all but drowning him out. “Hey, Brian Mehrtens,” purrs a husky female voice. “Meet Slovakian women in their twenties who want to be your indentured girlfriend!”
McClelland’s ad gives up the ghost and is replaced by a human-sized cartoon bee extolling the virtues of synthetic honey. It speaks in a parody of a Brooklyn accent, probably one of several it adopts depending on location. Now I’m professionally insulted; it’s a remarkably dumb piece of advertising. Most people under thirty don’t even remember what real honey tasted like. All the localization in the world won’t make up for that.
I close my eyes, trying to shut out the bee’s idiotic voice, the carriage’s shuddering, and the reek of stale sweat. Suddenly all I can think of is the cloying burning sweetness of honey, thick, sticky, coating my mouth, filling my throat.
The train shudders to a halt at my stop and I throw up as soon as I get off. The platform is empty, but I expect I’ll receive a fine once the cameras confirm my identity.
I pat my jacket pockets for something to wipe my mouth and come up with a crumbled piece of paper. I take it out. It’s the flier the girl gave me outside the Four Ways café.
SICK OF FEELING SICK? it asks.
I stare at the words for another few seconds before shoving the flier back in my pocket.
STOP THE ADVERTISING VIRUSES
PUSH FOOD, NOT DRUGS
REALITY IS NOT A MEDICAL CONDITION
Luckily, none of the protesters are so committed to their cause that they want to obstruct a pale, shivering man with vomit on his coat. As I approach, they part like mist. I pass unmolested through the doors, past reception, and into the elevator.
Of course, the first person I see when I set foot in the office is Robin Krajicek, prowling for someone to attack about anything. He catches sight of me and homes in just as I reach my workspace.
“Mehrtens, where the fuck have you been?” he booms. “Jesus Christ, you look like shit.”
“Robin,” I rasp, “can you possibly loan me some Sera? I’m short.”
Krajicek glances around the office. That’s the thing about defensive medication. Everyone knows that everybody else takes it too, you just don’t talk about it. Krajicek takes a chair from the empty neighboring desk and sits. “Difficult,” he murmurs. “You know how it is.”
Yes, I do know. Krajicek has no doubt ensured he has enough for his own needs. He expects everyone else to do the same.
“It’s just a supply issue. I only need to plug the gap this month. Then everything will be alright.”
“Why are you so short?”
“I…” Somehow it hasn’t occurred to me to ask this question before. How come I’ve run out this early in the month? Maybe the pharmacy delivered a lower quantity than usual. Did I check? I’m almost certain I didn’t.
The micro-expression of sympathy on Krajicek’s face disappears. I get it. If you get stiffed over the quantity, that’s bad luck. If you fail to check, then that’s purely on you. It’s a matter of personal responsibility.
“You need to get your act together, Brian.” He jabs a finger at my sternum. “I want to see the prototype for the new campaign – today. McClelland’s people have been chasing us all morning.”
I want to laugh in his face. Our client is a pressure group, American Families for Affordable Medicine. They’re one hundred percent funded by GospidLineker Global. Calling them McClelland’s people is a typical piece of Krajicek perversity.
Krajicek gets up and walks away, shaking his head. And what can I do, but ache for Seratoxetine and flick on my desk display and pull up the architecture for the latest campaign ad?
Hello again, you nasty little work of art.
Before I can even pretend to get started, a smaller display appears to the right of the prototype and delivers an unasked-for news bulletin – President McClelland is addressing the nation from the Oval Office. A news bot, sensing the contextual relevance of the prototype I’ve got open. We’ve given up trying to keep them out of our systems.
McClelland drones on in a low monotone. Someone has told him to sound presidential. He declares a national emergency to preserve national food security. Troops are being sent to the South “to prevent the refugee crisis from spilling over into neighboring states”.
The sheer, ruthless pragmatism of it all is impressive. There’s nothing practical that can be done to prevent the catastrophe unfolding. Every opportunity to achieve something constructive lies twenty years in the past. So, they’ve leveled their sights on a more tangible enemy and a war that people can actually see being fought. The sword of Damocles turns on its dwindling thread, and our response is to keep our ass parked on the seat – a visible statement of intent, a promise of continuity, that all this shall pass.
I laugh, but it comes out as a strangulated yelp.
Beyond my display I spot Darja at her desk. She beams at me as I hibernate my screen, her expression becoming a frown as I hustle across to join her and she takes in my appearance. “Brry-an, what happened? You look terrible.”
“I know,” I say. “Darja, you… you don’t have any Sera, do you?”
“No, Brry-an, I am sorry. I don’t take any drugs. They pollute your body, put you out of balance. It damages the complexion. Robin doesn’t like girls with bad skin.”
The chanting of the protesters outside is still faintly audible and Darja glances at the window. “Why don’t you be like them? Stop taking silly drugs to ignore the world. Deal with it instead.”
I laugh again. It becomes a dry cough. “Those morons? Half of them are against defensive medication. The other half are complaining about the prices. Those people breaking into supermarkets in Jersey have the right idea, we’re going to starve long before we run out of drugs.”
Except that’s just what I have done.
Darja shrugs. “Exactly.” I can’t tell if she’s mocking me or not. Her normal business hours expression is, as now, a fixed look of pleasant amusement. Maybe Krajicek paid for it.
I experience a sudden, giddy rush of desire. Unregulated by Sera, my body’s natural chemistry is trying to reassert itself. I am gripped by the conviction that Darja would agree to be mine if I asked her now – mine in a way that she will never be Krajicek’s.
“I, er – I saw your ad this morning,” I say, lowering my voice. “For your channel…”
“Oh, you like it?” She claps excitedly. “I’ve got fifteen thousand subscribers! Maybe fifteen thousand and one now?” She raises an eyebrow, then bursts out laughing.
My cheeks grow hot. “You don’t mind that I saw that?” I’m so strung out I can’t get an erection, but I can still blush like a schoolgirl. Go figure.
“No,” she says, looking quizzical. “Why would I mind? Because I’m a good little Belarusian girl who’s only here to be Robin’s girlfriend? You don’t think I consider what happens to me when he decides to get a brand new dolly?”
“Look, I’m sorry,” My mouth is gummy. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just thought you might want to know that people from the office could see it.”
She smiles again. “I’m not ashamed of working, Brry-an. I have to deal with the world the way it is.”
The world the way it is. Darja is young enough that she has probably never tasted real honey. The thought is dislodged by a lurching wave of nausea and I lean forward, putting a hand on the front of her desk for support.
Darja rubs my forearm. “Poor Brry-an.” Our faces are less than a foot apart.
“Listen, does Krajicek keep any Sera here?” I whisper.
Her eyes drop. “Maybe. I don’t know,” she says flatly. “If he has, it’s locked in his desk.”
“Can you look?”
“In his private office.”
“But you have a key?”
She sighs. “I’ll look, but not now.”
“Then when?”
“When he leaves.” She rolls her eyes. “He’s got a lunch at midday.”
I glance at the clock. It’s almost eleven o’clock. I feel a sudden, powerful urge to cry. I push the bastard down and it rears up again, as insistent and undeniable as the need lurking in the pit of my stomach.
A hateful, wheedling voice within me whispers maybe it would help my cause if I broke down in front of Darja.
I turn away from the reception desk. The elevator chimes and the door opens, disgorging clients. I shove past them and get into the elevator. If I’m going to humiliate myself, I’d rather do it in the street amongst strangers.
SICK OF FEELING SICK?
Are you struggling to face the chaotic clamor of today’s world without the use of so-called defensive medication?
Are your finances unable to cope with the skyrocketing prices controlled by Big Pharma companies whilst at the same time they criminalize users of cheap synthetic alternatives?
Have you been driven in desperation to street dealers and loan sharks?
DISCOVER THE ALTERNATIVE TO DEFENSIVE MEDS AND RECLAIM YOUR LIFE
Church of Saint Philomena, 55 West Thirty-Second St
I shuffle down a short corridor with one arm wrapped around my midriff. Since I threw up, the ache in my stomach has migrated south. Every other step evokes a sharp, stabbing pain in my intestines.
I’d pictured some kind of glorified soup kitchen full of homeless people, but the small hall I enter is clean and brightly lit. There’s about a dozen people sitting in small circles, drinking coffee. A couple of excited kids career around the room. No one here resembles the human detritus of my imagination. Apart from me.
The girl with the thick eyebrows sits with one group. She looks up, sees me and talks into the ear of the dark-skinned man next to her. He rises and walks towards me, smiling broadly.
“I’m Matthias,” he says, holding out a hand. “Welcome, friend.” His accent is a weird transatlantic medley, American cadence twinned with British vowels and African consonants.
I shake his hand. “Brian.”
He regards me, eyes narrowed. “You’re strung out. What are you on, Tetrafaxydol?”
“Seratoxetine.”
“Ah,” he says, as if this answers a great many questions. “Very high end. Very insidious. Come.” He gestures at a couch in one corner of the hall. Two kids clambering on it race off at our approach. Matthias takes a seat and motions for me to do likewise. He rests his elbows on his knees, places his fingertips together and closes his eyes. For one queasy moment, I worry he’s about to pray.
“Julieta told me she met you this morning, outside the Four Ways Café,” Matthias says. He smiles. “She generally canvasses where dealers are known to operate. I have tried to stop her, but it is an undeniably effective strategy.”
“Go where your target audience is, right?” The words come out in a dry croak. “But I’m not an addict.”
Matthias’s eyes remain shut, though one eyebrow rises.
“I work for a marketing agency. I create intelligent commercial messages.” After a hesitation, I add, “I’m just… my prescription ran short.”
Matthias opens his eyes and stares at me over his steepled fingers. “You’re a designer. That’s very interesting.”
The pain has become a knot in my gut and I shift uncomfortably. “It is?”
“In a sense, it’s design that got us into our current predicament. We take defensive drugs to dull our senses, to make us less sensitive to the cacophony of the world. But what is that noise, except the emergent product of thousands of tiny signals that we encounter every waking hour, all seeking our undivided attention?” He ticks items off on his fingers as he speaks. “The police siren, the sound of the crosswalk telling us when to go, announcements on the subway, our ringtones and other notifications on our many devices, the casino slot machine—” his eyebrow rises again “—and of course, all those advertisements that worm their way into our technology and our homes.”
I try not to scowl. I came here looking for – I don’t know – solace, perhaps, maybe some help. Not a lecture on the sins of modern social technology and my place among them.
The girl, Julieta, approaches, unsmiling, carrying two plastic cups. She hands one to Matthias and the other to me. I attempt to smile as I take the drink, but it’s scalding to the touch. I hiss in pain and place the cup on the floor, and when I look up she’s already walking away.
I blow on my tender fingers, irritated. “What’s her damn problem? She was the one who told me to come here.”
“Julieta’s a volunteer,” Matthias says. “A lot of the people she works with here have lost everything. Most never had much to begin with.” He points at me. “You, on the other hand, Brian, you’re a successful guy.”
The knot in my stomach twists. “Hey, I’m sorry these people’s lives are fucked up, but that’s not my fault.”
“Perhaps not,” Matthias says, “but I think your experience of life is very different. I’d guess you’ve been a functioning Sera addict for a long time. Money’s not the issue for you. You’re only here because, suddenly, Sera’s not available at any price – for the same reason there’s virtually no groceries in the stores.”
The knot twists again, and fuck this, I need help, not insinuations, I’m gone. I stand up – or rather I try to – and then I clutch my stomach as my bowels spasm uncontrollably and void their contents.
All I can think is, Oh, no. Please no.
I groan, and as the background conversations fall silent I hear a contemptuous snort from across the room – all Julieta’s preconceptions confirmed, and my humiliation complete.
Matthias rises and takes my shoulders. “Relax. Bathroom’s on the left back here, we saw this coming. Go get cleaned up. I’ll find you some clean clothes.”
Half an hour later, I sit opposite Matthias in his office – a cubbyhole at the rear of the hall. I’m wearing a pair of faded brown corduroy slacks procured from the thrift store across the street, I assume, based on their appearance. My happypac drip feeds me a vial of something Matthias describes as ‘synthetic’, as if Seratoxetine isn’t. The aching need hasn’t gone, but it’s dulled, diminished – as though a door’s been shut on it.
Not a very sturdy door, but it’s something.
“I’m so sorry,” I say for something like the thousandth time.
Matthias tuts. “Stop saying that. I told you, it’s pretty much a daily occurrence here.”
I shake my head. “At least I know what rock bottom feels like now.”
“Soiling yourself in a community center? Nowhere close.”
“I’ll look forward to that then.”
Matthias doesn’t smile. “I’m being serious, Brian.” He points a pen at me. “You don’t want to change. You just don’t want to be in pain. We both know if the drug companies could sort out their supply issues today, you would keep going as you have been, for a time anyway.”
I think of the news and sigh. “I don’t think anything is going to carry on the way it used to. Everything’s falling apart.”
He studies me. “Wouldn’t you prefer to be present while it does? Or do you want to wake up in six months time, feeling like you do now, wondering what happened to the world?”
As I collapse into my chair, I see Krajicek striding across the room on some mission or other and flinch, forcing myself to wake up my display and at least look at my prototype.
And I’m staring at the renders like I never saw them before when something is placed on the edge of my desk with a soft plunk: a plain, white cardboard box, and oh so familiar – the unadorned packaging of Seratoxetine – the real thing, not Matthias’s artificial piss!
I glance up just in time to see Darja walking away, but she doesn’t look back to see the pathetic adoring gratitude no doubt written all over my face.
The news bot pops up again, filling half my workspace with misery, but who cares?
Cold sweat plasters my shirt to my back as I inspect the little box. One way or another, this could be the last few doses I ever get my hands on.
I open the box and tap out three vials of clear liquid Seratoxetine into the desk.
I fumble with my happypac’s catch, shuddering with anticipation, my fingers pawing uselessly at the lid. The lid finally snaps open and I pull out Matthias’s synthetic and drop it on the floor.
I slide a vial of Sera into the empty slot until I hear a pop as the seal breaks. My happypac beeps in recognition of the new levels. A second later, the contents are drawn into the delivery mechanism, then I feel the needle puncture my flesh.
I slump back in my seat as my body luxuriates in sated need and the news broadcast continues its litany of disaster.
Georgia and Alabama have closed borders with Florida. Aerial footage of riot police scattering protesters with rubber bullets and water guns – oh hey, right outside our building! The FBI detaining individuals with ‘known links to eco-terrorism’, including a leading climatologist and several notable critics of defensive meds. More cops, busting some illegal fake charity and dragging the organizers away with zip-tied hands behind their backs, a lean black man, a woman with a fierce expression.
Then the Sera really kicks in.
The pain in my gut recedes. The drug strips out the upper and lower frequencies of my hearing. The ambient noise of the office fades. Sirens and the faint screams of the protesters outside vanish. In my peripheral vision, the news bot is just a meaningless blur.
So I flick the feed off and get back to work.
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