THE MONOTONOUS LANGUOR, part 3 of 4
Inside School 3663.
How long has she been in?
My OCH is bad with time. It’ll be about three years, this November 6. Right before the coronation, remember?
Yes, I guess. That leaves about 10 years to go, right?
I decline an answer. I am focused on the looming walls off to my left and do not want to miss the exit. The next roundabout is three miles past. I know because I have done it more than once, missed the exit. I dislike visitation days. Not for what it is but what it is not. We do this once a month. You’d think I’d be used to it by now. But I am not. My HVs, my heart rate, and my blood pressure are lighting up like a hundred fireflies. I have seen a remembrance of fireflies at the Hall of Memories (HOM). They are beautiful, even projected on a wall.
Calm down! How many times have I heard that from my OCH?
Right, OK. It’s just…I say.
It’s just nothing. Nothing! Get it? Focus for fucks-sake. I don’t want to deal with this later.
My OCH’s HVs are uniform. Flat as that wall for the flickering fireflies. Maybe I did kill her. No one alive can be that, can be that, can be that…placid.
The guard at the gate waves us up. Another guard, more a sentry as he is sedentary, masked, sits in a small booth on the northwest corner of the wall, about thirty feet high, and to our left. He stares down. He is wearing a headset and speaking to someone, hopefully not about us. His eyes are blacked out by goggles.
As I approach, I ponder the fact that this place, this imposing walled compound, looks much larger inside than from out. There are acres of green fields, clipped tight, and walking paths, benches, and not one single solitary person ever-present, except the guards. And the dogs leashed snarling terrors. The wall is crowned with wire and there are floodlights ubiquitously. The worms must go deep for a good night’s sleep. I still have not found my depth.
I see this gate guard regularly. He is relatively new. None of the older bulls work the weekend. His face is plain, eyes set close, blue, which is odd, and he is pencil-thin. His pale grey uniform hangs on him but it is smoothly pressed. His shirt sleeves are too long and invite my eyes to linger on his hands. He is absent half the pinkie on his left hand. I always remind myself to not stare but I stare. And then I wonder about the word pinkie, and then I stop wondering about it. Our exchange is always the same, the guard and I, but I am always happy how it concludes.
Name, he asks.
Paul and Marie Verlaine, I say.
ID cards, please, he requests. Who are you here to see?
He knows.
Gladys Verlaine, I say.
He checks for our information in a large leather-bound binder. It is always there. The Whitmer Academy, and especially this outpost, School 3663, is meticulous about recordkeeping. How many pencils are in that cup? Whose job is to sharpen them? A pencil-thin man sharpening pencils all day—maybe that’s what he does when there is nothing else to do.
There you are. Row 67, he says. He knows where we are. There is not a hint of surprise in his voice, and our routine begins. He places the book on his small, raised desk. He places a ruler on the page of the book on his small, raised desk. He places a pencil on the page of the book on his small, raised desk. He slowly drags the pencil across the page of the book he has placed on his small, raised desk. He tucks the pencil behind his ear when he is done, always his left[DJ1] ear. The eraser is fat and looks unused. This man does not make mistakes, I think. But then again there is that missing finger.
Everything in its place, he says, tapping his left ear twice. He says that consistently, and I nod every time. I know my place.
Ok, drive through. Parking is to your left, he advises, but we know what to do. Walk immediately to intake. Your ward will be notified that you have arrived. Oh, nice ride.
He returns our ID cards.
Much obliged, I say.
Obliged. It is an odd word. I owe that to my grandfather as well. It is permitted so I use it. But I only choose to use it here, with him. There are not many instances elsewhere in my life to be that, that, that…familiar.
I park and we walk through the main doors, mostly glass, opaque. We each wait our turn in the InfiniScan. Every visitor is imaged by a set of six glowing orbs, each attached to a three-foot-long arm. The arms bend and rotate, rise, fall, and beep and record our vitals. The Before’s would describe this machine as looking like an octopus, which I also saw at the HOM. I looked deep into their eyes, and I saw nothing, including pity. But they were just images, so I should have known better. It was as if I was looking into myself.
My 3-D likeness is reproduced on a large glass panel. All data is transferred to the intake sergeant, and then off to Central Data, West Division, Southern District, Precinct 9.
As soon as we enter it is obvious something is different. Certainly, the floors are their usual screaming luster. You could eat off them, though, as mentioned, I do not eat much except for PAKKIT 16, a salty stew of Alt-beef, carrots, potatoes, and peas. I have that almost daily—dining in the clouds. The label is yellow, so it is always easy to spot in the national market.
The walls are white here and lacking any adornment—except mirrors. The furniture is thin and hard. There is no bathroom. The smell is, is, is…calming. It is a mix of morphine—I worked in a health dispensary before being assigned to the Ministry of Understanding—and pine.
The lobby is bustling. Serious-looking people with badges and batons and medical bags are scurrying about. You can always spot a medical bag because they are black, plastic and have no marking other than the number 12 in white on one side, the side that always faces out when the bag is slung over the shoulder. No one can explain the genesis of the number 12.
The intake sergeant barks my name.
Yes, that’s us, I say. What’s going on?
Your vitals check out, he confirms. Two went over the wall. It happens. They won’t get far. They never do. Take a seat. Truth to You.
And Understanding to you, I respond.
So, we sit and wait. There is nothing to do here but wait. I always get drowsy, and I think that is the point. There is something in the air. More than morphine and pine. There is a scent of acquiescence and acceptance, and that soothes me. I know all I need to do is follow the yellow line on the floor, eyes down, and walk to the end of the corridor, then turn right, always right, then left, always left, then stop. Room 3a-1.
The corridors here are quite long. I have counted the steps. It takes me more than six hundred to get to room 3a-1. There are rooms with doors, without windows, always closed, every twenty-five steps. There is a translucent camera, with a yellow eye, bolted to the ceiling every ten steps. The doors are all painted yellow, just like the line on the floor. Yellow is the only color here—is it a permanent sunrise or sunset? My vitals jump slightly every time I ponder that, and I ponder that every time I am here.
Verlaine Unit! Toe the line. Do not deviate from the path, a disembodied voice directs from a speaker overhead.
Room 3a-1. We have arrived. We face the door and wait to be allowed in. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a line of other wards, older than mine, walking in lockstep down the hall. There is no guard with them. There is no need. They are clad in yellow, walking the yellow line, with the yellow-eyed cameras recording their journey. There is no place to go except to the next step, the next day, the next year, then outside. I truly believe that, that, that…no one actually tries to escape here any longer. It is all a ruse, a ploy, to convince the wards of the futility of running, especially when those that have run (supposedly) are dragged back in kicking and screaming a day later. When they are returned to the group three days later—always three days—they are listless and more compliant than ever. Even if they swung the great gates open to the edges of our flat world, even if they tell them to go, demand they go, they will never leave. They are branches nourished from the roots of a harsh tree. What is a branch without its tree? Kindling, likely.
I ran once.
Waiting for the door to open is excruciating.
[DJ1]for next version…he puts the pencil behind his right ear….or maybe this time?