[854 words]
Freedom is a funny thing. The root of the word is ‘friend.’ The more friends you have, the more free you are.
I let them into the library to steal the books. They say they’re going to digitize everything. In time, we can write our own.
Some of my friends took the Basic AssistanceTM to get the GeoBucksTM—it’s good to have one or two friends like that, for when you need to do business inside the zone.
We stood outside in the rain and put the books into polymer boxes, and then into our van. Jane’s face lit up under the streetlamps; she was having fun.
After a while your phone will notice that you’ve been in the zone too long; you haven’t paid your taxes; you haven’t saluted the flag; you haven’t taken the drugs. But that’s okay. All you have to do is turn it off.
Outside of the zone there is other money; you just can’t let the cops see it.
I show Jane the only leather book from the stacks; big, with an embossed cover.
“Alice in Wonderland. He was a pedophile, you know.”
“He was in love with her.”
“That’s what they all say.”
We put it under the car seat to read on the way back, illustrated with watercolor.
At the gate the scanners wave over our faces and tally our take. Most of the books are old and have no RFID chips, but a couple of the scientific textbooks do. We tear out the spine and throw the metal strip into the gutter. The cameras see us but this post isn’t manned; they probably won’t review the footage for weeks.
They say in some countries they’re encouraging you to start changing your name when your phone suggests it. Every week is an opportunity to Start OverTM.
I started over too, just not like they expected.
We grow our own tobacco now; they say it cures cancer. Like Woody Allen said, in the future, bacon cheeseburgers will be healthy again.
I light up our blunt and watch the rain over the police drones, hovering like forlorn bees. Alex draws a bead on one and throws a rock; it dodges lazily, making noise like a 1980s arcade game.
Down in the valley, we can see the smoke rising from the campfires.
At night I can feel it scanning my dreams, when I forget to turn it off. It doesn’t bother Jane but she’s better at keeping it off than I am. We’ve rigged our own batteries, so we can take them out when we’re not using them, like you could with the first phones. But some people say they still work, off atmospheric electricity. Sending data back to the hive.
Buzz buzz buzz.
I should try that lucid dreaming, to really give them something to chew on. The President on a gallows . . . no, too lurid. A farm, with a cow, and an old hand water pump. That will get me reported for sure.
I try to visualize it before I fall asleep. The corn rising over the sky. The cow, black and white, with its soft nose. The curve of the metal handle.
Tomorrow I have to go back in to get vegetable seeds. It’s hard to grow them in the desert.
I’ve trained the phone to recognize me wearing my Nixon mask. I put the old rubber monstrosity over my face and give Tricky Dick’s two-thumbed salute to the camera, and the screen opens up to show me my options:
1) Taxes are due
2) Vegetable allotment is Thursday
3) Report all water-stealers to the station guard
“How are you feeling today?” the phone asks, and I stretch Nixon’s features into a fat grin.
Outside of the geo-fence, the sky is a different color. More dusty, but also more blue.
Past the laser scanners the sky shifts color. Technicolor, or Teletubby. Slightly hallucinogenic.
I take the bus down to the swap meet.
If Jane gets pregnant we’re going to raise it in the mountains. We found a doctor to do the sterilization-removal surgery. We’re going to pay him with pumpkins.
The seeds are like little caltrops—the weapons the Romans would use to decimate incoming infantry. Simple little barbs, designed to sink into the feet and boots and hooves, and not let go. Zucchini, and broccoli, and bok choy.
The only cop on duty is a rubber drone and I kick it like the others, digging the tip of my boot into its rubber ribs—holding back just so its aluminum brain casing won’t snap, and summon the human guards. Its face is covered with bootheel rubber. But it still records everything.
“See you later Dick,” the seed-man tells me. I raise my arms and make the V-for-victory. Air Force One is going to pick me up off the lawn, and deliver me to Camp David, where all my sins will be forgiven . . .
“Please make your report of how your day was today,” the phone says, as I approach the gate.
“Fucking great, man,” I say. I even show the camera the seeds. The app can no longer recognize them.
Robin Wyatt Dunn was born in Wyoming in 1979. You can read more of his work at www.robindunn.com.
