Twelve billion human beings inhabit and torture the delicate remains of a writhing and dying world, as if they were school children, pulling at the tail of some sick feline. I wait in a frigid waiting room, sitting on some luxuriant fabric, non-allergenic and uncomfortably pliant. How may I describe my emotional well-being, my discomfort and anxieties that follow me like vultures, ready to sink into my tepid flesh?
Not that my emotions matter. Not that anything I do or say or think or feel will have any effect on the obsessively compulsive and boorishly consumerist country in which I was bred and raised for upwards of eighteen years. No action--except those perverse acts of infamous delinquency, possibly nearing a terrorist-like display--could render myself worthy of the entertained respect of my compatriots.
The social structure of the present day is a fabricated lie that weaves a web of good will, hopes and dreams into a cocoon that not only paralyzes, but destroys. One may find themselves revered by the closely related, the geographically near, and the intimately befriended. Beyond those limitations however, lies the cold and horrid axiom, "Nobody knows you." Such is the so-called bane of present society. We the people are no longer people. Only the stars, the beautiful and inhumanly grandiose, can ever truly be considered people. How may we judge each other, if our only measure of personal character are the infinitely cruel, infinitely trained Übermensch who have been rendered perfect by nostalgic parents and coaches who want a second chance at greatness?
I sit, rubbing my newly shaven head, feeling the coarse spots where the bored, overworked barber had misused his razor. It feels pleasant to the touch. Around me, young men and women who are exactly eighteen on this day sit with equally bald heads, and downward gazes. There is no music playing on the speakers above us, implanted into the coffered, milk-white ceiling. A high-definition television as thick as a piece of paper and as wide as the length of a door is inset in one wall. It runs a looped, muted scene of children playing in a meadow, thanking Genetic Societal Placement Judgement Operations (GSPJO) for allowing them the opportunity to succeed in society, and find their place.
I have been watching this looped video/commercial for what I feel is at least a hour now, but I cannot be sure. There is no time-telling instrument anywhere, and we had to forfeit all our electronics before entering the waiting room. Some of the other children have been watching the video as well. Most have been playing with their fingers, tugging at their uncomfortable GSPJO-ordered linen gowns, or staring off into space. Nobody has attempted communication, which is standard now-a-days. To talk to strangers, no matter what the occasion, appears awkward and oftentimes rude.
Every twenty minutes or so, a single door opens, it is facing us, but we sit in chairs to face perpendicular from it. We have to crane our necks to see the fat, bovine-looking woman call in the next person for evaluation and judgement. So far four people have been called in, and after evaluation, return through the same door, either sobbing, grinning slyly, or with blank stares. They walk in between the two rows of seats that we now rest in, our heads following their bodies as they glide along, out to the opposite facing door, where they leave forever, now a true citizen, with a valid purpose and specification.
The fourth person has been inside maybe twenty minutes or so. I cannot hear anything that is going on behind the closed door, and when the door occasionally opens, the bovine woman blocks off all attempts at sneaking a peek of what is waiting for us beyond.
I wonder what my judgement could be. I have done well in public high school, but that is it, I have done well. I am not valedictorian, nor am I an amazing athlete. I have done well. The rich and pompous owners of the prestigious universities would laugh at my transcript, at my GSPJO-official documentation over the last eighteen years. I have not discovered the cure to any disease, I have not written papers on sociological malformations or have juxtaposed some kind of cultural issue to literary characterization. I have simply done well. I know that I am at a disadvantage, but there is nothing to be done. I have tried hard to do well, to stay above the lower-level compatriots and show myself as a hard-working and able citizen. This of course, is not enough.
Whether a man or woman rises to the top is either from parental funds, sheer luck, or by stripping away every social or joyous element of that person's livelihood and leaving only their aspect of skill, to grow and develop in a terrifically inhuman and nearly mutated way. The best are only good at doing a singular thing. There are no top-tier tennis players who can solve an algebraic equation. There are no genius scientists who have ever heard of a relaxing vacation. These people, who live at the tippity-top of society, who are actually valued and applauded by the masses, are so cordoned off by society, and kept incubated in such remote ways, that they can barely be considered real people. They are missing the element of humanity that allows them free will. They simply do what they have been bred and trained to do for all their years.
I have not had this treatment. My parents are Class-L Major citizens, according them about a 14 point societal and economic advantage. In other words, they are far, far above the mean citizen in terms of skill set. This also means that they are 11 classes below what can then be considered a real, noticeable citizen. On reaching Class-A Major citizenship, a person would then be given superb rights and currency beyond their deepest desires, and could do practically anything. They are the people who appear on television. They are what we show to the world and what we pretend is really our society.
The door opens, and a thin, black-skinned girl walks out, her large lips curled in distaste, and her eyes watery. She trots past us, her eyes never leaving the floor, until she finally exits and leaves the GSPJO building forever.
"No. L-7990."
That is my number, taught from birth and recited through childhood. Wordlessly I get up, and flatten the linen robe that hangs down to my knees so as not to reveal the curves of my thick body. I then walk towards the fat woman, who has tiny, angry looking eyes. She pushes me forward, and closes the door behind me. I play with the thick pill clenched in my cheek using my tongue, it reassures me.
"Please adorn the customary GSPJO-licensed masking apparel, used of course to eliminate judgmental bias," says the woman, checking something on an electronic clipboard.
Sitting limp on a wooden table is a single mask. It is made of some thin, white cloth, and has no pattern or decoration on it. It is a blank face, with a single string used to keep it on the head. I put it on, instantly able to see a muffled, less-detailed but still usable view of my world. I can see out, but nobody can see in. The room around me is small and colorless, with a single lamp illuminating it. It is more an anti-chamber, leading through a single door into the real room.
The bovine woman checks something else, then flicks a finger across the electronic clipboards touch screen.
"You will now be brought into the Genetic Societal Placement Judgement Operations facility for determination. You will be placed in front of three GSPJO professional administration officers who will look through your documentation and scholastic transcripts and determine your Societal Class; good luck."
Then the woman knocked on a door, and an older man opened it, motioning for me to enter. Through my mask, I could only make out the less-fine details of his face. It was round, pinkish, and lacking hair.
"Welcome L-7990," says another flabby, pinkish man sitting behind a large desk.
"Yes, welcome, I hope you will manage better than our former compatriot," laughs a third, younger looking man, but equally pinkish in nature.
"Ah yes, let's hope."
"Please, take a seat," says the original man, pointing towards a small unbacked stool directly in front of the judge's desk. I sit down, my bare feet hardly touching the cold ground.
"Alright," says one of the other judges, as the first judge goes to take his seat in between the others. "Lets look at your papers, shall we?"
A moment of silence, and I wiggle the pill in my mouth. Nobody knows about this pill, and while I stay silent, nobody will ever know about it. Hopefully, I will not have to use it, but there is a strong possibility that I will.
"Lets start with Cultural Aspects," says the right judge, the young one. "Mhmm, lets see. Ethnicity caucasian, ancestors heeding from Eastern Italy, Ireland, and Russia. Not too commonplace, yet not too spectacular."
"Not too many Russian-breds since the Second Arab Spring," says the left judge.
"Enough not to raise eyebrows," says the middle judge. "If only you turned eighteen in like ten years, your Russian ancestry could have proven more spectacular. Unfortunately, in present day America, we cannot consider your ancestry to be unprivileged and warranting advantage."
There was some scribbling on some electronic pads from all three judges. Then the right judge turned to me again.
"Academic Aspects, my favorite! Ninety-seven GPA, recommendations from the principal and Senator Charleston, all advanced placement courses since the start of high school. You have done well in school, but your GPA is a little low to be considered for advanced Social Class increase. Still, the courses and recommendations are impressive for a Class L."
More scribbling.
"Next," said the middle judge. "Social Aspects. Ooh, this doesn't look too good. Some fighting here, detentions in elementary school and reported domestic violence. Says here his father beat him for a long time."
"That's not good, not what we like to see. Class L should be well past that kind of behavior."
Scribbling again. What kind of judgement is this, where my families secrets are used against me, as if I had wanted to be beaten by my drunken father after school every night, as if I had asked him to do me in, and limit my chances of success in the future.
"Finally, and most critically, Genetic Aspects!" sang the left judge, turning to me. "We have some increased risk of cardio-vascular trouble."
"Ouch," said the right judge with a chuckle.
"Some interesting intellectual capacities for language, but beyond that, I'm not seeing much else."
"Is that it?"
"It appears so."
"Alright, thats it No. L-7990. We will tally your Aspects and see whether you are eligible for Social Class increase."
There was some scribbling, some sounds of computations and tapping of touch screens.
"Okay, we've come to a conclusion," said the middle judge. "We've analyzed your Aspects, and have found you ineligible. Too bad, you're still L-7990, but hey, maybe your children will have better luck!"
"It was really the domestic violence that killed your score," said the right judge.
I closed my eyes, and bit down on the pill. A gush of metal-tasting substance filled my mouth, and swam down my throat. The middle judge got up and opened the door.
"Out you go," he said with a happy tone.
I ripped my mask off as the cyanide slid down my esophagus. It was illegal to be seen by GSPJO judges unmasked. They gasped, as my face was revealed to them, as my humanity rendered itself upon their gaze.
"I have a name," I say, as I have rehearsed in my mirror hundreds of times. "It is not No. L-7990. It is John. You hold sway over me no longer, as I do not wish to live in such a corrupt world. I will be the martyr on your doorstep. I will be the face of every child who has been denied by the GSPJO, and I will bring down this soci-"
I fall off the stool as I struggle to breath.
"Another one?" says the rightward judge, flicking some hair off his forehead.
"Fourth one this month," sings the left judge.
"Marilynne, bring in the Cleanup Crew, and when they are done, call in the next person," says the middle judge, staring down at me with his head swinging left and right, left and right.
I struggle to stay conscious, I struggle to breath, I struggle to remain human and alive and a person, but all I can do is struggle. All I can do is struggle, and die.
