The Deserter

Everything was covered in dust. It was a faintly reddish dust, similar to the colour of the bricks which lined my walls, but the dust that collected on the tables and chairs was a little darker. Sometimes when the walls would shake I could see the dust come free and descend through the air. The question had occurred to me before, but suddenly I needed to know the answer. I walked over to the processor and entered my inquiry, pressing each letter key precisely. There was a sliding mechanical snap when a letter was successfully submitted. The screen, from its own faint womb of copper powder, shone its thin light and a yellow arrow circling after its tail appeared, indicating that my question was in the process of being answered. Through my window I observed the city’s landscape of steeples and smoke. The processor trickled out little blinking sounds of electric thought. Somewhere I heard the engine of a delivery car strain. Soon the evening train would pass by and the last of the day’s dust would descend. I glanced back at the arrow on the screen turning in a steady roundabout. I picked up my Personal Finance report, fresh from the mailbox. According to my balance they still hadn’t fixed the error. Last month the Commission of Economic Stratification had deposited $20,000 into my credit account. My Citizen Stipend was $200. They were always making mistakes but never to this degree. I started to let myself believe the misstep would remain unnoticed. It would certainly change things. What is this dust? The yellow arrow circled.

The next morning the arrow was still turning. I became anxious. I thought of my old tenth level Languages teacher. He used to tell our class that anytime you asked the processor something the Administration didn’t want you to know, it would just spin forever. His name was Teacher Canto. His eyes were always red and he had deep circles beneath them. I walked over to my coffee table. It had little wooden claws for legs and a pane of oval glass covering the top. A train passed with its clattering rusty whine and dust fell from the bricks. Mr. Franks had quit teaching later that year. He’d given away most of his possessions and moved to a cottage on a fruit field. “To hunt turkeys and sleep” he told us on his final day before giving each of us a farewell gift of a small black notebook and a chocolate bird. As he walked down the aisles placing the presents on our desks, he said, “There is no better mirror than a blank page. And no better bird than a chocolate one”. Thinking back, I wondered how he was able to afford his escape. Maybe the Commission had made a mistake in his favor too. I didn’t know how else people got money. I didn’t really know how anyone got anything. I looked at the processor and the arrow. I felt the closeness of the apartment walls and uneasiness gripped me. I got a form from the Requests and Notifications folder on my Administration shelf. Sitting on a chair in the thick morning air I filled the spaces one by one. Beside Inquiry Type I wrote leave notice. Next to Quantity I wrote unknown.

I stuffed some clothes in a trip pack. I searched my shelves for anything else that might be worth taking. All my books were dull. I saw Teacher Canto’s little black notebook between my copy of Great Expectations and a dictionary. After so many years it remained unused. I put it in the pack as well. I locked my apartment and strode down the long stairwell. I dropped the form in the submission box near the entrance of my complex. The buildings around me stacked high into the shining pink sky, bouts of rosy local fog drifted aimlessly between the apartments like vagrants. The streets were quiet as always. A few blocks away I could hear a radio from someone’s open window. Synthetic jazz lounged distantly through the hot dim afternoon. I walked. The cleaners hadn’t been around in awhile, there were sections of sidewalk so dusty that I left footprints. I walked through the streets of my Housing Precinct until I reached the Industrial Sector. I passed the perimeter fences of the factories so distant and immense that their peaks disappeared in the coral smog, emitting layers of deep swimming drones. I walked for hours in this strange orchestra. When I reached the far perimeter I felt like my head had been covered in cicadas. The Business District was mostly silent with only a few mainframes announcing their efforts from the depths of unmarked plazas. It was the end of the afternoon when I got to the bus station. The waiting area was empty. I sat on a wicker bench beneath an overhang and enjoyed the shade. I took the notebook from my bag and put a pencil to the page. When the bus arrived I’d been waiting a long time, but I hadn’t managed to get the pencil to move. I boarded the transport. I was the only passenger. I sat in the front seat where a driver might have been if the vehicle weren’t automated. The doors closed. The bus drove.

I was planning on going to one of the natural retreats, maybe a beach or canyon themed facility. I leaned my head against the window. The wheels glided frictionlessly. We passed large magisterial structures which gave way to smaller storehouses and then eventually to unkempt and abandoned buildings on the outskirts where none of the Administration’s workmen went. No painters, no mechanics, no cleaners. Windows that weren’t boarded up were smashed. I even saw splashes of faded graffiti. I tried to imagine how old those painted words were, and it gave me vertigo. I attempted to listen to the announcements, but the passing scenery softened my senses and I became tired. Periodic notices came through the shaky sound system; “Thieves’ Retreat” “French Boutique” “Easter Motel”. I was hoping one of the names would grab me and give me a sense of urgency. “Lover’s Valley” “Nashville Palace” “Mommy’s Farm”. I fell asleep.

I jostled awake and the scenery had changed. No rundown houses in need of a restoration crew, no houses at all. The bus was engulfed on either side with thick greenery. The road had narrowed into a single lane and the wheels rolled over the neglected tarmac with new turbulence. Branches scraped the roof like fingers. I tried to look through the foliage but only saw more of it. There were no announcements. The bus continued as did the winding vegetation; the jagged fronds and stalks relentless. Abruptly the trees gave way. The bus shot into a bright open space from the forest’s edge. It was a grassy expanse overlooking an endless sea. My eyes strained from the shift, pained from the shock of the blue. The cliff sat high above where the water met rocks. It was a space of exposed nothingness between the ocean of trees and the ceaseless field of water. The bus slowed as the road curved towards the ridge of the cliff. “Deserter’s Point” the voice announced. I pressed the white button on my armrest and the bus crept further until it stopped. The door opened and the vehicle was filled with vivifying air, untangling me from my stupor. I grabbed my bag and got out.

I stood there beneath a circular sign that read Arrivals and Departures. The door of the bus closed and as I looked out across the seascape, I heard it maneuver over the bumpy dirt road until it had circled back to the opening in the treeline. I scanned the grassland. The wind blew against me with force, coming in from the water in successive cleansing blasts. I saw a small building across the way, below the trees and I walked to it.

The cabin was made from large planks of knotty wood. A long pole rose from its roof flying a flag depicting a purple whale skeleton in a great pink sky. The flag whipped with the wind. I knocked on the door to no response. I turned the worn brass knob and the door opened. The house was a single room. It held a bed, a little kitchen, a dining table with chairs and some red plaid couches surrounding an unlit fireplace. I set my bag down and inspected the space. It seemed clean and untouched. The wind rattled against the windows. I sat down in one of the dining chairs. The interior walls of the house were painted Kingfisher Blue and the floors faintly creaked. A ringing sounded out and I turned to see an old style phone attached to the wall behind me. I took the receiver and brought it to my ear. “Hello! Welcome! Alright! Will it be long term or short term then?” The voice was youthful and hurried. After I failed to answer quickly enough it repeated, “Sorry, was that recreation stay or permanent?” I answered “Recreation?” “Great! Terrific! Punch in your credit account number, just in the buttons there on the phone.” I did as the voice instructed. “Perfect, thank you! Have a great stay! Thanks”. Before they hung up I asked “By permanent, you mean you can live here?” The voice seemed thrown off by the question. “Yes of course”. “How much?” I asked. The voice exhaled impatiently, “Okay, let me look that up for you…okay…let’s see…here we go…current listing is…depends on the wind...I’ll run the monthly rate of a Continual Habitants license against your credit account…” there was a pause as pertinent information was retrieved. The voice broke it’s officious tone, “Wow. You’ve done well for yourself…I mean, you could just buy it outright”.

After a few more of my questions and some restless answers, I let the voice move on with its busy schedule. I spent the rest of the day lying on one of the couches with my eyes closed, listening to the torrential breeze and picturing life on a windy cliff. It became evening and I turned on a lamp and took the notebook from my bag. When I put the pencil to the page it moved easily.

The next day I woke up well rested. I had nodded off in my clothes with my body stretched out along the deep couch cushions. The wind had not relented. I noticed from the whirling sounds outside that it was now coming from the opposite direction, from the forest to the ocean. I got up groggily and walked to one of the rear windows, wanting to inhale the uncut trees. I unhinged the small metal clasp and pulled the window open. I was quickly washed over with the morning gale. I was very happy. Something stung my face. Something else went into my eye. I felt the wind assail me with invisible debris. I closed the window shut and looked through the glass. It was stained warm. On the lower outside sill, red dust was accumulating. I walked through the front door and into the field. The entire sky seethed in a hot glow. The air was thick. My throat began to itch. A sandy texture had invaded my mouth and I began coughing. My lungs instinctively shallowed their breath. I looked out to the water. Yesterday’s potent blue had, in the haze, turned a murkier colour. I couldn’t see the horizon. My exposed arms and neck registered wave after wave of burning specks. I turned back to the house. Above me the whale corpse had reversed its course, now shaking its skull to the sea. I went inside and drank some water from the tap. I laid back down on the couch and closed my eyes. Late in the day I gathered my things, turned off the lights, and began walking towards the bus stop.