Rich and Poor

The new virus negates everything we learned from Covid. Instead of isolation and endless sanitizing, we must cohabit with family or, in the absence of that, with strangers. The danger of the Proximus virus lies in the increased desertification of the skin fauna. Funeral directors notice it first. The bodies don't decompose as fast as usual. 

The disastrous circumstances require up close living of at least six people in what used to be called "unsanitary conditions." A smaller pod dooms itself without re-culturing dermal bacteria quickly enough. Any excursion from the germ pool causes severe bacterial ablation. 

Humans must avoid the wind. Moving air works like an eraser on the skin and weakens the adhesion of beneficial bacteria. You can't sense it, and when you do, it is too late. Calm days are perfect for going outside. The odor cloud surrounding us naturally provides fragile protection. Micro-climate apps are all the rage now. The official weather report includes regional ablation data.

The Poor.

A group of six individuals hurries along the empty street, anxiously struggling to maintain closeness with each other. They call them "Chevy's" for the chevron formation they need to create and sustain to survive when outdoors. They must live and stay within 24 inches from each other at all times or die of dermal desertification. Simple as that.

"Janice, you stink to high heavens!" says Richie with an appreciative grin. 

"Thanks, Richie, you're pretty rancid yourself, and thank you for the compliment."

She allows herself a smile which she conceals from Richie as he stumbles closely behind her, trying to slip into her wind shadow. The protective value of her body odor isn't lost on her.

Frank interrupts their banter with a curt:

"Hey Guys, get with it! We're losing rhythm. Three, Two, One, Switch! Pay attention, for Christs' sake!

Everybody rattles into focus and shifts their positions within the chevron pattern. Usually, they turn clockwise, depending on the terrain. Janice is on point for the allotted time, and when Frank calls a change, she shifts to the right and slightly back. Rosie moves forward to point, and the rest change accordingly.

"For crying out loud, that puts me behind Harry, and he doesn't carry enough, damn it!" whines Emily in the back.

"Come on now. Harry is new. He'll be better, like everyone else." Frank tries to lower the temperature. 

"I wish we'd find someone with better bac-stats," complains Emily.

"If you don't like it, you can always leave." Rosie counters.

Emily is furious and screams: 

"Screw you, Rosie, and your passive-aggressive crap! You, of all people, should realize it isn't that easy!" 

Harry, meanwhile, is wholly flushed, flustered, and stammers: 

"I'm sorry, everyone, really sorry!"

Frank raises his voice: 

"Y'all better shut up. We're almost there. Relax, one more switch, and we're home. As soon as we're inside, we're good until tomorrow. You better get used to this!"

They round their last corner. There is a human figure leaning against the entry door. Rosie sees him first and stops everyone. Harry shouts, more as a formality: 

"Hey, you alright?"

No answer comes forward. The pod approaches the body with care. It's a male in his 40s, and he looks as if he just fell asleep. He is a little pale, but who isn't these days. Janice stares at him, raises her hands to silence a howl of anguish. She recognizes Greg, her abusive ex, who might be faking his death to come after her one more time, or he's frozen in rigor mortis, unable to hurt her anymore. 

Frank senses her panicked fear and picks up a pebble and throws it at Greg's face. It lands awkwardly on his right eye, making everybody wince except Greg. That eliminates any doubt about his status as a dead stiff. 

Janice calms down a little. They need to move the corpse to enter their compound. Contact of any kind is hazardous. Frank takes off his woven belt and disassembles it to a single strand of parachute cord. His attempts at snaring one of the man's feet fall short. After a few tries, he manages to wrap a loop around his drooping head. He doesn't want to sear this image into his mind today, but he leads, and it is his responsibility to deal with obstacles. 

"Who's gonna help?"

Harry, always eager to improve his status, steps forward. Janice joins them. Her eyes brim with determination. The two take the lead and start pulling on the cord. It is like pulling a concrete statue from a pedestal, except this statue is leaning back. Janice liberates herself from old torment, and her last energetic pull topples Greg. Gravity does the rest, and he bounces and skids along, making the same sound cinder blocks would make if tossed into the street. Nobody is watching the proceedings, and they wouldn't care if anyone did. The body-movers won't pick him up for another two weeks. Maybe sooner if decomposition settles in faster.

The Rich.

They call guys like José "Malolores" (foul odors). He is in his late 60s, from Michoacán, Mexico, and short in stature. He always lived with his extended family. Bad economics made sure of that. So while they got walloped during Covid, they thrive because of their proximity. The elder Hispanics carry the "juice" to protect them all.

José kisses the heart shape locket hanging around his neck, makes the sign of the cross, and knocks on the door of the opulent mansion. Jerry answers the door and greets him with his Gringo Spanish. He is expected.

"Holá José. Como está?"

"Bien Bien Mister Jerry, I am ready for you."

He lifts his smelly and stained shirt for Jerry to show his patch with a green dot in the center. The patch proves his prowess as a superior bacteria donor. 

"Karol is first today."

José is not surprised. The wives face the most challenging time, but it doesn't take as long if they go first.

Jerry hands him a glass of water with the mild sedative on a saucer and leads him to the study off the foyer. He gestures toward the stack of cash on the nightstand by a queen-sized bed. José won't count the pile; that would not be very respectful. José always agrees to mild sedation. Not only does it pay more but his clients are more comfortable that way, particularly the women, knowing he wouldn't be aroused or awake during the transfer. 

As a catholic, it rattles him that the things he does today seemed unimaginable not too long ago. Doubling his rate helps and made him wealthy. In the scheme of things, although he charges exorbitant fees, he helps people. The new reality made sin almost saintly. He always wears earbuds tuned to Mexican religious hymns of salvation so that he can drown out anything. Some of his customers cry inconsolably or scream in desperation. Jose doesn't want any of that. The worst for him is when they get aroused, although the tips will triple on that occasion.

He swallows his sedative, nods approvingly at the unwashed sheet from his last visit, still draped over the bed, and removes his clothes. He folds his belongings neatly over a clothes horse provided for him. The locket stays around his neck, allowing him the illusion of a heart-shaped fig leaf all in the wrong place, of course, but retaining its symbolism to soothe his pious soul. Finally, José reclines, closes his eyes, and listens to his music.

Karol, Jerry's wife, descends from upstairs. She wears an expensive robe, is visibly distressed, and a little drunk for courage.

Jerry smiles at her:

"You go first, Honey. Yours will last longer that way."

He pauses:

"I'm sorry we have to go through this!"

Karol slurs her words:

"Know something? I hate this more than anything, ever!"

"I know. Trust me, I know. But not much longer, Sweetie. They are almost done with the Beta testing. They are building the Spheres as we speak."

"You keep saying that, Jerry. All I can see are plans, freaking plans. I've had enough, I need to get the hell out of here!"

Jerry takes her by the hand to lead her across the foyer to the study:

"Soon, I promise. But, remember, all this is still more preferable than running with the Chevy's."

He draws imaginary chevrons with two fingers on his cheekbones. 

Karol lets out a sigh before she walks into the darkened room. José lies motionless on his bed, mildly sedated. Muffled hymns come from his earbuds. She disrobes, gnashing her teeth in disgust, and lets out a curdling scream to prime herself, which startles Jerry outside the room. José, he can't hear a damn thing. Jerry knows better than to enter. The one time he did, her courage took hours to come back, and Jerry bore the brunt of her rage for days. 

She mounts the bed and fights her gag reflex. José's body flavor is extra pungent. She grinds her nude body into his and buries her head into the right side of his face. She's tall and ends up with her face in his greasy hair, dandruff and all. Her lips won't touch his, ever. Her head moves to treat the other side. The skin on her front starts to relax a little. The bacteria transfer is kicking in. She rolls him to the side, lifts his arm, and spoons herself into José for as long as needed to cover the skin on her back. She uses José's hands and arms to detail the last untouched parts on her. Every nook and cranny needs a little of José's touch. Her face is last. Tears mix with his sweat when she rubs her face around the small of his back for the final touch.

Karol's almost staggers out of the study. She is nauseous and mentally drained. Jerry hands her a marijuana joint and a lighter:

"Here, smoke some of this. It'll help."

She sits down and takes a few tokes:

"Thanks, Jerry. I'll wait for you. As much as I hate this with every fiber of my being, but I'm feeling a little better."

It's Jerry's turn. He enters and repeats the same procedure as Karol. He copes with his discomfort by pretending to be a wrestler like back in High School. Skin contact is unavoidable in wrestling, and instead of slow grinding with its implied homo-eroticism, he picks up the pace of his movements. He can't put a full Nelson, one of his favorite wrestling moves in the past, on the older man. But enough to rationalize that all this is just a sweaty workout.

He finishes, grabs more cash from the pocket of his robe, and leaves an extra tip on the nightstand. On his way out, he opens the curtains.

José wakes up slowly, his eyes blinking in the bright light. He makes the sign of the cross and kisses the heart-shaped locket again. Exhausted and weak, he sits up and removes his earbuds. He dresses and shoves the money, including his generous tip, in his pocket. His driver is waiting out front with a security detail inside the van.

Karol and Jerry gaze out their panoramic window. They can afford to purchase the illusion of two weeks of privacy and solitude. José is on call.

The End