The City We Live In

The simple syntax of the question ‘How are you?’ expresses complex semantics. If true, you would then be under the impression that the answer to such a general question would be elusive, muddled down by the hopeless attempt to authentically express oneself through the use of a third party we call language. Despite all this abstraction, the answer to man's question was simple; Roger didn’t know. Yet, he had no way of saying such a thing. Everyone was okay; no one felt anything different. No one could ever begin to feel such an emotion without a quick fix of Imperium, and so, the varied meaning the word should elicit was lost in his response,

“I’m good, and you, sir?”

The man stared blankly in front of him as if he knew his response was just as predictable as everyone else's. This subtle observation could be mere projection. After all, Roger was the only one who knew why language lost its meaning. No one else needed to know what he knew, or feel what he felt, and so the man could respond with stimulating candor, “I’m good,” and that would be how he thought he felt.

He did just that. Elongating the ‘good’ in a monotonous accent as if Roger was recording his every word in preparation to send to Management. The man even smiled, in case Roger was video recording.

The elevator door opened, and without looking at the other, the two men went their separate ways.

Roger found that all conversations followed this same pattern. Anything longer than the standard would draw too much attention. A girl once followed him out of the office. One too ugly to be a Model, but one pretty enough to be Dehunestus. She asked the obvious How are you? and Roger responded accordingly. Except, on that night he was particularly optimistic, filled with an unfamiliar sense of equanimity that there were no riots. He looked the girl in the eyes. She nodded at him, turned her head and gave what Roger later described as someone who had fallen asleep with their mouth open. A true modern day smile. Roger smiled back, lied and told her she was beautiful. She looked at him wide eyed. Not because she didn’t understand what he had said or was caught off guard by this compliment. Rather, because if he truly meant what he had said then he would have kissed her. Connecting his intention with direct action. By telling her the compliment instead of showing her it, all meaning was lost. She stormed off into the street. All she wanted was a kiss, to be shown meaning, and all she was left with was empty words that had no connection, no value, no power.

Do you see it now? A simple “hello” is an illogical greeting. Two bodies are already in the same field of vision, their senses are already greeting one another by merely being sensed. The hello would be a metaphysical transaction stating the already stated. “Goodbye,” falls into the same category as “hello,” the bodies are walking away and therefore departing. It’s simple now, Roger made a logical mistake. A conversational fallacy if you will.

All that needs to be asked is a simple, “How are you?” It’s neutral. Everyone knows the predictable response, they are always “good.” Anything else would then imply another feeling, a private feeling, a feeling no one could put to words. They would end up staring out into space trying to figure out for themselves a definition that described what they felt. Even if someone could come up with a language that would describe that feeling, there would be too much to say so nothing would be said at all. None of this mattered, no one wanted to try, so everyone became “good.”

At his shared desk, in the far corner of the office, Roger sat with the five others in his department. The two females, who wore the trend of the week, a tight, blue and red polka dot dress with purple heels, sat beside him. They were photoshopping a picture of a woman who wore the same outfit as them but with yellow and orange polka dots. Across from Roger sat three men. Their haircut, a comb over fade, was published as the haircut of the year in last months ‘Trends and Friends’ magazine. These three men advocated heavily for this publication. After all, it was their idea. They kept on going about how they were to be ‘the next face’ of the magazine. For obvious reasons, the cover went to a Model. The day after the publication, every man in the city went out to their barbers and got their comb over fade. Even Roger had to admit they all looked quite good.

For three hours Roger was putting together a new catalog for men’s body fat. It was after that third hour it happened, as it did everyday at the same hour. A soft bell rang through the office. It was twelve pm, it must have been. Everyone got up from their seats, reached for their PCO supplied pill containers, popped off the lid, and swallowed their Imperium. The quiet, melancholy that once filled the room changed. There was now a satisfaction that filled every community desk from the echo of the concomitant question “How are you?” and the lingering answer, “I’m good.” This time, regardless of how anyone felt or thought, their response was borderline genuine.

A more “I’m so high it doesn’t matter,” would have articulated their true feelings rather than the vague term “good,” which sought to generalize the spectrum of all emotions.

To Roger’s relief, no one approached him with this question. They must have been too high to realize that he snuck out to the porch. It was there he pulled out a vaporizer and filled his lungs with what he subtly called ‘off-the-shelf cancer.’ You can kill yourself a thouthand different ways, why not go out slowly, enjoying it while you can? Besides, the millions of people confined within the city gates were already killing themselves, yet they weren’t conscious of it, and Roger was, so if he could pick the way his life would end, why wouldn’t he?

Everyone walking on the sidewalk below him wore outfits that expressed their happiness, their joy, their authenticity. The women wore their polka dot dresses. Of course, they wore different variations of colors, to really project their specified emotion. Yellow and orange, jovial. Blue and red, excited. Pink and white, amused. The people were as colorful as the catalogs they reflected. Still, Roger thought no one could use the word “colorful” to its full extent. After all, in the sea of people, one color was left out. Black. As it “emphasizes the darkness of the human condition. The emptiness that should not be expressed by the fashion of our time.” This is what the computer had told Roger when he tried asking it what the color means. He was lucky it wasn’t flagged for suspicious behavior. Others, he was told, had to be moved to different departments for this type of atypical behavior. Those however, were only stories, and the only stories people listened to were those of the trends.

The rest of the workday followed the usual schedule, silent group work, writing about the next trend, and figuring out which colors spoke to certain emotional states. There was one notable event that can be explained in greater detail. It was sometime after their afternoon break when Roger had a question for his team manager. Very collectively, Roger stared at him to get his attention. This uncomfortable mode of procedure effectively stimulates it’s respondent to gesture back in some arbitrary way. The team manager, Marco, at least this is what Roger called him (he didn’t really have a name), pointed to the other side of the room where the office computer stood. Roger made his way over to the computer and typed in his question “What color expresses curiosity, violet or neon orange.” The computer, as expected, dismissed the question and Roger settled for what typically expresses curiosity, chiffon white.

As the hours rolled by, more and more people left their workstations abandoned. It was easy to pick out who took the supplemented pills and who dared to even touch such a drug. This investigation was done by observing who stayed past five o'clock and who went home to take another pill, and with Roger being the last person in the office by 5:01 pm, it was easier than ever to conclude that he and only he, was of the latter.

The four hours that preceded the quick evacuation of the office were quiet. Although they were quiet to begin with, this new formulation of quietness was brought about by the fact that no one tried to be quiet, the office was quiet as it should be. As Roger had once said to his neighbor, “it’s quiet based on the nature of no one being there.” His neighbor responded by telling him that the people he worked with didn’t respond to the nature of their environment. Rather, they tried to create their own, and its outcome was verbal silence and deafening aesthetic noise.

“It doesn’t really matter,” Roger responded. “It’s a silent scream in a loud crowd. No one's scream is really heard.”

The clock on Roger’s desk read nine-fifteen. In a hurry, he finished his end of the day report and grabbed his things.

Across the room, the elevator doors opened, and a young woman stepped inside. Roger, anxious he would miss the elevator, ran across the room and stuck his hand in the closing elevator door. As the doors reopened, Roger bowed toward the woman who stood inside. If she were not a Model, he would have resulted in using the default logic of having their senses greet one another, and that would be it. This, however, was not the case. She was one of the trendsetters. The “Model citizen” as everyone called them. The presence of a Model would make any regular citizen nervous to the point of hyperventilating. Even with this information resting on his consciousness, Roger stood straight, looked forward, and most importantly, kept quiet.

This silence lingered throughout the elevator as it made its way down to the lobby.

For the past few weeks, Roger had been watching the riots from the transparent elevator walls, but tonight he couldn’t. He was in the presence of a Model. Even a single glance would be subjected to social scrutiny—she would notice nonetheless and question his intentions.

Roger looked at the Model who stood in front of him. Her eyes were directed at projected numbers counting down the floors.

One small peek. She won’t notice. It can be quick.

Roger turned around, looking through the elevator toward the city lights that danced throughout the skyline. Tonight, like every night for the past month, it was a red and blue aurora that gave light to the city from the PCO cars, making their way toward the growing riots. Their bodies were blurred together, creating a wave that stretched from the West side to the East. When they marched, the wave rolled across the city.

“What perfect timing,” said a soft voice.

Roger broke his gaze from the riot and found the woman looking down at the streets alongside him.

“Fifteen minutes longer and you and I both would have been stuck in this mess all night,” she continued.

Roger blinked.

Saying anything at all would make her suspicious, but saying nothing would induce an impression that he was ignoring her. He couldn’t decide what was worse, and so he let his silence speak for him, as all other citizens do.

“I’m sorry,” she said looking back out the elevator. “I forgot you can’t speak.”

“No—” the word slipped out of his mouth. “It’s just—” stumbling to find dulled down, undefined words. “Uh—we have things that speak for us.”

She smiled, revealing a feeling Roger wished he could share with her. “You certainly spoke for yourself just now. Do you have more to say?”

Roger looked straight ahead and shook his head.

“I didn’t mean to sound sarcastic.” She stepped in front of him so that her eyes met his. “If you can say more, please do. This elevator is slow and I never get to talk to anyone until I get home.”

“What do you want to talk about?”

“Well,” she turned to look out the elevator, “since the riots have been the only thing talked about on the news, let’s talk about them. Us Models call it common ground.” She smiled as if she had made some sort of brilliant observation. An observation that was beyond Roger’s understanding.

Hardly moving his lips, Roger said, “I think you mean grounding in communication.”

She looked at him queerly. Her eyebrows nearly touched each other.

His heart was racing. Shit. Shit. Shit. “I meant to say, the riots arre growing in size by the day. I’ve had to drive through the West Side to avoid them.”

She looked away from him. Her face was more relaxed. “I take the same way, but I take it you don’t live on the North Side.”

In the strict tone he was told to use, he said, “The North is too classy for me. The East suits me best.”

She looked away from Roger, inching closer to the door as if she were about to stop the elevator and get off at the next floor, but instead, as if it were impulsive, she asked, “What is a Solumnt doing here?”

“Oh, no. I’m sorry if I scared you. I’m not a Solumnt. I only live there.”

“A Dehunestus who lives on the East Side?”

Roger nodded once. Once was always good enough.

“You must be the only Dehunestus in all the city who lives with those bohemian hippies.” She stepped closer to him, and again they were side by side. “No wonder you speak. They must have taught you their slang.”

“I learned to speak before that.”

“Before? Who would have taught you?”

“I can’t remember. It was too long ago.”

The Model looked back out the elevator. “Well, considering where you live and the riots sweeping through the streets, it must take you hours to get home.”

“It does. Bet—” Don’t say it. You’ll give yourself away. “Between you and me, someone needs to talk to the Model who owns this building and have them let us out earlier. I would like to spend more time with those, what did you call them, ‘bohemian hippies.’ I am wearing silver shoes, so I’m feeling a bit dangerous today.”

She smiled, almost mockingly. “A joke, I assume? I haven’t heard one in years.” She laughed. “But if you are serious, I’ll put a word in.”

“If you don’t, I’m sure I’ll be okay. The riots will only last so long before the PCO decides yet another one of their life saving policies needs to be put in order.” Roger said the last part sardonically, the same way he would if he had said it to a Solumnt.

Her smile turned to a frown.

Carried away.

“A policy that will invoke a good change,” Roger added.

“They always do.” She looked out the elevator. “You know, watching the riots from this high up reminds me of when my father and I used to watch them. He used to take me up to the highest building in the city…

Her voice faded.

Roger turned pale. Looking into the glass reflection, he saw a ghost staring back at him—the ghost of a young boy he thought he had forgotten.

“Are you ill?”

Roger looked away from the reflection. “No. I apologize. You reminded me of something I thought I had forgotten.”

“Well, I hope it was a good memory.”

He looked back at the ghost. “I don’t have many.” The words rolled off his tongue, falling one by one into a comprehensive sentence.

“I—I meant…”

The elevator doors opened, and the woman walked out. Before she got too far, she turned back and asked, “I never caught your name, did I?”

In the usual monotonous accent, he stated with a professional pronunciation, “Roger. Roger Morris.”

“Well, Mr. Morris, be safe tonight.”

Roger bowed, saying farewell to the Model.

Her high heels echoed through the lobby as she walked away. Roger couldn’t help himself. He watched her disappear into the city streets.

Something about her reminded him of someone from his past. It was something about the way she talked to him, a sincerity, a tranquility in her voice that he had not heard in years. Her soft spoken tone was ingrained in his memory.

On his way home, Roger tried drowning the woman's voice out with the radio. He turned the notch farther and farther right, the music shook the car, her voice muted over the autotuned singer until the notch fell into his hand. The station cut-out, and nothing could be heard but the whisper of her voice, “Watching the riots from this high up reminds me of when my mother and I used to watch them.”

Her words had become his.

You idiot. You blabbering idiot. Why did you open your mouth? She suspects something. Tomorrow she’ll make a report and have you relocated. Roger looked out the window while his electric car drove itself down the street. Next time you have something to say, save it for your neighbors.

There was no going back—what was said had been said. If only he would have waited a second longer, he would have never met her, he would have never heard those words, and he would not have been reminded of that memory.

Outside Roger’s apartment building stood a man wearing nothing but his short, piss stained underwear. “You headed in for the night?” he asked, lighting a cigarette. “If you are, I’d take the stairs. Jenny from apartment seven overdosed in the elevator an hour ago. Can you imagine? Her fourteenth birthday was only two days away.” Jeremy took a drag from his cigarette, shaking his head. “Anyway, the agents assigned to her case are still cleaning up the scene.”

Roger looked up from the cement, meeting Jeremy’s eyes. “I’m sorry to hear about Jenny. I knew the two of you were close.” He paused, not knowing what to say next, but a stream of empathetic words found him after a moment of silence. “It’s always sad to see life end before it barely began.”

“Ain’t that some shit. They say things happen for a reason, but how the hell is there anything reasonable about death.” Jeremy took another long drag of his cigarette. “You would have to be a murderer to find any.”

“Then it’s a good thing the city has no more criminals.”

“I know the history of the city and yet I’ve still seen some evil shit.” He sucked on the tip of his cigarette as if it were the remedy to recall the thought. “No one should see what I’ve seen, and still I have a bad feeling most people living here have.”

“At least you have words to describe it.”

“Shit, last night I was up until three in the morning having a conversation with myself about the overdose I saw last week. Now I have to think about all the memories I had with Jenny. You’re going to stand there telling me that’s a good thing?”

“Maybe not good, but at least intelligible.”

“Intelligible? I don’t know what that means, and I don’t care. I don’t want it. If it’s language that forces you to remember, then I don't want to understand it.”

“You can always buy something that’ll make you forget.”

Just as the thought to walk away occurred, Jeremy leaned over. Cigarette smoke blurred the distance between the two of them, but Roger could still hear him whisper, “That reminds me. Since we’re talking about such a…” he looked around him. “...crude topic, I’ve got something to make this life a little better for you, me, and the next guy.” He stepped back, looked around once more, and spoke quieter than before. “A big shipment of some pure Hal just came in, so if you’re looking for someone to get you a little something to take your mind off all that, I can help an old friend out. What do you say?”

Yes, a three-letter word that had been on the tip of Roger’s tongue for years. All he had to do was let the word leave his lips. It would be easy, quick—there was no need to overthink it—but something had stopped him. “It’s okay. I only smoke the good stuff these days.”

Roger pulled out the vaporizer in his pocket.

Jeremy mocked him with a half-smile. As if he saw a weakness, a pressure that was soon about to burst.

“Anyway. I thought you weren’t supposed to be out here without a supervisor?”

“Well, you’re out here, aren’t ya?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I’ve got special privileges since I reported Jenny’s overdose.”

“You were there?”

“I held her hand until they got here.” Jeremy took a step toward the road. “I need more smokes. Remember to take the stairs.”

The yellow PCO tape waved back and forth on the elevator from the cold wind that escaped through the glass doors. It was there, in the middle of the lobby, surrounded by agents, he saw her. The body of a young girl.

Scar tissue, encircled with fading bruises, took up nearly her entire arm. Every addict had them. They served as a reminder of a past they were trying to forget—the more scar tissue they had, the more they had forgotten. By the look of Jenny’s arm, she must have completely forgotten who she was.

The agents picked her up and placed her pale body onto a stretcher.

Roger stroked his fingers over his scar tissue.

It could’ve been me, maybe it should’ve been. No. This is why you stopped, before it was too late.

No longer could he bear to watch her arm dangle off the stretcher. He turned away and walked into the stairwell.