How Much Is It Worth?

Never to his face obviously–that would be cruel, far too cruel, and the world today tried to be less cruel than it once was, but his colleagues all laughed at him for how much he spent on the drugs.

Robert sat alone at his desk, watching the clouds drift by. He worked late, far later than anyone else. On a day like this, most of them would be at the beach already, their mandated four working hours already punched. Most of the processes were automated, and in exchange they all collected a universal income while enjoying art, wine, cinema–the things that made life worth living. Healthcare improved for everyone, healthy food was cheap and readily available. It was amazing how quickly things changed when prevention and welfare became the priority.

His head felt heavy. They had pills for cancers, topicals for viruses, and DNA alteration therapy for everything else. Still, not all things called for medications. Some ills had no cure. For those, all Robert could do was distract himself: work as late as possible, tend his little garden, write his book laying unedited on the dining room table neglected since that day…

He opened a new tab and logged into his email. Distractions. Distractions were healthy. Distractions from how much free time he now had, quite the change, too much of a change, and distractions from how expensive the drugs were. Robert understood why they laughed at him– shit, he was spending money on them like he was a heroin addict or something. Actually no, that wasn’t right. Even heroin addicts didn’t spend like he did, free counseling and rehab programs now falling under the universal preventative coverage plans.

It was a tough thing to understand. He really, really hoped they never understood. Everything was once so…vibrant. Robert remembered walking down the street and being nearly overwhelmed in a way. The redness of a geranium in a streetside planter, the sound of laughter wafting out of a bar with its windows open on a bright summer day, the strum of a street performer's guitar, all things he once lived for, ached for, that slipped away into a gray miasma if he experienced them now… ever since then.

The drugs helped. They didn’t solve it, didn’t quite return things to how they were, but if it wasn’t for them, he didn’t know if he’d leave his humble little house that sometimes seemed so cavernous. The drugs forced him to, so he didn’t care how much they cost.

Robert checked his watch. Four thirty. He was running late. She was always very vocal when he ran late. Dinnertime was sacred.

It wasn’t a far walk to his humble little house, a two story brownstone with plenty of flaws that he liked to describe as “character” and a nice little fenced yard area–hard to find in the middle of the city, but ever since that day, he took the train. Even if his hands shook in his pocket from the moment the doors closed until he took a step off onto the platform, he took the train. It helped him skip the hardest part.

When it was nice, they walked the mile or so home together; something about it always refreshed the day. When they were young, when Robert didn’t quite know what was really important in life, they complained about how busy everything was. Their walk was the one time they knew that the only thing that mattered was existence, existence and the next step.

Robert stood swaying as the train came thankfully around the corner toward his stop. The rubber handle was slick with his sweat. He said a silent sorry to the next person to board, and hoped that a sweaty handle was the worst thing that person came across today.

She had called him. A simple call. A meeting got added to her calendar late and she’d miss their walk. Normally, Robert would have waited, but they were both still getting used to their new home schedule. It’s odd what gets remembered on days when things change. He remembered how he had left a book on the counter–a new signed first edition of A Dream Of Spring. She called him an idiot with her loving smile when Robert got it. At that moment, in the lobby of his office, all he could think about was getting home before it got chewed on. He spent most of the day thinking about if it was deep enough on the counter.

The book was right where he left it, whole and hale, when he walked through the door.

Everything else shattered.

They might have solved most of society’s ills, at least solved more than enough to feel safe each and every day. For most of the beating hearts across the States, it was utopia.

Some things had no solutions. Some things had no logic.

Stray bullets had no sense of right or wrong.

Brass didn’t know justice.

Even night, Robert lay at wake at night wondering how they all still harbored some indifference in their hearts.

He didn’t remember anything once he picked up the phone standing in his kitchen, the puppy Lois and he rescued to celebrate their third anniversary clawing up the legs of his khakis. They hadn’t even named her at that point.

Things went gray, and still, and silent from that moment on. His family and friends drew in close, planned the funeral, brought him casseroles, his job offered a generous bereavement package, but none of it drew him back to the present. None of it seeped color back into his life.

Only one thing could do that, and a single monthly dose cost a week's wages.

He slid the key into the lock, and her incessant barking followed. For that small moment, his day got a hair brighter.

“Hey girl,” he said, stepping into his humble little home that seemed a little less cavernous with four paws scratching the wood floors.

Robert’s best friend of the hardest fourteen years of his life breathed her hot, smelly breath into his face, greeting him like she did every day. Her mane might be a little greyer, and she may not run as fast or walk as far as she once did, but studies showed the drugs would keep her happy and healthy till she was fifty, maybe even sixty.

“Okay girl, I know it’s dinner time,” Robert said as his friend, he named her Lois—that seemed right to him–sat beside her empty bowl.

The world hadn’t always been kind to him, but as he scratched his pup's floppy ears, he managed the shadow of a smile. Lois licked his face.

“Quick walk?”

At the words, she sat and pulled her ears back, butt wagging side to side, dinner forgotten.

They walked down the street and Robert listened to a song rolling out of the corner pub. He stopped to listen beside a flower box full of pink petunias, catching a tiny whiff.

Two people sat nearby, also listening and sipping on drinks, together but apart. Lois trotted up and sat beside the woman.

“Oh my goodness, can I pet your dog?” she asked, the man beside her cracking a smile. He relaxed ever so slightly into his chair, some tension broken.

“Of course,”

”What's her name?”

“Lo… Lois,” Robert said, choking ever so slightly.

“She’s adorable.” Her date said as Lois rubbed her nose against his calf.

The song wrapped up and Robert continued their walk. He looked back and saw the man had slipped his arm around the woman’s chair.

For that, it was worth every penny.

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A/N:

The real Bob and Lois.

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